Denham.
Oh, if I may! (Kisses her.) My poor Constance! I would give my heart's blood to comfort you. And meanwhile I'll send you a better thing—tea.
Mrs. Denham.
Thank you, dear. You have always tried to be good to me. You could not help being cruel, I suppose.
Denham.
I want to be good to you always. Well, good-bye, and God bless you! (Kisses her.)
Mrs. Denham.
God bless you! (Exit Denham.)
Mrs. Denham.
(listens for a while, then starts up) He had tears in his eyes when he kissed me. Poor Arthur! he thinks we are going to patch it up, I suppose. I am to live on pity—a man's pity, more akin to contempt than to love. Why should he love me? I was not born to be loved, not made to be loved. And yet I wanted love so much. I wanted all or nothing, and I have got pity—pity that puts you in a madhouse, and comfortably leaves you to rot! Oh, my God! is this madness—this horror of darkness that seems pressing on my brain? (A knock at the door.) What's that? Come in! (Enter Jane with tea.) No, not there, Jane—the small table; and bring another cup, will you?