(_puts in sugar_) Will she--stay with you?

Denham.

What else can she do?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_stirring her tea_) Then I wish you joy of the _menage_. You don't seem to have gained much by making a fool of me.

Denham.

You have renewed the world for me. The mere thought of you is sunshine. Here we have always been at loggerheads with life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Then why--? (_Sips her tea._) Bah! Upon my word, Arthur Denham, that woman has drained you of your manhood like a vampire, made you the limp coward that you are.

Denham.

Not a word against Constance, or I shall hate you, Blanche. No--I am haunted by a ghost.

Mrs. Tremaine.

A metaphorical one?

Denham.

The ghost that came to Hamlet in the shape of his father--duty. It is a trick of my British bourgeois blood, I suppose.

Mrs. Tremaine.

What duty? To that internal Mrs. Grundy we call conscience? To the thing called Society? To the sacred bond of marriage? Her own principles are against you there. No--she holds you in some deeper way than this.

Denham.

It is true--she does.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_rising_) Is it because you love _her_ that you abandon _me_? If so, say so; and I shall understand that I am a toy goddess, nothing more.

Denham.

She loves me.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Ah! a woman's love can blight as terribly as a man's--almost. Well, I like you none the worse for this curious spice of loyalty. It is so rare in a man.

Denham.

No--not so rare. Don't let us talk any more about it now. I think you begin to understand. But where can she be? I seem to feel her presence here. (_He looks behind the screen, then thrusts it aside, showing Mrs. Denham lying dead on the couch._) Blanche! Blanche!

Look here! Is she--?

Mrs. Tremaine.

She has fainted--let me--!

Denham.

(_throws himself down beside the couch and puts his finger on her wrist_) Oh my God! Dead! Dead!

Mrs. Tremaine.

No, no, no! It is too terrible! Let us try if----(_Attempts to open dress, then recoils in horror._) And I had begun to hate her--yes, to _hate_ her. My poor good Constance!

Denham.

But how--? (_Rising._) _Is_ she dead, Blanche?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_mastering her agitation_) Yes, dear, dead! She has taken poison.

See here! (_Picks up the cup._) What a horrible death! Her face is awful!

Denham.

Oh, Constance, why did I leave you? I had a vague fear of something--but not this! (_Throws himself down again, and stoops to kiss her._) Ha! Prussic acid! No help! No hope! Yet she is warm.

(_He starts up._) Could we--? But death is a matter of seconds with that infernal stuff. Blanche, Blanche, I have killed her!

Mrs. Tremaine.

I claim my share in the guilt.

Denham.

No, no. Leave me! Let the dead bury their dead!

Mrs. Tremaine.

If you wish me to leave you, dear, I will go.

Denham.

Yes--for God's sake, go! (_She moves towards the door._) But, Blanche, don't leave the house. I can't bear this alone.

Mrs. Tremaine.