WALTER. [Shifting uneasily.] Don't, Betty—I don't like it. I mean, he has such confidence in us.
BETTY. Of course he has. And quite rightly. Aren't you his oldest friend?
WALTER. [With something of a groan.] I've known him since I was seven.
BETTY. The first man he introduced me to—his best man at the wedding—do you remember coming to see us during the honeymoon? I liked you then.
WALTER. [Really shocked.] Betty!
BETTY. I did. You had a way of squeezing my hand…. And then when we came back here. You know it didn't take me long to discover—
WALTER. [Protesting.] I scarcely saw you the first two or three years!
BETTY. No—you were afraid. Oh I thought you so silly! [He suddenly contrives to release himself—gets up, and moves to the card-table.] Why, what's the matter?
WALTER. [At the table, with his back to her.] I hate hearing you talk like this.
BETTY. Silly boy! [She rises, and goes to him; he has taken a cigarette out of the box on the table, and stands there, with his head bent, tapping the cigarette against his hand.] Women only talk "like this," as you call it, to their lovers. They talk "like that" to their husbands—and that's why the husbands never know. That's why the husbands are always sitting in the stalls, looking on. [She puts her arms round him again.] Looking and not seeing.