Denham.

Let us leave this tone of falsetto, Constance, and speak seriously to each other.  I have come to you for help in this crisis of our lives.  Sit down. (Gives her a chair.)

Mrs. Denham.

(sitting) To me!  That is very magnanimous.

Denham.

No.  You are the only friend I have.

Mrs. Denham.

Well?

Denham.

You bid me desert the nest?

Mrs. Denham.

Since it is cold.

Denham.

Is it so cold?

Mrs. Denham.

Need you ask? (Shivers.) If you do not quit it, I will.

Denham.

I have no doubt you will do what you think right.  The question is, what is right? (Rises, and looks at her.)

Mrs. Denham.

(looking away from him) You have always held yourself aloof from me.  All my love has been powerless to gain an entrance into your heart.  Now it is too late.  I give up the useless struggle.

(Crosses L, and sits in armchair crouching over fire.)

Denham.

(passionately) Held myself aloof!  Good God! is that my fault?  You want something that you can neither excite nor reciprocate. (With a sudden change of manner.) No—­it was my own dulness of heart.  My poor Constance!  This has been a revelation for us both.  But you don’t know how I have tried to conform to your ideals—­to spare you in every possible way.

Mrs. Denham.

(bitterly) Yes, you have been very patient, very forbearing, no doubt.  It is better to kill a woman than to tolerate her.

Denham.

You did not always think so.  You wanted love in the form of an unselfish intellectual friendship.  Well, I have tried to love you unselfishly, God knows!  It is an impossible basis for marriage.  However, we are married.  May we not at least be friends? (Comes and stands by her chair.) Do you think marriage exists for the sake of ideal love?  What about Undine?

Mrs. Denham.

I presume you will provide for your daughter?

Denham.

Is she not yours too?

Mrs. Denham.

She loves you; she does not love me.  I suppose I don’t deserve it.  I know you think I have been a bad wife, a bad mother.  I am better out of your way. (Weeps.)

Denham.

This is morbid.  Oh, if I could have cured you!  Constance! (He caresses her hair.)

Mrs. Denham.

Don’t touch me!  It is an insult.

Denham.

(sighing) I suppose I have lost the right of comforting you. (Crosses R.)

Mrs. Denham.

I don’t want your pity. (Rises.)

Denham.

Perhaps I want yours.

Mrs. Denham.

(indignantly) Suppose you had caught me in a low intrigue, and I had dared to speak to you as you have spoken to me—­without so much as a word that implied sorrow or repentance, what would you say to me?