HELEN (looking away). I know very well that I am asking an unheard-of thing of you but--what else can I do ... GERARDO (soothingly). I have given you all that's in my power to give. Even to a princess I could not be more than I have been to you. If there is one thing further our relations, if continued, might mean to you, it could only be the utter ruin of your life. Now release me, HELEN! I understand how hard you find it, but--one often fears one is going to die. I myself often tremble for my life--art as a profession is so likely to unstring one's nerves. It's astonishing how soon one will get over that kind of thing. Resign yourself to the fortuitousness of life. We did not seek one another because we loved each other; we loved each other because we happened to find one another! (Shrugging his shoulders.) You say I must bear the consequences of my acts, Helen. Would you in all seriousness think ill of me now for not refusing you admittance when you came under the pretext of having me pass on your voice? I dare say you think too highly of your personal advantages for that; you know yourself too well; you are too proud of your beauty. Tell me, were you not absolutely certain of victory when you came? HELEN (looking away). Oh, what was I a week ago! And what--what am I now! GERARDO (in a matter-of-fact way). Helen, ask yourself this question: what choice is left to a man in such a case? You are generally known as the most beautiful woman in this city. Now shall I, an artist, allow myself to acquire the reputation of an unsociable lout who shuts himself up in his four walls and denies himself to all visitors? The second possibility would be to receive you while at the same time pretending not to understand you. That would give me the wholly undeserved reputation of a simpleton. Third possibility--but this is extremely dangerous--I explain to you calmly and politely the very thing I am saying to you now. But that is very dangerous! For apart from your immediately giving me an insulting reply, calling me a vain conceited fool, it would, if it became known, make me appear in a most curious light. And what would at best be the result of my refusing the honor offered me? That you would make of me a contemptible helpless puppet, a target for your feminine wit, a booby whom you could tease and taunt as much as you liked, whom you could torment and put on the rack until you had driven him mad. (He has risen from the sofa.) Say yourself, Helen; what choice was left to me? (She stares at him, then turns her eyes about helplessly, shudders and struggles for an answer.) In such a case I face just this alternative:--to make an enemy who despises me or--to make an enemy who at least respects me. And (stroking her hair) Helen!--one does not care to be despised by a woman of such universally recognized beauty. Now does your pride still permit you to ask me to take you with me? HELEN (weeping profusely). Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God ...