DEB. (Eagerly turning around again.) Then, of course, she mightn’t. You never can tell till you try. (Goes to fireplace r. Fish is changed.)
ALLEN. (Scratching his head.) Blest if I know how to go about it! I say, Deb, you’ve been proposed to, how do they begin?
DEB. (Bending over fire.) Don’t thee think thee’d better tell me who it is and let me ask her for thee? (Looking slyly round, pauses.) Who be her, Allen?
ALLEN. (Going up to window R.c.) Ah, I expect thee knows who her be!
DEB. (Beginning softly to creep toward him.) How should I when thee’s never told me? What be her name? (Close to him, his back is still towards her and he doesn’t see her.) Eh?
ALLEN. (Without turning, looking out of the back window up R.c.) Clara. (Music cue.)
(Bus. Deb. stands still—for the first moment she hardly comprehends. Then she understands, and stands staring straight before her with a wild scared look—shivers, crosses back to fireplace on tip-toe and bends down over it attending to the fish—after Deb. sobs Allen comes down c.—music dies away.)
ALLEN. (Half turning round.) Colonel Dexter’s daughter, you know. Thee’ve seen her. Her wur at the Barnstaple ball and I danced wi’ her and thee said how beautiful her wur and that her dress was all made o’ some’at or other, and you—(he has gradually come close over to her r.) What be the matter, Deb?
DEB. (In a changed, hard tone, bending more intently than ever over her cooking.) Nothing—Nothing.
ALLEN. (Taking her hand.) Why, thee be quite cold, lass; be thee ill?