unafraid. Life is for _life_--though
it cuts us from the farthest life. How can I make you know that's true?
All that we're open to--(_hesitates, shudders_) But yes--I will, I will
risk the life that waits. Perhaps only he who gives his
loneliness--shall find. You never keep by holding, (_gesture of giving_)
To the uttermost. And it is gone--or it is there. You do not know
and--that makes the moment--(_music has begun--a phonograph downstairs;
they do not heed it_) Just as I would cut my wrists--(_holding them
out_) Yes, perhaps this lesser thing will tell it--would cut my wrists
and let the blood flow out till all is gone if my last drop would
make--would make--(_looking at them fascinated_) I want to see it doing
that! Let me give my last chance for life to--

(_He snatches her--they are on the brink of their moment; now that there
are no words the phonograph from downstairs is louder. It is playing
languorously the Barcarole; they become conscious of this--they do not
want to be touched by the love song._)

CLAIRE: Don't listen. That's nothing. This isn't that, (_fearing_) I
tell you--it isn't that. Yes, I know--that's amorous--enclosing. I
know--a little place. This isn't that, (_her arms going around him--all
the lure of 'that' while she pleads against it as it comes up to them_)
We will come out--to radiance--in far places (_admitting, using_) Oh,
then let it be that! Go with it. Give up--the otherness. I will! And in
the giving up--perhaps a door--we'd never find by searching. And if it's
no more--than all have known, I only say it's worth the allness! (_her
arms wrapped round him_) My love--my love--let go your pride in
loneliness and let me give you joy!

TOM: (_drenched in her passion, but fighting_) It's _you_. (_in
anguish_) You rare thing untouched--not--not into this--not back into
this--by me--lover of your apartness.

(_She steps back. She sees he cannot. She stands there, before what she
wanted more than life, and almost had, and lost. A long moment. Then she
runs down the stairs._)

CLAIRE: (_her voice coming up_) Harry! Choke that phonograph! If you
want to be lewd--do it yourselves! You tawdry things--you cheap little
lewd cowards, (_a door heard opening below_) Harry! If you don't stop
that music, I'll kill myself.

(_far down, steps on stairs_)

HARRY: Claire, what _is_ this?

CLAIRE: Stop that phonograph or I'll--

HARRY: Why, of course I'll stop it. What--what is there to get so
excit