The Straw by Eugene O'Neil - HTML preview

Act Three

Four months later. An isolation room at the Infirmary with a sleeping porch at the right of it. Late afternoon of a Sunday towards the end of October. The room, extending two-thirds of the distance from left to right, is, for reasons of space economy, scantily furnished with the bare necessities—a bureau with mirror in the left corner, rear—two straight-backed chairs—a table with a glass top in the centre. The floor is varnished hardwood. The walls and furniture are painted white. On the left, forward, a door to the hall. On the right, rear, a double glass door opening on the porch. Farther front two windows. The porch, a screened-in continuation of the room, contains only a single iron bed, painted white, and a small table placed beside the bed.

The woods, the leaves of the trees rich in their autumn colouring, rise close about this side of the Infirmary. Their branches almost touch the porch on the right. In the rear of the porch they have been cleared away from the building for a narrow space, and through this opening the distant hills can be seen with the tree tops glowing in the sunlight.

As the curtain rises, Eileen is discovered lying in the bed on the porch, propped up into a half-sitting position by pillows under her back and head. She seems to have grown much thinner. Her face is pale and drawn, with deep hollows under her cheek-bones. Her eyes are dull and lustreless. She gazes straight before her into the wood with the unseeing stare of apathetic indifference. The door from the hall in the room behind her is opened, and Miss Howard enters, followed by Bill Carmody, Mrs. Brennan, and Mary. Carmody's manner is unwontedly sober and subdued. This air of respectable sobriety is further enhanced by a black suit, glaringly new and stiffly pressed, a new black derby hat, and shoes polished like a mirror. His expression is full of a bitter, if suppressed, resentment. His gentility is evidently forced upon him in spite of himself and correspondingly irksome. Mrs. Brennan is a tall, stout woman of fifty, lusty and loud-voiced, with a broad, snub-nosed, florid face, a large mouth, the upper lip darkened by a suggestion of moustache, and little round blue eyes, hard and restless with a continual fuming irritation. She is got up regardless in her ridiculous Sunday-best. Mary appears tall and skinny-legged in a starched, outgrown frock. The sweetness of her face has disappeared, giving way to a hang-dog sullenness, a stubborn silence, with sulky, furtive glances of rebellion directed at her step-mother.

MISS HOWARD (pointing to the porch). She's out there on the porch.

MRS. BRENNAN {with dignity). Thank you, ma'am.

MISS HOWARD (with a searching glance at the visitors as if to appraise their intentions). Eileen's been very sick lately, you know, so be careful not to worry her about anything. Do your best to cheer her up.

CARMODY (mournfully). We'll try to put life in her spirits, God help her. (With an uncertain look at Mrs. Brennan.) Won't we, Maggie?

MRS. BRENNAN (turning sharply on Mary, who has gone over to examine the things on the bureau). Come away from that, Mary. Curiosity killed a cat. Don't be touchin' her things. Remember what I told you. Or is it admirin' your mug in the mirror you are? (Turning to Miss Howard as Mary moves away from the bureau, hanging her head—shortly.) Don't you worry, ma'am. We won't trouble Eileen at all.

MISS HOWARD. Another thing. You mustn't say anything to her of what Miss Gilpin just told you about her being sent away to the State Farm in a few days. Eileen isn't to know till the very last minute. It would only disturb her.

CARMODY (hastily). We'll not say a word of it.

MISS HOWARD (turning to the hall door). Thank you.

(She goes out, shutting the door.)

MRS. BRENNAN (angrily). She has a lot of impudent gab, that one, with her don't do this and don't do that! It's a wonder you wouldn't speak up to her and shut her mouth, you great fool, and you payin' money to give her her job. (Disgustedly.) You've no guts in you.

CARMODY (placatingly). Would you have me raisin' a shindy when Eileen's leavin' here in a day or more? What'd be the use?

MRS. BRENNAN. In the new place she's goin' you'll not have to pay a cent, and that's a blessing! It's small good they've done her here for all the money they've taken. (Gazing about the room critically.) It's neat and clean enough; and why shouldn't it, a tiny room and the lot of them nothing to do all day but scrub. (Scornfully.) Two sticks of chairs and a table! They don't give much for the money.

CARMODY. Catch them! It's a good thing she's clearin' out of this, and her worse off after them curin' her eight months than she was when she came. She'll maybe get well in the new place.

MRS. BRENNAN (indifferently). It's God's will, what'll happen. (Irritably.) And I'm thinkin' it's His punishment she's under now for having no heart in her and never writin' home a word to you or the children in two months or more. If the doctor hadn't wrote us himself to come see her, she was sick, we'd have been no wiser.

CARMODY. Whisht! Don't be blamin' a sick girl.

MARY (who has drifted to one of the windows at right—curiously). There's somebody in bed out there. I can't see her face. Is it Eileen?

MRS. BRENNAN. Don't be goin' out there till I tell you, you imp! I must speak to your father first. (Coming closer to him and lowering her voice.) Are you going to tell her about it?

CARMODY (pretending ignorance). About what?

MRS. BRENNAN. About what, indeed! Don't pretend you don't know. About our marryin' two weeks back, of course. What else?

CARMODY (uncertainly). Yes—I disremembered she didn't know. I'll have to tell her, surely.

MRS. BRENNAN (flaring up). You speak like you wouldn't. Is it shamed of me you are? Are you afraid of a slip of a girl? Well, then, I'm not! I'll tell her to her face soon enough.

CARMODY (angry in his turn—assertively). You'll not, now! Keep your mouth out of this and your rough tongue! I tell you I'll tell her.

MRS. BRENNAN (satisfied). Let's be going out to her, then. (They move towards the door to the porch.) And keep your eye on your watch. We mustn't miss the train. Come with us, Mary, and remember to keep your mouth shut.

(They go out on the porch and stand just outside the door waiting for Eileen to notice them; but the girl in bed continues to stare into the woods, oblivious to their presence.)

MRS. BRENNAN (nudging Carmody with her elbow—in a harsh whisper). She don't see us. It's a dream she's in with her eyes open. Glory be, it's bad she's lookin'. The look on herface'd frighten you. Speak to her, you!

(Eileen stirs uneasily as if this whisper had disturbed her unconsciously.)

CARMODY (wetting his lips and clearing his throat huskily). Eileen.

EILEEN (startled, turns and stares at them with frightened eyes. After a pause she ventures uncertainly, as if she were not sure hut what these figures might be creatures of her dream). Father. (Her eyes shift to Mrs. Brennan's face and she shudders.) Mrs. Brennan.

MRS. BRENNAN (quickly—in a voice meant to be kindly). Here we are, all of us, come to see you. How is it you're feelin' now, Eileen?

(While she is talking she advances to the bedside, followed by Carmody, and takes one of the sick girl's hands in hers. Eileen withdraws it as if stung and holds it out to her father. Mrs. Brennan's face flushes angrily and she draws back from the bedside.)

CARMODY (moved—with rough tenderness patting her hand). Ah, Eileen, sure it's a sight for sore eyes to see you again! (He bends down as if to kiss her, but, struck by a sudden fear, hesitates, straightens himself, and shamed by the understanding in Eileen's eyes, grows red and stammers confusedly.) How are you now? Sure it's the picture of health you're lookin'.

(Eileen sighs and turns her eyes away from him with a resigned sadness.)

MRS. BRENNAN. What are you standin' there for like a stick, Mary? Haven't you a word to say to your sister?

EILEEN (twisting her head around and seeing Mary for the first time—with a glad cry). Mary! I—why, I didn't see you before! Come here.

(Mary approaches gingerly with apprehensive side glances at Mrs. Brennan, who watches her grimly. Eileen's arms reach out for her hungrily. She grasps her about the waist and seems trying to press the unwilling child to her breast.)

MARY (fidgeting nervously—suddenly in a frightened whine). Let me go! (Eileen releases her, looks at her face dazedly for a second, then falls back limply with a little moan and shuts her eyes. Mary, who has stepped back a pace, remains fixed there as if fascinated with fright by her sister's face. She stammers.) Eileen—you look so—so funny.

EILEEN (without opening her eyes—in a dead voice). You, too! I never thought you——Go away, please.

MRS. BRENNAN (with satisfaction). Come here to me, Mary, and don't be botherin' your sister.

(Mary avoids her step-mother, but retreats to the far end of the porch where she stands shrunk back against the wall, her eyes fixed on Eileen with the same fascinated horror.)

CARMODY (after an uncomfortable pause, forcing himself to speak). Is the pain bad, Eileen?

EILEEN (dully—without opening her eyes). There's no pain. (There is another pause—then she murmurs indifferently.) There are chairs in the room you can bring out if you want to sit down.

MRS. BRENNAN (sharply). We've not time to be sittin'. We've the train back to catch.

EILEEN (in the same lifeless voice). It's a disagreeable trip. I'm sorry you had to come.

CARMODY (fighting against an oppression he cannot understand, bursts into a flood of words). Don't be talking of the trip. Sure we're glad to take it to get a sight of you. It's three months since I've had a look at you, and I was anxious. Why haven't you written a line to us? You could do that without trouble, surely. Don't you ever think of us at all any more? (He waits for an answer, but Eileen remains silent with her eyes closed. Carmody starts to walk up and down, talking with an air of desperation.) You're not asking a bit of news from home. I'm thinkin' the people out here have taken all the thought of us out of your head. We're all well, thank God. I've another good job on the streets from Murphy and one that'll last a long time, praise be! I'm needin' it surely, with all the expenses—but no matter. Billy had a raise from his old skinflint of a boss a month back. He's gettin' seven a week now and proud as a turkey. He was comin' out with us to-day, but he'd a date with his girl. Sure, he's got a girl now, the young bucko! What d'you think of him? It's old Malloy's girl he's after—the pop-eyed one with glasses, you remember—as ugly as a blind sheep, only he don't think so. He said to give you his love. (Eileen stirs and sighs wearily, a frown appearing for an instant on her forehead.) And Tom and Nora was comin' out too, but Father Fitz had some doin's or other up to the school, and he told them to be there, so they wouldn't come with us, but they sent their love to you, too. They're growin' so big you'd not know them. Tom's no good at the school. He's like Billy was. I've had to take the strap to him often. He's always playin' hooky and roamin' the streets. And Nora. (With pride.) There's the divil for you! Up to everything she is and no holdin' her high spirits. As pretty as a picture, and the smartest girl in her school, Father Fitz says. Am I lyin', Maggie?

MRS. BRENNAN (grudgingly). She's smart enough—and too free with her smartness.

CARMODY (pleased). Ah, don't be talkin'! She'll know more than the lot of us before she's grown even. (He pauses in his walk and stares down at Eileen, frowning.) Are you sick, Eileen, that you're keepin' your eyes shut without a word out of you?

EILEEN (wearily). No. I'm tired, that's all.

CARMODY (resuming his walk). And who else is there, let me think? Oh, Mary—she's the same as ever, you can see for yourself.

EILEEN (bitterly). The same? Oh, no!

CARMODY. She's grown, you mean? I suppose. You'd notice, not seeing her so long?

(He can think of nothing else to say but walks up and down with a restless, uneasy expression.)

MRS. BRENNAN (sharply). What time is it gettin'?

CARMODY (fumbles for his watch). Half-past four, a bit after.

MRS. BRENNAN. We'll have to leave soon. It's a long jaunt down that hill in that buggy.

(She catches his eye and makes violent signs to him to tell Eileen what he has come to tell.)

CARMODY (after an uncertain pause—clenching his fists and clearing his throat). Eileen.

EILEEN. Yes.

CARMODY (irritably). Can't you open your eyes on me? It's like talkin' to myself I am.

EILEEN (looking at him—dully). What is it?

CARMODY (stammering—avoiding her glance). It's this, Eileen—me and Maggie—Mrs. Brennan, that is—we——

EILEEN (without surprise). You're going to marry her?

CARMODY (with an effort). Not goin' to. It's done.

EILEEN (without a trace of feeling). Oh, so you've been married already?

(Without further comment, she closes her eyes.)

CARMODY. Two weeks back we were, by Father Fitz.

(He stands staring down at his daughter, irritated, perplexed and confounded by her silence, looking as if he longed to shake her.)

MRS. BRENNAN (angry at the lack of enthusiasm shown by Eileen). Let us get out of this, Bill. We're not wanted, that's plain as the nose on your face. It's little she's caring about you, and little thanks she has for all you've done for her and the money you've spent.

CARMODY (with a note of pleading). Is that a proper way to be treatin' your father, Eileen, after what I've told you? Have you no heart in you at all? Is it nothin' to you you've a good, kind woman now for mother?

EILEEN (fiercely, her eyes flashing open on him). No, no! Never!

MRS. BRENNAN (plucking at Carmody's elbow. He stands looking at Eileen helplessly, his mouth open, a guilty flush spreading over his face). Come out of here, you big fool, you! Is it to listen to insults to your livin' wife you're waiting? Am I to be tormented and you never raise a hand to stop her?

CARMODY (turning on her threateningly). Will you shut your gab?

EILEEN (with a moan). Oh, go away, Father! Please! Take her away!

MRS. BRENNAN (pulling at his arm). Take me away this second or I'll go on without you and never speak again to you till the day I die!

CARMODY (pushes her violently away from him—his fist uplifted). Shut your gab, I'm saying!

MRS. BRENNAN. The divil mend you and yours then! I'm leavin' you. (She starts for the door.)

CARMODY (hastily). Wait a bit, Maggie. I'm comin'. (She goes into the room, slamming the door, but once inside she stands still, trying to listen. Carmody glares down at his daughter's pale twitching face with the closed eyes. Finally he croaks in a whining tone of fear.) Is your last word a cruel one to me this day, Eileen?

(She remains silent. His face darkens. He turns and strides out of the door. Mary darts after him with a frightened cry of "Papa." Eileen covers her face with her hands and a shudder of relief runs over her body.)

MRS. BRENNAN (as Carmody enters the room—in a mollified tone). So you've come, have you? Let's go, then? (Carmody stands looking at her in silence, his expression full of gloomy rage. She bursts out impatiently.) Are you comin' or are you goin' back to her? (She grabs Mary's arm and pushes her towards, the door to the hall.) Are you comin' or not, I'm askin'?

CARMODY (sombrely—as if to himself). There's something wrong in the whole of this—that I can't make out. (With sudden fury he brandishes his fists as though defying someone and growls threateningly.) And I'll get drunk this night— dead, rotten drunk! (He seems to detect disapproval in Mrs. Brennan's face, for he shakes his fist at her and repeats like a solemn oath.) I'll get drunk this night, I'm sayin'! I'll get drunk if my soul roasts for it—and no one in the whole world is strong enough to stop me!

(Mrs. Brennan turns from him with a disgusted shrug of her shoulders and hustles Mary out of the door. Carmody, after a second's pause, follows them. Eileen lies still, looking out into the woods with empty, desolate eyes. Miss Howard comes into the room from the hall and goes to the porch, carrying a glass of milk in her hand.)

MISS HOWARD. Here's your diet, Eileen. I forgot it until just now. Sundays are awful days, aren't they? They get me all mixed up in my work, with all these visitors around. Did you have a nice visit with your folks?

EILEEN (forcing a smile). Yes.

MISS HOWARD. You look worn out. I hope they didn't worry you over home affairs?

EILEEN. No.

(She sips her milk and sets it back on the table with a shudder of disgust.)

MISS HOWARD (with a smile). What a face! You'd think you were taking poison.

EILEEN. I hate it! (With deep passion.) I wish it was poison!

MISS HOWARD (jokingly). Oh, come now! That isn't a nice way to feel on the Sabbath. (With a meaning smile.) I've some news that'll cheer you up, I bet. (Archly.) Guess who's here on a visit?

EILEEN (startled—in a frightened whisper). Who?

MISS HOWARD. Mr. Murray. (Eileen closes her eyes wincingly for a moment and a shadow of pain comes over her face.) He just came about the time your folks did. I saw him for a moment, not to speak to. He was going to the main building—to see Doctor Stanton, I suppose. (Beaming—with a certain curiosity.) What do you think of that for news?

EILEEN (trying to conceal her agitation and assume a casual tone). He must have come to be examined.

MISS HOWARD (with a meaning laugh). Oh, I'd hardly say that was his main reason. He does look much thinner and very tired, though. I suppose he's been working too hard. (In business-like tones.) Well, I've got to get back on the job. (She turns to the door calling back jokingly.) He'll be in to see you, of course, so look your prettiest.

{She goes out and shuts the door to the porch. Eileen gives a frightened gasp and struggles up in bed as if she wanted to call the nurse to return. Then she lies back in a state of great nervous excitement, twisting her head with eager, fearful glances towards the door, listening, clasping and unclasping her thin fingers on the white spread. As Miss Howard walks across the room to the hall door, it is opened and Stephen Murray enters. A great change is visible in his face. It is much thinner and the former healthy tan has faded to a sallow pallor. Puffy shadows of sleeplessness and dissipation are marked under his heavy-lidded eyes. He is dressed in a well-fitting, expensive dark suit, a white shirt with a soft collar and bright-coloured tie.)

MISS HOWARD (with pleased surprise, holding out her hand). Hello, Mr. Murray.

MURRAY (shaking her hand—with a forced pleasantness). How are you, Miss Howard?

MISS HOWARD. Fine as ever. It certainly looks natural to see you around here again—not that I hope you're here to stay, though. (With a smile.) I suppose you're on your way to Eileen now. Well, I won't keep you. I've stacks of work to do. (She opens the hall door. He starts for the porch.) Oh, I was forgetting—Congratulations! I've read those stories—all of us have. They're great. We're all so proud of you. You're one of our graduates, you know.

MURRAY (indifferently). Oh—that stuff.

MISS HOWARD (gaily). Don't be so modest. Well, see you later, I hope.

MURRAY. Yes. Doctor Stanton invited me to stay for supper and I may——

MISS HOWARD. Fine! Be sure to!

(She goes out. Murray walks to porch door and steps out. He finds Eileen's eyes waiting for him. As their eyes meet she gasps involuntarily and he stops short in his tracks. For a moment they remain looking at each other in silence.)

EILEEN (dropping her eyes—faintly). Stephen.

MURRAY (much moved, strides to her bedside and takes her hands awkwardly). Eileen. (Then after a second's pause, in which he searches her face and is shocked by the change illness has made—anxiously.) How are you feeling, Eileen? (He grows confused by her gaze and his eyes shift from hers, which search his face with wild yearning.)

EILEEN (forcing a smile). Oh, I'm all right. (Eagerly.) But you, Stephen? How are you? (Excitedly.) Oh, it's good to see you again! (Her eyes continue fixed on his face pleadingly, questioningly.)

MURRAY (haltingly). And it's sure great to see you again, Eileen. (He releases her hand and turns away.) And I'm fine and dandy. I look a little done up, I guess, but that's only the result of too much New York.

(Eileen, sensing from his manner that whatever she has hoped for from his visit is not to be, sinks back on the pillows, shutting her eyes hopelessly, and cannot control a sigh of pain.)

MURRAY (turning to her anxiously). What's the matter, Eileen? You're not in pain, are you?

EILEEN (wearily). No.

MURRAY. You haven't been feeling badly lately, have you? Your letters suddenly stopped—not a line for the past three weeks—and I——

EILEEN (bitterly). I got tired of writing and never getting any answer, Stephen.

MURRAY (shame-faced). Come, Eileen, it wasn't as bad as that. You'd think I never—and I did write, didn't I?

EILEEN. Right after you left here, you did, Stephen. Lately——

MURRAY. I'm sorry, Eileen. It wasn't that I didn't mean to—but—in New York it's so hard. You start to do one thing and something else interrupts you. You never seem to get any one thing done when it ought to be. You can understand that, can't you, Eileen?

EILEEN (sadly). Yes. I understand everything now.

MURRAY (offended). What do you mean by everything? You said that so strangely. You mean you don't believe——(But she remains silent with her eyes shut. He frowns and takes to pacing up and down beside the bed.) Why have they got you stuck out here on this isolation porch, Eileen?

EILEEN (dully). There was no room on the main porch, I suppose.

MURRAY. You never mentioned in any of your letters——

EILEEN. It's not very cheerful to get letters full of sickness. I wouldn't like to, I know.

MURRAY (hurt). That isn't fair, Eileen. You know I—— How long have you been back in the Infirmary?

EILEEN. About a month.

MURRAY (shocked). A month! But you were up and about—on exercise, weren't you—before that?

EILEEN. No. I had to stay in bed while I was at the cottage.

MURRAY. You mean—ever since that time they sent you back—the day before I left?

EILEEN. Yes.

MURRAY. But I thought from the cheery tone of your letters that you were——

EILEEN (uneasily). Getting better? I am, Stephen. I'm strong enough to be up now, but Doctor Stanton wants me to take a good long rest this time so that when I do get up again I'll be sure——(She breaks off impatiently.) But don't let's talk about it. I'm all right. (Murray glances down at her face worriedly. She changes the subject.) You've been over to see Doctor Stanton, haven't you?

MURRAY. Yes.

EILEEN. Did he examine you?

MURRAY. Yes. (Carelessly.) Oh, he found me O.K. I'm fine and dandy, as I said before.

EILEEN. I'm glad, Stephen. (After a pause.) Tell about yourself—what you've been doing. You've written a lot lately, haven't you?

MURRAY (frowning). No. I haven't been able to get down to it—somehow. There's so little time to yourself once you get to know people in New York. The sale of the stories you typed put me on easy street as far as money goes, so I've felt no need—— (He laughs weakly.) I guess I'm one of those who have to get down to hard pan before they get the kick

to drive them to hard work.

EILEEN (surprised). Was it hard work writing them up here? You used to seem so happy just in doing them.

MURRAY. I was—happier than I've been before or afterwards. (Cynically.) But—I don't know—it was a new game to me then and I was chuck full of illusions about the glory of it. (He laughs half-heartedly.) Now I'm hardly a bit more enthusiastic over it than I used to be over newspaper work. It's like everything else, I guess. When you've got it, you find you don't want it.

EILEEN (looking at him wonderingly—disturbed). But isn't just the writing itself worth while?

MURRAY (as if suddenly ashamed of himself—quickly). Yes. Of course it is. I'm talking like a fool. I'm sore at everything because I'm dissatisfied with my own cussedness and laziness—and I want to pass the buck. (With a smile of cheerful confidence.) It's only a fit. I'll come out of it all right and get down to brass tacks again.

EILEEN (with an encouraging smile). That's the way you ought to feel. It'd be wrong—I've read the two stories that have come out so far over and over. They're fine, I think. Every line in them sounds like you, and at the same time sounds natural and like people and things you see every day. Everybody thinks they're fine, Stephen.

MURRAY [pleased, but pretending cynicism). Then they must be rotten. (Then with self-assurance.) Well, I've plenty more of those stories in my head. Every time I think of my home town there seems to be a new story in someone I've known there. (Spiritedly.) Oh, I'll pound them out some time when the spirit moves; and I'll make them so much better than what I've done so far, you won't recognise them. I feel it's in me to do it. (Smiling.) Darn it, do you know just talking about it makes me feel as if I could sit right down now and start in on one. Is it the fact I've worked here before—or is it seeing you, Eileen. (Gratefully.) I really believe it's you. I haven't forgotten how you helped me before.

EILEEN (in a tone of pain). Don't, Stephen. I didn't do anything.

MURRAY (eagerly). Yes, you did. You made it possible. I can't tell you what a help you were. And since I've left the San, I've looked forward to your letters to boost up my spirits. When I felt down in the mouth over my own idiocy, I used to re-read them, and they always were good medicine. I can't tell you how grateful I've felt, honestly!

EILEEN (faintly). You're kind to say so, Stephen—but it was nothing, really.

MURRAY. And I can't tell you how I've missed those letters for the past three weeks. They left a big hole in things. I was worried about you—not having heard a word. (With a smile.) So I came to look you up.

EILEEN (faintly. Forcing an answering smile). Well, you see now I'm all right.

MURRAY (concealing his doubt). Yes, of course you are. Only I'd a darn sight rather see you up and about. We could take a walk, then—through the woods. (A wince of pain shadows Eileen's face. She closes her eyes. Murray continues softly after a pause.) You haven't forgotten that last night—out there—Eileen?

EILEEN (her lips trembling—trying to force a laugh). Please don't remind me of that, Stephen. I was so silly and so sick, too. My temp was so high it must have made me—completely crazy—or I'd never dreamed of doing such a stupid thing. My head must have been full of wheels because I don't remember anything I did or said, hardly.

MURRAY (his pride taken down a peg by this—in a hurt tone). Oh! Well—I haven't forgotten and I never will, Eileen.(Then his face clears up as if a weight had been taken off his conscience.) Well—I rather thought you wouldn't take itseriously—afterwards. You were all up in the air that night. And you never mentioned it in your letters——

EILEEN (pleadingly). Don't talk about it! Forget it ever happened. It makes me feel—(with a half-hysterical laugh)— like a fool!

MURRAY (worried). All right, Eileen. I won't. Don't get worked up over nothing. That isn't resting, you know. (Looking down at her closed eyes—solicitously.) Perhaps all my talking has tired you out? Do you feel done up? Why don't you try and take a nap now?

EILEEN (dully). Yes,