ROBERT.
And you have. A new and rich life.
RICHARD.
Is it worth what I have taken from her—her girlhood, her laughter, her young beauty, the hopes in her young heart?
ROBERT.
[Firmly.] Yes. Well worth it. [He looks at Richard for some moments in silence.] If you had neglected her, lived wildly, brought her away so far only to make her suffer...
[He stops. Richard raises his head and looks at him.]
RICHARD.
If I had?
ROBERT.
[Slightly confused.] You know there were rumours here of your life abroad—a wild life. Some persons who knew you or met you or heard of you in Rome. Lying rumours.
RICHARD.
[Coldly.] Continue.
ROBERT.
[Laughs a little harshly.] Even I at times thought of her as a victim. [Smoothly.] And of course, Richard, I felt and knew all the time that you were a man of great talent—of something more than talent. And that was your excuse—a valid one in my eyes.
RICHARD.
Have you thought that it is perhaps now—at this moment—that I am neglecting her? [He clasps his hands nervously and leans across toward Robert.] I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last—wholly and many times.
ROBERT.
[Draws back at once.] My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer.