Denham.

I would ask your forgiveness humbly enough if that were of any use.  It isn’t, I know.  Sins that are instinctive, not of malice, lie too deep for forgiveness.

Mrs. Denham.

A fine aphorism, no doubt.  How does it apply?

Denham.

You can’t forgive insults that were not intended, and a “low intrigue” which was only a mad, selfish leap for life.  Let us part then, if you please.  We missed our moment for passion long ago, if that is what you want.

Mrs. Denham.

My want aches deeper.  Well, you love another woman.  Go to her.  Let her make you happy if she can.

Denham.

Why should I go to her?  I love her as a dream; let me keep her as a dream.  Why should I spoil her life as I have spoiled yours?

Mrs. Denham.

You could not spoil her life as you have spoiled mine, if you love her.

Denham.

(half to himself as he comes down stage R) It is a magnificent temptation.  To give one’s passion its full reckless swing, to feel the blood bounding in one’s veins—­

Mrs. Denham.

Why not?  And leave the woman to pay.

Denham.

(with a reckless bitterness) Yes, that’s the devil of it.  You have put me out of conceit with love.  Your chamber of horrors haunts my imagination.  If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be like gods.  But she can’t.  Why should we worry about it?  Why ask for cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for us?

Mrs. Denham.

You never loved me.  Your cakes and ale are no concern of mine. (Crosses to table.  Knock at door.) Come in!

(Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane.)

Jane.

Miss Macfarlane!

(Exit.)

Miss Macfarlane.

Well, my dear, how are you all?  Eh! but what’s the matter now? (She looks from one to the other.) Mrs. Tremaine, I suppose?

Denham.

Mrs. Tremaine has gone away—­back to the desert, as she says.

Miss Macfarlane.

And high time for her, too.  Upon my word, I should like to give that fascinating person a bit of my mind.

Denham.

And me too, I am sure.

Miss Macfarlane.

Well, as you ask me, Mr. Denham, I think your conduct in bringing that woman into the house, and carrying on a flirtation with her under your wife’s eyes, was simply abominable.  It was an insult to Constance.  Did ye ever consider that?  It was not the conduct of a gentleman!

Denham.

No, a gentleman should throw a decent veil of secrecy over his—­flirtations.  But, you see, if I had done that, I should have been a hypocrite; now I’m only a brute.

Miss Macfarlane.

Oh, my dear boy, don’t be a brute, and then you needn’t be a hypocrite.  There’s the way out of that.