[There is a terrifying silence.]
_Lord Gumthorpe_ (greedily). _Pawn to Queen's pawn four!_
[He says this to gain time. For the besetting irresoluteness of the
Gumthorpes is consuming him. "If only she would----" he is thinking to
himself, rapidly reviewing the salient features of his past life. He has
not the courage to look at _Angela_, but his eyes wander in the
direction of _Lady Gastwyck_. She is leaning forward on the
Chesterfield, her chin resting on her hand, her eyebrow looking like an
enormous black moustache. He feels his way along the wall, keeping his
face towards _Lady Gastwyck_. He knows--he was educated at Eton and
Christchurch--that as the fan has fallen into the fireplace, unless it
has been removed, it will be there still. Very slowly he reaches the
grate and, without turning his head, picks up the fan. It is a moment of
intense emotion. The air is charged with electric suspense. _Lady
Gastwyck_ moves suddenly, and the rustle of her skirt sounds like the
rattle of musketry on a frosty morning. _Lord Gumthorpe_ drops the 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-Marché. She is anxious that _Angela_ shall not observe
this, and hence makes the following appeal.
LADY GASTWYCK (hysterically and _á propos_ of no one). _A maroon
underskirt! a maroon underskirt! That would be the thing! Fancy, Angela,
biscuit-coloured glacé 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.