ivine, a
copperplate of Raphael's St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo
presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of
miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and,
at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature of the room
is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little
red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. There
is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed
back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. On the whole,
it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in
struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and
his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman
would have tolerated it fifty years ago.

The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy
firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet
street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of
rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a
couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the
table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious
and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The
first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the
rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a
sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet
cloak.

JUDITH (running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last! (She
attempts to embrace him.)

ANDERSON (keeping her off). Take care, my love: I'm wet. Wait till I
get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs
his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the
fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith.) Now!
(She flies into his arms.) I am not late, am I? The town clock struck
the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is
always fast.

JUDITH. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad you're back.

ANDERSON (taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious, my dear?

JUDITH. A little.

ANDERSON. Why, you've been crying.

JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind: it's all over now. (A bugle call is
heard in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats to the long
seat, listening.) What's that?

ANDERSON (following her tenderly to the seat and making her