the human creatures whom the wealth of men like that has driven to
despair? Shall we base God's altar in the bones of harlots,
plaster it up with the slime of sweating-dens and slums, give it
over for a gaming-table to the dice of gamblers and of thieves?

AUNTIE. Why will you exaggerate, my dear?--It is not as bad as
that. Why don't you compose yourself and try and be contented
and--and happy?

VICAR. How can I be happy, and that man poisoning the air I
breathe?

AUNTIE. You are not always like this, dear! . . .

VICAR. Happy! How can I be happy, and my brother Robert what I
have made him!

AUNTIE. We are not talking of Robert: we are talking of _you_!
Think of our love, William--our great and beautiful love! Isn't
that something to make you happy?

VICAR. Our love? It's well you mention it. That question had
better be faced, too! Our love! Well, what of it? What is love?

AUNTIE. Oh, William, you _know_ . . .

VICAR. Is love a murderer? Does love go roaming about the world
like Satan, to slay men's souls?

AUNTIE. Oh, now you're exaggerating again! What do you mean?