tion. Street and rent are both red, landlord seems to me to be salmon-pink. Can’t you remember any blue words, darling?
Dorothy [pitifully]: Are you very hungry, Philip?
Philip: So, so. I’m afraid it’s hurting you.
Dorothy: Not much. Only the waiting for something to happen. . . . .
Philip: Rich or poor, we’re all waiting for something to happen, and probably if we only knew it’s happening now. Now, if some moonstruck editor would send me a cheque. . . . .
Dorothy: I’m afraid editors have very thick heads.
Philip: I have sometimes thought that myself.
Dorothy: And the moon can’t get through to their brains.
Philip: Moon is a blue word, so a mysterious moon should be green. There’s something in that. . . . .
Dorothy: If the landlord turns us out we shan’t be able to wait any longer.
Philip [writing]: Bearing splendid torches through a mysterious moon till our bitterness merged into eternity. A pillar-box near a green field at nightfall. I should like to see the damned critics appreciate the subtlety of that. . . . . Two definite and distinct interpretations to one sentence.
Dorothy: If the landlord turns us into the street.
[ 6 ]
