Oliver.  Why not, Gerald?  Don’t you think we ought to take up the old threads?

Gerald.  I don’t think we ought to be left without choice.  I don’t think Anabel ought to come back and thrust herself on me—­for that’s what it amounts to, after all—­when one remembers what’s gone before.

Anabel.  I don’t thrust myself on you at all.  I know I’m a fool, a fool, to come back.  But I wanted to.  I wanted to see you again.  Now I know I’ve presumed.  I’ve made myself cheap to you.  I wanted to—­I wanted to.  And now I’ve done it, I won’t come to Lilley Close again, nor anywhere where you are.  Tell your father I have gone to France again—­it will be true.

Gerald.  You play tricks on me—­and on yourself.  You know you do.  You do it for the pure enjoyment of it.  You’re making a scene here in this filthy market-place, just for the fun of it.  You like to see these accursed colliers standing eyeing you, and squatting on their heels.  You like to catch me out, here where I’m known, where I’ve been the object of their eyes since I was born.  This is a great coup de main for you.  I knew it the moment I saw you here.

OLIVER.  After all, we ARE making a scene in the market-place.  Get in, Anabel, and we’ll settle the dispute more privately.  I’m glad you came back, anyhow.  I’m glad you came right down on us.  Get in, and let us run down to Whatmore.

ANABEL.  No, Oliver.  I don’t want to run down to Whatmore.  I wanted to see you—­I wanted to see Gerald—­and I’ve seen him—­and I’ve heard him.  That will suffice me.  We’ll make an end of the scene in the market-place. (She turns away.)

OLIVER.  I knew it wasn’t ended.  I knew she would come back and tell us she’d come.  But she’s done her bit—­now she’ll go again.  My God, what a fool of a world!—­You go on, Gerald—­I’ll just go after her and see it out. (Calls.) One moment, Anabel.

ANABEL (calling).  Don’t come, Oliver. (Turns.)

GERALD.  Anabel! (Blows the horn of the motor car violently and agitatively—­she looks round—­turns again as if frightened.) God damn the woman! (Gets down from the car.) Drive home for me, Oliver.

(Curtain.)

SCENE II

  WINIFRED’S studio at Lilley Close.  ANABEL and WINIFRED working
  at a model in clay.

WINIFRED. But isn’t it lovely to be in Paris, and to have exhibitions, and to be famous?

ANABEL.  Paris WAS a good place.  But I was never famous.

WINIFRED. But your little animals and birds were famous.  Jack said so.  You know he brought us that bronze thrush that is singing, that is in his room.  He has only let me see it twice.  It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.  Oh, if I can do anything like that!—­I’ve worshipped it, I have.  It is your best thing?