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._
BETTY. [_Softly._] Poor Hector!
WALTER. [_Uncomfortably._] ... Yes ...
BETTY. Doesn't it make you feel dreadful when he talks like that? [_She
kisses him; then puts her arms round his neck, draws his face to her, and
kisses him again, on the cheek._] Doesn't it?
[_She nestles contentedly closer to him._
WALTER. [_Trying to edge away._] Well, it does. Yes.
BETTY. [_Dreamily._] I--like it.
WALTER. Betty!
BETTY. Yes, I like it. I don't know why. I suppose I'm frightfully wicked.
Or the danger perhaps--I don't know.