fan.
He gropes wildly in the fireplace but cannot find it again. Then with an
air of helpless resignation he goes back to the window-seat. He gazes at
the chequered pattern on the floor and mentally moves his king up one.
_Lady Gastwyck_ glances across at him, and it occurs to her that he has
aged during the last few minutes. He no longer looks like PHILIP IV. of
Spain, but more like the sub-manager of the White Goods Department of a
suburban Bon-Marche. She is anxious that _Angela_ shall not observe
this, and hence makes the following appeal.

LADY GASTWYCK (hysterically and _a propos_ of no one). _A maroon
underskirt! a maroon underskirt! That would be the thing! Fancy, Angela,
biscuit-coloured glace with that coffee skin of hers and those teeth!
You must save her! Take her to Raquin! Let Raquin cut it as only he
knows how! Let her have---- Ah!_

[She bursts into tears and then stops, seeing that her effort has
failed, for a sombre silence ensues. _Angela_ has risen and is looking
at _Lord Gumthorpe_. _Lord Gumthorpe_ is standing with his arms folded.
He has just lost a bishop in the dim chiaroscuro of the window-seat and
has not heard her outbreak. Suddenly he looks up, and fixes his eyes
upon _Lady Gastwyck_ with a new sense of resolution. He advances
towards her, and gazing boldly at her eyebrow, that looks more than
ever like a moustache, calls out in a thin cruel voice.

LORD GUMTHORPE. _Why don't you wax the ends?_

[The effect of this bizarre question is startling. _Angela_ turns and
smiles gently like one who has done one's best at a deathbed, and is
almost relieved that the end has come. She walks almost serenely across
the room to the sideboard, and, taking up a piece of cheese and three
bananas, goes off to bed. But the effect on _Lady Gastwyck_ is
different, for directly she hears _Lord Gumthorpe_ make this remark she
realizes that he is a weak man.

There is a pond at the end of the lawn covered with green sedge. She
shivers. She has courage, but not that sort of courage. She rises and
leans against the Adams' fireplace. The Adams' fireplace leans against
her. It falls on to her with a tremendous crash.... _Lord Gumthorpe_
comes forward and gazes at the jumbled _debris_. He is conscious of a
sense of despairing conflict--the conflict between contemplative
amazement and some natural but well-controlled demand for concrete
action. An appalling conviction comes to him that he ought to _do_
something.