Dr. Alliot. At least call it common sense. If a man can’t live his normal life, it’s as if he were dead. If he’s an incurable drunkard, if he’s shut away for life in prison—
Hilary. But I’m not a drunkard. I’m not a convict. I’ve done nothing. I’ve been to the war, to fight, for her, for all of you, for my country, for this law-making machine that I’ve called my country. And when I’ve got from it, not honourable scars, not medals and glory, but sixteen years in hell, then when I get out again, then the country I’ve fought for, the laws I’ve fought for, the woman I’ve fought for, they say to me, “As you’ve done without her for fifteen years you can do without her altogether.” That’s what it is. When I was helpless they conspired behind my back to take away all I had from me. [To Margaret] Did I ever hurt you? Didn’t I love you? Didn’t you love me? Could I help being ill? What have I done?
Sydney. You died, Father.
Margaret. Sydney, don’t be cruel.
Miss Fairfield. Ah, we cry after the dead, but I’ve always wondered what their welcome back would be.
Hilary. Well, you know now.
Dr. Alliot. I don’t say it isn’t hard—
Hilary. Ah, you don’t say it isn’t hard. That’s good of you. That’s sympathy indeed. And my wife—she’s full of it too, isn’t she? “Poor dear! I was married to him once. I’d quite forgotten.”
Margaret. For pity’s sake, Hilary!
Dr. Alliot. Why, face it, man! One of you must suffer. Which is it to be? The useful or the useless? the whole or the maimed? the healthy woman with her life before her, or the man whose children ought never to have been born?