Anderson.  Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news myself.  Judith:  will you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, and keep him here until I return?

Judith (white and trembling).  Must I—­

Anderson (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her agitation).  My dear:  I can depend on you?

Judith (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust).  Yes.

Anderson (pressing her hand against his cheek).  You will not mind two old people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (Going.) I shall not say good evening:  you will be here when I come back. (He goes out.)

They watch him pass the window, and then look at each other dumbly, quite disconcerted.  Richard, noting the quiver of her lips, is the first to pull himself together.

Richard.  Mrs. Anderson:  I am perfectly aware of the nature of your sentiments towards me.  I shall not intrude on you.  Good evening. (Again he starts for the fireplace to get his coat.)

Judith (getting between him and the coat).  No, no.  Don’t go:  please don’t go.

Richard (roughly).  Why?  You don’t want me here.

Judith.  Yes, I—­(wringing her hands in despair) Oh, if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me.

Richard (indignantly).  Torment!  What right have you to say that?  Do you expect me to stay after that?

Judith.  I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him like an angry child) it is not because I like you.

Richard.  Indeed!

Judith.  Yes:  I had rather you did go than mistake me about that.  I hate and dread you; and my husband knows it.  If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe that I disobeyed him and drove you away.

Richard (ironically).  Whereas, of course, you have really been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh?

Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears.

Richard.  Stop, stop, stop, I tell you.  Don’t do that. (Putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound.) He wrung my heart by being a man.  Need you tear it by being a woman?  Has he not raised you above my insults, like himself? (She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking at him with a scared curiosity.) There:  that’s right. (Sympathetically.) You’re better now, aren’t you? (He puts his hand encouragingly on her shoulder.  She instantly rises haughtily, and stares at him defiantly.  He at once drops into his usual sardonic tone.) Ah, that’s better.  You are yourself again:  so is Richard.  Well, shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband’s return?

Judith (rather ashamed of herself).  If you please.  I—­I am sorry to have been so foolish. (She stoops to take up the plate of toast from the fender.)