JUDITH.
(following with the teapot). Will you sit down? (He sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. There is a plate and knife laid there. The other plate is laid near it; but Judith stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) Do you take sugar?
RICHARD.
No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some toast. (He puts some on the second plate, and hands it to her, with the knife. The action shows quietly how well he knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far from him as possible.)
JUDITH.
(consciously). Thanks. (She gives him his tea.) Won’t you help yourself?
RICHARD.
Thanks. (He puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and she pours out tea for herself.)
JUDITH.
(observing that he tastes nothing). Don’t you like it? You are not eating anything.
RICHARD.
Neither are you.
JUDITH.
(nervously). I never care much for my tea. Please don’t mind me.
RICHARD.
(Looking dreamily round). I am thinking. It is all so strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this home: I think I have never been more at rest in my life than at this moment; and yet I know quite well I could never live here. It’s not in my nature, I suppose, to be domesticated. But it’s very beautiful: it’s almost holy. (He muses a moment, and then laughs softly.)
JUDITH.
(quickly). Why do you laugh?
RICHARD.
I was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would take us for man and wife.