Snowman. Here—near at hand. Come, come and do not be afraid. (He takes her hand)
Joan. Oh, dearie me. This feels like death. Like death!
(As they touch hands a mist draws over the stage, the walls of the house seem to fade away, the sound of the storm grows loud around them. They stand in a white world full of obscure movement and pale drifting forms.)
Snowman. What do you see?
Joan. A waste of snow.
Snowman. Anyone there?
Joan. No one I know. No—only you. What? You say you saw him on the road, coming? How do you know that it was ’im? Yes—yes—’e was like that. But younger, ’andsomer than that,—not lame——
No, he was never lame—a young, young man,
And strong!——
Oh, lost his way? You say ’e’d lost his way?