all outside.

PROF. My dear, this is--this is--awful. [He tries to embrace her.]

WIFE. [Avoiding him--an a stilly voice] Oh! Go on with your
writing!

PROF. I'm--I'm upset. I've never known you so--so----

WIFE. Hysterical? Well! It's over. I'll go and sing.

PROF. [Soothingly] There, there! I'm sorry, darling; I really am.
You're kipped--you're kipped. [He gives and she accepts a kiss]
Better?

[He gravitates towards his papers.]

All right, now?

WIFE. [Standing still and looking at him] Quite!

PROF. Well, I'll try and finish this to-night; then, to-morrow we
might have a jaunt. How about a theatre? There's a thing--they say
--called "Chinese Chops," that's been running years.

WIFE. [Softly to herself as he settles down into his chair] Oh!
God!

[While he takes up a sheet of paper and adjusts himself, she
stands at the window staring with all her might at the boulder,
till from behind it the faun's head and shoulders emerge once
more.]

PROF. Very queer the power suggestion has over the mind. Very
queer! There's nothing really in animism, you know, except the
curious shapes rocks, trees and things take in certain lights--effect
they have on our imagination. [He looks up] What's the matter now?

WIFE. [Startled] Nothing! Nothing!

[Her eyes waver to him again, and the FAUN vanishes. She turns
again to look at the boulder; there is nothing there; a little
shiver of wind blows some petals off the trees. She catches one
of them, and turning quickly, goes out through the curtain.]

PROF. [Coming to himself and writing] "The Orpheus legend is the--
er--apotheosis of animism. Can we accept----" [His voice is lost in
the sound of his WIFE'S voice beginning again: "Orpheus with his
lute--with his lute made trees----" It dies in a sob. The PROFESSOR
looks up startled, as the curtain falls].

FRUST. Fine! Fine!

VANE. Take up the curtain. Mr Foreson?

[The curtain goes up.]

FORESON. Sir?

VANE. Everybody on.

[He and FRUST leave their seats and ascend on to the Stage, on
which are collecting the four Players.]

VANE. Give us some light.

FORESON. Electrics! Turn up your floats!

[The footlights go up, and the blue goes out; the light is crude
as at the beginning.]

FRUST. I'd like to meet Miss Hellgrove. [She comes forward eagerly
and timidly. He grasps her hand] Miss Hellg