To drown herself?

Fitzgerald.

Ay. She told me, "Mother said--said she was too wicked to live--an'

she--she didn't want her any more." By Jove! Mrs. Denham, you must be careful what you say to that imp. She'll take you at your word--eh?

Mrs. Denham.

How can we ever thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald?

Denham.

Well, we can laugh at it now; but it was rather a ghastly bit of tragi-comedy. A thousand thanks, Fitz, old fellow!

Fitzgerald.

Well, I hope she's none the worse for it. I carried her home on my back; an' I can tell you her heart was beating like--like the heart of a hunted mouse. I must be off, Arthur; I have a model coming.

You'll bring the drawing round, eh? I must have it by five o'clock.

Denham.

I have about ten minutes' work on the background--the figures are all right. I'll bring it round just now.

Fitzgerald.

All right. Good-bye. (_Shakes hands, and exit._)

Denham.

Stay here, Constance. I'll bring the child to you.

(_Exit, following Fitzgerald._)

Mrs. Denham.

Undine, my little Undine! Have I been a bad mother to you? And I have tried to do right. Oh, how I have tried! All in vain--all in vain. (_Paces up and down, then sits listlessly on the sofa._) Utter wreck! Utter wreck! Utter failure in everything!

(_Re-enter Denham, with Undine. Mrs. Denham starts up._)

Denham.

Here's our little truant come back to mother.

(_Undine comes down the stage slowly, looking dazed. Mrs. Denham embraces the child passionately._)

Mrs. Denham.

My little Undine! My little girl! Did she think mother wanted to get rid of her?

Undine.

(_with sorrowful indignation_) You said you wished I was dead, and I thought you didn't want me any more. I thought perhaps you were going to kill me with a knife, like Medea, and I didn't like that. I thought the river would be kinder.

Mrs. Denham.

That was foolish, Undine. Mother would not kill her own little girl.

(_Sits down on sofa with Undine. Denham shrugs his shoulders, and sits down at the table to work at his drawing._)

Undine.

But I thought you meant what you said. You oughtn't to say what you don't mean, mother.

Mrs. Denham.

No, my darling, I ought not. But I was angry with you for being disobedient, and I suppose I said more than I meant. I don't remember, Arthur, I don't remember what I said.

Denham.

I quite understand that, dear.

Mrs. Denham.

Will my little girl forgive mother?

Undine.

Yes, you know I'll _always_ forgive you, mother. But you said I had brought shame upon father. (_Going up to Denham, bursting into indignant tears._) I don't _want_ to bring shame upon father!

(_Takes out her handkerchief, and mops her face._)

Denham.

(_comforting her_) Of course not. But you know you should be obedient to mother, Undine, and keep your promises. Then we sha'n't be ashamed of our little girl.

Undine.

(_sobbing_) But there's no _use_ promising. Oh, I _am_ so tired!

(_Yawns._)

Denham.

Well, suppose you go to sleep for a while?

Mrs. Denham.

She can lie on her bed, and I'll put mother's cloak over her. Would you like that?

Undine.