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. It was something to catch hold of,
when things went wrong, in that dreary grind of money-making. Her eyes lit
up when they saw me. She'd ask me about things--if I coughed, she'd fuss
me--she had pretty ways, and was pleased, oh, pleased beyond words, if I
brought her home something--

MRS. WESTERN. So this isn't the first time!

HARVEY. [_With a snarl._] No, of course not! She admired that bracelet of
yours--by Jove, I said to myself, I'll get her one like it! Whatever I
brought home to _you_ you'd scarcely say thank you--and usually it went
into the drawer--I'd such shocking bad taste! _She'd_ beam! Well, as
ill-luck would have it, you took a fancy to this one. I told her she
mustn't wear hers--

MRS. WESTERN. [_Calmly and cuttingly._] Conspiring behind my back.

HARVEY. [_Raging._] Oh, if you knew what has gone on behind your back!
Not when I was with her--when I was alone! The things I've said about
you--to myself! When I thought of this miserable life that had to be
dragged on here, thought of your superior smile, your damnable cruelty--

MRS. WESTERN. [_Genuinely surprised._] Cruelty! Why?

HARVEY. What else? I'd go up to you timidly--bah, why talk of it? To you
I've been the machine that made money--money to pay for the house, and the
car, and the dressmakers' bills--a machine that had to be fed--and when
you'd done that, you'd done all. Well, there was this girl--

MRS. WESTERN. You had your children.

HARVEY. A boy of seven and a girl of five--in bed when I came home--and
_your_ children much more than mine--I'm a stranger to them! And anyhow, I
wanted something more--something human, alive--that only a woman can give.
And she gave it. Nothing between us, I swear--but just that. As Tom says,
I've not been such a cur--and _you_ ought to know me well enough, after
all these years!... But there is the truth--she's fond of me: she is, it's
a fact. And I _needed_ that fondness--it has kept me going. And now--do
you think I'll let her be thrust out into the street?

[_As he says these last words he drops into a chair, facing her,
and looks fiercely and doggedly