Denham.
Here's our little truant come back to mother.
(Undine comes down the stage slowly, looking dazed. Mrs. Denham embraces the child passionately.)
Mrs. Denham.
My little Undine! My little girl! Did she think mother wanted to get rid of her?
Undine.
(with sorrowful indignation) You said you wished I was dead, and I thought you didn't want me any more. I thought perhaps you were going to kill me with a knife, like Medea, and I didn't like that. I thought the river would be kinder.
Mrs. Denham.
That was foolish, Undine. Mother would not kill her own little girl.
(Sits down on sofa with Undine. Denham shrugs his shoulders, and sits down at the table to work at his drawing.)