George. Common, perhaps. (To himself: One can strike a woman for lots of reasons.)
(Yvonne comes from the window.)
Alice. Poor Camele—lie down. Let me take off your hat.
Yvonne. What can we give her? Let us make some tea.
Maud. Yes, do. You and Alice make tea. I’ll sit with her a while.
(George, Alice and Yvonne busy themselves making tea at the extreme right, leaving Camele and Maud at the extreme left, on the couch. No one speaks for a moment.)
Maud (sitting at Camele’s head strokes her hair). Poor girl.
Camele. Maud?
Maud. Yes, dear.
Camele. You were right; Jack is a brute.