de the door, mother, to find that out.

MRS. BARLOW. Well, it's your own affair.

GERALD. What a lame summing up, mother!--quite unworthy of you.

ANABEL. What did you wish to say to me, Mrs. Barlow? Please say it.

MRS. BARLOW. What did I wish to say! Ay, what did I wish to say! What
is the use of my saying anything? What am I but a buffoon and a slovenly
caricature in the family?

GERALD. No, mother dear, don't climb down--please don't. Tell Anabel
what you wanted to say.

MRS. BARLOW. Yes--yes--yes. I came to say--don't be good to my
son--don't be too good to him.

GERALD. Sounds weak, dear--mere contrariness.

MRS. BARLOW. Don't presume to be good to my son, young woman. I won't
have it, even if he will. You hear me?

ANABEL. Yes. I won't presume, then.

GERALD. May she presume to be bad to me, mother?

MRS. BARLOW. For that you may look after yourself.--But a woman who was
good to him would ruin him in six months, take the manhood out of him.
He has a tendency, a secret hankering, to make a gift of himself to
somebody. He sha'n't do it. I warn you. I am not a woman to be despised.

ANABEL. No--I understand.

MRS. BARLOW. Only one other thing I ask. If he must fight--and fight
he must--let him alone: don't you try to shield him or save him. DON'T
INTERFERE--do you hear?

ANABEL. Not till I must.

MRS. BARLOW. NEVER. Learn your place, and keep it. Keep away from him,
if you are going to be a wife to him. Don't go too near. And don't let
him come too near. Beat him off if he tries. Keep a solitude in your
heart even when you love him best. Keep it. If you lose it, you lose
everything.

GERALD. But that isn't love, mother.

MRS. BARLOW. What?

GERALD. That isn't love.

MRS. BARLOW. WHAT? What do you know of love, you ninny? You only know
the feeding-bottle. It's what you want, all of you--to be brought up by
hand, and mew about love. Ah, God!--Ah, God!--that you should none of
you know the only thing which would make you worth having.

GERALD. I don't believe in your only thing, mother. But what is it?

MRS. BARLOW. What you haven't got--the power to be alone.

GERALD. Sort of megalomania, you mean?

MRS. BARLOW. What? Megalomania! What is your LOVE but a megalomania,
flowing over everybody and everything like spilt water? Megalomania!
I hate you, you softy! I would BEAT you (suddenly advancing on him and
beating him fiercely)--beat you into some manhood--beat you---

GERALD. Stop, mother