Index     1     2     3

ACT THREE

At AXTON'S—late that night. PHILIP is on the stage, talking on the phone.

PHILIP—[At the phone] Thanks. I'm sorry to bother you again. Be sure to tell Miss Fuller to call here when she comes in, will you? Thank you. [He hangs up. ENID enters. PHILIP is relieved to see her] Enid! I've been calling you and calling you . . .

ENID—I've been out. Where's Avis?

PHILIP—She hasn't been here. Does she know?

ENID—Yes. She's been at Ingrid's and gone. I wish I knew where . . .

PHILIP—Awful, isn't it?

ENID—Yes.

PHILIP—He was here this afternoon. It seems ages ago, doesn't it?

ENID—Yes. It does.

PHILIP—Talking—drinking a cocktail. What happened after I left? Anything?

ENID—[Deciding better not to go into it] Nothing.

PHILIP—Nothing at all?

ENID—Nothing at all.

PHILIP—The poor daughter—did you see her?

ENID—Yes.

PHILIP—What's she like?

ENID—Very nice. Very nice indeed.

PHILIP—How did she . . . ?

ENID—She was quite calm. She was arranging things, talking to Manfred's refugee friends. There were several of them there. They were moved, but not at all hysterical. They seemed to take it for granted.

PHILIP—Gosh!

ENID—I wish Avis would come. . . .

PHILIP—Makes you think, doesn't it?

ENID—Yes, it does. [She puts her hat and purse on the table.]

PHILIP—Manfred—he was clever and subtle—wasn't he?

ENID—Yes. He was.

PHILIP—It's a cruel world, isn't it? People are really cruel. There is little kindness. Why is there so little kindness?

ENID—[Thinking out loud] Perhaps because cruelty is at the heart of things. We won't face that. We won't admit it. Our voices are modulated and that deceives us. "We are beasts of prey," the German philosopher keeps repeating. "We are beasts of prey . . ."

PHILIP—This afternoon—when you talked to him—was there any hint . . .?

ENID—He spoke rather strangely at the end. Some horrid idea crossed my mind . . .

PHILIP—Really?

ENID—Yes.

PHILIP—And did you . . .?

ENID—I did nothing. I brushed it aside. If I'd faced it, I'd have had to do something about it and it was easier to brush it aside.

PHILIP—[After a moment, trying to express the new concept of life surging in his mind] Enid . . .

ENID—Yes, Philip.

PHILIP—You have to be strong to live, don't you?

ENID—Yes.

PHILIP—Is Father strong?

ENID—I suppose so.

PHILIP—Why does his strength frighten me?

ENID—Perhaps because you haven't found your own.

PHILIP—I funked medical school.

ENID—Do you feel guilty about that?

PHILIP—Yes.

ENID—No reason you should. It's no law of Nature that you should be a doctor just because your father is one.

PHILIP—Enid—you really mean that?

ENID—Certainly. Find your own line and take that. There are plenty of careers still. I don't believe the world's quite exhausted yet.

PHILIP—[He turns to her] Just the same I'd like to show him!

ENID—Show whom?

PHILIP—Father! I'd like to show him.

ENID—What?

PHILIP—That I can go back and stick it.

ENID—Why don't you then?

PHILIP—I believe I will. I'll go back and stick it.

ENID—Perhaps that's a good idea too. Then if you quit you'll know you've done it because you really don't like it.

PHILIP—I'll try. I'll show him!

ENID—Do!

PHILIP—If I could just know, Enid . . .

ENID—What?

PHILIP—That I can come and talk things over with you—that you'll back me.

ENID—Of course I will.

PHILIP—That's marvelous. Thanks, Enid. [AVIS comes in. PHILIP and ENID are both happy she has come back.]

ENID—[Going to her, full of pity] Avis!

PHILIP—[To AVIS, awkwardly] Avis, I'm terribly sorry.

AVIS—[Quietly] Thank you, Phil. May I talk to Enid?

PHILIP—Yes—of course. [A moment] Thank you, Enid. [He goes out. A pause.]

ENID—Avis, before you say anything, I want you to know—I've been thinking of you with such pain. Avis, believe me, you misunderstood.

AVIS—He left a letter for you. Here it is. [She hands ENID the letter. In a strained voice as ENID does not open the letter, at the same time in an agony to know what it contains, his last words, his last writing] Do you want to be alone while you read it?

ENID—No. Why? [ENID opens the letter and reads it. It takes a second. She looks at AVIS] Would you like to hear it?

AVIS—[In the same strained voice] Don't feel you have to . . .

ENID—I want you to hear it. [She reads] "I didn't die today. It happened long ago. When I saw you today it was already over. I tell you this in case a shadow of reproach might cross your mind. The machine-men are stronger! To them I bow. Thank you for Ingrid. My love to Avis. Manfred." [A pause] Poor Manfred. He shouldn't. He should have fought on. He should have trusted . . .

AVIS—[She turns to ENID] Trusted whom? Trusted what?

ENID—You. Your strength. Your love. [A moment. She folds the letter, puts it back in the envelope. A tremendous resolution in ENID'S face and voice] He bowed. We will not bow!

AVIS—[Bitterly] We?

ENID—Yes! We who are still free.

AVIS—Manfred is dead.

ENID—I know there are no facile consolations. But it is true, I think, that often the victims survive their murderers. [Rather desperately] I must cling to that belief—or I'll sink.

AVIS—It is because you did not love him that his death can be an inspiration to you.

ENID—No—but I refuse to give up. This is the moment to draw on our reserves of strength, not to yield to despair. Even Manfred was a victim. "The Fifth Column," he said, "that exists in every soul." No, I repudiate that. There are the pure in heart. There are the good. I tell you, Avis, they can move mountains.

AVIS—Why don't they then?

ENID—Because they are not together. They must find each other. They must.

AVIS—Where are they, these battalions of the good? I am sure you identify yourself with them. Where have you been all these years, you good people? I shall not forget Manfred. But neither shall I forget his murderers. It isn't alone the machine-men who murdered him. It is the rich and the comfortable everywhere who fawned on them, who admired them, who envied their efficiency. The comfortable, the complacent, the sleek! Those who didn't care who lived and who died as long as they themselves survived.

ENID—Why are you so bitter against me, Avis? Why against me who am part of you with my mind and all of you with my heart? It is as if you younger generation hate us older for having survived our errors. Resent us for having known peace and security and pleasure.

AVIS—Yes. We do.

ENID—And yet we, too, are the victims of our time. Is there any assurance that you in our place would have done better? In spite of everything you can do or say, you are indissoluble from us. We are your heirs as you are our inheritance.

AVIS—Manfred had to die at your feet. Everywhere in the world people are being slaughtered while you go on being philosophical. . . .

ENID—[Quietly] It is true that our imaginations are feeble and that we do not really grieve for remote calamities. One can grieve deeply only for one person, whose voice we hear, whose step we know. [A moment. AVIS is moved. She fights it down in hard self-excoriation. She can't look at ENID.]

AVIS—I must tell you the whole truth.

ENID—Yes?

AVIS—It isn't only that . . .

ENID—What else?

AVIS—It would be all right if I could say—my feeling against you is pure—[She turns away] but it isn't. It's muddied up.

ENID—Avis . . .

AVIS—I was jealous of you! I am still jealous of you!

ENID—[Full of feeling for her] Avis—dearest Avis.

AVIS—It is to you he wrote his last letter. It is you he thought of at the end. I am not pure in heart. I was jealous. You are beautiful. The moment I saw you together I thought: She is beautiful. How right she is for him. I thought: I am harsh and callow. She is serene and mellow and reposeful. . . .

ENID—But, Avis, you're so wrong! I am not serene. I am uncertain and tortured and harrowed endlessly with self-distrust. I envy you your conviction, your singleness of aim—dearest Avis . . .

AVIS—You didn't love him, did you?

ENID—No.

AVIS—Why? Why didn't you love him? Enid . . .

ENID—Yes, Avis.

AVIS—I can't stay here any more with Father. I'm leaving. I've got to.

ENID—Where are you going?

AVIS—I don't know. Some room somewhere.

ENID—I can't bear to think of you going to some dismal rooming house. Why don't you come with me? I have an extra room. You can stay as long as you like.

AVIS—I couldn't do that.

ENID—I'll give you the key to my apartment. [She takes keys out of her purse] You can come and go as you please.

AVIS—No, Enid. I can't do that.

ENID—Why not?

AVIS—I have to think things out for myself. You have to save yourself. No one else can do it for you.

ENID—[After a short pause] That's true. But don't shut me out of your life. You're good for me, Avis. [She puts the key in her pocket] Please think about it.

AVIS—[She looks at ENID with gratitude, the gratitude of finding oneself wanted suddenly] All right. I will.

ENID—[Touching AVIS'S arm] Good.

AVIS—Why do you bother with me?

ENID—Because I have faith in you, Avis. Because I am as sure as I can be that . . . [AXTON comes in.]

ENID—Axton—you've heard the news?

AXTON—Yes. I never really knew him. I'm sorry for you and Avis—you seem to have liked him. I ran into Mr. Blodgett. He told me.

ENID—Cy!

AXTON—Yes. I met him in the street. Avis had dismissed him, he said.

ENID—Where is Cy?

AXTON—I left him in a bar on Madison Avenue, drinking. In fact, we had a few drinks together. Not my custom! I find Mr. Blodgett more sensible tight than he is sober. [ENID and AVIS exchange a look.]

AVIS—Father . . .

AXTON—Yes, Avis.

AVIS—I have to tell you something.

AXTON—Well . . .

AVIS—I am leaving this house, Father. I have promised myself never to sleep under this roof nor take another penny of your money as long as I live.

AXTON—As most of your allowance money goes to support filthy radical magazines I shall be glad to discontinue it.

ENID—Axton!

AVIS—No, Enid, Father is right. My presence here is dishonest. Excuse me. I'm going up to pack. [AVIS goes upstairs.]

AXTON—How does a healthy man like me come to have such difficult children?

ENID—Perhaps a man has the children he deserves.

AXTON—This dispersed humanitarianism of yours is pernicious.

ENID—Not as pernicious as your concentrated selfishness. Really, Axton, it is extraordinary to me how indifferent you seem to be to the destiny of that great majority of people who don't happen to be your patients.

AXTON—Is it that I am not sufficiently grief-stricken for the late Mr. Geist?

ENID—Please, Axton, don't speak of him in that tone. I really can't bear it.

AXTON—You see, Enid, to me death is not a shock. I am used to it. I see it daily. It is the great commonplace. I help fight it. I haven't much sympathy for those who yield to it before they have to. Why should I feel anything for an anonymous foreigner who comes into my house and makes love simultaneously to my daughter and to my fiancée? [ENID keeps quiet. He looks at her.]

ENID—Again you state the surface facts with no awareness of the human motives behind them.

AXTON—Well, let's drop it. I'll never say another word about it.

ENID—That's generous, Axton.

AXTON—[With an odd, sudden look at her, quickly] There was something to it then?

ENID—Oh, Axton!

AXTON—[He feels he hasn't handled it quite right] The truth is it's really ridiculous at my age—but the truth is I was jealous of that fellow. Plain jealous. Do you know that when you walked out on me before, I was absolutely livid with anger? I took it out on Mary. I threw a cigar at Mary. Fortunately, it wasn't lighted. Wouldn't it have been awful if I'd set Mary on fire? [AXTON watches her narrowly, wonders if he has gained ground, goes on in the same vein] Might have been arrested for arson. One lives and learns. Revelation to me. Didn't like myself one bit. Not one little bit. Let bygones be bygones, shall we? [She doesn't answer] Enid, you're not listening to me! What are you thinking? [CY comes in. He is a changed man. His ebullience is gone. He is tight and as severely grave as an alderman. In fact he is sepulchral] My God, he's in again!

ENID—How are you, Cy?

CY—I'm depressed. I'm very depressed. I have been sitting with Axton in the Madison Bar drinking. I looked into your very soul, Axton. A depressing vista.

AXTON—You're drunk!

CY—There is a modicum of truth in that accusation! [To ENID] Do you look down on me, Miss Fuller?

ENID—Certainly not. I only wish I could cheer you up. . . .

CY—I am beyond cheering up. Let's face it, Miss Fuller. I'm a failure.

ENID—Oh, come now, at your age! How do you know? You have the future. Who knows what twists and turns in the future?

AXTON—I wouldn't delude him, if I were you, Enid, with any false hopes.

CY—[Very confidential with her] Supposing, for the sake of argument, Miss Fuller . . .

ENID—Yes?

CY—Supposing I do succeed in proving that St. Thomas Aquinas was a Marxian? What then?

ENID—It will demonstrate your genius for fantastic correlation.

CY—[Anxiously] Are people waiting for that, do you think, in any large numbers?

ENID—I am!

CY—I shall dedicate it to you. Have you ever had a Ph.D. thesis dedicated to you, Miss Fuller?

ENID—Never. I'd be thrilled.

CY—To give you a thrill, Miss Fuller, I'd . . . I can't finish that!

ENID—It's quite all right.

CY—It was meant to build into a charming compliment—end in a graceful flourish—but I can't finish it. Can't flourish. [The failure depresses him even more.]

ENID—Never mind. I'll finish it for you in my own mind.

CY—She's wonderful.

AXTON—Thank you.

CY—Why do you thank me? Did I pay you a compliment?

AXTON—In a way.

CY—[Bewildered] I didn't mean to pay you a compliment. I'm sorry.

AXTON—Don't mention it.

CY—I don't blame you for being in love with Enid, but why is Enid in love with you? At least I'm better off than you are.

AXTON—Now you're switching from an understandable melancholia to an unjustified optimism.

CY—[Protesting] At least I don't go around saving people. He keeps saving people. For what, I'd like to know?

ENID—So they can read your historical essays.

CY—That's not his only motive. . . . [He drifts off] There we were, Axton and I, two jealous, frustrated men sitting in the Madison Bar. I am afraid I said too much, Axton.

AXTON—That's your habit.

CY—[Mournfully explaining to ENID] The more I drink the more talkative I get. The more Axton drinks the more silenter he gets. That's incorrect. That's bad grammar.

ENID—Nevertheless I understand you!

CY—Did you hear what Sigismund, the great medieval grammarian, said when he was dying?

ENID—No. What?

CY—Just as Sig was passing out, his physician said to the recorder: "Sigismund shall die." The old boy got up on one elbow and corrected him. "You mean Sigismund will die." Is that funny?

AXTON—Uproarious.

CY—[Sadly] In the Columbia Graduate School it has them in the aisles. [PHILIP comes in.]

PHILIP—Enid . . .

ENID—Yes, Philip.

PHILIP—Avis is leaving.

ENID—She'll be all right. Don't worry about Avis.

PHILIP—[Suddenly conscious that in AXTON'S presence he is treating ENID as the head of the house, to AXTON apologetically] You don't mind, Dad?

AXTON—[Irritatedly] Mind what?

PHILIP—Well, I mean—my asking Enid . . . It's only that I . . .

AXTON—I wish you wouldn't be so vague, Philip!

CY—I sympathize with you, Axton. You are a frustrated man.

AXTON—I wish you'd shut up!

CY—I know a good psychiatrist. Or maybe if you just came up and talked to me every day. I'm not a natural listener, but I could try.

AXTON—[In despair] Enid, will you shut him up?

ENID—Shut up, Cy.

CY—Do you really mean that, Miss Fuller?

ENID—Yes. I do.

CY—I shall enter a Trappist monastery and take a vow of silence. [AVIS comes in, wearing hat and coat, putting on gloves]

AVIS—Hello, Cy.

CY—Hello.

PHILIP—Please, Avis, don't go.

AVIS—I have to.

PHILIP—I'll be lonely.

AXTON—When she's here you fight like cats and dogs.

PHILIP—I'll miss it.

AVIS—Would do you good to leave, too, Phil. Might make a man of you.

AXTON—You see, Enid, what can I do? She's impossible!

AVIS—Good night, Phil.

PHILIP—Good night, Avis.

AVIS—We won't lose sight of each other.

PHILIP—Please not.

AVIS—Good night, Enid.

ENID—Here's the key, Avis. You go ahead.

AVIS—[Takes the key] Thank you. Good-bye, Father.

AXTON—Good-bye.

AVIS—Coming, Cy? [She goes out.]

CY—There is no balm in Gilead. What do you suppose that was, Axton, that balm? Can you write me a prescription for it? Maybe we can still get some on Madison Avenue.

ENID—You'd better go home as soon as you can and get some rest.

CY—Rest for what? Quoth the Raven: Nevermore. The Raven said it. Where are the snows of yesteryear? God, I am not a man. I am an anthology! [He goes out. A moment's silence.]

PHILIP—Do you think she'll come back?

AXTON—My guess is she'll be back in a month.

PHILIP—What do you think, Enid?

ENID—I don't think so.

PHILIP—What'll become of her?

ENID—She's tough.

PHILIP—I wish I were tough.

AXTON—[Brusquely—can't bear to have PHILIP think himself inferior to AVIS] You're all right, Philip!

PHILIP—No, I'm not.

AXTON—You're all right. I wouldn't have you like that intractable, unfeminine little wisp of a Spartan for anything in the world. You're all right, I tell you.

PHILIP—I wish I hadn't fought with her. Half the time when I fought with her, something said to me: She's right and you're wrong!

AXTON—It's the other way round. What's the matter with you, Phil? Haven't you got any spirit at all?

ENID—Axton! Please!

AXTON—I only want him to stand on his own feet.

ENID—He will. Don't worry about that. He will!

PHILIP—[To ENID] Have you told him—about my decision?

ENID—No. Not yet. I will.

PHILIP—Please do. Good night, Dad.

AXTON—Good night, Phil. Don't worry about anything. You're all right.

PHILIP—[Defiant] I will be! Good night, Enid.

ENID—Good night, darling. [She goes to him rather unpremeditatively, and kisses him. PHILIP is so overcome by this tenderness that he is about to burst into tears. He rushes out before it happens. There is a pause.]

AXTON—What did he mean—Phil? What decision was he talking about?

ENID—He feels a sense of guilt evidently—about medical school. He thinks perhaps he ought to try again.

AXTON—[Delighted] Really? [Exultant] That's wonderful. Marvelous. He's a doctor, Enid. You'll see. Every Talley's a doctor. I owe you for this. Thank you, Enid.

ENID—I wonder why it is . . .

AXTON—You wonder why what is . . .

ENID—Why it is so often that the sons of strong, successful men are beaten at the start?

AXTON—Phil's not beaten. You'll see. I'll keep him under my eye. He'll come out of it. I'm sure of it.

ENID—He's frightened. He's a frightened boy.

AXTON—Nonsense. He hasn't hit his stride yet, that's all. He'll hit it now. He's all right now, I'm sure.

ENID—Axton . . .

AXTON—Yes, Enid . . .

ENID—Doesn't it strike you as strange that within fifteen minutes of meeting your children I learned more about their personal lives than you seem to have discovered in as many years.

AXTON—Well, children will talk to the policeman on the corner before they'll talk to their parents. Don't you know that? I was the same way.

ENID—Why don't you face the truth, Axton.

AXTON—What truth?

ENID—That you are a failure as a father. I am very much afraid that the Talley Method isn't enough. It seems to be wonderful on anaesthetized tissue. For human beings not yet anaesthetized, I'm afraid it's a little bit arbitrary.

AXTON—[Cajolingly!] It worked with you!

ENID—Oh, my dear, if your approach in the operating theater were as fumbling as it is in your living room I shouldn't be here to tell it. Nobody would.

AXTON—Well, in spite of my clumsy approach, Phil's coming through. I can't tell you, Enid, how pleased I am about that. And grateful to you. From now on things should go smoothly. [Whistles energetically with relief] Bad moment or two. Well, thank heaven it's over. We've survived our first quarrel. [ENID looks at him quickly] Well, not exactly quarrel—let's say misunderstanding. May there never be another! Enid, what's the matter? What are you thinking?

ENID—The truth is—I feel sick at heart.

AXTON—Why?

ENID—That I should have been so wrong.

AXTON—What about?

ENID—About you. About myself.

AXTON—Perhaps we're not as far off as you think.

ENID—We're world's away.

AXTON—With improved communications we might get in touch.

ENID—Don't humor me, Axton.

AXTON—My God, Enid, have I been wrong about you? Are you capricious?

ENID—I don't really think so.

AXTON—What do you mean then, for God's sake, by talking like this? Just when everything's getting settled.

ENID—No, it isn't. Everything isn't settled. It's far from settled. It's very unsettled.

AXTON—For instance.

ENID—I suppose that in ordinary times you and I might have made a go of it. But these are not ordinary times.

AXTON—What have the times got to do with this?

ENID—Everything. You can no longer live in a sound-proof room—in a spiritual autarchy.

AXTON—I thought you were making a new life—that I was to be its cornerstone.

ENID—That was before I found out—before I saw . . .

AXTON—What?

ENID—Your effect on those around you. I have come to see—reluctantly—I have come to see that your effect on those whom you cannot aid with your mechanical skill is destructive. You are arrogant, Axton. You want to impose your ideas and your way of life on others. You have no more sense of the individual than a machine-gun.

AXTON—Who are you to pass these judgments on me?

ENID—It's what I think. I have seen you with your own children.

AXTON—I must tell you, Enid, that I think your sympathy for the children is maudlin. It's what's ruined them—a whole generation of them.

ENID—Come now, you can't condemn an entire generation.

AXTON—Each generation has to justify itself. My father went on with his researches while he saw his fingers burned off with radium—his hands reduced to stumps. Yet he got less for it than these young revolutionaries on the dole, which they find insufficient. Don't talk to me about these impromptu hordes in this country or any other. I despise them and the cant that caters to them.

ENID—You have a contempt for people, Axton.

AXTON—The truth is—you're a sentimentalist. I'm a realist, that's all.

ENID—The realists seem to have a wonderful capacity for turning their backs on injustice and suffering.

AXTON—It's that I can't endure muddle. Don't you see that? I love order. I watch the disintegration of the cell and I feel a cold fury inside of me that I cannot stop it.

ENID—What about the disintegration around you? Why doesn't that arouse you to fury—a fury against yourself? Since coming into your house I have seen wretchedness, Axton. I have seen suffering. I have seen blundering. I have blundered also—had I spoken differently to Manfred—had I found the word—a word that might have saved him. I didn't find it. I didn't say it. I have been clumsy and inadequate also. But you shut your failure away from you. You are consoled because you save people's lives. But you have to do more than save people's lives. You have to give them something to live for. No, Axton—there is a realm beyond efficiency. Through you I became gay again and strong again and confident again . . .

AXTON—Well then?

ENID—But you don't really want me that way. You prefer me as I was. You don't want a companion to share with you and differ from you. You want a patient. Well, I am cured now. I am strong now. I am myself now. I want to use the life you gave me freely and abundantly. I don't want to hoard it. You live in a vacuum into which you want to draw me. I'm frightened, Axton . . .

AXTON—[He takes a step toward her] What are you frightened of, for God's sake?

ENID—There are destructive forces in the world now of violence and ruthlessness, and I am frightened of the things I find in you which are like those forces. I'm sorry, Axton, but I can't possibly marry you.

AXTON—[Deeply shocked] You're leaving me . . .

ENID—I have to.

AXTON—My God, you're not going to let a difference in point of view separate us.

ENID—But that's all that ever does separate people. In the passion of first love—in youth—such a difference might be obliterated. But you and I . . .

AXTON—What good does it do me to be right if I'm miserable?

ENID—Forgive me, Axton, but that seems to me so unscientific. There must be something wrong or you wouldn't be miserable. Isn't pain a symptom?

AXTON—I am willing to make concessions.

ENID—I don't want concessions. I want change of heart, Axton. Can you perform that major operation?

AXTON—It isn't exactly fair to make me pay for not living up to your romantic idealization of me.

ENID—Perhaps not. It must have been your professional manner. You warned me against it. But it's so beautiful, Axton, you can't blame me for being taken in by it. Better modify it in the future or you'll get involved again.

AXTON—Don't talk rot. It's either you or nobody, and you know it damn well!

ENID—That's very sweet of you . . . [She puts on her hat and picks up her purse.]

AXTON—[Gloomily] It'd better be nobody, I guess. I can't cope.

ENID—Maybe you could . . .

AXTON—It's too late.

ENID—Nonsense. In a sense I'm going to begin again . . . [AXTON looks at her sharply] with your children, for instance. Avis is at my house now. I'm going to keep her with me for as long as I can.

AXTON—You're a masochist.

ENID—No, on the contrary—I've got two new interests. It'll be great fun. I'm really grateful to you, Axton. I've always wanted to have children. Thank you very much.

AXTON—I don't like you! Definitely!

ENID—I keep telling you. Good night, Axton. [She goes to him and offers her hand. They shake hands.]

AXTON—Shall I take you home?

ENID—No, you're tired. You have to operate in the morning. I want to walk anyway.

AXTON—Then it's hopeless?

ENID—For the good-willing, it's never quite hopeless. Why don't you try it, Axton?

AXTON—What?

ENID—The major operation. [A second's pause. He starts toward her, appeal in his eyes, in his voice.]

AXTON—Enid . . .

ENID—[Unwilling to have her emotion for him stirred up again at this moment. She has been through enough for one day] Good night, AXTON. [A moment longer—their eyes meet. She turns and goes out, a little blindly. He takes a step after her, her name on his lips.]

AXTON—[Though she is gone, to himself] Enid . . . Enid . . .

Index     1     2     3