ACT I
child would be glad of them. We ought to send them all to the Children’s Hospital.
Jenny : Kitty . . . you can’t.
Kitty : Why not?
Jenny : Chris wanted it kept that way.
Kitty : I know, but it’s ridiculous. It’s like . . . mummifying the child. I know Chris wanted it; there’s a curious sentimental streak in him. I don’t believe in all this tying of oneself to things . . . embalming memories . . . keepsakes and locks of hair; it’s . . . Victorian . . . Marcus Stone . . . photographs even. The only photo of the child in the house is in your bedroom.
Jenny : I know. I tried to reason with Chris . . . but you can’t change it now, while he’s away . . . behind his back. It’s . . . treachery.
Kitty : Oh, Chris has forgotten by now.
Jenny : Kitty!
Kitty (a trifle ashamedly) : No, I didn’t mean that . . . but . . . it isn’t even like the rest of this house . . . full of old associations for Chris. It’s part of the new wing that he built when we married. I’m almost tempted to be jealous sometimes of what this place means to you and him . . . all the memories it has for you . . . of your childhood. But that’s a thing I can respect, even if I don’t share it. If you’d spent your childhood as I did, in about a dozen different houses and all over the place, perhaps you’d understand my
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