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[Is silent for a moment.] I cannot say it. You yourself must ask me, Mr Rowan.RICHARD.[With some vehemence.] Then that I expressed in those chapters and letters, and in my character and life as well, something in your soul which you could not-pride or scorn?BEATRICE.Could not?RICHARD.[Leans towards her.] Could not because you dared not. Is that why?BEATRICE.[Bends her head.] Yes.RICHARD.On account of others or for want of courage-which?BEATRICE.[Softly.] Courage.RICHARD.[Slowly.] And so you have followed me with pride and scorn also in your heart?BEATRICE.And loneliness.[She leans her head on her hand, averting her face. RICHARD rises and walks slowly to the window on the left. He looks out for some moments and then returns towards her, crosses to the lounge and sits down near her.]RICHARD.Do you love him still?BEATRICE.I do not even know.RICHARD.It was that that made me so reserved with you-then-even though I felt your interest in me, even though I felt that I too was something in your life.BEATRICE.You were.RICHARD.Yet that separated me from you. I was a third person, I felt. Your names were always spoken together, Robert and Beatrice, as long as I can remember. It seemed to me, to everyone...9BEATRICE.We are first cousins. It is not strange that we were often together.RICHARD.He told me of your secret engagement with him. He had no secrets from me; I suppose you know that.BEATRICE.[Uneasily.] What happened-between us-is so long ago. I was a child.RICHARD.[Smiles maliciously.] A child? Are you sure? It was in the garden of his mother's house. No? [He points towards the garden.] Over there. You plighted your troth, as they say, with a kiss. And you gave him your garter. Is it allowed to mention that?BEATRICE.[With some reserve.] If you think it worthy of mention.RICHARD.I think you have not forgotten it. [Clasping his hands quietly.] I do not understand it. I thought, too, that after I had gone... Did my going make you suffer?BEATRICE.I always knew you would go some day. I did not suffer; only I was changed.

Exiles is a written play by James Joyce that includes three acts; the manuscript was written in 1914, finished in 1915, and published in 1918. Despite the efforts made by Joyce and American poet and critic Ezra Pound, to whom Joyce had shown the manuscript prior to his publication, the play was rejected to be produced; it was however rediscovered in 1970 and made into a London play (directed by Harold Pinter). The plot of the story revolves around a complicated love affair of a man (Robert) that meets a married woman (Bertha) who he used to love, and her husband (Richard) who he used to drink alcohol with. The major point of the play is the sense of doubt about what occurred between Acts Two and Three, the uncertainty about whether the affair between Robert and Bertha has actually happened or not.