WEDGECROFT. Good night, Trebell.
TREBELL. Good night, Gilbert. Many thanks.
_There is enough of a caress in_ TREBELL'S _tone to turn_ FRANCES
_towards their friend, a little remorseful for treating him so
casually, now as always._
FRANCES. He's always thanking you. You're always doing things for him.
WEDGECROFT. Good night. [_Seeing the tears in her eyes._] Oh, don't grieve.
FRANCES. One shouldn't be sorry when people die, I know. But she liked me
more than I liked her ... [_This time_ TREBELL _does laugh, silently._] ...
so I somehow feel in her debt and unable to pay now.
TREBELL. [_An edge on his voice._] Yes ... people keep on dying at all
sorts of ages, in all sorts of ways. But we seem never to get used to it ...
narrow-minded as we are.
WEDGECROFT. Don't you talk nonsense.
TREBELL. [_One note sharper yet._] One should occasionally test one's sanity
by doing so. If we lived in the logical world we like to believe in, I could
also prove that black was white. As it is ... there are more ways of killing
a cat than hanging it.
WEDGECROFT. Had I better give you a sleeping draught?
FRANCES. Are you doctoring him for once? Henry, have you at last managed to
overwork yourself?
TREBELL. No ... I started the evening by a charming little dinner at the Van
Meyer's ... sat next to Miss Grace Cutler, who is writing a _vie intime_ of
Louis Quinze and engaged me with anecdotes of the same.
FRANCES. A champion of her sex, whom I do not like.
WEDGECROFT. She's writing such a book to prove that women are equal to
anything.
_He goes towards the door and_ FRANCES _goes with him._ TREBELL _never
turns his head._
TREBELL. I shall not come and open the door for you ... but mind you shut
it.