(kissing him) Oh, you jolly old father! I should like to do my sums with you always.

Denham.

Heaven forbid! Get on! Get on! (Crosses to chair l.)

(A pause.)

Undine.

Father! Father!

Denham.

H'm!

Undine.

I say, Father!

Denham.

Do let me read in peace.

Undine.

But, father—

Denham.

Well?

Undine.

Do the Greeks worship Demeter now?

Denham.

No, not now.

Undine.

The old Greeks were the cleverest people that ever lived, and they had the nicest gods. Don't you wish there were goddesses now, father? (Rises, and leans against table.)

Denham.

(absently) Yes, of course.

Undine.

Goddesses sometimes fell in love with people, father—didn't they?

Denham.

People who didn't happen to be gods? It did occur sometimes, they say.

Undine.

And one might fall in love with you, father. That would be fun!

Denham.

That would be awful. But do stop this chatter, and get on.

Undine.

She'd give me all sorts of jolly things.

(A pause.)

Mrs. Denham (outside the door) In a quarter of an hour will do, Jane.

Denham.

Here comes mother!

Undine.

Oh, bother these horrid old sums! (Flops into chair.)

(Enter Mrs. Denham, with flowers. She comes to the cabinet to place them in a vase, and sees the water spilt.)

Mrs. Denham.

What's all this mess? What have you been doing, miss? (Crosses to Undine.)

Undine.

(rising and standing before her) Please, mother, I only made a libation.

Mrs. Denham.

You naughty, wicked girl! Oh, this wicked, wicked waste of time!

Undine.

(whimpering) But, mother, I only—

Mrs. Denham.

Hold your tongue, miss. Don't attempt to make excuses. (Steps back, looks at Undine.) And just look at that pinafore, that was put on you clean this morning, and now it is all over dirt! You have been climbing trees again.

Undine.

(whimpering) I wasn't climbing trees. I only climbed one tree.

Denham.

(aside) Well parried!

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, these mean prevarications! If I take my eye off you for a moment, you disobey me. But you shall obey me—you shall obey! (Shakes the child; she screams.)

Denham.

Dear! Dear!

Mrs. Denham.

How dare you scream at me like that?

Undine.

(crying) But you're hurting me.

Mrs. Denham.

Bear it then, bear it decently, without screaming like a beast. Have you done your sums?

Undine.

Not all.

Mrs. Denham.

(looking at sums) Only one done, and that not right. Oh, this wicked waste of time! You are killing me and killing yourself. When you waste your time you are wasting your life. Why will you waste your time?

Undine.

I don't know.

Mrs. Denham.

Then you must be taught to know.

Denham.

May I say a word? I am chiefly to blame. We were talking about the Greek gods.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh well, if you encourage her in her laziness, I can do nothing. (Crosses l as she speaks, then turns suddenly.) Get out of my sight, miss! It is time for you to go out now. Go away, and take off that pinafore. You are a disgrace to your father and to me. (Gives her a final shake. Undine runs out screaming.) Oh dear! Oh dear! There! Listen to that precious daughter of yours, filling the house with her yells. (She presses her hands over her ears.) Oh, that child will be the death of me! (Throws herself down upon the couch.) She ought never to have been born. Her existence is a mistake and a curse.

Denham.

(sighing) Yes, we are all mistakes from the ideal standpoint.

Mrs. Denham.

It makes me mad to think that I—I—should have brought such an idiot into the world!

Denham.

Yes, you are an over-populated woman, dear. (Rises up to her.) The modern woman is very easily over-populated.

Mrs. Denham.

You can joke about it, of course. To me it is a serious calamity. (Weeps.)

Denham.

Well, dear, at least we have not repeated our initial mistake. (Crosses to picture.)

Mrs. Denham.

Do you regret it?

Denham.

God forbid! I only regret that our relations were not always strictly platonic. That is the highest practical ideal of the age—modern woman being what she is.

Mrs. Denham.

Yes, I know you despise me in your heart. You are always sneering at me as a modern woman. What do you mean?

Denham.

(crosses to her) I agree with Michelet: "La femme est une malade."

Mrs. Denham.

And what is man?

Denham.

(sits in armchair) Oh, a sick creature too—that's the worst of it. The world spirit is moulting, and we're all sick together.

Mrs. Denham.

Phrases, phrases, always phrases! When I am most in earnest you put me off with a jest.

Denham.

"If I laugh at any mortal thing, 'tis that I may not weep."

Mrs. Denham.

(sobbing) I know I have disappointed you; I know you are not satisfied with me; I have not made you happy.

Denham.

(starting up and pacing) Happy? Give me life! Give me life! Happiness can take care of itself. But there is no use in crying "Give, give!" like the horse-leech. If we want impossibilities we must achieve them. (Crosses r.)

Mrs. Denham.

You want incompatible things.

Denham.

Of course I do. So do you. Your reason and your instincts are at war, just like mine. That is our sickness.

Mrs. Denham.

How at war?

Denham.

Your reason tells you that woman is independent, self-sufficing. Your instincts cry feebly for passion, that savage outlaw which still lies in wait for the modern woman, to carry her whither she would not. Hence your lapse from strict agnostic morality into matrimony, bondage, subjection, and the mistake, Undine.

Mrs. Denham.

That child has come between us. I think children often do.

Denham.

Is that one of the necessary horrors of matrimony?

Mrs. Denham.

Heaven help me, that girl drives me mad!

Denham.

Nerves, nerves, as usual. She irritates you, and you irritate her. The mere presence of a child sets your teeth on edge. (Crosses, and sits r of table.)

Mrs. Denham.

My brain has been torn to pieces by children all my life. I was a slave to my own brothers and sisters, because I was the eldest.

Denham.

That was very hard, I