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.
Trebell. I shall not come and open the door for you ... but mind you shut it.