Part 34 (1/2)

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. Can I do nothing? Oh, Henry!

TREBELL. Help me to open my letters.

FRANCES. Don't you leave them to Mr. Kent?

TREBELL. Not this morning.

FRANCES. But there are so many.

TREBELL. [_For the first time lifting his voice from its dull monotony._]

What a busy man I was.

FRANCES. Henry ... you're a little mad.

TREBELL. Do you find me so? That's interesting.

FRANCES. [_With the ghost of a smile._] Well ... maddening.

_By this time he is sitting at his table; she near him watching closely. They halve the considerable post and start to open it._

TREBELL. We arrange them in three piles ... personal ... political ... and preposterous.

FRANCES. This is an invitation ... the Anglican League.

TREBELL. I can't go.

_She looks sideways at him, as he goes on mechanically tearing the envelopes._

FRANCES. I heard you come upstairs about two o'clock.