BERTHA. [_Again caressing his hand._] It is not true that I want to drive everyone from you. I wanted to bring you close together—you and him. Speak to me. Speak out all your heart to me. What you feel and what you suffer. RICHARD. I am wounded, Bertha. BERTHA. How wounded, dear? Explain to me what you mean. I will try to understand everything you say. In what way are you wounded? RICHARD. [_Releases his hand and, taking her head between his hands, bends it back and gazes long into her eyes._] I have a deep, deep wound of doubt in my soul. BERTHA. [_Motionless._] Doubt of me? RICHARD. Yes. BERTHA. I am yours. [_In a whisper._] If I died this moment, I am yours. RICHARD. [_Still gazing at her and speaking as if to an absent person._] I have wounded my soul for you—a deep wound of doubt which can never be healed. I can never know, never in this world. I do not wish to know or to believe. I do not care. It is not in the darkness of belief that I desire you. But in restless living wounding doubt. To hold you by no bonds, even of love, to be united with you in body and soul in utter nakedness—for this I longed. And now I am tired for a while, Bertha. My wound tires me. [_He stretches himself out wearily along the lounge. Bertha holds his hand still, speaking very softly._] BERTHA. Forget me, Dick. Forget me and love me again as you did the first time. I want my lover. To meet him, to go to him, to give myself to him. You, Dick. O, my strange wild lover, come back to me again! [_She closes her eyes._]