MRS. WESTERN. Good-bye, Fanny. I'm sorry that our party to-night—
MRS. BANKET. Oh, that doesn't matter! Poor thing! I promise you that Tom shall have a good talking to!
[She is too angry with HARVEY to say good-bye to him: she and the JUDGE go. The moment the door closes, HARVEY begins, feverishly and passionately.
HARVEY. Now just listen. I'm going to speak to you—I'm going to say things—things that have been in my heart, in my life, for years. I'm not going to spare you, I'm going to tell you the truth, and the truth, and the truth!
MRS. WESTERN. [Calmly, looking ironically at him.] If it's the same kind of truth you've been giving us to-night—
HARVEY. We've been married ten years. Oh, I know, we were neither of us very young. But anyhow the last five have been nothing but misery for me. Misery—do you hear that? You sitting there, calm and collected—not caring one damn for me—
MRS. WESTERN. [Quietly.] That's not true.
HARVEY. It is, and you know it. The mother of my children! Satisfied with that. Never a word of kindness, or sympathy. And as for—affection!
MRS. WESTERN. We're not sweethearts—we're middle-aged people.
HARVEY. Well, I need something more. And, look here, I'll tell you. This girl has made life worth living. That's all. I'd come home at night dog-tired, all day in the City—sick of it, Stock Exchange, office, and the mud and the grime and the worry—there were you, with a nod, ah, Harvey, good evening—and you'd scarcely look up from your Committee Report or your Blue-book, or damned pamphlet or other—