BETTY. I want to know—I'm entitled to know.
WALTER. [Still with his back to her.] Mary Gillingham.
BETTY. Mary Gillingham!
WALTER. [Firmly, swinging round to her.] Yes.
BETTY. That child, that chit of a girl!
WALTER. She's twenty-three.
BETTY. Whom I introduced you to—my own friend?
WALTER. [Grumbling.] What has that to do with it? And besides … [He suddenly changes his tone, noticing how calm she has become—he takes a step towards her, and stands by her side, at the back of the table, his voice becomes gentle and affectionate.] But I say, really, you're taking it awfully well—pluckily. I knew you would—I knew I was an ass to be so—afraid…. And look here, we'll always be pals—the very best of pals. I'll … never forget—never. You may be quite sure … of that. I want to get married—I do—have a home of my own, and so forth—but you'll still be—just the one woman I really have loved—the one woman in my life—to whom I owe—everything.
BETTY. [With a mirthless laugh.] Do you tell all that—to Mary
Gillingham?
WALTER. [Pettishly, as he moves away.] Do I—don't be so absurd.