BERTHA.
Robert, what are you saying? Your first treason against Dick?
ROBERT.
[Nods.] And not my last. He spoke of you and himself. Of how your life would be together—free and all that. Free, yes! He would not even ask you to go with him. [Bitterly.] He did not. And you went all the same.
BERTHA.
I wanted to be with him. You know... [Raising her head and looking at him.] You know how we were then—Dick and I.
ROBERT.
[Unheeding.] I advised him to go alone—not to take you with him—to live alone in order to see if what he felt for you was a passing thing which might ruin your happiness and his career.
BERTHA.
Well, Robert. It was unkind of you towards me. But I forgive you because you were thinking of his happiness and mine.
ROBERT.
[Bending closer to her.] No, Bertha. I was not. And that was my treason. I was thinking of myself—that you might turn from him when he had gone and he from you. Then I would have offered you my gift. You know what it was now. The simple common gift that men offer to women. Not the best perhaps. Best or worst—it would have been yours.
BERTHA.
[Turning away from him.] He did not take your advice.
ROBERT.
[As before.] No. And the night you ran away together—O, how happy I was!
BERTHA.
[Pressing his hands.] Keep calm, Robert. I know you liked me always. Why did you not forget me?
ROBERT.
[Smiles bitterly.] How happy I felt as I came back along the quays and saw in the distance the boat lit up going down the black river, taking you away from me! [In a calmer tone.] But why did you choose him? Did you not like me at all?