LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, 
 DAVIS 
 
THE COMEDIES OF 
 HAROLD CHAPIN 
 
THE COMEDIES 
 
 OF 
 
 HAROLD CHAPIN 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 J. M. BARRIE 
 
 LONDON 
 CHATTO Sf WINDUS 
 
 1921 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
Dramatic and All Other Rights Reserved 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 WHEN I agreed, very gladly, to write a few words of intro 
 duction to this volume, I cautiously bought a book about 
 how to write plays (there are many of them), in order to see whether 
 Mr. Chapin wrote his properly. But the book was so learned, 
 and the author knew so much, and the subject when studied grew 
 so difficult, that I hurriedly abandoned my inquiry. Thus one of 
 us at least missed his last chance of discovering what that mysteiious 
 thing, " stage technique/' really is, which after all does not greatly 
 matter as nearly everyone else seems to know. I say nearly every 
 one else because I am not at all certain that Mr. Chapin knew. 
 He certainly breaks most of the rules laid down in the early chapters 
 of the guide book, but breaks them so agreeably that one feels he 
 had unconsciously found a better way for himself. Plays ought 
 undoubtedly to be 42 by 36, which is the real reason why writing 
 them should be so difficult, but he does not even seem to have 
 known the correct figures, nor indeed that play-writing was diffi 
 cult ; there is no sign of " building " in his comedy ; he starts off 
 at once, gaily, as if instinct told him where to begin and how to 
 go on, and he goes on so blithely that never was a recent writer 
 who made play-writing seem more easy. It makes him a peculiarly 
 delightful companion to the reader, of whom it will doubtless often 
 make a playwright who might not otherwise have been one (if 
 there is any such person), for apparently to Mr. Chapin the diffi 
 culties are so readily surmounted that he is over them without 
 being aware that they were there . Perhaps this is merely his masterly 
 cunning, and he has skilfully removed the ladders by which he 
 climbed, but I scarcely think so. I think he was the " born 
 dramatist " who did not know how it was done but could do it. I 
 remember many years ago being in a club probably the last time 
 I was in one where everyone was discussing " style," for it was very 
 much a literary club. Many clever and pregnant things were said 
 about style by various able hands that day, and then the man who 
 
vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 was by far the most distinguished person present the one who will 
 no doubt be an immortal when all the rest of us are forgotten 
 had his say, and his definition of style was so childish that we 
 knew not where to look. But afterwards I took melancholy 
 comfort in the reflection that the only man in the company who 
 did not know anything about style was also the only one who had 
 a style. There are reasons for thinking that Mr. Chapin was that 
 sort of dramatist. He must often have been the only man in the 
 company who could not tell how plays should be written, but also 
 the only one who could write them. 
 
 [The best of him is his comedy ; it is constantly witty, but still 
 more certainly natural ; his people very seldom indeed talk " out 
 of their parts." You never find B saying something good that 
 might have been said more legitimately by C, who, however, 
 happened not to be in the scene at the time. This cannot be said 
 of many writers for the stage, especially when their game is 
 " artificial comedy," as, on the whole, Mr. Chapin 's was ; and it 
 is what keeps his characters, however light and airy the quest on 
 which he sends them forth, nearly always true to life. They may 
 not be living in quite a real world, but they are always human 
 beings ; not always human beings in whose fate we are violently 
 interested the artificiality of the theme may stand deliberately 
 in the way of that but sufficiently human to look very like our 
 selves. As a whole, I think The New Morality deserves first 
 place in this volume, and would merit a high place in any gathering 
 together of the best English comedies of recent years. The subject 
 may be said to be the effect of the heat of a " record summer " on 
 a few people living in house-boats, and throughout this truly witty 
 play we feel that heat as if the time were the July of 1921. Seldom 
 has atmosphere been better conveyed. Betty Jones, the engaging and 
 maddening heroine, is the young matron with whom Mr. Chapin 
 disports divertingly in more than one of his plays ; never more 
 successfully than here. And the piece runs on laughingly to its 
 gay and inevitable conclusion, after which Mr. Chapin smilingly 
 packs away his puppets in a box ; they are puppets, but they were 
 alive all the time he pulled the strings. 
 
 Pauline of Art and Opportunity is a more ambitious study 
 than Betty Jones, but made out of very similar ingredients, quite 
 as charming but not placed perhaps in as happy an environment. 
 She has to prove a case too much, and so cannot laze on her back 
 as Betty would have done in any emergency ; by the end of Art 
 
INTRODUCTION vii 
 
 "*e New 
 
 roles 
 
 then I 
 
 course 
 
 Messrs. Joseph Williams Limited, of -hough 
 
 32 Great Portland Street, London, 
 W. 1, are authorised to arrange for 
 
 Amateur Performances of the Plays : ., / ' 
 
 " Art and Opportunity," " Elaine," and n ^ 
 
 " Marriage of Columbine." D 
 
 ecause 
 doubt, 
 i could 
 
 It was very likely something that if he had lived he would have 
 done best of all. As everyone who is interested in the art of the 
 theatre knows, this gifted man fought and fell for his country in 
 the war. He was still very young, and had only so far, I believe, 
 been getting his tools in good state for the bigger work he would 
 have accomplished. He would have returned from France, it is 
 not too hazardous to guess, seeing life more deeply and more clearly. 
 In the plays he has left us he saw it, on the whole, as it has long 
 been accepted to be on the stage. His characters are stage types 
 who lived and moved on the boards before his time, and he was 
 content to take them for what they were, and make them seem 
 fresh and charming and new because he himself had those gracious 
 qualities. But had he come back to us it would surely have been, 
 not indeed without these attributes they would still have been 
 for our delight but with a mind mellowed and strengthened by 
 what he had felt ; not on the stage would he have sought for his 
 problems but in life itself. Even his delicious ladies would have 
 been delicious in a new way ; he would have known that he had 
 not said the last word about them when he made them seductive 
 and contradictory and childish and cunning according to the 
 engaging patterns. Instead, he died a gallant soldier's death. He 
 was probably the greatest " might have been," so far as his particular 
 art is concerned, that fell in the war. 
 
 J. M. BARRIE. 
 
vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 was by 
 no dou 
 had his 
 knew i 
 comfor 
 did not 
 a style, 
 sort of 
 compar 
 the onl 1 
 [The 
 more a 
 of theii 
 might 
 
 happeneu nut LU ue m me scene at tne time. This cannot be said 
 of many writers for the stage, especially when their game is 
 " artificial comedy," as, on the whole, Mr. Chapin's was ; and it 
 is what keeps his characters, however light and airy the quest on 
 which he sends them forth, nearly always true to life. They may 
 not be living in quite a real world, but they are always human 
 beings ; not always human beings in whose fate we are violently 
 interested the artificiality of the theme may stand deliberately 
 in the way of that but sufficiently human to look very like our 
 selves. As a whole, I think The New Morality deserves first 
 place in this volume, and would merit a high place in any gathering 
 together of the best English comedies of recent years. The subject 
 may be said to be the effect of the heat of a " record summer " on 
 a few people living in house-boats, and throughout this truly witty 
 play we feel that heat as if the time were the July of 1921. Seldom 
 has atmosphere been better conveyed. Betty Jones, the engaging and 
 maddening heroine, is the young matron with whom Mr. Chapin 
 disports divertingly in more than one of his plays ; never more 
 successfully than here. And the piece runs on laughingly to its 
 gay and inevitable conclusion, after which Mr. Chapin smilingly 
 packs away his puppets in a box ; they are puppets, but they were 
 alive all the time he pulled the strings. 
 
 Pauline of Art and Opportunity is a more ambitious study 
 than Betty Jones, but made out of very similar ingredients, quite 
 as charming but not placed perhaps in as happy an environment. 
 She has to prove a case too much, and so cannot laze on her back 
 as Betty would have done in any emergency ; by the end of Art 
 
INTRODUCTION vii 
 
 and Opportunity we do not quite feel as we do in The New 
 Morality that Mr. Chapin has followed someone's three rules 
 of play- writing " first, I tell them what I am going to do, then I 
 do it, then I tell them I have done it," the " them " being of course 
 the public. No such fault can be found with Elaine, but though 
 we get here into closer touch with life, what the author has to tell 
 " them " seems to be less worth while. Perhaps The Marriage 
 of Columbine will prove to be the most popular of all these plays, 
 for though bizarre in its conditions it is the most lovable ; it has 
 some delicious incidental characters, and it seeks a place in the 
 reader's heart. But I do not myself rank it with the first two plays 
 of the volume ; it seems to me more artificial than they because 
 it sets out to be something else something quite as good, no doubt, 
 but something that in his short and splendid life Mr. Chapin could 
 not do so well. 
 
 It was very likely something that if he had lived he would have 
 done best of all. As everyone who is interested in the art of the 
 theatre knows, this gifted man fought and fell for his country in 
 the war. He was still very young, and had only so lar, I believe, 
 been getting his tools in good state for the bigger work he would 
 have accomplished. He would have returned from France, it is 
 not too hazardous to guess, seeing life more deeply and more clearly. 
 In the plays he has left us he saw it, on the whole, as it has long 
 been accepted to be on the stage. His characters are stage types 
 who lived and moved on the boards before his time, and he was 
 content to take them for what they were, and make them seem 
 fresh and charming and new because he himself had those gracious 
 qualities. But had he come back to us it would surely have been, 
 not indeed without these attributes they would still have been 
 for our delight but with a mind mellowed and strengthened by 
 what he had felt ; not on the stage would he have sought for his 
 problems but in life itself. Even his delicious ladies would have 
 been delicious in a new way ; he would have known that he had 
 not said the last word about them when he made them seductive 
 and contradictory and childish and cunning according to the 
 engaging patterns. Instead, he died a gallant soldier's death. He 
 was probably the greatest " might have been," so far as his particular 
 art is concerned, that fell in the war. 
 
 J. M. BARRIE. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE NEW MORALITY . . i 
 
 ART AND OPPORTUNITY . . . . . .57 
 
 ELAINE 117 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE . 179 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 COLONEL IVOR JONES. 
 
 BETTY JONES, his Wife. 
 
 GEOFFREY BELASIS, K.C., her Brother. 
 
 ALICE MEYNE, her Friend. 
 
 E. WALLACE WISTER, a Neighbour. 
 
 WOOTON, Man-Servant. 
 
 LESCELINE, Maid. 
 
 The Action of the Play takes place on the Jones's Houseboat, the " Hyacinth " ; 
 the Wisters' Boat, the " Merry Mischief," being near by. 
 
 The time occupied is from 4.30 to 8 o'clock on an evening in a record summer. 
 
ACT I 
 
 SCENE 
 BETTY'S BEDROOM ON THE " HYACINTH " 
 
 A low, rectangular room: its chief furnishing a large chintz-hung 
 bed. Three small, square, chintz-curtained windows break 
 the far wall into equal panels of flowery wall-paper. The 
 door is up R. Below it is a white enamelled wardrobe. 
 The bed's head is to the wall L., the configuration of 
 which (it projects between two alcoves) places that article 
 of furniture almost in the centre of the room, and in a 
 very visible position. 
 
 Below the bed against the wall (half in the alcove) is a table 
 supporting a few books, papers, hairbrushes, fruit, a vase 
 of flowers, smelling-salts, and a jug of lemonade iced 
 and tinkly and glasses. There are, of course, other things 
 on this bedside table such as a patience pack, a fountain- 
 pen, and some photographs in frames but I need not 
 enumerate them unless, perhaps, I mention the tin of 
 Brand's essence open on a plate, with a spoon in it. 
 
 There is a chintz-covered couch along the foot of the bed ; a 
 dressing-table up at the middle window ; the bed curtains 
 probably hide a chest of drawers in the far alcove above 
 the bed-head. Only two chairs are in the room, one 
 against the wall below the wardrobe, and one up at the 
 dressing-table. 
 
 It will be seen that there is not much space in the room or 
 cabin. A depth of six feet below the bed, something 
 less above it, and a channel four feet wide between the 
 couch at the foot of the bed and the wardrobe. 
 In the bed is MRS. BETTY JONES. Her back is to us, but we 
 feel sure that nobody but herself could wear such a very 
 modish marvel of a lace boudoir cap or such a dream of a 
 lace bed-jacket. 
 
 The room is delightfully shady and cool, though the sun is 
 blazing upon the tree-clad bank beyond the windows and 
 on the river below them ; from which last its ripple- 
 swayed reflections dance upon the ceiling. 
 The lady in the bed turns over with a sigh of irritation and 
 faces us. Yes, it is MRS. BETTY, as we suspected from 
 
 3 
 
4 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 her attire. Her expression is not her usual one, though. 
 Her eyes which are wide open as she turns are bright 
 and hard, and it is obvious that the word which she frames 
 with her lips is designed to congrue. She shuts her mouth 
 firmly, however, without speaking, and, closing her eyes 
 with disciplinary tightness, sets herself to sleep with great 
 severity and determination. 
 
 There is a knock at the door and LESCELINE the maid 
 enters. She comes to foot of bed and awaits a signal 
 to discover her errand. BETTY gives it without opening 
 her eyes. 
 
 BETTY (in a discouraging not to say warning voice). Well ? 
 
 LESCE. Miss Meyne, ma'am. 
 
 BETTY (opening her eyes incredulously). What ? 
 
 LESCE. (repeating the information). Miss Meyne, ma'am. 
 
 (BETTY ponders, her lips parted in hopes of finding words in 
 which one may ask of a servant such questions as : " What 
 has she come for ? ") 
 
 (Respectfully after a pause) You did expect her to tea, ma'am. 
 BETTY (half to herself). I know I ... (With sudden determination) 
 Ask her if she'd mind coming down here. 
 
 (LESCELINE exits obediently. BETTY resumes her attack 
 upon slumber. LESCELINE returns, showing in ALICE 
 MEYNE, a tall, very English girl, or, rather, young 
 woman she is twenty-six or seven of the pleasant and 
 homely type. She is well, but not very smartly, dressed 
 in summer white. There is something healthily ordinary 
 about her a dependable, restful obviousness and simplicity 
 that endears her immensely to the highly strung and 
 intensely mental and complex BETTY. She comes below 
 the bed to kiss her friend, who greets her dryly with :) 
 
 BETTY. Bless you, my dear. You would be the one soul on the 
 river not to hear about it. 
 
 (They exchange the formal kiss of feminine greeting and 
 ALICE stands erect again, looking down at BETTY, who 
 still holds her by the hand and studies her quizzingly.) 
 
 BETTY. You're a marvel ! How in the world did you manage 
 
 not to ? 
 
 ALICE. Not to what ? 
 
 BETTY. Not to hear about my row with Muriel Wister. 
 ALICE. Oh, I (very slightly embarrassed) I didn't manage not 
 
 to. 
 BETTY (surprised). You have heard about it ? 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 5 
 
 ALICE. Well, I (her embarrassment is a shade deeper, perhaps) 
 
 I heard it. 
 BETTY (horrified). You . . . (She is dumb for a moment, staring 
 
 at her friend ; then she disappears amongst the bedclothes, dragging 
 
 them up to her ears and turning her back to her friend in some 
 
 real and much simulated confusion.) Oh, my dear ! Go away ! 
 
 Go away ! I'm not going to ... (Suddenly emerging) You 
 
 heard it~all ? 
 ALICE (sedately). I heard from before it began until after it 
 
 stopped, I think. (In mitigation) You see I was only a 
 
 few yards away. 
 
 BETTY (surprised and wondering). Only a ... Where ? 
 ALICE. Just across the river. 
 BETTY. Just across the river ? Oh, my conscience ! (Dryly) You 
 
 weren't just above the lock as well, by any chance ? 
 ALICE. No, no (more and more lamely) just on the opposite 
 
 bank. 
 
 BETTY. Was there anybody else there ? 
 ALICE. No er mother was with me. 
 BETTY. I'm glad. Anyone else ? 
 ALICE. Not when it started. They came up. 
 BETTY (with keen appreciation). I bet they did from far and near. 
 
 (Risking the question after a scarcely perceptible pause) Could 
 
 you distinguish words ? 
 ALICE. Some. 
 BETTY. Mine mostly. 
 ALICE. I don't think I heard her speak. 
 BETTY. She didn't. Her husband asked me to please go away 
 
 once or twice, but I don't think he spoke up. (After a second, 
 
 in a tone that betrays the fact that she appreciates the seriousness 
 
 of her behaviour, though her eyes still twinkle with the humour 
 
 of it) You heard me call her a ? 
 
 (ALICE nods.) 
 
 (Explosively) Then, my dear child, what on earth are you 
 doing here ? 
 
 ALICE (smiling). Well, you asked me to tea. 
 
 BETTY. Pretty bairn ! (She suddenly sits up and rings the bell 
 hanging above her head.) You may as well have a cup now 
 you've come for it. Your character's gone, anyway. (She 
 switches on electric light at bed's head and sits up against pillows.) 
 
 ALICE (laughing sedately). Oh, I hope not. 
 
 BETTY. It isn't a case for hope. It's a case for despair ! 
 
 (LESCELINE knocks and enters.) 
 BETTY. Tea, Lesceline. 
 
 (LESCELINE exits.) 
 
6 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 BETTY (continuing). If I'd murdered Muriel with a boathook, or 
 something original like that, everyone would have praised 
 you for coming to see me, but really calling and insulting 
 her before breakfast. 
 
 ALICE. Don't be silly. 
 
 BETTY. Your mother 'd never have let you come. 
 
 ALICE (gently triumphing). As it happens, I asked mother whether 
 I should or not. 
 
 BETTY (incredulously). And she said yes ? 
 
 ALICE. She said that if I didn't tire you, she thought you'd be 
 glad to see me. 
 
 BETTY. My dear, are you quite a fool, or are you just pretending ? 
 Don't you realise that I've no right to expect my decent 
 friends to so much as recognise me ? Did you or did you not 
 hear me call that woman a ? 
 
 ALICE (quietly). Well, she is ... 
 
 BETTY (explosively). I know she is ! But you can't go calling 
 people dog-show names on the deck of their own houseboat 
 in a voice loud enough to be heard across the river. 
 
 ALICE (mildly reproving her friend). I wasn't going to say that. I 
 was going to say well, she is very trying, I know. 
 
 BETTY. Well, if that's going to be the official name for trying 
 people . . . (Bursting out emphatically) No, it's no use, my dear ! 
 I've done for myself and I know it. I shan't blame people a 
 bit for cutting me. I deserve to be cut. I went on like a 
 fishwife. And it wasn't only the names I called her. I said 
 things whole subject predicate, and extras. You know. 
 You heard me. 
 
 ALICE (Hushfully). Yes, I heard you say several things. But it 
 was only in the heat of the moment. You had a brain-storm. 
 
 BETTY. Bless the child! It sounds so much better with a label, 
 doesn't it ? (Bursting out again) No ... 
 
 (She checks herself abruptly as LESCELINE enters with the tea. 
 BETTY watches her in silence as she brings it, with a little 
 table, to below bed. Then suddenly she bursts out again.} 
 
 I don't know why I stop for Lesceline. You know all about it, 
 
 don't you, Lesceline ? 
 LESCE. (respectfully). Oh yes, madam. 
 BETTY. In fact, you heard it, too, I suppose ? It was only on the 
 
 next houseboat. Miss Meyne heard it all excellently from 
 
 the other side of the river. 
 LESCE. (civilly). We have had to boil the milk, ma'am. Mister 
 
 Wooton is very sorry. This morning's went sour almost 
 
 immediately. 
 
 (She goes out. BETTY watches her off with a comic expression 
 which she translates into words as soon as the door has 
 closed.) 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 7 
 
 BETTY. Did she mean that for cheek ? 
 
 ALICE. What ? 
 
 BETTY. About boiling the milk, and this morning's going sour ? 
 
 ALICE (laughing). Don't be ridiculous. It's frightfully hot ; 
 
 everybody's having to boil their milk. We can't keep anything 
 
 on shore, with a decent larder. How in the world you manage, 
 
 I don't know. 
 BETTY (leaning uncomfortably out of bed towards the tea-tray). I 
 
 don't manage I pray. 
 ALICE (laughing). Does it do any good ? 
 BETTY. Not now that the ice has stopped coming. 
 ALICE (concerned). Can't you get any ? 
 BETTY. Not unless I go myself and plead for it. 
 ALICE. Oh, we still get ours from Tinney's. Of course, he doesn't 
 
 give us anything like such a big sixpennyworth as he used to, 
 
 though we pay ninepence for it and . . . 
 BETTY (giving up the struggle with the distant tea-things). I wish to 
 
 goodness you'd stop boasting about your beastly ice and pour 
 
 out my tea for me. 
 ALICE (contritely, hastening to obey). I'm so sorry. You do take 
 
 sugar, don't you ? 
 BETTY. I'll take anything that's nourishing. (She leans back 
 
 against pillows, taking with her a cress sandwich.) My word, I'm 
 
 hungry ! I sent away my lunch without tasting it, and I was 
 
 starving. 
 
 ALICE (busy pouring out). Why did you send it away, then ? 
 BETTY. Oh, my dear, you must send away the next meal after a 
 
 scene ; it's part of the ritual of the thing. It's no excuse, I 
 
 suppose, but it's doing the thing properly, and that's something. 
 ALICE (matter-of-factly, as she hands her her tea). You know, you 
 
 oughtn't to talk such a lot, you still look queer. 
 BETTY (candidly). I feel as weak as a rat. (Taking another sandwich 
 
 from Alice) Thanks. You know, it's hard work expressing 
 
 yourself as copiously as I did. I came home and went to bed 
 
 after it. 
 ALICE (moved to pity by the other's brightness). Poor dear, you've 
 
 been having a bad time of it. 
 BETTY (with a trace of resentment). Yes. And everybody on the 
 
 river knows it, don't they ? That's so soothing. 
 ALICE. Oh, I don't think everybody knows it, but your friends, at 
 
 least, will be able to make allowances. Mother was saying this 
 
 morning that you'd had enough to make a saint swear. 
 BETTY. What a saint I must be ! Oh, my dear, it's not a bit of use. 
 
 I've done it, and I don't want people to make allowances for me. 
 
 (Wavering slightly) I'm glad you and your mother but then 
 
 you're so hopelessly good that behaviour like mine was only a 
 
 phenomenon to you. You can't imagine yourself going on 
 
 the way I did, can you ? 
 
8 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 ALICE. You never know. 
 
 BETTY. Don't exult in your possibilities in that shameless way. 
 You know you can't. If you could imagine yourself making a 
 scene you'd realise that you mustn't countenance mine. 
 
 ALICE. It ought to be the other way about. 
 
 BETTY. Yes. That's why it isn't. You can go on making 
 allowance for me if you like, Alice though I don't say I 
 wouldn't rather be independent of them even from you. As 
 for the rest of the river I don't want them to. I believe it 
 was knowing that they were all busy pitying me already that 
 put the roof on things. I've absolutely done it once and for 
 all. They'll appreciate that I had been sorely tried, and give 
 me the cut regretful. If they took Muriel's part and declared 
 open war it wouldn't be half so bad. Oh, I knew before I'd 
 got half-way through my little but the second half didn't 
 exactly flag, did it ? I suppose I'd got to use up all the names. 
 (Seriously) Isn't it perfectly astonishing what a lot I knew, 
 too? 
 
 (They both laugh.) 
 
 BETTY. I suppose you've never been inspired, Alice ? 
 
 ALICE. I don't think so. 
 
 BETTY. It's a curious feeling rather nice ; settled and free from 
 
 hesitancy. I woke up with it. 
 ALICE. Had anything happened ? 
 BETTY. No, nothing at all. Nothing fresh, that is. (Cogitating) 
 
 It is curious, isn't it ? I've been giving Ivor hell for a week. 
 ALICE. Betty ! 
 BETTY (mocking her). Alice ! 
 ALICE (realising that her remonstrances will be ridiculed and dropping 
 
 them). No I was just . . . 
 BETTY (nodding). I know. " Why go for the poor man when the 
 
 woman lives just next door." I suppose I must be fond of 
 
 Ivor. 
 ALICE (meditating). What . . . (She stops.) 
 
 BETTY. Well ? 
 
 ALICE. I it's being impertinent, I'm afraid. 
 
 BETTY. Well, you must make a start some day. Out with it ! 
 
 ALICE. I was hoping Colonel Jones might have been able to explain. 
 
 BETTY (mystified). Explain ? When ? 
 
 ALICE. When you had it out with him. 
 
 BETTY. My dear, I haven't had it out with him. 
 
 ALICE. You said you'd been giving him hell . . . 
 
 BETTY. Yes, but you don't imagine I told him why ? 
 
 ALICE (surprised). Didn't you ? 
 
 BETTY (shocked). Tell a man what you're giving him hell for ? 
 
 Why, he'd forgive himself in two minutes and crawl out. 
 ALICE (reproachfully). You're rather too cruel. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 9 
 
 BETTY (with a touch of hardness). What ? To Ivor ? 
 ALICE (feebly). Well . . . 
 
 BETTY (a challenge). Don't you think he deserves it ? 
 ALICE. Not to be made miserable for a whole week without know 
 ing what for. 
 BETTY (cornering her). You think he could have borne it better if 
 
 he'd known ? 
 ALICE. Well he might have been ,able to explain or he might 
 
 have admitted that he'd not behaved quite . . . 
 BETTY (scoring). Just what I said ! Forgive himself freely and 
 
 crawl out. He might even forgive me for having brought up 
 
 the subject if I were very sweet and womanly about it. 
 ALICE (tenaciously). But he must think you fearfully unjust. 
 BETTY. A man always thinks you're fearfully unjust if you're 
 
 not patting him on the head. 
 ALICE (seriously shocked). But don't you mind being thought 
 
 unjust ? 
 BETTY (decidedly). I prefer it to being thought a fool, or having 
 
 Ivor thought a fool. 
 
 ALICE (roused). Who thinks him a fool ? 
 BETTY. Good Lord, 7 do ! 
 ALICE (thoughtfully, after a pause). I'm a little sorry for Colonel 
 
 Jones. 
 
 BETTY. Oh, my dear, you're sweet on him yourself. 
 ALICE (with spirit). Betty, I won't have you saying things like 
 
 that. They aren't funny, and they aren't nice, and I won't 
 
 allow them even from you. 
 BETTY (contrite, but mocking). Pardon ! I ought to be more careful. 
 
 But, you see, you're the only lady of my acquaintance who has 
 
 to be treated like one, and I forget. 
 ALICE (uncomfortably). Betty please ! 
 BETTY. Bless your pretty mind I like you for it ! I believe I 
 
 admire your good qualities almost as much as you admire my 
 
 bad ones. 
 
 ALICE. Your bad ones aren't so very bad. 
 BETTY. Well, and your good ones aren't so amazingly good, so 
 
 we're about quits. Here give me some more tea. 
 
 (ALICE obeys in silence for a moment, during which BETTY 
 follows a train of thought which culminates in a peal of 
 hearty laughter.) 
 
 BETTY (still laughing). Really, he is rather pathetic ! 
 
 ALICE. Who ? 
 
 BETTY. Ivor. I'm quite beginning to pity him myself chu- 
 chuing up and down the river in that smelly little motor canoe 
 of his, and coming back with a sheaf of lock tickets as a sort 
 of alibi every evening. That's what he's been doing since I 
 started on him. 
 
io THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 ALICE. Oh, then he does guess what you're angry about ? 
 BETTY. No. I think he's just been isolating himself by instinct. 
 
 Marvellous instincts men . . . (Lifting her head to listen) Listen ! 
 ALICE. What ? 
 BETTY (after a second). I thought (another second) no. What 
 
 was I saying ? 
 
 ALICE. You were saying that men . . . 
 BETTY (who has not dropped her listening attitude, suddenly). Yes, 
 
 it is 1 
 
 ALICE. Who ? 
 
 BETTY. The Brute. He's just . . . 
 
 ALICE. Betty, do not call him that. He isn't a brute, anyway. 
 BETTY. No, I know he isn't. That's why it's so gratifying to call 
 
 him one. Shsh ! (Closing her eyes, she flops over on to her side, 
 
 where, without opening them, she indulges in a little nervous 
 
 chuckle.) He's come back in a hurry. 
 
 (There is a second's silence, then COLONEL JONES enters quite 
 normally, though he is grave and obviously anxious. He 
 is a big, broad, soldierly -looking man with a close-trimmed 
 moustache and short, dark hair very slightly grizzled. He 
 looks his forty-eight years, it is true, but they have been 
 years of healthy, open-air soldiering not of clubs and 
 shopping.) 
 
 JONES (coming down between the wardrobe and the bed to ALICE'S 
 right). Hullo, Alice, they told me you were having tea down 
 here. (He throws a swift glance at BETTY, whose eyes are still 
 tight shut.) May I have a cup ? 
 
 ALICE (peering into the teapot). It's not very . . . 
 
 BETTY (her eyes still firmly shut). Who fetched you ? 
 
 JONES (quietly, but unable to keep the gravity out of his voice). Nicolai 
 advised me to turn back. I met him he was going over 
 the bridge at Sonning in his car. (Taking cup) Thanks. 
 
 BETTY. Did he tell you why ? 
 
 JONES. No, he just hinted that something had happened. 
 
 BETTY (opening her eyes appreciatively, to ALICE). Ha ! ha ! Can't 
 you see him doing it ? I can ! Dear, noble soul ! I love men 
 when they're sympathising over each other's wives they're 
 so so understanding and mutual about it ; so discreet ! 
 I believe men are the noblest creatures God ever made the 
 cowards I 
 
 ALICE (amazed and amused, but reproving). Betty 1 
 
 BETTY. Well, it is nothing but funk. Wasn't Nicolai in a blue 
 funk for fear he'd say too much, Ivor ? 
 
 JONES (smiling in spite of himself). He certainly was rather guarded. 
 
 BETTY (with that delicate spite which she reserves for her fallen husband). 
 Weren't you frightened ? 
 
 JONES (simply). I was. I am thankful to find things no worse. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY n 
 
 BETTY (resenting this). What do you mean by no worse ? 
 
 JONES. Well you are alive .... 
 
 BETTY. That must be a great relief to you. 
 
 JONES. And in full enjoyment of your usual good spirits. 
 
 ALICE (rising decidedly). I must go. 
 
 BETTY. No, Alice, don't . . . 
 
 ALICE. I really must. (She glances at IVOR.) 
 
 BETTY. Ivor only wants to hear about this morning, and you 
 
 might help me to remember some of the things I said. 
 ALICE (reprovingly). Don't be silly. Good-bye. (She holds out her 
 
 hand.) 
 BETTY (taking the hand and retaining ALICE by it while she talks to 
 
 IVOR). Alice heard it all from the towing-path, Ivor, so you 
 
 r,ee how serious it is. 
 
 JONES. I might, if I knew what it was she heard. 
 BETTY. Oh, anybody on the river '11 tell you. Just run up on deck 
 
 and call over the side. 
 
 JONES (quietly). I would rather you told me, I think. 
 ALICE (pulling gently at the detaining hand). Please, Betty ! 
 BETTY (quite containedly to her). Wait a minute, dear. (To 
 
 IVOR) I told Muriel Wister what I thought of her rather 
 
 loud that's all. 
 JONES (with the simple acceptance of a calamity which goes with a 
 
 full appreciation of it). Yes. 
 ALICE (almost frightened). Betty, I must go. (Sotto voce as JONES 
 
 goes up to the door and opens it for her) You're behaving like 
 
 a little beast. Don't. 
 BETTY. Why not ? 
 ALICE. It doesn't suit you. 
 BETTY. It does. Look how well I do it. 
 ALICE. Rubbish. It's just bravado. 
 BETTY (amazed at her friend's daring and perhaps at her insight). 
 
 Alice 1 
 ALICE (giving a further proof of the latter quality by suddenly kissing 
 
 the unrepentant one tenderly). Good-bye, dear. I'm so sorry 
 
 for what's happened. 
 BETTY (touched, but mocking to the last) . I'm sure you are. Good-bye. 
 
 (ALICE goes to door, where she shakes hands with JONES.) 
 
 ALICE. Good-bye. 
 
 JONES. Good-bye. Thank you very much for coming over. 
 
 ALICE. Oh, I (suddenly) I suppose you won't be going down to 
 
 the lawns after dinner now ? 
 JONES (reminded of an appointment). Oh no I suppose we shan't. 
 
 We were going to take you there, weren't we ? 
 ALICE. Yes . . . 
 JONES. I wonder if you'd mind coming here instead ? Come to 
 
 dinner if you will . . . 
 
12 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 ALICE. I will, of course . . . 
 
 JONES. Thank you so much. Good-bye. 
 
 (ALICE exits. JONES closes the door after her and turns towards 
 his wife.) 
 
 BETTY (watching him as he comes down). I'm glad you're grateful to 
 
 my friend for coming to see me. 
 JONES. I am. 
 
 BETTY. Ill tell her. She'd do more than that to please you. 
 JONES. Don't be silly, Betty. I think we ought to be a little 
 grateful to Alice for calling on us if the scene this morning 
 was as bad as you make out. 
 BETTY (her eyebrows raised). As / make out ? 
 JONES. Didn't you mean to impress me with its seriousness ? 
 
 (There is a pause. BETTY is momentarily floored. JONES sits 
 on chair below foot of bed. At last his thoughts drive him 
 to utterance.) 
 
 (With more vehemence than he has yet shown) What was she 
 
 doing here, anyway ? 
 BETTY. Alice ? 
 JONES. No, no, no Muriel. Mrs. Wister. Did she just drop in 
 
 in the ordinary way ? . . . 
 
 BETTY. No. Oh no. I er dropped in on her. 
 JONES (surprised). You went over to the Wisters' boat ? But I 
 
 thought you hated Muriel now ? 
 BETTY. I do. I just called and told her so. 
 JONES. What ? Un-provoked ? 
 BETTY (sharply). Un-what ? 
 JONES. Un . . . Out of sheer I mean : didn't she do anything at 
 
 all to 
 
 BETTY (furiously). Didn't she do anything at all ? No. She 
 
 she doesn't seem to have to do anything at all. She's one of 
 
 those lucky people who find things come to them without. 
 
 She sat still and grinned while I swore at her, just as beauti 
 fully as she has been sitting and grinning all the summer while 
 
 you danced attendance on her. Oh ! 
 JONES (a great light breaking in upon him). Betty ! Is that what 
 
 has been wrong ? You don't mean to tell me you've been 
 
 jealous of Muriel Wister ! 
 BETTY (very decidedly). No, I don't. 
 JONES (ignoring her denial). But it's unbelievable ! 
 BETTY. I'm very glad you think so. 
 JONES. Why didn't you tell me that you were ? 
 BETTY. I'm telling you now that I'm not. 
 
 JONES. I 
 
 BETTY. Don't go on like that. (He stops.) I'm not jealous of 
 
 her. You're insulting me by suggesting such a thing. I 
 
 couldn't be jealous of Muriel Wister if I tried. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 13 
 
 JONES. Then what is the matter ? 
 
 BETTY (cruelly). It is a mystery, isn't it ? 
 
 JONES (frankly). It is to me. (After a second's dumbness he breaks 
 
 out again.) I ... You can't imagine me making love to 
 
 Muriel Wister? 
 BETTY. I can't. I wish I could. It would amuse me awfully. 
 
 (There is another lapse into silence. IVOR sits dumb and 
 miserable. At last he shakes off the dejection upon him 
 and rises with a flash of angry resentment against his 
 treatment.) 
 
 JONES. Oh well (putting his chair back) I suppose we've just 
 got to add this to the list of a few other little pleasantries of 
 yours which . . . 
 
 (He is moving up to the door is at it by this time but his 
 imminent departure appears to throw BETTY into a cold 
 fury, to which she sacrifices her more playful and more 
 cruel method of revenging herself upon him.) 
 
 BETTY. Ivor ! 
 
 (He turns at the steel in her voice.) 
 
 Come back here. 
 
 (He comes obediently to the foot of the bed.) 
 
 BETTY (tensely). Are you really such a fool that you can't see what 
 you've done ? 
 
 JONES (respecting her anger). I'm afraid I must be. 
 
 BETTY. Can't you imagine that to see you made a fool of before 
 the whole river may possibly hurt me even more than it would 
 to be jealous of Muriel Wister. 
 
 JONES. How made a fool of ? 
 
 BETTY. How ? Oh, Ivor, if you've no sense of humour to tell 
 you when you're making a laughing-stock of yourself, you 
 might use your eyes for my sake. 
 
 JONES. I do I I haven't seen anybody laughing . . . 
 
 BETTY (despairingly). Oh, my God ! 
 
 JONES (genuinely grieved). Betty, believe me, I don't know what 
 I've done even now. I'm sorry ... I can see that you 
 but I seem to have been behaving much as usual lately this 
 last week, since you showed so plainly that something was 
 displeasing you. I have been watching my behaviour like 
 a lynx. I really can't see what I've done out of the common. 
 I've been miserable enough this past week, goodness knows, 
 but I don't see how that . . . (He gives up in pathetic despair.) 
 
 BETTY. Poor fellow. I lead you an awful life, don't I ? 
 
 JONES (sincerely). Really, I think you do. 
 
 BETTY. And you don't deserve it, do you ? You're a pattern 
 husband, aren't you ? Everything that a wife could wish 
 
I 4 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 for. That's why you've not been near Muriel Wister since 
 you've opened this lynx-like eye on your behaviour. 
 
 JONES (with some dignity). I've not been going to see her because 
 I thought that since nothing I was doing really justified 
 your annoyance with me it must be that you were placing 
 a misconstruction upon some perfectly innocent relationship 
 and . . . 
 
 BETTY. My dear Ivor, I never misconstrued your relations in the 
 very least. When you bobbed up and down on your chair 
 and fidgeted with your watch all through tea because you'd 
 got to fetch her a packet of hairpins from the town and you 
 dreaded finding the shop shut, I never feared it was illicit 
 passion that made you so anxious, and even when she made 
 you sing idiotic duets with her, I never doubted your innocence 
 or hers. 
 
 JONES. Then if you didn't, why should you be so certain that 
 other people would. 
 
 BETTY (slightly puzzled). I wasn't certain other people would . . . 
 (Suddenly) Oh, I see what you mean. My dear Ivor, nobody 
 on the Thames has doubted your beautiful innocence. They've 
 mentioned it twenty times a day. Do you know what they've 
 said ? 
 
 JONES. What ? 
 
 BETTY. They've said : "It's wonderful how that woman keeps 
 men dangling about after her, because she's perfectly straight, 
 you know ! " 
 
 JONES. Well, so she is ! 
 
 BETTY. My dear, I believe it. It's the first thing you notice when 
 you meet her. 
 
 JONES (really angry). You're disgusting ! Absolutely disgusting ! 
 I believe you'd rather she wasn't. 
 
 BETTY (quizzically). That would shock you, wouldn't it ? 
 
 JONES. Upon my word, it wouldn't surprise me ! 
 
 BETTY (with just a touch of regret in the question). Anyway, not so 
 much as it surprises you to find that I don't like seeing you 
 look a fool. 
 
 JONES. I deny that I look a fool. 
 
 BETTY. Oh, my dear, if you are reduced to denying that you look 
 a fool . . . 
 
 JONES (angrily). Well, I am reduced to denying it. And I do 
 
 deny it I I fail to see that a purely pi p honourable 
 
 friendship . . . 
 
 BETTY (twinkling). Do you usually spell " honourable " with a 
 (mocking him) " pi p " ? 
 
 JONES (savagely). Oh, you are very funny ! 
 
 BETTY. Well, I am relieved that you couldn't say it. It shows 
 that you have some sense of humour, even if you don't act 
 up to it. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 15 
 
 JONES. I could say it only I thought that you wouldn't under 
 stand. (Determinedly) I suppose you don't believe in 
 platonic friendship? 
 
 BETTY (shaking her head at Mm reprovingly). It's no good trying 
 to bluff me, Ivor. There's no sort of 'friendship between you 
 and Muriel. She's simply run you down, and cornered you, 
 and you are trying to make the best of it by calling the affair 
 romantic names. Oh, I've seen lots of these platonic friend 
 ships. You can always recognise them quite easily ; the 
 man thinks he's a hero and looks like a fool, and the woman 
 goes about with that damn-conceited look of having got 
 something for nothing. 
 
 JONES (furiously). Betty, I will not stay and listen to you saying 
 such things. 
 
 BETTY (suddenly weary of the struggle). Then go away. I've said all 
 I wanted to. You don't understand what you've done. I 
 was much wiser not to tell you. You don't understand, 
 you've no ... (stops). 
 
 JONES. No what ? 
 
 BETTY. Oh, I don't know what you call it. 
 
 JONES. I haven't your capacity for cynical immoralism, if that is 
 what you mean. 
 
 BETTY. That's funny. I was going to say you had no real morality, 
 but I stopped because I knew you'd be muddled. 
 
 JONES. A queer sort of morality you've got, if it condemns a 
 perfectly innocent friendship 
 
 BETTY. Don't bluster every time you say friendship, dear. 
 
 JONES (repeating it firmly). Perfectly innocent friendship 
 
 BETTY. There you go again. You'll never convince either me or 
 yourself by just repeating it. Be honest. Say, if my morals 
 condemn Muriel Wister adding you to her staff of servants 
 what then ? 
 
 JONES. I was going to say " and condone a public scene." 
 
 BETTY (quietly). I see. I don't think they condone a public 
 scene, Ivor. 
 
 JONES. Well, you appear to have made one. 
 
 BETTY. Yes, I do appear to have, don't I ? I'm not exactly 
 proud of having done it, though. 
 
 JONES. Then why did you ? 
 
 BETTY. Oh, my patience ! 
 
 (There is a knock at the door. They exchange a glance.) 
 BETTY. Come in. 
 
 (LESCELINE enters with a note.) 
 
 LESCE. (taking it to JONES). Mr. Wister, sir. 
 JONES (taking it). Thanks. (Opens it.) 
 BETTY (prepared for battle). From Muriel ? 
 
16 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 JONES. No, no Wister. (To LESCELINE) You needn't wait. 
 
 (Turns page.) Mr. Wister is upstairs ? 
 LESCE. Yes, sir. 
 JONES. 'Urn ! 
 
 (LESCELINE exits. JONES hands the note to BETTY, who starts 
 reading it. Suddenly she looks up.) 
 
 BETTY. I certainly will not apologise ! 
 
 JONES. My dear Betty . . . 
 
 BETTY. I suppose you'd like me to ? 
 
 JONES. You say you're not defending the scene you made . . . 
 
 BETTY. I don't know. It did me a lot of good. 
 
 JONES. Well, the good having been done . . . 
 
 BETTY (incredulously). You'd have me apologise to Muriel Wister ? 
 
 JONES. If you've insulted her. 
 
 BETTY. If I've insulted her I'm glad of it. 
 
 JONES. My dear, you were saying just now . . . 
 
 BETTY (unable to contain herself). The impertinence of the woman ! 
 
 First, she makes you look a fool, then she makes me lose my 
 
 temper, then she has the impertinence to ask for an apology. 
 JONES. Betty, dear, you are in the wrong. 
 BETTY. I am not in the wrong. I forgot myself and overdid things, 
 
 but (resolutely) I was not in the wrong. 
 JONES. Won't you apologise for what you said when you forgot 
 
 yourself ? 
 
 BETTY (perversely). Why should I ? 
 JONES (evading discussion). Don't you think it would be politic ? 
 
 I do. 
 BETTY. A man always thinks the most politic thing he can do is to 
 
 humiliate his wife. 
 JONES. Don't be so unjust. Do you think I want you to be 
 
 humiliated ? 
 BETTY. Don't you ? 
 JONES. You know I don't. 
 BETTY. All right. Go upstairs and throw that idiot over the 
 
 side. . . . 
 JONES. I give you up entirely ! Really, I begin to have fears for 
 
 your sanity when you talk so wildly. 
 
 BETTY. YOU . . . 
 
 (There is another knock at the door. They are silent. The 
 knock is repeated.) 
 
 BETTY. Oh, come in ! 
 
 (Enter LESCELINE.) 
 
 LESCE. Mr. Wister says he will call back later, sir, if you would 
 
 rather. 
 JONES. No, no. I'll see him now. Ask him to wait, please. 
 
 (Exit LESCELINE.) 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 17 
 
 BETTY. Ivor, you are not to go up. I know perfectly well what 
 
 you are going to say to him. 
 JONES. Do you ? That's more than I do. 
 BETTY. You're going to say that I am quite beyond reasoning with 
 
 at present, but . . . 
 
 JONES (going.) That certainly is a suggestion. 
 BETTY. Ivor, you're not to go ! 
 JONES. Betty . . . 
 
 BETTY. Well, if you promise to get an apology out of me ... 
 JONES. I shall make no promise about you, Betty. I shall not 
 
 say that you are beyond reasoning with at present. I shall . . . 
 BETTY. Wait. I insist upon being present I insist upon hearing 
 
 what you say to him . . . 
 
 (JONES goes out. BETTY immediately rings the bell and keeps 
 on ringing. LESCELINE answers it.) 
 
 BETTY (throwing back the sheets). Clothes, Lesceline ! 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE 
 THE DECK OF THE " HYACINTH " 
 
 The boat is moored close under the bank so that the trees make 
 the awning which renders some houseboats so stuffy and 
 tent-like unnecessary ; it is merely stretched across one 
 end of the deck and not right across that its shadow 
 falling over a little less than half of the stage. In the 
 shadow nearly c. are a wicker, tile-topped table and 
 three chairs, a fourth chair being remote from them 
 down R. The deck is reached by the usual staircases : one 
 at the upper right-hand corner leads down to the landing 
 "front door " end of the boat; the other down L. to the 
 tender and servants' quarters. The railing which runs 
 around the deck is white enamelled. At its base are long 
 boxes of marguerites and geraniums running all around, 
 except, of course, where the stairs are. 
 
 The background is the steep, tree-clad bank in gorgeous foliage 
 piling away into the sky, which unless you crick your 
 neck is not visible from the houseboat, so close and high 
 are the trees. 
 
 MR. WALLACE wiSTER is pacing up and down. He walks 
 slowly, twisting his heels into the deck and occasionally 
 turning on them gracefully, his eyes fixedly following his up 
 turned toes, his hands deep in his pockets, after the manner 
 of one in deep and embarrassing thought. He occasionally 
 whistles between his tongue and teeth but not for joy. 
 A rather soft-cheeked, very clean-shaven man in flannels 
 that is the first impression of him. Attention reveals 
 the facts that he has good, features, though his jaw is weakly 
 relaxed ; that he is probably about forty, and will in a 
 few years be called embonpoint, though at present he is 
 only sedentary ; that his expression even under the 
 worried look which he now wears is amiable to the verge 
 of wistfulness ; and that he is obviously a peace-loving 
 man. 
 
 To him COLONEL JONES who, we may remember, left his 
 wife's bedroom in the last act and has spent the interval 
 
 ascending the stairs. WISTER stops dancing to greet him. 
 si 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 19 
 
 WISTER (feebly). Oh hullo ! 
 
 JONES. Sorry if I've kept you waiting. 
 
 WISTER. Oh, that's quite all right. (Looking past JONES towards the 
 
 stair with some apprehension.) Er . . . 
 JONES. What's the matter ? 
 
 WISTER. Nothing. (Suddenly) How is Mrs. Jones ? 
 JONES (slightly amused at the question). Betty ? Well, she's 
 
 (He is interrupted by the appearance of WOOTON the butler 
 who enters down L. bearing a tray laden with whisky- 
 bottle, syphon, glasses, and a box, of cigars-. JONES 
 welcomes the occupation thereby offered.) 
 
 JONES (crossing to table where WOOTON places tray). Ah ! 
 
 WOOTON (discreetly). I thought you might like to give Mr. Wister . . . 
 
 (He lowers his voice beyond hearing.) Sir. 
 JONES (not understanding). Eh ? 
 WOOTON (in the same mysterious tone). And . . . (He opens the 
 
 cigar-box and retires knowingly.) 
 JONES. I see. (To WISTER) Whisky ? 
 WISTER (consciously). No I don't think so, thanks. 
 JONES. Don't disappoint Wooton have a ... 
 WISTER (seriously). No, thanks, really I'm I mean I'm not 
 
 exactly on a friendly visit. 
 JONES. Nonsense. 
 WISTER (with pathetic earnestness). No, it is not nonsense. I 
 
 assure you I'm . . . 
 JONES. We gave the Boer commanders a drink when they came 
 
 out to arrange terms, and that wasn't a friendly visit by any 
 
 means. 
 WISTER. That was a different matter, Jones. They hadn't got 
 
 to consider the possibility that their wives might be watching 
 
 their attitude from the next houseboat. 
 
 (JONES smiles slightly.) 
 
 WISTER (hastily). No, I'm not joking, old man. Muriel is really 
 very upset. 
 
 JONES (sympathetically). I am sure she must be. 
 
 WISTER. Of course, / understand that you are not trying to win 
 me over. I I'd have a drink with you with pleasure, Jones 
 I'd like to. But I couldn't do it with the feeling that she 
 might be watching me. She's relying on my support in 
 this matter, and to let her so much as dream that I was dis 
 loyal well, it would be brutal. 
 
 JONES. I understand. I am more sorry than I can say for what 
 has happened. 
 
 WISTER (non-committally). Yes. 
 
 JONES (sitting wearily left of table L.C.). Women are queer cattle, 
 aren't they ? 
 
20 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 WISTER (whole-heartedly). They are. (Hastily) Though, mind you 
 Muriel has had enough to make her . . . 
 
 JONES. I was not generalising from your wife, Wister. 
 
 WISTER (hastily). No, no, of course not. (After a pause) How is 
 Betty? 
 
 JONES. She's lying down. Gone to bed, in fact. (Seriously) 
 She's really quite ill, you know. 
 
 WISTER (agreeing enthusiastically). Oh, I know. 
 
 JONES. Though what the dickens has taken her . . . 
 
 WISTER. It is astonishing, isn't it ? I was more than astonished 
 I'd never have believed she could have gone on so ! Her 
 eyes were absolutely black 1 (Depicting the scene vividly all 
 over the stage.) We were sitting together on deck in those 
 two little basket -chairs of ours you know and she walked 
 up to Muriel . . . Well, I can't show you how she looked 
 because I should simply look ridiculous, and I assure you she 
 looked anything but ridiculous. She I'd never have believed 
 it possible ! I've always thought of your wife as a you know 
 what I mean Mental Character 1 all Wit and Taste and Charm 
 abstract qualities rather than Beauty and so forth. She 
 seemed to me typical I believe I've said so to you she seemed 
 to me typical of the spiritual trend of modern life not ascetic 
 I don't mean that, but spiritual. Well, some people call 
 it superficial, but they're wrong she's more than just super 
 ficial she's metaphysical no, I don't mean that either 
 abstract non-material. You'd expect her to use abstract 
 non-material metaphors and . . . (Frankly) Well what I 
 mean to say is her language to Muriel was not at all what 
 you'd have expected. 
 
 JONES (gravely). So I understand. 
 
 WISTER (brought to earth by the pain in the other's tone). I'm awfully 
 sorry for you, old man. 
 
 JONES. That's all right. Go ahead with what you wanted to 
 say. 
 
 WISTER. Well it amounts to this. (Embarking) Of course, I 
 know it doesn't really affect one's character to be called names 
 by someone . . . (Pauses.) 
 
 JONES. Someone who is not responsible for their actions ? 
 
 WISTER. Well, she really wasn't, you know. 
 
 JONES. I'm glad you think so. 
 
 WISTER (resuming helplessly). Well, as I have said although 
 it can't really affect one's character to have it attacked 
 by someone who is not responsible for their actions still 
 (weakly) it isn't nice, you know. 
 
 JONES. In short, you want an apology. 
 
 WISTER (apologetically). I know it's ... 
 
 JONES (almost smiling). My dear fellow, you are quite entitled 
 to one. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 21 
 
 WISTER. I am very glad you look at it in that way. It's a mere 
 form, of course I'd never have bothered you for one, only 
 Muriel's very upset . . . 
 
 JONES (formally). Well, I apologise most profoundly to Mrs. 
 Wister for my wife's . . . 
 
 WISTER (miserably, as the form of the apology dawns upon him). Yes 
 but ..." 
 
 JONES (stopping). Well ? 
 
 WISTER. You didn't do it. 
 
 JONES (more gravely). You mean to insist upon Betty apologising 
 personally ? 
 
 WISTER (protesting). My dear fellow don't talk as if I were so 
 inconsiderate. I've got to consider how Muriel will look at . . . 
 
 JONES (just a little impatiently). Very well, Mrs. Wister insists . . . 
 
 WISTER (now genuinely frightened) . Oh no, Jones, that's not fair to 
 Muriel. She's not insisting she's not asking she's not so 
 much as saying anything in the matter. She's refused to 
 she's far too upset and, after all, I am her husband. She has 
 left me to do whatever I think best, and I'm taking the only 
 course that I consider appropriate to the situation. I'm 
 insisting. / . . . 
 
 JONES. Yes, yes . . . Well. I'm very sorry, Wister. I've already 
 shown Betty your note, and she refuses most decidedly to 
 apologise. 
 
 WISTER (triumphantly). I told Muriel she would ! 
 
 JONES (even his gravity shaken by this after a pause). Well, you 
 were right. You will be able to tell her that. 
 
 WISTER (coming down to earth again and preparing to face the situation 
 like a man). No, I no. I er I mean (heroically) I'm 
 afraid I've got to be firm, Jones. I suppose it wouldn't be 
 any use if I gave her time ? 
 
 (The connection between this last and being firm brings a 
 puzzled and inquiring look into JONES'S face.) 
 
 WISTER (explaining). Give Betty time to ... 
 
 (BETTY appears up the steps R. and steps on to the deck 
 
 behind WISTER, who is too absorbed to notice her.) 
 WISTER (innocently). You say she's quite beyond reasoning with at 
 
 present ? 
 JONES (leaping from his seat. He has seen BETTY approach, and 
 
 fuite appreciates the sudden lift of her eyebrows and glance in 
 is direction at this last.) No, I do not say anything of the 
 sort ! Hang it all, Wister ! I haven't so much as used the 
 words. 
 
 WISTER (amazed at the other's vehemence). What's the matter ? 
 What . . . (following JONES'S eye, he encounters BETTY just 
 behind him. He gives a slight start, a feeble laugh, and is 
 silent.) 
 
22 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 BETTY. You needn't be afraid, Teddy. I shan't interrupt. 
 (Crossing to a chair which is a little way from the others L.c.) I 
 only want to sit quietly somewhere where I can hear what 
 Ivor is saying and save him from promising anything that he 
 can't perform. (Sits.) Go on just as if I were not here, please. 
 
 WISTER (taking his eyes from her face with difficulty). Er (to 
 JONES, on whom his glance has fallen) what were we talking 
 about ? 
 
 BETTY (helpfully). I think the last thing you said was " You 
 say she's quite beyond reasoning with at present." 
 
 JONES. Yes but I hadn't. Wister, be fair ! You know I hadn't 
 said anything of the sort. 
 
 WISTER (not in the least understanding the other's excitement and 
 sticking to his guns mechanically). I think you implied it. I 
 mean well, I certainly have the impression . . . 
 
 JONES. Well, you put it into your own head, then. Good Lord, 
 man ! It sounds as if I'd held out hopes of inducing Betty 
 to apologise to-morrow or next week or sometime. 
 
 WISTER (the awful possibility occurring to him for the first time). 
 Well, don't you ? 
 
 JONES (furiously). No, I don't. 
 
 BETTY (with gratification). Well, that's something. 
 
 WISTER (almost wailing). Then what are we to do ? 
 
 BETTY. Go without an apology. 
 
 WISTER. But I can't. 
 
 BETTY. You'll have to. 
 
 WISTER. Jones, if this is final (appealingly) is it ? 
 
 JONES. Betty says so. 
 
 WISTER. Is it, Betty ? 
 
 BETTY. It 1S. 
 
 WISTER. Then I am afraid I shall have to make myself beastly 
 unpleasant. I'm afraid I shall have to consult my solicitor. 
 
 BETTY. I don't believe you've got one. 
 
 JONES (turning to her). Betty, I thought you weren't going to 
 interrupt ? 
 
 BETTY. I can't help it. The sight of poor Teddy trying to bluff is 
 too much for me. 
 
 WISTER (appealingly to her). Oh, Mrs. Jones, I am not trying to 
 bluff ! I have got a solicitor. 
 
 BETTY. Very well, go ahead and consult him. 
 
 WISTER. But I don't want to ! I want to spare us all the the 
 well, to say the least, the annoyance I want to spare myself 
 the annoyance. Do you know, I came down here for quiet ? 
 M Betty, we are old friends ! I ask it as a favour not to 
 Muriel, to me put your pride in your pocket . . . 
 
 BETTY. Don't wear pockets. 
 
 WISTER (almost weeping over her callousness). Oh, why, why ? 
 BETTY. No room for 'em, I suppose. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 23 
 
 WISTER. Don't take me up so (suddenly) there ! that's just 
 what's the matter with you ! Egoism ! Yes, you are ! 
 You're egoistical. You're so centred on what you think and 
 feel that you can't be bothered with what other people are 
 struggling to express. All you can do is to pick flaws in the 
 way they do it. Surely surely you can realise that what I 
 meant was put your pride on one side forget it ... 
 
 BETTY (calmly). You're wonderfully intelligent, Teddy, but I wish 
 it didn't always make you cry. 
 
 (WISTER opens his mouth to speak again. She anticipates 
 him with some impatience.) 
 
 BETTY. Oh, of course I knew what you meant ! 
 
 WISTER. Then why couldn't you listen to it instead of scoring off 
 
 my poor metaphors ? It isn't fair. It makes me feel that it's 
 
 hopeless appealing to you. 
 BETTY. My dear child, that's just why I do it. 
 WISTER. There you are ! You don't want to see anybody else's 
 
 point of view ! You don't want to realise the unhappiness 
 
 taking this to a solicitor, and perhaps into Court, will cause to 
 
 poor Jones. 
 
 BETTY (sharply). You needn't worry about " poor Jones." 
 WISTER. Well, then, to me. 
 BETTY. And Muriel ? 
 WISTER (checked). What ? 
 BETTY. Do tell me if you think it will break Muriel's heart to see 
 
 me in the dock. They do put you in the dock for libel, don't 
 
 they? 
 
 WISTER. You're arguing against yourself, Betty. You . . . 
 JONES (bringing a note of restraint into the conversation). Wister, 
 
 does this I wasn't present, remember does this really 
 
 amount to a criminal libel ? 
 
 WISTER. Well, it might. There is some doubt about it. 
 BETTY. Oh, you've consulted your solicitor already, have you ? 
 WISTER. No Muriel is rather an authority . . . 
 BETTY. Oho ! She's been reckoning up how long she can get me, 
 
 has she ? 
 
 JONES. Betty, why will you impute such enmity to Mrs. Wister ? 
 BETTY. She's been a good friend to me, hasn't she ? 
 JONES. You've done nothing to make her one. Still I think 
 
 her actions up to now have been quite natural and 
 
 BETTY (interrupting him). Oh, so do I ! They are just what I'd 
 
 have expected. 
 WISTER (genuinely pleased). I'm glad to hear you say that. (To 
 
 JONES) We are not quite clear as to what actually constitutes 
 
 a criminal libel, Jones. Muriel thinks that to accuse anybody 
 
 of anything criminal must be a criminal libel, whereas to accnsc 
 
 them of anything only immoral well she's not so clear 
 
24 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 about that. It depends upon whether an apology is offered or 
 something. 
 
 (BETTY, who has been very near laughter several times, at last 
 gives way to it.) 
 
 (Looking at her with gentle reproach) Of course, Betty, your 
 brother's a K.C. ; you ought to know more than she does about 
 these things. 
 
 BETTY. I do. 
 
 JONES. Then perhaps you'll . . . 
 
 BETTY (happily). I'm not going to tell you and rob some poor 
 
 solicitor of his fees. You'd better pull over to the boathouse 
 
 and ring up yours. 
 WISTER. Well even if Muriel is wrong as to details, surely to 
 
 accuse anyone of anything criminal and refuse to apologise as 
 
 well surely that's criminal libel ? 
 JONES. Wister, do you mean to say that Betty actually accused 
 
 your wife of anything criminal ? 
 WISTER. Well, it will look as if she had at the inquest. 
 BETTY (with a roar of laughter). The what ? 
 WISTER. Oh, don't don't the trial. Don't take me up so 
 
 quickly. I'm very worried. 
 JONES (decidedly). Here. I must come with you and have a talk 
 
 to Muriel. 
 
 BETTY (stopping her laugh and speaking peremptorily). Ivor ! 
 JONES. Betty, you must let me act for you in this. I ... 
 BETTY. If you go I shall come with you and . . . 
 
 (A MAN in a well-cut serge suit appears upon the stairs R. and 
 
 inquires :) 
 
 BELASIS. May I come up ? 
 
 JONES (surprised and turning). What ? (Recognising the new 
 comer) Hullo ! Yes, come up. 
 
 (Shaking hands with him and putting the question with a full 
 appreciation of its humour under the circumstances.) 
 
 What constitutes a criminal libel, Geoffrey ? 
 
 (The newcomer expresses none but the merest courtesy and 
 surprise he is obviously a professional man. He 
 replies nonchalantly as he crosses to BETTY.) 
 
 BELASIS. A criminal libel, eh ? (Shaking BETTY'S hand) How 
 
 are you, Betty ? (Returning to the subject) Well (seeing 
 
 WISTER) Mr. Wallace Wister, I believe ? 
 WISTER (dubiously). Ye es. 
 BELASIS. My sister introduced us at Henley last year, you may 
 
 remember. My name is Belasis . . . 
 WISTER. Oh yes I you'll think me very rude. I knew your 
 
 face, but my memory's . . . (A gesture explains that it is lost 
 
 or mislaid somewhere in the vicinity.) 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 25 
 
 BELASIS (smiling). You should train it. 
 
 BETTY. Come on, Geoffrey : tell them what a criminal libel is. 
 
 BELASIS (pleasantly). Well any libel is a criminal libel, you 
 
 know. 
 
 JONES. What ? 
 WISTER. Surely there is some difference between a criminal libel 
 
 and a ... (He pauses for reply.) 
 BELASIS. Only the difference of how the person libelled likes to 
 
 look at it. 
 
 WISTER (simply and sufficiently). Good God! 
 BETTY (helpfully). What would you say generally influences their 
 
 decision, Geoffrey ? 
 
 BELASIS. Well if they are spitefully inclined . . . 
 JONES (arriving at a decision independently of this last). I think 
 
 I'll come along at once and have a talk to Muriel, may I ? 
 WISTER. Do. 
 BETTY (twinkling). I thought you were so shocked at my imputing 
 
 anything like enmity to Muriel. 
 JONES. Betty, I still do not see any reason why Mrs. Wister should 
 
 be accused of ... 
 BETTY (dryly). But you're taking no chances ? Quite right, dear. 
 
 (Rising.) Well, I'm coming with you. 
 JONES (hovering with WISTER up R.) Betty ! (In half-humorous 
 
 appeal to their visitor) Geoffrey, what am I to do ? 
 BELASIS (who has gone up to the table, and is pouring himself out 
 
 a whisky and soda with magnificent aloofness from the situation 
 
 round him). I seem to be plunged in medias res rather, don't 
 
 I ? I have a rule myself ; in a case of libel never let your 
 
 client meet the plaintiff in your presence, or you may yourself 
 
 be called as a witness to further libels. I don't know if 
 
 my rule applies here ? 
 JONES. It does rather. 
 BELASIS. Curious. (He retur ns to his syphonading of the evaporating 
 
 whisky.) 
 
 JONES. Betty, won't you let me go and . . . 
 BETTY (firmly). No, I won't. Send you to beg me off ! Why, 
 
 I'd rather apologise myself than see you grovelling to ... 
 JONES (in heartfelt appeal). Oh, Betty, I wish you would ! 
 BETTY. Well perhaps I will on conditions, 
 JONES (joyfully). What are they ? 
 BETTY (after a scarcely perceptible pause, during which she reconsiders 
 
 the condition and approves of it). I'll apologise to Muriel 
 
 provided she leaves the river. 
 JONES. Betty ! 
 BETTY. Well ? 
 
 JONES. I am afraid the idea is ridiculous. 
 BETTY (incensed). Ridiculous ? I think it's a very sensible 
 
 condition 1 It's not a bit of good my apologising to her this 
 
26 , THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 evening when I may meet her again to-morrow and insult 
 
 her all over again. 
 JONES. If you really have reached such a pitch that you cannot 
 
 tolerate the sight of Mrs. Wister, Betty, don't you think it 
 
 would be easier if we were to leave the nyer ? 
 BETTY (with beautiful firmness). I'm not going to be turned off 
 
 the river by Muriel Wister. 
 WISTER (miserably). It's just like a game ! I know exactly what 
 
 everybody is going to say next, only I can't stop them. 
 JONES (to him). You mean that Muriel will say the same thing. 
 WISTER (with conviction). I can hear her saying it ! 
 JONES. Well, it's quite natural . . . 
 BETTY (answering WISTER, not her husband). Oh? She wants 
 
 things all her own way, does she ? Apologise ! Turn me off 
 
 the river ! Well, Teddy, you can go back and tell her that 
 
 she won't get either. I've met you half-way ; I've stated 
 
 my terms . . . 
 JONES (quietly). You overlook the fact, Betty, that you are not 
 
 in a position to " state terms." 
 BETTY (sharply). Aren't I ? You want an apology, I don't ! 
 
 You've been positively begging me for one ; both of you ! 
 
 Well, then, surely I 
 JONES (interrupting as reasonably as ever). To us yes. I think 
 
 both Wister and I are willing to do anything in our power . . . 
 WISTER (enthusiastically). Oh yes ! 
 JONES (continuing). But Muriel is neither begging nor even asking 
 
 for anything, so you can't very well exact terms from her. 
 BETTY (coming to a decision easily). All right. I don't insist upon 
 
 Muriel leaving the river of her own free will. Let Teddy take 
 
 her away. 
 
 (All hearts go out to WISTER, who sighs. BETTY follows it up.) 
 
 I'll apologise to her if he will. It'll be a waste of time if he 
 won't. We are bound to meet and . . . (Suddenly to JONES) 
 You are going to take me down to the lawns to-night. She is 
 certain to be there. 
 
 WISTER (hastily). I don't think she will be she's she was going, 
 but . . . (Suddenly) Jones, I think I'll get back and see how 
 she is. (Turns to go and turns back.) I suppose I'd better 
 tell her that Betty's quite beyond reasoning at present ? 
 
 JONES (his eyes unflinchingly on BETTY). You may say that I say 
 she is. 
 
 WISTER. Thanks awfully. 
 
 (He patters down the stairs and away R. JONES returns to 
 the table and pours himself out a drink. BETTY has 
 covered her moral defeat when he spoke last by patting 
 up the cushions and making herself comfortable in the 
 chair on the right of the table. BELASIS is in the chair 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 27 
 
 L. of it. They are both, of course, at lounging distance 
 from the table.) 
 
 JONES (after a drink calmly). Well, Geoffrey, you see where we 
 
 are. Now, I suppose you'd like to know how we got here ? 
 BELASIS. No, thanks. I've got a very instructive view of the 
 
 case. 
 JONES (going down to the chair down R. and sitting). Oh, you know 
 
 what's happened, then ? 
 
 BELASIS. No, no, no. I don't want to know what's happened. 
 JONES. Yes. I suppose you can guess. 
 BELASIS (shocked). Guess ? Certainly not. I don't require to 
 
 know. The dream of my life is to isolate the pure case from 
 
 the accident to which it is attached. You have succeeded in 
 
 presenting this one to me as a perfectly isolated phenomenon. 
 
 It's like a ... 
 BETTY (who has not been taking any notice of them, her eyes being 
 
 fixed on the contents of the table). I suppose you'd think me 
 
 perfectly outrageous if I said I'd like a good stiff whisky ? 
 JONES (coldly). Not at all. 
 
 BETTY (still looking at the bottle fixedly). I know I don't usually . . . 
 JONES. You have been doing one or two things a little out of the 
 
 common lately. 
 BETTY (deciding). No I won't. I had a sort of an idea that it 
 
 might buck me up, that's all. 
 JONES (sarcastically). Do you need bucking up ? 
 BETTY. I don't know. I feel a bit hungry, and my throat's as 
 
 dry as ... Touch that bell, Geoffrey, will you ? 
 BELASIS (obeying). This weather is very trying. You are better 
 
 off here than in town, though. I didn't know what it 
 
 was about, but I was quite grateful for your message that 
 
 you wanted to see me. 
 BETTY. I didn't want to see you. 
 BELASIS. You . . . (Understanding) Oh, I see ! (To JONES) 
 
 That's why you tried to be facetious in your telegram, Ivor. 
 
 You know you shouldn't ; you only puzzled me. 
 JONES. What are you talking about ? What telegram ? 
 BELASIS. Didn't . . . (Looking from one to the other and growing 
 
 discreet) Er . . . 
 BETTY. Go on, Geoffrey. It's too late to be discreet now. Tell 
 
 him that you received his telegram so that he can look 
 
 surprised and say he never sent one. 
 JONES (calmly). Well, I didn't. What was the telegram you 
 
 received, Geoffrey ? 
 BELASIS (producing telegram and reading). " Fancy ! Your sister 
 
 wants to see you ! " 
 JONES. Eh? 
 BELASIS (repeating). Fancy ! Your sister wants to see you ! 
 
28 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 JONES. Unsigned? 
 
 (BELASIS merely nods.) 
 
 BETTY (cheerfully). You really ought to have signed it, Ivor. It's 
 
 in quite your best vein. 
 JONES (coldly). Possibly, but I didn't send it. (Rising and holding 
 
 out his hand for the telegram) May I see it ? 
 
 (BELASIS hands it over. JONES stands reading it. WOOTON 
 enters down L.) 
 
 WOOTON. You rang, sir ? 
 
 (JONES looks round, but BETTY speaks.) 
 
 BETTY. I did. Bring me up some lemonade. 
 
 WOOTON (turning to go). Yes, madam. 
 
 JONES (bringing BETTY the telegram in calm triumph). If you look 
 at this, Betty, you will find that it was sent from this district 
 at twelve noon. Well, at twelve noon I was the other side of 
 Hambledon Lock. (His voice betrays his elation) I can show 
 you the lock tickets. 
 
 BETTY (with a laugh). Oh, those lock tickets ! 
 
 JONES. Well, at least they must convince you. 
 
 BETTY. They do. Your alibi is established. Though I shouldn't 
 have minded if you had sent for Geoffrey, so ... 
 
 (JONES puts the telegram on table and returns to his chair 
 down R. as WOOTON enters with the lemonade L. He 
 brings it to above table and places it thereon.) 
 
 BELASIS (sticking to the telegram-subject). I wonder who did send 
 
 it, then ? 
 
 JONES (sitting). Well how about Wister ? 
 BELASIS. Quite possibly. 
 
 BETTY. Poor dear Teddy I'm sure he'd like to see me well 
 defended. Though how he had the heart to be funny . . . 
 Perhaps he had a word to spare and . . . (Takes telegram 
 from table and counts words) No. (Reading with exaggerated 
 emphasis) " Fancy ! ! 1 " (Looking up) It isn't funny at all, 
 you know ; it well, it's cheek. 
 
 (WOOTON has been pouring out the lemonade behind the table 
 quietly. Perhaps his eyelid wavers at the last remark 
 of his mistress. Anyway, JONES who has been watching 
 him idly suddenly brings him into the discussion.) 
 
 JONES. Do you know anything about this, Wooton ? 
 
 (WOOTON draws himself quietly to attention and delivers his 
 reply with the simple dignity and preparedness of one 
 used to answering official inquiries.) 
 
 WOOTON. I must plead guilty, sir ; though not intending cheek. 
 
 BETTY (overjoyed, not to say touched). Bless him ! 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 29 
 
 WOOTON (continuing). I ask you to consider, sir, that I was the 
 only man at home when the frarcar occurred. If I have 
 shown hexess of zeal I hope you will appreciate the fact that 
 I was deeply shaken by what had taken place, and that I 
 acted to the best of my ability solely in the interest of yourself, 
 sir, and you, madam. 
 
 JONES (amused, but still puzzled). Yes, but why in the world did 
 you word your telegram . . . 
 
 (BETTY, who is loving the whole situation, hands him the 
 telegram, which he reads minutely before replying.) 
 
 WOOTON (laying it on the table and continuing his evidence). Liberties, 
 sir, have been taken with my text. All that I wished to 
 convey to Mr. Belasis was that I fancied his sister would like 
 to see him. 
 
 JONES (going over the words in his mind). Oh, I see. 
 WOOTON. Yes, sir. The marks of acclamation must have been 
 
 added in transit. 
 
 JONES (dismissing him with forgiveness). Very well. 
 WOOTON (seriously to BETTY). I hope, madam, you will exonerate 
 
 me from any suspicion of cheek. . . . 
 BETTY. I withdraw^theJwordgUnconditionally, Wooton. 
 WOOTON. Thank you, madam. 
 
 (WOOTON exits down L. with dignity. BETTY turns to the 
 others with that mixture of appreciation of the joke and 
 realisation of the essence of the situation which characterises 
 her when her temper is not in full possession of her.) 
 
 BETTY. Poor dear ! What a lot of trouble I am giving everyone. 
 BELASIS. Believe me, I had nothing half so pleasant to do as to 
 
 come down here. 
 BETTY. I wasn't thinking of you. I was thinking of poor old 
 
 Wooton being " deeply shaken " by the " frarcar " this 
 
 morning and . . . (The humour of it triumphs and she laughs 
 
 quietly.) 
 BELASIS (to JONES). I don't think I remember Wooton. He's 
 
 not . . . 
 JONES. Oh yes, you do. You've always seen him in uniform, 
 
 that's all. He was with me at Aldershot last year. 
 BELASIS (vaguely recollecting). Oh yes . . . 
 JONES. He took his discharge when I retired from the regiment 
 
 and became a pekin with me. 
 BELASIS. Devotion. 
 BETTY (rising briskly). Well, now that he has brought you down, 
 
 Geoffrey, you'll stay a day or two, won't you ? 
 BELASIS (chaffing her). To watch the case literally ? Would you 
 
 like me to ? 
 
 BETTY. I'd like you to stay, of course (pointedly), but not pro 
 fessionally. 
 
30 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 BELASIS. Thank you, Betty. 
 
 JONES (dryly). You may find us a little er . . . (He affects to be at a 
 loss for a word.) 
 
 BETTY (decidedly, but not resentfully the atmosphere is becoming 
 less turgid, and the usual excellent BETTY is coming out on top). 
 No, he won't. (To JONES) I'll go and have your dressing- 
 room sacked. 
 
 BELASIS. Don't sack anything on my account, please. 
 
 BETTY (going). You don't want to sleep among boot-trees. 
 
 JONES (considerately). Can't Wooton . . . 
 
 BETTY (with the firmness of a good hostess). Certainly not. 
 
 (Exits downstairs R.) 
 (JONES watches her off courteously before sitting again.) 
 
 JONES (with affectionate pride). She must look after you herself, 
 you see. 
 
 BELASIS (with equally keen appreciation). She's a great hostess. 
 
 JONES. She's a perfect hostess. (With growing enthusiasm) She's 
 tactful, amusing, her taste is excellent, her sense of humour 
 quite surprising. In fact, she's a most charming lovable 
 woman and yet . . . (A gesture supplies the reference to her 
 recent behaviour, which is the completion of the sentence.) 
 
 BELASIS. Oh, don't say " and yet " ! Give post-hoc-propter-hoc 
 a chance it sometimes follows, you know. 
 
 JONES. You only know that she's made a scene, Geoffrey ; you 
 don't know the circumstances. 
 
 BELASIS. She didn't make the circumstances, Jones. 
 
 JONES (not understanding this, but conceding it in order to get on). 
 No but well, at least you ought to know the ridiculous 
 reason that she adduces for 
 
 BELASIS (stopping him with the authority of a master and something 
 of the exquisite irritation of a dilettante). My dear fellow, I 
 don't want to know the reason she adduces. If this goes into 
 court which Heaven forbid our first duty will be to hide the 
 fact that Betty had adduced any reason at all for her behaviour. 
 
 JONES. She'll have to offer some explanation. 
 
 BELASIS. No, no, believe me, no ! We are in England not 
 France. It will be a British jury which we shall have to face. 
 In the eyes of a British jury for a woman to offer a reason 
 for doing anything only makes her offence the blacker. 
 
 JONES (with some impatience). Yes, that's very nice. You don't 
 know the reason. She swears it isn't jealousy. 
 
 BELASIS. I don't care what she swears it isn't, or what she swears 
 it is. It has nothing whatever to do with what she did . . . 
 
 JONES (a little obstinately). You'd expect it to have. 
 
 BELASIS. I would not. For the very same reason she might have 
 thrown vitriol ; drowned herself ; or said nothing whatever 
 on the subject. Again : she might have insulted Mrs. Wister 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 31 
 
 in precisely this manner for a dozen different reasons mightn't 
 she? 
 
 JONES. Yes, I suppose she might . . . 
 
 BELASIS. Well, then, my dear Ivor . . . 
 
 JONES. Why did she do it, then ? 
 
 BELASIS. I can answer that question if you wish. 
 
 JONES. I wish you would, then. 
 
 BELASIS. You are sceptical ? Well of course I don't pretend to 
 have the whole list of reasons at my tongue's end, but roughly : 
 My sister's made this scene using language strong enough 
 to warrant legal proceedings . . . 
 
 JONES (grimly). Bad language. 
 
 BELASIS. (accepting it undisturbed). Bad language well . . . (He 
 pauses deliberately for effect.) 
 
 JONES. Well ? 
 
 BELASIS (artistically). Well : Because she lives in the twentieth 
 century ; because she is inhabiting a houseboat on a fashion 
 able reach of the Thames ; because it is abnormally hot the 
 hottest summer on record, in fact 
 
 JONES (interrupting almost with choler). My good . . . 
 
 BELASIS (stopping politely). Well ? 
 
 JONES. You're not going to maintain that living on a houseboat 
 on the Thames has taught Betty bad language. 
 
 BELASIS. No. That's the twentieth century. If you use your 
 imagination, Jones, you will realise that there can be very few 
 people at the present day who are really without a working 
 knowledge of bad language. (With affected haste) Though 
 I do not suggest that they practise. (Leaning back lazily) 
 The milieu and the weather supplied other conducements : 
 the irritations of semi-publicity ; of a small community ; of 
 general idleness ; of physical discomfort. Then again they 
 supplied Example. There are always " scenes " on the river, 
 and we are still intensely imitative apes apes. 
 
 (JONES rises impatiently and paces the deck. BELASIS checks 
 his flow of language to remark with a suspicion of a 
 twinkle.) 
 
 BELASIS. You don't seem soothed ! 
 
 JONES (with aggressive candour). I'm not. I don't see where all 
 your theories lead. 
 
 BELASIS (smiling kindly). I thought you wanted to know why Betty 
 made this scene. 
 
 JONES. I do. But your hotch-potch of subsidiary motives isn't 
 going to tell me. (With immense vehemence, and almost be 
 traying an injured tone) She says . . . 
 
 BELASIS. The fact of the matter is, Ivor, that you are very like my 
 British jury ; you don't like poor Betty to think she has a 
 reason at all. 
 
32 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 JONES (angrily). I don't like her to think that I've been made a 
 
 laughing-stock of, naturally. 
 BELASIS (profoundly). I see. 
 JONES (continuing). I haven't ! I've only been commonly courteous 
 
 to a neighbour. (Appealingly) Do you really think that a 
 
 woman is so sensitive to what people think of her husband 
 
 that . . . 
 BELASIS (throwing up his hand). Please don't ask me subtle questions 
 
 about women. I don't profess to understand them. I am a 
 
 banister. 
 
 JONES. You have women clients. 
 BELASIS. I never have women jurors. 
 
 (JONES opens his mouth to reprove the wisdom of this, but 
 BELASIS, hurrying on, forestalls him.) 
 
 BELASIS. I am not being cynical. I must talk a language that my 
 jury will understand. I must confine myself to suggesting 
 Love as the motive for a woman's actions when they are 
 benevolent, and jealousy when they are not. (With meaning) 
 Just as you seem to want to do, only . . . 
 
 JONES (despairingly). Only she swears she isn't jealous. 
 
 BELASIS (helpfully). All jealous people do that. 
 
 JONES (turning to him, puzzled). You think she is, then ? 
 
 BELASIS. I say I think all angry women are. It's a labour-saving 
 device of mine. We are not called upon to understand her 
 point of view ; only to get her out of this mess. 
 
 JONES (marvelling at the other's obtuseness). But, man alive ! if 
 we once discover her point of view we can get her out 
 of it. 
 
 BELASIS. Can we ? 
 
 JONES. Of course 1 If she really has let her views get so warped 
 that she feels it more deeply to see me well, let us say it 
 made a fool of than she would to find me unfaithful to her, 
 all we've got to do is to re-establish her sense of proportion. 
 
 BELASIS (with a faint trace of apprehension). Yes. Er . . . You 
 don't want me to help you to do that, do you ? 
 
 JONES (scarcely listening, so intent is he on his own thoughts). No. 
 No. If it's ... I suppose it must be. (Compassionately) 
 Poor little woman ! It's awful to think that she has worked 
 herself into such a state, and spoilt her summer over nothing 
 but . . . 
 
 BELASIS. She doesn't regard it as nothing if she has. 
 
 JONES (gazing at him abstractedly). Yes as you say her sense of 
 proportion is warped. She has never known what real jealousy 
 was, and this this pitiful hypersensitiveness to trifles like . . . 
 (Generously) You are quite right, Geoffrey. The weather has 
 a lot to do with it. 
 
 BELASIS (with invisible irony). Thanks. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 33 
 
 JONES (shaking off his pensive mood). I'm glad I've had this chat 
 with you, Geoffrey. It's something to have come to a definite 
 conclusion, however unpleasant it may be. (Sits.) I don't 
 like to think that I have upset Betty by making an ass of 
 myself ; still, I can take a definite course now and once Betty 
 sees how ridiculous it is for reasonable beings to make scenes 
 over such trifles she'll apologise to Muriel and . . . (A wave 
 of the hand concludes the matter.) 
 
 BELASIS. You think so ? 
 
 JONES. Oh yes. Betty is obstinate, but only when she thinks 
 herself in the right as she does at present. 
 
 BELASIS (nodding appreciatively). And you're just going to persuade 
 her she's not. 
 
 JONES (perfectly simply and confidently). Yes. It's her sense of 
 proportion. She has some excuse. I dare say it's a bit trying 
 for an intelligent woman to see her husband turned into an 
 errand boy. 
 
 (A pathetic voice precedes MR. WISTER up the stairs.) 
 
 WISTER. May I come up ? 
 
 JONES (rising). Hullo ! Yes, come along. 
 
 (WISTER gains the deck.) 
 
 WISTER (glancing at the table). I wish you'd give me just a little 
 
 soda-water. 
 
 JONES (going to table). Certainly. Is this a friendly visit, then ? 
 WISTER (sufficiently). She's lying down. (Receives the drink from 
 
 JONES and puts it to his lips.) Thanks. Oh ... you've given 
 
 me whisky. 
 JONES. I'm sorry. 
 WISTER (accommodatingly). It doesn't matter ; only I've had one 
 
 or two already since . . . (Drains the glass.) 
 
 (BETTY climbs smiling on to the deck. She has quite lost the 
 feverish, angry mood, and even shaken off the sarcastic, 
 cruel humour which has been more on the surface. It is 
 obvious that left alone she might seek peace herself.) 
 
 BETTY. Well, Teddy, come back to see if I am more reasonable ? 
 WISTER (very gravely). Betty, don't joke. This is getting very, 
 
 very serious. 
 JONES. How ? 
 WISTER (to BELASIS). I do hope you are wrong about a libel being 
 
 criminal or not, just as the aggressor Tikes to take it. 
 BELASIS. It is usually the aggressed who . . . 
 WISTER. Yes I mean the aggressed. Muriel is the aggressed, 
 
 isn't she ? 
 
 BETTY. I wonder you can forget that, Teddy . . . 
 WISTER. Betty, I Jones, listen and don't start or anything. 
 
 My nerves are simply on edge. 
 
 3 
 
34 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 BETTY. Poor Teddy ! It's a shame. 
 
 (She takes her first place L.c. JONES the chair down R. BELASIS 
 is still seated between BETTY and the table.) 
 
 BETTY. Now, then, Teddy, go ahead what is it ? 
 
 WISTER (sitting R. of table and addressing the others seriously). Well, 
 though you know Muriel is leaving all this affair to me 
 refusing to so much as express an opinion still, I am, in a 
 sense, controlled by her . . . 
 
 (BETTY snorts once and is silent. WISTER addresses himself 
 earnestly to her.) 
 
 WISTER. I don't mean she controls me intentionally, but I must 
 clear things up in a way that she can understand and appreciate. 
 I am controlled by her point of view. (Wavering towards 
 JONES) Of course, as far as I am concerned . . . 
 
 JONES (cutting him short). We quite understand. Go ahead. 
 
 WISTER (bracing himself up). Well well, I can see that Muriel 
 thinks that since the law gives me no guidance in deciding 
 whether to class this as a criminal libel or a religious one . . . 
 
 (BETTY laughs. He looks at her reproachfully.) 
 
 WISTER. I mean a ... 
 
 BELASIS (quietly). A civil one go on, Mr. Wister. 
 
 WISTER. Well, we are compelled to trust to our natural sense of 
 justice, which had already told us that to accuse anyone of 
 anything criminal ought to amount to a criminal libel even 
 if it didn't. Of course, she didn't say that in so many words, 
 but I could see that it was what she thought. 
 
 JONES. Quite so. 
 
 WISTER. Well so unless you apologise . . . 
 
 BETTY (encouraging him). Well ? 
 
 WISTER. Well, I shall ring up my solicitor now. 
 
 BELASIS (gently). You won't find him at his office. 
 
 WISTER. I know his private address. He does lots of little things 
 for us. (Tragically) That's it. That's what I'm coming to ! 
 It's awful ! 
 
 BETTY (interested). What is ? 
 
 WISTER (preferring to address JONES). Jones while we were at 
 Henley someone rang my wife up at the hotel and told her 
 over the 'phone that they had heard some people in the next 
 punt to theirs at the regatta saying the most awful things 
 about her. 
 
 JONES. Who ? 
 
 WISTER. We don't know. They wouldn't say. 
 
 JONES. Well, who rang you up ? 
 
 WISTER. We don't know. They rang off. 
 
 BETTY (calmly). How very annoying. 
 

 THE NEW MORALITY 35 
 
 BELASIS (classifying it). A river habit interesting, but irrelevant, 
 surely. 
 
 WISTER. No ! That's it ! Pertram our solicitor has that case 
 in hand. Can't you see how it will prejudice the case against 
 Betty ? 
 
 BELASIS. No (dismissing the notion). 
 
 WISTER. Oh, good gracious, yes \ Muriel is being cross-examined. 
 " Have you ever been libelled before ? " Reluctantly " Yes." 
 " Will you give us particulars ? " Well, of course, she has to 
 do so. Then " You do not suggest that this libel emanated 
 from Mrs. Jones also ? " " Oh no ! " (Terribly) " But you 
 cannot be sure that she was not responsible for it ? " (Ap- 
 pealingly) Well, you know, Muriel couldn't swear that she 
 was. 
 
 BETTY (who has hardened to ice in the few moments' exposition of 
 WISTER'S fears for her safety). I am certain she couldn't. 
 (With dangerous brightness) All right, Teddy. I shall spend 
 the autumn in prison. 
 
 WISTER. Betty ! 
 
 BETTY. You don't think I'm going to be frightened into apologising 
 do you ? 
 
 WISTER. Betty don't talk as if I were a villain ! 
 
 BETTY. What else are you ? Plotting and planning to make 
 things look worse than they really are in the hope that you 
 can frighten me you dirty little blackguard ! (Suddenly 
 trying to pull herself together and becoming more exasperated and 
 less tense) I do think it's too bad ! Here it is the hottest 
 weather I have ever been through, and everybody seems to be 
 conspiring to keep me in a raging temper ! (She sits back in 
 her chair determinedly.) 
 
 BELASIS. Let me give you some soda-water . . . 
 
 BETTY (furiously). Ss ! (Appreciating that it will give her some 
 thing to do) Thank you. 
 
 (BELASIS tactfully brings her a little soda-water in a glass and 
 she sits sipping it feverishly but fairly quietly while JONES, 
 rising to the situation, takes WISTER gently but firmly by 
 the arm and leads him down R. away from her.) 
 
 JONES (speaking with healthy authority). Look here, Wister. This 
 has gone far enough. Betty has refused to apologise, and I 
 am certainly not going to try to induce her to, now that you 
 have started threats. 
 
 WISTER. Jones . . . 
 
 JONES. Oh yes, I know; it's Muriel. Don't you realise that both 
 these women are (checking the word and s^lbstituting) not 
 responsible for their actions? They would neither of them 
 be behaving like this if it were not the hottest summer on 
 record. And if you're a man of any sense you must see that 
 
watching you, and I could see that it w* 
 
 poor soul ! We don't understand the 
 
 Jones 1 They watch over us like little I 
 
 dignity that they . . . 
 JONES (severely). Look here, Wister, pull your 1 
 
 had too many whiskies I should say. I 
 
 rot or I shall be losing my balance nextH 
 
 be the only sane person on two housS 
 
 and have a sleep and come back in th 
 
 and tell us that all this solicitor nonseJi I 
 
 you'd had too much to drink we'll bc| 
 
 like to ask Betty quite courteously, th$ 
 
 that she will apologise, but if you saj- 
 
 libels I'll pitch you into the river 1 
 WISTER (from the bottom of his heart}. I wish 
 JONES (in complete control of the situation) 1 . 
 
 into his dinghy for me, will you ? 
 BELASIS (comprehending). Certainly. 
 JONES (giving further orders). You ought toB 
 
 we . . . 
 BELASIS (mildly resenting the unnecessary^ 
 
 meaning). All right. (To WISTER) Gail 
 WISTER (preceding him downstairs). I don't I 
 
 just at the moment. I'm going to JB 
 
 a bit. 
 
 (Disappears from sight followed by BELASIS.) 
 
 JONES (after a marked pause, to BETTY). Now, Betty, this is coming 
 
 to an end. 
 BETTY (pleasantly). I'm glad for your sake, dear. You were 
 
 beginning to get quite worried about it, weren't you ? 
 JONES (grimly). I was. So worried that I am going to take a 
 
 very unpleasant course. 
 BETTY. Oh dear 1 
 JONES. I want to make you see this (sarcastically) this shocking 
 
 behaviour of mine in its true proportion, and I am going to tell 
 
 you one or two things about my past life which 
 
 BETTY. Good gracious, Ivor. Is that an unpleasant course ? 
 JONES. It is. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 37 
 
 BETTY. Then why do you set out on it with such gusto every time 
 
 we have a row ? 
 JONES (surprised). Do I ? 
 BETTY. Ten times at least since you gave up your regiment you 
 
 have turned that ghastly past on to me. ' 
 JONES. You have never listened. 
 
 BETTY. No and I don't mean to now. I don't want to hear any 
 thing about it. The subject doesn't allure me. Why must 
 you always rake it up ? ... 
 
 JONES (getting very angry). I didn't know that I always did " rake 
 it up I On this occasion I certainly do not do so without a 
 very good reason. 
 
 BETTY (challenging it). Well ? That is ? 
 
 JONES (suddenly becoming tender and persuasivealmost commisera- 
 tively to her). Betty, dear, you've lost your sense of proportion 
 You overestimate trifles and make mountains out of mole-hills' 
 You have never known what it was to be really jealous of me' 
 so you magnify these trifles into serious offences. Well if to 
 readjust your unhealthy point of view I tell you things which 
 shock you, I ask - 
 
 BETTY (interrupting him impatiently). Oh, for goodness' sake, 
 stop I It s very kind of you, but I don't want to be shocked. 
 I haven t overestimated this making a tame poodle of your 
 self for Muriel to teach tricks to. I couldn't overestimate it. 
 
 ra and awfu1 ' You may have had a hastl 
 
 st may 
 
 JONES (protesting). Betty I ... 
 
 BETTY. Well you are always hinting that you have, and I'll take 
 your word for it. But has that ghastly past ever made you 
 look half so cheap as you have looked this summer ? 
 
 JONES. You have noticed this and . . 
 
 BETTY I have always noticed you, Ivor. Believe me, this is an 
 
 otto? g : y U h ld y Ur head a different wa y >' vou look 
 
 K?T M dl '' * am ^ er ; J have S iven U P m y regiment too. 
 
 BETTY Nonsense. You'll get your staff appointment. You've 
 got your best years ahead of you. Do you think I am going to 
 look on while you devote them to fetching hairpins for a fool 
 of a woman I've never in my life let you fetch and carry for me. 
 
 JONES No, I know you haven't. You are right in a way. I see 
 - have made myself rather cheap but after all, Betty, it's 
 nothing to make this fuss over. It seems worse to you because 
 feT ou VG n Standard of com P ari son. (Decidedly) I must 
 
 vnn' 1 W ?>t , b V?, ld ^^ M Y dear boy, I know what 
 you re going to tell me. You're going to tell me that your life 
 has not been quite perfect. Well, you needn't ; I never thought 
 
38 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 JONES. Betty ! 
 
 BETTY (hurrying on). I've always taken it for granted it wasn't. 
 
 JONES. You've always taken it for granted it wasn't ? You've 
 
 lived with me for Betty, you can't mean what I mean. 
 
 You can't have taken it for granted that . . . 
 
 (BETTY in all sincerity of purpose which is not to irritate 
 JONES, but to evade hearing places her fingers impatiently 
 in her ears.) 
 
 JONES (absolutely seeing red at this treatment). By God ! You're 
 damn-well going to listen ! 
 
 (He pulls her hands from her head by sheer brute force, then 
 collapses into apologies.) 
 
 I you I beg your pardon, Betty. I lost my temper. 
 Forgive me. I suppose you can't realise how maddening it is 
 to have anyone stop up their ears when you are trying to tell 
 them something that you would give worlds for them not to 
 hear. 
 
 BETTY (with a little angry laugh). No, I can't ! I should think it 
 would make it much easier. 
 
 JONES (blowing up once and for all). Laugh, laugh, laugh ! Super 
 ficial ! Wister was quite right about you ! You skate over 
 the surface of life you daren't look into its depths. Well, 
 you can go on skating and looking after my tea-table behaviour 
 I won't worry you with things that matter again. 
 
 (He stamps off. BETTY remains quite still in her chair. The 
 sun has sunk low in the heavens, and the shadows are long. 
 From off down the R. stairs comes the voice of ALICE and 
 that of JONES :) 
 
 " Hullo, Alice, back already ? " " Yes, I came back early in 
 case ... Is Betty ? " " No, she's on deck. Go up." 
 
 (A moment's pause. ALICE comes on up.) 
 
 ALICE (crossing to her friend). I'm awfully early you said . . . 
 
 (Kisses BETTY and looks at her in some surprise) Crying ? 
 BETTY (sharply). Crying ? No ! What have I got to cry about ? 
 
 (ALICE is successfully checked. At this moment WOOTON 
 appears at top of stairs carrying a large folded table.) 
 
 BETTY (continuing rather incoherently). I always knew it. 
 ALICE. What ? 
 
 (WOOTON has the misfortune to catch the table's end (it is very 
 long) in the awning where it touches the deck.) 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 39 
 
 ALICE (crossing to him). Let me help you, Wooton. (She lifts back 
 the awning and the table is released, then turning to speak to 
 BETTY) What did you . . . 
 
 (But BETTY has disappeared from the deck, having bolted as soon 
 as ALICE crossed.) 
 
 WOOTON. I beg pardon, miss ? 
 
 ALICE (looking after BETTY to R.). I was speaking to Mrs. Jones, I 
 thought . . . 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE 
 THE DECK ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, ARRANGED FOR DINNER 
 
 Flaps of the awning have been drawn down at back and to L., 
 forming a sort of marquee open to the front and right 
 sides, its roof extending its shelter to the centre of the deck. 
 Under this shelter LESCELINE is putting the finishing 
 touches to a dinner-table laid for four. A large table 
 enough to accommodate more, and therefore allowing these 
 generous space both to waggle their elbows and be seen by 
 the audience which is more important. 
 
 The sun has set and the pearl and violet lights of evening are 
 supplemented on the houseboat by a couple of gorgeous 
 Chinese lanterns hanging over the stairheads R. and L., 
 and a large standard lamp with a Chinese lantern-shaped 
 shade above the space between the dining-table, which is 
 L.C., and the little occasional table which has been moved 
 to dead c., where it serves as a side table during meals on 
 deck. Beside these greater lights, candles aureoles of 
 topaz around dark shades decorate the table; indeed the 
 greater part of the deck is anything but dark, only the 
 distances are lost in a dusk against which the lights and 
 those they fall upon stand out luminously. 
 
 Far away a gramophone is coming to the end of a record a 
 soprano and tenor duet, mellowed by the distance into 
 something quite beautiful. 
 
 (ALICE and COLONEL JONES are leaning over the rail to R. talking 
 quietly and intermittently. He is in a dinner jacket, 
 she in the simple dinner dress in which she returns in the 
 previous act. A brooding awkwardness seems to be upon 
 them. JONES is saying, as the curtain goes up :) 
 
 JONES. Yes (giving the monosyllable a weight and value which 
 
 suggest that he doesn't mean it literally). 
 ALICE (after a detaching pause). I'm sorry if ... 
 JONES (closing the subject). Oh, my dear Alice, you are quite right 
 
 to be guided by what you consider loyal to Betty. One . . . 
 
 (BELASIS having dressed comes on deck R. JONES is between 
 
 him and ALICE, so he only sees him.) 
 40 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 41 
 
 BELA. Hullo ! 
 
 JONES (turning). Hullo ! Cabin all right ? 
 
 BELA. Quite, thanks. (Seeing ALICE and coming down) You don't 
 
 remember me, Miss Meyne. 
 ALICE. Oh yes, I do. (They shake hands.) I'm so glad they've 
 
 had the sense to get you down. 
 
 (WOOTON enters L., carrying a bottle of hock to the table c.) 
 
 BELA. (replying to ALICE with a smile). Oh, they haven't had the 
 sense to. I'm (he smiles towards WOOTON) I'm briefed by the 
 Servants' Hall, aren't I, Wooton ? 
 WOOTON (reproachfully). Oh, sir I 
 ALICE. What do you mean ? 
 
 (BELASIS smiles enigmatically and shakes his head. LESCELINE 
 
 is about to exit L. JONES stops her with a question.) 
 JONES. Is your mistress dressed yet, Lesceline ? 
 LESCE. (turning L.). Oh yes, sir. I finished fastening her dress for 
 her a quarter of an hour ago. I think she's writing letters, sir. 
 JONES (with elevated eyebrows). Writing letters ? 
 LESCE. Yes, sir. 
 
 (She exits L., followed after a moment by WOOTON.) 
 ALICE (seeking escape). May I go down to her ? 
 JONES. Do, if you'd like to. 
 ALICE (as she goes). I don't suppose she'll mind. 
 
 (Exits downstairs R.) 
 
 (JONES watches her off, then flings himself wearily into one of the 
 basket chairs which have travelled with the table across the 
 
 C. to R.) 
 
 JONES (with considerable feeling). Isn't it marvellous how women 
 hang together ? 
 
 BELA. (taking the chair opposite to him). Is it ? 
 
 JONES (sarcastically). Don't you consider it so ? 
 
 BELA. (judicially). Well, no. On certain grounds I should expect 
 them to hang together. On certain grounds every group of 
 units must hang together. The laws of cosmogony . . . 
 
 JONES (irritably in fact, angrily). Oh, for Heaven's sake ! I ! You 
 really are a most remarkable comforter, Geoffrey. 
 
 BELA. Do you want comforting ? I'm sorry. 
 
 JONES. Well, I should say that if ever a man did not want deliberate 
 irritating . . . (Pathetically) You must admit it is very hard, 
 Geoffrey. Not content with almost telling me that her 
 scene this morning was due to me, Betty seems to have 
 succeeded in inspiring Alice with the same idea. 
 
 BELA. Oh ? What has Miss Meyne been saying ? 
 
 JONES (very injured indeed). Nothing I Nothing that I could get 
 hold of, that is. We've just been chatting in the most 
 ordinary way, but really I've seldom spent a more uncomfort- 
 
42 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 able quarter of an hour. She seems to base every blessed thing 
 she says on the mutual understanding that Betty's bad 
 language and all the rest of it ought to be forgiven freely in 
 view well, in view of the fact that she's married to me. She 
 was so perfectly convinced that I knew it myself that I found 
 myself agreeing with her. And I tell you, Geoffrey I valued 
 that girl's esteem very highly. 
 
 BELA. Perhaps her sense of proportion is warped too. 
 
 JONES (at the stage where strong men do not weep). Geoffrey, you 
 you are really ! you're inhuman. You don't seem to realise 
 that, unlikely as the whole thing appears, we may see Betty in 
 the dock ? 
 
 BELA. Is that what's worrying you ? 
 
 JONES. Is that what's worrying me ! Good God, man ! What 
 do you think is worrying me ? She won't apologise. / know 
 how obstinate she can be. I tell you, I'm frightened for her. 
 
 BELA. I'm sorry. I thought what was worrying you was the fact 
 that Betty pleaded justification or at least extenuating 
 circumstances. 
 
 JONES. Well, good Lord, man, doesn't that make it ten times worse 
 for me ? To feel . . . (He cannot continue.) 
 
 BELA. (very quietly). I'm afraid you are not the right man to get 
 that apology out of Betty, Ivor. Your desire for it is not- 
 single enough. You are a little mixed, in fact, as to what you 
 want it for. If I understand Betty, she sees this and she 
 resents it. If I were you, I should tell her quite simply that 
 you are frightened for her . . . 
 
 JONES. My dear Geoffrey, I've done more than that already. 
 
 BELA. (with lost significance). Quite so. (He gives up the argument 
 and stretches himself.) What a gorgeous evening! 
 
 JONES (gloomily). The weather has been perfect for months. 
 (BETTY and ALICE are heard below R.) 
 
 BETTY. Yes, it is cooler. . . . Ah, but I shall be colder in prison, 
 shan't I, Ivor ? 
 
 (This last as she comes on deck followed by ALICE, and the two 
 men rise to greet her.) 
 
 ALICE (coming on deck behind her). Betty, don't ! 
 
 BETTY. I want to get used to the idea, Alice. The idea is every 
 thing. (Looking towards the table) Shall I make you a cup ? 
 
 BELA. Do. 
 
 BETTY (ringing the bell on the c. table). I only hope we've got some 
 ice. 
 
 (WOOTON comes on L.) 
 
 WOOTON. You rang, ma'am ? 
 
 BETTY. Yes ; I want to make a cup. Have we got any ice ? 
 
 WOOTON (with pride). We have, ma'am. 
 
 BETTY. Oh, that's good and a cucumber ? 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 43 
 
 WOOTON. I don't fancy there's a cucumber on board, ma'am, but 
 
 I've no doubt we can borrow one. 
 
 BETTY. All right try. You know the other things I want. 
 WOOTON. Yes, ma'am. Er . . . (He pauses, looking towards JONES). 
 JONES. What is it ? (He places a chair for BETTY, who sits. ALICE 
 
 is already seated.) 
 
 WOOTON. Mr. Wister is not here, is he, sir ? 
 JONES. No. Why ? 
 WOOTON. Mrs. Wister's maid has come over to inquire, sir. It 
 
 seems as Mr. Wister has not returned home, and Mrs. Wister 
 
 is asking for him. I told her as he'd left here an hour or more. 
 JONES (looking at his watch). Oh yes, quite that. 
 WOOTON. Thank you, sir. (Exits L.) 
 BELA. He said he was going to pull up and down a bit longer when 
 
 he left me. 
 
 (BETTY has dropped curiously out of the conversation. When 
 she is not being deliberately gay or rude in this act or 
 at least at the beginning of it she is singularly quiet and 
 preoccupied.) 
 
 ALICE. Poor man ! 
 
 BELA. What sort of a fellow is he when he is less excited than he 
 was to-day ? 
 
 JONES (tolerantly). Oh, very much the same. A thoroughly well- 
 meaning idiot, you know, but . . . (He dismisses him un 
 classified beyond this.) 
 
 BELA. (thoughtfully). Do you know, I should have described him 
 as rather intelligent ? 
 
 JONES (surprised). Would you ? 
 
 ALICE (quietly). Of course, he is. 
 
 BELA. (to her). You agree with me ? Too intelligent, perhaps, I 
 was going to say ; blessed with too much insight he writes, 
 doesn't he ? 
 
 JONES. Yes. 
 
 BELA. (nodding). He lacks method, but (turning to his sister) 
 he's a great admirer of yours, Betty. 
 
 BETTY (brought suddenly out of her trance). Is he ? Yes I know 
 he is ... (pulling herself together). When did he tell you so ? 
 
 BELA. Oh, I have been improving his acquaintance ! He insisted 
 upon rowing me down to the lock and back when he left here, 
 apparently just to tell me what a wonderful and noble woman 
 you are. 
 
 BETTY (aggressively). Are you trying to make me apologise for 
 his sake ? 
 
 BELA. (calmly and tactfully reproving her insinuation). No I'm 
 er not. I'm discussing a neighbour of yours who interests 
 me slightly and mentioning as one of his good points that he 
 admires you. 
 
44 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 BETTY (accepting the reproof in perfect good humour and apologising 
 with a laugh). I'm sorry, Geoffrey. I'm getting as defensive 
 as an old hedgehog. But, really, everybody seems to be 
 attacking me from a different vantage. (With a genuine laugh) 
 Alice is the latest I 
 
 JONES. Oh ? And what is Alice's argument ? 
 BETTY (scornfully). Huh 1 She wants me to apologise just to 
 show you that I know how to, or something. I didn't quite 
 follow her, I admit. 
 
 ALICE (expostulating). That's not fair, Betty. What I said was : 
 
 You've shown . . . (She suddenly pulls up and recasts her 
 
 sentence.) Well you've shown that you can be firm ; now 
 
 show that you can give way. 
 
 BETTY (immensely tickled). H'm ! That isn't exactly what you 
 
 said, you know. 
 
 ALICE. No but it's what I meant. 
 
 BETTY (with charming severity). Oh no, Alice ! I thought that bit 
 about having punished Ivor enough for what he'd done, was 
 the best thing you said. 
 
 (JONES rises and strolls quietly to the rail R., where he leans 
 with his back to them, looking up the river. ALICE watches 
 him, then lowers her voice to include only herself and 
 BETTY. BELASIS is not very near them, and he is leaning 
 back in his chair smoking and not listening to them with 
 any attention.) 
 
 ALICE (with real reproach). You are a pig, Betty. 
 
 BETTY. I know it. But then, you see, I don't think I have punished 
 
 Ivor enough. 
 ALICE. Look here, Betty, you know I like you, and you know I 
 
 think you've had provocation, but if you can't at least behave 
 
 decently to Colonel Jones in public, I shall go. 
 BETTY (looking at her, amused). Hity-tity I 
 ALICE. No, I'm not joking. 
 BETTY. No, I know you're not. You're a regular little spitfire ! 
 
 All right. I'll try not to stick pins into him any more than I 
 
 can help, but . . . (She shuts her mouth expressively.) 
 ALICE (curiously). But what ? 
 BETTY. Oh, nothing I (Savagely) He really is a dunderhead, 
 
 you know. I don't mean only over Muriel, but ouh ! ! ! 
 
 (The exclamation closes the subject and almost does justice to it.) 
 
 (WOOTON enters L., bearing the liqueurs and other ingredients 
 
 for the cup on a large tray, which he carries to the c. table 
 
 also a large cut-glass jug.) 
 
 WOOTON. The cucumber is not yet to hand, ma'am. Cook is now 
 
 signalling for it. (Arranges the ingredients on table.) 
 BELA. (who has rejoined the conversation at WOOTON'S entrance). 
 
 Signalling ? 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 45 
 
 JONES (who has also turned round). Oh, you have no idea how 
 clever we are on this river. 
 
 (BETTY has risen and now reaches the table above which she 
 stands preparing the hock-cup. The distant gramophone 
 strikes up a waltz.) 
 
 BETTY (busily engaged). Oh, Lord I there's that instrument of 
 
 torture again I 
 
 ALICE. I think it's rather pretty. 
 BETTY. It depends upon how one feels, I suppose. 
 JONES (from the rail). Hullo ! There's Wister only just going home 
 
 now. 
 BETTY. He'll catch it 1 I really believe Muriel thrashes him, you 
 
 know, Alice. 
 ALICE. Don't be silly. 
 
 WOOTON (standing by with the hock). Shall I open it now, ma'am ? 
 BETTY. Yes. 
 
 WOOTON. Thank you, ma'am, then I ... (He wields the corkscrew.) 
 JONES (with some surprise, still watching the distant WISTER). No, 
 
 he isn't ! He seems to be pulling straight for us ! 
 BELA. (rising and going to his side). Who ? Wister ? 
 JONES. Yes. (Then between laughter and annoyance) Good Lord ! 
 
 What's the matter with the man ? (Calling down) Hi ! 
 
 Don't ram us I 
 
 ALICE (also rising in her place). What's he ... 
 JONES (to BELASIS). We'd better . . . (He leads the way, running 
 
 down the stairs R., calling as he goes) Hold on where you are ! 
 ALICE (sitting again and speaking with some curiosity). I wonder 
 
 what he's come back now for ? 
 
 BETTY (still above table). I don't know, and I don't care. 
 (WOOTON exits quietly L.) 
 
 ALICE (looking at her friend curiously). What has been happening, 
 Betty ? You were very wicked at tea-time, but you weren't 
 like this. Does poor Colonel Jones really have such a bad 
 effect on you ? 
 
 BETTY (grimly). He does ! 
 
 ALICE. But why ? What does he do ? 
 
 BETTY. Oh, my dear, you'll have to get married yourself to find 
 out quite how maddening a man can be. 
 
 ALICE. But surely your talking like this about going to prison . . . 
 
 BETTY (sharply). Talking ? I'm not merely talking, my dear. 
 If Muriel likes to take this into court I'll go to prison. 
 
 ALICE. Just for the pleasure of being a martyr ? 
 
 BETTY (candidly after consideration). Yes I believe it would be, 
 just for the pleasure of being a martyr. I can just tell how 
 those old martyrs used to go into it. " Damn you ! " they 
 said ; " you think I'm just making a fuss about a trifle. I'll 
 show you whether it's a trifle or not ! I'll I'll do six months 
 
46 T#E NEW MORALITY 
 
 in the second division for it " (Struck with a fresh idea) 
 That's what I suppose the suffragettes said. 
 ALICE. You're not a suffragette. 
 
 BETTY. No. But I'm beginning to understand how people feel when 
 their convictions are described as " Betty, darling, you've 
 lost your sense of proportion." 
 ALICE. Is that what Colonel Jones says ? 
 BETTY. Yes. 
 ALICE. How silly of him. 
 
 BETTY. There you are ! You're goody-goody enough in all con 
 science, and even you don't think that whether a man's 
 faithful or not matters so enormously that making a cavaliere 
 servente and a general idiot of himself doesn't matter at all. 
 ALICE (sedately). I think they both matter. 
 
 BETTY. So do I, damn it ! That's where I'm beaten ! Oh, Lord, 
 this world and the things we ask of it ! (Breaking down) 
 Why do we want so much more than food and drink and 
 faithfulness when we can't get even them ? 
 
 (The end of this is scarcely coherent. She is on the verge of 
 tears and has sunk into the chair above the table, putting 
 her elbow thereon and her hand irritably to her eyes. 
 ALICE rises and is hurrying to her with a motherly " Hush ! 
 hush ! " when WISTER'S voice is heard below apparently 
 expostulating.) 
 BETTY (snorting back her tears and rising to her feet) . Oh, my patience ! 
 
 and here's Teddy Wister again 1 
 ALICE (soothing her). You needn't . . . 
 
 (Apparently she must, though, for MR. WISTER appears on 
 deck R. followed by JONES and BELASIS. He stands 
 blinking after the dark of the river.) 
 
 WISTER. I say, you have got it light up here. (Seeing ALICE, who 
 is between him and BETTY) It's Alice, isn't it ? (Shakes 
 hands with her.) I'm so glad to see you're rallying round poor 
 Betty, Alice. It's ... fine the way you women hang together. 
 (Passing her to BETTY'S side) Making a cup ? (With a glance 
 towards the dinner-table) I say, Jones, can I have a ... 
 JONES (crossing to dinner-table). You can have some lemonade. 
 
 I shouldn't advise . . . 
 
 WISTER (breaking in earnestly). You are quite right ! I've had 
 quite enough ! One glass more might be just that one glass 
 more that's the one glass too many ! 
 
 (N.B. He is not drunk in the disgusting sense of the word, 
 but several glasses and no food have produced an exalta 
 tion which does not accord altogether strangely with his 
 usual enthusiastic and nervous temperament. He is 
 merely himself in excelsis.) 
 I suppose you're surprised to see me back so soon ? 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 47 
 
 BETTY (with her very ready temper). Oh, my dear man, I'm past 
 being surprised at anything. (She leaves her hock-cup finished 
 and comes below table, where she sits.) 
 
 WISTER (shaking his head in complete comprehension). I quite 
 understand you. 
 
 (WOOTON has returned ', and now speaks to JONES across the 
 lower end of the table.) 
 
 WOOTON. Shall I lay a place for Mr. Wister, sir ? 
 JONES (turning, lemonade in hand). No. 
 
 WOOTON (persuasively). I thought perhaps Mr. Wister might be 
 persuaded to stop to dinner, sir. 
 
 (JONES is just opening his mouth to reply with some severity, 
 but WISTER, who has overheard, interrupts from R.) 
 
 WISTER (seriously advising). I should certainly ask me to stop to 
 dinner if I were you, Jones. Because I should accept, and 
 then, there you are, you've got me. 
 
 (WOOTON exits.) 
 
 JONES. What do you mean ? 
 
 WISTER. I know ! You think I've been 'phoning to my solicitor. 
 Well, I haven't ! I've been pulling up and down the river ever 
 since I left you, making up my mind about it. And I've made 
 up my mind ! I won't ! I'm not going to ! Well, if I stay 
 to dinner after saying that, I shall look very silly if I go back 
 on it when I'm sober, shan't I ? 
 
 BETTY. When you're sober ? Then you're not sober now ? 
 
 WISTER (truthfully and simply). In vino veritas not quite. Any 
 way, I shall be soberer to-morrow, and when a man's soberer 
 than he has been, he often thinks he was less sober than he 
 was when he wasn't. I don't want to go back on what I'm 
 going to say. I won't give you any more trouble, Betty. 
 And I'm very sorry more than sorry to have come here 
 with threats this afternoon. 
 
 (WOOTON returns and lays a place for WISTER.) 
 
 BETTY. Thank you, Teddy. I'm sorry you're not sober, but I'm 
 grateful for small mercies. 
 
 (LESCELINE enters L. with cups of cold consomme.) 
 WOOTON. Dinner is ready, ma'am. 
 
 (BETTY and ALICE rise.) 
 
 WISTER (hovering R.). Well, am I going to stay ? 
 
 BEL A. (by the rail R., where he has been since his re-entrance). Mr. 
 
 Wister's suggestion is a public olive branch, Jones. 
 ALICE (sotto voce L.C.). Oh yes, let him stay. 
 JONES (to her). Sure you don't mind ? 
 
 
48 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 ALICE. Mind ? No, poor fellow. You can't send him back to 
 
 Mrs. Wister while he's so excited. 
 JONES. Well, Wooton seems to have decided for us. Come along, 
 
 Wister. 
 
 (WISTER crosses to the table. BELASIS, crossing behind him, 
 commends the invitation.) 
 
 BELA. Though of course Mr. Wister cannot prevent Mrs. Wister 
 proceeding . . . (reaching the table and changing to a more 
 important topic}. Where do you want to put me, Betty ? 
 
 BETTY (touching the L. of the table). Over here. 
 
 (ALICE has gone to the R. side of the table, JONES to the head 
 that is, below it, with his back to the audience and 
 BETTY is standing above it. WISTER is hovering between 
 c. and the dinner-table. His place is laid between BETTY 
 and ALICE.) 
 
 W T ooton's put you here, Teddy, Sit down. I bet you're 
 more hungry than anything else aren't you ? 
 
 WISTER. That's all that's really the matter with me. I didn't 
 have any lunch. 
 
 ALICE (sympathetically). Well, then, of course, you poor thing. 
 
 (WOOTON, serving the consomme, comes past foot of table at 
 this moment. JONES stops him to say quietly :) 
 
 JONES. Mr. Wister will drink lemonade, Wooton. 
 
 WOOTON (with a trace of regret). Very good, sir. (Continues serving 
 
 BELASIS, etc.) 
 WISTER (putting down empty cup). That's a very excellent cup of 
 
 consomme. 
 
 BETTY (dryly). Yes ; it happens to be mine. 
 WISTER (covered with confusion). Oh dear, I do apologise. How 
 
 could I ... 
 WOOTON (placing another cup before BETTY). I have another cup 
 
 here for you, madam. 
 WISTER. I really do beg your pardon ! 
 BETTY. It's all right ; we've only exchanged, that's all. 
 ALICE. You are awfully wise to eat on deck all you can, Betty. 
 BETTY. My dear, I'm wiser not to eat down in that saloon. It 
 
 gives me the cold shivers like one of those awful oblong 
 
 restaurants. You know the sort : a door at each end and a 
 
 long draught with a waiter blowing up and down it. 
 BELASIS. I should think a draught would be rather pleasant this 
 
 weather. 
 
 (WOOTON is clearing the cups away and LESCELINE takes 
 round the hock-cup.) 
 
 BETTY. Yes ; it's the general feeling. Oh, well, I suppose I shall 
 be glad to eat anywhere when I come out of prison. 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 49 
 
 ALICE. Betty ! 
 
 (WOOTON exits with the cups.) 
 BETTY. What ? 
 
 ALICE. Don't keep on about prison like that. Can't you find 
 anything else to talk about ? 
 
 (WOOTON returns with lobster mayonnaise and a plate of sliced 
 cucumber.) 
 
 WOOTON (placing the mayonnaise before JONES). The cucumber is 
 
 to hand, ma'am. (He intercepts LESCELINE with the jug just 
 
 after she has filled ALICE'S glass and tilts the sliced cucumber 
 
 into it.) 
 WISTER (as LESCELINE fills his glass). Just in time for me I'm 
 
 in luck ! 
 
 WOOTON (appreciating what's happened). Oh dear ! 
 BETTY (slightly surprised). What s the matter, Wooton ? 
 WOOTON (hastily). Nothing, ma'am. I beg pardon, ma'am. (He 
 
 hurries to bring her her mayonnaise without catching JONES'S 
 
 eye.) 
 BEL A. (with a smile). Do you always have lobster on the river, 
 
 Betty ? 
 
 BETTY. Oh no, we have salmon sometimes ; don't we, Alice ? 
 BELA. More variety than I thought. 
 BETTY. They both seem suitable, somehow and I like them. I 
 
 wonder if they'll give me lobster in prison if I'm good ? 
 BELA. I doubt it. 
 BETTY. They could manage me with lobster. What do they feed 
 
 you on, Geoffrey ? 
 BELA. I'm afraid I can't say. You see, I have never been in 
 
 prison. 
 BETTY (gaily). Oh, you ought to have been 1 No, really, I do 
 
 think a barrister ought to know his profession from the 
 
 bottom up. Think of the authority it would give you when 
 
 you came to be a judge to really know what you were giving 
 
 people. 
 BELA. I suppose you'd think me a wet-blanket, Betty, if I 
 
 offered to lay you a hundred to one in sovereigns that you 
 
 don't go to prison. 
 BETTY. What do you mean ? 
 BELA. To get you there a good many eventualities will have 
 
 to come to pass which look to me very unlikely to do so. 
 
 Mr. Wister is not very likely to proceed against you after this 
 
 very open reconciliation and even if he does allow himself 
 
 to change, the Court might be able to muster enough common 
 
 sense to distinguish between a supper quarrel and a deliberate 
 
 libel. 
 
 WISTER. That's just what I've said over and over again to Muriel. 
 BETTY. Well, she's an authority. What did she say to it ? 
 
 4 
 
50 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 WISTER. She said that was where you were so silly not to apologise 
 and prove beyond question that it was just a quarrel and not 
 a deliberate libel. 
 
 BETTY. Quite right ! I'll take your bet, Geoffrey. The jury will 
 look at it just that way. 
 
 (WOOTON exits L.) 
 
 ALICE. You really shouldn't, Betty. Did you see poor Wooton's 
 face when you were talking about prison food ? 
 
 JONES. Wooton, like me, is entering late into civilian society and 
 its topics distress him. 
 
 BELA. Any news of the staff appointment yet ? 
 
 JONES. No, and there never will be. I shall have to find some 
 hobby like keeping rabbits. 
 
 (WOOTON returns and takes around hock-cup.) 
 
 WISTER (enthusiastically). You do make the most wonderful hock- 
 cup, Betty. What do you put in it ? 
 
 BETTY (twinkling). Maraschino ; forty-eight brandy ; Cointreau 
 and er hock. 
 
 WISTER. You're a genius ! I will have some more, Wooton. 
 
 WOOTON (under compulsion) . Yes, sir. (Fills his glass ; then, hasten 
 ing to pass JONES, whispers in his ear.) Very sorry, sir. What 
 was I to do ? 
 
 WISTER (on his feet). Confusion to the law. 
 
 BETTY. Oh no, Teddy ! 
 
 WISTER (firmly). Yes. Damn it ! (Drains his glass, standing, and 
 sits.) 
 
 BETTY (to BELASIS). I warn you, Geoffrey. Teddy's an awful 
 anarchist ! 
 
 BELA. (trying to steady the conversation). I have no objection to 
 an anarchist, Betty. It's the animal calling itself progressive 
 that I object to. 
 
 ALICE. Good gracious, that's a funny thing to say ! 
 
 BELA. Oh no. The anarchist is a part of the status quo. There 
 have always been anarchists. The progressive is something 
 new and dangerous. He wants to desert the status quo and 
 set up another. 
 
 WISTER. Are you so devoted to the present state of things ? 
 
 BELA. Oh no. But I realise that we cannot change them. 
 
 WISTER. Can't we ? 
 
 (WOOTON removes fish plates and fetches cutlets, etc., which 
 r JONES helps and WOOTON and LESCELINE take around, 
 serving vegetables, etc.) 
 
 BELA. (shaking his head). No, no. 
 WISTER. They've been changed a few times. 
 BELA. Not since civilisation began, believe me. 
 ALICE. How can you say that with all this progress ? 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 51 
 
 BELA. All what progress ? 
 
 ALICE. Well -telephones motors. 
 
 BELA. We mean different things by progress, Miss Meynell. 
 As I read it, history reveals the fact that there has been no 
 real progress for at least six thousand years. 
 
 ALICE. Oh, good gracious ! 
 
 BELA. No, really. Something like six thousand years ago ten 
 commandments were framed embodying the sum-total of man's 
 moral desires : to be just, to be honest, to be pure, to be 
 truthful, etcetera, etcetera. Six thousand years have elapsed 
 and he has neither achieved those desires, nor which is much 
 more significant of his moral stagnation has he added one 
 solitary ideal to their number. If by means of the telephone 
 or the motor, man had drawn a little nearer to his moral code 
 his progress would be obvious ; if he had by refinement of 
 mind, by thought, by experiment, enunciated a single fresh 
 tenet, his progress, though less apparent, would be even more 
 real, but since he has done neither, man must be regarded as 
 a stationary being for whom the preservation of the status 
 quo is the only safeguard against falling back, since it is estab 
 lished beyond question that he cannot move forward. 
 
 BETTY (with sisterly sarcasm). Poor man ! 
 
 WISTER (surprisingly excited). You're right, Betty ! I was just 
 going to say the same thing myself. (Leaning across and 
 beating out his emphasis on the table) How about woman ? 
 
 BELA. (astonished at his opponent's excitement). I er . . . 
 
 WISTER (repeating it). How about women ? You say man has 
 neither lived up to his moral code nor enlarged it. Granted. 
 But how about woman ? I don't say she's lived up to it 
 either, but then perhaps she doesn't like it. She didn't make 
 it. But she has added to it, and, as you yourself say, that 
 argues more moral sense than just following what's already 
 been laid down. It's active morality. That's what women 
 are they are actively moral ! Look at the activity of Betty's 
 Moral Perception ! Look at the sincerity of it ! The con 
 viction ! She'd go through the Law Courts rather than deny 
 her expression of abhorrence of Jones shopping for my wife ! 
 Isn't that a new moral idea ? fresh evolved ? And, mind 
 you, it's a sound one ! It awakens an answering throb in me ! 
 So it does in you, Alice ! We feel that a new moral tenet 
 has been established. It is wrong for a grown man to run 
 errands all day for his neighbour's wife ! It's revolting ! ! 
 It isn't as if you'd just done it once, Jones you were always 
 doing it. Muriel had you absolutely under her thumb ! 
 Betty saw the immorality of that. She didn't have to think 
 it out, she saw it. Something said to her " It isn't right 
 it's wrong"!!!! That was her moral sense active 
 evolving ! ! 
 
52 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 (To BELASIS) You say there's been no moral progress ! 
 Can you imagine an Early Victorian wife making herself ill 
 because her husband made an ass of himself like Jones has 
 done ? No 1 1 So long as he was faithful to her and kind to 
 her, what did she care ? It's only the modern woman who has 
 reached such a pitch of ab abstraction. That's what it is ! 
 Super-material abstraction ! 1 1 We sneer at modern women 
 and call them superfish superficial ; it's because they soar 
 too high for us. Spiritual detestation of the mundane world, 
 that's what their superficiality is. They spurn the sordid 
 depths 1 We call them artificial and accuse them of acting 
 so they do ! They do act 1 They mean to be superficial ! 
 It's their idealism. All idealism is artificial. It's conscious 
 ness of the desire to ascend to a plane that does not yet exist. 
 Very well 1 It has to be artificially manufactured. 
 
 Women have raised themselves a tremendous distance 
 already. Look how immaterially we speak about them. 
 You never talk about a modern woman's physique, do you ? 
 No ; you talk about her charm. Abstract 1 1 Abstract ! 1 1 You 
 don't mind whether she is beautiful or not is she smart ? 
 Abstract again 1 I I You think of her complexion, not her 
 face, her figure, not her body I tell you, women are the real 
 aesthetics 1 1 What do they care for their natural, material 
 shapes ? They must have the ideal curve or line that expresses 
 the inner consciousness at the moment, and they will suffer 
 pain to get it 1 1 I The curve is the expression of the 
 spirit evolving changing ! 1 The body they are born with 
 it it's a material fetter 1 1 I That's how women feel towards 
 all physical things ! That's why they don't demand from their 
 husbands the mere physical fidelity that he wants them to 
 insist upon. The modern woman is above minding mere 
 physical unfaithfulness unless it becomes public which, of 
 course, endows it with spiritual significance by exposing her 
 to ridicule. That's what she demands from him : self- 
 respect sensitiveness to ridicule. How sublime ! ! 1 Ridicule 
 is the appreciation of something being out of place. It is 
 essentially a spiritual feeling ; the expression of that sense 
 of order by which the spirit controls matter. There you are ! 
 Sensitiveness to spiritual condemnation, that's what woman 
 asks of her husband. And does he appreciate the beauty of 
 her demand ? No 1 1 He calls her superficial because she 
 cannot sink to his base and ignoble morality. (Solemnly) 
 Betty 1 Long may you remain superficial 1 Lifting the world 
 to fresh planes of refinement and beauty far above the sordid 
 materialism of Jones I (He sits with great dignity.) 
 
 JONES (very quietly and matter-of-factly after a pause). Well, now, 
 Geoffrey, will you go and drive the boats away, or shall I ? 
 
 BELA. What do you mean ? 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 53 
 
 JONES. Well, I should estimate the crowd around our houseboat 
 at about two hundred by this time. I quite expected to hear 
 applause when the oration ended. (Rising.) Is your boat 
 below, Wister ? 
 
 WISTER. I left it there. 
 
 JONES (remembering)^ Of course. W 7 ell, now, don't you think you'd 
 better get into it and go home and have a nap. 
 
 WISTER (rising). I will go if you wish. But I prefer to pull up and 
 down for a while. 
 
 BETTY (to JONES). He mustn't . . . 
 
 JONES (quietly to her). Of course not. Would you mind if Geoffrey 
 and I left you to finish alone ? 
 
 ALICE. No. 
 
 JONES. Come along, Geoffrey. We'll see him home. 
 
 (They escort WISTER, who seems tired, down the stairs to R.) 
 (Left alone, BETTY and ALICE sit quietly in their places.) 
 
 (WOOTON serves ices and withdraws.) 
 
 BETTY (looking at her friend). Well, Alice, what are you thinking 
 
 about ? 
 
 ALICE (surprised). I ... nothing . . . Why ? 
 BETTY. You smiled. 
 ALICE (amazed). Did I ? 
 BETTY. No, perhaps you didn't. Perhaps I only expected you to 
 
 smile. 
 ALICE. Why ? 
 
 (JONES returns, crossing rapidly to table.) 
 
 JONES. I want a strong knife. Wister has tied his boat up like 
 
 a ... (He takes one up and turns away.) 
 BETTY. Ivor 1 
 
 (He turns back to find her with her hand outstretched on the 
 table towards him. He stands looking at her.) 
 
 JONES. What is it ? 
 
 BETTY. I want to talk to you. 
 
 ALICE (rising). Shall I go ? 
 
 BETTY. You can do something for me if you will, Alice. 
 
 ALICE. Of course I will. . . . What is it ? 
 
 BETTY. Bring me up a letter you'll find on the . . . No, it's in 
 
 my writing-case. Bring me up the whole thing, will you ? 
 ALICE. Of course I will, dear. 
 
 (ALICE exits R.) 
 
 BETTY (after a pause, during which she has studied her husband's face 
 qiiizzically). Well, Ivor, how do you like being married to a 
 pillar of the new morality ? 
 
 JONES. The what ? 
 
54 THE NEW MORALITY 
 
 BETTY. You heard what Teddy said. 
 
 JONES. Fm afraid I didn't follow him very closely. 
 
 BETTY. Oh, why not ? He spoke really very highly of me. 
 
 JONES. He was drunk. 
 
 BETTY. Yes, that's a pity, isn't it ? Still, he understands me much 
 better than you do. He knows me to be an abstract, high- 
 souled, non-material creature, impervious to anything but 
 ridicule, while you think me just a woman. Aren't you glad 
 you're wrong ? 
 
 JONES (more and more puzzled). What are you getting at ? 
 
 BETTY (obligingly). Well, would you rather be right ? It wouldn't 
 be difficult. I nearly followed up that past of yours and broke 
 my heart over it in a most womanly and material way. 
 
 (ALICE comes on deck. BETTY turns to her and takes the case.) 
 BETTY. Thank you, Alice. 
 
 (ALICE exits again R.) 
 
 BETTY (opening her case and taking out a letter). Listen, Ivor. 
 (Reads) " DEAR MRS. WISTER, Since raising objections to 
 my husband fetching hairpins for you, he has informed me 
 that he is not quite perfect. This blow having restored my 
 sense of proportion, I beg to apologise and withdraw all 
 objection to . . ." 
 
 JONES. Oh, Betty ! 
 
 BETTY. Well, that was the lever you used. 
 
 JONES. Yes, but . . . 
 
 BETTY. But you don't like it put so plainly ? I quite understand. 
 Well, we'll put the other side plainly too. (Dogmatically) 
 Ivor, I am an idealist I detest the mundane world. I don't 
 care how unfaithful you are to me, but you must not make 
 yourself ridiculous. Now, then. Which will you have ? 
 
 JONES. Which ? 
 
 BETTY. Yes. Which shall I be, the (waves letter) or ... 
 
 JONES. Neither. 
 
 BETTY. Neither ? Oh, Ivor, don't you want me to care about you 
 at all ? 
 
 JONES. No, I don't mean that. Both. 
 
 BETTY. Both ! A jealous materialist and an exacting idealist ? 
 Oh, Ivor, I'm glad you want both, because I'm afraid that's 
 what you've got ! (Suddenly she changes her tone, holding out 
 her hands to him.) Dearest . . . that ghastly past upsets me 
 very much, but the silly present upsets me too. I want 
 as many perfections . . . (Suddenly, quaintly) Well, I suppose 
 I want all I can get. 
 
 JONES (appreciating the humorous turn she is giving to it). I'll do 
 what I can for you. (He bends and kisses her hand.) 
 
 (From below R. comes a loud splash and a faint shout.) 
 
THE NEW MORALITY 55 
 
 JONES (Burning and moving towards it). Hullo, what's . . . 
 
 BELA. (merely putting his head above the deck's edge, R.). The orator 
 
 has fallen into the water. 
 BETTY (laughing). Fish him out, please. We want him to take a 
 
 note to Muriel. Don't we Ivor ? (She opens her case and 
 
 selects a sheet of paper.) 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 ALGERNON HORATIO GOSSAMORE, THIRD DUKE OF KEELS. 
 
 GEORGE FREDERICK GOSSAMORE, EARL OF WORPLESDON, his Cousin. 
 
 ALGERNON GEORGE FREDERICK GOSSAMORE, Son to the Earl. 
 
 LADY O'HOYLE, Aunt to the Cousins ; a Gossamore by birth. 
 
 HENRY BENTLY, M.R, the Duke's Secretary. 
 
 PAULINE CHEVERELLE. 
 
 TENBY. 
 
 The action of the play takes place at Eftswood, Lord Worplesdon's place 
 in Surrey. The times of the three acts being : 
 
 ACT I. Between 6 and j p.m. on a Wednesday in July. 
 ACT II. Before breakfast the next morning. 
 ACT III. After lunch the same day. 
 
 57 
 
ACT I 
 
 SCENE 
 
 THE HALL AND STAIRCASE OF EFTSWOOD 
 
 The great front door stands open R. ; the staircase curves from 
 c. to up L., where it joins a gallery extending across back. 
 There are two doors opening on to the gallery, and a 
 curtained opening at the L. end of it leads to the rest of 
 the upper floors of the house. 
 
 There is a door below the stairs L. leading into the dining-room, 
 and another exit up L.c. leading into the servants' quarters. 
 
 On either side of the front door there is a stained-glass window. 
 Through these, and through the open door, the slanting rays 
 of the sinking sun fall upon the well-polished oak staircase 
 and the handsome Stuart furniture : A day-bed, or cane- 
 seated settee below the staircase L.C., a couple of high- 
 backed chairs up R., and two handsome oak chests serving 
 as window-seats on either side of the front door. There 
 are rugs on the floor, and a rich red carpet climbs the stairs. 
 
 The walls are oak-panelled and carry a few choice pieces of 
 old brass : a warming-pan, a tinder-box, and a pair of 
 candelabra. 
 
 The curtain rises on an empty stage, but there is a scrunch of 
 feet on the gravel outside, and in a few seconds LORD 
 WORPLESDON enters through the open door. 
 
 He is a fairly tall man of fifty -one or two lean, and with a 
 slight inclination to stoop. His hair is more grey than one 
 would expect from his face, and his moustache close- 
 trimmed about his mouth is only slightly grizzled. His 
 hands are slender and white. 
 
 He wears a perfectly cut but loosely comfortable lounge suit of 
 light grey tweed. His tie and collar are snowy white. A 
 fine chain from his buttonhole to his outside breast-pocket 
 suggests pince-nez. His manner is quietly pleasant and 
 reserved, with an inclination to be dryly and kindly 
 humorous a well-bred man of the studious rather than the 
 sporting, country-gentleman type ; of position and family, 
 and possessed of a very comfortable income. 
 
 He enters carrying in his hand a soft grey hat and an ash stick 
 which he hands to a footman who enters from up L. to meet 
 him. 
 
 59 
 
60 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 WORPLESDON. I missed them. (He is obviously fatigued and sits on 
 
 the chest in the window below door.) 
 TENBY. Yes, Melord. His Lordship and the lady arrived about 
 
 ten minutes ago. 
 
 (A young gentleman appears upon the gallery, entering by one 
 of the doors. He is ALGERNON GEORGE FREDERICK GOSSA- 
 MORE, only son of the Earl downstairs. A nice-looking 
 youngster of twenty-three, of a rather sporting type. He 
 only resembles his father in his general well-bredness and 
 in the curious configuration of his nose it is the Gossamore 
 nose. 
 
 He wears a well-cut lounge suit of a sporting pattern, an eye 
 glass, and his hair is sleeked back. An imitation of him 
 would be a bounder, but he does it quite naturally, and is 
 thoroughly likeable. Hearing the voices below he leans over 
 and hails his father as the servant retires with the hat and 
 stick.) 
 
 ALGERNON (on gallery). Hullo, Dad 1 
 
 WORPLESDON (looking up). Hullo, young manl You dodged me 
 
 very neatly. 
 ALGERNON (with sincere regret). I know : Tenby told me I'm 
 
 awfully sorry. I'd no idea you'd come to meet us. We cut 
 
 over the hill and round through the woods. 
 WORPLESDON (with a twinkle). " Cut ? " 
 ALGERNON. Well . . .it's pleasanter that way. Did you get 
 
 right to the station ? 
 WORPLESDON. Nearly. I met the car, and Jarrat told me you'd 
 
 set out to walk. 
 
 ALGERNON. Did you come back in the car ? 
 WORPLESDON. No, I'm sorry to say I didn't. 
 ALGERNON (sympathetically). Fagged? 
 WORPLESDON (admitting it reluctantly). Yes, rather. 
 ALGERNON. It's only a mile and a half. 
 WORPLESDON. Only a mile and a half and I'm winded ! Eheu, 
 
 fugit irreparabile tempus \ 
 
 ALGERNON (descending the stairs slowly). It's a tiring sort of day. 
 WORPLESDON (quizzingly) . Did you find it so, coming round by the 
 
 woods ? 
 
 ALGERNON (still descending step by step). Oh well, I had company. 
 WORPLESDON (nodding perceptively). All too short. I know ! 
 
 (Reminiscently) I've " had company " too, young man. 
 ALGERNON (reaching foot of stairs). I'm sure you have, Dad. 
 WORPLESDON (regarding his son humorously). Do you know why 
 
 I came to meet you and Mrs. Cheverelle ? 
 ALGERNON. It was awfully decent of you. 
 WORPLESDON. Thanks. But it wasn't just for hospitality's sake. 
 
 I came to warn you ! 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 61 
 
 ALGERNON (unnerved). Warn me ? What about ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (his smile deepening). Who do you expect will be the 
 
 first member of the family beyond myself to inspect your 
 
 future wife ? . . . 
 ALGERNON (sitting on the chest by his father and drumming his heels 
 
 against it). Aunt Mary. Bet a hat on it 1 
 WORPLESDON. You would win. And how soon do you expect 
 
 Mrs. Cheverelle will have to undergo that ordeal ? 
 ALGERNON (gloomily). Within the week ... I know Aunt 
 
 Mary. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Say within the hour . . . 
 
 ALGERNON (jumping from his seat and facing his father). What? . . . 
 WORPLESDON. Your Aunt Mary is upstairs now, recovering from 
 
 the effects of a cruelly fast drive over from Pitt Place. 
 ALGERNON (angrily). What's her hurry? 
 WORPLESDON (dryly). She says a stitch in time saves nine. 
 ALGERNON. Why, we might have run into her unawares ! And 
 
 you came to warn us 1 I say, you are a brick, Dad ! 
 WORPLESDON. Thank you. 
 ALGERNON. It's a bit rough on Peter, isn't it ? 
 WORPLESDON. Peter ? 
 ALGERNON. I call her Peter . . . Mrs. Cheverelle, you know . . . 
 
 short for Pauline. 
 WORPLESDON (gravely). I see. 
 ALGERNON (still enthusiastically). You're a brick to stand by us, 
 
 Dad. It isn't as if you knew her, even. It's jolly decent of 
 
 you 1 
 WORPLESDON (gratified). I don't think I'm standing by you to any 
 
 very great extent, my boy. I want to treat you fairly and 
 
 reasonably. 
 
 ALGERNON. Well, that's unusual enough in a father. 
 WORPLESDON (smiling and continuing). I could scarcely expect you 
 
 to respect my wishes if I objected to your engagement to 
 
 Mrs. Cheverelle without so much as having seen her. But 
 
 (more gravely) Algernon if after seeing her I then am un 
 able to consent to your engagement, I hope you will appreciate 
 
 the fact that I am speaking not from any prejudice against 
 
 her because she is a widow, or because she is of no family 
 
 I could do that now but from 
 
 ALGERNON (interrupting cheerfully). I know, Dad ; you mean 
 
 you'll judge her on points and not on pedigree. That's all 
 
 right. It's as good as settled, then. 
 WORPLESDON (relaxing into a smile). I hope so, I'm sure, my boy. 
 
 And when shall I have the pleasure of meeting her ? 
 ALGERNON (looking up the stairs and offL.). I'm hanging about for 
 
 her now. She said she'd dab some powder on her nose and 
 
 come straight down. 
 WORPLESDON (musing). Your aunt said she would bathe her eyes. 
 
62 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 ALGERNON (returning to his annoyance with his aunt). Confound 
 her it, I mean ! Rotten of her coming round the first day 
 like this. Disrespectful to you, too. She ought to have 
 given you time to see whether you were going to object or 
 not before shoving in her oar. 
 
 WORPLESDON. She knew I wouldn't. 
 
 ALGERNON. How could she ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. Well . . . she said she knew I wouldn't. 
 
 ALGERNON (going gloomily to settee below stairs, L.). She'll hate 
 Peter. Women always do. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Oh ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes ; she's not a woman's woman, you know. She's 
 
 too clever for 'em. 
 WORPLESDON. Clever ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Rather. She can do what she likes with you. 
 WORPLESDON (reflectively). H'm. 
 ALGERNON (scenting disapproval). I say, Dad, you're not going to 
 
 be prejudiced against her just because she's clever ? 
 WORPLESDON. No, I'm not. (Quizzing his son) So you've found 
 
 out that she can do what she likes with you ? You're wiser 
 
 than I was at your age. 
 ALGERNON. Bless you, Dad, I didn't find it out ! She pointed it 
 
 out to me. 
 WORPLESDON (eyebrows up). She pointed out to you that she 
 
 always got her own way ? 
 
 ALGERNON. YeS. 
 
 WORPLESDON. But why ? 
 
 ALGERNON. To convince me it was no good trying to stop her. 
 
 WORPLESDON (with a laugh). Ha, ha ! you spotted that ! 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes she pointed it out to me. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Wait a minute ! (He places his palm over his closed 
 eyes for a moment in burlesque thought, then uncovers them again 
 with a shake of his head.) This is a new type of the problem. 
 
 ALGERNON (very anxious to remove the false impression). Oh, she's 
 not a problem, Dad. She's the most transparent creature I ever 
 met. She lets you see the motive for every blessed thing she 
 does. And she's awfully truthful. She fairly begged me to 
 tell you nothing but the exact truth about her. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Yes ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes. " Tell your father the whole truth about me," 
 she said. " Then I'll be such a relief to him when he sees me 
 that he'll think me quite nice." 
 
 WORPLESDON (laughing). Really ! 
 
 (PAULINE CHEVERELLE enters through curtained opening on to 
 gallery. She has heard this last speech of ALGERNON'S, 
 and as she comes down the stairs she speaks to LORD 
 WORPLESDON without waiting to be introduced.) 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 63 
 
 PAULINE. Well . . . and aren't you ? 
 
 (LORD WORPLESDON rises. She takes his outstretched hand 
 as she reaches the foot of the stairs. She is a fascinating 
 little woman, probably twenty-eight to thirty years of age, 
 but looking in some respects younger and in some respects 
 older. She is beautifully gowned. There is no attempt 
 at an introduction from ALGERNON, who has risen and 
 merely looks on. She still holds LORD WORPLESDON'S 
 hand, and, looking up into his face, repeats, with a touch 
 of entreaty in her voice :) 
 
 PAULINE. Aren't you ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (courteous and visibly impressed). I am certainly 
 
 pleased to see you. 
 PAULINE. And relieved ? Oh, say that you are relieved, too, or 
 
 I shall think that Algy has not given you a sufficiently truthful 
 
 account of me. 
 WORPLESDON (smiling down at her). He has been telling me that 
 
 you were too clever for most women, and that you always 
 
 got your own way with people. 
 PAULINE (simply). Only with men. Now I want you to admit 
 
 that you're tremendously relieved at my appearance. I 
 
 don't look as bad as I sound, do I ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (laughing and protesting). My dear Mrs. Cheverelle. 
 PAULINE. Well, then, say how relieved you are. (She waits a 
 
 second, looking up into his face.) I want you to. 
 WORPLESDON. To say it just because you want me to would rob 
 
 the statement of its sincerity. I would rather have said it 
 
 without any compulsion. (With convinced sincerity) I do 
 
 say it without any compulsion. I am exceedingly relieved. 
 PAULINE (with a touch of pleased surprise at the compliment). Oh 
 
 . . . that's very nice of you ! (She turns away from him to 
 
 hide her lack of blushes.) 
 ALGERNON. Come and sit here, Peter. 
 PAULINE. Mayn't I sit on the stairs ? I look ever so much more 
 
 bewitching on the stairs. (She sits on the stairs.) You don't 
 
 mind my sitting on the stairs, do you, Lord Worplesdon ? 
 WORPLESDON. Since you always do what you want to, why ask 
 
 me ? 
 PAULINE. So's to have someone to shift the blame on to if I get 
 
 into trouble for it. 
 
 WORPLESDON. And who are you likely to get into trouble with ? 
 PAULINE. I dunno . . . (Looking brightly from one to the other) 
 
 Aunt Mary ? 
 
 ALGERNON. You know she's here ? 
 PAULINE (nodding). The maid who unpacked my boxes told me. 
 
 (With hasty candour) Of course, I asked her. You know how 
 
 inquisitive I am. 
 
64 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 WORPLESDON. I fancy we all are. (Reassuringly, but with a touch 
 
 of sarcasm) I don't think you need be afraid of Lady O'Hoyle, 
 
 Mrs. Cheverelle. 
 
 PAULINE. Oh, I'm not afraid of her. 
 
 ALGERNON (gloomily to his father). I suppose the Dook will be com 
 ing down soon, too ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. I suppose so. He hasn't written. 
 PAULINE. I'm awfully afraid of meeting the Duke. He's such a 
 
 great man. I hope I shall get on with him. 
 ALGERNON. Get on the right side of Bently, and you needn't 
 
 worry about the chief. 
 PAULINE (seeking enlightenment). Bently ? 
 WORPLESDON (explaining). My cousin's secretary his right-hand 
 
 man, in fact. He's quite invaluable both to the Duke and 
 
 to the party. 
 ALGERNON. Especially to the party. Why, he runs the Duke. 
 
 You know the kind of chap . . . brains sticking out all over 
 
 him. Packed full of information. A perfect monster of 
 
 method. . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON (putting in a word of justice). And loyal, Algernon. 
 ALGERNON. Oh, dead loyal. Stick at nothing to serve the people 
 
 who serve him best. He's set out to make the Dook, and he's 
 
 doing it fast. 
 
 PAULINE (her head on one side). Why don't you like him ? 
 ALGERNON (rather taken aback). Oh, I don't dislike him exactly. 
 
 But I dunno he always makes me feel I'd like to beat 
 
 him somehow. 
 
 WORPLESDON (smiling). To " out him," I think, is the vernacular. 
 ALGERNON. But I don't dislike him. I of course, I admire him. 
 
 But . . . 
 PAULINE (nodding). I know. The natural antipathy of blood to 
 
 brains. (Horrified at her own remark) Oh dear ! 
 WORPLESDON (pleasantly). Quite right, Mrs. Cheverelle. It's there, 
 
 that antipathy. I wonder what it means. 
 PAULINE. No, it isn't. What I ought to have said is : of mere 
 
 blood to mere brains. 
 ALGERNON (laughing). Thank you. 
 PAULINE. Now I've made it worse. I don't mean that either. 
 
 What I mean is of blood to mere brains. 
 WORPLESDON. That's more palatable, certainly. 
 PAULINE. And it was what I meant really, it was. Only, I suppose, 
 
 being quite common myself, I gave it that nasty Radical twist. 
 
 (Looking up and catching WORPLESDON 's eye) Well, go on. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Go On ? 
 
 PAULINE. Yes, go on ... cross-examine me. Ask me leading 
 questions about my family, and all the rest of it. 
 
 WORPLESDON. I had no intention of cross-examining you, I assure 
 you. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 65 
 
 PAULINE. You looked . . * 
 
 WORPLESDON. I was thinking . . . (Hesitates.) 
 
 PAULINE. Yes . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON. I was thinking that you looked very young to be a 
 widow. 
 
 PAULINE (dryly). Yes, that's a very good leading question, but I'm 
 not going to tell you my age, so it's wasted. 
 
 WORPLESDON. You seem to think me rather an ogre. 
 
 PAULINE. No, I don't. I think you're very nice. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Ah, now you're flattering me. 
 
 PAULINE. Of course, I am. I flatter everyone I want to get round 
 if they're flatterable. You're easier to flatter than most people. 
 
 WORPLESDON. H'm . . . ambiguous. 
 
 PAULINE (nodding deeply). I mean it both ways. 
 
 ALGERNON (elated). She is a cool proposition, isn't she, Dad ? 
 
 PAULINE (shocked). Oh, there's an awful thing to call a poor little 
 adventuress like me 1 
 
 WORPLESDON (laughing). My dear . . . 
 
 PAULINE. Yes ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. Do you usually describe yourself as an adventuress ? 
 
 PAULINE (nodding, with a shade of seriousness creeping into her tone). 
 Since I've been a widow on two hundred a year. (With sad 
 conviction) So I am. 
 
 ALGERNON (unco mfortable) . Peter. Don't. 
 
 PAULINE. Why not ? (Suddenly very earnestly to LORD WORPLES 
 DON) Lord Worplesdon, what do you call a young woman 
 a young widow poor of no family and in debt who 
 pounces on an unsuspecting boy and makes him marry her ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. But you're fond of him ? 
 
 PAULINE. Answer my question. Whether she's fond of the boy or 
 not, what do you call her ? An adventuress ? (Gives him a 
 moment to reply, then} I hope you're not trying to think of a 
 worse word. 
 
 WORPLESDON. No, no, no. Yes I call her an adventuress, I 
 suppose. (Humorously) But not to her face. 
 
 PAULINE (very seriously). I would rather you called me that to my 
 face than behind my back. 
 
 WORPLESDON (alarmed). Mrs. Cheverelle 
 
 PAULINE (interrupting). No of course you've never called me so. 
 But confess you have thought of me so ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. I confess : I have. 
 
 ALGERNON. Dad I 
 
 WORPLESDON. Well, she asked for it. 
 
 PAULINE. I did. (Performing another quick change back to her 
 cheerful, semi-impertinent manner) And you're quite right : I 
 am an adventuress. Haven't I been saying so ? And now 
 that you've called me one to my face (quaintly) do you 
 respect me any the less for it ? 
 
 5 
 
66 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 WORPLESDON (losing his head). No ... (emphatically). 
 
 PAULINE. That's all right ! Now I know where I am. And will 
 you accept me as an adventuress as your future daughter- 
 in-law ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (recovering himself and parrying). My dear young 
 lady, I hardly know you yet. 
 
 PAULINE. I improve on acquaintance. (Very winningly) Come, 
 please accept me. You'll have to sooner or later, you know. 
 I don't mean to be beaten when I've almost got him. 
 
 WORPLESDON. You mean that you will marry Algernon without 
 my consent if I withhold it ? 
 
 PAULINE (horrified). Good gracious, no ! What an awful idea 
 and how uncomfortable I'd be. No. I'll marry Algy with 
 your consent. 
 
 WORPLESDON (nodding, mollified). Or not at all. 
 
 PAULINE. I beg your pardon ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. I said, " Or not at all." You will marry Algernon 
 with my consent or not at all. I merely completed your sentence. 
 
 PAULINE (firmly). Oh no, you didn't. You tacked on a bit of your 
 own. There's no " or not at all " about it. My sentence was : 
 " I'll marry him with your consent." Full stop and go on to 
 the next subject. 
 
 ALGERNON (laughing). You'd better give in, Dad. You'll have to 
 in the end. 
 
 WORPLESDON (his annoyance rising). This is not playing the game, 
 Algernon. Mrs. Cheverelle, I am sorry, but I must say it. 
 This is not playing the game. The understanding was that 
 you should pay us a visit here and that we would afterwards 
 discuss your engagement to my son. You may think our 
 attitude unnecessarily formal and and . . . 
 
 PAULINE. Oh no ! Oh no ! 
 
 WORPLESDON. You understand ours is a family of national 
 importance. We owe it to the country to consider how we 
 make alliances. Algernon is not only my son, but he is heir 
 to my cousin the Duke unless my cousin marries thus late 
 in life. I am most anxious to treat my son fairly and 
 sympathetically but there was that understanding. You 
 are not playing the game. 
 
 PAULINE (deeply penitent). I'm so sorry. I see I'm not. I've really 
 no sense of honour. Isn't it awful ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. I am sure you have a very strong sense of honour. 
 But in this case . . . 
 
 PAULINE. You're very kind and forgiving, but it's no use pretending. 
 My sense of honour simply isn't there ! Of course I see now 
 that I've been behaving most abominably. 
 
 WORPLESDON. No, no, no. 
 
 PAULINE. But I really didn't know until you pointed it out to me. 
 (Gratefully) Thank you. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 67 
 
 WORPLESDON. You make me feel as if I had been lecturing you. 
 PAULINE (very humbly)* So you have ; and quite right too. Please 
 
 lecture me whenever you think I deserve it ; just as you would 
 
 your own daughter. 
 
 (WORPLESDON gasps and is silent. ALGERNON smothers a 
 gleeful chuckle.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (recovering and reminiscing quietly). When I was a 
 boy, one of my grandfather's grooms took me into Guildford to 
 see a badger baited. I remember that the dogs evinced great 
 joy and got severely bitten ; and also that the badger the 
 groom told me that she was an experienced old lady wound 
 up the proceedings by allowing herself to be dragged weakly 
 from her barrel with apparently no fight left in her. I forget 
 exactly what followed, but the upshot of it was that one of the 
 dogs was hors de combat, and the badger was back in her barrel. 
 Conversing with you recalls it strangely to my memory. 
 
 PAULINE (brightly). Thank you ! Now you're calling me an ex 
 perienced old lady ! (Suddenly making a discovery her voice 
 taking a deeper tone) But you're right ! I am like that ! I 
 do pretend to be beaten just to get back into my barrel. I 
 never realised it before, but now that you point it out . . . 
 (Gazing at WORPLESDON) It's wonderful ! I believe you can 
 see through me as if I were a bit of glass. 
 
 WORPLESDON (dryly). Algernon tells me anyone can. 
 
 PAULINE (with a kind glance at ALGERNON). Anyone who likes me, 
 I expect. 
 
 (TENBY enters from up L. He addresses LORD WORPLESDON.) 
 
 TENBY. Will your Lordship speak to Mister Melch on the 'phone ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. Mr. Mclch ? (Rising.) Grosvenor Square ? 
 
 TENBY. Yes, Melord. 
 
 ALGERNON. Shall I see what he wants, Dad ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. Yes, do, my boy. 
 
 ALGERNON. Right. (Goes off behind stairs followed by TENBY.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (sitting again). Beastly things telephones. 
 
 PAULINE. I love them. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Yes ? 
 
 PAULINE. Yes, I love everything that helps. 
 
 WORPLESDON. " Helps ? " 
 
 PAULINE. Yes, I can't explain, but they're useful. Whenever 
 I see that they're getting cheaper, or that a new motor's been 
 brought out, or a new flying record's been broken, I crow 
 all over. 
 
 WORPLESDON. You're a quaint person. 
 
 PAULINE, I know I am. But I'm finding out a lot about myself. 
 I'm an experienced old lady, and I remind you of a badger. . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON (protesting with a laugh). I didn't say that. 
 
68 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 PAULINE. You implied it ; and I admitted that you were right. 
 
 The simile was perfect. Still, it gives me a funny feeling to be 
 
 seen through like that. 
 WORPLESDON. You're used to it. 
 PAULINE (decidedly). Oh no, I'm not. 
 WORPLESDON (reminding her). Algernon . . . 
 PAULINE. Did you believe him when he told you that he could see 
 
 through me ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. I believed that you helped him to. Yes. 
 PAULINE (marvelling). There I You're right again ! This is 
 
 awful 1 Helped him to yes ! J But here you are finding 
 
 out all my little tricks without any help at all. I shall have 
 
 to go. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Go ? Why ? 
 PAULINE. You'll be finding out all my past life. (Confessing 
 
 pathetically) Oh, I've got a bit of a past, you know. 
 WORPLESDON. Nothing very terrible, I'm sure. 
 PAULINE. I don't know. (Pathetically) My husband filled up his 
 
 share of my life with experience. And I suppose experience 
 
 and a past mean the same thing ? 
 WORPLESDON. Your husband is dead now, though. 
 PAULINE (suddenly shrewd). Did you think he wasn't ? 
 WORPLESDON (taken aback, but after a second rather coldly). I confess 
 
 I wondered. 
 PAULINE. You wouldn't have if you'd seen the way he used to mix 
 
 his drinks. 
 
 (The unexpected vulgarity startles a laugh out of LORD 
 
 WORPLESDON.) 
 
 PAULINE (looking at him in childlike wonder). Now you're laughing. 
 It's wonderful how a silly vulgarism tickles a clever man like 
 you I (With another sudden change of tone : this time to the 
 serious, hurt, and regretful) I'm sorry you should have 
 wondered, though. Algy must have told you that I was a 
 widow. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Yes but widows . . . 
 
 PAULINE (injured innocence at its loftiest). A widow is a woman 
 whose husband is dead, Lord Worplesdon. My husband is 
 dead. I may be an adventuress, but I am not a liar. 
 
 WORPLESDON. I beg your pardon. 
 
 PAULINE. Thank you. You don't really see through me at all 
 only my tricks. But that is no reason for thinking me so 
 so wicked. Perhaps if I were a worse woman you would not 
 be able to see through them quite so easily. 
 
 WORPLESDON (beaten). I have said I was sorry. You really are 
 very sensitive. 
 
 PAULINE. Yes, I am sensitive. I suppose being alone in the 
 world, and poor, and proud, makes me so. (Looking up at him 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 69 
 
 almost tearfully) Oh, do sit down ; you make me feel so 
 wicked standing over me like that. (She quite unconsciously 
 moves along the stair to make room for him to sit beside her, which 
 he does also unconsciously.) 
 
 WORPLESDON. I've really no desire to make you feel wicked. 
 
 PAULINE (gratefully). Thank you. No, of course you haven't. 
 It's my own conscience that makes me feel so. (With a sudden 
 outburst of shame and misery pathetic to witness) Oh, you were 
 right ! You were quite right, Lord Worplesdon. I am an 
 adventuress. You were right to tell me so. 
 
 WORPLESDON. My dear I didn't . . . 
 
 PAULINE. Oh, I'm not asking you to withdraw it. 
 
 WORPLESDON. I'm not trying to withdraw . . . 
 
 PAULINE. No. Why should you ? You were right. I felt it 
 when you said it. 
 
 WORPLESDON. My dear, I said it at your instigation. 
 
 PAULINE. Please don't try to soften it. I'm not blaming you for 
 thinking so of me. I say you were right. I am an adventuress. 
 A shameless adventuress. 
 
 WORPLESDON. No, no, no. At least, not a shameless one. (With 
 an attempt at facetiousness) Indeed, I doubt if you'll ever be 
 a successful one with that tender conscience of yours. There, 
 there, don't cry. (Produces a handkerchief from his pocket.) 
 You started the game of plain speech, you know. (Proffering 
 hanky) Come, wipe your eyes. 
 
 PAULINE (turning her tearful eyes upon him). I'm not crying. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Oh, aren't you ? What do you call these, then ? 
 (He dabs at her cheeks unprofessionally with the hanky.) 
 
 (LADY O'HOYLE comes into sight through the curtained opening 
 on the gallery and starts to descend the stairs. She is 
 a dark- eyed, hooked-nosed old lady, still vigorous in a 
 crabbed, jerky way. She wears black with the dowdiness 
 of a true aristocrat of reputation and age beyond question. 
 The backs of the two on the stairs are towards her. She 
 pauses a few steps above them and looks down upon them. 
 LORD WORPLESDON is still dabbing the lady's eyes, his old 
 experience of the art returning to him with practice.) 
 LADY O'HOYLE (icily). May I pass, Frederick ? 
 
 (They both start out of her way, WORPLESDON getting down 
 L.C., MRS. CHEVERELLE up R.C., and LADY O'H. standing 
 between them. MRS. c. is quite unnecessarily flustered.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (laughing at the situation). Mary, this is Mrs. 
 
 Cheverelle. Mrs. Cheverelle Lady O'Hoyle. 
 PAULINE (in pitiable confusion). Oh, how awful you should have 
 
 caught us (checking herself with a glance at WORPLESDON) 
 
 I mean, you should have caught me looking like this. 
 
 (Dabbing at her eyes with LORD w.'s hanky) I never cry, 
 
70 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 reaUy. (Starting guiltily) Oh, I've got your handkerchief, 
 Lord Worplesdon ! How awful ! (Passes it to him guiltily 
 across her ladyship.) Please (LADY O'H. looks at her) 
 oh, please don't look at me like that, Mrs. I mean Lady 
 oh, you make me all curl up. I think I'd better run and bathe 
 my eyes. (She runs upstairs and off along gallery.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (calmly turning to WORPLESDON after watching the 
 specimen off). What's the matter with her ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (nonplussed) . I really don't know. I thought . . . 
 (wiping his forehead). She's terribly sensitive. 
 
 LADY O'H. (firmly : she is a woman of quick decisions). She is a 
 country bumpkin ! She blushes when you look at her. 
 Well (sitting on settee), that's better than what I expected to 
 find. We shall be able to manage her all right. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Think so ? 
 
 LADY O'H. Don't you ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. No, I don't. She may be rather over-sensitive, 
 but she's quite a woman of the world. 
 
 LADY O'H. Rubbish. A woman of the world would have tried 
 to brazen it out. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Brazen what out ? 
 
 LADY O'H. Why, that you had been trying to flirt with her. 
 
 WORPLESDON. My dear Mary . . . 
 
 LADY O'H. Frederick, please don't compel me to call you a liar. 
 I shall most certainly do so if you attempt to deny that you 
 were flirting with that child. 
 
 WORPLESDON (resignedly). Oh, very well. 
 
 (ALGERNON returns up L. with a troubled face.) 
 
 ALGERNON. I say, Dad . . . (Seeing LADY O'H.) Hullo, Aunt 
 
 Mary ! I didn't see you. (Kisses her dutifully.) Come to give 
 
 us your blessing ? You haven't lost much time. 
 WORPLESDON. What were you going to say, Algernon ? 
 ALGERNON. Oh Melch I can't make him out. He wants me 
 
 to give a message to the Duke. I told him the Duke wasn't 
 
 here, and he said he soon would be. 
 LADY O'H. Quite right ; so he will. I sent him a wire telling him 
 
 to come at once. 
 ALGERNON. Oh, I say, Aunt Mary. It's not fair turning the 
 
 whole family on to her like this. 
 LADY O'H. I thought it would take the whole family to cope with 
 
 her. I was wrong. 
 ALGERNON. " Cope with her ? " 
 
 WORPLESDON (dryly). Your aunt admits she was wrong. 
 LADY O'H. I do. She is frightened out of her wits by just one 
 
 of us. 
 
 ALGERNON (looking round). Where is she ? 
 WORPLESDON. She went upstairs to bathe her eyes. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 71 
 
 ALGERNON. Bathe her eyes ? I say has she been crying ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (briefly). Howling. 
 
 ALGERNON (greatly distressed). Oh, I say, why ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (seeking exculpation). You know when I told her she 
 
 was an adventuress . . . 
 ALGERNON (aghast). Dad! . . . 
 LADY O'H. Frederick, have you been . . . ? 
 WORPLESDON. Don't look like that, my boy. You were there at 
 
 the time. 
 ALGERNON (remembering). Oh, then. (Shaking his head.) Yes, I 
 
 saw that she was hurt, though she tried not to show it. You 
 
 should be more careful, Dad. 
 
 (WORPLESDON is at a loss for a reply. While he is gasping 
 for one, LADY O'H. addresses him severely.) 
 
 LADY O'H. Frederick, what have you been doing ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. I . . . 
 
 LADY O'H. (waving him aside). I told you not to do anything without 
 me. (Explosively) Good heavens ! What a bull-at-a-gate 
 way to go to work ! Even if she were an adventuress, what 
 good would it do to tell her so ? It would merely put her 
 on her guard. ... As it is, you've hurt the feelings of a 
 harmless little fool. And fools are only manageable when 
 they're not upset. 
 
 (PAULINE April smiles appears on gallery.) 
 
 PAULINE (with subdued cheerfulness). Here I am. Please forgive 
 me for running away. 
 
 (She comes down the stairs. ALGERNON meets her at stair- 
 foot and kisses her hand affectionately. LADY O'H. on 
 the settee points this out to LORD WORPLESDON standing 
 near her.) 
 
 LADY O'H. There you are ! And you can't blame the boy. If 
 
 he's got a scrap of decent feeling he's bound to stand by her 
 
 after your atrocious behaviour. 
 WORPLESDON (hopelessly). Mrs. Cheverelle, I appeal to you. Didn't 
 
 you absolutely ask me to call you an adventuress ? 
 PAULINE (surprised at the question). Oh no ! 
 WORPLESDON (pleadingly). No- perhaps not quite. ... I mean ; 
 
 didn't you . . . My dear boy, you were there at the time. . . . 
 
 Didn't you ask me what I called a woman who . . . 
 PAULINE (helping him along). Who did what I have done 
 
 yes ? 
 WORPLESDON (turning to the others). Well well and I told 
 
 her . . . 
 LADY O'H. (icily). You called the child an adventuress to her face, 
 
 we quite understand. 
 
72 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 WORPLESDON (almost tearfully). She put the words into my mouth. 
 
 (A last appeal) Mrs. Cheverelle, didn't you actually ask 
 
 me if I didn't call you an adventuress ? 
 PAULINE. Yes. 
 
 WORPLESDON (relieved). There I 
 PAULINE. But I hoped you'd say "no." I expected you to say 
 
 WORPLESDON (losing courage). I thought you were 
 
 PAULINE. I was joking. I never expected you to take me so 
 
 brutally seriously. 
 WORPLESDON (beaten again). My dear Mrs. Cheverelle, if I have 
 
 hurt you, I beg your pardon most profoundly. We were at 
 
 cross purposes. How was I to know you were so acutely 
 
 sensitive to what I might think of you ? 
 PAULINE (seriously). Of course I care what you think of me if 
 
 I'm going to marry Algy. 
 
 (WORPLESDON swallows hard, but makes no attempt to reply.) 
 
 PAULINE. My position is invidious enough as it is ... 
 
 LADY O'H. (interrupting with great firmness). Your position is not 
 
 invidious at all, my child. Don't talk any more nonsense. 
 
 You are here for us to make your acquaintance, that is all. 
 
 The question of your engagement to Algernon does not even 
 
 arise till we know you. It is all nonsense thinking yourself 
 
 an adventuress. Rich men marry poor girls sometimes, don't 
 
 they? 
 PAULINE (gratefully). Oh, thank you. I thought you'd all think 
 
 me so designing. 
 
 LADY O'H. We did. We don't now. Does that satisfy ? 
 PAULINE (with a deep breath of gratitude). Yes. 
 
 (PAULINE turns to ALGERNON and the two wander out onto the 
 porch, watched by LADY O'H.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (turning contemptuously to LORD WORPLESDON). Silly 
 
 little fool I Where on earth did Algernon pick her up ? 
 WORPLESDON. Paignton. I wish to goodness he'd left her on the 
 
 beach. 
 
 LADY O'H. Frederick I 
 
 WORPLESDON (savagely). Or rather she'd left him in his boat. 
 LADY O'H. You seem still to have the ridiculous idea that the girl 
 
 is a sort of siren. 
 
 WORPLESDON. You put it into my head. 
 LADY O'H. (admitting it). Before I had seen her. I never dreamed 
 
 that Algernon could take the initiative in making a fool of 
 
 himself. (Rising in a business-like way) Now where is she ? 
 WORPLESDON (looking round and out of the door.) On the drive 
 
 weeping at Algernon, I expect. 
 LADY O'H. Don't be so ill-natured, Frederick. We can prevent 
 
 this match without behaving like brutes, I hope. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 73 
 
 WORPLESDON. Oh, you still mean to prevent the match ? 
 LADY O'H. Certainly I do. 
 
 WORPLESDON. How ? 
 
 LADY O'H. I naturally prepared my plans for the adventuress you 
 were so certain she would turn out to be. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Oh ! 
 
 LADY O'H. But they're useless against that child. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Too harsh ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (ignoring the sarcasm). I don't think we shall have much 
 difficulty. By the look of the girl she'll cry off herself before 
 the week's out. She's frightened to death already. (Nodding) 
 We must overawe her. 
 
 WORPLESDON. My dear Mary. She isn't a milkmaid. 
 
 LADY O'H. Fiddlesticks. She comes from Croydon, or Brixton, 
 or some such outlandish place. 
 
 WORPLESDON (dryly). Her clothes suggest it, don't they ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (overriding all argument). What do you know about 
 clothes ? They're from a dress agency. I saw that at once. 
 (Resuming.) Croydon or Brixton, or the Garden Suburb. And 
 she'll be glad to get back there, too. (Nodding to herself) 
 Overawe her ; that's the trick. Overawe her quite nicely and 
 kindly. (Goes out through front door.) 
 
 (LORD WORPLESDON listens to the conversation on the porch.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (speaking off with lofty kindness). Have you shown Mrs. 
 
 Cheverelle the rhododendrons yet, Algernon ? 
 ALGERNON (off). She's scarcely been here an hour, you know, 
 
 Aunt Mary. 
 LADY O'H. (as before). You must certainly see them, Mrs. Cheverelle. 
 
 They are quite a feature of Eftswood. Come along. I will 
 
 show them to you. Algernon, go and talk to your father. 
 ALGERNON (off). Righto. Good-bye, dear- 
 PAULINE (off). Good-bye. 
 
 (ALGERNON returns into room and sees his father upon the 
 settee. He hesitates a moment before speaking.) 
 
 ALGERNON. I say, Pater, I'm afraid you don't understand women. 
 
 WORPLESDON (snorting). I'm afraid I don't. Do you ? 
 
 ALGERNON (modestly). I understand Peter a little. You mustn't 
 think when she runs herself down that she means you to. 
 She's very sensitive. 
 
 WORPLESDON (rising violently). Gracious heavens 1 ... 
 
 ALGERNON (placably). I'm not blaming you, Dad. You didn't 
 understand, that's all. I I made her cry once or twice 
 before I saw that what she really wanted was to be contradicted 
 reassured that I loved her and all that sort of thing. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Did you always succeed in doing so ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Oh yes after a bit. 
 
74 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 WORPLESDON (appreciatively). H'm. You'll have a pleasant time 
 
 of it if she keeps it up after you're married. 
 ALGERNON (meditatively). Yes . . . 
 WORPLESDON (smiling). Had you thought of that ? 
 ALGERNON (still more meditatively). Ye es. 
 WORPLESDON (turning on him, eyebrows up). Hullo ! 
 ALGERNON (guiltily answering the look). What do you mean ? 
 WORPLESDON. You sound rather . . . 
 
 ALGERNON (hotly). Don't talk nonsense, Dad ; I'm awfully fond 
 of her. (Candidly ; disarming suspicion) Of course I know 
 that she'll be a bit difficult to get on with. She's older than 
 me, and all that. And it'd be easier if she were in our set, 
 too. But I'd be a howling cad to go back on her just because 
 she's not. It'd break her heart. She trusts me so implicitly. 
 (Sorrowfully regarding his father) I'm sorry you should have 
 upset her, Dad. 
 WORPLESDON (pathetically). My dear boy, I never meant to. I 
 
 I I'm out of practice. 
 
 ALGERNON (mollified). Yes, I know, Dad ; it's all right. (Cheer 
 fully) As a matter of fact, your little faux pas introduced 
 her to Aunt Mary in a decent light, and got the old lady on to 
 her side, so it doesn't matter. 
 WORPLESDON (dryly). I'm glad. 
 
 (The hum of an approaching motor is heard, emphasised by a 
 series of toots. ALGERNON goes up and looks out at door. 
 The motor is drawing nearer at an enormous pace.) 
 ALGERNON (at door). Hullo, it's the Rolls-Royce. 
 WORPLESDON. They're in good time for dinner. 
 ALGERNON. Broke a record, I bet : Bently's driving. 
 
 (The motor thuds up and stops outside. TENBY and another 
 footman come through from servants' quarters L.C. The 
 DUKE OF KEELS, , a well-built, determined little man of 
 forty-eight, with a very fine specimen of the family nose, 
 enters in coat and cap from motoring. ALGERNON, being 
 at door, shakes hands first.) 
 ALGERNON. How are you, sir ? 
 
 KEELS (allowing TENBY to help him off with his coat). Pretty well. 
 (Free from coat he crosses to WORPLESDON.) Ah, Fred. Mary 
 wired that you would want us. 
 WORPLESDON (looking across at ALGERNON with a smile). Bently is 
 
 with you ? 
 
 KEELS. Of course. He drove us down in (consulting watch) 
 I dunno something appalling, I suppose. 
 
 ( The footman goes out at front door and returns immediately 
 with two portmanteaux. He follows TENBY who carries 
 the DUKE'S coat and cap up the stairs and off along 
 gallery.) 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 75 
 
 WORPLESDON. You are staying over the week-end. 
 
 KEELS (impressively). We shall stay as long as is necessary. 
 
 (ALGERNON exits angrily by door, leaving the DUKE alone with 
 his cousin.) 
 
 KEELS (looking round to ensure privacy). My dear Fred, this is a 
 very serious affair. She has arrived ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (nodding). Yes. 
 
 KEELS (trying to recall the name). Mrs. Mrs. . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON. Cheverelle. 
 
 KEELS (rolling the word on his tongue). Cheverelle. H'm. Cheve 
 relle. Doesn't sound quite the thing. I've never heard it 
 before, though. Not notorious. That at least we may be 
 thankful for. Is she to be bought off or ... 
 
 WORPLESDON. Shsh. 
 
 (ALGERNON returns through door with BENTLY : a tall, clean 
 shaven man of thirty, wearing a deep frown, a brown 
 lounge suit, and a tweed overcoat. He carries a tweed 
 cap in his hand.) 
 
 ALGERNON (talking to Bently as they enter). Well, then, why don't 
 you go back to town and try to do it in less ? I never saw 
 anything like you maniacs. (To the others) Twenty-six 
 miles, done in fifty minutes through three towns, too and he 
 grouses because he's done it before. 
 
 WORPLESDON (shaking Bently' s hand). " What man has done, man 
 can do " isn't enough for you, eh ? 
 
 BENTLY (laughing). I prefer " What man has done, man can beat." 
 
 KEELS. This record-breaking mania is a sad vice. 
 
 BENTLY (taking off his coat). The twentieth-century perversion of 
 the sporting instinct, sir. 
 
 (TENBY, just returned from upstairs, takes his coat from him 
 and is about to exit up L.C. when ALGERNON stops him.) 
 
 ALGERNON. Wait a moment. 
 
 (TENBY stops.) 
 
 ALGERNON (to the DUKE). Whisky and soda ? 
 
 KEELS. Ah ! Yes. 
 
 ALGERNON. Bently ? 
 
 BENTLY (going to door and looking out). No, thanks. 
 
 ALGERNON. I forgot. Have a glass of milk, or some nuts, or 
 
 something ? 
 
 BENTLY (laughing). Neither, thanks. 
 ALGERNON. Whisky and soda, Tenby. 
 
 (TENBY exits.) 
 
 BENTLY. I'll garage the car myself, I think, sir, if you don't want 
 me. 
 
76 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 KEELS. Go ahead. 
 
 (BENTLY goes out at door. ALGERNON stands just outside door 
 watching him at the car. The two elders resume their 
 conversation.) 
 
 KEELS. Did you say she was here ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. YeS. 
 
 KEELS. Where ? . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON. Inspecting the rhododendrons with Mary. 
 
 KEELS (inquiringly). Oh ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. Yes, the old lady has a kindly little scheme on to 
 
 frighten her off. 
 KEELS. How ? 
 WORPLESDON (sarcastically as he sits by the DUKE). Freeze her with 
 
 our grandeur. Terrify her with our magnificence. Overawe 
 
 her . . . 
 
 KEELS. You don't think it will work ? 
 WORPLESDON. I don't . . . 
 ALGERNON (at the door). Hullo 1 
 
 (The two in the hall turn as LADY O'H. and PAULINE enter. 
 PAULINE hesitates, R.C. ; LADY O'H. crosses to the DUKE, 
 who rises as does LORD WORPLESDON. ALGERNON is 
 down R.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (as she crosses). Ah, Horace, I saw the car and Henry. 
 
 (Exchanging a family kiss.) Good boy. 
 WORPLESDON. Mrs. Cheverelle, let me introduce you to my cousin, 
 
 the Duke of Keels. 
 
 PAULINE (very timidly). How do you do ? 
 KEELS. How do you do ? (Holding out his hand, which she takes.) 
 
 (The DUKE, not knowing what else to do, studies PAULINE, 
 who quails visibly under his glance. Suddenly becoming 
 self-conscious, he drops her hand and turns to the nearest 
 person LORD WORPLESDON saying :) 
 
 KEELS. What when how about dinner ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (amused). What do you mean ? How about it ? 
 
 KEELS. Er dressing . . . 
 
 PAULINE (in an arresting tone to ALGERNON). Algy, I want to speak 
 
 to you. 
 
 ALGERNON. All right. Come along . . . 
 PAULINE. No I'd rather say it here : I . . . 
 
 (Everyone is now looking at her.) 
 
 ALGERNON. What ? . . . 
 
 PAULINE. I want you to let me break off our engagement. 
 ALGERNON. Good Lord I Why ? 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 77 
 
 PAULINE (gaining courage). I I am out of place here. I feel it 
 every moment I am amongst your people. I feel overawed. 
 
 (WORPLESDON chuckles. LADY O'H. turns on him with a 
 glare) 
 
 ALGERNON. Has anyone been saying anything to you ? 
 
 PAULINE. Oh no ; you've all been very nice to me. That's the 
 awful part of it. The nicer you are the more overawed I 
 feel. Your aunt has been particularly kind to me and I 
 know she did all she could to make me feel at home but, 
 really, she makes me feel worse than anyone else does I She 
 was only trying to be nice to me. She asked me if I liked 
 O donto glossums, and I didn't know what she meant ! 
 It was awful 1 And then she told me that the lawn was laid 
 out by your great great gredtf-grandfather. . . . (Turning to 
 LADY O'H.) It was three greats, wasn't it, Lady O'Hoyle ? 
 
 (LADY O'H. makes no reply. PAULINE continues.) 
 
 It overawed me. It reminded me that / haven't the faintest 
 notion what my great-great-great-grandfather did. I see I'm 
 just a common little thing in your eyes. 
 
 ALGERNON. Nonsense, Peter. Do / make you feel so ? 
 
 PAULINE (guardedly). No, you don't, but . . . 
 
 ALGERNON (in the tone one uses to a nervous child). Peter, you're 
 being very silly. I'm sorry if Aunt Mary has made you un 
 comfortable ; but I didn't know what what 's-t heir-names 
 were until the Pater went in for them ; and I haven't the ghost 
 of an idea what my great -great -great -grandfather did besides 
 laying out that beastly lawn ; so you see, these things that 
 " overawe " you are ridiculously unimportant. 
 
 PAULINE (willing to be convinced). Yes ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes. Aren't they, Dad ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (unwillingly). Quite, oh, quite. 
 
 ALGERNON (to Pauline again). Now you're not going to talk any 
 more nonsense, are you ? 
 
 PAULINE. No. (With a burst of thankfulness) Oh, how glad I am 
 I told you at once instead of letting people worry me as they 
 might have done unintentionally, of course if I'd let them. 
 
 (LADY O'H. rises and goes upstairs, ploddingly, and without a 
 word.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (with a touch of malice). Where are you going, Mary ? 
 LADY O'H. I am going to dress for dinner. (Goes off along gallery.) 
 ALGERNON (surprised). Why, what's the time ? (Looks at watch) 
 
 Oh, time enough. (To Pauline) Perhaps you'd better dress, 
 
 dear. 
 PAULINE (obediently). Very well. (With a smile to the others she 
 
 starts up the stairs.) 
 
78 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 ALGERNON. And : . . 
 
 (She stops and turns on stairs.) 
 ALGERNON. . . . promise me you won't talk any more nonsense 
 
 about feeling overawed. Nobody wants to make you feel so. 
 PAULINE (candidly). No, I'm sure they don't now. (Exits along 
 
 gallery.) 
 
 (TENBY enters with decanters, syphons, and glasses, which he puts 
 on the chest above door and exits. ALGERNON busies him 
 self with drinks.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (stitt watching Pauline off). Little devil ! 
 
 KEELS. Why, what do you mean ? 
 
 ALGERNON (bringing them each a drink). Here you are. I'm going 
 out to study the sunset. (Returns to the chest, takes a glass there 
 from, and strolls out through open door. The light is waning and 
 rosy.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (sitting again with a sigh). She is a little devil, my 
 dear Horace. See how neatly she stopped Mary's game ? 
 
 KEELS (indignantly). Mary played her game very badly if you 
 call it a game, trying to frighten the child with her her 
 snobbishness. 
 
 WORPLESDON (quietly). I don't fancy Mary played her game so 
 badly as our young friend would have us believe. 
 
 KEELS. Nonsense, Fred. You're prejudiced against her. Your 
 plan was ridiculous. 
 
 WORPLESDON. My plan ? 
 
 KEELS. Well, Mary's plan. You concocted it between you. 
 There's only one way to manage this. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Oh ? 
 
 KEELS. Yes. Buy her off. 
 
 WORPLESDON. She'd be insulted at the suggestion. 
 
 KEELS (magnificently). That'll cost a bit more, of course. 
 
 WORPLESDON (with appreciation). My dear Horace, I wish I had 
 
 your magnificent lack of intelligence. It'll get you on, you 
 
 know. 
 
 KEELS (uncomprehending). What do you mean ? 
 WORPLESDON. Do you really believe that Mrs. Cheverelle is to be 
 
 bought off ? 
 KEELS. Certainly. 
 WORPLESDON (interested in the other's mentality). You don't happen 
 
 to perceive that by merely refusing to be bought off she can 
 
 have about twenty times as much cash as even you can offer 
 
 her, with a good position into the bargain. 
 
 (The DUKE snorts, unconvinced.) 
 
 WORPLESDON. Why, confound it all, Horace, do you mean to say you 
 don't see that she can be Duchess of Keels and Marchioness of 
 Worplesdon with all Keelshire and Eftswood and perhaps Mary's 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 79 
 
 place thrown in just by marrying Algernon and waiting in 
 
 comfort ! 
 
 KEELS. Nonsense. 
 WORPLESDON (nodding philosophically). You don't see it ! How 
 
 stupendous ! How omnipotent ! I who do am powerless. 
 
 But you if you can say nonsense to such obvious facts well, 
 
 I shouldn't be surprised if you succeeded in buying her off in 
 
 spite of them. 
 
 KEELS. I've no doubt I shall. 
 WORPLESDON. Good ! No wonder your weight turns the scale of 
 
 parties when Bently elects to pull you off the fence. 
 KEELS (stolidly). Are you trying to be rude ? 
 WORPLESDON. I am. How did you guess ? 
 KEELS. You dragged in Bently. They always drag in Bently when 
 
 they want to be rude in the House. (Good-humouredly) It's 
 
 all right, my dear Fred ; I don't mind. It's always annoying to 
 
 have one's plans miscarry. 
 WORPLESDON (with a touch of irritation). My plans have not 
 
 miscarried, Horace; for the very simple reason that I 
 
 have made no plans. I doubt whether I shall make any 
 
 " plans." 
 
 KEELS. You want Algernon to marry beneath him ? 
 WORPLESDON. There is a great difference between not wanting a 
 
 thing and seeing one's way to prevent it. 
 KEELS. Algernon is your son. I suppose you have some authority 
 
 with him. 
 WORPLESDON. I have a great deal of authority with him, but there 
 
 are some things ... I have authority with Mole, the gardener, 
 
 yet Mole married his first cousin I disapprove strongly of 
 
 marriages between cousins. Mole is an avowed atheist. I 
 
 share the usual prejudice against avowed atheists amongst the 
 
 ]ower classes. Yet somehow I don't feel entitled to interfere 
 
 with Mole in these matters. 
 KEELS. Algernon is your son. 
 WORPLESDON. Am I to be less tolerant to my son than to my 
 
 gardener ? 
 KEELS (practically). You can make things a lot more uncomfortable 
 
 for him. 
 WORPLESDON. True, but the power to make people uncomfortable 
 
 is not precisely authority. 
 KEELS. I'd like to know what else it is. 
 WORPLESDON (grimly). You never will. No, Horace I don't want 
 
 Algernon to marry beneath him, but there are more deadly 
 
 sins, you know. 
 
 KEELS. There are none more uncomfortable. 
 WORPLESDON (musing). And being my boy whom I'm fond of 
 
 I suppose that should weigh with me a good deal if you were 
 
 right but I'm not sure you are. Life's pretty uncomfortable 
 
8o ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 anyway and I'm not sure but that I'd rather see him uncom 
 fortable mildly uncomfortable than . . . (Pauses.) 
 
 KEES. Than that ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. I was thinking of Archie Vownes mainly and a 
 dozen other boys of Algernon's age who have never married 
 beneath them or done anything to give their families trouble 
 beyond the trouble of signing cheques. They have never 
 looked too high for their loves or too low for their wives, and 
 I suppose they are quite comfortable yet I should hate to 
 see Algernon like them. 
 
 KEELS. You're very virtuous. 
 
 WORPLESDON. I'm afraid it's not so much virtue as Algernon's 
 happiness. I don't know if these comfortable young men are 
 happy, I rather fancy not anyway, I am sure Algernon 
 would not be on their lines. He must have something fine 
 about him to want to marry beneath him, you know. 
 
 KEELS (staring). I don't see why. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Don't you ? Well ... It takes some pluck. 
 
 KEELS. All fools are plucky. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Don't say that to the Territorials on Thursday. 
 And it's chivalrous I suppose you'll say all fools are chiv 
 alrous ? My fear has been all along that his chivalrousness 
 may have got him into a trap and kept him there. 
 
 KEELS. You mean that she may be after him for his money ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (nodding) . . . And if I thought that . . . 
 
 KEELS. Well, my dear Fred, don't you think it ? She's a widow, 
 she's older than he is she's a nobody from nowhere . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON (oracularly) . Widows have loved again, marriages 
 been happy despite disparity and even nobodies from no 
 where may have hearts. 
 
 KEELS. Yes, but, damn it, man she's all three I 
 
 WORPLESDON (laughing). Oh, direful quantity it almost convinces 
 me. Three possibilities don't make one certainty, you know, 
 Horace, yet . . . Come along, let's go and dress for dinner. I 
 give you best, Horace ; she certainly is all three and it worries 
 me. I wish I saw a way in case . . . 
 
 KEELS. I've seen a way, I've already told you . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON. Yes, yes but we can't all be Machiavellis you 
 need an equal to appreciate you. 
 
 (TENBY enters and takes gong-beater.) 
 Here's Tenby. 
 
 TENBY. Dressing-bell, m'lord. 
 WORPLESDON (covering his ears). Go ahead. 
 
 (TENBY beats gong a loud one DUKE also covers his ears till 
 beating is done.) 
 
 KEELS (uncovering). What an infernal machine 1 (Going upstairs.) 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 81 
 
 WORPLESDON. It is a bit resonant, isn't it. You know your room ? 
 KEELS. Yes. (Exits.) 
 
 (WORPLESDON turns to place his cigarette in ash-tray. 
 
 ALGERNON enters. TENBY exits.) 
 ALGERNON. Dressing's late. (Crossing.) 
 WORPLESDON (looking at watch). Yes. 
 ALGERNON (pausing on stairs). I say, Dad ! 
 
 WORPLESDON. YeS. 
 
 ALGERNON. I've been thinking. Does it occur to you that possibly 
 
 Aunt Mary may have been trying to frighten Peter into giving 
 
 me up ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (dryly). Good gracious, no ! Has it occurred to you ? 
 ALGERNON (dubiously). I don't know. From what Peter said 
 
 well, it sounded . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON. Yes from what Peter said it did. 
 ALGERNON. What a dirty trick ! 
 
 (He is going up the stairs as PAULINE re-enters on to gallery. 
 
 She is in evening dress.) 
 ALGERNON. Dressed already ? 
 PAULINE. Yes ; I made up my mind to be very quick, so that no 
 
 one could say that I was putting on my complexion. 
 ALGERNON. Peter ! 
 
 (She passes him and starts to descend stairs. He goes off along 
 
 gallery.) 
 PAULINE (stopping on the stairs as she sees Lord Worplesdon, and then 
 
 coming and sitting beside him on the settee). I was hoping to find 
 
 you alone. (Cheerfully) I do hope you forgive me. 
 WORPLESDON (regarding her nervously). Forgive you ? 
 PAULINE (with a pleasant little laugh). Yes ; for having made you 
 
 look so foolish over having called me an adventuress. 
 
 (Settling herself comfortably beside him on settee) Of course 
 
 you saw that I was only acting. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Did I ? 
 
 PAULINE. Of course you did ; you know you did. 
 
 WORPLESDON. At any rate, I didn't expect you to be admitting it 
 
 ten minutes after. 
 PAULINE (laughing frankly). I'm sorry. It was such a chance to 
 
 put myself in a good light with Lady O'Hoyle. I simply had 
 
 to make a confederate of you. 
 WORPLESDON. A confederate ! Are you a moral pressgang ? I 
 
 am not your confederate. 
 PAULINE. Confess you were very glad to see Lady O'Hoyle 
 
 tripped up so nicely. 
 WORPLESDON. I didn't help you . . . 
 PAULINE. Yes, you did. You held one end of the string. You'd 
 
 be sorry to see me beaten now, wouldn't you ? You're quite 
 
 hoping that 111 marry Algy in spite of everyone. 
 6 
 
82 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 WORPLESDON. I do not hope that you'll marry Algernon. I am 
 
 entirely opposed. 
 PAULINE. Don't you like me ? 
 WORPLESDON. I like you very much. 
 
 PAULINE. I'm adaptable, you know. And I'm fairly clever. 
 WORPLESDON. Clever I 
 PAULINE. Don't you think I am ? 
 WORPLESDON. You're an artist. 
 PAULINE. No, I'm not. (Sadly) I have a little art but one needs 
 
 luck to be an artist. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Luck ? 
 
 PAULINE. And my art. ... There are the applied arts, and the 
 misapplied arts. My art, I think . . . don't you call it 
 misapplied ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (nodding). I'm afraid I do. 
 
 (BENTLY enters from R. through door.) 
 
 WORPLESDON. Hullo, Bently ; let me introduce you . . . Mrs. 
 
 Cheverelle, Mr. Bently. 
 PAULINE. How do you do. (Charmingly) I've been dying to 
 
 meet you. I've heard such a lot about you from Algy. 
 BENTLY. You're very kind. 
 PAULINE (playing her game). You think I just said that to flatter 
 
 you. 
 
 BENTLY. Oh no. 
 PAULINE. Yes, you do. I can see that you do. (Dawning wonder) 
 
 And you're right, too ! I did say it ... just to flatter you. 
 
 How wonderful that you should see through me like that. 
 
 Can you always see through people ? 
 BENTLY (laughing and not a bit impressed). Really, Mrs. Cheverelle, 
 
 these commonplace courtesies can generally be seen through 
 
 if one takes the trouble, can't they? Only they're scarcely 
 
 worth it. (Goes on upstairs and off.) 
 PAULINE (looking after him). Superior beast. 
 WORPLESDON (laughing at her). Your misapplied art doesn't always 
 
 work, does it ? Perhaps this is your luck. 
 PAULINE. My luck ? 
 WORPLESDON. You were saying that to be an artist one wanted 
 
 luck. I took it that you meant opportunity. Here is your 
 
 opportunity to try a subtler art ... 
 PAULINE (frankly). I don't in the least know what you are talking 
 
 about. (Sitting on the stairs and patting the stair beside her) 
 
 Come and sit down and tell me why I mustn't marry Algy. 
 WORPLESDON (dubiously). I ought to be dressing for dinner. 
 
 (He goes and sits beside her. The last rays of the setting sun 
 fall upon them as the curtain descends.) 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE 
 THE RHODODENDRONS. A PART OF THE PARK NEAR THE HOUSE 
 
 In the background, sky latticed by tall pine and beech trees ; 
 the edge of a wood. Near is a great bough of high rhodo 
 dendrons in full flower extending from R. to L. There are 
 other large clumps R. and L., leaving entrance above them 
 R. and L., and also below them not gravelled paths, mere 
 grassy ways that widen into a clearing which occupies the 
 greater part of the centre of the stage. 
 
 A white garden settee stands L. in front of bough, a table is at its 
 upper end, and a chair is lying on the grass L.c. 
 
 The curtain rises on an empty stage. LORD WORPLESDON and 
 LADY O'H. are approaching from up L., their voices pre 
 ceding them by a moment. 
 
 WORPLESDON (off). No, my dear Mary, no. I do not agree with you. 
 
 (They enter and slowly cross stage towards down R. exit.) 
 I have one objection to offer, and one only she is too old for 
 Algernon. She confessed to me last night that she was five 
 years his senior. Five years I and the discrepancy is on the 
 wrong side. On the other side, twenty-five would not mean so 
 much. I see no other objection to welcoming her as a member 
 of our family. She is charming, clever . . . 
 
 LADY O'H. (dryly). But you consider her too old. 
 
 (They are now at the down R. exit, and just strolling off.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (as they exit). Too old for Algernon too old for 
 Algernon. The boy's . . . (His voice dies away.) 
 
 (ALGERNON wriggles out of concealment amongst the bushes up 
 c. He comes down and stares after his father with puzzled 
 expression. Something attracts his attention to the upper 
 R. entrance, where, after a second, BENTLY enters, walking 
 fast. He pulls up on seeing ALGERNON.) 
 
 ALGERNON (disappointed). Hullo 1 
 
 BENTLY. Good morning. Waiting for Mrs. Cheverelle ? 
 
 ALGERNON (grudgingly). Ye es. (Looks at watch.) Oh, I say ! 
 
 BENTLY. Which stage have you reached ? The fear that something 
 has happened to her ; that she's muddled the appointment and 
 is waiting at the wrong place ; that she's forgotten altogether 
 
 83 
 
84 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 or the conviction that she remembers perfectly, but can't 
 
 be bothered with you ? 
 ALGERNON. She can't be looking for me anywhere. I've been all 
 
 over the shop. 
 BENTLY. Any help to know that she left the house just ahead of 
 
 me ? 
 
 ALGERNON (jumping up). No ! Did you pass her ? 
 BENTLY. I didn't. I expected to catch her up about here. 
 ALGERNON (impetuously) . I'll go and meet her. (Crosses rapidly 
 
 towards up R. exit.) 
 BENTLY. Since I didn't overtake her you'll . . . 
 
 (But ALGERNON is off. BENTLY, after looking after him in 
 amusement for a moment, goes to seat, where he sits, taking 
 out a notebook and turning its pages quietly and attentively.) 
 
 (PAULINE strolls on from up L. She stops, surprised to see 
 
 BENTLY, Who rises.) 
 
 PAULINE. Oh, how you startled me 1 
 
 BENTLY. Lord Gossamore has gone towards the house to meet you. 
 
 PAULINE. There, now I And I've been looking for him everywhere 
 for the last half-hour I Why did he go towards the house ? 
 
 BENTLY. I told him I had just seen you leave it. 
 
 PAULINE (quite amiably). Well, you are a pig ! 
 
 BENTLY. May I speak to you for a moment ? 
 
 PAULINE (surprised and curious). Ye es. 
 
 BENTLY. As you know, I act for His Grace. I would be glad to 
 know how much you would be willing to accept to release 
 Lord Gossamore. 
 
 PAULINE. How much I ... 
 
 BENTLY. It may save time if I tell you I am empowered to offer 
 you five thousand pounds. 
 
 PAULINE (theatrically). Do you know that you are insulting me ? 
 
 BENTLY (amiably dismissing the suggestion). Oh no. 
 
 PAULINE. But I say you are ! You are suggesting that I only want 
 to marry Algy for his money. 
 
 BENTLY. The exact suggestion expressed in my offer is that your 
 love for him is so deep that it is worth no less than five thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 PAULINE (resenting the irony). The exact suggestion is that an 
 immediate income of thousands a year, with a title, and im 
 mense prospects, is worth no more than five thousand pounds. 
 
 (BENTLY smiles the smile of a beaten man who expected defeat. 
 She studies him curiously.) 
 
 PAULINE. You're a clever man. Why did you make me such a 
 
 silly offer ? 
 
 BENTLY. Obviously in the hope that you'd accept it. 
 PAULINE. You never expected me to. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 85 
 
 BENTLY. Well no. But you'd be surprised how often these 
 things come off. 
 
 PAULINE (indignantly). Would I, indeed ? I think you might have 
 known it wouldn't come off with me. 
 
 BENTLY. I have said I feared it wouldn't. 
 
 PAULINE. Thank you. 
 
 BENTLY. I don't think that you need thank me for crediting you 
 with a rough knowledge of bargaining. A wiser woman 
 might accept my offer. 
 
 PAULINE (incredulously). Accept ? Five thousand for my chances ? 
 
 BENTLY. Five thousand and freedom. Some women would prefer 
 it to a loveless marriage. 
 
 PAULINE. Would they ? Then they've had no experience of a pure 
 love-match. 
 
 BENTLY (surprised a little). And you have ? 
 
 PAULINE. Yes. So you needn't waste any more time sentimental 
 ising. 
 
 BENTLY. My time is my employer's. 
 
 PAULINE (scornfully). Yes ; and you do his bidding just like a 
 machine. 
 
 BENTLY. It's very helpful to work under orders like a machine 
 sometimes. 
 
 PAULINE. Even when you're sent to make ridiculous suggestions 
 and drive impossible bargains ? 
 
 BENTLY. Even then. Impossible bargains never occur to reasoning 
 men like myself. We overrate the shopkeepers' intelligence. 
 
 PAULINE. I see. The Duke doesn't make that mistake. 
 
 BENTLY. Nothing can induce him to. I used to try to point out 
 to him that no one in their senses would accept his one-sided 
 offers. His reply was invariably : " Nonsense I Go and talk 
 'em over." 
 
 PAULINE (laughing). A pleasant job for you. 
 
 BENTLY. Yes. But you'd be surprised I've pulled it off quite 
 frequently. Not every time, of course. But when you're 
 offering ha'pence for half-crowns, if it comes off once in a 
 dozen tries you're the gainer. 
 
 PAULINE. Does the Duke appreciate that ? 
 
 BENTLY. Certainly not. 
 
 PAULINE. He can't expect you to succeed every time. It's un 
 reasonable. 
 
 BENTLY. Of course, it's unreasonable. That's what he's there 
 for. He supplies the unreasonable Will. I supply the reason 
 ing Brain. Client and Counsel. Did you ever notice the look 
 of surprise on a clever barrister's face when he gets the 
 judgment he's been asking for ? 
 
 PAULINE. No. 
 
 r.ENTLY. I have. And the cleverer he is, the more surprised he 
 looks ; especially when his client thanks him. Of course, he 
 
86 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 ought to be thanking the client for making him go on with 
 what he thought was a hopeless case. There is no knowing 
 what a great brain can accomplish when it is driven by a 
 determined, unreasoning Will. 
 
 PAULINE (thoughtfully). I suppose that's why clever men get on 
 better when they get married. 
 
 BENTLY (amused). You're not suggesting that women are . . . 
 
 PAULINE. No. no. But marriage means Responsibility. And 
 Responsibility is rather like a great, unreasoning Will, isn't it ? 
 
 BENTLY. Yes. 
 
 PAULINE. Why don't you get married ? 
 
 BENTLY. Are people usually anxious to take up responsibilities ? 
 
 PAULINE. Are people usually anxious to work under other people 
 for their ends ? 
 
 BENTLY. No. Still, one can leave the other people. 
 
 PAULINE (triumphantly). That's another argument for marriage. 
 It can't be left. What's the use of your great unreasoning will 
 if it can be shaken off when it gets too unreasonable ? 
 
 BENTLY. You're a great advocate for marriage ? 
 
 PAULINE (surprised). Am I ? I've no reason to be. 
 
 (They are quiet for a moment ; both thinking simultaneously, 
 they open their mouths to resume.) 
 
 PAULINE. After all ... 
 
 BENTLY. Still . . . 
 
 (WORPLESDON and LADY O'H., returning from down R., come 
 upon them.) 
 
 WORPLESDON. Good morning. 
 
 PAULINE. Good morning. (Then very deferentially to LADY O'H.) 
 
 Good morning. 
 
 LADY O'H. (going to settee and sitting). Good morning. 
 WORPLESDON. We were sorry not to see you at breakfast. 
 PAULINE. You'd have been sorrier if you had seen me. I really 
 
 can't be my own charming self at breakfast. I generally have 
 
 a headache and wake up cussing. 
 BENTLY (who has been floating a feather from his hand to the ground). 
 
 It's wonderfully still. 
 WORPLESDON. Suit you, eh ? 
 BENTLY. That's what I was thinking. 
 LADY O'H. Huh ! I'm glad that machine is smashed up. 
 BENTLY. She'll be aloft again next week. 
 PAULINE (grasping the subject of the conversation suddenly and in 
 
 very genuine excitement). Oh ! Do you fly ? 
 
 BENTLY. I do. 
 
 PAULINE. Why didn't you tell me ? 
 
 BENTLY. Really, you can't expect me to make the announcement 
 to everyone I meet. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 87 
 
 PAULINE. It must be lovely. I do admire you so. 
 
 BENTLY (coldly, mistaking her enthusiasm for gush). Thank you. 
 
 PAULINE. I mean all of you airmen. The feeling and the 
 
 danger don't you just love it ? 
 BENTLY. We love the danger so much that we risk our lives daily 
 
 trying to decrease it. 
 WORPLESDON. And when the game's as safe as croquet, you'll 
 
 drop it. 
 
 LADY O'H. You'll kill yourself in that machine yet. 
 BENTLY (the usual defence). My dear Lady O'Hoyle, believe me, it's 
 
 the safest pastime on earth . . . 
 LADY O'H. On earth, yes but you don't stop there. 
 BENTLY (laughing). We always come back to it. 
 LADY O'H. What earthly need is there for men to go flying about 
 
 in the air ? 
 
 BENTLY. Man has satisfied his needs and is now taking his oppor 
 tunities. 
 WORPLESDON (with a look at PAULINE). Progressing from Nature 
 
 to Art. 
 
 LADY O'H. What's art got to do with it ? 
 WORPLESDON. Mrs. Cheverelle has a theory that art's mainspring 
 
 is opportunity. 
 
 PAULINE. Have I ? I didn't know I had. 
 BENTLY. Don't disclaim it ; it's a good theory. 
 LADY O'H. How about that second post ? 
 WORPLESDON (looking at his watch). Must be in by now. (To the 
 
 others) Coming to the house ? 
 
 BENTLY. I am. Mrs. Cheverelle is waiting for Lord Gossamore. 
 WORPLESDON. Men are really the unpunctual sex, aren't they, 
 
 Mrs. Cheverelle ? 
 
 PAULINE. Oh, I don't mind. Good-bye. (She sits resignedly.) 
 BENTLY. I suppose the Duke's not gone out yet ? 
 WORPLESDON. I believe he's thinking in the drawing-room. I 
 
 heard the piano. 
 BENTLY. I shall give him something more to think about (with 
 
 a glance back at PAULINE). 
 
 (WORPLESDON, LADY O'H., and BENTLY exeunt up R., leaving 
 PAULINE on seat. Immediately ALGERNON'S voice is 
 heard, greeting them, out of breath.) 
 
 ALGERNON (off). Hullo . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON (off, with a touch of reproof in his voice). Mrs. Cheverelle 
 is waiting for you, Algernon. 
 
 (ALGERNON runs on up R.) 
 
 PAULINE (rising). You needn't have hurried, Algy I don't mind 
 waiting. 
 
 ALGERNON. I like that, when I've been looking for you every 
 where. I was here ages ago. 
 
88 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 PAULINE (brightly). Am I very late ? 
 
 ALGERNON (gloomily). Half an hour. 
 
 PAULINE (shocked). Algy ! 
 
 ALGERNON. What's wrong ? 
 
 PAULINE. You should never tell a lady that she is half an hour late. 
 
 ALGERNON. I didn't think that you wanted a lie. 
 
 PAULINE (admonishing him). You could have said : "I'm here 
 
 first." That wouldn't have been a lie. 
 ALGERNON (snorting). No. 
 PAULINE. And it would have sounded ever so much nicer than 
 
 (mimicking him) " half an hour." 
 ALGERNON (amused but resisting). Oh, rats ! I say, Peter you 
 
 know I'm getting fed up with this. We've scarcely had a 
 
 moment together since you arrived. You're always mono 
 polised by the Duke or the Governor. 
 PAULINE (gently). Well, I came here to make your people's 
 
 acquaintance. 
 
 ALGERNON. You're confoundedly thorough. 
 PAULINE (taking his arm and walking him towards L.). Don't be 
 
 frettish, Algy. I'm doing it for you. 
 ALGERNON. That's all jolly fine, but I do wish you'd give me a 
 
 bit more of your society. I'm fed up with old Bently. I'm 
 
 always being left behind with him. 
 PAULINE. I'm sorry. And you don't like Bently? (She sits 
 
 against table facing him.) 
 ALGERNON. No, I don't. Do you ? 
 PAULINE (emphatically). No. 
 ALGERNON. He talks about nothing but Mendelism, and what- 
 
 d'you-may-call-ums eugenics, and motors, and aeroplanes . . . 
 PAULINE (grudgingly). Yes, he's very clever. 
 ALGERNON (surprised). Clever ? Try and get him on to form, and 
 
 he's bored to death. He's only a specialist. 
 PAULINE (dubiously). What's form ? 
 ALGERNON. Racing form. Horses . . . 
 PAULINE. Oh, of course. (More brightly) He doesn't approve of 
 
 me. 
 ALGERNON. Oh, he's got some idiotic idea that our marriage will 
 
 injure the Duke's prestige. He's mad on the Duke. 
 PAULINE. Don't you think it's rather a pity so clever a man should 
 
 waste his time getting another man on ? 
 ALGERNON. Oh, he's nothing wonderful, really. He happens to 
 
 be what the Duke needs, that's all. 
 PAULINE. Still, if he worked for himself . . . 
 ALGERNON. He'd never do anything. 
 PAULINE (angrily). I bet he would. 
 
 ALGERNON. Well, don't put the idea into his head, or the Duke's 
 done for. He'd be getting off the fence on the unpopular 
 side and losing his reputation as an impartial man. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 89 
 
 PAULINE. I wasn't thinking of putting the idea into his head. 
 
 If a man's fool enough to waste his life working for another 
 
 man, he deserves . . . 
 ALGERNON (impatiently). Oh, let's drop him. You're getting on 
 
 all right with the Pater, any way, aren't you ? 
 PAULINE (with a smile). Oh yes I think your father likes me. 
 ALGERNON. Rather. You told him your age after all. 
 PAULINE. Did I ? Oh yes, I remember last night after dinner. 
 
 I had to be frank with him, he was so nice to me. 
 ALGERNON. Yes, I noticed he was ... I rather wish you hadn't 
 
 told him your age, though. 
 PAULINE. Why ? 
 ALGERNON. Of course, it's nothing to me that you're a couple of 
 
 years older than me, but the Dad seems prejudiced about it. 
 PAULINE. Oh ? 
 ALGERNON. Yes. (Regretfully) It's a pity, because in every 
 
 other respect he seems to be quite willing to give his consent. 
 
 (Reproachfully) You might have knocked off a couple of 
 
 years, Peter. 
 
 PAULINE. Yes. That never occurred to me ! 
 ALGERNON. The Dad will have to get used to it, that's all. He 
 
 likes you. 
 
 PAULINE (cheerfully). Oh yes ... 
 ALGERNON (shaking his head despondently). He was rather harping 
 
 on it, though. 
 
 PAULINE (curiously). When ? 
 ALGERNON. Just now to Aunt Mary. I dodged out of the way 
 
 to let them pass. He was saying that he saw no earthly 
 
 objection to you, except that you were too old for me. 
 PAULINE (interested). Really? (Considering deeply) Oh! 
 ALGERNON (misinterpreting the " Oh "). Yes. Pity you told him, 
 
 isn't it ? 
 
 PAULINE (still considering). What did he say again ? 
 ALGERNON (quoting). " No objection to welcoming her as a member 
 
 of the family, except that she's too old for him " that's me. 
 PAULINE. With the accent on the "you." "Too old for Alger 
 non " is that how he said it ? 
 ALGERNON (vaguely). Ye es. 
 PAULINE (her eyebrows raised whimsically). Dear me ; and he's 
 
 scarcely known me a day. Oh, this is so sudden ! 
 ALGERNON (not catching her words). What ? 
 PAULINE (settling herself on the settee and addressing Algernon 
 
 practically). I shouldn't be surprised if we do have to break 
 it off, Algy. 
 
 ALGERNON (amazed). Peter ! 
 PAULINE. Oh, don't look like that, boy ; you'd get over it ; you 
 
 know you would. 
 ALGERNON (beseechingly). Peter!! 
 
go ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 PAULINE. You'd begin to realise within twenty-four hours that 
 you were far happier without me. 
 
 ALGERNON. Peter I do wish you wouldn't go on like this. 
 
 PAULINE (realising it). Yes I've done it before, haven't I ? 
 (More kindly) Dear boy, don't you see that I have had to 
 go on like this to prevent your finding out that you don't 
 care two straws about me ? That I must keep you so busy 
 reassuring me that you want to marry me that you haven't 
 time to consider whether you really do or not ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Why should I keep on reassuring you that I do if I 
 don't ? 
 
 PAULINE. Because I make you, poor boy. I play upon your 
 chivalry and soft-heartedness, and that conceited belief in 
 your own constancy that all nice boys have. 
 
 ALGERNON. You talk as if you might be my grandmother. 
 
 PAULINE (smiling). I don't know about grand-mother. (Nodding 
 herself back to practicality again.) Yes ; I think I must let 
 you off. 
 
 ALGERNON. Let me off ? 
 
 PAULINE (nodding). Let you off marrying me. 
 
 ALGERNON. How do you know that I want to be let off ? 
 
 PAULINE. Don't you ? (Raising a finger and speaking very 
 earnestly.) Think selfishly. Put all your dear, conceited 
 fear of hurting me on one side. Try to believe that it won't 
 hurt me a bit to give you up. I could actually say good 
 bye now without a tear. Do you hear that ? It surprises 
 you, doesn't it ? 
 
 ALGERNON (reproachfully). Peter I 
 
 PAULINE. No, no, I'm not being nasty. It does surprise you, 
 doesn't it ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Well yes. 
 
 PAULINE. Now, answer my question. Don't you want me to let 
 you off ? 
 
 ALGERNON (wondering). How did you know ? 
 
 PAULINE (catching him). Aha I 
 
 ALGERNON (slowly and still wondering). I hardly knew it my 
 self. 
 
 PAULINE. You mean, you never admitted it to yourself ? (He nods 
 doubtfully.) That's because you are a gentleman. 
 
 ALGERNON. Did I ever show it ? 
 
 PAULINE. Never ! 
 
 ALGERNON (reassured, but still wondering vaguely). Then how . . . 
 
 PAULINE (rising and coming to him). Algy, I'll tell you something : 
 If every woman were to go to the man who had proposed to 
 her one week after accepting him, and convince him that it 
 would not break her heart to let him off there'd be an awful 
 decline in marriages. 
 
 ALGERNON. Oh, I say ! You are beastly cynical. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 91 
 
 PAULINE. Because I know that in men a certain vain pity for 
 the poor girl often bridges the months between the fascination 
 of the proposal and the love that conies later ? No, I'm not 
 cynical, Algy. I think it's very fine of you men to be willing 
 to sacrifice your whole lives rather than hurt a poor little 
 woman by admitting your mistake. And I'm so glad to know 
 that the sacrifice isn't such a great one as you think. 
 
 ALGERNON. I never heard you talk like this before. You're 
 saying the most awful things in the sweetest voice 
 imaginable. 
 
 PAULINE. Ah ! We've broken our bridge just in time. Come . . , 
 (she holds out her hand to him) shake hands and admit that 
 you're glad to be free again. 
 
 ALGERNON. I can't. 
 
 PAULINE. For fear of hurting me ? 
 
 ALGERNON. No. 
 
 PAULINE (insisting). Yess It won't. It (confessing) it will take 
 
 a great weight off my mind, if you want to know. 
 ALGERNON (hastily and candidly). Oh, all right! I am glad 
 
 honestly, I am. 
 
 PAULINE (laughing). Nice obliging boy. 
 ALGERNON (protesting). No, I'm not saying it to oblige. I only 
 
 hesitated . . . 
 PAULINE (finishing for him). Because you couldn't believe that I'd 
 
 be pleased to hear it. 
 ALGERNON (giving in and wiping his brow). Phew I I say, you do 
 
 flummox a chap. My brain feels as if it had been doing two 
 
 hours' solid gym. 
 PAULINE (smiling). Poor boy. 
 
 ALGERNON (on a fresh tack). I say may I ask you something ? 
 PAULINE. Yes. 
 
 ALGERNON. Why did you suddenly want to let me off ? 
 PAULINE (after a moment's consideration). Because of what you told 
 
 me your father had said. 
 ALGERNON. About your being too old for me ? 
 PAULINE (nodding). Yes about my being too old for you. (She 
 
 walks slowly towards lower L. exit, but stops and turns with an 
 
 idea.) Oh, Algy you'll tell him, won't you ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes. 
 
 (She goes off down L. ALGERNON stands staring after her, 
 still in some perplexity. The DUKE strolls on up R.) 
 
 KEELS. Seen your father, Algernon ? 
 
 ALGERNON (jumping and turning). Eh ? 
 
 KEELS (looking at him strangely). Hullo ! What's the matter ? 
 
 ALGERNON (hopefully). Why ? Do I look pale ? 
 
 KEELS. No. You look warm. Been walking fast ? 
 
 ALGERNON. No, I don't think so. 
 
92 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 KEELS (crossing to settee). Warm weather, you know must take 
 care of yourself. Was that Mrs. Cheverelle who just . . . 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes (hesitating over his news) I suppose the sooner 
 . . . (Taking the plunge) We've broken off our engagement, sir. 
 
 KEELS. Eh ? God bless my soul ! This is a pleasant surprise. 
 Sensible feller 1 Er er (warningly) but there never was any 
 engagement to break off, you know, really. 
 
 ALGERNON (a little ruefully). There never will be now, sir. 
 
 KEELS. A little (tapping heart) touched ? I know, I know. 
 We have to face an occasional twinge, you know. It's hard 
 on us, but we mustn't shirk it. You've done a very sensible 
 thing, my boy. I congratulate you. Ah you haven't written 
 her any letters, or anything that she can use, I hope ? 
 
 ALGERNON. I don't understand you, sir. 
 
 KEELS (explaining). Breach of promise ! Serious . . . 
 
 ALGERNON. She broke it off, sir ; I didn't. 
 
 KEELS (thoroughly surprised). She did ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes. 
 
 KEELS. Are you sure ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Positive. 
 
 KEELS (nonplussed). Without a ... By word of ... (Finding ex 
 pression) You haven't got it in writing ? 
 
 ALGERNON (amused). You think she may go back on it ? 
 
 KEELS. I don't know what to think. If she really has taken 
 the initiative, we must hush it up. 
 
 ALGERNON. Why ? 
 
 KEELS. Let the world know that you've been thrown over by an 
 adventuress ? No, no, no 1 Look as if we were insolvent ! 
 Why, it might cause a fall in Consols 1 
 
 (WORPLESDON returns down R. with LADY O'HOYLE.) 
 
 KEELS (as soon as he sees WORPLESDON). Fred, have you heard this ? 
 WORPLESDON. What ? (Stopping c., LADY O'H. on his R.) 
 KEELS. That woman's saved us all our trouble. 
 WORPLESDON. What woman ? What trouble ? 
 KEELS. Mrs. Cheverelle ; she's broken with Algernon. 
 WORPLESDON (with a great start). What ! (His step forward lands 
 
 on LADY O'H.'s/00tf.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (with a grimace of intense pain). Uph ! Frederick ! 
 
 You needn't trample on my foot. 
 
 WORPLESDON (hastily). I'm sorry, Mary. (To ALGERNON) When ? 
 LADY O'H. (limping to settee and sitting beside the DUKE). Let me sit 
 
 down. 
 WORPLESDON (still to ALGERNON in great excitement). Did she break 
 
 it off, or did you ? 
 ALGERNON. She did, right enough. 
 LADY O'H. (still groaning). I've only got one corn, Frederick, but 
 
 if you had aimed at it ... 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 93 
 
 WORPLESDON (impatiently). I'm sorry, Mary. (To ALGERNON) 
 
 When? 
 
 ALGERNON. Not five minutes ago. 
 WORPLESDON. Did she give any reason ? 
 ALGERNON. Yes ; because you'd said she was too old for me. 
 WORPLESDON (delightedly, jumping at it). So she is, my boy 
 
 much too old. Where is she ? \ 
 
 KEELS. Steady, Fred, steady! We are all glad . . . 
 WORPLESDON (starting off up L. in a great state of excitement). Which 
 
 way did she go ? 
 
 LADY O'H. You're not going after her, Frederick ? 
 WORPLESDON (checking himself). No, of course not why should 
 
 I? 
 
 LADY O'H (acidly). You seemed disposed to. 
 WORPLESDON. I only wanted to assure her that she was still a 
 
 welcome guest at Eftswood. (More calmly, coming c., to 
 
 ALGERNON) It's a blow to you, my boy, but you'll get over it. 
 ALGERNON (unco mfortably) . Oh, I'm all right, Dad! 
 WORPLESDON. Yes, yes ; of course, you see, she really was too old 
 
 for you. Five years your senior, you know. 
 ALGERNON. Two, Dad. 
 WORPLESDON. No, no five. 
 ALGERNON. I'm twenty-four, Dad. 
 WORPLESDON. Yes, yes and she's twenty-nine. 
 ALGERNON. Twenty-six, Dad. 
 WORPLESDON. No, no, no twenty-nine. She told me so only last 
 
 night twenty-nine. 
 ALGERNON. Well I understood . . . 
 WORPLESDON. She wouldn't make herself out older than she was, 
 
 would she ? Now, which way did she go ? 
 ALGERNON (lost in thought). I dunno towards the coverts. 
 WORPLESDON. Yes, yes. (Exits hastily down L.) 
 ALGERNON (looking after him). The Pater seems jolly excited over 
 
 Peter jilting me. 
 KEELS. We are all glad, Algernon, for your sake. In time you will 
 
 see how right we are, and be glad, too. 
 ALGERNON. Very likely. 
 
 (BENTLY enters hastily from up R. ALGERNON during the next 
 few lines strolls off up R. lighting a cigarette.) 
 
 BENTLY (approaching the DUKE). I thought I should find you here, 
 sir. Is there anything you wish to add to your letter to the 
 Prime Minister ? 
 
 KEELS (collecting himself and looking business-like). Ah um 
 what have I said ? 
 
 BENTLY. Nothing that would interest you, sir. 
 
 KEELS. Is there anything that I ought to add ? 
 
 BENTLY. Nothing, sir. 
 
94 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 KEELS. Yes . . . (Oracularly) Then don't add anything. I am 
 pledged to no course ? 
 
 BENTLY. No course whatever, sir. 
 
 KEELS. Ah the letter reveals nothing of what I think on the 
 subject ? 
 
 BENTLY. Not a scintilla, sir. 
 
 KEELS (suspiciously). What's that ? 
 
 BENTLY. A suggestion. Not a suggestion of what you think. 
 
 KEELS. Ha 1 Yes 1 (After deep thought) Better give him my 
 very kind regards. 
 
 BENTLY. Do you think it wise, sir ? 
 
 KEELS (apprehensively). Don't you ? 
 
 BENTLY. Very kind regards. He might build on it, sir. 
 
 KEELS. Ha true. What do you suggest ? 
 
 BENTLY (promptly). Omit the very. 
 
 KEELS. Good 1 Good 1 Do so. 
 
 BENTLY. I'll see to it, sir. (Turns to go.) 
 
 KEELS. Oh and Bently . . . (BENTLY stops and turns.) We 
 shan't have to bother any more about Lord Gossamore 's little 
 (looking round to make sure that ALGERNON is out of earshot) 
 entanglement. It's off. Mrs. Cheverelle has broken it off. 
 
 BENTLY. Not really ? (He returns c. in obvious surprise.) 
 
 KEELS. Yes. 
 
 (BENTLY stands c. in deep thought. The other two watch him 
 from the settee.) 
 
 LADY O'H. We are all nonplussed, Henry. Can you suggest any 
 
 motive for her action ? 
 KEELS (rising). Don't bother to try. She's saved us a round sum 
 
 of money and considerable unpleasantness. 
 BENTLY (doubtfully). Yes. 
 KEELS (looking at him). What do you mean ? 
 LADY O'H. Henry has his doubts about the unpleasantness being 
 
 safely past. Is that it ? 
 BENTLY. I'm afraid I have. 
 KEELS. Nonsense I She's definitely broken with Algernon. Only 
 
 by word of mouth, to be sure, but it's final. 
 BENTLY. Oh, I've no doubt it's final so far as Lord Gossamore is 
 
 concerned. 
 
 LADY O'H. Henry, do you suspect . . . 
 BENTLY. I'm afraid I do apprehend something, Lady O'Hoyle. 
 
 Why should she break with Lord Gossamore when she's sure 
 
 of him ? 
 KEELS. Is there always a reason for what a woman does ? (Sits 
 
 again to discuss it.) 
 BENTLY. A motive though not always a reasonable one. I 
 
 shouldn't suspect Mrs. Cheverelle of an unreasonable motive, 
 
 though. She left all those things behind her some years ago, 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 95 
 
 LADY O'H. You think she's designing, then ? 
 
 BENTLY. I think she has designs. 
 
 LADY O'H. Why, Henry, she's as transparent as a jelly-fish. 
 
 BENTLY. Do you know why a Jelly-fish is transparent ? So's 
 
 not to be seen too clearly. 
 
 KEELS (with some pride). I've seen a jelly-fish, distinctly. 
 BENTLY. Describe one. 
 
 KEELS. Well er it's a transparent creature. . . ; 
 BENTLY. So is Mrs. Cheverelle. What do we know about her, 
 
 except that she's a transparent creature ? 
 KEELS (chuckling). She's amusing and good company quite a 
 
 nice little woman in her own way. . . . 
 BENTLY. I'm afraid I don't agree with you, sir. 
 KEELS (amused and tolerant). No, I know you don't. You dislike 
 
 her because she wouldn't let you talk her over this morning. 
 
 I believe you're afraid of clever women. 
 BENTLY (good-humouredly). Very likely. 
 LADY O'H. Sensible boy. 
 BENTLY. Anyway, I dislike a woman who uses her cleverness as 
 
 Mrs. Cheverelle uses hers. 
 LADY O'H. I don't think she's clever, Henry really, I don't. You 
 
 are a most intelligent boy, and we usually agree, but I don't 
 
 think she's clever. 
 BENTLY. To me it's a great proof of her astuteness that she's 
 
 convinced you that she's not. But if she's not clever how 
 
 did she become engaged to Lord Gossamore ? 
 LADY O'H. Just luck ; she happened to fascinate him. 
 BENTLY (unconvinced). Um. And why has she broken it 
 
 off? 
 
 KEELS. Just whim a woman's whim. 
 BENTLY (suddenly sentimental). A woman's whim is the divinest of 
 
 reasons. I don't credit Mrs. Cheverelle with so much woman 
 liness. But, granting you are right, what do you think she 
 
 will do now ? 
 
 KEELS. It's impossible to say. 
 BENTLY (scoring). Exactly ; it's impossible to say. Allowing that 
 
 you are right, we aren't prepared for anything. Allowing that 
 
 you are wrong, you're no better off. Well let's assume that 
 
 she is clever ; that she hooked Lord Gossamore skilfully for 
 
 his money ; that she broke it off with a reason what would 
 
 that reason be ? 
 
 KEELS (vaguely). Hope of getting something out of us ? 
 BENTLY. Release the prisoner and then demand the ransom ? 
 
 (Shakes head.) Lady O'Hoyle, what motive do you suggest ? 
 LADY O'H. (with conviction). She's fallen in love. 
 BENTLY. Good heavens 1 We are assuming that she is actuated 
 
 by reason. 
 LADY O'H. Love's stronger than reason. 
 
96 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 BENTLY. Not in the case of a woman like Mrs. Cheverelle. There 
 
 is only one reasonable motive. 
 KEELS. Well ? 
 
 BENTLY (simply). A better catch in the net. 
 KEELS (startled). Eh ... who ? 
 
 BENTLY. The field is limited. Your Grace or Lord Worplesdon. 
 KEELS (nervously). Ha, ha ! 
 LADY O'H. (acutely). You leave yourself out. 
 BENTLY (with dignity). I am trying to see with Mrs. CheverehVs 
 
 eyes, Lady O'Hoyle ; v and consequently I am judging the 
 
 eligibles by their cash values. 
 KEELS (who has been thinking). Then if you're right she's after 
 
 Worplesdon. 
 
 BENTLY. If I am right she's sure of him. 
 KEELS (regretfully). T't, t't, t't, then it will mean buying her off 
 
 after all. 
 
 LADY O'H. (impatiently). Oh, Horace, do you really suppose . . . 
 BENTLY (who is facing the L. upper entrance). Shsh ! 
 
 (PAULINE enters up L. and stops on seeing the others.) 
 
 PAULINE. Oh I was looking for Lord Worplesdon . . . 
 
 (The others exchange swift glances, which she perceives.) 
 What's the matter ? Have you been talking about me ? 
 
 (ALGERNON strolls on again up R.) 
 
 Algy, they're all looking at me as if they suspected me ... 
 (LORD WORPLESDON enters up L., walking very fast.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (as he enters). You do walk fast I . . . (Pulls up 
 
 awkwardly on seeing others.) 
 
 PAULINE (innocently). Have you been running after me ? 
 WORPLESDON (with an eye on the DUKE and LADY O'H.). Ye es. I 
 
 I want to say that I hoped we all hoped your having 
 
 released Algernon . . . 
 PAULINE. Oh, he's told you ? 
 WORPLESDON. Yes. I wanted to say that I hoped it wouldn't 
 
 compel you to shorten your stay. 
 PAULINE. Oh, thank you. But I'm afraid I ought not to stay now ; 
 
 ought I, Lady O'Hoyle ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (brusquely). I really don't know what you ought to do. 
 PAULINE. Oh you're not angry with me for having broken it 
 
 off, are you ? (Looking round piteously.) I'm so sorry ! I 
 
 thought you'd all be so pleased. 
 KEELS. Mrs. Cheverelle, we should be pleased if we were sure of 
 
 the motive. (He looks to BENTLY for applause, but gets none.) 
 PAULINE (wonderingly). The motive ... I told Algy Lord 
 
 Gossamore : because I was too old for him. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 97 
 
 KEELS (acutely). I said the motive not the excuse. 
 
 (LADY O'H. and BENTLY make a nervous movement to silence the 
 DUKE, but PAULINE is too quick for them.) 
 
 PAULINE (very innocently). Oh, you saw it was only an excuse ! 
 How clever of you I The motive . . . (Bashfully) I'm afraid 
 I can't tell you the real motive yet. (Turning her back on the 
 DUKE she addresses LORD WORPLESDON.) I'm sorry you should 
 have had to run after me. Why didn't you call out ? 
 
 KEELS (resuming the inquiry). May I ... 
 
 LADY O'H. (sotto voce). Be quiet 1 
 
 PAULINE (turning obediently). Yes . . . 
 
 KEELS (finely). May I say that our gratitude to you for releasing 
 Lord Gossamore would be more heartfelt if you would tell 
 us what the motive was. 
 
 BENTLY (attempting unnoticed to signal silence to the DUKE). Your 
 Grace . . . 
 
 PAULINE (bashfully). Must I tell you ? 
 
 KEELS (waving BENTLY aside). We should be glad if you would. 
 
 PAULINE (humbly). Very well. I broke it off because because I 
 (she hesitates in pitiable confusion and looks unmistakably at 
 LORD WORPLESDON) because I hoped (almost breaking down 
 under the ordeal) I thought oh, how can I tell you ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (heroically and angrily). Horace, you are behaving 
 like a cad. Mrs. Cheverelle broke off her engagement to 
 Algernon because I had asked her to marry me. 
 
 ALGERNON (cut to the heart). Dad I 
 
 PAULINE. Oh 1 (She gazes at LORD WORPLESDON in intense admiration 
 of his nobleness.) 
 
 KEELS (rising). Fredl Cut out your own son . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON (hotly). You none of you wished . . . 
 
 KEELS (wildly). We knew this was going to happen Bently 
 warned us. You were right, Bently a designing woman . . . 
 
 (At the mention O/BENTLY'S name PAULINE turns and looks at 
 that gentleman. He meets her eye, and holds it with a 
 suggestion of amused scorn in his own glance that appears 
 to fascinate the lady, for she keeps her eyes on his face 
 tmmovedly.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (furiously). You knew Bently warned you then 
 why need you have cross-examined Mrs. Cheverelle as you 
 did? Don't say one word, Pauline . . . (She has shown no desire 
 to do so.) Give me your arm. Come. 
 
 (PAULINE, who has been looking steadily at BENTLY, obeys in a 
 trance, and they go off together down R.) 
 
 KEELS. Well, I'm . . . (Sits again in impotent fury.) 
 LADY O'H. Horace, be quiet. You can thank yourself for this, and 
 nobody else. 
 
 7 
 
9 8 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 KEELS (amazed). I I ... I am to blame ? 
 
 BENTLY (gravely). I am afraid Your Grace precipitated matters, 
 
 though I venture to suggest the lady led you on. (A smile 
 
 breaking over his face.) She really is very able. 
 KEELS (with conviction). She's the Devil ! She made me play right 
 
 into her hands. 
 BENTLY (turning away to hide a smile and encountering Algernon, to 
 
 whom he speaks with sudden kindness). Well, at least, Gossa- 
 
 more, you can see that you are well rid of her now. 
 ALGERNON (miserably). Eh ? Yes I suppose so. 
 BENTLY (turning back to the DUKE). Will Your Grace read through 
 
 the Prime Minister's letter ? The post goes at one-thirty. 
 KEELS (rising and crossing agitatedly). I can't give it any thought 
 
 now. I'm too agitated. 
 
 (Turning back to BENTLY at R. upper entrance.) 
 
 She'll have to be bought off, Bently ! I look to you to arrange 
 it somehow. 
 
 (He exits.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (rising). If you will give me your arm, Henry, I am going 
 towards the house too. 
 
 (She takes BENTLY'S arm then to ALGERNON, who is up c. :) 
 
 Are you coming too, Algernon ? 
 ALGERNON (standing miserably on one foot). I don't know what 
 
 I'm going to do. 
 LADY O'H. (kindly). Don't let that woman worry you, dear. She's 
 
 not worth it. 
 ALGERNON. I wasn't thinking of her that's all right . . . (Almost 
 
 tearfully) But the Dad . . . 
 LADY O'H. (turning to Bently). She'll be marrying you next, Henry 
 
 she's clever enough. 
 BENTLY (as they go off). I don't think her cleverness enables her to 
 
 see far beyond money values. 
 
 (ALGERNON is left a monument of wretchedness, c. PAULINE 
 returns down R. as soon as the others are out of sight and 
 goes to him.) 
 
 PAULINE (simply and sincerely). Algy, I don't want you to feel 
 You know your father hadn't really asked me to marry him at 
 all, don't you ? 
 
 ALGERNON (unbelieving). Then why did he say he had ? 
 PAULINE. Because he knew that I had broken with you to give 
 
 him the chance to. 
 ALGERNON. So did everybody. 
 PAULINE. Everybody ? 
 
 ALGERNON. Yes ; couldn't you see they'd been discussing you ? 
 Old Bently knew as soon as he heard that you'd broken with 
 me what your game was. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 99 
 
 PAULINE. Mr. Bently appreciates me. 
 
 ALGERNON. Appreciates you ? I shouldn't care to be appreciated 
 
 like that. 
 PAULINE. I didn't say that I cared to be appreciated like that 
 
 either. 
 
 (WORPLESDON enters down R.) 
 
 WORPLESDON. Here he is. Algernon . . . 
 
 ALGERNON (cutting him short). Oh, it's all right, Dad. I know you 
 couldn't help it 
 
 (Goes off miserably up L.) 
 
 PAULINE (turning ruefully to WORPLESDON). Oh dear ! And I 
 thought I was so clever hurrying you up. I wish I hadn't 
 now. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Why ? 
 
 PAULINE. That poor boy's heart-broken. 
 
 WORPLESDON. He didn't seem to be when he told us. 
 
 PAULINE. Oh, I don't mean about me jilting him, but about you 
 cutting him out. 
 
 WORPLESDON (with a touch of pride). Jealous ? 
 
 PAULINE. Jealous ? No ! Disappointed in you. You know how 
 fond he is of you ; he thinks you've played him a dirty trick. 
 So you have. 
 
 WORPLESDON. No, I haven't. I waited till you'd broken come 
 to think of it, I haven't asked you yet whether you'll marry me. 
 
 PAULINE (savagely). Is there any need to ask me? Don't you 
 know that I will ? You're my opportunity, and I've got to 
 jump at you. Everybody knows that. You gave them to 
 understand that you'd asked me already, anyway. Oh yes 
 (in response to a move from him) I know I made you my 
 wits ran away with me. I saw the opportunity and . . . 
 (breaking off angrily). Oh ! 
 
 (Then sitting on settee and suddenly dropping her angry tone 
 for one of amusement.) 
 
 Oh dear, what a stormy petrel I am ! 
 
 WORPLESDON (sitting down beside her and speaking tenderly). That's 
 
 why I love you. You're the most delightfully transparent . . . 
 PAULINE (snappishly). Oh, don't talk nonsense. 
 WORPLESDON (hurt). Pauline ! 
 PAULINE. And don't call me Pauline. 
 WORPLESDON. My dear didn't you break off with Algy to let 
 
 me ... 
 PAULINE. Yes, you know I did. (Brutally) Aren't you worth 
 
 more than he is ? 
 
 WORPLESDON (delighted). You're delicious ! 
 PAULINE (furiously). What on earth do you mean ? If you were 
 
 a man, you'd hate to know that I was marrying you for 
 
ioo ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 your money ; you'd be begging me to say that I loved you 
 for yourself alone. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Isn't it fortunate that I don't ? 
 
 PAULINE. You mean that I should have to tell lies ? I shouldn't 
 mind. I'd rather. Don't grin at me like that. I'm not 
 acting now I mean it. 
 
 WORPLESDON. I know you do. You always say exactly what you 
 mean. That's what makes you so delightful. That's what I 
 love in you. I want you to go on so for ever. 
 
 PAULINE (in an ecstasy of rage). Gracious heavens ! Here have 
 I been slaving away to get a rich husband and have a rest, and 
 now I find that I'm to go on with the same tricks for the rest 
 of my life to keep him amused. Do you know what I've been 
 counting on doing once you were caught ? 
 
 WORPLESDON. No what ? 
 
 PAULINE. Settling down into a nice, conventional married life, and 
 filling a snug position in society. I'm sick of being designedly 
 candid and having everybody able to explain me. I want to 
 give up being a reasonable, consistent adventuress, and be an 
 unreasonable, inconsistent woman. I don't want to be trans 
 parent and obvious and dependable . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON. Not dependable ? 
 
 PAULINE. No 1 A dependable woman means a woman who can be 
 depended upon to be quite unwomanly. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Now you're joking. 
 
 PAULINE. Damn the man 1 No, I'm not joking. 
 
 WORPLESDON (considering). Perhaps you are right. You'd . . . 
 
 (PAULINE rises and goes c.) 
 
 WORPLESDON (watching her). What's upset you ? 
 
 PAULINE. That boy's face. I hate hurting anyone, particularly 
 a man it seems so unnecessary. 
 
 WORPLESDON. You didn't consider that when you threw him over. 
 
 PAULINE. That didn't hurt him enough to talk about. It only 
 shook him up a bit. No it's you that have hurt him, and 
 I've made you do it I hate myself for it ! I wish you'd go 
 to him now and tell him that you were acting under the influence 
 of drink or something the sun and had never thought of 
 proposing to me. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Then the most wonderful of schemers would be 
 landed with no rich husband at all unless we pass you on to 
 the Duke. But I'm not going to ... (Tenderly) I want you for 
 myself . . . 
 
 PAULINE, (angrily) No, you don't. Go away. 
 
 WORPLESDON. Pauline 1 Do you refuse me ? 
 
 PAULINE. You haven't asked me to marry you, and you're not 
 going to. Go away. I'm in a nasty temper. I've behaved 
 like a cad and I know it, and it doesn't agree with me. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 101 
 
 WORPLESDON. If anybody's been a cad, I have. 
 
 PAULINE. I made you . . . 
 
 WORPLESDON. They don't know that . . . 
 
 PAULINE. That man Bently does. Go away. 
 
 WORPLESDON (distractedly). You're singularly unreasonable. You 
 
 break with Algernon to allow me to propose to you, and then 
 
 refuse me because you've hurt Algernon and Bently knows it. 
 
 No, no, my dear. The only reason you could have for refusing 
 
 me would be a better opportunity. 
 PAULINE (very indignant). Thank you I 
 WORPLESDON. Isn't that what you'd say yourself ? 
 PAULINE. Oh, do go away. You're not going to propose to me. 
 
 I won't rob Algy of his father I . . . 
 
 (BENTLY enters up R. and stops apologetically. She hails him.) 
 
 PAULINE. Oh, Mr. Bently, I want to speak to you. (To WORPLESDON) 
 
 Will you excuse me ? 
 WORPLESDON (furiously). Oh, certainly. 
 
 (Exits down L. in a huff.) 
 
 PAULINE. Mr. Bently, is that offer still open ? That offer to buy 
 
 me off ? 
 
 BENTLY. I'm afraid I don't understand you. 
 PAULINE. The Duke objects to my marrying his cousin even more 
 
 than to my marrying Algy, I suppose ? 
 BENTLY (firmly). The Duke objects to your marrying any member 
 
 of the family, Mrs. Cheverelle. 
 PAULINE. Well, he can buy me off now, if he likes. 
 BENTLY. Mrs. Cheverelle . . . 
 PAULINE. Yes ? 
 BENTLY. Are you serious ? 
 
 PAULINE. Quite. Would you like to consult the Duke about it ? 
 BENTLY. His Grace has given me plcins pouvoirs. I conveyed 
 
 to him your refusal to accept his offer immediately after 
 
 breakfast. 
 PAULINE. And he answered: "Rubbish! Tell her to name her 
 
 price." 
 
 BENTLY. He did. 
 PAULINE. Magnificent man. 
 BENTLY. If you are really to be bought off, I can only suggest that 
 
 you do so. 
 
 PAULINE. Um how much has he got ? 
 
 BENTLY. The offer which you refused was five thousand pounds. 
 PAULINE. All right ; we'll say that. 
 BENTLY. Mrs. Cheverelle, you're not serious. 
 PAULINE. Yes, I am. 
 
 BENTLY. You'll give up twenty thousand a year and a title for ... 
 PAULINE. For five thousand and freedom. Don't you want 
 
 me to ? 
 
102 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 BENTLY. Yes but I don't understand . . . 
 PAULINE (impatiently). Well, do the other thing, then. 
 
 (She raises her parasol and exits up L., leaving him in a state 
 of hopeless perplexity.) 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE 
 THE DRAWING-ROOM AFTER LUNCH 
 
 A pretty Louis XIV. in faded rose and old gold. The only 
 door is L. The large mantelpiece and fireplace opposite 
 it R. There are large French windows up c. 
 
 An arm-chair is below the fireplace turned towards the centre 
 of the room. Above the fireplace is a settee. A small 
 table and two chairs stand L.C., and below and above 
 door are other chairs. A large grand piano stands up 
 c. with a double seat at its keyboard to the R. 
 
 LADY O'HOYLE is discovered on the settee engaged upon needle 
 work. The DUKE is sitting at the grand piano playing 
 over and over a sequence of chords in waltz time : a vamp, 
 in fact. He has the soft pedal rigorously depressed. 
 LADY O'HOYLE looks up at the third repetition of the 
 simple fragment and inquires acidly as to its necessity. 
 
 LADY O'H. (acidly). Must you ? 
 
 KEELS (seriously). I'm sorry. (He desists and studies the keyboard 
 
 for a moment.) I was thinking. (Another pause, then suddenly 
 
 in an explosion of interrogation) Why ? Why ? Why ? 
 
 (Stops again.) 
 LADY O'H. Why what ? 
 KEELS (rising and pacing the room). Why is a Woman allowed to 
 
 go about husband-hunting like this ? 
 LADY O'H. (dryly). Because nobody knows how to stop her. 
 KEELS. She must be stopped. I never saw anything so so blatant ! 
 
 It's disgusting. 
 LADY O'H. Of course it is. 
 
 (The DUKE paces the room a moment more in silence, then 
 breaks out again excitedly.) 
 
 KEELS. And what do they do these women ? How do they 
 gain their infamous ends ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (quietly). Just luck. Some don't. 
 
 KEELS. How did Mrs. Cheverelle I don't mean how did she 
 bring poor Fred up to the scratch we know that but 
 how did she ever get him within bringing distance eh ? 
 
 LADY O'H. That was the luck. She happened to fascinate him. 
 
104 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 KEELS (wildly). But how ? 
 
 LADY O'H. Oh, good heavens, don't ask me. How does a magnet 
 attract steel ? How does the sun draw water ? 
 
 KEELS. I dunno. 
 
 LADY O'H. Every man is attracted by some type of woman. Henry 
 Bently was telling me something about facial angles that 
 might explain it. 
 
 KEELS (unintelligently). What's " facial angles " ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (suiting the answer to his intellect). People's noses. 
 (More thoughtfully) It certainly seems to explain it. Alger 
 non's nose and his father's are very much alike. That might 
 account for their both being attracted by the same woman. 
 
 KEELS (fingering his nose thoughtfully). They have got the family 
 nose. 
 
 LADY O'H. Yes. 
 
 KEELS (slowly). So have I. ... I haven't considered Mrs. Chever- 
 elle's er facial angle as yet, but now you mention it, it is 
 decidedly attractive. 
 
 LADY O'H. (looking up apprehensively). Horace ! . . . 
 
 KEELS (mechanically. He is standing c. in deep thought). Yes ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (changing her mind). Nothing. 
 
 KEELS (very seriously). Did Bently mention whether facial angles 
 worked both ways ? 
 
 LADY O'H. (puzzled). What ? 
 
 KEELS. I mean whether there mightn't be some type of nose that 
 would attract her just as hers attracts my cousin and 
 Algernon ? If it's a law of nature it ought to work both ways. 
 
 LADY O'H. It is generally allowed that the laws of nature apply 
 exclusively to males. 
 
 KEELS. Oh ! (Goes to piano, and standing at the keyboard recom 
 mences his musical performance.) 
 
 LADY O'H. Horace I 
 
 KEELS. I'm sorry, Mary. (Desists.) You don't know how I 
 regret that I never thoroughly mastered the piano. Music 
 is such an aid to concentration. 
 
 (BENTLY passes the window, looks in, and then enters.) 
 
 BENTLY (standing above the piano). I've been looking everywhere 
 for you, sir. May I have a moment ? 
 
 (LADY O'HOYLE rises.) 
 
 KEELS. Sit still, Mary. I've no secrets from you. (To Bently) 
 
 Well? 
 
 BENTLY. Mrs. Cheverelle has accepted our offer, sir. 
 KEELS (wondering). What offer ? 
 BENTLY. Five thousand pounds to break it off. 
 KEELS. But she's broken it off already, and Worplesdon . . . 
 BENTLY. Five thousand to break it off with Lord Worplesdon, sir. 
 LADY O'H. (genuinely amazed). Well I never ! 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 105 
 
 KEELS (intensely gratified). You've talked her over ? Good man ! 
 
 BENTLY (quietly). There was no need to, sir: she approached me. 
 
 LADY O'H. She approached you ? 
 
 KEELS (stupent). She approached you ? When ? 
 
 BENTLY. Before lunch immediately after Lord Worplesdon's 
 
 announcement. I have since sent her a cheque and received 
 
 her written acknowledgment. 
 LADY O'H. Now what on earth . . . 
 KEELS (slowly, and with intense conviction). My God I She's after 
 
 me I 
 
 (They both turn and look at him. He has sunk on to the piano- 
 stool again, staring, transfixed with horror.} 
 
 BENTLY (lightly). Really, sir ... 
 
 KEELS (continuing in a trance). I have already noticed her nose . . . 
 
 BENTLY. I beg your pardon, sir ? 
 
 KEELS (with growing conviction). It has undoubtedly a very 
 pretty quirk . . . 
 
 BENTLY (reassuringly). I see no reason for you to fear, sir. 
 
 KEELS. What ? Why, I I admire the woman already ! 
 
 BENTLY. Very possibly, sir ; but that's no proof that she has 
 cast her eye upon you. 
 
 KEELS. You yourself said that the field was limited to Worplesdon 
 and me when she passed Algernon by. Now she's passed 
 Worplesdon, isn't it limited to me ? 
 
 BENTLY. I said if she was actuated by reason . . . 
 
 KEELS. Well, doesn't this prove more than ever that she is ? 
 
 BENTLY. I don't see how, sir. 
 
 KEELS (very indignantly). What d'you mean you don't see how ? 
 Aren't I a better catch than Worplesdon ? 
 
 BENTLY. Undoubtedly. 
 
 KEELS. Yes 1 " Undoubtedly I " And do you think she's such a 
 fool as not to know it ? 
 
 BENTLY (tactfully). Mrs. Cheverelle must, of course, know that you 
 are the best catch possible, but her good sense must tell her 
 that you are beyond her wiles. 
 
 KEELS. Must it ? She's seen me looking at her nose subcon 
 sciously, for I swear I haven't wittingly yet I must have 
 noticed it, for I can describe it most minutely she must have 
 seen that, and she knows I'm on the hook. I can feel a queer 
 fascination already 1 (In pitiful terror) Good God, what an 
 awful thing 1 
 
 (The door opens. They all jump and turn as LORD WORPLES 
 DON looks into the room. He hesitates at the sight of the 
 others, and stands hovering on the door-handle.) 
 
 WORPLESDON. Have you seen Algernon anywhere, Mary ? 
 LADY O'H. Not since this morning. He wasn't at lunch. 
 KEELS. Neither was Mrs. Cheverelle . 
 
106 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 LADY O'H. (pointing to WORPLESDON). Neither were you. 
 WORPLESDON. No I (making up his mind) I suppose I must 
 
 inform you, Mary (he is studiously ignoring the DUKE) 
 
 that it was a mistake about Mrs. Cheverelle having promised 
 
 to marry me. 
 
 LADY O'H. (dryly). A mistake ? 
 WORPLESDON (lamely). Yes : I thought I had caused her to throw 
 
 Algernon over under the impression that I wished to propose, 
 
 and consequently I felt bound to to . . . (He slows up and 
 
 stops before LADY O'H.'S eye.) 
 LADY O'H. (critically). That's" pretty feeble. 
 WORPLESDON. What do you mean ? 
 LADY O'H. I mean that if you can't lie any better than that you'd 
 
 better stick to the truth. 
 
 WORPLESDON (with a gleam of anger). You want the truth ? 
 LADY O'H. No ; but I hate bad lies. I suppose you're trying to 
 
 tell us that she's thrown you over now ? 
 WORPLESDON (his voice trembling with suppressed anger which grows 
 
 as he speaks). Yes, I am trying to tell you that she has thrown 
 
 me over. Do you want to know why ? Because my noble 
 
 cousin here has insulted her ! Offered her money a cheque 
 
 for five thousand to buy her off. 
 KEELS (amazed). Frederick, how . . . 
 WORPLESDON (turning on him). How do I know ? (Producing a 
 
 letter from his pocket) That's how I know. (Withdrawing 
 
 letter) There's her letter and (scattering a dozen fragments on the 
 
 floor) there's your cheque. 
 KEELS (once more dumbfounded). Well, I'm ... 
 WORPLESDON (with stinging sarcasm). Can't you think of a word ? 
 
 I call you a blackguard, Horace. Fancy daring to offer her 
 
 money ! 
 KEELS (apologetically). I never knew she'd take it. Bentlytoldme 
 
 she wouldn't. 
 WORPLESDON (in intense scorn). Bently told you she wouldn't ! 
 
 Well, Bently was right she hasn't. There's your five thousand 
 
 safe in the bank to play fresh tricks with. 
 
 (He stamps out through the French windows, leaving the others 
 the DUKE on the piano-stool, LADY O'H. on her settee, 
 and BENTLY above piano c. in an abyss of amazement 
 and dismay.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (after a pause). Well, what do you make of this, 
 
 Henry ? 
 BENTLY. I don't know exactly. (He comes around the piano and 
 
 starts pacing up and down.) 
 
 LADY O'H. You don't know exactly ! Is it possible ? 
 KEELS (settling one point.) Well, if she marries me, Bently, I shall 
 
 hold you responsible. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 107 
 
 BENTLY (shortly and certainly). She won't marry you, sir ; she has 
 
 given up her calculating course. 
 KEELS (irritably). That's like the nonsense about barking dogs 
 
 never biting ! Who's to know when they're going to stop 
 
 barking ? Who's to know when she's going to return to her 
 
 calculating course eh ? This is all a trick to throw us off 
 
 our guard, and when we're none of us sure which way to look 
 
 she'll drop all this nonsense and nab me. 
 BENTLY (rudely). I don't think she will, sir. 
 KEELS. Why, it's as plain as daylight ! She . . . 
 BENTLY (raising his voice and speaking even more rudely). I say I 
 
 don't think she will, sir. 
 LADY O'H. Well, don't lose your temper, Henry. What is there 
 
 to get angry about ? 
 BENTLY (dropping his offensive attitude as he realises it, and speaking 
 
 with humorous hopelessness). Oh, I don't know. 
 KEELS (unwilling to drop the quarrel). You " don't think she will, 
 
 sir " ? Why don't you think she will ? Aren't I a good enough 
 
 catch for her ? Do you think she's after you ? 
 BENTLY. Sir ! 
 KEELS (a little ashamed of the jibe). Well, what do you think ? I 
 
 say : aren't I a good enough catch for her ? 
 BENTLY (coldly). You'd better ask her, sir. 
 KEELS. Huh ! And get snapped up ... 
 BENTLY (losing his temper again and raising his voice). Yes, since 
 
 you're so sure . . . 
 LADY O'H. (checking him kindly, as before). Henry, Henry, Henry ! 
 
 You really are a very quarrelsome boy to-day. What's the 
 
 matter with you ? 
 BENTLY (checking himself and shaking his head). Goodness knows ! 
 
 (Pauses a second.) I think I'll go for a walk. (Another pause.) 
 
 I beg your pardon, sir, if I've been rude. 
 
 (The DUKE is still snorting angrily and takes no notice.) 
 
 LADY O'H. (gently). Henry has the courtesy to beg your pardon, 
 
 Horace. 
 
 KEELS (ungraciously). That's all right. He's jealous. 
 BENTLY. Jealous ? 
 LADY O'H. Go and have your walk, Henry, and don't row any more 
 
 till you know what you're rowing about. 
 BENTLY. Thank you, Lady O'Hoyle ; I will. 
 
 (He goes to door and opens ii as MRS. CHEVERELLE is on 
 the point of doing so from the other side. He draws 
 back to let her pass in, but she hesitates on seeing the 
 others.) 
 
 PAULINE (nervously). I won't come in. I was only looking 
 for . 
 
io8 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 BENTLY (very politely, with a side glance at the DUKE). Please 
 come in, Mrs. Cheverelle. I believe the Duke wants to speak 
 to you. 
 
 (KEELS jumps on hearing this and casts an appealing look at 
 BENTLY, who refuses to see it. PAULINE enters. BENTLY 
 exits, closing door.) 
 
 PAULINE (to the DUKE). You wanted to speak to me ? (She sits 
 
 L. of table L.c.) 
 KEELS (in an agony of apprehension). Yes, yes. I mean no, oh 
 
 no ! Not at all ! 
 
 PAULINE. I beg your pardon, Mr. Bently said . . . 
 KEELS. Yes, yes I . . . (She looks at him inquiringly, he trembles.) 
 
 Nothing, nothing. 
 
 (A long pause ensues. KEELS, seeking vainly for an escape, 
 rises once, but MRS. CHEVERELLE looking up he immedi 
 ately resumes his seat and smiles at her nervously, then 
 fearing that the smile may be misunderstood he changes 
 it for a severe frown suggesting great preoccupation. She 
 looks away again. He at last decides that conversation is 
 safer than this silence and commences chattily.) 
 
 KEELS. It's a pleasant nose . . (He stops, thunderstruck at what 
 
 he has said.) 
 LADY O'H. Horace 1 
 PAULINE (puzzled). I beg your pardon. 
 KEELS (correcting himself anxiously). I mean day. It's a pleasant 
 
 day. My nose slipped I mean my tongue. (Rising) Who 
 
 did you say you were looking for ? 
 PAULINE. Looking for ? Oh Algy. I wanted . . . 
 KEELS (with alacrity). I'll find him for you. (Exits hastily through 
 
 French window.) 
 
 (PAULINE with a little sigh rests her elbows on the table and 
 her chin on her hands. LADY O'H. rises and collects needle 
 work ; then she turns and looks at PAULINE critically.) 
 
 LADY O'H. Headache ? 
 
 PAULINE. No. I feel muddled . . . 
 
 LADY O'H. (dryly). What ? You, too ? 
 
 PAULINE. There's no train till five. I don't know what to do till 
 
 then. 
 
 LADY O'H. You're really going ? 
 PAULINE. Oh yes. 
 
 LADY O'H. I really think I ought to thank you. 
 PAULINE. Thank me ? 
 LADY O'H. For the very interesting little spectacle you have 
 
 provided for us. There are two things in the world a woman 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 109 
 
 loves to see : woman triumphant and woman floored. 
 (Crosses to door.) Well . . . 
 
 (ALGERNON enters through window. PAULINE, active, rises 
 and greets him.) 
 
 PAULINE (almost pleading). Oh, Algy . . . (She checks herself and 
 
 glances round at LADY O'H. at the door.) 
 LADY O'H. All right. I'm going. 
 PAULINE. No it's nothing important. 
 LADY O'H. Then I certainly shan't stay. (Exits.) 
 ALGERNON (coming down c.). Do you want to speak to me ? 
 PAULINE. Yes. Algy (persuasively) will you drive me to the 
 
 station ? 
 
 ALGERNON (surprised). The station ? 
 PAULINE. Yes. There's no train till five, and the servants will 
 
 think I'm mad if I ask them to drive me there so early. I 
 
 want to get away . . . 
 
 ALGERNON (puzzled). I don't understand you. 
 PAULINE (looking at him). Oh, don't you know ? 
 ALGERNON. Know what ? 
 PAULINE. Hasn't your father told you ? 
 ALGERNON. I haven't seen the Dad since this morning. I was 
 
 looking for him now to say good-bye. 
 PAULINE. To say good-bye ? 
 ALGERNON. Yes. I'm motoring down to Portsmouth to join 
 
 Archie Vownes for a trip to Egypt. The car '11 be ... 
 PAULINE (understanding). You're going away because of me ? 
 ALGERNON (evasively). Oh, it's an old invitation. 
 PAULINE. But you're accepting it because of me ; aren't you ? 
 ALGERNON (his face hardening). Because of the Dad, if you like. 
 
 You can't expect me to be very chummy with him for a 
 
 few weeks, anyway after the way he's behaved. 
 PAULINE. You're blaming him for having made a fool of himself 
 
 over me 1 (Touched) Algy, that's very nice of you ! 
 ALGERNON. Nice of me ? 
 PAULINE. Don't you blame me at all ? 
 ALGERNON. He was my father. ... I blame you for your 
 
 share. 
 PAULINE (brightly). Oh, but, my dear boy, you ought to blame me 
 
 for his share, too 1 You're really very ungenerous. 
 ALGERNON (puzzled). Ungenerous ? 
 PAULINE. Yes it's most ungenerous to blame a man when there's 
 
 a woman in the case. 
 ALGERNON. Don't be cynical. 
 PAULINE. I'm not. By blaming your father you make both 
 
 yourself and him miserable. By blaming me you can forgive 
 
 him anything can't you ? 
 ALGERNON. A bit hard on you. 
 
no ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 PAULINE. Not a bit of it. I'm used to it. All women are. It 
 really makes no difference to the sensible ones, because they 
 know that a man can blame a woman for everything under 
 the sun, and like her all the better for it. (She smiles at him 
 cheerfully.) 
 
 ALGERNON (looking at her admiringly). Yes ; I suppose you're 
 right ; the Dad couldn't help himself. 
 
 PAULINE (cheerfully). That's the tone. So you can forgive him 
 especially now that I'm not going to marry him. 
 
 ALGERNON (astonished). What ? 
 
 PAULINE (quietly). If you'd met him he'd have told you. He 
 just made a mistake this morning. 
 
 ALGERNON (slowly taking it in). Just made a ... You've thrown 
 him over! Why? (Suddenly) No stop I know! (Jubilantly) 
 You're after the Duke ! 
 
 PAULINE (very angrily). No, I am not after the Duke. 
 
 ALGERNON (surprised at her outburst). Sorry ! 
 
 PAULINE (regaining her good Immour). No it's all right, Algy. 
 You couldn't think anything else. (Pauses a second; then) 
 Oh, drive me to the station, there's a dear boy. I've made 
 a hopeless mess of things. 
 
 ALGERNON. Peter, I hate to see you looking so down. Can I 
 do nothing better for you than see you off the premises ? 
 
 PAULINE (decidedly). No, nothing. I've estranged you and your 
 father ; the Duke's frightened to death of me ; Lady O'Hoyle 
 laughs at me ; Mr. Bently despises me heartily. Help me 
 to get away. It's the kindest thing you can do. 
 
 ALGERNON (gently). All right, Peter. I'll go and hurry up that 
 car. 
 
 (He crosses to door and exits. PAULINE goes up to piano 
 and sits running her fingers over the keyboard. 
 Tschaikovsky's " Nay, though my heart should break " is 
 running in her head, and she would sing it if she could.) 
 (BENTLY enters by door and comes straight to her; he is 
 carrying a letter in an unstamped envelope in his hand.) 
 
 BENTLY. Mrs. Cheverelle ! 
 
 PAULINE (looking up, startled). Yes ? 
 
 BENTLY (shaking the letter at her in hopeless bewilderment and in 
 dignation mixed with plaintiveness). What is the meaning of 
 this? 
 
 (PAULINE glances at the letter in his hand, but makes no attempt 
 to reply. She seems extremely nervous.) 
 
 BENTLY (continuing in a most injured tone). I was just going for 
 a walk when this (waving the letter) was brought to me. 
 Wha wha (incoherent with mystified resentment) why did 
 you write it. What's it all about ? What harm have I done 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY HI 
 
 to you ? (Pauses again for a reply ; she is quite as much 
 at a loss for one.) Surely you don't bear me any ill-will for 
 having been the mere intermediary in the matter of that 
 cheque ? 
 
 PAULINE (defending herself). Have I said that I do ? 
 
 BENTLY. No, no. But there's a reproachful tone about the 
 whole letter that . . . 
 
 PAULINE (sincerely). I'm sorry. 
 
 BENTLY (hastily retreating). No, no, nothing to be sorry for if you 
 didn't mean it only (bursting out again with his injury) 
 why did you write such a letter at all ? (Referring to it) 
 Talking about my " despising you," and " being beaten," 
 and " I've won ! " 
 
 PAULINE. Did I say that ? 
 
 BENTLY. Five times in three pages ! The letter's practically 
 nothing else. (Reading) " You've won, and I'm going " 
 " You despised me the first moment you set eyes on me, and 
 determined to beat me ; well, you've won ! " I never despised 
 you ! 
 
 PAULINE (incredulously). Never ? 
 
 BENTLY. No, never . . . (Hedging) Well not seriously (his injured 
 tone rising again) and here you . . . (Waving the letter) Why 
 did you write it ? Did you want to convince me that I've 
 behaved like a brute and a cad ? 
 
 PAULINE (shocked). Oh no ! 
 
 BENTLY. Well, you do. (Expostulating) It's most unjust of you. 
 There's no question of my winning, as you put it. I 
 merely made you an offer on the Duke's behalf, and you 
 accepted it. I didn't force you to accept it, did I ? 
 
 PAULINE (with considerable misgiving). No. 
 
 BENTLY. You sound as if you considered that I had. 
 
 PAULINE (quickly). No, no {pausing) only . . . Well, you wanted 
 me to accept, didn't you ? 
 
 BENTLY. Not particularly. 
 
 PAULINE (spitefully). Yes, you did. You'd made up your mind 
 that I was only after money, and you wanted to prove that 
 you were right. 
 
 BENTLY (protesting). Mrs. Cheverelle . . . 
 
 PAULINE (continuing angrily). Well, I didn't want to disappoint you. 
 
 BENTLY (studying her move calmly). Mrs. Cheverelle, I don't under 
 stand you. 
 
 PAULINE (with a short laugh of triumph at the admission). Don't you ? 
 Well, I'm going in a few minutes. 
 
 BENTLY (wondering). You're allowing yourself to be beaten in 
 sight of success. It's beyond reason. 
 
 PAULINE (provokingly) . You're a clever man. I should have 
 thought you could assign a reason to anything. 
 
 BENTLY (simply). Well, I can't. 
 
H2 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 PAULINE (with a shade of resentment). When I threw Algy over, you 
 explained why I did it to everyone's satisfaction. 
 
 BENTLY. I did and I was right. 
 
 PAULINE. You were. Well, can't you repeat the trick ? 
 
 BENTLY. If I did, I should say that you were after the Duke. 
 
 PAULINE (angrily). Oh I 
 
 BENTLY (soothingly). But I don't say it, because I don't think it. 
 
 PAULINE (gratefully). Thank you. 
 
 BENTLY (calmly). I don't know what to think. You've done such 
 surprising things. 
 
 (PAULINE chuckles in spite of herself .) 
 
 BENTLY (continuing after a reproachful look at her). Writing this 
 
 letter, and tearing up the cheque . . . 
 PAULINE (startled). Oh, you know I did that ? 
 BENTLY. You see, you didn't mean us to know, as you would 
 
 have done if you had had any reason plan . . . 
 PAULINE (rising and going wearily to fireplace). Mr. Bently, I had 
 
 no reason for tearing up the cheque. I did it on the impulse of 
 
 the moment. I have no plan ... no wish, except to get away 
 
 from here. 
 BENTLY (fearfully upset). But it will be awful if you go like this ! 
 
 We shan't know whether we've treated you very badly or 
 
 how . . . 
 
 PAULINE (wearily). You've won . . . 
 BENTLY (furiously). Don't keep on saying that ! I haven't won. 
 
 I've never wanted to win. I'll tell you honestly this 
 
 letter it's upset me. I don't like you to feel that I've got 
 
 the best of you by trickery, and that I've driven you away. 
 
 I ... 
 
 PAULINE. Would you rather I married Algy, after all ? 
 BENTLY. No, I wouldn't. You'd be wasted on him. 
 
 PAULINE. Oh ? 
 
 BENTLY (retracting hastily). No, I don't mean that. (Decidedly) 
 Yes, I believe I would rather you married Algy, if I were sure 
 you wanted to. 
 
 PAULINE. Well, I don't. I don't know what I want. I don't 
 understand myself I should like to. 
 
 BENTLY. So Should I. 
 
 PAULINE (turning to him). Shall we try ? Go over my conduct 
 step by step, and try and see what on earth I've been up to. 
 
 BENTLY. It would be interesting. 
 
 PAULINE (sitting on chair below fireplace). Let's. How do we begin ? 
 
 BENTLY (judicially). Who are you ? 
 
 PAULINE (promptly). Pauline Cheverelle, widow, hard up. 
 
 BENTLY. What did you come here for ? 
 
 PAULINE. To get round Algy's people and get them to let me marry 
 him. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 113 
 
 BENTLY. For his money ? 
 
 PAULINE. For the general convenience of being his wife. 
 
 BENTLY. Why did you break with Algy ? 
 
 PAULINE. Because I saw that I stood a securer chance of marrying 
 
 his father. 
 BENTLY. Quite right so you did. Now (emphasising the 
 
 question) why did you throw over Lord Worplesdon ? 
 
 (PAULINE'S flow of ready answers stops. She thinks hard.) 
 
 BENTLY (after giving her a moment, helpfully). Wasn't it because 
 
 you saw reason to hope that you could marry the Duke 
 
 himself ? 
 
 PAULINE (quietly, but with conviction). No. 
 BENTLY (perfectly pleasantly). Are you sure ? 
 PAULINE. Certain. Honest Injun. 
 BENTLY. You must have had some idea in your mind ? 
 PAULINE (lamely). I didn't want to upset Algy. 
 BENTLY. That was very nice of you. 
 PAULINE (uncertainly). Ye es. 
 BENTLY. Still, you might have thought of that before. Was there 
 
 no other reason idea at the back of your mind ? 
 PAULINE (trying hard to think). I was annoyed. 
 BENTLY. Annoyed ? 
 PAULINE. Yes. 
 BENTLY. What at ? 
 
 PAULINE. I was annoyed that you should have seen through me so. 
 BENTLY. You make a business of being seen through. 
 PAULINE (irrelevantly). This is most interesting, dissecting me 
 
 like this isn't it ? 
 BENTLY. Most. Please stick to the point. You make a business 
 
 of being seen through, don't you ? 
 PAULINE. Ye es. 
 
 BENTLY. So Why . . . 
 
 PAULINE. No, I don't make a business of being seen through, and 
 I don't know why it annoyed me, but when I saw you looking 
 at me the way you'd look at a dead worm, I wanted to go for 
 you with a hatpin. It was because I'd hurt Algy, and I knew 
 it, and I hated you for knowing that I knew it. 
 
 BENTLY (smiling). A little involved, still interesting. You gave 
 up a title and a fortune because you resented the way I was 
 looking at you. How did that benefit you ? 
 
 PAULINE. It made you look a little less sure of yourself, anyway. 
 
 BENTLY. True. I suppose I looked thunderstruck ? 
 
 PAULINE (delighted at the recollection). You did. 
 
 BENTLY. I felt so. I followed you all over the wood before send 
 ing you the cheque, I was so interested. 
 
 PAULINE (happily). Then my behaviour had some effect on you, 
 whatever its motive was ? 
 8 
 
ii4 ART AND OPPORTUNITY 
 
 BENTLY. Yes. I wonder . . . (in deep thought). 
 
 PAULINE (interested). What ? 
 
 BENTLY. It's a new method of reasoning to judge the motive of an 
 
 act by the effect it has ; still . . . (Suddenly) You were glad 
 
 to see that it had that effect upon me ? 
 PAULINE. I was. 
 
 BENTLY. Then it may be the right method when trying to under 
 stand a woman. Following that method, the motive for your 
 
 next step the tearing up of the cheque was to excite my 
 
 interest still more. 
 
 PAULINE. That was the effect it had ? 
 BENTLY. That was certainly the effect it had. I was so interested 
 
 that I believe I would have followed you had you left here 
 
 without explaining yourself. 
 PAULINE. I'm glad. 
 
 BENTLY. Which proves that it was the effect you wanted it to have. 
 PAULINE. . . . Though I didn't know it at the time. 
 BENTLY. Quite possibly. One doesn't always know one's motives. 
 
 Now last of all why on earth did you write this letter ? 
 PAULINE. I don't know. 
 BENTLY. We must judge by its effect, then. 
 PAULINE. Yes ; what was its effect on you ? 
 BENTLY (laughing). Upon my word, it roused my interest in you 
 
 to such an extent that I wanted to take a poker to 
 
 you. 
 
 PAULINE (nodding very sagely). Love ! 
 BENTLY (dazzled by the conviction that he has found the truth at last) . 
 
 Pauline ! Is that what you've been playing for ? to make me 
 
 fall in love with you ? 
 
 (Dropping on one knee beside her and putting his arm almost 
 roughly around her.) 
 
 PAULINE. That seems to be the effect it's had. 
 
 BENTLY. Have you been acting all this time, to catch me ? Is 
 
 this your art ? ... 
 
 PAULINE. I don't know. It's been pretty good acting, hasn't it ? 
 BENTLY (laughing). Effective ! 
 PAULINE. Then isn't it just possible that it's been inspired ? 
 
 (He kisses her reverently. ALGERNON enters.) 
 
 ALGERNON. I've got the car oh, I beg your pardon! 
 
 BENTLY (rising happily). Gossamore, you can congratulate me. ... 
 
 (The DUKE, LADY O'H., and WORPLESDON are passing the 
 window. The DUKE looks in on hearing the last words.) 
 
 KEELS. Eh ? What's that ? 
 
 BENTLY. Mrs. Chcverelle has promised to be my wife, sir. 
 
ART AND OPPORTUNITY 115 
 
 KEELS (grasping the situation and hastening forward to wring 
 BENTLY'S hand, with deep gratitude). Bently you've done 
 this for me ! I'll never forget it ! 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
ELAINE 
 
 COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 JOHN CURTIS. 
 
 ELAINE. 
 
 GERALD FELLOWES. 
 
 HON. MICHAEL SEELBY. 
 
 REV. SIR PETER PHILOX. 
 
 LADY PHILOX, Sister to Curtis. 
 
 HENRY, Servant at the Westmeath. 
 
 LOUISE, Elaine's Maid. 
 
 The act-ion of the play passes between four in the afternoon and midnight, 
 in July, the scene being laid at Llangwilloc, North Wales. 
 
 ACT I., SCENE i. The small reading-room of the Westmeath Hotel, four 
 
 in the afternoon. SCENE 2 is a grassy ledge overlooking the sea 
 
 an hour later. 
 ACT II. The garden of the Westmeath between nine and ten in the 
 
 evening. 
 ACT III., SCENE i. The small reading-room again, eleven in the evening. 
 
 SCENE 2, Curtis' s private room immediately after. 
 
 117 
 
ACT I 
 
 SCENE 
 
 THE SMALL READING-ROOM OF THE WESTMEATH HOTEL, 
 LLANGWILLOC, NORTH WALES 
 
 A cosy apartment in dark green leather and modern oak. 
 
 There is a fireplace R. with a high, upholstered library fender 
 in brass and leather. A door opens into the hall L., and 
 large folding-doors communicate with the large reading- 
 room at back. These are thrown wide open, and show, 
 beyond the long windows of the inner room, a verandah, 
 and beyond that the cloudless blue sky above the open sea. 
 
 On either side of the fireplace is a bookshelf. A small green 
 leather Chesterfield settee stands above fireplace, and a 
 leather easy-chair is below it facing out into the room. 
 A large library table occupies the centre of the room with 
 a chair at its L. end, and another above it. Another 
 Chesterfield is down L. with its back to the audience. 
 
 The room is agreeably cool and shady, Jiough the inner room 
 is lighter, and the verandah and sky beyond show that it 
 is a blazing hot afternoon. It is just four p.m. as the 
 curtain rises, and HENRI, an ordinary Swiss man-servant, 
 enters L. and holds open the door for SIR PETER and 
 LADY PHILOX to enter. The former, a plump, clerical- 
 looking bon-vivant of fifty-five, with fat hands and an 
 easy, well-bred manner, crosses to hearth-rug, and stands 
 there looking approvingly at the room. LADY PHILOX 
 pauses L. of table, resting her hand upon it. She is an 
 aggressively respectable member of the aristocracy, about 
 fifty years of age. Both she and her husband are in 
 slimmer " out of town " dress, with travelling et cctcras. 
 
 HENRI (closing door and indicating room). You will find this the 
 most comfortable room, Milady. It is generally empty. I 
 will see that your bags are taken upstairs directly. We did 
 not expect you until the evening train. Your room is not 
 quite ready. 
 
 LADY P. (taking off gloves). Will it be long ? 
 
 HENRI. Scarcely five minutes, Milady. 
 
 SIR PETER (cheerfully). Facing the sea ? 
 
120 ELAINE 
 
 HENRI. All the bedrooms are facing the sea, Milor'. 
 
 SIR PETER (raising his eyebrows). All ? 
 
 HENRI. Some a little more than others, per'aps, Milor', but all 
 
 more or less. 
 LADY P. (asserting herself). We asked for a bedroom quite facing 
 
 the sea ; and, of course, we require a southern aspect. 
 HENRI (with deference). The sea lies to the north-west, Milady, 
 
 but if the room is unsatisfactory very likely some alteration 
 
 can be made. 
 LADY P. (dismissing him). Thank you. Please let us know directly 
 
 our room is ready. 
 HENRI (lingering with glad tidings). One of our visitors wished to 
 
 know as soon as you arrived, Milady. I was to inform him 
 
 immediately. Mister Seelby, Milady. (Goes towards larger 
 
 room.) 
 LADY P. (sharply almost apprehensively). Mister Seelby Mister 
 
 Michael Seelby ? 
 HENRI. Yes, Milady. (Goes across inner room, and out through 
 
 French window and along verandah to R.) 
 LADY P. (drawing out chair and sitting down with an air of hopeless 
 
 annoyance). And we came here for a rest. 
 
 SIR PETER (calmly). Who is it, my dear ? I didn't quite catch . . . 
 LADY P. Micky Seelby. You remember him. He rather impressed 
 
 you at Ada Teighton's by calling you " Pete." 
 SIR PETER (with a shade of regret). Oh yes, I remember him now. 
 
 A charming young man so amusing. 
 LADY P. (grimly). Very. We shan't have a moment's peace. There's 
 
 no suppressing Micky. He'll be the life and soul of the place. 
 
 (With a touch of temper) It really seems impossible to go 
 
 anywhere nowadays without meeting everyone one wants 
 
 to get away from. Who'd ever expect to find Micky in a 
 
 little place like this ? 
 SIR PETER (sententiously). It's a small world, my dear ; and 
 
 Llangwilloc is gaining in popularity. I shouldn't be surprised 
 
 if we found a dozen intimate acquaintances all staying in this 
 
 very hotel. 
 LADY p. No such luck. There'd be some chance of sharing Micky 
 
 with them, then. No. We shall have him all to ourselves. 
 SIR PETER. Some people are quite different out of town. He may 
 
 h'm. 
 
 (MICKY is heard in the distance yelping with delight. He 
 bursts energetically in from verandah and crosses larger 
 room to greet LADY PHILOX, who gives SIR PETER an 
 expressive glance as he approaches.) 
 
 MICKY. Yip, yip, yip ! Hello, hello 1 (Shaking hands warmly 
 with LADY PHILOX.) How are you ? Merry and bright, eh ? 
 Thank goodness here's someone to talk to at last 1 I am 
 
ELAINE i2i 
 
 glad to see you. How's Pete, eh ? (Crosses and shakes hands 
 with SIR PETER.) Good old Pete 1 Sit tha' doon, laad ! 
 
 SIR PETER (with some dignity). I prefer to stand, thanks. 
 
 MICKY (unceremoniously pushing him into easy-chair below fire). 
 Nonsenseafter that journey . . . 
 
 SIR PETER. I was seated all the way. 
 
 MICKY (crossing to Chesterfield down L. and patting it up). Try this, 
 Lady Phil. 
 
 LADY P. I am quite comfortable where I am, thanks. 
 
 MICKY (sympathetically). Too tired to move ? Not a bit of it. 
 Give me your hand. (Pulls her by both hands out of chair, 
 and swings her round into Chesterfield.) There, isn't that a 
 lot better ? I can't bear to see people uncomfy. (Hoists 
 himself on to table c., where he sits with his legs dangling. He is 
 a man of little less than the average height. Twenty-five to thirty 
 years of age, with large hands and feet and a countenance lined 
 and distorted by an exuberant facetiousness which has twisted one 
 of his thick eyebrows out of the horizontal. The social buffoon 
 is his role, and he plays it for all he is worth. He sits on the 
 table talking right and left at great speed.) Well, how's things ? 
 You haven't taken long to strike the best room in the place. 
 Cosy, isn't it ? How's Nelly ? 
 
 SIR PETER. I believe that my daughter is quite well and happy. 
 
 MICKY. So she ought to be. Gosh, what a catch ! (To LADY p.) 
 You never invited me to the wedding. 
 
 LADY P. Didn't we ? There was such a crush. 
 
 MICKY. I bet there was. Never mind. I stayed at home and 
 nursed my breaking heart. You didn't know that I was sweet 
 on Nelly myself, did you, Pete ? 
 
 SIR PETER. ET ... No ... I did not. 
 
 MICKY. I was, though. Seriously 1 But of course Lady Phil 
 was quite right to turn me down when the great Auk came 
 along. 
 
 SIR PETER. Lord Orchardson was, of course, an excellent match ; 
 but it was our daughter's happiness that we considered. 
 
 MICKY. Quite right, quite right I Even happiness must be con 
 sidered sometimes. Well, you've secured hers. Twelve thousand 
 a year and two titles ought to make her happy enough to cry. 
 Tired, Lady Phil ? 
 
 LADY P. A little. 
 
 MICKY. It's a beast of a journey from town, but it's worth it 
 when you get here. Not like one of those places where you're 
 simply bound to meet scores of people you don't want to. I 
 hate landing in a place and finding the biggest bore of my 
 acquaintance waiting to greet me ; don't you ? 
 
 SIR PETER. Er yes (glancing at his wife). 
 
 MICKY (rattling on). This is a perfectly topping place, though. 
 I've only been here a week ; came down absolutely done up 
 
122 ELAINE 
 
 after keeping you all merry and bright in town, and look at 
 
 me now ! Got the energy of ten ordinary Mickies ! 
 SIR PETER. Do you often come here, Mister Seelby ? 
 MICKY. Every blessed summer. Have done for years. Didn't you 
 
 know ? I flattered myself that was what brought you down. 
 LADY P. No we didn't know. 
 MICKY. Surely you remember my telling you about the place at 
 
 Tiggie's. 
 
 SIR PETER (inquiringly). Tiggie's? 
 LADY P. (enlightening him). Ada Teighton's. 
 SIR PETER. Thank you. 
 MICKY. Don't you remember ? The Boojum was cracking up some 
 
 Sanyol place he'd struck, and I backed Llangwilloc against it. 
 LADY P. Oh yes ; I remember now. But you said you stayed at 
 
 an Hydro. This is not an Hydro. 
 MICKY. No that's true. But I've got into the habit of calling 
 
 it one ever since my old Dad died here. It really is a perfectly 
 
 topping place, and so restful . . . 
 
 SIR PETER. Are you an authority on resting, Mr. Seelby ? 
 MICKY. Bless you, yes first -class diploma wait till I've put you 
 
 through a fortnight's " far from the madding crowd " 
 
 you'll never want to go back to town. You'll want to stay 
 
 here and gas about being buried amongst starry daisies like 
 
 Gerry. 
 LADY P. (looking up). Gerald ? Is he here ? 
 
 (MICKY nods emphatically.) 
 
 SIR PETER (inquiringly of his wife). Gerald, my dear . . . ? 
 
 LADY P. Gerald Fellowes, the poet. 
 
 SIR PETER. Oh yes ! A most charming young man ! So intellectual. 
 
 MICKY (frankly). I'm fed up on him. He won't be amused, Lady 
 Phil. Brought me down here for company, and absolutely 
 bores me to death. Yawns and looks distrait when I talk 
 to him. 
 
 LADY P. Indeed ! 
 
 SIR PETER. I have always heard Mister Fellowes described as most 
 interesting. 
 
 MICKY. Maybe. But he's a bore all the same. An interesting 
 bore, if you like. There are interesting bores as well as dull 
 ones. Borishness can be combined with any blessed quality 
 under the sun. Clever bores dull bores amusing bores 
 ever met an amusing bore, Lady Phil ? 
 
 LADY P. Yes, Micky, I have. 
 
 MICKY. Terrors, aren't they ? 
 
 SIR PETER. Is there anyone else here whom we know ? 
 
 MICKY (shaking his head). Don't fancy so. Two or three North- 
 country families en masse ; spend a lot and cat a lot, but not 
 the right way. There's one other chap here worth knowing 
 
ELAINE 123 
 
 besides Georry and me at least his wife's worth knowing. 
 He's a bit of a knut himself. 
 
 LADY P. Do I know him ? 
 
 MICKY. Oh no. Manchester man. Smokes a bull-dog pipe and 
 wears boots an inch thick and goes off for walks all day on his 
 own. His wife's a jolly smart woman, though. Pretty, too ! 
 Gerry's found that out. 
 
 LADY P. Gerald ? 
 
 MICKY (nodding violently). Umhum ! Gone coon! Toddles about 
 with her all day long while hubby's off on his rambles. He's 
 waiting for her now to go for a walk. It's a case. He told 
 me yesterday that she was the most interesting psychological 
 study he had ever met. 
 
 LADY P. That sounds serious. 
 
 SIR PETER. And the lady ? Is she too a psychologist ? 
 
 MICKY. Well, you know what women are with Fellowes, Lady 
 Phil. She's always on ice tres digne, as we say in the army 
 but well I think she's a bit sweet on the child. She discusses 
 her husband with him, so you see they have interests in common. 
 
 SIR PETER. One interest, at all events. 
 
 MICKY. An absorbing one, Pete ! As a well-brought-up clergy 
 man you can have no idea of the number of heart-to-heart 
 conversations that a young wife and a sympathetic young man 
 can indulge in on the subject of the lady's husband. 
 
 SIR PETER (with an attempt at knowingness). Can't I ? 
 
 MICKY. As a clergyman I trust not. As a husband I hope, for 
 your peace of mind's sake, you haven't. 
 
 LADY p. Micky, don't be rude. 
 
 MICKY (deeply hurt). Not rude, Lady Phil, not rude. Impertinent, 
 yes, but not rude. 
 
 LADY P. Well, don't be impertinent, then. 
 
 MICKY. Oh, but I must. Impertinence is my long suit. I've got 
 a reputation for it. It's much easier to be impertinent than 
 funny, and it goes down twice as well with people of refinement. 
 Destroys any latent self-respect, and they like it. Don't you, 
 Pete? 
 
 SIR PETER (with dignity). I am not anxious to have my self-respect 
 destroyed, Mister Seelby. 
 
 MICKY. Tsh, tsh, tsh 1 You're old-fashioned ! It's as much trouble 
 as a vermiform appendix. Makes one look ridiculous . . . 
 
 LADY p. (sharply). Micky ! 
 
 MICKY (humbly). Pardon, Aunty, I do rattle on, don't I ? What 
 were we talking about ? Oh, I know. Giraldo and the fair 
 Elaine. That's her name. Pretty, isn't it ? 
 
 LADY P. Do you really think this is anything serious ? 
 
 MICKY. Did you ever know Gerry when he wasn't serious ? Giraldo 
 Serioso, / call him. He was pretty serious over Lurline, 
 wasn't he ? 
 
124 ELAINE 
 
 SIR PETER. Lurline ? 
 
 LADY p. (explaining). Violet Vanderzee. She threw Gerald over 
 and married Archie Vownes. 
 
 SIR PETER. Yes, yes. I recall something about her. But why 
 call her Lurline ? 
 
 MICKY. Haven't you read Gerry's pome, "Lurline " ? She's it. 
 
 SIR PETER (interested). Really ? No, I haven't read it, but I 
 certainly shall. Poetry becomes doubly interesting when one 
 knows what it is about. Hidden thoughts . . . 
 
 LADY P. (severely to MICKY). So you're allowing Gerald to fall in 
 love with a married woman ? 
 
 MICKY. Allowing ? I like that I He doesn't need much allowing. 
 But don't you worry, Lady Phil, I've got my eye on the child. 
 I know how things are going. They haven't exhausted hubby 
 yet. It's fairly non-committal to discuss a lady's husband 
 with her. It's a subject number two that I'm watching for. 
 
 SIR PETER. And what is subject number two ? 
 
 MICKY. Gerry's past, of course. 
 
 LADY p. (indignantly). What do you mean by Gerald's " past " ? 
 
 MICKY (soothingly). Oh, nothing serious. Only Lurline. She's 
 the subject number two that I'm watching for. You take it 
 from your Uncle Micky, Pete, when Gerry starts confiding his 
 blighted hopes in Lurline to the present lady it will be time 
 to throw out the lifeline. Why, to tell a woman about a 
 previous love affair almost amounts to a declaration. Aren't 
 I right, Lady Phil ? You know. 
 
 LADY P. (thoughtfully). There is certainly something in what you 
 say, Micky. 
 
 MICKY. Aha, Pete ! She's giving you away. 
 
 SIR PETER. My dear Mary . . . 
 
 LADY P. (looking down). I was not thinking of Sir Peter as an 
 example. 
 
 MICKY (immensely tickled). Oho I Oho 1 One in the eye for you, 
 Pete I 
 
 LADY P. (not ill pleased). Micky 1 
 
 SIR PETER. Your rules of courtship are quaint, Mister Seelby. 
 Quite amusing. 
 
 MICKY. And they're right, too. You wait and see. 
 
 SIR PETER. They are together a great deal ? 
 
 MICKY. Every day and all day. Climb the Head together, and 
 sit on the top together and look at the sea together, and discuss 
 hubby together ad lib. ; and Gerry spouts Shelley and Blake 
 and his old pal Lovelace to her and she pretends to like it. 
 
 SIR PETER. And the husband ? 
 
 MICKY. Oh, old Curtis . . . 
 
 (Husband and wife exchange swift glances.) 
 
 MICKY. Hullo I Have I put my foot in it. Do you know them ? 
 
 SIR PETER. Lady Philox was a Curtis. 
 
ELAINE 125 
 
 MICKY. Gosh, yes ! I'd forgotten. I wonder if ... Not got 
 any long-lost relations bobbing around in the ewigkeit, have 
 you, Lady Phil ? 
 
 LADY p. Only my brother John, who should inherit the title. 
 
 MICKY. Why, of course 1 The Bush- whacker Baronet. 
 
 LADY P. (severely). No, Micky, however foolish John may have 
 been he never went on the music-halls. 
 
 MICKY (surprised). Who says he did ? He was out in Australia, 
 wasn't he ? 
 
 LADY P. Yes. 
 
 MICKY. Well everyone calls him the B.B. 
 
 SIR PETER. I have heard him referred to so though I tried to 
 keep it from Mary. 
 
 LADY P. (annoyed). It's extremely foolish. He has never used 
 the title. His name isn't even in the baronetage and he's 
 been back from Australia quite fifteen years. 
 
 MICKY. I wonder if this can be he. His name is John, right 
 enough. Is your sister-in-law's name Elaine ? 
 
 LADY P. We did not even know that John was married. We do 
 not meet often. 
 
 SIR PETER. We would surely have heard if ... 
 
 LADY p. Why ? John is quite capable of doing anything he has 
 a mind to without consulting the family. 
 
 SIR PETER (reminiscently). A headstrong man. I remember him as 
 a lad. We were at a grammar school together. We had a foolish 
 game of daring each other to do ridiculously dangerous things. 
 
 MICKY. I know " dags." 
 
 SIR PETER. I believe " dags " was what we called it. Curtis was 
 in the habit of doing anything he was er dagged to do 
 without a moment's hesitation. I recollect that someone 
 dagged him to climb over and walk along the outside of the 
 chapel gallery during evening prayers. He did so, and nearly 
 killed several youths who were kneeling immediately below, 
 by falling upon them during the general Confession. 
 
 LADY P. That would be John all over. 
 
 SIR PETER (with unctuous humour). In more senses than one. I 
 have a small scar (touches his head just above the ear) yet. 
 
 MICKY (very suddenly). No 1 What a mug I ami This Johnny 
 can't be your brother. He's the big cheap grocer chap. 
 You know Curtis's Coffee Essence. 
 
 LADY P. (resignedly). Curtis's Coffee Essence is my brother. 
 
 MICKY (vastly impressed). Whew I What a chap I Really, I mean 
 no offence, Lady Phil, but one can't help respecting a chap 
 who gets on in the world. I thought you could only succeed 
 in trade by being born to it you know must be somebody's 
 son Snoots and Son, or Sniffs and Son, and that hereditary 
 principle we all dislike so. But brains will tell, you see. He 
 must be worth pots of money. 
 
126 ELAINE 
 
 LADY p. Money can be bought too dearly. 
 
 MICKY. I'm surprised to hear you say that, Lady Phil ! I thought 
 you were eminently sensible. 
 
 LADY P. I may be sensible, but I do not like to see my family 
 name displayed on large hoardings over a crude representa 
 tion of the Sultan of Turkey, the Shah, and the late Queen 
 Victoria, smacking their lips over immense cups of my brother's 
 concoction. 
 
 MICKY (appreciatively). It's a jolly good advert, that. 
 
 (GERALD FELLOWES is seen passing along verandah at back.) 
 
 SIR PETER. Er is not that Mister Fellowes now passing the 
 
 window ? 
 MICKY (twisting round). Yes, that's him. He's waiting about for 
 
 Elaine I told you. Hi, Gerry ! Giraldo ! 
 
 (GERALD passes out of sight without hearing.) 
 
 MICKY. Hi, you ass ! (Jumps down from table.) I'll hike him in. 
 Wait a moment. (Dashes off after GERALD, calling) Hi, 
 Gerry. 
 
 LADY P. (looking at SIR PETER). Well, what do you say to this ? 
 
 SIR PETER. It may not be ... 
 
 LADY P. Don't talk nonsense. Of course it's John. Did you 
 ever know an unpleasant surprise that wasn't ? 
 
 SIR PETER. John is unmarried. 
 
 LADY P. How do we know ? Is there any ridiculous thing that 
 John is not capable of doing ? I suppose she's some bar 
 maid . . . 
 
 SIR PETER. If she is I think John could be depended upon to 
 have excellent taste in barmaids. 
 
 LADY P. What do you mean ? Hsh, here's Micky ! 
 
 (MICKY returns, dragging GERALD into room and presenting 
 him. GERALD is a graceful, well-bred young man of 
 twenty-five, tall, slender, and youthful in appearance.) 
 
 MICKY. Here you are. Now, be polite. You remember Lady 
 Phil? 
 
 GERALD (bowing over her hand). If Lady Philox remembers me 
 half as well, I shall feel flattered. (Crossing and shaking 
 hands with SIR PETER) Sir Peter, I am sure, does not remember 
 me at all. 
 
 SIR PETER. My dear Mister Fellowes, I remember you perfectly. 
 
 MICKY. Of course you do, Pete. We've been gassing about you 
 no end, Gerry. 
 
 GERALD (standing on hearthrug). I hope you found something nice 
 to say about me. 
 
 MICKY. Rather ! Hasn't she turned up yet ? 
 
 GERALD (after a moment's disconcertion). Spending a quiet fort 
 night down here before the holidays, Sir Peter ? 
 
ELAINE 127 
 
 SIR PETER. That is our intention. Lady Philox selected this as 
 an out-of-the-way spot. 
 
 GERALD. And the first people to greet you are Michael and myself ? 
 Hard luck ! 
 
 MICKY. What a chap you are, Gerry! Lady Phil was just saying 
 how glad she was to find someone to talk to ; weren't you, 
 Lady Phil ? 
 
 SIR PETER (ignoring MICKY). Are you working on anything now, 
 Mister Fellowes, or do you rest on your laurels ? 
 
 GERALD (pleased). Well, I I have hardly won my laurels yet, 
 Sir Peter. Of course, several people have been very nice and 
 encouraging about my first attempts all of them good people, 
 too but well my volumes don't sell very well, you know. 
 
 LADY P. (with great partiality). My dear Gerald, whether your books 
 sell or not you must know that the intellectual minority are 
 watching you with the utmost interest as the coming man 
 in your own sphere. 
 
 GERALD (expanding). It's awfully nice of you to say that, Lady 
 Phil. Of course, I'm anxious as anyone can be to do good 
 work. Of course to I realise that the appreciation of the 
 perceptive few " les antes bien nees " 
 
 MICKY (breaking in and ruining the effect of the quotation). Oh, it's 
 no use trying to get him started talking about his poems, 
 Lady Phil ; he won't even to me ! Snubs me no end when 
 I inquire politely how the rhymes are flowing. 
 
 (HENRI enters by door L.) 
 
 HENRI. Your rooms are quite ready now, Milady. 
 
 LADY P. (rising). Thank you. Will you send someone up to 
 
 unpack my boxes ? 
 
 HENRI. Certainly, Milady. (Goes out again.) 
 SIR PETER (rising). I shall be extremely glad of a wash. We 
 
 shall see you again, Mister Fellowes, during the afternoon ? 
 MICKY. Oh, you'll see no end of us during the next fortnight, 
 
 don't you worry. 
 
 (SIR PETER is half-way across the room when the door opens, 
 and JOHN CURTIS enters, his pipe unlit in his hand. He 
 starts at seeing LADY p., and looks across at SIR PETER 
 with obvious annoyance ; but he chokes it down and greets 
 his sister amiably enough.) 
 
 CURTIS. How are you, Mary ? Mutual surprise, I suppose. How 
 
 are you, Peter ? 
 SIR PETER (offering his hand). I am quite well, thank you, my 
 
 dear John. 
 
 (CURTIS shakes his hand and relinquishes it again. There 
 is a moment's awkward pause ; MICKY plunges into it.) 
 
128 ELAINE 
 
 MICKY. Cuss a bit, old man I We're all friends here. When a 
 man unexpectedly finds himself in the bosom of his family 
 he's to be excused a little strong language. 
 
 LADY P. (welcoming the diversion). Micky, you are extremely 
 impertinent. 
 
 (LADY P. goes out L. SIR PETER follows, smiling amiably at 
 
 JOHN.) 
 
 MICKY (proudly). There see how I cleared the air for you ? You 
 looked all anyhow. 
 
 CURTIS (standing on hearthrug and lighting his pipe}. I was sur 
 prised, certainly. (Puffs for a moment ; then suddenly to 
 GERALD, who has moved to the Chesterfield above fireplace) Oh, 
 I forgot 1 Mister Fellowes, Elaine would like you to run 
 up and have a cup of tea with her if you've nothing better 
 to do. 
 
 GERALD (jumping up gladly). Thanks, I should like to. I was 
 afraid it was a bit warm for a walk. 
 
 CURTIS. She'll be coming out when it gets a bit cooler. She's 
 got a slight headache I advised her to stay indoors. You 
 know where to find her on the upper verandah outside our 
 sitting-room. Up you go. She'll be glad of someone to 
 talk to. I'm damn bad company when there's tea about. 
 
 (GERALD goes off L. CURTIS remains standing on the hearth 
 rug studying the bowl of his pipe and evidently thinking 
 hard. He is a broad, well-built little man, obviously 
 possessed of great strength, both physical and of character. 
 He is forty-eight years of age, and his well-shaped head 
 is grizzled. He is clean shaven, and very well groomed, 
 though he affects a rough-weather costume even in the 
 height of the summer. He is kindly and courteous, 
 though extremely ready to fight out any subject that he 
 has once expressed an opinion on. After a moment he 
 addresses a sharp query to MICKY, who has returned to 
 his perch on the table.) 
 
 CURTIS. When did my sister arrive ? 
 MICKY. About twenty minutes ago. 
 CURTIS. Here for long, do you know ? 
 
 MICKY. Fortnight, she said. But that was before she knew you 
 were here. 
 
 (CURTIS grunts and, turning, presses bell beside fireplace.) 
 
 MICKY (opening conversation). So you're the B.B. 
 
 CURTIS. Eh ? 
 
 MICKY. I say, you're the B.B. 
 
 CURTIS (without interest). What's that ? 
 
 MICKY. Bush-whacker Baronet. 
 
 CURTIS (briefly). Oh! 
 
ELAINE 129 
 
 MICKY. I'd no idea. You aren't very chatty about it. 
 
 CURTIS (without expression). No. 
 
 MICKY. Well, you ought to be. Here I've been treating you with 
 all the respect due to a Capting of Industry, and all the while 
 you're nothing but an absconding baronet. 
 
 CURTIS (amused out of his abstraction by the phrase). What's that ? 
 Absconding Baronet ? 
 
 MICKY. That's it. You've deliberately covered up your ancient 
 origin and shoved yourself in amongst the respectable traders 
 as if you were one of themselves. You're one of the nouveau 
 riche, you are, and I hope ye vieu% riche jolly well snub you when 
 they find you out. Look here, what's the use of my amusing 
 you if you won't listen ? 
 
 CURTIS. No use at all. (Rings bell again and keeps his finger on it.) 
 
 MICKY. Well, then, I'm going for a walk, and you can stay here and 
 bore yourself for a bit. 
 
 (HENRI enters L.). 
 
 CURTIS. Ask Lady Philox to be good enough to come down and 
 
 speak to me as soon as it is convenient to her, please. 
 HENRI. Yes, sir. (Goes out again.) 
 MICKY. That won't be very soon, if I know anything about sisters. 
 
 Your only hope is that the prospect of having a row with you 
 
 will prove too great a temptation. 
 
 CURTIS. You talk too much, young man ; that's your only fault. 
 MICKY. Talk too much 1 I like that I You don't realise that 
 
 talking is the only exercise I take. 
 
 (LADY PHILOX enters L., without her hat or bag.) 
 
 MICKY. Here we are ! Bye-bye I suppose I mustn't stay and 
 take notes. 
 
 (MICKY goes off via inner room and verandah. LADY PHILOX 
 
 crosses and sits in Chesterfield above fire.) 
 LADY P. (evenly). Well, John ? Do you go, or do we ? 
 CURTIS. H'm. That's the question I was going to put to you. 
 LADY P. (with a gleam of triumph). I think I asked it first. 
 CURTIS (emphatically). I don't intend to leave. 
 LADY P. Then there is no more to be said. 
 CURTIS. I am sorry to turn you out, but we ... 
 LADY P. We are not going to be turned out. 
 CURTIS. Then why did you put the alternative to me ? 
 LADY P. If it comes to that, why did you propose putting it to me 
 
 if you were determined to remain ? 
 CURTIS (laughing). Good. That's fair. We're a pair of bluffers. 
 
 So we both stay, eh ? And row, I suppose. 
 
 LADY P. I see no occasion why we should row as you express it. 
 CURTIS. No, but I dare say you'll make one. 
 
 (SIR PETER enters L., beaming and rubbing his hands together.) 
 
 9 
 
130 ELAINE 
 
 SIR PETER. Beautiful place simply beautiful ! Sun positively 
 streaming in at our windows. Er the room doesn't exactly 
 face south, my dear, but it catches the afternoon sun over the 
 hills most beautifully. (Sitting beside his wife and looking very 
 genial and brotherly.) Well, my dear John, surprised to see 
 us, eh ? You remember Nelly ? She's married. 
 
 CURTIS (brusquely). I know. I read my papers. 
 
 SIR PETER. I thought it might have slipped your notice. 
 
 CURTIS. Because I didn't send a cheque, eh ? 
 
 SIR PETER (waving his hand with engaging candour). Well your 
 silence was my reason for doubting that you knew. You were 
 very fond of Nelly, you remember ? Your only niece. You 
 might have sent her some little token. It would have been kind. 
 
 CURTIS (explosively). It would have been kind to have sent someone 
 to knock that old rip Orchardson on the head before he married 
 her. 
 
 LADY P. (shocked). My dear John I Nelly is devoted to Lord 
 Orchardson. 
 
 CURTIS. Don't talk nonsense, Mary. A girl of twenty devoted to 
 a man three times her age 1 
 
 SIR PETER (with winning good humour). No, no, no not three 
 times her age, my dear John. Two er and a half times, 
 perhaps and a year or two over . . . 
 
 CURTIS. Don't be an ass, Peter. I know Orchardson. Mary 
 advised the child into marrying him. You're not going to 
 tell me ... 
 
 LADY P. I certainly advised her not to marry young Vickary. 
 He was quite impossible. I suppose you are referring to him. 
 
 CURTIS. I never heard of young Vickary. Was Nelly in love with 
 him ? 
 
 LADY P. Certainly not. He was quite impossible, even if she was. 
 We haven't all your profound faith in love as a guide to matri 
 mony. 
 
 CURTIS. I haven't any " profound faith." I don't say a girl 
 should marry every man she falls in love with, because I'm 
 not in favour of polygamy. But I do say she ought not to 
 marry a man she isn't in love with. It's against Nature. 
 
 LADY P. If you are going to discuss Nature, John, I shall leave the 
 room. You know I dislike the subject. 
 
 SIR PETER (pleasantly). After all, my dear John, affection and a 
 certain reasonable regard for the comforts of money and 
 er position are not inimical to each other. A er blend 
 of the two, each in its proper proportion, is the ideal 
 motive for an alliance. I am not one to underrate affection. 
 It should and often does play a most important part in 
 the selection of a er mate. But the world is so complex a 
 place that anyone acting upon a single motive will generally 
 find several other motives for regretting it. 
 
ELAINE 131 
 
 CURTIS. I don't agree with you, Peter. Love's love, and a bar 
 gain's a bargain. There's no mixing the two. 
 
 LADY P. (angry at being out of the argument). If you would mind 
 your own business . . . 
 
 SIR PETER (still pleasantly). Tsh, tsh, tsh, my dear Mary John 
 is Quixotic. An idealist like so many business men. I like 
 to see it ; I like to see it. But (clearing his throat with an air 
 of one opening a friendly argument in the Socratic manner) you 
 are extremely wealthy, I believe, my dear John ? 
 
 CURTIS. Thanks to myself. 
 
 SIR PETER (amiably). Yes, yes thanks to yourself. And you are 
 married, I believe ? 
 
 CURTIS (obstinately). No, I'm not. 
 
 SIR PETER (amazed). You're not ? 
 
 CURTIS. No. 
 
 LADY p. (coldly). We heard from Micky Seelby . . . 
 
 CURTIS. About Elaine ? Well . . . 
 
 LADY P. I think we should be the ones to say " well." 
 
 CURTIS. Say it if you like. 
 
 LADY P. Then this woman you have here . . . And you have 
 the effrontery to tell me, your sister. 
 
 CURTIS. Why shouldn't I tell you ? 
 
 LADY P. You might have some sense of decency. 
 
 SIR PETER. Surely you are joking ? 
 
 CURTIS. Why should I be joking ? 
 
 SIR PETER. Oh, to to annoy Mary. 
 
 CURTIS. Well, I'm not. 
 
 SIR PETER. You are not married to er this woman ? 
 
 CURTIS. No. 
 
 LADY P. She is not married to anyone else, I hope ? 
 
 CURTIS. No, she's not, and she never has been. 
 
 SIR PETER (feebly). But I don't understand ! 
 
 CURTIS. Oh yes, you do, Peter. Just because I don't want to win 
 a wife by virtue of my money am I to live the life of a monk ? 
 You don't object to a marriage of convenience ; well, this is 
 that without the damned hypocrisy of a ceremony. It's a 
 confessed bargain not a cloaked one. I give Elaine a good 
 income which she needs, poor girl and if ever it stops she'll 
 leave me. 
 
 LADY P. I think I am as broad-minded as can be expected of 
 a clergyman's wife, and I quite see that men being well 
 no more than men . . . such a menage may be over 
 looked provided it is kept in its own sphere Maida Vale or 
 West Hampstead. But really you shouldn't bring this woman 
 here where she may meet your friends. 
 
 CURTIS. I'm not a man for friends. 
 
 SIR PETER. Well, your sister, then. 
 
 CURTIS (belligerently). Why shouldn't she meet my sister ? 
 
I 3 2 ELAINE 
 
 LADY P. Really, John ! 
 
 CURTIS. I'm not ashamed of Elaine. She's of as good a family as 
 yours, she's well brought up, and she's a damn sight more 
 agreeable. 
 
 LADY P. (with abstruse sarcasm). So I should judge. 
 
 SIR PETER (oil on troubled waters). Then, my dear John, if the lady 
 is all these things, why do you not marry her ? 
 
 LADY P. (shocked). Peter I 
 
 CURTIS. I'll tell you why I don't. It's because rightly or wrongly 
 I regard marriage as a lifelong agreement. 
 
 SIR PETER. Certainly. 
 
 CURTIS. In a case of a love match, well and good. In the case of 
 a bargain an affair into which financial considerations enter 
 there should be a chance for either party to back out when 
 they wish to. Elaine threw herself at me for my money poor 
 girl. I liked her. I still do. She's a damn good sort and 
 she's not mercenary, either. 
 
 LADY p. (smiling sarcastically). No ? 
 
 CURTIS. No ! To throw yourself at money when you haven't got 
 a penny isn't mercenary it's human nature. It's throwing 
 yourself at money when you've already got enough to live on 
 that I object to. 
 
 (There is a moment's pause, during which CURTIS glares fiercely 
 over his pipe, and the other two consider.) 
 
 SIR PETER. My dear John, if you are satisfied with your way of life 
 I will not attempt to argue with you on the subject. But I 
 must say that I think you might not blurt it out so shamelessly. 
 
 CURTIS. Why shouldn't I ? I'm not ashamed of my views, and 
 I'm not ashamed of Elaine. 
 
 SIR PETER. That is not the point. The point is, that by telling us 
 you place us in a very awkward position. After having learned 
 the facts from you as we have done our duty to society 
 makes it incumbent upon us not to not to recognise this 
 woman er unless we recognise her as your wife. And 
 if we remain here not to recognise her will be extremely 
 difficult. 
 
 CURTIS (scornfully). P'fL If I hadn't told you, you'd have found 
 out. At least Mary would have. 
 
 LADY P. I'm sure I would. 
 
 SIR PETER. That would have been quite a different matter. So 
 long as you preserved the er deception well enough to 
 give us an excuse for being deceived we need not have shown 
 that we knew, and if you had introduced the er er her as 
 your wife we should have been bound to accept her as such, 
 which would have saved such a lot of unpleasantness. 
 
 CURTIS (with humour). I'll introduce her to you as my wife, if you 
 like. 
 
ELAINE 133 
 
 LADY P. John, you wouldn't dare ! 
 
 CURTIS (turning). What ? 
 
 SIR PETER (anxiously). Tsh, tsh, tsh, my dear Mary! Of course, 
 John must introduce the person as his wife wherever he goes. 
 
 CURTIS (obstinately). No, I " mustn't " and I don't. I'm not in 
 the habit of telling lies or making pretences. I introduce 
 Elaine when I introduce her to anyone by name, and they 
 can think what they like. 
 
 SIR PETER (throwing up~ his hands in mild despair). Oh, my dear 
 John, what an impossible fellow you are 1 Surely you must 
 see that if your life is arranged on er unconventional lines, 
 your consideration for others should make you hide the fact. 
 Shame is nothing to be ashamed of ; it is merely a duty to 
 Society. 
 
 CURTIS. I neither hide the fact nor parade it. 
 
 SIR PETER. No, no I'm aware that you don't, but an unusual 
 state of affairs may be said to almost parade itself. That, 
 indeed, is the worst of er unconventionally ; it is so notice 
 able. That is why you really must introduce this woman to us 
 as your wife. 
 
 LADY P. Indeed, you must do nothing of the kind, John. 
 
 SIR PETER. My dear, if John does not, we cannot possibly remain 
 here. 
 
 LADY P. (with her brother's obstinacy). We are going to remain 
 here. 
 
 (Through the French windows ELAINE can be seen coming along 
 the verandah from L. John, from his position on the hearth 
 rug, sees her first.) 
 
 CURTIS (grimly humorous). Well, here comes the lady. Make up 
 
 your rninds ; how shall she be presented ? 
 SIR PETER (plaintively). My dear John, do not make trouble. 
 
 (ELAINE, having crossed inner room, enters through folding doors 
 c. and pauses on seeing strangers. SIR PETER rises 
 nervously, and LADY p. turns without rising. CURTIS 
 clears his throat and waits cruelly before he speaks.) 
 
 CURTIS (weighing his words). Elaine, my dear, let me introduce you 
 to my sister, Lady Philox. Mary this is Elaine. Peter my 
 wife. (Dryly) Well, both satisfied ? 
 
 (LADY p. rises, and with a bow which she regrets as soon as 
 bestowed passes ELAINE and goes into inner room. SIR 
 PETER approaches ELAINE and holds out his hand. She 
 gives him hers.) 
 
 SIB PETER. I'm very pleased to meet you. We er (with a 
 little confiding laugh) er didn't know that John was 
 married but John was never one to talk (wipes his brow 
 and looks at John anxiously) and, of course, we know it now, 
 
134 ELAINE 
 
 don't we ? Er better late than never er. (Pauses for 
 breath.) We shall see you again my er at that is we 
 shall see you again. 
 
 (SIR PETER goes into the inner room and looks around for his 
 wife, who is out of sight. ELAINE, who has started very 
 slightly at the introduction now draws out chair above 
 table and sits resting her arms on table. She is a tall, well- 
 bred woman of twenty-eight or nine, something between 
 pretty and handsome certainly fascinating. She is 
 dressed in perfect taste. Her manner is pleasant, but 
 reserved, and she speaks quietly as a rule. Just now she is 
 a little pale. CURTIS looks at her keenly.) 
 
 CURTIS. What's the matter ? 
 
 ELAINE. Nothing. (Pauses.) You never introduced me as your 
 wife before. 
 
 CURTIS. Do you mind ? 
 
 ELAINE (smiling slightly). No. It took me by surprise, that's all. 
 And I never expected to meet any of your family. 
 
 CURTIS (kindly). I'm sorry. (After a pause) Had tea ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. 
 
 CURTIS. Going for a walk ? 
 
 ELAINE (willingly). Do you want me to stay in for anything ? 
 
 CURTIS. No, no. Go for a walk, by all means. Young Fellowcs ? 
 (ELAINE nods.) I'm glad we met him here. He's good com 
 pany for you, isn't he ? I'm not much good at being amusing. 
 I think I'll go out for a bit, too. 
 
 ELAINE. Would you rather I came with you ? 
 
 CURTIS. Good Lord, no, child 1 I'm not quite so selfish as that. 
 I don't want to walk you off your feet and bore you to death at 
 the same time. 
 
 ELAINE. You don't bore me to death. 
 
 CURTIS. Fiddlesticks, my dear! It's very nice of you, but you 
 know you'd rather go with young Fellowes. I don't blame 
 you. So would I if I were an intelligent young lady instead of a 
 sordid old money-grubber. (Comes around and pats her tenderly 
 on shoulder.) I'm sorry I upset you just now. 
 
 ELAINE (smiling up at him). It's all right. 
 
 CURTIS. I'm a thoughtless old duffer ; that's what's the matter with 
 me. Well, I'll go and get my stick. 
 
 (GERALD enters inner room through French windows as CURTIS 
 *s going off. ELAINE rises and goes to fireplace. In the 
 inner room GERALD pauses to speak to someone out of 
 sight.) 
 
 GERALD. Getting settled down ? I suppose you're tired after your 
 journey ? 
 
 SIR PETER (answering him from out of sight). It did not seem so very 
 long ; we had lunch on the train. 
 
ELAINE 135 
 
 GERALD. I can recommend tea on the verandah. (Comes through 
 doors c. into room.) Hullo 1 I thought you'd have your hat on. 
 Aren't you coming for a walk ? 
 
 ELAINE (turning). Yes. I'll . . . 
 
 (LOUISE, a middle-aged French maid, enters L. with hat, gloves, 
 and parasol.) 
 
 LOUISE. Madame will be going out ? M'sieu told me to bring down 
 
 madame's hat. 
 
 ELAINE. Thank you. (Puts on hat before glass over fireplace.) 
 GERALD. He seems rather anxious to pack you off. 
 ELAINE. I was thinking how considerate it was of him. Who were 
 
 you speaking to in the other room ? 
 GERALD. Sir Peter Philox and Lady Phil. They've just arrived. 
 
 Have you met them ? 
 ELAINE. Yes. (After a pause, during which the hat is carefully 
 
 adjusted) Lady Philox is John's sister. 
 GERALD (surprised). Is she ? I never knew that. She's your 
 
 sister-in-law, then ? 
 ELAINE (taking gloves from LOUISE). Shall we be starting ? (Passes 
 
 him and gets to door c., then turns back with an idea.) Oh, Louise 
 
 I will wear the crgpe-de-Chine at dinner. 
 GERALD. Hullo ! Want to impress her ladyship ? 
 ELAINE. Perhaps. Come along. 
 
 (They go out together through inner room.) 
 END OF SCENE i. 
 
 SCENE 2 
 A GRASSY LEDGE ABOVE THE SEA 
 
 On the right the cliff towers into the sky. The ledge breaks off 
 abruptly at back and left. The sky is beyond a curving 
 wall of blue. Far below, the beat of the sea on the shore 
 can be heard intermittently. It is between six and seven 
 o'clock in the evening, and the shadows are lengthening. 
 ELAINE is sitting with her back to the cliff looking off over 
 the sea to L. The sinking sun shines on her face. Her 
 hat is off and lies beside her with her gloves and parasol. 
 Near her GERALD lies flat on his back on the grass with his 
 head on his hands, declaiming Shakespeare into the 
 heavens. 
 
136 ELAINE 
 
 GERALD. " Let us not to the marriage of true minds 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 Which alters where it alteration finds, 
 Or bends with the remover to remove. 
 Oh no . . ." (suddenly becoming self-conscious and break 
 ing ff)- 
 
 Do I bore you ? 
 ELAINE. You know you don't 
 GERALD. I hope I don't. 
 ELAINE. Please go on. 
 GERALD. You really want me to ? (She makes no reply.} Where 
 
 was I ? 
 
 ELAINE. At the last verse. 
 GERALD (greatly hurt). No, I wasn't. But I'll cut to the last verse if 
 
 you like if you want me to get through quickly ? 
 ELAINE. Go on from where you left off. 
 
 GERALD (resuming). "Oh no ..." (breaks off again). You 
 will stop me if I bore you, won't you ? 
 
 (She disdains to reply.) 
 
 GERALD. " . . . It is an ever fixed mark 
 
 That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 
 Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken." 
 
 (With more expression as he warms to his words.) 
 
 " Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 But bears it out, ev'n to the edge of doom : 
 If this be error, and on me be proved, 
 I never writ, nor no man ever loved." 
 
 Splendid, isn't it ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. (Hesitatingly) Shakespeare ? 
 GERALD (approvingly). Yes. (Then, kindly) I love you to be 
 
 right about that sort of thing. 
 
 ELAINE (smiling). Don't you mean you hate me to be wrong ? 
 GERALD. It's the same thing. (There is a pause.) " That changes 
 
 where it alteration finds ..." But love does change even 
 
 where it no alteration finds. (And he sits up and shakes his 
 
 head sadly.) 
 ELAINE. Does it ? 
 GERALD (looking at her and changing his mind emphatically). No 
 
 it doesn't ; you know it doesn't not real love. 
 ELAINE (laughing off the impending atmosphere of sentiment) . Really, 
 
 I don't care whether it does or doesn't to-day. I'm far too 
 
 happy up here. 
 GERALD. And ten minutes ago I was thinking you looked sad. 
 
ELAINE 137 
 
 ELAINE. My headache, perhaps. 
 GERALD. Isn't it any better ? 
 
 ELAINE (shaking her head experimentally). I think it's gone. 
 (Nodding towards the sinking sun) Do look. 
 
 (GERALD rolls over, and resting on his elbows also looks off L.) 
 
 GERALD. Yes, it's gorgeous, isn't it ? 
 
 ELAINE. Not a cloud, not a sail, not even a bird. Nothing but sea 
 
 and sunlight and sky. 
 GERALD (turning back and looking at her with admiration). And 
 
 nothing wanted at least in that direction. 
 ELAINE (meeting his admiration with a smile). Why, what's lacking 
 
 about me ? 
 GERALD (enthusiastically). There's nothing lacking about you. 
 
 You're perfect. 
 ELAINE (pleased, but parrying his earnestness with a laughing bow). 
 
 Thank you. 
 GERALD. I mean it. You look simply gorgeous. I never saw 
 
 anyone look so beautiful as you do now with the sunlight on 
 
 your face. 
 
 (She looks away. There is a pause.) 
 
 GERALD. You don't mind my saying that ? 
 
 ELAINE. Mind ? No. 
 
 GERALD. You know I don't mean anything. 
 
 ELAINE (her eyebrows raised whimsically). Don't mean anything ? 
 
 GERALD (brimming with explanation). No I don't mean that, you 
 know I don't. I mean of course I mean what I say, but 
 what I mean is I don't mean anything impertinent. 
 
 ELAINE. Thank you very much. 
 
 GERALD. Oh, I say, please don't make fun of me. 
 
 ELAINE (relenting and holding out her hand, which he takes in his). 
 I'm not making fun of you only the way you enthuse. 
 
 GERALD (encouraged). Yes, I know. After all, why shouldn't you 
 make fun of me? Between friends between such good 
 friends surely a little chaff can't do much harm. And we are 
 friends, aren't we ? (She does not deny it.) The funny part of 
 it is, that I'm not a bit enthusiastic "really. But somehow 
 up here it's so ... 
 
 (Her hand is still in his; he raises it and kisses it then he 
 begins to feel embarrassed and, rising, goes to edge of 
 ledge at back and looks down. ELAINE turns, sees him, 
 and speaks quickly.) 
 
 ELAINE. Oh, please, don't go so near the edge. 
 GERALD. I'm quite safe. 
 ELAINE. You might . . . 
 
 GERALD (asserting a man's right to take risks without being interfered 
 with). There's Curtis going along the path. 
 
138 ELAINE 
 
 ELAINE. You make me go all cold. Please come back. 
 
 GERALD (complying slowly) . . . Tramping along with his heavy 
 boots. (Returning and sitting down beside her.) I suppose he's 
 not such a bad chap when you know him. 
 
 ELAINE. He's always been very kind to me. 
 
 GERALD (scornfully). Yes, I daresay. But a woman like you wants 
 something more than kindness. How can he possibly under 
 stand you with his money-grubbing ideas ? 
 
 ELAINE (pitifully). Poor John I 
 
 GERALD (taking up her words). Poor John ? I like that. He has 
 everything on earth a man can want. Oh, the curse of wealth ! 
 Nothing but money could have made you the wife of a man 
 like that. 
 
 ELAINE. Nothing but the lack of money is the more truthful 
 way of putting it. Instead of blaming John's money for 
 buying me, you should blame my poverty for putting me up 
 for sale. 
 
 GERALD (with demonstrative disgust). Don't I Don't let's talk about 
 it. I hate to think of you so. 
 
 ELAINE. And yet we generally manage to get on to the subject, 
 don't we ? 
 
 GERALD. Yes. It's so awful, it's omnipresent. (Explosively) 
 Good God! what are we to expect from the next genera 
 tion when the women of this can say without a shudder, " I 
 married for money, not love " ? (ELAINE does not answer. He 
 speaks more quietly.) Elaine . . . 
 
 ELAINE. Yes ? 
 
 GERALD. Did you never meet anyone you could care for ? 
 
 (ELAINE shakes her head vaguely. He rolls over and looks out 
 towards the setting sun once more.) 
 
 GERALD. How quickly the sun goes down. You can almost see it 
 sinking towards the sea. 
 
 ELAINE. How old are you ? 
 
 GERALD. Twenty-five. Why do you want to know ? 
 
 ELAINE. Oh, I was just wondering. I should have thought you 
 were more. 
 
 GERALD (surprised and delighted). Would you really ? I'm glad. 
 It isn't many people notice that I look older than I am. But 
 you see my mind more than my outward appearance, and 
 really I think I can say without vanity that I'm a great 
 deal more than twenty-five in my mind. You see I've been 
 through experiences and things that make a man feel 
 older than those around him. 
 
 ELAINE (mystified). What sort of experiences ? 
 
 GERALD. Oh well it's hard to pin one down and describe 
 it ; but I had some nasty disappointments in human nature 
 while I was at Oxford things like that age a man. 
 
ELAINE 139 
 
 ELAINE. I'm a lot older than you. 
 
 GERALD. No, you're not. 
 
 ELAINE. Four years. 
 
 GERALD. That's nothing. You don't look it. 
 
 ELAINE (slowly). Not now. But in ten years' time I shall begetting 
 
 old. (Pauses and looks at him.) And you will be younger than 
 
 you are now. 
 
 GERALD. What do you mean by that ? 
 ELAINE (not without appreciation of her own epigram). Now, you've 
 
 just found out that you are old. In ten years' time you'll be 
 
 just finding out that you're young. 
 
 GERALD. I thought you said that I looked more than my age. 
 ELAINE. Exactly. 
 
 GERALD. Well, anyway, I don't call a woman old at forty. 
 ELAINE. I shan't be forty. I shall only be thirty-nine. 
 
 (There is another pause.) 
 GERALD. Elaine. 
 ELAINE. Yes ? 
 GERALD. Did I ever tell you about someone I once thought I was 
 
 very fond of ? 
 
 ELAINE. No, I don't think so. 
 GERALD. No. (Musingly) It's funny. I've often felt I wanted 
 
 to tell you about her, and then somehow I haven't. 
 ELAINE (with a twinkle). Perhaps we have been too busy discussing 
 
 John. You know I feel just a little wicked for the way we've 
 
 spoken about John behind his back. 
 GERALD. I don't see why you should. (Returning to his topic) I 
 
 think it's that I've been afraid it would bore you to hear about 
 
 her. And yet I don't suppose it would. You're not easily 
 
 bored. 
 
 ELAINE. What became of her ? 
 GERALD. She behaved very badly to me. 
 ELAINE. Oh ? What did she do ? 
 GERALD. She married someone else. I was fearfully cut up 
 
 about it. 
 
 ELAINE. Poor boy. But you got over it. 
 GERALD. Oh yes but I was awfully young then. 
 ELAINE (smiling). Why, how long ago was it ? 
 GERALD. Nearly two years. I wouldn't get over a thing like that 
 
 so easily now ; though I didn't get over that so easily either. 
 ELAINE. Tell me about her. 
 GERALD. What a dear you are ! You're interested in anything. 
 
 (Pauses then starts) Of course, I was awfully young when I 
 
 first met her not much more than a boy. I don't suppose 
 
 I was really in love, but I thought I was awfully gone on her. 
 
 Her name was Violet ; I called her Lurline. 
 ELAINE. Why ? 
 
140 ELAINE 
 
 GERALD. Well it's rather a long story. I'll begin at the beginning 
 
 if it won't bore you. Stop me if it does, won't you ? 
 ELAINE (nodding). Yes. 
 GERALD. Well she . . . 
 
 (THE CURTAIN DESCENDS.) 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE 
 THE GARDEN OF THE WESTMEATH HOTEL, TWO HOURS LATER 
 
 The hotel with its verandah is L. Steps lead up to the verandah 
 from the lawn and three French windows open from the 
 verandah into the dining-room. There are large trees R. 
 and at back, making the outline of the scene in those direc 
 tions vague and indistinct with their shadows. There is 
 one large tree R.c. and under it a comfortable garden wicker 
 chair, and a little white enamelled table with a book on it. 
 From a branch of the tree immediately above the chair 
 hangs a large Chinese lantern. Close to the chair R.C. 
 are two other small chairs, and another faces it from L.c. 
 A very small chair is below it R. These, with a few cushions 
 on the grass, form a rough semicircle around the middle 
 of the stage. 
 
 The dusk is fading into night, and the moon is rising. The 
 light from the dining-room streams out across the grass 
 and blends with the moonbeams. 
 
 As the curtain rises HENRI can be seen in the dining-room 
 moving about serving coffee. MICKY comes through the 
 middle window and runs down steps to lawn where, grabbing 
 one cushion from the grass and another from a chair he 
 throws them into the large chair and sits on them, watching 
 the house for other comers. 
 
 A moment passes, and then GERALD strolls out from amongst 
 the trees R. and crosses in front of chairs, looking anxiously 
 towards windows. As he reaches c., MICKY hails him. 
 
 MICKY. Woa, Gerry. 
 
 GERALD (turning and seeing him). Hullo. All alone ? 
 
 MICKY (in an aggrieved tone). Considering that you got up and 
 left me to finish by myself, I suppose I am. Stop wandering 
 about like a lost soul and come and be talked to. 
 
 GERALD (sitting in chair L.c. facing MICKY). I see you've taken the 
 best chair. 
 
 MICKY. I'm hanging on to it for Elaine in case she'll honour us 
 
 by sitting out here for a bit. 
 
 141 
 
142 ELAINE 
 
 GERALD (jumping up restlessly after a moment's pause). Well I 
 think I'll go for a stroll. 
 
 MICKY. What a chap you are, Gerry ! Give the girl a minute. 
 
 GERALD. Look here, Michael, I don't like your speaking so familiarly 
 of Mrs. Curtis. It isn't nice for a married woman to be referred 
 to as "the girl." {Walks up stage and back again, watching 
 windows with increasing impatience.) What on earth is the 
 matter with her ? They'd finished dinner, hadn't they ? 
 
 MICKY. Yep. Chatting to sister Mary, perhaps. 
 
 GERALD (sitting down again). Confounded nuisance Sir Peter and 
 Lady Phil coming down here and ousting us from their table. 
 
 MICKY. Yes, we were a comfy little quartette, weren't we ? Silly 
 mania these hotel managers have for ramming relations down 
 each other's throats. I can't say I fancy you all to myself. 
 You did nothing but look over my head at Elaine all through 
 dinner. 
 
 GERALD. Well, you were talking over your shoulder to them all 
 the time. 
 
 MICKY (patiently). My dear Gerry, I must talk to someone. (Mus 
 ingly) Old Curtis didn't look overjoyed to see Pete and Lady 
 Phil in our places, did he ? It struck me the old girl looked 
 a bit disgruntled, too. 
 
 GERALD. You could only see her back. 
 
 MICKY. Yes but she's got most expressive ears. She scarcely 
 spoke to Elaine it struck me she looked a bit afraid of her. 
 Did you notice it ? 
 
 GERALD (irritably). Who looked afraid of whom ? 
 
 MICKY. Elaine looked afraid of Lady Phil. Didn't you notice it ? 
 
 GERALD (shortly). No. 
 
 MICKY. I did. I wonder what's wrong. Old Pete was all there, 
 though. See him doing the polite ? Awfully impressed. I 
 don't wonder she looked stunning in that dress. I never saw 
 her look so alluring. Lucky devil old Curtis, eh ? Nothing 
 like trade, you know, Gerry. If I'd got the brains I'd invent 
 a boot polish to-morrow. Elaine's jolly lucky to have got 
 hold of a man like that instead of a silly ass like you or me. 
 
 GERALD (scornfully). Lucky ! Do you think she's happy with 
 him ? 
 
 MICKY. Well, she ought to be. She looks contented enough. 
 
 GERALD (with gentle superiority). I'm afraid you don't understand 
 women, Micky, or you wouldn't say that because a woman 
 looks contented she is happy. She may have all she wants 
 to eat and plenty of dresses and hats but you do not think 
 that Curtis appreciates her ? 
 
 MICKY (with conviction). I'm jolly well sure he does. See the way 
 he picked out the only decent peach for her at dinner ? 
 
 GERALD (with a show of amused tolerance). Micky, you are incorrig 
 ible. I mean does he appreciate her soul ? 
 
ELAINE 143 
 
 MICKY (hopefully). Very likely. 
 
 GERALD (earnestly). No, Micky, he doesn't. She is not happy. I 
 see it every time I talk to her. She understands better 
 than a woman who is really contented can do. She . . . When 
 I told her about Lurline . . . 
 
 MICKY (sitting up attentively). Oh, you've told her about Lurline, 
 have you ? 
 
 GERALD (evasively). I mentioned her apropos of something or 
 other. You can talk to Elaine about anything. 
 
 MICKY. Was she interested ? 
 
 GERALD (enthusiastically). She's always interested . . . 
 
 MICKY. In you or in the story ? 
 
 GERALD. Micky I 
 
 MICKY (with unusual seriousness). Look here, Gerald, old man, 
 don't you get the idea into your head that Elaine is not happy 
 with old Curtis. She is. And if she isn't she ought to be. 
 He's rough and tough, I know ; but a man who can screw 
 his brain down to getting what he wants out of the world the 
 way he can is worth fifty of us as a husband. He's considerate 
 and good-natured, and he doesn't bother her as I bet you do 
 with the best intentions in the world every time you talk 
 to her for half an hour. He's a humorous old cuss, too. 
 Remember when you were gassing about the Elgin Marbles 
 and he ... 
 
 GERALD (irritated beyond endurance). Oh, do shut up, Micky. It's 
 bad enough to have a miserable joke like that got off at one's 
 expense once without hearing it immortalised by every idiot 
 of one's acquaintance. 
 
 MICKY. You're not very polite, are you ? 
 
 GERALD. I'm sorry. I'm a bit irritable, I know. But really 
 look at this gorgeous night wasted 1 Isn't it a sin for anyone 
 to sit indoors eating on a night like this ? Look at the moon. 
 
 MICKY. Very nice moon, but it'll keep till she comes out. 
 
 GERALD (disgusted). " It'll keep till she comes out." Of all the 
 soulless remarks 1 
 
 MICKY (watching him thoughtfully). What's the matter with you ? 
 You're worse than usual to-night. (With an idea.) I say . . . 
 
 GERALD. Well ? 
 
 MICKY (chattily). What happened when you told Elaine about the 
 other girl ? 
 
 GERALD (furiously angry). You're damned impertinent. What 
 do you mean ? 
 
 MICKY (seriously). Gerry, I've no wish to be inquisitive, but it's 
 like this I brought you down here and I'm responsible for 
 you. I shall get into no end of trouble with Lady Phil and 
 all the other old ladies who adore you if I let you get mixed 
 up in a divorce case, or a severe spanking, or anything un 
 pleasant of that sort while you are under my wing. 
 
144 ELAINE 
 
 GERALD (very angry). If you'd use intelligible English . . . 
 
 MICKY (holding up one finger). Now, don't digress. You know 
 perfectly well that you're sweet on Mrs. C. I don't blame 
 you I am myself. Don't be jealous. But I'm an idealist, 
 I am. You're a blooming poet, and consequently you can't 
 feel the beautifying influence of a lovely woman without 
 wanting to tell her all about it. 
 
 GERALD. What reason have you for thinking that I'm what you 
 call " sweet " on Mrs. Curtis ? 
 
 MICKY (winking). Oh, a sort of intuition. I'll show you how it 
 works. (Turning, and in a surprised tone) Hullo, here she 
 is I 
 
 GERALD {jumping up eagerly and going to the foot of the steps). At 
 last, come along 1 
 
 (LADY PHILOX emerges from dining-room. GERALD is intensely 
 disappointed and turns to glare at MICKY, who explodes 
 with laughter at the success of his trick.) 
 
 LAD.Y P. (coming down the steps with the aid of GERALD'S outstretched 
 hand). Thank you, Gerald. Were you waiting for us ? How 
 nice of you. 
 
 (SIR PETER follows her down steps and they both approach 
 the ring of chairs. MICKY rises.) 
 
 SIR PETER. So you sit out in the garden after dinner ? How very 
 nice. 
 
 (LADY p. has taken the small chair c. SIR PETER sits in the 
 one between her and the large chair under the tree.) 
 
 GERALD. Yes, sometimes. ... As a matter of fact, I was just 
 
 thinking of going for a stroll. 
 
 LADY p. (offended). Please don't let me prevent yon. 
 MICKY. I'll come too, Gerry. 
 GERALD (apologetically to LADY p.). There's nothing I can get 
 
 you ? 
 
 LADY P. (coldly). No, thank you, Gerald. 
 MICKY. Come on. (He takes GERALD'S arm and they go off together 
 
 through the trees R.) 
 
 (LADY p. and SIR PETER do not speak for some seconds. LADY 
 p. s^s very upright in her chair. SIR PETER, after trying 
 vainly to lean back, and nearly tipping up his chair, 
 notices the cushions in the larger one, and transfers himself 
 to that. LADY P. opens the conversation abruptly.) 
 
 LADY P. Well, did you ever see anything like it ? 
 
 SIR PETER (comfortably). Like what, my dear ? 
 
 LADY P. Like what ? Like that woman's dress at dinner. 
 
 SIR PETER. Why, what was the matter with it ? 
 
ELAINE 145 
 
 LADY P. (acidly). What was the matter with it ? Did you ever 
 
 see me in a dress like that ? 
 SIR PETER (agreeably). No, but dresses vary so. What suits one 
 
 person does not suit another. 
 LADY P. (sharply). What do you mean by that ? 
 SIR PETER. What could I mean by it ? I'm afraid I don't remember 
 
 very much about the dress in question. (Dreamily) I doubt 
 
 if I could say, off-hand, of what material it was made, or to 
 
 what er period you would assign it. It was very charming. 
 LADY P. Charming ? 
 SIR PETER. It charmed the eye, so ... 
 LADY P. I suppose you'll be saying that the woman herself is 
 
 very charming next. 
 SIR PETER (pleasantly). Well . . . 
 LADY P. (sarcastically). And a lady ! 
 SIR PETER (with gentle courage). I should say if I were asked 
 
 that she was a lady yes. 
 LADY P. I am glad you succeeded in forming so decided an opinion. 
 
 I thought you seemed to be studying her rather closely at dinner. 
 SIR PETER (remonstratingly). My dear . . . 
 LADY P. Why, you never took your eyes off her. Neither did 
 
 poor Gerald at the next table, while that fool of a brother of 
 
 mine fussed over her as if she was a baby. 
 SIR PETER (thoughtfully). He is certainly very attentive to her. 
 
 (Pauses and then continues, still on the same train of thought) 
 
 After all, my dear Mary, isn't it as well that she is a lady ? 
 LADY P. (apprehensively). Why ? 
 SIR PETER. Well if John were to modify his views, and marry 
 
 her ... 
 
 LADY P. (shocked). Peter, I'm surprised at you. 
 SIR PETER. My dear Mary . . . 
 LADY p. The idea is disgusting. 
 SIR PETER (shaking his head amiably). I'm afraid I do not follow 
 
 your views on morality, my dear. In their way they seem 
 
 as odd to me as John's. 
 
 LADY P. I think most people would share them with me. 
 SIR PETER (agreeably). Very likely, very likely. 
 
 (MICKY and GERALD can be heard approaching through the 
 tress up R.) 
 
 LADY p. Who's that ? 
 
 SIR PETER (craning round). Mister Fellowes and Mister Seelby. 
 
 LADY P. H'm. I suppose he is hanging around after the charming 
 lady you would like to make my sister-in-law. Perhaps you'll 
 think it would be nice if she were to marry him next. 
 
 SIR PETER. Tsh, tsh, tsh I 
 
 (MICKY and GERALD have strolled on again up R. ELAINE 
 now appears in middle window wearing a very beautiful, 
 10 
 
146 ELAINE 
 
 but simple, evening dress and some jewellery. GERALD 
 goes quickly to the foot of the steps and holds out his 
 hand.) 
 
 GERALD. I thought you were never coming. 
 
 ELAINE (letting him help her down the steps). Have I been so long ? 
 
 MICKY (dashing at SIR PETER and tipping him out of the large chair). 
 
 Come on, Pete. Out of that chair. It's reserved for Elaine. 
 SIR PETER (good-naturedly). You are a great champion of Mrs. 
 
 Curtis's, Mister Seelby. 
 
 (MICKY pats up cushions. SIR PETER stands watching him. 
 LADY P. sits very upright, looking straight ahead oj her. 
 GERALD has led ELAINE down L. away from the others 
 close to the verandah. He still holds her hand, and speaks 
 in a low tone.) 
 
 GERALD. You'll come for a walk ? 
 
 ELAINE (with forced lightness of manner). No, I don't think I will 
 to-night. 
 
 GERALD (surprised and hurt). Oh, why not ? 
 
 ELAINE (lamely). I'm a little tired. 
 
 GERALD. You're not angry with me about this afternoon ? I 
 couldn't help kissing you. You looked so sweet and when 
 I told you about Lurline you understood so well that 
 it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. 
 Please . . . 
 
 (CURTIS comes through window carrying a lace scarf. They 
 draw apart at the sound of his voice.) 
 
 CURTIS (coming down to her). I've fetched your scarf -thing, dear. 
 
 The evenings are still chill, and we can't have you catching 
 
 cold, can we ? 
 ELAINE. Thank you. 
 
 (CURTIS puts the lace about her shoulders, GERALD moving 
 disgustedly up stage as he does so. CURTIS and ELAINE 
 then move together towards the chairs. LADY P. immedi 
 ately rises. CURTIS notices it and speaks sharply.) 
 
 CURTIS. Don't get up, Mary. 
 
 LADY p. (icily). I wish to go indoors. 
 
 CURTIS. No, you don't ; sit down again. (She gives him an angry 
 
 glance, but he meets it squarely and speaks very peremptorily.) 
 
 Sit down. 
 
 (LADY P. obeys in surprise. ELAINE takes the large chair 
 which MICKY offers her. CURTIS sits L., next to him is 
 LADY P., next to her SIR PETER, on his right ELAINE.) 
 
 MICKY (to ELAINE). There you are. I've had no end of a fight 
 to keep it for you. You do take a time chewing the cud. 
 
ELAINE 147 
 
 Gerry's been waiting for you for hours. (Draws up small 
 chair and sits close to ELAINE'S feet.) 
 
 (GERALD has returned to the group and is now settling himself 
 on some cushions down c. CURTIS looks down at him 
 kindly.) 
 
 CURTIS. Do you good, young man. Patient waiting exercises the 
 mind. Half my best inspirations have come to me while I 
 was waiting for Elaine to put on her hat. 
 
 MICKY. I can picture you leaning brainily against the hat-stand 
 and murmuring . . . (breaking off). What sort of inspira 
 tions does one need for your business ? 
 
 CURTIS (with a touch of pompousness). Useful ones. 
 
 LADY P. (acidly). Cheap advertisement seems to be your forte, 
 John. 
 
 CURTIS. Cheap is as cheap turns out, Mary. D'you know the 
 last thing I did before leaving Manchester was to sign a cheque 
 for one million more sheets of our old thirty-two ! (7m- 
 pressively) One million more sheets at tuppence-farthing a 
 sheet. Nine . . . (Catches ELAINE'S eye and stops rather 
 sheepishly, but adds with a twinkle in his eye) All right, my dear. 
 
 SIR PETER (finishing the sum dreamily). Nine thousand three 
 hundred and seventy-five pounds exactly. Dear me ! 
 
 CURTIS (laughing). Careful, Peter I Elaine's got her eye on us ! 
 I'm not allowed to talk shop except at home. 
 
 SIR PETER (laughing to ELAINE). You keep him in order, eh ? 
 
 ELAINE (laughing back). I try to. 
 
 SIR PETER. Isn't he rather er a handful ? 
 
 ELAINE. Sometimes. 
 
 GERALD (saving the conversation from becoming mere badinage). 
 Don't you think something more artistic than your usual 
 taste . . . 
 
 CURTIS (turning on him). What do you know about my usual 
 taste ? 
 
 GERALD. I am presuming that your posters are of your own 
 selecting. 
 
 CURTIS (dangerously). Certainly they are. Well ? 
 
 GERALD (scornfully). Well . . . 
 
 CURTIS (polishing him off). When I'm fishing for perch I use worms. 
 Does that mean that worms are my favourite dish ? When 
 I'm fishing for the custom of the working public I use Martin's 
 lithos, but I don't hang them on my walls. 
 
 MICKY (elated). Oh, Gerry, what a smacking ! 
 
 CURTIS (tempering it with friendly patronage which makes GERALD 
 squirm). Not at all. Mister Fellowes is very young, and young 
 people always talk a lot about taste. It took a good many 
 smackings to knock the truth into me that the best possible 
 taste is to give people what they want. 
 
148 ELAINE 
 
 LADY P. Especially when you want their custom in return. 
 
 CURTIS (ignoring the sarcasm). Exactly. 
 
 MICKY. Most edifying. (Then leaning back and nursing one knee 
 as he gazes into the sky.) Ripping night ! There's your moon, 
 Gerry I told you it would keep. Something awfully softening 
 about the moon, isn't there ? Makes me think of Nelly. You 
 don't mind my thinking about her, do you, Lady Phil ? 
 (Sighs.) Good old moon. Perhaps she's looking at it too. 
 Where's she taken Orchardson to for the voyage de triomph, 
 Pete? 
 
 SIR PETER. They are making a rather protracted tour of the 
 Rhine, and the er Bavarian Highlands. Lord Orchardson 
 is quite a guide to the er Fatherland. He speaks German 
 perfectly. 
 
 MICKY (savagely). So he ought to ; he's got false teeth. 
 
 GERALD. Michael ! 
 
 LADY P. Micky, please do not speak of our son-in-law like that. 
 
 MICKY. Don't forget that I'm a rejected suitor, Lady Phil. 
 
 LADY P. Don't be ridiculous. 
 
 ELAINE (entering the conversation nervously). I think I used to 
 know your daughter, Sir Peter. 
 
 SIR PETER (amazed, but quickly recovering himself). Good heavens ! 
 er I mean you . . . (Quite politely and encouragingly) You 
 used to know Nelly ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. Wasn't she at Winborne House School, at Folke 
 stone ? 
 
 SIR PETER. To be sure she was. 
 
 ELAINE (more at ease). I thought I remembered the name. We 
 were rather good friends though of course I was several years 
 her senior. 
 
 SIR PETER. Were you at Winborne House too ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. 
 
 LADY P. (exploding with indignation). I was always opposed to 
 sending Nelly to that school. 
 
 (ELAINE retires into her shell again. CURTIS looks warningly, 
 and SIR PETER pleadingly, at LADY p., who closes her mouth 
 with a snap after her outburst. MICKY is still studying the 
 sky. There is an awkward silence, which SIR PETER sees 
 the necessity of breaking.) 
 
 SIR PETER (chattily). The Walderoofs are in town again, John. 
 
 CURTIS. The what ? 
 
 SIR PETER. The Walderoofs. Sergius Walderoof who wrote the 
 
 book on Asiatic Russia. 
 CURTIS. Oh, good Lord ! I thought you were telling me about 
 
 some sort of wild beast, or plague, or something. 
 SIR PETER (gently). You used to know them. Amy Walderoof was 
 
 a Waller. (Pronounced to rhyme with Caller.) 
 
ELAINE 149 
 
 CURTIS (dryly) Was she really ? It shows what a lot a man can 
 get over to be able to forget a name like that. 
 
 SIR PETER. You are quite out of touch with your old set, John. 
 
 CURTIS. I haven't been in a London drawing-room three times in 
 the last twenty years. 
 
 MICKY. Bless us 1 And yet you look civilised in a rough sort of 
 way. 
 
 CURTIS. You go out to the new countries, my lad, if you want to 
 know what civilisation means. 
 
 MICKY (frankly). I don't. 
 
 SIR PETER (still pondering). I suppose you don't remember the de 
 Boins either, then ? 
 
 CURTIS (tersely). No, I don't. 
 
 SIR PETER. Of course, twenty years is a long time, but I should 
 have thought you'd have remembered the Walderoofs. 
 
 MICKY (who has been watching ELAINE). You're very quiet. 
 
 ELAINE. Am I ? 
 
 CURTIS. Why don't you go for a walk with one of these youngsters, 
 dear ? It'll be better than sitting here and being bored by us 
 old fogies. Mister Fellowes take her for a walk. 
 
 GERALD (jumping up with alacrity). Thanks. I should like to. 
 
 CURTIS (genially). Of course you would. Off you go. 
 
 ELAINE (rising doubtfully). I'm a little tired. 
 
 GERALD. We won't go far. 
 
 ELAINE (suddenly). Won't you come too, Mister Seelby ? 
 
 MICKY (surprised). What ? Me ? (Jumping up.) Rather ! 
 Come on, Gerry I (Goes off R. with ELAINE, leaving GERALD to 
 follow, which he does in a very bad humour.) 
 
 CURTIS (chuckling happily as he watches them off). She knows how 
 to manage youngsters, Peter. See the way she plays them off 
 against each other? (LADY P. snorts; he ignores it.) It's a 
 treat to see her with young people. I'm afraid she has rather 
 a dull time of it with me most of the year. Poor Elaine. 
 (To LADY P.) By the way, Mary I I'm putting this as a 
 favour . . . (In a more conciliatory tone than he has yet adopted) 
 If we are both staying here and it seems that we are I 
 shall be very grateful if you'll refrain from showing that you 
 know that there's anything unusual about Elaine's position 
 at least while she's about. 
 
 LADY P. (sarcastically). I thought you said you didn't mind who 
 knew, or what people thought. 
 
 CURTIS (determined not to be drawn into a quarrel). Yes, yes, I know 
 I did and from my own point of view I don't. But I wasn't 
 considering her when I said that. I'm such a selfish old duffer 
 that I didn't realise that women even the most sensible of 
 them have a sort of latent weakness for respectability, which 
 I haven't got. You've hurt Elaine already by your rudeness. 
 She hasn't said anything, but I can see that you have. Of 
 
150 ELAINE 
 
 course, she knows now that you know the truth, but there's 
 no need to rub it in. Really you'll oblige me very much by 
 not getting up and moving away every time she comes near 
 you. 
 
 LADY P. (unpleasantly). Indeed ? You don't appear to appreciate 
 the possibility that 7 may have some sense of what is proper 
 too. Some "latent weakness for respectability," as you call 
 it. 
 
 CURTIS (easily). Oh yes, I daresay you have. But, after all, you 
 haven't done anything to be uncomfortable about. If Elaine 
 is doing something disgraceful in accepting an income from me 
 without a licence from Mrs. Grundy and she knows it, and is 
 ashamed of it surely she's the one whose feelings should be 
 considered. We shouldn't throw stones at people in glass 
 houses, you know. 
 
 SIR PETER (curiously). You didn't get sunstroke while you were in 
 Australia, did you, John ? 
 
 CURTIS (surprised at the question). Sunstroke? No. Why? 
 
 SIR PETER. No, no I was merely wondering. You seem a little 
 odd that is all. 
 
 CURTIS (laughing). Oh, I see. No, I'm not mad ; but I've a habit 
 of taking my ideas out of my own head as I go along, and not 
 borrowing them second-hand from other people, so perhaps 
 they may be a bit novel. Put me down as just a crank, Peter. 
 
 SIR PETER (indulgently). I'm afraid I have already done so, my dear 
 John. But I have a certain partiality for cranks. 
 
 LADY P. (rising). Well, I haven't. So perhaps since your sensitive 
 protegee is not here to be hurt at my departure I may be 
 allowed to go indoors. 
 
 (They rise politely as she goes up the steps and into hotel. SIR 
 PETER then resumes his seat with a little worldly shake of 
 the head.) 
 
 SIR PETER. I'm not at all surprised at Mary's attitude, you know, 
 John. The married woman has an instinctive aversion 
 for the er the hetaerae. (Chuckles gently over his Greekism.) 
 Doubtless she regards her as a sort of blackleg who enters the 
 market on lower terms than herself. 
 
 CURTIS (resuming his seat). H'h. Well, I wish to goodness she 
 wouldn't make Elaine uncomfortable. What good does it do 
 her ? And it's uncharitable ! 
 
 SIR PETER. People engaged upon uncharitableness seldom consider 
 their own personal ends, John. That is why women are more 
 uncharitable than men. They are more unselfish. 
 
 CURTIS (still on his previous grievance). You must see for yourself 
 that Elaine is a woman of refined feelings. 
 
 SIR PETER (kindly). Obviously. 
 
 CURTIS (very gratefully). You do see it ? Thank you, Peter. 
 
ELAINE 151 
 
 SIR PETER (beaming with good nature). Don't you think, John, that 
 if for her sake you want her to be treated with the respect 
 due to your wife you might as well marry her ? It would be 
 easier than saying to everyone you meet that you don't care 
 who knows the truth, and then asking them not to show that 
 they know it ? 
 
 CURTIS (on the defensive). I suppose you think I'm a fool ? 
 
 SIR PETER (complacently). My ha regard for your head is not as 
 great as my regard for your heart. 
 
 CURTIS. Heart ? Fiddlesticks 1 I haven't got a heart. 
 
 SIR PETER (persuasively). Now, my dear John, even you will not 
 deny that you are extremely fond of er Elaine. 
 
 CURTIS. Fond of her ? Of course I'm fond of her ! Do you think 
 I'd be giving her twelve hundred pounds a year if I wasn't fond 
 of her ? Do you take me for an ass ? 
 
 SIR PETER (closing his eyes and beating the air with his hands). I 
 compared you to Don Quixote. No I you're more like one 
 of the windmills. There's no knowing where you'll catch 
 me next. (Resuming) If you are sufficiently fond of her 
 to spend all that on her, and to worry as you do, when you 
 think her feelings will be hurt, how on earth can you say that 
 you are not fond enough of her to make her your wife ? 
 
 CURTIS. I don't say anything of the sort. Whether I'm fond of 
 her or not what right have I got to use my money to in 
 fluence Elaine to tie herself for life to an old buffer like me ? 
 
 SIR PETER. My dear John, she's living with you. If you've a 
 right to ask her to do that, I should say it's no great exaction 
 to ask her to marry you as well. 
 
 CURTIS. Of course, it's your duty as a clergyman to overrate the 
 importance of marriage. 
 
 SIR PETER. On the contrary, I think that you are overrating it. 
 You magnify it into a sort of bugbear. My point of view is 
 that it's such a simple little concession to popular prejudice 
 that only a very rigid moralist like yourself would ever 
 put his friends and himself to the inconvenience of doing 
 without it. 
 
 CURTIS. A marriage should be a love affair a mutual love affair. 
 She can't be expected to care anything about me. 
 
 SIR PETER. I should think that any woman must be very much 
 in love with you to be able to put up with you for long. The 
 fact of the matter, my dear John, is that you're too obstinate 
 for a man who boasts that he gets his ideas out of his own head. 
 
 CURTIS (surprised, but not resentful). You call me obstinate ? 
 
 SIR PETER (tactfully). In some matters. I I don't say it's wrong 
 to think for yourself. You may hit upon a great truth thereby. 
 On the other hand, you may evolve a tremendous er 
 howler. That is why a man who thinks for himself should 
 be sufficiently humble to discard his ideas if experience 
 
152 ELAINE 
 
 proves them erroneous. The supreme test of a theory is 
 "Will it work?" a test which only experience can apply. 
 Now, surely experience is proving these eccentric views of 
 yours on marriage to be unpractical. In fact, you've become 
 a crank on the subject. Mind, I'm not blaming you ! For a 
 man to think seriously about our marriage laws and not 
 develop signs of lunacy would imply that he was a blockhead. 
 And you are not a blockhead. 
 CURTIS. Thank you. 
 
 SIR PETER. Nevertheless, John, to adhere to every opinion you 
 ever expressed just because you evolved it yourself argues 
 conceit. 
 
 CURTIS (impressed with the line of attack). Conceit, eh ? 
 SIR PETER (winningly). Well doesn't it ? 
 CURTIS. H'm 1 Go on. 
 
 SIR PETER (over-confident and trying for another hold). There is 
 even another reason why you should marry her. You say 
 you like to see her with young people. Young men. 
 CURTIS (coming out of his reverie and resuming the fight). Certainly, 
 I do. You're not going to suggest that I can't trust her, 
 I hope? 
 
 SIR PETER. I don't know what you mean by " can't trust her." 
 Under the present conditions, how could it be a breach of 
 trust for her to leave you for anyone she er might be 
 attracted by. 
 
 CURTIS (scornfully). Are you trying to make out that marriage is 
 a safeguard against " attractions " ? P'ff ! You know it 
 isn't. If she were married to me she'd be just as likely to fall 
 in love with someone else as she is now. And just see how 
 being married would complicate matters. I should have to 
 divorce her set her free so that she could marry the other 
 man 1 Well, she is free now. Why the devil should I marry 
 her just to set her free again ? 
 SIR PETER (wearily). Pax ! Pax ! My dear John, a little of you 
 
 goes a very long way. 
 CURTIS (triumphantly). You see . . , 
 
 SIR PETER. No ! I don't see anything, but I give in. (With 
 much feeling) Inquissimam Pacem, Justissimo Bello Ante- 
 fero. 
 
 CURTIS (who has returned to the contemplation of SIR PETER'S other 
 argument). Not but that you talk sense sometimes, Peter. 
 (Pauses and strikes a match.) Of course you're not consistent 
 (lights pipe methodically, then rises and looks sternly down at 
 SIR PETER), but you're right quite right about my being too 
 obstinate. 
 
 (Before SIR PETER can reply, CURTIS has marched off down R. 
 smoking and thinking hard with his hands clasped behind 
 
ELAINE 153 
 
 him. SIR PETER watches him off with a dawning hope 
 that his philosophy has not been wasted after all. MICKY 
 and ELAINE return up R.) 
 
 MICKY. Hullo, Pete 1 Where's everyone gone to ? 
 
 SIR PETER (jumping up). My brother-in-law has just left me. He 
 went in that direction (pointing after CURTIS). 
 
 MICKY. Funny we didn't meet him. (Suddenly) Oh, we've lost Gerry. 
 
 SIR PETER (with his eyebrows up). Lost Mister Fellowes ? 
 
 MICKY. Yes. He lagged behind and disappeared (making ELAINE 
 comfortable in the large chair). 
 
 SIR PETER (chattily). These poetic young men, you know ! Absent- 
 minded . . . 
 
 MICKY. Absent-minded. Sulky because I was there. 
 
 SIR PETER (to ELAINE). Er would you like me to find John for you ? 
 
 MICKY (eagerly). I'll catch him if you want him. (Dashes off R.) 
 
 SIR PETER (watching him off). What abounding vitality ! How 
 delightful for oneself. Er (looks at ELAINE and sits down 
 beside her and sets out to be very nice and friendly) It's a 
 beautiful evening. 
 
 ELAINE (politely). Very. (She is a little distraite.) 
 
 SIR PETER. Yes. Yes. Very. Ha do you mind if I smoke ? 
 
 ELAINE. Not at all. 
 
 SIR PETER. Thank you. (Places his hand in breast pocket and 
 brings it out empty.) Er (looks in other pocket and 
 finds that also empty) thank you. (Continues search, and 
 at last finds cigarette-case in waistcoat pocket. He takes a 
 cigarette and hesitates.) You are quite sure you don't mind 
 my smoking ? 
 
 ELAINE (with a trace of amusement). Quite sure. 
 
 SIR PETER. Thank you. (Commences a protracted search for matches, 
 which is unsuccessful. After a vague glance at the table, he 
 returns the cigarette to the case and the case to his pocket, and 
 repeats resignedly) A beautiful evening I 
 
 ELAINE (turning to him, with a smile). Please smoke, Sir Peter, if you 
 want to. 
 
 SIR PETER (uncomfortably). Er I ha I don't think I will, after 
 all, thanks. Er I'm not a great smoker, you know. 
 
 ELAINE. Aren't you ? John is. 
 
 SIR PETER. Yes. John is. I'd noticed that. Very bad for him, 
 don't you think ? 
 
 ELAINE. It doesn't seem to hurt him. 
 
 SIR PETER. No no perhaps it doesn't. You don't smoke 
 yourself ? 
 
 ELAINE. Sometimes. 
 
 SIR PETER (apologetically). Yes, yes of course. Sometimes. 
 (There is a long pause.) Would you like me to find John for 
 you ? 
 
154 ELAINE 
 
 ELAINE (breaking into a laugh at last). Really, I don't want John, 
 thank you. I'm sorry I make you so uncomfortable. 
 
 SIR PETER (laughing, too, and speaking quite frankly). The annoying 
 part of it is, my dear young lady, that you don't make me 
 uncomfortable in the least only, I can't for the life of me 
 think of anything to talk about. 
 
 ELAINE (in a changed tone). It's very kind of you to want to talk 
 to me at all. 
 
 SIR PETER. Kind ? 
 
 ELAINE. Lady Philox doesn't seem to want to. 
 
 SIR PETER (evasively). Well, you know . . , 
 
 ELAINE (quietly). Yes, I know. 
 
 (SIR PETER glances at her and, meeting her eye, gives a little 
 shrug. ELAINE smiles back at him.) 
 
 ELAINE (musingly). You can have no idea how greatly Lady Philox 
 reminds me of my mother. 
 
 SIR PETER (surprised). Of your mother ? 
 
 ELAINE (in the same tone). Yes it's quite startling sometimes. I 
 can't help wondering if my mother had lived and you and 
 Lady Philox had died if I might not have married " well " 
 and Nelly Philox have ended in something like the position I 
 am in to-day. 
 
 SIR PETER (shocked). My dear young lady 1 
 
 ELAINE. Of course, other circumstances would have had to have 
 been parallel, too. But her upbringing was so exactly like 
 mine. We were both intended to fill the position of a well- 
 paid wife. We compared notes once at school and realised 
 that. Why, neither of us could even dress herself or do her 
 own hair, or knew anything of the purchasing value of money ; 
 and I'm quite sure that when Nelly left Winborne House Lady 
 Philox took her around to every likely hunting-ground in 
 Europe just as my mother had taken me. Lady Philox was 
 successful. . . . My mother died, and left me three hundred 
 pounds to finish the hunt for myself. I made a mess of it. 
 (Bitterly) You know a girl really needs a mother or some 
 sort of saleswoman to strike the right sort of bargain for her. 
 
 SIR PETER. But . . . Why only three hundred pounds ? 
 
 ELAINE (quietly explaining). My mother was a sort of gambler. 
 She was living on her capital to give me my chance as she 
 called it. I suppose I should have had to reimburse her out of 
 my profits as a wife. 
 
 SIR PETER. You speak bitterly of your mother. 
 
 ELAINE. Do you think I should be grateful to her ? 
 
 SIR PETER. Er . . . (Then shaking his head seriously) Dear, dear, 
 dear 1 
 
 ELAINE (more lightly). Don't look so worried, Sir Peter. You've 
 lived to see Nelly safely married. 
 
ELAINE 155 
 
 SIR PETER. Yes. And of course she's devoted to Orchardson. 
 ELAINE (dryly). Of course. You see the force of the comparison ? 
 SIR PETER. Yes. Oh yes. (Very much perturbed) Really, I'm 
 
 wondering where it ceases. (Getting up and walking about) 
 
 T't't't't't 1 
 ELAINE. You might ease your mind by asking me if I couldn't do 
 
 honest work. 
 SIR PETER. Of course, she couldn't. I mean of course, you 
 
 couldn't. You weren't brought up to work. T't't't, t't ! 
 
 Really, you've quite distressed me. Are we ... 
 
 (MICKY comes panting back.) 
 
 MICKY (between gasps). Can't find him anywhere. Did he go 
 down the cliff or up ? 
 
 SIR PETER (annoyed at the interruption). I don't know which way 
 he went. 
 
 MICKY (apologising to ELAINE and wiping his forehead). I'm awfully 
 sorry. 
 
 ELAINE. It doesn't matter. I didn't want him. 
 
 MICKY. Didn't want him ? Then what have I been running miles 
 for? 
 
 ELAINE (laughing). I'm sorry you have. Perhaps he's got some 
 thing on his mind. He'll walk for hours when he's thinking 
 out anything. 
 
 SIR PETER. Will he, really ? A very remarkable man, is he not ? 
 
 (HENRI is seen drawing down the blinds of the dining-room 
 windows, thereby obscuring all light save that of the moon 
 and the great Chinese lantern on the tree.) 
 
 MICKY. Hullo I They're shutting up shop. I'm going to get some 
 ice to put on my head. (Goes to steps.) 
 
 SIR PETER (producing watch and endeavouring to tell time by faint 
 light). Do they close as early as this ? 
 
 MICKY (as he goes up the steps). No. Only the dining-room. (Exits 
 through window.) 
 
 SIR PETER. Dear me 1 It's a quarter to ten ! 
 
 ELAINE. Don't let me keep you if you want to join Lady Philox. 
 
 SIR PETER. Er yes, perhaps I ought to. I have some letters to 
 write. Good-night. (Gets as far as steps and then returns.) 
 I wanted to say, my dear young lady, that I hope you 
 will regard me as your friend if ever . . . (breaks off self 
 consciously). Dear me ! It sounds ridiculously theatrical, 
 doesn't it ? 
 
 ELAINE. No. Really, I'm very grateful. 
 
 SIR PETER. I suppose that the ah kindlier sentiments are so 
 very old and universal that it is impossible to express them 
 without sounding hackneyed. Good-night. (Holds out his 
 hand.) 
 
156 ELAINE 
 
 ELAINE (Giving him hers). Good-night. 
 
 (SIR PETER goes into the hotel. ELAINE remains in the large 
 chair under the Chinese lantern idly turning the pages of 
 her book. GERALD enters up R. and crosses behind her 
 towards the steps. He sees her and comes gently down and 
 drops into chair by her side.) 
 
 GERALD. Elaine 1 
 
 ELAINE (momentarily startled). Oh I thought it was you ! 
 
 GERALD (reproachfully). Then why didn't you run away from me ? 
 
 ELAINE. Why should I ? 
 
 GERALD. You have been avoiding me all the evening. 
 
 ELAINE. No, I haven't. 
 
 GERALD. Yes, you have. You know you have. We've always 
 been for a walk together after dinner. Why wouldn't you 
 come to-night ? 
 
 ELAINE. I did. 
 
 GERALD (indignantly) . Yes, and brought Micky along too. (Bending 
 towards her and speaking in a more tender tone) Elaine ! 
 
 ELAINE. Yes ? 
 
 GERALD. Didn't you know that I loved you ? 
 
 ELAINE. I (smiling suddenly) yes, I suppose I did. 
 
 GERALD. Don't laugh. Please don't laugh. I don't think you 
 know even now how much. Dear I could no more help 
 kissing you than I can help loving you. I love you more now 
 than I did then, and I shall go on loving you more with every 
 hour I live. 
 
 ELAINE. Don't, please. 
 
 GERALD (with a touch of cruelty). It can't hurt you to know how 
 much I love you. I suppose I've just got to go away and leave 
 you to the husband you care nothing for. It's that that makes 
 me furious. If you had ever cared for him I would have gone 
 away and left you without a word. 
 
 ELAINE. You are going now ? 
 
 GERALD. Early to-morrow, before anyone here is up. I want to 
 say good-bye now. 
 
 ELAINE. Good-bye. 
 
 (GERALD immediately takes her in his arms.) 
 
 GERALD (passionately). Oh, my dear, my dear, I want to hold you 
 here for ever 1 I love you. Why do you send me away ? 
 You must love me, too I know you do. Tell me that you do. 
 
 ELAINE (smiling into his face). If you know that I do ... 
 
 GERALD (reproachfully). You smile at everything. Can't you be 
 serious for a moment ? 
 
 ELAINE. Aren't you serious enough for both of us ? (He releases 
 her angrily.) Don't look so hurt. It'll be all right in a few 
 months. I'm glad you're going away. It was silly of us to 
 
ELAINE 157 
 
 go on like this. I suppose it is only that I'm lonely, and you're 
 young and romantic. 
 
 GERALD (incredulously). I am young and romantic ? How little 
 you really know me. 
 
 ELAINE (gently). Aren't you ? 
 
 GERALD. I thought you cared for me ? 
 
 ELAINE (smiling at him bravely). I do now. I shall get over it. 
 
 GERALD (amazed). Get over it 1 Do you want to get over it ? 
 
 ELAINE. The greatest happiness is to get over things. 
 
 GERALD. You're bitter and cynical ; I don't wonder. You've had 
 nothing in all your life to make you otherwise until you met 
 me. I only wish I could make you take a more sympathetic 
 view of life. I'd like to take you right away from Curtis and 
 everything that has warped and embittered your nature, and 
 show you what a beautiful, noble thing life can be. (Suddenly 
 caught by the idea.) Elaine . . . 
 
 ELAINE (compelled to answer by his pause). Yes ? 
 
 GERALD. If I asked you to, would you come away with me ? 
 
 ELAINE (frightened). We can be seen from the windows ! 
 
 GERALD (magnificently). Let them see. Would you ? 
 
 ELAINE (remonstrating feebly). My dear . . . 
 
 GERALD (impulsively). Oh, say you would ! Leave this husband 
 who drags you down to his own level, and come with me. I 
 know that under all your hardness and bitterness there is a 
 beautiful woman's soul that is fainting for love. Come with 
 me and give it life before it is too late. I beg you to. 
 
 ELAINE. Do you really love me so much ? 
 
 GERALD. I never knew what love was until I met you. 
 
 ELAINE (with a warning smile). Lurline ? 
 
 GERALD (hotly). I was a boy. I told you I only thought I loved 
 her. 
 
 ELAINE. Perhaps you only think you love me, 
 
 GERALD. Elaine, come with me, and you will know whether I love 
 you or not. Time will tell. 
 
 ELAINE. And suppose time says " not " ? 
 
 GERALD (angrily). If you can do nothing but make fun of me . . . 
 
 ELAINE (stopping him with a gesture). No, no. Don't go like that. 
 I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate your good 
 ness. But it's impossible you must see. 
 
 GERALD. Why is it impossible ? You love me ; you are not happy 
 with Curtis . . . 
 
 ELAINE. I'm not unhappy with him. 
 
 GERALD. You can't be anything but unhappy with a man you 
 don't love. 
 
 ELAINE (quietly, half to herself). Yes, you can in a way. 
 
 GERALD (angrily). Don't try to be worldly. 
 
 ELAINE. I'm not trying to be worldly. I mean it. Really, until 
 I met you I thought I was quite content. 
 
158 ELAINE 
 
 GERALD (fervently). Thank God we met. It is not too late. Worldly 
 content has not yet robbed you of the power to love. Elaine, 
 you have dreamt you were content, but I offer you happiness. 
 Come with me. We will go to Italy, and there in the hills 
 about Rome we will buy a little villa with . . . 
 
 ELAINE. Why should you burden your life with me ? 
 
 GERALD. Burden my life ? You would be the dearest burden 
 man ever bore. 
 
 ELAINE (sadly). But still a burden. Gerald, what would you find 
 to do in a little villa in the hills around Rome ? You are a 
 young man with the world before you. It wouldn't be fair 
 to you . . . 
 
 GERALD. Don't think of me, think of yourself. Think of the 
 years to come if you send me away. How will you live them 
 through without me ? You will be alone but for this husband 
 whom you care nothing for. How utterly lonely you will be 
 as the years pass ! Lonely in spirit. Why, you haven't even 
 a child to " clothe the father with a dearness not his due." 
 Elaine, can you look forward to those years without shrinking ? 
 Put the fear of them behind you. Come with me. You owe 
 it to yourself not to refuse happiness when I offer it to you. 
 
 ELAINE. Don't I owe anything to John ? 
 
 GERALD (shocked at the bare suggestion). Good heavens ! What 
 slaves of convention women are ! You don't love him. A 
 marriage without love means nothing. You owe him nothing. 
 Even now you are more mine than his, because you love me. 
 
 ELAINE (resting her head on her hands hopelessly). Oh dear, oh dear ! 
 
 GERALD (annoyed). Really I'm sorry if I make you unhappy. 
 
 ELAINE. It's all so hopeless. I'm older than you. 
 
 GERALD. What on earth has that got to do with it if / don't mind ? 
 You're making excuses now, because you're afraid to take one 
 decisive step. 
 
 ELAINE (brokenly). Don't, don't I 
 
 GERALD (very insulted at her unhappiness). Good God ! You look 
 as if I were being perfectly beastly to you. And all the time 
 I'm only thinking of your happiness. 
 
 ELAINE. I know, dear . . . (Holds out her hand appealingly.) 
 
 GERALD (taking her hand and speaking firmly). Make up your mind 
 to come with me, and don't worry any more. 
 
 ELAINE (hopelessly). Very well. 
 
 GERALD. Oh, please say it as if you wanted to, dear. 
 
 ELAINE. I do want to, but . . . 
 
 GERALD. Yes, yes, I know. Women are all alike. When their 
 heart's desire is within their reach they hesitate to take it, one 
 and all. (Putting his arms about her tenderly) Poor child, 
 you've had little enough happiness in your life. But now . . . 
 (His tone changing with the sincerity of his belief in himself) 
 Oh, I'll be so good to you, dear. 
 
ELAINE 159 
 
 ELAINE. I know you will. 
 
 GERALD. " Let us not to the marriage of true minds admit impedi 
 ments/' Oh, my dear one, I've loved you since the world 
 began. (Kisses her and then releases her and looks serious.) 
 Now to get away. You must come with me to-night. 
 
 ELAINE. To-night. 
 
 GERALD (looking at watch). Yes. 
 
 ELAINE (smiling at his impetuosity). We can't . . . 
 
 GERALD. We will. Do you think I'd let you stay another hour 
 with Curtis now that you are mine ? We'll be off within an 
 hour. 
 
 ELAINE. How ? 
 
 GERALD. Motor. I'll hire a car in the town and bring it back 
 here not to the door, of course, but as far as the road. Then 
 I'll come back here and fetch you. By daybreak we shall be 
 a hundred miles away. (Takes her hands and looks at her.) 
 You don't look very happy even now. 
 
 ELAINE (smiling at her confession). I'm a little frightened. 
 
 GERALD (with gentle reproach). That's not very complimentary to 
 me, is it ? I'm going to devote my whole life to you ; you 
 might trust me. 
 
 ELAINE. I trust you, but (nervously) it seems such a plunge. 
 
 GERALD. Of course it's a plunge. 
 
 ELAINE (half to herself). I used to be afraid that I might fall in love 
 some day and leave John, and drift until I became like 
 those poor women I've seen sometimes in hotels, and restaurants, 
 and casinos drifting from one shabby love to another because 
 they left safety and took the plunge that I'm taking now. 
 
 GERALD (resentfully). What do you mean by " left safety " ? 
 
 ELAINE. It's something very precious : the knowledge that you're 
 safe. 
 
 GERALD (touched). Poor dear. You're frightening yourself need 
 lessly. You'll be quite safe with me. As soon as you are 
 free I'll marry you. You know that. You're doing nothing 
 wrong in leaving your husband, nothing at all. (Looking at 
 watch) I must be off for the car. I'll be back here for you by 
 half-past eleven. Be in the little reading-room. We shall be 
 in the car all night, so wrap up well. (Kissing her) See how 
 considerate I'm getting. 
 
 ELAINE (chaffingly). Yes, almost as considerate as John. 
 
 GERALD. Oh, Elaine ! 
 
 ELAINE. I was only joking. 
 
 GERALD. Yes, I know, but . . . (Suddenly) Here, I must be off. 
 I shall have to knock them up at White's. (Starts to go.) 
 
 ELAINE (stopping him.) Wait a minute, Gerald. 
 
 GERALD (humouring her). Well ? 
 ELAINE. Don't think I 
 
 am always nervous and undecided as I 
 have been to-night. 
 
160 ELAINE 
 
 GERALD (kindly). I'm sure you're not. This has been an exceptional 
 strain to your nerves. I quite understand. (Turning away.) 
 
 ELAINE (stopping him again). No, no. (Very sweetly) Don't go 
 for a minute. (Quietly, after a pause) Dear I love you 
 and 111 try to be as light a burden to you as I can. 
 
 GERALD (tenderly). You dear silly baby. (Kisses her and runs off 
 into hotel.) 
 
 (ELAINE stands for a moment looking after him, and then turns 
 and meets CURTIS entering R., his hands still behind him 
 and his pipe still in his mouth.) 
 
 CURTIS. Hullo. All by yourself ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. 
 
 CURTIS (his attention arrested by the change in her voice). Child, you 
 
 do look ill ! What's the matter ? 
 ELAINE. Nothing. 
 
 CURTIS (with sudden savageness). Has Mary been worrying you ? 
 ELAINE (surprised). Mary ? Oh no. 
 CURTIS. She'd better not. What's wrong, then ? You're worried 
 
 about something. (Abruptly) Look here. Don't you think 
 
 we'd better get married ? 
 ELAINE. What ? 
 
 CURTIS. Get married. Not such a remarkable idea, is it ? 
 ELAINE (sinking into a chair and breaking into a weak but genuine 
 
 laugh). Oh, John 1 After all you've said. 
 CURTIS. Yes. I know all about that. But a man can change his 
 
 mind if he's got one. This state of affairs is killing you. Look 
 
 at you now. 
 ELAINE. The state of affairs has nothing to do with it, really. 
 
 I'd forgotten it. 
 CURTIS. You'll marry me ? 
 
 ELAINE (shaking her head). You're very good but now . . . 
 CURTIS. What do you mean by " now " ? 
 ELAINE. I want to leave you. 
 
 (CURTIS is obviously knocked out by this intelligence, but he 
 recovers his self-control and picks up his pipe, which he 
 let fall.) 
 
 CURTIS. Leave me ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. 
 
 CURTIS. Why ? I beg your pardon. Don't tell me. Of course 
 
 it's your own affair entirely. (Studies his pipe for a moment, 
 
 then fiercely) It's not Mary, is it ? 
 ELAINE. No, no 1 
 
 CURTIS. If I thought it was Mary . . . 
 ELAINE. It's not, really. 
 CURTIS. Of course I'm no companion to you, but no, no. I'm 
 
 not asking for an explanation. You're free to do just as you 
 
ELAINE 161 
 
 like, and so am I. That's the understanding. And you won't 
 marry me ? (Answering himself hastily) No, no, of course 
 not. It doesn't matter. Good-night. (Turns to go.) 
 
 ELAINE (suddenly). John ! 
 
 CURTIS (stopping). Yes ? 
 
 ELAINE. Why did you suggest marriage ? 
 
 CURTIS. Isn't it obvious ? To make things more comfortable 
 for you. 
 
 ELAINE (strangely disappointed). Oh. Is that all ? 
 
 CURTIS. What other reason could I have ? 
 
 ELAINE. I didn't know. I wondered. 
 
 CURTIS (hesitating on the steps). I'm sorry you should want to leave 
 me. But of course you're free to. That's the understanding. 
 (Then very vehemently, under his breath) Damn the under 
 standing. (Exits into hotel.) 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
 IT 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE 
 
 SAME AS ACT I., SAVE THAT THE CENTRE DOORS ARE CLOSED 
 AND THE ELECTRIC LIGHTS ARE LIT 
 
 MICKY is discovered above table industriously playing patience : 
 the game known as Miss Milligan. SIR PETER slumbers 
 peacefully in the large chair down R. 
 
 MICKY plays undisttirbed for a moment, then he looks up as 
 CURTIS enters L. 
 
 CURTIS (crossing to bookshelf). Come to fetch a book. 
 
 MICKY (critically). That's the fourth book you've come down for 
 in the last half-hour. 
 
 CURTIS. I can't find anything worth reading. 
 
 MICKY (unable to advise). I don't know what they've got here. 
 
 CURTIS (selecting book at random). This looks promising. 
 
 MICKY. What is it ? 
 
 CURTIS (looking at it). Er somebody's memoirs. (The name not 
 being legible on the back, he turns up the title page.) Madame 
 Madame . . . 
 
 MICKY. Why, you don't even know what you've taken ! 
 
 CURTIS (shortly). The name had slipped me. (Crossing.) Good 
 night. 
 
 MICKY. Good-night. (CURTIS exits. MICKY resumes his patience 
 with a corrugated, brow.) It's not coming out, Pete. 
 
 SIR PETER (waking). Eh ? 
 
 MICKY (seeing an opening). Pause, brethren, pause ! (Makes an 
 adjustment.) Aha ! That helps us a bit. (Looks at his pack.) 
 I've only got a dozen cards left. Getting quite exciting, eh ? 
 Sort of mixture of " Thumbs down " and " She loves me she 
 loves me not." 
 
 SIR PETER (not understanding). I'm afraid I must have dozed. 
 
 (HENRI enters L. and stands waiting.) 
 
 MICKY (looking up). Well ? 
 
 HENRI. Shall you be long in here, sir ? 
 
 MICKY (studying cards). About six weeks, at this rate. What is it ? 
 
 HENRI. I wished to know, sir, whether you would be so kind as 
 
 to ring the bell when Mr. Fellowes comes in, so that I can close 
 
 the windows. 
 
 167 
 
ELAINE 163 
 
 MICKY. Mr. Fellowes ? Where is he ? 
 
 HENRI. In the garden, I believe, sir. 
 
 MICKY (surprised). In the garden ? All by himself ? 
 
 HENRI. Everyone else is indoors, sir. It is past eleven. 
 
 MICKY. You want to shut up, eh ? 
 
 HENRI. If you please, sir. 
 
 MICKY. You're a lazy lot in the country. You won't be able 
 
 to turn in so early when the season's in full swing, will you ? 
 HENRI. No, sir. 
 
 MICKY (dismissing him). All right. I'll ring when he comes in. 
 HENRI. Thank you, sir. May I suggest, sir (most deferentially 
 
 pointing to cards) the five on the six. 
 MICKY. Eh ? Yes, yes. I'd seen that. (Makes move.) I was 
 
 thinking. 
 HENRI. Thank you, sir. 
 
 (Exits.) 
 
 MICKY (playing on). Hear that, Pete ? Not come in from the 
 garden yet ? Soulful brute ! He's mooching about and gazing 
 at her windows, I'll bet I (Throws down last card.) It's all 
 up! It 'snot come out 1 Thumbs down have it ! (Dramatic 
 ally over cards) So fell Giraldo ! The cards have spoken. 
 
 SIR PETER (meekly). I'm afraid I don't quite follow you. 
 
 MICKY (collecting and shuffling cards). I've been staking his fate 
 or Elaine's on the game. If it came out it meant she'd 
 have the sense to turn him down, and all would be well. If 
 it didn't come out elopements, scandals ! And all sorts of 
 horrors, with us looking on and saying, " I told you so." 
 
 (LADY PHILOX enters L. and closes doors mysteriously behind 
 her.) 
 
 MICKY. Hullo, Lady Phil I Not gone bye-byes yet ? 
 
 LADY P. (sitting L. of table). I've been looking everywhere for 
 you, Micky. 
 
 MICKY (apprehensively). Oh ? 
 
 LADY P. (impressively). Yes. You must talk to poor Gerald. 
 
 MICKY (recognising her meaning but dodging it.) Bless you, I'm 
 always talking to poor Gerald. He doesn't complain of 
 loneliness, does he ? 
 
 LADY P. Please don't pretend you don't understand. This is 
 extremely serious. I was looking out of my window over an 
 hour ago, now, and I saw Gerald kissing that woman. 
 
 MICKY (without surprise). Kissing Elaine ? (Resignedly to SIR 
 PETER) There you are, Pete ! I told you so. 
 
 LADY P. (firmly). You must speak to him at once. 
 
 MICKY (impatiently). Good Lord, Lady Phil, I can't waltz in 
 and lecture Gerry for kissing a pretty woman. He'd only 
 tell me to go to Houndsditch, and quite right too. There 
 are limits even to my cheek. I've done all I could in a nice, 
 
164 ELAINE 
 
 graceful way, and he resented that. I know it's getting serious. 
 I've just been telling Pete so. He confided in her about 
 Lurline this afternoon. I bet he kissed her then. That's 
 twice he's kissed her. 
 
 LADY P. (snorting angrily). Twice ? He kissed her a dozen times 
 at least while I was at the window. 
 
 MICKY (peevishly). Pity you didn't jump out on them. I beg 
 your pardon, Lady Phil. I didn't mean to be rude that 
 time. But> -really what's the good of coming to me ? 
 
 LADY P. You were saying only this afternoon leave it all to you. 
 You knew the exact moment at which something should be 
 done. 
 
 MICKY (regretfully and resentfully). Yes, I know I was. So I do. 
 This is it. Something should be done now. But it doesn't 
 follow that because I know the exact moment when something 
 ought to be done, I know how to do it. I've been chewing 
 it for an hour past, and I've come to the conclusion that we 
 can't do anything but look on and trust to luck. It may not 
 come to anything even now. 
 
 LADY P. Unless I was mistaken, he was asking her to run away 
 with him. 
 
 MICKY. Phew . . . 
 
 SIR PETER (very upset). Not really? Dear, dear, dear! 
 
 MICKY. Did she seem willing ? 
 
 LADY P. (very indignantly). She didn't seem able to say. 
 
 SIR PETER. She hesitated ? (Shaking head.) Tut, tut, tut. 
 This is very serious. 
 
 MICKY (ever hopeful). Perhaps she hasn't made up her mind. 
 
 LADY P. (dogmatically). A woman who hesitates has always made 
 up her mind. 
 
 MICKY. She's a sensible woman. She must see whether Curtis 
 or Gerry is the better man. 
 
 LADY P. There may be two opinions as to that. 
 
 SIR PETER. I am afraid the better man is rather severely handi 
 capped when he happens to be the lady's husband. 
 
 MICKY. That's true. And Gerry looks jolly well in the shop 
 window. Heaps of romance, and soul, and infernal selfishness 
 to appeal to the mother instinct. Yes. It's odds on she 
 loses her head. 
 
 LADY P. (scornfully). Loses her head? 
 
 MICKY. Oh, it's those dignified, restful women who are the most 
 liable to. Especially over anyone who can make 'em wish 
 they'd never been born, and I'll back Gerry to do that. (Ac 
 cepting the worst) Of course I shall be sorry for Curtis if his 
 wife does a guy with Giraldo ; and I shall be sorry for her 
 too ; and I don't like the idea of seeing Gerry mixed up in a 
 divorce case but there you are ! 
 
 LADY P. (smiling). So you think there'd be a divorce case ? 
 
ELAINE 165 
 
 MICKY. Old Curtis would never play the dog-in-the-manger. Of 
 
 course Gerry would marry her right enough. That's when I'd 
 
 begin to be sorry for her. 
 LADY P. Micky, there wouldn't be a divorce case. The woman is 
 
 not John's wife. 
 MICKY. What ? 
 LADY P. I say the woman is not John's wife. I suppose you 
 
 understand me ? 
 
 (MICKY turns an amazed gaze ^^pon SIR PETER.) 
 
 SIR PETER (corroborating unwillingly.} It is quite true, Mister Seelby. 
 But I must add that they have been living together some 
 years, and it would hurt my brother-in-law just as much . . . 
 
 LADY P. (testily). Peter, please be quiet. 
 
 MICKY (his intense surprise culminating in a prolonged whistle). 
 Phew ! This does alter the case. 
 
 LADY P. I am glad you realise it. 
 
 MICKY. Oh, I realise it right enough. Gosh, what a near thing ! . . . 
 And we were going to look on and let him go off with her 
 without doing a thing ! 
 
 LADY P. I expect you to warn Gerald at once. 
 
 MICKY. Oh, rather. I'll warn him off somehow. It's a jolly 
 serious matter. When you bolt with a man's wife he generally 
 rings up his solicitor; but when you interfere in a menage 
 of this sort he is more likely to borrow a big stick. Gerry's 
 looking for trouble. (Pauses.) I can't say I fancy telling 
 him, though. 
 
 LADY P. Why not ? 
 
 MICKY. Well she won't thank me, will she ? It's playing 
 it pretty low down to spoil a woman's chances with a man 
 she's set her heart on. 
 
 LADY P. Perhaps you would rather see your friend fall into the 
 hands of an unscrupulous woman . . . 
 
 MICKY. Oh, I don't think she's that, Lady Phil. 
 
 LADY P. (cuttingly). No. Of course you don't. You're a man. 
 It's only necessary for a woman to be the most blatant type 
 of adventuress imaginable for every man who sets eyes on 
 her to defend her through thick and thin. 
 
 SIR P. (pleasantly). Mary, what has the lady's character to do with 
 the situation ? If she were three times married to John I 
 should still be sorry to see her do anything precipitate, for her 
 own sake, and Mister Fcllowes's, as well as my brother-in-law's. 
 
 LADY P. You're very anxious about your brother-in-law. I 
 should think he could look after himself. He'd no business 
 to bring the woman here to set her cap at decent people under 
 the pretence that she's his wife. 
 
 MICKY. If she's been encouraging Gerry, I think it's because she's 
 sweet on him, really, I do. 
 
166 ELAINE 
 
 LADY p. Oh, very likely. Women of that sort always fall in love- 
 sooner or later. 
 
 SIR PETER (rising). Mary, I must ask you not to refer to her as a 
 " woman of that sort." It is an invidious description at the 
 best. She is a charming and unfortunate young woman who 
 but for my brother-in-law's mistaken ideas would be in an 
 exactly the same position as hundreds of women who marry 
 for money. Indeed, in her case there is the saving considera 
 tion . . . 
 
 LADY P. Peter 1 
 
 SIR PETER (checked, but determined). The saving consideration . . . 
 
 LADY p. Peter ! 
 
 SIR PETER (shaken). That she . . . 
 
 LADY p. Peter, will you please be quiet ? 
 
 (SIR PETER is subdued.) 
 
 LADY p. (turning to Micky). I want a clear understanding that you 
 
 will tell Gerry what this woman is to-night or else . . . 
 MICKY (hopefully). Yes ? 
 LADY p. (rising). I shall be compelled to ask Sir Peter to do so. 
 
 (LADY PHILOX exits L.) 
 
 MICKY (to Sir Peter). Oho ! I was hoping the alternative would 
 be that she would do it herself. Not a very pleasant job, is 
 it? 
 
 SIR PETER (sympathetically). Not at all a pleasant job, Mister 
 Seelby. But of course the young man must be told. That 
 is, if the lady does not tell him herself. 
 
 MICKY. I'd never thought of that. She won't, though until it's 
 too late. 
 
 SIR PETER (with some severity) . If she is encouraging his attentions 
 she should . . . 
 
 MICKY. If she is encouraging his attentions she's got her hands 
 full keeping up with his last remark but one without supplying 
 any fresh topic of conversation herself. I know Gerry. 
 
 SIR PETER. I hope the poor child is not really in love with him. It 
 will be a great blow to her if she is. But, as a right-minded 
 young man, lie would not take her away from Curtis without 
 marrying her ; and as a gentleman he cannot possibly marry 
 a woman who has been another man's mistress so . . . 
 (Shakes his head sadly.) 
 
 MICKY (philosophically). Well, let's hope it will teach her not to 
 
 go falling in love with right-minded young men when there's 
 
 a wrong-minded old duffer at her elbow who's worth ten of 'em. 
 
 (The c. doors are thrown open, and GERALD enters quickly, 
 
 and stops awkwardly on seeing SIR PETER and MICKY. 
 
 He wears a light coat and a hat.) 
 
 GERALD. Hullo ! I thought you'd all be abed. 
 
ELAINE 167 
 
 SIR PETER (rising). I was just retiring when you came in. (Crossing 
 to door L.) Good-night, Mister Fellowes. Good-night, Mr. 
 Seelby. (Then as a parting benediction to Gerald) Good 
 night. (Exits with a parting smile.) 
 
 GERALD (going to fireplace). Good-natured old chap, Sir Peter is. 
 He always looks at you as if he had a particular interest in 
 you. (Musingly) There's something in his eye that's not 
 so much friendly . . . though it's friendly as well but it's 
 more . . . (Pauses for a word.) Well " interested " is the 
 only word that describes it. 
 
 MICKY (mechanically putting out cards as he revolves the duty before 
 him). Where have you been ? 
 
 GERALD. Eh ? (Evasively) Oh just along the cliff. Why ? 
 
 MICKY. All alone ? 
 
 GERALD. Yes. Why do you ask ? 
 
 MICKY. Oh I . . . (Shrugs his shoulders and continues putting 
 out cards.) 
 
 GERALD (restlessly after a pause). I say, aren't you going to bed ? 
 
 MICKY. No, I don't think so. 
 
 GERALD (looking at his watch). You're generally such an early 
 bird down here. It's nearly half-past eleven. 
 
 MICKY. Sit down a minute, Gerry. I want to talk to you. 
 
 GERALD (impatiently). Do you ever want to do anything else ? 
 
 MICKY. Don't be ratty. You know . . . (Breaks off and makes 
 a fresh start.) You know . . . (Looks up.) Do sit down and 
 listen, old chap, to oblige me. 
 
 GERALD (arrested by his manner). What's the matter with you ? 
 
 MICKY. You know I was talking to you about running after 
 Elaine . . . 
 
 GERALD (instantly very angry). I told you once . . . 
 
 MICKY. Steady. I've got to tell you this. 
 
 GERALD (surprised). Tell me what ? 
 
 MICKY. You've got to chuck it, Gerry. You've been running 
 after her under the impression that she was Curtis 's wife. 
 
 GERALD (not understanding). What ? 
 
 MICKY (more clearly). You'd look a nice fool if you were to bolt 
 with a man's mistress under the impression that you were 
 eloping with his wife, wouldn't you ? 
 
 (GERALD has slowly grasped the situation. He now leaps 
 upon MICKY and grabs him by the back of the neck, pressing 
 his head down on the table among the patience cards, some 
 of which fall to the floor.) 
 
 MICKY (/MS nose ground into the table). Here, steady on; you're 
 upsetting Miss Milligan. Don't be an ass, Gerry. 
 
 (GERALD releases him and stands shaking. He has taken it 
 very^ badly and is quite hysterical. MICKY leaves his 
 chair and stoops to pick up the fallen cards, and when he 
 
168 ELAINE 
 
 straightens his back again GERALD has thrown himself 
 into his chair and, with his head buried in his arms upon 
 the table, is sobbing violently.) 
 
 MICKY (after regarding him dubiously for a moment). Poor old chap ! 
 
 I didn't think you'd take it as badly as this. 
 GERALD (looking up fiercely). It's a lie. 
 MICKY (apologetically but firmly). No, it isn't. 
 GERALD. She Elaine why do you tell me now ? 
 MICKY. Because I've only just found out. 
 GERALD (tragically). Micky I loved her. We were going away 
 
 together to-night. It was all arranged. 
 MICKY. Had she agreed to ... 
 GERALD (nodding). Without telling me. 
 MICKY. You see I was quite right to. 
 GERALD. Oh, quite right. Quite right. (Miserably) Thank you, 
 
 Micky. 
 MICKY. That's all right. (Sympathetically) I'm sorry you're so 
 
 cut up, but it's an impasse, isn't it ? You can't go on with it. 
 
 People would say all sorts of funny things. 
 GERALD. Do you think I'm caring what people would say ? 
 MICKY (apprehensively, as he thinks he scents heroism). Eh ? 
 GERALD (insistently). I say, do you think that I'd let what the world 
 
 thought influence me ? 
 MICKY. I say, Gerry you're not going ahead with it in spite of 
 
 what I've told you. 
 GERALD (furiously). Going ahead with it ? No. Of course I'm 
 
 not. But not from fear of what people might say. When I 
 
 believed her to be Curtis 's wife I was willing to take her away 
 
 from him and face the scandal. 
 MICKY (judicially). It wouldn't have been much to face. No 
 
 humour in it. A scandal's easy enough to live down so long as 
 
 it doesn't make people smile whenever they meet you. Society 
 
 would have forgiven you in a year. 
 GERALD. Damn Society ! You seem to think that I am going to 
 
 give up Elaine for fear of being laughed at. 
 MICKY. Well aren't you ? 
 GERALD. You must think me a contemptible coward. I am 
 
 giving her up because I've found out what she is a 
 
 mercenary who thinks only of money who sells . . . 
 MICKY. Here, chuck it, Gerry ! Why the dickens should a woman 
 
 who thinks only of money want to leave Curtis for you ? 
 GERALD (with a sneer). Because, in her way, she loves me. There 
 
 is no nature which is not susceptible to love. 
 MICKY (with some anger). Oh, you admit that. 
 GERALD. Oh yes. She loved me. And I loved her too or 
 
 thought I did. Thank God I have found out what she is before 
 
 it is too late. 
 
ELAINE 169 
 
 MICKY. Look here, Gerry, I want you to break with Elaine because 
 I don't want to see you get yourself into a ridiculous mess, and 
 perhaps get thrashed by Curtis into the bargain. That's a 
 good worldly reason, and I hoped that you'd look at it the same 
 way. For you to say that you're breaking with her because 
 she's vile and not good enough for you and all that rot 
 well it's damned blackguardly. It's adding insult to injury. 
 You're a howling cad, Gerry, to look at it that way. Elaine's 
 one of the best, and I only hope she sees what a confounded 
 prig you are. It'll help her to get over losing you quicker 
 than anything. 
 
 (MICKY exits indignantly L. GERALD remains seated above 
 table looking straight ahead of him. Self-conscious tragedy 
 is in every angle of his pose. HENRI enters L.) 
 
 HENRI. May I close the windows, sir ? 
 
 (GERALD nods and, rising, goes to fireplace, where he rests his 
 elbow on the mantelshelf. HENRI goes into inner room, 
 where he can be heard locking windows. A clock some 
 where strikes the half-hour. There is a moment's pause, 
 and then ELAINE enters L., flushed and excited. She wears 
 an evening cloak.) 
 
 ELAINE (breathlessly). Here I am. Have you been waiting? I am 
 so excited. I don't wonder so many women elope ; it's most 
 awfully . . . (HENRI in the inner room clicks window-fastening. 
 She turns and sees him.) Oh ! (Coming over to Gerald and speak 
 ing in a hushed tone) I've put on a warm travelling dress under 
 my evening cloak. Aren't I clever ? I couldn't risk . . . 
 (Looking at him and giving a little laugh) Why, you're the one 
 who's looking frightened now. 
 
 (ELAINE stops hastily as HENRI returns through the room to 
 door L. and exits, closing door after him.) 
 
 ELAINE (unable to repress her excitement). I shall have to buy clothes 
 
 on the way. I ... 
 GERALD (breaking silence at last). Elaine, why did you teach me to 
 
 love you ? 
 ELAINE (smiling up at him). I suppose be ... (Stops, frightened at 
 
 his expression.) Gerald ! 
 GERALD. Why did you let me kiss you ? 
 ELAINE. What's the matter ? 
 GERALD. I've found out about you what you are to Curtis. And 
 
 you were going to let me take you away without telling me. 
 ELAINE. No I wasn't. I meant to tell you . . . only . . . 
 
 somehow ... I never quite had the courage to. I ... 
 
 (breaking off and speaking more easily). After all, it makes 
 
 things easier, doesn't it ? We shan't have to wait for John to 
 
 set me free. 
 
170 ELAINE 
 
 GERALD. Is that all the difference it makes to you ? Did you 
 never realise the shame of your position ? 
 
 ELAINE (hurt). Often. I never got away from it, until I met 
 you. 
 
 GERALD (bitterly). And in your gratitude you were going to link 
 your life with mine, knowing what you were. 
 
 ELAINE. Gerald 1 What do you mean ? Don't you want me to 
 leave John now that you know ? 
 
 GERALD. I loved a woman good and beautiful and pure. Are you 
 these things ? 
 
 ELAINE (gently). You thought so. I ... 
 
 GERALD. You taught me to. 
 
 ELAINE. Gerald ! 
 
 GERALD. You played your part well. 
 
 ELAINE (reasonably). Gerald, don't go on like this. I'd have told 
 you. I meant to. It's very unfortunate that I didn't. But 
 because I didn't you seem to think that I I can't 
 really care for you. I do, dear. Does what you have 
 found out make such a difference? Oh ... I'm not going 
 to defend the position I have been in. It was horrible, I 
 know. But you thought my position as John's wife horrible 
 too. You said so. You thought that could be set aside. 
 Why can't this ? Why, it's over now. I told John this evening 
 that I would leave him. 
 
 GERALD. Now that you've found some fool to marry you. 
 
 ELAINE (patiently). Wliy should I want " some fool " to marry me ? 
 
 GERALD. Didn't you just say that you realised the shame of your 
 position ? Didn't you say that you wanted to leave it behind 
 you ? I was to be the dupe who conferred the status of marriage 
 upon you. The mari complaisant . . . 
 
 ELAINE (gently). I should scarcely choose you for a mari complaisant, 
 my dear. 
 
 GERALD. No other came along. 
 
 ELAINE (still patiently). Listen to me for a moment. Somebody 
 has been telling you more than the truth, you poor excitable 
 boy. I can guess who it was. 
 
 GERALD. Seelby. 
 
 ELAINE (surprised). Mister Seelby ? Why should he ... 
 
 GERALD (outsneering himself). To save me making a laughing-stock 
 
 of myself. 
 
 ELAINE (understanding). He's your friend. (Appealingly) Oh, 
 Gerald, I don't know what he told you, but if it was anything 
 worse than that I have been living with John for five years, 
 depending upon him for food and clothes just as his wife 
 would have done ; keeping his house for him, quarrelling with 
 him sometimes, looking after him when he was ill, and then 
 meeting you all just as John's wife would have done, and 
 finally deciding to leave everything and follow you wherever 
 
ELAINE 171 
 
 you chose to take me if he told you more or less against 
 me than this, he told you too much, or too little. 
 
 GERALD. He told me you were Curtis's mistress, and that was 
 sufficient. I have loved a dream, and the reality disgusts me. 
 
 ELAINE (accepting defeat}. Then there is nothing more to be said ? 
 
 GERALD. No. (Turns to mantelpiece.) 
 
 ELAINE. You . . . (breaking down). 
 
 GERALD (turning). What ? 
 
 ELAINE (pulling herself together). Nothing. (Goes out L.) 
 
 END OF SCENE i. 
 
 SCENE 2 
 CURTIS'S PRIVATE SITTING-ROOM 
 
 A small room simply but well furnished in light wood and 
 chintz, with a light-coloured carpet, and light, pretty wall 
 paper. The door is R. A fireplace is up c., and French 
 windows wide open and showing the dark tree-tops and 
 sky are L. R. of the fireplace is a Chesterfield. A square 
 table is just L. of c., with an arm-chair R. of it, and an 
 ordinary chair L. of it. A large standard lamp stands 
 above window, throwing its shaded light over the table and 
 two chairs. 
 
 CURTIS is discovered seated in the chair L. of table, tilted back with 
 his feet upon a white wood pedestal that supports a flower 
 pot just below window. He is looking sternly out into the 
 night and smoking hard. He has probably been in that 
 position for some time. A book and a newspaper are on 
 the table. A moment passes in perfect silence, then he 
 suddenly turns his head, hearing a footstep. The door 
 opens, and ELAINE stands on the threshold. She is crying. 
 She stops on seeing him. 
 
 ELAINE. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't . . . (Turns as if to go.) 
 
 (CURTIS jumps from his chair and comes to her.) 
 CURTIS. My dear . . . 
 
 (ELAINE draws back, he puts his arm around her, and brings 
 her to chair R. of table and makes her sit down. He sits 
 on the arm of chair, still holding her hands. She leans 
 wearily in his direction. He produces a handkerchief and 
 tenderly tries to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She smiles 
 at him through her tears.) 
 
172 ELAINE 
 
 CURTIS. Poor child. You are having a rough time of it, aren't 
 
 you ? There, there. 
 ELAINE (gratefully). How good you are. (Suddenly, as if it occurs 
 
 to her) Oh I'm not leaving you after all. 
 CURTIS (dryly). H'm. Is that what you are crying your eyes out 
 
 over ? 
 
 ELAINE (penitently). I'm sorry. 
 CURTIS. Because if it is I think I'd rather you left me. I'm not 
 
 quite an ogre. 
 
 ELAINE. You're far too kind to me. (Suddenly again) John. 
 CURTIS. Well ? 
 ELAINE. I ought to tell you. You may not want me back when 
 
 you know. 
 CURTIS. Don't tell me anything you don't want to. You haven't 
 
 left me yet, you know. 
 ELAINE. I must tell you. I wanted to leave you because I fell 
 
 in love with somebody else. 
 CURTIS (nodding sagely). Yes, I had come to the conclusion it must 
 
 be that. But I can't for the life of me think who you've 
 
 found to fall in love with. 
 ELAINE. Do you want me to tell you ? 
 CURTIS. Not unless you want to. 
 
 ELAINE. I I'd rather not. We've parted and it doesn't matter. 
 CURTIS (sharply). Parted ? Why ? 
 ELAINE. He found out about you. 
 CURTIS (mystified). But, I thought that everyone you knew, knew 
 
 about me. You never go anywhere without me. 
 ELAINE. He thought you were my husband. 
 CURTIS. Do you mean you've parted from him because I'm 
 
 not ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. 
 
 CURTIS. Well . . . but . . . Why on earth should you fall out 
 
 with a man you love because you are not married ? 
 ELAINE. He ... It was his wish, not mine. 
 CURTIS (slowly understanding, and then giving vent to a burst of 
 
 indignation). The cad ! Who is he ? 
 ELAINE. You said . . . 
 CURTIS (firmly). I want to know. 
 ELAINE. Gerald . . . Mr. Fellowes. 
 CURTIS (incredulously). Young Fellowes who's staying here ? 
 
 You're in love with him ? 
 
 ELAINE (slightly annoyed at his surprise). Who did you think it was ? 
 CURTIS. I couldn't guess. I've been racking my brains, but I 
 
 never dreamt of him. Why, he's only a boy. 
 ELAINE. He's twenty-five. 
 CURTIS (absolutely amazed). And you're in love with him ? 
 
 (Angrily) Well, there's certainly no accounting for taste. 
 ELAINE. You seem surprised. 
 
ELAINE 173 
 
 CURTIS. Surprised? I'm thunderstruck! If anybody'd told me 
 you could fall in love with that unlicked cub, I'd have knocked 
 them down. Well, you're lucky to find out in time what kind 
 of cad he is. 
 
 ELAINE (up in arms at once). What do you mean by calling him a cad ? 
 
 CURTIS. Well, isn't it a bit caddish to make love to yor 1( ~-ng as 
 he thinks you're my wife, and now to drop you when you tell 
 him you're free? 
 
 ELAINE. I didn't tell him. He found out from somebody else. I 
 wanted to tell him, but I was afraid to, and I put it off until 
 it was too late, and he had asked me to run away with him. 
 
 CURTIS. He was willing to run away with you when he thought you 
 were my wife ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. We were going to-night. It was all arranged. 
 Oh, can't you see what he must think of me, believing me to 
 be perfect, and then finding out from a friend what I am ? Oh, 
 if I'd only had the courage to tell him myself, he might have 
 understood, but now he thinks I deceived him on purpose. 
 He is young, and he has high ideals of purity and honour. He 
 hates me for having killed his illusions. I don't blame him. 
 I blame myself for ever having placed myself in a position 
 where he can only despise me. I have myself to thank for it. 
 He is quite right to hate me, too. 
 
 CURTIS (angry at her self-condemnation and unwilling to believe that 
 she has so little spirit). Do you mean to say that you love him 
 still after . . . (Entirely changing his tone as he appreciates 
 the womanliness of her attitude towards Gerald) You poor dear. 
 (He touches her hair lightly, then goes up and rings bell which is 
 beside fireplace, and stands waiting. In a few seconds a footstep 
 is heard. He goes quickly to the door and, opening it, stands 
 between HENRI, who is on the threshold, and ELAINE.) Is Mister 
 Fellowes downstairs ? 
 
 (ELAINE looks up.) 
 
 HENRI (outside door). In the small reading-room, I believe, sir. 
 CURTIS. Ask him to come up here for a moment, please. 
 HENRI. Yes, sir. 
 
 (CURTIS closes 1 door.) 
 ELAINE. John ! 
 CURTIS. Yes ? 
 
 ELAINE. What do you want him for ? 
 CURTIS. You leave this to me. 
 
 ELAINE. Please don't say anything to him about . . . 
 CURTIS (soothingly). It'll be all right. 
 
 ELAINE. But I don't want you to. Please ! It'll be no use. 
 CURTIS. We'll see. 
 
 ELAINE. John, I ... (stopping and smiling suddenly). Well, 
 anyway, he won't come, so ... 
 
174 ELAINE 
 
 CURTIS (fiercely). Won't he? (Goes to door and flings it open, 
 
 calling loudly) Henri I 
 HENRI (below stairs). Yes, sir ? 
 CURTIS. Tell Mr. Fellowes that if he prefers it I will come down 
 
 there. (He turns and closes door.) Go into the bedroom, dear. 
 
 (Indicating window on to the verandah) The window's open. 
 ELAINE. If you will see him, I'd rather stay. 
 CURTIS. I shan't hurt him, don't worry. 
 ELAINE. I'd rather stay. 
 CURTIS. All right ; only, don't interfere. I've got you into this mess 
 
 by my confounded idiocy, and I've got to get you out of it. 
 
 (There is a knock at the door and he goes over and opens it. ELAINE 
 
 rises quickly.) Come in, I want to speak to you. 
 
 (As GERALD enters, ELAINE goes quietly to the Chesterfield and 
 sits there without once looking at him. He looks around 
 doubtfully.) 
 
 CURTIS. Sit down. 
 
 GERALD. I don't think I shall have occasion to stay more than a 
 
 moment. 
 CURTIS. You may. Sit down. (Points to chair L. of table.) 
 
 (GERALD sits L. of table. CURTIS takes the chair on its R.) 
 
 CURTIS (evenly). Now, Mister Fellowes, Elaine tells me ... 
 
 GERALD (with a sneer). Yes; so I guessed. 
 
 CURTIS. What do you mean ? 
 
 GERALD. It was natural that she should tell her protector that I 
 
 had dared to make love to her when she found that I would do 
 
 so no longer. 
 CURTIS (amazed at the injustice). You mean, she told me to make 
 
 mischief ? You infernal blackguard ! . . . 
 
 (GERALD rises. CURTIS checks himself.) 
 
 CURTIS. No, no. I beg your pardon. Please sit down again. I 
 didn't ask you up here to quarrel with you. (GERALD sits again. 
 CURTIS breathes hard for a moment and then resumes evenly) 
 She did not tell me with any idea of revenging herself upon you, 
 but because I worried the information out of her. On the 
 contrary, she thinks you were quite, quite justified. This must 
 be very gratifying to you. 
 
 GERALD (lamely). I am glad that she understands that I could not 
 have acted otherwise. (He is trying to copy CURTIS'S method of 
 speaking of ELAINE as if she were not present, but cannot help 
 
 f lancing at her occasionally. She never looks round nor meets 
 is eye.) 
 CURTIS (still heroically keeping his temper). Quite so. She does 
 
 understand. But Mister Fellowes / don't. 
 GERALD (disconcerted). You er don't ? 
 
ELAINE 175 
 
 CURTIS. No. I don't. Please tell me why couldn't you have 
 acted otherwise ? . . . 
 
 GERALD Well I . . . (Hesitates.) 
 
 CURTIS. Yes, yes. Go on. I want to get your point of view. I'm 
 quite sure there is something wrong with it, but I can't point 
 out to you where the flaw lies until it is all er before me. 
 Tell me why you were willing to run away with Elaine, 
 when you thought she was my wife. 
 
 GERALD (surprised). Because I loved her. 
 
 CURTIS (pleased at the direct answer). Good ! Now . . . (con 
 tinuing the examination). Why, when you learnt that Elaine 
 was not my wife, did you change your mind ? 
 
 GERALD (still more surprised). Why ? I found that the woman I 
 loved was living with you, yet not your wife. Do you think 
 I ever want to see her again now that I know that ? 
 
 CURTIS. H'm yes, I see your point. You think that because 
 Elaine is not my wife, she is not worthy to be your mistress ? . . . 
 
 GERALD (very irate). I never suggested such a thing to her. 
 
 CURTIS (acutely, but without temper). Didn't you ? Under the 
 impression that she was my wife you asked her to go away with 
 you. Until I got a divorce I suppose you'd have lived together 
 as man and wife ? 
 
 GERALD. We counted upon your getting a divorce. 
 
 CURTIS (insistently). Yes but in the meantime . . . 
 
 GERALD. Well, even if we had lived together until you got a divorce ; 
 isn't there some difference between overruling the accepted 
 laws of morality for love and setting them aside for money ? 
 
 CURTIS. H'm. (Quite pleased) I'm inclined to agree with you 
 there. You've got the right ideas, Mister Fellowes ; only, you're 
 young and a little priggish. Well, well. I was, myself, once. 
 Let me tell you that Elaine never wanted to set aside any of 
 the conventions in my case. No. She wanted to marry me 
 for my money like a well brought -up young lady. Only, un 
 fortunately she was alone and had no one who could ask me 
 my intentions, and generally give me to understand that she 
 was for sale in the orthodox market. She had to conduct her 
 own overtures, and I made the mistake of thinking that she 
 would be content to accept my money without the formality of 
 marrying me. 
 
 GERALD. Mistake ? 
 
 CURTIS. Yes ; it was a mistake. She had never thought of anything 
 but marrying me. She was quite horrified when she found out 
 what I had mistaken her for. 
 
 GERALD. But she accepted the position. 
 
 CURTIS. Yes she accepted the position because she hadn't got a 
 penny or a friend, and because she felt that since a poor 
 woman hunting a rich husband and another sort of woman 
 seeking a protector could be so easily mistaken for each other 
 
176 ELAINE 
 
 the difference between them could not be so great as 
 she had been brought up to believe. She accepted the 
 position. 
 
 GERALD. You should not have let her when yon found out your 
 mistake. 
 
 CURTIS. I didn't find it out until nearly a year afterwards when 
 we'd begun to be really good friends and she told me. If I 
 had found it out at the time, perhaps, I might have given her 
 some good advice and left her to starve or find somebody 
 else in the approved way. I wouldn't have married her. 
 I've always had the notion that where an alliance depends 
 upon money-influence a marriage ceremony is out of place. 
 Upon my word I'm beginning to think that it is the only 
 time when it's really necessary. I suppose, if I had married her, 
 you and she would now be on your way to some place where 
 you would wait quietly until I got a divorce. Eh ? 
 
 GERALD. Certainly. If you had married her. 
 
 CURTIS. Well, now since you have my assurance that she wanted 
 to marry me, and that it was only my obtuseness in mis 
 understanding her aim that placed her in this position don't 
 you think you might take her away and marry her at once 
 instead of waiting for her to be set free ? 
 
 GERALD (surprised). I've already said . . . 
 
 CURTIS. Yes, yes. . . . But in view of what I've just told you. 
 
 GERALD. What you have told me makes no difference to the 
 situation. You have merely explained how it came about. 
 I am very glad to learn that Elaine is not as bad as I thought 
 but I'm still not anxious to take her off your hands. 
 
 CURTIS. Take her off my hands ? Do you think I want to get rid 
 of her ? 
 
 GERALD. You seem pretty anxious to. 
 
 CURTIS. What ? . . . (His temper has broken through and is now 
 merely seeking expression.) 
 
 ELAINE. John ! . . . 
 
 CURTIS (to her). T'sh, t'sh, my dear, please ! Mr. Fellowes, you 
 do me a great injustice. I do not want to get rid of Elaine. 
 She has been my friend for five years, and I had hoped she would 
 remain my friend all her life. Unfortunately she has fallen in 
 love with you. Her happiness depends upon you. Needless to 
 say, her happiness is a very important thing to me. Now 
 I ask you to please consider her . . . 
 
 ELAINE. John 1 
 
 CURTIS (to her). Please, my dear. Mr. Fellowes, you will be very 
 sorry some day that you have behaved so caddishly. . . . 
 
 (GERALD rises.) 
 
 CURTIS. No, no, no don't go. Look here, I'll tell you what 
 I'll do. If you are so set on respectability, I'll marry Elaine 
 
ELAINE 177 
 
 and then you can elope with her as you originally intended 
 to. 
 
 (ELAINE bursts into a peal of hearty, uncontrollable laughter. 
 They both turn to her. She rises and comes to JOHN'S side, 
 still laughing weakly.) 
 
 ELAINE (unsteadily). Oh, John ! Don't talk any more nonsense. 
 It's too . . . (breaking into a laugh again). You dear, 
 ridiculous John. (Then to Gerald) Please go away. 
 
 GERALD. I'm sorry E . . . 
 
 ELAINE. You've nothing to be sorry for. I'm really very grateful 
 to you. . . . 
 
 GERALD. Grateful ? 
 
 ELAINE. Yes. ... Go away. 
 
 (GERALD crosses to door and exits awkwardly.) 
 
 CURTIS (after a pause). You made a mistake to interfere, I think. 
 ELAINE (smiling at him). Why, had you got any more schemes for 
 
 reconciling us ? Oh, John I ... Would you really have 
 
 done violence to your feelings and married me for the sake 
 
 of my particular lover who only elopes with married women ? 
 CURTIS. You'll make yourself hysterical. 
 ELAINE. No I won't. (In changed tone) John, why did you 
 
 never tell me that you loved me ? 
 CURTIS. Good Lord I ... Do you want telling ? 
 ELAINE (half to her self). No ... (breaking off) . John, I think I'll 
 
 change my mind and accept your offer of marriage. 
 CURTIS. Why ? 
 ELAINE (laughing). Oh, not to make my next elopement easier. 
 
 Just for my own benefit, John. 
 CURTIS. You mean, you want to marry me ? 
 ELAINE. Yes, please. For good. 
 CURTIS (elated). Then you weren't as much in love with Fellowes as 
 
 you thought ? 
 ELAINE (analytically). Yes, I was ... I was very much in love 
 
 with him. It's funny . . . and I'm not now. 
 CURTIS (brusquely). You can't get over being in love like that. 
 ELAINE. Yes you can. When you've got a previous affection to 
 
 fall back upon. 
 CURTIS. You are not going to tell me that you've fallen in love with 
 
 me all in five minutes ? 
 ELAINE. No but I've found it out in two. 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
 12 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF 
 COLUMBINE 
 
 COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 SCARAMOUCHE, a Clown of Repute. 
 
 COLUMBINE. 
 
 TOMMY, their Son, aged Six. 
 
 MAY, their Daughter (does not appear). 
 
 JEANNE, the Baby (only seen for a moment). 
 
 MR. GEORGE SALAMANDRO, a Friend of the Family. 
 
 MRS. LA BOLARO, an aged ex-Bareback Rider. 
 
 ALFRED SCOTT, a Local Printer. 
 
 JESSIE POOLE, his Fiancee. 
 
 BOB ) 
 
 > Servants at The George. 
 ANNIE) 
 
 MRS. JOLLINGS, a Landlady. 
 
 The Action of the Play takes place in Dunchesier, an old and respectable town. 
 TIME. The end of the last century. 
 
 179 
 
ACT I 
 
 SCENE 
 
 THE FIRST-FLOOR PRIVATE SlTTING-ROOM OF AN OLD INN THE 
 
 GEORGE AT DUNCHESTER 
 
 The walls are papered above the high wainscoting, and 
 adorned with several black old engravings ; a portrait 
 of a prize pig in colours, and a couple of stuffed 
 birds in glass cases. At back R. there are double 
 doors leading into bedroom, where the foot of a bed 
 and a large dress-basket are to be seen. At back L. 
 a single door opens on to the large landing which is 
 very dimly lighted. The left side of the room is at an 
 angle, and includes a very large old style bay-window, 
 through which another wing of the building, an old lamp, 
 and the weather-beaten signboard of the inn can be seen. 
 There are heavy curtains at window. There is a large 
 fireplace with a bright fire burning in it R., a copper 
 kettle on the hob. A large high-backed chair is above 
 fire, a smaller elbow chair out a little and below it. At 
 back, between double and single doors, a solid sideboard. 
 A grandfather clock in L. corner. A small light table and 
 two light chairs in bay-window, and below it a bureau, 
 open and covered with papers. A solid old sofa, and a 
 solid old footstool L.c. R.c. a large round table with a 
 chair above it, and another L. of it. Another chair against 
 wall above fire, and another at bureau. All furniture is 
 heavily Georgian and well polished, as is the floor around 
 the faded old carpet. There is a bell-rope in R. corner. 
 
 ACT I. commences at seven o'clock on a November evening. 
 MRS. LA BOLARO is discovered half -asleep in chair below 
 fire. The stage is full of shadows, being lit only by the 
 fire and a couple of candles on the mantelpiece beside the 
 light from the lamp outside window and a wedge of light 
 which shines through the gap in the folding-doors, behind 
 which COLUMBINE can be heard moving softly about and 
 singing to the baby. 
 
 A moment passes in silence, the grandfather clock gives a 
 preliminary whir and commences to strike the hour. 
 
 181 
 
1 82 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 At the eighth stroke MRS. LA BOLARO raises her head and says 
 "Eight!" in a surprised tone. She leans around arm 
 of chair and goes on counting the strokes. " Nine, ten, 
 eleven, twelve ! " she counts audibly under her breath. 
 " Thirteen I " She gives a gasp of apprehension. There 
 is a fourteenth whir, but no stroke, instead the weight of 
 the clock falls with a loud crash. MRS. LA BOLARO rises, 
 and going to the bell-rope she gives it a vigorous tug 
 and then stands waiting and watching for someone to 
 answer the bell. She is a feeble, angular, old woman of 
 about sixty-five. Her manners are as bad as they can be, 
 and so is her temper. She is eccentric almost to the verge 
 of madness. 
 
 (BOB ENTERS in response to the bell. He is carrying the lamp.) 
 BOB. You rang for the light, 'm ? (Places lamp on sideboard.) 
 MRS. LA B. No, I didn't. Look at that thing. (Points to clock.) 
 BOB (obeying). Yes'm. (Goes to clock.) It's stopped. 
 MRS. LA B. Stopped ! I should hope so. It struck thirteen. 
 
 What does that mean ? 
 
 BOB. Something wrong with it. (Opens offending clock and exam 
 ines it more closely.) 
 
 (MRS. LA B. snorts indignantly and returns to fire.) 
 
 You're never superstitious, 'm. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, I am. You told me I could rely upon that clock. 
 BOB (coming centre). I did, 'm ? 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, you did. 
 BOB. I don't rekerlect . . . (Centre.) 
 MRS. LA B. On a Thursday morning when I was still somebody 
 
 to meet the Prince by train I suppose you remember the 
 
 Prince ? 
 
 BOB (agreeably). Yes'm. But that was a long time ago. 
 MRS. LA B. Not so long. (Pats up cushions in chair. Sits upstage 
 
 chair.) 
 
 BOB. Will you have tea as soon as Mr. Scaramouche comes in, 'm ? 
 MRS. LA B. I suppose so. What's the time ? 
 BOB. Just struck seven, 'm ? 
 MRS. LA B. (gloomily). Just struck thirteen. (Sits.) 
 BOB. Yes'm. ... It was seven when it done that. (Goes to door, 
 
 hesitates, and turns back to MRS. LA B.) Er Mr. Sala- 
 
 mandro's downstairs, 'm. 
 MRS. LA B. Let him stop there. 
 BOB. I've been trying to p'suade him to step up, 'm. 
 MRS. LA B. (under her breath). Yes, you would. 
 BOB. Shall I ask him in, 'm ? Mr. Scaramouche doesn't like his 
 
 guests to be kept waiting in the bar, 'm. 
 MRS. LA B. (with scorn). His guests ! 
 BOB (briskly). Thank you, 'm. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 183 
 
 (He exits rapidly, closes door, reopens it immediately, and 
 ushers in MR. GEORGE SALAMANDRO, who has obviously 
 been waiting on the mat. MRS. LA B. has reseated herself 
 and keeps her back resolutely to the visitor. BOB rapidly 
 draws the curtains and exits, leaving SALAMANDRO 
 standing awkwardly near the door cracking his knuckles 
 and fingering his hat. He is a tall, very lean man of 
 about fifty or a little more. He wears a very seedy blue 
 serge suit, which hangs loosely on his big bones. His 
 collar is amazingly high and his tie amazingly skimpy. 
 His manner is shy and nervous, but when put at his 
 ease he can be a pleasant, though rather odd, individual. 
 He at last ventures to say something.) 
 
 GEORGE. Er evening. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (turning and eyeing Mm unfavourably before speaking). 
 
 Well, what do you want ? 
 
 GEORGE. I just drop't in to see . . . (Looks hopelessly around.) 
 MRS. LA B. To see if anyone would ask you to stay to tea, eh ? 
 
 (Enter ANNIE. Lays cloth.) 
 
 GEORGE (looking at the table in surprise). What ? Haven't you 
 
 had tea yet ? (Comes down L.c.) 
 MRS. LA B. No, we haven't, and well you know it. Do you ever 
 
 turn up after a meal ? Not you. 
 
 (Enter BOB with tray. They proceed to lay table in a fine 
 professional manner. BOB lays place from sideboard.) 
 
 GEORGE. I'm sure I'm always made so welcome that is, the 
 Great Man and Columbine made me so welcome that I 
 scarcely realise how often I do call. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (acidly). Oh, that's it, is it ? I was wondering . . . 
 
 COLUMBINE (calling from inner room). Who are you talking to, 
 Barley ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. (under her breath). Who do you think ? 
 
 (COLUMBINE opens one of the folding-doors and stands just 
 inside holding the baby in her arms.) 
 
 COL. (pleasantly to GEORGE). Good evening, George. I thought 
 
 you'd drop in. 
 MRS. LA B. So did I. 
 COL. (to BOB). Mr. Salamandro will stay to tea, Bob. Please lay 
 
 a place for him. 
 BOB (proudly). I have, 'm. 
 COL. That's right. 
 
 GEORGE. It looks rather as if I was always here, doesn't it ? 
 MRS. LA B. It does. 
 COL. Don't be horrid, Barley. No, of course it doesn't, George. 
 
184 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 GEORGE (with a shy laugh). Well Bob seems to lay a place for me 
 without being told to. 
 
 (ANNIE is just going out, followed by BOB. He pauses and 
 addresses GEORGE from the door.) 
 
 BOB. I understood from Mrs. La Bolaro that you was going to 
 
 stay, sir. (Goes out rapidly and closes door, leaving MRS. LA B. 
 
 speechless with rage.) 
 GEORGE (to MRS. LA B.). It's awfully good of you but, really 
 
 aren't I rather in the way sometimes ? 
 MRS. LA B. Ha ! (Sits.) 
 
 COL. Of course not. We're very glad to see you. 
 MRS. LA B. Are we ? Who's we, I should like to know ? 
 COL. (with dignity). Baby and I. 
 GEORGE (greatly pleased). Good egg ! How's the wee lassie ? 
 
 (Goes to COLUMBINE'S side and endeavours to peep at the baby's 
 
 face.) 
 COL. Sh 1 Don't disturb her. She's only just asleep. I'll put 
 
 her down, and then I'll come and talk to you until tea. 
 
 GEORGE. But, really, I don't think I ought to 
 
 COL. (interrupting Mm with a squeal of pretended impatience). Don't 
 
 be silly, George ! Don't you always have tea with us ? 
 
 (Goes into bedroom and closes door.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. (bursting with exasperation). Yes, you do I Every day 
 of your life 1 P believe you go without your dinner to save 
 room for the teas you get here. 
 
 (GEORGE laughs awkwardly and tries to protest.) 
 
 You're never out of the place. Who invited you to-day, I 
 should like to know ? 
 
 GEORGE. Well er you know the Great Man said "drop in 
 whenever you like " and and . . . 
 
 (COLUMBINE returns from other room without the baby, talking 
 as she enters.) 
 
 COL. Of course, George. And we're very glad you like to so 
 often. It's very kind of you. It shows you like us. 
 
 MRS. LA B. It shows you like our teas. 
 
 COL. (severely). Now, Barley, I won't have you saying such 
 things to poor George. Come to the fire, George. (She 
 crosses and picks up stool from below sofa.) Sit still, Barley. 
 I just want to prop the door open in case baby wakes. 
 
 (GEORGE gets as far as the hearthrug and stands there uncom 
 fortably looking at MRS. LA B., who, after glaring at him 
 fiercely, makes a move to rise. COLUMBINE is up by door 
 by this time propping it open.) 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 185 
 
 MRS. LA B. (not noticing the remark and still glaring at GEORGE). 
 
 If you want my chair, Mr. Salamandro (rises and steps 
 
 aside with a theatrical gesture) pray take it. 
 GEORGE (very disconcerted). Oh no no. I'll . . . 
 MRS. LA B. Pray do not hesitate. / am going to my room. (Moves 
 
 even farther away from chair.) 
 GEORGE. Oh well, if you are really . . . (Sits in chair she has just 
 
 vacated.) 
 MRS. LA B. (after^regarding him furiously for a moment). And that's 
 
 a gentleman ! Great heavens ! 
 
 (Exits severely by single door.) 
 
 (GEORGE looks very uncomfortable, but COLUMBINE pays no 
 attention. She comes to table and sits in large chair, 
 smiling pleasantly at GEORGE. She is a pretty, fair, 
 slight girl ; grave, dignified, and quaintly matronly. 
 She is strikingly simple and direct in her manner.) 
 
 GEORGE. I'm afraid Mrs. La Bolaro didn't mean me to take her 
 
 chair. 
 COL. Oh, Barley's awful this week. The only thing to do is not 
 
 to notice her temper. 
 
 GEORGE (a little doubtfully). Yes yes. Quite so. Great Man out ? 
 COL. (nodding). He'll be in presently. 
 GEORGE. Tommy well ? 
 COL. Yes, thank you. 
 GEORGE. May ? 
 
 (COLUMBINE nods.) 
 
 And the new arrival ? 
 
 COL. They're all very well, thank you, George. 
 GEORGE. Good egg I (Gazes abstractedly into fire.) 
 COL. Well, haven't you got any news to tell me ? 
 GEORGE. No er nothing fresh. Tickets going strong for the 
 
 Great Man's night, I hear. 
 COL. Are they ? I'm glad. He hasn't told me much about it. 
 
 Friday night, isn't it to be ? 
 
 (GEORGE nods.) 
 
 I shall come. 
 GEORGE. Shall you ? Good egg. Tisn't often we see you at the 
 
 show. Are the youngsters coming too ? 
 COL. Now. George, you know that Scarry never allows Tommy or 
 
 May to see him in the ring. 
 GEORGE (abashed). No ... I know. I thought perhaps on his 
 
 own night . . . 
 COL. What difference would that make ? You know he says he 
 
 would never be able to look Tommy in the face again if the 
 
 boy had seen him tumbling over his own hat and getting his 
 
186 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 face covered with pastry. Tommy would lose all respect 
 for him, and he says that a boy who doesn't respect his father 
 can't possibly respect himself. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes. Queer idea. Still, I dare say he's right. 
 
 COL. I'm certain he's right. 
 
 GEORGE. He's a great man. 
 
 COL. He's a very great man. 
 
 GEORGE. By Jove, he's popular here, too. The place '11 be packed 
 out on Friday. The firm are breaking themselves over the 
 printing. They're handing out thro wa ways now. I've been 
 round with a pocketful myself, leaving a few in every bar in 
 the town. 
 
 COL. Wasn't that very expensive ? (Holds face up to lamp, 
 threading needle.) 
 
 GEORGE. No, I only asked the time at most. 
 
 (COLUMBINE, after trimming lamp, has sat down above table 
 with the light full on her face. GEORGE looks at her 
 closely.) 
 
 I say, young lady, you look tired. 
 
 COL. Do I ? Yes, I'm generally tired about this time after 
 I've got all the babies to bed. 
 
 GEORGE. They're a lot of trouble. 
 
 COL. (cheerfully). Oh yes. But I have a lot of time to rest in the 
 evenings while you are all at the show. 
 
 GEORGE. What do you do with yourself ? Read ? 
 
 COL. (shaking her head). Scarry says I ought to, but I can't \ 
 Reading makes me tireder than anything. I'm not a bit 
 fond of reading, really, you know. I think I hate it. Isn't 
 that dreadful ? I suppose I can't read properly, and that's 
 why. The long words all look so silly. ... I sew, or I talk 
 to the landlady if she's a nice one. Barley goes to bed early, 
 thank goodness. Most of the time I just sit and think. 
 
 GEORGE. Sit and think ? Don't you ever get a bit humpy ? 
 
 COL. Humpy ? No, what have I got to get humpy about ? 
 
 GEORGE. I don't know, but well, if / spent a whole evening 
 sitting by a fire and thinking I'd feel like cutting my throat 
 by the end of it. 
 
 COL. (amused and interested). Would you ? How funny ! No, 
 I've never minded. 
 
 GEORGE. Glad to hear it. What do you find to think about ? 
 
 COL. Oh, Scarry . . . 
 
 GEORGE. The Great Man ? Yes, that goes without saying. You 
 can't think about him all the time, though. 
 
 COL. No, I think about lots of things. What the next rooms will 
 be like, and what we shall have for dinner to-morrow. And 
 of course the babies. 
 

 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 187 
 
 GEORGE. Of course. Well, perhaps if I ... Ah, you're like the 
 young bear, Columbine. All your troubles are before you. 
 
 (Enter BOB with dishes on tray, puts tray on sideboard, and 
 puts chair to R. table.) 
 
 COL. (rises and puts basket on sideboard). Has Mr. Scaramouche 
 
 come in yet, Bob ? 
 BOB. Downstairs in the private bar now, 'm (bringing pie down 
 
 stage of table). Talking to Mr. Scott from the printers. 
 
 (GEORGE rises at sight of food.) 
 
 GEORGE (watching BOB place dishes on table). What . . . er . . . ? 
 COL. (laughing at him). Yes, what's for tea, Bob ? 
 
 (Bringing down haddock and plates.) 
 
 BOB. A 'addick, a apple pie, buttered toast, rarsberry jam, and 
 
 water cress. 
 GEORGE. Good egg ! 
 COL. Hungry, George ? 
 GEORGE. Well yes I am a bit hungry. It's odd. 
 
 (BOB opens door to exit but draws back to admit SCARAMOUCHE, 
 who is heard outside speaking to SCOTT. He enters, 
 followed by that gentleman, who, however, will come no 
 farther than the door.) 
 
 SCAR A. Columbine, my dear, may I introduce a gentleman ? 
 Please come in, Mr. Scott. 
 
 (SCOTT comes a little more into room and stands bowing.) 
 
 Mr. Scott, my dear. 
 SCOTT. Happy to meet you. 
 SCARA. Mr. Scott is proprietor of a local paper er (to SCOTT) 
 
 the Argus ? The Argus, my dear. 
 
 (BOB assists SCARAMOUCHE off with his greatcoat, which is very 
 heavy, while SCOTT shakes hands with COLUMBINE.) 
 
 bCOTT. Happy to meet you, Mrs. Scaramouche. Quite well ? 
 COL. Yes, thank you. (She is very shy and reserved with strangers.) 
 
 (BOB exits with SCARAMOUCHE'S coat.) 
 
 SCARA. (crossing to GEORGE, who has risen). Ah, George. (Shakes 
 hands.) Dropt in to tea ? That's right. Er Mr. Scott- 
 Mr. Salamandro ; an old member of our aggregation and a very 
 old friend of mine. 
 
 SCOTT (shaking hands with GEORGE). Happy to meet you. Quite 
 well ? 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE takes up an important position on hearthrug 
 facing the others. He is a plump, pleasant, and pompous 
 little man with the customary dignity and self-respect of a 
 
i88 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 professional funny man in private life. He is forty-five 
 years of age, and his short hair is grizzled. His clothes are 
 good but not fashionable ; he wears a heavy gold watch-chain, 
 a large cameo pin in a very full cravat, and his hands are 
 smooth and white.) 
 
 SCAR A. ... Sit down, Mr. Scott. Well, George, Columbine 
 been entertaining you ? And Mrs. La Bolaro ? 
 
 (GEORGE ambles round to L. of table, taking chair to R. off 
 corner.) 
 
 GEORGE (inspecting the jam). Eh ? Oh yes, yes, thanks. 
 SCAR A. Especially the old lady, eh ? Yes, yes, I know. Well, 
 we mustn't mind her little ways. Please sit down, Mr. Scott. 
 
 (SCOTT s^s on sofa, hat at his feet.) 
 
 This is a bit better than the bar, eh ? 
 SCOTT. I'm sure / had no preference for the bar. 
 SCARA. No, no, no, of course not. You'll excuse us if we talk 
 
 business, George ? Nothing private. Mr. Scott wants to 
 
 interview me for his paper. 
 
 (GEORGE places a chair R. of table and sits ready for the meal 
 whenever the business shall be over. COLUMBINE looks 
 up ; she is at sideboard.) 
 
 COL. Oh, shall you be long ? Tea, you know. 
 
 SCARA. Just ten minutes, my dear. 
 
 COL. (warningly). It's very late. We were waiting for you. It's 
 
 a quarter past seven. 
 SCARA. Eh ? (Looks at watch.) Why, so it is I thought . . . 
 
 (Looks at clock.) 
 COL. Oh, that's stopped. 
 SCARA. Dear, dear, dear. Yes, we must have tea at once. 
 
 (COLUMBINE rings bell.) 
 
 I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Scott. I find I shall only just have 
 time to eat my tea and bolt. I'm afraid I've dragged you up 
 here for nothing. Really, I am most awfully sorry. 
 
 SCOTT (rising). Oh, don't mention it. 
 
 SCARA. (making him sit down again). No, no, no ; I'll tell you what : 
 You stay and interview Columbine in my place. She'll be 
 glad of someone to talk to, and she can tell you as much about 
 my ah professional career as I can myself. Can't you, my 
 dear ? 
 
 COL. (cutting bread and butter). What's that ? 
 
 SCARA. Tell Mr. Scott a whole lot about me for his paper ? Of 
 course you can. I suppose you've had tea, Mister Scott ? 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, yes. 
 
 SCARA. Long ago, eh ? Have another cup with us. 
 
 SCOTT. No, no, thank you. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 189 
 
 SCARA. Well, wait and chat to us while we have ours, then. 
 SCOTT (bashfully). Oh, er shan't I be rather . . . 
 SCARA. No, no, no, not at all. Stay and see the lions feed. 
 
 (ANNIE brings in the last of the tea-things, hot and steaming.) 
 
 COL. (helping to put them in their places). Did you notice if the 
 
 babies were all asleep, Annie ? 
 ANNIE. I think they are, mum. 
 COL. Did you look ? 
 ANNIE. I will, mum, as I pass the door. 
 COL. No, don't bother ; I'll go. I won't be a minute, Scarry. I 
 
 must just . . . 
 
 SCARA. Go and count up the chicks, eh ? Good girl. 
 (COLUMBINE goes out.) 
 
 Aha, Annie 1 No use trying to put that little mother off with 
 
 " I think so, mum." 
 
 ANNIE. No, sir ; but I really do think they are all right. 
 SCARA. Of course they are. The young lady likes to see for herself, 
 
 though. 
 
 GEORGE. Eye like an eagle where those babies are concerned. 
 SCOTT. Have you many children, Mister Scaramouche ? 
 SCARA. Three. 
 SCOTT. I suppose you hope to make some sort of use of them in the 
 
 circus when they're old enough ? 
 SCARA. No, I hadn't thought of it. 
 SCOTT. Oh, I was under the impression that circus folk were in the 
 
 habit of teaching their children er splits and that sort of 
 
 thing from their earliest infancy. 
 SCARA. Were you really ? I can see Columbine allowing her blessed 
 
 babies to be " turned out," eh, George ? 
 SCOTT. Mrs. Scaramouche looks very young to be the mother of 
 
 three children but perhaps they aren't her own ? 
 SCARA. Oh, but they are 1 
 
 SCOTT. Really ! But she looks well quite a child herself. 
 SCARA. It's a favourite remark of mine, Mister Scott, that children 
 
 often make the best mothers. 
 GEORGE. Right, too I Good egg ! 
 SCOTT. I suppose she spoils them fearfully. 
 SCARA. Not more than is good for them, I think. 
 SCOTT. What I mean is : So young a woman can't possibly have 
 
 the firmness to deal with children. 
 GEORGE (very indignantly). Can't she, indeed ? 
 SCOTT. Well, children are rather a handful. I had a little brother 
 
 he died well, he led mother no end of a dance, and she was 
 
 a woman of great firmness and experience. 
 SCARA. I don't think firmness and experience are everything, 
 
 Mister Scott. Columbine gets on pretty well, and, as you say, 
 
 she's a mere child herself. 
 
190 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 GEORGE. She hasn't aged a day since Tommy was born. She was 
 a child then she's a child now. 
 
 SCARA. Yes, yes. She was a pale child then, though. Domestic 
 revelations, eh, Mr. Scott ? (Crosses to Scott.) Oh, that 
 reminds me. Of course you'll confine your interview with me 
 to purely public matters. Your readers don't want to know 
 what I have for breakfast, and all that sort of thing. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh ! I thought that was exactly what they did want to 
 know. 
 
 SCARA. No, no, no. It's a great mistake. Robs our business of 
 half its attraction. Dulls its glamour, you know. 
 
 (MRS. LA B. returns.) 
 
 Come along, ma ! Let me introduce Mister Scott to you. 
 
 Mister Scott Mrs. La Bolaro. (Takes chair above table.) 
 MRS. LA B. (peering into SCOTT'S face). Scott ? Not the Canonball 
 
 King. 
 
 SCARA. No. Mr. Scott is not in the business. 
 MRS. LA B. Oh ! (Goes to fire and gets chair.) 
 
 (COLUMBINE returns to above table.) 
 
 SCARA. Well, my dear? All correct ? (Crosses to COLUMBINE.) 
 
 None of them missing ? 
 COL. Scarry ! 
 SCARA. We shall have to institute a roll-call for them when Jeanne 
 
 is a bit older. 
 COL. (behind GEORGE tilting him out of his chair). Move, George, 
 
 unless you are going to pour out tea for me. 
 
 (GEORGE goes round and takes chair from sideboard and places 
 L. of table. MRS. LA B. turns smaller arm-chair from fire to 
 lower R. of table and sits. COLUMBINE sits in chair just 
 vacated by GEORGE and pours out tea while SCARRY helps 
 to the fish. SCOTT, seated on sofa, feels very out of his 
 element. He is an exceptionally ordinary young man, 
 with a slight moustache, brown boots, an earnest manner, a 
 common accent, and a moral nature.) 
 
 SCARA. There, sit down and sail into that, George. (Hands GEORGE 
 haddock. MRS. LA B. snatches it. Scarry gives another.) The 
 old mongary, eh ? 
 
 GEORGE . . Aha ! The old mongary chat ! 
 
 (SCOTT has his doubts about the meaning of these remarks.) 
 
 COL. Won't Mister Scott have a cup, Scarry ? 
 
 SCOTT. No. No, thank you. 
 
 SCARA. No, my dear. I suppose you think this an outlandish 
 
 time to be having tea, Mister Scott ? 
 SCOTT. Oh, not at all 1 I know you people who are always travelling 
 
 about must be bound to have your meals at all hours. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 191 
 
 SCAR A. Oh, we aren't always travelling about. We keep still 
 sometimes. We shall be here for a fortnight, you know. 
 
 SCOTT. Yes, but you never have a home. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (with great fervour). No, thank God ! 
 
 SCARA. Why, Ma 1 What's your objection to home life ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. Waiting on men. 
 
 SCARA. Ah, Ma's a thorough Bohemian ! 
 
 SCOTT. It must be very bad for you, being always on the move. 
 
 SCARA. Bad for us ? How ? 
 
 SCOTT. Not for your health, perhaps. I meant more for your 
 moral welfare. 
 
 SCARA. Indeed ? Really, I don't quite see how travelling should 
 affect our moral welfare. 
 
 SCOTT. Well living in lodgings as you do, you haven't the 
 responsibilities of anyone who's a fixture. 
 
 SCARA. Haven't we ? 
 
 COL. Children are a great responsibility, Mister Scott. 
 
 SCOTT. Yes ... I don't so much mean that sort of responsibility, 
 Missis Scaramouche. 
 
 COL. (taking no further interest). More tea, George ? 
 
 GEORGE. Ay, ay ! 
 
 SCOTT (anxious to continue). I mean more . . , 
 
 COL. Pass your cup, then. (GEORGE does so.) 
 
 SCOTT. What I mean . . . 
 
 SCARA. And more fish, eh ? (Gives GEORGE fish.) What sort of 
 responsibility do you mean, then, Mister Scott ? 
 
 SCOTT (laboriously). Well, perhaps "responsibility" is not quite 
 the right word. I mean knowing you're going to leave a 
 town in a few days must make you well not so careful 
 of what you do in that town. Anyone who spends his 
 whole life in one place gets to be known, and has a certain 
 amount of appearance to keep up. Now, you haven't got 
 the same reasons to er . . . 
 
 SCARA. Keep to the narrow path, eh ? 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, well that . . . 
 
 SCARA. Because we have no neighbours to keep an eye on us ? 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, I'm not referring to you personally, Mister Scara 
 mouche. Present company always excepted, you know. You 
 are known everywhere you go. 
 
 SCARA. I must be an absolute paragon of virtue, then, according 
 to your argument. 
 
 SCOTT. No, no ; really, I wasn't in any way meaning you. But 
 you must admit well the rank and file ... 
 
 SCARA. I'm afraid you're a little narrow-minded, Mister Scott. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh no, indeed. I'm often called most broad-minded. 
 Several people were against letting the hall to a circus, you 
 know. 
 
 SCARA. So I heard. 
 
192 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT. Well, I threw the whole weight of the Argus against them. 
 I said that the world was big enough for good and bad, and the 
 circus would only be here a fortnight, and, after all, our towns 
 folk could do with a little amusement. Besides which, if we 
 refused the hall, they'd take a plot of land from a private 
 owner. 
 
 SCARA. Most convincing. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (suddenly, but with conviction). The man's a fool ! 
 
 SCARA. Ma Ma, really ! 
 
 COL, Barley ! Don't be so rude. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Well, he talks like one. 
 
 SCARA (amused, but trying to be severe). Ma, you must not. I must 
 apologise for Missis La Bolaro, Mister Scott. She is very 
 outspoken. (Nods significantly to SCOTT.) A little too much so, 
 in fact. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (looking SCOTT fairly in the eye). Well, I suppose I may 
 say what I think ? 
 
 SCOTT (absolutely nonplussed). Oh, by all means ! Certainly. No 
 offence. 
 
 SCARA. You're very kind. 
 
 COL. More tea, George ? 
 
 GEORGE. Ay, ay. (Passes cup.) 
 
 SCARA. Please go on with what you were saying, Mister Scott. 
 
 SCOTT (with sincerity). Oh, I'd quite finished, thanks. 
 
 SCARA. You'll have some more fish, George ? 
 
 GEORGE. No more, thanks. 
 
 SCARA. Sail into the apple-pie, then. Help yourself. 
 
 GEORGE (obeying). Good egg ! 
 
 COL. Have you been to the circus yet, Mister Scott ? 
 
 SCOTT. No, Missis Scaramouche, I haven't. I have very little 
 time for amusements of that sort. I'm told (with a little bow) 
 that Mister Scaramouche is very laughable. 
 
 (GEORGE chokes, and SCARAMOUCHE looks extremely severe.) 
 
 I suppose you often are at the performances, Missis Scara 
 mouche ? 
 
 SCARA. No Columbine very rarely comes near the show. 
 SCOTT (with an air of perfect understanding). Oh yes. I see. Most 
 
 proper. 
 SCARA. You know, Mister Scott, I didn't know until to-day that 
 
 you were a newspaper proprietor. 
 SCOTT. No ? I haven't had the Argus long. 
 SCARA. I hope you are doing well with it ? 
 SCOTT. Fairly. I took it over from the last owners as part payment 
 
 of their bill for printing. 
 SCARA. That doesn't sound as if they managed to make a very 
 
 good thing out of it. 
 SCOTT. Well, no, they didn't. They were these literary sort of 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 193 
 
 people. I daresay they'd have done all right if they'd had 
 someone over them. I've been improving it as much as I 
 could. Of course, I'm not hampered with having to pay 
 printer's bills, which is a great saving. I'm known here, too. 
 That's a help. And I hope to incorporate a little magazine I 
 now print for my chapel in with the Argus. 
 
 SCARA. Good idea ! 
 
 SCOTT. Yes. I've been trying to pave the way by raising the 
 paper's moral tone as much as I could without interfering with 
 the circulation. It's hard to tell just how much the public 
 will stand of that sort of thing, you know. 
 
 SCARA. I suppose so. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, but they'll like this interview with you. I hope to 
 make that something of a scoop. It's very kind of you to 
 allow me. 
 
 SCARA. Not at all. You have been most accommodating over the 
 printing, I am pleased to be able to oblige you. I only hope 
 you will not be disappointed. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (who has been silently watching GEORGE devouring apple- 
 pie). Just look at that man eat ! 
 
 SCARA. Ma ! Ma ! 
 
 (GEORGE drops his knife and fork and stares at the lady in 
 amazement.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. The human ostrich isn't in it ! 
 
 SCARA. Manners, Ma manners ! 
 
 COL. That's the second time you've been rude to poor George in 
 
 one day. 
 MRS. LA B. Poor George, indeed ! When the man comes and eats 
 
 us out of house and home. 
 SCARA. (quietly). Now, Ma, I won't have that. George is as welcome 
 
 here as you are. It is nothing to do with you how often he 
 
 calls, or how much he eats. 
 MRS. LA B. Nothing to do with me ! No ! I'm only doing my best 
 
 to save you from being reduced to beggary. . . . 
 3CARA. Ma, you're talking nonsense. 
 MRS. LA B. (rising). Talking nonsense, am I ? Thank you ! If 
 
 that is your gratitude when I try to protect you from a 
 
 hyena I 
 
 (GEORGE, who has absently taken up a morsel, drops it again. 
 MRS. LA BOLARO goes out, banging the door behind her.) 
 
 SCARA. There, George ! There's a new name for you. Really, 
 my dear, Ma is getting worse and worse. She was most rude 
 to Mister Scott, too. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, don't mention it. 
 
 SCARA. No, no. Of course, you understand that she isn't quite 
 responsible. 
 
 13 
 
194 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT. Then, wouldn't she be better somewhere safe ? 
 
 SCAR A. Oh no. There's really no harm in her. She's had a hard 
 life. 
 
 COL. You say that of everyone. 
 
 SCARA. Do I, my dear? Well, it's true of most. Poor Barley! 
 This nonsense about being reduced to beggary is worse than 
 the Prince. 
 
 COL. She's been talking about him a lot this week. 
 
 GEORGE. The Prince ? Yes, she met him here. 
 
 SCARA. Poor old Ma 1 
 
 SCOTT (bursting with curiosity). The er Prince? A er halluci 
 nation ? 
 
 SCARA. Well, more or less. She had a suitor, years ago, as you 
 can guess. A man of position not a Prince, of course 
 eldest son of an ex-mayor, I believe. Poor Barley 1 it's hard 
 to think of her as a fascinator now, eh, George ? 
 
 SCOTT. And this fellow I suppose she thinks now that he was a 
 Prince ? 
 
 SCARA. Yes. He's been rising in rank steadily. He was My Lord 
 for some time, then he was The Duke. He'll be an Emperor 
 if she lives long enough. 
 
 COL. (trying to listen). I hope she hasn't wakened the babies, 
 banging the door like that. I thought I heard . . . 
 
 SCARA. Sit still, my dear ; they're all right. We should know it if 
 they called. 
 
 COL. Not with the door shut. 
 
 SCOTT (rising and going up). Allow me. (Opens door wide.) 
 
 (TOMMY is heard calling with great vigour, " Mama, Mama ! ") 
 
 COL. (in the tone of one contemplating a national catastrophe). There ! 
 SCARA. Don't answer him, my dear. He must learn that he 
 
 cannot call for you whenever he pleases. He will go to sleep 
 
 again if he gets no answer. 
 TOMMY (calling with increased determination). Mama ! Is farver 
 
 in ? 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE holds up one finger admonishing silence.) 
 
 You said if I woked up when farver came in I could get 
 
 up and have tea with you. 
 SCARA. Did you, my dear ? Of course if you did we mustn't 
 
 deceive the little man. 
 
 COL. I only said I'd see what you had to say. 
 SCARA. Oh 1 
 
 (TOMMY calls again, " Mama.") 
 
 (To COLUMBINE) Hush. (Calls severely) Be quiet, Tommy. 
 TOMMY (jubilantly). Hullo, Farver ! 
 SCARA (rising with dignity). I'll just go and speak to him ; perhaps 
 
 he will keep quiet then. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 195 
 
 TOMMY. I say Farver. 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE exits and closes door. SCOTT returns to sofa.) 
 
 COL. It is a shame that Scarry should be bothered with the children, 
 
 but really I can't make Tommy mind. 
 SCOTT. Ah, perhaps you spoil him. Boys soon find out who they 
 
 can get round. 
 COL. I'm afraid I do ; but Scarry's splendid. He can make him 
 
 do anything. 
 SCOTT. Yes, a youngster needs a father's hand to keep him in 
 
 order. A mother unless she's very strong-minded hasn't 
 
 the heart to punish 
 COL. Oh, Scarry doesn't have to punish Tommy. He does as he's 
 
 told without that. Scarry only has to speak . . . 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE returns proudly carrying TOMMY, who has a 
 large overcoat on over his night-shirt.) 
 
 SCARA. (reproachfully to COLUMBINE). My dear, the little chap was 
 
 hungry. No wonder he called. You can't expect him to go 
 
 to sleep when he's hungry. 
 
 GEORGE (turns to SCARRY c.) Good morning, Tommy. 
 TOMMY (grinning). 'Tish't morning. 
 SCARA. A fine boy, eh, Mister Scott? 
 
 SCOTT. Yes indeed. How old might you be, my little man ? 
 SCARA. (answering for his son). Six. (Crosses to above table. Sits 
 
 down in his place, holding TOMMY on his knee) There now ! 
 
 What do you think you'd like ? (GEORGE pulls chair back to c.) 
 TOMMY (pointing at covered dish). What's that ? 
 SCARA. Haddock. Can he have haddock, my dear ? 
 TOMMY (still exploring table). What's that ? 
 SCARA. (lifting cover). Toast. What do you think you'd like ? 
 
 (TOMMY selects a large lump of sugar and places it in his 
 mouth.) 
 
 There's a sweet tooth ! My dear, I must be going. Come 
 along, George. (Rises and puts TOMMY on chair.) I leave 
 you in good hands, Mister Scott. (Goes off at door and fetches 
 coat, talking all the time.) Columbine can tell you anything 
 you want to know, and Missis La Bolaro won't disturb you 
 again to-night after that show of temper. 
 
 SCOTT. Won't she be coming back in here ? 
 
 SCARA. No. So don't be afraid. 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE goes to glass over fire to arrange his muffler. 
 GEORGE passes in front of SCOTT to fetch his hat from 
 bureau. SCOTT whispers to him seriously. GEORGE comes 
 down below sofa to SCOTT.) 
 
 SCOTT. Er do I understand that he means me to stay here alone 
 with Missis Scaramouche ? 
 
ig6 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 GEORGE. Eh ? I suppose so. (Goes round to COLUMBINE and 
 
 shakes hands with her.) Good-night, Columbine. A very nice 
 
 tea as usual thank you. 
 
 COL. We're always glad to see you aren't we, Scarry ? 
 SCARA. Of course. Drop in again soon. 
 GEORGE. Well, if I may . . . 
 
 SCARA. To-morrow then. And mind you don't disappoint us. 
 COL. Wouldn't you like to kiss Tommy good-night ? 
 GEORGE. I'd a good deal rather kiss Tommy's mother good-night. 
 
 (Kisses COLUMBINE gently on cheek. SCOTT is horrified.) Bless 
 
 you, my dear. 
 SCARA. (without looking round from glass) . George, George ! You're 
 
 getting on. 
 GEORGE. Good gracious me, Tommy, he saw me ! Do you think 
 
 he'll challenge me ? Shall I stab him in the back now to 
 
 avoid any unpleasantness ? (Brandishes table-knife. TOMMY 
 
 is greatly amused.) 
 SCARA. (crossing to SCOTT above table and shaking hands with him). 
 
 Good-night, Mister Scott. I suppose you'll be gone by the 
 
 time I get back ? 
 
 SCOTT (emphatically). Oh yes. Yes. 
 SCARA. Columbine, my dear, you understand that you are to tell 
 
 Mister Scott anything he may want to know. 'Bye, Tommy. 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE and GEORGE gO OUt.) 
 
 TOMMY (calling after them). 'Bye ! Good luck ! 
 
 SCARA. (calling back as he goes down stairs). Thank you, sir, I 
 
 don't think. . . . (His voice dies away.) 
 COL. (putting TOMMY down and ringing belt). If you'll excuse me, 
 
 Mister Scott, I'll put Tommy back to bed, and then I'll come 
 
 and talk to you. 
 SCOTT. Oh, thanks. Won't you come and say good-bye to me, 
 
 my little man ? 
 
 (COLUMBINE is putting away a few things in sideboard.) 
 
 TOMMY (coming to SCOTT). Good-night. 
 
 SCOTT. Let's see what I've got here. (Produces money from 
 pocket.) There, now what 11 you say if ... 
 
 (TOMMY looks doubtfully at COLUMBINE.) 
 
 COL. Oh, please they're never allowed to accept money I do 
 hope you don't mind. 
 
 (Enter BOB with tray.) 
 BOB. To clear, 'm ? 
 COL. Please. (Crosses below table.) Come along, Tommy. 
 
 (BOB places tray on sideboard, places cups on tray and plate on 
 table and cruet, butter, and jam in sideboard) 
 

 
 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 197 
 
 SCOTT (detaining TOMMY). Won't you give me a kiss ? (Kisses 
 TOMMY loudly on the ear.) There's a brave little man. Run 
 to mummy. 
 
 (COLUMBINE leads TOMMY off.) 
 
 (ANNIE enters to above table and gathers four apple-pie plates 
 together and assists BOB to clear table. SCOTT goes to 
 mantelpiece and inspects the array of photos and postcards 
 thereon. He does not approve of the majority of them, 
 but leaves none unexamined. Then he turns and watches 
 BOB and ANNIE with his back to the fire.) 
 
 (ANNIE places pie plates and haddock plates on tray.) 
 SCOTT. Queer sort of people, these circus folk, Robert. 
 (BOB places tray on sideboard.) 
 
 BOB. Not much dif'rent to others, I don't think, sir. They 
 Bob-old-man's us and Annie-my-dear's us a bit more than 
 some perhaps. 
 
 (ANNIE places tea-tray on sideboard and takes off cloth while 
 BOB holds lamp.) 
 
 SCOTT. Yes, yes. Very familiar in their manners. 
 
 BOB. No, sir, not very, sir. Mister Scaramouche, he wants respek 
 
 and he gets it too. He has his pride. 
 SCOTT. There are different sorts of pride, of course. So they call 
 
 Annie "my dear," eh? Well, it doesn't do to mind these 
 
 little things too much, Annie. 
 ANNIE. No, indeed, sir. I like 'em. 
 
 (ANNIE goes up, takes tea-tray and cloth off. BOB puts things 
 in sideboard and arranges chairs.) 
 
 BOB. I know I'm always glad to see 'em back. Miss Columbine is 
 
 as nice a young lady as you'd wish to see. 
 SCOTT. Yes, yes. So it appears. 
 
 (ANNIE and BOB exit with things on tray.) 
 (COLUMBINE returns and goes to big chair.) 
 COL. Now, Mister Scott. 
 
 (SCOTT crosses to table.) 
 
 Won't you come to the fire ? 
 SCOTT. I prefer to sit at the table for writing, you see. (Produces 
 
 large notebook and stylo and sits L. of table, drawing in his chair 
 
 and facing COLUMBINE.) 
 
 COL. Are you going to write down everything I say ? 
 SCOTT. Oh no. I shall only make notes. 
 COL. You'll have to tell me anything you want to know. 
 
ig8 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, it's not very important what you tell me I can work 
 
 it up into something good at the office. 
 COL. Oh ! (Pauses in thought.) 
 SCOTT (watching her). Do you know it's nothing to do with 
 
 business I was thinking I might bring my fiancee up here 
 
 to see you one of these days. Wouldn't you like to meet 
 
 her? 
 
 COL. (not quite understanding). Yes very much your . . . ? 
 SCOTT. My fiancee. Didn't I tell you I was engaged ? 
 COL. Oh, I didn't understand quite what you said. Yes, I shall be 
 
 pleased to see her. 
 
 SCOTT (compassionately). I suppose you haven't many friends. 
 COL. Oh, yes. Quite a lot. Scarry, and George, and (laughs) 
 
 Barley when she's in a good temper. 
 SCOTT. Ah, but I mean girl friends about your own age. 
 COL. (without interest). No. 
 
 SCOTT (discouraged). Well, suppose we get to business. 
 COL. Very well. 
 
 SCOTT. It's not too easy making a start, is it ? 
 COL. No, Scarry 's done such an awful lot. 
 SCOTT. He's a very clever man. 
 COL. He's a very great man. 
 SCOTT. It's easy to see you think a lot of him. 
 COL. Oh, but it isn't only me that does. George just calls him 
 
 the Great Man, and everybody understands who he means. 
 
 He really is awfully clever. He can speak six languages, you 
 
 know. 
 
 SCOTT (surprised). No, really ? 
 COL. Yes, and he plays the piano and the violin, and he never 
 
 went to school in his life. He ran away to a circus before he 
 
 was seven, and one of the clowns taught him to tumble, and 
 
 he worked very hard, and at last he got a job with a big Russian 
 
 circus that toured about all over Europe. 
 SCOTT. Oh, that's where he picked up so many languages. 
 COL. Yes, but languages aren't so easy to pick up. 
 SCOTT. No, I suppose not. Was he long with that circus ? 
 COL. Nearly twenty years, and he went everywhere with it and 
 
 saw all sorts of places. They travelled by caravan, and 
 
 he can tell the most interesting stories about it. They went 
 
 right into Persia even. The circus broke up at last, and 
 
 Scarry went to America. 
 
 SCOTT. He would be about twenty-seven then ? 
 COL. Yes he made a lot of money there. You can make money 
 
 very quickly in America, Mister Scott. 
 SCOTT. So I've heard. It must be a very dangerous place for an 
 
 Englishman. 
 COL. But when he came back he lost it all over an eating-shop 
 
 for foreign sailors that he tried to start at Cardiff. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 199 
 
 SCOTT. Lost all his money ? 
 
 COL. Yes, and then he started as a clown again in circuses and 
 sometimes in music-halls. You know those big music-hall 
 places in London and Moscow, and those big towns ? 
 
 SCOTT. Er no I've heard of them. 
 
 COL. Well, they pay much better than circuses, and Scarry works 
 them when he isn't with Gilbeys' and well, that's all ! 
 
 SCOTT (consulting his notebook in a slightly dazed condition). Yes 
 thank you very much. I'd no idea. 
 
 COL. (very pleased). It is a lot, isn't it ? I told you he'd done an 
 awful lot, though. 
 
 SCOTT. Yes. It's easy to see he's quite an exceptional person. 
 After all, foreign travel does give a sort of artificial polish 
 to a man, doesn't it ? Now, what I want if you can tell it 
 me is some interesting anecdote . . . 
 
 COL. (doubtfully). An anecdote ? What's that ? 
 
 SCOTT. Something that might have happened to him. This is 
 only an outline, after all. Let's see . . . (Thinks.) Now how 
 did you first come to meet Mister Scaramouche ? A touch 
 of the romance of real life can be made most effective provided 
 it's not overdone. 
 
 COL. It was at Hull. 
 
 SCOTT (making note). At Hull. 
 
 COL. Yes, I was in a troupe there. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, I didn't know you were ever in the business. 
 
 COL. Didn't you ? Yes. A boy and I used to do a trick dancing 
 act as Harlequin and Columbine. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, that's where you get your name ! 
 
 COL. Of course. Where else could I get it ? We lived with an 
 old man called Quarnelli. He used to teach us, and his own 
 little boy used to be the clown. We were called " Quarnelli 's 
 Juvenile Harlequinade." 
 
 SCOTT. Juvenile ? How old were you then ? 
 
 COL. When we were at Hull ? Oh, about fifteen or sixteen. I 
 wasn't well. Have you ever had influenza ? 
 
 SCOTT. Yes. 
 
 COL. You know how it makes you want to lie down and go to 
 sleep ? Well, one night I was like that, and Quarnelli said 
 I was slacking, and boxed my ears. He wasn't very nice to 
 me. Scarry says he ill-treated me. Well, he boxed my ears, 
 but he couldn't keep me awake, and Scarry had a row with 
 him about me. I'd talked to Scarry once or twice before. 
 
 SCOTT. Excuse me ; would you mind speaking a little more slowly, 
 please ? This ought to make a splendid story. 
 
 COL. Oh, I'm so glad. 
 
 SCOTT. You'd spoken to Mister Scaramouche once or twice before ? 
 
 COL. And he'd given me some lozenges for my throat. He would 
 not let Quarnelli box my ears, and I got awfully dizzy, and 
 
200 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 Scarry said if I was made to go on like that he'd let the audience 
 know about it, and Quarnelli got furious because he knew it 
 would get him the bird. 
 
 SCOTT. The bird ? 
 
 COL. Get him hissed. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, thank you. 
 
 COL. It would have, too ; Scarry was very popular. Well, Quar 
 nelli spat in Scarry 's face, and Scarry knocked him down, and 
 when I woke up I was in bed at Scarry's lodgings. 
 
 SCOTT (startled). Eh ? He'd had you sent there ? 
 
 COL. He'd brought me there himself. He nursed me for a week. 
 I was feverish, and I must have been a fearful nuisance. Every 
 night when he went to the show I used to cry. The only 
 way I would go to sleep was propped up on his arm. I'm 
 sure he must have got the pins and needles awfully sitting up 
 with me all night long. 
 
 SCOTT (slightly muddled). Er you weren't married at this time ? 
 
 COL. Good gracious, no ! I was only a little girl. 
 
 SCOTT. You were fifteen or sixteen. 
 
 COL. The landlady said I looked more like a half-starved kid of 
 seven. I was in love with him, though. 
 
 SCOTT (regretfully). T't, ft, t't. When were you married, then ? 
 
 COL. (laughing). Poor Scarry didn't know what to do with me 
 when I got better. I wouldn't leave him for a moment. 
 
 SCOTT. He wasn't er in love with you, then ? 
 
 COL. Oh yes, I think he was. But he's a man. Men never let 
 out whether they are in love or not. They want to be teased 
 into saying. 
 
 SCOTT. Really ! 
 
 COL. Yes. I bothered him awfully, and at last he persuaded me 
 to go to school for a year or two if he sent me to one. 
 
 SCOTT (very approvingly). Most proper. So you were sent to a 
 school ? 
 
 COL. (nodding). To a convent yes. But I hated it, and I ran away. 
 
 SCOTT. That was very wrong. 
 
 COL. No, it wasn't. It was so silly. But when I got to the place 
 where I thought Scarry was, I found he wasn't there. It 
 was awful ! 
 
 SCOTT. There are always persons to whom . . . 
 
 COL. Yes ; I went straight to a music-hall the stage door, and I 
 met someone I knew, and he told me that Scarry had gone 
 abroad. He didn't know where. 
 
 SCOTT. Dear, dear, dear ! 
 
 COL. (resignedly). So I simply had to go back to Quarnelli. 
 
 SCOTT. But he had ill-treated you. 
 
 COL. I couldn't starve and I was used to him. I was with him 
 nearly a year more, and then one day I saw Scarry walking 
 down a street with a bag in his hand, and I rushed after him 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 201 
 
 Oh, he had been worried about me. ... He was going back to 
 
 the Continent that very day, and he took me with him and 
 
 that's all, too. 
 
 SCOTT. Um yes yes. And when were you married ? 
 COL. We've been married ever since. 
 
 SCOTT. You were married abroad ? By registrar, I suppose ? 
 COL. (agreeably). I suppose so. 
 SCOTT. Surely you remember the date ? (COLUMBINE shakes her 
 
 head.) But it would be on the certificate. (With a hopeful 
 
 horror in his tones) I suppose you've got one ? 
 COL. 1 suppose so. Scarry would have it amongst his contracts 
 
 and things. 
 SCOTT. Do you mean to say . . . (Calms himself.) Didn't you go 
 
 and sign your name before anyone and say : " I take this 
 
 man to be my wedded husband, and so forth " ? 
 COL. No. They only do that on the stage. Why, what's the 
 
 matter ? 
 SCOTT (/MS disgust gives place to deep compassion as he looks at her 
 
 cheerful face). My poor girl, have you been led through your 
 
 ignorance into a life of sin ? 
 
 COL. No, I don't think so. I don't quite know what you mean. 
 SCOTT. Don't know what I mean 1 You know what sin is. 
 COL. (doubtfully). Wickedness ? No, I'm afraid I don't know 
 
 exactly. Why, what's the matter ? You look shocked. 
 SCOTT. Shocked ? I'm disgusted ! You, a bright, good-looking, 
 
 intelligent young woman tell me you don't know the meaning 
 
 of sin 1 
 
 COL. I'm very sorry ! 
 
 SCOTT. Have you never heard that the wages of sin is death ? 
 COL. Oh yes, I've seen that on the walls in lodgings. 
 SCOTT. And don't you know what that means ? 
 COL. I never thought it had any meaning. I thought it was just 
 
 a text. 
 SCOTT (prepared for the worst). I suppose you'll tell me you never 
 
 heard of hell next ? 
 COL. Oh yes, I've heard of hell. 
 SCOTT (greatly relieved). Well, that's something. 
 COL. When Tommy was born I was very ill, and a gentleman came 
 
 and talked to me about hell and frightened me awfully. But 
 
 Scarry was furious and turned the gentleman out. He thought 
 
 I was going to die, you see, and he said he wouldn't have me 
 
 frightened with such ideas at such a time. 
 SCOTT. Why not ? Better late than never. 
 COL. But it's not true, is it ? 
 SCOTT. Hell ? Of course it's true. 
 
 COL. A place, all burning flames, where we go to when we die ? 
 SCOTT. Ah, some of us. The wicked who don't repent, and die in 
 
 their sin. 
 
202 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 COL. (thoughtfully). Sin ? . . . (Suddenly terrified.) Oh, you said 
 do you mean if I were to die now I should die in sin ? 
 
 SCOTT (more kindly). Oh, well, you aren't likely to die just now, are 
 you ? 
 
 COL. But if I should ? 
 
 SCOTT. I'm very sorry for you but well, you admit that you're 
 not married to that to Mister Scaramouche. Not properly 
 married to him. You haven't got any certificate, or any 
 thing. 
 
 COL. (vaguely). There's Tommy's birth certificate. 
 
 SCOTT. That makes it worse. Poor little chap ! 
 
 COL. What difference would a certificate make ? 
 
 SCOTT. The difference between Holy Matrimony and and the 
 other thing. 
 
 COL. Oh, I'm not wicked. I don't feel wicked. 
 
 SCOTT (with deep sympathy). You wouldn't. It's more your ignor 
 ance. We fall by different means. I daresay, on the whole, 
 it's easier by ignorance than by temptation. 
 
 COL. Oh, but Scarry wouldn't let me do anything wicked. 
 
 SCOTT. My dear girl, don't be silly. Any man would. That's 
 why girls are taught to be so careful to prevent just what's 
 happened to you. Hasn't he done his best to keep you in 
 ignorance ? 
 
 COL. No. He wants me to read. 
 
 SCOTT. Ah, what sort of books ? 
 
 COL. He's so good always. 
 
 SCOTT. Did he ever speak to you about a future life ? 
 
 COL. He never let me think about anything so terrible. 
 
 SCOTT (slightly surprised). Oh, there is a heaven. 
 
 COL. Yes, but if there's a hell . . . (Covers her face with her hands 
 and begins to cry.) Scarry's always so good, and everything's 
 so comfortable . . . 
 
 SCOTT (rises and comes round above table to her). The pathway to 
 . . . (Pauses and looks at her.) The path of ... (Pauses 
 again and comes nearer to her.) The . . . (He is touched 
 by her unhappiness.) Oh, come . . . (Pats her on the 
 shoulder.) If it's bad now, think how very bad . . . (Pats her 
 again.) I understand how you must feel. It isn't pleasant 
 to think about such things. When my little brother died I 
 was shockingly upset. There, there. You're not bad at heart. 
 It's been your ignorance has put you in the power of others. 
 Upon my word, I'm glad to be the one to start you seeing how 
 you stand. Get right before it's too late. You're . . . 
 
 COL. Please go away. 
 
 SCOTT. You'd rather be left alone ? (COLUMBINE nods.) Just for 
 the present, eh ? To look into yourself. Very good. Good 
 night. (Comes down to couch and gets hat. Turns at door.) 
 I'll step in to-morrow and have a few words more with you 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 203 
 
 about it, if you wish. I do hope you'll sleep well. (Exits with 
 caution and closes door.) 
 
 (COLUMBINE remains before fire crying softly ; she sees that she 
 has got SCOTT'S large handkerchief, which he has given her, 
 and throws it angrily aside. She rises and crosses to 
 window, where she holds back the curtains and looks out. 
 The door opens ; she starts and turns, but gives a cry of 
 pleasure as SCARAMOUCHE enters, cheery and cold. He is 
 wearing a muffler around his throat. No collar or tie.) 
 
 SCARA. Surprised to see me back so early, eh, my dear ? 
 COL. (taking his coat into hall.) Yes. Is anything . . . 
 SCARA. No, no, no. Shirking. Sheer lazy shirking. I cut all 
 
 except my own turn just to get back to you. 
 COL. To me ? (Returns from hall.) 
 
 SCARA. Yes. Aren't you glad to see me ? (Sits in large chair.) 
 COL. Of course. 
 SCARA. Of course. (Holds out his hands to her. She comes to him.) 
 
 I felt a bit off colour. Hullo ! You've been crying. 
 COL. Y yes. 
 SCARA. What is it, dear ? 
 COL. Please I'm tired. 
 
 SCARA. Poor little lady. These babies fag you out. 
 COL. No. I'm so glad you've come back early, Scarry. 
 SCARA. So am I. 
 COL. I want to talk to you. 
 SCARA. (pulling her on to arm of chair where she sits, still holding his 
 
 hand.) Talk away. 
 
 COL. I want you to tell me about something. Will you, please ? 
 SCARA. If I can. What is it ? 
 COL. I want you to tell me about sin. 
 SCARA. (looking at her in surprise). Sin ? 
 COL. (nodding). Please, and hell. 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE 
 THE SAME 
 
 It is Friday morning, one day having elapsed. The sun 
 shines brightly in at the bay-window. Bedroom doors 
 are shut, the single door is open. By it COLUMBINE is 
 shaking TOMMY into his reefer jacket. SCARAMOUCHE is at 
 bureau reading a copy of the " Argus." He grunts angrily 
 over what he is reading. The sofa has been moved slightly, 
 and is more level with the footlights. 
 
 COL. There, Tommy. Now hold May's hand all the way there, 
 
 and keep very close to Annie at the crossings. 
 TOMMY. All right. 'Bye, Farver. 
 SCARA. 'Bye, my son. Take care of the ladies, and always keep on 
 
 the outside of the pavement. 
 TOMMY. Of course. I'm a gentleman ! 
 SCARA. True, sir, but don't insist on it. I've heard you say that 
 
 a dozen times since breakfast. Be off. Good-bye. 
 
 (TOMMY goes out at door with COLUMBINE. She is heard calling.) 
 
 COL. (off). You'll be very careful of the crossings, won't you, 
 Annie ? And the trams. (Re-enters.) Oh, those trams ! 
 They give me the cold shivers. (Seeing that SCARAMOUCHE is 
 still busily reading, she stops speaking, and going to table begins 
 to rummage in work-basket that is there.) 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE grunts indignantly over what he is reading. 
 She looks at him inquiringly. He looks up and catches 
 her eye, then rises and comes to sofa, bringing paper.) 
 
 SCARA. Columbine, my dear . . . 
 
 COL. Yes ? 
 
 SCARA. That interviewer Mister Scott how much did you tell 
 
 him the other night ? 
 COL. (tearful in a moment). Oh he hasn't printed it in his paper, 
 
 has he ? 
 SCARA. (surprised) . Why, what 's the matter ? Columbine, come here. 
 
 (Holds out his hands kindly. She comes to him and sits beside 
 
 him on sofa.) You're not looking well, little lady, and I don't 
 
 204 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 205 
 
 like . . . (Drops her head as he is looking at her.) There, there, 
 don't cry. What is there to cry about ? I'm not angry with 
 you about this nonsense. 
 
 COL. Oh, I ought not to have told him. 
 
 SCARA. No, no, no. No harm in your telling him. It's his making 
 a story out of it that I resent. Confound the man 1 Still, it's 
 nothing so very terrible, dear. 
 
 COL. (doubtfully). Isn't it ? What has he printed ? 
 
 SCARA. Here it is. (Picks up paper.) " The popular clown met his 
 charming wife in rather a curious and romantic manner," and 
 then there's the whole story about my punching old Quarnelli's 
 nose, ending up with " the marriage took place abroad." 
 
 COL. Oh 1 (She is greatly relieved.) Is that all ? Didn't you want 
 him to know about you and me ? 
 
 SCARA. No harm in his knowing, but I (getting angry) I told him 
 to stick to public matters. It's not the thing at all to air one's 
 private affairs like this. It's so so theatrical. 
 
 COL. I'm very sorry. 
 
 SCARA. No, no, no. It's not your fault at all. I'm sorry I men 
 tioned it. I wouldn't have if I'd known it was going to upset 
 you like this. You're worrying me very much with your pale 
 face, Columbine. Would you see a doctor if I get one to come ? 
 
 COL. Oh, I'm not ill, am I ? Not very ill ? 
 
 SCARA. No, no, no, dear, I hope not. 
 
 COL. Not ill enough to die ? 
 
 SCARA. Good heavens, no, child ! Don't talk like that. 
 
 COL. It would be awful wouldn't it ? 
 
 SCARA. Columbine, my dear, you're not a bit like yourself. (Takes 
 her hand and pulls her down.) Die, indeed ! * Why, a healthy 
 young person like you should no more think of dying than 
 a grasshopper does. What's worrying you, dear ? Are these 
 babies an awful lot of trouble ? 
 
 COL. No. I love looking after babies. 
 
 SCARA. There's a dear girl. But there is something wrong. 
 Come, now, what is it ? Tell me. I'll try to understand. 
 
 COL. No, really, I'm all right. 
 
 SCARA. (firmly, but very kindly). No, you are not all right, and you 
 must tell me, please. (Pauses.) Please. 
 
 COL. (beginning to cry). Oh, don't . . . 
 
 SCARA. Why, Columbine, I thought you always came to me with 
 your troubles. Has anyone been unkind to you ? You don't 
 mind Ma's temper, surely ? 
 
 COL. (catching at a straw). She's very bad sometimes. 
 
 SCARA. My dear girl ! 
 
 COL. (trying to avoid a lie, and trying to avoid the truth, and making 
 a mess of it). Of course it's not Barley, but she she does 
 get on my nerves sometimes. 
 
 SCARA. Nerves ? When did you start nerves ? There, there, 
 
206 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 don't give me a sample now. I'll speak to Ma but, you 
 
 know, I don't want to send her away, dear. 
 COL. Oh no. 
 SCARA. No. She's old, and she's had a hard life of it. It must be 
 
 worse to look back on such a life when one is old than to live 
 
 through it at the time. One sees all one's mistakes afterwards. 
 
 And poor Ma has made such a lot of mistakes. If I told you 
 
 you'd be as willing to put up with her tempers as George is. 
 COL. Tell me. 
 SCARA. No, no, you wouldn't understand half. But well you 
 
 know the " Prince " she's always talking about ? 
 COL. (interested). Oh yes. 
 SCARA. Well, he was the last of her mistakes. She tried to kill 
 
 herself. 
 
 COL. Ma tried to kill herself ! 
 SCARA. Yes, dear, and people don't do that unless they are more 
 
 unhappy than you or I can understand. 
 COL. Please tell me who was the Prince ? 
 SCARA. Oh, a good-for-nothing young idiot. One of a dozen who 
 
 used to dangle around after her. She was a very handsome 
 
 woman then, dear, not a girl ... eh, about about forty, 
 
 and he was fifteen years younger than she was. She really 
 
 thought a lot of him though, and she left the circus. 
 COL. With him? 
 SCARA (nodding). And then in a couple of months she came 
 
 back. 
 
 COL. (with conviction). Oh, he hadn't married her ! 
 SCARA (surprised at her earnestness). Well no, he hadn't, but . . . 
 COL. And she tried to kill herself because he hadn't married her ! 
 SCARA. Not . . . 
 COL. But if he had married her it would have been all right, wouldn't 
 
 it ? She'd never have tried to commit suicide if they'd been 
 
 properly married . . . 
 SCARA. Columbine, I never saw you so excited. What's in your 
 
 mind ? Has anyone been saying anything to you about Ma ? 
 COL. No 1 No, really ! 
 SCARA. I thought perhaps someone had been trying to fill your 
 
 brain with . . . but you wouldn't understand that if they did. 
 
 (Puts his arms round her.) 
 
 COL. I'm very ignorant, aren't I, Scarry ? (Nestles on his shoulder.) 
 SCARA. Of some things yes. 
 COL. Isn't it very dangerous to be so ignorant ? 
 SCARA. (stroking her head). Perhaps it is dear perhaps it is. 
 (There is a knock at door. GEORGE intrudes his head.) 
 
 GEORGE. May I ... 
 SCARA. Come in, George. 
 
 (COLUMBINE crosses to table.) 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 207 
 
 GEORGE (coming into room). Morning, all. (Seeing there is something 
 
 wrong) Er . . . I beg . . . Did I pop in too suddenly ? . . . 
 
 or ... 
 
 SCARA. No, no, no. Come in, George. Glad to see you. 
 GEORGE. Grood egg. All well ? 
 SCARA. Columbine's a bit off colour. 
 
 COL. No. No, I'm not. (Sits above table and takes up needlework.) 
 SCARA. (pleasantly). Very well, then . . . she's not. 
 GEORGE. Can you pop over to the hall some time during the 
 
 morning ? No hurry. The Band wants to speak to you about 
 
 to-night. 
 
 SCARA. (taking up "Argus" again). D'you know what he wants ? 
 GEORGE. Er yes I do. He wants to know if you'll allow 
 
 him to play you into the ring with " Hail, the Conquering 
 
 Hero Comes." 
 SCARA. (sharply). No, I won't ! What nonsense ! I'm a clown, not 
 
 Napoleon or a champion footballer, and I'm not going to be 
 
 made look ridiculous. 
 
 GEORGE. His idea was that as it's your own night . . . 
 SCARA. What's that got to do with it ? He can stick to his hurry 
 
 music. 
 
 GEORGE. I knew you wouldn't allow it. 
 SCARA. The Band ought to have known it too. I won't have 
 
 anything cheap or undignified at any time least of all on my 
 
 own night. It lowers the whole tone of the business. 
 COL. I suppose the Band thought it would be funny. 
 SCARA. It's not his business to be funny. He's spoiled my turn 
 
 more than once with his confounded sense of humour. I've 
 
 given up being humorous myself. The public don't want 
 
 humour in a clown. They want him to fall over everything 
 
 he comes across and get up again as if nothing had happened ; 
 
 and they want the Band to play the good old " tiddle iddle um 
 
 tiddle um turn turn " as loud as he can. That's what the public 
 
 wants. (Resumes reading angrily.) 
 
 GEORGE (sits L. table. Going to COLUMBINE). Great Man angry ! 
 COL. Yes. Mister Scott put a lot in his paper that Scarry said he 
 
 ought not to have done. It was my fault, I ... 
 SCARA. No, no, no (looking up from paper) it was not your fault. 
 
 I told you to tell him anything he wanted to know. But 
 
 he should have respected my wishes. I said to him distinctly, 
 
 " no domestic details." 
 GEORGE. True. I heard you. (To COLUMBINE as SCARAMOUCHE 
 
 resumes reading) These newspaper men haven't got any 
 
 conscience, though. Give a man a job on a newspaper and 
 
 bang goes his conscience. 
 COL. Don't be silly, George. Mister Scott is a very good man, 
 
 really. 
 GEORGE. Is he ? 
 
208 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 COL. Yes ; he belongs to a chapel, and he's most respected in the 
 
 town. Annie told me that. 
 SCARA. (looking up again). Oh, Columbine's much impressed. 
 
 (Laughing) He brought her a box of chocolates yesterday. 
 GEORGE. Oho? Then he can't be so bad. Any left? (Anxiously 
 
 looks round.) 
 
 COL. (shaking her head). Tommy and May finished them all. 
 GEORGE. Pigs ! That's the worst of children. They are so 
 
 greedy. (Touching her work) Faking up the Great Man's 
 
 props for to-night, eh ? 
 COL. Yes. 
 GEORGE. Lucky Great Man to have someone to take care of him. 
 
 What was friend Scott after yesterday ? More domestic 
 
 details ? 
 COL. No. ... He just came to talk ... To see me. He only 
 
 stopped a minute. He he's been very kind to me. I'm 
 
 sorry about . . . 
 SCARA. (jumping up furiously). Confound it all ! This is the 
 
 limit. Listen I (Reads) ... um ... um " with one of his 
 
 expansive smiles I " Expansive smiles, indeed I " he bade us 
 
 a cordial good-bye before sitting down to a recherche little 
 
 tea at which a boiled haddock butter'd toast and an 
 
 enticing apple-pie eked out the usual slender resources of 
 
 the afternoon meal ! " Details of what I have to eat ! 
 
 Confound it all, I might be a Shakespearean actor ! 
 
 (COLUMBINE, who has listened apprehensively, now evinces 
 great relief. She suddenly puts down work and goes 
 quickly into bedroom.) 
 
 GEORGE (watches COLUMBINE off). I say ... is that little lady 
 
 ill? 
 SCARA. (still fuming over paper). Eh? No. I hope not ... at 
 
 least, she says she isn't. I confess I am a bit worried about 
 
 her. Are they waiting for me at the hall ? 
 GEORGE. No, no, any time will do. 
 SCARA. (crossing and putting paper on fire). That's one destroyed, 
 
 anyhow. (Pauses doubtfully.) Do you think she looks ill ? 
 GEORGE. Well yes, I do. 
 SCARA. (standing with his back to fire). I don't understand her. 
 
 She seems more worried than ill. 
 GEORGE. Worried ? Yes, she does. 
 SCARA. What on earth is she worrying about ? 
 GEORGE. Won't she say ? 
 SCARA. She says Ma's temper. 
 GEORGE. The old lady's temper ? 
 SCARA. Oh, it isn't that. That's an excuse. That's the devil of 
 
 it ; she won't tell me she makes excuses. 
 GEORGE. I should have thought she'd have told you. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 209 
 
 SCARA. Yes. But she sometimes has an idea that she mustn't 
 bother me. Ill speak to Barley, though. It won't hurt 
 the old lady to be pulled up a bit. (Pauses.) Um ... I 
 wonder . . . 
 
 GEORGE. What ? 
 
 SCARA. I wonder if it would be better for her if she had someone 
 to talk to in the evenings. Ma goes to bed very early, you 
 know. Perhaps spending evening after evening alone with 
 no one to talk to and she doesn't read, you know . . . 
 Perhaps it might tend to make her er introspective. 
 
 GEORGE (with conviction). I don't think so. 
 
 SCARA. No ? Well, neither do I. But I'm not sure. 
 
 GEORGE. She told me only the other day that she didn't mind 
 being left alone. I was saying that if I spent an evening 
 with nothing to do, nothing to read, and nobody to talk 
 to it'd give me the blue pip. She seemed tickled to death 
 by the idea. She said then that she never minded being 
 left alone. 
 
 SCARA. No, I never thought she did. She's a simple little soul. 
 Young people do worry over unpleasant ideas, though. 
 
 GEORGE. That's so. But where's she to get them to worry over ? 
 She's never been to a boarding-school, or mixed much with 
 girls of her own age. 
 
 SCARA. (laughing at GEORGE'S cynicism). George ! (Produces cigar- 
 case and offers GEORGE one, which is accepted.) Ah, well 
 perhaps she's only a bit run down. 
 
 (Enter MRS. LA B. She wears a bonnet and cape, and is 
 very much out of breath and temper.) 
 
 Hullo, Ma. (Crosses to door for coat.) 
 MRS. LA B. (goes to sofa and sits). Oh, these stairs . . . what do 
 
 they want to build stairs for, I should like to know ? 
 SCARA. Here's your friend George. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (ungraciously). So I see. He's too late for breakfast. 
 SCARA. (coming back into room with coat and muffler.) Cold out, 
 
 George ? 
 
 GEORGE (rises). Eh ? Yes, rather. 
 SCARA. Cold enough for an overcoat ? 
 GEORGE. Well, I didn't put mine on. 
 MRS. LA B. You haven't got one. 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE puts coat down.) 
 
 SCARA. (looking out of window). It looks gloriously bright out. 
 
 What do you say to a sharp walk, George, after I've had a 
 
 word with the Band ? 
 GEORGE. Good egg. 
 SCARA. (looking at watch). A sharp half -hour's walk, and then 
 
 you come back here to dinner with us, eh ? 
 
210 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 GEORGE (looking doubtfully at MRS. LA B.). I should like to very 
 
 much . . . 
 MRS. LA B. (dryly). I'm sure you would. You haven't ordered 
 
 dinner at your own rooms by any chance, have you ? 
 GEORGE. ... Er ... It can be ... I needn't be in for it. ... 
 SCARA. That's settled then. I'll talk to the Band for five minutes. 
 
 Meet me outside the hall in ten. 
 GEORGE. Good egg. 
 MRS. LA B. Will ten minutes be enough for Mr. Salamandro to get 
 
 back to his digs and cancel the dinner he has ordered there ? 
 SCARA. Oh, that reminds me, Ma. (Comes down R. of sofa). I 
 
 want to speak to you. I don't think you quite realise it, but 
 
 your temper is getting, if anything, worse every day. 
 MRS. LA B. Oh, indeed 1 If you don't like me, turn me out ! 
 
 I'm not the one to stay with people who want to get rid of 
 
 me. 
 SCARA. I don't want to get rid of you. I only want to say that 
 
 you will make things more comfortable for us all, and especially 
 
 for Columbine . . . 
 MRS. LA B. Columbine ? What's Columbine got to do with that 
 
 Cormorant staying to dinner ? 
 SCARA. I am not discussing George staying to dinner. Neither 
 
 George nor I object to your temper in the least. 
 MRS. LA B, Oh, indeed ! 
 SCARA. Columbine does. She told me this morning that you made 
 
 her very miserable. 
 MRS. LA B. That I did ? Why, I've never been nasty to the child 
 
 in my life. 
 SCARA. No, I don't believe you have been. But be a bit better 
 
 tempered generally, will you ? 
 
 (MRS. LA B. unfortunately catches GEORGE'S eye fixed uncom 
 fortably upon her.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. No, I won't 1 If you want to get rid of me, turn me 
 out. There's always workhouses and morgues for those that 
 nobody wants. 
 
 SCARA. (shrugging his shoulders as he goes to door and opens it). 
 In ten minutes, George ! 
 
 GEORGE. Ay, ay I 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE goes out, leaving GEORGE standing on hearthrug 
 trying vainly to avoid looking at MRS. LA B., who is still 
 sitting on sofa.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. I suppose you think yourself clever, standing there 
 and grinning while I'm being spoken to like that. 
 
 GEORGE. I'm very sorry . . . 
 
 MRS. LA B. No, you're not. You're glad to see me humbled in the 
 dust. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 211 
 
 GEORGE. Upon my honour . . . 
 
 MRS. LA B. I don't blame you. I should be delighted to see you 
 
 so. 
 
 GEORGE. But . . . really . . . 
 MRS. LA B. (getting sorry for herself). If my temper's so bad why 
 
 do they deliberately put me out by inviting you to meals ? 
 
 They know perfectly well I can't bear to see you eat. 
 GEORGE. I'm awfully sorry if I'm the cause. 
 MRS. LA B. Oh, you're not the cause. Don't flatter yourself. 
 
 It's my own beastly nature. I shouldn't have got so bad, 
 
 though, if everything hadn't been done to annoy me. 
 GEORGE. I ... 
 MRS. LA B. (amost tearful). My temper's ruined now ; I'll never get 
 
 on with the other inmates in the workhouse. It'll have to 
 
 be the morgue. But it's not me that . . . Damn it, I haven't 
 
 got a handkerchief. 
 
 (GEORGE steps forward and gives her his handkerchief which is 
 at her feet. He gives it to her nervously and sits L. of 
 table after looking at his watch.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. It isn't me that's upset Columbine, though. 
 GEORGE. No, no, no of course not. 
 MRS. LA B. No, it's that man Scott. 
 
 GEORGE. Scott ? HOW ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. How do you think ? He's a good-looking, well-set-up 
 
 young fellow ; and he's a sight nearer her own age. 
 GEORGE. I'm afraid I don't understand how that . . . 
 MRS. LA B. (angrily). Then you're a bigger fool . . . (modifying the 
 
 remark) Then you're a fool. He's got a moustache, too. 
 GEORGE. Why should that upset Columbine ? 
 MRS. LA B. Oh, you . . . When a girl looks out for a man and tries 
 
 to get a chance to speak to him alone and goes pale when he 
 
 looks at her what does it mean ? 
 
 GEORGE. Mean ? Why er but Columbine doesn't do that ? 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, she does. 
 GEORGE (incredulously). Looks out for Scott ? 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, I've watched her. He called yesterday, and that 
 
 child jumped when he was mentioned. She was longing to 
 
 be left alone with him. I saw that, and stuck in the room. He 
 
 just sat and gazed at her like a dying donkey. 
 GEORGE. Oh, quite possibly he's a bit atracted by her though I'm 
 
 told he's engaged to some girl here in the town. 
 MRS. LA B. What's that got to do with it ? 
 GEORGE. Nothing, I admit. Oh yes, quite possibly he's struck 
 
 with her. 
 
 MRS. LA B. And she with him. 
 GEORGE. Oh no, I don't think that. I can't. She's so happy with 
 
 the Great Man. I don't believe she could be happier. 
 
212 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 MRS. LA B. Very likely she couldn't. That's nothing to do with it. 
 When a woman is absolutely happy with one man she gener 
 ally begins to look about for another to make her miserable. 
 
 GEORGE. Oh, I don't think that. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Don't you ? I suppose I understand my own sex. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes, yes, I daresay. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (piling up her proofs). That poor child told him . . . 
 (pointing after SCARAMOUCHE) that it was my temper made 
 her look so miserable. You'll admit she looks miserable ? 
 
 GEORGE. Oh yes, I noticed it myself. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Do you think I'm the cause ? Do you think after 
 putting up with me for five years she's going to be made pale 
 and weepish by my beastliness now all in a couple of days ? 
 
 GEORGE. Oh no. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Oh no ! 
 
 GEORGE. Still, there might be some other cause beside being er 
 attracted by that man. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (scornfully). What other ? Eh ? What other ? 
 
 GEORGE. Well I can't say offhand. 
 
 MRS. LA B. No, you can't ! There's no other cause possible. 
 Nothing ever makes a woman really happy or really miserable 
 except some blackguard of a man. 
 
 GEORGE. Er er if you are right surely the Great Man can look 
 after her. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (with increased scorn). Surely he can't. He's made a 
 mess of it already trying to be kind and considerate to her and 
 she's had to tell him lies or feel like an ungrateful wretch. It's 
 his own fault. You can't tell a man unpleasant truths when 
 he behaves like an angel. He should have lost his temper and 
 boxed her ears for sniv'ling. Then she'd have lost her temper 
 and told him she cared for someone else. Then he'd have got 
 furiously jealous and kept her locked up for a fortnight, and by 
 that time she'd have got over it. A man can always get a 
 woman back if he's unreasonable enough and doesn't try to 
 understand her. 
 
 GEORGE. You're very bitter. 
 
 MRS. LA B. I am . . . about men. 
 
 (COLUMBINE returns quietly.) 
 
 There isn't a man to be trusted . . . 
 GEORGE (seeing COLUMBINE and trying to stop MRS. LA B.). Oh, quite 
 
 so. Yes, yes. Oh yes. 
 MRS. LA B. (angrily). Don't interrupt me with your " Yes, yes, 
 
 yes ! " Just because you're a man yourself . . . (Sees 
 
 COLUMBINE and stops abruptly.) Oh ! 
 GEORGE (looking at watch again). Well, I must be going. Oh ! 
 
 (Whispers to COLUMBINE) I'm coming back to dinner 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 213 
 
 Great Man's invitation. (Puts his finger on lips and indicates 
 MRS. LA B. with much caution before going softly out.) 
 
 (MRS. LA B. has been struggling with her bonnet ; she has it off 
 now and in her hand.) 
 
 COL. Shall I take your bonnet, Barley ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. (snappishly). It's all right . . . (checks herself) Thank 
 you, my dear. (Rises, puts bonnet on sideboard, looks at 
 COLUMBINE and says again with increased politeness) Thank 
 you. 
 
 (MRS. LA B. crosses back to sofa.) 
 
 COL. Baby's asleep again. She does sleep a lot. (Settles down to 
 
 her sewing.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. Good thing for her. (Sits on sofa.) Columbine ? 
 COL. Yes ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. Does my beastly temper really upset you so much ? 
 COL. Oh, has Scarry . . . ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. (grimly). Yes. He's spoken to me about it. Satisfied ? 
 COL. Oh no. I'm very sorry. I didn't mean him to speak to you 
 
 about it. I only said it because because I ... 
 MRS. LA B. Because you wanted to say something beside the truth, 
 
 eh ? 
 
 COL. Oh! 
 MRS. LA B. Oh yes. 
 COL. Oh, but you really have been a little awful once or twice, 
 
 Barley. 
 MRS. LA B. (still grimly). Well I'll try not to be so " awful " any 
 
 more. Does that please you ? 
 COL (getting^ up and coming to MRS. LA B.). No, I'm horrid. Please 
 
 go on just as you've always done. It's not you a bit. It's 
 
 something else. 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, I know. 
 COL. You know ? 
 MRS. LA B. And you couldn't tell the Great Man because he was so 
 
 kind. 
 
 COL. Oh 1 You really do know ? 
 MRS. LA B. Of course I do. 
 COL. I'm so miserable. (Sits beside MA.) 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, and you're likely to be if you go on as you're going 
 
 now. 
 
 COL. Oh, don't ! Tell me what to do. 
 MRS. LA B. I'm not going to tell you. If you're sensible you'll see 
 
 for yourself what to do. 
 COL. What ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. Give him up, of course. 
 COL. Give him up ! Barley, I can't ! 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, you can. You'll get over it. 
 
214 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 COL. It can't be so bad. I feel every time I look at him that he 
 
 simply couldn't do anything wrong. 
 MRS. LA B. My dear, if you feel that way about a man, you can 
 
 depend upon it he's a bad lot. Think for yourself. 
 COL. I've thought 'til I'm tired. Surely if I ... follow my 
 
 heart . . . 
 
 MRS. LA B. Don't do it ! I used to say that. Look at me now. 
 COL. You followed your heart ? 
 MRS. LA B. A dozen times at least. 
 COL. Barley ! 
 MRS. LA B. Oh, I know. You think you'd only do it this once. 
 
 But it's a habit that grows on one. Look at me. You don't 
 
 want to know what Hell is like. 
 
 COL. (jumping up in awful fear). No, no, I don't ... Oh ! 
 MRS. LA B. (surprised). Child, you are in a state. What is it ? 
 COL. I I please . . . Oh, how awful everything is ! (Head on 
 
 BARLEY'S shoulder.) 
 MRS. LA B. (almost tenderly). Deary ! (Rises.) Deary, you're 
 
 quite hysterical. What have I said ? 
 
 (A knock. Enter BOB.) 
 
 BOB. Please, 'm, Mister Scott's here again. 
 
 MRS. LA B. He tell him Miss Columbine's too ill to see anyone. 
 
 BOB (coming down sympathetically). Aren't you well, 'm ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. (angrily). Don't I tell you . . . 
 
 COL. No I've only got a headache. Please ask Mister Scott to 
 
 come in. 
 
 BOB. You'll find him rather trying company, 'm, if you are ill. 
 COL. No no, I'm not. 
 
 (Exit Bob.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. H'm. Well, / can't stop you. (Goes towards fire.) 
 COL. Please, Barley, I want to talk to Mister Scott. 
 MRS. LA B. After what I've said ? 
 COL. Partly because of it. He he's very kind. 
 MRS. LA B. (going to door). Yes, they all are. 
 
 (SCOTT knocks and enters. MRS. LA B. gives him a prolonged 
 glare as she passes out. He watches her uncomfortably, 
 holds the door open for her and shuts it. He then comes 
 down to COLUMBINE.) 
 
 SCOTT (shaking hands). How do you do quite well ? Ah, you're 
 
 looking pale ! 
 
 COL. Yes, I've got a headache. 
 SCOTT. You have been looking into yourself, and you are not 
 
 pleased with what you have seen there, I'm so thankful. 
 
 (Facing COLUMBINE, he sits on sofa and looks at her with obvious 
 
 kindness.) How are the children ? 
 COL. They're quite well. (Sits chair L. of table.) 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 215 
 
 SCOTT. Poor little mites I (Pauses and studies her.) I am so 
 
 glad to see that my words have had a good effect on you. 
 
 Perhaps you read the little book I brought ? 
 COL. (rummaging in work-basket and producing a paper-covered 
 
 tract). I've tried to. But I can't read very well, you know. 
 
 I found out how to spell hell though, and then I went 
 
 through the book, and every time I came to the word I shivered. 
 
 I didn't believe you the other night, you know. 
 SCOTT. No ? But you do now. 
 COL. I can't help it. I don't want to. 
 SCOTT. Nobody ever wants to believe the truth. 
 COL. Why not ? 
 SCOTT. Why not ! Why, because the truth is a very unpleasant 
 
 thing. It's only another proof of the truth of what I said that 
 
 it upsets you. But, you see, you had to believe it in time. 
 COL. (nods). Everything everyone's said since seems to prove it. 
 SCOTT (with joy). Ah, your conscience is awake, and you listen for 
 
 evidence now instead of trusting blindly to your own feelings ! 
 
 Once let your conscience be aroused no matter how long it 
 
 has slept and there is no quieting it. 
 COL. But they never used to talk about such things. 
 SCOTT. Oh yes, they did, but you didn't heed them. Conscience 
 
 is like a sunbeam that shows up all the dust and cobwebs in a 
 
 house. They were there before, but until the sunbeam came 
 
 ah no one noticed them ! 
 
 COL. Where's the use of a conscience if it only makes me unhappy ? 
 SCOTT. Ah, you admit you are unhappy ? 
 COL. Yes. 
 
 SCOTT. Then there's the use ! 
 COL. Really I 
 
 SCOTT. Yes. Don't you want to be happy and at rest again ? 
 COL. Oh yes ! 
 SCOTT. There I Your conscience prompts you to turn aside from 
 
 your present life and leave all this (indicates ceiling) behind 
 
 you. 
 
 COL. You mean leave Scarry ! 
 
 SCOTT. Doesn't your conscience prompt you to do that ? 
 COL. Oh no. I'd never be happy without Scarry. 
 SCOTT. Not so happy, perhaps, but your conscience would be at 
 
 rest. You'll never be happy with him now. 
 COL. (thoughtfully). Barley has been telling me the same thing. 
 SCOTT. The er old lady ? 
 COL. Yes. Oh but I can't leave Scarry ! It would be awful. 
 
 And May and Tommy ? 
 SCOTT. Leave all your sins behind you. 
 COL. But it would be cruel to leave them. 
 SCOTT. They are the children of your sin, and they must bear their 
 
 share of the punishment of it. 
 
216 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 COL. (resentfully). What do you mean ? It's not their fault. 
 
 SCOTT. No it isn't. But, if it comes to that, it's not your fault. 
 I don't look upon you as wilfully sinful. But fault is not what 
 counts. It's what one does. 
 
 COL. But they haven't done anything. 
 
 SCOTT (finally). They were born under sinful circumstances. 
 
 COL. Oh, how awful the world is. I wonder anyone bothers to 
 live. 
 
 SCOTT. Now, you're talking wickedly and foolishly. We live because 
 it is our duty, and it is wrong to die if one can help it. 
 
 COL. (with rising anger). Oh ! 
 
 SCOTT. Please don't look upon me as an enemy because I tell you 
 all this. I'm your friend the only true friend you have 
 ever had, my poor girl. I understand just how you have been 
 placed. Lots of girls would have done the same if they hadn't 
 known any better. It's that man Sea 
 
 COL. No, Scarry is not to blame. I don't understand but I know 
 he's not to blame. I think it's the awful ideas themselves that 
 are. 
 
 SCOTT. Well, well perhaps you are right. I'm broad-minded 
 enough to see that with a pretty girl like you things were 
 bound to happen as they did. Especially with a man always 
 travelling about as he is. People as ignorant as you were before 
 I opened your eyes are a temptation of the Devil. Surely if 
 you want him to be happy there's another reason to leave 
 him. 
 
 COL. Do you mean to say I've made him wicked ? 
 
 SCOTT. Well, you gave him the chance . . . 
 
 COL. And the children ? 
 
 SCOTT. Well, there you are responsible . . . 
 
 COL. (blazing out). I don't believe you. Things couldn't be so 
 awful. I know I've been ignorant, but I'm not wicked. I'm 
 not ! You've told me lies to make me miserable. Scarry 
 wouldn't do anything . . . 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, my dear girl . . . 
 
 COL. You're a liar ! (Stops suddenly.) 
 
 (There is a pause.) 
 
 SCOTT (rising meekly). I'm not offended. I'm sorry to see that . . . 
 
 COL. (still furiously angry). Go away ! 
 
 SCOTT (repeats calmly). I am sorry to see that your fascination for 
 
 that man . . . 
 COL. (breaking down and burying her face in her arms). Oh, please go 
 
 away! 
 SCOTT (regaining courage). No, I will not go away ! Not till I 
 
 have told you what you are doing. I would be failing in my 
 
 duty if I did not warn you of where you are drifting to. 
 
 You don't know. You harden your heart, and close your 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 217 
 
 eyes to the truth \ And you think that you will go on as you 
 have been going on for the rest of your shameful life. But 
 you won't 1 ! No ! You don't think you'll hold that man's 
 affections for ever, do you ? Because you won't. He'll tire 
 of you as men always tire of women they aren't properly 
 married to. His conscience will prick him, and he'll blame 
 you, and rightly, for your share in his sin. And your children ! 
 They'll be no happiness to you when they come to know what 
 a curse you've been to them. For that's what you will be a 
 curse ! Because you wouldn't listen to my words. (Takes 
 hat and goes out in righteous indignation.) 
 
 (COLUMBINE starts up after a moment, saying, " I shan't 
 it's not true / " but she subsides again weakly. Time 
 enough passes for SCOTT to have got clear of the house, 
 then she lifts her head again and listens.) 
 
 (ANNIE'S voice is heard far off but coming quickly nearer. 
 It is joined by a murmur of other voices as she reaches 
 the stairs. She is evidently beside herself with horror and 
 is saying, "Oh, ma'am oh, ma'am," over and over 
 again.) 
 
 (COLUMBINE gets to her feet just as ANNIE bursts into the room, 
 tear-stained and out of breath with running and sobbing.) 
 
 ANNIE. Oh, ma'am, they're killed they're killed oh, dear ! . . . 
 COL. (terrified by the girl's manner). Tommy and May ? 
 ANNIE. Yes'm. At least no, not May . . . 
 COL. But Tommy 1 Tommy ? Killed ? 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE comes in quickly amd puts ANNIE aside.) 
 
 SCARA. What are you talking about, Anne ? You're frightening 
 her to death 1 (Takes COLUMBINE in his arms and makes her 
 sit down again.) There, there it's nothing serious, dear. 
 
 COL. But Tommy . . . ? 
 
 SCARA. Scarcely hurt. He's been knocked down by a bike . . . 
 
 COL. Oh, he's dead. 
 
 SCARA. No, he's not he's howling like a good fellow. 
 
 (COLUMBINE gives a hysterical laugh.) 
 Gently, gently. (To ANNIE) Clear out. 
 
 (ANNIE goes off weeping.) 
 
 COL. But he's hurt. 
 
 SCARA. He's got a fine lump on his head. There, there he's had 
 
 a dozen worse in his little life. There, there of course you're 
 
 upset . . . 
 COL. You're trying to break it to me . . . 
 
2i8 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCARA. No, I'm not. You'll be able to see for yourself in a minute. 
 George is bringing the little fellow along. I rushed ahead in 
 case . . . 
 
 (Voices outside.) 
 
 There they are now. (Goes up to door and opens it.) Take 
 him straight into the bedroom. 
 
 (Goes off, leaving COLUMBINE alone for a moment. She sits 
 looking straight ahead of her. He returns through folding 
 doors from bedroom where all the others can be seen sym 
 pathising with the unseen TOMMY.) 
 
 SCARA. Come and look at him for yourself. He's asking for 
 you . . . 
 
 (Returns into bedroom, leaving doors almost closed. COLUM 
 BINE rises unsteadily.) 
 
 COL. No I won't go near him 1 I won't go near him ! It's me, 
 me, me ! (Faints.) 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE 
 
 THE SAME 
 
 Early evening of the same day. The lamp is burning on 
 table. SCARAMOUCHE is discovered in shirt sleeves 
 making toast before the fire. There is a knock and 
 GEORGE enters very softly. SCARAMOUCHE nods to him 
 warmly and goes on with the toast. 
 
 GEORGE. Toast again ? 
 
 SCARA. Yes, the young gentleman thought he could manage 
 
 another slice. I'm to butter it quite hot ; remind me, will 
 
 you ? 
 GEORGE (perfectly seriously). I'll try to. I just peeped in on my 
 
 way to the show. Is she any better ? 
 SCARA. Goodness knows. She's still locked in Ma's room. 
 GEORGE. Hasn't she had any tea ? 
 SCARA. No. 
 
 GEORGE. Good gracious ! Then she's had nothing since breakfast. 
 SCARA. Ma's taken her some food, but she won't touch it. She 
 
 lets Ma in, but she won't let me come near her. (Stands back 
 
 from fire, holding toast dejectedly in front of him.) 
 GEORGE. You're to butter that hot. 
 
 SCARA. (hastening to obey). By Jove 1 yes 1 Thank you, George. 
 GEORGE. Tommy still doing well ? 
 SCARA. Famously. Eaten six hearty meals since dinner. 
 GEORGE (with a slight laugh). Good egg. 
 SCARA. It's queer ; he doesn't seem to notice that she hasn't been 
 
 near him. 
 
 GEORGE. She hasn't yet ? 
 SCARA. I told you. 
 GEORGE. Yes, yes. 
 
 (MRS. LA BOLARO enters. They both look to her for information.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. It's no good. She won't touch a thing. I can't get 
 her to. Oh ! (Sits wearily, but with a touch of temper, in chair 
 L. of table.) 
 
 SCARA. Don't take the hard chair, Ma. 
 
 MRS. LA B. I'm set now. Oh 1 I suppose you won't say this is 
 
 my temper. 
 
 219 
 
220 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCARA. I wish I knew what it was. What's she doing ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. She's been writing all the afternoon or trying to. 
 
 Her hands are covered with ink. 
 SCARA. Poor little lady. I'd give a good deal to ... (Shrugs his 
 
 shoulders hopelessly and goes into bedroom carrying the toast.) 
 GEORGE (after a pause). So would I. 
 MRS. LA B. What ? 
 GEORGE. I was saying I'd give a good deal to know what's bothering 
 
 her. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Would you ? Ugh ! What's it got to do with you ? 
 GEORGE. Well, I'm fond of her in a way. 
 MRS. LA B. In a way, yes ! The kind of way that makes you 
 
 curious about everything she does. That's a man's way. 
 GEORGE. Er don't you want to know what's troubling her ? 
 MRS. LA B. I do know 1 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE returns from the bedroom.) 
 
 SCARA. The young gentleman fancies that a dose of ginger beer 
 
 would do him good. I don't think he ought to have it, though, 
 
 do you ? 
 MRS. LA B. No ! 
 SCARA. No. Of course not. I I wish Columbine would come 
 
 and tell him, then. I hate refusing him anything while he's 
 
 got that bandage on his head. 
 MRS. LA B. Huh ! Suppose you were landed with all three of 
 
 them on your hands for good. I should like to see what 
 
 you'd do then. 
 
 SCARA. (very sharply). Don't talk nonsense. 
 MRS. LA B. You haven't the strength of mind to refuse them 
 
 anything. 
 SCARA. (with great determination). I'll go and tell him I think he's 
 
 had enough. 
 
 (Goes back into bedroom.) 
 
 GEORGE (after watching him off). Did you say you thought you 
 knew ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. I did. 
 
 GEORGE. But / don't want to know but can't you do anything ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. It's all done. She saw that man Scott again this 
 morning. 
 
 GEORGE (disappointed to find that she is still on the Scott tack.) Oh ! 
 Scott. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Yes, and she's been locked up in my room ever since, 
 crying her eyes out. 
 
 GEORGE (impatiently). I know. But why ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. Well, I suppose she did what was right and said good 
 bye to him. It was bound to upset her. She don't shake 
 your head at me. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 221 
 
 GEORGE. I can't believe you're right. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Don't, then ! But she'll be better when she gets out 
 of this town, you'll see. 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE re-enters very shamefacedly, goes to sideboard, 
 and takes therefrom a bottle of ginger beer, with which 
 he returns to bedroom. MRS. LA B. watches him scorn 
 fully, GEORGE sympathetically.) 
 
 GEORGE. He's very upset. If you're so certain, don't you think 
 
 you might drop him a hint that things will be better in a few 
 
 days ? 
 MRS. LA B. Idiot ! How on earth can I tell him that much without 
 
 telling him a lot more. Columbine 11 tell him herself in 
 
 time. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes if it's true. 
 MRS. LA B. (mocking him angrily). " If it's true 1 " Why, what 
 
 do you think she's getting herself all inky for now ? 
 GEORGE (with interest). I've no idea. 
 MRS. LA B. No, of course you haven't. Trying to write to the 
 
 Great Man, confessing because she's not got the courage 
 
 to tell him to his face. Girls are fools. 
 
 (GEORGE abstractedly turns over the things in COLUMBINE'S 
 work-basket, which has been moved to sofa.) 
 
 So are men. Look at the Great Man with Tommy. 
 GEORGE (bringing the tract to light). Good Lord ! 
 MRS. LA B. (craning round). What's the matter ? 
 GEORGE (keeping his back to her and glancing through tract). Oh, 
 
 nothing. 
 
 MRS. LA B. You make fuss enough . . . 
 GEORGE. No, no. What were you saying about Tommy ? 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE returns, MRS. LA B. addressing her remarks 
 to him.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. I was saying he was spoilt. That's what I was saying. 
 
 Spoilt ! What does he demand now ? 
 SCARA. He was asking if you would go and sit with him while I 
 
 have my tea. 
 MRS. LA B. Me ! (Rises and hurries into bedroom.) Bless 'is little 
 
 'eart ! 
 SCARA. (ringing bell, and then putting coat on). I hardly know 
 
 whether I'm on my head or my heels. Phew ! (Sits in large 
 
 chair by fire, and lights pipe.) Don't know when there's been 
 
 such an upset in our little family. 
 
 ((Enter BOB.) 
 > 
 BOB. You'll have your tea now, sir ? 
 
222 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCARA. Please. Have some with me, George ? 
 
 (BOB pauses politely for GEORGE'S reply.) 
 
 GEORGE. No, thanks. 
 
 (Exit BOB.) 
 
 I had some earlier, with Maysie and Ma, before the little one 
 
 was put to bed. 
 
 SCARA. Oho I On Ma's invitation ? 
 GEORGE. Well Bob had laid a place for me, and Ma said she'd 
 
 rather have me eating than looking on ; she was more used 
 
 to my eating. 
 SCARA. (laughing). Ma's behaved very decently. She looked after 
 
 May without a murmur. And, thank goodness, she took 
 
 baby in to Columbine 1 I don't know what I should have 
 
 done. 
 
 (BOB returns with tray and tea for two. Not the tea of Act I. 
 Some sandwiches and a pair of radishes, besides tea, 
 milk, and sugar.) 
 
 (Rises and goes to double doors.) Well, I think I'll have a 
 wash. (Hesitates.) No, I'll wash in Tommy's own room. 
 (Goes to other door.) Hope I don't wake Maysie. (Returns to 
 bedroom door, but hesitates again.) But if Tommy sees me 
 washing he'll want his hands washed. I never saw him so 
 aggressively cleanly. (Goes out at single door.) 
 
 BOB. Shall I pour out tea for Mister Scaramouche, sir ? 
 
 GEORGE (who has taken tract from his pocket and is now skimming 
 through it.) Eh ? Yes. He'll be back in a moment. (Takes 
 another look at the tract.) Er Bob ! 
 
 BOB (pouring out two cups of tea). Yessir ? 
 
 GEORGE. What sort of a gentleman is this Mister Scott ? 
 
 BOB. Mister Scott, sir ? Well, what sort of a gentleman would 
 you think, sir ? 
 
 GEORGE. I don't know anything about him. How does he strike 
 you ? 
 
 BOB. Oh, / don't like him, sir. But then, he's a chapel-goer 
 and I'm a free-thinker. We haven't got nothing in common. 
 
 GEORGE. No. Er is this (shows tract) anything in his line ? 
 
 BOB (taking tract). Just about, sir. There's one down in the bar 
 now as he gave to Annie. It's called " Eternity : What does 
 it mean to you ? " Has he been trying to convert you, sir ? 
 
 GEORGE. Er no no. 
 
 BOB (genially). Good job for him! He'd have his hands full, 
 wouldn't he, sir ? (going out.) 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE returns, and BOB, after encouraging the sand 
 wiches to look appetising, exits.) 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 223 
 
 SCARA. I tried her door again. She wouldn't answer me. What 
 
 in heaven or earth is the matter with her ? 
 GEORGE. Is she uncomfortable in her mind ? 
 SCARA. (irritably). You yourself said you were convinced she was 
 
 not. Didn't you tell me a whole rigmarole ? . . . 
 GEORGE. Yes, yes. 
 SCARA. (sitting at table and grumbling}. Well, then hullo ! Bob's 
 
 brought up two teas. One's for you, George. 
 GEORGE. I er said . . . 
 SCARA. Yes, but here it is, poured out and all you can't hurt 
 
 Bob's feelings. (Hands GEORGE cup and a sandwich.) 
 GEORGE. I really do feel . . . 
 SCARA. Tut, tut, tut I I'm uncommonly glad of your company. 
 
 / certainly don't want to be left alone to think. How goes 
 
 the time ? (Looks at watch.) We shall have to be starting 
 
 in a moment. 
 
 GEORGE (producing the tract). Did you ever see that before ? 
 SCARA. (without interest). No, not that I know of. 
 GEORGE. I found it in Columbine's work-basket. 
 SCARA. Oh ? 
 
 GEORGE. Have you any idea where she got it ? 
 SCARA. Probably picked it up in some rooms. 
 GEORGE. Don't you think that this sort of reading might not have 
 
 the best possible effect upon a simple young lady like Columbine ? 
 SCARA. // she read it. She can hardly read, though, remember. 
 GEORGE. No I'd forgotten that. (Pauses nonplussed.) 
 
 (MRS. LA B. returns from bedroom and rings bell with great 
 decision. SCARAMOUCHE looks at her inquiringly.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. You're a nice one to have charge of an invalid, I don't 
 
 think ! 
 
 SCARA. Why, what have I done ? 
 MRS. LA B. Giving him ginger beer and toast and oranges and all 
 
 such rubbish. What he wants is a glass of milk. He says 
 
 so himself. A nice healthy glass of milk. 
 
 (Enter BOB.) 
 
 BOB (to SCARAMOUCHE). You rang, sir ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. / did. (Goes to sideboard.) Will you please bring me 
 up a glass of milk for Master Tommy ? 
 
 BOB. Cold milk, 'm. Yes'm. (Starts to go.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. (stopping him). And if you have a few gingerbread 
 nuts in the house . . . 
 
 BOB. Yes'm. 
 
 MRS. LA B. Bring them up, too. He rather fancies a few ginger 
 bread nuts. 
 
 (BOB goes out. MRS. LA B. returns to bedroom indignantly 
 deaf to a chuckle from the two men.) 
 
224 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCARA. Ma's coming out strong. I wish she wouldn't look so 
 infernally knowing about Columbine, though. 
 (There is a timid tap at the door.} 
 Come in. 
 
 (ANNIE enters right down c., L. O/SCARRY.) 
 
 ANNIE (very nervously). Oh, please, sir ... 
 
 SCARA. Well ? 
 
 ANNIE. Please, sir, it's that is am I to if Miss Columbine 
 should ask me to deliver a letter for her please, sir ... 
 
 SCARA. Yes ? 
 
 ANNIE. What am I to do, sir ? 
 
 SCARA. Why, deliver it, of course. 
 
 ANNIE. Whoever it may be to ? 
 
 SCARA. Certainly. 
 
 ANNIE. I thought you might like . . . 
 
 SCARA. You know perfectly well that Miss Columbine's orders are 
 to be obeyed without consulting me. 
 
 ANNIE. Yes, sir, but seeing the state of mind she's in ... 
 
 SCARA. Seeing that you nearly frightened her out of her wits, yes ? 
 
 ANNIE. Oh, sir 1 (Melts into tears.) 
 
 SCARA. (irritably, pushes chair back). Oh/ for goodness* sake, 
 don't you begin. (Goes to fire.) I I'm sorry. I'm a little 
 short-tempered to-day. Of course you couldn't have done 
 anything else but lose your head. There, there. Take these 
 things away. (Retreats into bedroom and closes door.) 
 
 (ANNIE mops her eyes and begins to collect tea-things on to tray.) 
 
 GEORGE (suddenly). Annie 1 
 
 ANNIE. Yes, sir ? 
 
 GEORGE. Why did you ask Mister Scaramouche that about a 
 
 letter ? 
 
 ANNIE. I sir I didn't know what to do. 
 GEORGE. She's given you one to deliver. 
 ANNIE. She told me not to mention it to anyone, sir. 
 GEORGE. Quite right then, don't. (Rises.) Deliver it by hand, eh ? 
 ANNIE. Yes, sir. 
 GEORGE. Yes, yes. 
 
 (Watches ANNIE thoughtfully until she goes out, much dis 
 comfited by his steady gaze. He then goes up and knocks 
 at double doors, looking at his watch.) 
 
 I say, unless you want to be away for your own benefit, you'd 
 better come along. 
 
 SCARA. (off). He's eating ! He's eating ! I don't think he'll do 
 so badly now. (Appears in doorway.) Come in and say 
 good-night to him. I'll get my coat. 
 
 (GEORGE goes into bedroom. SCARAMOUCHE crosses and takes 
 his hat and coat from chair by window, where they have 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 225 
 
 been lying since Act II. His back is to the door, but he 
 turns on hearing it open as COLUMBINE comes quietly in. 
 She starts on seeing SCARAMOUCHE.) 
 
 COLUMBINE. I thought you'd gone. 
 
 SCARA. Columbine ! Weren't you coming out till I had ? 
 
 COL. Oh, please don't be nasty to me. 
 
 SCARA. My dear, I don't think you've been over-nice to me. (Holds 
 
 out his hands to her.) Come here. 
 COL. (drawing back). I ... 
 SCARA. (astonished and very hurt). Columbine ! 
 COL. (inaudibly). I'm very bad for you. 
 SCARA. (trying to catch her words). What ? 
 
 (COLUMBINE shakes her head.) 
 
 I didn't hear what you said, dear. 
 
 COL. (still inaudibly). It it's not your fault. 
 
 SCARA. I don't understand you. (Moves round above L. of sofa, 
 leaving coat and hat on it.) Come and sit down and try to 
 tell me. 
 
 COL. No. I mustn't. 
 
 SCARA. Mustn't talk to me ? Why not ? 
 
 COL. I I I'm a curse to you. 
 
 SCARA. Oh, my dear ! 
 
 COL. Yes, I am. 
 
 SCARA. (trying to speak jestingly). And what have you done that 
 has transformed you into a curse ? 
 
 COL. I I haven't done anything. It's just happened to me 
 through my ignorance. 
 
 SCARA. (very much impressed and surprised and puzzled by her words 
 and manner). God bless my soul, Columbine, I believe you're 
 wandering ! (Goes to her.) No, no, don't draw away from me. 
 (Takes her chair L. of table and makes her sit down. He sits 
 against table holding her hands and watching her closely.) 
 Now, tell me why you think you're a curse to me ? 
 
 COL. I can't. 
 
 SCARA. You know, Columbine, I don't like superstitious nonsense. 
 
 COL. It's true. 
 
 SCARA. Don't be silly 1 What have you done that you develop 
 into a sort of Jonah ? 
 
 COL. (dogmatically). It's not what we do. 
 
 SCARA. Now, Columbine, listen to me. You're run down, I can 
 see that ; but you'll never pull round if you give way to these 
 unhealthy ideas. Pull yourself together. (She turns away her 
 head.) Won't anything cheer you up ? Columbine . . . 
 
 COL. (without looking up). Yes. 
 
 SCARA. What do you say when these towns are done to giving 
 up touring and settling down in a nice little house near 
 
 15 
 
226 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 London, with a big garden for the babies to play in, and 
 
 where you could grow flowers and . . . 
 COL. (breaking down again). Don't ! You're so kind to me, and 
 
 it's no good. I should be a curse always. 
 SCARA. (with a touch of annoyance). My dear Columbine . . . 
 
 (GEORGE comes out of bedroom.) 
 
 GEORGE. Coming along ? (Sees COLUMBINE.) Hullo ! (Looks 
 
 inquiringly at SCARAMOUCHE.) 
 SCARA. Result of my attempts at consolation. Come along, George. 
 
 Good-night, my dear. 
 COL. (listlessly, without looking up}. Good-night. 
 
 (The door shuts behind them. She starts up with a sudden 
 exclamation and stands thinking for a moment. Then 
 she goes to the door, opens it, and calls very tenderly, 
 " Good-bye, dear." She listens for an answer, but there 
 is none. She goes out on to landing and calls again, more 
 loudly, more hopelessly, " S carry, good-bye," but SCARA 
 MOUCHE is out of the house, and she comes back sadly 
 into room and, going to the fire, sits wearily in the large 
 arm-chair. ANNIE enters.) 
 
 ANNIE. Did you call, ma'am ? 
 
 COL. Call ? No. 
 
 ANNIE. I thought I heard you, 'm. 
 
 COL. (understanding). Oh ! No, I didn't call you. 
 
 ANNIE. Mister Scott got the note, mum. 
 
 COL. Did he say anything ? 
 
 ANNIE. He said he'd be here as soon after half -past seven as ever 
 
 he could manage. 
 COL. Thank you, Annie. 
 
 (ANNIE goes out.) 
 
 (MRS. LA B. returns, closing door cautiously behind her. She 
 starts on seeing COLUMBINE.) 
 
 MRS. LA B. Hullo ! You've come out, then. How d'you feel ? 
 
 COL. I'm not ill, thank you, Barley. Is Tommy . . . 
 
 MRS. LA B. He's all right. Sound asleep. 
 
 COL. Asleep ? 
 
 MRS. LA B. Yes. (Crosses up.) Come and look at him. 
 
 COL. Oh no 1 
 
 MRS. LA B. Why on earth not ? 
 
 COL. I might wake him. (Pauses in thought.) Oh ! (Starts to her 
 
 feet.) But if I don't see him now . . . 
 MRS. LA B. Eh ? 
 
 COL. Nothing. You're sure he's asleep ? 
 MRS. LA B. Rather. 
 
 COL. (making a move). Then I'll presently. (Sits weakly.) 
 MRS. LA B. You're not going to the show, I suppose ? 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 227 
 
 COL. No. Please don't sit up if you want to go to bed. 
 
 MRS. LA B. It won't hurt me to sit up for once. (Coming down a 
 
 little). Ill stay with you for a bit. 
 COL. (anxiously). Oh, please there's really no need. I laid baby 
 
 down in Tommy's room, next to May ; so I shan't have to 
 
 disturb you for anything. You know you always like to get 
 
 to bed early. 
 
 MRS. LA B. (crosses L. of Columbine). You're sure you'll be all right ? 
 COL. Quite sure. Good-night, Barley. 
 MRS. LA B. Good-night, my dear. 
 
 (Kisses COLUMBINE.) 
 
 COL. You you've been so good to me. 
 MRS. LA B. Eh ? Me ? Rats ! 
 
 (She goes out.) 
 
 (COLUMBINE rises and goes up to bedroom doors and opens 
 them cautiously. The light within is very dim. She 
 goes towards the unseen TOMMY with a sob, leaving the 
 doors half open. She is out of sight for a second, then 
 BOB shows in SCOTT.) 
 
 BOB. I don't think Miss Columbine will see you, sir. She's not 
 
 been well all day. Not since you called last, sir. 
 SCOTT (wisely). I know. Poor young lady. 
 BOB (obstinately). I don't think she'll see you, sir. 
 SCOTT. Oh yes, she will. Go and tell her I am here. 
 (BOB exits.) 
 
 (SCOTT produces an inky note and looks at it pleasantly.) 
 (COLUMBINE very quietly comes back from bedroom and closes 
 door after her. She starts on seeing SCOTT, and is unable 
 for a moment to attract his attention or speak to him.) 
 
 COL. (speaking at last). Mister Scott. 
 
 (SCOTT turns and sees her. His attitude, as he shakes hands, 
 is reproachful but forgiving.) 
 
 SCOTT. I am here. 
 
 COL. It's very good of you. You were right about everything. 
 
 Tommy has been run over . . . 
 SCOTT. I heard. I ... 
 COL. (in very genuine terror). Oh, I'm frightened ! I'm frightened ! 
 
 It's awful I I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do 
 
 and I'll do it. I must leave them, I know. 
 SCOTT. I am so thankful. 
 
 COL. Yes I must. I must leave them at once. I will. 
 SCOTT (inquiringly). Where do you intend to go to ? 
 COL. I don't care. Anywhere ! I wanted you to tell me. 
 SCOTT. Oh ! 
 COL. I must go. It's for their good, isn't it ? 
 
228 THE MARRIAGE OF COLMBINE 
 
 SCOTT. And your own too. Oh yes. Have you any relations ? 
 
 COL. No. 
 
 SCOTT. No, you wouldn't have. Upon my word to think of 
 
 your sending for me. It shows how you trust me. (Thinks.) 
 
 You couldn't go into service ? 
 
 COL. (not understanding). Service ? (Sits above table.) 
 SCOTT (hastily). No, no, you couldn't. 
 
 (Takes her hand and pats it.) 
 
 I'll think of something. You're no hand at writing. (Looking 
 at note.) 
 
 COL. No. 
 
 SCOTT. No, or I could have given you a job on the Argus. Then 
 you'd have been where I could look after you. You'd like 
 that ? Poor little girl ! What you want (half to himself) 
 is some sort of place where you'd have chances. Somewhere 
 where you might meet some honest, respectable man, who'd 
 have the nobleness to marry you in spite of the past. 
 
 COL. No, I don't think I want that. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, my dear girl, it would be the saving of you. It would 
 give you a fresh footing in society and a good . . . (Suddenly) 
 Wha what would you say . . . 
 
 (Pauses, looking at her closely.) 
 COL. What? 
 SCOTT. If I was to say I'd marry you myself ? What would you 
 
 say ? 
 
 COL. (in amazement). You ! 
 SCOTT. Yes, me ! I don't mind ! You've sent for me to help 
 
 you, and I will. I'll make an honest woman of you, and 
 
 give you a good home, and protect you, and (with glowing 
 
 chivalry) I'll never so much as refer by one harsh word to 
 
 what you have been. 
 COL. But I ... 
 SCOTT. I don't mind what it means to me It'd be something 
 
 worth doing to give you a helping hand, and feel that I'd 
 
 saved you from a life of sin to be the respectable mistress of a 
 
 fixed home. 
 
 COL. But I couldn't marry you. I don't love you. 
 SCOTT. I wasn't suggesting marrying for anything like love. 
 
 (He is quite proud of his high-mindedness.) And, after all, 
 
 love would come in time. Respect and gratitude would be 
 
 bound to turn to love at last. 
 COL. I don't think so. And you can't marry anyone you don't 
 
 love. 
 SCOTT. Oh yes. Hundreds of wives don't love their husbands, 
 
 but they're quite happy so long as they respect them. And 
 
 you do respect me. 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 229 
 
 COL. Scarry used to tell me that to marry anyone you didn't 
 
 love was awful. He said marriage and love ought to be the 
 
 same thing. 
 SCOTT. Ah, he would. To poison your mind. They're not the 
 
 same thing a bit. 
 COL. Not the same thing a bit ? 
 SCOTT. No. Ask anyone. You'd be quite safe with me. You'd 
 
 be a respectable married woman. All your past would be 
 
 blotted out. 
 
 COL. Would it really make all that difference ? 
 SCOTT. Of course it would. Why else should I try to persuade 
 
 you ? 
 COL. It's very good of you. (Hesitates.) I must leave them. 
 
 (Hesitates again.) You really mean it's not the same thing a 
 
 bit ? 
 
 SCOTT. Then you will ? 
 COL. There's no other way. 
 SCOTT (sincerely). You'll never regret it. It's the only thing for 
 
 you to do. You want to leave here at once, of course. 
 COL. Oh yes. That's the most important thing of all. 
 SCOTT. I wonder how long a licence takes. (Goes to door, opens it 
 
 and calls) Robert. 
 COL. Oh, don't tell Bob. 
 SCOTT. I just want to look up ... 
 
 (BOB appears in door.) 
 BOB. Yessir ? 
 
 SCOTT. Have you got a Whitaker's Almanack in the house? 
 BOB. Yessir. 
 
 SCOTT. Bring it up, please. 
 
 BOB. You don't mean a Bradshaw, I suppose, sir ? 
 SCOTT. No. Whitaker's Almanack. 
 
 (BOB disappears.) 
 (He closes door and comes back to COLUMBINE. Crosses R. of 
 
 COLUMBINE.) 
 
 You needn't be afraid that / shall 
 
 COL. (suddenly). Oh ! Haven't you promised to marry that girl 
 
 Miss Poole who 
 
 SCOTT (confused). Yes. Not definitely. It was understood that 
 
 we might. 
 COL. But if you don't marry her, won't that be very awful for 
 
 her? 
 SCOTT. She'll be disappointed. But she's all right there'll be 
 
 plenty .... 
 
 COL. But won't it make her sinful ? 
 SCOTT (puzzled). What do you mean ? 
 COL. I don't quite understand about marrying. It's such a 
 
 muddling thing. 
 
230 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT (intensely shocked). There never was anything but a promise 
 between Miss Poole and me. 
 
 (BOB enters with two books.) 
 
 BOB. I brought Bradshaw too, sir, on the chance. There's no 
 trains in Whitaker, sir. Nobody never calls for Whitaker, sir. 
 
 (Nevertheless SCOTT picks up " Whitaker " and begins to look 
 up his subject.) 
 
 (BOB looks at COLUMBINE.) 
 
 You're looking very poorly, 'm. I suppose it did give you a 
 turn. 
 
 (They both look at him in surprise. COLUMBINE understands 
 first.) 
 
 COL. Yes, yes. 
 
 BOB (seeing he is not wanted). Sorry, 'm. 
 
 (Exits.) 
 
 SCOTT (reading from Whitaker). " Marriage by banns." (Skims down 
 paragraph.) " Marriage by banns to ensure publicity ..." 
 
 COL. (interrupting with more decision than she has yet shown). Scarry 
 wouldn't like that. 
 
 SCOTT (severely). My dear girl, please don't start talking about 
 what Mister Scaramouche would like. We shan't be married 
 by banns, anyway. By registrar. (Consulting book.) Ah, 
 I thought so. A licence takes a whole day to get. 
 
 COL. Why ? 
 
 SCOTT. To prevent too much haste. " Marry in haste and repent 
 at leisure," you know. The day after to-morrow's Sunday : 
 what a nuisance. That makes two days to wait. I shall 
 have to take you to some rooms I know of. 
 
 COL. I must leave here to-night. You'll take me away to-night. 
 
 SCOTT (with great circumspection). Perhaps I'd better not take you 
 there myself. It might not look the thing. (Crosses L. of 
 COLUMBINE.) I'll go round and arrange with Missis Jollings 
 and get her to call for you in a cab. (R. of table.) 
 
 COL. At once ? 
 
 SCOTT. Very soon. 
 
 COL. Suppose Scarry should follow me ? 
 
 SCOTT. My dear girl, he wouldn't dare. 
 
 COL. Wouldn't dare ? 
 
 SCOTT. He'd know he had no right once we were married. You'd 
 better keep indoors for the next two days. Missis Jollings 
 will look after you. I shan't see you again until I call on 
 Monday with the licence. It wouldn't be the thing. You see 
 how careful I am of you in every respect. 
 
 COL. (thinking of SCARAMOUCHE). Hell be very unhappy, and he 
 won't understand. Oh, what will he think ? 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 231 
 
 SCOTT. Most likely he'll think you were in love with me. 
 
 COL. Oh, that would be awful I I couldn't bear to have him think 
 
 that : it would upset him worse than anything. I ... (with 
 
 resignation) I shall have to write another letter to him 
 
 explaining. Oh, dear. (Sighs deeply.) 
 SCOTT. Yes, leave a note for him. It seems the proper thing to do. 
 
 You can write it before Missis Jollings gets back here in a cab. 
 
 Er . . . (Goes towards door comes back c.) Er don't mention 
 
 anything about me. He might find out where I lived. 
 COL. I'll just explain. 
 SCOTT. That's right. Missis Jollings will be here in half an hour, 
 
 and I'll call at her place first thing on Monday with the licence 
 
 and everything correct. 
 
 COL. You're very kind. It will put everything right, won't it ? 
 SCOTT. Everything. 
 
 (Takes her hand in farewell.) 
 
 When I look at you I'm glad really glad of what I've done. 
 I can see myself in the future, when you're my wife, looked 
 up to and respected by everyone, and no one able to say one 
 word against you I can see myself looking at you, and feeling 
 proud and happy to think of what I saved you from. Good 
 night. 
 
 (Goes out, overpowered by his own eloquence.) 
 
 (COLUMBINE wearily fetches pen, ink, and paper from bureau 
 to table and sits in chair L. She carefully writes two words, 
 looks at them thoughtfully, corrects them, touches them up, 
 and with a careworn " Oh, dear I " starts her letter.) 
 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
ACT IV 
 
 SCENE 
 MRS. JOLLINGS'S GROUND FLOOR FRONT 
 
 A tasteless brightly - papered sitting - room with a door 
 L., a window c. at back, and a fireplace R. There is 
 a very large table dead centre covered with a hideous 
 tablecloth. A large number of plush-seated chairs are 
 around table and against every available foot of wall. 
 A small table with an undecided fern upon it is 
 in the exact centre of the window. A cheap whatnot 
 covered with breakables is in corner above door, 
 and between it and door is COLUMBINE'S dress-basket. 
 There is an uneasy plush chair above fire. The chief 
 characteristic of the room is the size of the table. It is 
 a quarter to nine on Monday morning, and MRS. JOLLINGS 
 is standing at an open window chatting with an unseen 
 neighbour who is probably whitening the next doorstep. 
 MRS. JOLLINGS is a stout, coarse woman of about forty- 
 five ; loud-voiced, slovenly, and vulgar. She has a coarse 
 laugh and evidently has a joke up her sleeve. She also 
 winks frequently and vigorously. Her conversation is 
 going on as the curtain rises. 
 
 MRS. J. Not once. (Pauses for reply.) Eh ? (Pauses again.) 
 Ha, ha, ha, so I ses to meself. (Pauses.) Yes, I should think 
 'e might. A dam sight worse, I tells 'im. (Pauses and receives 
 the neighbour's opinion with a roar of laughter.) Not 'arf ! 
 Lors yes. Ever since 'e was born. Dam little prig I calls 'im. 
 (Pause.) No, not 'er. I should say she knows wot's wot for 
 all her quiet ways. (Pauses.) No, not enough to keep a fly 
 alive. (Pause.) Love ? Ha, ha, ha. Very like. Ha, ha, 
 ha. (Pause.) Wot ? (Pause.) Oh, there's no knowing, 
 they may stay on 'ere. They took the rooms for a week. 
 (Pause.) No, that's nothing to go by. I wouldn't let 'em for 
 less when I 'eard wot the game was. (Pause.) Oh yes, most 
 young couples 'as 'oneymoons, but they ain't like most young 
 couples. (Pauses.) Ah, you might be shocked if I told you. 
 . . . Ha, ha, ha, hoo, hoo, hoo ! (Stops herself in the middle of 
 
 a fit of laughter.) Hullo, here they come. 
 
 232 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 233 
 
 (She hastily closes window and takes a paper bag from table as 
 SCOTT and COLUMBINE pass window from R. to L. MRS. 
 JOLLINGS just has time to get behind door on dress-basket 
 as they enter. She salutes them with the contents of the 
 paper bag riceflung with great force full in their 
 faces.) 
 
 Good luck many happy returns ha, ha, ha! 
 COL. (running to below table brushing off the rice.) Whatever did 
 
 you do that for ? (Goes L. of table.) 
 SCOTT (smiling feebly and extracting a grain from his ear). They 
 
 always do that at weddings. (Shuts door.) 
 COL. Oh ? (Takes hat off.) 
 MRS. JOL. Congratulations, my dear. (Kisses the unwilling bride 
 
 with great affection.) Well, he turned up all right after all ? 
 SCOTT. Turned up ? What do you mean ? Of course I turned . . . 
 
 (Very angrily) What do you mean ?, 
 
 MRS. JOL. Oh, I did him a wrong, bless his heart. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 SCOTT. Of course I called, as I had said I would. 
 MRS. JOL. Oh, she was sure enough of you. More than I was. I 
 
 know you gay young sparks. " Do not trust him, gentle 
 
 maiden/' Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 (SCOTT goes up L.) 
 
 Don't get annoyed, Master Alfie. 
 
 SCOTT. I am not annoyed. But I told you I should call on Monday 
 morning . . . 
 
 (COLUMBINE sits R. of table.) 
 
 MRS. JOL. (still intensely amused). Ha, ha, ha! I nearly died of 
 laughing. You should 'ave 'eard 'im, my dear. " Please 
 fetch a young lady from The George in Old Street. I shall call 
 on Monday and marry her ! " Oh, ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 SCOTT (up L. puzzled). You had no reason to doubt my word. 
 
 MRS. JOL. No. Ha, ha, ha! Still, you might ha' changed your 
 mind. 
 
 COL. (quietly). Yes, you might have changed your mind, Mister 
 Scott. 
 
 MRS. JOL. Mister Scott. Oh ... (Goes laughing out of the room.) 
 
 SCOTT. I can't make her out. She never used to laugh like that 
 at our house. I expect she's married unhappily. 
 
 COL. (R. of table). She says funny things about being married. She 
 makes herself laugh at them, but I don't think they're very 
 funny. She makes it sound rather wrong. It isn't wrong in 
 any way, is it ? 
 
 SCOTT. Good gracious, no. 
 
 COL. She used to be a servant at your house, didn't she ? 
 
 SCOTT. At mother's, yes. 
 
 COL. She told me. She's been up here talking to me an awful lot. 
 
234 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT. You haven't been out ? 
 COL. Oh no. I was afraid of meeting anyone . . . 
 SCOTT. Yes, yes. (Sits L. of table.) And she came up and talked 
 to you ? That was very nice of her. 
 
 COL. I don't think she minded talking. She's very fond of you. 
 
 SCOTT (surprised). Is she ? 
 
 COL. Oh yes. She told me how respected you were, and how good. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh yes. 
 
 COL. What a lot she winks, doesn't she ? 
 
 SCOTT. Winks ? 
 
 COL. After nearly everything she says. I think it's a habit. And 
 she does laugh, too. She laughs every time she looks at one. 
 I thought at first she must be laughing at me, but I suppose it's 
 just a habit like the winking. I don't like the way she talks, 
 though. She makes everything sound nasty. I suppose she's 
 a very good woman. 
 
 SCOTT (severely). She left our house for bad behaviour. But I 
 couldn't think where else to bring you to. You see, even the 
 worst of people may be instruments for good. 
 
 COL. Yes. (Spoken merely for the sake of politeness.) 
 
 SCOTT. Well, how do you feel ? You've got me ! (Rises, crosses 
 round above table, produces marriage certificate.) There's no 
 going back on that, even if I wanted to. As long as you don't 
 do anything really bad nothing can separate us. No matter 
 how sick I might get of you or anything, I've got to stick by 
 you now. (Lays certificate on table, going L.) Upon my word, 
 women go talking about their rights. It seems to me the law's 
 all on their side. (Gives her certificate.) 
 
 COL. (looking it at without interest). Oh, I've got one of these. 
 
 SCOTT (turns). WHAT ! ! ! 
 
 COL. (continuing quite quietly) . Not quite like this. I used to have to 
 show it to magistrates before they would let me do my turn at 
 the haU. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh, good gracious, that was a birth certificate ! (Mops his 
 brow.) You did give me a turn. This is a marriage certificate. 
 
 COL. Oh! 
 
 SCOTT. You've not got one of these ? 
 
 COL. No. Why, you seem glad ! I don't understand. I thought 
 you said I ought to have one. 
 
 SCOTT. One yes. Not two. 
 
 COL. It's very muddling. 
 
 SCOTT. This makes you Missis Scott. (Facetiously takes her hand.) 
 How dp you do, Missis Scott? That is / can call you 
 Columbine. Are you glad now you're married to me ? 
 
 COL. Oh yes. It's far better than being a curse to everyone and 
 being sinful, and and hell. 
 
 SCOTT. Oh! (Goes to fire.) 
 
 COL. This is not a very pretty room, is it ? 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 235 
 
 SCOTT. Oh well, we shan't stop here. What I propose doing is to 
 go to some seaside town for a month you and me see ? 
 Then I can bring you back and introduce you to my friends, 
 and say I met you and married you while we while / was on 
 a holiday. 
 
 COL. It sounds very silly, doesn't it ? 
 
 SCOTT. Silly ? 
 
 COL. Couldn't I go to the seaside alone, and you just come and 
 fetch me at the end of the month, and . . . 
 
 SCOTT. My dear girl ! 
 
 COL. I'd much rather. 
 
 SCOTT. You don't know what you're talking about. Of course 
 I couldn't. The idea's ridiculous. 
 
 COL. I'm sorry. 
 
 SCOTT. We mustn't let people know about this (indicating room). 
 
 COL. It is wrong, then ? 
 
 SCOTT (annoyed). No, no, of course it isn't wrong. What makes 
 you keep saying that ? 
 
 COL. I don't know. But if it isn't wrong why do you mind people 
 knowing ? 
 
 SCOTT. Because they wouldn't understand. 
 
 COL. Then what would it matter ? 
 
 SCOTT. You really are ... It would matter. (Gives her no 
 chance to reply. She has given up trying to understand the 
 situation and is arranging the ribbon in her hat.) I shall have 
 to give Missis Jollings something to keep her mouth shut. 
 Thank goodness she's not in our set. 
 
 COL. I'll take my hat upstairs. (Crosses below table.) 
 
 SCOTT. That's a nice tidy little lady. 
 
 COL. Oh, I never leave hats or boots in the sitting-room. Scarry 
 was very particular. (Opens door.) 
 
 SCOTT (turning angrily). Will you please remember . . . (She 
 gently closes door behind her. He grunts indignantly and goes to 
 glass over fireplace, in which he regards himself thoughtfully.) 
 
 (MRS. JOLLINGS enters with tray on which are three glasses of 
 wine and some biscuits.) 
 
 MRS. JOL. (knowingly). You're not a tee-totaller now, I know, Mister 
 Alfie. 
 
 SCOTT. Yes, I am. 
 
 MRS. JOL. Oh, get out with yer ! You used to be a lot of things. 
 You don't go to Sunday school now eh ? 
 
 SCOTT. I am a teacher. 
 
 MRS. JOL. (going into a convulsion of laughter). Oho, ho! What do 
 you teach ? Is it a young ladies' class, Master Alfie ? What 
 do you teach 'em ? Ha, ha, ha ! Oh, / know. You well- 
 brought-up young fellers always kicks over the traces when 
 you get away from home. 
 
236 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT. Really, Missis Jollings, I don't understand . . . 
 
 MRS. JOL. (still laughing). And I was given notice for waving me 
 
 'and to a bobby. And you was the one as told on me. You ! 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! Bless your 'eart, I don't bear no malice. (Comes 
 
 to him.) 'Ave your fling I say. 
 SCOTT. I do not understand you. I am sorry I came to your 
 
 rooms. Surely anyone can get married ? 
 MRS. JOL. Ha, ha, ha. Oh yes. Anyone can get married. But 
 
 it isn't everyone as takes a baby with them for the 'oneymoon ! 
 SCOTT (thoroughly startled). A baby ? Did you say a baby ? 
 MRS. JOL. (nodding and choking with laughter). Not 'arf. Didn't 
 
 you expect me to notice a little thing like that ? So like you 
 
 too . . . 
 SCOTT. But this is awful ! Do you mean to say she's brought a 
 
 baby here ? 
 MRS. JOL. You didn't expect 'er to leave it on the work'ouse steps, 
 
 did you ? When you was good enough to marry 'er too. 
 
 She's told me 'ow kind it was of you. Oh, ha, ha, ha ! 
 SCOTT. Stop laughing. Stop it, I tell you. Stop it ! (To table.} 
 
 Can't you see ? . . . Did she bring only the one ? 
 MRS. JOL. Only the one ? Good Lord, are there any more ? 
 
 (COLUMBINE returns, still very quiet and reserved. Crosses to R.) 
 
 Oh, my dear ! He ain't 'arf a one, this young feller of yours. 
 
 As serious as an old owl, too. Not a laugh in 'im. 
 SCOTT. Please go outside. (R. of table.) 
 MRS. JOL. (pausing at the table). I thought we might drink a 'ealth, 
 
 my dear ; but 'e won't 'ave any. 
 SCOTT (angrily). Neither will . . . 
 COL. No, I would rather not, thanks. 
 MRS. JOL. (to SCOTT). She can answer for herself, y' see. (Takes 
 
 up glass.) Your health, my dear ; coupled with Master Alfie, 
 
 and and the blessed baby. (Drinks and goes laughing out 
 
 of room.) 
 SCOTT (closing door after her and turning angrily on COLUMBINE). 
 
 She says you've brought one of those children of yours. (Stays 
 
 at door.) 
 
 COL. Only baby. 
 SCOTT. Only ! 
 COL. What's the matter ? 
 SCOTT. Well, I didn't bargain for that. 
 COL. But I couldn't leave baby behind. (R. of table.) 
 SCOTT. Of course you could. You left the others. 
 COL. (putting up her hand). Don't ! (Regains her self-control and 
 
 goes on very quietly) They they can do without me now. 
 
 A baby cannot live without its mother. 
 SCOTT. What nonsense. 
 
 (Goes up L.) 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 237 
 
 COL. I am sorry if you don't like baby. She is very good. I 
 know some landladies don't like children in the house. 
 
 SCOTT. I'm very fond of children. But think of how it looks. 
 Can't you see what people will say ? (Up L.) 
 
 COL. (wonderingly) . No. (Sits R. of table.) What ? 
 
 (There is an explosion of mirth just outside the door, curiously 
 close to the keyhole. SCOTT goes quickly to the door and 
 flings it wide open, the laughs retreating meanwhile into 
 the distance?) 
 
 SCOTT. She was listening. There's a sample of what people will 
 
 say. 
 
 COL. They'll laugh ? (Goes R. of table.) 
 SCOTT (with sarcasm). Oh yes, they'll laugh right enough. (Paces 
 
 up and down.) I can see what it is. I shall have to sell the 
 
 business and start again in some fresh town where I'm not 
 
 known, that's all. (Up room.) 
 COL. I am sorry. (Sits.) 
 SCOTT (less angrily as he looks at her worried face.) It can't be 
 
 helped. Perhaps it'll be best in the long run. I shall do 
 
 all right wherever I go. I've got capital. (Sits L. of table.) 
 
 (More amiably) It's no use quarrelling to-day, is it ? 
 COL. (gratefully). You are good. 
 SCOTT. Am I ? Well, I don't want to appear unpleasant to you, 
 
 do I ? Anyway not to-day. 
 COL. I think you're awfully kind. 
 
 SCOTT. Suppose you give me a little reward for my kindness. 
 COL. What ? 
 SCOTT. Well. We've been married half an hour, and you've not 
 
 kissed me yet. 
 
 COL. Oh, I'm not fond of being kissed by people. 
 SCOTT. Why, my dear girl, I saw that man Salamandro . . . 
 COL. George ? Oh yes. But he's different. 
 SCOTT. Different ? Hang it all. (Rises.) You seem to forget 
 
 I'm your husband. (Comes R. of table above her.) 
 COL. It seems a funny idea to let a man kiss you just because 
 
 he's your husband. 
 SCOTT. Just one. Really I think I deserve . . . 
 
 (She resignedly offers her cheek, but he puts one arm awkwardly 
 round her and kisses her on the lips. She starts up 
 furiously angry and startled in an instant. Turns up 
 stage at fire.) 
 
 COL. Oh, you mustn't kiss me like that ! Nobody ever . . . 
 SCOTT (thunderstruck at her outburst). My dear girl ! (Above 
 
 table.) 
 COL. How dare you ? If you did that when Scarry was about 
 
 he'd knock you down ! 
 
238 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT (comes down). Good Heavens ! Hasn't your own husband 
 a right to kiss you now ? 
 
 COL. Certainly not ! (More collectedly) In a nice fatherly way 
 like George yes. But nobody but Scarry . . . 
 
 SCOTT. Look here, don't go on in this silly way. Try to remember 
 you're married to me. 
 
 COL. (reminding him of the to her important fact). But you don't 
 love me. 
 
 SCOTT (more agreeably). I never said I did. (With conviction) 
 No, of course I don't. But I've done a good deal for you, 
 and dash it all, you know, you are my wife. I've practically 
 ruined myself here, and I shall have to start the world over 
 again. I'm not grumbling I don't grumble but really 
 you've no right to treat me like this. A man has the right to 
 kiss his own wife, you know. 
 
 COL. Even if he doesn't love her ? 
 
 SCOTT (rather educationally than angrily). Of course he has. You 
 don't seem to realise the sacredness of marriage. Now don't 
 be a silly girl any more. 
 
 (In an argumentative sort of way he tries to kiss her again. 
 She pushes him angrily away just as the door opens and 
 SCARAMOUCHE walks in. She holds out both arms to 
 him.) 
 
 COL. Oh, Scarry ! 
 
 (SCARAMOUCHE comes straight over to her. As he does so 
 COLUMBINE gives SCOTT an " I-told-you-so " glance and 
 says) 
 
 And you said he wouldn't dare ! 
 
 SCARA. (taking her anxiously by both arms). Baby ? Where's baby ? 
 
 COL. Upstairs. 
 
 SCARA. Thank God. I thought you'd drowned her and yourself. 
 I've found you. It was only by chance. You have given us 
 a turn. (He suddenly hugs her very tight. She clings to him.) 
 
 SCOTT (above table c. in a tone of remonstrance). Would you mind 
 leaving my wife alone ? 
 
 SCARA. Your wife ? 
 
 SCOTT. Yes, my wife. You can . . . 
 
 SCARA. (not in the least jealous, but rather in the tone of one resent 
 ing an insult). How dare you ? 
 
 SCOTT. Hang it all, it's true. (Pushing forward certificate on 
 table.) 
 
 SCARA. (seeing certificate lying on table and picking it up). What's 
 this ? (Reads it.) You scoundrel ! 
 
 (SCOTT is too amazed to speak.) 
 
 Why can't you go about your love-making like an honest 
 man ? 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 239 
 
 SCOTT (not at all sure of anything). Love-making? I I married 
 her to make an honest woman of her. I've saved her 
 from . . . 
 
 SCARA. You frightened her out of her wits with your preaching. 
 
 SCOTT. She was I well, she's my wife. Let her decide 
 between . . . 
 
 SCARA. Ill let her do nothing of the sort. 
 
 (COLUMBINE ^s sitting weakly back in arm-chair.) 
 Columbine, you're coming home. 
 
 (COLUMBINE gives an involuntary cry of pleasure. The door 
 opens and GEORGE enters, followed by JESSIE POOLE. 
 The latter is a dark, business-like young woman, probably 
 older than SCOTT and certainly stronger.) 
 
 JESSIE (stopping at door). You've found her, then ? 
 
 SCARA. Yes. Come in, Miss Poole. It's all right. We're very, 
 very grateful to you. 
 
 GEORGE (coming awkwardly to COLUMBINE and shaking her hand). 
 Quite well ? Good egg 1 
 
 SCARA. Baby's safe, George. 
 
 GEORGE (deeply moved). Good egg, good egg, good egg. (Shakes 
 hands with SCARAMOUCHE and blows nose violently.) 
 
 JESSIE (who has meanwhile been regarding SCOTT with anger not un 
 mixed with admiration). You're a nice one for a young man, 
 aren't you ? 
 
 SCOTT. You brought them ? 
 
 (COLUMBINE and SCARAMOUCHE move R. of table. COLUMBINE 
 sits in chair, SCOTT above table.) 
 
 JESSIE. Yes, / did. And it's lucky for you someone takes the 
 
 trouble to stop you making a fool of yourself. Some girls 
 
 would never have given you another thought after hearing. 
 
 Running off with people's wives ! I wonder you're not ashamed. 
 
 Besides, breaking my heart with your goings on. 
 SCOTT. It's done . . . 
 JESSIE. And I thought you ... It just shows you never know 
 
 who you can trust. I shall have to keep a nice eye on you for 
 
 the future, I can see. I ... 
 SCOTT. The future ? 
 JESSIE. Ah, it's a marvel I don't throw you over. Most girls 
 
 would have. Fancy being the wife of a Don Juan, 
 SCOTT (greatly hurt). You don't seem to understand, Jessie. We 
 
 are properly married. 
 
 JESSIE. Married ! (Looks all around in horror.) 
 SCARA. (catching her eye and nodding). It's quite true, Miss Poole. 
 
 (Shows her licence in his hand.) 
 JESSIE (crosses to table c., with certificate). Bigamy ! (Turns on 
 
 SCOTT.) 
 
240 THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 
 
 SCOTT. Certainly not I She never was his legal wife. 
 
 JESSIE. And you've been fool enough to marry her ! 
 
 SCOTT. Jessie ! (Puts hand on her arm.) 
 
 JESSIE. Don't. I shall never trust another man. You're all bad. 
 
 The first pretty face that comes along. 
 SCOTT. I should have thought you would have understood my 
 
 motives. I can quite understand you're being upset. 
 JESSIE. Thank you. I don't want your sympathy or your 
 
 apologies. I hope you will be as happy as you deserve to be, 
 
 but it will cost you something, I can tell you. You can't 
 
 treat people like this for nothing. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 SCARA. (after a moment in which SCOTT looks from one to the other 
 of them for comfort and finds none}. Miss Poole doesn't seem to 
 share your views on marriage, Mister Scott. (Moving) Come, 
 Columbine, we'll be getting home. 
 
 SCOTT (getting nasty for the first time). Here, you're not going off 
 with my wife, anyway. 
 
 SCARA. (walking up to him angrily). By God, don't you say that 
 again ! 
 
 SCOTT. Hang it all, I've got a legal right . . . 
 
 (Backing away from the very irate SCARAMOUCHE, his calves 
 come in contact with the dress-basket, on which he in 
 voluntarily sits, falling back against the wall. SCARA 
 MOUCHE stands over him.) 
 
 SCARA. Get up and get out. Take yourself outside. 
 
 SCOTT. But these are my rooms. / paid for them. (Appealing to 
 COLUMBINE) Do you think I'm being treated fair ? 
 
 COL. (evenly and decisively). You said he wouldn't dare to follow 
 me, and he has. And I couldn't allow you to kiss me, and you 
 say husbands have a right to. And people don't seem to agree 
 about marriage, so I think I'd better go back with Scarry. 
 I I want to. (Advances a little to table.) 
 
 SCOTT (rising). Well! This is the last time . . . (Goes out and shuts 
 door behind him.) 
 
 SCARA. (tearing up licence). Confound his impudence ! Why 
 didn't you tell me, Columbine, I'd have . . . (Looks at pieces.) 
 Well, it's too late now. (c. of table below.) 
 
 COL. You're very angry with me ? (To R. corner of table below.) 
 
 SCARA. No, no, no. Nobody could be angry with you after read 
 ing your poor little letter. You heard it, George ? 
 
 GEORGE. No. 
 
 SCARA. (producing a letter inkily like SCOTT'S of the previous act : to 
 COLUMBINE). May I ? 
 
 (COLUMBINE nods. He reads the note, emphasising the stops.) 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF COLUMBINE 241 
 
 " We are awful sinners, but I am the one. 
 
 I must go away and never see you again because I am so. 
 
 I love you and I don't love anyone else. 
 
 Except the Babies, and that's different. 
 
 It Is All Awful." 
 
 (Bends down and kisses her.) Poor little lady ! Come along. 
 
 You'll come home to breakfast with us, George ? 
 GEORGE (at fire). Er I . . . 
 SCARA. That's right. Then, while Columbine fetches baby, you 
 
 and I will go and look for a cab. 
 (GEORGE crosses to door. SCARAMOUCHE is following.) 
 
 COL. Oh, don't both go ! 
 SCARA. We shall only be a moment. 
 
 COL. Yes, but I don't want to be left alone. When I'm all alone 
 I think and think. And it makes me so miserable. 
 
 (The two men exchange significant glances.) 
 
 SCARA. Go for the cab, George, will you ? The little lady mustn't 
 
 be left alone any more. 
 GEORGE (with great depression). Bad egg ! 
 
 (Exits.) 
 (CURTAIN.) 
 
 THE END 
 
 16 
 
PRINTED BY 
 
 MORRISON AND GIBB LTD 
 EDINBURGH 
 
The 
 Comedies 
 
 of 
 
 Harold 
 Chapin 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE 
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 LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS 
 
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 PS3505 
 Chapin, H. H34 
 
 The comedies of A6 
 Harold Chapin. 1921 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS