MALISE sits huddled in his armchair drawn close to
the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand. He looks rather grey and
drawn, and round his chair is the usual litter. At the table, now
nearer to the window, CLARE sits working a typewriter. She finishes
a line, puts sheets of paper together, makes a note on a card--adds
some figures, and marks the total.
CLARE. Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound
seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds. One
hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred
and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour. It's
only just over an hour a day. Can't you get me more?
MALISE lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again.
CLARE puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it.
CLARE. I'm quite packed. Shall I pack for you? [He nods] Can't we
have more than three days at the sea? [He shakes his head. Going up
to him] You did sleep last night.
MALISE. Yes, I slept.
CLARE. Bad head? [MALISE nods] By this time the day after to-morrow
the case will be heard and done with. You're not worrying for me?
Except for my poor old Dad, I don't care a bit.
MALISE heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and
down.
CLARE. Kenneth, do you understand why he doesn't claim damages,
after what he said that day-here? [Looking suddenly at him] It is
true that he doesn't?
MALISE. It is not.
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