Carve. (With an affectation of martyrdom.) Doesn't matter.
Janet. Oh yes, I will. (Moving away.)
Carve. (Drawing her to him by her apron.) Can't you see he's teasing you?
Janet. She's got no time in the morning for being teased.
(She takes a cigarette, lights it and immediately puts it in his mouth.)
Carve. And now you're going to leave me?
Janet. Sure you're all right? (He nods.) Quite sure you're happy?
Carve. Jane—
Janet. I wish you wouldn't call me Jane.
Carve. But I will call you Jane. Jane, why do you ask me if I'm sure I'm happy? When a man has first-class food and first-class love, together with a genuine French bed, really waterproof boots, a constant supply of hot water in the bathroom, enough money to buy cigarettes and sixpenny editions, the freedom to do what he likes all day and every day—and—let me see, what else—a complete absence of domestic servants—then either that man is happy or he is a silly cuckoo!