Denham.

I think you sometimes say more than you mean—­more than you realise at the time.  I wonder where the child has gone?

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, she has slunk away to some of her friends. (Throwing off the shawl, and letting her feet drop on the ground.) Arthur, are you uneasy about her?

Denham.

Yes, rather.  Jane heard her sobbing in her room, and saying she would run away.

Mrs. Denham.

Why didn’t you tell me that before? (Rises, and moves to and fro.)
Oh, what have I done?  What have I done?

Denham.

We must look for her.  Some one may have seen her.  Wait a moment. (He opens the door, and meets Fitzgerald, who comes in smiling.) Fitzgerald!

Fitzgerald.

(coming down to back of sofa) Well, I’ve brought you back your little waif, Mrs. Denham.

Mrs. Denham.

Undine?

Fitzgerald.

Ay, Undine!

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, I am so thankful!  But where is she?

Fitzgerald.

Well, I left her below, having some milk or something.  She seemed quite done up—­excitement or something—­eh?

Denham.

Where did you meet her, Fitz?

Fitzgerald.

I was going to my studio, and I met—­met her running along the road with—­with a little white scared face, and no hat on her—­and her curls flying behind her—­an’—­an’—­’pon my word, I could hardly stop her But we met a little girl with a goat, an’ we stroked the goat—­eh, stroked the goat—­an’ that comforted her a bit.

Mrs. Denham.

But where was she going?

Fitzgerald.

Oh, that’s the cream o’ the joke!  I had a great piece of work to get out of her what ailed her, an’—­an’—­would you believe it?—­that Undine of yours—­that Undine of yours was going back to her native element.  The—­the mite was looking for the Thames, to drown herself!

Mrs. Denham.

To drown herself?

Fitzgerald.

Ay.  She told me, “Mother said—­said she was too wicked to live—­an’ she—­she didn’t want her any more.”  By Jove!  Mrs. Denham, you must be careful what you say to that imp.  She’ll take you at your word—­eh?

Mrs. Denham.

How can we ever thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald?

Denham.

Well, we can laugh at it now; but it was rather a ghastly bit of tragi-comedy.  A thousand thanks, Fitz, old fellow!

Fitzgerald.

Well, I hope she’s none the worse for it.  I carried her home on my back; an’ I can tell you her heart was beating like—­like the heart of a hunted mouse.  I must be off, Arthur; I have a model coming.  You’ll bring the drawing round, eh?  I must have it by five o’clock.

Denham.

I have about ten minutes’ work on the background—­the figures are all right.  I’ll bring it round just now.