Mrs. Denham.
(_bitterly_) Yes, you have been very patient, very forbearing, no
doubt. It is better to kill a woman than to tolerate her.
Denham.
You did not always think so. You wanted love in the form of an
unselfish intellectual friendship. Well, I have tried to love you
unselfishly, God knows! It is an impossible basis for marriage.
However, we _are_ married. May we not at least be friends? (_Comes
and stands by her chair._) Do you think marriage exists for the sake
of ideal love? What about Undine?
Mrs. Denham.
I presume you will provide for your daughter?
Denham.
Is she not yours too?
Mrs. Denham.
She loves you; she does not love me. I suppose I don't deserve it. I
know you think I have been a bad wife, a bad mother. I am better out
of your way. (_Weeps._)
Denham.
This is morbid. Oh, if I could have cured you! Constance! (_He
caresses her hair._)
Mrs. Denham.
Don't touch me! It is an insult.
Denham.
(_sighing_) I suppose I have lost the right of comforting you.
(_Crosses_ R.)
Mrs. Denham.
I don't want your pity. (_Rises._)
Denham.
Perhaps I want yours.
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