Anne [gasping]. Get some water, Ruth. I shall be all right in a moment.
[Ruth rushes into the bedroom.]
Mrs. Carey. Oh, my dear child, calm yourself. Mother is here, dear. She will take care of you. Tell me, dear, tell me.
[Ruth returns with the water. Anne sips a little.]
Anne. I will, Mother—I will ... everything ... later. [She drinks.] But now I must be alone. Please, dear, go away ... for a little while. I must be alone [Rising and moving to the fire.] with the ruin of my dreams.
[She puts her arms on the chimney shelf and drops her head on them.]
Ruth. Come, Mother! Come away!
Mrs. Carey. Yes, I am coming. We shall be in the next room, Annie, when you want us. Right here.
Anne [as they go out, raises her head and murmurs]. Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes!
[As soon as they have gone, Anne straightens up slowly. She pulls herself together after the physical strain of her acting. Then she looks at the watch on her wrist and sighs a long triumphant sigh. Her eye falls on the desk and she sees the package of florists' cards still there. She picks them up, returns with them to the fire and is about to throw them in, when her eye is caught by the writing on one. She takes it out and reads it. Then she takes another—and another. She stops and looks away dreamily. Then slowly, she moves back to the desk, drops the cards into a drawer and locks it. She sits brooding at the desk and the open paper before her seems to fascinate her. As if in a dream she picks up a pencil. A creative look comes into her eyes. Resting her chin on her left arm, she begins slowly to write, murmuring to herself.]