Hilary sits down on the sofa.
Hilary. [Broken] I don’t see ahead. I don’t see what’s to become of me. There’s no-one.
Sydney. There’s me.
Hilary. [Not looking at her] I should think you hate me.
Sydney. I need you just as badly as you need me.
Hilary. [Fiercely] It’s your damn-clever doing that she went. D’you think I can’t hate you?
Sydney. [Close to him] No, no, Father, you want me too much. We’ll make a good job of it yet.
Hilary. [His head in his hands] What job?
Sydney. [Petting him, coaxing him, loving him, her hands quieting his twitching hands, her strong will already controlling him] Living. I’ve got such plans already, Father—Father dear. We’ll do things. We’ll have a good time somehow, you and I—you and I. Did you know you’d got a clever daughter? Writing—painting—acting! We’ll go on tour together. We’ll make a lot of money. We’ll have a cottage somewhere. You see, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make you proud of me.
Miss Fairfield. [Surveying them] Proud of her! D’you see, Hilary? That’s all she thinks of—self—self—self! Money, ambition—and sends that poor boy away. A parson’s son! Not good enough for her, that’s what it is. She’s like the rest of the young women. Hard as nails! Hard as nails!