Frances. [Clicking off all but his reading lamp.] So?
Trebell. Thanks. Good night, Frankie.
She turns at the door, with a glad smile.
Frances. Good night. When did you last use that nursery name?
Then she goes, leaving him still fingering the book, but looking into the fire and far beyond. Behind him through the open window one sees how cold and clear the night is.
At eight in the morning he is still here. His lamp is out, the fire is out and the book laid aside. The white morning light penetrates every crevice of the room and shows every line on Trebell's face. The spirit of the man is strained past all reason. The door opens suddenly and Frances comes in, troubled, nervous. Interrupted in her dressing, she has put on some wrap or other.
Frances. Henry ... Simpson says you've not been to bed all night.
He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness—
Trebell. No. Good morning.