Oh, we can forget it, if we choose.

PAULA.

That was always your cry. How _can_ one do it!

AUBREY.

Well make our calculations solely for the future, talk about the future, think about the future.

PAULA.

I believe the future is only the past again, entered through another gate.

AUBREY.

That's an awful belief.

PAULA.

To-night proves it. You must see now that, do what we will, go where we will, you'll be continually reminded of--what I was. I see it.

AUBREY.

You're frightened to-night; meeting this man has frightened you. But that sort of thing isn't likely to recur. The world isn't quite so small as all that.

PAULA.

Isn't it! The only great distances it contains are those we carry within ourselves--the distances that separate husbands and wives, for instance. And so it'll be with us. You'll do your best--oh, I know that--you're a good fellow. But circ.u.mstances will be too strong for you in the end, mark my words.

AUBREY.

Paula----!

PAULA.

Of course I'm pretty now--I'm pretty still--and a pretty woman, whatever else she may be, is always--well, endurable. But even now I notice that the lines of my face are getting deeper; so are the hollows about my eyes. Yes, my face is covered with little shadows that usen't to be there. Oh, I know I'm "going off." I hate paint and dye and those messes, but, by-and-by, I shall drift the way of the others; I sha'n't he able to help myself. And then, some day--perhaps very suddenly, under a queer, fantastic light at night or in the glare of the morning--that horrid, irresistible truth that physical repulsion forces on men and women will come to you, and you'll sicken at me.

AUBREY.

I----!

PAULA.

You'll see me then, at last, with other people's eyes; you'll see me just as your daughter does now, as all wholesome folks see women like me. And I shall have no weapon to fight with--not one serviceable little bit of prettiness left me to defend myself with!

A worn-out creature--broken up, very likely, some time before I ought to be--my hair bright, my eyes dull, my body too thin or too stout, my cheeks raddled and ruddled--a ghost, a wreck, a caricature, a candle that gutters, call such an end what you like!

Oh, Aubrey, what shall I be able to say to you then? And this is the future you talk about! I know it--I know it! [_He is still sitting staring forward; she rocks herself to and fro as if in pain._] Oh, Aubrey! Oh! Oh!

AUBREY.

Paula----!

[_Trying to comfort her._

PAULA.

Oh, and I wanted so much to sleep to-night! [_Laying her head upon his shoulder. From the distance, in the garden, there comes the sound of_ DRUMMLE'S _voice; he is singing as he approaches the house._] That's Cayley, coming back from The Warren. [_Starting up._] He doesn't know, evidently. I--I won't see him!

[_She goes out quickly._ DRUMMLE'S _voice comes nearer._ AUBREY _rouses himself and s.n.a.t.c.hes up a book from the table, making a pretence of reading. After a moment or two,_ DRUMMLE _appears at the window and looks in._

DRUMMLE.

Aha! my dear chap!

AUBREY.

Cayley?

DRUMMLE.

[_Coming into the room._] I went down to The Warren after you?

AUBREY.

Yes?

DRUMMLE.

Missed you. Well? I've been gossiping with Mrs. Cortelyon. Confound you, I've heard the news!

AUBREY.

What have you heard?

DRUMMLE.

What have I heard! Why--Ellean and young Ardale! [_Looking at_ AUBREY _keenly._] My dear Aubrey! Alice is under the impression that you are inclined to look on the affair favourably.

AUBREY.

[_Rising and advancing to_ DRUMMLE.] You've not--met--Captain Ardale?

DRUMMLE.

No. Why do you ask? By-the-bye, I don't know that I need tell you--but it's rather strange. He's not at The Warren to-night.

AUBREY.

No?