MARY. And, so clever as you are, you don't make any--I mean don't make much. LEONARD. You see, in my trade, the better you are the more wretchedly you get paid. MARY. You keep telling me that. LEONARD. And you don't believe it? MARY. Yes, I do. I think you mean it. I don't think it can be quite true. I think you could get more money if you tried. You're clever enough to write the way they want. LEONARD. What do you care for most in the world--barring the baby? MARY. [_Considering._] I don't think there's anything. Oh! I beg your pardon. Of course there's you. LEONARD. Never mind me. Could you believe that I care more about writing my own way than for anything? MARY. I suppose it's good to care for something but that seems selfish. LEONARD. You're beginning to feel a bit of resentment. You don't hate me yet, do you? MARY. No, of course not. LEONARD. I shouldn't blame you. You're a wonderfully even-tempered person. I sometimes wonder whether I'm right about that streak of wildness in you. Do you think you could do strange things--what shall I say--wicked things? MARY. I've done one wicked thing. LEONARD. Does it trouble you, Mary? Does it still trouble you? Would you alter it? MARY. Then I shouldn't have little Leonard. I can never understand. If I'd known of him--if I'd thought of little Leonard--then it couldn't be wrong. But how could I think of him when he wasn't born? It was wicked. It wasn't like me. LEONARD. You did think of him, Mary. No, you didn't think. It's not thought. It was nature--something bigger than you--forcing you--forcing you to bring little Leonard into the world. Now, take comfort in that, my girl; there is some comfort in it. MARY. I can't see what it's got to do with _him._ It's not children I care for; it's him. Well, he's here now. I've got him now. LEONARD. Quite right, my dear. MARY. But I think he ought to have Lubbock's food regularly and we _must_ have a perambulator. LEONARD. Well, this must go. [_Taking out his watch._] MARY. Would you? Will you? LEONARD. [_Looking ruefully at the watch._] You'd better take me at my word. My generous moods don't last. MARY. Shall I take it? [_He is slowly unhooking the watch when there is a knock at the door and MRS. GREAVES, the landlady, comes in. He puts the watch in his pocket._] MRS. GREAVES. I should like a word, sir. LEONARD. A whole history if you like, Mrs. Greaves. MRS. GREAVES. Sir? LEONARD. I was only quoting Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves. MRS. GREAVES. I know nothing about him, sir. LEONARD. He's the man that writes the plays. MRS. GREAVES. There's some people too fond of plays and such things. LEONARD. Now I hope you're not going to attack Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves. MRS. GREAVES. I'm attacking nothing, sir, but I should like a word and perhaps it would be more pleasant if Mrs.--the lady wasn't here. LEONARD. Why mustn't Mrs. the lady be here? MRS. GREAVES. It's as you like. LEONARD. Fire away.