[A silence.]

You’ve often talked of leavin’ me.  You ’ve often told me I treat you badly—­well I ’ope you ’ll be glad when I ’m gone.

Mrs. Jones. [Impassively.] You have, treated me very badly, James, and of course I can’t prevent your going; but I can’t tell whether I shall be glad when you’re gone.

Jones.  It’ll change my luck.  I ’ve ’ad nothing but bad luck since I first took up with you. [More softly.] And you’ve ’ad no bloomin’ picnic.

Mrs. Jones.  Of course it would have been better for us if we had never met.  We were n’t meant for each other.  But you’re set against me, that’s what you are, and you have been for a long time.  And you treat me so badly, James, going after that Rosie and all.  You don’t ever seem to think of the children that I ’ve had to bring into the world, and of all the trouble I ’ve had to keep them, and what ’ll become of them when you’re gone.

Jones. [Crossing the room gloomily.] If you think I want to leave the little beggars you’re bloomin’ well mistaken.

Mrs. Jones.  Of course I know you’re fond of them.

Jones. [Fingering the purse, half angrily.] Well, then, you stow it, old girl.  The kids ’ll get along better with you than when I ’m here.  If I ‘d ha’ known as much as I do now, I ‘d never ha’ had one o’ them.  What’s the use o’ bringin’ ’em into a state o’ things like this?  It’s a crime, that’s what it is; but you find it out too late; that’s what’s the matter with this ’ere world.

     [He puts the purse back in his pocket.]

Mrs. Jones.  Of course it would have been better for them, poor little things; but they’re your own children, and I wonder at you talkin’ like that.  I should miss them dreadfully if I was to lose them.

Jones. [Sullenly.] An’ you ain’t the only one.  If I make money out there—­[Looking up, he sees her shaking out his coat—­in a changed voice.] Leave that coat alone!

     [The silver box drops from the pocket, scattering the
     cigarettes upon the bed.  Taking up the box she stares at it;
     he rushes at her and snatches the box away.]

Mrs. Jones. [Cowering back against the bed.] Oh, Jem! oh, Jem!

Jones. [Dropping the box onto the table.] You mind what you’re sayin’!  When I go out I ’ll take and chuck it in the water along with that there purse.  I ’ad it when I was in liquor, and for what you do when you ’re in liquor you’re not responsible-and that’s Gawd’s truth as you ought to know.  I don’t want the thing—­I won’t have it.  I took it out o’ spite.  I ’m no thief, I tell you; and don’t you call me one, or it’ll be the worse for you.

Mrs. Jones. [Twisting her apron strings.] It’s Mr. Barthwick’s!  You’ve taken away my reputation.  Oh, Jem, whatever made you?