Denham.

Cant?  Philosophy!  But don’t forget the third, The Divine Virgin—­Womanhood fashioning itself independently after its own ideal.  She has driven us, naked and ashamed, into the desert of disillusion.

Mrs. Denham.

Truth, truth—­let me have truth, though it kill me!  Men are cowards; they dare not face the naked facts of life.

Denham.

Men are poets.  Facts are but the crude stuff of life.  Imagination is all.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, if you want romance, had you not better go and look for your
Divine Mistress?  Perhaps you may find some ugly truths in her too.

Denham.

(laughing) One woman is surely enough for the purposes of disillusion.  It is too late to begin sowing one’s wild oats.  There are no dangerous women about.  If there were one healthy women in the world—­(Crosses to picture.)

Mrs. Denham.

Well?

Denham.

You might have some cause for jealousy.

Mrs. Denham.

You would quit the wreck?

Denham.

If it were really a wreck—­perhaps.  But why should it be? (He takes her in his arms, and kisses her.) For Heaven’s sake, cease to wallow in the mud of pessimism!  Have faith in yourself and Nature—­or at least Human-nature.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, if I could, if I could! (A knock at the door.)

Denham.

Come in.

(Enter Jane with a telegram, which she hands to Mrs. Denham.)

Jane.

Please, m’m, a telegram; the boy’s waiting!

(Mrs. Denham tears open the telegram.)

Mrs. Denham.

(pointing to spilt water) Just wipe up that water, Jane, and push back this table. (Jane wipes up water, moves table against R, wall, and takes away Undine’s slate and book.)

Mrs. Denham.

(reads) “In town; will call this afternoon.”

Jane.

Is there any answer, m’m?

Mrs. Denham.

No answer. (Exit Jane.) Arthur! this is from Blanche Tremaine.  She is in town, and comes here to-day.  Let me see; it must be more than ten years since we’ve met—­before we were married.

Denham.

Blanche Tremaine?  Who is she?

Mrs. Denham.

My old class-fellow at our college in town.  She played in our Greek play.  She was just seventeen then.

Denham.

Younger than you?

Mrs. Denham.

Two years.  Yes; she must be about eight-and-twenty now.  You know I told you about her.  She married a Mr. Overton.

Denham.

Overton?  I seem to have heard the name.  Didn’t she run away from her husband, or something?

Mrs. Denham.

Yes, poor thing!  He led her an awful life.

Denham.

Oh, and then she married the co-respondent!  I remember.