Trebell. Horsham will do his best. [Then, as for the second time she reaches the door.] Don't take away my razors, will you? I only use them for shaving.
Frances. [Almost blushing.] I half meant to ... I'm sorry. After all, Henry, just because they are forgetting in personal feelings what's best for the country ... it's your duty not to. You'll stand by and do what you can, won't you?
Trebell. [His queer smile returning, in contrast to her seriousness.] Disestablishment. It's a very interesting problem. I must think it out.
Frances. [Really puzzled.] What do you mean?
He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her. His smile changes into a graver gladness.
Trebell. Something has happened ... in spite of me. My heart's clean again. I'm ready for fresh adventures.
Frances. [With a nod and answering gladness.] That's right.
So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move. When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries them carefully into Walter Kent's room and arranges them as carefully on his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then with a sudden movement bangs the door.
Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full of light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open, showing you Kent's door still closed. At the big writing table in Trebell's chair sits Wedgecroft, pale and grave, intent on finishing a letter. Frances comes to find him. For a moment she leans on the table silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a broken woman. When she speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly.