I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't
talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact,
whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it
condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking?

BOB. Go on; I like to hear it.

GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart
from the general charge of being successful--whatever that amounts
to--you accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now,
but it was more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was
that I neglected to help you when you were in trouble, and that
through me you went to prison.

BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I
didn't forget it in prison.

GERALD. You had a sense of humour once, Bob. I don't know what's
happened to it lately. Don't you think it's rather funny to hate a
person steadily for fifteen years, judge all his acts as you'd
hardly judge those of your bitterest enemy, and yet, the first time
you are in trouble, to expect him to throw everything on one side
and rush to your help--and then to feel bitterly ill-used if he
doesn't?

BOB (rather taken aback). I--you didn't--I didn't--

GERALD (quietly). That's been rather like you all through, Bob. You
were always the one who had to be helped; you were always the one
who was allowed to have the grievance. Still, that doesn't make it