Mulinix Ro
2014-04-01 17:25:21 UTC
Is last month. Mrs. Tremaine. O
Ur pity. (_Rises._) Denham. Perhaps I want yours. Mrs. Denham. (_indignantly_) Suppose _you_ had caught _me_ in a low intrigue, and I had dared to speak to you as you have spoken to me--without so much as a word that implied sorrow or repentance, what would you say to me? Denham. I would ask your forgiveness humbly enough if that were of any use. It isn't, I know. Sins that are instinctive, not of malice, lie too deep for forgiveness. Mrs. Denham A fine aphorism, no doubt. How does it apply? Denham. You can't forgive insults that were not intended, and a "low intrigue" which was only a mad, selfish leap for life. Let us part then, if you please. We missed our moment for passion long ago, if that is what you want. Mrs. Denham. My want aches deeper. Well, you love another woman. Go to her. Let her make you happy if she can. Denham. Why should I go to her? I love her as a dream; let me keep her as a dream. Why should I spoil her life as I have spoiled yours? Mrs. Denham. You could not spoil her life as you have spoiled mine, if you love her. Denham. (_half to himself as he comes down stage_ R) It is a magnificent temptation. To give one's passion its full reckless swing, to feel the blood bounding in one's veins-- Mrs. Denham. Why not? And leave the woman to pay. Denham. (_with a reckless bitterness_) Yes, that's the devil of it. You have put me out of conceit with love. Your chamber of horrors haunts my imagination. If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be like gods. But she can't. Why should we worry about it? Why ask for cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for us? Mrs. Denham. You never loved me. Your cakes and ale are no concern of mine. (_Crosses to table. Knock at door._) Come in! (_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._) Jane. Miss Macfarlane! (_Exit._) Miss Macfarlane. Well, my dear, how are you all? Eh! but what's the matter now? (_She looks from one to the other._) Mrs. Trema
Ur pity. (_Rises._) Denham. Perhaps I want yours. Mrs. Denham. (_indignantly_) Suppose _you_ had caught _me_ in a low intrigue, and I had dared to speak to you as you have spoken to me--without so much as a word that implied sorrow or repentance, what would you say to me? Denham. I would ask your forgiveness humbly enough if that were of any use. It isn't, I know. Sins that are instinctive, not of malice, lie too deep for forgiveness. Mrs. Denham A fine aphorism, no doubt. How does it apply? Denham. You can't forgive insults that were not intended, and a "low intrigue" which was only a mad, selfish leap for life. Let us part then, if you please. We missed our moment for passion long ago, if that is what you want. Mrs. Denham. My want aches deeper. Well, you love another woman. Go to her. Let her make you happy if she can. Denham. Why should I go to her? I love her as a dream; let me keep her as a dream. Why should I spoil her life as I have spoiled yours? Mrs. Denham. You could not spoil her life as you have spoiled mine, if you love her. Denham. (_half to himself as he comes down stage_ R) It is a magnificent temptation. To give one's passion its full reckless swing, to feel the blood bounding in one's veins-- Mrs. Denham. Why not? And leave the woman to pay. Denham. (_with a reckless bitterness_) Yes, that's the devil of it. You have put me out of conceit with love. Your chamber of horrors haunts my imagination. If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be like gods. But she can't. Why should we worry about it? Why ask for cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for us? Mrs. Denham. You never loved me. Your cakes and ale are no concern of mine. (_Crosses to table. Knock at door._) Come in! (_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._) Jane. Miss Macfarlane! (_Exit._) Miss Macfarlane. Well, my dear, how are you all? Eh! but what's the matter now? (_She looks from one to the other._) Mrs. Trema