Mad. A. In the head.
Des. Ah!
Mad. A. The fact is, Doctor, I am subject to such continual chagrin, such cruel mortifications here. Dependent upon others for certain luxuries which I can't get for myself.
Des. Why not?
Mad. A. Things are so dear. Ah, Doctor, nothing will soothe me but death.
Des. Well, that's cheap!
Mad. A. Brute!
[Aside.
Mar. [at Piano.] Here they come again.
She plays. The waltzers appear on terrace. In the midst of this dancing, Manuel comes up steps, as if from lawn below. They separate R. and L. and regard him with some astonishment. He has a portfolio under his arm.