there.

Pierre.

Where?

Julia.

Hush! Come here you can see it against the light. (They cautiously change places. Pierre utters a low shriek, then Julia, softly, despairingly) Pierre!

Pierre.

It must be the gardener.

Julia.

It's not--the--gardener.

Pierre.

Who is it then?

Julia.

Creep around--and lock--the glass door.

Pierre (weak from fright).

I can't.

Julia.

Then I will. (She has taken but a few steps toward the door when the streaks of light again become visible.) He's gone now!

Pierre.

How--gone?

Julia.

There--there--nothing----

Pierre.

Seize the opportunity--and go.

Julia.

Where?

Pierre.

To the gardener's house--quick--before he comes back.

Julia.

In broad daylight--half dressed as I am?

Pierre.

Throw on a wrap--anything--hurry! (Knocking at the door on the left. They both stand rooted to the spot. The knocking is repeated. Then Pierre, in a choking voice) Come in.

(Wittich enters. He is a large, burly man of about forty, whose whole appearance betrays neglect; his sandy-coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead in damp strands; his beard is straggling and unkempt; his face is haggard and perspiring, his eyes lustreless. He staggers heavily in walking. He speaks in a stammering, hesitating voice; he gives the impression, in sum, of a man who is deathly ill, but is making an intense effort to hold himself together.)

Wittich.

I beg your pardon if I am disturbing you. (Both stare at him without venturing to move.)

Pierre (taking heart).

Oh--p-p-please----

Wittich.

I see you were about to make coffee. Really--I don't want to----

Pierre (stammering).

P-p-please--th-there's no--hurry----

Wittich.

Well, then we may as well--settle--our affair--first. (Julia, who has been standing quite still, panting, utters a low groan. At the sound of her voice, Wittich catches his breath as if suffocating, then sinks into one of the chairs at the left and stares vacantly at the floor.)

Pierre (edging up to Julia then softly).

Can you understand this?

Julia (glancing back--aside to Pierre).

Keep near the weapons!

Pierre (as Wittich moves).

Hush!

Wittich.

You must forgive me--I only wanted to--look after--my--wife. (Breaks down again.)

Pierre (aside to Julia).

Why, he's quite out of his mind!

Julia.

Keep near the weapons!

Wittich.

I don't care--to settle--this matter--by means of a--so-called--affair of honour. I'm a plain man. I only know about such things from hearsay. And any way--I don't see that they help--m-matters much. (Breaks into tearless sobs.)

Pierre (aside).

He won't hurt us.

Julia (stammering).

I simply--don't--understand it--at all!

Pierre (pointing to Wittich).

Try it! Go to him!

Julia.

He's not a bit like himself.

Pierre.

Go on! Go on!

Julia.

(Who has timidly approached her husband, bid has drawn back at a movement of his, suddenly throws herself at his feet with great emotion.) George! George!--I am guilty!--I have sinned before God and you!--I acknowledge my crime!--My life is in your hands!--Crush me--grind me to dust!--But God knows, I only obeyed a wretched impulse. My love for you has never left my heart.--My one desire is to die. Kill me!--Here!--Now!--But forgive me! Ah, forgive me!

Wittich (staring straight ahead).

Yes, they always talk like that--in books, at least.

Julia.

Forgive me!

Wittich.

There is nothing to forgive. And I am not going to kill any one. What good would it do? (Julia sobs, hiding her face in her hands.)

Pierre.

Well, then--don't kneel there--like that--Julia, dear!

Julia.

I shall lie here until he raises me. Raise me! Take me in your arms! Oh, George----

Wittich.

Yes, that's what they always say. (Sinks into reverie again.)

Pierre (aside to her).

Hush! Stand up! (She does so.) Well--h'm--I suppose I may assume, Herr Wittich, that you had some purpose in seeking this interview?

Wittich.

Yes--yes. (Looking about him.) I can well imagine that my wife--er--that the lady must find it very pleasant here.

Pierre.

Oh, yes--we needn't hesitate to say that, need we, Julia, dear?

Julia (uncertainly adopting his tone).

No, indeed, Pierre, dear.

Wittich.

At least--she seems to have plenty of roses here.