[There is a moment's silence on both sides.
Paula.
[With uplifted hands as if to strike him.] Oh!
Aubrey.
[Taking her by the wrists.] Sit down. Sit down. [He puts her into a chair; she shakes herself free with a cry.] Now listen to me. Fond as you are, Paula, of harking back to your past, there's one chapter of it you always let alone. I've never asked you to speak of it; you've never offered to speak of it. I mean the chapter that relates to the time when you were—like Ellean. [She attempts to rise; he restrains her.] No, no.
Paula.
I don't choose to talk about that time. I won't satisfy your curiosity.
Aubrey.
My dear Paula, I have no curiosity—I know what you were at Ellean's age. I'll tell you. You hadn't a thought that wasn't a wholesome one, you hadn't an impulse that didn't tend towards good, you never harboured a notion you couldn't have gossiped about to a parcel of children. [She makes another effort to rise: he lays his hand lightly on her shoulder.] And this was a very few years back—there are days now when you look like a schoolgirl—but think of the difference between the two Paulas. You'll have to think hard, because after a cruel life one's perceptions grow a thick skin. But, for God's sake, do think till you get these two images clearly in your mind, and then ask yourself what sort of a friend such a woman as you are to-day would have been for the girl of seven or eight years ago.
Paula.