She leaves him, briskly, brightly; leaves her cousin with his mouth set and a light in his eyes.
THE FOURTH ACT
mr. voysey's room at the office is edward's now. It has somehow lost that brilliancy which the old man's occupation seemed to give it. Perhaps it is only because this December morning is dull and depressing, but the fire isn't bright and the panels and windows don't shine as they did. There are no roses on the table either. edward, walking in as his father did, hanging his hat and coat where his father's used to hang, is certainly the palest shadow of that other masterful presence. A depressed, drooping shadow too. This may be what peacey feels, if no more, for he looks very surly as he obeys the old routine of following his chief to this room on his arrival. Nor has edward so much as a glance for his clerk. They exchange the formalest of greetings. edward sits joylessly to his desk, on which the morning's pile of letters lies, unopened now.
peacey. Good morning, sir.
edward. Good morning, Peacey. Have you any notes for me?
peacey. Well, I've hardly been through the letters yet, sir.
edward. [his eyebrows meeting.] Oh . . and I'm half an hour late myself this morning.
peacey. I'm very sorry, sir.