[Brokenly.] Dear!... dear!...
Olive.
Yes. I know my actions are contradictory, but—[her hand stealing towards his]—in my heart, John—always—in my heart—— [The banjo suddenly strikes up an air. John and Olive raise their heads and stare at each other; then Olive slowly backs her chair to its original position. Speaking in a whisper.] What’s that?
John.
Peter.
Olive.
Peter——!
John.
He brought his banjo with him.
Olive.