AUDR. About my soul, about your soul, and about other people's souls. (_Leaning a little in at the window. He remains silent, and reserved. All through the early part of the scene his demeanour is cold, constrained, and a little impatient. A pause._) I know you make it a rule always to see people about their souls. MICH. (_very coldly_). If they are really in need of spiritual advice. AUDR. I think I'm in need of spiritual advice. (_A pause. He stands cold, irresponsive._) Did you see me in church? MICH. Yes. AUDR. The whole thing was delightfully novel. (_He frowns._) Do you mean to repeat this morning's scene? MICH. Scene? AUDR. It was a "scene," you know. I felt terribly distressed for the poor girl. And yet I envied her. MICH. Envied her? AUDR. (_leaning a little more in at the window_). You must allow she was the heroine of the occasion, though you were certainly very impressive yourself, and did your part very well. Still, after all, it's the man who is to be hanged who is the central figure in the proceedings. And the poor little creature looked exquisitely pathetic and graceful, and so sweetly innocent--quite good enough to go to heaven right away, I thought. A Sunday-school teacher told me once that it is nearly always the good girls who are betrayed. Is that so? MICH. (_coldly_). You came to speak to me about yourself. AUDR. So I did. Do you know when I saw that girl standing there and looking so interesting, I felt I wouldn't mind making a public confession myself--if you thought it would benefit the parish--and if you would allow me to wear a special dress for the occasion? (_MICHAEL turns round quickly as if about to speak angrily to her, stops, remains silent._) AUDR. (_musingly_). I suppose one couldn't confess in anything except black or white. It couldn't be done in red or yellow--or blue. Pale grey might do. (_Pause._) What do you think? (_MICHAEL does not reply._) AUDR. (_leaning a little more in at the window, in a much lower and subtler tone_). Don't you find it an exquisite pleasure to feel your sense of power over your people, especially over us poor women? MICH. When you come to me you are neither man nor woman--you are only a soul in sin and distress. AUDR. Oh, no! I won't be an "it." I insist on being a woman, though I don't mind _having_ a soul--and in sin and distress, too. And I would save it--only I always think it's such a selfish piece of business, saving one's soul,--don't you?--so unkind to all one's neighbours? (_He stands half-bored, half-angry. A little pause._) Do you know what I was thinking in church this morning? MICH. No.