Miss L. There's nothing to be done. You can never give me back my child.
Stonor (at the anguish in Vida's face his own has changed). Will that ghost give you no rest?
Miss L. Yes, oh, yes. I see life is nobler than I knew. There is work to do.
Stonor (stopping her as she goes towards the folding doors). Why should you think that it's only you, these ten years have taught something to? Why not give even a man credit for a willingness to learn something of life, and for being sorry—profoundly sorry—for the pain his instruction has cost others? You seem to think I've taken it all quite lightly. That's not fair. All my life, ever since you disappeared, the thought of you has hurt. I would give anything I possess to know you—were happy again.
Miss L. Oh, happiness!
Stonor (significantly). Why shouldn't you find it still.
Miss L. (stares an instant). I see! She couldn't help telling about Allen Trent—Lady John couldn't.
Stonor. You're one of the people the years have not taken from, but given more to. You are more than ever.... You haven't lost your beauty.
Miss L. The gods saw it was so little effectual, it wasn't worth taking away. (She stands looking out into the void.) One woman's mishap?—what is that? A thing as trivial to the great world as it's sordid in most eyes. But the time has come when a woman may look about her, and say, "What general significance has my secret pain? Does it 'join on' to anything?" And I find it does. I'm no longer merely a woman who has stumbled on the way. I'm one (she controls with difficulty the shake in her voice) who has got up bruised and bleeding, wiped the dust from her hands and the tears from her face, and said to herself not merely, "Here's one luckless woman! but—here is a stone of stumbling to many. Let's see if it can't be moved out of other women's way." And she calls people to come and help. No mortal man, let alone a woman, by herself, can move that rock of offence. But (with a sudden sombre flame of enthusiasm) if many help, Geoffrey, the thing can be done.