Clare.  Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds.  One hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour.  It’s only just over an hour a day.  Can’t you get me more?

     Malise lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again. 
     Clare puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it.

Clare.  I’m quite packed.  Shall I pack for you? [He nods] Can’t we have more than three days at the sea? [He shakes his head.  Going up to him] You did sleep last night.

Malise.  Yes, I slept.

Clare.  Bad head? [Malise nods] By this time the day after to-morrow the case will be heard and done with.  You’re not worrying for me?  Except for my poor old Dad, I don’t care a bit.

     Malise heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and
     down.

Clare.  Kenneth, do you understand why he doesn’t claim damages, after what he said that day-here? [Looking suddenly at him] It is true that he doesn’t?

Malise.  It is not.

Clare.  But you told me yourself

Malise.  I lied.

Clare.  Why?

Malise. [Shrugging] No use lying any longer—­you’d know it tomorrow.

Clare.  How much am I valued at?

Malise.  Two thousand. [Grimly] He’ll settle it on you. [He laughs] Masterly!  By one stroke, destroys his enemy, avenges his “honour,” and gilds his name with generosity!

Clare.  Will you have to pay?

Malise.  Stones yield no blood.

Clare.  Can’t you borrow?

Malise.  I couldn’t even get the costs.

Clare.  Will they make you bankrupt, then? [Malise nods] But that doesn’t mean that you won’t have your income, does it? [Malise laughs] What is your income, Kenneth? [He is silent] A hundred and fifty from “The Watchfire,” I know.  What else?

Malise.  Out of five books I have made the sum of forty pounds.

Clare.  What else?  Tell me.

Malise.  Fifty to a hundred pounds a year.  Leave me to gnaw my way out, child.

     Clare stands looking at him in distress, then goes quickly into
     the room behind her.  Malise takes up his paper and pen.  The
     paper is quite blank.

Malise. [Feeling his head] Full of smoke.

He drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left goes in.  Clare re-enters with a small leather box.  She puts it down on her typing table as Malise returns followed by Mrs. Miler, wearing her hat, and carrying His overcoat.

Mrs. Miler.  Put your coat on.  It’s a bitter wind.