Gray. Never mind that now. Sydney, get your mother’s wraps.
Margaret. [Agitated] Sydney—wait—no.
Gray. Warm things. It’s bitter, driving.
Sydney. [Uncertainly] Gray, I think—
Gray. Get them, please.
After a tiny pause and look at him Sydney obeys. You see her go upstairs and disappear along the gallery.
Gray. [Solicitous] I was afraid it would come hard on you. Has he—? But you can tell me all that later.
Margaret. I must tell it you now.
Gray. Be quick, then. We’ve got a fifty mile drive before us.
Margaret. [Not looking at him] I—I’m not coming.