mmittee of the County Council and has
some influence in the matter of contracts. (Burgess wakes up at once.
Morell, expecting as much, waits a moment, and says) Will you come?

BURGESS (with enthusiasm). Course I'll come, James. Ain' it always a
pleasure to 'ear you.

MORELL (turning from him). I shall want you to take some notes at the
meeting, Miss Garnett, if you have no other engagement. (She nods,
afraid to speak.) You are coming, Lexy, I suppose.

LEXY. Certainly.

CANDIDA. We are all coming, James.

MORELL. No: you are not coming; and Eugene is not coming. You will stay
here and entertain him--to celebrate your return home. (Eugene rises,
breathless.)

CANDIDA. But James--

MORELL (authoritatively). I insist. You do not want to come; and he
does not want to come. (Candida is about to protest.) Oh, don't concern
yourselves: I shall have plenty of people without you: your chairs will
be wanted by unconverted people who have never heard me before.

CANDIDA (troubled). Eugene: wouldn't you like to come?

MORELL. I should be afraid to let myself go before Eugene: he is so
critical of sermons. (Looking at him.) He knows I am afraid of him: he
told me as much this morning. Well, I shall show him how much afraid I
am by leaving him here in your custody, Candida.

MARCHBANKS (to himself, with vivid feeling). That's brave. That's
beautiful. (He sits down again listening with parted lips.)

CANDIDA (with anxious misgiving). But--but--Is anything the matter,
James? (Greatly troubled.) I can't understand--

MORELL. Ah, I thought it was I who couldn't understand, dear. (He takes
her tenderly in his arms and kisses her on the forehead; then looks
round quietly at Marchbanks.)

ACT III

Late in the evening. Past ten. The curtains are drawn, and the lamps
lighted. The typewriter is in its case; the large table has been
cleared and tidied; everything indicates that the day's work is done.

Candida and Marchbanks are seated at the fire. The reading lamp is on
the mantelshelf above Marchbanks, who is sitting on the small chair
reading aloud from a manuscript. A little pile of manuscripts and a
couple of volumes of poetry are on the carpet beside him. Candida is in
the easy chair with the poker, a light brass one, upright in her hand.
She is leaning back and looking at the point of it curiously, with her
feet stretched towards the blaze and her heels resting on the fender,
profoundly unconscious of her appearan