BOOTH. My own opinion is, Beatrice and Hugh, that you don't realise the meaning of the word marriage. I don't call myself a religious man . . but dash it all, you were married in church! . . And you then entered upon an awful compact! . . Surely . . as a woman, Beatrice . . the religious point of it ought to appeal to you. Good Lord, suppose everybody were to carry on like this! And have you considered, Beatrice, that . . whether you're right or whether you're wrong . . if you desert Hugh, you cut yourself off from the Family. BEATRICE. [_with the sweetest of smiles._] That will distress me terribly. BOOTH. [_not doubting her for a moment._] Of course. HUGH _flings up his head and finds relief at last in many words_. HUGH. I wish to Heaven I'd ever been able to cut myself off from the family! Look at Trenchard. BOOTH. [_gobbling a little at this unexpected attack._] I do not forgive Trenchard for quarreling with and deserting our father. HUGH. Trenchard quarreled because that was his only way of escape. BOOTH. Escape from what? HUGH. From tyranny! . . from hypocrisy! . . from boredom! . . from his Happy English Home! BEATRICE. [_kindly._] Hugh . . Hugh . . it's no use. BOOTH. [_attempting sarcasm._] Speak so that Mother can hear you! _But_ HUGH _isn't to be stopped now_. HUGH. Why are we all dull, cubbish, uneducated, hopelessly middle-class . . that is hopelessly out of date. BOOTH. [_taking this as very personal._] Cubbish! HUGH. . . Because it's the middle-class ideal that you should respect your parents . . live with them . . think with them . . grow like them. Natural affection and gratitude! That's what's expected, isn't it? BOOTH. [_not to be obliterated._] Certainly. HUGH. Keep your children ignorant of all that you don't know, penniless except for your good pleasure, dependent on you for permission to breathe freely . . and be sure that their gratitude will be most disinterested, and affection very natural. If your father's a drunkard or poor; then perhaps you get free and can form an opinion or two of your own . . and can love him or hate him as he deserves. But our father and mother were models. They did their duty by us . . and taught us ours. Trenchard escaped, as I say. You took to the Army . . so of course you've never discovered how behind the times you are. [_the Major is stupent._] I tried to express myself in art . . and found there was nothing to express . . I'd been so well brought up. D'you blame me if I wander about in search of a soul of some sort? And Honor-- BOOTH. [_disputing savagely._] Honor is very happy at home. Everyone loves her. HUGH. [_with fierce sarcasm._] Yes . . what do we call her? Mother's right hand! I wonder they bothered to give her a name. By the time little Ethel came they were tired of training children . . [_his voice loses its sting; he doesn't complete this sentence._] BEATRICE. Poor little Ethel . . BOOTH. Poor Ethel!