Anderson.  I’ve just come in and found you lying here with the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold.  What has happened?

Judith (still astray).  I don’t know.  Have I been asleep?  I suppose—­(she stops blankly) I don’t know.

Anderson (groaning).  Heaven forgive me, I left you alone with that scoundrel. (Judith remembers.  With an agonized cry, she clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he rises with her.  He clasps her tenderly in his arms.) My poor pet!

Judith (frantically clinging to him).  What shall I do?  Oh my God, what shall I do?

Anderson.  Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear:  it was my fault.  Come:  you’re safe now; and you’re not hurt, are you? (He takes his arms from her to see whether she can stand.) There:  that’s right, that’s right.  If only you are not hurt, nothing else matters.

Judith.  No, no, no:  I’m not hurt.

Anderson.  Thank Heaven for that!  Come now:  (leading her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit down and rest:  you can tell me about it to-morrow.  Or, (misunderstanding her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it worries you.  There, there! (Cheerfully.) I’ll make you some fresh tea:  that will set you up again. (He goes to the table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl.)

Judith (in a strained tone).  Tony.

Anderson.  Yes, dear?

Judith.  Do you think we are only in a dream now?

Anderson (glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of anxiety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh tea into the pot).  Perhaps so, pet.  But you may as well dream a cup of tea when you’re about it.

Judith.  Oh, stop, stop.  You don’t know—­ (Distracted she buries her face in her knotted hands.)

Anderson (breaking down and coming to her).  My dear, what is it?  I can’t bear it any longer:  you must tell me.  It was all my fault:  I was mad to trust him.

Judith.  No:  don’t say that.  You mustn’t say that.  He—­oh no, no:  I can’t.  Tony:  don’t speak to me.  Take my hands—­both my hands.  (He takes them, wondering.) Make me think of you, not of him.  There’s danger, frightful danger; but it is your danger; and I can’t keep thinking of it:  I can’t, I can’t:  my mind goes back to his danger.  He must be saved—­no:  you must be saved:  you, you, you. (She springs up as if to do something or go somewhere, exclaiming) Oh, Heaven help me!

Anderson (keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute composure).  Calmly, calmly, my pet.  You’re quite distracted.

Judith.  I may well be.  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know what to do. (Tearing her hands away.) I must save him. (Anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the door.  It is opened in her face by Essie, who hurries in, full of anxiety.  The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith that it brings her to her senses.  Her tone is sharp and angry as she demands) What do you want?