Professor Rubek.
Yes, I suppose it does.
Irene.
And in that design you have shifted me back, a little toned down—to serve as a background-figure—in a group.
[She draws the knife.
Professor Rubek.
Not a background-figure. Let us say, at most, a figure not quite in the foreground—or something of that sort.
Irene.
[Whispers hoarsely.] There you uttered your own doom. [On the point of striking.
Professor Rubek.
[Turns and looks up at her.] Doom?
Irene.
[Hastily hides the knife, and says as though choked with agony.] My whole soul—you and I—we, we, we and our child were in that solitary figure.
Professor Rubek.
[Eagerly, taking off his hat and drying the drops of sweat upon his brow.] Yes, but let me tell you, too, how I have placed myself in the group. In front, beside a fountain—as it were here—sits a man weighed down with guilt, who cannot quite free himself from the earth-crust.
