"You're mad!"
"Why?"
"To suggest such a thing," she said, with a scornful laugh. "You're mad. You think that I . . ."
"Want to be unhappy all your life?"
"That I should consent to run away with you. I love my husband . . . and my children . . . and you imagine . . ."
"Yes," he said, "it was mad of me to suggest it. You love your husband, not me. You never allow me anything, not anything."
"Nothing . . . at all?" she asked, scornfully.
"Nothing . . . that counts," he retorted, hoarsely, roughly.
She shrugged her shoulders:
"You men always want . . . that. Our happiness does not always consist . . . of that."
"No, but . . . if you loved me . . . entirely . . ."
"Johan!" she cried.
They crossed the bridge and entered the Woods.
"If you ever dare speak to me like that again. . . ."
"Very well, I won't."
"But you're always doing it. . . . We'd better not see each other at all."
"Not see each other?"
"No."
"I won't have that," he said. "I won't have that either."
"And if I insist?"
"Even so."
"You don't make me any happier by talking like that; you make me even unhappier than I am."
"Oh, Tilly, I can't bear to see you unhappy! . . . What are we to do, what are we to do?"
"I don't know," she said, in a dead voice.
