GERALD. Yes, I suppose it is. But one can get beyond tragedy—beyond the state of feeling tragical, I mean. Father himself is tragical. One feels he is mistaken—and yet he wouldn't be any different, and be himself, I suppose. He's sort of crucified on an idea of the working people. It's rather horrible when he's one's father.—However, apart from tragedy, how do you like being here, in this house?
ANABEL. I like the house. It's rather too comfortable.
GERALD. Yes. But how do you like being here?
ANABEL. How do you like my being in your home?
GERALD. Oh, I think you're very decorative.
ANABEL. More decorative than comfortable?
GERALD. Perhaps. But perhaps you give the necessary finish to the establishment.
ANABEL. Like the correct window-curtains?
GERALD. Yes, something like that. I say, why did you come, Anabel? Why did you come slap-bang into the middle of us?—It's not expostulation—I want to know.
ANABEL. You mean you want to be told?