ANDERSON. I've just come in and found you lying here with the
candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. What has
happened?

JUDITH (still astray). I don't know. Have I been asleep? I
suppose--(she stops blankly) I don't know.

ANDERSON (groaning). Heaven forgive me, I left you alone with
that scoundrel. (Judith remembers. With an agonized cry, she
clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he rises
with her. He clasps her tenderly in his arms.) My poor pet!

JUDITH (frantically clinging to him). What shall I do? Oh my God,
what shall I do?

ANDERSON. Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my
fault. Come: you're safe now; and you're not hurt, are you? (He
takes his arms from her to see whether she can stand.) There:
that's right, that's right. If only you are not hurt, nothing
else matters.

JUDITH. No, no, no: I'm not hurt.

ANDERSON. Thank Heaven for that! Come now: (leading her to the
railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit down and
rest: you can tell me about it to-morrow. Or, (misunderstanding
her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it worries you.
There, there! (Cheerfully.) I'll make you some fresh tea: that
will set you up again. (He goes to the table, and empties the
teapot into the slop bowl.)