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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Plays by Granville-Barker, by
+Harley Granville-Barker
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Three Plays by Granville-Barker
+       The Marrying of Ann Leete; The Voysey Inheritance; Waste
+
+Author: Harley Granville-Barker
+
+Release Date: March 21, 2011 [EBook #35640]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE-BARKER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David T. Jones, James Wright and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
+http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from
+images generously made available by The Internet
+Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                           THREE PLAYS BY
+                          GRANVILLE BARKER
+
+
+
+
+_These plays may also be obtained separately: in cloth, 2s. net each; in
+paper covers, 1s. 6d. net each._
+
+
+
+
+THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER:
+THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE--THE
+VOYSEY INHERITANCE--WASTE
+
+
+LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
+3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI. MCMIX.
+
+
+
+
+             _Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A.
+                             All rights reserved._
+
+                        _First Impression, August 1909_
+                      _Second Impression, September 1909_
+                        _Third Impression, November 1909_
+
+
+
+
+                        To the memory of my fellow-worker,
+                                 St. John Hankin.
+
+
+
+
+                              The Marrying of Ann Leete
+
+                                      A COMEDY
+
+                                        1899
+
+
+
+
+                              THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE
+
+
+_The first three acts of the comedy pass in the garden at Markswayde_,
+MR. CARNABY LEETE'S _house near Reading, during a summer day towards the
+close of the eighteenth century: the first act at four in the morning,
+the second shortly after mid-day, the third near to sunset. The fourth
+act takes place one day in the following winter; the first scene in the
+hall at Markswayde, the second scene in a cottage some ten miles off._
+
+_This part of the Markswayde garden looks to have been laid out during
+the seventeenth century. In the middle a fountain; the centrepiece the
+figure of a nymph, now somewhat cracked, and pouring nothing from the
+amphora; the rim of the fountain is high enough and broad enough to be a
+comfortable seat._
+
+_The close turf around is in parts worn bare. This plot of ground is
+surrounded by a terrace three feet higher. Three sides of it are seen.
+From two corners broad steps lead down; stone urns stand at the bottom
+and top of the stone balustrades. The other two corners are rounded
+convexly into broad stone seats._
+
+_Along the edges of the terrace are growing rose trees, close together;
+behind these, paths; behind those, shrubs and trees. No landscape is to
+be seen. A big copper beech overshadows the seat on the left. A silver
+birch droops over the seat on the right. The trees far to the left
+indicate an orchard, the few to the right are more of the garden sort.
+It is the height of summer, and after a long drought the rose trees are
+dilapidated._
+
+_It is very dark in the garden. Though there may be by now a faint
+morning light in the sky it has not penetrated yet among these trees. It
+is very still, too. Now and then the leaves of a tree are stirred, as if
+in its sleep; that is all. Suddenly a shrill, frightened, but not
+tragical scream is heard. After a moment_ ANN LEETE _runs quickly down
+the steps and on to the fountain, where she stops, panting_. LORD JOHN
+CARP _follows her, but only to the top of the steps, evidently not
+knowing his way_. ANN _is a girl of twenty; he an English gentleman,
+nearer forty than thirty_.
+
+
+LORD JOHN. I apologise.
+
+ANN. Why is it so dark?
+
+LORD JOHN. Can you hear what I'm saying?
+
+ANN. Yes.
+
+LORD JOHN. I apologise for having kissed you . . . almost
+unintentionally.
+
+ANN. Thank you. Mind the steps down.
+
+LORD JOHN. I hope I'm sober, but the air . . .
+
+ANN. Shall we sit for a minute? There are several seats to sit on
+somewhere.
+
+LORD JOHN. This is a very dark garden.
+
+_There is a slight pause._
+
+ANN. You've won your bet.
+
+LORD JOHN. So you did scream!
+
+ANN. But it wasn't fair.
+
+LORD JOHN. Don't reproach me.
+
+ANN. Somebody's coming.
+
+LORD JOHN. How d'you know?
+
+ANN. I can hear somebody coming.
+
+LORD JOHN. We're not sitting down.
+
+ANN'S _brother_, GEORGE LEETE _comes to the top of the steps, and
+afterwards down them. Rather an old young man._
+
+GEORGE. Ann!
+
+ANN. Yes.
+
+GEORGE. My lord!
+
+LORD JOHN. Here.
+
+GEORGE. I can't see you. I'm sent to say we're all anxious to know what
+ghost or other bird of night or beast has frightened Ann to screaming
+point, and won you . . . the best in Tatton's stables--so he says now.
+He's quite annoyed.
+
+LORD JOHN. The mare is a very good mare.
+
+ANN. He betted it because he wanted to bet it; I didn't want him to bet it.
+
+GEORGE. What frightened her?
+
+ANN. I had rather, my lord, that you did not tell my brother why I
+screamed.
+
+LORD JOHN. I kissed her.
+
+GEORGE. Did you?
+
+ANN. I had rather, Lord John, that you had not told my brother why I
+screamed.
+
+LORD JOHN. I misunderstood you.
+
+GEORGE. I've broke up the whist party. Ann, shall we return?
+
+LORD JOHN. She's not here.
+
+GEORGE. Ann.
+
+LADY COTTESHAM, ANN'S _sister and ten years older, and_ MR. DANIEL
+TATTON, _a well-living, middle-aged country gentleman, arrive together_.
+TATTON _carries a double candlestick. . . the lights out_.
+
+MR. TATTON. Three steps?
+
+SARAH. No . . . four.
+
+LORD JOHN. Miss Leete.
+
+TATTON _in the darkness finds himself close to_ GEORGE.
+
+MR. TATTON. I am in a rage with you, my lord.
+
+GEORGE. He lives next door.
+
+MR. TATTON. My mistake. [_He passes on._] Confess that she did it to
+please you.
+
+LORD JOHN. Screamed!
+
+MR. TATTON. Lost my bet. We'll say . . . won your bet . . . to please
+you. Was skeered at the dark . . . oh, fie!
+
+LORD JOHN. Miss Leete trod on a toad.
+
+MR. TATTON. I barred toads . . . here.
+
+
+LORD JOHN. I don't think it.
+
+MR. TATTON. I barred toads. Did I forget to? Well . . . it's better to
+be a sportsman.
+
+SARAH. And whereabout is she?
+
+ANN. [_From the corner she has slunk to._] Here I am, Sally.
+
+MR. TATTON. Miss Ann, I forgive you. I'm smiling, I assure you, I'm
+smiling.
+
+SARAH. We all laughed when we heard you.
+
+MR. TATTON. Which reminds me, young George Leete, had you the ace?
+
+GEORGE. King . . . knave . . . here are the cards, but I can't see.
+
+MR. TATTON. I had the king.
+
+ANN. [_Quietly to her sister._] He kissed me.
+
+SARAH. A man would.
+
+GEORGE. What were trumps?
+
+MR. TATTON. What were we playing . . . cricket?
+
+ANN. [_As quietly again._] D'you think I'm blushing?
+
+SARAH. It's probable.
+
+ANN. I am by the feel of me.
+
+SARAH. George, we left Papa sitting quite still.
+
+LORD JOHN. Didn't he approve of the bet?
+
+MR. TATTON. He said nothing.
+
+SARAH. Why, who doesn't love sport!
+
+MR. TATTON. I'm the man to grumble. Back a woman's pluck again . . .
+never. My lord . . . you weren't the one to go with her as umpire.
+
+GEORGE. No. . . to be sure.
+
+MR. TATTON. How was it I let that pass? Playing two games at once.
+Haven't I cause of complaint? But a man must give and take.
+
+_The master of the house, father of_ GEORGE _and_ SARAH COTTESHAM _and_
+ANN, MR. CARNABY LEETE, _comes slowly down the steps, unnoticed by the
+others. A man over fifty--a la Lord Chesterfield_.
+
+GEORGE. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Are you sure you're quite comfortable there?
+
+LORD JOHN. Whatever I'm sitting on hasn't given way yet.
+
+MR. TATTON. Don't forget that you're riding to Brighton with me.
+
+LORD JOHN. Tomorrow.
+
+GEORGE. To-day. Well . . . the hour before sunrise is no time at all.
+
+MR. TATTON. Sixty-five miles.
+
+LORD JOHN. What are we all sitting here for?
+
+MR. TATTON. I say people ought to be in bed and asleep.
+
+CARNABY. But the morning air is delightful.
+
+MR. TATTON. [_Jumping at the new voice._] Leete! Now, had you the ace?
+
+CARNABY. Of course.
+
+MR. TATTON. We should have lost that too, Lady Charlie.
+
+SARAH. Bear up, Mr. Tat.
+
+MR. TATTON. Come, a game of whist is a game of whist.
+
+CARNABY. And so I strolled out after you all.
+
+MR. TATTON. She trod on a toad.
+
+CARNABY. [_Carelessly._] Does she say so?
+
+MR. TATTON. [_With mock roguishness._] Ah!
+
+GEORGE _is on the terrace, looking to the left through the trees_.
+TATTON _is sitting on the edge of the fountain_.
+
+GEORGE. Here's the sun . . . to show us ourselves.
+
+MR. TATTON. Leete, this pond is full of water!
+
+CARNABY. Ann, if you are there . . .
+
+ANN. Yes, Papa.
+
+CARNABY. Apologise profusely; it's your garden.
+
+ANN. Oh . . .
+
+CARNABY. Coat-tails, Tatton . . . or worse?
+
+MR. TATTON. [_Ruefully discovering damp spots about him._] Nothing
+vastly to matter.
+
+LORD JOHN. Hardy, well-preserved, country gentleman!
+
+MR. TATTON. I bet I'm a younger man than you, my lord.
+
+ANN. [_Suddenly to the company generally._] I didn't tread upon any toad
+. . . I was kissed.
+
+_There is a pause of some discomfort._
+
+SARAH. Ann, come here to me.
+
+LORD JOHN. I apologised.
+
+GEORGE. [_From the terrace._] Are we to be insulted?
+
+CARNABY. My dear Carp, say no more.
+
+_There is another short pause. By this it is twilight, faces can be
+plainly seen._
+
+SARAH. Listen . . . the first bird.
+
+MR. TATTON. Oh, dear no, they begin to sing long before this.
+
+CARNABY. What is it now . . . a lark?
+
+MR. TATTON. I don't know.
+
+ANN. [_Quietly to_ SARAH.] That's a thrush.
+
+SARAH. [_Capping her._] A thrush.
+
+CARNABY. Charming!
+
+MR. TATTON. [__ LORD JOHN.] I don't see why you couldn't have told me
+how it was that she screamed.
+
+CARNABY. Our dear Tatton! [_Sotto voce to his son._] Hold your tongue,
+George.
+
+MR. TATTON. I did bar toads and you said I didn't, and anyway I had a
+sort of right to know.
+
+LORD JOHN. You know now.
+
+SARAH. I wonder if this seat is dry.
+
+LORD JOHN. There's been no rain for weeks.
+
+SARAH. The roads will be dusty for you, Mr. Tat.
+
+MR. TATTON. Just one moment. You don't mind me, Miss Ann, do you?
+
+ANN. I don't mind much.
+
+MR. TATTON. We said distinctly . . . To the orchard end of the garden
+and back and if frightened--that's the word--so much as to scream . . . !
+Now, what I want to know is. . .
+
+LORD JOHN. Consider the bet off.
+
+MR. TATTON. Certainly not. And we should have added. . . Alone.
+
+CARNABY. Tatton has persistence.
+
+SARAH. Mr. Tat, do you know where people go who take things seriously?
+
+MR. TATTON. Miss Leete, were you frightened when Lord John kissed you?
+
+GEORGE. Damnation!
+
+CARNABY. My excellent Tatton, much as I admire your searchings after
+truth I must here parentally intervene, regretting, my dear Tatton, that
+my own carelessness of duennahood has permitted this--this . . . to
+occur.
+
+_After this, there is silence for a minute._
+
+LORD JOHN. Can I borrow a horse of you, Mr. Leete?
+
+CARNABY. My entire stable; and your Ronald shall be physicked.
+
+SARAH. Spartans that you are to be riding!
+
+LORD JOHN. I prefer it to a jolting chaise.
+
+MR. TATTON. You will have my mare.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Ignoring him._] This has been a most enjoyable three weeks.
+
+CARNABY. Four.
+
+LORD JOHN. Is it four?
+
+CARNABY. We bow to the compliment. Our duty to his grace.
+
+LORD JOHN. When I see him.
+
+GEORGE. To our dear cousin.
+
+MR. TATTON. [_To_ LADY COTTESHAM.] Sir Charles at Brighton?
+
+SARAH. [_Not answering._] To be sure . . . we did discover . . . our
+mother was second cousin . . . once removed to you.
+
+CARNABY. If the prince will be there . . . he is in waiting.
+
+LORD JOHN. Any message, Lady Cottesham? . . . since we speak out of
+session.
+
+SARAH. I won't trust you.
+
+CARNABY. Or trouble you while I still may frank a letter. But my
+son-in-law is a wretched correspondent. Do you admire men of small
+vices? They make admirable husbands though their wives will be
+grumbling--Silence, Sarah--but that's a good sign.
+
+SARAH. Papa is a connoisseur of humanity.
+
+ANN. [_To the company as before._] No, Mr. Tatton, I wasn't frightened
+when Lord John . . . kissed me. I screamed because I was surprised, and
+I'm sorry I screamed.
+
+SARAH. [_Quietly to_ ANN.] My dear Ann, you're a fool.
+
+ANN. [_Quietly to_ SARAH.] I will speak sometimes.
+
+SARAH. Sit down again.
+
+_Again an uncomfortable silence, a ludicrous air about it this time._
+
+MR. TATTON. Now, we'll say no more about that bet, but I was right.
+
+LORD JOHN. Do you know, Mr. Tatton, that I have a temper to lose?
+
+MR. TATTON. What the devil does that matter to me, sir . . . my lord?
+
+LORD JOHN. I owe you a saddle and bridle.
+
+MR. TATTON. You'll oblige me by taking the mare.
+
+LORD JOHN. We'll discuss it to-morrow.
+
+MR. TATTON. I've said all I have to say.
+
+GEORGE. The whole matter's ridiculous!
+
+MR. TATTON. I see the joke. Good-night, Lady Cottesham, and I kiss your
+hand.
+
+SARAH. Good morning, Mr. Tat.
+
+MR. TATTON. Good morning, Miss Ann, I . . .
+
+SARAH. [_Shielding her sister._] Good morrow is appropriate.
+
+MR. TATTON. I'll go by the fields. [_To_ CARNABY.] Thank you for a
+pleasant evening. Good morrow, George. Do we start at mid-day, my lord?
+
+LORD JOHN. Any time you please.
+
+MR. TATTON. Not at all. [_He hands the candlestick--of which he has
+never before left go--to_ GEORGE.] I brought this for a link. Thank you.
+
+CARNABY. Mid-day will be midnight if you sleep at all now; make it two
+or later.
+
+MR. TATTON. We put up at Guildford. I've done so before. I haven't my
+hat. It's a day and a half's ride.
+
+TATTON _goes quickly up the other steps and away. It is now quite
+light._ GEORGE _stands by the steps_, LORD JOHN _is on one of the
+seats_, CARNABY _strolls round, now and then touching the rose trees_,
+SARAH _and_ ANN _are on the other seat_.
+
+GEORGE. Morning! These candles still smell.
+
+SARAH. How lively one feels and isn't.
+
+CARNABY. The flowers are opening.
+
+ANN. [_In a whisper._] Couldn't we go in?
+
+SARAH. Never run away.
+
+ANN. Everything looks so odd.
+
+SARAH. What's o'clock . . . my lord?
+
+LORD JOHN. Half after four.
+
+ANN. [_To_ SARAH.] My eyes are hot behind.
+
+GEORGE. What ghosts we seem!
+
+SARAH. What has made us spend such a night?
+
+CARNABY. Ann incited me to it. [_He takes snuff._]
+
+SARAH. In a spirit of rebellion against good country habits. . .
+
+ANN. [_To her sister again._] Don't talk about me.
+
+SARAH. They can see that you're whispering.
+
+CARNABY. . . . Informing me now she was a woman and wanted excitement.
+
+GEORGE. There's a curse.
+
+CARNABY. How else d'ye conceive life for women?
+
+SARAH. George is naturally cruel. Excitement's our education. Please
+vary it, though.
+
+CARNABY. I have always held that to colour in the world-picture is the
+greatest privilege of the husband. Sarah.
+
+SARAH. [_Not leaving_ ANN'S _side_.] Yes, Papa.
+
+CARNABY. Sarah, when Sir Charles leaves Brighton. . .
+
+SARAH _rises but will not move further_.
+
+CARNABY. [_Sweetly threatening._] Shall I come to you?
+
+_But she goes to him now._
+
+CARNABY. By a gossip letter from town . . .
+
+SARAH. [_Tensely._] What is it?
+
+CARNABY. You mentioned to me something of his visiting Naples.
+
+SARAH. Very well. I detest Italy.
+
+CARNABY. Let's have George's opinion.
+
+_He leads her towards_ GEORGE.
+
+GEORGE. Yes?
+
+CARNABY. Upon Naples.
+
+GEORGE. I remember Naples.
+
+CARNABY. Sarah, admire those roses.
+
+SARAH. [_Cynically echoing her father._] Let's have George's opinion.
+
+_Now_ CARNABY _has drawn them both away, upon the terrace, and, the
+coast being clear_, LORD JOHN _walks towards_ ANN, _who looks at him
+very scaredly_.
+
+CARNABY. Emblem of secrecy among the ancients.
+
+SARAH. Look at this heavy head, won't it snap off?
+
+_The three move out of sight._
+
+LORD JOHN. I'm sober now.
+
+ANN. I'm not.
+
+LORD JOHN. Uncompromising young lady.
+
+ANN. And, excuse me, I don't want to . . . play.
+
+LORD JOHN. Don't you wish me to apologise quietly, to you?
+
+ANN. Good manners are all mockery, I'm sure.
+
+LORD JOHN. I'm very much afraid you're a cynic.
+
+ANN. I'm not trying to be clever.
+
+LORD JOHN. Do I tease you?
+
+ANN. Do I amuse you?
+
+LORD JOHN. How dare I say so!
+
+ANN. [_After a moment._] I was not frightened.
+
+LORD JOHN. You kissed me back.
+
+ANN. Not on purpose. What do two people mean by behaving so . . . in the
+dark?
+
+LORD JOHN. I am exceedingly sorry that I hurt your feelings.
+
+ANN. Thank you, I like to feel.
+
+LORD JOHN. And you must forgive me.
+
+ANN. Tell me, why did you do it?
+
+LORD JOHN. Honestly I don't know. I should do it again.
+
+ANN. That's not quite true, is it?
+
+LORD JOHN. I think so.
+
+ANN. What does it matter at all!
+
+LORD JOHN. Nothing.
+
+GEORGE, SARAH _and then_ CARNABY _move into sight and along the
+terrace_, LORD JOHN _turns to them_.
+
+LORD JOHN. Has this place been long in your family, Mr. Leete?
+
+CARNABY. Markswayde my wife brought us, through the Peters's . . . old
+Chiltern people . . . connections of yours, of course. There is no
+entail.
+
+LORD JOHN _walks back to_ ANN.
+
+SARAH. George, you assume this republicanism as you would--no, would
+not--a coat of latest cut.
+
+CARNABY. Never argue with him . . . persist.
+
+SARAH. So does he.
+
+_The three pass along the terrace._
+
+ANN. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Will you sit down?
+
+LORD JOHN. It's not worth while. Do you know I must be quite twice your
+age?
+
+ANN. A doubled responsibility, my lord.
+
+LORD JOHN. I suppose it is.
+
+ANN. I don't say so. That's a phrase from a book . . . sounded well.
+
+LORD JOHN. My dear Miss Ann. . . [_He stops._]
+
+ANN. Go on being polite.
+
+LORD JOHN. If you'll keep your head turned away.
+
+ANN. Why must I?
+
+LORD JOHN. There's lightning in the glances of your eye.
+
+ANN. Do use vulgar words to me.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_With a sudden fatherly kindness._] Go to bed . . . you're
+dead tired. And good-bye . . . I'll be gone before you wake.
+
+ANN. Good-bye.
+
+_She shakes hands with him, then walks towards her father who is coming
+down the steps._
+
+ANN. Papa, don't my roses want looking to?
+
+CARNABY. [_Pats her cheek._] These?
+
+ANN. Those.
+
+CARNABY. Abud is under your thumb, horticulturally speaking.
+
+ANN. Where's Sally?
+
+_She goes on to_ SARAH, _who is standing with_ GEORGE _at the top of the
+steps_. CARNABY _looks_ LORD JOHN _up and down_.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Dusting his shoulder._] This cursed powder!
+
+CARNABY. Do we respect innocence enough . . . any of us?
+
+GEORGE _comes down the steps and joins them_.
+
+GEORGE. Respectable politics will henceforth be useless to me.
+
+CARNABY. My lord, was his grace satisfied with the young man's work
+abroad or was he not?
+
+LORD JOHN. My father used to curse everyone.
+
+CARNABY. That's a mere Downing Street custom.
+
+LORD JOHN. And I seem to remember that a letter of yours from . . .
+where were you in those days?
+
+GEORGE. Paris . . . Naples . . . Vienna.
+
+LORD JOHN. One place . . . once lightened a fit of gout.
+
+CARNABY. George, you have in you the makings of a minister.
+
+GEORGE. No.
+
+CARNABY. Remember the Age tends to the disreputable.
+
+GEORGE _moves away_, SARAH _moves towards them_.
+
+CARNABY. George is something of a genius, stuffed with theories and
+possessed of a curious conscience. But I am fortunate in my children.
+
+LORD JOHN. All the world knows it.
+
+CARNABY. [_To_ SARAH.] It's lucky that yours was a love match, too. I
+admire you. Ann is 'to come,' so to speak.
+
+SARAH. [_To_ LORD JOHN.] Were you discussing affairs?
+
+LORD JOHN. Not I.
+
+GEORGE. Ann.
+
+ANN. Yes, George.
+
+_She goes to him; they stroll together up the steps and along the
+terrace._
+
+SARAH. I'm desperately fagged.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Politely._] A seat.
+
+SARAH. Also tired of sitting.
+
+CARNABY. Let's have the Brighton news, Carp.
+
+LORD JOHN. If there's any.
+
+CARNABY. Probably I still command abuse. Even my son-in-law must, by
+courtesy, join in the cry . . . ah, poor duty-torn Sarah! You can spread
+abroad that I am as a green bay tree.
+
+CARNABY _paces slowly away from them_.
+
+LORD JOHN. Your father's making a mistake.
+
+SARAH. D'you think so?
+
+LORD JOHN. He's played the game once.
+
+SARAH. I was not then in the knowledge of things when he left you.
+
+LORD JOHN. We remember it.
+
+SARAH. I should like to hear it.
+
+LORD JOHN. I have avoided this subject.
+
+SARAH. With him, yes.
+
+LORD JOHN. Oh! . . . why did I desert the army for politics?
+
+SARAH. Better fighting.
+
+LORD JOHN. It sat so nobly upon him . . . the leaving us for conscience
+sake when we were strongly in power. Strange that six months later we
+should be turned out.
+
+SARAH. Papa was lucky.
+
+LORD JOHN. But this second time . . . ?
+
+SARAH. Listen. This is very much a private quarrel with Mr. Pitt, who
+hates Papa . . . gets rid of him.
+
+LORD JOHN. Shall I betray a confidence?
+
+SARAH. Better not.
+
+LORD JOHN. My father advised me to this visit.
+
+SARAH. Your useful visit. More than kind of his Grace.
+
+LORD JOHN. Yes . . . there's been a paragraph in the "Morning
+Chronicle," 'The Whigs woo Mr. Carnaby Leete.'
+
+SARAH. We saw to it.
+
+LORD JOHN. My poor father seems anxious to discover whether the Leete
+episode will repeat itself entirely. He is chronically unhappy in
+opposition. Are your husband and his colleagues trembling in their
+seats?
+
+SARAH. I can't say.
+
+LORD JOHN. Politics is a game for clever children, and women, and fools.
+Will you take a word of warning from a soldier? Your father is past his
+prime.
+
+CARNABY _paces back towards them_.
+
+CARNABY. I'm getting to be old for these all-night sittings. I must be
+writing to your busy brother.
+
+LORD JOHN. Arthur? . . . is at his home.
+
+SARAH. Pleasantly sounding phrase.
+
+CARNABY. His grace deserted?
+
+SARAH. Quite secretaryless!
+
+LORD JOHN. Lady Arthur lately has been brought to bed. I heard
+yesterday.
+
+SARAH. The seventh, is it not? Children require living up to. My
+congratulations.
+
+LORD JOHN. Won't you write them?
+
+SARAH. We are not intimate.
+
+LORD JOHN. A good woman.
+
+SARAH. Evidently. Where's Ann? We'll go in.
+
+LORD JOHN. You're a mother to your sister.
+
+SARAH. Not I.
+
+CARNABY. My wife went her ways into the next world; Sarah hers into
+this; and our little Ann was left with a most admirable governess. One
+must never reproach circumstances. Man educates woman in his own good
+time.
+
+LORD JOHN. I suppose she, or any young girl, is all heart.
+
+CARNABY. What is it that you call heart . . . sentimentally speaking?
+
+SARAH. Any bud in the morning.
+
+LORD JOHN. That man Tatton's jokes are in shocking taste.
+
+CARNABY. Tatton is honest.
+
+LORD JOHN. I'm much to blame for having won that bet.
+
+CARNABY. Say no more.
+
+LORD JOHN. What can Miss Ann think of me?
+
+SARAH. Don't ask her.
+
+CARNABY. Innocency's opinions are invariably entertaining.
+
+LORD JOHN. Am I the first . . . ? I really beg your pardon.
+
+GEORGE _and_ ANN _come down the steps together_.
+
+CARNABY. Ann, what do you think . . . that is to say--and answer me
+truthfully . . . what at this moment is your inclination of mind towards
+my lord here?
+
+ANN. I suppose I love him.
+
+LORD JOHN. I hope not.
+
+ANN. I suppose I love you.
+
+CARNABY. No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no.
+
+SARAH. Hush, dear.
+
+ANN. I'm afraid, papa, there's something very ill-bred in me.
+
+_Down the steps and into the midst of them comes_ JOHN ABUD, _carrying
+his tools, among other things a twist of bass. A young gardener, honest,
+clean and common._
+
+ABUD. [_To_ CARNABY.] I ask pardon, sir.
+
+CARNABY. So early, Abud! . . . this is your territory. So late . . . Bed.
+
+ANN _starts away up the steps_, SARAH _is following her_.
+
+LORD JOHN. Good-bye, Lady Cottesham.
+
+_At this_ ANN _stops for a moment, but then goes straight on_.
+
+SARAH. A pleasant journey.
+
+SARAH _departs too_.
+
+GEORGE. [_Stretching himself._] I'm roused.
+
+CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD.] Leave your tools here for a few moments.
+
+ABUD. I will, sir.
+
+ABUD _leaves them, going along the terrace and out of sight_.
+
+CARNABY. My head is hot. Pardon me.
+
+CARNABY _is sitting on the fountain rim; he dips his handkerchief in the
+water, and wrings it; then takes off his wig and binds the damp
+handkerchief round his head_.
+
+CARNABY. Wigs are most comfortable and old fashioned . . . unless you
+choose to be a cropped republican like my son.
+
+GEORGE. Nature!
+
+CARNABY. Nature grows a beard, sir.
+
+LORD JOHN. I've seen Turks.
+
+CARNABY. Horrible . . . horrible! Sit down, Carp.
+
+LORD JOHN _sits on the fountain rim_, GEORGE _begins to pace restlessly;
+he has been nursing the candlestick ever since_ TATTON _handed it to
+him_.
+
+CARNABY. George, you look damned ridiculous strutting arm-in-arm with
+that candlestick.
+
+GEORGE. I am ridiculous.
+
+CARNABY. If you're cogitating over your wife and her expectations . . .
+
+GEORGE _paces up the steps and away. There is a pause._
+
+CARNABY. D'ye tell stories . . . good ones?
+
+LORD JOHN. Sometimes.
+
+CARNABY. There'll be this.
+
+LORD JOHN. I shan't.
+
+CARNABY. Say no more. If I may so express myself, Carp, you have been
+taking us for granted.
+
+LORD JOHN. How wide awake you are! I'm not.
+
+CARNABY. My head's cool. Shall I describe your conduct as an
+unpremeditated insult?
+
+LORD JOHN. Don't think anything of the sort.
+
+CARNABY. There speaks your kind heart.
+
+LORD JOHN. Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?
+
+CARNABY. As may be.
+
+LORD JOHN. Why?
+
+CARNABY. For the sake of appearances.
+
+LORD JOHN. Damn all appearances.
+
+CARNABY. Now I'll lose my temper. Sir, you have compromised my daughter.
+
+LORD JOHN. Nonsense!
+
+CARNABY. Villain! What's your next move?
+
+_For a moment_ LORD JOHN _sits with knit brows_.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Brutally._] Mr. Leete, your name stinks.
+
+CARNABY. My point of dis-ad-vantage!
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Apologising._] Please say what you like. I might have put
+my remark better.
+
+CARNABY. I think not; the homely Saxon phrase is our literary dagger.
+Princelike, you ride away from Markswayde. Can I trust you not to stab a
+socially sick man? Why it's a duty you owe to society . . . to weed out
+. . . us.
+
+LORD JOHN. I'm not a coward. How?
+
+CARNABY. A little laughter . . . in your exuberance of health.
+
+LORD JOHN. You may trust me not to tell tales.
+
+CARNABY. Of what . . . of whom?
+
+LORD JOHN. Of here.
+
+CARNABY. And what is there to tell of here?
+
+LORD JOHN. Nothing.
+
+CARNABY. But how your promise betrays a capacity for good-natured
+invention!
+
+LORD JOHN. If I lie call me out.
+
+CARNABY. I don't deal in sentiment. I can't afford to be talked about
+otherwise than as I choose to be. Already the Aunt Sally of the hour;
+having under pressure of circumstances resigned my office; dating my
+letters from the borders of the Chiltern Hundreds . . . I am a poor
+politician, sir, and I must live.
+
+LORD JOHN. I can't see that your family's infected . . . affected.
+
+CARNABY. With a penniless girl you really should have been more
+circumspect.
+
+LORD JOHN. I might ask to marry her.
+
+CARNABY. My lord!
+
+_In the pause that ensues he takes up the twist of bass to play with._
+
+LORD JOHN. What should you say to that?
+
+CARNABY. The silly child supposed she loved you.
+
+LORD JOHN. Yes.
+
+CARNABY. Is it a match?
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Full in the other's face._] What about the appearances of
+black-mail?
+
+CARNABY. [_Compressing his thin lips._] Do you care for my daughter?
+
+LORD JOHN. I could . . . at a pinch.
+
+CARNABY. Now, my lord, you are insolent.
+
+LORD JOHN. Is this when we quarrel?
+
+CARNABY. I think I'll challenge you.
+
+LORD JOHN. That will look well.
+
+CARNABY. You'll value that kiss when you've paid for it. Kindly choose
+Tatton as your second. I want his tongue to wag both ways.
+
+LORD JOHN. I was forgetting how it all began.
+
+CARNABY. George will serve me . . . protesting. His principles are vile,
+but he has the education of a gentleman. Swords or . . . ? Swords. And
+at noon shall we say? There's shade behind a certain barn, midway
+between this and Tatton's.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Not taking him seriously yet._] What if we both die
+horridly?
+
+CARNABY. You are at liberty to make me a written apology.
+
+LORD JOHN. A joke's a joke.
+
+CARNABY _deliberately strikes him in the face with the twist of bass_.
+
+LORD JOHN. That's enough.
+
+CARNABY. [_In explanatory apology._] My friend, you are so obtuse. Abud!
+
+LORD JOHN. Mr. Leete, are you serious?
+
+CARNABY. Perfectly serious. Let's go to bed. Abud, you can get to your
+work.
+
+_Wig in hand_, MR. LEETE _courteously conducts his guest towards the
+house_. ABUD _returns to his tools and his morning's work_.
+
+
+
+
+                              THE SECOND ACT
+
+
+_Shortly after mid-day, while the sun beats strongly upon the terrace_,
+ABUD _is working dexterously at the rose trees_. DR. REMNANT _comes down
+the steps, hatted, and carrying a stick and a book. He is an elderly man
+with a kind manner; type of the eighteenth century casuistical parson.
+On his way he stops to say a word to the gardener._
+
+DR. REMNANT. Will it rain before nightfall?
+
+ABUD. About then, sir, I should say.
+
+_Down the other steps comes_ MRS. OPIE, _a prim, decorous, but well bred
+and unobjectionable woman. She is followed by_ ANN.
+
+MRS. OPIE. A good morning to you, Parson.
+
+DR. REMNANT. And to you, Mrs. Opie, and to Miss Ann.
+
+ANN. Good morning, Dr. Remnant. [_To_ ABUD.] Have you been here ever
+since . . . ?
+
+ABUD. I've had dinner, Miss.
+
+ABUD'S _work takes him gradually out of sight_.
+
+MRS. OPIE. We are but just breakfasted.
+
+DR. REMNANT. I surmise dissipation.
+
+ANN. [_To_ MRS. OPIE.] Thank you for waiting five hours.
+
+MRS. OPIE. It is my rule to breakfast with you.
+
+DR. REMNANT. [_Exhibiting the book._] I am come to return, and to
+borrow.
+
+ANN. Show me.
+
+DR. REMNANT. Ballads by Robert Burns.
+
+ANN. [_Taking it._] I'll put it back.
+
+MRS. OPIE. [_Taking it from her._] I've never heard of him.
+
+DR. REMNANT. Oh, ma'am, a very vulgar poet!
+
+GEORGE LEETE _comes quickly down the steps_.
+
+GEORGE. [_To_ REMNANT.] How are you?
+
+DR. REMNANT. Yours, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Ann.
+
+ANN. Good morning, George.
+
+GEORGE. Did you sleep well?
+
+ANN. I always do . . . but I dreamt.
+
+GEORGE. I must sit down for a minute. [_Nodding._] Mrs. Opie.
+
+MRS. OPIE. I wish you a good morning, sir.
+
+GEORGE. [_To_ ANN.] Don't look so solemn.
+
+LADY COTTESHAM _comes quickly to the top of the steps_.
+
+SARAH. Is Papa badly hurt?
+
+ANN. [_Jumping up._] Oh, what has happened?
+
+GEORGE. Not badly.
+
+SARAH. He won't see me.
+
+_His three children look at each other._
+
+DR. REMNANT. [_Tactfully._] May I go my ways to the library?
+
+SARAH. Please do, Doctor Remnant.
+
+DR. REMNANT. I flatly contradicted all that was being said in the
+village.
+
+SARAH. Thoughtful of you.
+
+DR. REMNANT. But tell me nothing.
+
+DR. REMNANT _bows formally and goes_. GEORGE _is about to speak when_
+SARAH _with a look at_ MRS. OPIE _says_. . .
+
+SARAH. George, hold your tongue.
+
+MRS. OPIE. [_With much hauteur._] I am in the way.
+
+_At this moment_ DIMMUCK, _an old but unbenevolent-looking butler, comes
+to the top of the steps_.
+
+DIMMUCK. The master wants Mrs. Opie.
+
+MRS. OPIE. Thank you.
+
+GEORGE. Your triumph!
+
+MRS. OPIE _is departing radiant_.
+
+DIMMUCK. How was I to know you was in the garden?
+
+MRS. OPIE. I am sorry to have put you to the trouble of a search, Mr.
+Dimmuck.
+
+DIMMUCK. He's in his room.
+
+_And he follows her towards the house._
+
+GEORGE. Carp fought with him at twelve o'clock.
+
+_The other two cannot speak from amazement._
+
+SARAH. No!
+
+GEORGE. Why, they didn't tell me and I didn't ask. Carp was laughing.
+Tatton chuckled . . . afterwards.
+
+SARAH. What had he to do?
+
+GEORGE. Carp's second.
+
+SARAH. Unaccountable children!
+
+GEORGE. Feather parade . . . throw in . . . parry quarte: over the arm
+. . . put by: feint . . . flanconade and through his arm . . . damned
+easy. The father didn't wince or say a word. I bound it up . . . the
+sight of blood makes me sick.
+
+_After a moment_, SARAH _turns to_ ANN.
+
+SARAH. Yes, and you've been a silly child.
+
+GEORGE. Ah, give me a woman's guess and the most unlikely reason to
+account for anything!
+
+ANN. I hate that man. I'm glad Papa's not hurt. What about a surgeon?
+
+GEORGE. No, you shall kiss the place well, and there'll be poetic
+justice done.
+
+SARAH. How did you all part?
+
+GEORGE. With bows and without a word.
+
+SARAH. Coming home with him?
+
+GEORGE. Not a word.
+
+SARAH. Papa's very clever; but I'm puzzled.
+
+GEORGE. Something will happen next, no doubt.
+
+ANN. Isn't this done with?
+
+SARAH. So it seems.
+
+ANN. I should like to be told just what the game has been.
+
+GEORGE. Bravo, Ann.
+
+ANN. Tell me the rules . . . for next time.
+
+SARAH. It would have been most advantageous for us to have formed an
+alliance with Lord John Carp, who stood here for his father and his
+father's party . . . now in opposition.
+
+GEORGE. Look upon yourself--not too seriously--Ann, as the instrument of
+political destiny.
+
+ANN. I'm afraid I take in fresh ideas very slowly. Why has Papa given up
+the Stamp Office?
+
+SARAH. His colleagues wouldn't support him.
+
+ANN. Why was that?
+
+SARAH. They disapproved of what he did.
+
+ANN. Did he do right . . . giving it up?
+
+SARAH. Yes.
+
+GEORGE. We hope so. Time will tell. An irreverent quipster once named
+him Carnaby Leech.
+
+SARAH. I know.
+
+GEORGE. I wonder if his true enemies think him wise to have dropped off
+the Stamp Office?
+
+ANN. Has he quarrelled with Sir Charles?
+
+SARAH. Politically.
+
+ANN. Isn't that awkward for you?
+
+SARAH. Not a bit.
+
+GEORGE. Hear a statement that includes our lives. Markswayde goes at his
+death . . . see reversionary mortgage. The income's an annuity now. The
+cash in the house will be ours. The debts are paid . . . at last.
+
+ANN. And there remains me.
+
+GEORGE. Bad grammar. Meanwhile our father is a tongue, which is worth
+buying; but I don't think he ought to go over to the enemy . . . for the
+second time.
+
+SARAH. One party is as good as another; each works for the same end, I
+should hope.
+
+GEORGE. I won't argue about it.
+
+ANN. I suppose that a woman's profession is marriage.
+
+GEORGE. My lord has departed.
+
+ANN. There'll be others to come. I'm not afraid of being married.
+
+SARAH. What did Papa want Mrs. Opie for?
+
+ANN. There'll be a great many things I shall want to know about men now.
+
+GEORGE. Wisdom cometh with sorrow . . . oh, my sister.
+
+SARAH. I believe you two are both about as selfish as you can be.
+
+GEORGE. I am an egotist . . . with attachments.
+
+ANN. Make use of me.
+
+GEORGE. Ann, you marry--when you marry--to please yourself.
+
+ANN. There's much in life that I don't like, Sally.
+
+SARAH. There's much more that you will.
+
+GEORGE. I think we three have never talked together before.
+
+ABUD, _who has been in sight on the terrace for a few moments, now comes
+down the steps_.
+
+ABUD. May I make so bold, sir, as to ask how is Mrs. George Leete?
+
+GEORGE. She was well when I last heard.
+
+ABUD. Thank you, sir.
+
+_And he returns to his work._
+
+ANN. I wonder will it be a boy or a girl.
+
+GEORGE. Poor weak woman.
+
+SARAH. Be grateful to her.
+
+ANN. A baby is a wonderful thing.
+
+SARAH. Babyhood in the abstract . . . beautiful.
+
+ANN. Even kittens . . .
+
+_She stops, and then in rather childish embarrassment, moves away from
+them._
+
+SARAH. Don't shudder, George.
+
+GEORGE. I have no wish to be a father. Why?
+
+SARAH. It's a vulgar responsibility.
+
+GEORGE. My wayside flower!
+
+SARAH. Why pick it?
+
+GEORGE. Sarah, I love my wife.
+
+SARAH. That's easily said.
+
+GEORGE. She should be here.
+
+SARAH. George, you married to please yourself.
+
+GEORGE. By custom her rank is my own.
+
+SARAH. Does she still drop her aitches?
+
+GEORGE. Dolly . . .
+
+SARAH. Pretty name.
+
+GEORGE. Dolly aspires to be one of us.
+
+SARAH. Child-bearing makes these women blowzy.
+
+GEORGE. Oh heaven!
+
+ANN. [_Calling to_ ABUD _on the terrace_.] Finish to-day, Abud. If it
+rains . . .
+
+_She stops, seeing_ MR. TETGEEN _standing at the top of the steps
+leading from the house. This is an intensely respectable,
+selfcontained-looking lawyer, but a man of the world too._
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Lady Cottesham.
+
+SARAH. Sir?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. My name is Tetgeen.
+
+SARAH. Mr. Tetgeen. How do you do?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. The household appeared to be in some confusion and I took
+the liberty to be my own messenger. I am anxious to speak with you.
+
+SARAH. Ann, dear, ask if Papa will see you now.
+
+DIMMUCK _appears_.
+
+DIMMUCK. The master wants you, Miss Ann.
+
+SARAH. Ask papa if he'll see me soon.
+
+ANN _goes towards the house_.
+
+SARAH. Dimmuck, Mr. Tetgeen has been left to find his own way here.
+
+DIMMUCK. I couldn't help it, my lady.
+
+_And he follows_ ANN.
+
+SARAH. Our father is confined to his room.
+
+GEORGE. By your leave.
+
+_Then_ GEORGE _takes himself off up the steps, and out of sight. The old
+lawyer bows to_ LADY COTTESHAM, _who regards him steadily_.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. From Sir Charles . . . a talking machine.
+
+SARAH. Please sit.
+
+_He sits carefully upon the rim of the fountain, she upon the seat
+opposite._
+
+SARAH. [_Glancing over her shoulder._] Will you talk nonsense until the
+gardener is out of hearing? He is on his way away. You have had a tiring
+journey?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Thank you, no . . . by the night coach to Reading and
+thence I have walked.
+
+SARAH. The country is pretty, is it not?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. It compares favourably with other parts.
+
+SARAH. Do you travel much, Mr. Tetgeen? He has gone.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. [_Deliberately and sharpening his tone ever so little._]
+Sir Charles does not wish to petition for a divorce.
+
+SARAH. [_Controlling even her sense of humour._] I have no desire to
+jump over the moon.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. His scruples are religious. The case would be weak upon
+some important points, and there has been no public scandal . . . at the
+worst, very little.
+
+SARAH. My good manners are, I trust, irreproachable, and you may tell
+Sir Charles that my conscience is my own.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Your husband's in the matter of . . .
+
+SARAH. Please say the word.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Pardon me . . . not upon mere suspicion.
+
+SARAH. Now, is it good policy to suspect what is incapable of proof?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. I advise Sir Charles, that, should you come to an open
+fight, he can afford to lose.
+
+SARAH. And have I no right to suspicions?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Certainly. Are they of use to you?
+
+SARAH. I have been a tolerant wife, expecting toleration.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles is anxious to take into consideration any
+complaints you may have to make against him.
+
+SARAH. I complain if he complains of me.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. For the first time, I think . . . formally.
+
+SARAH. Why not have come to me?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles is busy.
+
+SARAH. [_Disguising a little spasm of pain._] Shall we get to business?
+
+MR. TETGEEN _now takes a moment to find his phrase_.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. I don't know the man's name.
+
+SARAH. This, surely, is how you might address a seduced housemaid.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. But Sir Charles and he, I understand, have talked the
+matter over.
+
+_The shock of this brings_ SARAH _to her feet, white with anger_.
+
+SARAH. Divorce me.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. [_Sharply._] Is there ground for it?
+
+SARAH. [_With a magnificent recovery of self control._] I won't tell you
+that.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. I have said we have no case . . . that is to say, we don't
+want one; but any information is a weapon in store.
+
+SARAH. You did quite right to insult me.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. As a rule I despise such methods.
+
+SARAH. It's a lie that they met . . . those two men?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. It may be.
+
+SARAH. It must be.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. I have Sir Charles's word.
+
+_Now he takes from his pocket some notes, putting on his spectacles to
+read them._
+
+SARAH. What's this . . . a written lecture?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. We propose . . . first: that the present complete severance
+of conjugal relations shall continue. Secondly: that Lady Cottesham
+shall be at liberty to remove from South Audley Street and Ringham
+Castle all personal and private effects, excepting those family jewels
+which have merely been considered her property. Thirdly: Lady Cottesham
+shall undertake, formally and in writing not to molest--a legal
+term--Sir Charles Cottesham. [_Her handkerchief has dropped, here he
+picks it up and restores it to her._] Allow me, my lady.
+
+SARAH. I thank you.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. [_Continuing._] Fourthly: Lady Cottesham shall undertake
+. . . etc. . . . not to inhabit or frequent the city and towns of London,
+Brighthelmstone, Bath, The Tunbridge Wells, and York. Fifthly: Sir
+Charles Cottesham will, in acknowledgement of the maintenance of this
+agreement, allow Lady C. the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds per
+annum, which sum he considers sufficient for the upkeep of a small
+genteel establishment; use of the house known as Pater House, situate
+some seventeen miles from the Manor of Barton-le-Street, Yorkshire;
+coals from the mine adjoining; and from the home farm, milk, butter and
+eggs. [_Then he finds a further note._] Lady Cottesham is not to play
+cards.
+
+SARAH. I am a little fond of play.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. There is no question of jointure.
+
+SARAH. None. Mr. Tetgeen . . . I love my husband.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. My lady . . . I will mention it.
+
+SARAH. Such a humorous answer to this. No . . . don't. What is
+important? Bread and butter . . . and eggs. Do I take this?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. [_Handing her the paper._] Please.
+
+SARAH. [_With the ghost of a smile._] I take it badly.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. [_Courteously capping her jest._] I take my leave.
+
+SARAH. This doesn't call for serious notice? I've done nothing legal by
+accepting it?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. There's no law in the matter; it's one of policy.
+
+SARAH. I might bargain for a bigger income. [MR. TETGEEN _bows_.] On the
+whole I'd rather be divorced.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles detests scandal.
+
+SARAH. Besides there's no case . . . is there?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Sir Charles congratulates himself.
+
+SARAH. Sir Charles had best not bully me so politely . . . tell him.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. My lady!
+
+SARAH. I will not discuss this impertinence. Did those two men meet and
+talk . . . chat together? What d'you think of that?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. 'Twas very practical. I know that the woman is somehow the
+outcast.
+
+SARAH. A bad woman . . . an idle woman! But I've tried to do so much
+that lay to my hands without ever questioning . . . ! Thank you, I don't
+want this retailed to my husband. You'll take a glass of wine before you
+go?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Port is grateful.
+
+_She takes from her dress two sealed letters._
+
+SARAH. Will you give that to Sir Charles . . . a letter he wrote me
+which I did not open. This, my answer, which I did not send.
+
+_He takes the one letter courteously, the other she puts back._
+
+SARAH. I'm such a coward, Mr. Tetgeen.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. May I say how sorry . . . ?
+
+SARAH. Thank you.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. And let me apologise for having expressed one opinion of my
+own.
+
+SARAH. He wants to get rid of me. He's a bit afraid of me, you know,
+because I fight . . . and my weapons are all my own. This'll blow over.
+
+MR. TETGEEN. [_With a shake of the head._] You are to take this offer as
+final.
+
+SARAH. Beyond this?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. As I hinted, I am prepared to advise legal measures.
+
+SARAH. I could blow it over . . . but I won't perhaps. I must smile at
+my husband's consideration in suppressing even to you . . . the man's
+name. Butter and eggs . . . and milk. I should grow fat.
+
+ANN _appears suddenly_.
+
+ANN. We go to Brighton to-morrow! [_And she comes excitedly to her
+sister._]
+
+SARAH. Was that duel a stroke of genius?
+
+ANN. All sorts of things are to happen.
+
+SARAH. [_Turning from her to_ MR. TETGEEN.] And you'll walk as far as
+Reading?
+
+MR. TETGEEN. Dear me, yes.
+
+SARAH. [_To_ ANN.] I'll come back.
+
+SARAH _takes_ MR. TETGEEN _towards the house_. ANN _seats herself. After
+a moment_ LORD JOHN CARP, _his clothes dusty with some riding appears
+from the other quarter. She looks up to find him gazing at her._
+
+LORD JOHN. Ann, I've ridden back to see you.
+
+ANN. [_After a moment._] We're coming to Brighton tomorrow.
+
+LORD JOHN. Good.
+
+ANN. Papa's not dead.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_With equal cheerfulness._] That's good.
+
+ANN. And he said we should be seeing more of you.
+
+LORD JOHN. Here I am. I love you, Ann. [_He goes on his knees._]
+
+ANN. D'you want to marry me?
+
+LORD JOHN. Yes.
+
+ANN. Thank you very much; it'll be very convenient for us all. Won't you
+get up?
+
+LORD JOHN. At your feet.
+
+ANN. I like it.
+
+LORD JOHN. Give me your hand.
+
+ANN. No.
+
+LORD JOHN. You're beautiful.
+
+ANN. I don't think so. You don't think so.
+
+LORD JOHN. I do think so.
+
+ANN. I should like to say I don't love you.
+
+LORD JOHN. Last night you kissed me.
+
+ANN. Do get up, please.
+
+LORD JOHN. As you wish.
+
+_Now he sits by her._
+
+ANN. Last night you were nobody in particular . . . to me.
+
+LORD JOHN. I love you.
+
+ANN. Please don't; I can't think clearly.
+
+LORD JOHN. Look at me.
+
+ANN. I'm sure I don't love you because you're making me feel very
+uncomfortable and that wouldn't be so.
+
+LORD JOHN. Then we'll think.
+
+ANN. Papa . . . perhaps you'd rather not talk about Papa.
+
+LORD JOHN. Give yourself to me.
+
+ANN. [_Drawing away from him._] Four words! There ought to be more in
+such a sentence . . . it's ridiculous. I want a year to think about its
+meaning. Don't speak.
+
+LORD JOHN. Papa joins our party.
+
+ANN. That's what we're after . . . thank you.
+
+LORD JOHN. I loathe politics.
+
+ANN. Tell me something against them.
+
+LORD JOHN. In my opinion your father's not a much bigger blackguard--I
+beg your pardon--than the rest of us.
+
+ANN. . . . Miserable sinners.
+
+LORD JOHN. Your father turns his coat. Well . . . ?
+
+ANN. I see nothing at all in that.
+
+LORD JOHN. What's right and what's wrong?
+
+ANN. Papa's right . . . for the present. When shall we be married?
+
+LORD JOHN. Tomorrow?
+
+ANN. [_Startled._] If you knew that it isn't easy for me to be practical
+you wouldn't make fun.
+
+LORD JOHN. Why not tomorrow?
+
+ANN. Papa--
+
+LORD JOHN. Papa says yes . . suppose.
+
+ANN. I'm very young . . not to speak of clothes. I must have lots of new
+dresses.
+
+LORD JOHN. Ask me for them.
+
+ANN. Why do you want to marry me?
+
+LORD JOHN. I love you.
+
+ANN. It suddenly occurs to me that sounds unpleasant.
+
+LORD JOHN. I love you.
+
+ANN. Out of place.
+
+LORD JOHN. I love you.
+
+ANN. What if Papa were to die?
+
+LORD JOHN. I want you.
+
+ANN. I'm nothing . . I'm nobody . . I'm part of my family.
+
+LORD JOHN. I want you.
+
+ANN. Won't you please forget last night?
+
+LORD JOHN. I want you. Look straight at me.
+
+_She looks, and stays fascinated._
+
+LORD JOHN. If I say now that I love you--
+
+ANN. I know it.
+
+LORD JOHN. And love me?
+
+ANN. I suppose so.
+
+LORD JOHN. Make sure.
+
+ANN. But I hate you too . . I know that.
+
+LORD JOHN. Shall I kiss you?
+
+ANN. [_Helplessly._] Yes.
+
+_He kisses her full on the lips._
+
+ANN. I can't hate you enough.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Triumphantly._] Speak the truth now.
+
+ANN. I feel very degraded.
+
+LORD JOHN. Nonsense.
+
+ANN. [_Wretchedly._] This is one of the things which don't matter.
+
+LORD JOHN. Ain't you to be mine?
+
+ANN. You want the right to behave like that as well as the power.
+
+LORD JOHN. You shall command me.
+
+ANN. [_With a poor laugh._] I rather like this in a way.
+
+LORD JOHN. Little coquette!
+
+ANN. It does tickle my vanity.
+
+_For a moment he sits looking at her, then shakes himself to his feet._
+
+LORD JOHN. Now I must go.
+
+ANN. Yes . . I want to think.
+
+LORD JOHN. For Heaven's sake . . no!
+
+ANN. I came this morning straight to where we were last night.
+
+LORD JOHN. As I hung about the garden my heart was beating.
+
+ANN. I shall like you better when you're not here.
+
+LORD JOHN. We're to meet in Brighton?
+
+ANN. I'm afraid so.
+
+LORD JOHN. Good-bye.
+
+ANN. There's just a silly sort of attraction between certain people, I
+believe.
+
+LORD JOHN. Can you look me in the eyes and say you don't love me?
+
+ANN. If I looked you in the eyes you'd frighten me again. I can say
+anything.
+
+LORD JOHN. You're a deep child.
+
+GEORGE LEETE _appears on the terrace_.
+
+GEORGE. My lord!
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Cordially._] My dear Leete.
+
+GEORGE. No . . I am not surprised to see you.
+
+ANN. George, things are happening.
+
+LORD JOHN. Shake hands.
+
+GEORGE. I will not.
+
+ANN. Lord John asks me to be married to him. Shake hands.
+
+GEORGE. Why did you fight?
+
+ANN. Why did you fight?
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Shrugging._] Your father struck me.
+
+ANN. Now you've hurt him . . that's fair.
+
+_Then the two men do shake hands, not heartily._
+
+GEORGE. We've trapped you, my lord.
+
+LORD JOHN. I know what I want. I love your sister.
+
+ANN. I don't like you . . but if you're good and I'm good we shall get
+on.
+
+GEORGE. Why shouldn't one marry politically?
+
+LORD JOHN. [_In_ ANN'S _ear_.] I love you.
+
+ANN. No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . [_Discovering in this an echo of
+her father, she stops short._]
+
+GEORGE. We're a cold-blooded family.
+
+LORD JOHN. I don't think so.
+
+GEORGE. I married for love.
+
+LORD JOHN. Who doesn't? But, of course there should be other reasons.
+
+GEORGE. You won't receive my wife.
+
+LORD JOHN. Here's your sister.
+
+LADY COTTESHAM _comes from the direction of the house_.
+
+SARAH. Back again?
+
+LORD JOHN. You see.
+
+_From the other side appears_ MR. TATTON.
+
+MR. TATTON. As you all seem to be here I don't mind interrupting.
+
+GEORGE. [_Hailing him._] Well . . neighbour?
+
+MR. TATTON. Come . . come . . what's a little fighting more or less!
+
+GEORGE. Bravo, English sentiment . . relieves a deal of awkwardness.
+
+_The two shake hands._
+
+SARAH. [_Who by this has reached_ LORD JOHN.] . . And back so soon?
+
+ANN. Lord John asks to marry me.
+
+LORD JOHN. Yes.
+
+MR. TATTON. I guessed so . . give me a bit of romance!
+
+SARAH. [_Suavely._] This is perhaps a little sudden, my dear Lord John.
+Papa may naturally be a little shocked.
+
+GEORGE. Not at all, Sarah.
+
+MR. TATTON. How's the wound?
+
+GEORGE. Not serious . . nothing's serious.
+
+SARAH. You are very masterful, wooing sword in hand.
+
+ANN. George and I have explained to Lord John that we are all most
+anxious to marry me to him and he doesn't mind--
+
+LORD JOHN. Being made a fool of. I love--
+
+ANN. I will like you.
+
+GEORGE. Charming cynicism, my dear Sarah.
+
+MR. TATTON. Oh, Lord!
+
+ANN. [_To her affianced._] Good-bye now.
+
+LORD JOHN. When do I see you?
+
+ANN. Papa says soon.
+
+LORD JOHN. Very soon, please. Tatton, my friend, Brighton's no nearer.
+
+MR. TATTON. Lady Cottesham . . Miss Leete . . I kiss your hands.
+
+LORD JOHN. [_Ebulliently clapping_ GEORGE _on the back_.] Look more
+pleased. [_Then he bends over_ LADY COTTESHAM'S _hand_.] Lady Charlie . .
+my service to you . . all. Ann. [_And he takes_ ANN'S _hand to kiss_.]
+
+ANN. If I can think better of all this, I shall. Good-bye.
+
+_She turns away from him. He stands for a moment considering her, but
+follows_ TATTON _away through the orchard_. GEORGE _and_ SARAH _are
+watching their sister, who then comments on her little affair with
+life_.
+
+ANN. I'm growing up. [_Then with a sudden tremor._] Sally, don't let me
+be forced to marry.
+
+GEORGE. Force of circumstances, my dear Ann.
+
+ANN. Outside things. Why couldn't I run away from this garden and over
+the hills? . . I suppose there's something on the other side of the
+hills.
+
+SARAH. You'd find yourself there . . and circumstances.
+
+ANN. So I'm trapped as well as that Lord John.
+
+SARAH. What's the injury?
+
+ANN. I'm taken by surprise and I know I'm ignorant and I think I'm
+learning things backwards.
+
+GEORGE. You must cheer up and say: John's not a bad sort.
+
+SARAH. A man of his age is a young man.
+
+ANN. I wish you wouldn't recommend him to me.
+
+SARAH. Let's think of Brighton. What about your gowns?
+
+ANN. I've nothing to wear.
+
+SARAH. We'll talk to Papa.
+
+GEORGE. The war-purse is always a long one.
+
+SARAH. George . . be one of us for a minute.
+
+GEORGE. But I want to look on too, and laugh.
+
+SARAH. [_Caustically._] Yes . . that's your privilege . . except
+occasionally. [_Then to her sister._] I wish you all the happiness of
+courtship days.
+
+GEORGE. Arcadian expression!
+
+ANN. I believe it means being kissed . . often.
+
+SARAH. Have you not a touch of romance in you, little girl?
+
+ANN. Am I not like Mr. Dan Tatton? He kisses dairy-maids and servants
+and all the farmer's daughters . . I beg your pardon, George.
+
+GEORGE. [_Nettled._] I'll say to you, Ann, that--in all essentials--one
+woman is as good as another.
+
+SARAH. That is not so in the polite world.
+
+GEORGE. When you consider it no one lives in the polite world.
+
+ANN. Do they come outside for air sooner or later?
+
+SARAH. [_Briskly._] Three best dresses you must have and something very
+gay if you're to go near the Pavilion.
+
+ANN. You're coming to Brighton, Sally?
+
+SARAH. No.
+
+ANN. Why not?
+
+SARAH. I don't wish to meet my husband.
+
+GEORGE. That man was his lawyer.
+
+ANN. The political difference, Sally?
+
+SARAH. Just that. [_Then with a deft turn of the subject._] I don't say
+that yours is a pretty face, but I should think you would have charm.
+
+GEORGE. For fashion's sake cultivate sweetness.
+
+SARAH. You dance as well as they know how in Reading.
+
+ANN. Yes . . I can twiddle my feet.
+
+SARAH. Do you like dancing?
+
+ANN. I'd sooner walk.
+
+GEORGE. What . . and get somewhere!
+
+ANN. Here's George laughing.
+
+SARAH. He's out of it.
+
+ANN. Are you happy, George?
+
+GEORGE. Alas . . Dolly's disgraceful ignorance of etiquette damns us
+both from the beautiful drawing-room.
+
+SARAH. That laugh is forced. But how can you. . . look on?
+
+_There is a slight pause in their talk. Then . . ._
+
+ANN. He'll bully me with love.
+
+SARAH. Your husband will give you just what you ask for.
+
+ANN. I hate myself too. I want to take people mentally.
+
+GEORGE. You want a new world . . you new woman.
+
+ANN. And I'm a good bit frightened of myself.
+
+SARAH. We have our places to fill in this. My dear child, leave futile
+questions alone.
+
+GEORGE. Neither have I any good advice to give you.
+
+ANN. I think happiness is a thing one talks too much about.
+
+DIMMUCK _appears. And by now_ ABUD'S _work has brought him back to the
+terrace_.
+
+DIMMUCK. The master would like to see your Ladyship now.
+
+SARAH. I'll say we've had a visitor . . Guess.
+
+GEORGE. And you've had a visitor, Sarah.
+
+ANN. Papa will know.
+
+SARAH. Is he in a questioning mood?
+
+ANN. I always tell everything.
+
+SARAH. It saves time.
+
+_She departs towards the house._
+
+DIMMUCK. Mr. George.
+
+GEORGE. What is it?
+
+DIMMUCK. He said No to a doctor when I haven't even mentioned the
+matter. Had I better send . . ?
+
+GEORGE. Do . . if you care to waste the doctor's time.
+
+DIMMUCK _gives an offended sniff and follows_ LADY COTTESHAM.
+
+ANN. I could sit here for days. George, I don't think I quite believe in
+anything I've been told yet.
+
+GEORGE. What's that man's name?
+
+ANN. John--John is a common name--John Abud.
+
+GEORGE. Abud!
+
+ABUD. Sir?
+
+GEORGE. Come here.
+
+ABUD _obediently walks towards his young master and stands before him_.
+
+GEORGE. Why did you ask after the health of Mrs. George Leete?
+
+ABUD. We courted once.
+
+GEORGE. [_After a moment._] Listen, Ann. Do you hate me, John Abud?
+
+ABUD. No, sir.
+
+GEORGE. You're a fine looking fellow. How old are you?
+
+ABUD. Twenty-seven, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Is Once long ago?
+
+ABUD. Two years gone.
+
+GEORGE. Did Mrs. Leete quarrel with you?
+
+ABUD. No, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Pray tell me more.
+
+ABUD. I was beneath her.
+
+GEORGE. But you're a fine-looking fellow.
+
+ABUD. Farmer Crowe wouldn't risk his daughter being unhappy.
+
+GEORGE. But she was beneath me.
+
+ABUD. That was another matter, sir.
+
+GEORGE. I don't think you intend to be sarcastic.
+
+ABUD. And . . being near her time for the first time, sir . . I wanted
+to know if she is in danger of dying yet.
+
+GEORGE. Every precaution has been taken. . a nurse. . there is a
+physician near. I need not tell you . . but I do tell you.
+
+ABUD. Thank you, sir.
+
+GEORGE. I take great interest in my wife.
+
+ABUD. We all do, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Was it ambition that you courted her?
+
+ABUD. I thought to start housekeeping.
+
+GEORGE. Did you aspire to rise socially?
+
+ABUD. I wanted a wife to keep house, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Are you content?
+
+ABUD. I think so, sir.
+
+GEORGE. With your humble position?
+
+ABUD. I'm a gardener, and there'll always be gardens.
+
+GEORGE. Frustrated affections . . I beg your pardon. . . To have been
+crossed in love should make you bitter and ambitious.
+
+ABUD. My father was a gardener and my son will be a gardener if he's no
+worse a man than I and no better.
+
+GEORGE. Are you married?
+
+ABUD. No, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Are you going to be married?
+
+ABUD. Not especially, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Yes . . you must marry . . some decent woman; we want gardeners.
+
+ABUD. Do you want me any more now, sir?
+
+GEORGE. You have interested me. You can go back to your work.
+
+ABUD _obeys_.
+
+GEORGE. [_Almost to himself._] I am hardly human.
+
+_He slowly moves away and out of sight._
+
+ANN. John Abud.
+
+_He comes back and stands before her too._
+
+ANN. I am very sorry for you.
+
+ABUD. I am very much obligated to you, Miss.
+
+ANN. Both those sayings are quite meaningless. Say something true about
+yourself.
+
+ABUD. I'm not sorry for myself.
+
+ANN. I won't tell. It's very clear you ought to be in a despairing
+state. Don't stand in the sun with your hat off.
+
+ABUD. [_Putting on his hat._] Thank you, Miss.
+
+ANN. Have you nearly finished the rose-trees?
+
+ABUD. I must work till late this evening.
+
+ANN. Weren't you ambitious for Dolly's sake?
+
+ABUD. She thought me good enough.
+
+ANN. I'd have married her.
+
+ABUD. She was ambitious for me.
+
+ANN. And are you frightened of the big world?
+
+ABUD. Fine things dazzle me sometimes.
+
+ANN. But gardening is all that you're fit for?
+
+ABUD. I'm afraid so, Miss.
+
+ANN. But it's great to be a gardener . . to sow seeds and to watch
+flowers grow and to cut away dead things.
+
+ABUD. Yes, Miss.
+
+ANN. And you're in the fresh air all day.
+
+ABUD. That's very healthy.
+
+ANN. Are you very poor?
+
+ABUD. I get my meals in the house.
+
+ANN. Rough clothes last a long time.
+
+ABUD. I've saved money.
+
+ANN. Where do you sleep?
+
+ABUD. At Mrs. Hart's . . at a cottage . . it's a mile off.
+
+ANN. And you want no more than food and clothes and a bed and you earn
+all that with your hands.
+
+ABUD. The less a man wants, Miss, the better.
+
+ANN. But you mean to marry?
+
+ABUD. Yes . . I've saved money.
+
+ANN. Whom will you marry? Would you rather not say? Perhaps you don't
+know yet?
+
+ABUD. It's all luck what sort of a maid a man gets fond of. It won't be
+a widow.
+
+ANN. Be careful, John Abud.
+
+ABUD. No . . I shan't be careful.
+
+ANN. You'll do very wrong to be made a fool of.
+
+ABUD. I'm safe, Miss; I've no eye for a pretty face.
+
+DIMMUCK _arrives asthmatically at the top of the steps_.
+
+DIMMUCK. Where's Mr. George? Here's a messenger come post.
+
+ANN. Find him, Abud.
+
+ABUD. [_To_ DIMMUCK.] From Dolly?
+
+DIMMUCK. Speak respectful.
+
+ABUD. Is it from his wife?
+
+DIMMUCK. Go find him.
+
+ANN. [_As_ ABUD _is immovable_.] Dimmuck . . . tell me about Mrs.
+George.
+
+DIMMUCK. She's doing well, Miss.
+
+ABUD. [_Shouting joyfully now._] Mr. George! Mr. George!
+
+ANN. A boy or a girl, Dimmuck?
+
+DIMMUCK. Yes, Miss.
+
+ABUD. Mr. George! Mr. George!
+
+DIMMUCK. Ecod . . is he somewhere else?
+
+DIMMUCK, _somewhat excited himself, returns to the house_.
+
+ANN. George!
+
+ABUD. Mr. George! Mr. George!
+
+GEORGE _comes slowly along the terrace, in his hand an open book, which
+some people might suppose he was reading. He speaks with studied calm._
+
+GEORGE. You are very excited, my good man.
+
+ABUD. She's brought you a child, sir.
+
+ANN. Your child!
+
+GEORGE. Certainly.
+
+ABUD. Thank God, Sir!
+
+GEORGE. I will if I please.
+
+ANN. And she's doing well.
+
+ABUD. There's a messenger come post.
+
+GEORGE. To be sure . . it might have been bad news.
+
+_And slowly he crosses the garden towards the house._
+
+ABUD. [_Suddenly, beyond all patience._] Run . . damn you!
+
+GEORGE _makes one supreme effort to maintain his dignity, but fails
+utterly. He gasps out . . ._
+
+GEORGE. Yes, I will. [_And runs off as hard as he can._]
+
+ABUD. [_In an ecstasy._] This is good. Oh, Dolly and God . . this is
+good!
+
+ANN. [_Round eyed._] I wonder that you can be pleased.
+
+ABUD. [_Apologising . . without apology._] It's life.
+
+ANN. [_Struck._] Yes, it is.
+
+_And she goes towards the house, thinking this over._
+
+
+
+
+                              THE THIRD ACT
+
+
+_It is near to sunset. The garden is shadier than before._
+
+ABUD _is still working_. CARNABY LEETE _comes from the house followed
+by_ DR. REMNANT. _He wears his right arm in a sling. His face is
+flushed, his speech rapid._
+
+CARNABY. Parson, you didn't drink enough wine . . . damme, the wine was
+good.
+
+DR. REMNANT. I am very grateful for an excellent dinner.
+
+CARNABY. A good dinner, sir, is the crown to a good day's work.
+
+DR. REMNANT. It may also be a comfort in affliction. Our philosophy does
+ill, Mr. Leete, when it despises the more simple means of contentment.
+
+CARNABY. And which will be the better lover of a woman, a hungry or a
+well-fed man?
+
+DR. REMNANT. A good meal digests love with it; for what is love but a
+food to live by . . but a hungry love will ofttimes devour its owner.
+
+CARNABY. Admirable! Give me a man in love to deal with. Vous l'avez vu?
+
+DR. REMNANT. Speak Latin, Greek or Hebrew to me, Mr. Leete.
+
+CARNABY. French is the language of little things. My poor France! Ours
+is a little world, Parson . . . a man may hold it here. [_His open
+hand._] Lord John Carp's a fine fellow.
+
+DR. REMNANT. Son of a Duke.
+
+CARNABY. And I commend to you the originality of his return. At twelve
+we fight . . . at one-thirty he proposes marriage to my daughter. D'ye
+see him humbly on his knees? Will there be rain, I wonder?
+
+DR. REMNANT. We need rain . . Abud?
+
+ABUD. Badly, sir.
+
+CARNABY. Do we want a wet journey tomorrow! Where's Sarah?
+
+DR. REMNANT. Lady Cottesham's taking tea.
+
+CARNABY. [_To_ ABUD _with a sudden start_.] And why the devil didn't you
+marry my daughter-in-law . . my own gardener?
+
+GEORGE _appears dressed for riding_.
+
+GEORGE. Good-bye, sir, for the present.
+
+CARNABY. Boots and breeches!
+
+GEORGE. You shouldn't be about in the evening air with a green wound in
+your arm. You drank wine at dinner. Be careful, sir.
+
+CARNABY. Off to your wife and the expected?
+
+GEORGE. Yes, sir.
+
+CARNABY. Riding to Watford?
+
+GEORGE. From there alongside the North Coach, if I'm in time.
+
+CARNABY. Don't founder my horse. Will ye leave the glorious news with
+your grandfather at Wycombe?
+
+GEORGE. I won't fail to. [_Then to_ ABUD.] We've been speaking of you.
+
+ABUD. It was never any secret, sir.
+
+GEORGE. Don't apologise.
+
+_Soon after this_ ABUD _passes out of sight_.
+
+CARNABY. Nature's an encumbrance to us, Parson.
+
+DR. REMNANT. One disapproves of flesh uninspired.
+
+CARNABY. She allows you no amusing hobbies . . always takes you
+seriously.
+
+GEORGE. Good-bye, Parson.
+
+DR. REMNANT. [_As he bows._] Your most obedient.
+
+CARNABY. And you trifle with damnable democracy, with pretty theories of
+the respect due to womanhood and now the result . . . hark to it
+squalling.
+
+DR. REMNANT. Being fifty miles off might not one say: The cry of the
+new-born?
+
+CARNABY. Ill-bred babies squall. There's no poetic glamour in the world
+will beautify an undesired infant . . George says so.
+
+GEORGE. I did say so.
+
+CARNABY. I feel the whole matter deeply.
+
+GEORGE _half laughs_.
+
+CARNABY. George, after days of irritability, brought to bed of a smile.
+That's a home thrust of a metaphor.
+
+GEORGE _laughs again_.
+
+CARNABY. Twins!
+
+GEORGE. Yes, a boy and a girl . . . I'm the father of a boy and a girl.
+
+CARNABY. [_In dignified, indignant horror._] No one of you dared tell me
+that much!
+
+SARAH _and_ ANN _come from the house_.
+
+GEORGE. You could have asked me for news of your grandchildren.
+
+CARNABY. Twins is an insult.
+
+SARAH. But you look very cheerful, George.
+
+GEORGE. I am content.
+
+SARAH. I'm surprised.
+
+GEORGE. I am surprised.
+
+SARAH. Now what names for them?
+
+CARNABY. No family names, please.
+
+GEORGE. We'll wait for a dozen years or so and let them choose their
+own.
+
+DR. REMNANT. But, sir, christening will demand--
+
+CARNABY. Your son should have had my name, sir.
+
+GEORGE. I know the rule . . as I have my grandfather's which I take no
+pride in.
+
+SARAH. George!
+
+GEORGE. Not to say that it sounds his, not mine.
+
+CARNABY. Our hopes of you were high once.
+
+GEORGE. Sarah, may I kiss you? [_He kisses her cheek._] Let me hear what
+you decide to do.
+
+CARNABY. The begetting you, sir, was a waste of time.
+
+GEORGE. [_Quite pleasantly._] Don't say that.
+
+_At the top of the steps_ ANN _is waiting for him_.
+
+ANN. I'll see you into the saddle.
+
+GEORGE. Thank you, sister Ann.
+
+ANN. Why didn't you leave us weeks ago?
+
+GEORGE. Why!
+
+_They pace away, arm-in-arm._
+
+CARNABY. [_Bitterly._] Glad to go! Brighton, Sarah.
+
+SARAH. No, I shall not come, Papa.
+
+CARNABY. Coward. [_Then to_ REMNANT.] Good-night.
+
+DR. REMNANT. [_Covering the insolent dismissal._] With your kind
+permission I will take my leave. [_Then he bows to_ SARAH.] Lady
+Cottesham.
+
+SARAH. [_Curtseying._] Doctor Remnant, I am yours.
+
+CARNABY. [_Sitting by the fountain, stamping his foot._] Oh, this
+cracked earth! Will it rain . . will it rain?
+
+DR. REMNANT. I doubt now. That cloud has passed.
+
+CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! There's a good word and I'm not at all
+sure what it means.
+
+DR. REMNANT. Per . . lucere . . . letting light through.
+
+REMNANT _leaves them_.
+
+CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! . . thank you. Brighton, Sarah.
+
+SARAH. Ann needs new clothes.
+
+CARNABY. See to it.
+
+SARAH. I shall not be there.
+
+_She turns from him._
+
+CARNABY. Pretty climax to a quarrel!
+
+SARAH. Not a quarrel.
+
+CARNABY. A political difference.
+
+SARAH. Don't look so ferocious.
+
+CARNABY. My arm is in great pain and the wine's in my head.
+
+SARAH. Won't you go to bed?
+
+CARNABY. I'm well enough . . to travel. This marriage makes us safe,
+Sarah . . an anchor in each camp . . There's a mixed metaphor.
+
+SARAH. If you'll have my advice, Papa, you'll keep those plans clear
+from Ann's mind.
+
+CARNABY. John Carp is so much clay . . a man of forty ignorant of
+himself.
+
+SARAH. But if the Duke will not . .
+
+CARNABY. The Duke hates a scandal.
+
+SARAH. Does he detest scandal!
+
+CARNABY. The girl is well-bred and harmless . . why publicly quarrel
+with John and incense her old brute of a father? There's the Duke in a
+score of words. He'll take a little time to think it out so.
+
+SARAH. And I say: Do you get on the right side of the Duke once
+again,--that's what we've worked for--and leave these two alone.
+
+CARNABY. Am I to lose my daughter?
+
+SARAH. Papa . . your food's intrigue.
+
+CARNABY. Scold at Society . . and what's the use?
+
+SARAH. We're over-civilized.
+
+ANN _rejoins them now. The twilight is gathering._
+
+CARNABY. My mother's very old . . . your grandfather's younger and
+seventy-nine . . he swears I'll never come into the title. There's
+little else.
+
+SARAH. You're feverish . . why are you saying this?
+
+CARNABY. Ann . . George . . George via Wycombe . . Wycombe Court . . Sir
+George Leete baronet, Justice of the Peace, Deputy Lieutenant . . the
+thought's tumbled. Ann, I first saw your mother in this garden . .
+there.
+
+ANN. Was she like me?
+
+SARAH. My age when she married.
+
+CARNABY. She was not beautiful . . then she died.
+
+ANN. Mr. Tatton thinks it a romantic garden.
+
+CARNABY. [_Pause._] D'ye hear the wind sighing through that tree?
+
+ANN. The air's quite still.
+
+CARNABY. I hear myself sighing . . when I first saw your mother in this
+garden . . . that's how it was done.
+
+SARAH. For a woman must marry.
+
+CARNABY. [_Rises._] You all take to it as ducks to water . . but apple
+sauce is quite correct . . I must not mix metaphors.
+
+MRS. OPIE _comes from the house_.
+
+SARAH. Your supper done, Mrs. Opie?
+
+MRS. OPIE. I eat little in the evening.
+
+SARAH. I believe that saves digestion.
+
+MRS. OPIE. Ann, do you need me more to-night?
+
+ANN. Not any more.
+
+MRS. OPIE. Ann, there is gossip among the servants about a wager . . .
+
+ANN. Mrs. Opie, that was . . . yesterday.
+
+MRS. OPIE. Ann, I should be glad to be able to contradict a reported . .
+embrace.
+
+ANN. I was kissed.
+
+MRS. OPIE. I am shocked.
+
+CARNABY. Mrs. Opie, is it possible that all these years I have been
+nourishing a prude in my . . back drawing-room?
+
+MRS. OPIE. I presume I am discharged of Ann's education; but as the
+salaried mistress of your household, Mr. Leete, I am grieved not to be
+able to deny such a rumour to your servants.
+
+_She sails back, righteously indignant._
+
+CARNABY. Call out that you're marrying the wicked man . . comfort her.
+
+SARAH. Mrs. Opie!
+
+CARNABY. Consider that existence. An old maid . . so far as we know.
+Brevet rank . . missis. Not pleasant.
+
+ANN. She wants nothing better . . at her age.
+
+SARAH. How forgetful!
+
+CARNABY. [_The force of the phrase growing._] Brighton, Sarah.
+
+SARAH. Now you've both read the love-letter which Tetgeen brought me.
+
+CARNABY. Come to Brighton.
+
+ANN. Come to Brighton, Sally.
+
+SARAH. No. I have been thinking. I think I will accept the income, the
+house, coals, butter and eggs.
+
+CARNABY. I give you a fortnight to bring your husband to his knees . .
+to your feet.
+
+SARAH. I'm not sure that I could. My marriage has come naturally to an
+end.
+
+CARNABY. Sarah, don't annoy me.
+
+SARAH. Papa, you joined my bridegroom's political party . . now you see
+fit to leave it.
+
+_She glances at_ ANN, _who gives no sign, however_.
+
+CARNABY. What have you been doing in ten years?
+
+SARAH. Waiting for this to happen . . now I come to think.
+
+CARNABY. Have ye the impudence to tell me that ye've never cared for
+your husband?
+
+SARAH. I was caught by the first few kisses; but he . . .
+
+CARNABY. Has he ever been unkind to you?
+
+SARAH. Never. He's a gentleman through and through . . . quite charming
+to live with.
+
+CARNABY. I see what more you expect. And he neither drinks nor . . nor
+. . no one even could suppose your leaving him.
+
+SARAH. No. I'm disgraced.
+
+CARNABY. Fight for your honour.
+
+SARAH. You surprise me sometimes by breaking out into cant phrases.
+
+CARNABY. What is more useful in the world than honour?
+
+SARAH. I think we never had any . . we!
+
+CARNABY. Give me more details. Tell me, who is this man?
+
+SARAH. I'm innocent . . if that were all.
+
+ANN. Sally, what do they say you've done?
+
+SARAH. I cry out like any poor girl.
+
+CARNABY. There must be no doubt that you're innocent. Why not go for to
+force Charles into court?
+
+SARAH. My innocence is not of the sort which shows up well.
+
+CARNABY. Hold publicity in reserve. No fear of the two men arranging to
+meet, is there?
+
+SARAH. They've met . . and they chatted about me.
+
+CARNABY. [_After a moment._] There's sound humour in that.
+
+SARAH. I shall feel able to laugh at them both from Yorkshire.
+
+CARNABY. God forbid! Come to Brighton . . we'll rally Charles no end.
+
+SARAH. Papa, I know there's nothing to be done.
+
+CARNABY. Coward!
+
+SARAH. Besides I don't think I want to go back to my happiness.
+
+_They are silent for a little._
+
+CARNABY. How still! Look . . leaves falling already. Can that man hear
+what we're saying?
+
+SARAH. [_To_ ANN.] Can Abud overhear?
+
+ANN. I've never talked secrets in the garden before to-day. [_Raising
+her voice but a very little._] Can you hear me, Abud?
+
+_No reply comes._
+
+CARNABY. Evidently not. There's brains shown in a trifle.
+
+SARAH. Does your arm pain you so much?
+
+ANN. Sarah, this man that you're fond of and that's not your husband is
+not by any chance Lord John Carp?
+
+SARAH. No.
+
+ANN. Nothing would surprise me.
+
+SARAH. You are witty . . but a little young to be so hard.
+
+CARNABY. Keep to your innocent thoughts.
+
+ANN. I must study politics.
+
+SARAH. We'll stop talking of this.
+
+ANN. No . . let me listen . . quite quietly.
+
+CARNABY. Let her listen . . she's going to be married.
+
+SARAH. Good luck, Ann.
+
+CARNABY. I have great hopes of Ann.
+
+SARAH. I hope she may be heartless. To be heartless is to be quite safe.
+
+CARNABY. Now we detect a taste of sour grapes in your mouth.
+
+SARAH. Butter and eggs.
+
+CARNABY. We must all start early in the morning. Sarah will take you,
+Ann, round the Brighton shops . . fine shops. You shall have the
+money. . .
+
+SARAH. I will not come with you.
+
+CARNABY. [_Vexedly._] How absurd . . how ridiculous . . to persist in
+your silly sentiment.
+
+SARAH. [_Her voice rising._] I'm tired of that world . . which goes on
+and on, and there's no dying . . . one grows into a ghost . . visible . .
+then invisible. I'm glad paint has gone out of fashion. . . the
+painted ghosts were very ill to see.
+
+CARNABY. D'ye scoff at civilisation?
+
+SARAH. Look ahead for me.
+
+CARNABY. Banished to a hole in the damned provinces! But you're young
+yet, you're charming . . you're the wife . . and the honest wife of one
+of the country's best men. My head aches. D'ye despise good fortune's
+gifts? Keep as straight in your place in the world as you can. A monthly
+packet of books to Yorkshire . . no . . you never were fond of reading.
+Ye'd play patience . . cultivate chess problems . . kill yourself!
+
+SARAH. When one world fails take another.
+
+CARNABY. You have no more right to commit suicide than to desert the
+society you were born into. My head aches.
+
+SARAH. George is happy.
+
+CARNABY. D'ye dare to think so?
+
+SARAH. No. . it's a horrible marriage.
+
+CARNABY. He's losing refinement . . mark me . . he no longer polishes
+his nails.
+
+SARAH. But there are the children now.
+
+CARNABY. You never have wanted children.
+
+SARAH. I don't want a little child.
+
+CARNABY. She to be Lady Leete . . someday . . soon! What has he done for
+his family?
+
+SARAH. I'll come with you. You are clever, Papa. And I know just what to
+say to Charles.
+
+CARNABY. [_With a curious change of tone._] If you study anatomy you'll
+find that the brain, as it works, pressing forward the eyes . . thought
+is painful. Never be defeated. Chapter the latest . . the tickling of
+the Carp. And my throat is dry . . shall I drink that water?
+
+SARAH. No, I wouldn't.
+
+CARNABY. Not out of my hand?
+
+ANN. [_Speaking in a strange quiet voice, after her long silence._] I
+will not come to Brighton with you.
+
+CARNABY. Very dry!
+
+ANN. You must go back, Sally.
+
+CARNABY. [_As he looks at her, standing stiffly._] Now what is Ann's
+height . . five feet . . ?
+
+ANN. Sally must go back, for she belongs to it . . but I'll stay here
+where I belong.
+
+CARNABY. You've spoken three times and the words are jumbling in at my
+ears meaninglessly. I certainly took too much wine at dinner . . or
+else. . . Yes . . Sally goes back. . and you'll go forward. Who stays
+here? Don't burlesque your sister. What's in the air . . what disease is
+this?
+
+ANN. I mean to disobey you . . to stay here . . never to be unhappy.
+
+CARNABY. So pleased!
+
+ANN. I want to be an ordinary woman . . not clever . . not fortunate.
+
+CARNABY. I can't hear.
+
+ANN. Not clever. I don't believe in you, Papa.
+
+CARNABY. I exist . . I'm very sorry.
+
+ANN. I won't be married to any man. I refuse to be tempted . . I won't
+see him again.
+
+CARNABY. Yes. It's raining.
+
+SARAH. Raining!
+
+CARNABY. Don't you stop it raining.
+
+ANN. [_In the same level tones, to her sister now, who otherwise would
+turn, alarmed, to their father._] And I curse you . . because, we being
+sisters, I suppose I am much what you were, about to be married; and I
+think, Sally, you'd have cursed your present self. I could become all
+that you are and more . . but I don't choose.
+
+SARAH. Ann, what is to become of you?
+
+CARNABY. Big drops . . big drops!
+
+_At this moment_ ABUD _is passing towards the house, his work finished_.
+
+ANN. John Abud . . you mean to marry. When you marry . . will you marry
+me?
+
+_A blank silence, into which breaks_ CARNABY'S _sick voice_.
+
+CARNABY. Take me indoors. I heard you ask the gardener to marry you.
+
+ANN. I asked him.
+
+CARNABY. I heard you say that you asked him. Take me in . . but not out
+of the rain.
+
+ANN. Look . . he's straight-limbed and clear eyed . . and I'm a woman.
+
+SARAH. Ann, are you mad?
+
+ANN. If we two were alone here in this garden and everyone else in the
+world were dead . . what would you answer?
+
+ABUD. [_Still amazed._] Why . . yes.
+
+CARNABY. Then that's settled . . pellucid.
+
+_He attempts to rise, but staggers backwards and forwards._ SARAH _goes
+to him alarmed_.
+
+SARAH. Papa! . . there's no rain yet.
+
+CARNABY. Hush, I'm dead.
+
+ANN. [_Her nerves failing her._] Oh . . oh . . oh . . !
+
+SARAH. Abud, don't ever speak of this.
+
+ABUD. No, my lady.
+
+ANN. [_With a final effort._] I mean it all. Wait three months.
+
+CARNABY. Help me up steps . . son-in-law.
+
+CARNABY _has started to grope his way indoors. But he reels and falls
+helpless._
+
+ABUD. I'll carry him.
+
+_Throwing down his tools_ ABUD _lifts the frail sick man and carries him
+towards the house_. SARAH _follows_.
+
+ANN. [_Sobbing a little, and weary._] Such a long day it has been . .
+now ending.
+
+_She follows too._
+
+
+
+
+                              THE FOURTH ACT
+
+
+_The hall at Markswayde is square; in decoration strictly eighteenth
+century. The floor polished. Then comes six feet of soberly painted
+wainscot and above the greenish blue and yellowish green wall painted
+into panels. At intervals are low relief pilasters; the capitals of
+these are gilded. The ceiling is white and in the centre of it there is
+a frosted glass dome through which a dull light struggles. Two sides
+only of the hall are seen._
+
+_In the corner is a hat stand and on it are many cloaks and hats and
+beneath it several pairs of very muddy boots._
+
+_In the middle of the left hand wall are the double doors of the
+dining-room led up to by three or four stairs with balusters, and on
+either side standing against the wall long, formal, straight backed
+sofas._
+
+_In the middle of the right hand wall is the front door; glass double
+doors can be seen and there is evidently a porch beyond. On the left of
+the front door a small window. On the right a large fireplace, in which
+a large fire is roaring. Over the front door, a clock (the hands
+pointing to half-past one.) Over the fireplace a family portrait (temp.
+Queen Anne) below this a blunderbuss and several horse-pistols. Above
+the sofa full-length family portraits (temp. George I.) Before the front
+door a wooden screen, of lighter wood than the wainscot, and in the
+middle of it a small glass panel. Before this a heavy square table on
+which are whips and sticks, a hat or two and brushes; by the table a
+wooden chair. On either side the fire stand tall closed-in armchairs,
+and between the fireplace and the door a smaller red-baize screen._
+
+_When the dining-room doors are thrown open another wooden screen is to
+be seen._
+
+_There are a few rugs on the floor, formally arranged._
+
+MRS. OPIE _stands in the middle of the hall, holding out a woman's brown
+cloak: she drops one side to fetch out her handkerchief and apply it to
+her eye_. DIMMUCK _comes in by the front door, which he carefully closes
+behind him. He is wrapped in a hooded cloak and carries a pair of boots
+and a newspaper. The boots he arranges to warm before the fire. Then he
+spreads the Chronicle newspaper upon the arm of a chair, then takes off
+his cloak and hangs it upon a peg close to the door._
+
+DIMMUCK. Mrs. Opie . . will you look to its not scorching?
+
+MRS. OPIE _still mops her eyes_. DIMMUCK _goes towards the dining-room
+door, but turns_.
+
+DIMMUCK. Will you kindly see that the _Chronicle_ newspaper does not
+burn?
+
+MRS. OPIE. I was crying.
+
+DIMMUCK. I leave this tomorrow sennight . . thankful, ma'am, to have
+given notice in a dignified manner.
+
+MRS. OPIE. I understand . . Those persons at table . .
+
+DIMMUCK. You give notice.
+
+MRS. OPIE. Mr. Dimmuck, this is my home.
+
+LORD ARTHUR CARP _comes out of the dining-room. He is a thinner and more
+earnest-looking edition of his brother_. MRS. OPIE _turns a chair and
+hangs the cloak to warm before the fire, and then goes into the
+dining-room_.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. My chaise round?
+
+DIMMUCK. I've but just ordered it, my lord. Your lordship's man has give
+me your boots.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Does it snow?
+
+DIMMUCK. Rather rain than snow.
+
+LORD ARTHUR _takes up the newspaper_.
+
+DIMMUCK. Yesterday's, my lord.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I've seen it. The mails don't hurry hereabouts. Can I be in
+London by the morning?
+
+DIMMUCK. I should say you might be, my lord.
+
+LORD ARTHUR _sits by the fire, while_ DIMMUCK _takes off his pumps and
+starts to put on his boots_.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Is this a horse called "Ronald?"
+
+DIMMUCK. Which horse, my lord?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Which I'm to take back with me . . my brother left here. I
+brought the mare he borrowed.
+
+DIMMUCK. I remember, my lord. I'll enquire.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Tell Parker . .
+
+DIMMUCK. Your lordship's man?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. . . he'd better ride the beast.
+
+SARAH _comes out of the dining-room. He stands up; one boot, one shoe._
+
+SARAH. Please put on the other.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Thank you . . I am in haste.
+
+SARAH. To depart before the bride's departure.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Does the bride go with the bridegroom?
+
+SARAH. She goes away.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I shall never see such a thing again.
+
+SARAH. I think this entertainment is unique.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Any commissions in town?
+
+SARAH. Why can't you stay to travel with us tomorrow and talk business
+to Papa by the way?
+
+DIMMUCK _carrying the pumps and after putting on his cloak goes out
+through the front door. When it is closed, her voice changes._
+
+SARAH. Why . . Arthur?
+
+_He does not answer. Then_ MRS. OPIE _comes out of the dining-room to
+fetch the cloak. The two, with an effort, reconstruct their casual
+disjointed conversation._
+
+SARAH. . . Before the bride's departure?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Does the bride go away with the bridegroom?
+
+SARAH. She goes.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I shall never see such an entertainment again.
+
+SARAH. We are quite unique.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Any commissions in town?
+
+SARAH. Is she to go soon too, Mrs. Opie?
+
+MRS. OPIE. It is arranged they are to walk . . in this weather . . ten
+miles . . to the house.
+
+SARAH. Cottage.
+
+MRS. OPIE. Hut.
+
+MRS. OPIE _takes the cloak into the dining-room. Then_ SARAH _comes a
+little towards_ LORD ARTHUR, _but waits for him to speak_.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. [_A little awkwardly._] You are not looking well.
+
+SARAH. To our memory . . and beyond your little chat with my husband
+about me . . I want to speak an epitaph.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Charlie Cottesham behaved most honourably.
+
+SARAH. And I think you did. Why have you not let me tell you so in your
+ear till now, to-day?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Sarah . . we had a narrow escape from. . .
+
+SARAH. How's your wife?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Well . . thank you.
+
+SARAH. Nervous, surely, at your travelling in winter?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I was so glad to receive a casual invitation from you and
+to come . . casually.
+
+SARAH. Fifty miles.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Your father has been ill?
+
+SARAH. Very ill through the autumn.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Do you think he suspects us?
+
+SARAH. I shouldn't care to peep into Papa's innermost mind. You are to
+be very useful to him.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. No.
+
+SARAH. Then he'll go back to the government.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. If he pleases . . if they please . . if you please.
+
+SARAH. I am not going back to my husband. Arthur . . be useful to him.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. No . . you are not coming to me. Always your father!
+[_After a moment._] It was my little home in the country somehow said
+aloud you didn't care for me.
+
+SARAH. I fooled you to small purpose.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I wish you had once made friends with my wife.
+
+SARAH. If we . . this house I'm speaking of . . had made friends where
+we've only made tools and fools we shouldn't now be cursed as we are . .
+all. George, who is a cork, trying to sink socially. Ann is mad . . and
+a runaway.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Sarah, I've been devilish fond of you.
+
+SARAH. Be useful to Papa. [_He shakes his head, obstinately._] Praise me
+a little. Haven't I worked my best for my family?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Suppose I could be useful to him now, would you, in spite
+of all, come to me . . no half measures?
+
+SARAH. Arthur . . [_He makes a little passionate movement towards her,
+but she is cold._] It's time for me to vanish from this world, because
+I've nothing left to sell.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I can't help him. I don't want you.
+
+_He turns away._
+
+SARAH. I feel I've done my best.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Keep your father quiet.
+
+SARAH. I mean to leave him.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. What does he say to that?
+
+SARAH. I've not yet told him.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. What happens?
+
+SARAH. To sell my jewels . . spoils of a ten years' war. Three thousand
+pound . . how much a year?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I'll buy them.
+
+SARAH. And return them? You have almost the right to make such a
+suggestion.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Stick to your father. He'll care for you?
+
+SARAH. No . . we all pride ourselves on our lack of sentiment.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. You must take money from your husband.
+
+SARAH. I have earned that and spent it.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. [_Yielding once again to temptation._] I'm devilish fond of
+you . . .
+
+_At that moment_ ABUD _comes out of the dining-room. He is dressed in
+his best._ SARAH _responds readily to the interruption_.
+
+SARAH. And you must give my kindest compliments to Lady Arthur and my . .
+affectionately . . to the children and I'll let Papa know that you're
+going.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Letters under cover to your father?
+
+SARAH. Papa will stay in town through the session of course . . but they
+all tell me that seventy-five pounds a year is a comfortable income in . .
+Timbuctoo.
+
+_She goes into the dining-room._ ABUD _has selected his boots from the
+corner and now stands with them in his hand looking rather helpless.
+After a moment_--
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I congratulate you, Mr. Abud.
+
+ABUD. My lord . . I can't speak of myself.
+
+CARNABY _comes out of the dining-room. He is evidently by no means
+recovered from his illness. He stands for a moment with an ironical eye
+on_ JOHN ABUD.
+
+CARNABY. Son-in-law.
+
+ABUD. I'm told to get on my boots, sir.
+
+CARNABY. Allow me to assist you?
+
+ABUD. I couldn't, sir.
+
+CARNABY. Desole!
+
+_Then he passes on._ ABUD _sits on the sofa, furtively puts on his boots
+and afterwards puts his shoes in his pockets_.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. You were so busy drinking health to the two fat farmers
+that I wouldn't interrupt you.
+
+CARNABY. Good-bye. Describe all this to your brother John.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. So confirmed a bachelor!
+
+CARNABY. Please say that we missed him.
+
+LORD ARTHUR _hands him the newspaper_.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I've out-raced your _Chronicle_ from London by some hours.
+There's a paragraph . . second column . . near the bottom.
+
+CARNABY. [_Looking at it blindly._] They print villainously now-a-days.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Inspired.
+
+CARNABY. I trust his grace is well?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Gouty.
+
+CARNABY. Now doesn't the social aspect of this case interest you?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I object to feeding with the lower classes.
+
+CARNABY. There's pride! How useful to note their simple manners! From
+the meeting of extremes new ideas spring . . new life.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Take that for a new social-political creed, Mr. Leete.
+
+CARNABY. Do I lack one?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Please make my adieux to the bride.
+
+CARNABY. Appropriate . . . 'a Dieu' . . she enters Nature's cloister. My
+epigram.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. But . . good heavens . . are we to choose to be toiling
+animals?
+
+CARNABY. To be such is my daughter's ambition.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. You have not read that.
+
+CARNABY. [_Giving back the paper, vexedly._] I can't see.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. "The Right Honourable Carnaby Leete is, we are glad to
+hear, completely recovered and will return to town for the opening of
+Session."
+
+CARNABY. I mentioned it.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. "We understand that although there has been no
+reconciliation with the Government it is quite untrue that this
+gentleman will in any way resume his connection with the Opposition."
+
+CARNABY. Inspired?
+
+LORD ARTHUR. I am here from my father to answer any questions.
+
+CARNABY. [_With some dignity and the touch of a threat._] Not now, my
+lord.
+
+DIMMUCK _comes in at the front door_.
+
+DIMMUCK. The chaise, my lord.
+
+CARNABY. I will conduct you.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Please don't risk exposure.
+
+CARNABY. Nay, I insist.
+
+LORD ARTHUR. Health and happiness to you both, Mr. Abud.
+
+LORD ARTHUR _goes out, followed by_ CARNABY, _followed by_ DIMMUCK. _At
+that moment_ MR. SMALLPEICE _skips excitedly out of the dining-room. A
+ferret-like little lawyer_.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. Oh . . where is Mr. Leete?
+
+_Not seeing him_ MR. SMALLPEICE _skips as excitedly back into the
+dining-room_. DIMMUCK _returns and hangs up his cloak then goes towards_
+ABUD, _whom he surveys_.
+
+DIMMUCK. Sir!
+
+_With which insult he starts for the dining-room reaching the door just
+in time to hold it open for_ SIR GEORGE LEETE _who comes out. He
+surveys_ ABUD _for a moment, then explodes_.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. Damn you . . stand in the presence of your
+grandfather-in-law.
+
+ABUD _stands up_. CARNABY _returns coughing, and_ SIR GEORGE _looks him
+up and down_.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. I shall attend your funeral.
+
+CARNABY. My daughter Sarah still needs me.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. I wonder at you, my son.
+
+CARNABY. Have you any money to spare?
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. No.
+
+CARNABY. For Sarah, my housekeeper; I foresee a busy session.
+
+ABUD _is now gingerly walking up the stairs_.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. Carnaby . . look at that.
+
+CARNABY. Sound in wind and limb. Tread boldly, son-in-law.
+
+ABUD _turns, stands awkwardly for a moment and then goes into the
+dining-room_.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Relapsing into a pinch of snuff._] I'm calm.
+
+CARNABY. Regard this marriage with a wise eye . . as an amusing little
+episode.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. Do you?
+
+CARNABY. And forget its oddity. Now that the humiliation is irrevocable,
+is it a personal grievance to you?
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. Give me a dinner a day for the rest of my life and
+I'll be content.
+
+CARNABY. Lately, one by one, opinions and desires have been failing me . .
+a flicker and then extinction. I shall shortly attain to being a most
+able critic upon life.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. Shall I tell you again? You came into this world
+without a conscience. That explains you and it's all that does. That
+such a damnable coupling as this should be permitted by God Almighty . .
+or that the law shouldn't interfere! I've said my say.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE _again comes out of the dining-room_.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. Leete.
+
+CARNABY. [_Ironically polite._] Mr. Smallpeice.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. Crowe is proposing your health.
+
+MR. CROWE _comes out_. _A crop-headed beefy-looking farmer of sixty._
+
+MR. CROWE. Was.
+
+CARNABY. There's a good enemy!
+
+MR. CROWE. Get out of my road . . lawyer Smallpeice.
+
+CARNABY. Leave enough of him living to attend to my business.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. [_wriggling a bow at_ CARNABY.] Oh . . dear sir!
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Disgustedly to_ MR. SMALLPEICE.] You!
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. Employed in a small matter . . as yet.
+
+CARNABY. [_To_ CROWE.] I hope you spoke your mind of me.
+
+MR. CROWE. Not behind your back, sir.
+
+MRS. GEORGE LEETE _leads_ LADY LEETE _from the dining-room_. LADY LEETE
+_is a very old, blind and decrepit woman_. DOLLY _is a buxom young
+mother; whose attire borders on the gaudy_.
+
+CARNABY. [_With some tenderness._] Well . . Mother . . dear?
+
+MR. CROWE. [_Bumptiously to_ SIR GEORGE LEETE.] Did my speech offend
+you, my lord?
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Sulkily._] I'm a baronet.
+
+LADY LEETE. Who's this here?
+
+CARNABY. Carnaby.
+
+DOLLY. Step down . . grandmother.
+
+LADY LEETE. Who did ye say you were?
+
+DOLLY. Mrs. George Leete.
+
+LADY LEETE. Take me to the fire-side.
+
+_So_ CARNABY _and_ DOLLY _lead her slowly to a chair by the fire where
+they carefully bestow her_.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. [_To_ FARMER CROWE.] He's leaving Markswayde, you know . .
+and me agent.
+
+LADY LEETE. [_Suddenly bethinking her._] Grace was not said. Fetch my
+chaplain . . at once.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. I will run.
+
+_He runs into the dining-room._
+
+DOLLY. [_Calling after with her country accent._] Not parson Remnant . .
+t'other one.
+
+LADY LEETE. [_Demanding._] Snuff.
+
+CARNABY. [_To his father._] Sir . . my hand is a little unsteady.
+
+SIR GEORGE _and_ CARNABY _between them give_ LADY LEETE _her snuff_.
+
+MR. CROWE. Dolly . . ought those children to be left so long?
+
+DOLLY. All right, father . . I have a maid.
+
+LADY LEETE _sneezes_.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. She'll do that once too often altogether.
+
+LADY LEETE. I'm cold.
+
+DOLLY. I'm cold . . I lack my shawl.
+
+CROWE. Call out to your man for it.
+
+DOLLY. [_Going to the dining-room door._] Will a gentleman please ask
+Mr. George Leete for my Cache-y-mire shawl?
+
+MR. CROWE. [_To_ CARNABY.] And I drank to the health of our grandson.
+
+CARNABY. Now suppose George were to assume your name, Mr. Crowe?
+
+MR. TOZER _comes out of the dining-room. Of the worst type of eighteenth
+century parson, for which one may see Hogarth's 'Harlot's Progress.' He
+is very drunk._
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_In his wife's ear._] Tozer!
+
+LADY LEETE. When . . why!
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. To say grace.
+
+LADY LEETE _folds her withered hands_.
+
+MR. TOZER. [_through his hiccoughs._] Damn you all.
+
+LADY LEETE. [_Reverently, thinking it is said._] Amen.
+
+MR. TOZER. Only my joke.
+
+CARNABY. [_Rising to the height of the occasion._] Mr. Tozer, I am
+indeed glad to see you, upon this occasion so delightfully drunk.
+
+MR. TOZER. Always a gen'elman . . by nature.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. Lie down . . you dog.
+
+GEORGE _comes out carrying the cashmere shawl_.
+
+GEORGE. [_To his father._] Dolly wants her father to rent Markswayde,
+sir.
+
+MR. CROWE. Not me, my son. You're to be a farmer-baronet.
+
+SIR GEORGE. Curse your impudence!
+
+CARNABY. My one regret in dying would be to miss seeing him so.
+
+GEORGE _goes back into the dining-room_.
+
+MR. CROWE. I am tickled to think that the man marrying your daughter
+wasn't good enough for mine.
+
+CARNABY. And yet at fisticuffs, I'd back John Abud against our son
+George.
+
+DR. REMNANT _has come out of the dining-room_. TOZER _has stumbled
+towards him and is wagging an argumentative finger_.
+
+MR. TOZER. . . Marriage means enjoyment!
+
+DR. REMNANT. [_Controlling his indignation._] I repeat that I have found
+in my own copy of the prayer book no insistence upon a romantic passion.
+
+MR. TOZER. My 'terpretation of God's word is 'bove criticism.
+
+MR. TOZER _reaches the door and falls into the dining-room_.
+
+CARNABY. [_Weakly to_ DR. REMNANT.] Give me your arm for a moment.
+
+DR. REMNANT. I think Lady Cottesham has Mrs. John Abud prepared to
+start, sir.
+
+CARNABY. I trust Ann will take no chill walking through the mud.
+
+DR. REMNANT. Won't you sit down, sir?
+
+CARNABY. No.
+
+_For some moments_ CROWE _has been staring indignantly at_ SIR GEORGE.
+_Now he breaks out._
+
+MR. CROWE. The front door of this mansion is opened to a common gardener
+and only then to me and mine!
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Virulently._] Damn you and yours and damn them . .
+and damn you again for the worse disgrace.
+
+MR. CROWE. Damn _you_, sir . . have you paid him to marry the girl?
+
+_He turns away, purple faced and_ SIR GEORGE _chokes impotently_. ABUD
+_and_ MR. PRESTIGE _come out talking. He is younger and less assertive
+than_ FARMER CROWE.
+
+MR. PRESTIGE. [_Pathetically._] All our family always has got drunk at
+weddings.
+
+ABUD. [_In remonstrance._] Please, uncle.
+
+CARNABY. Mr. Crowe . . I have been much to blame for not seeking you
+sooner.
+
+MR. CROWE. [_Mollified._] Shake hands.
+
+CARNABY. [_Offering his with some difficulty._] My arm is stiff . .
+from an accident. This is a maid's marriage, I assure you.
+
+MR. PRESTIGE. [_Open mouthed to_ DR. REMNANT.] One =could= hang bacon
+here!
+
+DOLLY. [_Very high and mighty._] The family don't.
+
+CARNABY. [_To his father._] And won't you apologise for your remarks to
+Mr. Crowe, sir?
+
+LADY LEETE. [_Demanding._] Snuff!
+
+CARNABY. And your box to my mother, sir.
+
+SIR GEORGE _attends to his wife_.
+
+DOLLY. [_Anxiously to_ DR. REMNANT.] Can a gentleman change his name?
+
+MR. CROWE. Parson . . once noble always noble, I take it.
+
+DR. REMNANT. Certainly . . but I hope you have money to leave them, Mr.
+Crowe.
+
+DOLLY. [_To_ ABUD.] John.
+
+ABUD. Dorothy.
+
+DOLLY. You've not seen my babies yet.
+
+LADY LEETE _sneezes_.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. Carnaby . . d'ye intend to murder that Crowe fellow . .
+or must I?
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE _skips from the dining-room_.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. Mr. John Abud . .
+
+MR. CROWE. [_To_ DR. REMNANT _as he nods towards_ CARNABY.] Don't tell
+me he's got over that fever yet.
+
+MR. SMALLPEICE. . . The ladies say . . are you ready or are you not?
+
+MR. PRESTIGE. I'll get thy cloak, John.
+
+MR. PRESTIGE _goes for the cloak_. CARNABY _has taken a pistol from the
+mantel-piece and now points it at_ ABUD.
+
+CARNABY. He's fit for heaven!
+
+GEORGE LEETE _comes from the dining-room and noticing his father's
+action says sharply_ . .
+
+GEORGE. I suppose you know that pistol's loaded.
+
+_Which calls everyone's attention._ DOLLY _shrieks_.
+
+CARNABY. What if there had been an accident!
+
+_And he puts back the pistol._ ABUD _takes his cloak from_ PRESTIGE.
+
+ABUD. Thank you, uncle.
+
+MR. PRESTIGE. I'm a proud man. Mr. Crowe . .
+
+CARNABY. Pride!
+
+GEORGE. [_Has a sudden inspiration and strides up to_ ABUD.] Here ends
+the joke, my good fellow. Be off without your wife.
+
+ABUD _stares, as do the others. Only_ CARNABY _suddenly catches_
+REMNANT'S _arm_.
+
+MR. PRESTIGE. [_Solemnly._] But it's illegal to separate them.
+
+GEORGE. [_Giving up._] Mr. Prestige . . you are the backbone of England.
+
+CARNABY. [_To_ REMNANT.] Where are your miracles?
+
+MRS. PRESTIGE _comes out. A motherly farmer's wife, a mountain of a
+woman._
+
+MRS. PRESTIGE. John . . kiss your aunt.
+
+ABUD _goes to her, and she obliterates him in an embrace_.
+
+GEORGE. [_To his father._] Sense of humour . . Sense of humour!
+
+LADY LEETE. Snuff.
+
+_But no one heeds her this time._
+
+CARNABY. It doesn't matter.
+
+GEORGE. Smile. Let's be helpless gracefully.
+
+CARNABY. There are moments when I'm not sure.
+
+GEORGE. It's her own life.
+
+TOZER _staggers from the dining-room drunker than ever. He falls against
+the baluster and waves his arms._
+
+MR. TOZER. Silence there for the corpse!
+
+MR. CROWE. You beast!
+
+MR. TOZER. Respect my cloth . . Mr. Prestige.
+
+MR. CROWE. That's not my name.
+
+MR. TOZER. I'll have you to know that I'm Sir George Leete's baronet's
+most boon companion and her la'ship never goes nowhere without me. [_He
+subsides into a chair._]
+
+LADY LEETE. [_Tearfully._] Snuff.
+
+_From the dining-room comes_ ANN; _her head bent. She is crossing the
+hall when_ SARAH _follows, calling her_.
+
+SARAH. Ann!
+
+ANN _turns back to kiss her. The rest of the company stand gazing._ SIR
+GEORGE _gives snuff to_ LADY LEETE.
+
+ANN. Good-bye, Sally.
+
+SARAH. [_In a whisper._] Forget us.
+
+GEORGE. [_Relieving his feelings._] Good-bye, everybody . . good-bye,
+everything.
+
+ABUD _goes to the front door and opening it stands waiting for her. She
+goes coldly, but timidly to her father, to whom she puts her face up to
+be kissed._
+
+ANN. Good-bye, Papa.
+
+CARNABY. [_Quietly, as he kisses her cheek._] I can do without you.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Raging at the draught._] Shut that door.
+
+ANN. I'm gone.
+
+_She goes with her husband._ MRS. OPIE _comes hurriedly out of the
+dining-room, too late_.
+
+MRS. OPIE. Oh!
+
+DR. REMNANT. Run . . Mrs. Opie.
+
+CARNABY. There has started the new century!
+
+MRS. OPIE _opens the front door to look after them_.
+
+SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_With double energy._] Shut that door.
+
+LADY LEETE _sneezes and then chokes. There is much commotion in her
+neighbourhood._
+
+SIR GEORGE. Now she's hurt again.
+
+DOLLY. Water!
+
+MR. CROWE. Brandy!
+
+SARAH. [_Going._] I'll fetch both.
+
+GEORGE. We must all die . . some day.
+
+MR. TOZER. [_Who has struggled up to see what is the matter._] And go
+to--
+
+DR. REMNANT. Hell. You do believe in that, Mr. Toper.
+
+MRS. OPIE. [_Fanning the poor old lady._] She's better.
+
+CARNABY. [_To his guests._] Gentlemen . . punch.
+
+PRESTIGE _and_ SMALLPEICE; MRS. PRESTIGE, GEORGE _and_ DOLLY _move
+towards the dining-room_.
+
+MR. PRESTIGE. [_To_ SMALLPEICE.] You owe all this to me.
+
+MR. CROWE. Dolly . . I'm going.
+
+MRS. PRESTIGE. [_To her husband as she nods towards_ CARNABY.] Nathaniel
+. . look at 'im.
+
+GEORGE. [_To his father-in-law._] Must we come too?
+
+MRS. PRESTIGE. [_As before._] I can't help it . . a sneerin' carpin'
+cavillin' devil!
+
+MRS. OPIE. Markswayde is to let . . as I hear . . Mr. Leete?
+
+CARNABY. Markswayde is to let.
+
+_He goes on his way to the dining-room meeting_ SARAH _who comes out
+carrying a glass of water and a decanter of brandy_. SIR GEORGE LEETE
+_is comfortably warming himself at the fire_.
+
+                        *    *    *    *    *
+
+_The living room of_ JOHN ABUD'S _new cottage has bare plaster walls and
+its ceilings and floor are of red brick; all fresh looking but not new.
+In the middle of the middle wall there is a latticed window, dimity
+curtained; upon the plain shelf in front are several flower-pots._
+
+_To the right of this, a door, cross beamed and with a large lock to it
+besides the latch._
+
+_Against the right hand wall, is a dresser, furnished with dishes and
+plates: below it is a common looking grandfather clock; below this a
+small door which when opened shows winding stairs leading to the
+room above. In the left hand wall there is a door which is almost hidden
+by the fireplace which juts out below it. In the fireplace a wood fire
+is laid but not lit. At right angles to this stands a heavy oak settle
+opposite a plain deal table; just beyond which is a little bench. On
+either side of the window is a Windsor armchair. Between the window and
+the door hangs a framed sampler._
+
+_In the darkness the sound of the unlocking of a door and of_ ABUD
+_entering is heard. He walks to the table, strikes a light upon a
+tinder-box and lights a candle which he finds there._ ANN _is standing
+in the doorway_. ABUD _is in stocking feet_.
+
+ABUD. Don't come further. Here are your slippers.
+
+_He places one of the Windsor chairs for her on which she sits while he
+takes off her wet shoes and puts on her slippers which he found on the
+table. Then he takes her wet shoes to the fireplace. She sits still.
+Then he goes to the door and brings in his own boots from the little
+porch and puts them in the fireplace too. Then he locks the door and
+hangs up the key beside it. Then he stands looking at her; but she does
+not speak, so he takes the candle, lifts it above his head and walks to
+the dresser._
+
+ABUD. [_Encouragingly._] Our dresser . . Thomas Jupp made that. Plates
+and dishes. Here's Uncle Prestige's clock.
+
+ANN. Past seven.
+
+ABUD. That's upstairs. Table and bench, deal. Oak settle . . solid.
+
+ANN. Charming.
+
+ABUD. Windsor chairs . . Mother's sampler.
+
+ANN. Home.
+
+ABUD. Is it as you wish? I have been glad at your not seeing it until
+to-night.
+
+ANN. I'm sinking into the strangeness of the place.
+
+ABUD. Very weary? It's been a long nine miles.
+
+_She does not answer. He goes and considers the flower-pots in the
+window._
+
+ANN. I still have on my cloak.
+
+ABUD. Hang it behind the door there . . no matter if the wet drips.
+
+ANN. . . I can wipe up the puddle.
+
+_She hangs up her cloak. He selects a flower-pot and brings it to her._
+
+ABUD. Hyacinth bulbs for the spring.
+
+ANN. [_After a glance._] I don't want to hold them.
+
+_He puts back the pot, a little disappointed._
+
+ABUD. Out there's the scullery.
+
+ANN. It's very cold.
+
+ABUD. If we light the fire now that means more trouble in the morning.
+
+_She sits on the settle._
+
+ANN. Yes, I am very weary.
+
+ABUD. Go to bed.
+
+ANN. Not yet. [_After a moment._] How much light one candle gives! Sit
+where I may see you.
+
+_He sits on the bench. She studies him curiously._
+
+ANN. Well . . this is an experiment.
+
+ABUD. [_With reverence._] God help us both.
+
+ANN. Amen. Some people are so careful of their lives. If we fail
+miserably we'll hold our tongues . . won't we?
+
+ABUD. I don't know . . I can't speak of this.
+
+ANN. These impossible things which are done mustn't be talked of . .
+that spoils them. We don't want to boast of this, do we?
+
+ABUD. I fancy nobody quite believes that we are married.
+
+ANN. Here's my ring . . real gold.
+
+ABUD. [_With a sudden fierce throw up of his head._] Never you remind me
+of the difference between us.
+
+ANN. Don't speak to me so.
+
+ABUD. Now I'm your better.
+
+ANN. My master . . The door's locked.
+
+ABUD. [_Nodding._] I know that I must be . . or be a fool.
+
+ANN. [_After a moment._] Be kind to me.
+
+ABUD. [_With remorse._] Always I will.
+
+ANN. You are master here.
+
+ABUD. And I've angered you?
+
+ANN. And if I fail . . I'll never tell you . . to make a fool of you.
+And you're trembling. [_She sees his hand, which is on the table,
+shake._]
+
+ABUD. Look at that now.
+
+ANN. [_Lifting her own._] My white hands must redden. No more dainty
+appetite . . no more pretty books.
+
+ABUD. Have you learned to scrub?
+
+ANN. Not this floor.
+
+ABUD. Mother always did bricks with a mop. Tomorrow I go to work.
+You'll be left for all day.
+
+ANN. I must make friends with the other women around.
+
+ABUD. My friends are very curious about you.
+
+ANN. I'll wait to begin till I'm seasoned.
+
+ABUD. Four o'clock's the hour for getting up.
+
+ANN. Early rising always was a vice of mine.
+
+ABUD. Breakfast quickly . . . and I take my dinner with me.
+
+ANN. In a handkerchief.
+
+ABUD. Hot supper, please.
+
+ANN. It shall be ready for you.
+
+_There is silence between them for a little. Then he says timidly._
+
+ABUD. May I come near to you?
+
+ANN. [_In a low voice._] Come.
+
+_He sits beside her, gazing._
+
+ABUD. Wife . . I never have kissed you.
+
+ANN. Shut your eyes.
+
+ABUD. Are you afraid of me?
+
+ANN. We're not to play such games at love.
+
+ABUD. I can't help wanting to feel very tender towards you.
+
+ANN. Think of me . . not as a wife . . but as a mother of your children
+. . if it's to be so. Treat me so.
+
+ABUD. You are a part of me.
+
+ANN. We must try and understand it . . as a simple thing.
+
+ABUD. But shall I kiss you?
+
+ANN. [_Lowering her head._] Kiss me.
+
+_But when he puts his arms round her she shrinks._
+
+ANN. No.
+
+ABUD. But I will. It's my right.
+
+_Almost by force he kisses her. Afterwards she clenches her hands and
+seems to suffer._
+
+ABUD. Have I hurt you?
+
+_She gives him her hand with a strange little smile._
+
+ANN. I forgive you.
+
+ABUD. [_Encouraged._] Ann . . we're beginning life together.
+
+ANN. Remember . . work's enough . . no stopping to talk.
+
+ABUD. I'll work for you.
+
+ANN. I'll do my part . . something will come of it.
+
+_For a moment they sit together hand in hand. Then she leaves him and
+paces across the room. There is a slight pause._
+
+ANN. Papa . . I said . . we've all been in too great a hurry getting
+civilised. False dawn. I mean to go back.
+
+ABUD. He laughed.
+
+ANN. So he saw I was of no use to him and he's penniless and he let me
+go. When my father dies what will he take with him? . . . for you do
+take your works with you into Heaven or Hell, I believe. Much wit. Sally
+is afraid to die. Don't you aspire like George's wife. I was afraid to
+live . . and now . . I am content.
+
+_She walks slowly to the window and from there to the door against which
+she places her ear. Then she looks round at her husband._
+
+ANN. I can hear them chattering.
+
+_Then she goes to the little door and opens it._ ABUD _takes up the
+candle_.
+
+ABUD. I'll hold the light . . the stairs are steep.
+
+_He lights her up the stairs._
+
+
+
+
+
+                     The Voysey Inheritance
+
+                             1903-5
+
+
+
+
+                      THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE
+
+
+_The Office of Voysey and Son is in the best part of Lincoln's Inn. Its
+panelled rooms give out a sense of grand-motherly comfort and security,
+very grateful at first to the hesitating investor, the dubious litigant.
+Mr. Voysey's own room into which he walks about twenty past ten of a
+morning radiates enterprise besides. There is polish on everything; on
+the windows, on the mahogany of the tidily packed writing table that
+stands between them, on the brasswork of the fireplace in the other
+wall, on the glass of the fire-screen which preserves only the
+pleasantness of a sparkling fire, even on Mr. Voysey's hat as he takes
+it off to place it on the little red curtained shelf behind the door.
+Mr. Voysey is sixty or more and masterful; would obviously be master
+anywhere from his own home outwards, or wreck the situation in his
+attempt. Indeed there is a buccaneering air sometimes in the twist of
+his glance, not altogether suitable to a family solicitor. On this
+bright October morning, Peacey, the head clerk, follows just too late to
+help him off with his coat, but in time to take it and hang it up with a
+quite unnecessary subservience. Mr. Voysey is evidently not capable
+enough to like capable men about him. Peacey, not quite removed from
+Nature, has made some attempts to acquire protective colouring. A very
+drunken client might mistake him for his master. His voice very easily
+became a toneless echo of Mr. Voysey's; later his features caught a line
+or two from that mirror of all the necessary virtues into which he was
+so constantly gazing; but how his clothes even when new contrive to look
+like old ones of Mr. Voysey's is a mystery, and to his tailor a most
+annoying one. And Peacey is just a respectful number of years his
+master's junior. Relieved of his coat, Mr. Voysey carries to his table
+the bunch of beautiful roses he is accustomed to bring to the office
+three times a week and places them for a moment only near the bowl of
+water there ready to receive them while he takes up his letters. These
+lie ready too, opened mostly, one or two private ones left closed and
+discreetly separate. By this time the usual salutations have passed,
+Peacey's "Good morning, sir;" Mr. Voysey's "Morning, Peacey." Then as he
+gets to his letters Mr. Voysey starts his day's work._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Any news for me?
+
+PEACEY. I hear bad accounts of Alguazils preferred, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . from whom?
+
+PEACEY. Merrit and James's head clerk in the train this morning.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. They looked all right on . . Give me the Times. [PEACEY
+_goes to the fireplace for the Times; it is warming there_. MR. VOYSEY
+_waves a letter, then places it on the table_.] Here, that's for you . .
+Gerrard Cross business. Anything else?
+
+PEACEY. [_as he turns the Times to its Finance page._] I've made the
+usual notes.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Thank'ee.
+
+PEACEY. Young Benham isn't back yet.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward must do as he thinks fit about that. Alguazils,
+Alg--oh, yes.
+
+_He is running his eye down the columns._ PEACEY _leans over the
+letters_.
+
+PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson. . Yes. Alguazils. Mr. Edward's here, I
+suppose.
+
+PEACEY. No, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_his eye twisting with some sharpness._] What!
+
+PEACEY. [_almost alarmed._] I beg pardon, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward.
+
+PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I thought you said
+Headley; he's not due back till Thursday.
+
+MR. VOYSEY _discards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come.
+
+PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't it?
+
+PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chislehurst.
+
+PEACEY. So early!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call through about
+the rest of the letters.
+
+PEACEY _goes, having secured a letter or two, and_ MR. VOYSEY _having
+sorted the rest (a proportion into the waste paper basket) takes up the
+forgotten roses and starts setting them into a bowl with an artistic
+hand. Then his son_ EDWARD _comes in_. MR. VOYSEY _gives him one glance
+and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily_. .
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Good morning, my dear boy.
+
+EDWARD _has little of his father in him and that little is undermost. It
+is a refined face but self-consciousness takes the place in it of
+imagination and in suppressing traits of brutality in his character it
+looks as if the young man had suppressed his sense of humour too. But
+whether or no, that would not be much in evidence now, for_ EDWARD _is
+obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is
+no better word). He looks not to have slept for a night or two, and his
+standing there, clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he
+carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly but half accusingly
+too, his whole being altogether so unstrung and desperate, makes_ MR.
+VOYSEY'S _uninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated
+indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken._
+
+EDWARD. Father . .
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well?
+
+EDWARD. I'm glad to see you.
+
+_This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that the commonplace
+phrase sounds ridiculous at such a moment._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there.
+
+EDWARD. Yes.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them?
+
+EDWARD. As you wished me . .
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD _doesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems
+to overwhelm him with shame._ MR. VOYSEY _goes on with cheerful
+impatience_.] Come, come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this.
+You're puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come down to
+me on Saturday night? I expected you . . I told you to come. Then your
+mother was wondering, of course, why you weren't with us for dinner
+yesterday.
+
+EDWARD. I went through all the papers twice. I wanted to make quite
+sure.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Sure of what? I told you to come to me.
+
+EDWARD. [_he is very near crying._] Oh, father.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Now look here, Edward, I'm going to ring and dispose of
+these letters. Please pull yourself together. [_He pushes the little
+button on his table._]
+
+EDWARD. I didn't leave my rooms all day yesterday.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. A pleasant Sunday! You must learn whatever the business may
+be to leave it behind you at the Office. Why, life's not worth living
+else.
+
+PEACEY _comes in to find_ MR. VOYSEY _before the fire ostentatiously
+warming and rubbing his hands_.
+
+Oh, there isn't much else, Peacey. Tell Simmons that if he satisfies you
+about the details of this lease it'll be all right. Make a note for me
+of Mr. Grainger's address at Mentone. I shall have several letters to
+dictate to Atkinson. I'll whistle for him.
+
+PEACEY. Mr. Burnett . . Burnett v Marks had just come in, Mr. Edward.
+
+EDWARD. [_without turning._] It's only fresh instructions. Will you take
+them?
+
+PEACEY. All right.
+
+PEACEY _goes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness of_ EDWARD'S _manner.
+This_ MR. VOYSEY _sees, returning to his table with a little scowl_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Now sit down. I've given you a bad forty-eight hours, it
+seems. Well, I've been anxious about you. Never mind, we'll thresh the
+thing out now. Go through the two accounts. Mrs. Murberry's first . .
+how do you find it stands?
+
+EDWARD. [_his feelings choking him._] I hoped you were playing some
+trick on me.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Come now.
+
+EDWARD _separates the papers precisely and starts to detail them; his
+voice quite toneless. Now and then his father's sharp comments ring out
+in contrast._
+
+EDWARD. We've got the lease of her present house, several agreements . .
+and here's her will. Here's also a sometime expired power of attorney
+over her securities and her property generally . . it was for six
+months.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. She was in South Africa.
+
+EDWARD. Here's the Sheffield mortgage and the Henry Smith mortgage with
+Banker's receipts . . hers to us for the interest up to date . . four
+and a half and five per cent. Then . . Fretworthy Bonds. There's a
+memorandum in your writing that they are at the Bank; but you didn't say
+what Bank.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. My own . . Stukeley's.
+
+EDWARD. [_just dwelling on the words._] Your own. I marked that with a
+query. There's eight thousand five hundred in three and a half India
+stock. And there are her Banker's receipts for cheques on account of
+those dividends. I presume for those dividends.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Why not?
+
+EDWARD. [_gravely._] Because then, Father, there are Banker's half
+yearly receipts for sums amounting to an average of four hundred and
+twenty pounds a year. But I find no record of any capital to produce
+this.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Go on. What =do= you find?
+
+EDWARD. Till about three years back there seems to have been eleven
+thousand in Queenslands which would produce--did produce exactly the
+same sum. But after January of that year I find no record of this.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. In fact the Queenslands are missing?
+
+EDWARD. [_hardly uttering the word._] Yes.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. From which you conclude?
+
+EDWARD. I concluded at first that you had not handed me all the papers
+connected with----
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Since Mrs. Murberry evidently gets another four twenty a
+year somehow; lucky woman.
+
+EDWARD. [_in agony._] Oh!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, we'll return to the good lady later. Now let's take
+the other.
+
+EDWARD. The Hatherley Trust.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.
+
+EDWARD. [_with one accusing glance._] Trust.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Go on.
+
+EDWARD. Oh, father . .
+
+_His grief comes uppermost again and_ MR. VOYSEY _meets it kindly_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I know, my dear boy. I shall have lots to say to you. But
+let's get quietly through with these details first.
+
+EDWARD. [_bitterly now._] Oh, this is simple enough. We're young
+Hatherley's only trustees till his coming of age in about five years'
+time. The property was eighteen thousand invested in Consols. Certain
+sums were to be allowed for his education; these have been and are still
+being paid. There is no record as to the rest of the capital.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. None?
+
+EDWARD. Yes . . I beg your pardon, sir. There's a memorandum to refer to
+the Bletchley Land Scheme.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. That must be ten years ago. But he's credited with the
+interest on his capital?
+
+EDWARD. On paper, sir. The balance was to be reinvested. There's a
+partial account in your hand writing. He's credited with the Consol
+interest.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.
+
+EDWARD. I think I've heard you say that the Bletchley scheme paid seven
+and a half.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. At one time. Have you taken the trouble to calculate what
+will be due from us to the lad?
+
+EDWARD. Capital and compound interest . . . about twenty six thousand
+pounds.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's a large sum. In five years' time?
+
+EDWARD. When he comes of age.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, that gives us, say four years and six months in which
+to think about it.
+
+EDWARD _waits, hopelessly, for his father to speak again; then says_ . .
+
+EDWARD. Thank you for showing me these, sir. Shall I put them back in
+your safe now?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Yes, you'd better. There's the key. [EDWARD _reaches for the
+bunch, his face hidden_.] Put them down. Your hand shakes . . why, you
+might have been drinking . . I'll put them away later. It's no use
+having hysterics, Edward. Look the trouble in the face.
+
+EDWARD'S _only answer is to go to the fire, as far from his father as
+the room allows. And there he leans on the mantelpiece, his shoulders
+heaving._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I'm sorry, my dear boy. I wouldn't tell you if I could help
+it.
+
+EDWARD. I can't believe it. And that you should be telling it me.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Let your feelings go and get that part of the business over.
+It isn't pleasant, I know. It isn't pleasant to inflict it on you.
+
+EDWARD. How I got through that outer office this morning, I don't know.
+I came early but some of them were here. Peacey came into my room, he
+must have seen there was something up.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. That's no matter.
+
+EDWARD. [_able to turn to his father again; won round by the kind
+voice._] How long has it been going on? Why didn't you tell me before?
+Oh, I know you thought you'd pull through; but I'm your partner . . I'm
+responsible too. Oh, I don't want to shirk that . . don't think I mean
+to shirk that, father. Perhaps I ought to have discovered, but those
+affairs were always in your hands. I trusted . . I beg your pardon. Oh,
+it's us . . not you. Everyone has trusted us.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_calmly and kindly still._] You don't seem to notice that
+I'm not breaking my heart like this.
+
+EDWARD. What's the extent of the mischief? When did it begin? Father,
+what made you begin it?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I didn't begin it.
+
+EDWARD. You didn't. Who then?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. My father before me. [EDWARD _stares_.] That calms you a
+little.
+
+EDWARD. I'm glad . . my dear father! [_and he puts out his hand. Then
+just a doubt enters his mind._] But I . . it's amazing.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_shaking his head._] My inheritance, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. My dear father!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I had hoped it wasn't to be yours.
+
+EDWARD. D'you mean to tell me that this sort of thing has been going on
+for years? For more than thirty years!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Yes.
+
+EDWARD. That's a little difficult to understand just at first, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_sententiously._] We do what we must in this world, Edward;
+I have done what I had to do.
+
+EDWARD. [_his emotion well cooled by now._] Perhaps I'd better just
+listen quietly while you explain.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_concentrating._] You know that I'm heavily into Northern
+Electrics.
+
+EDWARD. Yes.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. But you don't know how heavily. When I discovered the
+Municipalities were organising the purchase, I thought of course the
+stock'd be up a hundred and forty--a hundred and fifty in no time. Now
+Leeds won't make up her quarrel with the other place . . there'll be no
+bill brought in for ten years. I bought at ninety five. What are they
+now?
+
+EDWARD. Eighty eight.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Eighty seven and a half. In ten years I may be . . ! That's
+why you've had to be told.
+
+EDWARD. With whose money are you so heavily into Northern Electrics?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. The firm's money.
+
+EDWARD. Clients' money?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Yes.
+
+EDWARD. [_coldly._] Well . . I'm waiting for your explanation, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You seem to have recovered yourself pretty much.
+
+EDWARD. No, sir, I'm trying to understand, that's all.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with a shrug._] Children always think the worst of their
+parents. I did of mine. It's a pity.
+
+EDWARD. Go on, sir, go on. Let me know the worst.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. There's no immediate danger. I should think anyone could see
+that from the state of these accounts. There's no actual danger at all.
+
+EDWARD. Is that the worst?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_his anger rising._] Have you studied these two accounts or
+have you not?
+
+EDWARD. Yes, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, where's the deficiency in Mrs. Murberry's income . .
+has she ever gone without a shilling? What has young Hatherley lost?
+
+EDWARD. He stands to lose--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. He stands to lose nothing if I'm spared for a little, and
+you will only bring a little common sense to bear and try to understand
+the difficulties of my position.
+
+EDWARD. Father, I'm not thinking ill of you . . that is, I'm trying not
+to. But won't you explain how you're justified--?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. In putting our affairs in order.
+
+EDWARD. Are you doing that?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. What else?
+
+EDWARD. [_starting patiently to examine the matter._] How bad were
+things when you first came to control them?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Oh, I forget.
+
+EDWARD. You can't forget.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well . . pretty bad.
+
+EDWARD. Do you know how it was my grandfather began to--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Muddlement, muddlement! Then the money went and what was he
+to do. He'd no capital, no credit, and was in terror of his life. My
+dear Edward, if I hadn't found it out, he'd have confessed to the first
+man who came and asked for a balance sheet.
+
+EDWARD. Well, what exact sum was he to the bad then?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I forget. Several thousands.
+
+EDWARD. But surely it has not taken all these years to pay off--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Oh, hasn't it!
+
+EDWARD. [_making his point._] But how does it happen, sir, that such a
+comparatively recent trust as young Hatherley's had been broken into?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, what could be safer than to use that money? There's a
+Consol investment and not a sight wanted of either capital or interest
+for five years.
+
+EDWARD. [_utterly beaten._] Father, are you mad?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Certainly not. My practice is to reinvest my clients' money
+when it is entirely under my control. The difference between the income
+this money has to bring to them and the income it is actually bringing
+to me I utilise in my endeavour to fill up the deficit in the firm's
+accounts . . in fact to try and put things straight. Doesn't it follow
+that the more low interest bearing capital I can use the better . . the
+less risky things I have to put it into. Most of young Hatherley's
+Consol capital is out on mortgage at four and a half and five . . safe
+as safe can be.
+
+EDWARD. But he should have the benefit.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. He has the amount of his consol interest.
+
+EDWARD. Are the mortgages in his name?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Some of them . . some of them. That's a technical matter.
+With regard to Mrs. Murberry . . those Fretworthy Bonds at my bank . .
+I've raised five thousand on them. I can release her Bonds to-morrow if
+she wants them.
+
+EDWARD. Where's the five thousand?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I don't know . . it was paid into my private account. Yes, I
+do remember. Some of it went to complete a purchase . . that and two
+thousand more out of the Skipworth fund.
+
+EDWARD. But, my dear father--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well?
+
+EDWARD. [_summing it all up very simply._] It's not right.
+
+MR. VOYSEY _considers his son for a moment with a pitying shake of the
+head_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . why is it so hard for a man to see clearly beyond the
+letter of the law! Will you consider a moment, Edward, the position in
+which I found myself? Was I to see my father ruined and disgraced
+without lifting a finger to help him? . . not to mention the interest of
+the clients. I paid back to the man who would have lost most by my
+father's mistakes every penny of his money. He never knew the danger
+he'd been in . . never passed an uneasy moment about it. It was I who
+lay awake. I have now somewhere a letter from that man to my father
+thanking him effusively for the way in which he'd conducted some matter.
+It comforted my poor father. Well, Edward, I stepped outside the letter
+of the law to do that. Was that right or wrong?
+
+EDWARD. In its result, sir, right.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Judge me by the result. I took the risk of failure . . I
+should have suffered. I could have kept clear of the danger if I'd
+liked.
+
+EDWARD. But that's all past. The thing that concerns me is what you are
+doing now.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_gently reproachful now._] My boy, you must trust me a
+little. It's all very well for you to come in at the end of the day and
+criticise. But I who have done the day's work know how that work had to
+be done. And here's our firm, prosperous, respected and without a stain
+on its honour. That's the main point, isn't it? And I think that
+achievement should earn me the right to be trusted a little . .
+shouldn't it?
+
+EDWARD. [_quite irresponsive to this pathetic appeal._] Look here, sir,
+I'm dismissing from my mind all prejudice about speaking the truth . .
+acting upon one's instructions, behaving as any honest firm of
+solicitors must behave . .
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You need not, I tell no unnecessary lies. If a man of any
+business ability gives me definite instructions about his property, I
+follow them.
+
+EDWARD. Father, no unnecessary lies!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, my friend, go and tell Mrs. Murberry that four hundred
+and twenty pounds of her income hasn't for the last eight years come
+from the place she thinks it's come from and see how happy you'll make
+her.
+
+EDWARD. But is that four hundred and twenty a year as safe to come to
+her as it was before you meddled with the capital?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I see no reason why--
+
+EDWARD. What's the security?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_putting his coping stone on the argument._] My financial
+ability.
+
+EDWARD. [_really not knowing whether to laugh or cry._] Why, it seems as
+if you were satisfied with this state of things.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Edward, you really are most unsympathetic and unreasonable.
+I give all I have to the firm's work . . my brain . . my energies . . my
+whole life. I can't turn my abilities into hard cash at par . . I wish I
+could. Do you suppose that if I could establish every one of these
+people with a separate and consistent bank balance to-morrow that I
+shouldn't do it? Do you suppose that it's a pleasure . . that it's
+relaxation to have these matters continually on one's mind? Do you
+suppose--?
+
+EDWARD. [_thankfully able to meet anger with anger._] I find it
+impossible to believe that you couldn't somehow have put things right by
+now.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Oh, do you? Somehow!
+
+EDWARD. In thirty years the whole system must either have come
+hopelessly to grief . . or during that time there must have been
+opportunities--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, if you're so sure, I hope that when I'm under ground,
+you may find them.
+
+EDWARD. I!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. And put everything right with a stroke of the pen, if it's
+so easy!
+
+EDWARD. I!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You're my partner and my son, and you'll inherit the
+business.
+
+EDWARD. [_realizing at last that he has been led to the edge of this
+abyss._] Oh no, father.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Why else have I had to tell you all this?
+
+EDWARD. [_very simply._] Father, I can't. I can't possibly. I don't
+think you've any right to ask me.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Why not, pray?
+
+EDWARD. It's perpetuating the dishonesty.
+
+MR. VOYSEY _hardens at the unpleasant word_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You don't believe that I've told you the truth.
+
+EDWARD. I wish to believe it.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. It's no proof . . that I've earned these twenty or thirty
+people their incomes for the last--how many years?
+
+EDWARD. Whether what you have done and are doing is wrong or right . . I
+can't meddle in it.
+
+_For the moment_ MR. VOYSEY _looks a little dangerous_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Very well. Forget all I've said. Go back to your room. Get
+back to your own mean drudgery. My life's work--my splendid life's
+work--ruined! What does that matter?
+
+EDWARD. Whatever did you expect of me?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_making a feint at his papers._] Oh, nothing, nothing.
+[_Then he slams them down with great effect._] Here's a great edifice
+built up by years of labour and devotion and self sacrifice . . a great
+arch you may call it . . a bridge which is to carry our firm to safety
+with honour. [_This variation of Disraeli passes unnoticed._] My work!
+And now, as I near the end of my life, it still lacks the key-stone.
+Perhaps I am to die with my work just incomplete. Then is there nothing
+that a son might do? Do you think I shouldn't be proud of you, Edward . .
+that I shouldn't bless you from--wherever I may be, when you completed
+my life's work . . with perhaps just one kindly thought of your father?
+
+_In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually impressing_
+EDWARD.
+
+EDWARD. What will happen if I . . if I desert you?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I'll protect you as best I can.
+
+EDWARD. I wasn't thinking of myself, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with great nonchalance_.] Well, I shan't mind the
+exposure, you know. It won't make me blush in my coffin . . and you're
+not so foolish I hope as to be thinking of the feelings of your brothers
+and sisters. Considering how simple it would have been for me to go to
+my grave in peace and quiet and let you discover the whole thing
+afterwards, the fact that I didn't, that I have taken some thought for
+the future of all of you might perhaps have convinced you that I . . !
+But there . . consult your own safety.
+
+EDWARD _has begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him_.
+
+EDWARD. This is a queer thing to have to make up one's mind about, isn't
+it, father?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_watching him closely and modulating his voice._] My dear
+boy, I understand the shock to your feelings that this disclosure must
+have been.
+
+EDWARD. Yes, I thought this morning that next week would see us in the
+dock together.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. And I suppose if I'd broken down and begged your pardon for
+my folly, you'd have done anything for me, gone to prison smiling, eh?
+
+EDWARD. I suppose so.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry I can't go in
+sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. [_Now he begins to rally his son;
+easy in his strength._] My dear Edward, you've lived a quiet humdrum
+life up to now, with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism
+and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, these are
+the sort of garden oats which young men seem to sow now-a-days! . . and
+you've never before been brought face to face with any really vital
+question. Now don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience.
+Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the consideration of
+this very serious matter. I'm not angry at what you've said to me. I'm
+quite willing to forget it. And it's for your own sake and not for mine,
+Edward, that I do beg you to--to--to be a man and try and take a
+practical common sense view of the position you find yourself in. It's
+not a pleasant position I know, but it's unavoidable.
+
+EDWARD. You should have told me before you took me into partnership.
+[_Oddly enough it is this last flicker of rebellion which breaks down_
+MR. VOYSEY'S _caution. Now he lets fly with a vengeance._]
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Should I be telling you at all if I could possibly help it?
+Don't I know that you're about as fit for this job as a babe unborn?
+Haven't I been worrying over that for these last three years? But I'm in
+a corner . . and I won't see all this work of mine come to smash simply
+because of your scruples. If you're a son of mine you'll do as I tell
+you. Hadn't I the same choice to make? . . and this is a safer game for
+you than it was for me then. D'you suppose I didn't have scruples? If
+you run away from this, Edward, you're a coward. My father was a coward
+and he suffered for it to the end of his days. I was sick-nurse to him
+here more than partner. Good lord! . . of course it's pleasant and
+comfortable to keep within the law . . then the law will look after you.
+Otherwise you have to look pretty sharp after yourself. You have to
+cultivate your own sense of right and wrong; deal your own justice. But
+that makes a bigger man of you, let me tell you. How easily . . how
+easily could I have walked out of my father's office and left him to his
+fate; no one would have blamed me! But I didn't. I thought it my better
+duty to stay and . . yes, I say it with all reverence . . to take up my
+cross. Well, I've carried that cross pretty successfully. And what's
+more, it's made a happy man of me . . a better, stronger man than
+skulking about in shame and in fear of his life ever made of my poor
+dear father. [_Relieved at having let out the truth, but doubtful of his
+wisdom in doing so, he changes his tone._] I don't want what I've been
+saying to influence you, Edward. You are a free agent . . and you must
+decide upon your own course of action. Now don't let's discuss the
+matter any more for the moment.
+
+EDWARD _looks at his father with clear eyes_.
+
+EDWARD. Don't forget to put these papers away.
+
+_He restores them to their bundles and hands them back: it is his only
+comment._ MR. VOYSEY _takes them and his meaning in silence_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Are you coming down to Chislehurst soon? We've got Hugh and
+his wife, and Booth and Emily, and Christopher for two or three days,
+till he goes back to school.
+
+EDWARD. How is Chris?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. All right again now . . grows more like his father. Booth's
+very proud of him. So am I.
+
+EDWARD. I think I can't face them all just at present.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense.
+
+EDWARD. [_a little wave of emotion going through him._] I feel as if
+this thing were written on my face. How I shall get through business I
+don't know!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You're weaker than I thought, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. [_a little ironically._] A disappointment to you, father?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. No, no.
+
+EDWARD. You should have brought one of the others into the firm . .
+Trenchard or Booth.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_hardening._] Trenchard! [_he dismisses that._] Well,
+you're a better man than Booth. Edward, you mustn't imagine that the
+whole world is standing on its head merely because you've had an
+unpleasant piece of news. You come down to Chislehurst to-night . .
+well, say to-morrow night. It'll be good for you . . stop your brooding
+. . that's your worst vice, Edward. You'll find the household as if
+nothing had happened. Then you'll remember that nothing really has
+happened. And presently you'll get to see that nothing need happen, if
+you keep your head. I remember times, when things have seemed at their
+worst, what a relief it's been to me . . my romp with you all in the
+nursery just before your bed time. Do you remember?
+
+EDWARD. Yes. I cut your head open once with that gun.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_in a full glow of fine feeling._] And, my dear boy, if I
+knew that you were going to inform the next client you met of what I've
+just told you . .
+
+EDWARD. [_with a shudder._] Oh, father!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. . . And that I should find myself in prison to-morrow, I
+wouldn't wish a single thing I've ever done undone. I have never
+wilfully harmed man or woman. My life's been a happy one. Your dear
+mother has been spared to me. You're most of you good children and a
+credit to what I've done for you.
+
+EDWARD. [_the deadly humour of this too much for him._] Father!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Run along now, run along. I must finish my letters and get
+into the City.
+
+_He might be scolding a schoolboy for some trifling fault._ EDWARD
+_turns to have a look at the keen unembarrassed face_. MR. VOYSEY
+_smiles at him and proceeds to select from the bowl a rose for his
+buttonhole_.
+
+EDWARD. I'll think it over, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Of course, you will. And don't brood, Edward, don't brood.
+
+_So_ EDWARD _leaves him; and having fixed the rose to his satisfaction,
+he rings his table telephone and calls through it to the listening
+clerk_.
+
+Send Atkinson to me, please. [_Then he gets up, keys in hand to lock
+away Mrs. Murberry's and the Hatherley trust papers._]
+
+
+
+
+                              THE SECOND ACT
+
+
+_The_ VOYSEY _dining-room at Chislehurst, when children and
+grandchildren are visiting, is dining table and very little else. And at
+this moment in the evening when five or six men are sprawling back in
+their chairs, and the air is clouded with smoke, it is a very typical
+specimen of the middle-class English domestic temple; the daily
+sacrifice consummated, the acolytes dismissed, the women safely in the
+drawing room, and the chief priests of it taking their surfeited ease
+round the dessert-piled altar. It has the usual red-papered walls, (like
+a refection, they are, of the underdone beef so much consumed within
+them) the usual varnished woodwork which is known as grained oak; there
+is the usual, hot, mahogany furniture; and, commanding point of the
+whole room, there is the usual black-marble sarcophagus of a fireplace.
+Above this hangs one of the two or three oil paintings, which are all
+that break the red pattern of the walls, the portrait painted in 1880 of
+an undistinguished looking gentleman aged sixty; he is shown sitting in
+a more graceful attitude than it could ever have been comfortable for
+him to assume._ MR. VOYSEY'S _father it is, and the brass plate at the
+bottom of the frame tells us that the portrait was a presentation one.
+On the mantelpiece stands, of course, a clock; at either end a china
+vase filled with paper spills. And in front of the fire,--since that is
+the post of vantage, stands at this moment_ MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. _He is
+the second son, of the age that it is necessary for a Major to be, and
+of an appearance that many ordinary Majors in ordinary regiments are. He
+went into the army because he thought it would be like a schoolboy's
+idea of it; and, being there, he does his little all to keep it so. He
+stands astride, hands in pockets, coat-tails through his arms, cigar in
+mouth, moustache bristling. On either side of him sits at the table an
+old gentleman; the one is_ MR. EVAN COLPUS, _the vicar of their parish,
+the other_ MR. GEORGE BOOTH, _a friend of long standing, and the Major's
+godfather. Mr. Colpus is a harmless enough anachronism, except for the
+waste of L400 a year in which his stipend involves the community.
+Leaving most of his parochial work to an energetic curate, he devotes
+his serious attention to the composition of two sermons a week. They
+deal with the difficulties of living the christian life as experienced
+by people who have nothing else to do. Published in series from time to
+time, these form suitable presents for bedridden parishioners._ MR.
+GEORGE BOOTH, _on the contrary, is as gay an old gentleman as can be
+found in Chislehurst. An only son; his father left him at the age of
+twenty-five a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds (a plum, as he called
+it). At the same time he had the good sense to dispose of his father's
+business, into which he had been most unwillingly introduced five years
+earlier, for a like sum before he was able to depreciate its value. It
+was_ MR. VOYSEY'S _invaluable assistance in this transaction which first
+bound the two together in great friendship. Since that time Mr. Booth
+has been bent on nothing but enjoying himself. He has even remained a
+bachelor with that object. Money has given him all he wants, therefore
+he loves and reverences money; while his imagination may be estimated
+by the fact that he has now reached the age of sixty-five, still
+possessing more of it than he knows what to do with. At the head of the
+table, meditatively cracking walnuts, sits_ MR. VOYSEY. _He has his back
+there to the conservatory door--you know it is the conservatory door
+because there is a curtain to pull over it, and because half of it is
+frosted glass with a purple key pattern round the edge. On_ MR. VOYSEY'S
+_left is_ DENIS TREGONING, _a nice enough young man. And at the other
+end of the table sits_ EDWARD, _not smoking, not talking, hardly
+listening, very depressed. Behind him is the ordinary door of the room,
+which leads out into the dismal draughty hall. The Major's voice is like
+the sound of a cannon through the tobacco smoke._
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course I'm hot and strong for conscription . .
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear boy, the country'd never stand it. No
+Englishman--
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_dropping the phrase heavily upon the poor old
+gentleman._] I beg your pardon. If we . . the Army . . say to the
+country . . Upon our honour conscription is necessary for your safety . .
+what answer has the country? What? [_he pauses defiantly._] There you
+are . . none!
+
+TREGONING. Booth will imagine because one doesn't argue that one has
+nothing to say. You ask the country.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Perhaps I will. Perhaps I'll chuck the Service and
+go into the House. [_then falling into the sing song of a favourite
+phrase._] I'm not a conceited man . . but I believe that if I speak out
+upon a subject I understand and only upon that subject the House will
+listen . . and if others followed my example we should be a far more
+business-like and go-ahead community.
+
+_He pauses for breath and_ MR. BOOTH _seizes the opportunity_.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If you think the gentlemen of England will allow
+themselves to be herded with a lot of low fellers and made to carry
+guns--!
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_obliterating him once more._] Just one moment.
+Have you thought of the physical improvement which conscription would
+bring about in the manhood of the country? What England wants is Chest!
+[_he generously inflates his own._] Chest and Discipline. I don't care
+how it's obtained. Why, we suffer from a lack of it in our homes--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with the crack of a nut._] Your godson talks a deal, don't
+he? You know, when Booth gets into a club, he gets on the committee . .
+gets on any committee to enquire into anything . . and then goes on at
+'em just like this. Don't you, Booth?
+
+BOOTH _knuckles under easily enough to his father's sarcasm_.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Well, sir, people tell me I'm a useful man on
+committees.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I don't doubt it . . your voice must drown all discussion.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. You can't say I don't listen to you, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I don't . . and I'm not blaming you. But I must say I often
+think what a devil of a time the family will have with you when I'm
+gone. Fortunately for your poor mother, she's deaf.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. And wouldn't you wish me, sir, as eldest son . . .
+Trenchard not counting . . .
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with the crack of another nut._] Trenchard not counting.
+By all means, bully them. Get up your subjects a bit better, and then
+bully them. I don't manage things that way myself, but I think it's your
+best chance . . if there weren't other people present I'd say your only
+chance, Booth.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_with some discomfort._] Ha! If I were a conceited
+man, sir, I could trust you to take it out of me.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_as he taps_ MR. BOOTH _with the nut crackers_.] Help
+yourself, George, and drink to your godson's health. Long may he keep
+his chest notes! Never heard him on parade, have you?
+
+TREGONING. I notice military men must display themselves . . that's why
+Booth acts as a firescreen. I believe that after mess that position is
+positively rushed.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_cheering to find an opponent he can tackle._] If
+you want a bit of fire, say so, you sucking Lord Chancellor. Because I
+mean to allow you to be my brother-in-law, you think you can be
+impertinent.
+
+_So_ TREGONING _moves to the fire and that changes the conversation_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. By the bye, Vicar, you were at Lady Mary's yesterday. Is she
+giving us anything towards that window?
+
+MR. COLPUS. Five pounds more; she has promised me five pounds.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Then how will the debt stand?
+
+MR. COLPUS. Thirty-three . . no, thirty-two pounds.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. We're a long time clearing it off.
+
+MR. COLPUS. [_gently querulous._] Yes, now that the window is up, people
+don't seem so ready to contribute as they were.
+
+TREGONING. We must mention that to Hugh!
+
+MR. COLPUS. [_tactful at once._] Not that the work is not universally
+admired. I have heard Hugh's design praised by quite competent judges.
+But certainly I feel now it might have been wiser to have delayed the
+unveiling until the money was forthcoming.
+
+TREGONING. Never deliver goods to the Church on credit.
+
+MR. COLPUS. Eh? [TREGONING _knows he is a little hard of hearing_.]
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, as it was my wish that my son should do the design, I
+suppose in the end I shall have to send you a cheque.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Anonymously.
+
+MR. COLPUS. Oh, that would be--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. No, why should I? Here, George Booth, you shall halve it
+with me.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'm damned if I do.
+
+MR. COLPUS. [_proceeding, conveniently deaf._] You remember that at the
+meeting we had of the parents and friends to decide on the positions of
+the names of the poor fellows and the regiments and coats of arms and so
+on . . when Hugh said so violently that he disapproved of the war and
+made all those remarks about land-lords and Bibles and said he thought
+of putting in a figure of Britannia blushing for shame or something . .
+I'm beginning to fear that may have created a bad impression.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why should they mind . . what on earth does Hugh
+know about war? He couldn't tell a battery horse from a bandsman. I
+don't pretend to criticise art. I think the window'd be very pretty if
+it wasn't so broken up into bits.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_fortified by his "damned" and his last glass of
+port._] These young men are so ready with their disapproval. Criticism
+starts in the cradle nowadays. When I was young, people weren't always
+questioning this and questioning that.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Lack of discipline.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_hurrying on._] The way a man now even stops to think
+what he's eating and drinking. And in religious matters . . Vicar, I put
+it to you . . there's no uniformity at all.
+
+MR. COLPUS. Ah . . I try to keep myself free from the disturbing
+influences of modern thought.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Young men must be forming their own opinions about
+this and their opinions about that. You know, Edward, you're worse even
+than Hugh is.
+
+EDWARD. [_glancing up mildly at this sudden attack._] What have I done,
+Mr. Booth?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_not the readiest of men._] Well . . aren't you one
+of those young men who go about the world making difficulties?
+
+EDWARD. What sort of difficulties?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_triumphantly._] Just so . . I never can make out.
+Surely when you're young you can ask the advice of your elders and when
+you grow up you find Laws . . lots of laws divine and human laid down
+for our guidance. [_Well in possession of the conversation he spreads
+his little self._] I look back over a fairly long life and . . perhaps I
+should say by Heaven's help . . I find nothing that I can honestly
+reproach myself with. And yet I don't think I ever took more than five
+minutes to come to a decision upon any important point. One's private
+life is, I think, one's own affair . . I should allow no one to pry into
+that. But as to worldly things . . well, I have come into several sums
+of money and my capital is still intact . . ask your father. [MR. VOYSEY
+_nods gravely_.] I've never robbed any man. I've never lied over
+anything that mattered. As a citizen I pay my taxes without grumbling
+very much. Yes, and I sent conscience money too upon one occasion. I
+consider that any man who takes the trouble can live the life of a
+gentleman. [_and he finds that his cigar is out._]
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_not to be outdone by this display of virtue._]
+Well, I'm not a conceited man, but--
+
+TREGONING. Are you sure, Booth?
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Shut up. I was going to say when my young cub of a
+brother-in-law-to-be interrupted me, that =Training=, for which we
+all have to be thankful to you, Sir, has much to do with it. [_suddenly
+he pulls his trousers against his legs._] I say, I'm scorching! D'you
+want another cigar, Denis?
+
+TREGONING. No, thank you.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I do.
+
+_And he glances round, but_ TREGONING _sees a box on the table and
+reaches it. The Vicar gets up._
+
+MR. COLPUS. M-m-m-must be taking my departure.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Already!
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_frowning upon the cigar box._] No, not those.
+Where are the Ramon Allones? What on earth has Honor done with them?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Spare time for a chat with Mrs. Voysey before you go. She
+has ideas about a children's tea fight.
+
+MR. COLPUS. Certainly I will.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_scowling helplessly around._] My goodness! . . one
+can never find anything in this house.
+
+MR. COLPUS. I won't say good-bye then.
+
+_He is sliding through the half opened door when_ ETHEL _meets him
+flinging it wide. She is the younger daughter, the baby of the family,
+but twenty-three now._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I say, it's cold again to-night! An ass of an architect who
+built this place . . such a draught between these two doors.
+
+_He gets up to draw the curtain. When he turns_ COLPUS _has disappeared,
+while_ ETHEL _has been followed into the room by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who
+shuts the door after her_. MISS ALICE MAITLAND _is a young lady of any
+age to thirty. Nor need her appearance alter for the next fifteen years;
+since her nature is healthy and well-balanced. She possesses indeed the
+sort of athletic chastity which is a characteristic charm of Northern
+spinsterhood. It mayn't be a pretty face, but it has alertness and
+humour; and the resolute eyes and eyebrows are a more innocent edition
+of_ MR. VOYSEY'S, _who is her uncle_. ETHEL _goes straight to her
+father_ [_though her glance is on_ DENIS _and his on her_] _and chirps,
+birdlike, in her spoiled-child way_.
+
+ETHEL. We think you've stayed in here quite long enough.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. That's to say, Ethel thinks Denis has been kept out of her
+pocket much too long.
+
+ETHEL. Ethel wants billiards . . not proper billiards . . snooker or
+something. Oh, Papa, what a dessert you've eaten. Greedy pig!
+
+ALICE _is standing behind_ EDWARD, _considering his hair-parting
+apparently_.
+
+ALICE. Crack me a filbert, please, Edward . . I had none.
+
+EDWARD. [_jumping up, rather formally, well-mannered._] I beg your
+pardon, Alice. Won't you sit down?
+
+ALICE. No.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_taking_ ETHEL _on his knee_.] Come here, puss. Have you
+made up your mind yet what you want for a wedding present?
+
+ETHEL. [_rectifying a stray hair in his beard._] After mature
+consideration, I decide on a cheque.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Do you!
+
+ETHEL. Yes, I think that a cheque will give most scope to your
+generosity. Of course, if you desire to add any trimmings in the shape
+of a piano or a Turkey carpet you may . . and Denis and I will be very
+grateful. But I think I'd let yourself go over a cheque.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You're a minx.
+
+ETHEL. What is the use of having money if you don't spend it on me?
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_giving up the cigar search._] Here, who's going to
+play?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_pathetically as he gets up._] Well, if my wrist will
+hold out . .
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_To_ TREGONING.] No, don't you bother to look for
+them. [_He strides from the room, his voice echoing through the hall._]
+Honor, where are those Ramon Allones?
+
+ALICE. [_calling after._] She's in the drawing-room with Auntie and Mr.
+Colpus.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Now I should suggest that you and Denis go and take off the
+billiard table cover. You'll find folding it up is a very excellent
+amusement.
+
+_He illustrates his meaning with his table napkin and by putting
+together the tips of his forefingers, roguishly._
+
+ETHEL. I am not going to blush. I do kiss Denis . . occasionally . .
+when he asks me.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_teasing her._] You are blushing.
+
+ETHEL. I am not. If you think we're ashamed of being in love, we're not,
+we're very proud of it. We will go and take off the billiard table cover
+and fold it up . . and then you can come in and play. Denis, my dear,
+come along solemnly and if you flinch I'll never forgive you. [_she
+marches off and reaches the door before her defiant dignity breaks down;
+then suddenly_--] Denis, I'll race you.
+
+_And she flashes out._ DENIS, _loyal, but with no histrionic instincts,
+follows her rather sheepishly_.
+
+DENIS. Ethel, I can't after dinner.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Women play that game better than men. A man shuffles through
+courtship with one eye on her relations.
+
+_The Major comes stalking back, followed in a fearful flurry by his
+elder sister_, HONOR. _Poor_ HONOR [_her female friends are apt to refer
+to her as Poor_ HONOR] _is a phenomenon common to most large families.
+From her earliest years she has been bottle washer to her brothers.
+While they were expensively educated she was grudged schooling; her
+highest accomplishment was meant to be mending their clothes. Her fate
+is a curious survival of the intolerance of parents towards her sex
+until the vanity of their hunger for sons had been satisfied. In a less
+humane society she would have been exposed at birth. But if a very
+general though patronising affection, accompanied by no consideration at
+all, can bestow happiness_, HONOR _is not unhappy in her survival. At this
+moment, however, her life is a burden._
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Honor, they are not in the dining-room.
+
+HONOR. But they must be!--Where else can they be?
+
+_She has a habit of accentuating one word in each sentence and often the
+wrong one._
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. That's what you ought to know.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_as he moves towards the door._] Well . . will you have a
+game?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'll play you fifty up, not more. I'm getting old.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_stopping at a dessert dish._] Yes, these are good apples
+of Bearman's. I think six of my trees are spoilt this year.
+
+HONOR. Here you are, Booth.
+
+_She triumphantly discovers the discarded box, at which the Major
+becomes pathetic with indignation._
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Oh, Honor, don't be such a fool. These are what
+we've been smoking. I want the Ramon Allones.
+
+HONOR. I don't know the difference.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. No, you don't, but you might learn.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_in a voice like the crack of a very fine whip._] Booth.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_subduedly._] What is it, sir?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Look for your cigars yourself. Honor, go back to your
+reading and your sewing or whatever you were fiddling at, and fiddle in
+peace.
+
+MR. VOYSEY _departs, leaving the room rather hushed_. MR. BOOTH _has not
+waited for this parental display. Then_ ALICE _insinuates a remark very
+softly_.
+
+ALICE. Have you looked in the Library?
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_relapsing to an injured mutter._] Where's Emily?
+
+HONOR. Upstairs with little Henry, he woke up and cried.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Letting her wear herself to rags over the child . . !
+
+HONOR. Well, she won't let me go.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why don't you stop looking for those cigars?
+
+HONOR. If you don't mind, I want a reel of blue silk now I'm here.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I daresay they are in the Library. What a house!
+
+_He departs._
+
+HONOR. Booth is so trying.
+
+ALICE. Honor, why do you put up with it?
+
+HONOR. Someone has to.
+
+ALICE. [_discreetly nibbling a nut, which_ EDWARD _has cracked for
+her_.] I'm afraid I think Master Major Booth ought to have been taken in
+hand early . . with a cane.
+
+HONOR. [_as she vaguely burrows into corners._] Papa did. But it's never
+prevented him booming at us . . oh, ever since he was a baby. Now he's
+flustered me so I simply can't think where this blue silk is.
+
+ALICE. All the Pettifers desired to be remembered to you, Edward.
+
+HONOR. I must do without it. [_but she goes on looking._] I think,
+Alice, that we're a very difficult family . . except perhaps Edward.
+
+EDWARD. Why except me?
+
+HONOR. [_Who has only excepted out of politeness to present company._]
+Well, you may be difficult . . to yourself. [_Then she starts to go,
+threading her way through the disarranged chairs._] Mr. Colpus will
+shout so loud at Mother and she hates people to think she's so very
+deaf. I thought Mary Pettifer looking old . . [_and she talks herself
+out of the room._]
+
+ALICE. [_after her._] She's getting old.
+
+_Now_ ALICE _does sit down; as if she'd be glad of her tete-a-tete_.
+
+ALICE. I was glad not to spend August abroad for once. We drove into
+Cheltenham to a dance . . carpet. I golfed a lot.
+
+EDWARD. How long were you with them?
+
+ALICE. Not a fortnight. It doesn't seem three months since I was here,
+does it?
+
+EDWARD. I'm down so very little.
+
+ALICE. I'm here a disgraceful deal.
+
+EDWARD. You know they're always pleased.
+
+ALICE. Well, being a homeless person! But what a cart-load to descend
+all at once . . yesterday and to-day. The Major and Emily . . Emily's
+not at all well. Hugh and Mrs. Hugh. And me. Are you staying?
+
+EDWARD. No. I must get a word with my father . .
+
+ALICE. A business life is not healthy for you, Edward. You look more
+like half-baked pie-crust than usual.
+
+EDWARD. [_a little enviously._] You're very well.
+
+ALICE. I'm always well and nearly always happy.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH _returns. He has the right sort of cigar in his mouth and is
+considerably mollified._
+
+ALICE. You found them?
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course, they were there. Thank you very much,
+Alice. Now I want a knife.
+
+ALICE. I must present you with a cigar-cutter, Booth.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I hate 'em. [_he eyes the dessert disparagingly._]
+Nothing but silver ones.
+
+EDWARD _hands him a carefully opened pocket knife_.
+
+Thank you, Edward. And I must take one of the candles. Something's gone
+wrong with the library ventilator and you never can see a thing in that
+room.
+
+ALICE. Is Mrs. Hugh there?
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Writing letters. Things are neglected, Edward,
+unless one is constantly on the look out. The Pater only cares for his
+garden. I must speak seriously to Honor.
+
+_He has returned the knife, still open, and now having lit his cigar at
+the candle he carries this off._
+
+ALICE. Honor has the patience of a . . of an old maid.
+
+EDWARD. Her mission in life isn't a pleasant one. [_He gives her a nut,
+about the fifteenth._] Here; 'scuse fingers.
+
+ALICE. Thank you. [_looking at him, with her head on one side and her
+face more humorous than ever._] Edward, why have you given up proposing
+to me?
+
+_He starts, flushes; then won't be outdone in humour._
+
+EDWARD. One can't go on proposing for ever.
+
+ALICE. [_reasonably._] Why not? Have you seen anyone you like better?
+
+EDWARD. No.
+
+ALICE. Well . . I miss it.
+
+EDWARD. What satisfaction did you find in refusing me?
+
+ALICE. [_as she weighs the matter._] I find satisfaction in feeling that
+I'm wanted.
+
+EDWARD. Without any intention of giving yourself . . throwing yourself
+away.
+
+ALICE. [_teasing his sudden earnestness._] Ah, now you come from mere
+vanity to serious questions.
+
+EDWARD. Mine were always serious questions to you.
+
+ALICE. That's a fault I find in you, Edward; all questions are serious
+to you. I call you a perfect little pocket-guide to life . . all
+questions and answers; what to eat, drink and avoid, what to believe and
+what to say . . all in the same type, the same importance attached to
+each.
+
+EDWARD. [_sententiously._] Well . . everything matters.
+
+ALICE. [_making a face._] D'you plan out every detail of your life . .
+every step you take . . every mouthful?
+
+EDWARD. That would be waste of thought. One must lay down principles.
+
+ALICE. I prefer my plan, I always do what I know I want to do. Crack me
+another nut.
+
+EDWARD. Haven't you had enough?
+
+ALICE. I =know= I want one more.
+
+_He cracks another, with a sigh which sounds ridiculous in that
+connection._
+
+EDWARD. Well, if you've never had to decide anything very serious . .
+
+ALICE. [_With great gravity._] Everything's serious.
+
+EDWARD. Everything isn't vital.
+
+ALICE. [_skilfully manoeuvring the subject._] I've answered vital
+questions. I knew that I didn't want to marry you . . each time.
+
+EDWARD. Oh, then you didn't just make a rule of saying no.
+
+ALICE. As you proposed . . on principle? No, I always gave you a fair
+chance. I'll give you one now if you like.
+
+_He rouses himself to play up to this outrageous piece of flirting._
+
+EDWARD. I'm not to be caught.
+
+ALICE. Edward, how rude you are. [_She eats her nut contentedly._]
+
+EDWARD. Do other men propose to you?
+
+ALICE. Such a thing may have happened . . when I was young. Perhaps it
+might even now if I were to allow it.
+
+EDWARD. You encourage me shamelessly.
+
+ALICE. It isn't everyone who proposes on principle. As a rule a man does
+it because he can't help himself. And then to be said no to . . hurts.
+
+_They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of_ MRS. HUGH VOYSEY, _a
+brisk, bright little woman, in an evening gown, which she has bullied a
+cheap dressmaker into making look exceedingly smart_. BEATRICE _is as
+hard as nails and as clever as paint. But if she keeps her feelings
+buried pretty deep it is because they are precious to her; and if she is
+impatient with fools it is because her own brains have had to win her
+everything in the world, so perhaps she does overvalue them a little.
+She speaks always with great decision and little effort._
+
+BEATRICE. I believe I could write important business letters upon an
+island in the middle of Fleet Street. But while Booth is poking at a
+ventilator with a billiard cue . . no, I can't.
+
+_She goes to the fireplace, waving her half finished letter._
+
+ALICE. [_soothingly._] Didn't you expect Hugh back to dinner?
+
+BEATRICE. Not specially. . He went to rout out some things from his
+studio. He'll come back in a filthy mess.
+
+ALICE. Now if you listen . . Booth doesn't enjoy making a fuss by
+himself . . you'll hear him rout out Honor.
+
+_They listen. But what happens is that_ BOOTH _appears at the door,
+billiard cue in hand, and says solemnly_ . .
+
+MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Edward, I wish you'd come and have a look at this
+ventilator, like a good fellow.
+
+_Then he turns and goes again, obviously with the weight of an important
+matter on his shoulders. With the ghost of a smile_ EDWARD _gets up and
+follows him_.
+
+ALICE. If I belonged to this family I should hate Booth.
+
+_With which comment she joins_ BEATRICE _at the fireplace_.
+
+BEATRICE. A good day's shopping?
+
+ALICE. 'M. The baby bride and I bought clothes all the morning. Then we
+had lunch with Denis and bought furniture.
+
+BEATRICE. Nice furniture?
+
+ALICE. It'll be very good and very new. They neither of them know what
+they want. [_Then suddenly throwing up her chin and exclaiming._] When
+it's a question of money I can understand it . . but if one can provide
+for oneself or is independent why get married! Especially having been
+brought up on the sheltered life principle . . one may as well make the
+most of its advantages . . one doesn't go falling in love all over the
+place as men seem to . . most of them. Of course with Ethel and Denis
+it's different. They've both been caught young. They're two little birds
+building their nests and it's all ideal. They'll soon forget they've
+ever been apart.
+
+_Now_ HONOR _flutters into the room, patient but wild eyed_.
+
+HONOR. Mother wants last week's Notes and Queries. Have you seen it?
+
+BEATRICE. [_exasperated at the interruption._] No.
+
+HONOR. It ought not to be in here. [_so she proceeds to look for it._]
+She's having a long argument with Mr. Colpus over Oliver Cromwell's
+relations.
+
+ALICE. [_her eyes twinkling._] I thought Auntie didn't approve of Oliver
+Cromwell.
+
+HONOR. She doesn't and she's trying to prove that he was a brewer or
+something. I suppose someone has taken it away.
+
+_So she gives up the search and flutters out again._
+
+ALICE. This is a most unrestful house.
+
+BEATRICE. I once thought of putting the Voyseys into a book of mine.
+Then I concluded they'd be as dull there as they are anywhere else.
+
+ALICE. They're not duller than most other people.
+
+BEATRICE. But how very dull that is!
+
+ALICE. They're a little noisier and perhaps not quite so well mannered.
+But I love them.
+
+BEATRICE. I don't. I should have thought Love was just what they
+couldn't inspire.
+
+ALICE. Of course, Hugh is unlike any of the others.
+
+BEATRICE. He has most of their bad points. I don't love Hugh.
+
+ALICE. [_her eyebrows up, though she smiles._] Beatrice, you shouldn't
+say so.
+
+BEATRICE. It sounds affected, doesn't it? Never mind; when he dies I'll
+wear mourning . . but not weeds; I bargained against that when we were
+engaged.
+
+ALICE. [_her face growing a little thoughtful._] Beatrice, I'm going to
+ask questions. You were in love with Hugh when you married him?
+
+BEATRICE. Well . . I married him for his money.
+
+ALICE. He hadn't much.
+
+BEATRICE. I had none . . and I wanted to write books. Yes, I loved him.
+
+ALICE. And you thought you'd be happy?
+
+BEATRICE. [_considering carefully._] No, I didn't. I hoped he'd be
+happy.
+
+ALICE. [_a little ironical._] Did you think your writing books would
+make him so?
+
+BEATRICE. My dear Alice, wouldn't you feel it a very degrading thing to
+have your happiness depend upon somebody else?
+
+ALICE. [_after pausing to find her phrase._] There's a joy of service.
+
+BEATRICE. [_ironical herself now._] I forgot . . you've four hundred a
+year?
+
+ALICE. What has that to do with it?
+
+BEATRICE. [_putting her case very precisely._] I've had to earn my own
+living, consequently there isn't one thing in my life that I have ever
+done quite genuinely for its own sake . . but always with an eye towards
+bread-and-butter, pandering to the people who were to give me that.
+Happiness has been my only independence.
+
+_The conservatory door opens and through it come_ MR. VOYSEY _and_ MR.
+BOOTH _in the midst of a discussion_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Very well, man, stick to the shares and risk it.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, of course, if you seriously advise me--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I never advise greedy children; I let 'em overeat 'emselves
+and take the consequences--
+
+ALICE. [_shaking a finger._] Uncle Trench, you've been in the garden
+without a hat after playing billiards in that hot room.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. We had to give up . . my wrist was bad. They've
+started pool.
+
+BEATRICE. Is Booth going to play?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. We left him instructing Ethel how to hold a cue.
+
+BEATRICE. Perhaps I can finish my letter.
+
+_Off she goes._ ALICE _is idly following with a little paper her hand
+has fallen on behind the clock_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Don't run away, my dear.
+
+ALICE. I'm taking this to Auntie . . Notes and Queries . . she wants it.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Damn . . this gravel's stuck to my shoe.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. That's a new made path.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now don't you think it's too early to have put in
+those plants?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. No, we're getting frost at night already.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I should have kept that bed a good ten feet further
+from the tree.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense, the tree's to the north of it. This room's cold.
+Why don't they keep the fire up! [_He proceeds to put coals on it._]
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You were too hot in that billiard room. You know,
+Voysey . . about those Alguazils?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_through the rattling of the coals._] What?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_trying to pierce the din._] Those Alguazils.
+
+MR. VOYSEY _with surprising inconsequence points a finger at the silk
+handkerchief across_ MR. BOOTH'S _shirt front_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. What d'you put your handkerchief there for?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Measure of precau--[_at that moment he sneezes._] Damn
+it . . if you've given me a chill dragging me round your infernal
+garden--
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_slapping him on the back._] You're an old crock.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in Egypt. [_He
+returns to his subject._] And if you think seriously, that I ought to
+sell out of the Alguazils before I go . . ? [_He looks with childlike
+enquiry at his friend, who is apparently yawning slightly._] Why can't
+you take them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney or
+whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad.
+
+_At this moment_ PHOEBE, _the middle aged parlour-maid comes in, tray in
+hand. Like an expert fisherman_ MR. VOYSEY _once more lets loose the
+thread of the conversation_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. D'you want to clear?
+
+PHOEBE. It doesn't matter, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. No, go on . . go on.
+
+_So_ MARY, _the young housemaid, comes in as well, and the two start to
+clear the table. All of which fidgets poor_ MR. BOOTH _considerably. He
+sits shrivelled up in the armchair by the fire; and now_ MR. VOYSEY
+_attends to him_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. What d'you want with high interest at all . . you never
+spend half your income?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I like to feel that my money is doing some good in the
+world. These mines are very useful things and forty two per cent is
+pleasing.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You're an old gambler.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_propitiatingly._] Ah, but then I've you to advise
+me. I always do as you tell me in the end, now you can't deny that.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. The man who don't know must trust in the man who does! [_He
+yawns again._]
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_modestly insisting._] There's five thousand in
+Alguazils--what else could we put it into?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I can get you something at four and a half.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, Lord . . that's nothing.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sudden serious friendliness._] I wish, my dear
+George, you'd invest more on your own account. You know--what with one
+thing and the other--I've got control of practically all you have in the
+world. I might be playing old Harry with it for all you know.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_overflowing with confidence._] My dear feller . . if
+I'm satisfied! Ah, my friend, what'll happen to your firm when you
+depart this life! . . not before my time, I hope, though.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little frown._] What d'ye mean?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward's no use.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I beg your pardon . . very sound in business.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. May be . . but I tell you he's no use. Too many
+principles, as I said just now. Men have confidence in a personality,
+not in principles. Where would you be without the confidence of your
+clients?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_candidly._] True!
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. He'll never gain that.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I fear you dislike Edward.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with pleasant frankness._] Yes, I do.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. That's a pity.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with a flattering smile._] Well, he's not his father
+and never will be. What's the time?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with inappropriate thoughtfulness._] Twenty to ten.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I must be trotting.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. It's very early.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, and I've not said a word to Mrs. Voysey . .
+
+_As he goes to the door he meets_ EDWARD, _who comes in apparently
+looking for his father; at any rate catches his eye immediately, while_
+MR. BOOTH _obliviously continues_.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you stroll round home with me?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I can't.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_mildly surprised at the short reply._] Well, good
+night. Good night, Edward.
+
+_He trots away._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Leave the rest of the table, Phoebe.
+
+PHOEBE. Yes, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. You can come back in ten minutes.
+
+PHOEBE _and_ MARY _depart and the door is closed. Alone with his son_
+MR. VOYSEY _does not move; his face grows a little keener, that's all_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, Edward?
+
+EDWARD _starts to move restlessly about, like a cowed animal in a cage;
+silently for a moment or two. Then when he speaks, his voice is toneless
+and he doesn't look at his father._
+
+EDWARD. I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, to drop with me
+all these protestations about putting the firm's affairs straight, and
+all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . .
+what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some
+time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got
+used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've
+used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up
+and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving
+Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my
+own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's
+account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about
+half the sum you've spent on us would have put things rightfirm's
+affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I
+see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen
+yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered
+from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't
+been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce
+your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten
+thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd
+it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was
+probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous
+to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would
+have put things right.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. No, it would not.
+
+EDWARD. [_appealing for the truth._] Oh . . at some time or other!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Well, if there have been good times there have been bad
+times. At present the three hundred a year I'm to allow your sister is
+going to be rather a pull.
+
+EDWARD. Three hundred a year . . and yet you've never attempted to put a
+single account straight. Since it isn't lunacy, sir . . I can only
+conclude that you enjoy being in this position.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I have put accounts absolutely straight . . at the winding
+up of a trust for instance . . at great inconvenience too. And to all
+appearances they've been above suspicion. What's the object of all this
+rodomontade, Edward?
+
+EDWARD. If I'm to remain in the firm, it had better be with a very clear
+understanding of things as they are.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_firmly, not too anxiously._] Then you do remain?
+
+EDWARD. [_in a very low voice._] Yes, I remain.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_quite gravely._] That's wise of you . . I'm very glad.
+[_and he is silent for a moment._] And now we needn't discuss the
+impractical side of it any more.
+
+EDWARD. But I want to make one condition. And I want some information.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_his sudden cheerfulness relapsing again._] Well?
+
+EDWARD. Of course no one has ever discovered . . and no one suspects
+this state of things?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Peacey knows.
+
+EDWARD. Peacey!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. His father found out.
+
+EDWARD. Oh. Does he draw hush money?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_curling a little at the word._] It is my custom to make a
+little present every Christmas. Not a cheque . . notes in an envelope.
+[_He becomes benevolent._] I don't grudge the money . . Peacey's a
+devoted fellow.
+
+EDWARD. Naturally this would be a heavily taxed industry. [_then he
+smiles at his vision of the mild old clerk._] Peacey! There's another
+thing I want to ask, sir. Have you ever under stress of circumstances
+done worse than just make use of a client's capital? You boasted to me
+yesterday that no one had ever suffered in pocket because of you. Is
+that absolutely true?
+
+MR. VOYSEY _draws himself up, dignified and magniloquent_.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. My dear Edward, for the future my mind is open to you, you
+can discover for yourself how matters stand to-day. But I decline to
+gratify your curiosity as to what is over and done with.
+
+EDWARD. [_with entire comprehension._] Thank you, sir. The condition I
+wish to make is that we should really do what we have pretended to be
+doing . . try and put the accounts straight.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little polite shrug._] I've no doubt you'll prove
+an abler man of business than I.
+
+EDWARD. One by one.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Which one will you begin with?
+
+EDWARD. I shall begin, Father, by halving the salary I draw from the
+firm.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I see . . Retrenchment and Reform.
+
+EDWARD. And I think you cannot give Ethel this five thousand pounds
+dowry.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_shortly, with one of the quick twists of his eye._] I have
+given my word to Denis.
+
+EDWARD. The money isn't yours to give.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_in an indignant crescendo._] I should not dream of
+depriving Ethel of what, as my daughter, she has every right to expect.
+I am surprised at your suggesting such a thing.
+
+EDWARD. [_pale and firm._] I'm set on this, Father.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Don't be such a fool, Edward. What would it look like . .
+suddenly to refuse without rhyme or reason? What would old Tregoning
+think?
+
+EDWARD. [_distressed._] You could give them a reason.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Perhaps you'll invent one.
+
+EDWARD. If need be, Ethel should be told the truth.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. What!
+
+EDWARD. I know it would hurt her.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. And Denis told too, I suppose?
+
+EDWARD. Father, it is my duty to do whatever is necessary to prevent
+this.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. It'll be necessary to tell the nearest policeman. It is my
+duty to pay no more attention to these scruples of yours than a nurse
+pays to her child's tantrums. Understand, Edward, I don't want to force
+you to continue my partner. Come with me gladly or don't come at all.
+
+EDWARD. [_dully._] It is my duty to be of what use I can to you, sir.
+Father, I want to save you if I can.
+
+_He flashes into this exclamation of almost broken-hearted affection._
+MR. VOYSEY _looks at his son for a moment and his lip quivers. Then he
+steels himself._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Thank you! I have saved myself quite satisfactorily for the
+last thirty years, and you must please believe that by this time I know
+my own business best.
+
+EDWARD. [_hopelessly._] Let the money come some other way. How is your
+own income regulated?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I have a bank balance and a cheque book, haven't I? I spend
+what I think well to spend. What's the use of earmarking this or that as
+my own? You say none of it is my own. I might say it's all my own. I
+think I've earned it.
+
+EDWARD. [_anger coming on him._] That's what I can't forgive. If you'd
+lived poor . . if you'd really devoted your skill to your clients' good
+and not to your aggrandisement . . then, even though things were only as
+they are now, I could have been proud of you. But, Father, own the truth
+to me, at least . . that's my due from you, considering how I'm placed
+by all you've done. Didn't you simply seize this opportunity as a means
+to your own end, to your own enriching?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sledge hammer irony._] Certainly. I sat that
+morning in my father's office, studying the helmet of the policeman in
+the street below, and thinking what a glorious path I had happened on to
+wealth and honour and renown. [_Then he begins to bully_ EDWARD _in the
+kindliest way._] My dear boy, you evidently haven't begun to grasp the
+A. B. C. of my position. What has carried me to victory? The confidence
+of my clients. What has earned that confidence? A decent life, my
+integrity, my brains? No, my reputation for wealth . . that, and nothing
+else. Business now-a-days is run on the lines of the confidence trick.
+What makes old George Booth so glad to trust me with every penny he
+possesses? Not affection . . he's never cared for anything in his life
+but his collection of prints. No; he imagines that I have as big a stake
+in the country, as he calls it, as he has and he's perfectly happy.
+
+EDWARD. [_stupefied, helpless._] So he's involved!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Of course he's involved, and he's always after high interest
+too . . it's little one makes out of him. But there's a further question
+here, Edward. Should I have had confidence in myself, if I'd remained a
+poor man? No, I should not. You must either be the master of money or
+its servant. And if one is not opulent in one's daily life one loses
+that wonderful . . financier's touch. One must be confident oneself . .
+and I saw from the first that I must inspire confidence. My whole public
+and private life has tended to that. All my surroundings . . you and
+your brothers and sisters that I have brought into, and up, and put out
+in the world so worthily . . you in your turn inspire confidence.
+
+EDWARD. Not our worth, not our abilities, nor our virtues, but the fact
+that we travel first class and ride in hansoms.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_impatiently._] Well, I haven't organised Society upon a
+basis of wealth.
+
+EDWARD. Is every single person who trusts you involved in your system?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. What new hole are you finding to pick in my conduct?
+
+EDWARD. My mind travelled naturally from George Booth with his big
+income to old Nursie with her savings which she brought you to invest.
+You've let those be, at least.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I never troubled to invest them . . it wasn't worth while.
+
+EDWARD. Father!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. D'you know what she brought me? . . five hundred pounds.
+
+EDWARD. That's damnable.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Indeed. I give her seventy five pounds a year for it. Would
+you like to take charge of that account, Edward? I'll give you five
+hundred to invest to-morrow.
+
+EDWARD, _hopelessly beaten, falls into an almost comic state of
+despair_.
+
+EDWARD. My dear Father, putting every moral question aside . . it's all
+very well your playing Robin Hood in this magnificent manner; but have
+you given a moment's thought to the sort of inheritance you'll be
+leaving me?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_pleased for the first time._] Ah! That is a question you
+have every right to ask.
+
+EDWARD. If you died to-morrow could we pay eight shillings in the pound
+. . or seventeen . . or five? Do you know?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. And my answer is, that by your help I have every intention,
+when I die, of leaving a will behind me of property to you all running
+into six figures. D'you think I've given my life and my talents to this
+money making for a less result than that? I'm fond of you all . . and I
+want you to be proud of me . . and I mean that the name of Voysey shall
+be carried high in the world by my children and grandchildren. Don't you
+be afraid, Edward. Ah, you lack experience, my boy . . you're not full
+grown yet . . your impulses are a bit chaotic. You emotionalise over
+your work, and you reason about your emotions. You must sort yourself.
+You must realise that money making is one thing, and religion another,
+and family-life a third . . and that if we apply our energies
+whole-heartedly to each of these in turn, and realise that different
+laws govern each, that there is a different end to be served, a
+different ideal to be striven for in each,--
+
+_His coherence is saved by the sudden appearance of his wife, who comes
+round the door smiling benignly. Not in the least put out, in fact a
+little relieved, he greets her with an affectionate shout, for she is
+very deaf._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Hullo, Mother!
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Oh, there you are, Trench. I've been deserted.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. George Booth gone?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Are you talking business? Perhaps you don't want me.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. No, no . . no business.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has not looked for his answer._] I suppose the others
+are in the billiard room.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_vociferously._] We're not talking business, old lady.
+
+EDWARD. I'll be off, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_genial as usual._] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with
+you in the morning.
+
+EDWARD. No, thank you, sir.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow.
+
+EDWARD. Good-night, Mother.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up
+affectionately_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired.
+
+EDWARD. No, I'm not.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say?
+
+EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear.
+
+_He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy.
+
+_Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is
+a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid
+describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never
+measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and
+size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an
+indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving,
+healthy. That is her history._
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd
+taken a chill walking round the garden.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Nothing.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite
+feverish.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench.
+
+HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of
+putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her
+bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's
+shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._
+
+HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish
+clearing?
+
+MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._]
+Now who's careless!
+
+PHOEBE _comes into the room_.
+
+HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr.
+Hugh.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected
+the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your
+Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.
+
+HONOR. Papa!
+
+MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me
+some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.
+
+HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey?
+And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work
+goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.
+
+_Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at
+the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and
+Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump
+cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to
+soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers
+it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY
+_stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell
+family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather
+Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where
+the taint crept in.
+
+MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself
+putting in all those strawberry plants.
+
+MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_
+HUGH _and plants it on the table_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I
+believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You
+must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting.
+There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where
+was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._]
+
+
+
+
+                              THE THIRD ACT
+
+
+_The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon.
+Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is
+a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed
+cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches,
+biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little
+pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole
+room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations
+denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_
+PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her
+face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that
+this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has
+evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice
+above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_.
+
+MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the
+drawing room.
+
+PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the
+door.
+
+MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into
+the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to
+admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR.
+BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes
+the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very
+tenderly._
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.
+
+_With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just send round.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.
+
+_He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He
+shakes hands with them both._
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily! My dear Booth!
+
+EMILY _is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She
+looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than
+usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though
+his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible
+for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair._
+
+BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feeling that he is called on for praise._] Great
+credit . . great credit.
+
+_He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by_
+TRENCHARD VOYSEY, _to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his
+formula. But_ TRENCHARD _speaks first_.
+
+TRENCHARD. Have you the right time?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_taken aback and fumbling for his watch._] I think so
+. . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [_he seizes the occasion._]
+Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't
+mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes
+all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see
+him before . . before . .
+
+TRENCHARD. [_his cold eye freezing this little gush._] I don't think he
+asked for me.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_stoppered._] No? No! Well . . well. . .
+
+_At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in
+the doorway. It is_ HUGH VOYSEY.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude.
+
+_Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula
+and is off._ TRENCHARD _and_ HUGH, _eldest and youngest son, are as
+unlike each other as it is possible for_ VOYSEYS _to be, but that isn't
+very unlike_. TRENCHARD _has in excelsis the cocksure manner of the
+successful barrister_; HUGH _the rather sweet though querulous air of
+diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters
+or artist. The self-respect of_ TRENCHARD'S _appearance is immense, and
+he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even
+upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure
+upon the Bench_. HUGH _is always vague, searching Heaven or the corners
+of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is
+abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which
+each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable.
+Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the
+appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed._
+HUGH _is depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief_; TRENCHARD
+_conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels_;
+BOOTH _stands statuesque at the mantelpiece; while_ EMILY _is by_ MRS.
+VOYSEY, _whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many
+happy memories of her husband_.
+
+BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily.
+
+EMILY. No, of course not.
+
+_Apologetically, she sits by the table._
+
+TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh?
+
+HUGH. Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on
+business.
+
+TRENCHARD. Really!
+
+_There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed boy in Etons. This
+is the Major's eldest son. Looking scared and solemn he goes straight to
+his mother._
+
+EMILY. Now be very quiet, Christopher . .
+
+_Then_ DENIS TREGONING _appears_.
+
+TRENCHARD. Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back?
+
+DENIS. Yes.
+
+BOOTH. [_at the table._] A glass of wine, Mother.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. What?
+
+BOOTH _hardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a
+shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it._
+
+BOOTH. Have a glass of wine?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Sherry, please.
+
+_While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this
+occasion and not wine at all_, EDWARD _comes quickly into the room, his
+face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No
+one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all._
+TRENCHARD _is continuing his talk to_ DENIS.
+
+TRENCHARD. Give my love to Ethel. Is she ill that--
+
+TREGONING. Not exactly, but she couldn't very well be with us. I thought
+perhaps you might have heard. We're expecting . .
+
+_He hesitates with the bashfulness of a young husband._ TRENCHARD _helps
+him out with a citizen's bow of respect for a citizen's duty_.
+
+TRENCHARD. Indeed. I congratulate you. I hope all will be well. Please
+give my love . . my best love to Ethel.
+
+BOOTH. [_in an awful voice._] Lunch, Emily?
+
+EMILY. [_scared._] I suppose so, Booth, thank you.
+
+BOOTH. I think the boy had better run away and play . . [_he checks
+himself on the word._] Well, take a book and keep quiet; d'ye hear me,
+Christopher?
+
+CHRISTOPHER, _who looks incapable of a sound, gazes at his father with
+round eyes_. EMILY _whispers "Library" to him and adds a kiss in
+acknowledgement of his good behaviour. After a moment he slips out,
+thankfully._
+
+EDWARD. How's Ethel, Denis?
+
+TREGONING. A little smashed, of course, but no harm done.
+
+ALICE MAITLAND _comes in, brisk and businesslike; a little impatient of
+this universal cloud of mourning_.
+
+ALICE. Edward, Honor has gone to her room. I want to take her some food
+and make her eat it. She's very upset.
+
+EDWARD. Make her drink a glass of wine, and say it is necessary she
+should come down here. And d'you mind not coming back yourself, Alice?
+
+ALICE. [_her eyebrows up._] Certainly, if you wish.
+
+BOOTH. [_overhearing._] What's this? What's this?
+
+_Alice gets her glass of wine and goes. The Major is suddenly full of
+importance._
+
+BOOTH. What is this, Edward?
+
+EDWARD. I have something to say to you all.
+
+BOOTH. What?
+
+EDWARD. Well, Booth, you'll hear when I say it.
+
+BOOTH. Is it business? . . because I think this is scarcely the time for
+business.
+
+EDWARD. Why?
+
+BOOTH. Do you find it easy and reverent to descend from your natural
+grief to the consideration of money . . ? I do not. [_he finds_
+TRENCHARD _at his elbow._] I hope you are getting some lunch,
+Trenchard.
+
+EDWARD. This is business and more than business, Booth. I choose now,
+because it is something I wish to say to the family, not write to each
+individually . . and it will be difficult to get us all together again.
+
+BOOTH. [_determined at any rate to give his sanction._] Well, Trenchard,
+as Edward is in the position of trustee--executor . . I don't know your
+terms . . I suppose there's nothing more to be said.
+
+TRENCHARD. I don't see what your objection is.
+
+BOOTH. [_with some superiority._] Don't you? I should not have called
+myself a sentimental man, but . .
+
+EDWARD. You had better stay, Denis; you represent Ethel.
+
+TREGONING. [_who has not heard the beginning of this._] Why? . .
+
+HONOR _has obediently come down from her room. She is pale and thin,
+shaken with grief and worn out besides; for needless to say the brunt of
+her father's illness, the brunt of everything has been on her. Six weeks
+nursing, part of it hopeless, will exhaust anyone. Her handkerchief to
+her eyes and every minute or two she cascades tears._ EDWARD _goes and
+affectionately puts his arm round her_.
+
+EDWARD. My dear Honor, I am sorry to be so . . so merciless. There! . .
+there! [_he hands her into the room; then shuts the door; then turns and
+once more surveys the family, who this time mostly return the
+compliment. Then he says shortly._] I think you might all sit down.
+[_But he goes close to his mother and speaks very distinctly, very
+kindly._] Mother, we're all going to have a little necessary talk over
+matters . . now, because it's most convenient. I hope it won't . . I
+hope you don't mind. Will you come to the table?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY _looks up as if understanding more than he says_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Edward . .
+
+EDWARD. Yes, mother?
+
+BOOTH. [_commandingly._] You'll sit here, mother, of course.
+
+_He places her in her accustomed chair at the foot of the table. One by
+one the others sit down_, EDWARD _apparently last. But then he discovers
+that_ HUGH _has lost himself in a corner of the room and is gazing into
+vacancy_.
+
+EDWARD. Hugh, would you mind attending?
+
+HUGH. What is it?
+
+EDWARD. There's a chair.
+
+HUGH _takes it. Then for a minute--while_ EDWARD _is trying to frame in
+coherent sentences what he must say to them--for a minute there is
+silence, broken only by_ HONOR'S _sniffs, which culminate at last in a
+noisy little cascade of tears_.
+
+BOOTH. Honor, control yourself.
+
+_And to emphasise his own perfect control he helps himself majestically
+to a glass of sherry. Then says_ . .
+
+BOOTH. Well, Edward?
+
+EDWARD. I'll come straight to the point which concerns you. Our father's
+will gives certain sums to you all . . the gross amount something over a
+hundred thousand pounds. There will be no money.
+
+_He can get no further than the bare statement, which is received only
+with varying looks of bewilderment, until_ MRS. VOYSEY, _discovering
+nothing from their faces, breaks this second silence_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. I didn't hear.
+
+HUGH. [_in his mother's ear._] Edward says there's no money.
+
+TRENCHARD. [_precisely._] I think you said . . 'will be.'
+
+BOOTH. [_in a tone of mitigated thunder._] Why will there be no money?
+
+EDWARD. [_letting himself go._] Because every penny by right belongs to
+those clients whom our father spent his life in defrauding. When I say
+defrauding, I mean it in its worst sense . . swindling . . thieving. I
+have been in the swim of it, for the past year . . oh, you don't know
+the sink of iniquity . . and therefore I mean to collect every penny,
+any money that you can give me; put the firm into bankruptcy; pay back
+all these people what we can. I'll stand my trial . . it'll come to that
+with me . . and as soon as possible. [_he pauses, partly for breath, and
+glares at them all._] Are none of you going to speak? Quite right, what
+is there to be said! [_Then with a gentle afterthought._] I'm sorry to
+hurt you, mother.
+
+_The_ VOYSEY _family is simply buried deep by this avalanche of horror_.
+MRS. VOYSEY, _though, who has been watching_ EDWARD _closely, says very
+calmly_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. I can't hear quite all you say, but I guess what it is. You
+don't hurt me, Edward . . I have known of this for a long time.
+
+EDWARD. [_with almost a cry._] Oh, mother, did he know you knew?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. What do you say?
+
+TRENCHARD. [_collected and dry._] I may as well tell you, Edward, I
+suspected everything wasn't right about the time of my last quarrel with
+my father. Of course, I took care not to pursue my suspicions. Was
+father aware that you knew, Mother?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. We never discussed it. There was once a great danger . .
+when you were all younger . . of his being found out. But we never
+discussed it.
+
+EDWARD. [_swallowing a fresh bitterness._] I'm glad it isn't such a
+shock to all of you.
+
+HUGH. [_alive to a dramatic aspect of the matter._] My God . . before
+the earth has settled on his grave!
+
+EDWARD. I thought it wrong to postpone telling you.
+
+HONOR, _the word swindling having spelt itself out in her mind, at last
+gives way to a burst of piteous grief_.
+
+HONOR. Oh, poor papa! . . poor papa!
+
+EDWARD. [_comforting her kindly._] Honor, we shall want your help and
+advice.
+
+_The Major has recovered from the shock, to swell with importance. It
+being necessary to make an impression he instinctively turns first to
+his wife._
+
+BOOTH. I think, Emily, there was no need for you to have been present at
+this exposure, and that now you had better retire.
+
+EMILY. Very well, Booth.
+
+_She gets up to go, conscious of her misdemeanour. But as she reaches
+the door, an awful thought strikes the Major._
+
+BOOTH. Good Heavens . . I hope the servants haven't been listening! See
+where they are, Emily . . and keep them away, distract them. Open the
+door suddenly; [_she does so, more or less, and there is no one behind
+it._] That's all right.
+
+_Having watched his wife's departure, he turns with gravity to his
+brother._
+
+BOOTH. I have said nothing as yet, Edward. I am thinking.
+
+TRENCHARD. [_a little impatient at this exhibition._] That's the worst
+of these family practices . . a lot of money knocking around and no
+audit ever required. The wonder to me is to find an honest solicitor at
+all.
+
+BOOTH. Really, Trenchard!
+
+TRENCHARD. Well, the more able a man is the less the word Honesty
+bothers him . . and the Pater was an able man.
+
+EDWARD. I thought that a year ago, Trenchard. I thought that at the
+worst he was a splendid criminal.
+
+BOOTH. Really . . really, Edward!
+
+EDWARD. And everything was to come right in the end . . we were all to
+be in reality as wealthy and as prosperous as we have seemed to be all
+these years. But when he fell ill . . towards the last he couldn't keep
+the facts from me any longer.
+
+TRENCHARD. And those are?
+
+EDWARD. Laughable. You wouldn't believe there were such fools in the
+world as some of these wretched clients have been. I tell you the firm's
+funds were just a lucky bag into which he dipped. Now sometimes their
+money doesn't even exist.
+
+BOOTH. Where's it gone?
+
+EDWARD. [_very directly._] You've been living on it.
+
+BOOTH. Good God!
+
+TRENCHARD. What can you pay in the pound?
+
+EDWARD. Without help? . . six or seven shillings, I daresay. But we must
+do better than that.
+
+_To which there is no response._
+
+BOOTH. All this is very dreadful. Does it mean beggary for the whole
+family?
+
+EDWARD. Yes, it should.
+
+TRENCHARD. [_sharply._] Nonsense.
+
+EDWARD. [_joining issue at once._] What right have we to a thing we
+possess?
+
+TRENCHARD. He didn't make you an allowance, Booth . . your capital's
+your own, isn't it?
+
+BOOTH. [_awkwardly placed between the two of them._] Really . . I--I
+suppose so.
+
+TRENCHARD. Then that's all right.
+
+EDWARD. [_vehemently._] It's stolen money.
+
+TRENCHARD. Booth took it in good faith.
+
+BOOTH. I should hope so.
+
+EDWARD. [_dwelling on the words._] It's stolen money.
+
+BOOTH. [_bubbling with distress._] I say, what ought I to do?
+
+TRENCHARD. Do . . my dear Booth? Nothing.
+
+EDWARD. [_with great indignation._] Trenchard, we owe reparation--
+
+TRENCHARD. [_readily._] To whom? From which account was Booth's money
+taken?
+
+EDWARD. [_side tracked for the moment._] I don't know . . I daresay from
+none directly.
+
+TRENCHARD. Very well then!
+
+EDWARD. [_grieved._] Trenchard, you argue as he did--
+
+TRENCHARD. Nonsense, my dear Edward. The law will take anything it has a
+right to and all it can get; you needn't be afraid. There's no
+obligation, legal or moral, for us to throw our pounds into the wreck
+that they may become pence.
+
+EDWARD. I can hear him.
+
+TRENCHARD. But what about your own position . . can we get you clear?
+
+EDWARD. That doesn't matter.
+
+BOOTH'S _head has been turning incessantly from one to the other and by
+this he is just a bristle of alarm_.
+
+BOOTH. But I say, you know, this is awful! Will this have to be made
+public?
+
+TRENCHARD. No help for it.
+
+_The Major's jaw drops; he is speechless._ MRS. VOYSEY'S _dead voice
+steals in_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. What is all this?
+
+TRENCHARD. Edward wishes us to completely beggar ourselves in order to
+pay back to every client to whom father owed a pound perhaps ten
+shillings instead of seven.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. He will find that my estate has been kept quite separate.
+
+EDWARD _hides his face in his hands_.
+
+TRENCHARD. I'm very glad to hear it, Mother.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. When Mr. Barnes died your father agreed to appointing
+another trustee.
+
+TREGONING. [_diffidently._] I suppose, Edward, I'm involved.
+
+EDWARD. [_lifting his head quickly._] Denis, I hope not. I didn't know
+that anything of yours--
+
+TREGONING. Yes . . all that I got under my aunt's will.
+
+EDWARD. You see how things are . . I've discovered no trace of that.
+We'll hope for the best.
+
+TREGONING. [_setting his teeth._] It can't be helped.
+
+MAJOR BOOTH _leans over the table and speaks in the loudest of
+whispers_.
+
+BOOTH. Let me advise you to say nothing of this to Ethel at such a
+critical time.
+
+TREGONING. Thank you, Booth, naturally I shall not.
+
+HUGH, _by a series of contortions, has lately been giving evidence of a
+desire or intention to say something_.
+
+EDWARD. Well, what is it, Hugh?
+
+HUGH. I have been wondering . . if he can hear this conversation.
+
+_Up to now it has all been meaningless to_ HONOR, _in her nervous
+dilapidation, but this remark brings a fresh burst of tears_.
+
+HONOR. Oh, poor papa . . poor papa!
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. I think I'll go to my room. I can't hear what any of you
+are saying. Edward can tell me afterwards.
+
+EDWARD. Would you like to go too, Honor?
+
+HONOR. [_through her sobs._] Yes, please, I would.
+
+TREGONING. And I'll get out, Edward. Whatever you think fit to do . .
+Oh, well, I suppose there's only one thing to be done.
+
+EDWARD. Only that.
+
+TREGONING. I wish I were in a better position as to work, for Ethel's
+sake and--and the child's.
+
+EDWARD. Shall I speak to Trenchard?
+
+TREGONING. No . . he knows I exist in a wig and gown. If I can be
+useful to him, he'll be useful to me, I daresay. Good bye, Hugh. Good
+bye, Booth.
+
+_By this time_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ HONOR _have been got out of the room_:
+TREGONING _follows them. So the four brothers are left together._ HUGH
+_is vacant_, EDWARD _does not speak_, BOOTH _looks at_ TRENCHARD, _who
+settles himself to acquire information_.
+
+TRENCHARD. How long have things been wrong?
+
+EDWARD. He told me the trouble began in his father's time and that he'd
+been battling with it ever since.
+
+TRENCHARD. [_smiling._] Oh, come now . . that's impossible.
+
+EDWARD. But I believed him! Now I look through his papers I can find
+only one irregularity that's more than ten years old, and that's only to
+do with old George Booth's business.
+
+BOOTH. But the Pater never touched his money . . why, he was a personal
+friend.
+
+EDWARD. Did you hear what Denis said?
+
+TRENCHARD. Very curious his evolving that fiction about his father . . I
+wonder why. I remember the old man. He was honest as the day.
+
+EDWARD. To gain sympathy, I suppose.
+
+TRENCHARD. I think one can trace the psychology of it deeper than that.
+It would add a fitness to the situation . . his handing on to you an
+inheritance he had received. You know every criminal has a touch of the
+artist in him.
+
+HUGH. [_suddenly roused._] That's true.
+
+TRENCHARD. What position did you take up on the matter when he told you?
+
+EDWARD. [_shrugging._] You know what the Pater was as well as I.
+
+TRENCHARD. Well . . what did you attempt to do?
+
+EDWARD. I urged him to start by making some of the smaller accounts
+right. He said . . he said that would be penny wise and pound foolish.
+So I did what I could myself.
+
+TRENCHARD. With your own money?
+
+EDWARD. The little I had.
+
+TRENCHARD. Can you prove that you did that?
+
+EDWARD. I suppose I could.
+
+TRENCHARD. It's a good point.
+
+BOOTH. [_not to be quite left out._] Yes, I must say--
+
+TRENCHARD. You ought to have written him a letter, and left the firm the
+moment you found out. Even then, legally . . ! But as he was your
+father. What was his object in telling you? What did he expect you to
+do?
+
+EDWARD. I've thought of every reason . . and now I really believe it was
+that he might have someone to boast to of his financial exploits.
+
+TRENCHARD. [_appreciatively._] I daresay.
+
+BOOTH. Scarcely matters to boast of!
+
+TRENCHARD. Oh, you try playing the fool with other people's money, and
+keeping your neck out of the noose for twelve years. It's not so easy.
+
+EDWARD. Then, of course, he always protested that things would come
+right . . that he'd clear the firm and have a fortune to the good. Or
+that if he were not spared I might do it. But he must have known that
+was impossible.
+
+TRENCHARD. But there's the gambler all over.
+
+EDWARD. Why, he actually took the trouble to draw up this will!
+
+TRENCHARD. That was childish.
+
+EDWARD. I'm the sole executor.
+
+TRENCHARD. So I should think . . Was I down for anything?
+
+EDWARD. No.
+
+TRENCHARD. [_without resentment._] How he did hate me!
+
+EDWARD. You're safe from the results of his affection anyway.
+
+TRENCHARD. What on earth made you stay in the firm once you knew?
+
+EDWARD _does not answer for a moment_.
+
+EDWARD. I thought I might prevent things from getting any worse. I think
+I did . . well, I should have done that if he'd lived.
+
+TRENCHARD. You knew the risk you were running?
+
+EDWARD. [_bowing his head._] Yes.
+
+TRENCHARD, _the only one of the three who comprehends, looks at his
+brother for a moment with something that might almost be admiration.
+Then he stirs himself._
+
+TRENCHARD. I must be off. Business waiting . . end of term, you know.
+
+BOOTH. Shall I walk to the station with you?
+
+TRENCHARD. I'll spend a few minutes with Mother. [_he says, at the door,
+very respectfully._] You'll count on my professional assistance, please,
+Edward.
+
+EDWARD. [_simply._] Thank you, Trenchard.
+
+_So_ TRENCHARD _goes. And the Major, who has been endeavouring to fathom
+his final attitude, then comments_--
+
+BOOTH. No heart, y'know! Great brain! If it hadn't been for that
+distressing quarrel he might have saved our poor father. Don't you think
+so, Edward?
+
+EDWARD. Perhaps.
+
+HUGH. [_giving vent to his thoughts at last with something of a
+relish._] The more I think this out, the more devilishly humorous it
+gets. Old Booth breaking down by the grave . . Colpus reading the
+service . .
+
+EDWARD. Yes, the Vicar's badly hit.
+
+HUGH. Oh, the Pater had managed his business for years.
+
+BOOTH. Good God . . how shall we ever look old Booth in the face again?
+
+EDWARD. I don't worry about him; he can die quite comfortably enough on
+six shillings in the pound. It's one or two of the smaller fry who will
+suffer.
+
+BOOTH. Now, just explain to me . . I didn't interrupt while Trenchard
+was talking . . of what exactly did this defrauding consist?
+
+EDWARD. Speculating with a client's capital . . pocketing the gains,
+cutting the losses; meanwhile paying the client his ordinary income.
+
+BOOTH. So that he didn't find it out?
+
+EDWARD. Quite so.
+
+BOOTH. In point of fact, he doesn't suffer?
+
+EDWARD. He doesn't suffer till he finds it out.
+
+BOOTH. And all that's wrong now is that some of their capital is
+missing.
+
+EDWARD. [_half amused, half amazed at this process of reasoning._] Yes,
+that's all that's wrong.
+
+BOOTH. What is the ah--deficit? [_the word rolls from his tongue._]
+
+EDWARD. Anything between two and three hundred thousand pounds.
+
+BOOTH. [_very impressed and not unfavourably._] Dear me . . this is a
+big affair!
+
+HUGH. [_following his own line of thought._] Quite apart from the rights
+and wrongs of this, only a very able man could have kept a straight face
+to the world all these years, as the Pater did.
+
+BOOTH. I suppose he sometimes made money by these speculations.
+
+EDWARD. Very often. His own expenditure was heavy, as you know.
+
+BOOTH. [_with gratitude for favours received._] He was a very generous
+man.
+
+HUGH. Did nobody ever suspect him?
+
+EDWARD. You see, Hugh, when there was any danger . . when a trust had to
+be wound up . . he'd make a great effort and put the accounts straight.
+
+BOOTH. Then he did put some accounts straight?
+
+EDWARD. Yes, when he couldn't help himself.
+
+BOOTH _looks very enquiring and then squares himself up to the subject_.
+
+BOOTH. Now look here, Edward. You told us that he told you that it was
+the object of his life to put these accounts straight. Then you laughed
+at that. Now you tell me that he did put some accounts straight.
+
+EDWARD. [_wearily._] My dear Booth, you don't understand.
+
+BOOTH. Well, let me understand . . I am anxious to understand.
+
+EDWARD. We can't pay ten shillings in the pound.
+
+BOOTH. That's very dreadful. But do you know that there wasn't a time
+when we couldn't have paid five?
+
+EDWARD. [_acquiescent._] I don't know.
+
+BOOTH. Very well then! If what he said was true about his father and all
+that . . and why shouldn't we believe him if we can? . . and he did
+effect an improvement, that's all to his credit. Let us at least be
+just, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. [_patiently polite._] I am very sorry to appear unjust. He has
+left me in a rather unfortunate position.
+
+BOOTH. Yes, his death was a tragedy. It seems to me that if he had been
+spared he might have succeeded at length in this tremendous task and
+restored to us our family honour.
+
+EDWARD. Yes, Booth, he spoke very feelingly of that.
+
+BOOTH. [_Irony lost upon him._] I can well believe it. And I can tell
+you that now . . I may be right or I may be wrong . . I am feeling far
+less concerned about the clients' money than I am at the terrible blow
+to the Family which this exposure will strike. Money, after all, can to
+a certain extent be done without . . but Honour--
+
+_This is too much for_ EDWARD.
+
+EDWARD. Our honour! Does one of you mean to give me a single penny
+towards undoing all the wrong that has been done?
+
+BOOTH. I take Trenchard's word for it that that would be illegal.
+
+EDWARD. Well . . don't talk to me of honour.
+
+BOOTH. [_somewhat nettled at this outburst._] I am speaking of the
+public exposure. Edward, can't that be prevented?
+
+EDWARD. [_with quick suspicion._] How?
+
+BOOTH. Well . . how was it being prevented before he died--before we
+knew anything about it?
+
+EDWARD. [_appealing to the spirits that watch over him._] Oh, listen to
+this! First Trenchard . . and now you! You've the poison in your blood,
+every one of you. Who am I to talk? I daresay so have I.
+
+BOOTH. [_reprovingly._] I am beginning to think that you have worked
+yourself into rather an hysterical state over this unhappy business.
+
+EDWARD. [_rating him._] Perhaps you'd have been glad . . glad if I'd
+held my tongue and gone on lying and cheating . . and married and
+begotten a son to go on lying and cheating after me . . and to pay you
+your interest . . your interest in the lie and the cheat.
+
+BOOTH. [_with statesman-like calm._] Look here, Edward, this rhetoric is
+exceedingly out of place. The simple question before us is . . What is
+the best course to pursue?
+
+EDWARD. There is no question before us. There's only one course to
+pursue.
+
+BOOTH. [_crushingly._] You will let me speak, please. In so far as our
+poor father was dishonest to his clients, I pray that he may be
+forgiven. In so far as he spent his life honestly endeavouring to right
+a wrong which he had found already committed . . I forgive him. I
+admire him, Edward. And I feel it my duty to--er--reprobate most
+strongly the--er--gusto with which you have been holding him up in
+memory to us . . ten minutes after we have stood round his grave . . as
+a monster of wickedness. I think I may say I knew him as well as you . .
+better. And . . thank God! . . there was not between him and me
+this--this unhappy business to warp my judgment of him. [_he warms to
+his subject._] Did you ever know a more charitable man . . a
+larger-hearted? He was a faithful husband . . and what a father to all
+of us, putting us out into the world and fully intending to leave us
+comfortably settled there. Further . . as I see this matter, Edward . .
+when as a young man he was told this terrible secret and entrusted with
+such a frightful task . . did he turn his back on it like a coward? No.
+He went through it heroically to the end of his life. And as he died I
+imagine there was no more torturing thought than that he had left his
+work unfinished. [_he is very satisfied with this peroration._] And now
+if all these clients can be kept receiving their natural income and if
+Father's plan could be carried out of gradually replacing the capital--
+
+EDWARD _at this raises his head and stares with horror_.
+
+EDWARD. You're appealing to me to carry on this . . Oh, you don't know
+what you're talking about!
+
+_The Major, having talked himself back to a proper eminence remains
+good-tempered._
+
+BOOTH. Well, I'm not a conceited man . . but I do think that I can
+understand a simple financial problem when it has been explained to me.
+
+EDWARD. You don't know the nerve . . the unscrupulous daring it requires
+to--
+
+BOOTH. Of course, if you're going to argue round your own incompetence--
+
+EDWARD. [_very straight._] D'you want your legacy?
+
+BOOTH. [_with dignity._] In one moment I shall get very angry. Here am
+I doing my best to help you and your clients . . and there you sit
+imputing to me the most sordid motives. Do you suppose I should touch or
+allow to be touched the money which father has left us till every
+client's claim was satisfied?
+
+EDWARD. My dear Booth, I'm sure you mean well--
+
+BOOTH. I'll come down to your office and work with you.
+
+_At this cheerful prospect even poor_ EDWARD _can't help smiling_.
+
+EDWARD. Why, you'd be found out at once.
+
+BOOTH. [_feeling that it is a chance lost._] Well, of course the Pater
+never consulted me. I only know what I feel ought to be possible. I can
+but make the suggestion.
+
+_At this point_ TRENCHARD _looks round the door to say_ . .
+
+TRENCHARD. Are you coming, Booth?
+
+BOOTH. Yes, certainly. I'll talk this over with Trenchard. [_as he gets
+up and automatically stiffens, he is reminded of the occasion and his
+voice drops._] I say . . we've been speaking very loud. You must do
+nothing rash. I've no doubt I can devise something which will obviate . .
+and then I'm sure I shall convince you . . [_glancing into the hall he
+apparently catches_ TRENCHARD'S _impatient eye, for he departs abruptly
+saying_ . . ] All right, Trenchard, you've eight minutes.
+
+BOOTH'S _departure leaves_ HUGH, _at any rate, really at his ease_.
+
+HUGH. What an experience for you, Edward!
+
+EDWARD. [_bitterly._] And I feared what the shock might be to you all!
+Booth has made a good recovery.
+
+HUGH. You wouldn't have him miss such a chance of booming at us all.
+
+EDWARD. It's strange the number of people who believe you can do right
+by means which they know to be wrong.
+
+HUGH. [_taking great interest in this._] Come, what do we know about
+right and wrong? Let's say legal and illegal. You're so down on the
+Governor because he has trespassed against the etiquette of your own
+profession. But now he's dead . . and if there weren't the disgrace to
+think of . . it's no use the rest of us pretending to feel him a
+criminal, because we don't. Which just shows that money . . and
+property--
+
+_At this point he becomes conscious that_ ALICE MAITLAND _is standing
+behind him, her eyes fixed on his brother. So he interrupts himself to
+ask_ . .
+
+HUGH. D'you want to speak to Edward?
+
+ALICE. Please, Hugh.
+
+HUGH. I'll go.
+
+_He goes, a little martyrlike, to conclude the evolution of his theory
+in soliloquy; his usual fate._ ALICE _still looks at_ EDWARD _with soft
+eyes, and he at her rather appealingly_.
+
+ALICE. Auntie has told me.
+
+EDWARD. He was fond of you. Don't think worse of him than you can help.
+
+ALICE. I'm thinking of you.
+
+EDWARD. I may just escape.
+
+ALICE. So Trenchard says.
+
+EDWARD. My hands are clean, Alice.
+
+ALICE. [_her voice falling lovingly._] I know that.
+
+EDWARD. Mother's not very upset.
+
+ALICE. She had expected a smash in his life time.
+
+EDWARD. I'm glad that didn't happen.
+
+ALICE. Yes . . as the fault was his it won't hurt you so much to stand
+up to the blame.
+
+EDWARD _looks puzzled at this for a moment, then gives it up_.
+
+EDWARD. I'm hurt enough now.
+
+ALICE. Why, what have the boys done? It was a mercy to tell Honor just
+at this time. She can grieve for his death and his disgrace at the same
+time . . and the one grief lessens the other perhaps.
+
+EDWARD. Oh, they're all shocked enough at the disgrace . . but will they
+open their purses to lessen the disgrace?
+
+ALICE. Will it seem less disgraceful to have stolen ten thousand pounds
+than twenty?
+
+EDWARD. I should think so.
+
+ALICE. I should think so, but I wonder if that's the Law. If it isn't,
+Trenchard wouldn't consider the point. I'm sure Public Opinion doesn't
+say so . . and that's what Booth is considering.
+
+EDWARD. [_with contempt._] Yes.
+
+ALICE. [_ever so gently ironical._] Well, he's in the Army . . he's
+almost in Society . . and he has to get on in both; one mustn't blame
+him. Of course if the money could have been given up with a flourish of
+trumpets . . ! But even then I doubt whether the advertisement would
+bring in what it cost.
+
+EDWARD. [_very serious._] But when one thinks how the money was
+obtained!
+
+ALICE. When one thinks how most money is obtained!
+
+EDWARD. They've not earned it.
+
+ALICE. [_her eyes humorous._] If they had they might have given it you
+and earned more. Did I ever tell you what my guardian said to me when I
+came of age?
+
+EDWARD. I'm thankful your money's not been in danger.
+
+ALICE. It might have been, but I was made to look after it myself . .
+much against my will. My guardian was a person of great character and no
+principles, the best and most loveable man I've ever met . . I'm sorry
+you never knew him Edward . . and he said once to me . . You've no right
+to your money. You've not earned it or deserved it in any way. Therefore
+don't be surprised or annoyed if any enterprising person tries to get
+it from you. He has at least as much right to it as you have . . if he
+can use it better, he has more right. Shocking sentiments, aren't they?
+No respectable man of business could own to them. But I'm not so sorry
+for some of these clients as you are, Edward.
+
+EDWARD _shakes his head, treating these paradoxes as they deserve_.
+
+EDWARD. Alice . . one or two of them will be beggared.
+
+ALICE. [_sincerely._] Yes, that is serious. What's to be done?
+
+EDWARD. There's old nurse . . with her poor little savings gone!
+
+ALICE. Surely those can be spared her?
+
+EDWARD. The Law's no respecter of persons . . that's its boast. Old
+Booth with more than he wants will keep enough. My old nurse, with just
+enough, may starve. But it'll be a relief to clear out this nest of
+lies, even though one suffers one's self. I've been ashamed to walk into
+that office, Alice . . I'll hold my head high in prison though.
+
+_He shakes himself stiffly erect, his chin high._ ALICE _quizzes him_.
+
+ALICE. Edward, I'm afraid you're feeling heroic.
+
+EDWARD. I!
+
+ALICE. Don't be so proud of your misfortune. You looked quite like Booth
+for the moment. [_this effectually removes the starch._] It will be very
+stupid to send you to prison and you must do your best to keep out.
+[_she goes on very practically._] We were discussing if anything could
+be done for these one or two people who'll be beggared.
+
+EDWARD. Yes, Alice. I'm sorry nothing can be done for them.
+
+ALICE. It's a pity.
+
+EDWARD. I suppose I was feeling heroic. I didn't mean to.
+
+_He has become a little like a child with her._
+
+ALICE. That's the worst of acting on principle . . one begins thinking
+of one's attitude instead of the use of what one is doing.
+
+EDWARD. I'm exposing this fraud on principle.
+
+ALICE. Perhaps that's what's wrong.
+
+EDWARD. Wrong!
+
+ALICE. My dear Edward, if people are to be ruined . . !
+
+EDWARD. What else is there to be done?
+
+ALICE. Well . . have you thought?
+
+EDWARD. There's nothing else to be done.
+
+ALICE. On principle.
+
+_He looks at her, she is smiling, it is true, but smiling quite
+gravely._ EDWARD _is puzzled. Then the yeast of her suggestion begins to
+work in his mind slowly, perversely at first._
+
+EDWARD. It had occurred to Booth. . .
+
+ALICE. Oh, anything may occur to Booth.
+
+EDWARD. . . In his grave concern for the family honour that I might
+quietly cheat the firm back into credit again.
+
+ALICE. How stupid of Booth!
+
+EDWARD. Well . . like my father . . Booth believes in himself.
+
+ALICE. Yes, he's rather a credulous man.
+
+EDWARD. [_ignoring her little joke._] He might have been lucky and have
+done some good. I'm a weak sort of creature, just a collection of
+principles as you say. Look, all I've been able to do in this business . .
+at the cost of my whole life perhaps . . has been to sit senselessly
+by my father's side and prevent things going from bad to worse.
+
+ALICE. That was worth doing. The cost is your own affair.
+
+_She is watching him, stilly and closely. Suddenly his face lights a
+little and he turns to her._
+
+EDWARD. Alice . . there's something else I could do.
+
+ALICE. What?
+
+EDWARD. It's illegal.
+
+ALICE. So much the better perhaps. Oh, I'm lawless by birthright, being
+a woman.
+
+EDWARD. I could take the money that's in my father's name and use it
+only to put right the smaller accounts. It'd take a few months to do it
+well . . and cover the tracks. That'd be necessary.
+
+ALICE. Then you'd give yourself up as you'd meant to do now?
+
+EDWARD. Yes . . practically.
+
+ALICE. It'd be worse for you then at the trial?
+
+EDWARD. [_with a touch of another sort of pride._] You said that was my
+affair.
+
+ALICE. [_pain in her voice and eyes._] Oh, Edward!
+
+EDWARD. Shall I do this?
+
+ALICE. [_turning away._] Why must you ask me?
+
+EDWARD. You mocked at my principles, didn't you? You've taken them from
+me. The least you can do is to give me advice in exchange.
+
+ALICE. [_after a moment._] No . . decide for yourself.
+
+_He jumps up and begins to pace about, doubtful, distressed._
+
+EDWARD. Good Lord . . it means lying and shuffling!
+
+ALICE. [_a little trembling._] In a good cause.
+
+EDWARD. Ah . . but lying and shuffling takes the fine edge off one's
+soul.
+
+ALICE. [_laughing at the quaintness of her own little epigram._] Edward,
+are you one of God's dandies?
+
+EDWARD. And . . Alice, it wouldn't be easy work. It wants qualities I
+haven't got. I should fail.
+
+ALICE. Would you?
+
+_He catches a look from her._
+
+EDWARD. Well, I might not.
+
+ALICE. And you don't need success for a lure. That's like a common man.
+
+EDWARD. You want me to try to do this?
+
+_For answer, she dares only put out her hand, and he takes it._
+
+ALICE. Oh, my dear . . cousin!
+
+EDWARD. [_excitedly._] My people will have to hold their tongues. I
+needn't have told them all this to-day.
+
+ALICE. Don't tell them the rest . . they won't understand. I shall be
+jealous if you tell them.
+
+EDWARD. [_looking at her as she at him._] Well, you've the right to be.
+This deed . . it's not done yet . . is your property.
+
+ALICE. Thank you. I've always wanted to have something useful to my
+credit . . and I'd almost given up hoping.
+
+_Then suddenly his face changes, his voice changes and he grips the hand
+he is holding so tightly as to hurt her._
+
+EDWARD. Alice, if my father's story were true . . he must have begun
+like this. Trying to do the right thing in the wrong way . . then doing
+the wrong thing . . then bringing himself to what he was . . and so me
+to this. [_he flings away from her._] No, Alice, I won't do it. I
+daren't take that first step down. It's a worse risk than any failure.
+Think . . I might succeed.
+
+ALICE _stands very still, looking at him_.
+
+ALICE. It's a big risk. Well . . I'll take it.
+
+_He turns to her, in wonder._
+
+EDWARD. You?
+
+ALICE. I'll risk your becoming a bad man. That's a big risk for me.
+
+_He understands, and is calmed and made happy._
+
+EDWARD. Then there is no more to be said, is there?
+
+ALICE. Not now. [_as she drops this gentle hint she hears something--the
+hall door opening._] Here's Booth back again.
+
+EDWARD. [_with a really mischievous grin._] He'll be so glad he's
+convinced me.
+
+ALICE. I must go back to Honor, poor girl. I wonder she has a tear left.
+
+_She leaves him, briskly, brightly; leaves her cousin with his mouth set
+and a light in his eyes._
+
+
+
+
+                              THE FOURTH ACT
+
+
+MR. VOYSEY'S _room at the office is_ EDWARD'S _now. It has somehow lost
+that brilliancy which the old man's occupation seemed to give it.
+Perhaps it is only because this December morning is dull and depressing,
+but the fire isn't bright and the panels and windows don't shine as they
+did. There are no roses on the table either._ EDWARD, _walking in as his
+father did, hanging his hat and coat where his father's used to hang, is
+certainly the palest shadow of that other masterful presence. A
+depressed, drooping shadow too. This may be what_ PEACEY _feels, if no
+more, for he looks very surly as he obeys the old routine of following
+his chief to this room on his arrival. Nor has_ EDWARD _so much as a
+glance for his clerk. They exchange the formalest of greetings._ EDWARD
+_sits joylessly to his desk, on which the morning's pile of letters
+lies, unopened now_.
+
+PEACEY. Good morning, sir.
+
+EDWARD. Good morning, Peacey. Have you any notes for me?
+
+PEACEY. Well, I've hardly been through the letters yet, sir.
+
+EDWARD. [_his eyebrows meeting._] Oh . . and I'm half an hour late
+myself this morning.
+
+PEACEY. I'm very sorry, sir.
+
+EDWARD. If Mr. Bullen calls you had better show him all those papers I
+gave you. Write to Metcalfe as soon as possible; say I interviewed Mr.
+Vickery myself this morning and the houses will not be proceeded with.
+Better let me see the letter.
+
+PEACEY. Very good, sir.
+
+EDWARD. That's all, thank you.
+
+PEACEY _gets to the door, where he stops, looking not only surly but
+nervous now_.
+
+PEACEY. May I speak to you a moment, sir?
+
+EDWARD. Certainly.
+
+PEACEY, _after a moment, makes an effort, purses his mouth and begins_.
+
+PEACEY. Bills are beginning to come in upon me as is usual at this
+season, sir. My son's allowance at Cambridge is now rather a heavy item
+of my expenditure. I hope that the custom of the firm isn't to be
+neglected now that you are the head of it, Mr. Edward. Two hundred your
+father always made it at Christmas . . in notes if you please.
+
+_Towards the end of this_ EDWARD _begins to pay great attention. When he
+answers his voice is harsh._
+
+EDWARD. Oh, to be sure . . your hush money.
+
+PEACEY. [_bridling._] That's not a very pleasant word.
+
+EDWARD. This is a very unpleasant subject.
+
+PEACEY. I'm sure it isn't my wish to bring out in cold conversation what
+I know of the firm's position. Your father always gave me the notes in
+an envelope when he shook hands with me at Christmas.
+
+EDWARD. [_blandly._] And I've been waiting for you to ask me.
+
+PEACEY. Well, we'll say no more about it. There's always a bit of
+friction in coming to an understanding about anything, isn't there, sir?
+
+_He is going when_ EDWARD'S _question stops him_.
+
+EDWARD. Why didn't you speak to me about this last Christmas?
+
+PEACEY. I knew you were upset at your father's death.
+
+EDWARD. No, no, my father died the August before that.
+
+PEACEY. Well . . truthfully, Mr. Edward?
+
+EDWARD. As truthfully as you think suitable.
+
+_The irony of this is wasted on_ PEACEY, _who becomes pleasantly
+candid_.
+
+PEACEY. Well, I couldn't make you out last Christmas. I'd always thought
+there must be a smash when your father died . . but it didn't come. But
+then again at Christmas you seemed all on edge and I didn't know what
+might happen. So I thought I'd better keep quiet and say nothing.
+
+EDWARD. I see. This little pull of yours over the firm is an inheritance
+from your father, isn't it?
+
+PEACEY. [_discreetly._] When he retired, sir, he said to me . . I've
+told the Governor you know what I know. And Mr. Voysey said to me . . I
+treat you as I did your father, Peacey. I never had another word on the
+subject with him.
+
+EDWARD. A very decent arrangement. Your son's at Cambridge you say,
+Peacey?
+
+PEACEY. Yes.
+
+EDWARD. I wonder you didn't bring him into the firm.
+
+PEACEY. [_taking this very kind._] Thank you, sir . . I thought of it.
+But then I thought that two generations going in for this sort of thing
+was enough.
+
+EDWARD. That's a matter of taste.
+
+PEACEY. And then, sir . . I don't want to hurt your feelings, but things
+simply cannot go on for ever. The marvel to me is that the game has been
+kept up as it has. So now, if he does well at Cambridge, I hope he'll go
+to the bar. He has a distinct talent for patiently applying himself to
+the details of a thing.
+
+EDWARD. I hope he'll do well. I'm glad to have had this talk with you,
+Peacey. I'm sorry you can't have the money you want.
+
+_He returns to his letters, a little steely-eyed._ PEACEY _quite at his
+ease, makes for the door yet again, saying_ . .
+
+PEACEY. Oh, any time will do, sir.
+
+EDWARD. You can't have the money at all.
+
+PEACEY. [_brought up short._] Can't I?
+
+EDWARD. [_very decidedly indeed._] No . . I made up my mind about that
+eighteen months ago. Since my father's death the trust business of the
+firm has not been conducted as it was formerly. We no longer make
+illicit profits out of our clients. There are none for you to share.
+
+_Having thus given the explanation he considers due, he goes on with his
+work. But_ PEACEY _has flushed up_.
+
+PEACEY. Look here, Mr. Edward, I'm sorry I began this discussion. You'll
+give me my two hundred as usual, please, and we'll drop the subject.
+
+EDWARD. By all means drop the subject.
+
+PEACEY. [_his voice rising sharply._] I want the money. I think it is
+not gentlemanly in you, Mr. Edward, to make these excuses to try to get
+out of paying it me. Your father would never have made such an excuse.
+
+EDWARD. [_flabbergasted._] Do you think I'm lying to you?
+
+PEACEY. [_with a deprecating swallow._] I don't wish to criticise your
+statements or your actions at all, sir. It was no concern of mine how
+your father treated his clients.
+
+EDWARD. I understand. And now it's no concern of yours how honest I am.
+You want your money just the same.
+
+PEACEY. Well, don't be sarcastic . . a man does get used to a state of
+affairs whatever it may be.
+
+EDWARD. [_with considerable force._] My friend, if I drop sarcasm I
+shall have to tell you very candidly what I think of you.
+
+PEACEY. That I'm a thief because I've taken money from a thief!
+
+EDWARD. Worse than a thief. You're content that others should steal for
+you.
+
+PEACEY. And who isn't?
+
+EDWARD _is really pleased with the aptness of this. He at once changes
+his tone, which indeed had become rather bullying._
+
+EDWARD. Ah, Peacey, I perceive that you study sociology. Well, that's
+too big a question to enter into now. The application of the present
+portion of it is that I have for the moment, at some inconvenience to
+myself, ceased to receive stolen goods and therefore am in a position to
+throw a stone at you. I have thrown it.
+
+PEACEY, _who would far sooner be bullied than talked to like this, turns
+very sulky_.
+
+PEACEY. And now I'm to leave the firm, I suppose?
+
+EDWARD. Not unless you wish.
+
+PEACEY. I happen to think the secret's worth its price.
+
+EDWARD. Perhaps someone will pay it you.
+
+PEACEY. [_feebly threatening._] You're presuming upon its not being
+worth my while to make use of what I know.
+
+EDWARD. [_not unkindly._] My good Peacey, it happens to be the truth I
+told you just now. Well, how on earth do you suppose you can
+successfully blackmail a man, who has so much to gain by exposure and so
+little to lose as I?
+
+PEACEY. [_peeving._] I don't want to ruin you, sir, and I have a great
+regard for the firm . . but you must see that I can't have my income
+reduced in this way without a struggle.
+
+EDWARD. [_with great cheerfulness._] Very well, my friend, struggle
+away.
+
+PEACEY. [_his voice rising high and thin._] For one thing, sir, I don't
+think it fair dealing on your part to dock the money suddenly. I have
+been counting on it most of the year, and I have been led into heavy
+expenses. Why couldn't you have warned me?
+
+EDWARD. That's true, Peacey, it was stupid of me. I apologise for the
+mistake.
+
+PEACEY _is a little comforted by this quite candid acknowledgment_.
+
+PEACEY. Perhaps things may be easier for you by next Christmas.
+
+EDWARD. I hope so.
+
+PEACEY. Then . . perhaps you won't be so particular.
+
+_At this gentle insinuation_ EDWARD _looks up exasperated_.
+
+EDWARD. So you don't believe what I told you?
+
+PEACEY. Yes, I do.
+
+EDWARD. Then you think that the fascination of swindling one's clients
+will ultimately prove irresistible?
+
+PEACEY. It's what happened to your father, I suppose you know.
+
+_This gives_ EDWARD _such pause that he drops his masterful tone_.
+
+EDWARD. I didn't.
+
+PEACEY. He got things as right as rain once.
+
+EDWARD. Did he?
+
+PEACEY. . . My father told me. Then he started again.
+
+EDWARD. But how did you find that out?
+
+PEACEY. [_expanding pleasantly._] Well, being so long in his service, I
+grew to understand your father. But when I first came into the firm, I
+simply hated him. He was that sour; so snappy with everyone . . as if he
+had a grievance against the whole world.
+
+EDWARD. [_pensively._] It seems he had in those days.
+
+PEACEY. Well, as I said, his dealings with his clients were no business
+of mine. And I speak as I find. He was very kind to me . . always
+thoughtful and considerate. He grew to be so pleasant and generous to
+everyone--
+
+EDWARD. That you have great hopes of me yet?
+
+PEACEY. [_who has a simple mind._] No, Mr. Edward, no. You're different
+from your father . . one must make up one's mind to that. And you may
+believe me or not but I should be very glad to know that the firm was
+solvent and going straight. There have been times when I have sincerely
+regretted my connection with it. If you'll let me say so, I think it's
+very noble of you to have undertaken the work you have. [_then, as
+everything seems smooth again._] And Mr. Edward, if you'll give me
+enough to cover this year's extra expense I think I may promise you that
+I shan't expect money again.
+
+EDWARD. [_good-tempered, as he would speak to an importunate child._]
+No, Peacey, no!
+
+PEACEY. [_fretful again._] Well, sir, you make things very difficult for
+me.
+
+EDWARD. Here's a letter from Mr. Cartwright which you might attend to.
+If he wants an appointment with me, don't make one till the New Year.
+His case can't come on before February.
+
+PEACEY. [_taking the letter._] I am anxious to meet you in every
+way--[_he is handed another._]
+
+EDWARD. "Perceval Building Estate" . . that's yours too.
+
+PEACEY. [_putting them both down resolutely._] But I refuse to be
+ignored. I must consider my whole position. I hope I may not be tempted
+to make use of the power I possess. But if I am driven to proceed to
+extremities . .
+
+EDWARD. [_breaking in upon this bunch of tags._] My dear Peacey, don't
+talk nonsense . . you couldn't proceed to an extremity to save your
+life. You've taken this money irresponsibly for all these years. You'll
+find you're no longer capable even of such a responsible act as tripping
+up your neighbour.
+
+_This does completely upset the gentle blackmailer. He loses one
+grievance in another._
+
+PEACEY. Really, Mr. Edward, I am a considerably older man than you, and
+I think that whatever our positions--
+
+EDWARD. Don't let us argue, Peacey. You're quite at liberty to do
+whatever you think worth your while.
+
+PEACEY. It isn't that, sir. But these personalities--
+
+EDWARD. Oh . . I apologise. Don't forget the letters.
+
+PEACEY. I will not, sir.
+
+_He takes them with great dignity and is leaving the room._
+
+PEACEY. Here's Mr. Hugh waiting.
+
+EDWARD. To see me? Ask him in.
+
+PEACEY. Come in, Mr. Hugh, please.
+
+HUGH _comes in_, PEACEY _holding the door for him with a frigid
+politeness of which he is quite oblivious. At this final slight_ PEACEY
+_goes out in dudgeon_.
+
+EDWARD. How are you, Hugh?
+
+HUGH. Good Lord!
+
+_And he throws himself into the chair by the fire._ EDWARD _quite used
+to this sort of thing, goes quietly on with his work, adding
+encouragingly after a moment_ . .
+
+EDWARD. How's Beatrice?
+
+HUGH. She's very busy.
+
+_He studies his boots with the gloomiest expression. And indeed, they
+are very dirty and his turned up trousers are muddy at the edge. They
+are dark trousers and well cut, but he wears with them a loose coat and
+waistcoat of a peculiar light brown check. Add to this the roughest of
+overcoats and a very soft hat. Add also the fact that he doesn't shave
+well or regularly and that his hair wants cutting, and_ HUGH'S
+_appearance this morning is described. As he is quite capable of sitting
+silently by the fire for a whole morning_ EDWARD _asks him at last_ . .
+
+EDWARD. What d'you want?
+
+HUGH. [_with vehemence._] I want a machine gun planted in Regent Street
+. . and one in the Haymarket . . and one in Leicester Square and one in
+the Strand . . and a dozen in the City. An earthquake would be simpler.
+Or why not a nice clean tidal wave? It's no good preaching and patching
+up any longer, Edward. We must begin afresh. Don't you feel, even in
+your calmer moments, that this whole country is simply hideous? The
+other nations must look after themselves. I'm patriotic . . I only ask
+that we should be destroyed.
+
+EDWARD. It has been promised.
+
+HUGH. I'm sick of waiting. [_then as_ EDWARD _says nothing_.] You say
+this is the cry just of the weak man in despair! I wouldn't be anything
+but a weak man in this world. I wouldn't be a king, I wouldn't be rich . .
+I wouldn't be a Borough Councillor . . I should be so ashamed. I've
+walked here this morning from Hampstead. I started to curse because the
+streets were dirty. You'd think that an Empire could keep its streets
+clean! But then I saw that the children were dirty too.
+
+EDWARD. That's because of the streets.
+
+HUGH. Yes, it's holiday time. Those that can cross a road safely are
+doing some work now . . earning some money. You'd think a governing
+race, grabbing responsibilities, might care for its children.
+
+EDWARD. Come, we educate them now. And I don't think many work in
+holiday time.
+
+HUGH. [_encouraged by contradiction._] We teach them all that we're not
+ashamed of . . and much that we ought to be . . and the rest they find
+out for themselves. Oh, every man and woman I met was muddy eyed! They'd
+joined the great conspiracy which we call our civilization. They've been
+educated! They believe in the Laws and the Money-market and
+Respectability. Well, at least they suffer for their beliefs. But I'm
+glad I don't make the laws . . and that I haven't any money . . and that
+I hate respectability . . or I should be so ashamed. By the bye, that's
+what I've come for.
+
+EDWARD. [_pleasantly._] What? I thought you'd only come to talk.
+
+HUGH. You must take that money of mine for your clients. Of course you
+ought to have had it when you asked for it. It has never belonged to me.
+Well . . it has never done me any good. I have never made any use of it
+and so it has been just a clog to my life.
+
+EDWARD. [_surprised._] My dear Hugh . . this is very generous of you.
+
+HUGH. Not a bit. I only want to start fresh and free.
+
+EDWARD. [_sitting back from his work._] Hugh, do you really think that
+money has carried a curse with it?
+
+HUGH. [_with great violence._] Think! I'm the proof of it and look at
+me. When I said I'd be an artist the governor gave me a hundred and
+fifty a year . . the rent of a studio and the price of a velvet coat he
+thought it; that was all he knew about art. Then my respectable training
+got me engaged and married. Marriage in a studio puzzled the governor,
+so he guessed it at _two_ hundred and fifty a year . . and looked for
+lay figure-babies, I suppose. What had I to do with Art? Nothing I've
+done yet but reflects our drawing-room at Chislehurst.
+
+EDWARD. [_considering._] Yes . . What do you earn in a year? I doubt if
+you can afford to give this up.
+
+HUGH. Oh, Edward . . you clank the chain with the best of them. That
+word Afford! I want to be free from my advantages. Don't you see I must
+find out what I'm worth in myself . . whether I even exist or not?
+Perhaps I'm only a pretence of a man animated by an income.
+
+EDWARD. But you can't return to nature on the London pavements.
+
+HUGH. No. Nor in England at all . . it's nothing but a big back garden.
+[_now he collects himself for a final outburst._] But if there's no
+place on this earth where a man can prove his right to live by some
+other means than robbing his neighbour . . I'd better go and request
+the next horse I meet to ride me . . to the nearest lunatic asylum.
+
+EDWARD _waits till the effects of this explosion are over_.
+
+EDWARD. And what does Beatrice say to your emigrating to the backwoods . .
+if that is exactly what you mean?
+
+HUGH. Now that we're separating--
+
+EDWARD. [_taken aback._] What?
+
+HUGH. We mean to separate.
+
+EDWARD. This is the first I've heard of it.
+
+HUGH. Beatrice is making some money by her books, so it has become
+possible.
+
+EDWARD. [_humorously._] Have you told anyone yet?
+
+HUGH. We mean to now. I think a thing comes to pass quicker in public.
+
+EDWARD. Say nothing at home until after Christmas.
+
+HUGH. Oh Lord, I forgot! They'll discuss it solemnly. [_then he
+whistles._] Emily knows!
+
+EDWARD. [_having considered._] I shan't accept this money from you . .
+there's no need. All the good has been done that I wanted to do. No one
+will be beggared now. So why should you be?
+
+HUGH. [_with clumsy affection._] We've taken a fine lot of interest in
+your labours, haven't we, Hercules?
+
+EDWARD. You hold your tongue about the office affairs, don't you? It's
+not safe.
+
+HUGH. When will you be quit of the beastly business?
+
+EDWARD. [_becoming reserved and cold at once._] I'm in no hurry.
+
+HUGH. What do you gain by hanging on now?
+
+EDWARD. Occupation.
+
+HUGH. But, Edward, it must be an awfully wearying state of things. I
+suppose any moment a policeman may knock at the door . . so to speak?
+
+EDWARD. [_appreciating the figure of speech._] Any moment. I take no
+precautions. I suppose that's why he doesn't come. At first I listened
+for him, day by day. Then I said to myself . . next week. But a year has
+gone by and more. I've ceased expecting to hear the knock at all.
+
+HUGH. But look here . . is all this worth while?
+
+EDWARD. [_supremely ironical._] My dear Hugh, what a silly question!
+
+HUGH. [_very seriously._] But have you the right to make a mean thing of
+your life like this?
+
+EDWARD. Does my life matter?
+
+HUGH. Well . . of course!
+
+EDWARD. I find no evidence to convince me of it. The World that you talk
+about so finely is using me up. A little wantonly . . a little
+needlessly, I do think. But she knows her own damn business . . or so
+she says, if you try to teach it her. And why should I trouble to fit
+myself for better work than she has given me to do . . nursing fools'
+money?
+
+HUGH. [_responding at once to this vein._] Edward, we must turn this
+world upside down. It's her stupidity that drives me mad. We all want a
+lesson in values. We're never taught what is worth having and what
+isn't. Why should your real happiness be sacrificed to the sham
+happiness which people have invested in the firm?
+
+EDWARD. I suppose their money means such happiness to them as they
+understand.
+
+HUGH. Then we want another currency. We must learn to express ourselves
+in terms of vitality. There can be no other standard of worth in life,
+can there? I never believed that money was valuable. I remember once
+giving a crossing sweeper a sovereign. The sovereign was nothing. But
+the sensation I gave him was an intrinsically valuable thing.
+
+_He is fearfully pleased with his essay in philosophy._
+
+EDWARD. He could buy other sensations with the sovereign.
+
+HUGH. But none like the first. [_then the realities of life overwhelm
+him again._] And yet . . we're slaves! Beatrice won't let me go until
+we're each certain of two hundred a year. And she's quite right . . I
+should only get into debt. You know that two fifty a year of mine is a
+hundred and eighty now.
+
+EDWARD. [_mischievous._] Why would you invest sensationally?
+
+HUGH. [_with great seriousness._] I put money into things which I know
+ought to succeed . .
+
+_The telephone rings._ EDWARD _speaks through it_.
+
+EDWARD. Certainly . . bring him in. [_then to his brother, who sits on
+the table idly disarranging everything._] You'll have to go now, Hugh.
+
+HUGH. [_shaking his head gloomily._] You're one of the few people I can
+talk to, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. I like listening.
+
+HUGH. [_as much cheered as surprised._] Do you! I suppose I talk a lot
+of rot . . but . .
+
+_In comes old_ MR. GEORGE BOOTH, _older too in looks than he was
+eighteen months back. Very dandyishly dressed, he still seems by no
+means so happy as his clothes might be making him._
+
+MR. BOOTH. 'Ullo, Hugh! I thought I should find you, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. [_formally._] Good morning, Mr. Booth.
+
+HUGH. [_as he collects his hat, his coat, his various properties._] Well
+. . Beatrice and I go down to Chislehurst to-morrow. I say . . d'you
+know that old Nursie is furious with you about something?
+
+EDWARD. [_shortly._] Yes, I know. Good bye.
+
+HUGH. How are you?
+
+_He launches this enquiry at_ MR. BOOTH _with great suddenness just as
+he leaves the room. The old gentleman jumps; then jumps again at the
+slam of the door. And then he frowns at_ EDWARD _in a frightened sort of
+way_.
+
+EDWARD. Will you come here . . or will you sit by the fire?
+
+MR. BOOTH. This'll do. I shan't detain you long.
+
+_He takes the chair by the table and occupies the next minute or two,
+carefully disposing of his hat and gloves._
+
+EDWARD. Are you feeling all right again?
+
+MR. BOOTH. A bit dyspeptic. How are you?
+
+EDWARD. Quite well, thanks.
+
+MR. BOOTH. I'm glad . . I'm glad. [_he now proceeds to cough a little,
+hesitating painfully._] I'm afraid this isn't very pleasant business
+I've come upon.
+
+EDWARD. D'you want to go to Law with anyone?
+
+MR. BOOTH. No . . oh, no. I'm getting too old to quarrel.
+
+EDWARD. A pleasant symptom.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_with a final effort._] I mean to withdraw my securities
+from the custody of your firm . . [_and he adds apologetically_] with
+the usual notice, of course.
+
+_It would be difficult to describe what_ EDWARD _feels at this moment.
+Perhaps something of the shock that the relief of death may be as an end
+to pain so long endured that it has been half forgotten. He answers very
+quietly, without a sign of emotion._
+
+EDWARD. Thank you . . May one ask why?
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_relieved that the worst is over._] Certainly . . certainly.
+My reason is straightforward and simple and well considered. I think you
+must know, Edward, I have never been able to feel that implicit
+confidence in your ability which I had in your father's. Well, it is
+hardly to be expected, is it?
+
+EDWARD. [_with a grim smile._] No.
+
+MR. BOOTH. I can say that without unduly depreciating you. Men like
+your father are few and far between. As far as I know things proceed at
+this office as they have always done but . . since his death I have not
+been happy about my affairs.
+
+EDWARD. [_speaking as it is his duty to._] I think you need be under no
+apprehension . .
+
+MR. BOOTH. I daresay not. But that isn't the point. Now, for the first
+time in my long life I am worried about money affairs; and I don't like
+the feeling. The possession of money has always been a pleasure to me . .
+and for what are perhaps my last years I don't wish that to be
+otherwise. You must remember you have practically my entire property
+unreservedly in your control.
+
+EDWARD. Perhaps we can arrange to hand you over the reins to an extent
+which will ease your mind, and at the same time not . .
+
+MR. BOOTH. I thought of that. Believe me, I have every wish not to
+slight unduly your father's son. I have not moved in the matter for
+eighteen months. I have not been able to make up my mind to. Really, one
+feels a little helpless . . and the transaction of business requires
+more energy than . . But I saw my doctor yesterday, Edward, and he told
+me . . well, it was a warning. And so I felt it my duty at once to . .
+especially as I made up my mind to it some time ago. [_he comes to the
+end of this havering at last and adds._] In point of fact, Edward, more
+than a year before your father died I had quite decided that my affairs
+could never be with you as they were with him.
+
+EDWARD _starts almost out of his chair; his face pale, his eyes black_.
+
+EDWARD. Did he know that?
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_resenting this new attitude._] I think I never said it in
+so many words. But he may easily have guessed.
+
+EDWARD. [_as he relaxes and turns, almost shuddering, from the
+possibility of dreadful knowledge._] No . . no . . he never guessed.
+[_Then, with a sudden fresh impulse._] I hope you won't do this, Mr.
+Booth.
+
+MR. BOOTH. I have quite made up my mind.
+
+EDWARD. You must let me persuade you--
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_conciliatory._] I shall make a point of informing your
+family that you are in no way to blame in the matter. And in the event
+of any personal legal difficulties I shall always be delighted to come
+to you. My idea is for the future to employ merely a financial agent--
+
+EDWARD. [_still quite unstrung really, and his nerves betraying him._]
+If you had made up your mind before my father died to do this, you ought
+to have told =him=.
+
+MR. BOOTH. Please allow me to know my own business best. I did not
+choose to distress him by--
+
+EDWARD. [_pulling himself together: speaking half to himself._] Well . .
+well . . this is one way out. And it's not my fault.
+
+MR. BOOTH. You're making a fearful fuss about a very simple matter,
+Edward. The loss of one client, however important he may be . . Why,
+this is one of the best family practices in London. I am surprised at
+your lack of dignity.
+
+EDWARD _yields smilingly to this assertiveness_.
+
+EDWARD. True . . I have no dignity. Will you walk off with your papers
+now?
+
+MR. BOOTH. What notice is usual?
+
+EDWARD. To a good solicitor, five minutes. Ten to a poor one.
+
+MR. BOOTH. You'll have to explain matters a bit to me.
+
+_Now_ EDWARD _settles to his desk again; really with a certain grim
+enjoyment of the prospect_.
+
+EDWARD. Yes, I had better. Well, Mr. Booth, how much do you think you're
+worth?
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_easily._] I couldn't say off hand.
+
+EDWARD. But you've a rough idea?
+
+MR. BOOTH. To be sure.
+
+EDWARD. You'll get not quite half that out of us.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_precisely._] I think I said I had made up my mind to
+withdraw the whole amount.
+
+EDWARD. You should have made up your mind sooner.
+
+MR. BOOTH. I don't in the least understand you, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. A great part of your capital doesn't exist.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_with some irritation._] Nonsense, it must exist. [_He
+scans_ EDWARD'S _set face in vain_.] You mean that it won't be prudent
+to realise? You can hand over the securities. I don't want to reinvest
+simply because--
+
+EDWARD. I can't hand over what I haven't got.
+
+_This sentence falls on the old man's ears like a knell._
+
+MR. BOOTH. Is anything . . =wrong=?
+
+EDWARD. [_grim and patient._] How many more times am I to say that we
+have robbed you of nearly half your property?
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_his senses failing him._] Say that again.
+
+EDWARD. It's quite true.
+
+MR. BOOTH. My money . . =gone=?
+
+EDWARD. Yes.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_clutching at a straw of anger._] You've been the thief . .
+you . . you . . ?
+
+EDWARD. I wouldn't tell you if I could help it . . my father.
+
+_That actually calls the old man back to something like dignity and
+self-possession. He thumps on_ EDWARD'S _table furiously_.
+
+MR. BOOTH. I'll make you prove that.
+
+_And now_ EDWARD _buries his face in his arms and just goes off into
+hysterics_.
+
+EDWARD. Oh, you've fired a mine!
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_scolding him well._] Slandering your dead father . . and
+lying to me, revenging yourself by frightening me . . because I detest
+you.
+
+EDWARD. Why . . haven't I thanked you for putting an end to all my
+troubles? I do . . I promise you I do.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_shouting, and his sudden courage failing as he shouts._]
+Prove this . . prove it to me! I'm not to be frightened so easily. One
+can't lose half of all one has and then be told of it in two minutes . .
+sitting at a table. [_his voice tails off to a piteous whimper._]
+
+EDWARD. [_quietly now and kindly._] If my father had told you this in
+plain words you'd have believed him.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_bowing his head._] Yes.
+
+EDWARD _looks at the poor old thing with great pity_.
+
+EDWARD. What on earth did you want to withdraw your account for? You
+need never have known . . you could have died happy. Settling with all
+those charities in your will would certainly have smashed us up. But
+proving your will is many years off yet we'll hope.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_pathetic and bewildered._] I don't understand. No, I don't
+understand . . because your father . . But I =must= understand, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. Don't shock yourself trying to understand my father, for you
+never will. Pull yourself together, Mr. Booth. After all, this isn't a
+vital matter to you. It's not even as if you had a family to consider . .
+like some of the others.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_vaguely._] What others?
+
+EDWARD. Don't imagine your money has been specially selected for
+pilfering.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_with solemn incredulity._] One has read of this sort of
+thing but . . I thought people always got found out.
+
+EDWARD. [_brutally humorous._] Well . . we are found out. You've found
+us out.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_rising to the full appreciation of his wrongs._] Oh . .
+I've been foully cheated!
+
+EDWARD. [_patiently._] I've told you so.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_his voice breaks, he appeals pitifully._] But by you,
+Edward . . say it's by you.
+
+EDWARD. [_unable to resist his quiet revenge._] I've not the ability or
+the personality for such work, Mr. Booth . . nothing but principles,
+which forbid me even to lie to you.
+
+_The old gentleman draws a long breath and then speaks with great awe,
+blending into grief._
+
+MR. BOOTH. I think your father is in Hell . . I'd have gone there myself
+to save him from it. I loved him very truly. How he could have had the
+heart! We were friends for nearly fifty years. Am I to think now he only
+cared for me to cheat me?
+
+EDWARD. [_venturing the comfort of an explanation._] No . . he didn't
+value money as you do.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_with sudden shrill logic._] But he took it. What d'you mean
+by that?
+
+EDWARD _leans back in his chair and changes the tenor of their talk_.
+
+EDWARD. Well, you're master of the situation now. What are you going to
+do?
+
+MR. BOOTH. To get my money back?
+
+EDWARD. No, that's gone.
+
+MR. BOOTH. Then give me what's left and--
+
+EDWARD. Are you going to prosecute?
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_shifting uneasily in his chair._] Oh, dear . . is that
+necessary? Can't somebody else do that? I thought the Law--
+
+EDWARD. You need not prosecute, you know.
+
+MR. BOOTH. What'll happen if I don't.
+
+EDWARD. What do you suppose I'm doing here now?
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_as if he were being asked a riddle._] I don't know.
+
+EDWARD. [_earnestly._] I'm trying to straighten things a little. I'm
+trying to undo what my father did . . to do again what he undid. It's a
+poor dull sort of work now . . throwing penny after penny hardly earned
+into the pit of our deficit. But I've been doing that for what it's
+worth in the time that was left to me . . till this should happen. I
+never thought you'd bring it to pass. I can continue to do that if you
+choose . . until the next smash comes. I'm pleased to call this my duty.
+[_He searches_ MR. BOOTH'S _face and finds there only disbelief and
+fear. He bursts out._] Oh, why won't you believe me? It can't hurt you
+to believe it.
+
+MR. BOOTH. You must admit, Edward, it isn't easy to believe anything in
+this office . . just for the moment.
+
+EDWARD. [_bowing to the extreme reasonableness of this._] I suppose not.
+I can prove it to you. I'll take you through the books . . you won't
+understand them . . but I could prove it.
+
+MR. BOOTH. I think I'd rather not. D'you think I ought to hold any
+further communication with you at all? [_and at this he takes his hat._]
+
+EDWARD. [_with a little explosion of contemptuous anger._] Certainly
+not. Prosecute . . prosecute!
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_with dignity._] Don't lose your temper. You know it's my
+place to be angry with you.
+
+EDWARD. I beg your pardon. [_then he is elaborately explanatory._] I
+shall be =grateful= if you'll prosecute.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_more puzzled than ever._] There's something in this which I
+don't understand.
+
+EDWARD. [_with deliberate unconcern._] Think it over.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_hesitating, fidgetting._] But surely I oughtn't to have to
+make up my mind! There must be a right or a wrong thing to do. Edward,
+can't =you= tell me?
+
+EDWARD. I'm prejudiced.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_angrily._] What do you mean by placing me in a dilemma? I
+believe you're simply trying to practise upon my goodness of heart.
+Certainly I ought to prosecute at once . . Oughtn't I? [_then at the
+nadir of helplessness._] Can't I consult another solicitor?
+
+EDWARD. [_his chin in the air._] Write to the Times about it!
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_shocked and grieved at his attitude._] Edward, how can you
+be so cool and heartless?
+
+EDWARD. [_changing his tone._] D'you think I shan't be glad to sleep at
+nights?
+
+MR. BOOTH. Perhaps you'll be put in prison?
+
+EDWARD. I =am= in prison . . a less pleasant one than Wormwood Scrubbs.
+But we're all prisoners, Mr. Booth.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_wagging his head._] Yes, this is what comes of your
+philosophy. Why aren't you on your knees?
+
+EDWARD. To you?
+
+_This was not what_ MR. BOOTH _meant, but as he gets up from his chair
+he feels all but mighty_.
+
+MR. BOOTH. And why should you expect me to shrink from vindicating the
+law?
+
+EDWARD. [_shortly._] I don't. I've explained you'll be doing me a
+kindness. When I'm wanted you'll find me here at my desk. [_then as an
+afterthought._] If you take long to decide . . don't alter your
+behaviour to my family in the meantime. They know the main points of the
+business and--
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_knocked right off his balance._] Do they! Good God! . . I'm
+invited to dinner the day after to-morrow . . that's Christmas Eve. The
+hypocrites!
+
+EDWARD. [_unmoved._] I shall be there . . that will have given you two
+days. Will you tell me then?
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_protesting violently._] I can't go to dinner . . I can't
+eat with them. I must be ill.
+
+EDWARD. [_with a half smile._] I remember I went to dinner at
+Chislehurst to tell my father of my decision.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_testily._] What decision?
+
+EDWARD. To remain in the firm when I first knew of the difficulties.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_interested._] Was I present?
+
+EDWARD. I daresay.
+
+MR. BOOTH _stands there, hat, stick and gloves in hand, shaken by this
+experience, helpless, at his wits' end. He falls into a sort of fretful
+reverie, speaking half to himself but yet as if he hoped that_ EDWARD,
+_who is wrapped in his own thoughts, would have the decency to answer,
+or at least listen, to what he is saying_.
+
+MR. BOOTH. Yes, how often I dined with him. Oh, it was monstrous! [_his
+eyes fall on the clock._] It's nearly lunch time now. Do you know I
+still can hardly believe all this? I wish I hadn't found it out. If he
+hadn't died I should never have found it out. I hate to have to be
+vindictive . . it's not my nature. Indeed I'm sure I'm more grieved than
+angry. But it isn't as if it were a small sum. And I don't see that one
+is called upon to forgive crimes . . or why does the Law exist? I feel
+that this will go near to killing me. I'm too old to have such troubles
+. . it isn't right. And now if I have to prosecute--
+
+EDWARD. [_at last throwing in a word._] You need not.
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_thankful for the provocation._] Don't you attempt to
+influence me, sir.
+
+_He turns to go._
+
+EDWARD. With the money you have left. . .
+
+EDWARD _follows him politely_. MR. BOOTH _flings the door open_.
+
+MR. BOOTH. Make out a cheque for that at once and send it me.
+
+EDWARD. You could . . .
+
+MR. BOOTH. [_clapping his hat on, stamping his stick._] I shall do the
+right thing, sir, never fear.
+
+_So he marches off in fine style, having, he thinks, had the last word
+and all. But_ EDWARD _closing the door after him, mutters_ . .
+
+EDWARD. . . Save your soul! . . I'm afraid I was going to say.
+
+
+
+
+                              THE FIFTH ACT
+
+
+_Naturally it is the dining room--consecrated as it is to the
+distinguishing orgie of the season--which bears the brunt of what an
+English household knows as Christmas decorations. They consist chiefly
+of the branches of holly (that unyielding tree), stuck cock-eyed behind
+the top edges of the pictures. The one picture conspicuously not
+decorated is that which now hangs over the fireplace, a portrait of_ MR.
+VOYSEY, _with its new gilt frame and its brassplate marking it also as a
+presentation_. HONOR, _hastily and at some bodily peril, pulled down the
+large bunch of mistletoe, which a callous housemaid had suspended above
+it, in time to obviate the shock to family feelings which such
+impropriety would cause. Otherwise the only difference between the
+dining room's appearance at half past nine on Christmas eve and on any
+other evening in the year is that little piles of queer shaped envelopes
+seem to be lying about, while there is quite a lot of tissue paper and
+string to be seen peeping from odd corners. The electric light is
+reduced to one bulb, but when the maid opens the door showing in_ MR.
+GEORGE BOOTH _she switches on the rest_.
+
+PHOEBE. This room is empty, sir. I'll tell Mr. Edward.
+
+_She leaves him to fidget towards the fireplace and back, not removing
+his comforter or his coat, scarcely turning down the collar, screwing
+his cap in his hands. In a very short time_ EDWARD _comes in, shutting
+the door and taking stock of the visitor before he speaks_.
+
+EDWARD. Well?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feebly._] I hope my excuse for not coming to dinner
+was acceptable. I did have . . I have a very bad headache.
+
+EDWARD. I daresay they believed it.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I have come immediately to tell you of my decision . .
+perhaps this trouble will then be a little more off my mind.
+
+EDWARD. What is it?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I couldn't think the matter out alone. I went this
+afternoon to talk it all over with my old friend Colpus. [_at this news_
+EDWARD'S _eyebrows contract and then rise_.] What a terrible shock to
+him!
+
+EDWARD. Oh, nearly three of his four thousand pounds are quite safe.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. That you and your father . . you, whom he baptised . .
+should have robbed him! I never saw a man so utterly prostrate with
+grief. That it should have been your father! And his poor wife! . .
+though she never got on with your father.
+
+EDWARD. [_with cheerful irony._] Oh, Mrs. Colpus knows too, does she?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Of course he told Mrs. Colpus. This is an unfortunate
+time for the storm to break on him. What with Christmas Day and Sunday
+following so close they're as busy as can be. He has resolved that
+during this season of peace and goodwill he must put the matter from him
+if he can. But once Christmas is over . . ! [_he envisages the Christian
+old vicar giving_ EDWARD _a hell of a time then_.]
+
+EDWARD. [_coolly._] So I conclude you mean to prosecute. For if you
+don't, you've given the Colpuses a lot of unnecessary pain . . and
+inflicted a certain amount of loss by telling them.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_naively._] I never thought of that. No, Edward, I
+have decided not to prosecute.
+
+EDWARD _hides his face for a moment_.
+
+EDWARD. And I've been hoping to escape! Well . . it can't be helped
+[_and he sets his teeth_.]
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with touching solemnity._] I think I could not bear
+to see the family I have loved brought to such disgrace.
+
+EDWARD. So you'll compound my felony?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_a little nervous._] That's only your joke!
+
+EDWARD. You'll come to no harm.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. On the contrary. And I want to ask your pardon,
+Edward, for some of the hard thoughts I have had of you. I consider this
+effort of yours to restore to the firm the credit which your father lost
+a very striking one. What improvements have you effected so far?
+
+EDWARD. [_wondering what is coming now._] I took the money that my
+father left . .
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. And I suppose you take the ordinary profits of the
+firm?
+
+EDWARD. Yes. It costs me very little to live.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Do you restore to the clients all round in proportion
+to the amount they have lost?
+
+EDWARD. [_cautiously._] That's the law.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. D'you think that's quite fair?
+
+EDWARD. No, I don't.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, I consider the treachery to have been blacker in
+some cases than in others.
+
+EDWARD. [_his face brightening a little._] Are you going to help me in
+this work of mine?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Surely by consenting not to prosecute I am doing so.
+
+EDWARD. Will you do no more?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, as far as my own money is concerned, this is my
+proposal. [_he coughs and proceeds very formally._] Considering how
+absolutely I trusted your father and believed in him, I think you
+should at once return me the balance of my capital that there is left.
+
+EDWARD. [_cold again._] That is being done.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Good. That you should continue to pay me a fair
+interest upon the rest of that capital, which ought to exist and does
+not. And that you should, year by year, pay me back by degrees out of
+the earnings of the firm as much of that capital as you can afford. We
+will agree upon the sum . . say a thousand a year. I doubt if you can
+ever restore me all that I have lost, but do your best and I shan't
+complain. There . . I think that is fair dealing!
+
+EDWARD _does not take his eyes off_ MR. BOOTH _until the whole meaning
+of this proposition has settled in his brain. Then, without warning, he
+goes off into peals of laughter, much to the alarm of_ MR. BOOTH, _who
+has never thought him over-sane_.
+
+EDWARD. How funny! How very funny!
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, don't laugh.
+
+EDWARD. I never heard anything quite so funny!
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, stop laughing.
+
+EDWARD. What will Colpus . . what will all the other Christian gentlemen
+demand? Pounds of flesh! Pounds of flesh!
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Don't be hysterical. I demand what is mine . . in such
+quantities as you can afford.
+
+EDWARD'S _laughter gives way to the deepest anger of which he is
+capable_.
+
+EDWARD. I'm giving my soul and body to restoring you and the rest of you
+to your precious money bags . . and you'll wring me dry. Won't you?
+Won't you?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now be reasonable. Argue the point quietly.
+
+EDWARD. Go to the devil, sir.
+
+_And with that he turns away from the flabbergasted old gentleman._
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Don't be rude.
+
+EDWARD. [_his anger vanishing._] I beg your pardon.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You're excited. Take time to think of it. I'm
+reasonable.
+
+EDWARD. [_his sense of humour returning._] Most! Most! [_There is a
+knock at the door._] Come in. Come in.
+
+HONOR _intrudes an apologetic head_.
+
+HONOR. Am I interrupting business? I'm so sorry.
+
+EDWARD. [_crowing in a mirthless enjoyment of his joke._] No! Business
+is over . . quite over. Come in, Honor.
+
+HONOR _puts on the table a market basket bulging with little paper
+parcels, and, oblivious to_ MR. BOOTH'S _distracted face, tries to fix
+his attention_.
+
+HONOR. I thought, dear Mr. Booth, perhaps you wouldn't mind carrying
+round this basket of things yourself. It's so very damp underfoot that I
+don't want to send one of the maids out to-night if I can possibly avoid
+it . . and if one doesn't get Christmas presents the very first thing on
+Christmas morning quite half the pleasure in them is lost, don't you
+think?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Yes . . yes.
+
+HONOR. [_fishing out the parcels one by one._] This is a bell for Mrs.
+Williams . . something she said she wanted so that you can ring that for
+her which saves the maids. Cap and apron for Mary. Cap and apron for
+Ellen. Shawl for Davis when she goes out to the larder. All useful
+presents. And that's something for you but you're not to look at it till
+the morning.
+
+_Having shaken each of these at the old gentleman, she proceeds to
+re-pack them. He is now trembling with anxiety to escape before any more
+of the family find him there._
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you . . thank you! I hope my lot has arrived. I
+left instructions . .
+
+HONOR. Quite safely . . and I have hidden them. Presents are put on the
+breakfast table to-morrow.
+
+EDWARD. [_with an inconsequence that still further alarms_ MR. BOOTH.]
+When we were all children our Christmas breakfast was mostly made off
+chocolates.
+
+_Before the basket is packed_, MRS. VOYSEY _sails slowly into the room,
+as smiling and as deaf as ever_. MR. BOOTH _does his best not to scowl
+at her_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Are you feeling better, George Booth?
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. [_then he elevates his voice with a show of
+politeness._] No, thank you . . I can't say I am.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. You don't look better.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I still have my headache. [_with a distracted shout._]
+Headache.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Bilious, perhaps! I quite understood you didn't care to
+dine. But why not have taken your coat off? How foolish in this warm
+room!
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you. I'm just going.
+
+_He seizes the market basket. At that moment_ MRS. HUGH _appears_.
+
+BEATRICE. Your shawl, mother. [_and she clasps it round_ MRS. VOYSEY'S
+_shoulders_.]
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you, Beatrice. I thought I had it on. [_then to_ MR.
+BOOTH _who is now entangled in his comforter_.] A merry Christmas to
+you.
+
+BEATRICE. Good evening, Mr. Booth.
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I beg your pardon. Good evening, Mrs. Hugh.
+
+HONOR. [_with sudden inspiration, to the company in general._] Why
+shouldn't I write in here . . now the table's cleared!
+
+MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_sternly, now he is safe by the door._] Will you see
+me out, Edward?
+
+EDWARD. Yes.
+
+_He follows the old man and his basket, leaving the others to distribute
+themselves about the room. It is a custom of the female members of the_
+VOYSEY _family, especially about Christmas time, to return to the
+dining room, when the table has been cleared and occupy themselves in
+various ways which require space and untidiness. Sometimes as the
+evening wears on they partake of cocoa, sometimes they abstain._
+BEATRICE _has a little work-basket, containing a buttonless glove and
+such things, which she is rectifying_. HONOR'S _writing is done with the
+aid of an enormous blotting book, which bulges with apparently a year's
+correspondence. She sheds its contents upon the end of the dining table
+and spreads them abroad._ MRS. VOYSEY _settles to the fire, opens the
+Nineteenth Century and is instantly absorbed in it_.
+
+BEATRICE. Where's Emily?
+
+HONOR. [_mysteriously._] Well, Beatrice, she's in the library talking to
+Booth.
+
+BEATRICE. Talking to her husband; good Heavens! I know she has taken my
+scissors.
+
+HONOR. I think she's telling him about you.
+
+BEATRICE. What about me?
+
+HONOR. You and Hugh.
+
+BEATRICE. [_with a little movement of annoyance._] I suppose this is
+Hugh's fault. It was carefully arranged no one was to be told till after
+Christmas.
+
+HONOR. Emily told me . . and Edward knows . . and Mother knows . .
+
+BEATRICE. I warned Mother a year ago.
+
+HONOR. Everyone seems to know but Booth . . so I thought he'd better be
+told. I suggested one night so that he might have time to think over it
+. . but Emily said that'd wake Alfred. Besides she's nearly always
+asleep herself when he comes to bed.
+
+BEATRICE. Why do they still have that baby in their room?
+
+HONOR. Emily considers it her duty.
+
+_At this moment_ EMILY _comes in, looking rather trodden upon_. HONOR
+_concludes in the most audible of whispers_ . .
+
+HONOR. Don't say anything . . it's my fault.
+
+BEATRICE. [_fixing her with a severe forefinger._] Emily . . have you
+taken my best scissors?
+
+EMILY. [_timidly._] No, Beatrice.
+
+HONOR. [_who is diving into the recesses of the blotting book._] Oh,
+here they are! I must have taken them. I do apologise!
+
+EMILY. [_more timidly still._] I'm afraid Booth's rather cross . . he's
+gone to look for Hugh.
+
+BEATRICE. [_with a shake of her head._] Honor . . I've a good mind to
+make you sew on these buttons for me.
+
+_In comes the Major, strepitant. He takes, so to speak, just time enough
+to train himself on_ BEATRICE _and then fires_.
+
+BOOTH. Beatrice, what on earth is this Emily has been telling me?
+
+BEATRICE. [_with elaborate calm._] Emily, what have you been telling
+Booth?
+
+BOOTH. Please . . please do not prevaricate. Where is Hugh?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_looking over her spectacles._] What did you say, Booth?
+
+BOOTH. I want Hugh, Mother.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. I thought you were playing billiards together.
+
+EDWARD _strolls back from despatching_ MR. BOOTH, _his face thoughtful_.
+
+BOOTH. [_insistently._] Edward, where is Hugh?
+
+EDWARD. [_with complete indifference._] I don't know.
+
+BOOTH. [_in trumpet tones._] Honor, will you oblige me by finding Hugh
+and saying I wish to speak to him, here, immediately?
+
+HONOR, _who has leapt at the sound of her name, flies from the room
+without a word_.
+
+BEATRICE. I know quite well what you want to talk about, Booth. Discuss
+the matter by all means if it amuses you . . but don't shout.
+
+BOOTH. I use the voice Nature has gifted me with, Beatrice.
+
+BEATRICE. [_as she searches for a glove button._] Certainly Nature did
+let herself go over your lungs.
+
+BOOTH. [_glaring round with indignation._] This is a family matter,
+otherwise I should not feel it my duty to interfere . . as I do. Any
+member of the family has a right to express an opinion. I want Mother's.
+Mother, what do you think?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_amicably._] What about?
+
+BOOTH. Hugh and Beatrice separating.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. They haven't separated.
+
+BOOTH. But they mean to.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Fiddle-de-dee!
+
+BOOTH. I quite agree with you.
+
+BEATRICE. [_with a charming smile._] This reasoning would convert a
+stone.
+
+BOOTH. Why have I not been told?
+
+BEATRICE. You have just been told.
+
+BOOTH. [_thunderously._] Before.
+
+BEATRICE. The truth is, dear Booth, we're all so afraid of you.
+
+BOOTH. [_a little mollified._] Ha . . I should be glad to think that.
+
+BEATRICE. [_sweetly._] Don't you?
+
+BOOTH. [_intensely serious._] Beatrice, your callousness shocks me! That
+you can dream of deserting Hugh . . a man of all others who requires
+constant care and attention.
+
+BEATRICE. May I remark that the separation is as much Hugh's wish as
+mine?
+
+BOOTH. I don't believe that.
+
+BEATRICE. [_her eyebrows up._] Really!
+
+BOOTH. I don't imply that you're lying. But you must know that it's
+Hugh's nature to wish to do anything that he thinks anybody wishes him
+to do. All my life I've had to stand up for him . . and by Jove, I'll
+continue to do so.
+
+EDWARD. [_from the depths of his armchair._] If you'd taught him to
+stand up for himself--
+
+_The door is flung almost off its hinges by_ HUGH _who then stands
+stamping and pale green with rage_.
+
+HUGH. Look here, Booth . . I will not have you interfering with my
+private affairs. Is one never to be free from your bullying?
+
+BOOTH. You ought to be grateful.
+
+HUGH. Well, I'm not.
+
+BOOTH. This is a family affair.
+
+HUGH. It is not!
+
+BOOTH. [_at the top of his voice._] If all you can do is to contradict
+me, you'd better listen to what I've got to say . . quietly.
+
+HUGH, _quite shouted down, flings himself petulantly into a chair. A
+hush falls._
+
+EMILY. [_in a still small voice._] Would you like me to go, Booth?
+
+BOOTH. [_severely._] No, Emily. Unless anything has been going on which
+cannot be discussed before you . . [_then more severely still._] and I
+hope that is not so.
+
+HUGH. [_muttering rebelliously._] Oh, you have the mind of a . . cheap
+schoolmaster!
+
+BOOTH. Why do you wish to separate?
+
+HUGH. What's the use of telling you? You won't understand.
+
+BEATRICE. [_who sews on undisturbed._] We don't get on well together.
+
+BOOTH. [_amazedly._] Is that all?
+
+HUGH. [_snapping at him._] Yes, that's all. Can you find a better
+reason?
+
+BOOTH. [_with brotherly contempt._] I have given up expecting common
+sense from you. But Beatrice--! [_his tone implores her to be
+reasonable._]
+
+BEATRICE. It doesn't seem to me any sort of sense that people should
+live together for purposes of mutual irritation.
+
+BOOTH. [_protesting._] My dear girl! . . that sounds like a quotation
+from your last book.
+
+BEATRICE. It isn't. I do think, Booth, you might read that book . . for
+the honour of the Family.
+
+BOOTH. [_successfully side-tracked. ._ ] I have bought it, Beatrice,
+and--
+
+BEATRICE. That's the principal thing, of course--
+
+BOOTH. [_. . and discovering it._] But do let us keep to the subject.
+
+BEATRICE. [_with flattering sincerity._] Certainly, Booth. And there is
+hardly any subject that I wouldn't ask your advice about. But upon this
+. . do let me know better. Hugh and I will be happier apart.
+
+BOOTH. [_obstinately._] Why?
+
+BEATRICE. [_with resolute patience, having vented a little sigh._] Hugh
+finds that my opinions distress him. And I have at last lost patience
+with Hugh.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has been trying to follow this through her
+spectacles._] What does Beatrice say?
+
+BOOTH. [_translating into a loud sing-song._] That she wishes to leave
+her husband because she has lost patience!
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_with considerable acrimony._] Then you must be a very
+ill-tempered woman. Hugh has a sweet nature.
+
+HUGH. [_shouting self-consciously._] Nonsense, mother.
+
+BEATRICE. [_shouting good-humouredly._] I quite agree with you, mother.
+[_she continues to her husband in an even just tone._] You have a sweet
+nature, Hugh, and it is most difficult to get angry with you. I have
+been seven years working up to it. But now that I am angry, I shall
+never get pleased again.
+
+_The Major returns to his subject, refreshed by a moment's repose._
+
+BOOTH. How has he failed in his duty? Tell us. I'm not bigoted in his
+favour. I know your faults, Hugh.
+
+_He wags his head at_ HUGH, _who writhes with irritation_.
+
+HUGH. Why can't you leave them alone . . leave us alone?
+
+BEATRICE. I'd state my case against Hugh, if I thought he'd retaliate.
+
+HUGH. [_desperately rounding on his brother._] If I tell you, you won't
+understand. You understand nothing! Beatrice is angry with me because I
+won't prostitute my art to make money.
+
+BOOTH. [_glancing at his wife._] Please don't use metaphors of that
+sort.
+
+BEATRICE. [_reasonably._] Yes, I think Hugh ought to earn more money.
+
+BOOTH. [_quite pleased to be getting along at last._] Well, why doesn't
+he?
+
+HUGH. I don't want money.
+
+BOOTH. You can't say you don't want money any more than you can say you
+don't want bread.
+
+BEATRICE. [_as she breaks off her cotton._] It's when one has known what
+it is to be a little short of both . .
+
+_Now the Major spreads himself and begins to be very wise, while_ HUGH,
+_to whom this is more intolerable than all, can only clutch his hair_.
+
+BOOTH. You know I never considered Art a very good profession for you,
+Hugh. And you won't even stick to one department of it. It's a
+profession that gets people into very bad habits, I consider. Couldn't
+you take up something else? You could still do those wood-cuts in your
+spare time to amuse yourself.
+
+HUGH. [_commenting on this with two deliberate shouts of simulated
+mirth._] Ha! Ha!
+
+BOOTH. [_sublimely superior._] Well, it wouldn't much matter if you
+didn't do them at all!
+
+BEATRICE. [_subtly._] Booth, there speaks the true critic.
+
+BOOTH. [_deprecating any title to omniscience._] Well, I don't pretend
+to know much about Art but--
+
+HUGH. It would matter to me. There speaks the artist.
+
+BEATRICE. The arrogance of the artist!
+
+HUGH. We have a right to be arrogant.
+
+BEATRICE. Good workmen are humble.
+
+HUGH. And look to their wages.
+
+BEATRICE. Well, I'm only a workman.
+
+_With that she breaks the contact of this quiet deadly hopeless little
+quarrel by turning her head away. The Major, who has given it most
+friendly attention, comments . ._
+
+BOOTH. Of course! Quite so! I'm sure all that is a very interesting
+difference of opinion.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY _leaves her armchair for her favourite station at the dining
+table_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Booth is the only one of you that I can hear at all
+distinctly. But if you two foolish young people think you want to
+separate . . try it. You'll soon come back to each other and be glad to.
+People can't fight against Nature for long. And marriage is a natural
+state . . once you're married.
+
+BOOTH. [_with intense approval._] Quite right, Mother.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. I know.
+
+_She resumes the Nineteenth Century. The Major, to the despair of
+everybody, makes yet another start; trying oratory this time._
+
+BOOTH. My own opinion is, Beatrice and Hugh, that you don't realise the
+meaning of the word marriage. I don't call myself a religious man . .
+but dash it all, you were married in church! . . And you then entered
+upon an awful compact! . . Surely . . as a woman, Beatrice . . the
+religious point of it ought to appeal to you. Good Lord, suppose
+everybody were to carry on like this! And have you considered, Beatrice,
+that . . whether you're right or whether you're wrong . . if you desert
+Hugh, you cut yourself off from the Family.
+
+BEATRICE. [_with the sweetest of smiles._] That will distress me
+terribly.
+
+BOOTH. [_not doubting her for a moment._] Of course.
+
+HUGH _flings up his head and finds relief at last in many words_.
+
+HUGH. I wish to Heaven I'd ever been able to cut myself off from the
+family! Look at Trenchard.
+
+BOOTH. [_gobbling a little at this unexpected attack._] I do not forgive
+Trenchard for quarreling with and deserting our father.
+
+HUGH. Trenchard quarreled because that was his only way of escape.
+
+BOOTH. Escape from what?
+
+HUGH. From tyranny! . . from hypocrisy! . . from boredom! . . from his
+Happy English Home!
+
+BEATRICE. [_kindly._] Hugh . . Hugh . . it's no use.
+
+BOOTH. [_attempting sarcasm._] Speak so that Mother can hear you!
+
+_But_ HUGH _isn't to be stopped now_.
+
+HUGH. Why are we all dull, cubbish, uneducated, hopelessly middle-class
+. . that is hopelessly out of date.
+
+BOOTH. [_taking this as very personal._] Cubbish!
+
+HUGH. . . Because it's the middle-class ideal that you should respect
+your parents . . live with them . . think with them . . grow like them.
+Natural affection and gratitude! That's what's expected, isn't it?
+
+BOOTH. [_not to be obliterated._] Certainly.
+
+HUGH. Keep your children ignorant of all that you don't know, penniless
+except for your good pleasure, dependent on you for permission to
+breathe freely . . and be sure that their gratitude will be most
+disinterested, and affection very natural. If your father's a drunkard
+or poor; then perhaps you get free and can form an opinion or two of
+your own . . and can love him or hate him as he deserves. But our father
+and mother were models. They did their duty by us . . and taught us
+ours. Trenchard escaped, as I say. You took to the Army . . so of course
+you've never discovered how behind the times you are. [_the Major is
+stupent._] I tried to express myself in art . . and found there was
+nothing to express . . I'd been so well brought up. D'you blame me if I
+wander about in search of a soul of some sort? And Honor--
+
+BOOTH. [_disputing savagely._] Honor is very happy at home. Everyone
+loves her.
+
+HUGH. [_with fierce sarcasm._] Yes . . what do we call her? Mother's
+right hand! I wonder they bothered to give her a name. By the time
+little Ethel came they were tired of training children . . [_his voice
+loses its sting; he doesn't complete this sentence._]
+
+BEATRICE. Poor little Ethel . .
+
+BOOTH. Poor Ethel!
+
+_They speak as one speaks of the dead, and so the wrangling stops. Then_
+EDWARD _interposes quietly_.
+
+EDWARD. Yes, Hugh, if we'd been poor . .
+
+HUGH. I haven't spoken of your fate, Edward. That's too shameful.
+
+EDWARD. . . We should at least have learnt how to spend money.
+
+BOOTH. [_pathetically._] Really, Edward, need you attack me?
+
+HUGH. Well . . you're so proud of representing the family!
+
+BOOTH. And may I ask what we're discussing now?
+
+BEATRICE. Yes, Edward. I knew how to get the greatest possible
+happiness out of a five pound note years before I had one.
+
+EDWARD. The first man who saved a sovereign has made a prisoner of me.
+
+BOOTH. [_determined to capture the conversation again._] Has made a . . ?
+
+EDWARD. Will make . . if you understand that better, Booth.
+
+BOOTH. I don't understand it at all. [_they leave him the field._] And
+why for no earthly reason we must suddenly open up a--a street, which is
+very painful . . I really cannot see. One never knows who may be
+listening. [_he glances most uneasily towards the door and drops his
+voice._] In that unhappy business, Edward, you very wisely did what we
+all felt to be your duty. I'm sure we all hope you have succeeded in
+your endeavours. But the least we can do now in respect to our poor
+father's memory is to bury the matter in--in decent oblivion. And please
+. . please don't talk of prison. I thought you'd given up that idea long
+ago. [_having dismissed that subject unopposed, he takes a long
+breath._] Now we will return to the original subject of discussion.
+Hugh, this question of a separation--
+
+_Past all patience_, HUGH _jumps up and flings his chair back to its
+place_.
+
+HUGH. Beatrice and I mean to separate. And nothing you may say will
+prevent us. The only difficulty in the way is money. Can we command
+enough to live apart comfortably?
+
+BOOTH. Well?
+
+HUGH. Well . . we can't.
+
+BOOTH. Well?
+
+HUGH. So we can't separate.
+
+BOOTH. [_speaking with bewilderment._] Then what in Heaven's name have
+we been discussing it for?
+
+HUGH. I haven't discussed it! I don't want to discuss it! Why can't you
+mind your own business? Now I'll go back to the billiard room and my
+book.
+
+_He is gone before the poor Major can recover his lost breath._
+
+BOOTH. [_as he does recover it._] I am not an impatient man . . but
+really . . [_and then words fail him._]
+
+BEATRICE. [_commenting calmly._] Of course Hugh was a spoilt child. They
+grow to hate their parents sooner than others. He still cries for what
+he wants. That makes him a wearisome companion.
+
+BOOTH. [_very sulky now._] You married him with your eyes open, I
+suppose?
+
+BEATRICE. How few women marry with their eyes open!
+
+BOOTH. You have never made the best of Hugh.
+
+BEATRICE. I have spared him that indignity.
+
+BOOTH. [_vindictively._] I am very glad that you can't separate.
+
+BEATRICE. As soon as I'm reasonably sure of earning an income I shall
+walk off from him.
+
+_The Major revives._
+
+BOOTH. You will do nothing of the sort, Beatrice.
+
+BEATRICE. [_unruffled._] How will you stop me, Booth?
+
+BOOTH. I shall tell Hugh he must command you to stay.
+
+BEATRICE. [_with a little smile._] Now that might make a difference. It
+was one of the illusions of my girlhood that I should love a man who
+would master me.
+
+BOOTH. Hugh must assert himself.
+
+_He begins to walk about, giving some indication of how it should be
+done._ BEATRICE'S _smile has vanished_.
+
+BEATRICE. Don't think I've enjoyed taking the lead in everything
+throughout my married life. But someone had to plan and scheme and be
+foreseeing . . we weren't sparrows or lilies of the field . . someone
+had to get up and do something. [_she becomes conscious of his
+strutting and smiles rather mischievously._] Ah . . if I'd married you,
+Booth!
+
+BOOTH'S _face grows beatific_.
+
+BOOTH. Well, I must own to thinking that I am a masterful man . . that
+is the duty of every man to be so. [_he adds forgivingly._] Poor old
+Hugh!
+
+BEATRICE. [_unable to resist temptation._] If I'd tried to leave you,
+Booth, you'd have whipped me . . wouldn't you?
+
+BOOTH. [_ecstatically complacent._] Ha . . well . . !
+
+BEATRICE. Do say yes. Think how it'll frighten Emily.
+
+_The Major strokes his moustache and is most friendly._
+
+BOOTH. Hugh's been a worry to me all my life. And now as Head of the
+Family . . Well, I suppose I'd better go and give the dear old chap
+another talking to. I quite see your point of view, Beatrice.
+
+BEATRICE. Why disturb him at his book?
+
+MAJOR BOOTH _leaves them, squaring his shoulders as becomes a lord of
+creation. The two sisters-in-law go on with their work silently for a
+moment; then_ BEATRICE _adds_ . .
+
+BEATRICE. Do you find Booth difficult to manage, Emily?
+
+EMILY. [_putting down her knitting to consider the matter._] No. It's
+best to allow him to talk himself out. When he's done that he'll often
+come to me for advice. I let him get his own way as much as possible . .
+or think he's getting it. Otherwise he becomes so depressed.
+
+BEATRICE. [_quietly amused._] Edward shouldn't hear this. What has he to
+do with women's secrets?
+
+EDWARD. I won't tell . . and I'm a bachelor.
+
+EMILY. [_solemnly as she takes up her knitting again._] Do you really
+mean to leave Hugh?
+
+BEATRICE. [_slightly impatient._] Emily, I've said so.
+
+_They are joined by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who comes in gaily_.
+
+ALICE. What's Booth shouting about in the billiard room?
+
+EMILY. [_pained._] On Christmas Eve, too!
+
+BEATRICE. Don't you take any interest in my matrimonial affairs?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY _shuts up the Nineteenth Century and removes her
+spectacles_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. That's a very interesting article. The Chinese Empire must
+be in a shocking state! Is it ten o'clock yet?
+
+EDWARD. Past.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_as_ EDWARD _is behind her_.] Can anyone see the clock?
+
+ALICE. It's past ten, Auntie.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Then I think I'll go to my room.
+
+EMILY. Shall I come and look after you, Mother?
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. If you'd find Honor for me, Emily.
+
+EMILY _goes in search of the harmless necessary_ HONOR _and_ MRS. VOYSEY
+_begins her nightly chant of departure_.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. Good night, Alice. Good night, Edward.
+
+EDWARD. Good night, Mother.
+
+MRS. VOYSEY. [_with sudden severity._] I'm not pleased with you,
+Beatrice.
+
+BEATRICE. I'm sorry, Mother.
+
+_But without waiting to be answered the old lady has sailed out of the
+room._ BEATRICE, EDWARD, _and_ ALICE _are attuned to each other enough
+to be able to talk with ease_.
+
+BEATRICE. Hugh is right about his family. It'll never make any new life
+for itself.
+
+EDWARD. There are Booth's children.
+
+BEATRICE. Poor little devils!
+
+ALICE. [_judicially._] Emily is an excellent mother.
+
+BEATRICE. Yes . . they'll grow up good men and women. And one will go
+into the Army and one into the Navy and one into the Church . . and
+perhaps one to the Devil and the Colonies. They'll serve their country
+and govern it and help to keep it like themselves . . dull and
+respectable . . hopelessly middle-class. [_she puts down her work now
+and elevates an oratorical fist._] Genius and Poverty may exist in
+England, if they'll hide their heads. For show days we've our
+aristocracy. But never let us forget, gentlemen, that it is the plain
+solid middle-class man who has made us . . what we are.
+
+EDWARD. [_in sympathetic derision._] Hear hear . . ! and cries of bravo!
+
+BEATRICE. Now, that is out of my book . . the next one. [_she takes up
+her work again._] You know, Edward . . without wishing to open up
+Painful Streets . . however scandalous it has been, your father left you
+a man's work to do.
+
+EDWARD. [_his face cloudy._] An outlaw's!
+
+BEATRICE. [_whimsical, after a moment._] I meant that. At all events
+you've not had to be your father's right arm . . or the instrument of
+justice . . or a representative of the people . . or anything second
+hand of that sort, have you?
+
+EDWARD. [_with sudden excitement._] Do you know what I discovered the
+other day about [_he nods at the portrait._] . . him?
+
+BEATRICE. [_enquiring calmly._] Innocence or guilt?
+
+EDWARD. He saved his firm once . . that was true. A most capable piece
+of heroism. Then, fifteen years afterwards . . he started again.
+
+BEATRICE. [_greatly interested._] Did he now?
+
+EDWARD. One can't believe it was merely through weakness . .
+
+BEATRICE. [_with artistic enthusiasm._] Of course not. He was a great
+financier . . a man of imagination. He had to find scope for his
+abilities or die. He despised these fat little clients living so snugly
+on their unearned incomes . . and put them and their money to the best
+use he could.
+
+EDWARD. [_shaking his head solemnly._] That's all a fine phrase for
+robbery.
+
+BEATRICE _turns her clever face to him and begins to follow up her
+subject keenly_.
+
+BEATRICE. My dear Edward . . I understand you've been robbing your rich
+clients for the benefit of the poor ones?
+
+ALICE. [_who hasn't missed a word._] That's true.
+
+EDWARD. [_gently._] Well . . we're all a bit in debt to the poor, aren't
+we?
+
+BEATRICE. Quite so. And you don't possess and your father didn't possess
+that innate sense of the sacredness of property . . . [_she enjoys that
+phrase._] which alone can make a truly honest man. Nor did the man
+possess it who picked my pocket last Friday week . . nor does the
+tax-gatherer . . . nor do I. Your father's freedom from prejudice was
+tempered by a taste for Power and Display. Yours is by Charity. But
+that's all the difference I'll admit between you. Robbery! . . it's a
+beautiful word.
+
+EDWARD. [_a little pained by as much of this as he takes to be
+serious._] I think he might have told me the truth.
+
+BEATRICE. Perhaps he didn't know it! Would you have believed him?
+
+EDWARD. Perhaps not. But I loved him.
+
+BEATRICE _looks again at the gentle, earnest face_.
+
+BEATRICE. After as well as before?
+
+EDWARD. Yes. And not from mere force of habit either.
+
+BEATRICE. [_with reverence in her voice now._] That should silence a
+bench of judges. Well . . well . .
+
+_Her sewing finished, she stuffs the things into her basket, gets up in
+her abrupt unconventional way and goes without another word. Her brain
+is busy with the Voysey Inheritance._ EDWARD _and_ ALICE _are left in
+chairs by the fire, facing each other like an old domestic couple_.
+
+EDWARD. Stay and speak to me.
+
+ALICE. I want to. Something more serious has happened since dinner.
+
+EDWARD. I'm glad you can see that.
+
+ALICE. What is it?
+
+EDWARD. [_with sudden exultation._] The smash has come . . and not by my
+fault. Old George Booth--
+
+ALICE. Has he been here?
+
+EDWARD. Can you imagine it? That old man forced me into telling him the
+truth. I told him to take what money of his there was, and prosecute. He
+won't prosecute, but he bargains to take the money . . and further to
+bleed us, sovereign by sovereign, as I earn sovereign by sovereign with
+the sweat of my soul. I'll see him in his Christian Heaven first . . the
+Jew!
+
+ALICE. [_keeping her head._] You can't reason with him?
+
+EDWARD. He thinks he has the whip hand and he means to use it. Also the
+Vicar has been told . . who has told his wife. She knows how not to keep
+a secret. The smash has come at last.
+
+ALICE. So you're glad?
+
+EDWARD. Thankful. My conscience is clear. I've done my best. [_then as
+usual with him, his fervour collapses._] And oh, Alice . . has it been
+worth doing?
+
+ALICE. [_encouragingly._] Half a dozen people pulled out of the fire.
+
+EDWARD. If only that isn't found out! I've bungled this job, Alice. I
+feared all along I should. It was work for a strong man . . not for me.
+
+ALICE. Work for a patient man.
+
+EDWARD. You use kind words. But I've never shirked the truth about
+myself. My father said mine was a weak nature. He knew.
+
+ALICE. You have a religious nature.
+
+EDWARD. [_surprised._] Oh no!
+
+ALICE. [_proceeding to explain._] Therefore you're not fond of creeds
+and ceremonies. Therefore . . as the good things of this wordly world
+don't satisfy you, you shirk contact with it all you can. I understand
+this temptation to neglect and despise practical things. But if one
+yields to it one's character narrows and cheapens. That's a pity . . but
+it's so.
+
+EDWARD. [_his eyes far away._] D'you ever feel that there aren't enough
+windows in a house?
+
+ALICE. [_prosaically._] In this weather . . too many.
+
+EDWARD. Well then . . in a house--especially in a big city--in my office
+at work, then . . one is out of hearing of all the music of the world.
+And when one does get back to Nature, instead of being all curves to her
+roundness, one is all corners.
+
+ALICE. [_smiling at him._] Yes, you love to think idly . . just as Hugh
+does. You do it quite well, too. [_then briskly._] Edward, may I scold
+you?
+
+EDWARD. For that?
+
+ALICE. Because of that. You're grown to be a sloven lately . .
+deliberately letting yourself be unhappy.
+
+EDWARD. Is happiness under one's control?
+
+ALICE. My friend, you shouldn't neglect your happiness any more than you
+neglect to wash your face. Here has the squalour of your work been
+making you poor. Because it was liable to be stopped at any moment
+uncompleted . . why should that let your life be incomplete? Edward, for
+the last eighteen months you've been more like a moral portent than a
+man. You've not had a smile to throw to a friend . . or an opinion upon
+any subject. You've dropped your Volunteering. [_he protests._] I know
+there's something comic in volunteering . . though Heaven knows what it
+is! I suppose you found it out of keeping with your unhappy fate. And
+how slack you were in your politics last November. I don't believe you
+even voted . .
+
+EDWARD. [_contrite at this._] That was wrong of me!
+
+ALICE. Yes, I expect a man to be a good citizen. And you don't even eat
+properly.
+
+_With that she completes the accusation and_ EDWARD _searches round for
+a defence_.
+
+EDWARD. Alice, it was always an effort with me to do all those things . .
+and lately every effort has had to go to my work.
+
+ALICE. You did them . . on principle.
+
+EDWARD. Don't laugh at me.
+
+ALICE. [_whispering the awful words._] Then truthfully, Edward, once
+upon a time you were a bit of a prig.
+
+EDWARD. [_with enough sense of humour to whisper back._] Was I?
+
+ALICE. I'm afraid so! But the prig fell ill when your father died . .
+and had to be buried in his grave. [_Then her voice rises stirringly._]
+Oh, don't you see what a blessing this cursed work was meant to be to
+you? Why must you stand stiff against it?
+
+EDWARD. [_without a smile now._] But lately, Alice, I've hardly known
+myself. Once or twice I've lost my temper . . I've been brutal.
+
+ALICE. That's the best news in the world. There's your own wicked nature
+coming out. That's what we've been waiting for . . that's what we want.
+That's you.
+
+EDWARD. [_still serious._] I'm sorry for it.
+
+ALICE. Oh, Edward, be a little proud of poor humanity . . take your own
+share in it gladly. It so discourages the rest of us if you don't.
+
+_Suddenly he breaks down completely._
+
+EDWARD. I can't let myself be glad and live. There's the future to think
+of. And I'm so afraid of that. I must pretend I don't care . . even to
+myself . . even to you.
+
+ALICE. [_her mocking at an end._] What is it you fear most about the
+future . . not just the obviously unpleasant things?
+
+EDWARD. They'll put me in prison.
+
+ALICE. Perhaps.
+
+EDWARD. Who'll be the man who comes out?
+
+ALICE. Yourself.
+
+EDWARD. No, no! I'm a coward. I can't stand alone, it's too lonely. I
+need affection . . I need friends. I cling to people that I don't care
+for deeply . . just for the comfort of it. I've no home of my own. Every
+house that welcomes me now I like to think of as something of a home.
+And I know that this disgrace in store will leave me for a long time or
+a short time . . homeless.
+
+_There he sits shaken._ ALICE _waits a moment, not taking her eyes from
+him; then speaks_.
+
+ALICE. There's something else I want to scold you for. You've still
+given up proposing to me. Certainly that shows a lack of courage . . and
+of perseverance. Or is it the loss of what I always considered a very
+laudable ambition?
+
+EDWARD _is hardly able to trust his ears. Then he looks into her face
+and his thankfulness frames itself into a single sentence._
+
+EDWARD. Will you marry me?
+
+ALICE. Yes, Edward.
+
+_For a minute he just holds his breath with happiness. But he shakes
+himself free of it, almost savagely._
+
+EDWARD. No, no, no, we mustn't be stupid. I'm sorry I asked for that.
+
+ALICE. [_with serene strength._] I'm glad that you want me. While I live
+. . where I am will be Home.
+
+EDWARD. [_struggling with himself._] No, it's too late. If you'd said
+Yes before I came into my inheritance . . perhaps I shouldn't have
+given myself to the work. So be glad that it's too late. I am.
+
+ALICE. [_happily._] There was never any chance of my marrying you when
+you were only a well-principled prig. I didn't want you . . and I don't
+believe you really wanted me. Now you do. And you must always take what
+you want.
+
+EDWARD. [_turning to her again._] My dear, what have we to start life
+upon . . to build our house upon? Poverty . . and prison for me.
+
+ALICE. [_mischievous._] Edward, you seem to think that all the money in
+the world was invested in your precious firm. I have four hundred a year
+of my own. At least let that tempt you.
+
+EDWARD _catches her in his arms with a momentary little burst of
+passion_.
+
+EDWARD. You're tempting me.
+
+_She did not resist, but nevertheless he breaks away from her,
+disappointed with himself. She goes on, quietly, serenely._
+
+ALICE. Am I? Am I playing upon your senses in any way? Am I a silly
+child looking to you for protection in return for your favour? Shall I
+hinder or help your life? If you don't think me your equal as woman to
+man, we'll never speak of this again. But if you do . . look at me and
+make your choice. To refuse me my work and happiness in life and to
+cripple your own nature . . or to take my hand.
+
+_She puts out her hand frankly, as a friend should. With only a second's
+thought he, happy too now, takes it as frankly. Then she sits beside him
+and quite cheerfully changes the subject._
+
+ALICE. Now, referring to the subject of Mr. George Booth. What will he
+do?
+
+EDWARD. [_responsive though impatient._] He'll do nothing. I shall be
+before him.
+
+ALICE. What about his proposal?
+
+EDWARD. That needs no answer.
+
+ALICE. Yes, it does. I know the temptation to hit back at him
+mock-heroically . . it's natural. Well, we'll consider it done. But he's
+a silly old man and he doesn't know what he's talking about. I think we
+can bargain with him to keep the firm going somehow . . and if we can we
+must.
+
+_At this_ EDWARD _makes a last attempt to abandon himself to his
+troubles_.
+
+EDWARD. No, Alice, no . . let it end here. It has done for me . . I'm
+broken. And of course we can't be married . . that's absurd.
+
+ALICE. [_with firmness enough for two._] We shall be married. And
+nothing's broken . . except our pride and righteousness . . and several
+other things we're better without. And now we must break our dignity in
+to bargaining.
+
+EDWARD. [_struggling in the toils of virtue._] But it'll be so useless.
+Colpus'll be round in a day or two to make his conditions . . he'll tell
+some intimate friend. They'll all come after their money like wasps
+after honey. And if they know I won't lift a finger in my own defence . .
+what sort of mercy will they have?
+
+ALICE. [_triumphantly completing her case._] No, Edward, if you
+surrender yourself entirely, you'll find them powerless against you. You
+see, you had something to hope or fear from Mr. Booth . . you hoped in
+your heart he'd end your trouble. But when you've conquered that last
+little atom of the selfishness which gets in one's way, I think you'll
+find you can do what you wish with these selfish men. [_and she adds
+fervently._] Oh, it's a power so seldom used. But the man who is able,
+and cares deeply, and yet has nothing to hope or fear is all powerful . .
+even in little things.
+
+EDWARD. Will nothing ever happen to set me free? Shall I never be able
+to rest for a moment . . turn round and say I've succeeded or I've
+failed?
+
+ALICE. That isn't what matters.
+
+EDWARD. If they could all meet and agree, they might syndicate
+themselves and keep me at it for life.
+
+ALICE. What more could you wish for?
+
+EDWARD. Than that dreary round!
+
+ALICE. My dear, the world must be put tidy. That's the work which
+splendid criminals . . and others leave about for us poor commonplace
+people to do.
+
+EDWARD. [_with a little laugh._] And I don't believe in Heaven either.
+
+ALICE. [_close to him._] But there's to be our life. What's wrong with
+that?
+
+EDWARD. My dear, when they put me in prison for swindling--[_he makes
+the word sound its worst._]
+
+ALICE. I think they won't. But if they are so stupid . . I must be very
+careful.
+
+EDWARD. Of what?
+
+ALICE. To avoid false pride. I shall be foolishly proud of you.
+
+EDWARD. It's good to be praised sometimes . . by you.
+
+ALICE. My heart praises you. Good night.
+
+EDWARD. Good night.
+
+_She kisses his forehead. But he puts up his face like a child, so she
+bends down and for the first time their lips meet. Then she steps back
+from him, adding happily, with perhaps just a touch of shyness._
+
+ALICE. Till to-morrow.
+
+EDWARD. [_echoing in gratitude the hope and promise in her voice._] Till
+to-morrow.
+
+_She leaves him to sit there by the table for a few moments longer,
+looking into his future, streaked as it is to be with trouble and joy.
+As whose is not? From above . . from above the mantelpiece, that is to
+say . . the face of the late_ MR. VOYSEY _seems to look down upon his
+son not unkindly, though with that curious buccaneering twist of the
+eyebrows which distinguished his countenance in life_.
+
+
+
+
+                                Waste
+
+                                1906-7
+
+
+
+
+                                WASTE
+
+
+At Shapters, GEORGE FARRANT'S house in Hertfordshire. Ten o'clock on a
+Sunday evening in summer.
+
+_Facing you at her piano by the window, from which she is protected by a
+little screen, sits_ MRS. FARRANT; _a woman of the interesting age,
+clear-eyed and all her face serene, except for a little pucker of the
+brows which shows a puzzled mind upon some important matters. To become
+almost an ideal hostess has been her achievement; and in her own home,
+as now, this grace is written upon every movement. Her eyes pass over
+the head of a girl, sitting in a low chair by a little table, with the
+shaded lamplight falling on her face. This is_ LUCY DAVENPORT;
+_twenty-three, undefeated in anything as yet and so unsoftened. The book
+on her lap is closed, for she has been listening to the music. It is
+possibly some German philosopher, whom she reads with a critical
+appreciation of his shortcomings. On the sofa near her lounges_ MRS.
+O'CONNELL; _a charming woman, if by charming you understand a woman who
+converts every quality she possesses into a means of attraction, and has
+no use for any others. On the sofa opposite sits_ MISS TREBELL. _In a
+few years, when her hair is quite grey, she will assume as by right the
+dignity of an old maid. Between these two in a low armchair is_ LADY
+DAVENPORT. _She has attained to many dignities. Mother and grandmother,
+she has brought into the world and nourished not merely life but
+character. A wonderful face she has, full of proud memories and fearless
+of the future. Behind her, on a sofa between the windows, is_ WALTER
+KENT. _He is just what the average English father would like his son to
+be. You can see the light shooting out through the windows and mixing
+with moonshine upon a smooth lawn. On your left is a door. There are
+many books in the room, hardly any pictures, a statuette perhaps. The
+owner evidently sets beauty of form before beauty of colour. It is a
+woman's room and it has a certain delicate austerity. By the time you
+have observed everything_, MRS. FARRANT _has played Chopin's prelude
+opus 28, number 20 from beginning to end_.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Thank you, my dear Julia.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Protesting._] No more?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I won't play for a moment longer than I feel musical.
+
+MISS TREBELL. Do you think it right, Julia, to finish with that after an
+hour's Bach?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I suddenly came over Chopinesque, Fanny; . . what's your
+objection? [_as she sits by her._]
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. What . . when Bach has raised me to the heights of
+unselfishness!
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Grimacing sweetly, her eyes only half lifted._] Does
+he? I'm glad that I don't understand him.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_Putting mere prettiness in its place._] One may
+prefer Chopin when one is young.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. And is that a reproach or a compliment?
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Boldly._] I do.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Or a man may . . unless he's a philosopher.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_To the rescue._] Miss Trebell, you're very hard on
+mere humanity.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_Completing the reproof._] That's my wretched training
+as a schoolmistress, Lady Davenport . . one grew to fear it above all
+things.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Throwing in the monosyllable with sharp youthful
+enquiry._] Why?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. There were no text books on the subject.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Smiling at her friend._] Yes, Fanny . . I think you
+escaped to look after your brother only just in time.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. In another year I might have been head-mistress, which
+commits you to approve of the system for ever.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_Shaking her wise head._] I've watched the Education
+fever take England . . .
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. If I hadn't stopped teaching things I didn't
+understand . . !
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Not without mischief._] And what was the effect on the
+pupils?
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. I can tell you that.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Frances never taught you.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. No, I wish she had. But I was at her sort of a school
+before I went to Newnham. I know.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_Very distastefully._] Up-to-date, it was described
+as.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. Well, it was like a merry-go-round at top speed. You
+felt things wouldn't look a bit like that when you came to a standstill.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. And they don't?
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. [_With great decision._] Not a bit.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_In her velvet tone._] I was taught the whole duty of
+woman by a parson-uncle who disbelieved in his Church.
+
+WALTER KENT. When a man at Jude's was going to take orders . . .
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Jude's?
+
+WALTER KENT. At Oxford. The dons went very gingerly with him over bits
+of science and history.
+
+[_This wakes a fruitful thought in_ JULIA FARRANT'S _brain_.]
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Mamma, have you ever discussed so-called anti-Christian
+science with Lord Charles?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. . . Cantelupe?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Yes. It was over appointing a teacher for the schools down
+here . . he was staying with us. The Vicar's his fervent disciple.
+However, we were consulted.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. Didn't Lord Charles want you to send the boys there till
+they were ready for Harrow?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Yes.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Quite the last thing in Toryism!
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Mamma made George say we were too _nouveau riche_ to risk
+it.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_As she laughs._] I couldn't resist that.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Catching something of her subject's dry driving
+manner._] Lord Charles takes the superior line and says . . that with
+his consent the Church may teach the unalterable Truth in scientific
+language or legendary, whichever is easier understanded of the people.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Is it the prospect of Disestablishment suddenly makes
+him so accommodating?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_With large contempt._] He needn't be. The majority of
+people believe the world was made in an English week.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. Oh, no!
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. No Bishop dare deny it.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_From the heights of experience._] Dear Lucy, do you
+seriously think that the English spirit--the nerve that runs down the
+backbone--is disturbed by new theology . . or new anything?
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_Enjoying her epigram._] What a waste of persecution
+history shows us!
+
+WALTER KENT _now captures the conversation with a very young
+politician's fervour_.
+
+WALTER KENT. Once they're disestablished they must make up their minds
+what they do believe.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. I presume Lord Charles thinks it'll hand the Church over
+to him and his . . dare I say 'Sect'?
+
+WALTER KENT. Won't it? He knows what he wants.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Subtly._] There's the election to come yet.
+
+WALTER KENT. But now both parties are pledged to a bill of some sort.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Political prophecies have a knack of not coming true; but,
+d'you know, Cyril Horsham warned me to watch this position developing . .
+nearly four years ago.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Sitting on the opposition bench sharpens the eye-sight.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Ironically._] Has he been pleased with the prospect?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_With perfect diplomacy._] If the Church must be
+disestablished . . better done by its friends than its enemies.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Still I don't gather he's pleased with his dear cousin
+Charles's conduct.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Shrugging._] Oh, lately, Lord Charles has never
+concealed his tactics.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. And that speech at Leeds was the crowning move I
+suppose; just asking the Nonconformists to bring things to a head?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Judicially._] I think that was precipitate.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Giving them_ LORD CHARLES'S _oratory_.] Gentlemen, in
+these latter days of Radical opportunism!--You know, I was there . .
+sitting next to an old gentleman who shouted "Jesuit."
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. But supposing Mallaby and the Nonconformists hadn't
+been able to force the Liberals' hand?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Speaking as of inferior beings._] Why, they were glad of
+any cry going to the Country!
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_As she considers this._] Yes . . and Lord Charles
+would still have had as good a chance of forcing Lord Horsham's. It has
+been clever tactics.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Who has been listening, sharp-eyed._] Contrariwise, he
+wouldn't have liked a Radical Bill though, would he?
+
+WALTER KENT. [_With aplomb._] He knew he was safe from that. The
+government must have dissolved before Christmas anyway . . and the swing
+of the pendulum's a sure thing.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_With her smile._] It's never a sure thing.
+
+WALTER KENT. Oh, Mrs. Farrant, look how unpopular the Liberals are.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. What made them bring in Resolutions?
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Overflowing with knowledge of the subject._] I was told
+Mallaby insisted on their showing they meant business. I thought he was
+being too clever . . and it turns out he was. Tommy Luxmore told me
+there was a fearful row in the Cabinet about it. But on their last legs,
+you know, it didn't seem to matter, I suppose. Even then, if Prothero
+had mustered up an ounce of tact . . I believe they could have pulled
+them through . .
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Not the Spoliation one.
+
+WALTER KENT. Well, Mr. Trebell dished that!
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Henry says his speech didn't turn a vote.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_With charming irony._] How disinterested of him!
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Enthusiastic._] That speech did if ever a speech did.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Is there any record of a speech that ever did? He just
+carried his own little following with him.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. But the crux of the whole matter is and has always been . .
+what's to be done with the Church's money.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Visualising sovereigns._] A hundred millions or so . .
+think of it!
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. There has been from the start a good deal of
+anti-Nonconformist feeling against applying the money to secular uses.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Deprecating false modesty, on anyone's behalf._] Oh, of
+course the speech turned votes . . twenty of them at least.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Determined on information._] Then I was told Lord
+Horsham had tried to come to an understanding himself with the
+Nonconformists about Disestablishment--oh--a long time ago . . over the
+Education Bill.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Is that true, Julia?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. How should I know?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_With some mischief._] You might.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Weighing her words._] I don't think it would have been
+altogether wise to make advances. They'd have asked more than a
+Conservative government could possibly persuade the Church to give up.
+
+WALTER KENT. I don't see that Horsham's much better off now. He only
+turned the Radicals out on the Spoliation question by the help of
+Trebell. And so far . . I mean, till this election is over Trebell
+counts still as one of them, doesn't he, Miss Trebell? Oh . . perhaps he
+doesn't.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. He'll tell you he never has counted as one of them.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. No doubt Lord Charles would sooner have done without his
+help. And that's why I didn't ask the gentle Jesuit this week-end if
+anyone wants to know.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Stupent at this lack of party spirit._] What . . he'd
+rather have had the Liberals go to the country undefeated!
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_With finesse._] The election may bring us back
+independent of Mr. Trebell and anything he stands for.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Sharply._] But you asked Lord Horsham to meet him.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_With still more finesse._] I had my reasons. Votes
+aren't everything.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT _has been listening with rather a doubtful smile; she now
+caps the discussion_.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. I'm relieved to hear you say so, my dear Julia. On the
+other hand democracy seems to have brought itself to a pretty pass.
+Here's a measure, which the country as a whole neither demands nor
+approves of, will certainly be carried, you tell me, because a minority
+on each side is determined it shall be . . for totally different
+reasons.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Shrugging again._] It isn't our business to prevent
+popular government looking foolish, Mamma.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Is that Tory cynicism or feminine?
+
+_At this moment_ GEORGE FARRANT _comes through the window; a
+good-natured man of forty-five. He would tell you that he was educated
+at Eton and Oxford. But the knowledge which saves his life comes from
+the thrusting upon him of authority and experience; ranging from the
+management of an estate which he inherited at twenty-four, through the
+chairmanship of a newspaper syndicate, through a successful marriage,
+to a minor post in the last Tory cabinet and the prospect of one in the
+near-coming next. Thanks to his agents, editors, permanent officials,
+and his own common sense, he always acquits himself creditably. He comes
+to his wife's side and waits for a pause in the conversation._
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. I remember Mr. Disraeli once said to me . . Clever women
+are as dangerous to the State as dynamite.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_Not to be impressed by Disraeli._] Well, Lady
+Davenport, if men will leave our intellects lying loose about . .
+
+FARRANT. Blackborough's going, Julia.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Yes, George.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_Concluding her little apologue to_ MISS TREBELL.] Yes,
+my dear, but power without responsibility isn't good for the character
+that wields it either.
+
+[_There follows_ FARRANT _through the window a man of fifty. He has
+about him that unmistakeable air of acquired wealth and power which
+distinguishes many Jews and has therefore come to be regarded as a
+solely Jewish characteristic. He speaks always with that swift decision
+which betokens a narrowed view. This is_ RUSSELL BLACKBOROUGH;
+_manufacturer, politician . . statesman, his own side calls him_.]
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_To his hostess._] If I start now, they tell me, I shall
+get home before the moon goes down. I'm sorry I must get back to-night.
+It's been a most delightful week-end.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Gracefully giving him a good-bye hand._] And a
+successful one, I hope.
+
+FARRANT. We talked Education for half an hour.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Her eyebrows lifting a shade._] Education!
+
+FARRANT. Then Trebell went away to work.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. I've missed the music, I fear.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. But it's been Bach.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. No Chopin?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. For a minute only.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Why don't these new Italian men write things for the
+piano? Good-night, Lady Davenport.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_As he bows over her hand._] And what has Education to
+do with it?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Non-committal himself._] Perhaps it was a subject that
+compromised nobody.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Do you think my daughter has been wasting her time and
+her tact?
+
+FARRANT. [_Clapping him on the shoulder._] Blackborough's frankly
+flabbergasted at the publicity of this intrigue.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Intrigue! Mr. Trebell walked across the House . . actually
+into your arms.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_With a certain dubious grimness._] Well . . we've had
+some very interesting talks since. And his views upon Education are
+quite . . Utopian. Good-bye, Miss Trebell.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Good-bye.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I wouldn't be so haughty till after the election, if I
+were you, Mr. Blackborough.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Indifferently._] Oh, I'm glad he's with us on the Church
+question . . so far.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. So far as you've made up your minds? The electoral cat
+will jump soon.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_A little beaten by such polite cynicism._] Well . . our
+conservative principles! After all we know what they are. Good-night,
+Mrs. O'Connell.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Good-night.
+
+FARRANT. Your neuralgia better?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. By fits and starts.
+
+FARRANT. [_Robustly._] Come and play billiards. Horsham and Maconochie
+started a game. They can neither of them play. We left them working out
+a theory of angles on bits of paper.
+
+WALTER KENT. Professor Maconochie lured me on to golf yesterday. He
+doesn't suffer from theories about that.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_With approval._] Started life as a caddie.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_Pulling a wry face._] So he told me after the first hole.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. What's this, Kent, about Trebell's making you his
+secretary?
+
+WALTER KENT. He thinks he'll have me.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Almost reprovingly._] No question of politics?
+
+FARRANT. More intrigue, Blackborough.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_With disarming candour._] The truth is, you see, I
+haven't any as yet. I was Socialist at Oxford . . but of course that
+doesn't count. I think I'd better learn my job under the best man I can
+find . . and who'll have me.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Gravely._] What does your father say?
+
+WALTER KENT. Oh, as long as Jack will inherit the property in a Tory
+spirit! My father thinks it my wild oats.
+
+_A Footman has come in._
+
+THE FOOTMAN. Your car is round, sir.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Ah! Good-night, Miss Davenport. Good-bye again, Mrs.
+Farrant . . a charming week-end.
+
+_He makes a business-like departure_, FARRANT _follows him_.
+
+THE FOOTMAN. A telephone message from Dr. Wedgecroft, ma'am. His thanks;
+they stopped the express for him at Hitchin and he has reached London
+quite safely.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Thank you.
+
+[_The Footman goes out._ MRS. FARRANT _exhales delicately as if the air
+were a little refined by_ BLACKBOROUGH'S _removal_.]
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Mr. Blackborough and his patent turbines and his gas
+engines and what not are the motive power of our party nowadays, Fanny.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Yes, you claim to be steering plutocracy. Do you never
+wonder if it isn't steering you?
+
+MRS. O'CONNELL, _growing restless, has wandered round the room picking
+at the books in their cases_.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. I always like your books, Julia. It's an intellectual
+distinction to know someone who has read them.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. That's the Communion I choose.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Aristocrat . . fastidious aristocrat.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. No, now. Learning's a great leveller.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. But Julia . . books are quite unreal. D'you think life
+is a bit like them?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. They bring me into touch with . . Oh, there's nothing more
+deadening than to be boxed into a set in Society! Speak to a woman
+outside it . . she doesn't understand your language.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. And do you think by prattling Hegel with Gilbert
+Wedgecroft when he comes to physic you--
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Joyously._] Excellent physic that is. He never leaves a
+prescription.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Don't you think an aristocracy of brains is the best
+aristocracy, Miss Trebell?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_With a little more bitterness than the abstraction of
+the subject demands._] I'm sure it is just as out of touch with humanity
+as any other . . more so, perhaps. If I were a country I wouldn't be
+governed by arid intellects.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Manners, Frances.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. I'm one myself and I know. They're either dead or
+dangerous.
+
+GEORGE FARRANT _comes back and goes straight to_ MRS. O'CONNELL.
+
+FARRANT. [_Still robustly._] Billiards, Mrs. O'Connell.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Declining sweetly._] I think not.
+
+FARRANT. Billiards, Lucy?
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. [_As robust as he._] Yes, Uncle George. You shall mark
+while Walter gives me twenty-five and I beat him.
+
+WALTER KENT. [_With a none-of-your-impudence air._] I'll give you ten
+yards start and race you to the billiard room.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. Will you wear my skirt? Oh . . Grandmamma's thinking me
+vulgar.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_Without prejudice._] Why, my dear, freedom of limb is
+worth having . . and perhaps it fits better with freedom of tongue.
+
+FARRANT. [_In the proper avuncular tone._] I'll play you both . . and
+I'd race you both if you weren't so disgracefully young.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL _has reached an open window_.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. I shall go for a walk with my neuralgia.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Poor thing!
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. The moon's good for it.
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. Shall you come, Aunt Julia?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_In flat protest._] No, I will not sit up while you play
+billiards.
+
+MRS. O'CONNELL _goes out through the one window, stands for a moment,
+wistfully romantic, gazing at the moon, then disappears_. FARRANT _and_
+WALTER KENT _are standing at the other, looking across the lawn_.
+
+FARRANT. Horsham still arguing with Maconochie. They're got to Botany
+now.
+
+WALTER KENT. Demonstrating something with a . . what's that thing?
+
+WALTER _goes out_.
+
+FARRANT. [_With a throw of his head towards the distant_ HORSHAM.] He
+was so bored with our politics . . having to give his opinion too. We
+could just hear your piano.
+
+_And he follows_ WALTER.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Take Amy O'Connell that lace thing, will you, Lucy?
+
+LUCY DAVENPORT. [_Her tone expressing quite wonderfully her sentiments
+towards the owner._] Don't you think she'd sooner catch cold?
+
+_She catches it up and follows the two men; then after looking round
+impatiently, swings off in the direction_ MRS. O'CONNELL _took. The
+three women now left together are at their ease._
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Did you expect Mr. Blackborough to get on well with
+Henry?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. He has become a millionaire by appreciating clever men
+when he met them.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Yes, Julia, but his political conscience is
+comparatively new-born.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Well, Mamma, can we do without Mr. Trebell?
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Everyone seems to think you'll come back with something
+of a majority.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_A little impatient._] What's the good of that? The Bill
+can't be brought into the Lords . . and who's going to take
+Disestablishment through the Commons for us? Not Eustace Fowler . . not
+Mr. Blackborough . . not Lord Charles . . not George!
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_Warningly._] Not all your brilliance as a hostess will
+keep Mr. Trebell in a Tory Cabinet.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_With wilful avoidance of the point._] Cyril Horsham is
+only too glad.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Because you tell him he ought to be.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_Coming to the rescue._] There is this. Henry has
+never exactly called himself a Liberal. He really is elected
+independently.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I wonder will all the garden-cities become
+pocket-boroughs.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. I think he has made a mistake.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. It makes things easier now . . his having kept his
+freedom.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. I think it's a mistake to stand outside a system.
+There's an inhumanity in that amount of detachment . .
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Brilliantly._] I think a statesman may be a little
+inhuman.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_With keenness._] Do you mean superhuman? It's not the
+same thing, you know.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I know.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Most people don't know.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Proceeding with her cynicism._] Humanity achieves . .
+what? Housekeeping and children.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. As far as a woman's concerned.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_A little mockingly._] Now, Mamma, say that is as far as
+a woman's concerned.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. My dear, you know I don't think so.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. We may none of us think so. But there's our position . .
+bread and butter and a certain satisfaction until . . Oh, Mamma, I wish
+I were like you . . beyond all the passions of life.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_With great vitality._] I'm nothing of the sort. It's
+my egoism's dead . . that's an intimation of mortality.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I accept the snub. But I wonder what I'm to do with myself
+for the next thirty years.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Help Lord Horsham to govern the country.
+
+JULIA FARRANT _gives a little laugh and takes up the subject this time_.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Mamma . . how many people, do you think, believe that
+Cyril's _grande passion_ for me takes that form?
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. Everyone who knows Cyril and most people who know you.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Otherwise I seem to have fulfilled my mission in life. The
+boys are old enough to go to school. George and I have become happily
+unconscious of each other.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_With sudden energy of mind._] Till I was forty I
+never realised the fact that most women must express themselves through
+men.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Looking at_ FRANCES _a little curiously_.] Didn't your
+instinct lead you to marry . . or did you fight against it?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. I don't know. Perhaps I had no vitality to spare.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. That boy is a long time proposing to Lucy.
+
+_This effectually startles the other two from their conversational
+reverie._
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Walter? I'm not sure that he means to. She means to marry
+him if he does.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Has she told you so?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. No. I judge by her business-like interest in his welfare.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. He's beginning to feel the responsibility of manhood . .
+doesn't know whether to be frightened or proud of it.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. It's a pretty thing to watch young people mating. When
+they're older and marry from disappointment or deliberate choice,
+thinking themselves so worldly-wise . .
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Back to her politely cynical mood._] Well . . then at
+least they don't develop their differences at the same fire-side,
+regretting the happy time when neither possessed any character at all.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_Giving a final douche of common sense._] My dear, any
+two reasonable people ought to be able to live together.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Granted three sitting rooms. That'll be the next
+middle-class political cry . . when women are heard.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Suddenly as practical as her mother._] Walter's lucky . .
+Lucy won't stand any nonsense. She'll have him in the Cabinet by the
+time he's fifty.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. And are you the power behind your brother, Miss Trebell?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_Gravely._] He ignores women. I've forced enough good
+manners on him to disguise the fact decently. His affections are two
+generations ahead.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. People like him in an odd sort of way.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. That's just respect for work done . . one can't escape
+from it.
+
+_There is a slight pause in their talk. By some not very devious route_
+MRS. FARRANT'S _mind travels to the next subject_.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Fanny . . how fond are you of Amy O'Connell?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. She says we're great friends.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. She says that of me.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. It's a pity about her husband.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Almost provokingly._] What about him?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. It seems to be understood that he treats her badly.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_A little malicious._] Is there any particular reason
+he should treat her well?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Don't you like her, Lady Davenport?
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_Dealing out justice._] I find her quite charming to
+look at and talk to . . but why shouldn't Justin O'Connell live in
+Ireland for all that? I'm going to bed, Julia.
+
+_She collects her belongings and gets up._
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I must look in at the billiard room.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. I won't come, Julia.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. What's your brother working at?
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. I don't know. Something we shan't hear of for a year,
+perhaps.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. On the Church business, I daresay.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Did you hear Lord Horsham at dinner on the lack of
+dignity in an irreligious state?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Poor Cyril . . he'll have to find a way round that opinion
+of his now.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Does he like leading his party?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_After due consideration._] It's an intellectual
+exercise. He's the right man, Fanny. You see it isn't a party in the
+active sense at all, except now and then when it's captured by someone
+with an axe to grind.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. [_Humorously._] Such as my brother.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_As humorous._] Such as your brother. It expresses the
+thought of the men who aren't taken in by the claptrap of progress.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. Sometimes they've a queer way of expressing their love
+for the people of England.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. But one must use democracy. Wellington wouldn't . .
+Disraeli did.
+
+LADY DAVENPORT. [_At the door._] Good-night, Miss Trebell.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL. I'm coming . . it's past eleven.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_At the window._] What a gorgeous night! I'll come in and
+kiss you, Mamma.
+
+FRANCES _follows_ LADY DAVENPORT _and_ MRS. FARRANT _starts across the
+lawn to the billiard room_ . . _An hour later you can see no change in
+the room except that only one lamp is alight on the table in the
+middle._ AMY O'CONNELL _and_ HENRY TREBELL _walk past one window and
+stay for a moment in the light of the other. Her wrap is about her
+shoulders. He stands looking down at her._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. There goes the moon . . it's quieter than ever now. [_She
+comes in._] Is it very late?
+
+TREBELL. [_As he follows._] Half-past twelve.
+
+TREBELL _is hard-bitten, brainy, forty-five and very sure of himself. He
+has a cold keen eye, which rather belies a sensitive mouth; hands which
+can grip, and a figure that is austere._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. I ought to be in bed. I suppose everyone has gone.
+
+TREBELL. Early trains to-morrow. The billiard room lights are out.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. The walk has just tired me comfortably.
+
+TREBELL. Sit down. [_She sits by the table. He sits by her and says with
+the air of a certain buyer at a market._] You're very pretty.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. As well here as by moonlight? Can't you see any wrinkles?
+
+TREBELL. One or two . . under the eyes. But they give character and
+bring you nearer my age. Yes, Nature hit on the right curve in making
+you.
+
+_She stretches herself cat-like._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Praise is the greatest of luxuries, isn't it, Henry? . .
+Henry . . [_she caresses the name._]
+
+TREBELL. Quite right . . Henry.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Henry . . Trebell.
+
+TREBELL. Having formally taken possession of my name . .
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. I'll go to bed.
+
+_His eyes have never moved from her. Now she breaks the contact and goes
+towards the door._
+
+TREBELL. I wouldn't . . my spare time for love making is so limited.
+
+_She turns back, quite at ease, her eyes challenging him._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. That's the first offensive thing you've said.
+
+TREBELL. Why offensive?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. I may flirt. Making love's another matter.
+
+TREBELL. Sit down and explain the difference . . Mrs. O'Connell.
+
+_She sits down._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Quite so. 'Mrs. O'Connell'. That's the difference.
+
+TREBELL. [_Provokingly._] But I doubt if I'm interested in the fact that
+your husband doesn't understand you and that your marriage was a mistake
+. . and how hard you find it to be strong.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Kindly._] I'm not quite a fool though you think so on a
+three months' acquaintance. But tell me this . . what education besides
+marriage does a woman get?
+
+TREBELL. [_His head lifting quickly._] Education . .
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be business-like.
+
+TREBELL. I beg your pardon.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Do you think the things you like to have taught in
+schools are any use to one when one comes to deal with you?
+
+TREBELL. [_After a little scrutiny of her face._] Well, if marriage is
+only the means to an end . . what's the end? Not flirtation.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_With an air of self-revelation._] I don't know. To keep
+one's place in the world, I suppose, one's self-respect and a sense of
+humour.
+
+TREBELL. Is that difficult?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. To get what I want, without paying more than it's worth
+to me . . ?
+
+TREBELL. Never to be reckless.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_With a side-glance._] One isn't so often tempted.
+
+TREBELL. In fact . . to flirt with life generally. Now, what made your
+husband marry you?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Dealing with the impertinence in her own fashion._]
+What would make you marry me? Don't say: Nothing on earth.
+
+TREBELL. [_Speaking apparently of someone else._] A prolonged fit of
+idleness might make me marry . . a clever woman. But I've never been
+idle for more than a week. And I've never met a clever woman . . worth
+calling a woman.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Bringing their talk back to herself, and
+fastidiously._] Justin has all the natural instincts.
+
+TREBELL. He's Roman Catholic, isn't he?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. So am I . . by profession.
+
+TREBELL. It's a poor religion unless you really believe in it.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Appealing to him._] If I were to live at Linaskea and
+have as many children as God sent, I should manage to make Justin pretty
+miserable! And what would be left of me at all I should like to know?
+
+TREBELL. So Justin lives at Linaskea alone?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. I'm told now there's a pretty housemaid . . [_she
+shrugs._]
+
+TREBELL. Does he drink too?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Oh, no. You'd like Justin, I daresay. He's clever. The
+thirteenth century's what he knows about. He has done a book on its
+statutes . . has been doing another.
+
+TREBELL. And after an evening's hard work I find you here ready to flirt
+with.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. What have you been working at?
+
+TREBELL. A twentieth century statute perhaps. That's not any concern of
+yours either.
+
+_She does not follow his thought._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. No, I prefer you in your unprofessional moments.
+
+TREBELL. Real flattery. I didn't know I had any.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. That's why you should flirt with me . . Henry . . to
+cultivate them. I'm afraid you lack imagination.
+
+TREBELL. One must choose something to lack in this life.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Not develop your nature to its utmost capacity.
+
+TREBELL. And then?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Well, if that's not an end in itself . . [_With a touch
+of romantic piety._] I suppose there's the hereafter.
+
+TREBELL. [_Grimly material._] What, more developing! I watch people
+wasting time on themselves with amazement . . I refuse to look forward
+to wasting eternity.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Shaking her head._] You are very self-satisfied.
+
+TREBELL. Not more so than any machine that runs smoothly. And I hope not
+self-conscious.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Rather attractively treating him as a child._] It would
+do you good to fall really desperately in love with me . . to give me
+the power to make you unhappy.
+
+_He suddenly becomes very definite._
+
+TREBELL. At twenty-three I engaged myself to be married to a charming
+and virtuous fool. I broke it off.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Did she mind much?
+
+TREBELL. We both minded. But I had ideals of womanhood that I wouldn't
+sacrifice to any human being. Then I fell in with a woman who seduced
+me, and for a whole year led me the life of a French novel . . played
+about with my emotion as I had tortured that other poor girl's brains.
+Education you'd call it in the one case as I called it in the other.
+What a waste of time!
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. And what has become of your ideal?
+
+TREBELL. [_Relapsing to his former mood._] It's no longer a personal
+matter.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_With coquetry._] You're not interested in my character?
+
+TREBELL. Oh, yes, I am . . up to kissing point.
+
+_She does not shrink, but speaks with just a shade of contempt._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. You get that far more easily than a woman. That's one of
+my grudges against men. Why can't women take love-affairs so lightly?
+
+TREBELL. There are reasons. But make a good beginning with this one.
+Kiss me at once.
+
+_He leans towards her. She considers him quite calmly._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. No.
+
+TREBELL. When will you, then?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. When I can't help myself . . if that time ever comes.
+
+TREBELL. [_Accepting the postponement in a business-like spirit._] Well
+. . I'm an impatient man.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Confessing engagingly._] I made up my mind to bring you
+within arms' length of me when we'd met at Lady Percival's. Do you
+remember? [_His face shows no sign of it._] It was the day after your
+speech on the Budget.
+
+TREBELL. Then I remember. But I haven't observed the process.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Subtly._] Your sister grew to like me very soon. That's
+all the cunning there has been.
+
+TREBELL. The rest is just mutual attraction?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. And opportunities.
+
+TREBELL. Such as this.
+
+_At the drop of their voices they become conscious of the silent house._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Do you really think everyone has gone to bed?
+
+TREBELL. [_Disregardful._] And what is it makes my pressing attentions
+endurable . . if one may ask?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Some spiritual need or other, I suppose, which makes me
+risk unhappiness . . in fact, welcome it.
+
+TREBELL. [_With great briskness._] Your present need is a good shaking . .
+I seriously mean that. You get to attach importance to these shades of
+emotion. A slight physical shock would settle them all. That's why I
+asked you to kiss me just now.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. You haven't very nice ideas, have you?
+
+TREBELL. There are three facts in life that call up emotion . . Birth,
+Death, and the Desire for Children. The niceties are shams.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Then why do you want to kiss me?
+
+TREBELL. I don't . . seriously. But I shall in a minute just to finish
+the argument. Too much diplomacy always ends in a fight.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. And if I don't fight . . it'd be no fun for you, I
+suppose?
+
+TREBELL. You would get that much good out of me. For it's my point of
+honour . . to leave nothing I touch as I find it.
+
+_He is very close to her._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. You're frightening me a little . .
+
+TREBELL. Come and look at the stars again. Come along.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Give me my wrap . . [_He takes it up, but holds it._]
+Well, put it on me. [_He puts it round her, but does not withdraw his
+arms._] Be careful, the stars are looking at you.
+
+TREBELL. No, they can't see so far as we can. That's the proper creed.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Softly, almost shyly._] Henry.
+
+TREBELL. [_Bending closer to her._] Yes, pretty thing.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Is this what you call being in love?
+
+_He looks up and listens._
+
+TREBELL. Here's somebody coming.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Oh! . .
+
+TREBELL. What does it matter?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. I'm untidy or something . .
+
+_She slips out, for they are close to the window. The_ FOOTMAN _enters,
+stops suddenly_.
+
+THE FOOTMAN. I beg your pardon, sir. I thought everyone had gone.
+
+TREBELL. I've just been for a walk. I'll lock up if you like.
+
+THE FOOTMAN. I can easily wait up, sir.
+
+TREBELL. [_At the window._] I wouldn't. What do you do . . just slide
+the bolt?
+
+THE FOOTMAN. That's all, sir.
+
+TREBELL. I see. Good-night.
+
+THE FOOTMAN. Good-night, sir.
+
+_He goes._ TREBELL'S _demeanour suddenly changes, becomes alert, with
+the alertness of a man doing something in secret. He leans out of the
+window and whispers._
+
+TREBELL. Amy!
+
+_There is no answer, so he gently steps out. For a moment the room is
+empty and there is silence. Then_ AMY _has flown from him into the
+safety of lights. She is flushed, trembling, but rather ecstatic, and
+her voice has lost all affectation now._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Oh . . oh . . you shouldn't have kissed me like that!
+
+TREBELL _stands in the window-way; a light in his eyes, and speaks low
+but commandingly_.
+
+TREBELL. Come here.
+
+_Instinctively she moves towards him. They speak in whispers._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. He was locking up.
+
+TREBELL. I've sent him to bed.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. He won't go.
+
+TREBELL. Never mind him.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. We're standing full in the light . . anyone could see us.
+
+TREBELL. [_With fierce egotism._] Think of me . . not of anyone else.
+[_He draws her from the window; then does not let her go._] May I kiss
+you again?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Her eyes closed._] Yes.
+
+_He kisses her. She stiffens in his arms; then laughs almost joyously,
+and is commonplace._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Well . . let me get my breath.
+
+TREBELL. [_Letting her stand free._] Now . . go along.
+
+_Obediently she turns to the door, but sinks on the nearest chair._
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. In a minute, I'm a little faint. [_He goes to her
+quickly._] No, it's nothing.
+
+TREBELL. Come into the air again. [_Then half seriously._] I'll race you
+across the lawn.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Still breathless and a little hysterical._] Thank you!
+
+TREBELL. Shall I carry you?
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Don't be silly. [_She recovers her self-possession, gets
+up and goes to the window, then looks back at him and says very
+beautifully._] But the night's beautiful, isn't it?
+
+_He has her in his arms again, more firmly this time._
+
+TREBELL. Make it so.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Struggling . . with herself._] Oh, why do you rouse me
+like this?
+
+TREBELL. Because I want you.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Want me to . . ?
+
+TREBELL. Want you to . . kiss me just once.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. [_Yielding._] If I do . . don't let me go mad, will you?
+
+TREBELL. Perhaps. [_He bends over her, her head drops back._] Now.
+
+AMY O'CONNELL. Yes!
+
+_She kisses him on the mouth. Then he would release her, but suddenly
+she clings again._
+
+Oh . . don't let me go.
+
+TREBELL. [_With fierce pride of possession._] Not yet.
+
+_She is fragile beside him. He lifts her in his arms and carries her out
+into the darkness._
+
+
+
+
+                              THE SECOND ACT
+
+
+TREBELL'S house in Queen Anne Street, London. Eleven o'clock on an
+October morning.
+
+TREBELL'S _working room is remarkable chiefly for the love of sunlight
+it evidences in its owner. The walls are white; the window which faces
+you is bare of all but the necessary curtains. Indeed, lack of draperies
+testifies also to his horror of dust. There faces you besides a double
+door; when it is opened another door is seen. When that is opened you
+discover a writing table, and beyond can discern a book-case filled with
+heavy volumes--law reports perhaps. The little room beyond is, so to
+speak, an under-study. Between the two rooms a window, again barely
+curtained, throws light down the staircase. But in the big room, while
+the books are many the choice of them is catholic; and the book-cases
+are low, running along the wall. There is an armchair before the bright
+fire, which is on your right. There is a sofa. And in the middle of the
+room is an enormous double writing table piled tidily with much
+appropriate impedimenta, blue books and pamphlets and with an especial
+heap of unopened letters and parcels. At the table sits_ TREBELL
+_himself, in good health and spirits, but eyeing askance the work to
+which he has evidently just returned. His sister looks in on him. She is
+dressed to go out and has a housekeeping air._
+
+FRANCES. Are you busy, Henry?
+
+TREBELL. More or less. Come in.
+
+FRANCES. You'll dine at home?
+
+TREBELL. Anyone coming?
+
+FRANCES. Julia Farrant and Lucy have run up to town, I think. I thought
+of going round and asking them to come in . . but perhaps your young man
+will be going there. Amy O'Connell said something vague about our going
+to Charles Street . . but she may be out of town by now.
+
+TREBELL. Well . . I'll be in anyhow.
+
+FRANCES. [_Going to the window as she buttons her gloves._] Were you on
+deck early this morning? It must have been lovely.
+
+TREBELL. No, I turned in before we got out of le Havre. I left Kent on
+deck and found him there at six.
+
+FRANCES. I don't think autumn means to come at all this year . . it'll
+be winter one morning. September has been like a hive of bees, busy and
+drowsy. By the way, Cousin Mary has another baby . . a girl.
+
+TREBELL. [_Indifferent to the information._] That's the fourth.
+
+FRANCES. Fifth. They asked me down for the christening . . but I really
+couldn't.
+
+TREBELL. September's the month for Tuscany. The car chose to break down
+one morning just as we were starting North again: so we climbed one of
+the little hills and sat for a couple of hours, while I composed a
+fifteenth century electioneering speech to the citizens of Siena.
+
+FRANCES. [_With a half smile._] Have you a vein of romance for holiday
+time?
+
+TREBELL. [_Dispersing the suggestion._] Not at all romantic . . nothing
+but figures and fiscal questions. That was the hardest commercial
+civilisation there has been, though you only think of its art and its
+murders now.
+
+FRANCES. The papers on both sides have been very full of you . . saying
+you hold the moral balance . . or denying it.
+
+TREBELL. An interviewer caught me at Basle. I offered to discuss the
+state of the Swiss navy.
+
+FRANCES. Was that before Lord Horsham wrote to you?
+
+TREBELL. Yes, his letter came to Innsbruck. He "expressed" it somehow.
+Why . . it isn't known that he will definitely ask me to join?
+
+FRANCES. The Whitehall had a leader before the Elections were well over
+to say that he must . . but, of course, that was Mr. Farrant.
+
+TREBELL. [_Knowingly._] Mrs. Farrant. I saw it in Paris . . it just
+caught me up.
+
+FRANCES. The Times is very shy over the whole question . . has a letter
+from a fresh bishop every day . . doesn't talk of you very kindly yet.
+
+TREBELL. Tampering with the Establishment, even Cantelupe's way, will be
+a pill to the real old Tory right to the bitter end.
+
+WALTER KENT _comes in, very fresh and happy-looking. A young man started
+in life_, TREBELL _hails him_.
+
+TREBELL. Hullo . . you've not been long getting shaved.
+
+KENT. How do you do, Miss Trebell? Lucy turned me out.
+
+FRANCES. My congratulations. I've not seen you since I heard the news.
+
+KENT. [_Glad and unembarrassed._] Thank you. I do deserve them, don't I?
+Mrs. Farrant didn't come down . . she left us to breakfast together. But
+I've a message for you . . her love and she is in town. I went and saw
+Lord Charles, sir. He will come to you and be here at half past eleven.
+
+TREBELL. Look at these.
+
+_He smacks on the back, so to speak, the pile of parcels and letters._
+
+KENT. Oh, lord! . . I'd better start on them.
+
+FRANCES. [_Continuing in her smooth oldmaidish manner._] Thank you for
+getting engaged just before you went off with Henry . . it has given me
+my only news of him, through Lucy and your postcards.
+
+TREBELL. Oh, what about Wedgecroft?
+
+KENT. I think it was he spun up just as I'd been let in.
+
+TREBELL. Oh, well . . [_And he rings at the telephone which is on his
+table._]
+
+KENT. [_Confiding in MISS TREBELL._] We're a common sense couple, aren't
+we? I offered to ask to stay behind but she . . .
+
+SIMPSON, _the maid, comes in_.
+
+SIMPSON. Dr. Wedgecroft, sir.
+
+WEDGECROFT _is on her heels. If you have an eye for essentials you may
+tell at once that he is a doctor, but if you only notice externals you
+will take him for anything else. He is over forty and in perfect health
+of body and spirit. His enthusiasms are his vitality and he has too many
+of them ever to lose one. He squeezes_ MISS TREBELL'S _hand with an air
+of fearless affection which is another of his characteristics and not
+the least loveable_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. How are you?
+
+FRANCES. I'm very well, thanks.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_To_ TREBELL, _as they shake hands_.] You're looking fit.
+
+TREBELL. [_With tremendous emphasis._] I am!
+
+WEDGECROFT. You've got the motor eye though.
+
+TREBELL. Full of dust?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Look at Kent's. [_He takes_ WALTER'S _arm_.] It's a slight
+but serious contraction of the pupil . . which I charge fifty guineas to
+cure.
+
+FRANCES. It's the eye of faith in you and your homeopathic doses. Don't
+you interfere with it.
+
+FRANCES TREBELL, _housekeeper, goes out_. KENT _has seized on the
+letters and is carrying them to his room_.
+
+KENT. This looks like popularity and the great heart of the people,
+doesn't it?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Trebell, you're not ill, and I've work to do.
+
+TREBELL. I want ten minutes. Keep anybody out, Kent.
+
+KENT. I'll switch that speaking tube arrangement to my room.
+
+TREBELL, _overflowing with vitality, starts to pace the floor_.
+
+TREBELL. I've seen the last of Pump Court, Gilbert.
+
+WEDGECROFT. The Bar ought to give you a testimonial . . to the man who
+not only could retire on twenty years' briefs, but =has=.
+
+TREBELL. Fifteen. But I bled the City sharks with a good conscience . .
+quite freely.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_With a pretence at grumbling._] I wish I could retire.
+
+TREBELL. No you don't. Doctoring's a priestcraft . . you've taken vows.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Then why don't you establish =our= church instead of . .
+
+TREBELL. Yes, my friend . . but you're a heretic. I'd have to give the
+Medical Council power to burn you at the stake.
+
+KENT. [_With the book packages._] Parcel from the S. P. C. K., sir.
+
+TREBELL. I know . . Disestablishment a crime against God; sermon
+preached by the Vicar of something Parva in eighteen seventy three. I
+hope you're aware it's your duty to read all those.
+
+KENT. Suppose they convert me? Lucy wanted to know if she could see you.
+
+TREBELL. [_His eyebrows up._] Yes, I'll call at Mrs. Farrant's. Oh,
+wait. Aren't they coming to dinner?
+
+KENT. To-night? No, I think they go back to Shapters by the five
+o'clock. I told her she might come round about twelve on the chance.
+
+TREBELL. Yes . . if Cantelupe's punctual . . I'd sooner not have too
+long with him.
+
+KENT. All right, then.
+
+_He goes, shutting the door; then you hear the door of his room shut
+too. The two friends face each other, glad of a talk._
+
+TREBELL. Well?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Well . . you'll never do it.
+
+TREBELL. Yes, I shall.
+
+WEDGECROFT. You can't carry any bill to be a credit to you with the
+coming Tory cabinet on your back. You know the Government is cursing you
+with its dying breath.
+
+TREBELL. [_Rubbing his hands._] Of course. They've been beaten out of
+the House and in now. I suppose they will meet Parliament.
+
+WEDGECROFT. They must, I think. It's over a month since--
+
+TREBELL. [_His thoughts running quickly._] There'll only be a nominal
+majority of sixteen against them. The Labour lot are committed on their
+side . . and now that the Irish have gone--
+
+WEDGECROFT. But they'll be beaten on the Address first go.
+
+TREBELL. Yes . . Horsham hasn't any doubt of it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. He'll be in office within a week of the King's speech.
+
+TREBELL. [_With another access of energy._] I'll pull the bill that's in
+my head through a Horsham cabinet and the House. Then I'll leave them . .
+they'll go to the country--
+
+WEDGECROFT. You know Percival's pledge about that at Bristol wasn't very
+definite.
+
+TREBELL. Horsham means to.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_With friendly contempt._] Oh, Horsham!
+
+TREBELL. Anyway, it's about Percival I want you. How ill is he?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Not very.
+
+TREBELL. Is he going to die?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Well, I'm attending him.
+
+TREBELL. [_Pinked._] Yes . . that's a good answer. How does he stomach
+me in prospect as a colleague, so far?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Sir, professional etiquette forbids me to disclose what a
+patient may confess in the sweat of his agony.
+
+TREBELL. He'll be Chancellor again and lead the House.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Why not? He only grumbles that he's getting old.
+
+TREBELL. [_Thinking busily again._] The difficulty is I shall have to
+stay through one budget with them. He'll have a surplus . . well, it
+looks like it . . and my only way of agreeing with him will be to collar
+it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. But . . good heavens! . . you'll have a hundred million or
+so to give away when you've disendowed.
+
+TREBELL. Not to give away. I'll sell every penny.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_With an incredulous grin._] You're not going back to
+extending old-age pensions after turning the unfortunate Liberals out on
+it, are you?
+
+TREBELL. No, no . . none of your half crown measures. They can wait to
+round off their solution of that till they've the courage to make one
+big bite of it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. We shan't see the day.
+
+TREBELL. [_Lifting the subject off its feet._] Not if I come out of the
+cabinet and preach revolution?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Or will they make a Tory of you?
+
+TREBELL. [_Acknowledging that stroke with a return grin._] It'll be said
+they have when the bill is out.
+
+WEDGECROFT. It's said so already.
+
+TREBELL. Who knows a radical bill when he sees it!
+
+WEDGECROFT. I'm not pleased you have to be running a tilt against the
+party system. [_He becomes a little dubious._] My friend . . it's a
+nasty windmill. Oh, you've not seen that article in the Nation on
+Politics and Society . . it's written at Mrs. Farrant and Lady
+Lurgashall and that set. They hint that the Tories would never have had
+you if it hadn't been for this bad habit of opposite party men meeting
+each other.
+
+TREBELL. [_Unimpressed._] Excellent habit! What we really want in this
+country is a coalition of all the shibboleths with the rest of us in
+opposition . . for five years only.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Smiling generously._] Well, it's a sensation to see you
+become arbiter. The Tories are owning they can't do without you.
+Percival likes you personally . . Townsend don't matter . . Cantelupe
+you buy with a price, I suppose . . Farrant you can put in your pocket.
+I tell you I think the man you may run up against is Blackborough.
+
+TREBELL. No, all he wants is to be let look big . . and to have an idea
+given him when he's going to make a speech, which isn't often.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Otherwise . . I suppose . . now I may go down to history as
+having been in your confidence. I'm very glad you've arrived.
+
+TREBELL. [_With great seriousness._] I've sharpened myself as a weapon
+to this purpose.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Kindly._] And you're sure of yourself, aren't you?
+
+TREBELL. [_Turning his wrist._] Try.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Slipping his doctor's fingers over the pulse._]
+Seventy, I should say.
+
+TREBELL. I promise you it hasn't varied a beat these three big months.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Well, I wish it had. Perfect balance is most easily lost.
+How do you know you've the power of recovery? . . and it's that gets
+one up in the morning day by day.
+
+TREBELL. Is it? My brain works steadily on . . hasn't failed me yet. I
+keep it well fed. [_He breathes deeply._] But I'm not sure one shouldn't
+have been away from England for five years instead of five weeks . . to
+come back to a job like this with a fresh mind. D'you know why really I
+went back on the Liberals over this question? Not because they wanted
+the church money for their pensions . . but because all they can see in
+Disestablishment is destruction. Any fool can destroy! I'm not going to
+let a power like the Church get loose from the State. A thirteen hundred
+years' tradition of service . . and all they can think of is to cut it
+adrift!
+
+WEDGECROFT. I think the Church is moribund.
+
+TREBELL. Oh, yes, of course you do . . you sentimental agnostic
+anarchist. Nonsense! The supernatural's a bit blown upon . . till we
+re-discover what it means. But it's not essential. Nor is the Christian
+doctrine. Put a Jesuit in a corner and shut the door and he'll own that.
+No . . the tradition of self-sacrifice and fellowship in service for its
+own sake . . that's the spirit we've to capture and keep.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Really struck._] A secular Church!
+
+TREBELL. [_With reasoning in his tone._] Well . . why not? Listen here.
+In drafting an act of Parliament one must alternately imagine oneself
+God Almighty and the most ignorant prejudiced little blighter who will
+be affected by what's passed. God says: Let's have done with Heaven and
+Hell . . it's the Earth that shan't pass away. Why not turn all those
+theology mongers into doctors or schoolmasters?
+
+WEDGECROFT. As to doctors--
+
+TREBELL. Quite so, you naturally prejudiced blighter. That priestcraft
+don't need re-inforcing.
+
+WEDGECROFT. It needs recognition.
+
+TREBELL. What! It's the only thing most people believe in. Talk about
+superstition! However, there's more life in you. Therefore it's to be
+schoolmasters.
+
+WEDGECROFT. How?
+
+TREBELL. Listen again, young man. In the youth of the world, when
+priests were the teachers of men . . .
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Not to be preached at._] And physicians of men.
+
+TREBELL. Shut up.
+
+WEDGECROFT. If there's any real reform going, I want my profession made
+into a state department. I won't shut up for less.
+
+TREBELL. [_Putting this aside with one finger._] I'll deal with you
+later. There's still Youth in the world in another sense; but the
+priests haven't found out the difference yet, so they're wasting most of
+their time.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Religious education won't do now-a-days.
+
+TREBELL. What's Now-a-days? You're very dull, Gilbert.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I'm not duller than the people who will have to understand
+your scheme.
+
+TREBELL. They won't understand it. I shan't explain to them that
+education is religion, and that those who deal in it are priests without
+any laying on of hands.
+
+WEDGECROFT. No matter what they teach?
+
+TREBELL. No . . the matter is how they teach it. I see schools in the
+future, Gilbert, not built next to the church, but on the site of the
+church.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Do you think the world is grown up enough to do without
+dogma?
+
+TREBELL. Yes, I do.
+
+WEDGECROFT. What! . . and am I to write my prescriptions in English?
+
+TREBELL. Yes, you are.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Lord save us! I never thought to find you a visionary.
+
+TREBELL. Isn't it absurd to think that in a hundred years we shall be
+giving our best brains and the price of them not to training grown men
+into the discipline of destruction . . not even to curing the ills which
+we might be preventing . . but to teaching our children. There's nothing
+else to be done . . nothing else matters. But it's work for a
+priesthood.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Affected; not quite convinced._] Do you think you can buy
+a tradition and transmute it?
+
+TREBELL. Don't mock at money.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I never have.
+
+TREBELL. But you speak of it as an end not as a means. That's unfair.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I speaks as I finds.
+
+TREBELL. I'll buy the Church, not with money, but with the promise of
+new life. [_A certain rather gleeful cunning comes over him._] It'll
+only look like a dose of reaction at first . . Sectarian Training
+Colleges endowed to the hilt.
+
+WEDGECROFT. What'll the Nonconformists say?
+
+TREBELL. Bribe them with the means of equal efficiency. The crux of the
+whole matter will be in the statutes I'll force on those colleges.
+
+WEDGECROFT. They'll want dogma.
+
+TREBELL. Dogma's not a bad thing if you've power to adapt it
+occasionally.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Instead of spending your brains in explaining it. Yes, I
+agree.
+
+TREBELL. [_With full voice._] But in the creed I'll lay down as
+unalterable there shall be neither Jew nor Greek . . What do you think
+of St. Paul, Gilbert?
+
+WEDGECROFT. I'd make him the head of a college.
+
+TREBELL. I'll make the Devil himself head of a college, if he'll
+undertake to teach honestly all he knows.
+
+WEDGECROFT. And he'll conjure up Comte and Robespierre for you to assist
+in this little _rechauffee_ of their schemes.
+
+TREBELL. Hullo! Comte I knew about. Have I stolen from Robespierre too?
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Giving out the epigram with an air._] Property to him who
+can make the best use of it.
+
+TREBELL. And then what we must do is to give the children power over
+their teachers?
+
+_Now he is comically enigmatic._ WEDGECROFT _echoes him_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. And what exactly do you mean by that?
+
+TREBELL. [_Serious again._] How positive a pedagogue would you be if you
+had to prove your cases and justify your creed every century or so to
+the pupils who had learnt just a little more than you could teach them?
+Give power to the future, my friend . . not to the past. Give
+responsibility . . even if you give it for your own discredit. What's
+beneath trust deeds and last wills and testaments, and even acts of
+Parliament and official creeds? Fear of the verdict of the next
+generation . . fear of looking foolish in their eyes. Ah, we . . doing
+our best now . . must be ready for every sort of death. And to provide
+the means of change and disregard of the past is a secret of
+statesmanship. Presume that the world will come to an end every thirty
+years if it's not reconstructed. Therefore give responsibility . . give
+responsibility . . give the children power.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Disposed to whistle._] Those statutes will want some
+framing.
+
+TREBELL. [_Relapsing to a chuckle._] There's an incidental change to
+foresee. Disappearance of the parson into the schoolmaster . . and the
+Archdeacon into the Inspector . . and the Bishop into--I rather hope
+he'll stick to his mitre, Gilbert.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Some Ruskin will arise and make him.
+
+TREBELL. [_As he paces the room and the walls of it fade away to him._]
+What a church could be made of the best brains in England, sworn only to
+learn all they could teach what they knew without fear of the future or
+favour to the past . . sworn upon their honour as seekers after truth,
+knowingly to tell no child a lie. It will come.
+
+WEDGECROFT. A priesthood of women too? There's the tradition of service
+with them.
+
+TREBELL. [_With the sourest look yet on his face._] Slavery . . not
+quite the same thing. And the paradox of such slavery is that they're
+your only tyrants.
+
+[_At this moment the bell of the telephone upon the table rings. He goes
+to it talking the while._]
+
+One has to be very optimistic not to advocate the harem. That's simple
+and wholesome . . Yes?
+
+KENT _comes in_.
+
+KENT. Does it work?
+
+TREBELL. [_Slamming down the receiver._] You and your new toy! What is
+it?
+
+KENT. I'm not sure about the plugs of it . . I thought I'd got them
+wrong. Mrs. O'Connell has come to see Miss Trebell, who is out, and she
+says will we ask you if any message has been left for her.
+
+TREBELL. No. Oh, about dinner? Well, she's round at Mrs. Farrant's.
+
+KENT. I'll ring them up.
+
+_He goes back into his room to do so leaving_ TREBELL'S _door open. The
+two continue their talk._
+
+TREBELL. My difficulties will be with Percival.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Not over the Church.
+
+TREBELL. You see I must discover how keen he'd be on settling the
+Education quarrel, once and for all . . what there is left of it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. He's not sectarian.
+
+TREBELL. It'll cost him his surplus. When'll he be up and about?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Not for a week or more.
+
+TREBELL. [_Knitting his brow._] And I've to deal with Cantelupe. Curious
+beggar, Gilbert.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Not my sort. He'll want some dealing with over your bill as
+introduced to me.
+
+TREBELL. I've not cross-examined company promoters for ten years without
+learning how to do business with a professional high churchman.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Providence limited . . eh?
+
+_They are interrupted by_ MRS. O'CONNELL'S _appearance in the doorway.
+She is rather pale, very calm; but there is pain in her eyes and her
+voice is unnaturally steady._
+
+AMY. Your maid told me to come up and I'm interrupting business . . I
+thought she was wrong.
+
+TREBELL. [_With no trace of self-consciousness._] Well . . how are you,
+after this long time?
+
+AMY. How do you do? [_Then she sees_ WEDGECROFT _and has to control a
+shrinking from him_.] Oh!
+
+WEDGECROFT. How are you, Mrs. O'Connell?
+
+TREBELL. Kent is telephoning to Frances. He knows where she is.
+
+AMY. How are you, Dr. Wedgecroft? [_then to_ TREBELL.] Did you have a
+good holiday? London pulls one to pieces wretchedly. I shall give up
+living here at all.
+
+WEDGECROFT. You look very well.
+
+AMY. Do I!
+
+TREBELL. A very good holiday. Sit down . . he won't be a minute.
+
+_She sits on the nearest chair._
+
+AMY. You're not ill . . interviewing a doctor?
+
+TREBELL. The one thing Wedgecroft's no good at is doctoring. He keeps me
+well by sheer moral suasion.
+
+KENT _comes out of his room and is off downstairs_.
+
+TREBELL _calls to him_.
+
+TREBELL. Mrs. O'Connell's here.
+
+KENT. Oh! [_He comes back and into the room._] Miss Trebell hasn't got
+there yet.
+
+WEDGECROFT _has suddenly looked at his watch_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I must fly. Good bye, Mrs. O'Connell.
+
+AMY. [_Putting her hand, constrained by its glove, into his open hand._]
+I am always a little afraid of you.
+
+WEDGECROFT. That isn't the feeling a doctor wants to inspire.
+
+KENT. [_To_ TREBELL.] David Evans--
+
+TREBELL. Evans?
+
+KENT. The reverend one . . is downstairs and wants to see you.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_As he comes to them._] Hampstead Road Tabernacle . . Oh,
+the mammon of righteousness!
+
+TREBELL. Shut up! How long have I before Lord Charles--?
+
+KENT. Only ten minutes.
+
+MRS. O'CONNELL _goes to sit at the big table, and apparently idly takes
+a sheet of paper to scribble on_.
+
+TREBELL. [_Half thinking, half questioning._] He's a man I can say
+nothing to politely.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I'm off to Percival's now. Then I've another case and I'm
+due back at twelve. If there's anything helpful to say I'll look in
+again for two minutes . . not more.
+
+TREBELL. You're a good man.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_As he goes._] Congratulations, Kent.
+
+KENT. [_Taking him to the stairs._] Thank you very much.
+
+AMY. [_Beckoning with her eyes._] What's this, Mr. Trebell?
+
+TREBELL. Eh? I beg your pardon.
+
+_He goes behind her and reads over her shoulder what she has written._
+KENT _comes back_.
+
+KENT. Shall I bring him up here?
+
+TREBELL _looks up and for a moment stares at his secretary rather
+sharply, then speaks in a matter-of-fact voice_.
+
+TREBELL. See him yourself, downstairs. Talk to him for five minutes . .
+find out what he wants. Tell him it will be as well for the next week or
+two if he can say he hasn't seen me.
+
+KENT. Yes.
+
+_He goes._ TREBELL _follows him to the door which he shuts. Then he
+turns to face_ AMY, _who is tearing up the paper she wrote on_.
+
+TREBELL. What is it?
+
+AMY. [_Her steady voice breaking, her carefully calculated control
+giving way._] Oh Henry . . Henry!
+
+TREBELL. Are you in trouble?
+
+AMY. You'll hate me, but . . oh, it's brutal of you to have been away so
+long.
+
+TREBELL. Is it with your husband?
+
+AMY. Perhaps. Oh, come nearer to me . . do.
+
+TREBELL. [_Coming nearer without haste or excitement._] Well? [_Her eyes
+are closed._] My dear girl, I'm too busy for love-making now. If there
+are any facts to be faced, let me have them . . quite quickly.
+
+_She looks up at him for a moment; then speaks swiftly and sharply as
+one speaks of disaster._
+
+AMY. There's a danger of my having a child . . your child . . some time
+in April. That's all.
+
+TREBELL. [_A sceptic who has seen a vision._] Oh . . it's impossible.
+
+AMY. [_Flashing at him, revengefully._] Why?
+
+TREBELL. [_Brought to his mundane self._] Well . . are you sure?
+
+AMY. [_In sudden agony._] D'you think I want it to be true? D'you think
+I--? You don't know what it is to have a thing happening in spite of
+you.
+
+TREBELL. [_His face set in thought._] Where have you been since we met?
+
+AMY. Not to Ireland . . I haven't seen Justin for a year.
+
+TREBELL. All the easier for you not to see him for another year.
+
+AMY. That wasn't what you meant.
+
+TREBELL. It wasn't . . but never mind.
+
+_They are silent for a moment . . miles apart. . Then she speaks dully._
+
+AMY. We do hate each other . . don't we!
+
+TREBELL. Nonsense. Let's think of what matters.
+
+AMY. [_Aimlessly._] I went to a man at Dover . . picked him out of the
+directory . . didn't give my own name . . pretended I was off abroad. He
+was a kind old thing . . said it was all most satisfactory. Oh, my God!
+
+TREBELL. [_He goes to bend over her kindly._] Yes, you've had a
+torturing month or two. That's been wrong, I'm sorry.
+
+AMY. Even now I have to keep telling myself that it's so . . otherwise I
+couldn't understand it. Any more than one really believes one will ever
+die . . one doesn't believe that, you know.
+
+TREBELL. [_On the edge of a sensation that is new to him._] I am told
+that a man begins to feel unimportant from this moment forward. Perhaps
+it's true.
+
+AMY. What has it to do with you anyhow? We don't belong to each other.
+How long were we together that night? Half an hour! You didn't seem to
+care a bit until after you'd kissed me and . . this is an absurd
+consequence.
+
+TREBELL. Nature's a tyrant.
+
+AMY. Oh, it's my punishment . . I see that well enough . . for thinking
+myself so clever . . forgetting my duty and religion . . not going to
+confession, I mean. [_Then hysterically._] God can make you believe in
+Him when he likes, can't he?
+
+TREBELL. [_With comfortable strength._] My dear girl, this needs your
+pluck. [_And he sits by her._] All we have to do is to prevent it being
+found out.
+
+AMY. Yes . . the scandal would smash you, wouldn't it?
+
+TREBELL. There isn't going to be any scandal.
+
+AMY. No . . if we're careful. You'll tell me what to do, won't you? Oh,
+it's a relief to be able to talk about it.
+
+TREBELL. For one thing, you must take care of yourself and stop
+worrying.
+
+_It soothes her to feel that he is concerned; but it is not enough to be
+soothed._
+
+AMY. Yes, I wouldn't like to have been the means of smashing you, Henry
+. . especially as you don't care for me.
+
+TREBELL. I intend to care for you.
+
+AMY. Love me, I mean. I wish you did . . a little; then perhaps I
+shouldn't feel so degraded.
+
+TREBELL. [_A shade impatiently, a shade contemptuously._] I can say I
+love you if that'll make things easier.
+
+AMY. [_More helpless than ever._] If you'd said it at first I should be
+taking it for granted . . though it wouldn't be any more true, I
+daresay, than now . . when I should know you weren't telling the truth.
+
+TREBELL. Then I'd do without so much confusion.
+
+AMY. Don't be so heartless.
+
+TREBELL. [_As he leaves her._] We seem to be attaching importance to
+such different things.
+
+AMY. [_Shrill even at a momentary desertion._] What do you mean? I want
+affection now just as I want food. I can't do without it . . I can't
+reason things out as you can. D'you think I haven't tried? [_Then in
+sudden rebellion._] Oh, the physical curse of being a woman . . no
+better than any savage in this condition . . worse off than an animal.
+It's unfair.
+
+TREBELL. Never mind . . you're here now to hand me half the
+responsibility, aren't you?
+
+AMY. As if I could! If I have to lie through the night simply shaking
+with bodily fear much longer . . I believe I shall go mad.
+
+_This aspect of the matter is meaningless to him. He returns to the
+practical issue._
+
+TREBELL. There's nobody that need be suspecting, is there?
+
+AMY. My maid sees I'm ill and worried and makes remarks . . only to me
+so far. Don't I look a wreck? I nearly ran away when I saw Dr.
+Wedgecroft . . some of these men are so clever.
+
+TREBELL. [_Calculating._] Someone will have to be trusted.
+
+AMY. [_Burrowing into her little tortured self again._] And I ought to
+feel as if I had done Justin a great wrong . . but I don't. I hate you
+now; now and then. I was being myself. You've brought me down. I feel
+worthless.
+
+_The last word strikes him. He stares at her._
+
+TREBELL. Do you?
+
+AMY. [_Pleadingly._] There's only one thing I'd like you to tell me,
+Henry . . it isn't much. That night we were together . . it was for a
+moment different to everything that has ever been in your life before,
+wasn't it?
+
+TREBELL. [_Collecting himself as if to explain to a child._] I must make
+you understand . . I must get you to realise that for a little time to
+come you're above the law . . above even the shortcomings and
+contradictions of a man's affection.
+
+AMY. But let us have one beautiful memory to share.
+
+TREBELL. [_Determined she shall face the cold logic of her position._]
+Listen. I look back on that night as one looks back on a fit of
+drunkenness.
+
+AMY. [_Neither understanding nor wishing to; only shocked and hurt._]
+You beast.
+
+TREBELL. [_With bitter sarcasm._] No, don't say that. Won't it comfort
+you to think of drunkenness as a beautiful thing? There are precedents
+enough . . classic ones.
+
+AMY. You mean I might have been any other woman.
+
+TREBELL. [_Quite inexorable._] Wouldn't any other woman have served the
+purpose . . and is it less of a purpose because we didn't know we had
+it? Does my unworthiness then . . if you like to call it so . . make you
+unworthy now? I must make you see that it doesn't.
+
+AMY. [_Petulantly hammering at her idee fixe._] But you didn't love me . .
+and you don't love me.
+
+TREBELL. [_Keeping his patience._] No . . only within the last five
+minutes have I really taken the smallest interest in you. And now I
+believe I'm half jealous. Can you understand that? You've been talking a
+lot of nonsense about your emotions and your immortal soul. Don't you
+see it's only now that you've become a person of some importance to the
+world . . and why?
+
+AMY. [_Losing her patience, childishly._] What do you mean by the World?
+You don't seem to have any personal feelings at all. It's horrible you
+should have thought of me like that. There has been no other man than
+you that I would have let come anywhere near me . . not for more than a
+year.
+
+_He realises that she will never understand._
+
+TREBELL. My dear girl, I'm sorry to be brutal. Does it matter so much to
+you that I should have =wished= to be the father of your child?
+
+AMY. [_Ungracious but pacified by his change of tone._] It doesn't
+matter now.
+
+TREBELL. [_Friendly still._] On principle I don't make promises. But I
+think I can promise you that if you keep your head and will keep your
+health, this shall all be made as easy for you as if everyone could
+know. And let's think what the child may mean to you . . just the fact
+of his birth. Nothing to me, of course! Perhaps that accounts for the
+touch of jealousy. I've forfeited my rights because I hadn't honourable
+intentions. You can't forfeit yours. Even if you never see him and he
+has to grow up among strangers . . just to have had a child must make a
+difference to you. Of course, it may be a girl. I wonder.
+
+_As he wanders on so optimistically she stares at him and her face
+changes. She realises . ._
+
+AMY. Do you expect me to go through with this? Henry! . . I'd sooner
+kill myself.
+
+_There is silence between them. He looks at her as one looks at some
+unnatural thing. Then after a moment he speaks, very coldly._
+
+TREBELL. Oh . . indeed. Don't get foolish ideas into your head. You've
+no choice now . . no reasonable choice.
+
+AMY. [_Driven to bay; her last friend an enemy._] I won't go through
+with it.
+
+TREBELL. It hasn't been so much the fear of scandal then--
+
+AMY. That wouldn't break my heart. You'd marry me, wouldn't you? We
+could go away somewhere. I could be very fond of you, Henry.
+
+TREBELL. [_Marvelling at these tangents._] Marry you! I should murder
+you in a week.
+
+_This sounds only brutal to her; she lets herself be shamed._
+
+AMY. You've no more use for me than the use you've made of me.
+
+TREBELL. [_Logical again._] Won't you realise that there's a third party
+to our discussion . . that I'm of no importance beside him and you of
+very little. Think of the child.
+
+AMY _blazes into desperate rebellion_.
+
+AMY. There's no child because I haven't chosen there shall be and there
+shan't be because I don't choose. You'd have me first your plaything and
+then Nature's, would you?
+
+TREBELL. [_A little abashed._] Come now, you knew what you were about.
+
+AMY. [_Thinking of those moments._] Did I? I found myself wanting you,
+belonging to you suddenly. I didn't stop to think and explain. But are
+we never to be happy and irresponsible . . never for a moment?
+
+TREBELL. Well . . one can't pick and choose consequences.
+
+AMY. Your choices in life have made you what you want to be, haven't
+they? Leave me mine.
+
+TREBELL. But it's too late to argue like that.
+
+AMY. If it is, I'd better jump into the Thames. I've thought of it.
+
+_He considers how best to make a last effort to bring her to her senses.
+He sits by her._
+
+TREBELL. Amy . . if you were my wife--
+
+AMY. [_Unresponsive to him now._] I was Justin's wife, and I went away
+from him sooner than bear him children. Had I the right to choose or had
+I not?
+
+TREBELL. [_Taking another path._] Shall I tell you something I believe?
+If we were left to choose, we should stand for ever deciding whether to
+start with the right foot or the left. We blunder into the best things
+in life. Then comes the test . . have we faith enough to go on . . to go
+through with the unknown thing?
+
+AMY. [_So bored by these metaphysics._] Faith in what?
+
+TREBELL. Our vitality. I don't give a fig for beauty, happiness, or
+brains. All I ask of myself is . . can I pay Fate on demand?
+
+AMY. Yes . . in imagination. But I've got physical facts to face.
+
+_But he has her attention now and pursues the advantage._
+
+TREBELL. Very well then . . let the meaning of them go. Look forward
+simply to a troublesome illness. In a little while you can go abroad
+quietly and wait patiently. We're not fools and we needn't find fools to
+trust in. Then come back to England . . .
+
+AMY. And forget. That seems simple enough, doesn't it?
+
+TREBELL. If you don't want the child let it be mine . . not yours.
+
+AMY. [_Wondering suddenly at this bond between them._] Yours! What would
+you do with it?
+
+TREBELL. [_Matter-of-fact._] Provide for it, of course.
+
+AMY. Never see it, perhaps.
+
+TREBELL. Perhaps not. If there were anything to be gained . . for the
+child. I'll see that he has his chance as a human being.
+
+AMY. How hopeful! [_Now her voice drops. She is looking back, perhaps at
+a past self._] If you loved me . . perhaps I might learn to love the
+thought of your child.
+
+TREBELL. [_As if half his life depended on her answer._] Is that true?
+
+AMY. [_Irritably._] Why are you picking me to pieces? I think that is
+true. If you had been loving me for a long, long time-- [_The agony
+rushes back on her._] But now I'm only afraid. You might have some pity
+for me . . I'm so afraid.
+
+TREBELL. [_Touched._] Indeed . . indeed, I'll take what share of this I
+can.
+
+_She shrinks from him unforgivingly._
+
+AMY. No, let me alone. I'm nothing to you. I'm a sick beast in danger of
+my life, that's all . . cancerous!
+
+_He is roused for the first time, roused to horror and protest._
+
+TREBELL. Oh, you unhappy woman! . . . if life is like death to you . . .
+
+AMY. [_Turning on him._] Don't lecture me! If you're so clever put a
+stop to this horror. Or you might at least say you're sorry.
+
+TREBELL. Sorry! [_The bell on the table rings jarringly._] Cantelupe!
+
+_He goes to the telephone. She gets up cold and collected, steadied
+merely by the unexpected sound._
+
+AMY. I mustn't keep you from governing the country. I'm sure you'll do
+it very well.
+
+TREBELL. [_At the telephone._] Yes, bring him up, of course . . isn't
+Mr. Kent there? [_then to her._] I may be ten minutes with him or half
+an hour. Wait and we'll come to a conclusion.
+
+KENT _comes in, an open letter in his hand_.
+
+KENT. This note, sir. Had I better go round myself and see him?
+
+TREBELL. [_As he takes the note._] Cantelupe's come.
+
+KENT. [_Glancing at the telephone._] Oh, has he!
+
+TREBELL. [_As he reads._] Yes I think you had.
+
+KENT. Evans was very serious.
+
+_He goes back into his room._ AMY _moves swiftly to where_ TREBELL _is
+standing and whispers_.
+
+AMY. Won't you tell me whom to go to?
+
+TREBELL. No.
+
+AMY. Oh, really . . what unpractical sentimental children you men are!
+You and your consciences . . you and your laws. You drive us to
+distraction and sometimes to death by your stupidities. Poor women--!
+
+_The Maid comes in to announce_ LORD CHARLES CANTELUPE, _who follows
+her_. CANTELUPE _is forty, unathletic, and a gentleman in the best and
+worst sense of the word. He moves always with a caution which may betray
+his belief in the personality of the Devil. He speaks cautiously too,
+and as if not he but something inside him were speaking. One feels that
+before strangers he would not if he could help it move or speak at all.
+A pale face: the mouth would be hardened by fanaticism were it not for
+the elements of Christianity in his religion: and he has the limpid eye
+of the enthusiast._
+
+TREBELL. Glad to see you. You know Mrs. O'Connell.
+
+CANTELUPE _bows in silence_.
+
+AMY. We have met.
+
+_She offers her hand. He silently takes it and drops it._
+
+TREBELL. Then you'll wait for Frances.
+
+AMY. Is it worth while?
+
+KENT _with his hat on leaves his room and goes downstairs_.
+
+TREBELL. Have you anything better to do?
+
+AMY. There's somewhere I can go. But I mustn't keep you chatting of my
+affairs. Lord Charles is impatient to disestablish the Church.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Unable to escape a remark._] Forgive me, since that is also
+your affair.
+
+AMY. Oh . . but I was received at the Oratory when I was married.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_With contrition._] I beg your pardon.
+
+_Then he makes for the other side of the room._ TREBELL _and_ MRS.
+O'CONNELL _stroll to the door, their eyes full of meaning_.
+
+AMY. I think I'll go on to this place that I've heard of. If I wait . .
+for your sister . . she may disappoint me again.
+
+TREBELL. Wait.
+
+KENT'S _room is vacant_.
+
+AMY. Well . . in here?
+
+TREBELL. If you like law-books.
+
+AMY. I haven't been much of an interruption now, have I?
+
+TREBELL. Please wait.
+
+AMY. Thank you.
+
+TREBELL _shuts her in, for a moment seems inclined to lock her in, but
+he comes back into his own room and faces_ CANTELUPE, _who having primed
+and trained himself on his subject like a gun, fires off a speech,
+without haste, but also apparently without taking breath_.
+
+CANTELUPE. I was extremely thankful, Mr. Trebell, to hear last week from
+Horsham that you will see your way to join his cabinet and undertake the
+disestablishment bill in the House of Commons. Any measure of mine, I
+have always been convinced, would be too much under the suspicion of
+blindly favouring Church interests to command the allegiance of that
+heterogeneous mass of thought . . in some cases, alas, of free thought . .
+which now-a-days composes the Conservative party. I am more than
+content to exercise what influence I may from a seat in the cabinet
+which will authorise the bill.
+
+TREBELL. Yes. That chair's comfortable.
+
+CANTELUPE _takes another_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Horsham forwarded to me your memorandum upon the conditions
+you held necessary and I incline to think I may accept them in principle
+on behalf of those who honour me with their confidences.
+
+_He fishes some papers from his pocket._ TREBELL _sits squarely at his
+table to grapple with the matter_.
+
+TREBELL. Horsham told me you did accept them . . it's on that I'm
+joining.
+
+CANTELUPE. Yes . . in principle.
+
+TREBELL. Well . . we couldn't carry a bill you disapproved of, could we?
+
+CANTELUPE. [_With finesse._] I hope not.
+
+TREBELL. [_A little dangerously._] And I have no intention of being made
+the scapegoat of a wrecked Tory compromise with the Nonconformists.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Calmly ignoring the suggestion._] So far as I am concerned
+I meet the Nonconformists on their own ground . . that Religion had
+better be free from all compromise with the State.
+
+TREBELL. Quite so . . if you're set free you'll look after yourselves.
+My discovery must be what to do with the men who think more of the state
+than their Church . . the majority of parsons, don't you think? . . if
+the question's really put and they can be made to understand it.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_With sincere disdain._] There are more profitable
+professions.
+
+TREBELL. And less. Will you allow me that it is statecraft to make a
+profession profitable?
+
+CANTELUPE _picks up his papers, avoiding theoretical discussion_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Well now . . will you explain to me this project for endowing
+Education with your surplus?
+
+TREBELL. Putting Appropriation, the Buildings and the Representation
+question on one side for the moment?
+
+CANTELUPE. Candidly, I have yet to master your figures . . .
+
+TREBELL. The roughest figures so far.
+
+CANTELUPE. Still I have yet to master them on the first two points.
+
+TREBELL. [_Firmly premising._] We agree that this is not diverting
+church money to actually secular uses.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_As he peeps from under his eyelids._] I can conceive that
+it might not be. You know that we hold Education to be a Church
+function. But . . .
+
+TREBELL. Can you accept thoroughly now the secular solution for all
+Primary Schools?
+
+CANTELUPE. Haven't we always preferred it to the undenominational? Are
+there to be facilities for any of the teachers giving dogmatic
+instruction?
+
+TREBELL. I note your emphasis on any. I think we can put the burden of
+that decision on local authorities. Let us come to the question of
+Training Colleges for your teachers. It's on that I want to make my
+bargain.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Alert and cautious._] You want to endow colleges?
+
+TREBELL. Heavily.
+
+CANTELUPE. Under public control?
+
+TREBELL. Church colleges under Church control.
+
+CANTELUPE. There'd be others?
+
+TREBELL. To preserve the necessary balance in the schools.
+
+CANTELUPE. Not founded with church money?
+
+TREBELL. Think of the grants in aid that will be released. I must ask
+the Treasury for a further lump sum and with that there may be
+sufficient for secular colleges . . if you can agree with me upon the
+statutes of those over which you'd otherwise have free control.
+
+TREBELL _is weighing his words_.
+
+CANTELUPE. "You" meaning, for instance . . what authorities in the
+Church?
+
+TREBELL. Bishops, I suppose . . and others. [CANTELUPE _permits himself
+to smile._] On that point I shall be weakness itself and . . may I
+suggest . . your seat in the cabinet will give you some control.
+
+CANTELUPE. Statutes?
+
+TREBELL. To be framed in the best interests of educational efficiency.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Finding an opening._] I doubt if we agree upon the meaning
+to be attached to that term.
+
+TREBELL. [_Forcing the issue._] What meaning do you attach to it?
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Smiling again._] I have hardly a sympathetic listener.
+
+TREBELL. You have an unprejudiced one . . the best you can hope for. I
+was not educated myself. I learnt certain things that I desired to know
+. . from reading my first book--Don Quixote it was--to mastering Company
+Law. You see, as a man without formulas either for education or
+religion, I am perhaps peculiarly fitted to settle the double question.
+I have no grudges . . no revenge to take.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Suddenly congenial._] Shelton's translation of Don Quixote
+I hope . . the modern ones have no flavour. And you took all the
+adventures as seriously as the Don did?
+
+TREBELL. [_Not expecting this._] I forget.
+
+CANTELUPE. It's the finer attitude . . the child's attitude. And it
+would enable you immediately to comprehend mine towards an education
+consisting merely of practical knowledge. The life of Faith is still the
+happy one. What is more crushingly finite than knowledge? Moral
+discipline is a nation's only safety. How much of your science tends in
+support of the great spiritual doctrine of sacrifice!
+
+TREBELL _returns to his subject as forceful as ever_.
+
+TREBELL. The Church has assimilated much in her time. Do you think it
+wise to leave agnostic science at the side of the plate? I think, you
+know, that this craving for common knowledge is a new birth in the mind
+of man; and if your church won't recognise that soon, by so much will
+she be losing her grip for ever over men's minds. What's the test of
+godliness, but your power to receive the new idea in whatever form it
+comes and give it life? It is blasphemy to pick and choose your good.
+[_For a moment his thoughts seem to be elsewhere._] That's an unhappy
+man or woman or nation . . I know it if it has only come to me this
+minute . . and I don't care what their brains or their riches or their
+beauty or any of their triumph may be . . they're unhappy and useless if
+they can't tell life from death.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Interested in the digression._] Remember that the Church's
+claim has ever been to know that difference.
+
+TREBELL. [_Fastening to his subject again._] My point is this: A man's
+demand to know the exact structure of a fly's wing, and his assertion
+that it degrades any child in the street not to know such a thing, is a
+religious revival . . a token of spiritual hunger. What else can it be?
+And we commercialise our teaching!
+
+CANTELUPE. I wouldn't have it so.
+
+TREBELL. Then I'm offering you the foundation of a new Order of men and
+women who'll serve God by teaching his children. Now shall we finish the
+conversation in prose?
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Not to be put down._] What is the prose for God?
+
+TREBELL. [_Not to be put down either._] That's what we irreligious
+people are giving our lives to discover. [_He plunges into detail._] I'm
+proposing to found about seventy-two new colleges, and of course, to
+bring the ones there are up to the new standard. Then we must gradually
+revise all teaching salaries in government schools . . to a scale I have
+in mind. Then the course must be compulsory and the training time
+doubled--
+
+CANTELUPE. Doubled! Four years?
+
+TREBELL. Well, a minimum of three . . a university course. Remember
+we're turning a trade into a calling.
+
+CANTELUPE. There's more to that than taking a degree.
+
+TREBELL. I think so. You've fought for years for your tests and your
+atmosphere with plain business men not able to understand such lunacy.
+Quite right . . atmosphere's all that matters. If one and one don't make
+two by God's grace . . .
+
+CANTELUPE. Poetry again!
+
+TREBELL. I beg your pardon. Well . . you've no further proof. If you
+can't plant your thumb on the earth and your little finger on the pole
+star you know nothing of distances. We must do away with text-book
+teachers.
+
+CANTELUPE _is opening out a little in spite of himself_.
+
+CANTELUPE. I'm waiting for our opinions to differ.
+
+TREBELL. [_Businesslike again._] I'll send you a draft of the statutes I
+propose within a week. Meanwhile shall I put the offer this way. If I
+accept your tests will you accept mine?
+
+CANTELUPE. What are yours?
+
+TREBELL. I believe if one provides for efficiency one provides for the
+best part of truth . . honesty of statement. I shall hope for a little
+more elasticity in your dogmas than Becket or Cranmer or Laud would have
+allowed. When you've a chance to re-formulate the reasons of your faith
+for the benefit of men teaching mathematics and science and history and
+political economy, you won't neglect to answer or allow for criticisms
+and doubts. I don't see why . . in spite of all the evidence to the
+contrary . . such a thing as progress in a definite religious faith is
+impossible.
+
+CANTELUPE. Progress is a soiled word. [_And now he weighs his words._] I
+shall be very glad to accept on the Church's behalf control of the
+teaching of teachers in these colleges.
+
+TREBELL. Good. I want the best men.
+
+CANTELUPE. You are surprisingly inexperienced if you think that creeds
+can ever become mere forms except to those who have none.
+
+TREBELL. But teaching--true teaching--is learning, and the wish to know
+is going to prevail against any creed . . so I think. I wish you cared
+as little for the form in which a truth is told as I do. On the whole,
+you see, I think I shall manage to plant your theology in such soil this
+spring that the garden will be fruitful. On the whole I'm a believer in
+Churches of all sorts and their usefulness to the State. Your present
+use is out-worn. Have I found you in this the beginnings of a new one?
+
+CANTELUPE. The Church says: Thank you, it is a very old one.
+
+TREBELL. [_Winding up the interview._] To be sure, for practical
+politics our talk can be whittled down to your accepting the secular
+solution for Primary Schools, if you're given these colleges under such
+statutes as you and I shall agree upon.
+
+CANTELUPE. And the country will accept.
+
+TREBELL. The country will accept any measure if there's enough money in
+it to bribe all parties fairly.
+
+CANTELUPE. You expect very little of the constancy of my Church to her
+Faith, Mr. Trebell.
+
+TREBELL. I have only one belief myself. That is in human progress--yes,
+progress--over many obstacles and by many means. I have no ideals. I
+believe it is statesmanlike to use all the energy you find . . turning
+it into the nearest channel that points forward.
+
+CANTELUPE. Forward to what?
+
+TREBELL. I don't know . . and my caring doesn't matter. We do know . .
+and if we deny it it's only to be encouraged by contradiction . . that
+the movement is forward and with some gathering purpose. I'm friends
+with any fellow traveller.
+
+CANTELUPE _has been considering him very curiously. Now he gets up to
+go._
+
+CANTELUPE. I should like to continue our talk when I've studied your
+draft of the statutes. Of course the political position is favourable to
+a far more comprehensive bill than we had ever looked for . . and you've
+the advantage now of having held yourself very free from party ties. In
+fact not only will you give us the bill we shall most care to accept,
+but I don't know what other man would give us a bill we and the other
+side could accept at all.
+
+TREBELL. I can let you have more Appropriation figures by Friday. The
+details of the Fabrics scheme will take a little longer.
+
+CANTELUPE. In a way there's no such hurry. We're not in office yet.
+
+TREBELL. When I'm building with figures I like to give the foundations
+time to settle. Otherwise they are the inexactest things.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Smiling to him for the first time._] We shall have you
+finding Faith the only solvent of all problems some day.
+
+TREBELL. I hope my mind is not afraid . . even of the Christian
+religion.
+
+CANTELUPE. I am sure that the needs of the human soul . . be it dressed
+up in whatever knowledge . . do not alter from age to age . .
+
+_He opens the door to find_ WEDGECROFT _standing outside, watch in
+hand_.
+
+TREBELL. Hullo . . . waiting?
+
+WEDGECROFT. I was giving you two minutes by my watch. How are you,
+Cantelupe?
+
+CANTELUPE, _with a gesture which might be mistaken for a bow, folds
+himself up_.
+
+TREBELL. Shall I bring you the figures on Friday . . that might save
+time.
+
+CANTELUPE, _by taking a deeper fold in himself seems to assent_.
+
+TREBELL. Will the afternoon do? Kent shall fix the hour.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_With an effort._] Kent?
+
+TREBELL. My secretary.
+
+CANTELUPE. Friday. Any hour before five. I know my way.
+
+_The three phrases having meant three separate efforts_, CANTELUPE
+_escapes_. WEDGECROFT _has walked to the table, his brows a little
+puckered. Now_ TREBELL _notices that_ KENT'S _door is open; he goes
+quickly into the room and finds it empty. Then he stands for a moment
+irritable and undecided before returning._
+
+TREBELL. Been here long?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Five minutes . . more, I suppose.
+
+TREBELL. Mrs. O'Connell gone?
+
+WEDGECROFT. To her dressmaker's.
+
+TREBELL. Frances forgot she was coming and went out.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Pretty little fool of a woman! D'you know her husband?
+
+TREBELL. No.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Says she's been in Ireland with him since we met at
+Shapters. He has trouble with his tenantry.
+
+TREBELL. Won't he sell or won't they purchase?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Curious chap. A Don at Balliol when I first knew him. Warped
+of late years . . perhaps by his marriage.
+
+TREBELL. [_Dismissing that subject._] Well . . how's Percival?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Better this morning. I told him I'd seen you . . and in a
+little calculated burst of confidence what I'd reason to think you were
+after. He said you and he could get on though you differed on every
+point; but he didn't see how you'd pull with such a blasted weak-kneed
+lot as the rest of the Horsham's cabinet would be. He'll be up in a week
+or ten days.
+
+TREBELL. Can I see him?
+
+WEDGECROFT. You might. I admire the old man . . the way he sticks to his
+party, though they misrepresent now most things he believes in!
+
+TREBELL. What a damnable state to arrive at . . doubly damned by the
+fact you admire it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. And to think that at this time of day you should need
+instructing in the ethics of party government. But I'll have to do it.
+
+TREBELL. Not now. I've been at ethics with Cantelupe.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Certainly not now. What about my man with the stomach-ache
+at twelve o'clock sharp! Good-bye.
+
+_He is gone._ TREBELL _battles with uneasiness and at last mutters_.
+"Oh . . why didn't she wait?" _Then the telephone bell rings. He goes
+quickly as if it were an answer to his anxiety._ "Yes?" _Of course, it
+isn't . ._ "Yes." _He paces the room, impatient, wondering what to do.
+The Maid comes in to announce_ MISS DAVENPORT. LUCY _follows her. She
+has gained lately perhaps a little of the joy which was lacking and at
+least she brings now into this room a breath of very wholesome
+womanhood._
+
+LUCY. It's very good of you to let me come; I'm not going to keep you
+more than three minutes.
+
+TREBELL. Sit down.
+
+_Only women unused to busy men would call him rude._
+
+LUCY. What I want to say is . . don't mind my being engaged to Walter.
+It shan't interfere with his work for you. If you want a proof that it
+shan't . . it was I got Aunt Julia to ask you to take him . . Though he
+didn't know . . so don't tell him that.
+
+TREBELL. You weren't engaged then.
+
+LUCY. I . . thought that we might be.
+
+TREBELL. [_With cynical humour._] Which I'm not to tell him either?
+
+LUCY. Oh, that wouldn't matter.
+
+TREBELL. [_With decision._] I'll make sure you don't interfere.
+
+LUCY. [_Deliberately . . not to be treated as a child._] You couldn't,
+you know, if I wanted to.
+
+TREBELL. Why, is Walter a fool?
+
+LUCY. He's very fond of me, if that's what you mean?
+
+TREBELL _looks at her for the first time and changes his tone a little_.
+
+TREBELL. If it was what I meant . . I'm disposed to withdraw the
+suggestion.
+
+LUCY. And, because I'm fond of his work as well, I shan't therefore ask
+him to tell me things . . secrets.
+
+TREBELL. [_Reverting to his humour._] It'll be when you're a year or two
+married that danger may occur . . in his desperate effort to make
+conversation.
+
+LUCY _considers this and him quite seriously_.
+
+LUCY. You're rather hard on women, aren't you . . just because they
+don't have the chances men do.
+
+TREBELL. Do you want the chances?
+
+LUCY. I think I'm as clever as most men I meet, though I know less, of
+course.
+
+TREBELL. Perhaps I should have offered you the secretaryship instead.
+
+LUCY. [_Readily._] Don't you think I'm taking it in a way . . by
+marrying Walter? That's fanciful of course. But marriage is a very
+general and complete sort of partnership, isn't it? At least, I'd like
+to make mine so.
+
+TREBELL. He'll be more under your thumb in some things if you leave him
+free in others.
+
+_She receives the sarcasm in all seriousness and then speaks to him as
+she would to a child._
+
+LUCY. Oh . . I'm not explaining what I mean quite well perhaps. Walter
+has been everywhere and done everything. He speaks three languages . .
+which all makes him an ideal private secretary.
+
+TREBELL. Quite.
+
+LUCY. Do you think he'd develop into anything else . . but for me?
+
+TREBELL. So I have provided just a first step, have I?
+
+LUCY. [_With real enthusiasm._] Oh, Mr. Trebell, it's a great thing for
+us. There isn't anyone worth working under but you. You'll make him
+think and give him ideas instead of expecting them from him. But just
+for that reason he'd get so attached to you and be quite content to grow
+old in your shadow . . if it wasn't for me.
+
+TREBELL. True . . I should encourage him in nothingness. What's more, I
+want extra brains and hands. It's not altogether a pleasant thing, is
+it . . the selfishness of the hard worked man?
+
+LUCY. If you don't grudge your own strength, why should you be tender of
+other people's?
+
+_He looks at her curiously._
+
+TREBELL. Your ambition is making for only second-hand satisfaction
+though.
+
+LUCY. What's a woman to do? She must work through men, mustn't she?
+
+TREBELL. I'm told that's degrading . . the influencing of husbands and
+brothers and sons.
+
+LUCY. [_Only half humorously._] But what else is one to do with them? Of
+course, I've enough money to live on . . so I could take up some woman's
+profession. . . What are you smiling at?
+
+TREBELL. [_Who has smiled very broadly._] As you don't mean to . . don't
+stop while I tell you.
+
+LUCY. But I'd sooner get married. I want to have children. [_The words
+catch him and hold him. He looks at her reverently this time. She
+remembers she has transgressed convention; then, remembering that it is
+only convention, proceeds quite simply._] I hope we shall have children.
+
+TREBELL. I hope so.
+
+LUCY. Thank you. That's the first kind thing you've said.
+
+TREBELL. Oh . . you can do without compliments, can't you?
+
+_She considers for a moment._
+
+LUCY. Why have you been talking to me as if I were someone else?
+
+TREBELL. [_Startled._] Who else?
+
+LUCY. No one particular. But you've shaken a moral fist so to speak. I
+don't think I provoked it.
+
+TREBELL. It's a bad parliamentary habit. I apologise.
+
+_She gets up to go._
+
+LUCY. Now I shan't keep you longer . . you're always busy. You've been
+so easy to talk to. Thank you very much.
+
+TREBELL. Why . . I wonder?
+
+LUCY. I knew you would be or I shouldn't have come. You think Life's an
+important thing, don't you? That's priggish, isn't it? Good-bye. We're
+coming to dinner . . Aunt Julia and I. Miss Trebell arrived to ask us
+just as I left.
+
+TREBELL. I'll see you down.
+
+LUCY. What waste of time for you. I know how the door opens.
+
+_As she goes out_ WALTER KENT _is on the way to his room. The two nod to
+each other like old friends._ TREBELL _turns away with something of a
+sigh_.
+
+KENT. Just come?
+
+LUCY. Just going.
+
+KENT. I'll see you at dinner.
+
+LUCY. Oh, are you to be here? . . that's nice.
+
+LUCY _departs as purposefully as she came_. KENT _hurries to_ TREBELL,
+_whose thoughts are away again by now_.
+
+KENT. I haven't been long there and back, have I? The Bishop gave me
+these letters for you. He hasn't answered the last . . but I've his
+notes of what he means to say. He'd like them back to-night. He was just
+going out. I've one or two notes of what Evans said. Bit of a charlatan,
+don't you think?
+
+TREBELL. Evans?
+
+KENT. Well, he talked of his Flock. There are quite fifteen letters
+you'll have to deal with yourself, I'm afraid.
+
+TREBELL _stares at him: then, apparently, making up his mind_ . .
+
+TREBELL. Ring up a messenger, will you . . I must write a note and send
+it.
+
+KENT. Will you dictate?
+
+TREBELL. I shall have done it while you're ringing . . it's only a
+personal matter. Then we'll start work.
+
+KENT _goes into his room and tackles the telephone there_. TREBELL _sits
+down to write the note, his face very set and anxious_.
+
+
+
+
+                              THE THIRD ACT
+
+
+At LORD HORSHAM'S house in Queen Anne's Gate, in the evening, a week
+later.
+
+_If rooms express their owners' character, the grey and black of_ LORD
+HORSHAM'S _drawing room, the faded brocade of its furniture, reveal him
+as a man of delicate taste and somewhat thin intellectuality. He stands
+now before a noiseless fire, contemplating with a troubled eye either
+the pattern of the Old French carpet, or the black double doors of the
+library opposite, or the moulding on the Adams ceiling, which the
+flicker of all the candles casts into deeper relief. His grey hair and
+black clothes would melt into the decoration of his room, were the
+figure not rescued from such oblivion by the British white glaze of his
+shirt front and--to a sympathetic eye--by the loveable perceptive face
+of the man. Sometimes he looks at the sofa in front of him, on which
+sits_ WEDGECROFT, _still in the frock coat of a busy day, depressed and
+irritable. With his back to them, on a sofa with its back to them, is_
+GEORGE FARRANT, _planted with his knees apart, his hands clasped, his
+head bent; very glum. And sometimes_ HORSHAM _glances at the door, as if
+waiting for it to open. Then his gaze will travel back, up the long
+shiny black piano, with a volume of the Well Tempered Clavichord open on
+its desk, to where_ CANTELUPE _is perched uncomfortably on the bench;
+paler than ever; more self-contained than ever, looking, to one who
+knows him as well as_ HORSHAM _does, a little dangerous. So he returns
+to contemplation of the ceiling or the carpet. They wait there as men
+wait who have said all they want to say upon an unpleasant subject and
+yet cannot dismiss it. At last_ FARRANT _breaks the silence_.
+
+FARRANT. What time did you ask him to come, Horsham?
+
+HORSHAM. Eh . . O'Connell? I didn't ask him directly. What time did you
+say, Wedgecroft?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Any time after half past ten, I told him.
+
+FARRANT. [_Grumbling._] It's a quarter to eleven. Doesn't Blackborough
+mean to turn up at all?
+
+HORSHAM. He was out of town . . my note had to be sent after him. I
+couldn't wire, you see.
+
+FARRANT. No.
+
+CANTELUPE. It was by the merest chance your man caught me, Cyril. I was
+taking the ten fifteen to Tonbridge and happened to go to James Street
+first for some papers.
+
+_The conversation flags again._
+
+CANTELUPE. But since Mrs. O'Connell is dead what is the excuse for a
+scandal?
+
+_At this unpleasant dig into the subject of their thoughts the three
+other men stir uncomfortably._
+
+HORSHAM. Because the inquest is unavoidable . . apparently.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Suddenly letting fly._] I declare I'd have risked penal
+servitude and given a certificate, but just before the end O'Connell
+would call in old Fielding Andrews, who has moral scruples about
+everything--it's his trademark--and of course about this . . !
+
+FARRANT. Was he told of the whole business?
+
+WEDGECROFT. No . . O'Connell kept things up before him. Well . . the
+woman was dying.
+
+HORSHAM. Couldn't you have kept the true state of the case from Sir
+Fielding?
+
+WEDGECROFT. And been suspected of the malpractice myself if he'd found
+it out? . . which he would have done . . he's no fool. Well . . I
+thought of trying that. . .
+
+FARRANT. My dear Wedgecroft . . how grossly quixotic! You have a duty to
+yourself.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Rescuing the conversation from unpleasantness._] I'm afraid I
+feel that our position to-night is most irregular, Wedgecroft.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Still if you can make O'Connell see reason. And if you all
+can't . . [_He frowns at the alternative._]
+
+CANTELUPE. Didn't you say she came to you first of all?
+
+WEDGECROFT. I met her one morning at Trebell's.
+
+FARRANT. Actually at Trebell's!
+
+WEDGECROFT. The day he came back from abroad.
+
+FARRANT. Oh! No one seems to have noticed them together much at any
+time. My wife. . . No matter!
+
+WEDGECROFT. She tackled me as a doctor with one part of her trouble . .
+added she'd been with O'Connell in Ireland, which of course it turns out
+wasn't true . . asked me to help her. I had to say I couldn't.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Echoing rather than querying._] You couldn't.
+
+FARRANT. [_Shocked._] My dear Horsham!
+
+WEDGECROFT. Well, if she'd told me the truth! . . No, anyhow I couldn't.
+I'm sure there was no excuse. One can't run these risks.
+
+FARRANT. Quite right, quite right.
+
+WEDGECROFT. There are men who do on one pretext or another.
+
+FARRANT. [_Not too shocked to be curious._] Are there really?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Oh yes, men well known . . in other directions. I could give
+you four addresses . . but of course I wasn't going to give her one.
+Though there again . . if she'd told me the whole truth! . . My God,
+women are such fools! And they prefer quackery . . look at the decent
+doctors they simply turn into charlatans. Though, there again, that all
+comes of letting a trade work mysteriously under the thumb of a
+benighted oligarchy . . which is beside the question. But one day I'll
+make you sit up on the subject of the Medical Council, Horsham.
+
+HORSHAM _assumes an impenetrable air of statesmanship_.
+
+HORSHAM. I know. Very interesting . . very important . . very difficult
+to alter the status quo.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Then the poor little liar said she'd go off to an
+appointment with her dressmaker; and I heard nothing more till she sent
+for me a week later, and I found her almost too ill to speak. Even then
+she didn't tell me the truth! So, when O'Connell arrived, of course I
+spoke to him quite openly and all he told me in reply was that it
+wouldn't have been his child.
+
+FARRANT. Poor devil!
+
+WEDGECROFT. O'Connell?
+
+FARRANT. Yes, of course.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I wonder. Perhaps she didn't realize he'd been sent for . .
+or felt then she was dying and didn't care . . or lost her head. I don't
+know.
+
+FARRANT. Such a pretty little woman!
+
+WEDGECROFT. If I could have made him out and dealt with him, of course,
+I shouldn't have come to you. Farrant's known him even longer than I
+have.
+
+FARRANT. I was with him at Harrow.
+
+WEDGECROFT. So I went to Farrant first.
+
+_That part of the subject drops._ CANTELUPE, _who has not moved, strikes
+in again_.
+
+CANTELUPE. How was Trebell's guilt discovered?
+
+FARRANT. He wrote her one letter which she didn't destroy. O'Connell
+found it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Picked it up from her desk . . it wasn't even locked up.
+
+FARRANT. Not twenty words in it . . quite enough though.
+
+HORSHAM. His habit of being explicit . . of writing things down . . I
+know!
+
+_He shakes his head, deprecating all rashness. There is another pause._
+FARRANT, _getting up to pace about, breaks it_.
+
+FARRANT. Look here, Wedgecroft, one thing is worrying me. Had Trebell
+any foreknowledge of what she did and the risk she was running and could
+he have stopped it?
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Almost ill-temperedly._] How could he have stopped it?
+
+FARRANT. Because . . well, I'm not a casuist . . but I know by instinct
+when I'm up against the wrong thing to do; and if he can't be cleared on
+that point I won't lift a finger to save him.
+
+HORSHAM. [_With nice judgment._] In using the term Any Foreknowledge,
+Farrant, you may be more severe on him than you wish to be.
+
+FARRANT, _unappreciative, continues_.
+
+FARRANT. Otherwise . . well, we must admit, Cantelupe, that if it hadn't
+been for the particular consequence of this it wouldn't be anything to
+be so mightily shocked about.
+
+CANTELUPE. I disagree.
+
+FARRANT. My dear fellow, it's our business to make laws and we know the
+difference of saying in one of 'em you may or you must. Who ever
+proposed to insist on pillorying every case of spasmodic adultery? One
+would never have done! Some of these attachments do more harm . . to the
+third party, I mean . . some less. But it's only when a menage becomes
+socially impossible that a sensible man will interfere. [_He adds quite
+unnecessarily._] I'm speaking quite impersonally, of course.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_As coldly as ever._] Trebell is morally responsible for
+every consequence of the original sin.
+
+WEDGECROFT. That is a hard saying.
+
+FARRANT. [_Continuing his own remarks quite independently._] And I put
+aside the possibility that he deliberately helped her to her death to
+save a scandal because I don't believe it is a possibility. But if that
+were so I'd lift my finger to help him to his. I'd see him hanged with
+pleasure.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Settling this part of the matter._] Well, Farrant, to all
+intents and purposes he didn't know and he'd have stopped it if he
+could.
+
+FARRANT. Yes, I believe that. But what makes you so sure?
+
+WEDGECROFT. I asked him and he told me.
+
+FARRANT. That's no proof.
+
+WEDGECROFT. You read the letter that he sent her . . unless you think it
+was written as a blind.
+
+FARRANT. Oh . . to be sure . . yes. I might have thought of that.
+
+_He settles down again. Again no one has anything to say._
+
+CANTELUPE. What is to be said to Mr. O'Connell when he comes?
+
+HORSHAM. Yes . . what exactly do you propose we shall say to O'Connell,
+Wedgecroft?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Get him to open his oyster of a mind and . . .
+
+FARRANT. So it is and his face like a stone wall yesterday. Absolutely
+refused to discuss the matter with me!
+
+CANTELUPE. May I ask, Cyril, why are we concerning ourselves with this
+wickedness at all?
+
+HORSHAM. Just at this moment when we have official weight without
+official responsibility, Charles . .
+
+WEDGECROFT. I wish I could have let Percival out of bed, but these first
+touches of autumn are dangerous to a convalescent of his age.
+
+HORSHAM. But you saw him, Farrant . . and he gave you his opinion,
+didn't he?
+
+FARRANT. Last night . . yes.
+
+HORSHAM. I suppose it's a pity Blackborough hasn't turned up.
+
+FARRANT. Never mind him.
+
+HORSHAM. He gets people to agree with him. That's a gift.
+
+FARRANT. Wedgecroft, what is the utmost O'Connell will be called upon to
+do for us . . for Trebell?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Probably only to hold his tongue at the inquest to-morrow.
+As far as I know there's no one but her maid to prove that Mrs.
+O'Connell didn't meet her husband some time in the summer. He'll be
+called upon to tell a lie or two by implication.
+
+FARRANT. Cantelupe . . what does perjury to that extent mean to a Roman
+Catholic?
+
+CANTELUPE'S _face melts into an expression of mild amazement_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Your asking such a question shows that you would not
+understand my answer to it.
+
+FARRANT. [_Leaving the fellow to his subtleties._] Well, what about the
+maid?
+
+WEDGECROFT. She may suspect facts but not names, I think. Why should
+they question her on such a point if O'Connell says nothing?
+
+HORSHAM. He's really very late. I told . . [_He stops._] Charles, I've
+forgotten that man's name again.
+
+CANTELUPE. Edmunds, you said it was.
+
+HORSHAM. Edmunds. Everybody's down at Lympne . . I've been left with a
+new man here and I don't know his name. [_He is very pathetic._] I told
+him to put O'Connell in the library there. I thought that either Farrant
+or I might perhaps see him first and--
+
+_At this moment_ EDMUNDS _comes in, and, with that air of discreet tact
+which he considers befits the establishment of a Prime Minister,
+announces_, "Mr. O'Connell, my lord." _As_ O'CONNELL _follows him_,
+HORSHAM _can only try not to look too disconcerted_. O'CONNELL, _in his
+tightly buttoned frock coat, with his shaven face and close-cropped iron
+grey hair, might be mistaken for a Catholic priest; except that he has
+not also acquired the easy cheerfulness which professional familiarity
+with the mysteries of that religion seems to give. For the moment, at
+least, his features are so impassive that they may tell either of the
+deepest grief or the purest indifference; or it may be, merely of
+reticence on entering a stranger's room. He only bows towards_ HORSHAM'S
+_half-proffered hand. With instinctive respect for the situation of this
+tragically made widower the men have risen and stand in various uneasy
+attitudes._
+
+HORSHAM. Oh . . how do you do? Let me see . . do you know my cousin
+Charles Cantelupe? Yes . . we were expecting Russell Blackborough. Sir
+Henry Percival is ill. Do sit down.
+
+O'CONNELL _takes the nearest chair and gradually the others settle
+themselves_; FARRANT _seeking an obscure corner. But there follows an
+uncomfortable silence, which_ O'CONNELL _at last breaks_.
+
+O'CONNELL. You have sent for me, Lord Horsham?
+
+HORSHAM. I hope that by my message I conveyed no impression of sending
+for you.
+
+O'CONNELL. I am always in some doubt as to by what person or persons in
+or out of power this country is governed. But from all I hear you are at
+the present moment approximately entitled to send for me.
+
+_The level music of his Irish tongue seems to give finer edge to his
+sarcasm._
+
+HORSHAM. Well, Mr. O'Connell . . you know our request before we make it.
+
+O'CONNELL. Yes, I understand that if the fact of Mr. Trebell's adultery
+with my wife were made as public as its consequences to her must be
+to-morrow, public opinion would make it difficult for you to include
+him in your cabinet.
+
+HORSHAM. Therefore we ask you . . though we have no right to ask you . .
+to consider the particular circumstances and forget the man in the
+statesman, Mr. O'Connell.
+
+O'CONNELL. My wife is dead. What have I to do at all with Mr. Trebell as
+a man? As a statesman I am in any case uninterested in him.
+
+_Upon this throwing of cold water_, EDMUNDS _returns to mention even
+more discreetly_ . . .
+
+EDMUNDS. Mr. Blackborough is in the library, my lord.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Patiently impatient._] No, no . . here.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Let me go.
+
+HORSHAM. [_To the injured_ EDMUNDS.] Wait . . wait.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I'll put him _au fait_. I shan't come back.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Gratefully._] Yes, yes. [_Then to_ EDMUNDS _who is waiting
+with perfect dignity_.] Yes . . yes . . yes.
+
+EDMUNDS _departs and_ WEDGECROFT _makes for the library door, glad to
+escape_.
+
+O'CONNELL. If you are not busy at this hour, Wedgecroft, I should be
+grateful if you'd wait for me. I shall keep you, I think, but a very few
+minutes.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_In his most matter-of-fact tone._] All right, O'Connell.
+
+_He goes into the library._
+
+CANTELUPE. Don't you think, Cyril, it would be wiser to prevent your man
+coming into the room at all while we're discussing this?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Collecting his scattered tact._] Yes, I thought I had
+arranged that he shouldn't. I'm very sorry. He's a fool. However,
+there's no one else to come. Once more, Mr. O'Connell . . [_He frames no
+sentence._]
+
+O'CONNELL. I am all attention, Lord Horsham.
+
+CANTELUPE _with a self-denying effort has risen to his feet_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Mr. O'Connell, I remain here almost against my will. I cannot
+think quite calmly about this double and doubly heinous sin. Don't
+listen to us while we make light of it. If we think of it as a political
+bother and ask you to smooth it away . . I am ashamed. But I believe I
+may not be wrong if I put it to you that, looking to the future and for
+the sake of your own Christian dignity, it may become you to be
+merciful. And I pray too . . I think we may believe . . that Mr. Trebell
+is feeling need of your forgiveness. I have no more to say. [_He sits
+down again._]
+
+O'CONNELL. It may be. I have never met Mr. Trebell.
+
+HORSHAM. I tell you, Mr. O'Connell, putting aside Party, that your
+country has need of this man just at this time.
+
+_They hang upon_ O'CONNELL'S _reply. It comes with deliberation_.
+
+O'CONNELL. I suppose my point of view must be an unusual one. I notice,
+at least, that twenty four hours and more has not enabled Farrant to
+grasp it.
+
+FARRANT. For God's sake, O'Connell, don't be so cold-blooded. You have
+the life or death of a man's reputation to decide on.
+
+O'CONNELL. [_With a cold flash of contempt._] That's a petty enough
+thing now-a-days it seems to me. There are so many clever men . . and
+they are all so alike . . surely one will not be missed.
+
+CANTELUPE. Don't you think that is only sarcasm, Mr. O'Connell?
+
+_The voice is so gently reproving that_ O'CONNELL _must turn to him_.
+
+O'CONNELL. Will you please to make allowance, Lord Charles, for a
+mediaeval scholar's contempt of modern government? =You= at least will
+partly understand his horror as a Catholic at the modern superstitions
+in favour of popular opinion and control which it encourages. You see,
+Lord Horsham, I am not a party man, only a little less enthusiastic for
+the opposite cries than for his own. You appealed very strangely to my
+feelings of patriotism for this country; but you see even my own is--in
+the twentieth century--foreign to me. From my point of view neither Mr.
+Trebell, nor you, nor the men you have just defeated, nor any
+discoverable man or body of men will make laws which matter . . or
+differ in the slightest. You are all part of your age and you all
+voice--though in separate keys, or even tunes they may be--only the
+greed and follies of your age. That you should do this and nothing more
+is, of course, the democratic ideal. You will forgive my thinking
+tenderly of the statesmanship of the =first= Edward.
+
+_The library door opens and_ RUSSELL BLACKBOROUGH _comes in. He has on
+evening clothes, complicated by a long silk comforter and the motoring
+cap which he carries._
+
+HORSHAM. You know Russell Blackborough.
+
+O'CONNELL. I think not.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. How d'you do?
+
+O'CONNELL _having bowed_, BLACKBOROUGH _having nodded, the two men sit
+down_, BLACKBOROUGH _with an air of great attention_, O'CONNELL _to
+continue his interrupted speech_.
+
+O'CONNELL. And you are as far from me in your code of personal morals as
+in your politics. In neither do you seem to realise that such a thing as
+passion can exist. No doubt you use the words Love and Hatred; but do
+you know that love and hatred for principles or persons should come from
+beyond a man? I notice you speak of forgiveness as if it were a penny in
+my pocket. You have been endeavouring for these two days to rouse me
+from my indifference towards Mr. Trebell. Perhaps you are on the point
+of succeeding . . but I do not know what you may rouse.
+
+HORSHAM. I understand. We are much in agreement, Mr. O'Connell. What can
+a man be--who has any pretensions to philosophy--but helplessly
+indifferent to the thousands of his fellow creatures whose fates are
+intertwined with his?
+
+O'CONNELL. I am glad that you understand. But, again . . have I been
+wrong to shrink from personal relations with Mr. Trebell? Hatred is as
+sacred a responsibility as love. And you will not agree with me when I
+say that punishment can be the salvation of a man's soul.
+
+FARRANT. [_With aggressive common sense._] Look here, O'Connell, if
+you're indifferent it doesn't hurt you to let him off. And if you hate
+him . . ! Well, one shouldn't hate people . . there's no room for it in
+this world.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Quietly as ever._] We have some authority for thinking that
+the punishment of a secret sin is awarded by God secretly.
+
+O'CONNELL. We have very poor authority, sir, for using God's name merely
+to fill up the gaps in an argument, though we may thus have our way
+easily with men who fear God more than they know him. I am not one of
+those. Yes, Farrant, you and your like have left little room in this
+world except for the dusty roads on which I notice you beginning once
+more to travel. The rule of them is the same for all, is it not . . from
+the tramp and the labourer to the plutocrat in his car? This is the age
+of equality; and it's a fine practical equality . . the equality of the
+road. But you've fenced the fields of human joy and turned the very
+hillsides into hoardings. Commercial opportunity is painted on them, I
+think.
+
+FARRANT. [_Not to be impressed._] Perhaps it is O'Connell. My father
+made his money out of newspapers and I ride in a motor car and you came
+from Holyhead by train. What has all that to do with it? Why can't you
+make up your mind? You know in this sort of case one talks a lot . .
+and then does the usual thing. You must let Trebell off and that's all
+about it.
+
+O'CONNELL. Indeed. And do they still think it worth while to administer
+an oath to your witnesses?
+
+_He is interrupted by the flinging open of the door and the triumphant
+right-this-time-anyhow voice in which_ EDMUNDS _announces_ "Mr. Trebell,
+my lord." _The general consternation expresses itself through_ HORSHAM,
+_who complains aloud and unreservedly_.
+
+HORSHAM. Good God . . No! Charles, I must give him notice at once . .
+he'll have to go. [_He apologises to the company._] I beg your pardon.
+
+_By this time_ TREBELL _is in the room and has discovered the stranger,
+who stands to face him without emotion or anger_. BLACKBOROUGH'S _face
+wears the grimmest of smiles_, CANTELUPE _is sorry_, FARRANT _recovers
+from the fit of choking which seemed imminent and_ EDMUNDS, _dimly
+perceiving by now some fly in the perfect amber of his conduct, departs.
+The two men still face each other._ FARRANT _is prepared to separate
+them should they come to blows, and indeed is advancing in that
+anticipation when_ O'CONNELL _speaks_.
+
+O'CONNELL. I am Justin O'Connell.
+
+TREBELL. I guess that.
+
+O'CONNELL. There's a dead woman between us, Mr. Trebell.
+
+_A tremor sweeps over_ TREBELL; _then he speaks simply_.
+
+TREBELL. I wish she had not died.
+
+O'CONNELL. I am called upon by your friends to save you from the
+consequences of her death. What have you to say about that?
+
+TREBELL. I have been wondering what sort of expression the last of your
+care for her would find . . but not much. My wonder is at the power
+over me that has been given to something I despised.
+
+_Only_ O'CONNELL _grasps his meaning. But he, stirred for the first time
+and to his very depths, drives it home._
+
+O'CONNELL. Yes . . If I wanted revenge I have it. She was a worthless
+woman. First my life and now yours! Dead because she was afraid to bear
+your child, isn't she?
+
+TREBELL. [_In agony._] I'd have helped that if I could.
+
+O'CONNELL. Not the shame . . not the wrong she had done me . . but just
+fear--fear of the burden of her woman-hood. And because of her my
+children are bastards and cannot inherit my name. And I must live in sin
+against my church, as--God help me--I can't against my nature. What are
+men to do when this is how women use the freedom we have given them? Is
+the curse of barrenness to be nothing to a man? And that's the death in
+life to which you gentlemen with your fine civilisation are bringing us.
+I think we are brothers in misfortune, Mr. Trebell.
+
+TREBELL. [_Far from responding._] Not at all, sir. If you wanted
+children you did the next best thing when she left you. My own problem
+is neither so simple nor is it yet anyone's business but my own. I
+apologise for alluding to it.
+
+HORSHAM _takes advantage of the silence that follows_.
+
+HORSHAM. Shall we . .
+
+O'CONNELL. [_Measuring_ TREBELL _with his eyes_.] And by which shall I
+help you to a solution . . telling lies or the truth to-morrow?
+
+TREBELL. [_Roughly, almost insolently._] If you want my advice . . I
+should do the thing that comes more easily to you, or that will content
+you most. If you haven't yet made up your mind as to the relative
+importance of my work and your conscience, it's too late to begin now.
+Nothing you may do can affect =me=.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Fluttering fearfully into this strange dispute._] O'Connell . .
+if you and I were to join Wedgecroft . .
+
+O'CONNELL. You value your work more than anything else in the world?
+
+TREBELL. Have I anything else in the world?
+
+O'CONNELL. Have you not? [_With grim ambiguity._] Then I am sorry for
+you, Mr. Trebell. [_Having said all he had to say, he notices_ HORSHAM.]
+Yes, Lord Horsham, by all means . .
+
+_Then_ HORSHAM _opens the library door and sees him safely through. He
+passes_ TREBELL _without any salutation, nor does_ TREBELL _turn after
+him; but when_ HORSHAM _also is in the library and the door is closed,
+comments viciously_.
+
+TREBELL. The man's a sentimentalist . . like all men who live alone or
+shut away. [_Then surveying his three glum companions, bursts out._]
+Well . . ? We can stop thinking of this dead woman, can't we? It's a
+waste of time.
+
+FARRANT. Trebell, what did you want to come here for?
+
+TREBELL. Because you thought I wouldn't. I knew you'd be sitting round,
+incompetent with distress, calculating to a nicety the force of a
+scandal. . .
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_With the firmest of touches._] Horsham has called some
+of us here to discuss the situation. I am considering my opinion.
+
+TREBELL. You are not, Blackborough. You haven't recovered yet from the
+shock of your manly feelings. Oh, cheer up. You know we're an adulterous
+and sterile generation. Why should you cry out at a proof now and then
+of what's always in the hearts of most of us?
+
+FARRANT. [_Plaintively._] Now, for God's sake, Trebell . . O'Connell has
+been going on like that.
+
+TREBELL. Well then . . think of what matters.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Of you and your reputation in fact.
+
+FARRANT. [_Kindly._] Why do you pretend to be callous?
+
+_He strokes_ TREBELL'S _shoulder, who shakes him off impatiently_.
+
+TREBELL. Do you all mean to out-face the British Lion with me after
+to-morrow . . dare to be Daniels?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Bravado won't carry this off.
+
+TREBELL. Blackborough . . it would immortalize you. I'll stand up in my
+place in the House of Commons and tell everything that has befallen
+soberly and seriously. Why should I flinch?
+
+FARRANT. My dear Trebell, if your name comes out at the inquest--
+
+TREBELL. If it does! . . whose has been the real offence against Society
+. . hers or mine? It's I who am most offended . . if I choose to think
+so.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. You seem to forget the adultery.
+
+TREBELL. Isn't Death divorce enough for her? And . . oh, wasn't I right?
+. . What do you start thinking of once the shock's over? Punishment . .
+revenge . . uselessness . . waste of me.
+
+FARRANT. [_With finality._] If your name comes out at the inquest, to
+talk of anything but retirement from public life is perfect lunacy . .
+and you know it.
+
+HORSHAM _comes back from the passage. He is a little distracted; then
+the more so at finding himself again in a highly-charged atmosphere._
+
+HORSHAM. He's gone off with Wedgecroft.
+
+TREBELL. [_Including_ HORSHAM _now in his appeal._] Does anyone think he
+knows me now to be a worse man . . less fit, less able . . than he did a
+week ago?
+
+_From the piano-stool comes_ CANTELUPE'S _quiet voice_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Yes, Trebell . . I do.
+
+TREBELL _wheels round at this and ceases all bluster_.
+
+TREBELL. On what grounds?
+
+CANTELUPE. Unarguable ones.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Finding refuge again in his mantelpiece._] You know, he has
+gone off without giving me his promise.
+
+FARRANT. That's your own fault, Trebell.
+
+HORSHAM. The fool says I didn't give him explicit instructions.
+
+FARRANT. What fool?
+
+HORSHAM. That man . . [_The name fails him._] . . my new man. One of
+those touches of Fate's little finger, really.
+
+_He begins to consult the ceiling and the carpet once more._ TREBELL
+_tackles_ CANTELUPE _with gravity_.
+
+TREBELL. I have only a logical mind, Cantelupe. I know that to make
+myself a capable man I've purged myself of all the sins . . I never was
+idle enough to commit. I know that if your God didn't make use of men,
+sins and all . . what would ever be done in the world? That one natural
+action, which the slight shifting of a social law could have made as
+negligible as eating a meal, can make me incapable . . takes the
+linch-pin out of one's brain, doesn't it?
+
+HORSHAM. Trebell, we've been doing our best to get you out of this mess.
+Your remarks to O'Connell weren't of any assistance, and . .
+
+CANTELUPE _stands up, so momentously that_ HORSHAM'S _gentle flow of
+speech dries up_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Perhaps I had better say at once that, whatever hushing up
+you may succeed in, it will be impossible for me to sit in a cabinet
+with Mr. Trebell.
+
+_It takes even_ FARRANT _a good half minute to recover his power of
+speech on this new issue_.
+
+FARRANT. What perfect nonsense, Cantelupe! I hope you don't mean that.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Complication number one, Horsham.
+
+FARRANT. [_Working up his protest._] Why on earth not? You really
+mustn't drag your personal feelings and prejudices into important
+matters like this . . matters of state.
+
+CANTELUPE. I think I have no choice, when Trebell stands convicted of a
+mortal sin, of which he has not even repented.
+
+TREBELL. [_With bitterest cynicism._] Dictate any form of repentance you
+like . . my signature is yours.
+
+CANTELUPE. Is this a matter for intellectual jugglery?
+
+TREBELL. [_His defence failing at last._] I offered to face the scandal
+from my place in the House. That was mad, wasn't it . .
+
+BLACKBOROUGH--_his course mapped out--changes the tone of the
+discussion_.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Horsham, I hope Trebell will believe I have no personal
+feelings in this matter, but we may as well face the fact even now that
+O'Connell holding his tongue to-morrow won't stop gossip in the House,
+club gossip, gossip in drawing rooms. What do the Radicals really care
+so long as a scandal doesn't get into the papers! There's an inner
+circle with its eye on us.
+
+FARRANT. Well, what does that care as long as scandal's its own
+copyright? Do you know, my dear father refused a peerage because he felt
+it meant putting blinkers on his best newspaper.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_A little subtly._] Still . . now you and Horsham are
+cousins, aren't you?
+
+FARRANT. [_Off the track and explanatory._] No, no . . my wife's mother
+. . .
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. I'm inaccurate, for I'm not one of the family circle
+myself. My money gets me here and any skill I've used in making it. It
+wouldn't keep me at a pinch. And Trebell . . [_He speaks through his
+teeth._] . . do you think your accession to power in the party is
+popular at the best? Who is going to put out a finger to make it less
+awkward for Horsham to stick to you if there's a chance of your going
+under?
+
+TREBELL _smiles at some mental picture he is making_.
+
+TREBELL. Can your cousins and aunts make it so awkward for you, Horsham?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Repaying humour with humour._] I bear up against their
+affectionate attentions.
+
+TREBELL. But I quite understand how uncongenial I may be. What made you
+take up with me at all?
+
+FARRANT. Your brains, Trebell.
+
+TREBELL. He should have enquired into my character first, shouldn't he,
+Cantelupe?
+
+CANTELUPE. [_With crushing sincerity._] Yes.
+
+TREBELL. Oh, the old unnecessary choice . . Wisdom or Virtue. We all
+think we must make it . . and we all discover we can't. But if you've to
+choose between Cantelupe and me, Horsham, I quite see you've no choice.
+
+HORSHAM _now takes the field, using his own weapons_.
+
+HORSHAM. Charles, it seems to me that we are somewhat in the position of
+men who have overheard a private conversation. Do you feel justified in
+making public use of it?
+
+CANTELUPE. It is not I who am judge. God knows I would not sit in
+judgment upon anyone.
+
+TREBELL. Cantelupe, I'll take your personal judgment if you can give it
+me.
+
+FARRANT. Good Lord, Cantelupe, didn't you sit in a cabinet with . .
+Well, we're not here to rake up old scandals.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. I am concerned with the practical issue.
+
+HORSHAM. We know, Blackborough. [_Having quelled the interruption he
+proceeds._] Charles, you spoke, I think, of a mortal sin.
+
+CANTELUPE. In spite of your lifted eyebrows at the childishness of the
+word.
+
+HORSHAM. Theoretically, we must all wish to guide ourselves by eternal
+truths. But you would admit, wouldn't you, that we can only deal with
+temporal things?
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Writhing slightly under the sceptical cross-examination._]
+There are divine laws laid down for our guidance . . I admit no
+disbelief in them.
+
+HORSHAM. Do they place any time-limit to the effect of a mortal sin? If
+this affair were twenty years old would you do as you are doing? Can you
+forecast the opinion you will have of it six months hence?
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Positively._] Yes.
+
+HORSHAM. Can you? Nevertheless I wish you had postponed your decision
+even till to-morrow.
+
+_Having made his point he looks round almost for approval._
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. What had Percival to say on the subject, Farrant?
+
+FARRANT. I was only to make use of his opinion under certain
+circumstances.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. So it isn't favourable to your remaining with us, Mr.
+Trebell.
+
+FARRANT. [_Indignantly emerging from the trap._] I never said that.
+
+_Now_ TREBELL _gives the matter another turn, very forcefully_.
+
+TREBELL. Horsham . . I don't bow politely and stand aside at this
+juncture as a gentleman should, because I want to know how the work's to
+be done if I leave you what I was to do.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Are we so incompetent?
+
+TREBELL. I daresay not. I want to know . . that's all.
+
+CANTELUPE. Please understand, Mr. Trebell, that I have in no way altered
+my good opinion of your proposals.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Well, I beg to remind you, Horsham, that from the first
+I've reserved myself liberty to criticise fundamental points in the
+scheme.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Pacifically._] Quite so . . quite so.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. That nonsensical new standard of teachers' salaries for
+one thing . . you'd never pass it.
+
+HORSHAM. Quite easily. It's an administrative point, so leave the
+legislation vague. Then, as the appropriation money falls in, the
+qualifications rise and the salaries rise. No one will object because no
+one will appreciate it but administrators past or future . . and they
+never cavil at money. [_He remains lost in the beauty of this
+prospect._]
+
+TREBELL. Will you take charge of the bill, Blackborough?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Are you serious?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Brought to earth._] Oh no! [_He corrects himself smiling._] I
+mean, my dear Blackborough, why not stick to the Colonies?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. You see, Trebell, there's still the possibility that
+O'Connell may finally spike your gun tomorrow. You realise that, don't
+you?
+
+TREBELL. Thank you. I quite realise that.
+
+CANTELUPE. Can nothing further be done?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Weren't we doing our best?
+
+HORSHAM. Yes . . if we were bending our thoughts to that difficulty
+now . . .
+
+TREBELL. [_Hardly._] May I ask you to interfere on my behalf no further?
+
+FARRANT. My dear Trebell!
+
+TREBELL. I assure you that I am interested in the Disestablishment Bill.
+
+_So they turn readily enough from the more uncomfortable part of their
+subject._
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Well . . here's Farrant.
+
+FARRANT. I'm no good. Give me Agriculture.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Pity you're in the Lords, Horsham.
+
+TREBELL. Horsham, I'll devil for any man you choose to name . . feed him
+sentence by sentence. . .
+
+HORSHAM. That's impossible.
+
+TREBELL. Well, what's to become of my bill? I want to know.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Casting his care on Providence._] We shall manage
+somehow. Why, if you had died suddenly . . or let us say, never been
+born. . .
+
+TREBELL. Then, Blackborough . . speaking as a dying man . . if you go
+back on the integrity of this scheme, I'll haunt you. [_Having said this
+with some finality, he turns his back._]
+
+CANTELUPE. Cyril, I agree with what Trebell is saying. Whatever happens
+there must be no tampering with the comprehensiveness of the scheme.
+Remember you are in the hands of the extremists . . on both sides. I
+won't support a compromise on one . . nor will they on the other.
+
+HORSHAM. Well, I'll confess to you candidly, Trebell, that I don't know
+of any man available for this piece of work but you.
+
+TREBELL. Then I should say it would be almost a relief to you if
+O'Connell tells on me to-morrow.
+
+FARRANT. We seem to have got off that subject altogether. [_There comes
+a portentous tap at the door._] Good Lord! . . I'm getting jumpy.
+
+HORSHAM. Excuse me.
+
+_A note is handed to him through the half opened door; and obviously it
+is at_ EDMUNDS _whom he frowns. Then he returns fidgetting for his
+glasses_.
+
+Oh, it turns out . . I'm so sorry you were blundered in here, Trebell . .
+this man . . what's his name . . Edwards . . had been reading the
+papers and thought it was a cabinet council . . seemed proud of himself.
+This is from Wedgecroft . . scribbled in a messenger office. I never can
+read his writing . . it's like prescriptions. Can you?
+
+_It has gradually dawned on the three men and then on_ TREBELL _what
+this note may have in it_. FARRANT'S _hand even trembles a little as he
+takes it. He gathers the meaning himself and looks at the others with a
+smile before he reads the few words aloud._
+
+FARRANT. "All right. He has promised."
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. O'Connell?
+
+FARRANT. Thank God. [_He turns enthusiastically to_ TREBELL _who stands
+rigid_.] My dear fellow . . I hope you know how glad I am.
+
+CANTELUPE. I am very glad.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Of course we're all very glad indeed, Trebell . . very
+glad we persuaded him.
+
+FARRANT. That's dead and buried now, isn't it?
+
+TREBELL _moves away from them all and leaves them wondering. When he
+turns round his face is as hard as ever; his voice, if possible,
+harder._
+
+TREBELL. But, Horsham, returning to the more important question . .
+you've taken trouble, and O'Connell's to perjure himself for nothing if
+you still can't get me into your child's puzzle . . to make the pretty
+picture that a Cabinet should be.
+
+HORSHAM _looks at_ BLACKBOROUGH _and scents danger_.
+
+HORSHAM. We shall all be glad, I am sure, to postpone any further
+discussion. . .
+
+TREBELL. I shall not.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Encouragingly._] Quite so, Trebell. We're on the
+subject, and it won't discount our pleasure that you're out of this
+mess, to continue it. This habit of putting off the hour of disagreement
+is . . well, Horsham, it's contrary to my business instincts.
+
+TREBELL. If one time's as good as another for you . . this moment is
+better than most for me.
+
+HORSHAM. [_A little irritated at the wantonness of this dispute._] There
+is nothing before us on which we are capable of coming to any decision . .
+in a technical sense.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. That's a quibble. [_Poor_ HORSHAM _gasps_.] I'm not going
+to pretend either now or in a month's time that I think Trebell anything
+but a most dangerous acquisition to the party. I pay you a compliment in
+that, Trebell. Now, Horsham proposes that we should go to the country
+when Disestablishment's through.
+
+HORSHAM. It's the condition of Nonconformist support.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. One condition. Then you'd leave us, Trebell?
+
+HORSHAM. I hope not.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. And carry with you the credit of our one big measure.
+Consider the effect upon our reputation with the Country.
+
+FARRANT. [_Waking to_ BLACKBOROUGH'S _line of action_.] Why on earth
+should you leave us, Trebell? You've hardly been a Liberal, even in
+name.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Vigorously making his point._] Then what would be the
+conditions of your remaining? You're not a party man, Trebell. You
+haven't the true party feeling. You are to be bought. Of course you take
+your price in measures, not in money. But you are preeminently a man of
+ideas . . an expert. And a man of ideas is often a grave embarrassment
+to a government.
+
+HORSHAM. And vice-versa . . vice-versa!
+
+TREBELL. [_Facing_ BLACKBOROUGH _across the room_.] Do I understand that
+you for the good of the Tory party . . just as Cantelupe for the good of
+his soul . . will refuse to sit in a cabinet with me.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Unembarrassed._] I don't commit myself to saying that.
+
+CANTELUPE. No, Trebell . . it's that I must believe your work could not
+prosper . . in God's way.
+
+TREBELL _softens to his sincerity_.
+
+TREBELL. Cantelupe, I quite understand. You may be right . . it's a very
+interesting question. Blackborough, I take it that you object first of
+all to the scheme that I'm bringing you.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. I object to those parts of it which I don't think you'll
+get through the House.
+
+FARRANT. [_Feeling that he must take part._] For instance?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. I've given you one already.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_His eye on_ BLACKBOROUGH.] Understand there are things in
+that scheme we must stand or fall by.
+
+_Suddenly_ TREBELL _makes for the door_. HORSHAM _gets up concernedly_.
+
+TREBELL. Horsham, make up your mind to-night whether you can do with me
+or not. I have to see Percival again to-morrow . . we cut short our
+argument at the important point. Good-bye . . don't come down. Will you
+decide to-night?
+
+HORSHAM. I have made up my own mind.
+
+TREBELL. Is that sufficient?
+
+HORSHAM. A collective decision is a matter of development.
+
+TREBELL. Well, I shall expect to hear.
+
+HORSHAM. By hurrying one only reaches a rash conclusion.
+
+TREBELL. Then be rash for once and take the consequences. Good-night.
+
+_He is gone before_ HORSHAM _can compose another epigram_.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Deprecating such conduct._] Lost his temper!
+
+FARRANT. [_Ruffling considerably._] Horsham, if Trebell is to be hounded
+out of your cabinet . . he won't go alone.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Bitter-sweet._] My dear Farrant . . I have yet to form my
+cabinet.
+
+CANTELUPE. You are forming it to carry disestablishment, are you not,
+Cyril? Therefore you will form it in the best interests of the best
+scheme possible.
+
+HORSHAM. Trebell was and is the best man I know of for the purpose. I'm
+a little weary of saying that.
+
+_He folds his arms and awaits further developments. After a moment_
+CANTELUPE _gets up as if to address a meeting_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Then if you would prefer not to include me . . I shall feel
+justified in giving independent support to a scheme I have great faith
+in. [_And he sits down again._]
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Impatiently._] My dear Cantelupe, if you think Horsham
+can form a disestablishment cabinet to include Trebell and exclude you,
+you're vastly mistaken. I for one . . .
+
+FARRANT. But do both of you consider how valuable, how vital Trebell is
+to us just at this moment? The Radicals trust him. . .
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. They hate him.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Elucidating._] Their front bench hates him because he turned
+them out. The rest of them hate their front bench. After six years of
+office, who wouldn't?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. That's true.
+
+FARRANT. Oh, of course, we must stick to Trebell, Blackborough.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH _is silent; so_ HORSHAM _turns his attention to his
+cousin_.
+
+HORSHAM. Well, Charles, I won't ask you for a decision now. I know how
+hard it is to accept the dictates of other men's consciences . . but a
+necessary condition of all political work; believe me.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Uneasily._] You can form your cabinet without me, Cyril.
+
+_At this_ BLACKBOROUGH _charges down on them, so to speak_.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. No, I tell you, I'm damned if he can. Leaving the whole
+high church party to blackmail all they can out of us and vote how they
+like! Here . . I've got my Yorkshire people to think of. I can bargain
+for them with you in a cabinet . . not if you've the pull of being out
+of it.
+
+HORSHAM. [_With charming insinuation._] And have you calculated,
+Blackborough, what may become of us if Trebell has the pull of being out
+of it?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH _makes a face_.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Yes . . I suppose he might turn nasty.
+
+FARRANT. I should hope he would.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Tackling_ FARRANT _with great ease_.] I should hope he
+would consider the matter not from the personal, but from the political
+point of view . . as I am trying to do.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Tasting his epigram with enjoyment._] Introspection is the
+only bar to such an honourable endeavour, [BLACKBOROUGH _gapes_.] You
+don't suffer from that as--for instance--Charles here, does.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Pugnaciously._] D'you mean I'm just pretending not to
+attack him personally?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Safe on his own ground._] It's only a curious metaphysical
+point. Have you never noticed your distaste for the colour of a man's
+hair translate itself ultimately into an objection to his religious
+opinions . . or what not? I am sure--for instance--I could trace
+Charles's scruples about sitting in a cabinet with Trebell back to a
+sort of academic reverence for women generally which he possesses. I am
+sure I could . . if he were not probably now doing it himself. But this
+does not make the scruples less real, less religious, or less political.
+We must be humanly biased in expression . . or not express ourselves.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Whose thoughts have wandered._] The man's less of a
+danger than he was . . I mean he'll be alone. The Liberals won't have
+him back. He smashed his following there to come over to us.
+
+FARRANT. [_Giving a further meaning to this._] Yes, Blackborough, he
+did.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. To gain his own ends! Oh, my dear Horsham, can't you see
+that if O'Connell had blabbed to-morrow it really would have been a
+blessing in disguise? I don't pretend to Cantelupe's standard . . but
+there must be something radically wrong with a man who could get
+himself into such a mess as that . . now mustn't there? Ah! . . you have
+a fatal partiality for clever people. I tell you . . though this might
+be patched up . . Trebell would fail us in some other way before we were
+six months older.
+
+_This speech has its effect; but_ HORSHAM _looks at him a little
+sternly_.
+
+HORSHAM. And am I to conclude that you don't want Charles to change his
+mind?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_On another tack._] Farrant has not yet allowed us to
+hear Percival's opinion.
+
+FARRANT _looks rather alarmed_.
+
+FARRANT. It has very little reference to the scandal.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. As that is at an end . . all the more reason we should
+hear it.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Ranging himself with_ FARRANT.] I called this quite informal
+meeting, Blackborough, only to dispose of the scandal, if possible.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Well, of course, if Farrant chooses to insult Percival so
+gratuitously by burking his message to us . .
+
+_There is an unspoken threat in this._ HORSHAM _sees it and without
+disguising his irritation_. . .
+
+HORSHAM. Let us have it, Farrant.
+
+FARRANT. [_With a sort of puzzled discontent._] Well . . I never got to
+telling him of the O'Connell affair at all. He started talking to me . .
+saying that he couldn't for a moment agree to Trebell's proposals for
+the finance of his bill . . I couldn't get a word in edgeways. Then his
+wife came up. . .
+
+HORSHAM _takes something in this so seriously that he actually
+interrupts_.
+
+HORSHAM. Does he definitely disagree? What is his point?
+
+FARRANT. He says Disestablishment's a bad enough speculation for the
+party as it is.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. It is inevitable.
+
+FARRANT. He sees that. But then he says . . to go to the country again
+having bolstered up Education and quarrelled with everybody will be bad
+enough . . to go having spent fifty millions on it will dish us all for
+our lifetimes.
+
+HORSHAM. What does he propose?
+
+FARRANT. He'll offer to draft another bill and take it through himself.
+He says . . do as many good turns as we can with the money . . don't put
+it all on one horse.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. He's your man, Horsham. That's one difficulty settled.
+
+HORSHAM'S _thoughts are evidently beyond_ BLACKBOROUGH, _beyond the
+absent_ PERCIVAL _even_.
+
+HORSHAM. Oh . . any of us could carry that sort of a bill.
+
+CANTELUPE _has heard this last passage with nothing less than horror and
+pale anger, which he contains no longer_.
+
+CANTELUPE. I won't have this. I won't have this opportunity frittered
+away for party purposes.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Expostulating reasonably._] My dear Cantelupe . . you'll
+get whatever you think it right for the Church to have. You carry a
+solid thirty eight votes with you.
+
+HORSHAM'S _smooth voice intervenes. He speaks with finesse._
+
+HORSHAM. Percival, as an old campaigner, expresses himself very roughly.
+The point is, that we are after all only the trustees of the party. If
+we know that a certain step will decimate it . . clearly we have no
+right to take the step.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Glowing to white heat._] Is this a time to count the
+consequences to ourselves?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Unkindly._] By your action this evening, Charles, you
+evidently think not. [_He salves the wound._] No matter, I agree with
+you . . the bill should be a comprehensive one, whoever brings it in.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Not without enjoyment of the situation._] Whoever brings
+it in will have to knuckle under to Percival over its finance.
+
+FARRANT. Trebell won't do that. I warned Percival.
+
+HORSHAM. Then what did he say?
+
+FARRANT. He only swore.
+
+HORSHAM _suddenly becomes peevish_.
+
+HORSHAM. I think, Farrant, you should have given me this message before.
+
+FARRANT. My dear Horsham, what had it to do with our request to
+O'Connell?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Scolding the company generally._] Well then, I wish he hadn't
+sent it. I wish we were not discussing these points at all. The proper
+time for them is at a cabinet meeting. And when we have actually assumed
+the responsibilities of government . . then threats of resignation are
+not things to be played about with.
+
+FARRANT. Did you expect Percival's objection to the finance of the
+scheme?
+
+HORSHAM. Perhaps . . perhaps. I knew Trebell was to see him last
+Tuesday. I expect everybody's objections to any parts of every scheme to
+come at a time when I am in a proper position to reconcile them . . not
+now.
+
+_Having vented his grievances he sits down to recover._ BLACKBOROUGH
+_takes advantage of the ensuing pause_.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. It isn't so easy for me to speak against Trebell, since he
+evidently dislikes me personally as much as I dislike him . . but I'm
+sure I'm doing my duty. Horsham . . here you have Cantelupe who won't
+stand in with the man, and Percival who won't stand in with his measure,
+while I would sooner stand in with neither. Isn't it better to face the
+situation now than take trouble to form the most makeshift of Cabinets,
+and if that doesn't go to pieces, be voted down in the House by your
+own party?
+
+_There is an oppressive silence._ HORSHAM _is sulky. The matter is
+beyond_ FARRANT. CANTELUPE _whose agonies have expressed themselves in
+slight writhings, at last, with an effort, writhes himself to his feet_.
+
+CANTELUPE. I think I am prepared to reconsider my decision.
+
+FARRANT. That's all right then!
+
+_He looks round wonderingly for the rest of the chorus to find that
+neither_ BLACKBOROUGH _nor_ HORSHAM _have stirred_.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Stealthily._] Is it, Horsham?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Sotto voce._] Why did you ever make it?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH _leaves him for_ CANTELUPE.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. You're afraid for the integrity of the bill.
+
+CANTELUPE. It must be comprehensive . . that's vital.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Very forcefully._] I give you my word to support its
+integrity, if you'll keep with me in persuading Horsham that the
+inclusion of Trebell in his cabinet will be a blow to the whole
+Conservative Cause. Horsham, I implore you not to pursue this
+short-sighted policy. All parties have made up their minds to
+Disestablishment . . surely nothing should be easier than to frame a
+bill which will please all parties.
+
+FARRANT. [_At last perceiving the drift of all this._] But good Lord,
+Blackborough . . now Cantelupe has come round and will stand in . . .
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. That's no longer the point. And what's all this nonsense
+about going to the country again next year?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Mildly._] After consulting me Percival said at Bristol. . .
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Quite unchecked._] I know. But if we pursue a thoroughly
+safe policy and the bye-elections go right . . there need be no vote of
+censure carried for three or four years. The Radicals want a rest with
+the country and they know it. And one has no right, what's more, to go
+wantonly plunging the country into the expenses of these constant
+general elections. It ruins trade.
+
+FARRANT. [_Forlornly sticking to his point._] What has all this to do
+with Trebell?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Thoughtfully._] Farrant, beyond what you've told us, Percival
+didn't recommend me to throw him over.
+
+FARRANT. No, he didn't . . that is, he didn't exactly.
+
+HORSHAM. Well . . he didn't?
+
+FARRANT. I'm trying to be accurate! [_Obviously their nerves are now on
+edge._] He said we should find him tough to assimilate--as he warned
+you.
+
+HORSHAM _with knit brows, loses himself in thought again_. BLACKBOROUGH
+_quietly turns his attention to_ FARRANT.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Farrant, you don't seriously think that . . outside his
+undoubted capabilities . . Trebell is an acquisition to the party?
+
+FARRANT. [_Unwillingly._] Perhaps not. But if you're going to chuck a
+man . . don't chuck him when he's down.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. He's no longer down. We've got him O'Connell's promise and
+jolly grateful he ought to be. I think the least we can do is to keep
+our minds clear between Trebell's advantage and the party's.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_From the distant music-stool._] And the party's and the
+Country's.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Countering quite deftly._] Cantelupe, either we think it
+best for the country to have our party in power or we don't.
+
+FARRANT. [_In judicious temper._] Certainly, I don't feel our
+responsibility towards him is what it was ten minutes ago. The man has
+other careers besides his political one.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Ready to praise._] Clever as paint at the Bar--best
+Company lawyer we've got.
+
+CANTELUPE. It is not what he loses, I think . . but what we lose in
+losing him.
+
+_He says this so earnestly that_ HORSHAM _pays attention_.
+
+HORSHAM. No, my dear Charles, let us be practical. If his position with
+us is to be made impossible it is better that he shouldn't assume it.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Soft and friendly._] How far are you actually pledged to
+him?
+
+HORSHAM _looks up with the most ingenuous of smiles_.
+
+HORSHAM. That's always such a difficult sort of point to determine,
+isn't it? He thinks he is to join us. But I've not yet been commanded to
+form a cabinet. If neither you--nor Percival--nor perhaps others will
+work with him . . what am I to do? [_He appeals to them generally to
+justify this attitude._]
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. He no longer thinks he's to join us . . it's the question
+he left us to decide.
+
+_He leaves_ HORSHAM, _whose perplexity is diminishing_. FARRANT _makes
+an effort_.
+
+FARRANT. But the scandal won't weaken his position with us now. There
+won't be any scandal . . there won't, Blackborough.
+
+HORSHAM. There may be. Though, I take it we're all guiltless of having
+mentioned the matter.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_Very detached._] I've only known of it since I came into
+this house . . but I shall not mention it.
+
+FARRANT. Oh, I'm afraid my wife knows. [_He adds hastily._] My fault . .
+my fault entirely.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. I tell you Rumour's electric.
+
+HORSHAM _has turned to_ FARRANT _with a sweet smile and with the air of
+a man about to be relieved of all responsibility_.
+
+HORSHAM. What does she say?
+
+FARRANT. [_As one speaks of a nice woman._] She was horrified.
+
+HORSHAM. Of course. [_Once more he finds refuge and comfort on the
+hearthrug, to say, after a moment, with fine resignation._] I suppose I
+must let him go.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_On his feet again._] Cyril!
+
+HORSHAM. Yes, Charles?
+
+_With this query he turns an accusing eye on_ CANTELUPE, _who is
+silenced_.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Have you made up your mind to that?
+
+FARRANT. [_In great distress._] You're wrong, Horsham. [_Then in
+greater._] That is . . I =think= you're wrong.
+
+HORSHAM. I'd sooner not let him know to-night.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. But he asked you to.
+
+HORSHAM. [_All show of resistance gone._] Did he? Then I suppose I must.
+[_He sighs deeply._]
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Then I'll get back to Aylesbury.
+
+_He picks up his motor-cap from the table and settles it on his head
+with immense aplomb._
+
+HORSHAM. So late?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Really one can get along quicker at night if one knows the
+road. You're in town, aren't you, Farrant? Shall I drop you at Grosvenor
+Square?
+
+FARRANT. [_Ungraciously._] Thank you.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. [_With a conqueror's geniality._] I don't mind telling you
+now, Horsham, that ever since we met at Shapters I've been wondering how
+you'd escape from this association with Trebell. Thought he was being
+very clever when he crossed the House to us! It's needed a special
+providence. You'd never have got a cabinet together to include him.
+
+HORSHAM. [_With much intention._] No.
+
+FARRANT. [_Miserably._] Yes, I suppose that intrigue was a mistake from
+the beginning.
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Well, good-night. [_As he turns to go he finds_ CANTELUPE
+_upright, staring very sternly at him_.] Good-night, Cantelupe.
+
+CANTELUPE. From what motives have we thrown Trebell over?
+
+BLACKBOROUGH. Never mind the motives if the move is the right one.
+[_Then he nods at_ HORSHAM.] I shall be up again next week if you want
+me.
+
+_And he flourishes out of the room; a man who has done a good hour's
+work._ FARRANT, _who has been mooning depressedly around, now backs
+towards the door_.
+
+FARRANT. In one way, of course, Trebell won't care a damn. I mean, he
+knows as well as we do that office isn't worth having . . he has never
+been a place-hunter. On the other hand . . what with one thing and the
+other . . Blackborough is a sensible fellow. I suppose it can't be
+helped.
+
+HORSHAM. Blackborough will tell you so. Good-night.
+
+_So_ FARRANT _departs, leaving the two cousins together_. CANTELUPE _has
+not moved and now faces_ HORSHAM _just as accusingly_.
+
+CANTELUPE. Cyril, this is tragic.
+
+HORSHAM. [_More to himself than in answer._] Yes . . most annoying.
+
+CANTELUPE. Lucifer, son of the morning! Why is it always the highest who
+fall?
+
+HORSHAM _shies fastidiously at this touch of poetry_.
+
+HORSHAM. No, my dear Charles, let us above all things keep our mental
+balance. Trebell is a most capable fellow. I'd set my heart on having
+him with me . . he'll be most awkward to deal with in opposition. But we
+shall survive his loss and so would the country.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Desperately._] Cyril, promise me there shall be no
+compromise over this measure.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Charmingly candid._] No . . no unnecessary compromise, I
+promise you.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_With a sigh._] If we had done what we have done to-night in
+the right spirit! Blackborough was almost vindictive.
+
+HORSHAM. [_Smiling without amusement._] Didn't you keep thinking . . I
+did . . of that affair of his with Mrs. Parkington . . years ago?
+
+CANTELUPE. There was never any proof of it.
+
+HORSHAM. No . . he bought off the husband.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Uneasily._] His objections to Trebell were--political.
+
+HORSHAM. Yours weren't.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_More uneasily still._] I withdrew mine.
+
+HORSHAM. [_With elderly reproof._] I don't think, Charles, you have the
+least conception of what a nicely balanced machine a cabinet is.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Imploring comfort._] But should we have held together
+through Trebell's bill?
+
+HORSHAM. [_A little impatient._] Perhaps not. But once I had them all
+round a table . . Trebell is very keen on office for all his independent
+airs . . he and Percival could have argued the thing out. However, it's
+too late now.
+
+CANTELUPE. Is it?
+
+_For a moment_ HORSHAM _is tempted to indulge in the luxury of changing
+his mind; but he puts Satan behind him with a shake of the head_.
+
+HORSHAM. Well, you see . . Percival I can't do without. Now that
+Blackborough knows of his objections to the finance he'd go to him and
+take Chisholm and offer to back them up. I know he would . . he didn't
+take Farrant away with him for nothing. [_Then he flashes out rather
+shrilly._] It's Trebell's own fault. He ought not to have committed
+himself definitely to any scheme until he was safely in office. I warned
+him about Percival . . I warned him not to be explicit. One cannot work
+with men who will make up their minds prematurely. No, I shall not
+change my mind. I shall write to him.
+
+_He goes firmly to his writing desk leaving_ CANTELUPE _forlorn_.
+
+CANTELUPE. What about a messenger?
+
+HORSHAM. Not at this time of night. I'll post it.
+
+CANTELUPE. I'll post it as I go.
+
+_He seeks comfort again in the piano and this time starts to play, with
+one finger and some hesitation, the first bars of a Bach fugue._
+HORSHAM'S _pen-nib is disappointing him and the letter is not easy to
+phrase_.
+
+HORSHAM. But I hate coming to immediate decisions. The administrative
+part of my brain always tires after half an hour. Does yours, Charles?
+
+CANTELUPE. What do you think Trebell will do now?
+
+HORSHAM. [_A little grimly._] Punish us all he can.
+
+_On reaching the second voice in the fugue_ CANTELUPE'S _virtuosity
+breaks down_.
+
+CANTELUPE. All that ability turned to destructiveness . . what a pity!
+That's the paradox of human activities . .
+
+_Suddenly_ HORSHAM _looks up and his face is lighted with a seraphic
+smile_.
+
+HORSHAM. Charles . . I wish we could do without Blackborough.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_Struck with the idea._] Well . . why not?
+
+HORSHAM. Yes . . I must think about it. [_They both get up, cheered
+considerably._] You won't forget this, will you?
+
+CANTELUPE. [_The letter in_ HORSHAM'S _hand accusing him_.] No . . no. I
+don't think I have been the cause of your dropping Trebell, have I?
+
+HORSHAM, _rid of the letter, is rid of responsibility and his charming
+equable self again. He comforts his cousin paternally._
+
+HORSHAM. I don't think so. The split would have come when Blackborough
+checkmated my forming a cabinet. It would have pleased him to do that . .
+and he could have, over Trebell. But now that question's out of the
+way . . you won't get such a bad measure with Trebell in opposition.
+He'll frighten us into keeping it up to the mark, so to speak.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_A little comforted._] But I shall miss one or two of those
+ideas . .
+
+HORSHAM. [_So pleasantly sceptical._] Do you think they'd have outlasted
+the second reading? Dullness in the country one expects. Dullness in the
+House one can cope with. But do you know, I have never sat in a cabinet
+yet that didn't greet anything like a new idea in chilling silence.
+
+CANTELUPE. Well, I should regret to have caused you trouble, Cyril.
+
+HORSHAM. [_His hand on the other's shoulder._] Oh . . we don't take
+politics so much to heart as that, I hope.
+
+CANTELUPE. [_With sweet gravity._] I take politics very much to heart.
+Yes, I know what you mean . . but that's the sort of remark that makes
+people call you cynical. [HORSHAM _smiles as if at a compliment and
+starts with_ CANTELUPE _towards the door_. CANTELUPE, _who would not
+hurt his feelings, changes the subject_.] By the bye, I'm glad we met
+this evening! Do you hear Aunt Mary wants to sell the Burford Holbein?
+Can she?
+
+HORSHAM. [_Taking as keen, but no keener, an interest in this than in
+the difficulty he has just surmounted._] Yes, by the will she can, but
+she mustn't. Dear me, I thought I'd put a stop to that foolishness. Well
+now, we must take that matter up very seriously. . .
+
+_They go out talking arm in arm._
+
+
+
+
+                              THE FOURTH ACT
+
+
+At TREBELL'S again; later, the same evening.
+
+_His room is in darkness but for the flicker the fire makes and the
+streaks of moonlight between the curtains. The door is open, though, and
+you see the light of the lamp on the stairs. You hear his footstep too.
+On his way he stops to draw back the curtains of the passage-way window;
+the moonlight makes his face look very pale. Then he serves the curtains
+of his own window the same; flings it open, moreover, and stands looking
+out. Something below draws his attention. After leaning over the balcony
+with a short_ "Hullo" _he goes quickly downstairs again. In a minute_
+WEDGECROFT _comes up_. TREBELL _follows, pausing by the door a moment to
+light up the room_. WEDGECROFT _is radiant_.
+
+TREBELL. [_With a twist of his mouth._] Promised, has he?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Suddenly broke out as we walked along, that he liked the
+look of you and that men must stand by one another nowadays against
+these women. Then he said good-night and walked away.
+
+TREBELL. Back to Ireland and the thirteenth century.
+
+WEDGECROFT. After to-morrow.
+
+TREBELL. [_Taking all the meaning of to-morrow._] Yes. Are you in for
+perjury, too?
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_His thankfulness checked a little._] No . . not exactly.
+
+TREBELL _walks away from him_.
+
+TREBELL. It's a pity the truth isn't to be told, I think. I suppose the
+verdict will be murder.
+
+WEDGECROFT. They won't catch the man.
+
+TREBELL. You don't mean . . me.
+
+WEDGECROFT. No, no . . my dear fellow.
+
+TREBELL. You might, you know. But nobody seems to see this thing as I
+see it. If I were on that jury I'd say murder too and accuse . . so many
+circumstances, Gilbert, that we should go home . . and look in the
+cupboards. What a lumber of opinions we inherit and keep!
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Humouring him._] Ought we to burn the house down?
+
+TREBELL. Rules and regulations for the preservation of rubbish are the
+laws of England . . and I was adding to their number.
+
+WEDGECROFT. And so you shall . . to the applause of a grateful country.
+
+TREBELL. [_Studying his friend's kindly encouraging face._] Gilbert, it
+is not so much that you're an incorrigible optimist . . but why do you
+subdue your mind to flatter people into cheerfulness?
+
+WEDGECROFT. I'm a doctor, my friend.
+
+TREBELL. You're a part of our tendency to keep things alive by hook or
+by crook . . not a spark but must be carefully blown upon. The world's
+old and tired; it dreads extinction. I think I disapprove . . I think
+I've more faith.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Scolding him._] Nonsense . . you've the instinct to
+preserve your life as everyone else has . . and I'm here to show you
+how.
+
+TREBELL. [_Beyond the reach of his kindness._] I assure you that these
+two days while you've been fussing around O'Connell--bless your kind
+heart--I've been waiting events, indifferent enough to understand his
+indifference.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Not indifferent.
+
+TREBELL. Lifeless enough already, then. [_Suddenly a thought strikes
+him._] D'you think it was Horsham and his little committee persuaded
+O'Connell?
+
+WEDGECROFT. On the contrary.
+
+TREBELL. So you need not have let them into the secret?
+
+WEDGECROFT. No.
+
+TREBELL. Think of that.
+
+_He almost laughs; but_ WEDGECROFT _goes on quite innocently_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Yes . . I'm sorry.
+
+TREBELL. Upsetting their moral digestion for nothing.
+
+WEDGECROFT. But when O'Connell wouldn't listen to us we had to rope in
+the important people.
+
+TREBELL. With their united wisdom. [_Then he breaks away again into
+great bitterness._] No . . what do they make of this woman's death? I
+saw them in that room, Gilbert, like men seen through the wrong end of a
+telescope. D'you think if the little affair with Nature . . her offence
+and mine against the conveniences of civilization . . had ended in my
+death too . . then they'd have stopped to wonder at the misuse and waste
+of the only force there is in the world . . come to think of it, there
+is no other . . than this desire for expression . . in words . . or
+through children. Would they have thought of that and stopped whispering
+about the scandal?
+
+_Through this_ WEDGECROFT _has watched him very gravely_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Trebell . . if the inquest to-morrow had put you out of
+action . .
+
+TREBELL. Should I have grown a beard and travelled abroad and after ten
+years timidly tried to climb my way back into politics? When public
+opinion takes its heel from your face it keeps it for your finger-tips.
+After twenty years to be forgiven by your more broad-minded friends and
+tolerated as a dotard by a new generation. . .
+
+WEDGECROFT. Nonsense. What age are you now . . forty-six . .
+forty-seven?
+
+TREBELL. Well . . let's instance a good man. Gladstone had done his best
+work by sixty-five. Then he began to be popular. Think of his last years
+of oratory.
+
+_He has gone to his table and now very methodically starts to tidy his
+papers_, WEDGECROFT _still watching him_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. You'd have had to thank Heaven for a little that there were
+more lives than one to lead.
+
+TREBELL. That's another of your faults, Gilbert . . it's a comfort just
+now to enumerate them. You're an anarchist . . a kingdom to yourself.
+You make little treaties with Truth and with Beauty, and what can
+disturb you? I'm a part of the machine I believe in. If my life as I've
+made it is to be cut short . . the rest of me shall walk out of the
+world and slam the door . . with the noise of a pistol shot.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Concealing some uneasiness._] Then I'm glad it's not to be
+cut short. You and your cabinet rank and your disestablishment bill!
+
+TREBELL _starts to enjoy his secret_.
+
+TREBELL. Yes . . our minds have been much relieved within the last half
+hour, haven't they?
+
+WEDGECROFT. I scribbled Horsham a note in a messenger office and sent it
+as soon as O'Connell had left me.
+
+TREBELL. He'd be glad to get that.
+
+WEDGECROFT. He has been most kind about the whole thing.
+
+TREBELL. Oh, he means well.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Following up his fancied advantage._] But, my friend . .
+suicide whilst of unsound mind would never have done . . The hackneyed
+verdict hits the truth, you know.
+
+TREBELL. You think so?
+
+WEDGECROFT. I don't say there aren't excuses enough in this miserable
+world, but fundamentally . . no sane person will destroy life.
+
+TREBELL. [_His thoughts shifting their plane._] Was she so very mad? I'm
+not thinking of her own death.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Don't brood, Trebell. Your mind isn't healthy yet about her
+and--
+
+TREBELL. And my child.
+
+_Even_ WEDGECROFT'S _kindness is at fault before the solemnity of this_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Is that how you're thinking of it?
+
+TREBELL. How else? It's very inexplicable . . this sense of fatherhood.
+[_The eyes of his mind travel down--what vista of possibilities. Then he
+shakes himself free._] Let's drop the subject. To finish the list of
+shortcomings, you're a bit of an artist too . . therefore I don't think
+you'll understand.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Successfully decoyed into argument._] Surely an artist is
+a man who understands.
+
+TREBELL. Everything about life, but not life itself. That's where art
+fails a man.
+
+WEDGECROFT. That's where everything but living fails a man. [_Drifting
+into introspection himself._] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and
+I've written a book . . but I'm barren. [_Then the healthy mind
+re-asserts itself._] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children . .
+and marry and intermarry. And we're peopling the world . . not badly.
+
+TREBELL. Well . . either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so
+big that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two
+points of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes
+the last use made of life.
+
+_There is a tone of menace in this which recalls_ WEDGECROFT _to the
+present trouble_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice . . or the use of it.
+
+TREBELL. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he
+think so now? . . not he.
+
+WEDGECROFT. You mean if they'd had to throw you over?
+
+_Once again_ TREBELL _looks up with that secretive smile_.
+
+TREBELL. Yes . . if they'd had to.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow,
+Horsham would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot
+yourself after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you
+so-called strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to
+come out to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you
+pistols by post, requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham
+would grieve over ten dinner-tables in succession and then return to his
+philosophy. One really mustn't waste a life trying to shock polite
+politicians. There'd even be a suspicion of swagger in it.
+
+TREBELL. Quite so . . the bomb that's thrown at their feet must be
+something otherwise worthless.
+
+FRANCES _comes in quickly, evidently in search of her brother. Though
+she has not been crying, her eyes are wide with grief._
+
+FRANCES. Oh, Henry . . I'm so glad you're still up. [_She notices_
+WEDGECROFT.] How d'you do, Doctor?
+
+TREBELL. [_Doubling his mask of indifference._] Meistersinger's over
+early.
+
+FRANCES. Is it?
+
+TREBELL. Not much past twelve yet.
+
+FRANCES. [_The little gibe lost on her._] It was Tristan to-night. I'm
+quite upset. I heard just as I was coming away . . Amy O'Connell's dead.
+[_Both men hold their breath._ TREBELL _is the first to find control of
+his and give the cue_.]
+
+TREBELL. Yes . . Wedgecroft has just told me.
+
+FRANCES. She was only taken ill last week . . it's so extraordinary.
+[_She remembers the doctor._] Oh . . have you been attending her?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Yes.
+
+FRANCES. I hear there's to be an inquest.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Yes.
+
+FRANCES. But what has been the matter?
+
+TREBELL. [_Sharply forestalling any answer._] You'll know to-morrow.
+
+FRANCES. [_The little snub almost bewildering her._] Anything private? I
+mean . .
+
+TREBELL. No . . I'll tell you. Don't make Gilbert repeat a story twice . .
+He's tired with a good day's work.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Yes . . I'll be getting away.
+
+FRANCES _never heeds this flash of a further meaning between the two
+men_.
+
+FRANCES. And I meant to have gone to see her to-day. Was the end very
+sudden? Did her husband arrive in time?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Yes.
+
+FRANCES. They didn't get on . . he'll be frightfully upset.
+
+TREBELL _resists a hideous temptation to laugh_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Good night, Trebell.
+
+TREBELL. Good night, Gilbert. Many thanks.
+
+_There is enough of a caress in_ TREBELL'S _tone to turn_ FRANCES
+_towards their friend, a little remorseful for treating him so casually,
+now as always_.
+
+FRANCES. He's always thanking you. You're always doing things for him.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Good night. [_Seeing the tears in her eyes._] Oh, don't
+grieve.
+
+FRANCES. One shouldn't be sorry when people die, I know. But she liked
+me more than I liked her. . [_This time_ TREBELL _does laugh,
+silently_.] . . so I somehow feel in her debt and unable to pay now.
+
+TREBELL. [_An edge on his voice._] Yes . . people keep on dying at all
+sorts of ages, in all sorts of ways. But we seem never to get used to it
+. . narrow-minded as we are.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Don't you talk nonsense.
+
+TREBELL. [_One note sharper yet._] One should occasionally test one's
+sanity by doing so. If we lived in the logical world we like to believe
+in, I could also prove that black was white. As it is . . there are more
+ways of killing a cat than hanging it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Had I better give you a sleeping draught?
+
+FRANCES. Are you doctoring him for once? Henry, have you at last managed
+to overwork yourself?
+
+TREBELL. No . . I started the evening by a charming little dinner at the
+Van Meyer's . . sat next to Miss Grace Cutler, who is writing a _vie
+intime_ of Louis Quinze and engaged me with anecdotes of the same.
+
+FRANCES. A champion of her sex, whom I do not like.
+
+WEDGECROFT. She's writing such a book to prove that women are equal to
+anything.
+
+_He goes towards the door and_ FRANCES _goes with him_. TREBELL _never
+turns his head_.
+
+TREBELL. I shall not come and open the door for you . . but mind you
+shut it.
+
+FRANCES _comes back_.
+
+FRANCES. Henry . . this is dreadful about that poor little woman.
+
+TREBELL. An unwelcome baby was arriving. She got some quack to kill her.
+
+_These exact words are like a blow in the face to her, from which, being
+a woman of brave common sense, she does not shrink._
+
+TREBELL. What do you say to that?
+
+_She walks away from him, thinking painfully._
+
+FRANCES. She had never had a child. There's the common-place thing to
+say . . Ungrateful little fool! But . .
+
+TREBELL. If you had been in her place?
+
+FRANCES. [_Subtly._] I have never made the mistake of marrying. She grew
+frightened, I suppose. Not just physically frightened. How can a man
+understand?
+
+TREBELL. The fear of life . . do you think it was . . which is the
+beginning of all evil?
+
+FRANCES. A woman must choose what her interpretation of life is to be . .
+as a man must too in his way . . as you and I have chosen, Henry.
+
+TREBELL. [_Asking from real interest in her._] Was yours a deliberate
+choice and do you never regret it?
+
+FRANCES. [_Very simply and clearly._] Perhaps one does nothing quite
+deliberately and for a definite reason. My state has its compensations . .
+if one doesn't value them too highly. I've travelled in thought over
+all this question. You mustn't blame a woman for wishing not to bear
+children. But . . well, if one doesn't like the fruit one mustn't
+cultivate the flower. And I suppose that saying condemns poor Amy . .
+condemned her to death . . [_Then her face hardens as she concentrates
+her meaning._] and brands most men as . . let's unsentimentally call it
+=illogical=, doesn't it?
+
+_He takes the thrust in silence._
+
+TREBELL. Did you notice the light in my window as you came in?
+
+FRANCES. Yes . . in both as I got out of the cab. Do you want the
+curtains drawn back?
+
+TREBELL. Yes . . don't touch them.
+
+_He has thrown himself into his chair by the fire. She lapses into
+thought again._
+
+FRANCES. Poor little woman.
+
+TREBELL. [_In deep anger._] Well, if women will be little and poor . .
+
+_She goes to him and slips an arm over his shoulder._
+
+FRANCES. What is it you're worried about . . if a mere sister may ask?
+
+TREBELL. [_Into the fire._] I want to think. I haven't thought for
+years.
+
+FRANCES. Why, you have done nothing else.
+
+TREBELL. I've been working out problems in legal and political algebra.
+
+FRANCES. You want to think of =yourself=.
+
+TREBELL. Yes.
+
+FRANCES. [_Gentle and ironic._] Have you ever, for one moment, thought
+in that sense of anyone else?
+
+TREBELL. Is that a complaint?
+
+FRANCES. The first in ten years' housekeeping.
+
+TREBELL. No, I never have . . but I've never thought selfishly either.
+
+FRANCES. That's a paradox I don't quite understand.
+
+TREBELL. Until women do they'll remain where they are . . and what they
+are.
+
+FRANCES. Oh, I know you hate us.
+
+TREBELL. Yes, dear sister, I'm afraid I do. And I hate your influence on
+men . . compromise, tenderness, pity, lack of purpose. Women don't know
+the values of things, not even their own value.
+
+_For a moment she studies him, wonderingly._
+
+FRANCES. I'll take up the counter-accusation to-morrow. Now I'm tired
+and I'm going to bed. If I may insult you by mothering you, so should
+you. You look tired and I've seldom seen you.
+
+TREBELL. I'm waiting up for a message.
+
+FRANCES. So late?
+
+TREBELL. It's a matter of life and death.
+
+FRANCES. Are you joking?
+
+TREBELL. Yes. If you want to spoil me find me a book to read.
+
+FRANCES. What will you have?
+
+TREBELL. Huckleberry Finn. It's on a top shelf towards the end somewhere
+. . or should be.
+
+_She finds the book. On her way back with it she stops and shivers._
+
+FRANCES. I don't think I shall sleep to-night. Poor Amy O'Connell!
+
+TREBELL. [_Curiously._] Are you afraid of death?
+
+FRANCES. [_With humorous stoicism._] It will be the end of me, perhaps.
+
+_She gives him the book, with its red cover; the '86 edition, a boy's
+friend evidently. He fingers it familiarly._
+
+TREBELL. Thank you. Mark Twain's a jolly fellow. He has courage . .
+comic courage. That's what's wanted. Nothing stands against it. You
+be-little yourself by laughing . . then all this world and the last and
+the next grow little too . . and so you grow great again. Switch off
+some light, will you?
+
+FRANCES. [_Clicking off all but his reading lamp._] So?
+
+TREBELL. Thanks. Good night, Frankie.
+
+_She turns at the door, with a glad smile._
+
+FRANCES. Good night. When did you last use that nursery name?
+
+_Then she goes, leaving him still fingering the book, but looking into
+the fire and far beyond. Behind him through the open window one sees how
+cold and clear the night is._
+
+                        *    *    *    *    *
+
+_At eight in the morning he is still here. His lamp is out, the fire is
+out and the book laid aside. The white morning light penetrates every
+crevice of the room and shows every line on_ TREBELL'S _face. The spirit
+of the man is strained past all reason. The door opens suddenly and_
+FRANCES _comes in, troubled, nervous. Interrupted in her dressing, she
+has put on some wrap or other._
+
+FRANCES. Henry . . Simpson says you've not been to bed all night.
+
+_He turns his head and says with inappropriate politeness--_
+
+TREBELL. No. Good morning.
+
+FRANCES. Oh, my dear . . what is wrong?
+
+TREBELL. The message hasn't come . . and I've been thinking.
+
+FRANCES. Why don't you tell me? [_He turns his head away._] I think you
+haven't the right to torture me.
+
+TREBELL. Your sympathy would only blind me towards the facts I want to
+face.
+
+SIMPSON, _the maid, undisturbed in her routine, brings in the morning's
+letters_. FRANCES _rounds on her irritably_.
+
+FRANCES. What is it, Simpson?
+
+MAID. The letters, Ma'am.
+
+TREBELL _is on his feet at that_.
+
+TREBELL. Ah . . I want them.
+
+FRANCES. [_Taking the letters composedly enough._] Thank you.
+
+SIMPSON _departs and_ TREBELL _comes to her for his letters. She looks
+at him with baffled affection._
+
+FRANCES. Can I do nothing? Oh, Henry!
+
+TREBELL. Help me to open my letters.
+
+FRANCES. Don't you leave them to Mr. Kent?
+
+TREBELL. Not this morning.
+
+FRANCES. But there are so many.
+
+TREBELL. [_For the first time lifting his voice from its dull
+monotony._] What a busy man I was.
+
+FRANCES. Henry . . you're a little mad.
+
+TREBELL. Do you find me so? That's interesting.
+
+FRANCES. [_With the ghost of a smile._] Well . . maddening.
+
+_By this time he is sitting at his table; she near him watching
+closely. They halve the considerable post and start to open it._
+
+TREBELL. We arrange them in three piles . . personal . . political . .
+and preposterous.
+
+FRANCES. This is an invitation . . the Anglican League.
+
+TREBELL. I can't go.
+
+_She looks sideways at him as he goes on mechanically tearing the
+envelopes._
+
+FRANCES. I heard you come upstairs about two o'clock.
+
+TREBELL. That was to dip my head in water. Then I made an instinctive
+attempt to go to bed . . got my tie off even.
+
+FRANCES. [_Her anxiety breaking out._] If you'd tell me that you're only
+ill . . .
+
+TREBELL. [_Forbiddingly commonplace._] What's that letter? Don't fuss . .
+and remember that abnormal conduct is sometimes quite rational.
+
+FRANCES _returns to her task with misty eyes_.
+
+FRANCES. It's from somebody whose son can't get into something.
+
+TREBELL. The third heap . . Kent's . . the preposterous. [_Talking on
+with steady monotony._] But I saw it would not do to interrupt that
+logical train of thought which reached definition about half past six. I
+had then been gleaning until you came in.
+
+FRANCES. [_Turning the neat little note in her hand._] This is from Lord
+Horsham. He writes his name small at the bottom of the envelope.
+
+TREBELL. [_Without a tremor._] Ah . . give it me.
+
+_He opens this as he has opened the others, carefully putting the
+envelope to one side._ FRANCES _has ceased for the moment to watch him_.
+
+FRANCES. That's Cousin Robert's handwriting. [_She puts a square
+envelope at his hand._] Is a letter marked private from the Education
+Office political or personal?
+
+_By this he has read_ HORSHAM'S _letter twice. So he tears it up and
+speaks very coldly._
+
+TREBELL. Either. It doesn't matter.
+
+_In the silence her fears return._
+
+FRANCES. Henry, it's a foolish idea . . I suppose I have it because I
+hardly slept for thinking of her. Your trouble is nothing to do with Amy
+O'Connell, is it?
+
+TREBELL. [_His voice strangled in his throat._] Her child should have
+been my child too.
+
+FRANCES. [_Her eyes open, the whole landscape of her mind suddenly
+clear._] Oh, I . . no, I didn't think so . . but. . .
+
+TREBELL. [_Dealing his second blow as remorselessly as dealt to him._]
+Also I'm not joining the new Cabinet, my dear sister.
+
+FRANCES. [_Her thoughts rushing now to the present--the future._] Not!
+Because of . . ? Do people know? Will they . ? You didn't . . ?
+
+_As mechanically as ever he has taken up_ COUSIN ROBERT'S _letter and,
+in some sense, read it. Now he recapitulates, meaninglessly, that his
+voice may just deaden her pain and his own._
+
+TREBELL. Robert says . . that we've not been to see them for some time . .
+but that now I'm a greater man than ever I must be very busy. The
+vicarage has been painted and papered throughout and looks much fresher.
+Mary sends you her love and hopes you have no return of the rheumatism.
+And he would like to send me the proof sheets of his critical commentary
+on First Timothy . . for my alien eye might possibly detect some logical
+lapses. Need he repeat to me his thankfulness at my new attitude upon
+Disestablishment . . or assure me again that I have his prayers. Could
+we not go and stay there only for a few days? Possibly his opinion--
+
+_She has borne this cruel kindness as long as she can and she breaks
+out . ._
+
+FRANCES. Oh . . don't . . don't!
+
+_He falls from his seeming callousness to the very blankness of
+despair._
+
+TREBELL. No, we'll leave that . . and the rest . . and everything.
+
+_Her agony passes._
+
+FRANCES. What do you mean to do?
+
+TREBELL. There's to be no public scandal.
+
+FRANCES. Why has Lord Horsham thrown you over then . . or hasn't that
+anything to do with it?
+
+TREBELL. It has to do with it.
+
+FRANCES. [_Lifting her voice; some tone returning to it._] Unconsciously
+. . I've known for years that this sort of thing might happen to you.
+
+TREBELL. Why?
+
+FRANCES. Power over men and women and contempt for them! Do you think
+they don't take their revenge sooner or later?
+
+TREBELL. Much good may it do them!
+
+FRANCES. Human nature turns against you . . by instinct . . in
+self-defence.
+
+TREBELL. And my own human-nature!
+
+FRANCES. [_Shocked into great pity, by his half articulate pain._] Yes . .
+you must have loved her, Henry . . in some odd way. I'm sorry for you
+both.
+
+TREBELL. I'm hating her now . . as a man can only hate his own silliest
+vices.
+
+FRANCES. [_Flashing into defence._] That's wrong of you. If you thought
+of her only as a pretty little fool . . Bearing your child . . all her
+womanly life belonged to you . . and for that time there was no other
+sort of life in her. So she became what you thought her.
+
+TREBELL. That's not true.
+
+FRANCES. It's true enough . . it's true of men towards women. You can't
+think of them through generations as one thing and then suddenly find
+them another.
+
+TREBELL. [_Hammering at his fixed idea._] She should have brought that
+child into the world.
+
+FRANCES. You didn't love her enough!
+
+TREBELL. I didn't love her at all.
+
+FRANCES. Then why should she value your gift?
+
+TREBELL. For its own sake.
+
+FRANCES. [_Turning away._] It's hopeless . . you don't understand.
+
+TREBELL. [_Helpless; almost like a deserted child._] I've been trying to
+. . all through the night.
+
+FRANCES. [_Turning back enlightened a little._] That's more the trouble
+then than the Cabinet question?
+
+_He shakes himself to his feet and begins to pace the room; his keenness
+coming back to him, his brow knitting again with the delight of
+thought._
+
+TREBELL. Oh . . as to me against the world . . I'm fortified with comic
+courage. [_Then turning on her like any examining professor._] Now which
+do you believe . . that Man is the reformer, or that the Time brings
+forth such men as it needs and lobster-like can grow another claw?
+
+FRANCES. [_Watching this new mood carefully._] I believe that you'll be
+missed from Lord Horsham's Cabinet.
+
+TREBELL. The hand-made statesman and his hand-made measure! They were
+out of place in that pretty Tory garden. Those men are the natural
+growth of the time. Am I?
+
+FRANCES. Just as much. And wasn't your bill going to be such a good
+piece of work? That can't be thrown away . . wasted.
+
+TREBELL. Can one impose a clever idea upon men and women? I wonder.
+
+FRANCES. That rather begs the question of your very existence, doesn't
+it?
+
+_He comes to a standstill._
+
+TREBELL. I know.
+
+_His voice shows her that meaning in her words and beyond it a threat.
+She goes to him, suddenly shaking with fear._
+
+FRANCES. Henry, I didn't mean that.
+
+TREBELL. You think I've a mind to put an end to that same?
+
+FRANCES. [_Belittling her fright._] No . . for how unreasonable. . .
+
+TREBELL. In view of my promising past. I've stood for success, Fanny; I
+still stand for success. I could still do more outside the Cabinet than
+the rest of them, inside, will do. But suddenly I've a feeling the work
+would be barren. [_His eyes shift beyond her; beyond the room._] What is
+it in your thoughts and actions which makes them bear fruit? Something
+that the roughest peasant may have in common with the best of us
+intellectual men . . something that a dog might have. It isn't
+successful cleverness.
+
+_She stands . . his trouble beyond her reach._
+
+FRANCES. Come now . . you've done very well with your life.
+
+TREBELL. Do you know how empty I feel of all virtue at this moment?
+
+_He leaves her. She must bring him back to the plane on which she can
+help him._
+
+FRANCES. We must think what's best to be done . . now . . and for the
+future.
+
+TREBELL. Why, I could go on earning useless money at the Bar . . think
+how nice that would be. I could blackmail the next judgeship out of
+Horsham. I think I could even smash his Disestablishment Bill . . and
+perhaps get into the next Liberal Cabinet and start my own all over
+again, with necessary modifications. I shan't do any such things.
+
+FRANCES. No one knows about you and poor Amy?
+
+TREBELL. Half a dozen friends. Shall I offer to give evidence at the
+inquest this morning?
+
+FRANCES. [_With a little shiver._] They'll say bad enough things about
+her without your blackening her good name.
+
+_Without warning, his anger and anguish break out again._
+
+TREBELL. All she had . . all there is left of her! She was a nothingness
+. . silly . . vain. And I gave her this power over me!
+
+_He is beaten, exhausted. Now she goes to him, motherlike._
+
+FRANCES. My dear, listen to me for a little. Consider that as a sorrow
+and put it behind you. And think now . . whatever love there may be
+between us has neither hatred nor jealousy in it, has it, Henry? Since
+I'm not a mistress or a friend but just the likest fellow-creature to
+you . . perhaps.
+
+TREBELL. [_Putting out his hand for hers._] Yes, my sister. What I've
+wanted to feel for vague humanity has been what I should have felt for
+you . . if you'd ever made a single demand on me.
+
+_She puts her arms round him; able to speak._
+
+FRANCES. Let's go away somewhere . . I'll make demands. I need
+refreshing as much as you. My joy of life has been withered in me . .
+oh, for a long time now. We must kiss the earth again . . take interest
+in common things, common people. There's so much of the world we don't
+know. There's air to breathe everywhere. Think of the flowers in a Tyrol
+valley in the early spring. One can walk for days, not hurrying, as soon
+as the passes are open. And the people are kind. There's Italy . .
+there's Russia full of simple folk. When we've learned to be friends
+with them we shall both feel so much better.
+
+TREBELL. [_Shaking his head, unmoved._] My dear sister . . I should be
+bored to death. The life contemplative and peripatetic would literally
+bore me into a living death.
+
+FRANCES. [_Letting it be a fairy tale._] Is your mother the Wide World
+nothing to you? Can't you open your heart like a child again?
+
+TREBELL. No, neither to the beauty of Nature nor the particular human
+animals that are always called a part of it. I don't even see them with
+your eyes. I'm a son of the anger of Man at men's foolishness, and
+unless I've that to feed upon . . .! [_Now he looks at her, as if for
+the first time wanting to explain himself, and his voice changes._]
+Don't you know that when a man cuts himself shaving, he swears? When he
+loses a seat in the Cabinet he turns inward for comfort . . and if he
+only finds there a spirit which should have been born, but is dead . .
+what's to be done then?
+
+FRANCES. [_In a whisper._] You mustn't think of that woman. . .
+
+TREBELL. I've reasoned my way through life. . .
+
+FRANCES. I see how awful it is to have the double blow fall.
+
+TREBELL. [_The wave of his agony rising again._] But here's something in
+me which no knowledge touches . . some feeling . . some power which
+should be the beginning of new strength. But it has been killed in me
+unborn before I had learnt to understand . . and that's killing me.
+
+FRANCES. [_Crying out._] Why . . why did no woman teach you to be
+gentle? Why did you never believe in any woman? Perhaps even I am to
+blame. . .
+
+TREBELL. The little fool, the little fool . . why did she kill my child?
+What did it matter what I thought her? We were committed together to
+that one thing. Do you think I didn't know that I was heartless and that
+she was socially in the wrong? But what did Nature care for that? And
+Nature has broken us.
+
+FRANCES. [_Clinging to him as he beats the air._] Not you. She's dead,
+poor girl . . but not you.
+
+TREBELL. Yes . . that's the mystery no one need believe till he has
+dipped in it. The man bears the child in his soul as the woman carries
+it in her body.
+
+_There is silence between them, till she speaks low and tonelessly,
+never loosing his hand._
+
+FRANCES. Henry, I want your promise that you'll go on living till . .
+till . .
+
+TREBELL. Don't cry, Fanny, that's very foolish.
+
+FRANCES. Till you've learnt to look at all this calmly. Then I can trust
+you.
+
+TREBELL _smiles, not at all grimly_.
+
+TREBELL. But, you see, it would give Horsham and Blackborough such a
+shock if I shot myself . . it would make them think about things.
+
+FRANCES. [_With one catch of wretched laughter._] Oh, my dear, if
+shooting's wanted . . shoot them. Or I'll do it for you.
+
+_He sits in his chair just from weariness. She stands by him, her hand
+still grasping his._
+
+TREBELL. You see, Fanny, as I said to Gilbert last night . . our lives
+are our own and yet not our own. We understand living for others and
+dying for others. The first is easy . . it's a way out of boredom. To
+make the second popular we had to invent a belief in personal
+resurrection. Do you think we shall ever understand dying in the sure
+and certain hope that it really doesn't matter . . that God is
+infinitely economical and wastes perhaps less of the power in us after
+our death than men do while we live?
+
+FRANCES. I want your promise, Henry.
+
+TREBELL. You know I never make promises . . it's taking oneself too
+seriously. Unless indeed one has the comic courage to break them too.
+I've upset you very much with my troubles. Don't you think you'd better
+go and finish dressing? [_She doesn't move._] My dear . . you don't
+propose to hold my right hand so safely for years to come. Even so, I
+still could jump out of a window.
+
+FRANCES. I'll trust you, Henry.
+
+_She looks into his eyes and he does not flinch. Then, with a final grip
+she leaves him. When she is at the door he speaks more gently than
+ever._
+
+TREBELL. Your own life is sufficient unto itself, isn't it?
+
+FRANCES. Oh yes. I can be pleasant to talk to and give good advice
+through the years that remain. [_Instinctively she rectifies some little
+untidiness in the room._] What fools they are to think they can run that
+government without you!
+
+TREBELL. Horsham will do his best. [_Then, as for the second time she
+reaches the door._] Don't take away my razors, will you? I only use them
+for shaving.
+
+FRANCES. [_Almost blushing._] I half meant to . . I'm sorry. After all,
+Henry, just because they are forgetting in personal feelings what's best
+for the country . . it's your duty not to. You'll stand by and do what
+you can, won't you?
+
+TREBELL. [_His queer smile returning, in contrast to her seriousness._]
+Disestablishment. It's a very interesting problem. I must think it out.
+
+FRANCES. [_Really puzzled._] What do you mean?
+
+_He gets up with a quick movement of strange strength, and faces her.
+His smile changes into a graver gladness._
+
+TREBELL. Something has happened . . in spite of me. My heart's clean
+again. I'm ready for fresh adventures.
+
+FRANCES. [_With a nod and answering gladness._] That's right.
+
+_So she leaves him, her mind at rest. For a minute he does not move.
+When his gaze narrows it falls on the heaps of letters. He carries them
+carefully into_ WALTER KENT'S _room and arranges them as carefully on
+his table. On his way out he stops for a moment; then with a sudden
+movement bangs the door._
+
+_Two hours later the room has been put in order. It is even more full of
+light and the shadows are harder than usual. The doors are open, showing
+you_ KENT'S _door still closed. At the big writing table in_ TREBELL'S
+_chair sits_ WEDGECROFT, _pale and grave, intent on finishing a letter_.
+FRANCES _comes to find him. For a moment she leans on the table
+silently, her eyes half closed. You would say a broken woman. When she
+speaks it is swiftly, but tonelessly._
+
+FRANCES. Lord Horsham is in the drawing room . . and I can't see him, I
+really can't. He has come to say he is sorry . . and I should tell him
+that it is his fault, partly. I know I should . . and I don't want to.
+Won't you go in? What are you writing?
+
+WEDGECROFT, _with his physicianly pre-occupation, can attend,
+understand, sympathise, without looking up at her_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Never mind. A necessary note . . to the Coroner's office.
+Yes, I'll see Horsham.
+
+FRANCES. I've managed to get the pistol out of his hand. Was that wrong
+. . oughtn't I to have touched it?
+
+WEDGECROFT. Of course you oughtn't. You must stay away from the room.
+I'd better have locked the door.
+
+FRANCES. [_Pitifully._] I'm sorry . . but I couldn't bear to see the
+pistol in his hand. I won't go back. After all he's not there in the
+room, is he? But how long do you think the spirit stays near the body . .
+how long? When people die gently of age or weakness . . . But when
+the spirit and body are so strong and knit together and all alive as
+his . . .
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_His hand on hers._] Hush . . hush.
+
+FRANCES. His face is very eager . . as if it still could speak. I know
+that.
+
+MRS. FARRANT _comes through the open doorway_. FRANCES _hears her steps
+and turning falls into her outstretched arms to cry there_.
+
+FRANCES. Oh, Julia!
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Oh my dear Fanny! I came with Cyril Horsham . . I don't
+think Simpson even saw me.
+
+FRANCES. I can't go in and talk to him.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. He'll understand. But I heard you come in here . .
+
+WEDGECROFT. I'll tell Horsham.
+
+_He has finished and addressed his letter, so he goes out with it._
+FRANCES _lifts her head. These two are in accord and can speak their
+feelings without disguise or preparation._
+
+FRANCES. Julia, Julia . . isn't it unbelievable?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I'd give . . oh, what wouldn't I give to have it undone!
+
+FRANCES. I knew he meant to . . and yet I thought I had his promise. If
+he really meant to . . I couldn't have stopped it, could I?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Walter sent to tell me and I sent round to . . .
+
+FRANCES. Walter came soon after, I think. Julia, I was in my room . . it
+was nearly breakfast time . . when I heard the shot. Oh . . don't you
+think it was cruel of him?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. He had a right to. We must remember that.
+
+FRANCES. You say that easily of my brother . . you wouldn't say it of
+your husband.
+
+_They are apart by this._ JULIA FARRANT _goes to her gently_.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Fanny . . will it leave you so very lonely?
+
+FRANCES. Yes . . lonelier than you can ever be. You have children. I'm
+just beginning to realise. . .
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Leading her from the mere selfishness of sorrow._]
+There's loneliness of the spirit, too.
+
+FRANCES. Ah, but once you've tasted the common joys of life . . once
+you've proved all your rights as a man or woman . . .
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Then there are subtler things to miss. As well be alone
+like you, or dead like him, without them . . I sometimes think.
+
+FRANCES. [_Responsive, lifted from egoism, reading her friend's mind._]
+You demand much.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. I wish that he had demanded much of any woman.
+
+FRANCES. You know how this misery began? That poor little wretch . .
+she's lying dead too. They're both dead together now. Do you think
+they've met . . ?
+
+JULIA _grips both her hands and speaks very steadily to help her friend
+back to self control_.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. George told me as soon as he was told. I tried to make him
+understand my opinion, but he thought I was only shocked.
+
+FRANCES. I was sorry for her. Now I can't forgive her either.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_Angry, remorseful, rebellious._] When will men learn to
+know one woman from another?
+
+FRANCES. [_With answering bitterness._] When will all women care to be
+one thing rather than the other?
+
+_They are stopped by the sound of the opening of_ KENT'S _door_. WALTER
+_comes from his room, some papers from his table held listlessly in one
+hand. He is crying, undisguisedly, with a child's grief._
+
+KENT. Oh . . am I in your way . . ?
+
+FRANCES. I didn't know you were still here, Walter.
+
+KENT. I've been going through the letters as usual. I don't know why,
+I'm sure. They won't have to be answered now . . will they?
+
+WEDGECROFT _comes back, grave and tense_.
+
+WEDGECROFT. Horsham has gone. He thought perhaps you'd be staying with
+Miss Trebell for a bit.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Yes, I shall be.
+
+WEDGECROFT. I must go too . . it's nearly eleven.
+
+FRANCES. To the =other= inquest?
+
+_This stirs her two listeners to something of a shudder._
+
+WEDGECROFT. Yes.
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_In a low voice._] It will make no difference now . . I
+mean . . still nothing need come out? We needn't know why he . . why he
+did it.
+
+WEDGECROFT. When he talked to me last night, and I didn't know what he
+was talking of. . .
+
+FRANCES. He was waiting this morning for Lord Horsham's note. . .
+
+MRS. FARRANT. [_In real alarm._] Oh, it wasn't because of the Cabinet
+trouble . . you must persuade Cyril Horsham of that. You haven't told
+him . . he's so dreadfully upset as it is. I've been swearing it had
+nothing to do with that.
+
+WEDGECROFT. [_Cutting her short, bitingly._] Has a time ever come to you
+when it was easier to die than to go on living? Oh . . I told Lord
+Horsham just what I thought.
+
+_He leaves them, his own grief unexpressed._
+
+FRANCES. [_Listlessly._] Does it matter why?
+
+MRS. FARRANT. Need there be more suffering and reproaches? It's not as
+if even grief would do any good. [_Suddenly with nervous caution._]
+Walter, you don't know, do you?
+
+WALTER _throws up his tear-marked face and a man's anger banishes the
+boyish grief_.
+
+WALTER. No, I don't know why he did it . . and I don't care. And grief
+is no use. I'm angry . . just angry at the waste of a good man. Look at
+the work undone . . think of it! Who is to do it! Oh . . the waste . . !
+
+
+
+
+_"The Marrying of Ann Leete" was produced by the Stage Society at the
+Royalty Theatre on the evening of January 26th, 1902._
+
+
+Ann Leete                 _Miss Winifred Fraser_
+Lord John Carp            _Julian Royce_
+George Leete              _Kenneth Douglas_
+Mr. Daniel Tatton         _J. Malcolm Dunn_
+Lady Cottesham            _Miss Henrietta Watson_
+Carnaby Leete             _H. A. Saintsbury_
+John Abud                 _C. M. Hallard_
+The Rev. Dr. Remnant      _Howard Sturge_
+Mrs. Opie                 _Miss Helen Rous_
+Dimmuck                   _George Trollope_
+Mr. Tetgeen               _A. E. George_
+Lord Arthur Carp          _Charles V. France_
+Mr. Smallpeice            _J. Y. F. Cooke_
+Sir George Leete          _Arthur Grenville_
+Mr. Crowe                 _Sydney Paxton_
+Lady Leete                _Miss Bessie Page_
+Mrs. George Leete         _Miss Florence Neville_
+The Rev. Mr. Tozer        _Ivan Berlin_
+Mr. Prestige              _Howard Templeton_
+Mrs. Prestige             _Mrs. Gordon Gray_
+
+
+
+
+_"The Voysey Inheritance" was first played at the Court Theatre, a
+Vedrenne-Barker performance, on the afternoon of November 7th 1905._
+
+
+Mr. Voysey                   _A. E. George_
+Mrs. Voysey                  _Miss Florence Haydon_
+Trenchard Voysey, K. C.      _Eugene Mayeur_
+Honor Voysey                 _Miss Geraldine Olliffe_
+Major Booth Voysey           _Charles Fulton_
+Mrs. Booth Voysey            _Miss Grace Edwin_
+Christopher                  _Harry C. Duff_
+Edward Voysey                _Thalberg Corbett_
+Hugh Voysey                  _Dennis Eadie_
+Mrs. Hugh Voysey             _Miss Henrietta Watson_
+Ethel Voysey                 _Miss Alexandra Carlisle_
+Denis Tregoning              _Frederick Lloyd_
+Alice Maitland               _Miss Mabel Hackney_
+Mr. Booth                    _O. B. Clarence_
+The Rev. Evan Colpus         _Edmund Gwenn_
+Peacey                       _Trevor Lowe_
+Phoebe                       _Miss Gwynneth Galton_
+Mary                         _Mrs. Fordyce_
+
+
+
+
+_"Waste" was produced by the Stage Society at the Imperial Theatre,
+Westminster, on the evening of November 24th, 1907._
+
+
+Lady Davenport                  _Miss Amy Coleman_
+Walter Kent                     _Vernon Steel_
+Mrs. Farrant                    _Miss Beryl Faber_
+Miss Trebell                    _Miss Henrietta Watson_
+Mrs. O'Connell                  _Miss Aimee De Burgh_
+Lucy Davenport                  _Miss Dorothy Thomas_
+George Farrant                  _Frederick Lloyd_
+Russell Blackborough            _A. Holmes-Gore_
+A Footman                       _Allan Wade_
+Henry Trebell                   _Granville Barker_
+Simpson                         _Miss Mary Barton_
+Gilbert Wedgecroft              _Berte Thomas_
+Lord Charles Cantelupe          _Dennis Eadie_
+The Earl of Horsham             _Henry Vibart_
+Edmunds                         _Trevor Lowe_
+Justin O'Connell                _J. Fisher White_
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Notes:-
+
+Ellipses and hyphenation have been kept as in the original.
+
+P. 16 "Innocency's opininons are invariably entertaining."==>"Innocency's
+      opinions are invariably entertaining."
+
+P. 79 "[_Disgustedly to_ MR. SMALLPIECE]"==>"[_Disgustedly to_ MR.
+      SMALLPEICE]"
+
+P. 103 "In ten years years I may be"==>"In ten years I may be"
+
+P. 145 "one can trace the pyschology"==>"one can trace the psychology"
+
+G e s p e r r t spacing has been replaced with bold markup.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Plays by Granville-Barker, by
+Harley Granville-Barker
+
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