SIMON. What a life. Let me see now, how does one begin? Which arm is it? I believe I have forgotten the way.
MARY ROSE. Then I shall make love to you. (Playing with his hair.) Have I been a nice wife to you, Simon? I don’t mean always and always. There was that awful day when I threw the butter-dish at you. I am so sorry. But have I been a tolerably good wife on the whole, not a wonderful one, but a wife that would pass in a crowd?
SIMON. Look here, if you are going to butt me with your head in that way, you must take that pin out of your hair.
MARY ROSE. Have I been all right as a mother, Simon? Have I been the sort of mother a child could both love and respect?
SIMON. That is a very awkward question. You must ask that of Harry Morland Blake.
MARY ROSE. Have I——?
SIMON. Shut up, Mary Rose. I know you: you will be crying in a moment, and you don’t have a handkerchief, for I wrapped it round the trout whose head came off.
MARY ROSE. At any rate, Simon Blake, say you forgive me about the butter-dish.
SIMON. I am not so sure of that.
MARY ROSE. And there were some other things—almost worse than the butter-dish.