Ruth—of how hard these last years must have been for you. [Appealingly.] I’m sorry, Ruth.
Ruth—[In a dead voice.] I don’t know. They’re past now. They were hard on all of us.
Robert—Yes; on all of us but Andy. [With a flash of sick jealousy.] Andy’s made a big success of himself—the kind he wanted. He’s got lots of money and, I suppose, a reputation for being a sharp business man. [Mockingly.] What else is there in life to wish for, eh, Ruth? And now he’s coming home to let us admire his greatness. [Frowning—irritably.] What does it matter? What am I talking about? My brain must be sick, too. [After a pause.] Yes, these years have been terrible for both of us. [His voice is lowered to a trembling whisper.] Especially the last eight months since Mary—died. [He forces back a sob with a convulsive shudder—then breaks out in a passionate agony.] Our last hope of happiness! I could curse God from the bottom of my soul—if there was a God! [He is racked by a violent fit of coughing and hurriedly puts his handkerchief to his lips.]
Ruth—[Without looking at him.] Mary’s better off—being dead.
Robert—[Gloomily.] We’d all be better off for that matter. [With sudden exasperation.] You tell that mother of yours she’s got to stop saying that Mary’s death was due to a weak constitution inherited from me. [On the verge of tears of weakness.] It’s got to stop, I tell you!
