MR. BARLOW. Thank you, my dear, for your sympathy.
OLIVER. If the people for one minute pulled themselves up and
conquered their mania for money and machine excitement, the whole
thing would be solved.--Would you like me to find Winnie and tell
her to say good night to you?
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.
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