(Dr. Thorne walks apart; stands drearily, with downcast eyes.)
Enter Mrs. Fayth. (She looks pale and
agitated, but quite happy. She is
dressed as before, for the street, but
her head is bare; is wrapped from
head to foot in her long, pale, dove-colored
opera cape. She goes straight
to Dr. Thorne, and touches him upon
the arm; speaks softly.)
Mrs. Fayth. Doctor?
Dr. Thorne (starts). Oh! Mary Fayth! You? (He grasps her hand with pathetic eagerness.) Oh, I never was so glad! You are the first person—the only one—nobody else seemed to know me. I might have known you would. Where’s Helen? Isn’t she with you? And you weren’t hurt at all, were you? I have been—anxious about you. Those cowardly papers said—I tried to get right over and see you. And, after all, you’re not hurt. I thank— (Looks around confusedly.) Ah, what shall I thank?
Priest. Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.
(Dr. Thorne listens with troubled interest, like a child learning a hard lesson.)
Mrs. Fayth (smiling). I can only stay a minute. I must get back to my poor Fred.
Dr. Thorne. Don’t leave me.
Mrs. Fayth. Oh, poor doctor! Don’t you see? The carriage overturned. I was badly hurt. I only died an hour ago.
Dr. Thorne (gasps, and stares at Mrs. Fayth. He tries to speak, but can only articulate). You died an hour ago? And I? And I?