Margaret. Saint? I’m a wicked woman. I’m wishing he hadn’t got well. I’m wishing the doctors will say it’s not true. In my wicked heart I’m calling down desolation on my own husband.

Gray. You have no husband. You’re marrying me in a week. You’re mine.

Margaret. I’m afraid—

Gray. Whose are you? Answer me.

Margaret. Yours.

Gray. You know it?

Margaret. I know it.

Gray. Then never be afraid again.

Margaret. No, not when you’re here. I’m not afraid when you’re here. But I must be good to Hilary. You see that?

Gray. What good is “good” to him, poor devil?