l kill ourselves; for the same taint is in both, through
and through.

FRANK [looking critically at her] There is a touch of poetry about you
today, Viv, which has hitherto been lacking.

PRAED [remonstrating] My dear Frank: aren't you a little unsympathetic?

VIVIE [merciless to herself] No: it's good for me. It keeps me from
being sentimental.

FRANK [bantering her] Checks your strong natural propensity that way,
don't it?

VIVIE [almost hysterically] Oh yes: go on: don't spare me. I was
sentimental for one moment in my life--beautifully sentimental--by
moonlight; and now--

FRANK [quickly] I say, Viv: take care. Don't give yourself away.

VIVIE. Oh, do you think Mr Praed does not know all about my mother?
[Turning on Praed] You had better have told me that morning, Mr Praed.
You are very old fashioned in your delicacies, after all.

PRAED. Surely it is you who are a little old fashioned in your
prejudices, Miss Warren. I feel bound to tell you, speaking as an
artist, and believing that the most intimate human relationships are
far beyond and above the scope of the law, that though I know that your
mother is an unmarried woman, I do not respect her the less on that
account. I respect her more.

FRANK [airily] Hear! hear!

VIVIE [staring at him] Is that _all_ you know?

PRAED. Certainly that is all.

VIVIE. Then you neither of you know anything. Your guesses are innocence
itself compared with the truth.

PRAED [rising, startled and indignant, and preserving his politeness
with an effort] I hope not. [More emphatically] I hope not, Miss Warren.

FRANK [whistles] Whew!

VIVIE. You are not making it easy for me to tell you, Mr Praed.

PRAED [his chivalry drooping before their conviction] If there is
anything worse--that is, anything else--are you sure you are right to
tell us, Miss Warren?

VIVIE. I am sure that if I had the courage I should spend the rest of my
life in telling everybody--stamping and branding it into them until they
all felt their part in its abomination as I feel mine. There is nothing
I despise more than the wicked convention that protects these things
by forbidding a woman to mention them. And yet I can't tell you. The two
infamous words that describe what my mother is are ringing in my ears
and struggling on my tongue; but I can't utter them: the shame of them
is too horrible for me. [She buries her face in her hands. The two men,
astonished, stare at one another and then at her