HECTOR. [_Snorting._] Change? By Jove, give me a Punch and Judy show on
the sands--or performing dogs! Plays--I'm sick of 'em! And look here--the
one I'm off to to-night. It's adapted from the French--well, we know what
_that_ means. Husband, wife and mistress. Or wife, husband, lover. That's
what a French play means. And you make it English, and pass the Censor, by
putting the lady in a mackintosh, and dumping in a curate!

BETTY. [_Coming in, and closing the door leading to the dining-room._] You
ought to be going, Hector.

[_She, stands listening for a moment, then goes through the other
door into the hall._

HECTOR. [_Disregarding her, too intent on his theme._] And I tell you, of
the two, I prefer the home-made stodge. I'm sick of the eternal triangle.
They always do the same thing. Husband strikes attitudes--sometimes he
strikes the lover. The lover never stands up to him--why shouldn't he? He
would--in real life. [BETTY _comes back, with his overcoat and
muffler--she proceeds affectionately to wrap this round his neck, and
helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time._] He'd say, look
here, you go to Hell. _That's_ what he'd say--well, there you'd have a
situation. But not one of the playwriting chaps dares do it. Why not, I
ask you? There you'd have truth, something big. But no--they're
afraid--think the public won't like it. The husband's got to down the
lover--like a big tom-cat with a mouse--or the author'd have to sell one
of his motor-cars! That's just the fact of it!

BETTY. [_Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece._] Twenty-five past,
Hector.