He was a South American.  A distinguished diplomatist. [Looks straight in front of her with a stony smile.] Him I managed to drive quite out of his mind; mad—­incurably mad; inexorably mad.—­It was great sport, I can tell you—­while it was in the doing.  I could have laughed within me all the time—­if I had anything within me.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

And where is he now?

IRENE.

Oh, in a churchyard somewhere or other.  With a fine handsome monument over him.  And with a bullet rattling in his skull.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Did he kill himself?

IRENE.

Yes, he was good enough to take that off my hands.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Do you not lament his loss, Irene?

IRENE.

[Not understanding.] Lament?  What loss?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Why, the loss of Herr von Satow, of course.

IRENE.

His name was not Satow.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Was it not?

IRENE.

My second husband is called Satow.  He is a Russian—–­

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

And where is he?

IRENE.

Far away in the Ural Mountains.  Among all his gold-mines.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

So he lives there?

IRENE.

[Shrugs her shoulders.] Lives?  Lives?  In reality I have killed him—–­

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Start.] Killed—–!

IRENE.

Killed him with a fine sharp dagger which I always have with me in bed—–­

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Vehemently.] I don’t believe you, Irene!

IRENE.

[With a gentle smile.] Indeed you may believe it, Arnold.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Looks compassionately at her.] Have you never had a child?

IRENE.

Yes, I have had many children.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

And where are your children now?