ANTHONY. You think so?
ENID. Don't Dad! [Her face works.] You—you might think of us!
ANTHONY. I am.
ENID. It'll break you down.
ANTHONY. [Slowly.] My dear, I am not going to funk; on that you may rely.
[Re-enter TENCH with papers; he glances at them, then plucking
up courage.]
TENCH. Beg pardon, Madam, I think I'd rather see these papers were disposed of before I get my lunch.
[ENID, after an impatient glance at him, looks at her father,
turns suddenly, and goes into the drawing-room.]
TENCH. [Holding the papers and a pen to ANTHONY, very nervously.]
Would you sign these for me, please sir?
[ANTHONY takes the pen and signs.]