Frances. It's from somebody whose son can't get into something.
Trebell. The third heap ... Kent's ... the preposterous. [Talking on with steady monotony.] But I saw it would not do to interrupt that logical train of thought which reached definition about half past six. I had then been gleaning until you came in.
Frances. [Turning the neat little note in her hand.] This is from Lord Horsham. He writes his name small at the bottom of the envelope.
Trebell. [Without a tremor.] Ah ... give it me.
He opens this as he has opened the others, carefully putting the envelope to one side. Frances has ceased for the moment to watch him.
Frances. That's Cousin Robert's handwriting. [She puts a square envelope at his hand.] Is a letter marked private from the Education Office political or personal?
By this he has read Horsham's letter twice. So he tears it up and speaks very coldly.
Trebell. Either. It doesn't matter.
In the silence her fears return.
Frances. Henry, it's a foolish idea ... I suppose I have it because I hardly slept for thinking of her. Your trouble is nothing to do with Amy O'Connell, is it?