Professor Rubek.
[Bows his head.] And laying my life waste.
Irene.
[Suddenly firing up.] It was just that I wanted! Never, never should you create anything again—after you had created that only child of ours.
Professor Rubek.
Was it jealousy that moved you, then?
Irene.
[Coldly.] I think it was rather hatred.
Professor Rubek.
Hatred? Hatred for me?
Irene.
[Again vehemently.] Yes, for you—for the artist who had so lightly and carelessly taken a warm-blooded body, a young human life, and worn the soul out of it—because you needed it for a work of art.
Professor Rubek.
And you can say that—you who threw yourself into my work with such saint-like passion and such ardent joy?—that work for which we two met together every morning, as for an act of worship.
Irene.
[Coldly, as before.] I will tell you one thing, Arnold.
