MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it. KEENEY (_his jaw set stubbornly_). It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what anyone'd say--but--(_He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning._) You see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (_He glances at her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying._) Annie! (_She comes to herself with a start._) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well. MRS. KEENEY (_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear_). David! Won't you please turn back? KEENEY (_gently_). I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile. MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty. KEENEY (_impatiently_). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that? MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). No--I don't know--I can't understand--(_Intensely_) Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back. KEENEY (_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well. MRS. KEENEY (_not appearing to hear him_). I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine free life you must be leading. (_She gives a laugh which is half a sob._) I used to love the sea then. (_She pauses; then continues with slow intensity._) But now--I don't ever want to see the sea again. KEENEY (_thinking to humor her_). 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye. MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness_). How long would it take us to reach home--if we started now? KEENEY (_frowning_). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck. MRS. KEENEY (_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile_). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it? KEENEY (_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him--gruffly_). Don't you remember?