Athol: Will, dear, I love you.
Porter: They are going to put me in prison—five years, they’ve sentenced me to. And when I come out, I’ll be an ex-convict. People will brand me with it—I’ll never be able to escape!
Athol: Will, dear.
Porter (sobs): Sweetheart, I can’t go to prison, oh, I can’t stand it! I’m going to die! I’ll kill myself!
Athol (gently): No, Will, you won’t do that. You know that I love you. And there is Margaret—who would take care of her? I can’t last much longer, you know.
Porter: Oh, God, I can’t stand being in prison—the things they’ll do to me! They’ll handcuff me, and shave my head, and put me in stripes—they may even beat me! I’ll come out a maniac!
Athol: Whatever they do, you will stand it for my sake. And you will come out, and start over, and be yourself. You know my faith in you, Will—and you have to be the thing I have dreamed.
Porter (with sudden intensity): Listen, Athol, there is an easy way to die; the thought of it haunts me—to die for the poor devils in prison! That’s what I ought to do—take a stand against the graft and cruelty, and let anything come that will!
Athol (embraces him, tenderly, as if he were her child): A man’s wife learns to know him, Will. Listen; you will die many deaths, in your imagination; but always you will live to die others.
Porter (yielding a little to her beguilement): Ah, sweetheart, if only I could have your guidance.