WELLWYN. Am I likely to?
ANN. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair. D'you know what I live in terror of?
[WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]
ANN. That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the street. Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his trousers—they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one enormous hole?
WELLWYN. No!
ANN. Spiritually.
WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! H'm!
ANN. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you really are, I suppose—a sickly sentimentalist!
WELLWYN. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn't sentiment. It's simply that they seem to me so—so—jolly. If I'm to give up feeling sort of—nice in here [he touches his chest] about people—it doesn't matter who they are—then I don't know what I'm to do. I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.
ANN. I think you ought to.