Jane is forty, a young woman of forty. If failure is the worst deformity, she must be open to that accusation, for she has compromised with life. But Jane will always be something a little better than a woman.
Jane. What is it all about, Jack? Yourself? Kathryn? Or merely me?
Jack. None of us, Jane. Dill said that he was getting married.
Jane. Oh, Dill's always getting married. He never does, though.
Jack. And then Dill was telling me about a brother of his, and I was telling him about a brother of my father's. I have never told you, Jane, but father really came here looking for a brother. Sort of a business journey on his part. That is—none of his business whatever. I tell him fathers should begin at home and stay there. But father feels differently. Have you got a husband, Jane? I know that nothing short of marriage will ever stop him.
Jane. I haven't, Jack. But I almost had an English one once.
Jack. No need to explain, Jane. They don't exist. Our men were all killed in the Wars of the Wives. Father says it was they who started that horrible Rebellion in this country, and that it's going on still. Father doesn't believe in matrimony. That's because you're the first person I've had the heart to broach the subject to. (Aside.) I don't think I shall ever marry. It's a fine opportunity for a young man.
Jane. To become your mother, Jack, I might think of it. But a minister can support anything but a wife or a sense of humor.
Jack. Ah! but if father comes into the estate—
Jane. The estate?