Mrs. Fayth (frankly). Of course it would!... It is a lovely thing that we died together.... It has been a comfort to me, Doctor.
Dr. Thorne. And to me.... Helen would be pleased.... Helen might like to have it so, I’ve thought ... if she thinks of me at all.
Mrs. Fayth (quickly). She thinks of nothing but you ... all the time.
Dr. Thorne (eagerly). How do you know? Have you been there? Can you see Helen?
Mrs. Fayth (mysteriously smiling). Don’t ask me!...
Dr. Thorne (imperiously). When was it? How did you get there? How did she look?—Is she well?—Did she look very wretched? Were her lips pale? Or only her cheeks? Does she weep much? Can she sleep?—Is she living quite alone?—Oh, how does she bear it? (He trips upon his words, and stops abruptly.)
(A strain from the Serenade breathes, and sighs away.)
Mrs. Fayth (gently but evasively). My poor friend!
(Dr. Thorne and Mrs. Fayth unclasp hands, and stand side by side, silently in the moonlight. A certain remoteness overtakes their manner. Each is drowned in thought in which the other has no share. The Serenade is heard again. Mrs. Fayth, with a mute, sweet gesture of farewell, glides gravely away. Dr. Thorne does not seek to detain her.)
[Exit Mrs. Fayth.