Annys. Um! I suppose you’re right. What a nuisance! (She turns away.) I shan’t like it.
Geoffrey. (He moves towards the folding-doors.) No. It won’t be quite the same thing. Goodbye.
Annys. (She crosses to her desk by the window. Not the same instant but the next his “Goodbye” strikes her. She turns.) You’re not going out, are you?
Geoffrey. (He stops and turns—puzzled at her question.) No. Only into my study.
Annys. You said “Goodbye.”
Geoffrey. (Not remembering.) I did! Must have been thinking of something else. I shall be in here if you want me. (He goes into the other room.)
Annys. (She has crossed to her desk. She is humming. She seats herself, takes paper and pen, writes. Without turning—still writing—she raises her voice.) Geoffrey! How do you spell “experimental”? One “r” or two?
(There is no answer. Puzzled at the silence, she looks round. The great folding-doors are closed. She stares in front of her, thinking, then turns again to her work.)
Curtain.