ervescent humour with grim pathos."
Ver? We sometimes think things are all over, when they're only beginning. A thunderstorm's not the Day of Judgment. It clears the air. Mrs. Denham. This _is_ the Day of Judgment for me. I am weighed in the balance and found wanting. I wish I were dead. Miss Macfarlane. Nonsense, dear; you're no failure. But I'll tell ye what the two of you are--a pair of fools; that's what you are. You should have put your foot down, my dear. _She_ was the Black Cat you ought to have got rid of, and nipped this business in the bud. I don't know how far it has gone. Does he want to run away with her? Mrs. Denham. No; he professes to have given her up. Miss Macfarlane. Then he's none such a fool, after all. That woman would have led him a pretty dance! Mrs. Denham. He loves her--let him go to her. (_Rises and crosses_ L. _Stopped by Miss Macfarlane._) Miss Macfarlane. Fiddlesticks, my dear! Don't force him into her arms. Mind you, he has vowed to cherish you as well as to love you; and how can he do that if you drive him away? Do ye remember one of his misquotations from Byron: "Man's love is from his life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's main subsistence?" There's truth in that. Mrs. Denham. Men make love, like everything else, a mere _game_. Miss Macfarlane. Ay, you're right there. But until _we_ hold the purse strings, it's hard to keep them to the strict rules o' the game. Mrs. Denham. That is a vile injustice! I may not be able to fight on equal terms, but I will never submit. If he does not go, I will. (_Crosses_ R.) Miss Macfarlane. Don't wreck your lives for a man's passing fancy. If that's your new morality, I prefer the old. Don't turn this comedy into a tragedy. That's all very well on the stage, but we're not acting an Ibsen play; it doesn't pay in real life. Mrs. Denham. A good tragedy is better than a bad comedy. Miss Macfarlane. Come to your room, my dear. Have your cry out, sponge your eyes, and we'll have a quiet talk. Mrs. Denham. Oh, this sense of failure! It will drive me mad! ACT DROP. Act III _Scene: The Studio. Mrs. Denham lying on sofa_ R C, _a shawl over her feet, her face buried in her hands, moaning inarticulately. Table as in_ ACT II. (_Enter Denham excitedly._) Denham. Constance! Mrs. Denham. (_moving and raising her head_) Well? Denham. Where is Undine? Mrs. Denham. Undine? Denham. Yes. Do you know where she is? Mrs. Denham. In her room, I suppose. I told her to stay there. Denham. She is not in the room--not in the house. Mrs. Denham. But--I locked the door. Denham. She must have got out o