Well?
I never loved your art, before I met you.—Nor after either.
But the artist, Irene?
The artist I hate.
The artist in me too?
In you most of all. When I unclothed myself and stood for you, then I hated you, Arnold—
[Warmly.] That you did not, Irene! That is not true!
I hated you, because you could stand there so unmoved—
[Laughs.] Unmoved? Do you think so?
IRENE. —at any rate so intolerably self-controlled. And because you were an artist and an artist only—not a man! [Changing to a tone full of warmth and feeling.] But that statue in the wet, living clay, that I loved—as it rose up, a vital human creature, out of those raw, shapeless masses—for that was our creation, our child. Mine and yours.