MAGGIE. Why did you shiver, John?

JOHN. It was at myself for saying that I couldn't live with you
again, when I should have been wondering how for so long you have
lived with me. And I suppose you have forgiven me all the time. [She
nods.] And forgive me still? [She nods again.] Dear God!

MAGGIE. John, am I to go? or are you to keep me on? [She is now a
little bundle near his feet.] I'm willing to stay because I'm useful
to you, if it can't be for a better reason. [His hand feels for her,
and the bundle wriggles nearer.] It's nothing unusual I've done,
John. Every man who is high up loves to think that he has done it all
himself; and the wife smiles, and lets it go at that. It's our only
joke. Every woman knows that. [He stares at her in hopeless
perplexity.] Oh, John, if only you could laugh at me.

JOHN. I can't laugh, Maggie.

[But as he continues to stare at her a strange disorder appears in
his face. MAGGIE feels that it is to be now or never.]

MAGGIE. Laugh, John, laugh. Watch me; see how easy it is.

[A terrible struggle is taking place within him. He creaks. Something
that may be mirth forces a passage, at first painfully, no more joy
in it than in the discoloured water from a spring that has long been
dry. Soon, however, he laughs loud and long. The spring water is
becoming clear. MAGGIE claps her hands. He is saved.]