Roper.  Afraid it’s not material.

Mrs. Barthwick.  Not material?

Roper.  Purely private life!  May have happened to the magistrate.

Barthwick. [With a movement as if to shift a burden.] Then you’ll take the thing into your hands?

Roper.  If the gods are kind. [He holds his hand out.]

Barthwick. [Shaking it dubiously.] Kind eh?  What?  You going?

Roper.  Yes.  I’ve another case, something like yours—­most unexpected.

     [He bows to Mrs. Barthwick, and goes out, followed by
     Barthwick, talking to the last.  Mrs. Barthwick at the table
     bursts into smothered sobs.  Barthwick returns.]

Barthwick. [To himself.] There’ll be a scandal!

Mrs. Barthwick. [Disguising her grief at once.] I simply can’t imagine what Roper means by making a joke of a thing like that!

Barthwick. [Staring strangely.] You!  You can’t imagine anything!  You’ve no more imagination than a fly!

Mrs. Barthwick. [Angrily.] You dare to tell me that I have no imagination.

Barthwick. [Flustered.] I—­I ’m upset.  From beginning to end, the whole thing has been utterly against my principles.

Mrs. Barthwick.  Rubbish!  You have n’t any!  Your principles are nothing in the world but sheer fright!

Barthwick. [Walking to the window.] I’ve never been frightened in my life.  You heard what Roper said.  It’s enough to upset one when a thing like this happens.  Everything one says and does seems to turn in one’s mouth—­it’s—­it’s uncanny.  It’s not the sort of thing I’ve been accustomed to. [As though stifling, he throws the window open.  The faint sobbing of a child comes in.] What’s that?

     [They listen.]

Mrs. Barthwick. [Sharply.] I can’t stand that crying.  I must send Marlow to stop it.  My nerves are all on edge. [She rings the bell.]

Barthwick.  I’ll shut the window; you’ll hear nothing. [He shuts the window.  There is silence.]

Mrs. Barthwick. [Sharply.] That’s no good!  It’s on my nerves.  Nothing upsets me like a child’s crying.

     [Marlow comes in.]

What’s that noise of crying, Marlow?  It sounds like a child.

Barthwick.  It is a child.  I can see it against the railings.

Marlow. [Opening the window, and looking out quietly.] It’s Mrs. Jones’s little boy, ma’am; he came here after his mother.

Mrs. Barthwick. [Moving quickly to the window.] Poor little chap!  John, we ought n’t to go on with this!

Barthwick. [Sitting heavily in a chair.] Ah! but it’s out of our hands!