RUTH. Martin! A pistol! You!
MARTIN. He talks of putting up another factory. (Grimly.) It's going to stop at talk.
RUTH. A pistol! (Coaxing.) I've never had a pistol in my hand. Let me feel it, Martin.
MARTIN (replacing it). They're dangerous toys.
RUTH. But I'll hold it by the handle.
MARTIN. It's safer where it is. It's no good, Ruth You haven't wheedled Guy Barlow into being soft with us, and you won't wheedle me into being soft with him. You're no great hand at wheedling for all your pretty face.
RUTH (feigning indignation). Oh, do you think it's Guy I care about?
MARTIN (drily). I think somehow it is.
RUTH. You have no right——
MARTIN. What else am I to think? For all these months I get no word from you. Your mother talks of nothing but your happiness with him. I know you're living there in luxury with him, and I see you dressed the way you are. What can I think but that he's won you round?