What's his game, I wonder?
(He walks up and down, worrying it out.)
KATE. I don't think he's playing a game. He's just giving me my
chance.
NORWOOD. What chance?
KATE. A chance to decide between you.
NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think about
it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming away with
me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he up to?
KATE (sitting down and talking to herself). You're quite right about
my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage in those early
days of the war--knowing nothing about each other. And then they come
back, and even the little one thought one did know is different. . . . I
suppose he feels the same about me.
NORWOOD (to himself). Damn him!
KATE (after a pause). Well, Cyril?
NORWOOD (looking sharply round at her). Well?
KATE. We haven't got very long.
NORWOOD (looking at his watch). He really means to come back--in five
minutes?
KATE. You heard him say so.
NORWOOD (going up to her and speaking eagerly). What's the matter with
slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can slip out quietly. He
won't hear us. He'll come back and find us gone--well, what can he do?
Probably he'll hang about for a bit and then go to his club.
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