Mrs. Tremaine.
(mastering her agitation) Yes, dear, dead! She has taken poison. See here! (Picks up the cup.) What a horrible death! Her face is awful!
Denham.
Oh, Constance, why did I leave you? I had a vague fear of something—but not this! (Throws himself down again, and stoops to kiss her.) Ha! Prussic acid! No help! No hope! Yet she is warm. (He starts up.) Could we—? But death is a matter of seconds with that infernal stuff. Blanche, Blanche, I have killed her!
Mrs. Tremaine.
I claim my share in the guilt.
Denham.
No, no. Leave me! Let the dead bury their dead!
Mrs. Tremaine.
If you wish me to leave you, dear, I will go.