WALTER. [Sitting to left of the round table.] I’d change places with you, sonny.

HECTOR.  You would, eh?  That’s what they all say!  Four new plays this week, my lad—­one yesterday, one to-day—­another to-morrow, and the night after!  All day long I’m reading plays—­and I spend my nights seeing ’em!  D’you know I read about two thousand a year?  Divide two thousand by three hundred and sixty five.  A dog’s life—­that’s what it is!

WALTER.  Better than being a stockbroker’s clerk—­you believe me!

HECTOR.  Is it?  I wish you could have a turn at it, my bonny boy! Your hair’d go grey, like mine!  And look here—­what are the plays to-day?  They’re either so chock-full of intellect that they send you to sleep—­or they reek of sentiment till you yearn for the smell of a cabbage!

WALTER.  Well, you’ve the change, at any rate.

HECTOR. [Snorting.] Change?  By Jove, give me a Punch and Judy show on the sands—­or performing dogs!  Plays—­I’m sick of ’em!  And look here—­the one I’m off to to-night.  It’s adapted from the French—­well, we know what that means.  Husband, wife and mistress.  Or wife, husband, lover.  That’s what a French play means.  And you make it English, and pass the Censor, by putting the lady in a mackintosh, and dumping in a curate!

BETTY. [Coming in, and closing the door leading to the dining-room.] You ought to be going, Hector.

     [She, stands listening for a moment, then goes through the other
     door into the hall.

HECTOR. [Disregarding her, too intent on his theme.] And I tell you, of the two, I prefer the home-made stodge.  I’m sick of the eternal triangle.  They always do the same thing.  Husband strikes attitudes—­sometimes he strikes the lover.  The lover never stands up to him—­why shouldn’t he?  He would—­in real life. [BETTY comes back, with his overcoat and muffler—­she proceeds affectionately to wrap this round his neck, and helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time.] He’d say, look here, you go to Hell. That’s what he’d say—­well, there you’d have a situation.  But not one of the playwriting chaps dares do it.  Why not, I ask you?  There you’d have truth, something big.  But no—­they’re afraid—­think the public won’t like it.  The husband’s got to down the lover—­like a big tom-cat with a mouse—­or the author’d have to sell one of his motor-cars!  That’s just the fact of it!

BETTY. [Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece.] Twenty-five past, Hector.

HECTOR. [Cheerily.] All right, my lass, I’m off.  By-bye, Walter—­keep the old woman company for a bit.  Good-bye, sweetheart. [He kisses her.] Don’t wait up.  Now for the drama.  Oh, the dog’s life!

     [He goes. BETTY waits till the hall door has banged, then she
     sits on the elbow of WALTER’S chair, and rests her head on his
     shoulder.