BOB. Yes, and you took her. After taking everything you could all your life, you took _her_. She was Bob's friend--that was quite enough. She must be one more in the crowd of admirers round you. So you took her. (Triumphantly) Ah, but I got her back in the end. I've got her now--and I think I'm square, Gerald. GERALD. Yes, I think you're square now. BOB (rather jauntily, as he leans back against the end of the sofa and feels for his cigarette-case). I seem to have surprised you rather. GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've never said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've never said anything? BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months--in prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison. Oh, I know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in the air--something like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I had a better idea--I _thought_. GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must have had! BOB (furiously). Damn you! I _won't_ be pitied by you. GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm going to talk about _my_self. BOB. And it won't be the first time either. GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to _you_. You say I've never tried to understand your feelings--have you ever tried to understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about you than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you? When a boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever bore _you_ with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I knew how _I'd_ feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for you. BOB. Very noble of you. GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good of talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact, whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking? BOB. Go on; I like to hear it. GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart from the general charge of being successful--whatever that amounts to--you accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now, but it was more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was that I neglected to help you when you were in trouble, and that through me you went to prison. BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I didn't forget it in prison.