MALISE. [Not taking that hand] This great damned world, and--you! Listen! [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the stillness] Into that! alone--helpless--without money. The men who work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let you be? The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy, bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the "chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help seeing you're made for love! Or suppose you don't take covert but struggle on in the open. Society! The respectable! The pious! Even those who love you! Will they let you be? Hue and cry! The hunt was joined the moment you broke away! It will never let up! Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the cart, and God pity you! CLARE. Well, I'll die running! MALISE. No, no! Let me shelter you! Let me! CLARE. [Shaking her head and smiling] I'm going to seek my fortune. Wish me luck! MALISE. I can't let you go. CLARE. You must. He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it, suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them. MALISE. Good luck, then! Good luck! He releases her hand. Just touching his bent head with her other hand, CLARE turns and goes. MALISE remains with bowed head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. They die away. He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with his clenched fist. CURTAIN. ACT III MALISE'S sitting-room. An afternoon, three months later. On the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some tea-things. Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted spirit-stand. Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced man, with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is contemplating a piece of blue paper. HAYWOOD. Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf without any return on your money---- MALISE. Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood. I wish I could see my way to smoking another. HAYWOOD. Well, sir--that's a funny remedy. With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears. MALISE. Yes. What is it? BOY. Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir. MALISE. [Motioning him out] Yes. Wait! The Boy withdraws. MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns them over, and takes up some volumes. MALISE. This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's "Decameron," Mr. Haywood illustrated. I should say you would get more than the amount of your bill for them. HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head] Them books worth three pound seven! MALISE. It's scarce, and highly improper. Will you take them in discharge? HAYWOOD. [Torn between emotions] Well, I 'ardly know what to say-- No, Sir, I don't think I'd like to 'ave to do with that. MALISE. You could read them first, you know?