[Taking out his keys and going to a table.] I believe I can just make it up——[He opens a drawer in the writing-table, finds some bank-notes, counts them, then empties his sovereign-purse and screws the gold up in the notes.] Within a pound——
Theophila.
That’s of no consequence. [Rising.] I’m awfully obliged to you; I knew you would—I—I——
[He returns to her, and finds her clutching the table unsteadily.
John.
[Placing the money on the table.] What’s the matter?
Theophila.
Nothing. [Sinking back into the chair, with closed eyes.] I shall be all right in a minute.
[He brings her a glass of water, and places it to her lips. She sips the water for a little while, then gives a sigh.
John.