Juhasz—[Restrains him; greatly distressed.] Is she ill?
Mate—What do you care?
Juhasz—How old is she?
Mate—[Dries his eyes.] Two years old. Her mother is dead. We planted flowers on her grave.
Juhasz—This is harrowing. . . . I know you are lying again. . . . I mustn't listen to you. [Looks at his watch.]
Mate—A little blonde baby. With hair like flax.
Juhasz—Ten-thirty-six. You are dismissed. [Puts his hands over his ears.]
Mate—She always says to me, "Papa . . . Papa send money."
Juhasz—I'm not listening to you. . . . You are lying. . . . But I can't hear you.
Mate—My poor innocent angel. Her medicines alone cost me. . . . Oh, how can a man go straight when he has a crippled father and a sick baby to keep?
Juhasz—[Takes his hands from his ears.] I didn't hear you. . . . You are dismissed.
Mate—The doctor prescribed sulphur for her . . . and milk.
Juhasz—I'm not listening.
Mate—No. . . . But I wish I knew how to close my ears when my poor hungry baby cries, "Papa, papa. . . ."
