I mean she is a table—a chair—a desk—a dictionary—a something useful that is always in the right place at the right moment, and yet of whose presence one is pleasantly unconscious. She is a triumph of the negative.
Mrs. Parbury.
And I?
[Her face is not turned to him.
Parbury.
Positive, my love—quite positive; you bristle with emotions. When you are in the room, one knows it. [Mrs. Parbury takes out her handkerchief and begins to cry. Pause. Parbury, who has gone to desk, looks round inquiringly, then comes down gently and sees what she is doing.] [Aside.] Exactly!
Mrs. Parbury.
[Wiping her eyes.] Of course I quite understand now that you don’t love me.
Parbury.