MALISE. Thick as blackberries. I just go out and cry, "MALISE, unsuccessful author, too honest journalist, freethinker, co-respondent, bankrupt," and they tumble!
CLARE. [Quietly] Kenneth, do you care for me? [MALISE stares at her] Am I anything to you but just prettiness?
MALISE. Now, now! This isn't the time to brood! Rouse up and fight.
CLARE. Yes.
MALISE. We're not going to let them down us, are we? [She rubs her cheek against his hand, that still rests on her shoulder] Life on sufferance, breath at the pleasure of the enemy! And some day in the fullness of his mercy to be made a present of the right to eat and drink and breathe again. [His gesture sums up the rage within him] Fine! [He puts his hat on and rises] That's the last groan they get from me.
CLASS. Are you going out again? [He nods] Where?
MALISE. Blackberrying! Our train's not till six.
He goes into the bedroom. CLARE gets up and stands by the fire, looking round in a dazed way. She puts her hand up and mechanically gathers together the violets in the little vase. Suddenly she twists them to a buttonhole, and sinks down into the armchair, which he must pass. There she sits, the violets in her hand. MALISE comes out and crosses towards the outer door. She puts the violets up to him. He stares at them, shrugs his shoulders, and passes on. For just a moment CLARE sits motionless.
CLARE. [Quietly] Give me a kiss!
He turns and kisses her. But his lips, after that kiss, have the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have done what does not suit their mood. He goes out. She is left motionless by the armchair, her throat working. Then, feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of paper, and writes. Looking up suddenly she sees that MRS. MILER has let herself in with her latchkey.