ANDERSON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more of his own danger than of mine.
ANDERSON. (_remonstrating_). Come, am I to leave you if you talk like this! your senses. (_He turns to Essie._) Essie.
ESSIE. (_eagerly rising and drying her eyes_). Yes?
ANDERSON. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: Mrs. Anderson is not well. (_Essie looks doubtful._) Never fear: I’ll come to you presently; and I’ll go to Dick.
ESSIE. You are sure you will go to him? (_Whispering._) You won’t let her prevent you?
ANDERSON. (_smiling_). No, no: it’s all right. All right. (_She goes._) That’s a good girl. (_He closes the door, and returns to Judith._)
JUDITH. (_seated—rigid_). You are going to your death.
ANDERSON. (_quaintly_). Then I shall go in my best coat, dear. (_He turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat._) Where—? (_He stares at the empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts Richard’s coat._) Why, my dear, it seems that he has gone in my best coat.
ANDERSON. Did the soldiers make a mistake?
ANDERSON. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he was too upset, I suppose.
JUDITH. Yes: he might have told them. So might I.
ANDERSON. Well, it’s all very puzzling—almost funny. It’s curious how these little things strike us even in the most— (_he breaks off and begins putting on Richard’s coat_) I’d better take him his own coat. I know what he’ll say— (_imitating Richard’s sardonic manner_) “Anxious about my soul, Pastor, and also about your best coat.” Eh?
JUDITH. Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (_Vacantly._) It doesn’t matter: I shall never see either of you again.
ANDERSON. (_rallying her_). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (_He sits down beside her._) Is this how you keep your promise that I shan’t be ashamed of my brave wife?
JUDITH. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my promises to him: why should I keep my promises to you?
ANDERSON. Don’t speak so strangely, my love. It sounds insincere to me. (_She looks unutterable reproach at him._) Yes, dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. Just nonsense. (_Her face darkens into dumb obstinacy. She stares straight before her, and does not look at him again, absorbed in Richard’s fate. He scans her face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making no further effort to conceal his anxiety._) I wish I knew what has frightened you so. Was there a struggle? Did he fight?