ROBERT. [_Impatiently._] Well lost! What would she be without you? RICHARD. I tried to give her a new life. ROBERT. And you have. A new and rich life. RICHARD. Is it worth what I have taken from her—her girlhood, her laughter, her young beauty, the hopes in her young heart? ROBERT. [_Firmly._] Yes. Well worth it. [_He looks at Richard for some moments in silence._] If you had neglected her, lived wildly, brought her away so far only to make her suffer... [_He stops. Richard raises his head and looks at him._] RICHARD. If I had? ROBERT. [_Slightly confused._] You know there were rumours here of your life abroad—a wild life. Some persons who knew you or met you or heard of you in Rome. Lying rumours. RICHARD. [_Coldly._] Continue. ROBERT. [_Laughs a little harshly._] Even I at times thought of her as a victim. [_Smoothly._] And of course, Richard, I felt and knew all the time that you were a man of great talent—of something more than talent. And that was your excuse—a valid one in my eyes. RICHARD. Have you thought that it is perhaps now—at this moment—that I am neglecting her? [_He clasps his hands nervously and leans across toward Robert._] I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last—wholly and many times. ROBERT. [_Draws back at once._] My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer. RICHARD. [_Continuing._] You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit. ROBERT. [_Eagerly._] A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proceeds, the eternal law of nature herself. RICHARD. And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious? ROBERT. That will never be. Never. RICHARD. And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both? ROBERT. [_Gravely._] It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that. RICHARD. [_Contemptuously._] I care very little whether it is or not because there is something I fear much more. ROBERT. [_Shakes his head._] You fear? I disbelieve you, Richard. Since we were boys together I have followed your mind. You do not know what moral fear is. RICHARD. [_Lays his hand on his arm._] Listen. She is dead. She lies on my bed. I look at her body which I betrayed—grossly and many times. And loved, too, and wept over. And I know that her body was always my loyal slave. To me, to me only she gave... [_He breaks off and turns aside, unable to speak._] ROBERT. [_Softly._] Do not suffer, Richard. There is no need. She is loyal to you, body and soul. Why do you fear?