Bessie.  How could it hurt you not to contradict him for a while—­and perhaps in time you would get used. ..

Harry (Interrupts sulkily).  I ain’t accustomed to knuckle under.  There’s a pair of us.  Hagberd’s both.  I ought to be thinking of my train.

Bessie (Earnestly).  Why?  There’s no need.  Let us get away up the road a little.

Harry (Through his teeth).  And no money for the fare. (Looks up.) Sky’s come overcast.  Black, too.  It’ll be a wild, windy night... to walk the high road on.  But I and wild nights are old friends wherever the free wind blows.

Bessie (Entreating).  No need.  No need. (Looks apprehensively at Hagberd’s cottage.  Takes a couple of steps up as if to draw Harry further off.  Harry follows.  Both stop.)

Harry (After waiting).  What about this tomorrow whim?

Bessie.  Leave that to me.  Of course all his fancies are not mad.  They aren’t. (Pause.) Most people in this town would think what he had set his mind on quite sensible.  If he ever talks to you of it, don’t contradict him.  It would—­it would be dangerous.

Harry (Surprised).  What would he do?

Bessie.  He would—­I don’t know—­something rash.

Harry (Startled).  To himself?

Bessie.  No.  It’d be against you—­I fear.

Harry (Sullen).  Let him.

Bessie.  Never.  Don’t quarrel.  But perhaps he won’t even try to talk to you of it. (Thinking aloud.) Who knows what I can do with him in a week!  I can, I can, I can—­I must.

Harry.  Come—­what’s this sensible notion of his that I mustn’t quarrel about?

Bessie (Turns to Harry, calm, forcible).  If I make him once see that you’ve come back, he will be as sane as you or I. All his mad notions will be gone.  But that other is quite sensible.  And you mustn’t quarrel over it.

(Moves up to back of stage.  Harry follows a little behind, away from audience.)

Harry’s Voice (Calm).  Let’s hear what it is.

(Voices cease.  Action visible as before.  Harry steps back and walks hastily down.  Bessie at his elbow, follows with her hands clasped?)

(Loud burst of voice.)

Harry (Raving to and fro).  No!  Expects me—­a home.  Who wants his home?...  What I want is hard work, or an all-fired racket, or more room than there is in the whole of England.  Expects me!  A man like me—­for his rotten money—­there ain’t enough money in the world to turn me into a blamed tame rabbit in a hutch. (He stops suddenly before Bessie, arms crossed on breast.  Violently.) Don’t you see it?

Bessie (Terrified, stammering faintly).  Yes.  Yes.  Don’t look at me like this. (Sudden scream.) Don’t quarrel with him.  He’s mad!