Huntingdon.  I mean, you—­you chose him yourself.  No one forced you to marry him.

Clare.  It does seem monstrous, doesn’t it?

Huntingdon.  My dear child, do give us a reason.

Clare.  Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers] If George saw that for the first time he’d just say, “Ah, Westminster!  Clock Tower!  Can you see the time by it?” As if one cared where or what it was—­beautiful like that!  Apply that to every —­every—­everything.

Huntingdon. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic.  But, my dear old girl, if that’s all——­

Clare.  It’s not all—­it’s nothing.  I can’t explain, Reggie—­it’s not reason, at all; it’s—­it’s like being underground in a damp cell; it’s like knowing you’ll never get out.  Nothing coming—­never anything coming again-never anything.

Huntingdon. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn’t get into fantods like this.  If it’s like that, don’t think about it.

Clare.  When every day and every night!—­Oh!  I know it’s my fault for having married him, but that doesn’t help.

Huntingdon.  Look here!  It’s not as if George wasn’t quite a decent chap.  And it’s no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent on him.  At home they’ve got every bit as much as they can do to keep going.

Clare.  I know.

Huntingdon.  And you’ve got to think of the girls.  Any trouble would be very beastly for them.  And the poor old Governor would feel it awfully.

Clare.  If I didn’t know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home long ago.

Huntingdon.  Well, what’s to be done?  If my pay would run to it—­but it simply won’t.

Clare.  Thanks, old boy, of course not.

Huntingdon.  Can’t you try to see George’s side of it a bit?

Clare.  I do.  Oh! don’t let’s talk about it.

Huntingdon.  Well, my child, there’s just one thing you won’t go sailing near the wind, will you?  I mean, there are fellows always on the lookout.

Clare.  “That chap, Malise, you’d better avoid him!” Why?

Huntingdon.  Well!  I don’t know him.  He may be all right, but he’s not our sort.  And you’re too pretty to go on the tack of the New Woman and that kind of thing—­haven’t been brought up to it.

Clare.  British home-made summer goods, light and attractive—­don’t wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem ’to be going, Reggie.

     [Huntingdon looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]

Huntingdon.  Don’t head for trouble, old girl.  Take a pull.  Bless you!  Good-night.

Clare kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of emotion.  Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table, leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite calm.  George is coming in.  Paynter follows him.

Clare.  Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter.  You can go home, and the maids can go to bed.