(_Crosses R._)
Mrs. Denham.
You want incompatible things.
Denham.
Of course I do. So do you. Your reason and your instincts are at
war, just like mine. That is our sickness.
Mrs. Denham.
How at war?
Denham.
Your reason tells you that woman is independent, self-sufficing.
Your instincts cry feebly for passion, that savage outlaw which
still lies in wait for the modern woman, to carry her whither she
would not. Hence your lapse from strict agnostic morality into
matrimony, bondage, subjection, and the mistake, Undine.
Mrs. Denham.
That child has come between us. I think children often do.
Denham.
Is that one of the _necessary_ horrors of matrimony?
Mrs. Denham.
Heaven help me, that girl drives me mad!
Denham.
Nerves, nerves, as usual. She irritates you, and you irritate her.
The mere presence of a child sets your teeth on edge. (_Crosses, and
sits R of table._)
Mrs. Denham.
My brain has been torn to pieces by children all my life. I was a
slave to my own brothers and sisters, because I was the eldest.
Denham.
That was very hard, I know; but your own child is different, surely?
Mrs.
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