the interrupted thread, and chatter like two
magpies. But as it is, I have simply nothing to say; and you seem
to have less.

NORA. I--[her tears choke her; but the keeps up appearances
desperately].

LARRY [quite unconscious of his cruelty]. In a week or so we
shall be quite old friends again. Meanwhile, as I feel that I am
not making myself particularly entertaining, I'll take myself
off. Tell Tom I've gone for a stroll over the hill.

NORA. You seem very fond of Tom, as you call him.

LARRY [the triviality going suddenly out of his voice]. Yes I'm
fond of Tom.

NORA. Oh, well, don't let me keep you from him.

LARRY. I know quite well that my departure will be a relief.
Rather a failure, this first meeting after eighteen years, eh?
Well, never mind: these great sentimental events always are
failures; and now the worst of it's over anyhow. [He goes out
through the garden door].

Nora, left alone, struggles wildly to save herself from
breaking down, and then drops her face on the table and gives way
to a convulsion of crying. Her sobs shake her so that she can
hear nothing; and she has no suspicion that she is no longer
alone until her head and breast are raised by Broadbent, who,
returning newly washed and combed through the inner door, has
seen her condition, first with surprise and concern, and then
with an emotional disturbance that quite upsets him.

BROADBENT. Miss Reilly. Miss Reilly. What's the matter? Don't
cry: I can't stand it: you mustn't cry. [She makes a choked
effort to speak, so painful that he continues with impulsive
sympathy] No: don't try to speak: it's all right now. Have your
cry out: never mind me: trust me. [Gathering her to him, and
babbling consolatorily] Cry on my chest: the only really
comfortable place for a woman to cry is a man's chest: a real
man, a real friend. A good broad chest, eh? not less than
forty-two inches--no: don't fuss: never mind the conventions:
we're two friends, aren't we? Come now, come, come! It's all
right and comfortable and happy now, isn't it?

NORA [through her tears]. Let me go. I want me hankerchief.

BROADBENT [holding her with one arm and producing a large silk
handkerchief from his breast pocket]. Here's a handkerchief. Let
me [he dabs her tears dry with it]. Never mind your own: it's too
small: it's one of those wretched little cambric handkerchiefs--

NORA [sobbing]. Indeed it's a common cotton one.

BROADBENT. Of course it's a common cotto