them, since that day she made the
libation. She forgot the speedwell for me. Mother! Mother! Mother!
This is my libation! (_Drinks the poison, and lets the cup fall._) It
is done! (_She stands a moment perfectly still._) My God! not sleep,
but horror! Quick! Quick! (_Staggers behind the screen, and throws
herself on the couch, where she is hidden from the audience._) Arthur!
Arthur! Oh! save me! Arthur--oh! (_Moans and dies._)

(_A pause, then enter Denham and Mrs. Tremaine._)

Denham.

Constance! I left her here on the sofa, and now--Constance! She must
have gone to her room--she sometimes does. Have some tea, won't you?

(_They approach the tea-table._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

I don't know why I have come here, I am sure. I never meant to see
this place again; and yet, here I am, like the good-natured fool I
always was.

(_He places a chair for her by the table._)

Denham.

It was awfully good of you to come. That's such a strange letter for
Constance to have written. She asked you to come here at once, for
my sake and your own?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes. It's a mad kind of letter. (_She sits down._)

Denham.

I am very uneasy about her.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Well, what's that to me?

Denham.

Nothing, of course. Blanche, we have been living in hell since
yesterday.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I daresay. I have not been in Paradise, I assure you. What are you
going to do? (_Pours out some tea._)

Denham.

I don't know.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_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.