could you ever have allowed this to
happen? Oh, I suppose I'm talking foolishness. It wasn't your seeking,
I know.

MARTHA--Yes it was, Curt. I wished it. I sought it.

CURTIS--[Indignantly.] Martha! [Then in a hurt tone.] You have broken
the promise we made when they died. We were to keep their memories
inviolate. They were to be always--our only children.

MARTHA--[Gently.] They forgive me, Curt. And you will forgive me,
too--when you see him--and love him.

CURTIS--Him?

MARTHA--I know it will be a boy.

CURTIS--[Sinking down on the couch beside her--dully.] Martha! You have
blown my world to bits.

MARTHA--[Taking one of his hands in hers--gently.] You must make
allowances for me. Curt, and forgive me. I AM getting old. No, it's the
truth. I've reached the turning point. Will you listen to my side of
it, Curt, and try to see it--with sympathy--with true
understanding--[With a trace of bitterness.]--forgetting your work for
the moment?

CURTIS--[Miserably.] That's unfair, Martha. I think of it as OUR
work--and I have always believed you did, too.

MARTHA--[Quickly.] I did, Curt! I do! All in the past is our work. It's
my greatest pride to think so. But, Curt, I'll have to confess
frankly--during the past two years I've felt myself--feeling as if I
wasn't complete--with that alone.

CURTIS--Martha! [Bitterly.] And all the time I believed that more and
more it was becoming the aim of your life, too.

MARTHA--[With a sad smile.] I'm glad of that, dear. I tried my best to
conceal it from you. It would have been so unfair to let you guess
while we were still in harness. But oh, how I kept looking forward to
the time when we would come back--and rest--in our own home! You
know--you said that was your plan--to stay here and write your
books--and I was hoping--

CURTIS--[With a gesture of aversion.] I loathe this book-writing. It
isn't my part, I realize now. But when I made the plans you speak of,
how could I know that then?

MARTHA--[Decisively.] You've got to go. I won't try to stop you. I'll
help all in my power--as I've always done. Only--I can't go with you
any more. And you must help me--to do my work--by understanding it. [He
is silent, frowning, his face agitated, preoccupied. She goes on
intensely.] Oh, Curt, I wish I could tell you what I feel, make you
feel with me the longing for a child. If you had just the tiniest bit
of feminine in you--! [Forcing a smile.] But you're so utterly
masculine,