She goes.
GUENEVERE. (looks after her, then drifts over to the mantel, leans against it staring out into space, and then murmurs)—Lancelot!
_She goes slowly back to her chair, sits still a moment, and then quietly resumes the darning of socks.
Enter, from the side door, Mary, the pretty servant girl, who fusses about at the back of the room_.
GUENEVERE. (absently) Going, Mary?
MARY. No, ma'am. I don't feel like going out tonight.
Something in her tone makes Guenevere turn.
GUENEVERE. (kindly) Why, Mary, what is the matter?
MARY. (struggling with her sobs) I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't help it—I wasn't going to say anything. But when you spoke to me—
GUENEVERE. (quietly) What is it, Mary?