iiiiiiilil 
 
 
IRIS 
 
THE FLA YS OF ARTHUR W. FINERO 
 
 Paper cover, is. 6d. ; cloth, 2s. 6d. each 
 
 t:he times 
 the trofligate 
 the cabinet ^minister 
 the hobby-horse 
 lady "bountiful 
 
 THE zM^GISTRATE 
 
 "DANDY <T>ICK 
 I. StVEET LAVENDER 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS 
 vTHE WEAKER SEX 
 
 THE AMAZONS 
 
 THE SECOND <iMRS. TANKER AY 
 
 THE D\OTORIOUS cMRS. SBBSMITH 
 V THE "BENEFIT OF THE 'DOUBT 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 TRELAWNY OF THE ''WELLS'' 
 
 THE GAY LORD S^JEX 
 
 THE PINERO BIRTHDAY BOOK 
 
 Selected and arranged by Myra Hamilton 
 With a Portrait, cloth extra, price 2S. 6d. 
 
 LONDON: WILLI AM HEINEMANN 
 
IRIS 
 
 A DRAMA 
 
 hi Fi've Acti 
 
 By ARTHUR W, PINERO 
 
 LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN 
 
 MCMII 
 
EMGL. L'3 FD. 
 
 Copyright, igoo 
 All rights reserved 
 Entered at Stationers* Hall 
 Entered at the Library of Con- 
 gress, Washington, U.S. A, 
 
Pf.SI Sz, 
 
 THE PERSONS OF THE PLAT 
 
 Fkederick Maldonado 
 
 Laurence Trenwith 
 
 Croker Harrington 
 
 Archibald Kane 
 
 Colonel Wynning 
 
 Servant at Mrs. Bellamy's in Kensington 
 
 Servant at the Villa Prigno 
 
 Ibis Bellamy 
 
 Fanny Sylvain 
 
 AUREA Vyse 
 
 Mrs. Wynning 
 
 Miss Pinsent 
 
 Woman-servant at the Villa Prigno 
 
 Woman-servant at the Flat in Park Street 
 
This Play urns first acted at 
 the Garrick Theatre, London, 
 on Saturday, Sept. 21, igoi 
 
THE FIRST ACT 
 LONDON. MRS. BELLAMY'S HOUSE IN KENSINGTON 
 
 THE SECOND ACT 
 
 ITALY. THE VILLA PRIGNO AT CADENABBIA ON THE 
 LAKE OF COMO 
 
 THE THIRD ACT 
 THE SAME 
 
 THE FOURTH ACT 
 LONDON. A FLAT IN PARK STREET 
 
 THE FIFTH ACT 
 THE SAME 
 
 In both the First Act and the Third the action is divided 
 into three Episodes, 7vhich are marked by the falling of the 
 curtain. Between the Third Act and the Fourth two years are 
 supposed to 
 
a 
 
 or THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 ^LlZ^M}}^-' IRIS 
 
 THE FIRST ACT 
 
 The scene rep7'esents two draiving -rooms of equal size 
 upon the ground floor of a house in Kensington. 
 In the loall separating the rooms are two arched 
 e.itixmces — the one on the right-hand side, the other 
 on the left — and in the centre, hetiveen these en- 
 trances, is a fireplace. Over the fireplace is an 
 opening, shaped arid framed like « mirror ; so that, 
 icith the view gained through the archways, the 
 further room is almost entirely disclosed. In this 
 further room, on the left, is a single door admitting 
 to a small apartment ; in the centre, at the hack, is 
 a conservatory seen through glazed doors ; and on 
 the right is a ivindoio affording a view of a garden. 
 On the left-hand side of the room nearer the spec- 
 tator are double-doors opening frorn the inner hall 
 of the house ; and, on the right, facing these doors, 
 there is a spacious circidar hoio in which are three 
 french-ioindoivs also looking on to the garden. The 
 rooms are richly furnished and decorated. In the 
 further room a grand piano — adorned with paint- 
 ings in the style of Watteau and Lancret — and a 
 music-stool stand by the windoiv. By the side of 
 the piano is a chair ; and on the other side of the 
 
 A 
 
IRIS 
 
 room are tioo chairs, placed together, under the 
 hrancJies of a high palm. Against the ivalls are 
 cabinets containing articles de vertu. In'the nearer 
 room there is an armchair on each side of the fire- 
 place, and, facing the fireplace, a luxurious " Ches- 
 terfield " settee with a ^nece of rich silk draped 
 over the hack. Behind the settee stands a French 
 ottoman. On the left of the room are a settee of a 
 more fornud kind, a table, and a " windovystool " ; 
 and on the right a luriting -table and tioo chairs — 
 the one in front of the table, the other by the side of 
 it. Also on the right, between the boio and the en- 
 trance to the further room, another high ]Kdm shel- 
 ters a smaller settee. There are flowers in pn^ofusion ; 
 some are arranged in vases and jardinieres, while 
 a bank of blosso7n j)ttrtially conceals the firepAace. 
 
 The light is that of a fine evening in summer. 
 The warm glow of sunset is seen in the garden and 
 in the conservatory. 
 
 [Note : — The descriptions of the scenery, and the 
 directions for the movement of the characters, are 
 set out as from the jjoint of view of the audience. 
 Thus, Right and Left are the sp)ectators right and 
 left, not the actors^ 
 
 [Miss Pixsent, a cheerfid young lady in din- 
 ner dress, is seated at the writing-table, 
 writing. A man-servant enters from the 
 hall. 
 
 Servant. 
 Mr. Kane. 
 
 \^The servant is followed by Archibald Kane, 
 a " smart,'' well-tailored man of niiddh age. 
 He carries an opera hat, wears an orchid in 
 
IRIS 3 
 
 his button-hole^ and has an air of some 
 authority. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 [^Advancing and shaking hands with him cordially. ^ 
 How do you do? [To the servant, loho toithdraws.\ 
 Tell Mrs. Bellamy. [To Kane.] She is not down yet. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Don't be scandalised at my premature appearance. 
 She has asked me to give her a few minutes' talk 
 before her guests arrive. 
 
 Miss Pinsent, 
 
 [Laughingly.^ I see. For a quarter of an hour you 
 are not a guest. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [In the same sjyirit.^ Merely a hard-working, con- 
 scientious solicitor. And how are you, my dear Miss 
 ' Pinsent? 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 I ? [Again at the writing -table, putting the urriting- 
 materials in order.] A woman who has the good fortune 
 to be attached to the household of such a sweet crea- 
 ture as Mrs. Bellamy can't be otherwise than robust 
 and happy. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 I need not ask after her ; she was looking radiant 
 at Hurlingham on Saturday. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Yes — out of the house. 
 
4 IRIS 
 
 Kaxe. 
 Nothing amiss, I hope 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 She seems depressed, in low spirits. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 The end of the season — fatigue. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 Scarcely. She has been fretting for weeks. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Fretting ? 
 Brooding. 
 Upon what ? 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Kane. 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 What does my sex brood over? Religion, the 
 affections, the discovery of a grey hair, anything, 
 everything. \_Beiu?'ning to him.] I rather fancy the 
 old grievance still irritates her occasionally. 
 
 Kane 
 
 The old ? 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 Her husband's Will. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Ho ! Poor dear lady, will she never become recon- 
 ciled to its conditions ? 
 
IRIS 5 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Never is a big word. After all, these are early 
 days. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 She has been five years a widow. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 She is only six-and- twenty now. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 And well-oft', as far as her heedlessness in money- 
 matters will permit of her being so. Let her compare 
 her situation with that of other women. Six-and- 
 twenty and independent ! 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 And unable to re-marry ! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 She could commit even that indiscretion if she 
 pleased. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Under penalty of losing every penny of her income. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 If she married a rich man, her interest in her late 
 husband's estate would be no longer indispensable to 
 her. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Rich men generally have some odious quality to 
 counterbalance their wealth. The men one would 
 marry are as poor as mice. 
 
IRIS 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Shmgijing his shoulders.] Well, Wills such as Mr., 
 George Adair Bellamy's are common enough. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 The more's the shame. [With mock severity.] I 
 wonder you care to be a trustee under so iniquitous an 
 instrument. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Ha, ha ! the position isn't altogether abed of roses. 
 It has already worried my fellow-trustee, poor Mr. 
 Cautherley, into his grave. However, we ought not 
 to discuss Mrs. Bellamy's affairs too freely. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Of course not ; I beg your pardon. [With a change 
 of manner.] I say, Mr. Kane. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Yes? 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 I wish you would render me a service. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Delighted. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 You are connected with a number of little concerns 
 that pay decent dividends, aren't you — nice, snug little 
 schemes that the public isn't allowed to dip its hands 
 into ? 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Who tells you so ? 
 
IRIS 7 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy. She says you do wonders for her 
 great friend, Miss Sylvain, and for Mr. Harrington. 
 
 Kane. 
 Well? 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 I've managed to scrape together nearly three 
 hundred pounds. To you it's the merest trifle, but — 
 [coaxingli/] you might help a poor lady's-companion 
 to increase her store. 
 
 Kane. 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Don't laugh. Let me come and see you, will you ? 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Honoured. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 In Lincoln's Inn Fields ? 
 
 Kane. 
 [^Writing on his shirt-cuff.] To-morrow ? 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 [With a Qiod.] At what time ? 
 
 Kane. 
 Four o'clock ? 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Oh, I'm awfully obliged ; I — [listening] This is she, 
 I think. 
 
8 IRIS 
 
 [Iris, richl>/ hut delicately gowned, enters, at 
 the door in the further room, drawing on 
 her gloves. She comes to Kaxe and gives 
 him her hand. She is a beautifid ivoman, 
 ivith a soft, appeali7ig voice and movements 
 instinct loith simj^le grace and dignity. 
 Her manner is characterised hy a repose 
 amounting almost to languor. 
 
 Miss Pinsent. 
 
 [2'aking fi'Oin the writing-table the paper upon which 
 she had been writing and. ^^•ese??^Mi^ it to Ims.] The 
 arrangement of the couples at dinner. 
 
 [Iris sUjjs the paper into her bodice, and Miss 
 Pinsent withdraivs, passing through the 
 further room. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \GlanGing into the further room, to assure herselj 
 that she and Kane are alone, then indicating the doors 
 in the nearer room.^ Is there a draught ? 
 
 [He closes the doors luhile she seats herself upon 
 the ottoman. 
 
 Ikis. 
 
 I want to talk to you, Archie, concerning a young 
 man in whom I am slightly interested. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Sitting, facing her, upon the loinJow-stool.] Oh 
 yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 A Mr. Trenwith. 
 
IRIS 9 
 
 Kane. 
 Do I know him ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You may have met him ; he has been about this 
 season a great deal. Surely I introduced him to you 
 one night during " La Boheme " ? 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Oh, is he the good-looking boy I have seen in your 
 box at the opera several times recently ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Two or three times. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 His name had escaped me. And he was at Hurling- 
 ham with you on Saturday, wasn't he ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 More with the Littledales than with me. I gave 
 him a lift down. He's quite poor, you know. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Really? He must have friends — the Littledales, 
 for example. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Women-friends who ask him to parties. They are 
 of no use when even a cab -fare is a consideration. 
 It occurred to me that you might be inclined to exert 
 your influence in some direction or another in his 
 behalf. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 What's his age ? 
 
lo IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 Twenty- eight, I am afraid. 
 
 Kane. 
 Whew ! Ever done anything ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He has tried many things. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Omiiioicsly.] H'm ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 His great misfortune was being ploughed for the 
 army. That was a thousand pities. Lately he has 
 been reading for the bar ; but he finds he has no taste 
 for law. His ear for music is wonderful, and he draws 
 cleverly in pastel. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 The failures in life are masters of the minor 
 talents. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [In gentle i^epivof.] Hush ! And now his only 
 relative with money and position — an uncle who is 
 an archdeacon — has become disheartened. You would 
 expect an archdeacon to be sympathetic and patient, 
 would you not ? 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Beyond a certain point, I would not. 
 
 Iris. 
 You are too cynical. At any rate, this uncle offers 
 
IRIS II 
 
 him a few hundred pounds on the understanding 
 that he goes out to a cattle-ranche in British Columbia 
 — a dreadful place, a sort of genteel Sibeiia. I am 
 so grieved for the boy. 
 
 Kane. 
 A difficult case. 
 
 Iris. 
 Don't say that. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 He belongs to a large class ; he is a young gentle- 
 man to whom it is absolutely essential that somebody 
 should bequeath five-thousand-a-year. 
 
 Iris. 
 You will jest, Archie. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 My dear Iris, what career is there, apart from the 
 criminal, for engaging but impecunious incapacity ? 
 In its usual course, it begins with a beggarly secretary- 
 shijD, passes through the intermediate stages of a 
 precarious interest in a wine business and a dis- 
 astrous association with the Turf and the Stock 
 Exchange, and ends with the selling, on commission, 
 of an obsolete atlas or an unwieldy bible. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Shudderingly.'] Terrible ! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Will you follow my advice ? 
 
 Iris. 
 [iri^A a sigh of discontent.] Oh ! 
 
12 IRIS 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Back up the archdeacon. Urge the young man to 
 clear out Avithout delay. 
 
 [She rises and moves to the fireplace, lohere she 
 stands looking doivji uj^on thefiowers. 
 
 Kaxe. 
 [Rising ivith her.] I appear extremely disagreeable. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 No, no. 
 
 Kaxe. 
 
 [Strolling over to the icritiiig -table and examining a 
 photograph which he finds there.] This is Mr. Tr en with, 
 is it not ? 
 
 Ieis. 
 
 [After a glance in his direction, sitting upon the settee 
 facing the fireplace?^ Yes. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Replacing the photograph and approaching her.] 
 Shall I bore you by offering a little further counsel ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You are very good. 
 
 Kaxe. 
 
 [Sitting on the ottoman.] Iris, a woman in your 
 position can't be too cautious. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Cautious ? 
 
IRIS 
 
 Kane. 
 
 I don't want to disturb you by recalling the terms 
 of poor George's Will. At the same time 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Turning to him.] My dear Archie, nothing that 
 you can say upon the subject will disturb me. The 
 threats of that Will seem to me to be weaved into the 
 decorations of my walls. I construe them daily, 
 almost hourly. [Closing her eyes as she recites.] " You 
 forfeit all interest in your late husband's estate by re- 
 marrying." I tread them into my carpets. [As he/ore.] 
 " In such an event the whole source of your income 
 passes to others." The street-music makes a lilt of 
 them. " You have no separate estate ; wed again and 
 you cease to be of independent means." When a 
 stranger is presented to me, I divine his thoughts in- 
 stantly. " Why, you are the woman," he remarks to 
 himself, " who loses her money by re-marrying." 
 [Reclining iqjoii apilloio loith a faint attempt ata laugh.] 
 Ha ! For the thousandth time, why are such pro- 
 visions made, can you tell me ? 
 
 Kane. 
 
 They are designed primarily, I hope, to protect the 
 
 widow 
 
 Iris. 
 To protect her ! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 From unscrupulous men, from fortune-hunters. In 
 the present instance, for example, it is only fair to 
 assume that your husband, knowing how greatly your 
 
14 IRIS 
 
 happiness depends upon personal comfort, was actuated 
 solely by a desire to safeguard you. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Ah, this safeguarding of women ! Its effects may 
 be humiliating, cruel. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 H'm ! Upon one of its effects, as concerning your- 
 self, I should like to lay particular stress. May I be 
 perfectly frank ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Do. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Allow me to remind you, then, that a lady circum- 
 stanced as you are — still youthful, beautiful 
 
 Iris. 
 [Touchi7ig his sleeve gently.^ Sssh .V.^^- 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Who is seen constantly in the company of a young 
 man whom she could not dream of marrying, subjects 
 herself inevitably to a considerable amount of ill- 
 natured criticism. 
 
 l^She raises herself^ looking at him. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Criticism — conjecture — scandal. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [After a brief pause.] I didn't think you meant that. 
 Ah, thanks. 
 
IRIS 15 
 
 [She leaves the settee, showing signs of discom- 
 posure. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Standing before her.] I have completely spoilt your 
 enjoyment of your little dinner-party. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Giving him her hand.] Dear friend. This is the 
 advantage of employing a fashionable solicitor, one 
 whose practice has its roots in the gay parterres of 
 Society. I get the gossip of the boudoir at first hand. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Deprecating! 1/.] My object 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Sioeetli/.] Ah, I am infinitely obliged. [Hesitatingly.] 
 
 But — Archie 
 
 Kane. 
 Yes? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Her head averted.] You don't believe, evidently, 
 that I am capable of throwing selfish considerations to 
 the winds — marrying a poor man ? 
 
 Kane. 
 You! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Sitting upon the windoio stool ?\ I know ; the last 
 woman on earth, you would say, who would find 
 courage for such an act. 
 
i6 IRIS 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Are you joking ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Ha! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 You marry a poor man ; j-ou with your utter dis- 
 regard for the value of money ! Why, luxury to you 
 is the salt of life, my dear Iris. Great heavens ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Weakly.] I try to do a little good with my money, 
 too, Archie. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 An indiscriminate sovereign to a beggar where a 
 shilling would suffice ; three times his fare to every 
 
 cabman 
 
 Iris. 
 Oh, don't scold me ! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Not I. I gave that up long since. You were sent 
 into the world so constituted. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Smiling.] So afflicted. You are right, Archie — 
 the step would be preposterous. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Raising his hands.] Ho ! 
 
 Iris. 
 [Wistfulli/.] Only I should like to think that I don't 
 
IRIS 17 
 
 shrink from it out of sheer worldliness and cowardice. 
 I should like to think — tssh ! [Bising.] As you ob- 
 serve, one is sent into the world shaped this way or 
 that. [Producing Miss Pinsent's memorandum and 
 referring to it.'] "Will you take Fanny Sylvain in to 
 dinner ? 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Charmed. Who are your guests ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Fanny and a little niece of hers whom she has 
 taken under her wing, dear Croker, the Wynnings 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Delightful. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Walking away from hivi, to avoid the embarrassment 
 of meeting his eye.] And Mr. Trenwith. [Indifferently.] 
 Oh, and Frederick Maldonado. 
 
 Kane. 
 Maldonado ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Yes. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 May I say I'm glad ? The wound is healed, then ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He writes begging me to include him again in my 
 dinner-parties. Poor Maldo ! 
 
 [She is standing beside the ivriting -table. From 
 ^ a draioei' she takes out a ring-case and 
 
 pi'oduces a tiny ring. 
 
 B 
 
l8 IRIS 
 
 Kane. 
 What's that ? 
 
 IllIS. 
 
 [iSlipjmig the ring on to her finger and displaying it^ 
 A token. He gave it to me when he — at the time — 
 telh'ng me that, if ever I relented, I had onl}^ to return 
 it to him without a woid and, no matter what part of 
 the globe it found him in, he would come to me on 
 wings. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 The plumage is golden, in his rase, Iris. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yes. [^Closing her eyes for a moment.^ But I couldn't, 
 Archie. [^Removing the ring from her finger thought- 
 fully.^ Yet I've been on the point of sending this to 
 him more than once during the past month. 
 
 Kane. 
 You have ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [^Mechanically replacing the ring in its drawer. 1^ As 
 a way out of my perplexity. 
 
 [The double-doors are thrown ojyen and a 
 servant annoionces " Miss Sylvain and Miss 
 Vyse." Iris advances to greet Fanny 
 Sylvain, icho enters uHth Aurea. Fanmy 
 is « bright^ attractive woman of thirty^ 
 Aurea a frank -looking girl still in her teens 
 Fanny and Iris kiss affectionately. 
 
 Iris. -^ 
 
 Dear Fanny ! 
 
IRIS ig 
 
 Fanny. 
 Dear Iris ! [Presenting Aurea.] My niece, Aurea. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Advcmcing to Aurea,] Ah ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Shaking hands with Kane.] Well, Archie ! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Talking to her aixtrt.] How are you, Fanny ? I've 
 bad news for you. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Clutching his arm.] No. 
 
 Kane. 
 I am to take you in to dinner. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Faiiitly.] Brute ! I thought you were going to teJl 
 me that some of my investments have gone wrong. 
 
 Kane. 
 Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [In an eager v)hisper.] You are still doing well for 
 me, Archie ? 
 
 [Miss PiNSENT has reappeared in the farther 
 room ; she now joiiis Fanny and Kane, 
 shaking hands with the former. 
 
20 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [With AuREA, hi/ the settee on the left.] And so thil' 
 is your first dinner-party, Aurea ? 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 Of a formal kind. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Sviiling.] A few old friends gathered together for 
 the last time this season. 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 Anyway, it is sweet of you to include me. 
 
 Colonel and Mrs. Wyxnixg ai'e announced. 
 Wynking is a soldierly man of ffty-five, 
 his wife a j^leasant-looking lady much his 
 jiinior. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Shaking hands with the Winnings.] How do you 
 do ? How do you do ? 
 
 Wynning. 
 
 How are you ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To both.'] Were you riding in the Park this 
 morning ? 
 
 Mrs. Wynning. 
 
 Jack was ; I have lumbago. 
 
 Iris. 
 That is very painful, is it not ? 
 
IRIS 21 
 
 Wynning. 
 
 * [With disg^ist.] When I was a boy only servants 
 had it. By Jove, these are levelling days with a 
 vengeance ! [Shaking hands vnih Fanny, who has 
 come to Mrs. Wynning.] How you, Miss Sylvain? 
 [Seeing Kane.] Hullo, Kane ! [Shaking hands with 
 Miss Pinsent.] How you ? 
 
 Mrs. Wynning. 
 
 [Greeting Miss Pinsent.] How do you do ? 
 
 Mrs. Wynning, Miss Pinsent, and Kane, in 
 one growp, and Colonel Wynning and 
 Iris, fo7"}ni7ig another, talk together on the 
 right, lohile Fanny joins Aurea, who is 
 no2v seated upon the settee on the left. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [To Aurea.] Well, are you disappointed ? 
 
 Aurea. 
 She is adorable ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Sitting, facing Aurea, upon the ivindow-stool — 
 triumphantly.^ Ah ! 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 When did you and she first know each other, aunt ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 When she was fourteen. We were at school to- 
 gether. Even then there wasn't a girl who wouldn't 
 have sold her little white soul for a caress from Iris. 
 And the spell she casts never weakens. Here am I, 
 
22 IRIS 
 
 a woman of thirty, and I believe she is more attractive 
 to me than ever. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 Of course she'll marry again ; she must. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 She has been pestered to distraction ever since she 
 discarded her mourning. 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 [Eagerly.] Tell me, are any of the men dining here 
 this evening in love with her? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Some of them are, or were. [Glancing in the 
 direction of iJie Wynnings.] Colonel Wynning married 
 that amiable creature over there in despair at having 
 been refused three times. ' 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [Aioe- stricken.'] Does his wife know it ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Certainly ; and feels honoured, as she ought. 
 
 [A servant announces " Mr. Harrington/' and 
 Croker Harrington, a dapper hut exceed- 
 ingly ugly little man of five-and thirty^ 
 enters gaily. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Welcoming hhn.] So pleased to see you, Croker. 
 
IRIS 23 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Kissing her Imnd gallantly.^ Dear lady ! [Dis- 
 covering Fanny.] Ah ! those alabaster shoulders can 
 belong but to one person. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Giving hirn her left hand, lohich he jn^^sses to his 
 bosom.] I hate you ; you didn't come to the bazaar 
 yesterday. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I did better ; I told the richest man I know to go 
 there. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Freddy Maldonado? He never turned u{>. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 The traitor! My fingers shall be at his throat 
 directly he appears. [To Iris.] He's to be here to- 
 night ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Yes. 
 
 [He joins those on the right and is received 
 joyously. Iris exchanges afeio ivords with 
 Fanny and Aurea, and then, producing 
 Miss Pinsent's memorandum, goes to 
 Croker. 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 \To Fanny.] I hope that plain little gentleman has 
 never dared 
 
24 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Mr. Harrington ? Oli, yes, Croker Harrington has 
 dared in his time. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 No! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 He laughs openly at his repeated failures. He 
 laughs till he cries, he says, but I suspect the laughter 
 has not always accompanied the tears. Dear Croker ! 
 However, he is now resigned to his position. 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 His position ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 He declares he wonders why the Inland Revenue 
 people don't fine Iris for omitting to take out a dog- 
 licence for him. 
 
 A urea. 
 
 [Tenderli/.^ Poor little man ! Still, he is so exceed- 
 ingly ugly. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 The most sensible men in the world, my dear. 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 The ugly ones ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 The vainest of them confide the truth to themselves 
 at least once a day, while shaving. 
 
 [Frederick Maldonado is announced. He 
 enters — a tall, massive man of about forty, 
 with hrown hair and heard, handsome 
 
IRIS "" 25 
 
 according to the Jewish type, somewhat 
 ebullient in manner, his figure already 
 lending to corpulency. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \Giving him her hand, ivith 2:)erfect dignity.] You 
 have been too long a stranger, Maldo. Welcome ! 
 
 MALDONiNDO. 
 
 [Softly.] Maldo — my old diminutive. Time is 
 effaced by your use of it. [Shaking hands ivith Fanny.] 
 
 Fanny 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 You didn't patronise the bazaar yesterday, Frede- 
 rick. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Sincere regrets. I found it impossible to get away 
 from the City. [Greeting Croker and Kane.] My dear 
 Croker ! Archie, my good friend ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Presenting him to the Wynninos.] Mrs. Wynning, 
 let me introduce Mr. Frederick Maldonado. Colonel 
 
 Wynning 
 
 [lie boivs to them and shakes hands with Miss 
 Pins EXT. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [To Fanny.] Who is that ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Frederick, one of the great Maldonado family. 
 
26 IRIS 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 Great ? 
 
 Faxny. 
 
 Well, not great — big ; big financiers. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 Foreign ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 The grandfather was a Jew tradesman in Madrid 
 who broke and went out to South America. He 
 made a fortune in tobacco in Havannah and after- 
 wards married an Englishwoman. Since then our 
 public schools have been favoured with the education 
 of the male Maldonados. They're reckoned among 
 the three leading groups of financiers in Europe. 
 
 . AUREA. 
 
 What is a financier, exactly ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 A financier ? Oh, a pawnbroker with imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 Aunt ! And is he in love with ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [To Kane, who at this moment appears at lier side.^ 
 Ah ! we are talking about her. How ethereal she 
 looks this evening ! My niece, Archie — [to Aurea] 
 Mr. Kane. 
 
 [Kane remains loith them, talking. A servant 
 announces, " Mr. Laurence Tien with," 
 
IRIS 27 
 
 and Laurence, a handsome, stahvart, hut 
 still boyish young man, enters. Iris 
 advances to meet him ; her lips form the 
 ivords of a v^elcome ; they shake hands 
 sile7itly. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [/?i a loio, level voice.] You know many who are 
 here, I think. [Moving away to the right, he follow- 
 ing.] You have met Mrs. Wynning ? No ? [Present- 
 ing Laurence.] Mr. Trenwith. Colonel Wynning. 
 Mr. Harrington I am sure you know. Mr. Frederick 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Shaking hands with Miss Pinsent after hoiolng to 
 the others.] How do you do ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Who has risen—to Kane, in a tvhisper.] Archie, 
 thank goodness she starts for Switzerland on Satur- 
 day ! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [To Fanny, ivith a nod.] H'm, [A servant enters. 
 
 Servant. 
 Dinner is served. 
 
 [The servant retires. Iris brings La Terence 
 over to the left. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Shaking hands with him.] How do you do ? 
 
28 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Shaking hands vnth him.] How are you, Mr. Tren- 
 with ? [Fanny and Kane move aicay. 
 
 Ims. 
 
 [Presenting Laurence to Aurea.] Mr. Trenwith — 
 
 Miss Yyse. [To Laurence.] Will you take Miss 
 Vyse ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 With great pleasure. 
 
 Trip, 
 
 [In the centre of the room.] Croker, please play host 
 and go firt,t with Mrs. Wynning. 
 
 [Croker gives his arm to Mrs. Wynning and 
 they pass out. Colonel Wynning, after a 
 polite offer of precedence to Kane and 
 YANi^Y/foUoivsivith Miss Pinsent. Fanny 
 and Kane go next, then Laurence and 
 Aurea. To Maldonado's surprise, Iris 
 stands immovable, looki7ig into S2?ace. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Proffering his arm.] I am to have the hon- 
 our- ? 
 
 [Suddenly, ivith a c^leam of resolution in her 
 eyes, she moves to the ivriting -table and 
 again jTrodiices Maldonado's ring. She 
 ofers it to him. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Receiving it incredulously.] My ring ! 
 
li^is 29 
 
 Iris. 
 The token, Maldo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Iris ? [Intenseli/.] Iris! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Hush ! [Passing him, then turning and jdacing her 
 arm in his quite collectedly.] Have you been abroad 
 lately? I read ol* your being in Vienna in the 
 spring 
 
 [The curtain falls as they go out. It rises again 
 almost instanthj, shovnng the ivindoio -blind s 
 lowered and the rooms brilliantly lighted. 
 In the conservatory little lamjys glitter among 
 the palms and flowers. Iris and Mrs. 
 WY^NING occupy the settee in the centre ; 
 ' Fanny is in the chair on tjieir right. Miss 
 PiNSENT is at the piano, playing the final 
 bars of a nocturne of Chopin., while Aurea 
 sits near her turning over some music. The 
 men eiiter — ColoxVEL Wynning and Kane 
 appearing first ; Maldonado, Croker, and 
 Laurence following. Iris rises and mo- 
 tions Kane to tvithdravj ivith her froTQ, the 
 rest. Maldonado 2)laces himself beside 
 Mrs. Wynning; Croker, standing facing 
 them, takes part in their talk. Wynning 
 and Fanny seat themselves on the settee 
 under the j^dm on the right; Laurence 
 joins Aurea and Miss Pinsent at the 
 piano. 
 
30 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [^Standing by the settee on the left, speaking in a low 
 
 voice.] Archie 
 
 Kane. 
 Yes? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You neeil be under no apprehension concerning me. 
 I have done it. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Y^ou have done what ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Ended my perplexity. I have told Frederick Mal- 
 donado I will marry him. 
 
 Kane. 
 Iris ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Not a word, if you please, to anybody. I will not 
 have it announced till after I have left town. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Accept my congratulations. What made you form 
 this resolution so suddenly, may I ask ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I felt the sensation of stumbling, that I must 
 snatch at something tangible. [ Closing her eyes.] I 
 am glad. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 I hope it is for your happiness. 
 
IRIS 31 
 
 Iris. 
 
 It is for my safety. There is now no risk of further 
 scandal should Mr. Trenwith decide to remain in 
 England. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [A2)2^rovingli/J\ Good ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 On the other hand, if he migrates to British Colum- 
 bia, I stifle the temptation to play housewife among 
 the pots and pans of his poor little log-hut. I am 
 secure either way. 
 
 Kane, 
 
 Whew ! Then you did entertain the idea 
 seriously ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Simphj.^ 1 have been miserabl}' perplexed. 
 
 [Miss Pinsent jjlays some snatches of music 
 lightly. Croker o^pproaches Iris and 
 Kane. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 My dear Iris, what a delightful dinner you have 
 given us ! 
 
 Kane. 
 
 Your dinners are always charming. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Sitting upooi the settee.] My guests are always 
 charming. 
 
 [Kane moves away, joining Wynning and 
 Fanny. Wynning yields his place to Kane 
 
IRIS 
 
 and vltiiiiatehj sits with Aurea under the 
 jxdm in the further room. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Sitting facing Iris, his tone changing slightl*/.] 
 Divinity, what's the matter with you to-night ? 
 
 Iris. 
 The matter ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Something disturbs you, distresses you. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Play f idly.] How do I show it, Faithful One ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [In the, same spirit.] In your kistrous and never-to- 
 be-forgotten eyes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Beating a j^^oio and nestling in it.] Ha ! I am 
 simply dog-weary. It has been a hard season for your 
 poor i)ivinity. Oh, how I am longing for my month 
 among the mountains and my sun-bath at Caden- 
 abbia ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 You drop down to the lakes, then, after St. 
 Moritz ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 ^'es, I am renting the Yilhx Prigno and its stafl' of 
 porvants from its owner, Mrs. Van Reisler, for a few- 
 weeks. 
 
IRIS 33 
 
 Oroker. 
 When are you off? 
 
 Iris. 
 On Saturday. This is farewell. 
 
 Oroker. 
 
 I picture the caravan ; the fair Pinsent, your 
 courier, your maid, your fruit, your flowers, your birds 
 — no, not those troublesome birds. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You know I never move anywhere without my 
 birds. Are you coming to Switzerland this year ? 
 
 Oroker. 
 
 [^Almost surlily, looking awat/.] No. Perhaps. 
 [Softenimj.] Of course I am. I am one of your 
 human birds. Divinity. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 One of my great, kind human birds, that fly after 
 me wheresoever I go. 
 
 Oroker. 
 [Bitterly.] That fly, yes — and yet are caged. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Eepiwimjly.] Hush ! Oroker ! 
 
 Oroker. 
 I beg your pardon. It slipped out. 
 
34 ^^^5 
 
 Iris. 
 Ah, I'll not be vexed with you. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Remorsefully.'] I am continually breaking my 
 promise. Some day you'll tire of me and send me 
 about my business. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Never. [Bending toimrds hiin.'] Faithful One, do 
 you think I could afford to lose your true friendship, 
 
 your ceaseless solicitude, your ? 
 
 [She sees Laurence — ivho is noio standing at 
 the writing -table J waiting for an oppor- 
 tunity of a2)proaching her — falters and 
 breaks off. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [In an altered tone.] Croker, ask Kate to play my 
 favouiite mazurka — will you ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [Rising.] Certainly. 
 
 [He delive^'s his message to Miss Pinsent, re- 
 niaiyiing by her side while she plays. With 
 a look, Iris draws Laurexce to her. As 
 he advances she changes her place from the 
 settee to the ivindow-stool. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Standing beside her, speaking in Oj low voice.] This 
 is the tirst opportunity I have had of a word with 
 you. 
 
IRIS 35 
 
 Iris. 
 Yes. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I have something to tell yoii. May I ? 
 
 [She motions him to thi settee. 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Sitting.^ I have accepted my uncle's proposal. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Unemotionally.^ You have? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 There is nothing for it but that, nothing that I 
 can hit upon. I go down to Rapley, to talk matters 
 over with the old man, to-morrow. 
 
 Iris. 
 Oh, yes. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 So this may be the last time we shall ever meet ; 
 unless you — oh, I feel how presumptuous I am to 
 allude to it again ! 
 
 luis 
 
 Unless I ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Could, after all, bring yourself to share my rough 
 lot with me. A mad, selfish idea, I know. Feelings 
 like mine make one mad. 
 
 Iris. 
 Please! A mad idea, indeed. 
 
36 IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 [With a break in his voice.] Ifs good-bye, then. 
 
 Iris. 
 When will you be back from Rapley ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I sha'n't come back ; my uncle insists upon my 
 spending my remaining few hours with him. Then 
 1 shall go straight to Liverpool. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You sail ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 On the thirtieth — the day you start for Switzerland, 
 I hear? [She assents dumbbj. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Appealiiiyli/.] Let me stay behind for a few 
 moments to-night after your friends have left. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I am sorr)^ ; Mr. Maldonado has already made a 
 similar request. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Oh, but you can excuse yourself to him ? 
 
 Iris. 
 1 — I fear not. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Forgive me. I thought, this being the end of our 
 — [rising] — never mind. 
 
 [She rises ivith him. They face one another. 
 
\ 
 
 IRIS 37 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I shall write to you from Rapley, if I may ; and 
 send you a wire from Liverpool. And when I get to 
 Chilcoten — River R,anche, Chilcoten, British Columbia 
 — I'll — would once a month be too often? Oh, how 
 happy I've been ! 
 
 \_She gives a quick glance round, conscious of a 
 general movement, and sees that her guests 
 are preparing to depart. Wvxxixg has 
 joined Mrs. Wyxxing. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Ilastib/ hut composeily, in a low voice.] Lnu- 
 rence 
 
 Laurence. 
 Yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Return in about an hoar's time. Be outside the 
 house, on the other side of the way. Watch the 
 door [The Wyxnings come to her. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Turniiig to Mrs. Wyxnixg.] Must you— ? 
 
 Mrs. Wyxnixg. 
 We have to go on. 
 
 Wyxnixg. 
 
 [Cheerfully.] Three o'clock in the morning again 
 for us. This week sees the last of it, thank God, 
 
38 IRIS 
 
 Mrs. Wynnixo. 
 
 When one has lumbago one may as well keep up 
 light as not. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 1 ought to follow you, but I am too indolent to- 
 night. 
 
 Mrs. Wynxing. 
 
 [Kissing her.] It has been so pleasimt. 
 
 Wynxing. 
 
 [S/uikiiig hmids.] Chariniug. 
 
 [They shake hands trith the rest — fho are 
 engaged in bidding each other good night 
 — and withdrav, Miss Pinsent accom- 
 panying them. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To Fanny, ?/-Ao comes to her n-lth Aurea.] You too, 
 Fanny ? 
 
 Faxxy. 
 
 Only to the Chad wicks, for the sake of this girl, 
 and then to by-by. [Kissing Iter on both cheeks.] Your 
 dinner-table looked supsrb. 
 
 Aurea. 
 Do let me thank you, dear Mrs. Bellamy. 
 
 Iris. 
 fro Aurea.] W>il ? 
 
IRIS 39 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [I7i ansioer.'] Oh, I should like to dine out every 
 night of my life ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Ha! 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 If I could always watch your face through the 
 flowers. 
 
 [Iris kisses her and icalhs irith them to the 
 door, 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Will you be at home at tea-time to-morrow ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 To you, Fanny. Att reroir ! 
 
 \They depart as Croker approaches her. 
 
 Iris. 
 Are you for gaieties, Croker ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Not I. [Kissing her hand.] The last act of " Messa- 
 line " and a glance at the telegrams at the club will 
 see me through. [In the doorway.] I shall be on the 
 platform at Victoria. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Gratefully.] No, no ; you mustn't trouble. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [With a quick look into her face.] Trouble! good 
 heavens 1 [He disa]}pears. 
 
40 IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Formally, as he shakes hands with her.] Thank you 
 for a most delightful evening. 
 
 Iris. 
 So nice of you to come, 
 
 Laurence. 
 Good-night. 
 
 Iris. 
 Good-night. [He withdraios, 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Shaking hands v:ith her.] Shall we meet again 
 before you run away ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Hardly. 
 
 Kane. 
 Well — a pleasant holiday ! 
 
 Iris. 
 And to you, Archie. 
 
 Kane. 
 
 [Pausing in the doorway., dropjnng his voice.] Once 
 more, congratulations. 
 
 Iris. 
 Thanks. 
 
 [ffe goes. She closes the doors a,nd turns, to 
 find herself in Maldonado's arms. 
 
 Iris. 
 Ah, no ! 
 
At last ! 
 Oh! 
 Sweetest ! 
 
 IRIS 41 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Iris. 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 jNIaldo ! [F7'eei7u/ herself with a gesture ofrepugnaiiceA 
 Maldo ! 
 
 [/S%e brushes past him, and stands, greatly 
 ruffled, hy the chair beside the vwiting- 
 table. He regards her silently for a mo- 
 ment, ]yiizzled. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [^After the silence.'] Oh, pardon me, my dear. The 
 
 stored-up feelings of — a life-time, it seems ! It 
 
 would be an exceedingly poor compliment to you were 
 I less ardent. 
 
 [iS'Ae takes a bottle of salts from the ivriting- 
 table and drops into the chair. 
 
 Iris. 
 I — I am tired, Maldo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Brightening.] Ah, naturally; and I most incon- 
 siderate. [Coming to the back of her chair.] I was rough 
 — savage. A woman should always find repose on the 
 breast of her lover. [Bending over her.] Let me prove 
 to you how gentle I can be, 
 
42 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Er — it is late, Maldo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.^ Barely 
 eleven. [Taming to her.] Late ! [Twisting his beard, 
 thoughtful It/.] You who never leave the opera till the 
 
 final bar is played ! [Placing himself hetioeen her 
 
 chair and the meriting -table.] Bat I won't plague you 
 further. [Sitting ujjon the ed,ge of the table and inclining 
 his body tovmrds her.] I only ask you to grant me one 
 favour before you dismiss me to night. 
 
 Ibis. 
 
 Favour ? 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 Bestow upon me the title I have coveted so long. 
 It is comprised in a single word. The faintest move- 
 ment of those beautiful, still lips will suffice. You 
 have but to whisper it to send me through the streets 
 in air. Whisper ! 
 
 Iris. 
 What ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I am your beloved, am I not ? Simply call me — 
 Beloved. 
 
 Iris. 
 We — we are not boy and girl, Maldo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Boy ! I ! no. [His eyes glqiceinng.] A boy is not 
 
IRIS 43 
 
 scorched-iip, body and soul, by such a passion as you 
 inspire me with. [She rises, turning from him. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [Also rising, apologeticaUi/.] Ah, I scare you again ! 
 You'll think me a hot-blooded tyrant. Don't fear; 
 it is merely for the moment — the suddenness of my 
 
 delight ! Besides, you must make some small 
 
 allowance for me ; we Maldonados are not yet wholly 
 English in our ways. You shall complete my educa- 
 tion. We'll begin the course of instruction at once — 
 begin by my promptly leaving you to your slumbers. 
 [Taking her hand and crumpling it fondly.] There ! 
 was there ever a more docile pupil ? [In an outburst, 
 impulsively 2y)'es6ing her hand to his lijys and covering 
 it ivith passionate kisses.] Ah, sweetest, be kind ! melt ! 
 be warm ! be warm ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Regaining possession of her hand.] Maldo — listen ! 
 — Ma.do— 1 — I am dreadfully sorry. What I tell 
 you now I ought to have told you before returning 
 your ring — your token. Maldo, I haven't the love 
 for you a woman should have for the man who is to 
 be her husband ; in that respect I am as you have 
 always known me. But I will try to do my duty 
 faithfully as mistress of your house, if that w^ill 
 satisfy you. I can promise no more, but I will do my 
 duty — strictly and honourably, Maldo, strictly and 
 honourably. 
 
 [Xhe moves aicay to the centre. He approaches 
 her sloirly. 
 
44 IRIS 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [At Jier side, his softness gone, speaking in a harsh^ 
 
 grating voice — sivallowing an oath.] By ! I should 
 
 scarcely have thought it jjossible ! Yes, you positively 
 deceived me — the astute Freddy Maldonado ! You've 
 liad me in a fool's paradise for nearly three hours. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Deceived ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 What an ass ! I really imagined — for three mortal 
 hoars ! — that it was reserved for me to escape the 
 proverbial fate of the millionaire where the love of 
 woman is concerned ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [In jyrotest.'] Maldo ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Sharply.'] Why are you marrying me, then ? Eh ? 
 Why are you prepared to marry me ? 
 
 Iris. 
 You are very good, Maldo, very generous 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Ah, yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 Amiability itself 
 
 Maldonado, 
 Qiiite so, 
 
IRIS 45 
 
 Iris. 
 
 There is no man for whom I have sincerer respect ; 
 none, Maldo, none. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Yes, yes ; all that. But I assume that the qualities 
 you enumerate, admirable as they are, would hardly 
 suffice to induce you to resign your own comfortable 
 fortune were I not able to offer you a pretty solid 
 exchange. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 A woman, at such a crisis of her life, is swayed by 
 many considerations, of course, Maldo. I am past the 
 romantic age. You — you must think what you please ; 
 I cannot defend myself. 
 
 [She sits ujyon the ottoman stonily. Leaving 
 her, he walks about the room giving vent to 
 short outbursts of ironical laughter. Ulti- 
 mately he flings himself on to tJie settee on 
 the left. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho! [His laughter dying out — 
 bitteriy.'] Why, I suppose I ought to be profoundly 
 grateful to you for your candour. The generality of 
 women — ha, ha ! And better now than subsequent to 
 marriage ! And, after all, you give yourself to me — 
 give yourself in a fashion ; in the only fashion, it may 
 be — I must console myself with that — in the only 
 fashion in which your temperament allows you to yield 
 yourself. Come, I can't lose you utterly, my dear. 
 I'll be a philosopher and say Thanks. Thanks. 
 [Returning to her side.'] Thanks. 
 
46 tkis 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [In a murmur.] Thanks, Maldo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Griml)/.] It's a bargain, then ? You to be mine ; 
 as much mine as the Velasquez, the Raphael, hanging 
 on my walls — mine, at least, to gaze at, mine to keep 
 from others ? [Hei- head ch'oops in acquiescence. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Gradually regaining some 2^art of his good-hicmoicr.] 
 And in return I promise that you shall be one of the 
 most envied women in Europe. Oh, you shall attain 
 your ambition ; you shall realise what wealth is, steep 
 yourself in it to your heart's content ! 
 
 Ikis. 
 [Rising, penitently.] Maldo ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Tsch, my dear! I'll not reproach you. You aie 
 as God made women, and I — I am a millionaire. 
 [After a 2)ause, daring which she plays loith her hand- 
 kerchief helplessly.] Well, I"ll be gone. I fear I've 
 gravely impeiilled my character for amiability. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Oh— I [Giving liiiii her hand.] Maldo - — - 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Eh? 
 
IRIS 47 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Perhaps — perhaps, as the years grow, it may 
 become difierent between us. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [Gripping her liand.\ Iris ! 
 
 Iris. 
 \UastHy?\ Good-night. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Bevoicrimj her vnth his ei/es.] My — my queen ! 
 [Draioing a deep breath.^ I take my luck ! 
 
 [He releases her, and she goes to the hell btside 
 the jireplace and rings it. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [At the door?\ Will you be in to me in the morning ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Yes. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 A thousand apologies for keeping you up. Good- 
 night. 
 
 Iris. 
 Good-night, Maldo. 
 
 [lie departs. With a cry., half of pain, ^^df of 
 iveariness, she throivs herself at fidl length 
 apon the settee, and the curtain falls. 
 After a brief pause it rises, disclosing the 
 rooms em.pt !/ and in darln°AS, and the 
 vnndow-shutters and. the shatt rs of tlif 
 
48 IRIS 
 
 conservatory doors closed and barred. A 
 key turns in its lock and one of the double- 
 doors is opened gently, and Iris enter s, 
 followed by Laurence Trenwith. She 
 motions him to pass her, and carefully 
 closes the door. Then she switches on the 
 light of a lamp standing upon the table on 
 the left and, silently and impo^ssively, seats 
 herself upon the windoio-stool. Having 
 deposited his hat and, overcoat upon the 
 settee on the right, he comes to her and, 
 throwing himself upon his knees before her, 
 clasps her icaist. She remains statue-like, 
 her arms hanging by her side, looking doicn 
 upon him icitJt fixed eyes. 
 
 Laurenxe. 
 
 I can't help it ! Pity me ! Forgive me for being 
 so daring. Remember, in the future I have to live 
 upon my recollection of you — my recollection of how 
 near I have been to you. To-night will stand out 
 more distinctly than all the rest. You'll kiss me 
 to-night, won't you — let me kiss you ! [She raises 
 Jier hands to shield her face. ^ For once, just for once ! 
 Ah, you'll not allow me to go without a kiss at 
 parting! Picture me in my solitary little log-hat, 
 alone after the day's work — twelve miles away from 
 the nearest house, from the nearest companionable 
 creature — and think what the memory of a single kiss 
 will always mean to me. Oh, don't hide your face ! 
 Are you angry ? Remove your hands I You are 
 angry. 1 won't kiss you, then ; I won't try to kiss 
 you. 
 
IRIS 49 
 
 [iZe attempts to uncover Iter face, ivhereupon 
 she rises. He rises with her. There is 
 silence between them for a while. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [^At length, controlling herself with an effort. ^^ 
 Laurence — my poor friend — I have promised to marry 
 Mr. Maldonado. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Almost inaudibly.' 
 
 ] What ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Iris. 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Didhj.] When 
 
 -? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 When did I make the promise ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Y — yes. 
 
 Iris, 
 
 To-night — last night, that is. It is past twelve, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Yes. 
 
 [He turns from her unsteadily and sinks upon 
 the ottoman, his head boived, his shoulders 
 shaking convulsively. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [At his side.] Don"t ! don't! be strong! What 
 difference can it make ? 
 
 D 
 
50 IRIS 
 
 Laurexce. 
 
 To me? None, I suppose. Oh, yes, yes, all the 
 diirereii. e. 
 
 I HIS. 
 
 Ho.v < 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 There would have been the hope. There would 
 have been the hope. 
 
 Iris. 
 Hope? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Mastering his emotion, and looking np at her?\ In 
 spite of everything, I should have gone away with the 
 hope that, some day, if I prosper, you would bid me 
 come home to fetch you. And now — Mr. Maldonado. 
 \Uising?^ I beg your pardon ; I ought to offer you 
 
 my 
 
 Iris. 
 Tiiank you. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 \(iaziiigai Aer.] You and Mr. Maldonado ! I should 
 ha • Uy have — [checVing himself.^ I trust you will be 
 
 extremely 
 
 [He fetcAes his hat and coat and returns to 
 her. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Brokmlij.^ Of course, under the altered circum- 
 stances 1 Won't think of troubling you with letters. 
 
 Iris. 
 Perhaps it would be as well that you should not 
 
IRIS 
 
 51 
 
 write, for a time at least. I shall never cease to be 
 interested in your career. [Losing sorne of her com- 
 posio7'e.] Oh, you might have disguised it more 
 thoroughly ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Disguised ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Your astonishment at my marrying Mr. Maldonado. 
 [Feebli/.] He has loved me — he asked me to be his 
 wife two years ago. And to-night I — quite suddenly 
 — [in an altered tone^ Do you know that you and I 
 were beginning to be the subject of tittle-tattle ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Iris. 
 
 You and I ? 
 
 Gossip. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [IndiynantlyJ] Oh ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Scandal. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 How dare people ? Good heavens ! to think I have 
 brought this upon you ! What an infamous world ! 
 [She shrugs her shoulders^ smiling miserably. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Oh ! [Going to the mantelpiece and leaning upon 
 
 it.'] Oh, it's a dastardly world ! 
 
 Iris. 
 I didn't mean to add to your unhappiness. I" only 
 
52 
 
 IRIS 
 
 wished you to understand exactly what has 
 occurred. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 ^Turning to her.'] But now I am going away. That 
 in itself will stop evil tongues. There is no necessity 
 now for you to take this step, if you are taking it 
 merely to stop scandal. 
 
 [>S'Ae sits, silently, iqjon the ottoman. Throio- 
 ing his hat and coat aside, he kneels upon 
 the settee and, bending over it, sjjeaks almost 
 into her ear. 
 
 Laurexce. 
 
 Don't do this ! don't ! don't ! There's no reason 
 for it. You sha'n't ! you shall not ! 
 
 Iris. 
 I must. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Not Maldonado ! 
 
 Iris. 
 I must. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Not the man I met here tc-night ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Seizing his hands and holding them, in entreaty.] 
 
 Laurence ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 What? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I am totally unfit for the life you ask me to lead ! 
 
/i?/5 53 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 The lite 'i 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Your wife — a farmer's wife — mistress of a log-hut 
 — to work with my hands ! T dare not ! 
 
 Lauuexce. 
 
 Iris ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Out there, here, anywhere, I am not fit to be a poor 
 man's wife. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Iris ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 No, no, no; I will not. 
 
 Laurence. 
 You are marrying him to save yourself from me ! 
 
 Iris, 
 [Fainthj.] Oh! 
 
 [Her head chops back itntil it rests upon the 
 edge of the settee. With a cry he presses 
 a prolonyedj kiss upon her lii^s. She 7'ises, 
 her eyes closed, her hand j^'^'^ssed tightly 
 upon her mouth. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Guiltily.] You'll despise me for that, always have 
 a contempt for me. 
 
 [After a ^^ciuse, during lohich she is quite still, 
 she moves to the ivriting- table and, seating 
 
54 I^I^ 
 
 herself before it, siv itches on the light of a 
 lamp standing upon the table. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Ill a irhisper.] Laurence- 
 
 [>She selects a sheet of notejxiper and writes, he 
 looJcirig on iconderingly. When she has 
 finished her note she blots it, and hands it 
 to him, and proceeds to address an envelope. 
 
 Iris. 
 Read it. What have I said ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 \I{eading^^ " Forget what has passed between us 
 to-uight. It cannot be. I entreat your forgiveness." 
 \Ue returns the paper and she encloses it. Then 
 she rises and, taking some fiov-ers from a 
 vase, moistens the envelope with the v)et 
 stalks. Having fastened the letter by p^ress- 
 ing it with her handkerchief, she gives it to 
 Laurence. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Let a messenger leave that at Mr. Maldonado's 
 house in Mount Street before nine o'clock. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Pocketing the letter.^ Iris ! 
 
 [She leaves him, u'ith uncertain steps, and sinks 
 upon the settee facing the fireplace. He 
 folloics her. 
 
ikis 3^ 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Standiny hefore her.^ What do you mean ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [flalf ')Hs{7ig.] I — I don't care ! Follow me to 
 
 Switzerland. Be near ii^e 
 
 [She stretches out her arms to hwi, and they sit 
 together in an embrace. The curtain falls. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT. 
 
THE SECOND ACT 
 
 The scene rep'esents an apartment in a villa standing 
 upon elevated ground rmining up from the west 
 hank of tJie Lake of Conio. The room, quadrantal 
 in shape^ is a spacious and lofty one. Its loalls, 
 decorated in slight relief, and its pilasters are of 
 the purest v:hite pilaster. On the right-hand side 
 of the room, the wall is straight ; in it, deej)ly 
 recessed, are double-doors admitting to a hall; 
 v)hile the circular ivall is broken by three vast 
 windows, opening to the floor, at equal distances 
 from each other. Outside these windrows runs a 
 balcony, the termination of which, at either end, is 
 out of sight. Beyond the balcony are the tops of 
 the trees — pahns, magnolia in blossom, and others 
 — growing in the garden below ; ami in tlie distance, 
 under a dee}) blice sky, lie Bellagio and the juncture 
 of the Lake of Como with that of Lecco. The 
 furniture and hangings of the apartment — in con- 
 trast to the lightness of its decorations — are French, 
 of the time of the first Emjnre. By the further 
 luindoiv, ivhich is ope7i, stand a settee and a writ- 
 ing-table and chair. Near the door is a circular 
 tible covered with a white tablecloth and partially 
 laid for a meal, and on each side of this table is a 
 
IRIS 57 
 
 chair so placed as to suggest that the meal in pre- 
 paration is for two 2^&^'sons. A cabinet standing 
 agaiiist the ivall serves as a sideboard ; 07i it are 
 dishes of fruit, decanters of wine, table-glass^ etc. 
 etc. On the other side of the room, by the nearer 
 window, half of which is open, is another table 
 littered ivith neivspapers, magazines and books. 
 On the left-hand, side of this table is a settee ; on 
 the right a chair ; and up)on the floor, between the 
 chair and the settee, are a heap of cushions, some 
 loose sheets of jnusic, and a guitar. A 2nece oj 
 sculptu7'e fills the right-hand corner of the room, 
 and some busts on ^^ecZes^t^s occupy the spaces 
 between the icindows. On the balcony there are 
 two or three chairs in basketwork and, outside the 
 middle loindovj, staiidmg upon the broad ledge of 
 the balustrade, several cages of birds. 
 
 The light is that of a brilliantly fine morning in 
 September. The sun enters through the nearer 
 window ; the rest of the balcony is in shade. 
 
 [Ttvo servants — a mail and a woman — are 
 engaged in laying the table nea/i' the doors 
 for dejeuner. Fanny Sylvain and Aurea 
 — dressed for lualking — appear on the bal- 
 cony, Ojt the further loindow, coming from 
 the right. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Good-morning. 
 
 Man-servant and Woman-servant. 
 Good morning, miss. 
 
 Fanny. 
 [Entering,^ Mrs. Bellamy is out, the gardener tells me. 
 
58 /A7.S 
 
 Man-servant. 
 Yes, miss. She has gone for a walk to Tiemezzo. 
 
 Fanny. 
 I wonder I didn't meet her. Alone ? 
 
 Man- SERVANT. 
 
 No. miss ; with Mr. Trenwith. 
 
 Fanny. 
 [Shortly.] Oh. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 Mr. Trenwith is sketching at Tremezzo, miss. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [iJisplayini/ no further interest.] Really? 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy breakfasts at twelve, miss, so she can't 
 be long. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Taking a magazine from the table on the left and 
 seating herself on the settee by the nearer loindow.] I'll 
 wait a little while. [To Aurea, loho has followed her 
 into the room.] We'll wait, Aurea. 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 [Sitting on the settee by the further ivindoiv.] I could 
 gaze at this prospect for ever, aunt. 
 
 [The tcom an- servant vnthdraws at the door. 
 
IRIS 59 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 [To Fanny.] Mr. 'Arrington is also waiting for 
 Mrs. Bellamy, miss. I b'lieve you're acquainted with 
 Mr. 'Arrington ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Mr. Croker Harrington ! 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 He came down last night from Promontogno. He's 
 staying at Menaggio. 
 
 Fanny. v 
 
 [liising.] Where is he now? 
 
 Man-servant. 
 He's strolling about the garden, I fancy. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [GlacU?/.] Mr. Harrington has arrived, A urea. 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 Has he, aunt ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Going out at the nearer imndoio and looking doinii 
 from the balcony into the garden.'] Isn't that he, by 
 the fountain? [Moving to the further end of the 
 balcony as she calls.] Croker! Cro — ker ! [Waving 
 Iter sunshade.] Croker ! [Re-entering the room.] How 
 jolly, Aurea — dear Croker ! 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 [Who is noiv standing by the table on the left — in a 
 
6o IRIS 
 
 low voice.] \)o you think all this pleases Mrs. Bellamy, 
 aunt? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 All this ? 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 Her friends chasing her, ;is it must seem, from 
 place to place while she is on her holiday. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Someiohat disconcerted.'] Why, it delights her, 
 naturally. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 It wouldn't me [aiakwardly] if I wanted 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Wanted — what ? 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 Rest — and seclusion. 
 
 [7'Ae^ v)oman-servant reappears, showing in 
 Croker Harrington ; then she and her 
 fellow- servant retire. 
 
 Croker. 
 \^Ki8si7ig Fanny's hand.] My dearest Fanny ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Croker ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Advancing to Aurea and shaking hands unth her.] 
 My dear Miss Vyse ! Ladies, your appearance on a 
 day air ady sufficiently brilliant is overpowering. 
 [O/eniotg a white umhrella which he is carrying^ and 
 
IRIS 6 1 
 
 holding it before him.] Remove your eyes from me, I 
 entreat ; they rob me of the shade ! 
 
 Faxny. 
 
 What a fool you are, Croker ! So you've turned 
 up? 
 
 Crokeh. 
 
 [Shutting his umbrella.] Last night. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 You're at Menaggio ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 You divine my most secret movements — at the 
 Victoria. And you ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [With a jerk of the head toivaixls the right.] We're at 
 the Belle Vue, Aurea and I. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Spick, span, comfortable Belle Vue ! [To Fanny, 
 his hand U2)on his heart.] But I daren't trust myself 
 in too close a proximity 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Striking him gently with her sunshade.] Idiot ! 
 Have you paid your devotions to our Divinity yet ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Not yet ; it was too late to do so last night. You 
 see much of her, of course ? 
 
62 IRIS 
 
 Fanny 
 
 [Coiistrahiedli/.] I've been here only a week. Yes, 
 I see her for a few minutes eveiy day. 
 
 CllOKEll. 
 
 A few minutes ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 She's a good deal occupied. 
 
 Croker. 
 Occupied ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 [Dri/li/.] Sketching. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Sketching ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Aurea, dear, the sun is off the front of the house. 
 If you kept watch, you might run and meet Iris when 
 she appears. 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 [Obediently.'] Yes, aunt. 
 
 [She goes out, at the nearer 'window, and talks 
 to the birds. Fanny crosses over to the 
 windoio and closes it. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Turning to him,] What were we ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I was about to commit myself to the observation 
 that Iris doesn't sketch. 
 
IRIS 63 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 No, but Mr. Trenwith does. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Unco^iceniedli/.] Oh — £ih — yes. Is Mr. Trenwith 
 at Cadenabbia ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 At the Britannia. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [In the same spirit?^ H'm, h'ln? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 A few hundred yards from this villa. 
 
 [There is a pause hetioeeii them, daring which 
 he employs himself in idly turning over the 
 newspapers up>on the table on the left. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Seating herself on the settee by the further ivindoio.] 
 You were at St. Moritz during her stay there, you 
 wrote and told me ? 
 
 Croker. 
 For a fortnight. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Mr. Trenwith happened to be there also, didn't 
 he? 
 
 Croker. 
 Yes. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Impatiently.] He is regularly in her train, 
 
64 IRIS 
 
 Croker. 
 Oil, hardly more than I, if it comes to that. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 But he is young, charming, attractive in every 
 way 
 
 [ZTe thr OIL'S his head back and laughs almost 
 too uproariously. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 \Jumping wp and coming to him penitently. '\ I beg 
 your pardon, Croker. You misunderstood me. Oh, 
 136 quiet ! What I should have said was — one could 
 wish that Miss Pinsent's successor were of another 
 sex. Why was Miss Pinsent given her conge just 
 before Iris left London ? A pleasant, suitable person 
 for a companion, surely ! Wouldn't you consider 
 her so ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 / might consider her so. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [^Moving aivay.] Don't be coarse. I had a letter 
 last week from Evelyn Littledale. The Littledales 
 were at St. Moritz, too. [He nods in «5se?i^.]- Every- 
 body was talking, Evelyn says. 
 
 Croker. 
 Talking ! What else is there to do at St. Moritz ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 And here 
 
/^/s 65 
 
 Croker. 
 Here? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 It is the same here. EverybDdy is talking. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 The glass is falling. Two days of rain and the 
 place will be empty. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 People will carry the topic away with them. [Lean- 
 ing upon the hack of the chaw on the left of the hreakfasi- 
 table.] Mary Ohadwick writes me from Scotland ; she 
 mentions it. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Pretty, bony, pimply Polly Chadwick ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 It came to her from London. It has been brought 
 to London already. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 The only form of luggage that escapes a charge for 
 excess. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 You are too sententious ! [At the breakfast-table, 
 suddenly i\ Are you breakfasting with Iris ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [Joining her. ^ She doesn't know I've arrived. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Because I notice the table is laid for two. [On his 
 
 E 
 
66 IRIS 
 
 left.] For Vnercy's sake, man, do show some signs of 
 animation ! You can be sprightly enough at times. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 My dear Fanny, to what tune would you have me 
 skip ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Why, astonishment — astonishment, at least, at our 
 Divinity's extraordinary behaviour. 
 
 Croker. 
 Is it extraordinary ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Can you find a milder phrase for it ? I tell you, 
 Croker, I can't sleep for worrying about Iris. When 
 we were in town, and young Trenvvith was fluttering 
 round her, I was in a blue funk lest she should be 
 tempted to marry him and plunge herself into poverty. 
 But now — well, I sometimes catch myself wishing 
 that she would announce her engagement to him. 
 [Leaving Croker (aid 2?eeri7ig at Aurea through the 
 centre windoiv.] My niece, too ! I am certain she is 
 beginning to wonder. [Seating herself hij the table on 
 the left.] What on earth are v*'e to think of it all ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Think ? That here are t>vo well-intentioned young 
 people with a natural fondness for each other's society. 
 What else, pray, is there to think ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Oh, thanks, I appi-eciate the snub. 
 
IRIS 67 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Best natured of your sex, I intend no snub. Bring 
 me the man who presumes to snub you and I will 
 slay him in your presence. No, no, I would only 
 suggest to those who are disturbing you by their 
 gossip that it is simply abominable that close com- 
 panionships can't exist between reputable men and 
 women without suspicion of wickedness. Faugh ! 
 why must this dear friend of ours be fastened upon ? 
 Cannot she be spared — a refined, delicate creature 
 whose natural pride and dignity queens might envy? 
 Oh, a little spoilt, if you will; petted by those who 
 have the privilege of intimacy with her ; luxurious in 
 her habits, a born spendthrift, but never more prodigal 
 — bless her ! — than in her charities ! I can remember 
 little else to urge against her — except the difficulties 
 of her position, none of her own making. She mustn't 
 re-marry — that is, she may not marry whom she 
 pleases. In heaven's name, is she to be gagged and 
 manacled for that reason ? She is still young — yes ; 
 yet from the fact of her already having been a wife — ■ 
 brief as was the duration of that experience — she 
 can't be altogether an unwise woman. Is she not to 
 be trusted to give wholesome counsel to a young man 
 without the interruption of a chaperon ; is she never 
 to play at mothering — like a sage child with a doll — 
 a male companion belonging to her own generation ? 
 And this young fellow, this Trenwith ? Is he neces- 
 sarily an abandoned wretch ? I like him. I wish I \ 
 were in his shoes — better still, in his skin ! I say is 
 youth necessarily designing, necessarily vicious ? I'll , . 
 back it against age ; and age isn't all bad, I console 1 t 
 myself with believing, as I pull out a grey hair or two 
 
 If 
 
68 IRIS 
 
 every morning. \_Pacing the room.'] Phnh ! it nauseates 
 me even to argue the matter. [^Sitting, on the left of the 
 breakfcst-tahle.] Have you ventured to speak to Iris 
 on the subject ? ^ 
 
 Fanny. 
 Not yet. I keep putting it off from day to day. 
 
 Croker. 
 Why — feeling as strongly as you do ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I suppose I shrink from seeing a pair of placid, grey 
 eyes turn on me with a look of surprise and reproach. 
 
 Croker. 
 [Ti'iuinphanili/,] Ha ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Oh, of course I know they will look so, and leave 
 me to splutter out of my difficulty like a puppy who 
 has been dropped into a pond. Yes, yes, of course, 
 Croker, in my heart I know she is only foolish — 
 foolish — foolish. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I won't admit even that j only that other people 
 are malicious — malicious— malicious. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Going to him and laying a hand on his shoulder.'] 
 What a friend you are ! 
 
IRIS 69 
 
 Crokee. 
 
 Is there any other role for an ugly little devil to 
 play in this world ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 The friendship of a single man is worth that of 
 a dozen women. [Uneasily.] I believe that if our 
 Divinity really behaved as she has been doing in my 
 
 nightmares 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Looking up at her.] Your nightmares ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Avoiding ^his gaze.] I believe you'd stick to her 
 even then. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Uiider his breath.] Good God, yes! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Through any disgrace ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Till death. My dear Fanny, please don't imagine 
 such impossible contingencies. [Abriiptly.] And you ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Ah, there's the difference between men and women. 
 I should drop quietly away. 
 
 Croker. 
 Would you ? 
 
70 IRIS 
 
 • Fanny. 
 
 Goodness kr.ows I'm not strait-laced, Croker ; but 
 one daren't let one's laces get too slack. [Sadly.] 
 Yes, I shoiill simply have to drop away quietly. 
 
 Wl.at an end ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Nisiiig.] Don't let us talk in this fashion. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Rouu7ig herself.] No, no. [J?ecoverhig her spirits.] 
 As a matter of fact, your homily has comforted me 
 tremendously — though you did snarl at me like a 
 griffin. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Laughing.] Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 But you don't object to my whispering just one 
 \vord of warning into that little pink ear of hers, when 
 an opportunity occurs, eh ? 
 
 Croker. 
 On the contrary 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [Looking in at the further ivindow.] She is coming, 
 auat. 
 
 [AuREA disappears quickly. One of the caged 
 birds hursts into song. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Hark ! 
 
IRIS 71 
 
 Croker. 
 [On the left.] Eh ? 
 
 Fa*s'NY. 
 
 Listen to that silly bird. It's the same with me — 
 always has been ; my heart thumps — thumps — 
 thumps — whenever she approaches. And with you ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [Xodding.'] Yes. What is she looking like ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Oh, fresher for the soft air of this place — more 
 colour. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Her paleness is wonderfully becoming, though. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Smiling.'] When you met her at St. Moritz, did 
 you notice she had lost some of those little lines we 
 saw last season ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 They were going. [Regretfully,'] I missed them. 
 They were nothing but dimples. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 And her smile — [Breaking off suddenly and coming 
 
 to him.] Croker 
 
 Croker. 
 Yes? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Her troubled manner returning.] I'll tell you what 
 
72 IRIS 
 
 she looks like — [irritahli/] what a noise that bird 
 makes ! I'll tell you ; I should describe her as looking 
 exactly like— [with an uncomfortable laugh] it's the 
 effect of this enchanted lake, I suppose 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Exactly like ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Again avoiding his eye.] A bride. 
 
 [Iris enters at the door, her arm thorough 
 Aurea's. She is dressed in ichite, and is 
 ha2yj)ier-looking and more girlish than when 
 last seen. Laurence /o??oi^s, carrying his 
 sketch-book. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Uttering a cry of iileasure uj)on seeing Croker.] 
 Ah! [Kissing Fanny.] Dear Fanny! [Advancing to 
 Croker vjith extended hands.] Aurea promised me a 
 surprise, but not this ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Kissing her hands.] What are you — the spirit of 
 the lake ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 No ; something warmer to her friends. The lake 
 is deep and cold, and occasionally cruel. 
 
 [Fanny has greeted Laurence rather distantly; 
 he now comes to Croker. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Shaking hands vnth him cordially.] How are you, 
 Mr, Trenwith ? 
 
73 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Brightly.] When did you come down ? 
 
 Croker. 
 Yesterday. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To Croker.] Mr. Trenwith is staying at the 
 Britannia. He has been kind enough to let me watch 
 him sketching at Tremezzo this morning. [Reiyioving 
 her hat and veil vnth Fanny's assistance.] And you ? 
 
 Croker, 
 I'm at Menaggio — the Victoria, 
 
 Iris. 
 
 A mile away from me. How churlish ! [Laying a 
 hand on Croker and Fanny.] Still, this is reunion. 
 You'll all breakfast with me, won't you ? Mr. 
 Trenwith has already promised. Yes ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 Certainly, dear. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Depositing his hat and umbrella upon the settee on 
 the left.] Glorious ! A hundred affirmatives. 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 [To Iris.] Oh, I'm disgusted! I am engaged to 
 lunch with the Battersbys and to go with them this 
 afternoon, on the steamboat,],to the Villa d'Este, 
 
74 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Yes, and I too ! But they will readily release an 
 old woman. 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 [Eefe)Ting to her tvatch.] I ought to be at the hotel 
 now. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I'll take Aurea back, make my excuses, and return. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Taking up his hat and umbrella.'] Let me be your 
 escort. 
 
 Fanny. 
 No, no. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I insist. [To Iris.] At what time do you break- 
 fast? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 It shall be delayed till half-past twelve. [To Aurea.] 
 You will come to see me again — to-morrow perhaps? 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 [Assenting.] I shall hate the steamboat, and the 
 Villa d'Este, and the Battersbys — and they're such 
 nice people. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Going oict with Aurea.] Half-past twelve, then ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Following them.] With the fiei-cest of appetites. 
 
IRIS 75 
 
 Fanny and Croker. 
 Alt revoir ! [They depart. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [^Pidling the hell-rope ivhich hangs hy the door.^ Au 
 revoir ! [The Man-servant appears in the doorway. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \To the serva7it.] Tell Frangois there will be two 
 more persons for dejeuner, and to delay it half an 
 hour. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 Yes, ma'am. 
 
 [He vnthd7riws, closing the doors. Iris and 
 Laurence approach each other. They con- 
 verse in low, te7ider tones. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To Laurence.] We lose our tete-a-tete. But they 
 are my dearest friends. 
 
 Laurence. 
 I understand. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Others may gossip about me, shut their eyes at me 
 eventually if they choose. But these two — I don't 
 believe the comments occasioned by our being so con- 
 stantly together will ever deprive me of their fidelity, 
 do you ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Doubtfully.'] I sometimes fear that Miss Syl- 
 vain 
 
76 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [With a gesture of abandonment.^ Ah ! [Drawing 
 still closer to him.^ Anyhow 1 have what is most 
 precious. [Indicating the sketch-hook which he retains 
 in his hand.^ Show me your morning's work. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Exhibiting a page deprecatingl)/.] There's little to 
 show. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 For shame ! And I was reading intently nearly 
 the whole of the time in order not to distract you. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 True — but my eyes were wandering towards your 
 face nearly the whole of the time. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 How foolish ! Were they ? [I71 his ear."] I know 
 they were. 
 
 [With a childlike laugh of pleasure she flings 
 her hat away from her, in the direction of 
 the settee by the further loindow, and sinks 
 on to the cushions on the left. The hat falls 
 upon the floor ; he picks it up. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Carelessly^ Oh, my pretty hat ! [Seeing that he is 
 concerned over its trimmings ?[ It's of no conse- 
 quence. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Placing the hat and his sketch-book upon the ivriting- 
 
IRIS 77 
 
 table,] It is one of the hats that came from Paris 
 yesterday. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Taking the guitar upon her lap.] Is it ? So it is. 
 [She thumbs the guitar. He comes to her 
 slowly^ contemplating her with a troubled 
 look. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Dearest 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Eh ? Where's your mandoline ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 I left it in the garden last night, I'm afraid. 
 
 Iris. 
 Careless person ! Send for it. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Sitting in the chair ivhich is near her.] Dearest, 
 tell me — have you always been as I have known 
 you? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Always — as you have known me ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Profuse — extravagant ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I ? Oh, yes, alw^ays ; from childhood, I've been 
 told. Why ? You have asked me something to that 
 eflPect befoi-e, Laurie. 
 
yS IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Forgive me 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yes, it's in my blood, the very core of my nature, I 
 believe. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Thought fulli/.] To be lavish— reckless 
 
 Iris. 
 Reckless ? You said extravagant. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Is there much difference ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Between recklessness and mere personal extrava- 
 gance — indulgence? Oh, yes, indeed, indeed. There 
 is courage in recklessness— blind courage, but courage ; 
 an absence of calculation, no thought of self whatevei-. 
 And recklessness implies energy, determination, of a 
 
 kind. But I — your poor Iris ! Do fetch your 
 
 mandoline. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 No, no ; talk about yourself. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Your poor, weak, sordid Iris, who must lie in the 
 sun in summer, before the fire in winter, who must 
 wear the choicest lace, the richest furs ; whose eyes 
 must never encounter any but the most beautiful 
 objects — languid, slothful, nerveless, incapable almost 
 
IRIS 79 
 
 lUt 
 
 "41 
 
 of efibrt ! Do yoii remember the story of the poet 
 Thomson, and the peaches ? He adored peaches, but 
 was too greedy to await their appearance at table and| 
 too indolent to pluck them himself ; so be used 
 stand propped-up against the wall upon which they y'« 
 grew and, with half -closed lids, bite into his beloved * 
 fruit as it hung from its tree. [Plaintively.] Ha, ha, 
 ha ! No image could give you a better notion of my 
 habits and disposition. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Dearest, you blacken yourself wilfully. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Reckless ! reckless ! Why, were I a reckless 
 woman, Laurie, we should now be man and wife, 
 should we not ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [In low, earnest tones, bending over her.] Man and 
 wife. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Wistfidly, looking into space.] Man and wife. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Man and wife ! married ! no one in the world to 
 look askance at us ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yes, we should have hurried off to church and begged 
 a clergyman to turn a rich woman into a pauper ; and 
 you would have been saddled with a helpless doll 
 stripped of her gewgaws and finery — if I had been 
 simply reckless. 
 
8o IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 We should have been happy, dearest ; we should 
 have been happy. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Licredtdoasli/.] Even then ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Eagei'll/.] Even then. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Catching\a little of his eagerness.] What ! happier, 
 do you think, than we are merely as lovers ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I believe so ; in spite of your mistrust of yourself, 
 I believe so. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \Relapsing into languor, her fingers straying over 
 the strings of the guitar.] Oh, of course I know it 
 would have been better for our souls could I have 
 grappled with the problem honestly and courageously — 
 married you and gone out to — what is the name of 
 
 the place ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 River Ranche — Chilcoten 
 
 Iris. 
 
 That, or parted from you for ever. But, you see, I 
 
 hadn't the recklessness on the one hand nor the power 
 
 I ^ of self-denial on the other. And so I treat your love 
 
 as the poet did the fruit — I steal it; greedily and 
 
 W 
 
IRIS 8i 
 
 lazily I steal it. [La)/ing her guitar aside ivitk a long- 
 drawn sigh.] Ah — h — h ! However, we're contented 
 as we are, aren't we? [Closing her eyes.] I am ; I am. 
 [They remain silent for a few moments, he 
 
 staring at the floor ivith knitted hroius. 
 
 Suddenly she jmts her hair back from her 
 
 forehead aiid rises. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Phew ! it's very oppressive this morning. 
 
 [She passes him, walking away toivards the 
 right and there standing idly. 
 
 Laurence. 
 [After a pause, heavily.] Dearest 
 
 Iris. 
 Laurie ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Naturally you wonder why I am continually 
 catechising you about yourself. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You enjoy diving down into the depths of my cha- 
 racter — is that it ? Cruel, when they are such shallow 
 little depths! [Pitifully.] The process disturbs the 
 surface of me — makes ripples, as it were. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Rising and going to her.] Yes, my persistency must 
 seem terribly ill-bred. [Hesitatingly.] But it's all part 
 of my anxiety concerning the future. 
 
 F 
 
82 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 The future ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Our future. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Why, what is on your mind ? 
 Laurence. 
 [Gent!}/.] Iris, things can't continue as they are. 
 Iris. 
 
 [With a note of alarm in her voice.] Eh? What 
 has happened ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Soothingly.] Nothing — nothing. Only — I hate to 
 be obliged to talk to you in this strain — I have to deal 
 with the old question once more. 
 
 Iris. 
 The old question ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 A means of livelihood. 
 
 Iris. 
 [TFi7A, wide-open eyes.] A means of livelihood ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 You remember that when, six weeks ago, I wrote 
 to my uncle, teiliug him I was hanging-up for a while 
 the idea of leaving England, he sent me, generously 
 enough, his good wishes and a cheque for five hundred 
 pounds ? 
 
IRIS 83 
 
 Iris. 
 Yes. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 At the same time his letter conveyed a very decided 
 intimation that I was neither to see him nor hear from 
 him again. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I read Archdeacon Standish's note. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 It is evident I can look for nothing further in that 
 direction. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Quite. What does that matter ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Avoiding her gaze.] Therefore, those five hundred 
 pounds — or, rather, what remains of them — represent 
 all I have with which to 
 
 Ibis. 
 
 To ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 To commence operations. 
 
 Iris. 
 Operations ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Work. 
 
 Iris, 
 Where ? 
 
84 IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 Out there. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Almost inaudibly.'] Laurie ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Through my delay I have lost the chance of taking 
 over Eardley's ranche at Chilcoten, even if I possessed 
 the capital. But the other scheme remains. 
 
 Iris. 
 The other ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Joining Fred Bagot. He's five-and-twenty miles 
 nearer to Soda Creek, you know, where there's a 
 post-office and all sorts of civilisation. I could pay 
 him the premium he asks — two hundred and fifty — 
 and peg away with a view to a partnership. The 
 second plan might prove as good in the end as the 
 original one. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \_BreathUssly .'] Laiu-ie ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 Dearest ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Laurie, why are you teasing me ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Teasing you ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Beviving the notion of that terrible ranche ! 
 
ikis 85 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I lis, it is the one career I am fitted for. I should 
 sucxjeed at it ; I feel I should succeed at it. 
 
 Ikis. 
 
 But there is no longer any necessity for it ! The 
 project belongs to the past ! [ZTe attempts to speak ; 
 she interrupts him.\ Oh, we have hitherto avoided the 
 subject of money matters, Laurence — it is such a dis- 
 tasteful topic as between you and me. Dear, you 
 shall never again have the smallest care about money ; 
 1 want you to regard your embarrassments as abso- 
 lutely at an end. It is unkind of you to have kept 
 your anxieties from me in this way. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Iris — Iris — you don't understand. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 What else ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 You don't understand that a man — some men, at 
 least ; I among the number — can't accept money from 
 a woman. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Blankly ^^ Why not ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Become dependent upon a woman ! [Walking away 
 and sitting upon the settee hy the nearer window.^ 
 Live upon a woman ! 
 
86 IkiS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [FoUowiiig him and standing at the hack of the 
 
 settee.^ But — the circumstances ! We love each 
 
 other. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 \]Vith clenched hands.^ Does that make the situa- 
 tion easier for me ? Iris, the position would be in- 
 tolerable. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 No, no. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Intolerable. Intolerable. 
 
 [She leaves him and ivanders away to the 
 hreakfast-tahle, where she sits pliccking at 
 the leaves of some of the floicers ivhich 
 decorate the table. He rises, walks to the 
 further ivindow, looks out, and then joins 
 her. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Remorsefully.'] I know I'm cruel, dearest. But 
 it's of a piece with the rest of my behaviour ; I've been 
 cruel to you from the very beginning. 
 
 Iris. 
 Never till now. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Yes, I ought to have been strong ; I ought to 
 have constituted myself your protector. I ought to 
 have said good-bye to you finally on the night of your 
 dinner-party. 
 
IRIS S; 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I forgive you all that. That was my fault. But 
 now ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Partly to himself.'] One could have done it if one 
 had chosen. I simply allowed the current to, carry 
 both of us away. 
 
 Iri?!. 
 
 Why should we try to escape from the current ? ; 
 
 We love each other ; we've been happy; we are happy, i 
 
 Why aren't you satisfied to be one of my birds — oh, j 
 
 but my best, my most dearly prized ? Just for a \ 
 
 scruple ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 Scruple ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Suddenly.'] Laurence, directly we return to London . 
 I will see Archie Kane and insist upon his obtaining 
 some suitable occupation for you in town. I will ! 
 He and I have already talked over the matter. He 
 mentioned a secretaryship as being possible. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I know — the sort of billet that provides a man 
 with gloves and cab fares, and a flower for his coat ! 
 [Entreatingly.] Iris — Iris, I don't ask you any longer 
 to share the difficulties I must meet with at the outset 
 — a novice starting life on a ranche. But afterwards, 
 when the struggle is over, when affairs settle down 
 into their steady courfce ! 
 
88 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Their steady course ! [Eising.] That's it ! Their 
 steady course ! [Shudder ingly,'] Oh, don't, don't ! 
 
 [She goes to the settee by the further ivindow 
 and throws herself upon it, bur ymg her face 
 in the pillows. Re follows her. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Sta)idi7ig behind the settee and bending over her.] 
 Iris ! Dearest ! Listen ! If all went well with me, 
 it wouldn't be hardship and a bare home I could wel- 
 come you to. Within a few years there would be 
 comforts, pretty walls to gaze at, servants to wait 
 
 upon you ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Looking up j^i^eoi^s?^.] Two Chinamen — or three ? 
 An extra boy to maid me ? Oh, Laurie ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 The Chinese are excellent servants. Eardley de- 
 scribes them in one of his letters 
 
 [Raising herself so that she kneels upon the 
 settee, she 2mts her hands upon his 
 shoulders. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Another time ! Let us discuss the point thoroughly 
 another time. Laurie ! Another time ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 When? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 When we leave here. We are happy. Look 
 
IRIS ■ 89 
 
 how blue the sky and the lake are ! Dear, life will 
 never be quite like this again. After we have left 
 this place ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Irresolutely.] If I say Yes ? 
 
 Iris. 
 [ With a cry of delight ?\ Ah ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Wai'ningly.'] Dearest, your term here expires in a 
 fortnight. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I can continue it for another month. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Another month ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Hush ! hush ! you have promised. I have your 
 
 promise ; I have your promise 
 
 [There is the sound of voices in the distccnce. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Releasing him and listening.] Fanny and Croker ! 
 
 [Pressing her hands to her eyes.] My face ! 
 
 [She goes out quickly, at the door. He vxdks 
 about in thought, his head housed, his hands 
 deep in his i^ockets. Coming upon the 
 guitar, he picks it up, sits, and twangs its 
 strings discordantly. At length, the voices 
 growing nearer, he lays the guitar aside 
 
90 IRIS 
 
 awl interests himself ivith the maja^ines. 
 Fanny and Choker enter at the further 
 windoiv, talking. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Yes, quite an unexpected encounter. 
 
 Croker. 
 Where does he hail from — I didn't gather ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 From Aix. I recognised his back instantly. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 You can claim no credit for that ; it's the most 
 prosperous-looking back in Europe. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [To Laurence.] If this invasion continues, Mrs. 
 Bellamy will be driven from Cadenabbia by her friends, 
 Mr. Trenwith. 
 
 [Iris returns, unnoticed, outwardly composed 
 and placid. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Politely. ^ Only by a desire to follow them when 
 they depart. Who is the new arrival, may I ask ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 Mr. Frederick Maldonado. 
 
IRIS 9! 
 
 Ifis. 
 
 Ah! [They all tmii towards her.] Of whom are you 
 talking ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Our great friend — in every sense of the word — 
 Freddy Maldonado. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 We met him a few minutes ago in the hall of the 
 Belle Vue. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Galmli/.] Oh, yes. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 He has just come from Milan. He has been at 
 Aix. 
 
 [The servants enter, carrying a couple of light 
 chairs. They proceed to arrange the two 
 additional places at the table. The doors 
 are left open. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Advancing.'] Indeed ? Is he — well ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 If he is, he's far better than he looks. I thought 
 his appearance pretty shocking — didn't you, Croker ? 
 
 Croker. 
 Let me see — did I ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 His colour! What does his complexion resemble? 
 
92 IRIS 
 
 1 know — that delicious subcutaneous part of awedding- 
 cake ! [77ie men laugh.] And his eyes ! I suppose 
 Aix has made him flabby — Pre never seen such great, 
 heavy — what d'ye call 'em ? —pouches as he has under 
 his eyes. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 The accumulation of wealth. With him, even 
 nature opens a deposit account. 
 
 Faxny. 
 
 [After another laugh.] Well, what a moral ! These 
 are the sights that reconcile ore to the possession of a 
 moderate income. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [In a low voice, looking aivay.] Poor Maldo ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Eh ? Oh, of course, dear, I exaggerate, as usual. But 
 you'll be able to judge for yourself ; his first walk, 
 naturally, will be taken in your direction. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Constj-ainedli/.] I — I hope so. [Perceiving that the 
 Man-servant is waiting to address her.] Yes ? 
 
 Man-servant. 
 Breakfast, ma'am. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [At the table.] Fanny, will you face me ? [To Croker, 
 indicating the chair on her right.] Croker — [to Lau- 
 rence] Mr. Trenwith 
 
 [They sit — Inis with her hack to the further 
 
IRIS 
 
 93 
 
 window f the others in the positions assigiied 
 to them. The Woman-servant, icho hxis 
 previously inithdraivn, noiD returns imih a 
 tray of various hors d'oeuvres. The man 
 takes the tray from her and prese^its it 
 to those at the table, who help themselves and 
 eat during the talk ivhich follows. The 
 vjoman retires. 
 
 Iris. 
 This is delightful— delightful— delightful. 
 
 Croker. 
 Beyond measure, dear lady. 
 
 Irts. 
 
 Ah, but to have you and Fanny with me in these 
 sweet surroundings ! 
 
 [Croker raises her hand to his lips chivalrously. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Smiling.'] Faithful One ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Taking Iris's disengaged hand, across the table.] 
 Divinity ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Dear Fanny ! [Looking at those around her, with a 
 little sigh?^ Ah, how many real, close friends can one 
 hope to carry through life, if one is lucky, in spite of 
 one's imperfections and infirmities! Has it ever 
 been estimated ? 
 
94 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Oh, yes — as many as you can count upon the fingers 
 of your two hands, we are told. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Upon one hand would be a closer computation, 1 
 fancy. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 You're right, Mr. Trenwith — barring the thumb. 
 
 Iris. 
 That, at least, allows me four. I have three here. 
 
 Laurence. 
 You are very kind 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Ah, but remember, you are only a cadet, Mr. Tren- 
 with. Mr. Harrington and Miss Sylvain are fully 
 graduated. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I am honoured by the humblest position assigned 
 to me. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 There is still one finger unprovided for. Who is to 
 be the fourth — the faithful fourth ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [To Iris.] Yes, whom would you elect to p.ccom- 
 
IRIS 95 
 
 pany us three to the vale of grey hairs and rheuma- 
 tism ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Bejlecting.] Whom ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Freddy Maldonado ? 
 
 [Iris is silent j looking down upon her plate, 
 
 Croker. 
 Archie Kane ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 Dear old Archie ! 
 
 \^The Woman-servant enters with some letters 
 and newspapers. She lays them on the 
 table at Iris's side and, taking the tray 
 from the man, goes out. The man employs 
 himself at the sideboard in mixing a 
 salad. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To the woman.] Thanks. [To those at the table, 
 apologetically.] It is a habit of mine, when I am 
 abroad, to clutch at my letters directly they arrive. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Unwise ! You may find a bill — a heavy one. 
 
 Iris. 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 A splendid corrective — the skeleton at the feast ! 
 
q6 • jurs 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Let us drown the thought. Fanny drinks white 
 wine, Croker. That water is Mattoni. 
 
 [Croker helps Fanny to ivinefrom a decanter 
 ichich has been transferred from the side- 
 hoard to the table. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Passing a decanter of red imne to Laurence.] Mr. 
 
 Trenwith ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Taking up the decanter.'] May I ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Pushing her glass towards him.] A little. [Observ- 
 ing the neiospa2yers.] The papers. I wonder whether 
 the gossip contains news of poor Mrs. Wynning. 
 [Selecting a newspaper and handing it to Croker.] 
 Do look, Croker. 
 
 Croker. 
 Certainly. 
 
 [He tears off the wrapper and opens the paper. 
 The Woman-servant returns., carrying a 
 dish of mayonnaise of fsh lohich she 
 deposits upon the sideboard. The man 
 removes from the table the plates which 
 have been used and replaces them with 
 others. The woman again withdraivs. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Mrs Wynning? 
 
IRIS 97 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Haven't you heard ? She was thrown from her 
 dog-cart last week. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Oh! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 She had driven to the station at Champness to 
 meet her husband. Her horse wasn't broken to trains, 
 evidently, and bolted. 
 
 Fanny. 
 She is badly hurt ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Terribly bruised and shaken, I fear. [To Croker.] 
 Is there a paragraph ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Turning the j^^^P^'"'-^ ^ot in the middle of the 
 
 paper. There may be a footnote 
 
 [His eye is arrested hy some matter in the 
 'pai^er and he reads silently and ahsorhedly. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Watching him.^ There is an announcement. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Y— yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Appi^ehensively.'] Not reassuring ? [After a paicse.] 
 Croker ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Extraordinary. Extraordinary. 
 
98 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Extraordinary ? 
 
 [Leanmg towards him, she discovers the item 
 of neivs ivhich interests him. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [^BreathUssly.^ Croker ! 
 
 \_The Man-servant hands the dish of mayon- 
 naise to Iris. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 \In a strange voice.^ Iris, dear, let us be alone for a 
 few moments. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To the servant.] I'll ring. 
 
 [The man places the dish before Iris and leaves 
 
 the room, yartially shutting the dooo^s. 
 
 Directly he has disapj^eared, Fanny goes 
 
 * to the doors and completely closes them. 
 
 Iris and Laurence rise from, the table. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Croker ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Calmly.] Yes, most extraordinary. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Looking over his shoidder.] What ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [Rising and moving away.] But there is nothing in 
 
IRIS 
 
 99 
 
 it, I am convinced. It must be an error — a gross 
 
 libel 
 
 Iris, 
 Libel — upon whom ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Coming to her,] Archie — Archie Kane ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Archie ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Read it aloud, Croker. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 No, no, I can't credit anything of the kind. Don't 
 be alarmed, I pray. 
 
 [Fanny goes to him and takes the jxiper out of 
 his hand. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Reading.] " The disquieting rumours which have 
 recently been current concerning the sudden dis- 
 appearance of a well-known London solicitor are 
 unhappily substantiated by a statement formally 
 issued yesterday by Mr. James WoodrofFe, of the 
 firm of Woodrofle & Kane of 71 Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields. From this document it transpires that the 
 missing gentleman is Mr. Woodroife's partner — Mr. 
 Archibald Sidmouth Kane — and its frank avowals 
 afford too much reason to fear that the books of 
 the firm will be found to furnish yet another lament- 
 able instance of the injudicious confidence of clients." 
 [There is a pause ; then., in a mechanical icay, Fanny 
 resumes.] " Some sympathy is, however, claimed for 
 
ICO IRIS 
 
 x\Ir. Woodroffe, whose indifieient health for the past 
 Uvo years has unfitted him for business, and who has, 
 iu consequence, been induced to leave affairs in the 
 complete control of his partner. Mr. Archibald Kane 
 resided in Upper Brook Street and was exceedingly 
 popular in London society." [Looking from one to the 
 other.] Eh— well? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I repeat, I can't credit it. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 That he has disappeared ? 
 
 Croker. 
 That he's a rogue, 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Famthj,'\ Mr. Woodrofle's statement! And no 
 newspaper would risk 
 
 Croker. 
 
 You have some other papers there. 
 
 [Two neiDsjyapers 7xrnain upon the table. Lau- 
 rence hands them to Iris, who jmsses 
 them to Fanny. Fanny gives one to Croker 
 and retains the other, and they proceed to 
 remove the lorappers. As they do so, they 
 exchange glances, and then, together, look 
 at Iris, loho is now sitting, on the left of 
 the table, ivith her face averted. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Iris ! 
 
IRIS lot 
 
 Iris. 
 Yes, dear ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Was another trustee to your husband's Will ever 
 appointed in Tom Cautherley's place ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 No. It has been talked about. Some names are 
 under consideration. Archie is the only trustee at 
 present. 
 
 [Agai7i Fanny's eyes meet Croker's, cmd tJ ere 
 is a further pause. Laurence goes out on 
 to the halcony. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 \To Croker.] You — you were in his hands ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 \With a nod and a smile.] H'm. And you ? 
 
 [She liaises her arms slightly and lets them fall. 
 Iris rises. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [In level tones.] I entirely agree with Croker — we 
 are upsetting ourselves quite needlessly. Dear Fanny, 
 you know Archie — we all know Archie — too well to — 
 [Walking about the room.] There w^ill be an explanation. 
 This Mr. Woodroffe ! A case, perhaps, of a quarrel 
 between partners. As for my own concerns, of cour-e 
 a fresh trustee ought to have been appointed at once 
 when Mr. Oautherley died. [Pressing her fingers to her 
 
io2 IRIS 
 
 temjyles.] Why hasn't it been seen to ? Other interests 
 are involved. / must see to it when I go back. 
 
 [While Iris is talking and ])acing the room, 
 Fanny and Croker opeyi and anxiously 
 search the other newsjxfj^ers ; she sitting on 
 the left of the hreakfast-tahle, he by the 
 lower window. 
 
 Croker. 
 Substantially, the same report is in this paper. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I can find nothing. Your letters, Iris ! Have 
 you received any letter ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Examining her letters.^ No. [With a smile.^ As 
 you were saying — tradesmen's accounts. [Surveying 
 the hreakfast-tahle and then looking at the others.^^ Our 
 unfortunate little dejeuner I 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Energetically.^ We mustn't sit here. [Jumping uj:).] 
 We must send a telegram — a wire to London ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Throioing his newspaper aside and rising loith 
 alacrity. ^^ Yes. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Let us get the report confirmed, at any rate. 
 
 Croker. 
 Contradicted, we hope. 
 
IRIS 103 
 
 Faxny. 
 
 To whom can we ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Leave that to me. [To Iris.] May I be excused ? 
 
 [She again smiles, in assent, and he seizes his 
 hat and umbrella and comes to her. Fanny 
 sits, on the left, resuming her search in the 
 neivspaper, 
 
 Oroker. 
 
 Divinity, some day we shall enjoy a hearty laugh at 
 the recollection of this scare. A scare — nothing else, 
 take my word for it. Ah, yes, your charming 
 breakfast ! You will invite me on another occasion ? 
 [Bending over her hand, a susjncion of a tremor in his 
 voice.] Many — ^many thanks. 
 
 [ffe goes out at the dxfor. She loalhs, aimlessly, 
 to the middle of the room. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Turning.'] Croker, if you meet little Aurea, don't 
 breathe a word — [following him] Croker ! Let the 
 
 child have her afternoon's pleasure undisturbed ! 
 
 [She disappears. The doors are left open. 
 Laurence, seeing that Iris is alone, comes 
 to her side. They speak in hushed voices. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Iris ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Impassively?^ Yes? 
 
104 7^/5' 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 This man, Kane ? Can it be that he's a scoundrel ? 
 Is it possible ? 
 
 Iris. 
 No — i??ipossible, iwipossible. 
 
 Laubexce. 
 And yet — suppose — suppose ? 
 
 Iris. 
 What? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Suppose he has been tampering — speculating ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Tremhlingly P\ With my fortune ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Eloquently.^ Ah, my dearest ! my dearest ! 
 
 Iris, 
 
 [Loohing at him steadily, loith a queer little twist 
 of her mouth.'] Yes — after all — after everything — 
 wouldn't it be — droll ? 
 
 [Fanny's voice is heard, calling. 
 
 Fanny. 
 [In the hall.] Iris ! 
 
 Iris, 
 Eh? 
 
IRIS 105 
 
 Fanny. 
 Iris — a friend ! 
 
 [Laurence retreats from her side, as Maldo- 
 NADO enters. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Advancing.] Pardon. I am very unceremonious. 
 
 Miss Sylvain 
 
 [Re breaks off. There is a moment of con- 
 straiiit on her part, then she extends her 
 hand to him. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Ahnost inaudibly.'] Maldo ! 
 
 [The curtain falls. 
 
 end of the second act. 
 
THE THIRD ACT 
 
 The scene is that of tlie preceding act. It is night-time. 
 Without, the lake sparkles under a full moon, while 
 the lights of Bellagio cluster brightly at the ivater^s 
 edge. Within the room there is an air of lyrepara- 
 tionfor the departure of its tenant. The druggets 
 are removed, and the statuary, curtains, candelabra, 
 and much of the furniture, are in holland icrajypers. 
 One of the settees is pushed against the loall on the 
 left — some footstools are piled upon it ; and between 
 the middle ivindow and the further ivindow are 
 two chairs, the one on top of the other. Two 
 bottles of champagne and some glasses are upon 
 the table on which breakfast was served in the ^;re- 
 vious act. On the left of this table is the other 
 settee, on its right a chair. The wi^iting-tahle now 
 stands out in the left-centre of the room, facing 
 the lower and middle windows. A chair is before 
 it, and near at hand is a wooden packing-case. 
 The lid of the j^dcking-case is open, and the guitar 
 and a quantity of books and music are seen to 
 have been carelessly thrown in. 
 
 The birds have disappeared from the balcony ; a 
 single bird-cage, covered with baize, stands upon one 
 of the cabinets. The room is lighted by oil lamps. 
 
IRIS 107 
 
 [Fanny Sylvain, with a set face, deep in 
 thought, is seated upon the settee in the 
 centre of the room. She is in semi-toilette 
 and has a lace scarf upon her shoulders. 
 There is the faint sound of distant music. 
 The double- doors open and Oroker Har- 
 rington, in travelling dress^ is shovm in 
 by the Man-sei^vant. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [To the man.'\ Please let Mrs. Bellamy know that 
 I have just arrived. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 Mr. 'Arrington— yes, sh\ 
 
 [The servant loithdraws, closing the doors. 
 Fanny rises and shakes hands with Croker 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 Croker, 
 My dear Fanny ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Dear Croker ! Have you had a pleasant journey ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [With a wnj face.'] Pleasant! 
 
 Fanny. 
 How's London ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Placi7ig his hat upon the writing-table and taking 
 off his gloves.'] Crowded. 
 
io8 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 What, in the first week in October ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Oh, under normal conditions I daresay I should 
 have regarded it as a deserted village. But when a 
 man is down, and desires to hide his head 
 
 Fanny. 
 The pavement sprouts acquaintances. 
 
 Croker. 
 Precisely. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [^Layiyig a hand upon his arm.^ No good news, 
 then? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Shaking his head.] I might have spared myself the 
 
 trouble 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 You undertook it for our sakes as well as for your 
 own. I meant — no good news for yourself ? We 
 know our fate. 
 
 Croker. 
 You do ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 We have been in communication with the people 
 who are engaged in examining the afiairs of the 
 wretched Woodroffe. [With a gesture of despair.] Oh 
 it's awful ! 
 
IRIS ^ 109 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Putting his gloves in his hat as an excitse for tmm- 
 iny away.'] I am glad it doesn't fall to my lot to break 
 the worst to you, 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I've been robbed of every shilling, Croker. 
 
 Croker. 
 And I. 
 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 All gone — every penny. 
 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Every cent- 
 
 —red or otherwise. 
 
 Faxny. 
 
 Where's that beast ? 
 
 Archie ? 
 Puh! 
 
 Croker. 
 Fanny. 
 Croker. 
 
 Pie's known to have reached America, 
 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 What has America done ? 
 
 Poor devil ! 
 Devil. 
 
 Croker. 
 Fanny. 
 
no IRIS 
 
 Croker. 
 
 It was the collapse of this so-called Universal 
 Finance Corporation that overwhelmed him, it appears. 
 He was deep in it. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 And we thought him a solid, cautious crea- 
 ture ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 We were gulls. At the end he made a desperate 
 effort to save the concern, I hear — and with Ae?* 
 money. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Clenching her hands.] Oh ! Where was he last 
 seen? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 At a theatre, complaining of the quality of the 
 music played during an entr'acte. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 If he'd only had the common decency to shoot 
 himself ! Good heavens, and I'm thirty, Croker ! 
 
 Croker. 
 I'm nearly forty. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 And I'm losing my looks ! 
 
 Croker. 
 And I'm not. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! You — you — you foolish [Hiding 
 
IRIS III 
 
 her face upo7i his shoulder for a moment, then lifting 
 her head cheer ily and hriishing her tears away?\ Excuse 
 me for compromising you. You'll take your coat oflf ? 
 She will be down in a few minutes. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [^Depositing his coat and hat upon the settee on the 
 left.] Have you formed any plans yet ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Aurea and I go up to Scotland for a month or so, 
 to relations — to enable us to " look round," as they 
 express it. Perhaps you can explain the process of 
 " looking round " in the midst of a circle of solemn 
 relatives. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Returning to her.] Oh, you talk in a low key, and 
 play Halma in the evening, and get to bed early. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Ha ! And you ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 One of the men I butted-into in town thinks I 
 would make an ideal secretary for a new club about 
 to be started in Piccadilly. 
 
 Fanny. 
 What is an ideal club-secretary ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 A fellow who sees that the members have every 
 opportunity for grumbling, and no cause. [The music 
 
112 IRIS 
 
 ceases; lie goes to the further windoio, ivhich is open, 
 and looks out.] Thank goodness, that wretched band 
 is silent ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Your musical taste is as fastidious as Mr. Kane's. 
 [Sitti7ig in the chair by the writing-table.] Fancy ! for 
 the remainder of one's life, if one lives to be a hun- 
 dred, moonlight, a still, luscious evening, the sound of 
 music — always to remind one of ruin ! 
 
 
 Croker. 
 
 
 
 
 [Coming to her 
 Fanny. 
 
 and leaning over 
 Fanny. 
 
 her 
 
 chair, 
 
 softly. 
 
 Yes? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 
 
 
 How does she bear it ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 
 
 
 Splendidly. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 
 
 
 Ah! 
 
 
 
 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I've loved her, as you know, for years, intensely ; 
 but i am iwoud of her now. Her whole nature seems 
 to have expanded, Croker — become greater, nobler. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Tenderly?^ The capacity was there ; it only needed 
 this. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Luckily she doesn't come off quite as deplorably as 
 
IRIS 
 
 IT3 
 
 you and I — our poor Divinity. Her new man of 
 business believes he'll manage to salvage about a 
 hundred-and-fifty a year for her out of the wreck. 
 
 Croker. 
 [Wincing.] Tsch! I hoped 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 It would have been more, but it turns out that she's 
 heavily in debt, dear thing. 
 
 Croker. 
 He never curbed her. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Kane ? Kot he ! Tempted her, I suspect — [stai-t- 
 ing up furiously] professed to be discharging her bills 
 while he was embezzling the money, I shouldn't 
 wonder. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Soothingly.] No, no ; give the devil his due. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Her fingers twitching.] If I could ! if I could ! 
 [Calming herself as she walks about the room.] And so 
 the lease of her house in London, her pictures and 
 furniture, jewels, plate — they have all to be thrown 
 into the pot; and she's left with the few louis she 
 has in her porte-monnaie and the prospect of this 
 miserable hundred-and-fifty a year. 
 
 Croker. 
 But her friends ! 
 
i 14 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 She won't accept a sou from a living soul, she 
 declares. [Setting herself upon the settee in the centime.] 
 That's where she's so fine. She will live upon three 
 paltry pounds a week. She ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Standing beside he?', with a confident smile.^ Ah, 
 for the present. But, my dear Fanny, one isn't 
 resigning oneself to the secretaryship of a Piccadilly 
 club for the rest of existence. [Going to the hack of the 
 settee and bending over it — speaking almost into her 
 ear.'l I, too, intend to '• look round." And by-and-by 
 — you and she — my playmates — companions with me 
 ill this mud-puddle game of life, in which we have all 
 got seriously splashed 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Abruptly.] Ah, stop — of course, you've been away 
 — you haven't heard ! 
 
 Croker. 
 What ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 She has definitely engaged herself to young Tren- 
 -with. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Standing upright.] Ah ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 At a moment when a man with even a moderate 
 position in the world ! But, there, she's given 
 
IRIS V fiS 
 
 her heai-t to him, and she's full of pluck. God bless 
 her ! [The distant music is heard again. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Somewhat hudkili/,] God bless them both ! He — - 
 he's a nice chap. And a fortunate one. [Sitting in 
 the chair which is behind her, his elbow on the table, his 
 hand shading his face. '\ Capital! capital! 
 
 [Struck by his tone, she glances at him and 
 observes his attitude. After a slight pause, 
 she rises and niuves away to the open 
 window, where she stands looking into the 
 distance. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Gently.] As you say, Mr. Tr en with is favoured of 
 fortune. But it isn't to be quite yet awhile. 
 
 Croker. 
 No? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Not for two or three years, I gather. He goes out 
 to a ranche in British Columbia and comes back lo 
 fetch her when he has succeeded in making a home 
 for her. He starts for London directly — at some- 
 thing before six to-morrow morning. [Pointing to the 
 champagne and gkisses upon the table.] Look ! you 
 have returned in time to' drink the boy's health. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Rising, cheerfully.] Excellent ! I'll drain my last 
 bumper of champagne to him, preparatory to taking 
 to club-porter. [Seriously.] And she, during his 
 
i6 IRIS 
 
 absence ? [Observing the condition of the room.] 
 
 She vacates the Villa Prigno at once, evidently ? 
 
 She goes into a humble little Pension at Tremezzo, 
 
 Fanxy 
 
 ; into a huir 
 for a while. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Partialhj suppressing a groan. '\ Oh ! 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Coming to him.] Yes, she also dates her new life, 
 practically, from to-morrow. I've been upstairs with 
 her, helping her to pack the few plain gowns she is 
 retaining out of her stock. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Why, has her maid ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Beaumont, her maid, went a week ago. [Croker 
 sinks upon the settee, burying his head in his hands.] 
 Oh, my dear man, don't groan. Our Divinity ! to see 
 her on her knees among her trunks, with such a 
 sweet, earnest, helpless, confident look — it's one of the 
 prettiest sights imaginable ! 
 
 [Maldon ado's voice is heard lightly humming 
 an accompaniment to the air played, by the 
 band. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Listening.] There's Frederick. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Looking tip.] Frederick ? 
 
IRIS 117 
 
 Fanny. 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Croker. 
 Oh, is he still here ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Yes. He has been so brotherly and sympathetic to 
 us women. 
 
 [She goes to the window and meets Maldonado. 
 Maldonado is in evening dress and is 
 snioking. Notiuithstanding the changes in 
 his wp'peaTance suggested hy Fanny in the 
 previous act, he appears to he in excellent 
 spirits. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Good evening, Frederick. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 \0n the balcony ] What a perfect night, eh ? I've 
 bestowed a few extra francs upon those fellows playing 
 outside the Belle Yue. We will celebrate our young 
 friend's leave-taking with musical honours. 
 
 Fanny. 
 Here's Croker. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Entering the room.] The traveller returned ! 
 [Coming to Croker.] My dear boy ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Shakhig hands loith him without rising. \ Hullo, 
 Freddy ! 
 
Ii8 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I am still kicking my heels about the verge of this 
 monotonous pond. [Obse7'vi7ig that Fanny has gone 
 out ujyon the balcony — loiceriny his voice.] One's heart 
 bleeds for these ladies. An^l yet they both — with 
 the characteristic obstinacy of their sex — decline to 
 avail themselves of my poor services. How goes it ? 
 Your visit to London has not proved too satisfactory ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Quite the reverse. Oh, except that I'm likely to 
 take the secretaryship of the new club Bnlkeley is 
 promoting. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 No! 
 
 Croker. 
 Hope you'll come in. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [TTi'^A a j)'>'otestiiig shrug.] My dear, good Croker, 
 we are pals of some years' standing, you and I — need 
 I say more ? Dooce take Bulkeley and his club ! 
 
 Croker. 
 [Rising.'] Freddy ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Grandly.] Pish ! not a word. Pray write me a 
 line. 
 
 Croker. 
 [With feeling .] Thanks, old man. I haven't reached 
 
IRIS 119 
 
 that stage yet — never shall, I trust. [Gripping Mal- 
 DOXADo's hand.] But — thanks, old man. 
 
 [Fanny returns to the room. The music ceases. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Gently shaking Croker hy the shoulder.] Confound 
 you, you are as perverse as our fair friends — what ! 
 [Breaking off upon perceiving Fanny and walking 
 aivay.] I observe the banquet is prepared, my dear 
 Fanny. [Throvnng his hat upon the ivriting-tahle.] 
 Where are the principal figures ? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I think I've just seen Mr. Trenwith in the garden. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Slightly unpleasantly.] Ho! Is he meditating a 
 parting serenade under Iris's window? [Imitating 
 the playing of a guitar.] R-r-rhm ! r-r-rhm, r-r-rhm, 
 r-r-rhm — turn, turn ! He touches the guitar most 
 gracefully. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Sitti7ig at the table on the right 
 Don't be unfeeling, Frederick. 
 
 The mandolins. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Unfeeling! I! When I am here to join in the 
 general tearful farewell ! [To Croker.] You've heard 
 the great news ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Again" seated upon the settee.] Just heard it. 
 
120 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Carelessly exaniininy a jyhoiograph of Laurence 
 li'hich he takes from the loriting -table. ~\ And haven't I 
 pledged myself to rise at an unconscionably early hour 
 to-morrow morning, in order that I may escort this 
 lucky young gentleman to the steamboat and report 
 upon the final incidents of his departure? You'll 
 assist, Croker? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 With pleasure. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 No, upon second thoughts, I decline to share the 
 privilege. I hold the commission direct from Iris, and 
 I claim the right of executing it unaccompanied. 
 
 [Laurence, wearing a suit of blue serge^ 
 appears upon the balcony. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [^Laying the fhotogra'ph aside^^ Yes, here is the hero 
 of the occasion. We are talking about you, my dear 
 Laurence. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 {Entering the room?^ Are you ? \To Croker, who 
 advances to meet 7«w.] Mr. Harrington ! {They shake 
 hands.'] I'm glad you're back in time to give me a 
 parting shake of the hand. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Trenwith, I congratulate you, from the bottom of 
 my heart. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 {With feeling.'] Isn't it — isn't it jolly ? 
 
IRIS 121 
 
 [Iris enters quietly, closing tlie door after her. 
 She is plainly dressed, without ornament of 
 any hind. Her face is somewhat loan, her 
 eyes red, her manner very gentle and sub- 
 dued ; hut her whole appearance and hearing 
 expi^ess a spirit of luippiness and resolve. 
 Fanny rises, and the men, hearing Iris enter, 
 turn silently towards her. She advances to 
 Croker. 
 
 Iris. [Giving him her hand.] Dear Croker- 
 Croker. 
 
 The bad penny ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 With no satisfactory news of your affairs 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I'm all right — a bachelor whose hat covers his 
 kingdom. What about yourself ? 
 
 [Laurence is on her other side; she lays a 
 haaid ujjon his arm. 
 
 Iris. 
 [To Croker.] They have told you ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [With a 7iod.] I Ve returned in the nick of time, eh ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I should always have grieved if you had not been 
 with us to-night. You congratulate us ? 
 
122 IRIS 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Sjniling at Laurexce.] I've already patted him on 
 the back. 
 
 Laurexce. 
 Tiiathehas! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Give me your good wishes, 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [A break in his voice.] Ob, my dear ! 
 
 [Stooping a little, she invites him to kiss her hrow* 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [His lips touching her forehead ?\ I congratulate you. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Going to Maldoxado.] Good evening, Maldo. We 
 have dragged yon away from the dinner-table. [Sur- 
 veying the table on the right, happily ^^ Look at our 
 modest preparations— the last of my excesses ! After 
 to-night— [6^om^ to the settee in the centre and speaking, 
 across the table, to Faxxy.] Fanny, ask Henry to give 
 
 us our wine. Croker 
 
 [Fanny goes out at the door. Iris sits upon the 
 settee and Croker comes to her side. Mal- 
 doxado and Laurexce — Maldoxado's arm 
 roitnd Laurence's shoulder — move away to 
 the open window. The music is resumed. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To Croker.] You have heard everything from 
 Fauny, Faithful One ? 
 
IRIS 
 
 Croker. 
 
 123 
 
 [J^oddi7ig.] You are moving on to Tremezzo, I 
 understand ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 To-morrow morning, early, [closing her eyes] directly 
 I hear that I am alone — that he has gone. \_Recovering 
 herself.] I shall remain there for a few weeks — the 
 Pension is moderately clean and pleasant — and then 
 transfer myself to another cheap place, Varese 
 perhaps. [With enthusiasm.] As long as I avoid 
 heavy travelling-expenses, 1 shall manage admirably, 
 admirably. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Compassionately.'] You are like a child with a new 
 toy, Divinity. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Reiwoachfully ?^ Croker ! Poverty — a new toy ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 A new experience, at any rate. [Earnestly?\^ Are 
 you sure you are justified in imposing this ordeal upon 
 yourself ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Ordeal ? 
 
 Croker. 
 This life of mean economy. 
 
 Iris. 
 It is ipaposed upon me by circumstances. 
 
124 IRIS 
 
 Croker. 
 
 They can be lightened by friends. It is madden- 
 ing to reflect that I am useless to you at such a crisis ; 
 but there are dozens of other people who are attached 
 to you — Freddy Maldonado 
 
 Iris. 
 
 No, no. [In an altered tojie.] Croker — [Re seats 
 himself beside her, on he?' left.] Dear, dear friend, I — 
 I want to tell you — [dropping her voice.] I welcome 
 this change in my fortunes ; I welcome it. 
 
 Croker. 
 Welcome it ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I have deserved it, Croker. I regard it as my 
 proper penalty, my scourge. 
 
 Croker. 
 Scourge ! for what, in heaven's name ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Evasively.] Oh, do you imagine a woman can be 
 as self-centred as I have been, pamper herself as I 
 have done, without meriting chastisement ? 
 
 Croker, 
 
 You are a good woman, to receive your reverses in 
 this spirit. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Draioing a deep breath.] Am I ? There can be 
 nothing very meritorious in accepting resignedly that 
 
IRIS 125 
 
 which gives me self-respect, makes me worthier of 
 Laurence, equips me for the future I am one day to 
 share w^th him. [S'haking her head.] It is only another 
 — a better — form of selfishness. Oh, but I feel so 
 much happier ; so much happier ! 
 
 Croker. 
 [Fatting her hand] And to-moi-row^ ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 To-morrow I actually enter into my new being. 
 To-morrow ! 
 
 [Fanny returns, folloiced by the man-servant, 
 who proceeds to open one of the bottles of 
 chaimpagne and to fill the glasses. Iris 
 rises and, going to the open vnndow, speaks 
 to Laurence and Maldoxado, icho are 
 now upon the balcony. Fanny joins 
 Croker. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \To Fanny, OjS she passes her.] Thanks, dear Fanny. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [I'o Croker, eagerly.] Has she been talkiug to 
 you ? 
 
 Croker. 
 Yes. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Well ! Am I not right — isn't she noble ^ 
 
 Croker. 
 
 \_Nodding.] All conditions of life are relative. For 
 
t26 IRIS 
 
 her, this is martyrdom. [A cork is drawn; he (jlanceSy 
 over his shovMer, at the table.] I feel as if I were 
 about to help fire the faggots. 
 
 [Jle stands ivith Fanny at the table, she on 
 one side, he on the other. Iris brings 
 Laurence into the room; Maldonado 
 follows them and goes to the table. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 May I have the honour of presiding at these pio- 
 ceedings ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Sittiiig by the writing-table.] How simple you are, 
 Maldo ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha ! there is a jealous light in our Croker's eye. 
 But I would have him know that the idea of this 
 ceremony originates with me — a stirrup-cup to Mr. 
 
 Trenwith ! 
 
 Oroker. 
 
 [^Presenting a glass of champagne to Iris.] A stirrup- 
 cup to a traveller by boat and i-ail ! Your metaphor 
 is faulty, Freddy. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 \GaHy.\ Hark! he revenges himself upon my 
 metaphors ! 
 
 [Oroker walks away towards the open windoio, 
 laughing. Fanny brings a glass of cham- 
 p>agne to Laurence, loho is standing at 
 Iris's side, and returns to the settee. The 
 servant withdraws. The inusic stoj^s. 
 
Iris 127 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Handing a glass of ivine to Fanny.] My dear 
 
 Fanny 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Seating herself ttpon the settee.] Thanks. Frederick. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Giving a glass to Croker.] Croker ! [Raising his 
 own glass.] Our friend, Mr. Trenwith — my dear 
 young companion of the past three weeks — whose 
 departure to-morrow morning is, let us hope, an un- 
 erring step towards the brilliant future we desire for 
 him ! [To Laurence, toasting hirn.] Laurence, my 
 dear boy ! [Generally.] Mr. Trenwith ! 
 
 [All, save Laurence, 2^ut their glasses to their 
 lips. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Yes, a few weeks hence our friend Trenwith em- 
 barks upon a career in a distant country, far away — 
 a great deal toj far away — from those who, in spite 
 of- short acquaintance, have learned to hold him in 
 their esteem, in their affection. [With a gesture.] 
 
 Laurie 
 
 [Laurence advances to Maldonado, loho again 
 places an arm round his shoulder. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 You have a stiff time before you, dear boy. But 
 the thought of the reward awaiting you will put grit 
 into the toiler, carry him lightly over his hundreds of 
 acres, and give ease to his weary limbs at the end of 
 the day. And then, the triumph — hey ? — the hour 
 
 ^ 
 
128 IRIS 
 
 when the victor returns to us ; when he claims the 
 prize ; when he is in a position to beseech delicate 
 beauty to grace his modest establishment at — what do 
 you call the place ? 
 
 Fanny. , 
 
 Soda Greek. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha ! — and to beg her to transform it, by her pres- 
 ence, into a palace ! I drink to that hour and to the 
 lady who inspires the fascinating picture — [raisi/Kj 
 his glass agaiii] the lady who embodies, in her single 
 person, loveliness, virtue, unspeakable charm ; w^hose 
 very name, for those assembled here, is perfume and 
 music combined ! Iris ! 
 
 [All, except Ikis, drink the toast ; after ichich 
 ceremony Fanny pit^s her glass aside and 
 goes to Iris and embraces her. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Informally.'] Thank you, Mr, Maldonado. If one 
 has to leave one's friends behind one, there is a grim 
 consolation in knowing that they're such true friends 
 — the best a man ever had. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Dryly.'] Freddy, I've never heard you in better 
 form, even at a City banquet. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [Good-humouredly.] Ha, ha ! 
 
IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [29 
 
 [Going to Maldonado with outstretched hands ?\^ 
 Thanks, thanks, dear Maldo. 
 
 [Laurence, Iris, and Maldonado form a 
 group on the right, talJcing together. Croker 
 joins Fanny on the left. 
 
 Croker. 
 [To Fanny.] Fanny 
 
 Fanny. 
 Eh? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Pish ! Why need Freddy treat us to that piece of 
 bombast ? Of course it isn't so — but he spoke as if 
 he didn't feel a syllable of it. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I agree with you — a few simple words and a hand- 
 shake 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Paternally, to Iris and Laurence.] Well ! having 
 discharged my duty, and mixed my metaphors, I leave 
 you two young people to yourselves and to the com- 
 pany of the moon. 
 
 [Croker moves to take up his hat and coat. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Smiling.^ No, I am going to hand Laurence over 
 to your keeping at once, Maldo. 
 
 [Croker and Fanny look round in surpHse. 
 
 I 
 
I30 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [Also raising his hroios.^^ At once? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Composedly^ hvt mith eyes averted.^ You have 
 promised to see him outboard the boat in the morning? 
 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 
 Oh, yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 
 Half-past-five — 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 
 Five forty-two, 
 
 to be precise. 
 Iris, 
 
 
 It is very good-natured of j^oii 
 
 to deprive yourself 
 
 of yonr rest. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 
 [Gcdlantly.] Ah, 
 
 , for you ! 
 
 
 Iris, 
 [Smiling again.] No, for hiin. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 But I am to come to you afterwards, to bring you 
 his final message ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [With an inclination of the head.] I shall remain 
 here till you have called. 
 
IRIS 131 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Bending over her hand.^ Good-night. These are 
 the sad moments of life — but you are brave. That's 
 admirable of you. Good-night. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Good-night, Maldo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Taking his hat from the tor iting -table and shaking 
 hands with Fanny.] I wish you good-night, dear 
 Fanny. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Good-night, Freddy. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Shaking hands vnth Croker, ii^ho is again at the 
 further ynndov).\ Good-night, my dear Croker. 
 
 Croker. 
 Good-night. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Turning ^^ You will find me in the garden, Laurie, 
 sounding your praises to the lizards. 
 
 [Laurence waves a hand to him in response 
 and he departs by way of the balcony. 
 Laurence advances to Fanny. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Simply.^ I want to thank you for your kindness 
 to me, Miss Sylvain. 
 
132 IRIS 
 
 Fanny. 
 [Soniewhat remoo'sefuUi/.] Ah ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Fate is taking yoa in another direction for a time ; 
 but I shall always think of you — it will be a consola- 
 tion to me to do so — as being at Iris's side. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 I shall contrive to be near her again soon, never 
 fear. [Jle holds out his hand ; she grasjys itP\ Luck ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Fii'inhy.] I shall have it. 
 
 Fanny. 
 [In a whisper.'] Don't be long. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Lifting his head high.] No ; I sha'n't be long. 
 
 [He leaves Fanny and encounters Croker, who 
 comes to him. 
 
 Croker. 
 [Shortly.] Well, Trenwith ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 Well, Mr. Harrington ! 
 
 Croker. 
 When does England see you again ? 
 
IRIS 133 
 
 Laurence. 
 In two years — three, at the furthest. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I beheve yon. If I'm ahve 
 
 [They r/ri]) hands and i^ctrt. Iris is now on 
 the balcony ; Laurence joins her there. 
 Fanny and Croker, the one on the left of 
 the room, the other on the riyht, stand 
 deliberately looking away from the lovers. 
 Laurence takes Iris in his arms and. 
 er ; then he calls to Maldonado. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Mr. Maldonado ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [In the distajice.] Ohi ! 
 
 [Laurence disappears and Iris remains on 
 the balcony, leaning iq^on tJie balustrade, 
 watching his retreating figure. Fanny, 
 discovering by a glance that Iris is alone, 
 goes quickly to Croker, loho is struggling 
 with his overcoat. 
 
 Fanny\ 
 
 [Breathlessly. ^^ Croker 
 
 Croker. 
 Eh? 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 Is this tlieir farewell ? 
 
134 IRIS 
 
 Croker. 
 [Puzzled.] I — I presume so. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [In complete astonishment.] Good gracious! 
 
 Choker. 
 
 Oil, but we forget — they have said good-bye already, 
 poor children. 
 
 Fanny. 
 
 [Nodding.] Yes, that must be it. Still — [rousing 
 
 herself.] Shall I assist you ? 
 
 [She helps him into his coat. The hand strikes 
 uj) a fresh air, andj the curtain drops. 
 It rises after a moments pause and the 
 windows and the jalousies are closed and 
 the room is in almost total darkness. 
 Through the darkness Iris is seen re- 
 clining upon the settee in the centre, sleep- 
 ing. Laurence sits in a chair at the head 
 of the settee, -watching her. Both are dressed 
 as in the earlier part of the act. The hells 
 of a neighhouring church tinkle a little 
 chime and then strike the quarter hour ; at 
 short intervals this is rejyeated hy other hells 
 in the distance ; whereupon Laurence rises 
 softly and tip-toes over to the writing -tahle. 
 There, taking a match-hox from his pocket, 
 he strikes a match and. lights a wax taper 
 which stands upon the tahle. The light 
 awakens the sleeper, who opens her eyes 
 and, raising herself upon her elhovj, stares 
 
IRIS 135 
 
 at him. He produces his vxdch, vnnds it, 
 and sets its time by that of a travelling- 
 clock upon the table. 
 
 Iris. 
 Laurence ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 Hush ! don't be alarmed. 
 
 Ircs. 
 
 [Confused.] What ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 The lamp has burnt itself out. The church-bells 
 chimed ; and I struck a match, to look at my watch. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Pressing her hands lopon her eyes.] I had fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Yes; I have been sitting here, watching you. 
 
 [She rises, loith his help, a little imsteadAhj, 
 and ivalks across to the writing-table, lohere 
 she consults the travelling -clock. 
 
 Iris, 
 
 A quarter past four. [Turning to him.] Oh ! 
 Why, you will soon — soon be — [clinging to him] 
 
 almost directly ! Oh, how cruel of you to allow 
 
 me to sleep — to waste the time ! How cruel of you ! 
 [Observing a faint light through the chinks of the 
 jalousies.] There's the dawn. 
 
136 IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [So?TowfuUi/.] Yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 The dawn ! 
 
 [She turns from him and, seating herself in the 
 chair before the loritinrj-table, lays her head 
 upon the table and v^eeps. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Beudin'j over her.] You were so white and weaiy. 
 I saw your eyelids drooping, drooping ; 1 hadn't the 
 heart to rouse you. Dearest ! dearest ! dearest ! 
 
 [She comjyoses herself (jradiudly and rises, 
 drying her eyes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Humhly.] Forgive me; I am very childish. No- 
 thing can alter it — the day has to begin. [Indicating 
 the farther ivindow.] Open the jalousies. 
 
 \IIe ojyens the wiudoio and, stepping out upon 
 the balcony , pushes back the jalousies. The 
 dawn is seen, leaden-coloured and for- 
 bidding. She bloivs out the light of th<i 
 tap)er and joins him at the windoiv as he 
 re-enters. He closes the ivindow and they 
 stand together for a while, his arm rounds 
 her loaist, gazing at the 2y)'osp)ect. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Shivering.] Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 
 [She leaves him and walks aivay to the settee 
 
Laurie- 
 Yes? 
 
 IRIS 137 
 
 iu the centre, where she sits with a scared 
 look iqyon Iter face. Hefolloios her. 
 
 Iris. 
 Laurence. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \Piteouslu.\ It was a mistake, dear. 
 
 Laurence. 
 A mistake ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 This sitting togetlier throiigli the night and talk- 
 ing away our hist hours. It w^ould have been wiser 
 if I had done what I at first had a mind to do — 
 parted from you yesterday when the sun was shining 
 brilliantly. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [With an attempt at cheeriness.] The sun will show 
 himself again in a few minutes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 As it does when one is driving home from a late 
 ball— defining everything sharply, making everything 
 appear terribly distinct, [holding out her hands to him] 
 terribly true. [He sits beside her and, slijyping her arm 
 through his, she rests her head uiJon his shoulder.] For 
 how long was I sleeping ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 An hour, perhaps. 
 
138 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 And one's blood is always sluggish at dawn. It's 
 at early morning that people sink and die. [IVe^n- 
 bliiigli/.] Laurie ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Kissing her broiv.] Dearest ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I am afraid I have lost some of my courage ; I'm 
 frightened, I'm afraid. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Frightened ? 
 
 Iris. 
 At your going away — at your leaving me. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Why, you were full of courage a little while ago. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yes, and then I dropped off to sleep, [nestling closer 
 to hini] and became chilled, 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Deliberate! I/.] Iris 
 
 Iris. 
 What? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Listen, Iris — now listen. 
 
IRIS 139 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Fondly.] I am listening ; of course I am listening 
 
 — listening 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Dearest, why should we not change our plans, even 
 at the eleventh hour — abandon the idea of separating, 
 separating until I am prepared to receive you ? Pre- 
 pared to receive you ! what a stupid, formal sound the 
 phrase has ! Iris, my love, my wife, follow me to 
 London to-morrow. I will book your passage in the 
 ship, by telegram, immediately I get to town ; we will 
 be married as quickly as possible after our arrival at 
 Montreal — there or at Victoria ; we will go out to- 
 gether. What do you say ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Yearningly.'] Ah ! ah ! ah ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Yes, go out together; share the struggle from the 
 very beginning ; endure together ; build up prosperity 
 atom by atom, together. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Shaking her head.] Ah, if it could be, deai- ; if it 
 could be ! 
 
 Why can't it be ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Oh, what a contempt Fanny would have for 
 me ! 
 
140 IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Disdai7ifidli/.] Fanny 
 
 Iris. 
 
 After all my protestations. And Cioker and 
 Maldo ! [IieleasiiKj him and sittimj away from hiin.\ 
 Yes, and how I should despise myself ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 Without the smallest reason. 
 
 IRIS. 
 
 Loathe myself ! And how you would despise me, 
 ^-and-by, upon reflection ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 I! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Recollecting that I had declined to make a sacrifice 
 for you when I was well-oft* ; that it was not till I was 
 poor — almost as poor as yourself — that I would marry 
 you : and that then I promptly hung myself round 
 your neck like a stone — hecame a dead weight upon 
 you at a time when you most needed freedom from 
 care and responsibility. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Whenever you come to me — two, three years hence 
 — you will come as a poor woman ; you will come as a 
 precious burden to me. 
 
IRIS 141 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Bat after I have had my own struggle, my own 
 battle with poverty, singly, alone ; after I have proved 
 to you that I can live, patiently, uncomplainingly, 
 without luxury, willingly relinquishing costly plea- f 
 sures, CDntent with the barest comfort. [liisiiKj.] j 
 Yes, yes — after I have shown you that there are other, 
 and better, and deeper qualities in my nature than you 
 have suspected ; than I, myself, have suspected. [He 
 rises and takes her in his arms.^ Then, then I'll join 
 ycu, Laurie. And in the meantime you mustn't seek 
 to make me falter in my resolutions. Help me to 
 keep them, dear. I could cut my tongue out for 
 having spoken as I did just now ; I felt cold ; I hadn't 
 lost coiu'age, really. \_PuUing hitnfrom her and standhnj 
 erect.l Look at me ! Fanny declares she's proud of me. 
 [Sitting in the chair by the v^^riting -table.] Well — and 
 
 you ? 
 
 ^ Laurence. 
 
 [Kneeling before her and taking her hands in his.] 
 Proud ! proud ! No man, honoured by the favours of 
 a queen, ever felt deeper pride than I feel in the 
 possession of your love. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Bendiiig over him so that her lips almost touch his 
 hair.] My love — yes ; but this other, loftier, pu 
 side of me — I want you to be proud of that. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 It is of that that I am proud. I cannot dissociate 
 your love from your goodness ; in my mind they have 
 
 his . 
 
142 IRIS 
 
 always been one. You have always been to me the 
 best, the sweetest of women. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Smiling sadly.'\ Ah ! ah ! But before you return 
 to claim me you must forget. [Entrfatingli/.^ You 
 will forget ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Forget — and remember. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Oh, forget, dear, more than you remember. Come 
 to me then as if you had never known me — or known 
 me but a little. Let us then learn each other, as it 
 were, afresh ; raise up barriers between us, for the 
 delight of breaking them down. [Looking into space.l 
 Two years — three ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Thev will pass quickly. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I pray they will ; and yet, for shame's sake, not too 
 quickly. So that, when you come to marry me, you 
 
 may marry 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 •Yes ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 One who is a stranger to you. 
 
 [The church-bells strike the half-hour. They 
 listen ivith strained ears. After a j^ause, 
 he rises slowly. 
 
IRIS 143 
 
 Iris. 
 [Dulli/.] What is that? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 \]Valking av)ay from her, his head howecl.^^ Half-past 
 four, I think. [Other hells are heard. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I have lived here — how many weeks ? — and have 
 
 scarcely noticed those bells 
 
 [She goes to him and they stand side-hy-side, 
 loithout speahing, their hands tightly locked. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [After the silence, loith an asstmiption of cheerfid- 
 ness^ I've a little over an hour — that's ample. I 
 paid my score last night, and the porter already has 
 my big bnggage. I've only to make my toilet and 
 throw a few things into a kit-bag. [Blobbing his chin.] 
 No time for a shave, though. I wonder whether the 
 wait at Como will be long enough to enable me to 
 visit a barber. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Passi7ig her hand over his chin.] Untidy fellow ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 Untidy ! oh, upon the ranche 
 
 Iris. 
 You won't wear beard ? not a beard ! 
 
144 ^^^S 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 It shall be removed, in any event, before — before 
 
 we 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yes, don't yon dare ever to ventnre into my 
 
 presence 
 
 [They laugh together, lyitifully ; and, in the 
 end, their laughter dying out, she cries 
 unrestrainedly iipo^i his shoulder. Then, 
 vnth an effort, she leaves his side and thrones 
 open the further windoio. The heavy sky is 
 now streaked loith an ugly yellow bar. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 There are some rain-drops. Has the weather broken 
 at last ? 
 
 \^He goes mechanically to the settee on the left 
 and fetches his hat. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Coming to him and turning up the collar of his 
 coat.^^ Hun, directly you get on to the road. 
 
 [TJiey walk to the open uiindoio. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Looking out^ Yes — rain. [Huskily.^ I'm afraid 
 you'll be — horribly dull. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Shut the jalousies, so that the servants may find 
 til em closed. [With clenched hands. ^ Go now. 
 
 [They embrace finally, lie kisses her hands, 
 her eyes, her ~ 
 
IRIS 145 
 
 Iris, 
 
 [/n his ear.] I have loved you. I .shall love you 
 always. I shall love you always. 
 
 [ZTe goes out on to the halcoiiy, where he pauses, 
 looking at her. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Close the jalousies ! shut them ! 
 
 \_He closes the jalousies, she the window, and 
 the room is once more in darkness. With 
 a low wail, she totters to the settee in the 
 centre and throics herself njpon it, burying 
 her face in thejnllows and sobbing violentlij. 
 The curtain descends — rising again ah/iost 
 immediately. It is now day, but the rain 
 is falling heavily, and the lake, and, the 
 hills beyond, are obscured as if by a grey 
 veil. Iris — dressed as before — is sitting in 
 a chair by the further icindow, absorbed in 
 contemplating the dreary 2^'os2)ect. Her 
 hat, cape, and gloves are on the table on the 
 right ; and on the chair vjhich remains at 
 the head of the settee in the centre is her 
 dressing-bag, open. The loooden case has 
 disappeared, but the hhxl-cage, vnth its 
 cover raised, is still upon the cabinet. The 
 man-servant enters at the door. 
 
 Max-servant. 
 I beg your pardon, ma'am. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Turning.] Eh? 
 
146 IRIS 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 At what hour do you desire the fly — the carriage ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Rishu/.] I am expecting Mr. Maldonado — directly 
 he has left me. [27ie man is (joi/Kj.] Put the bird upon 
 the front seat. Be careful. [He takes up the cacje, 
 lohich contains a solitary canary^ and is again about 
 to depart.] Wait. 
 
 [27ie man returns, placinf/ the cage iipou the 
 
 table. She goes to her dressing-bag and 
 
 searches for, and finds, a small velvet sack. 
 
 From this she produces, quite heedlessly, a 
 
 handful of gold jneces. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Throwiug the little sack hack into the dressing -hag.] 
 I shall be much obliged to you if you will distribute 
 this among the servants, including yourself. [Giving 
 him the money and moving avxty towards the ivriting- 
 table.] I thank you all for the attention I have 
 received here. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 [Staring at the money, lohich he holds in two hands.] 
 I — I really beg pardon, ma'am 
 
 Iris. 
 [Turning.] What ? 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 I — that is, we— we've heard — that is, we've been 
 given to understand 
 
IRIS 147 
 
 Ibis. 
 
 Eh ? Ah, yes. [Gracioitsbj.] But this is the last 
 time I may have the privilege — [^Busyiny herself in 
 collecting certain little personal objects — her diari/, date- 
 case, address-book, a stamp-box, c(.-c. d'c. — lohich are 
 lopou the loriting -table. \ I thank you once more. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 We — we are exceedingly grateful, ma'am. 
 
 \Removing the cover from the bird-cage, he 
 jmurs the money into it and, carrying the 
 cage in one hand and the iju^n'ovised money- 
 bag in the other, loithdraws. k^he takes up 
 Laurence's portrait and studies it fondly ; 
 then, after pressing it to her lips, she pro- 
 ceeds to find a place for it in her dressing- 
 bag. The man-servant reappears. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 Mr. Maldonado. 
 
 [Maldonado — loet and mud- splashedj — enters 
 briskly and comes to her. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \Qiving him her hand.] I have been waiting for 
 you. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I went as far as Sala in the boat ; [giving his hat to 
 the servant] there I landed, and have tramped back. 
 
 Iris. 
 IMaldo ! You are drenched ! 
 
148 IRIS 
 
 Maldonadu. 
 Tisch ! 
 
 [I/e slips oat of the cloak Jte is iceariiuj and 
 hands that also to the sercaiit, who Jiitally 
 retires. 
 
 Iris. 
 \G')Mefulli/.'\ You have been true to your promise. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 \Triuin2)hcmtly,^ A'ha ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Rising betimes, upon such a morning ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 \^Laughin<jly .^ I was on my balcony at four o'clock, 
 watching the dawn. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Turning away and sitting in tlie chair by the 
 writing-table.'] The dawn ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Pullhig off his ivet gloves.] I was restless — I sup- 
 pose because I knew I had your business on hand. 
 Before five I w^as outside the Britannia, throwing 
 stones at Laurie's window. We had coffee together, 
 he and I, and then, arm-in-arm, made for the pier. 
 
 Iris. 
 Poor boy ! Was he very downcast ? 
 
IRIS 149 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 His heart was lioavy enough, doubtless, but — [ivith 
 a shi'iu/] at eight-and -twenty, a new world ahead of 
 
 you 
 
 Iris. 
 Naturally. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Phew ! [Seating himself uimn the settee in the centre.^ 
 Never heeding the rain, we paced the deck of the 
 httle steamer unceasingly. How time flies, when 
 there is a common point of interest between two 
 men ! Oar theme ? Need I say we talked of you, 
 of nothing but you, my dear Iris — our friend, our 
 mistress, our goddess ? 
 
 Iris. 
 [Gently pi'otesting.] Hush ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! no. Now I reflect upon it, I believe I 
 appropriated rather more than ray fair share of the 
 conversation. On certain topics, when once I am set 
 
 going — ha ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I am suie you cheered and amused him. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ultimately I was put ashore, and the boat went off' 
 without me — went oft' hooting into the wet fog — and 
 I was left staring at the particular patch of cloud that 
 had engulfed her. Upon my soul, I think I was the 
 more cat up of the two — no, that's exaggeration, of 
 
I50 IRIS 
 
 course. But the mental picture of the lonely lacly of 
 this villa— at her bed-room window, eh ?— lier eyes 
 trying to pierce the mist — the mist of her tears and 
 
 of the beastly, sodden air 
 
 [lie rises abruptlij, and goes to the further 
 window and looks out. She iviiJes her 
 tears aioay vnth her handkerchief. After 
 a moment or two he comes to her and lays 
 a hand upon her shoulder consolingly. 
 
 Iris, 
 The last word he spoke — tell me 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Unfortunateh^, at Sala there w^as some confusion 
 over his luggage and he was called from my side ; so 
 he had no opportunity — dear chap ! — of sending a 
 final message. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Disa2:>p)oirded.^ Ah ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 But it's not diilicult to surmise what its purport 
 would have been . [Looking at his nxitch. ] ISTot difficult, 
 at any rate, for a poor devil who is also compelled to 
 wrench himself away from you. 
 
 Iris, 
 You, Maldo ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I, too, make my plunge into the mist this morning. 
 I am driving to Porlezza, to pick up the afternoon 
 train at Lugano. 
 
IRIS 151 
 
 Ims. 
 [}iisi7ig.] You go to London ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 To Brussels and Paris. I have received some up- 
 braiding telegrams from our houses there. 
 
 Iris. 
 Ah, you have wasted so much of your time with us. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Wasted ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Bestowed so much of your time upon us, I will 
 say. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Stroking his heard.] I was determined, at all costs, 
 to see the end of poor Laurence. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [With a pathetic pucker of her mouth.] And Fanny 
 and Oroker to-morrow ! And I — I at the little Pension 
 at Tremezzo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Picturesque, dirty Tremezzo, with its thousand 
 odours ! That reminds me — before I wi>h you good- 
 bye — [running his hand over the outside of his ptockets] — 
 
 tsch ! Have I left it at the hotel ? — no, here it is 
 
 [He produces, from his hr east-pocket., an un- 
 used cheque-hook and carelessly turns its 
 leaves. 
 
152 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 Wliat is that ? 
 
 Maldonado, 
 
 Before T say good bye, let me explain why I leave 
 this in your keeping. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \_Instinctively shrinhiny a little.^ A cheque-book ? 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 My reason is this. 1 have presumed — ah, don't be 
 too indignant with me — to pay into my bank, to your 
 account — to the account of Iris Bellamy 
 
 Iris. 
 No, no ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I am humbly conscious that I appear to be opposing 
 your wishes in doing what I have done. 
 
 Iris. 
 Deliberately opposing them, Maldo. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 What a terribly censorious expression ! Well, if 
 the amount were anything very considei'able, there 
 w^ould, perhaps, be some justification for it. 
 
 Iris. 
 I have already explained 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 But a few hundred pounds — a thousand or so 
 
IRIS 153 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Oh, Maldo ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 As a small reserve in the event of your being 
 pressed by a debt — a debt overlooked in the general 
 
 settlement 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Please ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Or your feeling unhappy at Tremezzo, or else- 
 where 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Touching his arm, appealingly.] Maldo 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Poverty abounds in unpleasant surprises. 
 
 Iris. 
 Maldo! Maldo! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Eh? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Don't think me horribly ungracious. Indeed, indeed, 
 I am full of gratitude to you, my dear friend. But 
 upon the question of accepting help — money — I am 
 firm ; I am as hard as adamant. You must not, 
 therefore, consider me unkind 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 If you don't honour me by drawing a single cheque ? 
 My dear, I assure you I shall never trouble to enquire 
 
154 IRIS 
 
 wlietlier you had recourse to tliis paltry little fund at 
 my bank or not. [/iitterl//.] So. in this instance, you 
 will be less cruel to me than to yourself. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [WeaMi/.] You m-e hui-t. I am alwaj^s paining you ; 
 it seems to be my special misfortune. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Pish ! throw the thing into your writing-case and 
 forget it. 
 
 [He jxcsses her and throws the cheque-hook 'itpon 
 the loriting -table. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I would prefer that the book were not even left 
 with me, Maldo. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [Sarcastically.'] Oh, pray ! Won't you at least do 
 me the favour of burning it ? May I not beg that 
 indulgence of you? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \In distress.] Certainly, I'll destroy it. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [With eJahorate politeness.] My most profound 
 acknowledgments ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Tahiny his hand.] Ah, don't, don't ! [Coaxingly.] 
 In a day or two I will write you a letter — a 
 letter 
 
IRIS 155 
 
 Maldonabo, 
 
 For small mercies ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Oh, why be angry with me ? What have I done ? 
 Maldo! Maldo! Maldo ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Looki7ig into her ei/es.] It is impossible to be cross 
 with you for more than a moment. There ! I forgive 
 you. 
 
 Iris. 
 Ah! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 This — and the rest. Adieu ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Adieu ! 
 
 [He kisses her hands, rather too warmly. SJie 
 goes to the door and pidls the hell-rojie. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Let me see — you transfer 3^ourself to Varese ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Next month, I think. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Lightly hut vnth intention.^ Is Varese pleasant in 
 November, I wonder ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Unconsciously .^^ ^eiy? they tell me. 
 
156 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Tscli ! I fear I mustn't indulge myself in another 
 holiday yet aAvhile. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [As be/oo'e.] No ? You rich men work like slaves, 
 Maldo. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha ! what else is there in life ? 
 
 I lie pauses a little longer, waiting for some 
 further response from her. Receiving none, 
 he looks at his watch again hurriedly. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 I must be off. Good-bye. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [liaising her head] Good-bye, Maldo. 
 
 [lie goes out. At the same moment Aurea 
 appears outside the further window and, 
 after looking into the room, raps iiqyon the 
 window-pane. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Turning?^ Ah ! [Opening the wAndow.] Aurea ! 
 
 Aurea. 
 Good morning ! here's a day ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Come in. 
 
 [Aurea, who carries a,i umlrrdla, enters, 
 brightly and eagerl}/. 
 
IRIS 157 
 
 Jris. 
 
 [Closi'iKj thevnndow.^ What brings you out into the 
 rain ? [ratting her cheeks.] To water the roses ? 
 
 AurtEA. 
 
 As we go to-morrow, I thought I might not have 
 another opportunity of seeing you alone. You have 
 always been so sweet to me 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Kissing her.] Ah ! 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 Aunt Fanny says I am to be most careful to avoid 
 sad subjects when I meet you, and to be bright and 
 cheerful. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 She is right. 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 So I've come to talk solely about myself. I want 
 you to be the first — the very first — to hear my news. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 News? 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [loi a voice full of mysttry.] It's a dead secret. I 
 shan't breathe a word of it to aunt until the business 
 is absolutely settled. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Business '? I'm waiting. 
 
158 IRIS 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [Laughing gleefully.^ Ha, ha, lux! Let me get rid 
 of my iimljiella. [Nesting her umhrelht against the table 
 on the right and rctarning to Tins ivith an air of ini- 
 2)ortance.] Now then ! What do you think, dear Mrs. 
 ]>ellamy ! I've a prospect of being able to make 
 myself independent of my relations. 
 
 Iris. 
 Keally ! 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 Yes, positively. You know, while Aunt Eauny 
 could afford to have me Avitli her, my position Avas 
 just endurable. But now — well, I can't expect to find 
 the world full of Aunt Fannies, can 1 ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Tell me 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 It's all through Miss Pinsent. 
 
 Kate Pinsent ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 [j\^odding.] Whom I met at your house at Kensing- 
 ton. You remember your lovely dinner-party ? 
 
 Iris. 
 [Looking away.] Perfectly. 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 We struck up a great friendship that night, Miss 
 
IRIS 159 
 
 Pinsent and I. I wrote to her when we first heard 
 of aunt's reverse, mentioning how I was situated. 
 She's a dear ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Tarniny from Auhea.] Yes. I am afraid I didn't 
 treat her very considerately. 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 I'm certain you did ; you do everybody. 8he 
 adores you ; so does everybody. [/?i ait oiUbiirdt] We 
 are going into business ! 
 
 Iris. 
 You and Kate ! 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 That is, she is going into business, if she can over- 
 come initial dithculties, and I am to be allowed to 
 join her. [JJroppinr/ iqjou the settee in the centre.] Isn't 
 
 it excitiug ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You enterprising little woman! [Advancing to her.] 
 Difficulties ? What difficulties ? 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 She has to find three or four hundred pounds, to 
 decoiate and fit up the rooms. [With enjoymerd.] The 
 rooms ! Four rooms ; two on the first floor, and two 
 on the second, where the girls will work 
 
 Iris, 
 
 [6'tandin(/ fachirj A urea and looking down upon 
 her.] But Kate has money. 
 
i6o IRIS 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [Shakiity lier head.] Xo. And her mother to iiiaiii- . 
 tail! ! li^ii't it rough ? 
 
 Ikis. 
 
 [Iu.'iisle}i.tlt/.] She saved luouey : she saved it with 
 me — iti my service. I know it. 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 Oh, yes — but that went. 
 
 Iris. 
 Went ? 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 ]\Ir. Kane had it. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Siitimj beside Aurea.] Kane ! 
 
 A UREA. 
 
 Poor gill ! she used to talk to him when he came 
 
 t) your house 
 
 Iris. 
 Of course. 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 And one day she asked him to invest her saviugs 
 for her. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Gone ! 
 
 Aurea. 
 [Xoddiiig.] Dreadfully . hard lines ! But she's 
 
IRIS i6i 
 
 awfully clogged, and if she can only induce somebody 
 to stand by her over this undertaking 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Poor Kate! Fancy the avalanche crushing her 
 too ! A nice creature. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 I'm certain shell manage it somehow ; she swears 
 she'll move heaven and earth before she owns beat. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [l^houghifidly, with knit brows.] That's all very 
 well. If she doesn't — if she can't ? 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 Oh, don't suggest that, Mrs. Bellamy! don't, don't 
 suggest that ! 
 
 [Iris rises and slowly icalks towards the writing - 
 table, vjhile Aurea, not folloiving her rnove- 
 ments, rattles on emphatically. 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 Surely, surely there are plenty of generous, wealthy 
 people who will lend a helping hand to a woman. 
 Kate has tried for another situation as companion, 
 such as she held with you, and has failed. The 
 salaries offered are impossible ; there's but one Mrs. 
 Bellamy on earth, she says — all the rest are in heaven. 
 Oh, it would be too cruel if this chance escaped her — 
 cruel on her and on me. Me ! I believe I shall break 
 my heart if it falls through. I think of nothing else. 
 
i62 IRIS 
 
 dream of nothing else — talk of nothing else, you'll 
 
 say 
 
 [Iris is noic seated, quite comjjosedli/f before the 
 
 u'riting-kible, draicing a cheque in Maldo- 
 
 Js' ado's cheque-book. 
 
 Iris, 
 Hush ! hush ! I'm writing. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [Hising.] I beg your pardon, dear Mrs. Bellamy. 
 [Iris carefidly extracts the cheque from the 
 book and blots it, and, taking an envelope 
 from the table, rises and comes to Aurea. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Folding the cheque.] Aurea, this little gift will put 
 an end to those initial difficulties you speak of. Send 
 it to your friend at oiice, with my good wishes. 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 [S'tai'ing at the cheque as Iris encloses it in the 
 envelope^ Oh ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Giving the envelope to Aure^v.] Say that I am 
 sincerely sorry I dismissed her so unkindly— so 
 abruptly. 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 [Breathlessly.] Mrs. Bellamy — dear Mrs. Bellamy 
 — you — you mustn't attempt to do this for us ! 
 
IRIS 163 
 
 Iris. 
 
 It delights me to render this service — the last, per- 
 haps, I shall ever render anybody. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 But how — how can you ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Looki7ig clown.] 1 — I have unexpectedly come into 
 possession of a — a trifling — [icneasili/] Er — not a 
 word, please, to your aunt. 
 
 AuREA. 
 
 N — no. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 And, Aurea — mind ! -you must put Kate Pinsent 
 upon her honour — her word of honour — never to let 
 
 a soul know 
 
 [The Manser I- ant enters at the door, 
 
 Man-servant. 
 The carriage is here, ma'am. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [To Aurea.] Shall I give you a lift as far as the 
 Belle Yue ? 
 
 Aurea. 
 
 [In a loio voice.] Aunt might wonder and put awk- 
 ward questions. 
 
164 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [IFi^A a glance of assent.^ I am to vsee you both at 
 Tremezzo this afternoon ? 
 
 AUKEA. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \^To the servant.'] Come back for my bag when you 
 have let Miss Vyse out. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 Yes, ma'am. 
 
 AUREA. 
 
 [Throwing her arms round Iris's neck.'] Oh ! oh ! 
 
 [She snatches up her umhrella and runs aioay. 
 The servant goes after her. With a troubled, 
 half guilty look, Iris attires herself in her 
 hat and cape; after lohich, carrying her 
 gloves, she returns to her dressing -hag. 
 Glancing round the room, to assure herself 
 that she has collected all her small personal 
 belongitigs, her eyes rest on the cheque-book 
 which lies open on the writing-table. She 
 co^itemj)lates it for a time, a gradually in- 
 creasing fear showing itself in her face. 
 Ultimately site walks slowly to the table and 
 picks up the book. She is fingering it in 
 an uncertain, frightened way when the 
 servant returns. 
 
 Man-servant. 
 
 [Standing over the bag.] Is there anything more, 
 
 ma'am ? 
 
 [SJie hesitates, helplessly ; then, becoming con* 
 
IRIS 165 
 
 scious that she is being stared at^ she 
 advances, drops the booh into the bag, and 
 2Kisses out. The man shuts the bag, and is 
 folloioing her as the curtain falls. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
THE FOURTH ACT 
 
 The scene represents a room in a Flat at the West End 
 of London. The decorations are in delicate tints 
 of pink and green touched vnth silver, and the 
 furniture is corresjyondingly light and dainty. 
 The fireplace, ichere a fire is burning, is in the 
 centre of the wall furthest from the spectator. On 
 one side of the fireplace — the left — is a door admit- 
 ting to a bedroom ; on the other side a door opening 
 from the hall. A silken portiere hangs over the 
 bedroom door. In the wall on the right there is a 
 deep recess in which is fitted a luxurious diva7i, 
 and beyond this recess is a third door leading to 
 another apartment. On the left-hand side of the 
 ' room a boiv window, 2}7'ovided tvith cushioned seats, 
 gives a view of the houses 07i the opj^osite side of 
 the street. A loriting -table, chair, and waste-p)aper 
 basket stand near the window ; on either side of 
 the fio'eplace is an armchair ; and i7i the centre of 
 the room there is a circular table on which break- 
 fast is laid tastef idly for one 2^erson. On the left 
 of the breakfast-table is a chair, and on the right 
 a settee with a little table behind it. Other articles 
 of furniture, all joretty and fragile, are arranged 
 about the room. 
 
IRIS 167 
 
 The light is that of a clear morning in lointer. 
 
 [Iris — dressed in a handsome morning-7'ohe — 
 is seated at the table in the ce)itre, a booh 
 propped-up before her, neglecting her breaks 
 fast. Her beauty has matured — become 
 severer, more majestic ; and her face has 
 somewhat hardened. A grey lock, however, 
 iq)on her broiv, from which the hair is now 
 taken back, gives a softening note. The 
 door on the right of the fireplace — the 
 door admittiiig from the hall — opens, and 
 Maldonado enters ivith the air of a man 
 ivho is thoroughly at home. He is ivithout 
 his hat but is still gloved. He comes to the 
 right of the table and looks down upo.o 
 her. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Morning. 
 
 \_She barely raises her eyes from her book. 
 With a shrug ^ he seats himself in the chair 
 on the right of the fireplace and pulls off 
 his gloves. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Devilish cold. [A pause.] Your breakfast gets 
 later and later. The hours you waste ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Mechanically stirring her tea.] I have nothing to 
 do. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 You do nothing. 
 
 [Having taken a cigarette from his case, he 
 
1 68 IRIS 
 
 searches for matches upon the manteljnece. 
 Not finding them, he goes to the writing- 
 table. There he comes iqyon a match-stand 
 and lights his cigarette. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [vl^ the ivritiiig-table.] The matches are never in the 
 same place two days running. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [fcih/.] Frederick 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Eh? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I wish you would make it a practice to send your 
 name in, instead of using a latch-key. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Why ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 It would appear a little more respectful to me in 
 the eyes of the servants, would it not ? It's of no 
 consequence. 
 
 [After some hesitation, he 2jroduces a hunch of 
 keys and removes from it a latch-key. 
 Weighing the key in his hand meditatively, 
 he walks towards the settee; then he turns 
 andUosses the key upon the table. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Thanks. 
 
IRIS 169 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Sitting ujjon the settee.] Anything to satisfy you, 
 my dear. 
 
 [She picks up the key and, rising, drops it into 
 a vase lohich stands upon the mantelpiece. 
 The hey strikes the bottom of the vase loith 
 a sharp sound. Having done this she re- 
 sumes her seat and sips her tea. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Examining his nails.] I particularly hoped to find 
 you in an agreeable humour this morning. I wonder 
 whether I can put you in one. Don't read. [^S'^e 
 lays her hook aside.] Iris. 
 
 Iris. 
 Well? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I was turning matters over in my mind la«t week 
 in Paris. Honestly, I'm no more content with the 
 present condition of affairs than you are. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Than I am ? I'm not aware that I have expressed 
 any special discontent. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [With a short laugh.] Ha! Upon my soul, you 
 have the knack of freezing a man. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 What is it you have to propose, Frederick ? 
 
I/, 
 
 170 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Leaning forward, his elboivs on his knees.] Iris, 
 I want to invite you to come round the corner — to 
 Mount Street. 
 
 Iris. 
 To Mount Street ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 To my house — in a settled position. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Indifferently.] Oh? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Do you remember our talk of two years ago last 
 summer, on the occasion of that dinner-party at your 
 place, when you declared your willingness to do your 
 duty as my wife, as mistress of my establishment, 
 squarely and faithfully. You sold me then — a sub- 
 ject we won't enlarge on. Well, there hangs the old 
 Velasquez still, and the Raphael, and the Murillo, and 
 once more I offer to frame you gorgeously and to 
 place you along with them ; making you permanently 
 — what was my phrase ? — " mine to gaze at, mine to 
 keep from others." What d'you say ? 
 
 Iris. 
 [After a pause.] Why now ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Why now ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Yes ; why now ? 
 
IRIS 171 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I — I've treated you a bit roughly, you mean ? 
 
 [^'he rises, icith an eloquent yeshire, and goes to 
 the chair on the left of the fireplace, luhere 
 she sits, 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 Oh, I own up. I intended to have my revenge, if 
 I could get ; and I've had it. Yes, I meant it. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Writhing.] Oh! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I repeat, I own up. I make a clean breast of it, 
 you see — as an inducement to you to wipe the slate. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 It ivas deliberate, then, from the very first — cruelly 
 deliberate ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [With a Jiod,] I'll even beg pardon, if it would 
 please you. 
 
 Iris. 
 Your arrival at Cadenabbia, from Aix ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I'd heard you were travelling with that pup-dog at 
 your heels 
 
 Iris. 
 Of whom are you speaking ? 
 
172 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Sorry — Trenwith. And I wanted to be sure; I 
 couldn't credit it. You ! To throw me over when I'd 
 won you honourably — shove me aside, after my long 
 waiting, at the moment of my success, for a lover ! It 
 kept me awake ; I wasn't sleeping. That brought me 
 to Cadenabbia. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Musingly/.] I've often wondered. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha ! I believe I came by the same train that carried 
 the newspapers containing the account of Kane's 
 bolting. There was an opening at once 
 
 ■Iris. 
 To play the friend, the consoling friend — ah ! -- 
 
 Maldonado. 
 \_After a pause, moodily.^ Anything more ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 What would you have done if events had not shaped 
 themselves in your favour — if Mr. Trenwitli and I 
 had not parted ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I don't know — frankly. It gives me the shivers 
 sometimes — the mere conjecture. There were days 
 at Aix when I felt mad. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [With a long-drawn sigh.l. Ah — h — h ! 
 
IRIS 173 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Eh? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I wish you had been merciful and had taken me out 
 on to the lake and drowned me. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Ugh! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 That cheque-book — you were sure I'd avail myself 
 of it? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I was pretty certain you couldn't drag on for long 
 upon a few pounds a week. You couldn't. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Satirically.] How mad you were ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 And as your careering-about abroad, with a } oung 
 gentleman in attendance, had alienated the fiiends 
 who could have aided you, I calculated the cliances 
 were all my way. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 The chances of your being able to destroy me 
 
 utterly 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 The chances of crying quits with Trenwith. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Clenching her hands.'] Oh, don't— don't ! 
 
174 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Afte7' another pause.] Anything more ? 
 
 [She is silent. He rises and goes to the fire- 
 jylace, where he stands, his back to the fire, 
 contemjilating her. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 You're not over keen about my suggestion, 
 apparently. 
 
 Iris. 
 I! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I fancied you'd be glad. Upon my soul, I imagined 
 you'd be rather — gratified. 
 
 Irls. 
 
 [Rising and standing beside him, composedly.'] I am 
 sorry if you are disappointed. I'm afraid I've no 
 longer the capacity for being gratified at anything. 
 I haven't it ; it's gone. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 It's odd that, somehow, whenever the question of 
 marriage has arisen between us, you've always contrived 
 to make me look an ass in my own eyes. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Languidly.] Need you regard it in that way ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Look here, Iris ! you must at least see that I desii e 
 
IRIS 175 
 
 to make it up to you — desire to make amends. Surely 
 that flatters you, if ever so slightly. You used the 
 word '' respect " a minute ago. Does this look as if I 
 entertained no respect for you ? [Between his teeth.] 
 I'm d I mean, I can't understand you. 
 
 Iris, 
 Amends ? What amends can you make me ? 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Isn't marriage amends ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Trifling with the flowers on the breakfast-table.] It's 
 too late, I tell you. I'm down, beyond recovery. I've 
 lost heart. I no longer care. I'm shunned like 
 
 poison 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [Behind her shoulder.] People cut you ? You mustn't 
 blame me wholly for that. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I don't. I'm not unfair. And it isn't that which 
 hurts me most even now. [Closijig her eyes.] But to 
 
 shun one's self — to cut one's self ! No, no ; it's 
 
 all over with me — everything's over. Marriage ! a 
 farce ! 
 
 [She passes him and icalks aiuay to the head of 
 the settee. He follows her. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 At any rate, in talking in this fashion, you take 
 only one point of view. There's another. 
 
176 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yours ? Oh, yes, there's your point of view. But 
 why on earth should you Avish to marry me ? 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Is it a novel wish on my part ? 
 
 Iris. 
 No ; but bruised fruit 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Seizing her hands.'] Can't you be lejss bitter? 
 Listen to me ! listen to me ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Freeing herself and leaning against the head of the 
 settee, facing him.] I am doing so. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 You'll laugh at me — no, that's not your way ; you'll 
 stab me with those steel-grey eyes of yours, tighten 
 your lips till the sight of their thin red line stings 
 me like whip -cord. All the same, you've got to hear 
 it — I love you. I love you more than ever, my dear. 
 What'g in you ? You're extraordinary. By the 
 common rule of life I ought to be chafing to be rid of 
 you ; the fizz should have gone entirely out of what 
 remains of the liquor by this time. But it's not so. 
 I say it's wonderful, con,sidering what's behind us, 
 that Tre should stand here as we do — I again entreat- 
 ing you to be my wife, still entreating you, as I did 
 two ye'ars back, for a soft v/ord, a spark of warmth. 
 
IRIS 177 
 
 just a little tenderness. [Ch'ipping her shoulders and 
 looking into her face so closely that she shrinks back.] 
 I shall never be able to do without you, Iris ; you 
 grow on a man — never be able to spare you. The 
 idea of your wanting to break away from me one day 
 is insupportable. What did I ask you to call me, that 
 night in Kensington — Beloved ? Fool ! And yet 
 this morning, notwithstanding all that has passed 
 since then, I'd give half of everything I have in the 
 world if you'd speak that word. I will give it ; I lay 
 it at your feet. Iris! [Draiving her to him.] Iris! 
 you devil in marble ! 
 
 [There is a silence between them for a moment 
 or two, neither stirriiig. Then she gently 
 disengages herself and moves avmy to the 
 writing-table. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [Following her ivith his eyes.] Well ? 
 
 Iris. 
 I — I will think about it. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Passing his hand across his h7'0W.] Think about it 
 
 ? Think about it ! [Going towards her.] Oh, 
 
 yes. [Suddenly.] You haven't heard from that fellow 
 lately, have you ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Mr. Trenwith ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Mister Trenwith. 
 
 n 
 
178 IRIS 
 
 Iius. 
 No. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Nor written to him ? [She shahes her head.] When 
 did you last write ? 
 
 Iris. 
 It doesn't matter. 
 
 Maleonado. 
 
 [Fie7'cehj,] When ? 
 
 Irts. 
 
 [WeaJcli/.] Four months ago — or five. [Sitting in the 
 chair by the ivriting-tahle.] I forget exactly. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 And he ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He continued his letters for a time, reproaching me 
 for forgetting him. They have ceased — ceased. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 You are sure ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Sure ? Quite sure. 
 
 [She breaks down and cries. Re ivatches her 
 for a 2vhile, then turns from her and sits at 
 the breakfast- table. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Digging a fork into the table-cloth viciously.] Will 
 you come to a theatre to-night ? 
 
IRIS 179 
 
 Iris. 
 [Wiping her eyes.] If you wish it. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Dine somewhere beforehand ? 
 
 Iris. 
 As you please. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Where ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Anywhere. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 What theatre ? [A pause.] What theatre ? 
 
 [There are some uno2?ened neiospa^ers vpon the 
 little table behind the settee. She crosses 
 over to the table and picks up one of them. 
 She is unfolding it when he comes to her. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [At her side.] How long will it take you to make 
 up your mind ? 
 
 Iris. 
 [Dully.] About the theatre ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 No, no ; about our marriage. 
 
i8o IRIS 
 
 Iris, 
 
 A week ; let me have a week. [Sitting upon the 
 settee.] There can be no necessity for haste. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Discontentedly.] A week ? Pish ! [Leayiing against 
 the breakfast-table.] However, we'll say a week. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Gazing listlessly before her, the jKiper falling to the 
 fioor^ If we do marry, you must promise not to in- 
 sist upon my continuing to live in England. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Why? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 There would be a revival of interest in me, as your 
 wife. Heaps of those who have dropped me, half- 
 forgotten me — who wouldn't touch me, as I am, with 
 gloves on — would rally round me because of your 
 wealth. I couldn't suffer that. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 I shouldn't ask you to. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 What ! you and I alone, then, in that great house 
 in Mount Street ! ISTo, no ; not England, if we 
 marry. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 All right. So be it. [With a shrug ^ We can easily 
 
i8i 
 
 take down the Velasquez and hang him elsewhere. 
 After all, England is a paradise only for the puritan 
 and the hypocrite. [His spirits rising.] Ha, ha ! 
 Farewell, England ! Land of lean women and smug 
 men, of the drooping eyelid and the sanctimonious 
 drawl ! Land of money-worship, of cant and phari- 
 saism, of false sentiment and namby-pamby ideals — 
 in every department of life, the suburb of the universe! 
 Ha, ha, ha ! England, farewell ! [Advaticiiig to her.] ■ 
 Paris ? \ 
 
 Iris. ^ 
 
 The women there are so terrible — the women who 
 would claim equality with me. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 One must live somewhere. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Wearili/.] That's it; that's it. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 And yet, why reside anywhere ? Who so at home 
 everywhere as the homeless rich ? We'll be cosmo- 
 politans of the first order, shall we ? [Bending over 
 her.] Why, I'd carry Velasquez and his companions 
 on my back, from city to city, if you'd walk beside me 
 with your hand in mine. [Holding out his hand.] Ah, 
 sweetest ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Looking ivp at him, ivith an exp'essionless face, and 
 laying her hand in his.] You are not all bad, Maldo. 
 [There is a knock at the door and Iris rises. 
 
J 82 - IRIS 
 
 They separate ; she goes to the writing-table, 
 he to the fireplace. 
 
 Iris. 
 Come ! [A woman-servant enters, from the hall. 
 
 Servant. 
 Mr. Harrington. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Seated at the ivriting-tahle.] I'll see him. 
 
 [The servant icithdraios, closing the door. 
 
 Maldonado.' 
 
 [With a lory face.'] Tscli ! you don't mind being 
 bored. He's become too sour and grumpy for words, 
 this chap. You know they've kicked him out of the 
 secretaryship of that club? How the devil he 
 
 lives ! 
 
 [The servant returns, showing in Croker 
 Harrington. Croker has lost his smart- 
 7tess — is almost shabby — and has aged out 
 of proportion to the time that has elap)sed. 
 He stands regarding Maldonado icith an 
 expression ap>proaching a scowl. The ser- 
 vant retires. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [With a nod.] Good morning. 
 
 Croker. 
 Good morning. 
 
IRIS 183 
 
 [^He comes to Iris and shakes hands with her 
 silently. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [Leaving the fire.'] You were at the wedding yester- 
 day, I suppose, my dear Oroker? 
 
 Croker. 
 [Surlily.] Yes. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 And you come fully charged with all the delightful 
 details, eh ? 
 
 Iris. 
 I hope so. • 
 
 Maldonado, 
 
 Mi.ss Sylvain — a tolerably mature bride. I sent 
 her a wedding present — which she had the impudence 
 to return. [To Iris, as he moves tovmrds the door on 
 the right.] May I write two or three letters here, while 
 you chat to our friend ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Why do you ask me ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [At the door.] Do decide about that theatre. 
 
 [He goes, leaving the door ajar. Iris crosses 
 over to the door and 'pee'ps into the adjoining 
 room. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Closing the door softly.] He has gone into the 
 further room. We can talk freely. [She motions 
 
1 84 IR^S 
 
 Croker to sit upon the settee ; he obeys her. Then she 
 brings the chair from the left of the breakfast-table and 
 sits, facing him eagerly.] How did she look ? 
 
 Croker. 
 Well. 
 
 Iris. 
 Sweet ? 
 
 Croker. 
 [Nodding.] H'm. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 The bridesmaids — were there many ? 
 
 Croker. 
 Four. 
 
 Iris. 
 Four ? 
 
 Croker. 
 Evelyn Littledale 
 
 Iris. 
 Of course. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Mar got Cowley 
 
 Iris. 
 She! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Her niece 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Aiirea? Oh, yes — the girl I was rather fond of. 
 
IRIS 185 
 
 Croker. 
 And a sister of the bridegroom. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Was the church well-filled ? The Wynnings — were 
 they present ? The Chadvvicks ? the Saddingtons ? 
 the Yanes ? the Glenne-Smiths ? [He nods in response 
 to each inquiry.'] Oh, I knew them all ! \_She iceei^s 
 again, then recovers herself and dries her eyes.] "Well! 
 exit Fanny ! I passed her, the other day, in Davies 
 Street. I saw her first in the distance, and put back 
 my veil so that she should notice my white lock. 
 Sorrow and remorse have their egotism, as ease and 
 joy have, and I am proud of my grey hair. But she 
 purposely kept her eyes down. 
 
 Croker. 
 [Brusquely.] Perhaps — in time 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Never — with a husband. That hope's gone. You're 
 the last. And you've altered towards me. 
 
 Croker. 
 [Sternly,] Altered ! What do you expect ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [With her habitual jMthetic little tvnst of her mouth.] 
 No, I must have disappointed you sadly. Do you 
 recollect describing to me once, in the Kensington 
 
i86 IRIS 
 
 days, your ideal of woman ? It was at the time you 
 
 were 
 
 Croker. 
 Perfectly. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You said you asked nothing more of a woman — 
 
 what ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Than that she should be beautiful to the eye and 
 gentle to the ear ; that her face should brighten when 
 I entered, her hand linger in mine when I departed ; 
 that she should never allow. me to hear her speak 
 slightingly of any honest man, thereby assuring me 
 she indulged in no contemptuous criticism of me when 
 I ^vas out of her company ; that she should be boun- 
 tiful to the poor, unafraid of the sick and unsightly, 
 fond of dumb animals and strange children, and tear- 
 ful in the presence of fine pictures and at the sound 
 of rich music. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 And I inspired that ! 
 
 You did. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [With a sigh.] How vain I felt ! And yet — by 
 chance, I suppose — never anticipating ! — you left out 
 something — something essential — that goes to the 
 making of a perfect woman ? 
 
 Croker, 
 To the making of a good woman — yes. 
 
IRIS 187 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Wincing.] Sssh! sssh ! 
 
 \Bendi71g forward, she lays her head^upon his 
 knees. So she remains for a few moments, 
 hath silent, he looking doion icjjon her. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [In a low voice.] Iris — [She sobs.] There is one 
 other item of news I have to give you — not connected 
 with Fanny's wedding 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Ina7'ticulately.] Yes? 
 
 Croker. 
 You will have no difficulty in guessing it, I fancy. 
 
 Iris. 
 Eh? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 The inevitable has happened. I've always warned 
 you. 
 
 [She raises her head slowly and stares at him. 
 Beading his neios in his face, she rises. 
 
 Iris. 
 Back ! 
 
 [He answers her with his eyes. She sivays a7id 
 he catches her by the arm and assists her to 
 the settee. 
 
188 IRIS 
 
 Croker. 
 
 It occurred late last night. I turned into a little 
 restaurant in Soho — an old resort of his, it appears — 
 for my supper. He came in ; we stared at one 
 another for a moment — then he rushed at me. His 
 ship had docked at Liverpool earlier in the day and 
 he had just driven from Euston. I pretended that I 
 had finished eating, and, after a brief talk, got away. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Rer eyes closed.] How does he bear it ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 He's mystified ; believes some one has come between 
 you and him ; and is here to find out the facts. 
 
 [She opens her eyes and looks at him dully ; 
 then she suddenly sits ujjright. 
 
 Iri8. 
 He — he doesn't know, then ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Xo. [She struggles to her feet.] And I was careful 
 that he should extract nothing from me. 
 
 Iris. 
 He has not heard — not heard ! 
 
 [She moves about the room in an agitated, 
 aimless icay, sitting in one place only to 
 rise immediately and transfer herself to 
 
IRIS 189 
 
 another, and uttering brief, half -articulate 
 comments as Croker proceeds. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 I allowed him to understand that your friendship 
 for me had somewhat cooled 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Cooled ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 In order that he shouldn't be puzzled by my unusual 
 ignorance concerning you. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Ah, yes. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 '' That's it, Harrington ! " he said, " she is being 
 drawn away from her friends. By whom ? '' 
 
 Iris. 
 Ah! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 He wanted information, naturally, as to your 
 whereabouts. You had returned to London, I told 
 him, but — how stupid of me ! — I couldn't recall the 
 name of the street in which you are lodging. Ha ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Well? 
 
 Croker. 
 He has gone to an hotel in Villiers Street, I have 
 
I90 IRIS 
 
 undertaken to hunt-up your address [7'eferi'ing to his 
 watch] and to let him have it during the morning. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Pausing, confusedly.] And — and will you ? 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Not without your authority to do so. My object 
 was simply to stop him, for a few hours, from busying 
 himself in making inquiries 
 
 Iris. 
 \_Nodding J faintly ^ Inquiries 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Thinking you might wish to be before others with 
 your story. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Coming to him and grasping his hands.] Ah ! 
 ah! ah! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Grimly^ In the meantime he is occupied feverishly 
 at his tailors and haberdashers, I expect. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 What shall I do, Croker? What course shall I 
 adopt ? Quick ! We shall be interrupted directly. 
 Oh, help me, please ! 
 
IRIS 191 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Hat'shli/.] Excuse me; the rest is with you. I 
 regret I don't feel able to advise you. 
 
 [He tuoms from her and ivalks away to the 
 Jirejjlace, v^here he stands looking into the 
 
 fire- 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Weakly.'] Ah, that's unkind — unkind ! 
 
 [She drops into the chair before the writing- 
 table and sits for a time, her elbows on the 
 table, tightly holding her brows. Then she 
 seizes a 2^en and writes rapidly upon a sheet 
 of note-paper. 
 
 Iris. 
 \Whileshe writes?^ Croker — Croker- 
 
 \ILe returns to her slowly. When she has 
 finished hei' note, she scrawls a name upon 
 an envelope and rises. Croker is at her 
 side ; she holds the note before him. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [As he reads it.] You will see him to-night at nine 
 
 o'clock 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 If he can come to you with pity in his heart. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Folding the note ivith trembling hands.] You will 
 take this to him ? 
 
192 IRIS 
 
 Crokeu. 
 [Betimen his teeth.'] I ! Oh, yes. 
 
 I HIS. 
 
 [Enclosing the note.] At once — at once 
 
 Croker. 
 Ho, certainly ! at once. 
 
 Iris. 
 \ Looking at him in sw'iyrise.] Croker ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Having lied for you plentifully to one \with a glance 
 in Maldonado's direction] I am now employed to 
 deceive the other. Have you any further degradation 
 for me ? How much lower is my insane devotion to 
 bring me ? — tell me that ! tell me that ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Dear friend ! 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Degradation ! yes. A hanger-on ! a complacent 
 hanger-on ! And to-day the common go-between ! 
 Ah, you have crushed the life, the spirit, the manhood 
 out of me ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Oh! 
 
IRIS 193 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Ilolding out his hand for the lettPr.] But give it to 
 me. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [After a pause.'] No; I'll not. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 Come! I daresay I'm brutal. And, perhaps, a 
 little jealous ! Jealous ! There ! what an admission ! 
 what a depth for a man to touch ! \StUl holding out 
 his hand.] Come, give it to me. [Meekly.] This is 
 the first time I've protested, at any rate. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You are right. I ought not to have asked you — 
 [tearing up the note.] I — I beg your pardon. 
 
 [She throws the pieces into the uxiste-jxiper basket 
 and., passing Croker, seats herself upon 
 the settee. He sinks into the chair by the 
 im'iting -table, burying his head in his 
 hands. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Staring at the carpet.] Besides, it would be a 
 dreadful confession to make to him personally — [loith 
 a look, under her brows, round the room] here, too. 
 You haven't told me the name of the hotel — in Villiers 
 Street, did you say ? I'll do what you urged me to 
 do at first ; I'll endeavour to put it all on paper — to 
 
 put everything on paper 
 
 [A door slam? in the distance. 
 
194 
 
 IRIS 
 Croker. 
 
 [Raising his head.'] Maldonado ! 
 
 [She collects herself and jnchs up the news- 
 2xq}er. 
 
 Croker. 
 
 [Rising and going over to her quichly — speaking in 
 loiv, hurried tones.^ Iris, forget my boorishness. He 
 shall be with you to-night at nine. 
 
 [She grasps at his arm as he leaves her. He 
 is at the door leading to the hall lohen 
 Maldonado returns carrying some freshly - 
 written letters. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [To Croker.] Hullo ! you going ? 
 
 Croker. 
 Yes. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Ta-ta ! 
 
 [Croker disa2)pears, closing the door behind 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [At the fireplace.] Where is he off to, in such a 
 hurry — the workhouse ? There's a man who knew 
 half London ; now he hasn't a friend in the world, 
 excepting yourself. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [flutter ingly.] Except myself. 
 
IRIS 195 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 Eh? [Advancing to her.] Still hunting for that 
 theatre ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Theatre ? 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 The theatre — to-night 
 
 Iris. 
 [With a catch in her breath.] To-night ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Didn't we arrange ? Aren't you well, my 
 
 dear ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Rising — speaking hesitatingly and jminfully.] 
 Maldo— the— the week that I am to be allowed— 
 
 the week 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 Week ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 The week in which to consider your — your pro- 
 posal 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 Oh, yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I wish you would leave me entirely alone in the 
 meanwhile — not see me — not come near me 
 
igG IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 [fn.9 pi/es hlaz'nui?^ H.ive you been consulting 
 Hairington ? 
 
 Iris. 
 No. No, no. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Haven't you ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 I have not mentioned the matter to him— not given 
 
 him a hint 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 \^After a ^)«?<se.] What, are you afraid that my 
 fascinating presence would unduly influence your 
 decision ? 
 
 [>S'Ae is silent, her hands ticitching at the netns- 
 2Daper. There is a further ixiuse. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Oh, very well. You shall have a perfectly quiet 
 time, if you desire it. I shall go down, then, this 
 afternoon to Rubenstein's, at Bream Park, for a few 
 days. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Th— thanks. Thanks. 
 
 \8he walks atoay to the divan and throivs her- 
 self upon it, settling herself in its cushions, 
 ivith her back towards him, and making a 
 show of reading the newspaper. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Have you any postage -stamps ? 
 
IRIS 197 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [As she arranges herself uiwn the divan.] You will 
 find them in my stamp-box, 
 
 [He seats himself at the ivriting -table, discovers 
 the stamp-box, anl 2)roceeds to affix stamps 
 to his letters. While he is thus ocGit2ned, 
 his eye is attracted by the writing upon 
 certain scrajys of paper lying near the 
 loaste-paper basket. They are fragments 
 of Iris's note — some of which have fallen 
 into the basket, others up)on the floor. He 
 picks up) ttvo or three of these ^^zeces and 
 examines them. Then he turns his head 
 sharply and looks at Iris. Seeing that she 
 is not obseiving him, he hurriedly collects 
 the pieces remaining upon the floor and also 
 those in the basket. Hamming an air to 
 disguise his proceedi?igs, he hastily fits the 
 scraps together upon the table ; after lohich 
 he Siveeps them into aheap aiid thrusts them 
 into his vMistcoat-pocket. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 [Eisi7ig.] Papers are dull this morning ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Very. 
 
 [Resuming his humming, he puts his letters 
 away in the tail of his coat and moves 
 stealthily tovmrds the mantelpiece. There 
 he takes doicn a vase, shakes it against his 
 ear, and replaces it. He repeats the pii'ocess 
 with another vase^ this time with success ; 
 
198 IRIS 
 
 whereupon, first 2^ulling up his coat-sleeve 
 and shirt-Cliff] he inserts his hand and arm 
 into the vase and regains possession of his 
 latch-key. Pocketing the key, he breaks off 
 from his singing and, loith an evil look upon 
 his face, comes to Iris. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 This day week ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Giving him a hand without turning.] Yes. 
 
 [He leaves her as the curtain falls. 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
THE FIFTH ACT 
 
 The scene is unchanged. It is night-time. The electric 
 light, softened by shades of rose-coloured silk, dif- 
 fuses a vxirm glovj over the room. 
 
 [The room is empty. There is a knock at the 
 door on the right of the fireplace. The 
 knock is repeated ; then the door is opened 
 and the icoman-servant enters. Finding 
 nobody, she goes to the door on the left and, 
 drawing the j^ortiere aside, knocks at that 
 door gently. Having knocked, she drops 
 the portiere and, retreating a fevn steps, 
 tvaits. Presently a hand is seen holding 
 the p)ortiere and Iris's voice is heard. 
 
 IpvIS. 
 {Very faintly ^ Yes? 
 
 Servant. 
 
 The gentleman, ma'am. 
 
 [The cii7'tai7i is disturbed and the hand vanishes. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 [Approaching the curtain.'] I beg your pardon 
 ma'am 
 
o IRIS 
 
 IjlIS. 
 
 Ask him in. 
 
 l^The servant goes out at the door at lohich she 
 entered and returns almost immediateli/ 
 loith Laui{ENCE. Laurence is in evening/ 
 dress, hut, in 'place of his toicn air, he has 
 the bronzed face and slightly stiffened gait 
 of a iivcm accustomed to life in the open. 
 He is wearing an overcoat and carries a 
 felt hat. The servant vjithdraios, leaving 
 him gazing about him in some bewilder- 
 ment. Slowly surveying the apartTnent, 
 he puts his hat ujjon the little table behind 
 the settee and is taking off his gloves ivhen 
 the portiere again moves and Iris appears. 
 >y/ie remains in the doorway., her back 
 towards him, clutching the curtain. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [>S'Ae turns and faces him. She is clad entirely 
 in black and v)ears no jevjellery or emhellish- 
 7nent of any descriiytion. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Iris — Iris ! 
 
 \^He stretches out his arms. For a moment she 
 vxivers ; then, icith a swift movement, she 
 sweejjs across the room and falls uj^on his 
 breast. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Kissing her passionately.] My dearest ! my dearest ! 
 
IRIS - 20 I 
 
 Iris, you are unaltered towards me ? Iris ! tell me 
 you are quite unchanged. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [^Murmuring his name as she clings to hhii.^ Laurie 
 — Laurie — Laurie ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Kiss me — you don't kiss me 
 
 [With a ci'T/, she takes his head between Iter 
 hands and kisses him. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Ah ! Nothing has o^'curred to cause you to with- 
 draw your love from me ? I only want you to assure 
 me of that. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Her arms twined, about his neck?\ I love you — I 
 love you — I love you 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Thank God ! Your silence has driven me almost 
 distracted. How could you be so cruel to me ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Hiding her face against his shoulder.^ Cruel — 
 cruel — yes, cruel ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 What had I done to deserve it? I can'fc under- 
 stand your motive 
 
202 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 Hush ! Wait — not yet — not yet. Kiss me again. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Obeying her.] Ah ! ah ! Ha, ha ! Let me look at 
 you. [Holding her at arm's length.] I am dying to look 
 at you. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [11 er eyes closed.] Ah ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 You are more beautiful than ever. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Sicooningly.] Oh ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Your face ! it was always divine, but it has become 
 still more spiritual — saint-like 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Ah, ha ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Pa.ssing his hand over her brow.] I see — you have 
 dressed your hair away from your forehead. That is 
 it — you resemble the pictures of angels one was 
 familiar with in childhood. 
 
 Iris. 
 A — a dark angel ! 
 
IRIS 203 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Ohserviwj her dress for the first time.'] Why, yes ; I 
 didn't notice — Dearest, are you in mourning ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [>Sup2)orti7ig herself upon his arm as she looks into 
 his face.] Mourning ? This is not mourning : it is 
 merely black. Nothing but the loss of you would 
 make it mourning. [With an atteonpt at brightness.] 
 Ha ! it was my fancy to receive you in this gown. 
 
 [She turns from him and ivalks avxty, a little 
 imsteadily, to the fireplace. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Folloioing her.] How long may I remain with you ? 
 You are not going to send me away quickly ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 That depends upon yourself. I — I am free for the 
 rest of the evening. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Gaily.] Depends upon me ! [Taking off his overcoat 
 and throwing it over the hack of the chair on the left of 
 the fireplace!] Well, a month would hardly suffice for 
 me to say all I have to say to you. [Returning to her 
 and seizing her hands., which he iwesses again and again 
 to his lips?\ Dearest, why — why did you cease writing 
 to me ? The torture of waiting for that infernal 
 post ! What could have been your reason ? 
 
204 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Treitiblinghj.] What did you imagine it was— did 
 you think I was ill ? 
 
 Lauiiexce. 
 
 At first. T cabled home to Miss Sylvain, asking 
 her if it was so. 
 
 Iris. 
 To Fanny Sylvain ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 And received a laconic reply — " best of health." 
 There my pride stepped in. Oh, the soil of a lonely 
 ranche is favourable to the cultivation of a certain 
 sort of gullen pride ! Ah, but the agony of it ! IriS; 
 the theories I formed — all of them incorrect, doubt- 
 less ! Now, at last, you can blow them away 
 
 with a breath— 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Pluckinff at his sleeve.] Laurence — have you seen 
 Croker ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 [N^odding.] Last night. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Yes ; but to-day ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 No. He merely left a note at my hotel, giving me 
 your message. 
 
IRIS 205 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Message ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 That I was to be here, at 3-our lodgings, at nine. 
 
 Iris. 
 Nothing further ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Shaking his head.'] Nothing further. 
 
 Iris. 
 And you've met no one else of our acquaintance ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Nobody. [Smiling.] I've been frantically busy, 
 trying to make myself presentable for this visit. 
 
 Iris. 
 Those theories of yours — what were they ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 One of them — [looking about the room, a trace of 
 ap2wehension in his voice] don't tell me there was ever 
 any ground for it 
 
 Iris. 
 
 One of them ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Was that your friends had come to your assistance, 
 on condition that you broke faith with a struggling, 
 
206 IRIS 
 
 hard-working fellow in British Columbia. [JUmhracing 
 
 her.] Ah, forgive me ! 
 
 [The chair in mhich Iris luas seated, at break- 
 fast, in the 2^i'€cedi7ig act is now on the 
 further side of the table loith its back to the 
 f replace. She releases herself from Lau- 
 rence's embrace and sits in this chair, a 
 desj)erate look in her eyes, steeling herself 
 fm^ her task. 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Leaning over her shoulder.] Dearest, can you blame 
 me ? As I have said — the distorted ideas solitude 
 
 gives rise to ! [Surveying the room once more.] 
 
 And even now I can't help feeling puzzled [Droj^- 
 
 2nng his voice.] What a charming place you have here ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Faintly.] Ah? 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 Did your new lawyer manage to recover for you 
 more than he expected ? [Struck by a neio thought.] 
 Iris, surely you have not been angry with yourself 
 for not fulfilling your promise to starve during my 
 absence ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Her elboim on the table, digging her fingers into her 
 hair.] You — you arenearing the truth ! 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Fervently, his lips close to her ear.] Oh, my love ! 
 
IRIS 207 
 
 my dear love ! in whatever way these comforts have 
 come to 5^ou, how could you doubt that I should be 
 the first to rejoice that you have not, after all, been 
 waiting for me in privation and anxiety ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [/n a hard, level voice — gentl)/ 2^ushi7ig him from her.] 
 Laurence — it is about — ihe way in w^iich these com- 
 forts have come to me — that I want to talk to you. 
 
 \_She points to the settee and he seats himself 
 there, a groiving fear expressed in his face. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [^Sitting upright, her body stiff, her eyes averted — loith 
 the little twist of her mouth. \ Laurie, this charming 
 place is not mine. 
 
 Laurence. 
 No? 
 
 Iris. 
 That is — it is not maintained by m3^self. 
 
 Laurence. 
 By your friends — as I supposed ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 By a friend. [A pause.] A friend. [Afic7'ther2Ktuse.] 
 Yes, there is something — in your theory 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Sho7'tly.] Oh ? [Sloioly.j You mean the condition 
 
2o8 IRIS 
 
 does exist — the condition obliiring you to be untrue 
 
 to me ? Iris ! 
 
 [With 6171 effort she i/(rns her head and meets 
 his gaze. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Delihei'ateli/.] It is a man-friend. 
 
 [He alloios the loords to soak into his brain, 
 then he rises and advances to her. She 
 rises ivith him and they stand, facing each 
 other, on ojyposite sides of the table. 
 
 Laurence. 
 A man-friend ? 
 
 Iris. 
 Mr. Maldonado. 
 
 Laurence. 
 \^Under his breath.'] Maldonado ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He is master here. 
 
 Laurence. 
 Master ! I — you must speak plainer 
 
 Iris. 
 He — intended to take his revenge 
 
 Laurence. 
 Revenge ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He nev^er rested — never rested — until 
 
IRIS 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 209 
 
 Until 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He was able — to cry quits with you. 
 
 [Laurence recoils. Operdny her eijes wklehj, 
 she (jives him a final look of guilt cmd 
 abasement ; then she collapses suddenly, 
 dropping info her chair and laying her head 
 and outstretched arms ujyon the table. He 
 continues staring at her for a time; ulti- 
 mately, covering his face vnth his hands, he 
 sinks ujyon the settee. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Lifting her head.] No, he never left me alone. 
 There's no palliation in that, perhaps, no excuse — but 
 he never left me alone. [Bursting into tears.] Oh, I 
 meant to be poor ! I meant to be poor ! 
 
 [She rises and goes to the firep>lace, tipon which 
 she leans, loeeping. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He — he placed some money at my disposal be- 
 fore he quitted Cadenabbia — opened an account for 
 me, without my leave, at his bank in London. That 
 was the beginning of it — the beginning of the path 
 leading down to this awful abyss. I remained at 
 Tremezzo barely a fortnight. I went there, as you 
 know, because it was at Tremezzo we had passed such 
 delicious hours ; and I believed your spirit would 
 linger about those quiet spots where we had been con- 
 stantly together, you with your sketch-book on your 
 
 o 
 
2IO IRIS 
 
 kness, I close to you, both silent and happy. And so 
 it was — only your presence became a reproach to me 
 instead of a solace, a haunting reproach ; for almost 
 from the very moment of my receiving it, my hand 
 accustomed itself to scrawling cheques, for one object 
 and another, in the cheque-book he had considerately 
 furnished me with. Therefore, finding my conscience 
 wouldn't let me sit with your spirit in those dear 
 retreats, I packed my trunks and slunk away to 
 Yarese. 
 
 [lie has not stirred. She looks at his stricken 
 figure loofulhj and vxmders towards the 
 iviHting -table. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Varese ! At Varese I found hivi, waiting for me. 
 Unfortunately I had written to him informing him of 
 my arrangements ; and there he was, in the court- 
 yard of the little hotel, and he came forward to greet 
 me. I confess I was glad to meet him ; it w^as a 
 familiar face — [advancing to the table in the centre'] 
 Yarese ! How many times have I cursed Yarese ! He 
 introduced me to some people who were wintering 
 there — people who attached themselves to me, gave 
 me treats, took me upon excursions. These I returned 
 with interest. I felt myself compelled to have a 
 small salon in which to entertain my new acquaint- 
 ances — 1 who ought to have been weighing every sou ; 
 and soon, the afternoons growing chilly, I must 
 needs send to Milan for a sable paletot to drive in. 
 
 You see — step by step— he looking on ! And 
 
 throughout all this I was allowing you to believe I 
 was fighting the battle of poverty with you ! 
 
IRIS 211 
 
 [He stirs slightly. She essays to imt a hand 
 upon his shoulder^ hut falters and, draws 
 back. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 After I had spent a couple of months at Yarese, 
 somebody proposed that we should move to Rome. 
 And to Rome we went — the whole party. [Pressing 
 her hands to her hroio.'\ Rome ! Rome ! It was at 
 Rome, shortly after we arrived there, that I dis- 
 covered I had overdrawn my account at his bank. 
 Strangely enough, he was advised of the circumstance 
 by the same mail — of course, it was the crisis he had 
 been waiting for — and he came to me promptly with 
 his pocket-book in his hand. Then it was that my 
 eyes were opened. Early next day I sold my sables 
 for a third of their value and made off — got out of 
 the city — fled — literally fled. And there commenced 
 my long term of penury. Laurence, if you ever 
 forgive me — if I am ever to be forgiven in this world 
 or hereafter — it will be because of my suflerings during 
 the months that followed my flight from Rome. 
 Finding myself hopelessly embarrassed, I set myself 
 to hunt-up my old friends in England. Friends ! 
 Ha ! the scandal of our travelling abroad together — 
 you and I — furnished them with a ready excuse to 
 deliberately turn their backs upon a woman who had 
 lost fortune and position. Only Fanny and Croker 
 were left — Fanny living on relations at Stranraer, 
 Croker upon his meagre salary as secretary of a club ! 
 Mainly to spare poor Croker the sight of me, I hid 
 myself in cheap sea-side resorts out of their season, at 
 the approach of their season crept inland to a stuffy 
 town — -all the while sinking further, further into debt 
 
212 IRIS 
 
 and dilliculty ! At last every device for keeping my 
 head above water was exhausted. I had even con- 
 trived to pledge the tiny income remaining from the 
 wreck of my aflairs, and I was without a shilling — 
 absolutely without a shilling — my clothes nearly 
 falling off me, my shoes in holes — ah ! I was in 
 London again by that time ; it was as if I had come 
 home for the finish. The horror of it ! the back room 
 in the narrow, grimy street ; the regular, shameful 
 visit to the pawnbroker's ; the listless, mechanical 
 
 stroll out in the dusk for air and exercise ! I ! 
 
 I — your Iris ! [At the head of the settee.] And 
 
 one evening — he was continually tracing me and 
 dogging my steps — one evening I met him and let him 
 walk beside me ; and — he handed me the key of this 
 
 Hat. Oil ! [Tuo'ninr/ away and throvnwj herself 
 
 upon the d'lvan?^ They were waiting for nje — these 
 pretty rooms ; they had been kept prepared for hjo 
 for months. That was my deepest disgrace — that he 
 seemed to be so certain 1 should find my w^ay here. 
 
 \She lies upon the divan, sobbing and inoaning. 
 Laurexce removes his hands J'rom his face 
 and looks about him vacantly. Then he 
 rises and icalks, stiffly and heavily, to the 
 fireplace, 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Staring into the fire — spealcing in a toneless, expres- 
 sionless voice.] I — I am intensely sorry for you, Iris. 
 
 Iris. 
 \ liaising her head, faint and exhausted.] Eh- 
 
IRIS 213 
 
 Laurence. 
 I — I am sinceiely sorry for you. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Pidtiiig JiP/v disordered hair hack from her broio.'\ 
 
 Sorry for rne ? I — [ knew you would be. I— T 
 
 wns sure 
 
 [She leaves the divan and goes a little way 
 towards him. Then, seeing that lie does not 
 turn to her, she checks herself. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 \By the settee, feebly?^ Ah — all, yes — I ought to have 
 spared you from learning it in this abrupt fashion. 
 \_Sitting upon the settee, her eyes closed, her head resting 
 against the hack of the settee.] How pitiless women are 
 — especially to those they love, and have injured ! 
 Poor Laurie ! But, dear, the first few weeks of my 
 stay here were lived in a kind of stupor — inertia. I 
 couldn't think — I couldn't reason. I didn't realise 
 tliB dishonour — only that I was well-housed again. 
 And afterwards — at one moment I would find myself 
 hoping that the shocking nevvs might reach you from 
 other source:?, at thft next that my breaking-oft' with 
 you might keep you from returning to England and 
 that, by some miracle, you'd never hear the truth — at 
 any rate, till I had passed away. And so the months 
 went on — and qn 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Partly turning to her.] This man — lie wished to 
 marry you once 
 
214 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 He wishes it still, to do him justice. Xow that he 
 has — oh ! — revenged himself upon us, he finds out 
 that he wishes to tie me to him. 
 
 LAURE^X'E. 
 
 [Facing heo\] He is in earnest ? he means it ? 
 
 Iris. 
 
 In earnest ! indeed, yes. And I — I suppose I 
 should have acceded to his wish ultimately, if this 
 had not happened — if you had not come back. [Sitting 
 ujyright and initting her hands together iwayerfidly?[ 
 Laurie — Laurie 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Averting his eyes.] Iris 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Going down tcpon her knees beside the table and 
 bowing her head upon her clasped hands?^ Laurie — 
 Laurie — Laurie 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 I — I am very sorry. 
 
 [He turns to the chair on his right and takes 
 up his overcoat. Looking up>^ she sees his 
 action. 
 
 Iris, 
 
 [Under her breath.] Ah ! [Struggling to her feet.] 
 What are you doing ? 
 
IRIS 215 
 
 Laurence. 
 
 [Hanging his head.^ I — I am sorry. 
 
 [She vptreats, vxttching his movements. ITe 
 goes to the table ui^on wJdch he has deposited 
 his hat. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Oh ! [lie picks ftp his hat.] No ! 
 
 [He advances, alioays avoiding her gaze, and 
 stands before her looking ujyon the ground. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You — you can't pardon me ? Oh, try. [She loaits 
 for a reply, hut he is silent.] I had my good resohi- 
 tions, Laurie ; it was through them that we separated, 
 if you remember — that I refused to go out with you. 
 T he little p^ood in i^e^ then , has proved my downfall. 
 
 Laurence. 
 I — I'm sorry. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 You could trust me now, dear, if you would but 
 take me back with you. Oh, it would save me from 
 so much that is hateful. Try! [A p)(^use.] No? 
 You — you feel you can't ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 [Inarticidatehj.] I'm sorry. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [S^ijyj^orting herself hij leaning upon the chair hy the 
 
2i6 IRIS 
 
 y tvriting-tahle.'\ Have you prospia^en ? Woidd the home 
 1 have been ready for me ? 
 
 Laurence. 
 Yes. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 ^Dropping her head vpon her hroasl.^ Oh ! [Ralli/ivg 
 a little and returning to him.^ Well, I don't reproach 
 you. If I were a man, I suppose I should do pre- 
 cisely as you are doing. ]^Piteoushj.^ Only I thoughj^ 
 as my first wrong step was taken for love oFyoi?^^ 
 
 LAURE^X*E. 
 
 [Covering his eyes vnth his hand.'\ Iris — Iris ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Hush ! I ought not to have said that to you ; that 
 wasn't fair. 
 
 [She cries for a moment, softly, then dries her 
 eyes and offers him her hand. He takes it. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 By-and-by — in a little while — send me a photograph 
 of that log-house of yours. Merely slip it into an 
 envelope — will you ? [He inclines his head.] Thanks. 
 
 I should dearly hke to have one — just to see 
 
 [She vnthdraws her hand and, after a brief 
 struggle icith himself, he gees to the door. 
 Almost involuntarily ^ she totters after him 
 for a feio steps ; hut he leaves her without 
 looking hack. When he has gone, she drojjs 
 upon the settee and sits there stunned and 
 
IRIS 217 
 
 motionless. There is a pause ; then the 
 door on the right opens qnietly and Maldo- 
 NADO appears. lie is still in his onorning 
 dress, hut his necktie is disarranged and his 
 eyes are bloodshot and his face livid. He 
 comes to her and lays his hand uj)on her 
 shoulder. With a cry of terror^ she tvnsis 
 her body round and faces him. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Your visitor has departed — eh ? 
 
 [She rises and backs aivay from him tovxirds 
 the left. Hefolloios her. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Yon raoj of a woman ! you double-faced trull ! you 
 liar ! 
 
 Iris. 
 Hush ! Maldo ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 - Ah ! 
 
 [He seizes her by the arms and hurls her on to 
 the settee. Then he stands over her, his 
 eyes aflame. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 You ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Hush ! Maldo ! don't hurt me ! Maldo ! 
 
 [Grlpjnng her wrist, he pulls her tip from the 
 hettee violently. 
 
2i8 IRIS 
 
 Ims. 
 
 Maldo ! Maldo ! don't hurt me ! Maldo ! 
 
 [/fe throivs her from him again and she 
 stumbles tovxirds the fireplace^ ichere she 
 falls into the chair by the table. Once more 
 he goes after her, uttering ferocious sounds, 
 
 , ^.- his fingers extended like clay's. In the end, 
 
 lie forces himself to quit her side and staggers 
 to the settee, u2'>on which, his rage 2)artialli/ 
 spent, he di^ops 2)a7iting. There is silence 
 beticeen them for a time, broken only by her 
 sobs and his heavy breathing. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Oh ! oh !, oh ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, ho, ho ! So — so — so you've lost 
 your second sweetheart, have you ? Or am I Number 
 Two ? Which of us do you rank first ? 
 
 Iris. 
 You — you know ? You have listened, then ? 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [Nodding scowlingly.] He cleared out pretty sharply. 
 Your influence is a diminishing quantity, my dear. 
 You must be getting old. 
 
 Iris. 
 How did you — learn ? 
 
IRIS 219 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 The note you wrote to liim this morning, and 
 tore up. You shouldn't have thought better of com- 
 mitting yourself to paper and then have scattered the 
 scraps of your love-letter about your writing-table. 
 [She glances at the ioaste-%>aijeT hashet^^^ That dog 
 Harrington is running your errands, is he ? 
 
 \She rUes feebly and goes to the mayitelpiece, 
 U2)on which she leans. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Ha ! an enjoyable day you've all given me ! I've 
 been in this accursed street for hours, waiting for 
 Master Laurence to arrive or for you to come out. 
 
 Iris. 
 Well, you see he has left me — left me for good 
 
 . Maldonado. 
 
 Yes, the fellow has more sense than I, after all ; a 
 great deal more sense than I. \Rising and crossing the 
 roo7n, his hands thrust deep into his 2^ockets.^^ What an 
 escape ! what an escape ! 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Escape ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Escape. [Wiping the sioeat from his broio.] Phew ! 
 you're the sort of woman that sends a hot-blooded 
 man to the gallows, my dear. 
 
220 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 
 No, no, no. no 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 You're not too old for that, still. Yes, to-day reads 
 me a lesson. ^Partly to himself.^ Tsch ! what a lesson, 
 Freddy ! what a lesson ! 
 
 [Absorbed in thought, he moves tovjards the 
 'mantelpiece. She shrinks from him and 
 comes to the set lee. 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 Oh, don't be frightened — my fit's over. [Sitting, 
 staring before him, his fingers drumming upon the 
 table.] Only I must be careful in the future — more 
 careful in the future. The risk is too deadly. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 [Seated ujwn the settee, eyeing him tvonderingly.] 
 Risk ? 
 
 Maluoxado. 
 
 [Agai7i j^'^t^Hu to himself] I have no ambition to 
 figure in the dock some day. That's not m}^ game. 
 [To her.] I come of a lace whose qualities are 
 curiously blended, my dear — made up partly of passion, 
 partly of prudence. .For some years now, thanks to 
 you, I've been letting the first run away with me. 
 [Drannng a deep breath.] I can't afford that. Freddy 
 Maldonado can't aflbrd that. [Bringing his fist do2vn 
 upon the table heavily.] To-night ends it — ends it ! 
 
IRIS 221 
 
 [Risimj and jmntimj to the door which admits to the 
 hall.] You can go. 
 
 luis. 
 
 Go ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 This place is mine 
 
 lius. 
 
 Maldo ! 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 You'll take your departure. 
 
 Iris. 
 Maldo ! 
 
 Maldonado. 
 You hear ? 
 
 Iris. 
 [EisiiKj.] Wiien — when ? 
 
 Maldonado. 
 Now. I desire to be left alone. 
 
 Iris. 
 [Bewildered.] To-night'^ 
 
 Maldonado. 
 At once. This is your punishment, my dear 
 
222 IRIS 
 
 Iris. 
 Ah! 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 To cli'ift back to the condition in whioli I fovQicl you 
 a few months since. This is your reward. 
 
 Iris. 
 
 Maldo ! 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [Kinyiny the hell.] Go. 
 
 [7%ere is a pause, during ichich he continues 
 riuyiny. Suddenly she stiffens her body 
 and, like one ivalkiny in a dreaon, crosses 
 the room and goes out at the door on the 
 left. The servant appears. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 \To the servant.] You'll all leave my service to- 
 morrow, you women. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Sir ! 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 Wages shall be paid you in lieu of notice, and a 
 present given you. 
 
 Servant. 
 Thank you, sir. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 Tell your fellow servants. 
 
IRIS 223 
 
 Servant. 
 Yes, sir. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [Li8tejun(j.] Tliat'll do. 
 
 [ The servant unthdraws as Iris reiuriis tcearuKj 
 a hat and m-pe and carrying her ghves. 
 Her head still erect, she mores towards the 
 door leadiny to the hall. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 [Playing vnth his heard.] You — er 
 
 [C^2^o7i hearing his voice, she halts abruptly in 
 the centre 0/ the room. 
 
 Maldoxado. 
 
 You can send for your trinkets and clothes in the 
 morning. After that, let me hear no more of you. 
 \_She remains motionless, as if stricken.] I've nothing 
 further to say. 
 
 \_A slight shiver runs through her frame and she 
 resumes her walk. At the door, she feels 
 hlindly for the handle ; finding it, she opens 
 the door narrowly and passes out. Directly 
 the door closes behind her, Maldoxado 
 utters a fierce cry and, vnth one movement 
 of his arm, sweeps the china and bric-a-brac 
 from the mantelpiece. The fragments are 
 scattered about the room. 
 
224 IRIS 
 
 Maldonado. 
 
 All ! ah ! Ho, ho ! 
 
 [He overturns iJie tahle with a sava<je kick ; 
 then, raising a chair liitjh in the air, he 
 clashes it to the floor and breaks it into 
 splinters. The curtain falls finallij. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by Bali.antyne, Hanson &^ Co, 
 London &= Edinburgh 
 
 ^?_ 
 
 '^P'M 
 
ETURN CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 
 
 0— ^ 202 Main Library 
 
 OAN PERIOD 1 
 HOME USE 
 
 2 3 
 
 
 5 6 
 
 ALL BOOKS AAAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 
 
 1 -month loans moy be renewed by colling 642-3405 
 
 6-month loons may be rechorged by bringing books to Circulation Desk 
 
 Renewals and recharges may be mode 4 days prior to due dote 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BEL 
 
 ow 
 
 :\fc. ^H, ^- '5a:^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY 
 
 =ORM NO. DD6, 60m, 12/80 BERKELEY, CA 94720 
 
 ®$ 
 
U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 CDSSES7h3fl 
 
 UNIVKRSITY OF CAI.IFORNIA IvIBRARY 
 
 • ^ ■ :: . .... 
 
imwTJ'imi 
 
 
 
 A 
 
 
 «^ 
 
 •i.i 
 
 KriCi 
 
 
 liili 
 
 ii<\Tlr4riq;;-il!l-[