Aubrey.
[Turning from her with a cry.] Oh!
Paula.
[After a slight pause.] I suppose I've shocked you. I can't help it if I have.
[She sits, with assumed languor and indifference. He turns to her, advances, and kneels by her.
Aubrey.
My dearest, you don't understand me. I—I can't bear to hear you always talking about—what's done with. I tell you I'll never remember it; Paula, can't you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we promise each other to forget, to forget, we're bound to be happy. After all, it's a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought enters your head, you quickly think of something bright—it depends on one's will. Shall I burn this, dear? [Referring to the letter he holds in his hand.] Let me, let me!
Paula.
[With a shrug of the shoulders.] I don't suppose there's much that's new to you in it—just as you like.
[He goes to the fire and burns the letter.