Mrs. Parbury.
Of course you hate me. Your old friend has done that for me. You are breaking my heart!
Parbury.
[Who has recovered control of his temper and resumed his natural bantering tone.] Not at all, dear. [Sits at his desk and affects to be busy.] I was only going to say that I hated—now, what the deuce was it I hated?—oh, I know—to see a woman cry. I do think a woman is wise who does her crying in private, and yet—I wonder—they know best—millions to one they know best. I must write something about it.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Rises, goes to top of table, R. She is wiping her eyes, her back to him.] Of course, you’re going all the same?
Parbury.
[Affecting great pre-occupation.] Going? Going where?
Mrs. Parbury.
With Mr. Gunning.