Evans?
KENT. Well, he talked of his Flock. There are quite fifteen letters you'll
have to deal with yourself, I'm afraid.
TREBELL _stares at him: then, apparently, making up his mind...._
TREBELL. Ring up a messenger, will you ... I must write a note and send it.
KENT. Will you dictate?
TREBELL. I shall have done it while you're ringing ... it's only a personal
matter. Then we'll start work.
KENT _goes into his room and tackles the telephone there._ TREBELL
_sits down to write the note, his face very set and anxious._
THE THIRD ACT
At LORD HORSHAM'S house in Queen Anne's Gate, in the evening, a week later.
_If rooms express their owners' character, the grey and black of_ LORD
HORSHAM'S _drawing room, the faded brocade of its furniture, reveal him as a
man of delicate taste and somewhat thin intellectuality. He stands now
before a noiseless fire, contemplating with a troubled eye either the
pattern of the Old French carpet, or the black double doors of the library
opposite, or the moulding on the Adams ceiling, which the flicker of all the
candles casts into deeper relief. His grey hair and black clothes would melt
into the decoration of his room, were the figure not rescued from such
oblivion by the British white glaze of his shirt front and--to a sympathetic
eye--by the loveable perceptive face of the man. Sometimes he looks at the
sofa in front of him, on which sits_ WEDGECROFT, _still in the frock coat of
a busy day, depressed and irritable.
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