Denham.
I? But, good heavens!—(Stops painting, and looks at her.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I know. You think you are very patient, while you treat her with a—what shall I say?—a sort of contemptuous respect.
Denham.
Really? I am sorry if it seems so. I wish I could rouse her out of the slough of despond.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Perhaps she is disappointed?
Denham.
We are all disappointed. It is the niggardliness of Nature—the old woman in the shoe. (Paints again in silence.) Do you believe in love, Blanche? Still?