[Frost enters from the hall, he comes to the foot of the table,
     and looks at Anthony; Tench coveys his nervousness by arranging
     papers.]

Anthony.  Bring me a whiskey and soda.

Frost. Anything to eat, sir?

     [Anthony shakes his head.  Frost goes to the sideboard, and
     prepares the drink.]

Tench. [In a low voice, almost supplicating.] If you could see your way, sir, it would be a great relief to my mind, it would indeed. [He looks up at Anthony, who has not moved.] It does make me so very anxious.  I haven’t slept properly for weeks, sir, and that’s a fact.

     [Anthony looks in his face, then slowly shakes his head.]

[Disheartened.] No, Sir? [He goes on arranging papers.]

     [Frost places the whiskey and salver and puts it down by
     Anthony’s right hand.  He stands away, looking gravely at
     Anthony.]

Frost. Nothing I can get you, sir?

     [Anthony shakes his head.]

You’re aware, sir, of what the doctor said, sir?

Anthony.  I am.

     [A pause.  Frost suddenly moves closer to him, and speaks in a
     low voice.]

Frost. This strike, sir; puttin’ all this strain on you.  Excuse me, sir, is it—­is it worth it, sir?

     [Anthony mutters some words that are inaudible.]

Very good, sir!

[He turns and goes out into the hall.  Tench makes two attempts to speak; but meeting his Chairman’s gaze he drops his eyes, and, turning dismally, he too goes out.  Anthony is left alone.  He grips the glass, tilts it, and drinks deeply; then sets it down with a deep and rumbling sigh, and leans back in his chair.]

The curtain falls.

ACT II

SCENE I

It is half-past three.  In the kitchen of Roberts’s cottage a meagre little fire is burning.  The room is clean and tidy, very barely furnished, with a brick floor and white-washed walls, much stained with smoke.  There is a kettle on the fire.  A door opposite the fireplace opens inward from a snowy street.  On the wooden table are a cup and saucer, a teapot, knife, and plate of bread and cheese.  Close to the fireplace in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a rug, sits Mrs. Roberts, a thin and dark-haired woman about thirty-five, with patient eyes.  Her hair is not done up, but tied back with a piece of ribbon.  By the fire, too, is Mrs. Yeo; a red-haired, broad-faced person.  Sitting near the table is Mrs. Rous, an old lady, ashen-white, with silver hair; by the door, standing, as if about to go, is Mrs. Bulgin, a little pale, pinched-up woman.