Design for Living Page #5

every morning.

Large glass.

Every morning?

Except Sunday.

Uh, baked apple.

It's going to make

a big revolution in my menu.

The eggs are just right.

You can have mine, too.

No eggs for Gilda?

No.

Conscience bothering you?

No.

Confused?

Very much so.

Gilda.

Yes?

Is George still given

to smashing things?

We have to tell him the truth regardless

of what happens to the furniture.

I wonder if he'll hit me.

He was never

very civilized.

You're right.

He is kind of...

kind of barbaric.

You know, Gilda, we did a marvelous

job on that third act.

I have a feeling

that if we got together,

collaborated on a note to leave behind,

and really worked on it,

it would not only be a very

fine piece of literature,

but it might save me

a black eye.

No, no, I can't run away.

I don't know

how I'm going to tell him.

I don't dare think.

I don't even know

what I'm going to tell him.

Very simple.

You love me.

That's the only thing

I'm sure of right now.

Let's forget the rest.

Let's not talk about it.

We've two more days.

Let's enjoy them.

Oh, my dear.

Tommy, I never forgot you.

In fact, you never left me.

You haunted me

like a nasty ghost.

On rainy nights I could hear you

moanin' down the chimney.

Tommy. Tommy.

What do we do

after lunch?

We'll take a long walk

for our digestion.

Yes, let's walk and walk

until we're dead tired.

Gilda, I've got

a better idea.

Let's stay home instead.

Well, London Louie,

the old rat himself.

You phony playwright,

how are you?

I'm fine.

When did you arrive?

Well, last night.

Boy, I can't tell you how...

How are you, darling?

Fine.

I forgot to kiss you.

You can blame him.

Well, how are you, pal?

Ouch! Fine.

Lucky I walked out

on the Butterfields.

What happened?

Oh, a very involved argument

about La Butterfield's double chin.

I said to her, "Madame,

I am an artist, not a masseur. "

Up speaks

Mr. Butterfield, and, uh...

What are you doing

in that suit?

Tuxedo for breakfast, huh?

Is that a new London custom?

George.

Ah, I didn't ask you.

Well, Tom,

you know what I'm thinking.

It's true.

George.

Shut up!

That's one way of

meeting the situation.

Shipping clerk comes home,

finds missus with boarder.

He breaks dishes.

It's pure burlesque.

Then there's another way.

Intelligent artist returns unexpectedly,

finds treacherous friends.

Both discuss

the pros and cons

of the situation

in grownup dialogue.

High-class comedy,

enjoyed by everybody.

And there's a third way.

I'll kick your teeth out,

tear your head off,

and beat some decency

into you.

Cheap melodrama.

Very dull.

George, stop it.

Still very dull.

I suppose

you feel sorry for him.

I feel sorry for you.

I'm sorry I hurt you,

but it was inevitable.

Go on, get out of here!

Both of you!

It's hard to believe

I... I loved you both.

Of either of you!

Go on! Go with him

in his top hat and fancy pants

and silly name in lights,

and good luck to both of you!

The London train

leaves at 4:
00.

You'll be very happy.

I promise.

Thank you, Tom. I'll pack.

Goodbye, George.

You did the right thing

about the Butterfields.

And George,

after I've gone, don't change.

Don't ever bow

to double chins.

Stay an artist.

That's important.

In fact,

the most important thing.

I didn't want to praise you

in front of Gilda,

but you certainly pack

a wicked right.

A real wallop.

There are a number of things

here which belong to her.

Oh, that's all right.

Never mind.

No, no, I don't want them.

Where shall I send them?

Forward them in my name,

care of the Cariton Theater, London.

And her mail?

Same place.

I'll see that she gets it.

Anything else?

Not that

I can think of.

If anything should come up,

will you be at this address?

That's immaterial. I don't wish to enter

into any correspondence.

As you wish.

Better tell her to hurry up.

It's getting to be a strain.

Give her a chance to pack!

Tell her to hurry up!

All right. Hurry up, Gilda!

Hurry up, darling.

Here, you rattlesnake.

So that's how you feel?

Yes, that's how I feel.

Understand?

Perfectly.

I felt that way once.

Gilda, have you got room

in your trunk?

Here. For you.

What's that?

A note from Gilda.

Ha.

"Tommy, dear.

"I am running away

because I am afraid

"your house in London

has a chimney, too,

"and I fancy on rainy nights

I would hear...

"And I fancy

on rainy nights I would hear

"that old devil,

George, moaning.

"So be nice

and let me be nice.

Maybe I'll like it. Gilda. "

You think

she'll come back?

No.

Should we

try to find her?

What's the use?

The mother of the arts

wants to be a nice girl.

Tragic.

No, it's comic.

Two slightly used artists

in the ashcan.

You'll get drunk.

It's the only

sensible thing to do.

To Gilda.

To Gilda.

Would you care

to hit me?

Please help yourself.

Sorry. I'm too high-class.

A gentleman, huh?

To my fingertips.

May I refer you

to a letter

sent to you from London

in a similar crisis?

A very

high-class document.

I could have enclosed

some smallpox germs easily.

But you didn't.

Very considerate.

Let's drink to that.

To smallpox germs.

In Latin, variola cocci.

I think

we're being very sensible.

Extremely.

Good for our livers.

Good for our immortal souls.

But bad

for our stomachs.

That's loose thinking.

What's bad for your stomach

may be highly entertaining

for my stomach.

I'm glad the conversation

has taken a scientific turn.

Oh, it's better

than discussing G-Gilda.

We must forget Gilda.

Utterly.

Let's change the subject.

Right.

Let's talk about something

entirely new.

Let's talk

about ourselves.

Very interesting.

To ourselves.

No.

It's bad taste.

Well, we can't drink

to nothing.

It's better than

drinking to ourselves.

To nothing.

No!

I refuse to be silly.

That's right.

Well, there must be

a reason for drinking.

To, uh...

No!

I beg your pardon.

To Kaplan and McGuire.

Don't be hasty.

To Kaplan.

And now, to McGuire.

A letter to my mother.

Mrs. Oscar F. Plunkett,

Utica, New York.

Dear Mama, I will arrive

on the 25th of this month

on the U.S. Liner

S.S. Manhattan.

I will be accompanied

by Miss Gilda Farrell.

Miss Gilda Farrell

is the daughter

of Mr. And Mrs. Anthony G. Farrell

of Fargo, North Dakota.

Got the ring?

Check.

Feel nervous, Max?

No. Had a fine nap.

Feel 100 percent.

How does it feel

to be Mrs. Plunkett?

Any different?

Well, it feels like standing

with your feet on the ground.

Peaceful, Max,

and so secure.

You bet.

It's going to be nice

to be a law-abiding citizen.

Gilda.

What lovely flowers.

"Strump and Egelbaur. "

Very fine people,

Strump and Egelbaur.

Biggest cement people in town.

- Oh.

Oh, you'll like 'em.

They sound adorable.

Gilda.

Yes, Max?

Uh, now that it's all over,

the excitement, etcetera,

I'd like to know,

what's your attitude?

My attitude?

Well, toward what?

I mean, do you love me?

Oh, Max, people should never ask

that question on their wedding night.

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