George. [Staring at her hat] You mad little fool!  Understand this; if you’ve not returned home by three o’clock I’ll divorce you, and you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours.  And mind this, you sir—­I won’t spare you—­by God!  Your pocket shall suffer.  That’s the only thing that touches fellows like you.

     Turning, he goes out, and slams the door.  Clare and Malise
     remain face to face.  Her lips have begun to quiver.

Clare.  Horrible!

She turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands.  Malise picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly.  Then putting it down, he moves so that he can see her face.  She is sitting quite still, staring straight before her.

Malise.  Nothing could be better.

Clare.  I don’t know what to do!  I don’t know what to do!

Malise.  Thank the stars for your good fortune.

Clare.  He means to have revenge on you!  And it’s all my fault.

Malise.  Let him.  Let him go for his divorce.  Get rid of him.  Have done with him—­somehow.

     She gets up and stands with face averted.  Then swiftly turning
     to him.

Clare.  If I must bring you harm—­let me pay you back!  I can’t bear it otherwise!  Make some use of me, if you don’t mind!

Malise.  My God!

     [She puts up her face to be kissed, shutting her eyes.]

Malise.  You poor——­

He clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face.  She has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands twitching.

Malise. [Very quietly] No, no!  This is not the house of a “gentleman.”

Clare. [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper] I’m sorry.

Malise.  I understand.

Clare.  I don’t feel.  And without—­I can’t, can’t.

Malise. [Bitterly] Quite right.  You’ve had enough of that.

     There is a long silence.  Without looking at him she takes up
     her hat, and puts it on.

Malise.  Not going?

     [Clare nods]

Malise.  You don’t trust me?

Clare.  I do!  But I can’t take when I’m not giving.

Malise.  I beg—­I beg you!  What does it matter?  Use me!  Get free somehow.

Clare.  Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in for all this.  I know what you want—­or will want.  Of course—­why not?

Malise.  I give you my solemn word——­

Clare.  No! if I can’t be that to you—­it’s not real.  And I can’t. 
It isn’t to be manufactured, is it?