HE [looking about him and shaking his shoulders loose] I think I should prefer plenty of room.
HER HUSBAND. So, if it's not disturbing you, Rory—?
SHE. Not at all. [She goes out].
When the two men are alone together, Bompas deliberately takes the poems from his breast pocket; looks at them reflectively; then looks at Henry, mutely inviting his attention. Henry refuses to understand, doing his best to look unconcerned.
HER HUSBAND. Do these manuscripts seem at all familiar to you, may I ask?
HE. Manuscripts?
HER HUSBAND. Yes. Would you like to look at them a little closer? [He proffers them under Henry's nose].
HE [as with a sudden illumination of glad surprise] Why, these are my poems.
HER HUSBAND. So I gather.
HE. What a shame! Mrs Bompas has shown them to you! You must think me an utter ass. I wrote them years ago after reading Swinburne's Songs Before Sunrise. Nothing would do me then but I must reel off a set of Songs to the Sunrise. Aurora, you know: the rosy fingered Aurora. They're all about Aurora. When Mrs Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldn't resist the temptation to lend them to her to read. But I didn't bargain for your unsympathetic eyes.