dear! That's what has made me love you, I suppose--so I've
no right to complain of it. [Intensely.] I don't. I wouldn't have you
changed one bit! I love you! And I love the things you love--your
work--because it's a part of you. And that's what I want you to do--to
reciprocate--to love the creator in me--to desire that I, too, should
complete myself with the thing nearest my heart!

CURTIS--[Intensely preoccupied with his own struggle--vaguely.] But I
thought--

MARTHA--I know; but, after all, your work is yours, not mine. I have
been only a helper, a good comrade, too, I hope, but--somehow--outside
of it all. Do you remember two years ago when we were camped in Yunnan,
among the aboriginal tribes? It was one night there when we were lying
out in our sleeping-bags up in the mountains along the Tibetan
frontier. I couldn't sleep. Suddenly I felt oh, so tired--utterly
alone--out of harmony with you--with the earth under me. I became
horribly despondent--like an outcast who suddenly realizes the whole
world is alien. And all the wandering about the world, and all the
romance and excitement I'd enjoyed in it, appeared an aimless, futile
business, chasing around in a circle in an effort to avoid touching
reality. Forgive me, Curt. I meant myself, not you, of course. Oh, it
was horrible, I tell you, to feel that way. I tried to laugh at myself,
to fight it off, but it stayed and grew worse. It seemed as if I were
the only creature alive--who was not alive. And all at once the picture
came of a tribeswoman who stood looking at us in a little mountain
village as we rode by. She was nursing her child. Her eyes were so
curiously sure of herself. She was horribly ugly, poor woman, and
yet--as the picture came back to me--I appeared to myself the ugly one
while she was beautiful. And I thought of our children who had
died--and such a longing for another child came to me that I began
sobbing. You were asleep. You didn't hear. [She pauses--then proceeds
slowly.] And when we came back here--to have a home at last, I was so
happy because I saw my chance of fulfillment--before it was too late.
[In a gentle, pleading voice.] Now can you understand, dear? [She puts
her hand on his arm.]

CURTIS--[Starting as if awaking from a sleep.] Understand? No, I can't
understand, Martha.

MARTHA--[In a gasp of unbearable hurt.] Curt! I don't believe you heard
a word I was saying.

CURTIS--[Bursting forth as if releasing all the pent-up strugg