JOANNE. And who was...? MABEL And what was...? PURDIE (even in this supreme hour a man). Don't let go. Hold on to what we were doing, or we shall lose grip of ourselves. Devotion. Something about devotion. Hold on to devotion. 'If the dog-like devotion of a lifetime...' Which of you was I saying that to? MABEL. To me. PURDIE. Are you sure? MABEL (shakily). I am not quite sure. PURDIE (anxiously). Joanna, what do you think? (With a sudden increase of uneasiness.) Which of you is my wife? JOANNA (without enthusiasm). I am. No, I am not. It is Mabel who is your wife! MABEL. Me? PURDIE (with a curious gulp). Why, of course you are, Mabel! MABEL. I believe I am! PURDIE. And yet how can it be? I was running away with you. JOANNA (solving that problem). You don't need to do it now. PURDIE. The wood. Hold on to the wood. The wood is what explains it. Yes, I see the whole thing. (He gazes at LOB.) You infernal old rascal! Let us try to think it out. Don't any one speak for a moment. Think first. Love ... Hold on to love. (He gets another tap.) I say, I believe I am not a deeply passionate chap at all; I believe I am just .... a philanderer! MABEL. It is what you are. JOANNA (more magnanimous). Mabel, what about ourselves? PURDIE (to whom it is truly a nauseous draught). I didn't know. Just a philanderer! (The soul of him would like at this instant to creep into another body.) And if people don't change, I suppose we shall begin all over again now. JOANNA (the practical). I daresay; but not with each other. I may philander again, but not with you. (They look on themselves without approval, always a sorry occupation. The man feels it most because he has admired himself most, or perhaps partly for some better reason.) PURDIE (saying good-bye to an old friend). John Purdie, John Purdie, the fine fellow I used to think you! (When he is able to look them in the face again.) The wood has taught me one thing, at any rate. MABEL (dismally). What, Jack? PURDIE. That it isn't accident that shapes our lives. JOANNA. No, it's Fate. PURDIE (the truth running through him, seeking for a permanent home in him, willing to give him still another chance, loth to desert him). It's not Fate, Joanna. Fate is something outside us. What really plays the dickens with us is some thing in ourselves. Something that makes us go on doing the same sort of fool things, however many chances we get. MABEL. Something in ourselves? PURDIE (shivering). Something we are born with. JOANNA. Can't we cut out the beastly thing? PURDIE. Depends, I expect, on how long we have pampered him. We can at least control him if we try hard enough. But I have for the moment an abominably clear perception that the likes of me never really tries. Forgive me, Joanna--no, Mabel--both of you. (He is a shamed man.) It isn't very pleasant to discover that one is a rotter. I suppose I shall get used to it.