Miss Tre. You never speak to her!
Everard. How can I? She's too—magnificent—she dazzles me! Her eyes scorch me—I become idiotic! I can talk, as a rule, I've something to say—but not to her, not to her! Although Martelli thinks—
Miss Tre. Martelli! That hateful name! Oh!
(Her sobs begin again. Margaret enters from back L. 3 E.: she pauses shyly at seeing Everard.)
Margaret. (C.) Oh Everard! Have you got the flowers—the white roses?
Everard. Yes, here they are. (up L. C.)
Margaret. How good of you. (turning to Miss Treable, and throwing her arms round her) What, dearest Treaby! Crying!—(cross R. C.)
Everard. (coming C.) Martelli has upset her.
Margaret. Again! Oh, the wretch! How I wish that my guardian would send her away! (R. C.)
Everard. You have only to—to—to ask! Could he—is there a man who—who could—anything, anything, Margaret! Oh!