Leslie.
Chance!
Hugh Murray.
Chance is a fairer arbiter of our lives than we imagine. You are terribly ill. [She shakes her head.] I have written into the country for some fruit for you; it should have arrived by this time, with this morning’s bloom on it. I’ll go and enquire. [She offers her hand, which he merely touches.] Poor Will’s fast asleep. [He goes out.]
Leslie.
[Bending over Wilfrid.] Tired to death. Will, my dear brother, you are the only one left me now and you are drifting away from me. Your heart is no longer mine and your thoughts are no longer mine. It’s so hard to lose husband and brother at once! Come back to me—come back to me!
[Janet, looking very poor and ill, appears at the door.]
Leslie.
Oh! Janet!
Janet Preece.