Louis.  My darling:  I’m very weak and tired.  Dont put on me the horrible strain of pretending that I dont know.  Ive been lying there listening to the doctors—­laughing to myself.  They know.  Dearest:  dont cry.  It makes you ugly; and I cant bear that. [She dries her eyes and recovers herself with a proud effort].  I want you to promise me something.

Mrs Dubedat.  Yes, yes:  you know I will. [Imploringly] Only, my love, my love, dont talk:  it will waste your strength.

Louis.  No:  it will only use it up.  Ridgeon:  give me something to keep me going for a few minutes—­one of your confounded anti-toxins, if you dont mind.  I have some things to say before I go.

Ridgeon [looking at Sir Patrick] I suppose it can do no harm? [He pours out some spirit, and is about to add soda water when Sir Patrick corrects him].

Sir Patrick.  In milk.  Dont set him coughing.

Louis [after drinking] Jennifer.

Mrs Dubedat.  Yes, dear.

Louis.  If theres one thing I hate more than another, it’s a widow.  Promise me that youll never be a widow.

Mrs Dubedat.  My dear, what do you mean?

Louis.  I want you to look beautiful.  I want people to see in your eyes that you were married to me.  The people in Italy used to point at Dante and say “There goes the man who has been in hell.”  I want them to point at you and say “There goes a woman who has been in heaven.”  It has been heaven, darling, hasnt it—­ sometimes?

MRs Dubedat.  Oh yes, yes.  Always, always.

Louis.  If you wear black and cry, people will say “Look at that miserable woman:  her husband made her miserable.”

Mrs Dubedat.  No, never.  You are the light and the blessing of my life.  I never lived until I knew you.

Louis [his eyes glistening] Then you must always wear beautiful dresses and splendid magic jewels.  Think of all the wonderful pictures I shall never paint.

[She wins a terrible victory over a sob] Well, you must be transfigured with all the beauty of those pictures.  Men must get such dreams from seeing you as they never could get from any daubing with paints and brushes.  Painters must paint you as they never painted any mortal woman before.  There must be a great tradition of beauty, a great atmosphere of wonder and romance.  That is what men must always think of when they think of me.  That is the sort of immortality I want.  You can make that for me, Jennifer.  There are lots of things you dont understand that every woman in the street understands; but you can understand that and do it as nobody else can.  Promise me that immortality.  Promise me you will not make a little hell of crape and crying and undertaker’s horrors and withering flowers and all that vulgar rubbish.

Mrs Dubedat.  I promise.  But all that is far off, dear.  You are to come to Cornwall with me and get well.  Sir Ralph says so.