THE FATHER. He disappears soon, you know. And the baby too. She is the first to vanish from the scene. The drama consists finally in this: when that mother re-enters my house, her family born outside of it, and shall we say superimposed on the original, ends with the death of the little girl, the tragedy of the boy and the flight of the elder daughter. It cannot go on, because it is foreign to its surroundings. So after much torment, we three remain: I, the mother, that son. Then, owing to the disappearance of that extraneous family, we too find ourselves strange to one another. We find we are living in an atmosphere of mortal desolation which is the revenge, as he (_indicating Son_) scornfully said of the Demon of Experiment, that unfortunately hides in me. Thus, sir, you see when faith is lacking, it becomes impossible to create certain states of happiness, for we lack the necessary humility. Vaingloriously, we try to substitute ourselves for this faith, creating thus for the rest of the world a reality which we believe after their fashion, while, actually, it doesn't exist. For each one of us has his own reality to be respected before God, even when it is harmful to one's very self. THE MANAGER. There is something in what you say. I assure you all this interests me very much. I begin to think there's the stuff for a drama in all this, and not a bad drama either. THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_coming forward_). When you've got a character like me. THE FATHER (_shutting her up, all excited to learn the decision of the Manager_). You be quiet! THE MANAGER (_reflecting, heedless of interruption_). It's new ... hem ... yes.... THE FATHER. Absolutely new! THE MANAGER. You've got a nerve though, I must say, to come here and fling it at me like this.... THE FATHER. You will understand, sir, born as we are for the stage.... THE MANAGER. Are you amateur actors then? THE FATHER. No. I say born for the stage, because.... THE MANAGER. Oh, nonsense. You're an old hand, you know. THE FATHER. No sir, no. We act that rôle for which we have been cast, that rôle which we are given in life. And in my own case, passion itself, as usually happens, becomes a trifle theatrical when it is exalted. THE MANAGER. Well, well, that will do. But you see, without an author ... I could give you the address of an author if you like.... THE FATHER. No, no. Look here! You must be the author. THE MANAGER. I? What are you talking about? THE FATHER. Yes, you, you! Why not? THE MANAGER. Because I have never been an author: that's why.