TREBELL. [Who has smiled very broadly.] As you don’t mean to ... don’t stop while I tell you.

LUCY.  But I’d sooner get married.  I want to have children. [The words catch him and hold him.  He looks at her reverently this time.  She remembers she has transgressed convention; then, remembering that it is only convention, proceeds quite simply.] I hope we shall have children.

TREBELL.  I hope so.

LUCY.  Thank you.  That’s the first kind thing you’ve said.

TREBELL.  Oh ... you can do without compliments, can’t you?

      She considers for a moment.

LUCY.  Why have you been talking to me as if I were someone else?

TREBELL. [Startled.] Who else?

LUCY.  No one particular.  But you’ve shaken a moral fist so to speak.  I don’t think I provoked it.

TREBELL.  It’s a bad parliamentary habit.  I apologise.

      She gets up to go.

LUCY.  Now I shan’t keep you longer ... you’re always busy.  You’ve been so easy to talk to.  Thank you very much.

TREBELL.  Why ...  I wonder?

LUCY.  I knew you would be or I shouldn’t have come.  You think Life’s an important thing, don’t you?  That’s priggish, isn’t it?  Good-bye.  We’re coming to dinner ...  Aunt Julia and I. Miss Trebell arrived to ask us just as I left.

TREBELL.  I’ll see you down.

LUCY.  What waste of time for you.  I know how the door opens.

      As she goes out WALTER KENT is on the way to his room.  The two nod
      to each other like old friends. TREBELL turns away with something of
      a sigh.

KENT.  Just come?

LUCY.  Just going.

KENT.  I’ll see you at dinner.

LUCY.  Oh, are you to be here? ... that’s nice.

      LUCY departs as purposefully as she came. KENT hurries to TREBELL,
      whose thoughts are away again by now.

KENT.  I haven’t been long there and back, have I?  The Bishop gave me these letters for you.  He hasn’t answered the last ... but I’ve his notes of what he means to say.  He’d like them back to-night.  He was just going out.  I’ve one or two notes of what Evans said.  Bit of a charlatan, don’t you think?

TREBELL.  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.