Sydney. Nobody could make me do what I didn’t want to do.
Margaret. [Forgetting Sydney] It was nobody’s fault. It was the war— [She sits, dreaming.]
Sydney. It’s extraordinary to me—whenever you middle-aged people want to excuse yourselves for anything you’ve done that you know you oughtn’t to have done, you say it was the war. How could a war make you get married if you didn’t want to?
Margaret. [Groping for words] It was the feel in the air. They say the smell of blood sends horses crazy. That was the feel. One did mad things. Hilary—your father—he was going out—the trenches—to be hurt. And he was so fond of me he frightened me. I was so sorry. I thought I cared. Can’t you understand?
Sydney. No. Either you care or you don’t.
Margaret. [Passionately] How can you know until it happens to you? How was I to know there was more to it than keeping house and looking after Hilary—and you? How was I to know?
Sydney. [Doubtfully] Is there so much more to it?
Margaret. Yes.
Sydney. I don’t believe there is for some people. Why it’s just what I want—to look after Kit and a house of my own, and—oh, at least half a dozen kids.
Margaret. [Uncomfortably] Sydney, dear!