If one is hard up, one expects to be offered a share in someone's good
fortune; if one has had luck oneself, one expects, as a matter of
course, to share it. Such is the code of the studios.
Anabel, for example, is sitting up typing her newest poem at 1
A.M. when a knock comes on the studio door. She opens it to
confront the man who lives on the top floor and whom she has never
met. She hasn't the least idea what his name is. He carries a tea
caddy, a teapot and a teacup.
"Sorry," he explains casually, "but I saw your light, and I thought
you'd let me use your gas stove to make some tea. Mine is out of
commission. Just go ahead with your work, while I fuss about. Maybe
you'd take a cup when it's ready?"
Anabel does, and he retires, cheerfully unconscious of anything
unconventional in the episode.
"Jimmy," calls Louise, the fashion illustrator, from the front door,
one day, "I have to have two dollars to pay my gas bill. Got any?"
"One-sixty," floats down a voice from upstairs.
"Chuck it down, please.
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