FRANCES. [Very simply and clearly.] Perhaps one does nothing quite deliberately and for a definite reason.  My state has its compensations ... if one doesn’t value them too highly.  I’ve travelled in thought over all this question.  You mustn’t blame a woman for wishing not to bear children.  But ... well, if one doesn’t like the fruit one mustn’t cultivate the flower.  And I suppose that saying condemns poor Amy ... condemned her to death ... [Then her face hardens as she concentrates her meaning.] and brands most men as ... let’s unsentimentally call it illogical, doesn’t it?

      He takes the thrust in silence.

TREBELL.  Did you notice the light in my window as you came in?

FRANCES.  Yes ... in both as I got out of the cab.  Do you want the curtains drawn back?

TREBELL.  Yes ... don’t touch them.

      He has thrown himself into his chair by the fire.  She lapses into
      thought again.

FRANCES.  Poor little woman.

TREBELL. [In deep anger.] Well, if women will be little and poor....

      She goes to him and slips an arm over his shoulder.

FRANCES.  What is it you’re worried about ... if a mere sister may ask?

TREBELL. [Into the fire.] I want to think.  I haven’t thought for years.

FRANCES.  Why, you have done nothing else.

TREBELL.  I’ve been working out problems in legal and political algebra.

FRANCES.  You want to think of yourself.

TREBELL.  Yes.

FRANCES. [Gentle and ironic.] Have you ever, for one moment, thought in that sense of anyone else?

TREBELL.  Is that a complaint?

FRANCES.  The first in ten years’ housekeeping.

TREBELL.  No, I never have ... but I’ve never thought selfishly either.

FRANCES.  That’s a paradox I don’t quite understand.

TREBELL.  Until women do they’ll remain where they are ... and what they are.

FRANCES.  Oh, I know you hate us.

TREBELL.  Yes, dear sister, I’m afraid I do.  And I hate your influence on men ... compromise, tenderness, pity, lack of purpose.  Women don’t know the values of things, not even their own value.

      For a moment she studies him, wonderingly.

FRANCES.  I’ll take up the counter-accusation to-morrow.  Now I’m tired and I’m going to bed.  If I may insult you by mothering you, so should you.  You look tired and I’ve seldom seen you.

TREBELL.  I’m waiting up for a message.

FRANCES.  So late?

TREBELL.  It’s a matter of life and death.

FRANCES.  Are you joking?

TREBELL.  Yes.  If you want to spoil me find me a book to read.

FRANCES.  What will you have?

TREBELL.  Huckleberry Finn.  It’s on a top shelf towards the end somewhere ... or should be.

      She finds the book.  On her way back with it she stops and shivers.