JAYSON—[Impatiently.] Well, Mark? Where's Curt?
SHEFFIELD—[Frowning.] Inside. I think he'll be with us in a minute. [With a scornful smile.] Just now he's 'phoning to Bigelow. [The others gasp.]
JAYSON—[Furiously.] For God's sake, couldn't you stop him?
SHEFFIELD—Not without a scene. Your Aunt persuaded him to come into the house—and he rushed for the 'phone. I think he guessed we had been lying to him—
JAYSON—[After a pause.] Then he—Bigelow will be here soon?
SHEFFIELD—[Drily.] It depends on his sense of decency. As he seems lacking in that quality, I've no doubt he'll come.
JOHN—[Rising to his feet—pompously.] Then I, for one, will go. Come, Emily. Since Curt seems bound to disgrace everyone concerned, I want it thoroughly understood that we wash our hands of the whole disgraceful affair.
EMILY—[Snappishly.] Go if you want to! I won't! [Then with a sacrificing air.] I think it is our duty to stay.
JAYSON—[Exasperated.] Sit down. Wash your hands indeed! Aren't you as much concerned as any of us?
SHEFFIELD—[Sharply.] Sshh! I think I hear Curt now. [JOHN sits down abruptly. All stiffen into stony attitudes. The door is opened and CURT enters. He is incredibly drawn and haggard, a tortured, bewildered expression in his eyes. His hair is dishevelled, his boots caked with mud. He stands at the door staring from one to the other of his family with a wild, contemptuous scorn and mutters.]