Clare.
(With a sudden burst of laughter.) Oh, get up from that cushion! You don’t know what a fool you look! (Michael gets up with a pained expression and stands staring tragically before him. A pause. She speaks in a gentler voice.) Well, Mike?
Michael.
Since I have spoken so much and done you wrong and Patricia wrong, I must tell you all and throw myself on your mercy.... When I married Patricia I sincerely believed I loved her. She seemed to me a kindred spirit—with her sensitive, beautiful nature. I found out too late that love depends as often on mutual difference as mutual sympathy. My love for her never went deeper than the intellect. Oh, the tragedy of it! She is such a fair, white soul, and so worthy of my whole love!...
Clare.
If you don’t love her, why do you pretend to?
Michael.
Can’t you see—can’t you see I have no alternative? Patricia’s love for me is unearthly in its depth and intensity. She worships me, little as I deserve it. If for one moment she thought my love had slackened, that moment would be her last. You don’t know how sensitive she is.... Do you suppose, Clare, I enjoy playing this dreadful game? But I must—it is my duty. I have sworn to love and cherish her.
Clare.