Michael and His Lost Angel: A Play in Five Acts

by Henry Arthur Jones

SIR LYOLF. Surely there must be some way to avoid a public declaration. (MICHAEL shakes his head.) You know I don’t speak for myself. My day is nearly done, but you’re in the full vigour of life, with a great reputation to sustain and increase. Don’t do this—for my sake, for your own sake, for the sake of Heaven, don’t do it!

MICH. I must.

MARK. What are the circumstances?

MICH. I can’t tell you. I wouldn’t have told you so much except that I knew I might trust both of you never to hint or whisper anything against—against any but myself. If you should guess—as most likely you will—the name of my companion in sin, it will never cross your lips? I may ask that of you?

SIR LYOLF. You know you may.

MARK. Of course we shall say nothing.

SIR LYOLF. But—but—— (Sits down overwhelmed.)

MARK. Can’t we talk this over further? Have you considered everything?

MICH. Everything. I have known for many months that this must come. I have tried to palter and spare myself, but each time the conviction has returned with greater and greater force, “You must do it there, and then, and in that way.”