Dawson. Nothing till to-morrow morning.
Mr. Wolton. And that's all you have to say?
Dawson. All. [The two men stand looking at each other a moment in a sort of grim embarrassment, then Dawson exits. Music. It must be evident to the audience, though not to the hysterically excited Wolton, that Dawson has a little, a very little, pity, but doesn't wish to show it,—at any rate not yet. Wolton, who has stood a moment lost in thought, an expression of despair in his face, shudders and comes to himself. He looks around to see that he is alone. He grasps his forehead tight a moment in his right hand, drops his hand, and with compressed lips nods his head determinedly. He is standing by one of the smaller supper-tables; he looks down at it and takes up a silver knife at one of the places, feels its dull edge, and throws it down sneering. A Servant appears.
Mr. Wolton. Howes?
Servant. [Coming into the room and going to Wolton.] Yes, sir.
Mr. Wolton. I am going up to my room. [With a motion of his head, indicating upstairs.] I am not feeling well. If my absence should be noticed, explain to Mrs. Wolton, but do not disturb me—do you understand?
Servant. Yes, sir.
Mr. Wolton. On no account am I to be disturbed. No one is to come to me until after the party is entirely over. Don't make any mistake about that.
Servant. No, sir.
Wolton, who is half way between centre and door right, turns for a moment, looking about the room. He is seized with a nervous twitching of his muscles. He clenches his fists, grinds his teeth to control himself, and, bowing his head, goes from the room by door. Kitty and Johnstone appear in ball-room doorway, at exit of Wolton.