Rachel (Wearily): I can’t.—It hurts—too much—to talk about it yet,—please.
Strong (Takes her hand; looks at it a few minutes and then at her quietly). You—don’t—care, then? (She winces) Rachel!—Look at me, little girl! (As if against her will, she looks at him. Her eyes are fearful, hunted. She tries to look away, to draw away her hand; but he holds her gaze and her hand steadily). Do you?
Rachel (Almost sobbing): John! John! don’t ask me. You are drawing my very soul out of my body with your eyes. You must not talk this way. You mustn’t look—John, don’t! (Tries to shield her eyes).
Strong (Quietly takes both of her hands, and kisses the backs and the palms slowly. A look of horror creeps into her face. He deliberately raises his eyes and looks at her mouth. She recoils as though she expected him to strike her. He resumes slowly) If—you—do—care, and I know now—that you do—nothing else, nothing should count.
Rachel (Wrenching herself from his grasp and rising. She covers her ears; she breathes rapidly): No! No! No!—You must stop. (Laughs nervously; continues feverishly) I’m not behaving very well as a hostess, am I? Let’s see. What shall I do? I’ll play you something, John. How will that do? Or I’ll sing to you. You used to like to hear me sing; you said my voice, I remember, was sympathetic, didn’t you? (Moves quickly to the piano). I’ll sing you a pretty little song. I think it’s beautiful. You’ve never heard it, I know. I’ve never sung it to you before. It’s Nevin’s “At Twilight.” (Pauses, looks down, before she begins, then turns toward him and says quietly and sweetly) Sometimes—in the coming years—I want—you to remember—I sang you this little song.—Will you?—I think it will make it easier for me—when I—when I—(Breaks off and begins the first chords. Strong goes slowly to the piano. He leans there watching intently. Rachel sings):
“The roses of yester-year
Were all of the white and red;
It fills my heart with silent fear
To find all their beauty fled.
The roses of white are sere,