Denham.
Forget? No. But we must renounce. You, too, will wear the sackcloth.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(petulantly) Why should I wear sackcloth?
Denham.
My dear Blanche, you are not such a fine coquette as you imagine. (Going close up to her.) Do you think I can't read those beautiful eyes of yours? You love me! Your love fills the air like the fragrance of a flower. (He clasps her in his arms.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(impatiently) Suppose I did. Après?
Denham.
You do love me, Blanche? (Kisses her.)