Mar. Oh, could you hear? You're such a bad listener as a rule. You much prefer to talk. Peter (_folding his arms_). My talking days are past. I'll be as mute as a fish. Go on. Say what you like. I'll stand it all. Mar. (_rising and looking down on him_). Peter, Peter, how young you are! Peter (_rising excitedly_). Young! I'm not young. Mar. I thought you were going to be silent. Peter (_walking up and down_). Young! As if youth had anything to do with arithmetic and the number of one's years. I'm old in suffering and experience. I'm an old, old man. Mar. (_standing c. against table, watching_). When you sow wild oats that old feeling is usually part of the crop. Peter (_hotly_). I haven't sown wild oats. I'm not that sort of man. (_Hesitating._) Unless you mean---- Mar. I didn't, but I might have done. Peter (_sitting, sullenly_). I wish there were no such things as women in the world! Mar. The bi-sexual system has its disadvantages. But we'll forget Miss Mottram, Peter. That was a private indiscretion. You sowed your wild oats publicly in the fierce light that beats upon a politician. That was the arrogance of youth. Peter. I'm not so young as you. Mar. No. Youth is a gift we both possess. I don't intend to waste mine, Peter. Peter. No? Well, you've me before you as an awful warning. I'm a living cautionary tale. I'm---- O, what's the good of talking? Mar. Here's a change of front! You used to tell me talking was the finest thing you knew. Peter. Margaret, have you no reverence at all? Mar. For talking? Peter. For human suffering. You're mocking at my life's tragedy. You hummed a tune just now you must have known was agony to me. My home in Midlandton! It's like living in an ashpit. Mar. Oh, no, it's not, and if it is, the microbes can be happy in their insignificance. Peter (_solemnly_). I shall not know happiness again. Mar. Oh, need you keep it up with me, Peter? Peter (_surprised_). Keep what up? Mar. The pose. You've had your fun with us. Peter. Fun! Mar. You've brought us to your feet. We've all come: all of us who care. Peter. Care? What do you care for me? Why should you care for a broken man, a derelict, one of the legion of the lost, a rotten---- Mar. (_vigorously_). Will you stop embroidering? Do you think I've come to listen to all the pretty phrases you've spent a week inventing about yourself? Peter. Heaven knows what you came for. Mar. You know as well as Heaven does. Peter. Do I? But it's---- So much has happened since. That's all so long ago. Mar. Less than a year, Peter. Peter. A year! What's a year! From poverty to Parliament, from Parliament to hell. Mar. Still spinning phrases, Peter. Peter (_sincerely_). I'm a pauper, Margaret. That's not a phrase, it's a fact. Mar. Is there no work to be done in the world? Peter. A man like me wants something else than bread to work for. I had a career once, it's gone today. Mar. Thank God, it is.