Europa. Sir Tristram's voice!
[Closes the door and turns out the light.]
St. J. [Without] What will you do?
[Enter Sir Tristram and St. James's.]
Sir T. Sleep at the club. Sit down awhile and talk.
[Sir Tristram takes from a cabinet a spirit-frame, a syphon, and a box of cigars, and helps St. James's and himself. Sir Tristram reclines on a couch. St. James's remains on his feet throughout the scene, sometimes pacing, sometimes standing still.]
St. J. But should your wife be left alone?
Sir T. For her,
The safest way: she's bent upon my death,
And while I keep alive she lives, I think.
Best, too, for me.
St. J. How is it best for you?
Sir T. Because it's touch and go to live or die.
My life's no prize to me—worth this cigar
Perhaps; and when her stealthy whine assails
Me, begging death, I'm tempted to the point.
A little tenderness in her, a look
Of womanhood, or honey in her voice,
And there might then have been no play to-night,
But love and endless sleep. That exit's closed:
I could not die consorted with my wife,
My resolute enemy.
St. J. This sudden crash—
It jarred to-day already—is strange in you,
As my remembrance notes you.