said “Poor Constance”? (Puts it down again, and presses her hands to her ears.) There are voices in my brain—­voices that burn like the flames of hell.  Sleep, sleep—­we must cheat the madness. (Takes the cup, and passes R, as if to go behind screen.) How awfully things look at you when you’re going to die!  I did not know this.  There’s Demeter with Undine’s wreath of daisies withered on her head.  My life has withered with them, since that day she made the libation.  She forgot the speedwell for me.  Mother!  Mother!  Mother!  This is my libation! (Drinks the poison, and lets the cup fall.) It is done! (She stands a moment perfectly still.) My God! not sleep, but horror!  Quick!  Quick! (Staggers behind the screen, and throws herself on the couch, where she is hidden from the audience.) Arthur!  Arthur!  Oh! save me!  Arthur—­oh! (Moans and dies.)

(A pause, then enter Denham and Mrs. Tremaine.)

Denham.

Constance!  I left her here on the sofa, and now—­Constance!  She must have gone to her room—­she sometimes does.  Have some tea, won’t you?

(They approach the tea-table.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

I don’t know why I have come here, I am sure.  I never meant to see this place again; and yet, here I am, like the good-natured fool I always was.

(He places a chair for her by the table.)

Denham.

It was awfully good of you to come.  That’s such a strange letter for Constance to have written.  She asked you to come here at once, for my sake and your own?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes.  It’s a mad kind of letter. (She sits down.)

Denham.

I am very uneasy about her.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Well, what’s that to me?

Denham.

Nothing, of course.  Blanche, we have been living in hell since yesterday.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I daresay.  I have not been in Paradise, I assure you.  What are you going to do? (Pours out some tea.)

Denham.

I don’t know.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(puts in sugar) Will she—­stay with you?

Denham.

What else can she do?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(stirring her tea) Then I wish you joy of the menage.  You don’t seem to have gained much by making a fool of me.

Denham.

You have renewed the world for me.  The mere thought of you is sunshine.  Here we have always been at loggerheads with life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Then why—? (Sips her tea.) Bah!  Upon my word, Arthur Denham, that woman has drained you of your manhood like a vampire, made you the limp coward that you are.

Denham.

Not a word against Constance, or I shall hate you, Blanche.  No—­I am haunted by a ghost.

Mrs. Tremaine.

A metaphorical one?