Denham.

I have no doubt you will do what you think right. The question is, what _is_ right? (_Rises, and looks at her._)

Mrs. Denham.

(_looking away from him_) You have always held yourself aloof from me. All my love has been powerless to gain an entrance into your heart. Now it is too late. I give up the useless struggle.

(_Crosses_ L, _and sits in armchair crouching over fire._)

Denham.

(_passionately_) Held myself aloof! Good God! is that my fault? You want something that you can neither excite nor reciprocate. (_With a sudden change of manner._) No--it was my own dulness of heart. My poor Constance! This has been a revelation for us both. But you don't know how I have tried to conform to your ideals--to spare you in every possible way.

Mrs. Denham.

(_bitterly_) Yes, you have been very patient, very forbearing, no doubt. It is better to kill a woman than to tolerate her.

Denham.

You did not always think so. You wanted love in the form of an unselfish intellectual friendship. Well, I have tried to love you unselfishly, God knows! It is an impossible basis for marriage.

However, we _are_ married. May we not at least be friends? (_Comes and stands by her chair._) Do you think marriage exists for the sake of ideal love? What about Undine?

Mrs. Denham.

I presume you will provide for your daughter?

Denham.

Is she not yours too?

Mrs. Denham.

She loves you; she does not love me. I suppose I don't deserve it. I know you think I have been a bad wife, a bad mother. I am better out of your way. (_Weeps._)

Denham.

This is morbid. Oh, if I could have cured you! Constance! (_He caresses her hair._)

Mrs. Denham.

Don't touch me! It is an insult.

Denham.

(_sighing_) I suppose I have lost the right of comforting you.

(_Crosses_ R.)

Mrs. Denham.

I don't want your pity. (_Rises._)

Denham.

Perhaps I want yours.

Mrs. Denham.

(_indignantly_) Suppose _you_ had caught _me_ in a low intrigue, and I had dared to speak to you as you have spoken to me--without so much as a word that implied sorrow or repentance, what would you say to me?

Denham.

I would ask your forgiveness humbly enough if that were of any use.

It isn't, I know. Sins that are instinctive, not of malice, lie too deep for forgiveness.

Mrs. Denham.

A fine aphorism, no doubt. How does it apply?

Denham.

You can't forgive insults that were not intended, and a "low intrigue" which was only a mad, selfish leap for life. Let us part then, if you please. We missed our moment for passion long ago, if that is what you want.

Mrs. Denham.

My want aches deeper. Well, you love another woman. Go to her. Let her make you happy if she can.

Denham.

Why should I go to her? I love her as a dream; let me keep her as a dream. Why should I spoil her life as I have spoiled yours?

Mrs. Denham.

You could not spoil her life as you have spoiled mine, if you love her.

Denham.

(_half to himself as he comes down stage_ R) It is a magnificent temptation. To give one's passion its full reckless swing, to feel the blood bounding in one's veins--

Mrs. Denham.

Why not? And leave the woman to pay.

Denham.

(_with a reckless bitterness_) Yes, that's the devil of it. You have put me out of conceit with love. Your chamber of horrors haunts my imagination. If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be like gods. But she can't. Why should we worry about it? Why ask for cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for us?

Mrs. Denham.