BOB (with a grunt). 'M! (There is an awkward silence.)

BOB (angrily to GERALD). Why don't you say something? You came
here to say good-bye to me, I suppose--why don't you say it?

WENTWORTH. Steady, Bob.

GERALD (eagerly). Look here, Bob, old son, you mustn't take it too
hardly. Wentworth thinks it will only be three months--don't you,
Wentworth? You know, we none of us think any the worse of you for
it.

BOB. Thanks. That will console me a lot in prison.

GERALD. Oh, Bob, don't be an old fool. You know what I mean. You
have done nothing to be ashamed of, so what's the good of brooding
in prison, and grousing about your bad luck, and all that sort of
thing? If you had three months in bed with a broken leg, you'd try
and get some sort of satisfaction out of it--well, so you can now if
you try.

WENTWORTH (after waiting for BOB to say something). There's a good
deal in that, Bob, you know. Prison is largely what you make it.

BOB. What do either of you know about it?

GERALD. Everything. The man with imagination knows the best and
the worst of everything.

BOB (fiercely). Imagination? You think _I_ haven't imagined it?