Oh, nonsense, Constance! For Heaven's sake don't brood over that.
There is something in every family, if one only inquires. Your
nerves are over-strained. I wish you'd go to bed, and let me have
some one to see you. You are looking like a ghost.

Mrs. Denham.

I feel like one. But I am not going to haunt the scene of my crimes
any longer. I am going away--going away!

Denham.

Well, I'm going with you, then, to take care of you. We'll send
Undine somewhere, and go abroad for a while.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh yes. You can be kind enough, if that were all.

Denham.

Will you never make peace?

Mrs. Denham.

The only peace I _can_ make.

Denham.

What do you mean?

Mrs. Denham.

I shall trouble you no longer.

Denham.

My dear girl, don't talk like that. It is ghastly. Constance, I must
go to Fitzgerald with this wretched drawing. I have to give some
directions about the reproduction. I sha'n't be long. Promise me
that you won't do anything foolish--that I shall find you here when
I come back.

Mrs. Denham.

Yes--you shall find me here.

Denham.

That's right. (_Goes to settee, and takes up shawl._) And now lie
down here, and let me cover you with this shawl.

Mrs. Denham.

Very well. (_She lies down._) Arthur!

Denham.

Yes, dear.

Mrs. Denham.

Kiss me once before you go.

Denham.

Oh, if I may! (_Kisses her._) My poor Constance! I would give my
heart's blood to comfort you. And meanwhile I'll send you a better
thing--tea.

Mrs. Denham.

Thank you, dear. You have always tried to be good to me. You could
not help being cruel, I suppose.

Denham.

I want to be good to you always. Well, good-bye, and God bless you!
(_Kisses her._)

Mrs. Denham.

God bless you! (_Exit Denham._)

Mrs. Denham.

(_listens for a while, then starts up_) He had tears in his eyes
when he kissed me. Poor Arthur! he thinks we are going to patch it
up, I suppose. I am to live on pity--a man's pity, more akin to
contempt than to love. Why _should_ he love me? I was not born to
be loved, not made to be loved. And yet I wanted love so much. I
wanted all or nothing, and I have got pity--pity that puts you in a
madhouse, and comfortably leaves you to rot! Oh, my God! is this
madness--this horror of darkness that seems pressing on my brain?
(_A knock at the door._) What's that? Come in! (_Enter Jane with
tea._) No, not there, Jane--the small table; and bring another cup,
will you?

Jane.

Yes, m'm.