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The curtain goes up and down several times to denote the lapse of several minutes. A good comedy effect can be obtained by having MR. ICKY cling to the curtain and go up and down with it. Fireflies or fairies on wires can also be introduced at this point. Then PETER appears, a look of almost imbecile sweetness on his face.
PETER: How is your asthma, Mr. Icky? PETER: I suppose life has been pretty tame since you gave up petty arson. MR. ICKY: Yes... yes.... You see, Peter, laddie, when I was fifty I reformed once in prison. PETER: You went wrong again? MR. ICKY: Worse than that. The week before my term expired they insisted on transferring to me the glands of a healthy young prisoner they were executing.
She is coming here. I have followed her. He selects one and scratching a match touches it to the cigarette. DIVINE: I shall wait. Several hours pass. There is no sound except an occasional cackle or hiss from the dods as they quarrel among themselves. DIVINE: It's very quiet here. MR. ICKY: Yes, very quiet.... Here I am! Ulsa did what? I'd reyther not. Let's come to an understanding.
ULSA: You still say it would be Jack? MR. ICKY: What does she mean? It couldn't be Frank. MR. ICKY: Frank who? ULSA: It would be Frank! Never fear you shall come in through the mistress' entrance. ULSA: Sir! You know what I mean? DIVINE: I do. MR. ICKY: Your record is clean. DIVINE: Excellent. I have the best constitution in the world ULSA: And the worst by-laws.
MR. ICKY: A cashier? ... ULSA: What for? MR. ICKY: Is your mind in good shape? After all what is brilliance? Merely the tact to sow when no one is looking and reap when every one is. ME. ICKY; Be careful. ... I will-not marry my daughter to an epigram.... I often descend to the level of an innate idea. I can't marry a man who thinks it would be Jack. Why Frank would
MR. ICKY is left alone. Twilight has come down and the stage is flooded with such light as never was on land or sea. There is no sound except a sheep-herder's wife in the distance playing an aria from Beethoven's Tenth Symphony, on a mouth-organ. The great white and gray moths swoop down and light on the old man until he is completely covered by them. But he does not stir.
Silence. . . . The song of birds. PETER: Often at night I sit at my window and regard the stars. PETER: I know them all: Venus, Mars, Neptune, Gloria Swanson. MR. ICKY: I don't take no stock in astronomy.... I've been thinking o' Lunnon, laddie. PETER: I liked Ulsa, Mr. Icky; she was so plump, so round, so buxom. MR. ICKY: Not worth the paper she was padded with, laddie.
MR. ICKY: Clergymen haven't got glands they have souls. Then a young man handsomely attired in a dress-suit and a patent-leather silk hat comes onto the stage. He is very mundane. His contrast to the spirituality of the other two is observable as far back as the first row of the balcony. DIVINE: I am looking for Ulsa Icky. MR. ICKY: My daughter is in Lunnon. DIVINE: She has left London.
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