Or the drink.
(_Laughing_) I think it's the drink.
OLIVIA: You _do_ live in your imagination, don't you?
DAN (_reassuringly_): Yes.... It's the only way to bear with the
awful things you have to do.
OLIVIA: What awful things?
DAN: Well ... (_Grinning like a child and going back to the
sofa_) Ah-ha!... I haven't had as much to drink as all that!
(_Sitting on the sofa_) Ah-ha!...
OLIVIA: You haven't a very high opinion of women, have you?
DAN _makes a gesture with his hands, pointing the thumbs downwards
with a decisive movement._
DAN: Women don't have to be drunk to talk.... You don't talk that much,
though; fair play. (_Looking her up and down, insolently_) You're
a dark horse, you are.
_A pause. She rises abruptly and stands at the fireplace, her back to
him. She takes off her spectacles._
Ye know, this isn't the life for you. What is there to it? Tell me
that!
OLIVIA (_sombrely_): What is there to it ...?
DAN: Yes....
OLIVIA: Getting up at seven, mending my stockings or washing them,
having breakfast with a vixenish old woman and spending the rest of the
day with her, in a dreary house in the middle of a wood, and going to
bed at eleven.
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