Act One: Scene Two.
_The reception room of the Infirmary, a large, high-ceilinged room
painted white, with oiled, hard wood floor. In the left wall,
forward, a row of four windows. Farther back, the main entrance
from the drive, and another window. In the rear wall left, a glass
partition looking out on the sleeping porch. A row of white beds,
with the faces of patients barely peeping out from under piles of
heavy bed-clothes, can be seen. To the right of this partition, a
bookcase, and a door leading to the hall past the patients' rooms.
Farther right, another door opening on the examining room. In the
right wall, rear, a door to the office. Farther forward, a row of
windows. In front of the windows, a long dining-table with chairs.
On the left of the table, towards the centre of the room, a chimney
with two open fire-places, facing left and right. Several wicker
armchairs are placed around the fire-place on the left in which a
cheerful wood fire is crackling. To the left of centre, a round
reading and writing table with a green-shaded electric lamp. Other
electric lights are in brackets around the walls. Easy chairs stand
near the table, which is stacked with magazines. Rocking chairs are
placed here and there about the room, near the windows, etc. A
gramophone stands near the left wall, forward._
_It is nearing eight o'clock of a cold evening about a week later._
_At the rise of the curtain_ Stephen Murray _is discovered sitting
in a chair in front of the fireplace, left._ Murray _is thirty
years old--a tall, slender, rather unusual-looking fellow with a
pale face, sunken under high cheek bones, lined about the eyes and
mouth, jaded and worn for one still so young. His intelligent,
large hazel eyes have a tired, dispirited expression in repose, but
can quicken instantly with a concealed mechanism of mocking,
careless humour whenever his inner privacy is threatened. His large
mouth aids this process of protection by a quick change from its
set apathy to a cheerful grin of cynical good nature. He gives off
the impression of being somehow dissatisfied with himself, but not
yet embittered enough by it to take it out on others. His manner,
as revealed by his speech--nervous, inquisitive, alert--seems more
an acquired quality than any part of his real nature. He stoops a
trifle, giving him a slightly round-shouldered appearance. He is
dressed in a shabby dark suit, baggy at the knees. He is staring
into the fire, dreaming, an open book lying unheeded on the arm of
his chair. The gramophone is whining out the last strains of
Dvorak's Humoresque. In the doorway to the office,_ Miss Gilpin
_stands talking to_ Miss Howard. _The former is a slight,
middle-aged woman with black hair, and a strong, intelligent face,
its expression of resolute efficiency softened and made kindly by
her warm, sympathetic grey eyes._ Miss Howard _is tall, slender and
blonde--decidedly pretty and provokingly conscious of it, yet with
a certain air of seriousness underlying her apparent frivolity. She
is twenty years old. The elder woman is dressed in the all-white of
a full-fledged nurse._ Miss Howard _wears the grey-blue uniform of
one still in training. The record finishes._ Murray _sighs with
relief, but makes no move to get up and stop the grinding needle._
Miss Howard _hurries across to the machine._ Miss Gilpin _goes back
into the office._
MISS HOWARD (_takes off the record, glancing at_ Murray _with amused
vexation_). It's a wonder you wouldn't stop this machine grinding
itself to bits, Mr. Murray.
MURRAY (_with a smile_). I was hoping the darn thing would bust. (Miss
Howard _sniffs._ Murray _grins at her teasingly._) It keeps you from
talking to me. That's the real music.
MISS HOWARD (_comes over to his chair laughing_). It's easy to see
you've got Irish in you. Do you know what I think? I think you're a
natural born kidder. All newspaper reporters are like that, I've heard.
MURRAY. You wrong me terribly. (_Then frowning._) And it isn't
charitable to remind me of my job. I hoped to forget all about it up
here.
MISS HOWARD (_surprised_). I think it's great to be able to write. I
wish I could. You ought to be proud of it.
MURRAY (_glumly_). I'm not. You can't call it writing--not what I
did--small town stuff. (_Changing the subject._) But I wanted to ask
you something. Do you know when I'm to be moved away to the huts?
MISS HOWARD. In a few days, I guess. Don't be impatient. (Murray
_grunts and moves nervously on his chair._) What's the matter? Don't
you like us here at the Sanatorium?
MURRAY (_smiling_). Oh--you--yes! (_Then seriously._) I don't care for
the atmosphere, though. (_He waves his hand towards the partition
looking out on the porch._) All those people in bed out there on the
porch seem so sick. It's depressing. I can't do anything for
them--and--it makes me feel so helpless.
MISS HOWARD. Well, it's the rules, you know. All the patients have to
come here first until Doctor Stanton finds out whether they're well
enough to be sent out to the huts and cottages. And remember you're a
patient just like the ones in bed out there--even if you are up and
about.
MURRAY. I know it. But I don't feel as I were--really sick like them.
MISS HOWARD (_wisely_). None of them do, either.
MURRAY (_after a moment's reflection--cynically_). Yes, I suppose it's
that pipe dream that keeps us all going, eh?
MISS HOWARD. Well, you ought to be thankful. You're very lucky, if you
knew it. (_Lowering her voice._) Shall I tell you a secret? I've seen
your chart and _you've_ no cause to worry. Doctor Stanton joked about
it. He said you were too uninteresting--there was so little the matter
with you.
MURRAY (_pleased, but pretending indifference_). Humph! He's original
in that opinion.
MISS HOWARD. I know it's hard your being the only one up the week since
you've been here, with no one to talk to; but there's another patient
due to-day. Maybe she'll be well enough to be around with you. (_With a
quick glance at her wrist watch._) She can't be coming unless she got
in on the last train.
MURRAY (_interestedly_). It's a she, eh?
MISS HOWARD. Yes.
MURRAY (_grinning provokingly_). Young?
MISS HOWARD. Eighteen, I believe. (_Seeing his grin--with feigned
pique._) I suppose you'll be asking if she's pretty next! Oh, you men
are all alike, sick or well. Her name is Carmody, that's the only other
thing I know. So there!
MURRAY. Carmody?
MISS HOWARD. Oh, you don't know her. She's from another part of the
state from your town.
MISS GILPIN (_appearing in the office doorway_). Miss Howard.
MISS HOWARD. Yes, Miss Gilpin. (_In an aside to Murray __as she leaves
him._) It's time for those horrid diets.
(_She hurries back into the office._ Murray _stares into the
fire._ Miss Howard _reappears from the office and goes out by the
door to the hall, rear. Carriage wheels are heard from the drive
in front of the house on the left. They stop. After a pause there
is a sharp rap on the door and a bell rings insistently. Men's
muffled voices are heard in argument._ Murray _turns curiously in
his chair._ Miss Gilpin _comes from the office and walks quickly
to the door, unlocking and opening it._ Eileen _enters, followed
by_ Nicholls, _who is carrying her suit-case, and by her father._)