To give one's passion its full reckless
swing, to feel the blood bounding in one's veins--
Mrs. Denham.
Why not? And leave the woman to pay.
Denham.
(_with a reckless bitterness_) Yes, that's the devil of it. You have
put me out of conceit with love. Your chamber of horrors haunts my
imagination. If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be
like gods. But she can't. Why should we worry about it? Why ask for
cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for
us?
Mrs. Denham.
You never loved me. Your cakes and ale are no concern of mine.
(_Crosses to table. Knock at door._) Come in!
(_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._)
Jane.
Miss Macfarlane!
(_Exit._)
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, my dear, how are you all? Eh! but what's the matter now? (_She
looks from one to the other._) Mrs. Tremaine, I suppose?
Denham.
Mrs. Tremaine has gone away--back to the desert, as she says.
Miss Macfarlane.
And high time for her, too. Upon my word, I should like to give that
fascinating person a bit of my mind.
Denham.
And me too, I am sure.
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, as you ask me, Mr.
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