AUDR. I think you’re a little rude to me. I came as a heart-stricken penitent; you wouldn’t accept me in that character. Then I came as a pious donor. You wouldn’t accept me in that. You’ve kept me outside here—you haven’t even asked me in.
MICH. (very sternly). Come in! (She looks up, uncertain as to his intentions.) (Same cold, stern voice.) Please to come in. That way—the outer door is open.
(She goes off, he goes to door left, opens it, she comes in.)
MICH. (the moment she has entered closes door decisively, then turns round on her very sternly). What brings you to this village, to my church, to my house? Why are you here? Come to me as a penitent, and I will try to give you peace! Come to me as a woman of the world, and I will tell you “The friendship of the world is enmity with God. It always has been so, it always will be. The Church has no need of you, of your pretended devotions, of your gifts, of your presence at her services. Go your way back to the world, and leave her alone.” But you come neither as a penitent, nor as a woman of the world. You come like—like some bad angel, to mock, and hint, and question, and suggest. How dare you play with sacred things? How dare you?!
AUDR. (very low, quiet, amused voice). I do not think it seemly or becoming in a clergyman to give way to temper. If anyone had asked me I should have said it was impossible in you.
(He stands stern, cold, repellent.)
Enter ANDREW.
MICH. What is it, Andrew?
ANDR. I thought you were disengaged. (Going.)