Tom. You are unhappy?
Lucy. I didn’t mean to say a word about it, but what you’ve told me startled the truth out. I’ve been unhappy for weeks and weeks. I know Ned’s in difficulties, and his estrangement from Sir Humphrey weighs upon his mind. I am the cause of it, and it’s only natural his feelings should have changed; but that makes it no easier to bear. I am a drag upon him, a dishonour! I’m sure he loved me when he married me, but he’s so different now. Oh, Mr. Potter, it may be as you say, love never dies; but love may be so tried, and torn, and strained, that all the happiness goes out of it. (sits on chair, C.)
Tom. (crosses to Lucy) Surely, yours hasn’t been so tried?
Lucy. Not mine—but Ned’s. I always seem to be in his way now. He’s so much occupied—so taken up with other things—he never has a word or look for me. He’s out so much; and when he’s at home he’s always writing or else thinking—I am nobody—and Mrs. Blake—your wife—is everybody; only he doesn’t know she is your wife! If he did, it might make a difference. (rises)
Tom. This may be your fancy. I can quite understand, you’re sensitive, and perhaps misconstrue very simple things. You see, Ned’s an author; (Lucy sits) and authors make uninteresting husbands. (crosses to L.) I won’t say they always neglect their wives, but their wives always think so. (crosses to Lucy) Then again, Mrs. Blake—as my wife calls herself——
Lucy. Alma, Ned calls her!
Tom. Well—she’s on the stage and might be of great use to him. It’s only natural he should make friends with her.
Lucy. But he thinks she’s a widow. If he knew she had a husband—and above all, (rises) that you were her husband—I should feel more comfortable.
Tom. Tell him yourself, then. You have my permission. Have the thing out and make an end of it; but for heaven’s sake, don’t brood!