George. Oh, it's absurd, you're making a mountain out of a molehill.
Daisy. You used to be so jolly, and we used to laugh together. I looked forward so much to your coming here. What has changed you?
George. Nothing has changed me.
Daisy. [With a passion of despair.] Oh, I might as well batter my head against a brick wall. How can you be so unkind to me?
George. For God's sake ... [He stops.] Heaven knows, I don't want to be unkind to you.
Daisy. Then why do you treat me as an outcast? Oh, it's cruel, cruel.
[George is excessively distressed. He walks up and down, frowning. He cannot bear to look at Daisy and he speaks with hesitation.
George. You'll think me an awful rotter, Daisy, but you can't think me more of a rotter than I think myself. I don't know how to say it. It seems such an awful thing to say. I'm so ashamed of myself. I don't suppose two men have ever been greater pals than Harry and I. He's married to you and he's awfully in love with you. And I think you're in love with him. I was only twenty-three when I—first knew you. It's an awful long time ago, isn't it? There are some wounds that never quite heal, you know. Oh, my God, don't you understand? [His embarrassment, the distraction of his tone, and the way the halting words fall unwillingly from his lips have betrayed the truth to Daisy. She does not speak, she does not stir, she looks at him with great shining eyes. She hardly dares to breathe.] If ever you wanted revenge on me you've got it now. You must see that it's better that I shouldn't come here too often. Forgive me—Goodby.
[He hurries away with averted face. Daisy stands motionless, erect; she is almost transfigured. She draws a long breath.
Daisy. Oh, God! He loves me.