Denham.
No—not so rare. Don't let us talk any more about it now. I think you begin to understand. But where can she be? I seem to feel her presence here. (He looks behind the screen, then thrusts it aside, showing Mrs. Denham lying dead on the couch.) Blanche! Blanche! Look here! Is she—?
Mrs. Tremaine.
She has fainted—let me—!
Denham.
(throws himself down beside the couch and puts his finger on her wrist) Oh my God! Dead! Dead!
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, no, no! It is too terrible! Let us try if— (Attempts to open dress, then recoils in horror.) And I had begun to hate her—yes, to hate her. My poor good Constance!
Denham.
But how—? (Rising.) Is she dead, Blanche?