We did that when we were children.
OCEANA. Yes, that's the way. But I, you see . . . I'm a child still;
and I expect to be always.
ETHEL. And are you always happy, Oceana?
OCEANA. Always.
ETHEL. You never . . . you never even start to feel sad?
OCEANA. Why yes, now and then. But I don't permit such moods. You see,
I have the conviction that there is nothing beautiful or right about
sorrow - never, under any circumstances.
ETHEL. You mean you would not mourn, even if some one you loved were
to die?
OCEANA. I mean that I did not. [She pauses.] Yes, exactly . . . my
father. He had been my life's companion, and they brought him home
drowned; and yet I did not mourn.
ETHEL. Oceana!
OCEANA. I had trained myself . . . for just that. We had made
ourselves what you might call soul-exercises; little ceremonies to
remind ourselves of things we wished to hold by. The Sunrise Dance was
one of those. And then, on the last day of each month, at sunset, we
would sit and watch the shadows fade, and contemplate death. [She
pauses, gravely.] We would say to ourselves that we, too, were shadows
. . . rainbows in the sea-mist; that we held our life as a gift . . .
we carried it in our hands, ready to give it up when we heard the
call. [A pause.]
HENRY. [Opens door centre and enters. Sees OCEANA and halts.] Oh!
OCEANA. [Turns and sees him.] Why! Here's a man! [They gaze at each
other, transfixed.] Ethel! Who is he?
ETHEL.
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