RICHARD.
[Hesitatingly.] To wish her well.
ROBERT.
[Warmly.] But the passion which burns us night and day to possess her. You feel it as I do. And it is not what you said now.
RICHARD.
Have you...? [He stops for an instance.] Have you the luminous certitude that yours is the brain in contact with which she must think and understand and that yours is the body in contact with which her body must feel? Have you this certitude in yourself?
ROBERT.
Have you?
RICHARD.
[Moved.] Once I had it, Robert: a certitude as luminous as that of my own existence—or an illusion as luminous.
ROBERT.
[Cautiously.] And now?
RICHARD.
If you had it and I could feel that you had it—even now...
ROBERT.
What would you do?
RICHARD.
[Quietly.] Go away. You, and not I, would be necessary to her. Alone as I was before I met her.
ROBERT.
[Rubs his hands nervously.] A nice little load on my conscience!