_
* * * * *
_At eight in the morning he is still here. His lamp is out, the fire
is out and the book laid aside. The white morning light penetrates
every crevice of the room and shows every line on_ TREBELL'S _face.
The spirit of the man is strained past all reason. The door opens
suddenly and_ FRANCES _comes in, troubled, nervous. Interrupted in her
dressing, she has put on some wrap or other._
FRANCES. Henry ... Simpson says you've not been to bed all night.
_He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness_--
TREBELL. No. Good morning.
FRANCES. Oh, my dear ... what is wrong?
TREBELL. The message hasn't come ... and I've been thinking.
FRANCES. Why don't you tell me? [_He turns his head away._] I think you
haven't the right to torture me.
TREBELL. Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to face.
SIMPSON, _the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the
morning's letters._ FRANCES _rounds on her irritably._
FRANCES. What is it, Simpson?
MAID. The letters, Ma'am.
TREBELL _is on his feet at that._
TREBELL. Ah ... I want them.
FRANCES. [_Taking the letters composedly enough._] Thank you.
SIMPSON _departs and_ TREBELL _comes to her for his letters. She looks
at him with baffled affection._
FRANCES.
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