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CORNELL
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

 

THE
JosepH WHITMORE Barry
DRAMATIC LIBRARY

THE GIFT OF
TWO FRIENDS
OF CoRNELL UNIVERSITY

1934

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
David Ballard; a play in three acts.
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DAVID BALLARD

A PLAY IN THREE -ACTS

BY

CHARLES McEVOY.

LONDON: A. H. BULLEN
1907.
PR
GORS5

APitC De.

A OS34YSS
[AM rights reserved by the Author].

ye
CHARACTERS

(In the order of their appearance)

Mrs. Battarp
Giapys BaLtarD
Louisa

Mercy Harinton
Percy Batiarp
Davip BaLiarp
Simon Ba.iarD
Darwin SNODGE
Leo

Rosace

Acts I & III: The Ballard’ Drawing-room in Pimlico.
Acr II: 4 Restaurant in Sobo.

Preriop: THE PRESENT.

A Year elapses between each Act.
DAVID BALLARD

ACT I
Scene.—Tue Batiarps’ Drawinc-room, Pimtico.

A large double room of ambitious construction, revealing in
its ornamental ceiling, marble fireplace and floral corner-
pieces something of the more opulent days of the neigh-
bourhood. Pimlico, however, has come down in the
world, and to-day probably ever other “private” house
in it is occupied by people who, like the BaLLarps, manage
to live rent free in a few of the rooms by letting off the
rest as “unfurnished apartments.” The wall-paper is a
bright gamboge and effectively sets off the meanness of the
furniture, which is old and worn, with the exception of a
bamboo table and two wickerwork chairs which are brand
new. In the back, to the right, a door leads to the land-
ing and staircase; to the left is a wide arched opening
leading to the rest of the room, which, however, is shut
off from view by a pair of long, red curtains drawn to-
gether. Against the wall, between the curtains and the
door, is the bamboo table, upon which is a phonograph.
In the left wall is the marble fireplace with a mirror over-
mantel above. A rocking-chair is nearer to the front,
and on the other side a piano, music and a stool. About
the centre of the room, but rather to the left, is a table

B
large enough to seat four, with a green fringed cloth.
Against the right wall, a little back from the middle, is a
faded green sofa with the foot drawn out into the room.
Also there are the two wickerwork chairs and four smaller
chairs about the room. On the floor, a faded carpet and
a new yellow Axminster rug. Ornaments and _nick-
nacks in every available place. Cheap oil-paintings, en-
larged photographs and fans upon the walls. Smaller
photographs about the mantelpiece. An oil lamp, unlit,
with a fancy shade on the table. A fire burning in the
grate : fire-irons and a coal-scuttle. It is late autumn.

Mrs. Batiarp is sitting solidly in one of the wickerwork
chairs to the left of the table, so that her back is to the
red curtains and her face towards the rocking-chair. She
is a stout woman of fifty, somewhat short of stature, and
although her obesity renders her practically shapeless she
is squeezed into a black satin dress, very shiny, and
stretched over her figure with the tenacity of a natural
skin. Her hair is white and frizzed into a mass of curls
towering above her forehead, while her naturally red
complexion is augmented to a deeper hue by the discom-
fort which she is enduring. Until recent years Mrs.
BALLARD was, without any disguise, a simple, ungram-
matical, motherly soul, but her family in growing up have
taken her to task and transfigured her into the pitiful
efigy which she now is, while the once harmless aitch,
and a host of similar shibboleths, have developed into
haunting cares. But it is for the respectability of her
family that she suffers, and the poor woman endures all
with stoic fortitude. On the table by her side lie a pair
of glasses. Her hands are folded over a newspaper which
is on her lap.

Grapys, her daughter, sits at Mrs. Battarn’s left in the
rocking-chair. She is twenty-two, and at first sight would
pass for an exceptionally pretty and attractive blonde, but
at first sight only. There is a hard glitter in her large blue
eyes and a set sneer on her lips which effectively defeats any

2
claim to attractiveness. But though totally selfish and
chronically envious, she has the saving grace of perfect
frankness in her spleen, and being the most disagreeable
person in the house she is the most respected and the most
studied. She sits rocking herself in the chair with her
hands behind her head, and both she and her mother are
engaged in silently watching Louisa, an under-sized and
sickly-looking servant-girl in an abominably dirty print
dress, who is putting some coals on the fire from the
scuttle.

Mrs. Ballard. Not all them small pieces, now,
Louisa.

[Louisa continues her task, and having finished it limps
in a spiritless fashion towards the door.|

Gladys. What time did I tell you we had tea on
Saturdays, Louisa?

Louisa [stopping and turning back]. Seven o'clock,
miss.

Mrs. Ballard. That’s dinner, stupid.

Gladys. 1am afraid that Louisa will never get used
to our habits, mater.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, do hurry along. It’s three
o’clock we have tea—as soon as your masterand Mister
Percy has come home. [As Louisa continues to stand
with an air of stupid attention] Go on, go on, my girl.
You can’t wait at the table like that, you know; and
it’s gone half-past two. [Louisa goes from the room.

Gladys [as the door closes]. She’s a nice parlourmaid !

[Louisa comes back into the room.]

Mrs. Ballard. What is it now, Louisa?

Louisa. Ive dropped me cap. [She goes over to the
fireplace again and finds her cap in the fender. She pins
it on and limps out of the room.]

Gladys [after watching the door until it shuts, and then

3
turning to Mrs. Ballard]. Now suppose she did that
when anybody was here.

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, she’d be just as like to as not.
And, you see, she won’t be dressed by tea-time—how
can she be? I tell you, I’d rather do the work myself
a hundred times. I feel a regular cold shiver go down
my back whenever she comes near me with that long
face of hers. Oh, I shall tell her, if she can’t look
more cheerful, she’d better go. It looks so bad for
the ’ouse, too, you know.

Gladys. Eight pounds a year she gets.

Mrs. Ballard. And her washing. Oh, she’s just un-
grateful, though there’s not many would take her
with that foot of hers, as I told her only yesterday. \

[Mercy Hainton opens the door and comes quietly into
the room, carrying a book in her hand. She is slight
of build and looks younger than her sixteen years, being
dressed childishly in a loose black frock, her rich dark
hair simply tied back with a ribbon. Her features are
regular and pleasing, with a refined and thoughtful
composure; but her actual expression, without being dis~
contented or morose, is clearly unbappy. Yet, though
she has all the appearance of a sensitive, timid, and
retiring schoolgirl, which indeed she is, there is a firm-
ness about her mouth and sometimes a fearlessness in her
dark eyes which in spite of her gentle manner suggests
a subdued personality likely to assert itself with no lack
of courage if ever sufficiently roused. For instance,
she kindles suddenly into some warmth at the snatch of
conversation which reaches her at the door.|

Mercy. It’s poor Louisa that’s got the foot, aunt,
after all, isn’t it?

Mrs. Ballard. Now, do sit down and be quiet,
Mercy, there’s a good child.

4
Gladys. You ought to know better than to march
into the room and take up your aunt’s words like that.

Mercy. Well, I do think you might be fairer about
Louisa. You ring for her when she’s at the bottom
of the house just to put coals on the fire. If she'd
got four feet she couldn’t do more than she does.

Gladys [bringing her bands down on to her lap]. Are
you going to let Mercy talk in front of you like that,
mater?

Mrs. Ballard. Y'm ashamed of you, Mercy. Sit
down and read your book at once, and don’t let me
hear any more.

Mercy. Very well, aunt. [She makes herself com-
fortable upon the sofa and opens her book. |

Mrs. Ballard [leaning forward and looking knowingly
at Gladys]. Louisa put her up to every word of that.

Mercy [looking up]. Oh, she didn’t, aunt.

Gladys. We don’t want to keep on talking about
Louisa, mater; she gets on my nerves. There’s
something about those sort of people that makes me
feel positively ill. I suppose it’s their vulgarity.
You hadn’t finished the fullerton.

[Mercy turns back to her book and becomes absorbed in it.]

Mrs. Ballard [taking up the paper and fixing the glasses
on ber nose|. Where was 1? Oh, yes. [Reads.] “St.
John laughed lightly and tossed the gipsy girl a
sovereign.”

Gladys. We'd got past there. The duchess had
just found Annette’s apron in his room.

Mrs. Ballard (looking round at Mercy, who is reading
intently]. Tch, tch, my dear.

Gladys. Oh, she’s buried in her book. It’s all right;
anyway, we're past the worst. .

Mrs. Ballard. Yes, well? [She smooths the paper out and

5
looks again for her place]. Oh, yes ; here we are. [Reads.]
“St. John’s voice shook a little as he faced his angry
mother. ‘You mean] am to go?’ he asked, hoarsely.
‘Yes, go,’ almost screamed the duchess, pointing with
her quivering malacca towards the door. ‘Go, and
never cross the threshold of Creswell Hall again.’
St. John’s eyes gleamed ominously as he found his
hat. ‘You will regret this,’ he said, between his teeth,
and left the room.” [Folding the paper and putting it
down.] H’m! ah! “To be continued,” of course, just
when it begins to get interesting.

Gladys [rising, and arranging her hair absent-mindedly
at the overmantel ; her real thoughts fixed far away upon
the picture of the angry duchess]. I never thought he’d go.
off like that—did you?

Mrs. Ballard [nodding her head]. Oh, just you wait
and see. There’s always one comfort about them stories;
everything’s sure to turn out right inthe end. [She
pauses a moment.] But just you thank heaven, Gladys,
that your mother isn’t a stuck-up old thing like that
duchess, or perhaps there’d be trouble in shis family.

Gladys [turning round]. Oh, you know better.
Percy’s too much of a gentleman to have domestic
scenes over anything. Besides, he knows how to get
his own way without that.

Mr;. Ballard[ turning in her chair, so as to look at Gladys).
| Percy! Bless his curly head, why, I wasn’t thinking
anything about Percy. And you might have said
your mother’s too much of a lady. No, my dear.
[Mysteriously.] It’s David.

Gladys [indifferently]. Oh, David.

[Mary looks up from her book.}

Mrs. Ballard. Yes, I’m getting about sick of his black
looks, I can tell you. All because Percy’s getting his
6
twenty-five shillings a week and can afford to dress
in accordance with his position in the world—for an
estate agent’s clerk is next to the Benk, you know.
Oh, I told him this morning, I said you can wear a
silk hat yourself when you can afford to buy one. If
that’s what you’re sulking about, I said, why don’t
you make up your mindtoit? That’s the only way, I
said. Make up your mind, and work and strive for it.

Gladys. Oh, 1 couldn’t fancy David in a silk hat.

Mrs. Ballard. That’s what he said ; he wouldn’t wear
one with a pair of tongs, or words to that effect. Oh,
no, he doesn’t envy Percy. Oh, not at all.

Gladys [returning to the rocking-chair]. Oh, no.
Why, Percy never dresses of an evening but what he
looks at him in that sneering way. It makes him
boil to see Percy in his dress clothes.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, told him. I’ve had just about
enough, I said—I only wish you were about half a
dozen years younger and I’d give you something to
sulk for, young man. And he’s got a good place at
the Stores, if he’d only try to get on there.

[Mercy moves impatiently on the sofa.]

Gladys. It’s all about that room. And if Percy
doesn’t mind sleeping with him, what’s he got to
grumble about? The cheek of it, you know, when
he brings you home fourteen shillings a week—what
Percy was earning when he was fifteen. A room to
study in! Study! Let him earn his luxuries for
himself like Percy has to.

Mrs. Ballard. No. He’s just got his head filled with
alot of nonsense. Fancy any young fellow, as old as
him and with a good home, writing down that—well,
silly stupid stuff like ’e hides under his mattress.
Powetry some of it looks like. Sends it to the papers,

4
you know—oh, yes. Why, he must use as many
stamps as if he was out of work and looking for
a job through the “Telegrarf.” He might be glad
enough of them stamps some day. It makes me
blush to see the postman always bringing back those
long envelopes of his. I don’t know what the man
can think of us, and it looks so bad for the ’ouse, too!

Gladys. Now, when Percy takes up anything he
means business. You see, they’ve made him a cor-
poral in the Volunteers already.

Mrs. Ballard. Yes, and look at those books he’s
bought—the new translation of the “Arabian Nights,”
that he keeps locked up so carefully in his cupboard
—oh, very deep reading, I can see.

Gladys. Well, it’s my opinion David’s got some-
thing sly on about that room.

Mrs. Ballard. What! You don’t think Louisa’s at
the bottom of it, do you?

Mercy [starting up]. Oh, it makes me sick to hear
you go on talking so against David! What’s David
done? Why can’t you let him have his room? Why
don’t you try and help him to get on, instead of
standing in his light all the time?

oo } [together]. Mercy!

Mercy. 1 can’t help it. You don’t know how good
David is really; how clever he is, too. It’s only
because he’s so shy and modest that you try and
crush him. If he was like Mr. Snodge and wore his
hair long, and had ridiculous ties and a velvet coat,
you'd think he really was clever then. You’d be
proud of him. You wouldn’t care how loafing and
lazy he was. Oh, to think that you’ve got anybody
like David in the family and then treat him as you do.
It’s dreadful ; it’s horrible!

8
Gladys [rising furiously]. Leave the room!

Mercy. Oh, I’m going. [She moves towards the door. ]
I don’t want to stop and hear you talk so. I’m
[She almost collapses into tears, and turns back at the
door, ber fire already extinguished.| \’m so sorry, aunt,
if I was rude; but you don’t know how it hurts me.

 

[She leans over her aunt with sudden penitence, but
although Mrs. Ballard looks a little mollified, she turns
away from her with injured dignity, and after waiting
a moment, Mercy goes from the room. ]

Gladys [standing in front of her mother]. Well!

Mrs. Ballard [in a whimpering voice]. And well,
you may say well. Mercy, of all people, to turn on
me—the little hurricane !

Gladys. That’s twice this afternoon—such a quiet
little thing as she always pretends to be, too. Did
you hear what she said about Mr. Snodge? I tell
you what, mother, you’ve been letting that child
have her own way a bit too much lately. Remember,
she isn’t sixteen yet, and talking to you to your face
like that ! .

Mrs. Ballard. \t’s your father that spoils her.

Gladys. You're as bad. She wouldn’t show off like
that, you know, if she’d any respect for you. A fine
credit to your bringing up she is.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, don’t be unfair. She isn’t any
of my bringing up. I don’t like to speak no ill of
the dead, but it’s her poor mother as must take that
responsibility—not me. She was twelve before ever
she set foot in the ’ouse, and you can’t alter a child’s
nature after that, you know.

Gladys. Well, you haven't got any sense about it—
you're such a soft. You'd never stand half as much
from me.

9
Mrs. Ballard. | know what I’m a-doing of. It’s only
a year or two now before she can do what she likes
with her own, you know; and though it isn’t much
we get, it’s very andy. And then there’s Percy to
think of.

Gladys. Well, if ever Percy does marry her, he'll
bring her to her senses, that’s one comfort. She
won’t get quite so much petting up then for a cer-
tainty. She’s only seen one side of Percy as yet.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, he won’t get nothing out of
her by bullying of her, that’s a sure thing. I shan’t
forget the one and only time I did touch her—had
to have the doctor in to stop her crying, and then had
her a fortnight in bed, sobbing nearly all the time.
No, it don’t do no good to bully Mercy, and I’m not
a-going to try. [She gets up and walks resolutely over to
the door. |

Gladys. Sit down, mater !

Mrs. Ballard. | know what I’m a-doing of. Do you
want all the lodgers to ’ear her? And I won’t have
your father upset. [She opens rhe door and calls.]
Mercy!

poe And then it surprises you when she shows
off.

Mercy [appearing at the door]. Aunt?

Mrs. Ballard. Now come in and be a good child.
Sit down with your book, and we won’t say no more
about it.

[Mrs. Ballard closes the door and resumes ber seat.

Mercy goes over to the sofa again, where she sits down
looking utterly wretched. |

Gladys. You ought to make her go to bed; that’s
the right place for her.
Mrs. Ballard. Now, you mind your own business.
IO
ae 1 should like to go to bed; 1’m so miser-
able.

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, Lord, the miserable people in this
‘ouse! Louisa, David, and now you, Mercy, of all
people. What have you got to be miserable about?
Didn’t I tell you we’d say no more about it?

Gladys. It’s just wickedness.

[Mercy stares with a dull, helpless expression at the floor.
Percy enters at the door. Heis a young man of eighteen,
with a red and somewhat swollen countenance. He is
dressed in a cheap-looking blue serge suit, close-fitting
and very smartly cut; with the trousers slightly creased
except at the knees, where they are baggy. He wears
patent leather boots and a very tall double collar and
green butterfly tie. His hair is a light yellow and worn
a little long, thickly curled, and parted down the middle.
The chief thing about him, however, is his voice. This
he has cultivated industriously, and the result is a certain
““Oxford” intonation, delivered in a cockney twang
with facial contortions, which latter are necessitated by
the “Oxford” part of the mixture, and take the shape
of a drooping of the corners of his mouth, a contracting
of the brow, and a partial closing of the right eye.
He walks into the room, and stopping at the table looks
from Mercy to the others.]

Mrs. Ballard. Well, Perce, my son. Do you want
your tea?

Percy. What’s the matter with Mercy?

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, she’s got aheadache or something.

Gladys. She hasn’t; she’s in disgrace.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, you needn’t have said that.

[Mercy buries her face in her hands, suddenly crying and
turning away. |
II
Percy [sitting down by Mercy, and leaning over her
while be tries to unloosen her fingers, which are pressed to
her face]. What have they been doing to my little girl?

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, you spoil that child.

Gladys. And I told you she was in disgrace. _

Percy [turning to her|. Well, what’s she been doing?

Gladys. It’s only what you might have expected.

Percy. What?

Mrs. Ballard. Talking to meas if she was my own
grandmother—but there, we aren’t going to say
more about it.

Percy. Then just you leave her alone. I won't
have her upset like this. Let’s have a look at your
face, Mercy. You're not really crying, are you?

Gladys. Oh, leave her alone, Percy.

Percy. Perhaps she’d like some music.

[He goes over to the phonograph, and switches on a comic
patter song. Mrs. Ballard and Gladys listen attentively
and with frequent bursts of laughter, while Percy stands
solemnly by the side of the machine. Mercy, however,
does not look up.]

Gladys. Isn’t it absurd?
Mrs. Ballard. Oh, 1 think tha?’s so lovely.

[ The door opens and David takes a step into the room, but
seeing the phonograph he goes out again instantly, closing
the door behind him.|

Mrs. Ballard [with a nervous start]. What was that ?
Has something broken?

Gladys [as Percy switches off the phonograph]. That
was the sensitive David.

Percy [irritably]. Do you want to hear the rest or

not? One or another of you always interrupts the
thing in the middle.

Gladys. Oh, do go on with it, Percy.
12
Mrs. Ballard. Yes, do go on with it.

Percy. No, lwon’t. [He pushes the machine angrily
across the table and walks over to the rocking-chair, into
which he flings himself, looking very annoyed. I shall
take it up into my own room.

es \ [together]. Oh, don’t do that, Percy.

Percy. Well, none of you have the politeness to
listen to it. [He glances across at Mercy, who now looks
up at them.] What do any of you care whether it’s
upstairs or down here?

Mercy. Oh, don’t take it upstairs—you see, David
sleeps with you.

Percy [with disgust]. Oh, David, David!

Mercy [hesitatingly|. And really, Percy, I—1 like it
very much.

Mrs. Ballard. Do \et’s hear the rest, Perce.

Percy [getting up|. No, I won’t ; I’m going to dress.

[He walks out of the room and slams the door.

Gladys [after a short pause]. That was just like
you, Mercy.

Mrs. Ballard. And Percy so kind to you always.

Gladys. Oh, it’s no good talking to her; it’s all
David now.

Mrs. Ballard. Yes; one can’t help seeing that.

Gladys. And the best of it is, David hardly ever
has a look or a word for her. You're getting rather
too big you know, Mercy, for this sort of thing. It
isn’t modest.

Mrs. Ballard. No, it really isn’t modest.

Mercy. I don’t know what you mean. David is my
cousin the same as Percy. Why shouldn’t I love him?

Gladys [looking at her mother]. Well—

Mrs. Ballard. That’s quite enough.

T3
Mercy. But I try to love you all.

Gladys. Yes; it looks like it when you go and drive
Percy out of the room, and then go and make a
confession like that. A girl of your age talking so!
And not a bit ashamed.

Mrs. Ballard. And you always used to be Percy’s
little girl.

Gladys. You ought to be glad enough to have
Percy so nice to you.

Mercy [turning upon them with considerable beat].
Oh, please don’t keep on at me so about Percy. Can
you think that I am flattered because Percy chooses
to single me out as the only person in the house that
he can show any kindness to, when he snubs and
hurts uncle like he does—yes, and you, too, aunt.
Ever since I’ve lived here I’ve had to let Percy nurse
me about and pet meas if I was a baby—and then go
and clean his boots for him, or something like that.
All day long you stick him up in front of me as if
he were a god and expect me to worship him—and
I don’t.

Mrs. Ballard. Louisa put her up to every word of
this.

Gladys [standing up]. Don’t you deceive yourself,
mater. It’s all to make a comparison between David
and Percy. She can’t get David out of her head.
What she’s confessed to this afternoon accounts for
a lot of strangeness in Mercy’s manner of late.

Mercy. I haven’t confessed to anything. I haven’t
anything to confess to. [She turns to the sofa head and
drops down suddenly, covering her face with her hands.|

Mrs. Ballard. That’s right, my child; have a good
cry. It’lldoyou good. You must have got out of bed
the wrong side this morning—I’ve never known you
so disagreeable.

14
Mercy. Oh, aunt, 1 only want us all to be happy here.

Gladys. Oh, really!

Mrs. Ballard. Now, that’s a silly thing to say, you
know, Mercy. Weren’t we all as happy as could be
until you deliberately made all this upset ? But there, I
know you’re not yourself. You'll be sorry in the
morning for what you’ve said; I know you will.

Gladys. Oh, you’re taking too much notice of her.
Talk about something else.

Mrs. Ballard. Very well, we'll say no more about it.
[With sudden vehement impatience] Do try and look
cheerful, now!

Gladys. Let’s change the subject.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, I will just say this. Of course
she mustn’t go telling Louisa nothing about it.

Gladys. Oh, you get on my nerves with your
Louisa, mater.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, | know what I’m a-talking
about.

Mercy [in a frightened voice, as the door opens].
Aunt!

[David enters the room. He is a youth of between nine-
teen and twenty, pale and thin. His features are
sharply cut, and for bis age a little cadaverous. The
weakest point is his mouth, which lacks the decided
outline and firmness which characterise the rest of his
lineaments. On the whole he would be called good-
looking by most people, and there is undoubtedly a certain
intellectual air about him though he wears an expression
of fixed discontent which renders him decidedly depress-
ing. He is dressed in a suit of shabby black material,
with a clean “polo” collar and a black tie. His boots
and trousers are splashed with mud.]

David [walking over to the piano stool, where he sits
15
down clasping his hands and gazing at the floor]. Hullo,
mother; Gladys. Hullo, Mercy!

Mrs. Ballard [while Mercy looks up and smiles timidly
and self-consciously|. Well, my son?

David. Where’s father ?

Mrs. Ballard. Gone for his pension money, of
course. He’ll be home soon, though. [4 short pause.]
Well, and what sort of a day have you had?

David. One can’t see much shut up in a cash-
desk. I heard it hail once, and noticed some flakes
of snow on a customer’s coat.

Gladys. David thinks it’s clever to answer you like
that, mater.

David. If mother had asked me what sort of a
night I had had, I should have understood that ; how
can you call it day, boxed up in a mahogany coffin
with a glass window and an electric light on the top?

Mrs. Ballard. 1 wish you wouldn’t talk so silly,
David.

Gladys. I tell you, he thinks it’s clever.

[A bell rings below.

Mrs. Ballard. There’s your father. We can have
tea now.

[David relapses into his previous gloomy attitude.]

Mercy. V'll let him in, aunt. I think I heard Louisa
go up to dress.

Mrs. Ballard. Yes; run along, do.

[Mercy goes from the room.

Gladys (calling after her]. Tell him to wipe his
boots and take his coat off before he comes up in the
drawing-room.

Mrs. Ballard. She didn’t hear.

Gladys. More likely she wouldn’t.

[She goes out of the room.
16
David [as soon as the door has closed]. Mother!

Mrs. Ballard. Yes, my son?

David. What’s the matter with Mercy?

Mrs. Ballard. What do you mean?

David. I don’t know—she looks different. Has
she been crying ?

Mrs. Ballard. 1 suppose Louisa’s been telling tales.

David [getting up angrily]. 1 haven’t seen Louisa.
Mother, why can’t I ask a single question in the
house without being treated as if I was an interfering
interloper?

Mrs. Ballard. You must ask yourself that question.

David. What have I got to ask myself? Is it because
I'm not what you call getting on as well as Percy?

Mrs. Ballard. 1 don’t know. You don’t seem to
make yourself one of us. You're such a wet blanket.

David. Ah!

Mrs. Ballard. So discontented and depressing.
You'll never get on at the Stores while you will go
about looking like you do. Why don’t you make your-
self smarter? wear a nice high collar, have a crease down
the front of your trousers, and wear your hat on the
back of your head like Percy does? Oh, I tell you,
appearances count for everything nowadays.

David. Mother, I'll tell you why I’m so miserable
here. It’s because I feel I’m wasting my life. I’ve
been drawn into this horrible, ghastly drudgery at
the Stores and I can’t see any end to it. I’ve no
time for study, or quiet thought, or serious work of
any kind. All the best hours of the day 1 spend
fingering other people’s money and making up ac-
counts that don’t concern or interest me in any way.
I might just as well be making mud-pies or plaiting
straw in my hair, for all the sense there is in it. To
come home and sleep and to go there and slave—

17 G
that’s the hideous future that faces me for the rest of
my life. And however much I get on, it would still
be just the same thing—a little more money perhaps,
but never a day to myself.

Mrs. Ballard. You'll get your fortnight in the
summer, won’t you? and Boxing Day and Easter
Monday, and—why, there’s four Benk Holidays, so
don’t talk so silly.

David. Yes, four miserable days in the year when
they take the chain off us and let us run wild for a
few hours like a dog from its kennel. Oh, it speaks
volumes for the serfdom of a country where the
people are given Bank Holidays. It’s an insult—
such an institution.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, you enjoyed yourself as much
as any of us that Whit Monday when we all went
to Hampton Court on the steamboat.

David. 1 don’t want my holidays thrust on me
like that. I’m sick of the whole life, and I can’t
endure it any longer. Look at me. I come home
every night tired and wretched, and never in a fit
state to read or think or do anything else.

Mrs. Ballard. You have enough to eat, I suppose?

David. That’s just it. Dve got everything to
make it an existence and nothing to make it a life.
It would be better for me if I was starving and in
rags. 1 should at least know that things couldn’t go
on eternally in the same way. The days wouldn’t
fritter by like they do now. There would be a tre-
mendous possibility—death, or getting out of the
mire. Here I’m not in a mire. I’m wallowing in
a great slough of—of skilly—solid enough to support
me and to provide food at the same time. No, give
me a mire, a quagmire, with a green shore for those
who can manage to reach it.

18
Mrs. Ballard. Give you a blue pill—that’s what

you want.
[The door opens, and Mr. Ballard enters the room with

Mercy holding his hand and Gladys behind. He is a
withered little old man, respectably dressed in an ill-
made but tidy frock-coat without any silk facing, a cel-
luloid collar with turned-over ends, a made-up black
cravat which conceals any shirt-front, a pair of
striped trousers and cheap, clumsy-looking shoes. He is
clean shaven, except for some thin, white side whiskers,
and his hair is a light grey; be carries an umbrella
under bis arm. His face is very thin and careworn,
though there is a continual attempt at cheerfulness in
his expression, coupled with a nervous, sat-upon manner.
With David he is particularly uneasy, but this arises
from the fact that he is too timid to show that he really
prefers him to any one else in the family, except Mercy,
whom he adores and is allowed to adore, and perbaps
his wife, to whom be feels an unquestionable inferiority of
twenty odd years standing. Simon Ballard has become old
just when his children have begun to assert themselves,
and having always been mild and yielding in his
domestic character, senility has crushed him into the
spiritless, pathetic, gentle old man that he now ts. As
soon as they are in the room, Mercy releases bis hand
and he walks over to Mrs. Ballard.]

Mrs. Ballard. Well, dad?
David. Hello, father!
Ballard. Well, David. [He kisses his wife on her fore-

head, which she elevates for the purpose.| Well, mother,
how’s mother? [He walks over to the fireplace, rubbing
bis two palms together.| Ah, it’s nice to see a bit of
fire. It makes the house look so cheerful. [Warming
his hands.] This wind, you know, cuts anybody
through and through like a knife.

tg
Mrs. Ballard. There, Gladys! He’s managed to
smuggle his umbrella up here, after all.

Gladys. The pater never will get used to a draw-
ing-room—here, Mercy, take it down and put it in
its proper place.

[Mercy takes the umbrella, smiling at her uncle, and
goes to the door.]|

Mrs. Ballard. And tell Louisa to hurry up with
the tea.

Ballard. 1 could just do with my tea—something
warm ; that’s what you want this weather.

Mercy. 1 will bring it up. I know Louisa isn’t
down yet, but she’s sure to have left everything set
on the tray.

Gladys. No;-1t’s Louisa’s place to wait at the table
—what else do we have her for?

Mrs. Ballard. Now, you can see how cold your
father is.

Ballard. Oh, I can wait, my dear; don’t trouble
about me.

Gladys. Of course you can wait if anybody else
can.

David [looking up]. Mother—let Mercy bring the
tea up.

Ballard. No, no. On no account. That’s all right,
now.

sleneee [to David]. What's it got to do with you,
anyway !

Mrs. Ballard. What does it matter who brings the
tea up?

Mercy. Oh, there’s Louisa just coming down.

Gladys. That’s all right, then—only let David mind
his own business another time.

David [getting up|. Look here!

20
Ballard. Now, David, David!

David [sitting down again]. Oh, all right.

Gladys. These continual scenes with David make
me sick. [She takes up the newspaper from the table,
and seating herself in the rocking-chair makes an appear-
ance of reading it, though she is much too disturbed to do
anything of the sort—she is quite unaware, for instance,
that it is upside down.]|

David [with a determined effort at cheerfulness].
Well, dad, how’d you get on?

Ballard [turning to David in a self-depreciating
manner). I always feel it a bit, you know, David,
when I go up to the old shop. I suppose it’s only
natural, though. Forty-two years I went there and
a bit over. Yes, forty-two years and never missed
a day—except that time after I was vaccinated. You
remember that, Ellen? I lost a month over that.

David. Forty-two years and only missed a month!
—oh, my God!

Mrs. Ballard. Now, there is an example for you,
David.

Ballard [delighted at an opportunity of talking]. And
everything still looks just the same. I often sort of
forget myself when I go up for my pension and very
nearly give my name in to the timekeeper, as if I
was going to work. There’s not a bit of difference
anywhere—except they’ve got a new—well—a new
kind of a partition in the Sales’ Room. I suggested
the very thing myself years ago to young Mr.
Latimer—of course he’s old Mr. Latimer now—
that was years before David here was born—but he
never seemed to see his way to it. You got such
a draught straight through from the Fancy Depart-
ment—enough to cut your legs off. .

Gladys. 1 do wish you wouldn’t talk shop quite so

a
much, pater; you might at least drop it now you're
out of business.
Mrs. Ballard. Now, don’t shut your father up so.
Gladys. Well, he might show some consideration
for my feelings.

[The door opens, and Louisa enters with a tray of tea-
things; Mercy follows her in with a plate of bread
and butter, and a kettle, which she places on the fire.
Louisa is now dressed in black, her form scarcely dis-
cernible beneath a huge starched apron with cross bands,
large cuffs, a collar, and a cap with “streamers.”

Mrs. Ballard. Well, here’s the tea. Take the lamp
off the table, David, there’s a good boy.

[David removes the lamp from the table to the mantel-
piece. Louisa places a fringed tray-cloth on the table
and lays the things, with a dull uninterested expression;
Mercy assisting her. She then goes out of the room.|

Mrs. Ballard [looking after her]. Well, she’s an im-
provement on what she was this morning.

Gladys. Yes, if she didn’t limp so she’d be quite
passable.

[There is a tapping at the door from outside.]

Mrs. Ballard. That’s Mr. Snodge’s tap. Run to
the door, Mercy.

[Mercy opens the door, and Darwin Snodge steps into the
room. He is a large man of some thirty-five to forty
years of age, attired in black trousers with pockets
in front, a brown velvet coat, a dark brown corduroy

_ waistcoat, “polo” collar and large magenta-coloured tie,
which bangs down to a considerable length. He has a
dark, curled moustache, and dark hair, which is worn
long. He is smoking a cigar. He carries some paint

22
brushes and a small green rent-book in his left hand. His
actual countenance is inexpressive of anything but a com-
plete satisfaction with himself and a love of eating.
And the most noticeable peculiarity about him is the
variety of mannerisms which he has in speech and which
be changes instantly according to whom he is addressing
and what he is talking about. For instance, he is never
serious with Mercy, but addresses her with an amused
air as though she were a rather interesting infant in a
perambulator ; Mrs. Ballard and Gladys with profound
gallantry; Mr. Ballard with a cheerful, hearty, pa-
tronizing manner under which the old man smiles
childishly, looking and feeling at least a dozen years
older than he would if he was spoken to decently. To
Percy his manner is that of familiar good fellowship,
and David he ignores as much as he can, partly because
he sees that it is in the fashion, and partly because he 1s
indefinably afraid of him. He treats every subject with
a like levity, unless it is Art, and then he becomes at
once grave, august and all-knowing. And of all these
manners not one has the imprint of earnestness. To
obtain a genuine utterance from his lips or a spontaneous
expression on his face one would have to suddenly knock
him down, or else talk of food.|

Mrs. Ballard. I know that’s you, Mr. Snodge.
[Merrily] Come along in.

[David sits down in his favourite attitude and Darwin
Snodge comes forward, ignoring Mercy, who has been
holding the door open for him, and advancing upon Mrs.
Ballard, holding out his band. Mercy closes the door
and goes to the sofa, where she sits down with her book.]

Snodge. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ballard—and Miss
Gladys. I’ve just brought the rent down. [He
places the rent-book and some money which he bas ready

a3
on the table.| Good afternoon, Mr. Ballard. Been
out for a bit of a blow, eh? Don’t tell me—I can
see you have by yourcolour. Quite rosy, and that’s
right—we boys want all the fresh air we can get,
don’t we? Isn’t that right, Mrs. Ballard ?

Mrs. Ballard. It’s quite a treat to see anybody so
hearty.

[Snodge grips Mr. Ballard by the palm, and next casts a
rapid glance at David. |

Snodge. Good afternoon; nasty weather, isn’t it?
[David nods, scowling, and whatever remark he makes is
inaudible; while Snodge turns to Mercy, as if having now
paid his duty to the family proper he can notice her.|
Well, Mercy, reading your book, I see. That’s
right, read when you’re young and you'll never want
for knowledge when you’re old—as my poor old tutor
used to say to me. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ballard?

Ballard {nodding and smiling]. Yes, yes. It’s very
useful, and there’s a lot more done of it than
there used to be. In my days there wasn’t the
printing that there is now. Look at the catalogues
and price-lists that they get up—such a thing was
never thought of. Well, I can remember—

Gladys. Mr. Snodge was talking about reading—
books, you know.

Ballard [looking attentively at Gladys and then at
Snodge]. Ah, yes, yes, my dear. I didn’t understand.

Snodge. The spread of reading among the masses
in, say, the last twenty years is wonderful. Why,
men whose fathers had to sign their names with a
cross are reading Shakespeare to-day—they wouldn’t
like it known, of course, but that’s right, isn’t it? [He
turns to David.]

24
David. My father signed his name with a cross till
he was sixteen.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, that’s only one of your father’s
fairly tales.

Snodge. I didn’t mean anything personal.

Ballard. Oh, but it’s quite right. I went toa night
school when I was sixteen, and that’s where I got
such education as I have.

David. Nothing to be ashamed of in that.

Gladys. Well, I’ve never heard the pater make a
joke before.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, talking about reading, I’m sure
that’s a very good serial-fullerton, you know, that’s
running in the “Daily Magazine” now. I don’t
know if you’ve read the beginning. “The Outcast
Earl” it’s called—it’s on the chair there.

Gladys. You know Mr. Snodge doesn’t read that
sort of thing, mater.

Mrs. Ballard. \’m sure it’s very interesting.

Snodge. \’m sure it is. A great deal more than
half this serious stuff we have to read. Oh, I’m not
above enjoying a good fullerton. The “Daily
Magazine,” you said? I shall certainly get a copy.

Mrs. Ballard. You can have that one if you like—
we’ve done with it. It’s on the chair over there.

Snodge. If you’re quite sure you’ve done with it?

Gladys. Oh, quite sure.

Snodge [taking up the paper, which he folds and puts
in his pocket]. Well, I just ran down at this particular
moment, as Miss Gladys mentioned that she would
like to see the portrait I’m working on of Lord
Roberts. I’m sending it in to-night, and I thought
perhaps [zo Gladys] if you would come up now before
the light fails—

Mrs. Ballard. Well, we’re just going to have tea.

25
You must have a cup with us, and then Gladys and
Mercy can run up together with you.

Snodge. Well, just one cup, thank you. We ought
not to leave it too late—it’ll be dark very soon now.

Gladys. Let’s hurry up, then. I’m dying to see it.

Ballard. What is this? A portrait?

Mrs. Ballard. A portrait of Lord Roberts, father,
which Mr. Snodge is painting.

Snodge [carelessly]. Just a full-length portrait in
uniform. Five foot by three—panel shape—it’s
rather tricky because he’s got all his medals on. It’s
taken me three days to do, so you can judge there’s
a lot of work in it.

Mrs. Ballard. And it must want some doing.

Snodge. It does. Of course, I could hardly paint a
portrait of you, say, right on to a canvas in that time;
so the photograph does help. They say there’s no
art in photography, but the camera is very useful in
work like mine. You just take a photograph of a
man, enlarge it any size you like—give it to me, I
paint over it in oils, and the thing’s done. The camera
does the drawing and I get the colour. It’s all very
well to carp, but Rembrandt himself couldn’t have
got a better likeness or done it in the time.

Ballard, Very interesting, that.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, while we’re talking the tea’s
getting cold. Come along.

Ballard. Where’s Percy?

Mrs. Ballard. You run and call him, Mercy. Put
a chair up for Mr. Snodge first.

Snodge. He was up with me a little while ago.

[Mercy puts a chair up to the table and goes out. .

Gladys. Are you going to pour out, mater ?
26
Mrs. Ballard. Yes; that’s all right. Sit down, Mr.
Snodge.

[Snodge places a chair for Gladys and Mr. Ballard drags
one up to the table for himself.]

Snodge. We mustn’t be many minutes.

Mrs. Ballard. Louisa never brought the kettle up.

Gladys. It’s in the fender.

Mrs. Ballard. So it is. [She gets the kettle and pours
out the tea].

[Mercy comes back into the room, followed by Percy, who
1s now in evening dress except for a pleated red silk
shirt protector and a Norfolk-jacket. He and Snodge
exchange nods. |

Mrs. Ballard. You bring that chair up, Percy, and
we'll be all right. [Percy brings the second wickerwork
chair up to the table.| Come on, now, David.

David. I don’t want any tea, thanks, mother.

Mrs. Ballard. Don’t want any tea?

Gladys. Leave him alone, mater, if he doesn’t want
any.
Mrs. Ballard. Of course, if he don’t want any,
that’s all right. Now then, Mercy. ~

Mercy [taking her seat and repeating in a low voice
and with lowered head, the others also just lowering their
heads| For what we are about to receive, may the
Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.

Mrs. Ballard [to Snodge|. ‘Two lumps of sugar, I
suppose ?

Snodge. Yes, two, thank you. Some bread and
butter, Miss Gladys?

Ballard [in an injured tone]. How do you do, Percy?

Percy, Oh, I’m all right, pater.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, don’t drink your tea so quick,

27
Mercy. You know you only get one cup, and before
you’re half through with your bread and butter
you'll be wishing you had another.

Percy. What’s supposed to be the matter with
David over there?

Gladys. Oh, he sulking about something. Don’t
take any notice of him.

[David lifts bis head and is about to say something, but
he controls himself and turns away to the piano, resting
an elbow on the keys and his bead against bis clenched

fist.]

Snodge. Hadn’t we better be going up? We shan’t
be able to see anything in a few minutes.

Gladys. All right. Come along. Come along,
Mercy.

Suodge [also rising]. Then I'll wish you good after-
noon, Mrs. Ballard.

Mrs. Ballard. Won’t you come down again? I
haven’t signed your rent-book yet, you know.

Gladys. Yes, he’ll come down again. Come along.

[She goes out of the room, followed by Mercy.
Snodge. Just for a little while, then, thank you.
[He follows them out and closes the door.

David [getting up in a rage the moment the door is
closed|. Mother! Am I to be spoken to in front of
strangers like Gladys spoke to me then? How
can you expect me to stop here and stand it? It’s
abominable!

Mrs. Ballard. | don’t know what it was she did
say. I didn’t hear her.

Percy. She merely remarked that David was sulk-
ing ; and as far as I can see, she was about right.

28
David, Look here, Percy. 1 won’t stand any lip
from you, whoever else I take it from.

Ballard. Now, boys! boys!

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, you'll distract me between you.
I shall have one of my worst headaches as it is.

Percy. And a fat lot David will care.

Mrs. Ballard. \f \ sometimes use that expression,
Percy, there’s no need for you to.

David. | warn Percy to be careful.

Ballard. You don’t know how this racks me, David.

Mrs. Ballard. And your father only just got home!

David. Oh, very well. [He pauses a moment to
collect bimself.| Father, have some more bread and
butter ?

Ballard [in a broken voice]. No, thanks, David. I’m
finished. [He gets up, looking older and more haggard
than before.| Vll go and put my slippers on. Is there
a fire in the front kitchen, mother?

Mrs. Ballard. No, there isn’t; but you can put a
match to it. It’s all laid.

[Mr. Ballard goes wearily out of the room.

Mrs. Ballard [with an attempt at cheerfulness]. Let’s
have a light.

[She sets about lighting the lamp, which she places upon
table; and while she is doing so, Percy takes up the
phonograph and walks out of the room with it, while
David throws bimself along the sofa. Having finished
with the lamp, Mrs. Ballard goes over and stirs up
the fire.|

David [looking up after a considerable pause]. Mother,
how old is father?

Mrs. Ballard. WWell, 1 don’t like to think about it.
And you know he never likes talking of his age.

29
David. Is he much over sixty ?

Mrs. Ballard. He’s over seventy.

David [looking up from burying his head in his hands].
Mother, I want to talk to you seriously.

Mrs. Ballard [nervously]. What about ?

David. You might just leave off poking the fire,
and sit down.

Mrs. Ballard. What is it, David ?

David. A crisis in our lives.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, David, don’t go and upset me
again. I shall have one of my worst headaches as it is.

David. Yes, a headache, a mere passing atom, and
you expect me to put off and put off because you’ve
always got that headache coming on if ever I try to
speak to you.

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, it’s a passing atom, is it? It’s
all very well for people who never have headaches
to talk.

David. Mother, do for once try and put aside all
your smaller feelings. Do, for heaven’s sake, sit
down and listen to me. I tell you, things can’t go on
like this another hour.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, bless the boy, what is it you
do want?

David. 1 want my liberty.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, look here, David, I do wish
you wouldn’t talk so silly. Who’s taking away your
liberty? Aren’t you free to do as you like in the
house? To come and go? yes, and to bully your
mother when you can get her by yourself.

David. Oh, Lord! [4ppealingly] Mother, why
do you talk to me like this? Can’t you see how
distracted, how utterly wretched I am? Can’t you
for once be a good, kind mother, and give me your
confidence and sympathy ?

30
Mrs. Ballard [sitting down, a little mollified]. Well,
what is it you want to say? Only do make haste,
because your father’ll never manage that fire by
himself. He'll light it with the register down, as
sure as fate.

David. Mother, you must have noticed, you have
noticed, that for a long time past I haven’t been my-
self. I daresay it’s selfish, perhaps ungrateful on my
part—but, mother, there is something lacking in my
whole life, something that makes every passing hour
a gnawing agony to me.

Mrs. Ballard (as if suddenly enlightened |. Now, David,
why couldn’t you have been fair with me from the
first ?

David [seizing her hand]. You understand ?

Mrs. Ballard. Yes, and though it will have to come
out of my own money, you shall have it. What can
you get one for?

David. Get what?

Mrs. Ballard. Why, that silk hat you’ve so set your
heart on.

David [looking up after holding his head in his hands
and groaning]. Oh, mother, and I thought you under-
stood me!

Mrs. Ballard. Well, if you’ve got anything more
serious on your mind than that hat you shall say it
in front of the others. I won’t take the responsibility.

David. Mother, we'll talk to them afterwards.
This is my last opportunity, and I don’t want to go
away leaving you with any false impressions. I want
to dispel them.

Mrs. Ballard. David! Going away? What do you
mean?

David. Yes, ’'m going. It’s best for you, best for
father, best for all of us. I’ve thought of it for a

31
long time, and to-night I’ve made up my mind ab-
solutely. I am the bugbear in this house; and torture
me as you all do, it’s father that pays the penalty.
If I go, there will be nothing to upset you—you can
all be happy here in your own way then, and so, I
hope to God, can I in mine.

Mrs. Ballard [running suddenly to the door). Father !
Gladys! Percy!

David [trying to draw her back]. Don’t, mother.
Let’s avoid any scenes. Think of poor old dad.

Mrs. Ballard [shaking him off |. Yes, a lot you think
of your dad, with all your talk! [Cries out again]
Gladys! Percy!

[Mercy runs into the room, leaving the door open. She
looks from David to her aunt, startled and alarmed.|

Mercy. David!

Mrs. Ballard. Call your uncle!

Mercy. Whatever is the matter, aunt ?

Mrs. Ballard. Call your uncle!

David [ going over and closing the door|. For heaven’s
sake, don’t let’s have a scene, mother.

Mercy. Aunt, what is it?

Mrs. Ballard [almost wringing her hands, and with
the one fixed idea in her head|. Mercy, call your uncle!
Mercy. He’s coming, aunt ; they’re all coming.

David {crossing the room and putting bis back to the
Jireplace]. Oh, very well; we'll have it out.

[Mr. Ballard enters the room agitatedly, followed by
Gladys and Snodge and then Percy; finally, Louisa,
but she retires at once, closing the door behind her.|

Ballard. What is it, mother ?
Mrs. Ballard (collapsing into a chair]. Ask David.

[Mr. Ballard looks with pitiful questioning at his son.]
32
Gladys. Ah, it’s David, is it? Bullying mother
when he gets her to himself.

Percy [advancing menacingly towards David]. Are
you bullying mother ? Was he bullying you, mother ?

David. Oh, what a house! Look here, Percy,
don’t you come any nearer or I might forget myself
and knock you down.

Percy. Well, don’t you bully mother.

[He retreats behind the sofa, while Mercy stands near
the door watching the scene in a frightened manner.]

Ballard. Boys! my dear boys!

David. Father, listen to me.

Gladys. 1 suppose you'll threaten to knock him
down, too, if he doesn’t.

Ballard. Now, Gladys, Gladys!

Gladys. Well, was he bullying mother or not?

David. Father, mother is in this state because I
was guilty of the unnatural and heinous offence of
trying to gain her confidence and sympathy.

Mrs. Ballard [beginning to cry). It was bullying.
You only made fun of me when I offered to put things
right—out of my own pocket, too. Didn’t you
command me to sit down? [Taking out ber handker-
chief.| And then on the top of it all he says he’s going
away ; going to leave us!

Ballard [staring at David and then back to his wife].
What! David?

David. Father, do let’s try to thresh this thing out
peaceably. Why all this scene about it? What
mother has just said is perfectly correct. I’ve made
up my mind to it, and I’m going away.

Gladys. And the best thing you can do.

Percy. There certainly need not be any fuss about
that.

33 p
David. 1 am glad that you two are so unanimous.

Mrs. Ballard. \'ve read of these things in books.
I never thought they’d happen in my own family.

Ballard. But, David, my boy, you surely don’t want
to go and break up our home life because of what
Gladys thoughtlessly said at the tea-table?

Gladys. You speak for yourself, father; anything I
said I meant.

David. Oh, we can leave Gladys out of the ques-
tion. I shall miss Gladys. It wants a few Gladyses
in the world to throw into relief the good qualities
of the rest of her sex. I’m not going away because
of the sort of life I lead here; it’s because of the sort
of life I can’t lead. I’m only thinking of my future ;
my duty to what few gifts I do possess. I don’t
intend to barter my life to the Stores, and it’s now
or never.

Mrs. Ballard. So you’re going to throw up your
work, too? Have you found something better?

David. No; I’ve got no other prospects of that
sort.

Gladys. It strikes me David’s going mad.

Ballard. My boy, if you’d only stop there at your
work patiently and try to cultivate a liking for it,
you’d soon get a substantial rise, and everything
would look rosy again.

David. 1 gota rise to-day—a rise of ten shillings.

Mrs. Ballard [sitting up with open mouth]. What!
And then talking of throwing the job up!

David. It’s another link forged in the chain that
binds me, and I’ll break it while there’s time.

Percy. Oh, everybody knows that feeling. It’s
only the reaction. After a rise you realise your own
value to other people, and it swells your head a bit—
but it wears off.

34
Mrs. Ballard. There’s a lot in that. Look here,
David, you’re not yourself this afternoon. Just you
go to sleep on this business, and see if things don’t
look different to-morrow morning.

David. Yes—a little more sleep, a little more
slumber, a little more folding of the hands in sleep—
would you tell a regiment of soldiers caught in an
ambush to go to sleep on it before they made up
their minds to fight their way out? No, I want to
write, I mean to write, and I mean to make myself
fitted for it. I’m miserable here, hour to hour, day
to day, because I’m selling myself, body and soul,
to earn a bare living at work I hate, rather than risk
to stand by the work I tell myself I love and long
for.—I’m a coward while I do it.

Snodge [itching to say something]. I don’t know if
I might be allowed to make just one observation.
[He looks round the room, but no one interrupts bim.]
But it doesn’t seem to occur to your son here, Mrs.
Ballard, that what he has just said amounts to a con-
fession that he lacks patience, perseverance, and hope.

Mrs. Ballard. There now, David!

David. There’s something greater than patience,
perseverance, and hope—and that’s courage.

Snodge. Why, they’re one and the same thing.

David. They’re not. The three you mention are
absolute antidotes to courage—a devil’s device for
lulling to sleep the one thing that can make men of
us. Oh, can’t you imagine the glorious feeling of
taking this courage of ours in both hands, of throw-
ing off every tie, fetter and support, and knowing
that you stand, naked and supreme, in absolute love
and confidence of your art! Oh, the man who can do
that has won a victory over fate, misfortune, death—
over everything! Failure, starvation, disease—nothing

35
could touch him. If he died—a bundle of filthy
rags—alone, unheeded, in some putrid archway, that
man would die magnificent, exalted, dignified above
kings !

Mrs Ballard. This is all double-Dutch to me.

Snodge. The position is, Mrs. Ballard, that your
son is talking on a full stomach. Ah, my boy, if
you'd only seen a little of the world you wouldn’t
treat these heroics of yours quite so seriously as you
do. It’s the old, old story, as old as the hills, of
trying to look on Art as something apart from life,
while it is really the essence. of it. You're painting
your canvas upside down, so to speak. Don’t make
any mistake about it—you can’t do good work unless
you’ve got the stomach behind you to put into it.

David. I don’t want to starve; I’m not such a
fool as that ; but I’m prepared to starve, if necessary,
in trying to put myself into a position that would
make my life worth living. I don’t believe that the
man with courage enough to risk his beastly stomach
for his work would starve; but I say that if he did
he wouldn’t know it, he wouldn’t feel it.

Snodge. You starve for a week or two, my boy,
that’s all; and see if you wouldn’t sell your soul for
a plate of hot roast-beef off your mother’s table.
Look at me! Do you think I’ve never talked and
thought and felt like you? Do you think I’m doing
the sort of work now that I should like to be doing?
No; but I can’t help myself, and I’m old enough to
know it. Why, if I had the means I could sit down
and start a picture to-day that would astonish some of
these old “R.A.s” up at Burlington House out of
their shoes ; but I haven’t these means, and so I am
contented to do the work that comes my way as well
as I can, and to thank God that I’ve got it to do.

36
Mrs. Ballard [as Snodge stands back breathless but
complacent]. Now, David, what Mr. Snodge has been
kind enough to say ought to be a real lesson to you.

David. Mr. Snodge has removed the last faltering
doubt from my mind. Now I know what is the ab-
solute root of all human failure—stomach! stomach!
Heavens! to hear this bloated, insensible fraud of
forty standing up to me in my youth and strength
with his loathsome ideals! Oh, a lesson, a real lesson,
Mr. Snodge, and I thank you for it.

Gladys. I am sorry that my brother is making such
an exhibition of himself before you, Mr. Snodge,
but he really isn’t responsible for his actions.

Mrs. Ballard. He'll be sorry for all he’s said in the
morning.

Snodge. Oh, I forgive him. But let him try his
boasted starvation for a while, that’s all. Leave your
mother’s roof, as many a young fool has before you,
and see where your folly will lead youto. Id like to
have a look at you, my boy, after twelve months of
your new life—back at the Stores, or sponging on
your friends.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, when I was your age, David, 1
should have been only too thankful to have had any-
body like Mr. Snodge to advise me.

David. 1 am thankful. I have just thanked him.

Ballard [very timidly asserting himself]. In plain
English, I understand that David wants to strike out
for himself.

Gladys. In plainer English, what does he want from
us? I know David too well to believe that he’d let us
all into this business of his without a purpose.

David: Gladys is right; and I'll give you a plain
English reason—I want to borrow five pounds before
I go.

37
Percy [with a loud sigh]. I thought he’d come down
to the worldly level before long.

[Snodge and Gladys both laugh.]

Mrs. Ballard. Borrow five pounds !

David. It’s not much to ask. 1 feel absolutely con-
fident that if I could only make a clean start, and
have two or three months to work in—and I could
make it last nearly three months at a pinch—I should
succeed. If I fail, I promise you I'll worry you no
more. If I succeed, it will be money well invested.

Gladys. And you always said, mater, that David
would never get on because he hadn’t got enough
cheek.

Ballard. But, David, I understand that you’ve been
writing these stories and things for months, and never
sold one.

David. Why fling that in my face? I tell you
I can’t work here, and that’s why. If you'll only help
me to make a start, that’s all I'll ever ask you for.

Percy. You’d never be such a fool, father.

Gladys. Now, you all see the measure of David's
courage.

David. What the devil is it to do with you, Gladys ?
It’s father I’m asking. ‘Will you do it, father?

Mrs. Ballard. Vll answer for your father—no, he
won't.

Ballard. Well, Vd rather think over it.

Percy. Yes, you'd do well to sleep on it. I could
ask you for five pounds any day of the week with a
damned sight better excuse than David’s.

Ballard. 1 don’t want to lose you, David.

Mrs. Ballard. No, nor five pounds neither.

David. All right, then. Good-bye. [He goes to
the door.]

38
Ballard. David!

Mrs. Ballard [in alarm]. Where are you going ?

David. To the streets! You’ve driven me out of
the house by your sordidness. Money or no money,
I'll go. If I starve, there’ll be a thousand better men
than me to keep me company. Good-bye. [He goes
out of the room, shutting the door behind him.]

Mrs. Ballard [rushing forward after a pause]. David!
My boy! I can’t let you go like that!

Ballard. Oh, my son. David! David!

Gladys. It’s too late; there goes the front door.

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, oh, oh, my boy! [She turns
and clings to her husband. Snodge, Gladys and Percy all
stand still, startled and taken aback, now that the thing
has actually happened.]

Mercy. Oh, I’m glad! I’m glad! David is a man,
a brave strong man. [She throws herself along the sofa.]

39
ACT II
Scene.—A Room in a RESTAURANT IN SOHO.

A large square room with red wall paper, white painted
woodwork and a carpet of blue felt. Obviously the place
was never intended to be used as a restaurant, since in
actual construction it is perfectly plain and simple; but to
overcome this fatal drawback, M. Rosace, the proprietor,
has added a compensating profusion of shop-fittings.
Showy brass hat-racks bristle from the walls in numbers
sufficient, apparently, to hold a warehouse full of hats and
coats, umbrella-stands are provided upon the same liberal
scale ; also there are innumerable electric-light brackets
with pink-shaded globes, while hung at set intervals around
the room are a dozen long, narrow mirrors in gilt frames,
reflecting an endless multiplication of the scene.

In the wall at the back, to the left, a door leads through to
the main room of the restaurant and the street. In the
right-hand corner of the same wall are a group of artificial
palms, with a stove in front faced with ruby glass, At the
further end of the wall to the left isasecond door, leading
to the kitchen, etc., of the establishment; both doors are
curtained off with a blue material to match the floor.
About the centre of the wall to the right is a window
with a white silk curtain hung on ivory rings across the
lower half of it and the glass visible above; also there are
a pair of long blue curtains drawn back on a brass rod
above.

40
Around the room, as if pushed back against the walls, are a
number of small tables, provided each with two gilt chairs
and laid with white cloths. About the middle of the
room is a large table, standing lengthwise with the back
wall. This table has chairs for seven—three at the fur-
ther side, one at each end, and two at the side nearest.
It is in process of being laid elaborately for dinner, with
a great show of flowers and cutlery and plate.

It is night time; the lights are on and the stove is burning.

Lego, a German youth in the usual garb of a waiter, is partly
engaged in arranging the table and partly—three-parts—
in perusing a paper-covered book, which he holds folded
in his left hand and scarcely once removes his eyes from.
He is only seventeen, and there is something in his Gothic
face which insistently suggests a throwback into an ances-
try of gargoyles. It is a childish face, blue-eyed and a
little swollen, with a pessimistic expression, as of one
hopelessly disappointed in everything. Lzo believes him-
self to have outgrown all his young dreams, and is inter-
ested in nothing but what confirms his sinister attitude
towards existence. He has very little English and heartily
wishes he had none at all, for he would give his chil-
blainy right hand never to have left Berlin, and his other
as willingly for the privilege of safely throttling his master,
M. Rosacz, with it. He has just laid down the last set
of knives and forks when the latter comes quietly in by
the door to the left, unobserved.

Rosace is, perhaps, more pleasing to the eye. He is hand-
some and graceful and even dignified-looking. He is well
dressed, well groomed and well set-up; with a manner
that might be supposed to go with a continental Count.
He has thin grey hair, a thin black moustache, a thin
figure and long thin fingers, very white and bejewelled.
He is dressed in a black suit of foreign-looking cut and
material, with a high waistcoat and black evening tie.
Also he wears a single eye-glass, attached to a black silk
ribbon, and he walks and moves with the utmost languor.

41
So much for the exterior of Rosacz. When he speaks
one is a little startled, that is to say when he speaks his
mind, which is usually to his employés and not often
within earshot of his customers. Aroused, he speaks with
all the tricks and rapidity and almost the exact vocabulary
of a costermonger, only he keeps his voice low and even
exaggerates the normal grace of his deportment, so that
a deaf person, seeing without hearing him, might suppose
that he was giving utterance to some sublime expression
of exalted thought. To the customers, however, Rosacz
usually shows only his “Count” side, and in the shop he
carries himself with the air of a distinguished visitor,
rather than the proprietor. His establishment isa great deal
patronised by young city men and those on the extreme
fringe of art and literary circles, who entertain the belief
that it is strictly Bohemian and just like Paris—-whereas
Rosace gives them honest English dishes disguised only
on the menu; and having been born in Notting Hill, he
has almost forgotten the French of his childhood for the
want of hearing something other than Cockney. This is
not to say that Rosace is an exceptional humbug; his pride
is quite genuine, and he affects a Frencb.accent in the shop
for the same reason that he styles his cutlets, “‘ Noisette de
Mouton Bonne Femme.”

He advances gently into the room, the monocle in his right
eye, and his hands limply joined behind his back.

Leo [putting down the book as Rosace thus silently
enters, and speaking with a bitter emphasis to himself in
reference to something which he has just been reading].
That’s a fact.

Rosace [as Leo, surprised, hastily pockets the book].
There’s a lot er facks, my boy, that you’d better get
‘old of. Look ’ere, you’re no blessed use ter me,
yer know. Wen I tell yer t’ave a thing dun by ite
erclork, wacher think I mean? D’yer suppose I bort
that karpit to mike a fancy lordging-harse for yore
feet? Yer German tricks won’t do ’ere, my boy,

42
and don’t forget it! I piy yer ter work, an’ I'll see
yer do, too! Look at them flaars—’ere, get art of
it; go on in the shop—clear art, nar, quick! [He
follows Leo, who seems half afraid of a sudden blow, to
the door]. You pig-’eaded aliens, you’re all alike. Wi
don’t yer storp in yer own dirty country—nobody
arsked yer ter cum over ’ere, did they?

[Leo, who takes all this with scarcely a change in bis ex-
pression, has just reached the door and 1s turning the
handle, when it opens from without and Percy Ballard
enters the room. Percy is in evening dress, with an
opera-hat on the back of his head, a light overcoat, un-
buttoned, and a black and yellow silk muffler. He wears
a large button-hole in his overcoat, and carries the phono-
graph in a wooden case.|

Percy [to Leo, as Rosace steps back from the door|. My
name’s Ballard.

Rosace [speaking with a slightly foreign accent]. Mon-
sieur belongs to the party?

Percy [with a stare of some hauteur at Rosace, for be
does not recognise him as the proprietor, and resents being
thus addressed by a stranger when he is in a dress suit].
What’s that to do with you?

Rosace [returning the stare and drawing bimself up].
Monsieur does not understand. I am the proprietor
here. 1 ask, does Monsieur belong to the party—
the gentleman who has engaged the room for the
evening—Mr. Snorge?

Percy. You are Rosace?

Rosace [with a very slight bow]. My name, zare.

Percy [ gushingly]. 1 am soree. J’ really did not
comprehend you. We, we, j’suis de la party. That’s ,
all right, monsieur, il a tous bien. A’lais gentle-
homme arrivé as yet?

43
Rosace [looking, quite openly, very disrespectfully at
Percy]. Don’t you speak English?

Percy [not quite certain how to take the question]. Just
a bit, you know.

Rosace. So do I. [His dignity has been very consider-
ably wounded, as well as his contempt inspired, and he
adopts his best English, which is just the same as bis
worst except for a more impressive delivery.| Mr. Snorge
arsked me to expect ’im and ’is friends abart ’arf
parst. It’s not that yet, but I suppose you'll wait.
Leo, tike the gentleman’s coat. [Rosace bows distantly
and retires from the room by the door at the back.|

Percy [after staring at Rosace until the door has closed
upon him, and then turning to Leo]. He can speak
English, then ?

Leo. That’s a fact. Your coat, sir.

Percy [after placing the phonograph upon the floor and
allowing Leo to help him off with his coat; bis mind
absorbed the while in the phenomenon of the proprietor’s
sudden acquisition of the language]. Do you speak French?

Leo. No, no—I am—German.

Percy. Oh—German! [After this odious confession on
the part of Leo, Percy is half determined to have no more
to do with him, but after taking a turn about the room,
with his hands in his pockets, while the waiter is hanging
up his things, a desire to talk gets the better of his patriot-
ism.| You’ve got everything all right here.

Leo [who is going out by the door at the back]. Yes,
it is all right.

Percy. 1 suppose you know Snodge, Mr. Darwin
Snodge? I mean as a customer.

Leo. That’s a fact, sir.

Percy. Clever chap—he’s going to marry my sister,
you know.

Leo [who is not in the least interested in other people's

44
good fortune, but tries to assume a proper interest]. To
marry your sister, sir? Very lucky shentleman.

Percy [loftily, as becomes a gentleman to a waiter].
Oh, she’s all right. Mind you, Snodge’s a big man.
I don’t suppose you know much about your cus-
tomers—only what you can judge of them—but
Snodge’s making his—well, it doesn’t matter what
he’s making—but he’s very high up in the profes-
sion. He paints, you know. Portraits in oils.

Leo. Would you like to wash your hands, sir?

Percy. Oh no, thanks. [He looks at them.] They’re
all right. You might give me that button-hole, though.
[He points to his coat. Leo fetches the flowers and he pins
them in his dress coat.| Thanks, and, I say, now you
might just put that box on one of those tables over
there. Be careful with it.

on [taking up the wooden case]. Is it a phonograph,
sir!

Percy [going over to one of the mirrors and admiring
himself]. Yes, yes. I thought we might like a little
music later on, you know.

Leo. Some of the tunes that they play are all right.

Percy. Oh, yes. Vve got some very good band
records. I like a band, or else something comic. You
can’t get a good song, you know, unless it is comic.

Leo. That’s a fact.

Percy [missing the “sir” |. Any one of those tables,
waiter ?

Leo. 1 have a leetle gramophone in ma lodging.

Percy [his reflection in the glass reminds him forcibly
that he must not encourage a waiter to impart bis own low
affairs in this familiar way]. Indeed?

Leo. It has very nice music, but it scratches a
leetle sometimes.

Percy. Indeed?

45
Leo. But I do not make it go very often. The
lady in the room over me she does not like it, and |
can only play when she is gone out.

Percy [endeavouring to increase the chill of the word].
Indeed ?

Leo. 1 gave twelve shilling for it, second-hand.
Very cheap, wasn’t it, eh?

Percy. 1 don’t know at all.

Leo. Have you not got a trumpet for thees ?

Percy [with a start of horror]. What?

Leo. The trumpet. I do not see it anywhere.

Percy [dashing to bis coat, feeling down it, and then look-
ing about the room]. Good Lord! I must have left it
in the bus! [He stares at Leo in dismay.]

Leo. Very likely you will find it all right to-
morrow.

Percy. It’s to-night I want it, man! The thing’s
no good at all without a trumpet.

Leo. That’s a fact.

Percy. 1 don’t know what on earth to do.

[Az this moment the door at the back is opened by Rosace,
and there enters, first of all Mrs. Ballard, then Darwin
Snodge, and Gladys Ballard, then Mr. Ballard and
Mercy Hainton, and finally Louisa, who is carrying a
number of wraps and umbrellas. Mrs. Ballard is
dressed in a low-cut gown of black satin, with long white
gloves and rose-coloured ribbons at her shoulders, over
all she wears a beaded manile and a black bonnet with
rose-coloured trimmings. Mr. Snodge is in a baggy dress
suit, white gloves, an Inverness-cape, a soft felt hat,
and a button-hole. Gladys wears a white evening gown,
with a red opera-cloak, and a lace shawl over her head.
Mr. Ballard is dressed as in Act I., except for a linen
collar, a white evening tie, a button-hole, a black over-

46
coat, and a bowler hat. Mercy is in black; her hair
is a little “up,” and she looks older; over everything
she wears a long, fawn-coloured mackintosh and a white
Tam 0 Shanter bat. Louisa is attired in a black dress
with a pink yoke, and wears a black macintosh, also a
black straw hat. As they thus appear, Percy stands
back from the door, also Leo.]

Mrs. Ballard. Well, Perce; you did get here first,
then? [She walks complacently into the room and looks
all about her with an air of critical inspection. Gladys
goes to the nearest mirror; old Mr. Ballard, Mercy and
Louisa step rather timidly just inside the door, and Snodge,
walking over to the right-hand corner of the room, near the
Sront, pulls off bis gloves and smiles with cheery patronage
upon all. Rosace closes the door and pauses.| [To Rosace.]
Very nice and comfortable, I’m sure. What do you
think of this, Louisa?

Louisa [smiling a dependent’s smile}. It’s all right,
mum.

Mrs. Ballard. You’ve got Miss Gladys, you know,
to thank for this—and Mr. Snodge.

Louisa. 1 know, mum. Thank you, miss. Thank
you, sir.

Gladys. Well, as long as she understands it’s her
Christmas-box.

Louisa. Oh yes, miss.

Mr;. Ballard. Better than that new print dress we
was talking about—isn’t it, Louisa?

Louisa. Oh yes, mum.

[Mr. Ballard takes off bis coat and holds it over bis arm.
Leo assists Snodge to remove his Inverness and hat,
which he hangs up.|

Mrs. Ballard. Well, that blow on the motor ’bus
| 47
has done me a world of good. I’m sure I’m ready
for my dinner—and not to have to cook it : that'll be
a treat—won’t it, Louisa?

[Louisa smiles all over her face and Mrs. Ballard proceeds
to untie her bonnet strings. |

Gladys. Pater, you’ve forgotten your hat.

Ballard [removing his bowler]. Ah, yes, my dear.

Snodge [to Leo]. Just take the gentleman’s coat and
hat, Leo.

[Leo takes Mr. Ballard’s coat and hat and hangs them
up; while Mrs. Ballard now takes off ber bonnet, which
she hands to Louisa. She then proceeds to unfasten her
mantle. |

Gladys [putting a detaining hand on her mother’s arm.|
Mater !

Rosace [going to the door to the left]. If you will step
sis way, ladies, to ze dressing-room. Ze little white
door at ze top of ze stairs. "Ere, Leo, show the ladies
to se dressing-room.

[Leo turns from where he has just hung up Mr. Ballard’s
coat and hat, and goes over to the door, which he holds
open. Rosace bows to Mrs. Ballard and retires by the
door at the back.|

Mrs. Ballard. Come along, then, girls, we don’t
want to keep everyone waiting.

| Gladys and Mercy go over to the door.)

Louisa. Shall I come, mum?

Gladys [after looking at ber mother]. Well, 1 suppose
there was some idea of your making yourself useful,
wasn’t there? [Louisa comes forward.| Put these
umbrellas in the rack—tch! [She makes a despairing

48
gesticulation as Louisa proceeds also to hang up the wraps
which she is carrying and Mrs. Ballard’s bonnet.| Look
at that, now. Take these wraps and things upstairs
with you, where they’ll be wanted.

[Louisa retakes the wraps and goes with them through the
door; Gladys proceeds to follow ber.) ,

F Ballard {calling after Gladys]. Shall 1 stop here, my
ear?

Gladys [to Mrs. Ballard and Mercy, who have re-
mained in hesitation at the door]. You two hurry on now,
do. [She turns back to Mr. Ballard. Mrs. Ballard and
Mercy quit the room, followed by Leo, who closes the door
after them. Going over to Mr. Ballard, who is standing
uneasily in his original position] Let’s have a look at
you. [She inspects bis appearance.] Just see that tie,
now. You'll have to get the mater to pin it up for
you again. Was that the best handkerchief you
could find? [She takes one from bis pocket and shakes it
out.

Es Your mother gave it me, my dear.

Gladys. 1 don’t care who gave it you—you can’t
have a thing like that. [She puts it away in the pocket
of bis overcoat, where it is hanging up.] You'd better
come up with me; you’re worse than a child. [She
marshals him across the room, and Leo, who re-enters at
this moment, holds the door open for them and bows them
through.]|

Percy [as soon as Leo has closed the door]. Darwin, the
most awful thing has happened!

[Leo pauses to speak to Snodge.]

Snodge. What?
Percy. I’ve gone and lost the blessed trumpet of

that phonograph!
49 E
Snodge. This isa good omen for the evening, Percy.
[He laughs.]

Percy. No, but, hang it all, what on earth shall I do?

Snodge. Do without it, my boy, as the puppy-dog
had to when they cut off his tail. What do you
want, Leo?

Leo. Have you seen the wine list, sir? [He steps up
and hands Snodge a little red list. Percy brightens up again. |

Percy. Vl see if I can’t fix up a trumpet somehow.
I might manage it with a newspaper. [ He goes across
to the phonograph and commences to unpack it, with bis
veal attention all on Snodge and the wine list.]

Snodge [to Leo]. Ah, the wines, eh? Let’s have a
look at it. [He reads the list carefully through.] H’m,
h’m. [Turning to Percy.| Your mother likes claret,
doesn’t she?

Percy. Claret? [He walks over to Snodge.| Well,
I’ve never seen her drink claret. [He lights a cigar.]

Snodge. Do you think she’d rather have a little
Bass or Guinness ?

Percy. Good Lord, no! She hasn’t drunk any beer
for, well, two or three days. She’s got a tremendous
fancy for champagne, though, if you want to give
her a real treat.

Snodge. Champagne! [He turns to Leo.| What
sort of champagne have you got?

Leo. Five-and-six, six-and-six, eight-and-six—very
goot champagne, eight-and-six. [He points on the list
with a pencil. |

Snodge. Well, look here, Percy, if I get a small
bottle of champagne for your mother and Gladys, are
you game to drink beer with me and your father?

Percy. Well, perhaps we'd better have claret all
round.

Snodge. No, I'd like to give your mother a treat.

50
That’s what we'll do. Here, Leo. A half bottle
of B. 2.

Leo. Very goot, sir. And the beer ?

Snodge. Oh, what do you say, Percy? [But Percy
walks back to the phonograph scowling.| Well, look
here, Leo, three Bass and three Guinness. We'll have
some more if we want it. You haven’t got a licence,
have you? [He puts a hand in bis pocket.| Ah, “take
the cash and let the credit go; nor heed the rumble
of a distant drum.” Here's a sovereign, Leo, and
don’t lose the change.

Leo. Very goot, sir.

[He goes out of the room by the door at the back, and Snodge
with a little playful swing of his foot walks over to one
of the mirrors and admires himself.]

Percy. Oh, damn!

Snodge. What’s the matter now?

Percy. Gone and smashed my best piccolo record.
[He pushes the phonograph impatiently away and walks
about the room, with a grimace of unspeakable disgust.|

Suodge. Your luck’s out this evening, Percy, that’s
asure thing. [Percy ignores the remark and continues
to walk the room.| What are they going to give us,
I wonder? [He goes over to the table and picks up a
menu card. |

Percy [stopping abruptly]. Look here, Snodge—I
think that on an occasion like this—you marrying
my sister and all that—you ought to have had cham-
pagne. Hang it all, you know, one can get plenty
of beer in a public-house; one doesn’t expect to come
to a place like this to drink it.

Snodge. 1 can’t afford it, my boy, as my poor old
tutor used to say when I asked him to take a month’s
holiday.

51
Percy. Well, you might have said so. I shouldn’t
have come if I’d known. __

Snodge. Well, look here. I'll pay for another bottle
if you’ll pay for your mother’s.

Percy [after turning the proposition over]. 1 should
think you would.

Snodge. S-s-h—here they come.

Percy. Oh—it doesn’t matter—TIl drink water.
[He walks off scowling more darkly than ever.]

[Snodge springs forward and holds open the door with a
show of great gallantry as Gladys sweeps into the room,
followed by Mr. and Mrs. Ballard, Mercy and Louisa.]

Mrs. Ballard (smelling at the air]. Somebody’s got
a nice cigar.

Gladys [irritably]. That’s all right, mater. Now,
where are we going to sit, Darwin?

Snodge | putting his arm through Gladys’s]. 1 think
Mrs. Ballard had better manage that.

Mrs. Ballard. How’d it be if you was at one end
and Gladys at the other ?

Gladys. Oh, I want to be next to my boy.

[Suodge releases her arm, steps back a pace or two and
bows with his hand on his breast. The others laugh,
except Percy, who stands apart, still scowling. |

Snodge [suddenly recovering his gravity and turning to
Mrs. Ballard]. Look here, ma, you go down that
end [he points to the left], and Gladys at the other;
then I’ll sit next to her over there. And now, Mr.
Ballard, where shall we put you? Somewhere near
the pudding? Eh, what? don’t tell me. Well, you
shall sit next to me over there, so that I can keep
one eye on you and Mrs. B. the other. Then Mercy
and Percy, you can sit next to each other here.

§2
Mercy. But what about Louisa?

Mrs. Ballard. Vd forgotten Louisa.

Snodge. So’d I. Well, they’ve laid it for three over
there, but we don’t want to squash.

Gladys. There’s all those little tables over there.
One of them’ll do.

[Louisa goes to one of the tables and sits down.|

Mrs. Ballard. My! Louisa, a table all to yourself!

Mercy. Aunt, they’re made for two. Do let me sit
there with her.

Ballard. Or me.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, I never did!

Suodge. What? wants to sit with Louisa, does he?
Mr. B., I’m surprised at you. .

Ballard. \ mean J don’t care where I sit.

Gladys. Now, you'll only make it worse.

Percy. When you’ve.all done talking, I suppose
we'll get to business. Comeon, Mercy. [He sits down
at the place allotted to Mr. Ballard.]

Ballard. Then I can sit over there next to Mercy.

Mrs. Ballard. That’s your father’s place, Percy.
Here, come back, dad.

Mercy. Can’t I sit next to uncle?

Mrs. Ballard. This is getting distracting. We can’t
all sit everywhere, you know, my girl.

Snodge. Come on, come on. Here, Mr. Ballard,
down you go. [He puts him in bis seat as Percy gets up.|
Now, then, Gladys and Mrs. Ballard. Sit down, Mercy,
there’s a good child, and you there, Percy. [He waves
everyone to their seats and finally sits down bimself.|

Mrs. Ballard. Well, now we shan’t be long.

Gladys [with reproof |. Mater !

Snodge. Everything’s ready now, except the dinner.

Ballard [to his wife]. Isn’t Mercy going to say grace?

53
Gladys. Now, who would think of saying grace at
a restaurant but you, father?

Mrs. Ballard. Certainly ; it is quite unnecessary.

Percy. I say, ring the bell, somebody, and let’s get
on.
Snodge. They'll be here in a minute.

Mrs. Ballard. You all right, Louisa?

Louisa. Yes’m.

Mrs. Ballard. Never sat in a gold chair before, did
ou?

Louisa. There was one in the dentist’s waiting-room,

mum.

Gladys. What an idea to put into anybody’s head.

Mrs. Ballard [turning to Snodge|. Well, Darwin, I’m
sure this is very kind of you.

Ballard. Hear, hear! I haven’t been to a proper
dinner not since young Mr. Latimer was married.
It was at the Oborn Restaurant, and we had asmok-
ing concert afterwards. I shall never forget that night.
I was— —~

Gladys. That’s all right, father; we'll take it as said.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, I shan’t forget it in a hurry,
anyway. He didn’t come home till close on three
o'clock.

Snodge. Then he’d been having too much pudding.
I know all about it. I always said pudding would
be your ruination, Mr. Ballard.

Louisa. Ain’t I going to have a plate or nothing,
mum?

Mrs. Ballard. Don’t be silly, of course you are.

Mercy. You see it was laid here on this table,
Louisa. [Gesting up.] I can give them to you.

Snodge. Now, Mercy, sit down; we don’t want to
make a waitress of you just yet. Leo’ll see to that.

Gladys. Was that Leo who showed us upstairs?

54
Mrs. Ballard. A nice civil young man, eh?

[Leo comes in by the door at the back. He has the cham-
pagne, Guinness, ett.. which he places on the table.
Then he goes to Snodge.]

Leo. You are ready now, sir?

Snodge. We are waiting.

Leo. Very goot, sir. [He goes towards the door at the
left.)

Mrs. Ballard [turning to him]. Just put that young
woman her plate and things.

Leo. Yes, madam.

[He does so, and then retires, the others sitting in a proper
manner until he bas gone.|

Percy. He’s got a face like a croquet ball, hasn’t he?

Mrs. Ballard [laughing]. Percy, you'll make me ill
now, if you start going on like that.

Gladys. Do stop fidgeting with your tie, pater.

Mrs. Ballard. What’s the matter with it ? That tie’s
been more worry to me than all my dressing put
together.

Ballard. The pin’s in my neck.

Gladys. It isn’t.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, your father knows best, my

dear.
Ballard. 1 wish I could take the thing off.

[Mercy goes round to him and adjusts it.]

Gladys. Well, pater, that beats anything you’ve said

yet.
Snodge. He’ll want to take off his waistcoat after

the pudding.
Mrs. Ballard. Don’t you take any notice of them,
father ; you're all right.
55
Mercy. It is all right now, isn’t it, uncle?
Ballard. Yes, yes, my dear ; thank you.

[Mercy goes back to her seat.|

Gladys [in a stage whisper]. There’s Louisa eating
her bread.

[They all look round and catch her in the act. Mrs.
Ballard, Snodge, and Percy are much tickled. ]

Percy [warning them]. Tch, tch!

[Leo comes in and places the first dish before them, while
a more grave deportment is assumed. They eat in
silence, and Leo stands by.]

Mrs. Ballard [after looking over at the menu]. Hois
d’Euvres; this is very good.

Snodge [as Leo collects the plates]. Now, will you have
thick soup, Mrs. Ballard and Gladys, or clear?

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, thick for me, thanks.

Gladys. And me.

Snodge. Thick soup for all, then, Leo.

[Leo bows and goes out with the plates
by the door to the left.

Mrs. Ballard. How are you getting on, Louisa?

Louisa. All right, mum.

Ballard [to Mrs. Ballard]. What a very little of that
dish there was, my dear.

Snodge. There’s plenty more coming, and last but
not least—ha, ha! you know.

Gladys. What are you two talking about?

Snodge. The pudding, of course. What else should
we youngsters be talking about, eh, Mr. Ballard?

Gladys. 1 believe father’s got pudding on the brain
to-night.

56
Ballard. My dear, I haven’t once mentioned it.
Mrs. Ballard. Sh, sh!

[Leo comes in with the soup and they eat gravely and in
silence, as before.]

Mrs. Ballard (looking over at her menu again]. Con-
sumie Rishe ; this is very good indeed.

[Leo removes the plates and retires from the room.

Gladys [as soon as the door has closed upon Leo]. You
need not remark on every dish that comes in, mater.

Mrs. Ballard. And why shouldn’t I?

Gladys. As if you’d never eaten anything out of
your own house before.

Snodge [standing up]. Now, ladies, let me give you
a little wine. [He takes up the champagne bottle.|

Gladys. What’s that ?

Snodge. Ah, ha! what is it? Give me your glasses.
[He opens the bottle with a great plop and fills their two
glasses. |

Mrs. Ballard. I believe it’s champagne! Why, this
is a treat!

Gladys. I always did like champagne.

Snodge [to Mr. Ballard]. Help yourself to Bass or
Guinness, now—you and Percy ; there’s plenty of it.

Mrs. Ballard. This is all right, isn’t it, dad?

Snodge. Now, what’s Mercy and Louisa going to
have? ‘

Mercy. Water for me, please.

Mrs. Ballard [to Mercy]. Have just a sip of my
champagne, now, for a treat.

Gladys. No, don’t be silly, mater.

Mercy. Really, I don’t want any.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, somebody must have some
with me. Here, dad, let’s have your glass. [She takes
his glass and half fills it from her own.]

$7
Percy [leaning back in his chair]. Anyone can have
my Bass who wants it; I don’t feel well.

Mrs. Ballard. What, Perce, you’re not bad are you?
Why, we’ve only just begun.

Percy. It’s my head.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, it wasn’t that cigar, was it?

Percy. Don’t be silly, mater—as though it would
be. No, I’ve been doing too much at the office, or
something.

Mrs. Ballard (looking round at the others]. You know
it’s cruel the hours that boy has to work. [She turns
back to Percy.] Now, Perce, a glass of my champagne
—that’s just the thing to cheer you up; you'll have
that now, won’t you?

Snodge. I got it for you, Mrs. Ballard, and Gladys.
There’s only about two glasses each in the bottle.

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, well, let him have a drop if it'll
cheer him up.

Ballard. He can have mine, mother. I’d just as soon
have beer—I’d rather have beer.

Percy. Well, if you really don’t mind, dad, old
chap—

Ballard. 1 don’t mind.

Percy [taking the glass]. It’s awfully good of you, only
I really do feel a bit knocked up. [He drinks from the
glass, carefully avoiding Snodge’s disgusted eye.|

Mrs. Ballard [watching her son with the greatest soli-
citude|. You'll be all right now; you are better, ain’t
you, Perce?

Percy. It’s like the breath of life—thanks, dad.
[He stands up.| 1 just want to say how awfully good
of Snodge all this is—

Mrs. Ballard. That’s right, Perce, let’s have a
speech.

Gladys. Yes, I'd like to hear Perce make a speech.

58
Percy. Yes, 1 can see myself making a speech. I
only just got up to say how awfully good of Snodge
all this is—

Ballard. Hear, hear!

Louisa [faintly]. Hear, hear !

Mrs. Ballard (turning round]. Did you say anything,
Louisa ?

Louisa. No, mum.

Gladys. Mater!

Ballard, Let him say what he’s going to, Ellen.

Percy [sitting down]. Well, of course, if none of you
are going to listen— [He helps himself to a little more
champagne, looking intensely annoyed. ]

Mrs. Ballard. Now, go on, Perce.

Percy [standing up again]. Well, I was going to
thank Snodge for everything and all that. It’s awfully
good of him, and I want to propose a toast. [He
pauses, not having the least idea what bis toast shall be.|
Well, what’s to-day? The twenty-first, isn’t it?
Let’s have that, then. Ladies and gentlemen, the
twenty-first of November !

Mrs. Ballard [waving her glass, while Gladys grace-
Sully lifts hers. The others also drink the toast]. The
twenty-first of November !

[Mr. Ballard suddenly lowers his head and attracts atten-
tion to himself by looking as though he had been taken
suddenly ill.)

Mercy. Uncle! [She stands up.]

Mrs. Ballard. Dad, what’s the matter?

Ballard. David, David! It’s the day he went away
from us—a year ago to-night !—the twenty-first of
November! Mother, what are we doing here like
this? [He stares round at the table and the company,
passing a hand across his forebead.]

be
Mrs. Ballard (turning with annoyance to Percy]. Now,
what'd you want to go and put that idea in his head
for? I’ve been trying my best to keep it out of my
own mind all day.

[Percy looks foolishly at his father, and the others pause
awkwardly; all except Mercy, who gets up from her
chair. ]

Ballard [pushing his plate away from bim].1 don’t want
anything. I can’t sit here and feast with him perhaps
starving in the streets. [He buries bis head in his
hands and his frame is convulsed by senile sobs.]

[Mercy goes quietly round the table and leaning over the
old man’s shoulder tries to soothe him. Snodge, standing

up in bis place, stares at the two, uncertain for the
moment how to act.|

Gladys [ firmly]. Now, look here, pater, stop that
at once! Put his plate back, mater.

Mrs. Ballard. You'll be all right in a minute now,
dad.

Gladys. Sit down, Mercy. Go back to your chair.

Mrs. Ballard. Sit down, my girl. I tell you, he'll
be all right in a minute.

[Mercy stands back and meanwhile Percy is helping bim-
self to another glass of champagne.)

Gladys. Pater, drop it now! It’s like you to go and
spoil my engagement dinner. David knows where
to find us if he wants to. Mercy, go back to your
chair.

Ballard [pulling back his plate). I’m sorry, my dear,
but I can’t help it. Tl try to go on.

Snodge. That’s better!

Gladys [warningly]. Sh! sh!

60
[Leo comes in with the fish, which he takes round the
table,and Mercy goes back to her seat; Leo then retires.]

Mrs. Ballard (as soon as Leo has gone]. You are
better now, aren’t you, dad?

Ballard [wearily|. Yes, yes, my dear; I’m better.

Mrs. Ballard, Well, now, I’m going to see if I can’t
give you a toast.

Snodge. That’s right, ma! you’re the one to cheer
us up! Fill your glasses now, all of you. Here,
Mr. Ballard, let me see you drink a good glass of
Guinness. [He jills the old man’s tumbler, and Mrs.
Ballard divides what there is left of the champagne between
herself and Gladys.|

Mrs. Ballard [lifting her glass and looking round the
table]. Well, here’s health and long life and prosperity
and everything else what’s good and what ought to be
to the bride and her future husband.

[ They raise their glasses, except Gladys, while Snodge holds
his aloft, and pats himself upon the chest.]

Percy, And here’s to absent friends!

Gladys. You are a fool, Percy!

Ballard [suddenly rising, and stretching out his hand
towards the window, articulating the word with a hoarse,
wailing cry]. Look!

[The others all stand up, startled and chilled. The old
man continues for a moment to stare wildly across at
the window. No one moves. It is as if some abrupt
horror was about to descend upon them.]

Mrs. Ballard [clutching ber husband’s arm, and speak-
_ ing in terror]. Father!

Ballard | pushing her off, and crying out again, bis hand
still pointed across the room, and his eyes fixed upon the
window]. Oh, look! look! It’s it’s David! [His

61

 
chair falls back, and he staggers across the room at a run
to the window, where he begins to tear hysterically at the
catch]. David! David! David! Let him in! oh, let
him in!

[Nothing is visible at the window. Snodge strides for-
ward. The others continue to stand as if powerless;
Percy appearing utterly stupid, with bis lower jaw
dropped, Mercy with hands clasped and her eyes on the
window, Gladys frowning, and Louisa staring vacantly
at the scene.]

Snodge. \t was your fancy. Calm yourself, Mr.
Ballard, calm yourself.

Gladys. 1 foresaw this all along. I said we'd no
business to bring him with us.

Ballard [shouting towards the window, while Snodge
holds him back, and Mrs. Ballard now grips bis two
hands, looking distractedly round for help|. David!
David! David!

Mrs. Ballard [who is in a piteous state of devotion and
alarm, beginning to vigorously rub the old man’s bands,
vaguely remembering some first-aid remedy]. It was only
your fancy, dad! Don’t be like this.

[Mercy continues to stand motionless, where she had first
risen from her seat. Percy’s expression of dull amaze-
ment has scarcely altered. |

Ballard. \tell youl saw him! I’m all right, Ellen;
I’m all right, I tell you!

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, | always thought he’d go off like
this, one of these days! Father! dad!

Ballard [panting heavily]. Leave go of me, Ellen!
Give me my hat! Let me get my hat! I’m going
out in the street to find him!

Mrs. Ballard. Gladys! Percy!

62
Louisa. Perhaps Mr. David really is there, mum.

[Percy suddenly crosses the room, throws open the window,
and looks out. |

Percy. There’s no one there.

Gladys. Shut that window. Look at the fog coming
in; and you'll have a crowd outside in a minute.
Shut that window.

Snodge. Shut the window, Percy.

[Gladys crosses to the window as Percy closes it, and draws
the heavier curtains. |

Snodge. Now, just you sit down, Mr. Ballard; that’s
all right ; you sit down, now.

Ballard {becoming faint]. Let me go! oh, let me go!

Snodge. We must make him sit down! [Leo comes
in by the door to the left, with a tray and dishes from the
kitchen. He pauses, astonished.| Take that away till I
tell you, Leo. The gentleman has been taken a little
unwell.

Ballard [to Leo]. My son is out there in the street.
They won't let me go to him. Go and tell him that
his father wants him. They’re all against me. Mr.
Snodge, who are you to be holding me back like this?
Ellen, take him away! make him let go of me, Ellen!
[To Leo again]. Call him in—go and call him in!

Snodge [to Leo]. Get me some brandy.

[Leo places down the tray and goes oul,
startled, by the door at the back.

Mercy [speaking with a great effort]. Oh, I must tell
you all. Uncle is not mistaken. David was outside
when we came in. He stood watching us, and—oh,
my God!—I hardly knew him. [Se stops abrupily,
and covers her face with her hands, sobbing].

63
[Suddenly Rosace comes in by the door at the back, pale
and furious. |

Rosace. Mr. Snodge! This is disgriceful! What
am I to siy to my customers? And now there’s a
man trying to come in through the shop! A dirty
tramp, that’s what he is. Says the lidy’s his mother.
Whatamiterdo? whatamiterdo? That’s what I want
ter know. Whatamiterdo?

Mrs. Ballard. David!

[Everyone stares at Rosace. Mr. Ballard has become
suddenly quiet.]

Snodge. There’s only one thing to do, and that’s to
let him come through as quickly and as quietly as
you can. [Already there is a ring of triumph in Snodge’s
voice. David with all his rags is welcome to come in and
be humbled.|

Gladys. What? In here?

Snodge. Certainly, in here. There’s nothing else
for it.

Rosace. A tramp he is, a dirty tramp! To come
through my shop!

Snodge [urging bim towards the door]. Don’t be a fool,
man. Go, and let him in, and stop all this fuss as
soon as you can.

Rosace [as he allows himself to be pressed through the
door]. Disgriceful, that’s what it is—mistiken your
class—disgriceful !

[Snodge closes the door upon him and holds the handle,
listening. The others remain motionless, all looking
towards the door. After a short pause David is heard
from the shop.|

David [outside]. Well, you keep your hands off me,
that’s all!

64
[The door opens and David appears, pausing immediately
inside, where he stands very much as though he were
at bay ; half overwhelmed by shame and weakness and
half defiant. Snodge shuts the door after him. In ap-
pearance he is as Rosace has described him. The
original black suit clings about his emaciated figure in
shapeless folds, torn and muddy and worn in places to
holes. His boots barely hang together, he wears nothing
in the shape of a collar and his head is covered by a
ragged cap. Yet, his wasted-looking face appears more
striking and intellectual than before. His hair is long
and unkempt, his eyes bright. Obviously he is in a
state of complete neglect and upon the verge of a break-
down. For a moment he casts his eyes swiftly over
every face. As he looks at Mercy she drops into a chair,
sobbing convulsively, and finally he fixes his gaze upon
bis father. Gladys breaks the silence by a sudden laugh.
Snodge alone preserves a perfect self-possession. Mr.
Ballard, with his hands gripping the back of a chair,
stares at his son, making no sign of any sort, not even of
recognition. | ;

David. Father! [He takes a step towards Mr. Ballard,
but the old man backs away, lifting his hands, horrified. ]

Mrs. Ballard. Well, ain’t you got nothing to say to
your mother?

David. Mother!

Mrs. Ballard. Oh, David, how could you? [She
goes towards him, fluttering with maternal concern. ]

Gladys [raising her voice and pulling her mother back].
Mater, you shall not!

Mrs. Ballard [turning round with startling vehemence,
and lifting ber hand as though prepared to box her daugh-
ter’s ears]. Now, look here, my lady, you mind your,
own business for once. I’ve ’ad about enough of

65 F
your management of things. [She turns back to David,
who allows her to take him to ber arms.| My poor boy,
how could you let yourself get like this? :

David [collapsing totally, and pressing bis hands to his
face]. Mother! [Sul shielding his face, he turns to the
nearest of the small tables, and, dropping into a chair, sits
with bis arms folded, and his head bent down between them,
utterly unmanned. |

[Mrs. Ballard moves with him to the table, and bends over
him without any articulate expression. Mr. Ballard
takes a step forward, but stops, looking as stupefied as
ever. Mercy, no longer crying, watches the scene silently
and motionless. Percy is obviously affected; and Louisa
looks on, as though enjoying as an outsider a very pretty
and touching picture. As for Snodge, he begins to pace
up and down the room, rubbing his hands together and
looking remarkably pleased with himself. Only Gladys
presents an uncompromising front of disgust and indig-
nation. |

Gladys. Darwin! Pater! Percy! Somebody put a
stop tothis! Another five minutes and mother will
be begging for him to come home with us!

Snodge | pausing abruptly, and drawing himself up to
his full height, with bis knuckles on bis hips]. 1 am sorry
to have to say so, Gladys, but for once your mother
is right. I mean, you are wrong. David must come
home with us!

[David lifts bis head up upon one elbow and looks at
Snodge with a dazed yet attentive expression. ]

Gladys. Darwin !
Snodge [striking an attitude and beginning to wax very
eloquent, as a man full of disinterested virtue and speaking

Sor a merciful cause]. My dear Gladys, I sympathise
66 ig Go

 
with you in the shock which you have received, but
this is really not a case where harsh measures are ne-
cessary. After all, reflect : David is your brother, and
though it is his own folly that has reduced him to this
present deplorable plight—exactly as I predicted—
yet now that he has thrown himself upon our mercy
I do not quite see how any of us can turn him away

‘again. Am I right, Mr. Ballard, in thus taking it upon
myself to lead for once the family councils? Asa
prospective member of this family, am I within my
rights, Mr. Ballard?

Ballard. Oh, yes, yes; certainly. [He sits down as if
stupefied. |

Snodge. Thank you.

David [conscious only of a vague, querulous desire to
protest against this humiliation]. Snodge—

Mrs. Ballard. Now, you keep quiet, David; every-
thing’s turning out all right. Just you listen to all
they’ve got to say.

Gladys. This is perfectly disgusting! Darwin, you
can’t mean it!—for him to be brought home amongst
us /—you must be mad!

Snodge. Not mad, my dear, but simply erring a
little upon the humane rather than the practical side
of the matter. ‘There is not much—in fact, there is
not the slightest—relationship between brothers-in-
law, yet at this moment I may claim to feel some-
thing more than a fraternal pang for poor David.
Certainly he might have spared himself and us this
humiliation by listening to me a year ago. I forgive
him; I have always forgiven him. And now, to-night,
let me be the first to welcome him back amongst us
to a better and a cleaner life. [He makes the peroration
with a final flourish and sits down in the nearest chair.|

Percy. Buck up, Dave, old boy! I second the motion.

67
Mrs. Ballard. Do cheer up, now, David; every-
thing’s smoothed over.

Gladys. 1 will be heard! I refuse, absolutely, to
be a party to David’s coming back to us.

Snodge [standing up and speaking with an ugly empha-
sis]. Then you oblige me, Gladys, to speak more bluntly
than I would have wished. I refuse, absolutely, to
possess a brother-in-law walking about the streets
like that.

David [starting up with a laugh]. 1 was waiting for
the explanation of this amazing kindness—[dut he is
physically incapable of keeping up the satirical spirit and
breaks out in a rage| You beast!

Mrs. Ballard. Now, you keep quiet, David; Mr.
Snodge’s your best friend.

Snodge. Fear not, Mrs. Ballard, my pity is increasing
every moment.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, David, you sit down again.
Don’t give way to yourself. You'll only say something
you'll regret. [She succeeds in inducing him back into
his chair, where he sits eyeing Snodge as before, bent,
however, only upon defending himself. |

Gladys [who has been considerably set back by the sudden
threatening of ber own position]. At least, Darwin, we
have the right to know what he has been doing with
himself to get in this disgusting condition.

Snodge. It is quite unnecessary, Gladys. Anyone
who acts as David did—throws up his work and
rushes away from home in a fit of temper—must
come down to this if they'll only give their pride
rope enough. It’s the old, old story, as old as the
hills, but there is no need to harp upon it; here he
is, and we must make the best of him.

[Percy goes out.
68
Gladys. Make the best of him! It’s in his nature;
you can’t make him any different.

Suodge. Oh, yes, you can! It isn’t fair to take the
smallest notice ot anything he says while he’s like
this. He comes here looking like an anemic hooligan,
and he feels that he must play the part. I know quite
well what effect even one’s clothes have upon a man.
Put a duke in a muffler, and he’d begin to drop his
aitches instinctively. Clothes dominate a man’s whole
character, I tell you.

Mrs. Ballard. Now, that is very true, David. You
can’t lift your head up while you're like this. You
wait till you’ve got home and had a wash and your
hair cut, and get into one of your father’s suits—
you'll feel another man.

Snodge. You'd be astonished, now, what a differ-
ence even a collar will make in him. By the most
fortunate chance 1 happened to purchase one on my
way here this evening. It’s in my overcoat. [He goes
over to where bis coat is hanging. |

Mrs. Ballard. There, now, David ; Mr. Snodge has
got a collar for you.

Ballard. And he can have my tie.

Mrs. Ballard [leaving David, who looks for the moment
utterly dazed, and taking the collar from Snodge, who un-
wraps it from a twistof paper). Here weare, now, David.
Let your mother put it on for you just like she used
to. It'll have to be pinned, and so’ll your father’s tie
for a matter of that, but never mind. [She approaches
David with the collar, while Mr. Ballard rapidly divests
himself of his cravat.]

David [starting up]. Stop! take that infernal thing
away! I won’t be made a fool of like this! [He is i
a blind passion, and rushes for the door. Snodge quickly
intercepts him.]

69
Mrs. Ballard. We ain’t going to have it all over
again, are we?

David. Oh, it’s brutal! I was mad enough to come
back, because I’d let myself forget what you were all
like, and thought at least you’d treat me decently.
Take your hand off that handle!

Snodge. Gently, gently, now, David. Consider, con-
sider |

David. Yes, if I’d only stopped to consider, you’d
never have set eyes on me again. I never asked to
be brought into this cursed world, and now I’m here
I'll do what 1 like with myself. I'l make a hole in
the river; it’s what I ought to have done twelve
months ago!

Mrs. Ballard. David!

Snodge. Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Ballard. David’s
weakness of character will always save him from that.
David can never do the right thing, and nothing can
ever satisfy him. He wouldn’t have been in the
river two minutes before he’d be just as discontented
as he is now.

Mrs. Ballard. David, you’re not yourself, or you
wouldn’t talk like it.

Gladys. It’s his nature, I tell you. You'll never
alter his nature.

Suodge. Oh, his nature’s all right. It’s his con-
founded vanity.

David. Vanity! [He is so astonished that he forgets
everything else. |

Suodge. It’s nothing else, my boy. It might have
been ambition that made you think you were too
good for the Stores, but it’s only vanity that has kept
you alive since you discovered the error. Look at
you now. I’m damned if he doesn’t still think he’s
infernally clever!

70
Gladys. It strikes me, Darwin, that you're not get-
ting at the real point at all. Jf I remember right,
David left home to make his living by writing or to
die in a putrid archway! Now, he hasn’t died in his
archway and he isn’t writing.

David. Writing! How can I write like this—when
I haven’t the money even to buy myself a stump of
-blacklead pencil! If I’d only had that five pounds it
would have made all the difference in the world to me.

Snodge. The same old David! The same old cry!
If he were left ten thousand a year to-morrow, I can
picture him standing on the deck of his yacht and
whining out the same words—“ Write! how can I
write with the vessel pitching about like this?”

David [clasping his head in his hands, and beginning
to walk up and down the room|. Oh! you don’t under-
stand, you don’t understand! [He stops and faces them,
gesticulating with his arms stretched out.| There isn’t one
of you has ever understood me.

Mrs. Ballard. You don’t understand yourself, and
that’s the long and short of it.

David [as tf on the verge of tears]. Oh, it’s horrible!
Even my own mother is against me!

Mrs. Ballard [also in a voice of tears]. Now, David!

David. Oh, the barbarous cruelty of it all! To
fight for freedom, to strive for a life that shall be
worth the living, for work that shall be worth the
doing, and then to be told that it’s all vanity! Oh, it’s
horrible! it’s unbearable! [He sinks into a chatr, bis
head bowed, and his hands hanging inertly.]

Snodge [clapping his two palms together, and speaking
out with a violence that checks a desire on the part of Mrs.
Ballard to rush to David with her comfort]. This is all
sheer nonsense. David left home to write, and he
has utterly and miserably failed. He is not starving

71
for Art, and he shan’t come here and force it down
my throat that he is. He’s starving because he
daren’t acknowledge to himself that he’s of common
clay ; that he hasn’t got the stuff in him that men are
made of. Great men, through all the world’s history,
have lived down, not fled from, the obstacles which
confronted them. David is a coward from the crown
of his head to the sole of his foot, and every action
of his life has proved it.

David [grasping at this opportunity of a victorious
surrender, and springing up, his whole face illuminated
with enthusiasm]. Snodge! Snodge! Snodge! This
is worth more to me than all I have suffered! This
was what I wanted—someone to rouse me! I have
been a coward. It was cowardice not to face it out.
Mother! father! all of you! I'll come back; I'll
return to the Stores ; Pll do anything you like. Tl
brood no longer. Oh, Snodge, you have saved me!
I will show you all there is something in me yet!

Snodge [shaking his head with a sinister smile]. No,
you don’t, my boy. Before we go any farther we'll
put this on a straightforward basis. If you come home
at all, it is going to be as an ordinary, sane member of
your family, and all your flowery rhetorics will have
to be thrown in the dustbin along with the rags that
they have brought you to. You come back as an
acknowledged failure, with all this talk of yourself
and your Art, and your future dropped for ever out
of your vocabulary. Work will be found you, and you
will be expected simply to maintain yourself respect-
ably in that sphere of life to which it has pleased God
to call you—or, rather, which in His infinite mercy,
he has allowed you to return to.

[ David, his arms drawn up, looks slowly about the whole
room, completely crushed and without a word left in him.]

72
Mercy [suddenly taking a step towards him with her
hands clasped and an agony of pathos in her voice ; speak-
ing very slowly]. Oh, David, it is all true that Mr.
Snodge has said; and you must come back to us—
like—that!

[David stares at her with a fixed gaze, then he lets him-
self slowly down into a chair and suddenly presses his
hands to his eyes; bis head bent down.|

73
ACT Ill

Scene.—Tue Batrarps’ Drawinc-room, PiMtico.
(As 1n Act I.)

The room is exectly the same as in Act I, except that near
the sofa there is a hooded wickerwork cradle, and hang-
ing above the bamboo table, an enlarged photograph,
painted in oils, by Darwin Snodge, of Mr. Ballard.
Seated at the centre table is Mrs. Batarp, looking
very little older but for the fact that her glasses are now
permanently upon her nose; her hands are folded and a
newspaper is on her lap. Gtapys, untidily and even
sloppily dressed, sits in the rocking-chair, sewing, with a
workbasket and a litter of linen and calico upon the floor
beside her. Lovtsa, looking precisely the same, is at the
fireplace, engaged in putting coals on the fire out of the
scuttle. Mercy is seated at the sofa, a book in one hand
and gently rocking the cradle with the other. Although
still slight and girlish of figure, Mercy has now passed into
the age of womanhood. She is dressed neatly in a simple
black skirt and red blouse and is altogether beautiful,
though she looks even a shade more sad and thoughtful than
before. Both Grapys and Mrs. Batzarp are silently
eyeing Louisa at her operations.

Mrs. Ballard. Not all them small pieces now,
Louisa.

[Louisa continues her task; and having finished it, limps
in ber old spiritless fashion towards the door.]

74
Gladys [as Louisa reaches the door]. Now, I meant
what I said, Louisa. If you can’t get dressed by tea-
time on Saturdays, you'll have to go.

Mrs. Ballard. She won’t be dressed by any tea-time;
how can she be? it’s gone half-past now.

Gladys. Well, I’ve warned her; that’s all. [She
resumes ber sewing.]

Mrs. Ballard. | suppose she does know that we’re
all having tea together in the studio this afternoon?

Louisa. Yes’m. [She continues to wait at the door]

Mrs. Ballard. Go on, then, my girl, go on. You
heard what your mistress said, didn’t you?

[Louisa goes from the room.

Gladys [looking up at her mother]. You know, she’s
hopeless !

Mrs. Ballard. Well, of course, we might have a
trouble to get anybody else so willing.

Gladys. 1 don’t know.

Mrs. Ballard. And we have got sort of used to her
by now. You know she’d be miserable if she was to
leave us.

Gladys. Oh, do keep quiet, mater, talking about
her all the time; she gets on my nerves.

Mrs. Ballard, Oh, 1 don’t want to talk about her,
I’m sure. But she was very good, you know, to poor
old dad—right to the very end she’d do anything for
him. And he was always really rather fond of Louisa.

Gladys [ getting up]. Don’t, mother—stop. I can’t
bear to think of dear father like that. It seems an
insult to his memory to mention Louisa in the same
breath.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, my dear, I only said—

Gladys [ going over to the portrait of Mr. Ballard and
gazing up at it]. I never see that picture without feel-

13
ing that he is really here with us ; and, mother, I can’t
bear you to say anything that you wouldn’t have
said if he was sitting in his dear old chair over there.
Mrs. Ballard. But, my dear, I never suggested that
there was anything between them.
Mercy [lifting up a finger]. S-s-h! S-s-h!

[Gladys after turning round towards Mercy looks again at
the photograph, and having gazed at it for a few
moments goes back to the rocking-chair, just touching
her eyes with a handkerchief. |

Mr;. Ballard. Well, we haven’t finished the fuller-
ton yet, you know.

Gladys [sighing and picking up her work]. All right,
let’s have that, then.

Mrs. Ballard (taking up the paper and folding it out].
Where was I? H’m, ah! Oh, yes! [Reads] ‘The prince
bowed, the carriage rolled on, but Lady Greatorex
remained leaning half forward in her original posi-
tion, as though turned at that instant into stone.
Suddenly her lorgnette slipped from her fingers and
tumbled on to the costly furs about her knees.
Monsford tried to save it, but too late; it fell beneath
the wheels and the delicate tortoiseshell was reduced
in a moment to a handful of tinsled dust. But still
Lady Greatorex made no movement. Then, suddenly,
her face became drawn, her eyes fixed, her breast
heaving, and she battled, there, in the Row, the

scene of all her triumphs, to check herself from
shrieking aloud” —

[4 baby suddenly utters a long, wailing cry.]

Gladys [throwing down her work and getting up im-
patiently]. 1 thought that'd happen! [She crosses to the
cradle.| Which one is it? Do take your hands away,

76
Mercy, or you'll have them both awake. [Ske lifts a
baby out of the cradle and hurries from the room with it.|
There, there, there, there, there! [She goes out at the
door, leaving it open.|

Mrs. Ballard [after looking foolish until Gladys had
gone, as though she had done something wrong]. You
know, it’s wonderful. That child must have been
listening to all I was reading.

Mercy [smilingly|. Do you really think so, aunt?

[ Gladys flusters back into the room, very red and agitated. |

Gladys [taking up a second baby and making for the
door again]. I'd better have them both upstairs. I
can’t trust them for five minutes to anybody. [She
turns back and snatches a shawl out of the cradle.| A
houseful of people, and I’ve got to do everything
myself! [She goes to the door again and Mrs. Ballard
gets up and hurries out after ber.)

Mercy. Do you want me?

Gladys [ from the passage]. No, 1 don’t want you!
[The door is left open.]

[Mercy turns away and going to the table looks down upon
it thoughtfully. After a few moments the red curtains
at the back of the room open and Percy steps out. He
has on a racy-looking bowler hat with a small brim,
and a very long light ulster, buttoned up at the collar.
He appears to be disturbed about something and looks
nervously towards the door as he emerges.]

Percy. I say, Mercy!

Mercy [with a little involuntary start]. Oh, Percy, is
that you? Oh, you were in there?

Percy [taking off bis hat and looking anxiously at the
door again]. Mercy, old girl—I want to see you—
about—something.

a
Mercy. What is it? Has anything happened?
You're early, too.

Percy [he goes across the room and closes the door]. |
don’t know how to begin telling you—

[There is a tap at the door. Percy turns quickly back
towards the curtains and then stops, biting the nails of
his right hand.|

Mercy [looking towards the door|. Who is it?
[Louisa opens the door and looks in.]

Louisa. Please, Miss Mercy, Mrs. Snodge wants
you with the babies.

Mercy. Vl come in a moment. [Louisa goes out
again, closing the door.| What is it, Percy?

Percy [he sits down with his hands thrust into bis coat
pocket, looking thoroughly wretched]. Oh, what’s the
good? You can’t help me! nobody can’t help me!
[There is a long pause, while he stares down at the floor.
Then he suddenly gets up and goes to Mercy, though not
actually looking into her eyes.| Mercy: [he stops
short. ]

Mercy. I can’t understand you. [She looks uneasily at
him, and then, feeling a sisterly sympathy, takes bis hand.]

Percy. I don’t know what you'll think of me, Mercy.
You won’t tell the others ’—promise me you wont
tell the others!—-oh, damn them!

 

[Gladys suddenly throws open the door, and comes in in a

Jrenzy of temper. |

Gladys. Didn’t I send for you, Mercy?

Mercy. 1 was just coming.

Gladys {almost crying hysterically]. You selfish girl,
you! You know how distracted I am with the manage-
ment of the whole house on my shoulders, and you

78
can stop down here making up to Percy when you
know I want you so! There isn’t a soul to help me.
Mother’s a perfect fool with the babies, and Louisa’s
upset the kettle over all their night things

Mercy [quietly]. Gladys, 1 will come now if you
want me.

Gladys. Want you! You make me come down
here after you, and then you ask me that! You know
I can’t dress them alone. It’s so selfish, so horribly
selfish of you!

Mercy. I will come now.

Gladys. You upset me so that I hardly know what
I’m doing, and it would be so easy for you to help
me if you'd only try. [She turns about and goes off.]

Mercy [to Percy]. I don’t suppose I shall be very
long, Percy, and, you see, I must go.

Percy. Oh, all right.

[Mercy goes from the room, closing the door. Percy begins
to walk up and down the room, gnawing at his nails
again. He stops at the phonograph and switches it on,
as if from habit, but immediately switches it off again.
Then he pauses before the mirror overmantel, throws
open his coat, and reveals the fact that he is attired in
a@ loud check riding-suit, with a red waistcoat and gilt
buttons, a pink hunting-stock and top-boots. He gazes
at so much of his reflection as be can see, and then sud-
denly looks towards the door, fastening bis coat rapidly
again. Snodge opens the door and looks in. He is attired
in the Inverness-cape and felt bat.]

 

Snodge. Hello! you’re home early, aren’t you? I
thought perhaps Gladys’d be here.

Percy. They’re all upstairs, I believe.

Snodge [with obvious relief, closing the door softly behind
him, after listening apprebensively for a few moments}. |

a9
think I’ll come in here. [He takes off his hat and In-
verness, laying them on the sofa.| The babies are pro-
bably asleep. [There is a loud howling from upstairs.]
I'd rather not disturb them. [He sits down on the sofa.]

Percy [in a state of nervous impatience}. I thought
you were asking for Gladys?

Snodge. No, no! we won’t disturb her. You didn’t
hear me close the front door, did you?

Percy. Don’t ask me! All I know is that people
are coming in and out of this damned room ‘every
’arf minute.

Snodge. In that case I think I’ll sit in the back ; I’ve
got some quiet thinking I want to do. [He picks up
his hat and coat, and goes with them across the room; just
at the red curtains, he looks back.| You needn’t mention
that I’ve come in, you know, if anybody should ask
you.

[4s be turns again to go through the red curtains, Mrs.
Ballard comes bustling in by the door. She sees him as
he attempts to hurry on into the adjoining room.]

Mrs. Ballard. Darwin!
Snodge | coming back}. 1 was just looking for my pipe;
you say you haven’t seen it anywhere, Percy ?

[Percy sits disgustedly down at the table, presenting his
back to them both, and furiously gnawing bis nails,]

Mrs. Ballard. \ thought I heard someone come in.
I think you might have gone upstairs to your poor
wife. There she is, almost hysterical—can’t do any-
thing with them children.

Snodge. | assure you, I am best out of the way.

Mrs. Ballard. Don’t be so selfish; and you know
how the very sight of their dad always makes them
laugh !

80
Gladys [calling from the stairs]. Is that Darwin?
Snodge. All right, my love, allright! I’m coming.

[He goes out and Mrs. Ballard closes the door after him.
Then she turns to Percy.|

Mrs. Ballard. So you're home, too? I’m sure I
didn’t see you sitting there.

Percy. I've only just come.

Mrs. Ballard (walking aimlessly to the fireplace and
then back again|. You know, Gladys is enough to
send anybody off their head. I can’t doa thing right
for her. As if I didn’t know how babies ought to
be managed! I asked her, I said, “Who brought
you up?” I said it just like that, I said, “Who
brought you up?” Of course she couldn’t say any-
thing without running herself down. And they’re
perfect angels, both those babes. Little treasures!
Of course, she’s going to spoil them and I am going
to get the blame; that’s a foregone conclusion. Well,
I told her, I said, I wash my hands of them. Little
dears! And they’re both the image of their poor
grandfather. Oh, it makes me sick! As if I knew
nothing about it! Babies, indeed!

Percy. Oh, curse the babies!

[He gets up and goes to the door, then be turns back and
looks at his mother, half apologetically. It is quite clear
Percy is not himself.|

Mrs. Ballard. Well, you're uncle to them, anyway.
You can’t get away from that.

[Percy looks at his mother for another moment, then he
goes out, violently slamming the door, Mrs. Ballard
goes over to the fire and pokes tt energetically, then she
tidies up the litter about the rocking-chair, shaking ber

81 G
head all the time, as though going over again to herself
the words she has exchanged with Gladys; finally she

sits down at the table, where she picks up the paper and
settles herself to read, though with a good many more

tosses and shakes of her head. A low wailing is heard
occasionally from upstairs. There is a pause of still a

few more moments and then David comes in. David

is now attired in a light grey overcoat, with a broad

black band on the leftarm. He wears a silk hat. When

he removes his overcoat it reveals a swallow-tailed coat

and a low-cut waistcoat. There is a crease down the

front of bis trouser legs. His collar is a tall double one,

with a black satin tie; his boots are a pair of neat button-

ups. These garments are all very cheap and stiff looking,

so that he appears something like a dummy figure out of
a ready-made tailor’s shop. In his face and manner

he has altered considerably. His expression is no longer

morose, but rather jaunty, though just a little as if he
was braving it all off. He walks about with a certain

precision in the place of his old nervousness. His hair

is cut short, bis face is more fleshy and his complexion

redder. The air of intellect and refinement has, under

the combination of all these circumstances, quite dis-

appeared. As he comes in he takes off bis overcoat
and throws it over the head of the sofa. Then be takes

off bis hat and going over to Mrs. Ballard, who bas

been watching him complacently, kisses her. |

Mrs. Ballard. Well, my son?

David [putting his hat down on the table]. Well,
mother, how’s mother?

Mrs. Ballard. That’s just how your father used to
say it. You know, I often see him in you, David.
Ah, dear! these Saturdays! It’s a trial to me to get
through them. He used to come back after he’d got

82
his pension, you know, and tell me all about every-
body. Oh, dear! [She wipes her eyes with her hand-
kerchief. |

David. He’s happier where he is, mother.

Mrs. Ballard. | hope so. I don’t think he ever got
much pleasure out of life after he couldn’t work. It
had got like second nature to him, as he used to say.
And now to think that you’re in the very same firm!

David. In the very same department. In fact, I
sit at his old desk.

Mrs. Ballard. Forty years he sat at that desk. No,
forty-two years and a bit over, as I’ve often heard
him say.

David [half to bimself|. That was it—forty-two
years and a bit over. [He goes over to the fireplace and
bends down, warming his hands.]

Mrs. Ballard. And yet, time soon passes. He used
to tell me, all them years seemed sometimes as though
they’d gone by in no time at all. You know, I’m a
good deal over fifty; well, and as for when I was
married—and that’s seven and twenty years ago—
well, it might have been last week. You begin to—
grow up and then you find you’re twenty, and the
days go by and you're thirty ; and as soon as you're
forty—well, you're fifty in a twink. You know, it
ain’t much of a life that we get, when it’s all said and
done. I suppose the real thing is—’ow we use it.
[David does not look up, and bis mother continues.]
What we all ought to want to be able to feel, when
at last our time comes, is that we’ve done our best—
that we’ve made some good use of our life. And if
we can only feel that, well, then, old age ought to be
very nice and comfortable, I’m sure.

David [starting up abruptly from the fireplace]. Aren’t
we going to have any tea, mother ?

83
Mrs. Ballard. Well, that’s a question. You see,
Gladys happened to be in one of her nice moods this
morning; came down here with her work and the
babies, and we was all to have tea together in the
studio. Then something upset my lady. Flew upstairs
in one of her tantrums and, well, simply drove me out
of the room when I went up to see what I could do
for her. As for tea, that—of course—hasn’t been
mentioned since. Yet, if I get it down here just for
us, then she’ll declare she was waiting for me upstairs
all this time. I really don’t know when tea is coming
in this afternoon, David.

David. Oh, that’s all right.

[He sits down on the edge of the table, his arms folded
and swinging one foot, thinking his own thoughts, while
Mrs. Ballard rambles on.]

Mrs. Ballard. You know, Gladys is one of the most
unreasonable girls I ever had to do with. And she
was always the same. I shall never forget one Sun-
day when she couldn’t have been—well, she couldn’t
have been zhree, and she was sitting on the ’earth-rug
in the parlour, as we used to call it then, playing with
a bunch of keys—she was always one for a bunch of
keys or anything like that, you know, to amuse her,
and presently she looks up at me and says,“Mother!”
I said, “Yes, my dear?” and then she said, “I want
Mrs. Smiff’s keys.”” Mrs. Smith was the wife of the
milkman at the corner of the street, perfect strangers,
you know ; and if you'll believe me, she kicked and
screamed so that there was no doing anything with
her till your father went and knocked at the side door
and asked for the loan of them keys.

David smiling abstractedly, and really hearing nothing
of all this}. H’m, h’m.

Z 84
Mrs. Ballard, And, if anything, she’s worse to-day
than she was then. Treats me, you know, as if I’d
never seen a baby in my life. Well, when I went up
to her just now she couldn’t get one of the things
what she’d been making to go over the little dear’s
head, and when I said it was too small blamed me for
that. Said it was my fault for reading the fullerton
while she was doing the gathering. 1 said she’d done
the gathering long before 1’d degun the fullerton, and,
of course, that started her off.

David. Well, mother, you must decide, you know.
You must get rid of her if you really think it’s the
right thing to do.

Mrs. Ballard. What? Who?

David. Louisa.

Mrs. Ballard. 1m not talking about Louisa. I’m
talking about Gladys.

David. Oh, I thought it was Louisa again.

Mrs. Ballard. Look here, David, what’s the matter
with you this afternoon? I don’t believe you’ve
been listening to a word I was saying.

David. Oh, I’m all right, mother. I’m sorry, but
I really thought you were talking about Louisa.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, perhaps you're thinking of
what happened just about a year ago. I hope there’s
nothing in bat to upset you!

David [quite with good humour]. Upset me? Who
said I was upset? I’m perfectly happy. You can
see that every day.

Mrs. Ballard. Yes, of course. I meant perhaps you
was thinking over what you was like. Just see, now,
David, what a difference a year of hard, contented
work has made in you.

David. Hasn’t it?

Mrs. Ballard. And you must give me some of the

85
credit for it. You’ve taken a lot of your mother’s
advice, you know.

David. I think I’ve taken all your advice, mother.

Mrs. Ballard. Valways did understand you, didn’t I?
And now, really now, don’t you feel better ?

David [a little grimly]. 1 certainly don’t feel the
same man.

Mrs. Ballard. You know, David, it’s such a comfort
to me to see you like you are now, for really you
were trying as a boy.

David [for the first time showing any bitterness]. Yes,
I was trying! I was trying hard!

Mrs. Ballard. Well, now, you see, you are some-
body, you are some-thing! You're getting even better
money than Percy, and, well, you can hold your head
up.
David [speaking with a sudden energy ; a little with an
air of mystery]. And I shall be something a good deal
more than this, mother, yet.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, who knows? you might be-
come a partner in the firm. Old Mr. Latimer can’t
live for ever, and he’s had no sons by his marriage—
[Struck by a new thought.| Now, who will succeed him
in the business, David?

David. 1 don’t mean that at all, mother.

[He walks to the fire-place and back very firmly, and

with a set gaze in bis eyes, as though there was a good
deal beneath what he said.]

Mrs. Ballard. What do you mean, then? [Suddenly
alarmed.| David, you're not still writing, are you?

David. Now, don’t you worry yourself. I’m doing
all that I bargained to when I came back. If I’m
using my spare time intelligently, what does it matter
to anybody except me? Now, mother, don’t go and
mention it to Gladys or Darwin or anybody; but just
you wait a little bit longer, and perhaps I’ll startle
you yet.

Mrs. Ballard. Well, as long as you don’t go and
startle me by throwing up your work, or anything
like that !

David. Oh, I shan’t throw my work up again—
unless it’s safe to do it. Now, don’t you worry at
all about it. Just you be patient and have confidence
in me. Stop! don’t say anything; there’s someone
coming.

[The door opens and Mercy comes in.]|

Mercy. I’m in disgrace again now, aunt, and Gladys
wants you—immediately.

Mrs. Ballard | getting up]. Wants me? What’s the
matter this time? ,

Mercy. \t’s poor Louisa. Gladys is crying, and
Louisa’s crying, and both the babies are crying—
really, aunt, it’s dreadful!

Mrs. Ballard. Did she say anything about tea?

Mercy. Not a word.

Gladys [calling from upstairs]. Mater! mater !

Mrs. Ballard. Ym coming, dear, I’m coming. [She
hurries from the room, closing the door after her.|

David. Well, Mercy, you’re all having a pretty
distracting time, aren’t you?

Mercy. Vm afraid aunt is. [She pauses a moment.]
Well, I don’t know what to do about tea, David.

David [taking up his hat and beginning to brush it
over bis coat-sleeve]. I'll get some out. I think I'll go
down to the library. [He goes over to the sofa and picks
up bis coat ; putting on his bat.|

[Percy reappears atthe red curtains and steps into the room. |
87
Percy. I say!

David [turning round]. Oh, it’s you?

Percy. Don’t go for a minute, David.

Mercy. Whatever is the matter, Percy ?

Percy, 1 may as well tell you both together. I’m
in trouble!

David. Oh! [He puts down his hat.]

Mercy. What sort of trouble?

Percy [looking at one of bis bands]. \’ve been a fool.
I’ve been taking money out of the office.

David | savagely, after a startled pause]. You haven't!

[Mercy stares, shocked and startled, from one to the other.]

Percy [sulkily|. What’s the good of saying I have, if
you say I haven’t? I have, I tell you! What’s more,
it’s found out!

Mercy. Oh, Percy!

David. Do you mean to stand there and say that
you've been stealing? that you’re a chief!

Percy. 1 didn’t steal it, I borrowed it—only I
couldn’t put it back. [David stares at him for some
moments ; Mercy says nothing ; and Percy at last lifts bis
head towards them, though shiftily avoiding their eyes.]
I won’t stand being bullied about it! I thought I
ought to tell you.

David. If it’s been found out, why weren’t you
arrested? What are you doing here?

Percy. It mightn’t come to arresting—not if I can
find the money.

David. Do they know you're here?

Percy. Well, there’s two detective fellows outside
the house now, so I should think they did.

David [horrified]. Outside shis house!

Percy. Yes, this house! You don’t suppose they’d
be next door or down on the Embankment, do you?

88
David. And you can come here and talk to me
like this?

Percy. Well, I’m not going to be bullied! It’s bad
enough to have six months or perhaps eighteen
months hanging over your head without being talked
to as if you was a dog. I thought I ought to tell
you, and that’s why I’m here. It mightn’t come to
prison at all, if we can only do something. [He stops,
but neither of the others speak.| It was when | was in
the park this morning that I found out about it—
never knew they'd got a suspicion till then. You
see, I’m supposed to be in bed with an operation for
appendicitis—

David. What!

Percy. Well, 1 had to say something, didn’t 1? I
haven’t been to the office for a week. I thought I’d
done it so neat that nobody could find out till the
auditors came in January. Well, then, you see, I
was in the park and all of a sudden these two detec-
tive fellows, you know—private agency chaps—came
up to me. Said it was all found out. Of course, I
confessed—there wasn’t anything else to do—and the
firm’s given me till four o’clock this afternoon to find
the money in.

Mercy. And if you haven’t found it?

Percy. Well, then, they’re going to arrest me, of
course. They’ve only got to take their warrant out,
and there you are!—it’s Wormwood Scrubbs, or Dart-
moor or somewhere like that for me. [He pushes bis
hat on to the back of his head.| Oh, it’s all right, I can
tell you!

David [more savagely than ever]. How much have
you taken? ; ;

Percy. Well, what was the good of taking a little?
They’re just as hard on you for half a crown as—

89
David [who is getting thoroughly alarmed]. How
much have you taken?

Percy. Well, you might as well be hung for a
sheep as a lamb [he turns questioningly to Mercy],
mightn’t you ?

David. How much have you taken? you fool, you!

Percy [turning away towards the door|. Well, of
course, if you’re going to talk to me like that!

Mercy. But, Percy, you must answer David’s ques-
tion, if anyone is to help you.

Percy. Give me time, then. It’s just as difficult, too,
to take a half-crown—in fact, it’s harder—

David [in despair|. How—much—have—you—bhad ?

Percy. Well, altogether it’s just on seven hundred
pounds.

David. Good God, man!

Mercy. Percy!

Percy. Oh, well, there you are again! What’s the
good of my ¢rying to tell you anything ?

David. You, you—you seriously mean to say that
you have taken seven hundred pounds !

Percy. It’s no good raving about it like that.
What’s done’s done, and you can’t undo it. I thought
I could put it back and I can’t; and that’s all about
it. I see the mistake I made now, and I don’t mind
owning to it.

Mercy. I am glad you can say that, Percy.

Percy [turning to her and explaining himself eagerly,
and almost enthusiastically]. You see, 1 was afraid to
put the cheques that I’d drawn down in the day-
book. If I’d only had the sense to do that and
chanced it, it’s a hundred to one that nothing would
have been noticed. I can see what happened. When
the bank sent the counterfoils back— [he stops.]

go
[Mrs. Ballard suddenly comes bustling into the room, carry-
ing in her hand some small white garments and hurry-
ing with them to the fireplace. |

Mrs. Ballard. Now she’s gone and let the fire out
up there, and won’t let nobody but Louisa light it
again, and Louisa’s upstairs dressing. Now, just listen
a minute, Mercy. Whatever you do, don’t let these
things scorch, and as soon as they’re aired run up
with them, there’s a good girl.

Mercy [with a considerable effort]. Very well, aunt.

Mrs. Ballard [looking round at them]. Well, you do
look three glum ones. What’s the matter with you?

David. Nothing mother ; ‘we’re all right.

Mrs. Ballard, That's more than you look, then.
Now, don’t forget them things, Mercy, whatever
you do. [She bustles out again, closing the door after her.]

Percy [taking up the thread of bis conversation imme-
diately|. Well, you see, when the bank sent the coun-
terfoils back—

David. Stop!

Percy. Well, of course, it’s impossible for me to
try to make myself understood.

David. Why did you take this money ?

Mercy. What have you done with it?

Percy. One at a time, please. Now, David.

David [distracted by Percy's imperturbable manner]. 1
said, why did you take it?

Percy. I told you I thought I could put it back.
Anyway, I didn’t see why I should’t have my fling
the same as other young fellows. I’ve had a devilish

ood time, at any rate, and they can’t take that away
from me! Oh, you'd hardly believe— [Ae throws open
his coat, quite unable to resist airing his finery, and speaking
with a good deal of pride] I’ve ridden my own horse

gI
in the Row along with Lady this and Lady that! Oh,
I tell you, I’ve hobnobbed with some of the biggest
swells in London! Son of an American millionaire,
that’s what I gave myself out to be. Charlie Drew, I
called myself. Oh, I’ve got the cards printed and
everything ! [He pulls out a card case as be proceeds.|
And the opera! I’ve had a box at the opera! Why,
I’ve got an invitation for to-morrow to drive with a
Johnny’s four-in-hand out to Virginia Water—only,
of course, I shan’t be able to go now. Here’s one of
the cards. [He offers one to Mercy.|

Mercy [backing away]. I don’t want to see it.

Percy [banding the card to David]. Here you are,
David—have a look at it.

David [also retreating before Percy]. Oh, this is some
horrible nightmare! Thank God that my poor father
is dead !

Percy. Well, of course, if you won’t look! [He puts
the cards away in bis pocket.| It’s a good job somebody
can keep their head cool, though, in a crisis like this.
[He goes over to the mantelshelf and rests himself up com-
Sortably against it, with his hands in bis trousers pockets.
The real point is: How can we raise this money?

David. Raise the money!

Percy. That’s the question. What I’ve got left
is just about sixty pounds. Then the cob ought to
fetch another forty ; I suppose 1 shall have to sell
her. Well, roughly speaking, we’re about six hun-
dred pounds short. [The others stare at him perfectly
dazed ; and taking a cigar from a gold case in bis pocket
he lights it thoughtfully, then he offers the case to David.|
I’m sorry, David. I didn’t notice you weren’t smok-
ing, really.

David. You—you—you !—

Percy. Oh, they’re all right. They cost one-and-

92
ninepence apiece, so they ought to be. Of course, if
you won't have one— [He returns the case to his pocket,
and David sits down in a chair.| Well, that’s what it
is, then—about six hundred pounds. Now, this was
my idea. What Mercy’s got is just five hundred
pounds in the Suburban Estates Building Society,
and it’s yielding a fixed five per cent., or ten shillings
a week, thereabouts. Now, if she was to go and see
our managing director at his private house—it’s
round here in the Belgrave Road—there’s no doubt
they’d let us off for that. Then as far as Mercy’s
ten shillings a week goes, I’ve been thinking it out,
and I suggest that I allow her that sum out of my
future wages. I think that’d be fair, and I—

David [suddenly striding to Percy and seizing him by
the collar]. You blackguard! you absolute black-
guard !

Mercy. Don’t, David, don’t !

Percy [wrenching himself free and retreating towards
the door]. That’s no answer, you know. And it was
Mercy I was asking, not you.

David. You’ve had your answer, and as Mercy’s
cousin—

Percy [sneering and half-tbrottled]. Mercy’s cousin?

David. If you say another word, I'll choke the life
out of you! [He is for the moment quite mad with
sudden passion. ]

Mercy. David, David! I can’t bear to see you in a
temper !

David [he controls himself by a tremendous effort and
turns away trembling, terrified at himself]. Make him go!

Mercy. Come back in a quarter of an hour, Percy,
and you shall have your answer from me then.

Percy. Well, don’t be any longer. [He goes to the
door and then turns back towards David, savagely, and

a5
rearranging bis collar.| Messing me about like that!
[He goes out.]

[David remains seated in one of his old attitudes of tragic
despair; only, quite genuinely alarmed and dismayed at
what has happened. Mercy turns to him timidly,
placing a hand gently upon one of bis shoulders.|

Mercy. David, I am so sorry!

David [looking up and speaking as though to himself].
Oh, the absolute sublimity of a mind that could
prompt those words! [He starts up]. Mercy, why
aren’t you reviling me? Why do you not turn in dis-
gust at this last insufferable tax upon your beautiful
‘patience! Can you forgive me? can you forgive us?
when I am thanking God that my father is in his
grave! Oh, the scoundrel! To think that I have
got a brother like that! to think that you should
have been exposed for all these years to contact with
such a brute! Heavens, what a family! And, now,
Mercy, to see you—the one gleam of kindness in
this hideous nightmare of a home—repaid like it!
Oh, it is impossible you can ever forgive us!

Mercy. David, you must not talk like this! I
know it is dreadful for you, but you must be brave.

David. Dreadful for me! It is no more dreadful
for me than it has been all along. It is you that |
am thinking of. After what has happened, it is im-
possible for you to stop another hour in such a hell
as this !

Mercy. Hush, David, you mustn’t talk like that!
This is my home, and yours.

David. Home! what sort of a home is it, what
sort of a home has it ever been for you? Day after
day you have exposed yourself to Percy’s presence,
to my mother’s foolish, garrulous emptiness, to

94
Gladys’s callow brutalities, to Snodge’s clownish ego-
tism, and to the spectacle of my own utter ineptitude !
Love! the one element that could have made you
happy—the one element that can make any of us
happy—has been entirely missing. Mercy, you
shall not sacrifice yourself to this martyrdom an hour
longer. Let Percy go to the devil! let all of us go
to the devil, as I can see it is predestined we shall
do; only, save yourself! You shall not spoil your
life, Mercy, amongst us here.

Mercy. David, a certain somebody would say to
you, ‘This is all sheer nonsense.” And really, David,
that is what itis. I am perfectly happy here. I loved
dear old uncle; I love aunt very much, and I
[She stops abrupily.]

David, What?

Mercy [lamely]. Really, I’m perfectly happy here.

David [in bis old, tearful tones|. Oh, Mercy, the
sheer nonsense is all yours now. You can’t be per-
fectly happy here—it is utterly impossible. Mercy,
don’t you see? don’t you understand?

Mercy [ going to him and taking bis two hands in hers,
with tears in her voice]. Dear David.

 

 

[The door is abruptly flung open, and Gladys appears, in
the worst of all ber frenzies.]

Gladys [as she bursts in upon them]. Oh, you little
devil, Mercy, you’ve let these things burn! [Sze
stops and looks at them.| It’s David this time, then!
[She pauses only an instant, and then, rushing to the fire-
place, snatches out the garments, which are smouldering
and burnt with little holes.] Look! look! [She holds
the clothes out, tragically, at arm’s length.| Everything
in this house has to be sacrificed to that girl’s wicked
selfishness; but it shan’t go on! It shan’t go on

os
another hour! [Neither Mercy nor David has moved,
and they both appear momentarily dazed.| All the morn-
ing I slaved making these things for my poor babies.
[She shakes herself at Mercy.] Oh, you little devil, you
shameless little devil! You sneak down here when
everybody’s back is turned to corrupt my brothers
one after the other, but you shan’t stop here to cor-
rupt my babes!

David [taking a step forward, trembling with rage].
Gladys! How dare you speak to Mercy like that!

Mercy. Please, David, don’t!

Gladys [becoming suddenly calm and looking David up
and down]. Oh, you fool, you poor pitiable fool, you!
Do you know that not half an hour ago I found her
sprawling over Percy just as she was with you?

David [hoarsely]. And if she was with Percy, do
you know why?

Mercy. David, 1 implore you not to say it!

Gladys [as David stands back with his teeth clenched |.
You weak, weak, fool, David! Clumsily as Mercy
has played her cards in this house, she has found it
easy enough to deceive you. Why, from the first
hour that she came here, Mercy and Percy—

David [starting forward again]. 1 will say it!

Mercy. Oh, poor aunt! David!

Gladys [turning upon Mercy with a thrilling quietness].
What’s that you said? Say it again, please. [David
stares at her speechless, but as if choking to cry out.] 1
think you used the word “aunt.” It is about time, my
lady, that you were informed that you are no more
relation to me or to my mother or to my brothers
than that coal-scuttle is.

Mercy [quite calmly). I have guessed it.

Gladys. And have you guessed, too, that while
your father happened to be a Mister, your mother

96
happened to be a Miss? [Mercy remains standing, say-
ing nothing and looking quietly at Gladys. David gazes at
Mercy in agony.| Well?

Mercy. Was it my mother I was brought up with
until she died, and I came here?

Gladys. Yes. Well?

Mercy. Then my mother, whom I only remem-
bered affectionately, has become a saint.

Gladys [after staring at her, speechless]. You will
leave this house within an hour—creature !

Mercy. I will leave it within half-an-hour.

[Gladys walks straight out of the room.

David [ going to Mercy after the door has closed, and
speaking slowly]. Five minutes ago, Mercy, I felt that
you were near me, but you have risen now like some
beautiful planet in the heavens. You are out of all
reach, and now you know that you are not even my
cousin.

Mercy [slowly and coldly, her whole pride in revolt, not
so much at the insult as at the way she bas been deceived
and the patronizing or mercenary toleration which it im-
plies]. David, you have always known this thing?

David [alarmed at her manner). 1 have known it.
[He hesitates.] Yes, I have always known it.

Mercy. All of you knew it, and there was not one
of you with respect enough for me to tell me before
to-day ?

David. Mercy, don’t you understand ? how could
I—to you—

Mercy [bitterly]. 1 don’t think any of us have ever
understood one another here, David—not till to-day.
[She turns away from him and goes to the door.|

David [stepping in front of her and holding the handle
to prevent her leaving the room]. Mercy, you shall

oF a
listen to me! [Blurting out everything that is in bis
heart with a nearly incoherent vehemence.| 1 won't let
you go like this! Mercy, I can’t live without you!
you will have spoiled my whole life if you leave me
now! It was because of you that I failed and came
back. Mercy, I want you, I want your love! Always,
ever since you came here, I have worshipped you!
I’ve gone to sleep every night picturing you! I’ve
learnt to endure my work by fancying you are with
me! I watch you here when I’m at home— you're
part of my life! I couldn’t live if you were gone!
Mercy—

Mercy [retreating before him, frightened at bis manner].
David, I—can’t

David [ gripping her two bands]. Mercy, don’t you
know what loveis? Can’t you imagine the glory of
a man who is loved as I long to be loved? to know
of a sister heart beating in unity with his? of a cheek
he can lay his own against in perfect restfulness ? of a
little hand that he can hold as children hold one
another’s hands —Mercy, it’s that that I want! Dar-
ling!

ie [in a frightened manner]. David, it’s too late!
I want to go away.

David [ecstatically|. Mercy! you love me?

Mercy [almost crying]. 1 have always loved you—
always !

David. Mercy, are you saying that to me?

Mercy. Ever since I came here I’ve loved you, and
I’ve waited, but I’m driven away. I don’t want love
now—I want to be alone, alone with myself.

David. You don’t know what you are saying—
you shan’t go from me like this! It’s I that have
waited—waited for you to grow up into understand-
ing me. Mercy, I can do anything if I have only

98

 
got you by my side—you, with your confidence and
love! Mercy, I am not like these other people ;
there is something in me—and with you! Oh, God!
Mercy, | could do anything if I had got you!

Mercy [relenting, and beginning to speak in a voice of
tender reproach]. David, if you only knew—

David [breaking in eagerly]. Mercy, let me tell you,
ever since I came home I have been keeping up my
writing, working quietly and steadily. I haven’t had
any success yet, it’s true, but any moment we might
hear something splendid. All sorts of things I’ve
tried. I know I’ve only got to go on long enough and
it’s bound to tell in the end.

Mercy [suddenly bursting into tears in bis arms]. David,
I can’t believe in it! Oh, couldn’t you be just, just
mine, and not go on worrying about writing and all
that sort of thing? It’s that that hurts me. I know
it sounds awfully cruel of me, but, David, I don’t
really believe, you know, that anything much will
ever come of your writing.

David [stung to the quick, and yet intoxicated with his
victory]. Mercy!

Mercy. Oh, I know it’s cruel, but it’s you I love,
David, just you for yourself! First of all, I did rather
use to dream of your being great and writing wonder-
ful books and things, but I was only a little girl then.
When you went away, David, I used to pray for you
every night and used to picture you triumphing over
every obstacle—and then, you know, you came back.
and you hadn’t done anything, and then it was, David,
that I found I loved you really for yourself. You
do understand me, don’t you, David? You're not
angry, are you? a

David [sorrowfully). No, darling, for it is all so
true. [He has been standing by the rocking-chair and

29
now he sits down, Mercy sitting at his feet and holding
bis hands, looking up at bim.]

Mercy. You see, David, it isn’t that I don’t think
you're clever, but I don’t want you to think that you
must promise me all sorts of things that you will do.
It isn’t that perhaps you won’t do them—perhaps
you will some day, but I can be just as proud of you,
David, doing the sort of work you are doing now.
You do understand me, don’t you?

David. Oh, Mercy, it is beautiful to be spoken to
so gently, and you read me through and through
just as though you were gazing into some crystal
ball. Mercy, I know I haven’t proved myself worthy
to talk and think about myself like I always have
done. I can see now, it must have been so painful
to you. I do promise you, Mercy, I will never speak
like that again.

Mercy. David, you have made me so happy! [They
both get up ; Mercy is still holding bis hands and she kisses
him childishly.]

[The room is getting dark; a rap comes at the door.]

David, Who’s that ?

[ Louisa, who is now in her afternoon black dress, comes in
holding a letter in her hand.|

Louisa. Please, Mr. David, I’ve got a letter for
you.

David [taking the letter]. For me? [He opens it;
while Louisa goes out of the room.] It isn’t often 1 get a
letter. [He reads the letter; then he suddenly claps it in
his hands and stares excitedly at Mercy.| Mercy !

Mercy. What is it?

David [gasping the words out]. Mercy! I’ve won a
hundred pounds !

Mercy. What, David!

100
David. A hundred pounds! I’ve won a hundred
pounds! [He is still staring at her dumbfounded.]

Mercy. For what?

David. A poem.

Mercy. A poem?

David. The best poem on Sunlight Soap. [He
begins to stride dramatically about the room, striking poses
of tremendous self-importance, with a fixed abstracted look
in bis eye.|

Mercy [in a voice of tender reproach]. Oh, David!
[David pauses abruptly and looks at ber.| Oh, David!

David. Mercy!

Mercy. And is this the end of all my dreams of
having you just to myself! 1 am glad you have won
the hundred pounds, and it was very clever of you to
write the poem ; but, oh, J can’t really congratulate
you! I feel that I have lost you now for ever!

David [going penitently to her]. Mercy, forgive me.
Oh, how soon I forget my promises! Of course, it
is nothing to be proud of—J know that well enough
at the bottom of my heart. But the hundred pounds
will be very useful, won’t it, Mercy? But it won’t
make me think that I have done something really
clever. It shan’t do that.

Mercy. Thank you, David; how brave you are!
But, do you know, I am afraid of all this money.
First of all I was miserable about mine; I should
feel so much more independent if I hadn’t got any.

[Percy suddenly opens the door.]

Percy. Well, it’s half-past three now, you know.
If you’re going to do anything, it ought to be done.
Mercy. | am going to help you.
David [interrupting]. It is outrageous, Mercy, that
you should spend your money in what amounts to
IOI
paying for Percy’s horse and all the rest of the un-
speakable things he must have been doing.

Percy. ?'m going to pay her back, aren’t 1? And,
anyway, what’s it to do with you?

Mercy. Now, don’t speak, David. Percy, it has
everything to do with David, because he and I are
going to be married to one another, and it will be
David’s money as well as mine that will be given.
[She turns to David.| You see, David, we can just do
it between us.

David [expostulating]. What !

Mercy. You will do it for me?

David [after a long pause]. Yes. [He stands back,
unable to resist glaring furiously at Percy.|

Mercy [turning to Percy]. As for your paying it back,
that must never be mentioned again. It is not lent
to you, it is repaid to your employers.

Percy. I say, Mercy, what’s that you said? Going
to marry David? [He sits down, utterly flabbergasted. |
Oh, I don’t care about nothing now! .

Mercy. What is the number in the Belgrave Road,
Percy?

Percy [miserably]. Hundred and thirty-three. [He
gets up and goes to the door.]

Mercy. What are you going to do?

_. Percy, Join the army or go to Canada, or some-
_ thing like that. [He goes out closing the door after bim.]

Mercy [after a short pause]. Percy was always very
patriotic.

David [ going eagerly to her]. Mercy, run upstairs
and put your things together. I shall take nothing
but my hat and coat lying there.

Mercy. But are you leaving here to-day, too? :

David. It’s the only thing to do. I'll put you

102
somewhere where you'll be comfortable for the mo-

ment, and then
Mercy. Oh, David, I can hardly believe it!
David. Darling, go and put your things together.

 

[It has been gradually getting dark, and now just as David
kisses Mercy, as she turns to go from the room, there is
a rap at the door.|

David [starting nervously]. Who's that? [Mercy
moves away from him.]|

[Louisa comes into the room with a lamp.|

Louisa [putting the lamp on the table and beginning to
light it]. It’s only me, Mr. David, with the lamp.

[David holds the door open for Mercy, who goes out.
Louisa has meanwhile lit the lamp.|

Louisa. There, now, if you'll just watch it doesn’t
smoke, sir.

David. That'll be all right, Louisa.

Louisa. Vl get you some tea now, sir.

David. No, no; that’s all right. I’m going out.

Louisa. But Miss Mercy, sir?

David. That’s all right.

Louisa. Is she a-going out too, sir?

David. That’s all right, I tell you. [He holds the
door open for her.|

Louisa. Oh! [She looks at him curiously for a moment
and then repeats the word.| Oh! [She walks across to
the door.| 1 beg your pardon, sir. [She goes out.]

[David puts on bis overcoat and then walks impatiently
up and down the room smoothing the silk of his bat.
After a few moments Mercy comes in, in a jacket and

toque. | i
Mercy. I am ready, David.

David. Did you see anything of mother ?

Mercy. 1 heard her laughing with the babies.
Gladys has told her nothing.

David. It is better like that, darling. Come along.
[He goes to the door.|

Mercy [looking round the room]. Good-bye! [She
goes to the photograph of Mr. Ballard and kisses it. David
stands at the door, holding it open for ber.| Good-bye!
[She passes out at the door, with her arm in David's.
The door closes after them, and in a few moments the front
door is heard shutting. |

CurTAIN.

Printed at
The Shakespeare Head Press,
Stratford-on-cAvon.

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