Sir T. Now comes the diatribe! No woman yet Could keep her temper past a word or two! Europa. You struck the flint and you shall feel the fire. I find you as I find the rest of men, Obtuse, distrustful, flabby, impotent; Fit to beget a fool or two at home, And dribble out uncomfortable lives In parliaments and stalls and smoking-rooms. It's iron women love--Damascus blades, Not bludgeons of the theatre stuffed with rags. Sir T. How often have you said that? Reel-and-rote, A parrot speech! So all viragoes scold Since Eve dared Adam. Come; a different tune. Europa. What? _Are_ you strong, Sir Tristram? _Are_ you strong? Power in a man I worship: show me power. Sir T. Go to your room and leave your costume there. Europa. Give me my clothes, then. Sir T. No; come back for them. Europa. But I shall be half naked. Sir T. What of that? Europa. Will you attend me to my room? Sir T. Not I. Europa. The passages are dark. Sir T. You know the way. Europa. I know the way! This is a kind of strength; But, sir, I'm not defeated. Sir T. No? Europa. Not yet. When I return we shall resume the fight: Since you're so masterful, I must be won. [Goes out.] Sir T. The cureless wound of sex that nature dealt Gives man the victory still. If women knew The tenth part of their power while passion lasts! [Opens the desk and takes from a secret drawer a handful of bank-notes.] A MONTH ELAPSES ACT IV Scene: Sir Tristram Sumner's Reception-room in the Grosvenor Theatre, as in Act III. Hildreth is sitting at a table with letters. Enter Abbot. Abbot. Not yet? Hildreth. No, Abbot. [Enter Salerne.] Salerne. Has he come? Hildreth. Not yet. Salerne. What says your mercury, Abbot? Abbot. Zero, zero! Salerne. I think myself the play will fail. Hildreth. I don't. The naivety, novelty, audacity; The this, the that that people prattle of; The Bishop's name, the scandal, and the cry, The noise of the event will bring it off. Abbot. I doubt it; and I think Sir Tristram scents Disaster in the air. Salerne. Never before Do I remember such a slipshod time As this vile month has been. Sir Tristram's hand Is out: his eye untrue; such staging, such A tangled skein, dropped stitches everywhere; Warped wood and crumbling walls! The play's quite good; But for the cast, the acting and the scene-- Give me a fit-up company astray And starving in the potteries, and I'll whip The top to such a purpose in a week That this fine Grosvenor corps would drown itself En masse to see such art in castaways. Hildreth. Salerne, you've been with Groom! I know the sound; That man's a malady; a passing thought Of him will sometimes start the dullest brain On venturous speeches.