Kate. I do not regard money with contempt; for money can sometimes buy happiness. But we are all perfectly happy as we are. Why do you want to disturb us?
Sir P. (R. of table) You think only of the present; but consider the future. Some day, you may have a daughter of your own——
Kate. No, I shall never marry.
Sir P. Never what?
Kate. I am in earnest. (goes down a few steps, R.C.)
Sir P. A woman—and not want to be married! Hang me, if I believe you’re a woman at all! (goes to L.C.)
Kate. Why? Because I want to be generous?
Sir P. (above Kate) Miss Derwent, there is a higher virtue than generosity, and that is justice. It is easy enough to be generous, but it hard indeed to be just—especially to oneself. This is a question of pounds, shillings, and pence.
Kate. (works up to C.) Pardon me, Sir Peter—this is a question of breaking the hearts of those who were kind to me when I needed kindness, who befriended me when I was alone in the world, whom I have already learned to love almost as what they are—my brother and sister. Their father—my father—is dead, but his memory is dear to them. I know they loved him—and I know they honoured him. How can I imperil that love, and how can I stultify that honour? How can I cloud the sunshine of my sister’s life with the shadow of her father’s sin? No, Sir Peter! If that is justice, justice is beyond me. I am only equal to generosity. I am a woman, only a woman—and I can’t do it. Not for a hundred fortunes! Not for all the world. (goes to L. of table and sits)
Sir P. (goes up to C.) Yes, you are a woman after all—and as self-willed and silly as the rest. To throw away two hundred thousand pounds! Why, I’ve decimated my fellow creatures for half that. It’s wicked—positively wicked. You deserve to die in a ditch.