Oh, I’m not ungrateful for their kindness, but I owe them nothing, for I repaid them, by letting them do things for me. Yes, it flattered them to have me about and to say they knew me “intimately.” I was a good asset to their affairs because I was a success. Then I picked up a lot of cant phrases about art and the like, so I could prattle; and I even signed articles which somebody else wrote lamenting the decline of the stage, when I knew in my heart I was glad things were as they were because I could make more money with a dramatized novel or a tailor-made part than in my much advertised and never intended appearance in Shakespeare. (_Acting as with apparent conviction._) And back of this, life was calling me. So I did other things to get along. My eyes were open and so it seems were those of the world. It envied me my freedom because I was a success. All of us don’t do it, but I did and it wasn’t always for love. (MISS STANNARD’S _quick breath halts her for a moment; then she adds dramatically_) Yes, Mrs. Frowde, if you’re going to draw the line somewhere at your teas, why don’t you begin with me? MRS. FROWDE (_Floundering_) But--but you forget, dear, you--you are a great creative artist. PATRICIA No, I don’t. Everybody’s tolerance of my whims, my moods, my morals would never let me forget it. But what has that to do with the right and wrong of it? That’s what you are wondering, Miss Stannard. (MISS STANNARD _gazes at her_.) I don’t ask any less charity for myself because my “temperament” has made me live my life my own way; though I don’t need charity now I’m on top. (_Surging along effectively._) But why shouldn’t you and your friends extend that same charity to the rest of the sinners? (PATRICIA _does not detect_ MISS STANNARD’S _change of manner so intent is she in her own words_.) You give it to me because I am a creative artist. Everybody has a bit of the artist in them. Some of us use it to make bread; others use it to make trouble. All the nice sinners of the world have the creative spirit, too. Sin is the creating of the actual out of the imagined. It’s falling over the fence in a desire to see what is on the other side. (_Consciously shaping her words and manner to a climax._) But the more so are the sins one does for love. Love is the most creative of all impulses. If you forgive me because I’m an artist, as you say; if you can ask _me_ to sit beside your lily-faced daughters and stubby-chinned sons; if you can kiss my lips--I, who have openly violated all your standards--why do you turn against this woman, who has done what she has for the noblest of motives--love--the love of a man? MISS STANNARD (_She has risen tensely and speaks with a biting bitterness_)