ROBERT.
[Darkly.] Yes. That was my mistake. To ask you to come here. I felt it when I looked at you from the garden and saw you—you, Bertha—standing here. [Hopelessly.] But what else could I have done?
BERTHA.
[Quietly.] You mean because others have been here?
ROBERT.
Yes.
[He walks away from her a few paces. A gust of wind makes the lamp on the table flicker. He lowers the wick slightly.]
BERTHA.
[Following him with her eyes.] But I knew that before I came. I am not angry with you for it.
ROBERT.
[Shrugs his shoulders.] Why should you be angry with me after all? You are not even angry with him—for the same thing—or worse.
BERTHA.
Did he tell you that about himself?
ROBERT.
Yes. He told me. We all confess to one another here. Turn about.
BERTHA.
I try to forget it.
ROBERT.
It does not trouble you?