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(PHILIP releases the switch, frowns, folds his newspaper and lays it on the desk, rises, moves down L of the desk, turns and faces the door. He shows slight traces of uneasiness while he waits. CARLA enters. She wears a different coat, and carries different gloves and handbag)

PHILIP. Good Lord.

(PHILIP and CARLA look at each other for a moment, then CARLA closes the door and moves down C)

Well, so it’s Carla. (He recovers himself and shakes hands with her) Little Carla! (With rather forced geniality) You were—what—five years old when I saw you last.

CARLA. Yes. I must have been just about. (She screws up her eyes) I don’t think I remember you . . .

PHILIP. I was never much of a children’s man. Never knew what to say to them. Sit down, Carla.

(CARLA sits on the chair down R and places her handbag on the floor beside the chair)

(He offers the box of cigarettes from the desk) Cigarette?

(CARLA declines)

(He replaces the box on the desk, moves behind the desk and looks at his watch) I haven’t much time, but . . . (He sits at the desk)

CARLA. I know you’re a terribly busy person. It’s good of you to see me.

PHILIP. Not at all. You’re the daughter of one of my oldest and closest friends. You remember your father?

CARLA. Yes. Not very clearly.

PHILIP. You should. Amyas Crale oughtn’t to be forgotten. (He pauses) Now, what’s this all about? This lawyer chap—Fogg—son of old Andrew Fogg, I suppose—

(CARLA nods)

—wasn’t very clear about why you wanted to see me. (There is a trace of sarcasm in his voice during the following sentence) But I gathered that it wasn’t just a case of looking up your father’s old friends?

CARLA. No.

PHILIP. He told me that you’d only recently learnt the facts about your father’s death. Is that right?

CARLA. Yes.

PHILIP. Pity, really, you ever had to hear about it at all.

CARLA. (after a pause; firmly) Mr. Blake, when I came in just now you were startled. You said “Good Lord!” Why?

PHILIP. Well, I . . .

CARLA. Did you think, just for the moment, that it was my mother standing there?

PHILIP. There is an amazing resemblance. It startled me.

CARLA. You—you didn’t like her?

PHILIP. (dryly) Could you expect me to? She killed my best friend.

CARLA. (stung) It could have been suicide.

PHILIP. Don’t run away with that idea. Amyas would never have killed himself. He enjoyed life far too much.

CARLA. He was an artist, he could have had temperamental ups and downs.

PHILIP. He didn’t have that kind of temperament. Nothing morbid or neurotic about Amyas. He had his faults, yes—he chased women, I’ll admit—but most of his affairs were quite short lived. He always went back to Caroline.

CARLA. What fun that must have been for her!

PHILIP. She’d known him since she was twelve years old. We were all brought up together.

CARLA. I know so little. Tell me.

PHILIP. (sitting back comfortably in his chair) She used to come and stay at Alderbury for the holidays with the Crales. My family had the big house next door. We all ran wild together. Meredith, my elder brother, and Amyas were much of an age. I was a year or two younger. Caroline had no money of her own, you know. I was a younger son, out of the running, but both Meredith and Amyas were quite good catches.

CARLA. How cold-blooded you make her sound.

PHILIP. She was cold-blooded. Oh, she appeared impulsive, but behind it there was a cold calculating devil. And she had a wicked temper. You know what she did to her baby half-sister?

CARLA. (quickly) No?

PHILIP. Her mother had married again, and all the attention went to the new baby—Angela. Caroline was jealous as hell. She tried to kill the baby.

CARLA. No!

PHILIP. Went for her with a pair of scissors, I believe. Ghastly business. The child was marked for life.

CARLA. (outraged) You make her sound a—a monster!

PHILIP. (shrugging) Jealousy is the devil.

CARLA. (studying him) You hated her—didn’t you?

PHILIP. (startled) That’s putting it rather strongly.

CARLA. No, it’s true.