The inmost fibre, flowering in brain and blood! For this I would give up my life in pain. Sir T. This will I help you in with all my power: It dazzles me; it seizes on my soul. St. J. A greater drama than the world has known Is shrouded here in darkness. Sir T. We must knead The public mind into the shape of this To make it possible. The play's the thing! St. J. Yes; not the pulpit, not the press: the play, Loftier and broader than religious rites, The mirror of an empire's pride, of man's Imagination, from the past released, Dowered with the freedom of the Universe. Sir T. What will this drama be? St. J. I cannot tell. My own play is the first step in a path Untrodden. At the journey's end I see A new world purged of God and purged of Sin, Where men are healthy, women beautiful, All men, all women, beautiful and strong. [Re-enter Lady Sumner.] Sir T. Martha! How like a ghost you steal upon us! Where have you been? Lady S. The streets, the squares, the river; No home to go to! Wandering in the night I saw your windows lit, and knew: I knew You plotted here. What will you do? You're not About to send me anywhere! I'll die; I mean to die. I wanted Tristram too; But I can die alone: time--give me time! It's hard, it's very hard: you wish me gone, And cannot understand how hard it is: I have no children, and my husband hates me. St. J. You _have_ your children. Lady S. Mock me not with that: You know as well as I that death ends all. St. J. Nothing can end. The mystery Matter, lasts For ever. Lady S. Am I mad, indeed, or you? What are you talking of? My soul--my soul It is, that's up in arms against the world. St. J. If death ends all, what is the soul? Lady S. My soul Is me, one aching nerve from head to foot. St. J. How is it clad, your soul? What atmosphere Environs it, wherein does it consist? Lady S. Naked my soul is; and it cannot breathe For lack of air; and it consists in sin. St. J. In sin? Lady S. Dead sin, it cannot now commit. Sir T. Now Gervase; put your message to the test.