GERALD. There is no help for it, you see. If you WERE happy with me here
you'd be happy. As you aren't, nothing will make you--not genuinely.

ANABEL. And that's all you care.

GERALD. No--I wish we could both be happy at the same moment. But
apparently we can't.

ANABEL. And why not?--Because you're selfish, and think of nothing but
yourself and your own feelings.

GERALD. If it is so, it is so.

ANABEL. Then we shall never be happy.

GERALD. Then we sha'n't. (A pause.)

ANABEL. Then what are we going to do?

GERALD. Do?

ANABEL. Do you want me to be with you?

GERALD. Yes.

ANABEL. Are you sure?

GERALD. Yes.

ANABEL. Then why don't you want me to be happy?

GERALD. If you'd only BE happy, here and now---

ANABEL. How can I?

GERALD. How can't you?--You've got a devil inside you.

ANABEL. Then make me not have a devil.

GERALD. I've know you long enough--and known myself long enough--to know
I can make you nothing at all, Anabel: neither can you make me. If
the happiness isn't there--well, we shall have to wait for it, like
a dispensation. It probably means we shall have to hate each other a
little more.--I suppose hate is a real process.

ANABEL. Yes, I know you believe more in hate than in love.

GERALD. Nobody is more weary of hate than I am--and yet we can't fix our
own hour, when we shall leave off hating and fighting. It has to work
itself out in us.

ANABEL. But I don't WANT to hate and fight with you any more. I don't
BELIEVE in it--not any more.

GERALD. It's a cleansing process--like Aristotle's Katharsis. We shall
hate ourselves clean at last, I suppose.

ANABEL. Why aren't you clean now? Why can't you love? (He laughs.) DO
you love me?

GERALD. Yes.

ANABEL. Do you want to be with me for ever?

GERALD. Yes.

ANABEL. Sure?

GERALD. Quite sure.

ANABEL. Why are you so cool about it?

GERALD. I'm not. I'm only sure--which you are not.

ANABEL. Yes, I am--I WANT to be married to you.

GERALD. I know you want me to want you to be married to me. But whether
off your own bat you have a positive desire that way, I'm not sure. You
keep something back--some sort of female reservation--like a dagger up
your sleeve. You want to see me in transports of love for you.

ANABEL. How can you say so? There--you see--there--this is the man that
pretends to love me, and then says I keep a dagger up my sleeve. You
liar!

GERALD. I do love you--and you do keep a dagger up your slee