Fitzgerald.

All right.  Good-bye. (Shakes hands, and exit.)

Denham.

Stay here, Constance.  I’ll bring the child to you.

(Exit, following Fitzgerald.)

Mrs. Denham.

Undine, my little Undine!  Have I been a bad mother to you?  And I have tried to do right.  Oh, how I have tried!  All in vain—­all in vain. (Paces up and down, then sits listlessly on the sofa.) Utter wreck!  Utter wreck!  Utter failure in everything!

(Re-enter Denham, with Undine.  Mrs. Denham starts up.)

Denham.

Here’s our little truant come back to mother.

(Undine comes down the stage slowly, looking dazed.  Mrs. Denham embraces the child passionately.)

Mrs. Denham.

My little Undine!  My little girl!  Did she think mother wanted to get rid of her?

Undine.

(with sorrowful indignation) You said you wished I was dead, and I thought you didn’t want me any more.  I thought perhaps you were going to kill me with a knife, like Medea, and I didn’t like that.  I thought the river would be kinder.

Mrs. Denham.

That was foolish, Undine.  Mother would not kill her own little girl.

(Sits down on sofa with Undine.  Denham shrugs his shoulders, and sits down at the table to work at his drawing.)

Undine.

But I thought you meant what you said.  You oughtn’t to say what you don’t mean, mother.

Mrs. Denham.

No, my darling, I ought not.  But I was angry with you for being disobedient, and I suppose I said more than I meant.  I don’t remember, Arthur, I don’t remember what I said.

Denham.

I quite understand that, dear.

Mrs. Denham.

Will my little girl forgive mother?

Undine.

Yes, you know I’ll always forgive you, mother.  But you said I had brought shame upon father. (Going up to Denham, bursting into indignant tears.) I don’t want to bring shame upon father! (Takes out her handkerchief, and mops her face.)

Denham.

(comforting her) Of course not.  But you know you should be obedient to mother, Undine, and keep your promises.  Then we sha’n’t be ashamed of our little girl.

Undine.

(sobbing) But there’s no use promising.  Oh, I am so tired! (Yawns.)

Denham.

Well, suppose you go to sleep for a while?

Mrs. Denham.

She can lie on her bed, and I’ll put mother’s cloak over her.  Would you like that?

Undine.

(sleepily) Yes.

(Mrs. Denham leads her away, the handkerchief falls on the floor.)

Denham.

(gets up from the table, takes his pipe, lights it, and sits down again) Everything seems torn up by the roots here.  What is to become of that monkey?  She has routed her mother, horse, foot, and dragoons, this time.  Well, it’s a wise mother that knows her own daughter. (Works on again.) Going to drown herself!  Perhaps it would have been better if her father had hung himself long ago.  There’s always that question of:  To be or not to be?