JUDITH.
Yes, I— (wringing her hands in despair) Oh, if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me.
RICHARD.
(indignantly). Torment! What right have you to say that? Do you expect me to stay after that?
JUDITH.
I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him like an angry child) it is not because I like you.
RICHARD.
Indeed!
JUDITH.
Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me about that. I hate and dread you; and my husband knows it. If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe that I disobeyed him and drove you away.
RICHARD.
(ironically). Whereas, of course, you have really been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh?
Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears.
RICHARD.
Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don’t do that. (Putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound.) He wrung my heart by being a man. Need you tear it by being a woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like himself? (She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking at him with a scared curiosity.) There: that’s right. (Sympathetically.) You’re better now, aren’t you? (He puts his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into his usual sardonic tone.) Ah, that’s better. You are yourself again: so is Richard. Well, shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband’s return?
JUDITH.
(rather ashamed of herself). If you please. I—I am sorry to have been so foolish. (She stoops to take up the plate of toast from the fender.)
RICHARD.
I am sorry, for your sake, that I am—what I am. Allow me. (He takes the plate from her and goes with it to the table.)