WESTERN. [_Quietly._] That's not true.
HARVEY. It is, and you know it. The mother of my children! Satisfied with
that. Never a word of kindness, or sympathy. And as for--affection!
MRS. WESTERN. We're not sweethearts--we're middle-aged people.
HARVEY. Well, I need something more. And, look here, I'll tell you. This
girl has made life worth living. That's all. I'd come home at night
dog-tired, all day in the City--sick of it, Stock Exchange, office, and
the mud and the grime and the worry--there were you, with a nod, ah,
Harvey, good evening--and you'd scarcely look up from your Committee
Report or your Blue-book, or damned pamphlet or other--
MRS. WESTERN. [_Contemptuously._] You are one of the men who want their
wife to be a mere sort of doll.
HARVEY. [_More and more vehemently._] I want my wife to care for me! I
want her to smile when I come in, and be glad--I want her to love me! You
don't! By the Lord, I've sneaked upstairs, gone in and had a peep at the
children--well, they'd be asleep. I tell you I've been hungry, hungry, for
a word, for a look! And there, in the schoolroom, was this girl. I've
played it low down, I know--she's fond of me. But I couldn't help it--I
was lonely--that's what it was. I've gone up there night after night.
_You_ didn't know where I was--and you didn't care. In my study, you
thought--the cold, chilly box that you call my study--glad to have me out
of the way. Well, there I was, with this girl. It was something to look
forward to, in the cab, coming home.
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