[A gust of wind enters through the porch, with a sound of moving leaves. The lamp flickers quickly.]
BERTHA.
[Pointing over his shoulder.] Look! It is too high.
[Without rising, he bends towards the table, and turns down the wick more. The room is half dark. The light comes in more strongly through the doorway of the bedroom.]
ROBERT.
The wind is rising. I will close that door.
BERTHA.
[Listening.] No, it is raining still. It was only a gust of wind.
ROBERT.
[Touches her shoulder.] Tell me if the air is too cold for you. [Half rising.] I will close it.
BERTHA.
[Detaining him.] No. I am not cold. Besides, I am going now, Robert. I must.
ROBERT.
[Firmly.] No, no. There is no must now. We were left here for this. And you are wrong, Bertha. The past is not past. It is present here now. My feeling for you is the same now as it was then, because then—you slighted it.
BERTHA.
No, Robert. I did not.
ROBERT.
[Continuing.] You did. And I have felt it all these years without knowing it—till now. Even while I lived—the kind of life you know and dislike to think of—the kind of life to which you condemned me.