BEATRICE. Is Mr Rowan in? BRIGID. [_Points._] He is in his study. He is wearing himself out about something he is writing. Up half the night he does be. [_Going._] I’ll call him. BEATRICE. Don’t disturb him, Brigid. I can wait here till they come back if they are not long. BRIGID. And I saw something in the letterbox when I was letting you in. [_She crosses to the study door, opens it slightly and calls._] Master Richard, Miss Justice is here for Master Archie’s lesson. [Richard Rowan _comes in from the study and advances towards_ Beatrice, holding out his hand. He is a tall athletic young man of a rather lazy carriage. He has light brown hair and a moustache and wears glasses. He is dressed in loose lightgrey tweed.] RICHARD. Welcome. BEATRICE. [_Rises and shakes hands, blushing slightly._] Good afternoon, Mr Rowan. I did not want Brigid to disturb you. RICHARD. Disturb me? My goodness! BRIGID. There is something in the letterbox, sir. RICHARD. [_Takes a small bunch of keys from his pocket and hands them to her._] Here. [Brigid _goes out by the door at the left and is heard opening and closing the box. A short pause. She enters with two newspapers in her hands._] RICHARD. Letters? BRIGID. No, sir. Only them Italian newspapers. RICHARD. Leave them on my desk, will you? [Brigid _hands him back the keys, leaves the newspapers in the study, comes out again and goes out by the folding doors on the right._] RICHARD. Please, sit down. Bertha will be back in a moment. [Beatrice _sits down again in the easychair._ Richard _sits beside the table._] RICHARD. I had begun to think you would never come back. It is twelve days since you were here. BEATRICE. I thought of that too. But I have come. RICHARD. Have you thought over what I told you when you were here last? BEATRICE. Very much. RICHARD. You must have known it before. Did you? [_She does not answer._] Do you blame me? BEATRICE. No. RICHARD. Do you think I have acted towards you—badly? No? Or towards anyone? BEATRICE. [_Looks at him with a sad puzzled expression._] I have asked myself that question. RICHARD. And the answer? BEATRICE. I could not answer it. RICHARD. If I were a painter and told you I had a book of sketches of you you would not think it so strange, would you? BEATRICE. It is not quite the same case, is it? RICHARD. [_Smiles slightly._] Not quite. I told you also that I would not show you what I had written unless you asked to see it. Well? BEATRICE. I will not ask you. RICHARD. [_Leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands joined._] Would you like to see it? BEATRICE. Very much. RICHARD. Because it is about yourself? BEATRICE. Yes. But not only that. RICHARD. Because it is written by me? Yes? Even if what you would find there is sometimes cruel? BEATRICE. [_Shyly._] That is part of your mind, too. RICHARD. Then it is my mind that attracts you? Is that it?