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She rises. John watches her a moment and then admits his defeat.

John—Helen, don’t let’s do like this. Let’s be friends. Good God, I never thought I would have to ask you for just that.

She runs over and takes his hand, affecting a hopeful cheerfulness which immediately revolts him. He drops her hand and disappears from the window. She leans out and watches him.

Helen—Watch for that spike. Oh, John, I warned you. You’ve torn your clothes.

John—(Drearily from below) Yes, I’ve torn my clothes. I certainly play in wonderful luck. Such an effective exit.

Helen—Are you coming to the dance?

John—No, of course I am not. Do you think I’d come just to see you and Charlie—

Helen—(Gently) Good-night, John.

She closes the window. Outside a clock strikes nine. The clatter of a few people on the stairway comes muffled through the door. She turns on the lights and, going up to the glass, looks long and with an intense interest at herself. A powder puff comes into use for an instant. An errant wisp of hair is tucked into position, and a necklace from somewhere slides into place.