I managed to get away from you a bit after Oxford, but it went on just the same. "How do you do, Mr. Farringdon? Are you any relation to Gerald Farringdon?" (With the utmost contempt) And you actually thought I liked that; you thought I enjoyed it. You thought I smiled modestly and said, "Oh yes, he's my brother, my young brother; isn't he wonderful?"
GERALD (hardly able to realise it). And you've felt like this for years? (To himself) For years!
BOB (not noticing him). And that wasn't enough for you. They got you into the Foreign Office--they could have got me there. They could have put me into the Army (Almost shouting) Aren't I the eldest son? But no, it didn't matter about the eldest son--never mind about him; put him in the City, anywhere as long as he's out of the way. If we have any influence, we must use it for Gerald--the wonderful Gerald.
GERALD. If this is an indictment, it's drawn against the wrong person.
BOB (more quietly). Then at last I found a friend; somebody who took me for my own sake. (Bitterly) And like a damned fool I brought her down here, and she saw _you_. I might have known what would happen.
GERALD. Pamela!
BOB. Yes, and you took her. After taking everything you could all your life, you took _her_. She was Bob's friend--that was quite enough. She must be one more in the crowd of admirers round you. So you took her. (Triumphantly) Ah, but I got her back in the end. I've got her now--and I think I'm square, Gerald.
GERALD. Yes, I think you're square now.
BOB (rather jauntily, as he leans back against the end of the sofa and feels for his cigarette-case). I seem to have surprised you rather.
GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've never said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've never said anything?
BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months-- in prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison. Oh, I know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in the air--something like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I had a better idea--I _thought_.
GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must have had!
BOB (furiously). Damn you! I _won't_ be pitied by you.
GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm going to talk about _my_self.
BOB. And it won't be the first time either.
GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to _you_. You say I've never tried to understand your feelings--have you ever tried to understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about you than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you? When a boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever bore _you_ with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I knew how _I'd_ feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for you.
BOB. Very noble of you.
GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good of talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact, whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking?
BOB. Go on; I like to hear it.
GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart from the general charge of being successful--whatever that amounts to--you accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now, but it was more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was that I neglected to help you when you were in trouble, and that through me you went to prison.
BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I didn't forget it in prison.
GERALD. You had a sense of humour once, Bob. I don't know what's happened to it lately. Don't you think it's rather funny to hate a person steadily for fifteen years, judge all his acts as you'd hardly judge those of your bitterest enemy, and yet, the first time you are in trouble, to expect him to throw everything on one side and rush to your help--and then to feel bitterly ill-used if he doesn't?
BOB (rather taken aback). I--you didn't--I didn't--
GERALD (quietly). That's been rather like you all through, Bob. You were always the one who had to be helped; you were always the one who was allowed to have the grievance. Still, that doesn't make it any better for me if I could have helped you and didn't. However, I'm quite certain that I _couldn't_ have helped you then. We'll take the other accusation, that I stole Pamela from you. I've only got two things to say to that. First, that Pamela was not engaged to you, and was perfectly free to choose between us. Secondly, that you never told me, and I hadn't the slightest idea, that you were the least bit fond of her. Indeed, I don't believe you realized it yourself at that time.
BOB (rather shamefaced). I've realized it since.
GERALD. Yes, and you've taken Pamela back since. I think if I were you I would keep her out of it. (BOB looks away and GERALD goes on) Now we come to the general charge, which seems to be (very deliberately) that I'm better than you at games, that I've got better manners than you, that I'm cleverer than you--in fact, that I'm superior to you in every outward way, and am only inferior to you in--well, in the moral qualities. (Quietly) Bob, what are these moral qualities in which I am so deficient and you so endowed? You judge me by the qualities I am supposed to have shown to you; now what have you shown to _me_? Have _you_ been generous, have _you_ been friendly, have _you_ been sympathetic? No; you've just told me that for fifteen years you've hated me and been jealous of me. Things have been rotten for you, I admit; have you ever tried to make the best of them? You've had disadvantages to fight against; have you ever fought against them? Never! You've turned every trouble into a grievance, and hoarded it up. I said just now I was sick of you. I am--utterly. You said just now you didn't want my pity. You haven't got it; you've only got my contempt. ... (He turns away, and then suddenly turns back, and, holding out his hand to BOB, says utterly unexpectedly) And now, damn you! will you shake hands?
BOB (incoherent with surprise). What do you--I--you didn't-- (GERALD'S hand is still held out, and he is smiling.) Oh, Jerry! (He takes the hand.)
GERALD. That's all right. Good-bye, Bob, and good luck.
BOB (bewildered). Good-bye. (He tuns round and goes towards the door. Half-way there, he looks over his shoulder and says awkwardly) Had rather a rotten time in prison. (GERALD nods. At the door BOB says) Pamela and I--
[With rather a forced smile, GERALD nods again, and BOB goes out.]
(Left alone, GERALD stands looking into the fire and thinking. He tries sitting down to see if that will make thinking any pleasanter; then he tries standing up again. He goes to the door in front of the staircase and opens it to see if there is anybody there; then he goes to the windows at the back and looks through them. Evidently he sees somebody, for he beckons and then returns to his old place by the fire. In a few moments LETTY and TOMMY
