y
faith in this matter may be wrong--but I am surely right to keep the
flag of my faith flying. I imagine I need not enlarge on the
reasons----"

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

ACT. II

Before noon a few days later. The open windows of the
dining-room let in the sunlight. On the table a number of
newspapers are littered. HELEN is sitting there, staring
straight before her. A newspaper boy runs by outside calling out
his wares. At the sound she gets up anti goes out on to the
terrace. HUBERT enters from the hall. He goes at once to the
terrace, and draws HELEN into the room.

HELEN. Is it true--what they're shouting?

HUBERT. Yes. Worse than we thought. They got our men all crumpled
up in the Pass--guns helpless. Ghastly beginning.

HELEN. Oh, Hubert!

HUBERT. My dearest girl!

HELEN puts her face up to his. He kisses her. Then she turns
quickly into the bay window. The door from the hall has been
opened, and the footman, HENRY, comes in, preceding WREFORD and
his sweetheart.

HENRY. Just wait here, will you, while I let Mrs. More know.
[Catching sight of HUBERT] Beg pardon, sir!

HUBERT. All right, Henry. [Off-hand] Ah! Wreford! [The FOOTMAN
withdraws] So you've brought her round. That's good! My sister'll
look after her--don't you worry! Got everything packed? Three
o'clock sharp.

WREFORD. [A broad faced soldier, dressed in khaki with a certain
look of dry humour, now dimmed-speaking with a West Country burr]
That's right, zurr; all's ready.

HELEN has come out of the window, and is quietly looking at
WREFORD and the girl standing there so awkwardly.

HELEN. [Quietly] Take care of him, Wreford.

HUBERT. We'll take care of each other, won't we, Wreford?

HELEN. How long have you been engaged?

THE GIRL. [A pretty, indeterminate young woman] Six months. [She
sobs suddenly.]

HELEN. Ah! He'll soon be safe back.

WREFORD. I'll owe 'em for this. [In a lacy voice to her] Don't 'ee
now! Don't 'ee!

HELEN. No! Don't cry, please!

She stands struggling with her own lips, then goes out on to the
terrace, HUBERT following. WREFORD and his girl remain where
they were, strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs.

WREFORD. Don't 'ee go on like that, Nance; I'll 'ave to take you
'ome. That's silly, now we've a-come. I might be dead and buried by
the f