you scream at me like that?

Undine.

(_crying_) But you're hurting me.

Mrs. Denham.

Bear it then, bear it _decently_, without screaming like a beast.
Have you done your sums?

Undine.

Not all.

Mrs. Denham.

(_looking at sums_) Only one done, and that not right. Oh, this
_wicked_ waste of time! You are killing me and killing yourself.
When you waste your time you are wasting your life. Why _will_ you
waste your time?

Undine.

I don't know.

Mrs. Denham.

Then you must be taught to know.

Denham.

May I say a word? I am chiefly to blame. We were talking about the
Greek gods.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh well, if _you_ encourage her in her laziness, I can do nothing.
(_Crosses L as she speaks, then turns suddenly._) Get out
of my sight, miss! It is time for you to go out now. Go away, and
take off that pinafore. You are a disgrace to your father and to me.
(_Gives her a final shake. Undine runs out screaming._) Oh dear! Oh
dear! There! Listen to that precious daughter of yours, filling the
house with her yells. (_She presses her hands over her ears._) Oh,
that child will be the death of me! (_Throws herself down upon the
couch._) She ought never to have been born. Her existence is a
mistake and a curse.

Denham.

(_sighing_) Yes, we are all mistakes from the ideal standpoint.

Mrs. Denham.

It makes me mad to think that I--I--should have brought such an
idiot into the world!

Denham.

Yes, you are an over-populated woman, dear. (_Rises up to her._) The
modern woman is very easily over-populated.

Mrs. Denham.

You can joke about it, of course. To me it is a serious calamity.
(_Weeps._)

Denham.

Well, dear, at least we have not repeated our initial mistake.
(_Crosses to picture._)

Mrs. Denham.

Do you regret it?

Denham.

God forbid! I only regret that our relations were not always
strictly platonic. That is the highest practical ideal of the
age--modern woman being what she is.

Mrs. Denham.

Yes, I know you despise me in your heart. You are always sneering at
me as a modern woman. What do you mean?

Denham.

(_crosses to her_) I agree with Michelet: "_La femme est une
malade._"

Mrs. Denham.

And what is man?

Denham.

(_sits in armchair_) Oh, a sick creature too--that's the worst of
it. The world spirit is moulting, and we're all sick together.

Mrs. Denham.

Phrases, phrases, always phrases! When I am most in earnest you put
me off with a jest.

Denham.