Denham.
Of course I do. So do you. Your reason and your instincts are at war, just like mine. That is our sickness.
Mrs. Denham.
How at war?
Denham.
Your reason tells you that woman is independent, self-sufficing. Your instincts cry feebly for passion, that savage outlaw which still lies in wait for the modern woman, to carry her whither she would not. Hence your lapse from strict agnostic morality into matrimony, bondage, subjection, and the mistake, Undine.
Mrs. Denham.
That child has come between us. I think children often do.
Denham.
Is that one of the necessary horrors of matrimony?