Perhaps. You can leave me the book, if you like.
MOTHER. Take it and hide it. It'll be a surprise if you can quote
something from his masterpiece.
LADY (hiding the book in her bag). He's coming. If he's spoken of
he seems to feel it from afar.
MOTHER. If he could only feel how he makes others suffer--from
afar. (Exit left.)
(The LADY, alone for an instant, looks at the book and seems taken
aback. She hides it in her bag.)
STRANGER (entering). Your mother was here? You were speaking of me,
of course. I can almost hear her ill-natured words. They cut the
air and darken the sunshine. I can almost divine the impression of
her body in the atmosphere of the room, and she leaves an odour
like that of a dead snake.
LADY. You're irritable to-day.
STRANGER. Fearfully. Some fool has restrung my nerves out of tune,
and plays on them with a horse-hair bow till he sets my teeth on
edge. ... You don't know what that is! There's someone here who's
stronger than I! Someone with a searchlight who shines it at me,
wherever I may be. Do they use the black art in this place?
LADY. Don't turn your back on the sunlight. Look at this lovely
country; you'll feel calmer.
STRANGER. I can't bear that poorhouse. It seems to have been built
there solely for me. And a demented woman always stands there
beckoning.
LADY. Do you think they treat you badly here?
STRANGER. In a way, no. They feed me with tit-bits, as if I were to
be fattened for the butcher.
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