It's what you want, all of you--to be
brought up by hand, and mew about love. Ah, God!--Ah, God!--that
you should none of you know the only thing which would make you worth
having.
GERALD. I don't believe in your only thing, mother. But what is it?
MRS. BARLOW. What you haven't got--the power to be alone.
GERALD. Sort of megalomania, you mean?
MRS. BARLOW. What? Megalomania! What is your LOVE but a
megalomania, flowing over everybody and everything like
spilt water? Megalomania! I hate you, you softy! I would BEAT
you (suddenly advancing on him and beating him fiercely)--beat you
into some manhood--beat you---
GERALD. Stop, mother--keep off.
MRS. BARLOW. It's the men who need beating nowadays, not the
children. Beat the softness out of him, young woman. It's the
only way, if you love him enough--if you love him enough.
GERALD. You hear, Anabel?
Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes.
MRS. BARLOW (catching up a large old fan, and smashing it about his
head). You softy--you piffler--you will never have had enough! Ah,
you should be thrust in the fire, you should, to have the softness
and the brittleness burnt out of you!
(The door opens--OLIVER TURTON enters, followed by JOB ARTHUR FREER.
MRS. BARLOW is still attacking GERALD. She turns, infuriated.)
Go out! Go out! What do you mean by coming in unannounced? Take
him upstairs--take that fellow into the library, Oliver Turton.
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