Beata.

(_Taking his hand and holding it fast_.) I have settled the future of our children. No matter what happens to us-- Why, Richard, aren't you the least bit pleased?--Oh, how ill you look!

Richard.

What sort of a night did you have, Beata?

Beata.

Not so bad.--And how goes the speech? Are you in sight of land?

Richard.

Beata--I don't know if I shall be able to speak to-morrow.

Beata (_alarmed_).

But you must. You must. They all count on you. Dear, you _must_. Is it because of that wretched business last night?

Richard.

Partly, I suppose. This new danger has stirred up the whole past.

Beata.

And your conscience is bothering you again?

Richard.

You call it conscience, Beata; I call it consistency. How dare I speak on this bill, how dare I take such a stand before G.o.d and man, when my whole life gives me the lie?--Good G.o.d!--To stand up and talk about the sanct.i.ty of marriage--about the family life as the main support of society--to parade such an argument before the cynics of the Opposition, when with my own hands I have helped to tear down that very support--no, no, I can't justify myself without adopting their own cynical and materialistic creed. And not even then; for what I call G.o.d they call social expediency; and this new idol of theirs is more exacting than the Jehovah of the old dispensation. As to acknowledging that words are one thing and actions another--that the man in me is not accountable to the statesman--well, I haven't sunk as low as that--what I give I must give without an afterthought.--And so all my ideas crumble into dust, all my reasoning ends in contradiction--and I find myself powerless to plead the very cause I have at heart!

Beata.

But why, dearest, why?

Richard.

Forgive me. I am so tired; my mind is a blank. First that dreadful scene last night, when a moment's hesitation would have ruined us both.

Then my long night at my desk--the superhuman effort of collecting my thoughts after all I'd been through. But as I worked, my subject took such hold of me that I've only just waked up to the question--how on earth is it all to end? (Beata _is silent_.) Oh, Beata, the truth, the truth! Oh, to be at one with one's self! To have the right to stand up openly for one's convictions! I would give everything for it--happiness, life itself, everything!

Beata.

And yet you love life.

Richard.

I? No--not now. Now that our falsehood is closing in on us, death would be--but don't be frightened; I shall do nothing foolish. There are two of us, and we must hold together. I am so used to sharing every thought with you.--What has happened since yesterday? I suppose Michael has given up the absurd idea of prosecuting the man.

Beata.

On the contrary.

Richard.

What?

Beata.

At this moment he has probably found out whatever your former secretary knows about us.

Richard.

What on earth do you mean?

Beata.

I haven't interrupted you, dear, because speaking seemed to clear your thoughts. But I haven't attempted to answer you, because every minute is precious.

Richard.

Hasn't Brachtmann been here?

Beata.

Brachtmann came too late.

Richard.

Then----?

Beata.

Even if he had come sooner he could not have prevented anything.

Dearest, Michael may come back at any moment, and when he comes we must be ready----

Richard.

Don't go on, Beata. Let us suppose the worst: say that Meixner has unearthed a few suspicious circ.u.mstances--what use can he make of them?

He can't produce any proofs.

Beata.

Who knows?

Richard.

Where are they to come from? The few letters we exchanged were burnt long ago. Copies are not admitted as evidence. He will not be allowed to testify on oath. We have only to keep ourselves in hand as well as we did yesterday, and the whole story will fall to the ground.