alice. [her face growing a little thoughtful.] Beatrice, I'm going to ask questions. You were in love with Hugh when you married him?
beatrice. Well . . I married him for his money.
alice. He hadn't much.
beatrice. I had none . . and I wanted to write books. Yes, I loved him.
alice. And you thought you'd be happy?
beatrice. [considering carefully.] No, I didn't. I hoped he'd be happy.
alice. [a little ironical.] Did you think your writing books would make him so?
beatrice. My dear Alice, wouldn't you feel it a very degrading thing to have your happiness depend upon somebody else?
alice. [after pausing to find her phrase.] There's a joy of service.
beatrice. [ironical herself now.] I forgot . . you've four hundred a year?