Denham.

As you please.  Call it friendship, or anything you like.  To me it is new life.  You have simply taken possession of me from the first—­imagination, heart, soul, everything.  I live in you, I see your face, I hear your voice, I speak to you when you are absent, just as if you were present.  I call you aloud by your name—­Blanche, Blanche!

(She starts away from him, and the cloak remains in his hands.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

Hush, hush, Mr. Denham!  I ought not to listen to such words from you.  I never dreamed—­

Denham.

(throwing cloak over back of sofa) I know, I know.  Women never do; they go on their way like blindfold fates.  Is there such a thing as a magnetic attraction—­affinity?  I never believed in it till I saw you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(laughs nervously) With how little ingenuity men make love!

Denham.

Don’t laugh at my raving, you cruel Blanche!  I know it sounds as foolish as a schoolboy’s valentine; but it is as sincere—­and inadequate.  Words are stupid things. (He takes her hands, and looks in her face.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

Do let us part friends.  If you are in earnest, you must know this is wicked as well as foolish.

Denham.

Yes, it is always wicked to snatch a moment’s supreme happiness in this world. If I am in earnest!  You know I am in earnest! (He strokes her hair, then, as she turns away, he puts his arm round her waist and draws her to him.) Blanche, my beautiful Blanche!  I did not mean to say all this, but it was too strong for me.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Let me go, Mr. Denham!

Denham.

(releasing her) Well, go! (Crosses L.) Go, if you can!

Mrs. Tremaine.

(angrily) I can and will. (Turns to take her cloak.)

Denham.

Do you know, Blanche, I thought you loved me?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(turning sharply) Then you were more foolish than I thought. (Softening.) Perhaps I was to blame, but I meant nothing wrong.

Denham.

Oh, I acquit you completely!  We drifted—­that was all.  Jest sometimes turns to earnest.  Well, go—­go with those tears in your eyes.  There is nothing worth crying about—­more than is becoming.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Don’t say unkind things to me.  I can’t bear them, though I suppose I deserve them.  I liked you, and your admiration flattered my vanity; and I suppose I may have made you think I cared more for you than—­I did.

Denham.

Well, you don’t love me.  What does it matter? I love you; that is the important thing to me.  I thank you for that eternal possession.  Let it be a dream, austere and pure.  Passion has its own ascetic cell, where it can fast and scourge itself.  I ask you for nothing, Blanche.  I am yours wholly.  Do what you like with me.