.7*^,;,»y.' ^r>-^.-** ''i*''***
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 FIVE ONE ACT PLAYS
 
 All inquiries respecting the performance of 
 any play contained in this volume must be 
 addressed to Messrs. Samuel French, Limited, 
 26 Southampton Street, Strand, London.
 
 FIVE ONE ACT PLAYS 
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED— FANCY FREE 
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE— PHIPPS 
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 Bv 
 STANLEY HOUGHTON 
 
 (Author of ■' Hindle Wakes." etc) 
 
 
 M.5.C 
 
 LONDON 
 SiDGWicK & Jackson, Ltd., 3 Adam Street, W.C 
 Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street, W.C 
 NEW YORK: Samuel French, 28 West 38TH Street 
 
 MCMXIII
 
 COPYRIGHT. I913, BY SaMUEL FRENCH, LIMITED 
 
 /
 
 ■p/v 
 
 4)111 
 
 Ms I 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The Dear Departed . . . . . .11 
 
 Fanxy Free ........ 35 
 
 The Master of the House . . . . • 55 
 
 Phipps ......... 73 
 
 The Fifth Commandment . ... 95 
 
 771555
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED
 
 "The Dear Departed'* toca 
 produced at the Gaiety Theatre, 
 Manchester, on November 2, 1908, 
 by Miss Homiman's Covnpanu.
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Mrs. Sl.^ter ) gi^^^^^ 
 
 Mrs. JORDAM j 
 
 Hexry Slater ) ^^^^^ Husbands 
 Ben Jordan ) 
 
 Victoria Slater, a Girl of ten 
 Abel Merryweather 
 
 The action takes place in a provincial town on a 
 Saturday afternoon.
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED 
 
 (Note.— The terms " Left " and ' Right " in the 
 " stage directions refer to the spectator's left and 
 right, not the actor's.) 
 
 Thi. scene is the sitting-room of a small house in a 
 lower middle-class district of a provincial town. 
 On the spectator's left is the window, with the blinds 
 down. A sofa is in front of it. On his right is a 
 fireplace with an armchair by it. In the middle of 
 the wall facing the spectator is the door into the pas- 
 sage. To the left of the door a cheap, shabby chest 
 of drawers, to the right a sideboard. In the middle 
 of the room is the table, with chairs round it. Orna- 
 ments and a cJieap American clock are on the mantel- 
 piece, in the hearth a kettle. By the sideboard a pair 
 of gaudy new carpet slippers. The table is partly 
 laid for tea, and the necessaries for the meal are on 
 the sideboard, as also are copies of an evening paper 
 and of " Tit-Bits " and " Pearson's Weekly." Turn- 
 ing to the left through the door takes you to the front 
 door ; to the right, upstairs. In the passage a hat- 
 stand is visible. 
 
 When tJte curtain rises Mrs. Slater is seen laying 
 the table. She is a vigorous, plump, red-faced 
 vulgar woman, prepared to do any amount of straight 
 talking to get her own way. She is in black, but 
 not in complete mourning. She listens a momeni 
 and then goes to the window, opens it and calls into 
 the street. 
 
 11
 
 12 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 Mrs. Slater {sharply). Victoria, Victoria I D'ye 
 hear ? Come in, will you ? 
 
 (Mrs. Slater closes window and puts the blind straight 
 and then returns to her work at the table. Victoria, 
 a precocious girl of ten, dressed in colours, enters. 
 
 Mrs. S. I'm amazed at you, Victoria ; I really 
 am. How you can be gallivanting about in the 
 street with your grandfather lying dead and cold 
 upstairs I don't know. Be off now, and change 
 your dress before your Aunt Ehzabeth and your 
 Uncle Ben come. It would never do for them to 
 find you in colours. 
 
 Victoria. What are they coming for ? They 
 haven't been here for ages. 
 
 Mrs. S. They're coming to talk over poor grand- 
 pa's affairs. Your father sent them a telegram as 
 soon as we found he was dead. [A noise is heard.) 
 Good gracious, that's never them. (Mrs. Slater 
 hurries to the door and opens it.) No, thank goodness ! 
 It's only your father. 
 
 (Henry Slater, a stooping, heavy man with a drooping 
 moustache, enters. He is wearing a black tail coat, 
 grey trousers, a black tie and a bowler hat. He 
 carries a little paper parcel.) 
 
 Henry. Not come yet, eh ? 
 
 Mrs. S. You can see they haven't, can't you. 
 Now, Victoria, be off upstairs and that quick. Put 
 your' white frock on with a black sash. (Victoria 
 goes out.) 
 
 Mrs. S. {to Henry). I'm not satisfied, but it's 
 the best we can do till our new black's ready, and 
 Ben and Ehzabeth will never have thought about 
 mourning yet, so we'll outshine them there. (Henry 
 sits in the armchair by the fire.) Get your boots off, 
 Henry ; Ehzabeth's that prying she notices the least 
 speck of dirt. 
 
 Henry. I'm wondering if they'll come at all.
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 13 
 
 When you and Elizabeth quarrelled she said she'd 
 never set foot in your house again. 
 
 Mrs. S. She'll come fast enough after her share 
 of what grandfather's left. You know how hard 
 she can be when she Ukes. Where she gets it from 
 I can't teU. 
 
 (Mrs. Slater unwraps the parcel Henry has brongJit. 
 It contains sliced tongue, which she puts on a dish 
 on the table.) 
 
 Henry. I suppose it's in the family. 
 
 Mrs. S. What do you mean by that, Henry 
 Slater ? 
 
 Henry. I was referring to your father, not to 
 you. Where are my sUppers ? 
 
 Mrs. S. In the kitchen ; but 3'ou want a new 
 pair, those old ones are nearly worn out. {Nearly 
 breaking down.) You don't seem to realize what it's 
 costing me to bear up like I am doing. My heart's 
 fit to break when I see the Httle trifles that belonged 
 to grandfather lying around, and think he'll never 
 use them again. {Briskly.) Here ! you'd better 
 wear these sUppers of grandfather's now. It's lucky 
 he'd just got a new pair. 
 
 Henry. They'll be very small for me, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. S. They'll stretch, won't they ? I'm not 
 going to have them wasted. {She has finis:hed laying 
 the table.) Henry, I've been thinking about that 
 bureau of grandfather's that's in his bedroom. You 
 know I always wanted to have it after he died. 
 
 Henry. You must arrange with Elizabeth when 
 you're dividing things up. 
 
 Mrs. S. Elizabeth's that sharp she'll see I'm 
 after it, and she'll drive a hard bargain o^•er it. Eh, 
 what it is to have a low money-grubbing spirit 1 
 
 Henry. Perhaps she's got her eye on the bureau 
 as well. 
 
 Mrs. S. She's never been here since grandfather
 
 14 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 bought it. If it was only down here instead of in 
 his room, she'd never guess it wasn't our own. 
 
 Henry (startled). AmeUa ! (He rises.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Henry, why shouldn't we bring that 
 bureau down here now. We could do it before they 
 come. 
 
 Henry (stupefied). I wouldn't care to. 
 
 Mrs. S. Don't look so daft. Why not ? 
 
 Henry. It doesn't seem deUcate, somehow. 
 
 Mrs. H. We could put that shabby old chest of 
 drawers upstairs where the bureau is now. Elizabeth 
 could have that and welcome. I've always wanted 
 to get rid of it. (She points to the drawers.) 
 
 Henry. Suppose they come when v/e're doing it. 
 
 Mrs. S. I'll fasten the front door. Get your 
 coat off, Henry ; we'll change it. 
 (Mrs. Slater goes out to fasten the front door. 
 
 Henry takes his coat off. Mrs. Slater reap- 
 pears.) 
 
 Mrs. S. I'll run up and move the chairs out of 
 the way. 
 
 (Victoria appears, dressed according to her mother's 
 
 instructions.) 
 
 Vic. Will you fasten my frock up the back, 
 mother ? 
 
 Mrs. S. I'm busy ; get your father to do it. 
 
 (Mrs. Slater hurries upstairs, and Henry fastens 
 
 the frock.) 
 
 Vic. What have you got your coat off for, father ? 
 
 Henry. Mother and me is going to bring grand- 
 father's bureau down here. 
 
 Vic. (after a moment's thought). Are we pinching 
 it before Aunt EHzabeth comes ? 
 
 Henry (shocked). No, my child. Grandpa gave 
 it your mother before he died. 
 
 Vic. This morning ?
 
 THE DEAR DEPAT^TED. IS 
 
 Henry. Yes. 
 
 Vic. Ah ! He was drunk this morning. 
 Henry. Hush ; you mustn't ever say he was 
 drank, now. 
 
 (Henry has fastened the frock, and Mrs. Slater 
 appears carrying a handsome clock under her arm.) 
 
 Mrs. S. I thought I'd fetch this down as well. 
 {She puts it on tlie mar.teipiece .) Our clock's worth 
 nothing and this always appealed to me. 
 
 Vic. That's grandpa's clock. 
 
 Mrs. S. Chut ! Be quiet ! It's ours now. Come, 
 Henry, Uft your end. Victoria, don't breathe a word 
 to your aunt about the clock and the bureau. 
 
 {They carry the chest of drawers through the doorway.) 
 
 Vic. {to herself). I thought we'd pinched them. 
 
 {After a short pause there is a sharp knock at the front 
 
 door.) 
 
 Mrs. S. {from upstairs). Victoria, if that's your 
 aunt and uncle 5^ou're not to open the door. 
 
 (Victoria peeps through the window.) 
 
 Vic. Mother, it's them ! 
 
 Mrs. S. You're not to open the door tiU I come 
 down. {Kfwcking repeated.) Let them knock away. 
 {There is a heavy bumping noise.) Mind the wall, 
 Henry. 
 
 (Henry and Mrs. Slater, u^ry Ao/ and flushed, stagger 
 in with a pretty old-fashioned bureau containing a 
 locked desk. They put it where the chest of drawers 
 was, and straighten the ornaments, eic. The knocking 
 is repeated.) 
 
 Mrs. S. That was a near thing. Open the door, 
 Victoria. Now, Henry, get your coat on. {She 
 helps him.) 
 
 Henry. Did we knock much plaster off the wall ?
 
 16 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 Mrs. S. Never mind the plaster. Do I look all 
 right ? {Straightening her hair at the glass.) Just 
 watch Elizabeth's face when she sees we're all in half 
 mourning. {Throwing him " Tit-Bits.") Take this 
 and sit down. Try and look as if we'd been waiting 
 for them. 
 
 (Henry sits in the armchair and Mrs. Slater left of 
 table. They read ostentatiously. Victoria ushers in 
 Ben and Mrs. Jordan. The latter is a stout, com- 
 placent woman with an impassive face and an irritating 
 air of being always right. She is wearing a complete 
 and deadly outfit of new mourning crowned by a great 
 black hat ivith plumes. Ben is also in complete 
 new mourning, with black gloves and a band rou7id 
 his hat. He is rather a jolly little man, accustomed 
 to be humorous, but at present trying to adapt 
 himself to the regrettable occasion. He has a bright, 
 chirpy little voice. Mrs. Jordan sails into the 
 room and solemnly goes straight to Mrs. Slater and 
 kisses her. The men shake hands. Mrs. Jordan 
 kisses Henry. Ben kisses Mrs. Slater. Not a 
 word is spoken. Mrs. Slater furtively inspects 
 the new mourning.) 
 
 Mrs. Jordan. Well, Amelia, and so he's " gone " 
 at last. 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes, he's gone. He was seventy-two a 
 fortnight last Sunday. 
 
 {She sniffs back a tear, Mrs. Jordan sits on the left 
 of the table. Mrs. Slater on the right. Henry 
 in the armchair. Ben on the sofa with Victoria 
 near him.) 
 
 Ben {chirpily). Now, Amelia, you mustn't give 
 way. We've all got to die some time or other. It 
 might have been worse. 
 
 Mrs. S. I don't see how. 
 
 Ben. It might have been one of us.
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 17 
 
 Henry. It's taken you a long time to get here, 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 Mrs. J. Oh, I couldn't do it. I really couldn't 
 do it. 
 
 Mrs. S. (suspiciously). Couldn't do what ? 
 
 Mrs. J. I couldn't start without getting the 
 mourning. (Glancing at her sister.) 
 
 Mrs. S, We've ordered ours, you may be sure. 
 (Acidly.) I never could fancy buying ready-made 
 things. 
 
 Mrs. J. No ? For myself it's such a relief to 
 get into the black. And now perhaps you'll tell us 
 all about it. What did the doctor say ? 
 
 Mrs. S. Oh, he's not been near yet. 
 
 Mrs. J. Not been near ? 
 
 Ben (in the same breath). Didn't you send for 
 him at once ? 
 
 Mrs. S. Of course I did. Do you take me for a 
 fool ? I sent Henry at once for Dr. Pringle, but he 
 was out. 
 
 Ben. You should have gone for another. Eh, 
 EUza ? 
 
 Mrs. J. Oh, yes. It's a fatal mistake. 
 
 Mrs. S. Pringle attended him when he was alive 
 and Pringle shall attend him when he's dead. That's 
 professional etiquette. 
 
 Ben. Well, you know your own business best, 
 but 
 
 Mrs. J. Yes — it's a fatal mistake. 
 
 Mrs. S. Don't talk so silly, Elizabeth. What 
 good could a doctor have done ? 
 
 Mrs. J. Look at the many cases of persons being 
 restored to hfe hours after they were thought to be 
 
 gone. 
 
 Henry. That's when they've been drowned. 
 Your father wasn't drowned, Ehzabeth. 
 
 Ben (humorously). There wasn't much fear of 
 
 that. If there was one thing he couldn't bear it was 
 
 water. 
 
 3
 
 18 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 (He laughs, but no one else does.) 
 
 Mrs. J. (pained). Ben ! (Ben is crushed at 
 once.) 
 
 Mrs. S. (piqued). I'm sure he washed regular 
 enough. 
 
 Mrs. J. If he did take a drop too much at times, 
 we'll not dwell on that, now. 
 
 Mrs. S. Father had been " merry " this morning. 
 He went out soon after breakfast to pay his insur- 
 ance. 
 
 Ben. My word, it's a good thing he did. 
 
 Mrs. J. He always was thoughtful in that way. 
 He was too honourable to have " gone " without 
 paying his premium. 
 
 Mrs. S. Well, he must have gone round to the 
 Ring-o'-Bells afterwards, for he came in as merry as 
 a sandboy. I says, " We're only waiting Henry to 
 start dinner." " Dinner," he says, " I don't want 
 no dinner, I'm going to bed 1 " 
 
 Ben (shaking his head). Ah ! Dear, dear. 
 
 Henry. And when I came in I foimd him undressed 
 sure enough and snug in bed. (He rises and stands 
 on the hearthrug.) 
 
 Mrs. J. (definitely). Yes, he'd had a "warning." 
 I'm sure of that. Did he know you ? 
 
 Henry. Yes. He spoke to me. 
 
 Mrs. J. Did he say he'd had a "warning" ? 
 
 Henry. No. He said, " Henry, would you 
 mind taking my boots off ; I forgot before I got into 
 bed." 
 
 Mrs. J. He must have been wandering. 
 
 Henry. No, he'd got 'em on all right. 
 
 Mrs. S. And when we'd finished dinner I thought 
 I'd take up a bit of something on a tray. He was 
 lying there for all the world as if he was asleep, so 
 I put the tray down on the bureau — (correcting 
 herself) on the chest of drawers — and went to waken 
 him. (A pause.) He was quite cold.
 
 THE DEAR DEPABTED. 19 
 
 Henry, Then I heard Ameha calling for me, 
 
 and I ran upstairs. 
 
 Mrs. S. Of course we could do nothing. 
 
 Mrs. J. He was " gone " ? 
 
 Henry. There wasn't any doubt. 
 
 Mrs. J. I always knew he'd go sudden in the 
 end. 
 
 {A pause, they wipe their eyes and sniff back tears.) 
 
 Mrs. S. {rising briskly at length ; in a businesslike 
 tone). Well, will you go up and look at him now, 
 or shall we have tea ? 
 
 Mrs. J. What do you say, Ben ? 
 
 Ben. I'm not particular. 
 
 Mrs. J. {surveying the table). Well then, if the 
 kettle's nearly ready we may as well have tea first. 
 
 (Mrs. Slater puis the kettle on the fire and gets tea 
 
 ready.) 
 
 Henry. One thing we may as well decide now ; 
 the announcement in the papers. 
 
 Mrs. J. I was thinking of that. What would 
 you put ? 
 
 Mrs. S. At the residence of his daughter, 235, 
 Upper Combank Street, etc. 
 
 Henry. You wouldn't care for a bit of poetry ? 
 
 Mrs. J. I like " Never Forgotten." It's refined. 
 
 Henry. Yes, but it's rather soon for that. 
 
 Ben. You couldn't very well have forgot him 
 the day after. 
 
 Mrs. S. I always fancy " A loving husband, a 
 kind father, and a faithful friend." 
 
 Ben {doubtfully). Do you think that's right ? 
 
 Henry. I don't think it matters whether it's 
 right or not. 
 
 Mrs. J. No, it's more for the look of the thing. 
 
 Henry. I saw a verse in The Evening Neu-s 
 yesterday. Proper poetry it was. It rhymed. 
 {He gets the paper and reads)
 
 90 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 "Despised and forgotten by some you may be 
 But the spot that contains you is sacred to we." 
 
 Mrs. J. That'll never do. You don't say " Sacred 
 to we." 
 
 Henry. It's in the paper. 
 
 Mrs. S. You wouldn't say it if you were speaking 
 properly, but it's different in poetr\'. 
 
 Henry. Poetic license, you know. 
 
 Mrs. J. No, that'll never do. We want a verse 
 that says how much we loved him and refers to all 
 his good qualities and says what a heavy loss we've 
 had. 
 
 Mrs. S. You want a whole poem. That'll cost 
 a good lot. 
 
 Mrs. J. Well, we'll think about it after tea, and 
 then we'll look through his bits of things and make 
 a hst of them. There's all the furniture in his room. 
 
 Henry. There's no jewellery or valuables of that 
 sort. 
 
 Mrs. J. Except his gold watch. He promised 
 that to our Jimmy. 
 
 Mrs. S. Promised your Jimmy ! I never heard 
 of that. 
 
 Mrs. J. Oh. but he did, Amelia, when he was 
 living with us. He was very fond of Jimmy. 
 
 Mrs. S. Well. {Amazed.) I don't know ! 
 
 Ben. Anyhow, there's his insurance money. 
 Have you got the receipt for the premium he paid 
 this morning ? 
 
 Mrs. S. I've not seen it, 
 
 (Victoria jumps up from the sofa and comes behind 
 
 the table.) 
 
 Vic. Mother, I don't think grandpa went to pay 
 his insurance this morning. 
 
 Mrs. S. He went out. 
 
 Vic. Yes, but he didn't go into the town. He 
 met old Mr. Tattersall down the street, and they 
 went off past St. Philips's Church. 
 
 I
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. ^1 
 
 Mrs. S. To the Ring-a'-Bclls, I'll be bound. 
 
 Ben. The Ring-o'-Bells ? 
 
 Mrs. S. That public-house that John Shorrock's 
 widow keeps. He is alwaj's hanging about there. 
 Oh, if he hasn't paid it 
 
 Ben. Do you think he hasn't paid it ? Was it 
 overdue ? 
 
 Mrs. S. I should think it was overdue. 
 
 Mrs. J. Something tells me he's not paid it. 
 I've a " warning," I know it ; he's not paid it. 
 
 Ben. The drunken old beggar. 
 
 Mrs. J. He's done it on purpose, just to anno}' us. 
 
 Mrs. S. After all I've done for him, having to put 
 up with him in the house these three years. It's 
 nothing short of swindling. 
 
 Mrs. J. I had to put up with him for five years. 
 
 Mrs, S. And you were tr}ing to turn him over 
 to us all the time. 
 
 Henry. But we don't know for certain that he's 
 not paid the premium. 
 
 Mrs. J. I do. It's come over me all at once 
 that he hasn't. 
 
 Mrs. S. Mctoria, run upstairs and fetch that 
 bunch of keys that's on your grandpa's dressing 
 table. 
 
 Vic. {timidly) . In grandpa's room ? 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes. 
 
 Vic. I— I don't like to. 
 
 Mrs. S. Don't talk so siih^. There's no one can 
 hurt you. 
 
 (Victoria goes out reluctantly .) 
 
 We'll see if he's locked the receipt up in the bureau. 
 • Ben. In where ? In this thing ? [He rises 
 and examines it.) 
 
 Mrs. J. {also rising). Where did you pick that 
 up, Amelia ? It's new since last I was here. 
 
 {They examine it closely.)
 
 2i THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 Mrs. S. Oh — Henry picked it up one day. 
 
 Mrs. J. I like it. It's artistic. Did you buy 
 it at an auction ? 
 
 Henry. Eh ? Where did I buy it, Amelia ? 
 
 Mrs. J. Yes, at an auction. 
 
 Ben {disparagingly). Oh, second-hand. 
 
 Mrs. J. Don't show your ignorance, Ben. All 
 artistic things are second-hand. Look at those old 
 masters. 
 
 (Victoria returns, very scared. She closes the door 
 
 after her.) 
 
 Vic. Mother ! Mother ! 
 Mrs. S. What is it, child ? 
 Vic. Grandpa's getting up. 
 Ben. What ? 
 
 Mrs. S. What do you say ? 
 Vic. Grandpa's getting up. 
 Mrs. J. The child's crazy. 
 Mrs. S. Don't talk so silly. Don't you know 
 your grandpa's dead ? 
 Vic. No, no ; he's getting up. I saw him. 
 
 {They are transfixed with amazement ; Ben and Mrs. 
 Jordan left of table ; Victoria clings to Mrs. 
 Slater, right of table ; Henry near fireplace.) 
 
 Mrs. J. You'd better go up and see for yourself, 
 Amelia. 
 Mrs. S. Here — come with me, Henry. 
 
 (Henry draws back terrified.) 
 
 Ben {suddenly). Hist ! Listen. 
 
 {J'hey look at the door. A slight chuckling is heard 
 outside. The door opens, revealing an old man clad 
 in a faded but gay dressing-gown. He is in his 
 stockinged feet. Although over seventy he is vigorous 
 and well coloured ; his bright, malicious eyes twinkle
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. BS 
 
 under his heavy, reddish-grey eyebrows. He is 
 obviously either grandfather Abel Merryweather 
 or else his ghost.) 
 
 Abel. What's the matter with little Vicky ? 
 {He sees Ben and Mrs. Jordan.) Hello ! What 
 brings you here ? How's yourself, Ben ? 
 
 (Abel thrusts his hand at Ben, who skips back smartly 
 and retreats with Mrs. Jordan to a safe distance 
 below the sofa.) 
 
 Mrs. S. {approaching Abel gingerly). Grand- 
 father, is that you ? {She pokes him with her hand 
 to see if he is solid.) 
 
 Abel. Of course it's me. Don't do that, 'Meha. 
 What the devil do you mean by this tomfoolery ? 
 
 Mrs. S. {to the others). He's not dead. 
 
 Ben. Doesn't seem like it. 
 
 Abel {irritated by the whispering). You've kept 
 away long enough, Lizzie ; and now you've come you 
 don't seem over-pleased to see me. 
 
 Mrs. J. You took us by surprise, father. Are 
 you keeping quite well ? 
 
 Abel {trying to catch the words). Eh ? What ? 
 
 Mrs. J. Are you quite well ? 
 
 Abel. Ay, I'm right enough but for a bit of a 
 headache. I wouldn't mind betting that I'm not 
 the first in this house to be carried to the cemetery. 
 I always think Henry there looks none too healthy. 
 
 Mrs. J. Well I never ! (Abel crosses to the 
 armchair and Henry gets out of his way to the front 
 of the table.) 
 
 Abel. 'Melia, what the dickens did I do with 
 my new slippers ? 
 
 Mrs. S. {confused). Aren't they by the hearth, 
 grandfather ? 
 
 Abel. I don't see th'^m. {Observing Henky 
 trying to remove the slippers.) Why, you've got 'em 
 on, Henry.
 
 24 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 Mrs. S. [promptly). I told him to put them on 
 to stretch them, they were that new and hard. 
 Now, Henry. 
 
 (Mrs. Slater snatches the slippers from Henry and 
 gives them to Abel, who puts them on and sits in 
 armchair.) 
 
 Mrs. J. {to Ben). Well, I don't call that dehcate, 
 stepping into a dead man's shoes in such haste. 
 
 (Henry goes up to the window and pulls up the blind.) 
 Victoria runs across to Abel and sits on the floor 
 
 at his feet.) 
 
 Vic. Oh, grandpa, I'm so glad you're not dead. 
 
 Mrs. S. [in a vindictive whisper). Hold your 
 tongue, Victoria. 
 
 Abel. Eh ? What's that ? Who's gone dead ? 
 
 Mrs. S. [loudly). Victoria says she's sorry about 
 your head. 
 
 Abel. Ah, thank you, Vicky, but I'm feehng 
 better. 
 
 Mrs. S. [to Mrs. J.) He's so fond of Victoria. 
 
 Mrs J. [to Mrs. S.). Yes; he's fond of our 
 Jimmy, too. 
 
 Mrs. S. You'd better ask him if he promised 
 your Jimmy his gold watch. 
 
 Mrs. J. [disconcerted). I couldn't just now. I 
 don't feel equal to it. 
 
 Abel. Why, Ben, you're in mourning ! And 
 Lizzie too. And 'Melia, and Henry and httle Vicky ! 
 Who's gone dead ? It's some one in the family. 
 [He chuckles.) 
 
 Mrs. S. No one you know, father. A relation 
 of Ben's. 
 
 Abel. And what relation of Ben's ? 
 
 Mrs. S. His brother. 
 
 Ben (to Mrs. S.) Dang it, I never had one. 
 
 Abel. Dear, dear. And what was his name, 
 Ben ? 
 
 I
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 26 
 
 Ben [at a loss). Er — er. [He crosses io front of 
 table.) 
 
 Mrs. S. (r. of table) {prompting). Frederick. 
 
 Mrs. J. (l. of table) {prompting). Albert. 
 
 Ben. Er — Fred — Alb— Isaac. 
 
 Abel. Isaac ? And where did your brother 
 Isaac die ? 
 
 Ben. In — er — in AustraUa. 
 
 Abel. Dear, dear. He'd be older than you, 
 eh? 
 
 Ben. Yes, five year. 
 
 Abel. Ay, ay. Are you going to the funeral ? 
 
 Ben. Oh, yes. 
 
 Mrs. S. a7id Mrs. J. No, no. 
 
 Ben. No, of course not. {He retires to the left.) 
 
 Abel {rising). Well, I suppose you've only been 
 waiting for me to begin tea. I'm feehng hungry. 
 
 Mrs. S. {taking up the kettle). I'll make tea. 
 
 Abel. Come along, now ; sit you down and let's 
 be jolly. 
 
 (Abel sits at the head of the table, facing spectator. Ben 
 and Mrs. Jordan on the left. Victoria brings a 
 chair and sits by Abel. Mrs. Slater and Henry 
 sit on the right. Both the women are next to Abel.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Henry, give grandpa some tongue. 
 Abel. Thank you. I'll make a start. {He 
 helps himself to bread and butter.) 
 
 (Henry serves the tongue and Mrs. Slater pours 
 out tea. Only Abel eats with any heartiness.) 
 
 Ben. Glad to see you've got an appetite, Mr. 
 Merr^'weather, although you've not been so well. 
 
 Abel. Nothing serious. I've been lying down 
 for a bit. 
 
 Mrs. S. Been to sleep, grandfather ? 
 
 Abel. No, I've not been to sleep. 
 
 Mrs. S. and Henry. Oh ! 
 
 Abel {eatwj and drinking). I can't exactly call
 
 26 THE DEAB DEPARTED. 
 
 everything to mind, but I remember I was a bit 
 dazed, like. I couldn't move an inch, hand or foot. 
 
 Ben, And could you see and hear, Mr. Merry- 
 weather ? 
 
 Abel. Yes, but I don't remember seeing any- 
 thing particular. Mustard, Ben. (Ben passes the 
 mustard.) 
 
 Mrs. S. Of course not, grandfather. It was all 
 your fancy. You must have been asleep. 
 
 Abel {snappishly). I tell you I wasn't asleep, 
 'Meha. Damn it, I ought to know. 
 
 Mrs. J. Didn't you see Henry or AmeUa come 
 into the room ? 
 
 Abel {scratching his head). Now let me think 
 
 Mrs. S. I wouldn't press him, EUzabeth. Don't 
 press him. 
 
 Henry. No. I wouldn't worry him. 
 
 Abel {suddenly recollecting). Ay, begad ! 'Melia 
 and Henry, what the devil did you mean by shifting 
 my bureau out of my bedroom ? 
 
 (Henry and Mrs. Slater are speechless.) 
 
 D'you hear me ? Henry ! 'MeUa ! 
 
 Mrs. J. What bureau was that, father ? 
 
 Abel. Why, my bureau, the one I bought 
 
 Mrs. J. {pointing to the bureau). Was it that one, 
 father ? 
 
 Abel. Ah, that's it. What's it doing here ? 
 Eh? 
 
 {A pause. The clock on the mantelpiece strikes six. 
 Every one looks at it.) 
 
 Drat me if that isn't my clock, too. What the 
 de\irs been going on in this house ? 
 
 {A slight pause.) 
 
 Ben. WeU, I'll be hanged. 
 Mrs. J. {rising). I'll tell you what's been going 
 on in this house, father. Nothing short of robberj'.
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 27 
 
 Mrs. S. Be quiet, Elizabeth. 
 
 Mrs. J. I'll not be quiet. Oh, I call it double- 
 faced. 
 
 Henry. Now, now, Elizabeth. 
 
 Mrs. J. And you, too. Are you such a poor 
 creature that you must do ever}^ dirty thing she 
 tells you ? 
 
 Mrs. S. (rising). Remember where you are, 
 EHzabeth. 
 
 Henry (rising). Come, come. No quarrelling. 
 
 Ben (rising). My wife's every right to speak 
 her own mind. 
 
 Mrs. S. Then she can speak it outside, not here. 
 
 Abel (risifig). (Thumping the table.) Damn it 
 all, will some one tell me what's been going on. 
 
 Mrs. J. Yes, I will. I'll not see you robbed. 
 
 Abel. Who's been robbing me ? 
 
 Mrs. J. AmeUa and Henr}.'. They've stolen 
 your clock and bureau. (Working herself up.) They 
 sneaked into your room Hke a thief in the night and 
 stole them after you were dead. 
 
 Henry and Mrs. S. Hush ! Q liet, Elizabeth ! 
 
 Mrs. J. I'll not be stopped. After you were 
 dead, I say. 
 
 Abel. After who was dead ? 
 
 Mrs. J. You. 
 
 Abel. But I'm not dead. 
 
 Mrs. J. No, but they thought you were. 
 
 (A pause. Abel gazes round at them.) 
 
 Abel. Oho ! So that's why you're all in black 
 to-day. You thought I was dead. (He chuckles.) 
 That was a big mistake. (He sits and resumss his 
 tea.) 
 
 Mrs. S. (sobbing.) Grandfather. 
 
 Abel. It didn't take j-ou long to start dividing 
 my things between you. 
 
 Mrs. J. No, father: you mustn't think that,
 
 28 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 
 
 Amelia was simply getting hold of them on her own 
 account. 
 
 Abel. You always were a keen one, Amelia. I 
 suppose you thought the will v\'asn't fair. 
 
 Henry. Did you make a will ? 
 
 Abel. Yes, it was locked up in the bureau. 
 
 Mrs. J. And what was in it, father ? 
 
 Abel. That doesn't matter now. I'm thinking 
 of destrojdng it and making another. 
 
 Mrs. S. (sobbing). Grandfather, you'll not be 
 hard on me. 
 
 Abel. I'll trouble you for another cup of tea, 
 'Melia; two lumps and plenty of milk. 
 
 Mrs. S. With pleasure, grandfather. {She pours 
 out the tea.) 
 
 Abel. I don't want to be hard on any one. I'll 
 tell you what I'm going to do. Since your mother 
 died, I've Uved part of the time with you, 'Melia, 
 and part with you, Lizzie. Well, I shall make a 
 new will, leaving all my bits of things to whoever 
 I'm living with when I die. How does that strike 
 you ? 
 
 Henry. It's a bit of a lottery, Uke. 
 
 Mrs. J. And who do you intend to live with from 
 now ? 
 
 Abel [drinking his tea). I'm just coming to that. 
 
 Mrs. J. You know, father, it's quite time you 
 came to live with us again. We'd make you very 
 comfortable. 
 
 Mrs. S. No, he's not been with us as long as he 
 was with you. 
 
 Mrs. J. I may be wrong, but I don't think father 
 will fancy living on with you after what's happened 
 to-day. 
 
 Abel. So you'd like to have me again, Lizzie ? 
 
 Mrs. J. You know we're ready for you to make 
 your home with us for as long as j'ou please. 
 
 Abel. What do you say to that, 'Melia ? 
 
 Mrs. S. All I can say is that Elizabeth's changed
 
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 20 
 
 her mind in the last two years. (Rising.) Grand- 
 father, do you know what the quarrel between us 
 was about ? 
 
 Mrs. J. Amelia, don't be a fool; sit down. 
 
 Mrs. S. No, if I'm not to have him, you shan't 
 either. We quarrelled because EUzabeth said she 
 wouldn't take you off our hands at any price. She 
 said she'd had enough of you to last a life-time, and 
 we'd got to keep you. 
 
 Abel. It seems to me that neither of you has 
 any cause to feel proud about the way you've treated 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. S. If I've done anything wrong, I'm sure 
 I'm sorry for it. 
 
 Mrs. J. And I can't say more than that, too. 
 
 Abel. It's a bit late to say it, now. You neither 
 of you cared to put up with me. 
 
 Mrs. S. and Mrs. J. No, no, grandfather. 
 
 Abel. Ay, you both say that because of what 
 I've told you about leaving my money. Well, since 
 you don't want me I'll go to some one that does. 
 
 Ben. Come, Mr. Merryweather, you've got to 
 live with one of your daughters. 
 
 Abel. I'll tell you what I've got to do. On 
 Monday next I've got to do three things. I've got 
 to go to the lawyer's and alter my will; and I've 
 got to go to the insurance office and pay my premium ; 
 and I've got to go to St. Phihps's Church and get 
 married. 
 
 Ben and Henry. What ! 
 
 Mrs. J. Get married ! 
 
 Mrs. S. He's out of his senses. 
 
 {General consternation.) 
 
 Abel. I say I'm going to get manied. 
 
 Mrs. S. Who to ? 
 
 Abel. To Mrs. John Shorrocks who keeps the 
 Ring-o' -Bells. We've had it fixed up a good while 
 now, but I was keeping it for a pleasant surprise.
 
 30 THE DEAR DEPARTED, 
 
 {He rises.) I felt I was a bit of a burden to you, so 
 I found some one who'd think it a pleasure to look 
 after me. We shall be very glad to see you at the 
 ceremony. (He gets to the door.) Till Monday, then. 
 Twelve o'clock at St. Philips's Church. {Opening 
 the door.) It's a good thing you brought that bureau 
 downstairs, 'Melia. It'll be handier to carry across 
 to the Ring-o' -Bells on Monday. 
 
 {He goes out.) 
 
 (The Curtain falls.)
 
 FANCY FREE
 
 *' Fancy Free " was produced 
 at the Tivoli Theatre, London, 
 an Monday, June 17, 1912.
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Fancy 
 Alfred 
 
 EtH ELBERT 
 
 Delta 
 
 The Scene represents the ^vriting-room of the Ilotd 
 Cosmopolitan, Babylon-on-Sea.
 
 FANCY FREE 
 
 The writing-room of the Hotel Cosmopolitan is a tall, 
 handsome apartment, exquisitely furnished. The 
 great fireplace faces the spectator, with a lounge chair 
 on each side. Near him, on his left, is a double 
 writing-table containing two desks opposite one 
 another. Chairs face each desk. Still further left 
 is a settee against the wall. On his right a settee 
 placed at right angles to the wall, a small low table, 
 and a low padded armchair. There is another writ- 
 ing-table on the right of the fireplace, and a book-case 
 on the left. The two entrances, each with double 
 doors, are set diagonally across the two visible corners 
 of the room, one right and oni left. 
 
 The fife is burning, and the electric lights are on. 
 It is a little after ten o'clock. 
 
 Fancy, in an evening gown, is sitting on the right hand 
 of the double desk, trying to compose a letter. She is 
 petite, dark and pretty. Alfred comes in from the 
 left in evening dress. He is tall, fair, clean-shaven 
 and handsome. 
 
 Fancy {looking up). Well ? 
 
 Alfred. I find that the last post goes at midnight. 
 It is now exactly a quarter-past ten. 
 
 Fancy. Then I have still an hour and three- 
 quarters in which to finish the letter. 
 
 35
 
 S6 FANCY FREE 
 
 (Alfred kneels on the chair on the other side of the 
 double desk and watches Fancy.) 
 
 Alfred. I am disappointed in you, Fancy. I 
 knew that I should be disappointed in you some day, 
 but I did not expect it to come so soon. 
 
 Fancy. My dear Alfred, pray do not forget that 
 this is no ordinary letter. 
 
 Alfred. It ought not to be so difficult to tell 
 one's husband that one has iTin away from him. 
 
 Fancy. But I have had so httle experience. I 
 daresay I shall improve with practice. 
 
 Alfred. How far have you got ? 
 
 Fancy. I'll read it to you. " Darling Ethel- 
 bert " 
 
 Alfred. Stop ! Ought you to call him darling 
 now ? 
 
 Fancy. Why not ? 
 
 Alfred. A sensitive mind might detect some- 
 thing inappropriate in the adjective. 
 
 Fancy. I always call him darling when I write to 
 him. I feel sure he would feel hurt if I omitted to 
 do so on this occasion. Besides, I am still very fond 
 of him. 
 
 Alfred. Perhaps you are right. We cannot too 
 scrupulously avoid wounding him. 
 
 Fancy [reading). " Darling Ethelbert, 
 
 " You will be interested to hear that since you 
 went to Scotland on Thursday last I have decided 
 to run away with Alfred. You cannot have for- 
 gotten the promises we made each other on oui 
 wedding-day. I am not referring to those we 
 made publicly during the marriage ceremony, 
 but to our private understanding that each 
 should be entirely free and untrammelled pro- 
 vided that the other's health and comfort was 
 not interfered with. You will understand, there- 
 fore, that in leaving you and going away with 
 Alfred I am doing nothing that is contrary to our
 
 FANCY FREE 37 
 
 agreement. You would have been entitled to 
 complain only if I had insisted on bringing Alfred 
 home with me." 
 
 That's logic, isn't it ? 
 
 Alfred. Yes. Feminine logic. 
 
 Fanxy. That is all Ethelbert has any right to 
 expect from me. 
 
 Alfred. How do you proceed ? 
 
 Fancy. I don't. That is the difficulty. 
 
 Alfred. At any rate. Fancy, you have made it 
 clear to Ethelbert that you have left him. That is 
 all that is essential. You have only to wind up now. 
 
 Fancy. How ? " Yours faithfully " ? 
 
 Alfred. Why not " Yours formerly " ? 
 
 F.\NCY. But I am afraid that is too abrupt. 
 Ethelbert is so sensitive. I should like to wind up 
 with something kind. 
 
 Alfred. Let me see. " You will be glad to hear 
 that we are having an awfully jolly time here." 
 
 Fancy. I doubt whether Ethelbert would be glad 
 to hear it. 
 
 Alfred. Then something chatty or discursive. 
 " The Cosmopolitan is an exceedingly nice hotel. It 
 contains no fewer than 250 bedrooms, each elabor- 
 ately furnished with all modem conveniences." 
 
 Fancy. Ethelbert will hardly care for such details. 
 Besides, I do not consider that the Cosmopolitan is 
 such a nice hotel. 
 
 Alfred. It is an exceedingly expensive one. 
 Let us endeavour to extract as much enjoyment out 
 of it as possible. 
 
 Fancy. I am sure that I should have preferred 
 the Grand Rendevous. 
 
 Alfred. The Grand Rendevous is, if possible, still 
 more expensive. 
 
 Fancy. What does that matter ? 
 
 Alfred. To you, Uttle or nothing. It is I who 
 have to pay the bill.
 
 38 FANCY FREE 
 
 Fancy. Alfred, you have the soul of a stockbroker. 
 
 Alfred. Do not flatter me. I have sometimes 
 hoped I had. 
 
 Fancy. If I had realized how useless you would 
 be in an emergency, I doubt whether I should have 
 run away with you. 
 
 Alfred. My dear Fancy, I did not run away with 
 you in order to conduct 50ur correspondence. You 
 should have advertised for a private secretary. I 
 had hoped to be something more to you than that. 
 
 Fancy {rising). I shall go to my room. It is 
 quite impossible for me to finish this letter here. 
 
 Alfred. Why ? 
 
 Fancy. This room is far too crowded. 
 
 Alfred. This is not a quarrel, I trust, Fancy. 
 
 Fancy. Certainly not. I hope I have too much 
 tact to quarrel with you on the first day of our elope- 
 ment. 
 
 (Fancy goes to the door with her letter.) 
 
 Alfred. When may I expect to see you again ? 
 Fancy. The last post goes at midnight. 
 
 (Fancy goes out l. Hardly has she gone than Ethel- 
 bert comes in R. He is a good-looking, dark man, 
 in evening dress.) 
 
 Alfred {thunderstruck). Ethelbert ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Alfred ! 
 
 Alfred. My dear fellow. 
 
 Ethelbert. How are you, old chap ? 
 
 Alfred. What brings j'ou here ? I understood 
 you were travelling on business. 
 
 Ethelbert. So I am. Extremely private busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Alfred. How singular that we should meet ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Are you here on business too ? 
 
 Alfred. Ei —yes. Extremely private business 
 also.
 
 FANCY FREE *© 
 
 Ethelbert. Come. Let us sit down and talk. 
 [He sits in the armchair R. of the fire.) 
 
 Alfred. With pleasure. But do not let us talk 
 here. 
 
 Ethelbert. Why not ? 
 
 Alfred. This is an exceedingly dull room. 
 
 Ethelbert. It is a very charming room. 
 • Alfred. But I assure you, I have been here quite 
 half an hour, and nothing whatever has happened. 
 
 Ethelbert. Then we can talk the more comfort- 
 ably. 
 
 (Alfred sits down reluJantly.) 
 
 Alfred. Where were you going when you came 
 in here ? 
 
 Ethelbert. I was looking for the American Bar. 
 
 Alfred. Excellent ! We will go and look for it 
 together. [He rises.) 
 
 Ethelbert. Presently. There is no hurry. 
 (Alfred sits down.) 
 
 Alfred (yawning). Do you know, Ethelbert, I 
 feel I ought to be getting to bed. 
 
 Ethelbert. Bed ? Why, it is only half-past ten. 
 
 Alfred. I promised my mother, before she died, 
 that whenever practicable I would be in bed by half- 
 past ten. 
 
 Ethelbert. But I want to talk to you about 
 
 Fancy. 
 
 Alfred. About Fancy ! Do you think you ought 
 to talk to me about Fancy ? The relations of a hus- 
 band and wife should be sacred, surely. 
 
 Ethelbert. I want to ask your advice, Alfred. 
 I ha\-e begun to suspect that Fancy is growing tired 
 of me. 
 
 Alfred {looking at his watch). I must positively 
 be in bed before ten o'clock
 
 40 FANCY FREE 
 
 Ethelbert. Why does a woman grow tired of a 
 man ? 
 
 Alfred. Because the last post goes at midnight. 
 
 Ethelbert. No. Because she prefers somebody 
 else. 
 
 Alfred, {interested). Do you suspect that Fancy 
 is in love with somebody else ? 
 
 Ethelbert. I do. 
 
 Alfred. "WTio is he ? 
 
 Ethelbert. I have no idea. I wish I had. 
 
 Alfred. Don't you think you will be much 
 happier if you remain in ignorance ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Oh, I am not thinking of myself. I 
 am thinking of him. 
 
 Alfred. Indeed. 
 
 Ethelbert. Yes. I should hke to warn him. 
 
 Alfred. To warn him ? 
 
 Ethelbert. I'm afraid she'll be running away 
 with the poor fellow. 
 
 Alfred {uneasily). Why do you call him a poor 
 fellow ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Fancy is so terribly extravagant. 
 She spends money like water, especially when it is 
 not her own. 
 
 Alfred {unthinkingly). Have you found that out, 
 too ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Of course I've found it out, and so 
 would 3^ou if you had been married to her as long as 
 I have. Candidly, I'm afraid Fancy will ruin the 
 poor fellow. 
 
 Alfred. What has that to do with you ? 
 
 Ethelbert. I hope I am a humane person, 
 Alfred. I would not wilUngly see my worst enemy 
 reduced to the workhouse, and this poor fellow may 
 be one of my friends. I should be intensely sorry if 
 one of my friends ruined himself for the sake of my 
 wife. I can assure you that she is not worth it. In 
 my experience, very few women are. 
 
 Alfred. Ethelbert, forgive me if I point out that
 
 FANCY FREE 41 
 
 you are not looking at this affair in the proper 
 ^^ay. 
 
 Ethelbert. Indeed ? In what way do you con- 
 sider that I ought to look at it ? 
 
 Alfred. Do you mean to say that you are not 
 indignant at the idea of another man eloping with 
 your wife ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Not in the least. 
 
 Alfred {warmly). Then j^ou ought to be, that's all. 
 
 Ethelbert. When I married Fancy we arranged 
 to leave each other absolutel}' free. I am a gentle- 
 man, Alfred ; you would not have me break my word. 
 
 Alfred. But it is quite inconceivable ! You 
 are without any sense of moral responsibihty. You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
 
 Ethelbert. I very often am. Aren't you ? 
 
 Alfred. Certainly not. I regulate my life, I 
 am thankful to say, by a strict rule of conduct, which 
 I observe as closely as possible. If I have lapses, so 
 much the worse. They are regrettable, but not un- 
 natural. At any rate, I have the immense consolation 
 of knowing that my principles are not lax, but that 
 I have merely failed to adhere to them for once in a 
 way. 
 
 Ethelbert. Believe me, Alfred, it is a mistake 
 to have too many principles. 
 
 Alfred. Why ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Because if you have too many it is 
 quite impossible to stick to them all. I content my- 
 self with one only. 
 
 Alfred. What is that ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Never be a hypocrite. It is an 
 excellent maxim. It permits you to do whatever you 
 please, provided you don't pretend you are not doing 
 it. I advise you to adopt it and to drop all your other 
 principles. 
 
 Alfred. Do you insinuate that I am a hypocrite ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Net at all. 
 
 Alfred. Then you are wrong. I am.
 
 42 FANCY FREE 
 
 Ethelbert. Really ? You grow more interest- 
 ing every day. 
 
 Alfred. Please do not flatter me. I am con- 
 scious that I do not deserve it. Ethelbert, your de- 
 plorable views about morality have awakened my 
 conscience. I must conceal the truth from you no 
 longer. Besides, I think it is extremely probable 
 that you would have found it out in any case very 
 shortly. 
 
 Ethelbert. What do you mean ? 
 
 Alfred. I knew, all the time, that Fancy was in 
 love with another man. 
 
 Ethelbert. How ? 
 
 Alfred. Because I am that other man. 
 
 Ethelbert. You don't say so ! Permit me to 
 offer you my sincere condolences. 
 
 Alfred. Thank you. 
 
 {They shake hands gravely.) 
 
 Ethelbert. How fortunate that I should be able 
 to warn you before it is too late !' 
 
 Alfred. Ethelbert, you must know all. It is too 
 late. I have alread}' run away with your wife. 
 
 Ethelbert Already ! When did it happen ? 
 
 Alfred. This morning. 
 
 Ethelbert. This morning ? Then 
 
 Alfred. Yes. You are right. Fancy is actually 
 in this hotel at the present moment. 
 
 Ethelbert. Upon my soul, Alfred, this is most 
 unfriendly of you. 
 
 Alfred. Go on. I am conscious that I merit all 
 your reproaches. 
 
 Ethelbert. I call it grossly indelicate to bring 
 Fancy to the very hotel in which I am staying. 
 
 Alfred. But, hang it all, we did not know that you 
 were staying here. You don't suppose we chose it 
 for that reason, do you ? We thought you were in 
 Scotland.
 
 FANCY FREE *3 
 
 Ethelbert. Ah, true. I did go to Scotland. I 
 spoke without reflecting. I beg your pardon, Alfred. 
 Alfred {politely). Not at all. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Ethelbert. Well, and how do you get on with 
 Fancy ? 
 
 Alfred. I hardly think I am justified in venturing 
 upon an opinion upon such a slight acquaintance. 
 
 Ethelbert. I wonder if I may presume to offer 
 you some advice ? 
 
 Alfred. By all means. 
 
 Ethelbert. If you are going to succeed in manag- 
 ing Fancy, }0U will have to put your foot down at 
 once. 
 
 Alfred. Put my foot down ? 
 
 Ethelbert. How much have you spent to-day ? 
 
 Alfred. About seven hundred and fifty pounds. 
 
 Ethelbert. I thought so. 
 
 Alfred. Fancy bought a motor-car this afternoon. 
 
 Ethelbert. She will buy another to-morrow. 
 
 Alfred. But I can't afford it. How did you 
 succeed in curbing her extravagance ? 
 
 Ethelbert. I threatened to advertise in the 
 papers that I should not be responsible for any debts 
 contracted by my wife. 
 
 Alfred. Since she is not my wife I can hardly do 
 that, can I ? 
 
 Ethelbert. You might advertise that you will 
 not be responsible for any debts contracted by my 
 wife. 
 
 Alfred. Don't j'ou think that would be a little 
 pointed ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Perhaps it would. 
 
 Alfred. No, Ethelbert, there is only one way out 
 of the difficulty. I will resign Fancy to you. 
 
 Ethelbert. Not on any account. 
 
 Alfred {rising). Yes. I cannot allow you to
 
 44 FANCY FREE 
 
 outbid me in generosity. I will go and find her and 
 bring her to you. 
 
 Ethelbert [rising). For Heaven's sake, don't 
 tell my wife I am staying here. 
 
 Alfred. Why not ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Because I am not alone. 
 
 Alfred. Not alone ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Her name is Delia. 
 
 Alfred {indignantly). Ethelbert ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Well, Alfred ? 
 
 Alfred. You shock me, gravely. 
 
 Ethelbert. You are very thin-skinned. Have 
 you already forgotten what errand brought you to 
 this hotel ? 
 
 Alfred {wiih dignity). There is no reason why 
 you should make my lapse an excuse for your own. 
 Have you thought of your wife ? 
 
 Ethelbert. She need never know, unless you 
 tell her. 
 
 Alfred. I thought you said that Fancy and 5'ou 
 agreed to leave each other entirely free. 
 
 Ethelbert. We gave each other our word of 
 honour. 
 
 Alfred. Then why do you wish to hide the truth 
 from her ? 
 
 Ethelbert. Fancy is not a gentleman. She is 
 a woman. She does not understand the meaning of 
 honour. 
 
 Alfred. You are trifling. I regret to say, 
 Ethelbert, that I shall consider it my duty to inform 
 your wife immediately of the whole deplorable 
 business. 
 
 Ethelbert. So be it. Far be it from me to try 
 and induce you to act contrary to the dictates of your 
 conscience. 
 
 (Fancy comes in L. with a letter.) 
 
 Fancy. Ethelbert !
 
 FANCY FREE 46 
 
 Ethelbert. Fancy ! 
 
 Fancy. How fortunate ! I can give you this 
 letter now. That will save a penny stamp. 
 
 Ethelbert. Thank you. I will destroy the 
 letter. {He tears it and throws it in the fire.) 
 
 Fancy. Oh, why did you do that ? It took me 
 such a long time to write. 
 
 Ethelbert. I am already aware of its contents. 
 
 Fancy. You have told him, Alfred ? 
 
 Alfred. Yes. 
 
 Fancy. Then, Ethelbert, may I ask what you are 
 doing here ? I consider it grossly indelicate of you 
 to follow us about like this. You wouldn't hke it 
 yourself. 
 
 Alfred. Ethelbert has not followed us. He has 
 come here for a reason of his own. 
 
 Fancy. A reason of his own ? 
 
 Alfred. Yes. How can I tell you ? {A pause.) 
 Her name is Doha. 
 
 Fancy. Oh ! Oh ! Ethelbert, how dare you ? 
 
 Ethelbert. My dear Fancy, you remember what 
 we arranged. 
 
 Fancy. I don't care what we arranged. You 
 have had the bad taste to prefer another woman to 
 me. I shall never forgive you. 
 
 Ethelbert. But, Fancy, Hsten. 
 
 Fancy. I shall not listen. I don't want to hear 
 a single word about her. Where did you meet her ? 
 
 Ethelbert. She was staying at my hotel in 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 Fancy. That was no reason why you should have 
 spoken to her. 
 
 Ethelbert. I didn't. She spoke to me. We were 
 sitting at adjoining tables in the Winter Garden. 
 
 Fancy. She dropped a glove ? A handkercliief ? 
 
 Ethelbert. How did you know that ? 
 
 Fancy. Never mind. 
 
 Ethelbert. Of course I picked it up. 
 
 Fancy. And what did she say to you ?
 
 V 
 
 46 FANCY FREE 
 
 Ethelbert. She said, " Do you know, you've got 
 the most delightfully wicked eyes." That was how it 
 began. 
 
 (Delia comes in r. She is a tall, gorgeously-dressed 
 and beautiful woman, with a mass of red-gold hair.) 
 
 Delia {in a fury). Really, Bertie, this is too bad. 
 I've been looking for you all over the hotel. 
 
 Alfred. This, I presume, is the lady in question. 
 
 Ethelbert. My dear Delia, I am exceedingly 
 sorry that I have been detained, but this lady is an 
 old acquaintance of mine. She is, in fact, my wife. 
 
 Delia, Indeed. {To F.A.NCY.) So you are his 
 wife ? 
 
 Fancy. As it happens. 
 
 Delia. I am very glad to meet you, if only to have 
 the opportunity of complaining about the way you 
 have trained your husband. 
 
 Fancy. I did not train him. 
 
 Delia. That is just what I complain about. 
 Under the circumstances I can forgive his leaving 
 me alone in the Lounge of a strange hotel, but his 
 table manners are frankly uncivilized. Do you know 
 that he reads the morning paper during breakfast ? 
 
 Fancy. He never does so at home. 
 
 Delia. You must not expect to make me believe 
 that. 
 
 Fancy. But it is perfectly true. During break- 
 fast I always read the morning paper myself. 
 
 Delia. Ah, no doubt in self-defence. 
 
 Fancy. Not at all. 
 
 Delia. I suppose one can become inured to any- 
 thing, in time, even to Bertie's hght breakfast 
 conversation. 
 
 Fancy. That shows how superficial your acquaint- 
 ance with Ethelbert is. I hke his breakfast conver- 
 sation because he goes on talking without stopping. 
 Consequently, it is not necessary for me to pay any
 
 FANCY FREE 47 
 
 attention to him, and I can read the morning paper 
 in peace. 
 
 Ethelbert. This is most unkind of you both. 
 My hght breakfast conversation has always been 
 much admired, especially by ladies. {To Delia.) 
 I am sure you will alter your opinion if you will only 
 do me the favour, Delia, of Hstening a little more care- 
 fully to-morrow morning. 
 
 Fancy. Certainly not. 
 
 Ethelbert. I beg your pardon ? 
 
 Fancy. She wH^ have no opportunity of listening 
 to you more carefully. 
 
 Ethelbert. Why not ? 
 
 Fancy. Because you will breakfast with me to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 Ethelbert. Oh, very well, then perhaps you will 
 do me the favour of listening more carefully. 
 
 Fancy. I fancy that during breakfast to-morrow 
 you will be fully occupied in hstening to me, for once 
 in a way. I do not think that I shall have sufficient 
 time to say all I wish to say to you to-night. You 
 have provided me with a very fniitful topic. 
 
 Ethelbert. But, my dear Fancy, I fear we can 
 hardly pursue it to-night. We both appear to have 
 previous engagements. 
 
 Delia {to Ethelbert). You have no previous 
 engagement. 
 
 Ethelbert. Deha ! 
 
 Delia. It is cancelled. 
 
 Ethelbert. You are cruel, Delia. 
 
 Delia. Itisj^ourownfault. How can you expect 
 any self-respecting woman to put up with the treat- 
 ment I have received from you ? 
 
 Fancy. May I ask what further complaint you 
 have to make about my husband ? 
 
 Delia. He has no sense of decency. I consider 
 it grossly indelicate of him to bring me to this hotel 
 whilst you are stopping here. I have never been 
 treated in such a manner before.
 
 48 FANCY FREE 
 
 Fancy. I think you take a very proper view of the 
 affair. Ethelbert ought to be thoroughly ashamed 
 of himself. 
 
 Delia. Good-bye, Bertie. {She holds out her 
 hand.) I shall never listen to your light breakfast 
 conversation again. 
 
 Fancy. And good-bye, Alfred. {She holds out her 
 hand.) My only regret is that I shall never know 
 what your light breakfast conversation is like. 
 
 Alfred. Don't say that, Fancy. Why shouldn't 
 we all four have breakfast together in the morning ? 
 
 Delia. No. I am sorry, but I must draw the hne 
 somewhere. 
 
 Fancy. You are right. You have the most perfect 
 taste. I am beginning to admire you immensely. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 Delia. Good-bye. 
 
 Fancy. Good-night, Alfred. 
 
 Alfred. Good-night, Fancy. 
 
 Fancy. Come, Ethelbert. {She takes his arm.) 
 
 Ethelbert {to Delia and Alfred). Good-night. 
 
 (Fancy and Ethelbert go out l. A pause.) 
 
 Delia {raising her eyebrows). Well ? 
 
 Alfred. Well ? 
 
 Delia. And what do we do now ? 
 
 Alfred. Would you like some supper ? 
 
 Delia. No, thanks. {She sits in an armchair by 
 the fire.) You may order me some champagne if you 
 like. 
 
 Alfred. Wilhngly. 
 
 (Alfred rings an electric bell, and then sits facing 
 Delia in the other armchair. They look straight at 
 each other for a time.)
 
 FANCY FREE 49 
 
 Delia {at length, leaning forward). Do you know, 
 you've got the most delightfully wicked eyes. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 {This play should be acted with the most perfect 
 seriousness and polish. It should not be played in a 
 spirit of burlesque. It should be beautifully acted, 
 beautifully costumed and beautifully staged.)
 
 THE MASTER OF THE 
 HOUSE
 
 " The Master of the House " 
 was produced at the Gaiety 
 Theatre, Manchester, ^ in 
 September, 1910.
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Mr. Ovens 
 
 FuED Ovens, his Son 
 
 Mrs. Ov^ens, his Second Wife 
 
 Edie, Mrs. Ovens' Sister 
 
 Dr. Jellicoe 
 
 'Mr. Skrimshire, a Solicitor 
 
 The Scene is the parlour in the house o Mr. Ovens
 
 \
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE 
 
 The scene is triangular ; only two walls of Mr. Ovens' 
 parlour being visible. The left-hand wall is the 
 longer. A window with a dark blind is near the 
 spectator and further away is the fireplace. In the 
 right-hand wall is the door, leading into a hall or 
 passage. By the hearth, with its back to t/ie spectator, 
 is an arm-chair ; it would be full in the light from 
 the window if the blind were up and the sun were 
 shining into the room. In the middle of the room is 
 a big round table and three chairs. A sideboard is 
 below the door ; and a bureau, a sofa, and other chairs 
 are in the room. 
 
 The place is comfortable ; the room of a hard-headed 
 peasant come to town and fairly successful there ; 
 of a man ivlio without any advantages of birth or 
 assistance of friends has carved out his two or three 
 hundred a year competence for his old age ; by severe 
 economy and lucky speculations tn small things. 
 
 It is an autumn evening. The fire is low, and the 
 incandescent gas-burner by the hearth is lighted. 
 
 Mr. Ovens is sitting in the arm-chair with his back to 
 
 the spectator. His face is not visible, but one can see 
 
 his zvhitish-grey hair and his bent back. Edie and 
 
 Mrs. Ovens are sitting on opposite sides of the table, 
 
 finishing a supper of bread and cheese and coffee. 
 
 Mrs. Ovens is a hard, vigorous, capable woman of 
 
 35 ; Edie a rather pleasant girl of 23. 
 
 55
 
 68 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 Edie. Won't he have any supper ? {Nodding ai 
 Mr. Ovens.) 
 
 Mrs. Ovens. He ? {Jerking her head towards Mr. 
 Ovens.) No ; he had his bread and milk at six 
 o'clock. I shan't give him any more before he goes 
 to bed. 
 
 Edie {glancing at clock). It's half-past eight now. 
 
 Mrs. O. He doesn't eat much. Slops and things 
 of that sort. I have to feed him like a baby ; he 
 makes such a mess of his clothes if I don't. {Looking 
 into the coffee jug.) Will you have a drop more coffee ? 
 There's only enough for one. 
 
 Edie. No, I don't care about it. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Then I'll finish it. {She pours out the 
 coffee.) I'd have fancied an onion with my cheese 
 to-night, but Mr. Skrimshire's coming in to see him 
 {jerking her head backwards at Mr. Ovens), and they 
 make your breath smell so. 
 
 Edie. Mr. Skrimshire ; he's the solicitor that lives 
 up at Bank Top ? 
 
 Mrs. O. Yes. He {jerk of head) used to take all 
 his bits of business to Skrimshire's office in Salchester ; 
 and since he's so ill now and can't get up to towTi, 
 young Mr. Skrimshire said he'd look in and see him 
 to-night. 
 
 Edie. What does he want to see Mr. Skrimshire for ? 
 
 Mrs. O. {smiling mysteriously). Ah, aha. 
 
 Edie. Can he hear us ? 
 
 Mrs. O. Hear us ? No fear. He's so deaf that 
 he'd sit there as quiet as a mouse if the world was 
 coming to an end and the last trump sounding. 
 
 Edie {coaxing). Then tell me. 
 
 Mrs. O. {with a backward jerk). He's going to alter 
 his will, at last. 
 
 Edie. My word ! Going to cut Fred out ? 
 
 Mrs. 0. {compressing her lips). That I can't say. 
 
 Edie. Is he going to leave everything to you ? 
 
 Mrs. O. Nor that either. But if he did, wouldn't 
 I have deserved it ?
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 67 
 
 Edie. He's been a lot of trouble to you these five 
 years. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Trouble ! You may well say that. Let 
 alone my marrying him when I was only thirty, and I 
 might easy have found some young fellow who'd have 
 been glad to ask me. 
 
 Edie. I said at the time you were daft ; and he 
 a widower with a son older than yourself. 
 
 Mrs. 0. He was sixty-six when I married him ; 
 he's seventy-one now. He'll not last much longer, 
 and I'm only thirty-five. 
 
 Edie. I never thought to see him pull through 
 that last attack. It's to be hoped he doesn't linger. 
 
 Mrs. 0. No, it would be a mercy if he were taken 
 quickly. A mercy for him, I mean. 
 
 Edie. And for you, too, if it comes to that. 
 
 Mrs, O. You'd never believe the work I have 
 with him. Dressing him, and undressing him, and 
 getting him up and down the stairs. He won't stop 
 in his bedroom out of the way ; must be down here in 
 his arm-chair. I could shake him sometimes, he's 
 that stupid. 
 
 (There's a knock at the front door.) 
 
 Mrs. 0. Go and see who it is, Edie. It's too early 
 for Mr. Skrimshire yet, surely. Perhaps it's the 
 doctor ; he's not been to-day. 
 
 (Edie goes out. ]\Irs. Ovens rises and goes to hearth.) 
 
 {To Mr. Ovens, loudly.) Are you quite warm enough ? 
 (Mr. Ovens does not reply.) You'll have to wake up 
 when Mr. Skrimshire comes. {Grumbling to herself.) 
 I don't know why you can't stop in bed ; you do 
 nothing but sleep down here. 
 
 (Edie runs in ratlter scared.) 
 
 Edie. Annie, it's Fred 1 
 Mrs. O. Fred '
 
 68 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 Edie. Fred Ovens. His son ! 
 Mrs. O. What does he want ? 
 
 (Fred Ovens follows Edie into the room. He is a 
 tall, well-built, heavy man oj 36. He is awkward and 
 sullen, almost brutish ; but also rather a striking, 
 handsome man in a clumsy way. He has a moustache ; 
 and wears rough country clothes, very shabby but 
 almost picturesque. A coloured muffler is round his 
 neck, and he carries a cap.) 
 
 Fred. That's a fine way to welcome a fellow 
 when he comes home. 
 
 Mrs. O. This isn't your home. 
 
 Fred. I want to have a word with you, Annie, 
 You'll excuse me calling you Annie ; I never could 
 bring myself to call you mother. 
 
 Mrs. O. You can call me what you please so long 
 as you take yourself away from here. 
 
 Fred {seeing Mr. Ovexs). Ay ; there he is. 
 
 Mrs. O. He doesn't want to see you. 
 
 Fred. I reckon I don't want to see him, either. 
 Last time I came he banged the front door in my face. 
 
 Mrs. O. Small wonder, either, seeing you came 
 straight from gaol, without even waiting for your hair 
 to grow. He told you never to let him see you again 
 
 Fred. You're as fond of me as ever, Annie. 
 
 Mrs. O. Now look here, Fred Ovens. I'm boss 
 here. If you don't get out of this house in two 
 minutes I'll send Edie for the police. 
 
 Fred. Damn it ; you'll give me something to 
 eat. 
 
 Mrs. 0. I will not. 
 
 Fred. I'm starving. I've not eaten a bit since 
 yesterday. 
 
 ]\Ifs. 0. That's no affair of mine. 
 
 Edie. Give him something to eat, Annie. 
 
 Mrs. O. No. 
 
 Edie. He's hungry. He'll go away quiet after.
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 59 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens hesitates.) There's some bread and 
 cheese here. Do, now. 
 
 Mrs. O. (relenting). You can have a bite of bread 
 and cheese. 
 
 Fred {sarcastically polite). Thank you, Annie. 
 
 Edie. Can I get him some beer ? 
 
 Mrs. O. (grudgingly). If you Hke. 
 
 Fred. That's good of you, Edie. I always knew 
 my old father chose the wrong one when he married 
 Annie. 
 
 (Edie goes out for the beer. Fred sits in the chair on 
 the right of the table.) 
 
 Mrs. 0. (sitting on the left of the table). Mind, you 
 get outside this house as soon as you've finished. 
 
 Fred (eating). You talk to me so like my father 
 that I think I'll have to call you " mother" in future. 
 
 Mrs. O. Don't let me have any of your hp. And 
 just keep quiet or you'U wake your father, and then 
 there'll be a fine row. He'd never forgive me for 
 letting you come in here. 
 
 (Edie returns with a jug of beer and a glass.) 
 
 Fred. Thank you, my dear. (He pours out beer.) 
 Good health, father. (He drinks.) I hear he's not 
 been so well lately. 
 
 Mrs. O. He's never been the same since you came 
 and told him you'd been in gaol, and he turned you 
 out. He had a stroke that night. 
 
 Fred. Ah ! 
 
 Mrs. 0. We thought his mind was clean broken 
 down for a time. He couldn't speak properly, or 
 attend to his business. Indeed, he's only just getting 
 right again now. 
 
 Fred. It's lucky he's got such a good, kind wife 
 to look after him. 
 
 Mrs. O. Be sharp with that, now, and clear out. 
 (She rises.)
 
 60 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 Fred. Before I clear out there's something else I 
 want you to do for me. 
 Mrs. 0. What's that ? 
 
 (Fred smiles.) 
 
 You'll get nothing else, I promise you. 
 
 Fred. You'll give me some money, won't you ? 
 
 Mrs. O. Not a penny. 
 
 Fred. Come — mother. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Not a penny, I say. We've no money 
 to give away here. 
 
 Fred. Lend me some, then. 
 
 Mrs. O. Lend you ! 
 
 Fred. I'll pay you back. 
 
 Mrs. O. You'll never be able to pay anything back 
 
 Fred. Some time. When he's gone. {Noddin 
 at Mr. Ovens.) 
 
 Mrs. 0. {grimly smiling). I don't think so. 
 
 (Fred looks at her in silence, and pushes his plate away. 
 
 Fred. What ? Has he cut me off, then ? 
 
 Mrs. O. What do you deserve ? 
 
 Fred. Isn't he going to leave me anything ? 
 
 Mrs. 0. I don't know what he's done. 
 
 Fred {angrily). Has he altered his will ? {He 
 rises.) 
 
 Mrs. 0. {alarmed). Sit down. No, he's not altered 
 his will. 
 
 Fred {relieved, and sitting down again). Ah! 
 Then there will be something. He divided it all be- 
 tween you and me ; the money and the houses. 
 
 Mrs. 0. I beUeve he did. 
 
 Fred. Now look here. {He leans back in his chair 
 and pulls out his empty trousers' pockets.) That's all 
 I've got in the world. If you'll lend me ten quid I'U 
 not trouble you again for a long time. 
 
 Mrs. O. Why don't you earn your living ? 
 
 Fred. I've tried.
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 61 
 
 Mrs. O. Tried indeed ! You don't want to work. 
 
 Fred. It's not so easy to get work as you may 
 think. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Where have you been trying ? 
 
 Fred. In Salchester. 
 
 Mrs. O. You've been at those meetings of the 
 unemployed ? 
 
 Fred. Yes, I've done a deal of talking at them. 
 
 Mrs. 0. I thought so ; that's about all you're fit 
 for. Have you done now ? 
 
 Fred [leaning back in his chair). Ay, I've done. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Then you'd better be going. 
 
 Fred. You're mighty free with your tongue, 
 mother. Suppose I said I wouldn't go ? 
 
 ]\Irs. 0. I'd have you turned out. I'm master in 
 this house. 
 
 Fred [nodding to Mr. Ovens). What about him ? 
 I thought he was master, 
 
 Mrs. 0. You thought wrong then. But you can 
 wake him up if you like and see what he'll say. 
 
 Fred. No, I know what he'll say. {Rising and 
 walking round to Mr. Ovens.) Yes ; you've been a 
 good father to me. 
 
 Mrs. O. You've been a good son to him, haven't 
 you ? 
 
 Fred [not heeding her). You turned me out of 
 doors when I needed helping ; you hate me. Well, 
 I don't love you, neither. 
 
 Mrs. O. Are you going ? 
 
 Fred. I'm going. [He moves towards the door.) 
 Give me some money. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Not a farthing. 
 
 {There is a knock at the front door. Edie goes out.) 
 
 Mrs. 0. Drat it, there's Mr. Skrimshire, and me 
 not ready for him. That's your fault. 
 
 Fred. Well, I'm going, aren't I ? Who's this 
 coming ? 
 
 Mrs. O. Some one to see your father on business.
 
 62 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 (Edie reappears.) 
 
 Edie, Mr. Skrimshire's come, Annie. 
 
 (Mr. Skrimshire, a very smartly-dressed young fellow 
 of about 27, comes in briskly. He is the son and 
 junior partner of old Skrimshire, Mr. Ovens' 
 solicitor.) 
 
 Mr. Skrimshire. Good evening, Mrs. Ovens. 
 
 Mrs. O. Good evening, Mr. Skrimshire. 
 
 Mr. S. My father's getting on, you know, and he 
 doesn't hke turning out again after he gets home from 
 town ; and since Mr. Ovens is too ill to come to the 
 office, my father thought he wouldn't mind giving me 
 his instructions. 
 
 Mrs. O. Oh, certainly, Mr. Skrimshire. I'll 
 make room for you here. (She moves the things from 
 a corner of the table and puts a chair for Mr. Skrimshire 
 facing the spectator.) 
 
 Mr. S. [looking at Mr. Ovens). The old gentle- 
 man's having a doze, I see. Pity to waken him up. 
 {He sits.) Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. O. It'll do him good. He's dozing all day 
 long. {To Fred, who is near the door.) What are you 
 waiting for ? 
 
 Mr. S. {turning round). Hello ; you're Fred 
 Ovens, aren't you ? 
 
 Fred. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. S. I've not seen you about the village for a 
 good while. Have you been away ? 
 
 Fred. Yes. 
 
 Mr. S. What are you doing now ? 
 
 Fred. I'm not doing anything just now, sir. 
 
 Mr. S. Ah, out of work, eh ? I'm sorry. 
 
 Fred. Have you come here to cut me out of his 
 will ? {Nodding at Mr. Ovens.) 
 
 Mr. S. Have I come here to — my dear man, what 
 are you talking about ? 
 
 Fred. You've come to alter his will.
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 63 
 
 Mr. S. (shrugging his shoulders and raising his eye- 
 brows at Mrs. Ovens). Mrs. Ovens, er — your hus- 
 band wants to see me alone, doesn't he ? 
 
 Fred [to Mrs. Ovens). Tell me if he's come to alter 
 my father's will. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Yes, he has. 
 
 Mr. S. [protesting. Really I 
 
 Fred. Is he going to cut me out ? (To Mr. 
 Skrimshire.) Are you going to cut me out ? 
 
 Mr. S. Don't make a fool of yourself, Ovens. 
 Since Mrs. Ovens has told you, I don't mind saying 
 that I've come here to take your father's instructions 
 for a fresh will. He may be going to cut you out, as 
 you call it, for all I know. On the other hand, he 
 may be going to leave you everything ; or again, he 
 may be going to leave everything to the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury. I haven't the least idea what he's 
 going to do, and if I had I shouldn't teU you. 
 
 Fred {going up to Mr. Ovexs). You old devil ; 
 you're going to cut me out, are you ? {He shakes 
 his fist at him.) Curse you ! 
 
 Mrs. O. (seizing Fred). You leave him alone. 
 
 Mr. S. {rising). Mrs. Ovens, unless I can see 3'our 
 husband alone it is really no use my wasting my time 
 here. {He replaces some papers in his pocket.) 
 
 {There is a knock at the front door. Edie runs out.) 
 
 Fred (turning to Mr. Skrimshire). All right, Mr. 
 Skrimshire, you don't need to disturb yourself. I'm 
 going. 
 
 Mr. S. That's right. Ovens. I'm glad you're not 
 going to be stupid. Look here ; come and see me at 
 the office some day next week, and I'U see if I can 
 find you a job. 
 
 Fred. That's good of you. Why do you make 
 an offer like that to me ? 
 
 Mr. S, You may be a client of ours some day.
 
 S4 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 (Edie shows in Dr. Jellicoe, a jolly, stout medical 
 man of about 40.) 
 
 Dr. Jellicoe. Good evening, Mrs. Ovens. {He 
 looks at Fred, but doesn't know him. He speaks to 
 Mr. Skrimshire.) Hello, Jimmy, what are you doing 
 here ? [Without waiting for an answer.) I'm dis- 
 gracefully late, aren't I ? I was called away to 
 Wraysford to young Mrs. Amore. An urgent case, 
 but it turned out all right, I'm happy to say. A fine 
 boy. That's why I'm so late. Can't be helped. 
 These things happen in the best regulated famihes, 
 don't they ? 
 
 Mrs. O. Well, doctor, where should we be if they 
 didn't ? 
 
 Dr. J. Quite so, quite so. And how's the patient? 
 
 Mrs. 0. Not been so well to-day, doctor. 
 
 Dr. J. Asleep, I see. I'll just have a look at him. 
 Won't keep you a minute, Skrimshire. 
 
 Mr. S. Don't hurry on my account, old chap. 
 
 (Dr. Jellicoe walks round in front of the table and 
 approaches Mr. Ovens from the hack.) 
 
 Dr. J. {very loudly). Good evening, Mr. Ovens. 
 {He taps his shoulder gently.) Wake up, sir, and let 
 me have a look at you. 
 
 (Dr. Jellicoe takes another step and turns, facing the 
 spectator, to look Mr. Ovens in the face. Hardly 
 has he glanced at Mr. Ovens than his own face changes 
 in an instant, and assumes an expression of horror 
 and surprise. He starts back.) 
 
 Dr. J. {in a very different tone). How long has he 
 been hke this ? 
 
 {They are all startled by the doctor's tone.) 
 
 Mrs. O. Like — hke what, doctor ? 
 
 {Without replying. Dr. Jellicoe takes Mr. Ovens' 
 wrist, feels the pulse, and lets the hand drop again on
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 85 
 
 the. knee. He places his hand on the heart. Then 
 he straightens up and looks at the others.) 
 
 Mrs. O. Doctor, what is it ? 
 
 Dr. J. {quietly). Mr. Ovens is dead. 
 
 {They all stare at the doctor, spellbound.) 
 
 Fred {in a low, deep voice). Dead ! 
 Mr. S. {in a whisper). Good gracious ! 
 
 {A slight pause. Mrs. Ovens gives a low wail, and 
 sinking into the chair left of the table breaks into a 
 painful storm of sobs. She quickly subsides into a 
 gentler subdued weeping, with her head buried in her 
 arms. Edie comforts her. Fred sits down on a 
 chair near the door, stunned. Mr. Skrimshire 
 gently crosses and looks at Mr. Ovens, and stands 
 by the doctor.) 
 
 Mr. S. This is really an awful business, JeUicoe. 
 
 Dr. J. He must have been dead two or three 
 hours. 
 
 Mr. S. Really ! What an extraordinary thing. 
 Will there have to be an inquest ? 
 
 Dr. J. No, I've been attending him. I expected 
 something of the sort would happen. 
 
 Mr. S. It's a bit of a shock, all the same. It's 
 made me feel quite queer. 
 
 Dr. J. I suppose you've nothing more to do here, 
 now ? 
 
 Mr. S. No ; at least, I'd better have a word with 
 young Ovens, and see if there's anything I can do. 
 
 Dr. J. I've one more call to make. {Looking at 
 his watch). Come round and have a bit of supper and 
 a game of billiards when you've finished here. 
 
 Mr. S. I will. Thanks very much. 
 
 (Mr. Skrimshire returns to the table and studies some 
 
 papers.) 
 
 Dr. J. {touching Mrs. Ovens on the shoulder). 
 
 £
 
 W THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 Come, come, you mustn't give way like this. We've 
 been expecting it, you know, we've been expecting it. 
 
 Mrs, 0. (tearfully). Yes. 
 
 Dr. J. I should get him on to a couch, or a bed, 
 or something hke that, so that all the necessary ar- 
 rangements can be made. Er — you know whom to 
 send for ? 
 
 Mrs. O. {shaking her head). No. 
 
 Dr. J. I'll leave an address. A very decent 
 woman. 
 
 {He writes an address on the hack of an envelope and 
 puts it on the table.) 
 
 Mrs. O. {looking round at the figure of Mr. Ovens). 
 Edie, get something — something to put over him. 
 
 (Edie goes out.) 
 
 Dr. J. Well now, there you are. I'll call round 
 again in the morning and see you. First thing. 
 Good-bye, my dear Mrs, Ovens ; good-bye. I'm very 
 sorry. {As he passes Mr. Skrimshire.) Don't be 
 long. 
 
 (Dr. Jellicoe goes out.) 
 
 Mr. S. {gently to Fred). Er — Mr. Ovens. 
 
 Fred {rising). Sir ? {Coming to the table and sitting 
 in the right chair.) This makes a difference, sir? 
 
 Mr. S. The old will is valid, of course ; the will hf 
 intended to supersede. 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens sits up and listens to the conversation.) 
 
 Mr. S. You are both acquainted with its pro- 
 visions, I understand ? 
 
 Fred. I know he divided everything between her 
 and me. 
 
 Mr. S. That was it, roughly. And nothing fairer 
 could have been arranged, in my opinion. 
 
 (Edie comes in with a white sheet. She gently places
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 67 
 
 this over the body of ]\Ir. Ovens, so that it entirely 
 drapes the seated figure like a shroud. They watch 
 her in silence and then Mr. Skrimsiiire continues ; 
 he refers to a paper.) 
 
 He left this house and the one next door to you. Mr. 
 Ovens ; the two houses in Hawthorn Lane to you, 
 ma'am. The money invested is divided into two equal 
 parts. Of course, yours is only for life, Mrs. Ovens. 
 On your death — or remarriage — it passes to Mr. Fred 
 here. 
 
 Mrs. 0. {with a sob). Yes. 
 
 Mr. S. I happened to bring a note of these pro- 
 visions with me, for reference in the business which, er 
 — for which there was no occasion. 
 
 (Mr. Skrimshire rises, putting away his papers.) 
 
 That is all, I think. I won't intrude any longer. 
 Terrible business. Very sorry. {He goes to the door.) 
 Er — perhaps you will look us up at the office in a day 
 or two, Mr. Ovens. We have acted for your father 
 for a good many years, and we shall be very pleased 
 to act for you if you wish it. 
 Fred. Thank you, sir. I dare say I'll call. 
 
 (Edie shows Mr. Skrimshire out.) 
 
 {A pause. Mrs. Ovens looks at Fred.) 
 
 Mrs. 0. And now, perhaps you'll go, and leave 
 me alone with my grief. 
 
 Fred. I don't stir from here. 
 
 Mrs. O. It was his wish you shouldn't stop in this 
 house. I'll see that carried out, at any rate. 
 
 Fred. You're forgetting one thing, mother. 
 
 Mrs. 0. What's that ? 
 
 (Edie returns.) 
 
 Fred, This is my house now. He left it me in his 
 wiU.
 
 88 THE MASTER OF I'HK HOUSE. 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens sits up and stares at him.) 
 
 You're not boss here any longer. Neither is he. I'm 
 master of the house. 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens rises to her feet.) 
 
 It's not me that's got to clear out ; it's you. 
 Mrs. 0. Me! 
 
 Edie. Fred, you'll not turn her out to-night ? 
 Fred. I will indeed. 
 Mrs. 0. I won't go. 
 Fred. If you don't go I'll put you out. 
 I\Irs. 0. You wouldn't dare. 
 Fred. There's nothing I'd hke better. 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens hesitates a second and then breaks down.) 
 
 Mrs. 0. Oh! I can't go to-night. To think that I 
 was saying to Edie only just now what a worry he was, 
 not knowing that he'd never trouble me again. 
 [Appealing to him.) Fred. 
 
 Fred {implacable.) Get your hat and coat and 
 take yourself off. 
 
 Mrs. 0. Edie, what am I to do ? 
 
 Edie. You'd better come home with me to-night, 
 if he means it. 
 
 Fred. I do mean it. 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens dries her eyes, and gets up again.) 
 
 Mrs. O. You're glad that he's dead. (She goes out.) 
 
 Fred. I'm not, though he was a hard man and he 
 treated me harshty. I'd give a good deal if I hadn't 
 stood there and cursed him a short while ago. 
 
 Edie [turning on him) . You ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself, Fred Ovens. I never heard of such a thing. 
 What, turn a wife out of the house when her husband's 
 not yet cold ! 
 
 Fred [sullenly). She was for turning me out. 
 
 Edie. Y'ou know wha.t her temper is. I thought 
 better of you, indeed I did. No Christian would do 
 what you're doing.
 
 THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 80 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens returns with coat and bonnet on.) 
 
 Fred, let her stay to-night. She's your father's wife, 
 remember. 
 
 Fred. That's why I'm turning her out. {Stroll- 
 ing over to Mr. Ovens ajid addressing him.) I'll show 
 you who's master of the house now. 
 
 Mrs. O. There's no need to waste words on him, 
 Edie. I wouldn't stop in his house now if he went 
 down on his bended knees. Come along. (Edie 
 goes out.) Good night, Fred Ovens. You're master 
 of the house, and may you pass a pleasant night in it 
 with the man you cursed when he sat dead in his 
 chair. 
 
 (Mrs. Ovens goes out.) 
 
 {The front door bangs. Fred shivers and moves to 
 the front of the table and sits on the edge. He latighs 
 quietly.) 
 
 Fred. Pleasant night. WTiy shouldn't I ? {To 
 Mr. Ovens.) You won't interfere with me. I'm not 
 afraid of you. What is there to be afraid of ? 
 {He looks round fearfully and his eye again rcturyis to 
 Mr. Ovens' figure.) You can't turn me out of 
 doors now. I'm boss here. {The figure does not 
 take any notice. V'KET) shivers again.) I'll go round 
 to the King's Arms and have a drink, there'll be 
 company there. {To Mr. Ovens quickly.) But 
 I'll come back for the night, mind you. You'll 
 not drive me away. {He goes to the gas and turns it 
 out. leaving the room in perfect darkness. He gropes 
 his way to the door. Here he pauses.) I've 
 no money. {He thinks.) They always used to 
 keep some money in the sideboard drawer. {H$ 
 gropes his way to the sideboa-d on the exlrcme rigid and 
 stumbles against a chair.) Can't sec a thing, and I've 
 no matches. Wait a minute. {He crosses to the win- 
 dow and pulls up the blind. Bright moonlight strikes 
 
 /
 
 to THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. 
 
 through the window. He crosses to the sideboard and 
 easily finds the drawer, opens it and searches. There is 
 no money to be found. He takes a cash-box and turns 
 towards the window with it to examine it carefully. 
 As he turns he comes full on the silent figure of Mr. 
 Ovens, sitting rigid in his chair, shrouded in white, 
 ghastly in the glare of the moon. Fred starts back with 
 an oath and drops the cash-box.) You can't frighten 
 me. You shan't turn me out, I tell you. I'm master 
 of the house. {He sits on the edge of the table looking 
 at the figure for a long space. Then he speaks in a low 
 strained voice.) Don't look at me like that. Don't 
 look at me Hke that ! I didn't know you were dead 
 when I cursed you. [Another pause : he shudders 
 and covers his face with his hands.) God ! I can't 
 stand it. [He steals silently out of the room. Mr. 
 Ovens sits in his shroud in the moonlight, master of 
 the house. The front door is heard closing.) 
 
 (The Curtain descends very slowly.)
 
 PHIPPS
 
 Another Version of this play was performed by 
 Mr. Arthur Bourchier at the Garrick Theatre, 
 London, on Tuesday, November 19, 1912, 
 with the following cast ' — 
 
 Phipps . Mr. Arthur Bourchier. 
 
 Gerald . Mr. A. E. Matthews. 
 
 Fanny . . Miss Rosalie Toller.
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Phipps, a Butler, 
 Lady FANhrvr. 
 Sir Gerald, 
 
 Scene. — Sir Glerald's Library.
 
 PHIPPS 
 
 ScEi^E.— The library of Sir Gerald's London house 
 is a handsome, comfortable place, with very few books 
 in it. There are plenty of easy chairs, rugs, rich 
 hangings and good water-colours. 
 
 (Sir Gerald and Lady Fanny are discovered in the 
 midst of an absorbing, if not a heated, colloquy. Both 
 are about thirty, and extremely good-looking ; they 
 wear evening clothes, which cause them to look even 
 less than thirty and more good-looking than ever. 
 Sir Gerald is slight in build, and his enemies might 
 call him a bit of a dude. He is a pleasant enough 
 fellow, nevertheless. Lady Fanny is gorgeous and 
 shimmering, acute and witty, full of hasty enthusiasms 
 and queer impulses. You like her, but she is a dis- 
 concerting woman, all the same. You never know 
 what she is going to say next. Sir Gerald is stand- 
 ing in the middle of the room, and Lady Fanny is 
 leaning forward in an arm-chair. Suddenly she 
 rises and sweeps towards Sir Gerald with a superb 
 gesture). 
 
 Lady Fanny. Very well then, hit me ! Hit me I 
 Hit me, do you hear ? 
 
 (Sir Gerald steps forward as if about to strike her, 
 and raises his arm ; hit instead of hitting her h$ 
 merely scratches his head in a perplexed way.) 
 
 Lady F. Well, why don't you hit me ? I'm 
 
 waiting to be hit. {She turns her cheek meekly towards 
 him, as if it were a kiss she is expecting and not a blow.) 
 
 7S
 
 16 PHIPPS. 
 
 Sir Gerald. Er— yes. But I don't think 
 that's quite the — er— quite the idea. 
 
 Lady F. You are rehictant to strike a woman, 
 even if she is your wife ? 
 
 Sir G. On the contrary. If I must strike a woman, 
 I prefer that she be my wife. I have no objection to 
 striking you, my dear ; only it is no good doing it in 
 private. In that case, you would be unable to prove 
 my cruelty. 
 
 Lady F. The judge ought to take my word for 
 that. Indeed, if the case comes before Sir Frederick 
 Mitchie, I am sure he will, because I know him so well. 
 
 Sir G. Sir Frederick is a model of courtesy, and 
 I am certain that he will spare you all the trouble 
 he possibly can ; but I am afraid that he will con- 
 firm my view that the law insists upon my being 
 cruel to you in public. 
 
 Lady F. It will not be necessary, I trust, for you 
 to strike me at the Opera or the Ritz. 
 
 Sir G. That would be overdoing it. It would 
 betray the amateur. Reticence is the mark of the 
 true artist. But if you wish to get a divorce there 
 must be a witness of some sort when I strike you. 
 
 Lady F. Ring for the servants. 
 
 Sir G. {shocked). The servants ! My dear ! Per- 
 haps I am prudish and even old-fashioned, but the 
 servants 
 
 Lady F. Then one of the servants. 
 
 Sir G, Which one ? 
 
 Lady F. What do you think about Cook? 
 
 Sir G. I never think about Cook. 
 
 Lady F. I mean as a witness. 
 
 Sir G. Oh 1 I am afraid that Cook might be in- 
 chned to talk. 
 
 Lady F. Perhaps you are right. She is naturally 
 a gossip. I suggested her because she has already 
 been married three times, and would probably make 
 an interested and even a sympathetic spectator. 
 
 Sir G. Why not your maid ?
 
 PHTPPS. 77 
 
 Lady F. Robinson ? No. Robinson knows quite 
 enough about me already. 
 
 Sir G. There's that parlour-maid — the one 
 with frizzy hair. 
 
 Lady F. She is much too young, I should prefer 
 Phipps. 
 
 Sir G. Phipps ! My dear Fanny, do you think 
 Phipps would like it ? 
 
 Lady F. You might hint to him that we would 
 consider it in his wages. 
 
 Sir G. But Phipps is a most respectable man. 
 
 Lady F. That is why I should prefer him. He 
 is discreet, I could place myself in his hands without 
 reserve. 
 
 Sir G. He is certainly a perfect butler. 
 
 Lady F. Will you ring for him, dear ? 
 
 Sir G. Willingly. 
 
 (Sir Gerald rings the bell.) 
 
 Lady F. You absolutely decline to give me those 
 pearls ? 
 
 Sir G. Absolutely. 
 
 Lady F. Very well. As soon as Phipps arrives, 
 you will be good enough to strike me. 
 
 Sir G. Certainly. That is the idea, I believe. 
 
 Lady F, Yes. I think about here 
 
 {She chooses a position in the middle of the room, and 
 places Sir Gerald conveniently opposite to her.) 
 
 That will do nicely. By the way, Gerald, you won't 
 hurt me, will you ? 
 
 Sir G. I am a gentleman, Fanny. I hope that 
 I shall alwaj^s behave as one, no matter what provo- 
 cation you offer me. 
 
 Lady F. Thank you, Gerald. 
 
 Sir G. At the same time, Fanny, I must remind 
 you that although I shall not use actual violence, it 
 will be necessary for you to convey the impression 
 that I am hurting you.
 
 78 PHIPPS. 
 
 Lady F. Oh, I see. Of course. {She nods.) 
 Very well. I promise you I'll do that. Hush, here 
 he is. 
 
 {They take up their attitudes again.) 
 
 (Phipps, a large, pleasant, discreet man of forty -five, 
 enters and stands by the door.) 
 
 Lady F. {as before). Very well then, hit me ! Hit 
 me ! Hit me, do you hear ? 
 
 (Sir Gerald steps forward and strikes Lady Fanny.) 
 
 {Crying out) Oh ! oh ! You've hit me ! You coward ! 
 
 (Lady Fanny collapses into the easy chair, sobbing. 
 Her prostration is so complete that she might have 
 been run over by a steam-roller, instead of having been 
 rather delicately slapped upon the shoulder. As she 
 cowers in the chair. Sir Gerald steps forward with a 
 threatening air, evidently intending to strike her again. 
 Phipps, however, rapidly advances, hits Sir Gerald 
 a sound blow under the jaw, catches him by the coat 
 collar and flings him aside, tripping him up as he 
 does so in such wise that Sir Gerald tumbles on to 
 the floor in a heap. Phipps stands calmly over the 
 prostrate baronet, in the attitude of a butler awaiting 
 orders.) 
 
 Phipps. You rang, my lady. 
 
 (Lady Fanny stares open-mouthed at Phipps.) 
 
 Was this what you rang for, my lady ? {He indicates 
 the figure of Sir Gerald.) 
 
 Lady F. {admiringly). Phipps ! How strong you 
 are ! I never knew before that you were so strong. 
 
 (Sir Gerald attempts to get up.) 
 
 Phipps. I beg your pardon, sir, but if you don't 
 lie quiet I shall be obliged to knock you down again ; 
 with all respect to you, sir.
 
 PHIPPS. 19 
 
 Sir G. Do you know that you've nearly broken 
 my jaw ? 
 
 Phipps. I am aware, sir, that I have taken rather 
 a Uberty with you, but, as man to man, you will under- 
 stand that I had no alternative. 
 
 Sir G. Confound you ! Will you let me get up ? 
 
 (Sir Gerald sits on his haunches and scowls up at 
 
 Phipps.) 
 
 Phipps. I think it would be better, sir, if you would 
 retain your present position for the moment. 
 
 Sir G. (to Lady Fanny). This is all your fault, 
 Fanny. It was your idea to ring for Phipps. [To 
 Phipps.) Go away, and send Cook here. 
 
 Phipps. I am sorry, sir, but unless I can have 
 some assurance that you will behave yourself, I can- 
 not trust you with any woman, not even with Cook. 
 
 Lady F. But what do you propose to do now, 
 Phipps ? We cannot prolong this situation indefi- 
 nitely. 
 
 Phipps. I propose to remain here until I have Sir 
 Gerald's word of honour that he will strike neither 
 you, my lady, nor Cook, for whom he asks in his 
 wrath ; in the hope, no doubt, that I shall permit him 
 to treat her differently from you because of her in- 
 ferior station. It is true that Cook's father is a green- 
 grocer in the Edgware Road, and that yours, my 
 lady, is a Duke. But though I am a sound Conser- 
 vative in politics, I confess that I am unable to con- 
 sider distinctions of rank where a woman is in distress 
 or danger. In such a case as this I am not a butler, 
 but a man, and as a man I feel that I stand in loco 
 parentis both to you, my lady, and to Cook. I repre- 
 sent Mr. Perkins, the green-grocer, as well as his Grace. 
 
 Lady F. Phipps ! How blind I have been ! You 
 have been a perfect butler for three years without my 
 ever suspecting that you were a man. 
 
 Phipps. Yes, my lady, that is the secret of my suc- 
 cess as a butler.
 
 80 PHIPPS. 
 
 (Sir Gerald makes an attempt to get up.) 
 
 Do you mind remaining in a semi-recumbent posture, 
 sir ? {To Lady Fanny). I am extremely sorry 
 that I have forgotten myself on this occasion, my 
 lady, but I can assure you that I shall try and not let 
 it occur again. 
 
 Sir G. For Heaven's sake, Fanny, make the fellow 
 let me get up. 
 
 Lady F. Oh, yes, Phipps, you must allow Sir 
 Gerald to get up now. I undertake that he will behave 
 himself. 
 
 Phipps. Very good, my lady. 
 
 (Phipps assists Sir Gerald to rise.) 
 
 I can take your word for it, I am sure, 
 
 (Phipps takes a small clothes-brush out of a desk drawer, 
 and brushes Sir Gerald's coat.) 
 
 Lady F. We are very much obliged to you, 
 Phipps — perhaps I should say I am very much 
 obliged to you — for the devotion you have shown 
 to-day. It is painful for me to have to tell you that 
 it is mistaken. You have been deceived by appear- 
 ances. 
 
 Phipps {brushing). Appearances, my lady ? 
 
 Lady F. Perhaps I should say by my talent for 
 acting. You never saw me play in the theatricals at 
 Tatsworth in the old days, did you ? 
 
 Phipps. I never had that pleasure, my lady. 
 
 (Phipps replaces the brush, and stands attentively by 
 Lady Fanny.) 
 
 Lady F. On more than one occasion I was mis- 
 taken for a professional. 
 Phipps. A professional actress, my lady ? 
 Lady F. Certainly. 
 Phipps. I am not surprised, my lady ; it is sur-
 
 PHIPPS. . 81 
 
 prising how little experience some of our best-known 
 actresses possess. 
 
 Sir G. Damn it all, we seem to be drifting into a 
 discussion about the stage now. 
 
 Lady F. One moment, Gerald. Phipps, I find, 
 is an intelligent critic of modern acting. {To Phipps.) 
 You never realized that when Sir Gerald struck me my 
 emotional outburst was assumed ? 
 
 Phipps. Not for one moment, my lady. 
 
 Lady F. He is an extremely intelligent critic of 
 acting ! Sir Gerald did not hurt me, Phipps. At 
 least, not very much. 
 
 Phipps. I cannot imagine Sir Gerald hurting any- 
 body very much. {To Sir Gerald.) I beg your 
 pardon, sir; I'm sure you did your best. 
 
 Sir G. Don't apologize to me, pray. I can't help 
 feeling that you would be able to discuss my char- 
 acter more freely if you would allow me to retire. 
 
 Phipps. Not at all, sir. Your presence does not 
 embarrass us in the least. 
 
 Lady F. I asked Sir Gerald to strike me. 
 
 Phipps. Ah, my lady, it is good of you to try and 
 shield Sir Gerald. You'll be telling me next that 
 you rang for me in order to come and see him strike 
 you. 
 
 Lady F. As a matter of fact, that is precisely 
 what did occur. We were in a slight domestic diffi- 
 culty, and we required your assistance. 
 
 Sir G. Look here ! Is there any need to tell all 
 this to Phipps ? 
 
 Phipps. If I am to be of any use, sir, it will be 
 necessary for you to tell me everything. Otherwise 
 I can-^rdly give you the full benefit of my advice. 
 
 Lady F. I have just had a violent quarrel with 
 Sir Gerald. 
 
 Phipps. I have observed with regret that you 
 have had a great many quarrels with Sir Gerald of 
 late. 
 
 Lady F. This is by far the worst that we have ever 
 
 F
 
 82 PHIFPS. 
 
 had. Sir Gerald complains that I am extravagant, 
 
 Sir G. I appeal to you, Phipps, as a married 
 man — you are married, aren't you ? 
 
 Phipps. Not at present, sir. I was married. My 
 wife divorced me. 
 
 Lady F. Oh, dear ! How was that ? 
 
 Sir G. My dear — ought we to ask ? 
 
 Phipps. There were very excellent reasons for 
 the step. 
 
 Lady F. How glad I am that we decided to have 
 you in, Phipps. Your experience will be most useful. 
 I am going to divorce Sir Gerald. 
 
 Phipps. Oh, my lady ! Reflect. I hold no brief 
 for Sir Gerald, but after all he is your husband. 
 
 Lady F. Yes. That is why I am going to divorce 
 him. 
 
 Phipps. I hope you will think twice before doing 
 so, my lady. 
 
 Lady F. We have not shocked you. I trust, 
 Phipps ? 
 
 Phipps. No, my lady. I have lived with you too 
 long to be easily shocked. But since you have been 
 good enough to take me into your confidence, I beg 
 leave to urge you most strongly to make it up with 
 Sir Gerald. 
 
 Sir G. Look here, Phipps. We didn't invite you 
 here to give us a lecture. 
 
 Phipps. Then, sir, may I ask why you did ring 
 for me ? 
 
 Lady F. We rang for you to be a witness. From 
 your past experience you must be aware that it is 
 necessary for a woman to prove both adultery and 
 cruelty before she can obtain a divorce. 
 
 Phipps. Or desertion and cruelty. 
 
 Lady F. There is no difference. The one im- 
 plies the other. 'Now do you understand our diffi- 
 culty ? 
 
 Phipps. Forgive me, my lady, if I say that the 
 diflSiculty does not seem to me an insuperable one.
 
 PHIPPS. 88 
 
 Lady F. Oh, the desertion or what-do-you-call-it 
 would be easy enough, of course, especially to Sir 
 Gerald. It is the cruelty that presents the difficulty. 
 You see, whatever Sir Gerald has done, he has never 
 made a practice of hitting me. 
 
 Sir G. I hope I know where to draw the Hne. 
 
 Lady F. We were expecting that you would under- 
 stand everything, and would help to make things all 
 so easy for us. Phipps, am I to be disappointed in 
 you, after all ? 
 
 Phipps. No, my lady. That shall never be. {To 
 Sir Gerald.) You and her ladyship have definitely 
 decided to separate ? 
 
 Sir G. Yes. 
 
 Phipps. Nothing I can say will prevent you ? 
 
 Sir G. Nothing. 
 
 Lady F. Nothing. 
 
 Phipps. There is — excuse me — no other lady ? 
 
 Sir G. Certainly not. I can't afford to keep her 
 ladyship, let alone anybody else. 
 
 Lady F. You shall not have to reproach me with 
 that much longer. 
 
 Phipps. Then may I point out that you have 
 selected a most unpleasant mode of accomplishing 
 your object. To divorce Sir Gerald, it will be neces- 
 sary for you to transact a lot of cumbersome legal 
 business, to appear in court and have your photograph 
 in the papers, and generally to go through a great deal 
 of disagreeable publicity. 
 
 Lady F. All that is quite true, but I don't see how 
 it can be avoided. 
 
 Phipps. Quite easily, my lady. 
 
 Lady F. How ? 
 
 Phipps. By letting Sir Gerald divorce you. 
 
 Lady F. Divorce me ! — But I have given him 
 no reason to do so. 
 
 Phipps. Ah, my lady, don't let a Uttle thing like 
 that stand in the way. 
 
 Sir G. Eh ?
 
 84 PHIPPS. 
 
 Phipps. It is all so simple. You have only to 
 order Robinson to pack for you ; to select a congenial 
 companion ; and to leave the country. Sir Gerald 
 does the rest. It is as easy as taking a Kodak photo- 
 graph. 
 
 Lady F. Really, Phipps, there is something in 
 what you say. Gerald, what do you think ? 
 
 Sir G. Well — it's an idea. 
 
 {They consider the matter for a moment.) 
 
 Lady F. There is only one thing troubling me. 
 The choice of the — what did you call him, Phipps ? 
 
 Phipps. The congenial companion, my lady. 
 
 Lady F. Yes. The congenial companion. What 
 a charming way of putting it. 
 
 Phipps. If you would permit me to suggest a 
 name, my lady — the Earl of Skye 
 
 Lady F. Tony ? I'm very fond of Tony. (She 
 considers.) H'm ! No, Phipps, Lord Skye is going 
 to Norway salmon fishing on Saturday. We could 
 hardly expect him to put off his trip just to oblige us 
 in this trifling matter. Gerald ! Can't you think of 
 some one ? 
 
 Sir G. What about Harry Roughwood ? 
 
 Lady F. No go ! He's down with measles. 
 
 Sir G. Ow ! Bad luck. {He scratches his head.) 
 I dunno who we could get. 
 
 Lady F. It's too bad of you, Gerald. You are 
 stupid. 
 
 {They all reflect with the utmost earnestness.) 
 
 Phipps. I wonder, my lady, if in this emergency 
 you would allow me to make another suggestion ? 
 
 Lady F. Of course, Phipps. Have you thought 
 of some other man ? 
 
 Phipps. I have, my lady. 
 
 Lady F. But is he available ? He may have 
 some other engagement.
 
 PHIPPS. M 
 
 Phipps. Whether he is available depends upon 
 you and Sir Gerald, my lady. 
 Lady F. Why ! Who is he ? 
 Phipps. I was referring to myself, my lady. 
 Lady F. You ! 
 Sir G. You ! 
 
 {There is a pause.) 
 
 Lady F. Oh, but. Phipps, we could hardly expect 
 you to undertake a responsibiUty of this sort , especially 
 at your present wages. 
 
 Phipps. It is true, my lady, that you have only 
 engaged me as your butler, but seeing that you are 
 placed in a difficulty, I should be perfectly happy to 
 make myself useful in any capacity. 
 
 Sir G. It's jolly good of you, Phipps, it is in- 
 deed ; but we couldn't think of giving you so much 
 trouble. 
 
 Phipps. No trouble at all, Sir Gerald. On the 
 contrary, it would be a pleasure. 
 
 Sir G. Oh ! would it ? 
 
 Lady F. This is quite an idea. I'm sure, Gerald, 
 that you wovild prefer a nice respectable man like 
 Phipps to go with me. We must think it over thor- 
 oughly. Sit down, Phipps. 
 
 Phipps. If it's all the same to you, my lady, I 
 should feel more comfortable standing. 
 
 Lady F. I insist. Sit here by me. 
 
 (Lady Fanny crosses to a settee, and makes room for 
 Phipps on it by her side. Phipps unwillingly takes 
 the seat indicated.) 
 
 Lady F. You said it would be a pleasure. WTiat 
 did you mean by that ? 
 
 Phipps. My lady, now that I know that you and 
 Sir Gerald are estranged, I can speak freely. For 
 the past three years I have cherished an ardent affec- 
 tion for your ladyship.
 
 88 PHTPPS. 
 
 Sir G. {startled). Eh ! What's that ? 
 
 Lady F. Phipps ! Do you really mean it ? 
 
 Phipps. I know it is a great liberty, my lady, to 
 entertain such sentiments towards you, but even a 
 butler is capable of a human attachment ; and under 
 the circumstances I hope that you will be inchned to 
 overlook it this time. 
 
 Lady F. And you have managed to conceal your 
 feelings all these years ? 
 
 Phipps. It has been a struggle, my lady. I have 
 been torn between conflicting emotions. My duty 
 seemed to be to give you a month's notice ; but then 
 came the reflection that if I did so I should never see 
 you again. 
 
 Lady F. My poor Phipps ! My heart bleeds for 
 you. What devotion I 
 
 Phipps. You do not mind, my lady ? 
 
 Lady F. I have never been loved like this before. 
 It is a new sensation. Tell me more about yourself. 
 Why did your wife divorce you ? 
 
 Phipps. Well, my lady 
 
 Sir G. {who has been roaming about behind the settee 
 in some agitation of mind). I say, I'm afraid I'm in 
 the way here. 
 
 Phipps. Not at all, sir. 
 
 Sir G. I'll go into another room if I am disturbing 
 you. 
 
 Phipps. BeUeve me, sir, I had clean forgotten you 
 were there. 
 
 Lady F. Be quiet, Gerald. I don't mind you 
 stopping here if you won't talk. Go on, Phipps. 
 What is it that you propose ? 
 
 Phipps. That instead of divorcing Sir Gerald, 
 you adopt the far easier course of going away with 
 me and allowing Sir Gerald to divorce you. That 
 would be much pleasanter for all parties. I should 
 never have dared to sviggest such a thing, if it were 
 not that your ladyship and Sir Gerald have given 
 each other notice as it were ; leaving you, so to speak.
 
 PHIPPS. W 
 
 temporarily without a place. I can give you no dia- 
 monds, no pearls, my lady. All 1 can offer is the 
 sincere and pent-up devotion of a man of forty-five, 
 in good health and preservation. Could you bring 
 yourself to accept it, my lady ? 
 
 Lady F. {closing her eyes in rapture). Oh, this is 
 wonderful I Gerald, you never speak to me like this. 
 
 Phipps. You could hardly expect him to do so, 
 my lady, seeing that you are his wife. 
 
 Lady F. Dare I go with you ? What would it be 
 like to love a man for himself alone ? {Looking al 
 him earnestly.) Phipps — you fascinate me — strangely. 
 
 Sir G. May I ask what you propose to live on ? 
 Will Phipps support you on the emoluments he gains 
 as butler, or do you yourself intend to take up a posi- 
 tion as lady's maid ? 
 
 Phipps. There you touch the main difficulty. I 
 fear that her ladyship will find herself in rather poor 
 circumstances for a time, unless you, sir, should think 
 of making her a settlement. 
 
 Sir G. I'm damned if I'll make her a settlement. 
 
 Lady F. Gerald, there is no need to get angry, 
 even if j'ou are asjiamed of being mean. 
 
 Sir G. I'm not mean. 
 
 Lady F. Oh, yes, you are. First you refuse to 
 buy me the pearls, and now you refuse to make us a 
 settlement. I call it worse than mean. You are a 
 perfect dog in the manger. 
 
 Sir G. I didn't refuse to buy you the pearls. I 
 said I couldn't afford to buy them unless I sold 
 Cleveleys. 
 
 Lady F. That comes to much the same thing as 
 refusing, doesn't it ? 
 
 Phipps. My lady, I am waiting for your answer. 
 
 Sir G. {eagerly). Hold on a bit. One moment, 
 please, Phipps. 
 
 Phipps {bowing). I beg pardon, sir. {He steps 
 hack a pace.) 
 
 Sir G. Look here, Fanny. If I sell Cleveleys and
 
 88 PHIPPS. 
 
 buy you the pearls, will you promise not to ask me 
 for anything else for a whole year ? 
 
 Lady F. A year is too long. I might consider six 
 months. 
 
 Sir G. Six months. {He looks at Phipps and 
 reflects.) 
 
 (Phipps, under the impression that he may now speak, 
 takes a step forward. Sir Gerald intercepts him 
 quickly.) 
 
 All right. Six months. 
 
 Lady F. And you'll buy me the pearls ? That's 
 a promise. 
 
 Sir G. Yes. 
 
 Lady F. Then there will be no need for us to get 
 divorced at all, will there ? 
 
 Phipps {anxiously). My lady 
 
 Lady F. Oh, yes, Phipps. I am sorry to dis- 
 appoint you, Phipps. 
 
 Phipps. You have decided to remain with Sir 
 Gerald, my lady ? 
 
 Lady F. For the present. It will be so much 
 less trouble, after all. But we need not regret the 
 circumstance which caused us to invite your co- 
 operation. It has enabled us to become more closely 
 acquainted than I had thought possible. I am in- 
 tensely obhged to you for all your kindness. You 
 see how valuable your advice has proved. I hope 
 we shall have the benefit of it on many future occa- 
 sions, 
 
 Phipps. No, my lady. 
 
 Sir G. No ? 
 
 Phipps. Never again, my lady. 
 
 Lady F. Oh, but why not, Phipps ? 
 
 Phipps. I regret, my lady, that I cannot remain 
 any longer in your service. 
 
 Lady F. But why ? To leave us just when we 
 were beginning to know each other more intimately I 
 
 Phipps. That is just it, my lady. I have been
 
 PHIPPS. 89 
 
 SO perfect a butler to you for three years, that you 
 never suspected that I was a man. Now you know 
 that I am a man, I shall never be a perfect butler to 
 you again. I give you a month's notice, my lady. 
 
 (Phipps bows and goes out of the room.) 
 
 Sir G. {wiping his brow in relief). What a man I 
 Lady F. Oh, Gerald ! If only you would try to 
 be more hke him. 
 
 {The Curtain falls quickly, leaving Sir Gi:rald staling 
 at Lady Fanny in smp) it^e.) 
 
 CURTAIM.
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT
 
 " Honour thy father and thy mother ; thai 
 thy days may be long in the land which 
 the Lord thy God giveth thee."
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Mrs. Mountain, a Widow 
 Nelly Mountain, her Daughter 
 Bob Painter, Nelly's Fianctf 
 Mr. Shoosmith 
 
 The Scene is the sitting-room of Mrs. Mountain's 
 house, a small semi-detached dwelling in a southern 
 suburb of Manchester. At the present day.
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 The sitting-room of Mrs. Mountain's house is a cosy 
 little place, rather abundantly furnished xcith well- 
 worn hut well-preserved furnittire. Most of the 
 things were bought nearly thirty years ago. The win- 
 dow, with blinds drawn, is facing the spectator. The 
 fireplace is in the wall on his right, the door in the wall 
 on his left. The sofa, as a rule, is under the window, 
 but to-night it has been pulled out from the wall at an 
 angle, turned with its head up stage and towards the 
 fireplace, so thai the occupant can enjoy the warmth 
 of the fire. An arm-chair is on the other side of the 
 hearth, facing the sofa. The table, not a big dining 
 table, but a pretty old-fashioned gate-leg table, has been 
 pushed a little to the spectator's left, to leave room to 
 pass between it and the sofa. A chair is near it, and 
 other chairs and furniture are about the room. A 
 small table stands near the head of the sofa. The 
 fire is lighted, and so are the gases on each side of the 
 fireplace. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain, a big, stout, florid woman of over 50, 
 is lying on the sofa. Her hair is very fair, now turn- 
 ing grey, and she wears it puffed out. She is wearing 
 an elaborate pale-coloured dress, rather too young for 
 her. Eyeglasses are on her nose. She has always a 
 querulous, dissatisfied look, except when she tries to 
 he nice, which is not often. Mrs. Mountain is 
 reading a novel from a suburban circulating library. 
 Presently she yawns and closes the book, and stretches 
 her arms. The book slips from her fingers and falls 
 
 M
 
 96 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 behind the sofa on to the floor. She lazily tries to 
 peer over the back of the sofa, but relapses again on 
 to her cushions and rings a small handbell which is 
 on the table by the sofa. She rings it very loudly and 
 long.) 
 
 {Presently Nelly Mountain, a capable but quiet and 
 gentle girl of 25, opens the door.) 
 
 Nelly. Was that your bell I heard, mother ? 
 Mrs. Mountain. I've dropped my novel. 
 Nelly [coming forward). You poor thing. Where 
 is it ? 
 Mrs. M. Behind the sofa. 
 
 (Nelly picks up the novel.) 
 
 Nelly. You've lost your place, too. 
 
 Mrs. M. It doesn't matter. I can't say it's my 
 style. What have you been doing ? 
 
 Nelly. Putting away the things from the laundry. 
 
 Mrs. M. So sorry to bring you all the way do^vn- 
 stairs, dear, but you know 
 
 Nelly. Of course ; you must keep as quiet as 
 possible, I'd just finished when you rang. I shall 
 stop with you now and read for a while, 
 
 {She picks up another novel from the large table.) 
 
 Mrs. M, {shivering). I'm sure the wind's got into 
 the east again. 
 Nelly. Do you feel it ? 
 Mrs M. Just a little. {She shivers.) 
 Nelly, Why haven't you got your shawl ? 
 
 (Nelly takes a shawl from the back of the arm-chair and 
 arranges it round Mrs. Mountain's shoulders. 
 Then she kisses her.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Thank you, dear. I don't know what I 
 should do without you.
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 97 
 
 (Nelly takes up her novel and sits in the arm-chair and 
 prepares to read.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Who's your book by, Nelly ? 
 
 Nelly. Chirles Garvice. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh, is it ? I like Garvice. He's so 
 romantic. Is it fjood ? 
 
 Nelly. Awfully. I've got to the most interesting 
 part now. 
 
 Mrs. M. I can't get on with mine at all. I think 
 it would appeal to you. I suppose you wouldn't hke 
 to change, would you ? 
 
 Nelly. But I'm just in the middle. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh, of course, if you're so interested — 
 I dare say I might look at the Guardian if you could 
 find it, but the small print always makes my head 
 ache. 
 
 Nelly. Don't be silly, dear. {She puts her novel 
 on the sofa and takes Mrs. Mountain's away.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Well, if you insist. You can finish it 
 after I've done with it, can't you ? Besides, I dare say 
 Bob will be round soon. 
 
 Nelly. I dare say. {A pause.) Bob doesn't 
 come round so often as he used to, does he ? 
 
 Mrs. M. I don't know, Nelly ; he seems to come a 
 good deal. Perhaps he thinks you've not got so much 
 time on your hands while I'm ill. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain begins to read.) 
 
 Nelly. Bob spoke to me very seriously last time^ 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain takes no notice.) 
 
 Nelly. He was at me again to settle when we're 
 to be married. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain goes on reading.) 
 
 Nelly. He got quite bad-tempered about it. 
 
 Mrs. M. Eh ? What do you say, dear ? 
 
 Nelly. I say Bob got quite angry wlien I told 
 
 G
 
 98 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 him I couldn't fix the day until you were a little better. 
 
 Mrs. M. By the way, Nelly, I think I ought to men- 
 tion it. I don't know, I'm sure, but I suppose it's a 
 mother's duty, and I've never shirked that, come 
 what may. 
 
 Nelly. What on earth are you talking about, 
 mother ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Did you know that Bob takes Gladys 
 Carpenter to the theatre ? 
 
 Nelly (mcredulously). Bob ? {She rises and 
 stands by the fire so that her mother can't watch her.) 
 
 Mrs. M. He was at the Hippodrome with her last 
 Saturday night. 
 
 Nelly. How do you know ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Mrs. Willett told me this afternoon. 
 
 Nelly. What does Mrs. Willett know about it ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Her maid Sarah told her. She was in 
 the gallery with her young man, and Bob and Gladys 
 Carpenter were in the arena stalls. You see he takes 
 her into the best seats. 
 
 Nelly. Really, mother, it's too bad of you to gos- 
 sip about Bob with Mrs. Willett. 
 
 Mrs. M. What could I do, Nelly? I couldn't 
 refuse to hsten to her. If people are kind enough to 
 come in and try and entertain me, I can't presume to 
 dictate what they shall talk about. I ought to be 
 only too grateful that any one thinks of me at all, 
 nowadays. 
 
 {There is a loud ring at the front door.) 
 
 Nelly. That's Bob ! {She goes to the door.) 
 Now, mother, don't say a word about this. I'm sure 
 it's a mistake. 
 
 (Nelly goes out and Mrs. Mountain arranges herself 
 interestingly in her cushions. Nelly comes in with 
 Bob Painter, a tall ordinary-looking young man 
 of 29 or 30, with a slight moustache.)
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 08 
 
 Bob (heartily). Well, Mrs. Mountain. How are 
 you to-day ? 
 
 Mrs. M. (wanly). I'm afraid I'm not very well. 
 Bob. 
 
 {She holds out her hand limply. He shakes it.) 
 
 Bob. Sorry to hear that. The boss has given me 
 a couple of tickets for the theatre. He booked them 
 for himself and he can't go, and I didn't refuse them, 
 you bet. 
 
 (He shows the tickets.) 
 
 Nelly. How lovely. Are they for the Royal ? 
 That's Fred Terry and Juha Neilson. 
 
 Bob. No, they're for the Gaiety. 
 
 Nelly. Oh, the Gaiety. (Her tone is disap- 
 pointed.) 
 
 Bob. But they say it's very funny all the same. 
 By one of these local authors. Now, buck up, and 
 get ready ; we've no time to lose. 
 
 Nelly. But — I don't think I can come, Bob. 
 
 Bob. What ? 
 
 Nelly. I don't, really. 
 
 Bob. Why not ? 
 
 Nelly. I don't hke to leave mother 
 
 Bob. 'WTiit about the servant ? 
 
 Nelly. It's her night out. 
 
 Bob. Be hanged to her night out ! 
 
 Mrs. M. You know. Bob, a servant will have her 
 night out. You can't get them to stay without it. 
 
 Bob. Well, what about Nelly's night out ? Isn't 
 she ever going to have one ? 
 
 Mrs. M. / don't want to stand in her way. You 
 mustn't let me prevent you from enjoying yourself, 
 Nelly, if Bob insists on you going — Of course it 
 would be very awkward if I were to have a stroke — 
 with no one in the house.
 
 100 THE FIFTH COMMANDMEJNT. 
 
 Bob (reasoning). Yes, but why should you have a 
 stroke ? You look healthy enough. Do you feel hke 
 having one ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes, you may well say that. Bob. That 
 shows how much you know about my complaint. I 
 never get any sympathy, just because I've a good 
 colour. Let me tell you, that a good colour is one of 
 the very worst symptoms I could possibly have. 
 
 Bob. But what is it that's the matter with you, 
 exactly ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh well, if you wish me to go into all 
 the details over again — but it'll take some time, I 
 assure you, and you've not too much to spare if you're 
 going to the theatre, let alone that there are some 
 things that I couldn't very well tell you. 
 
 Nelly. It's no use. Bob, mother can't be left alone. 
 
 Mrs. M. [with profound resignation). Oh, it doesn't 
 matter about me ; it's very good of you all the 
 same — pass me my salts, dear, will you 
 
 Nelly [passing the bottle of salts from the mantel- 
 piece). Does your head ache ? 
 
 Mrs. M. It throbs rather badly. I'm afraid it's 
 with talking. {She smells the salts.) Of course, if 
 you are determined to go, I dare say I can manage. I 
 ought to have my gruel at half-past eight, but I sup- 
 pose I can get up and make it myself, if the kitchen 
 fire hasn't gone out. And then I shall want to go to 
 bed long before you'll be back, and you know I've 
 always said I shall turn faint some day when I'm 
 going upstairs and fall headlong. I suppose it would 
 kill me if there wasn't anybody in the house to attend 
 to me. And then of course there's my hot-water 
 bottle. I must have that when I go to bed, because 
 I have to be very particular about not lying in bed 
 with cold feet. I can manage to fill it myself, I sup- 
 pose, if there's any hot water in the tap, but if there 
 isn't I should have to boil some, and of course if the 
 kitchen fire has gone out that would be very awkward. 
 
 Nelly. I know, dear ; I shouldn't think of leaving
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 101 
 
 you alone. I was wondering if Mrs. Willett would 
 come and sit with you. 
 
 Mrs. M. I dare say she would — though with 
 my head throbbing like it is, I don't really feel equal to 
 talking to Mrs. Willett all evening. 
 
 Nelly {leaning over her and stroking her hair). 
 Very well, dear, I'll stay with you myself. 
 
 Bob [tinder his breath). Oh, damn ! 
 
 Mrs. M. {faintly). What did Bob say ? 
 
 Nelly {frowning at Bob). He didn't say anything, 
 dear. 
 
 Mrs. M. I'm very sorry to stand in the way of 
 your evening's amusement. Bob, but I'm sure you'd 
 never forgive yourself if you came back and found me 
 sitting dead in my chair. 
 
 Bob. That's all right, Mrs. Mountain. It's settled. 
 We won't talk about it. I'll stop here with Nelly. 
 
 Nelly. Thank you. Bob. {She smiles at him.) 
 
 Bob. I suppose I can have a pipe. {He pulls it 
 out.) 
 
 Mrs. M. I don't think it will do me any harm. 
 
 Bob. Oh, if there's any doubt — {He is putting 
 it back.) 
 
 Mrs. M. No, no. I insist. You must have your 
 pipe. 
 
 Bob. Very well. {He fills and lights his pipe.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Whatever happens I won't have it said 
 that I was selfish enough to interfere with anybody 
 else's comfort. 
 
 Bob. Well now, Mrs. Mountain, since we're all 
 here. I want to have a little talk with you. 
 
 Mrs. M. Nelly was saying just now that you 
 
 Bob. Yes, I want to get married. Nelly and I 
 have been engaged close on four years now. 
 
 Mrs. M. How time flies, doesn't it ? 
 
 Bob. That's what I'm thinking. I don't hke 
 wasting it. When we got engaged we arranged to be 
 married in three years. 
 
 Nelly. But you know, Bob, mother was ill then.
 
 lOa Tint'. I'M" III COMMANDMKN r. 
 
 HtMi I kiit)\v. Ami she's brrn ill rvcr since, off 
 and on, ospociully wluu \\v bt^j^iii to (.ilk .iluxil lixiiij* 
 
 the ilay- 
 
 Mks. M. W(II. if you Ihiuk I in.ikr .i martyr of 
 
 iny>i<'ll foi plc.v^uro 
 
 hoM. 1 ilon'( say you ilo. and T don't say you 
 <loi\'( What 1 say is. what dors it uiallri- ? 
 
 Mks M OU, it doesn't mat tor at all. of comse, 
 to a i;rca( stiouK n\at\ Uko you what happens to a poor 
 hrl|il«'ss iicalmc hko n\e. 
 
 lU)n. No.no. 1 mean, why can't we (;et n\.uiied mi 
 Ipitr of it. 
 
 Nmiy. 1mi( who wo\dd loi>k alter tnother? 
 Conld she eould she eoiwe an^l hve with us? 
 
 Hon {JciiJ<-Jlv). No. 
 
 Mks. M. Wm've uo nerd to say it hke th.it. Hob. 
 I'll! juit tl\o sort of person to pn.h myself where I'm 
 not w,\nted. evet\ if 1 h.vven't |>>t a relation in the 
 Wixld exeepl Nelly, baduif; \nv sister Jinny, who lives 
 ttt Neweustlr-on-'ry"<' '""^ eouKhi't look after me if 
 sl»e were williu};. seeing that she's jijot a husband ixwd 
 eleven elnUhen to look alter already; and if that's 
 not (Mioue.h ti>r one woman. I don't know. 
 
 Hon. Now look here. We're arranf,Mng the smn- 
 u\er holidays at the warehous(\ We've cot to «lo it 
 early on. so as m>t to ela-.h with one aiu>ther. Tve 
 the eh.vnee oi t<Mi days at the ei\d of June. Just the 
 riejd titue for a honey u\oon. (He ftroJuces a p^\ksi 
 diifv). Will you fix "the day tor June Ji ? Tint's 
 just vnuler thiee tuouths olT, 
 
 Nkmy. Wh.d do yo\; think, mother? 
 
 Mks. M. You t\»ustn't n\i\\d me. 1 sliall bo deaJ 
 and i:oi\e by th,d time, .is '.ikely as not. 
 
 N ia i.v (K^nily). liut. deai . we've got to tix it sonw 
 tinie or other. 
 
 Mks. M. I'ix it whenever you phwso. Nelly. I'm 
 not i^o'uu: io siAwd in your way. If the worst comes 
 to the wop.t I i-an gv* into the wvnkhouse. 
 
 Wov. Oh. be damned to tht^ woikhousel (//#
 
 TllK I'll III COMMANDAIKNT. |U3 
 
 Nkt I Y. Hoi) I 
 
 lioM {iin/^ry). Wli.it ;.i-iisc is llicic in l.ilkiii/; ;il»out 
 the worklioiisc vvIk'ii you've iicaily IIimt pounds u 
 WJ'ck coiiiinj; in, as wtll .r. Ili<- liouscr. Why, you can 
 alToid to |).ty a coinpaiiioii to come ami look allci 
 you. 
 
 (lie walks lift and down.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Very well. Nelly's qnile at liberty to 
 
 do wlialev«M she f.iiK ic ;, if ".lie < ;iil endilie flie f hoiif^Ilt 
 of tin ilitl{; I lie oli lo die iiiidcr I lie li.iiid'. of a '.fiaiiKef 
 
 Hou. Hut, you know, it's a l)il (luck, it xw n'ally. 
 Nelly can't \\u on lakiiifj care of you to (lie end of hnr 
 lif'\ It's not fail (o liei and i(''i n()( fair to uic, 
 cither. 
 
 Mrs. M. All I So iCs yoursi'lf you're thinkiiij^ of 
 all (lie (iine, I'oh I'aiidei. 
 
 lion (unfjily). Well, it's only nalnial for a (cllow 
 to want to (,'e( married. I tell yon I'm .ick of wailinij, 
 an<l I'm not K"'"^' ^" wait much loii);ei. 
 
 Miv'S. M. {rxasfurutrd). Then you'd Im((«-i ask 
 (iladys Carpenter (o marry you. 
 
 Hon. I' h ? {Iff \f()f)s in stitpHse.) 
 
 Mks. M. Yes. \'on may well look like fliat. 
 You took her to tin- Hippodrome, and you can't deny 
 it, try as you m.iy. 
 
 Ni'i.l.Y. Mother I 
 
 Mifs. M. Don't modier me in tlia( tone of voice. 
 1 know a mot liei's diit y 
 
 Nl MY. Moll). I, filrnsr \ I ( ,iti liiist liob. [ 
 don't believe he did take (iludys (Carpenter to the 
 Ililtpodr<ime. 
 
 Mks. M. Wh.d I When Mr.. WillriCs Sarah saw 
 liim, an<l told Mrs. WilNK. and .Mrs. Wiilett told me I 
 
 NkM-Y. K wasn't I'.ob, it was soin«; out! <dsc. 
 Wa-.n't it. Hob? 
 
 lion [quite sini/tly). No, it wa". iik; all ii/;ht, Nelly. 
 
 {A pause.)
 
 104 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 1 asked you first, you know, Nelly, You remember ; 
 Saturday night. 
 
 Nelly. Of course. Mother wasn't well, and I 
 couldn't go. 
 
 Bob. 1 didn't like to waste the tickets, so I — I 
 asked Gladys. I've known her a long time, 
 
 Nelly. But you might have told me about it. 
 
 Bob. Haven't been here since Saturday. 
 
 Nelly. No, of course not. {A slight pztise). I 
 don't mind. Bob. It would have been a shame to 
 waste the tickets. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain snorts.) 
 
 Mrs. M. You'd better take Gladys Carpenter to 
 the Gaiety to-night. 
 
 {A pause.) 
 
 Nelly, Would you like to. Bob ? 
 
 Bob. What ? 
 
 Nelly. Take Gladys to the Gaiety ? 
 
 Bob. I dare say she'd go if I asked her, 
 
 Nelly. Then do. 
 
 Bob. Don't you mind ? 
 
 Nelly. Not a bit. 
 
 Bob. You see, it's rotten for a chap to go alone, 
 
 and — and — it would be a shame 
 
 Mrs. M. To waste the tickets. 
 
 {A pause.) 
 
 (Bob looks at his watch.) 
 
 Bob. Well, I'd better be getting along. 
 Nelly. You'll miss the curtain raiser, won't you ? 
 Bob. Sh .n't miss much, I dare say. Good night, 
 Mrs. Mountain. Sorry I got my hair off just now. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain doesn't reply.) 
 
 Bob {at the door). I'd just like a word with you, 
 NeUy.
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 105 
 
 (Bob goes out, and Nelly follows him.) 
 
 i^As soon as the door is closed Mrs. Mountain sits up 
 briskly, and looks towards the door, but it is closed 
 and she can hear nothing. Accordingly with a grunt 
 of aujioyance she thumps the cushions and lies down 
 in her former position. Very soon Nelly comes in.) 
 
 Mrs. M. What was it he wanted to say to you ? 
 
 Nelly. He says I've got to let him know to- 
 morrow for certain whether we can be married on 
 June 21. 
 
 Mrs. M. Well, of course, Nelly, you must be guided 
 by your own feelings. You mustn't think of me. 
 I don't suppose I shall be here to trouble you much 
 longer. 
 
 (Nelly walks to the fireplace without replying.) 
 
 Of course, he's fond of Gladys Carpenter, there's 
 no doubt about that. 
 
 Nelly [pettishly). I don't want to hear any more 
 about Gladys Carpenter, mother. 
 
 {The front door bell rings.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Good gracious. He's not come back, 
 surely ? 
 
 Nelly. I don't think so. {She goes to the window 
 and peeps through the blind). It looks rather like 
 Mr. Shoosmith. 
 
 Mrs. M. {with animation). Mr. Shoosmith ! 
 
 (Nelly goes out. Mrs. Mountain jumps up very, 
 very quickly, whips the shawl from her shoulders like 
 lightning, rolls it up and pushes it under the sofa. 
 Then she examines herself in the mantel glass, touches 
 her hair, takes off her eyeglasses and smiles at herself. 
 She rearranges the cushions and again takes her place 
 on the sofa, but this time she sits up rather than lies 
 down. Nelly returns with Mr. Shoosmith, a stout, 
 rather coarse, downright healthy man of $S-)
 
 108 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 Mr. Shoosmith {breezily). Good evening, Mra. 
 Mountain. {He rubs his hands). Nippy outside to- 
 night. And hcv's yourself ? 
 
 Mrs. M. {brightly). Much as usual, Mr. Shoosmith. 
 
 Mr. S. You look hke a blooming rose, upon my 
 word. 
 
 Mrs. M. Take the arm-chair, Mr. Shoosmith 
 
 Mr. S. {politely). Ladies first. 
 
 {He indicates the arm-chair to Nelly.) 
 
 Nelly. Oh, I'm not stopping. I've got to write 
 a note. 
 
 Mr. S. Then that's all right. {He sits in the arm- 
 chair). And Where's the faithful Bob to-night ? 
 
 Nelly. I'm surprised you didn't meet him. He's 
 gone to the theatre. 
 
 Mr. S. And why hasn't he taken you ? 
 
 Nelly. Oh, I couldn't leave mother. 
 
 Mr. S. Now what a pity I wasn't a few minutes 
 earlier. I could have kept your mother company. 
 
 {He smiles at Mrs. Mountain, who smiles cheerfully 
 
 back at him.) 
 
 Nelly. You wouldn't have been much use. It's a 
 nurse that mother wants. 
 
 Mr. S. ) (f^„.th.j\ i A nurse ! 
 
 Mrs. Mr^^^^^^^'^a Nelly, don't be silly. 
 
 Nelly. I wish you could persuade her to see Dr. 
 Hodgkinson, Mr. Shoosmith. I'm always asking her 
 to let me call him in, but she pretends there's nothing 
 the matter with her. 
 
 Mr. S. {adjusting a pair of spectacles). But, God 
 bless my soul, she's the picture of health. Look at 
 her colour ! 
 
 Nelly. That's one of the worst symptoms she 
 could possibly have. And you see, nobody will be- 
 lieve there's anything wrong with her while she looks 
 so bright and rosy. Even Bob doesn't know how ill
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 107 
 
 she is. She's so brave she tries to hide it from people, 
 but she can't hide it from me. 
 
 Mr. S. But what's the matter with her ? 
 
 Mrs. M. {pettishly). There's nothing at all the 
 matter with me. I wish you'd be quiet, Nelly. 
 
 Nelly. How can you talk like that, mother ? 
 Do you know, Mr. Shoosmith, that I have to help her 
 upstairs every night, and she has to have her break- 
 fast in bed every morning. She's not fit to get up 
 for it. Whenever she tries to do a bit of housework 
 she gets knocked up directly and has to give in. In 
 fact, she's been so weak just lately that she couldn't 
 do anything but he on that sofa and read. 
 
 Mr. S. She always seems chirpy enough when I'm 
 here of an evening. 
 
 Nelly. Yes, she brightens up wonderfully when- 
 ever anybody calls. I wish you'd look in oftener. 
 
 (Nelly turns and goes to the door.) 
 
 Mrs. M. You'll mind the kitchen fire doesn't go 
 out, Nelly, won't you ? 
 Nelly. I'll have a look at it. 
 
 (Nelly goes out.) 
 
 Mr. S. Well, Mrs. Mountain, I'm downright sorry 
 to hear you're not so well. It's bad news to take 
 away with me. 
 
 {He rises and stands with his back to the fire.) 
 
 Mrs. M. Are you going away again ? You are a 
 busy man. How long are you going for, this time ? 
 
 Mr. S. For good. 
 
 Mrs. M. For good ? 
 
 Mr. S. Ay. 
 
 Mrs. M. Do you mean you're leaving Manchester ? 
 
 Mr. S. I do. I've come here to-night to say good- 
 bye. You see, the other day the manager of our 
 Liverpool shop went and popped it. 
 
 Mrs. M. Popped it ?
 
 108 THE FIFTH COIVBIANDMENT. 
 
 Mr. S. {pointing to the ceiling). Slipped his cable 
 —went to glory. 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh, j^ou mean he died. 
 
 Mr. S. That's it ; only I believe in putting these 
 things delicately. Well, they've given me the job. 
 I start to-morrow morning. 
 
 Mrs. M. WeU, Mr. Shoosmith, this is a blow. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain is concerned hut not at all affected.) 
 
 Mr. S. It's a bit of a staggerer, I shall miss you, 
 Mrs. Mountain. 
 
 Mrs. M. It's very nice of you to say so. 
 
 Mr. S. It's been very pleasant for a lonely widower 
 living in " digs," to drop in and enjoy a little female 
 society now and then. 
 
 Mrs. M. We've always been glad to see you. 
 
 Mr. S. Thank you. Thank you. {A pause. 
 He looks at his watch). Well, Mrs. Mountain, I'm 
 afraid it's good-bye. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain stands up and offers her hand. 
 Mr. Shoosmith /a^es it, and then changes his mind.) 
 
 Mr. S. Just sit down again for a minute, will 
 you. I think I'd better tell you. We're not boy 
 and girl, you know. We're both on the wrong side 
 of fifty, I take it.~" 
 
 Mrs. M. Oh, Mr. Shoosmith ! 
 
 Mr. S. Well, I am. Aren't you ? 
 
 Mrs. M. (hesitating). Just. 
 
 Mr. S. Of course. I knew. Nelly's getting on 
 for thirty. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain sits down again on the sofa.) 
 
 Mr. S. Well, as I say, we're old enough to talk 
 plainly. I don't mind telling you that I came here 
 to-night on purpose to ask you to marry me. 
 
 Mrs. M. Mr. Shoosmith ! {She is genuinely sur- 
 prised). ■
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 109 
 
 Mr. S. I even took the liberty of bringing a ring 
 with me. (He produces it). See ? It belonged to 
 the late Mrs. Shoosmith. [He puts the ring hack in 
 his pocket.) 
 
 Mrs. M. But — don't put it back, Mr. Shoo- 
 smith. 
 
 Mr. S. Why not ? 
 
 Mrs. M. I've not refused you. 
 
 Mr. S. I've not asked you, Mrs. Mountain. 
 
 Mrs. M. I — I thought you did. 
 
 Mr. S. No. You don't catch me marr3dng a con- 
 firmed invahd. 
 
 Mrs. M. But I'm not a confirmed invalid. 
 
 Mr. S. If half of what Nelly said was true I guess 
 you're confirmed enough to settle my hash. I should 
 be a fool to start at this new place with a wife who 
 couldn't do any housework, and had to have her 
 breakfast in bed every morning. 
 
 Mrs. M. You're very cruel, Mr. Shoosmith. {She 
 begins to sob gently.) I think you might have kept 
 your mouth shut and gone away without telling me 
 all this. 
 
 Mr. S. (concerned). I'm sorry. I thought you'd 
 like to know. I thought you'd take it as a compli- 
 ment. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain sobs and rings her handbell.) 
 
 Mr. S. Upon my soul, I can't imderstand it 
 properly even yet. I always thought what a fine 
 healthy v/oman you were. I tell you straight, I 
 nearly got let in ; I did indeed. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain rings the bell.) 
 
 Mr. S. Do you want anything ? 
 
 Mrs. M. I want Nelly to show you out. 
 
 Mr. S. (taken aback). Oh, all right. I can take a 
 hint. (She sobs.) I say I can take a hint. But you 
 can't blame me for not marrying a confirmed invalid. 
 I've had some. My first wife was a confirmed invalid.
 
 110 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. 
 
 (Nelly comes in with a letter in her hand.) 
 
 Nelly. Were you ringing ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Mr. Shoosmith is going, Nelly. 
 
 Nelly. Oh, would you mind posting this letter in 
 the pillarbox for me, Mr. Shoosmith ? 
 
 Mr. S. Pleasure. {He takes the letter and turns to 
 Mrs. Mountain and half offers his hand). Good-bye 
 again, Mrs. Mountain. 
 
 Mrs. M. {ignoring his hand). Good-bye, Mr. Shoo- 
 smith. 
 
 (Mr. Shoosmith and Nelly go out. Mrs. Mountain 
 rubs her eyes and cheeks with her handkerchief. 
 Nelly returns.) 
 
 Mrs. M. {faintly). I think I'll have my gruel now, 
 Nelly. 
 
 Nelly. Is your head bad again ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes. {She leans back on her cushions 
 and closes her eyes.) 
 
 Nelly. Why, you've dropped your shawl. 
 
 (Nelly picks up the shawl from under the sofa and 
 arranges it round Mrs. Mountain's shoulders. She 
 goes towards the door and then stops.) 
 
 Nelly. By the way, I've written to Bob. 
 (Mrs. Mountain just opens her eyes.) 
 
 I told him I can't fix any date at present ; and — 
 and if he can't wait any longer he'd better break off 
 the engagement. 
 
 (Mrs. Mountain stares at her.) 
 
 You see, it wasn't — it wasn't fair to Bob. 
 
 (Nelly seems as if she is going to continue, but sh$
 
 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. Ill 
 
 doesn't say anything after all ; and after standing still 
 a moment turns quickly and goes straight out of the 
 room. Mrs. Mountain reaches for her novel and 
 wiih a sigh of content settles down to it.) 
 
 (Curtain.) 
 
 Frtnted by Butler & Tannbr, Promt M*d L/md<m.
 
 THE PLAYS OF ALFRED SUTRO. 
 
 Paper, acting edition, is. 6d. net. Cloth, Library Edition, 
 
 25. 6d. net. 
 
 THE FASCINATING MR. VANDERVELDT. 
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS. (Paper only.) 
 
 THE BARRIER. 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. (Cloth only.) 
 
 THE BUILDER OF BRIDGES. 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. (Goth only.) 
 
 THE FIRESCREEN. 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. (Cloth only.) 
 
 JOHN GLAYDE'S HONOUR. 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. (Cloth only.) 
 
 MOLLENTRAVE ON WOMEN. 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS, 
 
 THE PERFECT LOVER. 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
 THE PERPLEXED HUSBAND. 
 
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS. (Cloth only). 
 
 THE WALLS OF JERICHO. 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
 The following One- Act Plays at 6d. each. 
 
 THE BRACELET. 
 
 CARROTS. 
 
 THE CORRECT THING. 
 
 ELLA'S APOLOGY. 
 
 A GAME OF CHESS. 
 
 THE GUTTER OF TIME. 
 
 A MAKER OF MEN. 
 
 THE MAN IN THE STALLS. 
 
 THE MAN ON THE KERB. 
 
 A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED, 
 
 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 MR. STEINMANN'S CORNER. 
 
 THE SALT OF LIFE.
 
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