LUBOV. This telegram’s from Paris. I get one every day. Yesterday and to-day. That wild man is ill again, he’s bad again.... He begs for forgiveness, and implores me to come, and I really ought to go to Paris to be near him. You look severe, Peter, but what can I do, my dear, what can I do; he’s ill, he’s alone, unhappy, and who’s to look after him, who’s to keep him away from his errors, to give him his medicine punctually? And why should I conceal it and say nothing about it; I love him, that’s plain, I love him, I love him.... That love is a stone round my neck; I’m going with it to the bottom, but I love that stone and can’t live without it. [Squeezes TROFIMOV’S hand] Don’t think badly of me, Peter, don’t say anything to me, don’t say...
TROFIMOV. [Weeping] For God’s sake forgive my speaking candidly, but that man has robbed you!
LUBOV. No, no, no, you oughtn’t to say that! [Stops her ears.]
TROFIMOV. But he’s a wretch, you alone don’t know it! He’s a petty thief, a nobody....
LUBOV. [Angry, but restrained] You’re twenty-six or twenty-seven, and still a schoolboy of the second class!
TROFIMOV. Why not!
LUBOV. You ought to be a man, at your age you ought to be able to understand those who love. And you ought to be in love yourself, you must fall in love! [Angry] Yes, yes! You aren’t pure, you’re just a freak, a queer fellow, a funny growth...
TROFIMOV. [In horror] What is she saying!
LUBOV. “I’m above love!” You’re not above love, you’re just what our Fiers calls a bungler. Not to have a mistress at your age!
TROFIMOV. [In horror] This is awful! What is she saying? [Goes quickly up into the drawing-room, clutching his head] It’s awful... I can’t stand it, I’ll go away. [Exit, but returns at once] All is over between us! [Exit.]