RICHARD.
What way?
BERTHA.
[With a shrug.] O simply.
RICHARD.
Were you excited?
BERTHA.
Well, you can imagine. [Frowning suddenly.] Not much. He has not nice lips… Still I was excited, of course. But not like with you, Dick.
RICHARD.
Was he?
BERTHA.
Excited? Yes, I think he was. He sighed. He was dreadfully nervous.
RICHARD.
[Resting his forehead on his hand.] I see.
BERTHA.
[Crosses towards the lounge and stands near him.] Are you jealous?
RICHARD.
[As before.] No.
BERTHA.
[Quietly.] You are, Dick.
RICHARD.
I am not. Jealous of what?
BERTHA.
Because he kissed me.
RICHARD.
[Looks up.] Is that all?
BERTHA.
Yes, that’s all. Except that he asked me would I meet him.
RICHARD.
Out somewhere?
BERTHA.
No. In his house.
RICHARD.
[Surprised.] Over there with his mother, is it?
BERTHA.
No, a house he has. He wrote the address for me.
[She goes to the desk, takes the key from the flower vase, unlocks the drawer and returns to him with the slip of paper.]
RICHARD.
[Half to himself.] Our cottage.
BERTHA.
[Hands him the slip.] Here.
RICHARD.
[Reads it.] Yes. Our cottage.
BERTHA.
Your…?
RICHARD.
No, his. I call it ours. [Looking at her.] The cottage I told you about so often—that we had the two keys for, he and I. It is his now. Where we used to hold our wild nights, talking, drinking, planning—at that time. Wild nights; yes. He and I together. [He throws the slip on the couch and rises suddenly.] And sometimes I alone. [Stares at her.] But not quite alone. I told you. You remember?
BERTHA.
[Shocked.] That place?
RICHARD.
[Walks away from her a few paces and stands still, thinking, holding his chin.] Yes.
BERTHA.
[Taking up the slip again.] Where is it?
RICHARD.
Do you not know?
BERTHA.
He told me to take the tram at Lansdowne Road and to ask the man to let me down there. Is it… is it a bad place?
RICHARD.
O no, cottages. [He returns to the lounge and sits down.] What answer did you give?
BERTHA.
No answer. He said he would wait.
RICHARD.
Tonight?
BERTHA.
Every night, he said. Between eight and nine.
RICHARD.
And so I am to go tonight to interview—the professor. About the appointment I am to beg for. [Looking at her.] The interview is arranged for tonight by him—between eight and nine. Curious, isn’t it? The same hour.
BERTHA.
Very.
RICHARD.
Did he ask you had I any suspicion?
BERTHA.
No.
RICHARD.
Did he mention my name?
BERTHA.
No.
RICHARD.
Not once?
BERTHA.
Not that I remember.
RICHARD.
[Bounding to his feet.] O yes! Quite clear!
BERTHA.
What?
RICHARD.
[Striding to and fro.] A liar, a thief, and a fool! Quite clear! A common thief! What else? [With a harsh laugh.] My great friend! A patriot too! A thief—nothing else! [He halts, thrusting his hands into his pockets.] But a fool also!
BERTHA.
[Looking at him.] What are you going to do?
RICHARD.
[Shortly.] Follow him. Find him. Tell him. [Calmly.] A few words will do. Thief and fool.
BERTHA.
[Flings the slip on the couch.] I see it all!
RICHARD.
[Turning.] Eh!
BERTHA.
[Hotly.] The work of a devil.
RICHARD.
He?
BERTHA.
[Turning on him.] No, you! The work of a devil to turn him against me as you tried to turn my own child against me. Only you did not succeed.
RICHARD.
How? In God’s name, how?
BERTHA.
[Excitedly.] Yes, yes. What I say. Everyone saw it. Whenever I tried to correct him for the least thing you went on with your folly, speaking to him as if he were a grownup man. Ruining the poor child, or trying to. Then, of course, I was the cruel mother and only you loved him. [With growing excitement.] But you did not turn him against me—against his own mother. Because why? Because the child has too much nature in him.
RICHARD.
I never tried to do such a thing, Bertha. You know I cannot be severe with a child.
BERTHA.
Because you never loved your own mother. A mother is always a mother, no matter what. I never heard of any human being that did not love the mother that brought him into the world, except you.
RICHARD.
[Approaching her quietly.] Bertha, do not say things you will be sorry for. Are you not glad my son is fond of me?
BERTHA.
Who taught him to be? Who taught him to run to meet you? Who told him you would bring him home toys when you were out on your rambles in the rain, forgetting all about him—and me? I did. I taught him to love you.
RICHARD.
Yes, dear. I know it was you.
BERTHA.
[Almost crying.] And then you try to turn everyone against me. All is to be for you. I am to appear false and cruel to everyone except to you. Because you take advantage of my simplicity as you did—the first time.
RICHARD.
[Violently.] And you have the courage to say that to me?
BERTHA.
[Facing him.] Yes, I have! Both then and now. Because I am simple you think you can do what you like with me. [Gesticulating.] Follow him now. Call him names. Make him be humble before you and make him despise me. Follow him!
RICHARD.
[Controlling himself.] You forget that I have allowed you complete liberty—and allow you it still.
BERTHA.
[Scornfully.] Liberty!
RICHARD.
Yes, complete. But he must know that I know. [More calmly.] I will speak to him quietly. [Appealing.] Bertha, believe me, dear! It is not jealousy. You have complete liberty to do as you wish—you and he. But not in this way. He will not despise you. You don’t wish to deceive me or to pretend to deceive me—with him, do you?
BERTHA.
No, I do not. [Looking full at him.] Which of us two is the deceiver?
RICHARD.
Of us? You and me?
BERTHA.
[In a calm decided tone.] I know why you have allowed me what you call complete liberty.
RICHARD.
Why?
BERTHA.
To have complete liberty with—that girl.
RICHARD.
[Irritated.] But, good God, you knew about that this long time. I never hid it.
BERTHA.
You did. I thought it was a kind of friendship between you—till we came back, and then I saw.
RICHARD.
So it is, Bertha.
BERTHA.
[Shakes her head.] No, no. It is much more; and that is why you give me complete liberty. All those things you sit up at night to write about [pointing to the study] in there—about her. You call that friendship?
RICHARD.
Believe me, Bertha dear. Believe me as I believe you.
BERTHA.
[With an impulsive gesture.] My God, I feel it! I know it! What else is between you but love?
RICHARD.
[Calmly.] You are trying to put that idea into my head but I warn you that I don’t take my ideas from other people.
BERTHA.
[Hotly.] It is, it is! And that is why you allow him to go on. Of course! It doesn’t affect you. You love her.
RICHARD.
Love! [Throws out his hands with a sigh and moves away from her.] I cannot argue with you.
BERTHA.
You can’t because I am right. [Following him a few steps.] What would anyone say?
RICHARD.
[Turns to her.] Do you think I care?
BERTHA.
But I care. What would he say if he knew? You, who talk so much of the high kind of feeling you have for me, expressing yourself in that way to another woman. If he did it, or other men, I could understand because they are false pretenders. But you, Dick! Why do you not tell him then?
RICHARD.
You can if you like.
BERTHA.
I will. Certainly I will.
RICHARD.
[Coolly.] He will explain it to you.
BERTHA.
He doesn’t say one thing and do another. He is honest in his own way.
RICHARD.
[Plucks one of the roses and throws it at her feet.] He is, indeed! The soul of honour!
BERTHA.
You may make fun of him as much as you like. I understand more than you think about that business. And so will he. Writing those long letters to her for years, and she to you. For years. But since I came back I understand it—well.
RICHARD.
You do not. Nor would he.
BERTHA.
[Laughs scornfully.] Of course. Neither he nor I can understand it. Only she can. Because it is such a deep thing!
RICHARD.
[Angrily.] Neither he nor you—nor she either! Not one of you!
BERTHA.
[With great bitterness.] She will! She will understand it! The diseased woman!
[She turns away and walks over to the little table on the right. Richard restrains a sudden gesture. A short pause.]
RICHARD.
[Gravely.] Bertha, take care of uttering words like that!
BERTHA.
[Turning, excitedly.] I don’t mean any harm! I feel for her more than you can because I am a woman. I do, sincerely. But what I say is true.
RICHARD.
Is it generous? Think.
BERTHA.
[Pointing towards the garden.] It is she who is not generous. Remember now what I say.
RICHARD.
What?
BERTHA.
[Comes nearer; in a calmer tone.] You have given that woman very much, Dick. And she may be worthy of it. And she may understand it all, too. I know she is that kind.
RICHARD.
Do you believe that?
BERTHA.
I do. But I believe you will get very little from her in return—or from any of her clan. Remember my words, Dick. Because she is not generous and they are not generous. Is it all wrong what I am saying? Is it?
RICHARD.
[Darkly.] No. Not all.
[She stoops and, picking up the rose from the floor, places it in the vase again. He watches her. Brigid appears at the folding doors on the right.]
BRIGID.
The tea is on the table, ma’am.
BERTHA.
Very well.
BRIGID.
Is Master Archie in the garden?
BERTHA.
Yes. Call him in.
[Brigid crosses the room and goes out into the garden. Bertha goes towards the doors on the right. At the lounge she stops and takes up the slip.]
BRIGID.
[In the garden.] Master Archie! You are to come in to your tea.
BERTHA.
Am I to go to this place?
RICHARD.
Do you want to go?
BERTHA.
I want to find out what he means. Am I to go?
RICHARD.
Why do you ask me? Decide yourself.
BERTHA.
Do you tell me to go?
RICHARD.
No.
BERTHA.
Do you forbid me to go?
RICHARD.
No.
BRIGID.
[From the garden.] Come quickly, Master Archie! Your tea is waiting on you.
[Brigid crosses the room and goes out through the folding doors. Bertha folds the slip into the waist of her dress and goes slowly towards the right. Near the door she turns and halts.]
BERTHA.
Tell me not to go and I will not.
RICHARD.
[Without looking at her.] Decide yourself.
BERTHA.
Will you blame me then?
RICHARD.
[Excitedly.] No,
