[Enter r., O'Callagan and Peter, whose spectacular disarray is nicely calculated. Physically he appears normal, but his ruffled hair, cross-buttoned waistcoat unbuttoned collar and crooked black tie give the appearance of hopeless abandon. He enters wearily, forgetting himself for a moment on seeing Margaret and speaking vigorously.
Peter. You here! (Turns as if to go back, but O'Callagan closes the door quickly.) Why didn't you tell me, Denis?
Mar. (stepping forward). Don't go. I've come to see you, Peter.
Peter. I'm not on exhibition. What have you come for? To gloat over me, to see for yourself how well you prophesied when you told me I should fail. (He turns his back on her, only to face O'Callagan.)
O'Cal. I'm telling you you're not a failure. It's just a temporary check in your career you've had.
Peter (sullenly). My career's ended.
[Mrs. Garside sits in the rocking-chair, aloof, watching.
Mar. At twenty-six, Peter?
Peter (turning). That's my tragedy. Waste. At twenty-six I'm looking backward on a closed account. The future's blank—all the brilliant fruitful years I might have lived.
Mar. That you will live, Peter.