o you think marriage exists for the sake
of ideal love? What about Undine?

Mrs. Denham.

I presume you will provide for your daughter?

Denham.

Is she not yours too?

Mrs. Denham.

She loves you; she does not love me. I suppose I don't deserve it. I
know you think I have been a bad wife, a bad mother. I am better out
of your way. (_Weeps._)

Denham.

This is morbid. Oh, if I could have cured you! Constance! (_He
caresses her hair._)

Mrs. Denham.

Don't touch me! It is an insult.

Denham.

(_sighing_) I suppose I have lost the right of comforting you.
(_Crosses_ R.)

Mrs. Denham.

I don't want your pity. (_Rises._)

Denham.

Perhaps I want yours.

Mrs. Denham.

(_indignantly_) Suppose _you_ had caught _me_ in a low intrigue, and
I had dared to speak to you as you have spoken to me--without so
much as a word that implied sorrow or repentance, what would you say
to me?

Denham.

I would ask your forgiveness humbly enough if that were of any use.
It isn't, I know. Sins that are instinctive, not of malice, lie too
deep for forgiveness.

Mrs. Denham.

A fine aphorism, no doubt. How does it apply?

Denham.

You can't forgive insults that were not intended, and a "low
intrigue" which was only a mad, selfish leap for life. Let us part
then, if you please. We missed our moment for passion long ago, if
that is what you want.

Mrs. Denham.

My want aches deeper. Well, you love another woman. Go to her. Let
her make you happy if she can.

Denham.

Why should I go to her? I love her as a dream; let me keep her as a
dream. Why should I spoil her life as I have spoiled yours?

Mrs. Denham.

You could not spoil her life as you have spoiled mine, if you love
her.

Denham.

(_half to himself as he comes down stage_ R) It is a
magnificent temptation. To give one's passion its full reckless
swing, to feel the blood bounding in one's veins--

Mrs. Denham.

Why not? And leave the woman to pay.

Denham.

(_with a reckless bitterness_) Yes, that's the devil of it. You have
put me out of conceit with love. Your chamber of horrors haunts my
imagination. If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be
like gods. But she can't. Why should we worry about it? Why ask for
cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for
us?

Mrs. Denham.

You never loved me. Your cakes and ale are no concern of mine.
(_Crosses to table. Knock at door._) Come in!

(_Enter Jane,