MRS. BRADMERE. I must! This great Church of ours is based on the rightful condemnation of wrongdoing. There are times when forgiveness is a sin, Michael Strangway. You must keep the whip hand. You must fight!
STRANGWAY. Fight! [Touching his heart] My fight is here. Have you ever been in hell? For months and months—burned and longed; hoped against hope; killed a man in thought day by day? Never rested, for love and hate? I—condemn! I—judge! No! It's rest I have to find—somewhere—somehow-rest! And how—how can I find rest?
MRS. BRADMERE. [Who has listened to his outburst in a soft of coma] You are a strange man! One of these days you'll go off your head if you don't take care.
STRANGWAY. [Smiling] One of these days the flowers will grow out of me; and I shall sleep.
[MRS. BRADMERE stares at his smiling face a long moment in silence, then with a little sound, half sniff, half snort, she goes to the door. There she halts.]
MRS. BRADMERE. And you mean to let all this go on——Your wife——
STRANGWAY. Go! Please go!
MRS. BRADMERE. Men like you have been buried at cross-roads before now! Take care! God punishes!
STRANGWAY. Is there a God?
MRS. BRADMERE. Ah! [With finality] You must see a doctor.