It doesn’t matter. [He goes out. For a few moments she remains quite still; then she rouses herself, and, with a blank look, wanders about, her arms moving restlessly. Suddenly she presses her hands to her brow and sinks into a chair, with a low half-cry, half-moan.] Oh! oh! [After a short burst of crying she examines her wedding-ring, removes it from her finger, and giving a little laugh, flings it on to the settee. Then she rises, and with an air of determination goes to the writing-table.] Very well! very well!
[She sits before the writing-table and writes rapidly. At intervals she utters an exclamation; then sings as she writes. The doors are opened, and Horton enters.
Horton.
[Collecting the tea-cups.] Beg pardon, ma’am.
Theophila.
[Writing.] Mr. Fraser has gone out, hasn’t he?
Horton.
He have, ma’am.
[Horton places the tea-cups on the tea-tray, lifts up the tray, and is about to carry it out.
Theophila.