booth. [attempting sarcasm.] Speak so that Mother can hear you!
But hugh isn't to be stopped now.
hugh. Why are we all dull, cubbish, uneducated, hopelessly middle-class . . that is hopelessly out of date.
booth. [taking this as very personal.] Cubbish!
hugh. . . Because it's the middle-class ideal that you should respect your parents . . live with them . . think with them . . grow like them. Natural affection and gratitude! That's what's expected, isn't it?
booth. [not to be obliterated.] Certainly.
hugh. Keep your children ignorant of all that you don't know, penniless except for your good pleasure, dependent on you for permission to breathe freely . . and be sure that their gratitude will be most disinterested, and affection very natural. If your father's a drunkard or poor; then perhaps you get free and can form an opinion or two of your own . . and can love him or hate him as he deserves. But our father and mother were models. They did their duty by us . . and taught us ours. Trenchard escaped, as I say. You took to the Army . . so of course you've never discovered how behind the times you are. [the Major is stupent.] I tried to express myself in art . . and found there was nothing to express . . I'd been so well brought up. D'you blame me if I wander about in search of a soul of some sort? And Honor—
booth. [disputing savagely.] Honor is very happy at home. Everyone loves her.
hugh. [with fierce sarcasm.] Yes . . what do we call her? Mother's right hand! I wonder they bothered to give her a name. By the time little Ethel came they were tired of training children . . [his voice loses its sting; he doesn't complete this sentence.]
beatrice. Poor little Ethel . .