NORWOOD (eagerly). You are nothing to him, and he is nothing to you. A war-wedding!—after you'd been engaged to each other for a week! And forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent out to India—and you haven't seen him since.
KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that.
NORWOOD. The world may say that you're his wife and he's your husband, but—what do you know of him? He won't even be the boy you married. He'll be a stranger whom you'll hardly recognise. And you aren't the girl he married. You're a woman now, and you're just beginning to learn what love is. Come with me.
KATE. It's true, it's true. But he has been fighting for us. And to come home again after those four years of exile, and find—
NORWOOD. Exile—that's making much too much of it. He's come through the war safely, and he's probably had what he'd call a topping good time. Like enough he's been in love half-a-dozen times himself since—on leave in India and that sort of thing. India! Well, you should read Kipling.
KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don't know him. But I feel that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight about it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing what you say, he would understand—and perhaps be glad of it.
NORWOOD (uneasily). Really, darling, it's hardly a thing you can talk over calmly with a husband, even if he—We don't want any unpleasantness, and—er—(Taking her hands again) Besides, I want you, Kate. It may be weeks before he comes back. We can't go on like this . . . Kate!
KATE. Do you love me so very much?
NORWOOD. My darling!
KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week—in case he comes. I don't want to seem to be afraid of him.