MRS. SYLVESTER.
It was wrong from the first. Mine was the true ideal. The thing that you thought love was a mere passion—an intoxication. Now you have come back to your better self you feel the need of sympathy.
GERALD.
No, no; my love was real enough, and I love Margery still; but love doesn’t seem to bear the wear and tear of marriage—the hourly friction—the continual jar.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
There is no friction in true marriage, Gerald. You say you love your wife, and it is good and loyal of you to deceive yourself; but you can’t deceive me. Haven’t I made the same mistake myself? I was a thoughtless, inexperienced girl, Jack was a handsome, easy-going man. We married, and for a year or two we jogged along. But I grew up—the girl became a woman. I read, I thought, I felt; my life enlarged. Jack never reads, never thinks—he is just the same. [Rising.] I am not unhappy, but my soul is starved—[goes to mantelpiece and stands looking at him]—as yours is!
[Pause. Margery’s face appears between the curtains at the back, wearing a broad smile. She grimaces at them, unobserved, and remains there; then looks at Gerald with a long face of mock sympathy.
GERALD.
Well, we must make the best of it!