To abase myself before her; to grovel at her feet and crave her pardon for my behaviour of last night. What else should I want to do, in God's name!
Roope.
[Dryly.] I see, you've slept on it.
Philip.
Laid awake on it. [Fiercely.] Do I look as if I'd slept the sleep of a healthy infant?
Roope.
I don't know anything about infants, I am happy to say, healthy or ailing; but certainly your treatment of Madame de Chaumié was atrocious.
Philip.
Brutal, savage, inhuman! [Halting and extending his arms.] And what's been her fault? She's dared to love me eagerly, impetuously, uncontrollably—me, a conceited, egotistical fellow who is no more worth her devotion than the pompous beast who opens her father's front-door! And because, out of her love, she commits a heedless, impulsive act which deals a blow at my rotten pride, I slap her face and turn my back upon her, and suffer her to leave my rooms as though she's a charwoman detected in prigging silver from my cash-box! [Clasping his brow and groaning.] Oh—! [In sudden fury at seeing Roope thoughtfully examining his hat.] Damn it, Robbie, stop fiddling with your hat or you'll drive me crazy!
[He sits on the settee on the left and rests his head on his fists. Roope hastily deposits his hat on the smoking-table.