Ruth. No. I mustn't think of Martin now. I'm doing what I meant to do. I've got Guy Barlow. Mary. Ruth, there'll be a lot of sewing to be done. Ruth. Why? Mary. Why? The girl's a-dream. Against your wedding to be sure. What else are you thinking of? Ruth. It's not my wedding that I'm thinking of. It's afterwards. Well, I've begun. I'm going to see it through. (_Ruth stares straight out, as into the future. The others are looking at her._) CURTAIN. ACT II (_Six months later. Interior of Barlow's house at night. Doors on each side of the roomy window, covered by drawn chintz curtains at the back. Dark panelled walls. Polished oak floor with squares of carpet, dark mahogany furniture, square table. Centre with four chairs, chairs by fireplace and under window; right, basket-grate with high steel fender and hand-irons. Bright fire._) (_Ruth, her whole appearance suggesting physical wellbeings sits by fire reading by the light of four candles on table. She is well dressed in sober colours. A manservant opens door and Mary enters, dressed as Act I, with a heavy cloak, mittens, etc., suggesting winter. The servant goes, closing the door._) Ruth (_rising_). Well, mother. Mary (_kissing her_). You're warm in here. Ruth. We need to be. Mary. It's bitter cold to-night. (_Ruth pulls chair from table and sits, putting Mary in her own chair. Mary looks scornfully at the book placed on table._) Reading, were you? Well, one way of idling's as bad as another and reading never did anybody good that ever I heard of. That's what your father's always doing with his spare time now. Tom Paine's _Rights of Man_ and _The Age of Reason_. Stuffing his old head with all manner of new-fangled politics. Ruth. But this isn't politics, mother. It's poetry. (_Mary sniffs._) _The Corsair_. Lord Byron's poem. Mary. I've heard of him and nothing good neither. Ruth. Nothing good! Why, mother, he---- Mary. A lot of things, I dare say. Well, I've gone for fifty years without the power of reading and I reckon I'll go through without it to the end. I've no time to be idle. Ruth. I've no time to be anything else. Mary. You've taken to being a lady like a duck to water. Lazybones is the name I'd give you if you were still Ruth Butterworth, but I suppose this vain life is right for Mrs. Guy Barlow. Ruth (_rising_). It isn't right. Idleness is never right, and least of all for me, because I know my idleness is paid for by the toil of others. Something has changed me, mother. I can't think of the past. I've forgotten what I was and what I used to think. I had ideals then, when I was poor. I'd noble thoughts of my own. The only thoughts I have to-day are thoughts of other's thinking. (_Picking Byron up._) You're right, I'm lazy. Bone lazy, and I like it. I like fine clothes and soft living and hands that aren't work-roughened. Mary. Small blame to you for that. I'd do the same myself.