Oliver.  I see.  And that’s nearly two years ago.  It’s an annual thing, like a birthday?

Anabel.  No.  I’ll go on, then.

Oliver.  You’ll be late now.

Anabel.  Shall I?  It doesn’t matter.

Oliver.  We are going to see you again, aren’t we?

Anabel (after a pause).  Yes, I hope so, Oliver.

Oliver.  How have you been these two years—­well?—­happy?

Anabel.  No, neither.  How have you?

Oliver.  Yes, fairly happy.  Have you been ill?

Anabel.  Yes, in France I was very ill.

Oliver.  Your old neuritis?

Anabel.  No.  My chest.  Pneumonia—­oh, a complication.

Oliver.  How sickening!  Who looked after you?  Is it better?

Anabel.  Yes, it’s a great deal better.

Oliver.  But, Anabel—­we must fix a meeting.  I say, wait just a moment.  Could I call on your people?  Go into town with me one day.  I don’t know whether Gerald intends to see you—­whether he intends to ask you to Lilley Close.

Gerald.  Oh, it’s all right.

Anabel.  He’s no need.  I’m fixed up there already.

Gerald.  What do you mean?

Anabel.  I am at Lilley Close every day—­or most days—­to work with your sister Winifred in the studio.

Gerald.  What?—­why, how’s that?

Anabel.  Your father asked me.  My father was already giving her some lessons.

Gerald.  And you’re at our house every day?

Anabel.  Most days.

Gerald.  Well, I’m—­well, I’ll be—­you managed it very sharp, didn’t you?  I’ve only been away a fort-night.

Anabel.  Your father asked me—­he offered me twelve pounds a month—­
I wanted to do something.

Gerald.  Oh yes, but you didn’t hire yourself out at Lilley Close as a sort of upper servant just for twelve pounds a month.

Anabel.  You’re wrong—­you’re wrong.  I’m not a sort of upper servant at all—­not at all.

Gerald.  Oh, yes, you are, if you’re paid twelve pounds a month—­three pounds a week.  That’s about what father’s sick-nurse gets, I believe.  You don’t do it for twelve pounds a month.  You can make twelve pounds in a day, if you like to work at your little models:  I know you can sell your statuette things as soon as you make them.

Anabel.  But I can’t make them.  I can’t make them.  I’ve lost the spirit—­the—­joi de vivre—­I don’t know what, since I’ve been ill.  I tell you I’ve got to earn something.

Gerald.  Nevertheless, you won’t make me believe, Anabel, that you’ve come and buried yourself in the provinces—­such provinces—­just to earn father’s three pounds a week.  Why don’t you admit it, that you came back to try and take up the old threads.