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?

ANABEL. No, not sanctified. It's true I feel different. I feel I want a new way of life--something more dignified, more religious, if you like--anyhow, something POSITIVE.

GERALD. Is it the change of heart, Anabel?

ANABEL. Perhaps it is, Gerald.

GERALD. I'm not sure that I like it. Isn't it like a berry that decides to get very sweet, and goes soft?

ANABEL. I don't think so.

GERALD. Slightly sanctimonious. I think I liked you better before. I don't think I like you with this touch of aureole. People seem to me so horribly self-satisfied when they get a change of heart--they take such a fearful lot of credit to themselves on the strength of it.

ANABEL. I don't think I do.--Do you feel no different, Gerald?

GERALD. Radically, I can't say I do. I feel very much more INdifferent.

ANABEL. What to?

GERALD. Everything.

ANABEL. You're still angry--that's what it is.

GERALD. Oh, yes, I'm angry. But that is part of my normal state.

ANABEL. Why are you angry?

GERALD. Is there any reason why I shouldn't be angry? I'm angry because you treated me--well, so impudently, really--clearing out and leaving one to whistle to the empty walls.

ANABEL. Don't you think it was time I cleared out, when you became so violent, and really dangerous, really like a madman?

GERALD. Time or not time, you went--you disappeared and left us high and dry--and I am still angry.--But I'm not only angry about that. I'm angry with the colliers, with Labour for its low-down impudence--and I'm angry with father for being so ill--and I'm angry with mother for looking such a hopeless thing--and I'm angry with Oliver because he thinks so much---

ANABEL. And what are you angry with yourself for?