(_Crosses to picture._)
Mrs. Denham.
Do you regret it?
Denham.
God forbid! I only regret that our relations were not always
strictly platonic. That is the highest practical ideal of the
age--modern woman being what she is.
Mrs. Denham.
Yes, I know you despise me in your heart. You are always sneering at
me as a modern woman. What do you mean?
Denham.
(_crosses to her_) I agree with Michelet: "_La femme est une
malade._"
Mrs. Denham.
And what is man?
Denham.
(_sits in armchair_) Oh, a sick creature too--that's the worst of
it. The world spirit is moulting, and we're all sick together.
Mrs. Denham.
Phrases, phrases, always phrases! When I am most in earnest you put
me off with a jest.
Denham.
"If I laugh at any mortal thing, 'tis that I may not weep."
Mrs. Denham.
(_sobbing_) I know I have disappointed you; I know you are not
satisfied with me; I have not made you happy.
Denham.
(_starting up and pacing_) Happy? Give me life! Give me life!
Happiness can take care of itself. But there is no use in crying
"Give, give!" like the horse-leech. If we want impossibilities we
must achieve them.
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