Harry (Sullen). Let him.
Bessie. Never. Don't quarrel. But perhaps he won't even try to talk to you of it. (Thinking aloud.) Who knows what I can do with him in a week! I can, I can, I can—I must.
Harry. Come—what's this sensible notion of his that I mustn't quarrel about?
Bessie (Turns to Harry, calm, forcible). If I make him once see that you've come back, he will be as sane as you or I. All his mad notions will be gone. But that other is quite sensible. And you mustn't quarrel over it.
(Moves up to back of stage. Harry follows a little behind, away from audience.)
Harry's Voice (Calm). Let's hear what it is.
(Voices cease. Action visible as before. Harry steps back and walks hastily down. Bessie at his elbow, follows with her hands clasped?)
(Loud burst of voice.)
Harry (Raving to and fro). No! Expects me—a home. Who wants his home?... What I want is hard work, or an all-fired racket, or more room than there is in the whole of England. Expects me! A man like me—for his rotten money—there ain't enough money in the world to turn me into a blamed tame rabbit in a hutch. (He stops suddenly before Bessie, arms crossed on breast. Violently.) Don't you see it?
Bessie (Terrified, stammering faintly). Yes. Yes. Don't look at me like this. (Sudden scream.) Don't quarrel with him. He's mad!