Lady S. No husband now? Sir T. A prophetess of failure who fulfils Her prophecy against her husband, severs The marriage-bond. Lady S. I knew not what I did! Oh, Tristram! St. J. Martha!... Tristram, take her hand! [Sir Tristram and Lady Sumner join hands.] The speech of men is so corrupt with dreams, Forgotten alchemy and astral lies, So rank with spirit and the cult of God That nothing can be said as it is known. In the pure matter of sex, befouled with words Of sanction supererogant, I use The most material language to pronounce Divorce between you. Since the pride of life Is dead in you, the woman, and your seed Restored to that profound unconsciousness Which is the general mode of the Universe, Nothing constrains you to consider him With whom you spent yourself courageously: Mind and imagination now are one With Matter; and this privilege is yours, To know alive the deep delight of death. For you, the man, in whom the pride of life Intensely burns, this woman is no mate. Your art will claim you body, brain, and sex Without a rival henceforth.--Man and wife You are no longer. Let your hands disjoined Witness divorce between you. [Sir Tristram releases Lady Sumner's hand.] Lady S. Was there once A thing called love? Oh, love! Death--death and hell. St. J. You drink the dead sea. Lady S. Dead. St. J. Yet you will live. My car is waiting: through the silent town, The silent city and the lamplit night, Watched by the star-attended moon, half seen Behind her cloudy lattice in the skies, Our wind-shod wheels shall bear us speedily. Lady S. What call have I to go? St. J. The call of night, By sleepless fancies heard and souls set free. The forest calls you in your blood and brain: Like spell-bound tides the billowy woodlands sleep; Through labyrinthine thickets pencilled beams Explode in silvery silence; far withdrawn Behind the darknesses of clustered boles The emerald forest moonshine glances clear, Imprisoned wells of light. Come, Martha, come. Lady S. The woods will cover me and hide me close. St. J. Come, sister, come. Lady S. I come. St. J. Good night. Sir T. Good night. To-morrow, Gervase, bring your tragedy. St. J. My play? No tragedy; a triumph, Tristram. Sir T. A triumph may it be! Again, good night. St. J. Good night. Lady S. Farewell. Sir T. Farewell. Be free; be happy. [St. James's and Lady Sumner go out.] I must have money. [Opens the door of the Business-room, turns up the light, and discovers EUROPA asleep.]