Married Life

# I can't give you

anything but love, baby

# That's the only thing

I've plenty of, baby

# Dream a while

# Scheme a while

# You're sure to find

# Happiness, and I guess

# All the things

you've always pined for

# Gee, I'd like to see

you looking swell, baby

# Diamond cufflinks

Woolworth's doesn't sell, baby

# Till that lucky day

you know darn well, baby

# I can't give you

anything but love

# I can't give you

anything but love

# That's the thing

I've plenty of

# Dream a while

# Scheme a while

# You're sure to find

# Happiness, and I guess

# All the things

you've always pined for

# Gee, I'd like to see you

looking swell, baby

# Diamond cufflinks Woolworth's

doesn't sell, my baby

# Till that lucky day

you know darn well, baby

# I can't give you

anything but love

# I can't give you

anything but love

# I can't give you

anything but love, baby

# I can't give you anything

# But love #

This is

my friend Harry Allen.

He's married.

He likes his wife.

It can happen.

I'm sorry, Mr. Allen,

were you calling for me?

Yes, Miss Jones.

Get Mr. Langley

on the phone for me.

Yes, sir.

Right away, sir.

Myself? I always thought marriage

was a mild kind of illness.

Like the flu or chickenpox,

to which I was

safely immune.

It all began on

the 5th of September, 1949,

when Harry called to ask me

to lunch at the Cloud Room,

saying he had something

urgent he wished to tell me.

So, what's so

damn important?

To our mutual

good health.

Uh-huh.

You're not dying on me or

something, old chap, are you?

No.

Just the opposite.

So?

Let's grab a table before

it gets too crowded.

Do you like Pat, Rich?

I mean,

are you fond of her?

Of course I like Pat.

She's your wife.

You know I'm fond of her.

Since the day I met her.

Of course.

What are you getting at?

Well, I'm going

to leave Pat.

And I thought

I'd better tell you.

I thought you

ought to know.

Why, may I ask,

are you gonna leave Pat?

Because I want

to be truly happy.

Oh. That sounds

reasonable.

I'm being

very reasonable.

Well, what's her name?

Look, I know you and Pat

well enough to figure

your marriage is

not an unhappy one.

As a matter of fact,

as marriages go,

I always thought

it was pretty good.

The most successful marriage

I've ever known.

Her name is Kay.

It's Kay Nesbitt.

Pat will take it hard.

I know. I tried

telling her. I couldn't.

I can't stand to

see anyone suffer.

You know how I am.

Why don't you have Kay,

if you want,

as your girlfriend?

Just to make sure.

What, you mean

as a mistress?

Just to make sure.

I am sure.

I always dreamed of a woman being

really in love with me, Richard.

For Pat, love means

only one thing.

And what is that?

Sex.

All the rest of it, the romantic

dreams, the self-deception,

what you always call

"the wish to give and give," Harry,

it all boils down

to that. Bed.

Love is sex.

The rest is affection

and companionship.

You're wrong.

You're completely

and utterly wrong.

Well, you're a romantic

and sentimental fool.

If you don't want the truth,

you shouldn't ask me questions.

But I do love you,

darling.

I do. Really.

And you know

I find you as attractive

as that very first night

we danced together.

I know you do.

Perhaps I'm not made

like other women.

I don't know.

I've tried to be

a good wife to you.

From the day

we were married,

she committed herself,

she came to life.

But physically only.

Only physically, Richard.

I know some men

crave that sex,

but I want more.

We all have to put up with

something in life, Harry.

We can't have everything.

You can't possibly

understand.

You're with a different woman

every other week.

I'm going to have to

find a way to leave Pat.

I have to.

I've made up my mind.

Dear, sweet, gentle Kay.

What on earth drew a girl

like you to my friend Harry?

That I could

never understand.

Maybe you were lonely.

Maybe you were smitten.

In truth, who can ever

explain a woman's desire?

It's always been

a bit of a mystery.

It was the next Sunday

that, as habit,

Harry and Pat walked to have

lunch with their daughter Becky,

her husband Tom and their

grandson, little Charlie.

Good afternoon.

Hello.

That awful dog.

That awful woman.

Poor old

Mrs. Walsh.

So I said, "What you have is an

inability to express your emotions.

"You're frigid in

a Freudian sense,"

which completely confused

her, the poor woman.

So I told her that without

a very serious analysis,

she would never

get over it.

We talked about her

childhood for an hour.

Harry was already looking

forward to his evening with Kay.

He'd made all

the proper arrangements.

All his excuses

were lined up.

It has always been the

privilege of the well-to-do

to use their business

as camouflage.

Gotta go.

Harry, it's Sunday.

Duty calls, darling.

I need to get a head start

on tomorrow's meetings.

So be it.

It is on your own head.

But when evil

comes to you...

I appreciate the television

set, darling, I do.

That's all

I want to do, Kay.

I want to spoil you,

and shower you

with gifts,

and give and give.

Just to see you smile.

I love that smile.

Harry,

you're such a romantic.

That's why I love you.

He had to get out

of his marriage.

He had to have Kay.

But how?

He couldn't stand to shatter

Pat's world and make her suffer.

You know, the other

week at the cabin,

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