ANABEL.  I realise HOW terrible it is, Mr. Barlow—­and how helpless one is.

MR. BARLOW.  Thank you, my dear, for your sympathy.

OLIVER.  If the people for one minute pulled themselves up and conquered their mania for money and machine excitement, the whole thing would be solved.—­Would you like me to find Winnie and tell her to say good night to you?

MR. BARLOW.  If you would be so kind. (Exit OLIVER.) Can’t you find a sweet that you would like, my dear?  Won’t you take a little cherry brandy?

(Enter BUTLER.)

ANABEL.  Thank you.

WILLIAM.  You will go up, sir?

MR. BARLOW.  Yes, William.

WILLIAM.  You are tired to-night, sir.

MR. BARLOW.  It has come over me just now.

WILLIAM.  I wish you went up before you became so over-tired, sir. 
Would you like nurse?

MR. BARLOW.  No, I’ll go with you, William.  Good night, my dear.

ANABEL.  Good night, Mr. Barlow.  I am so sorry if you are over-tired. 
     (Exit BUTLER and MR. BARLOW.  ANABEL takes a drink and goes to
          
                                                  the fire.)

(Enter GERALD.)

GERALD.  Father gone up?

ANABEL.  Yes.

GERALD.  I thought I heard him.  Has he been talking too much?—­Poor father, he will take things to heart.

ANABEL.  Tragic, really.

GERALD.  Yes, I suppose it is.  But one can get beyond tragedy—­ beyond the state of feeling tragical, I mean.  Father himself is tragical.  One feels he is mistaken—­and yet he wouldn’t be any different, and be himself, I suppose.  He’s sort of crucified on an idea of the working people.  It’s rather horrible when he’s one’s father.—­However, apart from tragedy, how do you like being here, in this house?

ANABEL.  I like the house.  It’s rather too comfortable.

GERALD.  Yes.  But how do you like being here?

ANABEL.  How do you like my being in your home?

GERALD.  Oh, I think you’re very decorative.

ANABEL.  More decorative than comfortable?

GERALD.  Perhaps.  But perhaps you give the necessary finish to the establishment.

ANABEL.  Like the correct window-curtains?

GERALD.  Yes, something like that.  I say, why did you come, Anabel?  Why did you come slap-bang into the middle of us?—­It’s not expostulation—­I want to know.

ANABEL.  You mean you want to be told?

GERALD.  Yes, I want to be told.

ANABEL.  That’s rather mean of you.  You should savvy, and let it go without saying.

GERALD.  Yes, but I don’t savvy.

ANABEL.  Then wait till you do.

GERALD.  No, I want to be told.  There’s a difference in you, Anabel, that puts me out, rather.  You’re sort of softer and sweeter—­I’m not sure whether it isn’t a touch of father in you.  There’s a little sanctified smudge on your face.  Are you really a bit sanctified?