OLIVER. If the people for one minute pulled themselves up and conquered their mania for money and machine excitement, the whole thing would be solved.--Would you like me to find Winnie and tell her to say good night to you? MR. BARLOW. If you would be so kind. (Exit OLIVER.) Can't you find a sweet that you would like, my dear? Won't you take a little cherry brandy? (Enter BUTLER.) ANABEL. Thank you. WILLIAM. You will go up, sir? MR. BARLOW. Yes, William. WILLIAM. You are tired to-night, sir. MR. BARLOW. It has come over me just now. WILLIAM. I wish you went up before you became so over-tired, sir. Would you like nurse? MR. BARLOW. No, I'll go with you, William. Good night, my dear. ANABEL. Good night, Mr. Barlow. I am so sorry if you are over-tired. (Exit BUTLER and MR. BARLOW. ANABEL takes a drink and goes to the fire.) (Enter GERALD.) GERALD. Father gone up? ANABEL. Yes. GERALD. I thought I heard him. Has he been talking too much?--Poor father, he will take things to heart. ANABEL. Tragic, really. GERALD. Yes, I suppose it is. But one can get beyond tragedy--beyond the state of feeling tragical, I mean. Father himself is tragical. One feels he is mistaken--and yet he wouldn't be any different, and be himself, I suppose. He's sort of crucified on an idea of the working people. It's rather horrible when he's one's father.--However, apart from tragedy, how do you like being here, in this house? ANABEL. I like the house. It's rather too comfortable. GERALD. Yes. But how do you like being here? ANABEL. How do you like my being in your home? GERALD. Oh, I think you're very decorative. ANABEL. More decorative than comfortable? GERALD. Perhaps. But perhaps you give the necessary finish to the establishment. ANABEL. Like the correct window-curtains? GERALD. Yes, something like that. I say, why did you come, Anabel? Why did you come slap-bang into the middle of us?--It's not expostulation--I want to know. ANABEL. You mean you want to be told? GERALD. Yes, I want to be told. ANABEL. That's rather mean of you. You should savvy, and let it go without saying. GERALD. Yes, but I don't savvy. ANABEL. Then wait till you do. GERALD. No, I want to be told. There's a difference in you, Anabel, that puts me out, rather. You're sort of softer and sweeter--I'm not sure whether it isn't a touch of father in you. There's a little sanctified smudge on your face. Are you really a bit sanctified? ANABEL. No, not sanctified. It's true I feel different. I feel I want a new way of life--something more dignified, more religious, if you like--anyhow, something POSITIVE. GERALD. Is it the change of heart, Anabel? ANABEL. Perhaps it is, Gerald. GERALD. I'm not sure that I like it. Isn't it like a berry that decides to get very sweet, and goes soft? ANABEL. I don't think so.