Stop, stop.  I am your mother:  I swear it.  Oh, you can’t mean to turn on me—­my own child! it’s not natural.  You believe me, don’t you?  Say you believe me.

VIVIE.  Who was my father?

MRS WARREN.  You don’t know what youre asking.  I can’t tell you.

VIVIE [determinedly] Oh yes you can, if you like.  I have a right to know; and you know very well that I have that right.  You can refuse to tell me if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me tomorrow morning.

MRS WARREN.  Oh, it’s too horrible to hear you talk like that.  You wouldn’t—­you couldn’t leave me.

VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment’s hesitation, if you trifle with me about this. [Shivering with disgust] How can I feel sure that I may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins?

MRS WARREN.  No, no.  On my oath it’s not he, nor any of the rest that you have ever met.  I’m certain of that, at least.

[Vivie’s eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this flashes on her.]

VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at least.  Ah!  You mean that that is all you are certain of. [Thoughtfully] I see. [Mrs Warren buries her face in her hands].  Don’t do that, mother:  you know you don’t feel it a bit. [Mrs Warren takes down her hands and looks up deplorably at Vivie, who takes out her watch and says] Well, that is enough for tonight.  At what hour would you like breakfast?  Is half-past eight too early for you?

MRS WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you?

VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. 
Otherwise I don’t understand how it gets its business done.

Come [taking her mother by the wrist and pulling her up pretty resolutely]:  pull yourself together.  Thats right.

MRS WARREN [querulously] Youre very rough with me, Vivie.

VIVIE.  Nonsense.  What about bed?  It’s past ten.

MRS WARREN [passionately] Whats the use of my going to bed?  Do you think
I could sleep?

VIVIE.  Why not?  I shall.

MRS WARREN.  You! you’ve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in her natural tongue—­the dialect of a woman of the people—­with all her affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners gone, and an overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in her] Oh, I wont bear it:  I won’t put up with the injustice of it.  What right have you to set yourself up above me like this?  You boast of what you are to me—­to me, who gave you a chance of being what you are.  What chance had I?  Shame on you for a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude!

VIVIE [sitting down with a shrug, no longer confident; for her replies, which have sounded sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother] Don’t think for a moment I set myself above you in any way.  You attacked me with the conventional authority of a mother:  I defended myself with the conventional superiority of a respectable woman.  Frankly, I am not going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not expect you to stand any of mine.  I shall always respect your right to your own opinions and your own way of life.