MR. BARLOW. If you would be so kind. (Exit OLIVER.) Can"t you find a sweet that you would like, my dear? Won"t you take a little cherry brandy?
(Enter BUTLER.)
ANABEL. Thank you.
WILLIAM. You will go up, sir?
MR. BARLOW. Yes, William.
WILLIAM. You are tired to-night, sir.
MR. BARLOW. It has come over me just now.
WILLIAM. I wish you went up before you became so over-tired, sir. Would you like nurse?
MR. BARLOW. No, I"ll go with you, William. Good night, my dear.
ANABEL. Good night, Mr. Barlow. I am so sorry if you are over-tired.
(Exit BUTLER and MR. BARLOW. ANABEL takes a drink and goes to the fire.)
(Enter GERALD.)
GERALD. Father gone up?
ANABEL. Yes.
GERALD. I thought I heard him. Has he been talking too much?--Poor father, he will take things to heart.
ANABEL. Tragic, really.
GERALD. Yes, I suppose it is. But one can get beyond tragedy--beyond the state of feeling tragical, I mean. Father himself is tragical. One feels he is mistaken--and yet he wouldn"t be any different, and be himself, I suppose. He"s sort of crucified on an idea of the working people. It"s rather horrible when he"s one"s father.--However, apart from tragedy, how do you like being here, in this house?
ANABEL. I like the house. It"s rather too comfortable.
GERALD. Yes. But how do you like being here?
ANABEL. How do you like my being in your home?
GERALD. Oh, I think you"re very decorative.
ANABEL. More decorative than comfortable?
GERALD. Perhaps. But perhaps you give the necessary finish to the establishment.
ANABEL. Like the correct window-curtains?
GERALD. Yes, something like that. I say, why did you come, Anabel? Why did you come slap-bang into the middle of us?--It"s not expostulation--I want to know.
ANABEL. You mean you want to be told?
GERALD. Yes, I want to be told.
ANABEL. That"s rather mean of you. You should savvy, and let it go without saying.
GERALD. Yes, but I don"t savvy.
ANABEL. Then wait till you do.
GERALD. No, I want to be told. There"s a difference in you, Anabel, that puts me out, rather. You"re sort of softer and sweeter--I"m not sure whether it isn"t a touch of father in you. There"s a little sanctified smudge on your face. Are you really a bit sanctified?
ANABEL. No, not sanctified. It"s true I feel different. I feel I want a new way of life--something more dignified, more religious, if you like--anyhow, something POSITIVE.
GERALD. Is it the change of heart, Anabel?
ANABEL. Perhaps it is, Gerald.
GERALD. I"m not sure that I like it. Isn"t it like a berry that decides to get very sweet, and goes soft?
ANABEL. I don"t think so.
GERALD. Slightly sanctimonious. I think I liked you better before. I don"t think I like you with this touch of aureole. People seem to me so horribly self-satisfied when they get a change of heart--they take such a fearful lot of credit to themselves on the strength of it.
ANABEL. I don"t think I do.--Do you feel no different, Gerald?
GERALD. Radically, I can"t say I do. I feel very much more INdifferent.
ANABEL. What to?
GERALD. Everything.
ANABEL. You"re still angry--that"s what it is.
GERALD. Oh, yes, I"m angry. But that is part of my normal state.
ANABEL. Why are you angry?
GERALD. Is there any reason why I shouldn"t be angry? I"m angry because you treated me--well, so impudently, really--clearing out and leaving one to whistle to the empty walls.
ANABEL. Don"t you think it was time I cleared out, when you became so violent, and really dangerous, really like a madman?
GERALD. Time or not time, you went--you disappeared and left us high and dry--and I am still angry.--But I"m not only angry about that. I"m angry with the colliers, with Labour for its low-down impudence--and I"m angry with father for being so ill--and I"m angry with mother for looking such a hopeless thing--and I"m angry with Oliver because he thinks so much---
ANABEL. And what are you angry with yourself for?