_)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I know. You think you are very patient, while you treat her
with a--what shall I say?--a sort of contemptuous respect.
Denham.
Really? I am sorry if it seems so. I wish I could rouse her out of
the slough of despond.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps she is disappointed?
Denham.
We are all disappointed. It is the niggardliness of Nature--the old
woman in the shoe. (_Paints again in silence._) Do you believe in
love, Blanche? Still?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_sighing_) Yes, I think I do. There is not very much else left for
one to believe in, nowadays.
Denham.
So do I--as a dream.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Ah! You are the pessimist now.
Denham.
Why make mad efforts to realise it?
Mrs. Tremaine.
A necessity of our nature, I suppose.
Denham.
What does the modern woman desire or expect from a man? You are sick
of marriage, it seems.
Mrs. Tremaine.
As it exists--yes.
Denham.
Well, the instinctive _amourette_ had its poetry--in Arcadia. Keep
your hands quiet a moment.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Let me warm them first. Remember we are in the grip of a London
May.
Denham.
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