VICAR. Yes, and then what followed? Having given up so much for me, what followed?
AUNTIE. My dear, circumstances were too strong for us! Can't you see? You were not made to live out your life in any little odd hole and corner of the world! There was your reputation, your fame: you began to be known as an author, a scholar, a wonderful preacher— All this required position, influence, social prestige. You don't think I was ambitious for myself: it was for you.
VICAR. For me—yes! And how do you imagine I have benefited by all your scheming, your contriving, your compromising, your . . .
AUNTIE. In the way I willed! I am glad of it! I worked for that—and I won! . . .
Well, what are you troubling about now?
VICAR [slowly]. I am thinking of the fact that there has been no child to bless our marriage, Martha—that is, no child of our very own, no child whose love we have not stolen.
AUNTIE. My dear . . .
VICAR. We have spoken about it sometimes, haven't we? Or, rather—not spoken!
AUNTIE. William, why will you think of these things?
VICAR. In those first days, dearest, I brought you two children of our own to cherish, little unborn souls crying for you to mother them— You have fostered only the one. That one is called the Scholar. Shall I tell you the name of the other?