He was at my house only last night. And this morning I called on the Wegrats. He wanted to have a look at that picture of his mother which I painted twenty-three years ago.—And one thing and another led to my telling him everything.
SALA
Oh, you did? (Thoughtfully) And how did he take it?
JULIAN
It stirred him rather more than I had thought possible.
SALA
Well, I hope you didn't expect him to fall into your arms as the recovered son does in the play.
JULIAN
No, of course not.—I told him everything, without any attempt at sparing myself. And for that reason he seemed to feel the wrong done to his mother's husband more strongly than anything else. But that won't last very long. He'll soon understand that, in the higher sense, no wrong has been done at all. People of Wegrat's type are not made to hold actual possession of anything—whether it be wives or children. They mean a refuge, a dwelling place—but never a real home. Can you understand what I mean by that? It is their mission to take into their arms creatures who have been worn out or broken to pieces by some kind of passion. But they never guess whence such creatures come. And while it is granted them to attract and befriend, they never understand whither those creatures go. They exist for the purpose of sacrificing themselves unconsciously, and in such sacrifices they find a happiness that might seem a pretty poor one to others.... You are not saying a word?
SALA