ANDERSON.
(going over to her with humorous tenderness). Come, dear, you’re not so wicked as you think. The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of inhumanity. After all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you’ll be surprised to find how like hate is to love. (She starts, strangely touched—even appalled. He is amused at her.) Yes: I’m quite in earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can’t bear to let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners than lovers. Think of those very same people with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be independent of one another, careful of how they speak of one another—pooh! haven’t you often thought that if they only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and wives? Come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. Eh?
JUDITH.
Oh, don’t say that: don’t say that, Tony, even in jest. You don’t know what a horrible feeling it gives me.
ANDERSON.
(Laughing). Well, well: never mind, pet. He’s a bad man; and you hate him as he deserves. And you’re going to make the tea, aren’t you?
JUDITH.
(remorsefully). Oh yes, I forgot. I’ve been keeping you waiting all this time. (She goes to the fire and puts on the kettle.)
ANDERSON.
(going to the press and taking his coat off). Have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat?
JUDITH.
Yes, dear. (She goes to the table, and sets about putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.)
ANDERSON.
(as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off). Did anyone call when I was out?
JUDITH.
No, only— (someone knocks at the door. With a start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming) Who’s that?
ANDERSON.
(going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder). All right, pet, all right. He won’t eat you, whoever he is. (She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. He goes to the door and opens it. Richard is there, without overcoat or cloak.) You might have raised the latch and come in, Mr. Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much ceremony with us. (Hospitably.) Come in. (Richard comes in carelessly and stands at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of his nose at the mezzotinted divine on the wall. Judith keeps her eyes on the tea caddy.) Is it still raining? (He shuts the door.)
RICHARD.
Raining like the very (his eye catches Judith’s as she looks quickly and haughtily up)—I beg your pardon; but (showing that his coat is wet) you see—!