ROBERT. I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on? RICHARD. Yes. ROBERT. She wept. She told me she was the divorced wife of a barrister. I offered her a sovereign as she told me she was short of money. She would not take it and wept very much. Then she drank some melissa water from a little bottle which she had in her satchel. I saw her enter her house. Then I walked home. In my room I found that my coat was all stained with the melissa water. I had no luck even with my coats yesterday: that was the second one. The idea came to me then to change my suit and go away by the morning boat. I packed my valise and went to bed. I am going away by the next train to my cousin, Jack Justice, in Surrey. Perhaps for a fortnight. Perhaps longer. Are you disgusted? RICHARD. Why did you not go by the boat? ROBERT. I slept it out. RICHARD. You intended to go without saying goodbye—without coming here? ROBERT. Yes. RICHARD. Why? ROBERT. My story is not very nice, is it? RICHARD. But you have come. ROBERT. Bertha sent me a message to come. RICHARD. But for that...? ROBERT. But for that I should not have come. RICHARD. Did it strike you that if you had gone without coming here I should have understood it—in my own way? ROBERT. Yes, it did. RICHARD. What, then, do you wish me to believe? ROBERT. I wish you to believe that I failed. That Bertha is yours now as she was nine years ago, when you—when we—met her first. RICHARD. Do you want to know what I did? ROBERT. No. RICHARD. I came home at once. ROBERT. Did you hear Bertha return? RICHARD. No. I wrote all the night. And thought. [_Pointing to the study._] In there. Before dawn I went out and walked the strand from end to end. ROBERT. [_Shaking his head._] Suffering. Torturing yourself. RICHARD. Hearing voices about me. The voices of those who say they love me. ROBERT. [_Points to the door on the right._] One. And mine? RICHARD. Another still. ROBERT. [_Smiles and touches his forehead with his right forefinger._] True. My interesting but somewhat melancholy cousin. And what did they tell you? RICHARD. They told me to despair. ROBERT. A queer way of showing their love, I must say! And will you despair? RICHARD. [_Rising._] No. [_A noise is heard at the window. Archie’s face is seen flattened against one of the panes. He is heard calling._] ARCHIE. Open the window! Open the window! ROBERT. [_Looks at Richard._] Did you hear his voice, too, Richard, with the others—out there on the strand? Your son’s voice. [_Smiling._] Listen! How full it is of despair! ARCHIE. Open the window, please, will you? ROBERT. Perhaps, there, Richard, is the freedom we seek—you in one way, I in another. In him and not in us. Perhaps... RICHARD. Perhaps...? ROBERT. I said _perhaps_. I would say almost surely if... RICHARD. If what? ROBERT. [_With a faint smile._] If he were mine.