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 1
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE
 
 BY GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE 
 
 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 
 
 WASTE 
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 
 ANATOL 
 
 THREE SHORT PLAYS 
 
 SOULS ON FIFTH 
 
 In collaboration with Laurence Housman 
 
 PRUNELLA
 
 HE MADRAS HOUSE 
 
 A COMEDY, IN FOUR ACTS, 
 BY GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 non-referT 
 
 ^WVAD-aHS 
 
 BOSTON 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1922
 
 Copyright, igii. 
 By Granville Barker. 
 
 All rights rcur-ved 
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE It fully frctected by copyright. It must 
 not he ferformed either by amateurs or professionals without written 
 permission. For such permission., and for the '■'■ acting version'" with 
 full stage directions., apply to The Paget Dramatic Agency., 2S iVest 
 4Sth Street, New York City, 
 
 ^ 
 
 Feinted in the United States op America
 
 The Madras House ' ^ 
 
 A COMEDY - 7^ 
 
 1909 
 
 /
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 ACT I 
 
 The HUXTABLES live at Denmark Hill, for mr. huxtable 
 is the surviving partner in the well-known Peckham 
 drapery establishment of Roberts & Huxtable, and 
 the situation, besides being salubrious, is therefore 
 convenient. It is a new house. mr. huxtable 
 bought it half finished, so that the interior might be 
 to his liking; its exterior the builder said one might 
 describe as of a Free Queen Anne Treatment ; to 
 which MR. HUXTABLE rcjolncd, after blinking at the 
 red brick spotted with stone ornament, that After 
 all it was inside they were going to live, you know. 
 
 Through the stained, grained front door, rattling with col- 
 oured glass, one reaches the hall, needlessly narrow, 
 needlessly dark, but with its black and white tessel- 
 lated pavement making for cleanliness. On the left 
 is the stained and grained staircase, with its Brus- 
 sels carpet and twisted brass stair rods, on the right 
 the drawing-room. The drawing-room can hardly 
 he said to express the personality of mr. huxtable. 
 The foundations of its furnishings are in the taste 
 of MRS. HUXTABLE. For fifteen years or so addi- 
 tions to this family museum have been disputed into 
 their place by the six miss huxtables: laura 
 (aged thirty-nine) , minnie, clara, julia, emma, 
 JANE (aged twenty-six). The rosewood cabinets, 
 
 1
 
 2 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 the picture from some Academy of the early Seven- 
 ties, entitled In Ye Olden Time (this was a wed- 
 ding present, most likely), the gilt clock, which is 
 a Shakespeare, narrow-headed, but with a masterly 
 pair of legs, propped pensively against a dial and 
 enshrined beneath a dome of glass, another wed- 
 ding present. These were the treasures of mrs. 
 huxtable's first drawing-room, her solace in the 
 dull post-honeymoon days. She was the daughter 
 of a city merchant, wholesale as against her hus- 
 band's retail; but even in the Seventies retail was 
 lifting its head. It was considered, though, that 
 KATHERiNE TOMBS Conferred some distinction upon 
 young harry huxtable by marrying him, and even 
 now, as a portly lady nearing sixty, she figures by 
 the rustle of her dress, the measure of her mellow 
 voice, with its carefully chosen phrases, for the 
 dignity of the household. 
 The difference between one miss huxtable and another 
 is, to a casual eye, the difference between one lead 
 pencil and another, as these lie upon one's table, 
 after some weeks' use; a matter of length, of sharp- 
 ening, of wear. laura''s distinction lies in her be- 
 ing the housekeeper; it is a solid power, that of 
 ordering the dinner. She is very silent. While her 
 sisters are silent with strangers, she is silent with 
 her sisters. She doesn't seem to read much, either; 
 one hopes she dreams, if only of wild adventures 
 with a new carpet-sweeper. When there was some 
 family bitterness as to whether the fireplace, in sum- 
 mer, should hold ferns or a Chinese umbrella, it 
 was Laura's opinion that an umbrella gathers less 
 dust, which carried the day. minnie and clara are 
 inclined to religion; not sentimentally ; works are a 
 good second with them to faith. They have veered,
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 3 
 
 though, lately, from district visiting to an interest 
 in Missions — missions to Poplar or China {one is 
 almost as far as the other) ; good works, the results 
 of which they cannot see. Happily, they forbear 
 to ask why this proves the more soul-satisfying 
 sort. 
 
 JULIA started life — that is to say, left school — as a genius. 
 The head mistress had had two or three years of 
 such dull girls that really she could not resist this 
 excitement. Watercolour sketches were the me- 
 dium. So JULIA was dressed in brown velveteen, 
 and sent to an art school, where they wouldn't let 
 her do watercolour drawing at all. And in two 
 years she learnt enough about the trade of an artist 
 not ever to want to do those watercolour drawings 
 again, julia is now over thirty, and very unhappy. 
 Three of her watercolours {early masterpieces) 
 hang on the drawing-room wall. They shame her, 
 but her mother won't have them taken down. On 
 a holiday she'll be off now and then for a solitary 
 day's sketching, and as she tears up the vain attempt 
 to put on paper the things she has learnt to see, she 
 sometimes cries. It was julia, emma and jane 
 who, some years ago, conspired to present their 
 mother zvith that intensely conspicuous cosy corner. 
 A cosy corner is apparently a device for making a 
 corner just what the very nature of a corner should 
 forbid it to be. They beggared themselves; but 
 one wishes that mr. huxtable were more lavish 
 with his dress aUozvances, then they might at least 
 have afforded something not quite so hideous. 
 
 EMMA, having julia in mind, has rim rather to coats and 
 skirts and common sense. She would have been a 
 success in an office, and worth, perhaps, thirty shil- 
 lings a week. But the huxtables don't want an-
 
 4 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 other thirty shillings a week, and this gift, such 
 as it is, has been wasted, so that em ma runs also 
 to a brusque temper. 
 
 JANE is meekly enough a little wild. mrs. huxtable's 
 power of applying the brake of good breeding, 
 strong enough over five daughters, waned at the 
 sixth attempt in twelve years, and jane has actu- 
 ally got herself proposed to twice by not quite 
 desirable young men. Now the fact that she was 
 old enough to be proposed to at all came as some- 
 thing of a shock to the family. Birthdays pass, 
 their celebration growing less emphatic. No one 
 likes to believe that the years are passing; even 
 the birthday's owner, least able to escape its signifi- 
 . cance, laughs, and then changes the subject. So 
 the MISS HUXTABLEs never openly asked each other 
 what the marriage of the youngest of them might 
 imply; perhaps they never even asked themselves. 
 Besides, jane didn't marry. But if she does, un- 
 less, perhaps, she runs away to do it, there will be 
 heart searchings, at least, mr. huxtable asked, 
 though, and mrs. huxtable's answer — given early 
 one morning, before the hot water came — scarcely 
 satisfied him. "For," said mr. huxtable, "if the 
 girls don't marry some day, what are they to do! 
 It's not as if they had to go into the shop." "No, 
 thank Heaven!" said mrs. huxtable. 
 
 Since his illness mr. huxtable has taken to asking ques- 
 tions — of anybody and about anything; of himself 
 oftenest of all. But for that illness he would have 
 been a conventional enough type of successful shop- 
 keeper, coarsely fed, whiskered, podgy. But eight- 
 een months' nursing and dieting and removal from 
 the world seem to have brought a gentleness to his 
 voice, a spark of humour to his eye, a childishness
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 5 
 
 to his little bursts of temper — they have added, in 
 
 fact, a wistfidness which makes him rather a love- / 
 
 able old buffer on the whole. 
 
 This is a Sunday morning, a bright day in October. The 
 family are still at church, and the drawing-room 
 is empty. The door opens, and the parlour-maid 
 — much becapped and aproned — shews in phiup 
 MADRAS and his friend, major hippisly thomas. 
 THOMAS, long legged and deliberate, moves across 
 the room to the big French windows, which open 
 onto a balcony and look down on the garden and 
 to many gardens beyond. Thomas is a good fellow. 
 
 PHILIP MADRAS is more complex than that. To begin with, 
 it is obvious he is not wholly English A cer- 
 tain likeness of figure, the keenness and colour of 
 his voice, and a liking for metaphysical turns of 
 speech, shew an Eastern origin, perhaps. He is 
 kind in manner, but rather cold, capable of that 
 least English of dispositions — intellectual passion. 
 He is about thirty-five, a year or two younger than 
 his friend. The parlour-maid has secured major 
 Thomas's hat, and stands clutching it. As philip 
 passes her into the room he asks . . . 
 PHILIP. About how long? 
 THE maid. In just a few minutes now, I should say, 
 
 sir. Oh, I beg pardon, does it appen to be the third 
 
 Sunday in the month? 
 PHILIP. I don't know. Tommy, does it? 
 THOMAS. [From the window.'] Don't ask me. Well, I 
 
 suppose I can tell you. [^And he vaguely fishes for his 
 
 diary.] 
 THE MAID. No, I don't think it does, sir. Because then 
 
 some of them stop for the Oly Communion, and that may 
 
 make them late for dinner, but I don't think it is, sir.
 
 6 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 She backs through the door, entangling the hat in 
 the handle. 
 
 PHILIP. Is my mother still staying here? 
 
 THE MAID. Mrs. Madras, sir? Yes, sir. 
 
 Then having disentangled the hat, the parlour-maid 
 vanishes, philip thereupon plunges swiftly into 
 what must be an interrupted argument. 
 
 PHILIP. Well, my dear Tommy, what are the two most 
 important things in a man's character? His attitude 
 towards money and his attitude towards women. 
 
 THOMAS. [^Ponderously slowing him up.'] Yes, you're 
 full up with moral precepts. Why behave about money 
 as if it didn't exist? I never said don't join the County 
 Council. 
 
 PHILIP, {Deliberately, but in a breath.] It is quite 
 impossible for any decent man to walk with his eyes open 
 from Waterloo to Denmark Hill on a Sunday morning 
 without wishing me to stand for the County Council. 
 THOMAS entrenches himself on a sofa. 
 
 THOMAS. You've got what I call the Reformer's mind, 
 I shouldn't cultivate it, Phil. It makes a man unhappy and 
 discontented, not with himself, but with other people, mark 
 you ... so it makes him conceited, and puts him out of 
 condition both ways. Don't you get to imagine you can 
 make this country better by tidying it up, 
 
 PHILIP, [Whimsically.] But I'm very interested in 
 England, Tommy. 
 
 THOMAS. [Not without some answering humour.] We 
 all are. But we don't all need to go about saying so. 
 Even I can be interested in England, I suppose, though I 
 have had to chuck the Army and take to business to earn 
 bread and treacle for a wife and four children . . . and 
 not a bad thing for me, either. I tell you if every chap 
 would look after himself and his family, and lead a godly, 
 righteous and sober life — I'm sorry, but it is Sunday —
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 7 
 
 England would get on a damn sight better than it will with 
 all your interference. 
 
 He leans hack. Philip's eyes fix themselves on 
 some great distance. 
 
 PHILIP, It's a muddled country. One's first instinct is 
 to be rhetorical about it ... to write poetry and relieve 
 one's feelings. I once thought I might be self-sacrificing 
 — give my goods to the poor, and go slumming — keeping 
 my immortal soul superior still. There's something wrong 
 with a world, Tommy, in which it takes a man like me 
 all his time to find out that it's bread people want, and 
 not either cake or crumbs. 
 
 THOMAS. There's something wrong with a man while 
 he will think of other people as if they were ants on an 
 ant heap. 
 
 PHILIP. [Relaxing to a smile.'] Tommy, that's per- 
 fectly true. I like having a good talk with you: sooner 
 or later you always say one sensible thing. 
 
 THOMAS. Thank you; you're damn polite. And, as 
 usual, we've got right off the point. 
 
 PHILIP. The art of conversation ! 
 
 THOMAS. \_Shying at the easy epigram.'] Go on six 
 County Councils, if you like. But why chuck up seven 
 hundred a year and a directorship, if State wants you 
 to keep 'em? And you could have double or more, and 
 manage the place, if you'd ask for it. 
 
 PHILIP. [Almost venomously.] Tommy, I loathe the 
 Madras House. State may buy it, and do what he likes 
 with it. 
 
 JULIA and LAURA arrive. They are the first from 
 Church. Sunday frocks, Sunday hats, best gloves, 
 umbrellas and prayer books. 
 
 JULIA. Oh, what a surprise ! 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, we walked down. Ah, you don't know
 
 8 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 . . . Let me introduce Major Hippisly Thomas . . . my 
 cousin, Miss Julia Huxtable . . . and Miss Huxtable. 
 
 JULIA. How do you do? 
 
 THOMAS. How do you do? 
 
 LAURA. How do you do ? 
 
 JULIA. Have you come to see Aunt Amy? 
 
 PHILIP. No, your father. 
 
 JULIA. He's walking back with her. They'll be last, 
 I'm afraid. 
 
 LAURA. Will you stay to dinner? 
 
 PHILIP. No, I think not. 
 
 LAURA. I'd better tell them you won't. Perhaps they'll 
 be laying for you. 
 
 LAURA goes out, decorously avoiding a collision with 
 EMMA, who, panoplied as the others, comes in at 
 the same moment. 
 
 PHILIP. Hullo, Emma ! 
 
 EMMA. Well, what a surprise ! 
 
 PHirip. You don't know . . . Major Hippisly Thomas 
 . . . Miss Emma Huxtable. 
 
 THOMAS. How do you do? 
 
 EMMA. How do you do? Will you stay to dinner ? 
 
 PHILIP. No, we can't. [That formula again completed, 
 he varies his explanation.'] I've just brought Thomas a 
 Sunday morning walk to help me tell Uncle Henry a bit 
 of news. My father will be back in England to-morrow. 
 
 EMMA. [With a round mouth.] Oh! 
 
 JULIA. It's a beautiful morning for a walk, isn't it? 
 
 THOMAS. Wonderful for October. 
 
 These two look first at each other, and then out of 
 the window, emma gases quizzically at philip. 
 
 EMMA. I think he knows. 
 
 PHILIP. He sort of knows. 
 
 EMMA. Why are you being odd, Philip?
 
 ACT i] THE IVIADRAS HOUSE 9 
 
 PHILIP is more hail-fellow-well-met with emma than 
 with the others. 
 PHILIP. Emma ... I have enticed a comparative 
 stranger to be present so that your father and mother 
 cannot, in decency, begin to fight the family battle over 
 again with me. I know it's very cunning, but we did want 
 a walk. Besides, there's a meeting to-morrow. . . . 
 JANE peeps through the door. 
 JANE. You? Mother! 
 
 She has turned to the hall, and from the hall comes 
 - MRS. huxtable's Totund voice, "Yes, Jane!" 
 JANE. Cousin Philip ! 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE soils in, and superbly compresses 
 every family greeting into one. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. What a surprise! Will you stay to 
 dinner ? 
 
 EMMA. [Alive to a certain redundancy.'] No, Mother, 
 they can't. 
 
 PHILIP. May I introduce my friend . . . Major Hip- 
 pisly Thomas . . . my aunt, Mrs. Huxtable. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. \_Stately and gracious.'] How do you 
 do, Major Thomas? 
 
 PHILIP. Thomas is Mr. Eustace State's London man- 
 ager. 
 THOMAS. How do you do? 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE takes OH armchair with the air of 
 one mounting a throne, and from that vantage point 
 begins polite conversation. Her daughters dis- 
 tribute themselves, so do philip and hippisly 
 
 THOMAS. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Not in the Army, then. Major 
 Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS. I was in the Army. 
 EMMA. Jessica quite well, Philip? 
 PHILIP. Yes, thanks.
 
 10 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 EMMA. And Mildred? 
 
 PHILIP. I think so. She's back at school. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. A wondcrfully warm autumn, is it 
 not? 
 
 THOMAS. Quite. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Do you know Denmark Hill well? 
 
 THOMAS. Not well. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. We have always lived here. I con- 
 sider it healthy. But London is a healthy place, I think. 
 Oh, I beg your pardon . . . my daughter Jane. 
 
 JANE. How do you do? 
 
 They shake hands with ceremony, em ma, in a mind 
 to liven things up, goes to the window. 
 
 EMMA. We've quite a good garden, that's one thing. 
 
 THOMAS. [Not wholly innocent of an attempt to escape 
 from his hostess, makes for the window, too."] I noticed 
 it. I am keen on gardens. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Her attention distracted by julia's 
 making for the door.'] Julia, where are you going? 
 
 JULIA. To take my things off, Mother. 
 
 JULIA departs. When they were quite little girls 
 MRS. HUXTABLE always did ask her daughters where 
 they were going when they left the room, and 
 where they had been when they entered it, and she 
 has never dropped the habit. They resent it only 
 by the extreme patience of their replies. 
 
 EMMA. [Entertainingly .] That's the Crystal Palace. 
 
 THOMAS. Is it? 
 
 They both peer appreciatively at that famous land- 
 mark. In the Crystal Palace and the sunset the 
 inhabitants of Denmark Hill have acquired almost 
 proprietary interest. Then mrs. huxtable speaks 
 to her nephew with a sudden severity. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Philip, I don't consider your mother's 
 health is at all the thing.
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 11 
 
 PHILIP. [Amicab[y.'\ It never is, Aunt Kate. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Admitting the justice of the retort.'] 
 That's frue. 
 
 PHILIP. Uncle Henry keeps better, I think. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE, Hc's well enough now. I have had a 
 slight cold. Is it true that your father may appear in 
 England again? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, he has only been on the Continent. He 
 arrives to-morrow. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I'm sorry. 
 JANE. Mother ! 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE hos launched this with such re- 
 doubled severity that jane had to protest. How- 
 ever, at this moment arrives mr. huxtable himself, 
 one glad smile. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Ah, Phil ... I ad an idea you might 
 come over. You'll stay to dinner. Jane, tell your aunt 
 . . . she's taking er bonnet off. 
 
 JANE obeys. He sights on the balcony major 
 THOMAs's back. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Who's that outside ? 
 PHILIP. Hippisly Thomas. We wanted a walk; we 
 can't stay. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Oh ! 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Havc you comc on business? 
 
 PHILIP. Well . . . 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. On Sunday? 
 
 PHILIP. Not exactly. 
 
 She shakes her head, gravely deprecating, thomas 
 
 comes from the balcony. 
 MR. HUXTABLE, How are you? 
 THOMAS. How are you? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Fine morning, isn't it? Nice prospect, 
 this ... see the Crystal Palace? 
 
 While THOMAS turns, with perfect politeness, to
 
 12 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 view again this phenomenon, philip pacifies his 
 
 aunt. 
 
 PHILIP. You see, Aunt Katherine, to-morrow afternoon 
 
 we have the first real conference with this Mr, State 
 
 about buying up the two firms, and my father is passing 
 
 through England again to attend it. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Of course, Philip, if it's business, I 
 know nothing about it. But is it suggested that your uncle 
 should attend, too? 
 
 Her voice has found a new gravity, philip be- 
 comes very airy; so does mr, huxtable, who comes 
 back to rejoin the conversation. 
 PHILIP. My dear aunt, naturally. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. What's this? 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. \_The One word expressing volumes.'\ 
 Constantine. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [With elaborate innocence.'] That's 
 definite now, is it? 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. You dropped a hint last night, Henry. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I dcssay. I dessay I did. [His eye 
 shifts guiltily.] 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Quite out of the question, it seems 
 to me. 
 
 JANE comes back. 
 JANE. Aunt Mary's coming. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Genial again.] Oh ! My daughter 
 Jane . . . Major Thomas, Major Hippisly Thomas. 
 JANE. [With discretion.] Yes, Father. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Tactfully.] You are naturally not 
 aware, Major Thomas, that for family reasons, into which 
 we need not go, Mr. Huxtable has not spoken to his 
 brother-in-law for a number of years. 
 
 Philip's eye meets thomas's in comic agony. But 
 MR. HUXTABLE, too, plunnes deliahtedlv into the for- 
 bidden subject.
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 13 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Thirty years, very near. Wonderful, 
 isn't it? Interested in the same business. Wasn't easy 
 to keep it up. 
 THOMAS. I had heard. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Oh, yes, notorious. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [In reprobation.^ And well it may be, 
 Henry. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS copics in. It is evident that philip is 
 his father's son. He would seem so wholly but for 
 that touch of "self worship which is often self 
 mistrust;" his mother's gift, appearing nowadays 
 less loveably in her as a sort of querulous assertion 
 of her rights and wrongs against the troubles which 
 have been too strong for her. She is a pale old 
 lady, shrunk a little, the life gone out of her. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Some Severity remaining.] Amy, 
 your husband is in England again. 
 
 PHILIP presents a filial cheek. It is kissed. 
 PHILIP. How are you, Mother? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Sotto vocc.'] Oh, tact, Kathcrinc, 
 tact! 
 PHILIP. Perhaps you remember Reggie Thomas? 
 THOMAS. I was at Marlborough with Philip, Mrs. 
 Madras. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Yes. Is he, Katherine? 
 
 Having given thomas a limp hand, and her sister 
 this coldest of responses, fhe finds her way to a 
 sofa, where she sits silent, thinking to herself, mrs. 
 HUXTABLE kceps majcstic hold upon her subject. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I am Utterly unable to see, Philip, 
 why your uncle should break through his rule now. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. There you are, Phil ! 
 PHILIP. Of course it is quite for Uncle Henry to 
 decide.
 
 14 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Naturally . . . naturally. [Still he has 
 an appealing eye on philip, who obliges hini.'\ 
 
 PHILIP. But since Mr. State's ofifer may not be only 
 for the Madras House, but Roberts and Huxtable into the 
 bargain ... if the two principal proprietors can't meet 
 him round a table to settle the matter . . . 
 
 THOMAS. [Ponderously diplomatic.'] Yes ... a little 
 awkward ... if I may say so ... as Mr. State's repre- 
 sentative, Mrs. Huxtable. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. You don't think, do you, Major 
 Thomas, that any amount of awkwardness should induce 
 us to pass over wicked conduct? 
 
 This reduces the assembly to such a shamed silence 
 that poor mr. huxtable can only add 
 
 MR. huxtable. Oh, talk of something else . . . talk of 
 something else. 
 
 After a moment mrs. madras's pale voice steals in, 
 as she turns to her son. 
 
 MRS. madras. When did you hear from your father? 
 
 PHILIP. A letter from Marienbad two or three days 
 ago, and a telegram yesterday morning. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE, with c hostess's authority, now 
 restores a polite and easy tone to the conversation. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. And have you left the Army long. 
 Major Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS. Four years. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Now what made you take to the 
 Drapery Trade? 
 
 PHILIP. [Very explanatory.'] Mr. State is an Ameri- 
 can financier, Aunt Kitty, who has bought up Burrow's, 
 the big mantle place in the city, and is about to buy us 
 up, too, perhaps. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Wc are not in difficulties, I hope. 
 
 PHILIP. Oh, no.
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 15 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. No. No doubt Henry would have 
 told me if we had been. 
 
 As she thus gracefully dismisses the subject there 
 appear up the steps and along the balcony the last 
 arrivals from Church, minnie and clara. The 
 male part of the company unsettles itself. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Ullo ! Where have you been ? 
 MINNIE. We went for a walk. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [/n apparently deep surprise.'] A 
 walk, Minnie! Where to? 
 
 MINNIE. Just the long way home. We thought we'd 
 have time. 
 CLARA. Did you notice what a short sermon? 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Oh, may I . . . My daughter Clara 
 . . . Major Ippisly Thomas. My daughter Minnie . . . 
 Major Thomas. 
 
 The conventional chant begins. 
 MINNIE. How d' you do? 
 THOMAS. How d' you do? 
 CLARA. How d' you do? 
 MINNIE. How d' you do, Philip? 
 PHILIP. How d' you do? 
 CLARA. How d' you do? 
 PHILIP. How d' you do? 
 
 The chant over, the company re-settles; mr. hux- 
 TABLE buttonholing philip in the process with an 
 air of some mystery. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. By the way, Phil, remind me to ask 
 you Something before you go . . . rather important. 
 
 PHILIP. I shall be at your place in the morning. 
 Thomas is coming to go through some figures. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [With o regular snap.} Yes ... I 
 shan't. 
 
 PHILIP. The State meeting is in Bond Street, three 
 o'clock.
 
 16 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I know, I know. [Then, finding him- 
 self prominent, he captures the conversation.'] I'm slack- 
 ing ofif, Major Thomas, slacking off. Ever since I was ill 
 I've been slacking off. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. You are perfectly well now, Henry. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Not the point. I want leisure, you 
 know, leisure. Time for reading . . . time to think a bit. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Nonsense ! [She adds, with correct- 
 ness.] Major Thomas will excuse me. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [On his hobby.] Oh, well ... a man 
 must . . . some portion of his life . . . 
 
 THOMAS. Quite. I got most of my reading done early. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. The natural time for it. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Ah, lucky feller ! Educated, I suppose. 
 Well, I wasn't. I've been getting the books for years — 
 good editions. I'd like you to see my library. But these 
 geniuses want settling down to ... if a man's to keep 
 pace with the thought of the world, y' know. Macaulay, 
 Erbert Spencer, Grote's Istory of Greece ! I've got em 
 all there. 
 
 He finds no further response, mrs. huxtable fills 
 the gap. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I thought the sermon dull this morn- 
 ing, Amy, didn't you? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Unexpectedly.'] No, I didn't. 
 
 MINNIE. [To do her share of the entertaining.] Moth- 
 er, somebody ought to speak about those boys . . . it's 
 disgraceful. Mr. Vivian had actually to turn round from 
 the organ at them during the last hymn. 
 
 JULIA, her things taken off, re-appears. MR. hux- 
 table is on the spot. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Ah, my daughter Julia . . . Major 
 
 JULIA. We've been introduced, Father. 
 
 She says this with a hauteur which really is pure
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 17 
 
 nervousness, but mr. huxtable is sufficiently 
 crushed. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Oh, I beg pardoH. 
 
 But MRS. HUXTABLE disapproves of any self-asser- 
 tion, and descends upon the culprit; who is, for 
 some obscure reason (or for none), more often 
 disapproved of than the others. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Closc the door, please, Julia. 
 
 JULIA. I'm sorry, Mother. 
 
 PHILIP closes the offending door, julia obliter- 
 ates herself in a chair, and the conversation, hardly 
 encouraged by this little affray, comes to an intol- 
 erable standstill. At last clara makes an effort. 
 
 CLARA. Is Jessica quite well, Philip? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, thank you, Clara. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. And dear little Mildred? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, thank you. Aunt Kate. 
 
 Further standstill. Then minnie contrives a re- 
 mark. 
 
 MINNIE. Do you still like that school for her? 
 
 PHILIP. [With finesse.} It seems to provide every ac- 
 complishment that money can buy. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE discovers a sure opening. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Have you been away for the summer, 
 Major Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS. [Vaguely — he is getting sympathetically 
 tongue-tied.'] Oh . . . yes . . . 
 
 PHILIP. Tommy and Jessica and I- took our holidays 
 motoring around Munich and into it for the operas. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Was that pleasant? 
 
 PHILIP. Very. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. And where was dear Mildred? 
 
 PHILIP. With her aunt most of the time . . . Jessica's 
 sister-in-law, you know. 
 
 MINNIE. Lady Ames?
 
 18 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 PHILIP. Yes. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. {Innocently, genuinely snobbish.'] Very 
 nice for her. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. We take a ouse at Weymouth, as a rule. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Do you know Weymouth, Major 
 Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS. No, I don't. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Gcorge III used to stay there, but that 
 is a hotel now. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Keep your spare money in the coun- 
 try, y' know. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE, Oh, there is everything one wants at 
 Weymouth. 
 
 But even this subject Hags. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. You think more of Bognor, Amy, I 
 know. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Only to live in, Katherine. 
 
 They have made their last effort. The conversation 
 is dead. mr. huxtable^s discomfort suddenly be- 
 comes physical. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I'm going to change my coat. 
 PHILIP. I think perhaps we ought to be off. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. No, no, no, no, no ! I shan't be a min- 
 ute. Don't go, Phil ; there's a good fellow. 
 
 And he has left them all to it. The huxtable con- 
 versation, it will be noticed, consists mainly of ask- 
 ing questions. Visitors, after a time, fall into the 
 habit, too. 
 PHILIP. Do you like this house better than the old one, 
 Clara? 
 
 CLARA. It has more rooms, you know. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Do you Hvc in London, Major 
 Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS. No, I live at Woking. I come up and down 
 every day. I think the country's better for the children.
 
 ACT i] THE IVtADRAS HOUSE 19 
 
 MRS. HUXTABi.E. Not a chccrful place, is it? 
 
 THOMAS. Oh, very cheerful. 
 
 mrs.'huxtable. I had thought not, for some reason. 
 
 EMMA. The cemetery. Mother. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Acccptijig thc suggesHofi with dig- 
 nity.'] Perhaps. 
 
 CLARA. And of course there's a much larger garden. 
 We have the garden of the next house as well. 
 
 JANE. Not all the garden of the next house. 
 
 CLARA. Well, most of it. 
 
 This stimulating diffcretice of opinion takes them to 
 the balcony, philip follows, julia follows philip. 
 MINNIE departs to take her things off. 
 
 JULIA. Do you notice how near the Crystal Palace 
 seems? That means rain. 
 
 PHILIP. Of course . . . you can see the Crystal Palace. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. JuHa, do you think you won't catch 
 cold on the balcony without a hat? 
 
 JULIA. \_Meek, hut, before the visitor, determined.] I 
 don't think so, Mother. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE tums, with added politeness, to 
 
 MAJOR THOMAS. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Ycs, wc uscd to Hve not so far along 
 the hill; it certainly was a smaller house. 
 
 PHILIP is now on the balcony, receiving more infor- 
 mation. 
 
 PHILIP. That's Ruskin's house, is it? Yes, I see the 
 chimney pots. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I should not havc moved, myself, but 
 I was overruled. 
 
 EMMA. Mother, we had grown out of Hollybank. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I was Overruled. Things are done on 
 a larger scale than they used to be. Not that I approve 
 of that. 
 
 THOMAS. Of course one's family will grow up.
 
 20 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. People spend their money now-a-days. 
 I remember my father's practice was to Hve on half his 
 income. However, he lost the greater part of his money 
 by unwise investments in lead, I think it was. I was at 
 school at the time, in Brighton. And he educated me 
 above my station in life. 
 
 At this moment clara breaks out of the conserva- 
 tory. Something has happened. 
 CLARA. Jane, the Agapanthus is out at last ! 
 jane. Oh ! 
 
 They crowd in to see it. philip crowds in, too. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE is unmovcd. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. We are told that riches are a snare, 
 Major Thomas. 
 
 THOMAS. It is one I have always found easy to avoid, 
 Mrs. Huxtable. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. lObHvioiis of the joke, which, indeed, 
 she would not have expected on such a subject.'} And I 
 have noticed that their acquisition seldom improves the 
 character of people in my station of life. I am, of course, 
 ignorant of my husband's affairs . . . that is to say, I 
 keep myself as ignorant as possible . . . but it is my wish 
 that the ordering of our household should remain as it 
 was when we were first married. 
 
 THOMAS. {^Forestalling a yawn.~\ Quite so. Quite so. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE takes a breath. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. A family of daughters, Major 
 Thomas . . , 
 
 EMMA. [A little agonised.'] Mother ! 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. What is it, Emma? 
 
 But EMMA thinks better of it, and goes to join the 
 
 Agapanthus party, saying 
 
 EMMA. Nothing, Mother, I beg your pardon. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE retakes her breath. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. What were we saying?
 
 ACT i] THE IVIADRAS HOUSE «1 
 
 THOMAS. IWith resigned politeness.'] A family of 
 daughters. 
 
 MRS. fiuxTABLE. .Yes. Were you in the war? 
 
 The inexplicable hut characteristic suddenness of 
 this rouses the major a little. 
 
 THOMAS. I was. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I find that people look differently on 
 family life to what they used. A man no longer seems 
 prepared to marry and support a wife and family by his 
 unaided exertions. I consider that a pity. 
 
 THOMAS. [Near another yawn.'] Quite . . . quite so. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I have always determined that my 
 daughters should be sought after for themselves alone. 
 That should ensure their happiness. Any eligible gentle- 
 man who visits here constantly is always given to under- 
 stand, delicately, that nothing need be expected from Mr. 
 Huxtable beyond his approval. You are married, I think 
 you said, Major Thomas. 
 
 This qtiite wakes him up, though MRS. huxtable 
 is really innocent of her implication. 
 
 THOMAS. Yes. Oh, dear me, yes. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. And a family? 
 
 THOMAS. Four children . . . the youngest is only three. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Pretty dear ! 
 
 THOMAS. No ; ugly little beggar, but has character. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I must take off my things before din- 
 ner. You'll excuse me. If one is not punctual oneself . . . 
 
 THOMAS. Quite. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. We cannot induce you to join us? 
 
 THOMAS. Many thanks, but we have to meet Mrs. Phil 
 for lunch in town at two. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. I am sorry. 
 
 THOMAS opens the door for her with his best bow, 
 and she graciously departs, conscious of having 
 properly impressed him. clara, who has now her
 
 S2 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 things to take off, crosses the room, saying to 
 PHILIP, who follows her from the balcony 
 
 CLARA. Yes, I'll tell father, Philip. I'm going upstairs. 
 THOMAS opens the door for her, but only with his 
 second best bow, and then turns to philip with a 
 sigh. 
 
 THOMAS. Phil, we ought to be going. 
 
 PHILIP. Wait till you've seen my uncle again. 
 
 THOMAS. All right. 
 
 He heaves another sigh and sits down. All this 
 time there has been mrs. madras upon her sofa, 
 silent, as forgotten as any other piece of furniture 
 for which there is no immediate use. philip now 
 goes to her. When she does speak it is unrespon- 
 sively. 
 
 PHILIP. How long do you stay in town. Mother? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. I have been here a fortnight. I gener- 
 ally stay three weeks. 
 
 PHILIP. Jessica has been meaning to ask you to Philli- 
 more Gardens again. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Has she ? 
 
 PHILIP. [A little guiltily.'] Her time's very much occu- 
 pied . . . with one thing and another. 
 
 Suddenly mrs. madras rouses herself. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. I wish to See your father, Philip. 
 
 PHILIP, [/m doubt.'] He won't be here long. Mother. 
 
 MRS. madras. No, I am sure he won't. 
 
 With three delicate strides thomas lands himself 
 onto the balcony. 
 
 PHILIP. Tommy being tactful ! Well, I'll say that you 
 want to see him. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. No, pleasc don't. Tell him that I think 
 he ought to come and see me. 
 
 PHILIP. He won't come, Mother. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. No, I know he won't. He came to Eng-
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 23 
 
 land in May, didn't he? He was here till July, wasn't he? 
 Did he so much as send me a message? 
 
 PHILIP. [With unkind patience.'] No, Mother. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. What was he doing all the while, Philip? 
 
 PHILIP. I didn't see much of him. I really don't know 
 what he came back for at all. We could have done this 
 business without him, and anyway it hasn't materialised 
 till now. This is why he's passing through England again. 
 I don't think there's much to be gained by your seeing 
 him, you know. 
 
 MRS. i,iADRAS. You are a little heartless, Philip-. 
 This being a little true, philip a little resents it. 
 
 PHILIP. My dear mother, you and he have been sep- 
 arated for . . . how long is it? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [With withered force.] I am his wife 
 still, I should hope. He went away from me when he was 
 young. But I have never forgotten my duty. And now 
 that he is an old man, and past such sin, and I am an old 
 woman, I am still ready to be a comfort to his declining 
 years, and it's right that I should be allowed to tell him 
 so. And you should not let your wife put you against 
 your own mother, Philip. 
 
 PHILIP. [Bewildered.'] Really ! 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. I know what Jessica thinks of me. Jes- 
 sica is very clever, and has no patience with people who 
 can only do their best to be good ... I understand that. 
 Well, it isn't her duty to love me ... at least it may not 
 be her duty to love her husband's mother, or it may be, I 
 don't say. But it is your duty. I sometimes think, Philip, 
 you don't love me any longer, though you're afraid to 
 say so. 
 
 The appeal ends so pathetically that philip is very 
 gently equivocal. 
 
 PHILIP. If I didn't love you, my dear mother, I should 
 be afraid to say so.
 
 24^ THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. When are you to see your father? 
 
 PHILIP. We've asked him to dinner to-morrow night. 
 At this moment em ma comes in with a briskness so 
 jarring to mrs. madras's already wrought nerves, 
 that she turns on her. 
 
 MRS. madras. Emma, why do you come bouncing in 
 like that when I'm trying to get a private word with 
 Philip? 
 
 EMMA. Really, Aunt Amy, the drawing-room belongs 
 to everyone. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS, I'm surc I don't know why I come and 
 stay here at all. I dislike your mother intensely. 
 
 EMMA. Then kindly don't tell me so. I've no wish not 
 to be polite to you. 
 
 PHILIP. [^Pacifically.'] Emma, I think Uncle Henry 
 ought to attend this meeting to-morrow. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Beginning to cry.] Of course he ought. 
 Who is he, to go on like this about Constantine ! My 
 handkerchief's upstairs. 
 
 EMMA. [Contritely.] Shall I fetch it for you, Aunt 
 Amy? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. No. I'll be a trouble to no one. 
 
 She retires, injured, philip continues, purposely 
 placid. 
 
 PHILIP. What's more, he really wants to attend it. 
 
 EMMA. I'm sorry I was rude . . . but she does get on 
 our nerves, you know. 
 
 PHILIP. Why do you invite her? 
 
 EMMA. [Quite jolly with him.] Oh, we're all very fond 
 of Aunt Amy, and anyhow, mother would think it our 
 duty. I don't see how she can enjoy coming, though. 
 She never goes out anywhere . . . never joins in the con- 
 versation . . . just sits nursing herself. 
 
 PHILIP. [Quizzically.] You're all too good, Emma. 
 
 EMMA. Yes. I heard you making fun of Julia in the
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 25 
 
 conservatory. But if one stopped doing one's duty how 
 upside down the world would be ! [Her voice now takes 
 that tone'which is the well-bred substitute for a wink.'] I 
 say ... I suppose I oughtn't to tell you about Julia, but 
 it is rather a joke. You know, Julia gets hysterical some- 
 times, when she has her headaches. 
 
 PHILIP. Does she? 
 
 EMMA. Well, a collar marked Lewis Waller came back 
 from the wash in mistake for one of father's. I don't 
 think he lives near here, but it's one of these big steam 
 laundries. And Morgan the cook got it, and she gave it 
 to Julia . . . and Julia kept it. And when mother found 
 out she cried for a whole day. She said it showed a wan- 
 ton mind. 
 
 Philip's mocking face becomes grave. 
 
 PHILIP. I don't think that's at all amusing, Emma. 
 
 EMMA, [/w genuine surprise.'] Don't you? 
 
 PHILIP. How old is Julia? 
 
 EMMA. She's thirty-four. [Her face falls, too.] No 
 . . . it is rather dreadful, isn't it? [Then wrinkling her 
 forehead, as at a puzzle.] It isn't exactly that one wants 
 to get married. I daresay mother is right about that. 
 
 PHILIP. About what? 
 
 EMMA. Well, some time ago a gentleman proposed to 
 Jane. And mother said it would have been more honour- 
 able if he had spoken to father first, and that Jane was 
 the youngest, and too young to know her own mind. Well, 
 you know, she's twenty-six. And then they heard of some- 
 thing he'd once done, and it was put a stop to. And Jane 
 was very rebellious, and mother cried. . . . 
 
 PHILIP. Does she always cry? 
 
 EMMA. Yes, she does cry, if she's upset about us. And 
 I think she was right. One ought not to risk being un- 
 happy for life, ought one? 
 
 PHILIP. Are you all happy now, then?
 
 26 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 EMMA. Oh, deep down, I think we are. It would be 
 so ungrateful not to be. When one has a good home 
 and . . . ! But of course living together, and going away 
 together, and being together all the time, one does get a 
 little irritable now and then. I suppose that's why we 
 sit as mum as maggots when people are here; we're afraid 
 of squabbling. 
 
 PHILIP. Do you squabble? 
 
 EMMA. Not like we used. You know, till we moved 
 into this house, we had only two bedrooms between us, 
 the nursery and the old night nursery. Now Laura and 
 Minnie have one each, and there's one we take by turns. 
 There wasn't a bigger house to be got here, or I suppose 
 we could have had it. They hated the idea of moving far. 
 And it's rather odd, you know, father seems afraid of 
 spending money, though he must have got lots. He says 
 if he gave u s any more we shouldn't know what to do 
 with it, . . . and of course that's true. 
 
 PHILIP. But what occupations have you girls ? 
 
 EMMA. We're always busy. I mean there's lots to be 
 done about the house, and there's calling and classes and 
 things. Julia used to sketch quite well. You mustn't think 
 I'm grumbling, Philip. I know I talk too much, They tell 
 me so, 
 
 Philip's comment is the question, half serious. 
 
 PHILIP. Why don't you go away, all six of you, or say 
 five of you? 
 
 EMMA. [Wide-eyed.'] Go away ! 
 
 PHILIP. [Comprehensively.'] Out of it. 
 
 EMMA. [Wider-eyed.] Where to? 
 
 PHILIP. [With a sigh — for her.] Ah, that's just it. 
 
 EMMA. How could one! And it would upset them 
 dreadfully. Father and mother don't know that one feels 
 like this at times . . . they'd be very grieved. 
 PHILIP turns to her with kindly irony.
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 27 
 
 PHILIP. Emma, people have been worrying your father 
 at the shop lately about the drawbacks of the living in 
 system. Why don't you ask him to look at home for 
 them? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE retums, at ease in a jacket. He 
 pats his daughter kindly on the shoulder. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Now run along, Jane ... I mean 
 Emma ... I want a word with your cousin. 
 
 EMMA. Yes, Father. 
 
 EMMA — or JANE — obediently disappears. philip 
 'then looks sideways at his uncle. 
 
 PHILIP. I've come over, as you asked me to. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I didn't ask you. 
 
 PHILIP. You dropped a hint. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. {_Almost with o blush.'] Did I? I 
 dessay I did. 
 
 PHILIP. But you must hurry up and decide about the 
 meeting to-morrow. Thomas and I have got to go. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Phil, I supposc you're set on selling. 
 
 PHILIP. Quite. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. You young men ! The Madras Ouse 
 means nothing to you. 
 
 PHILIP. \_Anti-sentimental.^ Nothing unsaleable, Uncle. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Well, well, well ! [Then, in a furtive 
 fuss.'] Well, just a minute, my boy, before your aunt 
 comes down . . . she's been going on at me upstairs, 
 y'know ! Something you must do for me to-morrow, like 
 a good feller, at the shop in the morning. [He suddenly 
 becomes portentous.'] Have you heard this yet about Miss 
 Yates? 
 
 PHILIP. No. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Disgraceful ! Disgraceful ! 
 PHILIP. She got on very well in Bond Street . . . 
 learnt a good deal. She has only been back a few weeks. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. ^Snorting derisively.] Learnt a good
 
 28 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 deal ! \_Then he sights thomas on the balcony, and hails 
 hint.} Oh, come in, Major Thomas. [And dropping his 
 voice again ominously.'] Shut the window, if you don't 
 mind; we don't want the ladies to hear this. 
 
 THOMAS shuts the window, and mr. huxtable 
 spreads himself to the awful enjoyment of impart- 
 ing scandal. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE, I tell you, my boy, up at your place, 
 got hold of she's been by some feller , . . some West End 
 Club feller, I dessay . . . and he's put her in the . . . 
 well, I tell you ! ! Major Thomas will excuse me. Not a 
 chit of a girl, mind you, but first hand in our Costume 
 room. Buyer we were going to make her, and all ! 
 
 PHILIP frowns, both at the news and at his uncle's 
 manner of giving it. 
 
 PHILIP. What do you want me to do? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [^More portcntous than ever.] You 
 wait; that's not the worst of it. You know Brigstock. 
 
 PHILIP. Do I? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Oh, yes ; third man in the Osiery. 
 
 PHILIP. True. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Well ... it secms that more than a 
 week ago Miss Chancellor had caught them kissing. 
 
 PHILIP. [^His impatience of the display growing.] 
 Caught who kissing? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I kuow it ain't clear. Let's go back to 
 the beginning . . . Major Thomas will excuse me. 
 
 THOMAS. [Showing the properest feeling.] Not at all. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Wednesday afternoon, Willoughby, 
 that's our doctor, comes up as usual. Miss Yates goes in 
 to see him. Miss Chancellor — that's our housekeeper, 
 Major Thomas — over'ears, quite by accident, so she says, 
 and afterwards taxes her with it. 
 
 PHILIP. Unwise. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. No ! no ! Her plain duty . . . she
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 29 
 
 knows my principle about such things. But then she re- 
 members about the kissing and that gets about among our 
 young ladies. Somebody stupid there, I grant you, but 
 you know what these things are. And then it gets about 
 about Miss Yates ... all over the shop. And then it 
 turns out that Brigstock's a married man . . . been mar- 
 ried two years . . . secret from us, you know, because 
 he's living in and on promotion and all the rest. And 
 yesterday morning his wife turns up in my office, and has 
 hysterics, and says her husband's been slandered. 
 
 FHiLip. I don't see why Miss Yates should come to 
 any particular harm at our place. A girl's only out of 
 our sight at week ends, and then we're supposed to know 
 where she is. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Still instinctively spreading himself, 
 but with that wistful look creeping on him nozu.] Well 
 ... I had er up the day before. And I don't know what's 
 coming, over me. I scolded her well. I was in the right 
 in all I said . . . but . . . ! Have you ever suddenly eard 
 your own voice saying a thing? Well, I did . . . and it 
 sounded more like a dog barking than me. And I went 
 funny all over. So I told her to leave the room. [He 
 grows distressed and appealing.'} And you must take it 
 on, Phil, ... it ought to be settled to-morrow. Miss 
 Yates must have the sack, and I'm not sure Brigstock 
 hadn't better have the sack. We don't want to lose Miss 
 Chancellor, but really if she can't hold er tongue at her 
 age . . . well, she'd better have . . . 
 
 PHILIP. [Out of patience.} Oh, nonsense, Uncle ! 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [His old Unquestioning self asserted 
 for a moment.} No, I will not have these scandals in the 
 shop. We've always been free of em . . . almost always. 
 I don't want to be hard on the girl. If the man's in our 
 employ, and you can find im out . . . punish the guilty 
 as well as the innocent . . . I'm for all that. [That breath
 
 30 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 exhausted, he continues, quite pathetically, to thomas.] 
 But I do not know what's coming over me. Before I got 
 ill I'd have tackled this business like winking. But when 
 you're a long time in bed ... I'd never been ill like that 
 before ... I dunno how it is . . . you get thinking . . . 
 and things which used to be quite clear don't seem nearly 
 so clear . . . and then after, when you start to do and 
 say the things that used to come natural . . . they don't 
 come so natural as they did, and that puts you off some- 
 thing ... 
 
 This is interrupted by the re-appearance of mrs. 
 HUXTABLE, lace-copped, and ready for dinner. She 
 is at the pitch to ivhich the upstairs dispute with 
 her husband evidently brought her. It would seem 
 he bolted in the middle of it. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE, Is it the fact, Philip, that if your uncle 
 does not attend the meeting to-morrow that this business 
 transaction with Mr. — I forget his name — the American 
 gentleman . . . and which I, of course, know nothing 
 about, will be seriously upset? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. ^Joining battlc.'\ Kitty, I don't see 
 why I shouldn't go. If Constantine chooses to turn up 
 . . . that is his business. I needn't speak directly to him 
 ... so to say. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Hurling this choice bolt from her 
 vocabulary.'] A quibble, lienry. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. If he's leaving England now for 
 good . . . 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. But you do Es you like, of course. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Wistful again.] I should so like you 
 to be convinced. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Don't prevaricate, Henry. And your 
 sister is just coming into the room. We had better drop 
 the subject. 
 
 And in mrs. madras does come, but what with one
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 31 
 
 thing and another mr. huxtable is now getting 
 what he would call thoroughly put out. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE, Now if Amelia here was to propose 
 seeing im 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Henry ... a little consideration ! 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. \_Goadcd to the truth.l Well, I want to 
 go, Kitty, and that's all about it. And I dropped a int, I 
 did, to Phil to come over and help me through it with you. 
 I thought he'd make it seem as if it was most pressing 
 business . . . only he hasn't ... so as to hurt your feel- 
 ings less. Because I'd been bound to have told you after- 
 wards, or it might have slipped out somehow. Goodness 
 gracious me, here's the Madras House, which I've sunk 
 enough money in these last ten years to build a battleship, 
 very nearly ... a small battleship, y'know . . . it's to be 
 sold because Phil won't stand by me, and his father don't 
 care a button now. Not but what that's Constantine all 
 over ! JMarries you, Amelia, behaves like a duke and an 
 archangel, mixed, for eighteen months, and then 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Scandalised, "Before visitors, too!"'] 
 Henry ! 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. All right, all right. And I'm not to 
 attend this meeting, if you please! 
 The little storm subsides. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. It's to be sold, is it? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, Mother. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [At her brother.} It was started with 
 my money as well as yours. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE is recovering, and takes no notice. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, Mother, we know. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. And if that's all you've lost by Constan- 
 tine, I don't see you've a right to be so bitter against him. 
 She is still ignored, mr. huxtable, quite cheery 
 again, goes on affably. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. D'you know, Major Thomas, that
 
 32 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 twenty years ago, when that shop began to be the talk of 
 London, Duchesses have been known to go, to all intents 
 and purposes, on their knees to him to design them a dress. 
 Wouldn't do it unless he pleased — not unless he approved 
 their figure. Ad Society under his thumb. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. {From the height of respectability.'\ 
 No doubt he knew his business. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [In ail ecstasyJ] Knew his business ! 
 Knew his business ! ! My boy, in the old days . . . asked 
 everywhere, like one of themselves, very nearly ! First 
 of his sort to break that barrier. D'you know, it's ^my 
 belief that if Mrs. Gladstone had been thirty years young- 
 er, and a fashionable woman ... he could have had a 
 knighthood. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Explicitly.'] He was untrue to his 
 wife, Henry. 
 
 At this MR. HUXTABLE is the moral man again. 
 These sudden changes are so like him. They are 
 genuine; he is just half conscious of their sud- 
 denness. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Yes, I know, and Amy did what she 
 should have done. You see, it wasn't an ordinary case. 
 Major Thomas. It was girls in the shop. And even 
 though he took em out of the shop . . . that's a slur on 
 the whole trade. A man in his position . . . you can't 
 overlook that. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Palely asserting herself.} I could have 
 overlooked it if I had chosen. 
 
 PHILIP. [To whom this is all so futile and foolish.} 
 My dear mother, you were unhappy with my father, and 
 you left him ... the matter is very simple. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. I beg your pardon, Philip ... I was 
 not unhappy with him. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Amy, how could you be happy with a 
 man who was unfaithful to you? What nonsense!
 
 ACT i] THE ]\IADRAS HOUSE 33 
 
 JANE and JULIA, from the balcony, finding the ivin- 
 ,dow locked, tap with their finger-nails upon the 
 pane. The very sharpness of the sound begins to 
 put out MR. HUXTABLE again. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. No, no ! They can't come in ! [He 
 months at them through the window.'] You can't come in. 
 JANE months hack. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. What? [Then the sense of it coming 
 to him, he looks at his zvatch.} No, it isn't . . . two min- 
 utes yet. 
 
 And he turns azvay, having excluded the innocent 
 mind from this unseemly discussion. But at the 
 very moment laura comes in by the door. His pa- 
 tience flies. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Oh, damn ! Well, I beg pardon. [T/ten 
 in desperate politeness.'] Let me introduce . . . my 
 daughter Laura . . . Major Thomas. 
 
 LAURA. [Collectedly.] We have met. Father. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Giving it all up.] Well . . . how can 
 I tell . . . there are so many of you ! 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [Severely.] I think, Henry, you had 
 better go to this meeting to-morrow. 
 
 MR. HUXTABa,E. [PVistful for a moment.] You think I 
 ought ? 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. You know you ought not, 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Disputing it manfully.] No ... I 
 don't know I ought not. It isn't so easy to know what 
 ought and ought not to be done as you always make out, 
 Kitty. And suppose I just do something wrong for once, 
 and see what happens. 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Henry, don't say such things. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Very reasonably to Major Thomas.] 
 
 Well, since I've been ill 
 
 But EMMA and minnie have come in now, and jane 
 and JULIA, finding their exile a little unreasonable,
 
 34 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act i 
 
 rattle hard at the window, mr. huxtable gives it 
 all up again. 
 
 MR, HUXTABLE. Oh, let em in, Phil . . . there's a good 
 feller. 
 
 THOMAS. Allow me. [And he does so."] 
 
 EMMA. [Crisply. 1 Oh! what's it all been about? 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Never mind, Emma. 
 
 She says this to em ma as she would have said it to 
 her at the age of four. Meanwhile, mr. huxtable 
 has recovered, 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. You know, Major Thomas, Constan- 
 tine could always get the better of me in little things. 
 
 JANE has sighted minnie, and callously, across the 
 breadth of the room, imparts a tragedy. 
 
 JANE. Minnie, your frog's dead ... in the conserva- 
 tory. 
 
 MINNIE pales. 
 
 MINNIE. Oh, dear ! 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. . . . After the difference I began to 
 write to him as Dear Sir; to this day he'll send me busi- 
 ness letters beginning Dear Arry. 
 
 MINNIE is hurrying to the glass house of death. 
 
 JANE. I buried it. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. . . . Always at his ease, you know. 
 THOMAS escapes from him. philip is bending over 
 his mother a little kindlier. 
 
 PHILIP. I'll try to see you again before you go back to 
 Bognor, Mother. 
 
 At this moment the gong rings. A tremendous gong, 
 beloved of the English middle class, which makes 
 any house seem small. A hollow sound; the dinner 
 hour striking its own empty stomach, jane, whose 
 things are not taken off, gives a mitigated yelp and 
 dashes for the door, dashes into the returning, tidy 
 CLARA. MRS. HUXTABLE shakes o finger.
 
 ACT i] THE MADRAS HOUSE 35 
 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. Late again, Jane. 
 PHILIP. We'll be off, Aunt Katharine. 
 MRs: HUXTABLE. [With a cotntnon humanity she has not 
 shewn before.'] Philip . . . never think I mean to be self- 
 righteous about your father. But he made your mother 
 most unhappy when you were too young to know of it . . . 
 and there is the example to others, isn't there? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes ... of course, Aunt Kate. I know just 
 how you feel about it . . . I'm not fond of him, either. 
 
 PHILIP must be a little mischievous with his aunt. 
 She responds by returning at once to her own ap- 
 parent self again. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. My dear boy . . . and your own 
 father ! 
 
 From the balcony one hears the tag of julia's en- 
 tertaining of MAJOR THOMAS. They have been peer- 
 ing at the horizon. 
 JULIA. Yes, it means rain , . . when you see it so 
 clearly. 
 
 A general-post of leave-taking now begins. 
 PHILIP. Well, see you to-morrow, Uncle Henry. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Ycs, I suppose SO. Oh, and about that 
 other matter. ... 
 PHILIP. What can I do? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I'll telephone you in the morning, 
 PHILIP. Good-bye, Mother. 
 THOMAS. Good-bye, Mrs. Huxtable. 
 MRS. HUXTABLE. [With a final flourish of politeness.'] 
 You have excused this domestic discussion, I hope. Major 
 Thomas ... it will happen sometimes. 
 THOMAS. I've been most interested. 
 
 MINNIE comes back sadly from the frog's grave. 
 PHILIP. Good-bye, Clara. 
 CLARA. Good-bye, Philip. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. You really won't stay to dinner?
 
 36 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act 
 
 PHILIP. Good-bye, Laura. 
 
 THOMAS. Thanks, no. We meet to-morrow. 
 
 The general-post quickens, the chorus grows con- 
 fused. 
 
 LAURA. Good-bye. 
 
 THOMAS, Good-bye. 
 
 JANE. Good-bye. 
 
 THOMAS. Good-bye. 
 
 PHILIP. Good-bye, Emma — oh, pardon. 
 
 There has been the confusion of crossed hands. 
 Apologies, withdrawals, a treading on toes, more 
 apologies. 
 
 EMMA. Good-bye, Major Thomas. 
 
 PHILIP. Now good-bye, Emma. 
 
 THOMAS. Good-bye, Mrs. Madras. 
 
 PHILIP. Good-bye. 
 
 THOMAS. Good-bye. 
 
 The chorus and the general-post continue, until at 
 last PHILIP and thomas escape to a tram and a tube 
 and their lunch, while the huxtables sit down in 
 all ceremony to Sunday dinner: Roast beef, horse- 
 radish, Yorkshire pudding, brown potatoes, Brussels 
 sprouts, apple tart, custard and cream, Stilton 
 cheese, dessert.
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE S7 
 
 ACT II 
 
 The business offices of Roberts and Huxtable are tucked 
 azijay upon the first floor somewhere at the back of 
 that large drapery establishment. The waiting-room 
 — the one in which employee sits in shivering prep- 
 aration for interviews with employer — besides thus 
 having been the silent scene of more misery than 
 most places on earth, is one of the very ugliest 
 rooms that ever entered into the mind of a builder 
 and decorator. Four plain walls of brick or plaster, 
 with seats round them, would have left it a waiting- 
 room pure and simple. But the ugly hand of the 
 money maker was upon it. In the person of a con- 
 tractor he thrust upon the unfortunate room — as on 
 all the others — everything that could excuse his 
 price and disguise his profit. The walls, to start 
 with, were distempered an unobjectionable green, 
 hut as that might seem too plain and cheap, a dado 
 of a nice stone colour was added, topped with sten- 
 cilling in dirty red of a pattern that once was Greek. 
 
 The fireplace is apparently designed to provide the maxi- 
 mum amount of work possible for the wretched boy 
 who cleans it every morning, retiring from the con- 
 test well black-leaded himself. The mantelpiece 
 above — only an expert in such abominations knows 
 what it is made of; but it pretends, with the aid of 
 worm-shaped dashes of paint, to be brown marble.
 
 38 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ii 
 
 It is too high for comfort, too low for dignity. It 
 has to he dusted, and usually isn't. 
 
 The square lines of the two long zvindows, which look 
 upon some sanitary brick airshaft, have been care- 
 fully spoilt by the ovalling of their top panes. The 
 half glased door, that opens from the passage, is of 
 the wrong shape; the green baize door, that admits 
 to MR. Philip's room, is of the wrong colour. 
 
 And then the furnishing ! Those yellow chairs upholstered 
 in red cotton goose-flesh plush; that plush-seated, 
 plush-backed bench, placed draughtily between the 
 windows! There is a reasonable office table in the 
 middle of the room. On the walls are, firstly, pho- 
 tographs of ROBERTS and HUXTABLE. ROBERTS WOS O 
 
 Welshman, and looks it. No prosperous drapery 
 business in London but has its Welshman. There is 
 also a photograph of the premises — actual; and an 
 advertisement sketch of them — ideal. There is a 
 ten-year-old fashion plate: twenty faultless ladies 
 engaged in ladylike occupations or serene in the 
 lack of any. There is an insurance almanac, the 
 one thing of beauty in the room. On the mantel- 
 piece lies a London Directory, the one piece of true 
 colour. 
 
 The hand of the money maker that has wrenched awry 
 the Greek pattern on the wall has been laid also on 
 all the four people who sit waiting for mr. philip 
 at noon on this Monday; and to the warping more 
 or less of them all. 
 
 MRS, BRiGSTOCK, Sitting Stiffly on the plush bench, in brown 
 quilled hat and coat and skirt, is, one would guess, 
 a clerk of some sort. She lacks colour; she lacks 
 repose; she lacks — one stops to consider that she 
 might possibly be a beautiful woman were it not 
 for the things she lacks. But she is the product of
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE 39 
 
 fifteen years or so of long hours and little lunch. 
 Certainly at this moment she is not seen at her best. 
 She sits twisting her gloved hands, pulling at a loose 
 thread, nozv and then biting it. Otherwise she bites 
 her lips; her face is drawn, and she stares in front 
 of her with only a twist of the eye now and then 
 towards her husband, who is uncomfortable upon a 
 chair a few feet away. 
 
 If one were asked to size up mr. brigstock, one would 
 say: Nothing against him. The position of Third 
 _ Man in the Hosiery does not require any special 
 talents, and it doesn't get them; or if it does, they 
 don't stay there. And mr. brigstock stays there — 
 just stays there. It sums him up — sum,s up millions 
 of him — to say that in their youth they have energy 
 enough to get into a position; afterwards, in their 
 terror — or sometimes only because their employers 
 have not the heart to dismiss them — they stay there. 
 Sometimes, though, the employers have the heart, 
 and do. And then what happens? Considered as a 
 man rather than a wage earner — not that it is usual 
 for us so to consider him — he is one of those zvho, 
 happily for themselves, get married by women 
 whom apparently no other man much wants to 
 marry. Subdued to what he works in, he is dressed 
 as a Third Man in the Hosiery should be. He is, at 
 the moment, as agitated as his wife, and as he has 
 no nervous force to be agitated with, is in a state 
 of greater wretchedness. 
 
 On the other side of the room sits miss chancellor. 
 Every large living-in draper's should have as house- 
 keeper a lady of a certain age, who can embody in 
 her own person the virtues she will expect in the 
 young ladies under her. Decorum, sobriety of 
 thought, tidiness, respect of persons — these are the
 
 40 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 qualities generally necessary to a shop-assistant's 
 salvation, miss chancellor radiates them. They 
 are genuine in her, too. She is now planted square- 
 ly on her chair, as it might he, in easy authority, 
 hut looking closely, one may see that it is a digni- 
 fied resentment keeping her there immovable. 
 In the middle of the room, hy the tahle, sits miss yates. 
 While they wait this long time the other three try 
 hard to keep their eyes off her. It isn't easy; partly 
 hecause she is in the middle of the room and they 
 are not. But anyhow and anyivhere miss yates is a 
 person that you look at, though you may ignorantly 
 wonder why. She is hy no means pretty, nor does 
 she try to attract you. But you look at her as you 
 look at a fire or a light in an otherwise empty room. 
 She is not a lady, nor is she well educated, and ten 
 years' shop-assisting has left its marks on her. But 
 there it is. To the seeing eye she glows in that 
 room like a live coal. She has genius — she has life, 
 to however low a use she — or the world for her — 
 may put it. And commoner people are lustreless 
 heside her. 
 They wait silently, and the tension increases. At last it is 
 slightly relieved hy Philip's arrival. He comes in 
 hriskly, his hat on, a number of unopened letters 
 in his hand. They get up to receive him with vary- 
 ing degrees of respect and apprehension. 
 PHILIP. Good morning-, Miss Chancellor. Good morn- 
 ing, Miss Yates. Good morning, Mr. Brigstock. 
 
 MR. brigstock. [Introducing her.'\ Mrs. Brigstock. 
 PHILIP nods pleasantly to mrs. brigstock, who 
 purses her lips in a half -frightened, half-vengeful 
 way, and sits down again. Then he puts his hat on 
 the mantelpiece and settles himself in the master 
 position at the tahle.
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 41 
 
 PHILIP. I'm afraid I've kept you waiting a little. Well, 
 now 
 
 There is a sharp knock at the door. 
 
 PHILIP. Come. 
 
 It is BELHAVEN. BELHAVEN is Seventeen, perhaps, 
 on the climb from office hoy to clerk, of the usual 
 pattern, philip greets him pleasantly. 
 
 PHILIP. Oh, good morning, Belhaven. 
 
 BELHAVEN. I've put Major Thomas in your room, sir, 
 as the papers were there, but Mr. Huxtable's is empty, if 
 you'd like . . . 
 
 PHILIP. No, this'll do. 
 
 BELHAVEN. Major Thomas said would you speak to him 
 for a minute, as soon as you came. 
 
 PHILIP. I'll go in now. 
 
 BELHAVEN. Thank you, sir. 
 
 PHILIP. [To the waiting four.'] Excuse me one minute, 
 please. 
 
 BELHAVEN bolts back to his outer office by one door 
 — his way of opening and getting through it is a 
 labour-saving invention; and philip goes to find 
 THOMAS through the other. There is silence again, 
 held by these fojtr at a greater tension than ever. 
 At last MRS. BRIGSTOCK^ Icast able to hear it, gives 
 one desperate wriggle-fidget, brigstock looks at 
 her deprecatingly and says . . . 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. Will you sit here, Freda, if you feel 
 the draught? 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. \_Just trusting herself to answer.] No, 
 thank you. 
 
 Silence again, but soon broken by philip, who 
 comes from the other room, throwing over his 
 shoulder the last of his few words with thomas, 
 "All right, Tommy." tommy, even at the dullest 
 business, always pleasantlv amuses him. Then he
 
 4S THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 settles himself at the table for the second time, 
 conciliatory, kind. 
 PHILIP. Well, now . . . 
 
 MRS. BRiGSTOCK, determined to he first heard, lets 
 slip the torrent of her wrath. 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. It's slander, Mr. Madras, and I re- 
 quest that it shall be retracted immediately . . . before 
 everybody ... in the public press ... by advertisement. 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. [/n ow ogonised whisper.] Oh, Freda 
 . . . not SO eadstrong. 
 
 PHILIP is elaborately cool and good tempered. 
 PHILIP. Miss Chancellor. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR is cveu more elaborately cold and 
 dignified. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. YcS, sir. 
 
 PHILIP. I think w^e might inform Mrs. Brigstock that 
 we're sorry the accusation has become so public ... it 
 has naturally caused her some pain. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Ascending the scale.] I don't believe 
 it ... I didn't believe it ... if I'd have believed it 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK, [Interposing.'] Oh, Freda ! 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. [Very definitely.] I saw them kiss- 
 ing. I didn't know Mr. Brigstock was a married man. 
 And even if I had known it ... I saw them kissing. 
 
 MISS YATES, opening her month for the first time, 
 shows an easy impatience of their anger and their 
 attitudes, too. 
 
 MISS YATES. Oh . . . what sort of a kiss? 
 
 Miss CHANCELLOR. Are there different sorts of kisses. 
 Miss Yates? 
 
 MISS YATES. Well . . . aren't there? 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Growing shrill now.] He owns he did 
 that, and he knows he shouldn't have, and he asked my 
 pardon . . . and whose business is it, but mine . . . ?
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE 43 
 
 MR. BRiGSTOCK. [P'ainly interposing this time.] Oh, 
 Freda ! 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Climbing to hysterics.'] Hussy to let 
 him . , . hussy . . . hussy! 
 
 PHILIP adds a little severity to his coolness. 
 
 PHILIP. Mrs. Brigstock, 
 
 MISS YATES. [As pleasant as possible.] All right . . . 
 Mr. Madras, I don't mind. 
 
 PHILIP. But I do. Mrs. Brigstock, I shall not attempt 
 to clear up this business unless we can all manage to keep 
 our "tempers. 
 
 MISS YATES collectedly explains. 
 
 MISS YATES. I've been friends with Mr. Brigstock these 
 twelve years. We both came into the firm together . . . 
 and I knew he was married . . . p'raps I'm the only one 
 that did. And when I told him ... all I chose to tell him 
 as to what had happened to me ... I asked him to kiss 
 me just to show he didn't think so much the worse of me. 
 And he gave me one kiss . . . here. [She dabs with one 
 finger the left top corner of her forehead.] And that is 
 the truth of that. 
 
 PHILIP. You might have given this explanation to Miss 
 Chancellor. 
 
 MISS YATES. She wouldn't have believed it. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. I don't believe it. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [With gathering force.] William! 
 William ! I William ! ! ! 
 
 BRIGSTOCK desperately musters a little authority. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. Freda, be quiet . . . haven't I sworn it 
 to you on the Bible? '' 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR now puts her case. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. I may say I have known other young 
 ladies in trouble and whether they behaved properly or im- 
 properly under the circumstances . . . and I've known
 
 44^ THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ii 
 
 them behave both . . . they did not confide in their gentle- 
 men friends . . . without the best of reasons. 
 
 PHILIP. There is no reason that they shouldn't, Miss 
 Chancellor. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. They didn't. 
 
 MISS YATES. Well ... I did. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. I had no wish for the scandal to get 
 about. I don't know how it happened. 
 
 MISS YATES. Ask your little favourite, Miss Jordan, 
 how it happened. 
 
 This shot tells, miss chancellor's voice sharpens. 
 
 MISS chancellor. Mr. Madras, if I am to be accused 
 of favouritism 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, yes . . . we'll keep to the point, I think. 
 
 miss chancellor. If Mr. Brigstock wasn't the man 
 
 MRS. brigstock. [The spring touched.l William.! 
 
 miss chancellor. Why shouldn't she tell me who it 
 was? 
 
 miss YATES. Why should I ? 
 
 MISS chancellor. Am I here to look after the morals 
 of these young ladies, or am I not? 
 
 MRS. brigstock. A set of hussies. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. [/« ogony.} Freda, you'll get me the 
 sack. 
 
 PHILIP. Brigstock, if I wished to give any one the sack, 
 I should not be taking the trouble to discuss this with 
 you all in — I hope — a reasonable way. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK, piuch resenting reasonableness, 
 stands up now to give battle. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. Oh, give him the sack, if you please, 
 Mr. Madras. It's time he had it for his own sake. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. No, Freda ! 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. You've got your way to make in the 
 world, haven't you? He's got to start on his own like 
 other people, hasn't he?
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE . 45 
 
 MR. ERiGSTOCK. [Feeling safety and his situation slip- 
 ping.} In time, Freda. 
 
 MRS. ERIGSTOCK, Now's the time. If you're not sick of 
 the life you lead . . . seeing me once a week for an hour 
 or two . . . then I am. And this Hbel and slander makes 
 about the last straw, I should think. 
 
 PHILIP. How long have you been married, Mrs. Brig- 
 stock ? 
 
 MRS. BRiGSTOCK, Fouf ycars. 
 
 PHILIP. Four years ! 
 
 Kirs, brigstock. \_A little quelled by his equable cour- 
 tesy.} Four years ! 
 
 PHILIP. [In amazed impatience.} My dear Brigstock, 
 why not have come to the firm and told them? It could 
 have been arranged for you to live out with your wife. 
 
 MR. brigstock. Well, I have been thinking of it lately, 
 sir, but I never seem to happen on a really likely moment. 
 I'm afraid I'm not a favourite in my department. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. No fault of his ! 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. And it's sometimes a very little thing 
 makes the difference between a feller's going and staying 
 . . . when all those that aren't wanted are cleared out 
 after sale time, I mean, for instance. And, of course, the 
 thirty pound a year they allow you to live out on does not 
 keep you . . . it's no use my saying it does. And when 
 you're married . . , 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Who has gathered her grievances 
 again.} I agreed to it. I have my profession, too. We've 
 been saving quicker. It's three hundred pounds now, all 
 but a bit . . . that's enough to start on. I've got my eye 
 on the premises. It's near here, I don't mind telling you. 
 Why shouldn't we do as well as others . . . and ride in 
 our carriages when we're fifty ! 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. [Deprecating such great optimism.} 
 Well, I've asked advice . . .
 
 46 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 MRS. BRiGSTOCK. You think too much of advice. If 
 you'd value yourself higher ! Give him the sack, if you 
 please, Mr. Madras, and I'll say thank you. 
 
 She finishes, and suddenly miss yates takes up this 
 part of the tale quite otherivise. 
 
 miss YATES. He has asked my advice, and I've told him 
 to stay where he is. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Her breath leaving herJ] Oh, indeed ! 
 
 MISS YATES. He's as steady as can be. But his appear- 
 ance is against him. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. {Hardly recovering itJ] Well, I never ! 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. A feller does think of the future, 
 Marion. 
 
 MISS YATES. I wouldn't if I were you. I don't know 
 where we all get to when we're fifty, and I've never met 
 anyone who did. We're not in the shop any longer, most 
 of us, are we? And we're not all in our carriages. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. [Meekly.'] I suppose it can be done. 
 
 MISS YATES. Oh . . . premises near here and three 
 hundred pounds. Perfect foolery, and William ought to 
 know it is. This firm'll undersell you and eat you up and 
 a dozen more like you . . . and the place that's trusted 
 you for your stock will sell up every stick, and there you'll 
 be in the gutter. I advised him to own up to you {she 
 nods at mrs. brigstock] and live out and do the best he 
 could. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. {More drenched with the cold water 
 than she'll own.] I'm much obliged, I'm sure . . . I've 
 my own opinion. . . . 
 
 PHILIP. {Who has been studying her rather anxiously. 1 
 You've no children, Mrs. Brigstock? 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK gOCS wllitC. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. No, I've no children. How can you 
 save when you have children? But if it was his child this 
 hussy was going to have, and I thought God wouldn't
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 47 
 
 strike him dead on the spot, I'd do it myself, so I would 
 , . . and he knows I would. 
 
 MR. BRiGSTOCK. Haven't I taken my oath to you, Freda? 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. How can I tell if he's speaking the 
 truth ... I ask you how can I tell ? I lie awake at night 
 away from him till I could scream with thinking about it. 
 And I do scream as loud as I dare . . . not to wake the 
 house. And if somebody don't open that window, I shall 
 go off. 
 
 PHILIP. Open the window, please, Mr. Brigstock. 
 
 Philip's voice is serious, though he says but a sim- 
 ple thing, mr. brigstock opens the window as a 
 man may do in a sick room, helpless, a little dazed. 
 Then he turns back to his wife, who is sitting, head 
 tilted against the sharp back of the plush bench, 
 eyes shut, mouth open. Only miss yates is ready 
 with her bit of practical comfort. 
 miss YATES. Look here, don't you worry. I could have 
 married William if I'd wanted to. That ought to be proof 
 enough. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. There you are, Freda. 
 MISS YATES. Before he knew you. 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Opening her eyes."] Did you ask her ? 
 MISS YATES. No, he never asked me . . . but you know 
 what I mean. 
 
 MISS YATES gives emphasis to this with what one 
 fears must be described as a wink. mrs. brigstock 
 looks at the acquiescent brigstock and acknowl- 
 edges the implication. 
 MRS. brigstock. Ycs, I know. Oh, I don't believe it 
 really. 
 
 Comforted, she discovers her handkerchief and 
 blows her nose, after which miss chancellor, zvho 
 has been sitting all this while still, silent, and scorn- 
 ful, inquires in her politest voice.
 
 48 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Do you wish me still to remain, 
 Mr. Madras? 
 
 PHILIP. One moment. 
 
 MISS YATES. Oh, you'll cxcuse my back, sir. {And she 
 turns to the table again.'] 
 
 PHILIP. I don't think I need detain you any longer, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Brigstock. Your character is now quite clear 
 in the firm's eyes, Brigstock, and I shall see that arrange- 
 ments are made for you to live out in the future. I apolo- 
 gise to you both for all this unpleasantness. 
 
 They have both risen at this, and now brigstock 
 begins, hesitatingly. 
 
 MR.. BRIGSTOCK. Well . , . thank you . . . sir . . . 
 and . . . 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. No, William. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. All right, Freda ! [He struggles into 
 his prepared speech.} We are very much obliged to you, 
 sir, but I do not see how I can remain with the firm unless 
 there has been, with regard to the accusation, some defi- 
 nite retraction. 
 
 PHILIP. [Near the end of his patience.^ My good man, 
 it is retracted. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. PubHcly. 
 
 PHILIP. Nonsense, Mrs. Brigstock. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Quite herself again.] Is it indeed 
 . . . how would you like it? [Then becoming self-con- 
 scious.] Well, I beg pardon. I'm sure we're very sorry 
 for Miss Yates, and I wish she were married. 
 
 MISS YATES. [With some gusto.] So do I ! 
 Suddenly miss chancellor bursts out. 
 
 Miss CHANCELLOR. Then you wicked girl, why didn't 
 you say so before . . . when I wished to be kind to you? 
 And we shouldn't all be talking in this outrageous, inde- 
 cent way. I never did in all my life. I don't know how I 
 manage to sit here. Didn't I try to be kind to you?
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 49 
 
 MISS YATES. [Unconquerable.'] Yes, and you tried to 
 cry over me. No, I don't wish I were married. 
 
 MR. BRiGSTOCK. Of coursc it's not for me to say, 
 Marion, but will the way you're going on now stop the 
 other young ladies tattling? 
 
 The tone of the dispute now sharpens rather dan- 
 gerously. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. How's Mr. Brigstock to remain in the 
 firm if Miss Chancellor does? 
 
 PHILIP. That is my business, Mrs. Brigstock. 
 
 "MISS CHANCELLOR. What . . . whcn I saw him kissing 
 her . . . kissing her ! 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. William ! 
 
 PHILIP. That has been explained. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. No, Mr. Madras, while I'm house- 
 keeper here I will not countenance loose behaviour. I 
 don't believe one word of these excuses, 
 
 PHILIP. This is just obstinacy, Miss Chancellor. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. And personally I wish to reiterate 
 every single thing I said. 
 
 And now it degenerates into a wrangle. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. Then the law shall deal with you. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. You can dismiss me at once, if you 
 like, Mr. Madras. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. It's libellous . . . it's slander , . . ! 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. Oh, Freda, don't ! 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. Yes, and she can be put in prison for 
 it. 
 
 Miss CHANCELLOR. If Miss Yatcs and Mr. Brigstock 
 stay with this firm, I go. 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. And she shall be put in prison . . . 
 the cat ! 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. Don't, Freda ! 
 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. The heartlcss cat! Do you swear it 
 isn't true, William?
 
 50 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ii 
 
 PHILIP. Take your wife away, Brigstock. 
 
 Philip's sudden vehemence causes mrs. brigstock 
 to make straight for the edge of her self-control — 
 and over it. 
 MRS. brigstock. Yes, and he takes himself away . . . 
 leaves the firm, I should think so, and sorry enough you'll 
 be before we've done. I'll see what the law will say to her 
 . . , and they're not a hundred yards off ... on the bet- 
 ter side of the street, too, and a plate glass window as 
 big as yours. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. Do be quiet, Freda! 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [In hystcrics now.'] Three hundred 
 pounds, and how much did Maple have when he started 
 ... or Whiteley . . . and damages, what's more . . , 
 And me putting up with the life I've led . . . ! 
 
 They wait till the fit subsides — philip with kindly 
 impatience, brigstock in mute apology — and mrs. 
 brigstock is a mass of sobs. Then brigstock edges 
 her towards the door. 
 PHILIP. Wait . . . wait . . . wait. You can't go into 
 the passage making that noise. 
 
 MR. BRIGSTOCK. Oh, Freda, you don't mean it. 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. [Relieved and contrite.] I'm sure I 
 hope I've said nothing unbecoming a lady ... I didn't 
 mean to. 
 PHILIP. Not at all . . . it's natural you should be upset. 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. And We're very much obliged for your 
 kind intentions to us . . . 
 
 PHILIP. Wait till you're quite calm. 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. Thank you. 
 
 Then with a final touch of injury, resentment, dig- 
 nity, she shakes off brigstock's timid hold. 
 MRS. BRIGSTOCK. You needn't hold me, William. 
 
 WILLIAM follows her out to forget and make her 
 forget it all as best he can. philip comes back to
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE 51 
 
 his chair, still good-humoured, but not altogether 
 pleased with his own part in the business so far. 
 
 PHILIP. I'm afraid you've put yourself in the wrong, 
 Miss Chancellor. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. One often does, sir, in doing one's 
 duty. [Then her voice rises to a sort of swan songj] 
 Thirty years have I been with the firm . . . only thirty 
 years. I will leave to-morrow. 
 
 PHILIP. I hope you recognise it will not be my fault if 
 you have to. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Miss Yatcs can obviate it. She has 
 only to speak the truth. 
 
 PHILIP now makes another effort to be frank and 
 kindly. 
 
 PHILIP. Miss Chancellor, are we quite appreciating the 
 situation from Miss Yates's point of view? Suppose she 
 were married? 
 
 MISS YATES. I'm not married. 
 
 PHILIP. But if you told us you were, we should have 
 to believe you. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Why, Mr. Madras? 
 
 PHILIP. [With a smile.'] It would be good manners to 
 believe her. We must believe so much of what we're told 
 in this world. 
 
 MISS YATES. [Who has quite caught on.} Well, I did 
 mean to stick that up on you ... if anyone wants to 
 know. I bought a wedding ring, and I had it on when I 
 saw Dr. Willoughby. But when she came in with her 
 long face and her What can I do for you, my poor child? 
 . . . well, I just couldn't ... I suppose the Devil tempted 
 me, and I told her the truth. 
 
 PHILIP. That's as I thought, so far. Miss Yates, have 
 you that wedding ring with you? 
 
 MISS YATES. Yes, I have . . . it's not real gold. 
 
 PHILIP. Put it on.
 
 52 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 MISS YATES, having fished it out of a petticoat pocket, 
 rather zvonderingly does so, and philip turns, ma- 
 liciously humourous, to miss chancellor. 
 
 PHILIP. Now where are we, Miss Chancellor? 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. I think We're mocking at a very 
 sacred thing, Mr. Madras. 
 
 MISS YATES. Yes . . . and I won't now. 
 
 With a sudden access of emotion she slams the ring 
 upon the table, philip meditates for a moment on 
 the fact that there are some things in life still inac- 
 cessible to his light-hearted logic. 
 
 PHILIP. True . . . true ... I beg both your pardons. 
 But suppose the affair had not got about, Miss Yates? 
 
 MISS YATES. Well ... I should have had a nice long 
 illness. It'd all depend on whether you wanted me enough 
 to keep my place open. 
 
 PHILIP, You are an employee of some value to the firm. 
 
 MISS YATES. I reckoned you would. Miss Mclntyre'd 
 be pleased to stay on a bit now she's quarrelled with her 
 fiance. Of course if I'd only been behind the counter . . . 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. [Who has drawn the longest of 
 breaths at this calculated immodesty.'] This is how she 
 brazened it out to me, Mr. Madras. This is just what she 
 told Mr. Huxtable . . . and you'll pardon my saying he 
 took a very different view of'the matter to what you seem 
 to be taking. 
 
 MISS YATES. Oh, I've got to go, now I'm found out . . . 
 I'm not arguing about it. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. [Severely.'] Mr. Madras, what sort 
 of notions are you fostering in this wretched girl's mind? 
 
 PHILIP. [Gently enough.] I was trying for a moment 
 to put myself in her place. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. You will excuse me saying, sir, that 
 you are a man . . . 
 
 PHILIP. Not at all !
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE 53 
 
 A poor joke, but miss chancellor remains tincon- 
 • scions of it. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Because a woman is independent, 
 and earning her living, she's not to think she can go on as 
 she pleases. If she wishes to have children. Providence 
 has provided a way in the institution of marriage. Miss 
 Yates would have found little difficulty in getting mar- 
 ried, I gather. 
 
 MISS YATES. Living in here for twelve years ! 
 ._MisS CHANCELLOR. Have you been a prisoner, Miss 
 Yates? Not to mention that there are two hundred and 
 thirty-five gentlemen employed here. 
 
 Miss YATES. Supposing I don't like any of em? 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. My dear Miss Yates, if you are 
 merely looking for a husband as such . . . well . . . we're 
 all God's creatures, I suppose. Personally, I don't notice 
 much difference in men, anyway. 
 
 MISS YATES. Nor did I. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Lack of self-control . . . 
 
 MISS YATES. I S it ! 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. . . . And sclf-respect. That's what 
 the matter is. Are we beasts of the field, I should like to 
 know? I simply do not understand this unladylike atti- 
 tude towards the facts of life. Is there nothing for a 
 woman to do in the world but to run after men ... or 
 pretend to run away from them? I am fifty-eight . . . 
 and I have passed, thank God, a busy and a happy and I 
 hope a useful life . . . and I have never thought any more 
 or less of men than I have of any other human beings . . . 
 or any differently. I look upon spinsterhood as an hon- 
 ourable state, as my Bible teaches me to. Men are differ- 
 ent. But some women marry happily and well . . . and 
 all women can't . . . and some can't marry at all. These 
 facts have to be faced, I take it.
 
 54 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 PHILIP. We may take it that Miss Yates has been facing 
 them. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Yes, sir, and in what spirit ? I have 
 always endeavoured to influence the young ladies under 
 my control towards the virtues of modesty and decorum 
 ... so that they may regard either state with an indiffer- 
 ent mind. If I can no longer do that, I prefer to resign 
 my charge. I will say before this young person that I 
 regret the story should have got about. But when anyone 
 has committed a fault it seems to me immaterial who knows 
 of it. 
 
 PHILIP. [Reduced to irony.l Do you really think so? 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Do you require me any more now? 
 
 PHILIP. I am glad to have had your explanation. We'll 
 have a private talk to-morrow. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR. Thank you, sir. I think that will 
 be more in order. Good morning. 
 
 PHILIP. Good morning. 
 
 MISS CHANCELLOR lias expressed herself to her en- 
 tire satisfaction, and retires in good order, miss 
 YATES, conscientiously brazen until the enemy has 
 quite disappeared, collapses pathetically. And 
 PHILIP, at his ease at last, begins to scold her in a 
 most brotherly manner. 
 
 MISS YATES. I'm sure she's quite right in all she says. 
 
 PHILIP. She may not be. But are you the sort of 
 woman to have got yourself into a scrape of this kind. 
 Miss Yates? 
 
 MISS YATES. I'm glad you think I'm not, sir. 
 
 PHILIP. Then what on earth did you go and do it for? 
 
 MISS YATES. I don't know. I didn't mean to. 
 
 PHILIP. Why aren't you married? 
 
 MISS YATES. That's my business. [Then, as if making 
 amends for the sudden snap.} Oh . . . I've thought of
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE 55 
 
 getting married any time these twelve years. But look 
 what- happens . . . look at the Brigstocks . . , 
 
 PHILIP. No, no, no . . . that's not what I mean. Why 
 aren't you to be married even now? 
 MISS YATES. I'd rather not say. 
 
 MISS YATES assumes an air of reticence natural 
 enough; but there is something a little peculiar in 
 the manner of it, so philip thinks. 
 PHILIP. Very well. 
 _ MiaS YATES. I'd rather not talk about that part of it, 
 sir, with you, if you don't mind. [Then she bursts out 
 again.'] I took the risk. I knew what I was about. I 
 wanted to have my fling. And it was fun for a bit. That 
 sounds horrid, I know, but it was. 
 PHILIP is watching her. 
 PHILIP. Miss Yates, I've been standing up for you, 
 haven't I? 
 
 MISS YATES. Yes. 
 
 PHILIP. That's because I have unconventional opinions. 
 But I don't do unconventional things. 
 
 MISS YATES. [Naively.'] Why don't you? 
 
 PHILIP. I shouldn't do them well. Now you start on 
 this adventure believing all the other people say, so I'm 
 not happy about you. As man to man, Miss Yates . . . 
 were you in a position to run this risk? 
 
 MISS YATES honestly thinks before she speaks. 
 
 MISS YATES. Yes ... I shall be getting a hundred and 
 forty a year living out. I've planned it all. [She grows 
 happily confidential.] There's a maisonette at Raynes 
 Park, and I can get a cheap girl to look after it and to 
 take care of ... I shall call him my nephew, like the 
 Popes of Rome used to ... or why can't I be a widow? 
 I can bring him up and do him well on it. Insurance'll 
 be a bit stifif in case anything happens to me. But I've got
 
 56 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 nearly two hundred saved in the bank to see me through 
 till next summer. 
 
 PHILIP. Where are you going when you leave here? 
 What relations have you? 
 
 MISS YATES, I have an aunt. I hate her. 
 
 PHILIP. Where are you going for the winter? 
 
 MISS YATES. Evercreech. 
 
 PHILIP. Where's that? 
 
 MISS YATES. I don't kuow. You get to it from Water- 
 loo. I found it in the A. B. C. 
 
 PHILIP. [In protest.} But my dear girl . . . ! 
 
 MISS YATES. Well, I want a place where nobody knows 
 me, so I'd better go to one which I don't know, hadn't I? 
 I always make friends. I'm not afraid of people. And 
 I've never been in the country in the winter. I want to 
 see what it's like. 
 
 PHILIP surrenders, on this point beaten; but takes 
 up another more seriously. 
 
 PHILIP. Well . . . granted that you don't want a hus- 
 band . . . it's your obvious duty to make the man help 
 you support his child. 
 
 MISS YATES is ready for it; serious, too. 
 
 MISS YATES. I daresay. But I won't. I've known other 
 girls in this sort of mess — one or two . . . with everybody 
 being kind to them and sneering at them. And there they 
 sat and cried, and v»-ere ashamed of themselves ! What's 
 the good of that? And the fellows hating them. Well, I 
 don't want him to hate me. He can forget all about it if 
 he likes . . . and of course he will. I started by crying 
 my eyes out. Then I thought that if I couldn't buck up 
 and anyway pretend to be pleased and jolly well proud, I 
 might as well die. And d'you know when I'd been pre- 
 tending a bit I found that I really was pleased and proufi. 
 . . . And I am really proud and happy about it now, sir
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 57 
 
 ... I am not pretending. I daresay I've done wrong . . . 
 
 perhaps I ought to come to grief altogether, but 
 
 At this moment a telephone in the table rings vio- 
 lently, and MISS yates apologises — to it, apparently. 
 
 MISS YATES. Oh, I beg pardon. 
 
 PHILIP. Excuse me. [Then answering.'] Yes. Who? 
 No, no, no . . . State. Mr. State. Put him through. [He 
 is evidently put through.] Morning! Who? My father 
 . . . not yet. Yes, from Marienbad. 
 
 MISS YATES gets up, apparently to withdraw tact- 
 fully, but looking a little startled, too. 
 
 MISS YATES. Shall I . . . 
 
 PHILIP. No, no; it's all right. 
 
 BELHAVEN knocks, comes in, and stands waiting by 
 PHILIP, who telephones on. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes? Well? . . . Who . . . IMark who? . . . 
 Aurelius. No. I've not been reading him lately . . . Cer- 
 tainly I will . . . Thomas is here doing figures . . . d'you 
 want him . . . I'll put you through. . . . No, wait. I'll 
 call him here, if it's not private. [Then calling out.] 
 Tommy ! 
 
 BELHAVEN. Major Thomas is in the counting house, 
 sir. 
 
 PHILIP. Oh. [Then through the telephone.] If you'll 
 hold the line I can get him in a minute. Say Mr. State's 
 on the telephone for him, Belhaven. 
 
 BELHAVEN. Ycs, Sir . . . and Mrs. Madras is below in 
 a taxicab, sir, and would like to speak to you. Shall she 
 come up, or, if you're too busy to be interrupted, will you 
 come down to her? 
 
 PHILIP. My mother? 
 
 BELHAVEN. No, not Mrs. Madras . . . your Mrs. 
 Madras, sir. 
 
 PHILIP. Bring her up. And tell Major Thomas. 
 
 BELHAVEN. YcS, sir.
 
 68 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ii 
 
 BELHAVEN acMeves a greased departure, and philip 
 turns back to miss yates. 
 PHILIP. Where were we? 
 
 miss yates. [Inconsequcntly.'] It is hot in here, isn't 
 it? 
 PHILIP, The window's open. 
 miss yates. Shall I shut it? 
 
 She turns and goes up to the window; one xvould 
 say to run azvay from him. philip watches her 
 steadily. 
 PHILIP. What's the matter, Miss Yates? 
 
 She comes hack more collectedly. 
 miss yates. Oh, I'm sure Miss Chancellor can't expect 
 me to marry one like that now . . . can she? 
 PHILIP. Marry who? 
 
 miss yates. Not that I say anything against Mr. Bel- 
 haven ... a very nice young man. And, indeed, I rather 
 think he did try to propose last Christmas. The fact is, 
 y'know, it's only the very young men that ever do ask 
 you to marry them here. When they get older they seem 
 to lose heart ... or they think it'll cost too much ... or 
 . . . but anyway, I'm sure it's not important . . . 
 
 This very out-of-place chatter dies away under 
 Philip's sternly enquiring gaze. 
 PHILIP. There's one more thing I'm afraid I ought to 
 ask you. This trouble hasn't come about in any way by our 
 sending you up to Bond Street, has it? 
 
 MISS yates. [Diving into many words again.'] Oh, of 
 course it was most kind of you to send me to Bond Street 
 to get a polish on one's manners . . . but I tell you ... I 
 couldn't have stood it for long. Those ladies that you get 
 coming in there . . . well, it does just break your nerve. 
 What with following them about, and the things they say 
 you've got to hear, and the things they'll say . . . about 
 you half the time , . . that you've got not to hear . . .
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE 59 
 
 and keep your voice low and sweet, and let your arms 
 hang (iown straight. You may work more hours in this 
 place, and I daresay it's commoner, but the customers are 
 friendly with you. 
 
 PHILIP. , . . Because, you see, Mr, Huxtable and I 
 would feel a little more responsible if it was anyone con- 
 nected with us who . . . 
 
 MISS YATES. [Quite desperately.'] No, you needn't . . . 
 indeed you needn't ... I will say there's something in 
 that other place that does set your mind going about men. 
 What he saw in me I never could think . . , honestly, I 
 couldn't, though I think a good deal of myself, I can as- 
 sure you. But it was my own fault, and so's all the rest 
 of it going to be , . my very own . . . 
 
 MAJOR Thomas's arrival is to miss yates a very 
 welcome interruption, as she seems, perhaps by the 
 .hypnotism of philip's steady look, to be getting 
 nearer and nearer to saying just what she means 
 not to. He comes in at a good speed, glancing back 
 along the passage, and saying . . . 
 THOMAS. Here's Jessica. 
 PHILIP. State on the telephone. 
 THOMAS. Thank you. 
 
 And he makes for it as Jessica comes to the open 
 door. Philip's zvife is an epitome of all that (es- 
 thetic culture can do for a zvoman. More: She is 
 the result — not of thirty-three years — but of three 
 or four generations of cumulative refinement. She 
 might be a race horse! Come to think of it, it is 
 a very wonderful thing to have raised this crop of 
 ladyhood. Creatures, dainty in mind and body, gen- 
 tle in thought and word, charming, delicate, sensi- 
 tive, graceful, chaste, credulous of all good, shaming 
 the world's ugliness and strife by the very ease and 
 delightsomeness of their existence; fastidious — fas-
 
 60 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ii 
 
 tidious — fastidious; also in these latter years with 
 their attractions more generally salted by the addi- 
 tion of learning and humour. Is not the perfect 
 lady perhaps the most wonderful achievement of 
 civilisation, and worth the cost of her breeding, 
 worth the toil and the helotage of — all the others? 
 JESSICA MADRAS is even something more than a lady, 
 for she is conscious of her ladyhood. She values 
 her virtue and her charm: she is proud of her cul- 
 ture, and fosters it. It is her weapon; it justifies 
 her. As she floats now into the ugly room, ex- 
 quisite from her eyelashes to her shoes, it is a great 
 relief — just the sight of her. 
 
 JESSICA. Am I interrupting? 
 
 PHILIP. No, come in, my dear. 
 
 THOMAS. [Into the telephone.'] Hullo ! 
 
 PHILIP. Well, Miss Yates, I want to see, if I can, that 
 you are not more unfairly treated than people with the 
 courage of their opinions always are. 
 
 THOMAS. Hullo ! 
 
 PHILIP. Oh, you don't know my wife. Jessica, this is 
 Miss Yates, who is in our costume room. You're not 
 actually working in your department now, I suppose ? 
 
 Miss YATES. [As defiant of all scandal.] I am. 
 
 THOMAS. [Still to the unresponsive telephone.] Hullo! 
 
 Hullo ! 
 
 PHILIP. [Finding Miss yates beyond — possibly above 
 
 him.] Very well. That'll do now. 
 
 But MISS yates, by the presence of jessica, is now 
 brought to her best costume department manner. 
 She can assume at will, it seems, a new face, a new 
 voice; can become, indeed, a black-silk being of 
 another species. 
 MISS YATES. Thank you, sir. I'm sure I hope I've not 
 
 talked too much. I always was a chatterbox, madam.
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 61 
 
 PHILIP. You had some important things to say, Miss 
 Yates. 
 MISS YATES. Not at all, sir. Good morning, madam. 
 JESSICA. Good morning. 
 
 And there is an end of miss yates. Meanwhile, 
 the telephone is reducing thomas to impotent fury. 
 THOMAS. They've cut him off. 
 
 While he turns the handle fit to break it, jessica 
 . produces an opened telegram, which she hands to 
 
 ' PHILIP. 
 
 JESSICA. This . . . just after you left. 
 
 PHILIP. My dear, coming all this way with it ! Why 
 didn't you telephone? 
 
 THOMAS. [Hearing something at last.'\ Hullo ... is 
 that Mr. State's office ? No ! Well . . . Counting house, 
 are you still through to it? 
 
 JESSICA is watching, with an amused smile. 
 
 JESSICA. I hate the telephone, especially the one here. 
 Hark at you. Tommy, poor wretch ! They put you through 
 from office to office . . . six different clerks ... all stu- 
 pid, and all with hideous voices. 
 
 PHILIP has now read his telegram, and is making 
 a face. 
 
 PHILIP. Well, I suppose she must come, if she wants to. 
 
 JESSICA. What'U your father say? 
 
 PHILIP. My dear girl . . . she has a right to see him 
 if she insists . . . it's very foolish. Here, Tommy ! [He 
 ousts him from the telephone and deals expertly with it.l 
 I want a telegram sent. Get double three double O Cen- 
 tral, and plug through to my room . . . not here . . . my 
 room. 
 
 THOMAS. [Fervently.'] Thank yer. 
 
 JESSICA. Got over your anger at the play last night? 
 
 THOMAS. Oh, sort of play you must expect if you go to 
 the theatre on a Sunday. Scuse me.
 
 62 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 Having admiringly sized up jessica and her cos- 
 tume, he holts. PHILIP sits down to compose his 
 telegram in reply, jessica, discovering that there 
 is nothing attractive to sit on, hovers. 
 
 PHILIP. Can you put her up for the night? 
 
 JESSICA, Yes. 
 
 PHILIP. Shall I ask her to dinner? 
 
 JESSICA. She'll cry into the soup . . . but I suppose it 
 doesn't matter. 
 
 PHILIP. Dinner at eight? 
 
 JESSICA. I sound inhospitable. 
 
 PHILIP. Well, I've only said we shall be delighted. 
 
 JESSICA. But your mother dislikes me so. It's difficult 
 to see much of her. 
 
 PHILIP. You haven't much patience with her, have you, 
 Jessica? 
 
 JESSICA. Have you? 
 
 PHILIP. [Whimsically.'] I've known her longer than 
 you have. 
 
 JESSICA. [With the nicest humour.] I only wish she 
 wouldn't write Mildred silly letters about God. 
 
 PHILIP. A grandmother's privilege. 
 
 JESSICA. The child sends me on another one this morn- 
 ing . . . did I tell you? 
 
 PHILIP. No. 
 
 JESSICA. Miss Gresham writes, too. She puts it quite 
 nicely. But it's an awful thing for a school to get relig- 
 ion into it. 
 
 BELHAVEN sUdcs in. 
 BELHAVEN. Yessir. 
 PHILIP. Send this at once, please. 
 BELHAVEN. Yessir. 
 
 BELHAVEN sUdcs out. Then PHILIP starts attending 
 
 to the little pile of letters he brought in with him. 
 
 JESSICA, neglected, hovers more widely.
 
 ACT n] THE MADRAS HOUSE 63 
 
 JESSICA. Will you come out to lunch, Phil? 
 
 PHILIP. Lord! is it lunch time? 
 
 JESSICA. It will be soon. I'm lunching with Margaret 
 Inman and Walter Muirhead at the Dieudonne. 
 
 PHILIP. Then you won't be lonely. 
 
 JESSICA. IMischievous.] Margaret may be if you don't 
 come. 
 
 PHILIP. I can't, Jessica. I'm not nearly through. 
 
 She comes to rest by his table, and starts to play 
 with the things on it, finding at last a blotting roller 
 that gives satisfaction. 
 
 JESSICA. Phil, you might come out with me a little 
 more than you do. 
 
 PHILIP. [Humorously final.'] My dear, not at lunch 
 time. 
 
 JESSICA. Ugly Httle woman you'd been scolding when 
 I came in. 
 
 PHILIP. I didn't think so. 
 
 JESSICA. Are ugly women as attractive as ugly men? 
 
 PHILIP. D'you know ... I don't find that women at- 
 tract me. 
 
 JESSICA. What a husband! 
 
 PHILIP. D'you want them to? 
 
 JESSICA. Yes ... in theory. 
 
 PHILIP. Why, Jessica? 
 
 JESSICA, [With charming finesse.] For my own sake. 
 Last day of Walter's pictures. He has sold all but about 
 five . . . and there's one I wish you'd buy. 
 
 PHILIP. Can't afford it. 
 
 JESSICA. I suppose, Phil, you're not altogether sorry 
 you married me ? 
 
 Although philip is used enough to her charming 
 and reasoned inconsequence, he really jumps. 
 
 PHILIP. Good heavens, Jessica! Well, we've got 
 through eleven years, haven't we?
 
 64 THE IVIADRAS HOUSE [act ii 
 
 JESSICA puts her head on one side and is quite half 
 serious. 
 JESSICA. Are you in the least glad you married me? 
 PHILIP. My dear ... I don't think about it. Jessica, 
 I cannot keep up this game of repartee. 
 
 She floats away at once, half seriously snubbed and 
 hurt. 
 JESSICA. I'm sorry. I know I'm interrupting. 
 PHILIP. [^Remorseful at once, for she is so pretty.^ No, 
 no ! I didn't mean that. These aren't important. 
 
 But he goes on with his letters, and jessica stands 
 looking at him, her face hardening a little. 
 JESSICA. But there are times when I get tired of wait- 
 ing for you to finish your letters. 
 
 PHILIP. I know ... I never quite finish my letters 
 now-a-days. You've got a fit of the idle-fidgets this morn- 
 ing . . . that's what brings you after me. Shall we hire 
 a motor car for the week-end? 
 
 THOMAS bundles into the tete-a-tete, saying as he 
 comes . . . 
 THOMAS. He'll m.ake you an offer for the place here, 
 Phil. 
 PHILIP. Good ! 
 
 JESSICA stands there, looking her prettiest. 
 JESSICA. Tommy, come otit and lunch . . . Phil won't. 
 THOMAS. I'm afraid I can't. 
 
 JESSICA. I've got to meet Maggie Inman and young 
 Muirhead. He'll flirt with her all the time. If there isn't 
 a fourth I shall be fearfully in the cold. 
 
 PHILIP. [Overcome by such tergiversation.} Oh, Jes- 
 sica ! 
 
 THOMAS is nervous, apparently ; at least he is neither 
 ready nor gallant. 
 THOMAS. Yes, of course you will. But I'm afraid I 
 can't
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 65 
 
 JESSICA. [In cheerful despair.} Well, I won't drive to 
 Peckham again of a morning. Wednesday, then, will you 
 call for me? 
 
 THOMAS. Wednesday? 
 JESSICA. Symphony Concert. 
 
 THOMAS. [With sudden seriousness.'} D'you know, I'm 
 afraid I can't on Wednesday, either. 
 JESSICA. Why not? 
 
 THOMAS. [Though the pretence withers before a cer- 
 tain sharpness in her question.'] Well . . . I'm afraid I 
 can't. 
 
 It is evident that jessica has a temper bred to a 
 point of control which makes it nastier, perhaps. 
 She now becomes very cold, very civil, very swift. 
 JESSICA. We settled it only last night. What's the 
 time? 
 PHILIP. Five to one. 
 JESSICA. I must go. I shall be late. 
 THOMAS. [With great concern.} Have you got a cab? 
 JESSICA. I think so. 
 
 THOMAS. We might do the next, perhaps. 
 JESSICA, All right, Tommy . . . don't be conscience- 
 stricken. But when you change your mind about going 
 out with me it's pleasanter if you'll find some excuse. 
 Good-bye, you two. 
 
 And she is gone; philip calling after her 
 
 PHILIP. I shall be in by seven, my dear. 
 
 THOMAS looks a little relieved, and then consider- 
 ably worried; in fact, he frowns portentously. 
 PHILIP disposes of his last letter. 
 PHILIP. We've so organised the world's work as to 
 make companionship between men and women a very 
 artificial thing. 
 
 THOMAS. [Without interest.} Have we?
 
 66 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 PHILIP. I think so. What have we got to settle before 
 this afternoon? 
 
 THOMAS. Nothing much. [Then seeming to make up 
 his mind to something.'] But I want three minutes' talk 
 with you, old man, 
 
 PHILIP. Oh ! 
 
 And he gets up and stretches. 
 
 THOMAS. D'you mind if I say something caddish? 
 
 PHILIP. No. 
 
 THOMAS. Put your foot down and don't have me asked 
 to your house quite so much, 
 
 PHILIP looks at him for half a puzzled minute. 
 
 PHILIP, Why not? 
 
 THOMAS. I'm seeing too much of your wife. 
 
 He is so intensely solemn about it that philip can 
 hardly even pretend to he shocked. 
 
 PHILIP. My dear Tommy ! 
 
 THOMAS. I don't mean one single word more than I say. 
 
 PHILIP. [Good-naturedly.'] Tommy, you always have 
 flirted with Jessica. 
 
 THOMAS. I don't want you to think that I'm the least 
 bit in love with her. 
 
 PHILIP, Naturally not . . , you've got a wife of your 
 own. 
 
 THOMAS, [/n intense brotherly agreement.] Right. 
 That's good horse sense. 
 
 PHILIP. And though, as her husband, I'm naturally 
 obtuse in the matter ... I really don't think that Jessica 
 is in love with you. 
 
 THOMAS. [Most generously.] Not for a single minute. 
 
 PHILIP. Then what's the worry, you silly old ass? 
 THOMAS starts to explain, a little tortuously. 
 
 THOMAS. Well, Phil, this is such a damned subtle world. 
 I don't pretend to understand it, but in my old age I have
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 67 
 
 got a sort of rule of thumb experience to go by . . . 
 which, mark you, I've paid for. 
 
 PHILIP. Well? 
 
 THOMAS. Phil, I don't like women, and I never did . . . 
 but I'm hardly exaggerating when I say I married simply 
 to get out of the habit of finding myself once every six 
 months in such a position with one of them that I was 
 supposed to be making love to her. 
 
 PHILIP is enjoying himself. 
 V, PHILIP. What do they see in you, Tommy? 
 
 THOMAS. God knows, old man ... I don't. And the 
 time it took up ! Of course I was as much in love with 
 Mary as you like, or I couldn't have asked her to marry 
 me. And I wouldn't be without her and the children now 
 for all I ever saw. But I don't believe I'd have gone out 
 of my way to get them if I hadn't been driven to it, old 
 man, . . . driven to it. I'm not going to start the old 
 game again now. [And he wags his head wisely.'^ 
 
 PHILIP. What's the accusation against Jessica? Let's 
 have it in so many words. 
 
 THOMAS gathers himself up to launch the vindicat- 
 ing compliment effectively. 
 
 THOMAS. She's a very accomplished and a very charm- 
 ing and a very sweet-natured woman. I consider she's an 
 ornament to society. 
 
 PHILIP, [With equal fervour.'] You're quite right, 
 Tommy, . . . what are we to do with them? 
 
 THOMAS. [It's his favourite phrase.'] What d'you mean? 
 
 PHILIP. Well . . . what's your trouble with her? 
 
 THOMAS. [Tortuously still.] There ain't any yet . . . 
 but . . . well . . . I've been dreading for the last three 
 weeks that Jessica would begin to talk to me about you. 
 That's why I'm talking to you about her. [Then, with a 
 certain enjoyment of his shocking looseness of behaviour.] 
 I am a cad !
 
 68 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 PHILIP. [Still amused — but now rather sub-acidly.'] 
 My standing for the County Council must be a most dan- 
 gerous topic. 
 
 THOMAS. But that's just how it begins. Then there's 
 hints . . . quite nice ones . . . about how you get on with 
 each other. Last night in the cab she was talking about 
 when she was a girl . . . 
 
 PHILIP. I walked home. Tactful husband! 
 
 THOMAS. Phil . . . don't you be French. 
 PHILIP, suddenly serious, turns to him. 
 
 PHILIP. But, Tommy, do you imagine that she is un- 
 happy with me? 
 
 THOMAS. No, I don't. But she thinks a lot . . . when 
 she's bored with calling on people, and her music and her 
 pictures. And once you begin putting your feeHngs into 
 words . . . why, they grow. 
 
 PHILIP. But if she were, I'd rather that she did con- 
 fide in you. 
 
 THOMAS shakes his head vehemently. 
 
 THOMAS. No. 
 
 PHILIP. Why shouldn't she? You're friends. 
 
 THOMAS. Yes . . . there's no reason . . . but I tell you 
 it always begins that way. 
 
 PHILIP. You silly ass . . . can't you let a woman talk 
 seriously to you without making love to her? 
 
 THOMAS. Damn it, that's what they say . . . but it 
 never made any difference. 
 
 PHILIP. Tommy, you're a perfect child! 
 
 THOMAS. I remember when I was twenty-four . . . 
 there was one woman . . . years older than me . . . had 
 a grown-up son. She took to scolding me for wasting my 
 time flirting. Told me she'd done it herself once . . . then 
 told me why she'd done it. I kept off kissing her for six 
 weeks, and I'll swear she never wanted me to kiss her. 
 But I did.
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 69 
 
 PHILIP. Did she box your ears? 
 
 THOMAS. No . . . she said she couldn't take me seri- 
 ously. Well . . . if I'd gone away that would have been 
 priggish. And if I'd stayed I'd have done it again. 
 
 PHILIP. [AIischievoiisly.'\ Which did you do? 
 
 THOMAS. Oh . . . never you mind. 
 
 PHILIP, [IVitJi the utmost geniality. 1 Well . . . you 
 have my permission to kiss Jessica, if you think she wants 
 you to. 
 
 THOMAS. Thanks, old man . . . that's very clever and 
 up to date, and all the rest of it . . . but I asked you to 
 chuck me out of the house to some extent. 
 
 PHILIP. I'm not going to. 
 
 THOMA^. Then you're no friend of mine. 
 
 PHILIP. Let us put it quite brutally. If Jessica chooses 
 to be unfaithful to me how am I to stop her . . . even if 
 I've the right to stop her? 
 
 THOMAS. If you're not prepared to behave like a de- 
 cent married man you've no right to be married . . . 
 you're a danger. 
 
 PHILIP. Also, Tommy, if you caught me making love 
 to your wife you might talk to me . . . but you wouldn't 
 talk to her about it. 
 
 THOMAS. [With a touch of sentiment.'] Mary's differ- 
 ent. [Then protesting again.} And I'm not making love 
 to your wife. I told you so. 
 
 PHILIP. Then if she's making love to you, run away 
 for yourself. 
 
 THOMAS. She isn't making love to me. But if you can't 
 take a hint 
 
 PHILIP. A hint! Well . . . I'm dashed ! 
 
 THOMAS. Well, old man, I give you fair warning of the 
 sort of fool I am . . . and I'll take no more responsibility 
 in the matter. 
 
 PHILIP. [In comic desperation.'] Don't warn me . . .
 
 70 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 warn Jessica. Tell her you're afraid of making a fool of 
 yourself with her . . . 
 
 THOMAS. [His eyebrows up.] But that'd be as good as 
 doing it. Good Lord, you can't behave towards women 
 as if they were men! 
 
 PHILIP. Why not? 
 
 THOMAS. You try it. 
 
 PHILIP. I always do. 
 
 THOMAS. No wonder she wants to grumble about you 
 to me. 
 
 PHILIP takes him seriously again. 
 
 PHILIP. Look here, Tommy, I know Jessica pretty well. 
 She doesn't want to be made love to. 
 
 THOMAS. [Positively and finally.'] Yes, she does. [Then 
 with real chivalry.] I don't mean that unpleasantly . . . 
 but all women do. Some of em want to be kissed and 
 some want you to talk politics . . . but the principle's the 
 same. 
 
 PHILIP. [Finely contemptuous.] What a world you 
 live in ! 
 
 THOMAS. . . . And the difficulty with me is that if I 
 try to talk politics J find they don't know enough about it 
 ... or else that they know too much about it . . . and it's 
 simpler to kiss em and have done. 
 
 PHILIP. Oh, much simpler! 
 
 THOMAS. [Back to his starting point — pathetic] But 
 I'm married now, and I want a quiet life . . . 
 A knock at the door interrupts him. 
 
 PHILIP. Come in. 
 
 It is BELHAVEN, 
 
 BELHAVEN. Will you lunch, sir? 
 PHILIP. What is there? 
 BELHAVEN. I'm afraid only the Usual, sir. 
 PHILIP. Can you manage the Usual, Tommy? What 
 is it, Belhaven?
 
 ACT ii] THE MADRAS HOUSE 71 
 
 BELHAVEN. Boiled mutton and a jam pudding, I think, 
 sir. [Then as confessing to a vulgarity.'] Roly-poly. 
 
 THOMAS. [With great approval.'] Right. I hope it's 
 strawberry jam. 
 
 PHILIP. Sure to be. Put it in Mr. Huxtable's room, 
 will you . . . that's airy. 
 BELHAVEN. Yessir. 
 
 BELHAVEN Vanishes. 
 THOMAS. \_As on reflection.] Not plum, y'know . . . 
 plum's no use. 
 
 PHILIP gathers up his papers. 
 PHILIP. I'll give the wicked woman your message. 
 
 THOMAS takes alarm. He hadn't thought of this. 
 THOMAS. No ... do it off your own bat. She won't 
 mind, then. 
 
 PHILIP. Tommy, I cannot assume the turban of the 
 Turk. My sense of humour and my sense of decency to- 
 wards women won't let me. 
 
 THOMAS. [Frowning.] I believe I'd better not have 
 told you. 
 
 PHILIP. [Unsympathetic] Why not? Next to telling 
 her, the most commonsense thing to do. 
 THOMAS. She won't think so. 
 PHILIP. She'll have to. 
 
 There is something so like cruelty in these three 
 words that thomas stares at him. Then he says, 
 reflectively. 
 THOMAS. Phil, d'you ever thank God you're not a 
 woman ? 
 
 PHILIP. No. 
 
 THOMAS. When I think what most of em have to 
 choose between is soft-hearted idiots like me and hard- 
 headed devils like you ... I wonder they put up with 
 us as they do.
 
 72 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act n 
 
 PHILIP stares at him in turn with a queer smile. 
 
 Then, as he turns to go . . . 
 PHILIP. You've made it again, Tommy. , 
 THOMAS. What? 
 PHILIP. Your one sensible remark. Come along. 
 
 And he is gone, thomas follows, protesting. 
 THOMAS. Look here . . . what d'you mean by One Sen- 
 sible Remark? It's like your infernal . . . 
 
 He pulls the door to after him. The room is alone 
 
 with its ugliness.
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 73 
 
 ACT III 
 
 In 1884 the Madras House was moved to its present prem- 
 ises in Bond Street. In those days decoration was 
 mostly a matter of paint and wall-paper, but mr, 
 CONSTANTINE MADRAS, ever daring, proceeded to 
 beautify the home of his professional tritimphs. He 
 could neither draw nor colour, but he designed and 
 saw to it all himself, and being a man of great force 
 of character, produced something which, though ex- 
 , traordinarily wrong, was yet, since it was sincere, 
 in a way effective. It added to his reputation and 
 to the attractiveness of the Madras House. 
 
 In tzventy-six years there have been changes, but one room 
 remains untouched from then till now. This is the 
 rotunda, a large, lofty, skylighted place, done in 
 the Moorish style. The walls are black marble to 
 the height of a man, and from there to the ceiling 
 the darkest red. The ceiling is of a cerulean blue, 
 and in the middle of the skylight a golden sun, -with 
 spiked rays proceeding from its pleasant human 
 countenance, takes credit for some of the light it 
 intercepts. An archway with fretted top leads from 
 the rest of the establishment. Another has behind 
 it a platform, a few steps high, hung with black vet 
 vet. The necessary fireplace {were there hot-zuatet 
 pipes in 1884?) is disguised by a heavy multi- 
 coloured canopy, whose fellow hangs over a small 
 door opposite. On the floor is a Persian carpet of
 
 74 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 some real beauty. On the walls are gas brackets 
 (1884 again!) the oriental touch achieved in their 
 crescent shape. Round the wall are divans, many 
 cushioned ; in front of them little coffee-stools. It 
 is all about as Moorish as Baker Street Station, 
 but the general effect is humorous, pleasant, and 
 even not undignified. 
 
 In the old, grand days of the Madras House the rotunda 
 was the happy preserve of very special customers, 
 those on whom the great man himself would keep 
 an eye. If you had been there you spoke of it 
 casually; indeed, to be free of the rotunda was to 
 be a well-dressed zvoman and recognised by all so- 
 ciety as such. Ichabod! Since MR. constantine 
 MADRAS retired, the Madras House is on the way 
 to becoming almost like any other shop; the special 
 customers are nobody in particular, and the rotunda 
 is where a degenerate management meet to consider 
 the choice of ready-made models from Paris, A 
 large oval table had to be imported and half a 
 dozen Moorish chairs. It seemed, to the surprise of 
 the gentleman who went innocently ordering such 
 things, that there were only that number in exist- 
 ence. Scene of its former glories, this is now to 
 be the scene, perhaps, of the passing of the Madras 
 House into alien hands. 
 
 Three o'clock on the Monday afternoon is when the deal 
 is to be put through, if possible, and it is now five 
 minutes to. major thomas is there, sitting at the 
 table ; papers spread before him, racking his brains 
 at a few final figures, philip is there, in rather a 
 school-boyish mood. He is sitting on the table, 
 swinging his legs. mr. huxtable is there, too, 
 dressed in his best, important and nervous, and he 
 is talking to mr. eustace perrin state.
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 75 
 
 MR. STATE is ail American, and if American magazine lit- 
 erature is anything to go by, no American is alto- 
 gether unlike him. He has a rugged, blood and iron 
 sort of face, utterly belied by his soft, smiling eyes; 
 rightly belied, too, for he has made his thirty or 
 forty millions in the gentlest way — as far as he 
 knows. You would not tliink of him as a money- 
 maker. As a matter of fact, he has no love of 
 , money, and little use for it, for his tastes are simple. 
 ' But money-making is the honourable career in his 
 own country, and he has the instinct for turning 
 money over and the knack of doing so on a big 
 scale. His shock of grey hair makes him look older 
 than he probably is; his voice is almost childlike 
 in its szvcetness. He has the dignity and aptitude 
 for command that power can give. 
 
 From the little canopied dome comes mr. windlesham, 
 present manager of the establishment. He is a 
 tailor-made man; and the tailor only left off for 
 the wax modeller and wigmaker to begin. For his 
 clothes are too perfect to be worn by anything but 
 a dummy, and his hair and complexion are far from 
 human. Not that he dyes or paints them; no, they 
 7iiere made like that. His voice is a little inhuman, 
 too, and as he prefers the French language, with 
 which he has a most unripe acquaintance, to his 
 own, and so speaks English as much like French as 
 his French is like English, his conversation seems 
 as unreal as the rest of him. Impossible to think of 
 him in any of the ordinary relations of life. He 
 is a functionary. Nature, the great inventor, will 
 evolve, however roughly, what is necessary for her 
 uses. Millinery has evolved the man-milliner. As 
 he comes in — and he has the gait of a water-wagtail 
 — MR. HUXTABLE is making conversation.
 
 76 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. A perfect barometer, as you might say 
 — when your eye gets used to it. 
 
 wiNDLESHAM. [To PHILIP, and with a wag of his head 
 back to the other room.} They're just ready. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Smiling benevolently at mr. huxtable.] 
 Is it really ? The Crystal Palace ! But what a sound that 
 has! 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [With modest pride.} And a very 
 ealthy locality ! 
 
 PHILIP. Come along and meet State. [He jumps off 
 the table, capturing windlesham's arm.} 
 
 MR. STATE. [Enthusiastic.} Denmark Hill. Compli- 
 ment to Queen Alexandra ! 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Struck by the information.} Was it, 
 now? 
 
 MR. STATE. Heme Hill . . . Heme the Hunter ! That's 
 the charm of London to an American. Association. Every 
 spot speaks. 
 
 PHILIP. [As he joins them.} This is Mr. Windlesham 
 . . . our manager. He's going to show us some new 
 models. 
 
 MR. STATE impressively extends a hand and repeats 
 the name. 
 
 MR. STATE. Mr. Windlesham. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Most happy". I thought you'd like to see 
 the very latest . . . brought them from Paris only yes- 
 terday. 
 
 MR. STATE. Most Opportune! [Then with a sweeping 
 gesture.} Mr. Philip, this room inspires me. Your father's 
 design? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes. 
 
 MR. STATE. I thought SO. 
 
 PHILIP. That used to be his private office. 
 MR. STATE. [Reverently.} Indeed I Where the Duchess 
 went on her knees ! An historic spot. Interesting to me !
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE . 77 
 
 PHILIP. Something of a legend that. 
 
 MR. STATE, intensely solemn, seems now to ascend 
 the pulpit of some philosophic conventicle. 
 
 MR. STATE. I believe in legends, sir . . . they are the 
 spiritual side of facts. They go to form tradition. And 
 it is not given to man to found his institutions in security 
 of mind except upon tradition. That is why our eyes 
 turn eastward to you from America, Mr. Huxtable. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. \_In sonie awe.'] Do they, now? 
 . MR- STATE. Has it never struck you that while the prog- 
 ress of man has been in the path of the sun, his thoughts 
 continually go back to the place of its rising? I have at 
 times found it a very illuminating idea. 
 
 PHILIP. \_Not indecently commonplace.'] Well, have 
 them in now, Windlesham, while we're waiting. 
 
 wiNDLESHAM. You might cast your eyes over these 
 new girls, Mr. Philip . . . the very best I could find, I 
 do assure you. Faces are hard enough to get, but figures 
 . . . Well, there ! [Reaching the little door, he calls 
 through.] Allons Mes'moiselles ! Non . . . non . . . 
 par I'autre porte et a la gauche. [Then hack again.] 
 You get the best effect through a big doorway. [He 
 further explains this by sketching one in the air.] One, 
 two and four first. 
 
 He exhibits some costume drawings he has been 
 carrying, distributes one or two, and then vanishes 
 into the other room, from which his voice vibrates. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. En avant s'il vous plait. Numero un ! 
 Eh bien . . . numero trois. Non Ma'moiselle, ce n'est pas 
 commode . . . regardez ce corsage la . . . 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Making a face.] What I'm always 
 thinking is, why not have a manly chap in charge of the 
 place up here. 
 
 MR. STATE. [With perfect justice.] Mr. Windlesham
 
 78 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ni 
 
 may be said to strike a note. Whether it is a right 
 note . . . ? 
 
 Through the big doorway windlesham ushers in 
 a costume from Paris, the very last word in dis- 
 creet and costly finery, delicate in colour, fragile in 
 texture; a creation. This is hung upon a young 
 lady of pleasing appearance, pre-occupied with its 
 exhibition, which she achieves by slow and sinuous, 
 never-ceasing movements. She glides into the room. 
 She wears a smile also. 
 WINDLESHAM. One and two are both LarguilHere, Mr. 
 PhiHp. He can't get in the Soupqon Anglais, can he? 
 Won't ... I tell him. Promenez et sortez Ma'moiselle. 
 
 The young lady, still smiling and sinuous, begins 
 to circle the room. She seems to be unconscious 
 of its inhabitants, and they, in return, rather dread- 
 fully pretend not to notice her, but only the costume. 
 WINDLESHAM. Numero Deux. 
 
 Another costume, rakishly inclined, with a hat de- 
 liberately hideous. The young lady contained in 
 them is again slow and sinuous and vacantly 
 smiling. 
 WINDLESHAM. But this is chic, isn't it? Promenez. 
 MR. STATE. \_In grave enquiry.'] What is the Soupqon 
 Anglais? 
 
 PHILIP. A Frenchman will tell you that for England 
 you must first make a design and then spoil it. 
 
 THOMAS. [Whose attention has been rivetted.] Don't 
 they speak English? 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Oh, pas un mot ... I mean, not a 
 word. Only came over with me yesterday . . . these 
 three. 
 
 THOMAS. Because this frock's a bit thick, y'know. 
 WINDLESHAM. Numero Trois ! 
 
 A third costume, calculated to have an innocent
 
 ACT III] THE MADRAS HOUSE 79 
 
 effect. The accompanying young lady, with a sense 
 ■ of fitness, wears a pout instead of a smile. 
 PHILIP. What's this? [His eye is on the surmounting 
 hat of straw.} 
 
 wiNDLESHAM. [With little crow of delight.'] That's 
 the new hat. La belle Helene again ! 
 
 MR. STATE. [Interested, still grave.} La belle Helene. 
 A Parisian firm? 
 
 WINDLESHAM. [Turning this to waggish account.} 
 Well . . . dear me . . . you can almost call her that, can't 
 you? [Suddenly he dashes at the costume and brings it 
 to a standstill.} Oh, mon Dieu, Ma'moiselle ! La gorgette 
 . . . vous I'avez derangg. 
 
 He proceeds to arrange la gorgette to his satisfac- 
 tion, also some other matters which seem to involve 
 a partial evisceration of the underclothing. The 
 young lady, passive, pouts perseveringly. He is 
 quite unconscious of her separate existence. But 
 THOMAS is considerably shocked, and whispers vio- 
 lently to PHILIP. 
 
 THOMAS. I say, he shouldn't pull her about like that. 
 WINDLESHAM. [Skipping back to admire the result.} 
 La . . . comme qa. 
 
 The costume continues its round; the others are 
 still circling, veering and tacking, while windle- 
 SHAM trips admiringly around and about them. It 
 all looks like some dance of modish dervishes. 
 PHILIP. [Heartlessly.} La belle Helene, Mr. State, is 
 a well-known Parisian cocotte . . . who sets many of the 
 fashions which our wives and daughters afterwards as- 
 sume. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Scondaliscd.} Don't say that, Phil; 
 it's not nice. 
 PHILIP. Why? 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I'm sure no ladies are aware of it.
 
 80 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 PHILIP. But what can be more natural and right than 
 for the professional charmer to set the pace for the 
 amateur ! 
 
 wiNDLESHAM. IPausing in the dance.} Quite la haute 
 cocotterie, of course. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Solemnly.} Do you infer, Mr. Madras, a 
 difference in degree, but not in kind? 
 
 PHILIP. [Courteously echoing his tone.} I do. 
 MR. STATE. That is a very far-reaching observation, sir. 
 PHILIP. It is. 
 
 THOMAS. Do you know the lady personally, Mr. Win- 
 dlesham? 
 
 WINDLESHAM tums, with somc tag of a costume in 
 
 his hand, thus unconsciously detaining the occupier. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Oh, no . . . oh, dear me, no . . . quite 
 
 the reverse, I do assure you. There's nothing gay in Paris 
 
 to me. I was blase long ago. 
 
 MR. STATE. But touching that hat, Mr. Windlesham. 
 WINDLESHAM. Oh, to be sure. Attendez, mademoiselle. 
 Tiptoeing, he dexterously tilts the straw hat from 
 the elaborate head it is perched on. 
 WINDLESHAM. It's not a bad story. Sortez. 
 
 By this two costumes have glided out. The third 
 follows. STATE, who has found it hard to keep his 
 eyes off them, gives s'Omething of a sigh. 
 MR. STATE. If they'd only just smile or wink, I might 
 get over the extraordinary feeling it gives me. 
 
 WINDLESHAM, caressing the hat, takes up an atti- 
 tude for his story. 
 WINDLESHAM. Well ... it appears that a while ago, 
 out at the Pre Cathelan , . . there was Helene, taking her 
 afternoon cup of buttermilk. What should she see but 
 Madame Erlancourt . . . one knows enough about that 
 lady, of course ... in a hat the very twin of hers . . .
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 81 
 
 the very twin. Well . . . you can imagine ! Someone 
 had blundered. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Absorbed.'] No, I don't follow. 
 
 PHILIP. Some spy in the service of that foreign power 
 had procured and parted with the plans of the hat. 
 
 MR. STATE. Madame What's-her-name might have seen 
 it on her before, and copied it. 
 
 PHILIP. Mr. State, Helene doesn't wear a hat twice. 
 
 MR. STATE. My mistake 1 
 
 wiNDLESHAM. .So there was a terrible scene . . . 
 
 THOMAS. With madame . . . ? 
 
 WINDLESHAM. [Repudiating any such vulgarity.} Oh, 
 no. Helene just let fly at her chaperon, she being at 
 hand, so to speak. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Daczled.} Her what! [Then with hu- 
 morous awe.} No, I beg your pardon ... go on ... go 
 on. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. She took off her own hat . . . pinned it 
 on the head of the ugliest little gamine she could find, and 
 sent the child walking along the grass in it. Then she 
 sent to the kitchens for one of those baskets they bring 
 the fish in . . . [He twirls the hat.} . . . you see. Then 
 she ripped a yard of lace off her underskirt and twisted 
 it round. Then she took off both her . . . well ... La 
 Belle France, you know . . . there is something in the 
 atmosphere ! It was her garters she took off . . . blue 
 silk. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Puritan.} In public? 
 
 WINDLESHAM. [Professional.} Oh, ... it can be done. 
 Hooked them together and fastened the bit of lace round 
 the basket this way. Tres simple ! That's what she wore 
 the rest of the afternoon and back to Paris. This is what's 
 going to be the rage. 
 
 Having deftly pantomimed this creation of a fash-
 
 82 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 ion, he hands the hat, with an air, to mr. state, 
 who examines it. philip is smilingly caustic. 
 PHILIP. La belle Helene has imagination, Mr. State. 
 She is also, I am told, thrifty, inclined to religion, a vege- 
 tarian, Vichy water her only beverage ; in fact, a credit to 
 her profession and externally ... to ours. 
 
 MR. STATE hands back the hat, with the solemnest 
 humour. 
 MR. STATE. Mr. Windlesham, I am much obliged to 
 you for this illuminating anecdote. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Not at all. . . . Will you see the other 
 three? 
 
 MR. STATE. By all means. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. They won't be long in changing . . . 
 but there's one I must just pin on. 
 MR. STATE. No hurry. 
 
 He has acquired a new joy in windlesham, whom 
 
 he watches dance away. Then a song is heard from 
 
 the next room . . . 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Allons . . . numero cinq . . . numero 
 
 sept . . . numero dix. Ma'moiselle Ollivier . . . vous 
 
 vous mettrez . . . 
 
 And the door closes, philip looks at his watch. 
 PHILIP. But it's ten past three. We'd better not wait 
 for my father. 
 
 They surround the table and sit down. 
 MR. STATE. Major Thomas, have you my memoranda? 
 THOMAS. Here. 
 
 He hands them to state, who clears his throat, 
 
 refrains from spitting, and begins the customary 
 
 American oration. 
 
 MR. STATE. The scheme, gentlemen, for which I desire 
 
 to purchase the Madras House and add it to the interest 
 
 of the Burrows enterprise, which I already control, is — 
 
 to put it shortly — this. The Burrows provincial scheme — '
 
 ACT III] THE MADRAS HOUSE 83 
 
 you are aware of its purpose — goes well enough as far as 
 the shareholding by the local drapery stores is concerned. 
 It has been interesting to me to discover which aspects 
 of the Burrows scheme suit which cities . . . and why. 
 An absorbing problem in the psychology of local condi- 
 tions ! Now, we have eliminated from the mass a con- 
 siderable number of cases where the local people will not 
 join with us. And in your Leicesters and Norwiches and 
 Plymouths and Coventrys . . . there the unknown name, 
 the uninspiring name of Burrows, upon a fire-new estab- 
 lishment next door might anyhow be ineffective. But 
 beyond that I have a reason . . . and I hope a not unin- 
 teresting reason, to put before you gentlemen . . . why 
 it is in these provincial centres that we should look to 
 establish our Madras Houses . . . New Edition. Is that 
 clear so far? 
 
 During this mr. constantine madras has arrived. 
 He turned aside for a moment to the door that the 
 models came from, now he joins the group. A man 
 of sixty, to whom sixty is the prime of life. Tall, 
 quite dramatically dignified, suave, a little remote; 
 he is one of those to whom life is an art of which 
 they have determined to be master. It is a hand- 
 some face. Eastern in type, the long beard only 
 streaked with grey. He does not dress like the 
 ruck of men, because he is not of them. The velvet 
 coat, brick-red tie, shepherd' s-plaid trousers, white 
 spats and patent boots, both suit him and express 
 him subtly and well — the mixture of sensuous origi- 
 nality and tradition which is the man. philip is 
 purposely casual in greeting him; he has sighted 
 him first. But mr. state gets up, impressed. It is 
 part of his creed to recognise greatness; he insists 
 on recognising it. 
 PHILIP. Hullo, Father !
 
 84 THE MADRAS HOUSE" [act ra 
 
 MR. STATE. Mr. Madras ! Proud to meet you again. 
 CONSTANTINE. \_.GraciousIy, without emotion.'] How do 
 you do, Mr. State. 
 
 PHILIP. You know everyone, Father. Oh . . . Hip- 
 pisly Thomas. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Just OS graciouslyj] How do you do, 
 sir. [Then, with a mischievous smile, he pats huxtable 
 on the shoulder. ] How are you, my dear Harry? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE had heard him coming, and felt him- 
 self turn purple. This was the great meeting after 
 thirty years! He had let it come upon him un- 
 awares; purposely let it, for indeed he had not 
 known what to say or do. He had dreaded having 
 the inspiration to say or do anything. Now, alas, 
 and thank goodness! it is too late. He is at a suit- 
 able disadvantage. He need only grunt out sulk- 
 ily . . . 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I'm quite well, thank you. 
 
 CONSTANTINE, with One more pat in pardon for the 
 rudeness, goes to his chair. 
 MR. STATE. A pleasant trip on the continent? 
 CONSTANTINE. Instructive. Don't let me interrupt bus- 
 iness. I shall pick up the thread. 
 
 MR. STATE. {Serving up a little re-warmed oration.] I 
 was just proceeding to place on the table-cloth some pre- 
 liminary details of the scheme that has been elaborating 
 since our meeting in June last to consolidate your name 
 and fame in some of the most important cities of England. 
 We had not got far. 
 
 He consults his notes, constantine produces from 
 a case a slender cigarette holder of amber. 
 CONSTANTINE. You've some new models, Phil. 
 PHILIP. Yes. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. The tall girl looks well enough. May I 
 smoke ?
 
 ACT III] THE MADRAS HOUSE 85 
 
 MR. STATE. Allow me. [Whipping out his cigar case.'\ 
 
 CONSTANTINE. A cigarette, thank you, of my own. 
 
 He proceeds to make and light one. mr. state 
 offers cigars generally, and then places one to his 
 own hand. 
 
 MR. state. I occasionally derive some pleasure from a 
 cold cigar. I was not for the moment entering upon the 
 finance of the matter because I entertain no doubt that 
 . . . possibly with a little adjustment of the proportion of 
 shares and cash . . . that can be fixed. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [/« emulation of all this ease and 
 grace.} I'll ave a cigarette, Phil ... if you've got one. 
 
 PHILIP has one. And every one makes himself 
 comfortable, zvhile mr. state continues enjoy- 
 ably . . . 
 
 MR. state. And I suspect that you are no more inter- 
 ested in money than I am, Mr. Madras. Anyone can make 
 money, if he has capital enough. The little that I have 
 came from lumber and canned peaches. Now, there was 
 poetry in lumber. The virgin forest . . . I'd go sit in it 
 for weeks at a time. There was poetry in peaches . . . 
 before they were canned. Do you wonder why I bought 
 that mantle establishment in the city? 
 
 PHILIP. \_lVho is only sorry that sometime he must 
 stop.'] Why, Mr. State? 
 
 MR. STATE. Because, Mr. Philip, I found myself a 
 lonely man. I felt the need of getting into touch with 
 what Goethe refers to as the woman-spirit . . . drawing 
 us ever upward and on. That opportunity occurred, and 
 it seemed a businesslike way of doing the trick. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Through a little cloud of smoke.} And 
 satisfying? 
 
 MR. STATE. I beg your pardon? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Has the ready-made skirt business sat- 
 isfied your craving for the eternal feminine?
 
 86 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 MR. STATE. Mr. Madras . . . that sarcasm is deserved 
 . . No, sir, it has not. The Burrows business, I discover, 
 lacks all inner meaning ... it has no soul. A business 
 can no more exist without a soul than a human being 
 can. I'm sure I have you with me there, Mr. Huxtable. 
 
 Poor MR. HUXTABLE quite chokes at the sudden- 
 ness of this summons, but shines his best. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I should say so, quite. 
 MR. STATE begins to glow. 
 
 MR. STATE. There was fun, mind you . . . there still 
 is ... in making these provincial milliners hop . . . put- 
 ting a pistol to their heads . . . saying Buy our Goods 
 or be Froze Out. That keeps me lively and it wakes them 
 up . . . does them good. But Burrows isn't in the Move- 
 ment. The Woman's Movement. The Great Modern 
 Woman's Movement. It has come home to me that the 
 man, who has as much to do with Woman as manufactur- 
 ing the bones of her corsets and yet is not consciously in 
 that Movement is Outside History. Shovelling goods over 
 a counter and adding up profits . . . that's no excuse for 
 cumbering the earth . . . nothing personal, Mr. Huxtable. 
 MR. HUXTABLE is ready this time. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. No, no . . . I'm listening to you. I'm 
 not too old to learn. 
 
 MR. STATE. Mind, I don't say I haven't taken pleasure 
 in Burrows. We've had Notions . . . caused two Ideas 
 to spring where one sprung before. There was Not- 
 tingham. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I know Nottingham . . . got a shop 
 there ? 
 
 MR. STATE. [With wholesome pride.'] In two years the 
 Burrows establishment in Nottingham has smashed com- 
 petition. I've not visited the city myself. The notion 
 was our local manager's. Simple. The Ladies' depart- 
 ment served by gentlemen . . . the Gentlemen's by ladies.
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 87 
 
 Always, of course, within the bounds of delicacy. Do 
 you think there is nothing in that, Mr. Huxtable? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [^Ronnd-cycd and open-mouthed.'] Oh 
 . . . well . . . 
 
 MR. STATE. But are you the Mean Sensual Man? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [IVhose knowledge of the French lan- 
 guage hardly assists him to this startling translation.} 
 No ... I hope not. 
 
 MR. STATE. Put yoursclf in his place. Surrounded by 
 pretty girls . . . good girls, mind you . . . high class. 
 Pay them well ... let them live out . . . pay for their 
 mothers and chaperons, if necessary. Well . . . Sur- 
 rounded by Gracious Womanhood, does the Sensual Man 
 forget how much money he is spending or does he not? 
 Does he come again? Is it a little Oasis in the desert of 
 his business day? Is it a better attraction than Alcohol, 
 or is it not? 
 
 PHILIP. [Bitingly.'] Is it? 
 
 MR. STATE. Then, sir . . . Audi Alteram Partem. I 
 should like you to see our Ladies' Fancy Department at 
 its best . . . just before the football season. 
 
 PHILIP. I think I do ! 
 
 MR. STATE. Athletes everyone of em . . . not a man 
 under six foot . . . bronzed, noble fellows ! And no flirt- 
 ing allowed ... no making eyes ... no pandering to 
 anything Depraved. Just the Ordinary Courtesies of our 
 Modern Civilisation from Pure, Clean-minded Gentlemen 
 towards any of the Fair Sex who step in to buy a shilling 
 sachet or the like. And pay, sir . . . The women come 
 in flocks ! 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Bereft of breath.'] Is this how you 
 mean to run your new Madras Houses? 
 
 MR. STATE. Patience, Mr. Huxtable. It's but six months 
 ago that I started to study the Woman Question from 
 the point of view of Burrows and Co. I attended women's
 
 88 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ni 
 
 meetings in London, in Manchester, and in one-horse 
 places as well. Now, Political claims were but the nar- 
 rowest, drabbest aspect of the matter as I saw it. The 
 Woman's Movement is Woman expressing herself. Let 
 us look at things as they are. What are a Woman's chief 
 means . . . how often her only means of expressing her- 
 self? Anyway . . . what is the first thing that she spends 
 her money on? Clothes, gentlemen, clothes. Therefore, 
 I say . . . though at Cannon Street we may palp with 
 good ideas . . . the ready-made skirt is out of date . . . 
 
 wiNDLESHAM, pifis in his mouth, fashion plates un- 
 der his arm, and the fish-basket hat in his hand, 
 shoots out of the other room. 
 wiNDLESiiAM. Will you have the Others in HOW ? [Then 
 back through the door.'] Allons, Mesmoiselles si vous 
 plait. Numero cinq le premier. [Then he turns the hat 
 upside down on the table.] I thought you'd like to see 
 that they've actually left the handles on. But I don't 
 think we can do that here, do you? 
 
 There comes in as before the most elaborate eve- 
 ning gown that ever was. 
 wiNDLESHAM. \As he Searches for the design.] Nu- 
 mero cinq . . . number five. 
 
 THOMAS is much struck. 
 THOMAS. I say ... by Jove! 
 
 But the cold, searching light seems to separate from 
 the glittering pink affair the poor, pretty, smiling 
 creature exhibiting it, until, indeed, she seems half 
 naked, mr. windlesham's (Esthetic sense is out- 
 raged. 
 WINDLESHAM. Mais non, mais non . . . pas en plein 
 jour. Mettez vous par la dans le . . . dans I'alcove . . . 
 a cote du velours noir. 
 
 The costume undulates towards the black velvet 
 platform, thomas is lost in admiration.
 
 ACT III] THE MADRAS HOUSE 89 
 
 THOMAS. That gives her a chance, don't it? Damn 
 pretty girl ! 
 
 PHILIP. [His eye twinkling.} She'll understand that, 
 Tommy. 
 
 THOMAS, [In good faith.} She won't mind. 
 MR. STATE. [Who has been studying the undulations.} 
 How they learn to walk like it . . . that's what beats me ! 
 MR. wiNDLESHAM tums on the frame of lights which 
 bear upon the velvet platform. The vision of fe- 
 male loveliness is now complete. 
 WINDLESHAM. There . . . that's the coup d'oeil. 
 
 The vision turns this way and that to show zvhat 
 curves of loveliness there may be. They watch, all 
 but CONSTANTINE, who has sat silent and indifferent, 
 rolling his second cigarette, which he now smokes 
 serenely. At last philip's voice breaks in, at its 
 coolest, its most ironic. 
 PHILIP. And are we to assume, Mr. State, that this 
 piece of self-decoration really expresses the nature of any 
 woman? Rather an awful thought! 
 THOMAS. [In protest.} Why? 
 
 PHILIP. Or if it expresses a man's opinion of her . . . 
 that's rather worse. 
 
 THOMAS. It's damned smart. Ain't it, Mr. Huxtable? 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Who is examining closely.} No use to 
 us, of course. We couldn't imitate that under fifteen 
 guineas. Look at the . . . what d'you call it? 
 
 WINDLESHAM. [Loving the very word.} Diamante. 
 THOMAS. [With discretion.} Just for England, of 
 course, you might have the shiny stuff marking a bit more 
 definitely where the pink silk ends and she begins. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Not to be Sordid.} But it's a beauti- 
 ful thing. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Sweepingly.} Fitted to adorn the presid- 
 ing genius of some intellectual and artistic salon. More
 
 90 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 artistic than intellectual, perhaps . , . more likely to be 
 the centre of Emotion than Thought ! 
 
 wiNDLESHAM. I could almost tell you who we shall 
 sell that to. Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . . dear me . . . you'd all 
 know the name. Assez, Mamoiselle . . . sortez. 
 
 He turns off the light. The vision becomes once 
 more a ridiculously expensive dress, with a rather 
 thin and shivering young person half inside it, who 
 is thus unceremoniously got rid of. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Numero sept. 
 Another costume. 
 
 MR, STATE. Now here again. Green velvet. Is it 
 velvet ? 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Panne velvet. Promenez, s'il vous plait. 
 
 MR. STATE. And ermine. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Good Lord . . . more buttons ! 
 
 MR. STATE. The very thing, no doubt, in which some 
 peeress might take the chair at a drawing-room meeting. 
 
 PHILIP. ^As he eyes the buttons and the ermine.'] 
 Either of the Humanitarian or of the Anti-Sweating 
 League. Indeed, no peeress could dream of taking a chair 
 without it. 
 
 MR. STATE, [/n gentle reproof.] Sarcasm, Mr. Philip, 
 
 PHILIP, \_lVon by such sweetness.] I really beg your 
 pardon. 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Numero dix. 
 A third costume. 
 
 PHILIP. What about this? 
 
 MR. STATE. Grey with a touch of pink . . . severely 
 soft. An Anti-suffrage Platform. 
 
 PHILIP, [/n tune with him.] No . , , it's cut square 
 in the neck. Suffrage, I should say. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Rubbing his hatids.] Good ! There is 
 purpose in this persiflage, Major Thomas. Woman al-
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 91 
 
 lures us along many paths. Be it ours to attend her, doing 
 what service we may. 
 
 coNSTANTiNE. You are a poet, Mr. State. 
 
 MR. STATE, I never wrote one in my life, sir. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. How many poets should cease scribbling 
 and try to live such perfect epics as seems likely to be this 
 purchase of yours of the Madras House ! 
 
 MR. STATE. [Much gratified.'] I shall be proud to be 
 your successor. [Then he soars.'] But it is the Middle 
 Class Woman of England that is waiting for me. The 
 woman who still sits at the Parlour window of her Pro- 
 vincial Villa, pensively gazing through the Laurel bushes. 
 I have seen her on my Solitary Walks. She must have 
 her chance to Dazzle and Conquer. That is every wom- 
 an's birthright ... be she a Duchess in Mayfair or a 
 doctor's wife in the suburbs of Leicester. And remem- 
 ber, gentlemen, that the Middle Class Women of England 
 . . . think of them in bulk . . . they form one of the 
 greatest Money Spending Machines the world has ever 
 seen. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE, [With a wog of the head; he is more at 
 his ease tiow.] Yes . . . their husbands' money. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Taking a long breath and a high tone.] 
 All our most advanced thinkers are agreed that the eco- 
 nomic independence of women is the next step in the 
 march of civilisation. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Overwhelmed.] Oh ... I beg par- 
 don. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Soaring now more than ever.] And now 
 that the Seed of Freedom is sown in their Sweet Natures 
 . . . what Mighty Forest . . . what a Luxuriant, Trop- 
 ical, Scented growth of Womanhood may not spring up 
 arovmd us. For we live in an Ugly World. Look at my 
 tie! Consider your vest, Major Thomas! [His eye 
 searches for those costumes, and finds one.] This is all
 
 92 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act ra 
 
 the Living Beauty that there is. We want more of it. I 
 want to see that Poor Provincial Lady burst through the 
 laurel bushes and dash down the road . . . Clad in Col- 
 ours of the Rainbow. 
 
 wiNDLESHAM has indeed detained the severely soft 
 costume and its young lady, and there she has stood 
 for a while, still smiling, but wondering, perhaps, 
 behind the smile, into what peculiar company of 
 milliners she has fallen, thomas, suddenly noticing 
 that she is standing there, with the utmost polite- 
 ness jumps up to hand his chair. 
 THOMAS. I say, though . . . allow me. 
 WINDLESHAM. Thank you . . . but she can't. Not in 
 that corset. 
 
 MR. STATE. Dear me, I had not meant to detain Madem- 
 oiselle. [Then to amend his manners, and rather as if it 
 were an incantation warranted to achieve his purpose."] 
 Bon jour. 
 
 The young lady departs, a real smile quite shaming 
 the unreal. 
 MR. STATE. You clean forget they're there. We gave 
 some time and money to elaborating a mechanical moving 
 figure to take the place of ... a real automaton, in fact. 
 But sometimes it stuck and„sometimes it ran away . . . 
 THOMAS. And the cost ! 
 
 PHILIP. [Finely.'] Flesh and blood is always cheaper. 
 MR. STATE. You approve of corsets, Mr. Windlesham? 
 WINDLESHAM. Oh, yes ... the figure is the woman, 
 as we say. 
 
 MR. STATE. Have you ever gone deeply into the Psy- 
 chology of the question? A while ago I had a smart 
 young Historian write Burrows a little IMonograph on 
 Corsets . . . price cne shilling. Conservative, summing 
 up in their favour. And we made up a little Museum of 
 them ... at Southampton, I think . . . but that was not
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 93 
 
 a success. Major Thomas . , . we must send Mr. Win- 
 dlesham a copy of that Monograph. You will find it very 
 interesting. 
 
 wiNDLESHAM. I'm sure I shall. Can I do any more 
 for you ? 
 
 PHILIP. See me before I go, will you? 
 
 WINDLESHAM. Then it's au'voir. 
 
 And he flutters away. There is a pause as if they 
 had to recollect where they were. It is broken by 
 PHILIP saying, meditatively. 
 
 PHILIP. I sometimes wonder if we realise what wom- 
 en's clothes are like ... or our own, for that matter. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. What's that? 
 
 PHILIP. Have you ever tried to describe a costume as 
 it would appear to a strange eye? Can you think of this 
 last? A hat as little like a hat as anything on a crea- 
 ture's head may be. Lace. Flowers of a colour it never 
 pleases God to grow them. And a jewelled feather . . . 
 a feather with stones in it. The rest might be called a 
 conspiracy in three colours on the part of a dozen sewing 
 women to persuade you that the creature they have clothed 
 can neither walk, digest her food, nor bear children. Now 
 . . . can that be beautiful? 
 
 MR. STATE. [To wliom tliis is the real conversational 
 thing.'] Mr. Philip, that notion is a lever thrust beneath 
 the very foundations of Society. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Showing off a little.] Oh . . . trying 
 to upset people's ideas for the sake of doing it . . . silly. 
 
 THOMAS. [With solid sense.] I think a crowd of well- 
 dressed women is one of the most beautiful things in the 
 world. 
 
 PHILIP. Have you ever seen an Eastern woman walk 
 into a Bond Street tea shop? 
 
 THOMAS. No. 
 
 PHILIP. [Forcefully.] I have.
 
 94 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iii 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Ah ! 
 
 With one long, meditative exhalation he sends a 
 
 little column of smoke into the air. MR. state turns 
 
 to him deferentially. 
 
 MR. STATE. We are boring you, Mr. Madras, I'm afraid. 
 
 You were Facile Princeps upon all these questions so 
 
 long ago. 
 
 CONSTANTINE speoks in the smoothest of voices. 
 CONSTANTINE. No, I am not bored, Mr. State . . . only 
 a little horrified. 
 
 MR. STATE. Why so? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You See ... I am a Mahommedan . . . 
 and this attitude towards the other sex has become loath- 
 some to me. 
 
 This bombshell, so delicately exploded, affects the 
 company very variously. It will be some time be- 
 fore MR. HUXTABLE gvosps its meaning at all. 
 THOMAS simply opens his month, mr. state has 
 evidently found a new joy in life, philip, to whom 
 it seems no news, merely says in light protest . . . 
 PHILIP. My dear Father ! 
 
 MR. st.\te. lAs he beams round.'] A r e a 1 Mahom- 
 medan ? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I have become a Mahommedan. If 
 you were not, it would be inconvenient to live perma- 
 nently at Hit ... a village upon the borders of Southern 
 Arabia . . . that is my home. Besides, I was converted. 
 THOMAS. {Having recovered enough breath.'] I didn't 
 know you could become a Mahommedan. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [With somc severity.] You can become 
 a Christian, sir. 
 
 THOMAS. [A little shocked.] Ah . . . not quite the 
 same sort of thing. 
 
 MR. STATE. [Who fecls that he really is re-discovering 
 the old world.] But how very interesting ! To a broad-
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 95 
 
 minded man . . . how extraordinarily interesting ! Was 
 it a sudden conversion? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No ... I had been searching for a re- 
 ligion ... a common need in these times . . . and this 
 is a very fine one, Mr. State. 
 
 MR. STATE. Is it? I must look it up. The Koran ! Yes, 
 I've never read the Koran ... an oversight. 
 
 He makes a mental note. And slowly, slowly, the 
 full iniquity of it has sunk into mr. huxtable. 
 His face has gone from red to white and hack 
 again to red. He becomes articulate and vehement. 
 He thumps the table. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. And what about Amelia? 
 MR. STATE. {With conciliatory calm.} Who is Amelia? 
 PHILIP, Afterwards, Uncle. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Thumping again.] What about your 
 wife?- No, I won't be quiet, Phil! It's illegal. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [With c half-cold, half -kindly eye on 
 him.} Harry ... I dislike to see you make yourself ri- 
 diculous. 
 
 Only this was needed. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Who cares if I'm ridiculous? I've not 
 spoken to you for thirty years . . . have I? That is . . . 
 I've not taken more notice of you than I could help. And 
 I come here to-day full of forgiveness . . . and curiosity 
 ... to see what you're really like now . . . and whether 
 I've changed my mind ... or whether I never really felt 
 all that about you at all . . . and damned if you don't go 
 and put up a fresh game on me! What about Amelia? 
 Religion this time ! Mahommedan, indeed ... at your 
 age! Can't you ever settle down? I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. State. All right, Phil, afterwards ! I've not done 
 . . . but you're quite right . . . afterwards. 
 
 The gust over, mr. state, who is a little be-hlown
 
 96 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 hy it at such close quarters, says, partly with a 
 peace-making intention, partly in curiosity . . . 
 MR. STATE. But clo you indulge in a Harem ? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE is on his feet, righteously strepitant. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. If you insult my sister by answering 
 that question . . . 
 
 With a look and a gesture constantine can silence 
 him. Then with the coldest dignity he replies . . . 
 constantine. My household, sir, is that of the ordi- 
 nary Eastern gentleman of my position. We do not speak 
 of our women in public. 
 
 MR. STATE. I'm sure I beg your pardon. 
 CONSTANTINE. Not at all. It is five years since I defi- 
 nitely retired from business and decided to consummate 
 my affection for the East by settling down there. This 
 final visit to Europe . . . partly to see you, Mr. State 
 . . . was otherwise only to confirm my judgment on the 
 question. 
 
 MR. STATE. Has it? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. It has. I was always out of place amongst 
 you. I was sometimes tempted to regret my scandalous 
 conduct . . . [A slight stir from mr. huxtable.] Hush, 
 Harry . . . hush ! But I never could persuade myself to 
 amend it. It is some slight personal satisfaction to me 
 to discover . . . with a stranger's eye . . . that Europe 
 in its attitude towards women is mad. 
 
 MR. STATE. Mad ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Mad. 
 
 THOMAS. [Who is all ears.l I say ! 
 CONSTANTINE. You possibly agree with me, Major 
 Thomas. 
 
 THOMAS. [Much taken aback.'] No ... I don't think 
 
 so. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Many men do, but — poor fellows — they 
 dare not say so. For instance, Mr. State, what can be
 
 ACT m] THE IVIADRAS HOUSE 97 
 
 said of a community in which five men of some ability and 
 dignity are met together to traffic in . . . what was the 
 Numero of that aphrodisiac that so particularly attracted 
 Major Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS is shocked even to vioJence. 
 
 THOMAS. No . . . really, I protest 
 
 MR. STATE. [^Utterly calm.'] Easy, Major Thomas. Let 
 us consider the accusation philosophically, [Then with 
 the sweetest smile.'] Surely that is a gross construction 
 to' put on the instinct of every beautiful woman to adorn 
 herself. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Why gross ? I delight in pretty women, 
 prettily adorned. To come home after a day's work to 
 the welcome of one's women folk ... to find them un- 
 harassed by notions of business or politics . . , ready to 
 refresh one's spirit by attuning it to the gentler, sweeter 
 side o^ life . . . 
 
 THOMAS. [Making hearty atonement.'] Oh ! Quite so 
 , , . quite so. 
 
 CONSTANTINE, I thought you would agree with me, 
 Major Thomas. That is the Mahommedan gentleman's 
 domestic ideal. 
 
 THOMAS. [Brought up short.] Is it? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. But you don't expect to find your wife 
 dressed like that , . . the diamante and the . . . 
 
 THOMAS. [Mental discomfort growing on him.] No 
 , . . that was a going out dress. 
 
 PHILIP. [Greatly enjoying this contest.] Oh . . . 
 Tommy ! Tommy ! 
 
 THOMAS. [In tortuosity of mind — and conscience.] 
 But I tell you if my wife would , . . that is, if any chap's 
 wife will , . . I mean , . , [Then he gets it out.] If 
 a woman always kept herself smart and attractive at home 
 then a man would have no excuse for gadding about after 
 other women.
 
 99 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE joins the fray, suddenly, snappily. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. She sits looking after his children . . . 
 what more does he want of her? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Harry is a born husband, Major Thomas. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I'm not a born libertine, I hope. 
 
 THOMAS. Libertine be damned. 
 
 MR. STATE. [^Pacifically.'] Gentlemen, gentlemen . . . 
 these are abstract propositions. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Gadding after another man's wife, per- 
 haps ! Though I don't think you ever did that, Constan- 
 tine . . . I'll do you justice ... I don't think you ever 
 did. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I never did. 
 
 PHILIP. [With intense mischief. 1 Oh, Tommy, Tommy 
 . . . can you say the same? 
 
 THOMAS is really flabbergasted at the indecency. 
 
 THOMAS. Phil, that ain't nice . . . that ain't gentle- 
 manly. And I wasn't thinking of that, and you know I 
 wasn't. And . . . we ain't all so unattractive to women 
 as you are. 
 
 MR. STATE loses himself in enjoyment of this rep- 
 artee. 
 
 MR. STATE. Ah . . . Sour Grapes, Mr. Philip. We 
 mustn't be personal . . . but is it Sour Grapes? 
 
 PHILIP. [Very coolly on his defence.} Thank you, 
 Tommy ... I can attract just the sort of woman I want 
 to attract. But as long as it's Numero Cinq, Six or Sept 
 that attracts you . . well ... so long will Madras 
 Houses be an excellent investment for Mr. State. 
 
 That is the end of that little breeze, and constan- 
 tine's voice completes the quieting. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Phil is a cold-blooded egotist, and if 
 women like him that is their misfortune. I know his 
 way with a woman . . . coax her on to the intellectual 
 plane, where he thinks he can better her. You have my
 
 ACT in] THE MADRAS HOUSE 99 
 
 sympathy, Major Thomas, I also am as susceptible as 
 Nature means a man to be ... as all women must wish 
 him to be. And I referred to these going out dresses be- 
 cause — candidly — I found myself obliged to leave a coun- 
 try where women are let loose with money to spend and 
 time to waste. Encouraged to flaunt their charms on the 
 very streets . . . proud if they see the busmen wink . . . 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Not busmen. [He is only gently depre- 
 cating now.l 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Proud, my dear Harry, if they see a 
 cabman smile. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE looks around, and then nods solemnly 
 and thoughtfully. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Ycs, it's true. I'd deny it any other 
 time, but I've been thinking a bit lately . . . and the 
 things you think of once you start to think ! And it's true. 
 l^Biit with great chivalry.'] Only they don't know they do 
 it. They don't know they do it. [Then a doubt occurring.'] 
 D'you think they know they do it, Phil? 
 
 PHILIP. Some of them suspect, Uncle. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [His faith unspoUcd.] No, what I say 
 is it's Instinct . . . and we've just got to be as nice- 
 minded about it as we can. There was Julia, this summer 
 at Weymouth . . . that's one of my daughters. Bought 
 herself a dress . . . not one of the Numero sort, of course 
 . . . but very pretty . . . orange colour, it was . . . 
 stripes. But you could see it a mile off on the parade . . . 
 and her sisters all with their noses out of joint. I said 
 to myself . . . Instinct . . , 
 
 Suddenly mr. state rescues the discussion. 
 
 MR. STATE. Yes, sir . . . the noblest Instinct of all . . . 
 the Instinct to Perpetuate our Race. Let us take High 
 Ground in this matter, gentlemen. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Unstirred.] The very highest, Mr. 
 State. If you think that to turn Weymouth for a month
 
 100 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act in 
 
 a year into a cockpit of haphazard love-making, with all 
 the consequences that custom entails, is the best way of 
 perpetuating your race . . . well, I disagree with you . . . 
 but it's a point of view. What I ask is why Major Thomas 
 and myself . . . already perhaps in a creditable state of 
 marital perpetuation . . . should have our busy London 
 lives obsessed by . . . What is this thing? 
 
 PHILIP. La belle Helene's new hat, father, 
 
 coNSTANTiNE. Now, that may be ugly ... I hope I 
 never made anything quite so ugly myself . . . but it's 
 attractive. 
 
 PHILIP. [With a wry faceJ] No, father. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Isn't it. Major Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS. [Honestly.'] Well ... it makes you look at 
 em when you might not otherwise. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Yes . . . it's provocativc. Its intention 
 is that none of the world's work shall be done while it's 
 about. And when it's always about I honestly confess 
 again that I cannot do my share. It's a terrible thing to 
 be constantly conscious of women. They have their uses 
 to the world ... as you so happily phrased it, Mr. State 
 . . . their perpetual use . . . and the world's interest is 
 best served by keeping them strictly to it. Are these 
 provocative ladies \he fingers the hat again'] remarkable 
 for perpetuation now-a-days? 
 
 Once more mr. state bursts in — this time almost 
 heart-brokenly. 
 
 MR. STATE. I can't bear this, sir ... I can't bear to 
 take such a view of life ... no man of feeling could. 
 Besides, it's Reactionary . , . you're on the wrong tack. 
 You must come back to us, sir. You gave us Joy and 
 Pleasure . . . can we do without them? When you find 
 yourself once more among the Loveliness you helped us 
 to Worship you'll change your mind. What was the end 
 of that little story of the Duchess? How, on the appoint-
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 101 
 
 ed night, attired in her Madras Creation, she swept into 
 the Barll room with a frou-frou of silk skirt wafting Per- 
 fume as she came . . . while her younger rivals Pale be- 
 fore the Intoxication of her Beauty, and every man in 
 the room . . . young and old . . . struggles for a Glimpse 
 ... a Word ... a Look. [Once again he starts to soar.'} 
 A Ball room, sir . . . isn't it one of the Sweetest Sights 
 in the World? When bright the lamps shine o'er Fair 
 Women and Brave Men. Music arises with its Voluptu- 
 ous Swell. Soft eyes look Love to eyes which speak again. 
 And all goes Merry as a Marriage Bell ! Byron, gentle- 
 men, taught me at my mother's knee. The poet of Love 
 and Liberty . . . read in every school in America. 
 
 At the end of this recitation, vjhich mr. huxtable 
 barely refrains from applauding, constantine goes 
 coolly on, 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Mr. State, that is my case. The whole 
 of our upper class life, which everyone with a say in the 
 government of the country tries to lead ... is now run 
 as a ball room is run. Men swaggering before women 
 . . . the women ogling the men. Once a lad got some 
 training in manliness. But now from the very start . . . ! 
 In your own progressive country . . , mixed education 
 . . . oh, my dear sir . . . mixed education ! 
 
 MR. STATE. A softening influence. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Unexpectedly.} Of course it is. And 
 what has it sunk to, moreover ... all education now- 
 a-days? Book-learning. Because woman's a dab at that 
 . . . though it's of quite secondary importance to a man. 
 
 THOMAS. [Feelingly.} That's so. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. And moral influence. Woman's moral- 
 ity .. . the worst in the world. 
 
 PHILIP. Slave morality. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Ycs. Read Nietszche ... as my friend 
 Tarleton says. [All one gathers from this cryptic allusion
 
 102 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act hi 
 
 is that MR. HUXTABLE, at any rate, reprobates Tarleton, 
 and, inferentially, Nietszche.'] At Oxford and Cambridge 
 it grows worse . . . married professors . . . Newnham 
 and Girton . . . suffrage questions . . . purity questions. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Of course, some of the novels . , . 
 
 CONSTANTINE. From seventeen to thirty-four . . . the 
 years which a man should consecrate to the acquiring of 
 political virtue . , . wherever he turns he is distracted, 
 provoked, tantalised by the barefaced presence of women. 
 How's he to keep a clear brain for the larger issues of 
 life? Why do you soldiers. Major Thomas, volunteer 
 with such alacrity for foreign service? 
 
 THOMAS. [With a jump.'] Good God ... I never 
 thought of that. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. What's the result? Every great public 
 question ... all politics, all religion, all economy is being 
 brought down to the level of women's emotion. Admirable 
 in its way, . . . charming in its place ! But softening, 
 sentimentalising, enervating . . . lapping the world, if 
 you let it, in the nursery cotton wool of prettiness and 
 pettiness. Men don't realise how far rotted by the process 
 they are . . . that's what's so fatal. We're used to a 
 whole nation's anger being vented in scoldings ... or 
 rather we're getting used to the thought that it's naughty 
 to be angry at all. Justicfe degenerates into kindness . . . 
 that doesn't surprise us. Religion is a pretty hymn tune 
 to keep us from fear of the dark. You four unfortunates 
 might own the truth just for once . . . you needn't tell 
 your wives. 
 
 MR. STATE. I am not married. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I might have known it. 
 
 MR. STATE. [A little astonished.'] But no matter. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [With full appreciation of what he 
 says.] Women haven't morals or intellect in our sense 
 of the words. They have other incompatible qualities
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 103 
 
 quite as important, no doubt. But shut them away from 
 pubHc life and public exhibition. It's degrading to com- 
 pete with them . . . it's as degrading to compete for them. 
 Perhaps we're too late already . . . but oh, my dear sen- 
 timental Sir Ihe addresses the pained though admiring 
 MR. state], if we could replant the laurel bushes thick 
 enough we might yet rediscover the fine manly world we 
 are losing. 
 
 Except PHILIP, who sits detached and attentive, they 
 are all rather depressed by this judgment upon 
 them. THOMAS recovers sufficiently to ask . . . 
 THOMAS. Are you advocating polygamy in England? 
 CONSTANTINE. That is what it should come to. 
 THOMAS. Well ... I call that rather shocking. [Then 
 with some hopeful interest.l And is it practical? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I did not anticipate the reform in my 
 lifetime ... so I left for the East. 
 
 PHILIP. [Finely.] You did quite right, Father. I wish 
 everyone of your way of thinking would do the same. 
 CONSTANTINE IS ready for him. 
 CONSTANTINE. Are you prepared for so much depopu- 
 lation? Think of the women who'd be off to-morrow. 
 
 MR. HUXTABi.E wakcs fvom stupcfaction to say with 
 tremendous emphasis. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Never! 
 CONSTANTINE. Wrong, Harry. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. No, I'm not wrong just because you 
 say so ! You ought to listen to me a bit sometimes. I 
 always listened to you. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Bless your quick temper. 
 
 Who could resist constantine's smile . . . Well, 
 
 not HUXTABLE. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Oh . . . go on . . . tell me why I'm 
 wrong ... I daresay I am. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Evcu if you havc liked bringing up six
 
 104 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act in 
 
 daughters and not getting them married . . . how have 
 they liked it? You should have drowned them at birth, 
 Harry . . . 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. You must have your joke, mustn't you? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Therefore, how much pleasanter for 
 you . . . how much better for them ... if you'd only 
 to find one man ready, for a small consideration, to marry 
 the lot. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [JVith intense delight.'] Now if I was 
 to tell my wife that she wouldn't see the umour of it. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. The woman emancipator's last ditch, 
 Mr. State, is the trust that women will side with him. 
 Don't make any mistake. This is a serious question to 
 them ... of health and happiness . . . and sometimes of 
 bread and butter. Quite apart from our customers here 
 . . . kept women, every one of them . . . 
 
 MR. STATE, [/n some alarm.'] You don't say ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Gently lifting him from the little trap.] 
 Economically. Kept by their husbands ... or if they 
 live on their dividends, kept by Society. 
 
 PHILIP. What about men who live on their dividends? 
 
 MR. STATE. No . . . now don't let us go on to politics. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. . . . And apart from the prisoners in 
 that chaste little fortress on Denmark Hill ... we used 
 to employ, Harry, between us . . . what? . . . two or 
 three hundred free and independent women . . . making 
 clothes for the others, the ladies. They are as free as you 
 like . . . free to go . . . free to starve. How much do 
 they rejoice in their freedom to earn their living by 
 ruining their health and stifling their instincts? Answer 
 me, Harry, you monster of good-natured wickedness. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. What's that? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You keep an industrial seraglio. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. A what ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. What else is your Roberts and Huxtable
 
 ACT III] THE MADRAS HOUSE 105 
 
 but a iiarem of industry. Do you know that it would 
 sicken with horror a good Mahommedan ? You buy these 
 girls in the open market . . . you keep them under lock 
 and key . . . 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I do ? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Quite right, Harry, no harm done. 
 [Then his voice sinks to the utmost seyiousness.'\ But you 
 coin your profits out of them by putting on exhibition for 
 ten hours a day . . . their good looks, their good man- 
 ners, their womanhood. Hired out it is to any stranger 
 to hold as cheap for a few minutes as common decency 
 allows. And when you've worn them out you turn them 
 out . . . forget their very names . . . wouldn't know their 
 faces if you met them selling matches at your door. For 
 such treatment of potential motherhood, my Prophet con- 
 demns a man to Hell. 
 
 MR, HUXTABLE. [Breathlcss with amasement.'] Well, I 
 never did in all my born days ! They can marry respect- 
 ably, can't they ? We like em to marry. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, Uncle ... I went into that question with 
 Miss Yates and the Brigstocks this morning. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Completing his case.} I ask you all 
 . . . what is to happen to you as a nation? Where are 
 your future generations coming from? What with the 
 well-kept women you flatter and asstheticise till they won't 
 give you children, and the free women you work at mar- 
 ket rates till they can't give you children . . . 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Half humorously sulky.] Miss Yates 
 has obliged us, anyhow. 
 
 PHILIP. [Quickly capping him.'] And we're going to 
 dismiss her. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE flashes again into protestation. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. What clse can we do? But I said you 
 weren't to be hard on the girl. And I won't be upset like 
 this. I want to take things as I find em . . . that is as I
 
 106 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 used to find em . . . before there was any of these ideas 
 going around . . . and I'm sure we were happier without 
 em. Stifling their instincts . . . it's a horrid way to talk. 
 And I don't believe it. I could send for every girl in 
 the shop, and not one of em would hint at it to me. [He 
 has triumphed with himself so far, but his new-born intel- 
 lectual conscience brings him down.'} Not that that proves 
 anything, does it? I'm a fool. It's a beastly world. But I 
 don't make it so, do I? 
 
 PHILIP. Who does? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Other people, [philip's eye is on 
 him.} Oh, I see it coming. You're going to say we're 
 all the other people or something. I'm getting up to you. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Very carefully.'] What is this about a 
 Miss Yates? 
 
 PHILIP. A little bother down at Peckham. I can tell 
 you afterwards if you like. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No . . . there is no need. 
 
 Something in the tone of this last makes philip 
 look up quickly. But mr. state, with a sudden 
 thought, has first dived for his watch, and then, at 
 the sight of it, gets up from the table. 
 
 MR. STATE. Gentlemen, are you aware of the time? I 
 may mention that I have a City appointment at four 
 o'clock. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [PoUte, but Icisurely.'] Are we detain- 
 ing you, Mr. State? Not universal or compulsory polyg- 
 amy. Major Thomas. That would be nonsense. The very 
 distribution of the sexes forbids it. But its recognition 
 is one of the logical outcomes of the aristocratic method 
 of government. And that's the only ultimate method . . . 
 all others are interim plans for sifting out various aris- 
 tocracies. The community of the future will specialise 
 its functions. Women will find, I hope, some intellectual 
 companions like my son, who will, besides, take a gentle
 
 ACT m] THE MADRAS HOUSE 107 
 
 interest- in the County Council. There will be single- 
 hearted men like Harry, content with old-fashioned do- 
 mesticity. There will be poets like you, Mr. State, to 
 dream about women and to dress them . . . their bodies 
 in silks and their virtues in phrases. But there must also 
 be such men as Major Thomas and myself . . . 
 
 THOMAS rises, yet again, to this piece of chaff. 
 
 THOMAS. No, no ! I'm not like that . . . not in the 
 least. Because a fellow has been in the Army ! Don't 
 drag me in. 
 
 MR. STATE. As Stimulating a conversation as I remem- 
 ber. A little hard to follow at times . . . but worth far 
 more than the sacrifice of any mere business doings. 
 
 CONSTANTINE tokes the hint graciously, and is apt 
 for business at once. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. My fault! Shall we agree, Mr. State, 
 to accept as much of your offer as you have no intention- 
 of altering? We are dealing for both the shops? 
 
 MR. STATE. Yes. What are we proposing to knock off 
 their valuation, Major Thomas? 
 
 THOMAS. Eight thousand six hundred. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Phil, what were we prepared to come 
 down? 
 
 PHILIP. Nine thousand. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. A Very creditable margin. Your offer 
 is accepted, Mr. State. 
 
 MR. STATE feels he must really play up to such mag- 
 nificent conducting of business. 
 
 MR. STATE. I should prefer to knock you down only 
 eight thousand. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. {^Keeping the advantage.^ Isn't that 
 merely romantic of you, Mr. State . . . not in the best 
 form of business art? 
 
 THOMAS. But the conditions, you know? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. We accept your conditions. If they
 
 108 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iii 
 
 won't work you'll be only anxious to alter them. So the 
 business is done. 
 
 MR. huxtable's eyes are wide. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. But look here. 
 
 PHILIP. Uncle Harry has something to say . . . 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. \Assertively.'\ Yes. 
 
 coNSTANTiNE. Something different to say, Harry ? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [After thinking it over.'] No. 
 So CONSTANTINE retunis happily to his subject. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. What interests me about this Woman 
 Question . . . now that I've settled my personal share in 
 it ... is to wonder how Europe, hampered by such an 
 unsolved problem, can hope to stand up against the Ori- 
 ental revival. 
 
 THOMAS. What's that? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You'll hear of it shortly. Up from the 
 Persian gulf to where I live we could grow enough wheat 
 to feed the British Empire. Life there is simple and spa- 
 cious . . . the air is not breathed out. All we want is a 
 happy, hardy race of men, and under a decent government 
 we shall soon beget it. But you Europeans ! Is this the 
 symbol you are marching to the future under? [He has 
 found again, and lifts up, la Belle Helene's new hat.] A 
 cap of slavery ! You are all idolaters of women . . . and 
 they are the slaves of your idolatry. 
 
 MR. STATE. [With undisguised admiration.] Mr. Mad- 
 ras, I am proud to have met you again. If I say another 
 word, I may be so interested in your reply that I shall 
 miss my appointment. My coat? Thank you, Mr. Philip. 
 I have to meet a man about a new system of country house 
 drainage that he wants me to finance. I can hardly hope 
 for another Transcendental Discussion upon that. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Why nOt ? 
 
 MR. STATE. If you were he! Good-bye, sir. Good-day,
 
 ACT in] THE MADRAS HOUSE 109 
 
 Mr. Huxtable. Till to-morrow, Major Thomas. No, Mr. 
 Philip, don't see me down. 
 
 He is off for his next deal, philip civilly takes 
 him past the door, saying . . . 
 
 PHILIP. Your car's at the Bond Street entrance, I 
 expect. 
 
 And then he comes back, constantine is keeping 
 half a friendly eye on huxtable^ who fidgets under 
 it. THOMAS takes breath and expounds a grievance. 
 
 THOMAS. That's how he settles business. But leaves 
 us all the papers to do. I shall take mine home. The 
 four-thirty gets me indoors by a quarter to six. Time 
 for a cup of tea! Phil, have you got China tea? 
 
 PHILIP. Downstairs. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I must be getting back, I think. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Harry . . . you're running away from 
 me. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [In frank amused confession.^ Yes 
 ... I was. Habit, y'know . . . habit. 
 
 CONSTANTINE, \_With the most friendly condescension.'] 
 Suppose I go with you . . . part of the way. How do 
 you go? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. On a bus. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Suppose wc go together ... on a bus. 
 
 MR, HUXTABLE. [Desperately cunning.'] It's all right 
 . . . they won't see me with you. We don't close till 
 seven, 
 
 constantine's face sours. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No, to be surc. Phil, I can't come to 
 dinner, I'm afraid. 
 
 PHILIP. Oh, I was going to tell you. Mother will be 
 there. Tommy, you know the tea room. 
 
 THOMAS. [AH tact.] Oh, quite ! 
 
 PHILIP. Straight downstairs, first to the left and the 
 second passage. I'll follow.
 
 110 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 THOMAS departs. constantine ^03;^, indiffer- 
 ently . . . 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Then I'll come in after dinner. 
 
 PHILIP. You don't mind? « 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No. 
 
 There stands mr. huxtable, first on one foot and 
 then on the other, desperately nervous, constan- 
 tine smiling at him. philip cannot resist it. He 
 says ... 
 
 PHILIP. It's afterwards now, Uncle. Fire away. 
 
 And is off. constantine still smiles. Poor mr. 
 huxtable makes a desperate effort to do the proper 
 thing by this reprobate. He forms his face into a 
 frown. It's no use; an answering smile will come. 
 He surrenders. 
 
 MR. huxtable. Look here . . . don't let's talk about 
 Amelia. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No . . . ncvcr rake up the past. 
 
 MR. huxtable. Lord! What else has a chap got to 
 think of? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. That's why you look so old. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Do I, nOW ? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. What age are you? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Sixty. 
 
 The two sit down together. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You should come and stay with me at 
 Hit ... not far from Hillel . . . Hillel is Babylon, 
 Harry. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. \Curious.'\ What's it like there? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. The house is white, and there are palm 
 trees about it . . . and not far off flows the Euphrates. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Just like in the Bible. [His face is 
 wistful.] Constantine. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Ycs, Harry.
 
 ACT ra] THE MADRAS HOUSE 111 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE, You'vc said odder things this after- 
 noon than I've ever heard you say before. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Probably not. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [IVojidcrtng.] And I haven't really 
 minded em. But I believe it's the first time I've ever 
 understood you . . . and p'raps that's just as v^ell for me. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. \_Encoiiragingly.'\ Oh . . . why, Harry? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Because . . . d'you think it's only not 
 being very clever keeps us . . . well behaved? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Has it kept you happy? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Impatient at the petty word.'] Any- 
 one can be happy. What worries me is having got to my 
 age and only just beginning to understand anything at all. 
 And you can't learn it out of books, old man. Books 
 don't tell you the truth ... at least not any that I can 
 find. I wonder if I'd been a bit of a dog like you . . . ? 
 But there it is . . . you can't do things on purpose. And 
 what's more, don't you go to think I'd have done them if 
 I could . . . knowing them to be wrong. [Then comes a 
 discovery.'] But I was always jealous of you, Constan- 
 tine, for you seemed to get the best of everything . . . and 
 I know people couldn't help being fond of you . . . for I 
 was fond of you myself, whatever you did. That was 
 odd to start with. And now here we are, both of us old 
 chaps . . . 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [As He tkrows back his head.] I am not 
 old. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [With sudden misgiving.] You don't 
 repent, do you? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. What of? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Katherine said this morning that you 
 might have . . . but I wasn't afraid of that. [Now he 
 wags his head wisely.] You know . . . you evil-doers 
 . . . you upset us all, and you hurt our feelings, and of 
 course you ought to be ashamed of yourself. But . . .
 
 112 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 well . . . it's like the only time I went abroad. I was 
 sick going ... I was orribly uncomfortable ... I ated 
 the cooking ... I was sick coming back. But I wouldn't 
 have missed it ... ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [In affecHouote good fellowship.'] Come 
 to Arabia, Harry. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Humoroiisly pathetic about it.} Don't 
 you make game of me. My time's over. What have I 
 done with it, now ? Married. Brought up a family. Been 
 master to a few hundred girls and fellows who never 
 really cared a bit for me. I've been made a convenience 
 of . . . that's my life. That's where I envy you. You've 
 had your own way . . . and you don't look now as if 
 you'd be damned for it, either. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [In gentlemanly defiance.'] I shan't be. 
 MR. HUXTABLE sliakes c fist, sowiewhat, though un- 
 consciously, in the direction of the ceiling. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. It's not fair, and I don't care who 
 hears me say so. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Supposc wc shout it from the top of 
 the bus. 
 
 As they start, mr. huxtable returns to his mun- 
 dane, responsible self. 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. But yotl know, old man . . . you'll ex- 
 cuse me, I'm sure . . . and it's all very well having theo- 
 ries and being able to talk . . . still, you did treat Amelia 
 very badly . . . and those other ones, too . . . say what 
 you like ! Let go my arm, will you ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Why? 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Hls scruplcs Icss Strong than the soft 
 touch of constantine's hand.] Well, p'raps you needn't. 
 [A thought strikes him.] Are you really goi'nqr away for 
 good this time? 
 
 constanttnte. To-morrow.
 
 ACT III] THE MADRAS HOUSE 113 
 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [Beaming on him.'] Then come home 
 and see mother and the girls. 
 
 MAJOR THOMAS contcs back, looking about him. 
 THOMAS. Excuse me ... I left my hat. 
 CONSTANTINE. It wiU make them very uncomfortable. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. [His smile fading.'] D'you think so? 
 Won't it do em good . . . broaden their minds? 
 PHILIP comes back, too. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. Phil . . . shall I take your father ome 
 to call? 
 
 PHILIP. [After one gasp at the prospect, says with 
 great cheerfulness . . . ] Certainly. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I'll be with you by nine, Phil. 
 
 MR. huxtable's dare-devil heart fails once more. 
 MR. HUXTABLE. I say . . . better not be too friendly 
 through the shop. 
 
 CONSTANTINE smilcs Still, but does not loose his 
 arm. Off they go. 
 THOMAS. IStill searching.'] Where the devil did I put 
 it? 
 
 PHILIP. Pity you can't take father's place at dinner, 
 Tommy. 
 
 THOMAS stops and looks at him aggrievedly. 
 THOMAS. Are you chaffing me? 
 
 PHILIP. We might get some further light on the 
 Woman Question. My mother's opinion and Jessica's 
 upon such men as you and my father. 
 
 He picks lip some papers and sits to them at the 
 table. 
 THOMAS. Look here, Phil . . . don't you aggravate me 
 into behaving rashly. Here it is. [He has found his hat 
 on a gas-bracket — and he slams it on.] 
 PHILIP. With Jessica? 
 
 THOMAS. [With ferocious gallantry.] Yes ... a 
 damned attractive woman.
 
 114 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act m 
 
 PHILIP. After all . . . as an abstract proposition, Tom- 
 my . . . polyandry is just as simple a way . . . and as 
 far as we know, as much Nature's way as the other. We 
 ought to have put that point to the gentle Mahommedan. 
 
 THOMAS. [After vainly considering this for a moment.'] 
 Phil, I should like to see you in love with a woman . . . 
 It'd serve you right. 
 
 Suddenly philip drops his mocking tone and his 
 face grows gentle and grave. 
 
 PHILIP. Tommy . . . what's the purpose of it all? 
 Apart from the sentimental wallowings of Mr. Eustace 
 Perrin State . . . and putting that Lord of Creation, my 
 father, on one side for a moment . . . what do we slow- 
 breeding, civilised people get out of love . . . and the 
 beauty of women . . . and the artistic setting that beauty 
 demands? For which we do pay rather a big price, you 
 know. Tommy. What do we get for it? 
 
 THOMAS. [Utterly at sea.'} I don't know. 
 
 PHILIP. It's an important question. Think it over in 
 the train. 
 
 THOMAS. Old chap ... I beg your pardon . . . the 
 County Council is the best place for you. It'll stop your 
 addling over these silly conundrums. 
 
 PHILIP. [Subtly.'] On the contrary. 
 
 THOMAS. [His favourite phrase again.] What do you 
 mean? 
 
 PHILIP. Get out . . . you'll miss that four-thirty. 
 
 THOMAS gets out. PHILIP gets desperately to loathed 
 business.
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 115 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 PHILIP/ his mother, and jessica, are sitting, after dinner, 
 round the drawing-room fire in Phillimore Gardens. 
 JESSICA, rather, is away upon the bench of her long, 
 black piano, sorting bound books of music, and the 
 firelight hardly reaches her. But it flickers over 
 MRS, MADRAS, and though it marks more deeply the 
 little bitter lines on her face, it leaves a glow there 
 in recompense. She sits, poor, anxious old lady, 
 gazing, not into the fire, but at the shining copper- 
 fender, her hands on her lap, as usual. Every now 
 and then she lifts her head to listen, philip is com- 
 fortable upon the sofa opposite ; he is smoking, and 
 is deep, besides, in some weighty volume, the Long- 
 man Edition of the Minority Report of the Poor 
 Law Commission, perhaps. 
 
 It is a charming room. The zvalls are grey, the paint is 
 a darker grey. The curtains to the two long win- 
 dows are of the gentlest pink brocade; the lights 
 that hang on plain little brackets from the walls 
 are a soft pink, too, and there is no other colour in 
 the room, but the masiness of some Persian rugs 
 on the floor and the mellowed brilliancy of the 
 Arundel prints on the walls. There is no more 
 furniture than there need be; there is no more light 
 than there need be; yet it is not empty or dreary. 
 There is just nothing to jar, nothing to prevent a 
 sensitive soul finding rest there.
 
 116 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 The parlour maid comes in; she is dressed in grey, too, 
 capless, some black ribbons about her. {Really, 
 Jessica's home inclines to be a little precious. ''\ 
 She brings letters, one for jessica, two for philip, 
 and departs. 
 PHILIP. Last post. 
 
 JESSICA. Half-past nine. I suppose your father means 
 to come? 
 
 PHILIP. He said so. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Is your letter interesting, Jessica? 
 
 JESSICA. A receipt. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Do you run bills? 
 
 JESSICA. Lots. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Is that quite wise? 
 
 JESSICA. The tradesmen prefer it. 
 
 With that she walks to her writing iable. Jessica's 
 manner to her mother-in-laxv is over-courteous, an 
 unkind weapon against which the old lady, but half 
 conscious of it, is quite defenceless, philip has 
 opened his second letter, and whistles, at its con- 
 tents, a bar of a tune that is in his head. 
 
 JESSICA. What's the matter, Phil? 
 
 To emphasise his feelings he performs the second 
 bar with variations. • 
 
 JESSICA. As bad as that? 
 
 For final comment he brings the matter to a full 
 close on one expressive note, and puts the letter 
 away, jessica flicks at him amusedly. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. How absurd ! You can't tell in the least 
 what he means. 
 
 JESSICA. No. 
 
 With forced patience she wanders back to her 
 piano. 
 MRS. MADRAS. You might play us something, Jessica 
 . . . just to pass the time.
 
 ACT iv] THE ]\IADRAS HOUSE 117 
 
 Uiiohservcd. jessica casts her eyes up to the ceiling. 
 
 JESSICA. What will you have ? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. I am sure you play all the latest things. 
 
 JESSICA. I'm afraid you don't really like my playing. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. I do think it's a little professional. I 
 prefer something softer. 
 
 JESSICA leaves the piano. 
 
 JESSICA. I'm afraid we are giving you a dull evening. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [With that suddenness which seems to 
 characterise the huxtable family.'] Why do you never 
 call me mother, Jessica? 
 
 JESSICA. Don't I ? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. \_Resenting prevarication.'] You know 
 you don't. 
 
 JESSICA. I suppose I don't think of you just like that. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. What has that to do with it? 
 
 JESSICA. [More coldly courteous than ever.] Nothing 
 . . . Mother. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. That's not a very nice manner of giving 
 way, either, is it? 
 
 JESSICA. [On the edge of an outburst.] It seemed to 
 me sufficiently childish. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Parading a double injury.] I don't 
 know what you mean. It's easy to be too clever for me, 
 Jessica. 
 
 PHILIP mercifully intervenes. 
 
 PHILIP. Mother, what do you think parents gain by 
 insisting on respect and affection from grown-up children? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Isn't it their right? 
 
 PHILIP. But I asked what they gained. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Isn't it natural? When an old woman 
 has lost her husband, or worse, if she's to lose her chil- 
 dren, too, what has she left? 
 
 JESSICA. [Recovering a little kindness.] Her woman- 
 hood, Mother.
 
 118 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 PHILIP. Her old-womanhood. You know, it may be a 
 very beautiful possession. 
 
 The parlour maid announces "^mr. constantine 
 MADRAS." There stands Constantine in the bright 
 light of the hall, more dramatically dignified than 
 ever. As he comes in, though, it seems as if there 
 was the slightest strain in his charming manners. 
 He has not changed his clothes for the evening. 
 He goes straight to jessica, and it seems that he 
 has a curious soft way of shaking hands with 
 women. 
 
 constantine. How do you do, Jessica? I find you 
 looking beautiful. 
 
 JESSICA acknowledges the compliment with a little 
 disdainful bend of the head and leaves him, then 
 with a glance at philip leaves the room, constan- 
 tine comes towards his zuife. She does not look 
 up, but her face wrinkles pathetically. So he speaks 
 at last. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Well, Amelia? 
 
 For MRS. madras it must be resentment or tears, or 
 both. Resentment comes first. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Is that the way to speak to me after 
 thirty years? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. \^Amicably.'\ Perhaps it isn't. But 
 there's not much variety of choice in greetings, is there? 
 
 PHILIP, nodding to his father, has edged to the 
 door, and now edges out of it. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. They leave us alone. We might be an 
 engaged couple. 
 
 She stays silent, distressfully avoiding his eye. He 
 takes a chair and sits by her. He would say [as 
 JESSICA no doubt would say of herself] that he 
 speaks kindly to her. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Well, Amelia? I beg your pardon. |
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 119 
 
 repeat myself, and you dislike the phrase. I hope, though, 
 that you are quite well? Don't cry, dear Amelia . . . 
 unless, of course, you want to cry. Well, then . . . cry. 
 And, when you've finished crying . . . there's no hurry 
 . . . you shall tell me why you wished to see me . . . and 
 run the risk of upsetting yourself like this. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS, \_Dahbing her eyesJ] I don't often cry. 
 J don't often get a chance. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I fear that is only one way of saying 
 that you miss me. 
 
 The handkerchief is put away, and she faces him. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Are you really going back to that coun- 
 try to-morrow? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. To-morrow morning. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. For gOOd ? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [With thanksgiving.'] For ever, 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Desperately resolute.'] Will you take 
 me with you? 
 
 It takes CONSTANTINE just c moment to recover. 
 
 CONSTANTINE, No, Amelia, I will not. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Rc-acting a little hysterically.] I'm 
 sure I don't want to go, and I'm sure I never meant to ask 
 you. But you haven't changed a bit, Constantine ... in 
 spite of your beard, [Then the voice saddens and almost 
 dies away.] I have. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Only externally, I'm sure. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Why did you ever marry me? You 
 married me for my money. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Sighting boredom.] It is so long ago. 
 
 MRS, MADRAS. It isn't ... it seems like yesterday. 
 Didn't you marry me for my money? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Partly, Amelia, partly. Why did you 
 marry me? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. I Wanted to. I was a fool. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Evenly still.] You were a fool, per-
 
 120 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 haps, to grumble at the consequence of getting what you 
 wanted. It would have been kinder of me, no doubt, not 
 to marry you. But I was more impetuous then, and, of 
 course, less experienced. I didn't realise you never could 
 change your idea of what a good husband must be, nor 
 how necessary it would become that you should. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. How dare you make excuses for the 
 way you treated me? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. There were two excuses. I was the 
 first. I'm afraid that you ultimately became the second. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [With Spirit. 1 I only stood up for my 
 rights. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You got them, too. We separated, and 
 there was an end of it. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Fve never been happy since. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. That is nothing to be proud of, my dear, 
 MRS. MADRAS fcels the strangeness between them 
 wearing off. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. What happened to that woman and her 
 son . . . that Flora? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. The son is an engineer . . . promises 
 very well, his employers tell me. Flora lives at Hitchin 
 . . . quite comfortably, I have reason to beHeve. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. She was .oldcr than me. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. About the same age, I think. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. You'vc givcn her money? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [His eyebfows up.'] Certainly . . . they 
 were both provided for. 
 
 MRS, MADRAS. Don't you expect me to be jealous? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [With o sigh.] Still, Amelia? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Do you ever see her now? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I haven't seen her for years. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. It scems to me she has been just as well 
 treated as I have ... if not better. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. She expected less.
 
 ACT IV] THE MADRAS HOUSE 121 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. And what about the others? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [His patience giving out.'] No, really, 
 it's thirty years ago ... I cannot fight my battles over 
 again. Please tell me what I can do for you beyond tak- 
 ing you back with me. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Cowering to the least harshness.] I 
 didn't mean that. I don't know what made me say it. 
 But it's dreadful seeing you once more and being alone 
 with- you. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Now, Amelia, are you going to cry 
 again ? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. {Setting her teeth.] No. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. That's right. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS really does pull herself together, and 
 becomes intensely reasonable. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. What I really want you to do, if you 
 please, Constantine, is not to go away. I don't expect us 
 to live together . . . after the way you have behaved I 
 could not consent to such a thing. But somebody must 
 look after you when you are ill, and, what's more, I don't 
 think you ought to go and die out of your own country. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Meeting reason with reason.] My dear 
 ... I have formed other ties. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Will you pleasc explain exactly what 
 you mean by that? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I am a Mahommedan. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Nonsense ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Possibly you are not acquainted with 
 the Mahommedan marriage laws. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. D'you mean to say you re not married 
 to me? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No . . . though it was not considered 
 necessary for me to take that into account in conforming 
 to it ... I did. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. Well. . . I Hcvcr thought you could be-
 
 122 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 have any worse. Why weren't you satisfied in making 
 me unhappy? If you've gone and committed blasphemy 
 as well ... I don't know what's to become of you, Con- 
 stantine. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Amelia, if I had been a Mahommedan 
 from the beginning you might be living happily with me 
 now. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. How can you say such a horrible thing? 
 Suppose it were true? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I came from the East. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. You didn't. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Let US be quite accurate. My grand- 
 father was a Smyrna Jew. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. You nevcr knew him. Your mother 
 brought you up a Baptist. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I was an unworthy Baptist. As a Bap- 
 tist I owe you apologies for my conduct. What does that 
 excellent creed owe me for the little hells of temptation 
 and shame and remorse that I passed through because 
 of it? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. {In pathetic wonder.'] Did you, Con- 
 stantine? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I did. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. You ncvcr told me. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [With manly pride.l I should think 
 not. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. But I was longing to have you say you 
 were sorry, and let me forgive you. Twice and three 
 times I'd have forgiven you . . . and you knew it, Con- 
 stantine. 
 
 CONSTANTINE rccovevs his humour, his cool cour- 
 tesy, and his inhumanity, which he had momentarily 
 lost. 
 CONSTANTINE. Ycs, it wasn't so easy to escape your
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 123 
 
 forgiveness. If it weren't for Mahomet, the Prophet of 
 God, Amelia, I should hardly be escaping it now. 
 PHILIP comes delicately in. 
 
 PHILIP. I beg pardon . . . only my book. [Which he 
 takes from the piano.] 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Don't go, Phil. 
 
 So PHILIP joiiis them, and then, as silence super- 
 venes, says, with obvious cheerfulness. 
 
 pijiLip. How are you getting on? 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Her tongue released.'] Philip, don't be 
 flippant. It's just as your cousin Ernest said. Your 
 father has gone and pretended to marry a lot of wretched 
 women out in that country you showed me on the map, 
 and I don't know what's to be done. My head's going 
 round. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Not a lot, Amelia. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. And if anybody had told me, when I was 
 a girl at school, and learning about such things in History 
 and Geography, that I should ever find myself in such a 
 situation as this, I wouldn't have believed them. [She 
 piles up the agony.] Constantine, how are you going to 
 face me Hereafter? Have you thought of that? Wasn't 
 our marriage made in Heaven? I must know what is 
 going to happen to us ... I simply must. I have always 
 prayed that you might come back to me, and that I might 
 close your eyes in death. You know I have, Philip, and 
 I've asked you to tell him so. He has no right to go 
 and do such wicked things. You're mine in the sight of 
 God, Constantine, and you can't deny it. 
 
 Without warning, constantine loses his temper, 
 jumps up and thunders at her. 
 
 constantine. Woman ... be silent. [Then, as in 
 shame, he turns his hack on her and says in the coldest 
 voice . . . ] Philip, I have several things to talk over
 
 124 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 with you. Suggest to your mother that she should leave 
 us alone. 
 
 PHILIP. [^Protesting against both temper and dignity.'] 
 I shall do nothing of the sort. While my father's in 
 England, and you're in our house, he can at least treat his 
 wife with politeness. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS. {With Meek satisfaction.'] I'd rather he 
 didn't , . . it's only laughing at me. I'll go to bed. I'd 
 much rather he lost his temper. 
 
 She gets up to go. constantine's hitter voice 
 stops her. 
 CONSTANTINE. Phil . . . when you were a boy . . . 
 your mother and I once quarrelled in your presence. 
 PHILIP. [In bitterness, too.] I remember. 
 CONSTANTINE. I'm ashamed of it to this day. 
 MRS. MADRAS. [Quite pleasantly.] Well ... I'm sure I 
 don't remember it. What about? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Oh . . . this terrible country. Every 
 hour I stay in it seems to rob me of some atom of self- 
 respect. 
 
 MRS. MADRAS joins battle again at this. 
 MRS. MADRAS. Then why did you come back ? And why 
 haven't you been to see me before ... or written to me? 
 CONSTANTINE. [In humorous despair.] Amelia, don't 
 aggravate me any more. Go to bed, if you're going. 
 MRS. MADRAS. I wish I'd never seen you again. 
 PHILIP. Good-night, Mother. 
 
 PHILIP gets her to the door and kisses her kindly. 
 Then constantine says, with all the meaning pos- 
 sible . . . 
 CONSTANTINE. Good-bye, Amelia. 
 
 She turns, the bright hall light falling on her, looks 
 at him hatefully, makes no other reply, goes, philip 
 comes back to the fire. All this is bitter to him, 
 too. He eyes his father.
 
 ^CT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 125 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I'm sorry. I'm upset. I was upset when 
 I came here. 
 
 JHILIP. What about? The visit to Denmark Hill? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [IVJio Jias apparently forgotten that.'] 
 No ... I didn't go there, after all. 
 
 PHILIP. Funked it? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Accepting the gibe.'] I daresay. Once 
 we were off the bus, Harry began to mutter about hurting 
 their feelings. I daresay I was funking it, too. I told 
 him to tell them how unbendingly moral he had been with 
 me. He shed three tears as we parted. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes . . . my mother was alone here. She's a 
 disappointed woman . . . peevish with ill health. One 
 has her at a disadvantage. But Aunt Kate . . . unveiled 
 and confident, with six corseted daughters to back her ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You think, of course, that I've always 
 treated your mother badly? 
 
 PHILIP. I can't help thinking so. Was it the only way 
 to treat her? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Was I meant to pass the rest of a life- 
 time making her forget that she was as unhappy as people 
 who have outlived their purpose always are? 
 
 PHILIP. Personally, I have this grudge against you 
 both, my dear father. As the son of a quarrelsome mar- 
 riage, I have grown up inclined to dislike men and de- 
 spise women. You're so full of this purpose of getting 
 the next generation born. Suppose you thought a little 
 more of its upbringing. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. What was wrong with yours? 
 
 PHILIP. I had no home. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You Spent a Sunday with me every 
 month. You went to the manliest school I could find. 
 
 PHILIP. Never mind how I learnt Latin and Greek. 
 Who taught me that every pretty, helpless woman was a
 
 126 
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 man's prey . . . and how to order my wife out of the 
 room? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [With o shruQ.} My dear boy . . . they 
 like it. 
 
 PHILIP. D o they? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Well . . . how clse are you to manage 
 them? 
 
 PHILIP. Father, don't you realise that ... in deca- 
 dent England, at least, this manliness of yours is getting 
 a little out of date . . . that you and your kind begin to 
 look foolish at last? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [Votcing the discomfort that possesses 
 him.'] I daresay. Thank God, I shall be quit of the coun- 
 try to-morrow ! I got here late this evening because I 
 travelled three stations too far in that Tube, sitting oppo- 
 site such a pretty little devil. She was so alive ... so 
 crying out for conquest . . . she had that curve of the 
 instep and the little trick of swinging her foot that I never 
 could resist. How does a man resist it? Yes. That's 
 ridiculous and ignominious and degrading. I escaped 
 from England to escape from it. Old age here ... a 
 loose lip and a furtive eye. I'd have asked you to shoot 
 me first. 
 
 PHILIP. Was it that upset you? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. No. [He frowtis; his thoughts are much 
 elsewhere. There is a moment's silence, philip breaks 
 i/.] 
 
 PHILIP. Father, what do you know about this Miss 
 Yates affair? 
 
 CONSTANTINE givcs him a sharp look; then carefully 
 casual . . . 
 
 CONSTANTINE. What you'vc told me. • 
 
 PHILIP. No more? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Is there more to know?
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 127 
 
 PHILIP fishes out and hands across the letter over 
 
 which he whistled. 
 PHILIP. This has just come from Miss Chancellor. 
 CONSTANTINE. Who's she? 
 
 PHILIP. The housekeeper at Peckham, who rashly ac- 
 cused Brig-stock of being the other responsible party. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Is he? 
 
 PHILIP. I think not. But she encloses a letter she has 
 jus_t had from Brigstock's solicitors, to the effect that 
 both an apology and compensation is due to him unless 
 the slander is to come into court. Hers faithfully, Mey- 
 rick & Hodges. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I don't know them. 
 
 PHILIP. We were all still making personal remarks at 
 half-past twelve to-day ... so by their expedition I 
 should say they both are and are not a first-class firm. 
 But suppose the whole thing is made public . . . then the 
 question of the parentage must be cleared up. Miss Yates 
 says it's nobody's business but hers. That's an odd idea, 
 in which, if she chooses to have it, the law seems to sup- 
 port her. 
 
 The steady eye and the steady voice have seemed to 
 make the tension unbearable, and philip has meant 
 them to. But he hardly expected this outburst. 
 CONSTANTINE, in Ms owu dramatically dignified 
 way, has a fit of hysterics. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Phil, I saw the little baggage when the 
 shop closed. I insisted on her meeting me. You know 
 how I've always behaved over these matters. No one 
 could have been kinder. But she refused money. 
 
 PHILIP. [Calling on the gods to witness this occasion.^ 
 Well ... I might have guessed. Oh . . . you incorrigi- 
 ble old man ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. She insulted me . . . said she'd done 
 with me . . . denied me the right to my own child. I'd
 
 128 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 even have taken her away. But you're helpless. I never 
 felt so degraded in my life. 
 PHILIP. Serve you right ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE. . . . But the girl's mad! Think of my 
 feelings. What does it make of m e? Did she know what 
 she was saying? 
 
 PHILIP. [Framing his thoughts at last.'l Possibly not 
 . . . but I'm thankful some woman's been found at last 
 to put you in your place. 
 
 These parental-filial passages have brought the two 
 of them face to face, strung to shouting pitch. They 
 become aware of it when jessica walks in very 
 gently. 
 JESSICA. Your mother gone? 
 PHILIP. To bed. 
 
 JESSICA. [Conscious of thunder.'] Am I intruding? I 
 sent Phil in for his book a while ago. He didn't return, 
 so I judged that he was. Perhaps I'm not? 
 
 CONSTANTINE is master of himself again, though the 
 hand holding the letter which philip gave him does 
 tremble a little still. 
 CONSTANTINE. Well . . . what does Miss Chancellor 
 want? 
 
 PHILIP. She asks my advice. 
 CONSTANTINE. Dismiss Baxter. 
 PHILIP. D'you mean Brigstock? 
 CONSTANTINE. Brigstock, then. Dismiss him. 
 PHILIP. What's he done to deserve it? 
 CONSTANTINE. He scems a nonentity of a fellow, and 
 without grit enough to own up to his wife and risk his 
 place. D'you want to protect a man from the conse- 
 quences of what he i s? 
 
 PHILIP. Society conspires to. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Then pay him fiftv poup'^s for the dam-
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 129 
 
 age to his silly little reputation. That'll be a just conse- 
 quence to you of sentimentalising over him. 
 
 PHILIP. And stick to Miss Chancellor? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Certainly. Thank her from the firm for 
 nosing out such a scandal. 
 
 PHILIP. And what about Miss Yates? 
 
 JESSICA. The girl in your office this morning? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes. 
 JESSICA. In the usual trouble? 
 
 PHILIP. How d'you know that? 
 
 JESSICA. By the tone of your voice. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [More slozvly, more carefully, a little re- 
 sentfully.'] Dismiss Miss Yates. Keep your eye on her 
 . . . and in a year's time find her a better place ... if 
 you can ... in one of these new Madras Houses of 
 State's. He seems to pay very well. [Then with a breath 
 of relief he becomes his old charming self again.'] Let us 
 change the subject. How is Mildred, Jessica? 
 
 JESSICA. Growing. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I've an appointment with my solicitor 
 to-night . . . ten o'clock. There will be two or three 
 thousand pounds to come to that young lady by my will. 
 I mean to leave it as a dowry for her marriage ... its 
 interest to be paid to her if she's a spinster at thirty . . . 
 which Heaven forbid. 
 
 PHILIP. What are you doing with the rest, Father? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. There are one or two . . . legacies of 
 honour, shall I call them? What remains will come to 
 you. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes ... I don't want it, thank you. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. It isn't much. 
 
 PHILIP. Take it to Hit, that charming village on the 
 borders of Southern Arabia. Stick it in the ground . . . 
 let it breed more corn and oil for you. We've too much 
 of it already ... it breeds idleness here.
 
 130 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Dear me ! 
 They settle into a chat. 
 
 JESSICA. We're discussing a reduction of our in- 
 come by a few hundreds a year. 
 
 PHILIP. I'm refusing State's directorship, 
 
 JESSICA. Though I'm waiting for Phil to tell me where 
 the saving's to come in. 
 
 PHILIP. We ought to change that school of Mildred's, 
 for one thing. 
 
 JESSICA. Nonsense, Phil ! 
 
 PHILIP. My dear father, I spent a day there with the 
 child, and upon my word, the only thing she's being taught 
 which will not be a mere idle accomplishment is garden- 
 ing. And even in their gardens . . . No vegetables 
 allowed ! 
 
 JESSICA. Phil, I don't mean to have any nonsense with 
 Mildred about earning her living. Accomplished women 
 have a very good time in this world . . . serious women 
 don't. I want my daughter to be happy. 
 
 PHILIP. If we've only enough life left to be happy with 
 we must keep ourselves decently poor. 
 
 CONSTANTINE gets lip. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Could you get me a taxi, I wonder? It 
 had started raining when I came. 
 
 PHILIP. There'll be one on the stand opposite. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I mustn't be too late for Voysey. He 
 makes a favour of coming after hours. 
 
 JESSICA. I frankly cultivate expensive tastes. I like to 
 have things beautiful around me. I don't know what else 
 civilisation means. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I am sure that Philip can refuse you 
 nothing. 
 
 PHILIP. If I do dismiss Miss Yates, I wonder if I could 
 do it brutally enough to induce her to accept some com- 
 pensation.
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 131 
 
 jESstCA. What for? 
 
 PHILIP. She won't take money from this gentleman 
 . . . whoever he is . . . that is, she won't be bribed into 
 admitting her shame. 
 
 JESSICA. When a woman has gone wrong mayn't it be 
 her duty to other women to own up to it? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. [IVfio lios stood Still the while, stroking 
 his beard.} If your auditors won't pass any decent sum, 
 I should be happy to send you a cheque, Phil, 
 
 PHILIP. [With a wry smile.} That would be very gen- 
 erous of you, Father. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Good-bye, Jessica. 
 
 JESSICA. Good-bye. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Philip is fortunate in his marriage. 
 
 JESSICA. So good of you to remind him of that. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. You have a charming home. I wonder 
 how much of your womanly civilisation it would have 
 needed to conquer m e. Well ... I leave you to your 
 conversation. A pleasant life to you. 
 
 He bends over her hand as if to kiss it. She takes 
 it, as if fastidiously, out of his soft grasp. So he 
 bows again and leaves her. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. Victoria at eleven o'clock to-morrow, 
 Philip. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes . . . I'll see you off. 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I have to do a little shopping quite early. 
 
 PHILIP. Shopping! What can the West send the East? 
 
 CONSTANTINE. I must take back a trinket or two. 
 
 PHILIP. To be sure. We do the same on our travels. 
 PHILIP sees him through the hall to the front door, 
 hails a stray cab, and is quit of him. jessica moves 
 about as if to free the air of this visitation, and 
 when PHILIP comes back . . . 
 
 JESSICA. Does your father usually scatter cheques so 
 generously and carelessly?
 
 135 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 PHILIP. Jessica, while I have every respect for that 
 young lady's independence . . . still two hundred pounds 
 would be all to the good of the child's upbringing . . . 
 and why shouldn't Miss Yates keep her secret? 
 
 JESSICA. Yes. I don't like your father. And I'm 
 sometimes afraid that you're only an intellectual edition of 
 him. It's very vital, of course, to go about seducing 
 everybody to your own way of thinking. But really it's 
 not quite civilised. You ought to learn to talk about the 
 weather. 
 
 PHILIP. I cannot talk about what can't be helped. 
 
 He had settled to a chair and a cigarette, hut on the 
 impulse he abandons both and starts a lively argu- 
 ment instead. Philip's excited arguments are car- 
 ried on in short dashes about the room and with 
 queer un-English gestures. 
 
 PHILIP. And I wonder more and more what the devil 
 you all mean by civilisation. This room is civilisation. 
 Whose civilisation? Not ours. 
 
 JESSICA. \_In mock despair.'] Oh, dear ! 
 
 PHILIP. Cheer up. Didn't you marry me because I 
 thought more of Bach than Offenbach? Why shouldn't 
 you share a fresh set of convictions? This sort of mar- 
 riage is worth while, you know. Even one's quarrels have 
 a certain dignity. 
 
 JESSICA. Go ahead . . . bless your heart. 
 
 PHILIP. [Shaking his fist at the world in general.^ 
 Whitechapel High Street's our civilisation. 
 
 JESSICA. I don't know it. 
 
 PHILIP. Therefore you don't much matter, my dear 
 . . . any more than my father did with his view of life 
 as a sort of love-chase. [He surveys the charming rooni 
 that is his home.] Persian carpet on the floor. Last sup- 
 per, by Ghirlandajo, over the mantelpiece. The sofa 
 you're sitting on was made in a forgotten France. This
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 133 
 
 is a museum. And down at that precious school what are 
 they cultivating Mildred's mind into but another museum 
 ... of good manners and good taste and . . . [He 
 catches Jessica's half scornful, half kindly-quizzical lookJ] 
 Are we going to have a row about this ? 
 
 JESSICA. If you Idealists want Mildred to live in the 
 Whitechapel Road . . . make it a fit place for her. 
 
 PHILIP. [Taking ike thrust and enjoyably returning it.^ 
 When she lives in it it will become so. Why do I give 
 up'designing dresses and running a fashion shop to go on 
 the County Council ... if I can get on? And not to 
 cut a fine figure there, either. But to be on a committee 
 or committees. Not to talk finely even then . . . Lord 
 keep me from the temptation . . . but to do dull, hard 
 work over drains and disinfectants and . . . 
 
 JESSICA. Well . . . why, Phil? I may as well know. 
 
 PHILIP. To save my soul alive. 
 
 JESSICA. I'm sure I hope you may. But what is it 
 we're to cultivate in poor Mildred's soul? 
 
 PHILIP stops in his zualk, and then . . . 
 
 PHILIP. Why not a sense of ugliness? Have you ever 
 really looked at a London street . . . walked slowly up 
 and down it three times . . . carefully testing it with 
 every cultured sense? 
 
 JESSICA. Yes. . . . it's loathsome. 
 
 PHILIP. Then what have you done? 
 
 JESSICA. What can one do? 
 
 PHILIP. Come home to play a sonata of Beethoven ! 
 Does that drown the sights and the sounds and the smell 
 of it? 
 
 JESSICA. Yes ... it does. 
 
 PHILIP. [In fierce revolt.} Not to me . . . my God 
 . . . not to me ! 
 
 JESSICA. [Gently bitter.} For so many women, Phil, 
 art has to make life possible.
 
 134 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 PHILIP. Suppose we teach Mildred to look out of the 
 window at the life outside. We want to make that 
 impossible. Neither Art nor Religion nor good man- 
 ners have made of the world a place I'll go on living in if I 
 can help it. [He throzvs himself into a chair.'] D'you 
 remember in my young days when I used to spend part 
 of a holiday lecturing on Shelley? 
 
 JESSICA. Yes. 
 
 PHILIP. I remember once travelling in the train with 
 a poor wretch who lived ... so he told me ... on what 
 margins of profit he could pick up by standing rather 
 incompetently between the corn field and the baker . . . 
 or the coal mine and the fire ... or the landowner and 
 the tenant ... I forget which. And he was weary and 
 irritable and unhealthy. And he hated Jones . . . because 
 Jones had done him out of a half per cent, on two hundred 
 and fifty pounds . . . and if the sum had been bigger he'd 
 have sued him, so he would. And the end of Prometheus 
 was running in my head . . . This, like thy glory. Titan, 
 is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free . . . 
 and I thought him a mean fellow. And then he told me 
 how he dreaded bankruptcy, and how his uncle, who had 
 been a clerk, had come to the workhouse . . . and what 
 a disgrace that was. And. I'm afraid he was a little drunk. 
 And I wondered whether it would be possible to interest 
 h i m in the question of Shelley's position as a prosodist 
 ... or whether even the beauties of Prometheus would 
 comfort him at all. But when he asked me what I was 
 going to Manchester for ... do you know, I was ashamed 
 to tell him? 
 
 There falls a little silence. Their voices hardly 
 break it. 
 
 JESSICA. Yes ... a terrible world ... an ugly, stu- 
 pid, wasteful world. A hateful world ! 
 
 PHILIP. And yet we have to teach Mildred what love
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 135 
 
 of the world means, Jessica. Even if it's an uncomfort- 
 able business. Even if it means not adding her to that 
 aristocracy of good feeling and good taste . . . the very 
 latest of class distinctions. I tell you I haven't come by 
 these doubts so easily. Beautiful sounds and sights and 
 thoughts are all of the world's heritage I care about. 
 Giving them up is like giving my carefully created soul 
 out of my keeping before I die. 
 
 JESSICA. [IVith a sudden fling of her hands.l And 
 into whose? 
 
 PHILIP. [Shaking his head at the fire.'] I'm afraid into 
 the keeping of everybody we are at present tempted to 
 dislike and despise. For that's Public Life. That's Dem- 
 ocracy. But that's the Future. \_He looks across at his 
 wife half curiously.'] I know it's even harder for you 
 women. You put off your armour for a man you love. 
 But otherwise you've your Honour and Dignity and 
 Purity . . . 
 
 JESSICA. Do you want a world without that, either? 
 
 PHILIP. I rather want to know just what the world 
 gets by it. Those six thin girls at my uncle's . . . what 
 do we get from them or they from the world? Little 
 Miss Yates, now . . , her transgressions may be the most 
 profitable thing about her . . . 
 
 JESSICA. Two wrongs don't make a right. 
 
 PHILIP. [Quaintly.] They often do . . . properly 
 mixed. Of course you women could serve yourselves up 
 to such lords of creation as my father quite profitably, in 
 one sense, if you would. 
 
 JESSICA. [Her lip curling.] Thank you . . . we're not 
 cattle. 
 
 PHILIP. No. Then there's a price to be paid for free 
 
 ^ womanhood, I think . . . and how many of you ladies are 
 
 willing to pay it? Come out and be common women 
 
 among us common men? [He leans towards her, ajid his
 
 136 . THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 voice deepensJ] Jessica, do you feel that it was you shot 
 that poor devil six months ago? . . . that it's you who 
 are to be hanged to-morrow? 
 
 JESSICA. I don't think I do. 
 
 PHILIP. That it's your body is being sold on some street 
 this evening? 
 
 She gives a little most genuine shudder. 
 
 JESSICA. I hate to think about such things. 
 
 PHILIP. [^Summing up.} Then there's precious little 
 hope for the Kingdom of Heaven upon earth. I know 
 it sounds mere nonsense, but I'm sure it's true. If we 
 can't love the bad as well as the beautiful ... if we 
 won't share it all out now . . . fresh air and art . . . and 
 dirt and sin . . . then we good and clever people are cost- 
 ing the world too much. Our brains cost too much if 
 we don't give them freely. Your beauty costs too much if 
 I only admire it because of the uglier women I see . . . 
 even your virtue may cost too much, my dear. Rags pay 
 for finery and ugliness for beauty, and sin pays for virtue. 
 Why can nothing keep for long more beauty in a good 
 man's eyes than the ugliest thing on earth? Why need 
 no man be wiser than the biggest fool on earth? Why 
 does it profit neither man nor woman to be more righteous 
 than the greatest sinner on earth? [He clenches his 
 hands.] These are the riddles this Sphinx of a world is 
 asking me. Your artists and scholars and preachers don't 
 answer them ... so I must turn my back for a bit on 
 artist and scholar and preacher ... all three. 
 
 JESSICA looks at him as he completes his apologia, 
 sympathetic, if not understanding. Then she rallies 
 him cheerfully. 
 
 JESSICA. Meanwhile, my dear Phil, I shall not stop 
 subscribing to the London Symphony Concerts . . . and I 
 shall expect you to take me occasionally. 
 
 PHILIP. [Jumping hack from his philosophic world ]
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 137 
 
 Oh . . . that reminds me . . . I've a message for you 
 from Tommy. 
 JESSICA. Have you? He was really irritating this 
 
 mornmg. 
 
 PHILIP. We must take Tommy with a sense of hu- 
 mour. It wasn't so much a message as one of those little 
 bursts of childlike confidence ... he endears himself to 
 one with them from time to time. 
 JESSICA. About me? 
 
 PHILIP. Yes. What it comes to is this. Will you 
 please not flirt with him any more, because he hasn't the 
 time, and he's too fond both of me and his wife to want 
 to find himself seriously in love with you. 
 
 Now PHILIP has not said this unguardedly, and Jes- 
 sica knows if. She'll walk into no little trap set for 
 her vanity or the like. Still, it is with hardly a 
 steady voice that she says simply . . . 
 JESSICA. Thank you for the message, 
 
 PHILIP goes cheerfully on; he is turning the pages 
 of his book. 
 PHILIP. He doesn't at all suppose you are in love with 
 him . . . seriously or otherwise. 
 JESSICA. [Steadily. 1 Do you? 
 
 PHILIP. No. 
 
 JESSICA. [Her tone sharpening still.l And is this the 
 first time you've discussed me with Tommy or anyone? 
 Please let it be the last. 
 
 PHILIP. Are you angry, Jessica? 
 JESSICA. I'm more than angry. 
 PHILIP. I'm sorry. 
 
 Having kept her temper successfully, if not the 
 sense of humour which philip warned her he was 
 ^ appealing to, jessica now allows herself a deliber- 
 
 ate outburst of indignation. 
 JESSICA. I despise men. I despised them when I was
 
 138 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 fifteen . . . the first year I was conscious of them. I've 
 been through many opinions since . . . and I come back 
 to despising them. 
 
 PHILIP. He was afraid you wouldn't be pleased with 
 him. But he has my sympathies, Jessica. 
 
 JESSICA. [Throwing back her head.'] Has he! 
 
 PHILIP. Tommy is what the entertaining State called 
 this afternoon the Mean Sensual Man. 
 
 JESSICA. [With utter contempt.'] Yes. When we're 
 alone, having a jolly talk about things in general, he's all 
 the time thinking I want him to kiss me. 
 
 PHILIP, While what you really want is to have him 
 wanting to kiss you but never to kiss you. 
 
 JESSICA, [/m protest.] No. 
 
 PHILIP. [Fixing her with a finger.] Oh, yes, Jessica. 
 JESSICA'S sense of humour returns for a moment. 
 
 JESSICA. Well ... I can't help it if he does. 
 
 PHILIP. You can, of course. And the Mean Sensual 
 Man calls it being made a fool of. 
 
 She puts a serious face on it again; not that she 
 can keep one with philip's tzvinkling at her. 
 
 JESSICA. I give you my word I've never tried to flirt 
 with Tommy . . . except once or twice when he has been 
 boring me. And perhaps once or twice when I was in the 
 dumps . . . and there he was . . . and I was boring him. 
 I know him too well to flirt with him . . . you can't flirt 
 with a man you know well. But he's been boring me 
 lately, and I suppose I've been a bit bored. But suppose 
 I have been flirting with him ... I thought he was safe 
 enough. [That attempt failing, there is a tack left, and 
 on this she really manages to work herself hack to indig- 
 nation.] And a caddish thing to go speaking to you 
 about it. 
 
 PHILIP. So he said ... so he said.
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 139 
 
 JESSICA. Worse than caddish . . . outrageous ! I never 
 heard of such a thing . . . you shouldn't have let him. 
 
 PHILIP. Should I have knocked him down when he 
 mentioned your name ? 
 
 JESSICA. Yes ... I wish you had. 
 
 PHILIP. Little savage! 
 
 JESSICA. I can't laugh about this. I'm hurt. 
 
 PHILIP. My dear, if you have any sense at all, you'll 
 askjiim to dinner and chaff him about it . . . before me. 
 
 JESSICA. Have you any understanding of what a 
 woman feels when men treat her like this? Degraded and 
 cheapened. 
 
 But the high moral tone philip will not stand. He 
 drops chaff and tackles her. 
 
 PHILIP. I can tell you what the man feels. He'll be 
 either my father or me. That's your choice. Tommy's 
 my father when you've put on your best gown to attract 
 him, or he's me when he honestly says that he'd rather 
 you wouldn't. Do you want him to be me or my father? 
 That's the first question for you. 
 
 JESSICA. I want a man to treat a woman with courtesy 
 and respect. 
 
 PHILIP. And what does that come to? My dear, don't 
 you know that the Mean Sensual Man ... no, not Tom- 
 my for the moment, but say Dick or Harry . . . looks on 
 you all as choiceimorsels , . . with your prettinesses, your 
 dressings up, your music and art as so much sauce to his 
 appetite. Which only a mysterious thing called your 
 virtue prevents him from indulging . . . almost by force, 
 if it weren't for the police, Jessica. Do you like that? 
 
 JESSICA. I don't believe it. 
 
 PHILIP. Do you really believe that most men's good 
 ^ manners towards most pretty women are anything else 
 but good manners ? 
 
 JESSICA. I prefer good manners to yours. [Then, both
 
 14.0 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 fine taste and sense of humour to the rescue againJ] No 
 . , . that's rude. 
 
 PHILIP. [With much more affection than the words 
 convey.'] I treat you as a man would treat another man 
 . . . neither better nor worse. Is the compHment quite 
 wasted? 
 
 JESSICA. [As amazed at this unreasonable world.] I 
 want to be friends with men. I'd sooner be friends with 
 them. It's they who flirt with me. Why? 
 
 PHILIP. [Incurably mischievous.] Of course I've for- 
 gotten what you look like, and I never notice what you 
 have on . . . but I suspect it's because you're rather pretty 
 and attractive. 
 
 JESSICA. Do you want women not to be ? 
 
 PHILIP, No. 
 
 JESSICA. It's perfectly sickening. Of course, if I had 
 dozens of children, and grew an old woman with the last 
 one, I should be quite out of danger. But we can't all be 
 like that . . . you don't want us to be. 
 
 PHILIP. [Purely negative.] No. 
 
 He leaves her free to justify herself. 
 
 JESSICA. I do my share of things. I make a home for 
 you. I entertain your friends. It may cost your precious 
 world too much . . . my civilisation . . . but you want all 
 this done. [Then with a certainly womanly reserve.] And 
 Phil . . . suppose I'm not much nicer by nature than 
 some of you men? When I was a baby, if I'd not been 
 fastidious I should have been a sad glutton. My culture 
 . . . my civilisation . . . mayn't be quite up to keeping 
 the brilliant Tommy a decent friend to me, but it has its 
 uses. 
 
 But PHILIP means to laugh this out of court, too. 
 
 PHILIP. Look here, if it's only your culture keeps you 
 from kissing Tommy . . . kiss him.
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 14.1 
 
 ■ To he so driven from pillar to post really does 
 exasperate her. 
 
 JESSICA. Phil ... I sometimes think I'd sooner have 
 been married to your father. 
 
 PHILIP. Why ? 
 
 JESSICA. If you went on as he did instead of as you 
 do ... I should be sorry ... I should despise you . . . 
 but it would string me up and add to my self-respect enor- 
 mously ! [Then a little appealingly.} But it's when 
 you're inhuman, Phil . . . that I'm ever so little tempted. 
 
 PHILIP. [Contrite at once.'] I know I am. [Then he 
 gets up to stand looking into the fire, and what he says 
 is heartfelt.] But I do so hate that farm-yard world of 
 sex . . . men and women always treating each other in 
 this unfriendly way . . . that I'm afraid it hardens me 
 a bit. 
 
 JESSICA. [From her side, gently, with just a look at 
 him.] I hate it, too . . . but I happen to love you, Phil. 
 They smile at each other. 
 
 PHILIP. Yes, my dear. If you'd kindly come over here 
 ... I should like to kiss you. 
 
 JESSICA. I won't. You can come over to me. 
 
 PHILIP. Will you meet me half way? 
 
 They meet half way, and kiss as husband and wife 
 can. They stand together, looking into the fire. 
 
 PHILIP. Do you know the sort of world I want to 
 live in? 
 
 JESSICA. Should I like it? 
 
 PHILIP. Hasn't Humanity come of age at last? 
 
 JESSICA. Has it? 
 
 PHILIP. Mayn't we hope so? Finery sits so well on 
 children. And they strut and make love absurdly . . . 
 even their quarrelling is in all good faith and innocence. 
 But I don't see why we men and women should not find 
 all happiness . . . and beauty, too, ... in soberer pur-
 
 142 THE MADRAS HOUSE [act iv 
 
 poses. And with each other , . . why not always some 
 touch of the tranquil understanding which is yours and 
 mine, dear, at the best of moments? 
 
 JESSICA. [Happily.'] Do you mean when we sometimes 
 suddenly want to shake hands? 
 
 PHILIP. [Happily, too.'] That's it. And I want an art 
 and a culture that shan't be just a veneer on savagery 
 . . . but it must spring in good time from the happiness 
 of a whole people. 
 
 JESSICA gives herself one little shake of womanly 
 commonsense. 
 
 JESSICA. Well, what's to be done? 
 
 PHILIP. [Nobody more practical than he.] I've been 
 making suggestions. We must learn to live on a thousand 
 a year . . . put Mildred to a sensible school . . . and I 
 must go on the County Council. That's how these great 
 spiritual revolutions work out in practice, to begin with. 
 
 JESSICA. [As one who demands a right.] Where's my 
 share of the job? 
 
 PHILIP. [Conscious of some helplessness.] How is a 
 man to tell you? There's enough to choose from. 
 
 JESSICA. [The burden of her sex's present fate upon 
 her.] Ah, you're normal. Nobody sizes you up as a 
 good man or a bad man . : . pretty or plain. There's 
 a trade for bad women and several professions for plain 
 ones. But I've been taught how to be charming and to 
 like dainty clothes. And I dare say I'm excitable and 
 emotional . . . but I can't help it. I'm well off, married 
 to you, I know. You do make me forget I'm a female 
 occasionally. 
 
 PHILIP. Male and female created He them . . . and 
 left us to do the rest. Men and women are a long time 
 in the making . . . aren't they? 
 
 JESSICA. [Enviously.] Oh . . . you're all right.
 
 ACT iv] THE MADRAS HOUSE 143 
 
 PHILIP. [With some humble knowledge of himself.'] 
 Are we? 
 
 JESSICA. But I tell you, Phil, it isn't so easy for us. 
 You don't always let us have the fairest of chances, do 
 you? 
 
 PHILIP. No, I grant it's not easy. But it's got to be 
 done. 
 
 JESSICA. Yes . . . 
 
 She doesn't finish, for really there is no end to the 
 subject. But for a moment or two longer, happy 
 together, they stand looking into the fire.
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 
 145 
 
 "The Madras House" was produced at the Duke of 
 York's Theatre (Mr. Charles Frohman's Repertory Thea- 
 tre), on the evening of March pthj ipio. 
 
 Henry Huxtable 
 Katherine Huxtable 
 'Laura Huxtable 
 Minnie Huxtable 
 Clara Huxtable 
 Julia Huxtable 
 Emma Huxtable 
 Jane Huxtable 
 Major Hippisly Thomas 
 Philip Madras 
 Jessica Madras 
 Constantine Madras 
 Amelia Madras 
 Eustace Perrin State 
 Marion Yates 
 Mr. Brigstock 
 Mrs. Brigstock 
 Miss Chancellor 
 Mr. Windlesham 
 Mr. Belhaven 
 
 Three Mannequins 
 
 A Maid at Denmark Hill 
 A Maid at Phillimore Gardens 
 
 E. W. Garden 
 
 Miss Florence Haydon 
 
 Miss Ada Marius 
 
 Miss Elisabeth Chcsney 
 
 Miss Joy Chatwin 
 
 Miss Victoria Addison 
 
 Miss Sybil Thorndike 
 
 Miss Nell Carter 
 
 Charles Bryant 
 
 Dennis Eadie 
 
 Miss Fay Davis 
 
 Sydney Valentine 
 
 Miss May Whitty 
 
 Arthur Whitby 
 
 Miss Mary Jerrold 
 
 Lewis Casson 
 
 Miss Mary Barton 
 
 Miss Geraldine Olliffe 
 
 Charles Maude 
 
 Donald Calthorp 
 
 Miss Asta Fleming 
 
 Miss Mair Vaughan 
 
 Miss Mary Br end a 
 
 Miss Millie Emden 
 
 Miss Evangeline Milliard
 
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