BEATRICE.
[Again shyly.] It is hard to know anyone but oneself.
RICHARD.
Hard to know me? I sent you from Rome the chapters of my book as I wrote them; and letters for nine long years. Well, eight years.
BEATRICE.
Yes, it was nearly a year before your first letter came.
RICHARD.
It was answered at once by you. And from that on you have watched me in my struggle. [Joins his hands earnestly.] Tell me, Miss Justice, did you feel that what you read was written for your eyes? Or that you inspired me?
BEATRICE.
[Shakes her head.] I need not answer that question.
RICHARD.
What then?
BEATRICE.
[Is silent for a moment.] I cannot say it. You yourself must ask me, Mr Rowan.
RICHARD.
[With some vehemence.] Then that I expressed in those chapters and letters, and in my character and life as well, something in your soul which you could not—pride or scorn?
BEATRICE.
Could not?
RICHARD.
[Leans towards her.] Could not because you dared not. Is that why?