Not a word against Constance, or I shall hate you, Blanche. No--I am
haunted by a ghost.
Mrs. Tremaine.
A metaphorical one?
Denham.
The ghost that came to Hamlet in the shape of his father--duty. It
is a trick of my British bourgeois blood, I suppose.
Mrs. Tremaine.
What duty? To that internal Mrs. Grundy we call conscience? To the
thing called Society? To the sacred bond of marriage? Her own
principles are against you there. No--she holds you in some deeper
way than this.
Denham.
It is true--she does.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_rising_) Is it because you love _her_ that you abandon _me_? If
so, say so; and I shall understand that I am a toy goddess, nothing
more.
Denham.
She loves me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Ah! a woman's love can blight as terribly as a man's--almost. Well,
I like you none the worse for this curious spice of loyalty. It is
so rare in a man.
Denham.
No--not so rare. Don't let us talk any more about it now. I think
you begin to understand. But where can she be? I seem to feel her
presence here. (_He looks behind the screen, then thrusts it aside,
showing Mrs. Denham lying dead on the couch.
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