Mrs. Gwyn.  You think I’m a monster to hurt you.  Ah! yes!  You’ll understand better some day.

Joy. [In a sudden outburst of excited fear.] I won’t believe it—­
I—­I—­can’t—­you’re deserting me, Mother.

Mrs. Gwyn.  Oh, you untouched things!  You——­

     [Joy’ looks up suddenly, sees her face, and sinks down on her
     knees.]

Joy.  Mother—­it ’s for me!

Gwyn.  Ask for my life, joy—­don’t be afraid.

     [Joy turns her face away.  Mrs. Gwyn bends suddenly and touches
     her daughter’s hair; joy shrinks from that touch.]

[Recoiling as though she had been stung.] I forgot—­I ’m deserting you.

[And swiftly without looking back she goes away.  Joy, left alone under the hollow tree, crouches lower, and her shoulders shake.  Here Dick finds her, when he hears no longer any sound o f voices.  He falls on his knees beside her.]

Dick.  Oh!  Joy; dear, don’t cry.  It’s so dreadful to see you!  I ’d do anything not to see you cry!  Say something.

     [Joy is still for a moment, then the shaking of the shoulders
     begins again.]

Joy, darling!  It’s so awful, you ’ll make yourself ill, and it is n’t worth it, really.  I ’d do anything to save you pain—­won’t you stop just for a minute?

     [Joy is still again.]

Nothing in the world ’s worth your crying, Joy.  Give me just a little look!

Joy. [Looking; in a smothered voice.] Don’t!

Dick.  You do look so sweet!  Oh, Joy, I’ll comfort you, I’ll take it all on myself.  I know all about it.

     [Joy gives a sobbing laugh]

I do.  I ’ve had trouble too, I swear I have.  It gets better, it does really.

Joy.  You don’t know—­it’s—­it’s——­

Dick.  Don’t think about it!  No, no, no!  I know exactly what it’s like. [He strokes her arm.]

Joy. [Shrinking, in a whisper.] You mustn’t.

     [The music of a waltz is heard again.]

Dick.  Look here, joy!  It’s no good, we must talk it over calmly.

Joy.  You don’t see!  It’s the—­it ’s the disgrace——­

Dick.  Oh! as to disgrace—­she’s your Mother, whatever she does; I’d like to see anybody say anything about her—­[viciously]—­I’d punch his head.

Joy. [Gulping her tears.] That does n’t help.

Dick.  But if she doesn’t love your Father——­

Joy.  But she’s married to him!

Dick. [Hastily.] Yes, of course, I know, marriage is awfully important; but a man understands these things.

     [Joy looks at him.  Seeing the impression he has made, he tries
     again.]

I mean, he understands better than a woman.  I’ve often argued about moral questions with men up at Oxford.