Sir H. She is of full age, and can please herself.
Tom. Yes, but there’s something else. You know, I took my present name when I went in for art, to your disgust, on my return from abroad about five years ago; but of my previous history you know very little, and I must tell you part of it. I suppose you think I’m a bachelor?
Sir H. Of course.
Tom. I am a widower.
Sir H. You astound me.
Tom. Yes, I once had a wife; but we weren’t happy—in fact, we separated.
Sir H. How long has she been dead?
Tom. A few months after my return to England I saw her death announced in the newspapers.
Sir H. The newspapers!
Tom. There is no irony like that of destiny, no cynic half as cynical as life. Two beings live together in one home, are bound together in one interest, are animated by one hope. Fate separates them. They go different ways, and after many days (crosses to R.) they read about each other in the newspaper.