MALISE. Good luck, then! Good luck!
He releases her hand. Just touching his bent head with her other hand, CLARE turns and goes. MALISE remains with bowed head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. They die away. He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with his clenched fist.
CURTAIN.
ACT III
MALISE'S sitting-room. An afternoon, three months later. On the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some tea-things. Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted spirit-stand. Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced man, with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is contemplating a piece of blue paper.
HAYWOOD. Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf without any return on your money——
MALISE. Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood. I wish I could see my way to smoking another.
HAYWOOD. Well, sir—that's a funny remedy.
With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears.