Aubrey. Aubrey. My dearest, you don't understand me. I—I can't[49] bear to hear you always talking about—what's done with. I tell you I'll never remember it; Paula, can't you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we promise each other to forget, to forget, we're bound to be happy. After all, it's a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought enters your head, you quickly think of something bright—it depends on one's will. Shall I burn this, dear? [Referring to the letter he holds in his hand.] Let me, let me! [49] Paula. Paula. [With a shrug of the shoulders.] I don't suppose there's much that's new to you in it—just as you like. [He goes to the fire and burns the letter. Aubrey. Aubrey. There's an end of it. [Returning to her.] What's the matter? Paula. Paula. [Rising, coldly.] Oh, nothing! I'll go and put my cloak on. Aubrey. Aubrey. [Detaining her.] What is the matter? Paula. Paula.
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