trebell. Yes . . that's the mystery no one need believe till he has dipped in it. The man bears the child in his soul as the woman carries it in her body.
There is silence between them, till she speaks low and tonelessly, never loosing his hand.
frances. Henry, I want your promise that you'll go on living till . . till . .
trebell. Don't cry, Fanny, that's very foolish.
frances. Till you've learnt to look at all this calmly. Then I can trust you.
trebell smiles, not at all grimly.
trebell. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a shock if I shot myself . . it would make them think about things.
frances. [With one catch of wretched laughter.] Oh, my dear, if shooting's wanted . . shoot them. Or I'll do it for you.
He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand still grasping his.
trebell. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night . . our lives are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and dying for others. The first is easy . . it's a way out of boredom. To make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure and certain hope that it really doesn't matter . . that God is infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after our death than men do while we live?