Sir T. Where's St. James's?
Belfry. Dead,
I guess, by this time; trampled into pulp.
[Lady Sumner sinks fainting on the couch unnoticed by the others.]
Sir T. My Gervase! God forbid! Abbot, Salerne,
Darken the theatre. Let the orchestra
Strike up a blaring march. We'll clear the stage,
And play St. James's play. Come after me!
Belfry. Cash, Tristram, cash! You know you're ruined. Name
Your price. I want the Grosvenor Theatre—and I'll——
[Sir Tristram goes out, followed by everybody except Lady Sumner.]
[Enter Warwick Groom.]
Groom. Martha! To meet you here! … Sleeping? A swoon!
[He raises her to a sitting posture, and she begins to revive. As she breathes with difficulty he unfastens her cloak, and finds her dressed like a boy.]
Lady S. Oh, Warwick, are we dead? My throat is parched
Enough for hell.