Waste Part 8

_Instinctively she moves towards him. They speak in whispers._

AMY O'CONNELL. He was locking up.

TREBELL. I've sent him to bed.

AMY O'CONNELL. He won't go.

TREBELL. Never mind him.

AMY O'CONNELL. We're standing full in the light ... anyone could see us.

TREBELL. [_With fierce egotism._] Think of me ... not of anyone else. [_He draws her from the window; then does not let her go._] May I kiss you again?

AMY O'CONNELL. [_Her eyes closed._] Yes.

_He kisses her. She stiffens in his arms; then laughs almost joyously, and is commonplace._

AMY O'CONNELL. Well ... let me get my breath.

TREBELL. [_Letting her stand free._] Now ... go along.

_Obediently she turns to the door, but sinks on the nearest chair._

AMY O'CONNELL. In a minute, I'm a little faint. [_He goes to her quickly._]

No, it's nothing.

TREBELL. Come into the air again. [_Then half seriously._] I'll race you across the lawn.

AMY O'CONNELL. [_Still breathless and a little hysterical._] Thank you!

TREBELL. Shall I carry you?

AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be silly. [_She recovers her self-possession, gets up and goes to the window, then looks back at him and says very beautifully._]

But the night's beautiful, isn't it?

_He has her in his arms again, more firmly this time._

TREBELL. Make it so.

AMY O'CONNELL. [_Struggling ... with herself_] Oh, why do you rouse me like this?

TREBELL. Because I want you.

AMY O'CONNELL. Want me to...?

TREBELL. Want you to ... kiss me just once.

AMY O'CONNELL. [_Yielding._] If I do ... don't let me go mad, will you?

TREBELL. Perhaps. [_He bends over her, her head drops back._] Now.

AMY O'CONNELL. Yes!

_She kisses him on the mouth. Then he would release her, but suddenly she clings again._

Oh ... don't let me go.

TREBELL. [_With fierce pride of possession._] Not yet.

_She is fragile beside him. He lifts her in his arms and carries her out into the darkness._

THE SECOND ACT

TREBELL'S house in Queen Anne Street, London. Eleven o'clock on an October morning.

TREBELL'S _working room is remarkable chiefly for the love of sunlight it evidences in its owner. The walls are white; the window which faces you is bare of all but the necessary curtains. Indeed, lack of draperies testifies also to his horror of dust. There faces you besides a double door; when it is opened another door is seen. When that is opened you discover a writing table, and beyond can discern a book-case filled with heavy volumes--law reports perhaps. The little room beyond is, so to speak, an under-study.

Between the two rooms a window, again barely curtained, throws light down the staircase. But in the big room, while the books are many the choice of them is catholic; and the book-cases are low, running along the wall. There is an armchair before the bright fire, which is on your right. There is a sofa. And in the middle of the room is an enormous double writing table piled tidily with much appropriate impedimenta, blue books and pamphlets and with an especial heap of unopened letters and parcels. At the table sits_ TREBELL _himself, in good health and spirits, but eyeing askance the work to which he has evidently just returned. His sister looks in on him. She is dressed to go out and has a housekeeping air._

FRANCES. Are you busy, Henry?

TREBELL. More or less. Come in.

FRANCES. You'll dine at home?

TREBELL. Anyone coming?

FRANCES. Julia Farrant and Lucy have run up to town, I think. I thought of going round and asking them to come in ... but perhaps your young man will be going there. Amy O'Connell said something vague about our going to Charles Street ... but she may be out of town by now.

TREBELL. Well ... I'll be in anyhow.

FRANCES. [_Going to the window as she b.u.t.tons her gloves._] Were you on deck early this morning? It must have been lovely.

TREBELL. No, I turned in before we got out of le Havre. I left Kent on deck and found him there at six.

FRANCES. I don't think autumn means to come at all this year ... it'll be winter one morning. September has been like a hive of bees, busy and drowsy.

By the way, Cousin Mary has another baby ... a girl.

TREBELL. [_Indifferent to the information._] That's the fourth.

FRANCES. Fifth. They asked me down for the christening ... but I really couldn't.

TREBELL. September's the month for Tuscany. The car chose to break down one morning just as we were starting North again; so we climbed one of the little hills and sat for a couple of hours, while I composed a fifteenth century electioneering speech to the citizens of Siena.

FRANCES. [_With a half smile._] Have you a vein of romance for holiday time?