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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of First Plays, by A. A. Milne
+
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+
+Title: First Plays
+
+Author: A. A. Milne
+
+Release Date: April, 2005  [EBook #7805]
+[This file was first posted on May 18, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
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+Character set encoding: US-ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, FIRST PLAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+FIRST PLAYS
+
+by A. A. Milne
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+INTRODUCTION
+WURZEL-FLUMMERY
+THE LUCKY ONE
+THE BOY COMES HOME
+BELINDA
+THE RED FEATHERS
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+These five plays were written, in the order in which they appear
+now, during the years 1916 and 1917. They would hardly have been
+written had it not been for the war, although only one of them is
+concerned with that subject. To his other responsibilities the
+Kaiser now adds this volume.
+
+For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but
+the recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing
+is a luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more
+expensive in time and money. When an article is written, the
+financial reward (and we may as well live as not) is a matter of
+certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is not in "the front rank"--
+but I never heard of one who wasn't--can at least be sure of
+publication. But when a play is written, there is no certainty of
+anything save disillusionment.
+
+To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a
+depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the
+morning. I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I
+could not afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the
+case was altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was
+soldiering, and my spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns
+played bridge and golf; that was one way of amusing oneself.
+Another way was--why not?--to write plays.
+
+So we began with Wurzel-Flummery. I say "we," because another is
+mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She
+wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out
+for a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one
+could smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it
+was to discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in
+the next. We did not estimate the money or publicity which might
+come from this new venture; there has never been any serious
+thought of making money by my bridge-playing, nor desire for
+publicity when I am trying to play golf. But secretly, of course,
+we hoped. It was that which made it so much more exciting than any
+other game.
+
+Our hopes were realized to the following extent:
+
+Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New
+Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in
+which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of
+1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I
+cut it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but
+to cut thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole
+characters on the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination.
+It appeared, therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic
+embarrassed us by saying that a lesser artist would have written it
+in three acts, and most of the other critics annoyed us by saying
+that a greater artist would have written it in one act. However, I
+amused myself some months later by slaying another character--the
+office-boy, no less--thereby getting it down to one act, and was
+surprised to find that the one-act version was, after all, the
+best... At least I think it is. ... At any rate, that is the
+version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am rather
+tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to wonder if
+anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all. Probably
+the whole thing is an invention.
+
+The Lucky One was doomed from the start with a name like that. And
+the girl marries the wrong man. I see no hope of its being
+produced. But if any critic wishes to endear himself to me (though
+I don't see why he should) he will agree with me that it is the
+best play of the five.
+
+The Boy Comes Home was produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria
+Palace in September, 1918, introduced afterwards into Hallo,
+America! at the Palace, and played by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the
+Coliseum in the following April.
+
+Belinda was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in
+April, 1918, with Miss Irene Vanbrugh in the name-part. Miss Ethel
+Barrymore played it in New York. I hope it will read pleasantly,
+but I am quite incapable of judging it, for every speech of
+Belinda's comes to me now in Miss Vanbrugh's voice.
+
+The Red Feathers has not yet been produced, one reason being
+(perhaps) that it has never been offered to anybody. It is
+difficult enough to find a manager, but when one has also to get
+hold of a composer, the business of production becomes terrifying.
+I suppose there is a way of negotiating these difficulties, but I
+suspect that most of the fun to be got out of this operetta we have
+already had in writing it.
+
+In conclusion, I must distress my friend J. M. Barrie (who gave me
+a first chance) by acknowledging my great debt to him. It would be
+more polite to leave him out of it, but I cannot let him off. After
+all, these are only "First Plays." I can always hope that "Last
+Plays" will be more worthy of that early encouragement.
+
+A. A. MILNE.
+
+
+
+WURTZEL-FLUMMERY
+
+A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P.
+MARGARET CRAWSHAW (his wife).
+VIOLA CRAWSHAW (his daughter).
+RICHARD MERITON, M.P.
+DENIS CLIFTON.
+
+A Two-Act version of this play was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault
+at the New Theatre on April 7, 1917, with the following cast:
+
+Robert Crawshaw--NIGEL PLAYFAIR.
+Margaret Crawshaw--HELEN HAYE.
+Viola Crawshaw--PEGGY KURTON.
+Richard Meriton--MARTIN LEWIS.
+Denis Clifton--DION BOUCICAULT.
+Lancelot Dodd--BERTRAM SIEMS.
+
+
+WURTZEL-FLUMMERY
+
+[SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Morning.]
+
+[It is a June day before the war in the morning-room of ROBERT
+CRAWSHAW'S town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent,
+our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender
+round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes
+out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is
+sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to
+catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out
+the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In
+the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a
+solid knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of
+reference, and supported by a chair at the middle and another at
+the side. The rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures
+round the walls, we must leave until another time, for at this
+moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in.
+He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent face,
+and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he
+comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes.]
+
+RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.
+
+VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury.
+
+RICHARD. No.
+
+VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.
+
+RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then,
+your last guess.
+
+VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.
+
+RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and
+goes round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the
+fireplace.) How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.)
+
+VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father.
+
+RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway.
+Anything in the paper?
+
+VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that--
+
+RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.
+
+VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.
+
+RICHARD. It would be.
+
+VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.
+
+RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.
+
+VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as
+father.
+
+RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that
+before. ... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?
+
+VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the
+other day.
+
+RICHARD. No, I don't, really.
+
+VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled
+by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means,
+but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.
+
+RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to
+Basingstoke to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.
+
+VIOLA. Of course not.
+
+RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.
+
+VIOLA. Then why does he say it?
+
+RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole
+structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to
+say things like that at Basingstoke. ... But really, darling, we're
+very good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he
+doesn't take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it awfully
+good of him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being
+done up. (Seriously) I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for
+the last week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"--
+the girl I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; now--oh, why
+won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like this.
+
+VIOLA, Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He
+would, as they say in novels, show you the door. (Smiling) And I
+want you this side of the door for a little bit longer.
+
+RICHARD (firmly). I shall tell him before I go.
+
+VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days.
+You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round
+him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates
+poor people.
+
+RICHARD (viciously). Damn money!
+
+VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual
+instability.
+
+RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She
+goes to him and--) Oh, Lord, look out!
+
+VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches?
+
+RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW
+comes in.)
+
+(CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and
+whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly
+style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him
+look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State
+which he undoubtedly is.)
+
+CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
+
+RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at
+breakfasts?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?
+
+VIOLA (making for the door). I don't know, father; do you want her?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.
+
+VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [She goes out.]
+
+(RICHARD Picks up "The Times" and sits down again.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (sitting down in a business-like way at his desk).
+Richard, why don't you get something to do?
+
+RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--
+work in the House.
+
+RICHARD (a trifle cool). I have something to do.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a
+directorship or something in the City.
+
+RICHARD. I hate the City.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual
+arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at
+Basingstoke.
+
+RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing
+personal. (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest
+boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not
+allowed to interfere with his private friendships.
+
+RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
+
+[Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for
+twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from habit. She is
+small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call
+her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.]
+
+MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was
+all right.
+
+RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.
+
+MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?
+
+CRAWSHAW. (obviously uncomfortable). Yes--er--h'rm--Richard--er--
+what are your--er--plans?
+
+RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?
+
+MARGARET. Of course not. (TO ROBERT) Are you, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can
+leave Richard here with the paper.
+
+RICHARD. No, no; I'm going.
+
+CRAWSHAW (going to the door with him). I have some particular
+business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to
+consult you in the matter afterwards.
+
+RICHARD. Right! [He goes out.]
+
+CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for
+you.
+
+MARGARET (sitting down). Yes, Robert?
+
+CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. (He reads it) "199,
+Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have pleasure to inform you that
+under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary
+to the extent of L50,000."
+
+MARGARET. Robert!
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you
+should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery."
+
+MARGARET. Robert!
+
+CRAWSHAW. "I have the honour to be, your obedient servant, Denis
+Clifton." (He folds the letter up and puts it away.)
+
+MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the
+money?--
+
+CRAWSHAW (calmly). I have not the slightest idea, Margaret.
+Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis
+Clifton to come and see me.
+
+MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy!
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery!
+
+MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what
+about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more
+central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so
+much more--more Cabinety.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street--I
+don't know what _that_ sounds like.
+
+MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear.
+They can't really expect us to change our name to--Wurzley-Fothergill.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk
+the solicitor round--this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't
+matter to him what we call ourselves. Write him one of your
+letters, dear.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.--Mr.--
+
+CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with
+the name of Wurzley-Fothergill--
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wurzel--oh, well, never mind.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the
+fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too
+absurd, when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect
+you to call yourself Wurzley-Fothergill.
+
+CRAWSHAW (impatiently). Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr.
+Clifton has left me the money on _condition_ that I change my name.
+If I don't take the name, I don't take the money.
+
+MARGARET. But is that legal?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on
+succeeding to some property.
+
+MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you
+changed it to Talbot.
+
+CRAWSHAW (to himself). Wurzel-Flummery!
+
+MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it
+was very nice of him, but if you didn't know him--Why do you think
+he did, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he had--ah--
+followed my career, and was--ah--interested in it, and being a man
+with no relations, felt that he could--ah--safely leave this money
+to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or
+the name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the
+name--ah--perpetuated, perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the
+history of our country, and--ah--made this will accordingly. In a
+way it is a kind of--ah--sacred trust.
+
+MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think
+about, my duty to my country.
+
+MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't
+it?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view
+of riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is
+entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money
+thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly as anybody.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we _could_ have that second car
+and the house in Curzon Street?
+
+CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly
+invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the
+income-tax--and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just
+now--
+
+MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery
+it would count as _earned_ income.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even
+if it is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in
+recognition of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But
+Parliament takes a different view. I do not for a moment say that
+fifty thousand pounds would not be welcome. Fifty pounds is
+certainly not to be sneezed at--
+
+MARGARET. I should think not, indeed!
+
+CRAWSHAW (unconsciously rising from his chair). And without this
+preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this
+trust, and I would endeavour, Mr. Speaker--(He sits down again
+suddenly.) I would, Margaret, to, carry it out to the best of my
+poor ability. But--Wurtzel-Flummery!
+
+MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used
+to the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five
+years. It is surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only
+signed my name Margaret Debenham once after I was married.
+
+CRAWSHAW (kindly). The cases are rather different, Margaret.
+Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day
+when she will change her name, cannot have this feeling for the--
+ah--honour of his name, which every man--ah--feels. Such a feeling
+is naturally more present in my own case since I have been
+privileged to make the name of Crawshaw in some degree--ah--
+well-known, I might almost say famous.
+
+MARGARET (wistfully). I used to be called "the beautiful Miss
+Debenham of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of
+course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw.
+
+CRAWSHAW (getting up and walking over to the fireplace). In a way
+it would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in
+politics to get your name before the public. "Whoever is this man
+Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say.
+
+MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty
+thousand pounds is fifty thousand pounds.
+
+CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it.
+But--well, all I say is that a _gentleman_ would have left it
+without any conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed
+his _wish_ that I should take the name, without going so far as to
+enforce it. Then I could have looked at the matter all round in an
+impartial spirit.
+
+MARGARET (pursuing her thoughts). The linen is marked R. M. C. now.
+Of course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F.
+would do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.?
+
+CRAWSHAW. What? Oh--yes, there will be a good deal of that to
+attend to. (Going up to her) I think, Margaret, I had better talk
+to Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the
+money, but--well, I should like to have his opinion.
+
+MARGARET (getting up). Do you think he would be very sympathetic,
+dear? He makes jokes about serious things--like bishops and hunting
+just as if they weren't at all serious.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new--ah--point of
+view. I do not hold myself in the least bound to act on anything he
+says. I regard him as a constituent, Margaret.
+
+MARGARET. Then I will send him to you.
+
+CRAWSHAW (putting his hands on her shoulders). Margaret, what do
+you really feel about it?
+
+MARGARET. Just whatever you feel, Robert.
+
+CRAWSHAW (kissing her). Thank you, Margaret; you are a good wife
+to me. [She goes out]
+
+(CRAWSHAW goes to his desk and selects a "Who's Who" from a little
+pile of reference-books on it. He walks round to his chair, sits
+down in it and begins to turn the pages, murmuring names beginning
+with "C" to himself as he gets near the place. When he finds it, he
+murmurs "Clifton--that's funny," and closes the book. Evidently the
+publishers have failed him.)
+
+[Enter RICHARD.]
+
+RICHARD. Well, what's the news? (He goes to his old seat on the
+fender.) Been left a fortune?
+
+CRAWSHAW (simply). Yes. ... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. I never met
+him and I know nothing about him.
+
+RICHARD (surprised). Not really? Well, I congratulate you. (He
+sighs.) To them that hath--But what on earth do you want my advice
+about?
+
+CRAWSHAW. There is a slight condition attached.
+
+RICHARD. Oho!
+
+CRAWSHAW. The condition is that with this money--fifty thousand
+pounds--I take the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+RICHARD (jumping up). What!
+
+CRAWSHAW (sulkily). I said it quite distinctly--Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+(RICHARD in an awed silence walks over to the desk and stands
+looking down at the unhappy CRAWSHAW. He throws out his left hand
+as if introducing him.)
+
+RICHARD (reverently). Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M. P., one of the
+most prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. Oh, you...oh! ...
+oh, how too heavenly! (He goes back to his seat, looks up and
+catches CRAWSHAW'S eye, and breaks down altogether.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (rising with dignity). Shall we discuss it seriously, or
+shall we leave it?
+
+RICHARD. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery seriously?
+"Mr. Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen words seconded the
+motion." ... "'Sir,' went on Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"--Oh, poor Robert!
+
+CRAWSHAW (sitting down sulkily). You seem quite certain that I
+shall take the money.
+
+RICHARD. I am quite certain.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Would you take it?
+
+RICHARD (hesitating). Well--I wonder.
+
+CRAWSHAW. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's in a
+name?"
+
+RICHARD. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare--_William_
+Shakespeare--said. (Dramatically rising) Who steals my purse with
+fifty thousand in it--steals trash. (In his natural voice) Trash,
+Robert: (Dramatically again) But he who filches from me my good
+name of Crawshaw (lightly) and substitutes the rotten one of Wurzel--
+
+CRAWSHAW (annoyed). As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery is a very
+good old name. I seem to remember some--ah--Hampshire Wurzel-Flummeries.
+It is a very laudable spirit on the part of a dying man to wish to--
+ah--perpetuate these old English names. It all seems to me quite
+natural and straightforward. If I take this money I shall have
+nothing to be ashamed of.
+
+RICHARD. I see. ... Look here, may I ask you a few questions? I
+should like to know just how you feel about the whole business?
+
+CRAWSHAW (complacently folding his hands). Go ahead.
+
+RICHARD. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you and said,
+"My poor man, here's five pounds for you," what would you do? Tell
+him to go to the devil, I suppose, wouldn't you?
+
+CRAWSHAW (humorously). In more parliamentary language, perhaps,
+Richard. I should tell him I never took money from strangers.
+
+RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you
+would take it?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't.
+
+RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, _then_ you would?
+
+CRAWSHAW (blandly). Ah, I thought you were leading up to that.
+That, of course, is entirely different.
+
+RICHARD. Why?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Well--ah--wouldn't _you_ take ten thousand pounds if it
+were left to you by a stranger?
+
+RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would
+seem different.
+
+CRAWSHAW (professionally). Ha-hum! Well--in the first place, when a
+man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be
+certain that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot
+spare. And in the neat place, it is the man's dying wish that you
+should have the money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To
+accept becomes almost a sacred duty.
+
+RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it
+from him when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently
+refuse him a little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter
+a damn to him what happens to his money after he's dead, and
+therefore you can take it without feeling any gratitude at all.
+
+CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that.
+
+RICHARD (smiling). I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert.
+
+CRAWSHAW No doubt you can twist it about so that--
+
+RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point.
+Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your
+hair down the middle, shave off your moustache, and wear only one
+whisker--if he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike
+your appearance, took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and
+alter yourself--of course you'd pocket the money and go straight to
+your barber's?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive.
+
+RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left
+you five pounds in his will?--well, then twenty pounds? a hundred
+pounds?--a thousand pounds?--fifty thousand pounds?--(Jumping up
+excitedly) It's only a question of price--fifty thousand pounds,
+Robert--a pink tie with purple spots, hair across the back,
+trousers with a patch in the fall myself Wurzel-Flummery--any old
+thing you like, you can't insult me--anything you like, gentlemen,
+for fifty thousand pounds. (Lowering his voice) Only you must leave
+it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty--a
+sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. (He sinks back into the sofa
+and relights his pipe.)
+
+CRAWSHAW. (rising with dignity). It is evidently useless to prolong
+this conversation.
+
+RICHARD (waving him dorm again). No, no, Robert; I've finished. I
+just took the other side--and I got carried away. I ought to have
+been at the Bar.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You take such extraordinary views of things. You must
+look facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern world, and we are
+modern people living in it. Take the matter-of-fact view. You may
+like or dislike the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery, but you can't get
+away from the fact that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed
+at.
+
+RICHARD (wistfully). I don't know why people shouldn't sneeze at
+money sometimes. I should like to start a society for sneezing at
+fifty thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in a small way, of course;
+we'd begin by sneezing at five pounds--and work up. The trouble is
+that we're all inoculated in our cradles against that kind of cold.
+
+CRAWSHAW (pleasantly). You will have your little joke. But you know
+as well as I do that it is only a joke. There can be no serious
+reason why I should not take this money. And I--ah--gather that you
+don't think it will affect my career?
+
+RICHARD (carelessly). Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get you into
+all the comic papers.
+
+[MARGARET comes in at this moment, to the relief of CRAWSHAW, who
+is not quite certain if he is being flattered or insulted again.]
+
+MARGARET. Well, have you told him?
+
+RICHARD (making way for her on the sofa). I have heard the news,
+Mrs. Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion that he should
+have no difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery as famous
+as he has already made that of Crawshaw. At any rate I hope he
+will.
+
+MARGARET. How nice of you!
+CRAWSHAW. Well, it's settled, then. (Looking at his watch) This
+solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after all, we can
+manage something about--Ah, Viola, did you want your mother?
+
+[Enter VIOLA.]
+
+VIOLA. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's Richard, so
+it can't be very serious.
+
+RICHARD. What a reputation!
+
+CRAWSHAW. Well, it's over now.
+
+MARGARET. Viola had better know, hadn't she?
+
+CRAWSHAW. She'll have to know some time, of course.
+
+VIOLA (sitting done firmly on the sofa). Of course she will. So
+you'd better tell her now. I knew there was something exciting
+going on this morning.
+
+CRAWSHAW (embarrassed). Hum--ha--(To MARGARET) Perhaps you'd better
+tell her, dear.
+
+MARGARET (simply and naturally). Father has come into some
+property, Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. But your
+father doesn't think it will matter.
+
+VIOLA. How thrilling! What is the name, mother?
+
+MARGARET. Your father says it is--dear me, I shall never remember it.
+
+CRAWSHAW (mumbling). Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA (after a pause). Dick, _you_ tell me, if nobody else will.
+
+RICHARD. Robert said it just now.
+
+VIOLA. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just a--do say
+it again, father.
+
+CRAWSHAW (sulkily but plainly). Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA (surprised). Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel
+and like flummery?
+
+RICHARD. Exactly, I believe.
+
+VIOLA (to herself). Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery--I mean they'd have
+to look at you, wouldn't they? (Bubbling over) Oh, Dick, what a
+heavenly name! Who had it first?
+
+RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family--that is so, isn't it,
+Robert?
+
+CRAWSHAW (annoyed). I said I thought that I remembered--Margaret,
+can you find Burke there?
+
+(She finds it, and he buries himself in the families of the great.)
+
+MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss
+Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand
+in front of my glass and tell myself who I am.
+
+RICHARD. It's all right for you. You know you'll change your name
+one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before.
+
+VIOLA (secretly). H'sh! (She smiles lovingly at him, and then says
+aloud) Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage
+has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery..." and
+everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl."
+
+MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). Have you found it, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW (resentfully). This is the 1912 edition.
+
+MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in
+by then.
+
+VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick,
+what fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman
+throwing open the door and saying--
+
+MAID (announcing). Mr. Denis Clifton.
+
+(There is a little natural confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in
+his summer suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW
+goes towards him and shakes hands.)
+
+CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come.
+(Looking doubtfully at his clothes) Er--it is Mr. Denis Clifton,
+the solicitor?
+
+CLIFTON (cheerfully). It is. I must apologize for not looking the
+part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time.
+Very careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk
+dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these
+occasions.
+
+CRAWSHAW (bewildered). Ah yes, quite so. But you have--ah--full
+legal authority to act in this matter?
+
+CLIFTON.. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that.
+
+CRAWSHAW (introducing). My wife--and daughter. (CLIFTON bows
+gracefully.) My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton.
+
+CLIFTON (happily).Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a
+situation, as we say in the profession.
+
+RICHARD (amused by him). In the legal profession?
+
+CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession.(Turning to MARGARET) I am a
+writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional
+secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have
+thanked me for submitting my work to them.
+
+CRAWSHAW (firmly).I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the
+solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony
+Clifton.
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a
+solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say
+probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to
+the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have
+embraced the profession of a solicitor--(Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW)
+But you know what these official embraces are.
+
+MARGARET. I'm afraid--(She turns to her husband for assistance.)
+
+CLIFTON (to RICHARD). Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the
+Muses.
+
+VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it
+that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to
+produce a play, the case would be different.
+
+CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor
+for as long as you wish. (He puts his hat down on a chair with the
+papers in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily) Mr.
+Denis Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent
+make-up, his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into
+his hat--(He does so.)
+
+MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). I think, perhaps, Viola and I--
+
+RICHARD (making a move too). We'll leave you to your business, Robert.
+
+CLIFTON (holding up his hand). Just one moment if I may. I have a
+letter for you, Mr. Meriton.
+
+RICHARD (surprised). For me?
+
+CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity--oh, but I
+said that before--he took it round to your rooms this morning, but
+found only painters and decorators there. (He is feeling in his
+pockets and now brings the letter out.) I brought it along, hoping
+that Mr. Crawshaw--but of course I never expected anything so
+delightful as this. (He hands over the letter with a bow.)
+
+RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts it in his pocket.)
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? (To MR. CRAWSHAW) One
+so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own
+letters are read. I think the habit they have on the stage of
+reading letters aloud to other is such a very delightful one.
+
+(RICHARD, with a smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while
+CLIFTON is talking.)
+
+RICHARD. Good Lord!
+
+VIOLA. Dick, what is it?
+
+RICHARD (reading). "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have
+the pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr.
+Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of L50,000."
+
+VIOLA. Dick!
+
+RICHARD. "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should
+take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." (CLIFTON, with his hand on his
+heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (annoyed). Impossible! Why should he leave any money to
+_you_?
+
+VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful!
+
+MARGARET (mildly). I don't remember ever having had a morning quite
+like this.
+
+RICHARD (angrily). Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton?
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the
+utmost--
+
+RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't
+even argue about it. (Tearing the letter into bits) That's what I
+think of your money. [He stalks indignantly from the room.]
+
+VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him--
+[She hurries after him.]
+
+MARGARET (with dignity). Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you.
+[She goes out too.]
+
+CLIFTON (looking round the room). And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are
+alone.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to
+explain--
+
+CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking
+forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning
+dressing for it. (He takes papers from his hat and moves to the
+sofa.) Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning.
+
+CRAWSHAW (interested, indicating the papers). The documents in the
+case?
+
+CLIFTON. Oh dear, no just something to carry in the hand. It makes
+one look more like a solicitor. (Reading the title) "Watherston v.
+Towser--in re Great Missenden Canal Company." My clerk invents the
+titles; it keeps him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is
+always coming in. (Frankly) You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first
+real case, and I only got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My
+efforts to introduce a little picturesqueness into the dull
+formalities of the law do not meet with that response that one
+would have expected.
+
+CRAWSHAW (looking at his watch). Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if
+you could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this
+money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these
+extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged to you.
+
+CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being
+entirely frank with you. It will be a pleasure.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may
+say that I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as
+I am to accept this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr.
+Antony Clifton has seen fit--(modestly) one cannot say why--to
+bequeath to me, yet the use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be
+excessively awkward.
+
+CLIFTON (cheerfully). Excessively.
+
+CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was
+absolutely essential that the name should go with the money.
+
+CLIFTON. Well (thoughtfully), you may have the name _without_ the
+money if you like. But you must have the name.
+
+CRAWSHAW (disappointed). Ah! (Bravely) Of course, I have nothing
+against the name, a good old Hampshire name--
+
+CLIFTON (shocked). My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think--you
+didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery
+before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the
+founders of the clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran--
+
+CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not
+a real name at all?
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because--er--_I_
+made it up.
+
+CRAWSHAW (outraged). And you have the impudence to propose, sir,
+that I should take a made-up name?
+
+CLIFTON (soothingly). Well, all names are made up some time or
+other. Somebody had to think of--Adam.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this
+trifling with serious subjects.
+
+CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really. ... You see, my Uncle Antony
+was a rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to
+put it in its proper place. The place he put it in was--er--a
+little below golf and a little above classical concerts. If a man
+said to him, "Would you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?"
+he would say--well, it would depend what he was doing. If he were
+going to have a round at Walton Heath--
+
+CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way.
+
+CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find
+many to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was
+nothing, however contemptible, that a man would not do for money.
+One day I suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently
+foolish name attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it.
+He laughed at the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I
+said; "leave the same silly name to two people, two well-known
+people, rival politicians, say, men whose own names are already
+public property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched
+him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said. "Upon what vile
+bodies shall we experiment?" We decided on you and Mr. Meriton.
+The next thing was to choose the name. I started on the wrong
+lines. I began by suggesting names like Porker, Tosh, Bugge,
+Spiffkins--the obvious sort. My uncle--
+
+CRAWSHAW (boiling with indignation). How _dare_ you discuss me with
+your uncle, Sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way
+whether I am to be called--ah--Tosh--or--ah--Porker!
+
+CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't bear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a
+humorous name--a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue--a
+name expressing a sort of humorous contempt--Wurzel-Flummery! I
+can see now the happy ruminating smile which carne so often on my
+Uncle Antony's face in those latter months. He was thinking of his
+two Wurzel-Flummerys. I remember him saying once--it was at the
+Zoo--what a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole
+Cabinet. A whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummerys; it would have been
+rather jolly.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if _that_ was the way you
+and your uncle used to talk together at his death can only be
+described as a merciful intervention of Providence.
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere,
+you know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was
+his one regret that from the necessities of the case he could not
+live to enjoy his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it
+would reach him wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I
+fancy, that toward the end he became interested in spiritualism.
+
+CRAWSHAW (rising solemnly). Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the
+present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of
+overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if,
+as you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like
+him to hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified
+solicitor at all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole
+story of the will and the ridiculous condition attached to it is
+just the tomfool joke of a man who, by his own admission, wastes
+most of his time writing unsuccessful farces. And I propose--
+
+CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces,
+comedies--of a whimsical nature.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole
+matter to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir.
+
+CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr.
+Crawshaw?
+
+CRAWSHAW (startled). What's that?
+
+CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand
+pounds?
+
+CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not
+refuse it.
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there--and the name. Both
+waiting for you.
+
+CRAWSHAW (thumping the table). Then, Sir, I accept them. I feel it
+my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the
+late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that
+you have suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show
+what I think of your story by accepting the trust which he has
+bequeathed to me. You will arrange further matters with my
+solicitor. Good morning, Sir.
+
+CLIFTON (to himself as he rises). Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass
+of water. (To CRAWSHAW) Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I
+express the parting wish that your future career will add fresh
+lustre to--my name. (To himself as he goes out) Exit Mr. Denis
+Clifton with dignity. (But he has left his papers behind him.)
+
+(CRAWSHAW, walking indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers
+and picks them up.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (contemptuously). "Watherston v. Towser--in re Great
+Missenden Canal Company" Bah! (He tears them up and throws them
+into the fare. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated
+there as VIOLA, followed by MERITON, comes in.)
+
+VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told
+him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he?
+
+RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola.
+
+CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be
+awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummerys in the House of
+Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In
+any case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola.
+
+VIOLA (surprised). But how can we get married if he doesn't take
+the money?
+
+CRAWSHAW (hardly understanding). Married? What does this mean,
+Richard?
+
+RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told
+you before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or
+two. Viola and I want to get married.
+
+CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on?
+
+RICHARD (with a smile). Not very much, I'm afraid.
+
+VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty
+thousand pounds.
+
+RICHARD (sadly). Oh, Viola, Viola!
+
+CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on
+matters.
+
+VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to
+entrust my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself
+that he throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful
+objection to the name which goes with it.
+
+RICHARD (in despair). You don't understand, Robert.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good
+enough for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind
+asking Viola to take _your_ name, but you consider it an insult if
+you are asked to take _my_ name.
+
+RICHARD (miserably to VIOLA). Do you want to be Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery?
+
+VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling.
+
+RICHARD (beaten). Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But
+you'll never understand.
+
+CRAWSHAW (stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out).
+Come, come, Richard. (Patting him on the shoulder) I understand
+perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while ago--
+it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in
+practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice
+our ideals for--ah--others. I shall be very proud to have you for a
+son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in
+Parliament together upholding the honour of the--ah--name. And
+perhaps now that we are to be so closely related, you may come to
+feel some day that your views could be--ah--more adequately put
+forward from _my_ side of the House.
+
+RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And
+you must send that solicitor a line--or perhaps a telephone message
+would be better. (He goes to the door and turns round just as he is
+going out.) Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer.
+[Exit.]
+
+RICHARD (holding out his hands to VIOLA). Come here, Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please,
+darling. (She comes to him.)
+
+RICHARD (shaking his head sadly at her). I don't know what I've
+done, Viola. (Suddenly) But you're worth it. (He kisses her, and
+then says in a low voice) And God help me if I ever stop thinking so!
+
+[Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very
+tactfully with his back towards them, humming to himself.]
+
+RICHARD. Hullo!
+
+CLIFTON (to himself). Now where did I put those papers? (He hums to
+himself again.) Now where--oh, I beg your pardon! I left some
+papers behind.
+
+VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. (As she goes out, she says to
+CLIFTON) Good-bye, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice
+letters.
+
+CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Crawshaw.
+
+VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds.
+
+CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA. (smiling happily). No, not Miss, Mrs.
+
+[She goes out.]
+
+CLIFTON. (looking in surprise from her to him). You don't mean--
+
+RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton.
+
+CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! (Thoughtfully to himself) I
+wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers.
+
+RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton!
+
+CLIFTON. Why poor?
+
+RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said
+to Crawshaw about money before you came.
+
+CLIFTON (thoughtfully). Oh I was it very--(Brightening up) But I
+expect Uncle Antony heard. (After a pause) Well, I must be getting
+on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in
+connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company--a most intricate
+case, in which my clerk and I--(He has murmured himself across to
+the fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly
+catch his eye. He picks up one of the fragments.) Ah, yes. Well, I
+shall tell my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had
+got quite fond of that canal. (He turns to go, but first says to
+MERITON) So you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton?
+
+RICHARD. Yes.
+
+CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too?
+
+RICHARD. Yes.
+
+CLIFTON (to himself as he goes out). They are both taking it. (He
+stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile.) Good old Uncle
+Antony--he knew--he knew! (MERITON stands watching him as he goes.)
+
+
+
+THE LUCKY ONE
+
+A PLAY IN THREE ACTS
+
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+GERALD FARRINGDON.
+BOB FARRINGDON (his elder brother).
+SIR JAMES FARRINGDON (his father).
+LADY FARRINGDON (his mother).
+MISS FARRINGDON (his great-aunt).
+PAMELA CAREY (his betrothed).
+HENRY WENTWORTH (his friend).
+THOMAS TODD (his friend).
+LETTY HERBERT (his friend).
+MASON (his old nurse).
+
+ACT I.
+At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S in the country.
+
+ACT II.
+A private hotel in Dover Street. Two months later.
+
+ACT III.
+At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. Three months later.
+
+
+THE LUCKY ONE
+
+
+ACT I
+
+[SCENE.--The hall of SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S house in the country.]
+
+[It is a large and pleasantly unofficial sort of room, used as
+a meeting-place rather than a resting place. To be in it pledges
+you to nothing; whereas in the billiard-room you are presumably
+pledged to billiards. The French windows at the back open on to
+lawns; the door on the right at the back will take you into the
+outer hall; the door on the left leads to the servants' quarters;
+the door on the right in front will disclose other inhabited rooms
+to you. An oak gallery runs round two sides of the hall and
+descends in broad and gentle stairs down the right side of it. Four
+stairs from the bottom it turns round at right angles and deposits
+you fairly in the hall. Entering in this way, you will see
+immediately opposite to you the large open fireplace occupied by a
+pile of unlit logs--for it is summer. There is a chair on each side
+of the fireplace, but turned now away from it. In the left centre
+of the hall there is a gate-legged table to which trays with drinks
+on them, have a habit of finding their way; it is supported on each
+side by a coffin-stool. A sofa, which will take two strangers
+comfortably and three friends less comfortably, comes out at right
+angles to the staircase, but leaves plenty of space between itself
+and the stool on its side of the table. Beneath the window on the
+left of the French windows is a small table on which letters and
+papers are put; beneath the window on the other side is a
+writing-table. The walls are decorated impartially with heads of
+wild animals and of Farringdons.]
+
+[At the present moment the inhabitants of the hall are three. HENRY
+WENTWORTH, a barrister between forty, and fifty, dressed in rather
+a serious tweed suit, for a summer day, is on the sofa. THOMAS
+TODD, an immaculate young gentleman of twenty-five, is half-sitting
+on the gate-legged table with one foot on the ground and the other
+swinging. He is dressed in a brown flannel coat and white trousers,
+shoes and socks, and he has a putter in his hand indicative of his
+usual line of thought. The third occupant is the Butler, who, in
+answer to TOMMY'S ring, has appeared with the drinks.]
+
+[The time is about four o'clock on a June afternoon.]
+
+TOMMY (to the Butler). Thanks, James; just leave it here. [Exit Butler.]
+Whisky or lemonade, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Neither, thanks, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY. Well, I will. (He pours himself out some lemonade and takes
+a long drink.) I should have thought you would have been thirsty,
+driving down from London a day like this. (He finishes his drink.)
+Let's see, where was I up to? The sixth, wasn't it?
+
+WENTWORTH. The sixth, Tommy. (With resignation) Only twelve more.
+
+TOMMY. Yes, that's right. Well, at the seventh I got an absolutely
+topping drive, but my approach was sliced a bit. However, I chipped
+on within about six feet, and was down in four. Gerald took it in
+three, but I had a stroke, so I halved. Then the eighth I told you
+about.
+
+WENTWORTH. Was that where you fell into the pond?
+
+TOMMY. No, no; you're thinking of the fifth, where I topped my
+drive into the pond.
+
+WENTWORTH. I knew the pond came into it somewhere. I hoped--I mean
+I thought you fell in.
+
+TOMMY. Look here, you _must_ remember the eighth, old chap; that
+was the one I did in one. Awful bit of luck.
+
+WENTWORTH. Bit of luck for me too, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY. Why?
+
+WENTWORTH. Because now you can hurry on to the ninth.
+
+TOMMY. I say, Wentworth, I thought you were keen on golf.
+
+WENTWORTH. Only on my own.
+
+TOMMY. You're a fraud. Here I've been absolutely wasting my
+precious time on you and--I suppose it wouldn't even interest you
+to hear that Gerald went round in seventy-two--five under bogey?
+
+WENTWORTH. It would interest me much more to hear something about
+this girl he's engaged to.
+
+TOMMY. Pamela Carey? Oh, she's an absolute ripper.
+
+WENTWORTH. Yes, but you've said that of every girl you've met.
+
+TOMMY. Well, dash it! you don't expect me to describe what she
+looks like, do you?
+
+WENTWORTH. Well, no. I shall see that for myself directly. One gets
+introduced, you know, Tommy. It isn't as though I were meeting her
+at Charing Cross Station for the first time. But who is she?
+
+TOMMY. Well, she was poor old Bob's friend originally. He brought
+her down here, but, of course, as soon as she saw Gerald--
+
+WENTWORTH (quickly). Why, _poor_ old Bob?
+
+TOMMY. I don't know; everybody seems to call him that. After all,
+he isn't quite like Gerald, is he?
+
+WENTWORTH. Paderewski isn't quite like Tommy Todd, but I don't
+say "poor old Paderewski"--nor "poor old Tommy," if it comes to
+that.
+
+TOMMY. Well, hang it, old man, there's a bit of a difference.
+Paderewski and I--well, I mean we don't compete.
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh, I don't know. I daresay he's as rotten at golf as
+you, if the truth were really known.
+
+TOMMY. No, but seriously, it's a bit different when you get two
+brothers like Gerald and Bob; and whatever the elder one does, the
+younger one does a jolly sight better. Now Paderewski and I--
+
+WENTWORTH. Good heavens! I wish I hadn't started you on that. Get
+back to Bob. I thought Bob was on the Stock Exchange and Gerald in
+the Foreign Office. There can't be very much competition between
+them there.
+
+TOMMY. Well, but there you are! Why isn't Bob in the Foreign Office
+and Gerald on the Stock Exchange? Why, because Gerald's the clever
+one, Gerald's the popular one, the good-looking one, the lucky one,
+the county cricketer, the plus three at golf--
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh Lord! I thought you'd get golf into it. I suppose you
+were working up to your climax. Poor old Bob is about eighteen at
+golf, eh?
+
+TOMMY. As a matter of fact, he's a very decent five. And there you
+are again. In any other family, Bob would be thought rather a nut.
+As it is--
+
+WENTWORTH. As it is, Tommy, there are about thirty-five million
+people in England who've never played golf and who would recognize
+Bob, if they met him, for the decent English gentleman that he is.
+
+TOMMY. I think you exaggerate, old chap. Golf's been getting
+awfully popular lately.
+
+WENTWORTH. Personally I am very fond of Bob.
+
+TOMMY. Oh, so am I. He's an absolute ripper. Still, _Gerald_, you
+know--I mean it's jolly bad luck on poor old Bob. Now Paderewski
+and I--
+
+[Enter GERALD from the garden, a charming figure in a golfing coat
+and white flannels. Perhaps he is a little conscious of his charm;
+if so, it is hardly his fault, for hero-worship has been his lot
+from boyhood. He is now about twenty-six; everything that he has
+ever tried to do he has done well; and, if he is rather more
+unembarrassed than most of us when praised, his unself-consciousness
+is to a stranger as charming as the rest of him. With it all he is
+intensely reserved, with the result that those who refuse to
+succumb to his charm sometimes make the mistake of thinking that
+there is nothing behind it.]
+
+GERALD. Hallo, Wentworth, how are you? All right?
+
+WENTWORTH (getting up and shaking hands). Yes, thanks. How are you?
+
+GERALD. Simply bursting. Have you seen your room and all that sort
+of thing?
+
+WENTWORTH. Yes, thanks.
+
+GERALD. Good. And Tommy's been entertaining you. (To TOMMY) Tommy,
+I interrupted your story about Paderewski. I don't think I know it.
+(To WENTWORTH) You must listen to this; it may be fairly new.
+
+TOMMY. Don't be an ass. As a matter of fact, we were discussing
+something quite serious.
+
+GERALD (to WENTWORTH). How long have you been here?
+
+WENTWORTH. About ten minutes.
+
+GERALD. And Tommy hasn't told you that he did the eighth in one
+this morning?
+
+WENTWORTH. He hasn't really told me yet. He's only mentioned it
+once or twice in passing.
+
+TOMMY (modestly). Well, I mean it's bound to appear in the papers,
+so naturally one--
+
+GERALD. Oh, it's a great business. Champagne will flow like water
+to-night. There will also be speeches.
+
+WENTWORTH. Which reminds me, Gerald, I have to congratulate you.
+
+GERALD. Thank you very much. When you've seen her you'll want to do
+it again.
+
+TOMMY (looking through the window). Hallo, there's Letty.
+
+GERALD. If you want to tell her about it, run along, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY (moving off). I thought I'd just take her on at putting. [He
+goes out.]
+
+GERALD (sitting down). You'll stay till--well, how long can you?
+Tuesday, anyhow.
+
+WENTWORTH. I think I can manage till Tuesday. Thanks very much.
+Miss Carey is here, of course?
+
+GERALD. Yes, she'll be in directly. She's gone to the station to
+meet Bob.
+
+WENTWORTH (smiling). And Gerald didn't go with her?
+
+GERALD (smiling). At least six people suggested that Gerald should
+go with her. They suggested it very loudly and archly--
+
+WENTWORTH. So Gerald didn't?
+
+GERALD. So Gerald didn't. (After a pause) I can't stand that sort
+of thing.
+
+WENTWORTH. What sort of thing?
+
+GERALD (after a pause). Poor old boy! you've never been in love--
+barring the nine or ten times you're just going to tell me about. I
+mean never really in love.
+
+WENTWORTH. Don't drag _me_ into it. What is it you can't stand?
+
+GERALD. People being tactful about Pamela and me. ... Aunt Tabitha
+asked me yesterday if she might have Pamela for half an hour to do
+something or other--as if she were an umbrella, with my initials on
+it. ... And somebody else said, "I've quite fallen in love with
+your Pamela; I hope you don't mind." _Mind_? I tell you, Wentworth,
+my boy, if you aren't in love with Pamela by Tuesday, there'll be
+the very deuce of a row. Your electro-plated butter-dish, or
+whatever it's going to be, will be simply flung back at you.
+
+WENTWORTH. Well, as long as Miss Pamela understands--
+
+GERALD. Of course she understands. We understand each other.
+
+WENTWORTH (preening himself ). Then I'll do my best. Mind, if she
+does happen to reciprocate my feelings, I wash my hands of all
+responsibility. (Going towards the staircase) Good-afternoon, Miss
+Farringdon.
+
+[MISS FARRINGDON is coming slowly down the stairs.]
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Good-afternoon, Mr. Wentworth. Welcome.
+
+(She must be well over eighty. She was pretty once, and
+sharp-tongued; so much you could swear to now. For the rest she is
+very, very wise, and intensely interested in life.)
+
+GERALD (going over and kissing her). Good-morning, Aunt Tabitha.
+Your chair is waiting for you. (He conducts her to it.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I'm a nasty cross old thing before lunch, Mr.
+Wentworth, so I don't come down till afterwards nowadays. Is Gerald
+being as charming as usual?
+
+WENTWORTH (smiling). Oh, pretty well.
+
+GERALD (looking at her lovingly and then turning to WENTWORTH).
+It's having a very bad effect on her, this morning seclusion. She's
+supposed to be resting, but she spends her time trying to think of
+nasty things to say about me. The trouble with a mind like Aunt
+Tabitha's is that it can't think of anything _really_ nasty.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. The trouble with Gerald, Mr. Wentworth, is that he
+goes about expecting everybody to love him. The result is that they
+nearly all do. However, he can't get round _me_.
+
+GERALD. It isn't true, Wentworth; she adores me.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. He wouldn't be happy if he didn't think so.
+
+WENTWORTH (gracefully). I can sympathize with him there.
+
+GERALD. The slight coolness which you perceive to have arisen
+between my Aunt Tabitha and myself is due to the fact that I
+discovered her guilty secret a few days ago. For years she has
+pretended that her real name was Harriet. I have recently found out
+that she was christened Tabitha--or, anyhow, would have been, if
+the clergyman had known his job.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. My great-nephew, Gerald, Mr. Wentworth--
+
+GERALD. _Nephew_, Wentworth. I agreed to waive the "great" a long
+time ago.
+
+WENTWORTH. You'll excuse my asking, but do you never talk to each
+other except through the medium of a third person?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (to GERALD). That's how they prefer to do it in the
+Foreign Office. Isn't it, dear?
+
+GERALD. Always, Aunt Tabitha. But really, you know, we both ought
+to be talking to Wentworth and flaking after his mother and his
+liver--and things like that.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Yes, I'm afraid we're rather rude, Mr. Wentworth.
+The Farringdons' great fault.
+
+WENTWORTH (protesting). Oh no!
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. How _is_ Mrs. Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Wonderfully well, thank you, considering her age.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Dear me, we met first in 1850.
+
+GERALD. All frills and lavender.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. And now here's Gerald engaged. Have you seen
+Pamela yet?
+
+WENTWORTH. Not yet. I have been hearing about her from Tommy. He
+classes her with the absolute rippers.
+
+GERALD. Good old Tommy!
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Yes, she's much too good for Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Of course she is, Aunt Tabitha. But if women only married
+men who were good enough for them, where should we be? As lots of
+young men said to you, in vain--on those afternoons when they read
+Tennyson aloud to you.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. She ought to have married Bob.
+
+WENTWORTH (surprised and amused). Bob? Is Bob good enough for her?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. She would have made a good wife for Bob.
+
+[Enter suddenly LETTY HERBERT and TOMMY from the garden. LETTY is
+an entirely delightful irresponsible girl of the type which might
+have shocked Queen Victoria. However, she seems to suit TOMMY. They
+are not engaged yet, but she has already that air of proprietorship.]
+
+LETTY. I say, Tommy did the eighth in one. Why, there's Aunt
+Harriet. (Going over and kissing her) How are you, darling? Tommy's
+done the eighth in one. I know it doesn't mean much to you, but do
+say hooray, because he's so bucked about it.
+
+GERALD (to WENTWORTH). Do you know Miss Herbert? Letty, come and
+be introduced. Mr. Wentworth--Miss Herbert.
+
+LETTY (shaking hands eagerly). How do you do? I say, Tommy did the
+eighth in one. Do you know Tommy--_or_ the eighth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Both, Miss Herbert.
+
+GERALD. To a man who knows both, the performance seems truly
+astonishing.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I don't know anything about golf, Mr. Todd. But
+doing anything in one sounds rather clever. So I say hooray, too.
+
+TOMMY. I wish you'd let me teach you, Miss Farringdon. Lots of
+people begin when they're frightfully old.
+
+LETTY (to WENTWORTH). This is one of Tommy's polite days.
+
+GERALD. Mr. Todd's famous old-world courtesy is the talk of many a
+salon.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (to TOMMY). Don't you mind them. I _am_ frightfully
+old. I am very proud of it. I hope you'll all live to be as old as
+I am.
+
+GERALD. I only hope we shall be half as nice.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Gerald being charming as usual.
+
+GERALD (firmly). I will also add that I hope we shall be kinder to
+our great-nephews than some.
+
+LETTY (putting her arm in his). Diddums!
+
+GERALD. Yes, I did. I am very much hurt.
+
+TOMMY. I say, you know, Miss Farringdon, I never meant--
+
+LETTY. I love Tommy when he apologizes.
+
+[Enter SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON from the door to front of the
+staircase. SIR JAMES, in a country check-suit, is a man of no
+particular brain and no ideas, but he has an unconquerable belief
+in himself, and a very genuine pride in, and admiration of, GERALD.
+His grey hair is bald on the top, and he is clean-shaven except for
+a hint of whisker. He might pass for a retired Captain R. N., and
+he has something of the quarter-deck manner, so that even a remark
+on the weather is listened to with attention. Neither of his sons
+loves him, but GERALD is no longer afraid of him. LADY FARRINGDON
+is outwardly rather intimidating, but she never feels so. She
+worships GERALD; and would love a good many other people if they
+were not a little overawed by her.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Ah, you're here, Mr. Wentworth. How do you do?
+
+WENTWORTH (coming forward). How do you do, Lady Farringdon? How do
+you do, Sir James?
+
+SIR JAMES. How are you, Wentworth? Come to see Gerald play for the
+county?
+
+GERALD. He's come to see Pamela. Haven't you, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. I rather hope to see both.
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Aunt Harriet, I didn't see you. How are you to-day?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Very well, thank you, James. (He goes over to her.)
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I hope they've shown you your room, Mr. Wentworth,
+and made you comfortable? Gerald, darling, you saw that Mr.
+Wentworth was all right?
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh yes, that's quite all right, thank you, Lady
+Farringdon.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Let me see, you're in the Blue Room, I think.
+
+LETTY. It's much the nicest room to be in, Mr. Wentworth. There's a
+straight way down the water-pipe in case of fire.
+
+GERALD. And a straight way up in case of burglars.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (fondly). Gerald, dear, don't be so foolish.
+
+SIR JAMES. Gerald, is it true you went round in seventy-two?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Tommy did the eighth in one.
+
+TOMMY (modestly). Awful fluke.
+
+SIR JAMES (casually). Ah--well done. (To GERALD) Seventy-two--
+that's pretty good. That's five under bogey, Mr. Wentworth.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to WENTWORTH). Gerald has always been so good at
+everything. Even as a baby.
+
+TOMMY. He did the ninth in three, Letty. How's that for hot?
+
+SIR JAMES (to WENTWORTH). You must stay till Thursday, if you can,
+and see the whole of the Surrey match. It isn't often Gerald gets a
+chance of playing for the county now. It's difficult for him to get
+away from the Foreign Office. Lord Edward was telling me at the
+club the other day--
+
+LETTY (t0 LADY FARRINGDON). Gerald dived off the Monk's Rock this
+morning. I'm glad I didn't see him. I should have been horribly
+frightened.
+
+TOMMY (proudly). I saw him.
+
+LETTY. Tommy, of course, slithered down over the limpets in the
+ordinary way.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (fondly). Oh, Gerald, how could you?
+
+SIR JAMES (still talking to WENTWORTH). He tells me that Gerald is
+a marked man in the Service now.
+
+TOMMY (to LETTY). Do you remember when Gerald--
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (incisively). Let's _all_ talk about Gerald.
+
+(GERALD, who has been listening to all this with more amusement
+than embarrassment, gives a sudden shout of laughter.)
+
+GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, you're too lovely! (He blows her a kiss
+and she shakes her stick at him.)
+
+[Enter PAMELA from the door In front of the staircase, tall,
+beautiful and serene, a born mother. GERALD carried her off her
+feet a month ago, but it is a question if he really touched her
+heart--a heart moved more readily by pity than by love.]
+
+PAMELA. Gerald, dear, I'd know your laugh anywhere. Am I too late
+for the joke?
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Pamela. Brought Bob with you?
+
+PAMELA. He's just washing London off himself.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Pamela, dear, do you know Mr. Wentworth?
+
+PAMELA (shaking hands). How do you do?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to WENTWORTH). Miss Carey--Gerald's Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. I've heard so much about you, Mr. Wentworth.
+
+WENTWORTH. And I've heard so much about you, Miss Carey.
+
+PAMELA. That's nice. Then we can start straight off as friends.
+
+LETTY. I suppose you know Tommy did the eighth in one?
+
+PAMELA. Rather. It's splendid!
+
+LETTY. _Do_ say you haven't told Bob.
+
+GERALD. Why shouldn't Bob know?
+
+PAMELA. No, I haven't told him, Letty.
+
+LETTY. Good, then Tommy can tell him.
+
+TOMMY. They do pull my leg, don't they, Miss Farringdon?
+
+[Enter BOB from the outer hall in a blue flannel suit. He has
+spoilt any chance he had of being considered handsome by a sullen
+expression now habitual. Two years older than Gerald, he is not so
+tall, but bigger, and altogether less graceful. He has got in the
+way of talking in rather a surly voice, as if he suspected that any
+interest taken in him was merely a polite one.]
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Bob; good man.
+
+BOB. Hullo. (He goes up to LADY FARRINGDON and kisses her.) How are
+you, mother?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. It's so nice that you could get away, dear.
+
+BOB. How are you, father? All right?
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Bob! Come down to see your brother play for the
+county?
+
+PAMELA (quickly). He's come down to see _me_, haven't you, Bob?
+
+BOB. Hullo, Wentworth. Hullo, Letty. I say, I can't shake hands
+with you all. (He smacks TOMMY on the back and goes over to Miss
+FARRINGDON.) How are you, dear?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Very glad to see my elder great-nephew. I was
+getting tired of Gerald.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (protesting). Aunt Harriet, dear.
+
+GERALD (smiling). It's all right, mother. We quite understand each
+other.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I quite understand Gerald.
+
+BOB. I say, aren't we going to have any tea?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. It's early yet, dear. Gerald, you'd like to have
+it outside, wouldn't you?
+
+GERALD. Oh, rather. What do you say, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. I never want to be indoors in the country if I can help
+it.
+
+SIR JAMES. Quite right, Wentworth--quite right. Gerald, you'll just
+have time to take Wentworth round the stables before tea.
+
+GERALD. You'll have to see them officially after church to-morrow.
+I don't know if you'd care about a private view now.
+
+SIR JAMES. He must see your new mare. I should like to have his
+opinion of her.
+
+WENTWORTH (getting up). I never know what to say to a mare, but I
+should like to come.
+
+LETTY. She answers to "Hi!" or to any loud cry.
+
+PAMELA. I'm sure you'll be all right, Mr. Wentworth.
+
+GERALD. There's a way of putting one's head on one side and saying,
+"Ah!" Anybody who's seen Tommy at the Royal Academy will know
+exactly what I mean.
+
+(GERALD, PAMELA and WENTWORTH move towards the door.)
+
+WENTWORTH (to PAMELA). Ought I to have a straw in my mouth?
+
+GERALD. It's all right, we'll go and see the spaniels first.
+
+WENTWORTH (cheerfully). Oh, I'm all right with dogs.
+
+LETTY (to TOMMY). Come on, Tommy. [They go out behind the others.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Would you like to have tea outside, Aunt Harriet?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I'm not too old for that, Mary. Bob will bring me
+out. I want to have a word with him while I can. Everybody talks at
+once in this house.
+
+SIR JAMES (picking up his hat). How's the City--hey?
+
+BOB. Just as usual.
+
+SIR JAMES. Coming round to the stables?
+
+ROB. Later on, perhaps.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Bob is bringing Aunt Harriet along, dear.
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. [They go out together.]
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Smoke, Bob, and tell me how horrible the City is.
+
+BOB (lighting a pipe and sitting down). It's damnable, Aunt
+Harriet.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. More damnable than usual?
+
+BOB. Yes.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Any particular reason why?
+
+BOB (after a long pause). No.
+
+(MISS FARRINGDON nods to herself and then speaks very casually.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. My bankers sent in my pass-book the other day. I
+seem to have a deal of money lying idle, as they call it. If
+anybody wanted it, I should really be in no hurry to get it back
+again.
+
+BOB (awkwardly). Thanks very much. It isn't that. (After a pause)
+Not altogether.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. It was a great pity you ever went into the City,
+Bob.
+
+BOB (fiercely). I could have told anybody that.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (after waiting for him to say something more).
+Well, suppose we go into the garden with the others. (She begins to
+get up and he goes to help her,) There's nothing you want to tell
+me, Bob?
+
+BOB (looking away). What would there be?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I'm a wise old woman, they say, and I don't talk.
+
+BOB. I don't think you can help me. Er--thanks very much.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (quite naturally, as she turns towards the door).
+If you don't mind giving me your arm.
+
+(As they get to the door they are met by GERALD and PAMELA coming
+in.)
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Bob, we were just coming back for you.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Thoughtful Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Pamela's idea. She thought that the elder members of the
+family could discuss life more freely unhampered by the younger
+generation.
+
+PAMELA. What I really said was, "Where's Bob?"
+
+GERALD. Well, it's the same thing.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Bob is looking after me, thank you very much.
+[They go out together.]
+
+GERALD (after watching them go, to PAMELA). Stay here a bit. There
+are too many people and dogs and things outside. Come and sit on
+the sofa and I'll tell you all the news. (He takes her hand and
+they go to the sofa together.) What ages you've been away!
+
+PAMELA. An hour and a half. And it need not have been that if you'd
+come with me.
+
+GERALD (taking her hand). If I had come with you, I would have held
+your hand all the way.
+
+PAMELA. I shouldn't have minded.
+
+GERALD. But just think what would have happened: You would have had
+to have driven with one hand down all the hills; we should have had
+a smash-up before we got halfway; a well-known society beauty and a
+promising young gentleman in the Foreign Office would have been
+maimed for life; and Bob would have to have walked here carrying
+his portmanteau. Besides, I love you going away from me when you
+come back. You've only got to come into the room, and the sun seems
+to shine.
+
+PAMELA. The sun always shines on Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Does it? That's a different sort of sunshine. Not the
+gentle caressing September afternoon sunshine which you wear all
+round you. (She is looking at him lovingly and happily as he says
+this, but she withdraws into herself quickly as he pulls himself up
+and says with a sudden change of tone) Dear me, I'm getting quite
+poetical, and two minutes ago I was talking to Wentworth about
+fetlocks.
+
+PAMELA (getting up). Oh, Gerald, Gerald!
+
+GERALD (getting up and smiling at her). Oh, Pamela, Pamela!
+
+PAMELA. I wonder how much you really want me.
+
+GERALD. I'll show you when we're married. I don't think I could
+even begin to tell you now.
+
+PAMELA (wistfully). Couldn't you try?
+
+(GERALD catches hold of her suddenly, and holding her tightly to
+him, kisses her again and again.)
+
+GERALD. There!
+
+PAMELA (releasing herself). Oh, Gerald, my darling, you frighten me
+sometimes.
+
+GERALD. Did I frighten you then?
+
+PAMELA (happily). Oh, no, no, no, no! (Earnestly) Always want me
+very much, Gerald. Always be in need of me. Don't be too successful
+without me. However much the sun shines on you, let me make it
+gentler and more caressing for you.
+
+GERALD. It is so, darling. Didn't I say so?
+
+PAMELA. Ah, but I want such a lot of telling.
+
+GERALD (laughing happily as he goes over to the table by the
+fireplace and takes a cigarette). Who was the fellow who threw
+something into the sea because he was frightened by his own
+luck? What shall I throw? (Looking at a presentation clock on the
+mantelpiece) That's rather asking for it. In a way it would be
+killing two birds with one stone. Oh, Lord, I am lucky!
+
+PAMELA (coming to him and taking his arm). As long as you don't
+throw me.
+
+GERALD. Pamela, you're talking rubbish. I talk a good deal myself,
+but I do keep within the bounds. Let's go and chatter to Bob about
+contangos. I don't know what they are, but they sound extraordinarily
+sober.
+
+PAMELA (gently). Poor old Bob!
+
+GERALD (quickly). Why _poor_ old Bob?
+
+PAMELA. He's worried about something. I tried to get him to tell me
+as we came from the station, but he wouldn't.
+
+GERALD. Poor old Bob! I suppose things are going up--or down, or
+something. Brokerage one-eighth--that's what's worrying him, I
+expect.
+
+PAMELA. I think he wants to talk to you about it. Be nice to him,
+darling, won't you?
+
+GERALD (surprised). Nice to him?
+
+PAMELA. You know what I mean--sympathetic. I know it's a difficult
+relationship--brothers.
+
+GERALD. All relationships are difficult. But after you, he's the
+person I love best in the world. (With a laugh) But I don't propose
+to fall on his neck and tell him so.
+
+PAMELA (smiling). I know you will help him if you can.
+
+GERALD. Of course I will, though I don't quite see how. (Hopefully)
+Perhaps he's only slicing his drives again.
+
+PAMELA. Oh, I love you, Gerald. (Wonderingly) _Do_ I love you, or
+am I only just charmed by you?
+
+GERALD. You said you loved me once. You can't go back on that.
+
+PAMELA. Then I love you. And make a century for me on Monday.
+
+GERALD. Well, I'll try. Of course the bowler may be in love too.
+But even if I get out first ball, I can say, "Well, anyhow, Pamela
+loves me."
+
+PAMELA. Oh, I think I hope you get out first ball.
+
+GERALD. Baby Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. And on Thursday we shall be alone together here, and you've
+promised to take me out in the boat for the day.
+
+GERALD. You mean you've promised to let me.
+
+PAMELA. What happy days there are in the world!
+
+[Enter BOB from the garden.]
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Bob. Tea? (He moves towards the door.)
+
+BOB. Cigarettes. (He goes over to the fireplace and fills his
+cigarette case.)
+
+GERALD. Still, I expect tea's nearly ready.
+
+PAMELA (going towards door R. at the back). I'll join you; I'm not
+going out without a sunshade again. [Exit.]
+
+(There is an awkward silence.)
+
+BOB (to GERALD). I say!
+
+GERALD (turning round). Hullo!
+
+BOB. Just wait a moment.
+
+(GERALD comes back slowly.)
+
+GERALD. I warn you those are rotten cigarettes. (Holds out his own
+case)
+
+BOB (taking one). Thanks. (Awkwardly) You're so confoundedly
+difficult to get hold of nowadays. Never less than half-a-dozen all
+round you.
+
+GERALD (laughing). Good old Bob!
+
+BOB (after lighting a cigarette). I want to talk to you about
+something.
+
+GERALD. Well, of course.
+
+BOB (after a pause). You've heard of Marcus, my partner?
+
+GERALD (with the idea of putting himself and BOB more at their
+ease). Good old Marcus and Farringdon! It's the most perfect name
+for a firm. They sound so exactly as though they could sell you
+anything from a share to a shaving-brush. Marcus and Farringdon's
+pure badger, two shillings--gilt-edged badger half-a-crown.
+
+BOB (fiercely). I suppose everything is just a pleasant joke to
+you.
+
+GERALD (utterly surprised). Bob! Bob, old boy, what's the matter?
+(Putting his hand on BOB'S shoulder) I say, Bob, I haven't hurt
+you, have I?
+
+BOB (hopelessly). Oh, Jerry, I believe I'm in the devil of a hole.
+
+GERALD. You haven't called me "Jerry" since we were at school.
+
+BOB. You got me out of holes then--damn you! and you were my
+younger brother. Oh, Jerry, get me out of this one.
+
+GERALD. But, of course. (Firmly, as if a little nervous of a scene
+from BOB) My dear Bob, you're as right as anything. You've got
+nothing on earth to worry about. At the worst it's only a question
+of money, and we can always put that right somehow.
+
+BOB. I'm not sure that it is only a question of money.
+
+GERALD (frightened). What do you mean? (Turning away with a laugh)
+You're talking nonsense.
+
+BOB. Gerald, Marcus is a wrong un. (Fiercely) An out-and-out wrong
+un.
+
+GERALD. The only time I saw him he looked like it.
+
+BOB. God knows what he's let me in for.
+
+GERALD. You mean money?
+
+BOB. More than that, perhaps.
+
+GERALD. You mean you're just going bankrupt?
+
+BOB. No. (After a pause) Prosecution.
+
+GERALD. Well, let them prosecute. That ends Marcus. You're well
+rid of him.
+
+BOB (miserably). Perhaps it isn't only Marcus.
+
+GERALD (sharply, after this has sunk in). What can they prosecute
+you for?
+
+BOB (speaking rapidly). What the devil did they ever send me to the
+City for? I didn't want to go. I was never any good at figures. I
+loathe the whole thing. What the devil did they want to send me
+there for--and shove me on to a wrong un like Marcus? That's his
+life, messing about with money in the City. How can I stand out
+against a man like that? I never wanted to go into it at all.
+
+GERALD (holding out his cigarette-case). Have another cigarette?
+(They each light one, and GERALD sits down in the chair opposite to
+him.) Let's look at it calmly. You've done nothing dishonourable, I
+know that. That's obvious.
+
+BOB. You see, Jerry, I'm so hopeless at that sort of business.
+Naturally I got in the way of leaving things to Marcus. But that's
+all. (Resentfully) Of course, that's all.
+
+GERALD. Good. Well, then, you're making much too much fuss about
+it. My dear boy, innocent people don't get put into prison
+nowadays. You've been reading detective stories. "The Stain on
+the Bath Mat," or "The Crimson Sponge." Good Lord! I shall be
+coming to _you_ next and saying that _I'm_ going to be put in
+prison for selling secret documents to a foreign country. These
+things don't happen; they don't really, old boy.
+
+BOB (cheered, but not convinced). I don't know; it looks devilish
+bad, what I can make of it.
+
+GERALD. Well, let's see what I can make of it.
+
+BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). I was wondering if you
+would. Come up on Monday and we'll have a go at it together. Marcus
+has gone, of course. Probably halfway to South America by now.
+(Bitterly) Or wherever you go to.
+
+GERALD. Right-o! At least, I can't come on Monday, of course, but
+we'll have a go at it on Thursday.
+
+BOB. Why can't you come on Monday?
+
+GERALD. Well, the Surrey match.
+
+BOB (bitterly). I suppose as long as you beat Surrey, it doesn't
+matter if I go to prison.
+
+GERALD (annoyed). Oh, shut up about going to prison! There's not
+the slightest chance of your going to prison. You know perfectly
+well, if there were, that I'd walk on my hands and knees to London
+to-night to try and stop it. As it is, I have promised to play for
+the county; it's a particularly important match, and I don't think
+it's fair to let them down. Anyway, if I did, the whole family
+would want to know why, and I don't suppose you want to tell them
+that yet.
+
+BOB (mumbling). You could say the Foreign Office had rung you up.
+
+GERALD (earnestly). Really, Bob old boy, I'm sure you're making too
+much of it. Dammit! you've done nothing wrong; what is there to
+worry about? And if it's only a question of money, we'll manage it
+on our heads, somehow. I'll come up directly the match is over. It
+may be Tuesday night, with luck.
+
+BOB (grumbling). If the weather's like this, it's bound to last
+three days.
+
+GERALD. Then at the worst, I'll come first train Thursday morning.
+That I promise. Anyway, why don't you consult Wentworth? He's a
+good chap and he knows all about the law. He could probably help
+you much more than I could.
+
+BOB. I suppose you think I _like_ talking about it to everybody.
+
+GERALD (getting up and touching BOB gently on the shoulder as he
+goes past him). Poor old Bob! But you're as right as anything. I'll
+come up by the first train on Thursday and we'll--good Lord!
+
+BOB. What's the matter now?
+
+GERALD. I am a damned fool! Why, of course, we arranged--
+
+BOB (sneeringly). And now you can't come on Thursday, I suppose.
+
+GERALD. Why, you see, I arranged--
+
+BOB. You _must_ keep your promise to the county, but you needn't
+keep your promise to me.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but the trouble is I promised Pamela--oh, well, that
+will have to go; she'll understand. All right, Bob, that holds.
+Directly the match is over I come. And for the Lord's sake, keep
+smiling till then.
+
+BOB. It's all very well for _you_. ... I wish you could have--well,
+anyhow, I suppose Thursday's better than nothing. You'll see just
+how it is then. (Getting up) You won't say anything about it to the
+others?
+
+GERALD. Of course not. What about Pamela? Does she know anything?
+
+BOB. She knows that I'm worried about something, but of course she
+doesn't know what I've told you.
+
+GERALD. All right, then I won't tell her anything. At least, I'll
+just say that bananas remain firm at 127, and that I've got to go
+and see my broker about it. (Smiling) Something like that.
+
+(BOB goes towards the garden, while GERALD stops to wait for
+PAMELA. At the door he turns round.)
+
+BOB (awkwardly). Er--thanks. [Exit.]
+
+(GERALD throws him a nod, as much as to say, "That's all right." He
+stands looking after him, gives a little sigh, laughs and says to
+himself, "Poor old Bob!" He is half-sitting on, half-leaning
+against the table, thinking it all over, when PAMELA comes in
+again.)
+
+PAMELA. I waited for him to go; I knew he wanted to talk to you
+about something. Gerald, he is all right, isn't he?
+
+GERALD (taking her hands). Who? Bob? Oh yes, he's all right. So is
+Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. Sure?
+
+GERALD. Oh yes, he's all right.
+
+PAMELA. I take rather a motherly interest in Bob, you know. What
+was worrying him?
+
+GERALD (smiling). His arithmetic again; compound interest. His
+masters are very pleased with his progress in English. And he wants
+more pocket-money. He says that fourpence a week doesn't give him
+enough scope.
+
+PAMELA (smiling). But he really is all right?
+
+GERALD. Well, I've got to go up on Thursday to see his House
+Master--I mean I've got to go up to town on Thursday.
+
+PAMELA (drawing back). Thursday? That was _our_ day, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Yes, I know; it's a confounded nuisance.
+
+PAMELA (slowly). Yes, it is rather a--nuisance.
+
+GERALD. I'm awfully sorry, darling. I hate it just as much as you
+do.
+
+PAMELA. I wonder if you do.
+
+GERALD (shaking his head at her). Oh, woman, woman! And you asked
+me to be kind to Bob.
+
+PAMELA. It is for Bob? He really does want you?
+
+GERALD. He thinks I can help him if I go up on Thursday. (Smiling)
+We aren't going to quarrel about that.
+
+PAMELA (holding out her hand to him). Come along. Of course we
+aren't going to quarrel--I don't think I could quarrel with you for
+more than five minutes. Only--you make me wonder sometimes.
+
+GERALD (getting up and taking her arm). What do you wonder about?
+
+PAMELA. Oh--things.
+
+[They go out into the garden together.]
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+[It is a quiet old-fashioned hotel which SIR JAMES and LADY
+FARRINGDON patronize in Dover Street on their occasional visits to
+London. Their private sitting-room is furnished in heavy early
+Victorian style. A couple of gloomy palms help to decorate the
+room, on whose walls are engravings of Landseer's masterpieces.]
+
+[MASON, a faithful kindly body, once nurse, now familiar servant,
+is at the table arranging flowers, in a gallant attempt to make the
+room more cheerful. As she fills each vase she takes it to its
+place, steps back to consider the effect, and returns to fill the
+next one. GERALD, in London clothes as attractive as ever, but
+looking none rather serious, discovers her at work.]
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Nanny, when did you come?
+
+MASON. This morning, sir. Her ladyship telegraphed for me.
+
+GERALD (smiling affectionately at her). Whenever there's any
+trouble about, we send for Nanny. I wonder she ever came to London
+without you.
+
+MASON. I told her I'd better come, but she wouldn't listen to me.
+Dear, dear! there _is_ trouble about now Master Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Yes.
+
+MASON. I thought a few flowers would cheer us up. I said to Mr.
+Underhill before I started, "Give me some flowers to take with
+me," I said, "so that I can make the place look more homey and
+comfortable for her ladyship."
+
+GERALD. And you have. No one like Nanny for that.
+
+MASON (timidly). Is there any news of Master Bob this morning? Of
+course, we've all been reading about it in the papers. They're not
+going to send him to prison?
+
+GERALD. I'm afraid they are.
+
+MASON. Dear, dear! (She goes on arranging the flowers.) He's not in
+prison now?
+
+GERALD. No; he's on bail for the moment. Perhaps he'll be round
+here for lunch. But I'm afraid that to-night--
+
+MASON. Even as a baby he was never quite like you, Master Gerald.
+Never was there such a little lamb as you. How long will they send
+him to prison for?
+
+GERALD. We don't know yet; I expect we shall know this evening.
+But there's no doubt which way the case is going.
+
+MASON. Two of the men were making their bets about it over the
+supper-table last night. I didn't wait long before giving them a
+piece of my mind, I can promise you.
+
+GERALD (turning round sharply). Who were they? Out they go to-morrow.
+
+MASON. That wouldn't be quite fair, would it, sir? They're young
+and thoughtless like.
+
+GERALD (to himself rather than to her). After all, it's only what
+everybody else has been doing.
+
+MASON. It wouldn't be anything very bad that Master Bob has done?
+
+GERALD (emphatically). No, Nanny. No. Nothing bad; only--stupid.
+
+MASON. I didn't know they put you in prison for being stupid. Some
+of us have been lucky.
+
+GERALD. They can put you in prison for everything Nanny--being
+stupid or being wise, being bad or being good, being poor or--yes,
+or being rich.
+
+MASON (putting her last touches to the flowers). There! Now it
+looks much more like what her ladyship's used to. If you aren't
+sent to prison for being bad, it doesn't seem to matter so much.
+
+GERALD. Well--it isn't nice, you know.
+
+MASON. There's lots of things that aren't nice in the world. They
+haven't come _your_ way yet, and I only hope they never will.
+
+GERALD. I wish they hadn't come Bob's way.
+
+MASON. Ah, Master Bob was born to meet them. Well, I'll go up to
+her ladyship now.
+
+GERALD. Oh, are they back?
+
+MASON. Sir James and her ladyship came back from the police-station--
+
+GERALD. The Old Bailey, Nanny.
+
+MASON. They came back about ten minutes ago, Master Gerald. And
+went up to their rooms.
+
+GERALD. Tell mother I'm here, will you?
+
+MASON. Yes, Sir.
+
+(She goes out and comes back almost at once with PAMELA.)
+
+MASON. Here's Miss Pamela. (To PAMELA) I was just saying that her
+ladyship will be down directly.
+
+GERALD (smiling). Not too directly now, Nanny.
+
+MASON. No, Master Gerald. [Exit.]
+
+GERALD. Pamela! Have you just come up?
+
+PAMELA. Mother and I are staying with Aunt Judith. Oh, Gerald!
+Poor, poor Bob!
+
+GERALD. Have you seen him?
+
+PAMELA. He came down to us last week, and he has been writing the
+most heart-rending letters.
+
+GERALD. You're a dear to be so good to him.
+
+PAMELA. How can one help it? Oh, Gerald, he _has_ been stupid! How
+he could have gone on as he did, hating it all, understanding
+nothing, but feeling all the time that things were wrong, and yet
+too proud or too obstinate to ask for help--hadn't you any idea,
+_any_ of you?
+
+GERALD (awkwardly). You never could get him to talk about the City
+at all. If you asked him, he changed the subject.
+
+PAMELA (reproachfully). Ah! but how did you ask him? Lightly?
+Jokingly? "Hullo, Rothschild, how's the City getting on?" That sort
+of way. You didn't really mind.
+
+GERALD (smiling). Well, if it comes to that, he didn't much mind
+how I was getting on at the Foreign Office. He never even said,
+"Hullo, Grey, how are Balkans?"
+
+PAMELA. You had plenty of people to say that; Bob was different. I
+think I was the first person he really talked to about himself.
+That was before I met you. I begged him then to get out of it--
+little knowing. I wonder if it would have made any difference if
+you had gone up with him on--Oh, well, it doesn't matter now.
+
+GERALD (defensively). What were you going to say?
+
+PAMELA. Nothing. (Looking at him thoughtfully) Poor Gerald! it's
+been bad for you too.
+
+GERALD. You're not making it better by suggesting that I've let Bob
+down in some way--I don't quite know how.
+
+PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, don't be angry with me--I don't
+want to hurt you. But I can only think of Bob now. You're so--you
+want so little; Bob wants so much. Why doesn't he come? I sent a
+note round to his rooms to say that I'd be here. Doesn't he have
+lunch here? Oh, Gerald, suppose the case is over, and they've taken
+him to prison, and I've never said good-bye to him. He said it
+wouldn't be over till this evening, but how would he know? Oh, I
+can't bear it if they've taken him away, and his only friend never
+said good-bye to him.
+
+GERALD. Pamela, Pamela, don't be so silly. It's all right, dear; of
+course I'm not angry with you. And of course Bob will be here. I
+rang up Wentworth an hour ago, and he said the case can't end till
+this evening.
+
+PAMELA (recovering). Sorry, Gerald, I'm being rather a fool.
+
+GERALD (taking her hands). You're being--(There is a knock at the
+door, and he turns round impatiently) Oh, what is it?
+
+[Enter MASON.]
+
+MASON (handing note). There's a telephone message been waiting for
+you, sir. And her ladyship will be down directly.
+
+GERALD. Thank you, Nanny. [Exit MASON.]
+(To PAMELA) May I? (He reads it) Oh, I say, this is rather--this is
+from Wentworth. He's taken Bob round to lunch with him.
+
+PAMELA (going towards the door). I must go, Gerald. Mr. Wentworth
+won't mind.
+
+GERALD (stopping her). Look here, dear, it's going to be quite all
+right. Wentworth rang up from his rooms; they're probably halfway
+through lunch by now, and they'll be round in ten minutes.
+
+PAMELA. Supposing he doesn't come? Supposing he didn't get my note?
+It may be waiting for him in his rooms now.
+
+GERALD. All right, then, darling, I'll ring him up.
+
+PAMELA (determined). No. I'll do it. Yes, Gerald, I know how to
+manage him. It isn't only that I must see him myself, but if--
+(bravely) if the case is to be over this evening, and if what we
+fear is going to happen, he must--oh, he must say good-bye to his
+mother too.
+
+GERALD. Well, if that's all, I'll tell him.
+
+PAMELA. He mightn't come for you. He will for me; No, Gerald; I
+mean it. None of you understand him. I do.
+
+GERALD. But supposing he's already started and you miss him?
+
+PAMELA. I'll telephone to him at his rooms. Oh, _don't_ stand there
+talking--
+
+GERALD (opening the door for her). Oh, well! But I think you're--
+[She has gone.]
+
+(He walks up and down the room absently, picking up papers and
+putting them down. MASON comes in and arranges the sofa R.)
+
+MASON. Miss Pamela gone, Master Gerald?
+
+GERALD. She's coming back.
+
+[Enter LADY FARRINGDON.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, I hoped you'd be here.
+
+GERALD (kissing her). I've only just got away. I couldn't get round
+to the court. (Seeing her to the sofa) You're all right, dear?
+[Exit MASON.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Now you're here, Gerald. I telegraphed for Mason.
+She's such a comfort. How nicely she's done the flowers! (She sits
+down on the sofa.)
+
+GERALD. I'm so glad you sent for her.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I don't think your father--
+
+[Enter SIR JAMES.]
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Gerald, I had to take your mother out. She was--ah--
+overcome. They have adjourned, I suppose?
+
+GERALD. Yes. The judge is summing up directly after lunch. Bob will
+be round here when he's had something to eat.
+
+SIR JAMES (looking at his watch). Well, I suppose we ought to try
+and eat something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't touch anything.
+
+GERALD (going over to her). Poor mother!
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, couldn't _you_ do anything? I'm sure
+if you'd gone into the witness-box, or told the judge--Oh, why
+didn't you go to the Bar, and then you could have defended him. You
+would have been so much better than that stupid man.
+
+SIR JAMES. I must say I didn't at all like his tone. He's
+practically making out my son to be an idiot.
+
+GERALD. Well, it's really the only line he could take.
+
+SIR JAMES. What do you mean? Bob is far from being an idiot.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. We always knew he wasn't as clever as Gerald,
+dear.
+
+GERALD. You see, Bob either understood what was going on or he
+didn't. If he did, then he's in it as much as Marcus. If he didn't--
+well, of course we know that he didn't. But no doubt the jury will
+think that he ought to have known.
+
+SIR JAMES. The old story, a knave or a fool, eh?
+
+GERALD. The folly was in sending him there.
+
+SIR JAMES (angrily). That was Parkinson's fault. It was he who
+recommended Marcus to me. I shall never speak to that man again.
+(To his wife) Mary, if the Parkinsons call, you are out; remember
+that.
+
+GERALD. He never ought to have gone into business at all. Why
+couldn't you have had him taught farming or estate agency or
+something?
+
+SIR JAMES. We've got to move with the times, my boy. Land is played
+out as a living for gentlemen; they go into business nowadays. If
+he can't get on there, it's his own fault. He went to Eton and
+Oxford; what more does he want?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). You must remember he isn't clever like
+you, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Oh, well, it's no good talking about it now. Poor old Bob!
+Wentworth thinks--
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, now why couldn't Wentworth have defended him?
+That other man--why, to begin with, I don't even call him a
+gentleman.
+
+GERALD. Wentworth recommended him. But I wish he had gone to
+Wentworth before, as soon as he knew what was coming.
+
+SIR JAMES. Why didn't he come to _me_? Why didn't he come to _any_
+of us? Then we might have done something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Didn't he even tell _you_, Gerald?
+
+GERALD (awkwardly). Only just at the last. It was--it was too late
+to do anything then. It was the Saturday before he was--arrested.
+(To himself) "The Saturday before Bob was arrested"--what a way to
+remember anything by!
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). Bob is coming round, dear?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Wentworth's looking after him. Pamela will be here
+too.
+
+SIR JAMES. We haven't seen much of Pamela lately. What does _she_
+think about it?
+
+GERALD (sharply). What do you mean?
+
+SIR JAMES. The disgrace of it. I hope it's not going to affect your
+engagement.
+
+GERALD. Disgrace? what disgrace?
+
+SIR JAMES. Well, of course, he hasn't been found guilty yet.
+
+GERALD. What's that got to do with it? What does it matter what a
+lot of rotten jurymen think of him? _We_ know that he has done
+nothing disgraceful.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I'm sure Pamela wouldn't think anything like that
+of your brother, dear.
+
+GERALD. Of course she wouldn't. She's been a perfect angel to Bob
+these last few weeks. What does it matter if he does go to prison?
+
+SIR JAMES. I suppose you think I shall enjoy telling my neighbours,
+when they ask me what my elder boy is doing, that he's--ah--in
+prison.
+
+GERALD. Of course you won't enjoy it, and I don't suppose Bob will
+enjoy it either, but that's no reason why we should make it worse
+for him by pretending that he's a disgrace to the family. (Half to
+himself) If anything we've done has helped to send him to prison
+then it's we who should be ashamed.
+
+SIR JAMES. I don't profess to know anything about business, but I
+flatter myself that I understand my fellow men. If I had been in
+Bob's place, I should have pretty soon seen what that fellow Marcus
+was up to. I don't want to be unfair to Bob; I don't think that any
+son of mine would do a dishonourable action; but the Law is the
+Law, and if the Law sends Bob to prison I can't help feeling the
+disgrace of it.
+
+GERALD. Yes, it's rough on you and mother.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I don't mind about myself, dear. It's you I feel
+so sorry for--and Bob, of course.
+
+GERALD. I don't see how it's going to affect _me_.
+
+SIR JAMES. In the Foreign Office one has to be like Caesar's wife--
+above suspicion.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but in this case it's Caesar's brother-in-law's
+partner who's the wrong un. I don't suppose Caesar was so
+particular about _him_.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I don't see how Caesar comes into it at all.
+
+SIR JAMES (kindly). I spoke in metaphors, dear.
+
+[The door opens and WENTWORTH appears.]
+
+GERALD. Come in, Wentworth. Where's Bob?
+
+WENTWORTH. I dropped him at his rooms--a letter or something he
+wanted to get. But he'll be here directly. (Nervously) How do you
+do, Lady Farringdon? How do you do, Sir James?
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Wentworth.
+
+(There is an awkward silence and nobody seems to know what to say.)
+
+WENTWORTH. Very hot this morning.
+
+SIR JAMES. Very hot. Very.
+
+(There is another awkward silence.)
+
+WENTWORTH. This is quite a good hotel. My mother always stays here
+when she's in London.
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. We use it a good deal ourselves.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. How is Mrs. Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. She's been keeping very well this summer, thank you.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I'm so glad.
+
+(There is another awkward silence.)
+
+GERALD (impatiently). Oh, what's the good of pretending this is a
+formal call, Wentworth? Tell us about Bob; how's he taking it?
+
+WENTWORTH. He doesn't say much. He had lunch in my rooms--you got
+my message. He couldn't bear the thought of being recognized by
+anyone, so I had something sent up.
+
+GERALD (realizing what it must feel like). Poor old Bob!
+
+WENTWORTH. Lady Farringdon, I can't possibly tell you what I feel
+about this, but I should like to say that all of us who know Bob
+know that he couldn't do anything dishonourable. Whatever the
+result of the trial, we shall feel just the same towards him.
+
+(LADY FARRINGDON is hardly able to acknowledge this, and SIR JAMES
+goes across to comfort her.)
+
+SIR JAMES (helplessly). There, there, Mary.
+
+GERALD (seizing his opportunity, to WENTWORTH). What'll he get?
+
+WENTWORTH (quietly). Three months--six months. One can't be certain.
+
+GERALD (cheering up). Thank the Lord! I imagined awful things.
+
+SIR JAMES (his ministrations over). After all, he hasn't been found
+guilty yet; eh, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Certainly, Sir James. With a jury there's always hope.
+
+SIR JAMES. What do you think yourself?
+
+WENTWORTH. I think he has been very foolish; whether the Law will
+call it criminally foolish I should hardly like to say. I only wish
+I had known about it before. He must have suspected something--
+didn't he say anything to anybody?
+
+SIR JAMES. He told Gerald, apparently. For some reason he preferred
+to keep his father in the dark.
+
+GERALD (eagerly). That was the day you came down to us, Wentworth;
+five days before he was arrested. I asked him to tell you, but he
+wouldn't.
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh, it was too late then. Marcus had absconded by that
+time.
+
+GERALD (earnestly). Nobody could have helped him then, could they?
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh no.
+
+GERALD (to himself). Thank God.
+
+SIR JAMES (to LADY FARRINGDON as he looks at his watch). Well,
+dear, I really think you ought to try to eat something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't, James. (Getting up) But you must have
+_your_ lunch.
+
+SIR JAMES. Well, one oughtn't to neglect one's health, of course.
+But I insist on your having a glass of claret anyhow, Mary. What
+about you, Gerald?
+
+GERALD. I'm all right. I'll wait for Bob. I've had something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. You won't let Bob go without seeing us?
+
+GERALD. Of course not, dear.
+
+(He goes with them to the door and sees them out.)
+
+GERALD (coming back to WENTWORTH). Three months. By Jove! that's
+nothing.
+
+WENTWORTH. It's long enough for a man with a grievance. It gives
+him plenty of time to brood about it.
+
+GERALD (anxiously). Who has Bob got a grievance against particularly?
+
+WENTWORTH. The world.
+
+GERALD (relieved). Ah! Still, three months, Wentworth. I could do
+it on my head.
+
+WENTWORTH. You're not Bob. Bob will do it on his heart.
+
+GERALD. We must buck him up, Wentworth. If he takes it the right
+way, it's nothing. I had awful thoughts of five years.
+
+WENTWORTH. I'm not the judge, you know. It may be six months.
+
+GERALD. Of course. How does he decide? Tosses up for it? Three
+months or six months or six years, it's all the same to him, and
+there's the poor devil in the dock praying his soul out that he'll
+hit on the shortest one. Good Lord! I'm glad I'm not a judge.
+
+WENTWORTH (drily). Yes; that isn't quite the way the Law works.
+
+GERALD. Oh, I'm not blaming the Law. (Smiling) Stick to it,
+Wentworth, by all means. But I should make a bad judge. I should
+believe everything the prisoner said, and just tell him not to do
+it again.
+
+[BOB comes in awkwardly and stops at the door.]
+
+WENTWORTH (getting up). Come along, Bob. (Taking out his case) Have
+a cigarette.
+
+BOB (gruffly). No, thanks. (He takes out his pipe.)
+
+GERALD (brightly but awkwardly). Hullo, Bob, old boy.
+
+BOB. Where's Pamela? She said she'd be here. (He sits down in the
+large armchair.)
+
+GERALD. If she said she'd be here, she will be here.
+
+BOB (with a grunt). 'M! (There is an awkward silence.)
+
+BOB (angrily to GERALD). Why don't you say something? You came
+here to say good-bye to me, I suppose--why don't you say it?
+
+WENTWORTH. Steady, Bob.
+
+GERALD (eagerly). Look here, Bob, old son, you mustn't take it too
+hardly. Wentworth thinks it will only be three months--don't you,
+Wentworth? You know, we none of us think any the worse of you for
+it.
+
+BOB. Thanks. That will console me a lot in prison.
+
+GERALD. Oh, Bob, don't be an old fool. You know what I mean. You
+have done nothing to be ashamed of, so what's the good of brooding
+in prison, and grousing about your bad luck, and all that sort of
+thing? If you had three months in bed with a broken leg, you'd try
+and get some sort of satisfaction out of it--well, so you can now if
+you try.
+
+WENTWORTH (after waiting for BOB to say something). There's a good
+deal in that, Bob, you know. Prison is largely what you make it.
+
+BOB. What do either of you know about it?
+
+GERALD. Everything. The man with imagination knows the best and
+the worst of everything.
+
+BOB (fiercely). Imagination? You think _I_ haven't imagined it?
+
+GERALD. Wentworth's right. You can make what you like of it. You
+can be miserable anywhere, if you let yourself be. You can be happy
+anywhere, if you try to be.
+
+WENTWORTH (to lead him on). I can't quite see myself being actually
+happy in prison, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. I could, Wentworth, I swear I could.
+
+BOB. He'd get popular with the warders; he'd love that.
+
+GERALD (smiling). Silly old ass! But there are lots of things one
+can do in prison, only no one ever seems to think of them. (He gets
+interested and begins to walk up and down the room.) Now take this
+solitary confinement there's so much fuss about. If you look at it
+the right way, there's nothing in it at all.
+
+WENTWORTH. A bit boring, perhaps.
+
+GERALD. Boring? Nonsense. You're allowed one book a week from the
+prison library, aren't you?
+
+WENTWORTH. You know, you mustn't think that, because I'm a
+barrister, I know all about the inside of a prison.
+
+GERALD. Well, suppose you are allowed one, and you choose a French
+dictionary, and try to learn it off by heart before you come out.
+Why, it's the chance of a lifetime to learn French.
+
+WENTWORTH. Well, of course, if you _could_ get a French dictionary--
+
+GERALD. Well, there'd be _some_ book there anyway. If it's a Bible,
+read it. When you've read it, count the letters in it; have little
+bets with yourself as to which man's name is mentioned most times
+in it; put your money on Moses and see if you win. Anything like
+that. If it's a hymn-book, count how many of the rhymes rhyme and
+how many don't; try and make them _all_ rhyme. Learn 'em by heart;
+I don't say that that would be particularly useful to you in the
+business world afterwards, but it would be amusing to see how
+quickly you could do it, how many you could keep in your head at
+the same time.
+
+WENTWORTH. This is too intellectual for me; my brain would go in no
+time.
+
+GERALD. You aren't doing it all day, of course; there are other
+things. Physical training. Swedish exercises. Tell yourself that
+you'll be able to push up fifty times from the ground before you
+come out. Learn to walk on your hands. Practise cart-wheels, if you
+like. Gad! you could come out a Hercules.
+
+WENTWORTH. I can't help feeling that the strain of improving myself
+so enormously would tell on me.
+
+GERALD. Oh, you'd have your games and so on to keep you bright and
+jolly.
+
+WENTWORTH (sarcastically). Golf and cricket, I suppose?
+
+GERALD. Golf, of course; I'm doubtful about cricket. You must have
+another one for cricket, and I'm afraid the warder wouldn't play.
+But golf, and squash rackets, and bowls, and billiards--and croquet--
+
+WENTWORTH (in despair). Oh, _go_ on!
+
+GERALD. Really, you're hopeless. What the Swiss Family Wentworth
+would have done if they'd ever been shipwrecked, I can't think.
+Don't you _ever_ invent _any_thing for yourself? (Excitedly) Man
+alive! you've got a hymn-book and a piece of soap, what more do you
+want? You can play anything with that. (Thoughtfully) Oh, I forgot
+the Olympic games. Standing long jump. And they talk about the
+boredom of it!
+
+WENTWORTH (thoughtfully). You've got your ideas, Gerald. I wonder
+if you'd act up to them.
+
+GERALD. One never knows, but honestly I think so. (There is silence
+for a little.)
+
+BOB. Is that all?
+
+GERALD. Oh, Bob, I know it's easy for me to talk--
+
+BOB. I wonder you didn't say at once: "Try not to think about it."
+You're always helpful.
+
+GERALD. You're a little difficult to help, you know Bob.
+(Awkwardly) I thought I might just give you an idea. If I only
+could help you, you know how--
+
+BOB (doggedly). I asked you to help me once.
+
+GERALD (distressed). Oh, I didn't realize then--besides, Wentworth
+says it would have been much too late--didn't you, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH (taking up his hat). I think I must be getting along now.
+(Holding out his hand) Good-bye, Bob. I can only say, "The best of
+luck," and--er--whatever happens, you know what I feel about it.
+
+BOB (shaking his hand). Good-bye, Wentworth, and thanks very much
+for all you've done for me.
+
+WENTWORTH (hurriedly). That's all right. (TO GERALD, quietly, as he
+passes him on the way to the door) You must bear with him, Gerald.
+Naturally he's--(Nodding) Good-bye. [He goes out.]
+
+GERALD (going back to BOB). Bob--
+
+BOB. Why doesn't Pamela come? I want Pamela.
+
+GERALD (speaking quickly). Look here, think what you like of me for
+the moment. But you must listen to what I've got to say. You can
+imagine it's somebody else speaking Pamela, if you like--Pamela
+would say just the same. You _must not_ go to prison and spend your
+time there brooding over the wrongs people have done to you, and the
+way the world has treated you, and all that sort of thing. You
+simply must make an effort--and--and--well, come out as good a man
+as you went in. I know it's easy for me to talk, but that doesn't
+make it any the less true. Oh, Bob, be a--be a Sportsman about it!
+You can take it out of me afterwards, if you like, but don't take it
+out of me now by--by not bucking up just because I suggest it.
+
+BOB. I want Pamela. Why doesn't she come?
+
+(PAMELA has come in while he is saying this.)
+
+PAMELA. Here I am, Bob.
+
+BOB (getting up). At last! I began to be afraid you were never
+coming.
+
+PAMELA. You couldn't think that. I told you I was coming.
+
+GERALD. Look here, Pamela, we've got to cheer old Bob up.
+
+BOB (almost shouting). Good Lord! can't you see that I don't want
+_you_? I want Pamela alone.
+
+PAMELA (putting her hand on GERALD'S shoulder). Gerald, dear, you
+mustn't be angry with Bob now. Let me be alone with him.
+
+GERALD (with a shrug). All right. Poor old Bob! (He goes over to his
+brother and holds out his hand.) Good-bye, old boy, and--good luck.
+
+BOB (coldly). Good-bye.
+
+GERALD. Shake hands, Bob.
+
+BOB. No. I've been nothing to you all your life. You could have
+saved me from this, and you wouldn't help me.
+
+GERALD (angrily). Don't talk such rot!
+
+PAMELA (coming between them). Gerald, dear, you'd better go. Bob
+won't always feel like this towards you, but just now--
+
+GERALD (indignantly). Pamela, you don't believe this about me?
+
+PAMELA. I can't think of you, dear, now; I can only think of
+Bob. [GERALD gives a shrug and goes out.]
+
+BOB. Pamela.
+
+PAMELA (coming to him). Yes, dear?
+
+BOB. Come and sit near me. You're the only friend I've got in the
+world.
+
+PAMELA. You know that isn't true.
+
+(She sits down in the armchair and he sits on the floor at her
+feet.)
+
+BOB. If it hadn't been for you, I should have shot myself long ago.
+
+PAMELA. That would have been rather cowardly, wouldn't it?
+
+BOB. I am a coward. There's something about the Law that makes
+people cowards. It's so--what's the word? It goes on. You can't stop
+it, you can't explain to it, you can't even speak to it.
+
+PAMELA. But you can stand up to it. You needn't run away from it.
+
+BOB. I think I would have broken my bail and run, if it hadn't been
+for you. But you would have thought less of me if I had. Besides, I
+shouldn't have seen you again.
+
+PAMELA. Bob, you mustn't just do, or not do, things for _me_; you
+must do them because of yourself. You must be brave because it's
+you, and honourable because it's you, and cheerful because it's you.
+You mustn't just say, "I won't let Pamela down." You must say, "I
+won't let myself down." You must be proud of yourself.
+
+BOB (bitterly). I've been taught to be proud of myself, haven't I?
+Proud of myself! What's the family creed? "I believe in Gerald. I
+believe in Gerald the Brother. I believe in Gerald the Son. I
+believe in Gerald the Nephew. I believe in Gerald the Friend, the
+Lover, Gerald the Holy Marvel." There may be brothers who don't mind
+that sort of thing, but not when you're born jealous as I was. Do
+you think father or mother cares a damn what happens to me? They're
+upset, of course, and they feel the disgrace for themselves, but the
+beloved Gerald is all right, and that's all that really matters.
+
+PAMELA. Bob, dear, forget about Gerald now. Don't think about him;
+think about yourself.
+
+BOB. I shan't think about myself or about Gerald when I'm in prison.
+I shall only think of you.
+
+PAMELA. Will it help you to think of me?
+
+BOB. You're the only person in the world I've got to think of. I
+found you first--and then Gerald took you from me. Just as he's
+always taken everything from me.
+
+PAMELA. No, no. Not about Gerald again. Let's get away from Gerald.
+
+BOB. You can't. He's a devil to get away from. (There is silence for
+a little.) When I was a small boy, I used to pray very hard on the
+last day of the holidays for a telegram to come saying that the
+school had been burnt down. ... It never had.
+
+PAMELA. Oh, Bob!
+
+BOB. I suppose I've got about ten minutes more. But nothing will
+happen.
+
+PAMELA (in a hopeless effort to be hopeful). Perhaps after all you might--
+
+BOB. Why can't the world end suddenly now? It wouldn't matter to
+anybody. They wouldn't know; they wouldn't have time to understand.
+(He looks up and sees her face of distress and says) All right,
+Pamela, you needn't worry. I'm going through with it all right.
+
+PAMELA. You must keep thinking of the afterwards. Only of the
+afterwards. The day when you come back to us.
+
+BOB. Will that be such a very great day? (PAMELA is silent.)
+Triumphant procession through the village. All the neighbours
+hurrying out to welcome the young squire home. Great rush in the
+City to offer him partnerships.
+
+PAMELA (quietly). Do you want to go back to the City?
+
+BOB. Good God, no!
+
+PAMELA. Then why are you being sarcastic about it? Be honest with
+yourself, Bob. You made a mess of the City. Oh, I know you weren't
+suited to it, but men have had to do work they didn't like before
+now, and they haven't _all_ made a mess of it. You're getting your
+punishment now--much more than you deserve, and we're all sorry for
+you--but men have been punished unfairly before now and they have
+stood it. You'll have your chance when you come back; I'll stand by
+you for one, and you've plenty of other friends; but we can't help a
+man who won't help himself, you know.
+
+Bon (sulkily). Thank you, Pamela.
+
+PAMELA (shaking him). Bob, Bob, don't be such a baby. Oh, I want to
+laugh at you, and yet my heart just aches for you. You're just a
+little boy, Bob (with a sigh), on the last day of his holidays.
+
+BOB (after a pause). Are you allowed to have letters in prison?
+
+PAMELA. I expect so. Every now and then.
+
+BOB. You will write to me?
+
+PAMELA. Of course, dear; whenever I may.
+
+BOB. I suppose some beast will read it. But you won't mind that,
+will you?
+
+PAMELA. No, dear.
+
+BOB. I'll write to you whenever they let me. That will be something
+to look forward to. Will you meet me when I come out?
+
+PAMELA (happily). Yes, Bob. So very gladly.
+
+BOB. I'll let you know when it is. I expect I'll be owed to.
+
+PAMELA. You must just think of that day all the time. Whenever you
+are unhappy or depressed or angry, you must look forward to that
+day.
+
+BOB. You'll let it be a fine day, won't you? What shall we do?
+
+PAMELA (rather startled). What?
+
+BOB. What shall we do directly after I come out?
+
+PAMELA. Well, I suppose we--I mean you--well, we'll come up to
+London together, I suppose, and you'll go to your old rooms. At
+least, if you still have them.
+
+BOB (instantly depressed again). My old rooms. That'll be lively.
+
+PAMELA. Well, unless you'd rather--
+
+BOB. I'm not going home, if that's what you mean. The prodigal son,
+and Gerald falling on my neck.
+
+PAMELA (stroking his head). Never mind Gerald, Baby. (He turns round
+suddenly and seizes her hands.)
+
+BOB (in a rush). Whatever happens, you mustn't desert me when I come
+out. I want you. I've got to know you're there, waiting for me. I'm
+not making love to you, you're engaged to somebody else, but you
+were my friend before you were his, and you've got to go on being my
+friend. I want you--I want you more than he does. I'm not making
+love to you; you can marry him if you like, but you've got to stand
+by me. I want you.
+
+PAMELA. Haven't I stood by you?
+
+BOB (in a low voice). You've been an angel. (He kisses her hands and
+then gets up and walks away from her; with his back to her, looking
+out of the window, he says) When are you marrying him?
+
+PAMELA (taken by surprise). I--I don't know, Bob. We _had_ thought
+about--but, of course, things are different now. We haven't talked
+about it lately.
+
+BOB (casually). I wonder if you'd mind promising me something.
+
+PAMELA. What is it?
+
+BOB. Not to get married till after I come out. (After waiting for
+PAMELA to speak) You will have about forty years together
+afterwards. It isn't much to ask.
+
+PAMELA. Why should it make a difference to you?
+
+BOB. It would.
+
+PAMELA. It isn't a thing I like making promises about. But I don't
+suppose for a moment--Would it help you very much, Bob?
+
+BOB (from the bottom of his heart). I don't want Gerald's wife to be
+waiting for me when I come out; I want my friend.
+
+PAMELA (standing up and facing him as he turns round towards her).
+All right, Bob, she shall be there.
+
+(They stand looking at each other intently for a moment. Voices are
+heard outside, and SIR JAMES, LADY FARRINGDON, and GERALD come into
+the room.)
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+[SCENE.--In the hall at SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. It is autumn
+nom and there is a fire burning.]
+
+[LETTY and TOMMY are on the sofa side by side, holding hands, and
+looking the picture of peaceful happiness. Indeed, TOMMY has his
+mouth open slightly.]
+
+LETTY. It's your turn to say something, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY. Oh, I say.
+
+LETTY. Now I suppose it's my turn.
+
+TOMMY. I say, you know, I feel too idiotically happy to say
+anything. I feel I want to talk poetry, or rot like that, only--
+only I don't quite know how to put it.
+
+LETTY (sympathetically). Never mind, darling.
+
+TOMMY. I say, you do understand how frightfully--I say, what about
+another kiss? (They have one.)
+
+LETTY. Tommy, I just adore you. Only I think you might have been a
+little more romantic about your proposal.
+
+TOMMY (anxious). I say, do you--
+
+LETTY. Yes. Strictly speaking, I don't think anybody ought to
+propose with a niblick in his hand.
+
+TOMMY. It just sort of came then. Of course I ought to have put it
+down.
+
+LETTY. You dear! ... "Letting his niblick go for a moment, Mr. T.
+Todd went on as follows: 'Letitia, my beloved, many moons have waxed
+and waned since first I cast eyes of love upon thee. An absence of
+ducats, coupled with the necessity of getting my handicap down to
+ten, has prevented my speaking ere this. Now at last I am free. My
+aged uncle--'"
+
+TOMMY (lovingly). I say, you do pull my leg. Go on doing it always,
+won't you?
+
+LETTY. Always, Tommy. We're going to have fun, always.
+
+TOMMY. I'm awfully glad we got engaged down here.
+
+LETTY. We've had lovely times here, haven't we?
+
+TOMMY. I wonder what Gerald will say. A bit of a surprise for him. I
+say, it would be rather fun if we had a double wedding. You and I,
+and Gerald and Pamela.
+
+LETTY (getting up in pretended indignation). Certainly not!
+
+TOMMY (following her). I say, what's the matter?
+
+LETTY (waving him back). Go away. Unhand me villain.
+
+TOMMY. I say, what's up?
+
+LETTY. I want a wedding of my own. I've never been married before,
+and perhaps I shall never be married again, and I'm going to have a
+wedding all to myself. I don't mind your being there, but I'm not
+going to have crowds of other brides and bridegrooms taking up the
+whole aisle--said she, seizing her engagement-ring and--Oh, bother!
+I haven't got one yet.
+
+(TOMMY rushes up and takes her in his arms. At this moment GERALD
+comes in by the garden door. He stops on seeing them, and then goes
+quickly on to the door in front of the staircase.)
+
+GERALD (as he passes them). Came in and went tactfully out again.
+
+TOMMY (as LETTY frees herself). I say, Gerald, old man.
+
+GERALD (stopping at the door, turning round and coming back in the
+same business-like way). Returned hopefully.
+
+TOMMY (in confusion). I say, we're engaged.
+
+GERALD (looking at them happily). Oh, hoo-ray!
+
+LETTY. Do say you're surprised.
+
+GERALD. Awfully, awfully pleased, Letty. Of course, when I saw you--
+er--thinking together in a corner--By Jove, I _am_ bucked. I did
+hope so much.
+
+LETTY. You dear!
+
+GERALD. I feel very fatherly. Bless you, my children.
+
+TOMMY. We shall have about tuppence a year, but Letty doesn't mind
+that.
+
+GERALD (to LETTY). You'll have to make him work. (Thoughtfully) He's
+too old for a caddy.
+
+LETTY. Couldn't you find him something in the Foreign Office? He
+knows the French for pen and ink.
+
+TOMMY. What's ink?
+
+LETTY. At least, he knows the French for pen.
+
+GERALD. Oh, we'll find something. Only I warn you, Tommy, if you
+dare to get married before Pamela and me, there'll be trouble.
+
+TOMMY. Why don't we ever see Pamela now?
+
+GERALD (gaily). She is coming, my children--_mes enfants_, as Tommy
+will say when he gets his job as ribbon starcher to the French
+ambassador. To-morrow, no less. I've just had a letter. Lord, I
+haven't seen her for months.
+
+LETTY. She's come back?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Egypt knows her no more. The Sphinx is inconsolable.
+To-morrow at 3.30 she comes; I shall go and meet her.
+
+TOMMY. I say, won't she be surprised about Letty and me!
+
+GERALD. She'll be as bucked as I am. (Looking from one to the other)
+Has anything else frightfully exciting happened to you since lunch?
+Because, if not, I've got some more news.
+
+LETTY. What is it? I love news.
+
+GERALD. All ready? Then one, two, three: Bob is coming this
+afternoon.
+
+LETTY and TOMMY together. No! Rot!
+
+GERALD (Singing to the tune of "Here we go gathering nuts and may").
+Oh, Bob is coming this afternoon, this afternoon, this afternoon!
+Oh, Bob is coming this afternoon, all on an autumn morning! Now
+then, all together.
+
+(They join hands and march up the hall and back again, singing
+together.)
+
+ALL TOGETHER (waving imaginary hats). Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
+
+TOMMY. It doesn't make sense, you know, coming back in the afternoon
+on an autumn morning.
+
+GERALD. Who cares for sense?
+
+LETTY (squeezing his arm). Oh, Gerald, I _am_ glad. But I thought he
+had another week or so.
+
+GERALD. They always let you out early, you know, if you're good. We
+knew he was coming soon, but we didn't quite know when. I've just
+had a telegram.
+
+LETTY. Poor Bob! he must have had a time.
+
+GERALD. What does it matter? It's over now.
+
+TOMMY (struck by an idea). I say, this puts a bit of a stopper on
+our news.
+
+GERALD (pulled up suddenly by this). Oh!
+
+LETTY (going over and taking TOMMY'S arm). We'll go to a house where
+they _do_ make a fuss of us, Tommy. (Very politely) Good-bye, Mr.
+Farringdon, and thank you for a very pleasant Friday.
+
+GERALD. Poor darlings! it's rather bad luck for you. Did I announce
+my news too soon? I'm awfully sorry.
+
+LETTY. It wasn't your fault; you were a dear.
+
+GERALD. As a matter of fact, it will be rather lucky, you know. It
+will give us something to talk about when Bob comes. (Smiling)
+Thanks very much for arranging it.
+
+LETTY. Poor old Bob! I wonder what it feels like coming out of
+prison.
+
+GERALD. Rotten. Now, for the Lord's sake, Tommy, be tactful.
+
+LETTY (to GERALD). I think he'd be safer if he wasn't. Tommy's
+rather dangerous when he's tactful.
+
+GERALD (thoughtfully). Yes, there _is_ that.
+
+TOMMY. It's all the same to me. Only just let me know which you
+want.
+
+GERALD. Well, as long as you don't overdo it. Don't rub it in that
+he's just left prison, and--don't rub it out.
+
+TOMMY. I suppose it would be quite safe to ask him to pass the
+mustard?
+
+GERALD (laughing). Good old Tommy!
+
+LETTY. You'd better talk to me all the time, and then you'll be all
+right.
+
+GERALD. We'll make it go between us. And, of course, Pamela will
+help to-morrow. Hooray for Pamela! It makes me quite envious seeing
+you young people together. By the way, I interrupted you just now.
+
+LETTY. You did rather.
+
+GERALD. Well, I absolutely refuse to go away now. But, of course, if
+you're longing to show each other the stables or anything--(with a
+wave of the hand) pray show. Or try anywhere else. Save for Aunt
+Tabitha's room upstairs and the hall down here, the whole house is
+at your disposal.
+
+LETTY (sitting down firmly). Then I shall stay here. Isn't Aunt Mary
+back yet?
+
+GERALD. They are probably still eating. It's the very latest
+millionaire from London, so they're having the lunch of their
+lives, I expect. Afterwards father will put him at his ease by
+talking about crops. (Picking up a book and settling himself
+comfortably in front of the fire) Tommy, if you can't find a book,
+sing or something.
+
+LETTY. Oh, come on, Tommy.
+
+[She jumps up and goes out of the door in front of the staircase.
+TOMMY following her.]
+
+(Left alone, GERALD closes his book with a slam. He stands up and
+takes the telegram out of his pocket and reads it again. He suddenly
+catches sight of MISS FARRINGDON in the gallery shove, calls out
+"Hullo!" and goes up the stairs to meet her.)
+
+GERALD (as he goes). You're just the person I wanted, Aunt Tabitha.
+I'm full of news. (He kisses her at the top of the stairs.) How are
+you, dear? (He offers her his arm.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. If I had wanted help, down the stairs, Gerald, my
+maid could have given it me.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but your maid wouldn't have enjoyed giving it you; I
+do.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Charming Gerald. (She comes down the stairs on his
+arm.)
+
+GERALD. No, happy Gerald.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Is that part of the news?
+
+GERALD. It's all because of the news.
+
+(He arranges her in her chair by the fire and sits on the
+coffin-stool near her.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I heard Mr. Todd and Letty just now, so I suppose I
+shan't be the first to hear it. What a pity!
+
+GERALD. Ah, but they don't count.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Why not?
+
+GERALD. Well, that's part of the news. They've just got engaged.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. In my young days they'd have been engaged a long
+time ago. When are we going to see Pamela again?
+
+GERALD. That's more of the news. She's coming down to-morrow.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. That will save you a lot in stamps.
+
+GERALD (laughing). Aunt Tabitha, you're a witch. How did you know?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Know what?
+
+GERALD. That Pamela and I haven't been writing to each other.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (very innocently). Haven't you?
+
+GERALD. No. You see--oh, I hate discussing Pamela with anyone, but
+you're different.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I always like that sort of compliment best, Gerald.
+The unintended sort.
+
+GERALD. I think, you know, Pamela felt that Bob's doing to prison
+might make a difference. I don't mean that she didn't like the
+disgrace for herself, but that she was afraid that I mightn't like
+it for her; and so she went away, and beyond a letter or two at the
+start there hasn't been a Pamela.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. But Gerald went on being successful?
+
+GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, Aunt Tabitha, if ever I were going to be
+conceited--and I don't think I am really--you'd soon stop it,
+wouldn't you? I wonder if you _do_ know me as well as you think. You
+think I'm all outside, don't you, and inside there's nothing?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Oh, you've got brains, I'll grant you that. You're
+the first Farringdon that's had any. Of the men, of course.
+
+GERALD. Oh, brains--I don't mean brains. But you think that
+everything only touches me on the surface, and that nothing ever
+goes deep inside. You don't believe I ever loved Pamela; you don't
+believe I love her now. You don't believe I've got a heart at all.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Well, you've never shown it. You've shown a lot of
+delightful things which silly people mistake for it--but that's all.
+
+GERALD (curtly). No, I've never shown my heart to anybody. Some
+people can't. (Gently) Perhaps I'll show it to Pamela on my wedding-day.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Dear me, have I been wrong all these years? I
+shouldn't like to think that. (After a pause) Any more news?
+
+GERALD (taking his thoughts off PAMELA). Yes. Now _this_ time, Aunt
+Tabitha, you'll really be as pleased as I am.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I wonder.
+
+GERALD. Oh yes, you will, because it's about your favourite--Bob.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. So Bob's my favourite? I'm learning a good many
+things to-day.
+
+GERALD. He's coming back this afternoon.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Bob! I'm glad he's finished with that part of
+it.
+
+GERALD. You think he's got the worst part coming? (Smiling at her)
+Aunt Tabitha, have you got any influence with your nephew?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. You or Bob? (GERALD smiles and shakes his head.)
+Oh, you mean James?
+
+GERALD. It seems hard to realize that one's father is anybody else's
+nephew, but you _are_ his aunt, and--Oh, don't let him do anything
+stupid about Bob.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Bob's his own master; he's old enough to look after
+himself.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but he's got in the way of being looked after by other
+people. I wish _you_ would look after him and tell him what to do.
+It's going to be difficult for him. I expect he'll want to get away
+from all of us for a bit. Where's he going, and what's he going to
+do?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (after a pause). When did you say Pamela was coming
+here?
+
+GERALD. To-morrow. _She'll_ help, of course.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Gerald, you've been very nice to me always; I don't
+know why I've been rather unkind to you sometimes.
+
+GERALD. What an idea! You know I've loved our little skirmishes.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. That's because you've been happy, and haven't
+minded one way or another. But if ever you were in trouble, Gerald,
+I don't think I should be unsympathetic.
+
+GERALD. You dear, of course you wouldn't. But why do you say that
+now, just when I _am_ so happy?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (getting up slowly). I'm feeling rather an old woman
+to-day. I think I'll go and lie down.
+
+GERALD (jumping up). I'll ring for your maid.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. No, no; I'm not going upstairs, and I don't want a
+maid when I've got a great big nephew. Come and tuck me up on
+the sofa in the drawing-room; I shall be quite happy there.
+
+(She puts her hand on his arm, and they go together towards the
+door in front of the staircase.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Gerald!
+
+GERALD (laughing). Why poor? [They go out together.]
+
+[The door on the right at the back opens quietly and BOB comes in.
+He stands there for a moment looking at the hall, and then speaks
+over his shoulder to somebody behind him.]
+
+BOB. It's all right, there's nobody here.
+
+PAMELA. I wonder where Gerald is.
+
+BOB. You're sure he's down here?
+
+PAMELA. Yes, I had a letter from him; he told me he was going to be.
+
+BOB (going up to her). Pamela, you can't see him alone.
+
+PAMELA. I must. You can see him afterwards, but I must see him alone
+first. Poor Gerald!
+
+BOB. He never really loved you.
+
+PAMELA. I don't think he did really, but it will hurt him.
+
+BOB (eagerly). Say you're not sorry for what you're doing.
+
+PAMELA. Aren't I doing it?
+
+BOB. Say you love _me_ and not Gerald. Say you really love me, and
+it's not just because you are sorry for me.
+
+PAMELA. Oh, I have so much in my heart for you, Bob. I'm glad I'm
+marrying you. But you must always love me, and want me as you
+want me now.
+
+BOB (seizing her is his arms). By God! you'll get that.
+(He kisses her fiercely.)
+
+PAMELA (satisfied). Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob! I'm glad I found you at last.
+(She goes away from him and stands looking into the fire, one hand
+on the mantelpiece.)
+
+BOB. Shall I go and look for Gerald?
+
+PAMELA (looking into the fire). Yes. No. He'll come.
+
+BOB. You won't let him talk you round?
+
+PAMELA (looking up at him in surprise). Oh no; I'm quite safe now.
+
+BOB. I can never thank you for all you've done, for all you've been
+to me. When we are out of this cursed country, and I have you to
+myself, I will try to show you. (She says nothing, and he walks
+restlessly about the room. He picks up a hat and says) Hullo,
+Tommy's here.
+
+PAMELA (quickly). I don't want to see him, I don't want to see
+anybody. We must just tell Gerald and then go.
+
+BOB. Anybody might come at any moment. You should have let me write
+as I wanted to. Or waited till he came back to London.
+
+PAMELA. We've given up being cowards. Perhaps you'd better try and
+find him. We'll only tell Gerald. If we see the others, we'll just
+have to make the best of it.
+
+BOB (moving off towards the door in front of the staircase). All
+right. If I find him I'll send him in here. [He goes out.]
+
+(PAMELA drops into a chair and remains looking at the fire. GERALD,
+coming down from the gallery above, suddenly catches sight of her.)
+
+GERALD (rushing down the stairs). Pamela! Why, Pamela! (Excitedly)
+Why are you--You said tomorrow. Pamela, you said--Never mind, you're
+here. Oh, bless you! (PAMELA has got up to meet him, and he is now
+standing holding her hands, and looking at her happily.) Pamela's
+here; all's right with the world. (He leans forward to kiss her, but
+she stops him.)
+
+PAMELA (nervously). No, no; I've something to tell you, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. I've got a thousand things to tell _you_.
+
+PAMELA. Bob's here.
+
+GERALD (excited). Bob? Did you come down with him?
+
+PAMELA. Yes.
+
+GERALD. I had a telegram, but it didn't say--Did you meet him? Why
+didn't he tell us? Where is he?
+
+PAMELA. He just went to look for you.
+
+GERALD. I'll soon find him.
+
+(He turns away to go after BOB, but PAMELA stops him.)
+
+PAMELA. Gerald!
+
+GERALD (turning round). Yes.
+
+PAMELA. Never mind Bob for the moment. I wanted to see you alone.
+
+GERALD (coming back quickly). Of course. Hang Bob! Come on the sofa
+and tell me everything. Jove! it's wonderful to see you again;
+you've been away for years.
+
+(He takes her hand and tries to lead her towards the sofa, but she
+stops.)
+
+PAMELA. Gerald, you're making it very hard for me; I've got
+something to tell you.
+
+GERALD (afraid suddenly and speaking sharply). What do you mean?
+
+PAMELA. Oh, don't look at me like that--I know it will hurt you, but
+it won't be more than that. I want you to release me from my
+promise.
+
+GERALD. What promise?
+
+PAMELA (in a low voice). My promise to marry you.
+
+GERALD. I don't understand. Why?
+
+PAMELA (bravely). I want to marry Bob.
+
+(Keeping his eyes on her all the time, GERALD moves slowly away from
+her.)
+
+GERALD (to himself). Bob! Bob! But you knew Bob first.
+
+PAMELA. Yes.
+
+GERALD. And then you promised to marry me. You couldn't have been in
+love with him. I don't understand.
+
+PAMELA (sadly). I don't understand either, but that's how it's
+happened.
+
+GERALD. And to think how I've been throwing you in Bob's way, and
+wanting you and him to be fond of each other. (Fiercely) _That_
+didn't make you think that I didn't love you?
+
+PAMELA (faltering). I--I don't--you didn't--
+
+GERALD. I was so confident of you. That was your fault. You made me.
+
+PAMELA. I think you could have made me love you if you hadn't been
+so confident.
+
+GERALD. I trusted you. You had told me. _I_ knew I should never
+change, and I thought I knew _you_ wouldn't.
+
+PAMELA. I was wrong. I never did love you.
+
+GERALD. Then why did you say--
+
+PAMELA (looking at him rather wistfully). You're rather charming,
+Gerald, you know, and you--
+
+GERALD (turning away from her furiously). _Damn_ charming! That's
+what you all say. I'm sick of it! You think that if a man's
+charming, that's the end of him, and that all he's good for is to
+amuse a few old ladies at a tea party. I'm sick of it! The rude
+rough man with the heart of gold--that's the only sort that can have
+a heart at all, according to some of you.
+
+PAMELA (utterly surprised by this). Gerald!
+
+GERALD. I'm sorry, Pamela. Of course you wouldn't understand. But we
+were just talking. (With a sudden disarming smile) I don't know
+whether an apology is overdoing the charm?
+
+PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, you couldn't really have loved me;
+you don't really now. Of course, it will hurt you, but you'll soon
+get over it. Oh, what's the good of my talking like this? I've never
+really known you; I don't know you now.
+
+GERALD (quietly). It's no good now, anyway. (He walks away from her
+and looks out through the windows at the back.) Just tell me one or
+two things. Were you in love with him when he went to prison?
+
+PAMELA. I don't know--really I don't know. I was so dreadfully sorry
+for him all that time before, and I felt so very friendly towards
+him, so very--oh, Gerald, so motherly. And I wanted to be wanted so
+badly, and you didn't seem to want me in that way. That was why,
+when he had gone, I went right away from you, and asked you not to
+write to me; I wanted to think it all out--alone.
+
+GERALD. But you wrote to Bob?
+
+PAMELA. Oh, Gerald, he wanted it so badly.
+
+GERALD. I'm sorry.
+
+PAMELA. I wrote to him and he wrote to me. I met him when he came
+out--he told me when to come. I suppose I had decided by then; we
+came down here to tell you. I had to come at once.
+
+GERALD. You do love him, Pamela? It isn't just pity?
+
+PAMELA. I do, Gerald; I think I found that out this afternoon.
+(Timidly) Say you don't hate me very much.
+
+GERALD. I wish to God I could. ... What are you and Bob going to do?
+
+PAMELA. Canada, as soon as we can. I've got friends there. We've a
+little money between us. Bob ought to have done it a long time ago.
+(Coming up to him) Just do one more nice thing for me before we go.
+
+GERALD (moving away from her on pretence of getting a cigarette).
+What is it?
+
+PAMELA. Bob will want to see you before he goes.
+
+GERALD. I don't want to see him.
+
+PAMELA. Ah, but you must.
+
+GERALD. What have we got to say to each other?
+
+PAMELA. I don't know, but I feel you must see him. Otherwise he'll
+think that he ran away from you.
+
+GERALD (with a shrug). All right. You'll go back to London at once,
+I suppose?
+
+PAMELA. Yes. We hired a car. We left it outside at the gates. We
+didn't want to see anybody but you, if possible.
+
+GERALD. Father and mother are out. Aunt Harriet knows--oh, and
+Tommy and Letty--that Bob was coming to-day; nobody else. But I
+can make up something. We'll keep Tommy and Letty out of it for
+the moment. Of course, they'll all have to know in the end.
+
+PAMELA. We'll write, of course.
+
+GERALD. Yes. Tommy and Letty are engaged, by the way.
+
+PAMELA. Oh! (Understanding how he must feel about it) Oh, Gerald!
+(She makes a movement towards him, but he takes no notice.) I'll
+send Bob to you; he's waiting outside, I expect. (Timidly) Good-bye,
+Gerald.
+
+GERALD (still with his back to her). Good-bye, Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. Won't you--
+
+GERALD (from the bottom of his heart). Go away, go away! I can't
+bear the sound of your voice; I can't bear to look at you. Go away!
+
+PAMELA. Oh, Gerald! [She goes out.]
+
+(GERALD looks up as she goes out, and then looks quickly down again.
+When BOB comes in he is still resting with his arm on the
+mantelpiece looking into the fire.)
+
+GERALD (looking up). Hullo.
+
+BOB. Hullo. (After a pause) Is that all you've got to say?
+
+GERALD. I've just seen Pamela.
+
+BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). Well?
+
+GERALD. Well--isn't that enough?
+
+BOB. What do you mean?
+
+GERALD (bitterly). Do you want me to fall on, your neck, and say
+take her and be happy?
+
+BOB. You never loved her.
+
+GERALD. That's a lie, and anyhow we won't discuss it. She's going to
+marry you, and that's an end of it.
+
+BOB (very eagerly). She _is_ going to?
+
+GERALD (sharply). Don't you know it?
+
+BOB (mumbling). Yes, but she might--Ah, you couldn't charm her away
+from me this time.
+
+GERALD (with an effort). I don't know what you mean by "_this_
+time." I think we'd better leave Pamela out of it altogether. She's
+waiting for you outside. Last time I offered to shake hands with
+you, you had some fancied grievance against me, and you wouldn't;
+now if there's any grievance between us, it's on _my_ side. (Holding
+out his hand) Good-bye, Bob, and--quite honestly--good luck.
+
+BOB (ignoring the hand). Magnanimous Gerald!
+
+(GERALD looks at him in surprise for a moment. Then he shrugs his
+shoulders, turns round, and goes back to the mantelpiece, and takes
+a cigarette from the box there.)
+
+GERALD. I'm tired of you, Bob. If you don't want me, I don't want
+you. (He sits down in a chair and lights his cigarette.)
+
+BOB. And now I suppose you're thoroughly pleased with yourself,
+and quite happy.
+
+GERALD (looking at him in absolute wonder). Happy? You fool!
+(Something in BOB'S face surprises him, and he gets up and says)
+Why do you suddenly hate me like this?
+
+BOB (with a bitter laugh). Suddenly!
+
+GERALD (almost frightened). Bob!
+
+BOB (letting the jealousy that has been pent up for years come out
+at last). You're surprised! Surprised! You would be. You've never
+stopped to think what other people are thinking; you take it for
+granted that they all love you, and that's all you care about. Do
+you think I liked playing second fiddle to you all my life? Do you
+think I've never had any ambitions of my own? I suppose you thought
+I was quite happy being one of the crowd of admirers round you, all
+saying, "Oh, look at Gerald, isn't he wonderful?"
+
+GERALD (astounded). Bob, I had no idea--I never dreamt--
+
+BOB. They thought something of me when I was young. When I first
+went to school they thought something of me. I daresay even _you_
+thought something of me then; I could come back in the holidays and
+tell you what school was like, and what a lot they thought of me.
+They didn't think much of me when _you_ came; you soon put a stop to
+that. I was just young Farringdon's brother then, and when we came
+home together, all the talk was of the wonderful things _Gerald_
+had done. It was like that at Eton; it was like that at Oxford. It's
+always been like that. I managed to get away from you a bit after
+Oxford, but it went on just the same. "How do you do, Mr.
+Farringdon? Are you any relation to Gerald Farringdon?" (With the
+utmost contempt) And you actually thought I liked that; you thought
+I enjoyed it. You thought I smiled modestly and said, "Oh yes, he's
+my brother, my young brother; isn't he wonderful?"
+
+GERALD (hardly able to realise it). And you've felt like this for
+years? (To himself) For years!
+
+BOB (not noticing him). And that wasn't enough for you. They got
+you into the Foreign Office--they could have got me there. They
+could have put me into the Army (Almost shouting) Aren't I the
+eldest son? But no, it didn't matter about the eldest son--never
+mind about him; put him in the City, anywhere as long as he's out of
+the way. If we have any influence, we must use it for Gerald--the
+wonderful Gerald.
+
+GERALD. If this is an indictment, it's drawn against the wrong
+person.
+
+BOB (more quietly). Then at last I found a friend; somebody who took
+me for my own sake. (Bitterly) And like a damned fool I brought her
+down here, and she saw _you_. I might have known what would happen.
+
+GERALD. Pamela!
+
+BOB. Yes, and you took her. After taking everything you could all
+your life, you took _her_. She was Bob's friend--that was quite
+enough. She must be one more in the crowd of admirers round you.
+So you took her. (Triumphantly) Ah, but I got her back in the end.
+I've got her now--and I think I'm square, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Yes, I think you're square now.
+
+BOB (rather jauntily, as he leans back against the end of the sofa
+and feels for his cigarette-case). I seem to have surprised you
+rather.
+
+GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've
+never said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've
+never said anything?
+
+BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months--
+in prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison.
+Oh, I know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in
+the air--something like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I
+had a better idea--I _thought_.
+
+GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must
+have had!
+
+BOB (furiously). Damn you! I _won't_ be pitied by you.
+
+GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about
+yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm
+going to talk about _my_self.
+
+BOB. And it won't be the first time either.
+
+GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to _you_. You say I've
+never tried to understand your feelings--have you ever tried to
+understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about
+you than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you?
+When a boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever
+bore _you_ with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I
+knew how _I'd_ feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for
+you.
+
+BOB. Very noble of you.
+
+GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good
+of talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only
+convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if
+I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't
+talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact,
+whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it
+condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking?
+
+BOB. Go on; I like to hear it.
+
+GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart
+from the general charge of being successful--whatever that amounts
+to--you accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now,
+but it was more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was
+that I neglected to help you when you were in trouble, and that
+through me you went to prison.
+
+BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I
+didn't forget it in prison.
+
+GERALD. You had a sense of humour once, Bob. I don't know what's
+happened to it lately. Don't you think it's rather funny to hate a
+person steadily for fifteen years, judge all his acts as you'd
+hardly judge those of your bitterest enemy, and yet, the first time
+you are in trouble, to expect him to throw everything on one side
+and rush to your help--and then to feel bitterly ill-used if he
+doesn't?
+
+BOB (rather taken aback). I--you didn't--I didn't--
+
+GERALD (quietly). That's been rather like you all through, Bob. You
+were always the one who had to be helped; you were always the one
+who was allowed to have the grievance. Still, that doesn't make it
+any better for me if I could have helped you and didn't. However,
+I'm quite certain that I _couldn't_ have helped you then. We'll take
+the other accusation, that I stole Pamela from you. I've only got
+two things to say to that. First, that Pamela was not engaged to
+you, and was perfectly free to choose between us. Secondly, that you
+never told me, and I hadn't the slightest idea, that you were the
+least bit fond of her. Indeed, I don't believe you realized it
+yourself at that time.
+
+BOB (rather shamefaced). I've realized it since.
+
+GERALD. Yes, and you've taken Pamela back since. I think if I were
+you I would keep her out of it. (BOB looks away and GERALD goes
+on) Now we come to the general charge, which seems to be (very
+deliberately) that I'm better than you at games, that I've got
+better manners than you, that I'm cleverer than you--in fact, that
+I'm superior to you in every outward way, and am only inferior to
+you in--well, in the moral qualities. (Quietly) Bob, what are these
+moral qualities in which I am so deficient and you so endowed?
+You judge me by the qualities I am supposed to have shown to you;
+now what have you shown to _me_? Have _you_ been generous, have
+_you_ been friendly, have _you_ been sympathetic? No; you've just
+told me that for fifteen years you've hated me and been jealous of
+me. Things have been rotten for you, I admit; have you ever tried to
+make the best of them? You've had disadvantages to fight against;
+have you ever fought against them? Never! You've turned every
+trouble into a grievance, and hoarded it up. I said just now I was
+sick of you. I am--utterly. You said just now you didn't want my
+pity. You haven't got it; you've only got my contempt. ... (He turns
+away, and then suddenly turns back, and, holding out his hand to
+BOB, says utterly unexpectedly) And now, damn you! will you shake
+hands?
+
+BOB (incoherent with surprise). What do you--I--you didn't--
+(GERALD'S hand is still held out, and he is smiling.) Oh, Jerry!
+(He takes the hand.)
+
+GERALD. That's all right. Good-bye, Bob, and good luck.
+
+BOB (bewildered). Good-bye. (He tuns round and goes towards the
+door. Half-way there, he looks over his shoulder and says awkwardly)
+Had rather a rotten time in prison. (GERALD nods. At the door BOB
+says) Pamela and I--
+
+[With rather a forced smile, GERALD nods again, and BOB goes out.]
+
+(Left alone, GERALD stands looking into the fire and thinking. He
+tries sitting down to see if that will make thinking any pleasanter;
+then he tries standing up again. He goes to the door in front of the
+staircase and opens it to see if there is anybody there; then he
+goes to the windows at the back and looks through them. Evidently he
+sees somebody, for he beckons and then returns to his old place by
+the fire. In a few moments LETTY and TOMMY come in.)
+
+TOMMY (excitedly). I say, has Bob come?
+
+GERALD. Why?
+
+TOMMY. I could have sworn we saw him just now as we were coming in.
+At least, Letty swore she did--
+
+LETTY. I _know_ I did.
+
+TOMMY. So I gave him a shout, but he fairly trekked off. Was it Bob?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Now look here, I want you to be two nice people. Don't
+say anything to anybody. He came, but he didn't want to see the
+whole crowd of us. He's going to Canada. I'll do all the explaining,
+if you two just say nothing. Do you see?
+
+LETTY. Of course, Gerald.
+
+TOMMY. Rather, old boy. Besides, it will make it much better for
+Letty and me.
+
+LETTY. No rival attraction, Tommy means.
+
+[Enter SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON from the outer hull, having
+just returned from their lunch.]
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah! here you all are.
+
+GERALD. Had a good lunch?
+
+SIR JAMES. Lunch was all right, but the people were dull, very dull.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. There were one or two nice ones, I thought, dear.
+They all knew about _you_, Gerald.
+
+TOMMY (proudly). Of course they would.
+
+SIR JAMES. Oh, one or two were all right, but _he_ was--well, I was
+discussing shorthorns with him after lunch, and he hardly seemed
+interested at all. Dull, very dull. I've got no use for that sort of man.
+
+(During this speech the Butler has come in with a telegram for
+GERALD.)
+
+GERALD (taking it). Just a moment. (He reads it quickly.) No answer.
+[Exit Butler.]
+
+(GERALD reads his telegram again more thoughtfully.)
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. From Pamela, dear?
+
+GERALD. From the office. I shall have to go up at once.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (very disappointed). Oh, Gerald!
+
+SIR JAMES. Something on?
+
+GERALD. Rather an important thing really. I never thought I should
+get it, but there was just a chance. (Looking at his watch) Oh, I
+can do it comfortably.
+
+SIR JAMES (obviously proud that GERALD is in the thick of things).
+What is it? I suppose you mustn't tell us.
+
+GERALD. Something abroad.
+
+SIR JAMES. Diplomatic mission, eh?
+
+GERALD. Yes.
+
+LETTY. That does sound so frightfully exciting.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (proudly). Oh, Gerald! (Thoughtfully). I wish we had
+known about it this morning, we could have mentioned it at lunch.
+
+SIR JAMES. That ought to lead to something.
+
+GERALD. Yes. I think it will. It's rather an opportunity:
+
+(They are all round him now, just as they have always been. The
+buzz begins.)
+
+SIR JAMES. Aha! you'll be an ambassador yet. What do you think of
+that, Letty?
+
+LETTY. Well done, Gerald.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. How like you, Gerald!
+
+TOMMY. Good old Gerald! I never knew such a chap. You really _are_!
+
+GERALD (softly). I wish I weren't, Tommy! Oh, I wish I weren't!
+
+(They don't hear him; they are still buzzing.)
+
+
+
+THE BOY COMES HOME
+
+A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
+
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+UNCLE JAMES.
+AUNT EMILY.
+PHILIP.
+MARY.
+MRS. HIGGINS.
+
+This play was first produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria
+Palace Theatre on September 9,1918, with the following cast:
+
+Philip--OWEN NARES.
+Uncle James--TOM REYNOLDS.
+Aunt Emily--DOROTHY RADFORD.
+Mary--ADAH DICK.
+Mrs. Higgins--RACHEL DE SOLLA.
+
+
+THE BOY COMES HOME
+
+[SCENE.--A room in UNCLE JAMES'S house in the Cromwell Road.]
+
+[TIME.--The day after the War.]
+
+[Any room in UNCLE JAMES'S house is furnished in heavy mid-Victorian
+style; this particular morning-room is perhaps solider and more
+respectable even than the others, from the heavy table in the middle
+of it to the heavy engravings on the walls. There are two doors to
+it. The one at the back opens into the hall, the one at the side
+into the dining-room.]
+
+[PHILIP comes from the hall and goes into the dining-room.
+Apparently he finds nothing there, for he returns to the
+morning-room, looks about him for a moment and then rings the bell.
+It is ten o'clock, and he wants his breakfast. He picks up the
+paper, and sits in a heavy armchair in front of the fire--a
+pleasant-looking well-built person of twenty-three, with an air of
+decisiveness about him. MARY, the parlour-maid, comes in.]
+
+MARY. Did you ring, Master Philip?
+
+PHILIP (absently). Yes; I want some breakfast, please, Mary.
+
+MARY (coldly). Breakfast has been cleared away an hour ago.
+
+PHILIP. Exactly. That's why I rang. You can boil me a couple of
+eggs or something. And coffee, not tea.
+
+MARY. I'm sure I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say?
+
+PHILIP (getting up). Who is Mrs. Higgins?
+
+MARY. The cook. And she's not used to being put about like this.
+
+PHILIP. Do you think she'll say something?
+ MARY. I don't know _what_ she'll say.
+
+PHILIP. You needn't tell me, you know, if you don't want to.
+Anyway, I don't suppose it will shock me. One gets used to it in
+the Army. (He smiles pleasantly at her.)
+
+MARY. Well, I'll do what I can, sir. But breakfast at eight sharp
+is the master's rule, just as it used to be before you went away to
+the war.
+
+PHILIP. Before I went away to the war I did a lot of silly things.
+Don't drag them up now. (More curtly) Two eggs, and if there's a
+ham bring that along too. (He turns away.)
+
+MARY (doubtfully, as she prepares to go). Well, I'm sure I don't
+know what Mrs. Higgins will say. [Exit MARY.]
+
+(As she goes out she makes way for AUNT EMILY to come in, a
+kind-hearted mid-Victorian lady who has never had any desire for
+the vote.)
+
+EMILY. There you are, Philip! Good-morning, dear. Did you sleep
+well?
+
+PHILIP. Rather; splendidly, thanks, Aunt Emily. How are you? (He
+kisses her.)
+
+EMILY. And did you have a good breakfast? Naughty boy to be late
+for it. I always thought they had to get up so early in the Army.
+
+PHILIP. They do. That's why they're so late when they get out of
+the Army.
+
+EMILY: Dear me! I should have thought a habit of four years would
+have stayed with you.
+
+PHILIP. Every morning for four years, as I've shot out of bed, I've
+said to myself, "Wait! A time will come." (Smiling) That doesn't
+really give a habit a chance.
+
+EMILY. Well, I daresay you wanted your sleep out. I was so afraid
+that a really cosy bed would keep you awake after all those years
+in the trenches.
+
+PHILIP. Well, one isn't in the trenches all the time. And one gets
+leave--if one's an officer.
+
+EMILY.(reproachfully). You didn't spend much of it with _us_,
+Philip.
+
+PHILIP (taking her hands). I know; but you did understand, didn't
+you, dear?
+
+EMILY. We're not very gay, and I know you must have wanted gaiety
+for the little time you had. But I think your Uncle James felt it.
+After all, dear, you've lived with us for some years, and he _is_
+your guardian.
+
+PHILIP. I know. _You've_ been a darling to me always, Aunt Emily.
+But (awkwardly) Uncle James and I--
+
+EMILY. Of course, he is a _little_ difficult to get on with. I'm
+more used to him. But I'm sure he really is very fond of you,
+Philip.
+
+PHILIP. H'm! I always used to be frightened of him. ... I suppose
+he's just the same. He seemed just the same last night--and he
+still has breakfast at eight o'clock. Been making pots of money, I
+suppose?
+
+EMILY. He never tells me exactly, but he did speak once about the
+absurdity of the excess-profits tax. You see, jam is a thing the
+Army wants.
+
+PHILIP. It certainly gets it.
+
+EMILY. It was so nice for him, because it made him feel he was
+doing his bit, helping the poor men in the trenches.
+
+[Enter MARY.]
+
+MARY. Mrs. Higgins wishes to speak to you, ma'am. (She looks at
+PHILIP as much as to say, "There you are!")
+
+EMILY (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To PHILIP) I think I'd better
+just see what she wants, Philip.
+
+PHILIP (firmly to MARY). Tell Mrs. Higgins to come here. (MARY
+hesitates and looks at her mistress.) At once, please. [Exit MARY.]
+
+EMILY (upset). Philip, dear, I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will
+say--
+
+PHILIP. No; nobody seems to. I thought we might really find out for
+once.
+
+EMILY (going towards the door). Perhaps I'd better go--
+
+PHILIP (putting his arm round her waist). Oh no, you mustn't. You
+see, she really wants to see _me_.
+
+EMILY. _You_?
+
+PHILIP. Yes; I ordered breakfast five minutes ago.
+
+EMILY. Philip! My poor boy! Why didn't you tell me? and I daresay I
+could have got it for you. Though I don't know what Mrs. Higgins--
+
+(An extremely angry voice is heard outside, and MRS. HIGGINS, stout
+and aggressive, comes in.)
+
+MRS. HIGGINS (truculently). You sent for me, ma'am?
+
+EMILY (nervously). Yes--er--I think if you--perhaps--
+
+PHILIP (calmly). _I_ sent for you, Mrs. Higgins. I want some
+breakfast. Didn't Mary tell you?
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Breakfast is at eight o'clock. It always has been as
+long as I've been in this house, and always will be until I get
+further orders.
+
+PHILIP. Well, you've just got further orders. Two eggs, and if
+there's a ham--
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Orders. We're talking about orders. From whom in this
+house do I take orders, may I ask?
+
+PHILIP. In this case from me.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS (playing her trump-card). In that case, ma'am, I wish
+to give a month's notice from to-day. _In_clusive.
+
+PHILIP (quickly, before his aunt can say anything). Certainly. In
+fact, you'd probably prefer it if my aunt gave _you_ notice, and
+then you could go at once. We can easily arrange that. (TO AUNT
+EMILY as he takes out a fountain pen and cheque-book) What do you
+pay her?
+
+EMILY (faintly). Forty-five pounds.
+
+PHILIP (writing on his knee). Twelves into forty-five. ...
+(Pleasantly to MRS. HIGGINS, but without looking up) I hope you
+don't mind a Cox's cheque. Some people do; but this is quite a good
+one. (Tearing it out) Here you are.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS (taken aback). What's this?
+
+PHILIP. Your wages instead of notice. Now you can go at once.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Who said anything about going?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). I'm sorry; I thought _you_ did.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. If it's only a bit of breakfast, I don't say but what
+I mightn't get it, if I'm asked decent.
+
+PHILIP (putting back the cheque). Then let me say again, "Two eggs,
+ham and coffee." And Mary can bring the ham up at once, and I'll
+get going on that. (Turning away) Thanks very much.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Well, I--well--well! [Exit speechless.]
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Is that all she ever says? It isn't much to
+worry about.
+
+EMILY. Philip, how could you! I should have been terrified.
+
+PHILIP. Well, you see, I've done your job for two years out there.
+
+EMILY. What job?
+
+PHILIP. Mess President. ... I think I'll go and see about that ham.
+
+(He smiles at her and goes out into the dining-room. AUNT EMILY
+wanders round the room, putting a few things tidy as is her habit,
+when she is interrupted by the entrance of UNCLE JAMES. JAMES is
+not a big man, nor an impressive one in his black morning-coat; and
+his thin straggly beard, now going grey, does not hide a chin of
+any great power; but he has a severity which passes for strength
+with the weak.)
+
+JAMES. Philip down yet?
+
+EMILY. He's just having his breakfast.
+
+JAMES (looking at his watch). Ten o'clock. (Snapping it shut and
+putting it back) Ten o'clock. I say ten o'clock, Emily.
+
+EMILY. Yes, dear, I heard you.
+
+JAMES. You don't say anything?
+
+EMILY (vaguely). I expect he's tired after that long war.
+
+JAMES. That's no excuse for not being punctual. I suppose he learnt
+punctuality in the Army?
+
+EMILY. I expect he learnt it, James, but I understood him to say
+that he'd forgotten it.
+
+JAMES. Then the sooner he learns it again the better. I
+particularly stayed away from the office to-day in order to talk
+things over with him, and (looking cat his watch) here's ten
+o'clock--past ten--and no sign of him. I'm practically throwing
+away a day.
+
+EMILY. What are you going to talk to him about?
+
+JAMES. His future, naturally. I have decided that the best thing he
+can do is to come into the business at once.
+
+EMILY. Are you really going to talk it over with him, James, or are
+you just going to tell him that he _must_ come?
+
+JAMES (surprised). What do you mean? What's the difference?
+Naturally we shall talk it over first, and--er--naturally he'll
+fall in with my wishes.
+
+EMILY. I suppose he can hardly help himself, poor boy.
+
+JAMES. Not until he's twenty-five, anyhow. When he's twenty-five he
+can have his own money and do what he likes with it.
+
+EMILY (timidly). But I think you ought to consult him at little,
+dear. After all, he _has_ been fighting for us.
+
+JAMES (with his back to the fire). Now that's the sort of silly
+sentiment that there's been much too much of. I object to it
+strongly. I don't want to boast, but I think I may claim to have
+done my share. I gave up my nephew to my country, and I--er--
+suffered from the shortage of potatoes to an extent that you
+probably didn't realize. Indeed, if it hadn't been for your
+fortunate discovery about that time that you didn't really like
+potatoes, I don't know how we should have carried on. And, as I
+think I've told you before, the excess-profits tax seemed to me a
+singularly stupid piece of legislation--but I paid it. And I don't
+go boasting about how much I paid.
+
+EMILY (unconvinced). Well, I think that Philip's four years out
+there have made him more of a man; he doesn't seem somehow like a
+boy who can be told what to do. I'm sure they've taught him
+something.
+
+JAMES. I've no doubt that they've taught him something about--er--
+bombs and--er--which end a revolver goes off, and how to form
+fours. But I don't see that that sort of thing helps him to decide
+upon the most suitable career for a young man in after-war
+conditions.
+
+EMILY. Well, I can only say you'll find him different.
+
+JAMES. I didn't notice any particular difference last night.
+
+EMILY. I think you'll find him rather more--I can't quite think of
+the word, but Mrs. Higgins could tell you what I mean.
+
+JAMES. Of course, if he likes to earn his living any other way, he
+may; but I don t see how he proposes to do it so long as I hold
+the purse-strings. (Looking at his watch) Perhaps you'd better tell
+him that I cannot wait any longer.
+
+(EMILY opens the door leading into the dining-room and talks
+through it to PHILIP.)
+
+EMILY. Philip, your uncle is waiting to see you before he goes to
+the office. Will you be long, dear?
+
+PHILIP (from the dining-room). Is he in a hurry?
+
+JAMES (shortly). Yes.
+
+EMILY. He says he is rather, dear.
+
+PHILIP. Couldn't he come and talk in here? It wouldn't interfere
+with my breakfast.
+
+JAMES. No.
+
+EMILY. He says he'd rather you came to _him_, darling.
+
+PHILIP (resigned). Oh, well.
+
+EMILY (to JAMES). He'll be here directly, dear. Just sit down in
+front of the fire and make yourself comfortable with the paper. He
+won't keep you long. (She arranges him.)
+
+JAMES (taking the paper). The morning is not the time to make
+oneself comfortable. It's a most dangerous habit. I nearly found
+myself dropping off in front of the fire just now. I don't like
+this hanging about, wasting the day. (He opens the paper.)
+
+EMILY. You should have had a nice sleep, dear, while you could.
+We were up so late last night listening to Philip's stories.
+
+JAMES. Yes, yes. (He begins a yawn and stifles it hurriedly.) You
+mustn't neglect your duties, Emily. I've no doubt you have plenty
+to do.
+
+EMILY. All right, James, then I'll leave you. But don't be hard on
+the boy.
+
+JAMES (sleepily). I shall be just, Emily; you can rely upon that.
+
+EMILY (going to the door). I don't think that's quite what I meant.
+[She goes out.]
+
+(JAMES, who is now quite comfortable, begins to nod. He wakes up
+with a start, turns over the paper, and nods again. Soon he is
+breathing deeply with closed eyes.)
+
+***
+
+PHILIP (coming in). Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was a bit
+late for breakfast. (He takes out his pipe.) Are we going to talk
+business or what?
+
+JAMES (taking out his match). A _bit_ late! I make it just two
+hours.
+
+PHILIP (pleasantly). All right, Uncle James. Call it two hours
+late. Or twenty-two hours early for tomorrow's breakfast, if you
+like. (He sits down in a chair on the opposite side of the table
+from his uncle, and lights his pipe.)
+
+JAMES. You smoke now?
+
+PHILIP (staggered). I what?
+
+JAMES (nodding at his pipe). You smoke?
+
+PHILIP. Good heavens! what did yolk think we did in France?
+
+JAMES. Before you start smoking all over the house, I should have
+thought you would have asked your aunt's permission.
+
+(PHILIP looks at him in amazement, and then goes to the door.)
+
+PHILIP (calling). Aunt Emily! ... Aunt Emily! ... Do you mind my
+smoking in here?
+
+AUNT EMILY (from upstairs). Of course not, darling.
+
+PHILIP (to JAMES, as he returns to his chair). Of course not,
+darling. (He puts back his pipe in his mouth.)
+
+JAMES. Now, understand once and for all, Philip, while you remain
+in my house I expect not only punctuality, but also civility and
+respect. I will _not_ have impertinence.
+
+PHILIP (unimpressed). Well, that's what I want to talk to you
+about, Uncle James. About staying in your house, I mean.
+
+JAMES. I don't know what you do mean.
+
+PHILIP. Well, we don't get on too well together, and I thought
+perhaps I'd better take rooms somewhere. You could give me an
+allowance until I came into my money. Or I suppose you could give
+me the money now if you really liked. I don't quite know how father
+left it to me.
+
+JAMES (coldly). You come into your money when you are twenty-five.
+Your father very wisely felt that to trust a large sum to a mere
+boy of twenty-one was simply putting temptation in his way. Whether
+I have the power or not to alter his dispositions, I certainly
+don't propose to do so.
+
+PHILIP. If it comes to that, I am twenty-five.
+
+JAMES. Indeed? I had an impression that that event took place in
+about two years' time. When did you become twenty-five, may I ask?
+
+PHILIP (quietly). It was on the Somme. We were attacking the next
+day and my company was in support. We were in a so-called trench on
+the edge of a wood--a damned rotten place to be, and we got hell.
+The company commander sent back to ask if we could move. The C.O.
+said, "Certainly not; hang on." We hung on; doing nothing, you
+know--just hanging on and waiting for the next day. Of course, the
+Boche knew all about that. He had it on us nicely. ... (Sadly) Dear
+old Billy! he was one of the best--our company commander, you know.
+They got him, poor devil! That left _me_ in command of the company.
+I sent a runner back to ask if I could move. Well, I'd had a bit of
+a scout on my own and found a sort of trench five hundred yards to
+the right. Not what you'd call a trench, of course, but compared to
+that wood--well, it was absolutely Hyde Park. I described the
+position and asked if I could go there. My man never came back. I
+waited an hour and sent another man. He went west too. Well, I
+wasn't going to send a third. It was murder. So I had to decide.
+We'd lost about half the company by this time, you see. Well, there
+were three things I could do--hang on, move to this other trench,
+against orders, or go back myself and explain the situation. ... I
+moved. ... And then I went back to the C.O. and told him I'd moved. ...
+And then I went back to the company again. ... (Quietly) That was
+when I became twenty-five. ... or thirty-five. ... or forty-five.
+
+JAMES (recovering himself with an effort). Ah yes, yes. (He coughs
+awkwardly.) No doubt points like that frequently crop up in the
+trenches. I am glad that you did well out there, and I'm sure your
+Colonel would speak kindly of you; but when it comes to choosing a
+career for you now that you have left the Army, my advice is not
+altogether to be despised. Your father evidently thought so, or he
+would not have entrusted you to my care.
+
+PHILIP. My father didn't foresee this war.
+
+JAMES. Yes, yes, but you make too much of this war. All you young
+boys seem to think you've come back from France to teach us our
+business. You'll find that it is you who'll have to learn, not we.
+
+PHILIP. I'm quite prepared to learn; in fact, I want to.
+
+JAMES. Excellent. Then we can consider that settled.
+
+PHILIP. Well, we haven't settled yet what business I'm going to
+learn.
+
+JAMES. I don't think that's very difficult. I propose to take you
+into my business. You'll start at the bottom of course, but it will
+be a splendid opening for you.
+
+PHILIP (thoughtfully). I see. So you've decided it for me? The jam
+business.
+
+JAMES (sharply). Is there anything to be ashamed of in that?
+
+PHILIP. Oh no, nothing at all. Only it doesn't happen to appeal to
+me.
+
+JAMES. If you knew which side your bread was buttered, it would
+appeal to you very considerably.
+
+PHILIP. I'm afraid I can't see the butter for the jam.
+
+JAMES. I don't want any silly jokes of that sort. You were glad
+enough to get it out there, I've no doubt.
+
+PHILIP. Oh yes. Perhaps that's why I'm so sick of it now. ... No,
+it's no good, Uncle James; you must think of something else.
+
+JAMES (with a sneer). Perhaps _you've_ thought of something else?
+
+PHILIP. Well, I had some idea of being an architect--
+
+JAMES. You propose to start learning to be an architect at twenty-three?
+
+PHILIP (smiling). Well, I couldn't start before, could I?
+
+JAMES. Exactly. And now you'll find it's too late.
+
+PHILIP. Is it? Aren't there going to be any more architects, or
+doctors, or solicitors, or barristers? Because we've all lost four
+years of our lives, are all the professions going to die out?
+
+JAMES. And how old do you suppose you'll be before you're earning
+money as an architect?
+
+PHILIP. The usual time, whatever that may be. If I'm four years
+behind, so is everybody else.
+
+JAMES. Well, I think it's high time you began to earn a living at
+once.
+
+PHILIP. Look here, Uncle James, do you really think that you can
+treat me like a boy who's just left school? Do you think four years
+at the front have made no difference at all?
+
+JAMES. If there had been any difference, I should have expected it
+to take the form of an increased readiness in obey orders and
+recognize authority.
+
+PHILIP (regretfully). You are evidently determined to have a row.
+Perhaps I had better tell you once and for all that I refuse to go
+into the turnip and vegetable narrow business.
+
+JAMES (thumping the table angrily). And perhaps I'd better tell
+_you_, sir, once and for all, that I don't propose to allow rude
+rudeness from an impertinent young puppy.
+
+PHILIP (reminiscently). I remember annoying our Brigadier once. He
+was covered with red, had a very red face, about twenty medals, and
+a cold blue eye. He told me how angry he was for about five minutes
+while I stood to attention. I'm afraid you aren't nearly
+impressive, Uncle James.
+
+JAMES (rather upset). Oh! (Recovering himself) Fortunately I have
+other means of impressing you. The power of the purse goes a long
+way in this world. I propose to use it.
+
+PHILIP. I see. ... Yes ... that's rather awkward, isn't it?
+
+JAMES (pleasantly). I think you'll find it very awkward.
+
+PHILIP (thoughtfully). Yes.
+
+(With an amused laugh JAMES settles down to his paper as if the
+interview were over.)
+
+PHILIP (to himself). I suppose I shall have to think of another
+argument. (He takes out a revolver from him pocket and fondles it
+affectionately.)
+
+JAMES (looking up suddenly as he is doing this--amazed). What on
+earth are you doing?
+
+PHILIP. Souvenir from France. Do you know, Uncle. James, that this
+revolver has killed about twenty Germans?
+
+JAMES (shortly). Oh! Well, don't go playing about with it here, or
+you'll be killing Englishmen before you know where you are.
+
+PHILIP. Well, you never know. (He raises it leisurely and points it
+at his uncle.) It's a nice little weapon.
+
+JAMES (angrily). Put it down, sir. You ought to have grown out of
+monkey tricks like that in the Army. You ought to know better than
+to point an unloaded revolver at anybody. That's the way accidents
+always happen.
+
+PHILIP. Not when you've been on a revolver course and know all
+about it. Besides, it _is_ loaded.
+
+JAMES (very angry because he is frightened suddenly). Put it down
+at once, sir. (PHILIP turns it away from him and examines it
+carelessly.) What's the matter with you? Have you gone mad
+suddenly?
+
+PHILIP (mildly). I thought you'd be interested in it. It's shot
+such a lot of Germans.
+
+JAMES. Well, it won't want to shoot any more, and the sooner you
+get rid of it the better.
+
+PHILIP. I wonder. Does it ever occur to you, Uncle James, that
+there are about a hundred thousand people in England who own
+revolvers, who are quite accustomed to them and--who have nobody to
+practise on now?
+
+JAMES. No, sir, it certainly doesn't.
+
+PHILIP (thoughtfully). I wonder if it will make any difference. You
+know, one gets so used to potting at people. It's rather difficult
+to realize suddenly that one oughtn't to.
+
+JAMES (getting up). I don't know what the object of this tomfoolery
+is, if it has one. But you understand that I expect you to come to
+the office with me to-morrow at nine o'clock. Kindly see that
+you're punctual. (He turns to go away.)
+
+PHILIP (softly). Uncle James.
+
+JAMES (over his shoulder). I have no more--
+
+PHILIP (in his parade voice). Damn it, sir! stand to attention when
+you talk to an officer! (JAMES instinctively turns round and
+stiffens himself.) That's better; you can sit down if you like. (He
+motions JAMES to his chair with the revolver.)
+
+JAMES (going nervously to his chair). What does this bluff mean?
+
+PHILIP. It isn't bluff, it's quite serious. (Pointing the revolver
+at his uncle) Do sit down.
+
+JAMES (sitting donor). Threats, eh?
+
+PHILIP. Persuasion.
+
+JAMES. At the point of the revolver? You settle your arguments by
+force? Good heavens, sir! this is just the very thing that we were
+fighting to put down.
+
+PHILIP. _We_ were fighting! _We_! _We_! Uncle, you're humorist.
+
+JAMES, Well, "you," if you prefer it. Although those of us who
+stayed at home--
+
+PHILIP. Yes, never mind about the excess profits now. I can tell
+you quite well what we fought for. We used force to put down force.
+That's what I'm doing now. You were going to use force--the force
+of money--to make me do what you wanted. Now I'm using force to
+stop it. (He levels the revolver again.)
+
+JAMES. You're--you're going to shoot your old uncle?
+
+PHILIP. Why not? I've shot lots of old uncles--Landsturmers.
+
+JAMES. But those were Germans! It's different shooting Germans.
+You're in England now. You couldn't have a crime on your conscience
+like that.
+
+PHILIP. Ah, but you mustn't think that after four years of war one
+has quite the same ideas about the sanctity of human life. How
+could one?
+
+JAMES. You'll find that juries have kept pretty much the same
+ideas, I fancy.
+
+PHILIP. Yes, but revolvers often go off accidentally. You said so
+yourself. This is going to be the purest accident. Can't you see it
+in the papers? "The deceased's nephew, who was obviously upset--"
+
+JAMES. I suppose you think it's brave to come back from the front
+and threaten a defenceless man with a revolver? Is that the sort of
+fair play they teach you in the Army?
+
+PHILIP. Good heavens! of course it is. You don't think that you
+wait until the other side has got just as many guns as you before
+you attack? You're really rather lucky. Strictly speaking, I ought
+to have thrown half a dozen bombs at you first. (Taking one out of
+his pocket) As it happens, I've only got one.
+
+JAMES (thoroughly alarmed). Put that back at once.
+
+PHILIP (putting down the revolver and taking it in his hands). You
+hold it in the right hand--so--taking care to keep the lever down.
+Then you take the pin in the finger--so, and--but perhaps this
+doesn't interest you?
+
+JAMES (edging his chair away). Put it down at once, sir. Good
+heavens! anything might happen.
+
+PHILIP (putting it down and taking up the revolver again). Does it
+ever occur to you, Uncle James, that there are about three million
+people in England who know all about bombs, and how to throw them,
+and--
+
+JAMES. It certainly does not occur to me. I should never dream of
+letting these things occur to me.
+
+PHILIP (looking at the bomb regretfully). It's rather against my
+principles as a soldier, but just to make things a bit more fair--
+(generously) you shall have it. (He holds it out to him suddenly.)
+
+JAMES (shrinking back again). Certainly not, sir. It might go off
+at any moment.
+
+PHILIP (putting it back in his pocket). Oh no; it's quite useless;
+there's no detonator. ... (Sternly) Now, then, let's talk business.
+
+JAMES. What do you want me to do?
+
+PHILIP. Strictly speaking, you should be holding your hands over
+your head and saying "Kamerad!" However, I'll let you off that. All
+I ask from you is that you should be reasonable.
+
+JAMES. And if I refuse, you'll shoot me?
+
+PHILIP. Well, I don't quite know, Uncle James. I expect we should
+go through this little scene again to-morrow. You haven't enjoyed
+it, have you? Well, there's lots more of it to come. We'll rehearse
+it every day. One day, if you go on being unreasonable, the thing
+will go off. Of course, you think that I shouldn't have the pluck
+to fire. But you can't be quite certain. It's a hundred to one that
+I shan't--only I might. Fear--it's a horrible thing. Elderly men
+die of it sometimes.
+
+JAMES. Pooh! I'm not to be bluffed like that.
+
+PHILIP (suddenly). You're quite right; you're not that sort. I made
+a mistake. (Aiming carefully) I shall have to do it straight off,
+after all. One--two--
+
+JAMES (on his knees, with uplifted hands, in an agony of terror).
+Philip! Mercy! What are your terms?
+
+PHILIP (picking him up by the scruff, and helping him into the
+chair). Good man, that's the way to talk. I'll get them for you.
+Make yourself comfortable in front of the fire till I come back.
+Here's the paper. (He gives his uncle the paper, and goes out into
+the hall.)
+
+***
+
+(JAMES opens his eyes with a start and looks round him in a
+bewildered way. He rubs his heart, takes out his match and looks at
+it, and then stares round the room again. The door from the dining-room
+opens, and PHILIP comes in with a piece of toast in his hand.)
+
+PHILIP (his mouth full). You wanted to see me, Uncle James?
+
+JAMES (still bewildered). That's all right, my boy, that's all
+right. What have you been doing?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Breakfast. (Putting the last piece in his
+mouth) Rather late, I'm afraid.
+
+JAMES. That's all right. (He laughs awkwardly.)
+
+PHILIP. Anything the matter? You don't look your usual bright self.
+
+JAMES. I--er--seem to have dropped asleep in front of the fire.
+Most unusual thing for me to have done. Most unusual.
+
+PHILIP. Let that be a lesson to you not to get up so early. Of
+course, if you're in the Army you can't help yourself. Thank Heaven
+I'm out of it, and my own master again.
+
+JAMES. Ah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sit down,
+Philip. (He indicates the chair by the fire.)
+
+PHILIP (taking a chair by the table). You have that, uncle; I shall
+be all right here.
+
+JAMES (hastily). No, no; you come here. (He gives PHILIP the
+armchair and sits by the table himself.) I should be dropping off
+again. (He laughs awkwardly.)
+
+PHILIP. Righto. (He puts his hand to his pocket. UNCLE JAMES
+shivers and looks at him to horror. PHILIP brings out his pipe, and
+a sickly grin of relief comes into JAMES'S face.)
+
+JAMES. I suppose you smoked a lot in France?
+
+PHILIP. Rather! Nothing else to do. It's allowed in here?
+
+JAMES (hastily). Yes, yes, of course. (PHILIP lights his pipe.)
+Well now, Philip, what are you going to do, now you've left the
+Army?
+
+PHILIP (promptly). Burn my uniform and sell my revolver.
+
+JAMES (starting at the word "revolver"). Sell your revolver, eh?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Well, I don't want it now, do I?
+
+JAMES. No. ... Oh no. ... Oh, most certainly not, I should say. Oh,
+I can't see why you should want it at all. (With an uneasy laugh)
+You're in England now. No need for revolvers here--eh?
+
+PHILIP (staring at him). Well, no, I hope not.
+
+JAMES (hastily). Quite so. Well now, Philip, what next? We must
+find a profession for you.
+
+PHILIP (yawning). I suppose so. I haven't really thought about it
+much.
+
+JAMES. You never wanted to be an architect?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Architect? (JAMES rubs his head and wonders
+what made him think of architect.)
+
+JAMES. Or anything like that.
+
+PHILIP. It's a bit late, isn't it?
+
+JAMES. Well, if you're four years behind, so is everybody else. (He
+feels vaguely that he has heard this argument before.)
+
+PHILIP (smiling): To tell the truth, I don't feel I mind much
+anyway. Anything you like--except a commissionaire. I absolutely
+refuse to wear uniform again.
+
+JAMES. How would you like to come into the business?
+
+PHILIP. The jam business? Well, I don't know. You wouldn't want
+me to salute you in the mornings?
+
+JAMES. My dear boy, no!
+
+PHILIP. All right, I'll try it if you like. I don't know if I shall
+be any good--what do you do?
+
+JAMES. It's your experience in managing and--er--handling men which
+I hope will be of value.
+
+PHILIP. Oh, I can do that all right. (Stretching himself
+luxuriously) Uncle James, do you realize that I'm never going to
+salute again, or wear a uniform, or get wet--really wet, I mean--or
+examine men's feet, or stand to attention when I'm spoken to, or--
+oh, lots more things. And best of all, I'm never going to be
+frightened again. Have you ever known what it is to be afraid--
+really afraid?
+
+JAMES (embarrassed). I--er--well--(He coughs.)
+
+PHILIP. No, you couldn't--not really afraid of death, I mean. Well,
+that's over now. Good lord! I could spend the rest of my life in
+the British Museum and be happy. ...
+
+JAMES (getting up). All right, we'll try you in the office. I
+expect you want a holiday first, though.
+
+PHILIP (getting up). My dear uncle, this is holiday. Being in
+London is holiday. Buying an evening paper--wearing a waistcoat
+again--running after a bus--anything--it's all holiday.
+
+JAMES. All right, then, come along with me now, and I'll introduce
+you to Mr. Bamford.
+
+PHILIP. Right. Who's he?
+
+JAMES. Our manager. A little stiff, but a very good fellow. He'll
+be delighted to hear that you are coming into the firm.
+
+PHILIP (smiling). Perhaps I'd better bring my revolver, in case he
+isn't.
+
+JAMES (laughing with forced heartiness as they go together to the
+door). Ha, ha! A good joke that! Ha, ha, ha! A good joke--but only
+a joke, of course. Ha, ha! He, he, he!
+
+[PHILIP goes out. JAMES, following him, turns at the door, and
+looks round the room in a bewildered way. Was it a dream, or wasn't
+it? He will never be quite certain.]
+
+
+
+BELINDA
+
+An April Folly in Three Acts
+
+
+CHARACTERS
+
+BELINDA TREMAYNE.
+DELIA (her daughter).
+HAROLD BAXTER.
+CLAUDE DEVENISH.
+JOHN TREMAYNE.
+BETTY.
+
+The action takes place in Belinda's country-house in Devonshire at
+the end of April.
+
+
+This play was first produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New
+Theatre, London, on April 8, 1918, with the following cast:
+
+Belinda Tremayne--IRENE VANBRUGH.
+Delia--ISOBEL ELSOM.
+Harold Baxter--DION BOUCICAULT.
+Claude Devenish--DENNIS NEILSON-TERRY.
+John Tremayne--BEN WEBSTER.
+Betty--ANNE WALDEN.
+
+
+BELINDA
+
+ACT I
+
+[It is a lovely April afternoon--a foretaste of summer--in
+BELINDA'S garden.]
+
+[BETTY, a middle-aged servant, is fastening a hammock--its first
+appearance this year--between two trees at the back. In front of
+these there is a solid oak garden-table, with a comfortable chair
+on the right of it and a straight-backed one on the left. There are
+books, papers, and magazines on the table. BELINDA, of whom we
+shall know more presently, is on the other side of the open windows
+which look on to the garden, talking to BETTY.]
+
+BELINDA (from inside the house). Are you sure you're tying it up
+tightly enough, Betty?
+
+BETTY (coming to front of hammock). Yes, ma'am; I think it's
+firm.
+
+BELINDA. Because I'm not the fairy I used to be.
+
+BETTY (trying the knots at the other end of the hammock). Yes,
+ma'am; it's quite firm this end too.
+
+BELINDA. It's not the ends I'm frightened of; it's the middle where
+the weight's coming. (She comes into the garden.) It looks very
+nice.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA (trying the middle of it with her hand). I asked them at
+the Stores if they were quite _sure_ it would bear me, and they
+said it would take anything up to--I forget how many tons. I know I
+thought it was rather rude of them. (Looking at it anxiously) How
+does one get in? So trying to be a sailor!
+
+BETTY. I think you sit in it, ma'am, and then (explaining with her
+hands) throw your legs over.
+
+BELINDA. I see. (She sits gingerly in the hammock, and then, with a
+sudden flutter of white, does what BETTY suggests.) Yes.
+(Regretfully.) I'm afraid that was rather wasted on you, Betty.
+We must have some spectators next time.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. Cushions. (She arranges them at her back with BETTY'S
+help. With a sigh of comfort) There! Now then, Betty, about
+callers.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. If Mr. Baxter calls--he is the rather prim gentleman--
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am; the one who's been here several times before.
+
+BELINDA (giving BETTY a quick look). Yes. Well, if he calls, you'll
+say, "Not at home."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. He will say, "Oh--er--oh--er--really." Then you'll smile
+very sweetly and say, "I beg your pardon, was it Mr. _Baxter_?" And
+he'll say, "Yes!" and you'll say, "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir;
+_this_ way, please."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. That's right, Betty. Well now, if Mr. Devenish calls--he
+is the rather poetical gentleman--
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am; the one who's always coming here.
+
+BELINDA (with a pleased smile). Yes. Well, if he calls you'll
+say, "Not at home."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. He'll immediately throw down his bunch of flowers and dive
+despairingly into the moat. You'll stop him, just as he is going
+in, and say, "I beg your pardon, sir, was it Mr. _Devenish_?" And
+he will say, "Yes!" and you will say, "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir;
+_this_ way, please."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am. And suppose they both call together?
+
+BELINDA. We won't suppose anything so exciting, Betty.
+
+BETTY. No, ma'am. And suppose any other gentleman calls?
+
+BELINDA (with a sigh). There aren't any other gentlemen.
+
+BETTY. It might be a clergyman, come to ask for a subscription like.
+
+BELINDA. If it's a clergyman, Betty, I shall--I shall want your
+assistance out of the hammock first.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. That's all. To anybody else I'm not at home. (Trying to
+secure book on table and nearly falling out of the hammock.) Oh,
+just give me that little green book. (Pointing to books on the
+table.) The one at the bottom there--that's the one. (BETTY gives
+it to her.) Thank you. (Reading the title.) "The Lute of Love," by
+Claude Devenish. (To herself as she turns the pages.) It doesn't
+seem much for half-a-crown when you think of the _Daily Telegraph_.
+... Lute ... Lute. ... I should have quite a pretty mouth if I kept
+on saying that. (With a great deal of expression.) Lute! (She pats
+her mouth back.)
+
+BETTY. Is that all, ma'am?
+
+BELINDA. That's all. (BETTY prepares to go.) Oh, what am I
+thinking of! (Waving to the table.) I want that review; I think
+it's the blue one. (As BETTY begins to look.) It has an
+article by Mr. Baxter on the "Rise of Lunacy in the Eastern
+Counties"--yes, that's the one. I'd better have that too; I'm just
+at the most exciting place. You shall have it after _me, _Betty.
+
+BETTY. Is that all, ma'am?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, that really is all.
+
+[BETTY goes into the house.]
+
+BELINDA (reading to herself). "It is a matter of grave concern to
+all serious students of social problems--" (Putting the review down
+in hammock and shaking her head gently.) But not in April. (Lazily
+opening the book and reading.) "Tell me where is love"--well,
+that's the question, isn't it? (She puts the book down, gives a
+sigh of happiness, and lazily closes her eyes. DELIA comes into the
+garden, from Paris. She is decidedly a modern girl, pretty and
+self-possessed. Her hair is half-way up; waiting for her birthday,
+perhaps. She sees her mother suddenly, stops, and then goes on
+tiptoe to the head of the hammock. She smiles and kisses her mother
+on the forehead. BELINDA, looking supremely unconscious, goes on
+sleeping. DELIA kisses her lightly again. BELINDA wakes up with
+an extraordinarily natural start, and is just about to say, "Oh,
+Mr. Devenish--you mustn't!"--when she sees DELIA.) Delia!
+
+DELIA. Well, mummy, aren't you glad to see me?
+
+BELINDA. My darling child! (They kiss each other frantically.)
+
+DELIA. Say you're glad.
+
+BELINDA (sitting up). My darling, I'm absolutely--Hold the hammock
+while I get out, dear; we don't want an accident. (Getting out with
+DELIA'S help) They're all right when you're there, and they'll bear
+two tons, but they're horrid getting in and out of. (Kissing her
+again) Darling, it really _is_ you?
+
+DELIA. Oh, it is jolly seeing you again. I believe you were asleep.
+
+BELINDA (with dignity). Certainly not, child. I was reading
+"The Nineteenth Century"--(with an air)--and after. (Earnestly)
+Darling, wasn't it next Thursday you were coming back?
+
+DELIA. No, this Thursday, silly.
+
+BELINDA (penitently). Oh, my darling, and I was going over to
+Paris to bring you home.
+
+DELIA. I half expected you.
+
+BELINDA. So confusing their both being called Thursday. And you
+were leaving school for the very last time. If you don't forgive
+me, Delia, I shall cry.
+
+DELIA (stroking her hand fondly). Silly mother!
+
+(BELINDA sits down in a basket chair and DELIA sits on a table next
+to her.)
+
+BELINDA. Isn't it a lovely day for April, darling! I've wanted to
+say that to somebody all day, and you're the first person who's
+given me the chance. Oh, I said it to Betty, but she only said,
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+DELIA. Poor mother!
+
+BELINDA (jumping up suddenly and kissing DELIA again). I simply
+must have another one. And to think that you're never going back to
+school any more. (Looking at her fondly) Darling, you _are_ looking
+pretty.
+
+DELIA. Am I?
+
+BELINDA. Lovely. (Going back to her seat) And now you're going to
+stay with me for just as long as you want a mother. (Anxiously)
+Darling, you didn't mind being sent away to school, did you? It
+_is_ the usual thing, you know.
+
+DELIA. Silly mother! of course it is.
+
+BELINDA (relieved). I'm so glad you think so too.
+
+DELIA. Have you been very lonely without me?
+
+BELINDA. Very.
+
+DELIA (holding up a finger). The truth, mummy!
+
+BELINDA. I've missed you horribly, Delia. (Primly.) The absence
+of female companionship of the requisite--
+
+DELIA. Are you really all alone?
+
+BELINDA (smiling mysteriously). Well, not always, of course.
+
+DELIA (excitedly, at she slips off the table). Mummy, I believe
+you're being bad again.
+
+BELINDA. Really, darling, you forget that I'm old enough to be--in
+fact, am--your mother.
+
+DELIA (nodding her head). You are being bad.
+
+BELINDA (rising with dignity and drawing herself up to her full
+height). My child, that is not the way to--Oh, I say, what a lot
+taller I am than you!
+
+DELIA. And prettier.
+
+BELINDA (fluttering her eyelids). Oh, do you think so? (Firmly)
+Don't be silly, child.
+
+DELIA (holding up a finger). Now tell me all that's been
+happening here at once.
+
+BELINDA (with a sigh). And I was just going to ask you how you
+were getting on with your French.
+
+DELIA. Bother French! You've been having a much more interesting
+time than I have, so you've got to tell.
+
+BELINDA (with a happy sigh). O-oh! (She sinks back into her
+chair.)
+
+DELIA. Is it like the Count at Scarborough?
+
+BELINDA (surprised and pained). My darling, what _do_ you mean?
+
+DELIA. Don't you remember the Count who kept proposing to you at
+Scarborough? I do.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Dear one, you were the merest child,
+paddling about on the beach and digging castles.
+
+DELIA (smiling to herself). I was old enough to notice the Count.
+
+BELINDA (sadly). And I'd bought her a perfectly new spade! How
+one deceives oneself!
+
+DELIA. And then there was the M.P. who proposed at Windermere.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, dear, but it wasn't seconded--I mean he never got
+very far with it.
+
+DELIA. And the artist in Wales.
+
+BELINDA. Darling child, what a memory you have. No wonder your
+teachers are pleased with you.
+
+DELIA (settling herself comfortably). Now tell me all about this
+one.
+
+BELINDA (meekly). Which one?
+
+DELIA (excitedly). Oh, are there lots?
+
+BELINDA (severely). Only two.
+
+DELIA. Two! You abandoned woman!
+
+BELINDA. It's something in the air, darling. I've never been in
+Devonshire in April before.
+
+DELIA. Is it really serious this time?
+
+BELINDA (pained). I wish you wouldn't say _this_ time, Delia. It
+sounds so unromantic. If you'd only put it into French--_cette
+fois_--it sounds so much better. _Cette fois_. (Parentally.)
+When one's daughter has just returned from an expensive schooling
+in Paris, one likes to feel--
+
+DELIA. What I meant, dear, was, am I to have a stepfather at last?
+
+BELINDA. Now you're being _too_ French, darling.
+
+DELIA. Why, do you still think father may be alive?
+
+BELINDA. Why not? It's only eighteen years since he left us, and he
+was quite a young man then.
+
+DELIA. Yes, but surely you'd have heard from him in all those
+years, if he'd been alive?
+
+BELINDA. Well, he hasn't heard from _me, _and I'm still alive.
+
+DELIA (looking earnestly at her mother). I shall never understand
+it.
+
+BELINDA. Understand what?
+
+DELIA. Were you as heavenly when you were young as you are now?
+
+BELINDA (rapturously). Oh, I was sweet!
+
+DELIA. And yet he left you after only six months.
+
+BELINDA (rather crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep on saying he
+left me. I left him too.
+
+DELIA. Why?
+
+BELINDA (smiling to herself). Well, you see, he was quite certain
+he knew how to manage women, and I was quite certain I knew how to
+manage men. (Thoughtfully.) If only one of us had been certain,
+it would have been all right.
+
+DELIA (seriously). What really happened, mummy? I'm grown up now,
+so I think you ought to tell me.
+
+BELINDA (thoughtfully). That was about all, you know ... except
+for his beard.
+
+DELIA. Had he a beard? How funny!
+
+BELINDA. Yes, dear, it was; but he never would see it. He took it
+quite seriously.
+
+DELIA. And did you say dramatically, "If you really loved me, you'd
+take it off"?
+
+BELINDA (apologetically). I'm afraid I did, darling.
+
+DELIA. And what did _he_ say?
+
+BELINDA. He said--_very_ rudely--that, if I loved _him_, I'd
+do my hair in a different way.
+
+DELIA. How ridiculous!
+
+BELINDA (touching her hair). Of course, I didn't do it like this
+then. (With a sigh.) I suppose we never ought to have married,
+really.
+
+DELIA. Why did you?
+
+BELINDA. Mother rather wanted it. (Solemnly.) Delia, never get
+married because your mother--Oh, I forgot; _I'm_ your mother.
+
+DELIA. And I don't want a better one. ... And so you left each
+other?
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+DELIA. But, darling, didn't you tell him there was going to be a Me?
+
+BELINDA. Oh no!
+
+DELIA. I wonder why not?
+
+BELINDA. Well, you see, if I had, he might have wanted to stay.
+
+DELIA. But--
+
+BELINDA (hurt). If he didn't want to stay for _me_, I didn't
+want him to stay for _you_. (Penitently.) Forgive me, darling,
+but I didn't know you very well then. (DELIA jumps off the table
+and hugs her mother impetuously.) We've been very happy together,
+haven't we?
+
+DELIA (going back to her seat). I should think we have.
+
+BELINDA. I don't want to deny you anything, and, of course, if
+you'd like a stepfather (looking down modestly) or two--
+
+DELIA. Oh, you _have_ been enjoying yourself.
+
+BELINDA. Only you see how awkward it would be if Jack turned up in
+the middle of the wedding, like--like Eugene Aram.
+
+DELIA. Enoch Arden, darling.
+
+BELINDA. It's very confusing their having the same initials.
+Perhaps I'd better call them both E. A. in future and then I shall
+be safe. Well, anyhow it would be awkward, darling, wouldn't it?
+Not that I should know him from Adam after all these years--except
+for a mole on his left arm.
+
+DELIA. Perhaps Adam had a mole.
+
+BELINDA. No, darling; you're thinking of Noah. He had two.
+
+DELIA (thoughtfully). I wonder what would happen if you met
+somebody whom you really did fall in love with?
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Now you're being serious, and it's
+April.
+
+DELIA. Aren't these two--the present two--serious?
+
+BELINDA. Oh no! They think they are, but they aren't a bit, really.
+Besides, I'm doing them such a lot of good. I'm sure they'd hate to
+marry me, but they love to think they're in love with me, and--_I_
+love it, and--and _they_ love it, and--and we _all_ love it.
+
+DELIA. You really are the biggest, darlingest baby who ever lived.
+(Kisses her.) Do say I shan't spoil your lovely times.
+
+BELINDA (surprised). Spoil them? Why, you'll make them more lovely
+than ever.
+
+DELIA. Well, but do they know you have a grown-up daughter?
+
+BELINDA (suddenly realizing). Oh!
+
+DELIA. It doesn't really matter, because you don't look a day more
+than thirty.
+
+BELINDA (absently). No. (Hurriedly.) I mean, how sweet of you--
+only--
+
+DELIA. What!
+
+BELINDA (playing with her rings). Well, one of them, Mr. Baxter--
+Harold--(she looks quickly up at DELIA and down again in pretty
+affectation, but she is really laughing at herself all the
+time) he writes statistical articles for the Reviews--percentages
+and all those things. He's just the sort of man, if he knew that I
+was your mother, to work it out that I was more than thirty. The
+other one, Mr. Devenish--Claude--(she looks up and down as before)
+he's rather, rather poetical. He thinks I came straight from
+heaven--last week.
+
+DELIA (jumping up). I think _I'd_ better go straight back to Paris.
+
+BELINDA (jumping up and catching her firmly by the arms). You will
+do nothing of the sort. You will take off that hat--(she lets go of
+the arm and begins to take out the pin) which is a perfect duck,
+and I don't know why I didn't say so before--(she puts the hat down
+on the table) and let me take a good look at you (she does so), and
+kiss you (she does so), and then we'll go to your room and unpack
+and have a lovely talk about clothes. And then we'll have tea.
+
+[BETTY comes in.]
+
+BELINDA. And now here's Betty coming in to upset all our delightful
+plans, just when we've made them.
+
+DELIA. How are you, Betty? I've left school.
+
+BETTY. Very nicely, thank you, miss. You've grown.
+
+BELINDA (patting the top of DELIA'S head). I'm much taller than she
+is. ... Well, Betty, what is it?
+
+BETTY. The two gentlemen, Mr. Baxter and Mr. Devenish, have both
+called together, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA (excited). Oh! How--how very simultaneous of them!
+
+DELIA (eagerly). Oh, do let me see them!
+
+BELINDA. Darling, you'll see plenty of them before you've finished.
+(To BETTY) What have you done with them?
+
+BETTY. They're waiting in the hall, ma'am, while I said I would see
+if you were at home.
+
+BELINDA. All right, Betty. Give me two minutes and then show them
+out here.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am. [Exit.]
+
+BELINDA. They can't do much harm to each other in two minutes.
+
+DELIA (taking her hat). Well, I'll go and unpack. You really won't
+mind my coming down afterwards?
+
+BELINDA. Of course not. (A little awkwardly) Darling one, I wonder
+if you'd mind--just at first--being introduced as my niece. You
+see, I expect they're in a bad temper already, having come here
+together, and we don't want to spoil their day entirely.
+
+DELIA (smiling). I'll be your mother if you like.
+
+BELINDA. Oh no, that wouldn't do, because then Mr. Baxter would
+feel that he ought to ask your permission before paying his
+attentions to me. He's just that sort of man. A niece is so safe--
+however good you are at statistics, you can't really prove
+anything.
+
+DELIA. All right, mummy.
+
+BELINDA (enjoying herself). You'd like to be called by a different
+name, wouldn't you? There's something so thrilling about taking a
+false name. Such a lot of adventures begin like that. How would
+you like to be Miss Robinson, darling? It's a nice easy one to
+remember. (Persuasively.) And you shall put your hair up so as to
+feel more disguised. What fun we're going to have!
+
+DELIA. You baby! All right, then, I'm Miss Robinson, your favourite
+niece. (She moves towards the house.)
+
+BELINDA. How sweet of you! Oh, I'm coming with you to do your hair.
+You don't think you're going to be allowed to do it yourself, when
+so much depends on it, and husbands leave you because of it, and--
+[They do in together.]
+
+[BETTY comes from the other side of the house into the garden,
+followed by MR. BAXTER and MR. DEVENISH. MR. BAXTER is forty-five,
+prim and erect, with close-trimmed moustache and side-whiskers. His
+clothes are dark and he wears a bowler-hat. MR. DEVENISH is a
+long-haired, good-looking boy in a neglige costume; perhaps
+twenty-two years old, and very scornful of the world.]
+
+BETTY (looking about her surprised). The mistress was here a
+moment ago. I expect she'll be back directly, if you'll just wait.
+[She goes back into the house.]
+
+(MR. BAXTER puts his bowler-hat firmly on his head and sits down
+very stiffly and upright in a chair on the left-hand side of the
+table. DEVENISH throws his felt hat on to the table and walks about
+inquisitively. He sees the review in the hammock and picks it up.)
+
+DEVENISH. Good heavens, Baxter, she's been reading your article!
+
+BAXTER. I dare say she's not the only one.
+
+DEVENISH. That's only guesswork (going to back of table); you
+don't know of anyone else.
+
+BAXTER. How many people, may I ask, have bought your poems?
+
+DEVENISH (loftily). I don't write for the mob.
+
+BAXTER. I think I may say that of my own work.
+
+DEVENISH. Baxter, I don't want to disappoint you, but I have
+reluctantly come to the conclusion that you _are_ one of the mob.
+(Annoyed.) Dash it! what are you doing in the country at all in a
+bowler-hat?
+
+BAXTER. If I wanted to be personal, I could say, "Why don't you get
+your hair cut?" Only that form of schoolboy humour doesn't appeal
+to me.
+
+DEVENISH. This is not a personal matter; I am protesting on behalf
+of nature. What do the birds and the flowers and the beautiful
+trees think of your hat?
+
+BAXTER. If one began to ask oneself what the birds thought of
+things--(He pauses.)
+
+DEVENISH. Well, and why shouldn't one ask oneself? It is better
+than asking oneself what the Stock Exchange thinks of things.
+
+BAXTER. Well (looking up at DEVENISH'S extravagant hair), it's the
+nesting season. Your hair! (Suddenly.) Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
+
+DEVENISH (hastily smoothing it down). Really, Baxter, you're
+vulgar. (He turns away and resumes his promenading. Suddenly he
+sees his book on the grass beneath the hammock and makes a dash for
+it.) Ha, my book! (Gloating over it) Baxter, she reads my book.
+
+BAXTER. I suppose you gave her a copy.
+
+DEVENISH (exultingly). Yes, I gave her a copy. My next book will be
+hers and hers alone.
+
+BAXTER. Then let me say that, in my opinion, you took a very great
+liberty.
+
+DEVENISH. Liberty! And this from a man who is continually forcing
+his unwelcome statistics upon her.
+
+BAXTER. At any rate, I flatter myself that there is no suggestion
+of impropriety in anything that _I_ write.
+
+DEVENISH. I'm not so sure about that, Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. What do you mean, sir?
+
+DEVENISH. Did you read _The Times_ this month on the new reviews!
+
+BAXTER. Well!
+
+DEVENISH. Oh, nothing. It just said, "Mr. Baxter's statistics are
+extremely suggestive." I haven't read them, so of course I don't
+know what you've been up to.
+
+BAXTER (turning away in disgust). Pah!
+
+DEVENISH. Poor old Baxter! (He wanders about the garden again, and,
+having picked a flower, comes to rest against one of the trees
+from which the hammock is swung. He leans against this and regards
+the flower thoughtfully.) Baxter--
+
+BAXTER (crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep calling me "Baxter."
+
+DEVENISH. Harold.
+
+BAXTER. It is only by accident--an accident which we both deplore--
+that we have met at all, and in any case I am a considerably older
+man than yourself.
+
+DEVENISH. Mr. Baxter--father--I have a proposal to make. We will
+leave it to this beautiful flower to decide which of us the lady
+loves.
+
+BAXTER (turning round). Eh?
+
+DEVENISH (pulling off the petals). She loves me, she loves Mr.
+Baxter, she loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter--Heaven help her!--she
+loves me--
+
+BELINDA (at the garden door.). What _are_ you doing, Mr. Devenish!
+
+DEVENISH (throwing away the flower and bowing very low). My lady.
+
+BAXTER (removing his bowler-hat stiffly). Good afternoon, Mrs.
+Tremayne.
+
+(She gives her left hand to DEVENISH, who kisses it, and her
+right to BAXTER, who shakes it.)
+
+BELINDA. How nice of you both to come!
+
+BAXTER. Mr. Devenish and I are inseparable--apparently.
+
+BELINDA. You haven't told me what you were doing, Mr. Devenish. Was
+it "This year, next year?" or "Silk, satin--"
+
+DEVENISH. My lady, it was even more romantic than that. I have the
+honour to announce to your ladyship that Mr. Baxter is to be a
+sailor.
+
+BELINDA (to BAXTER). Doesn't he talk nonsense?
+
+BAXTER. He'll grow out of it. I did.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I hope not. I love talking nonsense, and I'm ever so
+old. (As they both start forward to protest) Now which one of
+you will say it first?
+
+DEVENISH. You are as old as the stars and as young as the dawn.
+
+BAXTER. You are ten years younger than I am.
+
+BELINDA. What sweet things to say! I don't know which I like best.
+
+DEVENISH. Where will my lady sit?
+
+BELINDA. I will recline in the hammock, an it please thee, my lord--
+only it's rather awkward getting in, Mr. Baxter. Perhaps you'd both
+better look at the tulips for a moment.
+
+BAXTER. Oh--ah--yes. (He puts his hat on and turns his back to the
+hammock.)
+
+DEVENISH (leaning over her). If only--
+
+BELINDA. You'd better not say anything, Mr. Devenish. Keep it for
+your next volume. (He turns away.) One, two, three--that was better
+than last time. (They turn round to see her safely in the hammock.
+DEVENISH leans against the tree at her feet, and BAXTER draws the
+chair from the right side of the table and turns it round towards
+her. He presses his hat more firmly on and sits down.) I wonder if
+either of you can guess what I've been reading this afternoon!
+
+DEVENISH (looking at her lovingly). I know.
+
+BELINDA (giving him a fleeting look). How did you know? (to
+BAXTER). Yes, Mr. Baxter, it was your article I was reading. If
+you'd come five minutes earlier you'd have found me wrestling--I
+mean revelling in it.
+
+BAXTER. I am very greatly honoured, Mrs. Tremayne. Ah--it seemed to
+me a very interesting curve showing the rise and fall of--
+
+BELINDA. I hadn't got up to the curves. They _are_ interesting,
+aren't they? They are really more in Mr. Devenish's line. (To
+DEVENISH.) Mr. Devenish, it was a great disappointment to me that
+all the poems in your book seemed to be written to somebody else.
+
+DEVENISH. It was before I met you, lady. They were addressed to the
+goddess of my imagination. It is only in these last few weeks that
+I have discovered her.
+
+BELINDA. And discovered she was dark and not fair.
+
+DEVENISH. She will be dark in my next volume.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, how nice of her!
+
+BAXTER (kindly). You should write a real poem to Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (excitedly). Oh do! "To Belinda." I don't know what rhymes,
+except cinder. You could say your heart was like a cinder--all
+burnt up.
+
+DEVENISH (pained). Oh, my lady, I'm afraid that is a cockney rhyme.
+
+BELINDA. How thrilling! I've never been to Hampstead Heath.
+
+DEVENISH. "Belinda." It is far too beautiful to rhyme with anything
+but itself.
+
+BELINDA. Fancy! But what about Tremayne? (Singing.) Oh, I am Mrs.
+Tremayne, and I don't want to marry again.
+
+DEVENISH (protesting). My lady!
+
+BAXTER (protesting). Belinda!
+
+BELINDA (pointing excitedly to BAXTER). There, that's the first
+time he's called me Belinda!
+
+DEVENISH. Are you serious?
+
+BELINDA. Not as a rule.
+
+DEVENISH. You're not going to marry again?
+
+BELINDA. Well, who could I marry?
+
+DEVENISH and BAXTER (together). Me!
+
+BELINDA (dropping her eyes modestly). But this is England.
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the right of age--of my greater
+years--to speak first.
+
+DEVENISH. Mrs. Tremayne, I--
+
+BELINDA (kindly to DEVENISH). You can speak afterwards, Mr.
+Devenish. It's so awkward when you both speak together.
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am a man of substantial position, and
+perhaps I may say of some repute in serious circles. All that I
+have, whether of material or mental endowment, I lay at your feet,
+together with an admiration which I cannot readily put into words.
+As my wife I think you would be happy, and I feel that with you by
+my side I could achieve even greater things.
+
+BELINDA. How sweet of you! But I ought to tell you that I'm no good
+at figures.
+
+DEVENISH (protesting). My lady--
+
+BELINDA. I don't mean what you mean, Mr. Devenish. You wait till
+it's your turn. (To BAXTER.) Yes?
+
+BAXTER. I ask you to marry me, Belinda.
+
+BELINDA (settling herself happily and closing her eyes). O-oh! ...
+Now it's _your_ turn, Mr. Devenish.
+
+DEVENISH (excitedly). Money--thank Heaven, I have no money.
+Reputation--thank Heaven, I have no reputation. What can I offer
+you? Dreams--nothing but dreams. Come with me and I will show you
+the world through my dreams. What can I give you? Youth, freedom,
+beauty--
+
+BAXTER. Debts.
+
+BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). You mustn't interrupt, Mr.
+Baxter.
+
+DEVENISH. Belinda, marry me and I will open your eyes to the beauty
+of the world. Come to me!
+
+BELINDA (happily). O-oh! You've got such different ways of putting
+things. How can I choose between you?
+
+DEVENISH. Then you will marry one of us?
+
+BELINDA. You know I really _oughtn't_ to.
+
+BAXTER. I don't see why not.
+
+BELINDA. Well, there's just a little difficulty in the way.
+
+DEVENISH. What is it? I will remove it. For you I could remove
+anything--yes, even Baxter. (He looks at BAXTER, who is sitting
+more solidly than ever in his chair.)
+
+BELINDA. And anyhow I should have to choose between you.
+
+DEVENISH (in a whisper). Choose me.
+
+BAXTER (stiffly). Mrs. Tremayne does not require any prompting. A
+fair field and let the best man win.
+
+DEVENISH (going across to and slapping the astonished BAXTER
+on the back). Aye, let the best man win! Well spoken, Baxter.
+(To BELINDA) Send us out into the world upon some knightly quest,
+lady, and let the victor be rewarded.
+
+BAXTER. I--er--ought to say that I should be unable to go very far.
+I have an engagement to speak at Newcastle on the 2lst.
+
+DEVENISH. Baxter, I will take no unfair advantage of you. Let the
+beard of the Lord Mayor of Newcastle be the talisman that my lady
+demands; I am satisfied.
+
+BAXTER. This sort of thing is entirely contrary to my usual mode of
+life, but I will not be outfaced by a mere boy. (Slapping his
+bowler-hat on the table) I am prepared.
+
+DEVENISH. Speak, lady.
+
+BELINDA (speaking in a deep, mysterious voice). Gentlemen, ye put
+wild thoughts into my head. In sooth, I am minded to send ye
+forth upon a quest that is passing strange. Know ye that there is a
+maid journeyed hither, hight Robinson--whose--(in her natural
+voice) what's the old for aunt?
+
+BAXTER (hopefully). Mother's sister.
+
+BELINDA. You know, I think I shall have to explain this in ordinary
+language. You won't mind very much, will you, Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH. It is the spirit of this which matters, not the language
+which clothes it.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad you think so. Well, now about Miss
+Robinson. She's my niece and she's just come to stay with me, and--
+poor girl--she's lost her father. Absolutely lost him. He
+disappeared ever such a long time ago, and poor Miss Robinson--
+Delia--naturally wants to find him. Poor girl! she can't think
+where he is.
+
+DEVENISH (nobly). I will find him.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, thank you, Mr. Devenish; Miss Robinson would be so
+much obliged.
+
+BAXTER. Yes--er--but what have we to go upon? Beyond the fact that
+his name is Robinson--
+
+BELINDA. I shouldn't go on that too much. You see, he may easily
+have changed it by now. He was never very much of a Robinson.
+Nothing to do with Peter or any of those.
+
+DEVENISH. I will find him.
+
+BAXTER. Well, can you tell us what he's like?
+
+BELINDA. Well, it's such a long time since I saw him. (Looking down
+modestly.) Of course, I was quite a girl then. The only thing I
+know for certain is that he has a mole on his left arm about here.
+(She indicates a spot just below the elbow.)
+
+DEVENISH (folding his arms and looking nobly upwards). I will find
+him.
+
+BAXTER. I am bound to inform you, Mrs. Tremayne, that even a
+trained detective could not give you very much hope in such a case.
+However, I will keep a look-out for him, and, of course, if--
+
+DEVENISH. Fear not, lady, I will find him.
+
+BAXTER (annoyed). Yes, you keep on saying that, but what have you
+got to go on?
+
+DEVENISH (grandly). Faith! The faith which moves mountains.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, and this is only just one small mole-hill, Mr.
+Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. Yes, but still--
+
+BELINDA. S'sh! here is Miss Robinson. If Mr. Devenish will hold the
+hammock while I alight--we don't want an accident--I can introduce
+you. (He helps her to get out.) Thank you. Delia darling, this
+is Mr. Baxter,--and Mr. Devenish. My niece, Miss Robinson--
+
+DELIA. How do you do?
+
+BELINDA. Miss Robinson has just come over from France. _Mon Dieu,
+quel pays!_
+
+BAXTER. I hope you had a good crossing, Miss Robinson.
+
+DELIA. Oh, I never mind about the crossing. Aunt Belinda--(She
+stops and smiles.)
+
+BELINDA. Yes, dear?
+
+DELIA. I believe tea is almost ready. I want mine, and I'm sure Mr.
+Baxter's hungry. Mr. Devenish scorns food, I expect.
+
+DEVENISH (hurt). Why do you say that?
+
+DELIA. Aren't you a poet?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, darling, but that doesn't prevent him eating. He'll
+be absolutely lyrical over Betty's sandwiches.
+
+DEVENISH. You won't deny me that inspiration, I hope, Miss
+Robinson.
+
+BELINDA. Well, let's go and see what they're like. (DELIA and
+DEVENISH begin to move towards the house.) Mr. Baxter, just a
+moment.
+
+BAXTER. Yes?
+
+BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must
+be a surprise for her.
+
+BAXTER. Quite so, I understand.
+
+BELINDA. That's right. (Raising her voice.) Oh, Mr. Devenish.
+
+DEVENISH. Yes, Mrs. Tremayne? (He comes back.)
+
+BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must
+be a surprise for her.
+
+DEVENISH. Of course! I shouldn't dream--(Indignantly.) Robinson!
+_What_ an unsuitable name!
+
+[BAXTER _and_ DELIA _are just going into the house.]
+
+BELINDA (dismissing DEVENISH). All right, I'll catch you up.
+
+[DEVENISH goes after the other two.]
+
+(Left alone, BELINDA _laughs happily to herself, and then
+begins to look rather aimlessly about her. She picks up her
+sunshade and opens it. She comes to the hammock, picks out her
+handkerchief, says, "Ah, there you are!" and puts it away. She goes
+slowly towards the house, turns her head just as she comes to the
+door, and comes slowly back again. She stops at the table looking
+down the garden.)
+
+BELINDA (to herself). Have you lost yourself, or something?
+No; the latch is this side. ... Yes, that's right.
+
+[TREMAYNE comes in. He has been knocking about the world for
+eighteen years, and is very much a man, though he has kept his
+manners. His hair is greying a little at the sides, and he looks
+the forty-odd that he is. Without his moustache and beard he is
+very different from the boy BELINDA married.]
+
+TREMAYNE (with his hat in his hand). I'm afraid I'm trespassing.
+
+BELINDA (winningly). But it's such a pretty garden (turns away,
+dosing her parasol), isn't it?
+
+TREMAYNE (rather confused). I-I beg your pardon, I-er--
+(He is wondering if it can possibly be she. BELINDA thinks his
+confusion is due to the fact that he is trespassing, and hastens to
+put him at his ease.)
+
+BELINDA. I should have done the same myself, you know.
+
+TREMAYNE (pulling himself together). Oh, but you mustn't think I
+just came in because I liked the garden--
+
+BELINDA (clapping her hands). No; but say you do like it, quick.
+
+TREMAYNE. It's lovely and--(He hesitates.)
+
+BELINDA (hopefully). Yes?
+
+TREMAYNE (with conviction). Yes, it's lovely.
+
+BELINDA (with that happy sigh of hers). O-oh! ... Now tell me what
+really did happen?
+
+TREMAYNE. I was on my way to Marytown--
+
+BELINDA. To where?
+
+TREMAYNE. Marytown.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, you mean Mariton.
+
+TREMAYNE. Do I?
+
+BELINDA. Yes; we always call it Mariton down here. (Earnestly.)
+You don't mind, do you?
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling). Not a bit.
+
+BELINDA. Just say it--to see if you've got it right.
+
+TREMAYNE. Mariton.
+
+BELINDA (shaking her head). Oh no, that's quite wrong. Try it
+again (With a rustic accent.) Mariton.
+
+TREMAYNE. Mariton.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, that's much better. ... (As if it were he who had
+interrupted.) Well, do go on.
+
+TREMAYNE. I'm afraid it isn't much of an apology really. I saw what
+looked like a private road, but what I rather hoped wasn't, and--
+well, I thought I'd risk it. I do hope you'll forgive me.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, but I love people seeing my garden. Are you staying in
+Mariton?
+
+TREMAYNE. I think so. Oh yes, decidedly.
+
+BELINDA. Well, perhaps the next time the road won't feel so
+private.
+
+TREMAYNE. How charming of you! (He feels he must know.) Are you
+Mrs. Tremayne by any chance?
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+TREMAYNE (nodding to himself). Yes.
+
+BELINDA. How did you know?
+
+TREMAYNE (hastily inventing). They use you as a sign-post in the
+village. Past Mrs. Tremayne's house and then bear to the left--
+
+BELINDA. And you couldn't go past it?
+
+TREMAYNE. I'm afraid I couldn't. Thank you so much for not minding.
+Well, I must be getting on, I have trespassed quite enough.
+
+BELINDA (regretfully). And you haven't really seen the garden yet.
+
+TREMAYNE. If you won't mind my going on this way, I shall see some
+more on my way out.
+
+BELINDA. Please do. It likes being looked at. (With the faintest
+suggestion of demureness) All pretty things do.
+
+TREMAYNE. Thank you very much. Er--(He hesitates.)
+
+BELINDA (helpfully). Yes?
+
+TREMAYNE. I wonder if you'd mind very much if I called one day to
+thank you formally for the lesson you gave me in pronunciation?
+
+BELINDA (gravely). Yes. I almost think you ought to. I think it's
+the correct thing to do.
+
+TREMAYNE (contentedly). Thank you very much, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA. You'll come in quite formally by the front-door next time,
+won't you, because--because that seems the only chance of my
+getting to know your name.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, I beg your pardon. My name is--er--er--Robinson.
+
+BELINDA (laughing). How very odd!
+
+TREMAYNE (startled). Odd?
+
+BELINDA. Yes; we have someone called Robinson staying in the house.
+I wonder if she is any relation?
+
+TREMAYNE (hastily). Oh no, no. No, she couldn't be. I have no
+relations called Robinson--not to speak of.
+
+BELINDA (holding out her hand). You must tell me all about your
+relations when you come and call, Mr. Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. I think we can find something better worth talking about
+than that.
+
+BELINDA. Do you think so? (He says "Yes" with his eyes, bows, and
+goes off down the garden. BELINDA stays looking after him, then
+gives that happy sigh of hers, only even more so) O-oh!
+
+[Enter BETTY.]
+
+BETTY. If you please, ma'am, Miss Delia says, are you coming in to
+tea?
+
+BELINDA (looking straight in front of her, and taking no notice
+of BETTY, in a happy, dreamy voice). Betty, ... about callers. ...
+If Mr. Robinson calls--he's the handsome gentleman who hasn't been
+here before--you will say, "Not at home." And he will say, "Oh!"
+And you will say, "I beg your pardon, sir, was it Mr. _Robinson_?"
+And he will say, "Yes!" And you will say, "Oh, I beg your pardon,
+sir--" (Almost as if she were BETTY, she begins to move towards the
+house.) "This way--" (she would be smiling an invitation over her
+shoulder to MR. ROBINSON, if he were there, and she were BETTY)--
+"please!" (And the abandoned woman goes in to tea.)
+
+
+ACT II
+
+[It is morning in BELINDA'S hall, a low-roofed, oak-beamed place,
+comfortably furnished as a sitting-room. There is an inner and an
+outer front-door, both of which are open.]
+
+[DEVENISH, who has just rung the bell, is waiting with a bouquet
+of violets between the two. Midway on the right is a door leading
+to a small room where hats and coats are kept. A door on the left
+leads towards the living-rooms.]
+
+BETTY. Good morning, sir.
+
+DEVENISH. Good morning. I am afraid this is an unceremonious hour
+for a call, but my sense of beauty urged me hither in defiance of
+convention.
+
+BETTY. Yes, sir.
+
+DEVENISH (holding up his bouquet to BETTY). See, the dew is yet
+lingering upon them; how could I let them wait until this
+afternoon?
+
+BETTY. Yes, sir; but I think the mistress is out.
+
+DEVENISH. They are not for your mistress; they are for Miss Delia.
+
+BETTY. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. If you will come in, I'll see if
+I can find her. (She brings him in and goes away to find DELIA.)
+
+(DEVENISH tries a number of poses about the room for himself and
+his bouquet, and finally selects one against the right side of the
+door by which he has just come in.)
+
+[Enter DELIA from the door on the left.]
+
+DELIA (shutting the door and going to_ DEVENISH). Oh, good morning,
+Mr. Devenish. I'm afraid my--er--aunt is out.
+
+DEVENISH. I know, Miss Delia, I know.
+
+DELIA. She'll be so sorry to have missed you. It is her day for
+you, isn't it?
+
+DEVENISH. Her day for me?
+
+DELIA. Yes; Mr. Baxter generally comes to-morrow, doesn't he?
+
+DEVENISH. Miss Delia, if our friendship is to progress at all, it
+can only be on the distinct understanding that I take no interest
+whatever in Mr. Baxter's movements.
+
+DELIA. Oh, I'm so sorry; I thought you knew. What lovely flowers!
+Are they for my aunt?
+
+DEVENISH. To whom does one bring violets? To modest, shrinking,
+tender youth.
+
+DELIA. I don't think we have anybody here like that.
+
+DEVENISH (with a bow). Miss Delia, they are for you.
+
+DELIA. Oh, how nice of you! But I'm afraid I oughtn't to take them
+from you under false pretences; I don't shrink.
+
+DEVENISH. A fanciful way of putting it, perhaps. They are none the
+less for you.
+
+DELIA. Well, it's awfully kind of you. I'm afraid I'm not a very
+romantic person. Aunt Belinda does all the romancing in our family.
+
+DEVENISH. Your aunt is a very remarkable woman.
+
+DELIA. She is. Don't you dare to say a word against her.
+
+DEVENISH. My dear Miss Delia, nothing could be further from my
+thoughts. Why, am I not indebted to her for that great happiness
+which has come to me in these last few days?
+
+DELIA (surprised). Good gracious! and I didn't know anything
+about it. But what about poor Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH (stiffly). I must beg that Mr. Baxter's name be kept out
+of our conversation.
+
+DELIA. But I thought Mr. Baxter and you--do tell me what's
+happened. I seem to have lost myself.
+
+DEVENISH. What has happened, Miss Delia, is that I have learnt at
+last the secret that my heart has been striving to tell me for
+weeks past. As soon as I saw that gracious lady, your aunt, I knew
+that I was in love. Foolishly I took it for granted that it was she
+for whom my heart was thrilling. How mistaken I was! Directly you
+came, you opened my eyes, and now--
+
+DELIA. Mr. Devenish, you don't say you're proposing to me?
+
+DEVENISH. I am. I feel sure I am. Delia, I love you.
+
+DELIA. How exciting of you!
+
+DEVENISH (with a modest shrug). It's nothing; I am a poet.
+
+DELIA. You really want to marry me?
+
+DEVENISH. Such is my earnest wish.
+
+DELIA. But what about my aunt?
+
+DEVENISH (simply). She will be my aunt-in-law.
+
+DELIA. She'll be rather surprised.
+
+DEVENISH. Delia, I will be frank with you. I admit that I made Mrs.
+Tremayne an offer of marriage.
+
+DELIA (excitedly). You really did? Was it that first afternoon I
+came?
+
+DEVENISH. Yes.
+
+DELIA. Oh, I wish I'd been there!
+
+DEVENISH (with dignity). It is not my custom to propose in the
+presence of a third party. It is true that on the occasion you
+mention a man called Baxter was on the lawn, but I regarded him no
+more than the old apple-tree or the flower-beds, or any other of
+the fixtures.
+
+DELIA. What did she say?
+
+DEVENISH. She accepted me conditionally.
+
+DELIA. Oh, do tell me!
+
+DEVENISH. It is rather an unhappy story. This man called Baxter in
+his vulgar way also made a proposal of marriage. Mrs. Tremayne was
+gracious enough to imply that she would marry whichever one of us
+fulfilled a certain condition.
+
+DELIA. How sweet of her!
+
+DEVENISH. It is my earnest hope, Miss Delia, that the man called
+Baxter will be the victor. As far as is consistent with honour, I
+shall endeavour to let Mr. Baxter (banging the table with his hand)
+win.
+
+DELIA. What was the condition?
+
+DEVENISH. That I am not at liberty to tell. It is, I understand, to
+be a surprise for you.
+
+DELIA. How exciting! ... Mr. Devenish, you have been very frank.
+May I be equally so? (DEVENISH bows.) Why do you wear your hair so
+long?
+
+DEVENISH (pleased). You have noticed it?
+
+DELIA. Well, yes, I have.
+
+DEVENISH. I wear it so to express my contempt for the conventions
+of so-called society.
+
+DELIA. I always thought that people wore it very very short if they
+despised the conventions of society.
+
+DEVENISH. I think that the mere fact that my hair annoys Mr. Baxter
+is sufficient justification for its length.
+
+DELIA. But if it annoys me too?
+
+DEVENISH (heroically). It shall go.
+
+DELIA (apologetically). I told you I wasn't a very romantic
+person, didn't I? (Kindly.) You can always grow it again if you
+fall in love with somebody else.
+
+DEVENISH. That is cruel of you, Delia. I shall never fall in love
+again.
+
+[Enter BELINDA in a hat.]
+
+BELINDA. Why, it's Mr. Devenish! How nice of you to come so early
+in the morning! How is Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH. I do not know, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (to DELIA). I got most of the things, Delia. (To DEVENISH.)
+"The things," Mr. Devenish, is my rather stuffy way of referring to
+all the delightful poems that you are going to eat to-night.
+
+DEVENISH. I am looking forward to it immensely, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA. I do hope I've got all your and Mr. Baxter's favourite
+dishes.
+
+DEVENISH. I'm afraid Mr. Baxter and I are not likely to appreciate
+the same things.
+
+BELINDA (coyly). Oh, Mr. Devenish! And you were so unanimous a
+few days ago.
+
+DELIA. I think Mr. Devenish was referring entirely to things to
+eat.
+
+BELINDA. I felt quite sad when I was buying the lamb cutlets. To
+think that, only a few days before, they had been frisking about
+with their mammas, and having poems written about them by Mr.
+Devenish. There! I'm giving away the whole dinner. Delia, take him
+away before I tell him any more. We must keep some surprises for
+him.
+
+DELIA (to DEVENISH as she picks up the flowers). Come along, Mr.
+Devenish.
+
+BELINDA (wickedly). Are those my flowers, Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH (after a little hesitation, with a bow which might refer
+to either of them). They are for the most beautiful lady in the
+land.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, how nice of you!
+
+[DEVENISH follows DELIA out through the door on the left.]
+
+BELINDA (unpinning her hat before a mirror). I suppose he means
+Delia--bless them! (She gives a few pats to her hair and then walks
+about the room singing softly to herself. She does to the front-door
+and looks happily out into the garden. Suddenly she sees MR.
+BAXTER approaching. She hurries back into a chair and pretends to
+be very busy reading.)
+
+BAXTER (rather nervously). Er--may I come in, Mrs. Tremayne?
+
+BELINDA (dropping her book and turning round with a violent start).
+Oh, Mr. Baxter, how you surprised me! (She puts her hand to her
+heart.)
+
+BAXTER. I must apologize for intruding upon you at this hour, Mrs.
+Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (holding up her hand). Stop!
+
+BAXTER (startled). What?
+
+BELINDA. I cannot let you come in like that.
+
+BAXTER (looking down at himself). Like what?
+
+BELINDA (dropping her eyes). You called me Belinda once.
+
+BAXTER (coming down to her). May I explain my position, Mrs.
+Tremayne?
+
+BELINDA. Before you begin--have you been seeing my niece lately?
+
+BAXTER (surprised). No.
+
+BELINDA. Oh! (Sweetly.) Please go on.
+
+BAXTER. Why, is _she_ lost too?
+
+BELINDA. Oh no; I just--Do sit down. Let me put your hat down
+somewhere for you.
+
+BAXTER (keeping it firmly in his hand, and sitting down on the
+sofa). It will be all right here, thank you.
+
+BELINDA (returning to her chair). I'm dying to hear what you are
+going to say.
+
+BAXTER. First as regards the use of your Christian name. I felt
+that, as a man of honour, I could not permit myself to use it until
+I had established my right over that of Mr. Devenish.
+
+BELINDA. All my friends call me Belinda.
+
+BAXTER. As between myself and Mr. Devenish the case is somewhat
+different. Until one of us is successful over the other in the
+quest upon which you have sent us, I feel that as far as possible
+we should hold aloof from you.
+
+BELINDA (pleadingly). Just say "Belinda" once more, in case you're
+a long time.
+
+BAXTER (very formally). Belinda.
+
+BELINDA. How nicely you say it--Harold.
+
+BAXTER (half getting out of his seat). Mrs. Tremayne, I must not
+listen to this.
+
+BELINDA (meekly). I won't offend again, Mr. Baxter. Please go on.
+Tell me about the quest; are you winning?
+
+BAXTER. I am progressing, Mrs. Tremayne. Indeed, I came here this
+morning to acquaint you with the results of my investigations.
+Yesterday I located a man called Robinson working upon a farm close
+by. I ventured to ask him if he had any marks upon him by which he
+could be recognized. He adopted a threatening attitude, and replied
+that if I wanted any he could give me some. With the aid of half-a-
+crown I managed to placate him. Putting my inquiry in another form,
+I asked if he had any moles. A regrettable misunderstanding, which
+led to a fruitless journey to another part of the village, was
+eventually cleared up, and on my return I satisfied myself that
+this man was in no way related to your niece.
+
+BELINDA (admiringly). How splendid of you! Well, now, we know
+_he's_ not. (She holds up one finger.)
+
+BAXTER. Yes. In the afternoon I located another Mr. Robinson
+following the profession of a carrier. My first inquiries led to a
+similar result, with the exception that in this case Mr. Robinson
+carried his threatening attitude so far as to take off his coat and
+roll up his sleeves. Perceiving at once that he was not the man, I
+withdrew.
+
+BELINDA. How brave you are! That makes two. (She holds up another
+finger). It still leaves a good many. (Pleadingly.) Just call me
+Belinda again.
+
+BAXTER (nervously). You mustn't tempt me, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (penitently). I won't!
+
+BAXTER. To resume, then, my narrative. This morning I have heard of
+a third Mr. Robinson. Whether there is actually any particular
+fortune attached to the number three I cannot say for certain. It
+is doubtful whether statistics would be found to support the
+popular belief. But one likes to flatter oneself that in one's own
+case it may be true; and so--
+
+BELINDA. And so the third Mr. Robinson--?
+
+BAXTER. Something for which I cannot altogether account inspires me
+with hope. He is, I have discovered, staying at Mariton. This
+afternoon I go to look for him.
+
+BELINDA (to herself). Mariton! How funny! I wonder if it's the
+same one.
+
+BAXTER. What one?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, just one of the ones. (Gratefully.) Mr. Baxter, you
+are doing all this for _me_.
+
+BAXTER. Pray do not mention it. I don't know if it's Devonshire, or
+the time of the year, or the sort of atmosphere you create, Mrs.
+Tremayne, but I feel an entirely different man. There is something
+in the air which--yes, I shall certainly go over to Mariton this
+afternoon.
+
+BELINDA (gravely). I have had the same feeling sometimes, Mr.
+Baxter. I am not always the staid respectable matron which I appear
+to you to be. Sometimes I--(She looks absently at the watch on her
+wrist.) Good gracious!
+
+BAXTER (alarmed). What is it!
+
+BELINDA (looking anxiously from the door to him). Mr. Baxter, I'm
+going to throw myself on your mercy.
+
+BAXTER. My dear Mrs. Tremayne--
+
+BELINDA (looking at her watch again). A strange man will be here
+directly. He must not find you with me.
+
+BAXTER (rising, jealously). A man?
+
+BELINDA (excitedly). Yes, yes, a man! He is pursuing me with his
+attentions. If he found you here, there would be a terrible scene.
+
+BAXTER. I will defend you from him.
+
+BELINDA. No, no. He is a big man. He will--he will overpower you.
+
+BAXTER. But you--?
+
+BELINDA. I can defend myself. I will send him away. But he must not
+find you here. You must hide before he overpowers you.
+
+BAXTER (with dignity). I will withdraw if you wish it.
+
+BELINDA. No, not withdraw, hide. He might see you withdrawing.
+(Leading the way to a door on the right) Quick, in here.
+
+BAXTER (embarrassed at the thought that this sort of thing really
+only happens in a bedroom farce). I don't think I quite--
+
+BELINDA (reassuring him). It's perfectly respectable; it's where
+we keep the umbrellas. (She takes him by the hand.)
+
+BAXTER (still resisting). I'm not at all sure that I--
+
+BELINDA (earnestly). Oh, but don't you see what _trust_ I'm
+putting in you? Some people are so nervous about their umbrellas.
+
+BAXTER. Well, of course, if you--but I don't see why I shouldn't
+just slip out of the door before he comes.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Of course, if you grudge me every little
+pleasure--Quick! Here he is.
+
+(She bundles him through the door, and with a sigh of happiness
+comes back and looks at herself in the mirror. She goes to the
+front-door, moves her hand to somebody in the distance, and comes
+into the hall again. Seeing MR. BAXTER'S bowler hat on the sofa,
+she carries across to his door, knocks, hands it to him, saying,
+"Your hat. S'sh!" and returns to her chair. TREMAYNE comes in.)
+
+TREMAYNE (at the door). It's no good your pretending to be
+surprised, because you said I could come.
+
+BELINDA (welcoming him). But I can still be surprised that you
+wanted to come.
+
+TREMAYNE Oh no, you aren't.
+
+BELINDA (marking it off on her fingers). Just a little bit--that
+much.
+
+TREMAYNE. It would be much more surprising if I hadn't come.
+
+BELINDA (sitting down on the sofa). It is a pretty garden, isn't
+it?
+
+TREMAYNE (sitting down next to her). You forget that I saw the
+garden yesterday.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, but the things have grown so much since then. Let me
+see, this is the third day you've been and we only met three days
+ago. And then you're coming to dinner again to-night.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). Am I?
+
+BELINDA. Yes. Haven't you been asked?
+
+TREMAYNE. No, not a word.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, that's quite right; I remember now, I only thought of
+it this morning, so I couldn't ask you before, could I?
+
+TREMAYNE (earnestly). What made you think of it then?
+
+BELINDA (romantically). It was at the butcher's. There was one
+little lamb cutlet left over and sitting out all by itself, and
+there was nobody to love it. And I said to myself, suddenly, "I
+know, that will do for Mr. Robinson." (Prosaically.) I do hope you
+like lamb?
+
+TREMAYNE. I adore it.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad! When I saw it sitting there I thought
+you'd love it. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more about the rest
+of the dinner, because I wouldn't tell Mr. Devenish, and I want to
+be fair.
+
+TREMAYNE. Who's Mr. Devenish?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here.
+
+TREMAYNE Is he in love with you too?
+
+BELINDA. Too? Oh, you mean Mr. Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE. Confound it, that's three!
+
+BELINDA (innocently). Three? (She looks up at him and down again.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here.
+
+TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, he's a sort of statistician. Isn't that a horrid word
+to say? So stishany.
+
+TREMAYNE. What does he make statistics about?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, umbrellas and things. Don't let's talk about him.
+
+TREMAYNE. All right, then; who is Mr. Devenish?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, he's a poet. (She throws up her eyes and sighs
+deeply.) Ah me!
+
+TREMAYNE. What does he write poetry about? (BELINDA looks at him,
+and down again, and then at him again, and then down, and gives a
+little sigh--all of which means, "Can't you guess?") What does he
+write poetry about?
+
+BELINDA (obediently). He wrote "The Lute of Love and other Poems,
+by Claude Devenish." The Lute of Love--(To herself.) I haven't been
+saying that lately. (With great expression.) The Lute of Love--the
+Lute. (She pats her mouth back.)
+
+TREMAYNE. And what is Mr. Devenish--
+
+BELINDA (putting her hand on his sleeve). You'll let me know when
+it's my turn, won't you?
+
+TREMAYNE. Your turn?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, to ask questions. I love this game--it's like clumps.
+(She crosses her hands on her lap and waits for the next question.)
+
+TREMAYNE. I beg your pardon. I--er--of course have no right to
+cross-examine you like this.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, do go on, I love it. (With childish excitement.)
+I've got my question ready.
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling). I think perhaps it _is_ your turn.
+
+BELINDA (eagerly). Is it really? (He nods.) Well then--_who_ is Mr.
+Robinson?
+
+TREMAYNE (alarmed). What?
+
+BELINDA. I think it's a fair question. I met you three days ago and
+you told me you were staying at Mariton. Mariton. You can say it
+all right now, can't you?
+
+TREMAYNE. I think so.
+
+BELINDA (coaxingly). Just say it.
+
+TREMAYNE. Mariton.
+
+BELINDA (clapping her hands). Lovely! I don't think any of the
+villagers do it as well as that.
+
+TREMAYNE. Well?
+
+BELINDA. Well, that was three days ago. You came the next day to
+see the garden, and you came the day after to see the garden, and
+you've come this morning--to see the garden; and you're coming to
+dinner to-night, and it's so lovely, we shall simply have to go
+into the garden afterwards. And all I know about you is that you
+_haven't_ any relations called Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. What do I know about Mrs. Tremayne but that she _has_ a
+relation called Robinson?
+
+BELINDA. And two dear friends called Devenish and Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE (annoyed). I was forgetting them.
+
+BELINDA (to herself). I mustn't forget Mr. Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE (getting up). But what does it matter? What would it
+matter if I knew nothing about you? I know everything about you--
+everything that matters.
+
+BELINDA (closing her eyes contentedly). Tell me some of them.
+
+TREMAYNE (bending over her earnestly). Belinda--
+
+BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). He's going to propose to me.
+I can feel it coming.
+
+TREMAYNE. Confound it! how many men _have_ proposed to you?
+
+BELINDA (surprised). Since when?
+
+TREMAYNE. Since your first husband proposed to you.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I thought you meant this year. (Sitting up.) Well
+now, let me see. (Slowly and thoughtfully.) One. (She pushes
+up her first finger.) Two. (She pushes up the second.) Three.
+(She pushes up the third finger, holds it there for a moment and
+then pushes it gently down again.) No, I don't think that one ought
+to count really. (She pushes up two more fingers and the thumb.)
+Three, four, five--do you want the names or just the total?
+
+TREMAYNE. This is horrible.
+
+BELINDA (innocently). But anybody can propose. Now if you'd asked
+how many I'd accepted--Let me see, where was I up to? I shan't
+count yours, because I haven't really had it yet. Six, seven--Yes,
+Betty, what is it?
+
+[BETTY has just come in from the door on the left.]
+
+BETTY. If you please, ma'am, cook would like to speak to you for a
+minute.
+
+BELINDA (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To TREMAYNE.) You'll forgive
+me, won't you? You'll find some cigarettes there. (She starts to
+go, but comes back and adds confidentially) It's probably about the
+lamb cutlets; I expect your little one refuses to be cooked.
+
+[She goes out after BETTY.]
+
+(Left alone, TREMAYNE stalks moodily about the room, occasionally
+kicking things which come in his way. He takes up his hat suddenly
+and goes towards the door; stops irresolutely and comes back. He is
+standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets
+when DEVENISH comes in from the door on the left.)
+
+DEVENISH (surprised). Hullo!
+
+TREMAYNE Hullo! ... Are you Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH. Yes.
+
+TREMAYNE. Devenish the poet?
+
+DEVENISH (coming up and shaking him warmly by the hand). My dear
+fellow, you know my work?
+
+TREMAYNE (grimly). My dear Mr. Devenish, your name is most
+familiar to me.
+
+DEVENISH. I congratulate you. I thought your great-grandchildren
+would be the first to hear of me.
+
+TREMAYNE. My name's Robinson, by the way.
+
+DEVENISH. Then let me return the compliment, Robinson. Your name is
+familiar to _me_.
+
+TREMAYNE (hastily). I don't think I'm related to any Robinsons you
+know.
+
+DEVENISH. Well, no, I suppose not. When I was very much younger I
+began a collection of Robinsons. Actually it was only three days
+ago, but it seems much longer. Many things have happened since
+then.
+
+TREMAYNE (uninterested). Really!
+
+DEVENISH. There is a man called Baxter who is still collecting, I
+believe. For myself, I am only interested in one of the great
+family--Delia.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). You are interested in _her_?
+
+DEVENISH. Devotedly. In fact, I am at this moment waiting for her
+to put on her hat.
+
+TREMAYNE (warmly). My dear Devenish, I am delighted to make your
+acquaintance. (He seizes his hand and grips it heartily.) How are
+you?
+
+DEVENISH (feeling his fingers). Fairly well, thanks.
+
+TREMAYNE. That's right. (They sit on the sofa together.)
+
+DEVENISH (still nursing his hand). You are a very lucky fellow,
+Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. In what way?
+
+DEVENISH. People you meet must be so very reluctant to say good-bye
+to you. Have you ever tried strangling lions or anything like that?
+
+TREMAYNE (with a laugh). Well, as a matter of fact, I have.
+
+DEVENISH. I suppose you won all right?
+
+TREMAYNE. In the end, with the help of my beater.
+
+DEVENISH. Personally I should have backed you alone against any two
+ordinary lions.
+
+TREMAYNE. One was quite enough. As it was, he gave me something to
+remember him by. (Putting up his left sleeve, he displays a deep
+scar.)
+
+DEVENISH (looking at it casually). By Jove, that's a nasty one!
+(He suddenly catches sight of the mole and stares at it
+fascinated.) Good heavens!
+
+TREMAYNE. What's the matter?
+
+DEVENISH (clasping his head). Wait. Let me think. (After a pause.)
+Have you ever met a man called Baxter?
+
+TREMAYNE. No.
+
+DEVENISH. Would you like to?
+
+TREMAYNE (grimly). Very much indeed.
+
+DEVENISH. He's the man I told you about who's interested in
+Robinsons. He'll be delighted to meet you. (With a nervous laugh.)
+Funny thing, he's rather an authority on lions. You must show him
+that scar of yours; it will intrigue him immensely. (Earnestly.)
+_Don't_ shake hands with him too heartily just at first; it might
+put him off the whole thing.
+
+TREMAYNE. This Mr. Baxter seems to be a curious man.
+
+DIVENISH (absently). Yes, he is rather odd. (Looking at his
+watch.) I wonder if I--(To TREMAYNE.) I suppose you won't be--(He
+stops suddenly. A slight tapping noise comes from the room where
+they keep umbrellas.)
+
+TREMAYNE. What's that!
+
+(The tapping noise is repeated, a little more loudly this time.)
+
+DEVENISH. Come in.
+
+(The door opens and BAXTER comes in nervously, holding his
+bowler hat in his hand.)
+
+BAXTER. Oh, I just--(TREMAYNE _stands up)--I just--(He goes back
+again.)
+
+DEVENISH (springing across the room). Baxter! (The door opens
+nervously again and BAXTER'S head appears round it.) Come in,
+Baxter, old man; you're just the very person I wanted. (BAXTER
+comes in carefully.) Good man. (To TREMAYNE) This is Mr. Baxter
+that I was telling you about.
+
+TREMAYNE (much relieved at the appearance of his rival). Oh, is
+this Mr. Baxter? (Holding out his hand with great friendliness)
+How are you, Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH (warningly). Steady! (TREMAYNE shakes BAXTER quite gently
+by the hand.) Baxter, this is Mr. Robinson. (Casually.) R-o-b-i-n-
+s-o-n. (He looks sideways at BAXTER to see how he takes it. BAXTER
+is noticeably impressed.)
+
+BAXTER. Really? I am very glad to meet you, sir.
+
+TREMAYNE. Very good of you to say so.
+
+DEVENISH (to BAXTER). Robinson is a great big-game hunter.
+
+BAXTER. Indeed? I have never done anything in that way myself, but
+I'm sure it must be an absorbing pursuit.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, well, it's something to do.
+
+DEVENISH (to BAXTER). You must get him to tell you about a wrestle
+he had with a lion once. Extraordinary story! (Looking at his watch
+suddenly.) Jove! I must be off. See you again, Baxter. Good-bye,
+Robinson. No, don't shake hands. I'm in a hurry. [He looks at his
+watch again and goes out hurriedly by the door on the left.]
+
+(TREMAYNE sit down together on the sofa.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Unusual man, your friend Devenish. I suppose it comes of
+being a poet.
+
+BAXTER. I have no great liking for Mr. Devenish--
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, he's all right.
+
+BAXTER. But I am sure that if he is impressed by anything outside
+himself or his own works, it must be something rather remarkable.
+Pray tell me of your adventure with the lion.
+
+TREMAYNE (laughing). Really, you mustn't think that I go about
+telling everybody my adventures. It just happened to come up. I'm
+afraid I shook his hand rather more warmly than I meant, and he
+asked me if I'd ever tried strangling lions. That was all.
+
+BAXTER. And had you?
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, it just happened that I had.
+
+BAXTER. Indeed! You came off scathless, I trust?
+
+TREMAYNE (carelessly indicating his arm). Well, he got me one
+across there.
+
+BAXTER (obviously excited). Really, really. One across there. Not
+bad, I hope?
+
+TREMAYNE (laughing). Well, it doesn't show unless I do that. (He
+pulls up his sleeve carelessly and BAXTER bends eagerly over his
+arm.)
+
+BAXTER. Good heavens! I've found it!
+
+TREMAYNE. Found what? (He pulls down his sleeve.)
+
+BAXTER. I must see Mrs. Tremayne. Where's Mrs. Tremayne?
+
+TREMAYNE. She went out just now. What's the matter?
+
+BAXTER. Out! I must find her. This is a matter of life and death.
+[He seizes his hat and hurries out by the front door.]
+
+(TREMAYNE stares after him in amazement. Then he pulls up his
+sleeve, looks at his scar again and shakes his head. While he is
+still puzzling over it, BELINDA comes back.)
+
+BELINDA. Such a to-do in the kitchen! The cook's given notice--at
+least she will directly--and your lamb cutlet slipped back to the
+shop when nobody was looking, and I've got to go into the village
+again, and oh dear, oh dear, I have such a lot of things to do!
+(Looking across at MR. BAXTER'S door.) Oh yes, that's another one.
+Mr. Robinson, you will have to leave me. Farewell.
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda--
+
+BELINDA. No, not even Belinda. Wait till this evening.
+
+TREMAYNE. I have a thousand things to say to you; I shall say them
+this evening.
+
+BELINDA (giving him her hand). Begin about eight o'clock. Good-bye
+till then.
+
+[He takes her hand, looks at her for a moment, then suddenly bends
+and kisses it, and out.]
+
+(BELINDA stands looking from her hand to him, gives a little
+wondering exclamation and then presses the back of her hand against
+her cheek, and goes to the swing doors. She turns back, and
+remembers MR. BAXTER again. With a smile she goes to the door and
+taps gently.)
+
+BELINDA. Mr. Baxter, Mr. Baxter, you may come in now; he has
+withdrawn. I have unhanded him. (She opens the door and finds the
+room empty.) Oh!
+
+[BAXTER comes in at the front door.]
+
+BAXTER. Ah, there you are!
+
+BELINDA (turning with a start). Oh, how you frightened me, Mr.
+Baxter! I couldn't think what had happened to you. I thought
+perhaps you'd been eaten up by one of the umbrellas.
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I have some wonderful news for you. I have
+found Miss Robinson's father.
+
+BELINDA (hardly understanding). Miss Robinson's father?
+
+BAXTER. Yes. _Mr_. Robinson.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, you mean--Oh yes, he told me his name was Robinson--
+Oh, but he's no relation.
+
+BAXTER. Wait! I saw his arm. By a subterfuge I managed to see his
+arm.
+
+BELINDA (her eyes opening more and more widely as she begins to
+realize). You saw--
+
+BAXTER. I saw the mole.
+
+BELINDA (faintly as she holds out her own arm). Show me.
+
+BAXTER (very decorously indicating). There!
+
+(BELINDA holds the place with her other hand, and still looking
+at MR. BAXTER, slowly begins to laugh--half-laughter, half-tears,
+wonderingly, happily, contentedly.)
+
+BELINDA. And I didn't know!
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am delighted to have done this service for
+your niece--
+
+BELINDA (to herself). Of course, _he_ knew all the time.
+
+BAXTER (to the world). Still more am I delighted to have gained
+the victory over Mr. Devenish in this enterprise.
+
+BELINDA. Eighteen years--but I _ought_ to have known.
+
+BAXTER (at large). I shall not be accused of exaggerating when I
+say that the odds against such an enterprise were enormous.
+
+BELINDA. Eighteen years--And now I've eight whole _hours_ to
+wait!
+
+BAXTER (triumphantly). It will be announced to-night. "Mr.
+Devenish," I shall say, "young fellow--" (He arranges his speech in
+his mind.)
+
+BELINDA. So I was right, after all! (Slowly and triumphantly.) He
+_does_ look better without a beard!
+
+BAXTER (making his speech). "Mr. Devenish, young fellow, when you
+matched yourself against a man of my repute, when you matched
+yourself against a man"--(BELINDA has slipped out, to enjoy her
+happiness alone)--"who has read papers at soirees of the Royal
+Statistical Society; when--er--"
+
+[He looks round the room and discovers to his amazement that he is
+alone. He claps on his bowler-hat, gives another amazed look round,
+says with a shrug, "Unusual!" and goes out.]
+
+
+ACT III
+
+[It is after dinner in BELINDA'S hall. BELINDA is lying on the
+sofa with a coffee-cup in her hand. DELIA, in the chair on the
+right, has picked up "The Lute of Love" from a table and is reading
+it impatiently.]
+
+DELIA. What rubbish he writes!
+
+BELINDA (coming back from her thoughts). Who, dear?
+
+DELIA. Claude--Mr. Devenish. Of course, he's very young.
+
+BELINDA. So was Keats, darling.
+
+DELIA. I don't think Claude has had Keats' advantages. Keats
+started life as an apothecary.
+
+BELINDA. So much nicer than a chemist.
+
+DELIA. Now, Claude started with nothing to do.
+
+BELINDA (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope
+you aren't going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs.
+Tremayne.
+
+DELIA. Silly mother! (Seriously) I don't think he'll ever be any
+good till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this
+evening?
+
+BELINDA (dreamily). Whose, dear?
+
+DELIA. Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad.
+
+BELINDA (innocently). Bad, darling?
+
+DELIA. You've made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you.
+
+BELINDA (happily). Have I?
+
+DELIA. Yes; it's serious this time. He's not like the other two.
+
+BELINDA. However did you know that?
+
+DELIA. Oh, I know.
+
+BELINDA. Darling, I believe you've grown up. It's quite time I
+settled down.
+
+DELIA. With Mr. Robinson?
+
+(BELINDA looks thoughtfully at DELIA for a little time and then
+sits up.)
+
+BELINDA (mysteriously). Delia, are you prepared for a great
+secret to be revealed to you?
+
+DELIA (childishly). Oh, I love secrets.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Darling, you mustn't take it like that.
+This is a great, deep, dark secret; you'll probably need your sal
+volatile.
+
+DELIA (excitedly). Go on!
+
+BELINDA. Well--(Looking round the room.) Shall we have the lights
+down a little?
+
+DELIA. Go _on_, mummy.
+
+BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is--(impressively)--is not quite the
+Robinson he appears to be.
+
+DELIA. Yes?
+
+BELINDA. In fact, child, he is--Hadn't you better come and hold
+your mother's hand?
+
+DELIA (struggling with some emotion). Go _on_.
+
+BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is a--sort of relation of yours; in
+fact--(playing with her rings and looking down coyly)--he is your--
+father. (She looks up at DELIA to see how the news is being
+received.) Dear one, this is not a matter for mirth.
+
+DELIA (coming over and kissing her). Darling, it is lovely, isn't
+it? I am laughing because I am so happy.
+
+BELINDA. Aren't you surprised?
+
+DELIA. No. You see, Claude told me this morning. He found out just
+before Mr. Baxter.
+
+BELINDA. Well! Every one seems to have known except me.
+
+DELIA. Didn't you see how friendly father and I got at dinner? I
+thought I'd better start breaking the ice--because I suppose he'll
+be kissing me directly.
+
+BELINDA. Say you like him.
+
+DELIA. I think he's going to be awfully nice. Does he know you
+know? (She goes back to her seat.)
+
+BELINDA. Not yet. Just at present I've rather got Mr. Baxter on my
+mind. I suppose, darling, you wouldn't like him as well as Mr.
+Devenish! (Pathetically.) You see, they're so used to going about
+together.
+
+DELIA. Claude is quite enough.
+
+BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind
+if I have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them.
+I'll give you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (She
+jumps up and goes over to DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be
+happy too? That's what mothers always say on the stage. I think
+it's so sweet.
+
+DELIA (smiling at her). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I'm
+not romantic like you. I expect I'm more like father, really.
+
+BELINDA (dreamily). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me
+this morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was
+telling _him_. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit like a father. Of course, he
+doesn't know he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take
+him into the garden; only don't let him know who he is. You see, he
+ought to propose to me first, oughtn't he? (As the men come in, she
+gets up.) Here you all are! I do hope you haven't been throwing
+away your cigars, because smoking is allowed all over the house.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, we've finished, thank you.
+
+BELINDA. Isn't it a wonderful night?--and so warm for April. Delia,
+you must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight--it's the only
+light he hasn't seen it by.
+
+DEVENISH (quickly). I don't think I've ever seen it by moonlight,
+Miss Delia.
+
+BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight.
+
+BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that--er--perhaps--
+
+DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson.
+
+(TREMAYNE _looks at BELINDA, who gives him a nod.)
+
+TREMAYNE. It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is
+no chance of a nightingale?
+
+BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr.
+Devenish. (DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles
+herself comfortably on the sofa.) Now we're together again. Well,
+Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH. Er--I--
+
+BELINDA. No; I think I'll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he's
+longing to.
+
+BAXTER. Yes. H'r'm! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your
+hand.
+
+BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH (spiritedly). Yes, sir, on what grounds?
+
+BAXTER. On the grounds that, as I told you this morning, I had
+succeeded in the quest.
+
+DEVENISH (appearing to be greatly surprised). Succeeded?
+
+BAXTER. Yes, Mr. Devenish, young fellow, you have lost. I have
+discovered the missing Mr. Robinson.
+
+DEVENISH. Who--where--
+
+BAXTER (dramatically). Miss Robinson has at this moment gone out
+with her father.
+
+DEVENISH. Good heavens! It was he!
+
+BELINDA (sympathetically). Poor Mr. Devenish!
+
+DEVENISH (pointing tragically to the table). And to think that I
+actually sat on that table--no, that seat--no, not that one,
+it was the sofa--that I sat on the sofa with him this morning, and
+never guessed! Why, ten minutes ago I was asking him for the nuts!
+
+BAXTER. Aha, Devenish, you're not so clever as you thought you
+were.
+
+DEVENISH. Why, I must have given you the clue myself! He told me he
+had a scar on his arm, and I never thought any more of it. And then
+I went away innocently and left you two talking about it.
+
+BELINDA (alarmed). A scar on his arm?
+
+DEVENISH. Where a lion mauled him.
+
+(BELINDA gives a little shudder.)
+
+BAXTER. It's quite healed up now, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (looking at him admiringly). A lion! What you two have
+adventured for my sake!
+
+BAXTER. I suppose you will admit, Devenish, that I may fairly claim
+to have won?
+
+(Looking the picture of despair, DEVENISH droops his head, raises
+his arms and lets them fall hopelessly to his sides.)
+
+BELINDA. Mr. Devenish, I have never admired you so much as I do at
+this moment.
+
+BAXTER (indignantly to DEVENISH). I say, you know, that's not fair.
+It's all very well to take your defeat like a man, but you mustn't
+overdo it. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned.
+
+BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter--Mr. Devenish, I have something
+to tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I
+think you both ought to know that--I--I made a mistake. Delia is
+not my niece; she is my daughter.
+
+DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping!
+
+(BELINDA gives him an understanding look.)
+
+BAXTER. Your daughter!
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+BAXTER. But--but you aren't old enough to have a daughter of that
+age.
+
+BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is.
+
+BAXTER. But--but she's grown up.
+
+BELINDA. Quite.
+
+BAXTER. Then in that case you must be--(He hesitates, evidently
+working it out.)
+
+BELINDA (hastily). I'm afraid so, Mr. Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when
+I'm fifty you would be--
+
+BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should.
+
+BAXTER. And when I'm sixty--
+
+BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can't you stop him?
+
+DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you'll never
+_get_ to sixty.
+
+BAXTER. And then there's Miss--er--Delia. In the event of our
+marrying, Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter.
+
+BELINDA. I don't think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I
+have an idea that she will be getting married before long. (She
+glances at DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.)
+
+BAXTER. None the less, the fact would be disturbing. I have never
+yet considered myself seriously as a step-father. I don't think I
+am going too far if I say that to some extent I have been deceived
+in this matter.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). And so have I. I thought you loved me.
+
+DEVENISH (sympathetically). Yes, yes.
+
+BELINDA (turning to him suddenly). _And_ Mr. Devenish too.
+
+BAXTER. Er--
+
+DEVENISH. Er--
+
+(They stand before her guiltily and have nothing to say.)
+
+BELINDA (with a shrug). Well, I shall have to marry somebody
+else, that's all.
+
+BAXTER. Who?
+
+BELINDA. I suppose Mr. Robinson. After all, if I am Delia's mother,
+and Mr. Baxter says that Mr. Robinson's her father, it's about time
+we _were_ married.
+
+DEVENISH (eagerly). Mrs. Tremayne, what fools we are! He _is_ your
+husband all the time!
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+BAXTER. You've had a husband all the time?
+
+BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn't my fault.
+
+BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don't know where I am. I
+gather--I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible
+as a possible wife?
+
+BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. But this is very confusing--this is very disturbing to a
+man of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a--a
+possible benedict. I have--ah--taken steps. Only this morning, in
+writing to my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at
+any moment a most startling announcement.
+
+DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that's all right. That might only mean
+that you were getting a new bowler-hat.
+
+BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you
+take this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes
+clear to me. You have transferred your affections to her daughter!
+
+DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude.
+
+BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made
+me very happy.
+
+BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne!
+
+BELINDA. Very happy.
+
+BAXTER (thoughtfully). Ah! (He takes a turn round the room in,
+silence, and then comes back to her.) Mrs. Tremayne, I have taken
+a great resolve. (Solemnly.) I also will make you happy. (Thumping
+his heart.) I also will woo Miss Delia. (Suddenly seizing
+DEVENISH'S arm) Come, we will seek Miss Delia together. It may be
+that she will send us upon another quest in which I shall again be
+victorious. (Tempestuously) Come, I say! (He marches the resisting
+DEVENISH to the swing doors.)
+
+DEVENISH (to BELINDA). Please!
+
+BELINDA (gently). Mr. Baxter... Harold. (BAXTER stops and turns
+round.) You are too impetuous. I think that as Delia's mother--
+
+BAXTER. Your pardon, Mrs. Tremayne. In the intoxication of the
+moment I am forgetting. (Formally.) I have the honour to ask your
+permission to pay my addresses--
+
+BELINDA. No, no, I didn't mean that. But, as Delia's mother, I
+ought to warn you that she is hardly fitted to take the place of
+your housekeeper. She is not very domesticated.
+
+BAXTER (indignantly). Not domesticated? Why, did I not hear her
+tell her father at dinner that she had arranged all the flowers?
+
+BELINDA. There are other things than flowers.
+
+DEVENISH. Bed-socks, for instance, Baxter. It's a very tricky thing
+airing bed-socks. I am sure your house-keeper--
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, she will learn. The daughter of such a
+mother... I need say no more.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, thank you. But there is something else, Mr. Baxter.
+You are not being quite fair to yourself. In starting out upon this
+simultaneous wooing, you forget that Mr. Devenish has already had
+his turn this morning alone. You should have yours ... alone ...
+too.
+
+DEVENISH. Oh, I say!
+
+BAXTER. Yes, yes, you are right. I must introduce myself first as a
+suitor. I see that. (to DEVENISH) _You_ stay here; _I_ will go
+alone into the garden, and--
+
+BELINDA. It is perhaps a little cold out of doors for people of ...
+of _our_ age, Mr. Baxter. Now, in the library--
+
+BAXTER (astonished). Library?
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+BAXTER. You have a library?
+
+BELINDA (to DEVENISH). He doesn't believe I have a library.
+
+DEVENISH. You ought to see the library, Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. But you are continually springing surprises on me this
+evening, Mrs. Tremayne. First a daughter, then a husband, and then--
+a library! I have been here three weeks, and I never knew you had a
+library. Dear me, I wonder how it is that I never saw it?
+
+BELINDA (modestly). I thought you came to see _me_.
+
+BAXTER. Yes, yes, to see you, certainly. But if I had known you had
+a library. ...
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I am so glad I mentioned it. Wasn't it lucky, Mr.
+Devenish?
+
+BAXTER. My work has been greatly handicapped of late by lack of
+certain books to which I wanted to refer. It would be a great help--
+
+BELINDA. My dear Mr. Baxter, my whole library is at your disposal.
+(To DEVENISH, as she leads the way to the door, in a confidential
+whisper.) I'm just going to show him the "Encyclopedia Britannica."
+(She smiles at him, and he opens the door for them both. Then he goes
+towards the garden door and looks outside.)
+
+DELIA (from the garden). Hullo, we're just coming in.
+(He goes back and waits for them.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Where's Mrs. Tremayne?
+
+DEVENISH. She's gone to the library with Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE (carelessly). Oh, the library. Where's that?
+
+DEVENISH (promptly going towards the door and opening it). The end
+door on the right. Right at the end. You can't mistake it. On the
+right.
+
+TREMAYNE. Ah, yes. (He looks round at DELIA.) Yes. (He looks at
+DEVENISH.) Yes. [He goes out.]
+
+(DEVENISH hastily shuts the door and comes back to DELIA.)
+
+DEVENISH. I say, your mother is a ripper.
+
+DELIA (enthusiastically). Isn't she! (Remembering.) At least, you
+mean my aunt?
+
+DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that
+I once had the cheek to propose to her.
+
+DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!
+
+DEVENISH. To _her_.
+
+DELIA. But not to me?
+
+DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!
+
+DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson--
+I mean, Tremayne.
+
+DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much
+safer to call you Delia.
+
+DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is.
+
+DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answered
+
+DELIA. If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to
+wait till next April--
+
+DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the
+same afternoon. You haven't really told me how you like it yet.
+
+DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.
+
+DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.
+
+DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that.
+
+DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but,
+of course, one has to think about posterity.
+
+DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty
+to think about if you were a statesman.
+
+DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry.
+
+DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away
+every day and do great things, and then come home in the evening
+and tell me all about it.
+
+DEVENISH. Then you _are_ thinking of marrying me!
+
+DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.
+
+DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here--I
+_will_ be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street
+every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.
+
+DELIA. How nice of you!
+
+DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell,
+Parnassus!
+
+DELIA. What does that mean?
+
+DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's
+life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.--no,
+look here, that was quite accidental.
+
+DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I
+get to know you.
+
+DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that
+I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what
+I was three days ago.
+
+DELIA. You _are_ different. Perhaps it's your sense of humour
+coming back.
+
+DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.
+
+DELIA (holding out her hand). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly
+moon.
+
+DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that
+word before?
+
+DELIA. What _do_ you mean?
+
+DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I'll come with you,
+but I shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his
+back, he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime
+Minister then left the House.
+
+[BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.]
+
+BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don't think it's
+unkind to leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.
+
+TREMAYNE. I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed.
+
+BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was
+really thinking of Mr. Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE. Not of me?
+
+BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's
+had a disappointment lately.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was--younger than I was.
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda?
+
+BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He
+thought I was eighteen. Such a disappointment!
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you?
+
+BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. The right age for what?
+
+BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.
+
+TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?
+
+BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or--poetically?
+
+TREMAYNE. I meant--
+
+BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the--now, I must get
+this the right way round--as old as the--
+
+TREMAYNE. I don't want to talk about Mr. Devenish.
+
+BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does--except Mr. Devenish. As
+old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself
+cosily.) I think that's rather a nice age to be, don't you?
+
+TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be.
+
+BELINDA. It's a pity he's thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss
+that sort of thing rather. You don't say those sort of things about
+your aunt-in-law--not so often.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson!
+
+BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now,
+comparing her to Diana.
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts for _him. _Now what about Baxter?
+
+BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I
+was four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the
+drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the "Encyclopedia
+Britannica."
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the
+neighbourhood?
+
+BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn't it awful? I've only had those
+two for the last three weeks.
+
+(TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, Henry!
+
+TREMAYNE. My name is John.
+
+BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks
+they can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what
+their own names are. You were saying, John?
+
+TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack.
+
+BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That's the man who always goes away so
+quickly. I hope you're making more of a stay?
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman!
+
+BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do
+nothing but say "Belinda."
+
+TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved anybody seriously,
+Belinda?
+
+BELINDA. I don't ever do anything very seriously. The late Mr. 
+Tremayne, my first husband--Jack--Isn't it funny, _his_ name was
+Jack--he used to complain about it too sometimes.
+
+TREMAYNE (with conviction). Silly ass!
+
+BELINDA. Ah, I think you are a little hard on the late Mr.
+Tremayne.
+
+TREMAYNE. Has he been dead long?
+
+BELINDA. Dead to me.
+
+TREMAYNE. You quarrelled?
+
+BELINDA. Yes. It was his fault entirely.
+
+TREMAYNE. I'm sure it was.
+
+BELINDA. How sweet of you to say that!
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda, I want you to marry me and forget about him.
+
+BELINDA (happily to herself). This is the proposal that those lamb
+cutlets interrupted this morning.
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda, I love you--do you understand?
+
+BELINDA. Suppose my first husband turns up suddenly like--like E. A.?
+
+TREMAYNE. Like who?
+
+BELINDA. Well, like anybody.
+
+TREMAYNE. He won't--I know he won't. Don't you love me enough to
+risk it, Belinda?
+
+BELINDA. I haven't really said I love you at all yet.
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, say it now. (BELINDA looks at him, and then down
+again.) You do! Well, I'm going to have a kiss, anyway, (He comes
+round the sofa and kisses her quickly.) There!
+
+BELINDA (rising). O-oh! The late Mr. Tremayne never did that.
+
+TREMAYNE. I have already told you that he was a silly ass. (Sitting
+down on the sofa) Belinda--
+
+BELINDA. Yes, Henry--I mean, Jack?
+
+TREMAYNE. Do you know who I am! (He is thoroughly enjoying the
+surprise he is about to give her.)
+
+BELINDA (nodding). Yes, Jack.
+
+TREMAYNE. Who?
+
+BELINDA. Jack Tremayne.
+
+TREMAYNE (jumping up). Good heavens, you _know_!
+
+BELINDA (gently). Yes, Jack.
+
+TREMAYNE (angrily). You've known all the time that I was your
+husband, and you've been playing with me and leading me on?
+
+BELINDA (mildly). Well, darling, you knew all the time that I was
+your wife, and you've been making love to me and leading me on.
+
+TREMAYNE. That's different.
+
+BELINDA. That's _just_ what the late Mr. Tremayne said, and then he
+slammed the door and went straight off to the Rocky Mountains and
+shot bears; and I didn't see him again for eighteen years.
+
+TREMAYNE (remorsefully). Darling, I was a fool then, and I'm a
+fool now.
+
+BELINDA. I was a fool then, but I'm not such a fool now--I'm not
+going to let you go. It's quite time I married and settled down.
+
+TREMAYNE. You darling! How did you find out who I was?
+
+BELINDA (awkwardly). Well, it was rather curious, darling.
+(After a pause.) It was April, and I felt all sort of Aprily,
+and--and--there was the garden all full of daffodils--and--and
+there was Mr. Baxter--the one we left in the library--knowing all
+about moles. He's probably got the M volume down now. Well, we
+were talking about them one day, and I happened to say that the
+late Mr. Tremayne--that was you, darling--had rather a peculiar one
+on his arm. And then he happened to see it this morning and told me
+about it.
+
+TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story!
+
+BELINDA. Yes, darling; it's really much more extraordinary than
+that. I think perhaps I'd better tell you the rest of it another
+time. (Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you.
+(TREMAYNE pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You
+shouldn't have left Chelsea, darling.
+
+TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn't.
+
+BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn't. (After a
+pause.) I--I've got another little surprise for you if--if you're
+ready for it. (Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be
+wearing white. I shall certainly stand up while I'm telling you.
+(Modestly.) Darling, we have a daughter--our little Delia.
+
+TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes
+one's father's name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you--oh, never
+mind about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and
+not tell me?
+
+BELINDA. You forget how you'd slammed the door. It isn't the sort
+of thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to
+America.
+
+TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don't let me ever
+go away again.
+
+BELINDA. I'm not going to, Jack. I'm going to settle down into a
+staid old married woman.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh no, you're not. You're going on just as you did
+before. And I'm going to propose to you every April, and win you,
+over all the other men in love with you.
+
+BELINDA. You darling!
+
+[DELIA and DEVENISH come in from the garden.]
+
+TREMAYNE (quietly to BELINDA). Our daughter.
+
+DELIA (going up to TREMAYNE). You're my father.
+
+TREMAYNE. If you don't mind very much, Delia.
+
+DELIA. You've been away a long time.
+
+TREMAYNE. I'll do my best to make up for it.
+
+BELINDA. Delia, darling, I think you might kiss your poor old
+father.
+
+(As the does to, DEVENISH suddenly and hastily kisses BELINDA on
+the cheek.)
+
+DEVENISH. Just in case you're going to be my mother-in-law.
+
+TREMAYNE. We seem to be rather a family party.
+
+BELINDA (suddenly). There! We've forgotten Mr. Baxter again.
+
+BAXTER (who has come in quietly with a book in his hand). Oh, don't
+mind about me, Mrs. Tremayne. I've enjoyed myself immensely.
+(Referring to his book.) I have been collecting some most valuable
+information on (looking round at them) lunacy in the--er--county of
+_Devonshire_.
+
+
+
+THE RED FEATHERS
+
+AN OPERETTA IN ONE ACT
+
+
+
+[In the living-room of a country-house, half farm, half manor, a
+MOTHER and her DAUGHTER are sitting. It is any year you please--
+between, let us say, the day when the fiddle first came to England
+and the day when Romance left it. As for the time of the year, let
+us call it May. Oh yes, it is certainly May, and about twelve
+o'clock, and the DAUGHTER is singing at the spinet, while her
+MOTHER is at her needlework. Through the lattice windows the murmur
+of a stream can be heard, on whose banks--but we shall come to that
+directly. Let us listen now to what the DAUGHTER is singing:]
+
+         Life passes by.
+I do not know its pleasure or its pain--
+The Spring was here, the Spring is here again,
+         The Spring will die.
+
+         Life passes by.
+The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide,
+The crowd streams in--and I am left outside. ...
+         They know; not I.
+
+[You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.]
+
+MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a
+melancholy song, dear.
+
+DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.
+
+MOTHER. Why are you that, child?
+
+DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.
+
+MOTHER. Well, so do we all.
+
+DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit
+here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed,
+and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and
+so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world?
+
+MOTHER. It's all there is in our world.
+
+DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?
+
+MOTHER. We have the house--and very little else.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were _really_ poor--
+
+MOTHER. You needn't wish, child.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes
+we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the
+valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the
+brook next morning, and--
+
+MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm
+peculiar.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own
+way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy?
+
+MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear.
+
+DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I
+suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back
+to the spinet and sings again.)
+
+      _Lads and lasses, what will you sell,
+            What will you sell?_
+
+       Four stout walls and a roof atop,
+            Warm fires gleaming brightly,
+       Well-stored cellar and garnered crop,
+            Money-bags packed tightly;
+       An ordered task in an ordered day,
+            And a sure bed nightly;
+       Years which peacefully pass away,
+            Until Death comes lightly.
+
+      _Lads and lasses, what will you buy?
+            What will you buy?_
+
+       Here is a cap to cover your head,
+             A cap with one red feather;
+       Here is a cloak to make your bed
+             Warm or winter weather;
+       Here is a satchel to store your ware,
+             Strongly lined with leather;
+       And here is a staff to take you there
+             When you go forth together.
+
+      _Lads and lasses, what will you gain,
+             What will you gain?_
+
+       Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees
+             New Spring houses taking;
+       Daffodils in an April breeze
+             Golden curtsies making;
+       Shadows of clouds across the weald
+             From hill to valley breaking,
+       The first faint stir which the woodlands yield
+             When the world is waking.
+
+      _Lads and lasses, this is your gain,
+             This is your gain._
+
+(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER
+appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a
+bland and happy smile until the song is finished.)
+
+TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in
+astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung.
+Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to
+the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is
+voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame,
+I felicitate you again.
+
+MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this
+intrusion.
+
+TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand
+upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote
+you Rex--What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say? _Via_, says Rex,
+meaning the road; _communis_ is common; _omnibus_ to all, meaning
+thereby--but perchance I weary you?
+
+DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he?
+
+TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is
+he? Is he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he
+the Cham of Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he
+were the Cham of Tartary--
+
+MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you
+are and what you want.
+
+TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am
+named by my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These
+things you will have already noticed. But now I will commit to you
+it secret, known only to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I
+am by nature (he disappears and reappears at the middle window), I
+am still more so when compelled to hold converse with two such
+ornaments of their sex (he disappears and reappears at the
+right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I getting any
+nearer the door?
+
+MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I
+see that we must have your tale.
+
+TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about
+everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers;
+the other has the honour to belong to that sex which--have I said
+it?--you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission?
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come.
+
+MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all.
+
+TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I
+live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my
+memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder
+sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know--
+But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.]
+
+DAUGHTER. Mother, something _is_ going to happen at last.
+
+MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that?
+
+[The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the
+FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the
+FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round,
+with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.]
+
+TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the
+honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess
+Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere
+Marquis.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels.
+
+MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir.
+
+TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess--a courtesy
+title bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day--plays upon the fiddle
+with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear
+her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the
+Duke--the title was granted last Candlemas--has a voice of a rare
+richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing.
+He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish
+companion withal.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame!
+
+SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies.
+
+MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir.
+
+TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays
+"cuckoo" with an air.)
+
+SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies.
+
+TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he
+maligns me. Have I not a G of surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness
+rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my
+G. Now, where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on
+the pipe.) I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to
+MOTHER and then to DAUGHTER.)
+
+SINGER. Marvellous!
+
+MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid?
+
+TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame?
+
+MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel
+more in need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no
+other talent to match the singing and playing of your friends?
+
+FIDDLER. He talks.
+
+MOTHER. I had noticed it.
+
+TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good
+enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit
+like myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn
+disposition; this--I--(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence.
+Have I your gracious permission to begin again?
+
+MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir.
+
+TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame--
+
+MOTHER. If you could, sir.
+
+TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I--er--go
+round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business.
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money.
+
+TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which
+you observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to
+melancholy.
+
+DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you?
+
+TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for
+myself I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance
+will be limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe.
+
+MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be
+glad to hear your friends.
+
+(The TALKER bows and turns to his company.)
+
+TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness
+will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G,
+so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.
+
+FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.
+
+SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)
+
+    Oh, when the wind is in the North,
+    I take my staff and sally forth;
+    And when it whistles from the East
+    I do not mind it in the least;
+    The warm wind murmurs through the trees
+    Its messages from Southern seas;
+    But after all perhaps the best
+    Is that which whispers from the West.
+
+      Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will,
+      So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
+
+    The staff which helps to carry me,
+    I cut it from the Hazel-tree;
+    But once I had a cudgel torn
+    Most circumspectly from the Thorn;
+    I know a fellow, far from rash,
+    Who swears entirely by the Ash;
+    And all good travellers invoke
+    A blessing on the mighty Oak.
+
+      Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will,
+      So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
+
+    Some years ago I gave my heart
+    To Prue until we had to part;
+    Then, seeing Susan's pretty face,
+    I left it with her for a space;
+    And Susan had my heart until
+    I wanted it for Mistress Jill;
+    I think, although I am not clear,
+    That Chloe's had it this last year.
+
+      Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will,
+      So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
+
+(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the
+applause.)
+
+DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse.
+
+TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy
+fellow by nature. But waggish--waggish withal.
+
+SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us,
+Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one
+woman only.
+
+TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses
+to it.
+
+MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the
+FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now?
+
+FIDDLER. If you wish it.
+
+TALKER. You would wish me to accompany her, of course.
+
+MOTHER (with a smile). It is kind of you, sir, but I think perhaps
+my daughter--
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Yes, of course, I will if I can. (She goes to
+the spinet.)
+
+FIDDLER (playing a few notes). Do you know this?
+
+DAUGHTER. Yes, I think so. (She plays. At the end of it the TALKER
+finds himself bowing to the applause.)
+
+TALKER. And now, Madame, you have had a sample of all our poor
+talents, save and except that paltry talent of mine which in other
+company concludes such a performance. I pray you tell me what you
+think of the entertainment.
+
+MOTHER. I have enjoyed it immensely, good Master Johannes. And if
+you did wish to exercise that talent of yours, of which so far we
+have only heard--
+
+TALKER. Nay, nay, Madame, I beg you.
+
+MOTHER. Then, Sir, I offer you my grateful thanks for your
+entertainment.
+
+DAUGHTER. And I too.
+
+TALKER. Ladies, you are too kind--er--(he hesitates)--er--
+
+MOTHER. Yes?
+
+TALKER, The fact is, Madame, that now we approach or, so to speak,
+draw nigh or adjacent--in other words, Madame, we are perilously
+approximate--
+
+FIDDLER. Tell her straight out.
+
+MOTHER. Tell her what?
+
+FIDDLER. What we've come for.
+
+SINGER. Master Johannes, Madam, is so accustomed when he goes round
+with the hat to disguise under it flow of words the fact that money
+is as necessary to an artist as applause, that he has lost the
+habit of saying anything in less than ten sentences.
+
+TALKER (mournfully). And yet I am a taciturn man.
+
+MOWER. Well, will somebody tell me, for I confess I have been
+wondering what is behind it all.
+
+FIDDLER. Tell her, Johannes.
+
+TALKER. If you will allow me, Madame. But tell me first, did you
+notice anything lacking in our performance?
+
+MOTHER (surprised). No; I don't think so.
+
+TALKER (to DAUGHTER). Perhaps you, Mademoiselle?
+
+DAUGHTER (shyly). It seemed to lack a woman's voice, sir.
+
+TALKER (admiringly). What intelligence! What profundity! (To
+MOTHER) Madam, I felicitate you again on your daughter. Unerringly
+she has laid her finger on the weak joint in our armour. We have no
+woman's voice.
+
+MOTHER. Well, Sir, I don't see how I can help you.
+
+TALKER. Madame, you have a nightingale. It has lived in a cage all
+its life. It looks through the bars sometimes, and sees the great
+world outside, and sighs and turns back to its business of singing.
+Madame, it would sing better outside in the open air, with the
+other birds.
+
+MOTHER. I don't understand you, sir. Are you referring to my
+daughter?
+
+TALKER (looking towards the window). There is a stream which runs
+beyond the road, with a green bank to it. We were seated on that
+bank, I and my two companions, eating our bread and cheese, and
+washing it down with draughts from that good stream. We were tired,
+for we had come from over the hills that morning, and it was good
+to lie on our backs there and watch the little clouds taking shape
+after shape in the blue, and so to dream our dreams. In a little
+while the road would take us westward, here through a wood banked
+with primroses, there across a common or between high spring hedges
+with the little stream babbling ever at the side of us. And in the
+evening we would come to an inn, where there would be good company,
+and we would sing and play to them, and they would reward us. (With
+a shrug) It is a pleasant life.
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, go on!
+
+MOTHER. Yes, go on, Sir.
+
+TALKER. We were lying on our backs thus, Madame, when we heard the
+nightingale. "Duke," says I, "it is early yet for the nightingale."
+His Flutiness removes his cap from his face, takes a squint at the
+sun, and says "Monstrous early, good Master Johannes," and claps
+his cap back again. "What says you, Fiddler," says I, "in this
+matter of nightingales? Is it possible," says I; "the sun being
+where it is, and nightingales being what they are--to wit,
+nightingales?" "It's not a nightingale," says Fiddler dreamily,
+"it's a girl." "Then," says I, jumping up, "it is a girl we want.
+She must put the red feather in her cap, and come her ways with
+us." (With a bow) Madame, your humble servant.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, you will let me go, won't you? I must, I
+must! He is quite right. I'm caged here. Oh, you will let me see
+something of the world before I grow old!
+
+FIDDLER (suddenly). Yes, let her come. If she feels like that, she
+ought to come.
+
+SINGER (with a very winning smile). We will take great care of her,
+Madame, as if she were our own sister.
+
+MOTHER (surprisingly to JOHANNES). What do you think of cider as
+a drink, Master Johannes?
+
+TALKER (who had not expected it, but is always ready). Cider--ah,
+there's a drink! Oh, I can talk to you about cider, glum body as I
+am by nature, having been as it were taciturn from birth. Yet of
+cider I could talk you--
+
+MOTHER. Ours is considered very good cider. (To her daughter) Take
+them, child, and give them such refreshment as they want. They have
+deserved it for their entertainment.
+
+DAUGHTER. Why, of course, Mother. Come this way please.
+
+[She leads the way, and the others follow, the TALKER coming last
+and murmuring "Cider" to himself.]
+
+MOTHER. Master Johannes. (He turns round.) A word with you, if
+you please, sir.
+
+TALKER. But certainly, Madame. The cider will be all the better for
+the expectation.
+
+MOTHER. Sit down, please. (He does so.) Master Johannes, who are
+you, all of you?
+
+TALKER. I thought I had explained, Madame. Her Royal Sweetness
+Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a
+humble Marquis. We may be referred to collectively as the Red
+Feathers. For myself I am sometimes called Silent John, being of a
+close disposition.
+
+MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the
+world, and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to
+you, for however little a time, I must know something more about
+you.
+
+TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I
+have never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years
+of age; it is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you
+something about myself, starting from that day, forty-six years
+ago, when I was born--were I to begin--well, Madame, I am only too
+ready to begin. It is a subject I find vastly pleasant. But,
+(looking at her comically) shall I begin?
+
+MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir?
+
+TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one
+who has but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express
+himself, talking is a great comfort.
+
+MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now
+that I think you must be a man of _our_ world?
+
+TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your
+mother's heart to know that your daughter will be in good company,
+I think I can give you that comfort.
+
+MOTHER. Is that all you can give me?
+
+(The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly
+he takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and
+is immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a
+beaming face.)
+
+TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to
+stop any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there
+was a certain noble gentleman, a baron of estates and family.
+Conceiving himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch
+to win or lose it all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a
+fit of melancholy he abjured society, cursed all women and took to
+the road. A pleasant melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke.
+
+MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just
+gone). You mean he really is--
+
+TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right
+to speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe
+to his lips) Cuck-oo!
+
+MOTHER. Poor child, she is not happy here. We live so quietly; we
+have no neighbours. I have wondered what to do--it seemed that I
+could do so little. If only I could be sure--(Suddenly) Master
+Johannes, do you like the look of this house with its little stream
+opposite, and the green bank running down, on which one may lie
+on one's back and look up at the sky?
+
+TALKER. Did we not single it out above all others by having our
+bread and cheese outside it?
+
+MOTHER. Will you all stay with me for a little? I think I can find
+room for you. Before I can lend my daughter to you, I feel that I
+must know something of you. I think that is the best way, is it
+not? (With a very friendly smile) The cider is good, you know.
+
+TALKER (rising and boning). Madame, we need say no more.
+
+[The other three come in. The DAUGHTER has found from somewhere a
+cap with a red feather in it. They stand in a row opposite the
+MOTHER, and to the FIDDLER'S accompaniment sing a merry song.]
+
+TOGETHER.  The cuckoo comes in April,
+             Sings his song in May,
+           Changes his tune in the middle of June,
+             And then he flies away.
+
+HE.        The cuckoo comes when April's here--
+           He is not very good, I fear.
+           He goes and takes another nest--
+           Perhaps he does it for the best.
+              Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
+
+SHE.       When April's over he begins
+           Repenting of his former sins;
+           From tree to tree he takes his way,
+           But this is all he finds to say:
+              Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
+
+HE.        By June he gets a trifle flat,
+           Which is not to be wondered at,
+           And critical observers note
+           A huskiness about the throat.
+              (Huskily) Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
+
+SHE.       Alas! he does not stay for long,
+           But other birds take up the song
+           Of summer gently following
+           The wild and happy days of Spring.
+              Cuckoo!
+
+(The TALKER conducts with his pipe in his hand, and hums "La, la,
+la!" to himself. He pipes the chorus with them. At the conclusion
+they all bow or curtsey deeply to the MOTHER.)
+
+MOTHER (half laughing, half crying). Oh!
+
+TALKER (suddenly and dramatically, holding up his hand). Listen!
+
+EVERYBODY. What?
+
+TALKER. Didn't I hear somebody say "cider"?
+
+***
+
+(It is eight days later when we see them again. The DAUGHTER is at
+the spinet, playing an accompaniment to the song which she and
+the SINGER are sharing for the moment.)
+
+SHE.      He does not know I love him,
+             He does not care;
+          The sky is blue above him,
+             The road is there
+             For those who dare--
+             Alas! why should he care?
+
+HE.       She does not know I love her,
+              She does not know;
+          The sky is blue above her,
+             The soft winds blow
+             Where violets grow--
+             Alas! how should she know?
+
+TOGETHER. Yet those who sing
+          About the Spring
+          All say it should bring
+             Two lovers together!
+          Oh where, oh where
+          Will you find a pair
+             So matched as you and I, love?
+          Come rain or shine,
+          Come wet or fine,
+          If you are mine
+             What matter the weather?
+          Oh take my hand
+          And kiss me and
+             Confess that you are my love.
+
+HE.       She does not know I love her--
+             Ah yes, she knows;
+          The sky is blue above her,
+             The buds disclose
+             The first wild rose--
+          Ah yes, she knows, she knows!
+
+SHE.      He cares not that I love him--
+             Ah yes, he cares;
+          The sky is blue above him,
+             A thrush declares
+             The world is theirs--
+          Ah yes, how much he cares!
+
+TOGETHER. For those who sing, etc.
+
+DAUGHTER (looking up at him). It is a pretty song.
+
+SINGER. The words, I thought, were good. I liked the words.
+
+DAUGHTER. Who thinks of the words of a song if the tune be pretty?
+
+SINGER. But if the heart of the singer be in the words?
+
+DAUGHTER (suddenly, as, she gets up). Tell me about Chloe.
+
+SINGER (surprised). Chloe?
+
+DAUGHTER. Or whatever her name was.
+
+SINGER (hurt). I am not sure that I understand this conversation.
+
+DAUGHTER. I mean the first one.
+
+SINGER. I am not sure that I like this conversation.
+
+DAUGHTER. She was the first, wasn't she--the one who made you
+renounce the world and take to the road?
+
+SINGER (stiffly). Her name was not Chloe.
+
+DAUGHTER (coaxingly). What was it?
+
+SINGER (annoyed). Why rake up the dead ashes of the past? I was but
+a boy. It was five months ago. Besides, her name was Penelope.
+
+DAUGHTER. You still remember it, though it was so long ago?
+
+SINGER. I could have pretended to have forgotten, if it would have
+pleased you better.
+
+DAUGHTER (coldly). I? Oh, I am not interested.
+
+SINGER. Well, _I_ didn't start the subject. Perhaps, as neither of
+us is interested, I had better withdraw. Since we are to start this
+afternoon, I have much to see about. (Bowing) With your permission.
+
+DAUGHTER (stopping him). Don't go. I am sorry. I have been unkind.
+
+SINGER (smiling). Shall we practise that other song? Our voices
+agree, if our--our hearts do not.
+
+DAUGHTER (distressed). Oh, don't say that. We must be friends.
+
+SINGER. Only friends?
+
+DAUGHTER (gently). Tell me about her.
+
+SINGER. There is not much to tell, dear. I thought she loved me.
+Perhaps that was why I thought I loved her. When I told her, she
+pretended to be surprised. I don't think she was surprised. She
+was very pretty. (He pauses.)
+
+DAUGHTER. And hard?
+
+SINGER. It is not for me to say anything against her. It is through
+her that I came here.
+
+DAUGHTER. When you came here the other day, had you forgotten her?
+
+SINGER (singing). "Oh, let the wench, the wench be whom she will,
+so long as I can walk on Morland Hill." Didn't I say so on that
+first day?
+
+DAUGHTER. Of course, I know very little of the world, but I do
+wonder sometimes if people who sing about the joys of wandering are
+really enjoying it all the time.
+
+SINGER (looking round at the window). Is Johannes about?
+
+DAUGHTER (surprised). No.
+
+SINGER. Then I will be frank with you. Just lately _I_ have been
+wondering too.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh!
+
+SINGER (rapidly). I have a house; you would like my house. I have
+a park; you would like the park. Horses to ride and jewels to wear.
+I go to London sometimes and see the King; you would like London.
+
+DAUGHTER (tragically). I have never been to London.
+
+SINGER (letting himself go suddenly). Sweetheart, all that I have--
+(In an ordinary whisper) Be careful, Fiddler just went past the
+window. (Keeping his arm round her, he breaks into the last line or
+two of his song. She joins in, as if they were rehearsing.)
+
+[Enter the FIDDLER.]
+
+SINGER (to DAUGHTER). Yes, I think we have it pretty well now. 'Tis
+a good song. (Turning round suddenly and seeing the FIDDLER). Ah,
+Fiddler, are you there? What do you think of it?
+
+FIDDLER. Isn't it time to start?
+
+SINGER. To start? Ah yes, we start this afternoon. Well, we have
+had a pleasant holiday and must get to work again.
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). And I am coming with you.
+
+FIDDLER. It is settled?
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh yes, I think so.
+
+FIDDLER. It is the best life. (TO DAUGHTER) Play something.
+
+[As the DAUGHTER goes to the spinet, the SINGER goes out.]
+
+(They play. When it is over, the DAUGHTER turns round and looks at
+the FIDDLER, and sighs.)
+
+DAUGHTER. That is all you want? Just you and your fiddle and the
+open road?
+
+FIDDLER. It is the best life.
+
+[The TALKER appears at the window.]
+
+TALKER. Aha! what did I hear? Did I hear our loquacious Fiddler
+perorating upon Life? "Life," quoth she, with much argument and
+circumstantial matter; "Life," she continued, making her points
+singly and one by one, thus keeping the business in its true
+perspective; "Life is--"(Lamely) Well, what is life?
+
+FIDDLER. When do we start, Johannes?
+
+[The DAUGHTER goes out.]
+
+TALKER. Are you so eager to be gone?
+
+FIDDLER. We have been here eight days.
+
+TALKER. Eight days! And Troy was besieged for eleven years! Eight
+days! Why, I could talk for eight days without taking breath, and I
+am by nature a glum, silent man. Nay, nay, say not to me "Eight
+days." Eight days will not make a man grow old or a woman lose her
+beauty. (The MOTHER comes into the room.) Or a woman lose her
+beauty--Madame, I kiss your hands. Were I of less girth I would
+flit through the window and fall upon my knees at your feet. (The
+FIDDLER with a shrug goes out.) As it is, I shall enter by the door
+in the usual way. I have your permission?
+
+MOTHER (smiling). You asked my permission a week ago. You do not
+need to ask it now.
+
+TALKER (still at the window). It has been a happy week. The week
+has liked me well.
+
+MOTHER. You take the road again this afternoon. Your plan still
+holds?
+
+TALKER (with a sigh). They say so, lady.
+
+MOTHER. Who say so? Is not Master Johannes the master of his
+company? Who say so?
+
+TALKER. The birds. I held converse with a cuckoo-bird this morning.
+"Cuckoo," he said--in this manner (he imitates it on his pipe)--
+meaning, as I gathered, "O fool!" I bowed low to him, and "Pardon,
+bird," said I,--"but I would have you tell me why I am a fool." He
+answered thus in parables--"Cuckoo."
+
+MOTHER. And what did _that_ mean?
+
+TALKER (sighing). It meant, "There's no fool like an old fool."
+
+(She looks away. He waits a little, then sighs again and leaves the
+window, entering a moment later by the door.)
+
+MOTHER (looking up). Well, Sir?
+
+TALKER. Madame, I am a man of good family, although--although I
+quarrelled with my good family. I left them many years ago and took
+to the road. I have seen something of the world since then, but I
+think I must always have had at the back of my mind some dim
+picture of what a home was--some ancient memory, perhaps. That
+memory has been very strong within me these last days.
+
+MOTHER. You have liked my home, Master Johannes?
+
+TALKER. I have liked it well. (He takes out his pipe and plays a
+melancholy "Cuckoo.") Well, well--we start this afternoon.
+
+MOTHER. You want my daughter?
+
+TALKER (sadly). Not your daughter, Madame.
+
+MOTHER. What is it you want? Are you so backward in asking? It is
+not like the Master Johannes who came to my house eight days ago.
+
+TALKER (taking his courage in his hands). Madame, though I have
+wandered about the world, I have saved some pennies in my time.
+A few trifling coins--enough for middle-age. Since I have had the
+great honour of knowing you--(He breaks of as the voice of the
+SINGER to full song is heard approaching.) Oh, God bless that poor
+young fool! Madame, I entreat you--
+
+MOTHER (rising and moving hastily away). Another time, dear
+Johannes--(she smiles very fondly at him as she goes out)--another
+time you must tell me--all.
+
+(The TALKER stares after her, hardly believing. Then, with an air
+of solemn happiness, he takes out his pipe and dances carefully but
+cheerfully round the room, piping to himself. The SINGER comes in
+singing merrily, He joins the TALKER at the end of the room, turns
+round with hint and trips up and down the room with him, one
+singing and the other piping.)
+
+TALKER. Friend, we are gay.
+
+SINGER. Very, very gay, Master Johannes. (They turn round and go up
+and down the room as before.)
+
+TALKER. Something is stirring our middle-aged blood. I feel years
+younger.
+
+SINGER. I have only just been born.
+
+TALKER (with a wave of the hand): Shall we take another turn?
+
+SINGER. At your pleasure. (They go up and down as before.)
+
+TALKER (looking at the other anxiously out of the corners of his
+eyes). What do you think has happened to us?
+
+SINGER (with a similar look). I--I wonder.
+
+TALKER (nervously). I suppose the fact that we are going off this
+afternoon--the joy of returning to our old gay life is--is
+affecting us?
+
+SINGER. I--I suppose so. (Without enthusiasm) Yes, that must be it.
+
+TALKER. This cauliflower existence, this settled life which even
+the least enterprising cabbage would find monotonous, we have had
+more than enough of it, my friend.
+
+SINGER. Yes. (He sighs deeply.) I sigh to think how we have wasted
+these eight days.
+
+TALKER. Ah! (He sighs still more deeply.) However, Heaven be
+praised, we are for the road this afternoon.
+
+SINGER (gloomily). Heaven be praised! It is a grand life.
+
+TALKER (carelessly). Of course, if you came to me and said,
+"Johannes," you said, "I left my home in a fit of melancholy five
+months agone; the melancholy is cured, I will return home again"--
+why, I would say, "God bless you, Master Duke; go your way." Well,
+I can understand such a thing happening to a man of your age, not
+born to the wandering as I am.
+
+SINGER. Bless you, Johannes, you are a true gentleman.
+
+TALKER (airily). Say no more, say no more.
+
+SINGER. But I cannot accept this sacrifice. I pledged myself to
+serve you for a year, and I'll keep my pledge.
+
+TALKER (considerably upset by this). Wait a moment, Master Duke;
+I have myself thought of retiring these many months past. Indeed,
+it was only for your sake--
+
+SINGER. No, no, I cannot allow it. It is only for my sake that you
+are saying this. We will take the road this afternoon. (Heroically)
+Indeed, I would infinitely prefer it. I am enamoured of the
+wandering life.
+
+TALKER. It is a great life. It means everything to me.
+
+(They stand side by side looking gloomily in front of them.
+Gradually they begin to glance towards each other; they catch each
+other's eyes--and understand each other thoroughly.)
+
+TALKER (clapping the SINGER heartily on the back). I knew it, I
+knew it! You and the wandering life!
+
+SINGER (delightedly). You, too, Johannes! You've had enough of it!
+
+(They suddenly turn round and go up and down the room together,
+piping and singing. A genteel cough is heard outside the window,
+and the MOTHER is seen for a moment. The TALKER turns round with
+his pipe to his lips. They go up the room together again, and at
+the top the TALKER, with a wave of the hand, leaves his companion
+and goes out. He is seen passing the window.)
+
+[The DAUGHTER comes in.]
+
+SINGER. Sweetheart!
+
+DAUGHTER (going to him). Is it all right?
+
+SINGER. Everything is all right, beloved.
+
+DAUGHTER. You have told him?
+
+SINGER (nodding). It couldn't have fallen out better. He, too, was
+tired of wandering and wanted to settle down.
+
+DAUGHTER. I told mother. She seemed glad. You know, I think she
+seems younger about something.
+
+[Enter FIDDLER.]
+
+FIDDLER. Are we starting this afternoon?
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Fiddler dear, do you mind very much? (She holds out
+her hand, and the SINGER takes it.) We aren't coming at all. We--we--
+
+SINGER. We are getting married.
+
+FIDDLER (nodding to herself). I thought so.
+
+DAUGHTER. But you will come and stay with us sometimes. Oh, say you
+will!
+
+SINGER (smiling at FIDDLER with great friendliness). Of course she
+will.
+
+(The TALKER and the MOTHER are seen coming least the windows.)
+
+FIDDLER. There's Johannes. I expect we shall be starting this
+afternoon.
+
+[The TALKER and the MOTHER come in arm-in-arm. He bows to her and
+takes the floor.]
+
+TALKER. Ladies and gentlemen, companions-in-arms, knights and
+ladies of the road, comrades all,--I have the honour to make an
+announcement to you. The wandering company of the Red Feathers is
+determined from this date, likewise disbanded, or, as others would
+say, dissolved. "What means this, Master Johannes?" I hear you say.
+"Who has done this thing?" Ladies and gentles all, I answer you
+that young Cupid has done this thing. With unerring aim he has
+loosed his arrows. With the same happy arrow (taking the MOTHER'S
+hand) he has pierced the hearts of this gracious lady and myself,
+while yonder gallant gentleman I name no names, but the
+perspicacious will perceive whom I mean--is about to link his life
+with the charming maiden who stands so modestly by his side. There
+is one other noble lady present to whom I have not yet referred--
+
+FIDDLER (holding out her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go.
+Good-bye, and thank you.
+
+MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear.
+
+TALKER (continuing his speech)--noble lady to whom I have not yet
+referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the
+fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish
+of (swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should
+take up her abode with us.
+
+FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think--
+
+DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she
+promised.
+
+MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be
+much more suitable that she should live with _us_.
+
+SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see
+you whenever she liked.
+
+MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and
+come and see _you_ sometimes.
+
+TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to
+this? For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year,
+she shall live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her
+habitation with us; whereas for the other six months--(They have
+been so busy discussing the future of the FIDDLER that they have
+not noticed that she is no longer there. Suddenly the sound of the
+fiddle is heard.) What's that?
+
+[The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in
+it. She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content
+again. She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them
+a little bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She
+goes out of the door, still playing; she is still playing as she
+goes past the windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she
+is gone they still listen until the music dies in the distance.]
+
+
+
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of First Plays, by A. A. Milne
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
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+**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
+
+Title: First Plays
+
+Author: A. A. Milne
+
+Release Date: April, 2005  [EBook #7805]
+[This file was first posted on May 18, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO Latin-1
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, FIRST PLAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+FIRST PLAYS
+
+by A. A. Milne
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+INTRODUCTION
+WURZEL-FLUMMERY
+THE LUCKY ONE
+THE BOY COMES HOME
+BELINDA
+THE RED FEATHERS
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+These five plays were written, in the order in which they appear
+now, during the years 1916 and 1917. They would hardly have been
+written had it not been for the war, although only one of them is
+concerned with that subject. To his other responsibilities the
+Kaiser now adds this volume.
+
+For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but
+the recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing
+is a luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more
+expensive in time and money. When an article is written, the
+financial reward (and we may as well live as not) is a matter of
+certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is not in "the front rank"--
+but I never heard of one who wasn't--can at least be sure of
+publication. But when a play is written, there is no certainty of
+anything save disillusionment.
+
+To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a
+depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the
+morning. I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I
+could not afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the
+case was altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was
+soldiering, and my spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns
+played bridge and golf; that was one way of amusing oneself.
+Another way was--why not?--to write plays.
+
+So we began with Wurzel-Flummery. I say "we," because another is
+mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She
+wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out
+for a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one
+could smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it
+was to discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in
+the next. We did not estimate the money or publicity which might
+come from this new venture; there has never been any serious
+thought of making money by my bridge-playing, nor desire for
+publicity when I am trying to play golf. But secretly, of course,
+we hoped. It was that which made it so much more exciting than any
+other game.
+
+Our hopes were realized to the following extent:
+
+Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New
+Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in
+which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of
+1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I
+cut it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but
+to cut thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole
+characters on the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination.
+It appeared, therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic
+embarrassed us by saying that a lesser artist would have written it
+in three acts, and most of the other critics annoyed us by saying
+that a greater artist would have written it in one act. However, I
+amused myself some months later by slaying another character--the
+office-boy, no less--thereby getting it down to one act, and was
+surprised to find that the one-act version was, after all, the
+best... At least I think it is. ... At any rate, that is the
+version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am rather
+tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to wonder if
+anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all. Probably
+the whole thing is an invention.
+
+The Lucky One was doomed from the start with a name like that. And
+the girl marries the wrong man. I see no hope of its being
+produced. But if any critic wishes to endear himself to me (though
+I don't see why he should) he will agree with me that it is the
+best play of the five.
+
+The Boy Comes Home was produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria
+Palace in September, 1918, introduced afterwards into Hallo,
+America! at the Palace, and played by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the
+Coliseum in the following April.
+
+Belinda was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in
+April, 1918, with Miss Irene Vanbrugh in the name-part. Miss Ethel
+Barrymore played it in New York. I hope it will read pleasantly,
+but I am quite incapable of judging it, for every speech of
+Belinda's comes to me now in Miss Vanbrugh's voice.
+
+The Red Feathers has not yet been produced, one reason being
+(perhaps) that it has never been offered to anybody. It is
+difficult enough to find a manager, but when one has also to get
+hold of a composer, the business of production becomes terrifying.
+I suppose there is a way of negotiating these difficulties, but I
+suspect that most of the fun to be got out of this operetta we have
+already had in writing it.
+
+In conclusion, I must distress my friend J. M. Barrie (who gave me
+a first chance) by acknowledging my great debt to him. It would be
+more polite to leave him out of it, but I cannot let him off. After
+all, these are only "First Plays." I can always hope that "Last
+Plays" will be more worthy of that early encouragement.
+
+A. A. MILNE.
+
+
+
+WURTZEL-FLUMMERY
+
+A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P.
+MARGARET CRAWSHAW (his wife).
+VIOLA CRAWSHAW (his daughter).
+RICHARD MERITON, M.P.
+DENIS CLIFTON.
+
+A Two-Act version of this play was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault
+at the New Theatre on April 7, 1917, with the following cast:
+
+Robert Crawshaw--NIGEL PLAYFAIR.
+Margaret Crawshaw--HELEN HAYE.
+Viola Crawshaw--PEGGY KURTON.
+Richard Meriton--MARTIN LEWIS.
+Denis Clifton--DION BOUCICAULT.
+Lancelot Dodd--BERTRAM SIEMS.
+
+
+WURTZEL-FLUMMERY
+
+[SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW'S town house. Morning.]
+
+[It is a June day before the war in the morning-room of ROBERT
+CRAWSHAW'S town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent,
+our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender
+round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes
+out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is
+sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to
+catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out
+the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In
+the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a
+solid knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of
+reference, and supported by a chair at the middle and another at
+the side. The rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures
+round the walls, we must leave until another time, for at this
+moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in.
+He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent face,
+and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he
+comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes.]
+
+RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.
+
+VIOLA (putting her hands over his). The Archbishop of Canterbury.
+
+RICHARD. No.
+
+VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.
+
+RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then,
+your last guess.
+
+VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.
+
+RICHARD. Wonderful! (He kisses the top of her head lightly and
+goes round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the
+fireplace.) How did you know? (He begins to fill a pipe.)
+
+VIOLA (smiling). Well, it couldn't have been father.
+
+RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway.
+Anything in the paper?
+
+VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that--
+
+RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.
+
+VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.
+
+RICHARD. It would be.
+
+VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.
+
+RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.
+
+VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as
+father.
+
+RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that
+before. ... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?
+
+VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the
+other day.
+
+RICHARD. No, I don't, really.
+
+VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equalled
+by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means,
+but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.
+
+RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to
+Basingstoke to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.
+
+VIOLA. Of course not.
+
+RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.
+
+VIOLA. Then why does he say it?
+
+RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole
+structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to
+say things like that at Basingstoke. ... But really, darling, we're
+very good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he
+doesn't take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it awfully
+good of him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being
+done up. (Seriously) I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for
+the last week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"--
+the girl I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; now--oh, why
+won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like this.
+
+VIOLA, Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He
+would, as they say in novels, show you the door. (Smiling) And I
+want you this side of the door for a little bit longer.
+
+RICHARD (firmly). I shall tell him before I go.
+
+VIOLA (pleadingly). But not till then; that gives us two more days.
+You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round
+him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates
+poor people.
+
+RICHARD (viciously). Damn money!
+
+VIOLA (thoughtfully). I think that's what father means by spiritual
+instability.
+
+RICHARD. Viola! (He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She
+goes to him and--) Oh, Lord, look out!
+
+VIOLA (reaching across to the mantelpiece). Matches?
+
+RICHARD. Thanks very much. (He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW
+comes in.)
+
+(CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed moustache and
+whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly
+style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him
+look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State
+which he undoubtedly is.)
+
+CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
+
+RICHARD. Good morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at
+breakfasts?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?
+
+VIOLA (making for the door). I don't know, father; do you want her?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.
+
+VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [She goes out.]
+
+(RICHARD Picks up "The Times" and sits down again.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (sitting down in a business-like way at his desk).
+Richard, why don't you get something to do?
+
+RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--
+work in the House.
+
+RICHARD (a trifle cool). I have something to do.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a
+directorship or something in the City.
+
+RICHARD. I hate the City.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual
+arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at
+Basingstoke.
+
+RICHARD (drily). Yes, so Viola was telling me.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing
+personal. (Clearing his throat) It is justly one of the proudest
+boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not
+allowed to interfere with his private friendships.
+
+RICHARD (carelessly). Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
+
+[Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for
+twenty-five years, the last twenty four years from habit. She is
+small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call
+her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear.]
+
+MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was
+all right.
+
+RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.
+
+MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?
+
+CRAWSHAW. (obviously uncomfortable). Yes--er--h'rm--Richard--er--
+what are your--er--plans?
+
+RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?
+
+MARGARET. Of course not. (TO ROBERT) Are you, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can
+leave Richard here with the paper.
+
+RICHARD. No, no; I'm going.
+
+CRAWSHAW (going to the door with him). I have some particular
+business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to
+consult you in the matter afterwards.
+
+RICHARD. Right! [He goes out.]
+
+CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for
+you.
+
+MARGARET (sitting down). Yes, Robert?
+
+CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. (He reads it) "199,
+Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have pleasure to inform you that
+under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary
+to the extent of £50,000."
+
+MARGARET. Robert!
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you
+should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery."
+
+MARGARET. Robert!
+
+CRAWSHAW. "I have the honour to be, your obedient servant, Denis
+Clifton." (He folds the letter up and puts it away.)
+
+MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the
+money?--
+
+CRAWSHAW (calmly). I have not the slightest idea, Margaret.
+Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis
+Clifton to come and see me.
+
+MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy!
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery!
+
+MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what
+about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more
+central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so
+much more--more Cabinety.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street--I
+don't know what _that_ sounds like.
+
+MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear.
+They can't really expect us to change our name to--Wurzley-Fothergill.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk
+the solicitor round--this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't
+matter to him what we call ourselves. Write him one of your
+letters, dear.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.--Mr.--
+
+CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with
+the name of Wurzley-Fothergill--
+
+CRAWSHAW. Wurzel--oh, well, never mind.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the
+fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too
+absurd, when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect
+you to call yourself Wurzley-Fothergill.
+
+CRAWSHAW (impatiently). Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr.
+Clifton has left me the money on _condition_ that I change my name.
+If I don't take the name, I don't take the money.
+
+MARGARET. But is that legal?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on
+succeeding to some property.
+
+MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you
+changed it to Talbot.
+
+CRAWSHAW (to himself). Wurzel-Flummery!
+
+MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it
+was very nice of him, but if you didn't know him--Why do you think
+he did, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he had--ah--
+followed my career, and was--ah--interested in it, and being a man
+with no relations, felt that he could--ah--safely leave this money
+to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or
+the name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the
+name--ah--perpetuated, perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the
+history of our country, and--ah--made this will accordingly. In a
+way it is a kind of--ah--sacred trust.
+
+MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think
+about, my duty to my country.
+
+MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't
+it?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view
+of riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is
+entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money
+thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly as anybody.
+
+MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we _could_ have that second car
+and the house in Curzon Street?
+
+CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly
+invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the
+income-tax--and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just
+now--
+
+MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery
+it would count as _earned_ income.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even
+if it is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in
+recognition of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But
+Parliament takes a different view. I do not for a moment say that
+fifty thousand pounds would not be welcome. Fifty pounds is
+certainly not to be sneezed at--
+
+MARGARET. I should think not, indeed!
+
+CRAWSHAW (unconsciously rising from his chair). And without this
+preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this
+trust, and I would endeavour, Mr. Speaker--(He sits down again
+suddenly.) I would, Margaret, to, carry it out to the best of my
+poor ability. But--Wurtzel-Flummery!
+
+MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used
+to the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five
+years. It is surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only
+signed my name Margaret Debenham once after I was married.
+
+CRAWSHAW (kindly). The cases are rather different, Margaret.
+Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day
+when she will change her name, cannot have this feeling for the--
+ah--honour of his name, which every man--ah--feels. Such a feeling
+is naturally more present in my own case since I have been
+privileged to make the name of Crawshaw in some degree--ah--
+well-known, I might almost say famous.
+
+MARGARET (wistfully). I used to be called "the beautiful Miss
+Debenham of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of
+course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw.
+
+CRAWSHAW (getting up and walking over to the fireplace). In a way
+it would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in
+politics to get your name before the public. "Whoever is this man
+Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say.
+
+MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty
+thousand pounds is fifty thousand pounds.
+
+CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it.
+But--well, all I say is that a _gentleman_ would have left it
+without any conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed
+his _wish_ that I should take the name, without going so far as to
+enforce it. Then I could have looked at the matter all round in an
+impartial spirit.
+
+MARGARET (pursuing her thoughts). The linen is marked R. M. C. now.
+Of course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F.
+would do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.?
+
+CRAWSHAW. What? Oh--yes, there will be a good deal of that to
+attend to. (Going up to her) I think, Margaret, I had better talk
+to Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the
+money, but--well, I should like to have his opinion.
+
+MARGARET (getting up). Do you think he would be very sympathetic,
+dear? He makes jokes about serious things--like bishops and hunting
+just as if they weren't at all serious.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I wish to talk to him just to obtain a new--ah--point of
+view. I do not hold myself in the least bound to act on anything he
+says. I regard him as a constituent, Margaret.
+
+MARGARET. Then I will send him to you.
+
+CRAWSHAW (putting his hands on her shoulders). Margaret, what do
+you really feel about it?
+
+MARGARET. Just whatever you feel, Robert.
+
+CRAWSHAW (kissing her). Thank you, Margaret; you are a good wife
+to me. [She goes out]
+
+(CRAWSHAW goes to his desk and selects a "Who's Who" from a little
+pile of reference-books on it. He walks round to his chair, sits
+down in it and begins to turn the pages, murmuring names beginning
+with "C" to himself as he gets near the place. When he finds it, he
+murmurs "Clifton--that's funny," and closes the book. Evidently the
+publishers have failed him.)
+
+[Enter RICHARD.]
+
+RICHARD. Well, what's the news? (He goes to his old seat on the
+fender.) Been left a fortune?
+
+CRAWSHAW (simply). Yes. ... By a Mr. Antony Clifton. I never met
+him and I know nothing about him.
+
+RICHARD (surprised). Not really? Well, I congratulate you. (He
+sighs.) To them that hath--But what on earth do you want my advice
+about?
+
+CRAWSHAW. There is a slight condition attached.
+
+RICHARD. Oho!
+
+CRAWSHAW. The condition is that with this money--fifty thousand
+pounds--I take the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+RICHARD (jumping up). What!
+
+CRAWSHAW (sulkily). I said it quite distinctly--Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+(RICHARD in an awed silence walks over to the desk and stands
+looking down at the unhappy CRAWSHAW. He throws out his left hand
+as if introducing him.)
+
+RICHARD (reverently). Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M. P., one of the
+most prominent of our younger Parliamentarians. Oh, you...oh! ...
+oh, how too heavenly! (He goes back to his seat, looks up and
+catches CRAWSHAW'S eye, and breaks down altogether.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (rising with dignity). Shall we discuss it seriously, or
+shall we leave it?
+
+RICHARD. How can we discuss a name like Wurzel-Flummery seriously?
+"Mr. Wurzel-Flummery in a few well-chosen words seconded the
+motion." ... "'Sir,' went on Mr. Wurzel-Flummery"--Oh, poor Robert!
+
+CRAWSHAW (sitting down sulkily). You seem quite certain that I
+shall take the money.
+
+RICHARD. I am quite certain.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Would you take it?
+
+RICHARD (hesitating). Well--I wonder.
+
+CRAWSHAW. After all, as William Shakespeare says, "What's in a
+name?"
+
+RICHARD. I can tell you something else that Shakespeare--_William_
+Shakespeare--said. (Dramatically rising) Who steals my purse with
+fifty thousand in it--steals trash. (In his natural voice) Trash,
+Robert: (Dramatically again) But he who filches from me my good
+name of Crawshaw (lightly) and substitutes the rotten one of Wurzel--
+
+CRAWSHAW (annoyed). As a matter of fact, Wurzel-Flummery is a very
+good old name. I seem to remember some--ah--Hampshire Wurzel-Flummeries.
+It is a very laudable spirit on the part of a dying man to wish to--
+ah--perpetuate these old English names. It all seems to me quite
+natural and straightforward. If I take this money I shall have
+nothing to be ashamed of.
+
+RICHARD. I see. ... Look here, may I ask you a few questions? I
+should like to know just how you feel about the whole business?
+
+CRAWSHAW (complacently folding his hands). Go ahead.
+
+RICHARD. Suppose a stranger came up in the street to you and said,
+"My poor man, here's five pounds for you," what would you do? Tell
+him to go to the devil, I suppose, wouldn't you?
+
+CRAWSHAW (humorously). In more parliamentary language, perhaps,
+Richard. I should tell him I never took money from strangers.
+
+RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you
+would take it?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't.
+
+RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, _then_ you would?
+
+CRAWSHAW (blandly). Ah, I thought you were leading up to that.
+That, of course, is entirely different.
+
+RICHARD. Why?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Well--ah--wouldn't _you_ take ten thousand pounds if it
+were left to you by a stranger?
+
+RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would
+seem different.
+
+CRAWSHAW (professionally). Ha-hum! Well--in the first place, when a
+man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be
+certain that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot
+spare. And in the neat place, it is the man's dying wish that you
+should have the money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To
+accept becomes almost a sacred duty.
+
+RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it
+from him when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently
+refuse him a little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter
+a damn to him what happens to his money after he's dead, and
+therefore you can take it without feeling any gratitude at all.
+
+CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that.
+
+RICHARD (smiling). I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert.
+
+CRAWSHAW No doubt you can twist it about so that--
+
+RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point.
+Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your
+hair down the middle, shave off your moustache, and wear only one
+whisker--if he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike
+your appearance, took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and
+alter yourself--of course you'd pocket the money and go straight to
+your barber's?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive.
+
+RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left
+you five pounds in his will?--well, then twenty pounds? a hundred
+pounds?--a thousand pounds?--fifty thousand pounds?--(Jumping up
+excitedly) It's only a question of price--fifty thousand pounds,
+Robert--a pink tie with purple spots, hair across the back,
+trousers with a patch in the fall myself Wurzel-Flummery--any old
+thing you like, you can't insult me--anything you like, gentlemen,
+for fifty thousand pounds. (Lowering his voice) Only you must leave
+it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty--a
+sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. (He sinks back into the sofa
+and relights his pipe.)
+
+CRAWSHAW. (rising with dignity). It is evidently useless to prolong
+this conversation.
+
+RICHARD (waving him dorm again). No, no, Robert; I've finished. I
+just took the other side--and I got carried away. I ought to have
+been at the Bar.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You take such extraordinary views of things. You must
+look facts in the face, Richard. This is a modern world, and we are
+modern people living in it. Take the matter-of-fact view. You may
+like or dislike the name of--ah--Wurzel-Flummery, but you can't get
+away from the fact that fifty thousand pounds is not to be sneezed
+at.
+
+RICHARD (wistfully). I don't know why people shouldn't sneeze at
+money sometimes. I should like to start a society for sneezing at
+fifty thousand pounds. We'd have to begin in a small way, of course;
+we'd begin by sneezing at five pounds--and work up. The trouble is
+that we're all inoculated in our cradles against that kind of cold.
+
+CRAWSHAW (pleasantly). You will have your little joke. But you know
+as well as I do that it is only a joke. There can be no serious
+reason why I should not take this money. And I--ah--gather that you
+don't think it will affect my career?
+
+RICHARD (carelessly). Not a bit. It'll help it. It'll get you into
+all the comic papers.
+
+[MARGARET comes in at this moment, to the relief of CRAWSHAW, who
+is not quite certain if he is being flattered or insulted again.]
+
+MARGARET. Well, have you told him?
+
+RICHARD (making way for her on the sofa). I have heard the news,
+Mrs. Crawshaw. And I have told Robert my opinion that he should
+have no difficulty in making the name of Wurzel-Flummery as famous
+as he has already made that of Crawshaw. At any rate I hope he
+will.
+
+MARGARET. How nice of you!
+CRAWSHAW. Well, it's settled, then. (Looking at his watch) This
+solicitor fellow should be here soon. Perhaps, after all, we can
+manage something about--Ah, Viola, did you want your mother?
+
+[Enter VIOLA.]
+
+VIOLA. Sorry, do I interrupt a family meeting? There's Richard, so
+it can't be very serious.
+
+RICHARD. What a reputation!
+
+CRAWSHAW. Well, it's over now.
+
+MARGARET. Viola had better know, hadn't she?
+
+CRAWSHAW. She'll have to know some time, of course.
+
+VIOLA (sitting done firmly on the sofa). Of course she will. So
+you'd better tell her now. I knew there was something exciting
+going on this morning.
+
+CRAWSHAW (embarrassed). Hum--ha--(To MARGARET) Perhaps you'd better
+tell her, dear.
+
+MARGARET (simply and naturally). Father has come into some
+property, Viola. It means changing our name unfortunately. But your
+father doesn't think it will matter.
+
+VIOLA. How thrilling! What is the name, mother?
+
+MARGARET. Your father says it is--dear me, I shall never remember it.
+
+CRAWSHAW (mumbling). Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA (after a pause). Dick, _you_ tell me, if nobody else will.
+
+RICHARD. Robert said it just now.
+
+VIOLA. That wasn't a name, was it? I thought it was just a--do say
+it again, father.
+
+CRAWSHAW (sulkily but plainly). Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA (surprised). Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel
+and like flummery?
+
+RICHARD. Exactly, I believe.
+
+VIOLA (to herself). Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery--I mean they'd have
+to look at you, wouldn't they? (Bubbling over) Oh, Dick, what a
+heavenly name! Who had it first?
+
+RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family--that is so, isn't it,
+Robert?
+
+CRAWSHAW (annoyed). I said I thought that I remembered--Margaret,
+can you find Burke there?
+
+(She finds it, and he buries himself in the families of the great.)
+
+MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss
+Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand
+in front of my glass and tell myself who I am.
+
+RICHARD. It's all right for you. You know you'll change your name
+one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before.
+
+VIOLA (secretly). H'sh! (She smiles lovingly at him, and then says
+aloud) Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage
+has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery..." and
+everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl."
+
+MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). Have you found it, dear?
+
+CRAWSHAW (resentfully). This is the 1912 edition.
+
+MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in
+by then.
+
+VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick,
+what fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman
+throwing open the door and saying--
+
+MAID (announcing). Mr. Denis Clifton.
+
+(There is a little natural confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in
+his summer suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW
+goes towards him and shakes hands.)
+
+CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come.
+(Looking doubtfully at his clothes) Er--it is Mr. Denis Clifton,
+the solicitor?
+
+CLIFTON (cheerfully). It is. I must apologize for not looking the
+part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time.
+Very careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk
+dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these
+occasions.
+
+CRAWSHAW (bewildered). Ah yes, quite so. But you have--ah--full
+legal authority to act in this matter?
+
+CLIFTON.. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that.
+
+CRAWSHAW (introducing). My wife--and daughter. (CLIFTON bows
+gracefully.) My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton.
+
+CLIFTON (happily).Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a
+situation, as we say in the profession.
+
+RICHARD (amused by him). In the legal profession?
+
+CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession.(Turning to MARGARET) I am a
+writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional
+secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have
+thanked me for submitting my work to them.
+
+CRAWSHAW (firmly).I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the
+solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony
+Clifton.
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a
+solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say
+probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to
+the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have
+embraced the profession of a solicitor--(Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW)
+But you know what these official embraces are.
+
+MARGARET. I'm afraid--(She turns to her husband for assistance.)
+
+CLIFTON (to RICHARD). Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the
+Muses.
+
+VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely?
+
+CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it
+that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to
+produce a play, the case would be different.
+
+CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor
+for as long as you wish. (He puts his hat down on a chair with the
+papers in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily) Mr.
+Denis Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent
+make-up, his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into
+his hat--(He does so.)
+
+MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). I think, perhaps, Viola and I--
+
+RICHARD (making a move too). We'll leave you to your business, Robert.
+
+CLIFTON (holding up his hand). Just one moment if I may. I have a
+letter for you, Mr. Meriton.
+
+RICHARD (surprised). For me?
+
+CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity--oh, but I
+said that before--he took it round to your rooms this morning, but
+found only painters and decorators there. (He is feeling in his
+pockets and now brings the letter out.) I brought it along, hoping
+that Mr. Crawshaw--but of course I never expected anything so
+delightful as this. (He hands over the letter with a bow.)
+
+RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts it in his pocket.)
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? (To MR. CRAWSHAW) One
+so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own
+letters are read. I think the habit they have on the stage of
+reading letters aloud to other is such a very delightful one.
+
+(RICHARD, with a smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while
+CLIFTON is talking.)
+
+RICHARD. Good Lord!
+
+VIOLA. Dick, what is it?
+
+RICHARD (reading). "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have
+the pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr.
+Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of £50,000."
+
+VIOLA. Dick!
+
+RICHARD. "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should
+take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." (CLIFTON, with his hand on his
+heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (annoyed). Impossible! Why should he leave any money to
+_you_?
+
+VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful!
+
+MARGARET (mildly). I don't remember ever having had a morning quite
+like this.
+
+RICHARD (angrily). Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton?
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the
+utmost--
+
+RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't
+even argue about it. (Tearing the letter into bits) That's what I
+think of your money. [He stalks indignantly from the room.]
+
+VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him--
+[She hurries after him.]
+
+MARGARET (with dignity). Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you.
+[She goes out too.]
+
+CLIFTON (looking round the room). And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are
+alone.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to
+explain--
+
+CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking
+forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning
+dressing for it. (He takes papers from his hat and moves to the
+sofa.) Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning.
+
+CRAWSHAW (interested, indicating the papers). The documents in the
+case?
+
+CLIFTON. Oh dear, no just something to carry in the hand. It makes
+one look more like a solicitor. (Reading the title) "Watherston v.
+Towser--in re Great Missenden Canal Company." My clerk invents the
+titles; it keeps him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is
+always coming in. (Frankly) You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first
+real case, and I only got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My
+efforts to introduce a little picturesqueness into the dull
+formalities of the law do not meet with that response that one
+would have expected.
+
+CRAWSHAW (looking at his watch). Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if
+you could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this
+money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these
+extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged to you.
+
+CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being
+entirely frank with you. It will be a pleasure.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may
+say that I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as
+I am to accept this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr.
+Antony Clifton has seen fit--(modestly) one cannot say why--to
+bequeath to me, yet the use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be
+excessively awkward.
+
+CLIFTON (cheerfully). Excessively.
+
+CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was
+absolutely essential that the name should go with the money.
+
+CLIFTON. Well (thoughtfully), you may have the name _without_ the
+money if you like. But you must have the name.
+
+CRAWSHAW (disappointed). Ah! (Bravely) Of course, I have nothing
+against the name, a good old Hampshire name--
+
+CLIFTON (shocked). My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think--you
+didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery
+before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the
+founders of the clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran--
+
+CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not
+a real name at all?
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because--er--_I_
+made it up.
+
+CRAWSHAW (outraged). And you have the impudence to propose, sir,
+that I should take a made-up name?
+
+CLIFTON (soothingly). Well, all names are made up some time or
+other. Somebody had to think of--Adam.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this
+trifling with serious subjects.
+
+CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really. ... You see, my Uncle Antony
+was a rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to
+put it in its proper place. The place he put it in was--er--a
+little below golf and a little above classical concerts. If a man
+said to him, "Would you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?"
+he would say--well, it would depend what he was doing. If he were
+going to have a round at Walton Heath--
+
+CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way.
+
+CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find
+many to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was
+nothing, however contemptible, that a man would not do for money.
+One day I suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently
+foolish name attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it.
+He laughed at the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I
+said; "leave the same silly name to two people, two well-known
+people, rival politicians, say, men whose own names are already
+public property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched
+him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said. "Upon what vile
+bodies shall we experiment?" We decided on you and Mr. Meriton.
+The next thing was to choose the name. I started on the wrong
+lines. I began by suggesting names like Porker, Tosh, Bugge,
+Spiffkins--the obvious sort. My uncle--
+
+CRAWSHAW (boiling with indignation). How _dare_ you discuss me with
+your uncle, Sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way
+whether I am to be called--ah--Tosh--or--ah--Porker!
+
+CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't bear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a
+humorous name--a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue--a
+name expressing a sort of humorous contempt--Wurzel-Flummery! I
+can see now the happy ruminating smile which carne so often on my
+Uncle Antony's face in those latter months. He was thinking of his
+two Wurzel-Flummerys. I remember him saying once--it was at the
+Zoo--what a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole
+Cabinet. A whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummerys; it would have been
+rather jolly.
+
+CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if _that_ was the way you
+and your uncle used to talk together at his death can only be
+described as a merciful intervention of Providence.
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere,
+you know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was
+his one regret that from the necessities of the case he could not
+live to enjoy his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it
+would reach him wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I
+fancy, that toward the end he became interested in spiritualism.
+
+CRAWSHAW (rising solemnly). Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the
+present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of
+overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if,
+as you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like
+him to hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified
+solicitor at all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole
+story of the will and the ridiculous condition attached to it is
+just the tomfool joke of a man who, by his own admission, wastes
+most of his time writing unsuccessful farces. And I propose--
+
+CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces,
+comedies--of a whimsical nature.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole
+matter to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir.
+
+CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr.
+Crawshaw?
+
+CRAWSHAW (startled). What's that?
+
+CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand
+pounds?
+
+CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not
+refuse it.
+
+CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there--and the name. Both
+waiting for you.
+
+CRAWSHAW (thumping the table). Then, Sir, I accept them. I feel it
+my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the
+late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that
+you have suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show
+what I think of your story by accepting the trust which he has
+bequeathed to me. You will arrange further matters with my
+solicitor. Good morning, Sir.
+
+CLIFTON (to himself as he rises). Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass
+of water. (To CRAWSHAW) Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I
+express the parting wish that your future career will add fresh
+lustre to--my name. (To himself as he goes out) Exit Mr. Denis
+Clifton with dignity. (But he has left his papers behind him.)
+
+(CRAWSHAW, walking indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers
+and picks them up.)
+
+CRAWSHAW (contemptuously). "Watherston v. Towser--in re Great
+Missenden Canal Company" Bah! (He tears them up and throws them
+into the fare. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated
+there as VIOLA, followed by MERITON, comes in.)
+
+VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told
+him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he?
+
+RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola.
+
+CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be
+awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummerys in the House of
+Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In
+any case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola.
+
+VIOLA (surprised). But how can we get married if he doesn't take
+the money?
+
+CRAWSHAW (hardly understanding). Married? What does this mean,
+Richard?
+
+RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told
+you before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or
+two. Viola and I want to get married.
+
+CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on?
+
+RICHARD (with a smile). Not very much, I'm afraid.
+
+VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty
+thousand pounds.
+
+RICHARD (sadly). Oh, Viola, Viola!
+
+CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on
+matters.
+
+VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father?
+
+CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to
+entrust my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself
+that he throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful
+objection to the name which goes with it.
+
+RICHARD (in despair). You don't understand, Robert.
+
+CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good
+enough for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind
+asking Viola to take _your_ name, but you consider it an insult if
+you are asked to take _my_ name.
+
+RICHARD (miserably to VIOLA). Do you want to be Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery?
+
+VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling.
+
+RICHARD (beaten). Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But
+you'll never understand.
+
+CRAWSHAW (stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out).
+Come, come, Richard. (Patting him on the shoulder) I understand
+perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while ago--
+it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in
+practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice
+our ideals for--ah--others. I shall be very proud to have you for a
+son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in
+Parliament together upholding the honour of the--ah--name. And
+perhaps now that we are to be so closely related, you may come to
+feel some day that your views could be--ah--more adequately put
+forward from _my_ side of the House.
+
+RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it.
+
+CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And
+you must send that solicitor a line--or perhaps a telephone message
+would be better. (He goes to the door and turns round just as he is
+going out.) Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer.
+[Exit.]
+
+RICHARD (holding out his hands to VIOLA). Come here, Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please,
+darling. (She comes to him.)
+
+RICHARD (shaking his head sadly at her). I don't know what I've
+done, Viola. (Suddenly) But you're worth it. (He kisses her, and
+then says in a low voice) And God help me if I ever stop thinking so!
+
+[Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very
+tactfully with his back towards them, humming to himself.]
+
+RICHARD. Hullo!
+
+CLIFTON (to himself). Now where did I put those papers? (He hums to
+himself again.) Now where--oh, I beg your pardon! I left some
+papers behind.
+
+VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. (As she goes out, she says to
+CLIFTON) Good-bye, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice
+letters.
+
+CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Crawshaw.
+
+VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds.
+
+CLIFTON. Good-bye, Miss Wurzel-Flummery.
+
+VIOLA. (smiling happily). No, not Miss, Mrs.
+
+[She goes out.]
+
+CLIFTON. (looking in surprise from her to him). You don't mean--
+
+RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton.
+
+CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! (Thoughtfully to himself) I
+wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers.
+
+RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton!
+
+CLIFTON. Why poor?
+
+RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said
+to Crawshaw about money before you came.
+
+CLIFTON (thoughtfully). Oh I was it very--(Brightening up) But I
+expect Uncle Antony heard. (After a pause) Well, I must be getting
+on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in
+connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company--a most intricate
+case, in which my clerk and I--(He has murmured himself across to
+the fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly
+catch his eye. He picks up one of the fragments.) Ah, yes. Well, I
+shall tell my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had
+got quite fond of that canal. (He turns to go, but first says to
+MERITON) So you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton?
+
+RICHARD. Yes.
+
+CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too?
+
+RICHARD. Yes.
+
+CLIFTON (to himself as he goes out). They are both taking it. (He
+stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile.) Good old Uncle
+Antony--he knew--he knew! (MERITON stands watching him as he goes.)
+
+
+
+THE LUCKY ONE
+
+A PLAY IN THREE ACTS
+
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+GERALD FARRINGDON.
+BOB FARRINGDON (his elder brother).
+SIR JAMES FARRINGDON (his father).
+LADY FARRINGDON (his mother).
+MISS FARRINGDON (his great-aunt).
+PAMELA CAREY (his betrothed).
+HENRY WENTWORTH (his friend).
+THOMAS TODD (his friend).
+LETTY HERBERT (his friend).
+MASON (his old nurse).
+
+ACT I.
+At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S in the country.
+
+ACT II.
+A private hotel in Dover Street. Two months later.
+
+ACT III.
+At SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. Three months later.
+
+
+THE LUCKY ONE
+
+
+ACT I
+
+[SCENE.--The hall of SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S house in the country.]
+
+[It is a large and pleasantly unofficial sort of room, used as
+a meeting-place rather than a resting place. To be in it pledges
+you to nothing; whereas in the billiard-room you are presumably
+pledged to billiards. The French windows at the back open on to
+lawns; the door on the right at the back will take you into the
+outer hall; the door on the left leads to the servants' quarters;
+the door on the right in front will disclose other inhabited rooms
+to you. An oak gallery runs round two sides of the hall and
+descends in broad and gentle stairs down the right side of it. Four
+stairs from the bottom it turns round at right angles and deposits
+you fairly in the hall. Entering in this way, you will see
+immediately opposite to you the large open fireplace occupied by a
+pile of unlit logs--for it is summer. There is a chair on each side
+of the fireplace, but turned now away from it. In the left centre
+of the hall there is a gate-legged table to which trays with drinks
+on them, have a habit of finding their way; it is supported on each
+side by a coffin-stool. A sofa, which will take two strangers
+comfortably and three friends less comfortably, comes out at right
+angles to the staircase, but leaves plenty of space between itself
+and the stool on its side of the table. Beneath the window on the
+left of the French windows is a small table on which letters and
+papers are put; beneath the window on the other side is a
+writing-table. The walls are decorated impartially with heads of
+wild animals and of Farringdons.]
+
+[At the present moment the inhabitants of the hall are three. HENRY
+WENTWORTH, a barrister between forty, and fifty, dressed in rather
+a serious tweed suit, for a summer day, is on the sofa. THOMAS
+TODD, an immaculate young gentleman of twenty-five, is half-sitting
+on the gate-legged table with one foot on the ground and the other
+swinging. He is dressed in a brown flannel coat and white trousers,
+shoes and socks, and he has a putter in his hand indicative of his
+usual line of thought. The third occupant is the Butler, who, in
+answer to TOMMY'S ring, has appeared with the drinks.]
+
+[The time is about four o'clock on a June afternoon.]
+
+TOMMY (to the Butler). Thanks, James; just leave it here. [Exit Butler.]
+Whisky or lemonade, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Neither, thanks, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY. Well, I will. (He pours himself out some lemonade and takes
+a long drink.) I should have thought you would have been thirsty,
+driving down from London a day like this. (He finishes his drink.)
+Let's see, where was I up to? The sixth, wasn't it?
+
+WENTWORTH. The sixth, Tommy. (With resignation) Only twelve more.
+
+TOMMY. Yes, that's right. Well, at the seventh I got an absolutely
+topping drive, but my approach was sliced a bit. However, I chipped
+on within about six feet, and was down in four. Gerald took it in
+three, but I had a stroke, so I halved. Then the eighth I told you
+about.
+
+WENTWORTH. Was that where you fell into the pond?
+
+TOMMY. No, no; you're thinking of the fifth, where I topped my
+drive into the pond.
+
+WENTWORTH. I knew the pond came into it somewhere. I hoped--I mean
+I thought you fell in.
+
+TOMMY. Look here, you _must_ remember the eighth, old chap; that
+was the one I did in one. Awful bit of luck.
+
+WENTWORTH. Bit of luck for me too, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY. Why?
+
+WENTWORTH. Because now you can hurry on to the ninth.
+
+TOMMY. I say, Wentworth, I thought you were keen on golf.
+
+WENTWORTH. Only on my own.
+
+TOMMY. You're a fraud. Here I've been absolutely wasting my
+precious time on you and--I suppose it wouldn't even interest you
+to hear that Gerald went round in seventy-two--five under bogey?
+
+WENTWORTH. It would interest me much more to hear something about
+this girl he's engaged to.
+
+TOMMY. Pamela Carey? Oh, she's an absolute ripper.
+
+WENTWORTH. Yes, but you've said that of every girl you've met.
+
+TOMMY. Well, dash it! you don't expect me to describe what she
+looks like, do you?
+
+WENTWORTH. Well, no. I shall see that for myself directly. One gets
+introduced, you know, Tommy. It isn't as though I were meeting her
+at Charing Cross Station for the first time. But who is she?
+
+TOMMY. Well, she was poor old Bob's friend originally. He brought
+her down here, but, of course, as soon as she saw Gerald--
+
+WENTWORTH (quickly). Why, _poor_ old Bob?
+
+TOMMY. I don't know; everybody seems to call him that. After all,
+he isn't quite like Gerald, is he?
+
+WENTWORTH. Paderewski isn't quite like Tommy Todd, but I don't
+say "poor old Paderewski"--nor "poor old Tommy," if it comes to
+that.
+
+TOMMY. Well, hang it, old man, there's a bit of a difference.
+Paderewski and I--well, I mean we don't compete.
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh, I don't know. I daresay he's as rotten at golf as
+you, if the truth were really known.
+
+TOMMY. No, but seriously, it's a bit different when you get two
+brothers like Gerald and Bob; and whatever the elder one does, the
+younger one does a jolly sight better. Now Paderewski and I--
+
+WENTWORTH. Good heavens! I wish I hadn't started you on that. Get
+back to Bob. I thought Bob was on the Stock Exchange and Gerald in
+the Foreign Office. There can't be very much competition between
+them there.
+
+TOMMY. Well, but there you are! Why isn't Bob in the Foreign Office
+and Gerald on the Stock Exchange? Why, because Gerald's the clever
+one, Gerald's the popular one, the good-looking one, the lucky one,
+the county cricketer, the plus three at golf--
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh Lord! I thought you'd get golf into it. I suppose you
+were working up to your climax. Poor old Bob is about eighteen at
+golf, eh?
+
+TOMMY. As a matter of fact, he's a very decent five. And there you
+are again. In any other family, Bob would be thought rather a nut.
+As it is--
+
+WENTWORTH. As it is, Tommy, there are about thirty-five million
+people in England who've never played golf and who would recognize
+Bob, if they met him, for the decent English gentleman that he is.
+
+TOMMY. I think you exaggerate, old chap. Golf's been getting
+awfully popular lately.
+
+WENTWORTH. Personally I am very fond of Bob.
+
+TOMMY. Oh, so am I. He's an absolute ripper. Still, _Gerald_, you
+know--I mean it's jolly bad luck on poor old Bob. Now Paderewski
+and I--
+
+[Enter GERALD from the garden, a charming figure in a golfing coat
+and white flannels. Perhaps he is a little conscious of his charm;
+if so, it is hardly his fault, for hero-worship has been his lot
+from boyhood. He is now about twenty-six; everything that he has
+ever tried to do he has done well; and, if he is rather more
+unembarrassed than most of us when praised, his unself-consciousness
+is to a stranger as charming as the rest of him. With it all he is
+intensely reserved, with the result that those who refuse to
+succumb to his charm sometimes make the mistake of thinking that
+there is nothing behind it.]
+
+GERALD. Hallo, Wentworth, how are you? All right?
+
+WENTWORTH (getting up and shaking hands). Yes, thanks. How are you?
+
+GERALD. Simply bursting. Have you seen your room and all that sort
+of thing?
+
+WENTWORTH. Yes, thanks.
+
+GERALD. Good. And Tommy's been entertaining you. (To TOMMY) Tommy,
+I interrupted your story about Paderewski. I don't think I know it.
+(To WENTWORTH) You must listen to this; it may be fairly new.
+
+TOMMY. Don't be an ass. As a matter of fact, we were discussing
+something quite serious.
+
+GERALD (to WENTWORTH). How long have you been here?
+
+WENTWORTH. About ten minutes.
+
+GERALD. And Tommy hasn't told you that he did the eighth in one
+this morning?
+
+WENTWORTH. He hasn't really told me yet. He's only mentioned it
+once or twice in passing.
+
+TOMMY (modestly). Well, I mean it's bound to appear in the papers,
+so naturally one--
+
+GERALD. Oh, it's a great business. Champagne will flow like water
+to-night. There will also be speeches.
+
+WENTWORTH. Which reminds me, Gerald, I have to congratulate you.
+
+GERALD. Thank you very much. When you've seen her you'll want to do
+it again.
+
+TOMMY (looking through the window). Hallo, there's Letty.
+
+GERALD. If you want to tell her about it, run along, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY (moving off). I thought I'd just take her on at putting. [He
+goes out.]
+
+GERALD (sitting down). You'll stay till--well, how long can you?
+Tuesday, anyhow.
+
+WENTWORTH. I think I can manage till Tuesday. Thanks very much.
+Miss Carey is here, of course?
+
+GERALD. Yes, she'll be in directly. She's gone to the station to
+meet Bob.
+
+WENTWORTH (smiling). And Gerald didn't go with her?
+
+GERALD (smiling). At least six people suggested that Gerald should
+go with her. They suggested it very loudly and archly--
+
+WENTWORTH. So Gerald didn't?
+
+GERALD. So Gerald didn't. (After a pause) I can't stand that sort
+of thing.
+
+WENTWORTH. What sort of thing?
+
+GERALD (after a pause). Poor old boy! you've never been in love--
+barring the nine or ten times you're just going to tell me about. I
+mean never really in love.
+
+WENTWORTH. Don't drag _me_ into it. What is it you can't stand?
+
+GERALD. People being tactful about Pamela and me. ... Aunt Tabitha
+asked me yesterday if she might have Pamela for half an hour to do
+something or other--as if she were an umbrella, with my initials on
+it. ... And somebody else said, "I've quite fallen in love with
+your Pamela; I hope you don't mind." _Mind_? I tell you, Wentworth,
+my boy, if you aren't in love with Pamela by Tuesday, there'll be
+the very deuce of a row. Your electro-plated butter-dish, or
+whatever it's going to be, will be simply flung back at you.
+
+WENTWORTH. Well, as long as Miss Pamela understands--
+
+GERALD. Of course she understands. We understand each other.
+
+WENTWORTH (preening himself ). Then I'll do my best. Mind, if she
+does happen to reciprocate my feelings, I wash my hands of all
+responsibility. (Going towards the staircase) Good-afternoon, Miss
+Farringdon.
+
+[MISS FARRINGDON is coming slowly down the stairs.]
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Good-afternoon, Mr. Wentworth. Welcome.
+
+(She must be well over eighty. She was pretty once, and
+sharp-tongued; so much you could swear to now. For the rest she is
+very, very wise, and intensely interested in life.)
+
+GERALD (going over and kissing her). Good-morning, Aunt Tabitha.
+Your chair is waiting for you. (He conducts her to it.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I'm a nasty cross old thing before lunch, Mr.
+Wentworth, so I don't come down till afterwards nowadays. Is Gerald
+being as charming as usual?
+
+WENTWORTH (smiling). Oh, pretty well.
+
+GERALD (looking at her lovingly and then turning to WENTWORTH).
+It's having a very bad effect on her, this morning seclusion. She's
+supposed to be resting, but she spends her time trying to think of
+nasty things to say about me. The trouble with a mind like Aunt
+Tabitha's is that it can't think of anything _really_ nasty.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. The trouble with Gerald, Mr. Wentworth, is that he
+goes about expecting everybody to love him. The result is that they
+nearly all do. However, he can't get round _me_.
+
+GERALD. It isn't true, Wentworth; she adores me.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. He wouldn't be happy if he didn't think so.
+
+WENTWORTH (gracefully). I can sympathize with him there.
+
+GERALD. The slight coolness which you perceive to have arisen
+between my Aunt Tabitha and myself is due to the fact that I
+discovered her guilty secret a few days ago. For years she has
+pretended that her real name was Harriet. I have recently found out
+that she was christened Tabitha--or, anyhow, would have been, if
+the clergyman had known his job.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. My great-nephew, Gerald, Mr. Wentworth--
+
+GERALD. _Nephew_, Wentworth. I agreed to waive the "great" a long
+time ago.
+
+WENTWORTH. You'll excuse my asking, but do you never talk to each
+other except through the medium of a third person?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (to GERALD). That's how they prefer to do it in the
+Foreign Office. Isn't it, dear?
+
+GERALD. Always, Aunt Tabitha. But really, you know, we both ought
+to be talking to Wentworth and flaking after his mother and his
+liver--and things like that.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Yes, I'm afraid we're rather rude, Mr. Wentworth.
+The Farringdons' great fault.
+
+WENTWORTH (protesting). Oh no!
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. How _is_ Mrs. Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Wonderfully well, thank you, considering her age.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Dear me, we met first in 1850.
+
+GERALD. All frills and lavender.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. And now here's Gerald engaged. Have you seen
+Pamela yet?
+
+WENTWORTH. Not yet. I have been hearing about her from Tommy. He
+classes her with the absolute rippers.
+
+GERALD. Good old Tommy!
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Yes, she's much too good for Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Of course she is, Aunt Tabitha. But if women only married
+men who were good enough for them, where should we be? As lots of
+young men said to you, in vain--on those afternoons when they read
+Tennyson aloud to you.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. She ought to have married Bob.
+
+WENTWORTH (surprised and amused). Bob? Is Bob good enough for her?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. She would have made a good wife for Bob.
+
+[Enter suddenly LETTY HERBERT and TOMMY from the garden. LETTY is
+an entirely delightful irresponsible girl of the type which might
+have shocked Queen Victoria. However, she seems to suit TOMMY. They
+are not engaged yet, but she has already that air of proprietorship.]
+
+LETTY. I say, Tommy did the eighth in one. Why, there's Aunt
+Harriet. (Going over and kissing her) How are you, darling? Tommy's
+done the eighth in one. I know it doesn't mean much to you, but do
+say hooray, because he's so bucked about it.
+
+GERALD (to WENTWORTH). Do you know Miss Herbert? Letty, come and
+be introduced. Mr. Wentworth--Miss Herbert.
+
+LETTY (shaking hands eagerly). How do you do? I say, Tommy did the
+eighth in one. Do you know Tommy--_or_ the eighth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Both, Miss Herbert.
+
+GERALD. To a man who knows both, the performance seems truly
+astonishing.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I don't know anything about golf, Mr. Todd. But
+doing anything in one sounds rather clever. So I say hooray, too.
+
+TOMMY. I wish you'd let me teach you, Miss Farringdon. Lots of
+people begin when they're frightfully old.
+
+LETTY (to WENTWORTH). This is one of Tommy's polite days.
+
+GERALD. Mr. Todd's famous old-world courtesy is the talk of many a
+salon.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (to TOMMY). Don't you mind them. I _am_ frightfully
+old. I am very proud of it. I hope you'll all live to be as old as
+I am.
+
+GERALD. I only hope we shall be half as nice.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Gerald being charming as usual.
+
+GERALD (firmly). I will also add that I hope we shall be kinder to
+our great-nephews than some.
+
+LETTY (putting her arm in his). Diddums!
+
+GERALD. Yes, I did. I am very much hurt.
+
+TOMMY. I say, you know, Miss Farringdon, I never meant--
+
+LETTY. I love Tommy when he apologizes.
+
+[Enter SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON from the door to front of the
+staircase. SIR JAMES, in a country check-suit, is a man of no
+particular brain and no ideas, but he has an unconquerable belief
+in himself, and a very genuine pride in, and admiration of, GERALD.
+His grey hair is bald on the top, and he is clean-shaven except for
+a hint of whisker. He might pass for a retired Captain R. N., and
+he has something of the quarter-deck manner, so that even a remark
+on the weather is listened to with attention. Neither of his sons
+loves him, but GERALD is no longer afraid of him. LADY FARRINGDON
+is outwardly rather intimidating, but she never feels so. She
+worships GERALD; and would love a good many other people if they
+were not a little overawed by her.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Ah, you're here, Mr. Wentworth. How do you do?
+
+WENTWORTH (coming forward). How do you do, Lady Farringdon? How do
+you do, Sir James?
+
+SIR JAMES. How are you, Wentworth? Come to see Gerald play for the
+county?
+
+GERALD. He's come to see Pamela. Haven't you, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. I rather hope to see both.
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Aunt Harriet, I didn't see you. How are you to-day?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Very well, thank you, James. (He goes over to her.)
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I hope they've shown you your room, Mr. Wentworth,
+and made you comfortable? Gerald, darling, you saw that Mr.
+Wentworth was all right?
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh yes, that's quite all right, thank you, Lady
+Farringdon.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Let me see, you're in the Blue Room, I think.
+
+LETTY. It's much the nicest room to be in, Mr. Wentworth. There's a
+straight way down the water-pipe in case of fire.
+
+GERALD. And a straight way up in case of burglars.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (fondly). Gerald, dear, don't be so foolish.
+
+SIR JAMES. Gerald, is it true you went round in seventy-two?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Tommy did the eighth in one.
+
+TOMMY (modestly). Awful fluke.
+
+SIR JAMES (casually). Ah--well done. (To GERALD) Seventy-two--
+that's pretty good. That's five under bogey, Mr. Wentworth.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to WENTWORTH). Gerald has always been so good at
+everything. Even as a baby.
+
+TOMMY. He did the ninth in three, Letty. How's that for hot?
+
+SIR JAMES (to WENTWORTH). You must stay till Thursday, if you can,
+and see the whole of the Surrey match. It isn't often Gerald gets a
+chance of playing for the county now. It's difficult for him to get
+away from the Foreign Office. Lord Edward was telling me at the
+club the other day--
+
+LETTY (t0 LADY FARRINGDON). Gerald dived off the Monk's Rock this
+morning. I'm glad I didn't see him. I should have been horribly
+frightened.
+
+TOMMY (proudly). I saw him.
+
+LETTY. Tommy, of course, slithered down over the limpets in the
+ordinary way.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (fondly). Oh, Gerald, how could you?
+
+SIR JAMES (still talking to WENTWORTH). He tells me that Gerald is
+a marked man in the Service now.
+
+TOMMY (to LETTY). Do you remember when Gerald--
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (incisively). Let's _all_ talk about Gerald.
+
+(GERALD, who has been listening to all this with more amusement
+than embarrassment, gives a sudden shout of laughter.)
+
+GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, you're too lovely! (He blows her a kiss
+and she shakes her stick at him.)
+
+[Enter PAMELA from the door In front of the staircase, tall,
+beautiful and serene, a born mother. GERALD carried her off her
+feet a month ago, but it is a question if he really touched her
+heart--a heart moved more readily by pity than by love.]
+
+PAMELA. Gerald, dear, I'd know your laugh anywhere. Am I too late
+for the joke?
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Pamela. Brought Bob with you?
+
+PAMELA. He's just washing London off himself.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Pamela, dear, do you know Mr. Wentworth?
+
+PAMELA (shaking hands). How do you do?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to WENTWORTH). Miss Carey--Gerald's Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. I've heard so much about you, Mr. Wentworth.
+
+WENTWORTH. And I've heard so much about you, Miss Carey.
+
+PAMELA. That's nice. Then we can start straight off as friends.
+
+LETTY. I suppose you know Tommy did the eighth in one?
+
+PAMELA. Rather. It's splendid!
+
+LETTY. _Do_ say you haven't told Bob.
+
+GERALD. Why shouldn't Bob know?
+
+PAMELA. No, I haven't told him, Letty.
+
+LETTY. Good, then Tommy can tell him.
+
+TOMMY. They do pull my leg, don't they, Miss Farringdon?
+
+[Enter BOB from the outer hall in a blue flannel suit. He has
+spoilt any chance he had of being considered handsome by a sullen
+expression now habitual. Two years older than Gerald, he is not so
+tall, but bigger, and altogether less graceful. He has got in the
+way of talking in rather a surly voice, as if he suspected that any
+interest taken in him was merely a polite one.]
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Bob; good man.
+
+BOB. Hullo. (He goes up to LADY FARRINGDON and kisses her.) How are
+you, mother?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. It's so nice that you could get away, dear.
+
+BOB. How are you, father? All right?
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Bob! Come down to see your brother play for the
+county?
+
+PAMELA (quickly). He's come down to see _me_, haven't you, Bob?
+
+BOB. Hullo, Wentworth. Hullo, Letty. I say, I can't shake hands
+with you all. (He smacks TOMMY on the back and goes over to Miss
+FARRINGDON.) How are you, dear?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Very glad to see my elder great-nephew. I was
+getting tired of Gerald.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (protesting). Aunt Harriet, dear.
+
+GERALD (smiling). It's all right, mother. We quite understand each
+other.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I quite understand Gerald.
+
+BOB. I say, aren't we going to have any tea?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. It's early yet, dear. Gerald, you'd like to have
+it outside, wouldn't you?
+
+GERALD. Oh, rather. What do you say, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. I never want to be indoors in the country if I can help
+it.
+
+SIR JAMES. Quite right, Wentworth--quite right. Gerald, you'll just
+have time to take Wentworth round the stables before tea.
+
+GERALD. You'll have to see them officially after church to-morrow.
+I don't know if you'd care about a private view now.
+
+SIR JAMES. He must see your new mare. I should like to have his
+opinion of her.
+
+WENTWORTH (getting up). I never know what to say to a mare, but I
+should like to come.
+
+LETTY. She answers to "Hi!" or to any loud cry.
+
+PAMELA. I'm sure you'll be all right, Mr. Wentworth.
+
+GERALD. There's a way of putting one's head on one side and saying,
+"Ah!" Anybody who's seen Tommy at the Royal Academy will know
+exactly what I mean.
+
+(GERALD, PAMELA and WENTWORTH move towards the door.)
+
+WENTWORTH (to PAMELA). Ought I to have a straw in my mouth?
+
+GERALD. It's all right, we'll go and see the spaniels first.
+
+WENTWORTH (cheerfully). Oh, I'm all right with dogs.
+
+LETTY (to TOMMY). Come on, Tommy. [They go out behind the others.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Would you like to have tea outside, Aunt Harriet?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I'm not too old for that, Mary. Bob will bring me
+out. I want to have a word with him while I can. Everybody talks at
+once in this house.
+
+SIR JAMES (picking up his hat). How's the City--hey?
+
+BOB. Just as usual.
+
+SIR JAMES. Coming round to the stables?
+
+ROB. Later on, perhaps.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Bob is bringing Aunt Harriet along, dear.
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. [They go out together.]
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Smoke, Bob, and tell me how horrible the City is.
+
+BOB (lighting a pipe and sitting down). It's damnable, Aunt
+Harriet.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. More damnable than usual?
+
+BOB. Yes.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Any particular reason why?
+
+BOB (after a long pause). No.
+
+(MISS FARRINGDON nods to herself and then speaks very casually.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. My bankers sent in my pass-book the other day. I
+seem to have a deal of money lying idle, as they call it. If
+anybody wanted it, I should really be in no hurry to get it back
+again.
+
+BOB (awkwardly). Thanks very much. It isn't that. (After a pause)
+Not altogether.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. It was a great pity you ever went into the City,
+Bob.
+
+BOB (fiercely). I could have told anybody that.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (after waiting for him to say something more).
+Well, suppose we go into the garden with the others. (She begins to
+get up and he goes to help her,) There's nothing you want to tell
+me, Bob?
+
+BOB (looking away). What would there be?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I'm a wise old woman, they say, and I don't talk.
+
+BOB. I don't think you can help me. Er--thanks very much.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (quite naturally, as she turns towards the door).
+If you don't mind giving me your arm.
+
+(As they get to the door they are met by GERALD and PAMELA coming
+in.)
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Bob, we were just coming back for you.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Thoughtful Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Pamela's idea. She thought that the elder members of the
+family could discuss life more freely unhampered by the younger
+generation.
+
+PAMELA. What I really said was, "Where's Bob?"
+
+GERALD. Well, it's the same thing.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Bob is looking after me, thank you very much.
+[They go out together.]
+
+GERALD (after watching them go, to PAMELA). Stay here a bit. There
+are too many people and dogs and things outside. Come and sit on
+the sofa and I'll tell you all the news. (He takes her hand and
+they go to the sofa together.) What ages you've been away!
+
+PAMELA. An hour and a half. And it need not have been that if you'd
+come with me.
+
+GERALD (taking her hand). If I had come with you, I would have held
+your hand all the way.
+
+PAMELA. I shouldn't have minded.
+
+GERALD. But just think what would have happened: You would have had
+to have driven with one hand down all the hills; we should have had
+a smash-up before we got halfway; a well-known society beauty and a
+promising young gentleman in the Foreign Office would have been
+maimed for life; and Bob would have to have walked here carrying
+his portmanteau. Besides, I love you going away from me when you
+come back. You've only got to come into the room, and the sun seems
+to shine.
+
+PAMELA. The sun always shines on Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Does it? That's a different sort of sunshine. Not the
+gentle caressing September afternoon sunshine which you wear all
+round you. (She is looking at him lovingly and happily as he says
+this, but she withdraws into herself quickly as he pulls himself up
+and says with a sudden change of tone) Dear me, I'm getting quite
+poetical, and two minutes ago I was talking to Wentworth about
+fetlocks.
+
+PAMELA (getting up). Oh, Gerald, Gerald!
+
+GERALD (getting up and smiling at her). Oh, Pamela, Pamela!
+
+PAMELA. I wonder how much you really want me.
+
+GERALD. I'll show you when we're married. I don't think I could
+even begin to tell you now.
+
+PAMELA (wistfully). Couldn't you try?
+
+(GERALD catches hold of her suddenly, and holding her tightly to
+him, kisses her again and again.)
+
+GERALD. There!
+
+PAMELA (releasing herself). Oh, Gerald, my darling, you frighten me
+sometimes.
+
+GERALD. Did I frighten you then?
+
+PAMELA (happily). Oh, no, no, no, no! (Earnestly) Always want me
+very much, Gerald. Always be in need of me. Don't be too successful
+without me. However much the sun shines on you, let me make it
+gentler and more caressing for you.
+
+GERALD. It is so, darling. Didn't I say so?
+
+PAMELA. Ah, but I want such a lot of telling.
+
+GERALD (laughing happily as he goes over to the table by the
+fireplace and takes a cigarette). Who was the fellow who threw
+something into the sea because he was frightened by his own
+luck? What shall I throw? (Looking at a presentation clock on the
+mantelpiece) That's rather asking for it. In a way it would be
+killing two birds with one stone. Oh, Lord, I am lucky!
+
+PAMELA (coming to him and taking his arm). As long as you don't
+throw me.
+
+GERALD. Pamela, you're talking rubbish. I talk a good deal myself,
+but I do keep within the bounds. Let's go and chatter to Bob about
+contangos. I don't know what they are, but they sound extraordinarily
+sober.
+
+PAMELA (gently). Poor old Bob!
+
+GERALD (quickly). Why _poor_ old Bob?
+
+PAMELA. He's worried about something. I tried to get him to tell me
+as we came from the station, but he wouldn't.
+
+GERALD. Poor old Bob! I suppose things are going up--or down, or
+something. Brokerage one-eighth--that's what's worrying him, I
+expect.
+
+PAMELA. I think he wants to talk to you about it. Be nice to him,
+darling, won't you?
+
+GERALD (surprised). Nice to him?
+
+PAMELA. You know what I mean--sympathetic. I know it's a difficult
+relationship--brothers.
+
+GERALD. All relationships are difficult. But after you, he's the
+person I love best in the world. (With a laugh) But I don't propose
+to fall on his neck and tell him so.
+
+PAMELA (smiling). I know you will help him if you can.
+
+GERALD. Of course I will, though I don't quite see how. (Hopefully)
+Perhaps he's only slicing his drives again.
+
+PAMELA. Oh, I love you, Gerald. (Wonderingly) _Do_ I love you, or
+am I only just charmed by you?
+
+GERALD. You said you loved me once. You can't go back on that.
+
+PAMELA. Then I love you. And make a century for me on Monday.
+
+GERALD. Well, I'll try. Of course the bowler may be in love too.
+But even if I get out first ball, I can say, "Well, anyhow, Pamela
+loves me."
+
+PAMELA. Oh, I think I hope you get out first ball.
+
+GERALD. Baby Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. And on Thursday we shall be alone together here, and you've
+promised to take me out in the boat for the day.
+
+GERALD. You mean you've promised to let me.
+
+PAMELA. What happy days there are in the world!
+
+[Enter BOB from the garden.]
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Bob. Tea? (He moves towards the door.)
+
+BOB. Cigarettes. (He goes over to the fireplace and fills his
+cigarette case.)
+
+GERALD. Still, I expect tea's nearly ready.
+
+PAMELA (going towards door R. at the back). I'll join you; I'm not
+going out without a sunshade again. [Exit.]
+
+(There is an awkward silence.)
+
+BOB (to GERALD). I say!
+
+GERALD (turning round). Hullo!
+
+BOB. Just wait a moment.
+
+(GERALD comes back slowly.)
+
+GERALD. I warn you those are rotten cigarettes. (Holds out his own
+case)
+
+BOB (taking one). Thanks. (Awkwardly) You're so confoundedly
+difficult to get hold of nowadays. Never less than half-a-dozen all
+round you.
+
+GERALD (laughing). Good old Bob!
+
+BOB (after lighting a cigarette). I want to talk to you about
+something.
+
+GERALD. Well, of course.
+
+BOB (after a pause). You've heard of Marcus, my partner?
+
+GERALD (with the idea of putting himself and BOB more at their
+ease). Good old Marcus and Farringdon! It's the most perfect name
+for a firm. They sound so exactly as though they could sell you
+anything from a share to a shaving-brush. Marcus and Farringdon's
+pure badger, two shillings--gilt-edged badger half-a-crown.
+
+BOB (fiercely). I suppose everything is just a pleasant joke to
+you.
+
+GERALD (utterly surprised). Bob! Bob, old boy, what's the matter?
+(Putting his hand on BOB'S shoulder) I say, Bob, I haven't hurt
+you, have I?
+
+BOB (hopelessly). Oh, Jerry, I believe I'm in the devil of a hole.
+
+GERALD. You haven't called me "Jerry" since we were at school.
+
+BOB. You got me out of holes then--damn you! and you were my
+younger brother. Oh, Jerry, get me out of this one.
+
+GERALD. But, of course. (Firmly, as if a little nervous of a scene
+from BOB) My dear Bob, you're as right as anything. You've got
+nothing on earth to worry about. At the worst it's only a question
+of money, and we can always put that right somehow.
+
+BOB. I'm not sure that it is only a question of money.
+
+GERALD (frightened). What do you mean? (Turning away with a laugh)
+You're talking nonsense.
+
+BOB. Gerald, Marcus is a wrong un. (Fiercely) An out-and-out wrong
+un.
+
+GERALD. The only time I saw him he looked like it.
+
+BOB. God knows what he's let me in for.
+
+GERALD. You mean money?
+
+BOB. More than that, perhaps.
+
+GERALD. You mean you're just going bankrupt?
+
+BOB. No. (After a pause) Prosecution.
+
+GERALD. Well, let them prosecute. That ends Marcus. You're well
+rid of him.
+
+BOB (miserably). Perhaps it isn't only Marcus.
+
+GERALD (sharply, after this has sunk in). What can they prosecute
+you for?
+
+BOB (speaking rapidly). What the devil did they ever send me to the
+City for? I didn't want to go. I was never any good at figures. I
+loathe the whole thing. What the devil did they want to send me
+there for--and shove me on to a wrong un like Marcus? That's his
+life, messing about with money in the City. How can I stand out
+against a man like that? I never wanted to go into it at all.
+
+GERALD (holding out his cigarette-case). Have another cigarette?
+(They each light one, and GERALD sits down in the chair opposite to
+him.) Let's look at it calmly. You've done nothing dishonourable, I
+know that. That's obvious.
+
+BOB. You see, Jerry, I'm so hopeless at that sort of business.
+Naturally I got in the way of leaving things to Marcus. But that's
+all. (Resentfully) Of course, that's all.
+
+GERALD. Good. Well, then, you're making much too much fuss about
+it. My dear boy, innocent people don't get put into prison
+nowadays. You've been reading detective stories. "The Stain on
+the Bath Mat," or "The Crimson Sponge." Good Lord! I shall be
+coming to _you_ next and saying that _I'm_ going to be put in
+prison for selling secret documents to a foreign country. These
+things don't happen; they don't really, old boy.
+
+BOB (cheered, but not convinced). I don't know; it looks devilish
+bad, what I can make of it.
+
+GERALD. Well, let's see what I can make of it.
+
+BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). I was wondering if you
+would. Come up on Monday and we'll have a go at it together. Marcus
+has gone, of course. Probably halfway to South America by now.
+(Bitterly) Or wherever you go to.
+
+GERALD. Right-o! At least, I can't come on Monday, of course, but
+we'll have a go at it on Thursday.
+
+BOB. Why can't you come on Monday?
+
+GERALD. Well, the Surrey match.
+
+BOB (bitterly). I suppose as long as you beat Surrey, it doesn't
+matter if I go to prison.
+
+GERALD (annoyed). Oh, shut up about going to prison! There's not
+the slightest chance of your going to prison. You know perfectly
+well, if there were, that I'd walk on my hands and knees to London
+to-night to try and stop it. As it is, I have promised to play for
+the county; it's a particularly important match, and I don't think
+it's fair to let them down. Anyway, if I did, the whole family
+would want to know why, and I don't suppose you want to tell them
+that yet.
+
+BOB (mumbling). You could say the Foreign Office had rung you up.
+
+GERALD (earnestly). Really, Bob old boy, I'm sure you're making too
+much of it. Dammit! you've done nothing wrong; what is there to
+worry about? And if it's only a question of money, we'll manage it
+on our heads, somehow. I'll come up directly the match is over. It
+may be Tuesday night, with luck.
+
+BOB (grumbling). If the weather's like this, it's bound to last
+three days.
+
+GERALD. Then at the worst, I'll come first train Thursday morning.
+That I promise. Anyway, why don't you consult Wentworth? He's a
+good chap and he knows all about the law. He could probably help
+you much more than I could.
+
+BOB. I suppose you think I _like_ talking about it to everybody.
+
+GERALD (getting up and touching BOB gently on the shoulder as he
+goes past him). Poor old Bob! But you're as right as anything. I'll
+come up by the first train on Thursday and we'll--good Lord!
+
+BOB. What's the matter now?
+
+GERALD. I am a damned fool! Why, of course, we arranged--
+
+BOB (sneeringly). And now you can't come on Thursday, I suppose.
+
+GERALD. Why, you see, I arranged--
+
+BOB. You _must_ keep your promise to the county, but you needn't
+keep your promise to me.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but the trouble is I promised Pamela--oh, well, that
+will have to go; she'll understand. All right, Bob, that holds.
+Directly the match is over I come. And for the Lord's sake, keep
+smiling till then.
+
+BOB. It's all very well for _you_. ... I wish you could have--well,
+anyhow, I suppose Thursday's better than nothing. You'll see just
+how it is then. (Getting up) You won't say anything about it to the
+others?
+
+GERALD. Of course not. What about Pamela? Does she know anything?
+
+BOB. She knows that I'm worried about something, but of course she
+doesn't know what I've told you.
+
+GERALD. All right, then I won't tell her anything. At least, I'll
+just say that bananas remain firm at 127, and that I've got to go
+and see my broker about it. (Smiling) Something like that.
+
+(BOB goes towards the garden, while GERALD stops to wait for
+PAMELA. At the door he turns round.)
+
+BOB (awkwardly). Er--thanks. [Exit.]
+
+(GERALD throws him a nod, as much as to say, "That's all right." He
+stands looking after him, gives a little sigh, laughs and says to
+himself, "Poor old Bob!" He is half-sitting on, half-leaning
+against the table, thinking it all over, when PAMELA comes in
+again.)
+
+PAMELA. I waited for him to go; I knew he wanted to talk to you
+about something. Gerald, he is all right, isn't he?
+
+GERALD (taking her hands). Who? Bob? Oh yes, he's all right. So is
+Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. Sure?
+
+GERALD. Oh yes, he's all right.
+
+PAMELA. I take rather a motherly interest in Bob, you know. What
+was worrying him?
+
+GERALD (smiling). His arithmetic again; compound interest. His
+masters are very pleased with his progress in English. And he wants
+more pocket-money. He says that fourpence a week doesn't give him
+enough scope.
+
+PAMELA (smiling). But he really is all right?
+
+GERALD. Well, I've got to go up on Thursday to see his House
+Master--I mean I've got to go up to town on Thursday.
+
+PAMELA (drawing back). Thursday? That was _our_ day, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Yes, I know; it's a confounded nuisance.
+
+PAMELA (slowly). Yes, it is rather a--nuisance.
+
+GERALD. I'm awfully sorry, darling. I hate it just as much as you
+do.
+
+PAMELA. I wonder if you do.
+
+GERALD (shaking his head at her). Oh, woman, woman! And you asked
+me to be kind to Bob.
+
+PAMELA. It is for Bob? He really does want you?
+
+GERALD. He thinks I can help him if I go up on Thursday. (Smiling)
+We aren't going to quarrel about that.
+
+PAMELA (holding out her hand to him). Come along. Of course we
+aren't going to quarrel--I don't think I could quarrel with you for
+more than five minutes. Only--you make me wonder sometimes.
+
+GERALD (getting up and taking her arm). What do you wonder about?
+
+PAMELA. Oh--things.
+
+[They go out into the garden together.]
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+[It is a quiet old-fashioned hotel which SIR JAMES and LADY
+FARRINGDON patronize in Dover Street on their occasional visits to
+London. Their private sitting-room is furnished in heavy early
+Victorian style. A couple of gloomy palms help to decorate the
+room, on whose walls are engravings of Landseer's masterpieces.]
+
+[MASON, a faithful kindly body, once nurse, now familiar servant,
+is at the table arranging flowers, in a gallant attempt to make the
+room more cheerful. As she fills each vase she takes it to its
+place, steps back to consider the effect, and returns to fill the
+next one. GERALD, in London clothes as attractive as ever, but
+looking none rather serious, discovers her at work.]
+
+GERALD. Hullo, Nanny, when did you come?
+
+MASON. This morning, sir. Her ladyship telegraphed for me.
+
+GERALD (smiling affectionately at her). Whenever there's any
+trouble about, we send for Nanny. I wonder she ever came to London
+without you.
+
+MASON. I told her I'd better come, but she wouldn't listen to me.
+Dear, dear! there _is_ trouble about now Master Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Yes.
+
+MASON. I thought a few flowers would cheer us up. I said to Mr.
+Underhill before I started, "Give me some flowers to take with
+me," I said, "so that I can make the place look more homey and
+comfortable for her ladyship."
+
+GERALD. And you have. No one like Nanny for that.
+
+MASON (timidly). Is there any news of Master Bob this morning? Of
+course, we've all been reading about it in the papers. They're not
+going to send him to prison?
+
+GERALD. I'm afraid they are.
+
+MASON. Dear, dear! (She goes on arranging the flowers.) He's not in
+prison now?
+
+GERALD. No; he's on bail for the moment. Perhaps he'll be round
+here for lunch. But I'm afraid that to-night--
+
+MASON. Even as a baby he was never quite like you, Master Gerald.
+Never was there such a little lamb as you. How long will they send
+him to prison for?
+
+GERALD. We don't know yet; I expect we shall know this evening.
+But there's no doubt which way the case is going.
+
+MASON. Two of the men were making their bets about it over the
+supper-table last night. I didn't wait long before giving them a
+piece of my mind, I can promise you.
+
+GERALD (turning round sharply). Who were they? Out they go to-morrow.
+
+MASON. That wouldn't be quite fair, would it, sir? They're young
+and thoughtless like.
+
+GERALD (to himself rather than to her). After all, it's only what
+everybody else has been doing.
+
+MASON. It wouldn't be anything very bad that Master Bob has done?
+
+GERALD (emphatically). No, Nanny. No. Nothing bad; only--stupid.
+
+MASON. I didn't know they put you in prison for being stupid. Some
+of us have been lucky.
+
+GERALD. They can put you in prison for everything Nanny--being
+stupid or being wise, being bad or being good, being poor or--yes,
+or being rich.
+
+MASON (putting her last touches to the flowers). There! Now it
+looks much more like what her ladyship's used to. If you aren't
+sent to prison for being bad, it doesn't seem to matter so much.
+
+GERALD. Well--it isn't nice, you know.
+
+MASON. There's lots of things that aren't nice in the world. They
+haven't come _your_ way yet, and I only hope they never will.
+
+GERALD. I wish they hadn't come Bob's way.
+
+MASON. Ah, Master Bob was born to meet them. Well, I'll go up to
+her ladyship now.
+
+GERALD. Oh, are they back?
+
+MASON. Sir James and her ladyship came back from the police-station--
+
+GERALD. The Old Bailey, Nanny.
+
+MASON. They came back about ten minutes ago, Master Gerald. And
+went up to their rooms.
+
+GERALD. Tell mother I'm here, will you?
+
+MASON. Yes, Sir.
+
+(She goes out and comes back almost at once with PAMELA.)
+
+MASON. Here's Miss Pamela. (To PAMELA) I was just saying that her
+ladyship will be down directly.
+
+GERALD (smiling). Not too directly now, Nanny.
+
+MASON. No, Master Gerald. [Exit.]
+
+GERALD. Pamela! Have you just come up?
+
+PAMELA. Mother and I are staying with Aunt Judith. Oh, Gerald!
+Poor, poor Bob!
+
+GERALD. Have you seen him?
+
+PAMELA. He came down to us last week, and he has been writing the
+most heart-rending letters.
+
+GERALD. You're a dear to be so good to him.
+
+PAMELA. How can one help it? Oh, Gerald, he _has_ been stupid! How
+he could have gone on as he did, hating it all, understanding
+nothing, but feeling all the time that things were wrong, and yet
+too proud or too obstinate to ask for help--hadn't you any idea,
+_any_ of you?
+
+GERALD (awkwardly). You never could get him to talk about the City
+at all. If you asked him, he changed the subject.
+
+PAMELA (reproachfully). Ah! but how did you ask him? Lightly?
+Jokingly? "Hullo, Rothschild, how's the City getting on?" That sort
+of way. You didn't really mind.
+
+GERALD (smiling). Well, if it comes to that, he didn't much mind
+how I was getting on at the Foreign Office. He never even said,
+"Hullo, Grey, how are Balkans?"
+
+PAMELA. You had plenty of people to say that; Bob was different. I
+think I was the first person he really talked to about himself.
+That was before I met you. I begged him then to get out of it--
+little knowing. I wonder if it would have made any difference if
+you had gone up with him on--Oh, well, it doesn't matter now.
+
+GERALD (defensively). What were you going to say?
+
+PAMELA. Nothing. (Looking at him thoughtfully) Poor Gerald! it's
+been bad for you too.
+
+GERALD. You're not making it better by suggesting that I've let Bob
+down in some way--I don't quite know how.
+
+PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, don't be angry with me--I don't
+want to hurt you. But I can only think of Bob now. You're so--you
+want so little; Bob wants so much. Why doesn't he come? I sent a
+note round to his rooms to say that I'd be here. Doesn't he have
+lunch here? Oh, Gerald, suppose the case is over, and they've taken
+him to prison, and I've never said good-bye to him. He said it
+wouldn't be over till this evening, but how would he know? Oh, I
+can't bear it if they've taken him away, and his only friend never
+said good-bye to him.
+
+GERALD. Pamela, Pamela, don't be so silly. It's all right, dear; of
+course I'm not angry with you. And of course Bob will be here. I
+rang up Wentworth an hour ago, and he said the case can't end till
+this evening.
+
+PAMELA (recovering). Sorry, Gerald, I'm being rather a fool.
+
+GERALD (taking her hands). You're being--(There is a knock at the
+door, and he turns round impatiently) Oh, what is it?
+
+[Enter MASON.]
+
+MASON (handing note). There's a telephone message been waiting for
+you, sir. And her ladyship will be down directly.
+
+GERALD. Thank you, Nanny. [Exit MASON.]
+(To PAMELA) May I? (He reads it) Oh, I say, this is rather--this is
+from Wentworth. He's taken Bob round to lunch with him.
+
+PAMELA (going towards the door). I must go, Gerald. Mr. Wentworth
+won't mind.
+
+GERALD (stopping her). Look here, dear, it's going to be quite all
+right. Wentworth rang up from his rooms; they're probably halfway
+through lunch by now, and they'll be round in ten minutes.
+
+PAMELA. Supposing he doesn't come? Supposing he didn't get my note?
+It may be waiting for him in his rooms now.
+
+GERALD. All right, then, darling, I'll ring him up.
+
+PAMELA (determined). No. I'll do it. Yes, Gerald, I know how to
+manage him. It isn't only that I must see him myself, but if--
+(bravely) if the case is to be over this evening, and if what we
+fear is going to happen, he must--oh, he must say good-bye to his
+mother too.
+
+GERALD. Well, if that's all, I'll tell him.
+
+PAMELA. He mightn't come for you. He will for me; No, Gerald; I
+mean it. None of you understand him. I do.
+
+GERALD. But supposing he's already started and you miss him?
+
+PAMELA. I'll telephone to him at his rooms. Oh, _don't_ stand there
+talking--
+
+GERALD (opening the door for her). Oh, well! But I think you're--
+[She has gone.]
+
+(He walks up and down the room absently, picking up papers and
+putting them down. MASON comes in and arranges the sofa R.)
+
+MASON. Miss Pamela gone, Master Gerald?
+
+GERALD. She's coming back.
+
+[Enter LADY FARRINGDON.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, I hoped you'd be here.
+
+GERALD (kissing her). I've only just got away. I couldn't get round
+to the court. (Seeing her to the sofa) You're all right, dear?
+[Exit MASON.]
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Now you're here, Gerald. I telegraphed for Mason.
+She's such a comfort. How nicely she's done the flowers! (She sits
+down on the sofa.)
+
+GERALD. I'm so glad you sent for her.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I don't think your father--
+
+[Enter SIR JAMES.]
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Gerald, I had to take your mother out. She was--ah--
+overcome. They have adjourned, I suppose?
+
+GERALD. Yes. The judge is summing up directly after lunch. Bob will
+be round here when he's had something to eat.
+
+SIR JAMES (looking at his watch). Well, I suppose we ought to try
+and eat something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't touch anything.
+
+GERALD (going over to her). Poor mother!
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Oh, Gerald, couldn't _you_ do anything? I'm sure
+if you'd gone into the witness-box, or told the judge--Oh, why
+didn't you go to the Bar, and then you could have defended him. You
+would have been so much better than that stupid man.
+
+SIR JAMES. I must say I didn't at all like his tone. He's
+practically making out my son to be an idiot.
+
+GERALD. Well, it's really the only line he could take.
+
+SIR JAMES. What do you mean? Bob is far from being an idiot.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. We always knew he wasn't as clever as Gerald,
+dear.
+
+GERALD. You see, Bob either understood what was going on or he
+didn't. If he did, then he's in it as much as Marcus. If he didn't--
+well, of course we know that he didn't. But no doubt the jury will
+think that he ought to have known.
+
+SIR JAMES. The old story, a knave or a fool, eh?
+
+GERALD. The folly was in sending him there.
+
+SIR JAMES (angrily). That was Parkinson's fault. It was he who
+recommended Marcus to me. I shall never speak to that man again.
+(To his wife) Mary, if the Parkinsons call, you are out; remember
+that.
+
+GERALD. He never ought to have gone into business at all. Why
+couldn't you have had him taught farming or estate agency or
+something?
+
+SIR JAMES. We've got to move with the times, my boy. Land is played
+out as a living for gentlemen; they go into business nowadays. If
+he can't get on there, it's his own fault. He went to Eton and
+Oxford; what more does he want?
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). You must remember he isn't clever like
+you, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Oh, well, it's no good talking about it now. Poor old Bob!
+Wentworth thinks--
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, now why couldn't Wentworth have defended him?
+That other man--why, to begin with, I don't even call him a
+gentleman.
+
+GERALD. Wentworth recommended him. But I wish he had gone to
+Wentworth before, as soon as he knew what was coming.
+
+SIR JAMES. Why didn't he come to _me_? Why didn't he come to _any_
+of us? Then we might have done something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. Didn't he even tell _you_, Gerald?
+
+GERALD (awkwardly). Only just at the last. It was--it was too late
+to do anything then. It was the Saturday before he was--arrested.
+(To himself) "The Saturday before Bob was arrested"--what a way to
+remember anything by!
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). Bob is coming round, dear?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Wentworth's looking after him. Pamela will be here
+too.
+
+SIR JAMES. We haven't seen much of Pamela lately. What does _she_
+think about it?
+
+GERALD (sharply). What do you mean?
+
+SIR JAMES. The disgrace of it. I hope it's not going to affect your
+engagement.
+
+GERALD. Disgrace? what disgrace?
+
+SIR JAMES. Well, of course, he hasn't been found guilty yet.
+
+GERALD. What's that got to do with it? What does it matter what a
+lot of rotten jurymen think of him? _We_ know that he has done
+nothing disgraceful.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I'm sure Pamela wouldn't think anything like that
+of your brother, dear.
+
+GERALD. Of course she wouldn't. She's been a perfect angel to Bob
+these last few weeks. What does it matter if he does go to prison?
+
+SIR JAMES. I suppose you think I shall enjoy telling my neighbours,
+when they ask me what my elder boy is doing, that he's--ah--in
+prison.
+
+GERALD. Of course you won't enjoy it, and I don't suppose Bob will
+enjoy it either, but that's no reason why we should make it worse
+for him by pretending that he's a disgrace to the family. (Half to
+himself) If anything we've done has helped to send him to prison
+then it's we who should be ashamed.
+
+SIR JAMES. I don't profess to know anything about business, but I
+flatter myself that I understand my fellow men. If I had been in
+Bob's place, I should have pretty soon seen what that fellow Marcus
+was up to. I don't want to be unfair to Bob; I don't think that any
+son of mine would do a dishonourable action; but the Law is the
+Law, and if the Law sends Bob to prison I can't help feeling the
+disgrace of it.
+
+GERALD. Yes, it's rough on you and mother.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I don't mind about myself, dear. It's you I feel
+so sorry for--and Bob, of course.
+
+GERALD. I don't see how it's going to affect _me_.
+
+SIR JAMES. In the Foreign Office one has to be like Caesar's wife--
+above suspicion.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but in this case it's Caesar's brother-in-law's
+partner who's the wrong un. I don't suppose Caesar was so
+particular about _him_.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I don't see how Caesar comes into it at all.
+
+SIR JAMES (kindly). I spoke in metaphors, dear.
+
+[The door opens and WENTWORTH appears.]
+
+GERALD. Come in, Wentworth. Where's Bob?
+
+WENTWORTH. I dropped him at his rooms--a letter or something he
+wanted to get. But he'll be here directly. (Nervously) How do you
+do, Lady Farringdon? How do you do, Sir James?
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, Wentworth.
+
+(There is an awkward silence and nobody seems to know what to say.)
+
+WENTWORTH. Very hot this morning.
+
+SIR JAMES. Very hot. Very.
+
+(There is another awkward silence.)
+
+WENTWORTH. This is quite a good hotel. My mother always stays here
+when she's in London.
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. We use it a good deal ourselves.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. How is Mrs. Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. She's been keeping very well this summer, thank you.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I'm so glad.
+
+(There is another awkward silence.)
+
+GERALD (impatiently). Oh, what's the good of pretending this is a
+formal call, Wentworth? Tell us about Bob; how's he taking it?
+
+WENTWORTH. He doesn't say much. He had lunch in my rooms--you got
+my message. He couldn't bear the thought of being recognized by
+anyone, so I had something sent up.
+
+GERALD (realizing what it must feel like). Poor old Bob!
+
+WENTWORTH. Lady Farringdon, I can't possibly tell you what I feel
+about this, but I should like to say that all of us who know Bob
+know that he couldn't do anything dishonourable. Whatever the
+result of the trial, we shall feel just the same towards him.
+
+(LADY FARRINGDON is hardly able to acknowledge this, and SIR JAMES
+goes across to comfort her.)
+
+SIR JAMES (helplessly). There, there, Mary.
+
+GERALD (seizing his opportunity, to WENTWORTH). What'll he get?
+
+WENTWORTH (quietly). Three months--six months. One can't be certain.
+
+GERALD (cheering up). Thank the Lord! I imagined awful things.
+
+SIR JAMES (his ministrations over). After all, he hasn't been found
+guilty yet; eh, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH. Certainly, Sir James. With a jury there's always hope.
+
+SIR JAMES. What do you think yourself?
+
+WENTWORTH. I think he has been very foolish; whether the Law will
+call it criminally foolish I should hardly like to say. I only wish
+I had known about it before. He must have suspected something--
+didn't he say anything to anybody?
+
+SIR JAMES. He told Gerald, apparently. For some reason he preferred
+to keep his father in the dark.
+
+GERALD (eagerly). That was the day you came down to us, Wentworth;
+five days before he was arrested. I asked him to tell you, but he
+wouldn't.
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh, it was too late then. Marcus had absconded by that
+time.
+
+GERALD (earnestly). Nobody could have helped him then, could they?
+
+WENTWORTH. Oh no.
+
+GERALD (to himself). Thank God.
+
+SIR JAMES (to LADY FARRINGDON as he looks at his watch). Well,
+dear, I really think you ought to try to eat something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't, James. (Getting up) But you must have
+_your_ lunch.
+
+SIR JAMES. Well, one oughtn't to neglect one's health, of course.
+But I insist on your having a glass of claret anyhow, Mary. What
+about you, Gerald?
+
+GERALD. I'm all right. I'll wait for Bob. I've had something.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. You won't let Bob go without seeing us?
+
+GERALD. Of course not, dear.
+
+(He goes with them to the door and sees them out.)
+
+GERALD (coming back to WENTWORTH). Three months. By Jove! that's
+nothing.
+
+WENTWORTH. It's long enough for a man with a grievance. It gives
+him plenty of time to brood about it.
+
+GERALD (anxiously). Who has Bob got a grievance against particularly?
+
+WENTWORTH. The world.
+
+GERALD (relieved). Ah! Still, three months, Wentworth. I could do
+it on my head.
+
+WENTWORTH. You're not Bob. Bob will do it on his heart.
+
+GERALD. We must buck him up, Wentworth. If he takes it the right
+way, it's nothing. I had awful thoughts of five years.
+
+WENTWORTH. I'm not the judge, you know. It may be six months.
+
+GERALD. Of course. How does he decide? Tosses up for it? Three
+months or six months or six years, it's all the same to him, and
+there's the poor devil in the dock praying his soul out that he'll
+hit on the shortest one. Good Lord! I'm glad I'm not a judge.
+
+WENTWORTH (drily). Yes; that isn't quite the way the Law works.
+
+GERALD. Oh, I'm not blaming the Law. (Smiling) Stick to it,
+Wentworth, by all means. But I should make a bad judge. I should
+believe everything the prisoner said, and just tell him not to do
+it again.
+
+[BOB comes in awkwardly and stops at the door.]
+
+WENTWORTH (getting up). Come along, Bob. (Taking out his case) Have
+a cigarette.
+
+BOB (gruffly). No, thanks. (He takes out his pipe.)
+
+GERALD (brightly but awkwardly). Hullo, Bob, old boy.
+
+BOB. Where's Pamela? She said she'd be here. (He sits down in the
+large armchair.)
+
+GERALD. If she said she'd be here, she will be here.
+
+BOB (with a grunt). 'M! (There is an awkward silence.)
+
+BOB (angrily to GERALD). Why don't you say something? You came
+here to say good-bye to me, I suppose--why don't you say it?
+
+WENTWORTH. Steady, Bob.
+
+GERALD (eagerly). Look here, Bob, old son, you mustn't take it too
+hardly. Wentworth thinks it will only be three months--don't you,
+Wentworth? You know, we none of us think any the worse of you for
+it.
+
+BOB. Thanks. That will console me a lot in prison.
+
+GERALD. Oh, Bob, don't be an old fool. You know what I mean. You
+have done nothing to be ashamed of, so what's the good of brooding
+in prison, and grousing about your bad luck, and all that sort of
+thing? If you had three months in bed with a broken leg, you'd try
+and get some sort of satisfaction out of it--well, so you can now if
+you try.
+
+WENTWORTH (after waiting for BOB to say something). There's a good
+deal in that, Bob, you know. Prison is largely what you make it.
+
+BOB. What do either of you know about it?
+
+GERALD. Everything. The man with imagination knows the best and
+the worst of everything.
+
+BOB (fiercely). Imagination? You think _I_ haven't imagined it?
+
+GERALD. Wentworth's right. You can make what you like of it. You
+can be miserable anywhere, if you let yourself be. You can be happy
+anywhere, if you try to be.
+
+WENTWORTH (to lead him on). I can't quite see myself being actually
+happy in prison, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. I could, Wentworth, I swear I could.
+
+BOB. He'd get popular with the warders; he'd love that.
+
+GERALD (smiling). Silly old ass! But there are lots of things one
+can do in prison, only no one ever seems to think of them. (He gets
+interested and begins to walk up and down the room.) Now take this
+solitary confinement there's so much fuss about. If you look at it
+the right way, there's nothing in it at all.
+
+WENTWORTH. A bit boring, perhaps.
+
+GERALD. Boring? Nonsense. You're allowed one book a week from the
+prison library, aren't you?
+
+WENTWORTH. You know, you mustn't think that, because I'm a
+barrister, I know all about the inside of a prison.
+
+GERALD. Well, suppose you are allowed one, and you choose a French
+dictionary, and try to learn it off by heart before you come out.
+Why, it's the chance of a lifetime to learn French.
+
+WENTWORTH. Well, of course, if you _could_ get a French dictionary--
+
+GERALD. Well, there'd be _some_ book there anyway. If it's a Bible,
+read it. When you've read it, count the letters in it; have little
+bets with yourself as to which man's name is mentioned most times
+in it; put your money on Moses and see if you win. Anything like
+that. If it's a hymn-book, count how many of the rhymes rhyme and
+how many don't; try and make them _all_ rhyme. Learn 'em by heart;
+I don't say that that would be particularly useful to you in the
+business world afterwards, but it would be amusing to see how
+quickly you could do it, how many you could keep in your head at
+the same time.
+
+WENTWORTH. This is too intellectual for me; my brain would go in no
+time.
+
+GERALD. You aren't doing it all day, of course; there are other
+things. Physical training. Swedish exercises. Tell yourself that
+you'll be able to push up fifty times from the ground before you
+come out. Learn to walk on your hands. Practise cart-wheels, if you
+like. Gad! you could come out a Hercules.
+
+WENTWORTH. I can't help feeling that the strain of improving myself
+so enormously would tell on me.
+
+GERALD. Oh, you'd have your games and so on to keep you bright and
+jolly.
+
+WENTWORTH (sarcastically). Golf and cricket, I suppose?
+
+GERALD. Golf, of course; I'm doubtful about cricket. You must have
+another one for cricket, and I'm afraid the warder wouldn't play.
+But golf, and squash rackets, and bowls, and billiards--and croquet--
+
+WENTWORTH (in despair). Oh, _go_ on!
+
+GERALD. Really, you're hopeless. What the Swiss Family Wentworth
+would have done if they'd ever been shipwrecked, I can't think.
+Don't you _ever_ invent _any_thing for yourself? (Excitedly) Man
+alive! you've got a hymn-book and a piece of soap, what more do you
+want? You can play anything with that. (Thoughtfully) Oh, I forgot
+the Olympic games. Standing long jump. And they talk about the
+boredom of it!
+
+WENTWORTH (thoughtfully). You've got your ideas, Gerald. I wonder
+if you'd act up to them.
+
+GERALD. One never knows, but honestly I think so. (There is silence
+for a little.)
+
+BOB. Is that all?
+
+GERALD. Oh, Bob, I know it's easy for me to talk--
+
+BOB. I wonder you didn't say at once: "Try not to think about it."
+You're always helpful.
+
+GERALD. You're a little difficult to help, you know Bob.
+(Awkwardly) I thought I might just give you an idea. If I only
+could help you, you know how--
+
+BOB (doggedly). I asked you to help me once.
+
+GERALD (distressed). Oh, I didn't realize then--besides, Wentworth
+says it would have been much too late--didn't you, Wentworth?
+
+WENTWORTH (taking up his hat). I think I must be getting along now.
+(Holding out his hand) Good-bye, Bob. I can only say, "The best of
+luck," and--er--whatever happens, you know what I feel about it.
+
+BOB (shaking his hand). Good-bye, Wentworth, and thanks very much
+for all you've done for me.
+
+WENTWORTH (hurriedly). That's all right. (TO GERALD, quietly, as he
+passes him on the way to the door) You must bear with him, Gerald.
+Naturally he's--(Nodding) Good-bye. [He goes out.]
+
+GERALD (going back to BOB). Bob--
+
+BOB. Why doesn't Pamela come? I want Pamela.
+
+GERALD (speaking quickly). Look here, think what you like of me for
+the moment. But you must listen to what I've got to say. You can
+imagine it's somebody else speaking Pamela, if you like--Pamela
+would say just the same. You _must not_ go to prison and spend your
+time there brooding over the wrongs people have done to you, and the
+way the world has treated you, and all that sort of thing. You
+simply must make an effort--and--and--well, come out as good a man
+as you went in. I know it's easy for me to talk, but that doesn't
+make it any the less true. Oh, Bob, be a--be a Sportsman about it!
+You can take it out of me afterwards, if you like, but don't take it
+out of me now by--by not bucking up just because I suggest it.
+
+BOB. I want Pamela. Why doesn't she come?
+
+(PAMELA has come in while he is saying this.)
+
+PAMELA. Here I am, Bob.
+
+BOB (getting up). At last! I began to be afraid you were never
+coming.
+
+PAMELA. You couldn't think that. I told you I was coming.
+
+GERALD. Look here, Pamela, we've got to cheer old Bob up.
+
+BOB (almost shouting). Good Lord! can't you see that I don't want
+_you_? I want Pamela alone.
+
+PAMELA (putting her hand on GERALD'S shoulder). Gerald, dear, you
+mustn't be angry with Bob now. Let me be alone with him.
+
+GERALD (with a shrug). All right. Poor old Bob! (He goes over to his
+brother and holds out his hand.) Good-bye, old boy, and--good luck.
+
+BOB (coldly). Good-bye.
+
+GERALD. Shake hands, Bob.
+
+BOB. No. I've been nothing to you all your life. You could have
+saved me from this, and you wouldn't help me.
+
+GERALD (angrily). Don't talk such rot!
+
+PAMELA (coming between them). Gerald, dear, you'd better go. Bob
+won't always feel like this towards you, but just now--
+
+GERALD (indignantly). Pamela, you don't believe this about me?
+
+PAMELA. I can't think of you, dear, now; I can only think of
+Bob. [GERALD gives a shrug and goes out.]
+
+BOB. Pamela.
+
+PAMELA (coming to him). Yes, dear?
+
+BOB. Come and sit near me. You're the only friend I've got in the
+world.
+
+PAMELA. You know that isn't true.
+
+(She sits down in the armchair and he sits on the floor at her
+feet.)
+
+BOB. If it hadn't been for you, I should have shot myself long ago.
+
+PAMELA. That would have been rather cowardly, wouldn't it?
+
+BOB. I am a coward. There's something about the Law that makes
+people cowards. It's so--what's the word? It goes on. You can't stop
+it, you can't explain to it, you can't even speak to it.
+
+PAMELA. But you can stand up to it. You needn't run away from it.
+
+BOB. I think I would have broken my bail and run, if it hadn't been
+for you. But you would have thought less of me if I had. Besides, I
+shouldn't have seen you again.
+
+PAMELA. Bob, you mustn't just do, or not do, things for _me_; you
+must do them because of yourself. You must be brave because it's
+you, and honourable because it's you, and cheerful because it's you.
+You mustn't just say, "I won't let Pamela down." You must say, "I
+won't let myself down." You must be proud of yourself.
+
+BOB (bitterly). I've been taught to be proud of myself, haven't I?
+Proud of myself! What's the family creed? "I believe in Gerald. I
+believe in Gerald the Brother. I believe in Gerald the Son. I
+believe in Gerald the Nephew. I believe in Gerald the Friend, the
+Lover, Gerald the Holy Marvel." There may be brothers who don't mind
+that sort of thing, but not when you're born jealous as I was. Do
+you think father or mother cares a damn what happens to me? They're
+upset, of course, and they feel the disgrace for themselves, but the
+belovèd Gerald is all right, and that's all that really matters.
+
+PAMELA. Bob, dear, forget about Gerald now. Don't think about him;
+think about yourself.
+
+BOB. I shan't think about myself or about Gerald when I'm in prison.
+I shall only think of you.
+
+PAMELA. Will it help you to think of me?
+
+BOB. You're the only person in the world I've got to think of. I
+found you first--and then Gerald took you from me. Just as he's
+always taken everything from me.
+
+PAMELA. No, no. Not about Gerald again. Let's get away from Gerald.
+
+BOB. You can't. He's a devil to get away from. (There is silence for
+a little.) When I was a small boy, I used to pray very hard on the
+last day of the holidays for a telegram to come saying that the
+school had been burnt down. ... It never had.
+
+PAMELA. Oh, Bob!
+
+BOB. I suppose I've got about ten minutes more. But nothing will
+happen.
+
+PAMELA (in a hopeless effort to be hopeful). Perhaps after all you might--
+
+BOB. Why can't the world end suddenly now? It wouldn't matter to
+anybody. They wouldn't know; they wouldn't have time to understand.
+(He looks up and sees her face of distress and says) All right,
+Pamela, you needn't worry. I'm going through with it all right.
+
+PAMELA. You must keep thinking of the afterwards. Only of the
+afterwards. The day when you come back to us.
+
+BOB. Will that be such a very great day? (PAMELA is silent.)
+Triumphant procession through the village. All the neighbours
+hurrying out to welcome the young squire home. Great rush in the
+City to offer him partnerships.
+
+PAMELA (quietly). Do you want to go back to the City?
+
+BOB. Good God, no!
+
+PAMELA. Then why are you being sarcastic about it? Be honest with
+yourself, Bob. You made a mess of the City. Oh, I know you weren't
+suited to it, but men have had to do work they didn't like before
+now, and they haven't _all_ made a mess of it. You're getting your
+punishment now--much more than you deserve, and we're all sorry for
+you--but men have been punished unfairly before now and they have
+stood it. You'll have your chance when you come back; I'll stand by
+you for one, and you've plenty of other friends; but we can't help a
+man who won't help himself, you know.
+
+Bon (sulkily). Thank you, Pamela.
+
+PAMELA (shaking him). Bob, Bob, don't be such a baby. Oh, I want to
+laugh at you, and yet my heart just aches for you. You're just a
+little boy, Bob (with a sigh), on the last day of his holidays.
+
+BOB (after a pause). Are you allowed to have letters in prison?
+
+PAMELA. I expect so. Every now and then.
+
+BOB. You will write to me?
+
+PAMELA. Of course, dear; whenever I may.
+
+BOB. I suppose some beast will read it. But you won't mind that,
+will you?
+
+PAMELA. No, dear.
+
+BOB. I'll write to you whenever they let me. That will be something
+to look forward to. Will you meet me when I come out?
+
+PAMELA (happily). Yes, Bob. So very gladly.
+
+BOB. I'll let you know when it is. I expect I'll be owed to.
+
+PAMELA. You must just think of that day all the time. Whenever you
+are unhappy or depressed or angry, you must look forward to that
+day.
+
+BOB. You'll let it be a fine day, won't you? What shall we do?
+
+PAMELA (rather startled). What?
+
+BOB. What shall we do directly after I come out?
+
+PAMELA. Well, I suppose we--I mean you--well, we'll come up to
+London together, I suppose, and you'll go to your old rooms. At
+least, if you still have them.
+
+BOB (instantly depressed again). My old rooms. That'll be lively.
+
+PAMELA. Well, unless you'd rather--
+
+BOB. I'm not going home, if that's what you mean. The prodigal son,
+and Gerald falling on my neck.
+
+PAMELA (stroking his head). Never mind Gerald, Baby. (He turns round
+suddenly and seizes her hands.)
+
+BOB (in a rush). Whatever happens, you mustn't desert me when I come
+out. I want you. I've got to know you're there, waiting for me. I'm
+not making love to you, you're engaged to somebody else, but you
+were my friend before you were his, and you've got to go on being my
+friend. I want you--I want you more than he does. I'm not making
+love to you; you can marry him if you like, but you've got to stand
+by me. I want you.
+
+PAMELA. Haven't I stood by you?
+
+BOB (in a low voice). You've been an angel. (He kisses her hands and
+then gets up and walks away from her; with his back to her, looking
+out of the window, he says) When are you marrying him?
+
+PAMELA (taken by surprise). I--I don't know, Bob. We _had_ thought
+about--but, of course, things are different now. We haven't talked
+about it lately.
+
+BOB (casually). I wonder if you'd mind promising me something.
+
+PAMELA. What is it?
+
+BOB. Not to get married till after I come out. (After waiting for
+PAMELA to speak) You will have about forty years together
+afterwards. It isn't much to ask.
+
+PAMELA. Why should it make a difference to you?
+
+BOB. It would.
+
+PAMELA. It isn't a thing I like making promises about. But I don't
+suppose for a moment--Would it help you very much, Bob?
+
+BOB (from the bottom of his heart). I don't want Gerald's wife to be
+waiting for me when I come out; I want my friend.
+
+PAMELA (standing up and facing him as he turns round towards her).
+All right, Bob, she shall be there.
+
+(They stand looking at each other intently for a moment. Voices are
+heard outside, and SIR JAMES, LADY FARRINGDON, and GERALD come into
+the room.)
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+[SCENE.--In the hall at SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. It is autumn
+nom and there is a fire burning.]
+
+[LETTY and TOMMY are on the sofa side by side, holding hands, and
+looking the picture of peaceful happiness. Indeed, TOMMY has his
+mouth open slightly.]
+
+LETTY. It's your turn to say something, Tommy.
+
+TOMMY. Oh, I say.
+
+LETTY. Now I suppose it's my turn.
+
+TOMMY. I say, you know, I feel too idiotically happy to say
+anything. I feel I want to talk poetry, or rot like that, only--
+only I don't quite know how to put it.
+
+LETTY (sympathetically). Never mind, darling.
+
+TOMMY. I say, you do understand how frightfully--I say, what about
+another kiss? (They have one.)
+
+LETTY. Tommy, I just adore you. Only I think you might have been a
+little more romantic about your proposal.
+
+TOMMY (anxious). I say, do you--
+
+LETTY. Yes. Strictly speaking, I don't think anybody ought to
+propose with a niblick in his hand.
+
+TOMMY. It just sort of came then. Of course I ought to have put it
+down.
+
+LETTY. You dear! ... "Letting his niblick go for a moment, Mr. T.
+Todd went on as follows: 'Letitia, my beloved, many moons have waxed
+and waned since first I cast eyes of love upon thee. An absence of
+ducats, coupled with the necessity of getting my handicap down to
+ten, has prevented my speaking ere this. Now at last I am free. My
+agèd uncle--'"
+
+TOMMY (lovingly). I say, you do pull my leg. Go on doing it always,
+won't you?
+
+LETTY. Always, Tommy. We're going to have fun, always.
+
+TOMMY. I'm awfully glad we got engaged down here.
+
+LETTY. We've had lovely times here, haven't we?
+
+TOMMY. I wonder what Gerald will say. A bit of a surprise for him. I
+say, it would be rather fun if we had a double wedding. You and I,
+and Gerald and Pamela.
+
+LETTY (getting up in pretended indignation). Certainly not!
+
+TOMMY (following her). I say, what's the matter?
+
+LETTY (waving him back). Go away. Unhand me villain.
+
+TOMMY. I say, what's up?
+
+LETTY. I want a wedding of my own. I've never been married before,
+and perhaps I shall never be married again, and I'm going to have a
+wedding all to myself. I don't mind your being there, but I'm not
+going to have crowds of other brides and bridegrooms taking up the
+whole aisle--said she, seizing her engagement-ring and--Oh, bother!
+I haven't got one yet.
+
+(TOMMY rushes up and takes her in his arms. At this moment GERALD
+comes in by the garden door. He stops on seeing them, and then goes
+quickly on to the door in front of the staircase.)
+
+GERALD (as he passes them). Came in and went tactfully out again.
+
+TOMMY (as LETTY frees herself). I say, Gerald, old man.
+
+GERALD (stopping at the door, turning round and coming back in the
+same business-like way). Returned hopefully.
+
+TOMMY (in confusion). I say, we're engaged.
+
+GERALD (looking at them happily). Oh, hoo-ray!
+
+LETTY. Do say you're surprised.
+
+GERALD. Awfully, awfully pleased, Letty. Of course, when I saw you--
+er--thinking together in a corner--By Jove, I _am_ bucked. I did
+hope so much.
+
+LETTY. You dear!
+
+GERALD. I feel very fatherly. Bless you, my children.
+
+TOMMY. We shall have about tuppence a year, but Letty doesn't mind
+that.
+
+GERALD (to LETTY). You'll have to make him work. (Thoughtfully) He's
+too old for a caddy.
+
+LETTY. Couldn't you find him something in the Foreign Office? He
+knows the French for pen and ink.
+
+TOMMY. What's ink?
+
+LETTY. At least, he knows the French for pen.
+
+GERALD. Oh, we'll find something. Only I warn you, Tommy, if you
+dare to get married before Pamela and me, there'll be trouble.
+
+TOMMY. Why don't we ever see Pamela now?
+
+GERALD (gaily). She is coming, my children--_mes enfants_, as Tommy
+will say when he gets his job as ribbon starcher to the French
+ambassador. To-morrow, no less. I've just had a letter. Lord, I
+haven't seen her for months.
+
+LETTY. She's come back?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Egypt knows her no more. The Sphinx is inconsolable.
+To-morrow at 3.30 she comes; I shall go and meet her.
+
+TOMMY. I say, won't she be surprised about Letty and me!
+
+GERALD. She'll be as bucked as I am. (Looking from one to the other)
+Has anything else frightfully exciting happened to you since lunch?
+Because, if not, I've got some more news.
+
+LETTY. What is it? I love news.
+
+GERALD. All ready? Then one, two, three: Bob is coming this
+afternoon.
+
+LETTY and TOMMY together. No! Rot!
+
+GERALD (Singing to the tune of "Here we go gathering nuts and may").
+Oh, Bob is coming this afternoon, this afternoon, this afternoon!
+Oh, Bob is coming this afternoon, all on an autumn morning! Now
+then, all together.
+
+(They join hands and march up the hall and back again, singing
+together.)
+
+ALL TOGETHER (waving imaginary hats). Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
+
+TOMMY. It doesn't make sense, you know, coming back in the afternoon
+on an autumn morning.
+
+GERALD. Who cares for sense?
+
+LETTY (squeezing his arm). Oh, Gerald, I _am_ glad. But I thought he
+had another week or so.
+
+GERALD. They always let you out early, you know, if you're good. We
+knew he was coming soon, but we didn't quite know when. I've just
+had a telegram.
+
+LETTY. Poor Bob! he must have had a time.
+
+GERALD. What does it matter? It's over now.
+
+TOMMY (struck by an idea). I say, this puts a bit of a stopper on
+our news.
+
+GERALD (pulled up suddenly by this). Oh!
+
+LETTY (going over and taking TOMMY'S arm). We'll go to a house where
+they _do_ make a fuss of us, Tommy. (Very politely) Good-bye, Mr.
+Farringdon, and thank you for a very pleasant Friday.
+
+GERALD. Poor darlings! it's rather bad luck for you. Did I announce
+my news too soon? I'm awfully sorry.
+
+LETTY. It wasn't your fault; you were a dear.
+
+GERALD. As a matter of fact, it will be rather lucky, you know. It
+will give us something to talk about when Bob comes. (Smiling)
+Thanks very much for arranging it.
+
+LETTY. Poor old Bob! I wonder what it feels like coming out of
+prison.
+
+GERALD. Rotten. Now, for the Lord's sake, Tommy, be tactful.
+
+LETTY (to GERALD). I think he'd be safer if he wasn't. Tommy's
+rather dangerous when he's tactful.
+
+GERALD (thoughtfully). Yes, there _is_ that.
+
+TOMMY. It's all the same to me. Only just let me know which you
+want.
+
+GERALD. Well, as long as you don't overdo it. Don't rub it in that
+he's just left prison, and--don't rub it out.
+
+TOMMY. I suppose it would be quite safe to ask him to pass the
+mustard?
+
+GERALD (laughing). Good old Tommy!
+
+LETTY. You'd better talk to me all the time, and then you'll be all
+right.
+
+GERALD. We'll make it go between us. And, of course, Pamela will
+help to-morrow. Hooray for Pamela! It makes me quite envious seeing
+you young people together. By the way, I interrupted you just now.
+
+LETTY. You did rather.
+
+GERALD. Well, I absolutely refuse to go away now. But, of course, if
+you're longing to show each other the stables or anything--(with a
+wave of the hand) pray show. Or try anywhere else. Save for Aunt
+Tabitha's room upstairs and the hall down here, the whole house is
+at your disposal.
+
+LETTY (sitting down firmly). Then I shall stay here. Isn't Aunt Mary
+back yet?
+
+GERALD. They are probably still eating. It's the very latest
+millionaire from London, so they're having the lunch of their
+lives, I expect. Afterwards father will put him at his ease by
+talking about crops. (Picking up a book and settling himself
+comfortably in front of the fire) Tommy, if you can't find a book,
+sing or something.
+
+LETTY. Oh, come on, Tommy.
+
+[She jumps up and goes out of the door in front of the staircase.
+TOMMY following her.]
+
+(Left alone, GERALD closes his book with a slam. He stands up and
+takes the telegram out of his pocket and reads it again. He suddenly
+catches sight of MISS FARRINGDON in the gallery shove, calls out
+"Hullo!" and goes up the stairs to meet her.)
+
+GERALD (as he goes). You're just the person I wanted, Aunt Tabitha.
+I'm full of news. (He kisses her at the top of the stairs.) How are
+you, dear? (He offers her his arm.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. If I had wanted help, down the stairs, Gerald, my
+maid could have given it me.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but your maid wouldn't have enjoyed giving it you; I
+do.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Charming Gerald. (She comes down the stairs on his
+arm.)
+
+GERALD. No, happy Gerald.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Is that part of the news?
+
+GERALD. It's all because of the news.
+
+(He arranges her in her chair by the fire and sits on the
+coffin-stool near her.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I heard Mr. Todd and Letty just now, so I suppose I
+shan't be the first to hear it. What a pity!
+
+GERALD. Ah, but they don't count.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Why not?
+
+GERALD. Well, that's part of the news. They've just got engaged.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. In my young days they'd have been engaged a long
+time ago. When are we going to see Pamela again?
+
+GERALD. That's more of the news. She's coming down to-morrow.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. That will save you a lot in stamps.
+
+GERALD (laughing). Aunt Tabitha, you're a witch. How did you know?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Know what?
+
+GERALD. That Pamela and I haven't been writing to each other.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (very innocently). Haven't you?
+
+GERALD. No. You see--oh, I hate discussing Pamela with anyone, but
+you're different.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I always like that sort of compliment best, Gerald.
+The unintended sort.
+
+GERALD. I think, you know, Pamela felt that Bob's doing to prison
+might make a difference. I don't mean that she didn't like the
+disgrace for herself, but that she was afraid that I mightn't like
+it for her; and so she went away, and beyond a letter or two at the
+start there hasn't been a Pamela.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. But Gerald went on being successful?
+
+GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, Aunt Tabitha, if ever I were going to be
+conceited--and I don't think I am really--you'd soon stop it,
+wouldn't you? I wonder if you _do_ know me as well as you think. You
+think I'm all outside, don't you, and inside there's nothing?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Oh, you've got brains, I'll grant you that. You're
+the first Farringdon that's had any. Of the men, of course.
+
+GERALD. Oh, brains--I don't mean brains. But you think that
+everything only touches me on the surface, and that nothing ever
+goes deep inside. You don't believe I ever loved Pamela; you don't
+believe I love her now. You don't believe I've got a heart at all.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Well, you've never shown it. You've shown a lot of
+delightful things which silly people mistake for it--but that's all.
+
+GERALD (curtly). No, I've never shown my heart to anybody. Some
+people can't. (Gently) Perhaps I'll show it to Pamela on my wedding-day.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Dear me, have I been wrong all these years? I
+shouldn't like to think that. (After a pause) Any more news?
+
+GERALD (taking his thoughts off PAMELA). Yes. Now _this_ time, Aunt
+Tabitha, you'll really be as pleased as I am.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. I wonder.
+
+GERALD. Oh yes, you will, because it's about your favourite--Bob.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. So Bob's my favourite? I'm learning a good many
+things to-day.
+
+GERALD. He's coming back this afternoon.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Bob! I'm glad he's finished with that part of
+it.
+
+GERALD. You think he's got the worst part coming? (Smiling at her)
+Aunt Tabitha, have you got any influence with your nephew?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. You or Bob? (GERALD smiles and shakes his head.)
+Oh, you mean James?
+
+GERALD. It seems hard to realize that one's father is anybody else's
+nephew, but you _are_ his aunt, and--Oh, don't let him do anything
+stupid about Bob.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Bob's his own master; he's old enough to look after
+himself.
+
+GERALD. Yes, but he's got in the way of being looked after by other
+people. I wish _you_ would look after him and tell him what to do.
+It's going to be difficult for him. I expect he'll want to get away
+from all of us for a bit. Where's he going, and what's he going to
+do?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (after a pause). When did you say Pamela was coming
+here?
+
+GERALD. To-morrow. _She'll_ help, of course.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Gerald, you've been very nice to me always; I don't
+know why I've been rather unkind to you sometimes.
+
+GERALD. What an idea! You know I've loved our little skirmishes.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. That's because you've been happy, and haven't
+minded one way or another. But if ever you were in trouble, Gerald,
+I don't think I should be unsympathetic.
+
+GERALD. You dear, of course you wouldn't. But why do you say that
+now, just when I _am_ so happy?
+
+MISS FARRINGDON (getting up slowly). I'm feeling rather an old woman
+to-day. I think I'll go and lie down.
+
+GERALD (jumping up). I'll ring for your maid.
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. No, no; I'm not going upstairs, and I don't want a
+maid when I've got a great big nephew. Come and tuck me up on
+the sofa in the drawing-room; I shall be quite happy there.
+
+(She puts her hand on his arm, and they go together towards the
+door in front of the staircase.)
+
+MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Gerald!
+
+GERALD (laughing). Why poor? [They go out together.]
+
+[The door on the right at the back opens quietly and BOB comes in.
+He stands there for a moment looking at the hall, and then speaks
+over his shoulder to somebody behind him.]
+
+BOB. It's all right, there's nobody here.
+
+PAMELA. I wonder where Gerald is.
+
+BOB. You're sure he's down here?
+
+PAMELA. Yes, I had a letter from him; he told me he was going to be.
+
+BOB (going up to her). Pamela, you can't see him alone.
+
+PAMELA. I must. You can see him afterwards, but I must see him alone
+first. Poor Gerald!
+
+BOB. He never really loved you.
+
+PAMELA. I don't think he did really, but it will hurt him.
+
+BOB (eagerly). Say you're not sorry for what you're doing.
+
+PAMELA. Aren't I doing it?
+
+BOB. Say you love _me_ and not Gerald. Say you really love me, and
+it's not just because you are sorry for me.
+
+PAMELA. Oh, I have so much in my heart for you, Bob. I'm glad I'm
+marrying you. But you must always love me, and want me as you
+want me now.
+
+BOB (seizing her is his arms). By God! you'll get that.
+(He kisses her fiercely.)
+
+PAMELA (satisfied). Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob! I'm glad I found you at last.
+(She goes away from him and stands looking into the fire, one hand
+on the mantelpiece.)
+
+BOB. Shall I go and look for Gerald?
+
+PAMELA (looking into the fire). Yes. No. He'll come.
+
+BOB. You won't let him talk you round?
+
+PAMELA (looking up at him in surprise). Oh no; I'm quite safe now.
+
+BOB. I can never thank you for all you've done, for all you've been
+to me. When we are out of this cursèd country, and I have you to
+myself, I will try to show you. (She says nothing, and he walks
+restlessly about the room. He picks up a hat and says) Hullo,
+Tommy's here.
+
+PAMELA (quickly). I don't want to see him, I don't want to see
+anybody. We must just tell Gerald and then go.
+
+BOB. Anybody might come at any moment. You should have let me write
+as I wanted to. Or waited till he came back to London.
+
+PAMELA. We've given up being cowards. Perhaps you'd better try and
+find him. We'll only tell Gerald. If we see the others, we'll just
+have to make the best of it.
+
+BOB (moving off towards the door in front of the staircase). All
+right. If I find him I'll send him in here. [He goes out.]
+
+(PAMELA drops into a chair and remains looking at the fire. GERALD,
+coming down from the gallery above, suddenly catches sight of her.)
+
+GERALD (rushing down the stairs). Pamela! Why, Pamela! (Excitedly)
+Why are you--You said tomorrow. Pamela, you said--Never mind, you're
+here. Oh, bless you! (PAMELA has got up to meet him, and he is now
+standing holding her hands, and looking at her happily.) Pamela's
+here; all's right with the world. (He leans forward to kiss her, but
+she stops him.)
+
+PAMELA (nervously). No, no; I've something to tell you, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. I've got a thousand things to tell _you_.
+
+PAMELA. Bob's here.
+
+GERALD (excited). Bob? Did you come down with him?
+
+PAMELA. Yes.
+
+GERALD. I had a telegram, but it didn't say--Did you meet him? Why
+didn't he tell us? Where is he?
+
+PAMELA. He just went to look for you.
+
+GERALD. I'll soon find him.
+
+(He turns away to go after BOB, but PAMELA stops him.)
+
+PAMELA. Gerald!
+
+GERALD (turning round). Yes.
+
+PAMELA. Never mind Bob for the moment. I wanted to see you alone.
+
+GERALD (coming back quickly). Of course. Hang Bob! Come on the sofa
+and tell me everything. Jove! it's wonderful to see you again;
+you've been away for years.
+
+(He takes her hand and tries to lead her towards the sofa, but she
+stops.)
+
+PAMELA. Gerald, you're making it very hard for me; I've got
+something to tell you.
+
+GERALD (afraid suddenly and speaking sharply). What do you mean?
+
+PAMELA. Oh, don't look at me like that--I know it will hurt you, but
+it won't be more than that. I want you to release me from my
+promise.
+
+GERALD. What promise?
+
+PAMELA (in a low voice). My promise to marry you.
+
+GERALD. I don't understand. Why?
+
+PAMELA (bravely). I want to marry Bob.
+
+(Keeping his eyes on her all the time, GERALD moves slowly away from
+her.)
+
+GERALD (to himself). Bob! Bob! But you knew Bob first.
+
+PAMELA. Yes.
+
+GERALD. And then you promised to marry me. You couldn't have been in
+love with him. I don't understand.
+
+PAMELA (sadly). I don't understand either, but that's how it's
+happened.
+
+GERALD. And to think how I've been throwing you in Bob's way, and
+wanting you and him to be fond of each other. (Fiercely) _That_
+didn't make you think that I didn't love you?
+
+PAMELA (faltering). I--I don't--you didn't--
+
+GERALD. I was so confident of you. That was your fault. You made me.
+
+PAMELA. I think you could have made me love you if you hadn't been
+so confident.
+
+GERALD. I trusted you. You had told me. _I_ knew I should never
+change, and I thought I knew _you_ wouldn't.
+
+PAMELA. I was wrong. I never did love you.
+
+GERALD. Then why did you say--
+
+PAMELA (looking at him rather wistfully). You're rather charming,
+Gerald, you know, and you--
+
+GERALD (turning away from her furiously). _Damn_ charming! That's
+what you all say. I'm sick of it! You think that if a man's
+charming, that's the end of him, and that all he's good for is to
+amuse a few old ladies at a tea party. I'm sick of it! The rude
+rough man with the heart of gold--that's the only sort that can have
+a heart at all, according to some of you.
+
+PAMELA (utterly surprised by this). Gerald!
+
+GERALD. I'm sorry, Pamela. Of course you wouldn't understand. But we
+were just talking. (With a sudden disarming smile) I don't know
+whether an apology is overdoing the charm?
+
+PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, you couldn't really have loved me;
+you don't really now. Of course, it will hurt you, but you'll soon
+get over it. Oh, what's the good of my talking like this? I've never
+really known you; I don't know you now.
+
+GERALD (quietly). It's no good now, anyway. (He walks away from her
+and looks out through the windows at the back.) Just tell me one or
+two things. Were you in love with him when he went to prison?
+
+PAMELA. I don't know--really I don't know. I was so dreadfully sorry
+for him all that time before, and I felt so very friendly towards
+him, so very--oh, Gerald, so motherly. And I wanted to be wanted so
+badly, and you didn't seem to want me in that way. That was why,
+when he had gone, I went right away from you, and asked you not to
+write to me; I wanted to think it all out--alone.
+
+GERALD. But you wrote to Bob?
+
+PAMELA. Oh, Gerald, he wanted it so badly.
+
+GERALD. I'm sorry.
+
+PAMELA. I wrote to him and he wrote to me. I met him when he came
+out--he told me when to come. I suppose I had decided by then; we
+came down here to tell you. I had to come at once.
+
+GERALD. You do love him, Pamela? It isn't just pity?
+
+PAMELA. I do, Gerald; I think I found that out this afternoon.
+(Timidly) Say you don't hate me very much.
+
+GERALD. I wish to God I could. ... What are you and Bob going to do?
+
+PAMELA. Canada, as soon as we can. I've got friends there. We've a
+little money between us. Bob ought to have done it a long time ago.
+(Coming up to him) Just do one more nice thing for me before we go.
+
+GERALD (moving away from her on pretence of getting a cigarette).
+What is it?
+
+PAMELA. Bob will want to see you before he goes.
+
+GERALD. I don't want to see him.
+
+PAMELA. Ah, but you must.
+
+GERALD. What have we got to say to each other?
+
+PAMELA. I don't know, but I feel you must see him. Otherwise he'll
+think that he ran away from you.
+
+GERALD (with a shrug). All right. You'll go back to London at once,
+I suppose?
+
+PAMELA. Yes. We hired a car. We left it outside at the gates. We
+didn't want to see anybody but you, if possible.
+
+GERALD. Father and mother are out. Aunt Harriet knows--oh, and
+Tommy and Letty--that Bob was coming to-day; nobody else. But I
+can make up something. We'll keep Tommy and Letty out of it for
+the moment. Of course, they'll all have to know in the end.
+
+PAMELA. We'll write, of course.
+
+GERALD. Yes. Tommy and Letty are engaged, by the way.
+
+PAMELA. Oh! (Understanding how he must feel about it) Oh, Gerald!
+(She makes a movement towards him, but he takes no notice.) I'll
+send Bob to you; he's waiting outside, I expect. (Timidly) Good-bye,
+Gerald.
+
+GERALD (still with his back to her). Good-bye, Pamela.
+
+PAMELA. Won't you--
+
+GERALD (from the bottom of his heart). Go away, go away! I can't
+bear the sound of your voice; I can't bear to look at you. Go away!
+
+PAMELA. Oh, Gerald! [She goes out.]
+
+(GERALD looks up as she goes out, and then looks quickly down again.
+When BOB comes in he is still resting with his arm on the
+mantelpiece looking into the fire.)
+
+GERALD (looking up). Hullo.
+
+BOB. Hullo. (After a pause) Is that all you've got to say?
+
+GERALD. I've just seen Pamela.
+
+BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). Well?
+
+GERALD. Well--isn't that enough?
+
+BOB. What do you mean?
+
+GERALD (bitterly). Do you want me to fall on, your neck, and say
+take her and be happy?
+
+BOB. You never loved her.
+
+GERALD. That's a lie, and anyhow we won't discuss it. She's going to
+marry you, and that's an end of it.
+
+BOB (very eagerly). She _is_ going to?
+
+GERALD (sharply). Don't you know it?
+
+BOB (mumbling). Yes, but she might--Ah, you couldn't charm her away
+from me this time.
+
+GERALD (with an effort). I don't know what you mean by "_this_
+time." I think we'd better leave Pamela out of it altogether. She's
+waiting for you outside. Last time I offered to shake hands with
+you, you had some fancied grievance against me, and you wouldn't;
+now if there's any grievance between us, it's on _my_ side. (Holding
+out his hand) Good-bye, Bob, and--quite honestly--good luck.
+
+BOB (ignoring the hand). Magnanimous Gerald!
+
+(GERALD looks at him in surprise for a moment. Then he shrugs his
+shoulders, turns round, and goes back to the mantelpiece, and takes
+a cigarette from the box there.)
+
+GERALD. I'm tired of you, Bob. If you don't want me, I don't want
+you. (He sits down in a chair and lights his cigarette.)
+
+BOB. And now I suppose you're thoroughly pleased with yourself,
+and quite happy.
+
+GERALD (looking at him in absolute wonder). Happy? You fool!
+(Something in BOB'S face surprises him, and he gets up and says)
+Why do you suddenly hate me like this?
+
+BOB (with a bitter laugh). Suddenly!
+
+GERALD (almost frightened). Bob!
+
+BOB (letting the jealousy that has been pent up for years come out
+at last). You're surprised! Surprised! You would be. You've never
+stopped to think what other people are thinking; you take it for
+granted that they all love you, and that's all you care about. Do
+you think I liked playing second fiddle to you all my life? Do you
+think I've never had any ambitions of my own? I suppose you thought
+I was quite happy being one of the crowd of admirers round you, all
+saying, "Oh, look at Gerald, isn't he wonderful?"
+
+GERALD (astounded). Bob, I had no idea--I never dreamt--
+
+BOB. They thought something of me when I was young. When I first
+went to school they thought something of me. I daresay even _you_
+thought something of me then; I could come back in the holidays and
+tell you what school was like, and what a lot they thought of me.
+They didn't think much of me when _you_ came; you soon put a stop to
+that. I was just young Farringdon's brother then, and when we came
+home together, all the talk was of the wonderful things _Gerald_
+had done. It was like that at Eton; it was like that at Oxford. It's
+always been like that. I managed to get away from you a bit after
+Oxford, but it went on just the same. "How do you do, Mr.
+Farringdon? Are you any relation to Gerald Farringdon?" (With the
+utmost contempt) And you actually thought I liked that; you thought
+I enjoyed it. You thought I smiled modestly and said, "Oh yes, he's
+my brother, my young brother; isn't he wonderful?"
+
+GERALD (hardly able to realise it). And you've felt like this for
+years? (To himself) For years!
+
+BOB (not noticing him). And that wasn't enough for you. They got
+you into the Foreign Office--they could have got me there. They
+could have put me into the Army (Almost shouting) Aren't I the
+eldest son? But no, it didn't matter about the eldest son--never
+mind about him; put him in the City, anywhere as long as he's out of
+the way. If we have any influence, we must use it for Gerald--the
+wonderful Gerald.
+
+GERALD. If this is an indictment, it's drawn against the wrong
+person.
+
+BOB (more quietly). Then at last I found a friend; somebody who took
+me for my own sake. (Bitterly) And like a damned fool I brought her
+down here, and she saw _you_. I might have known what would happen.
+
+GERALD. Pamela!
+
+BOB. Yes, and you took her. After taking everything you could all
+your life, you took _her_. She was Bob's friend--that was quite
+enough. She must be one more in the crowd of admirers round you.
+So you took her. (Triumphantly) Ah, but I got her back in the end.
+I've got her now--and I think I'm square, Gerald.
+
+GERALD. Yes, I think you're square now.
+
+BOB (rather jauntily, as he leans back against the end of the sofa
+and feels for his cigarette-case). I seem to have surprised you
+rather.
+
+GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've
+never said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've
+never said anything?
+
+BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months--
+in prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison.
+Oh, I know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in
+the air--something like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I
+had a better idea--I _thought_.
+
+GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must
+have had!
+
+BOB (furiously). Damn you! I _won't_ be pitied by you.
+
+GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about
+yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm
+going to talk about _my_self.
+
+BOB. And it won't be the first time either.
+
+GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to _you_. You say I've
+never tried to understand your feelings--have you ever tried to
+understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about
+you than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you?
+When a boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever
+bore _you_ with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I
+knew how _I'd_ feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for
+you.
+
+BOB. Very noble of you.
+
+GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good
+of talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only
+convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if
+I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't
+talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact,
+whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it
+condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking?
+
+BOB. Go on; I like to hear it.
+
+GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart
+from the general charge of being successful--whatever that amounts
+to--you accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now,
+but it was more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was
+that I neglected to help you when you were in trouble, and that
+through me you went to prison.
+
+BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I
+didn't forget it in prison.
+
+GERALD. You had a sense of humour once, Bob. I don't know what's
+happened to it lately. Don't you think it's rather funny to hate a
+person steadily for fifteen years, judge all his acts as you'd
+hardly judge those of your bitterest enemy, and yet, the first time
+you are in trouble, to expect him to throw everything on one side
+and rush to your help--and then to feel bitterly ill-used if he
+doesn't?
+
+BOB (rather taken aback). I--you didn't--I didn't--
+
+GERALD (quietly). That's been rather like you all through, Bob. You
+were always the one who had to be helped; you were always the one
+who was allowed to have the grievance. Still, that doesn't make it
+any better for me if I could have helped you and didn't. However,
+I'm quite certain that I _couldn't_ have helped you then. We'll take
+the other accusation, that I stole Pamela from you. I've only got
+two things to say to that. First, that Pamela was not engaged to
+you, and was perfectly free to choose between us. Secondly, that you
+never told me, and I hadn't the slightest idea, that you were the
+least bit fond of her. Indeed, I don't believe you realized it
+yourself at that time.
+
+BOB (rather shamefaced). I've realized it since.
+
+GERALD. Yes, and you've taken Pamela back since. I think if I were
+you I would keep her out of it. (BOB looks away and GERALD goes
+on) Now we come to the general charge, which seems to be (very
+deliberately) that I'm better than you at games, that I've got
+better manners than you, that I'm cleverer than you--in fact, that
+I'm superior to you in every outward way, and am only inferior to
+you in--well, in the moral qualities. (Quietly) Bob, what are these
+moral qualities in which I am so deficient and you so endowed?
+You judge me by the qualities I am supposed to have shown to you;
+now what have you shown to _me_? Have _you_ been generous, have
+_you_ been friendly, have _you_ been sympathetic? No; you've just
+told me that for fifteen years you've hated me and been jealous of
+me. Things have been rotten for you, I admit; have you ever tried to
+make the best of them? You've had disadvantages to fight against;
+have you ever fought against them? Never! You've turned every
+trouble into a grievance, and hoarded it up. I said just now I was
+sick of you. I am--utterly. You said just now you didn't want my
+pity. You haven't got it; you've only got my contempt. ... (He turns
+away, and then suddenly turns back, and, holding out his hand to
+BOB, says utterly unexpectedly) And now, damn you! will you shake
+hands?
+
+BOB (incoherent with surprise). What do you--I--you didn't--
+(GERALD'S hand is still held out, and he is smiling.) Oh, Jerry!
+(He takes the hand.)
+
+GERALD. That's all right. Good-bye, Bob, and good luck.
+
+BOB (bewildered). Good-bye. (He tuns round and goes towards the
+door. Half-way there, he looks over his shoulder and says awkwardly)
+Had rather a rotten time in prison. (GERALD nods. At the door BOB
+says) Pamela and I--
+
+[With rather a forced smile, GERALD nods again, and BOB goes out.]
+
+(Left alone, GERALD stands looking into the fire and thinking. He
+tries sitting down to see if that will make thinking any pleasanter;
+then he tries standing up again. He goes to the door in front of the
+staircase and opens it to see if there is anybody there; then he
+goes to the windows at the back and looks through them. Evidently he
+sees somebody, for he beckons and then returns to his old place by
+the fire. In a few moments LETTY and TOMMY come in.)
+
+TOMMY (excitedly). I say, has Bob come?
+
+GERALD. Why?
+
+TOMMY. I could have sworn we saw him just now as we were coming in.
+At least, Letty swore she did--
+
+LETTY. I _know_ I did.
+
+TOMMY. So I gave him a shout, but he fairly trekked off. Was it Bob?
+
+GERALD. Yes. Now look here, I want you to be two nice people. Don't
+say anything to anybody. He came, but he didn't want to see the
+whole crowd of us. He's going to Canada. I'll do all the explaining,
+if you two just say nothing. Do you see?
+
+LETTY. Of course, Gerald.
+
+TOMMY. Rather, old boy. Besides, it will make it much better for
+Letty and me.
+
+LETTY. No rival attraction, Tommy means.
+
+[Enter SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON from the outer hull, having
+just returned from their lunch.]
+
+SIR JAMES. Ah! here you all are.
+
+GERALD. Had a good lunch?
+
+SIR JAMES. Lunch was all right, but the people were dull, very dull.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. There were one or two nice ones, I thought, dear.
+They all knew about _you_, Gerald.
+
+TOMMY (proudly). Of course they would.
+
+SIR JAMES. Oh, one or two were all right, but _he_ was--well, I was
+discussing shorthorns with him after lunch, and he hardly seemed
+interested at all. Dull, very dull. I've got no use for that sort of man.
+
+(During this speech the Butler has come in with a telegram for
+GERALD.)
+
+GERALD (taking it). Just a moment. (He reads it quickly.) No answer.
+[Exit Butler.]
+
+(GERALD reads his telegram again more thoughtfully.)
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. From Pamela, dear?
+
+GERALD. From the office. I shall have to go up at once.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (very disappointed). Oh, Gerald!
+
+SIR JAMES. Something on?
+
+GERALD. Rather an important thing really. I never thought I should
+get it, but there was just a chance. (Looking at his watch) Oh, I
+can do it comfortably.
+
+SIR JAMES (obviously proud that GERALD is in the thick of things).
+What is it? I suppose you mustn't tell us.
+
+GERALD. Something abroad.
+
+SIR JAMES. Diplomatic mission, eh?
+
+GERALD. Yes.
+
+LETTY. That does sound so frightfully exciting.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON (proudly). Oh, Gerald! (Thoughtfully). I wish we had
+known about it this morning, we could have mentioned it at lunch.
+
+SIR JAMES. That ought to lead to something.
+
+GERALD. Yes. I think it will. It's rather an opportunity:
+
+(They are all round him now, just as they have always been. The
+buzz begins.)
+
+SIR JAMES. Aha! you'll be an ambassador yet. What do you think of
+that, Letty?
+
+LETTY. Well done, Gerald.
+
+LADY FARRINGDON. How like you, Gerald!
+
+TOMMY. Good old Gerald! I never knew such a chap. You really _are_!
+
+GERALD (softly). I wish I weren't, Tommy! Oh, I wish I weren't!
+
+(They don't hear him; they are still buzzing.)
+
+
+
+THE BOY COMES HOME
+
+A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
+
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+UNCLE JAMES.
+AUNT EMILY.
+PHILIP.
+MARY.
+MRS. HIGGINS.
+
+This play was first produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria
+Palace Theatre on September 9,1918, with the following cast:
+
+Philip--OWEN NARES.
+Uncle James--TOM REYNOLDS.
+Aunt Emily--DOROTHY RADFORD.
+Mary--ADAH DICK.
+Mrs. Higgins--RACHEL DE SOLLA.
+
+
+THE BOY COMES HOME
+
+[SCENE.--A room in UNCLE JAMES'S house in the Cromwell Road.]
+
+[TIME.--The day after the War.]
+
+[Any room in UNCLE JAMES'S house is furnished in heavy mid-Victorian
+style; this particular morning-room is perhaps solider and more
+respectable even than the others, from the heavy table in the middle
+of it to the heavy engravings on the walls. There are two doors to
+it. The one at the back opens into the hall, the one at the side
+into the dining-room.]
+
+[PHILIP comes from the hall and goes into the dining-room.
+Apparently he finds nothing there, for he returns to the
+morning-room, looks about him for a moment and then rings the bell.
+It is ten o'clock, and he wants his breakfast. He picks up the
+paper, and sits in a heavy armchair in front of the fire--a
+pleasant-looking well-built person of twenty-three, with an air of
+decisiveness about him. MARY, the parlour-maid, comes in.]
+
+MARY. Did you ring, Master Philip?
+
+PHILIP (absently). Yes; I want some breakfast, please, Mary.
+
+MARY (coldly). Breakfast has been cleared away an hour ago.
+
+PHILIP. Exactly. That's why I rang. You can boil me a couple of
+eggs or something. And coffee, not tea.
+
+MARY. I'm sure I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say?
+
+PHILIP (getting up). Who is Mrs. Higgins?
+
+MARY. The cook. And she's not used to being put about like this.
+
+PHILIP. Do you think she'll say something?
+ MARY. I don't know _what_ she'll say.
+
+PHILIP. You needn't tell me, you know, if you don't want to.
+Anyway, I don't suppose it will shock me. One gets used to it in
+the Army. (He smiles pleasantly at her.)
+
+MARY. Well, I'll do what I can, sir. But breakfast at eight sharp
+is the master's rule, just as it used to be before you went away to
+the war.
+
+PHILIP. Before I went away to the war I did a lot of silly things.
+Don't drag them up now. (More curtly) Two eggs, and if there's a
+ham bring that along too. (He turns away.)
+
+MARY (doubtfully, as she prepares to go). Well, I'm sure I don't
+know what Mrs. Higgins will say. [Exit MARY.]
+
+(As she goes out she makes way for AUNT EMILY to come in, a
+kind-hearted mid-Victorian lady who has never had any desire for
+the vote.)
+
+EMILY. There you are, Philip! Good-morning, dear. Did you sleep
+well?
+
+PHILIP. Rather; splendidly, thanks, Aunt Emily. How are you? (He
+kisses her.)
+
+EMILY. And did you have a good breakfast? Naughty boy to be late
+for it. I always thought they had to get up so early in the Army.
+
+PHILIP. They do. That's why they're so late when they get out of
+the Army.
+
+EMILY: Dear me! I should have thought a habit of four years would
+have stayed with you.
+
+PHILIP. Every morning for four years, as I've shot out of bed, I've
+said to myself, "Wait! A time will come." (Smiling) That doesn't
+really give a habit a chance.
+
+EMILY. Well, I daresay you wanted your sleep out. I was so afraid
+that a really cosy bed would keep you awake after all those years
+in the trenches.
+
+PHILIP. Well, one isn't in the trenches all the time. And one gets
+leave--if one's an officer.
+
+EMILY.(reproachfully). You didn't spend much of it with _us_,
+Philip.
+
+PHILIP (taking her hands). I know; but you did understand, didn't
+you, dear?
+
+EMILY. We're not very gay, and I know you must have wanted gaiety
+for the little time you had. But I think your Uncle James felt it.
+After all, dear, you've lived with us for some years, and he _is_
+your guardian.
+
+PHILIP. I know. _You've_ been a darling to me always, Aunt Emily.
+But (awkwardly) Uncle James and I--
+
+EMILY. Of course, he is a _little_ difficult to get on with. I'm
+more used to him. But I'm sure he really is very fond of you,
+Philip.
+
+PHILIP. H'm! I always used to be frightened of him. ... I suppose
+he's just the same. He seemed just the same last night--and he
+still has breakfast at eight o'clock. Been making pots of money, I
+suppose?
+
+EMILY. He never tells me exactly, but he did speak once about the
+absurdity of the excess-profits tax. You see, jam is a thing the
+Army wants.
+
+PHILIP. It certainly gets it.
+
+EMILY. It was so nice for him, because it made him feel he was
+doing his bit, helping the poor men in the trenches.
+
+[Enter MARY.]
+
+MARY. Mrs. Higgins wishes to speak to you, ma'am. (She looks at
+PHILIP as much as to say, "There you are!")
+
+EMILY (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To PHILIP) I think I'd better
+just see what she wants, Philip.
+
+PHILIP (firmly to MARY). Tell Mrs. Higgins to come here. (MARY
+hesitates and looks at her mistress.) At once, please. [Exit MARY.]
+
+EMILY (upset). Philip, dear, I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will
+say--
+
+PHILIP. No; nobody seems to. I thought we might really find out for
+once.
+
+EMILY (going towards the door). Perhaps I'd better go--
+
+PHILIP (putting his arm round her waist). Oh no, you mustn't. You
+see, she really wants to see _me_.
+
+EMILY. _You_?
+
+PHILIP. Yes; I ordered breakfast five minutes ago.
+
+EMILY. Philip! My poor boy! Why didn't you tell me? and I daresay I
+could have got it for you. Though I don't know what Mrs. Higgins--
+
+(An extremely angry voice is heard outside, and MRS. HIGGINS, stout
+and aggressive, comes in.)
+
+MRS. HIGGINS (truculently). You sent for me, ma'am?
+
+EMILY (nervously). Yes--er--I think if you--perhaps--
+
+PHILIP (calmly). _I_ sent for you, Mrs. Higgins. I want some
+breakfast. Didn't Mary tell you?
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Breakfast is at eight o'clock. It always has been as
+long as I've been in this house, and always will be until I get
+further orders.
+
+PHILIP. Well, you've just got further orders. Two eggs, and if
+there's a ham--
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Orders. We're talking about orders. From whom in this
+house do I take orders, may I ask?
+
+PHILIP. In this case from me.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS (playing her trump-card). In that case, ma'am, I wish
+to give a month's notice from to-day. _In_clusive.
+
+PHILIP (quickly, before his aunt can say anything). Certainly. In
+fact, you'd probably prefer it if my aunt gave _you_ notice, and
+then you could go at once. We can easily arrange that. (TO AUNT
+EMILY as he takes out a fountain pen and cheque-book) What do you
+pay her?
+
+EMILY (faintly). Forty-five pounds.
+
+PHILIP (writing on his knee). Twelves into forty-five. ...
+(Pleasantly to MRS. HIGGINS, but without looking up) I hope you
+don't mind a Cox's cheque. Some people do; but this is quite a good
+one. (Tearing it out) Here you are.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS (taken aback). What's this?
+
+PHILIP. Your wages instead of notice. Now you can go at once.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Who said anything about going?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). I'm sorry; I thought _you_ did.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. If it's only a bit of breakfast, I don't say but what
+I mightn't get it, if I'm asked decent.
+
+PHILIP (putting back the cheque). Then let me say again, "Two eggs,
+ham and coffee." And Mary can bring the ham up at once, and I'll
+get going on that. (Turning away) Thanks very much.
+
+MRS. HIGGINS. Well, I--well--well! [Exit speechless.]
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Is that all she ever says? It isn't much to
+worry about.
+
+EMILY. Philip, how could you! I should have been terrified.
+
+PHILIP. Well, you see, I've done your job for two years out there.
+
+EMILY. What job?
+
+PHILIP. Mess President. ... I think I'll go and see about that ham.
+
+(He smiles at her and goes out into the dining-room. AUNT EMILY
+wanders round the room, putting a few things tidy as is her habit,
+when she is interrupted by the entrance of UNCLE JAMES. JAMES is
+not a big man, nor an impressive one in his black morning-coat; and
+his thin straggly beard, now going grey, does not hide a chin of
+any great power; but he has a severity which passes for strength
+with the weak.)
+
+JAMES. Philip down yet?
+
+EMILY. He's just having his breakfast.
+
+JAMES (looking at his watch). Ten o'clock. (Snapping it shut and
+putting it back) Ten o'clock. I say ten o'clock, Emily.
+
+EMILY. Yes, dear, I heard you.
+
+JAMES. You don't say anything?
+
+EMILY (vaguely). I expect he's tired after that long war.
+
+JAMES. That's no excuse for not being punctual. I suppose he learnt
+punctuality in the Army?
+
+EMILY. I expect he learnt it, James, but I understood him to say
+that he'd forgotten it.
+
+JAMES. Then the sooner he learns it again the better. I
+particularly stayed away from the office to-day in order to talk
+things over with him, and (looking cat his watch) here's ten
+o'clock--past ten--and no sign of him. I'm practically throwing
+away a day.
+
+EMILY. What are you going to talk to him about?
+
+JAMES. His future, naturally. I have decided that the best thing he
+can do is to come into the business at once.
+
+EMILY. Are you really going to talk it over with him, James, or are
+you just going to tell him that he _must_ come?
+
+JAMES (surprised). What do you mean? What's the difference?
+Naturally we shall talk it over first, and--er--naturally he'll
+fall in with my wishes.
+
+EMILY. I suppose he can hardly help himself, poor boy.
+
+JAMES. Not until he's twenty-five, anyhow. When he's twenty-five he
+can have his own money and do what he likes with it.
+
+EMILY (timidly). But I think you ought to consult him at little,
+dear. After all, he _has_ been fighting for us.
+
+JAMES (with his back to the fire). Now that's the sort of silly
+sentiment that there's been much too much of. I object to it
+strongly. I don't want to boast, but I think I may claim to have
+done my share. I gave up my nephew to my country, and I--er--
+suffered from the shortage of potatoes to an extent that you
+probably didn't realize. Indeed, if it hadn't been for your
+fortunate discovery about that time that you didn't really like
+potatoes, I don't know how we should have carried on. And, as I
+think I've told you before, the excess-profits tax seemed to me a
+singularly stupid piece of legislation--but I paid it. And I don't
+go boasting about how much I paid.
+
+EMILY (unconvinced). Well, I think that Philip's four years out
+there have made him more of a man; he doesn't seem somehow like a
+boy who can be told what to do. I'm sure they've taught him
+something.
+
+JAMES. I've no doubt that they've taught him something about--er--
+bombs and--er--which end a revolver goes off, and how to form
+fours. But I don't see that that sort of thing helps him to decide
+upon the most suitable career for a young man in after-war
+conditions.
+
+EMILY. Well, I can only say you'll find him different.
+
+JAMES. I didn't notice any particular difference last night.
+
+EMILY. I think you'll find him rather more--I can't quite think of
+the word, but Mrs. Higgins could tell you what I mean.
+
+JAMES. Of course, if he likes to earn his living any other way, he
+may; but I don t see how he proposes to do it so long as I hold
+the purse-strings. (Looking at his watch) Perhaps you'd better tell
+him that I cannot wait any longer.
+
+(EMILY opens the door leading into the dining-room and talks
+through it to PHILIP.)
+
+EMILY. Philip, your uncle is waiting to see you before he goes to
+the office. Will you be long, dear?
+
+PHILIP (from the dining-room). Is he in a hurry?
+
+JAMES (shortly). Yes.
+
+EMILY. He says he is rather, dear.
+
+PHILIP. Couldn't he come and talk in here? It wouldn't interfere
+with my breakfast.
+
+JAMES. No.
+
+EMILY. He says he'd rather you came to _him_, darling.
+
+PHILIP (resigned). Oh, well.
+
+EMILY (to JAMES). He'll be here directly, dear. Just sit down in
+front of the fire and make yourself comfortable with the paper. He
+won't keep you long. (She arranges him.)
+
+JAMES (taking the paper). The morning is not the time to make
+oneself comfortable. It's a most dangerous habit. I nearly found
+myself dropping off in front of the fire just now. I don't like
+this hanging about, wasting the day. (He opens the paper.)
+
+EMILY. You should have had a nice sleep, dear, while you could.
+We were up so late last night listening to Philip's stories.
+
+JAMES. Yes, yes. (He begins a yawn and stifles it hurriedly.) You
+mustn't neglect your duties, Emily. I've no doubt you have plenty
+to do.
+
+EMILY. All right, James, then I'll leave you. But don't be hard on
+the boy.
+
+JAMES (sleepily). I shall be just, Emily; you can rely upon that.
+
+EMILY (going to the door). I don't think that's quite what I meant.
+[She goes out.]
+
+(JAMES, who is now quite comfortable, begins to nod. He wakes up
+with a start, turns over the paper, and nods again. Soon he is
+breathing deeply with closed eyes.)
+
+***
+
+PHILIP (coming in). Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was a bit
+late for breakfast. (He takes out his pipe.) Are we going to talk
+business or what?
+
+JAMES (taking out his match). A _bit_ late! I make it just two
+hours.
+
+PHILIP (pleasantly). All right, Uncle James. Call it two hours
+late. Or twenty-two hours early for tomorrow's breakfast, if you
+like. (He sits down in a chair on the opposite side of the table
+from his uncle, and lights his pipe.)
+
+JAMES. You smoke now?
+
+PHILIP (staggered). I what?
+
+JAMES (nodding at his pipe). You smoke?
+
+PHILIP. Good heavens! what did yolk think we did in France?
+
+JAMES. Before you start smoking all over the house, I should have
+thought you would have asked your aunt's permission.
+
+(PHILIP looks at him in amazement, and then goes to the door.)
+
+PHILIP (calling). Aunt Emily! ... Aunt Emily! ... Do you mind my
+smoking in here?
+
+AUNT EMILY (from upstairs). Of course not, darling.
+
+PHILIP (to JAMES, as he returns to his chair). Of course not,
+darling. (He puts back his pipe in his mouth.)
+
+JAMES. Now, understand once and for all, Philip, while you remain
+in my house I expect not only punctuality, but also civility and
+respect. I will _not_ have impertinence.
+
+PHILIP (unimpressed). Well, that's what I want to talk to you
+about, Uncle James. About staying in your house, I mean.
+
+JAMES. I don't know what you do mean.
+
+PHILIP. Well, we don't get on too well together, and I thought
+perhaps I'd better take rooms somewhere. You could give me an
+allowance until I came into my money. Or I suppose you could give
+me the money now if you really liked. I don't quite know how father
+left it to me.
+
+JAMES (coldly). You come into your money when you are twenty-five.
+Your father very wisely felt that to trust a large sum to a mere
+boy of twenty-one was simply putting temptation in his way. Whether
+I have the power or not to alter his dispositions, I certainly
+don't propose to do so.
+
+PHILIP. If it comes to that, I am twenty-five.
+
+JAMES. Indeed? I had an impression that that event took place in
+about two years' time. When did you become twenty-five, may I ask?
+
+PHILIP (quietly). It was on the Somme. We were attacking the next
+day and my company was in support. We were in a so-called trench on
+the edge of a wood--a damned rotten place to be, and we got hell.
+The company commander sent back to ask if we could move. The C.O.
+said, "Certainly not; hang on." We hung on; doing nothing, you
+know--just hanging on and waiting for the next day. Of course, the
+Boche knew all about that. He had it on us nicely. ... (Sadly) Dear
+old Billy! he was one of the best--our company commander, you know.
+They got him, poor devil! That left _me_ in command of the company.
+I sent a runner back to ask if I could move. Well, I'd had a bit of
+a scout on my own and found a sort of trench five hundred yards to
+the right. Not what you'd call a trench, of course, but compared to
+that wood--well, it was absolutely Hyde Park. I described the
+position and asked if I could go there. My man never came back. I
+waited an hour and sent another man. He went west too. Well, I
+wasn't going to send a third. It was murder. So I had to decide.
+We'd lost about half the company by this time, you see. Well, there
+were three things I could do--hang on, move to this other trench,
+against orders, or go back myself and explain the situation. ... I
+moved. ... And then I went back to the C.O. and told him I'd moved. ...
+And then I went back to the company again. ... (Quietly) That was
+when I became twenty-five. ... or thirty-five. ... or forty-five.
+
+JAMES (recovering himself with an effort). Ah yes, yes. (He coughs
+awkwardly.) No doubt points like that frequently crop up in the
+trenches. I am glad that you did well out there, and I'm sure your
+Colonel would speak kindly of you; but when it comes to choosing a
+career for you now that you have left the Army, my advice is not
+altogether to be despised. Your father evidently thought so, or he
+would not have entrusted you to my care.
+
+PHILIP. My father didn't foresee this war.
+
+JAMES. Yes, yes, but you make too much of this war. All you young
+boys seem to think you've come back from France to teach us our
+business. You'll find that it is you who'll have to learn, not we.
+
+PHILIP. I'm quite prepared to learn; in fact, I want to.
+
+JAMES. Excellent. Then we can consider that settled.
+
+PHILIP. Well, we haven't settled yet what business I'm going to
+learn.
+
+JAMES. I don't think that's very difficult. I propose to take you
+into my business. You'll start at the bottom of course, but it will
+be a splendid opening for you.
+
+PHILIP (thoughtfully). I see. So you've decided it for me? The jam
+business.
+
+JAMES (sharply). Is there anything to be ashamed of in that?
+
+PHILIP. Oh no, nothing at all. Only it doesn't happen to appeal to
+me.
+
+JAMES. If you knew which side your bread was buttered, it would
+appeal to you very considerably.
+
+PHILIP. I'm afraid I can't see the butter for the jam.
+
+JAMES. I don't want any silly jokes of that sort. You were glad
+enough to get it out there, I've no doubt.
+
+PHILIP. Oh yes. Perhaps that's why I'm so sick of it now. ... No,
+it's no good, Uncle James; you must think of something else.
+
+JAMES (with a sneer). Perhaps _you've_ thought of something else?
+
+PHILIP. Well, I had some idea of being an architect--
+
+JAMES. You propose to start learning to be an architect at twenty-three?
+
+PHILIP (smiling). Well, I couldn't start before, could I?
+
+JAMES. Exactly. And now you'll find it's too late.
+
+PHILIP. Is it? Aren't there going to be any more architects, or
+doctors, or solicitors, or barristers? Because we've all lost four
+years of our lives, are all the professions going to die out?
+
+JAMES. And how old do you suppose you'll be before you're earning
+money as an architect?
+
+PHILIP. The usual time, whatever that may be. If I'm four years
+behind, so is everybody else.
+
+JAMES. Well, I think it's high time you began to earn a living at
+once.
+
+PHILIP. Look here, Uncle James, do you really think that you can
+treat me like a boy who's just left school? Do you think four years
+at the front have made no difference at all?
+
+JAMES. If there had been any difference, I should have expected it
+to take the form of an increased readiness in obey orders and
+recognize authority.
+
+PHILIP (regretfully). You are evidently determined to have a row.
+Perhaps I had better tell you once and for all that I refuse to go
+into the turnip and vegetable narrow business.
+
+JAMES (thumping the table angrily). And perhaps I'd better tell
+_you_, sir, once and for all, that I don't propose to allow rude
+rudeness from an impertinent young puppy.
+
+PHILIP (reminiscently). I remember annoying our Brigadier once. He
+was covered with red, had a very red face, about twenty medals, and
+a cold blue eye. He told me how angry he was for about five minutes
+while I stood to attention. I'm afraid you aren't nearly
+impressive, Uncle James.
+
+JAMES (rather upset). Oh! (Recovering himself) Fortunately I have
+other means of impressing you. The power of the purse goes a long
+way in this world. I propose to use it.
+
+PHILIP. I see. ... Yes ... that's rather awkward, isn't it?
+
+JAMES (pleasantly). I think you'll find it very awkward.
+
+PHILIP (thoughtfully). Yes.
+
+(With an amused laugh JAMES settles down to his paper as if the
+interview were over.)
+
+PHILIP (to himself). I suppose I shall have to think of another
+argument. (He takes out a revolver from him pocket and fondles it
+affectionately.)
+
+JAMES (looking up suddenly as he is doing this--amazed). What on
+earth are you doing?
+
+PHILIP. Souvenir from France. Do you know, Uncle. James, that this
+revolver has killed about twenty Germans?
+
+JAMES (shortly). Oh! Well, don't go playing about with it here, or
+you'll be killing Englishmen before you know where you are.
+
+PHILIP. Well, you never know. (He raises it leisurely and points it
+at his uncle.) It's a nice little weapon.
+
+JAMES (angrily). Put it down, sir. You ought to have grown out of
+monkey tricks like that in the Army. You ought to know better than
+to point an unloaded revolver at anybody. That's the way accidents
+always happen.
+
+PHILIP. Not when you've been on a revolver course and know all
+about it. Besides, it _is_ loaded.
+
+JAMES (very angry because he is frightened suddenly). Put it down
+at once, sir. (PHILIP turns it away from him and examines it
+carelessly.) What's the matter with you? Have you gone mad
+suddenly?
+
+PHILIP (mildly). I thought you'd be interested in it. It's shot
+such a lot of Germans.
+
+JAMES. Well, it won't want to shoot any more, and the sooner you
+get rid of it the better.
+
+PHILIP. I wonder. Does it ever occur to you, Uncle James, that
+there are about a hundred thousand people in England who own
+revolvers, who are quite accustomed to them and--who have nobody to
+practise on now?
+
+JAMES. No, sir, it certainly doesn't.
+
+PHILIP (thoughtfully). I wonder if it will make any difference. You
+know, one gets so used to potting at people. It's rather difficult
+to realize suddenly that one oughtn't to.
+
+JAMES (getting up). I don't know what the object of this tomfoolery
+is, if it has one. But you understand that I expect you to come to
+the office with me to-morrow at nine o'clock. Kindly see that
+you're punctual. (He turns to go away.)
+
+PHILIP (softly). Uncle James.
+
+JAMES (over his shoulder). I have no more--
+
+PHILIP (in his parade voice). Damn it, sir! stand to attention when
+you talk to an officer! (JAMES instinctively turns round and
+stiffens himself.) That's better; you can sit down if you like. (He
+motions JAMES to his chair with the revolver.)
+
+JAMES (going nervously to his chair). What does this bluff mean?
+
+PHILIP. It isn't bluff, it's quite serious. (Pointing the revolver
+at his uncle) Do sit down.
+
+JAMES (sitting donor). Threats, eh?
+
+PHILIP. Persuasion.
+
+JAMES. At the point of the revolver? You settle your arguments by
+force? Good heavens, sir! this is just the very thing that we were
+fighting to put down.
+
+PHILIP. _We_ were fighting! _We_! _We_! Uncle, you're humorist.
+
+JAMES, Well, "you," if you prefer it. Although those of us who
+stayed at home--
+
+PHILIP. Yes, never mind about the excess profits now. I can tell
+you quite well what we fought for. We used force to put down force.
+That's what I'm doing now. You were going to use force--the force
+of money--to make me do what you wanted. Now I'm using force to
+stop it. (He levels the revolver again.)
+
+JAMES. You're--you're going to shoot your old uncle?
+
+PHILIP. Why not? I've shot lots of old uncles--Landsturmers.
+
+JAMES. But those were Germans! It's different shooting Germans.
+You're in England now. You couldn't have a crime on your conscience
+like that.
+
+PHILIP. Ah, but you mustn't think that after four years of war one
+has quite the same ideas about the sanctity of human life. How
+could one?
+
+JAMES. You'll find that juries have kept pretty much the same
+ideas, I fancy.
+
+PHILIP. Yes, but revolvers often go off accidentally. You said so
+yourself. This is going to be the purest accident. Can't you see it
+in the papers? "The deceased's nephew, who was obviously upset--"
+
+JAMES. I suppose you think it's brave to come back from the front
+and threaten a defenceless man with a revolver? Is that the sort of
+fair play they teach you in the Army?
+
+PHILIP. Good heavens! of course it is. You don't think that you
+wait until the other side has got just as many guns as you before
+you attack? You're really rather lucky. Strictly speaking, I ought
+to have thrown half a dozen bombs at you first. (Taking one out of
+his pocket) As it happens, I've only got one.
+
+JAMES (thoroughly alarmed). Put that back at once.
+
+PHILIP (putting down the revolver and taking it in his hands). You
+hold it in the right hand--so--taking care to keep the lever down.
+Then you take the pin in the finger--so, and--but perhaps this
+doesn't interest you?
+
+JAMES (edging his chair away). Put it down at once, sir. Good
+heavens! anything might happen.
+
+PHILIP (putting it down and taking up the revolver again). Does it
+ever occur to you, Uncle James, that there are about three million
+people in England who know all about bombs, and how to throw them,
+and--
+
+JAMES. It certainly does not occur to me. I should never dream of
+letting these things occur to me.
+
+PHILIP (looking at the bomb regretfully). It's rather against my
+principles as a soldier, but just to make things a bit more fair--
+(generously) you shall have it. (He holds it out to him suddenly.)
+
+JAMES (shrinking back again). Certainly not, sir. It might go off
+at any moment.
+
+PHILIP (putting it back in his pocket). Oh no; it's quite useless;
+there's no detonator. ... (Sternly) Now, then, let's talk business.
+
+JAMES. What do you want me to do?
+
+PHILIP. Strictly speaking, you should be holding your hands over
+your head and saying "Kamerad!" However, I'll let you off that. All
+I ask from you is that you should be reasonable.
+
+JAMES. And if I refuse, you'll shoot me?
+
+PHILIP. Well, I don't quite know, Uncle James. I expect we should
+go through this little scene again to-morrow. You haven't enjoyed
+it, have you? Well, there's lots more of it to come. We'll rehearse
+it every day. One day, if you go on being unreasonable, the thing
+will go off. Of course, you think that I shouldn't have the pluck
+to fire. But you can't be quite certain. It's a hundred to one that
+I shan't--only I might. Fear--it's a horrible thing. Elderly men
+die of it sometimes.
+
+JAMES. Pooh! I'm not to be bluffed like that.
+
+PHILIP (suddenly). You're quite right; you're not that sort. I made
+a mistake. (Aiming carefully) I shall have to do it straight off,
+after all. One--two--
+
+JAMES (on his knees, with uplifted hands, in an agony of terror).
+Philip! Mercy! What are your terms?
+
+PHILIP (picking him up by the scruff, and helping him into the
+chair). Good man, that's the way to talk. I'll get them for you.
+Make yourself comfortable in front of the fire till I come back.
+Here's the paper. (He gives his uncle the paper, and goes out into
+the hall.)
+
+***
+
+(JAMES opens his eyes with a start and looks round him in a
+bewildered way. He rubs his heart, takes out his match and looks at
+it, and then stares round the room again. The door from the dining-room
+opens, and PHILIP comes in with a piece of toast in his hand.)
+
+PHILIP (his mouth full). You wanted to see me, Uncle James?
+
+JAMES (still bewildered). That's all right, my boy, that's all
+right. What have you been doing?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Breakfast. (Putting the last piece in his
+mouth) Rather late, I'm afraid.
+
+JAMES. That's all right. (He laughs awkwardly.)
+
+PHILIP. Anything the matter? You don't look your usual bright self.
+
+JAMES. I--er--seem to have dropped asleep in front of the fire.
+Most unusual thing for me to have done. Most unusual.
+
+PHILIP. Let that be a lesson to you not to get up so early. Of
+course, if you're in the Army you can't help yourself. Thank Heaven
+I'm out of it, and my own master again.
+
+JAMES. Ah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sit down,
+Philip. (He indicates the chair by the fire.)
+
+PHILIP (taking a chair by the table). You have that, uncle; I shall
+be all right here.
+
+JAMES (hastily). No, no; you come here. (He gives PHILIP the
+armchair and sits by the table himself.) I should be dropping off
+again. (He laughs awkwardly.)
+
+PHILIP. Righto. (He puts his hand to his pocket. UNCLE JAMES
+shivers and looks at him to horror. PHILIP brings out his pipe, and
+a sickly grin of relief comes into JAMES'S face.)
+
+JAMES. I suppose you smoked a lot in France?
+
+PHILIP. Rather! Nothing else to do. It's allowed in here?
+
+JAMES (hastily). Yes, yes, of course. (PHILIP lights his pipe.)
+Well now, Philip, what are you going to do, now you've left the
+Army?
+
+PHILIP (promptly). Burn my uniform and sell my revolver.
+
+JAMES (starting at the word "revolver"). Sell your revolver, eh?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Well, I don't want it now, do I?
+
+JAMES. No. ... Oh no. ... Oh, most certainly not, I should say. Oh,
+I can't see why you should want it at all. (With an uneasy laugh)
+You're in England now. No need for revolvers here--eh?
+
+PHILIP (staring at him). Well, no, I hope not.
+
+JAMES (hastily). Quite so. Well now, Philip, what next? We must
+find a profession for you.
+
+PHILIP (yawning). I suppose so. I haven't really thought about it
+much.
+
+JAMES. You never wanted to be an architect?
+
+PHILIP (surprised). Architect? (JAMES rubs his head and wonders
+what made him think of architect.)
+
+JAMES. Or anything like that.
+
+PHILIP. It's a bit late, isn't it?
+
+JAMES. Well, if you're four years behind, so is everybody else. (He
+feels vaguely that he has heard this argument before.)
+
+PHILIP (smiling): To tell the truth, I don't feel I mind much
+anyway. Anything you like--except a commissionaire. I absolutely
+refuse to wear uniform again.
+
+JAMES. How would you like to come into the business?
+
+PHILIP. The jam business? Well, I don't know. You wouldn't want
+me to salute you in the mornings?
+
+JAMES. My dear boy, no!
+
+PHILIP. All right, I'll try it if you like. I don't know if I shall
+be any good--what do you do?
+
+JAMES. It's your experience in managing and--er--handling men which
+I hope will be of value.
+
+PHILIP. Oh, I can do that all right. (Stretching himself
+luxuriously) Uncle James, do you realize that I'm never going to
+salute again, or wear a uniform, or get wet--really wet, I mean--or
+examine men's feet, or stand to attention when I'm spoken to, or--
+oh, lots more things. And best of all, I'm never going to be
+frightened again. Have you ever known what it is to be afraid--
+really afraid?
+
+JAMES (embarrassed). I--er--well--(He coughs.)
+
+PHILIP. No, you couldn't--not really afraid of death, I mean. Well,
+that's over now. Good lord! I could spend the rest of my life in
+the British Museum and be happy. ...
+
+JAMES (getting up). All right, we'll try you in the office. I
+expect you want a holiday first, though.
+
+PHILIP (getting up). My dear uncle, this is holiday. Being in
+London is holiday. Buying an evening paper--wearing a waistcoat
+again--running after a bus--anything--it's all holiday.
+
+JAMES. All right, then, come along with me now, and I'll introduce
+you to Mr. Bamford.
+
+PHILIP. Right. Who's he?
+
+JAMES. Our manager. A little stiff, but a very good fellow. He'll
+be delighted to hear that you are coming into the firm.
+
+PHILIP (smiling). Perhaps I'd better bring my revolver, in case he
+isn't.
+
+JAMES (laughing with forced heartiness as they go together to the
+door). Ha, ha! A good joke that! Ha, ha, ha! A good joke--but only
+a joke, of course. Ha, ha! He, he, he!
+
+[PHILIP goes out. JAMES, following him, turns at the door, and
+looks round the room in a bewildered way. Was it a dream, or wasn't
+it? He will never be quite certain.]
+
+
+
+BELINDA
+
+An April Folly in Three Acts
+
+
+CHARACTERS
+
+BELINDA TREMAYNE.
+DELIA (her daughter).
+HAROLD BAXTER.
+CLAUDE DEVENISH.
+JOHN TREMAYNE.
+BETTY.
+
+The action takes place in Belinda's country-house in Devonshire at
+the end of April.
+
+
+This play was first produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New
+Theatre, London, on April 8, 1918, with the following cast:
+
+Belinda Tremayne--IRENE VANBRUGH.
+Delia--ISOBEL ELSOM.
+Harold Baxter--DION BOUCICAULT.
+Claude Devenish--DENNIS NEILSON-TERRY.
+John Tremayne--BEN WEBSTER.
+Betty--ANNE WALDEN.
+
+
+BELINDA
+
+ACT I
+
+[It is a lovely April afternoon--a foretaste of summer--in
+BELINDA'S garden.]
+
+[BETTY, a middle-aged servant, is fastening a hammock--its first
+appearance this year--between two trees at the back. In front of
+these there is a solid oak garden-table, with a comfortable chair
+on the right of it and a straight-backed one on the left. There are
+books, papers, and magazines on the table. BELINDA, of whom we
+shall know more presently, is on the other side of the open windows
+which look on to the garden, talking to BETTY.]
+
+BELINDA (from inside the house). Are you sure you're tying it up
+tightly enough, Betty?
+
+BETTY (coming to front of hammock). Yes, ma'am; I think it's
+firm.
+
+BELINDA. Because I'm not the fairy I used to be.
+
+BETTY (trying the knots at the other end of the hammock). Yes,
+ma'am; it's quite firm this end too.
+
+BELINDA. It's not the ends I'm frightened of; it's the middle where
+the weight's coming. (She comes into the garden.) It looks very
+nice.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA (trying the middle of it with her hand). I asked them at
+the Stores if they were quite _sure_ it would bear me, and they
+said it would take anything up to--I forget how many tons. I know I
+thought it was rather rude of them. (Looking at it anxiously) How
+does one get in? So trying to be a sailor!
+
+BETTY. I think you sit in it, ma'am, and then (explaining with her
+hands) throw your legs over.
+
+BELINDA. I see. (She sits gingerly in the hammock, and then, with a
+sudden flutter of white, does what BETTY suggests.) Yes.
+(Regretfully.) I'm afraid that was rather wasted on you, Betty.
+We must have some spectators next time.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. Cushions. (She arranges them at her back with BETTY'S
+help. With a sigh of comfort) There! Now then, Betty, about
+callers.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. If Mr. Baxter calls--he is the rather prim gentleman--
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am; the one who's been here several times before.
+
+BELINDA (giving BETTY a quick look). Yes. Well, if he calls, you'll
+say, "Not at home."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. He will say, "Oh--er--oh--er--really." Then you'll smile
+very sweetly and say, "I beg your pardon, was it Mr. _Baxter_?" And
+he'll say, "Yes!" and you'll say, "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir;
+_this_ way, please."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. That's right, Betty. Well now, if Mr. Devenish calls--he
+is the rather poetical gentleman--
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am; the one who's always coming here.
+
+BELINDA (with a pleased smile). Yes. Well, if he calls you'll
+say, "Not at home."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. He'll immediately throw down his bunch of flowers and dive
+despairingly into the moat. You'll stop him, just as he is going
+in, and say, "I beg your pardon, sir, was it Mr. _Devenish_?" And
+he will say, "Yes!" and you will say, "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir;
+_this_ way, please."
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am. And suppose they both call together?
+
+BELINDA. We won't suppose anything so exciting, Betty.
+
+BETTY. No, ma'am. And suppose any other gentleman calls?
+
+BELINDA (with a sigh). There aren't any other gentlemen.
+
+BETTY. It might be a clergyman, come to ask for a subscription like.
+
+BELINDA. If it's a clergyman, Betty, I shall--I shall want your
+assistance out of the hammock first.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA. That's all. To anybody else I'm not at home. (Trying to
+secure book on table and nearly falling out of the hammock.) Oh,
+just give me that little green book. (Pointing to books on the
+table.) The one at the bottom there--that's the one. (BETTY gives
+it to her.) Thank you. (Reading the title.) "The Lute of Love," by
+Claude Devenish. (To herself as she turns the pages.) It doesn't
+seem much for half-a-crown when you think of the _Daily Telegraph_.
+... Lute ... Lute. ... I should have quite a pretty mouth if I kept
+on saying that. (With a great deal of expression.) Lute! (She pats
+her mouth back.)
+
+BETTY. Is that all, ma'am?
+
+BELINDA. That's all. (BETTY prepares to go.) Oh, what am I
+thinking of! (Waving to the table.) I want that review; I think
+it's the blue one. (As BETTY begins to look.) It has an
+article by Mr. Baxter on the "Rise of Lunacy in the Eastern
+Counties"--yes, that's the one. I'd better have that too; I'm just
+at the most exciting place. You shall have it after _me, _Betty.
+
+BETTY. Is that all, ma'am?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, that really is all.
+
+[BETTY goes into the house.]
+
+BELINDA (reading to herself). "It is a matter of grave concern to
+all serious students of social problems--" (Putting the review down
+in hammock and shaking her head gently.) But not in April. (Lazily
+opening the book and reading.) "Tell me where is love"--well,
+that's the question, isn't it? (She puts the book down, gives a
+sigh of happiness, and lazily closes her eyes. DELIA comes into the
+garden, from Paris. She is decidedly a modern girl, pretty and
+self-possessed. Her hair is half-way up; waiting for her birthday,
+perhaps. She sees her mother suddenly, stops, and then goes on
+tiptoe to the head of the hammock. She smiles and kisses her mother
+on the forehead. BELINDA, looking supremely unconscious, goes on
+sleeping. DELIA kisses her lightly again. BELINDA wakes up with
+an extraordinarily natural start, and is just about to say, "Oh,
+Mr. Devenish--you mustn't!"--when she sees DELIA.) Delia!
+
+DELIA. Well, mummy, aren't you glad to see me?
+
+BELINDA. My darling child! (They kiss each other frantically.)
+
+DELIA. Say you're glad.
+
+BELINDA (sitting up). My darling, I'm absolutely--Hold the hammock
+while I get out, dear; we don't want an accident. (Getting out with
+DELIA'S help) They're all right when you're there, and they'll bear
+two tons, but they're horrid getting in and out of. (Kissing her
+again) Darling, it really _is_ you?
+
+DELIA. Oh, it is jolly seeing you again. I believe you were asleep.
+
+BELINDA (with dignity). Certainly not, child. I was reading
+"The Nineteenth Century"--(with an air)--and after. (Earnestly)
+Darling, wasn't it next Thursday you were coming back?
+
+DELIA. No, this Thursday, silly.
+
+BELINDA (penitently). Oh, my darling, and I was going over to
+Paris to bring you home.
+
+DELIA. I half expected you.
+
+BELINDA. So confusing their both being called Thursday. And you
+were leaving school for the very last time. If you don't forgive
+me, Delia, I shall cry.
+
+DELIA (stroking her hand fondly). Silly mother!
+
+(BELINDA sits down in a basket chair and DELIA sits on a table next
+to her.)
+
+BELINDA. Isn't it a lovely day for April, darling! I've wanted to
+say that to somebody all day, and you're the first person who's
+given me the chance. Oh, I said it to Betty, but she only said,
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+DELIA. Poor mother!
+
+BELINDA (jumping up suddenly and kissing DELIA again). I simply
+must have another one. And to think that you're never going back to
+school any more. (Looking at her fondly) Darling, you _are_ looking
+pretty.
+
+DELIA. Am I?
+
+BELINDA. Lovely. (Going back to her seat) And now you're going to
+stay with me for just as long as you want a mother. (Anxiously)
+Darling, you didn't mind being sent away to school, did you? It
+_is_ the usual thing, you know.
+
+DELIA. Silly mother! of course it is.
+
+BELINDA (relieved). I'm so glad you think so too.
+
+DELIA. Have you been very lonely without me?
+
+BELINDA. Very.
+
+DELIA (holding up a finger). The truth, mummy!
+
+BELINDA. I've missed you horribly, Delia. (Primly.) The absence
+of female companionship of the requisite--
+
+DELIA. Are you really all alone?
+
+BELINDA (smiling mysteriously). Well, not always, of course.
+
+DELIA (excitedly, at she slips off the table). Mummy, I believe
+you're being bad again.
+
+BELINDA. Really, darling, you forget that I'm old enough to be--in
+fact, am--your mother.
+
+DELIA (nodding her head). You are being bad.
+
+BELINDA (rising with dignity and drawing herself up to her full
+height). My child, that is not the way to--Oh, I say, what a lot
+taller I am than you!
+
+DELIA. And prettier.
+
+BELINDA (fluttering her eyelids). Oh, do you think so? (Firmly)
+Don't be silly, child.
+
+DELIA (holding up a finger). Now tell me all that's been
+happening here at once.
+
+BELINDA (with a sigh). And I was just going to ask you how you
+were getting on with your French.
+
+DELIA. Bother French! You've been having a much more interesting
+time than I have, so you've got to tell.
+
+BELINDA (with a happy sigh). O-oh! (She sinks back into her
+chair.)
+
+DELIA. Is it like the Count at Scarborough?
+
+BELINDA (surprised and pained). My darling, what _do_ you mean?
+
+DELIA. Don't you remember the Count who kept proposing to you at
+Scarborough? I do.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Dear one, you were the merest child,
+paddling about on the beach and digging castles.
+
+DELIA (smiling to herself). I was old enough to notice the Count.
+
+BELINDA (sadly). And I'd bought her a perfectly new spade! How
+one deceives oneself!
+
+DELIA. And then there was the M.P. who proposed at Windermere.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, dear, but it wasn't seconded--I mean he never got
+very far with it.
+
+DELIA. And the artist in Wales.
+
+BELINDA. Darling child, what a memory you have. No wonder your
+teachers are pleased with you.
+
+DELIA (settling herself comfortably). Now tell me all about this
+one.
+
+BELINDA (meekly). Which one?
+
+DELIA (excitedly). Oh, are there lots?
+
+BELINDA (severely). Only two.
+
+DELIA. Two! You abandoned woman!
+
+BELINDA. It's something in the air, darling. I've never been in
+Devonshire in April before.
+
+DELIA. Is it really serious this time?
+
+BELINDA (pained). I wish you wouldn't say _this_ time, Delia. It
+sounds so unromantic. If you'd only put it into French--_cette
+fois_--it sounds so much better. _Cette fois_. (Parentally.)
+When one's daughter has just returned from an expensive schooling
+in Paris, one likes to feel--
+
+DELIA. What I meant, dear, was, am I to have a stepfather at last?
+
+BELINDA. Now you're being _too_ French, darling.
+
+DELIA. Why, do you still think father may be alive?
+
+BELINDA. Why not? It's only eighteen years since he left us, and he
+was quite a young man then.
+
+DELIA. Yes, but surely you'd have heard from him in all those
+years, if he'd been alive?
+
+BELINDA. Well, he hasn't heard from _me, _and I'm still alive.
+
+DELIA (looking earnestly at her mother). I shall never understand
+it.
+
+BELINDA. Understand what?
+
+DELIA. Were you as heavenly when you were young as you are now?
+
+BELINDA (rapturously). Oh, I was sweet!
+
+DELIA. And yet he left you after only six months.
+
+BELINDA (rather crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep on saying he
+left me. I left him too.
+
+DELIA. Why?
+
+BELINDA (smiling to herself). Well, you see, he was quite certain
+he knew how to manage women, and I was quite certain I knew how to
+manage men. (Thoughtfully.) If only one of us had been certain,
+it would have been all right.
+
+DELIA (seriously). What really happened, mummy? I'm grown up now,
+so I think you ought to tell me.
+
+BELINDA (thoughtfully). That was about all, you know ... except
+for his beard.
+
+DELIA. Had he a beard? How funny!
+
+BELINDA. Yes, dear, it was; but he never would see it. He took it
+quite seriously.
+
+DELIA. And did you say dramatically, "If you really loved me, you'd
+take it off"?
+
+BELINDA (apologetically). I'm afraid I did, darling.
+
+DELIA. And what did _he_ say?
+
+BELINDA. He said--_very_ rudely--that, if I loved _him_, I'd
+do my hair in a different way.
+
+DELIA. How ridiculous!
+
+BELINDA (touching her hair). Of course, I didn't do it like this
+then. (With a sigh.) I suppose we never ought to have married,
+really.
+
+DELIA. Why did you?
+
+BELINDA. Mother rather wanted it. (Solemnly.) Delia, never get
+married because your mother--Oh, I forgot; _I'm_ your mother.
+
+DELIA. And I don't want a better one. ... And so you left each
+other?
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+DELIA. But, darling, didn't you tell him there was going to be a Me?
+
+BELINDA. Oh no!
+
+DELIA. I wonder why not?
+
+BELINDA. Well, you see, if I had, he might have wanted to stay.
+
+DELIA. But--
+
+BELINDA (hurt). If he didn't want to stay for _me_, I didn't
+want him to stay for _you_. (Penitently.) Forgive me, darling,
+but I didn't know you very well then. (DELIA jumps off the table
+and hugs her mother impetuously.) We've been very happy together,
+haven't we?
+
+DELIA (going back to her seat). I should think we have.
+
+BELINDA. I don't want to deny you anything, and, of course, if
+you'd like a stepfather (looking down modestly) or two--
+
+DELIA. Oh, you _have_ been enjoying yourself.
+
+BELINDA. Only you see how awkward it would be if Jack turned up in
+the middle of the wedding, like--like Eugene Aram.
+
+DELIA. Enoch Arden, darling.
+
+BELINDA. It's very confusing their having the same initials.
+Perhaps I'd better call them both E. A. in future and then I shall
+be safe. Well, anyhow it would be awkward, darling, wouldn't it?
+Not that I should know him from Adam after all these years--except
+for a mole on his left arm.
+
+DELIA. Perhaps Adam had a mole.
+
+BELINDA. No, darling; you're thinking of Noah. He had two.
+
+DELIA (thoughtfully). I wonder what would happen if you met
+somebody whom you really did fall in love with?
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Now you're being serious, and it's
+April.
+
+DELIA. Aren't these two--the present two--serious?
+
+BELINDA. Oh no! They think they are, but they aren't a bit, really.
+Besides, I'm doing them such a lot of good. I'm sure they'd hate to
+marry me, but they love to think they're in love with me, and--_I_
+love it, and--and _they_ love it, and--and we _all_ love it.
+
+DELIA. You really are the biggest, darlingest baby who ever lived.
+(Kisses her.) Do say I shan't spoil your lovely times.
+
+BELINDA (surprised). Spoil them? Why, you'll make them more lovely
+than ever.
+
+DELIA. Well, but do they know you have a grown-up daughter?
+
+BELINDA (suddenly realizing). Oh!
+
+DELIA. It doesn't really matter, because you don't look a day more
+than thirty.
+
+BELINDA (absently). No. (Hurriedly.) I mean, how sweet of you--
+only--
+
+DELIA. What!
+
+BELINDA (playing with her rings). Well, one of them, Mr. Baxter--
+Harold--(she looks quickly up at DELIA and down again in pretty
+affectation, but she is really laughing at herself all the
+time) he writes statistical articles for the Reviews--percentages
+and all those things. He's just the sort of man, if he knew that I
+was your mother, to work it out that I was more than thirty. The
+other one, Mr. Devenish--Claude--(she looks up and down as before)
+he's rather, rather poetical. He thinks I came straight from
+heaven--last week.
+
+DELIA (jumping up). I think _I'd_ better go straight back to Paris.
+
+BELINDA (jumping up and catching her firmly by the arms). You will
+do nothing of the sort. You will take off that hat--(she lets go of
+the arm and begins to take out the pin) which is a perfect duck,
+and I don't know why I didn't say so before--(she puts the hat down
+on the table) and let me take a good look at you (she does so), and
+kiss you (she does so), and then we'll go to your room and unpack
+and have a lovely talk about clothes. And then we'll have tea.
+
+[BETTY comes in.]
+
+BELINDA. And now here's Betty coming in to upset all our delightful
+plans, just when we've made them.
+
+DELIA. How are you, Betty? I've left school.
+
+BETTY. Very nicely, thank you, miss. You've grown.
+
+BELINDA (patting the top of DELIA'S head). I'm much taller than she
+is. ... Well, Betty, what is it?
+
+BETTY. The two gentlemen, Mr. Baxter and Mr. Devenish, have both
+called together, ma'am.
+
+BELINDA (excited). Oh! How--how very simultaneous of them!
+
+DELIA (eagerly). Oh, do let me see them!
+
+BELINDA. Darling, you'll see plenty of them before you've finished.
+(To BETTY) What have you done with them?
+
+BETTY. They're waiting in the hall, ma'am, while I said I would see
+if you were at home.
+
+BELINDA. All right, Betty. Give me two minutes and then show them
+out here.
+
+BETTY. Yes, ma'am. [Exit.]
+
+BELINDA. They can't do much harm to each other in two minutes.
+
+DELIA (taking her hat). Well, I'll go and unpack. You really won't
+mind my coming down afterwards?
+
+BELINDA. Of course not. (A little awkwardly) Darling one, I wonder
+if you'd mind--just at first--being introduced as my niece. You
+see, I expect they're in a bad temper already, having come here
+together, and we don't want to spoil their day entirely.
+
+DELIA (smiling). I'll be your mother if you like.
+
+BELINDA. Oh no, that wouldn't do, because then Mr. Baxter would
+feel that he ought to ask your permission before paying his
+attentions to me. He's just that sort of man. A niece is so safe--
+however good you are at statistics, you can't really prove
+anything.
+
+DELIA. All right, mummy.
+
+BELINDA (enjoying herself). You'd like to be called by a different
+name, wouldn't you? There's something so thrilling about taking a
+false name. Such a lot of adventures begin like that. How would
+you like to be Miss Robinson, darling? It's a nice easy one to
+remember. (Persuasively.) And you shall put your hair up so as to
+feel more disguised. What fun we're going to have!
+
+DELIA. You baby! All right, then, I'm Miss Robinson, your favourite
+niece. (She moves towards the house.)
+
+BELINDA. How sweet of you! Oh, I'm coming with you to do your hair.
+You don't think you're going to be allowed to do it yourself, when
+so much depends on it, and husbands leave you because of it, and--
+[They do in together.]
+
+[BETTY comes from the other side of the house into the garden,
+followed by MR. BAXTER and MR. DEVENISH. MR. BAXTER is forty-five,
+prim and erect, with close-trimmed moustache and side-whiskers. His
+clothes are dark and he wears a bowler-hat. MR. DEVENISH is a
+long-haired, good-looking boy in a négligé costume; perhaps
+twenty-two years old, and very scornful of the world.]
+
+BETTY (looking about her surprised). The mistress was here a
+moment ago. I expect she'll be back directly, if you'll just wait.
+[She goes back into the house.]
+
+(MR. BAXTER puts his bowler-hat firmly on his head and sits down
+very stiffly and upright in a chair on the left-hand side of the
+table. DEVENISH throws his felt hat on to the table and walks about
+inquisitively. He sees the review in the hammock and picks it up.)
+
+DEVENISH. Good heavens, Baxter, she's been reading your article!
+
+BAXTER. I dare say she's not the only one.
+
+DEVENISH. That's only guesswork (going to back of table); you
+don't know of anyone else.
+
+BAXTER. How many people, may I ask, have bought your poems?
+
+DEVENISH (loftily). I don't write for the mob.
+
+BAXTER. I think I may say that of my own work.
+
+DEVENISH. Baxter, I don't want to disappoint you, but I have
+reluctantly come to the conclusion that you _are_ one of the mob.
+(Annoyed.) Dash it! what are you doing in the country at all in a
+bowler-hat?
+
+BAXTER. If I wanted to be personal, I could say, "Why don't you get
+your hair cut?" Only that form of schoolboy humour doesn't appeal
+to me.
+
+DEVENISH. This is not a personal matter; I am protesting on behalf
+of nature. What do the birds and the flowers and the beautiful
+trees think of your hat?
+
+BAXTER. If one began to ask oneself what the birds thought of
+things--(He pauses.)
+
+DEVENISH. Well, and why shouldn't one ask oneself? It is better
+than asking oneself what the Stock Exchange thinks of things.
+
+BAXTER. Well (looking up at DEVENISH'S extravagant hair), it's the
+nesting season. Your hair! (Suddenly.) Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
+
+DEVENISH (hastily smoothing it down). Really, Baxter, you're
+vulgar. (He turns away and resumes his promenading. Suddenly he
+sees his book on the grass beneath the hammock and makes a dash for
+it.) Ha, my book! (Gloating over it) Baxter, she reads my book.
+
+BAXTER. I suppose you gave her a copy.
+
+DEVENISH (exultingly). Yes, I gave her a copy. My next book will be
+hers and hers alone.
+
+BAXTER. Then let me say that, in my opinion, you took a very great
+liberty.
+
+DEVENISH. Liberty! And this from a man who is continually forcing
+his unwelcome statistics upon her.
+
+BAXTER. At any rate, I flatter myself that there is no suggestion
+of impropriety in anything that _I_ write.
+
+DEVENISH. I'm not so sure about that, Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. What do you mean, sir?
+
+DEVENISH. Did you read _The Times_ this month on the new reviews!
+
+BAXTER. Well!
+
+DEVENISH. Oh, nothing. It just said, "Mr. Baxter's statistics are
+extremely suggestive." I haven't read them, so of course I don't
+know what you've been up to.
+
+BAXTER (turning away in disgust). Pah!
+
+DEVENISH. Poor old Baxter! (He wanders about the garden again, and,
+having picked a flower, comes to rest against one of the trees
+from which the hammock is swung. He leans against this and regards
+the flower thoughtfully.) Baxter--
+
+BAXTER (crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep calling me "Baxter."
+
+DEVENISH. Harold.
+
+BAXTER. It is only by accident--an accident which we both deplore--
+that we have met at all, and in any case I am a considerably older
+man than yourself.
+
+DEVENISH. Mr. Baxter--father--I have a proposal to make. We will
+leave it to this beautiful flower to decide which of us the lady
+loves.
+
+BAXTER (turning round). Eh?
+
+DEVENISH (pulling off the petals). She loves me, she loves Mr.
+Baxter, she loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter--Heaven help her!--she
+loves me--
+
+BELINDA (at the garden door.). What _are_ you doing, Mr. Devenish!
+
+DEVENISH (throwing away the flower and bowing very low). My lady.
+
+BAXTER (removing his bowler-hat stiffly). Good afternoon, Mrs.
+Tremayne.
+
+(She gives her left hand to DEVENISH, who kisses it, and her
+right to BAXTER, who shakes it.)
+
+BELINDA. How nice of you both to come!
+
+BAXTER. Mr. Devenish and I are inseparable--apparently.
+
+BELINDA. You haven't told me what you were doing, Mr. Devenish. Was
+it "This year, next year?" or "Silk, satin--"
+
+DEVENISH. My lady, it was even more romantic than that. I have the
+honour to announce to your ladyship that Mr. Baxter is to be a
+sailor.
+
+BELINDA (to BAXTER). Doesn't he talk nonsense?
+
+BAXTER. He'll grow out of it. I did.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I hope not. I love talking nonsense, and I'm ever so
+old. (As they both start forward to protest) Now which one of
+you will say it first?
+
+DEVENISH. You are as old as the stars and as young as the dawn.
+
+BAXTER. You are ten years younger than I am.
+
+BELINDA. What sweet things to say! I don't know which I like best.
+
+DEVENISH. Where will my lady sit?
+
+BELINDA. I will recline in the hammock, an it please thee, my lord--
+only it's rather awkward getting in, Mr. Baxter. Perhaps you'd both
+better look at the tulips for a moment.
+
+BAXTER. Oh--ah--yes. (He puts his hat on and turns his back to the
+hammock.)
+
+DEVENISH (leaning over her). If only--
+
+BELINDA. You'd better not say anything, Mr. Devenish. Keep it for
+your next volume. (He turns away.) One, two, three--that was better
+than last time. (They turn round to see her safely in the hammock.
+DEVENISH leans against the tree at her feet, and BAXTER draws the
+chair from the right side of the table and turns it round towards
+her. He presses his hat more firmly on and sits down.) I wonder if
+either of you can guess what I've been reading this afternoon!
+
+DEVENISH (looking at her lovingly). I know.
+
+BELINDA (giving him a fleeting look). How did you know? (to
+BAXTER). Yes, Mr. Baxter, it was your article I was reading. If
+you'd come five minutes earlier you'd have found me wrestling--I
+mean revelling in it.
+
+BAXTER. I am very greatly honoured, Mrs. Tremayne. Ah--it seemed to
+me a very interesting curve showing the rise and fall of--
+
+BELINDA. I hadn't got up to the curves. They _are_ interesting,
+aren't they? They are really more in Mr. Devenish's line. (To
+DEVENISH.) Mr. Devenish, it was a great disappointment to me that
+all the poems in your book seemed to be written to somebody else.
+
+DEVENISH. It was before I met you, lady. They were addressed to the
+goddess of my imagination. It is only in these last few weeks that
+I have discovered her.
+
+BELINDA. And discovered she was dark and not fair.
+
+DEVENISH. She will be dark in my next volume.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, how nice of her!
+
+BAXTER (kindly). You should write a real poem to Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (excitedly). Oh do! "To Belinda." I don't know what rhymes,
+except cinder. You could say your heart was like a cinder--all
+burnt up.
+
+DEVENISH (pained). Oh, my lady, I'm afraid that is a cockney rhyme.
+
+BELINDA. How thrilling! I've never been to Hampstead Heath.
+
+DEVENISH. "Belinda." It is far too beautiful to rhyme with anything
+but itself.
+
+BELINDA. Fancy! But what about Tremayne? (Singing.) Oh, I am Mrs.
+Tremayne, and I don't want to marry again.
+
+DEVENISH (protesting). My lady!
+
+BAXTER (protesting). Belinda!
+
+BELINDA (pointing excitedly to BAXTER). There, that's the first
+time he's called me Belinda!
+
+DEVENISH. Are you serious?
+
+BELINDA. Not as a rule.
+
+DEVENISH. You're not going to marry again?
+
+BELINDA. Well, who could I marry?
+
+DEVENISH and BAXTER (together). Me!
+
+BELINDA (dropping her eyes modestly). But this is England.
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the right of age--of my greater
+years--to speak first.
+
+DEVENISH. Mrs. Tremayne, I--
+
+BELINDA (kindly to DEVENISH). You can speak afterwards, Mr.
+Devenish. It's so awkward when you both speak together.
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am a man of substantial position, and
+perhaps I may say of some repute in serious circles. All that I
+have, whether of material or mental endowment, I lay at your feet,
+together with an admiration which I cannot readily put into words.
+As my wife I think you would be happy, and I feel that with you by
+my side I could achieve even greater things.
+
+BELINDA. How sweet of you! But I ought to tell you that I'm no good
+at figures.
+
+DEVENISH (protesting). My lady--
+
+BELINDA. I don't mean what you mean, Mr. Devenish. You wait till
+it's your turn. (To BAXTER.) Yes?
+
+BAXTER. I ask you to marry me, Belinda.
+
+BELINDA (settling herself happily and closing her eyes). O-oh! ...
+Now it's _your_ turn, Mr. Devenish.
+
+DEVENISH (excitedly). Money--thank Heaven, I have no money.
+Reputation--thank Heaven, I have no reputation. What can I offer
+you? Dreams--nothing but dreams. Come with me and I will show you
+the world through my dreams. What can I give you? Youth, freedom,
+beauty--
+
+BAXTER. Debts.
+
+BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). You mustn't interrupt, Mr.
+Baxter.
+
+DEVENISH. Belinda, marry me and I will open your eyes to the beauty
+of the world. Come to me!
+
+BELINDA (happily). O-oh! You've got such different ways of putting
+things. How can I choose between you?
+
+DEVENISH. Then you will marry one of us?
+
+BELINDA. You know I really _oughtn't_ to.
+
+BAXTER. I don't see why not.
+
+BELINDA. Well, there's just a little difficulty in the way.
+
+DEVENISH. What is it? I will remove it. For you I could remove
+anything--yes, even Baxter. (He looks at BAXTER, who is sitting
+more solidly than ever in his chair.)
+
+BELINDA. And anyhow I should have to choose between you.
+
+DEVENISH (in a whisper). Choose me.
+
+BAXTER (stiffly). Mrs. Tremayne does not require any prompting. A
+fair field and let the best man win.
+
+DEVENISH (going across to and slapping the astonished BAXTER
+on the back). Aye, let the best man win! Well spoken, Baxter.
+(To BELINDA) Send us out into the world upon some knightly quest,
+lady, and let the victor be rewarded.
+
+BAXTER. I--er--ought to say that I should be unable to go very far.
+I have an engagement to speak at Newcastle on the 2lst.
+
+DEVENISH. Baxter, I will take no unfair advantage of you. Let the
+beard of the Lord Mayor of Newcastle be the talisman that my lady
+demands; I am satisfied.
+
+BAXTER. This sort of thing is entirely contrary to my usual mode of
+life, but I will not be outfaced by a mere boy. (Slapping his
+bowler-hat on the table) I am prepared.
+
+DEVENISH. Speak, lady.
+
+BELINDA (speaking in a deep, mysterious voice). Gentlemen, ye put
+wild thoughts into my head. In sooth, I am minded to send ye
+forth upon a quest that is passing strange. Know ye that there is a
+maid journeyed hither, hight Robinson--whose--(in her natural
+voice) what's the old for aunt?
+
+BAXTER (hopefully). Mother's sister.
+
+BELINDA. You know, I think I shall have to explain this in ordinary
+language. You won't mind very much, will you, Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH. It is the spirit of this which matters, not the language
+which clothes it.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad you think so. Well, now about Miss
+Robinson. She's my niece and she's just come to stay with me, and--
+poor girl--she's lost her father. Absolutely lost him. He
+disappeared ever such a long time ago, and poor Miss Robinson--
+Delia--naturally wants to find him. Poor girl! she can't think
+where he is.
+
+DEVENISH (nobly). I will find him.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, thank you, Mr. Devenish; Miss Robinson would be so
+much obliged.
+
+BAXTER. Yes--er--but what have we to go upon? Beyond the fact that
+his name is Robinson--
+
+BELINDA. I shouldn't go on that too much. You see, he may easily
+have changed it by now. He was never very much of a Robinson.
+Nothing to do with Peter or any of those.
+
+DEVENISH. I will find him.
+
+BAXTER. Well, can you tell us what he's like?
+
+BELINDA. Well, it's such a long time since I saw him. (Looking down
+modestly.) Of course, I was quite a girl then. The only thing I
+know for certain is that he has a mole on his left arm about here.
+(She indicates a spot just below the elbow.)
+
+DEVENISH (folding his arms and looking nobly upwards). I will find
+him.
+
+BAXTER. I am bound to inform you, Mrs. Tremayne, that even a
+trained detective could not give you very much hope in such a case.
+However, I will keep a look-out for him, and, of course, if--
+
+DEVENISH. Fear not, lady, I will find him.
+
+BAXTER (annoyed). Yes, you keep on saying that, but what have you
+got to go on?
+
+DEVENISH (grandly). Faith! The faith which moves mountains.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, and this is only just one small mole-hill, Mr.
+Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. Yes, but still--
+
+BELINDA. S'sh! here is Miss Robinson. If Mr. Devenish will hold the
+hammock while I alight--we don't want an accident--I can introduce
+you. (He helps her to get out.) Thank you. Delia darling, this
+is Mr. Baxter,--and Mr. Devenish. My niece, Miss Robinson--
+
+DELIA. How do you do?
+
+BELINDA. Miss Robinson has just come over from France. _Mon Dieu,
+quel pays!_
+
+BAXTER. I hope you had a good crossing, Miss Robinson.
+
+DELIA. Oh, I never mind about the crossing. Aunt Belinda--(She
+stops and smiles.)
+
+BELINDA. Yes, dear?
+
+DELIA. I believe tea is almost ready. I want mine, and I'm sure Mr.
+Baxter's hungry. Mr. Devenish scorns food, I expect.
+
+DEVENISH (hurt). Why do you say that?
+
+DELIA. Aren't you a poet?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, darling, but that doesn't prevent him eating. He'll
+be absolutely lyrical over Betty's sandwiches.
+
+DEVENISH. You won't deny me that inspiration, I hope, Miss
+Robinson.
+
+BELINDA. Well, let's go and see what they're like. (DELIA and
+DEVENISH begin to move towards the house.) Mr. Baxter, just a
+moment.
+
+BAXTER. Yes?
+
+BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must
+be a surprise for her.
+
+BAXTER. Quite so, I understand.
+
+BELINDA. That's right. (Raising her voice.) Oh, Mr. Devenish.
+
+DEVENISH. Yes, Mrs. Tremayne? (He comes back.)
+
+BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must
+be a surprise for her.
+
+DEVENISH. Of course! I shouldn't dream--(Indignantly.) Robinson!
+_What_ an unsuitable name!
+
+[BAXTER _and_ DELIA _are just going into the house.]
+
+BELINDA (dismissing DEVENISH). All right, I'll catch you up.
+
+[DEVENISH goes after the other two.]
+
+(Left alone, BELINDA _laughs happily to herself, and then
+begins to look rather aimlessly about her. She picks up her
+sunshade and opens it. She comes to the hammock, picks out her
+handkerchief, says, "Ah, there you are!" and puts it away. She goes
+slowly towards the house, turns her head just as she comes to the
+door, and comes slowly back again. She stops at the table looking
+down the garden.)
+
+BELINDA (to herself). Have you lost yourself, or something?
+No; the latch is this side. ... Yes, that's right.
+
+[TREMAYNE comes in. He has been knocking about the world for
+eighteen years, and is very much a man, though he has kept his
+manners. His hair is greying a little at the sides, and he looks
+the forty-odd that he is. Without his moustache and beard he is
+very different from the boy BELINDA married.]
+
+TREMAYNE (with his hat in his hand). I'm afraid I'm trespassing.
+
+BELINDA (winningly). But it's such a pretty garden (turns away,
+dosing her parasol), isn't it?
+
+TREMAYNE (rather confused). I-I beg your pardon, I-er--
+(He is wondering if it can possibly be she. BELINDA thinks his
+confusion is due to the fact that he is trespassing, and hastens to
+put him at his ease.)
+
+BELINDA. I should have done the same myself, you know.
+
+TREMAYNE (pulling himself together). Oh, but you mustn't think I
+just came in because I liked the garden--
+
+BELINDA (clapping her hands). No; but say you do like it, quick.
+
+TREMAYNE. It's lovely and--(He hesitates.)
+
+BELINDA (hopefully). Yes?
+
+TREMAYNE (with conviction). Yes, it's lovely.
+
+BELINDA (with that happy sigh of hers). O-oh! ... Now tell me what
+really did happen?
+
+TREMAYNE. I was on my way to Marytown--
+
+BELINDA. To where?
+
+TREMAYNE. Marytown.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, you mean Mariton.
+
+TREMAYNE. Do I?
+
+BELINDA. Yes; we always call it Mariton down here. (Earnestly.)
+You don't mind, do you?
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling). Not a bit.
+
+BELINDA. Just say it--to see if you've got it right.
+
+TREMAYNE. Mariton.
+
+BELINDA (shaking her head). Oh no, that's quite wrong. Try it
+again (With a rustic accent.) Mariton.
+
+TREMAYNE. Mariton.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, that's much better. ... (As if it were he who had
+interrupted.) Well, do go on.
+
+TREMAYNE. I'm afraid it isn't much of an apology really. I saw what
+looked like a private road, but what I rather hoped wasn't, and--
+well, I thought I'd risk it. I do hope you'll forgive me.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, but I love people seeing my garden. Are you staying in
+Mariton?
+
+TREMAYNE. I think so. Oh yes, decidedly.
+
+BELINDA. Well, perhaps the next time the road won't feel so
+private.
+
+TREMAYNE. How charming of you! (He feels he must know.) Are you
+Mrs. Tremayne by any chance?
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+TREMAYNE (nodding to himself). Yes.
+
+BELINDA. How did you know?
+
+TREMAYNE (hastily inventing). They use you as a sign-post in the
+village. Past Mrs. Tremayne's house and then bear to the left--
+
+BELINDA. And you couldn't go past it?
+
+TREMAYNE. I'm afraid I couldn't. Thank you so much for not minding.
+Well, I must be getting on, I have trespassed quite enough.
+
+BELINDA (regretfully). And you haven't really seen the garden yet.
+
+TREMAYNE. If you won't mind my going on this way, I shall see some
+more on my way out.
+
+BELINDA. Please do. It likes being looked at. (With the faintest
+suggestion of demureness) All pretty things do.
+
+TREMAYNE. Thank you very much. Er--(He hesitates.)
+
+BELINDA (helpfully). Yes?
+
+TREMAYNE. I wonder if you'd mind very much if I called one day to
+thank you formally for the lesson you gave me in pronunciation?
+
+BELINDA (gravely). Yes. I almost think you ought to. I think it's
+the correct thing to do.
+
+TREMAYNE (contentedly). Thank you very much, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA. You'll come in quite formally by the front-door next time,
+won't you, because--because that seems the only chance of my
+getting to know your name.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, I beg your pardon. My name is--er--er--Robinson.
+
+BELINDA (laughing). How very odd!
+
+TREMAYNE (startled). Odd?
+
+BELINDA. Yes; we have someone called Robinson staying in the house.
+I wonder if she is any relation?
+
+TREMAYNE (hastily). Oh no, no. No, she couldn't be. I have no
+relations called Robinson--not to speak of.
+
+BELINDA (holding out her hand). You must tell me all about your
+relations when you come and call, Mr. Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. I think we can find something better worth talking about
+than that.
+
+BELINDA. Do you think so? (He says "Yes" with his eyes, bows, and
+goes off down the garden. BELINDA stays looking after him, then
+gives that happy sigh of hers, only even more so) O-oh!
+
+[Enter BETTY.]
+
+BETTY. If you please, ma'am, Miss Delia says, are you coming in to
+tea?
+
+BELINDA (looking straight in front of her, and taking no notice
+of BETTY, in a happy, dreamy voice). Betty, ... about callers. ...
+If Mr. Robinson calls--he's the handsome gentleman who hasn't been
+here before--you will say, "Not at home." And he will say, "Oh!"
+And you will say, "I beg your pardon, sir, was it Mr. _Robinson_?"
+And he will say, "Yes!" And you will say, "Oh, I beg your pardon,
+sir--" (Almost as if she were BETTY, she begins to move towards the
+house.) "This way--" (she would be smiling an invitation over her
+shoulder to MR. ROBINSON, if he were there, and she were BETTY)--
+"please!" (And the abandoned woman goes in to tea.)
+
+
+ACT II
+
+[It is morning in BELINDA'S hall, a low-roofed, oak-beamed place,
+comfortably furnished as a sitting-room. There is an inner and an
+outer front-door, both of which are open.]
+
+[DEVENISH, who has just rung the bell, is waiting with a bouquet
+of violets between the two. Midway on the right is a door leading
+to a small room where hats and coats are kept. A door on the left
+leads towards the living-rooms.]
+
+BETTY. Good morning, sir.
+
+DEVENISH. Good morning. I am afraid this is an unceremonious hour
+for a call, but my sense of beauty urged me hither in defiance of
+convention.
+
+BETTY. Yes, sir.
+
+DEVENISH (holding up his bouquet to BETTY). See, the dew is yet
+lingering upon them; how could I let them wait until this
+afternoon?
+
+BETTY. Yes, sir; but I think the mistress is out.
+
+DEVENISH. They are not for your mistress; they are for Miss Delia.
+
+BETTY. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. If you will come in, I'll see if
+I can find her. (She brings him in and goes away to find DELIA.)
+
+(DEVENISH tries a number of poses about the room for himself and
+his bouquet, and finally selects one against the right side of the
+door by which he has just come in.)
+
+[Enter DELIA from the door on the left.]
+
+DELIA (shutting the door and going to_ DEVENISH). Oh, good morning,
+Mr. Devenish. I'm afraid my--er--aunt is out.
+
+DEVENISH. I know, Miss Delia, I know.
+
+DELIA. She'll be so sorry to have missed you. It is her day for
+you, isn't it?
+
+DEVENISH. Her day for me?
+
+DELIA. Yes; Mr. Baxter generally comes to-morrow, doesn't he?
+
+DEVENISH. Miss Delia, if our friendship is to progress at all, it
+can only be on the distinct understanding that I take no interest
+whatever in Mr. Baxter's movements.
+
+DELIA. Oh, I'm so sorry; I thought you knew. What lovely flowers!
+Are they for my aunt?
+
+DEVENISH. To whom does one bring violets? To modest, shrinking,
+tender youth.
+
+DELIA. I don't think we have anybody here like that.
+
+DEVENISH (with a bow). Miss Delia, they are for you.
+
+DELIA. Oh, how nice of you! But I'm afraid I oughtn't to take them
+from you under false pretences; I don't shrink.
+
+DEVENISH. A fanciful way of putting it, perhaps. They are none the
+less for you.
+
+DELIA. Well, it's awfully kind of you. I'm afraid I'm not a very
+romantic person. Aunt Belinda does all the romancing in our family.
+
+DEVENISH. Your aunt is a very remarkable woman.
+
+DELIA. She is. Don't you dare to say a word against her.
+
+DEVENISH. My dear Miss Delia, nothing could be further from my
+thoughts. Why, am I not indebted to her for that great happiness
+which has come to me in these last few days?
+
+DELIA (surprised). Good gracious! and I didn't know anything
+about it. But what about poor Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH (stiffly). I must beg that Mr. Baxter's name be kept out
+of our conversation.
+
+DELIA. But I thought Mr. Baxter and you--do tell me what's
+happened. I seem to have lost myself.
+
+DEVENISH. What has happened, Miss Delia, is that I have learnt at
+last the secret that my heart has been striving to tell me for
+weeks past. As soon as I saw that gracious lady, your aunt, I knew
+that I was in love. Foolishly I took it for granted that it was she
+for whom my heart was thrilling. How mistaken I was! Directly you
+came, you opened my eyes, and now--
+
+DELIA. Mr. Devenish, you don't say you're proposing to me?
+
+DEVENISH. I am. I feel sure I am. Delia, I love you.
+
+DELIA. How exciting of you!
+
+DEVENISH (with a modest shrug). It's nothing; I am a poet.
+
+DELIA. You really want to marry me?
+
+DEVENISH. Such is my earnest wish.
+
+DELIA. But what about my aunt?
+
+DEVENISH (simply). She will be my aunt-in-law.
+
+DELIA. She'll be rather surprised.
+
+DEVENISH. Delia, I will be frank with you. I admit that I made Mrs.
+Tremayne an offer of marriage.
+
+DELIA (excitedly). You really did? Was it that first afternoon I
+came?
+
+DEVENISH. Yes.
+
+DELIA. Oh, I wish I'd been there!
+
+DEVENISH (with dignity). It is not my custom to propose in the
+presence of a third party. It is true that on the occasion you
+mention a man called Baxter was on the lawn, but I regarded him no
+more than the old apple-tree or the flower-beds, or any other of
+the fixtures.
+
+DELIA. What did she say?
+
+DEVENISH. She accepted me conditionally.
+
+DELIA. Oh, do tell me!
+
+DEVENISH. It is rather an unhappy story. This man called Baxter in
+his vulgar way also made a proposal of marriage. Mrs. Tremayne was
+gracious enough to imply that she would marry whichever one of us
+fulfilled a certain condition.
+
+DELIA. How sweet of her!
+
+DEVENISH. It is my earnest hope, Miss Delia, that the man called
+Baxter will be the victor. As far as is consistent with honour, I
+shall endeavour to let Mr. Baxter (banging the table with his hand)
+win.
+
+DELIA. What was the condition?
+
+DEVENISH. That I am not at liberty to tell. It is, I understand, to
+be a surprise for you.
+
+DELIA. How exciting! ... Mr. Devenish, you have been very frank.
+May I be equally so? (DEVENISH bows.) Why do you wear your hair so
+long?
+
+DEVENISH (pleased). You have noticed it?
+
+DELIA. Well, yes, I have.
+
+DEVENISH. I wear it so to express my contempt for the conventions
+of so-called society.
+
+DELIA. I always thought that people wore it very very short if they
+despised the conventions of society.
+
+DEVENISH. I think that the mere fact that my hair annoys Mr. Baxter
+is sufficient justification for its length.
+
+DELIA. But if it annoys me too?
+
+DEVENISH (heroically). It shall go.
+
+DELIA (apologetically). I told you I wasn't a very romantic
+person, didn't I? (Kindly.) You can always grow it again if you
+fall in love with somebody else.
+
+DEVENISH. That is cruel of you, Delia. I shall never fall in love
+again.
+
+[Enter BELINDA in a hat.]
+
+BELINDA. Why, it's Mr. Devenish! How nice of you to come so early
+in the morning! How is Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH. I do not know, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (to DELIA). I got most of the things, Delia. (To DEVENISH.)
+"The things," Mr. Devenish, is my rather stuffy way of referring to
+all the delightful poems that you are going to eat to-night.
+
+DEVENISH. I am looking forward to it immensely, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA. I do hope I've got all your and Mr. Baxter's favourite
+dishes.
+
+DEVENISH. I'm afraid Mr. Baxter and I are not likely to appreciate
+the same things.
+
+BELINDA (coyly). Oh, Mr. Devenish! And you were so unanimous a
+few days ago.
+
+DELIA. I think Mr. Devenish was referring entirely to things to
+eat.
+
+BELINDA. I felt quite sad when I was buying the lamb cutlets. To
+think that, only a few days before, they had been frisking about
+with their mammas, and having poems written about them by Mr.
+Devenish. There! I'm giving away the whole dinner. Delia, take him
+away before I tell him any more. We must keep some surprises for
+him.
+
+DELIA (to DEVENISH as she picks up the flowers). Come along, Mr.
+Devenish.
+
+BELINDA (wickedly). Are those my flowers, Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH (after a little hesitation, with a bow which might refer
+to either of them). They are for the most beautiful lady in the
+land.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, how nice of you!
+
+[DEVENISH follows DELIA out through the door on the left.]
+
+BELINDA (unpinning her hat before a mirror). I suppose he means
+Delia--bless them! (She gives a few pats to her hair and then walks
+about the room singing softly to herself. She does to the front-door
+and looks happily out into the garden. Suddenly she sees MR.
+BAXTER approaching. She hurries back into a chair and pretends to
+be very busy reading.)
+
+BAXTER (rather nervously). Er--may I come in, Mrs. Tremayne?
+
+BELINDA (dropping her book and turning round with a violent start).
+Oh, Mr. Baxter, how you surprised me! (She puts her hand to her
+heart.)
+
+BAXTER. I must apologize for intruding upon you at this hour, Mrs.
+Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (holding up her hand). Stop!
+
+BAXTER (startled). What?
+
+BELINDA. I cannot let you come in like that.
+
+BAXTER (looking down at himself). Like what?
+
+BELINDA (dropping her eyes). You called me Belinda once.
+
+BAXTER (coming down to her). May I explain my position, Mrs.
+Tremayne?
+
+BELINDA. Before you begin--have you been seeing my niece lately?
+
+BAXTER (surprised). No.
+
+BELINDA. Oh! (Sweetly.) Please go on.
+
+BAXTER. Why, is _she_ lost too?
+
+BELINDA. Oh no; I just--Do sit down. Let me put your hat down
+somewhere for you.
+
+BAXTER (keeping it firmly in his hand, and sitting down on the
+sofa). It will be all right here, thank you.
+
+BELINDA (returning to her chair). I'm dying to hear what you are
+going to say.
+
+BAXTER. First as regards the use of your Christian name. I felt
+that, as a man of honour, I could not permit myself to use it until
+I had established my right over that of Mr. Devenish.
+
+BELINDA. All my friends call me Belinda.
+
+BAXTER. As between myself and Mr. Devenish the case is somewhat
+different. Until one of us is successful over the other in the
+quest upon which you have sent us, I feel that as far as possible
+we should hold aloof from you.
+
+BELINDA (pleadingly). Just say "Belinda" once more, in case you're
+a long time.
+
+BAXTER (very formally). Belinda.
+
+BELINDA. How nicely you say it--Harold.
+
+BAXTER (half getting out of his seat). Mrs. Tremayne, I must not
+listen to this.
+
+BELINDA (meekly). I won't offend again, Mr. Baxter. Please go on.
+Tell me about the quest; are you winning?
+
+BAXTER. I am progressing, Mrs. Tremayne. Indeed, I came here this
+morning to acquaint you with the results of my investigations.
+Yesterday I located a man called Robinson working upon a farm close
+by. I ventured to ask him if he had any marks upon him by which he
+could be recognized. He adopted a threatening attitude, and replied
+that if I wanted any he could give me some. With the aid of half-a-
+crown I managed to placate him. Putting my inquiry in another form,
+I asked if he had any moles. A regrettable misunderstanding, which
+led to a fruitless journey to another part of the village, was
+eventually cleared up, and on my return I satisfied myself that
+this man was in no way related to your niece.
+
+BELINDA (admiringly). How splendid of you! Well, now, we know
+_he's_ not. (She holds up one finger.)
+
+BAXTER. Yes. In the afternoon I located another Mr. Robinson
+following the profession of a carrier. My first inquiries led to a
+similar result, with the exception that in this case Mr. Robinson
+carried his threatening attitude so far as to take off his coat and
+roll up his sleeves. Perceiving at once that he was not the man, I
+withdrew.
+
+BELINDA. How brave you are! That makes two. (She holds up another
+finger). It still leaves a good many. (Pleadingly.) Just call me
+Belinda again.
+
+BAXTER (nervously). You mustn't tempt me, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (penitently). I won't!
+
+BAXTER. To resume, then, my narrative. This morning I have heard of
+a third Mr. Robinson. Whether there is actually any particular
+fortune attached to the number three I cannot say for certain. It
+is doubtful whether statistics would be found to support the
+popular belief. But one likes to flatter oneself that in one's own
+case it may be true; and so--
+
+BELINDA. And so the third Mr. Robinson--?
+
+BAXTER. Something for which I cannot altogether account inspires me
+with hope. He is, I have discovered, staying at Mariton. This
+afternoon I go to look for him.
+
+BELINDA (to herself). Mariton! How funny! I wonder if it's the
+same one.
+
+BAXTER. What one?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, just one of the ones. (Gratefully.) Mr. Baxter, you
+are doing all this for _me_.
+
+BAXTER. Pray do not mention it. I don't know if it's Devonshire, or
+the time of the year, or the sort of atmosphere you create, Mrs.
+Tremayne, but I feel an entirely different man. There is something
+in the air which--yes, I shall certainly go over to Mariton this
+afternoon.
+
+BELINDA (gravely). I have had the same feeling sometimes, Mr.
+Baxter. I am not always the staid respectable matron which I appear
+to you to be. Sometimes I--(She looks absently at the watch on her
+wrist.) Good gracious!
+
+BAXTER (alarmed). What is it!
+
+BELINDA (looking anxiously from the door to him). Mr. Baxter, I'm
+going to throw myself on your mercy.
+
+BAXTER. My dear Mrs. Tremayne--
+
+BELINDA (looking at her watch again). A strange man will be here
+directly. He must not find you with me.
+
+BAXTER (rising, jealously). A man?
+
+BELINDA (excitedly). Yes, yes, a man! He is pursuing me with his
+attentions. If he found you here, there would be a terrible scene.
+
+BAXTER. I will defend you from him.
+
+BELINDA. No, no. He is a big man. He will--he will overpower you.
+
+BAXTER. But you--?
+
+BELINDA. I can defend myself. I will send him away. But he must not
+find you here. You must hide before he overpowers you.
+
+BAXTER (with dignity). I will withdraw if you wish it.
+
+BELINDA. No, not withdraw, hide. He might see you withdrawing.
+(Leading the way to a door on the right) Quick, in here.
+
+BAXTER (embarrassed at the thought that this sort of thing really
+only happens in a bedroom farce). I don't think I quite--
+
+BELINDA (reassuring him). It's perfectly respectable; it's where
+we keep the umbrellas. (She takes him by the hand.)
+
+BAXTER (still resisting). I'm not at all sure that I--
+
+BELINDA (earnestly). Oh, but don't you see what _trust_ I'm
+putting in you? Some people are so nervous about their umbrellas.
+
+BAXTER. Well, of course, if you--but I don't see why I shouldn't
+just slip out of the door before he comes.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Of course, if you grudge me every little
+pleasure--Quick! Here he is.
+
+(She bundles him through the door, and with a sigh of happiness
+comes back and looks at herself in the mirror. She goes to the
+front-door, moves her hand to somebody in the distance, and comes
+into the hall again. Seeing MR. BAXTER'S bowler hat on the sofa,
+she carries across to his door, knocks, hands it to him, saying,
+"Your hat. S'sh!" and returns to her chair. TREMAYNE comes in.)
+
+TREMAYNE (at the door). It's no good your pretending to be
+surprised, because you said I could come.
+
+BELINDA (welcoming him). But I can still be surprised that you
+wanted to come.
+
+TREMAYNE Oh no, you aren't.
+
+BELINDA (marking it off on her fingers). Just a little bit--that
+much.
+
+TREMAYNE. It would be much more surprising if I hadn't come.
+
+BELINDA (sitting down on the sofa). It is a pretty garden, isn't
+it?
+
+TREMAYNE (sitting down next to her). You forget that I saw the
+garden yesterday.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, but the things have grown so much since then. Let me
+see, this is the third day you've been and we only met three days
+ago. And then you're coming to dinner again to-night.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). Am I?
+
+BELINDA. Yes. Haven't you been asked?
+
+TREMAYNE. No, not a word.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, that's quite right; I remember now, I only thought of
+it this morning, so I couldn't ask you before, could I?
+
+TREMAYNE (earnestly). What made you think of it then?
+
+BELINDA (romantically). It was at the butcher's. There was one
+little lamb cutlet left over and sitting out all by itself, and
+there was nobody to love it. And I said to myself, suddenly, "I
+know, that will do for Mr. Robinson." (Prosaically.) I do hope you
+like lamb?
+
+TREMAYNE. I adore it.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad! When I saw it sitting there I thought
+you'd love it. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more about the rest
+of the dinner, because I wouldn't tell Mr. Devenish, and I want to
+be fair.
+
+TREMAYNE. Who's Mr. Devenish?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here.
+
+TREMAYNE Is he in love with you too?
+
+BELINDA. Too? Oh, you mean Mr. Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE. Confound it, that's three!
+
+BELINDA (innocently). Three? (She looks up at him and down again.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here.
+
+TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, he's a sort of statistician. Isn't that a horrid word
+to say? So stishany.
+
+TREMAYNE. What does he make statistics about?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, umbrellas and things. Don't let's talk about him.
+
+TREMAYNE. All right, then; who is Mr. Devenish?
+
+BELINDA. Oh, he's a poet. (She throws up her eyes and sighs
+deeply.) Ah me!
+
+TREMAYNE. What does he write poetry about? (BELINDA looks at him,
+and down again, and then at him again, and then down, and gives a
+little sigh--all of which means, "Can't you guess?") What does he
+write poetry about?
+
+BELINDA (obediently). He wrote "The Lute of Love and other Poems,
+by Claude Devenish." The Lute of Love--(To herself.) I haven't been
+saying that lately. (With great expression.) The Lute of Love--the
+Lute. (She pats her mouth back.)
+
+TREMAYNE. And what is Mr. Devenish--
+
+BELINDA (putting her hand on his sleeve). You'll let me know when
+it's my turn, won't you?
+
+TREMAYNE. Your turn?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, to ask questions. I love this game--it's like clumps.
+(She crosses her hands on her lap and waits for the next question.)
+
+TREMAYNE. I beg your pardon. I--er--of course have no right to
+cross-examine you like this.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, do go on, I love it. (With childish excitement.)
+I've got my question ready.
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling). I think perhaps it _is_ your turn.
+
+BELINDA (eagerly). Is it really? (He nods.) Well then--_who_ is Mr.
+Robinson?
+
+TREMAYNE (alarmed). What?
+
+BELINDA. I think it's a fair question. I met you three days ago and
+you told me you were staying at Mariton. Mariton. You can say it
+all right now, can't you?
+
+TREMAYNE. I think so.
+
+BELINDA (coaxingly). Just say it.
+
+TREMAYNE. Mariton.
+
+BELINDA (clapping her hands). Lovely! I don't think any of the
+villagers do it as well as that.
+
+TREMAYNE. Well?
+
+BELINDA. Well, that was three days ago. You came the next day to
+see the garden, and you came the day after to see the garden, and
+you've come this morning--to see the garden; and you're coming to
+dinner to-night, and it's so lovely, we shall simply have to go
+into the garden afterwards. And all I know about you is that you
+_haven't_ any relations called Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. What do I know about Mrs. Tremayne but that she _has_ a
+relation called Robinson?
+
+BELINDA. And two dear friends called Devenish and Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE (annoyed). I was forgetting them.
+
+BELINDA (to herself). I mustn't forget Mr. Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE (getting up). But what does it matter? What would it
+matter if I knew nothing about you? I know everything about you--
+everything that matters.
+
+BELINDA (closing her eyes contentedly). Tell me some of them.
+
+TREMAYNE (bending over her earnestly). Belinda--
+
+BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). He's going to propose to me.
+I can feel it coming.
+
+TREMAYNE. Confound it! how many men _have_ proposed to you?
+
+BELINDA (surprised). Since when?
+
+TREMAYNE. Since your first husband proposed to you.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I thought you meant this year. (Sitting up.) Well
+now, let me see. (Slowly and thoughtfully.) One. (She pushes
+up her first finger.) Two. (She pushes up the second.) Three.
+(She pushes up the third finger, holds it there for a moment and
+then pushes it gently down again.) No, I don't think that one ought
+to count really. (She pushes up two more fingers and the thumb.)
+Three, four, five--do you want the names or just the total?
+
+TREMAYNE. This is horrible.
+
+BELINDA (innocently). But anybody can propose. Now if you'd asked
+how many I'd accepted--Let me see, where was I up to? I shan't
+count yours, because I haven't really had it yet. Six, seven--Yes,
+Betty, what is it?
+
+[BETTY has just come in from the door on the left.]
+
+BETTY. If you please, ma'am, cook would like to speak to you for a
+minute.
+
+BELINDA (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To TREMAYNE.) You'll forgive
+me, won't you? You'll find some cigarettes there. (She starts to
+go, but comes back and adds confidentially) It's probably about the
+lamb cutlets; I expect your little one refuses to be cooked.
+
+[She goes out after BETTY.]
+
+(Left alone, TREMAYNE stalks moodily about the room, occasionally
+kicking things which come in his way. He takes up his hat suddenly
+and goes towards the door; stops irresolutely and comes back. He is
+standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets
+when DEVENISH comes in from the door on the left.)
+
+DEVENISH (surprised). Hullo!
+
+TREMAYNE Hullo! ... Are you Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH. Yes.
+
+TREMAYNE. Devenish the poet?
+
+DEVENISH (coming up and shaking him warmly by the hand). My dear
+fellow, you know my work?
+
+TREMAYNE (grimly). My dear Mr. Devenish, your name is most
+familiar to me.
+
+DEVENISH. I congratulate you. I thought your great-grandchildren
+would be the first to hear of me.
+
+TREMAYNE. My name's Robinson, by the way.
+
+DEVENISH. Then let me return the compliment, Robinson. Your name is
+familiar to _me_.
+
+TREMAYNE (hastily). I don't think I'm related to any Robinsons you
+know.
+
+DEVENISH. Well, no, I suppose not. When I was very much younger I
+began a collection of Robinsons. Actually it was only three days
+ago, but it seems much longer. Many things have happened since
+then.
+
+TREMAYNE (uninterested). Really!
+
+DEVENISH. There is a man called Baxter who is still collecting, I
+believe. For myself, I am only interested in one of the great
+family--Delia.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). You are interested in _her_?
+
+DEVENISH. Devotedly. In fact, I am at this moment waiting for her
+to put on her hat.
+
+TREMAYNE (warmly). My dear Devenish, I am delighted to make your
+acquaintance. (He seizes his hand and grips it heartily.) How are
+you?
+
+DEVENISH (feeling his fingers). Fairly well, thanks.
+
+TREMAYNE. That's right. (They sit on the sofa together.)
+
+DEVENISH (still nursing his hand). You are a very lucky fellow,
+Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. In what way?
+
+DEVENISH. People you meet must be so very reluctant to say good-bye
+to you. Have you ever tried strangling lions or anything like that?
+
+TREMAYNE (with a laugh). Well, as a matter of fact, I have.
+
+DEVENISH. I suppose you won all right?
+
+TREMAYNE. In the end, with the help of my beater.
+
+DEVENISH. Personally I should have backed you alone against any two
+ordinary lions.
+
+TREMAYNE. One was quite enough. As it was, he gave me something to
+remember him by. (Putting up his left sleeve, he displays a deep
+scar.)
+
+DEVENISH (looking at it casually). By Jove, that's a nasty one!
+(He suddenly catches sight of the mole and stares at it
+fascinated.) Good heavens!
+
+TREMAYNE. What's the matter?
+
+DEVENISH (clasping his head). Wait. Let me think. (After a pause.)
+Have you ever met a man called Baxter?
+
+TREMAYNE. No.
+
+DEVENISH. Would you like to?
+
+TREMAYNE (grimly). Very much indeed.
+
+DEVENISH. He's the man I told you about who's interested in
+Robinsons. He'll be delighted to meet you. (With a nervous laugh.)
+Funny thing, he's rather an authority on lions. You must show him
+that scar of yours; it will intrigue him immensely. (Earnestly.)
+_Don't_ shake hands with him too heartily just at first; it might
+put him off the whole thing.
+
+TREMAYNE. This Mr. Baxter seems to be a curious man.
+
+DIVENISH (absently). Yes, he is rather odd. (Looking at his
+watch.) I wonder if I--(To TREMAYNE.) I suppose you won't be--(He
+stops suddenly. A slight tapping noise comes from the room where
+they keep umbrellas.)
+
+TREMAYNE. What's that!
+
+(The tapping noise is repeated, a little more loudly this time.)
+
+DEVENISH. Come in.
+
+(The door opens and BAXTER comes in nervously, holding his
+bowler hat in his hand.)
+
+BAXTER. Oh, I just--(TREMAYNE _stands up)--I just--(He goes back
+again.)
+
+DEVENISH (springing across the room). Baxter! (The door opens
+nervously again and BAXTER'S head appears round it.) Come in,
+Baxter, old man; you're just the very person I wanted. (BAXTER
+comes in carefully.) Good man. (To TREMAYNE) This is Mr. Baxter
+that I was telling you about.
+
+TREMAYNE (much relieved at the appearance of his rival). Oh, is
+this Mr. Baxter? (Holding out his hand with great friendliness)
+How are you, Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH (warningly). Steady! (TREMAYNE shakes BAXTER quite gently
+by the hand.) Baxter, this is Mr. Robinson. (Casually.) R-o-b-i-n-
+s-o-n. (He looks sideways at BAXTER to see how he takes it. BAXTER
+is noticeably impressed.)
+
+BAXTER. Really? I am very glad to meet you, sir.
+
+TREMAYNE. Very good of you to say so.
+
+DEVENISH (to BAXTER). Robinson is a great big-game hunter.
+
+BAXTER. Indeed? I have never done anything in that way myself, but
+I'm sure it must be an absorbing pursuit.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, well, it's something to do.
+
+DEVENISH (to BAXTER). You must get him to tell you about a wrestle
+he had with a lion once. Extraordinary story! (Looking at his watch
+suddenly.) Jove! I must be off. See you again, Baxter. Good-bye,
+Robinson. No, don't shake hands. I'm in a hurry. [He looks at his
+watch again and goes out hurriedly by the door on the left.]
+
+(TREMAYNE sit down together on the sofa.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Unusual man, your friend Devenish. I suppose it comes of
+being a poet.
+
+BAXTER. I have no great liking for Mr. Devenish--
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, he's all right.
+
+BAXTER. But I am sure that if he is impressed by anything outside
+himself or his own works, it must be something rather remarkable.
+Pray tell me of your adventure with the lion.
+
+TREMAYNE (laughing). Really, you mustn't think that I go about
+telling everybody my adventures. It just happened to come up. I'm
+afraid I shook his hand rather more warmly than I meant, and he
+asked me if I'd ever tried strangling lions. That was all.
+
+BAXTER. And had you?
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, it just happened that I had.
+
+BAXTER. Indeed! You came off scathless, I trust?
+
+TREMAYNE (carelessly indicating his arm). Well, he got me one
+across there.
+
+BAXTER (obviously excited). Really, really. One across there. Not
+bad, I hope?
+
+TREMAYNE (laughing). Well, it doesn't show unless I do that. (He
+pulls up his sleeve carelessly and BAXTER bends eagerly over his
+arm.)
+
+BAXTER. Good heavens! I've found it!
+
+TREMAYNE. Found what? (He pulls down his sleeve.)
+
+BAXTER. I must see Mrs. Tremayne. Where's Mrs. Tremayne?
+
+TREMAYNE. She went out just now. What's the matter?
+
+BAXTER. Out! I must find her. This is a matter of life and death.
+[He seizes his hat and hurries out by the front door.]
+
+(TREMAYNE stares after him in amazement. Then he pulls up his
+sleeve, looks at his scar again and shakes his head. While he is
+still puzzling over it, BELINDA comes back.)
+
+BELINDA. Such a to-do in the kitchen! The cook's given notice--at
+least she will directly--and your lamb cutlet slipped back to the
+shop when nobody was looking, and I've got to go into the village
+again, and oh dear, oh dear, I have such a lot of things to do!
+(Looking across at MR. BAXTER'S door.) Oh yes, that's another one.
+Mr. Robinson, you will have to leave me. Farewell.
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda--
+
+BELINDA. No, not even Belinda. Wait till this evening.
+
+TREMAYNE. I have a thousand things to say to you; I shall say them
+this evening.
+
+BELINDA (giving him her hand). Begin about eight o'clock. Good-bye
+till then.
+
+[He takes her hand, looks at her for a moment, then suddenly bends
+and kisses it, and out.]
+
+(BELINDA stands looking from her hand to him, gives a little
+wondering exclamation and then presses the back of her hand against
+her cheek, and goes to the swing doors. She turns back, and
+remembers MR. BAXTER again. With a smile she goes to the door and
+taps gently.)
+
+BELINDA. Mr. Baxter, Mr. Baxter, you may come in now; he has
+withdrawn. I have unhanded him. (She opens the door and finds the
+room empty.) Oh!
+
+[BAXTER comes in at the front door.]
+
+BAXTER. Ah, there you are!
+
+BELINDA (turning with a start). Oh, how you frightened me, Mr.
+Baxter! I couldn't think what had happened to you. I thought
+perhaps you'd been eaten up by one of the umbrellas.
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I have some wonderful news for you. I have
+found Miss Robinson's father.
+
+BELINDA (hardly understanding). Miss Robinson's father?
+
+BAXTER. Yes. _Mr_. Robinson.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, you mean--Oh yes, he told me his name was Robinson--
+Oh, but he's no relation.
+
+BAXTER. Wait! I saw his arm. By a subterfuge I managed to see his
+arm.
+
+BELINDA (her eyes opening more and more widely as she begins to
+realize). You saw--
+
+BAXTER. I saw the mole.
+
+BELINDA (faintly as she holds out her own arm). Show me.
+
+BAXTER (very decorously indicating). There!
+
+(BELINDA holds the place with her other hand, and still looking
+at MR. BAXTER, slowly begins to laugh--half-laughter, half-tears,
+wonderingly, happily, contentedly.)
+
+BELINDA. And I didn't know!
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am delighted to have done this service for
+your niece--
+
+BELINDA (to herself). Of course, _he_ knew all the time.
+
+BAXTER (to the world). Still more am I delighted to have gained
+the victory over Mr. Devenish in this enterprise.
+
+BELINDA. Eighteen years--but I _ought_ to have known.
+
+BAXTER (at large). I shall not be accused of exaggerating when I
+say that the odds against such an enterprise were enormous.
+
+BELINDA. Eighteen years--And now I've eight whole _hours_ to
+wait!
+
+BAXTER (triumphantly). It will be announced to-night. "Mr.
+Devenish," I shall say, "young fellow--" (He arranges his speech in
+his mind.)
+
+BELINDA. So I was right, after all! (Slowly and triumphantly.) He
+_does_ look better without a beard!
+
+BAXTER (making his speech). "Mr. Devenish, young fellow, when you
+matched yourself against a man of my repute, when you matched
+yourself against a man"--(BELINDA has slipped out, to enjoy her
+happiness alone)--"who has read papers at soirées of the Royal
+Statistical Society; when--er--"
+
+[He looks round the room and discovers to his amazement that he is
+alone. He claps on his bowler-hat, gives another amazed look round,
+says with a shrug, "Unusual!" and goes out.]
+
+
+ACT III
+
+[It is after dinner in BELINDA'S hall. BELINDA is lying on the
+sofa with a coffee-cup in her hand. DELIA, in the chair on the
+right, has picked up "The Lute of Love" from a table and is reading
+it impatiently.]
+
+DELIA. What rubbish he writes!
+
+BELINDA (coming back from her thoughts). Who, dear?
+
+DELIA. Claude--Mr. Devenish. Of course, he's very young.
+
+BELINDA. So was Keats, darling.
+
+DELIA. I don't think Claude has had Keats' advantages. Keats
+started life as an apothecary.
+
+BELINDA. So much nicer than a chemist.
+
+DELIA. Now, Claude started with nothing to do.
+
+BELINDA (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope
+you aren't going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs.
+Tremayne.
+
+DELIA. Silly mother! (Seriously) I don't think he'll ever be any
+good till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this
+evening?
+
+BELINDA (dreamily). Whose, dear?
+
+DELIA. Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad.
+
+BELINDA (innocently). Bad, darling?
+
+DELIA. You've made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you.
+
+BELINDA (happily). Have I?
+
+DELIA. Yes; it's serious this time. He's not like the other two.
+
+BELINDA. However did you know that?
+
+DELIA. Oh, I know.
+
+BELINDA. Darling, I believe you've grown up. It's quite time I
+settled down.
+
+DELIA. With Mr. Robinson?
+
+(BELINDA looks thoughtfully at DELIA for a little time and then
+sits up.)
+
+BELINDA (mysteriously). Delia, are you prepared for a great
+secret to be revealed to you?
+
+DELIA (childishly). Oh, I love secrets.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). Darling, you mustn't take it like that.
+This is a great, deep, dark secret; you'll probably need your sal
+volatile.
+
+DELIA (excitedly). Go on!
+
+BELINDA. Well--(Looking round the room.) Shall we have the lights
+down a little?
+
+DELIA. Go _on_, mummy.
+
+BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is--(impressively)--is not quite the
+Robinson he appears to be.
+
+DELIA. Yes?
+
+BELINDA. In fact, child, he is--Hadn't you better come and hold
+your mother's hand?
+
+DELIA (struggling with some emotion). Go _on_.
+
+BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is a--sort of relation of yours; in
+fact--(playing with her rings and looking down coyly)--he is your--
+father. (She looks up at DELIA to see how the news is being
+received.) Dear one, this is not a matter for mirth.
+
+DELIA (coming over and kissing her). Darling, it is lovely, isn't
+it? I am laughing because I am so happy.
+
+BELINDA. Aren't you surprised?
+
+DELIA. No. You see, Claude told me this morning. He found out just
+before Mr. Baxter.
+
+BELINDA. Well! Every one seems to have known except me.
+
+DELIA. Didn't you see how friendly father and I got at dinner? I
+thought I'd better start breaking the ice--because I suppose he'll
+be kissing me directly.
+
+BELINDA. Say you like him.
+
+DELIA. I think he's going to be awfully nice. Does he know you
+know? (She goes back to her seat.)
+
+BELINDA. Not yet. Just at present I've rather got Mr. Baxter on my
+mind. I suppose, darling, you wouldn't like him as well as Mr.
+Devenish! (Pathetically.) You see, they're so used to going about
+together.
+
+DELIA. Claude is quite enough.
+
+BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind
+if I have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them.
+I'll give you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (She
+jumps up and goes over to DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be
+happy too? That's what mothers always say on the stage. I think
+it's so sweet.
+
+DELIA (smiling at her). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I'm
+not romantic like you. I expect I'm more like father, really.
+
+BELINDA (dreamily). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me
+this morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was
+telling _him_. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit like a father. Of course, he
+doesn't know he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take
+him into the garden; only don't let him know who he is. You see, he
+ought to propose to me first, oughtn't he? (As the men come in, she
+gets up.) Here you all are! I do hope you haven't been throwing
+away your cigars, because smoking is allowed all over the house.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, we've finished, thank you.
+
+BELINDA. Isn't it a wonderful night?--and so warm for April. Delia,
+you must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight--it's the only
+light he hasn't seen it by.
+
+DEVENISH (quickly). I don't think I've ever seen it by moonlight,
+Miss Delia.
+
+BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight.
+
+BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that--er--perhaps--
+
+DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson.
+
+(TREMAYNE _looks at BELINDA, who gives him a nod.)
+
+TREMAYNE. It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is
+no chance of a nightingale?
+
+BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr.
+Devenish. (DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles
+herself comfortably on the sofa.) Now we're together again. Well,
+Mr. Devenish?
+
+DEVENISH. Er--I--
+
+BELINDA. No; I think I'll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he's
+longing to.
+
+BAXTER. Yes. H'r'm! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your
+hand.
+
+BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter?
+
+DEVENISH (spiritedly). Yes, sir, on what grounds?
+
+BAXTER. On the grounds that, as I told you this morning, I had
+succeeded in the quest.
+
+DEVENISH (appearing to be greatly surprised). Succeeded?
+
+BAXTER. Yes, Mr. Devenish, young fellow, you have lost. I have
+discovered the missing Mr. Robinson.
+
+DEVENISH. Who--where--
+
+BAXTER (dramatically). Miss Robinson has at this moment gone out
+with her father.
+
+DEVENISH. Good heavens! It was he!
+
+BELINDA (sympathetically). Poor Mr. Devenish!
+
+DEVENISH (pointing tragically to the table). And to think that I
+actually sat on that table--no, that seat--no, not that one,
+it was the sofa--that I sat on the sofa with him this morning, and
+never guessed! Why, ten minutes ago I was asking him for the nuts!
+
+BAXTER. Aha, Devenish, you're not so clever as you thought you
+were.
+
+DEVENISH. Why, I must have given you the clue myself! He told me he
+had a scar on his arm, and I never thought any more of it. And then
+I went away innocently and left you two talking about it.
+
+BELINDA (alarmed). A scar on his arm?
+
+DEVENISH. Where a lion mauled him.
+
+(BELINDA gives a little shudder.)
+
+BAXTER. It's quite healed up now, Mrs. Tremayne.
+
+BELINDA (looking at him admiringly). A lion! What you two have
+adventured for my sake!
+
+BAXTER. I suppose you will admit, Devenish, that I may fairly claim
+to have won?
+
+(Looking the picture of despair, DEVENISH droops his head, raises
+his arms and lets them fall hopelessly to his sides.)
+
+BELINDA. Mr. Devenish, I have never admired you so much as I do at
+this moment.
+
+BAXTER (indignantly to DEVENISH). I say, you know, that's not fair.
+It's all very well to take your defeat like a man, but you mustn't
+overdo it. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned.
+
+BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter--Mr. Devenish, I have something
+to tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I
+think you both ought to know that--I--I made a mistake. Delia is
+not my niece; she is my daughter.
+
+DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping!
+
+(BELINDA gives him an understanding look.)
+
+BAXTER. Your daughter!
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+BAXTER. But--but you aren't old enough to have a daughter of that
+age.
+
+BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is.
+
+BAXTER. But--but she's grown up.
+
+BELINDA. Quite.
+
+BAXTER. Then in that case you must be--(He hesitates, evidently
+working it out.)
+
+BELINDA (hastily). I'm afraid so, Mr. Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when
+I'm fifty you would be--
+
+BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should.
+
+BAXTER. And when I'm sixty--
+
+BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can't you stop him?
+
+DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you'll never
+_get_ to sixty.
+
+BAXTER. And then there's Miss--er--Delia. In the event of our
+marrying, Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter.
+
+BELINDA. I don't think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I
+have an idea that she will be getting married before long. (She
+glances at DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.)
+
+BAXTER. None the less, the fact would be disturbing. I have never
+yet considered myself seriously as a step-father. I don't think I
+am going too far if I say that to some extent I have been deceived
+in this matter.
+
+BELINDA (reproachfully). And so have I. I thought you loved me.
+
+DEVENISH (sympathetically). Yes, yes.
+
+BELINDA (turning to him suddenly). _And_ Mr. Devenish too.
+
+BAXTER. Er--
+
+DEVENISH. Er--
+
+(They stand before her guiltily and have nothing to say.)
+
+BELINDA (with a shrug). Well, I shall have to marry somebody
+else, that's all.
+
+BAXTER. Who?
+
+BELINDA. I suppose Mr. Robinson. After all, if I am Delia's mother,
+and Mr. Baxter says that Mr. Robinson's her father, it's about time
+we _were_ married.
+
+DEVENISH (eagerly). Mrs. Tremayne, what fools we are! He _is_ your
+husband all the time!
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+BAXTER. You've had a husband all the time?
+
+BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn't my fault.
+
+BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don't know where I am. I
+gather--I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible
+as a possible wife?
+
+BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. But this is very confusing--this is very disturbing to a
+man of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a--a
+possible benedict. I have--ah--taken steps. Only this morning, in
+writing to my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at
+any moment a most startling announcement.
+
+DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that's all right. That might only mean
+that you were getting a new bowler-hat.
+
+BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you
+take this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes
+clear to me. You have transferred your affections to her daughter!
+
+DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude.
+
+BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made
+me very happy.
+
+BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne!
+
+BELINDA. Very happy.
+
+BAXTER (thoughtfully). Ah! (He takes a turn round the room in,
+silence, and then comes back to her.) Mrs. Tremayne, I have taken
+a great resolve. (Solemnly.) I also will make you happy. (Thumping
+his heart.) I also will woo Miss Delia. (Suddenly seizing
+DEVENISH'S arm) Come, we will seek Miss Delia together. It may be
+that she will send us upon another quest in which I shall again be
+victorious. (Tempestuously) Come, I say! (He marches the resisting
+DEVENISH to the swing doors.)
+
+DEVENISH (to BELINDA). Please!
+
+BELINDA (gently). Mr. Baxter... Harold. (BAXTER stops and turns
+round.) You are too impetuous. I think that as Delia's mother--
+
+BAXTER. Your pardon, Mrs. Tremayne. In the intoxication of the
+moment I am forgetting. (Formally.) I have the honour to ask your
+permission to pay my addresses--
+
+BELINDA. No, no, I didn't mean that. But, as Delia's mother, I
+ought to warn you that she is hardly fitted to take the place of
+your housekeeper. She is not very domesticated.
+
+BAXTER (indignantly). Not domesticated? Why, did I not hear her
+tell her father at dinner that she had arranged all the flowers?
+
+BELINDA. There are other things than flowers.
+
+DEVENISH. Bed-socks, for instance, Baxter. It's a very tricky thing
+airing bed-socks. I am sure your house-keeper--
+
+BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, she will learn. The daughter of such a
+mother... I need say no more.
+
+BELINDA. Oh, thank you. But there is something else, Mr. Baxter.
+You are not being quite fair to yourself. In starting out upon this
+simultaneous wooing, you forget that Mr. Devenish has already had
+his turn this morning alone. You should have yours ... alone ...
+too.
+
+DEVENISH. Oh, I say!
+
+BAXTER. Yes, yes, you are right. I must introduce myself first as a
+suitor. I see that. (to DEVENISH) _You_ stay here; _I_ will go
+alone into the garden, and--
+
+BELINDA. It is perhaps a little cold out of doors for people of ...
+of _our_ age, Mr. Baxter. Now, in the library--
+
+BAXTER (astonished). Library?
+
+BELINDA. Yes.
+
+BAXTER. You have a library?
+
+BELINDA (to DEVENISH). He doesn't believe I have a library.
+
+DEVENISH. You ought to see the library, Baxter.
+
+BAXTER. But you are continually springing surprises on me this
+evening, Mrs. Tremayne. First a daughter, then a husband, and then--
+a library! I have been here three weeks, and I never knew you had a
+library. Dear me, I wonder how it is that I never saw it?
+
+BELINDA (modestly). I thought you came to see _me_.
+
+BAXTER. Yes, yes, to see you, certainly. But if I had known you had
+a library. ...
+
+BELINDA. Oh, I am so glad I mentioned it. Wasn't it lucky, Mr.
+Devenish?
+
+BAXTER. My work has been greatly handicapped of late by lack of
+certain books to which I wanted to refer. It would be a great help--
+
+BELINDA. My dear Mr. Baxter, my whole library is at your disposal.
+(To DEVENISH, as she leads the way to the door, in a confidential
+whisper.) I'm just going to show him the "Encyclopedia Britannica."
+(She smiles at him, and he opens the door for them both. Then he goes
+towards the garden door and looks outside.)
+
+DELIA (from the garden). Hullo, we're just coming in.
+(He goes back and waits for them.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Where's Mrs. Tremayne?
+
+DEVENISH. She's gone to the library with Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE (carelessly). Oh, the library. Where's that?
+
+DEVENISH (promptly going towards the door and opening it). The end
+door on the right. Right at the end. You can't mistake it. On the
+right.
+
+TREMAYNE. Ah, yes. (He looks round at DELIA.) Yes. (He looks at
+DEVENISH.) Yes. [He goes out.]
+
+(DEVENISH hastily shuts the door and comes back to DELIA.)
+
+DEVENISH. I say, your mother is a ripper.
+
+DELIA (enthusiastically). Isn't she! (Remembering.) At least, you
+mean my aunt?
+
+DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that
+I once had the cheek to propose to her.
+
+DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!
+
+DEVENISH. To _her_.
+
+DELIA. But not to me?
+
+DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!
+
+DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson--
+I mean, Tremayne.
+
+DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much
+safer to call you Delia.
+
+DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is.
+
+DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answered
+
+DELIA. If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to
+wait till next April--
+
+DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the
+same afternoon. You haven't really told me how you like it yet.
+
+DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.
+
+DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.
+
+DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that.
+
+DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but,
+of course, one has to think about posterity.
+
+DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty
+to think about if you were a statesman.
+
+DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry.
+
+DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away
+every day and do great things, and then come home in the evening
+and tell me all about it.
+
+DEVENISH. Then you _are_ thinking of marrying me!
+
+DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.
+
+DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here--I
+_will_ be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street
+every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.
+
+DELIA. How nice of you!
+
+DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell,
+Parnassus!
+
+DELIA. What does that mean?
+
+DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's
+life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.--no,
+look here, that was quite accidental.
+
+DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I
+get to know you.
+
+DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that
+I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what
+I was three days ago.
+
+DELIA. You _are_ different. Perhaps it's your sense of humour
+coming back.
+
+DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.
+
+DELIA (holding out her hand). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly
+moon.
+
+DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that
+word before?
+
+DELIA. What _do_ you mean?
+
+DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I'll come with you,
+but I shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his
+back, he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime
+Minister then left the House.
+
+[BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.]
+
+BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don't think it's
+unkind to leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.
+
+TREMAYNE. I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed.
+
+BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was
+really thinking of Mr. Baxter.
+
+TREMAYNE. Not of me?
+
+BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's
+had a disappointment lately.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment?
+
+BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was--younger than I was.
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda?
+
+BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He
+thought I was eighteen. Such a disappointment!
+
+TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you?
+
+BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. The right age for what?
+
+BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.
+
+TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?
+
+BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or--poetically?
+
+TREMAYNE. I meant--
+
+BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the--now, I must get
+this the right way round--as old as the--
+
+TREMAYNE. I don't want to talk about Mr. Devenish.
+
+BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does--except Mr. Devenish. As
+old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself
+cosily.) I think that's rather a nice age to be, don't you?
+
+TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be.
+
+BELINDA. It's a pity he's thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss
+that sort of thing rather. You don't say those sort of things about
+your aunt-in-law--not so often.
+
+TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson!
+
+BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now,
+comparing her to Diana.
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts for _him. _Now what about Baxter?
+
+BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I
+was four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the
+drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the "Encyclopedia
+Britannica."
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the
+neighbourhood?
+
+BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn't it awful? I've only had those
+two for the last three weeks.
+
+(TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.)
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, Henry!
+
+TREMAYNE. My name is John.
+
+BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks
+they can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what
+their own names are. You were saying, John?
+
+TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack.
+
+BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That's the man who always goes away so
+quickly. I hope you're making more of a stay?
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman!
+
+BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do
+nothing but say "Belinda."
+
+TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved anybody seriously,
+Belinda?
+
+BELINDA. I don't ever do anything very seriously. The late Mr. 
+Tremayne, my first husband--Jack--Isn't it funny, _his_ name was
+Jack--he used to complain about it too sometimes.
+
+TREMAYNE (with conviction). Silly ass!
+
+BELINDA. Ah, I think you are a little hard on the late Mr.
+Tremayne.
+
+TREMAYNE. Has he been dead long?
+
+BELINDA. Dead to me.
+
+TREMAYNE. You quarrelled?
+
+BELINDA. Yes. It was his fault entirely.
+
+TREMAYNE. I'm sure it was.
+
+BELINDA. How sweet of you to say that!
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda, I want you to marry me and forget about him.
+
+BELINDA (happily to herself). This is the proposal that those lamb
+cutlets interrupted this morning.
+
+TREMAYNE. Belinda, I love you--do you understand?
+
+BELINDA. Suppose my first husband turns up suddenly like--like E. A.?
+
+TREMAYNE. Like who?
+
+BELINDA. Well, like anybody.
+
+TREMAYNE. He won't--I know he won't. Don't you love me enough to
+risk it, Belinda?
+
+BELINDA. I haven't really said I love you at all yet.
+
+TREMAYNE. Well, say it now. (BELINDA looks at him, and then down
+again.) You do! Well, I'm going to have a kiss, anyway, (He comes
+round the sofa and kisses her quickly.) There!
+
+BELINDA (rising). O-oh! The late Mr. Tremayne never did that.
+
+TREMAYNE. I have already told you that he was a silly ass. (Sitting
+down on the sofa) Belinda--
+
+BELINDA. Yes, Henry--I mean, Jack?
+
+TREMAYNE. Do you know who I am! (He is thoroughly enjoying the
+surprise he is about to give her.)
+
+BELINDA (nodding). Yes, Jack.
+
+TREMAYNE. Who?
+
+BELINDA. Jack Tremayne.
+
+TREMAYNE (jumping up). Good heavens, you _know_!
+
+BELINDA (gently). Yes, Jack.
+
+TREMAYNE (angrily). You've known all the time that I was your
+husband, and you've been playing with me and leading me on?
+
+BELINDA (mildly). Well, darling, you knew all the time that I was
+your wife, and you've been making love to me and leading me on.
+
+TREMAYNE. That's different.
+
+BELINDA. That's _just_ what the late Mr. Tremayne said, and then he
+slammed the door and went straight off to the Rocky Mountains and
+shot bears; and I didn't see him again for eighteen years.
+
+TREMAYNE (remorsefully). Darling, I was a fool then, and I'm a
+fool now.
+
+BELINDA. I was a fool then, but I'm not such a fool now--I'm not
+going to let you go. It's quite time I married and settled down.
+
+TREMAYNE. You darling! How did you find out who I was?
+
+BELINDA (awkwardly). Well, it was rather curious, darling.
+(After a pause.) It was April, and I felt all sort of Aprily,
+and--and--there was the garden all full of daffodils--and--and
+there was Mr. Baxter--the one we left in the library--knowing all
+about moles. He's probably got the M volume down now. Well, we
+were talking about them one day, and I happened to say that the
+late Mr. Tremayne--that was you, darling--had rather a peculiar one
+on his arm. And then he happened to see it this morning and told me
+about it.
+
+TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story!
+
+BELINDA. Yes, darling; it's really much more extraordinary than
+that. I think perhaps I'd better tell you the rest of it another
+time. (Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you.
+(TREMAYNE pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You
+shouldn't have left Chelsea, darling.
+
+TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn't.
+
+BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn't. (After a
+pause.) I--I've got another little surprise for you if--if you're
+ready for it. (Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be
+wearing white. I shall certainly stand up while I'm telling you.
+(Modestly.) Darling, we have a daughter--our little Delia.
+
+TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson.
+
+BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes
+one's father's name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson.
+
+TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you--oh, never
+mind about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and
+not tell me?
+
+BELINDA. You forget how you'd slammed the door. It isn't the sort
+of thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to
+America.
+
+TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don't let me ever
+go away again.
+
+BELINDA. I'm not going to, Jack. I'm going to settle down into a
+staid old married woman.
+
+TREMAYNE. Oh no, you're not. You're going on just as you did
+before. And I'm going to propose to you every April, and win you,
+over all the other men in love with you.
+
+BELINDA. You darling!
+
+[DELIA and DEVENISH come in from the garden.]
+
+TREMAYNE (quietly to BELINDA). Our daughter.
+
+DELIA (going up to TREMAYNE). You're my father.
+
+TREMAYNE. If you don't mind very much, Delia.
+
+DELIA. You've been away a long time.
+
+TREMAYNE. I'll do my best to make up for it.
+
+BELINDA. Delia, darling, I think you might kiss your poor old
+father.
+
+(As the does to, DEVENISH suddenly and hastily kisses BELINDA on
+the cheek.)
+
+DEVENISH. Just in case you're going to be my mother-in-law.
+
+TREMAYNE. We seem to be rather a family party.
+
+BELINDA (suddenly). There! We've forgotten Mr. Baxter again.
+
+BAXTER (who has come in quietly with a book in his hand). Oh, don't
+mind about me, Mrs. Tremayne. I've enjoyed myself immensely.
+(Referring to his book.) I have been collecting some most valuable
+information on (looking round at them) lunacy in the--er--county of
+_Devonshire_.
+
+
+
+THE RED FEATHERS
+
+AN OPERETTA IN ONE ACT
+
+
+
+[In the living-room of a country-house, half farm, half manor, a
+MOTHER and her DAUGHTER are sitting. It is any year you please--
+between, let us say, the day when the fiddle first came to England
+and the day when Romance left it. As for the time of the year, let
+us call it May. Oh yes, it is certainly May, and about twelve
+o'clock, and the DAUGHTER is singing at the spinet, while her
+MOTHER is at her needlework. Through the lattice windows the murmur
+of a stream can be heard, on whose banks--but we shall come to that
+directly. Let us listen now to what the DAUGHTER is singing:]
+
+         Life passes by.
+I do not know its pleasure or its pain--
+The Spring was here, the Spring is here again,
+         The Spring will die.
+
+         Life passes by.
+The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide,
+The crowd streams in--and I am left outside. ...
+         They know; not I.
+
+[You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.]
+
+MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a
+melancholy song, dear.
+
+DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.
+
+MOTHER. Why are you that, child?
+
+DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.
+
+MOTHER. Well, so do we all.
+
+DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit
+here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed,
+and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and
+so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world?
+
+MOTHER. It's all there is in our world.
+
+DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?
+
+MOTHER. We have the house--and very little else.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were _really_ poor--
+
+MOTHER. You needn't wish, child.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes
+we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the
+valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the
+brook next morning, and--
+
+MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm
+peculiar.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own
+way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy?
+
+MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear.
+
+DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I
+suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back
+to the spinet and sings again.)
+
+      _Lads and lasses, what will you sell,
+            What will you sell?_
+
+       Four stout walls and a roof atop,
+            Warm fires gleaming brightly,
+       Well-stored cellar and garnered crop,
+            Money-bags packed tightly;
+       An ordered task in an ordered day,
+            And a sure bed nightly;
+       Years which peacefully pass away,
+            Until Death comes lightly.
+
+      _Lads and lasses, what will you buy?
+            What will you buy?_
+
+       Here is a cap to cover your head,
+             A cap with one red feather;
+       Here is a cloak to make your bed
+             Warm or winter weather;
+       Here is a satchel to store your ware,
+             Strongly lined with leather;
+       And here is a staff to take you there
+             When you go forth together.
+
+      _Lads and lasses, what will you gain,
+             What will you gain?_
+
+       Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees
+             New Spring houses taking;
+       Daffodils in an April breeze
+             Golden curtsies making;
+       Shadows of clouds across the weald
+             From hill to valley breaking,
+       The first faint stir which the woodlands yield
+             When the world is waking.
+
+      _Lads and lasses, this is your gain,
+             This is your gain._
+
+(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER
+appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a
+bland and happy smile until the song is finished.)
+
+TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in
+astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung.
+Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to
+the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is
+voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame,
+I felicitate you again.
+
+MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this
+intrusion.
+
+TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand
+upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote
+you Rex--What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say? _Via_, says Rex,
+meaning the road; _communis_ is common; _omnibus_ to all, meaning
+thereby--but perchance I weary you?
+
+DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he?
+
+TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is
+he? Is he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he
+the Cham of Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he
+were the Cham of Tartary--
+
+MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you
+are and what you want.
+
+TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am
+named by my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These
+things you will have already noticed. But now I will commit to you
+it secret, known only to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I
+am by nature (he disappears and reappears at the middle window), I
+am still more so when compelled to hold converse with two such
+ornaments of their sex (he disappears and reappears at the
+right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I getting any
+nearer the door?
+
+MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I
+see that we must have your tale.
+
+TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about
+everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers;
+the other has the honour to belong to that sex which--have I said
+it?--you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission?
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come.
+
+MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all.
+
+TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I
+live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my
+memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder
+sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know--
+But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.]
+
+DAUGHTER. Mother, something _is_ going to happen at last.
+
+MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that?
+
+[The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the
+FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the
+FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round,
+with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.]
+
+TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the
+honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess
+Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere
+Marquis.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels.
+
+MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir.
+
+TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess--a courtesy
+title bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day--plays upon the fiddle
+with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear
+her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the
+Duke--the title was granted last Candlemas--has a voice of a rare
+richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing.
+He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish
+companion withal.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame!
+
+SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies.
+
+MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir.
+
+TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays
+"cuckoo" with an air.)
+
+SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies.
+
+TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he
+maligns me. Have I not a G of surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness
+rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my
+G. Now, where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on
+the pipe.) I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to
+MOTHER and then to DAUGHTER.)
+
+SINGER. Marvellous!
+
+MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid?
+
+TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame?
+
+MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel
+more in need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no
+other talent to match the singing and playing of your friends?
+
+FIDDLER. He talks.
+
+MOTHER. I had noticed it.
+
+TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good
+enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit
+like myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn
+disposition; this--I--(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence.
+Have I your gracious permission to begin again?
+
+MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir.
+
+TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame--
+
+MOTHER. If you could, sir.
+
+TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I--er--go
+round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business.
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money.
+
+TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which
+you observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to
+melancholy.
+
+DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you?
+
+TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for
+myself I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance
+will be limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe.
+
+MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be
+glad to hear your friends.
+
+(The TALKER bows and turns to his company.)
+
+TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness
+will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G,
+so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.
+
+FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.
+
+SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)
+
+    Oh, when the wind is in the North,
+    I take my staff and sally forth;
+    And when it whistles from the East
+    I do not mind it in the least;
+    The warm wind murmurs through the trees
+    Its messages from Southern seas;
+    But after all perhaps the best
+    Is that which whispers from the West.
+
+      Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will,
+      So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
+
+    The staff which helps to carry me,
+    I cut it from the Hazel-tree;
+    But once I had a cudgel torn
+    Most circumspectly from the Thorn;
+    I know a fellow, far from rash,
+    Who swears entirely by the Ash;
+    And all good travellers invoke
+    A blessing on the mighty Oak.
+
+      Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will,
+      So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
+
+    Some years ago I gave my heart
+    To Prue until we had to part;
+    Then, seeing Susan's pretty face,
+    I left it with her for a space;
+    And Susan had my heart until
+    I wanted it for Mistress Jill;
+    I think, although I am not clear,
+    That Chloe's had it this last year.
+
+      Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will,
+      So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
+
+(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the
+applause.)
+
+DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse.
+
+TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy
+fellow by nature. But waggish--waggish withal.
+
+SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us,
+Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one
+woman only.
+
+TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses
+to it.
+
+MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the
+FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now?
+
+FIDDLER. If you wish it.
+
+TALKER. You would wish me to accompany her, of course.
+
+MOTHER (with a smile). It is kind of you, sir, but I think perhaps
+my daughter--
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Yes, of course, I will if I can. (She goes to
+the spinet.)
+
+FIDDLER (playing a few notes). Do you know this?
+
+DAUGHTER. Yes, I think so. (She plays. At the end of it the TALKER
+finds himself bowing to the applause.)
+
+TALKER. And now, Madame, you have had a sample of all our poor
+talents, save and except that paltry talent of mine which in other
+company concludes such a performance. I pray you tell me what you
+think of the entertainment.
+
+MOTHER. I have enjoyed it immensely, good Master Johannes. And if
+you did wish to exercise that talent of yours, of which so far we
+have only heard--
+
+TALKER. Nay, nay, Madame, I beg you.
+
+MOTHER. Then, Sir, I offer you my grateful thanks for your
+entertainment.
+
+DAUGHTER. And I too.
+
+TALKER. Ladies, you are too kind--er--(he hesitates)--er--
+
+MOTHER. Yes?
+
+TALKER, The fact is, Madame, that now we approach or, so to speak,
+draw nigh or adjacent--in other words, Madame, we are perilously
+approximate--
+
+FIDDLER. Tell her straight out.
+
+MOTHER. Tell her what?
+
+FIDDLER. What we've come for.
+
+SINGER. Master Johannes, Madam, is so accustomed when he goes round
+with the hat to disguise under it flow of words the fact that money
+is as necessary to an artist as applause, that he has lost the
+habit of saying anything in less than ten sentences.
+
+TALKER (mournfully). And yet I am a taciturn man.
+
+MOWER. Well, will somebody tell me, for I confess I have been
+wondering what is behind it all.
+
+FIDDLER. Tell her, Johannes.
+
+TALKER. If you will allow me, Madame. But tell me first, did you
+notice anything lacking in our performance?
+
+MOTHER (surprised). No; I don't think so.
+
+TALKER (to DAUGHTER). Perhaps you, Mademoiselle?
+
+DAUGHTER (shyly). It seemed to lack a woman's voice, sir.
+
+TALKER (admiringly). What intelligence! What profundity! (To
+MOTHER) Madam, I felicitate you again on your daughter. Unerringly
+she has laid her finger on the weak joint in our armour. We have no
+woman's voice.
+
+MOTHER. Well, Sir, I don't see how I can help you.
+
+TALKER. Madame, you have a nightingale. It has lived in a cage all
+its life. It looks through the bars sometimes, and sees the great
+world outside, and sighs and turns back to its business of singing.
+Madame, it would sing better outside in the open air, with the
+other birds.
+
+MOTHER. I don't understand you, sir. Are you referring to my
+daughter?
+
+TALKER (looking towards the window). There is a stream which runs
+beyond the road, with a green bank to it. We were seated on that
+bank, I and my two companions, eating our bread and cheese, and
+washing it down with draughts from that good stream. We were tired,
+for we had come from over the hills that morning, and it was good
+to lie on our backs there and watch the little clouds taking shape
+after shape in the blue, and so to dream our dreams. In a little
+while the road would take us westward, here through a wood banked
+with primroses, there across a common or between high spring hedges
+with the little stream babbling ever at the side of us. And in the
+evening we would come to an inn, where there would be good company,
+and we would sing and play to them, and they would reward us. (With
+a shrug) It is a pleasant life.
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, go on!
+
+MOTHER. Yes, go on, Sir.
+
+TALKER. We were lying on our backs thus, Madame, when we heard the
+nightingale. "Duke," says I, "it is early yet for the nightingale."
+His Flutiness removes his cap from his face, takes a squint at the
+sun, and says "Monstrous early, good Master Johannes," and claps
+his cap back again. "What says you, Fiddler," says I, "in this
+matter of nightingales? Is it possible," says I; "the sun being
+where it is, and nightingales being what they are--to wit,
+nightingales?" "It's not a nightingale," says Fiddler dreamily,
+"it's a girl." "Then," says I, jumping up, "it is a girl we want.
+She must put the red feather in her cap, and come her ways with
+us." (With a bow) Madame, your humble servant.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, you will let me go, won't you? I must, I
+must! He is quite right. I'm caged here. Oh, you will let me see
+something of the world before I grow old!
+
+FIDDLER (suddenly). Yes, let her come. If she feels like that, she
+ought to come.
+
+SINGER (with a very winning smile). We will take great care of her,
+Madame, as if she were our own sister.
+
+MOTHER (surprisingly to JOHANNES). What do you think of cider as
+a drink, Master Johannes?
+
+TALKER (who had not expected it, but is always ready). Cider--ah,
+there's a drink! Oh, I can talk to you about cider, glum body as I
+am by nature, having been as it were taciturn from birth. Yet of
+cider I could talk you--
+
+MOTHER. Ours is considered very good cider. (To her daughter) Take
+them, child, and give them such refreshment as they want. They have
+deserved it for their entertainment.
+
+DAUGHTER. Why, of course, Mother. Come this way please.
+
+[She leads the way, and the others follow, the TALKER coming last
+and murmuring "Cider" to himself.]
+
+MOTHER. Master Johannes. (He turns round.) A word with you, if
+you please, sir.
+
+TALKER. But certainly, Madame. The cider will be all the better for
+the expectation.
+
+MOTHER. Sit down, please. (He does so.) Master Johannes, who are
+you, all of you?
+
+TALKER. I thought I had explained, Madame. Her Royal Sweetness
+Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a
+humble Marquis. We may be referred to collectively as the Red
+Feathers. For myself I am sometimes called Silent John, being of a
+close disposition.
+
+MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the
+world, and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to
+you, for however little a time, I must know something more about
+you.
+
+TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I
+have never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years
+of age; it is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you
+something about myself, starting from that day, forty-six years
+ago, when I was born--were I to begin--well, Madame, I am only too
+ready to begin. It is a subject I find vastly pleasant. But,
+(looking at her comically) shall I begin?
+
+MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir?
+
+TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one
+who has but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express
+himself, talking is a great comfort.
+
+MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now
+that I think you must be a man of _our_ world?
+
+TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your
+mother's heart to know that your daughter will be in good company,
+I think I can give you that comfort.
+
+MOTHER. Is that all you can give me?
+
+(The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly
+he takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and
+is immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a
+beaming face.)
+
+TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to
+stop any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there
+was a certain noble gentleman, a baron of estates and family.
+Conceiving himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch
+to win or lose it all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a
+fit of melancholy he abjured society, cursed all women and took to
+the road. A pleasant melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke.
+
+MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just
+gone). You mean he really is--
+
+TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right
+to speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe
+to his lips) Cuck-oo!
+
+MOTHER. Poor child, she is not happy here. We live so quietly; we
+have no neighbours. I have wondered what to do--it seemed that I
+could do so little. If only I could be sure--(Suddenly) Master
+Johannes, do you like the look of this house with its little stream
+opposite, and the green bank running down, on which one may lie
+on one's back and look up at the sky?
+
+TALKER. Did we not single it out above all others by having our
+bread and cheese outside it?
+
+MOTHER. Will you all stay with me for a little? I think I can find
+room for you. Before I can lend my daughter to you, I feel that I
+must know something of you. I think that is the best way, is it
+not? (With a very friendly smile) The cider is good, you know.
+
+TALKER (rising and boning). Madame, we need say no more.
+
+[The other three come in. The DAUGHTER has found from somewhere a
+cap with a red feather in it. They stand in a row opposite the
+MOTHER, and to the FIDDLER'S accompaniment sing a merry song.]
+
+TOGETHER.  The cuckoo comes in April,
+             Sings his song in May,
+           Changes his tune in the middle of June,
+             And then he flies away.
+
+HE.        The cuckoo comes when April's here--
+           He is not very good, I fear.
+           He goes and takes another nest--
+           Perhaps he does it for the best.
+              Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
+
+SHE.       When April's over he begins
+           Repenting of his former sins;
+           From tree to tree he takes his way,
+           But this is all he finds to say:
+              Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
+
+HE.        By June he gets a trifle flat,
+           Which is not to be wondered at,
+           And critical observers note
+           A huskiness about the throat.
+              (Huskily) Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
+
+SHE.       Alas! he does not stay for long,
+           But other birds take up the song
+           Of summer gently following
+           The wild and happy days of Spring.
+              Cuckoo!
+
+(The TALKER conducts with his pipe in his hand, and hums "La, la,
+la!" to himself. He pipes the chorus with them. At the conclusion
+they all bow or curtsey deeply to the MOTHER.)
+
+MOTHER (half laughing, half crying). Oh!
+
+TALKER (suddenly and dramatically, holding up his hand). Listen!
+
+EVERYBODY. What?
+
+TALKER. Didn't I hear somebody say "cider"?
+
+***
+
+(It is eight days later when we see them again. The DAUGHTER is at
+the spinet, playing an accompaniment to the song which she and
+the SINGER are sharing for the moment.)
+
+SHE.      He does not know I love him,
+             He does not care;
+          The sky is blue above him,
+             The road is there
+             For those who dare--
+             Alas! why should he care?
+
+HE.       She does not know I love her,
+              She does not know;
+          The sky is blue above her,
+             The soft winds blow
+             Where violets grow--
+             Alas! how should she know?
+
+TOGETHER. Yet those who sing
+          About the Spring
+          All say it should bring
+             Two lovers together!
+          Oh where, oh where
+          Will you find a pair
+             So matched as you and I, love?
+          Come rain or shine,
+          Come wet or fine,
+          If you are mine
+             What matter the weather?
+          Oh take my hand
+          And kiss me and
+             Confess that you are my love.
+
+HE.       She does not know I love her--
+             Ah yes, she knows;
+          The sky is blue above her,
+             The buds disclose
+             The first wild rose--
+          Ah yes, she knows, she knows!
+
+SHE.      He cares not that I love him--
+             Ah yes, he cares;
+          The sky is blue above him,
+             A thrush declares
+             The world is theirs--
+          Ah yes, how much he cares!
+
+TOGETHER. For those who sing, etc.
+
+DAUGHTER (looking up at him). It is a pretty song.
+
+SINGER. The words, I thought, were good. I liked the words.
+
+DAUGHTER. Who thinks of the words of a song if the tune be pretty?
+
+SINGER. But if the heart of the singer be in the words?
+
+DAUGHTER (suddenly, as, she gets up). Tell me about Chloe.
+
+SINGER (surprised). Chloe?
+
+DAUGHTER. Or whatever her name was.
+
+SINGER (hurt). I am not sure that I understand this conversation.
+
+DAUGHTER. I mean the first one.
+
+SINGER. I am not sure that I like this conversation.
+
+DAUGHTER. She was the first, wasn't she--the one who made you
+renounce the world and take to the road?
+
+SINGER (stiffly). Her name was not Chloe.
+
+DAUGHTER (coaxingly). What was it?
+
+SINGER (annoyed). Why rake up the dead ashes of the past? I was but
+a boy. It was five months ago. Besides, her name was Penelope.
+
+DAUGHTER. You still remember it, though it was so long ago?
+
+SINGER. I could have pretended to have forgotten, if it would have
+pleased you better.
+
+DAUGHTER (coldly). I? Oh, I am not interested.
+
+SINGER. Well, _I_ didn't start the subject. Perhaps, as neither of
+us is interested, I had better withdraw. Since we are to start this
+afternoon, I have much to see about. (Bowing) With your permission.
+
+DAUGHTER (stopping him). Don't go. I am sorry. I have been unkind.
+
+SINGER (smiling). Shall we practise that other song? Our voices
+agree, if our--our hearts do not.
+
+DAUGHTER (distressed). Oh, don't say that. We must be friends.
+
+SINGER. Only friends?
+
+DAUGHTER (gently). Tell me about her.
+
+SINGER. There is not much to tell, dear. I thought she loved me.
+Perhaps that was why I thought I loved her. When I told her, she
+pretended to be surprised. I don't think she was surprised. She
+was very pretty. (He pauses.)
+
+DAUGHTER. And hard?
+
+SINGER. It is not for me to say anything against her. It is through
+her that I came here.
+
+DAUGHTER. When you came here the other day, had you forgotten her?
+
+SINGER (singing). "Oh, let the wench, the wench be whom she will,
+so long as I can walk on Morland Hill." Didn't I say so on that
+first day?
+
+DAUGHTER. Of course, I know very little of the world, but I do
+wonder sometimes if people who sing about the joys of wandering are
+really enjoying it all the time.
+
+SINGER (looking round at the window). Is Johannes about?
+
+DAUGHTER (surprised). No.
+
+SINGER. Then I will be frank with you. Just lately _I_ have been
+wondering too.
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh!
+
+SINGER (rapidly). I have a house; you would like my house. I have
+a park; you would like the park. Horses to ride and jewels to wear.
+I go to London sometimes and see the King; you would like London.
+
+DAUGHTER (tragically). I have never been to London.
+
+SINGER (letting himself go suddenly). Sweetheart, all that I have--
+(In an ordinary whisper) Be careful, Fiddler just went past the
+window. (Keeping his arm round her, he breaks into the last line or
+two of his song. She joins in, as if they were rehearsing.)
+
+[Enter the FIDDLER.]
+
+SINGER (to DAUGHTER). Yes, I think we have it pretty well now. 'Tis
+a good song. (Turning round suddenly and seeing the FIDDLER). Ah,
+Fiddler, are you there? What do you think of it?
+
+FIDDLER. Isn't it time to start?
+
+SINGER. To start? Ah yes, we start this afternoon. Well, we have
+had a pleasant holiday and must get to work again.
+
+DAUGHTER (eagerly). And I am coming with you.
+
+FIDDLER. It is settled?
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh yes, I think so.
+
+FIDDLER. It is the best life. (TO DAUGHTER) Play something.
+
+[As the DAUGHTER goes to the spinet, the SINGER goes out.]
+
+(They play. When it is over, the DAUGHTER turns round and looks at
+the FIDDLER, and sighs.)
+
+DAUGHTER. That is all you want? Just you and your fiddle and the
+open road?
+
+FIDDLER. It is the best life.
+
+[The TALKER appears at the window.]
+
+TALKER. Aha! what did I hear? Did I hear our loquacious Fiddler
+perorating upon Life? "Life," quoth she, with much argument and
+circumstantial matter; "Life," she continued, making her points
+singly and one by one, thus keeping the business in its true
+perspective; "Life is--"(Lamely) Well, what is life?
+
+FIDDLER. When do we start, Johannes?
+
+[The DAUGHTER goes out.]
+
+TALKER. Are you so eager to be gone?
+
+FIDDLER. We have been here eight days.
+
+TALKER. Eight days! And Troy was besieged for eleven years! Eight
+days! Why, I could talk for eight days without taking breath, and I
+am by nature a glum, silent man. Nay, nay, say not to me "Eight
+days." Eight days will not make a man grow old or a woman lose her
+beauty. (The MOTHER comes into the room.) Or a woman lose her
+beauty--Madame, I kiss your hands. Were I of less girth I would
+flit through the window and fall upon my knees at your feet. (The
+FIDDLER with a shrug goes out.) As it is, I shall enter by the door
+in the usual way. I have your permission?
+
+MOTHER (smiling). You asked my permission a week ago. You do not
+need to ask it now.
+
+TALKER (still at the window). It has been a happy week. The week
+has liked me well.
+
+MOTHER. You take the road again this afternoon. Your plan still
+holds?
+
+TALKER (with a sigh). They say so, lady.
+
+MOTHER. Who say so? Is not Master Johannes the master of his
+company? Who say so?
+
+TALKER. The birds. I held converse with a cuckoo-bird this morning.
+"Cuckoo," he said--in this manner (he imitates it on his pipe)--
+meaning, as I gathered, "O fool!" I bowed low to him, and "Pardon,
+bird," said I,--"but I would have you tell me why I am a fool." He
+answered thus in parables--"Cuckoo."
+
+MOTHER. And what did _that_ mean?
+
+TALKER (sighing). It meant, "There's no fool like an old fool."
+
+(She looks away. He waits a little, then sighs again and leaves the
+window, entering a moment later by the door.)
+
+MOTHER (looking up). Well, Sir?
+
+TALKER. Madame, I am a man of good family, although--although I
+quarrelled with my good family. I left them many years ago and took
+to the road. I have seen something of the world since then, but I
+think I must always have had at the back of my mind some dim
+picture of what a home was--some ancient memory, perhaps. That
+memory has been very strong within me these last days.
+
+MOTHER. You have liked my home, Master Johannes?
+
+TALKER. I have liked it well. (He takes out his pipe and plays a
+melancholy "Cuckoo.") Well, well--we start this afternoon.
+
+MOTHER. You want my daughter?
+
+TALKER (sadly). Not your daughter, Madame.
+
+MOTHER. What is it you want? Are you so backward in asking? It is
+not like the Master Johannes who came to my house eight days ago.
+
+TALKER (taking his courage in his hands). Madame, though I have
+wandered about the world, I have saved some pennies in my time.
+A few trifling coins--enough for middle-age. Since I have had the
+great honour of knowing you--(He breaks of as the voice of the
+SINGER to full song is heard approaching.) Oh, God bless that poor
+young fool! Madame, I entreat you--
+
+MOTHER (rising and moving hastily away). Another time, dear
+Johannes--(she smiles very fondly at him as she goes out)--another
+time you must tell me--all.
+
+(The TALKER stares after her, hardly believing. Then, with an air
+of solemn happiness, he takes out his pipe and dances carefully but
+cheerfully round the room, piping to himself. The SINGER comes in
+singing merrily, He joins the TALKER at the end of the room, turns
+round with hint and trips up and down the room with him, one
+singing and the other piping.)
+
+TALKER. Friend, we are gay.
+
+SINGER. Very, very gay, Master Johannes. (They turn round and go up
+and down the room as before.)
+
+TALKER. Something is stirring our middle-aged blood. I feel years
+younger.
+
+SINGER. I have only just been born.
+
+TALKER (with a wave of the hand): Shall we take another turn?
+
+SINGER. At your pleasure. (They go up and down as before.)
+
+TALKER (looking at the other anxiously out of the corners of his
+eyes). What do you think has happened to us?
+
+SINGER (with a similar look). I--I wonder.
+
+TALKER (nervously). I suppose the fact that we are going off this
+afternoon--the joy of returning to our old gay life is--is
+affecting us?
+
+SINGER. I--I suppose so. (Without enthusiasm) Yes, that must be it.
+
+TALKER. This cauliflower existence, this settled life which even
+the least enterprising cabbage would find monotonous, we have had
+more than enough of it, my friend.
+
+SINGER. Yes. (He sighs deeply.) I sigh to think how we have wasted
+these eight days.
+
+TALKER. Ah! (He sighs still more deeply.) However, Heaven be
+praised, we are for the road this afternoon.
+
+SINGER (gloomily). Heaven be praised! It is a grand life.
+
+TALKER (carelessly). Of course, if you came to me and said,
+"Johannes," you said, "I left my home in a fit of melancholy five
+months agone; the melancholy is cured, I will return home again"--
+why, I would say, "God bless you, Master Duke; go your way." Well,
+I can understand such a thing happening to a man of your age, not
+born to the wandering as I am.
+
+SINGER. Bless you, Johannes, you are a true gentleman.
+
+TALKER (airily). Say no more, say no more.
+
+SINGER. But I cannot accept this sacrifice. I pledged myself to
+serve you for a year, and I'll keep my pledge.
+
+TALKER (considerably upset by this). Wait a moment, Master Duke;
+I have myself thought of retiring these many months past. Indeed,
+it was only for your sake--
+
+SINGER. No, no, I cannot allow it. It is only for my sake that you
+are saying this. We will take the road this afternoon. (Heroically)
+Indeed, I would infinitely prefer it. I am enamoured of the
+wandering life.
+
+TALKER. It is a great life. It means everything to me.
+
+(They stand side by side looking gloomily in front of them.
+Gradually they begin to glance towards each other; they catch each
+other's eyes--and understand each other thoroughly.)
+
+TALKER (clapping the SINGER heartily on the back). I knew it, I
+knew it! You and the wandering life!
+
+SINGER (delightedly). You, too, Johannes! You've had enough of it!
+
+(They suddenly turn round and go up and down the room together,
+piping and singing. A genteel cough is heard outside the window,
+and the MOTHER is seen for a moment. The TALKER turns round with
+his pipe to his lips. They go up the room together again, and at
+the top the TALKER, with a wave of the hand, leaves his companion
+and goes out. He is seen passing the window.)
+
+[The DAUGHTER comes in.]
+
+SINGER. Sweetheart!
+
+DAUGHTER (going to him). Is it all right?
+
+SINGER. Everything is all right, beloved.
+
+DAUGHTER. You have told him?
+
+SINGER (nodding). It couldn't have fallen out better. He, too, was
+tired of wandering and wanted to settle down.
+
+DAUGHTER. I told mother. She seemed glad. You know, I think she
+seems younger about something.
+
+[Enter FIDDLER.]
+
+FIDDLER. Are we starting this afternoon?
+
+DAUGHTER. Oh, Fiddler dear, do you mind very much? (She holds out
+her hand, and the SINGER takes it.) We aren't coming at all. We--we--
+
+SINGER. We are getting married.
+
+FIDDLER (nodding to herself). I thought so.
+
+DAUGHTER. But you will come and stay with us sometimes. Oh, say you
+will!
+
+SINGER (smiling at FIDDLER with great friendliness). Of course she
+will.
+
+(The TALKER and the MOTHER are seen coming least the windows.)
+
+FIDDLER. There's Johannes. I expect we shall be starting this
+afternoon.
+
+[The TALKER and the MOTHER come in arm-in-arm. He bows to her and
+takes the floor.]
+
+TALKER. Ladies and gentlemen, companions-in-arms, knights and
+ladies of the road, comrades all,--I have the honour to make an
+announcement to you. The wandering company of the Red Feathers is
+determined from this date, likewise disbanded, or, as others would
+say, dissolved. "What means this, Master Johannes?" I hear you say.
+"Who has done this thing?" Ladies and gentles all, I answer you
+that young Cupid has done this thing. With unerring aim he has
+loosed his arrows. With the same happy arrow (taking the MOTHER'S
+hand) he has pierced the hearts of this gracious lady and myself,
+while yonder gallant gentleman I name no names, but the
+perspicacious will perceive whom I mean--is about to link his life
+with the charming maiden who stands so modestly by his side. There
+is one other noble lady present to whom I have not yet referred--
+
+FIDDLER (holding out her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go.
+Good-bye, and thank you.
+
+MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear.
+
+TALKER (continuing his speech)--noble lady to whom I have not yet
+referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the
+fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish
+of (swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should
+take up her abode with us.
+
+FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think--
+
+DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she
+promised.
+
+MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be
+much more suitable that she should live with _us_.
+
+SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see
+you whenever she liked.
+
+MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and
+come and see _you_ sometimes.
+
+TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to
+this? For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year,
+she shall live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her
+habitation with us; whereas for the other six months--(They have
+been so busy discussing the future of the FIDDLER that they have
+not noticed that she is no longer there. Suddenly the sound of the
+fiddle is heard.) What's that?
+
+[The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in
+it. She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content
+again. She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them
+a little bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She
+goes out of the door, still playing; she is still playing as she
+goes past the windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she
+is gone they still listen until the music dies in the distance.]
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, FIRST PLAYS ***
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