you've been at the Bar for five years. I should have thought you could make something after all that time.
Basil.
I can't force the wily solicitor to give me briefs.
Jenny.
How do other fellows manage it?
Basil.
[With a laugh.] The simplest way, I believe, is to marry the wily solicitor's daughter.
Jenny.
Instead of a barmaid?
Basil.
[Gravely.] I didn't say that, Jenny.
Jenny.
[Passionately.] Oh no. You didn't say it, but you hinted it. You never say anything, but you're always hinting and insinuating—till you drive me out of my senses.
Basil.
[After a moment's pause, gravely.] I'm very sorry if I hurt your feelings. I promise you I don't mean to. I always try to be kind to you.
[He looks at Jenny, expecting her to say something in forgiveness or in apology. But she, shrugging her shoulders, looks down sullenly at her work, without a word, and begins again to sew. Then Basil, tightening his lips, picks up writing materials and goes towards the door.
Jenny.
[Looking up quickly.] Where are you going?
Basil.
[Stopping.] I have some letters to write.
Jenny.
Can't you write them here?
Basil.
Certainly—if it pleases you.
Jenny.
Don't you want me to see who you're writing to?
Basil.
I haven't the least objection to your knowing all about my correspondence.... And that's fortunate, since you invariably make yourself acquainted with it.
Jenny.
Accuse me of reading your letters now.
Basil.
[With a smile.] You always leave my papers in such disorder after you've been to my desk.
Jenny.
You've got no right to say that.
[Basil pauses and looks at her steadily.
Basil.
Are you willing to swear that you don't go to my desk when I'm away to read my letters? Come, Jenny, answer that question.
Jenny.
[Disturbed but forced by his glance to reply.] Well, I'm you're wife, I have a right to know.
Basil.
[Bitterly.] You have such odd ideas about the duties of a wife, Jenny. They include reading my letters and following me in the street. But tolerance and charity and forbearance don't seem to come in your scheme of things.
Jenny.
[Sullenly.] Why d'you want to write your letters elsewhere?
Basil.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] I thought I should be quieter.
Jenny.
I suppose I disturb you?
Basil.
It's a little difficult to write when you're talking.
Jenny.
Why shouldn't I talk? D'you think I'm not good enough, eh? I should have thought I was more important than your letters.
[Basil does not answer.
Jenny.
[Angrily.] Am I your wife or not?
Basil.
[Ironically.] You have your marriage lines carefully locked up to prove it.
Jenny.
Then why don't you treat me as your wife? You seem to think I'm only fit to see after the house and order the dinner and mend your clothes. And after that I can go and sit in the kitchen with the servant.
Basil.
[Moving again towards the door.] D'you think it's worth while making a scene? We seem to have said all this before so many times.
Jenny.
[Interrupting him.] I want to have it out.
Basil.
[Bored.] We've been having it out twice a week for the last six months—and we've never got anywhere yet.
Jenny.
I'm not going to be always put upon, I'm your wife and I'm as good as you are.
Basil.
[With a thin smile.] Oh, my dear, if you're going in for women's rights, you may have my vote by all means. And you can plump for all the candidates at once if you choose.
Jenny.
You seem to think it's a joke.
Basil.
[Bitterly.] Oh no, I promise you I don't do that. It's lasted too long. And God knows where it'll end.... They say the first year of marriage is the worst; ours has been bad enough in all conscience.
Jenny.
[Aggressively.] And I suppose you think it's my fault?
Basil.
Don't you think we're both more or less to blame?
Jenny.
[With a laugh.] Oh, I'm glad you acknowledge that you have something to do with it.
Basil.
I tried to make you happy.
Jenny.
Well, you haven't succeeded very well. Did you think I was likely to be happy—when you leave me alone all day and half the night for your swell friends that I'm not good enough for?
Basil.
