Richard.
I tell you she isn’t, Lydia! [Then, as Martin softly emerges from the shadows where he has been watching them.] Look! There he is again! Who can it be?
Lydia.
[Tugging at his arm, fascinated by the portrait.] Oh, Richard, dear Richard, I—I don’t like to look at her! It frightens me!
Martin.
[Approaching the door, and looking within.] I beg pardon, sir, but did you call?
Richard.
[Looking from Martin to Lydia.] Call? No!
Martin.
[Regarding Lydia fixedly.] Nor you, Madam?