THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER
Jenny : None. I can’t help it, that’s all. I’m just conscious of it all the time, going on out there. You’re lucky, Kitty.
Kitty : There is such a thing as self-control, isn’t there?
Jenny : Naturally.
Kitty : Well, then. (Pause.) What’s the time?
Jenny : About half-past two.
Kitty (rising) : No one’s likely to call. I want Emery to wash my hair. You might tell Ellen I’m not at home, in case anyone does come. I’m going to dry it by the sun in the nursery. You might come up and talk to me. You’re not going out?
Jenny : I was going for a walk, that’s all. It doesn’t matter.
Kitty : The nursery’s the sunniest room in the house. It’s absurd of Chris to want it kept like that, when there’s no chance . . . (Deliberately) I’m thinking of making it into a boudoir.
Jenny : Oh, Kitty, no.
Kitty (with something like a gleam of vindictive pleasure) : Why not? What’s the use of keeping it locked up like a living tomb? Great heavens, five years . . . and everything kept as it was. It’s morbid. Naturally, at first, when we still hoped . . . but now, it’s ridiculous and unhealthy. What’s the good of being sentimental like that ? All those toys—a whole ottoman full—some
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