And even if she does marry that other man she'll love you still. There's no room for me between you. I can go away like a discharged servant....

Oh, G.o.d! oh, G.o.d! what have I done to deserve it?

BASIL.

[_Touched by her utter misery._] I'm very sorry to make you so unhappy.

JENNY.

Oh, don't pity me. D'you think I want your pity now?

BASIL.

You had better come away, Jenny.

JENNY.

No. You've told me you don't want me any more. I shall go my own way.

BASIL.

[_Looks at her for a moment, hesitating; then shrugs his shoulders._]

Then good-bye.

[_He goes out, and_ JENNY, _looking after him, pa.s.ses her hand wearily over her forehead_.

JENNY.

[_With a sigh._] He's so glad to go.... [_She gives a little sob._]

They've got no room for me.

[_She takes up from the floor the photograph on which she stamped, and looks at it; then sinks down, burying her face in her hands, and bursts into a pa.s.sion of tears._

END OF THE THIRD ACT.

THE FOURTH ACT.

THE NEXT MORNING.

[_The scene is the same as in the Second Act, the drawing-room at Basil's house in Putney._ BASIL _is sitting at the table, with his head in his hands. He looks tired and worn; his face is very white, and there are great black lines under his eyes. His hair is dishevelled. On the table lies a revolver._

[_A knock at the door._

BASIL.

[_Without looking up._] Come in.

[f.a.n.n.y _enters_.]

f.a.n.n.y.

[_Subdued and pale._] I came to see if you wanted anything, sir.

BASIL.

[_Looking up at her slowly, his voice is dull and hoa.r.s.e._] No.

f.a.n.n.y.

Shall I open the windows, Sir? It's a beautiful morning.

BASIL.

No, I'm cold. Make up the fire.

f.a.n.n.y.

Wouldn't you like a cup of tea? You ought to 'ave something after not going to bed all night.

BASIL.

I don't want anything.... Don't worry, there's a good woman.

[f.a.n.n.y _puts coals on the fire, while BASIL listlessly watches her_.

BASIL.

How long is it since you sent the telegrams?

f.a.n.n.y.

I took them the moment the office was opened.

BASIL.

What's the time?

f.a.n.n.y.

Well, sir, it must be 'alf-past nine by now.

BASIL.

Good Heavens, how slowly the hours go. I thought the night would never end.... Oh, G.o.d, what shall I do?