—Room at Sir George Carlyon’s. Fire lit, R.; in front of it, a wide, luxurious lounge with high back; against it, C., a writing table, piled high with briefs, so as to help to obscure the view of the lounge from anybody sitting at the desk; in front of desk a writing chair; a piano, music seat and davenport, L.; doors, R. U. E. and L. 1 E.; window at back with curtains drawn. The room is lighted by a lamp which stands upon the desk, a box of cigars by the side of it. Sir George discovered, seated at the desk, reading and under-scoring rapidly an open brief. He is in evening dress. Sir G. (folding up brief) Ah, the old story! I need read no more. (lays down the brief and rises) What’s this? (picks up a letter lying on the edge of the desk) Oh—ah!—the letter that came by this morning’s post for Philip. A woman’s writing. How alike they write! The very double of my niece’s hand! (throws down the letter and looks at watch) Eleven o’clock. What has become of Philip? Enter Philip Graham, L., evening dress
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