[He says this to gain time. For the besetting irresoluteness of the Gumthorpes is consuming him. "If only she would----" he is thinking to himself, rapidly reviewing the salient features of his past life. He has not the courage to look at _Angela_, but his eyes wander in the direction of _Lady Gastwyck_. She is leaning forward on the Chesterfield, her chin resting on her hand, her eyebrow looking like an enormous black moustache. He feels his way along the wall, keeping his face towards _Lady Gastwyck_. He knows--he was educated at Eton and Christchurch--that as the fan has fallen into the fireplace, unless it has been removed, it will be there still. Very slowly he reaches the grate and, without turning his head, picks up the fan. It is a moment of intense emotion. The air is charged with electric suspense. _Lady Gastwyck_ moves suddenly, and the rustle of her skirt sounds like the rattle of musketry on a frosty morning. _Lord Gumthorpe_ drops the fan. He gropes wildly in the fireplace but cannot find it again. Then with an air of helpless resignation he goes back to the window-seat. He gazes at the chequered pattern on the floor and mentally moves his king up one. _Lady Gastwyck_ glances across at him, and it occurs to her that he has aged during the last few minutes. He no longer looks like PHILIP IV. of Spain, but more like the sub-manager of the White Goods Department of a suburban Bon-Marche. She is anxious that _Angela_ shall not observe this, and hence makes the following appeal. LADY GASTWYCK (hysterically and _a propos_ of no one). _A maroon underskirt! a maroon underskirt! That would be the thing! Fancy, Angela, biscuit-coloured glace with that coffee skin of hers and those teeth! You must save her! Take her to Raquin! Let Raquin cut it as only he knows how! Let her have---- Ah!_ [She bursts into tears and then stops, seeing that her effort has failed, for a sombre silence ensues. _Angela_ has risen and is looking at _Lord Gumthorpe_. _Lord Gumthorpe_ is standing with his arms folded. He has just lost a bishop in the dim chiaroscuro of the window-seat and has not heard her outbreak. Suddenly he looks up, and fixes his eyes upon _Lady Gastwyck_ with a new sense of resolution. He advances towards her, and gazing boldly at her eyebrow, that looks more than ever like a moustache, calls out in a thin cruel voice. LORD GUMTHORPE. _Why don't you wax the ends?_ [The effect of this bizarre question is startling. _Angela_ turns and smiles gently like one who has done one's best at a deathbed, and is almost relieved that the end has come. She walks almost serenely across the room to the sideboard, and, taking up a piece of cheese and three bananas, goes off to bed. But the effect on _Lady Gastwyck_ is different, for directly she hears _Lord Gumthorpe_ make this remark she realizes that he is a weak man.