James. I have gathered as much. [The men bow stiffly.]
Rosamund [dreamily]. Poor, poor Gerald! [Her tone is full of feeling. James is evidently deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and steadily to the table and picks up the revolver.]
Gerald. Sir, that tool is mine.
James. Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine of destruction, and that I intend to use it. Rosamund, the tone in which you uttered those three words, "Poor, poor Gerald!" convinces me, a keen observer of symptoms, that I no longer possess your love. Without your love, life to me is meaningless. I object to anything meaningless—even a word. I shall therefore venture to deprive myself of life. Good-by! [To Gerald.] Sir, I may see you later. [Raises the revolver to his temples.]
Rosamund [appealing to Gerald to interfere]. Gerald.
Gerald. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your hand, you may use it—but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I have conscientious objections to suicide. You will therefore do me a service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the use of firearms. [Folds his arms.]
James. Rosamund, do you love me?
Rosamund. My Jim!
James [deeply moved]. The possessive pronoun convinces me that you do. [Smiling blandly.] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. [Aims at Gerald.]
Rosamund [half shrieking]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald.