fall with a long
slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you
might try to make some amends, I should think.

CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of
something she could not avoid. He puts his hand on her arm.

CLARE. No, no--no!

GEORGE. [Dropping his hand] Can't you make it up?

CLARE. I don't feel very Christian.

She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her.
GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the
room. He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it
with a bang, and again contemplates the door. Moving forward,
he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its
edge, and muttering. Then he crosses to the door into the hall
and switches off the light. He opens the door to go out, then
stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh.
Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the
curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is
standing, unhooking a necklet.

He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud.

CURTAIN.

ACT II

The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer
door opens on to a corridor and stairway. Doors on either side
lead to other rooms. On the walls are unframed reproductions of
fine pictures, secured with tintacks. An old wine-coloured
armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of
the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink,
pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to
his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only
eleven. On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper,
cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. There are many books on
shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a
soft hat, and a black knobby stick. MALISE sits in his
armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers,
unshaved and uncollared, writing. He pauses, smiles, lights a
cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up
a sheet of quarto MS.

MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those
excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace. Only
the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant
Tyranny