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 THE WILDERNESS 
 
 a Comers tn Xlbree Bct5 
 
 BY 
 
 H. V. ESMOND 
 
 Copyright, 1901, by T. H. French 
 
 New York 
 SAMUEL FRENCH 
 
 PUBLISHEH 
 
 26 WEST 22D STREET 
 
 London 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD. 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 89 STRAND
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Produced at the St. James's Theatre, London, 
 11th April, 1901. 
 
 Sir Harry Milanor Mr. George Alexander. 
 
 Lady Milanor, Ills mother Miss Le Thiere. 
 
 Ethel Glyndon, his cousin. Miss Dora Barton. 
 
 Joseph Trevor, Ids uncle Mr. H. H. Vincent. 
 
 The Hon. Jack Kennerly Mr.W. Grahame Browne. 
 
 Lady Honoria Pawson Mrs. Edward Saker. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert Pawson, her son. . . Mr. Lennox Pawle. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston Miss M. Talbot. 
 
 Mabel, her daughter Miss Eva Moore. 
 
 Grinstead Worburn, a rich 
 
 breiver Mr. Edward Arthur, 
 
 Hugh Graeme Mr. C. Aubrey Smith. 
 
 Edith Cadogan Miss Julie 0pp. 
 
 Harold j 3Irs. Buckley West- ) Master Vyvian Thomas. 
 Marjorie \ 07i's ticins. ) Jliss Phyllis Dare. 
 
 Miss Anstruther, EtheVs aunt. . Miss Henrietta Cowen. 
 
 ACT I.— THE NIGHT. 
 The Scene of Act I. is a fashionable afternoon tea-room 
 
 in Bond Street. 
 
 ACT II.— THE DARK HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN. 
 The Scene of Act II. is a lonely spot in the Borcambe 
 
 woods. 
 
 ACT III.— THE DAY. 
 
 The Scene of Act III. is the drawing-room in Sir Harry 
 
 ^Milanor's house, Chesterfield Street, May fair,
 
 
 THE WILDERNESS, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 THE NIGHT. 
 
 rScENE.^-Fas/jtona&Ze tea-rooms in Bond Street. A large 
 room at hack opening on to balcony, overlooking the 
 street. Near the centre of the stage an arch, and the 
 lower tea-room, in the front. Tea-tables everywhere. A 
 band somewhere at the back jJlaying at intervals during 
 the Act. The maids are smart, lady-like girls. At the 
 table to the right, in the lower room nearest the audience, 
 are seated Lady Honoria Pawson and her son Gilbert 
 Pawson. hxDY lioyoRix is a funereal remnant of pa.^t 
 splendor. Her son Gilbert is about forty-five and has 
 lived too well ; he is short, fat and biliou^i. Ttro viaids 
 are in the act of .netting tea and mnfflns before them iclien 
 
 ' the curtain rises. Many of the tables are empty, a few 
 are occupied; during the Act all the tcd^lesfdl, and occa- 
 sionally fJte chatter is so general that pauses occur in the 
 principal dialogue. 
 
 Lady H. (ferreting a handkerchief out of a smcdl bag at 
 her large icaisl) That was Sir Charles at the corner 
 table. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, {puffihj eating) No, it wasn't ; it was 
 AVorburn the brewer. 
 
 Lady H. {powdering her nose, then pulling her veil over 
 it) It wasn't ; it was Sir Charles. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. It was Worburn. I lunched with liini 
 to-day. 
 
 Lady H. (returning her handkerchief to her bag and 
 shutting it icith a snap) It was Sir Charles. I bowed to 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. Worburn don'f- mind, he's accustomed to 
 it. 
 
 Lady H. I never forget a face. I've a royal memory. 
 Gilbert, you're getting stouter. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, (in a huff) Whenever I disagree with 
 you, you say I am stouter. 
 
 o 
 
 7571 23
 
 4 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Lady H. Everything that disagrees with one makes 
 one stouter. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, (sadly contemplaiing his mvffin) Every- 
 thing disagrees with nie — but one must eat. Everybody 
 does. (Grinstead WoRBURN comes down from the upper 
 room, evident Iji looking for some one. He is a man of about 
 Jiftij, very cold and dignified in Ins manner — his contume 
 rather suggests the stock period — he is more aristocratic in 
 his vianner and appearance than the oldest duke in the 
 jJeerage. Mr. Gilbert rises effusively) My dear Wor- 
 burn, we meet again — delightful lunch you gave us. May 
 I present you to my mother ? [he does so) 
 
 WoRBURN. (gravely) My dear Lady Pawson. I'm so 
 glad, I liad lieard you were indisposed — east wind, purely 
 east wind^it affects even me. 
 
 Lady H. I have heard so much of you from Gilbert 
 lately, that I positively recognized you as I came in. 
 (her son is a little staggered by Iter tact and untridhful- 
 ness) 
 
 AVoRBURN. (bozos slightly — then moves a little apologeti- 
 cally) I liave a few young people to entertain this after- 
 noon ; but. like most young people. I fear they have no 
 notion of punctuality. I am now wondering whether by 
 any chance they are waiting for me in tlie rooms below. 
 
 Lady H. My dear Mr. Woiburn, find them by all 
 means ; don't let us detain you. 
 
 Worburx. (gravely) Thank you, I hope to see you on 
 my return, (lie bows, and goes uj]) 
 
 Lady H. A brewer ! Surely a Queen's Counsel ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, (sadly) A brewer, and a most immoral 
 one, owns most of the shares in a certain theatre and — 
 gets liis money's worth. 
 
 Lady H. Why don't you tell me more about these 
 people ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. It's so dull to talk about other people 
 when one's present oneself ; besides, one couldn't discuss 
 Worburn thoroughly with one's mother, he really is so 
 cold-blooded. 
 
 Lady H. Shocking ! 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. It's all right, he's decided to marry and 
 settle down at last, (he turns to a j^ctssing maid) I have 
 no spoon. 
 
 Maid. I beg your pardon, sir. {she gives him one) 
 
 Lady H. {eating her viuffln) Who's he going to 
 marry ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. Oh, anybody! I don't thinK he's made 
 up his mind. He's making 'em all show tlieir paces — that's 
 one advantage in being a millionaire, they're all ready to 
 doit, (he passes his mother the muffins) Won't you? 
 (Mabel Buckley Weston is seen in the %ipper room ; she
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 5 
 
 Jiurries doimi to the left table in the loicer room and 
 seats herself behind it. She is an exceedingly beautiful girl 
 about eighteen, and appears happily excited and flushed. 
 The Hon. Jack Kennerly joins Iter and sits left of Iter, 
 first helping her to remove her cloak. He is a smart young 
 ■man about town, of aboxit five-and-twenty) 
 
 Jack. It's all right, they didn't see us ! 
 
 Mabel. Tiiank the lates, old Worbuin's as blind as a 
 bat. Oh, Jack, what a lipping day we have had ! 
 
 Jack. We've been jolly lucky too, considering we 
 haven't been spotted once. 
 
 Mabel, {witlt a long drawn breath) Oli. if one could 
 only go on doing what one shouldn't all one's life, wouldn't 
 it be exciting ! 
 
 Jack, {doubtfully) Um'm ! 
 
 Mabel. Where are the muffins? OIi, Jack, doesn't it 
 run to muffins ? 
 
 Jack, (looking at disJi) Aren't the}- — how silly of 
 
 'em. I ordered 'em. (the muffins are brought) Oh. here 
 
 they are. Cut into 'em, Mab. If we don't clear out of tliis 
 
 before the afternoon gang arrives we're bound to be 
 
 spotted. {Mabel, pours out the tea) 
 
 Mabel. As soon as I'm fortified by tea, I shall be ready 
 to face even mamma. 
 
 Jack. Thanks, I shan't. 
 
 Mabel. (p?/is doicn her cup and gives a. long sigh) Oh, 
 Jack, do you realize that this is absolutely the last tiine we 
 ■can do this sort of thing? 
 
 Jack. Oh, one never knows. 
 
 Mabel, /know. My future is looming very obviously 
 just no%v. and tete-a-tete teas with a detrimental must 
 take a back seat. Oh. Jack, I'm so glad you're a detrimen- 
 tal, and needn't be taken seriously ; you're really just as 
 useful as a brother and much more exciting. 
 
 Jack, {laughs a little) I'm glad, {then gloomily) 
 I say, do you really wajit to go to the Aquarium ? (Mabel 
 nods her head vehemently , her mouth being full of muffin) 
 But it's a deadly place in the afternoon. 
 
 Mabel. The deadlier tlie better ; it's our last day of 
 freedom, so let's finish it off feeling fearfully tomb}-. 
 
 Jack. Ranelagh's more fun. 
 
 Mabel. Jack, don't be sill)-. Harry's sure to be there. 
 A nice thing for me if he saw me alone with you. All 
 mamma's castles in tiie air would topple on top of lier. 
 
 Jack. It's all very well to prpteiid that it's onlj^ your 
 mother who builds castles upon Sir Harry. You do a bit 
 of building on your own. 
 
 Mabel, {making a little grimace) I know I do. I've 
 :got to marry him for heaps of reasons. Firstly, he's the 
 lichest man in the market just now; secondly — well.
 
 Q THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 that's all ; secondly is the same as firstly, and so's thirdly. 
 
 Jack. You mercenary little devil ! 
 
 Mabel. Ami? (a pause — then rather sadly) No, I'm 
 not really ! It's only a part of wliat mamma calls the 
 great social scheme. We're all parts of a great social 
 scheme. Jack — you're a part, I'm a part. Fat old Wor- 
 burn's a part — these girls that wait on us are a part, only I 
 suppose they failed in their parts, so that's why they have 
 to wait on the otiier parts, {then she tosses her head as if 
 to shake off unpleasant thoughts— and tnrns in her chair, 
 looking round the room) I wish tiiey'd play the "Belle 
 of New York." {she turns back and meets Jack's glance. 
 So they remain for an instant) Jack, don't look at me as 
 if 5'ou didn't know me. 
 
 Jack, {gravely) I wonder, do I? 
 
 Mabel. Don't you ? 
 
 Jack. You'i'e ready to marry a man for his monej' ? 
 
 Mabel. Of course I am. {she laughs) What else is 
 there for a girl to do if she doesn't ? Spend her days carry- 
 ing muffins to the old woman in that corner? No, thank 
 you. Jack, I've been well brought up, so I know now tliat 
 it's a girl's first duty to marry money, money with position 
 if possible, but money anyhow. 
 
 Jack. It's beastly I 
 
 Mabel. Is it— how ? 
 
 Jack. Oh, I can't explain. 
 
 Mabel. Well, anyhow, whatever it is — it's what's- 
 drummed into us from the word go. It's all part of the 
 great social sclieme. It's our one outlook. No, tliere are 
 others : be a governess — I don't want to. Go on the stage 
 — I'm mucli too good an actress to have a chance on tlie 
 stage. No, Jack, if you were a girl you'd be told it from 
 morning till night, marry well. Mind you marry well, it's, 
 everything ; and so you see, rightly or wrongly, we begin 
 to believe it at last, and we jump at £10,000 a year, {theit 
 she leans a little towards him, half closing her eyes in a 
 smile) But tlie scheme has its compensations, it makes ua 
 enjoy a day like to-day, doesn't it, Jack? 
 
 Jack. I s'pose so. 
 
 Mabel. Dear old Jack, may I have nnother muffin? 
 There's iiot enougli butter on this, {more muffins, trJiich 
 she re(dly doesn't want, are set beforeher — then she becomes 
 a trifle pensive) Ami when I'm married to Sir Harry- 
 you'U come and stay with us often, won't you, and cheer- 
 me up? 
 
 Jack. Do you think you'll want cheering up ? 
 
 Mabel. Oli, I expect so. Most of the girls who marrjr 
 well seem to be able to do with a lot of cheering up. 
 
 Jack. Is that part of the scheme too ? 
 
 MABiiL. I suppose so.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 7 
 
 Jack. I'm rather glad I'm not a girl. 
 
 Mabel. So am I, Jack. (tJiere's a 2MUse — Jie fiddles with 
 his cup, and her eyes rove round the room) 
 
 Jack, {siuldenlij) In this scheme, doesn't it strike you 
 that something lias been left out ? 
 
 Mabel. What ? 
 
 Jack. Well, there's a curious, somewhat old-fashioned 
 emotion that crops up sometimes even in modern life. 
 
 Mabel. Whafs that ? 
 
 Jack. Love. 
 
 Mabel, (bui'sts into a little Imtgh of surprise) Of 
 course, we've left tliat out ! How could one have a work- 
 able scheme witli love in it? No scheme would hold to- 
 gether for a minute. 
 
 Jack. I see — so you ignore it. 
 
 MABEli. One can't afford to waste one's time on love 
 nowadays. Life's mucli too serious a problem. Love's all 
 very well when one's quite young, but one can't let it 
 stand in tlie way of tangible things, can one? 
 
 Jack. No, I sujipose not. 
 
 Mabel. I tliink, personall}', that love would die out 
 altogether if it weren't for the prolificosity of the modern 
 novelist. 
 
 Jack, {sarcasticcdhj) You know more about it than I 
 do, j'ou're eigliteeii. 
 
 Mabel, (quite lighfli/ — putting on her gloves) No, I don't 
 really know anytliing about it — it'snotone of my subjects. 
 I've always let tliat sort of tiling slide. 
 
 Jack. Some day it may enter into your head to take 
 it up. 
 
 Mabel. Well, when I do, Jack, you .shall teach me the 
 rudiments. 
 
 Jack. That's a bargain. You won't find it half so dull 
 a thing as j'ou imagine. 
 
 Mabel. Shan't I ? Perhai^s not. But I'm not going to 
 think about it now. 
 
 Jack. I wonder what Milanor's views on the subject of 
 love are. 
 
 Mabel. Oh! I hope to goodness he hasn't got any. I — 
 I'm afraid I shovild laugh if he began to get romantic, and 
 that would be awful, wouldn't it ? 
 
 Jack. You'd never be my Lady Milanor then. - 
 
 Mabel. Oh, never, and I'd never be mistress of that 
 lovely place in Derl)yshire with tliat divine trout stream. 
 
 Jack. Or tlie litile house in Chesterfield Street with 
 the green shutters. 
 
 Mabel. I've quite made up mj- mind to do away with 
 those sliutters. Oh, you will dine with us often and often, 
 won't you. Jack? 
 
 Jack. Perhaps Milanor won't approve.
 
 S THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Mabel. Oh, lie'll have to — because a girl marries it 
 doesn't mean that she gives up her old friends. 
 
 Jack. It'll be an awful sell for you, Mab, if he doesn't 
 come up to tlie scratch. 
 
 Mabel. Awful. Oh, but lie will. It's not really diffi- 
 cult to convince a man he's in love with you, it only re- 
 quires plenty of concentration. Watch his moods and fall 
 in with them, — if lie's sentimental, sigh with him ; if he's 
 cheerful, keep him in the sunshine. Jack, you should 
 Avatch me at work — it's really very instructive, and then, 
 of course, mamma is very useful. I'jn not fearfully fond 
 of mamma, but I must say she's a good manager. What 
 do j^ou think she's done ? 
 
 Jack. What ? 
 
 Mabel. She's rented that cottage under the hill — you 
 know, just on the corner of his moor — for three months, 
 so 3'ou see I shouldn't be surjirised if he and I didn't fre- 
 quently run up against each other this summer. 
 
 Jack. Ah ! 
 
 Mabel. He's awfully fond of rambling about the coun- 
 try alone — and — and I feel a tendency towards that sort of 
 thing myself. 
 
 Jack. Well, of course that does help to clear the ground 
 a bit, doesn't it ? 
 
 Mabel. Decidedlj-. 
 
 AVORBURN reapioears in the upper room with a j^arty of 
 ladies, among tliem Ethel Glyndon, a sicect-Iooking girl 
 of about seventeen, and her aunt. Miss Anstruther, a 
 plump, cheery little u-oman of forty. 
 
 WoRBURN. {motioning them all to their seats with grave 
 dignity) I secured this table — it — it is near the band. 
 
 Miss Anstruther. Sweet of you ! 
 
 WoRBURN. {to Ethel) MissGlyndon, will you be com- 
 fortable ? 
 
 Ethel. I'm always comfortable anywhere, {and they 
 all sit dozen, out of sight of the audience) 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, {to his mother) I have not experienced 
 that curious sense of fulness nearly so acutely to-day. 
 
 Lady H. The muffins were better done. I ordered 
 the carriage to come, it should be here. Are you ready to 
 move ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, I would prefer to sit q"ite still for fifteen 
 minutes. 
 
 Lady H, Perhaps it would be wiser, {they relapse into 
 inertia) 
 
 Jack. I wish you'd fixed on anybody but ]\Iilanor. 
 
 IMabel. Why ? 
 
 Jack. I don't know. He's sucli an odd sort of chap — 
 always doing such rum things. He's just been and en-
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 9 
 
 ■dowod a nospital for children ; that strikes me as rather 
 snobbish, 
 
 Mabel. I don't see that. 
 
 Jack. Oh, because a man's rich he needn't shove it 
 down your throat like that. 
 
 Mabel,, {lightly) I think it's very nice of him, it's 
 better than throwing away your money on a horse. 
 
 Jack. Oh, I don't know. One's usual, the other isn't. 
 Everything that attracts attention is bound to be bad form. 
 Anyho-w — he's putting on flesh. 
 
 Mabel. I shall have to check that if possible. I'm 
 afraid you'll have to make the best of it. Jack. Mamma 
 and I have agreed to him, so it's no good going back. 
 Mamma tried to persuade me to consider old Worburn— 
 but Worburn ! {she griviaces)— there must be limits even 
 to a social scheme. 
 
 Edith Cadogan comes through the rooms, looking about 
 her, folloioed by an aimless iidddle-uged lady. She sees 
 Mabel and comes down. 
 
 Edith. Hullo ! Mabel— and Jack— and no chaperon ! 
 What's the meaning of this ? 
 
 ]\Iabel. Jack and I are out on the razzle. 
 
 Edith. T'J. better have tea with you for propriety's 
 sake. 
 
 Jack. I don't think it matters in our case— we're too 
 young. 
 
 Mabel. Besides, we're cousins. 
 
 Edith. Have you seen Sir Harry ? 
 
 Mabel. He's at Ranelagh. 
 
 Edith. He isn't — at least his mother told me she was 
 going to meet him here at four. Mab, you look worried. 
 
 Mabel. What at"? 
 
 Edith. I don't know if you don't. 
 
 Mabel. I'm not worried — thank you. 
 
 Edith. Mab, will you tell me the truth if I ask you ? 
 
 Mabel. It depends. 
 
 Edith. Are you to be congratidated ? 
 
 Mabel. No, I'm not— there's a chance for everybody, 
 you see. {laughs and. shrugs her shoulders) 
 
 Edith. There's none for me — we're much too friendly — 
 you see, he's my trustee, {she turns avd looks round the 
 rooms) I hate this band, don't you? I — there's Mr. 
 ■Graeme. We're tea-ing with him this afternoon — pity me ! 
 And Julia is with me, and she positively hasn't an idea 
 outside window-boxes. But I say, before I go — I do 
 think you two are silly to come here like this. Of course, 
 I know it means nothing, but— but people will talk. 
 There's Julia, for instance. Oil, Mab, what is the good of
 
 10 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 all the eloquence I wasted on you when you name to Miss- 
 Grand's in Cliill Street ! Good-bye. (site saunters ^ip) 
 
 Jack. Who's Miss Grand? 
 
 Mabel. I went to school there, with her — she's ages 
 older than I am, and was always telling me things. I hate- 
 her — rather. She wanted to marry Sir Harry, and it didn't 
 come otf. So I suppose she hates me — rather. 
 
 Jack. Because it will come off ? 
 
 Mabel. Oh, I daresay— don't talk about it. It seems 
 different when slie's about. She makes me think of what 
 things are really, and that makes one feel beastly. Don't 
 let's think at all, Jack. It's the only way to be linppy. I 
 say, this place is beginning to fill up. Hadn't we better 
 make a move ? Shall I pay, or have you got enough ? 
 
 Jack. Oh, I daresay I can manage it. 
 
 Mabel, {suddenly trlieeling round) Heavens, Jack I 
 Is this the twenty-fourth ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Mabel. Oli, and I've promised to fetch the twins and 
 bring them here to meet mamma at half-past four. 
 
 Jack. That'll spoil our afternoon. 
 
 Mabel. No it won't. I'll bring them here, and I can 
 easily make an excuse to mother and meet you anj'where^ 
 I've got till seven, then I must get back to dress. Sir 
 Harry is dining with us to-night, and 
 
 Jack. And you fancy 
 
 Mabel. Never mind what I fancy. What time is it? 
 
 Jack. Five past four. 
 
 Mabel. I must go for them in ten minutes. Where 
 shall we meet afterwards? 
 
 Jack. You wanted to go to the Aquarium. 
 
 Mabel. Nobody ever goes there, that's why. Well, any- 
 how (she stops suddenlj/, looking into the other room , 
 
 then turns and faces him with a gasp) Jack, the worst has- 
 happened. Edith was right, he's here. 
 
 Jack. Who? 
 
 Mabel. Harry ! (they stare at each other for an instant, 
 then her jyresence of mind retiirns) My gracious, I can't be- 
 found alone with you; we mnst have a chajjeron. Jack, 
 come and join tliose two old frumps. 
 
 Jack, (aghast) But I don't know 'em. 
 
 Mabel, (vehemently) Neither do I. AYhat matter? 
 Come and join tliem. (she stops one of the waiting maids 
 who is passing irith tea) What's tliat lady's name ? 
 
 I\Iaid. That's old Lady Pawson. miss, and her son, Mr. 
 Gilliei't Pawson. (Mabel sweeps doini towai-ds Lady 
 Pawsox's table, zcith an outstretched hand and a siccet 
 smile) 
 
 Mabel. I really can't go without saying how-do-you-do. 
 Lady Pav/son. We haven't met since that delightful after-
 
 THE WILDERNESS. H 
 
 ■noon . (67(6 turns to Mr. Gilbert and shakes hands with him 
 wannli/) How do you do? I hopn your gout is l)etter. 
 {the old lady avd her sen are deeply agitated. Mabel 
 smiles at Mr. Gilbert) 
 
 Mabel. I'm afraid j'our motlier doesn't remember me. 
 
 Lady H. (not knowing Jier i)L tJie leant) Perfectly, my 
 dear. How do you do ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, (feebly) My mother never forgets a 
 face. She has a royal memory. 
 
 Mabel, (sitting'doicn at their table and making herself 
 quite eomfortable) I'm waiting for mamma. But you 
 know how dreailfully nnpunctual she always is. Oli, 
 didn't you have any inuffins? You really ought to make 
 an effort in the direction of mufhns. 
 
 Lady H. Gilbert's digestion is very fluctuating. 
 
 Mabel, {icith an affectation of great concern) Oh, don't 
 say you've got to be careful still V I hoped that trouble 
 hail passed long ago. Why, you've suffered from that 
 ever since 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. Last April twelve months. 
 
 Mabel. I remember mamma telling us about it at the 
 time. (Jack is hovering about the table much embarrassed. 
 Mabel smiles in surjjrise at Lady Pawson) Don't you 
 know Mr. Kennerly? Jack, I'm disappointed in you. I 
 thought you knew everybody worth knowing. Lady Paw- 
 son, do let me introduce Mr, Jack Kennerly — Lady 
 Pawson, Mr. Kennerly. 
 
 Jack, (sitting down beside Gilbert Pawsox) Awfully 
 good place to meal in, this, don't you find ? Jolly secluded, 
 and all that, and yet you're always running up against 
 people vou know. 
 
 ]\Ir. Gilbert. j\Iy mother and I have not run up against 
 anybody for I\iother, you desire 
 
 Lady H. (making a brilliant effort to recover herseif 
 and remember somebody — snajis out at Mabel) How's your 
 aunt ? 
 
 Mabel, {ingenuously) Which aunt? 
 
 Lady H. (after a pause, Lady Pawson retrieves herself} 
 Your dear aunt. 
 
 Mabel, (with a sigh) She's still on the wane, we 
 fear. 
 
 Lady H. Ah. she was always delicate as a girl, (a 
 long and melancholy silence falls u-hich Mabel thoroughly 
 enjoys, then say.-;, with another deep sigh) 
 
 Mabel. Yes, and she never really got over that afTair — 
 you know. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, (getting interested) Dear me. 
 
 Mabel, (to ]\Ir. Gilbert) I always imagine there was- 
 sometliing more in that than met the eye, don't you V 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. Oh, I really
 
 :12 TKE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Mabel. You wouldn't like to say so. That's sweet of 
 you. You live up to 3-our well-earned reputation for dis- 
 cretion—very wise, that's wiiy you're always so popular. 
 (Mabel, turns to say something' to Jack, and old Lady 
 Pawso.v seizes the opportunity to gasp at her son) 
 
 Lady H. Who are they ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. Don't know. Can't think. 
 
 Lady II. Take me away. (she viaJces an effort to rise) 
 
 Mabel. Oh, dear Lady Pawson. j-ou will stay and see 
 mamma? She won't be a moment, and she'd be so disap- 
 pointed if she missed you. 
 
 Siu Harry Milanor Jias been seen, in the upper room, 
 he now comes doivn to their table. 
 
 Sir Harry. How do you do. Miss Weston ? 
 
 Mabel, (looking up in surprise and giving him her hand 
 with a bright smile of u'clcome) Oh, how do you do? 
 Fancy you coming to this out-of-the-way little cornei'. 
 Lad}' Pawson. may I introduce Sir Harry Milanor? (bows) 
 Mr. Gilbert Pawson, Sir Harry Milanor. (bon's) We're all 
 ■svaiting for mamma, she's so fearfully late again, and Lady 
 Pawson was almost giving her up in despair, weren't you ? 
 
 LadyH. (tcho is approaching a condition of mental 
 pulp) I — I surely was. 
 
 Sir Harry, (looking curiously at Jack) Hullo, Ken- 
 uerly — it is Kennerly, isn't it? 
 
 Jack. It is. How are you? (they nod to each other 
 smilingly) 
 
 Sir Harry. Fancy knocking up against you — and at a 
 tea-figlit too ! (then he turns brightly to the tea table, 
 ■signing to one of the loaiting maids) I'm sure Lady Paw- 
 son can have some more tea — fresh tea. And muffins. 
 Would you bring us — let's see, how manj'' are Ave ? One, 
 two, three, five — and some hot muffins, (as he gives the 
 maid the order Lady Pawson has another gasp at her son) 
 
 Lady H. Who is he ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. 1 don't know. 
 
 Lady H. Take me away ! 
 
 Sir Harry, (turning to Lady Pawsox) I think you 
 know my aunt. Lady Pawson. 
 
 Lady H. More aunts ! Yes, of course, your dear aunt. • 
 She was always delicate as a girl. (aside to Iter son) 
 Take me away ! Something's gone wrong with my head. 
 I positively don't i-emember anybodj'. 
 
 Sir Harry, (to Mabel) How are the twins? 
 
 Mabel. Oli, they're si)lendid. I'm just oil to fetch 
 them from home now to meet mamma. As a matter of 
 fact. I'd forgotten I'd promised to do it. Lady Pawson, 
 did I tell you that lovely story of the twins? You remem- 
 ber the twins, Mr. Pawson ?
 
 THE AYILDERNESS. 13' 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. Dear creatures ! 
 
 Lady H. {aside to her son) They've gone too. Take 
 me away ! 
 
 Mabel. Mamma had been awfully busy during the 
 morning, and Harold didn't think lie'd had half the atten- 
 tion he was — oli, liere's the fresli tea — he was entitled to, 
 and so (Mr. Gilbert leaves his tea aicay) 
 
 Sir Harry, (siirjjrised) No tea? 
 
 Mabel, {very syntxiatheticallij) He daren't, he's still a 
 martyr to that dreadful dyspepsia. It's been incessant, 
 ever since July twelvemonth. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. April. 
 
 Lady H. (iiaving 2}idled herself together, rises inistead- 
 ily) I — I fear I shan't be able to wait for your mother. 
 I — I find this room too warm. Gilbert dear, the carriage 
 is there, isn't it ? (a. passing maid overhears the question) 
 
 Maid. Your carriage has been waiting some minutes. 
 Lady Pawson. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert. Ah ! {tltey all rise) 
 
 Mabel. Are you going ? 
 
 Lady H. {to her son) I'm going to Dr. Crawley — it's 
 something mental. 
 
 Mabel. In Harley Street ? You pass our house. 
 
 Mr. Gir^BERT. May we {Ice is going to bid her fare- 
 
 urll), 
 
 Mabel. Drop me ! OIi, would you ! It would be veiy 
 nice of you. You're sure I shan't be in the way ? 
 
 Mr. Gilbert, {quite nonjilussed) Not in the least. 
 
 Mabel. It's awfully kind of you. Then I may bring 
 them here in time after all. Good-bye, Sir Harr}-. 
 
 Sir Harry, {very gravely) Until this evening. 
 
 Mabel. Oh yes, you're coming to dinner, aren't you? 
 Good-bye. I shall be back with the twins in ten miruites, 
 anyhow. I'm sure you'd like to see them. 
 
 Sir Harry. I should. CMr. Gilbert shakes hands luith 
 Sir Harry and Jack Kennerly) 
 
 ]\Iabel. Good-bye, Jack. You're off to keep your ap- 
 pointuient, I suppose. Lady Pawson, what would you do 
 if you had a cousin wlio declined to take you to tiie 
 Academy because lie liad an appointment to meet a mys- 
 terious some one at the Westminster Aquarium':' At the- 
 south entrance, too ? 
 
 Jack. The mysterious some one is only a chap who 
 wants to see the prize fight on .the biograpii. 
 
 Mabel. What time are you due there ? {sJic fixes Jack's 
 eye vieanivgly) 
 
 Jack, (looking at his wateh) Five fifteen. 
 
 JIabel. Oh, tiien, as an appointment of that sort is a 
 serious matter, I'll say good-bye to you. 
 
 Lady. H, Take we away! {A.i,h to each other, iviik
 
 14: THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 smiles and nods, " Good-bye,'" and Mabel goes otd chatter- 
 ing gall (I to Mr. Gilbert and Lady Pawson. Jack Jiangs 
 about for a i)io)n.e)it, then crosses to tlie other table, piclis 
 up his gloves, a)id begins tojjut them on. Thelxnid is play- 
 ing, and the various tea-fables have filled uj) irith a fashion- 
 able throng. Tlie chatter is getting loiider) 
 
 Jack, {shortly) Good-bye, Milanor, 
 
 Sir Harry. Good-bye. {and Jack goes ?/p through the 
 throng and out of the roo^ns. Sir Harry sits staring at 
 the carpet, drawing a p)attern on it irith his stick, then he 
 looks np and all round him, and leans back in his chair 
 iritli- a sigh) Wliy the devil does she always bolt whenever 
 she meets me ? {to Maid) My mother isn"t by any chance 
 in any of tlie other rooms, is she ? 
 
 Maid, No. Sir Harry, she always has this table. 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes, I thought she did. 
 
 Old Lady Milanor enters. She is abojit sixty-four, but the 
 judicious use of dye and the poivder puff has made her 
 look at least seventy. 
 
 Lady' Milanor. Oh, Harry, you're here. Are you 
 early, or am I late ? 
 
 Sir Harry, {rising) Well, mother dear, we'll say I'm 
 early, 
 
 Lady' Milanor. But, as a matter of fact. I'm late, you 
 think. Well, well, there was a sale at Hampton's, and I 
 could not get away from some lamp-shades — the most ridic- 
 ulous reductions — positively giving them awaj'. 
 
 Sir Harry. My dear motlier, what satisfaction do you 
 get in buying things at less than tlieir value ? 
 
 Lady Milanor. Harry, don't be a fool ! If I had your 
 means 
 
 Sir Harry'. I wish to God you had ! 
 
 Lady Milanor. Don't fly in the face of Providence. 
 
 Sir Harry. Wliat right liad Providence to saddle me 
 witli twenty thousand a year ? (the maids put a variety of 
 things before Lady' Milanor. ,S7(e u-ares them aivay) 
 
 Lady Milanor. No. not those— tea-cakes, please. 
 You're an inveterate grumbler. What on earth would you 
 have said, or done, for the matter of that, if you'd been a 
 poor man ? 
 
 Sir Harry\ (sloicly) I should have liad some friends 
 ; and— and I should have known exactly how I stood, as 
 regards my fellow man — and woman. 
 
 Lady Milanor. I think you know pretty well, as it is. 
 You're thirty-five, liorribly wealthy, and unmarried. Con- 
 sidering tliose three facts, it's obvious that what you don't 
 know really isn't worth knowing. What did vou want to 
 talk to me about to-day ? I'm sorry I couldu't'be at home.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 15 
 
 T liate being at liome. Do ask that band to play. What 
 is it, Harry ? 
 
 Sir Harry. It's what you just said, I'm thirty-five, 
 I've got twenty thousand a year, and I'm unmarried. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Well, isn't it a blessed state ? 
 
 Sir Harry. No. 
 
 Lady Milanor. What do you want to do ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Marry. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Why don't you ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Because I've got twenty thousand a year. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Oli, I see. "Love me for myself 
 alone " — you've been reading poetry. 
 
 Sir Harry. No, I've been through several London 
 .seasons. 
 
 Lady Milanor. You vrant a tonic. 
 
 Sir Harry. No, I want a home. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Buy one. 
 
 Sir Harry. Tliat's the dread. I want to make one. 
 Suppose I try, and tind out, when it's too late, that it isn't 
 liand-made at all. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Machine-made articles flood the mar- 
 ket now. 
 
 Sir Harry. So I observe. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Well, they serve their purpose. 
 
 Sir Harry. They may, but their purpose isn't mine. 
 
 Lady Milanor. My dear boy, marry to-morrow, and 
 with your disposition and wealtli no woman would be fool 
 enough to allow you to realize that you weren't perfectly 
 liappy. Come, come, amuse me. I've been bored for 
 days. 
 
 Sir Harry, I wanted to talk to you seriously. I sup- 
 pose it's no use. 
 
 Lady Milanor. (briskij/) Not a bit, in the afternoon. 
 Come to Hanover Square, about eleven on Friday morn- 
 ing. I can talk seriously then, because I'm due at the 
 dentist's at twelve. Do ask that band to stop playing. It 
 <iuite takes my thoughts from my tea. I suppose all this 
 rigmarole means that you think you're in love with some 
 one. 
 
 Sir Harry. I can trace several of the symptoms. 
 
 Lady JIilanor. You're thirty-five, so it's somebody 
 quite young, I suppose ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Quite young. 
 
 Lady Milanor. And somebody to whom you would 
 appear in tiie light of a great " catch." 
 
 Sir Harry. That's tlie devil of it. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Well, it's everybody's duty to get mar- 
 ried and be disillusioned. She's not on the stage, I sup- 
 jiose ? 
 
 Sir Harry. She is not on the stage.
 
 IG THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Then take a tonic, plenty of fresh air 
 and exercise, and we'll go into the matter thoroughl}' on 
 
 Friday morning This is perfectly dreadful tea. Wlia 
 
 is she ? 
 
 8iR Harry. Do j'ou know Mrs. Buckley Weston ? 
 
 Lady Milanor. Took in a paying guest before she 
 married her second husband, and just managed to live in 
 Bruton Street ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes. 
 
 Lady JIilanor. Buckley Weston would be far happier 
 in West Kensington now the family is so numerous — twins, 
 I believe. Her first husband, Mabel's father, was a deitr. 
 
 Sir Harry. Mabel takes after her father. 
 
 Lady Milaxor. He icordd play the cornet. 
 
 Sir Harry. Mabel has no small vices. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Then what first attracted you to her ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't think me a fool — but — bui — I've 
 •watched her playing with the children. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Ah I slie's a clever girl. 
 
 Sir Harry. She didn't know I was watching. 
 
 Lady Milanor. A clever girl is always preparing for 
 the unforeseen. 
 
 Sir Harry, (shmgs his shoulders desjxiii-ingli/) Per- 
 haps it tcoidd be better to postpone this conversation till 
 Friday. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Certainly, but you icoidd talk. 
 
 Sir Harry, (lie suddenly leans forivard and faces her) 
 Mother, when you were young were you ever real ? 
 
 I;ADY Milanor. {aghast) Eh ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Or did everybody always go on like this? 
 
 Lady Milanor. Like what ? Is anything Avrong ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Everything's wrong. Nobody has the 
 courage to be natural — does the difference never striko 
 you between you as you are now and you as you arewlien 
 your maid draws the blinds in your bedroom in the morn- 
 ing? 
 
 Lady Milanor. (horrified) Harry ! 
 
 Sir Harry. That's when you are yourself. What j^ou 
 are now is a creature of j'our own creating. 
 
 Lady Milanor. You'd be exceedingly pleased and 
 proud to walk down Bond Street with me as I am when 
 my maid draws my blinds of a morning, wouldn't you, 
 dear ? 
 
 Sir Harry. I don't see that Bond Street matters. 
 
 Lady Milanor. You have obviously never seen a some- 
 what battered old lady of sixty-four sitting on the edge of 
 her bed, realizing that it's time to get up and prepare for 
 the amusements of the day. 
 
 Sir Harry. It must be a pathetic picture. 
 
 Lady Milanor. It is, for the first ten minutes, but it's
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 17 
 
 wonderful what a tactful maid can achieve. Be grateful^ 
 iny dear boy. tliafc we do hide our real selves from eacli 
 otiier ; if we didn't, somebody's popularity would be dis- 
 tinctly on the wane. 
 
 Sir Harry, {louksat her steadily for some time, then 
 (Innvs a deep breath and rines) I shall go down to Derby- 
 shire next Wednesday. I begin to feel 1 want fresli air. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Ah! that's different : people can affordl 
 to be themselves wlien they're all ))y them.selves in the 
 country. Your poor dear father never dreamt C)f wearing 
 his toupet wlienever lie was outside the four-mile radius. 
 {she shakes herself info shape and rises) I'm going to talk 
 to Lady Carruthers ; I saw her nodding in the corner. 
 
 ^l.<? she passes info the upper room she meets 1\Irs. Bucklf-Y 
 AVeston, a jaded, somewhat pompjous-looking iconian of 
 forty. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Wkstox. How do you do, Lady Mila- 
 nor ? 
 
 Lady ;Milanor. How do, Mrs. Weston ? 
 
 Mrs. Buckley' Weston. Is my daughter here ? 
 
 Lady Milanor. Haven't seen her. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. She was to meet me herewith 
 the children. Lm taking them to — Jiow du you do. Mr. 
 Worburn ? (Lady IMilanor joins Lady Carruthers. 
 Mrs. Buckley V\}i^-vo:s disappearshehind arch to another 
 table. There's a bur.^t of lartghter from the upper room, 
 and the little j^irty at Worburn's t(d)le breaks np and 
 tiioves towards the door, ehattering eheerfnlli/. Ethel, as 
 she goes, sees Sir Harry and rims doivn to him leith a glad 
 cry and outsfretehed hands) 
 
 Ethel. Hai-ry ! 
 
 Sir Harry, {starting iq)) Ethel— bless the girl— what 
 ai"e you doing here V 
 
 Ethel. Aunt Gertrude and the Granger girls have been 
 liaving tea with Mr. V.'orburn — and he's taking us all to 
 the Opera to-night, {she stojjs) Oh, I forgot, you don't 
 like him. 
 
 Sir Harry, (drily) As I know all about him I occa- 
 sionally have the jileasin-e of cutting him. 
 
 Ethel. Harry, being your youngest lirst cousin, I can 
 call you a crank without being rude. He's perfectly charm- 
 ing iiiiil 
 
 Sir Harry. And he's a millionaire. 
 
 Ethel. Just so. 
 
 Sir Harry, (after a pause) Heard from Phil lately? 
 
 Ethel, (looking swiftly up at him) Yes — this morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Sir H.A.v.iV. AnytJiing fresh ? 
 
 Ethel, (shaking her head sadly) Lord Headmouut 
 
 2
 
 IS THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 told mamma he'd try his best to get him the appointment, 
 but you know what that means. 
 
 Sir Harry. Poor old Pliil ! 
 
 Ethel, (slowly) Poor old Phil— poor old me. (then. a 
 pause, and she shrugs her shoulders with, a laugh) Oh, 
 "Harry, wliat's the use of breaking one's lieart in this world ? 
 Let's" keep something to look forward to in tiie next. 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't talk like that. 
 
 Ethel,, You goose, I didn't mean it. 
 
 Sir Harry, (looking at her gravely) You love Pliil, 
 Etliel, you told me yourself you did. 
 
 Ethel, (shudders a little) Don't, don't, it isn't kind of 
 you. 
 
 Worbcrn. (fro'in upper room) Are you coming, Miss 
 Glyndon? 
 
 Ethel. (brigJttly) Are you waiting for me? I'm so 
 sorry. Good-bye, old goose, good-bye. (and she runs up 
 and rejoins the others, and they go out. Sir Harry stands 
 ■motionless a minute, then draws a long breath) 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes, I'll get out of it for a bit, that's what 
 I'll do. (he starts up as a gau)it, gray-bearded, iron-faced 
 man comes awkwardly towards Jiim) Uncle Jo, wliat the 
 devil are you doing here? 
 
 Uncle Jo. Your man told me where you were — so here 
 I am. (he looks round at all tlte fasliionable people in dis- 
 gust) Wliat a hole ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Isn't it ? 
 
 Un'CLE Jo. What goes on here ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Tea, and old women and — and other things. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Come out of it. 
 
 Sir Harry. That's just what I've been making up my 
 mind to do — get out of it altogether. Uncle Jo, will you 
 <;ome for a week's fishing to Derbj'shire? 
 
 Uncle Jo. A week's fishing ? I don't often take a holi- 
 day. 
 
 Sir Harry. You can't afford to, you're so rich. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Next week? 
 
 Sir Harry. Or sooner. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Next week. 
 
 Sir Harry. Right. Come down there, just you and I, 
 not another soul, and I'll show you life. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Any females ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Not a soul. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Ai\y fish ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Slioals. 
 
 Uncle Jo. None of this ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Heaven forbid ! Just real true life — we'll 
 git out of tiiis wilderness if only for ten days, put back our 
 shoulders and breathe. 
 
 Uncle Jo. I want to see you on business.
 
 THE AVILDERXESS. 19 
 
 Sir Harry. To the lions witli business. (Mabel comes 
 .iJu-onylitlieroomiilcadiiKj tlictiriuti) Look, do you see that 
 girl? 
 
 Uncle Jo. Yes. 
 
 Sir Harry. Isn't she glorious? (lie seizeft his tmele's 
 ■arm) Uncle Jo, come away from liiis place. I'm sure 
 that I'iu falling in love. 
 
 Mabel. {sa-ectJij) Still here, .Sir Harry? I made sure 
 you'd be gone by now. 
 
 Sir Harry. I'm going at once. 
 
 Mabel. Tliat looks as if I drove you away, (sees her 
 mother (tt table hcltind arch) Oh, mamma, I"m so sorry I'm 
 late. Here they are, and they're both going to be fearfully 
 good. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. You're coming with us? 
 
 Mabel. No, I'm going home ; I'm tired, I've got ahead- 
 ache. (Sir Harry is icatchingher. Slic turns tuLcardsliim 
 icith a little sigh) 
 
 Sir Harry. A headache ? 
 
 Mabel. It's nothing, only this hateful, ceaseless London 
 racket, (then she s)}iiles sirectli/ upon him) I'm glad you 
 haven't gone. I thought j'ou'd like to shake hands with 
 the twins, because you won't r.ee them for ages. 
 
 Sir Harry. Are tliey going away ? 
 
 Mabel. Yes, mannna's taken a little place in the coun- 
 try, and we're all going down for a change — away from all 
 this sort of thing. 
 
 Sir Harry, {eagerly — bending towards her) You too? 
 Out of the wilderness into the light. 
 
 Mabel. Into the light, yes— into the light, (the;/ tool- 
 at each other, then kIic saijs slouii/ and softli/, still looking 
 into his ei/es) AVe meet again this evening ? 
 
 Sir Harry, {gravehj) This evening. 
 
 Mabel, (snddenli/) What do you mean by " out of the 
 Avilderness into the light"? 
 
 Sir Harry. I thought you understood. 
 
 Mabel. I thought I did too, but now somehow I won- 
 der if my meaning joined with yours. I didn't fancy such 
 thoughts ever came to men. 
 
 Sir Harry. PerJiaps you've never known a man — or I 
 a woman. Tlie precious " real" is well wrapped round. 
 
 Mabel. Don't tlie wraps unwind ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Not in the wilderness. The air's too cold. 
 
 Mabel. But out in the light ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Please fJod — some day — out in the light. 
 
 Mabel, (looks straight into his ei/es, and says very sei^i- 
 ously and slou'ly, giring him her hand) I — I'm glad you're 
 dining with us to-night. 
 
 Sir Harry, (grarely) Tiiank you. Till then (they 
 
 shake hands, and he goes iip through the rooms and out)
 
 20 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Mabel, {after n jwin^e. smiles to lierself) TJuit's rooJ^ 
 {then site looks at Iter wa I eh) Half-past four. Tlie soutlu 
 tMitrance at quarter-past live, I «aid. It's all right, liniik 
 plenty of time. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 THE DARK HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN. 
 
 Scene. — ^4 earner of the icoods s^irrounding the Bor- 
 canibe Valley. Large trees overhang on either side, irlide- 
 all around the inidergron'th of braeken and hrainhlf. 
 grons thieklij — an iinpenetrahle trail of green leaves (tiid. 
 reel berries. The elearing in tlie centre is thick moss// 
 grass, iitidnlating into tnounds. There is a small bt-eak 
 in the undergrowth at the hack. In the centre of the 
 clearing, the grass grooving in the holloic betireeti tiro 
 
 [ mounds is of a lighter color and circular. There are also- 
 on either side laitior bre(d:s in the braeken through which 
 the children can enter the sacred 2^>'ecincts by going down 
 on their hands and knees. It is now the second of June, 
 and (d)out the middle of the day. tvhen to the singing of 
 birds the curtain rises. After a jmiise. Sir Harry Torres' 
 his way through the bushes, his hat on the back of his 
 head, his necktie flying, his IudhIs deep in the poclcets of 
 his shooting coat, the jrhole man brimful of the joy of 
 life. He looks 7'on ml at the scene and smiles. He is fol- 
 lowed by Uncle Jo, who looks partictdarly grim and 
 imimpressioncdjle. 
 
 Sir Harry, (beaming) Now, didn't I tell you I'd take 
 you somewhere whei'e you coidd ])ut your shoulders back 
 and breathe ? Didn't I tell you I'd show you a spot "r" 
 
 Uncle Jo. Is this it '/ 
 
 Sir Harry. This is it. 
 
 Uncle Jo. {shortly) Oh ! 
 
 Sir Harry, {not to bedashed) I knew you'd like it, 
 I discovered this place when I was a kid, I grew u\> on 
 that mound, under these trees. I've known these ferns 
 when they were ten feet high, and I fought my way through 
 them despite the attacks of frogs and — and snakes and 
 bears and elephants, and all the other might}' denizens of 
 the forest — fought my way through 'em, yes, that's where 
 I came, (he points to a little break in the undergrowth) 
 That's the pass I stormed, till victory was mine, and the 
 great peace of this space spread out before me. and I sat 
 down under this mighty hill and looked around upon xay 
 kingdom, (protidly) My kingdom [ 
 
 Uncle Jo. Very interesting.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 0| 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes, isn't it ? Look ! Look ! (he point. t to 
 -the circular patch of grass in the centre) The fairies' riiij^ ! 
 
 Just us green, just as Uncle Jo, don't loolc at it ia 
 
 tliat sniffy way. 
 
 Uncle Jo. I sliall look at it in my own way. 
 
 Sir Harry. Well, y' know, the lairies won't like it, I'm 
 jolly well sure they won't. 
 
 Unx'LE Jo. {taking out his paper angrily) Ugh ! 
 
 Sir Harry. You're very fidgett3'. Uncle Jo. You asked 
 me this morning with tears in yoiu- eyes to show jou the 
 fipots where I used to play as a child, and because I allow 
 you to look at 'em, you become sniffy. 
 
 Uncle Jo. I asked you to take me somev^here where 
 I could smoke in peace without running the risk of meet- 
 ing any females. 
 
 Sir Harry. Well, it's done. Nobody knows of the 
 •existence of this spot except mo. I ought really to have 
 blindfolded you before I brought you here, and I almost 
 fancy I should chloroform you before I take j'ou away. 
 
 Uncle Jo. You're a fool. 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't be so short with me. Uncle Jo. I'm 
 really very fond of you when you're not short with me. 
 Now. you make yourself comfortable against that mountain. 
 :and I'll make myself comfortable iigaiiist this one, and 
 we'll each smoke a cigar, think over our past lives, and 
 forget that there's such a place as London, or such an 
 abomination of desolation as a London season. 
 
 Uncle Jo. You told me there were to be no females 
 — we're not here two days, when who should we meet but 
 the Buckley Westons. 
 
 Sir Harry. Coincidence. How was I to know they'd 
 rented the cott;i.ge ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. Ugh ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Personally I'm verj' glad, it's given me just 
 the chance I wanted. 
 
 Uncle Jo. How ? 
 
 Sir Harry, {softly, almost to himself) I've seen a real 
 woman at last. 
 
 Uncle Jo. I've seen too many. 
 
 Sir Harry. I never saw one before, and I'm thirty-five. 
 Perhaps it's my fault, I may have been blind, (a pause) 
 Don't j-ou tiiink she's real? 
 
 Uncle Jo. Who ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Mabel Weston, {they smoke in silence) I 
 like to think of her as I see her here, a wandering wild 
 flower in a world of wild flowers, (aiiotlier jxiiise) There 
 are no wild flowers in Bond Street ; perhaps you haven't 
 observed that fact. 
 V Uncle Jo. {uriviug paper) Damn the gnats! 
 
 Sir Harry. {blandly) (Jnats now— gnats ! there's
 
 22 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 something very toucliiug about gnats, (and he tcipea one- 
 out of his eye. Uncle Jo moves to a tree with a qmiit) 
 Now, don't tidget and snort ulioiit, and don't dare to put 
 your great hoof inside tliat ring ; just come peacefully 
 back and sit on your mountain if you please. Here are 
 the matches for you. {he tosses them to his unclz"^ How 
 old are j'ou, Uncle Jo ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. {lighting his cigar) Sixty-five. 
 
 Sir Harry. AV^ell, are you as good a man as you were 
 fifty-five years ago? (Uncle Jo grunts Jiercely) It's no- 
 use grunting, you're not — you can't see as well now as you 
 did tiien — I can't either. In those days these ferns were 
 ten feet high at least — we've grown up. opened our eyes 
 wider — and behold ! the ferns are only three feet high — 
 we've lost siglit of seven feet of beautiful ferns, because' 
 we don't see as clearly as we did when we were eight 
 years old. 
 
 Uncle Jo. If I had many walks with you, young man,. 
 I think I should do you a mischief. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oli, no, you wouldn't — you like my con- 
 versation very much indeed really — you think it over 
 while you're trying to go to .sleeji and it does you a lot of 
 good. Look at that bird's nest ; that bint's nest was- 
 there thirty years ago. I remember it perfectly, only it 
 was miles anil miles higher up the tree, or perhaps the 
 tree was miles and miles taller, it was one or the other- 
 Uncle Jo, don't you feel rather dozy? 
 
 Uncle Jo. No, I doiTt. 
 
 Sir Harry. You don't ! You are an odd old person,, 
 aren't you. Uncle Jo? (a pause) Uncle Jo, if you don't 
 feel dozy — there used to be a rabl)it-hole behind tiiat oak 
 tree, tliirt.y years ago, with a rabbit in it ; you might go 
 and grub about and see if he's there still; if he is, you 
 might tell him I'm here too, it'll interest him very much ; 
 we used to be very friendly, at least I used to be, he was 
 rather retiring. (Harry fs- Jijiug at full length on one of 
 the inou)ids — his hands folded l>e]iind his Jiead) I'm not 
 looking at you. Uncle Jo, but I know perfectly well that 
 you're reading a paper — a financial paper, all about thing* 
 tliat go up and down, aren't you, Uncle Jo? 
 
 Uncle Jo. I am. 
 
 Sir Harry. The fairies won't like it. I'm jolly well sure 
 they won't, right on the top of their mountain too. Uncle 
 Jo. it must be very hartl on you being a mone3-grub. Of 
 all sorts of grubs, it nuist l)e wor.st to be a nroneygrub ;: 
 doesn't it make you very, very sad, being ."^"ich a nasty 
 sort of grub. Uncle Jo? 
 
 Uncle Jo. No. it doesn't. 
 
 Sir Harry. Your goloshes don't keep yoti dry while 
 you're sitting down. Uncle Jo.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 25 
 
 Uncle Jo. I'm aware of tliat, sir. 
 
 Sir Harry. {sleei)ili/) Dear old Uncle Jo ! 
 
 Un'CLE Jo. I'll thank j'ou not to Uncle Jo me quite so 
 tliorouglily. 
 
 Sir Harry. Not — dear old Uncle Jo. {a long jmusc) 
 Uncle Jo? 
 
 Uncle Jo. What ? 
 
 Sir Harry. You are said to be the sine udest, as well 
 as one of the wealthiest men on the Stock Exchange. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Ugh ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Is it true ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. Quite. 
 
 Sir Harry. Then why don't you give me some money 
 for my hospital ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. Ugh ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Won't you give me some, Uncle Jo ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. No. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh, don't sny it off like that so quickly — 
 thiidv it over a little. Uncle Jo, won't you ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. No. 
 
 Sir Harry. You snid you didn't like my keeping on 
 saying Uncle Jo, didn't yoa, Uncle Jo ";:' 
 
 Uncle Jo. I did. 
 
 Sir Harry. Well, if T promise I won't mention such 
 a horrid thing as Uncle Jo — for — for — two hours, will you 
 give me a thousand pounds? 
 
 Uncle Jo. No I 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh. well, will you give me back my 
 matches? (Uncle Jo tosses ther.i to liiin irith a grunt) 
 Uncle Jo, have you noticed anything odd about me lately ':• 
 
 Uncle Jo. Nothing odder than usual. 
 
 Sir Harry. I'm awfully in love. I'm glad you've not 
 noticed it. Wouldn't it be awful, if when one had a real 
 bad attack of love, one came out in spots ? I think that's a. 
 very lucky thing about love. 
 
 Uncle Jo. ]\Iabel ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Mabel, {apcmse) And the dear thing won't 
 even look at me. I thought there was hope ten days ago, 
 but lately — Uncle Jo, do you know, she's been positively 
 Rnnl)by? (a imnse) I seem to be talking about this very 
 lightly — but — don't you be deceived — that's only my safety- 
 valve. Ui2^i(iise) I've written a poem on her. (a pause) 
 I don't mean I've writte?! on her — I mean it's about her — 
 would you like to hear it ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. No ! 
 
 Sir Harry. I'm .sorry for that — it might cheer you up. 
 You are looking so grumpy. Uncle Jo. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Ami? (ct pdiisr. Siu Harry ^^'i^s o«-a?/ 
 contenierlli/at Jtis cigar, and Uncle Jo becomes immersed 
 in finance)
 
 24 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Sir Harry. Uncle Jo, there's a lizard going along 
 round that tree, I wonder where he's going. Where 
 should you say he was going. Uncle Jo ? 
 
 Uncle Jo. To the devil, like most other young people ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Tlie fairies won't like your language ; I'm 
 jolly \vell sure they won't, (a jxaisc) Uncle Jo, do you 
 see that sort of a tunnelly kind of hole, under those ferns':' 
 
 Uncle Jo. Yes. 
 
 Sir Harry. That's wliere I used to crawl through when 
 1 — oh, I forgot— I told you that before, (a ^ja^f.s*?. Sill 
 Harry is looking at the hole — suddcalii he sits up listen- 
 ing) Do you hear that ? (he riseft) Come away. Uncle 
 Jo. Le roi est mort, vive le roi ! Come away ! {he seizes 
 ]di)i) 
 
 Uncle Jo. Wliat the devil 
 
 Sir Harry. Hush, come away — we've no riglit here — 
 we're only "grown-ups" now\ Come away, the King and 
 Queen are coming to tlieir throne, come away, {and he 
 hurries Uncle Jo out through the huslies at the hack, and 
 forces him to liide behind a tree. After a 2)ause a small 
 golden head ajipears through, the undergrowth, and Harold 
 crawls solemulji on, folloieed by liis twin sinter Marjorir. 
 When thei/ have suceessfuUi/ got through the brand>les and 
 ferns they turn and cautioush/ drag in after them a minia- 
 ture barrow heavily laden irith stores wliieh they solemnly 
 wheel to the centre of the glade. Harold then sits down 
 on one side of the barrow and Marjorie .s/^s oh the other, 
 and they both, simultaneously give vent to a sigh of satis- 
 faction over labor nobly done, contemplating with triumph 
 the contents of the barrow) 
 
 Harold. \Ve gotted 'em. 
 
 IMarjorie. I gotted llie bones." 
 
 Harold. I do hope Piippy won't know wlio wented to 
 his kennel when he was out. 
 
 Marjorie. He won't — imless the fairies tells him. 
 
 Harold. Whicli they won't — 'cos Ave only stoled 'em 
 for tliem — let's put 'em mi their table, {they then jjrocced 
 to remove the old bones from the barrow and put them into 
 the fairies' ring) 
 
 Marjorie. Tliis is a splendashious dinner for 'em. isn't 
 it? {she holds np the d"nt]f i^emains of a haddock and sur- 
 veys it with much admiration) I specs thev'U just love 
 that, 
 
 Harold. I specs so. I gotted this from tlie dust- 
 liole. 
 
 Marjorie. I specs they'd like it better to have jam 
 wiv it. 
 
 Harold, {contemplating his sister irith. a reproachful 
 sigh) You etted up all your jam — you ;ilwnyr does. 
 
 Marjorie. {solemnly) I likes jam — "sides, ^'~:u's not
 
 THE WILDERNESS, 25 
 
 good for these sort of fairies — it's bones and yaddicbs tvuJ 
 sawdust tliey likes best. 
 
 Harold. How do you know ? 
 
 Marjorie. I — I must have 3'eard 'em say so. (ajiciusc) 
 Yes. I must "ave. 
 
 Harold, (sniffing at fJie dilapidated Jitilt) It's werry 
 nice and smelly— tliis one is. (heholds it out ^oMarjorie, 
 wJio sniffs it ecstatic(dly) 
 
 Marjorie. Werry nice. I specs that's what 'tracts 'em. 
 {then follows a silence, during ichieh, tlieij sniff dream ilji at 
 . the haddock skin. Their Joy is interrupted by the distant 
 voice of NURSK calling through the trees — "Master Har- 
 old ! Miss Marjorie ! where are 5'^ou ? '') 
 
 Harold, (after a scared pause — during ivhich the two 
 listen) She mushn't know 'bout thish ])lache. mush she — 
 we's the only jieople that know 'bout thish plache — no uii 
 ■else mus ever know. 
 
 Marjorie. Cert'ny not. Come on. 
 
 Harold, (pointing pensively to the haddock) Marj — 
 she's so snilTy — think she'll be able to sniff as far as to 
 this ? 
 
 Marjorie. (gloomily) I specs so. (and she crawls 
 off) 
 
 Harold, (follou-ing Marjorie) I yope she won't, she's 
 so very gyeedy. she won't leave none for ye poor little 
 fairies. ( and they both solonnly disappear under the ferns, 
 pmshinq the empty barrow before them) 
 
 Sir Harry, (coming down) It was beastly caddish of 
 us to listen, but — but wasn't it beautiful, Uncle Jo ? 
 UXCLE Jo. Cliildren's talk ! 
 
 Sir Harry. I wish we didn't forget how to talk like 
 that. What a selfish little brute I must have been when 
 I was a child. I used to be very friendly with the fairies 
 — but — but I used to think it was their business to do things 
 for me, not me for them. It never struck me that they 
 had appetites like other people. 7 never brought them 
 luxuries on a barrow — did you, Uncle Jo? 
 Uncle Jo. No ! 
 
 Sir Harry. And s\ich delicate dishes too. (he gingerly 
 picks up the haddock) I think the new generation is ;i 
 little in advance of tiie old. I must have long talks witli 
 that King and Queen— they — they'll do me good, (and he 
 reverently replaces the dilapidated fish-skin in the ring) 
 
 UnX'LE Jo. You fail to observe that they are supplying 
 their friends with other people's goods. The bones belong 
 to the puppy, and the— tiiat — whatever it is. is tlie penpii- 
 site of the dustnum. That's the sort of generosity we arc 
 all (juite ready to indulge in. •* 
 
 Sir Harry. Uncle Jo, how did you get ail the money 
 j^ou've got?
 
 2G THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Uncle Jo. By hard work and keeping my ej^es open. 
 
 Sir Harry. That's how they got thei'' treasure — this — 
 and these bones. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Ugh ! 
 
 Sir Harry. But they've been beautiful and given their 
 gains away. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Wise children ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Of course tliey are — but how about you ? 
 You've kept your liaddock in your pocket and your bones 
 under your pillow. It's very wrong of you. Uncle Jo. very 
 Avrong, and I'm not at all sure that it's health}'. {2Kiuse) 
 Do you see the point? 
 
 Uncle Jo. \'es, but I don't mean to give you a thou- 
 sand jwunds, so that's all about it. 
 
 Sir Harry. You do put things so concisely, Uncle Jo^ 
 that's why I'm so very fond of you. 
 
 Uncle Jo. (witJi a grunt of disapproved) You going 
 to loll there all day '? 
 
 Sir Harry. I must have a serious talk to myself occa- 
 sionally, you know. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Well, I'm going back. 
 
 Sir Harry. Have another, {offering cigar-case) 
 
 Uncle Jo. No, thank you, this'll take me as far as tlie- 
 liouse. Good-bye for the present. 
 
 Sir Harry. Good-bye ! (Uncle Jo disappears ihroiigh 
 trees at the hack) 
 
 Sir Harry, (makes Jiimself quite comfortable) Now 
 I shouldn't be a bit surprised — if I didn't have just a littl<v 
 doze — nobody in tlie world knows wliere I am. except me. 
 (Edith Cadogan's I'oice is heard talking to Uncle Jo) 
 
 Edith. It's very fortunate meeting j-ou. I'll find him. 
 (andsJie piislies her way through the ferns) 
 
 Sir Harry. JM}' gracious, it's Edith — what on earth are 
 you doing here ? 
 
 Edith. I drove over with your mother and Hugli 
 Graeme from the Hydro. I've brought you some more 
 papers to go through. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh. lord, if anybody ever makes me a 
 
 trustee again — I — I'll {he leaves politely to her) Take 
 
 a mound ? 
 
 Edith, (looking down at him) No, thank you. 
 
 Sir Harry. How's mother? 
 
 Edith. Blooming. 
 
 Sir Harry. She going to be at the Hydro long ? 
 
 Edith. I don't know. ^ 
 
 Sir Harry. How did you find Oi.i, this spot — nobody 
 knows of it. except me. 
 
 Edith. We ran into your uncle pist tliis minute. 
 
 Sir Harry. It's very careless of Uncle Jo, that's all I 
 can say.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 27 
 
 Edith. Aren't you glad to see me ? 
 
 Sir Hakuy. No. 
 
 Edith. Not a bit ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Not a bit. 
 
 Edith. I don't believe you, Harry, You're very fond 
 of me really, because I haven't thiovvu myself at your 
 head as other girls have. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh ! 
 
 Edith. Your mother has been telling me this morning 
 how very trying you find it— being so badgered. Why not 
 give all your money away— to me, for instance— then per- 
 haps some one who isn't too particular might (she 
 
 IdHghs (loini at him ) What is it ? " Love you for yourself 
 alone ! " 
 
 Sir Harry. I wish you'd go away. 
 
 Edith, {smiluig) You're a sentimental old darling, 
 that's what you are. You will go througii those papers, 
 for me. won't you ':' 
 
 Sir Harry. Um ! 
 
 Edith. And send them bnok to me to-night ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes. (she pulls a fern and sUs oeside hiviy 
 then casually strokes Jiis cheek with it) 
 
 Edith, {softli/) Harry? 
 
 Sir Harry, idozili/) Um ! 
 
 Edith. Is that nil? 
 
 Sir Harry. What more do you w.nnt ? 
 
 Edith. You never care to understand now — doj'ou? 
 
 Sir Harry. No. 
 
 Edith. Do you remember the tnllcs we used to have ? 
 
 Sir Harry. ' Christians, awake 1 What a question I 
 Wliich talks — what about? 
 
 Edith. About life — serious life. 
 
 Sir Harry. 0!i. lord, yes I 
 
 Edith. We never liave them now. 
 
 Sir Harry. Wlio wants to repeat oneself ? 
 
 Edith. Would it be repeating oneself ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Wouldn't it? Besides, the facts aren't the- 
 same. 
 
 Edith. You do remember the talks? 
 
 Sir Harry. If you mean a serious talk I had with j'ou 
 at tlie Gordons' dance? 
 
 Edith. (senfimentaU!/) Out on the leads off the land- 
 ing, under that shabby awning. You do remember? 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes, you were engaged to Dick Rliodes, 
 and for some odd reason you confided to v.i*^ that you 
 rather despised liim. 
 
 Edith. Well, 1 <-lid as you wished — I broke it off next> 
 day. 
 
 Sir Harry, {sifting vj}) As I wished! I like that;:
 
 •28 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 ■what difference did it iiKike to me? I said I thoiipht j'ou 
 Avere a fool, or perhaps rather worse, to be engaged to be 
 married to a man you •' rather despised," tliat's all — and 
 — and — J'OU cliucked him — no fool you. 
 
 Edith. Do you know Hugh Graeme? 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes— at school with him. 
 
 Edith. What do you think of him? 
 
 Sir Harry. Danni good chap. Not brainy — but damn 
 good chap. 
 
 Edith, He wants me to marry him ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh ! Damn good cliai), not brainy — but a 
 damn good chap. 
 
 Edith. I think I shall. 
 
 Sir Harry. Ah ! 
 
 Edith. You haven't any advice to give me voir, I sup- 
 jiose ? 
 
 Sir Harry, (stretching himsdf lazily) My dear girl — 
 out on the leads — under a shabby awning — with an occa- 
 sional star and a soothing band from the room below, one 
 may let oneself drift into giving advice — but not here. 
 We live here — we don"t float about in darkness un a tune. 
 
 Edith, (shortlij) I shall marry him. 
 
 Sir Harry. I should. 
 
 Edith. Thank you. 
 
 Hugh, ['eanl calling) 1 say. Miss Cadogan? 
 
 Edith. There he is. 
 
 Sir Harry. Nice voice. 
 
 Hugh. Where are you ? 
 
 Edith. I'm coming. 
 
 Hugh. Oh ! in there, (he comes in. He is a heavily 
 huilt man irith a vcri/ large nioustuche) Here you are. 
 Lady Milanor is beginning to complain of cramp. Hullo, 
 Milanor ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Hullo ! 
 
 Edith. Very well, (she moves aivay hrighil/j smiling) 
 I'll give your love to your mother, Harry, and so leave 
 you. and seriously I'll take your advice this time. 
 
 Sir Harry. Eh ! (she bends doivn and ivhispers) 
 
 Edith. rU marry liim. 
 
 Sir Harry. I believe you will. What are some women 
 made of ? (she laughs, and turns to Graeue siceetly) Let's 
 SO. 
 
 Hugh, (crossing swiftly to Sir Harry) I say— has she 
 tohl vou? 
 
 Sir Harry. What ? 
 
 Hugh. Tliat I want to 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh, yes. 
 
 Hugh. Wish jou'd jiut in a good word. 
 
 Sir Harry. I" liave. 
 
 Hugh. Awfully good of you — at one time she led me to
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 20 
 
 suppose that you — er — and of course you're so deuced ricli 
 that 1 knew if you did l"d liave uu earthly — but voii 
 don't. 
 
 SiK Harry, Certainly not. I'm her trustee ; it would 
 be illegal. 
 
 Hu(iH. {much intjjressed) Oh, M-ould it? I didn't 
 know — I'm an awful ass really ; peoi)le don't know it, but 
 I am. Think she'll ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Sure she'll — she said she would. 
 
 Hugh, (delightedly) Did she ? 
 
 Edith, (from back calling) Must I go alone, Hugh? 
 
 HuciH. Coming! (and he dasJies after her) 
 
 Sir Harry. What a nuisance they all are. If all this 
 rabble keep on coming here tiie fairies won't like it — I'm 
 jolly well sure they won't, (his eyes rove lovingly round 
 the scene, and at length come to a stctndstill at the sight of 
 (I note sticking out of a- cleft in the trunk of a tree) Well, 
 I'm hanged if somebody hasn't written a note and stuck it 
 up ill that tree. How dare they do such a thing? How 
 positivel}' dare they? (he gets up and approaches it 
 gingerly) Now, who put it there? It couldn't be the 
 King — lie's too small — or the Queen either. No, they 
 couldn't liave done it, not even by standing on each other's 
 heads. The fairies wouldn't ajiprove of this sort of thing 
 — I'lu jolly well sure they wouldn't. I'd better put a stoj) 
 to it at once, (he takes out the note and looks at it) Not 
 addressed to a single .soul — this is very embarrassing — it 
 may be meant for me — it must be meant for me — I'm tlu^ 
 only person here. I — I hope it isn't important, (he opens 
 ■it (Old reads) "If I'm a. minute late I don't suppose 1 
 .shall ccHue at all." — Hm 1 concise. Now, I wonder who 
 it's from an<l to. and liow long it's been there. It's alto- 
 gether really very odd. I think I'll put it back again. 
 (he does so) Hullo, more ]ieople — somebody must have told 
 everybody about this place. It isn't half such a cosy cor- 
 ner as it used to be when I was eight years old, (he goes 
 behind one of the bushes) It's killed that rabbit ; I'm jolly 
 well sure it has. (and down, throughthc opening strolls the 
 innn'tcnlate youth Jack Kexxerly. He comes to the tree 
 and takes the note, opens it. reads it carelessly, tears it vjj, 
 2>nts the pieces in, his pocket, and proceeds to light a cigar- 
 ette, remarking to himself after about the third pvff) 
 
 .Jack. Well, if she thinks I'm going to kick my heels 
 al)o\it here all day she's jolly well mistaken — my train goes 
 at one fifty. 
 
 Sir Harry, (having recognized voice, says) Hello, 
 Kennerly ! 
 
 Jack. ' Who the Hello ! (as Sir Harry comes 
 
 round the l)ush there is anau-kard jwuse ; it is obvious that 
 Jack is not over glad to see Sir Harryj
 
 ."30 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Sir Harry, {contentedhj Hitting doivn against tr;c) 
 By gad, isift it a beautiful day? 
 
 J.\CK. It is. {anothi'r patiae) 
 
 Sir Harry. Now. ye know, I can't help wondering to 
 .myself what brings you here. 
 
 Jack. I was wondering the same about you. 
 
 Sir Harry. I belong here. I — I understand this plare 
 — you don't — you ouglit to keep on the gravel ])a.th. you 
 ought indeed. You seem lidgetty, are you expecting any 
 one? 
 
 Jack. No. 
 
 Sir Harry. If she's a minute or two late she isn't 
 coming at all— so I'm not in your wa}^ am I ? 
 
 Jack. Oh ! you read it ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes. I thought somebody ought to read 
 it. It — it looked as if it was just pining for a little atten- 
 tion. 
 
 Jack. There's a great charm about you. Milanor. 
 
 Sir Harry, (blnndhj) Yes, tiiere is, isn't there? Are 
 you going to wait here much longer ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh ! then I think I'll go away. 
 
 Jack. Thank you. 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't mention it. Is she pretty ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Sir Harry. Luckj^ man. (he looks at Jack icitli a sigJi) 
 You've no income, no prospects, nothing in the world but 
 just yourself ; and — and — " If she's a minute or two late, 
 .she isn't coming at all." {a pause) Kennerly, she means 
 coming. Stand there waiting for her, if you have to wait 
 a thousand years, it's worth it — she's coming just to see 
 you. (he goes au-ai/ through trees — touehing a berry here 
 and a fern, there as lie goes) 
 
 Jack, to himself) 'Pon my soul, I believe that fellow's 
 mad. (tliea he begins sniffing) Fish ! I smell bad fisli. 
 (Jie sees the fish a)id the bones) How the dickens did tliis 
 filth get here ? (and he gingerly chuel's it all away over the 
 biishes. After a moment's pause Mabel comes quickly 
 through the ferns, a little out of breath, but looking very 
 sweet and happy) 
 
 Mabel. Oh ! I am so sorry, Jack, but I've been look- 
 ing for the twins. 
 
 Jack. Lost again ? 
 
 ^Iabel. Yes, they've been lost for half-au-liour. 
 
 Jack. They'll turn up. 
 
 Mabel. Oh jes, I hope so. 
 
 Jack. They can't climb the wall, and there's no jioncl 
 for them to fall into, so they're sure to be all right. 
 
 Mabel. You think so ? 
 
 Jack. Sure so— aren't yon ?
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 31 
 
 Mabel. Yes, I suppose I a,m. 
 
 Jack. Tlien we can have a minute or two all alone. 
 
 IMabel. Yes, if you're very good. 
 
 Jack. I"ni always good. 
 
 Mabel. Pretty good ? 
 
 Jack, {softly) Would you like me to be wicked ? 
 
 Mabel. I don't know. 
 
 Jack. Would you like to experimentalize? 
 
 Mabel. (looking at liim) No, I don't think so. 
 
 Jack. You seem doubtful. 
 
 Mabel. I'm not a bit. 
 
 Jack, (getting a little nearer to her) Tliere's a liorrible 
 fascination in doing things you know are quite wrong. 
 
 Mabel. I know there is — that's wliy I'm here. 
 
 Jack, (slowly, icitli a great deal of intention) Do you 
 mean that ? 
 
 Mabel. What ? 
 
 .Jack. Yoii know. 
 
 Mabel. I don't, (their eyes meet, she sJirinls a little 
 from him) What do you look at me like that for ? 
 
 .Jack. I — I'm awfully — head-over-ears in lovewitli j'ou. 
 
 Mabel. Does that make you look at me like thatV 
 
 Jack. Yes ! 
 
 Mabel. It isn't a nice look — it — it seems to have a lot 
 ^behind it. 
 
 Jack. It has ! 
 
 Mabel. I'm sorry I came. 
 
 Jack. Tiiat's not true — you— you know it isn't true ! 
 ■(he bends quite close to her) 
 
 Mabel. (re2)nlsing him) No, I don't want you any 
 nearer, (a jxiuse. He hacls off, she sits on one of the 
 mounds. Iter chin in her Jiands, and stares at him) Jack, 
 it's awfull}' curious, isn't it 'i 
 
 Jack. What is? 
 
 Mabel. Why, all this — the way we're going on now. 
 Just fancy you and I being so silly after having known 
 each other all these years ! 
 
 Jack. It isn't being silly — it's being wise. 
 
 Mabel. We never dreamed of this sort of thing in 
 London. What's happened? Both of us .seem to be two 
 people now, wlien we meet with other people about 
 
 Jack, (bending over her, interrupts softly) There's no 
 fun in that ! 
 
 Mabel. I know thei'e isn't now. that's the funny part, 
 everything's so changed — but — but — when we're quite 
 alone — and — and — together like this — it all gets so — so 
 <;urious — it gets — gets as if it were dizzy — doesn't it ? You 
 -<lon't seem to be a bit like you. You don't seem to be a 
 bit like anybody real — you're just a — a— oli ! I can't ex- 
 plain — and I seem to be — a — oh ! not myself a bit — or — no
 
 :>> THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 o- 
 
 — yes — I am myself. I'm part of myself — but the part of 
 me tliat I know and everybody else knows seems far away. 
 It's awfully curious. I — I wonder why I came 'i 
 
 Jack. Because you couldn't help it. 
 
 Mabel. I won't come any more ! 
 
 Jack. Yes, you will ! 
 
 Mabel. No, I won't ! 
 
 Jack. I love you, Mabel ! 
 
 Mabel. Do you? {a lo')ig pmise) I don't love you— at 
 least, I don't think I do. No, I'm quite sure I don't — be- 
 cause, when I think you over, somehow it strikes me that 
 you're quite ordinary, and if I loved you. you couldn't be 
 ordinary, could you"? (then she lireatcfi off, and says in a. 
 most matter-of-fact manner) And, besides, I don't believe 
 in love. 
 
 Jack. May I come and sit quite close to you ? {she- 
 doesn't answer, lie conies quiethj and stands beside her) 
 You're not really sorry you came ? 
 
 Mabel. lam — and — I'm not — that's where it's so funny. 
 (he pids out Jiis hand, and gentli/ touches her liair, then, 
 heads to kiss her, she shrinks from hitn) No — don't — Jack 
 — don't, please. 
 
 Jack, (softly) I kissed you before once, why mayn't I 
 now ■? A kiss is such a little thing. 
 
 Mabel. It isn't — it — it's an awful thing — that kiss began 
 it all. 
 
 Jack. ' Of course it did. 
 
 Mabel. Wliy should it be — be so unsettling to one ? 
 No — don't, (she vioves from him) I'm serious about this 
 —I thought you'd understand, (then suddenly) This is 
 the last time I'm ever going to be alone with you. Jack. 
 I made up my mind to that while I was coming here — 
 you — you — you're not a good influence — j'ou make me per- 
 turbed. 
 
 Jack, (in a tchisper) Mab, there isn't a soul anywhere 
 near us — we're all alone. God's beautiful sky, and the 
 trees, and— and the soft grass — and — and— oh, everything 
 that makes life beautiful; and, if I come and sit quite 
 close to you, like this, and just put my arm round you. 
 like this— and— oh ! Mab, I may kiss you again, mayn't I ? 
 
 IMabel. (slowly) No, Jack— don't. It— it's awfully 
 wrong really. I've been in a sort of a cloud ever since 
 that night, but— but— every time I see you now, I know 
 that it all means nothing between you and me. 
 
 Jack. "VVhy doesn't it ? You liked it when I kissed you^ 
 didn't 3'ou ? 
 
 Mabel. Yes, but I don't think that's quite the point. 
 You (lidn't kiss me. you — you — kissed the ivomav in me — 
 and— and — that kiss has made a difference. Don't. Jack — 
 you mustn't do it again, (tlus quite serious and sloio)
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 33 
 
 Jack. As you please, {he saunters aicay) 
 
 Mabel. Oh, Jack, if one could only understand what it 
 all means ! 
 
 Jack, {with a laugh) /can. 
 
 Mabel. Oh no, you can't, you can't at ull, that's wliy 
 it's so horrid. Why should you be able to inisettle nie, 
 when you can't really understand anj-thinf^V You talk 
 about " the sky and the trees '' — but, oh, Jack, you — you — 
 
 don't care a bit about them really — you {fJien tcitli. a 
 
 ci»aplete change she breaks off) Oli, don't lefs talk about 
 til is any more— let's ro and look for the twins. 
 
 Jack, {reproachfully) Oh, I say, Mab, don't go on like 
 this ; it isn't as if we had all the morning, my beastly 
 train goes at one fift}', and I shan't see you again for 
 niontlis. 
 
 Mabel. Tliat's a good thing. 
 
 Jack, {coming to her and holding out his arms) Mab ! 
 
 Mabel. Don't be silly, Jack— we'll forget this last ten 
 dnys, and go back to where Ave were before. 
 
 Jack. We can't. I can't, and I'm sure j-ou can't. 
 
 BIabel. lean, {a long jianse) I am. 
 
 Jack, (n-liispers) Are you reallj-, Mabel ? {she is sif- 
 ting on the slope of the mound. He is k)ieeling close, and a 
 little above her. Ashe sjjeaks. he steals hislaaids round her 
 throat, and turns her face vjy towards his, till their eyes meet 
 in a long look. She shivers a little, but makes no resistance ; 
 as he bends his face nearer her. she whispers) 
 
 Mabel. Don't, Jack — oh, don't — it's so awfully wrong. 
 {and their lij^s meet — the7i there is a long pause, during 
 irhich he draivs her closer to him. Tliey become listless, 
 she stares out in front of her. He takes her hand and 
 .strokes it gently with Jus own. She says slowly) Where 
 are we drifting, do you know. Jack ? 
 
 Jack. I'm too happy to think. 
 
 Mabel. I must think, (a pause) Are you really 
 happy. Jack ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Mabel. Really and truly happy ? 
 
 Jack, {kissing her hands tenderly) Really and truly. 
 
 Mabel. I'm not. I'm miserable— oh, so miserable I 
 {she flings herself away from him and lies on the mound, 
 her face Iddden in her hands) 
 
 Jack. Mab! Mab! 
 
 Mabel. I— I'm beginning to understand, {she gets up 
 and walks towards the bushes at one side and pulls at the 
 leaves; then after a jKmse, she says quietly) Jack, you — 
 you say you — love me? 
 
 Jack, {softly) You know I love you. (Mabel bows 
 her head a little, still pulling abstractedly at the leaves, 
 passing them through and through her fingers) 
 
 3
 
 34 THE WILDERNESS, 
 
 Mabel. Then you — you'd like to marry me ? (there is 
 <t pause — she realizes the silence — looks iip qiriclclij, and 
 turns questioningly to him) Why don't you answer? 
 
 Jack, {sloidy and a Utile lamehj) Of course I' ' like to 
 marry you. 
 
 Mabel. AVhy liave you never said anything about it? 
 
 Jack. Oh, because— {he laughs lightly) — it's impos- 
 sible — it would be too absurd. 
 
 Mabel, (stares at him in silence, then says quietly ) I 
 don't quite luiderstand that. 
 
 Jack, (nervously) Wliy, my dear girl, I've no money, 
 you've no money, A pretty figure we should cut if we 
 married. 
 
 Mabel, (sloicly) "A pretty figure we should cut" — 
 and j-et you love me. 
 
 Jack. That's very different, I can't help loving you. 
 
 Mabel. But you can lielp marr\'ing me, I see. How 
 nice to have so much self-control ! (tJie two stand staring 
 at each other, fill he drops liis eyes and kicks at the tnrf in 
 embarrassment) I'm glad I caTneout here to you to-day — 
 you've steadied me, (a pause. Tliey look at each other 
 enriously) Do you know, during this last week, I've been 
 seriously thinlcing of letting my chances of a brilliant 
 future slip tlu-ough my fingers ? 
 
 .Lack. Wliy? 
 
 Mabel. You. (looking at him intently) Tlie new 
 " you " — what you said and — and — did — made it seem 
 suddenly wrong of me to marry him. 
 
 Jack. I didn't mean 
 
 Mabel. (interrupting sorrowfidly) You didn't mean 
 anything, I know that now. Do you remember talking to 
 me chaftingly in London about love, and telling me if ever 
 I took up tlie subject you'd teach me the rudiments ? I 
 thiidv. you've done it, don't you ? But the odd jmrt is, that 
 up to a minute ago, I had begun to think love too serious 
 to he a game. 
 
 Jack, A minute ago ? 
 
 Mabel. You made me imderstand tliat love is nothing 
 really ; you can take my hands, j-ou can kiss me, shame 
 me in my own eyes and your own. because you love me. 
 What comes of it? (she laughs a little) "I've no money 
 — you've no money, A pretty figure we should cut," 
 Your own words. Jack, your own words, just think them 
 over. You've brought me back again to common sense. 
 No, no ! Love may be very attractive, but mariiage is 
 more tangible. I'll marry Sir Harry and find my amuse- 
 ment in seeing how it turns out. (she gives a hard little 
 laugh and swings on her heel as if to go) 
 
 Jack. You're angry with me ? 
 
 Mabel, You're onlv a coward, that's all.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 35 
 
 Jack. You're unjust. I should be a coward to marry 
 jou. I can give you nothing, lie can give you everything. 
 {then passionately) Oh. Mabel! 
 
 Mabel. {cJiecks him with a bitter little smile) Don't worry 
 yourself. I'm very grateful to you, Jack, But for you I 
 might have made a fool of mj'self. As you love me so 
 very dearly I promise you one thing. I'll write and let 
 you know when the wedding day is fixed. 
 
 Jack, (shortly) Tliank vou ! I sujipose it will come 
 ■oflf? 
 
 Mabel. Oh yes, with a little tact — I'm very young, but 
 I've been well trained, {then her voiee breaks a little, and 
 she turns a)id faecs hi)]i. her lips quivering, her eyes filling 
 until tears) But look liere, Jack ; don't go on tlnidcing 
 you're in love and kissing peojile — it may be all right for 
 you, but — but it's a little dangerous for the girl. 
 
 Jack. You mean 
 
 Mabel. I mean — that — that — it very nearly made a dif- 
 ference to me. 
 
 Jack, (coining to her) "What difference? 
 
 Mabel. It tempted me for a moment to think that 
 perhaps there were things in life more important than 
 making one of the biggest matches of the season. 
 
 Sir Harry comes down through the trees, is surprised at 
 
 seeing Mabel. 
 
 Sir Harry. You I You ! 
 
 Mabel, {with a complete change of manner turns to Sir 
 Harry irith a sunny smile) I — I suppose we're trespass- 
 ing, aren't we? 
 
 Sir Harry. Not a bit. But how on earth did you dis- 
 cover this out-of-the-way corner of the world ? 
 
 Mabel. I came here to meet Jack, because I thought 
 we should be quite alone. 
 
 Sir Harry, (gravely) I see ! Then it is clearly my 
 duty to remove myself. 
 
 Mabel. That doesn't follow. .Jack and I have had a 
 very serious talk, but we've said all we had to say — and — 
 and it's over — and he has forgiA'en me. 
 
 Sir Harry, (looking from one to the other) What had 
 lie to forgive ? 
 
 Mabel. A great deal, hadn't you, Jack ? 
 
 Jack, (laughing) A great deal — are you coming back 
 to the house? 
 
 Mabel. No, I'm going to sit here and talk to Sir Harry. 
 
 Sir Harry. Seriously ? 
 
 Mabel. I always talk seriously. 
 
 Jack. It's nearly Innch-tinie. 
 
 jMabel. I hate lunch ! If I'm late, explain to mamma 
 that I've lost myself in the woods with Sir Harry.
 
 S3 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Jack, (slioyflij) I will. {]te strolls aicay. She laughs 
 lightly as he moves, then calls after him) 
 
 JMabel. I'll write to you as I promised, you ought to 
 get the letter in two days. Good-bye. 
 
 Jack. Thanks ! I slian't see you again then — my train 
 goes at one fifty. 
 
 Mabel. So it does ! Good-bye. 
 
 Jack. Good-bye. {and he goes) 
 
 Sir Harry, {looking at Mabel, 7cho ?'s lying aaainst 
 the mound, her hands clasped behind her head, looking iip 
 into the sky) Why have you sent him away 'f 
 
 Mabel. I haven't. He just went. 
 
 Sir Harry. Did I drive him away? 
 
 Mabel. No ; he was going before you came. 
 
 Sir Harry. I read the note j'ou stuck in the tree. 
 ' Mabel, {calmly) Did you ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Have vou been having a very serious 
 talk ? 
 
 Mabel. Very. Sir Harry, do all girls hate themselves 
 as much as I hate myself? 
 
 Sir Harry. Do you hate yourself ? 
 
 Mabel. Awfully ! So would you if j'ou knew what 
 I've done. 
 
 Sir Harry. .Should I? {he comes a little toicards her) 
 Tell me what you've done. 
 
 Mabel, {sloidy) I'm afraid I've been flirting with 
 Jack. 
 
 Sir Harry. Have you ? 
 
 Mabel. Yes, I think I must have been. I didn't mean 
 to. I didn't know it was flirting, he says it was, and i ex- 
 pect he knows more about it tlian I do. 
 
 Sir Harry. I shouldn't wonder. 
 
 Mabel. And then quite suddenly it all got serious, and 
 — and so I wn'ote that note and came out here to — to ttU 
 him how sorry I was — and — and to ask him to forgive me. 
 It's awful when a person asks you to marry thetn and you 
 don't want to, and so have to say no. You've never been 
 through that, have you ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Almost ; you see I've twenty thousand a 
 year. 
 
 Mabel, {sitting iip and facing him) You mean — oh. 
 how horrid for you ! What fools women are — as if money 
 mattered ! {she lies back again) That's what made Jack 
 so angry just now. He said I wouldn't marry him because 
 he was poor. Why, one couldn't help marrying a man if 
 one loved him, however poor he was, could one ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Poverty is a blessing sometimes. 
 
 Mabel, {suddenly) Oh, Sir Harry — Sir Harry — why is 
 there such a thing as life ? i wish to goodness I was a 
 beetle !
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 37 
 
 Sir Harry, (smiling down at her) What would you 
 gain ? 
 
 Mabel, (icearily) Nothing, I suppose— even beetles 
 get trodden on at tlie finish, (a jitmse, then she looks vp 
 at him suddenly, and says) Did it strike you that I'd been 
 tlirting with Jack ? 
 
 Sir Harry. I've never seen you together. 
 
 Mabel. Haven't you ? Oh, I suppose you haven't — but 
 does it strike you as likely ? 
 
 Sir Harry. No. 
 
 Mabel. I'm sure I haven't been. Jack must have mis- 
 understood me. Why, I've known Jack since he was a 
 little boy. (she sighs serdimentally) Poor old Jack ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Poor old Jack ! 
 
 Mabel. I hope it won't pi'event our remaining friends. 
 
 Sir Harry. I Jiope not. 
 
 Mabel. Well, I can't help it if it does, can I? Just 
 fancy what it would be to many any one one didn't 
 love. 
 
 Sir Harry. You talk very glibly of love. What do 
 3'ou know about it ? 
 
 Mabel. Nothing. I only dream. 
 
 Sir Harry. You have dreamt of love — tell me what 
 ■" love " seems to you. 
 
 Mabel, (a little at a loss) Oh — a man 
 
 Sir Harry. Naturally. 
 
 Mabel. And, if you love him— it— means that— that you 
 love him — that you— that you— oh — tliat you're able to be 
 your real self when you are witli him. That you— oh, I 
 ■tlon't think I know reall.y, anyhow, I can't put it into words. 
 (site tiirns on her shoulder, and looks up at hivi) You tell 
 me what you mean by " love." 
 
 Sir Harry. When I was about your age, I think I 
 must have had the same ideas about love that you have. 
 
 Mabel. You can't tell what ideas I have, because I 
 couldn't think of the words to ])ut them in, and tell you. 
 
 Sir Harry. It doesn't want words to tell wliat your 
 ideas of love are. He's a fairy ])rince. (she makes an 
 amused grimace to herself, then says sentimentally) 
 
 Mabel. I shouldn't care if he was a beggar, so long as 
 he was Love. 
 
 Sir Harry. Wouldn't you really ! (then he moves to- 
 ivards her, vith a laugh of delight) Oh, what a treat it 
 is to talk to you ! 
 
 Mabel, 'i^ou're making fun of me. 
 
 Sir Harry. I'm not. I'm in deadly earnest. You've 
 no idea what a treat it is to meet some one who wouldn't 
 care a liang if you were a pauper. Now look here, let you 
 and I be tlioroughly ourselves and have a talk. 
 
 Mabel, (falling into his mood at once) Oh, if one
 
 38 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 could always be oneself wouldn't it be splendid ? But 
 there are so few people who'd understand. 
 
 Sir Harry. I'd understand. 
 
 Mabel. Yes, I think you would. 
 
 Sir Harry. Then if you think that, you know I — I"ni 
 ■worth making a friend of. 
 
 Mabel. Yes, I know that too. 
 
 Sir Harry. Then wliy have you avoided me so steadily 
 these last ten days, won't you tell nie ? You can trust 
 me. Remember we're botli being thoroughly ourselves. 
 so nothing we say matters. Why have you avoided 
 me ? 
 
 Mabel. Because {very sloidy) I've got a friend — a girl 
 friend — who, when she heard we were coming down to 
 stay here, said it was " clever "' of me — as j'ou were a 
 great catch. 
 
 Sir Harry, {icith disgust) Isn't it like them ? Oh, 
 how I hate my friends ! 
 
 Mabel. So do I. That one especially. 
 
 Sir Harry. And that's wlij- j-ou've 
 
 Mabel. That's why. (a pmese) Isn't it awful for 
 you ? 
 
 Sir Harry. What ? 
 
 Mabel. Being such a catch. 
 
 Sir Harry. I've not been caught yet. 
 
 Mabel. You will be some day. 
 
 Sir Harry. I keep my ej-es open. 
 
 Mabel. Wliafs the good of that 'i Love's eyes may be- 
 open, but Love is blind. 
 
 Sir Harry. {gently) Not alwaj-s. {she rises and 
 ^L1alks slowly to the centre and stands staring at the fairy 
 ring. He iratches her) 
 
 Mabel. Do vou know what that is? 
 
 Sir Harry. 'What? 
 
 Mabel, (pointing) That. 
 
 Sir Harry. That circle of pale grass ? 
 I I\Iai?el. Yes. 
 
 Sir Harry, {watching her) Bad turf, of course. 
 
 Mabel. No. {very gravely) That's the fairies" ring. 
 
 Sir Harry. Is it really ? 
 
 Mabel. Yes. really. And — they come here when the- 
 ■wicked people in the world are asleei), and solemnly dance 
 round and round. 
 
 Sir Harry, (anxiously) Do — do you like to believe 
 that ? 
 
 Mabel, (gravely) Yes. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh, ]\lal)el, so <lo I. (he seizes her hands 
 and laughs delightedly) I love to believe those things, 
 tliey make life beautiful — what — what — oh, what a dear 
 you are !
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 3<> 
 
 Mabel. Don't be foolish, Harry ! 
 
 Sir Harry. I — I can't heli) it. Tell me more about 
 the fairies. 
 
 Mabel. You wouldn't care to hear. 
 
 Sir Harry. Wouldn't care? Why — why — look here — 
 ril tell you something. Before you came I brought Uncle 
 Jo here, and I told him all about 'em — and he didn't care 
 a bit — he kept on reading- his stuffy paper all about 
 beastly money and — I told him the fairies wouldn't like 
 it, but he went on just tiie same. Oh, I'm so glad we've 
 liad this talk — we might have been j^ears before we got 
 to know eacli other as well as we do now. {the bell of the 
 old church clock is heard faintly in the distance) 
 
 Mabel. Half-past one. Oh, I nuist go. 
 
 Sir Harry. Not yet. Oh, don't go yet. What does 
 time matter? We've all our lives before us. 
 
 IMabel. You can do as j'ou please. I can't. I'm only 
 a girl — and stern duty 
 
 Sir Harry. Stern duty saj-s stay here. Why, all our 
 future may be at stake — we're here in the fairies' ring. 
 (she tries to iiwve lier hands from his) No — no — don't — 
 not yet. I — Ive got a heap to say. You were talking of 
 love just now — wondering — we botli wei'e — what it was. 
 I'll tell you wiiat it is— it's what I've got for you. 
 
 Mabel. Don't — don't 
 
 Sir Harry. I must. It— it isn't the stuff they write 
 about in books — it's just " love.'' Mabel, we've both got 
 to live our lives, and — oh, it's so Iiard to live one's life 
 effectively alone, but if you'll take ])ity on me. join liands 
 with me forever as we've joined hands now, what a 
 chance we'd have, wouldn't we? Why, we could go back 
 into the wilderness witii perfect faith, trust and confidence 
 — we could stand shoulder to shoulder and go through 
 with everything without a fear. You're real — I'm realat 
 last. Will you liave me, IMabel, will you have me? (then, 
 with a crij, she flings herself froui him, and throios herself 
 sobbing upon the grass) 
 
 Mabel. No— no— oh, don't ! No! No! 
 
 Sir Harry, (going to her and kneeling in great distress) 
 My dear ! My dear ! 
 
 Mabel. Oh, don't ! don't— go away !— I didn't think— 
 I didn't mean 
 
 Sir Harry. Hush, dear, hush! W^hy, my little one— 
 what is there so terrible in knowing that there is some 
 one ready and willing to lay down his life for you? (a 
 long pause. She gets up and moves away, controlling her- 
 self) 
 
 Mabel. T— I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a fool. 
 (then she t}ums to him, and they look lung into each other's 
 eyes — till su-iflly she flings out her arms to himicitha cry —
 
 40 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 half sob, half laugh) Oh, Harry, Harrj', if you were 
 starving I'd inarry you to-morrow. 
 
 Sir Harry, {very gravely) You'll marry me this day 
 month ? 
 
 Mabel. Don't ask me to — oh, please don't ask me to. 
 {and he slowly draws her to him and kisses her. Slie 
 ■stands passive and suhviissive, and as he releases her she 
 .•^inks again to the ground and buries her face in her 
 It a.) ids) 
 
 Sir Harry, {after a pause, raises her very tenderly — 
 holds her at amis lengtli, looking at her proudly) My 
 wife ! {then he tvhispers, bending towards her) What 
 have you got to say ':' 
 
 Mabel, {slowly) Notliing — nothing at all, except 
 that — {with^ a. little sob) I — I'm very tired. 
 
 Sir Harry, {tenderly) Poor dear, (he puts Jiis arm 
 round Iter. They turn to go. As they reach the opening in 
 the trees he stops and looks doivn) A violet ! 
 
 Mabel, {quickly) Don't — don't pick that. 
 
 Sir Harry, {looldng vp at tier) I wasn't going to, 
 really, {lie smiles happily) Oh, isn't it all good? (then 
 he lifts his head and stands for a moment listoiing) Hush, 
 <;ome away, {they back off beliind the tree as the golden, 
 lieads appear throngh the bushes and, the twins solemnly 
 toddle to tlie fairy ring and contemplate it gravely) 
 
 Harold. They've etted up the yaddick. I knowed 
 they was hungry. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 THE DAY. 
 
 Scene. — A very comfortable home room, half library, half 
 drau'ing-room. A big fire burning. In front of it, in a 
 big arm-chair, Sir Harry lying reading a book. At a 
 table not far off I\Iabel sitting tvorking. The curtain 
 rises and then, a long silence, no movement. 
 
 Sir Harry, {suddenly looking vp) from his book) 
 Sweetheart ! 
 
 Mabkl. (quietly) Yes ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Edith and Hugh are coming in about nine, 
 they're in a fix over some business or other. 
 
 Mabel. Poor Edith ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Poor me ! I'll never be a trustee again, 
 as long as I live, (he goes on reading. Another long
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 41 
 
 jiause. She rises and com:r. and siands beside him — jmts 
 her hand on his head. He puts itis hand up and takes 
 hers) 
 
 Sir Harry, (softly) Dear old sweet ! I feel awfully- 
 dozy — play something. (Mabel goes to jiiano and plays, 
 a)id Sir Harry continues dreaindy) Life's a beautiful 
 thing when it goes straight, don't you think so? 
 
 Mabel. Beautiful, {she leaves the piano and comes don-n 
 and sits on. the floor beside him ; wiili one hand he strokes 
 her hair, tlie other holds up his book. He goes on reading) 
 
 3Iabel. You've taught uie such a lot, Harry. 
 
 Sir Harry. Have I ? 
 
 Mabel. There's such a lot in you, I don't understand — 
 but— but I'm trying, Harry. 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't worry, it's not worth it. I'm glad you 
 told me to read this book, it's jolly good, (another long 
 pause ; he reads, and she stares at the fire) 
 
 Mabel. I'm awfully happy, and 1 know I don't de- 
 serve to be. 
 
 Sir Harry, (reading) Who does, if you don't ? 
 
 Mabel. I don't know ; but I know I \lon't. (a pause) 
 Hariy, put down that stuffj' book, and talk to me — I — I 
 want to say heai)s of things. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh, my dear. I'm at such an interesting 
 part. She's just discovered that her motlier drinks, and 
 it's upset her fearfully, (he chucks the book away) What 
 do you want to say, old sober-sides V 
 
 Mabel. Lots of things. 
 
 Sir Harry. Fire away, (a pause, Maeel stares into 
 the fire) 
 
 JNlABEL. Do lies really matter ? 
 
 Sir Harry. I don't like lies— but I'm rather old- 
 fashioned. 
 
 Mabel. Aren't they all right if they're in what turns 
 ■ out to be a good cause ? 
 
 Sir Harry. I'm afraid lies are rather a matter of 
 temperament. 
 
 Mabel, (thoughtfully) A good cause! Why did I say 
 that ? How is one to know if it's a good cause ? What's a 
 good cause to-day seems a bad cause to-morrow. 
 
 Sir Harry. Um ! 
 
 3IABEL. Don't say um. Now, suppose a person who 
 didn't know anything about anything was shown some- 
 tliing she didn't want, and was made to believe that that 
 something tliat she didn't want was what she ought to have, 
 and so she set to work and got it. Well, wiien she's got it, 
 she finds out that it is what she wanted, that she couldn't 
 possibly live without it : ougiit she then to tell what she 
 got, that she really didn't want it when slie was getting 
 it. or ought she jiist to be content because she's got it ?
 
 42 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Sir Harry, {gravely turns and looks at her) Mabel^ 
 will you kindly ring the bell ? 
 
 Mabel. Why ? 
 
 Sir Harry, I want to send for two doctors, and probably 
 a, strait-jacket. My brain has given way. (slie rises and 
 he bursts out laugliing) Why, you silly old girl — what on 
 earth are j'ou driving at ? 
 
 Mabel. Nothing, (lightly) I thought I had a problem 
 to solve, but it doesn't seem to pan out. What time is 
 Edith coming ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Not yet. Come back. I didn't mean to be 
 a brute — what's the problem, old lady ? {she doesn't move 
 till he says very tenderly) Won't you comeV {she conies-^ 
 hack and sits on the floor beside liini) That's right. Now 
 then, say it all over again right from the beginning, and 
 we'll get it straight. 
 
 Mabel. j» No. (s/te makes herself comfortable) It's oidy 
 that I know of something that happened once that began 
 all wrong — but tui-ned out all right. Well, is it right 
 going on being all right when one person in it knows that 
 it wouldn't be all right if the other people in it knew that 
 when it began it was all wrong ? 
 
 Sir Harry. My sweetheart. I don't want to appear- 
 stupid, but would you mind writing it down ? {a pause — 
 she looks at him — then she bends over and kisses hinu 
 rising and leaving her hand resting on his head) 
 
 Mabel. Its awfully hard to be — to be— (.s7/^ falters). 
 to be so — happy — it makes things difificult! {then siid- 
 denly changing her tone and conversation) Harry deai". 
 you're getting very tliin on the top. 
 
 Sir Harry. That's occurred since Thursday — it was 
 Thursday your motlier came to stay, wasn't it? 
 
 ]\Iabel. {with. a. sigh) Oh, yes, it was Thursday. 
 
 Sir Harry. There's a lot of good in your mother — 
 misdirected — but good. 
 
 Mabel. Misdirected, but good. It's awfully funny to- 
 watcii your motlier and my mother togetiier. 
 
 Sir Harry. I'm afraid they don't hit it off. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox enters. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. How tiresome children are ! 
 
 Sir Harry, Your children, never. 
 I Mabel. Are they in bed ? 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. At last. 
 
 Sir Harry. When are j'ou going out ? 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston, Shortly before nine. The car- 
 riage is ordered. 
 
 Sir Harry. Oh, all right.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 43: 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. Mabel, it distresses rae veiy 
 mucli to see you in tliose dowd}- frocks. 
 
 Mabel. I'm sorry tliey're dowdy. 
 
 Sir Harry. They' re not, they're beautiful. Wliat on 
 earth would you have her wear ? 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. I iiate people to be eccentric. 
 It's all very well for artists and that class of people ; they 
 live by it, but it's ridiculous for a married woman, witii 
 an assured position, to dress like a schoolgirl with nothing 
 at all. 
 
 Sir Harry. Does she dress like a schoolgirl ? I thinlc 
 she looks perfect. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. People who didn't know might 
 think you'd married a bank clerk. 
 
 Sir Harry. Why — what 
 
 Mabel. I dress as I please, mamma — Harry likes it. 
 I like it. I don't think other people matter. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. As a girl you were very fond 
 of jesvels, and rightly ; you always made the best of your- 
 self. I'm sure you carried my amethysts superbly. Now,. 
 your extreme simplicity isn't even mitigated by a bangle.. 
 I know it isn't because you haven't got jewels, because- 
 wiiile you were engaged Harrj' was most lavish. 
 
 Sir Harry, By Jove, it's true. I confess I never 
 noticed it, but you have never worn any of those things^ 
 have you, Mab? 
 
 Mabel, (sloidi/) Not yet 
 
 Sir Harry. Wliy? D"on"t you like them? You did 
 then. 
 
 Mabel. Yes, I did then. One of these fine days, when 
 I've justified my existen(?e. l"ll make the best of myself 
 again, and burst on you. in all my splendor, or rather 
 your splendor ; till then, I'll just be myself, if you don't 
 mind, mamma. 
 
 Sir Harry, {looks at her curloushj) Is anything the 
 matter '? 
 
 Mabel, {quietly) No, Harry — no — no — only mamma 
 rubs me the wrong way — and — and I'm rather a cat this 
 evening. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. {looking at her critioxilhj} 
 Wlio makes those dreadful gowns? 
 
 3Iabel. I make these dreadful gowns. 
 
 Sir Harry, {surprised) You do — gracious — why? 
 
 Mabel. I always used to at home — and — I didn't see- 
 wliy I sliould change. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. You used to hale it then. 
 
 Mabel. Well, I like it now. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. Of course, marriage makes a, 
 difference to a girl, but it has no right to make such a 
 difference as tiiat.
 
 44 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Mabel. Lots of things make a diflference that have no 
 riglit to make a difference. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox. I call it a little ungracious to 
 Harry. He'd naturally like j-ou to be smartly gowned — 
 but no— you jnake yourself a — I can only call it a pinafore 
 — I don't mind that, but j'ou-wear it — that's the mistake. 
 
 Mabel. That will do. mamma, suppose you keep quite 
 still and read your paper till the carriage is round. I'm 
 feeling a little aggressive this evening. 
 
 ^IRS. Buckley Weston. You alwavs were an odd child, 
 Mill). 
 
 Sir Harry. That is her chief charm. Bless you, my 
 sweetheart. (a)id he, as lie jx/s.sfs, takes her Jiancl and 
 2)resses it lovingly. SJie sighs, goes to the fire and sits 
 down) I heard the bell, it's the Graemes, 1 expect. I'll 
 go down, we'd better have our chat in the study. We 
 shan't be long, dear. I'll bring 'em up before they go. 
 
 31 ABEL. Very well ! 
 
 Sir Harry. By the way, where's mother ? 
 
 3Irs. Buckley Weston. (iritJi- an aggressive sniff) 
 She retired to lier room immediately after dinner to write 
 letters — she said good-night to me as she felt they would 
 occupy her until I went to the Gordons'. 
 
 Sir Harry, {apologetically) I'm sure she didn't mean 
 it that way. 
 
 jMrs. Buckley W^eston. (blandly) What way? 
 
 Mabel, {aside to Sir Harry) Be quiet — mamma 
 never sees your motlier's meanings. 
 
 Sir Harry. Heavens ! I nearly explained 'em ! (lie 
 iiglifly touches his irife's cheek and goes cloion to the study) 
 
 Mrs. Buckley W^eston. I find Harry's mother a very 
 iliflRcult old Avoman to entertain. I supi^ose at her age the 
 intellect does become dim. 
 
 Mabel. I daresay ! {a long pause. jMabel bends over 
 herifork. looking up noiv and then in thought at the fire) 
 
 Mrs. Buckley W'ESTOX. I see great changes in people. 
 (pause) You are not nearly as chatty and light-hearted 
 us you used to be. 
 
 rilABEL. Really ! 
 
 3Irs. Buckley Weston. I suppose that's always the 
 Avay wlien one has everything one wants. 
 
 IMabel. And knows all the time one doesn't deserve it ! 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. Unless you have been singu- 
 larly secretive you liave done nothing to make you un- 
 worthy of anything. 
 
 Mabel. Haven't!? (« pcn^sc) I've lied, I've cheated, 
 I've tricked a man ! 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston, (in horror) What man ? 
 
 Mabel. I've only met one man in my life, and I sup- 
 l)0se that's the reason I cheated him.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 45- 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox. Wlio is lie. pray ? 
 
 Mabel, {rising snddeiili/ and to.ssiiu/ iter work amn/) 
 Does it matter? I tliink I'd better ring. I m sure the 
 carriage must be there by nov,\ ^ 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox. {luoliincf of icatch) No, ten 
 minutes yet. Kindly explain this to me, Mabel. Yovi're 
 my daughter, and — it's my duty to see that you're ha])]ty. 
 
 Mabel. I have everytliing tliat money can buy and 
 other things besides — so" it's obvious that I'm perfectly 
 happy. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox. Your manner makes me posi- 
 tivel.y cold. 
 
 Mabel. I really wouldn't alter your temperature on 
 my account, mamma — it can't hel|» me. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox. But 1 nuist positively inter- 
 fere. 
 
 Mabel, (quietly) No. please. Nobodyshall ever inter- 
 fere in my life's affairs again. You've done your duty, 
 you started me carefully— on the '• broad, straight road 
 tiiat leadetli to'' — well, you know the Bible backwards, so 
 I needn't tell you where it leads. 
 
 J\lRs. Buckley Westox. (liorrijicd) Mabel! 
 
 Mabel, Don't worry. I've stopped walking. I'm stand- 
 ing still, thinking of a way out. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox". I haven't the remotest idea 
 wliat you're talking about, but I almost fancy that you're 
 having a dig at me. 
 
 Mabel. No, I think I'm " having a dig," as you call it, 
 at myself. 
 
 ]Mi{S. Buckley Westox. Why— why — what have you 
 done":* 
 
 Mabel, (rising) What have I done ? I've been a fraud. 
 You want to know the reason of many things — well, liere 
 it is — quite quietly. When I think of how we schemed 
 to trap him into this marriage — it gets on my ners'es — it 
 — it makes me sick — that's all — it makes me sick — and— it 
 may likewise interest you to know that I have made up 
 my" mind to get straight. I'm going to tell him, manuna. 
 I'm going to tell him everything. I shall never be 
 honestly happy till I do. 
 
 ]Mrs. "Buckley Westox. (agliast) You'll never be happy 
 if you do. 
 
 Mabel. Do you really think that? (fthe stares at her 
 mother, then flings from her in despair) Oh! what's tlie 
 \\M' of asking you what you really think — you never have 
 tliouglit — you never will. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Westox. Wliat are you going to lell 
 him? 
 
 Mabel. Everything that he should have known before- 
 lie married me.
 
 40 THE AVILDERNESS. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley AVestox. Ygu daren't do it, no womaa 
 Mould be svich a fool. 
 31 ABEL.. 1 would, (til c clock strikes) 
 
 Servant enters. 
 
 Servant. The carriage is at the door, m'm. 
 
 Mrs. ISucKLEY Weston. Thank you. {exit Servant) 
 Mabel, there are times when I should like to shake you. 
 
 Mabel. I daresay. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. If you do — this — this wicked 
 thing — I — I will positively never tlarken your doors again ! 
 
 Mabel. I may not have a door to darken. You'd bet- 
 ter get j^our wraps, mamma, Harry hates the horses to be 
 kept waiting. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. I — I"m going. 
 
 Mabel. I wonder what he'll say when I repeat to hini 
 • our conversation as to the relative values of himself and 
 old Worburn as investnrents. You recommended Woi'burn 
 very highly, you may remember. Of course he does own 
 half Park Lane. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston. You— wicked — wicked Avoman ! 
 
 Mabel. I'm glad you couldn't convince me — I'm glad I 
 drew the line at AVorburn. Good-night, mamma dear, I 
 hope you'll have a cheery evening. 
 
 Mrs. Buckley Weston, {after a pause, during which 
 she glares at her daughter, u-Jio is still j^laying) 1 — I can't 
 trust myself to speak to you to-night, I will come to your 
 room in the morning, (and. site goes out. Mabel, j^laj/s 
 on and on, till at length sJie leans her head forivard on the 
 music-rest and cries quietlij. then after a time she dries her 
 eyes, gets up and ivalks to the iciiidoui, is going to open the 
 shutters, suddenly eJianges her mind, goes quickly hack to 
 the piano and dashes into a mad gallop. The Servant 
 announces "Mr. Kennerly") 
 
 Mabel, (starts up in siuprise) Jack — back again? 
 (««rf Jack Kennerley enters) Why — you are a surjirise. 
 When did you get back ? 
 
 Jack. This morning. 
 
 Mabel. And came straight here to see us — that's nice 
 of you. 
 
 Jack. Of course I came straight here — what else should 
 I do? 
 
 Mabel. Wasn't your mother glad you weren't killed ? 
 
 Jack. I hope so. {ajMuse. Mabel, looks at him witJi a 
 smile, then draios in a long breath and almost laughs) 
 
 Mabel. How funny to look at j^ou, Jack — and — think 
 back. I'm glad you've come — because you've come in the 
 nick of time — you — the only person in the world who 
 knows what I really am.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 47 
 
 Jack, {looking at her curionslij) What do you mean 
 ^y that ? 
 
 Mabel. You remind me of eveiything. 
 
 Jack. You only remind me of yourselfo 
 
 Mabel, (meeting Ms glance) How? 
 
 Jack. Memories. 
 
 Mabel, Have you memories ? 
 
 Jack. Yes — one must live. 
 
 3IABEL. Life's easier without them. 
 
 Jack. Life wouldn't be worth having without them. 
 
 Mabel. I don't think we look at life from the same 
 point of view, {slieviovesaivaji to the piano and plays — 
 <iftei' a jianse he goes to the other sideof the piano and leans 
 4)11 it u-atching her, then he says) 
 
 Jack. Well. Mai) ! 
 
 Mabel, (not looking tip) Well, Jack! 
 
 Jack. Lady Mabel Milanor. 
 
 Mabel. Lady Mabel Milanor. 
 
 Jack. Like to come to the Aquarium ? 
 
 Mabel. No, thank you. 
 
 Jack. Like to steal a tea in Bond Street ? 
 
 Mabel. No. thank you. 
 
 Jack. Bored ? 
 
 Mabel. Bored — no. I read about vour being woundeel. 
 
 Jack. Oh ! 
 
 Mabel. Were you pleased ? 
 
 Jack. It was all beastly uncomfortable. 
 
 Mabel. Glad to be back ? 
 
 Jack. Very ! Glad to see you again, Mab. 
 
 Mabel. That's very nice of you. 
 
 Jack. I — I've often tliought of how — and — and where 
 Ave should meet again. 
 
 Mabel. Have you ? 
 
 Jack. Yovi remember you told me I was to dine witli 
 you often to — to cheer you up ? 
 
 Mabel. Yes, I remember. 
 
 Jack. Perhaps you don't want cheering up : 
 
 Mabel. I don't — in the sense that I thought I should 
 liave wanted it then. You're looking very brown and well, 
 Jack. 
 
 Jack. I'm splendid — and — and — Mab, marriage hasn't 
 spoilt you — you — you look ripping I 
 
 Mabel, (pleased) Do I "? 
 
 Jack. Where is your lord and master? 
 
 Mabel, (smiling) My lord and master is with Mrs. 
 Hugh and her liusband in the study. 
 
 Jack. The king Avas in his covuiting-liouse counting out 
 his money — tlie queen was — Mab, I'm awfully glad to see 
 you again — aren't you glad to see me ? 
 
 Mabel. Of course I am, Jack.
 
 48 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Jack. Then sliake hands with me properly. 
 
 Mabel, (looks at him) I did. {he drops his hand a 
 little dashed. Another pause, she still playing, he ^catching- 
 her) 
 
 Jack. Well — tell me things. 
 
 Mabel. Wliat sort of things ? 
 
 Jack. I haven't seen you since your marriage. 
 
 Mabel. No. 
 
 Jack. Well ? 
 
 Mabel. Well— what ? 
 
 Jack. Are you satisfied ? Has the scheme worked 
 well? 
 
 IMabel. Yes, thank you. very well. 
 
 Jack. You've been married — how long is it ? 
 
 Mabel. Long enough. 
 
 Jack. Already ? 
 
 Mabel. I don't mean it that way. {a pause) 
 
 Jack. And you are perfectly happy? 
 
 Mabel. Oh, no, I'm not. 
 
 Jack. Why aren't you ? 
 
 Mabel. Because I don't deserve to be, I suppose. 
 
 Jack. It isn't our fault — it's the rotten state of society.- 
 I'm sorry you're not happy — and — yet somehow I'm 
 glad. 
 
 Mabel. That's friendly of you. 
 
 Jack. I can't help it — I always said what I meant, to 
 you. {going nearer her) Mab, it's been awful out there, 
 thinking of you as — as some one else's wife. 
 
 jNIabel. (looking up at h im swiftly) W^hat ? — (a pa use)' 
 Oh — really — has it ? 
 
 Jack. I see what a fool I made of mj'self that daj'. 
 
 Mabel. Do you ? — that's a good thing, {a pause) 
 
 Jack. Are you fearfully busy ? 
 
 Mabel. What do you mean ? 
 
 Jack. I mean, can you get out — away at all — can w& 
 have — {he laughs a, little awku-ardly) Well — there's Bond 
 Street, and tlie A(piarium, you know. 
 
 Mabel. I think I've passed that, Jack, I've been learn- 
 ing things. 
 
 Jack. Well — now take a holiday — get away from all 
 " learning," let's have a day out — shake a loose leg. 
 
 IMabel. I tell you, I've been learning tilings, {site looks 
 at him) What a child you are, Jack! you're as ignorant 
 as mother. 
 
 Jack, {blankly) What's happened? 
 
 JMabel. The unforeseen. 
 
 Jack. Don't be a sphinx, Mab, it doesn't suit you. 
 
 Mabel. Don't be inquisitive, Jack, you're not a 
 woman. 
 
 Jack. I'm glad of that.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 4^ 
 
 Mabel. Oli, women needn't have a bad time if they 
 choose to be lionest. 
 
 Jack. Marriage lias changed 3-011. 
 
 JMabel. ^Marriage has taught me a great deal. 
 
 Jack. What ? 
 
 Mabel. That there are a great many fools in the world. 
 
 Jack. All of them husbands? (sJie stops in her plaii- 
 ing and aguinlooks up at him, then says with half a smile)' 
 
 Mabel. No — not all of them. 
 
 Jack. You mean that you think I"m a fool too? 
 
 IMabel. Sometimes. 
 
 Jack. So do I, but one lives to repent one's folly. Do 
 you remember that day in the woods, the day you got en- 
 gaged ? 
 
 Mabel. I remember. 
 
 Jack. I was a fool that day, and I've never ceased to. 
 regret it. 
 
 JMabel. What do you regret ? 
 
 Jack. A lost opportunity. I loved you — you — you loved' 
 me and — and you would have been my wife now and not 
 liis. I've cursed myself for that folly often. 
 
 Mabel. How odd ! I've blessed you for your wisdom. 
 
 Jack. People have no right to be wise when love is at 
 stake. I thought I was doing the wise thing for you when 
 I tried to kill our love. 
 
 Mabel, (smiles) Poor old Jack ! 
 
 Jack. But life is a poor thing without it, isn't it, Mab? 
 Do j'ou remember telling me j'ou didn't believe in it ? 
 
 JIabel. Yes ! 
 
 Jack. But you were wrong, weren't you ? 
 
 AIabel. Yes, I was wrong. 
 
 Jack. All the riches in tlie Avorld mean nothing along- 
 side of love. 
 
 Mabel. Nothing at all. 
 
 Jack. I've dreamed of this talk with you often and 
 often, while I've been away. And now — here we .are, and 
 — and it's real — and I can hardly believe it. Mab, you're 
 not as glad to see me as I thought you'd be. 
 
 ]\Iabel. You're so different — why — you — you're almost 
 a stranger. Jack. 
 
 Jack, (shortly) I'm not changed. 
 
 IMabel. Aren't you really? Then if you remember the 
 last time we had a serious talk together — you gently but 
 jirmly declined to marry me, so what do you expect me t<> 
 do now that we meet again — fall into your arms and 
 sob? 
 
 Jack. Well, not exactly. 
 
 Mabel. You're a very amusing boy. Jack. How long 
 does it take a soldier to grow up and be a man ? 
 
 Jack. What do vou mean ?
 
 50 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Mabel. I mean how long does it take some men to 
 learn common sense ? 
 
 Jack. Common sense is a curse. Common sense made 
 nie give you up. Common sense made you marry Milanor. 
 
 Mabel. And still you consider it a curse ? Did jou fall 
 in love with any one on the steamer ? 
 
 Jack, {angrihj) You know I didn't. 
 
 Mabel, {surprised) How do I? 
 
 Jack. You know there's only one woman in the world 
 I ever think of. 
 
 Mabel, (looks up at him with a smile) Do you mean 
 me ? 
 
 Jack, {shortly) Yes. {she rises and comes doini to 
 him) 
 
 Mabel. Jack, you and I have known each other since 
 we were little children, {she holds out her hand, and 
 leads him to arm-chair by fire. Sits hi))i down in it, puts 
 a cushion for his head, then sits opposite to him — a p)(tuse) 
 Now, say that over again, quite slowly. There is only one 
 woman in tiie world you ever think of. 
 
 Jack. There is only one woman in the world I ever 
 think of. 
 
 IMabel. And that woman is me ? 
 
 Jack. You. 
 
 Mabel. What do you think of me? How do you think 
 of me ? 
 
 Jack. Do you want to know ? 
 
 Mabel. Of course I want to know. Go on. I must 
 understand this very thoroughly. 
 
 Jack. You — well, I don't quite see what you're driv- 
 ing at. 
 
 Mabel. You know me very well — and I want to know 
 how j'ou think of me. I want to see how we stand. 
 When you think of me, what do you tliink of me as ? As 
 I was that day when I stole off v.-ithyou to the Aquarium? 
 Is that how you think of me? 
 
 Jack. No. 
 
 Mabel. As I am now — married to Harry ? Is that how 
 30U think of me ? 
 
 Jack. No. 
 
 Mabel. As the sly, scheming, contemptible husband- 
 hunter, who laughed at love, and all the real beauty of 
 life, because she didn't understand it? 
 
 Jack. No, indeed. 
 
 Mabel. How then ? 
 
 Jack. I think of the girl I kissed, that day on the 
 mounds, by the fairy ring. 
 
 Mabel. I see. (a long pause) AVhy do you think of 
 that ? 
 
 Jack. Because I can't forget it. Can you ?
 
 THE AVILDERNESS. 51 
 
 Mabel. No. (she gets serious, he eomes to lier and 
 takes her hands) 
 
 Jack. IMabel, wliy is it we can't forget ? {she with- 
 draifs her Juinds and ptds them behind her) 
 
 Mabel. Would you like to know 'i 
 
 Jack. I do kno\v. 
 
 Mabel. Well ! {Jie moves toirards Iter— site cliecks him) 
 No, tliaiik you, sit down and tell me your view of the 
 matter, and then I'll try and tell j'ou mine, {a pause) Go 
 on, I'm listening. 
 
 Jack. You — ^aren't \o\x making it rather difficult for 
 me. Mab ? 
 
 Mabel. Difficult, how — we know each other verj' well, 
 •Jack — and — we want to know each other better — don't 
 ve ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 IMabel. And I've got a sort of a feeling that this is 
 • either our last meeting or our tirst. 
 
 Jack. It can't be our first — we met that day. 
 
 Mabel. We weren't ourselves. I remember trying to 
 •explain that to you then. 
 
 Jack. You're wrong — we were ourselves that day — 
 we've not been quite ourselves since. 
 
 Madel. Oh — what's the matter with us now ? 
 
 Jack. W^e — we — we're incomplete somehow. 
 
 ]\IabeL. Oh, are we — what's to be done about it ? 
 
 Jack, {sloidtj) Let us get back to where we were that 
 day. 
 
 Mabel, (looking at him a little puzzled) You know 
 that I am married ? 
 
 Jack. Married, yes — to him — but I love you. 
 
 Mabel. Jack, are all men like you ? 
 
 Jack. I liope not. 
 
 Mabel. 8o do I. Go on, I'm learning a great deal. 
 You loved me. Out of consideration for my happiness 
 you didn't marry me — you went away, and I married 
 some one else. Now you've come back — and — and you 
 seem to have something on your mind. 
 
 Jack. I liave. 
 
 Mabel. Wliat ? 
 
 Jack. 1 can't tell you now. 
 
 Mabel. I — I'm much more learned in the world's ways 
 now tliau I was when you went away. Jack, shall I help 
 you out '.'' — you remember so vividly what I was then — that 
 you feel justified in classifying nie now — I suppose I have 
 jio riglit to object. 
 
 Jack. I don't understand that. 
 
 jVIabel. Let's get it clear. Well now — where do we 
 stand ? You tliink that in reality you and I belong to each 
 -otlier, and he's only an interloper.
 
 52 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Jack. Isn't he ? If it hadn't been for him we should 
 have been married. 
 
 Mabel. Well, we're not married and he's here — a very 
 palpable fact. What do you suggest 'i — this is very inter- 
 esting. 
 
 Jack. It's impossible to discuss it like this. 
 
 Mabel. No, it isn't. Life's a very serious thing, Jack, 
 and it's better to talk tilings over thoroughly before one 
 tries to alter it to sviit oneself. You think we're iucuui- 
 jjlete ? 
 
 Jack. We are incomplete. 
 
 Mabel, Well, of course that's bad. Now, how are wp to 
 complete ourselves? Shall we go away together to-niglit 
 to Dieppe — Dieppe is tlie place people usually goto to com- 
 plete themselves, isn't it V 
 
 Jack. I'm only thinking of you. You told me you- 
 were unhappj'. 
 
 Mabel. I know — and — it's very kind of you. How 
 should we put the case to Harrj^V We could — at least I 
 mean I should, of course, leave a letter behind on juy dress- 
 ing-table to explain that I lack completion, and have left 
 everything I have of value in life that I ma,y seek it. 
 That's right, isn't it — when wives leave their husbands they 
 always leave a letter on their dressing-table, don't they ? 
 It's a stiff railway fare, Jack, and I've no money ; have 
 you ? 
 
 Jack. Stop this ! I'm serious. 
 
 Mabel. Oh, we needn't go — this is his house — we could 
 stay here, but it would be an undignified hole-in-corner 
 business— wouldn't it? Stand up, Jack — look at me. I've 
 suggested the two only possible methods. You're a man 
 of the world — our liappiness — our future is at stake — which 
 do you prefer? Well, haven't you got anything to say ? 
 
 Jack. How can I say anything when you talk like this ? 
 
 Mabel. How else am I to talk — we want to get this 
 thing straight, don't we ? We onghtn't to go on in this 
 dreadfully incomplete state. What are vou prepared to- 
 do ? 
 
 Jack. Anything ! 
 
 Mabel, (suddenly with a long breath) Oh, my God. 
 liow you show me to myself as I might have been — but 
 for — for him — you are prepared to do anything. Well, 
 there's one thing 3'ou've got to do, and I think the .sooner 
 you do it the better. Open that door — go quietly down- 
 stairs — take your hat off the hat-rack, and sneak out into 
 the street. lEither our last meeting or our first, Jack — it's 
 our last. 
 
 Jack. You don't mean 
 
 Mabel, (smiling) I mean that you are the most con- 
 temptible thing I have ever had the misfortune to know,.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 5,'> 
 
 ■except myself. I'm not in the least angry with you, but 
 — but do go and get your hat and run back to Afiica as 
 quickly as ever you can. You've done lots of very brave 
 things out there I know — now go and do a lot nioi'e. and 
 your mother and sisters and all the other people wlio don't 
 know you will keep on being fearfully i)roud of j'ou. and 
 vou and I who know each other will kee]) the laugh ujiour 
 sleeves. Good-bye. (she goes back to the piano and re- 
 sumes her playing — Jie stands staring at her) 
 
 Jack. You won't think like this to-morrow, 
 
 31 ABEL, (playing) Won't I ? 
 
 Jack, (moving to her almost fiercely) Do you think I 
 •don't know what your life is ? 
 
 Mabel. I'm sure you don't. 
 
 Jack. You don't love your liusbaud, and to you life 
 Avithout love must be hell. 
 
 Mabel. Do get your hat. 
 
 Jack. Don't play the fool with nie. I k)iOW, you know 
 I know, (hoarsely) Six months ago you asked me to 
 marry you. It — it was impossible, and so j^ou married 
 Milanor. You're right, of cour?e, to hide your misery even 
 from me ; but I know what things are, and I know what 
 Jiell must be in your heart. 
 
 Mabel, (still jilayiitg) Harry will be here soon. We 
 might talk the hell in my heart over, mightn't we ? Three 
 heads are better than two, even if one's a husband's. 
 
 Jack. Perliaps you'd like me to read him this letter. 
 
 Mabel. Wliat letter ? 
 
 Jack. The letter you wrote me the night you got en- 
 gaged, (she closes the piano icith. a, snap and rises) 
 
 Mabel. Tliat letter! You've kept it ? (3 XCK takes it 
 from his pocket) Give it to me please, (she reads it. A 
 pause. She turns, looks at Jack, smiles sadly, and says irith 
 (t long draicn breath) I know what's right now — I'll give it 
 to him to-night — and tell him all. 
 
 Jack. You'd give him that letter— j'ou daren't — why, 
 he'd know you 
 
 Mabel. He'd know I didn't love him when I married 
 him — I want him to know it. 
 
 Jack. Why V 
 
 Mabel. Because I love iiiin now. (ax>ciuse) 
 
 .Tack. You love him- -you're sure ? 
 
 3Iabel. (quietly) I'd sooner starve with him in a cellar 
 than to be the greatest queen in all tlie world. 
 
 Jack. You love him, Mabel ? Mabel, don't — don't play 
 tlie fool about this — is it true? 
 
 ^Iabel. Quite true. 
 
 .Tack. Then — then (a very long pause) I've been a fool 
 — I — I'm very sorry — I beg your ]iardon. 
 
 Mabel, (with a bitter little laugh that is hcdf a sob)
 
 54 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 We've all been fools — worse than fools, at one time or an- 
 other in our lives. I don't think you need apologize 
 to me. {slie wcdks up to ihe u'lnclow, and he turns and 
 stai-es blankly into the fire. At last he says) 
 
 Jack. I— I'm not good at thinking things out — but — but, 
 Mab— if 3'ou love him — and he— he loves you — isn't it better 
 to leave things as they are V 
 
 Mabel. No ! 
 
 Jack, (sloicly) Suppose — he 
 
 Mabel. I know — {long imnse) I know the risk — but — 
 I'm going straight at last. Jack, you don"t know how — 
 how awful the whole of nry life has been — I mean when I 
 was quite young — truth didn't seem to matter _ then. I 
 seem to have lived in an atmosphere of lies — and it was all 
 nice — and easy — and pleasant — but since I've married him 
 — I've somehow begun to imderstand that it's trutli that 
 counts— it's truth that means life, Jack — the otlier isn't 
 real. 
 
 Jack, {very earnestly) Mab, don't tell him. 
 
 Mabel, {slowly) I can't help telling him. I want tO' 
 know that I can love him without being ashamed. 
 
 Jack. I don't know what to say. You must think me 
 an awful cad. 
 
 The door opens and Mrs. Graeme enters Umqhing, foUoivcd 
 by her husband and Sir Harry. 
 
 Mrs. Graeme. You've been a perfect angel, Harry, I 
 
 don't How are you, Mr. Kennerly? Heavens ! I thought 
 
 you were in South Africa. 
 
 Sir Harry. Hallo, Kennerly — how are you ? Glad tO' 
 see you safe and 
 
 Jack. Fairly sound. 
 
 Sir Harry. By gad ! Wliat a time you fellows must 
 have had. Jolly glad I wasn't witii you. Sorrj' we were 
 so long, Mab — but Edith's notions of business are nearly 
 as staggering as Hugh's. 
 
 Hugh. Oh, you've made it clear now. It's all awfully 
 simple— it was all that " brought forward" business that 
 worried me. 
 
 Edith. Poor dear old Hugh. I'm afraid you've no 
 brain. I notice that men with your stj'le of over-developed 
 mustache seldom have. 
 
 Sir Harry. He's the only husband j^ou've got, so you'd 
 much better make the best of him. 
 
 Mabel, {very brightly) Never mind, Hugh, I've nO' 
 brain either. 
 
 Hugh. Somehow I don't miss mine. 
 
 Edith, (to Hugh) Now if you'd married Mabel — and 
 {turning to Sir Harry) — and yon liad married me when I 
 suggested it, how well arranged it would all have been I
 
 THE AVILDERNESS. 55 
 
 Sir Harry. Beautiful— but see ho\v fond j-ou are of 
 Hugli ! 
 
 Edith, {maid nri a face) It's qviite pathetic, isn t it? 
 Hugh dear, do sit "straight— we're all looking at you. 
 
 Lady Milaxor enters, reading a letter. 
 
 Sir Harry. Tliatthe nine o'clock post? 
 
 Lady M. Yes. Only one, for me. Yours have gone to 
 your study, Harry. Mine's from Aunt Gertrude, and it 
 actually has something in it. Your cousin Ethel is en- 
 gaged, Harry. 
 
 Sir Harry, {spruirjing vp) To Phil Lennox — I'm jolly 
 glad. 
 
 Lady M. Phil Lennox ! don't be ridiculous. Phil hasn't- 
 two brass farthings to rul) together. 
 
 Sir Harry. (a.stonis])cd) Then wlio else? 
 
 Lady M. To Worburn, the great brewer. 
 
 Sir Harry, (horrijied) Worburn! T7te Worburn? 
 
 Lady M. There is only one Worburn. 
 
 Sir Harry. But slie was in love with young Phil Len- 
 
 nox 
 
 Lady ]\I. That didn't count. 
 
 Sir Harry. What do you mean ? — engaged to Wor- 
 burn ! — it — it can't be true. 
 
 Lady M. It is. All those girls have been lucky — haven't 
 they ? — it's extraordinaiy. 
 
 HuC4H. How liave they been luck}'? 
 
 Edith. In marrying so well. 
 
 HuuH. Is it lucky to marry that brute Worburn? 
 
 Edith. It's lucky to be in control of that brute's mil- 
 lions. 
 
 Sir Harry. (?(*//o lias been standing dnmfmnided) 
 Ethel, poor little Ethel ! — who forced her into that shame? 
 (Mabel listens, and watches Iter husband intently during 
 this) 
 
 Lady Milanor. Forced her ? Shame ? Harry, you've 
 been at tliat poetry again. Why, she won him in the 
 teeth of the opi^osition of all the marriageable girls in the 
 county. 
 
 Sir Harry. (breaMng out almost passionately) I call it 
 damnable ; and tliere's something rotten in the life and 
 morality of a country that countenances sucli things. 
 
 Lady Milanor. My dear boy 
 
 Sir Harry. There is — and I re]ieat it's damnable ! 
 Ethel — one of the sweetest, prettiest, liap])iest little fairy 
 cliildren tliat ev^r sent u]) tlie sunsliine of lier laugh to 
 heaven — to be sold to an old brute like that. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Harry ! 
 
 Sir Harry. I mean it, it makes my lilood l)oiI. 
 
 Lady IMilanor. She did it of her own free will.
 
 56 THE AVILDERNES8. 
 
 Edith. I saw the way the land lay at Henlej' — I 
 thought she'd pull it off — she was playing him beauti- 
 fully. 
 
 Sir Harry. You mean to say Ethel 
 
 Lady Milanor. How is Ethel different from all other 
 marriageable girls ? 
 
 Sir Harry. If she did this willingly — then I hope to 
 <jrod she is different from other girls. 
 
 Lady Milanor. Rubbish ! 
 
 Sir Harry, (fiercely) I tell you that a woman wlio 
 marries a man for his money or position is a — is a — well, 
 it's a difficult thing to discuss this subject in a drawing- 
 room, but you know what I mean. (Jack Kexnerly is 
 .standing icUJl his back to the fire. Mabel /.s standing hi/ 
 thepiano. As Sir Harry says ^/i is she turns icitli a sad 
 little smile and meets Jack's look) 
 
 Edith. I think your views are absurd. 
 
 Sir Harry. Merely because you won't look at the mat- 
 ter fairly. 
 
 Edith. According to you there isn't an honest woman 
 in the world. 
 
 Sir Harry. Rubbish — there are thousands. 
 
 Edith. But they cease to be when they marry — tliat's 
 so odd. 
 
 Sir Harry. They don't when they marry men tliey 
 love. 
 
 Edith. How many women have jou met who married 
 men they loved ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Heaps. 
 
 Edith. It would be interesting to hear j-ou name one 
 or two, wouldn't it, Mab V 
 
 Mabel, [turning away icitli a light laugh) I've never 
 thought about it. 
 
 Edith. Do name one or two, Harry. 
 
 Sir Harry. Well, there's my mother. 
 
 Edith. Do you bear your son out in his statement, 
 Lady Milanor V 
 
 Lady Milanor. My dear, I was a parson's daughter — 
 the middle one of nine. My father's income never ex- 
 ceeded £240 a year. 
 
 Edith. Are you answered ? (SiR Harry sits down tcilJi. 
 u shrug of despair) 
 
 Hugh, (sitting up and solemnly facing Lady Milaxok) 
 When you married Sir Robert, with luige rent rolls, it 
 <licin't strike you that j'ou were selling yourself, did it, 
 Lady ]\Iilanor ? 
 
 Lady Milanor. In my young days a girl never thought 
 of sucli things. My dear man, it's lier duty to marry well 
 — she owes it to lierself — to her people — and — and to any 
 family of lier own that she may happen to have after-
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 57 
 
 wards, {she turns to her son) Take your own cnse — 
 wliere would you have been if I hadn't married your 
 father? 
 
 Edith. Bah — men don't understand these things. 
 
 Sir Harry. No — and, thank God, some women don't 
 cither. Bless you, Mab. (he Jdsses her as shejMiiscs him) 
 AVe know better — don't we ? 
 
 Mabel, (sitting down at the piano— jjlaying softly) 
 Yes — we know better. (Edith watches Mabel and is 
 ■ struck by her face) 
 
 Sir Harry, (half to liimself) Ethel— poor little Ethel 
 — tlie dearest little thing — oh, God, it's brutal ! 
 
 Hugh, (slowly unfolding himself fro7n his chair) Well, 
 ye know I don't often talk, but it seems to me it don't 
 matter much. Edie's often told me she didn't give a but- 
 ton for me when we married — but that don't amount to a 
 }ow of pins, because since that day, don't ye see, I've grown 
 ■on her — and we jog along in double harness — er — swim- 
 mingly, don't we, Edith ? 
 
 Edith. Of course we do. 
 
 Sir Harry. Well, all I can say is from the man's f)oint 
 ■of view, sooner than have been married for my money 
 I'd 
 
 Edith, (lightly touching him on the arm) Change the 
 conversation. 
 
 Sir Harry, (laughing) Yes, I'll change the conversa- 
 tion. I beg every bodj-'s pardon, I was getting hot, but 
 (sadly) I was very fond of Ethel — look — the mater, having 
 sliattered all my faith in her, has calmly gone to sleep. 
 
 Edith. She's wiser than you, Harry. Oh, ever so much 
 wiser tlian you. 
 
 Lady Milanor. (j-ousing herself) I wasn't asleep, I 
 was just remembering something, (and she leaves the 
 room hurriedly) 
 
 Sir Harry. Well, I don't care what any of you say, I 
 stick to my belief, there are real true, haiapy, honest mar- 
 ried people in the world. 
 
 Hugh, (turning s^iddenly to Jack) You're jolly silent, 
 Kennerly, what have you got to say about all this? 
 
 Jack, (u-ith a laugh) I'm not a married man, so I 
 daren't confess to knowing anything about love, 
 
 Edith. Very discreet of you. 
 
 Jack. But I do agree Muth jMilanor, there are real true, 
 honest, happy people in the world. I've met two. (he 
 hows slightly to SiR Harry and Mabel) Mabel, if you'll 
 i'orgive me I've got to be off, the mater's rather seedy, and 
 I i)romised I'd not keep her late, she still waits up for me. 
 
 Sir Harry, (rising) I say, now you're back, let's see 
 .something of you — can you dine witli us to-morrow ? 
 
 Jack, (embarrassed) I should be delighted, but
 
 IJS THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 Mabel, {from piano) Do, Jack — it's onlj' just our* 
 selves. 
 
 Jack. Verj' well — I — I should like to. {general fare- 
 wells, and he goes) 
 
 Edith. Well, we must be moving too, if we're to get ta 
 the Argyles to-night. Aren't you two coming ? 
 
 Mabel. No ! 
 
 Sir Harry. AVe've realized that there's more in life 
 than dining out and spending hours miserably with people 
 you don't care a bit about. 
 
 Edith. What is there ? 
 
 Sir Harry. There is home — you go — we've been out so 
 much we're taking a night otf the treadmill for a cliange. 
 
 Edith. Well, it's been awfully sweet of you, Harry,, 
 to put us right. If Hugh had only had even a little brain 
 I needn't have worried you. Good-night, dear, {she kisses 
 Mabel) 
 
 Sir Harry, You'd better leave the letters, Hugh. I'll 
 go through 'em more thoroughly and report on 'em in the 
 morning. 
 
 Hugh. Right j-ou are ! {he puts a lot of loose letters o)i 
 the table — on top of Mabel's letter to Jack) Good-bye, old 
 man, and tlianks awfully. (Sir Harry and Mabel wove 
 iinth them to the door. Sir Harry goes doicnstairs irith 
 them, and Mabel stands tvatching for an instant, then 
 moves doicn to the fire) 
 
 MABEii. " The woman who marries a man for money or 
 positior is a " Oh, why did he say that to-niglit 'i 
 
 Sir Harry' re-enters very cheerfidhj. 
 
 Sir Harry. Poor old Edith, she does amuse me — mind 
 you, she's really awfully fond of Hugh, and I'm sure they're 
 as happy as kings. 
 
 Mabel. Despite the fact that she didn't care for him 
 when slie married? {he has gathered vp all the letters 
 Hugh left, including Mabel's letter to Jack) 
 
 Sir Harry. Bali ! — she cared for \\\\n right enough — 
 that's only her pose. 
 
 Mabel. {sloicUj) Harry, there is something I want to 
 tell you. 
 
 Sir Harry, {looking vp in surjirise) To tell me?- 
 (Uncle Jo eomes in) 
 
 Uncle Jo. The jabberers gone? {he makes himself 
 comfortable by the fire) 
 
 Sir Harry. Tliey have, {still lookin^ it his irife) 
 W^hat do you want to tell me? 
 
 Mabel, {glancing at Uncle Jo) I — by-and-bye — wlien 
 we are — alone, {she goes ovt of the room) 
 
 Sir Harry, {docketing the various letters) Poor little- 
 Ethel ! I can't get that tragedy out of my mind.
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 59. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Wliat tragedj- ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Oli, only a suicide. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Some one you knew ? 
 
 Sir Harry, (ven/ sadly) Yes, a dear little girl I knew. 
 (Sir Harry is looking through the letters wtten he stops 
 suddenly and looks up) Now what the devil lias this got 
 to do with Edith ? — it's Mab's writing, {he reads it, then he 
 turns and looks at his unele, tcho is smoking jAacidly 
 staring at the fire, then he slou-ly reads it again, and after 
 a long pa.nse, he says ivitli a little shake in his voice) It's 
 — it's a joke. (Jo turns and looks at him, he has the en- 
 velojie in one hand and the letter in another, and is alter- 
 nately staring at them) 
 
 Uncle Jo. Hullo ! 
 
 Sir Harry, (lamely) They're playing a joke on me,, 
 listen! {he reads the letter) " Dear Jack " — It's to Ken- 
 iierly, her cousin Jack Kennerly, you know. " Dear Jack,. 
 I promised to tell you the result of the hunt — the wheel 
 lias come full circle — I am there — we are to be married in 
 February — so, lam to rule in Chesterfield Street, and play 
 Lady Bountiful at Fawn Court. Well, I worked hard for 
 it, and I've got it all. It may amuse you to know that I 
 am thoroughly ashamed of myself, and more miserable 
 than I've ever been in my life — it would be a great relief 
 to tell him all alxnit it, and ask him to kindly buy some 
 one else. — Yours, Mabel. P.S. — Burn this."' {a longptause)' 
 
 Uncle Jo. Practical jokes of that sort are very silly. 
 
 Sir Harry. Very silly. (Sir Harry sits motionless, 
 staring out ' 1 front of him. Uncle Jo watches him un- 
 easily) 
 
 Uncle Jo. AYho wrote the stuff ? 
 
 Sir Harry. She did. 
 
 Uncle Jo. I don't believe it — she doesn't play tricks 
 like that. 
 
 Sir Harry, {quite motionless) It — it — isn't like her, 
 is it, but — but she has. 
 
 Uncle Jo. {crossing to him) Let me see. {he takes it) 
 Where did you find it V 
 
 Sir Harry. Among Edith's papers — don't say anything 
 about it — we — we'll pretend we haven't read it, and then 
 the laugh will be upon our side, won't it V (Uncle Jo is 
 turning over the letter, then on the envelope something strikes 
 him) 
 
 Uncle Jo. The Borcambe postmark. 
 
 Sir Harry. I saw. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Date, June the second— wlij', that was the- 
 very day 
 
 Sir Harry, {very sloidy — half to himself) The very 
 day we met by the fairies' ring — the very day we — slie 
 wrote it that night — she — the very day we • {then almost,
 
 00 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 fiercchi) No — no — don't Iffs jump to conclusions — let's 
 tliiiik it over — quietly — quite quietly, (a long pause) It — 
 it can't be true — it — it isn't possible — why — why — I re- 
 lueiaber everything she said — and just how she looked 
 wlieu she said it. Why — wiiy — siie held out her arms to 
 me — and said — Harry — Harry — if you were starving I'd 
 marry you to-morrow. It — it couldn't have been a lie — ■ 
 she — she wouldn't have lied to me then — like tliat. Oli, 
 no — it isn't true — of course it isn't true. Wliere's tlie 
 letter ? (he rises, jJicliS it up. Then he sinks hack into his 
 chair again, and sits sileyit. Tlien lie trliispers — almost to 
 himself) I remember her last words to him — "I'll write 
 to you — 3'ou ought to get the letter in two days " — and — 
 
 and — is this what she promised to write (a lonrj pause 
 
 — vhile he stares at the letter) 
 
 Uncle Jo. How did it get here anyhow ? 
 
 Sir Harry. He must have brought it back to lier to- 
 night. He wanted to marry her — she refused him the day 
 she accepted me. and — and Etliel loved Lennox and mar- 
 ried Worburii. " How is Ethel different fioni other mar- 
 riageable girls ? " — my motlier said that. (Uncle Jo moves 
 a little towards him) No. no — give me time. Uncle Jo. I 
 — I've got to think this out. {and he buries his head on 
 his folded arms. There's a long pause, and nometliing ver>/ 
 like a sob is heard. Uncle Jo goes to him quickly, almost 
 ■angrily) 
 
 Uncle Jo. Come, come — don't be a fool, man — if she 
 did write it slie didn't mean it, and what matter if she did 
 mean it then, she knows a damn sight better now ! Come, 
 come, I shouldn't give it another thought if I were J'ou. 
 
 Sir Harry, (lifting a haggard face — says hoarsely) 
 Seven months of it — how she must loathe me ! — Oli, God, 
 wliat a cur I feel ! 
 
 Uncle Jo. (looking at him in amazement) You! 
 What liave you done "/ 
 
 Sir Harry. Robbed lier of everything — her youth — lier 
 love — her purity — robbed her of heaven and shut her up in 
 liell — oh, wliy didn't she tell me? I wouldn't have done 
 it — I didn't know — how could I know'? Why didn't she 
 tell me — why didn't she tell me? 
 
 Uncle Jo. If any one is to blame she is. 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't ! She wns a cliikl — slie didn't un- 
 derstand, (he starts from his chair and icalks raindly to 
 and fro, thinking. Then sialdody lie breaks out fiercely 
 again) I won't believe it — it's humanly impossible — all 
 her life witli me can't liave been a piece of acting — it can't 
 have been a lie. She couldn't have kept it up, day and 
 jiight, night and day, for seven months, (he stops, listen- 
 ing intently, hearing her footfall. Thenhe turns almost 
 })iti fully to his uncle, and n-his2-)ers) She's coming — watch
 
 THE WILDERNESS. GI 
 
 her — watch her — it can't be all a lie. (^Iaeel enters quictJ;/, 
 humming softly to herself. The tiro men, appeal' absorbed, 
 but are in reality ivatchiiig her. HJie is looking about her 
 furtively for the letter. She sees it and jncks it up. Sir 
 PIauky, not looking vji, sjjcaks unconcernedly) Wliafs 
 that? 
 
 Mabel, Nothing of importance — an old letter, {there's 
 a 2)ause) I — am I in the way ? 
 
 Sir Harry. No. (another pause. Something in his 
 face disturbs her, and she moves towards him) 
 
 Mabel. Harry dear — you're looking so tired. Uncle Jo. 
 don't make him work any more to-nigiit. (softly) I'll 
 come back again when he has gone, (and she goes out) 
 
 Sir Harry, (verij slou-ly) Poor little girl! poor little 
 girl! Did you see? did you see? You heard what she 
 said about the letter, and how she said it. If we hadn't 
 known — we should never have suspected anything. Lies 
 — lies — lies — and I'ju the cause of them. I have made 
 truth impossible. 
 
 Uncle .Jo. I don't see that she's to be pitied. 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't you':' If tlie prospect of marriage 
 Avitii me made her "more miserable than she'd ever been 
 in her life" — what must it be for her now that we're mar- 
 ried and she can't escape me niglit or day V 
 
 Uncle Jo. You're making a mountain out of a molehill 
 — girls get accustomed to anything. 
 
 Sir Harry. Not to the kisses of a man they hate. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Rubbisli ! Now, look here, forget all about 
 that damned letter — look at it from a sensible man's point. 
 You wanted her — 3^ou've got her — she's made you as hajijjv 
 us a king — and what more can u man expect from a 
 woman '? 
 
 Sir Harry. A great deal. 
 
 Uncle Jo. It's unreasonable. I'm sure she makes an 
 admirable wife. 
 
 Sir Harry, (icith a passionate outburst, striking the 
 table with his fist) Makes an admirable wife — what a foul 
 j)hrase — that's it — she's been an admirable wife ; gentle, 
 uncomplaining, submissive, she's laughed when I laughed, 
 sighed when I sighed — danced to me, sung to me — fed me 
 and kept me comfortable — soothed my body — and satisfied 
 my mind. Oh, the bargain has been honestl.y fulfilled. I 
 give her money and position — she gives up herself, in com- 
 ]ilete surrender — this has gone on for seven months. Uncle 
 Jo, would you like to speculate how often, during tiiese 
 seven months, a longing has come over her to kill either- 
 herself or me? 
 
 Uncle Jo. You're talking damn nonsense. Here you 
 are, the pair of you — you've made a beautiful home 
 
 Sir Harry, (interrupting) Oh no — we've never had
 
 -02 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 a home. It's been a stable for me — a prison for lier. (lie 
 rises and goes to tlie firepUice and rings the hell) 
 
 Uncle Jo. You — you'll think differently in the morn- 
 ing, when you've cooled down. 
 
 Sir Harry. AVe'lI see — I don"t think I"m excited — I'nx 
 numbed — that's all. {a pause — he goes haeJc to the table — 
 then he suddenly shudders andf drops his Jieadon his Jiands) 
 The past conies over me in waves and makes me sick, {a 
 Man Servant enters) Pack some things for me, will you ? 
 — I — I shall be away some days, (Man Servant boics and 
 goes aicaij again) 
 
 Uncle Jo. You're going? 
 
 Sir Harry. Of course I'm going. 
 
 Uncle Jo. Without speaking to her ? 
 
 Sir Harry. I— I'll write— I— I couldn't speak to her of 
 this. T couldn't — man. don't you understand, I love her 
 more than anything in all the wide, wide world ! {and 
 with a drij choking sob, he turns his back and tvalksto the 
 far corner of the room. There's a j^ause. Then he conies 
 back and resumes his seat at the table. Uncle Jo ivatches 
 liini anxiously) 
 
 Uncle Jo. Don't do anything foolish. 
 
 Sir Harry. I won't ! 
 
 Uncle Jo. What do you mean to do ? 
 
 Sir Harry, (slowly) Nothing— at least, nothing that 
 matters to anybody except myself. (Mabel comes in- 
 quietly and says reproachfully.) 
 
 Mabel. Oh, Harry — still working ! (Uncle Jo grunts 
 — she goes to the i^iano and plays softly) 
 
 Sir Harry, (to his nncle) Go — go — I — I'll try and speak 
 to her now. (Uncle Jo goes quietly out of the room, and 
 Mabel pZa?/s on) 
 
 Mabel. Harry, I want you to be very gentle with me — 
 it's very difficult to tell you — and — and I don't know if j'ou 
 will be able to imderstand. (he is not looking at her, nor 
 she at him) Do you remember — that day, in Bond Street, 
 sa.ying tome," Come out of the wilderness into the light" ? 
 
 Sir Harry. Yes. 
 
 Mabel. I pretended to understand j'ou — it was a lie ! 
 (Sir Harry looks ?(p startled) That day in the woods — 
 when you asked me to marry, you — and — and I said I'd 
 marry you if you were starving — it — it was the truth, and 
 yet it was half a lie then. 
 
 Sir Harry, (he turns toivards her wearily) I don't 
 understand ! 
 
 Mabel. Don't look at me, Harry — you'll never care for 
 me again — after what I've got to tell you — at least I hope 
 some day you will — but — but it's bound to be a long time. 
 (all the time sJie jjlays and he stands by his table listening) 
 I was told to marry you, I made up my mind to marry
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 03 
 
 you, and I — 1 thought it all out. That day by the fairies' 
 ring — wlien you came I didn't love you, I thought I loved 
 some one else, he — he had kissed me — and I didn't know — 
 hut before that I liad laid plans to marry you — tiien when 
 he kissed me — I — I wanted to marry him. That's wliero 
 I was such a fool, but he wouldn't, so it was all all right — 
 and so I — I married you. This letter, it's to Jack. 1 wr^te 
 it tlie day we got engaged — it tells how I'd won you — I'd 
 sold myself and that I knew I was a beast — that's all. 
 
 Sir Harry, {very sadly) If you'd only told me before ! 
 
 IMabel. I was a coward and afraid. 
 
 Sir Harry. I would have gone away ages ago. and 
 then it wouldn't have been so bad. {she looks swiftly at 
 liim — appealing. Then her head droops a little. A pause) 
 Well, it's no good crying over spilt milk — we can't undotlie 
 past — but— but — we'll tliink of the future, {he turns to her 
 nu'tJi a look of infinite tenderness) You're very young — - 
 just nineteen, aren't you V It will be better after I've 
 gone away. 
 
 Mabel. You'll go away ? 
 
 Sir Harry. I'll go to-night. 
 
 Mabel, {shivers a little and turns sadly from Jiiin) 
 I — I thought you would if I told j'ou. 
 
 Sir Harry. Then you do understand me a little ? 
 
 Mabel, {looking at him sadly) A little, yes. {then she 
 turns from him and sits listless, and there is a silence. At 
 ■last she asks him almost pitifully) What shall J do ? 
 
 Sir Harry. I don't know — what do j'ou want to do? 
 
 Mabel. WJiatever you wish. 
 
 Sir Harry, {shrinking) Don't talk like that — tliafs 
 finished — you — j-ou're free. 
 
 3Iabel. {icistfully) Won't you let me do what you'd 
 like me to do ? 
 
 Sir Harry, {bitterly) Don't — don't — our bargain's 
 over — I'm not your owner now. 
 
 ]Mabel. Harry ! {then he breaks out almost fiercely) 
 
 Sir Harry. Be fair to me ! I've spoilt your life, I 
 know — but it wasn't my fault — nobody told me — I loved 
 you. I meant no harm — be fair to me. {then he stojjs) 
 I'm sorry — I didn't mean to break out like tliat. {a long 
 pause) I've thought it all out — there's only one tiling to 
 be done. I — I'll go away and — and then, soon, you will be 
 quite free. 
 
 Mabel, {looks at him puzzled) Free? — I — free of you? — 
 I don't understand. 
 
 Sir Harry, (icitli a bitter laugh) Great happiness 
 takes time to realize. 
 
 Mabel, {shrinking) Harry ! 
 
 Sir Harry. Don't mind what I say — I'm not quite 
 myself, {he laughs a little) You see — you — you've hit me
 
 64 THE AVILDERNESS. 
 
 rather liard — and — and I was very fond of you — Tvef 
 always tried to do my best for you. I"ni going to do all I 
 can for you now. 
 
 Mabel. How do you help nie by going away ? 
 
 Sir Harry. You'll know soon — but afterwards (her 
 
 iiiDis and faces her) I don't care who he is, or what he is, 
 he'll never love you as — as I have loved you — good-b3'e. 
 {avcl lie turns to leave the room — she rises u-ith a cry) 
 
 Mabel. No, no — not yet — not yet — Harry, you're very 
 hard — my fault — I've made you hard — wait a minute — oii, 
 do wait a minute — I {a pause, he comes down to her) 
 
 Sir Harry. Well ? 
 
 Mabel. Wlien — when you've gone— after a time — time 
 is a wonderful thing, Harr}', and — it might even make 
 things seem different to 5-ou. If it should and 3'ou should 
 remember me — and what we've been to each other — do- 
 you think you'd ever ask me to come home ";' 
 
 Sir Harry. What do you mean ? 
 
 Mabel. Only that I {she falters — he stares at hcr^ 
 
 then moves quicJdi/ towards her) 
 
 Sir Harry. You said — ask j^ou to come home — home — 
 where ? 
 
 Mabel.^ I've only known one home, that's ours. (iJtcn 
 jKissionately) I didn't mean to ask you this — I thought I 
 could be brave — but, oh, it's so hard to be brave. I'm not 
 asking favors of you. I don't want you to be good to me — 
 but, later on when you think of me — and I know you'll 
 have to think of me — think of me as I've been these last 
 few months, because that's me, don't think of me as I was. 
 when we were first engaged, because I — I was different 
 then, I didn't know, (his eyes on hers — Ids voice strained 
 ivith excitement) 
 
 Sir Harry. You — what are you saying ? What do you 
 mean ? 
 
 Mabel. I can't help it — don't be hard on me. Oh, 
 Harry, Harry, let me think that — some day you'll writo 
 to me — come to me — send for me — let me come home 
 again. 
 
 Sir Harry, {tossing hack his head with a glad, sltont) 
 Great God — you don't know what you've done, {he rings' 
 the bell violently) You've pulled us out of the fire — my 
 dear — oh, my dear, I was going to make such a fool of 
 myself, {the Man Servant enters, folloived by Uncle. 
 Jo) Have yon packed ? 
 
 Servant. Nearly, Sir Harry. 
 
 Sir Harry. Then unpack and be damned to you. 
 
 Uncle Jo. {amazed) What the 
 
 Sir Harry. Go away ! Go away !— we don't want 
 you — go away ! {he holds out his arms to his wife) My 
 dear. Oh, my dear. . _ . , .^
 
 THE WILDERNESS. G5 
 
 Mabel. Harry ! (she stands bewildered for an instant 
 — then realizing the truth, she goes to him with a sob) 
 
 Sir Harry. {holding her tightly in his arms, half 
 laughing and half crying) Out of the wilderness into the 
 light at last ! 
 
 THE END.
 
 WHEN WE WERE 
 TWENTY-ONE 
 
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 BY 
 
 H. V. ESMOND 
 
 Copyright, 1903, by Samuel French 
 
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 89 STRAND
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Performed at the Comedy Theatre, London, Sept. 2, 1901. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Richard Carewe Mr. Nat Goodwin 
 
 Sib Horace Plumely, Baet. (commonly called Wad- 
 dles ) Mr. Neil O'Brien 
 
 Colonel Miles Grahame (the Soldier Man) 
 
 Mr. J. R. Crawford 
 
 Teerence McGrath (the Doctor) Mr. F. H. Tyler 
 
 Richard Teerence Miles Audaine (the Imp.) 
 
 Mr. Arnold Daly 
 
 Herbert Coerie Mr. Fred Tiden 
 
 David Hirsch Mr. Bassett Roe 
 
 Hughie Helmont Mr. Ernest Lawf ord 
 
 Wallis Brundalll Mr. Ivo Dawson 
 
 Mrs. Ericson Miss Ingram 
 
 Phyllis (her daughter Miss Maxine Elliott 
 
 Kara Glynesk (known as the Firefly) 
 
 Miss Constance Collier 
 
 Budgie Culpepper 
 
 Babette (Kara's Maid) 
 
 2
 
 WHEN WE WEEE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — Dick Carew's room in his flat in Clement's 
 Inn. A man's room. Old-fashioned, comfortable 
 chairs, with the leather well-worn. On the r. side 
 of the room a big fire-place with fender seat all round 
 it. The wall is nearly entirely book-cases. The 
 hangings are dark red. The over-mantel is old black 
 oak, also the old-fashioned bureau, which is down l. 
 against the wall. There is a deep, comfortable Ches- 
 terfield sofa above the fire-place, and a comfortable 
 arm'Chair below it, facing up stage. There is a door 
 down B. of the fire-place, and a door l. c. at back, 
 which opens into the hall — showing the hall — hat- 
 racks, coats, etc., and the hall door, which opens on to 
 the staircase of the building. There is a large win- 
 dow opposite the fire-place with a very crooked blind. 
 A card-table is set out between the ivindow and the 
 fire-place, a little l. of the centre, beloiv it is a smaller 
 table, with a half-empty, old-fashioned whiskey decan- 
 ter, five glasses, and numerous syphons of soda-aoater 
 — both on and under the table. Various ash-trays, 
 pipes, and cigar-ends about — also packs of cards. The 
 room has evidently just been the scene of a card 
 party. The door is open that leads to the hall, and 
 through it comes the sound of men's voices and laugh- 
 ter. A moment after the curtain rises, Mrs. Ericson 
 comes in from the door, dotvn r. She is a sweet- 
 looking, fragile old lady. She gives a little ejacula- 
 tion of dismay. * 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, my dear — the smoke. Phyllis, dearie, 
 come and help me to open the window. 
 
 3
 
 4: WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 (Phyllis enters after her mother, and is likewise a lit- 
 tle dismayed at the disorder of the room.) 
 
 Phyll. They are having a party, aren't they? Foo! 
 the heat! 
 
 Mrs. E. Dick would have a fire — and it's June! 
 
 Phyll. (has helped to open the window and is now 
 trying to straighten the blind) Dick says a "card- 
 party " wouldn't be anything without a fire. What is 
 the matter with this beastly old blind — it will keep 
 crooked? 
 
 Mrs. E. {nervously) My dear — there's something 
 burning. 
 
 Phyll. {turning excitedly) Oh, look about — look 
 about, it's Dick's cigar end for a certainty. 
 
 {The two women commence to hunt) 
 
 Here it is — on the oak, of course. He is a careless old 
 thing, isn't he? He'd be burnt down regularly if I 
 wasn't here to look after him He dropped one into the 
 drawing-room piano yesterday, and we didn't find it 
 out for a quarter of an hour, and then we couldn't get at 
 it, so we had to spill milk down to put it out, and that 
 isn't the best thing for a piano. 
 
 {The hall-door bell rings, and as Mrs. Ebicson is close 
 to it, she opens it and — ) 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, Mr. Corrie, it's you. 
 
 Hkrbert. (a frank, cheerful youth) Hallo, Mrs. 
 Ericson, Dick sent down to me about an hour ago, to 
 know if I had any cards. I was out, but I got his 
 message when I came in just now, and thought I'd bring 
 'em up myself. How are you? {smiling at Phyllis) 
 One pack's nearly new, the two others aren't quite, and, 
 in fact, I don't think any of 'em are perfect. What does 
 this sudden burst of dissipation mean? 
 
 Phyll. {gravely) One of the Trinity has got a 
 birthday. 
 
 Herbp^rt. {with due solemnity) Ohoh! Which one? 
 
 Phyll. Sir Horace. The little fat one. 
 
 Herbert. Is that the one they call "Waddles"? 
 
 Phyll. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. E. I do hope that little bed in the box-room 
 will hold him. 
 
 Phyll. Of course it will hold him, mother — he's not 
 so very fat. He's " just comfortable."
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE 5 
 
 Herbert. He's staying here? 
 
 Phyll. Dick's putting him up for the night, other- 
 wise he'd have had to go early to catch the last train, 
 and as it's his birthday, of course that wouldn't have 
 done at all. 
 
 Herbert, (fanning himself) I say— you're awfully 
 hot in here. 
 
 Phyll. Dick would have a fire. 
 
 Herbert. Where's the Imp? 
 
 Phyll. Oh, the Imp's gone out to have a quiet even- 
 ing of his own. He's too young to stand the shock of 
 such a revel as this party. 
 
 Herbert, (chuckles) H'm! It strikes me that the 
 Imp isn't quite as young as he looks. Oh, I beg your 
 pardon. Miss Ericson. 
 
 Phyll. Not at all. 
 
 Herbert. Somehow it's difficult to think of the Imp 
 as an engaged man. 
 
 Phyll. It is very difficult, isn't it? 
 
 Herbert. He's a jolly lucky chap — oh, I beg pardon, 
 I didn't mean that. 
 
 Phyll. Oh, I hope you did, because I quite agree with 
 you. 
 
 Herbert. That's a spiffing dog-cart Dick's given him. 
 
 Mrs. E. (turning round aghast) What? 
 
 Phyll. Dog-cart! 
 
 Herbert. Oh! Didn't you know — er — well, p'raps it 
 was a hired one — only — well — he did rather lead me to 
 suppose that he was its sole proprietor. 
 
 (Sound of pushing hack chairs comes mingled with the 
 chatter from the adjoining room.) 
 
 Hallo! I must get. 
 
 Mrs. E. Stop and see Dick. 
 
 Herbert. Not I — when four old veterans like that 
 get together and have a birthday, they don't want any 
 extraneous juveniles knocking about — give him the 
 cards. I hope the packs are perfect, but I doubt it. 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, I don't think it'll matter one or two 
 being gone, nothing ever seems to matter much to Dick. 
 
 (Herbert laughs, and with a cheery " Good-night " goes 
 out, not closing the hall-door after him.) 
 
 Phyll. (gravely) That's funny about Imp and the 
 dog-cart. I wonder, does Dick know?
 
 6 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Mrs. E. I don't expect he knows half that young man 
 is up to behind his bacli. 
 
 Phyll. (gravely) Mother, you mustn't say disre- 
 spectful things about the Imp, he's my future husband! 
 
 Mks. E. Yes, dear, I know he is — bother the boy! 
 He's left the door open, {she goes to the outer door, her 
 eye falls on something by the mat) Goodness! {she 
 stops and picks up a key) The latch-key— now who put 
 that under the mat? (a pause) Are any of the ser- 
 vants out at this hour? No, they're not. I saw them 
 go to bed ages ago. 
 
 Phyll. I put it there, mother. It's all right — oh, 
 don't look amazed. The Imp asked me to — he's likely 
 to be a little late and he's mislaid his own. 
 
 Mrs. E. {puzzled) But he's gone to his aunt's at 
 
 Phyll. {ivith a little laugh) Oh, no, he hasn't. 
 
 Mrs. E. But 
 
 Phyll. Mother dear, don't be old-fashioned. The 
 Imp isn't a child — he can go to a Music-hall if he likes. 
 Another dirty old damp cigar, {looking at cigar) It's 
 Dick's — he chews his ends. 
 
 Mrs. E. But — Oh, Dick thinks he's gone to his aunt's, 
 and it seems almost like deceiving him. 
 
 Phyll. If the Imp deceives Dick — Dick's only got 
 himself to blame. I think Dick makes himself very 
 ridiculous about the Imp. I don't deceive Dick. I 
 merely push a silly little latch-key under a very dirty 
 mat, that's all. Mother dear, if anybody saw you glar- 
 ing at me like that, they'd be bound to think I was a 
 monstrosity out of a show. Smooth your face out, and 
 come to bed, there's a dear. 
 
 Mrs. E. Phyllis, I really don't believe I shall ever be 
 able to understand you. 
 
 Phyll. That's because of the difference in our ages 
 — you're so very young, and I'm so very old. 
 
 Mrs. E. (feebly) Why are you? 
 
 Phyll. (with a laugh) Because, if I'm going to be 
 married to the Imp, I shall need to know a great deal, 
 
 Mrs. E. It's very upsetting. 
 
 Phyll. What is? 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, everything. I'm sometimes tempted to 
 think — you won't marry him at all. 
 
 Phyll. I will. I said I would, and everybody was 
 pleased, and so I suppose I was — fearfully — pleased. 
 After all, nothing matters as long as other people are 
 pleased, does it? 
 
 Mrs. E. It's very nice to please others, if it doesn't 
 worry one.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 7 
 
 Phyll. Well, now could it worry one to be married 
 to such an ideal husband as the Imp? 
 
 Mrs. E. I suppose not. 
 
 Phyll. (suddenly) Come along, mother dear, they're 
 coming. We don't want to be convicted of keeping 
 them tidy. 
 
 (She puts her arm round her mother and hurries her 
 off. The door is flung open, and amid a general bab- 
 ble, Waddles and the Soldier-Man stalk in arm-in-arm. 
 The Soldier-Man is smoking a large cigar and Wad- 
 dles is carrying a drink. Waddles, otherwise known 
 as Sir Horace Plumely, is a little, round, cherubic 
 man of about 45- The Soldier-Man, otherwise known 
 as Colonel Miles Grahame, is very tall — very mili- 
 tary, bronzed and handsome, a suspicion of grey in 
 his hair.) 
 
 Waddles, (with a sigh of content) Oh, good gra- 
 cious me — we're having a splendid evening. 
 
 S. Man. It's a very impressive sight to watch you 
 over a dish of plover's eggs. Waddles. 
 
 Waddles. Can't resist 'em — never could — there's 
 something in their shape that appeals to me. 
 
 (The Doctor, a well set up, genial Irishman of about 
 five and forty, enters with a small spirit-lamp in his 
 hand — lighting his cigar and speaking through the 
 puffs.) 
 
 Doctor. Will ye believe it, boys — wid all my flow of 
 eloquence, I can't persuade Master Dick that it's his 
 duty to marry the old lady. What's to be done about 
 it at all— at all? 
 
 (Dick enters laden with cigars and cigarette boxes.) 
 
 Dick. Lazy demons. Leave me to carry everything, 
 as usual. 
 
 Waddles. You're the host — I'm the guest of honour — 
 it's your duty, all of you, to wait on me. Soldier-Man, 
 fetch me more plover's egggs. 
 
 S. Man. Daren't; you'd burst, and I'd be called to the 
 inquest. 
 
 Dick. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I haven't laughed as much 
 for years as I have this evening. 
 
 Doctor. If you'd only propose to the old lady 
 
 Dick. Shut up, or I'll — (throws cushion at him)
 
 8 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 S. Man. (gravely) Really, ye know, this fire's a 
 damn nuisance. 
 
 Doctor. It is that. Couldn't ye put it out somehow, 
 Dick? 
 
 Dick, (ruefully staring at it) It was such a devil of 
 a job to put it in. 
 
 Waddles, (fanning himself) I must own, I really 
 have felt it a little oppressive once or twice. 
 
 Dick, (hopefully) 1 vote we don't notice it; it'll be 
 all right then. 
 
 S. Man. Theoretically it may be all right — but prac- 
 tically — phew! 
 
 Dick. Let's take our coats off. (then with a chuckle 
 to the Soldier-Man) Do you remember the night we 
 took our coats off in Princes' Street, Edinburgh? 
 
 S. Man. Rather. By Gad, what a pasting you gave 
 the brute, Dickie! 
 
 Doctor, (with a note of solemn admiration in his 
 voice) Ah — it's a beautiful fighter ye were in those 
 days, Masther Dick. 
 
 (Dick chuckles.) 
 
 Waddles, (sparring at the Doctor) I was a bit use- 
 ful if I was pushed, wasn't I, Miles? 
 
 Doctor. Ye were so — but, thank the Lord — ye weren't 
 often pushed. 
 
 Waddles. D'ye remember the day that by my su- 
 perior agility and address I compelled you to apologise 
 on one knee for winking at my best girl behind my 
 back? 
 
 Doctor. I have never yet managed to remember what 
 never happened. 
 
 Dick. Come, boys. The cards are getting cold. 
 
 Waddles, (rising quickly and going to table) That's 
 right! What I say is — is this a card-party, or is it 
 isn't? 
 
 Doctor. Come along, then. 
 
 Waddles. My luck must turn. I've lost pounds 
 and pounds. 
 
 S. Man. You don't look it. Waddles. 
 
 Dick. Leave my little friend's figure alone — who in- 
 sults him, insults me — Hello! (then turning with a 
 chuckle to Waddles) D'ye remember that night in the 
 Rue Mont Pamane, we upset the claret over one pack 
 of cards — and then sent down to the room under- 
 neath
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 9 
 
 Waddles, (chuckling) I know, the room with the 
 red blinds. 
 
 S. Man. Ha! Always drawn. 
 
 Dick. Yes — and — d'ye remember the message that 
 came back — and then we went down ourselves — we 
 three. 
 
 Waddles. Me first. 
 
 Dick. Yes, and I was next, and slipped over those 
 Infernal tins. 
 
 S. Man. Gads, yes, I remember. 
 
 Dick. And how all the giggling stopped dead when 
 we opened the door. 
 
 S. Man. By George, yes! 
 
 (And all the inien sit iack, their faces beaming with 
 the memories of that night so long ago. There is a 
 pause. ) 
 
 Waddles, (breaks it by m,urmuring with his eyes 
 half closed and a beaming smile on his plump little face) 
 One of 'em — the fair one — had her hair all down. I re- 
 member. 
 
 (Another pause.) 
 
 S. Man. (gravely) Ah! Soft hair it was too, very 
 soft and long — very — very long. 
 
 Waddles, (sitting up quickly) Yes, I remember 
 now — you did me out of a nice thing that night with 
 your lanky legs and your bony shoulders. I'm not sure 
 it's diplomacy for a man of my build to be seen about 
 by ladies with a man of yours. 
 
 S. Man. You wern't your present magnificent propor- 
 tions then. Waddles — you were a slim little freckled, im- 
 pudent — scaramouch. 
 
 Waddles. I was — I was — oh, I know I was. (and 
 he beams again loith renewed delight) 
 
 Dick. Oh, those days — those nights. What times we 
 used to have. 
 
 Waddles. And will again. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Dick. 
 
 S. Man. 
 (together) Rather — one of these fine days. 
 
 Waddles, (after a pause) I don't think I was ever 
 very, was I? 
 
 Dick. Well, I don't know about very freckled, was 
 he, Miles?
 
 10 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Doctor. Well, he was freckled, anyhow. 
 
 Waddles. I don't care if I was. (he looks cheer- 
 fully at the circle round the table — the Soldier-Man has 
 begun to deal) Oh dear, oh dear. We're all just as 
 young as we were then. 
 
 {There is a pause, the three men look up with a wry 
 
 face. ) 
 
 Dick. Just as young. 
 
 S. Man. 
 
 Doctor. 
 {together) Ahem — just. 
 
 Waddles, (patting his own bald spot apprehensively) 
 Well!! almost — anyhow. I fear I'm beginning to lose a 
 little control over my figure, but in some respects I'm 
 sure we're younger, aren't we, Dickie? 
 
 Dick. Much younger. Misdeal again. Miles. 
 
 Doctor. That's the third time. It's the lobster's 
 flown to your head, my poor boy. 
 
 S. Man. (smiling) Ah, the young 'uns of to-day 
 don't know how to enjoy life as we knew how to enjoy 
 it. They're all so damned calculatory. 
 
 Dick. No such word. 
 
 5S. Man. You know what I mean. We, Dickie, you 
 and I, never stopped in the old days to turn things over 
 in our minds and grow grey over counting the chances 
 of what would or wouldn't happen. We went slap at 
 everything, like the healthy young devils we were. 
 
 Waddles. Are. 
 
 All. Are, of course. 
 
 S. Man. And if we got our ears boxed — damme — it 
 did us good — and — er — if we didn't get our ears boxed — 
 well 
 
 Dick, (cheerfully, speaking for him) Damme, that 
 did us good, too. 
 
 General Chorus, (cheerfully) So it did, of course 
 it did. 
 
 Doctor. Ah, we are a merry Trinity. 
 
 Waddles, (quickly) Quadrity! Don't forget me, 
 if you please. 
 
 S. Man. Ah, Waddy, you're not an original member 
 — you grew on to it later. 
 
 Dick. You did — you plump little parasite. 
 
 Doctor. It was three years later you threw in your- 
 self on us, Waddy dear. 
 
 Waddles, (gloomy) I know it was. But oh, after 
 all these years don't you think it would be more gen-
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. H 
 
 tlemanly of you three to forget your blessed Trinity, and 
 start friends level? 
 
 S. Man. Damme! I've mis-dealt again. 
 
 Doctor. It must be the lobster — it couldn't be the 
 wine. 
 
 Dick. Here, I'll have a go this time. 
 
 S. Man. {leaning back in his chair and stretching 
 his long legs) Remember that night in Boulogne when 
 we 
 
 Dick, (gravel) Ought we to discuss that before 
 Waddles — he's very young. 
 
 Doctor. And very immature. 
 
 Waddles. It is my birthday. I won't keep on being 
 got at, and my glass has been empty for ages. 
 
 Dick, (rising quickly) My dear Waddy, I'm aw- 
 fully sorry. I left the drinks in the dining room. You 
 deal on where I left off — oh — where did I leave off — 
 never mind, go on where I did. I don't know, a card 
 or two more or less won't make much difference at 
 this time of night. 
 
 Doctor, (counting the cards) Count your cards, 
 boys. 
 
 (They do so. Then the Doctor folds his hands across 
 Ms middle and lets his roving eyes rest on a photo- 
 graph of Phyllis that hangs on the wall.) 
 
 (placidly) It's a wonderful invention, this photography 
 — sure that's a speaking likeness of the child. 
 
 (The other two, absorbed in counting, merely grunt.) 
 
 She's a beautiful gyurl! 
 
 S. Man. She is. 
 
 Waddles. Beautiful indeed. 
 
 Doctor. Why did none of us have the chance of 
 meeting such an angel when we were the Imp's age? 
 
 S. Man. Because we'd all have got married, and then 
 none of us would have been here to-night. 
 
 Waddles, (having counted) Seven. 
 
 S. Man. And seven here. The Imp's a lucky little 
 chap. 
 
 Waddles. He is so — no, it's eight I have. 
 
 Doctor. Be — devil the cyards. I can't count for 
 thinking. 
 
 Waddles. It's my belief the Imp will have to let 
 off a lot of steam before he's fit to run in double har- 
 ness.
 
 12 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 (^The two others give grunts of mutual acquiescence. 
 Then there is a pause, broken hy — ) 
 
 All. I wish — (they stop and each looks at the other) 
 Doctor. What? 
 
 (Waddles and the Soldiee-Man pick up their cards a 
 little sheepishly.) 
 
 S. Man. Nothing. 
 
 Doctor, (looking at them both, quizzically) It's the 
 same case wid all of us, I'm thinking. 
 
 Waddles. What's that? 
 
 S. Man. I fail to follow. 
 
 Doctor, (gravely) Why, all of us u'd gladly lay 
 down in the mud, and let Miss Phylley dance herself 
 thro' life on our bedabbled corpses. 
 
 Waddles, (loftily) Not at all — not at all. 
 
 S. Man. Not I. 
 
 Doctor, (shaking his head) Ye're fooling your- 
 selves, the facts is as I say. Howld yer whist. Here 
 he comes and the whiskey wine. 
 
 (Dick enters with a bottle from Tantalus.) 
 
 Dick. It's nearly empty. 
 
 Doctor. Nearly empty, it is that an' more. Never 
 mind — when it's finished, we can all go and forage in 
 the barrel. Here are your cards, my son. 
 
 Dick, (sitting down and picking up his cards') 
 Miles, how the dickens do you keep so tidy? You don't 
 even get tobacco ash on your trousers (and he brushes 
 himself vigorously with his hands) 
 
 S. Man. It's constitutional. 
 
 Doctor, (looking at his cards) I propose. 
 
 Waddles, (looking at his hand) I pass. 
 
 Dick. Half a minute. I haven't looked at my hand. 
 I wish to goodness the Imp were here. I find his ad- 
 vice at cards most invaluable. 
 
 Doctor. His father was a good card player. 
 
 Dick. Card playing's a gift, (then looking round at 
 the other players) What's happened? 
 
 S. Man. Proposal over there. 
 
 Dick, (as he laboriously arranges and examines his 
 cards) Jolly tactful of him to go out to-night, so that 
 we four should be all to ourselves, wasn't it? 
 
 Waddles. Very — we're waiting for you — what do 
 you do?
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 13 
 
 Dick. Oh, is it me to shout? Oh, I pass— no, I don't 
 — I'll accept you, Doctor. 
 
 Waddles. Come on, we'll down 'em. My lead. 
 
 Dick. Hallo, I've only got twelve cards, {he counts 
 them out) 
 
 S. Man. It's an imperfect pack — it must be. 
 
 Dick. Try another, and deal again. 
 
 S. Man. I'm a bit sick of dealing, somebody else have 
 a go. 
 
 Doctor, (cheerfully) I'll do it. {and he deals 
 while the others watch him) 
 
 S. Man. I say, old man — I hear you didn't take that 
 fishing after all. 
 
 Dick. No. 
 
 S. Man. Why the dickens didn't you— it's quite the 
 best. 
 
 Dick. I daresay, but I came to the conclusion that I 
 couldn't afford it. 
 
 S. Man. Rubbish! 
 
 Dick. It's fact. 
 
 S. Man. Then I expect you let the Imp run away 
 with all the spare cash, eh, Master Dick? 
 
 (Dick smiles.) 
 
 Dick. He runs away with a good deal, bless him. 
 
 Doctor. It's a mistake. 
 
 Dick. What is? 
 
 Waddles. You spoil him. 
 
 Dick. I don't. 
 
 Doctor, {interposing quickly) Ah, now do let's drop 
 the Imp, and get on with our game. We're the Imps to- 
 night, not 21, any man Jack of us. 
 
 {The others pay no attention to him, and the Soldieb- 
 Man goes on gravely.) 
 
 S. Man. I think, Dick, if you'll allow me to say so, 
 you're wrong in letting him run away with the idea 
 that his income is unlimited. 
 
 Dick. He's welcome to all I've got — and he knows it. 
 
 Waddles. And doesn't scruple to make use of his 
 knowledge, I'm thinking. 
 
 S. Man. That's all very well, old man — but I don't 
 think you've got more than enough for yourself. 
 
 Dick. Oh, I want very little. 
 
 Waddles. Why have you given up your cob, Dickie? 
 , Dick, yshoving his fingers through his hair) Oh, I 
 I dunno.
 
 14: WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 S. Man. You didn't shoot last year. How was that? 
 
 Dick. Er — I dunno. 
 
 Waddles. I do; you think the money is more profita- 
 ble squandered on the boy. 
 
 Dick. Well, p'raps I do. 
 
 S. Man. Rot. 
 
 Doctor. Not at all. 
 
 Waddles. You spoil him. 
 
 S. Man. Does he know that you're giving up all the 
 fun you used to get out of life, that he may enjoy him- 
 self more than's good for him? 
 
 Dick. He doesn't, because I'm not. 
 
 Doctor. You let him have every mortal thing he 
 wants. 
 
 Dick. I don't. 
 
 Waddles. If he cried for the moon you'd make an 
 effort to get it for him. 
 
 Dick. So would all of you. 
 
 Waddles. It can't be a good training. 
 
 Doctor. No, indeed it can't. 
 
 Dick. Look here, it's all very well to round on me, 
 but — but, under the circumstances, I don't think I've 
 turned the boy out badly. 
 
 (Waddles shakes Ms head and groans.) 
 
 I think he's a splendid fellow, if you ask me. 
 
 S. Man. So do I — that's not quite the point. 
 
 Dick. Of course, I may have gone wrong in one or 
 two little things 
 
 Doctor. Ye've gone wrong on more than one or two 
 little things to my certain knowledge. 
 
 Dick. Still I've done my best to turn him out all right. 
 Suppose you three chaps have a go at him now. Every 
 little helps, and I'm jolly sure that out of our united 
 experiences we ought to be able to teach him a thing 
 or two. 
 
 Waddles, (beamingly) I'm sure any one of us 
 could instruct him how to have a high old time. 
 
 Dick, (shortly) That's not what I mean. 
 
 Doctor. Shut up, Waddles, you're a rake. 
 
 (Waddles chortles with conscious pride.) 
 
 S. Man. Now we are on this subject, I should like 
 to know how he does really stand — financially, I mean. 
 
 Dick, (a little embarrassed) Oh, he's all right that 
 way.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 15 
 
 Doctor. Let's see, how auld was he when he became 
 our property? 
 
 Dick. Two. 
 
 S. Man. And from then till now 
 
 Waddles. Nineteen years. 
 
 S. Man. He has been your old man of the sea — that is 
 to say — he has lived with you? 
 
 (Dick nods.) 
 
 Doctor. And we've each contributed a paltry £25 per 
 annum for the little beggar's maintenance. 
 
 Waddles. And what with tutors for this and tutors 
 for that and sending him to Harrow and buying him 
 books and cricket bats, I don't think that there can be 
 much margin on that hundred a year. 
 
 S. Man. Dickie, as co-guardians with you of that boy 
 — we demand to know — what is his financial position? 
 
 Dick. Well, as a matter fact, he's all right. That— 
 er — £100 a year that we've arranged to let him have — I — 
 er — well, as a matter of fact, I've made 'that a sort of 
 a sinking fund for him — I — I've never touched that. 
 It's been left to accumulate and — er — well, it's about 
 £3000 now. 
 
 Waddles, (bangs the table) I thought as much. 
 
 Doctor. So did I. 
 
 S. Man. Then you have paid for his entire bringing 
 up — ever since he's belonged to us? 
 
 Dick. It's been all right. I didn't want the money 
 for myself, and I thought our allowances would be very 
 handy for him in a lump sum when he came of age. 
 
 S. Man. You've done more than was necessary. 
 
 Waddles. Much more than he had any right to ex- 
 pect. 
 
 Dick, (rising quietly) I don't think so, any one of 
 you in my place would have done just the same. 
 
 (He rises and goes to his desk.) 
 
 He is Charlie's boy — (a silence falls on the men) you 
 remember when old Charlie came and told the four of 
 us he meant to be married. 
 
 Waddles. And what a silly ass sort of thing we 
 thought it was then. 
 
 Doctor, (shaking his head sadly) Oh, dear old 
 Charlie — one of the best. 
 
 Dick, (sadly) One of the best.
 
 16 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 {Another pause — the men's minds drift back into the 
 
 past.) 
 
 That wedding day. 
 
 Waddles. One of my boots was too tight. 
 
 S. Man. I was best man. 
 
 Waddles. Only because ye looked most showy walk- 
 ing up the aisle. 
 
 Dick. Then two years afterwards the coming of the 
 Imp, and the passing away of Mrs. Charlie. Poor old 
 chap, how lonely and desolate it seemed to leave him. 
 Do you remember how we used to watch him from our 
 windows walking up and down that field behind the 
 stables day in, day out, with the Imp huddled up in his 
 arms? 
 
 Doctor. He was hard hit — poor old son. 
 
 Waddles. He was that. 
 
 S. Man. Broke him up. 
 
 Dick. He'd have got out of it, had it not been for his 
 dread of leaving the Imp alone. Do you remember this 
 — (he goes to the desk and takes out a worn letter and 
 reads) " Im going, old man — and somehow I don't 
 much care. I've never given much thought to the other 
 side — but anyhow she's there. Dick, I want to speak of 
 my boy. I'm leaving him. I'm helpless. I'm leaving 
 him alone, there is only you, you and the Trinity, boys 
 look after my boy when I'm gone. Make a man of him, 
 make him what you know he ought to be. Make the 
 Trinity proud of him, for their old Charlie's sake, let 
 him step into my place with you all, let him be one of 
 us. I'm leaving him so terribly alone. Oh, for God's 
 sake, Dick, be Father — Mother — be air to him." (Dick 
 stops and refolds the letter) And — and — I've done it, 
 boys. I've been father and mother and — and, oh, I've 
 been a damn fool, I dai^esay — but I've done my best. 
 (then loith a sudden outburst) Hang it all, so have 
 you, you've all made fools of yourselves about him at 
 one time or another. You — {he points a scornful finger 
 at the Soldieb-Man) You've swaggered down Piccadilly 
 with him sittting on your shoulders rubbing your top 
 hat the wrong way. I was with you and saw even the 
 cabmen laughing, {then he turns fiercely on Waddles) 
 You — you were caught in a four-wheeler in Pall Mall 
 with a rocking horse on top, a most invidious position 
 for an unmarried man. {they all laugh) You laugh 
 at me. Very well — laugh away. I'm a hen with one 
 chicken, I daresay, and a hen with one chicken I'll be to 
 the end of the chapter, but I mean that chicken to be a
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 17 
 
 bally swan before I go and tell Charlie how we've reared 
 his boy. 
 
 (And very excited he goes across to the bureau and re- 
 places the letter, shutting the drawer with a snap.) 
 
 Doctor. Well, well, well— he's a fine ould youngster— 
 but all this has given me the doldrums, Dickie, me son 
 — excursh into the larder, and trot out another jug of 
 whiskey wine. 
 
 Dick. I — I — I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean to get 
 so serious. 
 
 Waddles. Let's get on with our game; there won't be 
 time for me to get that £7 back if we don't. 
 
 Dick. Come along, Waddy, — you shall have it, if I 
 have to revoke to give it you — wait till I get the whiskey, 
 where the devil are the matches. 
 
 Waddles. Hurry up. 
 
 S. Man. You chaps drink too much. Waddles, how 
 is it you can not keep your waistcoat buttoned? 
 
 Waddles. Oh, do leave my wardrobe alone. 
 
 (Dick retires to the pantry, laughing.) 
 
 S. Man. There never was a man so completely de- 
 voted to any one as Dick is to that boy. 
 
 Waddles. Talk of love of women. 
 
 Doctor. If anything happened to him he's — what's 
 that? 
 
 (A pause, they all listen.) 
 
 S. Man. Some one at the front door. 
 
 (Another pause. The door is heard to open and close 
 softly, then another paxise, then the room door opens 
 softly and the Imp peers in — he is surprised at the 
 sight of the Trinity, hut smiles at them a little va- 
 santly.) 
 
 Imp. Hullo! 
 
 (The Trinity glare at him in dismay.) 
 
 S. Man. Good God! 
 
 Waddles. Imp, where have you been? 
 Imp. (tvith a chuckle) Sh— 1. Spen'in' the evenin' 
 with my fiancee.
 
 18 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Doctor, (with a shout) What! 
 
 S. Man. You young idiot, where in thunder have you 
 been? 
 
 Imp. Sh — 1 — it's a secret — doncher tell Dick. 
 
 Waddles. Phyllis. 
 
 Imp. Sir Horace, I dinnot refer to Phyllis. Phyllis' 
 sweet girl — but she's not my fiancee. Don't you tell 
 Dick I sezzo, I'm keepin' my fiancee back for a bit. 
 I'll s'prize you all with her some day. Now if I could 
 get to bed. They made me drink heaps of things all 
 mixed up together to see if I was a man now that's 
 over. I shewed 'em I was a man — and so — now — now 
 do you think you could put me to bed, Sir 'Grace? 
 
 (Dick heard off.) 
 
 S. M\N. Here's Dick — keep him out. I'll get the 
 young beggar to bed. 
 
 Waddles. Oh, Dick must never know. 
 
 Doctor. Quick! Man — quick! He must know he's 
 come home. 
 
 S. Man. Yes, but not hoiv he's come home. 
 
 Imp. Oh, I'm so awfully unwell — don' mention this 
 lir matter to Dick. 
 
 Doctor. He's coming. 
 
 S. Man. Lock the door. 
 
 {He grabs the 'bewildered Imp and rushes off with him, 
 while Waddles goes to intercept Dick. He shuts the 
 door and hunts for the key.) 
 
 Waddles. There's no key. 
 
 S. Man. Keep him out for a minute anyhow. 
 
 (He and Doctor exit with Imp.) 
 
 Dick, (pushing against door) Hullo, what's against 
 the door? (a pause) Open, one of you chaps — my 
 hands are full. 
 
 Waddles. Ye can't come in. 
 
 DicH. What do ye mean? 
 
 Waddles. I won't let ye in till ye swear that for a 
 whole year ye won't make a single rude remark about 
 the gradual disappearance of the hair on the top of my 
 head. 
 
 Dick. All right. I swear. 
 
 Waddles, (looking round in agony for the others) 
 Holy powers, I wonder will they be long.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY- ONE. 19 
 
 Dick. Take your fat little carcas out of the way, 
 Waddles. 
 
 Waddles. What's that? Fat little carcas — I think 
 you said. 
 
 Dick. Fat little carcas^at head! Open the door. 
 
 Waddles. Withdraw your " fat little carcas " and I 
 will move. Apologise — apologise! 
 
 Dick. Oh, I apologise. Miles, take the little beggar 
 away. 
 
 (A crash of glass from outside the door.) 
 
 Oh, damn! 
 
 Waddles. What's that? 
 
 Dick. You blithering idiot, you've made me drop the 
 whiskey. 
 
 Waddles. Oh, and here's a blessed stream trickling 
 under the door. 
 
 Dick. Lap it up — I'm soaked to the skin. 
 
 Waddles. Oh, think of the waste of whiskey. Go, 
 get some more, there's a pet lamb. 
 
 (Dick retires, grumbling, as the Doctok and Soldieb- 
 
 Man re-enter.) 
 
 Waddles, (excitedly) I kept him out — is he 
 
 Doctor. Yes, he's in bed — Phew — what the dickens 
 are we to do now at all — at all. 
 
 S. Man. Dick mustn't see him till the morning. 
 
 Waddles. Don't let him know he's home — he doesn't 
 expect him to-night — so, it'll be all right. 
 
 Doctor. What the devil did he mean about his 
 " fiancee." 
 
 Waddles. Who can she be? 
 
 S. Man. a bar-maid for a sovereign. 
 
 Waddles. What'll Dick say? 
 
 S. Man. Nothing— if he's wise. Eh! Here he comes. 
 
 (Dick enters tvith the whiskey in a jug and the broken 
 Tantalus bottle.) 
 
 Dick. Here I am— look at me — thanks to you luna- 
 tics, I'm smelling like a preambulating public house. 
 
 Doctor. Good gracious — what's up wid you? 
 
 Dick. What do you mean by letting him play such 
 tricks? You're old enough to know better — so you are. 
 Miles— just look at the state of my trousers. 
 
 Doctor. Well— well. Maybe it's a blessing in dis-.
 
 20 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 guise. What wid whiskey inside and out, the prospects 
 of the evening are improving. 
 
 Waddles. It serves you right; how dare you be 
 serious on my forty -seventh birthday? 
 
 S. Man. Forty-seventh nonsense! Twenty-first — 
 time enough to be forty-seven to-morrow morning. 
 Here's fortune to us boys! Dickie, what's that thing of 
 old Thackeray's you used to spout under the influence 
 of liquor? 
 
 Waddles, (clapping his hands) " In the brave days 
 when I was twenty-one." 
 
 S. Man. That's it. 
 
 Doctor. Sure, I've not heard it for years. 
 
 Dick. Here's your drink, Waddles! Good gad, I 
 feel as if I was at school again. How did the old thing 
 go? 
 
 (And he recites the poem, the three fellows waving 
 their glasses and chiming in cheerily with the re- 
 frain. ) 
 
 With pensive eyes the little room I view 
 Where in my youth I weathered it so long 
 With a wild mistress, a staunch friend or two. 
 And a light heart, still bursting into song. 
 Making a mock of Life and all its cares 
 Rich in the glory of my rising sun, 
 Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs. 
 In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 
 
 To dream long dreams of beauty, love, and power. 
 From founts of hope that never will out-run, 
 To drain all life's quintessence in an hour. 
 Give me the days when I was twenty-one. 
 
 (And as he finishes he lifts his glass.) 
 
 A toast, boys, a toast — all standing! 
 
 (They all rise.) 
 
 Good luck and long life to the Trinity. 
 Waddles, (fiercely) Quadrity! 
 Omnes. (raising glasses) Quadrity! 
 
 {They drink; as they are doing so, the door softly opens 
 and Phyllis looks in, smiling.)
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 21 
 
 Phyll. (softly) Good-night! 
 (All the men wheel round towards her and echo.) 
 Omnes. Good-night! 
 
 (There is a slight pause, no one moves and she kisses 
 her hand; they all gravely kiss theirs to her, and she 
 softly closes the door and disappears — there is an- 
 other pause, and a half sigh escapes from all the men 
 as they stand looking at the door.) 
 
 Dick, (tenderly) Bless her. (then, with a change 
 of tone) Come along. I'm sure it's my turn to deal. 
 
 (They all go hack to the card table and sit down as the) 
 CURTAIN FALLS.
 
 22 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 The same scene. Next morning. 
 
 (Dick and Phyllis and Mrs. Ericson and Waddles just 
 
 finishing hreakfact.) 
 
 Dick, (passing his cup to Phyllis) You're a terri- 
 ble chap for late hours, Waddles. 
 
 Sir H. Only on my birthday. 
 
 Dick. What's the matter with the Imp, he's not 
 down yet? 
 
 Phyll. This is your third cup, Dick. 
 
 Dick. I always require four after a night with Wad- 
 dles—don't I, Waddles? 
 
 (Sir H., half buried in his tea-cup, mumhles an indis- 
 tinct reply.) 
 
 Mrs. E. I hope that little bed didn't inconvenience 
 you, Sir Horace. 
 
 Sir H. Oh, not a bit. I only rolled out once. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh, Sir Horace, I'm so grieved. 
 
 Dick. Not at all — his tendency to roll is not due to 
 the size of the bed, is it Waddles? 
 
 {The Imp enters, a little heavy-eyed, but ivith an affecta- 
 tion of cheerfulness.) 
 
 Imp. Morning — morning, every one. 
 
 DicH. Hullo, boy. 
 
 Others. Good morning. Imp. 
 
 Imp. I'm jolly late — so sorry. I was shaving. 
 
 Sir H. (gravely enquiring) I beg pardon? 
 
 Imp. (turning to him) Shaving — Sir Horace! 
 
 Sir H. (as if much impressed) Oh — I see — shaving 
 ^yes, of course, very wise — very wise. 
 
 Mrs. E. (giving him a plate) I'm afraid the bacon 
 is quite cold, dear.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 23 
 
 Imp. (with a slight shudder) Bacon — I really don't 
 think I can this morning. 
 
 (Waddles chuckles.) 
 
 Is there any toast left? 
 
 (Phyllis rings the bell.) 
 
 Thanks, old girl. 
 
 Dick. You weren't at a birthday, Impy — you ought 
 to be able to take your food. 
 
 Sir H. I have often found that an evening spent in 
 peaceful, homely talk produces a disinclination for rich 
 food in the morning. I observe my theory proved in 
 your case this morning, Master Richard. 
 
 Imp. (with a nervous laugh) Do you? Could I 
 have some more hot water? 
 
 (Phtllis runs and rings.) 
 
 Thanks, old girl. 
 
 (Maid enters.) 
 
 Some more toast and hot water, Dodd. 
 
 Dick. You bolted off to bed very mysteriously last 
 night. 
 
 Sib H. Richard did as his elders bid him, like a good 
 boy — didn't you, Richard? 
 
 Imp. Yes. 
 
 Sir H. Richard was most desirous to say good-night 
 to you, Dick — but, on our promising that you would 
 tuck him up when he was safely in bed — he consented 
 to retire without your good-night kiss. 
 
 Dick. Shut up, Waddles. Phyllis, it's Friday — if you 
 let me have your accounts and my cheque book, I'll 
 write one out. I shan't be a minute, Waddles, old man; 
 you're not going till the three-thirty, are you? 
 
 Sib H. (tvho has never taken his eyes off the Imp, 
 much to the Imp's discomfort) No! Richard, don't 
 you think a Bromo Seltzer would do you good? 
 
 Dick. Eh? 
 
 Sir H. He doesn't feel well— do you, Richard? 
 
 Imp. (quickly, darting a furious glance at Sib H.) 
 Quite well, thank you. 
 
 Sib H. Dick, I think he's sickening for soifiething. 
 Won't somebody look at his tongue?
 
 24: WHEN "WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Dick, (cheerily) Anything wrong, Imp? 
 
 Imp. (laughing) Of course not, Dick. It's Sir 
 Horace's joke, that's all. Wish they'd bring that toast. 
 
 Phyll. They had to make it, you know — you're so 
 late, I expect the fire was just made up. 
 
 Dick, (at door) Here's his toast. No, it's his hot 
 water. I shan't be a moment, old man. 
 (Dick goes out as the Maid enters with water jug. 
 
 Mrs. Ericson goes to small work table. Sir H. ap- 
 pears absorbed in the morning paper.) 
 
 Sir H. (to himself) Sh! Dear — dear — dear! 
 
 Mrs. E. What's that? 
 
 Sir H. Sad — sad case! Poor young fellow! 
 
 Phyll. (lightly) What happened? 
 
 Sir H. Oh, sad case. This young fellow, it appears — 
 nice young fellow — sweet nature and all that — plenty 
 of loving friends — happy home and all that. But weak 
 — very weak — falls into bad hands — sits up late — drinks 
 heaps of things all mixed up to prove that he was a 
 man — what's the result? Proves he's only a young fool 
 — and next morning at breakfast he's seized with a 
 violent 
 
 {The Imp chokes into his tea-cup — and Phyllis and 
 Sib H. rise hurriedly to avoid damage.) 
 
 Sir H. (waving the paper at him) Damme, Sir — 
 pull yourself together or you'll choke. 
 
 Phyll. Well, Imp, as you don't seem to be eating 
 any breakfast, I'll go and get the accounts for Dick. 
 
 Imp. (through his choke) Cut along. 
 
 Mrs. E. Did you change your vest, this morning? 
 
 Sir H. (looking up, then turning fiercely to the 
 Imp) Do you hear, sir — did you change your vest 
 this morning? 
 
 Imp. Hang it all — yes, I suppose so. 
 
 Mrs. E. (almost to herself) I'd better see those 
 new ones must be marked — (she gathers up her work 
 and hurries out) 
 
 (Pause. Sir H. glares at the Imp a moment, then re- 
 turns with a grunt to his paper. The Imp rises and 
 lights a cigarette.) 
 
 Sir H. (not looking up) That's mere bravado — you 
 can't enjoy your cigarette this morning. 
 
 Imp. (after a pause, chucks it into the grate) I 
 can't.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 26 
 
 (Sir H. grunts.) 
 
 Imp. (loith Ms hack to Sir H. and Ms foot on the 
 fender, stares into the empty grate) I say 
 
 (Sir H., not moving, grunts again.) 
 
 ■9 
 
 It — it — was jolly good of you chaps not to tell Dick. 
 
 Sir H. {shortly) Don't call me a chap, boy. 
 
 Imp. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Sir H. And Colonel Grahame would be exceedingly 
 annoyed if he heard himself described so familiarly by a 
 boy of your age. 
 
 Imp. He's too good a sort to mind. 
 
 Sir H. He's no such thing. 
 
 Imp. You needn't run him down — you know he's a 
 friend of Dick's. 
 
 Sir H. Run him down! God bless my soul. How 
 dare you! 
 
 Imp. He's a good sort, whatever you may say. 
 
 Sir H. Whatever I — good gracious — are you aware 
 that you're a young scamp? 
 
 Imp. I am not 
 
 (He lights another cigarette.) 
 
 Sir H. You'll be sick, sir — throw it away. The 
 Colonel has often expressed to me the deep regret with 
 which he has noticed the growing disrespect that the 
 young men of to-day have for their elders. 
 
 Imp. (quietly) I don't think any one would have 
 occasion to say that if all our elders were like you 
 four chaps. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Sir H. (completely mollified) Give me one of your 
 cigarettes. 
 
 (The Imp hands him his case.) 
 
 Now, then, what's all this about this woman? 
 
 Imp. (innocently) What woman? 
 
 Sir H. (with scorn) Your disreputable fiancee. 
 
 Imp. (with an affectation of surprise) Phyllis? 
 
 Sir H. (jumping out of his chair) How dare you, 
 sir? 
 
 Imp. Isn't Phyllis my fiancee?
 
 26 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Sir H. She is, sir. 
 
 Imp. Then, what do you mean by calling her disrep- 
 utable? I don't think it's right to speak of your friends 
 behind their backs in the way you do. 
 
 Sir H. I do not. 
 
 Imp. You said the Colonel wasn't a good sort. 
 
 Sir H. No such thing. 
 
 Imp. And now you tell me Phyllis is disreputable. 
 
 Sir H. How dare you? 
 
 Imp. I shall have to ask you to prove your state- 
 ment. 
 
 Sir H. I meant the woman you're keeping back — the 
 one you're going to surprise us with. Tell me all about 
 her. 
 
 Imp. (gravely) Really, Sir Horace — gentlemen do 
 not discuss their little affaires de coeur with each other 
 after breakfast — not good form. 
 
 Sir H. Good form be damned — how dare you? 
 
 Imp. Dick has always begged me to endeavour to dis- 
 courage bad language among my friends — would you 
 mind trying to check your tendency? You'll find it will 
 get quite a hold on you, if you don't watch yourself. 
 Even I have had to be careful. 
 
 Sir H. You're an impertinent young jackanapes. 
 
 Imp. (slowly) No, I'm not — (there is a long pause) 
 I'm awfully miserable, that's all. 
 
 Sir H. (insinuatingly) Poor old Imp — (lie goes to 
 the hoy and puts his hand on his shoulder) "What's her 
 name? 
 
 Imp. Nothing of the sort. 
 
 Sir H. Don't you think you'd better tell Dick all 
 about it? 
 
 Imp. Not yet. 
 
 Sir H. (very quietly) Are you behaving quite hon- 
 orably towards Phyllis? 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 You had too much liquor last night, you've got a head 
 on you. Come along, sir — we'll walk briskly down to 
 my club, have a Brandy and Soda, and chat the whole 
 thing over like men. 
 
 Imp. (languidly) I don't mind the Brandy and 
 Soda — but, you'll have to tackle the talk. 
 
 Sir H. (handing him clothes brush) We'll see about 
 that. Kindly brush me. 
 
 {The Imp does as he is told.)
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE, 27 
 
 And don't you ever allow yourself to fall into Dick's 
 never sufficiently to be regretted notion that a peck or 
 two of dust on a man's frock coat is a matter of minor 
 importance. I was very fond of a dear dirty fellow of 
 that sort once — but he came to no good — the dust was too 
 heavy on him, it weighed him down. P'raps the way 
 he whiskeyed and watered it made it a little heavier. 
 Ready? 
 
 Imp. Yes. 
 
 Sir. H. Trot along, then, there's a good boy — we'll be 
 back before lunch anyhow. 
 
 (The tivo of them turn to go out; Sib H. takes the Ijip's 
 arm affectionately. As they do so, Dick and Phyllis 
 enter.) 
 
 Dick. Sorry I was so long, but the Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer was very complicated this morning. 
 
 Phyllls. I wasn't a bit — it's only one or two places 
 in the adding up that I got wrong. 
 
 Dick. How the Imp and I ever paid for a single meal 
 before you and your mother came and took us in hand, 
 beats me. Going out, Waddles? 
 
 Sir H. Richard and I were going for a short consti- 
 tutional to the club. I want to see if there are any let- 
 ters; we shan't be more than twenty minutes at the 
 outside. 
 
 Dick. The Doctor and the Soldier-Man are to be 
 round here about 12:30. 
 
 SiE H. I know — come, Richard. 
 
 (Exit as before.) 
 
 Dick, (sitting down, resignedly) Well, I'm ready to 
 hear the rest now. 
 
 Phyll. It's no good making a joke of it — you know 
 it's true. 
 
 Dick. Well, say it is. I'm living beyond my means. 
 
 Phyll. No, you're not — we're living beyond your 
 mea ns — look at the money you squander on me — look at 
 the money you squander on mother — look at the money 
 you squander on the Imp — look at his clothes, look at 
 my clothes — then look at your own old things, it's per- 
 fectly disgraceful — and then, Colonel Grahame tells me 
 you used to have a little shooting in Scotland, and since 
 you've supported us you've had to give it up — so with 
 your horse and everything else — it's all for other people 
 — never anything for yourself.
 
 28 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Dick. That's where you're all wrong — it's all for 
 myself. I'm very fond of your mother. I love the 
 Imp — and — I (a pause; he looks up and meets her eye) 
 have the greatest respect for you — so, when I see those 
 that I'm fond of, those I love, and those I respect, all 
 happy and contented, I puff myself up with righteous 
 pride and wouldn't change places with the Emperor of 
 Germany. 
 
 Phyll. Dick why do you respect me? 
 
 Dick, (bluntly) I don't know. 
 
 Phyll. It's very unkind of you, I consider. Is it 
 because I owe everything in the world to you? 
 
 Dick. Good Lord, no! 
 
 Phyll. Is it because I'm such a good adder up? 
 
 Dick. P'raps! 
 
 Phyll. Or is it because the Imp has graciously con- 
 sented to make me his wife? 
 
 Dick. Why do you put it that way? 
 
 Phyll. Isn't that the proper way to speak of his 
 omnipotence? I'm the sort of woman who loves to bow 
 down before her husband and beg him to put his heel 
 upon her neck. 
 
 Dick, (o little puzzled) Are you really? 
 
 Phyll. And the Imp is to be my husband, and I long 
 for him to show his power and grind me beneath an 
 iron heel of authority. 
 
 Dick. Oh, I don't think the Imp would ever do a 
 thing like that. He'll be master of his own house and 
 all that, of course, but 
 
 Phyll. Will he — do you really think he will? 
 
 Dick. I don't think I've considered the matter. 
 
 Phyll. I have; the Imp and I will chat it over some 
 day; I daresay we shall come to an understanding. I 
 think I must try and do something that'll make you not 
 respect me quite so much. 
 
 Dick. Eh ? 
 
 Phyll. It's an awful nuisance to be so fearfully re- 
 spected — it makes one feel quite lonely, almost as if 
 one was a marble statue out in the east wind. I should 
 have to put up with being respected if I were a fright 
 like the pictures of Queen Elizabeth — but as I'm only 
 me — it's different. Couldn't you give up respecting me 
 so fearfully? Just now and then. 
 
 Dick. I — I don't see that it's possible — but — I'll have 
 a try if you like. 
 
 Phyll. {delightedly) Will you, really? Oh do — 
 begin now. 
 
 Dick. Well — I — er — it isn't a thing one can do all at
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY ONE. 29 
 
 once, is it? You'd have to — sort of — give me a lead, 
 you know. 
 
 Phyll. Would I — oh, yes, I suppose that is the best 
 way — well, suppose I do this — I put this arm round your 
 shoulder, so — {she is standing behind his chair) and 
 then I lean my cheek against the back of your head 
 sympathetically, like this — How does that feel? 
 
 Dick. Feels as if I was going to be electrocuted. 
 
 Phyll. Oh! 
 
 Dick. You mustn't ruffle my hair, you know, coz the 
 Soldier-Man's coming to lunch, and — if — everybody's 
 hair isn't smarmy, he loses his appetite. 
 
 Phyll. Oh, bother the Colonel — let's talk about our- 
 selves. Dick, what is the thing you wish for most in 
 the world? 
 
 Dick. To see 
 
 Phyll. Don't say it — {quickly) I know exactly 
 what you're going to say. {and with a choke, she moves 
 quickly from him and goes up to the window) 
 
 Dick. (a little surprised at her tone) Do you 
 really? 
 
 Phyll. Yes. 
 
 Dick. What was I going to say? 
 
 Phyll. To see me and the Imp happily married, 
 weren't you? 
 
 Dick. Well, as a matter of fact, I was. 
 
 Phyll. Oh, I'm so glad — it's the thing I v/ish for most, 
 too — isn't it lucky that you should make all these plans 
 for us — and we should be so pleased about it? Oh, but 
 doesn't such happiness make one nervous — one begins 
 to dread one's unworthiness and to feel sure that some- 
 thing must happen sooner or later to prevent it coming 
 off. Oh! if anything happened to prevent this — I — think 
 I should die — just fade away from grief — don't you, 
 Dick? 
 
 Dick. Nothing will happen, dear! 
 
 Phyll. Are you sure — Oh, say you're quite sure. 
 
 Dick. I'm quite sure — sure. 
 
 Phyll. Suppose the Imp were to tire of me? 
 
 Dick. That's impossible. 
 
 Phyll. {snuggling up to him) Is it, Dick — why is 
 it? 
 
 Dick. Because — oh — because you are you, I suppose. 
 
 Phyll. Don't you think if you were in the Imp's 
 place you might get a little tired of me sometimes, just 
 a little? 
 
 Dick. No — not a little.
 
 30 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Phyll. Ah — but you haven't ever pictured yourself 
 in the Imp's place. 
 
 Dick, {softly, as if to himself) Yes, I have often. 
 
 Phyll. {Rising and looking him full in the eyes) 
 Have you — pictured yourself married to me — oh, Dick! 
 {then tenderly) Was it nice? 
 
 Dick. {with a laugh) Here — here — here — come 
 along now — Finances! we've chatted enough nonsense 
 for one morning. 
 
 Phyll. Yes, I think we've done very well — consid- 
 ering. 
 
 Dick. Let's see — £473 — in the current account wasn't 
 it? 
 
 Phyll. Yes. 
 
 Dick, {lightly) Then who dares to say the firm 
 isn't flourishing? 
 
 (A pause, Phyllis looks out at nothing in particular.) 
 
 Phyll. How odd it would be, wouldn't it? 
 
 Dick, {looking up) What? 
 
 Phyll. What you're always picturing to yourself. 
 
 Dick, {aghast at the notion) You're a trying young 
 woman to make a casual remark to. I'm always pic- 
 turing myself married to all sorts of very nice people — 
 why I've pictured myself married to your mother be- 
 fore now. 
 
 Phyll. So have I — in fact, I've suggested it to 
 mother often. 
 
 Dick. Thank you, very much. I think I shall get 
 through these papers more quickly in my own room. 
 
 {He rises — so does she.) 
 
 Phyll. I'll come with him. 
 Dick, {firmly) You'll do no such thing. 
 Phyll. But I'd like to. 
 
 Dick. I don't care — you've pictured your mother as 
 my wife 
 
 {Enter Mrs. Eeicsox.) 
 
 So you've pictured me as your other parent, so perhaps 
 you will go a step further and picture yourself doing 
 what your parent tells you for once in a way. 
 
 Phyll. Yes, papa dear. 
 
 Mrs. E. Papa dear! 
 
 Dick, {aghast) No, no, dear lady — No — no — not at
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 31 
 
 all — merely a silly dream. Please don't consider it 
 seriously — a dream — merely a dream, (he dashes out) 
 
 (Mes. E. looks after Dick, then back to his door, and 
 says hurriedly.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Phyllis! 
 
 Phyll. (somewhat startled by her tone) Mother! 
 
 Mbs. E. Oh my dear, I've done a dreadful thing, I 
 know it was very wrong of me — but I couldn't help it. 
 
 Phyll. Gracious — what have you done? 
 
 Mrs. E. I found a crumpled letter in the hall — and I 
 picked it up and smoothed it out to see who it belonged 
 to, and, as I was smoothing it out I accidentally read 
 a little and — and — oh it gave me such a shock that I 
 read it all — I — I've read it twice or three times — I don't 
 know which and oh — I really don't know what to say 
 or think. 
 
 Phyll. Whose letter was it? 
 
 Mrs. E. It was a woman's letter — (a pause) to Dick. 
 
 Phyll. To Dick? 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes! he — he's making arrangements to be 
 married, and — he doesn't want any of us to know. 
 
 Phyll. (sloivly) Making arrangements to be — How 
 do you know? 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, there's quite a lot about it in the letter. 
 
 Phyll. Arrangements to be 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Mrs. E. It will be terribly inconvenient for us — of 
 course, he won't want us with him then. 
 
 Phyll. Are you sure? 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, perfectly sure. I think Dick might have 
 been more open with us — after all we've done for him. 
 
 Phyll. What have we done for him, but sponge on 
 him and spend his money? 
 
 Mrs. E. (helplessly waving the letter) Oh, what am 
 I to do with it — (a pause) I — I think I'll go and drop 
 It behind the coats again. 
 
 Phyll. No — give it to Dick — if it's his. 
 
 Mbs. E. My dear, I daren't. 
 
 Phyll. Give it to me, then — I will. 
 
 Mrs. E. (a little nervous) I don't think you ought 
 to read it dear — some of it is a little 
 
 Phyll. (with a bitter smile) Don't be alarmed, I 
 don't intend to read it. 
 
 Mrs. E. (handing it to her with a parting glance at
 
 32 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 it) They really must be very much in love with each 
 other. 
 
 (Phyllis takes the letter and fights against her desire 
 to read it — but eventually she gives way, and with a 
 little gasp, she reads it hurriedly — then she turns her 
 horrified gaze and meets her mother's eyes.) 
 
 Phyll. {completely awed) What sort of woman is 
 
 she? 
 
 Mrs. B. (feebly) I think she must be a foreigner, 
 I've heard foreign ladies are frequently very fluent. 
 
 (Phyllis is standing staring into space— her mother is 
 sitting on the sofa, in an attitude of deep dejection 
 — as Dick enters.) 
 
 Dick. I told you that the Trinity are lunching with 
 
 us again to (he stops and looks at them both in 
 
 surprise) 
 
 (Phyllis, toithout turning to him or looking at him, 
 holds out the letter towards him.) 
 
 Phyll. You dropped this. 
 
 {He takes it in surprise — reads it in silence, then folds 
 it up, puts it in his pocket, and looks steadily at 
 Phyllis. ) 
 
 Dick. Where did you find it? 
 
 Phyll. Mother found it behind the coats in the hall. 
 
 Dick. Oh! (a pause) You have read it? 
 
 Mrs. E. (with a gulp) I didn't mean to. 
 
 Dick. Of course not. 
 
 Phyll. (haughtily) I read it because I chose to. 
 
 Dick. Yes — (a pause) — Well! 
 
 Mrs. E. The— I'm very sorry— but this is very unex- 
 pected—I'm sure, I wish you every happiness, Mr. 
 Carew, if you're half as good a husband as you have been 
 a friend — your wife will be a lucky woman. (holding 
 out her hand to him) 
 
 Phyll. I hope you'll be very happy, Dick— very- 
 very — happy. You deserve to be, only — you might have 
 trusted me with the secret, mightn't you? 
 
 Dick. I — I wish I had. 
 
 Phyll. Kara Glynesk. It's a pretty name — I seem 
 to have seen it somewhere.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 33 
 
 Dick. You may have — it's all over the walls and on 
 most of the 'buses. She performs at the Garden Thea- 
 tre. 
 
 Mrs. E. (horrified) She performs! 
 
 Dick. You've seen the large, scarlet picture of her on 
 the walls, there's one on the boardings opposite. 
 
 Phyll. That woman! Oh, Dick! (then she re- 
 covers herself) I do hope that you'll both be very — 
 very happy. 
 
 Dick. Oh, I expect it'll be all right. I daresay she is 
 not as red as she's painted, you know. 
 
 Mrs. B. It was a lucky thing the servants didn't find 
 the letter. 
 
 Dick. Very. 
 
 Phyll. Does the Imp know? 
 
 Dick. Nobody knows — but you and your mother. 
 
 Mrs. E. You may rely on our discretion — at least, I 
 can only answer for my own. We shall be seven for 
 lunch. I had better attend to my household duties be- 
 fore they are transferred to abler hands than mine. 
 
 Dick. Eh? 
 
 Mrs. E. The future Mrs. Carewe. 
 
 Dick. Oh, yes, of course — she will naturally expecet 
 to er 
 
 (Mrs. E.fiToes out a little stiffly.) 
 
 Phyll. (stands staring at the floor, then at last she 
 says, with an effort) It's a terrible thing for a woman 
 to have to acknowledge herself a failure. 
 
 Dick. What do you mean? 
 
 Phyll. I don't think you'd understand. (another 
 pause, and then she laughs a little) Fancy my having 
 to say that of you — I couldn't have said that yester- 
 day. 
 
 Dick. There are a great many things none of us can 
 understand. 
 
 Phyll. It was the dearest wish of my heart to be 
 your true friend and — and — see how hopeless it has 
 been. 
 
 Dick. Don't say that — oh, don't say that, you hurt 
 me. 
 
 Phyll. Haven't you hurt me? 
 
 Dick. How? I — I didn't mean to. 
 
 Phyll. Of course, I'm awfully glad you're going to 
 get married. The Imp and I have often felt that the 
 one drawback to our complete happiness was the fact 
 that you'd be left so lonely. Now, of course — it's all 
 
 3
 
 34 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 splendid — but what hurts is that you didn't let me share 
 your secret with you — that you didn't trust me. And ' 
 all these years I've tried so hard to make you trust me 
 —and see how miserably I have failed. (a long pause, 
 then she says, impulsively) Dick — Dick — I didn't mean 
 to be a beast — I hope you'll be awfully happy — I do, in- 
 deed — I do, indeed. 
 
 {The hall door opens and the Imp and Sir H. reappear. 
 The liip is seen to disappear hurriedly down the outer 
 passage, ivhile Sir H. comes into the room.) 
 
 Sir H. God bless my soul — young lady, your future 
 husband is a most erratic young man. I take him out 
 for a short walk, and a serious chat, to be washed down 
 with a glass of milk — and we haven't gone a hundred 
 yards — before he gives a gasp and makes a bolt for 
 home, saying he'd forgotten his pocket handkerchief or 
 something equally infantile. I — hallo! Dick, what's 
 gone wrong with you? 
 
 Dick. Nothing, old man — come to my sanctum — we'll 
 have a quiet smoke. 
 
 Phyll. (aside to Dick) Do the Trinity know? 
 
 Dick. Not a word. 
 
 Sir H. There's something in that prospect that 
 pleases — but surely we're as well off here? 
 
 Dick. Not a bit of it. Come to my room, 
 
 (Dick goes out.) 
 
 Sir H. Lord — he's a masterful creature — that's the 
 way he used to order me about 30 years ago. 
 
 Phyll. (bitterly) Is it? 
 
 Sir H. When he was a boy 
 
 Phyll. Oh, I daresay he was just like other boys as 
 now he is just like other men. 
 
 Sir H. (puzzled) I'm referring to Dick. 
 
 Phyll. So am I 
 
 (Sir H. is about to speak, when Dick calls him sharply, 
 and Sir H. hurries out very perplexed and with his 
 face full of concern. Phyllis stands motionless for 
 a moment, then swiftly presses her hands to her tem- 
 ples,, and cries out.) 
 
 I won't believe it — it isn't true. How could such a 
 thing be true?
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 35 
 
 (The Imp enters in a great state of agitation, looking 
 hurriedly about him — she watches his movements 
 listlessly for a moment.) 
 
 Lost anything? 
 
 Imp. (shortly) No. 
 
 (A pause. He glances round the room furtively — she 
 watching him; suddenly a thought flashes into her 
 face, and she gasps.) 
 
 Phyll. Richard— Dick! (she springs to her feet, 
 pointing at him) You!— you!— Oh, you darling, you 
 darling! 
 
 (And, to his intense astonishment, she flings her arms 
 round his neck and hugs him — laughing hysteric- 
 ally) 
 
 Imp. Here — good gracious! Hang it all, Phyllis, 
 don't be an ass. 
 
 Phyll. (half laughing, half crying) Isn't it like 
 him? Oh, isn't it just like him? 
 
 Imp. Like who? 
 
 Phyll. Nobody. Imp — Imp — you're a miserable — 
 hopeless — immoral, horrid young man — but, oh, Imp, 
 you darling — you've made me fearfully happy. 
 
 Imp. (gloomily) Have I? I— I suppose I have, 
 (a pause) that's the worst of it. 
 
 Phyll. What's that? 
 
 Imp. I — er — look here, Phyllis, it's no good going on 
 like this, is it? I — I can't stand it, you know — it keeps 
 me awake at nights thinking of it — and goodness knows 
 what with everything I want all the sleep I can get 
 just now. 
 
 Phyll. Beauty sleep? 
 
 Imp. Look here — I — that is — you and I — er — I mean 
 it's no good beating about the bush is it? 
 
 Phyll. I don't understand — I — Imp, what is it? — 
 something terrible has happened, I see it in your face. 
 Oh— Imp, don't, don't tell me anything has happened. 
 
 Imp. Well — you see it's this way. (he stops awk- 
 wardly) 
 
 Phyll. (with an assumption of terrified anticipa- 
 tion) Don't say any more just yet— give me time — 
 you're a man — be — be very gentle with me, Imp — I — I'm 
 only a weak, loving woman. 
 
 Imp. (with a gulp) Well, you see— when you and I
 
 36 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 — were engaged — we — well — we didn't know as much of 
 the world as we do now — did we? 
 
 (a pause, she rises and faces Mm.) 
 
 (nervously) I say, Phyllis, don't look at a fellow like 
 that — it's hard enough for me as it is. Goodness knows. 
 
 Phyll. (slowly) What is hard enough for you as it 
 is? 
 
 Imp. Why, to have to tell a girl that's fond of you 
 
 (he stops again) 
 
 Phyll. Don't say it, Mr. Audaine, I understand. 
 
 (A long pause.) 
 
 Imp. You — you don't think any the worse of me, do 
 you, Phyllis? 
 
 Phyll. I — I — somehow, I can't think at all — every- 
 thing seems dark — my brain won't work — it's numb. 
 
 Imp. (in agony) Oh, I say, don't — there's a dear 
 girl — I — know it must be awful for you — but — but — Oh, 
 what could I do, Phyllis — I couldn't help myself. I 
 fought against it, I did, indeed. 
 
 Phyll. You — you — love — some one — else? 
 
 Imp. I — I — couldn't help it, really. 
 
 Phyll. Tell me — everything. I — I won't faint, I can 
 be very brave. 
 
 Imp. I will — there isn't very much to tell. 
 
 Phyll. Who is she? 
 
 Imp. She's the most beautiful woman in the world. 
 
 Phyll. Oh, Imp — what does beauty matter? Is she 
 very — very good? 
 
 Imp. Er — of course, she's good. 
 
 Phyll. Is she very — very religious — and domesti- 
 cated? 
 
 Imp. I don't know about very religious or the other 
 thing. But she's got glorious eyes. Oh, if you could 
 only look into her eyes — you'd know how good 
 she was then. 
 
 Phyll. Yes, I expect I should — Imp, I will not let 
 the world know the — the heartaches I shall have to bear, 
 I will be very brave, you shall take mother and me to 
 call. 
 
 Imp. Eh? Oh, would you — you see — it — it isn't 
 quite definite just yet. 
 
 Phyll. Doesn't she love you? 
 
 Imp. Yes, of course, that part of it's all right, but — 
 you see, marriage is a jolly serious thing — it's for life.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 37 
 
 you know. For good and all — and all that. So one 
 can't only think of the love part — there are settlements 
 and things. I shall have to settle all I've got on her, 
 of course. 
 
 Phyll. Does she insist on that? 
 
 Imp. She doesn't, of course — but — she's got a friend 
 — a sort of business manager, she calls him — rather a 
 cad of a fellow, I think — and — er 
 
 Phyll. He does. 
 
 Imp. Yes — yes — He's quite right — and all that, of 
 course — but — I — well, I don't exactly know how much 
 I've got to settle. I expect I'm pretty well off — but — 
 that, of course, up to now has been Dick's affair. 
 
 Phyll. What will Dick say? 
 
 Imp. Ah — that's it. 
 
 Phyll. You haven't told him? 
 
 Imp. Of course, I haven't — not yet — he couldn't un- 
 derstand. 
 
 Phyll. Why couldn't he? 
 
 Imp. Oh, what could a fellow like Dick know about 
 love, and all that! 
 
 Phyll. Ah — what, indeed? 
 
 Imp. It's awfully good of you to take it so well, 
 Phyl — it is indeed — not one girl in a hundred would 
 have been such a brick. 
 
 Phyll. I feel it very deeply, Richard — but I show 
 nothing I — I am very proud; if — if — this blow should 
 happen to change my nature, — I — I — shall do something 
 great — I — I'll go on the stage. My name shall be in 
 every man's mouth, my photograph on every man's man- 
 telpiece, my face in every shop window and my figure 
 in full upon every wall. I've got a tendency that way, 
 I know, because, when a week ago an old man with a 
 long brush and a pail pasted on the boarding opposite 
 this window a poster of a glorious creature — an ideal 
 woman with crimson limbs and flame coloured hair, 
 something seemed to wake up inside me, and as I 
 watched the figure standing boldly out limb by limb 
 against a background of gauzy drapery — I realized how 
 narrow was life's look-out for me. How could I hope 
 to win and keep the love of an honest man — and now it 
 has all come true. Oh, Imp, Imp, if years ago I had 
 cast to the winds all petticoats and prudery, I might 
 have proved worthy of you now. But — but — as it is, I 
 must school myself to think that all is for the best. 
 
 Imp. Well, of course, it is no good crying over spilt 
 milk, is it, Phyl — and — and — it's awfully odd you should 
 mention her — but — it — that's she
 
 38 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Phyll. (looking up at Mm as if completely "bewil- 
 dered) She — {the7i in an awed whisper) The one on 
 the wall? 
 
 (He nods.) 
 
 Oh, Imp — she loves you? 
 
 Imp. Yes — it — it somehow takes my breath away 
 when I think of it. 
 
 Phyll. (after a pause) Oh, Richard, where will you 
 be able to keep such a wonderful thing as that? 
 
 Imp. I haven't spoken to her about it yet — but I've 
 been looking about for a flat. 
 
 Phyll. (ivith a shudder) A flat! You couldn't — 
 you couldn't — that would be terrible — don't you see? 
 Can't you feel how terrible that would be? 
 
 Imp. Well — we must make a beginning somewhere — 
 mustn't we? 
 
 Phyll. It seems such a waste to keep her in one 
 flat. 
 
 Imp. She — she's a good deal more homely than you'd 
 think she is from that picture you know. 
 
 Phyll. Ah? 
 
 (Mrs. Eeicson calls from the other room.) 
 
 Mrs. E. Phyllis, dear — you'll make the hock cup, 
 won't you? 
 
 Phyll. Yes, mother, I'm coming — (then, in a whis- 
 per) Does she make hock cup, Richard? 
 
 Imp. I don't know. 
 
 Phyll. You've drunk so much of mine — but — I don't 
 mean to reproach you, Imp, I don't, indeed — perhaps you 
 wouldn't have if you'd known how everything was going 
 to turn out. 
 
 Imp. (suddenly) Great Scott! 
 
 Phyll. What is it? 
 
 Imp. That letter — I forgot. I must find it. I came 
 home on purpose. 
 
 Phyll. There was a letter picked up behind the coats 
 in the hall. 
 
 Imp. Where is it? 
 
 Phyll. Dick has it. 
 
 Imp. (with horror) Dick! 
 
 Phyll. Does it matter? 
 
 Imp. Oh, my goodness — suppose he should read it! 
 
 Phyll. (loftily) People with any sense of honour 
 don't read other people's letters.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 39 
 
 Imp. But — but — this was a fearfully private letter. 
 Phyll. Oh, of course, that does make a difference. 
 
 (Dick enters — a pause.) 
 
 Dick, (gravely to Imp) Will you come to my study, 
 I want to have a talk with you. 
 
 Phyll. {quickly seeing the Imp's dismay) He can't 
 come now. He has something very important to do for 
 me. 
 
 Dick. But — 
 
 Phyll. It's very important, Dick. Go at once, Imp. 
 
 Imp. (looking at her gratefully) I — I must go now, 
 Dick — I — I — won't be long. 
 
 Dick. Very well, (he goes to the window and looks 
 out listlessly) 
 
 (Phyllis watches him mischievously.) 
 
 Phyll. Is it a good likeness, Dick? 
 Dick, (not understanding) What? 
 Phyll. The picture on the wall. 
 
 (Dick catches her meaning, and ivith a groan pulls the 
 blind down and leaves the window.) 
 
 (very gravely) I should have thought that you were 
 the last man in the world to fall In love with that sort 
 of woman. 
 
 Dick, (shortly) Oh. 
 
 Phyll. Yes — it only proves to me how right mother 
 always is. 
 
 Dick. What do you mean? 
 
 Phyll. You see, mother having been married — 
 knows a great deal about men. 
 
 Dick. Ah! 
 
 Phyll. And she isn't a bit surprised. 
 
 Dick. Isn't she? I'm glad. 
 
 Phyll. No — she says the quiet, fair men are gener- 
 ally like that. 
 
 Dick. Like what? 
 
 Phyll. Oh — you know — easily attracted by — by pic- 
 tures on the wall. 
 
 Dick. I didn't know your mother was so observant. 
 
 Phyll. Because you're going to be married, you 
 needn't be rude to my mother. 
 
 Dick. I wasn't rude to your mother.
 
 40 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Phyll. I think you were — you mayn't have meant it, 
 Dick — but I think you decidedly were 
 
 Dick. Oh, don't worry me, dear — I — I'm not in the 
 mood to-day. 
 
 Phyll. Poor old Dick — have you got a headache? 
 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 Phyll. Then I won't worry — I — I'll be very sympa- 
 thetic. I — I'll let you tell me about yourself — and — 
 and your plans for the future with your wife that is 
 to be. 
 
 (Dick groans a little.) 
 
 She — she seems to be very beautiful, Dick. Is she 
 really as beautiful as that? 
 
 Dick. I suppose so. 
 
 Phyll. Oh, you must know. " Suppose so " sounds so 
 cold — perhaps you don't like talking about her to me, 
 do you mind talking about her to me, Dick? 
 
 DicK^ No. 
 
 Phyll. I wonder do you love her as much as I love 
 the Imp? 
 
 Dick. I daresay. 
 
 Phyll. Isn't it beautiful, being in love, Dick — 
 doesn't it make one feel good and peaceful — and — and 
 sunshiny. Don't you glow all over with pride and hap- 
 piness every time you see that picture on the wall. 
 
 Dick. No, I don't, if you really want to know. 
 
 Phyll. Don't you — how odd. I should love to see a 
 picture of the Imp on the wall — that size. 
 
 Dick. Would you? 
 
 Phyll. Yes, and every time I saw a crowd of ladies 
 looking at it I should say to myself — look away ladies, 
 all that belongs to me. Just how you must feel when 
 you see everybody — even the policeman, looking at 
 your future wife's picture. Do you approve of the drap- 
 ery being so — so far away? 
 
 Dick. No. 
 
 Phyll. I'm glad you don't, because I don't either. 
 
 Dick. Will you kindly be quiet? I'm not in the 
 mood for this sort of talk. 
 
 Phyll. Dick. 
 
 Dick. Oh, run away, there's a dear — I've lots of 
 things to think about. 
 
 Phyll. You've loFt your temper. 
 
 Dick. I daresay I have. 
 
 Phyll. Well, as you've lost your temper and prac-
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 41 
 
 tically told me to leave the room — I won't try to be nice 
 to you any more. 
 
 Dick. That's a good thing. 
 
 Phyll. Is it? And I'll tell the truth to you now. I 
 think it's disgusting your being in love with a woman 
 like that. 
 
 Dick. I daresay. 
 
 Phyll. And if it had been any one I'd been really 
 fond of 
 
 Dick, (rising) If — if it had been the Imp? 
 
 Phyll. (proudly) That's impossible, the Imp is en- 
 gaged to me, but if it had been the Imp, even the Imp — 
 no matter how much I loved him, I'd never have spoken 
 to him again. 
 
 Dick. Would it break your heart never to speak to 
 him again? 
 
 Phyll. That's a curious question for you to ask, con- 
 sidering that our marriage has been almost entirely ar- 
 ranged by you. 
 
 Dick, (sadly) Yes — yes — I know. 
 
 Phyll. I think it's rather mean to suggest to me of 
 all people that the Imp co2(.ld do such a thing. 
 
 Dick. I didn't. 
 
 Phyll. I'm in error again, I suppose, or my hearing 
 must be defective. 
 
 Dick. Oh, do leave me alone. 
 
 Phyll. You won't be worried with me much longer. 
 After I'm married and you're married, I don't suppose 
 we shall see much of each other, for I don't think either 
 the Imp or I would ever be likely to be very friendly 
 with the red lady on the wall. 
 
 Dick. Have you done? 
 
 Phyll. Very nearly. I don't mind telling you that 
 now mother's worst suspicions are confirmed, it's just 
 possible that her principles won't allow us to trespass 
 on your hospitality much longer. 
 
 Dick. Oh, and how long has your mother had these 
 suspicions of me, may I ask? 
 
 Phyll. Oh, about three years. 
 
 Dick. Ever since you've been living here — eating my 
 bread and 
 
 Phyll. We didn't eat much bread. 
 
 Dick. It's a pity your mother didn't realize what a 
 bad lot I was a year or two sooner. 
 
 Piiyll. Oh, I think she did — but she often said to 
 me — it wasn't wise to throw out dirty water before we'd 
 got in clean, (a pause — she says softly, thinking she
 
 42 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 has gone too far) Dick, that isn't true. She never 
 said that. 
 Dick, (wearily) No, I don't suppose she did. 
 
 (He is sitting listlessly, very tired, very dejected, look- 
 ing at the pattern on the carpet. Phyllis goes to the 
 door — turns and stands looking lovingly at him for 
 a moment, then, with a little happy silent laugh, she 
 creeps quietly to the hack of his chair, throtcs her 
 arms round his neck and kissing him gently, runs 
 from the room. Dick looks up, startled — half rises, 
 then sinks hack again.) 
 
 Now, what made her do a silly thing like that? (Tie 
 runs his fingers hopelessly through his hair) 
 
 (Sir H. comes in from the study.) 
 
 Sir H. Isn't he about? 
 
 Dick. He's just gone out to get something for Phyl. 
 
 Sir H. It's a bit of a facer, isn't it? 
 
 Dick. On my soul, I don't quite know where to be- 
 gin. 
 
 Sir H. I don't expect it's anything very serious — 
 boys will be boys. 
 
 Dick. He is engaged to be married to the sweetest 
 girl in England. 
 
 Sir H. Oh, I don't defend it. 
 
 Dick, (going to the windoio and pulling up the hlind 
 — then again remembering the poster) Damn the 
 poster. 
 
 (The hell rings.) 
 
 There he is. 
 
 (The Maid goes to the hall door and opens it.) 
 
 Doctor, (heard off) Any one at home? 
 Dick. It's Terry and the Soldier-Man. 
 
 (He goes out into the hall.) 
 
 Morning, you fellows — You're just in time. 
 
 S. Man. Morning, Dick— where's Waddles? 
 
 Dick. He's here — we— we're all here, you're just in 
 time for a council of war. (lie comes doivn) 
 
 Doctor, (to the S. Man) Corporal — it's all out.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 43 
 
 S. Man. Council of war — good — what's the trouble, 
 Dick? 
 Dick. Sit down! 
 
 {They sit down.) 
 
 Read this. 
 
 S. Man. (glancing at letter) To you? 
 Dick. No, to the Imp. 
 
 (He hands the letter to the Doctor, who reads it in 
 silence — and gives a low ivhistle.) 
 
 Doctor. Shall I 
 
 Dick, (grimly) Pass it on. 
 
 (The Doctor hands it to Col. Grahame, who also reads 
 it and grunts — offers it to Waddles.) 
 
 Sir H. Not again, thank you. 
 
 (The Soldier-Man puts it on the table and there is a mo- 
 ment's silence.) 
 
 Doctor. What sort of looking woman is she? 
 Dick. Judge! 
 
 (He goes up to the window, the three men follow him 
 and follow the direction of his pointing finger.) 
 
 Sir H. (gazes placidly at the poster, then murmurs 
 to himself) Very — very soothing. 
 
 S. Man. The Firefly! by all that's damnable. 
 
 Dick. Is she 
 
 S. Man. (answering the unspoken question) Quite 
 one of the most notorious. 
 
 Dick, (facing the three silent men) And now I 
 shall be glad to know what we are going to do. 
 
 Doctor. How did you find it out? 
 
 Dick. Mrs. Ericson picked up that letter, read it, 
 handed it on to Phyllis, who also read it and handed it 
 on to me. 
 
 Doctor. To Phyllis! Good God— and she engaged 
 to him! 
 
 S. Man. Poor girl! What a blow for her. 
 
 Dick. That's the one slice of luck in the whole mis- 
 erable business. 
 
 Doctor. Doesn't she care for him?
 
 44 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Dick. Of course, she worships him. 
 
 DocTOB. Then where's the slice of luck? 
 
 Dick. They think the lady is in love with me, 
 
 Omnes. What! 
 
 Dick, (taking up letter) "Dick." I'm Dick. The 
 Imp's Richard, too, but he's never Dick to us — he's the 
 Imp. So I'm — thanks to that trivial misunderstanding 
 — the future husband of that scarlet horror stuck upon 
 the wall. However, that doesn't matter, my shoulders 
 are broad enough to bear even that. I'm all right, it's 
 the Imp's got to be looked after, or else he'll burn his 
 fingers. Good God, I've rescued from danger before I — 
 I've seen him through scarlet fever — diphtheria — all the 
 other ills of his babyhood — this is a very similar sort 
 of complaint, and if we can't pull him through, his 
 father was a poor judge of guardians when he gave the 
 boy to us. We'll talk to him — we'll open his juvenile 
 eyes — we'll 
 
 S. Man. Do you suppose we'll succeed in convincing 
 him? 
 
 (A long paiise.) . . 
 
 Dick, (wearily) No. I don't suppose we shall — 
 at first. We've got to put this thing right, ye know. 
 We're responsible to Charlie for the boy's life and we'll 
 take jolly good care he doesn't spoil it by this sort of 
 thing. 
 
 S. Man. Phyllis must be considered — wouldn't it be 
 as well to let their marriage be broken off for the pres- 
 ent? 
 
 Dick. Man alive, if she knew he'd — he'd turned his at- 
 tention to this sort of thing, she'd never speak to him 
 again — she's as proud as Lucifer. 
 
 Sir H. Are you sure she loves him? 
 
 Dick. Certain. I asked her just now — she was 
 rounding on me about it — telling me how contemptible 
 she thought it all — and — and^and I asked her what 
 she'd have done if — if it had been the Imp — and she said 
 that she'd give him up and hate him forever — though 
 she knew it would break her heart. 
 
 S. Man. Um! That does make it awkward, doesn't 
 it? 
 
 Sir H. Well, there's fact one she loves him — now then 
 — fact two is he doesn't love her. And fact three, they 
 certainly ought not to be married under such condi- 
 tions. 
 
 Dick. No, no — you're going all wrong. You're wrong
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 45 
 
 in saying lie doesn't love her— he does in his heart of 
 hearts. This (pointing to the window) — sort of thing 
 —is— isn't pleasant, of course, but it— it's only his youth 
 —you know. We all seem to go through it— at least so 
 I'm told. When he finds out what it's all worth he'll 
 sicken of it, damn quick, and then he'll marry and set- 
 tle down — and — and — be the man we all want to see him. 
 
 Doctor. Do you think that sort of thing (pointing to 
 poster) is a necessary part of a young man's education? 
 
 Dick. Certainly not, but now that he has tumbled 
 into the water, let's pick him out and dry him as quickly 
 as we can. 
 
 Sir H. I don't think it will do him any harm. 
 
 Doctor. And I'm sure it won't do him any good. 
 
 (The door opens and the Imp enters quietly — he glances 
 at the four men — closes the door behind him and 
 comes sloioly down into the room.) 
 
 Iirp. Yon— {he clears his throat) You are all very 
 solemn — are you talking about me? 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 Imp. I — I dropped a letter. 
 Dick, Here it is. 
 
 (The Imp takes it, folds it up — and puts it in his pocket 
 — he then strolls with affected nonchlance to the fire- 
 place and lights a cigarette — a pause.) 
 
 (slowly) I have read your letter. 
 
 Imp. (looking at him as if greatly astonished) You 
 have read my letter? 
 
 Dick, (gravely) Yes. 
 
 Sir H. We've all read your letter. 
 
 Imp. Really? I always thought there were some 
 things gentlemen did not do. 
 
 Dick, (gently) Don't let's begin like this. You 
 know that we four would do anything in the world to 
 help you. 
 
 Imp. Even to reading my letters. I'm grateful. 
 
 S. Man. So you ought to be. There are damn few 
 boy's letters I'd take the trouble to read. 
 
 Imp. I hope you all found it interesting. 
 
 Doctor, (slowly) We did that. 
 
 (A pause — none of the Quadrity knoio quite how to he- 
 gin — the Imp's attitude has rather upset their calcula- 
 tions. The Imp blows a few rings of smoke and
 
 46 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE, 
 
 waves them aside gracefully with his hand, then says 
 enquiringly.) 
 
 Imp. Well — and now? 
 
 Dick. Now we — we want you to tell us all about it. 
 
 Imp. Surely, the letter doesn't leave me much to tell. 
 
 Dick. It leaves a great deal. Come, come, old man — 
 we've all been young 'uns in our time — let's have your 
 version of this little love story. 
 
 Imp. There is very little to tell. I have asked Miss 
 Glynesk 
 
 S. Man. The Firefly. 
 
 Imp. (gives him a glance and continues) I have 
 asked Miss Glynesk to be my wife, and she has done me 
 the honour to say all right. 
 
 Sir H. Oh, has she? 
 
 Sir H. Devil doubt her! 
 
 Dick. Yes — I — I gathered that from the letter — but — 
 but — you see, old man — there are many things to be 
 considered — things, that in your impetuosity you may 
 have overlooked. Now here we are — four sober-minded, 
 middle-aged men — whose — well, I know I'm in this 
 speaking for myself — whose principal thought in life 
 is to try and make things smooth for you. That's so, 
 isn't it, you chaps? 
 
 S. Man. Certainly. 
 
 Sir H. Quite so. 
 
 Doctor. It is that. 
 
 Imp. I know, of course, I know all about that, and 
 I don't want you to think I'm a conceited young ass — but 
 there comes a time in every man's life when his own 
 judgment is of greater use to him than other people's. 
 
 Dick. Perhaps this is not that time. 
 
 Imp. I think it is. {then there is a pause and the 
 Imp throws his cigarette, half finished, into the fire- 
 place) 
 
 Dick, (slowly) What does your own judgment 
 prompt you to do? 
 
 Imp. To marry the woman I love. 
 
 S. Man. The Firefly. 
 
 Dick. She — she is a good deal older than you are — 
 isn't she, old man? 
 
 Imp. She is a little older. 
 
 Dick, (slowly) And I hear— that she has seen a 
 good deal of the world. 
 
 Imp. I believe she has travelled a great deal. 
 
 Sir H. (chiming in) I suppose you know that peo- 
 ple say
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 47 
 
 Imp. (interrupting) I should have thought, Sir 
 Horace, you'd have learnt by this time to pay no atten- 
 tion to what "people say " — for myself, when I know a 
 person, I form my own judgment — and — " People can 
 say " what they please — for all I care. 
 
 Dick. You're right — you're quite right, of course — 
 but in this instance 
 
 Imp. {breaking in) Look here. I know you were 
 all great friends of my father— and you've been jolly 
 good to me and all that, but on this subject, I may as 
 well tell you I shouldn't have allowed even him to in- 
 terfere — it's my affair, and I've made up my mind about 
 it. 
 
 Dick, (gently) You're wrong, old man — nothing in 
 this life is ever entirely one's own affair. Nobody can 
 ever say, I stand alone — every step you take in life, 
 whether towards evil or towards good, reacts upon your 
 surroundings. Now I — oh, good God! you know I don't 
 want to preach — I couldn't, I'm not built that way — 
 I only want you to be — well, here we are, five fellows — 
 let's all talk this matter over, find out what's the best 
 thing to do and make up our minds, whether we like 
 it or not, to do it. If it's best for you to marry this 
 lady — marry her, and good luck to you — if it's best not 
 to marry her — don't; let's hammer it out amongst us. 
 Your father — the dearest, bravest, truest chap that ever 
 stepped in shoe leather — gave you into our keeping when 
 you were so high — we swore among ourselves to make 
 you worthy of him — and we're going to try to keep our 
 word. 
 
 Imp. Is it making me worthy of him to try and make 
 me break my promise to a woman? 
 
 S. Man. (quietly) Which woman — which promise, 
 you have given two. 
 
 (The shot goes home. The Imp looks at him for a mo- 
 Tuent, then turns away — and leans his head against 
 his arms on the mantelpiece, then speaks brokenly, 
 after a pause.) 
 
 Imp. I — you can't ask me to marry a woman I don't 
 love— I thought I did once — but I didn't— I know that 
 now. 
 
 S. Man. You got engaged to her. 
 
 Imp. I — I was a fool — but — but everybody seemed to 
 think it was all right — Dick wished it — you all wished 
 it — and — and — (in a low voice) she seemed to wish it, 
 too.
 
 48 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Sib H. {jumps up, excited) You young cad — do 
 you 
 
 Dick, (restraining him) Hush! 
 
 Imp. (breaking in hotly) Oh, I don't mean that she 
 said so. I merely mean, everybody seemed to expect it 
 — and — and — we drifted into it. I'm very sorry and all 
 that, of course — but it's done, and it can't be helped. 
 
 Dick. It can be helped. Now, listen • 
 
 Imp. (getting rather flustrated — quickly) Oh, it's 
 no good talking — you may just as well realize that in 
 this matter I'll listen to no one. I know what a good 
 friend you've been to me, Dick, and I'm grateful — but 
 I'm no longer a boy. I'm old enough to manage my 
 own affairs, and I intend to do it. 
 
 S. Man. (breaking in brightly) Of course — we're 
 all on the wrong tack, Dick, old fellow, we've been 
 mounting the high horse and talking to the Imp as if he 
 were a child. He isn't, he's a man of the world as we 
 are — except that he's handicapped by being in love — we 
 aren't . Now then. Imp — let's have your view of the 
 situation as a man of the world. So it is absolutely es- 
 sential to your happiness that you — er — marry this 
 lady? 
 
 Imp. (shortly) Yes. 
 
 S. Man. Then you must have put your case before 
 her very clumsily. 
 
 Imp. (fiercely) What do you mean? 
 
 S. Man. I don't think she has ever been approached 
 with ceremony before. 
 
 Imp, (starts forward furiously) You coward! 
 
 (All the men rise except the Soldieb Man.) 
 
 'D(silencing them all with a shout) Stop there!' 
 
 Imp. (passionately) Don't believe it, Dick — don't 
 believe it — it isn't true. 
 
 Dick. Hush! Hush! Let's talk it out quietly — for 
 pity's sake. 
 
 Imp. I won't stand quietly here and hear the woman 
 I love insulted, even by you. 
 
 S. Man. Quite right — and if I told you certain facts 
 concerning this lady's past, and gave you my honour 
 that they were facts, you wouldn't believe me. 
 
 Imp. I'd know that they were lies. 
 
 S. Man. Quite right. Now that we know where we 
 are — I can hold my tongue. 
 
 Imp. You'd better.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 49 
 
 {The Soldiee-Man laughs — there is going to he another 
 outbreak — again Dick checks it.) 
 
 Dick. Stop this, I say. 
 
 Imp. Yes, I will stop this once and for all — I'll go. 
 
 Dick. Where? 
 
 Imp. To her! I'll get her to fix our wedding day 
 once and for all. 
 
 Dick, (springs to the door and intercepts him) Not 
 yet. Not yet! 
 
 Imp. You can't keep me. I'm of age — I do as I 
 choose now. 
 
 Dick. Listen 
 
 Imp. I've listened till I'm tired— what's the use of 
 staying here with my hands behind my back while the 
 woman I love is insulted? 
 
 Dick. No — no! 
 
 Imp. (stamping) I say yes — (a pause, then very 
 quietly) Let me go, please, Dick. 
 
 Dick, (gently) We — we're all a little excited now, 
 old man — when you come back 
 
 Imp. (slowly) I shall not come back. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Dick, (looks at him and at last speaks with an ef- 
 fort) You will not come back? 
 
 Imp. What's the use? I love her — nobody under- 
 stands. 
 
 Dick. You — you want to go away from me? 
 
 Imp. I don't " want " to. You leave me no choice — 
 you believe what he says — (he points to Col. Grahame 
 — a pause) Don't you? 
 
 Dick, (slowly) Yes. 
 
 Imp. (with a little choke) Then wouldn't you de- 
 spise me if I stayed? 
 
 (There is a pause and Dick slowly moves away from 
 the door and down towards the fireplace. The Imp 
 stands irresolute for a moment, as if there was some- 
 thing he would like to say— but the thought fails 
 to find expression, and h" turns to go — at the door 
 he stops and turns to Dick pleadingly.) 
 
 You — you've been very good to me, Dick — I — I'm going 
 to her — won't you wish me luck? 
 
 Dick, (after a pause, says huskily) I — I'm think- 
 ing of your father— if she is worthy of him— worthy of
 
 50 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 you — then, good luck to you, Imp — good luck. {he 
 buries his head on his folded arms) 
 
 Imp. (gladly) Thanks, Dick, thanks. I'll tell her 
 what you say. (and he turns and darts out, slamming 
 the door) 
 
 (They all rise except Dick.) 
 
 S. Man. Great Scott, Dick — what do you mean by 
 that? 
 
 Dick. God knows — the boy may be right, after all — 
 he knows the woman — I don't. 
 
 S. Man. (emphatically) I do — she's been the ruin 
 of half a dozen men of my acquaintance. 
 
 Dick. No — no! 
 
 S. Man. I tell you, yes; if the boy wants to marry 
 her, she'll marry him — spend his money — then he who 
 bids more will carry her off, husband or no husband. 
 She's for sale, I tell you — for sale. To be bought as 
 one would buy a flower. 
 
 Dick, (starting up fiercely — striking the table with 
 his fist) Is she? Then, I'll buy her — I'll buy her — 
 she's mine — she shan't belong to him and wreck his life 
 — she shall belong to me, if the price is high — stand by 
 me 
 
 SiK H. Mine's yours. 
 
 Doctor. And mine. 
 
 S. Man. And mine! 
 
 Dick. Good men! The Trinity sees this through. 
 
 QUICK CURTAIN.
 
 WHEN WE WEKE TWENTY-ONE. 51 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene. — A. gaudily furnished room. Many photographs 
 of The Firefly. A flaming red poster pinned to the 
 curtains; a table, carpet on the centre of stage, and 
 much debris about; soda water bottles and a tanta- 
 lus lying on the floor — the room giving every evi- 
 dence of having been the scene of a disturbance. 
 
 (Various lithos of Kara on walls and floor in her various 
 big parts. Babette, a French maid, viciously pretty, 
 heard expostulating in Kaba's room.) 
 
 Bab. Oh, Madame, mais c'est impossible — vraiment, 
 vraiment, c'est impossible. 
 
 Kara, (off) I don't care if it is — it's got to be done. 
 Look alive now, look alive! 
 
 ( Babette enters. ) 
 
 Bab. Oh, I 'ate air. I ate 'air! An' she 'ave spilt 
 de table — Oh, I say — too bad — too bad — too bad! (pick- 
 ing up the things) She 'ave crack 'im — so stoopid! so 
 very stoopid! I 'ate air! 
 
 (Bells rings.) 
 
 Dat is Mistaire 'Ughie's ring. Oh, he will catch it 'ot 
 — so 'ot! pretty quick, I tell 'im! 
 
 (Goes up and out at back. Hall door heard to open 
 and Hughie's voice.) 
 
 Babette. Hello, Babette, what's all the bobbery? 
 
 Bab. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! 
 
 Hughie. (enters) Mon Dieu-ing ain't enlightening, 
 Babette. I repeat, what's the bobbery? (he looks 
 round ot the disordered room ) Hello — been havin' a bit 
 of a beano here, ain't yon? 
 
 B.\B. Beano! Oh, mon Dieu! dat word is much too
 
 52 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 little. You know quite soon — pretty dam quick. Vas 
 Madame's brougham at ze door? 
 
 HuGHiE. Yes. 
 
 Bab. Good! {she goes to door) Ze carriage is wait- 
 ing, Madame. 
 
 Kara. Let it wait! 
 
 Bab. (picks up some broken china) Look, she crack 
 'im in her rage. I sink she crack you, too, pretty dam 
 quiclt, too. 
 
 HuGHiE. Crack me? Really that seems superfluous, 
 considering she broke me a few years ago. Again I en- 
 quire solicitously, what is the bobbery? 
 
 Bab. {with meaning) I think you know. 
 
 HuGHiE. "Well, if you put it like that — I think I do. 
 
 Bab. She sent for you, eh? 
 
 HuGHiE. To be sent for by the Firefly is a distinc- 
 tion. 
 
 Bab. This time it is an extinction, my frien'. 
 
 HuGHiE. Your English is getting quite encyclopaedic. 
 
 Bab. Encyclopsedic? I do not know him. Madame 
 have sent for ze ozair damn fool, too. 
 
 HuGHiE. {sitting up) Wallis? 
 
 Bab. Wallis. Oui, oui, oui — oh yes. She crack 'im, 
 too, I 'ope so. 
 
 HuGHiE. Again superfluous. Our firefly likewise 
 broke him beyond any riveting exactly four months be- 
 fore she performed the same operation for me — but, tell 
 me why this craving to jump upon the pieces now? 
 
 Bab. You know, you — you little peeg — you have 
 played a trick on us. What was it you both tell her 
 about zat nice little boy — ze Imp boy? 
 
 HuGHiE. Young Audaine? Oh, only a few facts about 
 his great wealth. 
 
 Bab. {tvith a squeal) His wealth — is — oh — if you 
 was not so infant, so young, I would like to say some 
 sings in my own language. It was your plot — Mr. 
 Wallis' plot — his plot — little damn fool! He swear he 
 was so rich, so rich — five thousand a year to come soon. 
 She, Madame, lose her head — she believe, and she get 
 what you call hustle, and she have 
 
 HuGHiE. {springing to his feet with a shout of de- 
 light) Not married him — don't tell me she's married 
 him! 
 
 Bab. I tell you nozing. I leave dat to Madame — she 
 tell you all damn quick. 
 
 {Bell rings, and a faint cough heard.)
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 53 
 
 Mr. Wallis! I know 'is cough — stoopid, stoopid, silly 
 cough. 
 
 HuGHiE. (almost to himself) By Jove! if we've 
 bluffed Ler into that! what a score! Jumping Jehosha- 
 phat, what a score! 
 
 (Wallis enters, an immaculate youth.) 
 
 Wallis. Hello, Hughie! Firefly telegraphed for me 
 to call. 
 
 HuGHiE. And for me. Wallis, my little one, she's 
 swallowed it, hook and all, hook and all — we can call 
 quits at last. 
 
 Wallis. What! Has she — you don't 
 
 Hughie. And our friend, the amorous youth 
 
 Wallis. She's not 
 
 Hughie. She has — she's married him! She's mar- 
 ried him! Christians awake! ain't there going to be 
 a row. 
 
 Bab. Zare has been a row already. She 'ave turned 
 'im out of doors. 
 
 Hughie. Already! 
 
 Bab. Dey was married dis morning. 
 
 Wallis. Who was present? 
 
 Bab. Only I — me — was. Oh, it is a grand secret. No 
 one at all know, save Madame, Monsieur et moi. 
 
 Hughie. My word, when his people find out, won't 
 there be a shindy! 
 
 Bab. He have not told zem yet. By Gar, I don't 
 think he evaire tell anyone at all now — after what oc- 
 cur zis afternoon. 
 
 Hughie. You mean to say she turned him out of 
 doors? 
 
 Bab. Ah, oui — pourquoi non? 
 
 Wallis But her husband — whoop! wouldn't I have 
 liked to have been present! 
 
 Hughie. Get on, Babette, you're slow enough to be 
 English. Tell us what happened? 
 
 Bab. Well, zis is it. Affaire ze ceremony, zay come 
 home 'ere and have a little lunch — quite charming — 
 oh, quite nice — but Monsieur 'e seem to 'ave somesing 
 on his mind. 
 
 Wallis. Should think he had just! 
 
 Bab. But still all vaire charming, vaire nice! After 
 lunch zey come in here and Madame Kara smoke a 
 cigarette — 'e light it for her — vaire nice — vaire charm- 
 ing — zen, all of a sudden, Madame take his hand. For- 
 give her, she say, she very extravagant woman, and she
 
 54 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 go to ze bureau and she take out all zese. (pointing to 
 letters of all sorts and conditions that are scattered 
 about the room) 
 
 HuGHiE. What are those? 
 
 Bab. Bills, bills, bills — all zem is damn nasty bills. 
 Oh, I 'ate bills! And she says to Monsieur, in such a 
 sweet, sweet way, dat he will forgive her not mention- 
 ing zem before — zey slip 'er memory — and she know he. 
 will pay zem all at once — so nice of 'im. 
 
 Wallis. Go on — go on — this is great! 
 
 HuGHiE. What then? 
 
 Bab. Zen it was mos' surprisin' — suddenly he springs 
 up an' zrow out 'is arms, and say wiz passion: " I 'ave 
 deceive you, I am not rich man, only poor man rich in 
 love. I love you, I love you, I am liar, cheat, black- 
 guard, but I love you — all I 'ave is I love you. 
 
 HuGHiE. ■) 
 AND I And then? 
 
 Wallis. j 
 
 (A pause — Babette says very quietly.) 
 Bab. (quaintly) You 'ave met Madame! 
 
 HUGHIE. ] 
 
 AND y What happened? 
 
 Wallis. ) 
 
 Bab. (softly) Oh, a few little sings 'appen— just a 
 few. (she points to broken china) I feel sorry for ze 
 boy — ze — Oh, I mus' say I feel sorry for ze husband — 
 she strike him full — once, twice, three times. 
 
 HuGHiE. (quietly) What did he do? 
 
 Bab. (gravely) He stand quite still — ver' white — 
 ver' white and ver', ver still, and look at her wiz his 
 great, sad eyes, and — and he bow his head. 
 
 (Bell rings violently.) 
 
 Madame'a bell! I come, pretty so damn quick, I come. 
 
 (She exits hurriedly.) 
 
 HuGHiE. By Jove, who would have thought she'd 
 have been fooled so easily? 
 
 Wallis. Greed, old son, greed — they're all alike. 
 Dangle a golden plum and they'll gollop it down and 
 chance the indigestion — and I must say we played our 
 cards very well. There was every excuse for her be- 
 lievin' the young 'un was a bally little gold mine.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 55 
 
 HuGHiE. An' of course, when he didn't deny it, 
 she 
 
 Wallis. Oh, we're brainy little fellahs, both of us — 
 ain't we, little son? 
 
 HuGHiE. I'm brainy enough to think it wiser to 
 (pantomimes "getting out'') before her ladyship has 
 her little chat with us. You see, one must never neg- 
 lect precedent, and she hit him — once, twice, three 
 times. And I never was good in the ring. Will 
 you 
 
 Wallis. Oh, let's see her — she'll be deuced waxy — 
 and the laugh's up to us now. 
 
 HucHiE. But the one, two, three 
 
 Wallis. Chance it, little son — we're both of us pretty 
 dodgy. I wonder what she'll do about it? Married to 
 that kid without a farthing — gad, it's a rare lark! What 
 the devil will his people say when they hear of it! It's 
 pretty rough on them. 
 
 HuGniE. Yes, she isn't exactly an acquisition to a 
 domestic circle. 
 
 (HuGHiE has been up at back helping himself to whiskey 
 
 and soda.) 
 
 Have one? It's about the last time we'll drink with the 
 Firefly — we ain't so popular as we were. 
 
 Wallis. Better fortify myself for the meeting. (he 
 helps himself) Heard the news about Jimmy Hirsch? 
 
 HuGHiE. Bankrupt? 
 
 Wallis. No, on top again — cleared fourteen thou, 
 over a Caranian deal. He'll be buzzin' around the Fire- 
 fly again before you know where you are — that's my 
 prophecy, little son. 
 
 HuGHiE. If Jimmy Hirsch has got the dibs that 
 means good-bye to little Hubby. 'Pon my soul, I b'lieve 
 Jimmy Hirsch is the only man Firefly ever cared a brass 
 button for. 
 
 (Bell rings.) 
 
 HuGHiE. Perhaps this is the redoubtable James. 
 Wallis. What'll he say to the marriage? 
 HuGHiE. That also will be interesting to observe. 
 
 (Babette crosses and opens door. A handsome, rather 
 loud voiced girl enters in ball dress.) 
 
 Budgie. Isn't your mistress ready, Babette?
 
 56 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Bab. Not yet — not quite yet — it is only her 'air. 
 
 HUGHIE. ) 
 
 AND >• Hello, Budgie. 
 
 Wallis. ) 
 
 Budgie. Hello, you chaps, aren't you coming to 
 Covent Garden? 
 
 HuGHiE. Later. 
 
 Wallis. Kara has, what she is pleased to call, busi- 
 ness with us. 
 
 (Kara calls.) 
 
 Kara. Babette! Babette! 
 
 Bab. I come. 
 
 HuGHiE. Oh, we must tell Budgie — it's too rich. 
 
 Budgie. Fire away. 
 
 HuGHiE. You know the young chap Kara met at the 
 races — you were there. 
 
 Budgie. The boy who blushed if one said " Boo." 
 
 Wallis. That's the chap — ward of a barrister, 
 Carewe. 
 
 Budgie. Well, what of it? 
 
 HuGHiE. It's the rarest thing you ever heard — come 
 here and I'll whisper. Kara married him secretly this 
 morning, so I'm told. 
 
 Budgie. What!! 
 
 Wallis. Isn't it regal? I tell you, Hughie and I de- 
 serve a medal — we spoofed her clean. 
 
 Budgie. Kara married him? Nonsense! He hasn't 
 a sixpence. 
 
 HuGUiE. We know that — that's where the joke comes 
 in. Our Firefly was led to believe that the young 'un 
 was a bally little gold mine. 
 
 Budgie, (amazed and delighted) You don't mean to 
 say she — oh, go on — go on — what a lark! 
 
 Wallis. 'Course, Hughie and I are very fond of the 
 Firefly, but well, she didn't let either of us down too 
 gently, did she? So when she told us about this youth 
 wantin' to marry her, we got this brilliant idea. Hughie 
 dropped a hint about his colossal prospects, and I 
 chimed in with a bit on my own- 
 
 HuGHiE. Then we got hold of the youth- 
 
 Wallis. And having convinced him that she'd send 
 him to the right — about if he hadn't £5000 a year 
 
 Hughie. He apparently posed as the possessor of 
 many but imaginary millions, sooner than get the push. 
 
 Budgie. By Jove, it's ripping! What a sell for Kara 
 — won't she be sick!
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 57 
 
 HuGHiE. I think she is. 
 
 Budgie, {hubbling over with suppressed delight, goes 
 quickly to door of Kara's room and calls) Kara, dear, 
 I can't wait — I positively can't wait — I'll take a han- 
 som. 
 
 Kara. All right. 
 
 Budgie. I must get there before she does — it's one of 
 the best stories I've ever had a chance to tell. By-by, 
 boys— we shall all meet later, if there's anything left 
 of you when she's had her little say. By-by. 
 
 HUGHIE. "I 
 
 AND y By-by. 
 
 Wallis. j 
 
 HuGHiE. Sweet girl! 
 
 Wallis. Sympathetic little soul! 
 
 (Enter Babette. ) 
 
 Bab. Madame comes— en garde, Messieurs— she is 
 very calm. 
 
 (Exit Babette at back.) 
 
 Wallis. Calm!— Rather wish we hadn't stayed, don't 
 you? 
 
 HuGHiE. She always was rather — difficult — when she 
 calm. Wally, my son, one toast before we expire — 
 Here's wishing all women where they ought to be. 
 
 Wallis. Where's that? 
 
 HuGHiE. Well, I was goin' to say the bottom of the 
 sea, but it would be such a doocid chilly process callin' 
 on 'em. 
 
 (Kaea heard calling " Babette.") 
 
 Wallis. Buck up! She's coming. 
 
 (They link arms and stand with their backs to the fire. 
 
 Kara enters.) 
 
 Kara. Oh, you're here? 
 Wallis. Hello, Kara. 
 HuGHiE. You look beautiful, ma heller 
 Kara. I want just five minutes' chat with you two 
 boys. 
 Wallis. Delighted— only too delighted! 
 HuGHiE. We're in luck, ain't we, old friend?
 
 68 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Kara. Do you know what you are — yes, the pair of 
 you? 
 
 HuGHiE. Liars? 
 
 Wallis. Do tell us what we've done. 
 
 Kara. You know. You think you've both been clever 
 — you will find your joke a poor one before I've done. 
 He has told me everything — he has nothing — nothing 
 whatever. Oh, I don't blame him — the young fool is in 
 love with me — lies were his only chance, but if the 
 power is ever given me to repay you two, I'll flay you 
 for your joke — I'll flay you! You can remember that. 
 
 HuGHiE. Such remarks make general conversation 
 just a little diflBcult — don't you think, ma belle? 
 
 Wallis. I — I — er — well, I positively don't know 
 where to look, and that's a fact, old son. 
 
 HuGHiE. Ain't he really got any fortune, Kara? 
 
 Kara. As if you didn't know. 
 
 HuGHiE. Then, 'pon my word, it just shows how dif- 
 ficult it is to believe in appearances. 
 
 Wallis. We thought he was a gold mine, didn't we? 
 
 HuGHiE. I'd have backed my boots on it — after all 
 we'd heard. 
 
 Kara, (looking at them with scorn) I sent for you 
 to tell you what I thought of you. I wanted to — but 
 now you're here and I look at you, I wonder why I can 
 be angry with such things as you — you're not men, or if 
 you are, then men are such worms that I don't wonder 
 that it's a glory to some of us to trample you under- 
 foot. 
 
 HuGHiE. Not worms, ma belle, not worms — don't 
 trample worms. Call us grapes, ma belle, not worms — 
 beautiful, beautiful grapes — then crush us under your 
 feet and give us to tae world in wine — charming — quite 
 charming. I'm in rather good form, ain't I, old son? 
 (he hums jovially " Oh. call us the fine Muscatel" to the 
 tune of "They Call Me the Belle of Neiv York.") 
 
 (Babette enters hurriedly.) 
 
 Bab. Madame will pardon me 
 
 Kara. What — what — what? 
 
 Bab. Madame get married in all such a hurry, she 
 forget sings. 
 
 Kara. What's that? 
 
 Bab. Zis letter from Mr. Carewe. 
 
 HUGHIE. ') 
 
 AND > Carewe!! 
 Wallis. j
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 59 
 
 (Kaba is struggling angrily into pair of long gloves.) 
 
 Kara. Carewe? Who is he? 
 
 Bab. Ze Unknown Man — ze lunatic — ze £1000. 
 
 Kara. Bah! Tear it up — who said I'd see him? 
 
 Bab. Ze letter made Madame so laugh. Madame 
 said " I will see him," and he is coming to-night. I 'ad 
 forgot. You fix the appointment. I post ze letter — but 
 den we get married so damn quick — we forgot sings. 
 
 Kara. Send him away. I'm not in the mood to laugh 
 at fools to-night. 
 
 Bab. He is, of course, fool. But £1000 — that not so 
 fool. 
 
 Kara. Who wants his £1000. 
 
 Bab. Madame does. 
 
 Kara. Quite right — so I do. 
 
 Wallis. Unknown man? 
 
 HUGHIE. £1000. 
 
 Wallis. Carewe, too. What's up? 
 
 Kara, {fiercely) Give me the letter, (she snatches 
 it and reads, then laughs) It's preposterous! No man 
 could be such a fool. 
 
 HuGHiE. May we know? 
 
 Kara. What's it got to do with you? (she reads 
 again) £1000 — what if he should mean it — it — what if 
 it shouldn't be a joke? 
 
 Bab. I think him no joke — it read like great sense to 
 me. 
 
 Kara. It would to a fool like you. Shall I see him? 
 
 (A pause — again she looks at the letter.) 
 
 What time did I say I'd see him? 
 
 Bab. Just now — it is on the strike. 
 
 Kara. Oh, is it? (a pause, then suddenly) I won't 
 see him! I've had enough worry for one day. My 
 cloak, Babette. I'm going to the ball. 
 
 Bab. Mais Madame — ! 
 
 Kara. My cloak, I say. 
 
 Bab. Oil, mon Dieu, mon Dieu — ! 
 
 (She picks up cloak from chair; as she puts it on Kara 
 
 she whispers.) 
 
 £1000 is a £1000 — Madame forgets. Suppose he mean 
 it? Sousand pounds 
 
 {The outdoor bell rings.).
 
 60 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 He is yere! 
 
 (A pause; they all look at each other; then suddenly 
 Kara flings off Tier cloak.) 
 
 Kara. Hang it all — I'll see him! Get out, you two! 
 
 HuGHiE. But, Kara 
 
 Wallis. Ma belle 
 
 Kara. I'll settle our little score later; for the present 
 —get out. I'm going to talk over a little business with 
 this gentleman. 
 
 HuGHiE. I wonder would your husband quite app- 
 rove. ^ 
 
 Kara, {comes to him — he moves behind chair) 
 Have you forgotten the old saying: "He laughs best 
 who laughs last?" You'll both of you remember it 
 yet. Good-night. Stop. I know nothing of this fel- 
 low. He may be a madman for all I know — wait there 
 you two. If he's tame, I can manage him— if he isn't, 
 you must — that's all. 
 
 Wallis. (aghast) A madman! 
 
 HuGHiE. They have the strength of ten men. 
 
 Kara. What's his name again? (looks at letter) 
 Richard Carewe — know him? 
 
 HuGHiE. Richard Carewe? (to W.) Do we? 
 
 Wallis. Richard Carewe? (to H.) Do we? 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 HuGHiE. No, we don't. ■ 
 Wallis, Never heard of him. 
 
 (Kara talks to Babette.) 
 
 Wallis. (to Hughie) The Imp's guardian. 
 
 Hughie. Let's stay and see the fun. 
 
 Wallis. Rather! 
 
 Hughie. What makes you think he's mad? 
 
 Kara. He has practically written and told me so. 
 Into that room, please — you needn't come out unless I 
 call you — into that room, please. 
 
 Hughie. Charmed, I'm sure, to be chucker-out. 
 
 Wallis. Always ready to die in the cause of beauty 
 in distress. 
 
 Kara. Thank you. — Into that room. 
 
 (They retire into room, l.)
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 61 
 
 Kara, {to Babette) Bring me the glass. 
 
 (Babette brings her hand-glass and Kara arranges her 
 
 hair.) 
 
 All right. 
 
 (Babette goes out, closing the door. Kara suddenly 
 rises and goes to door of the room where the two men 
 have retired, shaking her fist at it.) 
 
 You've tricked me — you've tricked me — but you shall pay 
 for it — you shall all pay for it — every man Jack of you! 
 
 (Babette now returns with a card on tray.) 
 
 {takes it and reads) Richard Carewe — what have you 
 done with him? 
 
 Babette. He is in ze dining room. 
 
 Kara. Idiot! If you'd only use the little brains 
 you've got, Babette, you would realize that I can't see 
 Mr. Carewe through brick walls and a hall passage — 
 bring him here. 
 
 Babette. Oui, Madame. 
 
 Kara, {re-reading letter) £1000, and he doesn't 
 
 wish to see me — doesn't wish to talk to me 
 
 It's the most extraordinary proposition; I wonder what's 
 his game? 
 
 Babette. {announces) Mr. Richard Carewe. 
 
 (Dick enters. Kara rises and meets him — there is a 
 
 slight pause.) 
 
 Kara. How do you do, Mr. Carewe? 
 DicKN. How do you do? 
 
 {Another pause.) 
 
 Kara. I— I— {laughs) It's a little awkward .isn't 
 it? Won't you sit down? 
 
 Dick, {sloivly) You got my letter? 
 
 Kara. Oh, yes, I got your letter. Do you know, I 
 pictured you quite a different sort of man. I thought 
 you must be a very old man. {pause) Are you sane? 
 
 Dick. Perfectly. 
 
 Kara. Your proposition is — odd — isn't it? 
 
 Dick. I suppose it is.
 
 62 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Kara. I beg your pardon — would you like a whiskey 
 and soda? 
 
 Dick. No, thank you. 
 
 Kara, {taking up letter) Here's your letter. Come 
 now — it's a joke, isn't it? 
 
 Dick. No. 
 
 Dick. No. 
 
 Kara. You really mean it? 
 
 Dick. Absolutely. 
 
 Kara, {slowly, looking at letter) You will give me 
 £1000 if I will make my friends believe that you are 
 — a — friend of mine? 
 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 Kara, {referring to letter) For a month, you desire 
 that our names shall be linked together — dear me, how 
 comic it seems! And during that time you do not 
 wish to speak to me — nor even to see me? 
 
 (Dick botvs his head.) 
 
 You must be quite mad, you know? 
 
 Dick. Do you accept my offer? 
 
 Kara. Well, one can hardly accept £1000 without 
 seriously thinking it over, can one? What does it en- 
 tail? 
 
 Dick. Nothing but what is expressed in the letter. 
 
 Kara. It seems just a little too good to be true, 
 doesn't it? You don't happen to have brought the 
 money with you, do you? 
 
 Dick. Yes — I told you in my letter that I would. 
 
 Kara, {rising in amazement) Then it's real — it's 
 not a joke? 
 
 Dick. Why should I joke? 
 
 aeARA. Well, upon my word — {she stares at him) 
 Oh, I think I see the game. You want to waken my 
 curiosity — to arouse my interest in you? 
 
 Dick. No. 
 
 Kara. Oh, yes, you do. Well, it's an expensive way, 
 but I'm not sure that it's a bad one. {she laughs) 
 Come now — I challenge you — you won't give me your 
 word of honour that you will never seek to improve upon 
 the conditions of your offer? That you'll never want 
 to change your mind about not seeing me? 
 
 Dick. I give you my word of honour now. 
 
 Kara. Well, you're quite the oddest person I have 
 ever come across. Let me see the money — convince me 
 it isn't a dream. 
 
 Dick, {taking out letter) The money is here.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 63 
 
 Kara. It's not a cheque, is it? 
 
 Dick. No, two bank notes. 
 
 Kara. By Jove — you do mean business. 
 
 Dick. Understand, from the time you take this our 
 
 compact begins. 
 
 Kara. Quite so — and it holds good for one month. 
 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 Kara. You know you've no earthly security that I 
 shall earn this money. 
 
 Dick. Oh, yes, I have. 
 
 Kara. What? 
 
 Dick. Your sense of honour. 
 
 Kara. Is that meant for a joke? 
 
 Dick. No. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Kara. You're a most extraordinary person. 
 
 Dick. Is it to be a bargain? 
 
 Kara. Yes. (she holds out her hand for the notes) 
 
 Dick, {gives them to her) Thank you. I — I can 
 go now — we have met for the first and the last time. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 I must ask you to forgive me for — for this insult. 
 
 Kara. I like it, believe me. It's one of the pleas- 
 antest insults I've ever experienced. 
 
 Dick. But — but there is so much at stake. 
 
 Kara. What do you mean? 
 
 Dick. I — I cannot tell you. 
 
 Kara. It really doesn't matter — the money speaks — 
 and between you and me and the post, I wanted it 
 rather badly. Good-bye, Protector-of-the-Poor. 
 
 Dick. Good-bye. 
 
 (The bell rings.) 
 
 Dick, (turns and says hesitatingly) Some one 
 
 Kara. Well? Oh, you don't want to be seen here, 
 
 don't you? Is that it? You do good by stealth and 
 
 blush to be caught on the stairs! 
 
 (Babette is heard to open the door and exclaim in 
 
 surprise.) 
 
 Bab. Monsieur!
 
 64 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY- ONE. 
 
 (A man's voice is heard.) 
 
 HiBSCH. Back again! Is she in? 
 
 Kara, (starts up) Hirsch! Jim! Back again! 
 Back again! Quick — quick! do you mind? — go in there. 
 I — I — this gentleman — I'd rather he didn't see you. 
 Quick — just for a minute — do you mind. 
 
 (Dick bows and goes into the other room, r.) 
 
 Kara. Jim! — why has he come back? Why has he 
 come back? 
 
 {The door opens and Hirsh enters. He is a heavily- 
 built, powerful-looking man of Jewish extraction. She 
 stands rigid — he comes slowly down — a silence.) 
 
 Hirsch. Well? 
 
 Kara. How dare you come back? 
 
 Hirsch. That's foolish — you knew I'd come sooner 
 or later, didn't you? 
 
 Kara. I — I 
 
 Hirsch. Kara, (he holds out his arms) 
 
 Kara. No, no! 
 
 Hirsch. What do you mean? 
 
 Kara, You must go — you must go — we — we — never 
 again! (fiercely) It's over — I told you! (she'stamps) 
 I told you once and for all, it's over. Never again! 
 
 Hirsch. Wrong — always again — always and always 
 — and you know it. 
 
 Kara. Oh, why have you come back? 
 
 Hirsch. You left me eight months ago because luck 
 turned against me. 
 
 Kara. I left you because you were sold up. I'm not 
 good at sleeping on bare boards. 
 
 Hirsch. Luck has turned again — you must come 
 back. 
 
 Kara. Must! 
 
 Hirsch. Must! You know me — when I say a thing 
 I mean it. We will go South to-morrow. 
 
 Kara. Not to-morrow. 
 
 Hirsch. When will you be ready? 
 
 Kara, (taking up letter, glancing at it, then slowly 
 tearing it up) I have just made a contract. 
 
 Hirsch. For how long? 
 
 Kara. One month from to-day. 
 
 Hirsch. It is too long — break it.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 65 
 
 Kara. No — curiously enough, it's a contract I cannot 
 break. 
 
 HiRSCH. Strange contract. 
 
 Kara. It is. 
 
 HiRSCH. What prevents you breaking it? 
 
 Kara. (witJi a laugh) My sense of honour. 
 
 HiRSCH. Rubbish! 
 
 Kara. I thought that would amuse you — it amuses 
 me rather. 
 
 HiRSCH. Break it. 
 
 Kara. You must be patient. 
 
 HiRSCH. I have been patient for eight months. I 
 have stifled every thought — I have shut myself up with 
 my dream of you, and compelled the luck to turn. It 
 has turned. We are £14,000 to the good. When that is 
 gone, I will be patient again— for the present, we will 
 go South to-morrow. 
 
 Kara. I have said no. 
 
 HiRSCH. Look at me.— It isn't wise to play the fool 
 with me. 
 
 Kara. You must wait a month. 
 
 HiRSCH. I will wait until, to-morrow. 
 
 Kara. Don't be foolish — you bore me. 
 
 HiRSCH. It's no contract — it's a man. 
 
 (Enter Imp.) 
 
 Kara. What if it is— that's my affair! 
 
 HiRSCH. You dare! 
 
 Kara. My dear Jimmy, you're not the only man in 
 the world, you know. 
 
 HiRSCH. Who is he? 
 
 Kara. You wouldn't know him. 
 
 HiRSCH. Who is he? 
 
 Kara. If you really wish to know, his name is Rich- 
 ard Carewe. {she calls) Mr. Carewe. 
 
 HiRSCH. {starting forivard fiercely) He's there! — 
 you love him. 
 
 (Dick enters.) 
 
 Kara, {with a defiant laugh) What if I do? 
 HiRSCH. {throwing over the table) You devil! 
 Kara. Help me! {she backs to the sideboard) 
 
 (HiRSCH springs towards her with uplifted hand; simul- 
 taneously the Imp rushes doivn to stop him. Then 
 Dick by a quick movement, intercepts and seizes the 
 boy. 
 
 5
 
 66 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Imp. Keep back! 
 
 Dick, {liolding Mm) Go home. This is my quarrel, 
 
 Kara moves down r. 
 
 You heard what she said. She's mine. 
 
 Imp. (facing Mm in a blaze of anger) Liar! She's 
 my wife! 
 
 (There is a long silence. Hughie, Wallis and Babette 
 have entered. Dick turns slowly to Kara. 
 
 Dick. Is this true? 
 Kara. Yes. 
 
 Imp. (in a voice shaken by pardon, and still facing 
 Dick) Tell them you have lied. 
 
 Dick, (very sloivly) I've lied — I beg your pardon. 
 
 (Another long, tense silence, broken by a light laugh 
 
 from Kara.) 
 
 Imp. (turns to her, imploringly) Kara! 
 
 Kara, (coldly) Have you forgotten what I said to 
 you to-day? 
 
 (There is a pause, and, as the Imp sinks back heart- 
 broken upon the sofa, she flings back her head haught- 
 ily and sweeps to the door, saying loudly.) 
 
 Kara. My cloak, Babette. Show these gentlemen out. 
 Jimmy, take me to my carriage. I will explain. 
 
 (HiRSCH laughs, and she stveeps out of the room on his 
 arm. The hall door shuts with a bang.) 
 
 Dick, (holding out his arms, pleadingly) My boy, 
 my boy! 
 
 Imp. (facing him, says slowly and quietly) Never 
 again — you've killed it! 
 
 (He turns from him and goes out of the house. Dick 
 stands for a moment, motionless, heart-broken; then 
 he repeats in a whisper, mechancially.) 
 
 Dick. You've killed it! Why, since he was so high, 
 
 I've Never again — he doesn't mean it — he — he can't 
 
 mean it.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 67 
 
 Bab. {comes to him with his hat and cloak) For 
 Monsieur. 
 
 Dick, (looks at her dazed, then realizes) Yes — I 
 forgot — Oh, yes. He didn't mean it. I — I will go after 
 him — he didn't mean it — he didn't mean it! 
 
 {He goes sloivly out after the hoy. Wallis and Hughie 
 turn to each other and lift their glasses meaningly.) 
 
 Hughie. Chin-chin, old son! Quite a busy evening! 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 08 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Time. — The same night — about an hour later. 
 
 ScEXE. — Dick's room in the Clement's Inn. Mrs. Eric- 
 son dozing in an easy chair — Phyllis ivorking by her 
 side. After a slight pause, she rises and goes to the 
 window — draws the curtains a little and looks out. 
 
 Mrs. E. sits up ivith a start) I must have dozed, 
 it must be very late. 
 
 Phyll. Very late. 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, my dear — we can't sit up any more. 
 
 Phyll. We must — he can't be much longer now, at 
 least — you needn't, mother, dear — I must. 
 
 Mrs. E. Well, anyhow if I do sit up, I'll do it lying 
 down in my room, this low chair gives me cricks in my 
 neck. 
 
 Phyll. It'll be an awful blow to him. 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes, dear, I'm afraid it will. What it is 
 about young men that makes them go off and get mar- 
 ried like that, I don't know. Are you going to stay 
 here, or are you coming with me? 
 
 Phyll. I'll stay here. 
 
 Mrs. E. I couldn't keep my eyes open sitting up, 
 perhaps it'll be better lying down. Oh, do lie down, too, 
 dear, you look worn out. 
 
 Phyll. I'm all right. We must be very kind to him 
 when he comes, mother. 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes, we will be — if I can keep awake. 
 
 (Mrs. Eeicson goes sleepily to her room — leaving Phyl- 
 lis at the window.) 
 
 Phyll. Oh, what can it be that keeps him! 
 (Footsteps heard outsiie — then the electric bell rings.) 
 Here they are! (she runs to hall door and opens it) 
 
 (SiE Horace, the Doctor and Col. Graeme come in.)
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 69 
 
 Where's Dick? 
 
 Waddles. Isn't he here? 
 
 Col. We thought he was here. 
 
 Phyll. Hasn't he been with you? 
 
 Col. Yes! 
 
 Phyll. (looking from one to the other — observing 
 their emharrassment) What's happened? 
 
 (They don't answer.) 
 
 He had a letter from that woman this afternoon. I 
 recognized the writing on the envelope. Are they mar- 
 ried? 
 
 CoL. Who? 
 
 F HYLL. The Imp and she. 
 
 (The three look greatly surprised.) 
 
 Col. You know — how did you know? 
 
 PiiYLL. I knew days ago. The Imp told me — and — 
 and — I got this letter this afternoon, saying that by the 
 time I received it he'd be a married man. 
 
 Waddles. Oh, why didn't you tell Dick? 
 
 Phyll. I'd promised not to. He wanted to tell Dick 
 himself. Besides, Dick must have known, because he 
 got a note from the Imp's wife this afternoon. 
 
 CoL. But unfortunately the note did not say a word 
 about the marriage. 
 
 Phyll. (amazed) Didn't say — I don't understand 
 that. Would you mind telling me what's happened? 
 I'm quite old enough to be told things. I'm not break- 
 ing my heart for the Imp. I gave him his freedom very 
 willingly. Tell me — Dick is suffering, I know that. 
 He's keeping everything from me. I want to help him 
 — I must help him — tell me what's happened. 
 
 CoL. I think we'd better. 
 
 Doctor. Ah, shure — I'm glad you're not breakin' 
 your heart for the boy. 
 
 Phyll. So am I. Tell me about Dick, please. 
 
 CoL. Well— this lady that the Imp has married 
 
 Doctor. Wasn't a desirable party at all — at all. 
 
 Col. And so Dick went to-night by appointment to 
 — to buy her off. 
 
 Phyll. Too late? 
 
 Waddles. Too late. 
 
 Doctor. That's just the devil of it. 
 
 Col. And — and — the Imp and Dick have — well — they
 
 70 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 haven't exactly quarreled — but the boy knows now that 
 his marriage has been a mistake. 
 
 Phyll. Already? 
 
 Col. I think the lady has transferred her affections 
 to some one else. 
 
 Phyll. But she only got married to-day. 
 
 Waddles. Some ladies are a little fickle, Phyllis dear. 
 
 Phyll. Something awful must have happened. 
 
 The three men nod.) 
 
 {in a tchisper) What? 
 
 CoL. We don't know — yet. 
 
 Phyll. Oh, Dick — poor Dick! 
 
 Waddles. If you'd seen him walk out of that place 
 to-night, you'd have said poor Dick, indeed. 
 
 Col. You see Dick, knowing nothing of the marriage, 
 proved to the boy — that the woman wasn't fit to be any 
 man's wife. 
 
 Doctor. And all the time the two were married. 
 
 (There is a long, disconsolate pause.) 
 
 Phyll. Where is he now — somewhere out there alone 
 with it all. Oh, dear, oh, dear! (she goes to the win- 
 dow and leaning against the curtains she has one quiet 
 little sob all to herself) 
 
 (The three men look at each other — then the Doctob 
 says in a whisper.) 
 
 Doctor. It's Dick she loves, after all. 
 
 (The other tivo look at his incredulously for a moment, 
 then, as the idea takes root — the Col. gives a low 
 whistle.) 
 
 Waddles, (gasps) You're right, you're right. Oh, 
 what fools we've been! 
 
 Doctor. We've found the silver lining, boys, there'll 
 be a new member in the firm. 
 
 CoL. But, does Dick 
 
 Doctor, (breaking in with a smile) Av course he 
 does — shure, don't we all? 
 
 (The three men draw a long breath and turn and look 
 gently at the girl — she is still standing staring out 
 into the night waiting for Dick to come.)
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 71 
 
 (tenderly) When he comes in, ye'll try and comfort 
 him — won't you, my dear? 
 
 Phyll. Oh, if only I could. 
 
 Sir H. He'll be very lonely, Phyl. 
 
 Doctor. Ah, if there was only some sweet woman 
 who loved him — who could take his tired head upon 
 her heart and tell him not to grieve — that 'ud do him 
 good, I'm thinkin'. 
 
 Waddles, (abruptly) Is your mother up? 
 
 Doctor, (rounds on him) Ah, shure — what's the 
 good of that? 
 
 Waddles. My gracious, I didn't mean that. I was 
 only thinking. 
 
 Phyll. (coming away from the window wearily) 
 It's very late, if you'd like anything to eat and drink — 
 it's all on the table in the dining room. 
 
 Waddles. That's what I meant, man, when I said 
 
 Phyll. (suddenly listening) Hush! (a pause) 
 He's coming. 
 
 (She goes up to door and listens.) 
 
 Doctor. What did I tell you! She knows his step. 
 ■Boys! I'm thinkin' this blow is the softest thing Mas- 
 ther Dick has ever sthruck. 
 
 Phyll. Shall — shall we go into the dining room? 
 
 Doctor, (a little astonished) For why? 
 
 Phyll. Perhaps he — he might like to be alone to- 
 night — just to-night. 
 
 Waddles. Well, I think p'raps four of us is too many, 
 but — maybe — one. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 AND 
 
 Colonel. 
 
 Yes, yes! 
 
 (They move hurriedly out.) 
 
 Waddles, (to Phyllis) You stay! 
 
 (He goes out after the other two. The outer door is 
 opened with a latch-key and Dick comes in wearily — 
 he passes across the hall and into his own room. 
 Throws his hat and coat on to a chair and stands for 
 a moment lost in his thoughts. He doesn't see Phyl- 
 lis, who is in an alcove of the icindoiv. After a bit, 
 he goes to the desk, unlocks it, takes out the letter — •
 
 72 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 and reads it through, then holding it tenderly, as if 
 it were a living thing — he whispers.) 
 
 Dick. I did my best, old man, I did my best. 
 
 (Phyllis comes in quietly — closing the door after her. 
 She steals across to him and puts her hand tenderly 
 on his shoulder.) 
 
 Aren't you in bed? 
 
 Phyll. No, dear. 
 
 Dick. You should be child, it's late. 
 
 Phyll. Is it? {then, with great tenderness, she 
 slips her hand into his) Oh, Dick, dear, you look so 
 tired. 
 
 Dick. Do I? 
 
 Phyll. You're not angry because I waited up? I 
 knew you'd be tired, and I — I thought you might be 
 lonely. So — so — I wanted to be with you, if you'd let 
 me. I know about it all, Dick — the marriage — and — 
 the rest. 
 
 Dick. You know? 
 
 Phyll. The Trinity told me. 
 
 Dick, (a great pity comes over him for herq I did 
 it for the best, dear. I'm very sorry. 
 
 Phyll. Don't be sorry for me, Dick. He told me 
 days ago about her, and I was glad he didn't love me — 
 because — I didn't love him either. 
 
 Dick. You didn't? 
 
 Phyll. No! Where is he? 
 
 Dick. I don't know. {then, with a long, indrawn 
 sob, he sinks into the chair by the table and buries his 
 head on his hands) Ih, my boy — my boy! 
 
 Phyll. Oh, don't, Dick, don't. 
 
 Dick. I tried my best to save him, I did, indeed. 
 
 Phyll. I know you did, he knows you did. 
 
 Dick. He doesn't, he hates me — how can he help it, 
 he hates me — oh, my boy, my boy! 
 
 Phyll. Dick! 
 
 Dick, {rising and moving from her) Don't, dear, 
 please don't. Leave me alone, I — I'd sooner be alone, 
 just now. 
 
 {And Phyllis, understanding, goes quietly away. He 
 has moved toioards the mantelpiece and botved his 
 head, there is a long silence, he stands there alone 
 in his grief.)
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 73 
 
 Be father — mother — all to him — and this is what I've 
 done! 
 
 {The hall door is heard to open and shut again softly, 
 Dick is heedless of it, then the door of his room opens 
 and the Imp comes in. Dick, at the sound, looks up 
 and sees him. There is a pause.) 
 
 Dick, (gently) You have come back? 
 
 Imp. (with a laugh) Are you surprised? 
 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 Imp. (bitterly) When a man arranges to lie away 
 a woman's reputation to her husband, he shouldn't be 
 surprised if the husband has a word to say on the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 (Dick looks at him., then says slowly.) 
 
 Dick. I knew nothing of the marriage. What I did, 
 I did for your sake. 
 
 Imp. Thank you very much. 
 
 Dick. I don't think you were wise to come here to- 
 night — we — we can't see things clearly yet. You'd bet- 
 ter go; come back to-morrow, perhaps then you will be 
 able to understand. 
 
 Imp. Oh, I quite understand now. I've learnt my 
 lesson pretty thoroughly, thanks to you all. A woman, 
 even, a man's wife, is a thing to be bought and sold. 
 If you've taught me nothing else, Dick, you've taught 
 me that. 
 
 Dick. I've never taught you anything that wasn't 
 true. No woman worthy of the name is to be bought. 
 
 Ifflp. Ah, I know 'em now — you don't. Who was the 
 chap who said every woman was at heart a wrong 'un? 
 He knew life. It's only the accident of birth and cir- 
 cumstances. Why, I daresay Phyllis 
 
 Dick, (sternly) Stop there! (then very quietly) 
 You'd better go, we are neither of us in a fit state to 
 talk this matter over. We'd say what we didn't mean, 
 and — and I might get angry with you. (a pause) I 
 have asked your pardon for my share in this; at the 
 same time, I must ask you to remember that I did what 
 I thought was right. 
 
 Imp. Our views of right and wrong differ. 
 
 Dick, (gently) They may to-night. I'm sure they 
 won't to-morrow. (he goes to the door and opens it) 
 
 Imp. (hotly) I'm not going yet. There's a good 
 deal I've got to say to you.
 
 74 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Dick. And a good deal I've got to say to you, but not 
 to-night. 
 
 Imp. (raising his voice) I will 
 
 Dick. Hush! I said not to-night. 
 
 Imp. (stamping) I will know the truth of this 
 damned conspiracy against me. 
 
 Dick. Stop! 
 
 Imp. It has been a conspiracy, and you know it. 
 What were you all at the club for? 
 
 Dick, (quietly) I shall expect you in the morning. 
 
 Imp. (getting beyond himself, faces Dick in a rage) 
 Tell me now. 
 
 Dick. I shall expect you in the morning. 
 
 Imp. (lifting his hand to strike) You — you 
 
 (Dick seizes his arm and holds him for an instant as 
 in a vice, then lets him go, and says gently.) 
 
 Dick. That would have been a pity, wouldn't it? 
 
 (A long pause, then he takes the letter.) 
 
 This is your father's letter to me, written when he lay 
 dying, and you were a little child; in it he asks me to 
 try and take his place. I have tried — you are of age 
 now — you need me no longer. (and he tears the letter 
 into two pieces) 
 
 (The Imp is sitting upon the sofa, his head buried in 
 his hands. A knock is heard at the outside door.) 
 
 Who's that? 
 
 (Dick goes and opens the door. A Cabman is seen out- 
 side.) 
 
 Cabman, (enquiringly) Richard Carewe? 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 Cabman. Lady told me to deliver this note, most 
 spechul. 
 
 (Dick takes it and fumbles in his pockets for a coin, 
 hasn't got one. He turns to the Imp.) 
 
 Dick. Got a couple of shillings? 
 Imp. Yes. 
 
 (He hands Dick the coins, tmho, in his turn, hands them,
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 75 
 
 to the Cabman, who disappears, saying " Thank ye, 
 sir." Dick closes the door and comes down to fire- 
 place, opening the letter as he comes. He reads a lit- 
 tle, then looks up at the Imp, who rises quickly, guess- 
 ing intuitively.) 
 
 Imp. It's from her. 
 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 Imp. You can read it out. I'm not afraid — she can't 
 write harder things than slie said. 
 
 Dick. " I have learnt from Mr. Hirsch that you are 
 the young man's guardian, so I see now the reason of 
 our compact. I am sorry you were too late, for his, for 
 my own, and for your sal^e. However, don't worry, 
 your young friend will have no difficulty in obtaining 
 his freedom. I return your cheque for two reasons; 
 one is, I'm sure Hirsch wouldn't approve of my receiving 
 such a present even from my husband's guardian, the 
 other is I don't want you to think you are the only fool 
 in the world. I'll send you some roses from Monte 
 Carlo." 
 
 {A pause, he looks at the Imp, loho laughs and goes up 
 into the windoio, xohere he stands staring into the 
 darkness. Then he speaks without turning.) 
 
 Imp. When I told her that I should kill him, she 
 laughed and said, " Very well; but when you are hanged, 
 there'll be nobody left to deal with his successors "; that 
 seemed logical, so I came away and left him to eat his 
 supper. 
 
 Dick, (amazed) You saw them? 
 
 Imp. (nods) Just left 'em— they're together now. 
 
 Dick, (going quickly to him) Oh, my poor old boy. 
 
 Imp. I — I can't help laughing. My position is so 
 very ridiculous, (he rises icearily) I — I'll go now. 
 
 Dick. Where are you staying? 
 
 Imp. Metropole. Good-night. 
 
 Dick. Good-night. 
 
 (The Imp goes slowly to the door, then turns to Dick 
 and says huskily.) 
 
 Imp. You — you might ask me to stay here. 
 Dick, (gladly) Would you? 
 
 Imp. Oh, Dick! (and he breaks down utterly as 
 Dick, deeply moved, catches Mm in his arms) 
 Dick, (half laughing, half sobbing) Come, come,
 
 Y6 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 it'll all dry straight, we will work it through together, 
 old man, shoulder to shoulder, as we used to be. 
 
 Imp. All that I've said, just now, I didn't mean it, I 
 didn't, indeed. I've been a brute to you, Dick, but I 
 didn't mean to be. 
 
 Dick. I know, old man — bless you, I know. You 
 had to work it off on somebody, and I was nearest. 
 
 Imp. (passionately) Dick — Dick! I'd like to get 
 out of this country, just a bit. I must, I must — can't 
 I go? There's always a war somewhere — I'd like to 
 fight. 
 
 Dick. Why not? Get along out and show 'em you're 
 your father's boy, our boy. Then come back all over 
 Victoria crosses and things, and — and the Trinity shall 
 entertain you at a banquet. That's right, boy, buck up. 
 The world's a damned hard fight, you've had the first 
 knock, a stiff 'un, right under the jaw, but you're up 
 again, old son, and the fight is yours to win, if you only 
 choose. 
 
 Imp. I choose. 
 
 {And Dick wrings his outstretched hand.) 
 
 Dick, (cheerily) Good man! Get along to bed, old 
 son, you're dog tired, we'll think of the future in the 
 morning 
 
 (And! the Imp goes out.) 
 
 Dick. He's true grit, every inch of him. (then sud- 
 denly) Here, here, I tore up his father's letter. I was 
 a fool, (he picks up one piece) It's all right, Charlie, 
 old man, I'll be able to face you yet. (he picks up the 
 other piece) Come here. Come here! Get back into 
 your place — I've been a fool! 
 
 (And he puts the torn pieces back into his drawer as 
 Phyllis comes in.) 
 
 Phyll. (comes in quickly) He's back. I heard him 
 go into his room. 
 
 Dick. Yes, he's back. 
 
 Phyll. Poor old Imp. 
 
 Dick. Thank goodness he's got the pluck to take it 
 like this. God knows it may be for the best after all. 
 (then he turns and looks at Phyllis) Hullo! why — 
 why — why — I can't have my little girl looking like this
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 77 
 
 — black shadows under her eyes, this won't do — you're 
 the tired one now. 
 
 Phyll. (smiling sadly) No, I'm not. I'm only 
 tired for you. I know how you must feel about all this, 
 and somehow I don't seem to be able to help you a bit. 
 
 Dick, {stroking her hair softly) Yes, you do, dear, 
 you help me all the time. 
 
 Phyll. (moving a little from him) Oh, I wish I 
 could think I did. But (cheerfully) it's all right. The 
 Imp's come back. And the Trinity is in the dining 
 room having whiskies and sodas, so as you've got all 
 you want, you'd like to go to bed. 
 
 Dick. No, I shouldn't, but it's getting very late. 
 
 (Phyllis turns on her heel and goes to the door.) 
 
 (he calls her) Phyllis, it — it was very sweet of you 
 to wait up for me, dear. Good-night. 
 Phyll. Good-night. 
 
 (She again goes to the door — again he calls her softly.) 
 
 Dick. Phyllis! 
 
 Phyll. (turning) What? (a pause) 
 Dick. Nothing, I — I think you'd better go to bed, 
 dear. 
 Phyll. You were going to say something. 
 Dick;. No, no 
 
 (She turns away — he stands watching her, then says 
 
 quickly.) 
 
 You're quite sure you never — (he stops, there is a 
 pause — she looks at him and then away) 
 
 Phyll. I was never in love with him, if that's what 
 you mean. 
 
 Dick. You never were — really? (gladly) 
 
 Phyll. Never was, really — really. 
 
 Dick, (after a pause) Ah, well, it's only postpon- 
 ing the evil day. He's gone — you'll be the next to go, 
 but you've been fairly happy while you've been here, 
 haven't you, dear? 
 
 Phyll. I've been very happy, Dick. 
 
 Dick, (with a gasp) Iwonder — (he stops again) 
 
 Phy-ll. (coming a little nearer to him) What do 
 you wonder? 
 
 Dick, (hacking a little) Nothing. You really ought 
 to go to bed, dear.
 
 78 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Phyll. I'm going. 
 
 Dick. I suppose what you said the other day about 
 your mother — well, I suppose you'll be going altogether 
 soon. 
 
 Phyll. (gravely) I don't think I was quite just 
 about mother the other day — she didn't say those things, 
 really. 
 
 Dick. Didn't she? Then, why 
 
 Phyll. (slowly) Oh, because I was in a silly mood 
 — you would keep on saying things to me about the Imp 
 and how happy I ought to be, and all that, and of course 
 I wasn't a bit happy. I'm much hapier now. 
 
 Dick. Now? 
 
 Phyll. Well, because now he's not going to marry 
 me, so I needn't marry him. I'm free now, Dick. 
 
 Dick. Oh, I wish I was ten years younger. 
 
 Phyll. I don't. 
 
 Dick, (eagerly) Don't you? (he moves to her) 
 Oh, Phyllis! 
 
 (She meets his eye and he hacks off again.) 
 
 You really ought to go to bed, dear, it's quite late. 
 
 Pkyll. Does it matter for once? 
 
 Dick, (gathering courage) Phyllis, I — I — oh, I'm a 
 fool, don't laugh at me. 
 
 Phyll. I haven't. 
 
 Dick. I — I — oh, Phyllis, I've never dared to tell any- 
 one. I've never dared to tell myself — much less you. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Phyll. What, Dick? 
 
 Dick. That — that — oh, my dear, it's striking two — 
 what would your mother say? 
 
 Phyll. (very matter of factly) You're quite right, 
 Dick, dear, it is very late. Good-night. The Trinity 
 are in the dining room, I'm keeping you from them. 
 Good-night. 
 
 (She goes to door.) 
 
 Dick. Don't go just yet. 
 
 (She comes back.) 
 
 Dick. I'm not usually such a fool — but somehow this 
 seems so fearfully serious. I — I — you're a young girl.
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Y9 
 
 I'm forty. It isn't fair, is it? I mean, I daresay, you 
 would out of the kindness of your heart, but — but — No, 
 I'm a fool, everything's better as it is. Good-night, dear. 
 
 (He turns from her and goes to the table — she stands 
 looking at him for a moment, then says softly.) 
 
 Phyll. You don't mean to say good-night, Dick, like 
 that. Good-night. [she comes to him with her hands 
 outstretched — their eyes meet, the touch of her hands 
 conquers him) 
 
 Dick. I must tell you — (o long pause, and he says 
 in a whisper almost) I love you! 
 
 Phyll. (simply) I love you, too, Dick. 
 
 Dick. You love me! 
 
 Phyll. I've always loved you, but you didn't seem 
 to care. 
 
 Dick, (dazed) You love me! 
 
 Phyll. I love you. 
 
 (There is a silence, and then he kisses her — there is 
 another silence — then he says with a long sigh.) 
 
 Dick. I thought everything had ended. Everything 
 is just beginning — You love me — say it again. 
 Phyll. Need I? 
 Dick. Yes, say it again. 
 Phyll. I love you. 
 Dick. You love me. 
 
 (A long pause — he kisses her — and whispers.) 
 
 Again! 
 
 Phyll. Again and always, I love you. 
 
 Dick. Then what's the matter with anything? 
 
 Phyll. Nothing. 
 
 Dick, (in a hushed whisper) Nobody must ever 
 know. 
 
 Phyll. Why not? 
 
 Dick. I don't know — but — but — oh, they mustn't — 
 say it again. 
 
 Phyll. Tell everybody — are you ashamed of me? 
 
 Dick. Ashamed! Here — hi! No, no, before they 
 come, say it again — just in a whisper. I love you, of 
 it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Phyllis, 
 Phyllis, where have I been hiding myself all these years? 
 you've opened out life to me. 
 
 Phyll. (whispers) I love you.
 
 80 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 
 
 Dick. But — but oh, I'm forty, dear. 
 
 Phyll. I love you. 
 
 Dick. I'm — I'm an old bachelor. 
 
 Phyll. I love you. 
 
 Dick, (with a cry of delight) Don't whisper it, 
 shout it. We love eacvh other, and we're going to be 
 married. Let's tell 'em, let's tell 'em. Waddles, Miles, 
 Doctor — what are they doing? How shall I tell 'em? 
 
 Phyll. It's very easy. 
 
 Dick, (ruefully) Is it? Here, I've called 'em, you 
 tell 'em — that's fair. 
 
 (Waddles, the Doctoe, and the Soldier-Man enter hur- 
 riedly.) 
 
 The Three. Old man 
 
 Dick. The Imp's come home — and — and we're none 
 of us to worry, because he's going to be a man. 
 
 The Three. Oh! {vaguely) 
 
 Dick. And — and — Phyllis has got something to say 
 to you. 
 
 {The three men, with instant comprehension, wheel 
 round to Phyllis.) 
 
 Colonel, {eagerly) Is it all right? 
 Phyll. {smiling) Yes. 
 
 Colonel. Oh, my dear! {and he takes her hands 
 and kisses her fervently) It's our right. 
 
 {He hands her to the Doctor, toho does the same and 
 hands her to Waddles, who folloics suit.) 
 
 The Three. Good luck to you — it — it — it's splendid. 
 Dick, {taking her) Yes, isn't it? Splendid. 
 Omnes. Kiss her, kiss her! 
 
 Dick. I'm not afraid. I — I did it all by myself just 
 now. 
 
 {He kisses her.) 
 
 Waddles. Thank goodness, it isn't a quadrity any 
 longer — it's a quantity. 
 Omnes. It is — it is! 
 Waddles. With a power to increase our number. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 />"
 
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