MRS. CALLIFER: In a little while. But it’s such a large room. I’ll move into Sara’s when she goes. Good night, my dear. (She kisses John on the cheek.) Good night, Fred. (She lifts her cheek for him to kiss.)

BASTON: You’ll call me if there’s anything …

MRS. CALLIFER: Of course. You must look after that sty, Fred. You’ve been picking at it again. And you a doctor.

JOHN (leaving): Good night, Mother.

BASTON (absentmindedly, at the door): I’ll look in at Henry— (He stops, aghast at what he’s said.)

MRS. CALLIFER: Don’t worry, Fred. We’ll all make that mistake for a while. Today when I was ordering lunch I said, “Not string beans.” He always hated them. Now we can have them every day.

BASTON: Mistakes like that are a kind of immortality. You remember Samuel Butler’s sonnet:

“Yet meet we shall, and part, and meet again,

Where dead men meet, on lips of living men.”

As long as there are you and I—and his books.

MRS. CALLIFER: Yes, three copies for export. There was once a Callifer Club, do you remember?

BASTON: Yes. Mary, I was going to write to Macmillan’s and suggest a biography, an intimate biography with letters. …

MRS. CALLIFER: Don’t, Fred. Wait until a publisher writes to you. I’d rather hope than collect polite refusals.

BASTON: As you wish. But when he had his first bad illness, they did suggest …

MRS. CALLIFER: That was thirty years ago. Your oration will do just as well, Fred, for those who are interested. I’ll have it printed. For private distribution only. Do you think two hundred copies? There may be still some members of the club. … It was very dear and generous of you. If only that wretched dog— Oh, well. I’ll read myself to sleep with your book, Fred. Good night.

BASTON: Good night, Mary.

MRS. CALLIFER: Turn out the light, dear, as you go.

He goes out.

And Mrs. Callifer sits in a straight armchair under a reading lamp. She begins to read, but she can’t concentrate, and almost at once she puts the book down. The door to the garden opens and closes, and she turns with a wild movement, as though she expected to see someone. Then, with knowledge of the truth, and with the despair of it, she whispers, “Henry …” The french window opens and James enters. There is a tenseness in his manner, an impression of fear, and he carries a bowl of water. He sees his mother and stands awkwardly, like a boy caught in an absurd action.

MRS. CALLIFER (peering into the shadows): Is that you, James?

JAMES: Yes, Mother.

MRS. CALLIFER: I thought you were in bed. What’s that you’ve got in your hand, dear?