[She goes out, Right, with CLARA, who links her arm in her mother’s.

BLANCHE. [Finding the case, which has fallen beneath the table.] Here it is.  Dear old pocket-book—­

[Her voice breaks on the last word, and turning her face away to hide her tears, she hands him the well-worn letter case.

WARDEN.  Mrs. Sterling, I’m glad they left us alone, because Mr. Mason said he hadn’t been able to manage it—­to see you alone—­and yet he wanted you only to examine these.  They are private papers of Mr. Hunter; he thought they ought not to be destroyed without being read, and yet he hesitated to read them.  We thought that duty devolved best upon you. [He hands back the letter case.] Shall I wait and take back the case to Mr. Mason with the papers you wish him to have?

BLANCHE.  Oh, no, I will send them; I mustn’t keep you while I read them.  I’m always taking more of your time than I ought.

WARDEN. [Speaks with sincerity, but without any suggestion of love-making.] But never as much as I want to give you!  Don’t forget, Mrs. Sterling, what you promised me at your wedding,—­that your husband’s best man should be your best friend.

BLANCHE.  And nobody knows what it means to a woman, even a happily married woman like me—­[This is spoken with a slight effort, as if she is persuading herself that she is a happily married woman.]—­to have an honest friend like you.  It’s those people who have failed that say there is no such thing as a platonic friendship.

WARDEN.  We’ll prove them wrong.

BLANCHE.  We will.  Good-by, and thank you.

WARDEN.  And thank you! [Starting to go, he turns.] Shall I bring that Russian pianist around to play for you some day next week?

BLANCHE.  Do—­I want some music.

WARDEN.  Only let me know what day. [He goes out Left. BLANCHE sits by the table and opens the case.  She looks first at a memoranda and reads what is on the outside.] A business memoranda.  Lists of bonds. [She opens and looks at the next paper only a second, and then closes it.] This, Mr. Mason will understand better than I. [She puts it back in the pocket case.  She finds a photograph in the case.] My picture!—­[She looks for others, but finds none.]—­and only mine!  Oh, father!... [She wipes away tears from her eyes so as to see the picture, which is an old one.] Father, I returned your love. [She reads on the back of photograph.] “Blanche, my darling daughter, at fourteen years of age!” That’s mine! that’s my own! [And she puts the picture away separately.  She takes up a small packet of very old love-letters tied with faded old pink tape.] Old letters from mother; they must be her love-letters.  She shall have them,—­they may soften her. [She takes up a slip of paper and reads on the outside.] This is something for Mason,