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DRAWING-ROOM PLAYS 
 
 SELECTED AND ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 LADY ADELAIDE CADOGAN 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY E. L. SHUTE 
 
 Belitcatfti tjg permission 
 
 -in 
 HER ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCESS CHRISTIAN OF SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, 
 PRINCESS OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND 
 
 LONDON 
 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE AND RIVINGTON 
 
 Limited 
 
 Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.G. 
 1888 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 4to volumes, cloth, \2s. dd. each. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED GAMES OF PATIENCE, with 22 
 coloured Diagrams. 
 
 NEW GAMES OF PATIENCE, with 34 coloured 
 .. r IDiagrams. 
 
 • ••••.• London : 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON, 
 
 Limited, 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S HOUSE, FETTER LANE, E.C. 
 
 The Plays contained herein have also been printed separately for Acting purposes^ 
 
 without illustrations, andean be had by purchasers of this Volume by forwarding 
 
 sixpence for each Play to the publishers. 
 
This little book is intended to meet a want often felt — 
 especially at Christmas-time— of short plays, unobjectionable 
 in tone, easy to act, and requiring no elaborate costume or 
 scenery. The following lines were written for the Authoress 
 by a friend to whom she had expressed her regret that the 
 language required was necessarily ' of the period.' 
 
 My task has been a hard one — to express 
 
 French wit and sparkle in an English dress. 
 
 Forgive me, Reader, if your cultured taste 
 
 Think language ' of the period ' misplaced : 
 
 ' Pals,' ' beasdy,' ' rotten,' ' bosh,' 'confound it,' ' hang,' 
 
 Are, I admit, ' quite too too awful ' slang, 
 
 And if you disapprove of ' won't ' and ' can't,' 
 
 To the poor solecisms pardon grant. 
 
 We know, of course, professors do not teach 
 
 These little idioms of our Saxon speech. 
 
 But in the grown-up world, that larger school, 
 
 Such forms are not exceptions, but the rule : 
 
 So please remember that in '88 
 
 We English neither live, nor talk, in state, 
 
 And if, with this in mind, you like the plays, 
 
 My best reward will be — your honest praise. 
 
 857723 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Caught at Last . . . . 
 Exchange xo Robbery 
 How Happy could I be \\itu Either ! 
 Well Matched after all 
 Bric-a-Brac ..... 
 Tit ¥ok Tat ..... 
 Crocodile Tears .... 
 
 I 
 
 17 
 37 
 57 
 79 
 95 
 11^ 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 Characters. 
 Mr. Antonio Alderson .... Barrister. 
 Mrs. Willoughby ..... Young Widow. 
 
 Scene : — First floor room in country house. Window at back. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby. [Enters hastily, holding a basket of work, which 
 she puts doiun on a table, and shuts the door energetically. Speaking 
 through the door to some one outside.^ jane, call Thomas, send to the 
 stables, anywhere, everywhere, for the coachman ; get a mousetrap. 
 Shake everything in the dining-room, rummage in the passage, but — 
 living or dead — that mouse must be found. Above all, don't let any 
 one open this door, even if I'm to be shut up for a week with nothing 
 to eat or drink — do you hear, Jane ? If the mouse gets in here I shall 
 go mad. \Sits down?\ Now to think that such a creature should be 
 seen in my house — my house of all places, and a perfectly new one into 
 the bargain ; I shall have to live in a balloon. . . There I was, quietly 
 sitting by the window with my work ; my feet were frozen, so I put 
 them into my muff-bag . . . and, oh, horror ! a brute of a mouse darts 
 out, actually scampering over my feet. Ugh ! I screamed like a maniac. 
 I had just presence of mind to seize my basket, and then ran for my 
 life, across the passage and dining-room, and here I am \looks at her- 
 self in a little giass\ and in what a state, to be sure ! I look like a mad 
 woman, and at any moment that Mr. Alderson may be here. He's 
 
 B 
 
2 CAUGHT AT LAST 
 
 be^'rt,, Worrying ifie;?or the last three months with letters, and hitherto 
 ^.f 'ye,'dpcline4 ;tO;S?p hini. . . But he has somehow contrived to curry 
 favour with Lady Sc6'tt, an old aunt whose heiress I am. It seems 
 that he manages her affairs ; and under pretence of consulting me about 
 important business connected with my inheritance, he asked for this 
 interview, which I naturally couldn't refuse. . . It's a dodge, no doubt, 
 to force me to see him, but I shall tell him frankly, once for all, that 
 I don't mean to marry again — not him at any rate. Oh ! I've no 
 patience with the man ; besides, his persistent correspondence might 
 compromise me. Well, he'll find me in a nice temper, if he finds me 
 at all, for now I come to think of it, how can I receive him if he 
 comes bafore they've caught that horrid little beast ; as I daren't open 
 the door. 
 
 A Voice. Mrs. Willoughby, m'm. 
 
 Mrs. W. Have you caught it ? 
 
 Voice. No, m'm ; a gen tleman. 
 
 Mrs. W. Caught a gentleman ? 
 
 Voice. No, mum, there's a gentleman who insists on seeing you. 
 
 Mrs. W. ^^aside\. It only wanted this to finish me. S^Aloucf^ 
 Mr. . . Alderson, of course ? 
 
 Voice. Here's his card, m'm. 
 
 Mrs. W. \runnmg to the door]. Don't open the door, Thomas ; 
 don't open the door, poke it underneath. \_Pu^s up the card and 
 reads it\ Yes, Mr. Alderson, I can't send him away after making the 
 appointment, especially as he has come all the way from London. . . . 
 Then I shall feel safer with somebody near me, and in talking I may 
 forget the little brute. Thomas \speaking through the door\ go and 
 explain to Mr. Alderson that the bolt of this door is broken, that I've 
 sent for the locksmith, and ask him if he'll mind going round by the 
 garden and coming in— by — the — window. \Goes to the window\ 
 And, Thomas, if Mr. Alderson consents, bring the little ladder from the 
 greenhouse. At any rate, the mouse can't get in that way. 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 A Voice. Very well, mum. 
 
 Mrs. W. [^oes to the fireplace and arranges her hair before the 
 glass over the 7nantlepiece\ Oh dear ! what a state my hair's in ; I 
 really must tidy myself, for I haven't a doubt that Mr. Alderson will be 
 too delighted to scale my window. 
 He'll think he's acting Romeo at 
 our first interview ^^goes to the win- 
 dow\ Here he comes, just turning 
 the corner. He's not bad-looking; 
 but he seems astonished, as well he 
 may, at my odd proposal. He's 
 rather stout, however, and he looks 
 aghast at the ladder. Hum, if I ever 
 did mean to marry again, it might 
 as well be this same Mr. Alderson 
 as any other, for one hears nothing 
 but good of him. He has the cha- 
 racter of being honourable, clever, 
 and a thorough gentleman, though 
 rather eccentric, I suppose on account 
 of his foreign blood ; his mother was 
 an Italian or something. However, 
 I have quite decided to keep my 
 liberty ; and so I shall give him 
 clearly to understand. [^Opening the 
 windoiii] A thousand pardons, Mr. 
 Alderson. . . 
 
 Alderson [speaking from beldw\ 
 Let me assure you, my dear 
 
 madam, that there is no occasion for excuses. I am only too happy. 
 \_Aside to the gardenerl^ The ladder is pretty firm, is it not, my man ? 
 Yes } Thanks [alozid\ too happy, as I repeat, to come into your 
 
 E 2 
 
4 CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 house for the first time by the way one so often wishes others to go 
 out. 
 
 Mrs. W. Shall I give you a hand ? \SJie holds her hand out to hi??i\. 
 
 Alderson. a good omen, indeed, for one who comes expressly 
 to . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. Ah ! take care. 
 
 AuD'EKso^ \putting his leg over the windoiv]. Thanks. \Entering^ 
 they dow.^ Let me first express my gratitude for your kindness in 
 receiving me in this charmingly unconventional fashion. 
 
 Mrs. W. You will easily believe that I'm terribly put out at 
 having to receive you in this manner, but it's the fault of the mou — , 
 of the locksmith I should say, and your time being so much occupied — 
 and — and — coming from such a distance, I thought it best to offer 
 you . . . {^pointing to the window\. 
 
 Alderson. The ladder. \lVipes his forehead, aside'\ It's worse 
 than the underground. 
 
 Mrs. W. I fear the exertion of climbing up has exhausted 
 you . . . won't you sit down ? [drawing forward an armchair^ 
 
 Alderson. Yes, it was rather a climb ; but [grandiloquentl)i\ to 
 conquer without peril, would be to triumph without glory ! \sits down]. 
 
 Mrs. W. [sitting down]. I hope you bring me a good account of 
 my dear old aunt, Lady Scott. What a charming woman she is — such 
 good company. 
 
 Alderson. May I remark that her niece, in that respect, takes 
 after her ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, dear no. Pve no right to take after her. She 
 was only my husband's aunt. 
 
 Alderson. Ah ! yes, I remember ; your excellent husband used 
 to speak of her. 
 
 Mrs. W. You knew my husband ? 
 
 Alderson. Yes, poor man [movement of Mrs. W.], well, poor is 
 not the word, perhaps ; one uses it conventionally. I knew him first 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST. 5 
 
 at school, and later on we were called to the bar together. For the 
 last few years I have been so absorbed in the duties of my profession, 
 that we have scarcely ever met. Indeed, you can hardly realize how a 
 barrister's time is taken up, especially when one has had — like myself 
 — some degree of success, but for the last three months I have cared 
 for no success but in one cause, and look for no favourable decision but 
 from one judge. 
 
 Mrs. W. Indeed, Mr. Alderson. Who is the one judge whose 
 decision is so all-important ? 
 
 Alderson. Mrs. Willoughby, it is you ! For the last three 
 months I have sighed for you as the thirsty stag pants for the limpid 
 stream ; I love you with an adoration immense, ferocious, melancholy, 
 as, in short, we with Spanish blood in our veins know how to love. 
 
 Mrs. W. Spanish or English, you express your sentiments in 
 singularly plain language, and I must say that . . . 
 
 Alderson. In the glowing South, dearest Mrs. Willoughby, 
 nothing daunts us. We jump from resolve to execution in a single 
 bound. To reach the woman we love, we stem the roaring torrent ; 
 traverse the burning forest ; aye, grapple with the wild beast in his 
 den. 
 
 Mrs. W. I am certain you would show all the ardour of the 
 most chivalrous hidalgo, but it is not on me that such devotion should 
 be wasted. My resolution is unchangeable, never to marry again ! 
 
 Alderson. Never ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Never! 
 
 Alderson. Then you have given me my formal dismissal, and 
 there is nothing left for me but to retire. 
 
 Mrs. W. But surely you are not going away until you have 
 explained the important business which you mentioned as the reason for 
 coming ? 
 
 Alderson \with pompous decision\. Indeed, Mrs. Willoughby, after 
 the decided resolution you have just expressed, there remains nothing 
 
6 CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 more to be said, as to the question on which we differ. ... I have only 
 therefore to regain the window by which I SJooks doubtfully at the 
 window'] ... 
 
 Mrs. W. [absent ly]. I beg your pardon, but don't you hear 
 something scratching at the door .'* 
 
 Alderson. The locksmith no doubt. . . . And I confess that I 
 should prefer this door rather than the [points to the wi7tdow~\. 
 
 Mrs. W. I do not think it's the locksmith. [Aside\ Oh! if it 
 was that horrible little beast again. 
 
 Alderson [going to the dooi'\ Let me at least find out . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. [running after him]. No, no, quite unnecessary — I can 
 ring. [Aside] Oh ! I can't let him go — he is some sort of protection. 
 
 Alderson [aside]. What can be the matter with her } [Aloud] 
 You seem agitated . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. I ! Not the least in the world. 
 
 Alderson. Some unexpected affair no doubt. ... If you had 
 only told me sooner. . . . However, I will at once rid you of my 
 company. 
 
 Mrs. W. No, no, pray stay. [Aside] His presence gives me 
 courage. 
 
 Alderson. But, Mrs. Willoughby, I should grieve to disturb 
 you, and though certainly that exit is not so convenient . . . [C^oes to 
 the window.] Good heavens ! the ladder has disappeared. 
 
 Mrs. W. [Aside]. What luck ! [Aloud] So you see you're my 
 prisoner. [Aside. Listening at the door.] I hear the same scratching 
 and the servants don't come. [She pulls the bell hastily — the cord 
 breaks]. There, this is a pleasant fix. 
 
 Alderson. I am certain, dear madam, that something is amiss ; 
 you are ill, perhaps ? 
 
 Mrs. W. [impatiently]. I never was better in my life. 
 
 A Voice. Did you ring, mum ? 
 
 Mrs. W. [running, to the door and speaking through the keyhole]. 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 Yes ! and broke the bell-rope ; are you all deaf ? Well ! have you 
 caught it ? 
 
 A Voice. Yes, m'm. Jane saw the cat creep under the sofa, and 
 then run away with his prey ; and then he leaped with it right on to 
 the roof of the greenhouse, where he can be seen now. 
 
 Mrs. W. Why on earth didn't you come and tell me so at once ? 
 \To Alderson.] Just excuse me for one moment. | Exit.^ 
 
 Alderson. What does all this mean ? Rushing off to watch 
 her cat perched on the roof; and the door which just now . . . 
 
 and yet which now. 
 
 I can't 
 
 on account of the locksmith 
 make it all out — 
 what an eccentric 
 house. I arrive an hour 
 ago — the door is de- 
 nied me. I was told 
 to climb up to the win- 
 dow by a ladder, so 
 unconventional a pro- 
 ceedinof that I con- 
 sidered myself landed, 
 . . . and risked a pro- 
 posal. \Pause.\ Not 
 at all ! I am clearly 
 
 given to understand that I might just as well have stayed below. — 
 Then, when about to retire in good form, I am stopped. I prepare 
 for a fresh assault . . . am again repulsed with loss ! Then I feel 
 there is nothing to be done but to return by the way I came, 
 when, lo and behold ! the ladder has disappeared, and the door, which 
 was said to be hermetically sealed, flies open ! A curious house ; it's 
 all very curious — very cu — . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. [speaking outside the door]. I tell you, Jane, that what 
 he's holding in his paws is more like one of my balls of worsted than a 
 
8 CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 mou — ... At any rate, I'll count how many balls there are left. 
 \ Enters quickly, carefully shutting the door, and takes up her basket^ I 
 must apologize, Mr. Alderson, for leaving you so long. But ... a 
 matter of the highest importance . . . 
 
 Alderson \aside\ Highest? she must mean the roof! [Aloud] 
 I only waited your return to present my respects and to renew my 
 sincere regrets for having disturbed you. \//e bozvs and goes towards the 
 
 door.] 
 
 Mrs. W. [vehemently]. No! no! I beg you not to open that 
 
 door. . . . 
 
 Alderson. But . . . surely . . . Mrs. Willoughby . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. Pray stay here ... I assure you I was much interested 
 in what you were telling me; and while I'm . . arranging my work 
 ... we could . . . have a little talk. . . . Do sit down. [Mrs. W. 
 sits on the sofa, and points to a chair.] 
 
 Alderson. By all means. [Alderson takes a chair.] 
 
 Mrs. W. [counting her balls of wool, nervously]. We were 
 speaking of wild beasts, were not we ? Had you ever to struggle for 
 your life with one ? [Aside] Five, six, seven. 
 
 Alderson. It happened to me . . . once. 
 
 Mrs. W. [continuing to count]. Then pray tell me all about it. 
 [Aside] Nine, ten, eleven. 
 
 Alderson. With the greatest pleasure. It was in the month of 
 September, at Seville. 
 
 Mrs. W. At Seville ? Wild beasts at . . . Seville ? 
 
 Alderson. The environs were no doubt infested with bears and 
 tigers ; but that was in the time of the Romans. At the period of 
 which I speak, the same animals were to be found ... in cages ! . . . 
 A magnificent menagerie was established in the public square, to which 
 enormous crowds flocked. One evening, as the public were eagerly 
 contemplating the delightful spectacle of a boa constrictor devourino- a 
 poor little rabbit, an awful bellowing was heard, and turning round I 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST. 9 
 
 saw a gigantic lioness that had escaped from its keeper, advancing 
 majestically towards me. The terrified crowd had already left the 
 galleries, and were struggling at the door. ... I, alone, remained ; 
 and waited with a firm front, the onslaught of the terrible animal . . . 
 armed with the umbrella which I now hold . . . when suddenly . . , 
 
 Mrs. W. \who has been listening to the recital while counting her 
 balls of worsted, lets the basket fall, out of which the mouse escapes. 
 She utters a piercing shriek and faints away\ . Ah ! there it is ! . . . 
 
 Alderson \who, during his -tale, armed with his ttmbrella, had 
 turned away, leaps up, and falls into a defensive attitude\ Ah ! the 
 lioness ! ! \turning rouncf] Heavens ! she has fainted. My narrative 
 was too realistic for her nerves. . . . Mrs. Willoughby ! Mrs. 
 Willoughby ! \_he slaps her hands]. ... If even it had been true . . . 
 but as it is . . . imagine my feelings ! What it is to be a born orator ! 
 Do try to recover. She doesn't stir ! What's to be done .'* The bell 
 \^he looks at the bell-rope\ Broken ! At any rate I shall find some 
 water in the dining-room. \Exit?[ 
 
 Mrs. W. \i'ecovering\. Where am I ? Oh ! I remember \Jooks 
 round\ Mr. Alderson gone! What will become of me ? This little 
 brute is sure to get among my petticoats \gets tip and passes to the left]. 
 Oh ! I see something moving [she Jumps up on a chair near the window}. 
 I'm safe here, at any rate. 
 
 [Re-enter Alderson, carrying a bottle of water.] 
 
 Alderson. I could only find this. [He goes towards the sofa; 
 then sees Mrs. W. up on the chair.] By heavens ! She must have 
 gone mad. 
 
 Mrs. W. Mr. Alderson ! 
 
 Alderson. Yes, Mrs, Willoughby. [He recoils?^ 
 
 Mrs. W. Mr. Alderson. . . . You are brave ! 
 
 Alderson. Certainly I am . . . [clenching his umbrella]. Most 
 certainly — but . . . 
 
lO 
 
 CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 Mrs. W. Having fought with a Honess, you cannot be afraid of 
 anything ? 
 
 Alderson. Assuredly not. [Aside] Why the devil does she stay 
 perched up on that chair ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Then, for heaven's sake, Mr. Alderson ; \incoherently\ 
 forgive me. I am but a woman, and it is . . . more than I can stand. 
 Kill it, Mr. Alderson, kill it, I beseech you ! . . . 
 
 \ \ 
 
 Alderson. Eh ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Ah ! I was certain it was only one of my balls of wool 
 that he held in his paws. 
 
 Alderson. His paws! [Aside] She is out of her mind with 
 terror. 
 
 Mrs. W. I saw it, Mr. Alderson. I saw it with my own 
 eyes. 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST. ii 
 
 Alderson \aside\. She saw it. . . .• There she had the 
 advantage of me, for it's more than I did ! \^Aloiid'\ Where did you 
 see it ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Under this chair. 
 
 Alderson \gives a jump ; tJien stoops down and pokes ivilh his 
 timbrella\. Under this chair ? I see nothing. 
 
 Mrs. W. I assure you I saw it hide itself there. 
 
 Alderson. But what . . . what did you see ? 
 
 Mrs. W. The mouse ! 
 
 Alderson \Jie turns pale and jumps on a chair at the other side of 
 the window]. Under this chair, you say ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes, a mouse — Mr. Alderson — a mouse. 
 
 Alderson. A mouse ! Mrs. Willoughby \Jie clasps his hands]. 
 I could live among crocodiles, I could eat with a leopard, I could sleep 
 by a rhinoceros, but if there exists upon earth an animal which paralyzes 
 me with terror, that animal is a . . . mouse. Call some one, dear 
 madam — call the servants. . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. But that's just what I can't do. The servants are at 
 the other end of the house — they couldn't hear me — but you, Mr. Aider- 
 son, for pity's sake go and fetch somebody. 
 
 Alderson. If, dear Mrs. Willoughby, you were to offer me 
 10,000/. a year, or make me governor of the Bank of England .... 
 it would be utterly impossible for me to ... . move. I repeat to you 
 that I am — paralyzed. 
 
 Mrs. W. But we can't stay like this for ever. [^Turns anxiously 
 to Alderson, who is looking at something.] Do you see it ? 
 
 Alderson. No, I do not see anything. But where, in heaven's 
 name, did he come from ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Out of my work-basket, where he had been hidden. 
 Ah ! I see the curtain moving. 
 
 Alderson [who had put one leg down, draws it up quickly]. 
 Which side, dear madam, which side ? I beseech you, say nothing un- 
 
T2 CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 less you are quite sure. • These shocks unnerve me. \He drinks otU 
 of the bottle. '\ 
 
 Mrs. W. \entr eating ly\. , Listen to me, dear JNIr. Alderson. You 
 say that you . . . love me. You proposed to me just now, . . . Well! 
 I swear to you that I'll marry you, if only you will rid me of this horrid 
 little beast. 
 
 Alderson \incoherent\ By heavens, Mrs. Willoughby ! you may 
 believe me — on my soul I swear it . . . that above all things . . . and 
 that my one object in life is . . . but I know myself too well . . . and 
 if I were to touch that mouse, I should die on the spot, and you would 
 have a corpse for your husband. 
 
 Mrs. W. Still, Mr. Alderson, something must be done. I can't 
 stand this position much longer. My back's nearly broken. If we could 
 only get that door open, the servants might hear us. 
 
 Alderson. Happy thought. . . . I'll try with my umbrella. \^He 
 pokes with his umbrella and succeeds in opening the door.^^ 
 
 Mrs. W. Well done. Now we must frighten the little wretch 
 and try to make it go. [ Throws down her handkerchief^ 
 
 Alderson. Failure number one. Now for another try. \Opens 
 his umbrellci\. Kish ! kish ! 
 
 Mrs. W. Failure number two . . . \She claps her hands. "] 
 
 Alderson. Wait one moment. I have an idea. \_Imitates acat.\ 
 Mieu, mieu. \The mouse darts out and escapes.^ 
 
 Mrs. W. There I Thank goodness it's gone. Shut the door 
 quick. 
 
 Alderson \yaulting down and slamming the door'\. And Buffon 
 affirms that the instincts of animals never deceive them. That mouse 
 mistook me for a cat ! Natural history must be written afresh. \^Gives 
 his hand to Mrs. W.] 
 
 Mrs. W. Well! It was time we were rid of it ! I'm perfectly 
 exhausted. I fear you will have but a poor opinion of my courage. 
 \She comes forward and sits on the left.^ 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST 13 
 
 Alderson. And what can I say for myself, who, unable to over- 
 come the repugnance with which that mouse inspired me, have thereby 
 risked the failure of the dearest wish of my life — the possession of that 
 hand — which you so generously offered me, and which . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. And which you did not know how to win ! Pshaw ! 
 There's an end of it, and probably a very good thing for us both. 
 
 Alderson. Then so it must be ! For I have proved myself 
 undeserving of such happiness. But that which grieves me beyond 
 measure is the knowledge that I leave you — believing me to be an 
 arrant coward ! 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh dear no. I have a higher opinion of your courage 
 than you credit me with ; and if I could still doubt it, I'm sure you will 
 give me a proof to the contrary. 
 
 Alderson. In what manner, dear madam ? I swear . , . only 
 prove me — command me. 
 
 Mrs. W. It's a very simple proof after all — only to go down by 
 the same way you came up [showmg the window^, lest the mouse 
 should get in by the door \showing the door] . 
 
 Alderson. Ah ! the win — . . . willing — ly [gaily']. You 
 remember, I daresay, that they took away the ladder } 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes, yes. I remember. 
 
 Alderson [going towards the window] . You remember ? [He 
 measures the height with his eyes, makes as if he intended to spring, 
 looks tip, and sighs.] Now for it . . . forgive me ; one favour only 
 I would ask. . . . Have you a spare room . . . unoccupied just 
 now ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes ; there's the pink-room. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Alderson. The pink-room. . . Oh ! simply for information. . . . 
 Thanks. As I am certain to break one — if not two of my legs, it is a 
 great consolation to be sure of a . . . domicile for a month or two. 
 
 Mrs. W. a month or two ? 
 
 Alderson. Or three ! according to the nature of the fracture. I 
 
14 
 
 CAUGHT AT LAST 
 
 would also venture to ask you to send for a surgeon as soon as possible. 
 [He feigns to put his leg over the window-si/l.'] 
 
 Mrs. W. Mr. Alderson, Mr. Alderson, I can't allow it! 
 
 Alderson. Too late, dear Mrs. Willoughby. I have sworn ; and 
 we who boast descent from a Cortez, never draw back. [ The same 
 by 'play ?^ 
 
 Mrs. W. \^frightened, holdi7ig him by the tail of his coat.] But, 
 Mr. Alderson, you shall not try it, I forbid you. 
 
 Alderson [solemnly]. Mrs. Willoughby. ... If you were to go 
 down upon your knees, you would 7Wt succeed in getting me to break 
 my oath. . . Have the pink-room prepared. It may not be for long, 
 probably not more than a month or so. [Sa7ne by-play.] 
 
CAUGHT AT LAST. 
 
 IS 
 
 Mrs. W. [gelling more and more frighlened.\ Stop ! Stop ! I 
 absolve you from your oath . . . 
 
 Aldersox. Out of the question, my dear lady. [Aside] Now 
 for a bold invention ! [A/oiidl As you know, I am learned in the law, 
 and the law declares that only as her husband can a man be thus 
 absolved by a woman. That proud position you refuse me. . . . 
 Farewell ! . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. [Aside] . . . Caught! [A/oud] Well, then . . . since 
 — it — must be . . . [She puis 021I her hand.] 
 
 Alderson. You accept me .'* Oh ! joy unutterable. [Kisses her 
 hand.] 
 
 Voice [otilside]. Mrs. Willoughby — mum ; the little cat has 
 caught ihe mouse. . . . 
 
 Mrs. W. It appears to me that the large ones are still more 
 dexterous. [Looking at Alderson.] 
 
 Alderson [clasping his hands and falling on his knees]. How 
 can I find words to express my rapturous happiness, my gratitude ? 
 what shall my first present to you be ? 
 
 Mrs. W. The first one, let me see. . . . Oh ! a mouse-trap ! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Captain George Lister. 
 Louisa Maynard, his Cotism. 
 
 Scene : — A Garden in a Seminary Jor Young Ladies — a wall at the 
 end — shrubs and bushes, under one of wJiich is a bench. 
 
 [Louisa 7'uns in and throws herself on the bench. She wears a shady 
 garden hat and holds in her hand a book from zvhich she 7'eads out 
 sentences from time to time^ 
 
 Louisa \reads\ " Britain, however, was independent, and a great 
 part of Gaul was conquered only a little later." \She breaks off.^ 
 What a mercy to think that I shall soon have done with this horrid 
 place ! It's rather hard to have been sent back to it after six blessed 
 months of liberty, but my uncle said he couldn't leave me alone while 
 he went on his tour of inspection. [^Resumes reading ?\ " All the 
 Roman legions displayed a Standard which had the figure of an eagle 
 borne on the top of a spear." Oh ! bother the Romans ! \throws book 
 on grotmd]. Why couldn't he have taken me with him ? There's to 
 be a shooting party at his place very soon ; I wonder if any of the men 
 will turn, will turn into — admirers ? that's the word Miss Wilcox uses 
 instead of lovers in our history books ! But what low form— I, who 
 
 c 
 
i8 
 
 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 set up for hating everything that isn't " prunes and prism " ! One gets 
 demoralized by the trash one hears talked, and yet it's rather hard on 
 the girls, for what can we talk about ? If we speak of other girls, it's 
 Missy ; if we hint at the existence of a man, we're voted fast ; or of 
 animals, we're called unfeminine, and indeed, as the donkey at Caris- 
 brook Castle is the only animal we come across, 
 it would be difficult to err in that line ; and as 
 for sports, battledore and shuttlecock is about 
 the most thrill- 
 ing excitement 
 we have. It's 
 a horribly mo- 
 notonous life. 
 I wish something would happen 
 
 — anything. \At that instant a 
 
 note fastened to a stone is thrown 
 
 over the wall and falls at her feet. 
 
 She jumps up excitedly ?\ Here's 
 
 something anyhow, and it can't 
 
 have dropped from the clouds ; 
 
 somebody must have thrown it — how 
 
 exciting \She seizes the note' and throws 
 
 the stone away, and begins to read, but stops 
 
 short.] It's not directed to me. Ought I to 
 
 read it ? But then it's not directed to anybody, and how can one find out 
 
 who it's for without looking ?. ... If I leave it here, the gardener will be 
 
 sure to find it and take it to Miss Wilcox, and somebody may get into an 
 
 awful row. After all, why shouldn't it be for me as well as for any one else 
 
 ... so here goes. " Dearest Mary " (not for me at any rate), but then 
 
 there are nine Marys here. How can I help the right Mary unless 
 
 I . . . [^reads'] "Your father is still bent on marrying you to your 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 19 
 
 cousin ; but trust to me to find a way of escape, [oh !] If you will meet 
 me this evening after your supper I'll explain my plan [ah !] and if you 
 will but be true to yourself, all may yet be well. Be at the end of the 
 garden at nine o'clock . . . P.S. — Whichever of the young ladies 
 picks up this note is entreated to give it secretly to Mary — our united 
 gratitude will be hers for life." . . . Ah ! now the murder's out. My 
 only friend in this school is Mary Trevor, and she told me she was to 
 marry her cousin ; she didn't seem enthusiastic at the prospect, cer- 
 tainly . . . but . . . she said nothing about this other one \_pointing 
 with her thumb over her shotdder\. Now what ought I to do ? I 
 heard that this cousin behaved beautifully about something connected 
 with her father's affairs, and I know that Mary respects him, and lately, 
 at any rate, she has seemed perfectly happy, so wouldn't it be a pity to 
 upset her ? and after all this one \again pointing over her shoulder^ may 
 not be half so worthy of her. \She twirls the note about in her hand.'\ 
 To think that I — the steady one — always lecturing the girls on the error 
 of their ways . . . am holding in my hand a clandestine love-letter. I 
 must say Mary is in luck ; two of them, and poor, poor me older, and 
 already been out for six months, I've nothing to boast of, nothing; 
 indeed, for the matter of that, I've sounded the very depths of 
 ignominy; ... I've been refused/ . . . It's a fact! My uncle 
 proposed to his son, George Lister, to marry me . . . and George said 
 he would rather be hanged ! I quite agree with him as to marrying, 
 though I'd rather not be hanged as the alternative. Heigh ho ! how it 
 takes me back to old days, when George and I were devoted to each 
 other ; but those childish loves never turn into the right kind, and 
 we haven't met since. It was rash, however, on his part, to refuse me 
 without having seen me again ! Perhaps some day he'll repent in dust 
 and ashes, and then what fun I shall have ... I mean to lead him 
 such a dance when I see him again ; but about this note, what shall I do ? 
 George [^looking over the wall]. Here I am 1 
 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 W' 
 
 Louisa \turning round 
 and uttering a faint cry of 
 alarm']. Oh dear, how you 
 startled me. 
 
 George \jjuite at his 
 ease]. [Aside] I'm blest 
 if it isn't the wrong one. 
 [Aloud] Oh! I'm so sorry, I'm afraid 
 I frightened you. 
 
 Louisa. Not exacdy, but — 
 
 George [astridz on the wall]. 
 Beg pardon, but were you — that is — are you 
 — you know what I mean — expecting some one ? 
 
 Louisa [with dignity]. I expecting some one ? 
 Certainly not. . . . 
 
 George. Then might I without being indiscreet 
 • [l^e jumps down and approaches her]. 
 Louisa. Good heavens, what have you done ? 
 
 George. Scaled the wall-^that's 
 }tl^ all. But do forgive me for coming 
 like a burglar, I assure you I've 
 the most peaceful intentions, and 
 I think I see by your face that you 
 guess them. Are you a friend of 
 Miss Trevor's ? 
 
 Louisa. A very great friend. 
 George. Oh, then of course she 
 has given you a message for me — 
 only why don't she come herself ? 
 She's not ill, I hope ? 
 
 Louisa. No, Mary is quite well. 
 George. Then do speak, my dear 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 21 
 
 Miss — ? \aside\ so awkward when a fellow don't know a girl's name 
 \alotid\ and put me out of my suspense. You saw the note. 
 
 Louisa [looking at him doubtfully\. Y-e-s. 
 
 George. Then didn't you read the postscript ? 
 
 Louisa. Oh yes, I read it all . . . 
 
 George. Then, of course, if you're her friend you won't hesitate 
 a moment. Slip it under her desk, or put it under her pillow, that's 
 what all girls do for each other. Oh, do make haste ! You don't 
 know all that depends upon it . . . Poor Mary ! I'll wait for you 
 behind the wall, [confidentially] and one of these days you'll think 
 of me, when some one you love scales this — same — wall. By-the-bye, 
 don't forget to tell him of this particular spot ; it's such an easy one. 
 There now, I see you will give her the note, but ... do make 
 haste. 
 
 Louisa [hesitating]. Perhaps I may . . . but it must be on 
 one condition ; you must tell me the whole truth and not conceal 
 anything. 
 
 George. All right . . . you shall have the whole history from 
 beginning to end ; well, well, not quite the end yet ... A year ago I 
 came back from India, and at a garden party at Lady Smarthouse's I 
 saw a young girl . . . she was eating strawberry cream . . . and as 
 I was standing near, she asked me to get her some chocolate cakes. It 
 was the eagerness with which she asked me for those chocolate cakes, 
 and then for some iced lemonade, and then her intense enjoyment of 
 them — that — first made me — 
 
 Louisa [interrtipting him and laughing]. In short you fell in love 
 with her because she was greedy. 
 
 George [laughing too]. She looked so lovely ; her little hands 
 hardly able to grasp all the things she asked for ; and then I hate the 
 fashionable attenuated creatures who boast of living on air. . . I like 
 jolly, healthy girls, who enjoy the good things of life and get fat upon 
 them. 
 
2 2 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 Louisa \laughing\ Not a romantic beginning, I must say. 
 
 George. Oh, 1 was really in love, and afterwards I saw her con- 
 stantly ... I used to give her no end of bonbons ; she adores burnt 
 almonds especially, and then . . . 
 
 Louisa. Well ? . . . 
 
 George. Well then, you see we got to be great pals ; but I don't 
 suppose we . . . should have thought much more of each other . . . 
 only the other day ... I'd been away for a bit ... I heard of her 
 father's smash, and that poor Mary was forced into marrying a cousin she 
 hated. I heard that she was miserable ... so ... I rushed off here 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 23 
 
 at once ... to save her from a dreadful fate, poor little dear, and — By 
 Jove, it's getting late. Now do make haste. 
 
 Louisa \_aside\. He seems a quixotic kind of youth, and not a 
 bad sort ... I wonder if he means to go about disentangling all the 
 engaged couples who don't care for each other ? he'll have his hands 
 full at that rate. \Aloud'\ One word more, in the first place what do 
 you mean to say to Mary ? 
 
 George. Inthefirst place .-^ Wliy naturally . . . that I adore her. 
 
 Louisa. Next ? 
 
 George. Next ? Why next I'll carry her off . . . of course. 
 
 Louisa \horriJied\ You propose to run away with Mary, and you 
 expect me — to — 
 
 George {interrupting her eager ly\ To help us ? naturally — as 
 you're her friend. I've arranged it all first-rate . . . I've got my 
 pockets stuffed full of bonbons — to amuse her, poor little thing, till we 
 get to London — then we go straight to a registrar's office . . . 
 
 Louisa \interrupting him aghast\ You suppose that Mary 
 would be married in a registrar's office, and that I would consent to — 
 such a crime ? 
 
 George \_airily\. No help for it ; as she's under age, we can't 
 do the bann or licence business without her father's consent. 
 Of course he'll give it when he knows we've been married the 
 other way, and then we can go to church ... oh dear, if you'll 
 only get my note to her somehow . . . we've wasted such a lot of time 
 already. 
 
 Louisa \aside\ Flattering. I suppose he's very much in love, 
 and can think of nobody else ; and yet he don't give me the idea of 
 it . . . What on earth am I to do ? if she does care for this man, who 
 is evidently a good fellow, and if she hates the other one . . . which, 
 however, I don't believe ; I suppose I ought to give her the option. 
 [Meditates.'] I'd better tell him the truth about Henry Danby — 
 and then, if he still insists, I will give Mary the note, and she must 
 
24 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 decide, \l\irning to George, aloud] Do you know the rights of the 
 case about Mary and her cousin ? 
 
 George. Only the bare fact — that she hates him — and has got 
 to marry him. 
 
 Louisa. About the hating I'm not so sure. Colonel Trevor 
 left the army, and dabbled in some sort of speculation, I suppose > 
 anyway, he lost every shilling, and but for this nephew, they would have 
 been in the workhouse. Henry had been in love with Mary for years, 
 and only waited till he could settle in England to propose — but when 
 this smash came he helped his uncle through, and never made a sign 
 to her, so that she mightn't feel obliged to accept him out of mere 
 gratitude . . . Wasn't it nice of him ? it only came out by accident. 
 Of course Mary was touched, and I fancy she got to be fond of him. 
 But, whether or no, . . . she couldn't throw him over now — I appeal 
 to you — could she ? And, supposing that she did care for you . . . 
 would it be kind to tempt her ? For, depend upon it, she would never 
 be happy if she did — 
 
 George [fnoved']. Is this really true? 
 
 Louisa. As gospel. 
 
 George. Then you're right. Mary's not the girl to throw over 
 such a good fellow [tears up the note] ; and I wouldn't try to make her 
 do it . . . But it's hard lines . . . 
 
 Louisa. I felt all the time that you weren't the man to urge her 
 . . . It's very odd, but you put me in mind of a cousin of mine — who 
 always began by doing the wrong thing, and always \she laughs] well 
 . . . generally . . . ended in doing the right one ! \Aside, while 
 George lounges about y and draws patterns with his stick on the gravel.]^ 
 I've been talking like Minerva. I feel perfectly exhausted by my own 
 wisdom. Now I must have a good look at this — Lothario. Till now 
 I've been afraid, for he seemed a cross between Don Juan and a bandit, 
 but now I like him. \Looks at him critically.] Very good-looking — 
 thoroughly gentlemanlike ; and he reminds me of somebody ... I 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 25 
 
 can't think who. Now for another word of wisdom . . . and 
 then the "something" that came to the rescue of my boredom — will 
 vanish, at any rate as far as I'm concerned. \_Aloud\ Well, 
 you'll have the reward promised by our copy-books to virtue, but 
 as the gardener is sure to be here directly . . . please . . . you'd 
 better go . . . 
 
 George. Where ? 
 
 Louisa. Why, over the wall of course. 
 
 George \_preparing to get back over the wa/f\. I wonder if virtue 
 ever does bring its own reward ! I feel rather a fool ; and it seemed 
 all so jolly and easy. \Catching himself up7\ I mean, of course, that 
 happiness seemed so near. 
 
 Louisa \de7nurely\. The reward of a good conscience, you 
 know. 
 
 George. Then I have only got to wish you — Good-bye ! Yes, 
 one more favour . . . When Mary is married, mind you tell her that 
 George Lister was faith — 
 
 Louisa \aside, making an exclamation that nearly betrays her\ 
 George Lister. Oh ! 
 
 George. Eh ? . . . ' 
 
 Louisa [laughing~\. Oh ! it was nothing ; but I really must 
 go now — Good-bye ! \^Goes ottt, hiding her laughter.~\ \_Exit 
 Louisa.] 
 
 George. Eugh ! I feel decidedly small ; and what an idiot I 
 shall seem to the coachman and my servant — both sworn to secrecy. 
 But it would have been a beastly shame to bowl over that good fellow 
 if Mary had ... I wonder if I shall be wretched, and all that .'* I 
 s'pose I'm in love with Mary ; and yet — I wish I'd found out the name 
 of that other little girl. No ! not little — on the contrary — tall and slim 
 . . . Well, her name can't matter to me — I only like small fat people 
 . . . But there was something about her — and, thanks to her, I feel 
 a model of virtue. It's a pity I can't see her again, for one doesn't live 
 
26 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 up to that form without some kind of help. She must have the 
 highest admiration for my moral qualities, and perhaps if we meet later 
 on . . . It's funny, how she puts me in mind of that cousin of mine ; 
 she used to pull me up when I got on the wrong track. Heigh ho ! 
 I sometimes wonder if the dear old father hadn't interfered — whether 
 Louisa and 1 . . . No, hang it ! — a girl who could lend herself to such 
 a bargain, even send me a sort of message — as I gathered — about her 
 money and the title I may some day inherit, in fact throv/ herself at a 
 fellow's head — Eugh, she'd be dear at any price. She was such a 
 trump though in those days — seemed so good, and true-hearted ; I 
 hate to think of her, turned, I dare say, into a worldly-wise — fast — 
 forward . . . It's horrid — I'll forget her ; indeed, I had forgotten her, 
 until, somehow, this girl ! Now for it [putting his leg over the wall]. 
 Exit the Wolf, minus the Lamb . . . What's that noise ? [looking 
 r^^/w^Jsomebody walking on tip -toe — Why, as I'm alive, it's my lit . . . 
 my tall friend again. I mustn't throw away an opportunity of advancing 
 in the paths of virtue, under her guidance . . . What on earth is she 
 doing ? I'd better make myself scarce for the moment [disappears over 
 the wall]. 
 
 [Louisa returns^ smoothing the gravel with her foot as she comes, to 
 hide the mark of footsteps . . . George on the other side of the 
 wall peeps over.] 
 
 George. Ah ! I understand . . . she's got her wits about her, 
 for all she looks so demure. 
 
 Louisa. How lucky I thought of it in time . . . Miss Wilcox 
 would have ferreted it out ... a man's footsteps. [Aside] They've 
 all gone in to supper, and I've excused myself on the plea of headache, 
 so I'm safe; and oh, what fun I mean to have ! . . , Won't I get a 
 rise out of Master George when next 1 see him . . . that's all ! I felt 
 as if I knew him ... a few years and huge moustaches have certainly 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 27 
 
 altered him, but there's the old smile. I'm furious with him of 
 course. But I used always to end by forgiving him. He was such 
 a dear ! and devoted to me ! — though he pretended to look down 
 upon me — after the manner of boys ; but, the idea of saying 
 he would rather be hanged than marry me ! The cheek of it ! As 
 if I had the smallest intention of marrying him. Oh ! I'll pay him off 
 yet. 
 
 George \^puttmg his leg over the zvall, whistles ; she starts\ 
 
 Louisa. What's that ? 
 
 George ^whistles again]. 
 
 Louisa. Oh ! it's you, is it ? 
 
 George. Yes, it's me. May I say a word ? 
 
 Louisa. No, you mayn't. Go away ! 
 
 George. I am going. But before we part [sentimentally], I 
 entreat you to tell me to whom I am indebted for the happy 
 time . . . ? 
 
 Louisa [suppressing her laughter], Happy time. Captain Lister? 
 
 George. No, no ; of course it's been a miserable time ; but you 
 softened the blow by your kindness. [Suddenly recollecting, with 
 surprise] How did you know I was Captain, though ? 
 
 Louisa. Why, didn't you send a message to Mary, that Captain 
 Lister — 
 
 George [interrupting]. No, no ; I said George Lister. Why, I 
 only got my promotion a week ago. 
 
 Louisa [aside]. And my uncle wrote to tell me of it at once, for 
 he goes on hankering after his precious plan for us . . . What a goose 
 I am ; I'm safe to show myself up. [Aloud] Your moustachios speak 
 for themselves ! 
 
 George. For themselves, but not for their captain . . . However, 
 surely now you know so much about me, you can't refuse to let me 
 know more -ihowX. you ? 
 
 Louisa. At any rate, I've not got my promotion. 
 
28 
 
 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 George \offended\. Oh, you are laughing at me ! I'd better be 
 off. \He begins to get over the wall, wJien a dog barks violently^ and he 
 jumps ba^k again ^ 
 Louisa. Well ? 
 
 George \astride on the wair\. Well, Miss Thompson — Johnson. 
 \Aside\ It's so idiotic not to know the name of a girl who'd heard of 
 one's promotion as soon as one did oneself . . . [Aloud] Smithson — 
 
 Jackson ! [Aside] She'll get in 
 a rage in a minute, and let it out. 
 [Aloud] The dog's evidently 
 savage, and I've no fancy for 
 being bitten. 
 
 Louisa [coolly]. None of those 
 names belong to me, and if you 
 speak gently to the dog, perhaps 
 he won't eat you up ; at any rate 
 you must go, for somebody might 
 come by at any minute, and I 
 should get — 
 
 George. Punished ? 
 Louisa. Severely. And I shall owe my punishment to you. 
 Do go, please. 
 
 George [aside]. Bother the girl. She looks so pretty. But it's 
 as clear as a pikestaff that she's laughing at me. [Keeps looking at her] 
 Oh, she's distractingly pretty. [Aloud] One moment, and I'm gone. 
 [Sentimentally] Did it ever happen to you to meet a perfect stranger, 
 and at the end of half an hour to feel as if you had known that person 
 for years . . . and to hope that . . . 
 
 Louisa [shaking her luad slowly and demwely]. Never. 
 George. I feel that sensation now with you ... I feel as if we 
 were old friends, and I've so many things to say to you . . . 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 29 
 
 Louisa. For Mary Trevor, of course ? 
 
 George [irritated']. No, not for Mary Trevor . . . [After a 
 minute he bursts out laug/mtg.] 
 
 Louisa. What in the world are you laughing at ? 
 
 George. When I think of this adventure I can't help it ; it's just 
 like me ... to come here full of one idea . . . and of one person 
 and then not to be able to tear myself away, because I'm full of another 
 idea . . . and of . . . another person. 
 
 Louisa [piqtied\. To increase your amusement I'll go away and 
 send some one else to you . . . that'll give you another idea . . . 
 about a third person . . . and so on through the whole school, if there's 
 time . . . 
 
 George. Oh no ; I swear to you that this time ... I am 
 serious. 
 
 Louisa. You were never serious in your life, and never will 
 be . . . 
 
 George. I ! . . How can you know anything about me, as you 
 never saw me before ? 
 
 Louisa [aside\ Nearly caught! [Aloud] But I've heard 
 plenty about you. You seem to forget that you've a cousin 
 here . . . 
 
 George. Good heavens ! so I have — I'd quite forgotten her . . . 
 
 Louisa. Well ! she has not forgotten you ... for she has often 
 told me .... 
 
 George [interrupting]. Does she know I refused to marry 
 her? 
 
 Louisa. Oh, yes, and she's intensely amused at the notion, and 
 at your thinking you could ever have had the chance. 
 
 George [piqued]. I fail to see in what way that notion was 
 so intensely amusing. But what else has she told you about 
 me ."* 
 
30 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 Louisa. Before I tell you anything, I want to know what makes 
 you dislike her ? 
 
 George. I never said I disliked her. 
 
 Louisa. A man doesn't generally refuse a girl he likes. 
 
 George. A man generally doesn't have the chance of refusing 
 a girl — but there ... for goodness' sake don't let's talk about 
 her. 
 
 Louisa. Just tell me how it all was, or else I won't tell you what 
 she said. 
 
 George \jivipatiently\ We'd been children together, and, and, 
 when I came back from college, she had gone to school . . . 
 
 Louisa. Well ? 
 
 George. Then my father suggested that I should marry her. 
 Such an idea ! " Thanks," said L " I'd rather — " 
 
 Louisa. Be hanged . . ? 
 
 George. You appear to know a great deal about it ? 
 
 Louisa. Of course, Louisa told me everything, but just now you 
 seemed to think the idea was not so absurd . . . You wondered Avhy 
 she found it amusinsf. 
 
 George. Just so ; I can't see what she found amusing . . . 
 
 Louisa. Oh, yes, I see — only amusing ... for you. But what 
 was she like ? She is — ra-ther pretty now. \^Looks down bashfully. '\ 
 
 George. I daresay — in a milk-and-watery sort of way. 
 
 Louisa. And clever too — most people think — 
 
 George. Flippant probably. . . But don't let's go on talking 
 of anything so uninteresting. Just tell me what she said of me, and 
 then . . . 
 
 Louisa S^provokingly^. Then you have some curiosity about 
 her? 
 
 George. Not the smallest. It isn't a question of her — but of you 
 — I want to know what impression j^??/ received — though I can't suppose 
 you'd be influenced by the opinion of one so inferior — so . . . 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 31 
 
 Louisa \aside\. You're overacting your part, my friend. You're 
 not as indifferent as you think, or as you wish to make me think. . . . 
 \Aloud'\ It's odd you should speak in that bitter tone of one who is so 
 uninteresting. Have you never seen her since ? 
 
 George. Never! I've taken good care of that. . . I might have 
 been snapped up against my will . . . 
 
 Louisa. Should you know her again, if you came across 
 her? 
 
 George. Know her ? Of course I should. 
 
 Louisa. Girls of that age do change. Perhaps she has turned out 
 better-looking than you expected. 
 
 George. As you say, girls do change, particularly when they put 
 birdsnests on their foreheads. . . I'm sure you don't do anything so 
 absurd. But with that big hat you hardly let one see you. . . Pray 
 take it off. \_Looks at her tenderly.'] . . . Then you won't tell 
 me ? 
 
 Louisa [briskly']. Oh, yes, I will. . . Well, she told me — first— 
 that you've neither heart nor — head. 
 
 George [huffy]. Oh, that's first — and what's second? 
 
 Louisa. Secondly, that you're flighty ; just like a weathercock— 
 I forget the rest, but there was something else. Oh, yes, I remember, 
 Louisa said. If you ever come across him . . . avoid him like poison ; 
 for . . . he don't care what he says of girls . . _ boasts about them. 
 I think, Captain Lister, I agree with Louisa there. . . 
 
 George. No, no, no. Don't say that. It's the last thing — 
 there's a reason in her case. Oh ! why did you insist on talking about 
 her? 
 
 Louisa. Well, never mind now. But do you want to hear any- 
 thinor more ? 
 
 George. Yes ; I want to hear what opinion you've formed of me 
 yourself. Tell me candidly of my faults ... I would alter anything — 
 do anything to please you. 
 
32 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 Louisa \f)ialiciotisly\. Hadn't you better see your cousin first and 
 ask her about me ? 
 
 George. No ; after what you've told me I wish neither to see 
 her nor to hear of her ; because I didn't want to marry her — is that a 
 reason that she should paint me to you in the blackest colours ? 
 
 Louisa \laughing\. I don't think she has any reason to paint 
 you in bright ones ; but before I give you my own opinion — as you 
 wish — pray remember that I've known your cousin from, from . . . her 
 birth . . . 
 
 George. And loved her no doubt. That's just like girls. I dare- 
 say you think her perfection ? 
 
 Louisa. No ; because then she'd be detestable, and as it is, 
 she's charming ; at any rate, . I know her thoroughly — which is more 
 than you seem to do — in spite of having been intimate with her in old 
 days. And what's more, I know what she felt about you, and 
 how she would have behaved if you had not treated her as you have 
 done. 
 
 George [trying to appear indifferent\. Well, let's hear it all, 
 and after that — perhaps you'll leave off harping upon this tiresome 
 cousin. 
 
 Louisa [beginning by laughing afid gradually softening\. Listen, 
 then. . . . Your cousin agreed with you that such a marriage would 
 have been most undesirable ... in fact she hated the idea quite as 
 much as you did. 
 
 George [aside, pique d\ The devil she did ! 
 
 Louis. Eh ? 
 
 George. Nothing, pray go on. 
 
 Louisa. She would have joined with you in entreating your 
 father to give up the idea. Still she had loved you dearly, and in 
 exchange for that childish love she would have given you the sincerest 
 friendship . . . the warmest affection ... an affection that would 
 have defied the lapse of years and would have stood by you through 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 33 
 
 life . . . \All this time George shows signs of emotion^ Go back in 
 memory to your childhood. Your cousin was younger than you ; 
 but didn't she learn the same lessons in order to help you ? Didn't 
 she stand between you and your punishments . . . often taking the 
 blame on herself to spare you ? During the long illness you had . . . 
 didn't she give up all her little pleasures to sit by your bedside, to 
 read to you, to sing your favourite songs ? How she loved you in those 
 ' far-off times . . . and how have you rewarded her ? [Louisa, too, has 
 been much moved by the revival of old memories, but now gets indignant. ^^ 
 
 How dared you suppose that she was ready to marry you against your 
 will, as you chivalrously remarked just now ? How dared you presume 
 that her love for you had changed from that pure sisterly affection ! 
 worse still — that she would have given herself to you — unasked — at 
 your father's wish, and valued herself as a thing to be sold to 
 the highest bidder ? \_By this time Louisa has worked herself into a 
 flaming passio7tJ\ 
 
 George [leaning his head on his hands and showing great 
 
 D 
 
34 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 eniotiof{\. Didn't I tell you that your influence would make of me 
 whatever you pleased ? You've already crushed out my self-conceit. 
 I could fancy it was Louisa herself speaking : she used to lecture me, 
 and often made me ashamed of -myself, as I am now. It's too true ! 
 I've been selfish, conceited, all that she painted me. Ah ! how well I 
 remember those dear old days, and if I had seen her again, and known 
 her as she promised to become . . . the truest-hearted, noblest 
 creature that ever was created ; how different my life might have 
 been ! Perhaps she too would have let the old affection ripen into 
 something warmer, and in making my father happy — we might . . . 
 have been happy ourselves. 
 
 Louisa. Why, then, did you not let those memories speak for her ? 
 Why did you humiliate her and yourself too, for surely those suspicions 
 were unworthy of you both ? 
 
 George. Indeed they were. But my dear old father has 
 something to answer for in that ... a man naturally hates having 
 any woman offered to him. I ought to have known Louisa better, but 
 my father, in his anxiety for our marriage, expatiated on its worldly 
 advantages, and gave me to understand that she ... in short he 
 contrived to turn my old affection for Louisa into aversion — if not 
 contempt ... I was angry — with her — with myself — and perhaps the 
 lowering of the ideal I had formed of her and of what she would 
 become . . . was the real cause of the soreness you noticed . . . 
 Well, it's too late now, and my life is spoilt every way — for I can never 
 hope that you . . . 
 
 Louisa SJiesitating mid shy]. Why is it too late ? Perhaps if 
 your cousin knew that you still ... I mean that you saw the injustice 
 of your suspicions, and repented of them . . . she might . . . 
 yet ... 
 
 George \i7iterrupting her\. I deserve that you should think me 
 the weather-cock your words imply . . . ready to go through the 
 whole school, as you said. No ! I was speaking of what might have 
 
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 35 
 
 been before to-day. And yet let me say one word in my own 
 defence. . . It was just after I received that impression about Louisa, 
 that I met Mary Trevor ... it was a mere flirtation between us — 
 each having gone through a disagreeable episode we were trying to 
 forget — and if I hadn't accidentally heard that she was being forced 
 into a marriage she hated — we should probably never have thought of 
 each other again . ... Then I came to . . . Vx\oyN^owYLoitisalaughs\\ 
 oh! yes, you are laughing because I've only known you for less than 
 an hour . . . Well, what of that ? However, I won't attempt to argue 
 the matter. But it's the truth . . . from the first moment, I seemed 
 to have known you for years . . . laugh as you will, I swear to you 
 . . . that you reminded me of my cousin in the days when I loved her 
 so well . . . when her gentle influence could bring out the little good 
 there was in me. There! I'm only making myself ridiculous and 
 . . . besides — you think me utterly heartless. Yet when we parted — 
 Louisa and I — we exchanged rings . . . and in all the years that have 
 gone by ... I never took mine off night or day until . . . 
 
 Louisa. Until ? 
 
 George. Until I thought I had cause . . . to — well, to despise 
 her. 
 
 Louisa. She never took hers off . . . even when she . . . 
 knew she had cause to . . . despise . . . you. 
 
 George. Ah ! I lost a treasure — I know it now. 
 
 Louisa. Then why not . . . try to regain . . . the treasure ? 
 
 George. Because my heart is now irrevocably fixed . . . \ta.kes 
 her han({\ ; although I fear there is no hope for me. 
 
 Louisa \leaving her hand in Ids and pointing to the ring~\. Take 
 care, you hurt me, you're pressing that ring into my finger. 
 
 George. Poor little finger! \examines it, and sees the ring, and 
 starts back\. How in the world did you get that ring ? 
 
 Louisa. This ring ? Oh! it was Lousia's, and . . . she — she — • 
 gave it me. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY. 
 
 George \suspicion dawning on him and his face lighting up\ 
 Why, you said just now that she never took it off her finger. 
 
 Louisa \Jiastil)^. No more she did — I mean — well, if you must 
 know \_dejiantly\ I am Louisa. 
 
 George. You — oh, I see it all now — what an ass I've been ! — 
 Louisa, darling, remember how we used to love each other — can you 
 forofive me ? 
 
 Louisa. Well, George, I suppose I must try. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 fi>' 
 
HOW HAPPY COULD I BE 
 WITH EITHER! 
 
 Characters. 
 Mr. Tkemayne. 
 
 Lady Susan Dering . . A young Widow. 
 Agnes Trevor . . . Her Niece. 
 
 Scene : — A dra'wing-roo7n at a country house — a door at the back — a 
 door on either side, each having a portiere — a chair on the left, on 
 which is a half-Jinished piece of embroidery — a sofa on the right, 
 near a table, on which are materials for water-colour drawings and 
 a half-finished sketch. 
 
 \_Enter Agnes atid Lady Susan at different doors.'] 
 
 Lady S. Well ! has the post brought any news ? 
 
 Agnes. Absolutely none. Only two visiting cards — one for you, 
 Aunt Susan, the other for me. 
 
 Lady S. " Mr. Tremayne." What ! Not contented with his 
 daily visits, he must needs follow them up with bits of pasteboard. 
 Our neighbour is becoming a nuisance. 
 
 Agnes. There I agree ; but why do you encourage him ? 
 
 Lady S. I encourage him ? That's good ! It's rather you, my 
 dear, who do that. 
 
 Agnes. Not L But I've got eyes in my head. 
 
 Lady S. And I've got ears in mine. But granted that I may have 
 
38 I/OJV HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 
 
 been civil to Mr. Tremayne. What then ? You have certainly not 
 been backward in welcoming his visits. 
 Agnes. I ? 
 
 Lady S. \_contimung\. Besides, it's no secret to you, that I'm 
 already half-engaged. . . . Poor Victor ! how constant he has been ! 
 
 Agnes. Pshaw ! My dear aunt, I beg to say that I never 
 believed in your attachment to Victor. Why, didn't I hear you tell 
 him that the widow of a consul-general couldn't possibly marry any one 
 below the rank of a captain ? It's now two years since he sailed for 
 Africa. My belief is that you've completely forgotten poor Victor, and 
 that it would be folly in him to cherish any hope of becoming — 
 
 Lady S. A captain ! 
 
 Agnes. No ! the husband of a woman capable of giving such an 
 answer ... an answer that you certainly would not have given to Mr. 
 Tremayne. 
 
 Lady S. You think so ? 
 
 Agnes. I am sure of it. I couldn't help seeing your delight this 
 morning, at getting a letter [pointedly^ brought — by — hand ! 
 
 Lady S. Which you believe to have been from Mr. Tremayne, 
 followed by his cards ? I should like to know what possible reason he 
 could have for doing so stupid a thing. 
 
 Agnes. How should I know ? But it wouldn't be the first time 
 that excessive caution has overreached itself. 
 
 Lady S. That presumption, my dear, is — to say the least of it — 
 rash ; for [sarcastically] though Mr. Tremayne overwhelms tts with 
 visits — inundates its with attentions — nothing, absolutely nothing, in his 
 manner indicates a preference for one over the other. 
 
 Agnes. That I admit. . . . Indeed, he takes pains not to 
 pronounce — outwardly, at any rate — in favour of either. 
 
 Lady S. It remains, then, to be seen which of us is the most 
 susceptible to his fascinations. 
 
 Agnes. I, for one, haven't the smallest doubt on that point. 
 
HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 
 
 39 
 
 Lady S. Strange perversity. However, to prove to you that I 
 care no more for our neighbour than you pretend to do, if he should 
 call to-day — 
 
 Agnes. After sending his cards ? 
 
 Lady S. They were probably the forerunners. The weather 
 prevents our stirring out, and Mr. Tremayne makes considerable use of 
 his opportunities — in saving us from the horrors of solitude. 
 
 Agnes. Well, we'll take for granted that he calls. What next ? 
 
40 ■ now HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER ! 
 
 Lady S. What next ? Why, after an arctic reception, we'll make 
 some transparent excuse to get rid of him. I suppose he'll take the 
 hint, and spare us somewhat of his society in future. 
 
 Agnes. Surely this would be very uncivil. 
 
 Lady S. Oh ! \{ you have any scruples or qualms. 
 
 Agnes. I ! none whatever. But how about yourself? Are you 
 certain that you may not repent and regret later on ? 
 
 Lady S. Aha ! Take care, or I may think you are speaking of 
 yourself. 
 
 Agnes. Then you'll think wrong. Meantime, / shall leave the 
 room at once, hoping \with emphasis] that the poor man may find it 
 empty if he does come. \_As2de] At least that'll be better than being 
 ignominiously turned out. [Bxz^.'] 
 
 Lady S. So, so, my little niece ! If you go on snubbing every 
 possible husband, you'll end in being an old maid. Happily for you, it 
 was not lightly that I undertook to replace, as far as I could, a mother's 
 care, though I can only pretend to the influence of a sister, as our ages 
 are so nearly the same. This Mr. Tremayne seems to be everything I 
 could wish for you, and it's a chance not to be neglected. In these 
 days, eligible husbands are not to be had for the asking, and one little 
 fact encourages my hopes, which is, that the green-eyed monster seems 
 to be already at work ; but whether this maybe from love or vanity, 
 I'm not so sure. How shall I set about solving the interesting prob- 
 lem ? [ Walks about meditating?^ Ah ! I have it. By feigning a secret 
 predilection for the Adonis in question ; this will give him the flavour 
 of forbidden fruit — an undoubted point in his favour. I'll keep up this 
 farce in Agnes's presence, and, who knows ? — perhaps sometimes in 
 her absence ! At any rate, that will prevent me from forgetting my 
 part ! \^Exit to right.'] 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \speaking to some one outside]. All right, I know 
 my way. \_He enfers by the cent^'e door, carrying a book and a roll of 
 music. He goes straight to the place where he supposes Lady Susan to 
 
HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 41 
 
 be, and holds out the book?\ Lady Susan, I have brought you {surprised 
 at 7iot seeing her]. Ah! \turning to the left with the roll of music] 
 Miss Trevor, I . . . No one here? Well, so much the better {goes to 
 the tnantlrpiece and ptits down the book and the music]. It gives me 
 time to pull myself together. I'm in a fix ! All my ideas get con- 
 fused, and yet nothing can be more genuine than the source of this very 
 confusion — I'm nearly thirty, and after that, a bachelor's fate means not 
 merely independence but isolation. I made a vow to be married before 
 the winter, and I mean it ; for I shudder at being reduced to lavish my 
 affections on a dog or a cat, or possibly a canary bird — So I'm on the 
 look-out for a wife who shall unite in her charming person the qualities 
 of all three — no, not the cat ! Rather treacherous ladies those ! Well, 
 as I was saying, I get muddled and vacillate between this chair and that 
 sofa {designating the chair on the left and the sofa on the right]. Miss 
 Agnes fascinates, Lady Susan charms me ; I pine for the niece, I sigh 
 for the aunt. On this chair bewitching innocence, on that sofa irre- 
 sistible wit. There, I'm losing my head again. . . . What is to put an 
 end to it all ? If these two lovely creatures weigh equally in the scale 
 of perfection, what can a fellow do but sing, like Macheath, " How 
 happy could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away " ? 
 {After long cogitation.] Let chance decide. That's it ! I breathe 
 once more ! The first who enters this room shall be my choice. To 
 her I will dedicate my life. Oh, the blessed repose of decision after 
 doubt. {At this moment he sees the portieres open at each side.] 
 
 {Enter Agnes ajid Lady Susan simultaneous l)i]. 
 
 Gracious powers, what will become of me ? [ Tzirning and appealing to 
 the audience] I can't marry them both, can I ? 
 
 Mr. Tremayne {making two low bows]. Lady Susan . . . Miss 
 Trevor. {They seat themselves after making formal etui seys.] {Aside] 
 Ceremony seems the order of the day. {After an awkward pause] I 
 
42 IfOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 
 
 fear I was not expected. [Embarrassed.'] Indeed, I myself had not 
 intended — Let me at least ask you how you are ? 
 
 Lady S. [^on the right]. How we are ? 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. I — was — asking — 
 
 Lady S. and Agnes \^both together]. We are both quite well, 
 thanks for your kind inquiries. [They sit down facing the audience, one 
 occupied with her embroidery, the other with her drawing^ 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \aside\ A charming picture ! But the situation 
 decidedly strained. \Aloud\ I — I went into Plymouth this morning, 
 hoping to render a slight service to — each of you . . . \He takes 
 the book and iuusic from the inantlepiece. Turning to Lady Susan] 
 Here is the novel you were asking about ; \to Agnes] and here the new 
 song you were wishing for. {Takes other things out of his pocket\ 
 [To Lady Susan] Some scent from Benson's; [/£? Agnes] chocolates 
 from Loveland's ; [to Lady Susan] the Times for you, [to Agnes] and 
 for you the Queen. 
 
 Lady S. [aside^. Not a hint as to which he prefers. 
 
 Agnes \aside\. Impossible to guess — this is unbearable. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \ puzzled by the silence, aside.] What does it 
 all mean ? [He gets zip, walks about, then seizes a stool and places it 
 between them and sits resolutely down.] [Aloud] This is a very 
 pleasant reception for the most devoted admirer of — of both of you [gets 
 up excitedly]. I must be blind not to perceive it. Total silence is not 
 [sarcastically] your usual way. I am evidently in disgrace ; but may I 
 ask how I have offended ? 
 
 Lady S. [with a coquettish air]. Oh ! offended. 
 
 Agnes [the same]. Offended ; oh ! 
 
 Lady S. [resuming the ironical tone]. You who are so amiable to 
 us both. 
 
 Agnes [the same.] So kind to us both. 
 
 Lady S. A slave to ottr caprices. 
 
 Agnes. A victim to ozcr whims. 
 
now HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER/ 
 
 43 
 
 Lady S. Pray believe, on the contrary, in oiw friendship. 
 Agnes. In our gratitude. 
 
 {During this dialogue they speak very rapidly, almost together.] 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. You really overwhelm me, but you must know 
 that I have but one object in life, which is — to be permitted . . . order 
 
 me, command me. Is there nothing I can do to amuse you ? Shall we 
 try a little music ? 
 
 Lady S. I hate music. 
 
 Agnes. So do I. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Shall I read aloud ? 
 
 Lady S. and Agnes [both together]. Oh yes, do. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. What shall I read ? 
 
44 
 
 HOW HAPPY COULD 2 BE WITH EITHER! 
 
 Lady S. Aha ! We've caught him now. 
 Agnes. We'll make this the test. 
 
 [Each gives hiin a paper and speak together. \ 
 
 ■» J Qg Oueeii. 
 Agnes and Lady S. [together]. >_,_,. 
 
 y 1 he / tmes. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [a paper in each hand, aside]. Hang it all, I shall 
 
 be driven to do something 
 desperate ; but I won't allow 
 myself to be caught — not L 
 Lady S. and Agnes [to- 
 gether]. Well ! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Now for 
 the Times. 
 
 Lady S. and Agnes [to- 
 gether]. Ah ! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. And now 
 for the Queen. 
 
 Lady S. and Agnes [to- 
 get her']. Ah! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [aside]. 
 Landed ! [Aloud, reads out 
 sentences alternately and very 
 quickly from each paper?^ 
 "As regards the suppression of the slave trade, no object can be 
 more desirable'' — "The best recipe for orange marmalade is as 
 follows" — "and to civilize Central Africa would be" — "Take the 
 rind off seven Maltese oran — -" 
 
 Agnes and Lady S. [both together, and stopping their ears]. There, 
 for mercy's sake, stop! 
 
 Mr. Trlmavne. Enchanted to obey. [Folds up the papers. 
 A long silence follows. Much embarrassed, he looks from one to the 
 
HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 
 
 45 
 
 other^ then gets up, pushes away the stool, and approaches Agnes.] 
 What marvellous embroidery ! [turning to Lady Susan] what exquisite 
 painting ! The one embroiders with her brush, the other paints with 
 her needle. 
 
 Lady S. [in a soft, coquettish voice']. You are really too 
 flattering. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [with a tender ac- 
 cent\ Have I not to make my peace .-* 
 
 Agnes \f2irious\ So like my aunt 
 — trying to monopolize him. 
 
 Lady S. You know too well that 
 I cannot be angry with you — for long. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [completely for the 
 moment forgetting his double part, 
 aside']. Ah! what eyes! what grace I 
 [Aloud, energetically] Ah ! Lady 
 Susan. 
 
 Agnes [aside, deeply agi- 
 tated]. Oh ! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [a- 
 side, with conviction] . 
 Here is my choice — the 
 idol whom I adore [kisses 
 the hand Lady Susan 
 holds out]. 
 
 Agnes [exasperated, aside]. Then this is to be the end of it. My 
 aunt has positively fastened herself upon him. It's disgusting, and at 
 her age, too ! But I'll have my turn. [Aloud, with a faint scream] 
 Ah! ' 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [rushing to her side]. What is it ? 
 
 Agnes. The needle pricked me. Oh ! Oh ! 
 
 Lady S. The needle, or . . . something else ? 
 
46 HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [seizing Agnes's hand]. I can't bear to see you 
 suffer. 
 
 Agnes [/;« a doleful to ne\. It does hurt so. Oh ! take care. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [examming her hand?^. There's nothing to be seen 
 . . . except, indeed \tciide7'ly\ a lovely little hand. 
 
 Lady S. \aside\ I hope the wound is deeper than that. 
 
 Agnes \coqtiettishly\. How kind you are, to care about my poor 
 hand. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne {again forgetting his double part']. Kind ! Happy, 
 you mean, to be able . . . too happy. 
 
 Lady S. \a.side\ I begin to think the man must be a fool. Or 
 does he care for her ? 
 
 Agnes \aside\. My aunt's furious. [Aloud\ How can I thank 
 you enough ? 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \aside\. Those tender accents thrill me, and 
 what eyes ! I'm now convinced that my heart is given irrevocably to 
 Agnes. \fle half tu7'ns and sees Lady Susan, who has placed herself 
 before him. Aside.] Oh ! bother. \//e retires up the stage.] I'm 
 falling between two stools. 
 
 Lady S. {tztrning on Agnes, and speaking in a low voice]. Is this 
 the way you adhere to our compact ? 
 
 Agnes {the sa?7ie]. I like that when you— 
 
 Lady S. {interrupting her]. You can't deny that you flirt with 
 him ? 
 
 Agnes. Not more than you do, anyhow. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [aside]. What on earth can they be whispering 
 about ? 
 
 Lady S. [continuing to whisper]. Well, I shall now leave the 
 room, and I think you had better — 
 
 Agnes [interrupting her. T/te same]. Don't be the least afraid, I 
 shall follow you. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [aside, watching them bot/i]. 1*11 be hanged if 1 
 
now HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 47 
 
 know which I do prefer. . . The last I speak to carries the day. . . 
 The only thing to be done now is to try and ascertain if either 
 of them wishes to marry me ! as I, clearly, wish to marry them both. 
 
 Lady S. \whispering to Agnes]. Then it's decided, and I begin 
 • . . {putting her hands to her head and groaning. Aloud]. Oh ! my 
 head ! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \eagerly running to her]. What's the matter ? 
 
 Lady S. Sudden neuralgia — it's torture. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [sympathetically]. Is there nothing I can do ? I 
 can't bear to see you suffer. Won't it soon pass off } 
 
 Lady S. Ah! no \_speaking as if in great pain] v^hen once these 
 attacks come on, I am laid up for a week. So sorry to be obliged to 
 leave you. {Exit on right.] 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \aside, disconcerted]. It's a very remarkable 
 neuralgfia — so sudden too. 
 
 Agnes \aside]. My turn now, but what excuse can I find to 
 leave him ? 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \aside]. The aunt escapes me — but the niece 
 remains. \_Alotid\ Miss Trevor. . . . 
 
 h.<:,^Y.'^\liesitating]. My poor little birds . . . they've had nothing 
 to eat for two days ... 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Then they must be dead long ago . . . 
 
 Agnes. Oh, Mr. Tremayne, how can you say such a horrible 
 thing {backing to the door]. I should never forgive myself. ... I 
 mustn't lose a moment. Excuse my leaving you so abruptly. Good- 
 bye. \She goes out on the left side.] 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Confound it . . . neuralgia, birds — birds, 
 neuralgia — what does it all mean ? I arrive — they basket me for no 
 earthly reason — then suddenly vie with each other in amiability, and 
 then — disappear altogether ! Do they expect me to disappear too, I 
 wonder ? Not I — I'm exasperated, and nothing shall make me leave 
 this house until I'm engaged to one of them — unless, indeed, both should 
 
5° 
 
 HO W HAPPY COULD 1 BE WITH EITHER ! 
 
 Lady S. I'll walk with you as far as the gate. 
 Mr. Tremayne \in consternatio){\.. Pray do not. Don't think of it. 
 Lady S. \aside\. Ah ! I begin to see daylight ... I trust I'm 
 not mistaken. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \bowing\. Then I take my leave. \^Aside\ She 
 is more beautiful than ever ! How well this quiet 
 dignity suits her. \Exit^ 
 
 Lady S. \alone\. I must keep a good look 
 out, for there's something I can't, for the life of 
 me, understand. \Exit at the right-haiid 
 door.'] 
 
 Mr. TREiSiAYNE [za/w haswatchedthe departtii'e 
 of Lady Susa7i, returns on tip-toe, rubbijig his 
 hands joyfully']. . . . The plot's thicken- 
 ing — here comes Miss Trevor, and then 
 for the catastrophe . . . 
 
 Agnes \coming in quietly from 
 the left]. Surely I heard voices ? 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \turning his back 
 quickly and making the same by- 
 play as with Lady Sttsan before, and 
 kissing his hand toioards Lady 
 Susan's room]. Adorable creature ! 
 Agnes. What do I see ? [Dis- 
 gusted.] 
 Mr. Tremayne \_prctending astonishment and embarrassment]. 
 Oh ! heavens, it is Miss Trevor [falling on his knees before her]. 
 Agnes [with dignity]. Mr. Tremayne. 
 Mr. Tremayne. Oh, say that you do not love me. 
 Agnes [recoiling] Eh ? . . . 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Oh, I repeat it, tell me that I am indifferent to 
 you or I shall never dare to — 
 
HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER ! 51 
 
 Agnes \interrupting him, and recoiling still further from him 
 coldly]. Pray explain yourself . . . 
 
 Mr. Tremavne. How can I explain ? Oh ! the torture of feeling 
 that I may have caused you unhappiness. Forgive me — I did not 
 understand myself till too late. 
 
 Agnes. This is extraordinary language. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Then you do not care for me ? Thank heaven ! 
 then I may without remorse find my happiness with another. But let 
 me hear it from your own lips — Assure me that you do not care 
 for me ! 
 
 Agnes [aside and deeply movecf]. This is too dreadful. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Oh ! Agnes, forgive me, and leave me, I 
 implore you. 
 
 Agnes \in a state of stupefaction]. I — I — you ask me to — 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Yes, as a last favour — do not stay here . . . 
 
 Agnes [aside]. Is he expecting my aunt ? What terrible 
 humiliation . . . 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [aside, examining her attentively]. She's more 
 affected than her aunt appeared to be . . . 
 
 Agnes [angrily]. I'm only too glad to leave you — [inuch agitated, 
 aside] the wretch, the monster ! [Exit at the door on the left.] 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. She is furious . . . and how lovely she looks in 
 her rage ! [noise of china falling] admirable . . . now for the climax 
 . . . [a patise] . . . Profound silence, too profound to be natural, with 
 daughters of Eve ! curiosity, if not jealousy, will come to the rescue . . . 
 [Listens attentively, and then in a low voice, pointing to the portieres, 
 which show slight movements^ Didn't I say so ? There they are. 
 Oh ! little god of love — Cupid ! to my aid. 
 
 Lady S. [just visible to the audience, behind the portiere, not daring 
 to advance]. I must hear what they say to each other. 
 
 Agnes [same by-play]. I mustn't lose a word of what those two 
 are saying. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 
 
 HOn^ HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER 
 
 Mr. Tremayne \Jiaving ascei'tained that no one can see what passes, 
 comes forward to the centre. A dialogue ensues between hi7nself in his 
 natui'al voice and his imitation of the supposed voice of a woman^ which 
 imist be made very comic\ Ah ! you're trembling — for pity's sake be 
 calm and listen — [intei'rupting'] [^tVo?nan's voice] Oh! if we were dis- 
 covered, I should die. {Natural voice.] Don't be afraid, have con- 
 fidence in me. {Woman's voice.] Oh, Mr. Tremayne I {Natural 
 voiced] Ineffable joy ! To think that this cruel indifference was but 
 assumed to conceal from others the blessed truth — was it not ? Oh I — 
 
 let me hear it from your own 
 lips — {Woman s z'oice.] Ah, 
 yes. 
 
 Agnes {from behind the 
 curtain, indignant\ Oh ! 
 
 Lady S. {the same]. I 
 couldn't have believed it ! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne {continu- 
 ing in his own voice]. You \«^^^ ^ 
 love me, then I Angel, a- 
 dored one ... My whole 
 life is yours ... at your 
 feet I throw myself. {He kisses his oivn hand vehemently ?\ 
 
 Agnes {half opening the curtain]. Outrageous, horrible, 
 disgusting. 
 
 Lady S. {almost at the same moment]. . . . This is an insult . . . 
 {At this moment they both show themselves, hut still hold the curtain, 
 ready to retreat at the first alar7n — each starts back indignant at the 
 sight of the other, and both speak in exaspej-ated tones ^ 
 
 Agnes. And so you, my aunt, have been grossly deceiving 
 me ? 
 
 Lady S. And you, who should show respect and confidence to 
 your aunt — you think to make me your dupe by pretending to have 
 
HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 53 
 
 just entered the room. Fie, you should be ashamed of yourself. \_She 
 advances into the room.'\ 
 
 Agnes [also advancing]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Lady S. Disgraceful ! . . . A girl of your age to make a clan- 
 destine appointment with a young man . . . 
 
 Agnes. You dare to accuse me of making clandestine appoint- 
 ments, when I've just found yoii, — in spite of all your protestations of 
 indifference — here with Mr. Tremayne ; oh ! don't take the trouble to 
 deny it, I heard all that passed. 
 
 Lady S. Your insolence passes belief ... So you are trying to 
 carry the war into the enemy's camp, by pretending that / was the 
 heroine in the farce that has just been enacted. 
 
 Agnes [^ironically]. And who else, pray, could have been the 
 enactor of the farce ? 
 
 Lady S. [suppressing luith difficulty an explosion of ange?']. 
 Enough of this, if you please. As to you [turning to Tremayne], I 
 believed you to be a gentleman, or you would never have been received 
 into my house — As it is, I must beg you for the future — 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [interrupting^ having in vain been trying to inter- 
 pose], I must be allowed to speak, or my life will be passed in vain 
 regrets — in misery untold. 
 
 Agnes. You had better not. Your treachery is sufficiently clear 
 already. 
 
 Lady S. [severely, and in good faith, turning to Agnes]. Don't 
 be a hypocrite. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. I must insist on being heard — 
 
 Lady S. I beg you will say no more — and again I must ask you 
 to leave my house. 
 
 Agnes. Yes, Mr. Tremayne, you had better, as my aunt says, 
 leave the house. But before we part — never, I trust, to meet again — 
 you shall learn the truth. You spoke of regrets — of misery — what 
 cause j'^w have for such feelings, I know not — But [a patise] as this is 
 
52 
 
 HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [having ascertained that no one can see what passes, 
 conies forward to the centre. A dialogtie ensues between himself in his 
 natural voice and his imitation of the supposed voice of a woman ^ zvhich 
 must be 7nade veiy comic\ Ah ! you're trembling — for pity's sake be 
 calm and listen — \interrupti7ig'\ \lVoman's voice\ Oh! if we were dis- 
 covered, I should die. \_N'atural voice.~\ Don't be afraid, have con- 
 fidence in me. \_Wof7tait's voiced Oh, Mr. Tremayne! [Natural 
 voiced] Ineffable joy ! To think that this cruel indifference was but 
 assumed to conceal from others the blessed truth — was it not ? Oh ! — 
 
 let me hear it from your own 
 lips — [Woman s voice ?\ Ah, 
 yes. 
 
 Agnes [f-om behind the 
 curtain, indignant\ Oh I 
 
 Lady S. [the same\ I 
 couldn't have believed it ! 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [continn- 
 ing in his own voice\. You ^(l**-^. ^ 
 
 love me, then ! Angel, a- 
 dored one ... My whole 
 life is yours ... at your 
 feet I throw myself. [He kisses his ozun hand vehemently. A^ 
 
 Agnes [half opening the curtain']. Outrageous, horrible, 
 disgusting. 
 
 Lady S. [almost at the same moment]. . . . This is an insult . . . 
 [At this inoment they both show themselves, hut still hold the curtain, 
 ready to retreat at the first alarm — each starts back indignant at the 
 sight of the other, and both speak in exasperated tones.] 
 
 Agnes. And so yo2t, my aunt, have been grossly deceiving 
 me ? 
 
 Lady S. And you, who should show respect and confidence to 
 your aunt — you think to make me your dupe by pretending to have 
 
HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 53 
 
 just entered the room. Fie, you should be ashamed of yourself. \She 
 advances into the room.'] 
 
 Agnes [also advancing]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Lady S. Disgraceful ! . . . A girl of your age to make a clan- 
 destine appointment with a young man . . . 
 
 Agnes. You dare to accuse me of making clandestine appoint- 
 ments, when I've just found you — in spite of all your protestations of 
 indifference — here with Mr. Tremayne ; oh ! don't take the trouble to 
 deny it, I heard all that passed. 
 
 Lady S. Your insolence passes belief ... So you are trying to 
 carry the war into the enemy's camp, by pretending that / was the 
 heroine in the farce that has just been enacted. 
 
 Agnes [^ironically]. And who else, pray, could have been the 
 enactor of the farce ? 
 
 Lady S. [suppressing with difficiUty an explosion of ange?']. 
 Enough of this, if you please. As to you [turning to Tremayne], I 
 believed you to be a gentleman, or you would never have been received 
 into my house — As it is, I must beg you for the future — 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [interrupting, having in vain been t tying to inter- 
 pose]. I must be allowed to speak, or my life will be passed in vain 
 regrets — in misery untold. 
 
 Agnes. You had better not. Your treachery is suiOficiently clear 
 already. 
 
 Lady S. [sevet^ely, and in good faith, turning to Agnes]. Don't 
 be a hypocrite. 
 
 Mr, Tremayne. I must insist on being heard — 
 
 Lady S. I beg you will say no more — and again I must ask you 
 to leave my house. 
 
 Agnes. Yes, Mr. Tremayne, you had better, as my aunt says, 
 leave the house. But before we part — never, I trust, to meet again — 
 you shall learn the truth. You spoke of regrets — of misery — what 
 Z2MSt.you have for such feelings, I know not — But [a pause] as this is 
 
54 IfOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER ! 
 
 the last time we shall meet, I am not ashamed to confess my weakness. 
 You did your utmost to gain my affections . . . and Sjuniing azuay\ 
 you — you — succeeded \_picls her Iia7tdkerchief to her eyes and walks 
 away]. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [ecstatically]. Can it be possible ? Do I under- 
 stand that you could have loved me ? 
 
 Agnes [gi^avely, turning tozvards hint]. Yes, Mr. Tremayne. I 
 could have placed my happiness in your hands — I could have — [getting 
 excited] — Oh ! heavens, what folly — but it's all over, and now — far 
 from loving — I hate you, Mr. Tremayne, I hate you. 
 
 Lady S. [aside]. I can't make it out. [Aloud] This is an inte- 
 resting avowal, no doubt, but scarcely necessary, I should think, after 
 the little episode I witnessed just now ? 
 
 Agnes [infuriated]. This hypocrisy is revolting. You know that 
 it was I who found you both out, and I can never, never forgive you. 
 
 Lady S. [thoroughly puzzled and annoyed, to Ag^'e^]. You force 
 me by your obstinacy to a disagreeable step. [To Mr. Tremayne] I 
 must call upon you to declare the truth— 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. My dear Lady Susan, I have been trying in 
 vain to declare it all this time — I love Miss Trevor with my whole 
 heart. The happiness of my life depends upon her becoming my wife. 
 May I dare to hope that I am not altogether indifferent to her ? [turning 
 to Agnes]. 
 
 Lady S. [joyfully]. At last my dearest wish is accomplished. 
 
 Agnes [turning to Lady Susan, angrily]. You ! — my rival ? 
 
 Lady S. A pretended riv^al, dear child ! [a pause] so you really 
 believe I had forgotten my poor Victor ! [showing her a letter] Captain 
 Victor will be here to-morrow. 
 
 Agnes [scarcely convinced]. Then what was the meaning of the 
 interview between you and Mr. Tremayne ? 
 
 Lady S. [impatiently]. Don't let's have any more of that folly. 
 
 Mr. Tremayne [271 the centre]. I must now make my confession 
 
HO IV HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER! 55 
 
 . . . [imitates again a womaris voice] Ah ! Mr. Tremayne, yes ! [ajid 
 then kisses his oiun hand violently]. 
 
 Lady S. and Agnes {both together, laughing] But what was it all 
 for? 
 
 Mr. Tremayne. Ah! don't let us talk of causes — the result is — 
 for myself, at least, the perfection of happiness. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 General Sir Henry Milman. 
 
 Margaret, his Wife. 
 
 RooNEY, ati old Irish Soldier Servant. 
 
 Scene: — A Drawing-room profusely decoj'ated luith floivers, portieres 
 and hangings^ pictttres, armchairs^ sofas ^ (2fc., opening on to a 
 garden^ with a large mirror at one side of the room. Margaret 
 discovered^ dressed in white muslht and a broad pink sash, and on 
 one of the sofas a little strazu hat zuith a bunch of pink rose- 
 buds. 
 
 Margaret. \A basket of flowers in her hand, contemplating the 
 room.l There, that's something like. One wouldn't know the room 
 again. Can I ever forget my feelings when I first saw it ? White and 
 gold paper, carpet with a huge pattern in every colour of the rainbow, 
 great ugly doors, and staring windows. Now, what with pictures, 
 armchairs, portieres, the hideous carpet covered with felt, and, above 
 all, flowers ; flowers in every niche and corner ; it's really quite 
 habitable. Ugh! how tired I am! \_Th?ViiJs herself on a sofa.~\ Is 
 there anything so exhausting as arranging flowers, and upsetting 
 furniture? [^Throws her arms over her head. A pause. ^ Yes, there's 
 something much worse ; upsetting my blessed old General and his 
 blessed old habits ; and that's what I've got to do. I'm getting rather 
 
58 
 
 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 frightened. To think of arranging a garden party this afternoon 
 without even telling him. But, if I had told him, he would have been 
 sure to say " No ;" and then ! — It's in his interest as much as my own, 
 and he can't be more bored with it than I shall be. \_She ptdls a news 
 paper 02it of her packet^ The more I think of this disgusting article 
 the more furious I get. \She reads out\ "It appears that our new 
 General, Sir Henry Milman, an old gentleman who 
 does not seem to have carried his sixty years with 
 ease, for he looks even older than he is, has recently 
 married a beautiful eirl of eiijhteen. We trust that 
 ^tJj^^^^^^^ the young wife may be able to support her life in 
 ^^^"^^ this dull place, and that the poor old General may 
 
 have no cause to repent of his temerity," &c., &c. 
 Brute . . . Though if the man who wrote it saw 
 us getting out of the train I could almost sympa- 
 thize with his feelings, for the General outdid him- 
 self. He really might have been ninety with those 
 horrid old clothes . . . For myself I don't mind a 
 bit. Dear old fellow ! I love him far too well, 
 and admire him too much, to care a pin how he 
 dresses. But when he ean look so well ! I hate 
 other people to see him disfigured. How proud 
 I was of him that night at the Duke's. He looked 
 so handsome with his tall, upright figure, and 
 covered with orders. And on our wedding-day, too ! But thereby 
 hangs a tale. It's my belief that but for old Rooney and myself he 
 would have appeared in church in the famous suit he's so fond of 
 {imitates him in a gruff voice'] that " went through three campaigns and 
 five years at the Cape ! " It's his mania to make himself look old, and 
 he's very little over fifty in spite of this [raps the newspape?-]. What's 
 even fifty-five for a man ? Why, it's the best possible age ! \_Lcoks at 
 her watch.] Goodness me, it's nearly two o'clock ! He'll be home 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 59 
 
 soon. His family tell me that he can be very savage. I've never seen 
 him angry myself; but I can just fancy he might get into a rage. 
 Sometimes, if I suggest a change in our plans and arrangements, he 
 looks rather cross — and then he has a way of saying, " Oh ! pray don't 
 mind me;" or, "Might I venture to ask?" — which sends cold water 
 down my back ! Never mind ; he's a darling ; and he won't throw 
 me over to-day, when he sees I'm bent on his showing himself . . . 
 \Looks at the paper again 7\ Insolent creature ! My handsome General 
 to be called an old . . . Oh ! I could box the man's ears . . . \Goes to 
 the dcor and calls\ Rooney, Rooney ! 
 
 \_Enter Rooney.]* 
 
 Margaret. Have you got all the General's things ready, as I told 
 you ? and varnished his boots ? and, above all, Rooney, don't forget 
 to cut his hair a little, and do make him wax his moustaches ? 
 
 Rooney. Bedad ! milady ; it'll be waxy all over the Gineral will be 
 when he sees the way he's to be put about ; and I'm for thinking he 
 won't like all this nayther \_pointing to the decorations] ; and, saving yer 
 presence, he'll flare up into the divil's own rage ! 
 
 Margaret. Nonsense, Rooney. Sir Henry always likes what I 
 like. And as to putting himself into a rage ! how dare you say so, 
 Rooney ! The General's never angry ; or, if he is, other people are 
 sure to be in fault. 
 
 Rooney. Humph ! \_with hesitation]. Bedad and bedad ! 
 
 Margaret [laughing]. Now, don't go on with your everlasting — 
 Bedad and bedad ! \irnitating him], but listen to me. You love your 
 master, and you're proud of him, or you ought to be — aren't you, 
 Rooney ? 
 
 Rooney. It's proud I am of the master — small blame to me — a dale 
 prouder than he is of himself ! 
 
 * In case there should be a difficulty in acting the part of an Irishman, the character 
 of Rooney has been adapted to that of an English servant, and will be found at the end 
 of the Play. 
 
6o 
 
 WELL MATCHED AETER ALL. 
 
 Margaret. And I'm proud of him, and I mean every one to 
 know it, and they shall, too, with your help. But, dear old Rooney 
 \_coaxingly\y though you and I think there's no one so handsome and 
 grand-looking — still, when people see him for the first time in those 
 
 very odd-looking clothes— you know, that old jacket, and those hideous 
 trowsers ! 
 
 Rooney. Shure, milady ! it's them that's gone through the fire 
 and water of three cam — 
 
 Margaret \interritpting hw{\. Oh, yes, I know ; I know ; and I 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 6i 
 
 love the old rags. But they're not exactly becoming ; and, somehow, 
 he's got a way of stooping when he wears them ; and then he let's his 
 hair grow all shaggy. In short \stt,ddenly exploding\ . . . Now, look 
 at this, Rooney ; there's an insolent newspaper \taking it out of her 
 pocket and pointing to it\, which calls him an old man, and jeers at him 
 for having married a young wife, and dares to insinuate that I . . . 
 Oh ! it's too shameful. 
 
 Rooney. The divil take the whole boiling of 'em ! I ax yer 
 ladyship's pardon for swearing, but Serjeant Tozer, him that's at 
 the militia quarters, was reading this paper at the canteen, and I 
 up and told him — the ugly varmint, it was trason, and a lie ! and 
 that, ould as I am, I'd like to get at the baste as wrote that same. 
 And I'd give him what the boys give the drum at Donnybrook Fair, 
 with a taste of my speech thrown in for nothing ! 
 
 Margaret \laughing\. That I'm sure you would, Rooney, what- 
 ever that dreadful thing may be ; but I've thought of a better plan still 
 — to turn the laugh against them all, and to set every one talking of 
 the handsome Sir Henry Milman, and of what an enviable woman his 
 wife must be. Won't that be splendid ? \r2ibbing her hands with 
 delight\ So now you'll help me, won't you, Rooney ? You know the 
 General lets you do what you like. Why, I've heard him say you're the 
 best barber in England ; and that means that you're as good a barber 
 as you're a faithful servant . . . Dear old Rooney ! 
 
 Rooney. A close shaver in fact he'll be nianing. There now, 
 milady, it's your pretty young self that's coming over an ould fellow wid 
 the blarney of yer beautiful tongue, and there's no going agin you at 
 all— at all ! 
 
 Margaret. That's right, Rooney ; of course you won't go 
 against me, because all I'm doing, as you well know, is for your dear 
 master's sake. But I think I hear him riding into the stable-yard. 
 Just help me to get these flower-baskets out of the way, and push some of 
 the chairs back. The General has a way of rushing in in a tremendous 
 
62 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 hurry, and then he stumbles over everything. [They arrange thefurni- 
 hcre.'] [Aside'] I'm in an awful fright, but I don't mean to let him 
 see it, not I. [Aloud'] Now run away, Rooney, and get all his things 
 ready. [Exit Rooney.] 
 
 [Margaret sits down, with her back to the door, and takes tip her work 
 and pretends to be cotmting the stitches^ 
 
 [Enter Sir Henry.] 
 
 Sir Henry [dressed in an old jacket, loose trousers, and wearing 
 a large felt hat and a loose tie, luith his hair and moustaches untrim7ned, 
 cotnes in very hastily — but stops suddenly, looking rotmd surprised — 
 t/ien goes from one table to another to put dozun his hat and whip, but 
 finds them all covered with flowers]. [Aside] What the devil does 
 all this mean ? [Thvws his hat, &c., on a chair, and then sees 
 Margaret] . . . Might I be permitted to inquire the reason for this 
 extraordinary metamorphosis ? 1 thought I lived in a house ; but it 
 seems I'm to live in a conservatory ! 
 
 Margaret [ttirning j'ound]. Oh ! six, seven, eight, nine, there 
 you are ! I didn't hear you come in. Had a nice ride, dear .^ [She 
 tries to speak indifferently.] 
 
 Sir H. Never mind my ride, but be so kind as to answer my 
 question. ... 
 
 ^s^Q,kv.Y.T [nervous, but pretending to be quite innocent] . . . Your 
 question ? . . . 
 
 Sir H. Yes ; I requested to know the reason for this exhibition? 
 Can it be your birthday ? If so, that's another thing — but [lookiiig at 
 her affectionately] in that case, why didn't you say so, darling, that I 
 might have got something for you ? 
 
 Margaret [fZ^/V/f?]. How I hate vexing him. [Aloud] Oh! no; 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 63 
 
 it's not my birthday. Why should you think so ? [appearing 
 indifferent]. 
 
 Sir H. [severely]. Don't be ridiculous, Margaret. You're evading 
 my question. Are you determined not to answer me ? 
 
 Margaret [innocently surprised]. Oh ! dear no ; why shouldn't 
 I answer you ? It's . . . my — day ! 
 
 Sir H. Your day . . . what the deuce do you mean by your 
 day — and why ? 
 
 Margaret [half crying^. Look here, Henry, if you're going to 
 swear at me — you never did before — and to ask me the reason for 
 every little thing ; and especially to-day, when I'd such lots of things 
 to ... I mean when I want you to do such lots of things to please me 
 ... I couldn't have believed you would be so unkind . . . [She 
 wipes her eyes]. 
 
 Sir H. [so/tening]. Now do be sensible, dearest! I only ask 
 you the reason for all this ? [pointing to the room and then to her 
 dress], 
 
 Margaret [offended]. Oh ! if you don't like this dress ; I must 
 say, / thought I looked rather nice in it — and hoped that you would 
 think so too [pouting]. 
 
 Sir H. [looking at her tenderly]. You look more than nice, little 
 Margaret ! . . . Lovely ! ... as you always do. 
 
 Margaret. There now, you're like yourself again. Come and 
 sit down, and we'll talk it all over. 
 
 Sir H. Easier said than done [getting cross again]. Where am 
 I supposed to sit . . . where's my chair ? 
 
 Margaret [pushing him on a sofa, and sitting down by him] 
 . . . Now, let's be comfortable. You see, for your sake, we ought to 
 be civil to the neighbours . . . and so ... I thought a little kind of 
 garden party was the easiest way. [Aside] 1 can't bear to tell him 
 the real reason. 
 
64 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 Sir H. But why didn't you tell me this before? \^He gets 
 up.'] 
 
 Margaret. I only remembered it after you'd gone out . . . 
 [Aside] What an awful story ! [A/oud] But [getting tip and 
 looking at him] what have you got on ? What odd trousers 1 
 and this — is it a jacket ? I never saw it before. [She walks round 
 him 7] 
 
 Sir H. [angi-y]. The deuce you didn't ! — and pray, what's 
 the matter with 'em ? They've gone through three campaigns, 
 and five years at the Cape . . . You must be dreaming . . . And 
 what do you mean by walking round me like a captain inspecting 
 his company ? 
 
 Margaret [laughing^. The captain's not at all satisfied, I can 
 tell you. [Makes a comical face, at which the General can't help 
 laughing]. 
 
 .Sir H. Weil, do you want to put me under arrest ? 
 
 Margaret. No, I'll let you off with a good scolding this time. 
 But first of all you shall have a little compliment. 
 
 Sir H. That's just like a woman . . . First she strokes, then 
 scratches you. 
 
 Margaret [linth a coquettish 7nanner]. Do you remember the 
 day of our marriage ? 
 
 Sir H. Yes, it was the 7th of — 
 
 Margaret [interrupting]. I don't mean the date ; not likely that 
 I should forget that. I'm afraid of making you vain ! but I must tell 
 you how proud I was of you that day ! . . . You looked quite beautiful ! 
 . . . there ! And as I walked down the aisle on your arm — I felt that 
 every girl must be envying me. . . 
 
 Sir H. [inuch affected and flattered]. You really felt proud of 
 your old husband ? Ah ! my little Margaret, you were blinded by 
 your own affectionate heart. But what have you thought of him 
 since? 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 65 
 
 Margaret. Well ! since ? — I think him as handsome as ever, 
 only he doesn't do himself justice. Now look at this room ; it's the 
 same that we sat in yesterday ; but see the difference, a little care, a few 
 flowers ! 
 
 Sir H. Perhaps you'd like me to put on a wreath of roses ? 
 
 Margaret. No ! but I want you to change \laughing and point- 
 ing to his dress] these memorials of ... of the Cape ! 
 
 Sir. H. What ! this comfortable jacket and my dear old trousers ; 
 what next ? 
 
 Margaret. What next ? Why, put on a frock coat. 
 
 Sir. H. Better say an evening coat at once, while you're about 
 it. 
 
 Margaret. No ; a frock coat will do . . . and then you've got 
 to tidy up. 
 
 Sir H. And then what am I to do ? Dance a fandango ? 
 \_moc kingly.] 
 
 Margaret \very seriously]. Then you've got to stay with me and 
 help me to receive these people. 
 
 Sir H. [walking about as if to control himself]. No. Stay with 
 you as much as you like ... I desire no better. But to dance 
 attendance on all these people, certainly not ; I'm not a drawing-room 
 man. . . I'm a soldier [turning to her]. Now look you, Margaret, 
 there's something behind all this that I don't understand, I've never 
 known you so unreasonable and so childishly absurd [working himself 
 up into a passion]. 
 
 Margaret. Unreasonable . . . absurd . . . because I want you 
 to look as — in short, as you did on our wedding day [by this tifne she 
 has got agitated and half crying]. 
 
 Sir H. [stops short in his walk and looks at her attentively] [aside]. 
 Ah ! now I understand [after a pause he sits down, takes her hand and 
 strokes it soothingly, luhile she kneels before hint] [aloud]. Poor Margaret, 
 poor child ! At the time of our marriage your kind generous nature made 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 
 you wilfullybllndto the terrible discrepancy bet ween us . . . while I, in the 
 
 selfishness of mine, took advantage of your inexperience \all this time 
 
 Marmret tries to interrupt hifu, but he 
 
 continues without heeding hej-]. Now 
 
 you have too late awakened to the truth, 
 
 and you find your youth and beauty tied 
 
 to a man old enough to be 
 
 your father — almost your 
 
 grandfather. 
 
 Margaret [bounding 
 npi her cheeks in a flame\ 
 How dare you say such 
 cruel things, and not one 
 word of truth in them ! I'm 
 not a baby, and 1 haven't 
 married an old man, and I 
 won't be told I have . . . 
 and you can't care for me a 
 bit . . . and . . . 
 
 Sir H. \yery gravely 
 inte7'rupting her']. 
 You have never ad- 
 mitted it yourself, I 
 am certain — and 
 you've been to me all 
 
 that the fondest heart could desire. But, Margaret, darling, take my 
 advice and don't attempt to lessen the disparity of our years by trying 
 to make anything of me but what I am. Think of me, my little Mar- 
 garet, as your best, your truest friend ... as one whose only thought 
 shall be to make you happy, and to shield you as far as possible from 
 trouble ; bear with my old habits and my old clothes, dear [he laughs], 
 why, you'd only make me look ridiculous. 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 67 
 
 Margaret \_Makes him a curtsey, smiles breaking through her 
 tears, and speaks in her old saucy manner\. General Sir Henry 
 Milman, commanding the district, you have had your say, and now I 
 mean to have mine ... I don't admit the truth of one syllable you 
 have been saying, but we won't quarrel about it, we'll make a compact ; 
 to please me you will dress yourself for this afternoon exactly as you 
 did for our wedding, and you will receive the natives for this once ; 
 after that, we shall see who's right and who's wrong, only you must 
 not be obstinate or refuse to be convinced. I say that we are a per- 
 fectly well assorted couple . . . you pretend that I'm a baby and that 
 you're an antiquated edition of Methuselah, which, by-the-bye, is ex- 
 ceedingly rude to me as well as to the object of my choice, for I beg 
 you to remember that I could have married lots of people, and you 
 ought to respect my taste. There now, go and dress ; I give you just 
 half an hour [pushes him towards the door~\. 
 
 Sir H. Very well, you little tyrant, one can bear anything for 
 once, but I've my condition to make also. I must know the reason for 
 this ridiculous pantomime. 
 
 Margaret. You shall know it after you're dressed, if you promise 
 to do all I tell you. 
 
 Sir H. Before I go, however, I will just ask you to come with 
 me [leads her to a long viirror\ I never care to see myself in a looking- 
 glass . . . 
 
 Margaret [interrupts him vehemently']. No ; I wish you 
 did— 
 
 Sir H. [he continues]. But for this once ! Now stand by my side, 
 Margaret, and tell me if we are a suitable couple, in outward aspect at 
 any rate. 
 
 Margaret. Oh ! if you want to get rid of me, say so at once, I 
 won't stand in your way, though I don't suppose the law would separate 
 us because you choose to wear old clothes and to stoop. Now do go ; 
 the people will be coming. [Exit Sir Henry.] 
 
 F 2 
 
68 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 Margaret. Thank goodness it's nearly over; I am tired of 
 worrying him. How kind and good he was, and so patient — for he 
 must think it's only a fad of mine. As for the absurd nonsense he 
 talks about himself, I can't make it out. Perhaps he thinks I want to 
 turn into a frisky matron, and so he reminds me that I must be staid as 
 becomes the wife of a would-be Methuselah \laughs\. No, bless him. 
 he knows better than that ; besides, he's too guileless to suspect ; it's 
 nothing but laziness — an excuse to wear his old clothes. Of one thing 
 I'm certain — he would be furious if anybody took him at his word and 
 treated him as he pretends to treat himself, and this article will make 
 him frantic, but I think it may cure him of his mania, only, poor dear, 
 I hope it won't hurt his feelings ; luckily it's too palpably absurd for 
 that, all the more if I improve upon the original, which I've a good 
 mind to do. The stronger the dose the quicker the cure. I wish I 
 could cure him also of that ridiculous habit of speaking of me as if I 
 was a baby [catching sight of herself in the glass as she walks aboict'\ ; 
 small blame to him though, when I dress in this foolish way. Really 
 this frock with its baby sash is only fit for a child of five years old . . . 
 and this thing [taking up the hat'], it's like a doll's hat, any man 
 might look like my grandfather when I'm turned out like this — I 
 wonder it never struck me before . . . [Ajter thinking for a minute 
 she snakes a sudden gesture and flies out of the room, slamming the door 
 after her.] 
 
 [iCw/^r Sir Henry — //^^w Rooney.] 
 
 Sir H . [comes in dressed in frock coat, grey trousers, his hair cut, 
 moustache trimmed, and looking twinty years younger ; walks about]. 
 Margaret ! Margaret ! where the deuce are you ? After giving me 
 all this trouble, and making me look like a fool, you might at least wait 
 and tell me what it's all about. She has got something in her head, 
 I'll be bound, for she's so considerate, so careful never to run counter 
 to any of my prejudices and lazy ways. I must be patient and trust 
 her thoroughly — aye, and so I do, God bless her ... 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 69 
 
 RoONEV \rMnning in with a pin-ciishion tinder his ar7n, and 
 brushi^ig a hat as he comes to the fi'ont~\. Beg pardon, Gineral, but 
 you nearly got the start of me. You were off, before I had half 
 complated you. There's your honour's tie to be pinned down behind, 
 just becos those she divils of laundresses, bad luck to 'em, pulverize 
 every button they come across. Be jabers, if I don't think they 
 swallows 'em. And what will her ladyship say ! She tould me you 
 was to be turned out as spick and span as a jeweller's shop, on 
 
 a fair day. 
 
 Sir H. You're a deuced deal 
 
 more anxious to please my lady 
 
 than you are to please me, Rooney. 
 
 — Now don't go on fiddling with 
 
 my hat, put it down and do 
 
 what you want with the tie, and 
 
 then be off with you. 
 
 I've had more than 
 
 enough of this 
 
 tomfoolery. 
 
 Rooney. That 
 may be, Gineral 
 — but the day 
 you was married 
 to the iligant- 
 est and best lady I ever clapt eyes on, you said, says you, " Now 
 mind, Rooney, you'll obey her ladyship and do every mortal thing 
 she tells you ; " so now, Sir Henry, you'll plase sit down so as I 
 can get at ye, and I'll put the finishing touch to ye in no time. We've 
 been, pretty smart about this 'ere dressing, too. [^He jnakesSiK Henry 
 sit down in an armchair and turn sideways?^ 
 
 Sir H. \laughing\. Smart; yes, indeed, and it's not the first 
 time we've had to be smart about it. Do you remember, Rooney, that 
 
70 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 morning at Basfontaines, when those rascally Boers attacked the 
 camp ? 
 
 RoONEY. You may well say that, Gineral. I mind me it had 
 just gone four in the morning when the alarm sounded, and by ten 
 minutes past we was all in the saddle waiting for the Major, bless his 
 ould heart, who couldn't find his boots at all, at all, in the dark of his 
 bell tent. 
 
 Sir W. Short, sharp, and decisive, eh I Rooney ? and when it was 
 over, I, for one, was glad enough to get back to camp and tumble into 
 bed again without your help. There \Jie throws himself back in his 
 chair] that'll do — you've had your way and bothered me enough in all 
 conscience. Now go and tell her ladyship, that if she does not come 
 at once, I'll go back to my room and put on my old clothes again. 
 What the deuce can she be doing with herself ! 
 
 Rooney. It's all right, Gineral. I heard her calling out for 
 Susan as I come along, and they're as busy as bees, I warrant. You 
 can't catch them idling their time at all, at all. 
 
 Sir H. Be off with you, and give Lady Milman my message, 
 instead of talking — 
 
 Rooney. I'm going, Gineral. [He goes towards the door, aside] 
 The darlint — she'll come fast enough when she knows the Gineral 
 wants her . . . heart alive, what's this ! [Rooney meets Margaret at 
 the door and starts back, uttering an exclamation. She silences him 
 with a gesture, and he goes out muttering] Well, I never did — this 
 bates cock-fighting — whatever has she been and done to herself! 
 
 \Exit Rodney.] 
 
 [Enter Margaret.] 
 
 Margaret [comes in behind hhn on tip toe and puts her hands over 
 the back of his chair, concealing herself from him. She is beautifully 
 dressed in a very becoming costume, but one suitable to a tnarried 
 woman of thirty years old. She peers over and examines hiin]. Well, 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 71 
 
 the captain's quite satisfied now. You do look handsome ; have you 
 inspected yourself? for if so, you will be quite conceited enough, 
 without my saying anything. 
 
 Sir H. Not I. I had enough of that when I saw myself by 
 your side just now. But having done my part, now for yours, and for 
 the third time, what's the meaning of it all ? 
 
 Margaret \ivhile she hesitated he looks round, trying to see her'\. 
 First you must promise — a real promise, mind — to sit still, as quiet as a 
 mouse, and not to move till I give you leave . . . promise. 
 
 Sir H. Yes, yes; goon. 
 
 Margaret. A horrid newspaper \she begins quietly^ but gets 
 excited as she goes oi{\s2iy% \hQ. vsxo^t'msi^^xiX. things . . . talks of you 
 — (of course the man only saw you at the station), as being old and 
 stooping and looking at least seventy. Now be quiet, you promised 
 . . . \^All this time Sir Henry is struggling to get up, and swears 
 tinder his breath while she holds him down.~\ 
 
 Sir H. The devil he does ? I'll show him. 
 
 Margaret [she goes on very quickly\ And he talks of me, and 
 says that you'll repent of your temerity, and insinuates . . . 
 
 Sir H. \at last bounding up in a towering rage\ B r r r r r — ! The 
 scoundrel ! I'll break every bone in his body . . . He shall see to his 
 cost if I'm an old man, and to say that you . . . The devil of it is, 
 though, that I can't take the law into my own hands in my position 
 here, but I'll prosecute him, I will. I'm an old man of seventy, am I ? 
 and decrepit — am I ? And what did you say he insinuates about you, 
 Margaret ? Have I brought this upon you in addition ? 
 
 Margaret. If you will only sit down quietly for two minutes 
 more [she keeps dodging behind so that he shouldn't see her'\ . . . I'll 
 show you a better way to punish him than breaking his bones, which 
 you must not do, or prosecuting, which you shall not do. We'll make 
 his famous article the laugh of the county. And now the murder's out, 
 I want to show you to them to-day — as you are now — and myself, as I 
 
72 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 am, and I flatter myself that {throwing fier arms about and speaking 
 theatrically], it will puzzle them to find a handsomer couple. 
 
 Sir H. \who has subsided on his chair and speaks in a subdued, 
 sad tone']. Ah, my darling, you've made a mistake there. It is the 
 showing us together that you should avoid, if you want to confute that 
 rascal. There's the mischief. For myself alone — well, I think I'm 
 passable, in spite of my fifty odd years, and could hold my own with 
 some of them yet. \_//e straightens himself in his chair.] But seeing 
 me with you is where the shoe pinches. They have a right to call me 
 an old fool — though not, thank God, to insinuate that . . . 
 
 Margaret. But why will you always talk as if I was a 
 child ? 
 
 Sir H. Merely because you look so young; for in intellect — in 
 charm of conversation — in all that constitutes a perfect woman, few, if 
 any, could compare with my Margaret, but the other side of the ques- 
 tion is also true. Alas ! this morning when I came in from my ride, it 
 struck me more forcibly than ever. ... I give you my word that, 
 seeing you for the first time, any one would have said you were a girl 
 in the schoolroom. 
 
 Margaret. Oh ! thank you ; I'm extremely obliged — very flat- 
 tering, indeed — an insignificant school girl. A bread and butter miss, 
 of all things the most vapid and stupid. Thank you ; and did you 
 happen to look at my gown ? Was it suitable and becoming to the 
 little girl who wore it ? or didn't you even observe it ? 
 
 Sir H. I never observe much what you have got on, as I am 
 always looking at yourself — and thinking you the loveliest and most 
 loveable of all the ... 
 
 Margaret \interrupting and laughing]. Children you ever saw ; 
 isn't that it ? But about the gown, do try and remember. 
 
 Sir H. I remember it perfectly; it was a muslin frock. 
 
 Margaret \jnajestically]. What 'W07nen wear are called gowns. 
 
 Sir H. Yes ; but it didn't look like a woman's gown, I remem- 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 n 
 
 ber thinking it a sort of baby get-up, but it became you, as everything 
 does. 
 
 Margaret. Well, now we'll go back to our editor \he begins to 
 explode agaii{\. If you were to break his bones, you would only be 
 taking up the quarrel of somebody else ; of some old, decrepit man 
 who had married a girl of fifteen . . . What a goose he must have 
 been — there I quite agree with the editor. And now, if you please, we 
 will forget him for a time, 
 
 ^■"-^ 
 
 
 and show to the assembled 
 rank and fashion of this 
 ancient town the handsome 
 couple I spoke of — a per- 
 fectly well-assorted and ex- 
 ceedingly beautiful pair ! \^He 
 had got up when she again 
 alluded to the article, and 
 she had been gradually push- 
 ing him before her towards 
 the mirror. When they reach 
 it, she suddenly comes forward 
 and puts herself by his side.'\ 
 Let me present jou to 
 General Sir Henry Milman, 
 
 a decrepit old gendeman of seventy, and to his baby-wife of fifteen 
 years old. 
 
 Sir H. [starts back in unfeigned amazement ; seems unable to speak 
 for a minute or two. Then he takes her hand, and with his other hand 
 furtively brushes away a tear']. Margaret, Margaret, what have you 
 done ? I thought I could never love any one better than my childlike 
 wife. But another has come between us and taken her place, one who 
 makes me unfaithful to that earliest love ; one who is from henceforth 
 the all-perfect woman in my eyes. The loveliest ! the dearest ! the . . . 
 
74 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 Margaret \affected too, but carrying it off with a radiant smile]. 
 Hush, hush ! [as the doors are tht^own open\ perhaps it's the editor 
 himself; here comes the advanced guard of our first " At Home " \as a 
 servant announces Col. and Mrs. Sinclair, Captain and Mrs. 
 Grant], and I think everybody will admit that we are — "Well 
 Matched after all." 
 
 Curtain slozuly falls as Sir Henry and his zvife advance to meet 
 
 their guests. 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 75 
 
 ALTERNATIVE PART FROM PAGE 59. 
 Margaret — Peter. 
 
 Margaret. Have you got all the General's things ready, as I 
 told you ? and varnished his boots ? and, above all, Peter, don't forget 
 to cut his hair a little, and do make him wax his moustaches ! 
 
 Peter. Aye, aye, my lady ! But I expect the General '11 wax 
 himself into a towering rage ! He don't like to be put about — he 
 don't ; and I don't think he'll like all this neither \_pointing round the 
 rooni\. 
 
 Margaret. Nonsense, Peter. Sir Henry always likes what I 
 like. And as to putting himself in a rage ! how dare you say so, 
 Peter! The General's never angry ; or if he is, other people are sure 
 to be in fault. 
 
 Peter. Umph ! 
 
 Margaret \laughing\. Now don't go on with your everlasting 
 Umph ! \imitating kini], but listen to me. You love your master, and 
 you're proud of him, or you ought to be — aren't you, Peter ? 
 
 Peter. Proud of him ! Aye, my lady — aren't he one to be 
 proud of ? 
 
 Margaret. — And I'm proud of him, and I mean every cne to 
 know it, and they shall, too, with your help. But, dear old Peter 
 [coaxingly], though you and I think there's no one so handsome and 
 grand-looking — still, when people see him for the first time in those 
 very odd-looking clothes — you know, that old jacket, and those hideous 
 trousers ! 
 
 Peter. Aye, aye ! . . . They went through three cam — 
 
 Margaret [interrupting kini]. Oh ! yes, I know ; I know ; and 
 I love the old rags. But they're not exactly becoming ; and, somehow, 
 he's got a way of stooping when he wears them ; and then he lets his 
 
76 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 hair grow all shaggy. \w ^ox\.\suddenly exploding\ . . . Now, look at 
 this, Peter ; there's an insolent newspaper [taking it out of her pocket 
 and poi}iting to it~\ which calls him an old man, and jeers at him for 
 having married a young wife, and dares to insinuate that I , . . Oh ! 
 it's too shameful I 
 
 Peter, The devil take 'em! I ax your pardon, my lady, for 
 swearing ; but, old as I am, I'd like to get hold of that 'ere scoundrel 
 as wrote it, and I'd give him such a basting as he wouldn't soon forget ! 
 I'd print something on his ugly face — that I would ! 
 
 Margaret [laughing']. That I'm sure you would, Peter. But 
 I've thought of a better plan still — to turn the laugh against them all, 
 and to set every one talking of the handsome Sir Henry Milman, and 
 of what an enviable woman his wife must be . . . Won't that be 
 splendid } [rubbing her hands with delight]. So now you'll help me, 
 won't you, Peter? You know the General lets you do what you like. 
 Why, I've heard him say you're the best barber in England ; and that 
 means that you're as good a barber as you're a faithful servant . . . 
 Dear old Peter ! 
 
 Peter. There you are, my lady, coming soft sawder over the old 
 man. There's no resisting you. 
 
 Margaret. That's right, Peter ; of course you won't go against 
 me, because all I'm doing — you well know — is for your dear master's 
 sake. But I think I hear him riding into the stable-yard. Just help 
 me to get these flower-baskets out of the way, and push some of the 
 chairs back. The General has a way of rushing in in a tremendous 
 hurry, and then he stumbles over everything. [They arrange the 
 furnittire.] [Aside] I'm in an awful fright, but I don't mean to let 
 him see it, not I. [Aloud] Now run away, Peter, and get all his 
 things ready. [Exit Peter.] 
 
WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 77 
 
 ALTERNATIVE PART FROM PAGE 69. 
 
 Peter \r mining in ivitJi a pin-cushion under his arm, and 
 brushing a hat as he comes to the front']. \ ax your pardon, Sir Henry, 
 but you went off before I had half finished you. There's your tie has 
 got to be pinned down behind all along o' those laundry women who 
 rip off every mortal button they come across. I'm blest if I don't think 
 they eat *em, and what will her ladyship say ! She told me to turn 
 you out as smart as a new pin, General. 
 
 Sir H. You're a deuced deal more anxious to please my lady 
 than you are to please me, Peter. — Now don't go on fiddling with my 
 hat, put it down and do what you want with the tie, and then be off 
 with you. I've had more than enough of this tomfoolery. 
 
 Peter. That's likely enough, Sir Henry, but you must please to 
 remember that the day you married her ladyship, bless her heart, you'll 
 excuse an old man for saying so. General — you said, says you, " Now 
 mind, Peter, you're to obey Lady Milman in every single thing she 
 orders," so now. Sir Henry, I'm going to obey her, and so must you. If 
 you'll sit down, I'll finish you up properly in no time. We've been 
 pretty smart about it as it is. [^He makes Sir Henry sit down in an 
 armchair and turn sideways.] 
 
 Sir H. [^tazighing]. Smart ; yes, indeed, and it's not the first time 
 we've had to be smart about it. Do you remember, Peter, that 
 morning at Basfontaines, when those rascally Boers attacked the 
 camp ? 
 
 Peter. You may well say that. Sir Henry. I remember, it had 
 just gone four in the morning when the alarm sounded, and by ten 
 minutes past there we was in the saddle and waiting for the Major. 
 He couldn't find his boots all along of its being so dark in his bell 
 tent. 
 
 Sir H. Short, sharp, and decisive, eh! Peter? and when it was 
 
78 
 
 WELL MATCHED AFTER ALL. 
 
 over, I, for one, was glad enough to get back to camp and tumble into 
 bed again without your help. There \he throws himself back in his 
 chair], that'll do — you've had your way and bothered me enough in all 
 conscience. Now go and tell her ladyship, that if she does not come 
 at once, I'll go back to my room and put on my old clothes again. 
 What the deuce can she be doing with herself? 
 
 Peter. It's all right. Sir Henry. My lady was calling out for 
 Susan just now, and as I come along I could hear 'em bustling about 
 in her ladyship's room. They're always busy about something — never 
 idle they aren't. 
 
 Sir H. Be off with you and give Lady Milman my message, 
 instead of talking — 
 
 Peter. I'm going, I'm going. \_He goes towards the door, aside.] 
 Aye, aye, my lady'll come soon enough, looking so purty and smart — 
 she never keeps the General waiting she don't. Bless me, what's all 
 this ! [Peter 7neets Margaret at the door and starts back uttering an 
 exclamation. She silences him with a gesture, and he goes out 
 muttering] Well, if this don't beat cock-fighting. Whatever has she 
 
 been about 
 
 \_Exit Peter.] 
 
 '--^.^ i^^-i 
 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 Characters. 
 Mrs. Spooner . . Widow of the captain of a merchant 
 
 vessel. 
 SiGNOR Lucca Robbia ^ 
 
 (otherwise Mr. Luke \ An (esthetic character and collector, 
 Robbins) ) 
 
 Martha . . . Parlour-maid. 
 Scene laid in a seapoi't town — a common-place room, but filled with all 
 • sorts of curiosities — ivory, carved wood, china monsters, &c. 
 
 Mrs. Spooner [z/fcv^ smartly an i vulgarly dressed for a gai^denparty. 
 Speaking to some one outside through the door.] You understood, Martha, 
 didn't you? A fly at three o'clock . . . it's now half-past two, just time 
 for a thorough overhaul, as poor dear Spooner used to say. [Loohs in 
 the glass.'] Steady, not so bad after all, though I had to follow Cousin 
 Julia's orders about my dress for this fine party of hers, the first she 
 has given since her wedding ; handsome but simple, she said . . . not 
 to scare her new family. They're prim folks, I suppose. So I've 
 taken in a reef or two. Never mind, I make a very tolerable figure even 
 so, and if my poor dear had seen me in this get up he would have been 
 as proud as Punch of my tautness . . . How proud he was too of his 
 collection, as he called it ! For my part I thought most of it rubbish. 
 During all his voyages cases and cases used to pour in till the house 
 looked like a pawnbroker's shop. Ugly old nodding monsters and 
 
8o BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 china dishes with slimy-loooking creatures crawling over them . . . 
 Now, if he'd brought a nice new dessert service with plenty of gold on 
 a bright pink ground, as we had at home before I married, I'd have 
 said thank'ye. However, he was a good husband, was my poor 
 Spooner, and it's a cruel fate to be left a widow in one's prime. \^Looks 
 out of window.'] Rain, rain, and a horrid sea fog. I can't help thinking 
 of that comical-looking man, with great goggle eyes, though he was 
 handsomer, I must say, than dear Spooner. Who can he be ? He 
 has been following me about like my shadow for some days, and I 
 shouldn't wonder if he has fallen in love with me at first sight, as they 
 say. If he came prowling about here to-day, what a drenching he 
 would get, and how I should laugh — it would cool his ardour a bit. 
 [Some one knocks at the daor.~\ . . . Well ? what is it ? 
 
 [Bnter Parlour- maid.] 
 
 Mrs. S. I said a fly at three o'clock. 
 
 Parlour-maid. I beg your pardon, mum, but a gentleman has 
 called and begs to see you on very pressing business. 
 
 Mrs. S. I told you I wouldn't see anybody . . . 
 
 P. Maid. And that's what I told him, mum, but the gentleman 
 insisted on my bringing up his card. \_Gtves cai'd.] 
 
 Mrs. S. Signor Lucca Robbia, I never heard of such a name 
 [pauses] . . . Yes, now I come to think of it, Spooner used to read 
 about that man in the papers [rejlects~]. Oh ! I know ; he goes about 
 collecting what they call break-a-back, pick-a-back, or some such 
 outlandish name . . . but what on earth can he have to say to me ? 
 [looking at the card\ "Urgent business." [Turning to the servant?\^ 
 Show him up. [Exit Martha.] [Sits and reflects.'] Why, I never 
 asked her what the man was like ! what a droll visit to be sure . . . 
 and what can I have in common with a foreigner who buys old broken 
 furniture, and bits of china at auctions . . . Now if poor Spooner 
 was alive . . . 
 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 8i 
 
 \_Enter Signor Lucca Robbia.] 
 
 Mrs. Spooner \_aside\. Gracious me, the man with the goggle 
 eyes ! This passes a joke. \Aloud, with indignation'] Sir, may I 
 beg you to explain ? 
 
 Signor Lucca Robbia [aside]. She has evidently recognized 
 me. [Aloud] For heaven's sake, Mrs. Spooner . . . 
 
 Mrs. S. I must request you to leave the room, sir, or you will 
 oblige me to ring, and use forcible means to . . . 
 
 SiG. L. R. Pray, pray, madam, listen ; only one word. In the name 
 of all you hold most dear, in the name of your collection itself, let me say 
 one word . . . [Ail t/iis time Sig.I^mcca 'R.onmK is lookitig around with 
 irresistible curiosity, and furtively examining the orna7nents^ china^ c2rV.] 
 
82 
 
 BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 Mrs. S. [^aside^. The man's evidently mad, but he looks a gentle- 
 man, and is very well dressed. The fly's not come, Martha's within 
 call, so for the fun of the thing I'll hear what he's got to say for himself. 
 
 \_Aloucf] Well, Mr. Robbia, since you have 
 got into my house, I'm willing to listen, so 
 speak out and explain. 
 
 SiG. L. R. Indeed, Mrs. Spooner, I 
 can but give you the faintest outline of the 
 terrible position in which I find myself 
 . . . the merest sketch. 
 
 Mrs. S. [pointing to a chair\ You'd 
 better, at any rate, sit down. 
 
 SiG. L. R. \boiijing and sitting down\. 
 In a word, madam, I am the unfortunate 
 man, the despairing wanderer, who has 
 dogged your footsteps persistently during the last few days ; alas, I fear 
 that you are prepossessed against me, but let me assure you — 
 Mrs. S. \coldly\. Come to the point if you please. 
 SiG. L. R. In spite of the disdain which you evince towards the 
 most respectful of interrogators, believe 
 me, madam, that the motive which brings 
 me here is profoundly legitimate and cor- 
 rect. 
 
 Mrs. S. {bridling Mp\ I should hope 
 so, indeed ... I know all about you ; you 
 are a crockery fancier, a collector of break- 
 a-back and curios, and Captain Spooner 
 told me that you once gave ten pounds for 
 a mustard pot. [Laughing\. 
 
 SiG. L. R. [perfectly serious]. Not exactly for the mustard, but 
 that I gave ten pounds to possess that pot, whatever may have been its 
 past destiny, is perfectly true. 
 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 83 
 
 Mrs. S. I must once more beg you to tell me what you've come 
 for. 
 
 SiG. L. R. Then, madam, I proceed to tear aside the veil 
 
 Mrs. S. {impatiently^. Tear it, then, but be quick about it, 
 please. 
 
 SiG. L. R. Imagine then, madam, a beautiful afternoon— no, it 
 was pouring cats and dogs, I remember ; I had gone to a broker's 
 where a private collection was being sold. I was biddino- for a superb 
 soup tureen, an unexceptionable specimen of old Chelsea. Gold anchor 
 nearly two hundred years old. Ah ! that was a tureen ! The flowers 
 and foliage with which it was decorated, would have rejoiced the heart of 
 
 William Beckford himself. In 
 addition, a very rare occurrence, 
 
 1 ®X^-j>*^ ^ ^ 
 
 it was enriched with magnificent 
 armorial bearings. Ah! madam, 
 I had dreamt, longed inexpressibly to be the owner of such 
 a treasure ... yo ^ 
 
 Mrs. S. \aside\. Mad as a hatter. [Aloud] This ^^-^^^ 
 joke has been carried far enough. ^J^S^ 
 
 SiG. L. R. [eagerly]. Joke, madam, I'm as serious as 
 Pluto himself, but I'll condense. This tureen, then, was awarded me for 
 thirty-six pounds fifteen shillings and ninepence — I'll spare you the 
 
 farthings. 
 
 Mrs. S. Thank'ye for that. 
 
 SiG. L. R. [in an agonized voice]. Alas ! alas ! Mrs. Spooner, 
 this tureen — the dream of my youth, the ideal of my riper years, this 
 unparalleled tureen had been deprived of its cover ! 
 
 Mrs. S. [drily]. Sorry for you, Mr. Robbia, but I can't help you, 
 and if — as I suspect — all this is done for a bet, made at my expense, 
 you may consider that you've lost it, and had better go. [Points to the 
 dooj'.] 
 
 SiG. L. R. Cruel, cruel, can you send me away thus .•* 
 
 G 2 
 
84 BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 Mrs. S. \angry\. Bless the man ! I've not got your cover, 
 
 SiG. L. R. Inconceivable delusion ! 
 
 Mrs. R. What do you mean? 
 
 SiG. L. R. \speaking rapidly and with excite7ne}it\. Do not attempt 
 to deny it, for I know all. The missing cover is here, in this very 
 house, and . . . [reproachfully] you use it to hold a lamp in your 
 greenhouse. Ah ! we collectors — we votaries of the beautiful, the 
 antique, we cannot be deceived. My friend, Vandyke Brown — I 
 mean my friend Vandyke, saw this very cover, this precious lid, 
 in a curiosity shop at Seville ; it was bought by the captain of an 
 English merchant ship, and addressed with other objects of rare art to 
 some house in this town, but he had forgotten the name and address. 
 Fast as the express could bring me I came — I searched — I inquired — 
 all in vain. When sitting on day sipping a glass of lemonade — one 
 cannot eat when the heart is heavy within one's breast — the pastry- 
 cook's young man exclaimed, " There goes the young widder as has 
 got all the fine things, why her house is like a pawnbroker's shop, they 
 comes home by the score in the merchant ships "... I darted out 
 in pursuit of you, but for a week past, often as I caught sight of you, 
 you evaded me ! At last I find you. 
 
 Mrs. S. This is lunacy, Mr. Robbia. 
 
 SiG. L. R. \_zvith violence]. Ah, you think so because you are not 
 a collector, you know nothing of that devouring passion. When we 
 are seeking the object of our desire, we track the enemy as does the 
 wily Indian, eager to scalp, and proud to nail the trophy at the door of 
 his wigwam. And I had sworn to obtain your cover. Oh, Mrs. 
 Spooner . . . conceive a soup tureen without its cover. It is the 
 solitary palm tree sighing at the northern blast. It is Paul separated 
 from his Virginia. A Siamese twin torn from his fellow. For the 
 jove of heaven, Mrs. Spooner, sell me this priceless cover. [Kneels at 
 /lerfeetJ] 
 
 Mrs. S. [recoiling aside]. I'm really frightened. [Alotid.l 
 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 85 
 
 Wait one moment. Mr. Robbia. \_She rings. Martha appears.'] 
 Bring me that ornamented tureen cover, it's in the greenhouse . . . 
 [Exit Servant.] 
 
 SiG. L. R. What, madam, is it possible that you really consent ? 
 
 Mrs. S. To give up the cover ? Certainly. 
 
 SiG. L. R. \_ecstaticall)']. Certainly ! 
 Exquisite adverb ! I know not how to 
 express my gratitude. But let me ask you 
 the price you put upon this 
 precious morsel ? 
 
 Mrs. S. No price at 
 all, I give it you with 
 pleasure. [Aside] Too glad 
 to get rid of you anyhow. 
 
 SiG. L. K . [with sudden 
 suspicion]. You give it 
 me — Chelsea! marked 
 with the gold crown. 
 Then — oh heavens ! ^ 
 — then the enamel 
 must be injured or — some 
 secret defect . . . 
 
 Mrs. S. No, it's all right [a noise 
 is heard as of china fa/ling down and 
 breaking] at least it was just now. . . . 
 
 Mercy, what's that ? I'm — afraid — I'm very much afraid, Mr. 
 Robbia . . . 
 
 SiG. L. R. Heavens ! What's that I hear ? Oh, what a mortal 
 blow. . . . My — your — our cover — Mrs. Spooner, I feel famt — I — I 
 • — Chelsea with the gold crown — I . . . smashed in a thousand 
 pieces ! Ah ! Ah ! [Sinks down fainting.] 
 
 Mrs. S. [stupefied, and aghast]. My word, here's a set out. . . . Mr. 
 
 1^ 
 
86 
 
 BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 Robbia, Mr. Robbia ; oh, he has fainted as he threatened. What an 
 awkward position! [Distracted'] I beg you to recover. He don't 
 move, it's awful. If he was to die. . . . Signor Robbia, in 
 mercy to me — a corpse in my house and at this hour ! [She loses 
 her head] Not one spare room in this miserable little place. Oh, it's 
 horrible . . . Suppose I try slapping his hands. [She slaps theni] Do 
 come to, there's a dear man. . . . There's the party, too, what will 
 become of me ? I can't undo his collar. Oh ! if my poor Spooner 
 
 was but here in this crisis. . . . 
 [He moves.] Ah ! he's re- 
 covering — I'm saved ! 
 
 SiG. L. R. Where am I ? 
 Ah, Mrs. Spooner, is it you ? 
 What has happened ? "^ Opening 
 his eyes.] Ah ! I remember 
 — the CO — ver . . . [Goes off 
 again.] 
 
 Mrs. S. [beside her self \ 
 Oh, don't go off again, there's 
 a good creature ! 
 
 SiG. L. R. [again recover- 
 ing]. It's over now — I feel better — I have — to — thank you — 
 
 Mrs. S. [anxiously]. Now are you really better ? Shall I get 
 you a glass of water ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. Yes, with sugar, if you please. [She ritns to a side- 
 board and gets it.] [He looks zuith disdain at the glass she brings him^ 
 Bah ! sham Venetian . . . [Drinks^^ There, there, I am perfectly 
 — mended — thorough restoration — I know not how to apologize — but 
 the truth is that my nervous system has become completely demoralized 
 — ever since — 
 
 Mrs. S. [curiously]. Ever since ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. Since the breaking off of a marriage which promised 
 to ensure my perfect felicity. 
 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 87 
 
 Mrs. S. I'm very sorry I'm sure. 
 
 SiG. L. R. \_sitting down~\. Your kindness emboldens me. Oh ! 
 Mrs. Spooner, suffer me to confide in you, it would solace me to tell 
 you some details of my private — my miserable private 
 history. 
 
 Mrs. S. [_aside]. The man's impudent if he isn't 
 mad — I must really — and this party . . . \_Aloud'\. Mr. 
 Robbia, I'm really very sorry, but I'm already late ; I'm 
 going to a party — you can see by my dress. 
 
 SiG. L. R. Two words will suffice for the "simple 
 facts — a few years ago my parents — 
 
 Mrs. S. I'm sorry, but really you mustn't go on, I can't stop 
 any longer, it's a sort of wedding party — 
 
 SiG. L. R. \inter7'tipting\. Ah! heavens, it is of a wedding that 
 I am speaking — of my own wedding, which did not take place because 
 the young girl who was — ripening — if one may use the figure — trained 
 in the parental hothouse — till I could claim her — in fact, Miss Griggs — 
 Mrs. S. [rt-j-Zrtfe]. Griggs! \Aloud'\ Did you speak of a Miss 
 Griggs ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. \_sentunentally\. Yes, madam, it was that young lady 
 whom I was to wed — my seconds — our parents I mean, had arranged 
 the affair, but ere I could lay at the feet of my betrothed, 
 who was the ornament of her county — the expression of my 
 devotion, this dear but volatile young person had bestowed 
 her precious hand on another, a man engaged in the 
 mercantile navy, I believe. 
 
 Mrs. S. [^^/V^]. Mercantile! Griggs! an extraordinary 
 
 coincidence ! \Aloud'\ I'm very sorry for you, Mr. Robbia, 
 
 but really I can't — {breaking qfi'] — This is a very curious 
 
 name of yours, is it really your own ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. No, dear madam, not exactly, it is an improvement, 
 
 a— recollection ; and keeps ever before me that of one, whose name is 
 
 a household word to all true lovers of the beautiful, the sublime. My 
 
88 
 
 BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 own name, that of my parents, is alas ! supremely vulgar, and mingled 
 with the happiness I felt on first seeing my beloved idol, was the pain 
 I endured at hearing her name — so fatally prosaic. Oh ! what a 
 hideous fate ! . . . That two souls knit together by the sublimity of 
 ethereal passion — one soul I should say, since my love was unrequited, 
 — should be chained to earth amid sordid surroundings — our place of 
 meeting a race ball — -our names Luke Robbins and Matilda Griggs ! 
 . . . \All this time passing his hands through his haii^, speaking in- 
 coherently and gesticulating luildly, he stands the pictui^e of despair^ 
 
 Mrs. S. \aside\ Mercy on us ! Matilda Griggs ! no longer a 
 doubt ... so this is the man, the rival of my poor Spoonsr . . . My 
 parents thought he was mad, when he rushed into their room the day 
 
 after that ball, and went down on his 
 knees to be allowed to marry me. 
 They wouldn't even let me see him. 
 \_Aloud'\ Then I suppose, Mr. Robbia, 
 I'll still call you so as you prefer it, 
 though for my part I like honest English 
 names best, I suppose you are very 
 angry with the poor young girl, but it wasn't her fault. 
 
 SiG. L. R. Angry ! No such unworthy feeling blends with the 
 sacred remembrance of my Matilda, yet you will readily believe that 
 this refusal, for no apparent cause, was a crushing blow. She did not 
 know me, and I had only once seen her ; nevertheless I had built up on 
 this union a host of happy conceits. Ah ! it was a terrible awakening 
 . . . That, Mrs. Spooner, was the reason why I threw myself into 
 ceramics in the zenith of my youth. 
 
 Mrs. S. \aside\. My poor Spooner himself could not have re- 
 gretted me more. . . . \_AloudA^ What do you say? Ceramics ! what 
 are ceramics ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. [confused and vehement and not noticing zvhat she said.^ 
 Yes, Mrs. Spooner, up to my eyes in ceramics ; at any rate, in acting 
 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 89 
 
 thus, for I wished to preserve a profound respect for the sex of which 
 Miss Matilda Griggs was, in my eyes (it was before I had the honour 
 of meeting you), the one perfect specimen ; at any rate, as I said, in 
 acting thus I have never been tempted to say of woman, what Hamlet 
 thought. No ! in my days of profoundest discouragement I had only 
 to exclaim : Frailty, thy name is — china. 
 
 Mrs. S. And you are a bachelor still for my \catching herself up] 
 — for her sake ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. As was the Shepherd Paris, madam. 
 
 Mrs. S. [aside']. What in the world is he talking about? there 
 are no shepherds in Paris that I ever heard of . . . \Aioud] Forgive 
 me if I seem to be prying into secrets, but have you never come 
 across Miss Griggs since chat time ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. Never. The gentleman she preferred to me, was the 
 captain of a merchant ship, and his name, let me think — is — is — Fork, 
 something I think like Fork or Forker. 
 
 Mrs. S. \laughing]. No ! more like Spoon : his name was 
 Spooner ! 
 
 SiG. L. R. \_absently]. Ah ! perhaps then I should, have said that 
 Spooner was the name of this ruffian sailor. 
 
 Mrs. S. \yDith violence] . . . Mr. Robbia, respect, if you please, 
 the memory of my husband. 
 
 SiG. L. R. The memory of — your— husband ! Spooner your 
 husband . . . {Suddenly enlightened^ . . . And — you are now . . . 
 a — widow — and — and — then is it ? — oh ! can it be . . . Miss Matilda 
 Griggs whom I have the overpowering felicity of addressing at this 
 moment } 
 
 Mrs. S. [aside]. Well, the murder's out now, and there is no good 
 in denying it. [Aloud, with dignity] — Sir, it is to the widow of Captain 
 Spooner that you addressed yourself for the purchase of — the cover. 
 
 SiG. L. R. [in frenzy of delight]. Oh ! marvels of the ceramic art ! 
 all is now explained. 
 
9° 
 
 BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 Mrs. S. All explained — what can you mean, Luke ? 
 SiG. L. R. \senti7nentally\ Luke ! you call me Luke ? Ah ! 
 jMrs. Spooner, even that plebeian name from your dear lips becomes 
 glorified. This is worth years of suffering. Yes ! all is explained I 
 
 whilst I believed I was only pursuing with 
 ardour that golden-crowned treasure which 
 at this instant is lying close to us, smashed 
 in a thousand fragments^ night and day I 
 ,Vj was persistently following on your track. 
 Ah ! Mrs. Spooner, the 
 tenderest sentiments were 
 gradually awakening towards 
 you in my heart. 
 And, after all 
 these days of vain 
 research, it was no 
 longer the cover of a 
 soup tureen that I 
 sought, it was yourself, 
 the being whom I 
 adore. 
 
 Mrs. S. 
 [ coqiicttisJily 
 hiding her 
 face with her 
 ha7ids\. La I 
 Mr. Robbia. 
 SiG. L. R. [distractedly^ 1 bitterly reproached myself for my 
 disloyalty to ths sacred memory of Miss Griggs, and if the collector 
 had not upheld the courage of the lover, neither one nor the other 
 would have had the happiness of prostrating themselves at your feet, as 
 they now do, beseeching you to bestow — 
 
BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 91 
 
 Mrs. S. \jiu'ning her head aside\. Oh, Mr. Robbia. 
 SiG. L. R. \yery agitated and confused\. Oh, pardon my audacity, 
 and as the result of this strange adventure, oh ! Mrs. Spooner, deign to 
 complete my collection I Ah ! forgive me, I am losing my head, deign, I 
 mean, to recompense my long-enduring constancy, — one word will efface 
 the memory of all my sorrow ; with tears of emotion, my beloved one, I 
 
 entreat you to have pity and to grant me 
 your cover ! Oh ! I must be mad — to 
 grant me — your hand ! 
 
 Mrs. S. Well, then, considering the 
 dreadful smash of your poor tureen cover 
 through Martha's stupidity, I suppose I 
 must make what amends I can to the 
 unfortunate collector ! 
 
 SiG. L. R. Away with all thoughts of the 
 tureen ; what care I now for the rarest porcelain ? 
 I love you — and you alone. 
 
 Mrs. S. \simpering\. Really, Mr. Robbia — 
 your unusual constancy does deserve a reward, but 
 after all ^ptUs her handkerchief to her eyes\ what am 
 I ? [Sentijnentaliy] Only a sorrowful widow — 
 with not much of a heart to eive. . . . Like the 
 poor cover, my heart has been broken. 
 
 SiG. L. R. [excitedly]. Ah ! let me mend it — with cement and 
 strong tapes. 
 
 Mrs. S. My broken heart ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. No, no, the cover ! Heavens, I don't know what I'm 
 saying. 
 
 Mrs. S. \_la7tghi710']. You do seem all abroad, I must say — and 
 this dream you talk of is smashed. What is it worth to you now ? 
 SiG. L. R. [zuith transport']. I will be its consoler. 
 Mrs. S. [langhing]. The consoler of my cover ? 
 
92 BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 
 SiG. L. R. No, my Matilda, but of your heart — the pieces are 
 still complete. 
 
 Mrs. S. The pieces of my heart ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. \distractedly\. Oh, for heaven's sake let us have done 
 with these horrid misconceptions — darkness melts away, daylight 
 appears. The soup tureen vanishes : you remain, and I adore you. 
 
 Mrs. S. Even without my cover ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. With all my tureen ! Ah ! \A knock at the 
 door.'] \Enter Servant. 
 
 Mrs. S. What is it ? 
 
 Servant. The ornamented cover which you asked for, mum, has 
 just been found in the cupboard. 
 
 Mrs. S. Then what was the noise I heard just now ? 
 
 Servant. A flower stand upset by the dog, mum ; and I came to 
 say the fly is just driving up. \Exit?\ 
 
 Mrs. S. Well now, Luke or Robbia ; I get so bothered with all 
 your names, what do you say now ? The cover is not broken after 
 all. 
 
 SiG. L. R. I deeply regret it, for you will now dismiss us both 
 for ever . . . the cover and my unhappy self — my unhappy self and 
 the cover — and I shall certainly fall a victim to my undying love . . . 
 
 Mrs. S. No, Luke, I shan't dismiss you for ever, or the cover 
 either — only just now I must send you away. To-morrow we'll discuss 
 these serious matters — now I must be off to the first party given by my 
 friend Julia Doughty, a cousin of my poor dear Spooner's. 
 
 SiG. L. R. Miss Julia Doughty who has just married viy friend 
 Robert Graves ? 
 
 Mrs. S. Yes. 
 
 SiG. L. R. That being so, I will beg for a place in your carriage 
 \takes note out of his pocket.] That note, this costume [^pointing to his 
 smart clothes], indicate that I too am going to a party, and it is to the 
 one given by my friend Graves and his bride. 
 
BRIC-A.BRAC. 93 
 
 Mrs. S. Another happy coincidence. Do you then know Mr. 
 Graves intimately ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. Intimately — y-e-s — I may say so — for we crossed 
 together from Dover to Calais and were both very sick. Those are the 
 experiences that bind people together for life. Then, too, he collects 
 bric-a-brac — his wife will be a happy woman. 
 
 Mrs. S. As to that, we shall see, meantime I'll give you the 
 place you asked for just now, but it's a fly, not my carriage. Bless you 
 — I don't keep a carriage. Come, Luke, and — about the cover, what 
 orders am I to give ? 
 
 SiG. L. R. Desire them to place it on the sideboard of your 
 dining-room — and perhaps some day my soup tureen may come to 
 rejoin it, if you will give your consent* 
 
 Mrs. S. Luke Robbins, you have it, and with it my whole collec- 
 tion of — what's the word ? — break-a-back. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Lord Edward Cheriton. 
 Blanche, his wife. ■ 
 A Servant. 
 
 Scene: — A mans sitting-room. Armchairs, sofa, cigar-cases, pipes, a 
 litter of pamphlets, sporting papers, feV. 
 
 [Lord Edward discovei^ed asleep in armchair ?\ 
 
 [Enter Servant bringing in morning papers.^ 
 
 Serv. Asleep ; I'll take precious good care not to wake him, or 
 shouldn't I catch it ! [Puts down papers, and exit on tip-toe?^ 
 
 Lord E. [talking in his sleepy. Now then, looking-glass next, 
 and then masks ! [Hums a valse.] One more turn before the — 
 [moves his legs as in dancing and throws down tongs with a clatter^. 
 Hulloa ! what's the matter ? [rubbing his eyes\ Why, I thought I was 
 still at — and here I am in my own room — twelve o'clock. By jingo, 
 I've been asleep above an hour ! What will Blanche think of me ? 
 But I got up so early — no, I mean I went to bed so late — I feel all 
 nohow ; that comes of making a fool of one's self, and at my age too, 
 seeing that I'm over thirty-five, and adore my wife. . . What an idiot 
 I am ! But there it is, I cannot help it. As I say, I adore my wife, 
 and I feel a brute for leaving her so much alone ; but a man must hav^e 
 
96 
 
 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 too strait-laced. 
 
 some sort of amusement, and goodness knows mine's innocent enough, 
 just a cotillon or two, a few dinners, and a supper now and then. It's 
 such a nuisance that I'm always forced to tell her a parcel of white lies. 
 Darling Blanche ! I'm awfully fond of her, but perhaps she's a turn 
 Earnest is the word nowadays. She thinks a man 
 
 ought to pass his 
 life, when he's not 
 at home, at the 
 House, or on com- 
 mittees, or doing 
 something useful. 
 As to society, 
 balls, and that sort 
 of thing, she thinks 
 it awfully frivol- 
 ous. A fellow 
 don't like his wife 
 to think him fri- 
 volous, especially 
 when he adores 
 her, and so I'm 
 driven, as I said, 
 to deceit, which is 
 beastly. Dear lit- 
 tle Blanche ! She 
 don't understand 
 things. If I told 
 her I was going to 
 dine at Greenwich, I verily believe she'd think I was going to dine 
 with the old pensioners \^pauses\ The fact is, I married her before she 
 could have come across any other fellow. She had never been out in 
 London, and is a perfect child in the ways of this wicked world, and 
 
TIT FOR TAT. 97 
 
 she looks up to me as a paragon of virtue. It's rather exhausting to 
 have to keep up that reputation. One has to be posted up in the 
 debates too. Luckily, it's easy enough to get up a smattering about 
 the army and navy, which all the fellows talk so much about [yawns]. 
 Heigho ! [pauses]. Well, there was last night — I told Blanche I was 
 to help get a scientific swell into the Travellers', and that there'd be a 
 late House, and she wasn't to sit up. She swallowed it all ! — asked no 
 questions, and I felt a brute. Of course I did mean to go for the 
 balloting, but I couldn't resist a jolly dinner at Greenwich that Mrs. 
 Churnley got up in a hurry, and then they all wanted to sup at the 
 Skiffington, and afterwards there was this infernal ball. I swore I 
 would not stay for the cotillon, for I'm sure to make an ass of myself; 
 but Mrs. Churnley had no partner. So there I was, don't you know. 
 Dash it all, it's rather Blanche's own fault after all ! Why does she 
 shut herself up ? If she would come to Greenwich — No — no — I don't 
 think it would suit her — N — o — o [draw/zjio-]. J shouldn't like her to 
 belong to that set exactly, but if she cared for — dancing — just dancing 
 ... as I do — what could be the harm ? — and we should be together. 
 I never flirt, or that sort of thing. One has one's pals of course — and 
 so might Blanche. Eh ! no — no — . I shouldn't like that either, for I 
 don't approve of married women having pals. I mean, of course, one's 
 own wife ; other fellows must look after theirs ; but as to Blanche — I 
 should be furious ; and as to flirting, she wouldn't know what it meant 
 — dear little unsophisticated thing [yawns]. Oh bother — how difficult 
 it is to square it all round [paztses], Blanche has only got one 
 weakness — diamonds and jewels in general — so I've made a little 
 system of compensation which I can confidently recommend to all 
 husbands who are devoted to their wives, but who are also devoted to 
 flir — I mean cotillons. 
 
 [Enter Servant.] 
 
 Serv. a parcel, my lord— from Skirrum's. 
 
 II 
 
98 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 Lord E. Oh, I know. Give it me ; the man needn't wait. 
 
 Serv. \gives parcel\ The bill's enclosed, my lord. 
 
 Lord E. All right \looking at the biU\ Well, that's a facer ; but I 
 deserve it \^pati,ses\ This is my system, whenever I stay out late and 
 make a fool of myself, and tell these confounded lies, which is what I 
 hate doing — only what can a man do who adores his wife, and don't 
 like to annoy her ? . . . Well then I punish myself and please her. 
 As I said before, she has a weakness for jewels, so I give her the best 
 I can afford : and, by Jove, don't it walk into the money 1 If the 
 season goes on much longer, I shall have to put down my hunters \sits 
 down and opens the case\ Well, this is a stunner, pearl and diamond 
 hoop. If Blanche loves one thing more than another it's a good ring. 
 
 [Enter Blanche.] 
 
 Blanche. Am I disturbing you ? 
 
 Lord E. \qtiickly shutting up the case\. Of course not, dear — as 
 if you ever could, you little goose ! 
 
 Blanche \who saw what he did, aside]. Just as I thought. . . . 
 Now for it. [Aland, btit coldly-^ Anything in the papers ? 
 
 Lord E, No — but what's the matter, Blanche ? 
 
 Blanche. Nothing that I know of. 
 
 Lord E. For a moment I thought ... of course I was mistaken. 
 How are you, dear, this morning .'* 
 
 Blanche. Perfectly well, thanks — and you ? 
 
 Lord E. Me — oh, I'm all right. 
 
 Blanche [looking at hini\. You look rather tired. 
 
 Lord E. Tired — oh, no — at least, I was rather late. Blanche, have 
 you quite forgiven ? 
 
 Blanche [pretending astonishment^ Forgiven — who and what .'* 
 
 Lord E. Me, dear. 
 
 Blanche [same by-play^. What for ? 
 
TIT FOR TAT. 99 
 
 Lord E. For leaving you again last night ... I left you to dine 
 alone. 
 
 Blanche [interrupting him and sitting dcwn]. So you did ; I'd 
 quite forgotten. 
 
 Lord E. \iiettled\ Forgotten, had you ? 
 
 Blanche. Yes, because just before dinner — 
 
 Lord E. \hastily intemtptino and piqued']. Oh, never mind why 
 you forgot my absence . . . 
 
 Blanche {cheerfully^. Well, did you get your man in ? 
 
 Lord E. What man .'* Where ? [crossly]. 
 
 Blanche. That distinguished scientific swell you were anxious to 
 get into the Travellers'. Our memories seem both rather at fault this 
 morning. 
 
 Lord E. Oh, ah ! — why, yes — yes — of course. But now about 
 you, Blanche, what did you do with yourself? I thought so much of 
 you, all alone. 
 
 Blanche. I ? Oh, I worked and read, and I went to bed soon 
 after eleven, and just — 
 
 Lord E. [interrupting Iut]. Dear, gocd Blanchie. [Aside] 
 And at that hour I was at the supper — before the ball — I really am 
 ashamed of myself. [He gets up and leans over the back of her chair, 
 holding the jewel-case behind him.] [Aloud\ Do you know what I was 
 thinking of just now as I looked at you ? 
 
 Blanche. I suppose I can guess. 
 
 Lord E. What was it ? 
 
 Blanche [indifferently]. That I looked lovely. 
 
 Lord E. No . . . at least, of course I thought that too, but it 
 was much more. 
 
 Blanche [as he hesitates]. Well .'* 
 
 Lord E. . . . i was thinking how wrong it is to leave you so 
 much alone. 
 
 Blanche [interrtipting]. But if I don't mind being left ? 
 
 H 2 
 
loo TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 Lord E. Ah, but you are so good and patient — that's what 
 makes me ashamed of myself. 
 
 Blanche. I can't see the necessity for such excessive remorse. 
 
 Lord E. \_aside\ But I do. \Aloud^ Well then, Blanchie, to 
 prove to me that you quite forgive — will you make me happy by — \Jie 
 hesitates\. 
 
 Blanche [calmly ^ as s/ie goes on working]. Accepting this little 
 present ? 
 
 Lord E. Yes ; that it makes me so happy — 
 
 Blanche [same by play]. To give you — 
 
 Lord E. Just so — but how did you guess ? [Looks uncomfortable^ 
 suspicious.'] 
 
 Blanche. Because you're so generous and — so — often — make me 
 presents. 
 
 Lord E. That's all bosh about generosity ; but, Blanche — you 
 won't refuse to take this, will you ? [Caressingly^ 
 
 Blanche. Refuse . . . why should I ? You've already given 
 me — let me see — two brooches, three pair of earrings, five rings, and 
 as many bracelets, quite lately, and why should I refuse this particular 
 one? [Looks up at kim.'] . . . What is it this time? 
 
 Lord E. A ring ; pearl and diamond hoop. I think you delight 
 in pearls, don't you ? 
 
 Blanche. I think you might feel sure of it by this time [looking 
 at the ring]. It's lovely ; thanks so much. But there's one condition 
 I make — in accepting — 
 
 Lord E. Of course — any condition you like. 
 
 Blanche. You must let me do as much for you. 
 
 Lord E. [recoiling, astonished]. Eh ? 
 
 Blanche. I have got my little present for you, also. 
 
 Lord E. For me ? — but why ? 
 
 Blanche. But why not ? Why do you give me presents ? 
 
 Lord E. [aside]. Confound it ! what does she mean ? [Aloud] 
 
TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 lOI 
 
 Because — because — naturally, you know, it gives me im-mense 
 pleasure. 
 
 Blanche. Then it's not fair to deprive me of the same im-mense 
 pleasure. I've noticed that your purse, though inexhaustible as to its 
 contents, is getting very old — so I got this one for you \_pulling a purse 
 out of her pocket], I hope you'll like it, dear. 
 
 Lord E. {declining to take it]. Thanks ; but — [aside] I don't like 
 this at all. 
 
 Blanche \Jiolding out the ptirse]. There— give yours with the 
 left hand, and here's mine with the right— exchange is no robbery, you 
 
I02 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 f J C t C / C c* * c < 
 
 know. Well ! \as he shows no intention of taking the purse ^^ Doesn't 
 that suit you ? 
 
 Lord E. Perfectly. [Aside~\ Not the least in the world. How- 
 ever, what must be, must. [ I^ejy unwillingly takes the purse and gives 
 the jewel- case. ] 
 
 Blanche [Icoking at the ring\. What a beauty ! 
 
 Lord E. \Jooking at the purse ^ btU speaking coldly\ Charming. 
 [Turning to his wife?\ A thousand thanks — but — you must not make 
 me any more presents. 
 
 Blanche. I'm sorry you don't like the purse. 
 
 Lord E. I like it enormously . . . it's not that . . . [Aside] 
 What the devil's come over Blanche ? I never knew her the least like 
 this before. 
 
 Blanche. Then it's very selfish to want me to give up the 
 enormous pleasure — Do you remember, the other day you showed 
 me in Skirrum's window — a lovely set of studs ? You admired them 
 so much. 
 
 Lord E. I daresay — I don't remember. 
 
 Blanche. I found those were sold, so I ordered another set for 
 you. They were promised me for this morning — I'm expecting them 
 now. 
 
 Lord E. \inuch agitated]. No, Blanche, that's impossible ; I can't 
 allow — [Aside] What the deuce does all this mean ? 
 
 Blanche [cool and unconcerned, but pretending aslonishnunt]. 
 You can't allow ? 
 
 Lord E. There can be no sort of reason why you should give 
 me expensive presents. | He lualks up a7id down i7i an agitated 
 vianneri] 
 
 Blanche [innocently]. But those you give me are even more 
 expensive. 
 
 Lord E. Quite a different thing. I don't choose you to waste 
 your money. 
 
Tir FOR TAT. 
 
 103 
 
 It's 
 
 Blanche. But you waste yours. 
 
 Lord E. I tell you that it's entirely different. A husband may 
 surely give presents to his wife. 
 
 Blanche. And not a wife to her husband ? 
 
 Lord E. Certain'y not, for the same rea — I mean not in the 
 same way. What — a purse, and an expensive set of studs 
 absurd ; and all in one day ! 
 
 Blanche \insistinf\. Then you refuse ? 
 
 Lord E. Distinctly. 
 
 Blanche. But \j:oaxingly'\ 
 if I ask it as a favour ? 
 
 Lord E. I refuse all the 
 same. 
 
 Blanche \throiving herself 
 into an armchair zuith an air 
 of absolute indijference\. Oh, 
 well, if it's on principle, I've 
 nothing more to say. \Takes 
 up paper, and pretends to read^ 
 watching her husband fur- 
 iively]. 
 
 Lord E. [aside]. If it's on 
 principle ? Can she mean any- 
 thing by that ? What a devil 
 of a fix I'm in. Blanche 
 can't have any motive for 
 
 suddenly following my example about presents. No, no ; impossible. 
 Does she suspect that I sometimes deceive her as to my whereabouts, 
 for that's really all — or nearly all. Could she have heard about little 
 Mrs. Hoppingham ? For though there's nothing to hear, still, in these 
 days one can't speak to a woman without some idiot chaffing about it. 
 If I could but find out, but it's working in the dark, and I might put 
 
I04 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 something into her head, something which, of course, doesn't exist. 
 What an infernal set of gossiping mischief-mongers one does get mixed 
 up with ! why can't people mind their own business, and leave other 
 people alone ? Hang it all, and I who adore my wife ! \goi71g to 
 Blanche, aloud^ Blanche, darling ! 
 
 Blanche [pretends to be adsorbed in her paper anddoesnU look round, 
 but holds out the purse\. Here it is. 
 
 Lord E. \coaxingly\. Listen to me, Blanchie. 
 
 Blanche \i'epeats mechanicall)l\. Here it is. 
 
 Lord E. No, no ; a thousand times, no. \JValks up and down 271 
 an agitated slate, then pauses]. You seem wonderfully engrossed with 
 that paper. 
 
 Blanche. Yes ; it's very terrible [reads out], " It is feared that a 
 fresh disturbance on the north-west frontier is imminent, General Roberts 
 is advancing." [Si^hs deeply.] Poor Charles ! 
 
 Lord E. [uneasy]. What makes you so keen about Gen. Roberts' 
 movements, and who do you mean by Charles ? 
 
 Blanche. Why, Charley Redmond, my cousin. I think you saw 
 him once. 
 
 Lord E. [brightening]. In the Scarlet Lancers, isn't he ? quartered 
 in India, aren't they ? 
 
 Blanche. Yes, but Charles is in England now, you know. 
 
 Lord E. How the devil should I know .'* Have you seen him, 
 pray ? 
 
 Blanche. Of course I have, several times, and he came here 
 just as you went out yesterday. I was telling you when you interrupted 
 me. 
 
 Lord E. You were doing nothing of the sort, and you had no 
 business to receive him without telling me. What an odd time to 
 come ! 
 
 Blanche. Perhaps he thought he was sure of finding you at home 
 at seven o'clock. [Aside] I scored one there ! 
 
TIT FOR TAT. 105 
 
 Lord E. Oh ! and what did this beloved cousin say for him- 
 self? 
 
 Blanche. Not much ; he is a great deal too modest to talk of his 
 own deeds, but he's got the C.B. 
 
 Lord E. \inteyruptiiig\. As if every fellow didn't get that now-a- 
 days. 
 
 Blanche [going on in the same ione\ And the V.C., that, I 
 believe, is not given to every fellow. 
 
 Lord E. There's a deuced deal of luck even in that, I'm told. 
 \Aside\ Surely this infernal cousin can't have anything to do with 
 Blanche's sudden freak of giving me presents ? 
 
 Blanche [returning to her paper\ If this news is true he will be 
 obliged to go back at once. Oh ! \in a low tone of voice and sighing 
 deeply\ poor dear Charley ! 
 
 Lord E. What does a fellow go into the army for, pray, if he 
 don't want to fight ? 
 
 Blanche. He does want to fight, but, naturally, poor fellow, to 
 return so soon, when he — when we — had just renewed our old friendship. 
 Oh, I can't bear to think of what may happen to him. 
 
 Lord E. Then don't think about him. 
 
 Blanche. Not think about Charley ? when we were brought up 
 together. At one time there was [^z^'^.v;] even a question of — but it 
 couldn't be. 
 
 Lord E. What a pity. 
 
 Blanche. Thanks, you're too kind. 
 
 Lord E. Come now, Blanche, let's be serious about these studs. 
 
 Blanche [getting 2ip\ Ah, then you've come to your senses. 
 They'll be here directly. 
 
 Lord E. No, no ; but do tell me the truth, dearest. Is it, that — 
 [Aside] Hang it all, I must find out somehow . . . And yet it's put- 
 ting things into her head whatever I say . . . [//esitatcs.] 
 
 Blanche. Well ? 
 
io6 TJT FOR TAT. 
 
 Lord E. Perhaps you've heard something, and you want me to 
 understand that — 
 
 Blanche. Heard something, and want you to understand ? 
 \ Eagerly^ Oh, do tell me what you mean. You know how curious 
 I am ; and I'm dying to knew. Anything that interests you ? 
 
 Lord E. \aside\. I can't make her out. [Alotid, with lempcr] No. 
 
 Blanche. That worries you ? 
 
 Lord E. No. 
 
 Blanche. That would interest me, then ? 
 
 Lord E. {^getting more savage] Not in the least. [Asic/e] I'm 
 d — d if I can make out what's come to her. 
 
 Blanche. I'm just dying of curiosity, and you must tell me what 
 you mean. 
 
 Lord E. [exasperated, pulling his moustaches, but tryijig to seem 
 indifferent]. Nothing, nothing. I don't even remember what I was 
 going to say. I was thinking of something else. 
 
 Blanche [looking fixedly at him]. You seem very absent this 
 morning, and you look ill. Is anything the matter } 
 
 Lord E. No, no ; don't worry. [Aside] Evidently I shan't get 
 anything out of her. 
 
 [Enter Servant.] 
 
 Serv. a parcel just come for your ladyship. 
 
 Blanche. Who from ? ^ 
 
 Serv. From Skirrum's, the jeweller, my lady. [Gives her the 
 parcel]. 
 
 Blanche [advances towards her husband, holding the parcel high 
 up]. Here are the studs. 
 
 Lord E. [speaki7ig sternl}i]. I have said, once for all, No. 
 
 Blanche [opening the case]. Pearls, like my ring ; don't ycu care 
 for pearls ? 
 
 Lord E. [folding his arms]. No. 
 
TIT FOR TAT. ,07 
 
 Blanche \cheerf%illy\ That's very disappointing. You know 
 they're from the same place, Skirrum's ; and \i'eproachfully\ you 
 admired them in his window. \I^mise\ So, you decline them ? 
 
 Lord E. \with arms folded and looking away from her\. Yes. 
 
 Blanche. You'll regret your decision ; for if you had taken them 
 I would have told you — 
 
 Lord E. \_eaoerly'\. What ? 
 
 Blanche. All you wish to know [maliciously enjoying his dis- 
 comfiture^ . 
 
 Lord E. You would have told me why you wish to give me these 
 studs } 
 
 Blanche. Just so. 
 
 Lord E. Is that true ? 
 
 Blanche. You had better find out by . . . 
 
 Lord E. By .-* 
 
 Blanche. Accepting. 
 
 Lord E. Very well. Tell me first, and then . . . 
 
 Blanche. No conditions ! Take them — or — leave them. 
 
 Lord E. [aside~\. She's pitiless. [A loud \ Blanche, you've got the 
 obstinacy of a man. 
 
 Blanche. And you, my dear, the curiosity of a woman. Now 
 then — (me — two — 
 
 Lord E. Three. I accept, since so it must be \jigking\. 
 
 Blanche. At last. 
 
 Serv. [ih'OK's open the dooi'\. Luncheon is served. 
 
 Blanche. What a blessing ! I'm dying of hunger. 
 
 Lord E. But your promise ? 
 
 Blanche. After luncheon. 
 
 Lord E. \determined\ No, Blanche; I won't stand this sort of 
 thing any longer. You promised, and I hold you to your promise. 
 
 Blanche. I submit, since so it must be {imitating him sighing']. 
 But we had better put off luncheon ; conjugal explanations take time. 
 
io8 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 Lord E. Never mind luncheon ; go on. 
 
 Blanche [evidently trying to pui off the evil moment]. Well, then, 
 you wish to know ? 
 
 Lord E. Why you gave me the purse and studs ? 
 
 Blanche. [She nerves herself and speaks slowty and wiih difficnlty 
 at first, then gets more animated.] Well, then, to begin at the 
 beginning. We've been married five years. [Pauses, looking furtively 
 at hiiii?[ For the first three or four you often made me little presents, 
 trifling in themselves, but valuable to me, because they were your gifts, 
 and proved that I was often in your thoughts. But, when latterly it 
 came to jewels, valuable diamonds, it was another thing . . . and 
 after a time an odd idea took possession of me. I thought of those 
 Madonnas in the Italian churches, covered with votive offerings. It 
 was explained to us, don't you remember? — they were given either in 
 a moment of repentance, or as an expiation. I couldn't help connecting 
 those two ideas, and wondering — I even began to think that I under- 
 stood the motive — 
 
 Lord E. [inte7'rupting\. Granted, for argument's sake — but what 
 on earth has that to do with your presents to me ? 
 
 Blanche [coquettishiy, but laughing to herself all the thne]. Oh, 
 if you can't put two and two together — there's such a thing, Edward — 
 as — tit — for — tat. 
 
 Lord E. [ju?nping up in afury\. Blanche ! you dare — you stand 
 there and dare to tell me, your husband — that — you have deceived 
 me ? 
 
 Blanche [clapping her hands]. Caught — caught ! so that's what 
 tit for tat would mean, is it ? I might have doubted before — now 
 you've shown yourself up with a vengeance. 
 
 Lord E. [lie walks up and down, trying io calm himself, and then 
 comes and stands before her with his arms folded and speaks gravely]. 
 Now look here, Blanche, supposing that I have lived in rather a fast 
 set, gone to suppers, balls, and stayed out late — kept perhaps by a 
 
TIT FOR TAT. ,09 
 
 Stupid cotillon, when you thought I was at the House, you may 
 certainly call it deceiving — but can you compare that sort of deception 
 with your own— about this cousin — never telling me he was in 
 England, that you were expecting him last night, and — and — in 
 short am I to understand that you were engaged to him, and that 
 you deceived me at the time of our marriage ? ... If that's a fact — I 
 can never again believe in any human being — 
 
 Blanche \aside\. I think I have teased him nearly enough, poor 
 dear. \A loud, putting on a serious air ^ Now that you have confessed 
 what I have suspected for some time — and have discovered that I'm 
 not such a simpleton as you suppose, I have a confession to make to 
 you on my side, Edward — about my cousin \j)retending to be confused 
 and shy\. It's painful to me to admit that I have deceived you. 
 [Alovement 0/ Lord £.'] But you won't be too hard on me, you must 
 promise to forgive . . . \_T/iis must be comic.'] 
 
 Lord E. \Jurious, aside]. To think that a woman with the face of 
 an angel — a saint as I believed her to be — could be so black-hearted — 
 could stoop to deceit \looks round at Blanche, who has her fa^e hidden 
 in her hands to conceal her laughtei']. But, poor child, she seems 
 heart-broken, and I hate to see her miserable — though she deserves 
 it — and I who adore her, and never cared two buttons for all the Mrs. 
 Hoppinghams in creation. . . . [Aloud] Speak, Blanche, you're torturing 
 me — forgive you ! yes, no doubt I shall be weak enough to forgive 
 you, but as for that scoundrel — that black — 
 
 Blanche \inter7'upting]. Oh, don't be hard on him, Edward — it's 
 not his fault, at any rate. \She comes to him and lays her hand on his 
 shoulder ; he zuants to shake her off, but looks at her and relents.] The 
 truth is — that — to the best of my belief— my cousin — Charles Redmond 
 — has never — left— India— since he went there six years ago. . . . 
 [She makes a comic face.] 
 
 Lord E. [aghast, not knowing what to believe]. You mean that he 
 did not — that you did not — that after I went out— he — 
 
no TIT FOR 2^ AT. 
 
 Blanche. I mean that — when you left me, yesterday, I saw the 
 children put to bed, then I dined — read — worked — and thought of you 
 at the Travellers' ! ! 
 
 Lord E. \still bewildered, and passing his hand over his for ehcad\ 
 What a confounded ass I was — to fancy for one moment that you . . . 
 Blanche . . . [brightening up\ you're an angel [going to her and taking 
 her hands^ ... do forgive me, dearest. 
 
 Blanche [drawing her hands away, but still half-laughing\. Not 
 so fast, please . . . I'm an angel ... of course — but about yourself, 
 Edward ? The votive offerings and expiations ? 
 
 Lord E. Stuff and nonsense about votive offerings and expiations 
 . . . as if I ever gave a thought to any one but you — 
 
 Blanche [again interrupting^ Oh, come! come! 
 
 Lord E. [going o/i]. As if they mightn't all go to the deuce for 
 what I care, Mrs. Hop — 
 
 Blanche [laughing]. Stop, stop, English law, you know, don't 
 allow people to criminate themselves — no names, please. 
 
 Lord E. Why not ? Gossiping idiots do couple names for no 
 earthly reason, and you may have heard them. Blanche, you can't 
 really mean— you never could doubt me in that sense, or believe that, 
 with all my folly, I ever wronged you by a thought. 
 
 Blanche [graz'efy~\. No, Edward, if such an idea had ever crossed 
 my mind — should I have made a joke of it ? 
 
 Lord E, But then what does all this mean ? Let us at any rate 
 have it all out now, and begin on the square. 
 
 Blanche [sej^'ously]. It means that latterly we have been drifting 
 apart, and — it's not in your nature, Edward, to — fib, and you don't do 
 it at all well — and so — 
 
 Lord E. Ah — that has been the hateful part. I was disgusted 
 with myself— but I didn't like you to despise me — and you are rather 
 down on frivolity, as you call it, aren't you, Blanche ? 
 
 Blanche. Well, perhaps I will admit there are faults on both 
 
TIT FOR TAT. m 
 
 sides — and we ought mutually to . . . \_pauses\. Now suppose I take to 
 going out more with you . . . 
 
 Lord E. \eagerly\. Then I'll stay at home more with you — but 
 just one word, Blanche ; there never was a question of an engagement 
 between you and Redmond ? 
 
 Blanche \laughing\. That's not fair — bygones — you know the 
 proverb — \looking up at him niiscJiievously\ — let us invent a system of 
 compen — sa — tion . . . \he winces~\ ... As to the past — my cousin 
 against cotillons — as to the present — 
 
 Lord E. \interr2Lpts\. As to the present — perfect confidence, and 
 for the future — 
 
 ^\.Kis(ZYiY. \ pulling out her watcf{\. For the future, among other 
 things, cold luncheons, unless we're more punctual. [ Takes his arm^ 
 
 \_Exeunt, arm-in-arm.^ 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Laura, Romantic Widow of Colonel Edgar Kennedy. 
 Beatrice, her Sister. 
 
 Scene, a sfnall sitting-room — door at the back opening to garden — arvt- 
 chairs^ tables, &c. — a dogs basket. 
 
 \_Enter Laura and Beatrice together, quarrelling 7\^ 
 
 Beatrice. There's an end of it, Laura. I'm worn out; nothing 
 shall induce me to go on like this. 
 
 Laura. To hear you, any one might think I was the tyrant ; 
 instead of which it's you, who worry me to death. 
 
 Beatrice. Then you'll be glad to hear that you need no longer 
 be victimized, for I've made up my mind to go away. If you choose to 
 shut yourself up in this absurd manner, it's your affair. But I can't 
 stand it any longer ; it acts on my nerves. Our view of nature is 
 bounded by the garden wall, and our view of humanity by our own 
 faces. 
 
 Laura. How cruel of you to taunt me ! You, who know what I 
 suffer \_pMts her pockethandker chief to her eyes']. Have you no 
 sympathy for your poor sister, left a desolate widow ? 
 
 Beatrice. Pshaw ! You needn't remain desolate if you don't 
 like it. You chose to make an absurd resolution — 
 
 Laura. A good resolution can't be absurd. 
 
 I 
 
114 CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 Beatrice. An absurd resolution can't be good. However, that's 
 not the question. I don't want you to marry. I only say that with 
 plenty of money and good looks you may put an end to the widowhood 
 you complain of whenever you please.- 
 
 Laura. It's not the widowhood — as you unfeelingly call it — that 
 makes me miserable ; but the loss of my beloved husband. You've no 
 sympathy, 'Beatrice : not a grain of it. My poor dear colonel was 
 the best and kindest of men. [ IVeeps.l^ 
 
 Beatrice. Who should know that better than myself? But 
 Edgar hated exaggeration, and would have strongly objected to all 
 this sentiment ; your best affections wasted on a dog. At any rate, 
 while he was with us, Laura, you didn't appreciate his presence as much 
 as you appear to regret his absence, 
 
 Laura. I loved him with all my heart ! [aside] I'm sure I did, in 
 spite of — [/lesitates]. 
 
 Beatrice [aside]. Then your heart had an odd way of showing it. 
 
 Laura. He adored me. He lived and died for his country and 
 for me. 
 
 Beatrice. He lived to do his duty. As for dying, no doubt he 
 would have died for his country if it had been necessary. No doubt, 
 too, if you had tumbled into the river, he'd have jumped in after you ; 
 but, as a matter of fact, poor dear Edgar died of — liver — 
 
 Laura. Heartless girl I Perhaps you would insinuate that he 
 died from eating too much. 
 
 Beatrice. I insinuate nothing. He liked a good dinner when he 
 could get it ; but you weren't famous for looking after his comfort in 
 those matters ; and now he's gone, you show no respect for his memory 
 by these perpetual waterworks. He wanted you to lead a useful life ; 
 it should make him turn in his grave to see you idling it away — not an 
 interest, not an occupation, but — feeding that wretched dog. 
 
 Laura. So you want me to part with my dog — the only remaining 
 tie . . . linking me with former happy days ! 
 
CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 "5 
 
 Beatrice. Nonsense ! I want you to be reasonable. You've 
 taken into your head to play the part of an inconsolable widow. But 
 I 'm not a widow, and don't mean to sacrifice myself any longer. Do 
 get rid of this bee in your bonnet — about eternal regrets — \aside\ — 
 eternal fiddlesticks ! 
 
 Laura. I see what you're at ; you want to drive me to marry 
 again. I consider that a woman degrades 
 herself by replacing the beloved object of 
 her first affection. Still, if you insist — for 
 your sake, for that alone, mind — I might try 
 to overcome my repugnance. 
 
 Beatrice. Oh, pray don't think of 
 such a thing for my sake ! indeed, 
 
 I shouldn't care to live 
 woman who degrades 
 
 with a 
 herself. 
 
 But why can't we be 
 jolly — see something of 
 the world — of society ? 
 
 Laura. 
 Oh, no ; if 
 it's neces- T 
 sary to be 
 gay, better 
 marry at 
 once, 
 
 Bex\trice. You're harping strangely on the idea of marrying. 
 Well, the long and short of it is, that I shall leave you to your fate. I 
 should do something desperate if I stayed on in this dreadful house— 
 a nunnery would be wild dissipation in comparison to it. 
 
 Laura \with asperity^. Perhaps you may be looking out for a 
 husband. 
 
 Beatrice. Not \. You've given me no chance since poor 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 Edgar's death. The gardener's the only man I see, and If he wasn't 
 so old I should feel shy of speaking to him. As to the curate, I've got 
 so unaccustomed to anything wearing a coat that I positively blush 
 when I meet him. No ! I'm all for liberty ; and thanks to the importa- 
 tion of American ideas, one gets a fair share of it nowadays. I speak 
 in your interest ; if you choose to be obstinate, so be it, only don't 
 dignify it by the name of constancy. 
 
 Laura. I beg you'll allow me to be the judge of my own 
 actions. One would think you were the elder of the two. 
 
 Beatrice \sarcastically\. One would indeed ! 
 
 Laura. I've said my last word. 
 
 Beatrice. And a very foolish one it is. \Walks to the end of 
 the room, collecting things as if for packing^ 
 
 Laura \aside\. What a position I'm in ! I should like to confide 
 in Beatrice, but having so often scoffed at the idea of marrying, I 
 couldn't own myself beaten ; besides, the memory of my vow haunts 
 me. \A dog is heard barking?^ Ah ! there's my precious Bijou 
 calling me. I daresay they forgot to give him his rissole. \Exit 
 Laura.] 
 
 Beatrice \coming back to the font\ Oh, that dog! It 
 exasperates me. I lose patience, temper, heart — all the virtues one's 
 supposed to possess ; and when I think of what Edgar suffered vvith 
 Laura's caprices and follies, not to mention the way she neglected him, 
 this pretended affliction provokes me past all endurance. How sur- 
 prised he would have been if he could have foreseen the line she takes ; 
 he was afraid she wouldn't give a decent time to her weeds. It's 
 absurd, considering I'm two years younger, the way poor Edgar left 
 her in charge to me ; but there's a limit to everything, and I'm come 
 to the end of my tether. And yet perhaps I may be driven to matri- 
 mony myself ; but at least I won't be a humbug, or pretend it's to please 
 any one but myself. But would it please me ? Aye, there's the rub ! 
 I expect to hear from Arthur soon. ... I told him I couldn't give an 
 
CROCODILE TEARS. 117 
 
 answer for at least six months, and the time's nearly come now. The 
 fact is, I hate the thoughts of giving up my liberty. How I envy the 
 servants ! If they don't like a place they can leave it, and they cer- 
 tainly do, when it suits them, without the smallest scruple. But in 
 families it's supposed that we must all be tied together. I've the 
 advantage of being independent, and it makes me feel rather lonely at 
 times [/>azise] But to return to Laura. I can't make her out — I really 
 can't. She didn't care for Edgar ; she married him out of pique — that 
 was clear enough. But it was not so clear why Captain Sedley went 
 off without proposing to her. His ship was certainly ordered off to the 
 West Indies, but that didn't deprive him of the use of his tongue, or at 
 least of his pen ; however, off he went — Laura married Edgar, worried 
 his life out while he lived, has worried mine out since he died, and now 
 makes the very house damp with these eternal tears, and what for ? 
 For the loss of a man she never cared for ? or because Captain Sedley 
 hasn't shown signs of life ? I've my suspicions. He must be coming 
 home soon, and Laura has been more restless lately. . . . Can she 
 have had a letter ? She's very close, and having taken up this idiotic 
 line she'd be ashamed to own ic, if she has changed her mind. I must 
 contrive a plan to circumvent her. It is funny that my Arthur should have 
 joined her Alexander's ship at Bermuda, and be serving under him. 
 Funnier still that their initials should be the same, A. S. S. — Arthur 
 Stephen Swan, Alexander Sloan Sedley. I think I can make something 
 out of it. Hush ! here she comes, and with that horrid dog of 
 course. 
 
 [Bnier Laura.] 
 
 Laura. Poor little fellow ! Has he lost his master ? Where is 
 his master, darling ? Ah ! he's left us for ever, my pet. ' Bijou ' will 
 never see him again. 
 
 Beatrice. Unless he goes to join him. 
 
 Laura. What did you say ? Beatrice, you're a brute. 
 
ii8 
 
 CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 Beatrice. What's the matter nov/ ? 
 
 Laura. You've a heart hard as the nether millstone. You've no 
 feeling for the woes of other people. You don't even understand them. 
 You're ungrateful to the memory of the kindest, the dearest \weeps\. 
 
 Beatrice \aside\. The waterworks turned on again. I shall go 
 mad. \Aloud'\ That's not true. I remember dear Edgar with the 
 utmost gratitude, and I show my respect for his memory by doing all 
 
 wished. \Aside\ Oh ! 
 of him just now when 
 can't pretend that he 
 
 that I know he would have 
 dear, I'm sorry she reminded me 
 I'm going to leave her; for I 
 would have wished that. 
 
 Laura \contimces without 
 You laugh at my 
 grief, you hate the 
 very dog who 
 loves me. Poor 
 pet, he too has lost all his gaiety 
 since his master went, haven't you, my pet \_weeps 
 
 agaifi\. 
 
 Beatrice. Laugh at you ! I wish I could 
 laugh at anything; but I've lost the power of ^ 
 laughing. I'm very nearly as melancholy as you / 
 
 are yourself. 
 
 Laura. As if that were possible. 
 
 Beatrice. It's not difficult, I assure you, under the circumstances. 
 And as to * Bijou ' I do my best to love him — 
 
 Laura [interrupting]. Oh ! oh ! 
 
 Beatrice [speaking to the dog] Don't I, dear ? [teasing the dog]. 
 Now, my sweet pet [imitating her sister], make a bow. Now a little 
 valse. [Aside] Oh ! the little brute. 
 
 Laura [trying to seetn indifferent]. Beatrice, what*s the weather 
 like? Do look out and tell me if it's going to rain ! 
 
CROCODILE TEARS. 119 
 
 Beatrice. Rain? why, it never stops raining. The very sky 
 seems to be widowed. 
 
 Laura [sighing deeply and carrying the dog, kissing him. Walks 
 to the window and looks out\ DarHng pet. 
 
 Beatrice. Well, I shall go now and write to auntie. I shall say 
 I'll be with her this day week. 
 
 Laura. Oh ! why put it off so long ? Why not go at once ."* 
 So far from wishing you to remain, I shall rejoice to feel you are happy. 
 
 Beatrice [aside']. Ah! there's something in the wind. Hitherto 
 whenever I've broached the subject of leaving her there's been a 
 cataract — Falls of Niagara — I thought the house would be swamped in 
 her tears. Now she seems in earnest. I shall soon see. Til try the 
 weeping line myself. [Aloud~\ Very well, Laura; so let it be. I'll 
 put my things up and come back to say good-bye ; and, perhaps, when 
 I'm gone . . . you'll think with more kindness of the poor sister who 
 has devoted herself to you all these years [puts her handkerchief to her 
 eyes] and who loves you so dearly. [Aside] That'll bring her round, 
 I think. I never knew her lose an opportunity of mingling her tears, 
 as she calls it. 
 
 Laura. I shall always love you, dearest ; but as my sorrows 
 disturb your life, and deprive you of the gaiety natural to your age . . . 
 it is better that we should part. 
 
 Beatrice [recovering and speaking briskly]. It's a pity you hadn't 
 thought about my gaiety a little earlier. However, if that's your line, 
 the sooner the better. [Aside] When she sees I'm in earnest she 
 may yet change her tone. [Aloud] I shall telegraph at once, and go 
 off to-night, since you're so anxious to get rid of me. 
 
 Laura. If you make haste John" can take the telegram before he 
 brings up luncheon. 
 
 Beatrice [aside]. No, no, my dear ; you've shown me your cards, 
 and now I'm going to play out my own little game. [Alotid] All right, 
 I'm going out now, but shall be back to luncheon. [Exit Beatrice.] 
 
I20 CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 Laura. Was ever woman in such a dreadful position ? Some- 
 times I feel to be a thorough hypocrite ; yet it is not hypocrisy, for I 
 mourned most truly for my poor dear Edgar. Ah ! perhaps I did not 
 appreciate him as he deserved while he was with me, and in the agony 
 of «my grief and remorse I registered a vow to devote the rest of my life 
 to his memory. For a long time I banished every other thought ; but, 
 alas ! for the weakness of human nature. When I went last year to 
 visit one of Edgar's relations I met my — my fate ! Ever since that 
 time I have been torn by conflicting emotions and wishes — constancy 
 to the dead, devotion to the living. How can I admit that I have 
 fallen from my own ideal ? Yet how can I relinquish the heaven 
 opening to me in the possession of Alexander's love ? I am tormented, 
 too, with doubts and jealousies. In the struggles I made to be true to 
 my vow I tried to conceal my feelings from Alexander, and though I 
 consented to see him again in a year's time.. I gave him little hope, and 
 begged him to consider himself free . . . Six months later I learnt 
 that he had met Beatrice at our aunt's country house. From that time 
 I have known no peace. What if in his anguish he should have 
 turned to another for consolation ? I dare not question Beatrice. 
 Nor is she likely to confide in me. Alas ! wTapped up in my own 
 selfish emotions, I have never tried to win her confidence. I console 
 myself with thinking that if Alexander had cared for her he would not 
 have gone off to a distance — the other day my aunt mentioned him in 
 the most indifferent way. " Your friend, Alexander Sloane Sedley," 
 she said, "has taken himself off to Bermuda." And I ask myself, is he 
 wiling away the time until he may again approach me, or has Beatrice 
 banished him ? A few days must solve this dreadful doubt. Mean- 
 time, how thankful I am at Beatrice's determination to go away. I 
 must have time for reflection —my poor Edgar ! Can I set aside your 
 cherished memory ? \After a pause^ Alas ! alas ! Alexander, shall 
 I have strength to relinquish your precious love? [weeps]. I hear 
 Beatrice. I must conceal my relief at the prospect of her departure. 
 
CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 [^Enter Beatrice, with hand-bag, cloak, sirap, packages, c^fc"] 
 
 Beatrice. There, I'm all ready ; but I must wait for the eight 
 o'clock train instead of going at three o'clock as I intended. 
 
122 CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 t. 
 
 Laura- [wi^A her back turned, and pretending to be occupied 
 writijig a letter']. Well, dear, it's very sad to part, but in your interest 
 I can't wish it otherwise; and — last moments are so trying. Why 
 do you put it off till eight o'clock ? 
 
 Beatrice [watching her sister closely]. On account of a letter 
 I'm expecting. A very important one — that may affect my — future 
 life. 
 
 Laura [cui'ious but otherwise indifferent]. Your future life ? At 
 all events, your letter can't now come till to-morrow morning. The 
 second post came in an hour ago, so I can forward it. 
 
 Beatrice. Yes. But the letter that I'm expecting wouldn't 
 come by the second post. There's a third one that brings — 
 
 Laura \_hastily interrupting her]. No, the third post only brings 
 letters from the Colonies — ship letters. 
 
 Beatrice. How can you possibly know, since you can't get ship 
 letters ? 
 
 Laura. Why can't I, pray? 
 
 Beatrice. Why? You, an inconsolable widow I It's out of the 
 question. A letter from out there could only be from an officer in 
 some regiment, or \watching her closely] an officer of the fleet. [Aside] 
 How odd I She don't rise. But I mean to find out. Something's 
 in the wind, and I shall lead her a pretty dance till I know. I've 
 made a nice little plan, and luckily 1 can trust Susan thoroughly to 
 carry it out [goes to the windozv]. Here he comes [goes to the door 
 and calls out excitedly]. Susan, the postman has gone round to the 
 back door ; fly and see if there's a letter for me. 
 
 Laura [walking about in an agony] [aside]. What can it mean ! 
 Beatrice can know no one out there except Alexander. Oh ! it can't 
 be possible ! There can be nothing between them ! I daren't ask, it 
 would show me up. Oh ! oh ! [hursts into a flood of tears]. 
 
 Beatrice [aside]. Waterworks again. Well, it must be kill or 
 cure this time. If my suspicions are right she'll show herself up, and 
 
CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 123 
 
 I'll take care that it shall be cure. But if I've wronged her, then I 
 shan't have the heart to go away, and that's decidedly kill. [Susan is 
 heard outside]. A foreign letter for you, Miss. [Beatrice rz^j-/?^^ fo 
 the door, gets a letter, and co77tes back, waving it in Laura's sight\ 
 Come, now, Laura, admit that you're dying of curiosity ? 
 
 Laura [twisting her handkerchief and trying to hide her anxiety']. 
 I suppose I may wish to hear — to know — of anything which concerns 
 my sister, without being accused of curiosity [sods from time to 
 time]. 
 
 Beatrice [aside]. Poor thing, it's rather a shame to tease her, 
 but it's all for her good,- as our governess used to say when she did 
 anything particularly disagreeable. [Aloud, holding the letter behind 
 her.] Now, then, guess who it's from. I'll give you three chances. 
 [Laura doesnt speak.] Do you give it up ? Well, I'll help you. 
 Locality, Bermuda ; initials, A. S. S. 
 
 Laura [sta7'ts, and can hardly contain herself] Initials, A. S. S. ? 
 [throws herself on the sofa and speaks hysterically]. Ah! perfidious 
 wretch ! And you, my sister, — to wrest from me, a miserable being, 
 alone in the world, the only stay — support. [Throws aside her usual 
 plaintive tone, and ivorks herself up into a fury.] Ungrateful 
 girl ! Thrice perjured man ! After his oaths — his refusal to be set 
 free ! 
 
 Beatrice. What in the world does this mean ! If he has been 
 constant to you and that you care for him, why all this humbug ? 
 However, though you don't deserve it, I'll be generous, and put you out 
 of your misery . . . You forget that there may be other people in 
 Bermuda, and that their initials may even be A. S. S., besides the 
 object of your adoration. There, calm yourself, my letter is not from 
 Captain Sedley. 
 
 Laura [in a fury of wrath and misery, and pronouncing the na^ne 
 with the utmost contempt]. Captain Sedley ! as if I ever gave a thought 
 to him. But tell me at once, who is that letter from ? I insist upon 
 
124 CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 knowing, Beatrice ; I, your elder sister, who have the care of you, 
 insist. [Changing her tone?^ Oh ! for pity's sake tell me. 
 
 Beatrice \ivho has remained transfixed with astonishvicnt~\ \aside\ 
 What ! another ! Not even her old friend ; and she must have been 
 carrying on all this time, and kept me in the dark, and almost persuaded 
 me to believe in her ! Oh ! I'll pay you off for all these miserable 
 years ... At any rate you shall pass a painful quarter of an hour. 
 \_Aloud~\ Well, you are a pretty example to your sister ; and after 
 having posed as a broken-hearted widow for three years, and having 
 shed quarts, nay gallons, of crocodile tears, you now wish to pose as the 
 guardian of my morals, do you ? Thanks, all the same ; I prefer taking 
 care of myself. Laura, Laura, aren't you ashamed of yourself ? 
 
 Laura \who has all this time been lymtg on the so/a with her face 
 hidden, now rotises up^ driven to bay]. It's very well for you. You 
 first steal the affection of the man I care for, and then you taunt me. 
 \_Furio2isl)>] When was it settled ? how soon after he proposed to me ? 
 Miserable girl, at least let me hear the truth. 
 
 Beatrice. You dare to talk of truth ? Why, my hair stands on 
 end at the bare recollection of the dreadful Jibs — fibs, I say ! — you've 
 been telling me all this time ! Now, on my side, I ask for the truth. 
 Let me at any rate hear the name of the happy individual who has con- 
 soled you for the loss of the best — the dearest of men ? 
 
 Laura. Nothing shall induce me to tell you. 
 
 Beatrice. It's very foolish of you. [Aside)^ I really can't help 
 pitying her. Who knows ? there might be a third A. S. S. [Aloud] 
 Come, Laura, describe him. 
 
 Laura. I won't. 
 
 Beatrice. Well, answer my questions. Tall or short ? 
 
 Laura. Oh, Beatrice, be merciful ! 
 
 Beatrice. Not I. Tall or short? For the last time of asking : 
 Tall — or — short ? 
 
 Laura. Tall ? No. Oh ! I don't know those miserable details. 
 
CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 125 
 
 Beatrice. Dark or fair? Quick, quick! Dark or fair? 
 \Aside\ He seems to be neither. I'm beginning to get frightened. 
 It can't be my youth by chance. Arthur, in fact, is nothing particular. 
 \Aioud\ Neither dark nor fair ? Scarlet, then, of course ? 
 
 Laura. No — no I 
 
 Beatrice \aside\ That's a comfort, for Arthur verges on carroty, 
 and might, perhaps, be thought rather dumpy. I'm beginning to 
 breathe. What next ? Now then, Laura, the crucial question. The 
 name ? Get your wits together ! 
 Are you ready? Here's a smelling- 
 bottle — strong salts. 
 
 \^hXi^K\Jiysterical\. Oh, oh ! 
 Speak. No, no ! don't speak. 
 \At this 7noment there coines a 
 loud rap at the dooj\\ 
 
 Beatrice. Stop, Laura. I 
 hear voices downstairs. Do col- 
 lect yourself. Let's be calm. 
 \_Go8s to the door and speaks to 
 John outside J\ What is it ? 
 
 [Enter John.] 
 
 John. Two gentlemen are 
 below, ma'am. This one asked for you, ma'am \j^ives a card, the 
 wrong one, to Laura], and this one for you, miss [^ives her the 
 other card]. 
 
 \Both, simultaneously?^ 
 
 Laura [disappointed]. Lieutenant Arthur — Stephen — Swan. 
 Beatrice [equally disgusted]. Captain Alexander — Sloane 
 Sedley. 
 
126 CROCODILE TEARS. 
 
 [After a moment' s paiise each seizes the card of the other.~\ 
 [Both Laura ajid Beatrice speak together.'] 
 
 Laura. My own Alexander ! 
 
 Beatrice. My blessed Arthur ! Hurrah ! We've each got our 
 own A. double S. after all ! But, Laura, what do you think of yourself 
 now ? 
 
 Laura. Be generous, and forgive me [inclined to zveep again\. 
 
 Beatrice. By all means ; only for heaven's sake don't let's meet 
 your future with crocodile tears ! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
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