pause._] Annie! [_In an
undertone, half directed to_ LAURA.] Where the devil is that nigger?

LAURA. Why, I suppose she's at breakfast.

WILL. Well, she ought to be here.

LAURA. Did it ever occur to you that she has got to eat just the same
as you have?

WILL. She's your servant, isn't she?

LAURA. My maid.

WILL. Well, what have you got her for,--to eat or to wait on you?
Annie!

LAURA. Don't be so cross. What do you want?

WILL. I want the _Sun_.

[BROCKTON _pours out one half glass of water from bottle._

LAURA. I will get it for you.

_Rather wearily she gets up and goes to the table, where there are
other morning papers; she takes the "Sun," hands it to him, goes back
to her seat, re-opens the "Morning Telegraph." There is a pause._
ANNIE _enters from the sleeping-room._

ANNIE. Do yuh want me, suh?

WILL. Yes, I did want you, but don't now. When I'm at home I have a
man to look after me, and I get what I want.

LAURA. For heaven's sake, Will, have a little patience. If you like
your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come around
here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody.

WILL. Don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here
for. Annie, this room's stuffy.

ANNIE. Yassuh.

WILL. Draw those portieres. Let those curtains up. [ANNIE _lets up
curtain._] Let's have a little light. Take away these clothes and hide
them. Don't you know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning
anything to remind him of the night before. Make the place look a
little respectable.

_In the meantime_ ANNIE _scurries around, picking up the coat and
vest, opera-cloak, &c., as rapidly as possible, and throwing them over
her arm without any idea of order. It is very apparent that she is
rather fearful of the anger of_ WILL _while he is in this mood._

WILL. [_Looking at her._] Be careful. You're not taking the wash off
the line.

ANNIE. Yassuh. [_Exit in confusion._

LAURA. [_Laying down paper and looking at_ WILL.] Well, I must say
you're rather amiable this morning.

WILL. I feel like hell.

LAURA. Market unsatisfactory?

WILL. No; head too big. [_He lights a cigar; as he takes a puff he
makes an awful face._] Tastes like punk. [_Puts cigar into cup._

LAURA. You drank a lot.

WILL. We'll have to cut out those parties. I can't do those things any
more. I'm not as young as I was, and in the morning it makes me sick.
How do you feel?

LAURA. A little tired, that's all.