GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've never said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've never said anything?
BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months—in prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison. Oh, I know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in the air—something like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I had a better idea—I thought.
GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must have had!
BOB (furiously). Damn you! I won't be pitied by you.
GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm going to talk about myself.
BOB. And it won't be the first time either.
GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to you. You say I've never tried to understand your feelings—have you ever tried to understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about you than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you? When a boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever bore you with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I knew how I'd feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for you.
BOB. Very noble of you.
GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good of talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact, whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking?
BOB. Go on; I like to hear it.