JONES. [At last, in her soft voice.] He doesn't look quite himself.

 

WHEELER. He's a young limb, that's what he is. It 's my belief he was tipsy last night, like your husband. It 's another kind of bein' out of work that sets him to drink. I'll go and tell Marlow. This is his job.

 

[She goes.] [Mrs. Jones, upon her knees, begins a gentle sweeping.]

 

JACK. [Waking.] Who's there? What is it?

 

MRS. JONES. It's me, sir, Mrs. Jones.

 

JACK. [Sitting up and looking round.] Where is it—what—what time is it?

 

MRS. JONES. It's getting on for nine o'clock, sir.

 

JACK. For nine! Why—what! [Rising, and loosening his tongue; putting hands to his head, and staring hard at Mrs. Jones.] Look here, you, Mrs.—Mrs. Jones—don't you say you caught me asleep here.

 

MRS. JONES. No, sir, of course I won't sir.

 

JACK. It's quite an accident; I don't know how it happened. I must have forgotten to go to bed. It's a queer thing. I've got a most beastly headache. Mind you don't say anything, Mrs. Jones.

 

[Goes out and passes MARLOW in the doorway. MARLOW is young and quiet; he is cleanshaven, and his hair is brushed high from his forehead in a coxcomb. Incidentally a butler, he is first a man. He looks at MRS. JONES, and smiles a private smile.]

 

MARLOW.