edward has begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him.
edward. This is a queer thing to have to make up one's mind about, isn't it, father?
mr. voysey. [watching him closely and modulating his voice.] My dear boy, I understand the shock to your feelings that this disclosure must have been.
edward. Yes, I thought this morning that next week would see us in the dock together.
mr. voysey. And I suppose if I'd broken down and begged your pardon for my folly, you'd have done anything for me, gone to prison smiling, eh?
edward. I suppose so.
mr. voysey. Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry I can't go in sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. [Now he begins to rally his son; easy in his strength.] My dear Edward, you've lived a quiet humdrum life up to now, with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, these are the sort of garden oats which young men seem to sow now-a-days! . . and you've never before been brought face to face with any really vital question. Now don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience. Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the consideration of this very serious matter. I'm not angry at what you've said to me. I'm quite willing to forget it. And it's for your own sake and not for mine, Edward, that I do beg you to—to—to be a man and try and take a practical common sense view of the position you find yourself in. It's not a pleasant position I know, but it's unavoidable.
edward. You should have told me before you took me into partnership. [Oddly enough it is this last flicker of rebellion which breaks down mr. voysey's caution. Now he lets fly with a vengeance.]
mr. voysey. Should I be telling you at all if I could possibly help it? Don't I know that you're about as fit for this job as a babe unborn? Haven't I been worrying over that for these last three years? But I'm in a corner . . and I won't see all this work of mine come to smash simply because of your scruples. If you're a son of mine you'll do as I tell you. Hadn't I the same choice to make? . . and this is a safer game for you than it was for me then. D'you suppose I didn't have scruples? If you run away from this, Edward, you're a coward. My father was a coward and he suffered for it to the end of his days. I was sick-nurse to him here more than partner. Good lord! . . of course it's pleasant and comfortable to keep within the law . . then the law will look after you. Otherwise you have to look pretty sharp after yourself. You have to cultivate your own sense of right and wrong; deal your own justice. But that makes a bigger man of you, let me tell you. How easily . . how easily could I have walked out of my father's office and left him to his fate; no one would have blamed me! But I didn't. I thought it my better duty to stay and . . yes, I say it with all reverence . . to take up my cross. Well, I've carried that cross pretty successfully. And what's more, it's made a happy man of me . . a better, stronger man than skulking about in shame and in fear of his life ever made of my poor dear father. [Relieved at having let out the truth, but doubtful of his wisdom in doing so, he changes his tone.] I don't want what I've been saying to influence you, Edward. You are a free agent . . and you must decide upon your own course of action. Now don't let's discuss the matter any more for the moment.
edward looks at his father with clear eyes.