Helen: Jim! Why haven’t you come before?
James Allen: I couldn’t; I was afraid to.
Helen: You could have written! It’s been almost a year since you escaped!
James Allen: But I haven’t escaped. They’re still after me. They’ll always be after me. I’ve had jobs, but I can’t keep them. Something happens. Someone turns up. I hide in rooms all day, travel by night. No friends, no rest, no peace.
Helen: Oh, Jim!
James Allen: Keep moving; that’s all that’s left for me. Forgive me, Helen, I. . .I had to take a chance to see you tonight, just to say goodbye.
Helen: Oh, Jim, it was all going to be so different.
James Allen: It is different. They’ve made it different. I’ve got to go!
Helen: I can’t let you go like this!
James Allen: I have to.
Helen: Can’t you tell me where you’re going?! Will you write? Do you need any money? But you must, Jim! How do you live?!
James Allen: I steal.
Roger Grant: Don’t you understand? I’m an artist. Like Pygmalion.
Stella Kirby: Like who?
Roger Grant: Oh, just a Greek who took a hunk of marble, molded it and polished it into a beautiful woman. Then he fell in love with it.
Stella Kirby: Then you mean you’ve just fallen in love with your, with your. . .
Roger Grant: . . .handiwork.
Stella Kirby: Oh, that isn’t so. You loved me from the first day you saw me, platinum hair, loud mouth and everything.
Roger Grant: I guess you’re right.
Stella Kirby: This is the real thing, isn’t it?
Roger Grant: It’s the realest thing that ever happened to me.