Come down, son!
Philo
Please leave me alone, father. I can't bear anything more to-night.
(A pause, and Warner goes down.)
Philo (coming to table)
I will work—work—work! (Busies his hands.) Not a voice to help me—not a smile of hope—not a touch of sympathy. (Sits still and despairing.) ... Perhaps the time is not ripe for larger knowledge. Nature and the Divinity that guides her must protect their new evolving creatures. A too sudden revelation and they might perish from sheer wonder.... Yes, truth must come softened, as a dream, to the man child's brain. Its naked light would sere and blind him forever.... But to me it has been given to see—to hear—and keep sane in the light. Oh, from what planet is the call? From what one of the hundred million spheres? How many centuries has it been sent outward to the deaf, the dumb, and the blind? And what is the word? Is it Hail? Help? Hope?... Or is it an answer? An answer to some signal of mine? How shall I know?... How shall I know?
(There is a noise outside the window. Philo does not look up. Reba appears and leaps lightly through the windows. Advances centre. Her dress is of clinging black, relieved by a floating scarf of cloudy white. She has a mass of blonde hair, and all the charms properly belonging to her age, which is eighteen.)
Reba
Philo!