RICHARD.
[Turns towards him, almost fiercely.] Not that fear. But that I will reproach myself then for having taken all for myself because I would not suffer her to give to another what was hers and not mine to give, because I accepted from her her loyalty and made her life poorer in love. That is my fear. That I stand between her and any moments of life that should be hers, between her and you, between her and anyone, between her and anything. I will not do it. I cannot and I will not. I dare not.
[He leans back in his chair breathless, with shining eyes. Robert rises quietly, and stands behind his chair.]
ROBERT.
Look here, Richard. We have said all there is to be said. Let the past be past.
RICHARD.
[Quickly and harshly.] Wait. One thing more. For you, too, must know me as I am—now.
ROBERT.
More? Is there more?
RICHARD.
I told you that when I saw your eyes this afternoon I felt sad. Your humility and confusion, I felt, united you to me in brotherhood. [He turns half round towards him.] At that moment I felt our whole life together in the past, and I longed to put my arm around your neck.
ROBERT.
[Deeply and suddenly touched.] It is noble of you, Richard, to forgive me like this.
RICHARD.
[Struggling with himself.] I told you that I wished you not to do anything false and secret against me—against our friendship, against her; not to steal her from me craftily, secretly, meanly—in the dark, in the night—you, Robert, my friend.
ROBERT.
I know. And it was noble of you.
RICHARD.
[Looks up at him with a steady gaze.] No. Not noble. Ignoble.