TREBELL.  Shall I carry you?

AMY O’CONNELL.  Don’t be silly. [She recovers her self-possession, gets up and goes to the window, then looks back at him and says very beautifully.] But the night’s beautiful, isn’t it?

      He has her in his arms again, more firmly this time.

TREBELL.  Make it so.

AMY O’CONNELL. [Struggling ... with herself] Oh, why do you rouse me like this?

TREBELL.  Because I want you.

AMY O’CONNELL.  Want me to...?

TREBELL.  Want you to ... kiss me just once.

AMY O’CONNELL. [Yielding.] If I do ... don’t let me go mad, will you?

TREBELL.  Perhaps. [He bends over her, her head drops back.] Now.

AMY O’CONNELL.  Yes!

      She kisses him on the mouth.  Then he would release her, but suddenly
      she clings again.

Oh ... don’t let me go.

TREBELL. [With fierce pride of possession.] Not yet.

      She is fragile beside him.  He lifts her in his arms and carries her
      out into the darkness.

THE SECOND ACT

TREBELL’S house in Queen Anne Street, London.  Eleven o’clock on an October morning.

TREBELL’S working room is remarkable chiefly for the love of sunlight it evidences in its owner.  The walls are white; the window which faces you is bare of all but the necessary curtains.  Indeed, lack of draperies testifies also to his horror of dust.  There faces you besides a double door; when it is opened another door is seen.  When that is opened you discover a writing table, and beyond can discern a book-case filled with heavy volumes—­law reports perhaps.  The little room beyond is, so to speak, an under-study.  Between the two rooms a window, again barely curtained, throws light down the staircase.  But in the big room, while the books are many the choice of them is catholic; and the book-cases are low, running along the wall.  There is an armchair before the bright fire, which is on your right.  There is a sofa.  And in the middle of the room is an enormous double writing table piled tidily with much appropriate impedimenta, blue books and pamphlets and with an especial heap of unopened letters and parcels.  At the table sits TREBELL himself, in good health and spirits, but eyeing askance the work to which he has evidently just returned.  His sister looks in on him.  She is dressed to go out and has a housekeeping air.

FRANCES.  Are you busy, Henry?

TREBELL.  More or less.  Come in.

FRANCES.  You’ll dine at home?

TREBELL.  Anyone coming?

FRANCES.  Julia Farrant and Lucy have run up to town, I think.  I thought of going round and asking them to come in ... but perhaps your young man will be going there.  Amy O’Connell said something vague about our going to Charles Street ... but she may be out of town by now.