CLAIRE: That's not true. I wish it were. No; no, I don't either. (_she is disturbed--that troubled thing which rises from within, from deep, and takes_ CLAIRE. _She turns to the Edge Vine, examines. Regretfully to_ ANTHONY, _who has come in with a plant_) It's turning back, isn't it? ANTHONY: Can you be sure yet, Miss Claire? CLAIRE: Oh yes--it's had its chance. It doesn't want to be--what hasn't been. HARRY: (_who has turned at this note in her voice. Speaks kindly_) Don't take it so seriously, Claire. (CLAIRE _laughs_) CLAIRE: No, I suppose not. But it _does_ matter--and why should I pretend it doesn't, just because I've failed with it? HARRY: Well, I don't want to see it get you--it's not important enough for that. CLAIRE: (_in her brooding way_) Anything is important enough for that--if it's important at all. (_to the vine_) I thought you were out, but you're--going back home. ANTHONY: But you're doing it this time, Miss Claire. When Breath of Life opens--and we see its heart-- (CLAIRE _looks toward the inner room. Because of intervening plants they do not see what is seen from the front--a plant like caught motion, and of a greater transparency than plants have had. Its leaves, like waves that curl, close around a heart that is not seen. This plant stands by itself in what, because of the arrangement of things about it, is a hidden place. But nothing is between it and the light_.) CLAIRE: Yes, if the heart has (_a little laugh_) held its own, then Breath of Life is alive in its otherness. But Edge Vine is running back to what it broke out of. HARRY: Come, have some coffee, Claire. (ANTHONY _returns to the inner room, the outer door opens_. DICK _is hurled in_.) CLAIRE: (_going to the door, as he gasps for breath before closing it_) How dare you make my temperature uneven! (_she shuts the door and leans against it_) DICK: Is that what I do? (_A laugh, a look between them, which is held into significance_.) HARRY: (_who is not facing them_) Where's the salt? DICK: Oh, I fell down in the snow. I must have left the salt where I fell. I'll go back and look for it. CLAIRE: And change the temperature? We don't need salt. HARRY: You don't need salt, Claire. But we eat eggs. CLAIRE: I must tell you I don't like the idea of any food being eaten here, where things have their own way to go. Please eat as little as possible, and as quickly. HARRY: A hostess calculated to put one at one's ease. CLAIRE: (_with no ill-nature_) I care nothing about your ease. Or about Dick's ease. DICK: And no doubt that's what makes you so fascinating a hostess. CLAIRE: Was I a fascinating hostess last night, Dick? (_softly sings_) 'Oh, night of love--' (_from the Barcorole of 'Tales of Hoffman'_) HARRY: We've got to have salt. (_He starts for the door._ CLAIRE _slips in ahead of him, locks it, takes the key. He marches off, right_.) CLAIRE: (_calling after him_) That end's always locked.