MOTHER. Is he mad, or a rascal?
LADY. He's neither. He's no ordinary man; and it's a pity I can tell him nothing he doesn't know already. That's why we don't speak much; but he's glad to have me near him; and so am I to be near him.
MOTHER. You've reached calm water already? Then it can't be far to the mill-race! But don't you think you'd have more to talk of, if you read what he has written?
LADY. Perhaps. You can leave me the book, if you like.
MOTHER. Take it and hide it. It'll be a surprise if you can quote something from his masterpiece.
LADY (hiding the book in her bag). He's coming. If he's spoken of he seems to feel it from afar.
MOTHER. If he could only feel how he makes others suffer—from afar. (Exit left.)
(The LADY, alone for an instant, looks at the book and seems taken aback. She hides it in her bag.)
STRANGER (entering). Your mother was here? You were speaking of me, of course. I can almost hear her ill-natured words. They cut the air and darken the sunshine. I can almost divine the impression of her body in the atmosphere of the room, and she leaves an odour like that of a dead snake.
LADY. You're irritable to-day.