For some mischief or other, so they say.
ANABEL. You think I came back for mischief's sake?
OLIVER. Did you?
ANABEL. No.
OLIVER. Ah!
ANABEL. Tell me, Oliver, how is everything now?--how is it with you?
--how is it between us all?
OLIVER. How is it between us all?--How ISN'T it, is more the mark.
ANABEL. Why?
OLIVER. You made a fool of us.
ANABEL. Of whom?
OLIVER. Well--of Gerald particularly--and of me.
ANABEL. How did I make a fool of you, Oliver?
OLIVER. That you know best, Anabel.
ANABEL. No, I don't know. Was it ever right between Gerald and me,
all the three years we knew each other--we were together?
OLIVER. Was it all wrong?
ANABEL. No, not all. But it was terrible. It was terrible, Oliver.
You don't realise. You don't realise how awful passion can be, when
it never resolves, when it never becomes anything else. It is hate,
really.
OLIVER. What did you want the passion to resolve into?
ANABEL. I was blinded--maddened. Gerald stung me and stung me till
I was mad. I left him for reason's sake, for sanity's sake. We
should have killed one another.
OLIVER. You, stung him, too, you know--and pretty badly, at the last:
you dehumanised him.
ANABEL. When? When I left him, you mean?
OLIVER. Yes, when you went away with that Norwegian--playing your
game a little too far.
ANABEL. Yes, I knew you'd blame me.
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