Mrs. Fullarton.  Of course—­the only thing is that——­

Clare. [With a faint smile] It’s all right, Dolly.  I’m not coming.

Mrs. Fullarton.  Oh! don’t do anything desperate, Clare—­you are so desperate sometimes.  You ought to make terms—­not tracks.

Clare.  Haggle? [She shakes her head] What have I got to make terms with?  What he still wants is just what I hate giving.

Mrs. Fullarton.  But, Clare——­

Clare.  No, Dolly; even you don’t understand.  All day and every day —­just as far apart as we can be—­and still—­Jolly, isn’t it?  If you’ve got a soul at all.

Mrs. Fullarton.  It’s awful, really.

Clare.  I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that—­comes to an end.  Can’t endure beyond a certain time, ever.

     She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to
     bits.  It is the only sign of emotion she has given.

Mrs. Fullarton. [Watching] Look here, my child; this won’t do.  You must get a rest.  Can’t Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?

Clare. [Shaking her head] Reggie lives on his pay.

Mrs. Fullarton. [With one of her quick looks] That was Mr. Malise, then?

Fullarton. [Coming towards them] I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn’t sing me that little song you sang the other night, [He hums] “If I might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day”?  Remember?

Mrs. Fullarton.  “The falling dew,” Edward.  We simply must go, Clare.  Good-night. [She kisses her.]

Fullarton. [Taking half-cover between his wife and Clare] It suits you down to the ground-that dress.

Clare.  Good-night.

     Huntingdon sees them out.  Left alone Clare clenches her hands,
     moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.

Huntingdon. [Returning] Look here, Clare!

Clare.  Well, Reggie?

Huntingdon.  This is working up for a mess, old girl.  You can’t do this kind of thing with impunity.  No man’ll put up with it.  If you’ve got anything against George, better tell me. [Clare shakes her head] You ought to know I should stick by you.  What is it?  Come?

Clare.  Get married, and find out after a year that she’s the wrong person; so wrong that you can’t exchange a single real thought; that your blood runs cold when she kisses you—­then you’ll know.

Huntingdon.  My dear old girl, I don’t want to be a brute; but it’s a bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.

Clare.  Yes, incredible, when you haven’t tried.