Frances. Oh, my dear ... what is wrong?
Trebell. The message hasn't come ... and I've been thinking.
Frances. Why don't you tell me? [He turns his head away.] I think you haven't the right to torture me.
Trebell. Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to face.
Simpson, the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the morning's letters. Frances rounds on her irritably.
Frances. What is it, Simpson?
Maid. The letters, Ma'am.
Trebell is on his feet at that.
Trebell. Ah ... I want them.
Frances. [Taking the letters composedly enough.] Thank you.