Mrs. St. Roche. It’s extremely unlikely.
Denstroude. I shall be there at ten. Don’t be later.
(He kisses his hand to her and departs. She stands quite still, thinking. A Servant enters, crosses to the billiard-room, and proceeds to cover up the billiard-table. She walks slowly to the ottoman and sits, looking into the fire. St. Roche reappears and comes down the steps. She does not turn her head. He goes to the table and mixes some spirits and water.)
St. Roche. (As he mixes the drink.) What d’ye think—what d’ye think that silly, infatuated feller’s goin’ to do?
Mrs. St. Roche. Demailly?
St. Roche. (Glancing toward the billiard-room.) Sssh! (With a nod.) Um!
(He comes to her, bringing her the tumbler in which he has mixed the drink.)
Mrs. St. Roche. (Taking the tumbler, her eyes never meeting his.) Well, what is he going to do?
St. Roche. Marry that low woman.