HUNTINGDON. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic. But, my dear old girl, if that's all——
CLARE. It's not all—it's nothing. I can't explain, Reggie—it's not reason, at all; it's—it's like being underground in a damp cell; it's like knowing you'll never get out. Nothing coming—never anything coming again-never anything.
HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.
CLARE. When every day and every night!—Oh! I know it's my fault for having married him, but that doesn't help.
HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep going.
CLARE. I know.
HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it awfully.
CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home long ago.
HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it—but it simply won't.
CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not.