ROBERT. Affection between man and woman must come to that. We think too much of it because our minds are warped. For us today it is of no more consequence than any other form of contact—than a kiss. RICHARD. If it is of no consequence why are you dissatisfied till you reach that end? Why were you waiting here tonight? ROBERT. Passion tends to go as far as it can; but, you may believe me or not, I had not that in my mind—to reach that end. RICHARD. Reach it if you can. I will use no arm against you that the world puts in my hand. If the law which God’s finger has written on our hearts is the law you say I too am God’s creature. [_He rises and paces to and fro some moments in silence. Then he goes towards the porch and leans against the jamb. Robert watches him._] ROBERT. I always felt it. In myself and in others. RICHARD. [_Absently._] Yes? ROBERT. [_With a vague gesture._] For all. That a woman, too, has the right to try with many men until she finds love. An immoral idea, is it not? I wanted to write a book about it. I began it... RICHARD. [_As before._] Yes? ROBERT. Because I knew a woman who seemed to me to be doing that—carrying out that idea in her own life. She interested me very much. RICHARD. When was this? ROBERT. O, not lately. When you were away. [_Richard leaves his place rather abruptly and again paces to and fro._] ROBERT. You see, I am more honest than you thought. RICHARD. I wish you had not thought of her now—whoever she was, or is. ROBERT. [_Easily._] She was and is the wife of a stockbroker. RICHARD. [_Turning._] You know him? ROBERT. Intimately. [_Richard sits down again in the same place and leans forward, his head on his hands._] ROBERT. [_Moving his chair a little closer._] May I ask you a question? RICHARD. You may. ROBERT. [_With some hesitation._] Has it never happened to you in these years—I mean when you were away from her, perhaps, or travelling—to... betray her with another. Betray her, I mean, not in love. Carnally, I mean... Has that never happened? RICHARD. It has. ROBERT. And what did you do? RICHARD. [_As before._] I remember the first time. I came home. It was night. My house was silent. My little son was sleeping in his cot. She, too, was asleep. I wakened her from sleep and told her. I cried beside her bed; and I pierced her heart. ROBERT. O, Richard, why did you do that? RICHARD. Betray her? ROBERT. No. But tell her, waken her from sleep to tell her. It was piercing her heart. RICHARD. She must know me as I am. ROBERT. But that is not you as you are. A moment of weakness. RICHARD. [_Lost in thought._] And I was feeding the flame of her innocence with my guilt. ROBERT. [_Brusquely._] O, don’t talk of guilt and innocence. You have made her all that she is. A strange and wonderful personality—in my eyes, at least. RICHARD. [_Darkly._] Or I have killed her. ROBERT. Killed her? RICHARD. The virginity of her soul.