FRANCES.  I don’t think I shall sleep to-night.  Poor Amy O’Connell!

TREBELL. [Curiously.] Are you afraid of death?

FRANCES. [With humorous stoicism.] It will be the end of me, perhaps.

      She gives him the book, with its red cover; the ’86 edition, a boy’s
      friend evidently.  He fingers it familiarly.

TREBELL.  Thank you.  Mark Twain’s a jolly fellow.  He has courage ... comic courage.  That’s what’s wanted.  Nothing stands against it.  You be-little yourself by laughing ... then all this world and the last and the next grow little too ... and so you grow great again.  Switch off some light, will you?

FRANCES. [Clicking off all but his reading lamp.] So?

TREBELL.  Thanks.  Good night, Frankie.

      She turns at the door, with a glad smile.

FRANCES.  Good night.  When did you last use that nursery name?

      Then she goes, leaving him still fingering the book, but looking into
      the fire and far beyond.  Behind him through the open window one sees
      how cold and clear the night is.

* * * * *

At eight in the morning he is still here.  His lamp is out, the fire is out and the book laid aside.  The white morning light penetrates every crevice of the room and shows every line on TREBELL’S face.  The spirit of the man is strained past all reason.  The door opens suddenly and FRANCES comes in, troubled, nervous.  Interrupted in her dressing, she has put on some wrap or other.

FRANCES.  Henry ...  Simpson says you’ve not been to bed all night.

      He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness—­

TREBELL.  No.  Good morning.

FRANCES.  Oh, my dear ... what is wrong?

TREBELL.  The message hasn’t come ... and I’ve been thinking.

FRANCES.  Why don’t you tell me? [He turns his head away.] I think you haven’t the right to torture me.

TREBELL.  Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to face.

      SIMPSON, the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the
      morning’s letters. FRANCES rounds on her irritably.

FRANCES.  What is it, Simpson?

MAID.  The letters, Ma’am.

TREBELL is on his feet at that.

TREBELL.  Ah ...  I want them.

FRANCES. [Taking the letters composedly enough.] Thank you.

      SIMPSON departs and TREBELL comes to her for his letters.  She looks
      at him with baffled affection.

FRANCES.  Can I do nothing?  Oh, Henry!

TREBELL.  Help me to open my letters.

FRANCES.  Don’t you leave them to Mr. Kent?

TREBELL.  Not this morning.

FRANCES.  But there are so many.