Beatrice.  Thank you, my child.  I’ll see to that.

[Ivy looks at her as if she would speak again, then turns suddenly, and goes out.  BEATRICE’S face darkens; she shivers.  Taking out a little cigarette case, she lights a cigarette, and watches the puff’s of smoke wreathe shout her and die away.  The frightened mercy peers out, spying for a chance, to escape.  Then from the house Strangway comes in.  All his dreaminess is gone.]

Strangway.  Thank God! [He stops at the look on her face] I don’t understand, though.  I thought you were still out there.

Beatrice. [Letting her cigarette fall, and putting her foot on it] No.

Strangway:  You’re staying?  Oh!  Beatrice; come!  We’ll get away from here at once—­as far, as far—­anywhere you like.  Oh! my darling —­only come!  If you knew——­

Beatrice.  It’s no good, Michael; I’ve tried and tried.

Strangway.  Not!  Then, why—?  Beatrice!  You said, when you were right away—­I’ve waited——­

Beatrice.  I know.  It’s cruel—­it’s horrible.  But I told you not to hope, Michael.  I’ve done my best.  All these months at Mentone, I’ve been wondering why I ever let you marry me—­when that feeling wasn’t dead!

Strangway.  You can’t have come back just to leave me again?

Beatrice.  When you let me go out there with mother I thought—­I did think I would be able; and I had begun—­and then—­spring came!

Strangway.  Spring came here too!  Never so—­aching!  Beatrice, can’t you?

Beatrice.  I’ve something to say.

Strangway.  No!  No!  No!

Beatrice.  You see—­I’ve—­fallen.

Strangway.  Ah! [In a twice sharpened by pain] Why, in the name of mercy, come here to tell me that?  Was he out there, then?

Beatrice.  I came straight back to him.

Strangway.  To Durford?

Beatrice.  To the Crossway Hotel, miles out—­in my own name.  They don’t know me there.  I told you not to hope, Michael.  I’ve done my best; I swear it.

Strangway.  My God!

Beatrice.  It was your God that brought us to live near him!

Strangway.  Why have you come to me like this?

Beatrice.  To know what you’re going to do.  Are you going to divorce me?  We’re in your power.  Don’t divorce me—­Doctor and patient—­you must know—­it ruins him.  He’ll lose everything.  He’d be disqualified, and he hasn’t a penny without his work.

Strangway.  Why should I spare him?

Beatrice.  Michael; I came to beg.  It’s hard.

Strangway.  No; don’t beg!  I can’t stand it.

     [She shakes her head.]

Beatrice. [Recovering her pride] What are you going to do, then?  Keep us apart by the threat of a divorce?  Starve us and prison us?  Cage me up here with you?  I’m not brute enough to ruin him.