RICHARD.
[Musing.] Yes. I saw that you had changed when I received your first letter after a year; after your illness, too. You even said so in your letter.
BEATRICE.
It brought me near to death. It made me see things differently.
RICHARD.
And so a coldness began between you, little by little. Is that it?
BEATRICE.
[Half closing her eyes.] No. Not at once. I saw in him a pale reflection of you: then that too faded. Of what good is it to talk now?
RICHARD.
[With a repressed energy.] But what is this that seems to hang over you? It cannot be so tragic.
BEATRICE.
[Calmly.] O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. I am given life and health again—when I cannot use them. [Calmly and bitterly.] I am convalescent.
RICHARD.
[Gently.] Does nothing then in life give you peace? Surely it exists for you somewhere.
BEATRICE.
If there were convents in our religion perhaps there. At least, I think so at times.
RICHARD.
[Shakes his head.] No, Miss Justice, not even there. You could not give yourself freely and wholly.
BEATRICE.
[Looking at him.] I would try.