And I may as well tell you, though you will not believe it, that my poor girl’s affections are centred on your son. MRS. O’FARREL. Oh, dam’ foolishness! DEAN. This has gone far enough, Mrs. O’Farrel. MRS. O’FARREL. Quite far enough. I am going home. DEAN. So am I. (_Followed by the DEAN, MRS. O’FARREL moves towards the central ladder. Suddenly he stops, hurries on tiptoe to the back, and looks cautiously over the railing. He whispers_:) Eileen!... MRS. O’FARREL. What is it? DEAN. Hush!... Clare’s coming here with Michael Cosway. I offer you a chance to substantiate the aspersions you have made against her character. MRS. O’FARREL. What do you mean? DEAN. We will conceal ourselves in the summer-house and hear what they have to say to each other. MRS. O’FARREL. Really, Dean! DEAN. We may disregard the rules of ordinary morality in a situation like this. I speak professionally. Quick! (_He draws her towards the summer-house._) MRS. O’FARREL. Well, upon my word!... (_They go into the summer-house, and sit with the door open, but invisible in the gloom of the interior. Voices are heard beneath. Then CLARE enters on the left, followed by MICHAEL._) CLARE. Father!... (_She looks around her._) Why, they’ve gone!... MICHAEL. They must have returned to the house. CLARE. We had better go too. MICHAEL. Oh, Clare, a moment.... Look at me, dear.... (_He takes her hands._) CLARE. Well? MICHAEL. Are you unhappy? CLARE. Why should I be? MICHAEL. You are no longer the wild and buoyant thing you were. You have grown so pensive and _distrait_. And is it my jealous imagination?—so often lately you have seemed to avoid me.... CLARE. I—I’m sorry.... MICHAEL. There’s trouble in your eyes, my dearest. Clare, do you chafe at the restrictions fate has put on our love? CLARE. Oh, I—I don’t know. I’m all right, Michael—but you—— We’d better go in now. Father’s waiting for me. MICHAEL. Clare. CLARE. Yes. MICHAEL. Kiss me before you go. CLARE. Oh, not now.... MICHAEL. (_Bending down to her._) Kiss me, dear. (_She kisses him perfunctorily on the cheek; he sighs; she turns and descends the ladder on the left; he follows her._) How sweet it is!... CLARE. Sweet? MICHAEL. Your “pigtail,” dear. The sight of it makes me feel a boy again. I should like to pull it and run away. (_CLARE laughs and they both descend out of sight. A pause. The nightingale starts singing. MRS. O’FARREL emerges from the summer-house. Her step is almost jaunty with suppressed triumph, and her manner elaborately off-hand. The DEAN remains invisible in the summer-house._) MRS. O’FARREL.