_Marg._ No; but it is to condone. Suppose _I_ had broken faith with you? _Philip._ Ah, Margaret! _Marg._ I know! But suppose I had? Why should a wife bear the whole stigma of infidelity? Isn't it just as revolting in a husband?... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Then can't you see that it is simply impossible for me to live with you again? _Philip._ That's my sentence.... We'll be friends? _Marg._ Yes, friends. We'll respect each other as friends. We never could as man and wife. As they clasp hands, something latent, organic rushes over her. She masters it, puts his hand aside: "Ring that bell!" [Illustration: Mr. Herne and his daughter Dorothy as Joe and little Lena on the Common. See page 557.] Played as Mrs. Herne plays it, this act is the supreme climax toward which the action moves from the first. It is her knowledge of its significance, her belief in its justice, and her faith in its beneficence that makes her reading so intellectually powerful and penetrating. She seems to be all of the woman, and something of the seer, as she stands there as Margaret whose blindness has somehow given her inward light, and conviction, and strength. She seemed to be speaking for all womankind, whose sorrowful history we are only just beginning to read truthfully. It is no wonder that Mrs. Herne appealed with such power to the thinking women of Boston. Never before has their case been so stated in America. One of the most noticeable and gratifying results of Mr. and Mrs. Herne's performance was the forced abandonment by the critics of conventional standards of criticism. Every thoughtful word, even by those most severe, was made from the realist's standpoint. It forced a comparison with life and that was a distinct gain. [Illustration: Margaret. Act V. "It is simply impossible for me to live with you again.... Ring that bell." See page 557.] The critics got at last the point of view of those who praise an imperfect play simply for its honesty of purpose, and its tendency. My own criticism of _Margaret Fleming_ is that it lacks the simplicity of life. It has too much of plot. Things converge too much, and here and there things happen. Measured by the standard of truth it fails at two or three points in its construction, though its treatment is markedly direct and honest. Measured by any play on the American stage, it stands above them all in purpose, in execution, in power, and is worthy to stand for the new drama. It was exposed to the severest test, and came out of it triumphantly. What the effect will be upon the American drama, it would be hard to say. Certainly whether great or small, that influence will be toward progress, an influence that is altogether good.