BEATRICE. We are first cousins. It is not strange that we were often together. RICHARD. He told me of your secret engagement with him. He had no secrets from me; I suppose you know that. BEATRICE. [_Uneasily._] What happened—between us—is so long ago. I was a child. RICHARD. [_Smiles maliciously._] A child? Are you sure? It was in the garden of his mother’s house. No? [_He points towards the garden._] Over there. You plighted your troth, as they say, with a kiss. And you gave him your garter. Is it allowed to mention that? BEATRICE. [_With some reserve._] If you think it worthy of mention. RICHARD. I think you have not forgotten it. [_Clasping his hands quietly._] I do not understand it. I thought, too, that after I had gone... Did my going make you suffer? BEATRICE. I always knew you would go some day. I did not suffer; only I was changed. RICHARD. Towards him? BEATRICE. Everything was changed. His life, his mind, even, seemed to change after that. RICHARD. [_Musing._] Yes. I saw that you had changed when I received your first letter after a year; after your illness, too. You even said so in your letter. BEATRICE. It brought me near to death. It made me see things differently. RICHARD. And so a coldness began between you, little by little. Is that it? BEATRICE. [_Half closing her eyes._] No. Not at once. I saw in him a pale reflection of you: then that too faded. Of what good is it to talk now? RICHARD. [_With a repressed energy._] But what is this that seems to hang over you? It cannot be so tragic. BEATRICE. [_Calmly._] O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. I am given life and health again—when I cannot use them. [_Calmly and bitterly._] I am convalescent. RICHARD. [_Gently._] Does nothing then in life give you peace? Surely it exists for you somewhere. BEATRICE. If there were convents in our religion perhaps there. At least, I think so at times. RICHARD. [_Shakes his head._] No, Miss Justice, not even there. You could not give yourself freely and wholly. BEATRICE. [_Looking at him._] I would try. RICHARD. You would try, yes. You were drawn to him as your mind was drawn towards mine. You held back from him. From me, too, in a different way. You cannot give yourself freely and wholly. BEATRICE. [_Joins her hands softly._] It is a terribly hard thing to do, Mr Rowan—to give oneself freely and wholly—and be happy. RICHARD. But do you feel that happiness is the best, the highest that we can know? BEATRICE. [_With fervour._] I wish I could feel it. RICHARD. [_Leans back, his hands locked together behind his head._] O, if you knew how I am suffering at this moment! For your case, too. But suffering most of all for my own. [_With bitter force._] And how I pray that I may be granted again my dead mother’s hardness of heart! For some help, within me or without, I must find. And find it I will.