low to Trévelé).

He wants to rise in the estimation of our hostess; he is a clever fellow.

Lionnette (looking at Nourvady, who is going towards Godler and Trévelé, one sitting and the other standing at the other side of the room).

He is peculiar, that man.

John.

Do you find him odd?

Lionnette.

Yes, he is so unlike any one else.

John.

Indeed?

Lionnette.

What is the matter with you? What are you thinking about?

John.

I am thinking that that odd man is very happy.

Lionnette.

In having the left shoulder higher than the right, and a ball in the latter?

John.

In having what I have not, in having forty millions.

Lionnette.

Ah, yes, that would help us out of our difficulties.

John.

My poor Lionnette, I am very unhappy.

Lionnette.

Why?

John.

Because I am not able to give you any longer what I formerly gave you.

Lionnette.

I shall do very well without it.

John.

You are incapable of it; you said it yourself just now.

Lionnette.

There are moments when I no longer know what I say; you must not pay attention to it. Chance has done much for me in my life; it may still find a way.

John.

And if chance gets tired, and if you also get as tired? I shall never say—"if you love me no more;" in your heart you have never loved me.

Lionnette.

Why did I marry you, then?

John.

Because your mother advised you to do it.

Lionnette.

It is perhaps the only good advice she ever gave me, and I assure you I have been very grateful for what you have done for me.

John.

Gratitude is not love.

Lionnette.

Love comes afterwards.

John.

A long time afterwards, for it has not come yet.

Lionnette.

The most beautiful creature in the world could not give more than she has. I have given all I had to give. Is it love? Is it not love? I know not. I have no line of comparison, never having given to any one but you.

(She hesitates a moment before continuing.)

John.

You were going to say something else.

Lionnette.

No.

John.

Yes. Say it, whatever it was.

(He draws Lionnette by the hand, close to him.)

Godler.

There are the plots beginning again. An odd kind of a house this.

(The three persons go out on the terrace, and from there into the garden, where one sees no more of them.)

Lionnette.

I was going to say that perhaps you find that I do not love you enough, because you love me too much. Then you have been much too good to me; you have done whatever I wished; you did wrong. You should have been more my master, in order to counterbalance the bad influence of my mother, to change my habits, to offer more resistance, and to save me from myself.

John.

To save you? What have you done then?

Lionnette.

I have ruined you.

John.

That is all.

Lionnette.

It is quite enough.

John.

You have never thought of....

Lionnette.

Of what?

John.

Of another?

Lionnette (laughing).

You are mad. You have always been a little inclined that way. It is true that if you had not been silly you would never have married me.

John.

Whether I am mad or not, answer my question.

Lionnette.

No, you can be assured on that point. I have never thought of any one else.

John.

And if I were to die; if I killed myself; if you, in the end, became a widow, and that man who is there—that strange man, that millionaire—made you an offer, would you marry him?

Lionnette.

We have not arrived at that yet.

John.

Who can tell? In the meantime that man loves you, and wishes to go so far as to make you love him without waiting for my death. You have remarked it as well as I.

Lionnette.

Where is the woman who does not discover such things? Ask those who have never, by anyone, been told or allowed to see that they were loved, what they think of life. Our dream is to hear such declarations; our art is to listen to them; and our genius and power not to believe in them.

John.

Has he declared himself?

Lionnette.

Never.

John.

Your word for it.

Lionnette.

My word of honour.

John.

It will come to that.

Lionnette.

He will not be the last, I hope. What do you want to make of it?

John.

He will declare himself, perhaps, at the moment when nothing remains for you but misery or suicide: both are equally hard for a young and beautiful woman.

Lionnette (seriously and haughtily).

You are confounding me with some other woman whom you loved before me. Do I expose myself to these suppositions by my ways of living? Ah! no, no. I have many defects but no vices, I believe; and, in spite of my anxiety for the future, I have never yet dreamed of these ways of escape. I trust never to think for a moment of them.

John.

How much I love you! You have in you all that is most strange and noble in this world. You have a power over me almost superhuman. I think of no one but you; I want nothing but you; I dream only of you. If I suspect, it is because I love you. When you are not here, I do not exist: when I find you again, I tremble like a child. I implore you never to trifle with that love,—so deep, and, yet, so troubled. I do not ask you to love me beyond your power of loving; but love none other more than me. You know