MARGARET. What sort of thing, Bobby?
BOBBY. Well, about life.
MARGARET. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasnt at my aunt's. All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean.
BOBBY. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better tell you: youre bound to find out sooner or later. [He begins his confession humbly, avoiding her gaze]. Meg: it's rather awful: youll think me no end of a beast. Ive been in prison.
MARGARET. You!
BOBBY. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police.
MARGARET. Do you mean to say that you—oh! this is a let-down for me. [She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the end of it furthest from the hearth].
BOBBY. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that. I was writing to you to break it off. [He also descends from the table and makes slowly for the hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter.
MARGARET. Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and assaulting the police? How long were you in?
BOBBY. A fortnight.