Trebell. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a shock if I shot myself ... it would make them think about things.
Frances. [With one catch of wretched laughter.] Oh, my dear, if shooting's wanted ... shoot them. Or I'll do it for you.
He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand still grasping his.
Trebell. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night ... our lives are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and dying for others. The first is easy ... it's a way out of boredom. To make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure and certain hope that it really doesn't matter ... that God is infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after our death than men do while we live?
Frances. I want your promise, Henry.
Trebell. You know I never make promises ... it's taking oneself too seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too. I've upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better go and finish dressing? [She doesn't move.] My dear ... you don't propose to hold my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I still could jump out of a window.
Frances. I'll trust you, Henry.
She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final grip she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently than ever.
Trebell. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it?
Frances. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice through the years that remain. [Instinctively she rectifies some little untidiness in the room.] What fools they are to think they can run that government without you!