ACT I
Jenny : I know—there is no use in it.
Kitty : It’s a question of temperament, I suppose. I know how you fret over Chris, but I don’t think you’re any fonder of him than I am.
Jenny : Of course not.
Kitty : All these women you see making a show of their misery and their anxiety . . . I don’t mean you, Jenny, you know that . . . and Chris is only your cousin, anyway . . . but wives and mothers, like Mrs. Baird and Mrs. Latimer . . . parading it about . . .it’s a form of exhibitionism, and self-indulgence. It sickens me.
Jenny : Of course.
Kitty : I’m not emotional. I know that. I’ve never cried in my life except out of temper, as a baby. Never, not even when the child died.
Jenny : I know.
Kitty : You thought that strange, then. You resented it. Chris didn’t . . . he understood; at least, I think he did. But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel things.
Jenny : Kitty, my dear, I’m not reproaching you.
Kitty : You were . . . a little . . . because I won’t worry now over Chris because he hasn’t written . . . because I won’t go about with sick eyes and not sleeping properly. Does that mean I don’t care? I’m his wife, aren’t I? But I won’t let myself brood . . . it does no good. Look at you, Jenny, strained and sleepless. Where’s the sense in it?
11
