Trebell. [His voice strangled in his throat.] Her child should have been my child too.
Frances. [Her eyes open, the whole landscape of her mind suddenly clear.] Oh, I ... no, I didn't think so ... but....
Trebell. [Dealing his second blow as remorselessly as dealt to him.] Also I'm not joining the new Cabinet, my dear sister.
Frances. [Her thoughts rushing now to the present—the future.] Not! Because of...? Do people know? Will they...? You didn't...?
As mechanically as ever he has taken up Cousin Robert's letter and, in some sense, read it. Now he recapitulates, meaninglessly, that his voice may just deaden her pain and his own.
Trebell. Robert says ... that we've not been to see them for some time ... but that now I'm a greater man than ever I must be very busy. The vicarage has been painted and papered throughout and looks much fresher. Mary sends you her love and hopes you have no return of the rheumatism. And he would like to send me the proof sheets of his critical commentary on First Timothy ... for my alien eye might possibly detect some logical lapses. Need he repeat to me his thankfulness at my new attitude upon Disestablishment ... or assure me again that I have his prayers. Could we not go and stay there only for a few days? Possibly his opinion—
She has borne this cruel kindness as long as she can and she breaks out....
Frances. Oh ... don't ... don't!
He falls from his seeming callousness to the very blankness of despair.
Trebell. No, we'll leave that ... and the rest ... and everything.