BROXOPP (surprised). But you haven’t had them since you were a baby.
JACK (seeing the opening). Haven’t had them? Have I ever stopped having them? Weren’t they rammed down my throat at school till I was sick of them? Did they ever stop pulling my leg about them at Oxford? Can I go anywhere without seeing that beastly poster—a poster of me—me, if you please—practically naked—telling everybody that I love my Beans. Don’t I see my name—Broxopp, Broxopp, Broxopp—everywhere in every size of lettering—on every omnibus, on every hoarding; spelt out in three colours at night—B-R-O-X-O-P-P—until I can hardly bear the sight of it. Free bottles given away on my birthday, free holidays for Broxopp mothers to celebrate my coming of age! I’m not a man at all. I’m just a living advertisement of Beans.
BROXOPP (quietly). I think that’s putting it a little too strongly, Jack.
[35](NANCY presses his hand and strokes it gently.)
JACK. I know it is, but that’s how I’ve felt sometimes. Of course I know that if it hadn’t been for Broxopp, I’d be sitting on a high stool and lucky to earn thirty bob a week. But you must see my side of it, Dad. I want to paint. How can any one called Broxopp be taken seriously as an artist? How can I make any sort of name with all those Beans and babies overshadowing me and keeping me out of the light? I don’t say I’m ever going to be a great painter, but how do I stand a chance as things are? “Have you seen the new Broxopp?” What’s that going to mean to anybody? Not that I’ve painted a picture, but that you’ve brought out a new-sized bottle, or a full strength for Invalids, or something.
BROXOPP. I think you exaggerate, Jack.
JACK. I know I do. But you can’t get over it that it’s going to be pretty rotten for me. It’s always been rotten for me—and now it’s going to be rotten for Iris.
BROXOPP. Is it, Iris? You’d tell me the truth, I know.
IRIS. I want to marry Jack, Daddy Broxopp. But I don’t want to marry the Beans. I told Nancy so.
NANCY (to BROXOPP). I do understand, dear.