Act II - Page 2

little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. On the whole, it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago.

The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak.

JUDITH [running to him]
Oh, here you are at last, at last! [She attempts to embrace him.]

ANDERSON [keeping her off]
Take care, my love: I'm wet. Wait till I get my cloak off. [He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith.] Now! [She flies into his arms.] I am not late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast.

JUDITH
I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad you're back.

ANDERSON [taking her more closely in his arms]
Anxious, my dear?

JUDITH
A little.

ANDERSON
Why, you've been crying.

JUDITH
Only a little. Never mind: it's all over now. [A bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats to the long seat, listening.] What's that?

ANDERSON [following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down with him]
Only King George, my dear. He's returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. Soldiers don't ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole town.

JUDITH
Do you think there is really any danger?

ANDERSON
Not the least in the world.

JUDITH
You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it.

ANDERSON
My dear: in this world there is always danger for those who are afraid of it. There's a danger that the house will catch fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the less soundly for that.

JUDITH
Yes, I