Mrs. Tremaine.
Don't say unkind things to me. I can't bear them, though I suppose I deserve them. I liked you, and your admiration flattered my vanity; and I suppose I may have made you think I cared more for you than—I did.
Denham.
Well, you don't love me. What does it matter? I love you; that is the important thing to me. I thank you for that eternal possession. Let it be a dream, austere and pure. Passion has its own ascetic cell, where it can fast and scourge itself. I ask you for nothing, Blanche. I am yours wholly. Do what you like with me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Go back to your wife.
Denham.
Yes—my poor Constance! Well, Blanche, at least you and I can't utterly spoil each other's lives. We can't marry each other.
Mrs. Tremaine.