[Points at frowning framed photograph centrally hung.]
You remember when she first came and you said “Where shall we hang her?” I said the cellar. You said we couldn’t. So she had to go there. But I wouldn’t change her now. I suppose there are old watch-dogs like her in every family. I wouldn’t change anything.
O, John, wouldn’t you really?
No, I’m contented. Grim old soul, I wouldn’t even change Aunt Martha.
I’m glad of that, John. I was frightened. I couldn’t bear to tamper with the past. You don’t know what it is, it’s what’s gone. But if it really isn’t gone at all, if it can be dug up like that, why you don’t know what mightn’t happen! I don’t mind the future, but if the past can come back like that.... O, don’t, don’t, John. Don’t think of it. It isn’t canny. There’s the children, John.
Yes, yes, that’s all right. It’s only a little ornament. I won’t use it. And I tell you I’m content. [Happily] It’s no use to me.
I’m so glad you’re content, John. Are you really? Is there nothing that you’d have had different? I sometimes thought you’d rather that Jane had been a boy.
Not a bit of it. Well, I may have at the time, but Arthur’s good enough for me.
I’m so glad. And there’s nothing you ever regret at all?
Nothing. And you? Is there nothing you regret, Mary?
Me? Oh, no. I still think that sofa would have been better green, but you would have it red.
Yes, so I would. No, there’s nothing I regret.
I don’t suppose there’s many men can say that.
No, I don’t suppose they can. They’re not all married to you. I don’t suppose many of them can.
I should think that very few could say that they regretted nothing . . . very few in the whole world.
Well, I won’t say nothing.
What is it you regret, John?