_Scene as Act I, except that the room has a bareness indicative of a recent removal. The bookcase is on the floor instead of being fastened to the wall, and no pictures are hung._ _Mrs. Garside, dressed as Act I, sits dejectedly in the rocking-chair. A knock at the door, centre. Mrs. Garside sighs heavily, rouses herself slowly, crosses and opens door. Denis O'Callagan is on the doorstep. The blind is drawn. One incandescent light._ ***** O'Cal. May I come in, Mrs. Garside? Mrs. G. And welcome, Mr. O'Callagan. [_He enters. She closes door._ O'Cal. (_coming centre, in front of table, glancing upwards_). Still the same? Mrs. G. (_standing centre, gloomily_). Oh, yes. He doesn't seem to care for anything. O'Cal. I can hear him moving about upstairs. Mrs. G. (_sitting left of table, as if too weary to stand_). I never hear anything else. It's driving me mad. Up and down, up and down, all day long, and all night too, till he drops because he's too tired to put one foot before the other. It's like a wild beast in a cage. O'Cal. You've not got him to go out yet? Mrs. G. Nor look like doing till he's carried out feet foremost. He says he'll never show his face in Midlandton again. I've done all the work. Getting the furniture out of store and everything. Peter didn't raise a hand. O'Cal. You dropped lucky finding the old house empty. Mrs. G. I don't know if I did. It reminds him. Won't take his food now. That's the latest. Not that I've much to give him. Heaven knows where it'll end. We with no money coming in and nearly every penny as we had gone to pay his debts in London and fetch us here. Workhouse next, I reckon. O'Cal. (_patting her shoulder encouragingly_). Let you not be talking like that, Mrs. Garside. There's no call to despair. Peter's got to be roused. Mrs. G. Haven't we tried and failed? If you fancy you know the way to do it I'll be obliged by your telling me. O'Cal. Oh, we've not tried them all yet. Mrs. G. (_vigorously_). Then for God's sake go up to him and try. O'Cal. (_without moving_). Sure he's not himself at all. Mrs. G. (_rising, with more force in her voice_). Denis O'Callagan, if you've a plan to rouse my poor boy I've told you to go upstairs and try it on him. If you've come to stand there like a log and tell me what I've known this week and more, there's my door, and the sooner you put your ugly face outside it the better you'll please me. O'Cal. (_giving way a little_). I come to tell you of the cure we will be putting on him. I'm thinking it won't be to your taste and you short tempered with your trouble. Mrs. G. Do you think I care what it is so it puts an end to this? O'Cal. Is that the truth you're telling me? Mrs. G. Truth! Bless the man. I'm at the bitter end. O'Cal. (_briskly_). Then I'll be stepping out and bringing out my cure. I didn't fetch her in because I knew you quarrelled with her. (_He reaches the door and puts his hand to the latch._) Mrs. G. Stop! Do you mean Margaret Shaweross?