BETTY.  Silly boy! [She rises, and goes to him; he has taken a cigarette out of the box on the table, and stands there, with his head bent, tapping the cigarette against his hand.] Women only talk “like this,” as you call it, to their lovers.  They talk “like that” to their husbands—­and that’s why the husbands never know.  That’s why the husbands are always sitting in the stalls, looking on. [She puts her arms round him again.] Looking and not seeing.

     [She approaches her lips to his—­he almost fretfully unclasps
     her arms.

WALTER.  Betty—­I want to say a—­serious word ...

BETTY. [Looking fondly at him.] Well, isn’t what I’m saying serious?

WALTER.  I’m thirty-eight.

BETTY.  Yes.  I’m only thirty.  But I’m not complaining.

WALTER.  Has it ever occurred to you—­

     [He stops.

BETTY.  What?

[WALTER looks at her—­tries to speak, but cannot—­then he breaks away, goes across the room to the fireplace and stands for a moment looking into the fire.  She has remained where she was, her eyes following him wonderingly.  Suddenly he stamps his foot violently.

WALTER.  Damn it!  DAMN it!

BETTY. [Moving towards him in alarm.] What’s the matter?

WALTER. [With a swift turn towards her.] I’m going to get married.

BETTY. [Stonily, stopping by the round table.] You ...

WALTER. [Savagely.] Going to get married, yes.  Married, married!

[She stands there and doesn’t stir—­doesn’t speak or try to speak; merely stands there, and looks at him, giving no sign.  Her silence irritates him; he becomes more and more violent, as though to give himself courage.

WALTER.  You’re wonderful, you women—­you really are.  Always contrive to make us seem brutes, or cowards!  I’ve wanted to tell you this a dozen times—­I’ve not had the pluck.  Well, to-day I must.  Must, do you hear that?...  Oh, for Heaven’s sake, say something.

BETTY. [Still staring helplessly at him.] You ...

WALTER. [Feverishly.] Yes, I, I!  Now it’s out, at least—­it’s spoken!  I mean to get married, like other men—­fooled, too, I dare say, like the others—­at least I deserve it!  But I’m tired, I tell you—­tired—­

BETTY.  Of me?

WALTER.  Tired of the life I lead—­the beastly, empty rooms—­the meals at the Club.  And I’m thirty-eight—­it’s now or never.

BETTY. [Slowly.] And how about—­me?

WALTER.  You?

BETTY. [Passionately.] Yes.  Me.  Me!

WALTER.  You didn’t think this would last for ever?

BETTY. [Nodding her head.] I did—­yes—­I did.  Why shouldn’t it?

WALTER. [Working himself into a fury again.] Why?  You ask that?  Why?  Oh yes, it’s all right for you—­you’ve your home and your husband—­I’m there as an—­annexe.  To be telephoned to, when I’m wanted, at your beck and call, throw over everything, come when you whistle.  And it’s not only that—­I tell you it makes me feel—­horrid.  After all, he’s my—­friend.