THE UNCLE. The light! The light! [_At this moment, quick and heavy steps are heard in the room on the left.--Then a deathly silence.--They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens slowly; the light from it is cast into the room where they are sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while the Uncle politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way round the table in the darkness._] THE GRANDFATHER. Where are you going?--Where are you going?--The girls have left me all alone! [_Curtain._] INTERLUDE BY FEDERICO MORE TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY AUDREY ALDEN. Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. PERSONS THE MARQUISE. THE POET. Application for permission to produce INTERLUDE must be addressed to Pierre Loving, in care of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, Ohio. INTERLUDE BY FEDERICO MORE _Scene:_ A Salon. MARQUISE [_entering_]. It is chic yet full of peril to be a marquise, betrothed And on the brim of nineteen, with two whole years' Devotion at the convent behind her. Well may the man I am to marry place his faith in me. And yet, I am obsessed with the sweet indecision Of having met a poet who will shrive me in verse, Drape my life with the vigor of his youth Yet never kiss me. POET [_entering_]. I was looking for you, madame. MARQUISE. Well, here I am. POET. Does the dance tire you or the music displease? MARQUISE. It has never before displeased me, and yet--now-- POET. In a life Happy as yours, joy is reborn, Your moods are versatile, and charming, marquise.... Bad humor de luxe ... perhaps mere caprice.... MARQUISE. Perhaps mere caprice ... perhaps; but I am prey To something more profound, something warmer.... POET. Have I not told you That in happy lives such as your high-placed life There is nothing of ennui, nothing to lead astray, Nothing to spur you on, nothing to unfold, Nor any dim wraith stalking by your side? MARQUISE. Ah, you have uttered my thought. I feel as though a ghost walked with me. POET. And I could almost swear You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills. MARQUISE. I do feel it. There is a spell, An echo from afar. POET. Nerves ... the dance ... fatigue! Too many perfumes ... too many mirrors.... MARQUISE. And the lack of a voice I love. POET. Oh do not be romantic. Don't distort life. Romance has always proved an evil scourge. MARQUISE. But you, a poet ... are not you romantic? POET. I? Never. MARQUISE. Then how do you write your verse? POET.