_She stands hesitating. Then she goes to the telephone: makes a movement as if to take it down but checks herself, shaking her head. She comes back to the sofa at last and flings herself down on it, fidgeting with the cushions and frowning. She is roused by the click of a latch as the French window in the inner room is softly opened, and_ HILARY FAIRFIELD _steps over the threshold. He is a big, fresh-coloured man with grey hair and bowed shoulders. In speech and movements he is quick and jerky, inclined to be boisterous, but pathetically easy to check. This he knows himself, and he has, indeed, an air of being always in rebellion against his own habit of obedience. He comes in, treading softly, his bright eyes dancing with excitement, like a child getting ready to spring a surprise on somebody. Something in the fashion of the empty room (for he does not see_ SYDNEY _crouching in the cushions) disconcerts him. He hesitates. The happy little smile fades. His eye wanders from one object to another and he moves about, recognising a picture here, fingering there an unfamiliar hanging, as it were losing and finding himself a dozen times in his progress round the room. He comes to a stand at last before the fire-place, warming his hands. Then he takes out a pipe and with the other hand feels absently along the mantel-piece for the matches._ SYDNEY, _who has been watching him with a sort of breathless sympathy, says softly_:-- SYDNEY. What are you looking for? HILARY. They’ve moved my-- [_with a start_] eh? [_He turns sharply and sees her_] Meg! It’s Meg! [_With a rush_] Oh, my own darling! SYDNEY. [_Her confidence in her power to deal with the situation suddenly gone_] I--I’m not Meg. HILARY. [_Boisterously_] Not Meg! Tell me I don’t know Meg! [SYDNEY _gives a nervous schoolgirl giggle_] Eh? [_Then, his voice changing completely_] No, it’s not Meg. [_Uneasily_] I beg your pardon. I thought you were--another girl. I’ve been away a long time. SYDNEY. Whom do you want? HILARY. [_Startled again_] There, you see, it’s her voice too. Who are you? SYDNEY. [_Fencing_] How did you get in? HILARY. Tool-shed gate. [_Louder_] Who are you? SYDNEY. Where have you come from? HILARY. Bedford. Took a car. [_Lashing himself into an agitation_] Who are you? SYDNEY. Whom do you want to see? HILARY. [_Losing all control_] Who are you? SYDNEY. [_Slowly_] I think I’m your daughter. [HILARY _stares at her blankly. Then he bursts out laughing._] HILARY. Daughter! Daughter! By God, that’s good! My wife isn’t my wife, she’s my daughter! And my daughter’s seventeen and I’m twenty-two. SYDNEY. You’re forgetting what years and years-- HILARY. Yes, of course. It’s years and years. It’s a life-time. It’s my daughter’s lifetime. What’s your name--daughter? SYDNEY. Sydney.