MARTA. From ... At a time like this, I thought ... I felt ... that
Annamarie ... that there should be some message.... Every day I expect to
hear ...

FREDERIK. No.

PETER _gestures to_ MARTA--_pointing to the picture and letter, now
covered by_ FREDERIK'S _hand._

MARTA. [_Hesitating._] Are you certain?

FREDERIK. Quite certain. [_She curtsies and leaves the room._ FREDERIK,
_as though relieved to see her go, jumps to his feet, and, tearing the
letter in smaller pieces, lights them in the candle, dropping the burning
pieces on a tray. As the flame dies out,_ FREDERIK _brushes the blackened
paper into the waste-basket._] There's an end to _that_!

PETER _crouches near the basket--hovering over it, his hinds clasped
helplessly. After a pause, he raises his hand, until it points to a
bedroom above. An echo of the circus music is very faintly heard; not with
the blaring of brasses, but with the sounds of elfin horns, conveying the
impression of a phantom circus band. The door of_ WILLIAM'S _room opens,
and he comes out as though to listen to the music. He wears a sleeping
suit and is bare-footed. He has come down stairs before_ FREDERIK _sees
him._ FREDERIK _quickly puts aside the photograph, laying it on the desk,
covering it with his hand._

FREDERIK. [_Gruffly._] Why aren't you in bed? If you're ill, that's the
proper place for you.