[Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of
them.
ANN. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're
the despair of all social reformers? [She envelops him.] There's a
tear in the left knee of your trousers. You're not to wear them
again.
WELLWYN. Am I likely to?
ANN. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair.
D'you know what I live in terror of?
[WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]
ANN. That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the
street. Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his
trousers--they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one
enormous hole?
WELLWYN. No!
ANN. Spiritually.
WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! H'm!
ANN. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his
lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on
your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you
really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist!
WELLWYN. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn't sentiment.
It's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly. If I'm to give up
feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it
doesn't matter who they are--then I don't know what I'm to do.
I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.
ANN. I think you ought to.
WELLWYN. I suppose they see I like them--then they tell me things.
After that, of course you can't help doing what you can.
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