John: Good lord! These gas fires’ll be the death of me.
[He tries another match—this time with the normal and successful result. He throws a big cushion on the ground beside his chair now in the soft half-light; she comes and makes herself comfortable upon it, leaning against him. They are quiet ... he caressing her, she gazing into the fire.
Toby: It’s a funny gas-stove ... Mabel Claridge has got one like that in her room ... that man gave her another ring yesterday ... must of cost hundreds. She says there is nothing in it ... I don’t think.
[Her conversation trails off ... the cushion is comfortable, the heat is pleasant through the flimsy things she has on, and she likes his fingers through her hair.
It’s lovely....
[She leans luxuriously back towards him ... he kisses her.
John: You dear——
Toby: Thank you.
[He puts an arm round her, and their heads close, they both for a moment gaze into the fire.
John: You know ... I owe you an awful lot.