Cray. I'm willin'—to bury the past. (Cook looks at him) Well, I tell you, I want to bury the past.
Car. (pause, she puts hand on chair) Before we talk of burying the past, I should like you to look down into the still open grave——
Cray. (shudders) Filthy way of talkin'!
Car. (sits L.) When I married you I was thirty—quite old enough to know better! but I'd spent my youth in nursing my father. When he died I inherited a fortune—and my freedom—without much notion what to do with either. That was a bad year for me. I lost my father and I found you. (Crayll scowls at her) I don't know what crime I had committed that fate should sentence me to ten years' penal servitude. But my father had wished it and so did your mother. You had been a little wild, they said, but all you needed was gentle guidance. I believed them, but my gentle guidance that was to work miracles generally took the shape of helping you up to bed in the small hours, when the difficulty of adjusting the latchkey had been overcome.
Cray. Look here, it 'pears to me you're trying to be 'fensive.
Car. That was my life for ten years. The dregs of your fortune and the whole of mine gradually melted away—in cards—(he pours out drink) racing, drink—and a few extra establishments.
Cray. You never grumbled about th' extra 'stablishments.
Car. (rises in disgust) Oh, no! I only mention them now—to fill up the picture of our home life. With regard to your gambling and drunkenness I was sorry for myself, but in the matter of your infidelities I was sorry for the other women.
Cray. Your language's 'fensive—damned 'fensive!
Car. At the finish we had a pleasant little chat; you hadn't a sixpence left—or a friend either—except Bob Carruthers. He had lent you more than he could afford and he was sick of it. You tried to get me to ask him again. I wouldn't. It was on that occasion you reached up and tried to strike me. (touches him on shoulder) Do you remember?