Peter. Have patience and I will be plainer yet. Mine is a complex nature, Emily; magnanimous, but still methodical. An injury I freely can forgive, forget it—(striking his chest)—never! She who leaves about pins on the floor to pierce a lover's foot, will surely plant a thorn within the side of him whose fate it is to be her husband!
Emily (dragging herself towards him on her knees). Have pity on me, Peter; I was mad!
Peter (with emotion). How can I choose but pity thee, poor soul, who, for the sake of temporary ease, hast forfeited the bliss that had been thine! You could not stoop to pick a pin up. Why? Because, forsooth, 'twas but a paltry pin! Yet, duly husbanded, that self-same pin had served you to secure your gaping train, your self-respect—and Me.
Emily (wailing). What have I done?
Peter. I will not now reproach you, Emily, nor would I dwell upon my wounded sole, the pain of which increases momently. I part from you in friendship, and in proof, that fated instrument I leave with you (presenting her with the pin, which she accepts mechanically) which the frail link between us twain has severed. I can dispense with it, for in my cuff (shows her his coat-cuff, in which a row of pins'-heads is perceptible) I carry others 'gainst a time of need. My poor success in life I trace to this—that never yet I passed a pin unheeded.
Emily. And is that all you have to say to me?
Peter. I think so—save that I shall wish you well, and pray that henceforth you may bear in mind what vast importance lies in seeming trifles.
Emily (with a pale smile). Peter, your lesson is already learned, for precious has this pin become for me, since by its aid I gain oblivion—thus!
[Stabs herself.
Peter (coldly). Nay, these are histrionics, Emily.