KEENEY (harshly).  I can’t, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY.  Why can’t you?

KEENEY.  A woman couldn’t rightly understand my reason.

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.