He must have known The day he married me! My head will burst! "She visited him every night in his dressing-room." He knew this and he married me! My soul It is that struggles in my wasted womb, And cannot be brought forth but by my death, A still-born soul and posthumous, since God Is not! I have been nothing--worse than nothing: A bed-mate, a convenience! Hell, hell, hell! [Goes out.] Europa. [At the door of the Business-room] If I could act like that! But good, my luck! Sweet luck and succulent! Dear luck of mine! Plumb in the prime-joint of their mystery sticks My fork! The venison's hung and high! I'll cut And come again! Soul? Talk of soul! Give me My will, my body and my clean-run brains, Me and my purposes! Sir T. [Without] I'll not go home To-night. Europa. Sir Tristram's voice! [Closes the door and turns out the light.] St. J. [Without] What will you do? [Enter Sir Tristram and St. James's.] Sir T. Sleep at the club. Sit down awhile and talk. [Sir Tristram takes from a cabinet a spirit-frame, a syphon, and a box of cigars, and helps St. James's and himself. Sir Tristram reclines on a couch. St. James's remains on his feet throughout the scene, sometimes pacing, sometimes standing still.] St. J. But should your wife be left alone? Sir T. For her, The safest way: she's bent upon my death, And while I keep alive she lives, I think. Best, too, for me. St. J. How is it best for you? Sir T. Because it's touch and go to live or die. My life's no prize to me--worth this cigar Perhaps; and when her stealthy whine assails Me, begging death, I'm tempted to the point. A little tenderness in her, a look Of womanhood, or honey in her voice, And there might then have been no play to-night, But love and endless sleep. That exit's closed: I could not die consorted with my wife, My resolute enemy. St. J. This sudden crash-- It jarred to-day already--is strange in you, As my remembrance notes you. Sir T. There can be No reconcilement now. She prophesied To-night's disaster, and to make all sure Began the hissing on the gallery stairs. St. J. She didn't! Sir T. But she did: none other, she. St. J. How horrible! Sir T. Oh, worse than horrible! The woman whom I chose has now become A scaly leprosy about my life. St. J. That's damnable! No more of that! Your wife Is deeply in the right: your corpses only Could fill the breach that opens up between you: It is the grave that gapes. If you're to live It must be by divorce. Do you consent? Sir T. That also means the grave; for if we break Our home up, bankruptcy and ruin come: Indeed they're here already. Look at these. [Hands St. James's the two letters.]