Bea. Philip, don’t think of me.
Phil. (R. arm round her) But I must think of you, who never think of yourself. If I were to die? (L. hand holding hers)
Bea. Dearest, don’t talk of death. (withdraws hand)
Phil. (takes his arm from her, and leans forward) I am more ill than I seem—more ill than anybody knows. I can’t help thinking of death, for every day it seems to draw nearer and nearer. I can feel it coming—slowly, mysteriously, weirdly—gathering about me—wrapping me round and round. (almost to himself)
Bea. (rises) Hush, Philip, hush! You are tired. (goes away two steps to C.) Shall I leave you for a while?
Phil. No, no! Don’t go away. (holding out his hands as she moves up to back of sofa, R. of him) You are all I have left, mousey. I am not tired; but oh, I feel so drowsy! I seem to get worse every day.
Bea. And why, my dear? Because you won’t take your medicine. Come. Let me bring it you now. (goes towards L.D.)
Phil. That beastly medicine! Perhaps I’d better take it; but I shall have no head to talk to old Merivale, when he comes.
Bea. You’ve sent for him? (behind chair back of table)