Waste | Page 9

light in his eyes, and speaks
low but commandingly.
TREBELL. Come here.
Instinctively she moves towards him. They speak in whispers.
AMY O'CONNELL. He was locking up.
TREBELL. I've sent him to bed.
AMY O'CONNELL. He won't go.
TREBELL. Never mind him.
AMY O'CONNELL. We're standing full in the light ... anyone could

see us.
TREBELL. [With fierce egotism.] Think of me ... not of anyone else.
[He draws her from the window; then does not let her go.] May I kiss
you again?
AMY O'CONNELL. [Her eyes closed.] Yes.
He kisses her. She stiffens in his arms; then laughs almost joyously, and
is commonplace.
AMY O'CONNELL. Well ... let me get my breath.
TREBELL. [Letting her stand free.] Now ... go along.
Obediently she turns to the door, but sinks on the nearest chair.
AMY O'CONNELL. In a minute, I'm a little faint. [He goes to her
quickly.] No, it's nothing.
TREBELL. Come into the air again. [Then half seriously.] I'll race you
across the lawn.
AMY O'CONNELL. [Still breathless and a little hysterical.] Thank
you!
TREBELL. Shall I carry you?
AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be silly. [She recovers her self-possession,
gets up and goes to the window, then looks back at him and says very
beautifully.] But the night's beautiful, isn't it?
He has her in his arms again, more firmly this time.
TREBELL. Make it so.
AMY O'CONNELL. [Struggling ... with herself] Oh, why do you rouse
me like this?

TREBELL. Because I want you.
AMY O'CONNELL. Want me to...?
TREBELL. Want you to ... kiss me just once.
AMY O'CONNELL. [Yielding.] If I do ... don't let me go mad, will
you?
TREBELL. Perhaps. [He bends over her, her head drops back.] Now.
AMY O'CONNELL. Yes!
She kisses him on the mouth. Then he would release her, but suddenly
she clings again.
Oh ... don't let me go.
TREBELL. [With fierce pride of possession.] Not yet.
She is fragile beside him. He lifts her in his arms and carries her out
into the darkness.

THE SECOND ACT
TREBELL'S house in Queen Anne Street, London. Eleven o'clock on
an October morning.
TREBELL'S working room is remarkable chiefly for the love of
sunlight it evidences in its owner. The walls are white; the window
which faces you is bare of all but the necessary curtains. Indeed, lack
of draperies testifies also to his horror of dust. There faces you besides
a double door; when it is opened another door is seen. When that is
opened you discover a writing table, and beyond can discern a
book-case filled with heavy volumes--law reports perhaps. The little
room beyond is, so to speak, an under-study. Between the two rooms a
window, again barely curtained, throws light down the staircase. But in

the big room, while the books are many the choice of them is catholic;
and the book-cases are low, running along the wall. There is an
armchair before the bright fire, which is on your right. There is a sofa.
And in the middle of the room is an enormous double writing table
piled tidily with much appropriate impedimenta, blue books and
pamphlets and with an especial heap of unopened letters and parcels.
At the table sits TREBELL himself, in good health and spirits, but
eyeing askance the work to which he has evidently just returned. His
sister looks in on him. She is dressed to go out and has a housekeeping
air.
FRANCES. Are you busy, Henry?
TREBELL. More or less. Come in.
FRANCES. You'll dine at home?
TREBELL. Anyone coming?
FRANCES. Julia Farrant and Lucy have run up to town, I think. I
thought of going round and asking them to come in ... but perhaps your
young man will be going there. Amy O'Connell said something vague
about our going to Charles Street ... but she may be out of town by
now.
TREBELL. Well ... I'll be in anyhow.
FRANCES. [Going to the window as she buttons her gloves.] Were you
on deck early this morning? It must have been lovely.
TREBELL. No, I turned in before we got out of le Havre. I left Kent on
deck and found him there at six.
FRANCES. I don't think autumn means to come at all this year ... it'll
be winter one morning. September has been like a hive of bees, busy
and drowsy. By the way, Cousin Mary has another baby ... a girl.
TREBELL. [Indifferent to the information.] That's the fourth.

FRANCES. Fifth. They asked me down for the christening ... but I
really couldn't.
TREBELL. September's the month for Tuscany. The car chose to break
down one morning just as we were starting North again; so we climbed
one of the little hills and sat for a couple of hours, while I composed a
fifteenth century electioneering speech