BETTY. [Coming in, and closing the door leading to the dining-room.] You ought to be going, Hector.
[She, stands listening for a moment, then goes through the other door into the hall.
HECTOR. [Disregarding her, too intent on his theme.] And I tell you, of the two, I prefer the home-made stodge. I'm sick of the eternal triangle. They always do the same thing. Husband strikes attitudes—sometimes he strikes the lover. The lover never stands up to him—why shouldn't he? He would—in real life. [BETTY comes back, with his overcoat and muffler—she proceeds affectionately to wrap this round his neck, and helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time.] He'd say, look here, you go to Hell. That's what he'd say—well, there you'd have a situation. But not one of the playwriting chaps dares do it. Why not, I ask you? There you'd have truth, something big. But no—they're afraid—think the public won't like it. The husband's got to down the lover—like a big tom-cat with a mouse—or the author'd have to sell one of his motor-cars! That's just the fact of it!
BETTY. [Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece.] Twenty-five past,
Hector.
HECTOR. [Cheerily.] All right, my lass, I'm off. By-bye, Walter—keep the old woman company for a bit. Good-bye, sweetheart. [He kisses her.] Don't wait up. Now for the drama. Oh, the dog's life!
[He goes. BETTY waits till the hall door has banged, then she sits on the elbow of WALTER'S chair, and rests her head on his shoulder.
BETTY. [Softly.] Poor Hector!
WALTER. [Uncomfortably.] … Yes …
BETTY. Doesn't it make you feel dreadful when he talks like that? [She kisses him; then puts her arms round his neck, draws his face to her, and kisses him again, on the cheek.] Doesn't it?
[She nestles contentedly closer to him.