Tom. You must have thought my conduct very strange.
Lucy. I did. (sits, R.)
Tom. I owe you an explanation as well as Sir Humphrey. You remember my telling you my married life was a failure?
Lucy. Though you adored your wife.
Tom. You mustn’t think she didn’t care for me, at first, but she was lively, high-spirited, demonstrative. (fetches chair from back and sits beside Lucy) And you know what sort of a fellow I am. Heavy as one of Dozey’s sermons. Women like pretty speeches, compliments. I can’t make pretty speeches, and I can’t pay compliments; but there are lots of men about who can. I wasn’t jealous, for a man can’t very well be jealous of a lap dog—and still less of half-a-dozen lap dogs at a time; but I lost my opinion of her (rises) and at last—— (leans on back of chair)
Lucy. You told her so.
Tom. I didn’t say very much; and what I said she didn’t seem to heed. When I had spoken I went out. Coming back presently I found a letter lying on her desk telling me she preferred another man, and asking me to leave her. I took her at her word. (crosses to C.)
Lucy. You left her without seeing her again?
Tom. She asked me not to see her, and where was the use? I had just spoken to her, and this was the result. I came to England, and the next I heard of her was the announcement of her death. (crosses to sofa)
Lucy. Abroad?