[Sits down and drinks.]
SOPHY.
The night is advancing further and further, and Andrew does not come.
And with such talk one becomes doubly frightened. If you went to
Robert—
MARY.
To Robert? What, in the world, are you thinking of, mother?
SOPHY.
That it is God's finger—that letter of Robert's.
MARY.
I am to go to Robert? Now? To the Dell?