Miss Woodward.
Yes; ask cook to kindly make me a sandwich, and I’ll have a glass of beer.
Evans.
Sandwich of mutton or ’am, Miss?
Miss Woodward.
Ham, please. [Exit Evans, L.] It’s sure to be cold mutton to-night. [She writes.] Old manuscripts. [Closes drawer.] There, that’s all in order for him. [Rises.] I know there are some books of mine here. I may as well have them. [Goes towards book-shelves, but stops when she comes to the occasional table on which is the photo of Mr. Parbury. She stretches out her hand and takes the photograph gingerly. Then she looks round to see if she is observed, with to herself an affectation of fear.] Poor thing! Was it outraged by a kiss! What a shame! But it’s all right now! [Puts it back with care.] No one shall hurt it. It’s perfectly safe—perfectly safe. [She goes to book-shelf.] Keats—mine. [Takes a volume.] Matthew Arnold—mine.
Enter Evans with sandwiches, beer, &c., on a small tray, which he places on the desk.
Jane Eyre—mine. I think that’s all. [Brings the books down and places them on desk.] Thank you, Evans.
[She sits.