ds Mrs. Denham to sofa._) And now
you can tell me or not, just as you like.

Mrs. Denham.

What is there to tell? It is all over--that is all. (_She sits down,
weeping._)

Miss Macfarlane.

But what's all over? We sometimes think things are all over, when
they're only beginning. A thunderstorm's not the Day of Judgment. It
clears the air.

Mrs. Denham.

This _is_ the Day of Judgment for me. I am weighed in the balance
and found wanting. I wish I were dead.

Miss Macfarlane.

Nonsense, dear; you're no failure. But I'll tell ye what the two of
you are--a pair of fools; that's what you are. You should have put
your foot down, my dear. _She_ was the Black Cat you ought to have
got rid of, and nipped this business in the bud. I don't know how
far it has gone. Does he want to run away with her?

Mrs. Denham.

No; he professes to have given her up.

Miss Macfarlane.

Then he's none such a fool, after all. That woman would have led him
a pretty dance!

Mrs. Denham.

He loves her--let him go to her. (_Rises and crosses_ L.
_Stopped by Miss Macfarlane._)

Miss Macfarlane.

Fiddlesticks, my dear! Don't force him into her arms. Mind you, he
has vowed to cherish you as well as to love you; and how can he do
that if you drive him away? Do ye remember one of his misquotations
from Byron:

"Man's love is from his life a thing apart,
'Tis woman's main subsistence?"

There's truth in that.

Mrs. Denham.

Men make love, like everything else, a mere _game_.

Miss Macfarlane.

Ay, you're right there. But until _we_ hold the purse strings, it's
hard to keep them to the strict rules o' the game.

Mrs. Denham.

That is a vile injustice! I may not be able to fight on equal terms,
but I will never submit. If he does not go, I will. (_Crosses_
R.)

Miss Macfarlane.

Don't wreck your lives for a man's passing fancy. If that's your new
morality, I prefer the old. Don't turn this comedy into a tragedy.
That's all very well on the stage, but we're not acting an Ibsen
play; it doesn't pay in real life.

Mrs. Denham.

A good tragedy is better than a bad comedy.

Miss Macfarlane.

Come to your room, my dear. Have your cry out, sponge your eyes, and
we'll have a quiet talk.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, this sense of failure! It will drive me mad!

ACT DROP.

Act III.

_Scene: The Studio. Mrs. Denham lying on sofa_ R C, _a
shawl over her feet, her face buried in her hands, moaning
inarticulately