Mrs. Tremaine.

Don't say any more. Let us forget all this.

Denham.

Forget? No. But we must renounce. You, too, will wear the sackcloth.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_petulantly_) Why should _I_ wear sackcloth?

Denham.

My dear Blanche, you are not such a fine coquette as you imagine.
(_Going close up to her._) Do you think I can't read those beautiful
eyes of yours? You love me! Your love fills the air like the
fragrance of a flower. (_He clasps her in his arms._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_impatiently_) Suppose I did. _Après?_

Denham.

You do love me, Blanche? (_Kisses her._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_with inward rage_) Yes, I love you. (_Suddenly embracing him._) I