frances. One shouldn't be sorry when people die, I know. But she liked me more than I liked her. . [This time trebell does laugh, silently.] . . so I somehow feel in her debt and unable to pay now.
trebell. [An edge on his voice.] Yes . . people keep on dying at all sorts of ages, in all sorts of ways. But we seem never to get used to it . . narrow-minded as we are.
wedgecroft. Don't you talk nonsense.
trebell. [One note sharper yet.] One should occasionally test one's sanity by doing so. If we lived in the logical world we like to believe in, I could also prove that black was white. As it is . . there are more ways of killing a cat than hanging it.
wedgecroft. Had I better give you a sleeping draught?
frances. Are you doctoring him for once? Henry, have you at last managed to overwork yourself?
trebell. No . . I started the evening by a charming little dinner at the Van Meyer's . . sat next to Miss Grace Cutler, who is writing a vie intime of Louis Quinze and engaged me with anecdotes of the same.
frances. A champion of her sex, whom I do not like.
wedgecroft. She's writing such a book to prove that women are equal to anything.
He goes towards the door and frances goes with him. trebell never turns his head.