. .
AUNTIE. In the way I willed! I am glad of it! I worked for
that--_and I won_! . . .
Well, what are you troubling about now?
VICAR [slowly]. I am thinking of the fact that there has been no
child to bless our marriage, Martha--that is, no child of our very
own, no child whose love we have not stolen.
AUNTIE. My dear . . .
VICAR. We have spoken about it sometimes, haven't we? Or,
rather--_not_ spoken!
AUNTIE. William, why will you think of these things?
VICAR. In those first days, dearest, I brought you two children of
our own to cherish, little unborn souls crying for you to mother
them-- You have fostered only the one. That one is called the
Scholar. Shall I tell you the name of the other?
AUNTIE [after a moment]. Yes . . .
VICAR. I hardly know: I hardly dare to name him, but perhaps it
was--the Saint.
AUNTIE. What I have done, William, has been done for love of
you--you only--you only in the world!
VICAR. Yes: that's what I _mean_!
[The thought troubles her for a moment; then she paces up and down
in agitated rebellion.
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