TREBELL. Ah ... I want them.
FRANCES. [_Taking the letters composedly enough._] Thank you.
SIMPSON _departs and_ TREBELL _comes to her for his letters. She looks
at him with baffled affection._
FRANCES. Can I do nothing? Oh, Henry!
TREBELL. Help me to open my letters.
FRANCES. Don't you leave them to Mr. Kent?
TREBELL. Not this morning.
FRANCES. But there are so many.
TREBELL. [_For the first time lifting his voice from its dull monotony._]
What a busy man I was.
FRANCES. Henry ... you're a little mad.
TREBELL. Do you find me so? That's interesting.
FRANCES. [_With the ghost of a smile._] Well ... maddening.
_By this time he is sitting at his table; she near him watching
closely. They halve the considerable post and start to open it._
TREBELL. We arrange them in three piles ... personal ... political ... and
preposterous.
FRANCES. This is an invitation ... the Anglican League.
TREBELL. I can't go.
_She looks sideways at him, as he goes on mechanically tearing the
envelopes._
FRANCES. I heard you come upstairs about two o'clock.
TREBELL. That was to dip my head in water. Then I made an instinctive
attempt to go to bed ... got my tie off even.
FRANCES. [_Her anxiety breaking out._] If you'd tell me that you're only
ill....
TREBELL. [_Forbiddingly commonplace._] What's that letter? Don't fuss ...
and remember that abnormal conduct is sometimes quite rational.