comes back uneasily to the sofa, as
if to get as far as possible from Morell's questioning, and sits down
in great agony of mind, thinking of the paraffin.)

MORELL. (very gravely). So many that you don't know. (More
aggressively.) Anyhow, when there's anything coarse-grained to be done,
you ring the bell and throw it on to somebody else, eh? That's one of
the great facts in YOUR existence, isn't it?

MARCHBANKS. Oh, don't torture me. The one great fact now is that your
wife's beautiful fingers are dabbling in paraffin oil, and that you are
sitting here comfortably preaching about it--everlasting preaching,
preaching, words, words, words.

BURGESS (intensely appreciating this retort). Ha, ha! Devil a better.
(Radiantly.) 'Ad you there, James, straight.

(Candida comes in, well aproned, with a reading lamp trimmed, filled,
and ready for lighting. She places it on the table near Morell, ready
for use.)

CANDIDA (brushing her finger tips together with a slight twitch of her
nose). If you stay with us, Eugene, I think I will hand over the lamps
to you.

MARCHBANKS. I will stay on condition that you hand over all the rough
work to me.

CANDIDA. That's very gallant; but I think I should like to see how you
do it first. (Turning to Morell.) James: you've not been looking after
the house properly.

MORELL. What have I done--or not done--my love?

CANDIDA (with serious vexation). My own particular pet scrubbing brush
has been used for blackleading. (A heart-breaking wail bursts from
Marchbanks. Burgess looks round, amazed. Candida hurries to the sofa.)
What's the matter? Are you ill, Eugene?

MARCHBANKS. No, not ill. Only horror, horror, horror! (He bows his head
on his hands.)

BURGESS (shocked). What! Got the 'orrors, Mr. Morchbanks! Oh, that's
bad, at your age. You must leave it off grajally.

CANDIDA (reassured). Nonsense, papa. It's only poetic horror, isn't it,
Eugene? (Petting him.)

BURGESS (abashed). Oh, poetic 'orror, is it? I beg your pordon, I'm
shore. (He turns to the fire again, deprecating his hasty conclusion.)

CANDIDA. What is it, Eugene--the scrubbing brush? (He shudders.) Well,
there! never mind. (She sits down beside him.) Wouldn't you like to
present me with a nice new one, with an ivory back inlaid with
mother-of-pearl?

MARCHBANKS (softly and musically, but sadly and longingly). No, not a
scrubbing brush, but a boat--a tiny shallop to sail away in, far from
the world, where the marble