GERALD. Is it the change of heart, Anabel?
ANABEL. Perhaps it is, Gerald.
GERALD. I'm not sure that I like it. Isn't it like a berry that
decides to get very sweet, and goes soft?
ANABEL. I don't think so.
GERALD. Slightly sanctimonious. I think I liked you better before.
I don't think I like you with this touch of aureole. People seem to
me so horribly self-satisfied when they get a change of heart--they
take such a fearful lot of credit to themselves on the strength of it.
ANABEL. I don't think I do.--Do you feel no different, Gerald?
GERALD. Radically, I can't say I do. I feel very much more
INdifferent.
ANABEL. What to?
GERALD. Everything.
ANABEL. You're still angry--that's what it is.
GERALD. Oh, yes, I'm angry. But that is part of my normal state.
ANABEL. Why are you angry?
GERALD. Is there any reason why I shouldn't be angry? I'm angry
because you treated me--well, so impudently, really--clearing out
and leaving one to whistle to the empty walls.
ANABEL. Don't you think it was time I cleared out, when you became
so violent, and really dangerous, really like a madman?
GERALD. Time or not time, you went--you disappeared and left us
high and dry--and I am still angry.--But I'm not only angry about
that. I'm angry with the colliers, with Labour for its low-down
impudence--and I'm angry with father for being so ill--and I'm angry
with mother for looking such a hopeless thing--and I'm angry with
Oliver because he thinks so much---
ANABEL.
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