ACT III.
A Fortnight Later.
Scene.—Drawing-room at Lady Wargrave’s. Main entrance C., Conservatory R. Entrance, L., to an inner room. Fireplace, R., up stage, near which is Lady Wargrave’s chair, with the cushion of Act I.
The stage is discovered half-filled with Guests, who stand and sit in groups, including Colonel, Captain and Mrs. Sylvester, and Gerald. Lady Wargrave is receiving her guests. A buzz of general conversation; and a band is heard playing in the inner room, loudly at first, but softly after the picture is discovered.
SERVANT [at entrance C.].
Miss Vivash and Mr. Pettigrew!
Enter Victoria, followed leisurely by Percy, a very young man who is always smiling to himself, unconsciously.
VICTORIA [going straight to Lady Wargrave and grasping her hand].
Good evening, Lady Wargrave, I have taken the liberty of bringing a friend whose name is no doubt known to you—Mr. Percy Pettigrew.
[Percy bows distantly, smiling.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Pettigrew, did you say?
PERCY.
Percy Bysshe Pettigrew.
[Smiling.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Of course! two of your names are quite well known to me; it is only the surname that is unfamiliar.
PERCY [smiling].
Pettigrew!
[Turns off.
GERALD.
One of my Oxford friends.
LADY WARGRAVE [aside to him].
One of those who are always at Oxford?
VICTORIA.
His “Supercilia” are quoted everywhere.
LADY WARGRAVE.
His——?
GERALD.
A column Percy does for “The Corset.”
VICTORIA.
A newspaper devoted to our cause.
GERALD.
“The Corset” is Percy’s organ.
LADY WARGRAVE.
Ah, his rattle!
SERVANT.
Dr. Bevan.
DR. BEVAN [shakes hands with Lady Wargrave].
I hope I am not late; but I was detained at the hospital. Most interesting case, unhappily unfit for publication.
SERVANT.
Miss Bethune.
[Exit Servant.
Enter Enid.
COLONEL [to Sylvester].
The best of ’em! [Enid shakes hands with Lady Wargrave.] Ah, what a pity, what a pity, Sylvester!
SYLVESTER.
What is a pity, Colonel?
COLONEL.
That such a figure should be wasted!
SYLVESTER [in a matter of course voice].
I prefer Mrs. Cazenove’s.
[Turns off. Colonel eyes him curiously. The other Guests should be so arranged that each man is surrounded by a little group of women.
PERCY [the centre of one group, lolling lazily, always smiling with self-complacency, suddenly sits up and shivers].
No, no! don’t mention it. It bores me so.
[Shivers.
CHORUS.
And me!
[All shiver.
VICTORIA.
The stage has ever been Woman’s greatest foe.
GUEST.
For centuries it has shirked the sexual problem.
SYLVESTER [who has strolled up].
But doesn’t it show signs of repentance?
PERCY.
The theatre is dying.
SYLVESTER.
Death-bed repentance, then. That’s the one problem it discusses.
GUEST.
It is the one problem in life.
PERCY.
The theatre is dying! Dixi!
[Leans back again.
DOCTOR.
The novel will sweep everything before it.
SYLVESTER.
You mean, the female novel?
DOCTOR.
Nothing can stop it.
SYLVESTER.
No, it stops at nothing.
DOCTOR.
Nor will it, till the problem is solved. That solution, I venture to predict, will be on the lines of pure mathematics.
SYLVESTER.
Really?
[Smothering a yawn.
DOCTOR.
I put the proposition in this way. The sexes are parallel lines.
SYLVESTER.
Which are bound to meet.
DOCTOR.
I must not be taken to admit, that there is any physiological necessity.
VOICES.
Certainly not.
DOCTOR [to Lady Wargrave, who is passing].
I am sure, Lady Wargrave must agree with us.
LADY WARGRAVE.
What is that, Doctor?
DOCTOR.
That there is no physiological necessity——
LADY WARGRAVE.
To discuss physiology? I am quite of your opinion.
[Passes on.
ENID [who is in a group surrounding Colonel].
That’s where we differ. What is your view, Colonel?
COLONEL.
My dear Miss Bethune, there is no occasion for Man to express any view, when Woman expresses them all. First, you must reconcile your internal differences.
VOICE.
But we can’t.
COLONEL.
To begin with, you must make up your minds whether you wish to regenerate us or to degrade yourselves.
ENID.
Regenerate you, of course.
COLONEL.
Miss Vivash prefers the alternative.
ENID.
That is Victoria’s foible.
COLONEL [gallantly].
I can admit no foible in a lady.
ENID.
At any rate, we are agreed on the main point—the equality of the sexes.
COLONEL.
That, alas, is impossible.
VOICE.
Impossible?
COLONEL.
Whilst Woman persists in remaining perfect.
VICTORIA.
Cannot Man emulate her?
COLONEL.
I am afraid his strength is only equal to the confession of his unworthiness.
ENID.
You would confess that? Then you agree with me, that a woman is entitled to know the whole of a man’s past?
LADY WARGRAVE [who has joined them].
Would it not be more useful if she knew something of his future?
ENID.
Women have futures; men have only pasts.
DOCTOR [still in Sylvester’s group].
It stands to reason—pure reason—there ought not to be one law for women and another for men.
SYLVESTER.
You mean, that they ought both to be for women?
DOCTOR.
I mean, that the institution of marriage is in urgent need of reconsideration.
SYLVESTER.
The sooner, the better.
DOCTOR.
I am glad you think so.
SYLVESTER.
When the institution of marriage is reconsidered, man will have another chance.
[Exit, R.
LADY WARGRAVE [who has joined Percy’s group].
What do I think of the New Woman? There is no New Woman; she is as old as Molière.
[Stands listening, amused.
CHORUS.
Molière!
VICTORIA.
A pagan!
PERCY.
A frank pagan. For pure art we must go to Athens.
CHORUS.
Athens!
PERCY.
Or the Music Halls. Have you seen Trixy Blinko?
CHORUS.
Trixy—oh, charming—sweet!
PERCY.
In her alone I find the true Greek spirit. What were the prevailing characteristics of Hellenic culture? [A sudden silence.] Breadth and centrality, blitheness and repose. All these I find in Trixy.
CHORUS.
Little dear!
LADY WARGRAVE.
Somewhat risquée, isn’t she?
PERCY.
To the suburban mind.
[Lady Wargrave bows and turns off.
Servant enters, L.
SERVANT.
Signor Labinski has arrived, your ladyship.
[Exit, L. Lady Wargrave speaks to one or two of the Guests, and the company disperse, most of them going off, L., but a few, C., and others into the conservatory. During this general movement, the music off, is heard louder. Colonel is left with Dr. Mary.
COLONEL.
Nonsense, my dear Doctor—— The fact’s just this. The modern woman is prostrated by the discovery of her own superiority; and she is now engaged in one of those hopeless enterprises which we have regretfully abandoned. She is endeavouring to understand herself. I offer her my respectful sympathy.
[Bows and sits, C.
DOCTOR [sits by him].
The truth amounts to this: the one mitigating circumstance about the existence of Man is, that he occasionally co-operates in the creation of a Woman.
COLONEL.
His proudest privilege! The mystery to me is, that you ladies haven’t found it out before.
Re-enter Enid, C.
DOCTOR.
Yes, but you shirk the question!
[Colonel is fanning himself, helplessly.
ENID [aside].
A man in distress! I must help him! [Advancing sweetly.] What were you saying, Doctor?
[Sits on the other side of Colonel.
COLONEL [aside].
Bethune! the best of ’em!
DOCTOR.
You know, from your own experience, that marriage is not a necessity.
COLONEL.
No, it’s a luxury—an expensive luxury.
ENID.
Oh, surely that depends upon the wife.
DOCTOR.
It is she who has to associate with him.
ENID.
And considering what his past has been——
COLONEL.
Suppose it hasn’t!
DOCTOR.
But it always has!
ENID.
I should be sorry to think that.
DOCTOR.
Take the Colonel’s own case.
COLONEL [alarmed].
Doctor!
DOCTOR.
Do you deny that you have had a past?
COLONEL.
Oh, a few trifling peccadilloes!
ENID.
Then you must never marry.
COLONEL.
Am I to have no chance of reformation?
ENID.
It is your own fault.
DOCTOR.
Entirely.
COLONEL.
One moment, my dear ladies! Excuse me pointing out, that, in the last resort, there must always be a female accomplice!
ENID.
Poor, tempted creature!
COLONEL.
Tempted by a man!
DOCTOR.
We all have our weak moments.
[Sighs.
ENID.
All of us!
[Sighs. As the pair sit with their eyes cast down, silent, Colonel looks from one to the other in dismay, then steals off, R.
COLONEL [at door].
Getting dangerous!
[Exit, R. When they look up, each with a languorous glance, they find themselves languishing at one another; both rise.
ENID [putting her arm round Doctor’s waist].
My dear, we are missing the music!
[Exeunt, L.
Re-enter Mrs. Sylvester and Gerald, C. Movement of other Guests across stage, during music.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Where have you been? I have seen nothing of you. What have you been doing?
GERALD.
Thinking.
MRS. SYLVESTER [jealously].
Of whom?
GERALD.
Of Margery.
[Movement of Mrs. Sylvester.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Has she said anything?
GERALD.
No, not a word.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Of course, she heard?
GERALD.
What did I say? What did I do? What must she think of me? I can’t bear this suspense. For the last fortnight, she’s been another woman. So grave—so thoughtful—so unlike herself. There is no laugh to grate upon me now. What would I give to bring it back again?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Is it she only who has changed?
GERALD.
Ever since I saw that figure on the ground, I can see nothing else. And it is I who brought it to the dust—I, who had sworn to cherish it. Yes, you are right; I too am different; I see things from a different point of view. And when I think of Margery’s young life, so full of hope and joy—Margery, who never asked to be my wife—Margery, whom I compelled to marry me—with all the joy crushed out of her—I feel too much ashamed even to ask forgiveness. And as I watch her move about the house—silent and sorrowful—I ask myself, how much did Margery give up for me? I took her from the station of life in which she was born, and in which she was happy. I set her in another and a strange one. Was mine the only sacrifice? How much of friendship and of old association did she resign for my sake? My life continued as it was before—I had my old friends and my old pursuits. What had she? Nothing—but my love. And I took it away from her. Because she made a few mistakes, and a few people laughed—a few more didn’t call—and I mistook a light heart for an empty head. What do all these things matter? what is a man worth who sets such things above a love like hers?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
This is pure pity, Gerald.
GERALD.
Pity for myself.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
She was no wife for you. She could be no companion.
GERALD.
If she was no companion, did I make her one?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Need you tell me all this?
GERALD.
Yes, Mrs. Sylvester, it’s best I should. I came to tell it you.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Not Agnes now!
GERALD.
Forget my folly, and forget your own.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Mine was no folly. I, at least, was sincere; the love that isn’t based on sympathy is a mere passion.
GERALD.
And the love that has no passion in it, isn’t worth the name!
MRS. SYLVESTER.
That’s your idea?
GERALD.
And what is yours? Let us be frank.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Oh, frankness, by all means.
GERALD.
Forgive me; but we’re face to face with truth. Don’t let us flinch from it. We have both made the same mistake—not in our marriages, but in despising them. What we want in a partner is what we lack in ourselves. Not sympathy only, but sex. Strength requires gentleness, sweetness asks for light; and all that is womanly in woman wants all that is manly in man. You think your husband is no mate for you. What I have missed in Margery, have you not missed in him?
MRS. SYLVESTER [after a pause].
I understand you. It is over.
GERALD.
It is for you to say. We have gone too far together for either of us to turn back alone. I have not only made my own hearth desolate, but yours. I owe you all the reparation I can make. I only want you to know the truth. What is left of my life you may command, but my heart is not mine to bestow.
MRS. SYLVESTER [turns up, to hide her emotion, and tries to go into the room, L., but half-way she falters and puts out her hand].
Gerald!
[He goes to her and offers her his arm. Exeunt Gerald and Mrs. Sylvester, L. Other Guests cross the stage. Enter Margery, C. Finding herself opposite Lady Wargrave’s chair, takes a long look at it, then moves the cushion, and gradually gets into her old position behind it. Music heard off, softly, during this passage.
MARGERY.
Yes, this is how it ought to be. It looks a different world altogether—the real world—the world, when Gerald loved me!
[Comes down and sits, in a reverie.
Re-enter Sylvester, R.
SYLVESTER.
Alone, Mrs. Cazenove? It isn’t often that I find you alone. I’ve seen nothing of you lately. You’ve always been out when I’ve called.
MARGERY.
I was in once.
SYLVESTER.
Only once.
MARGERY.
It was enough.
SYLVESTER.
You are cruel.
MARGERY.
Are you looking for your wife?
SYLVESTER [laughs].
Agnes and I go very different ways.
MARGERY.
I think you’re going the same way, both of you.
SYLVESTER [still laughing].
But in opposite directions. Mrs. Cazenove, you’re quite a philosopher. Why have you grown so serious all at once?
MARGERY.
I’m older than I was.
SYLVESTER.
Only a fortnight since you were all vivacity.
MARGERY.
One can live a long time in a fortnight.
SYLVESTER.
I hope these ladies haven’t converted you.
MARGERY.
Yes; I am a new woman.
SYLVESTER [laughs].
Your husband has been reading you his book!
MARGERY.
A good deal of it.
SYLVESTER.
What is it all about? If I am not too curious.
MARGERY.
It’s about love.
SYLVESTER.
I thought it was about marriage.
MARGERY.
Aren’t they the same thing? He says they are, and I agree with him. And then he says [half to herself] that, when the love is gone, so is the marriage—and I think he’s right!
[Loses herself in thought.
SYLVESTER [gazes at her for some moments, then unable to restrain himself].
Ah, Margery! if Heaven had given me such a wife as you——
MARGERY [rises].
Heaven didn’t, and there’s an end of it.
SYLVESTER [rises].
Forgive me! how can I help admiring you?
MARGERY.
Can’t you admire me without telling me? It’s well to make the best of what we have, instead of trying to make the worst of what we haven’t.
SYLVESTER.
I must be silent!
MARGERY.
Or not talk in that way.
[Moves away.
SYLVESTER [following, in an outburst].
Gerald doesn’t love you [movement of Margery]—oh, you said that just now! you mayn’t know that you said it, but you did! My wife doesn’t love me—I don’t love my wife—and yet I must say nothing.
MARGERY.
What’s it to me that you don’t love your wife?
SYLVESTER.
I love you, Margery.
MARGERY.
I knew that was coming.
SYLVESTER.
Honestly love you! I admired you always. It was an empty admiration, perhaps—the admiration a man feels for twenty women—but it grew solid; and the more you repulsed me, the more you attracted me. You mayn’t believe me, but at first I wanted you to repulse me; then it got past that; and when I saw you sitting there alone—living over in your mind your wasted life—I loved you, and the words sprang to my lips. Nothing could keep them back! I love you, Margery—nobody but you! Why should your life be wasted? Why should mine?
MARGERY.
Well, have you finished?
SYLVESTER [seizing her].
No!
MARGERY.
I can guess the rest. You say Gerald doesn’t love me, you don’t love your wife, and your wife doesn’t love you; but you forget one thing—that I don’t love you either.
SYLVESTER.
Not now, but by-and-by. Margery, I would make you love me—I would teach you!
MARGERY.
So, I’m to learn to be unfaithful, is that it? As one learns music? No, Captain Sylvester! Suppose two people are so much in love that they can’t help it, Heaven is their judge, not me. But to begin to love when they can help it—not to resist—to teach themselves to love—that’s where the wrong is, and there’s no gainsaying it.
SYLVESTER.
Suppose your husband left you?
MARGERY.
I would have no other!
SYLVESTER.
Why not?
Re-enter Gerald, L.
MARGERY.
Because I love him, and I don’t love you!
[Margery’s back is towards Gerald, so that she doesn’t see him; but Sylvester is facing him and sees him.
GERALD [coming down to Margery].
What has he said?
MARGERY.
Nothing for your ears!
SYLVESTER.
Yes, for all the world’s! I’ll tell you!
MARGERY.
I forbid you! Leave me with my husband.
[Sylvester hesitates a moment, then exit, C.
GERALD.
Margery, speak! I have a right to know.
MARGERY.
You have no right!
GERALD.
You will not tell me?
MARGERY.
No!
GERALD.
Then he shall!
[Advances on her.
MARGERY.
Stand back! You shall not go!
GERALD.
What, you defend him?
MARGERY.
Against you, I do! Who are you to question him? Are your own hands clean?
GERALD [drops back as if struck].
Margery!
MARGERY [holding out her hand].
Good-bye!
GERALD.
Good-bye?
MARGERY.
I’m going home.
GERALD.
To Mapledurham?
MARGERY.
We’ll say good-bye now.
GERALD.
Here—Margery?
MARGERY.
You needn’t be afraid. There’ll be no scene; I’ve done with tears.
GERALD.
You’re [chokes] going to leave me?
MARGERY.
Yes.
GERALD.
For a few days, you mean?
MARGERY.
I mean, for ever. Gerald, I’ve had enough of half a home and only half a heart. I’m starving, withering, dying here with you! They love me there! Let me go back to them! Oh, what a world it is! To think that one can get the love of any man except the man one loves!
GERALD.
You have it, Margery!
MARGERY [fiercely].
I haven’t.
GERALD.
If you only knew——
MARGERY.
I know I haven’t! what’s the use of words? Do you think a woman doesn’t know when she’s not loved, or is? When you first said you loved me, down in the fields yonder, do you suppose you took me by surprise? You had no need to swear. I knew you loved me, just as certainly as I know now you don’t!
GERALD [much moved].
Oh, what a scoundrel I was, Margery!
MARGERY.
No man’s a scoundrel to the woman he loves. Ah, it was easy to forgive your loving me. But I’ll do something that is not so easy. I will forgive you for not loving me. It’s been a struggle. For the last fortnight I haven’t said a word, because I wasn’t master of myself, and I didn’t want to speak till I’d forgiven you. I wasn’t listening, Gerald. Heaven knows I would have given all the world not to have heard a word; but when you spoke my name, I couldn’t move. The ground seemed slipping underneath my feet, and all the happiness of all my life went out of it in those three words, “Margery’s hopeless, hopeless!”
GERALD.
Don’t! don’t! you torture me!
MARGERY.
Yes, Margery is hopeless. Every scrap of hope has gone out of her heart. I heard no more. It was enough. There was the end of all the world for me. [Gerald groans.] But it was well I heard you. I should have gone blundering along, in my old madcap way, and perhaps not found it out till I had spoilt your life. It’s well to know the truth; but, Gerald dear, why didn’t you tell it me instead of her? Why didn’t you tell me I was no companion? I would have gone away. But to pretend you loved me, when you didn’t—to let me go on thinking you were happy, when all the time you were regretting your mistake—not to tell me, and to tell someone else—oh, it was cruel, when I loved you so!
GERALD.
How could I tell you, Margery?
MARGERY.
How could you tell her? How could she listen to you? I forgive you, Gerald—I didn’t at first, but now I understand that there are times when one’s heart is so sore, it must cry out to somebody. But she——
GERALD.
It was my fault!
MARGERY.
You are mistaken there. It was your voice that spoke them, but the words were hers. It’s she who’s robbed me of your love! It isn’t I who’ve lost it; she has stolen it!
GERALD.
No, no!
MARGERY.
Be careful, or she’ll steal your honour too. Don’t trust to her fine phrases. She deceives herself. She wants your love, that’s what that woman wants: not to instruct the world—just to be happy—nothing more or less; but she won’t make you happy or herself. If I am no companion, she’s a bad one!
GERALD.
You wrong her, Margery—indeed, you do! I was the culprit——
MARGERY.
Have some pity on me! Don’t let the last words I shall hear you say be words defending her! Think what she’s done for me! Think how you loved me when you married me—think what our two lives might have been, but for her—think what mine will be! for mine won’t be like yours. Your love is dead, and you will bury it, but mine’s alive—alive!
[Breaks down.
GERALD.
And so is mine!
MARGERY [springs up].
Don’t soil your lips with lies! I’ve borne as much as I can bear. I can’t bear that!
GERALD.
If you will only listen——
MARGERY.
I have heard too much! Don’t speak again, or you will make me hate you! My mind’s made up. I have no business here! You are above me. I’m no wife for you! I’m dragging you down every day and hour.
GERALD.
Margery! you shall not go!
MARGERY [flinging him off].
To-night and now! Good-bye!
[Rushes into conservatory, R.
GERALD.
What right have I to stop her?
[Goes up, leans upon chair. Re-enter Sylvester, C.
SYLVESTER.
Now, Mr. Cazenove, I am at your service.
GERALD.
You are too late.
[Exit, C.
SYLVESTER.
So, he won’t speak to me. But I will make him. If he thinks I am caught, like a rat in a trap, he’s made a mistake. There’ll be a scandal—well, so much the better! Better that they should know the truth all round.
Re-enter Mrs. Sylvester, L.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Ah, you are here! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.
SYLVESTER.
Looking for me?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I want you to take me home.
SYLVESTER.
I’ve something to say to you. Sit down.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Not to-night. I’m tired.
SYLVESTER.
Yes, to-night. What I’m going to say may be everybody’s property to-morrow. I choose that you should know it now.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I don’t understand you.
SYLVESTER.
But you shall. I’ve often heard you say that a loveless marriage is no marriage. Well, ours is loveless enough, isn’t it?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
It has been.
SYLVESTER.
It is! I’ve never understood you; and if there was any good in me, you’ve never taken the trouble to find it out.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I can’t bear this now.
SYLVESTER.
You must. Don’t think I’m going to reproach you. I take all the blame on myself. What if I were to tell you that you’ve made a convert to your principles where you least expected it?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
What do you mean?
SYLVESTER.
That it’s best for us both to put an end to this farce that we’re living. I mean, that I love another woman.
MRS. SYLVESTER [rising].
You!
SYLVESTER.
Perhaps that seems to you impossible. You thought, perhaps, that I was dull and stupid enough to go on with this empty life of ours to the end. I thought so too, but I was wrong. I love this woman, and I’ve told her so——
MRS. SYLVESTER [with jealousy].
Who is she?
SYLVESTER.
And I would tell her husband to his face
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Then she is married?
SYLVESTER.
As I tell you.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Who is she, I say?
SYLVESTER.
Margery.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Margery! Are you all mad, you men? What is it in that woman that enslaves you? What is the charm we others don’t possess? Only you men can see it; and you all do! You lose your senses, every one of you! What is it in her that bewitches you?
SYLVESTER.
What you’ve crushed out of yourself—your womanhood. What you’re ashamed of is a woman’s glory. Philosophy is well enough in boots; but in a woman a man wants flesh and blood—frank human nature!
MRS. SYLVESTER [laughing, hysterically].
A mere animal!
SYLVESTER.
A woman.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Well, you have found one.
SYLVESTER.
Yes.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Take her, then! go your way!
SYLVESTER.
I will.
[Exit, C.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
This world was made for such as you and her!
Re-enter Margery, R., cloaked.
We have no place in it—we who love with our brains! we have no chance of happiness!
MARGERY.
What chance have we? we, who love with our hearts! we, who are simply what God made us—women! we, to whom love is not a cult—a problem, but just as vital as the air we breathe. Take love away from us, and you take life itself. You have your books, your sciences, your brains! What have we?—nothing but our broken hearts!
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Broken hearts heal! The things that you call hearts! One love is dead, another takes its place; one man is lost, another man is found. What is the difference to a love like yours? Oh, there are always men for such women as you!
By degrees re-enter omnes, R., L., and C., gradually, except Gerald.
MARGERY.
But if the love is not dead? if it’s stolen? what is our lot then—ours, whose love’s alive? We, who’re not skilled to steal—who only want our own——
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Not skilled to steal! have you not stolen mine?
MARGERY.
I have one husband, and I want no other!
[Murmurs.
LADY WARGRAVE [restraining her].
Calm yourself, dear!
MARGERY.
I have been calm too long!
LADY WARGRAVE.
Remember, you are my niece.
MARGERY.
That’s what I do remember! [Murmurs continue.] I am Gerald’s wife! That’s what she doesn’t forgive me! [Addressing Mrs. Sylvester.] You call yourself a New Woman—you’re not New at all. You’re just as old as Eve. You only want one thing—the one thing every woman wants—the one thing that no woman’s life’s worth living without! A true man’s love! Ah, if we all had that, there’d be no problem of the sexes then. I had it once. Heaven help me, I have lost it! I’ve done my best—it isn’t much, but it’s the best I can. I give it up! If you have robbed me of his love, my own is left to me; and if the future’s yours, the past is mine. He loved me once, and I shall love him always!
[Exit, C.