Margaret. He’ll be here as soon as he can. He could always manage Hilary.
Gray. You’d better go up to your room.
Margaret. No.
Gray. Don’t take it too hard. It’ll be over in an hour. We’ll get him away quietly, poor devil.
Margaret. But it’s no good, Gray, he’s well. We’ve been on to the asylum already. They say we should have heard in a day or two even if he hadn’t got away.
Gray. Really well?
Margaret. The old Hilary—voice and ways and—oh, my God! what am I to do?
Margaret. Don’t you see, he knows nothing? His hair’s grey and he talks as he talked at twenty. It’s horrible.
Gray. What do you mean, he knows nothing?