ROBERT.
I failed. She is yours, as she was nine years ago, when you met her first.
RICHARD.
When we met her first, you mean.
ROBERT.
Yes. [He looks down for some moments.] Shall I go on?
RICHARD.
Yes.
ROBERT.
She went away. I was left alone—for the second time. I went to the vicechancellor’s house and dined. I said you were ill and would come another night. I made epigrams new and old—that one about the statues also. I drank claret cup. I went to my office and wrote my article. Then...
RICHARD.
Then?
ROBERT.
Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there—and also women. At least, they looked like women. I danced with one of them. She asked me to see her home. Shall I go on?
RICHARD.
Yes.
ROBERT.
I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on?
RICHARD.
Yes.