Janet.  Oh, I don’t mind.

James.  Well, then, I doubt if we should interfere.  But Mr. Texel’s lawyers are already in communication with the police.

Janet. (Stiffly.) I see. (An awkward pause during which everybody except carve, who is reading his post, looks at everybody else.) Well, then, I think that’s about all, isn’t it? (A shorter pause.) Good-morning. (She bows to the curates, and shakes hands with Mrs. Shawn.) (To Mrs. Shawn.) Now do take care of yourself.

Mrs. S. (Weakly.) Thank you.

John.  Good-morning.  Mother, take my arm, please.

James.  Good-morning.

Janet.  Albert, they’re going.

Carve. (Looking up absently and only half rising, perfunctorily and quickly) Good-morning.  Good-morning. (Sits down.)

Janet. (To James Shawn, who is hovering near door L, uncertain of his way out.) This way, this time!

     (Exeunt the SHAWNS followed by Janet.)

     (Carve rises and draws curtains of window apart)

     (Re-enter Janet.)

Janet. (Cheerfully) Oh, it’s quite light! (Turns out gas.)

Carve. (Gazing at her.) Incomparable woman!

Janet.  So it’s true after all!

Carve.  What?

Janet.  All that rigmarole about you being Ilam Carve?

Carve.  You’re beginning to come round at last?

Janet.  Well, I think they were quite honest people—­those three.  There’s no doubt the poor creature once had a husband who did run off.  And it seems fairly clear his name was Albert Shawn, and he went away as valet to an artist.  But then, on the other hand, if there is one thing certain in this world, it is that you were never married before you married me.  That I will swear to.

Carve.  And yet she identified me.  She was positive.

Janet.  Positive?  That’s just what she wasn’t!  And didn’t you notice the queer way she looked at you as they went out?  As much as to say, “I wonder now whether it is him—­after all?”

Carve.  Then you really think she could be mistaken on such a point?

Janet.  Pooh!  After twenty-six years.  Besides, all men of forty-seven look more or less alike....  And so I’m the wife of Ilam Carve that’s supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey and royalty went to his funeral!  We’ll have some tea ourselves.  I say, why did you do it?  (Pours out tea.)

Carve. (Casually.) I don’t know.  It was to save worry to begin with, and then it went on by itself and somehow I couldn’t stop it....  I don’t know!

Janet. (Endearingly.) Well, I’ve always told you frankly you’ve got a bee in your bonnet. (Drinking tea and turning over the post.) More letters from these newspaper people!  What’s this lovely crest on this envelope?