BETTY.  He has been that always.  You didn’t feel—­horrid—­before....  Who is she?

WALTER. [Shortly, as he turns back to the fire.] That doesn’t matter.

BETTY.  Yes, it does.  Who?

WALTER. [Fretfully.] Oh, why should we—­

BETTY.  I want to know—­I’m entitled to know.

WALTER. [Still with his back to her.] Mary Gillingham.

BETTY.  Mary Gillingham!

WALTER. [Firmly, swinging round to her.] Yes.

BETTY.  That child, that chit of a girl!

WALTER.  She’s twenty-three.

BETTY.  Whom I introduced you to—­my own friend?

WALTER. [Grumbling.] What has that to do with it?  And besides ... [He suddenly changes his tone, noticing how calm she has become—­he takes a step towards her, and stands by her side, at the back of the table, his voice becomes gentle and affectionate.] But I say, really, you’re taking it awfully well—­pluckily.  I knew you would—­I knew I was an ass to be so—­afraid....  And look here, we’ll always be pals—­the very best of pals.  I’ll ... never forget—­never.  You may be quite sure ... of that.  I want to get married—­I do—­have a home of my own, and so forth—­but you’ll still be—­just the one woman I really have loved—­the one woman in my life—­to whom I owe—­everything.

BETTY. [With a mirthless laugh.] Do you tell all that—­to Mary
Gillingham?

WALTER. [Pettishly, as he moves away.] Do I—­don’t be so absurd.

BETTY.  You tell her she is the only girl you have loved.

WALTER. [Moving back to the fire, with his back to her.] I tell her—­I tell her—­what does it matter what I tell her?  And one girl or another—­she or someone else—­

BETTY.  But you haven’t answered my question—­what’s to become of me?

WALTER. [Angrily, facing her.] Become of you!  Don’t talk such nonsense.  Because it is—­really it is.  You’ll be as you were.  And Hector’s a splendid chap—­and after all we’ve been frightfully wrong—­treating him infernally badly—­despicably.  Oh yes, we have—­and you know it.  Lord, there’ve been nights when I have—­but never mind that—­that’s all over!  In future we can look him in the face without feeling guilty—­we can—­

BETTY. [Quietly.] You can.

WALTER.  What do you mean?

BETTY. You can, because of this girl.  Oh, I know, of course!  You’ll come here three or four times—­then you’ll drop off—­you’ll feel I’m not quite the woman you want your wife to know.

WALTER. [With genuine feeling, as he impulsively steps towards her.] Betty, Betty, what sort of cad do you take me for?  What sort of cad, or bounder?  Haven’t I told you I’d never forget—­never?  And you think you’ll pass out of my life—­that I want you to?  Why, good Heaven, I’ll be your best friend as long as I live.  Friend—­yes—­what I always should have been—­meant to be!  And Hector.  Why, Betty, I tell you, merely talking to-night, as I’ve done, has made me feel—­different—­sort of—­lifted—­a load.  Because I’ve always had it—­somewhere deep down in me—­when I’ve thought of—­him.