JEAN.  I’ll go with you-but at once, before it’s too late.  This very moment!

JULIA.  Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage.]

JEAN.  But no baggage!  That would only give us away.

JULIA.  No, nothing at all!  Only what we can take with us in the car.

JEAN. [Has taken down his hat] What have you got there?  What is it?

JULIA.  It’s only my finch.  I can’t leave it behind.

JEAN.  Did you ever!  Dragging a bird-cage along with us!  You must be raving mad!  Drop the cage!

JULIA.  The only thing I take with me from my home!  The only living creature that loves me since Diana deserted me!  Don’t be cruel!  Let me take it along!

JEAN.  Drop the cage, I tell you!  And don’t talk so loud—­Christine can hear us.

JULIA.  No, I won’t let it fall into strange hands.  I’d rather have you kill it!

JEAN.  Well, give it to me, and I’ll wring its neck.

JULIA.  Yes, but don’t hurt it.  Don’t—­no, I cannot!

JEAN.  Let me—­I can!

JULIA. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] Oh, my little birdie, must it die and go away from its mistress!

JEAN.  Don’t make a scene, please.  Don’t you know it’s a question of your life, of your future?  Come, quick! [Snatches the bird away from her, carries it to the chopping block and picks up an axe.  MISS JULIA turns away.]

JEAN.  You should have learned how to kill chickens instead of shooting with a revolver—­[brings down the axe]—­then you wouldn’t have fainted for a drop of blood.

JULIA. [Screaming] Kill me too!  Kill me!  You who can take the life of an innocent creature without turning a hair!  Oh, I hate and despise you!  There is blood between us!  Cursed be the hour when I first met you!  Cursed be the hour when I came to life in my mother’s womb!

JEAN.  Well, what’s the use of all that cursing?  Come on!

JULIA. [Approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it against her will] No, I don’t want to go yet.  I cannot—–­I must see—­Hush!  There’s a carriage coming up the road. [Listening without taking her eyes of the block and the axe] You think I cannot stand the sight of blood.  You think I am as weak as that—­oh, I should like to see your blood, your brains, on that block there.  I should like to see your whole sex swimming in blood like that thing there.  I think I could drink out of your skull, and bathe my feet in your open breast, and eat your heart from the spit!—­You think I am weak; you think I love you because the fruit of my womb was yearning for your seed; you think I want to carry your offspring under my heart and nourish it with my blood—­bear your children and take your name!  Tell me, you, what are you called anyhow?  I have never heard your family name—–­and maybe you haven’t any.  I should become Mrs.  “Hovel,” or Mrs.  “Backyard”—­you dog there, that’s wearing my collar; you lackey