It doesn’t matter. [_He goes out. For a few moments she remains quite still; then she rouses herself, and, with a blank look, wanders about, her arms moving restlessly. Suddenly she presses her hands to her brow and sinks into a chair, with a low half-cry, half-moan._] Oh! oh! [_After a short burst of crying she examines her wedding-ring, removes it from her finger, and giving a little laugh, flings it on to the settee. Then she rises, and with an air of determination goes to the writing-table._] Very well! very well! [_She sits before the writing-table and writes rapidly. At intervals she utters an exclamation; then sings as she writes. The doors are opened, and_ HORTON _enters_. HORTON. [_Collecting the tea-cups._] Beg pardon, ma’am. THEOPHILA. [_Writing._] Mr. Fraser has gone out, hasn’t he? HORTON. He have, ma’am. [HORTON _places the tea-cups on the tea-tray, lifts up the tray, and is about to carry it out_. THEOPHILA. Oh, Horton, what became of the bonnet and cape I came in with? HORTON. [_Looking off._] Mrs. Emptage lay them down in the next room. Here they are, ma’am. THEOPHILA. Just give them to me. [HORTON _goes off and immediately returns with the bonnet, cape, and gloves_.] Thanks. [HORTON _arranges the cape over the back of a chair, places the bonnet and gloves on the table, and withdraws. Having finished her letter and addressed an envelope, she rises and searches for her wedding-ring; finding this she slips it into the letter, and fastens the envelope. Then, keeping the letter in her hand, she puts on her bonnet and cape, standing before the mirror._ SIR FLETCHER _enters, looking disturbed and dejected_; CLAUDE _follows, downcast, silent, and morose, and walks about aimlessly, staring at the carpet_. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. [_Discovering_ THEOPHILA.] Oh, going out, my dear? THEOPHILA. I want a little walk—alone. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. To walk it off, eh? [_Ruffling his hair._] I find I can’t walk it off; I’ve been into the Euston Road; I don’t think I can be well. Fortunately, I have a box of most remarkable pills at my chambers. They are prepared by Gilliburton of 88 Piccadilly. Don’t forget the number—eighty-eight. Two eights. That’s my system of artificial memory. Eighty-eight—two eights. THEOPHILA. [_Going to him, and kissing him, leaning across the settee._] Good-bye, uncle. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.