He wags his head at hugh, who writhes with irritation.
hugh. Why can't you leave them alone . . leave us alone?
beatrice. I'd state my case against Hugh, if I thought he'd retaliate.
hugh. [desperately rounding on his brother.] If I tell you, you won't understand. You understand nothing! Beatrice is angry with me because I won't prostitute my art to make money.
booth. [glancing at his wife.] Please don't use metaphors of that sort.
beatrice. [reasonably.] Yes, I think Hugh ought to earn more money.
booth. [quite pleased to be getting along at last.] Well, why doesn't he?
hugh. I don't want money.
booth. You can't say you don't want money any more than you can say you don't want bread.
beatrice. [as she breaks off her cotton.] It's when one has known what it is to be a little short of both . .