Mrs. Denham.

It makes me mad to think that I—­I—­should have brought such an idiot into the world!

Denham.

Yes, you are an over-populated woman, dear. (Rises up to her.) The modern woman is very easily over-populated.

Mrs. Denham.

You can joke about it, of course.  To me it is a serious calamity. (Weeps.)

Denham.

Well, dear, at least we have not repeated our initial mistake. (Crosses to picture.)

Mrs. Denham.

Do you regret it?

Denham.

God forbid!  I only regret that our relations were not always strictly platonic.  That is the highest practical ideal of the age—­modern woman being what she is.

Mrs. Denham.

Yes, I know you despise me in your heart.  You are always sneering at me as a modern woman.  What do you mean?

Denham.

(crosses to her) I agree with Michelet:  “La femme est une malade.”

Mrs. Denham.

And what is man?

Denham.

(sits in armchair) Oh, a sick creature too—­that’s the worst of it.  The world spirit is moulting, and we’re all sick together.

Mrs. Denham.

Phrases, phrases, always phrases!  When I am most in earnest you put me off with a jest.

Denham.

“If I laugh at any mortal thing, ’tis that I may not weep.”

Mrs. Denham.

(sobbing) I know I have disappointed you; I know you are not satisfied with me; I have not made you happy.

Denham.

(starting up and pacing) Happy?  Give me life!  Give me life!  Happiness can take care of itself.  But there is no use in crying “Give, give!” like the horse-leech.  If we want impossibilities we must achieve them. (Crosses R.)

Mrs. Denham.

You want incompatible things.

Denham.

Of course I do.  So do you.  Your reason and your instincts are at war, just like mine.  That is our sickness.

Mrs. Denham.

How at war?

Denham.

Your reason tells you that woman is independent, self-sufficing.  Your instincts cry feebly for passion, that savage outlaw which still lies in wait for the modern woman, to carry her whither she would not.  Hence your lapse from strict agnostic morality into matrimony, bondage, subjection, and the mistake, Undine.

Mrs. Denham.

That child has come between us.  I think children often do.

Denham.

Is that one of the necessary horrors of matrimony?

Mrs. Denham.

Heaven help me, that girl drives me mad!

Denham.

Nerves, nerves, as usual.  She irritates you, and you irritate her.  The mere presence of a child sets your teeth on edge. (Crosses, and sits R of table.)

Mrs. Denham.

My brain has been torn to pieces by children all my life.  I was a slave to my own brothers and sisters, because I was the eldest.