[_She glances toward the door of Richard’s study and catches her head in her hands. Then, recovering herself, she takes the paper from the little table, opens it, takes a spectacle case from her handbag and, putting on a pair of spectacles, bends down, reading it. Richard Rowan enters from the garden. He is dressed as before but wears a soft hat and carries a thin cane._] RICHARD. [_Stands in the doorway, observing her for some moments._] There are demons [_he points out towards the strand_] out there. I heard them jabbering since dawn. BEATRICE. [_Starts to her feet._] Mr Rowan! RICHARD. I assure you. The isle is full of voices. Yours also, _Otherwise I could not see you,_ it said. And her voice. But, I assure you, they are all demons. I made the sign of the cross upside down and that silenced them. BEATRICE. [_Stammering._] I came here, Mr Rowan, so early because... to show you this... Robert wrote it... about you... last night. RICHARD. [_Takes off his hat._] My dear Miss Justice, you told me yesterday, I think, why you came here and I never forget anything. [_Advancing towards her, holding out his hand._] Good morning. BEATRICE. [_Suddenly takes off her spectacles and places the paper in his hands._] I came for this. It is an article about you. Robert wrote it last night. Will you read it? RICHARD. [_Bows._] Read it now? Certainly. BEATRICE. [_Looks at him in despair._] O, Mr Rowan, it makes me suffer to look at you. RICHARD. [_Opens and reads the paper._] _Death of the Very Reverend Canon Mulhall_. Is that it? [_Bertha appears at the door on the left and stands to listen._] RICHARD. [_Turns over a page._] Yes, here we are! _A Distinguished Irishman._ [_He begins to read in a rather loud hard voice._] Not the least vital of the problems which confront our country is the problem of her attitude towards those of her children who, having left her in her hour of need, have been called back to her now on the eve of her longawaited victory, to her whom in loneliness and exile they have at last learned to love. In exile, we have said, but here we must distinguish. There is an economic and there is a spiritual exile. There are those who left her to seek the bread by which men live and there are others, nay, her most favoured children, who left her to seek in other lands that food of the spirit by which a nation of human beings is sustained in life. Those who recall the intellectual life of Dublin of a decade since will have many memories of Mr Rowan. Something of that fierce indignation which lacerated the heart... [_He raises his eyes from the paper and sees Bertha standing in the doorway. Then he lays aside the paper and looks at her. A long silence._] BEATRICE. [_With an effort._] You see, Mr Rowan, your day has dawned at last. Even here. And you see that you have a warm friend in Robert, a friend who understands you. RICHARD. Did you notice the little phrase at the beginning: _those who left her in her hour of need?_