LARRY. All right, Keith; I'll try.
KEITH. Don't go out. Don't drink. Don't talk. Pull yourself together!
LARRY. [Moving towards the door] Don't keep me longer than you can help, Keith.
KEITH. No, no. Courage!
LARRY reaches the door, turns as if to say something-finds no words, and goes.
[To the fire] Courage! My God! I shall need it!
CURTAIN
SCENE II
At out eleven o'clock the following night an WANDA'S room on the ground floor in Soho. In the light from one close-shaded electric bulb the room is but dimly visible. A dying fire burns on the left. A curtained window in the centre of the back wall. A door on the right. The furniture is plush-covered and commonplace, with a kind of shabby smartness. A couch, without back or arms, stands aslant, between window and fire.
[On this WANDA is sitting, her knees drawn up under her, staring at the embers. She has on only her nightgown and a wrapper over it; her bare feet are thrust into slippers. Her hands are crossed and pressed over her breast. She starts and looks up, listening. Her eyes are candid and startled, her face alabaster pale, and its pale brown hair, short and square-cut, curls towards her bare neck. The startled dark eyes and the faint rose of her lips are like colour-staining on a white mask.]