path: root/78748-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78748 ***




Transcriber’s Note: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores:
_italics_.




                              FOUR PLAYS




                         PLAYS BY A. A. MILNE

                                   ·

                              FIRST PLAYS

            _Containing_:--Wurzel-Flummery; The Lucky One;
            The Boy comes Home; Belinda; The Red Feathers.
                          _Sixth Impression._


                             SECOND PLAYS

            _Containing_:--Make-Believe; Mr. Pim Passes By;
             The Camberley Triangle; The Romantic Age; The
                    Stepmother. _Sixth Impression._


                              THREE PLAYS

              _Containing_:--The Great Broxopp; The Dover
                     Road; The Truth about Blayds.
                         _Second Impression._

                  CR. 8VO; UNIFORM; 7s. 6d. NET EACH.




                              FOUR PLAYS

                            BY A. A. MILNE


                                LONDON
                            CHATTO & WINDUS
                                 1926




  Applications regarding Amateur Performances of these Plays should
  be addressed to Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street,
  W.C.2. Applications for other rights to Curtis Brown, Ltd., 6
  Henrietta Street, W.C.2.


             Printed in Great Britain: all rights reserved




                               CONTENTS


                                                                  PAGE
  TO HAVE THE HONOUR                                                 1
    ACT I                                                            3
    ACT II                                                          33
    ACT III                                                         62

  ARIADNE, OR BUSINESS FIRST                                        87
    ACT I                                                           89
      Scene 1                                                       89
      Scene 2                                                      102
    ACT II                                                         114
    ACT III                                                        136

  PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN IN SLIPPERS                              159

  SUCCESS                                                          179
    ACT I                                                          181
    ACT II                                                         212
      Scene 1                                                      212
      Scene 2                                                      232
    ACT III                                                        238
      Scene 1                                                      238
      Scene 2                                                      253




                          TO HAVE THE HONOUR

                        A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS




                              CHARACTERS


                       SIMON BATTERSBY.
                       ANGELA (_his daughter_).
                       JENNIFER.
                       PARLOURMAID.
                       CAPTAIN HOLT.
                       ETHEL HOLT.
                       MRS. FAITHFULL.
                       IMOGEN FAITHFULL.
                       DOCTOR AINSLIE.
                       PRINCE MICHAEL.
                       JAMES OLIVER.


_The living-room in Simon Battersby’s cottage, Wych Trentham._

                      ACT I.      Before dinner.
                      ACT II.     After dinner.
                      ACT III.    Next morning.


This play was first produced by Sir Gerald du Maurier at Wyndham’s
Theatre on April 22, 1924, with the following cast:

               _Simon Battersby_       H. O. NICHOLSON.
               _Angela_                FAITH CELLI.
               _Jennifer_              MADGE TITHERADGE.
               _Captain Holt_          BASIL LODER.
               _Ethel Holt_            UNA VENNING.
               _Mrs. Faithfull_        GRACE LANE.
               _Imogen_                JOAN CLEMENT SCOTT.
               _Dr. Ainslie_           ERIC STANLEY.
               _Prince Michael_        GERALD DU MAURIER.
               _James Oliver_          GEORGE PENN.
               _Parlourmaid_           DORIS COOPER.




                                ACT I


  _The Scene is the Living-room in the country cottage of the_
  BATTERSBYS _(father and daughter), a room of oak-beams,
  distempered walls and lattice windows. At the back, between the
  windows is a door, wide open to the garden. There is a door on
  the right which leads to the other inhabited parts of the house.
  Along the left side of the room a staircase ascends easily, to
  meet at right angles a low gallery from which bedrooms may be
  reached. The door on the left of the gallery is that of_ ANGELA’S
  _room. To the right the gallery leads to_ BATTERSBY’S _room and
  the bathroom. Underneath the stairs is a “glory-hole” with a
  curtain across it._

  _It is nearly 8 o’clock on a warm evening in May. Being summer
  time it is still full daylight, and no attempt has been made to
  pretend otherwise. The women’s dresses must take their chance.
  Time enough to light up after dinner, particularly as electricity
  has not yet discovered Wych Trentham._

  ANGELA, _aged 18, half-dressed, in rather a casual wrap,
  cigarette-holder in mouth, is moving about the room with a slow,
  indifferent grace, which is much too charming to be a physical
  attribute only. Her indolence, both of voice and movement, is
  part of herself; she has the air--odd, and therefore attractive,
  on such a youthful prettiness--of living in another world, with a
  faint smile for this one. At present she is tidying up the room
  for her dinner-party; not with any sort of fussiness; but in the
  care-free manner of one to whom it has occurred casually in the
  middle of her dressing that Royalty may be here at any moment,
  and that her father’s dog-bitten slippers may be in any corner of
  the room. While we watch her, she stoops down and collects one
  from underneath the sofa; looks thoughtfully about, moves a chair
  and discloses the other one. She takes the pair and drops them in
  the glory-hole. Then she speaks, raising her voice a little._

ANGELA. Are you out of the bath, Father?

  (_She goes on tidying: old newspapers now._ BATTERSBY _opens the
  door of his bedroom and looks out_.)

BATTERSBY. In a sense, yes, dear. I was just going in.

ANGELA (_to herself_). Good Heavens!

BATTERSBY. I’m very quick. (_His head begins to go back._)

ANGELA. You’ve put the wine out? (_Silence._ BATTERSBY’S _head stops
its movement_.) Oh Lord, he hasn’t.

BATTERSBY (_firmly, as he comes out, tying his dressing-gown_). I
_am_ putting the wine out. (_He comes down the stairs; a man of about
50, tall and bearded. In a towelled bath-gown and bedroom slippers
he is unconventionally dressed for the dining-room, but you feel
that he would always be a little like that. He has a quick, nervous
way of talking, as if he were communing, rather apologetically, with
himself._) And the cigars. (_He goes into the glory-hole._)

ANGELA (_resigned_). Anyway, everybody knows we’re always late in
this house.

BATTERSBY (_coming out with two boxes of cigars_). _He_ wouldn’t know.

ANGELA. Well, he will after to-night.

BATTERSBY. That’s true.... There are only four of the good cigars
left.

ANGELA. Surely he won’t want more than four?

BATTERSBY. One requires a certain margin.... And then there are the
others. This secretary fellow, Holt, and the Doctor, isn’t it? Five
with me.

ANGELA. I can’t have my medical attendant puffing cigars in a
hygienic house like this.

BATTERSBY. He’d prefer his pipe, in any case. So, if Holt has one of
the cheaper brand, and the secretary and I have one good one each,
that will leave two for the Prince. (_He puts the four Coronas on top
of a broken box of cheaper ones._) I shall tell Holt that the lower
ones are nuttier. What about the wine? Champagne, I suppose.

ANGELA (_thoughtfully_). Emily broke the corkscrew the last time we
had champagne. I wonder if we’ve got another.

BATTERSBY. That was an inferior brand. I have some better than that.

ANGELA. She’d better make a popping noise as she takes the cork
out--to be on the safe side. Have you got enough?

BATTERSBY. A dozen.

ANGELA. Half a bottle each, and seven and a half bottles for the
Prince. That ought to be all right.

BATTERSBY. My dear, you’re looking forward to seeing him again just
as much as I am. (_Opening an empty box_) I suppose you’ve got some
cigarettes.

ANGELA. Some.... A Prince seems much more natural in the South of
France. You sit next to him at lunch, and he’s like anybody else. In
England you feel a snob to be meeting him at all.

BATTERSBY. He invited himself. _We_ didn’t ask him.

ANGELA. I don’t say I _am_ a snob. I say I _feel_ a snob.

BATTERSBY. Pooh! What’s a Prince?

ANGELA. And I don’t say I _feel_ undressed, I _am_ undressed. (_She
pulls her wrap round her, and strolls upstairs._) Go and tell Emily
about the champagne.

BATTERSBY. Prince Michael Robolski of Neo-Slavonia--there are
hundreds like that all over Europe. Penny plain, twopence coloured.

ANGELA (_on the stairs_). Yes, but only one in Wych Trentham. So we
must make the most of him. (_She goes into her room._)

BATTERSBY (_mumbling to himself_). What’s a Prince in this democratic
age? (_He goes kitchenwards._)

  (_The room is empty for a moment, and then_ JENNIFER _appears at
  the garden door. She is 30, and so overflowing with vitality that
  some of it has got into her figure, and led to the word “buxom”
  being used. But she is tall enough, and big enough, mentally and
  physically, to carry it off with an air. She enjoys her world;
  she enjoys herself. It is jolly being_ JENNIFER.... _Nobody is
  about, so she announces herself._)

JENNIFER (_loudly_). _How_ do you do? So good of you to come.
(_Shyly_) So kind of you to ask me.

ANGELA (_off_). Oh, is that you, darling?

JENNIFER. Yes. At least it was yesterday. It’s Jennifer.

ANGELA (_appearing in the gallery_). You’re early, aren’t you?

JENNIFER. I haven’t really come yet. Am I dining?

ANGELA. Of course. Life and soul of the party.

JENNIFER. That’s a comfort. I just stepped across to make sure.
Last time, you remember, you sent me away and told me to come in
afterwards. Luckily I had a little cold beef in the house. But
there’s something about sitting down to cold beef and pickles in
diamonds and a dress with no back to it----Well, I just stepped
across to make sure. And now I’ll step back again.

ANGELA. Oh, stop now you’re here!

  (_She disappears into her room for a moment, but_ JENNIFER
  _doesn’t realise that she is gone_.)

JENNIFER. Good gracious, no! And be introduced to the Prince with a
crowd of others? Never on your life! I shall make a late but superb
entry. All the men will look at me, and say, “Thank God, now we can
eat”; and all the women will look at me and say (quite correctly),
“She came late on purpose, how like her”; and the Prince will look at
me, with a sudden reviving interest in what he had feared would be a
very dull evening, and he’ll say, “_Chère Madame_”--Or does he talk
English? (_There is no answer. She realises that she is alone._) Have
I been soliloquising all this time?

ANGELA (_coming out_). Sorry. What did you say?

JENNIFER. My last words, when solitude descended upon me, were, “Does
he talk English?”

ANGELA. Perfectly. (_She comes slowly downstairs, still smoking._)

JENNIFER. You should have mentioned it in your invitation. We’ve all
been rubbing up our _Easy French in Six Lessons_. Well, then, the
Prince will say, “Ah, dear Lady, this was indeed worth waiting for.”
No, that isn’t very good. Well--anyhow--he’ll look at me. And there’s
more of me to look at every day.

ANGELA. It is ridiculous of you to pretend that you’re fat. Why do
you?

JENNIFER. I don’t. No woman pretends she’s fat. But every woman
over thirty is afraid. On her thirtieth birthday she starts looking
at herself in the glass, and saying, “Is it, or is it not?” And a
morning comes when she says, “I wonder.” I said it this morning. I
say, where _is_--wherever it is?

ANGELA. Neo-Slavonia? I don’t know. (_With a wave of her cigarette_)
Down at the bottom on the right, I suppose. Somewhere.

JENNIFER. They make geography so quickly nowadays that I can’t keep
up with it.

ANGELA. A sort of buffer-state. (_She gives_ JENNIFER _her
ear-rings_.) There’s a dear. I shall make a mess of my hair.

JENNIFER (_fixing them_). If one has never heard of a country, one
always calls it “a sort of buffer-state.” “Miss Angela Battersby
was wearing the family drops.” It must be difficult to feel very
patriotic about a country which is only used so as to prevent two
other countries from getting at each other.... Other ear.

ANGELA (_turning round_). It’s never difficult to feel very patriotic.

JENNIFER. True. At least it’s never difficult to feel how very
unpatriotic other people are.... My buffer, ’tis of thee!... Is he
very good-looking?

ANGELA. Not bad.

JENNIFER. And, to get down to my own class, what’s the secretary
like?... There!

ANGELA (_looking at herself in the glass_). Thanks.... We haven’t
seen him. The Prince wrote to say that he was in London. Could
he--and so on? I said, Delighted. Then he wrote that he and his
secretary were at the Bull at Medenham. Could they--and so forth? I
said, Of course. I suppose he’s a sort of courier, equerry, orderly,
or whatever you call it. I must go and finish myself. (_She goes._)

JENNIFER. Well, speaking as a widow with no desire to marry again, I
wish you luck.

ANGELA (_smiling mysteriously at her from half-way up the stairs_).
Don’t be vulgar, Jennifer.

JENNIFER. I like being vulgar. It suits my shape. Anyhow, darling,
promise that I shall be the first to hear.

ANGELA. You’re sure to be, I should think. You’re quite capable of
hiding behind a tree, and listening. (_She goes into her room._)

JENNIFER (_complacently_). I am. (_Surveying herself_) And thank you
for “tree,” darling. I was afraid you were going to say “bush” or
“clump.” (_Going._) About another quarter-of-an-hour, do you think,
for my entry? (ANGELA _calls out something_.) What?

ANGELA (_putting her head out_). You haven’t got any French mustard,
have you?

JENNIFER (_doubtfully_). _With_ French mustard, you think?

ANGELA. I knew I’d forgotten something.

JENNIFER. I’ll bring some round, if you like.

ANGELA (_retiring_). Do.

JENNIFER. I will.

  (_At which moment_ BATTERSBY _comes back from the cellar_.)

BATTERSBY. Hallo, Jennifer, good-evening.

JENNIFER. Good-evening, Simon. (_Reproachfully_) You never told me it
was court dress!

BATTERSBY. What? Oh! (_Looking at himself_) Just going to have a
bath. You couldn’t be much sweller than you are, could you?

JENNIFER (_anxiously_). Much--what?

BATTERSBY. Much more grand.

JENNIFER (_re-assured_). Oh! Just for a moment I----Well, a train and
feathers.

BATTERSBY. He isn’t really royalty, you know. Neo-Slavonia is only----

JENNIFER (_nodding_). A sort of buffer-state.

BATTERSBY. Exactly. And though, I understand, he’s related to the
reigning house----

JENNIFER. There’s no chance of Angela being a queen.

ANGELA (_from her bedroom_). Send that woman away, Father. And for
goodness’ sake, get dressed.

BATTERSBY. It’s Jennifer, dear.

ANGELA. It sounded like Mrs. Bulger.

JENNIFER. It is, darling.

BATTERSBY (_throwing up his hands_). If only it weren’t! _Why_
did.... I mean, _why_ don’t.... (_He shudders._)

JENNIFER (_innocently_). Don’t you like my name?

BATTERSBY. It’s a horrible name.

JENNIFER. I love it. Jennifer Bulger, widow of the late General James
Bulger, C.B. It’s sweet.

BATTERSBY. It may have been all right for _him_--we never knew
him--but for _you_! Jennifer!

JENNIFER. No, no, you mustn’t propose in your dressing-gown.

ANGELA (_off_). Is Father proposing _again_?

BATTERSBY (_shouting_). This is not a proposal. It’s an æsthetic
impulse. (_To_ JENNIFER) I want you to have a name which becomes you.
You ought to be Jennifer Battersby, even at the cost of marrying _me_.

JENNIFER. Dear Simon, nice Simon. You know you don’t mean it.

BATTERSBY. I mean it, every time.... But I must admit that I’m always
a little relieved when you refuse me.

JENNIFER. Dear Simon, of course you are.

ANGELA (_looking out_). Oh, _come_ on, Father!

JENNIFER (_soothingly_). I won’t marry you.

BATTERSBY. Yes, but I don’t think you must marry anybody else.
Promise me that you won’t marry the Prince without my permission.

JENNIFER. Good gracious, that’s two of us after him already!
(_Firmly_) I promise nothing, but that I shall enjoy myself to-night.

BATTERSBY. You always do. That’s why you’re so adorable.

ANGELA (_from the gallery_). Give him a smile, Jennifer, and get rid
of him.

JENNIFER (_laughing happily_). I do like Battersbys. There’s
something about them.... _Au revoir!_ (_She waves and is gone._)

                            (BATTERSBY _at last goes up to his bath_.)

ANGELA. Hurry up, darling.

BATTERSBY (_impressively_). Have you ever seen forked lightning
playing over water? That’s me in my bath. (_He disappears._)

  (ANGELA _remains on the gallery, as_ EMILY, _the parlourmaid,
  comes in with a tray of cocktails_.)

ANGELA. Are those the cocktails, Emily?

EMILY. Yes, miss.

ANGELA. Good. (_She comes slowly downstairs, still smoking._)

EMILY. Ellen says I was to remind you about the French mustard, miss.

ANGELA. Mrs. Bulger is bringing some round. (_She takes a cocktail._)

EMILY. Thank you, miss. (_Nervously_) Do I say, “Your Royal
Highness,” miss?

ANGELA. I really don’t know. (_Drinking_) “Your Highness,” I should
think. But don’t overdo it.

EMILY. Thank you, miss.

ANGELA. He won’t throw anything at you, if you’re wrong. (_Finishing
her drink, and giving_ EMILY _the glass_) You’d better take this out.
(_She goes back to her room._)

EMILY. Yes, miss.

                                                      [_She goes out._

  (ROBERT _and_ ETHEL HOLT _come in. He, a thick-set young
  soldier, is just over 30, she just under. He is a very serious
  young man, of a sort of determined intellectuality. Nothing
  escapes him. Even the lightest remark made by another requires
  thinking out. She is a bright helpmeet for such a man, the best
  of wives; with, like most wives, more intelligence than appears
  on the surface, and enough character to look after herself._)

ETHEL (_brightly_). Why, we’re the first!

ROBERT (_feeling his chin_). I might have gone over it again, after
all.

ETHEL. Better early than late. Particularly with royalty.

ROBERT. Hardly royalty, dear. Neo-Slavonia ... one of these small
buffer-states which have sprung up since the Armistice. All
Mittel-Europa----

ETHEL. (_loudly_). We’re here, Angela! Are we very early? (_To_
ROBERT) Yes, dear.

ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa----

ANGELA (_off_). Hallo! Is that the Holts?

ETHEL. You did say eight, didn’t you?

ANGELA (_her head visible_). Did I? We’re a bit late, I expect. Do
you want to take anything off?

ETHEL. No, thank you, dear.

ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa----

ANGELA. Have a drink, Robert.

ROBERT. Thanks.

ANGELA. Cigarettes. (_A leather case sails into the room._) Sorry.

ETHEL (_picking it up_). Thank you, dear.

ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa----(_Holding out drink_) Will you have one,
Ethel?

ETHEL. I don’t think so. Well, perhaps I will. No, later, I think.
(_She feels that she would like Royalty to see her drinking
one._) I’ll keep the Prince company. (_She laughs a little
self-consciously._) Cigarette?

ROBERT. No, thanks. (_He drinks._)

ETHEL. I don’t think I will either. What were you saying about all
Mittel-Europa, dear?

ROBERT (_drinking_). All Mittel-Europa is in a state of flux just now.

ETHEL (_wearing her intelligent face_). I suppose so. Naturally. The
War, of course. And the Peace.

ROBERT. The old Empires are splitting up--disintegrating. A sort of
de-centralisation is going on. And so you get these small states
coming into a precarious existence. Almost literally a case of “Here
to-day and gone to-morrow.”

ETHEL. You must talk it over with the Prince--if he talks English,
as I suppose he does. They all do, don’t they? I love listening to a
good talk. Men talk so well, I always think.... They say he’s very
good-looking.

ROBERT. In many cases, of course, these little states have a
connected history of their own. Centuries ago, before they were
absorbed into some ramshackle empire, they had their own court and
customs. You would probably find that they had never quite lost their
individuality.

ETHEL. Individuality is the great thing, isn’t it? Oh, did you find
out whether we said Sir or Your Highness or Prince?

ROBERT. I shall say Sir, of course. You’d better not say anything.

ETHEL. Yes, that’s best, isn’t it?

  (ANGELA _still in her wrap, empty cigarette-holder in her mouth,
  comes down the stairs_.)

ANGELA. Can I have my cigarettes?

ROBERT (_standing to attention_). Good-evening.

ETHEL (_brightly_). How _are_ you, dear? Here you are. (_She goes,
case in hand, to kiss her._)

ANGELA (_taking the case and avoiding the kiss_). Thanks.

ETHEL (_with a little laugh_). We were just wondering what one called
your Prince.

ANGELA (_putting in a cigarette_). As long as you don’t call him _my_
Prince, I don’t mind what you call him. I’ve only met him once.

ROBERT. Oh, is that so? Monte Carlo, wasn’t it? (_He strikes a match
for her._)

ANGELA. Thanks.... That village above Mentone--what’s its name?
Gorbio. We went there one day. With a party. Sort of picnic. He was
one of them.

ETHEL (_with the air of one who knows Gorbio well_). Oh, yes.

ANGELA (_strolling upstairs again_). Shan’t be long.

                                                (_They watch her go._)

ETHEL (_as soon as it is safe_). Well, if you ask _me_, I should say
that Miss Angela Battersby must have made good use of that one day.

ROBERT (_uncomfortably, feeling that this is rather bad form_). Oh, I
don’t know.

ETHEL. I mean it quite nicely, of course. I can quite see the
attraction. She’s so very British, isn’t she? That would always
attract a foreigner.

ROBERT (_wondering if his country is being insulted_). British?

ETHEL. That air of “Oh, is that _you_?”

ROBERT. I don’t see that that’s British exactly. I should call it the
individual rather than the type.

ETHEL. You know what I mean. (_With sudden inspiration_) “I’m Angela
Battersby, take it or leave it.” There!--that’s what I mean. I think
it’s rather attractive.

ROBERT (_frowning_). But why British?

ETHEL. Well, that’s rather what Englishmen say.

ROBERT (_wrestling_). H’m!... I see what you mean.... In a
way--yes.... I suppose we do. (_He looks at her with an admiration
that would be flattering if it were not surprised._) Now what made
you think of that?

ETHEL. Oh, I’m not such a fool as you think.

ROBERT. I have never thought so for a moment. Women often have
surprising intuitions.... “I am an Englishman, take it or leave it.”
That’s good, Ethel. I must tell the Prince that.

ETHEL (_eagerly_). You will say I said it, won’t you?

ROBERT. My dear, of course.

ETHEL (_taking his arm_). Dear old boy! Let’s go into the garden.
It’s nicer outside.

ROBERT (_coming_). You’re quite right, Ethel. We do.

ETHEL. Do what?

ROBERT. That’s why so many foreigners----

ETHEL (_as they approach the door_). Mrs. Faithfull--I didn’t know
_she_ was coming.

  (_But she is. For here they are at the door--the Queen of Wych
  Trentham, and her only child_, IMOGEN. MRS. FAITHFULL, _short
  and square, with the absolute assurance of a woman of 55 who has
  to her credit the achievements of wifehood and motherhood, and
  can therefore speak with authority on all subjects, exercises
  her prerogatives benignly. Practically all it comes to is that
  she expects the host to take her in. At present she is very
  much a mother to_ IMOGEN, _who at 18_, ANGELA’S _age, is a dumb
  school-girl in the royal presence, and a precocious one in her
  absence_.)

ETHEL (_brightly_). Good-evening. Angela’s still dressing. We’re
early, so we’re just going into the garden. (_Which explains the
whole thing._)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Good-evening, Ethel. Good-evening, Captain Holt.

ROBERT. Good-evening. (_To_ IMOGEN) How are _you_, Miss Faithfull?

                                              (IMOGEN _smiles shyly_.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Very well, thank you, Captain Holt.

ETHEL (_to_ IMOGEN). What a sweet dress, dear. (IMOGEN _looks
modest_.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Pink suits us. We always try to keep to pink.

ANGELA (_off_). Is that you, Mrs. Faithfull? Do you want to take
anything off, or would you rather have a cocktail?

MRS. FAITHFULL. I will just come up for a moment, I think. (_To_
IMOGEN) You can keep that shawl on, dear, for the present. It suits
you. (_She goes up the stairs._)

ANGELA (_off_). Robert, give Imogen a cigar or a drink or something.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_firmly_). No, thank you, Captain Holt. (_She goes
into_ ANGELA’S _room_.)

ETHEL (_to_ IMOGEN). Come into the garden with us. It’s cooler there.

ROBERT (_with glass_). Sure you won’t?

IMOGEN (_to_ ETHEL). Have _you_ had one?

ETHEL. No, I don’t think just yet, perhaps.

IMOGEN. Oh! (_She takes the drink._) Then I will. And Mother will
count and think it’s your glass. (_Drinking_) I don’t like the taste
_very_ much, do you? I suppose you get used to it. I say, aren’t you
excited about the Prince? Do you think he’s a real Prince? Do you
think he’s in love with Angela? (_She drinks again._) I don’t think I
like this very much.

ROBERT (_holding out his hand_). I shouldn’t drink it if you don’t
like it.

IMOGEN (_before letting go of the glass_). Would _you_ leave half of
yours, Mrs. Holt?

ETHEL. I might. I do sometimes.

IMOGEN. Oh, then that’s all right. (_To_ ROBERT) Thank you. (_To_
ETHEL) Do we curtsey?

ETHEL (_who hadn’t thought of this_). Oh, no! I don’t----(_Panic._)

IMOGEN. I’ve been practising. Up in my room. (_She gives us
one._) It looks jolly, doesn’t it? I’ve been doing it in front of
the glass--mostly in a nightie. (_She gives us another, not so
successful._) It’s easier in a nightie.

ETHEL. Oh, but Robert has just been explaining. Neo-Slavonia is
only----

ROBERT. A sort of buffer-state.

IMOGEN. Mother says you just call him Prince Michael. I like “Sire”
better, don’t you? You’ve never met him, have you? I believe he’s
awfully good-looking.

ROBERT. It isn’t like an English Prince, you know, Miss Faithfull.
You know, in Europe, “Prince” is just a title like Duke or Count.
That is to say----

ETHEL. Oh, is that so, Robert?

IMOGEN. Let’s go into the garden, shall we? I won’t smoke a
cigarette, but if _you_ would, Mrs. Holt, and blow the smoke in my
hair, Mother will think I’ve been smoking, and then you’ll be able to
tell her afterwards that I haven’t.

ETHEL (_her arm round_ IMOGEN). Come on, you funny girl. (_They go
out_, ROBERT _still holding forth_.)

ROBERT (_following_). This Prince Michael, you know, is probably not
of the Royal Family--such as it is. A distant connection, perhaps,
but----

                                                     [_They are gone._

                (MRS. FAITHFULL _and_ ANGELA _appear in the gallery_.)

ANGELA (_as they come downstairs_). Have a cocktail, won’t you?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Thank you.

  (_She comes down_; ANGELA _after her, still undressed, still
  smoking_.)

ANGELA. Help yourself.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_helping herself_). He talks English, of course?

ANGELA. Oh, yes.

MRS. FAITHFULL. That’s a comfort. About how old, would you say?

ANGELA. Thirty-five. Forty.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, as old as that? Good-looking?

ANGELA. All right.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Who else are coming?

ANGELA. Dr. Ainslie.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_disapproving_). Oh!

ANGELA. Jennifer.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_disapproving in a different way_). Ah!... There’s
something about her which would appeal to a foreigner, don’t you
think?

ANGELA. Why to a foreigner, particularly?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Her figure is a little--foreign, don’t you think?

ANGELA (_indifferently_). Is it?

MRS. FAITHFULL. What sort of stays does she wear--if any? In my young
days when stays _were_ stays, you either had a ridge across the back
or you hadn’t. Nowadays, there’s nothing to tell you whether they
wear them or they don’t.

ANGELA. We’ll ask her at dinner to-night.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Not in front of Imogen, dear, if you don’t mind.

ANGELA. Doesn’t she know about them?

MRS. FAITHFULL. She’s looking sweet to-night, don’t you think? I’m
sure the Prince will think so. A little English wild rose. And have
_you_ a pretty dress for us?

ANGELA. Same old blue.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_relieved_). Ah!... But it suits you very well, dear.

ANGELA. It’s had long enough to get used to me.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Still, if the Prince has never seen it----

BATTERSBY (_off_). Angela!

ANGELA. Hallo!

BATTERSBY. May I wear my old coat and a soft shirt?

ANGELA. Why ever not?

BATTERSBY. Holt will have a white waistcoat, I suppose?

ANGELA (_to_ MRS. FAITHFULL). Had he?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, yes! (_Loudly_) Yes, Mr. Battersby.

BATTERSBY. Oh, is that you, Mrs. Faithfull? Sorry I’m not ready.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_a little primly_). It’s quite all right, thank you.

BATTERSBY. Well, then, Angela, if Holt has a white waistcoat, and
I have a soft shirt, and Ainslie has an ordinary tail-coat with a
stethoscope in it, the Prince is bound to be all right, _whatever_ he
wears.

ANGELA. The perfect host.

BATTERSBY (_loudly_). What?

ANGELA. Soft shirt, darling.

BATTERSBY. Good! Shan’t be a moment, Mrs. Faithfull.

MRS. FAITHFULL. That’s all right, thank you. Angela is looking
after me.... I always think Mr. Battersby looks so artistic in his
velvet coat.... Of course this is quite an informal visit of Prince
Michael’s.

ANGELA. Naturally.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Did you see much of him at Monte?

ANGELA. We met him.

MRS. FAITHFULL. And he said, could he come and see you when he was in
England?

ANGELA. He did say something about it, I believe.

MRS. FAITHFULL. They often say it, but they don’t always come.

ANGELA (_sympathetically_). Don’t they?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Well, of course, I don’t encourage it for Imogen. Not
abroad. You never know Who _is_ Who.

ANGELA. As long as they’re amusing----

MRS. FAITHFULL. The amusing ones are never Who. You can depend on
that.

ANGELA. Then we’re in for a dull evening.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, a Prince is different. Prince Michael----(_Very
carelessly_) We just call him Prince Michael, I suppose. An informal
visit, naturally. I told Imogen, yes--he is sure to be interesting.
(_Vaguely_) All Europe just now, I think. New groupings of
nationalities. One so rarely hears the real truth. I am told that we
are much nearer to another world-war than we think. The Prince must
tell us. I suppose Neo-Slavonia _is_ pro-Ally?

ANGELA. Are there any allies now? They’re fond of the English, I
believe.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, well, that’s a good thing.

                                 (_They are interrupted by_ JENNIFER.)

JENNIFER (_at the open door_). French mustard. Don’t tell me I ought
to have gone to the back door with it.

ANGELA. Oh, thanks. (_She puts the mustard on the table, and calls
out._) Emily!

JENNIFER (_to_ MRS. FAITHFULL). Good-evening, dear. What a charming
dress! (_To_ ANGELA) May I go back and change mine?

MRS. FAITHFULL (_pleased_). We must do what we can when there are so
many pretty young ones round us.

JENNIFER (_with a charming, modest laugh_). Oh, how sweet----(_The
laugh stops suddenly. In which group is she included? She says
solemnly_) Yes. We must.

ANGELA (_indicating cocktail_). Have one?

JENNIFER. My dear, I daren’t.

ANGELA. You _are_ absurd.

EMILY (_coming in_). Yes, miss?

ANGELA (_nodding at it_). Mustard.

                                       [EMILY _takes it and goes out_.

JENNIFER (_resigned_). I suppose I shan’t see _that_ again.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Angela was just telling me that the Neo-Slavonians
are very fond of the English.

JENNIFER. Yes, Gladstone or somebody said something in 1874 which
they have never quite forgotten ... but which I have.

ANGELA. What sort of thing?

JENNIFER. Legitimate aspirations ... which _although_ ... _yet_ ...
in the not far-distant future----_You_ know how they talk.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_nodding profoundly_). It is curious to think that if
Mr. Gladstone had never said--whatever exactly it was--fifty years
ago, Prince Michael mightn’t have been dining here to-night.

JENNIFER. And if Mr. Faithfull had never said “I love you”
twenty-five years ago, Imogen mightn’t have been dining here to-night.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_stiffly_). That doesn’t strike me as so curious.

JENNIFER. Still, it is interesting. Angela, darling, if you don’t get
dressed, nobody will be dining here to-night.

ANGELA (_lounging off_). I’m just ready. (_She goes up._) The others
are in the garden.

JENNIFER. I saw a pretty pink butterfly on the lawn. I suppose that
was Imogen.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_absently_). Yes, we always wear pink in the evening.

JENNIFER (_suddenly_). Isn’t it funny that there aren’t any pink
butterflies? I’d never thought of it before. Reds and yellows and
blues and browns and purples, but no pinks. I wonder why?

MRS. FAITHFULL (_who doesn’t wonder why_). We shall know one day, I
daresay.

JENNIFER. I’d rather know now, because I’m sure to forget later
on. There will be so many questions to ask when we get to Heaven.
(_Childishly_) What’s your first one? I’ll tell you what mine is. I
shall say, “Now, _what_ about all those stars? What were they there
for?”

  (MRS. FAITHFULL _feels uncomfortably that there is nothing
  about this in the Church of England Services, and gets back to
  butterflies_.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. The General must have seen many beautiful butterflies
in India.

JENNIFER. He didn’t talk about them.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_coming to the point_). What did happen at Monte, do
you know?

JENNIFER (_at a loss_). Monty?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Between Angela and the Prince.

JENNIFER. Oh--Monte! I always call it Carlo.... Did anything happen?

MRS. FAITHFULL. She evidently made a great impression. Of course
nothing could ever----Still, in these democratic days, I
suppose----She hasn’t said anything to _you_?

JENNIFER. She told me not to be vulgar when I hinted that----

MRS. FAITHFULL (_stiffly_). There is a vulgar way and another way, no
doubt, of making these enquiries.

JENNIFER (_cheerfully_). Yes, mine was the vulgar way. (_With an
air_) But, after all, are we not women? The moment they meet, shall
we not know if “soft eyes look love to eyes which speak again”?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, one always knows, of course.

JENNIFER (_romantically_).

     “And she was only seventeen,
      Nor child, nor woman, but between--
      And oh! the love light in her een!”

But if the light be not there, I shall wish _Imogen_ luck, and I
don’t care how vulgar anybody calls me.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_deprecating, but pleased_). Oh, Imogen is only a
baby.

JENNIFER. As old as Angela.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_firmly_). Not in the sight of Heaven.

JENNIFER (_to herself_). That will be another thing to ask about when
I get there.... (_To_ MRS. FAITHFULL) Of course we must remember that
the Prince’s prospects are not necessarily confined to Wych Trentham.
He may decide to marry _out_ of the village.

  (DR. AINSLIE _is at the door. At 50 he has a sense of humour
  which the ladies call “so satirical”; and, in his own words,
  he can “stand anything but shams,” by which he means Religion,
  Royalty and other politenesses much esteemed in Wych Trentham.
  Some people call him a cynic, without quite knowing what it
  means, and they all say that “it is a great pity he never
  married.”_)

AINSLIE. Do I come in, or do I go to the front door and get announced
in style?

JENNIFER. Which do you generally do?

AINSLIE (_sarcastically_). I don’t generally have the honour of
meeting a Prince. Good-evening, Mrs. Faithfull.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_coldly_). Good-evening.

AINSLIE. Outwardly calm, but with beating hearts, and murmuring a few
French phrases to ourselves, we await the arrival of His Highness.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_to_ JENNIFER). Is Imogen outside, dear? I think I’ll
go to her.

AINSLIE (_making way for her_). She is the one in pink. (MRS.
FAITHFULL _goes out haughtily_.) That woman doesn’t like me.

JENNIFER (_consolingly_). But the next doctor is a long way off.

AINSLIE. Oh, professionally, I have no anxiety. But she doesn’t like
me. Do you know why?

JENNIFER. Your diffident manner?

AINSLIE. I told her that she was bringing Imogen up badly.

JENNIFER. Speaking as a doctor, or as a--bachelor?

AINSLIE. As a substitute for the Vicar. (_Indicating the drinks_) Are
these for me?

JENNIFER. Some of them. (_He goes to the table, and holds up one._)
No, thank you.

AINSLIE (_drinking_). I said: “You are robbing Imogen of her youth.”
Look at all the other jolly little girls you see about. They drink,
and they smoke, and they swear, and they read improper books, and
they’re very clever and cynical, and we say, “Bless their dear little
hearts! Youth, youth! I was as young as that once.” I tell you,
Jennifer, it brings tears into my eyes sometimes, to see them so
young and so pleased with themselves, and to think that they will
have to grow up. But Imogen will marry and settle down before she has
had any youth at all.

JENNIFER (_smiling_). I fancy that Imogen is deeper than you think.
When she is away from her mother----

AINSLIE. Deep! But that’s what I’m saying! She’s as deep as you or
I. She has no business to be deep at her age. Deep! She’s probably
romantic, and all sorts of nice elderly things like that. I daresay
she’s told herself stories about this ridiculous Prince of yours.
Just as _you_ have. (_He drinks and says firmly_) I don’t know about
anybody else, but I do not propose to call him “Sir.”

JENNIFER. “Nobody asked you, Sir, she said.... Sir, she said.”...
Sir, _she_ said--unlike the doctor of Wych Trentham.

AINSLIE. _And_ I shall talk English.

JENNIFER (_disappointedly_). Oh!... Couldn’t you say a few words in
medical Latin now and then?

AINSLIE. That reminds me. Is there an Established Church in
Neo-Slavonia?

JENNIFER. Good gracious, what a question to ask a lone widow woman
suddenly!

AINSLIE. It’s a new country, so it may still be free from the
shackles of ecclesiasticism.

JENNIFER. Will this be the general trend of the conversation this
evening? Because, if so, I should like to go back for my cigarette
cards.

AINSLIE (_warming to it_). No country with an Established Church has
any claim to be considered civilised. But the fools won’t see it.

JENNIFER (_soothingly_). They never do, do they? I don’t believe they
try. (_Very soothingly_) Shall I put your glass down for you, or hold
your hobby-horse while you dismount?

AINSLIE (_with a laugh_). All right, I’ll spare you the rest. (_He
pats her hand affectionately._)

                               (ANGELA _comes down, dressed at last_.)

ANGELA. Hallo!

AINSLIE (_shaking hands_). Good-evening. Produce your Prince.

ANGELA. Isn’t he here?

AINSLIE. He’s looking for the red carpet. Have you got a red carpet?
I came in through the garden. The village band ought to be playing
the Neo-Slavonian National Anthem. Why isn’t it? This party is being
run very badly.

  (BATTERSBY _comes down from his bedroom, as the others return
  from the garden_.)

BATTERSBY. Hallo, Doctor. (_He beckons him on one side._) I say,
we’re a cigar short. You’d rather have a pipe, wouldn’t you?

AINSLIE. Even if I wouldn’t, I should smoke it to-night, as an
assertion of my Republican principles.

BATTERSBY. Excellent. Could you also assert your medical principles,
and tell Holt that any one of the four big cigars on the top of the
box would undoubtedly be fatal to him?

AINSLIE. Do I speak as one who knows Holt’s constitution, or as one
who knows the cigars?

BATTERSBY. I don’t mind which way you put it, as long as you frighten
him.

  (ANGELA _and_ JENNIFER _have been greeting the others_. AINSLIE
  _now joins them_.)

ANGELA. Well, we may as well sit down. I don’t know how long he’s
going to be. (_To_ MRS. FAITHFULL) Come along.

  (_They sit on the sofa together._ ETHEL _and_ IMOGEN, _assisted
  by the men, find seats_. JENNIFER _stands by the open door,
  where she is joined by_ BATTERSBY.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. He’s driving over, I suppose.

ANGELA. I suppose so.

                                      (_There is an awkward silence._)

ETHEL (_breaking it_). One, two, three.... I was just counting,
making sure we weren’t going to be thirteen.

AINSLIE. Why? (_To_ ANGELA) Have you got only twelve plates?

ETHEL. I don’t care what you say, Dr. Ainslie, there _is_ something
in it.

AINSLIE. Folly.

ROBERT (_seriously_). I’ve known some funny things happen, Ainslie.
In the war.

AINSLIE. Even in a war nothing would happen which could be so funny
as the superstitious man’s Theory of the Universe. Particularly if he
also professed to be a religious man.

ANGELA. Well, nothing funny is going to happen to-night, because
we’re only ten.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_looking round the room_). Ten?

ANGELA. There’s a sort of secretary person coming with him. Name of
Oliver.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh! Hasn’t he any other name?

ANGELA. James.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_at a loss_). Oh!

AINSLIE. J. Oliver or O. James? Or doesn’t he mind?

ANGELA. J. Oliver. He’s driving him over, much to the disappointment
of the cook, who hoped for a real chauffeur.

AINSLIE. With the latest royal scandal to communicate.

                                 (_There is another awkward silence._)

ETHEL (_breaking it_). Mr. Oliver’s a soldier, I suppose. (_To_
ROBERT) I wonder if you’ll know him.

ROBERT. There was an Oliver in the Middlesex Regiment--Second
Battalion.

  (_Another silence. But_ ETHEL _is determined to make the party
  go_.)

ETHEL. Was he nice?

ROBERT. Oh, all right. I hardly knew him.

                                                          (_Silence._)

ETHEL (_trying again_). I wonder if that’s the one.

ROBERT. Hardly likely, I should think.

                                                          (_Silence._)

ETHEL (_a last effort_). Oh, I don’t know, he might be.

  (_The conversation, which never promised much, has now abandoned
  hope. There is another long silence._)

MRS. FAITHFULL }                   {I wonder if there’s any chance----
               }(_simultaneously_).{
ROBERT         }                   {You don’t know if he plays----

ROBERT         }                   {
               }(_simultaneously_).{I beg your pardon.
MRS. FAITHFULL }                   {

                                         (_Each waits for the other._)

ROBERT. Please!

MRS. FAITHFULL. I was only wondering how long he was to be in the
neighbourhood. Did he say anything about that?

ANGELA. No.

AINSLIE. It depends how charming we are to-night.

                                       (_Everybody waits for_ ROBERT.)

ETHEL (_after a pause_). What were _you_ going to say, dear?

ROBERT. Nothing. I wondered if we might rope him in for the match on
Saturday.

ETHEL. He wouldn’t play cricket, would he? It’s such an English game,
isn’t it?

ROBERT. I just wondered. He was at an English school, wasn’t he?

ANGELA. I think so.

ETHEL. Oh! I didn’t know. That makes a difference, doesn’t it?

                                                  (_Another silence._)

BATTERSBY (_from the window, where he has been talking to_ JENNIFER).
I don’t believe he’s coming, dear.

ANGELA (_calmly_). Then he’ll miss a very good dinner.

AINSLIE. Good!

MRS. FAITHFULL (_the authority_). Naturally Royalty must arrive last.

ETHEL. I suppose so. (_To_ ROBERT) Oh, I meant to ask you, Robert,
what happened when that German Prince dined in your Mess? (_Hurriedly
to the others_) Before the war, of course.

JENNIFER (_at the door_). S’sh.

                (_She takes a step into the garden. They all listen._)

MRS. FAITHFULL. I think I hear his car.

JENNIFER (_looking in_). He comes!

  (_She disappears, but they are not noticing her. All, save_
  ANGELA, _have become self-conscious. There is a strained silence.
  They feel at their clothes to make sure they are all right._
  MRS. FAITHFULL _touches up_ IMOGEN. ANGELA, _at ease, is still
  smoking_.)

EMILY (_announcing_). Prince Michael Robolski, Mr. Oliver.

  (_They come in. The_ PRINCE _is a man of 40, with an upturned
  moustache, pleasant-looking, active in body and mind. He speaks
  with a very slight foreign accent, and wears a coloured ribbon
  in the lapel of his coat._ OLIVER _is a very young Englishman,
  smooth, round-faced, and rather obviously new to his job_.)

ANGELA (_getting up gracefully_). Hallo! Nice to see you again.

PRINCE (_bending over her hand_). Mademoiselle! But this is
delightful! May I present my good friend who takes care of me, Mr.
Oliver?

ANGELA (_to_ OLIVER). How do you do? (_They shake hands._)

BATTERSBY (_coming forward_). Very glad to see you again, Prince
Michael.

PRINCE (_shaking hands with him_). But how kind of you to have me in
your house.

BATTERSBY (_hand out to_ OLIVER). How do you do? Find the way all
right?

OLIVER. Oh yes, rather, thank you, sir.

ANGELA (_to the_ PRINCE). Now then, come along.... This is Mrs.
Faithfull.

PRINCE (_holding out his hand_). Madame!

MRS. FAITHFULL (_curtseying_). How do you do?

ANGELA. And Miss Faithfull.

MRS. FAITHFULL. May I present my little girl, Imogen, to Your
Highness?

PRINCE (_holding out his hand, and smiling_). How do you do, Miss
Imogen?

                                             (IMOGEN _nearly swoons_.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Imogen, dear! I am afraid, Prince Michael, that my
little girl is rather shy.

PRINCE (_charmingly_). But we are all friends here, are we not?

                                                (_He takes her hand._)

IMOGEN (_in a faint whisper_). How do you do?

                             (MRS. FAITHFULL _administers first aid_.)

ANGELA. Dr. Ainslie.

PRINCE (_smiling_). The Champion of the Established Church?

ANGELA. He’s a Republican, really.

AINSLIE. Angela has been telling tales out of school.

PRINCE (_holding out his hand_). Still we shake hands, do we not?

AINSLIE (_shaking it, and smiling_). Without prejudice.

PRINCE. Oh, but perfectly. (_To_ ANGELA) You see, I remember what you
tell me. (_He comes to the_ HOLTS.) And this would be--you tell me
of them----The soldier with the pretty wife----(_To_ ETHEL) Pardon,
madame, but she did say so. And now I see for myself.

ANGELA. Captain and Mrs. Holt.

PRINCE. Holt! But of course.

                                                 (_They shake hands._)

ETHEL (_blushing_). How do you do?

ROBERT (_bravely, like a soldier_). How do you do, sir?

                         (OLIVER _has been following with_ BATTERSBY.)

ANGELA. But where’s Jennifer?

                              (_They all look round in bewilderment._)

PRINCE. That would be Madame Boulager, the General’s widow.... And
that’s all Princes are good for in these times, is it not so, Doctor?
Remembering.

ANGELA. Well, come and have a drink.

PRINCE. Mademoiselle thinks of everything. (_He takes a cocktail, and
looks round the room._) So this is where my friends the Battersbys
live?

ANGELA. You like it?

PRINCE. How can I not like it? It is yourselves. I bow to the flowers
as I come through the garden: “Miss Angela, we meet again.” I shake
hands with the front door, and say, “Battersby, how well you are
looking.” (_Indicating the gallery_) Mademoiselle stands up there
sometimes. (ANGELA _nods_.) And looks down on the little children
playing below. I can see her. (_Raising his glass to the room_) I
drink to you. (_He drinks._) And Mademoiselle is here also. (_To
his cocktail_) “How do you do, Miss Angela?” (_He picks up a second
glass._) But you must drink too.

EMILY (_announcing_). Mrs. Bulger!

                                      (JENNIFER _sweeps superbly in_.)

JENNIFER (_to_ ANGELA, _who comes to meet her_). Darling, I’m so
sorry I’m late. Do forgive me! (_She kisses her._)

ANGELA (_smiling and releasing herself_). Come along. Prince Michael,
this is my friend, Jennifer.

  (JENNIFER’S _smile changes suddenly into an expression of
  amazement. She stares at the_ PRINCE, _who smiles pleasantly back
  at her. Then with an effort she gains control of herself._)

JENNIFER (_slowly_). How do you do, Prince Michael?

PRINCE (_with a friendly smile_). How do you do? (_He has a glass in
each hand, and he looks whimsically from one to the other of them._)
You will forgive me?

JENNIFER (_with a sudden laugh_). I think I’ll have one too.

  (_He gives her one. They drink, their eyes on each other._)

EMILY. Dinner is served.




                                ACT II


  _The women have had their coffee in the dining-room, and
  now--10:30 nearly--they are all coming back together, talking as
  they come._

PRINCE. I assure you, Miss Battersby, that absence of ceremony is
what most I like. I should have been desolated if you had deserted us.

AINSLIE. You get enough ceremonial, I expect.

PRINCE. Those wearisome Court dinners! (_He shudders._) So long as
the women are there--charming!

JENNIFER. Whoever the women are?

  (_They gradually find themselves seats, instinctively grouping
  themselves round the_ PRINCE.)

PRINCE. Whoever the women are. But when they leave us----!

BATTERSBY. Stuffy political talk, eh?

PRINCE (_nodding_). So wearisome.

ANGELA. I can’t stand politics at any price.

PRINCE. Nor I. When the women are there, we talk of many things. But
when the men are left alone with their wine and their cigars, and
one of our great statesmen move his chair next to mine, and in a low
voice begin to tell me of the little dancer he has discovered--(_he
makes a gesture of boredom_)--no; I, too, cannot stand politics.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_hastily_). Yes, I suppose dancing is as much a
national pastime with you as with the Russians.

PRINCE. As with all nations.

JENNIFER. I feel that I want to ask Prince Michael a great deal about
his country. (_She looks meaningly at him._) And about himself.

PRINCE (_returning her look_). I am at your service, madame.

JENNIFER. Suppose we begin like the geography books. Chief
industries. Exports and imports.

ETHEL (_brightly_). They always asked that, didn’t they?

PRINCE. Since the Peace Conference our chief industry has been
fighting.

ROBERT (_nodding professionally_). Ah! Quite so, sir.

PRINCE. A European War is an impossibility just now. The big
countries dislike each other so much that there are no Allies, and
without Allies, how can you have a really good war? So we little
countries--how do you say?--keep the pot boiling. Our season opens
in March. If we declare war first, we export soldiers. If the enemy
declares war first, we import them. At the close of the season, in
October, we export journalists, and import Boundary Commissioners.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Most interesting. Your literature, of course, we are
all getting to know.

PRINCE (_pleased_). Indeed? Our famous poet-dramatist, Tushkin--you
read him?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Naturally.

                              (_There is a general murmur of assent._)

PRINCE (_looking at them admiringly_). So you all know him? Excellent.

BATTERSBY. Is he popular in your country?

PRINCE. He is considered highly immoral.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_unhappily_). Oh! I should hardly----

AINSLIE. In this country immoral plays are only allowed on Sundays.

PRINCE. Oh? In that case Tushkin would certainly be limited to Easter
Sunday.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_hastily_). Really, really, really! (_To_ IMOGEN)
What is it, dear? Yes.... Yes, I’m sure you could. My little girl
wants to ask you, Prince Michael--is that a Neo-Slavonian order which
you are wearing?

PRINCE. But certainly. Our Order of the Leopard. First Class.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh yes, of course.

ROBERT. A military order, sir?

PRINCE. A general order--according to the class, you understand.
There are seven classes altogether.

ETHEL. Oh yes!

PRINCE. The First Class for members of the blood royal; however
distinguished, or, as in my case, undistinguished. (_Murmurs of
dissent._) I thank you! The Second Class for distinguished statesmen,
diplomats and so forth. The Third Class for those eminent in war. Our
famous Generals.

ROBERT. And Admirals. Quite so, sir.

PRINCE. It is, I assure you, not so much lack of gallantry as lack of
a coast-line which prevents us from having equally famous Admirals.

ROBERT (_red_). Of course. I was forgetting.

PRINCE. The Fourth Class is for our Bankers, our Financial Geniuses,
our great employers of Labour. Your Mr. Harrod would be a Leopard of
the Fourth Class. Our Fifth Class for the professional men who have
achieved eminence--lawyers, doctors and the like. And the Sixth Class
for the men of science. _Voilà!_

MRS. FAITHFULL. But you said seven classes, Prince Michael.

PRINCE (_carelessly_). Oh, the Seventh Class is just for writers,
painters and composers. I had forgotten them.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, yes!

IMOGEN (_nervously_). Ma--may----

MRS. FAITHFULL. S’sh, dear!

PRINCE. You were saying, Miss Imogen?

MRS. FAITHFULL. How kind of you, Prince Michael! You wanted to ask
the Prince, dear?

IMOGEN (_with a rush_). Wh--which is the top class?

MRS. FAITHFULL (_pained_). Really!

PRINCE. The artists last, as in England. We are great admirers of the
English.

AINSLIE. You don’t follow us in having an Established Church, I hope?

PRINCE (_laughing_). Ah, that Established Church!

                                                   (_They all laugh._)

JENNIFER (_suddenly_). He shan’t be laughed at!... Well, Prince
Michael?

PRINCE. In Neo-Slavonia we have what you would call a “good form”
church, just as you have here, but it has no authority--except, no
doubt, with Heaven.

AINSLIE. Good!

JENNIFER. So you are great admirers of the English, Prince Michael?

PRINCE. Who is not?

BATTERSBY. A good many, I’m afraid.

PRINCE. That air of--how shall I describe it?

ROBERT (_coughing_). I am an Englishman--take it or leave it.

PRINCE. Excellent, excellent!

ETHEL (_reproachfully_). Robert!

PRINCE. That is how England goes about the world. No wonder she is
loved. And America, she says, “I am an American--gee! isn’t that
great?” And France, the most insular country in the world, France
says, “_Moi, je suis français--pardon!_”

JENNIFER. And the Neo-Slavonian?

PRINCE. He says, “I talk about myself too much.” (_He makes a
movement as if to get up._)

ANGELA (_getting up_). Let’s go into the garden, shall we? (_To_
PRINCE) Or would you rather play Bridge?

PRINCE. I can play Bridge anywhere. (_Looking at_ JENNIFER) Only here
can I talk to your friends. (_He looks at_ ANGELA, _who smiles and
understands_.)

ANGELA (_to_ MRS. FAITHFULL). Come along, then.

                                                (_They lead the way._)

ETHEL (_to_ IMOGEN). Are you coming, dear?

                  (_They go out together. The men wait for_ JENNIFER.)

JENNIFER. Don’t wait for me. I have a shawl upstairs. (_She moves
slowly as if to get it._)

BATTERSBY. Right.

PRINCE. May I not wait, madame?

JENNIFER. But how kind of you, Prince Michael!

BATTERSBY. That’s right, Prince Michael. Bring her along. (_He
shepherds the others out._)

  (JENNIFER, _three stairs up, and the_ PRINCE, _in the middle of
  the room, stand waiting until the others can no longer be heard_.)

PRINCE (_moving towards it_). Shall I close the door?

JENNIFER (_mockingly_). As Your Highness pleases.

                                        (_He smiles, and comes back._)

  (JENNIFER _comes down the stairs, and stands two or three yards
  away, looking at him_.)

JENNIFER. Well, Michael?

PRINCE (_smiling_). Well, Jennifer? (_He has no foreign accent now._)

JENNIFER. So you’ve come back to me at last.

PRINCE. Yes.

JENNIFER. Four years, isn’t it?

PRINCE. About that.

JENNIFER. You’re getting on in the world.

PRINCE. Aren’t I?

JENNIFER. Fancy! A real Prince!

PRINCE. But of a very small country.

JENNIFER. When I last saw you, you were plain Michael Brown of
Hammersmith.

PRINCE (_nodding_). Yes. And you were beautiful Mrs. Michael Brown of
West Kensington.

JENNIFER (_laughing_). Oh, Michael, what am I going to do about
you?... May I sit down, Your Highness?

PRINCE (_arranging a chair for her_). The wife always takes the
husband’s rank and precedence. Your chair, Princess.

JENNIFER (_sitting down_). I thought perhaps ours was a morganatic
marriage.

PRINCE. There are no morganatic marriages in Neo-Slavonia.

JENNIFER. Ah, now tell me. I’ve been longing to ask you all the
evening--only it sounded so absurd. _Is_ there such a country as
Neo-Slavonia?

PRINCE (_shocked_). Good heavens, no! You don’t suggest that I’m a
common impostor, do you?

JENNIFER. I wondered. Aren’t you?

PRINCE (_with dignity_). Certainly not.

JENNIFER. I’m glad.

PRINCE. Besides, where would be the fun? I’m an inventor.

JENNIFER. I see.

PRINCE. I invented the small buffer-state of Neo-Slavonia. I invented
all of it. Its name, its people, its customs, its orders and its
literature. I then gave myself the title of Prince in that country.
Who but I had the right to bestow that title? Whom more worthy of it
than myself could I find?

JENNIFER (_nodding_). Prince Michael Robulski.

MICHAEL. Rob_o_lski. In Neo-Slavonia the termination “-ulski” is now
obsolete.

JENNIFER. I must try to remember.

PRINCE. It’s a jolly little country. You must let me show it to you
one day.

JENNIFER. Thank you. But would it be quite proper for us to go about
together?

PRINCE. Proper?

JENNIFER. The late General James Bulger--C.B.--was very
old-fashioned. I don’t think he would like his widow----How do they
regard these things in your country?

PRINCE. Ah, now tell me. I have been longing to ask you all the
evening--only it sounded so absurd. Was there ever a General James
Bulger--C.B.?

JENNIFER (_shocked_). Good heavens, no! You don’t suggest that I’m a
common bigamist, do you?

PRINCE. I wondered. Aren’t you?

JENNIFER (_with dignity_). Certainly not.

PRINCE. I’m glad.

JENNIFER. Besides, where would be the fun? I’m an inventor.

PRINCE. I see.

JENNIFER. I invented a big, red-faced soldier called Bulger. I
invented all of him. I invented his rank and his orders, and his
medals. I then married him. Who but I had any right to consider
myself his wife?

PRINCE. True. You know, I had an uneasy feeling----

JENNIFER. That I had married _again_?

PRINCE. Well, you might have thought I was dead.

JENNIFER (_sweetly_). Even that mightn’t make me want a _second_
husband.

PRINCE (_acknowledging the hit_). I suppose not. Then why drag in
Bulger?

JENNIFER (_after a little silence_). Michael!

PRINCE. Yes?

JENNIFER. Did you ever wonder what had happened to me after you left
me so suddenly?

PRINCE. Often.

JENNIFER. You remembered that you _had_ got a wife somewhere?

PRINCE. Of course.... Did you ever wonder what had happened to _me_?

JENNIFER (_carelessly_). Sometimes.

PRINCE. You had your own money, so I knew you wouldn’t starve.

JENNIFER (_nodding_). And eating is the great thing in life, isn’t it?

PRINCE (_lightly_). I’ve thought so once or twice in the last four
years.

JENNIFER (_thoughtfully_). I don’t know how it is, but if people ask
after your husband, and you say, “Oh, he left me a year or two ago; I
don’t know why; we were rather on edge after the war, and he couldn’t
find a job, and I suppose he suddenly got sick of me,” it never
sounds----I don’t know how it is, but it never----Well, you know,
Michael, I thought I could think of something more respectable than
that. So when I came down here, where nobody knew me, I announced
that my husband had left me for the only reason which a loving,
dutiful, high-minded husband, such as yourself, could have for
leaving a loving, dutiful, delightful wife--such as me. He had died.

PRINCE (_nodding_). And by the terms of the will which he made on his
death-bed, had changed his name to Bulger.

JENNIFER (_smiling_). Well--_that_----! You see, I wanted him to be a
soldier.

PRINCE. Good Heavens, hadn’t you had enough of soldiers? Wasn’t I one
for four years, if it comes to that?

JENNIFER. Oh, my dear, not one of those rough, amateur, _fighting_
soldiers! A real peace-time soldier! All clean, and in a nice red
coat, and covered with medals! A professional soldier!

PRINCE. The sort to whom we give the Order of the Leopard, Third
Class, in Neo-Slavonia?

JENNIFER. Exactly! A soldier. A General. A C.B. It’s very respectable
to be a General’s widow.

PRINCE. But you can be a General without being called James Bulger.
In Neo-Slavonia----I beg your pardon, I keep forgetting. But I’m sure
that you can be a General without being called James Bulger.

JENNIFER (_eagerly_). Not as I saw him. Not this one. General James
Bulger, C.B. Can’t _you_ see him?

PRINCE (_nodding_). I can hear him.

JENNIFER. You don’t know what a comfort the thought of him has been.
In many a difficulty I have asked myself, “Now, what would the
General have said?”--and then I’ve remembered, “Not in front of the
Vicar.”

PRINCE. A fine soldier. One of the old breed. My only objection to
him is that he had no business to go handing his name about like that.

JENNIFER. But the name has been a great comfort too. (_Shyly_) You
may have noticed that I have become a little--a little----Or have I
not?

PRINCE (_emphatically_). Not a day!

JENNIFER. I wasn’t referring to days so much.

PRINCE (_emphatically_). Not an inch!

JENNIFER (_excitedly_). Really? Michael! How Neo-Slavonia has
improved you! But to English eyes there does seem to be a----a
tendency----Well, the name has been a great help. Because when
people are told, “I want you to come and meet my dear friend Mrs.
Bulger,” they come expecting the worst, and when they see me, they
say--(_imitating them_)--“Oh, but how--I didn’t--I had no idea!”--and
any little--tendency--becomes an added charm, as though, in my kindly
way, I were humouring the name.... Do you understand?

PRINCE. Perfectly.

JENNIFER. And another advantage of it is that it makes them all call
me Jennifer so quickly. I like that. I’m a friendly soul.

PRINCE. The men too?

JENNIFER (_sweetly_). Why not?

PRINCE. I am thinking of the General. You remember how old-fashioned
he was. I don’t think _he_ would have liked it.

JENNIFER. Why, his last words were, “Jennifer, Jennifer!”

PRINCE. One doesn’t want one’s last words broadcast. What did he die
of, by the way?

JENNIFER. One of those Indian frontier skirmishes.

PRINCE. What was a real General doing, getting mixed up dangerously
in one of those?

JENNIFER. It wasn’t in the danger-zone. At least, not officially.
(_In a whisper, after a glance to see that they are alone_) A
soda-water bottle burst just as he was opening it. (_In her natural
voice_) I always call it “a stray bullet.”

PRINCE (_smiling_). You’ve been taking a risk, haven’t you? Who’s
that heavy fellow who’s here to-night----

JENNIFER. Captain Holt?

PRINCE. He must have been in India. He might make inquiries--I
daresay he reads back numbers of the Army List on Sunday afternoons.

JENNIFER. Well, but it was all settled before he came. Anyway, I
don’t see why he should doubt me. He hasn’t got a suspicious nature
like yours.

PRINCE. If you had consulted _me_, I should have recommended a nice
quiet death near Woking.

JENNIFER (_shaking her head_). No. That wouldn’t have done. You see,
at first--just at first--I didn’t want----You see, I thought my
husband might come back to me. So I didn’t want to be too definite
about his death. I wanted to leave a loophole of explanation. He
had been left for dead, captured by the advancing enemy, escaped,
lost his memory, perhaps.... So that if he _had_ turned up one
day----(_She pauses._)

PRINCE. Yes?

JENNIFER (_gaily_). Then I shouldn’t have seemed quite such an
impostor.

PRINCE. Inventor.

JENNIFER (_agreeing_). Inventor.

PRINCE (_after a pause_). And now, after four years, he _has_ come
back?

JENNIFER (_surprised_). Who?

PRINCE. Your husband.

JENNIFER. Good gracious, no! Prince Michael Rob----No, don’t tell me.
That’s the obsolete one--Prince Michael Robolski of Neo-Slavonia,
wishing to renew his acquaintance and--(_smiling sweetly_)--shall I
say “further his suit”?--with the charming Miss Angela Battersby, is
paying a short, a _very_ short visit, to Wych Trentham.

PRINCE. I don’t see why _very_ short.

JENNIFER. Well, you see, my dear Prince, at any moment I may discover
the exact position on the map of Neo-Slavonia.

PRINCE. Yes, but why this passion for accurate geography suddenly?

JENNIFER. Because I am fond of Angela Battersby. And I won’t let you
make a fool of her.

PRINCE. Ah, now I do see your point. But I think that, however
short my visit, I should feel it my duty--the Neo-Slavonians are
notoriously a polite race--to say good-bye to--Captain Holt.

JENNIFER. (_thoughtfully_). Oh!

PRINCE. I have taken a sudden liking to the studious Captain. I can’t
let you make a fool of him.

JENNIFER (_smiling_). Yes, I see your point too.... I’m afraid,
Michael, we’re both impostors.

PRINCE. Not impostors: inventors, creators. I wish you would see the
difference. We have given an idea to the world. At least I have. To
the people I meet, Neo-Slavonia is now as much a real country as
Jugo-Slavia or Lithuania. Well, that’s _my_ doing.

JENNIFER. I see. And when did the great idea come to you?

PRINCE (_smiling reflectively_). It was forced on me. Really it
wasn’t my fault.... It was at Monte Carlo.

JENNIFER (_interested_). Where you were looking for work?

PRINCE. I’d given up looking for work. I’d had enough of that in
England after the war. I was looking for money. Much more fun.

JENNIFER. I’ve been told that there’s quite a lot in Monte Carlo. Any
luck?

PRINCE. Fairish.... Well, you know what the South of France is like.
Stiff with potty Royalties from God knows where. (_With a sudden
laugh_) I say, it is funny to be talking English again; I mean the
real English that the English talk.... Well, I was lunching with
some people I’d never met before, as you do out there, and rather a
stupid girl, trying to make conversation, and feeling around for my
name, asked me what I did. I said I didn’t do anything; and she said,
“I suppose you’re a Prince.” And I said, “Yes, yes”--just as you’d
say, “Yes, yes,” if anybody asked you in the Temple if you were a
barrister, and you weren’t really listening.

JENNIFER. That wasn’t Angela?

PRINCE. Oh no, Miss Battersby was much later, when I was generally
accepted as a Prince. It was surprising how quickly I was committed
to it. (_Proudly_) Of course, as soon as I saw how things were going,
I insisted on the Neo-Slavonia. I wasn’t going to be an ordinary
impostor.

JENNIFER. And did nobody know that there wasn’t such a place?

PRINCE. Nobody. You see, I looked at it this way. At the Peace
Conference there was nothing to prevent the Big Four creating a new
buffer-state called Neo-Slavonia. Was there?

JENNIFER. No.

PRINCE. Well, now, if they _had_ created it, it was certain that one
or two of them wouldn’t have known where it was.

JENNIFER. Absolutely.

PRINCE. So I thought, “If they wouldn’t know, I don’t see why anybody
else should want to.” You see what I mean?

JENNIFER. Perfectly.

PRINCE. Of course, I worked up the local colour gradually. At one
time it was a very near thing whether it had a sea-coast or not; but
I felt it was rather dangerous. What do you think?

JENNIFER (_gravely_). Oh yes, I think a sea-coast would have been
rather dangerous.

PRINCE. Of course, we have a certain amount of local water-borne
traffic on the--the Danube. I fancy it’s the Danube.

JENNIFER. Oh, Michael, you ought to know that!

PRINCE. I find it easier to remember when I am using a slight
Neo-Slavonian accent. Plain Michael Brown was never much good at
geography.

JENNIFER. Nor so popular, I suppose.

PRINCE. Oh, no. You get a very good time as a Prince. There’s a lot
of hospitality going about.

JENNIFER. And a lot of credulity, too.

PRINCE (_smiling_). Yes, fellow-inventor, there is.... If you say
anything dogmatically enough, the other man is always a little
doubtful of himself.... You’d be surprised how many literary
authorities--critics and such like--have agreed with me in thinking
that Tushkin should have been given the Nobel prize instead of his
more popular fellow-countryman, Gregorovitch. I’ll lay a thousand to
eight that there’s not one person in the world who could give you a
complete list of the Nobel prize-winners. My own theory is that every
other year they invent the name and stick to the money.

JENNIFER (_shaking her head at him_). Oh, Michael! And did none of
that hospitality lodge in your throat?

PRINCE. My dear Jennifer, why should it? If I got fifteen shillings
worth of food and drink, didn’t I give fifteen shillings worth of
entertainment in return for it? Ask your friends which they prefer:
a dinner where they’ll meet a fifteen-shilling Prince, or a dinner
where they’ll have to listen to a hundred-guinea violinist. They’d
vote for me every time. The professional Prince.

JENNIFER. And that’s how you’ve been living lately?

PRINCE. Well, I’ve had tips, you know.

JENNIFER (_interested_). Ten-franc notes under the napkin?

PRINCE. Not quite so crude as that. Tips about stocks and horses.

JENNIFER. Oh, I see.

PRINCE. If you are high enough up, and supposed not to want it, you
can always get plenty of help in making money. I’ve done pretty well
this last year. In fact, almost well enough to be able to afford to
look for work again.

JENNIFER. Then, on the whole, we needn’t have been too anxious about
each other?

PRINCE. We needn’t. You’ve had your income to yourself, and lived
beautifully in the country; and I’ve had my freedom, and lived----

JENNIFER. Like a Prince----

PRINCE. Like a man, anyway, in the open world. And the bickerings of
Hammersmith are gone for ever.

JENNIFER (_after a pause_). And now what?

PRINCE. Well, what?

JENNIFER. Is it Your Highness’s pleasure to come back to me?

PRINCE. Good heavens, no!

                                         (JENNIFER _looks surprised_.)

JENNIFER. Oh!... I just wanted to know.

PRINCE (_smiling_). I can only come back if General Bulger’s widow
invites me.

JENNIFER (_laughing_). My dear Michael! if I invite you! Oh, my dear
Michael! (_She is laughing again._)

PRINCE (_undisturbed_). You laugh as adorably as ever.

JENNIFER. Bless the man, now he’s going to make love to me!

PRINCE. To a Neo-Slavonian what more delightful way of spending an
evening?

JENNIFER. Well, I’d sooner you did it to me than to Angela. I won’t
have any of that, I warn you, Michael.

PRINCE (_shaking a finger at her_). Oh, Mrs. Bulger, Mrs. Bulger,
think of your flirtations at--Simla, was it?

JENNIFER. You come to England at the risk of being exposed as an
impostor----

PRINCE. An inventor.

JENNIFER. ----just so as to get another glimpse of her. Was that
necessary? I say again, I am fond of Angela.

PRINCE. And she is fond of Jennifer.

JENNIFER. In her non-committal way, I think so.

PRINCE (_becoming very foreign suddenly_). Ah, this angel, this
Angela! She is not so non-committal away from your English fogs. She
expand! She talk!... She speak to me of her friends. She speak much
of her great friend, Jennifer. Jennifer? I say. Jennifer? What a
beautiful name! Tell me of this lady with the so beautiful name! She
tell me. It is Madame Boulager. Boulager--one of your great English
families. I am intrigued. I am--how do you say it?--agog. Tell me of
this Madame Boulager, I say. Your Angela tell me. But it is not until
she say one thing that I know for certain who Madame Boulager is.

JENNIFER (_clapping her hands eagerly_). Go on, what did she say
about me?

PRINCE. She said, “Jennifer goes about as if she is singing to
herself, ‘Isn’t it fun being Jennifer?’” Then I knew. And I said
suddenly, but in our Neo-Slavonian tongue, so that I didn’t give
myself away (_he appears to be clearing his throat and sneezing
simultaneously_)--which means, “By Jove! It’s my Jenny!”

JENNIFER (_carried away_). Oh, Michael! And was it? I mean--go on.

PRINCE. That’s all. I came, I saw, I was re-conquered. (_Holding out
his hand_) How do you do, Mrs. Brown?

  (_You could see that_ JENNIFER _was a little touched by this
  recital, but the prodigal is not going to be welcomed home so
  quickly as he thinks. He may have been a Prince in Monte Carlo,
  but he is not going to have his own way so easily in England._)

JENNIFER (_drawing her hand away_). Michael, I don’t know what to
think about you--but I think you had better go back to Neo-Slavonia
... or where you will.

PRINCE. Must I?

JENNIFER. Well, obviously you can’t stay here.

PRINCE. Why not?

JENNIFER. What as? Prince Michael? My first husband? My future
husband? Ridiculous. It’s much too difficult.

PRINCE (_eagerly_). Never mind the difficulties. I can manage that
all right. That’s where the fun comes in. If you want me to stay, I
stay.

JENNIFER (_laughing at his assurance_). If I want you to! Why should
I want you to?

                 (_No Prince could stand that laughter from a woman._)

PRINCE (_quickly_). If I decide to stay, I stay.

JENNIFER (_sparkling_). Is that a threat?

PRINCE. A statement.

JENNIFER (_dangerously_). Take care, Michael.

PRINCE (_equally dangerously_). Take care, Jennifer.

JENNIFER. If you challenge me, I take it up.

PRINCE. Shall I give you the same warning? (_With a sudden smile_) Or
shall I just say, “What do you want me to do?”

JENNIFER. Whatever you please, except stay here, where you will do
nobody any good.

PRINCE. And if I disobey?

JENNIFER. Then, very reluctantly, I shall explain to my friends the
exact position on the map of Europe of Neo-Slavonia.

PRINCE. And the exact position on the map of Asia of General Bulger’s
body?

JENNIFER. If necessary. (_She smiles sweetly at him._) My friends
will not be hard on me when they hear that my husband was a scamp of
whose name and identity I did not wish to be reminded.

PRINCE (_approvingly_). Yes, that’s a good card to play. Well done,
Jennifer. (_Smiling_) But I also--I play cards.

JENNIFER. Play them in Monte Carlo. It’s safer.

PRINCE. You are afraid that I have too many hearts in my hand?

JENNIFER (_laughing, but a little nervously_). Not mine, my dear
Michael.

PRINCE (_nodding_). Not the Queen. Well, we shall see. Your orders
are that I go back to London to-morrow--and then, if I please, to the
devil.

JENNIFER (_quickly_). No, no, Michael, I didn’t say that.

PRINCE. On my way to London to-morrow, is it permitted that I look in
here just to say good-bye to my hostess?

JENNIFER. You can say good-bye to-night.

PRINCE. In Neo-Slavonia----(JENNIFER _laughs, and he waits for her to
finish_.)

JENNIFER. I beg your pardon.

PRINCE (_unperturbed_). In Neo-Slavonia we have a custom that, on the
morning after hospitality, one pays a formal visit to one’s hostess
in order to render thanks. Is it permitted?

JENNIFER (_reluctantly_). Well, if you must. You can have till twelve
to-morrow. After that, if you are still here----

PRINCE (_boyishly_). Say “_Noon_ to-morrow.” It sounds more
thrilling, and it avoids misapprehension.

JENNIFER (_laughing_). Noon, then.... But I mean it.

PRINCE (_nodding_). I shall be ready for you. (_Carelessly_) I
have till noon, then.... If I don’t see you again alone--good-bye,
Jennifer.

JENNIFER (_half tender, half amused, wondering what he is up to_).
Good-bye, Michael. (_She holds out her hand, but he is not looking._)

PRINCE. Just do something for me, will you?

JENNIFER (_eagerly_). Yes?

PRINCE (_casually_). Tell young Oliver--he’s outside somewhere--that
I want him. He will have to see about the car--and I shall have other
arrangements to make. Good-bye.

JENNIFER (_after waiting a moment for some sign from him_). Good-bye.

                                                      [_She goes out._

  (_Left alone, the_ PRINCE _looks at his watch. Then he lights a
  cigarette and walks up and down thinking._ OLIVER _comes in_.)

OLIVER. You wanted me, sir?

  (_The_ PRINCE _nods, and looks at him for a little without
  speaking_.)

PRINCE. The time has come for us to part, Oliver.

OLIVER (_anxiously_). Aren’t you satisfied with me, sir?

PRINCE. Entirely satisfied. You write my letters, you drive my car,
you order my breakfast, and all the time you look--how do you say
it?--as innocent as a baby. But it was a temporary engagement, was it
not?

OLIVER. Yes, sir. I quite understood that. But there is another three
weeks to go.

PRINCE. I engage you for the month, I give you the month’s salary.
It is enough. Now I ask you to do one little thing more for me--and
then my orders are that you go back to your Cornwall, is it, and have
three weeks holiday. Is that understood?

OLIVER. Yes, sir. It’s very kind of you.

PRINCE. This is the last thing. I want you to go now, quietly--can
you get your hat and coat without seeing anybody?--

OLIVER. I expect so, sir.

PRINCE. I will say your adieux for you. Go very quietly, take the
car, drive back to--what is it?

OLIVER. Medenham.

PRINCE. To the hotel, yes. Stay the night there yourself--pay my bill
in the morning--how much?--and then go off to Cornwall.

OLIVER (_reckoning it on his fingers_). Four pound ten, sir, would
see it easily.

PRINCE (_giving him a note_). Give the change to anybody you like.
That is all.... You understand?

OLIVER. Yes, sir. Are you staying here, sir?

PRINCE (_smiling_). That we shall see. (_Holding out his hand_)
Good-bye.

OLIVER (_shaking it_). Good-bye, sir. (_Awkwardly_) I’m sorry that
you----If ever another time you should want----I mean, I owe you
three weeks----

PRINCE (_hurrying him out_). I will remember.

OLIVER. I’m afraid I feel rather a fraud, sir.

PRINCE (_with a last push_). I, too, Oliver.... Good luck to you.

  (OLIVER _goes. And only just in time, for_ ANGELA _comes in from
  the garden_.)

ANGELA. Well?

PRINCE. Miss Battersby, I could kiss your hand for the delightful
evening I have had, were it not that----

ANGELA (_amused_). What?

PRINCE. That I would rather shake it in your English way.

ANGELA (_holding out her hand_). Just as you like.

PRINCE (_pressing it_). I thank you. She is adorable.

ANGELA. Jennifer? I knew you’d like her.

PRINCE (_romantically_). I love her.

ANGELA (_carelessly_). I did tell you she was a widow?

PRINCE. The widow of a gallant General in your army. She tell me
herself.

ANGELA. She has a little money of her own.

PRINCE (_promptly_). Five hundred a year. She tell me
her----(_Hastily_) I mean, I guess it.

ANGELA. About that, I suppose. I can’t do it into--marks, is it, in
your country?

PRINCE (_smiling_). Mademoiselle, I perceive that you are a
match-maker. But it would not be necessary to do it into marks. Did I
marry, I should not go back to Neo-Slavonia.

ANGELA. If Jennifer married, she wouldn’t leave Wych Trentham. She’s
much too fond of it.

PRINCE (_a little taken aback_). Oh!... And all your other friends,
they are not likely to be leaving it?

ANGELA. Why should they?

PRINCE. There will be a match-maker one day for Mademoiselle, perhaps?

ANGELA (_shaking her head_). I’ve got somebody to look after. Anyway,
I’m not the marrying sort.

PRINCE (_smiling_). Mademoiselle, that is a challenge to Cupid which
in the whole history of the world has never yet been refused. I shall
dance at your wedding within a year.... Do you dance at weddings in
this country?

ANGELA. Oh, Lord, at everything.

PRINCE. Then I dance. And the next year at Miss Imogen’s.

ANGELA. Oh, Imogen, yes.

PRINCE (_thinking_). Miss Imogen. So dead when Madame her mother is
there, so alive when she is alone.

ANGELA (_surprised_). I didn’t know you’d seen her alone?

PRINCE. I know the type. It would be amusing to see if I am right. Is
it permitted?

ANGELA. Permitted? It has been waited for all evening. (_Going to the
door_) I’ll send her.

                                                      [_She goes out._

PRINCE. Mademoiselle is too kind.

  (_As soon as he is alone he feels in his pocket, and brings out a
  bunch of letters, and a note-case. He selects a letter and some
  notes, and goes to the desk, where he puts them into an envelope
  which he addresses to himself._ IMOGEN _comes in, accompanied as
  far as the door by her mother_.)

MRS. FAITHFULL (_giving her the last touches_). There!... Perhaps
just a little----Yes. (_In a whisper_) “Your Highness” at first, and
then “Prince Michael.” (_She vanishes._)

IMOGEN (_coming in_). Hallo!

PRINCE (_getting up hastily_). Miss Imogen! How kind of you!

IMOGEN. I say, do you know, I must tell you, before you came I said I
didn’t believe you were a real Prince at all. Wasn’t it cheek?

PRINCE. It was very natural, Mademoiselle.

IMOGEN. I say, you’re not really going to-night, and never coming
back again, are you?

PRINCE. It depends to some extent on yourself, Miss Imogen.

IMOGEN (_giggling_). I say! Oughtn’t you to kiss my hand when you say
things like that?

PRINCE (_taking her hand_). Will you do something for me?

IMOGEN. Rather! Anything! (_He kisses her hand._) Oo! Could it be
something really wicked, so that I can tell Mother afterwards that
it was the Prince who asked me to do it? (_Giggling_) Oh, think of
Mother’s face!

PRINCE. Alas, it is not really wicked.

IMOGEN (_dashed_). Oh!

PRINCE (_quickly_). But it is a secret. Between you and me. For
evermore!

IMOGEN. Oo, that’s all right! What is it?

PRINCE. This is a very great secret. I cannot even explain to _you_
what it means. Not yet. You must take me on trust.

IMOGEN (_remembering that last novel_). To the death, Prince Michael.

PRINCE (_touched_). You dear! (_He holds up the letter._) I want this
letter delivered here to-morrow morning. At five minutes to twelve.
It is addressed to myself. Can you give it to one of your village
boys to-morrow to bring up to the house?

IMOGEN. Rather!

PRINCE. If he is asked where it comes from, he is to say that a
gentleman gave it to him.

IMOGEN (_eagerly_). Righto. I understand.

PRINCE. At five minutes to twelve exactly.... You will give
him something? (_He takes out a handful of money and selects
half-a-crown._)

IMOGEN (_laughing_). Oo, I say! Half-a-crown! He’d suspect something
at once. Sixpence.

PRINCE. You are a better conspirator than I. Sixpence. (_He gives it
and the letter to her._)

IMOGEN. ’Kyou. (_She puts the letter down her dress in the approved
manner. See Chapter XIV._)

PRINCE. In return, I give you the highest reward your country has to
offer. “Imogen, you’re a sportsman.” (_He holds out his hand._ IMOGEN
_takes it, and is completely carried away_.)

IMOGEN. My Prince! (_All funny suddenly_) Oo, I say, I believe I’m
going to cry. (_Winking to keep the tears back_) A hanky, quick! (_He
gives his to her. She blows her nose loudly, and dabs at her eyes._)

PRINCE. Better?

IMOGEN (_nodding_). ’M. I say, I’ve ruined your hanky. I’ll have to
send it on to you. You’ll tell me where, won’t you?

PRINCE. That’s all right.

IMOGEN. Honestly I didn’t do it just to----(_Reluctantly_) Well,
I suppose I _could_ have used my own. But I really was crying.
(_Instinctively feeling the Presence in the neighbourhood_) Look out,
here’s Mother.

PRINCE (_in a whisper_). Five minutes to twelve!

IMOGEN (_in a whisper_). Right!

PRINCE (_aloud_). And you are fond of lawn tennis?

IMOGEN. Oh yes, Prince Michael!

                      MRS. FAITHFULL _comes in_.

PRINCE (_bowing_). Madame!

MRS. FAITHFULL. Ah, Prince Michael, how kind of you to be taking an
interest in my little girl. I hope she has been behaving nicely.

PRINCE. I give her what you call the good-conduct prize. The
testimonial and the lucky sixpence. (_He laughs._)

MRS. FAITHFULL (_extremely amused_). How delightful! We shall always
remember, shan’t we, Imogen? (IMOGEN _nods shyly_) I do hope, Prince
Michael, that what Mrs. Bulger has been telling me is not true?

PRINCE (_anxiously_). What she has been telling you?

MRS. FAITHFULL. That you are going back to your own country, almost
at once.

PRINCE (_relieved_). Ah!... So she tells you that. Well, it is
“Perhaps” and “Perhaps not.”

MRS. FAITHFULL. Well, that gives us a little hope, doesn’t it, Imogen?

                                              (IMOGEN _smiles shyly_.)

PRINCE. My head (_touching it_) say “You’d better go.” My
heart (_touching it_) say “Don’t go!” My soul (_feeling for it
vaguely_)--where _is_ my soul?--My soul say “You ought to go.”...
They are still arguing. I wait for the verdict.

MRS. FAITHFULL (_laughing_). How amusing! We must remember that,
mustn’t we, Imogen?

PRINCE (_looking at his watch_). And my watch says, “You _must_ go.”
But he means only “Back to your hotel.”

  (ANGELA _and_ BATTERSBY, JENNIFER _and the_ HOLTS _are coming
  in_.)

ANGELA. Who _must_ go?

JENNIFER. All of us, dear, I expect.

PRINCE. It is I, Miss Angela. I have a long way to go. You are all
together here, at home.

BATTERSBY. Well, have a whisky first.

ROBERT (_looking at his watch_). By jove, yes.

PRINCE (_to_ BATTERSBY). Thank you. Now where is my good Oliver?

ETHEL. Mr. Oliver was out with all of us.

BATTERSBY (_looking round the room_). That’s funny. Where is Oliver?

ROBERT. He and Ainslie have gone off somewhere, I expect. (_He goes
to the door._)

ANGELA. Dr. Ainslie has gone. (_To the_ PRINCE) He asked me to make
his apologies. A message came for him.

BATTERSBY (_bringing whisky to the_ PRINCE). Thank God I’m not a
doctor. Help yourself, Holt.

ROBERT. Thanks. (_He goes to the table_) Mrs. Faithfull?

MRS. FAITHFULL. A little lemonade, please.

PRINCE. Thank you. (_He takes his whisky from_ BATTERSBY.)

JENNIFER (_slowly and clearly_). I sent Mr. Oliver in to you about
ten minutes ago, Prince Michael.

PRINCE (_amazed_). To me here? (_His glass stops in mid-air._)

JENNIFER. Yes. (_She looks at him, wondering._)

PRINCE. But what an extraordinary thing!

ANGELA. He’s probably gone to see about the car.

PRINCE. Ah, yes! No doubt. (_He drinks._)

BATTERSBY. I’ll tell him.

PRINCE. Pray don’t trouble. He will be here directly.

BATTERSBY. It’s all right.

                                                        [_He is gone._

ROBERT (_to the_ PRINCE). He can call to him from the end of the
lawn, sir. You left the car in the road, sir, I suppose, sir?

PRINCE (_anxiously_). Yes. It would be safe there?

ANGELA. Oh, Lord, yes.

MRS. FAITHFULL. We are a very unsophisticated little colony here,
Prince Michael.

JENNIFER. Well, we don’t steal, anyway.

PRINCE (_raising his glass to her_). Only hearts.

                                                   (_She turns away._)

ANGELA. I say, do help yourselves, all of you. Isn’t there any
lemonade?

PRINCE. What can I get you?

ANGELA. No, thanks. Jennifer?

JENNIFER (_her eyes on the_ PRINCE). No, thank you, dear.

ROBERT (_to_ IMOGEN). What about you, Miss Faithfull?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Just a little lemonade, please.

ROBERT. Right. (_He goes for it._)

BATTERSBY (_coming in at the door_). I say, the car isn’t there!

ETHEL. Not there?

ANGELA. It must be.

BATTERSBY. Well, it isn’t.

  (HOLT _clicks his heels in front of the_ PRINCE, _and goes out
  briskly, with the determination to see this thing through_.)

JENNIFER (_looking at the_ PRINCE). What an extraordinary thing!

  (_He catches her eye, there is a look of understanding between
  them, and he turns away._)

PRINCE. Your lanes are narrow. He is turning round, perhaps.

ETHEL. Yes, that’s it, I expect.

BATTERSBY. He wouldn’t have to go as far as that. I should have heard
the engine.

PRINCE. My good Oliver, I hope nothing has happened to him.

MRS. FAITHFULL. He has been very quiet all evening. I suppose--have
you had him long?

PRINCE. You think he is--how do you call it?--a fraud?

JENNIFER. Fraud, humbug, impostor--we have various words for it.
(_Again they exchange glances._)

PRINCE. But my Oliver! So innocent-looking!

IMOGEN (_suddenly_). Bolshevists!

  (_They all turn quickly to her, and she subsides into her
  lemonade._)

BATTERSBY. Well, it’s very odd.

                           HOLT _comes in_.

ROBERT. The car isn’t there, sir.

BATTERSBY (_a little ironically_). Thank you, Holt.

ANGELA. Well, that’s that. He has run away, your Oliver.

PRINCE (_smiling_). Then I walk away. Is it not so?

ANGELA. Nonsense, you can’t walk. We can put you up.

JENNIFER (_sweetly_). The Doctor could drive you to your hotel in his
car.

PRINCE (_with pretended eagerness_). Ah!

ANGELA. He’s out in it.

PRINCE (_with pretended disappointment_). Oh! (_He winks at_
JENNIFER.)

ANGELA. Father can sleep in the studio. He often does, don’t you,
Father? (_She rings._)

BATTERSBY. Yes, dear, yes. (_To the_ PRINCE) I should say, “Yes,
dear, yes,” in any case, of course, but it does happen to be true in
this case. I have a camp bed there.

PRINCE. You are too kind. But I have never slept in a studio. I
should like the experience.

ANGELA. Father is much more----

                           EMILY _comes in_.

PRINCE (_holding up his hand_). Please! It will give less trouble.

ANGELA. Just as you like. (_To_ EMILY) Make up the bed in the studio
for Prince Michael.

EMILY. Yes, miss.

                                                      [_She goes out._

MRS. FAITHFULL. We have a spare room, dear. I’m sure if Prince
Michael----

ETHEL. So have we. We should be only----

JENNIFER (_sweetly_). Captain Holt also has a motor-bicycle.

PRINCE (_to_ HOLT). Ah!

ROBERT. Not running just now, unfortunately.

PRINCE. Oh! (_Again he catches_ JENNIFER’S _eye_.) Then I am afraid,
dear Miss Battersby, that I must trespass----

ANGELA. Of course. That’s settled.

PRINCE (_to_ MRS. FAITHFULL _and_ ETHEL). And thank you, ladies, for
your great kindness. I shall always remember it.

JENNIFER (_suddenly_). I must be going.

ANGELA. Oh, must you?

JENNIFER (_to the_ PRINCE). I shall not see you again, Prince
Michael----

ANGELA. Oh, look in in the morning and say good-bye.

JENNIFER. I’m afraid the Prince will have gone before I can manage
it. I shall be rather busy up till--noon. Good-bye, Prince Michael.

PRINCE (_taking her hand and bowing over it_). It is always allowed
one to hope. I shall give myself what comfort I can by saying, “_Au
revoir_, Mrs. Bulger.” (_He kisses her hand._)

JENNIFER (_kissing her hand to them_). Good-night, everybody. (_They
all say “Good-night.”_) (_To_ ANGELA) Good-bye, darling. It’s been so
delightful.

ANGELA. Good-bye.

  (_She and her father withdraw a little from the others, and
  discuss the question of pyjamas for the_ PRINCE.)

JENNIFER (_with a meaning eye on the_ PRINCE). I shall be round
about--noon.

  (_The_ PRINCE _bows in understanding. With a wave she is gone._)

  (_The_ FAITHFULLS _and the_ HOLTS _immediately surround the_
  PRINCE.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. We shall never let you go now, Prince.

ROBERT. No, look here, you must stop and play on Saturday. Do you
bowl?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Our little party on Thursday--a few friends----

ETHEL (_to_ PRINCE). I don’t know if you’re fond of fishing----

  (_They have their backs to_ JENNIFER, _who is looking through
  the open window. The_ PRINCE _raises his glass to her mockingly,
  triumphantly. She shakes her fist at him, as the curtain comes
  down._)




                               ACT III


  _It is 11.30 next morning._ ANGELA _is at the writing-desk, busy
  with a few letters_. IMOGEN _appears noiselessly at the window.
  She looks round the room, and then disappears again._ BATTERSBY
  _comes in from the dining-room_.

BATTERSBY. We all seem very late this morning. Has the Prince _had_
breakfast?

ANGELA. I sent it round to the studio. I thought he’d prefer a
Continental one.

BATTERSBY. Probably the one thing he looked forward to was a welter
of eggs and bacon. You’ve given him quite a wrong idea of our old
English customs.

ANGELA. He can have eggs and bacon for lunch, if he’s very keen. Have
you seen him?

BATTERSBY. I borrowed him a razor from Ainslie, and I also took him
some clothes.

ANGELA. Clothes----I forgot about that.

BATTERSBY. I don’t say he’ll be beautiful, but he’ll be decent.

ANGELA. You’d better send over for his bag, and find out about the
Oliver man.

BATTERSBY. I suggested it, but he asked me to wait. He’s a little
uncertain about his plans. He said something about a letter.... I
suppose the post _has_ come?

ANGELA. Yes.

BATTERSBY (_without much hope_). Nothing for me, I suppose?

ANGELA. No.

BATTERSBY. I thought not. The number of people who sit down every
morning and say “I don’t think I’ll write to Battersby to-day” is
positively startling. There must be well over forty million of ’em in
England alone.

ANGELA. He couldn’t get a letter here anyway.

BATTERSBY. The Prince? I should be very much annoyed if he did. It
would be very disconcerting if a man who stayed here accidentally for
one night got a letter, and I who have stayed here on purpose for
years and years got none.... I suppose the paper hasn’t come?

ANGELA. No, not yet. I’ll speak to Lumley. He’s getting slack again.

BATTERSBY. There ought to be _some_ method of getting in touch with
the outside world. How would it be to have _The Times_ sent down by
post every day, and then it wouldn’t matter if the Lumley boy were
going for a whistle in this direction or not?

ANGELA. If you like, dear.

BATTERSBY. Besides, it would give the postman more respect for me, if
he saw my name now and then. I met him in the garden yesterday as he
was bringing up the letters. There were three for you, two for Emily,
four for cook and a seed-catalogue for James. I passed it off with a
careless laugh, but I could see what he was thinking (_He looks over
his shoulder, and sees her writing_).... Give my love to whoever it
is, and say that I should dearly appreciate a post-card----

ANGELA. It’s Debenham and Freebody.

BATTERSBY (_unmoved_). ----from either of them.

  (_The_ PRINCE _comes in. He is wearing an old coat and a pair of
  white flannel trousers of_ BATTERSBY’S. _He has shaved off his
  moustache._)

PRINCE. Good morning to you. What a charming day!

BATTERSBY. Good morning, Prince.

ANGELA (_getting up_). Oh, good morning. I do hope you slept well,
and all that?

PRINCE. The bed couldn’t have been more comfortable.... I had
forgotten that there were so many birds in the country.

ANGELA. We’re used to them, of course.

BATTERSBY. But the silly things don’t realise it, and go on just the
same. (_The_ PRINCE _turns to him_) Hallo! I say! I hope that that
razor----

PRINCE (_nodding_). It was carried away. It has shaved the good
doctor so often, that before I knew what had happened----

BATTERSBY. We must tell Ainslie. As a scientific man, he’ll be
interested.

ANGELA. I like it. It makes you look more English.

PRINCE. That was why I did it, Mademoiselle. The only compliment to
your country I could think of so early in the morning. The birds were
whistling and singing, the sun was shining, and I said to myself, “I
love England! I shall stay here for ever. I shall be an Englishman.”
So I had what you call the clean shave.

BATTERSBY (_fingering his beard_). It isn’t _absolutely_ essential.

PRINCE (_with a bow_). The full beard or nothing, as in your
English navy. (_With a gesture at_ BATTERSBY’S) If only it had been
possible--(_regretfully_)--but there was no time.

BATTERSBY (_in a whisper_). You see, dear, he would have liked eggs
and bacon.

PRINCE. So now I am an Englishman.... I think of calling myself Brown.

ANGELA (_smiling_). Prince Brown.

PRINCE. Or shall I give myself the honourable, if not strictly
beautiful, title of Mister?

BATTERSBY. What would Neo-Slavonia say to that?

PRINCE. Well, that’s the question.

ANGELA. Will the country go to pieces without you?

PRINCE (_solemnly_). I fear it might.... But don’t let me interrupt
your letters, Mademoiselle. I shall be quite happy with the paper.
(_He picks it up._)

BATTERSBY. It’s a piece of yesterday’s, I’m afraid.

PRINCE. I shall be quite happy with a piece of yesterday’s paper.

BATTERSBY. There’s a small boy called Lumley whose duty it is to
forget to bring the paper every day. He is amazingly reliable. So I
generally go down about this time and fetch it for myself. If you
don’t mind----

ANGELA. Go on, Father. You’ll never be happy till you’ve seen it.

BATTERSBY (_with dignity_). To some women the fact that anybody
should be interested in activities outside his own household will
always be one of the more impenetrable mysteries. (_He goes out with
an air._)

PRINCE. Miss Battersby is interested, however.

ANGELA. In some things.

PRINCE. In some people.

ANGELA (_smiling_). In two people.... (_Looking at her watch_) You
won’t go till she comes?

PRINCE. I will stay until then, if I may. (_He also looks at his
watch, and then says, a little anxiously_) This little boy of whom
Mr. Battersby talks----

ANGELA. Lumley?

PRINCE. Yes. He is unreliable?

ANGELA. Very, I’m afraid.

PRINCE. You ask him to do something, and he goes off bird’s-nesting,
or fishing?

ANGELA. Rather like that.

PRINCE. However, there are perhaps other little boys in the village
not so unreliable?

ANGELA. I expect they’re all pretty much the same.

PRINCE. Oh!... (_We have another momentary glimpse of_ IMOGEN _at the
window_).... But I mustn’t interrupt you. This piece of yesterday’s
paper is full of good things.

ANGELA (_addressing the envelope_). I’ve just finished.

                                      (AINSLIE _appears at the door_.)

AINSLIE. May I come in?

ANGELA (_over her shoulder_). Hallo! Come in.

AINSLIE. Good morning. Good morning, Prince Michael.

PRINCE. Good morning, doctor. Still here, you see.

AINSLIE. I was sorry to have to hurry off last night, and so, hearing
what had happened, I thought I would look in and make my apologies
and good-byes this morning.

PRINCE. How charming of you. (_Smiling_) And a Republican, too!

AINSLIE. My manners are without prejudice to my convictions.

ANGELA. We’re hoping that perhaps it won’t be good-bye just yet.

AINSLIE. Oh, I’m glad. Jennifer gave me to understand that I should
just have time to catch the Prince before he went.

PRINCE. How thoughtful of Mrs. Bulger.

ANGELA (_getting up, letters in hand_). You won’t fight if I leave
you alone for a moment?

PRINCE (_feeling_ AINSLIE’S _biceps_). No. I promise.

ANGELA. As long as you don’t whistle the Neo-Slavonian national
anthem, or anything provocative like that, he’ll be all right.

                                                      [_She goes out._

AINSLIE. I’m afraid I shouldn’t recognise it.... (_Awkwardly_) I
don’t know the etiquette, but may I lean against a table or something?

PRINCE (_solemnly_). I think I should lean first. (_He does so_)
There!

AINSLIE (_leaning too_). Thank you. (_He begins to fill his pipe_)
You won’t mind my saying that I wish I hadn’t met you?

PRINCE. If you won’t mind my asking why.

AINSLIE. I like keeping my prejudices intact. Are you the only Prince
with a sense of humour, or have I been wrong all these years?

PRINCE. Isn’t it against all medical etiquette for a doctor to be
wrong?

AINSLIE. There you are! You’ve no business to say things like that.
(_Preparing to light his pipe_) Do we smoke?

PRINCE. We smoke. (_He picks up one of_ BATTERSBY’S _pipes, and holds
it in his hand until_ AINSLIE’S _pipe is alight. Then he solemnly
puts it down again._)

AINSLIE. Thank you.... Curious thing about that young Oliver. Have
you heard any more this morning?

PRINCE. We are sending over to the hotel for news. We may hear
something at any moment. (_He looks at his watch._)

AINSLIE. I suppose you knew all about him?

PRINCE. Does one ever know all about anybody?

AINSLIE. I was thinking of his medical record.

PRINCE (_tapping his head_). He had an accident a few years ago.

AINSLIE. Ah! Concussion?

PRINCE. I imagine so. A stray bullet--on the Indian frontier, I
understand. Such an accident might cause complete loss of memory and
so forth, I suppose?

AINSLIE. Undoubtedly.

PRINCE. Thank you. (_Pretending to hand him money_) Your fee.

AINSLIE (_laughing_). Will you appoint me court doctor?

PRINCE. Gladly.

AINSLIE. I shall look forward to it. Meanwhile there’s a good deal to
do in the village. Do we move?

PRINCE. We move. (_They move towards the door._)

AINSLIE. I’m glad that we’re not losing you just yet. (_Looking into
the garden_) You weren’t playing hide-and-seek in the garden just
before I came?

PRINCE. No, Mr. Battersby had one or two things to do.

AINSLIE. I thought I saw----But I daresay it was nothing. _Au
revoir_, then.

                                                       [_He goes out._

PRINCE. _Au revoir._

  (_He settles down to his paper...._ IMOGEN _appears again, and
  seeing that he is alone, whistles cautiously. He takes no notice.
  She whistles again--and again._)

IMOGEN (_in a loud whisper_). I say!

PRINCE (_looking round_). Hallo!... Miss Imogen! (_He gets up._)

IMOGEN. Are you alone?

PRINCE. Utterly. (_He comes to her._)

IMOGEN. I say, you’ve shaved off your moustache!

PRINCE (_feeling his face_). So I have.

IMOGEN. May I come in?

PRINCE. May I conduct you in? (_He gives her his hand and leads her
in._)

IMOGEN (_giggling_). I say, what fun!

PRINCE (_smiling_). Isn’t it?

IMOGEN. You and me.

PRINCE. Us.... Was that you whistling?

IMOGEN. Yes.

PRINCE. It wasn’t you whistling outside the studio this morning from
about four o’clock till nine?

IMOGEN. Not as long as that. I did whistle a bit.

PRINCE. Yes.... Now tell me. You did what I asked you?

IMOGEN. Rather! That’s why I wanted to see you. Just to tell you I
had.

PRINCE. Good!

IMOGEN. The boy is going to bring it up in about five minutes. That’s
right, isn’t it?

PRINCE. Perfect.... It isn’t a boy called Lumley, I suppose?

IMOGEN. Yes, it is. Why?

PRINCE. Oh, nothing.... You’re sure you can trust him?

IMOGEN. I’m sure I _can’t_ trust him. And I told him so. And I’m
going to watch him do it, and he doesn’t get the sixpence until I’ve
seen him do it.

PRINCE (_admiringly_). What an ally to have! (_He holds out his
hand_) Shake!

IMOGEN (_shaking it_). Oh, I say! (_Shyly_) I say?

PRINCE (_anxiously_). You aren’t going to cry again? (_She shakes her
head._) Well?

IMOGEN. That sixpence you gave me to give him.

PRINCE (_anxiously_). It was a good one?

IMOGEN. Oo, rather! But would you mind if I gave him another one of
my own instead? (_Shyly_) Because ... because....

PRINCE (_smiling_). I wish you would, Imogen. And the other will be
your lucky sixpence?

IMOGEN (_nodding_). ’M. And you’re not going now, are you?

PRINCE. I think now I shall be able to stay.

IMOGEN. Is that why you shaved? So your enemies shouldn’t know you?

PRINCE. Something like that. It’s a symbol.

IMOGEN. Of what?

PRINCE. Victory, I hope....

IMOGEN (_suddenly_). What’s that?

PRINCE. What was it?

                                                      (_They listen._)

IMOGEN. I must fly. At any moment we might be discovered alone
together.

PRINCE. True. And there is also Lumley’s boy to be watched.

IMOGEN. Oo, I say, I’d forgotten him. Good-bye, Prince Michael! (_He
holds out his hand. Romantically she goes on one knee and kisses it.
Then she goes off--crying again._)

PRINCE. The darling! (_He returns to his paper.... And soon_ JENNIFER
_is at the door_.)

PRINCE (_without looking round_). _I_ make it five minutes to twelve.

JENNIFER. So you _are_ still here?

PRINCE (_getting up_). You gave me till noon.

JENNIFER. How did you know it was me?

PRINCE. What a silly question to ask! Of course I knew it was you!
(_He turns to her._)

JENNIFER. Michael!

PRINCE. What?

JENNIFER. Nothing. Why did you--(_with a wave of the hand_)--do that?

PRINCE. Do what?

JENNIFER. Shave your moustache.

PRINCE. I didn’t. That wasn’t _my_ moustache. It was Prince Michael
Robolski’s.

JENNIFER (_eagerly_). You mean you’ve told Angela? She knows?

PRINCE. That I’m an--inventor?

JENNIFER. That you--yes. That we’re both inventors.

PRINCE. My dear Jennifer, how could I? Think how awkward it would be
for all of you! The things you all said to me last night! I couldn’t
be so cruel.

JENNIFER. Then go away now--and nobody need ever know.

PRINCE (_like a small boy_). But I don’t _want_ to go! I like Wych
Trentham. I like Mr. Battersby. I like Miss Angela. I like the
Doctor. I like Miss Faithfull.... I like Jennifer.

JENNIFER. One or the other, Michael.

PRINCE. The Doctor has just been up to say good-bye to me. The poor
man was in tears. I daresay you met Miss Faithfull. She has just
been up to say good-bye to me. The poor girl was in hysterics. Mr.
Battersby, struggling with his emotions, lent me these trousers. He
has now gone to buy me a paper. They all love me.

JENNIFER. Everybody loves a Prince.

PRINCE. Except Jennifer.

JENNIFER. They won’t love plain Michael Brown.

PRINCE. And yet he is a very lovable man really.

JENNIFER. Well, do you go or stay?

PRINCE (_smiling_). I’ll toss you for it. Heads I stay, tails I
remain. (_He tosses_) It’s tails. I remain. I remain, yours very
sincerely, Michael Robolski.

JENNIFER. Then I tell Angela.

                            (ANGELA _comes in, a letter in her hand_.)

ANGELA. Hallo, darling!... Where’s the doctor?

PRINCE. Gone. We embraced, and I gave him the Order of the Leopard,
Fifth Class.

ANGELA. I’ve got a hundred things to do, so I’ll leave you to amuse
each other. (_To the_ PRINCE) You’re staying to lunch, aren’t you?

PRINCE (_with a look at_ JENNIFER). Please.

ANGELA. Good. (_To_ JENNIFER) You’d better, too, darling.

JENNIFER. Angela, dear, wait a moment.

PRINCE (_looking at his watch_). I make it _two_ minutes to twelve.
(_To_ JENNIFER) I beg your pardon, I thought you asked me the time.

ANGELA. What is it? I really _am_ busy. (_To the_ PRINCE) Oh, this
letter has just come for you.

PRINCE (_relieved_). Ah! Thank you. Is it permitted?

ANGELA. Of course. (_The_ PRINCE _opens his letter._)

JENNIFER. Wait a moment, dear. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.

ANGELA. Exciting?

JENNIFER. It is rather.

PRINCE (_who is reading his letter_). Pardon! You would wish me to
withdraw?

JENNIFER. I would wish you to stay.

PRINCE (_bowing_). May I just----(_he indicates the letter, and
finishes it_) Good! (_He takes a deep breath_) At last! (_To_
JENNIFER) Now I am at your service, Madame.

JENNIFER. Angela, Prince Michael----

PRINCE. Just a moment, if I may interrupt you. You called me Prince
Michael. I cannot leave you under that misapprehension any longer.
Miss Battersby! My lips at last are unsealed. (_In his English
voice_) I am _not_ Prince Michael!

ANGELA (_casually_). Why not?

PRINCE (_with dignity_). I am trying to explain. (_Tapping his
letter_) At last I am at liberty to speak. I owe you the most sincere
apology. You thought you were entertaining Prince Michael Robolski of
Neo-Slavonia last night. In a sense you were. But it was not I.

ANGELA. What do you mean?

PRINCE. I was only the humble secretary. He who called himself James
Oliver was the real Prince.

JENNIFER. Oh!

PRINCE. You are surprised?

JENNIFER (_recovering_). Just for the moment.

ANGELA. So you’re an Englishman after all?

PRINCE. Certainly. Three months ago the Prince engaged me as his
secretary. I asked him what were my duties. He said, “To grow a
moustache and listen.” For a month I grew a moustache and listened,
while he talked to me about Neo-Slavonia. In the end I felt that I
knew the country even better than he did. Then he said, “Now if we go
to a place where we are both unknown, can you pretend to be Prince
Michael, while I pretend to be his secretary?”

ANGELA. Why?

PRINCE (_not knowing_). Why?

JENNIFER. Yes, why?

PRINCE. Why? That was what I said. Why? He gave reasons, political
reasons, which would sound stupid to you if I repeated them now, but
to one who understood Neo-Slavonian politics as I did, were very,
very--er, very.

ANGELA. Where was this?

PRINCE. Where was it?

JENNIFER. Yes, where was it?

PRINCE. Where was it?... In a little seaport town called Bratsk.
The--Cromer of Neo-Slavonia.

ANGELA. But I thought Neo-Slavonia had no coast-line.

JENNIFER (_eagerly_). Yes!

PRINCE (_reproachfully_). One small pier and a group of
bathing-machines do not constitute a coast-line.

ANGELA. I beg your pardon.

JENNIFER. Silly of us.

ANGELA. Well?

PRINCE. We went to Monte Carlo--I as the Prince, he as my secretary.
Every now and then he would disappear. It was not my business to
follow him. I am engaged to grow a moustache, not to search for
footprints. One day he takes me to England. “Very soon now,” he says,
“we shall be able to reveal the truth.”

ANGELA (_smiling_). And so, very soon now, you are going to?

PRINCE (_with dignity_). I am doing it at this moment. He gives me
permission in this letter. (_He taps the letter_) He also gives me my
wages--(_he holds up the notes_)--instead of a month’s notice. I am
my own master again.... And out of a job.

ANGELA. And that’s that?

PRINCE (_with a sigh of mental exhaustion_). That, roughly speaking,
is that.

ANGELA. Well, I’m glad one of you was the Prince. I don’t know what
Mrs. Faithfull would say if there had never been a Prince at all.

JENNIFER. There wasn’t.

PRINCE. Ha!

ANGELA. How do you mean, darling?

JENNIFER. There is no such country as Neo-Slavonia.

PRINCE. Ha again.

ANGELA (_calmly_). Darling, how _can_ you know that?

JENNIFER. Have you ever seen it on the map?

ANGELA. Have you ever seen Czecho-Slovakia on the map?

PRINCE (_aside_). Or Maida Vale.

ANGELA. Or Maida Vale?

JENNIFER. No.

ANGELA. Well!

PRINCE. Well!

JENNIFER. Well, I wasn’t certain either. So this morning I
telegraphed to a friend in the Foreign Office.

ANGELA. But would _he_ know?

PRINCE. How could _he_ know?

JENNIFER (_displaying telegram_). Here is his answer. (_She gives it
to Angela_) I said, “Where is Neo-Slavonia?” He replies----

ANGELA (_reading_). “Never heard of it.” Well, of course, it mightn’t
be in his department. (_Handing back the telegram_) I don’t think
that that’s conclusive.

PRINCE. I don’t think that’s at all conclusive.

JENNIFER. My dear, I _know_ that there isn’t such a country.

ANGELA. I don’t see how you _can_ know.

PRINCE. I don’t see how any one can _know_.

ANGELA. You might suspect. (_To_ PRINCE) What do _you_ think?

PRINCE (_automatically_). What do _you_ think? I mean, What do _I_
think?

ANGELA. Well?

PRINCE (_after thought_). I believe Mrs. Bulger is right.

JENNIFER. Thank you.

ANGELA. But how----

PRINCE. I believe that he had made it all up.

ANGELA. But I thought you said you had actually been in Neo-Slavonia
with him?

JENNIFER. Bratsk--the local Cromer.

PRINCE (_with dignity_). You go to a town--how do you know who the
town belongs to? If he says it is a Neo-Slavonian town, why should I
doubt him? I am engaged as a secretary, not as a Fellow of the Royal
Geographical Society. (_To_ ANGELA). Yes, the more I think about
it, the more I feel that he made it all up. (_Triumphantly_) And
that’s why he disappeared so suddenly last night--without even saying
good-bye. He saw that Mrs. Bulger was suspicious. (_Sadly_) Yes, I
feel sure now that the Prince was an impostor. Don’t you agree with
me, Mrs. Bulger?

JENNIFER. Entirely.

PRINCE (_to_ ANGELA). You see, Mrs. Bulger agrees with me entirely.
I wonder what his game was. It may have been just pure love of
adventure. I shouldn’t care to think too hardly of him.... Miss
Battersby, how can I apologise for having brought this on you?

ANGELA. Mr. Oliver, it has been a privilege to listen to you.

JENNIFER. Oliver? (_To the_ PRINCE _with a friendly smile_) Of
course! Oliver.

PRINCE (_puzzled_). Oliver?

JENNIFER. Your name. You changed names with the Prince.

PRINCE (_recovering gallantly_). Not names. Identities.

ANGELA. Why not names?

JENNIFER. Why not names?

PRINCE (_wondering_). Well----

ANGELA. You took his--why didn’t he take yours?

JENNIFER. Why didn’t he take yours?

PRINCE. This is really rather embarrassing.

JENNIFER (_catching his eye_). Yes, I can see how embarrassing it is.

PRINCE (_suddenly_). Can you? Well, if you can’t now, you will
directly. Miss Battersby, the Prince refused to take my name. He
said, “No, I cannot take that horrible name.”

ANGELA. Why?

PRINCE (_impressively_). Because my name is--Bulger!

JENNIFER (_staggered_). Oh!

PRINCE. You are surprised again?

JENNIFER. Just for another moment.

PRINCE BULGER (_to_ JENNIFER). I have sometimes wondered if we are
relations? (_To_ ANGELA). You remember how interested I was when you
first told me your friend’s name? I wondered then.

ANGELA. Jennifer’s husband was a General in the Indian Army.

PRINCE (_eagerly_). Really? How odd! Not James?

JENNIFER (_weakly_). James.

PRINCE. How very curious!

ANGELA. Did you know him?

PRINCE. I _am_ James Bulger of the Indian Army.

JENNIFER. No, no!

PRINCE (_quickly_). Or am I not? You see, Miss Battersby, I was
knocked out rather badly in a small frontier skirmish--by a stray
bullet--left for dead, captured by the advancing enemy. When I came
to myself, my memory had gone. I remembered nothing. Not even my own
identity. A flask in my possession with the name James Bulger on it
and the simple inscription “Presented by a few old friends of the
Hammersmith Temperance Association” was my only clue. But was it
my own flask, or had James Bulger lent it to me? I shall never be
certain. For at times I have had a curious feeling that my real name
is--(_he looks at_ JENNIFER)--Brown.

ANGELA. It sounds very likely. A lot of people are called Brown.

PRINCE. Is that so? (_To_ JENNIFER) In that case you must permit me
to return your husband’s flask to you.

JENNIFER (_weakly_). Thank you. You haven’t it on you?

PRINCE. And if you will be so very kind as to talk to me a little
about him, it may be that you will strike some responsive chord in my
memory, and set it vibrating.

ANGELA (_getting up_). That’s a good idea. And when you’re quite
certain who you’re going to be, you must let me know. Anyway, you’ll
stay to lunch? I think you’ve earned it.

PRINCE. It is charming of you to have me.

ANGELA (_graciously_). Not at all. The excitement is ours.

                                                      [_She goes out._

JENNIFER. Well, Michael? (_She sits down._)

PRINCE (_triumphantly_). Well, Jennifer? (_He sits next to her. She
turns away, and he turns away. They talk, back to back._)

JENNIFER (_reluctantly_). You’re very clever.

PRINCE. Aren’t I?

JENNIFER. Naturally you’ve had a good deal of practice.

PRINCE. Naturally.

JENNIFER. I suppose you feel you’ve gained something by it all?

PRINCE. Lunch--anyway. If I had let myself be exposed by you, I
shouldn’t have had lunch.

JENNIFER. Oh, if you’re as hungry as that----

PRINCE. I am afraid you haven’t realised the extraordinary delicacy
with which I have handled the matter?

JENNIFER. I hadn’t, no.

PRINCE. You see, I wasn’t sure what you wanted. Did you want to go on
being the wife of General Bulger? If so, here I am, your long-lost
husband, Bulger, miraculously restored to you. Did you want to
confess the truth, that you are really Mrs. Michael Brown? Here am
I, the only original Michael Brown. Or do you want to marry again,
and try another name? Here am I, still at your service, prepared to
remember that my name is--whatever you most fancy. (_Proudly_) Very
few people could have been as tactful as that.

JENNIFER. But how considerate of you!

PRINCE (_modestly_). I am that sort of man.

JENNIFER. You seem to have provided for everything.

PRINCE. I tried to.

JENNIFER. And yet there was one possibility you overlooked.

PRINCE. Good Heavens, what?

JENNIFER. In your extraordinary delicacy you didn’t allow for the
fact that I might want to be left alone.

PRINCE (_looking at his watch_). For how long?

JENNIFER (_a little crossly_). What do you mean, for how long? When a
woman says that she wants to be left alone, you don’t ask her for how
long.

PRINCE. Why not?

JENNIFER. I don’t know why not. One doesn’t. It’s a ridiculous
question. Naturally, I mean that I want to be left alone for ever.

PRINCE. I see. You mean till you’re about ninety.

JENNIFER. No, I don’t. I wasn’t thinking about being ninety.

PRINCE. Good! Then what about eighty-nine? Suppose I drop in on your
eighty-ninth birthday----

JENNIFER. I shall not be at home.

PRINCE. Not if I came in the afternoon--with a few flowers?

JENNIFER (_coldly_). I want to be left alone.

PRINCE. By me--or by everybody?

JENNIFER. By you. By everybody in the way you’re talking about. I
don’t propose to marry again.

PRINCE (_gently_). It was I who was proposing.

JENNIFER. Then I am not open to offers of marriage.

PRINCE. Well, if you won’t marry again, will you live with either of
your two previous husbands?

JENNIFER. No.

PRINCE. You refuse?

JENNIFER. Absolutely.

PRINCE. You’re very difficult to please.

JENNIFER. No, I’m not. I’m very easy to please. I only want you to go
away.

PRINCE (_reproachfully_). After all the trouble I’ve taken?

JENNIFER. Go away.

PRINCE. It is a little hard on a man ... who has been travelling for
years ... in an unknown country ... to come back to his wife, and to
find that--like Penelope ... no, not like Penelope ... well, it’s a
little hard.

JENNIFER. I should keep Penelope out of it, if I were you.

PRINCE. I was trying to.

JENNIFER. When Ulysses left her, he did at least give her some idea
when he was coming back.

PRINCE. But what a wrong idea! “Back at Christmas,” he said
cheerfully, and it was twenty years before he saw her again.

JENNIFER. She knew what he was doing, anyhow.

PRINCE. Rescuing Helen, the most beautiful creature in the world.
That would be a great comfort to any woman.

JENNIFER. I don’t want to argue about it.

PRINCE. I went away in a much better cause than Ulysses. If you had
read the right sort of stories when you were young you would have
realised that, metaphorically speaking, you and I were in a sledge,
pursued by a pack of wolves over the snowy steppes of Siberia. Ivan
Ivanovitch, our faithful Cossack driver, flogs the fast-wearying
horses; from time to time I empty my revolver into the advancing
hordes and force them to stop and eat each other; all to no purpose.
And then, when I make the supreme sacrifice by hurling myself into
the midst of the ravening pack, what happens? I am blamed because I
left the sledge suddenly, and forgot to say, “Back on the 25th.”

JENNIFER. I don’t think that that is a perfect parallel.

PRINCE. According to Einstein there are no perfect parallels. But
I’m doing my best. (_He gets up_) I’m doing my best. (_She looks
away_) Jenny! (_She has her hand to her ear, arranging the hair above
it. He seizes her wrist--and then suddenly talks down her ear, as
if it were a telephone, using her hand as the receiver_) Hallo, is
that the exchange? I want Jenny. One in a million ... Jenny, one in
one double 0, double 0, double 0.... Yes.... Hallo, Jenny, is that
you?... Guess!... No.... No.... I say, what swell people you know!...
Shall I tell you?... Michael.... Don’t you remember Michael? The ugly
fellow who was always grousing because he couldn’t get a job.... Yes.
Casual sort of fellow.... It’s him ... he.... Oh, much the same....
I suppose you wouldn’t let him come down to your village, and just
_look_ at you occasionally.... Oh, I don’t know. He could sit behind
you at church or something.... Oh, don’t you? Then it’s quite time
you did.... You _wouldn’t_ care about it?... Oh!... Oh, I just
wondered. I expect you’re right. (_He hangs up the receiver and walks
away, whistling carelessly, to the writing-desk, where he sits down
and begins to write._)

JENNIFER (_after watching him for a little_). What are you doing?

PRINCE. Making my will, and leaving everything to you, of course.

JENNIFER. Oh, are you shooting yourself?

PRINCE. Obviously.

JENNIFER. I thought you made a will when we first got married.

PRINCE (_annoyed_). Can’t I do it again if I want to?

JENNIFER. Of course. But I thought I got the money anyhow? Even if
you died--what’s the word? Rather a horrid one----

PRINCE. “Suddenly.”

JENNIFER. Intestate. (_To herself as if commenting on a man who has
died of this unfortunate complaint_) So painful, poor fellow!

PRINCE (_fiercely_). Good heavens, if a man can’t make a remorseful
will just before shooting himself, life becomes utterly impossible.

JENNIFER. I beg your pardon.

PRINCE. I’m sorry. Naturally I am a little on edge.

JENNIFER (_after a pause--to herself_). _Four_ “s’s” in “possessed.”
Some people only put three.

PRINCE. In my last moments I propose to allow myself perfect liberty
in the matter.

JENNIFER (_after a pause_). Which would be the best solicitor to go
to? My own or yours?

PRINCE. I leave that to you. (_Looking upwards_) I shall never meet
either of them again.... (_Looking downwards_) At least, I hope not.

JENNIFER (_after a pause_). Michael!

PRINCE. H’sh, h’sh!

JENNIFER. Michael!

              (_He doesn’t answer. She trills like a telephone bell._)

PRINCE. Damn that telephone. (_She rings again_) Oh, Lord! (_He gets
up and goes to her, putting his left hand to her mouth, and her right
hand to his ear._)

JENNIFER. Hallo!... Hallo!... Oh, is that Prince Michael of
Neo-Slavonia?... Yes! However did you guess?... Really?... A little
bit older and fatter.... What?... Oh, how sweet of you!... You can
tell from the voice? Michael, how clever of you!... Well, you’ll see
for yourself.... Yes, that’s what I wanted to say.... Just before you
shoot yourself.... Oh, well, you must ask me.... I don’t know. I
haven’t decided.... All right, I’ll wait for you. Good-bye.

                              (_She kisses his hand. He kisses hers._)

PRINCE. Well, Jenny?

JENNIFER. Well, Mike?

PRINCE. I’ve come back.

JENNIFER. So it seems.

PRINCE. What about it?

JENNIFER. I don’t know.

PRINCE. Shall we try?

JENNIFER (_nodding_). If you like.

PRINCE. Thank you, Jenny.

JENNIFER. It’s an experiment, of course.

PRINCE. Isn’t that the most fun?

JENNIFER. You’re an adventurer at heart, you know.

PRINCE. You too, Jennifer.

JENNIFER (_smiling_). I suppose I am.

PRINCE. Adventurers, both.

JENNIFER. I suppose any morning I may wake up and find that you’ve
gone off to be the Prince of some imaginary country.

PRINCE. And any afternoon I may wake up to find that you’ve run off
with some imaginary General.

JENNIFER. Yes, we’ve got to remember that.

PRINCE. Yes....

JENNIFER. Michael?

PRINCE. Jennifer.

JENNIFER. I think we’ll keep an atlas in the house.

PRINCE (_nodding_). And an Army List.

JENNIFER. And some day, perhaps, I shall come upon you looking
wistfully at that atlas, wondering where Neo-Slavonia is.

PRINCE. And some day, perhaps, I shall find you fluttering the pages
of that Army List, and wondering which General most wants a widow.

JENNIFER. And when that happens to either of us, then one will know
that the other one----

PRINCE. Wants a little holiday.

JENNIFER. So they’ll say to each other quite casually, “Oh, are _you_
off?”

PRINCE. And off they’ll go.

JENNIFER. And then when they’ve been away long enough----

PRINCE. Not four years this time----

JENNIFER. Only a little while----

PRINCE. They’ll try to find each other again.

JENNIFER. And they will have so much to tell each other----

PRINCE. That they will never be bored.

JENNIFER. It might work that way.

PRINCE. It might.

JENNIFER (_holding out her hands_). Worth trying, Michael?

PRINCE (_taking them_). Worth trying, Jennifer.

  (_As they stand there_, BATTERSBY _bursts in with the paper,
  obviously excited._)

BATTERSBY. I say! I say! I say! Just as well I went to get the paper.

PRINCE (_vaguely, dropping_ JENNIFER’S _hands_). The paper?

BATTERSBY (_showing the place_). Look here, Prince! There! (_They
take the paper and look at it together_) I say, Angela! (_He hurries
off to her._) I say! Angela!...

PRINCE (_reading_). Sudden Revolution in----Neo-Slavonia! (_He stares
blankly at her._)

JENNIFER. But you said there wasn’t!

PRINCE. There isn’t! I invented it.

JENNIFER (_pointing to paper._) But there must be!

PRINCE (_nodding_). There must be. (_Sadly_) Jennifer, Jennifer, I
thought I was a creator, and I’m just an ordinary impostor after all.

JENNIFER (_very soothingly_). Never mind, darling. Better luck next
time!

  (_Angela is at the door, a cigarette in her mouth, a cocktail in
  her hand._)

ANGELA (_regarding them with an indulgent smile_). Come along,
children!

  (_Hand in hand, they walk past her, the children, and go out....
  She follows them._)




                      ARIADNE, OR BUSINESS FIRST

                        A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS




                              CHARACTERS

                    ARIADNE WINTER.
                    JOHN WINTER (_her husband_).
                    MARY (_maid_).
                    HECTOR CHADWICK.
                    HESTER CHADWICK (_his wife_).
                    JANET INGLEBY.
                    HORACE MELDRUM.


SCENE: _Drawing-room of John Winter’s house in the provincial town of
Melchester._

               ACT I. Friday.

                   _Scene_ 1: Before dinner.

                   _Scene_ 2: Three hours later.

               ACT II. Saturday. Late afternoon.

               ACT III. Monday. Between tea and dinner.


The first performance of this play in London took place at the
Theatre Royal, Haymarket, on April 22, 1925, with the following cast:

                 _John Winter_      ION SWINLEY.
                 _Ariadne_          FAY COMPTON.
                 _Hector Chadwick_  JOHN DEVERELL.
                 _Hester Chadwick_  LOUISE HAMPTON.
                 _Janet Ingleby_    JOYCE KENNEDY.
                 _Horace Meldrum_   ALLAN AYNESWORTH.
                 _Mary_             BARBARA EVEREST.




                                ACT I


                               SCENE 1

  _The drawing-room of the Winters’ house in Melchester. Like so
  many other rooms in England, it is a mixture of styles--the John
  style and the Ariadne style. The fireplace and mantelpiece, with
  its presentation clock and twin vases, is pure_ JOHN. _Probably
  he insisted on the clock; and_ ARIADNE, _realising that the
  mantelpiece was now hopeless, encouraged him to put some of the
  other presents there. The pictures are_ JOHN, _including the
  hand-painted water-colour of an unexpected part of Switzerland,
  given by a grateful lady-client, for whom he has appeared in the
  county court. There are one or two early_ JOHN _pieces among the
  furniture and easily recognisable by their ugliness; not that his
  taste is bad, but simply that a drawing-room requires so much
  furniture, and if an aunt or a sister or a foreclosed mortgage
  has provided a proportion of it, it is folly to waste good money
  in buying the same things over again. For to_ JOHN _all money is
  good money; to be sought, to be won, and not to be thrown away_.
  ARIADNE _doesn’t like throwing it away, but she likes exchanging
  it for beautiful things, and here and there she has managed to do
  this. She also likes comfort, and there is a chair for_ JOHN _and
  a sofa for herself which, to some of the Melchester ladies, seem
  almost indecently easy for a drawing-room._

  _On a small table there is a big bowl of roses, with a note
  tucked in the middle of them. We shall hear more about these._

  _The room is in darkness, for it is after seven on an autumn
  evening._

  ARIADNE _comes in and turns on the light. She is a happy young
  woman with a sense of humour which finds itself well exercised in
  Melchester. Just at the moment she is in the middle of a quarrel
  with her husband, and she carries on her face the lingering
  afterglow of their last heated remarks to each other. Probably
  the afterglow is more pronounced on_ JOHN’S _face; we shall see
  directly_. ARIADNE _would be coolly ironical, for the most part.
  She walks round the room, takes the note from the roses, shrugs
  her shoulders at the writing, and puts it back again; then picks
  up the evening paper from a table, and sinks into the sofa._

  JOHN _follows. Undoubtedly he is ruffled, but he is not going
  to show it. As one of the leading solicitors of Melchester it
  is his business to control his feelings. But though his keen,
  intelligent, clean-shaven face may be a mask to his clients_,
  ARIADNE _can read every word of it. She gives him a look, and
  smiles to herself._

JOHN (_looking at his watch_). Plenty of time. I thought I was
going to be late. (_He compares his watch with the clock on the
mantelpiece_) H’m. Fast again. (_He puts the hand of the clock five
minutes back_) I shall have to have it seen to.

ARIADNE (_not looking up from her paper_). Oh, don’t do that.

JOHN. They wouldn’t keep it long.

ARIADNE (_with an ironical look at the clock_). I wasn’t thinking of
that.

JOHN. Well, what?

ARIADNE. It must be so nice always putting things right--and knowing
you’re right yourself.

JOHN (_with restraint_). I put my watch right by the Town Hall.
That’s how I know.

ARIADNE. The Town Hall puts all the watches right. How satisfactory
for it.

JOHN (_ignoring this_). Anything in the paper?

ARIADNE. And the watches put all the presentation clocks right. And
the kitchen clock takes its time from this one, so however wrong you
are, there’s always some one you can tell.

JOHN. I am afraid this is too subtle for me. Anything in the paper?

ARIADNE (_offering it to him_). Want it?

JOHN (_taking it_). Sure you’re finished with it?

ARIADNE. Actually, no; but speaking as a wife, “Yes, John.”

JOHN (_opening it_). I don’t suppose there is much in it anyway.

ARIADNE. Not enough for two, apparently. We might take in another
copy of it.

JOHN. My dear Ariadne, what a ridiculous suggestion!

ARIADNE. Why?

JOHN. Two copies of the same paper!

ARIADNE. Twenty-six shillings a year, that’s all.

JOHN. Why throw away good money?

ARIADNE. But money, even if it’s good money, is meant to be thrown
away.

JOHN. Not on wanton extravagance like that.

ARIADNE. Surely if you get pleasure and profit from it, that’s
enough. If I pick up the paper first, you resent it, don’t you? And
if I have to wait for it until you have read every last word of
the advertisements, well, however used I am to waiting, it leaves
a little mark each time. So we should both be happier if we had
two copies, shouldn’t we? And you can’t often buy a little extra
happiness every day for twenty-six shillings a year.

JOHN. What’s the matter with you to-night?

ARIADNE. Working the remains of our quarrel off before our guests
come.

JOHN (_anxiously_). You’re going to be civil to Horace Meldrum?

ARIADNE. Of course!

JOHN. Why you ever started a quarrel about him I can’t conceive.

ARIADNE. I oughtn’t to have said quarrel. There was no quarrel. I
merely said that I wouldn’t have Mr. Meldrum in my house again, and
you said that in that case you would ask him to dinner to-night.
Hardly a quarrel.

JOHN. I explained quite clearly why we had to be polite to him.

ARIADNE. You explained that he was one of your most important clients.

JOHN. _The_ most important.

ARIADNE. Yes. Oh, you put it very clearly.

JOHN. I am not the only solicitor in Melchester, you know.

ARIADNE. And Mr. Meldrum isn’t the only bounder.

JOHN. I admit he’s--well--what shall I say?

ARIADNE. Shall _I_ say it?

JOHN. But I’m getting a good deal of his work, and if we can keep the
right side of him there’s no saying what it will lead to.

ARIADNE. That’s what I feel.

JOHN. If he took offence suddenly about anything, he’d think nothing
of going straight off to another solicitor----

ARIADNE. And making love straight off to another solicitor’s wife.

JOHN. Oh, come! You aren’t a newly married girl. You know how to keep
that sort of man in order.

ARIADNE. As a rule, yes. But in one of those awkward cases when you
have to choose between preserving the honour and dignity of your
husband and preserving the prosperity of his business----

JOHN. Nonsense! That’s going much too far.

ARIADNE. Almost the very words I said to Mr. Meldrum last time.

JOHN. I don’t like having him here any more than you do, but I can’t
deliberately throw good money away.

ARIADNE. There’s another way of putting that, you know.

JOHN. What?

ARIADNE. I don’t like throwing good money away, but I can’t
deliberately let my wife be insulted.

JOHN (_burying himself in his paper_). Insulted! Rubbish!

  (_Ariadne stretches out a hand and takes the note from the bowl
  of roses._)

ARIADNE (_holding the note out to him_). Here.

JOHN. What?

ARIADNE. Your client’s last letter to me.

JOHN (_taking it_). You haven’t opened it.

ARIADNE. I don’t need to. I can guess what’s inside it.

JOHN. But it might be important.

ARIADNE. I thought _you_ would like to open it. You are my husband.

JOHN (_doubtfully_). When did it come?

ARIADNE. This afternoon, with those flowers. (_She indicates the
roses._)

JOHN (_going round to inspect them_). Did Meldrum send you these? How
awfully decent of him. You can’t get roses like that for nothing.

ARIADNE. You can’t.... Aren’t you going to open the letter?

JOHN. Why do you want me to?

ARIADNE. I know how he writes. I thought _you_ would like to know.

JOHN (_uncertainly_). It’s just--a few polite nothings.

ARIADNE. I daresay. Won’t you read it? I have no secrets from you.

JOHN (_hesitatingly_). Well, it’s--it’s your letter.

ARIADNE. Are you afraid to?

JOHN. How do you mean afraid? It’s your letter, why don’t _you_ open
it?

ARIADNE. I know so well the sort of thing; you don’t. Are you afraid
to know?

JOHN. Of course not. (_But he turns it over nervously._)

ARIADNE. Well?

JOHN (_offering it to her_). It isn’t my letter. Why don’t _you_ open
it? You refuse to? Very well. It’s your letter, you refuse to open
it. I have no right to. (_He tears the letter into four pieces and
throws it into the waste-paper basket._)

ARIADNE _(shaking her head at him_). Oh, John!

JOHN (_blustering_). Why do you make such a melodramatic fuss about
a mere note like that? Perfectly harmless note accompanying a few
flowers. Very decent of him, considering. Look at Hester. She’s known
him as long as I have. She doesn’t make a fuss. He and Hector do a
lot of business together. Do you think Hester makes a fuss when he
goes to their house? Do you think she shrieks out that she is being
insulted?

ARIADNE (_smiling_). Don’t tempt me, John.

JOHN. I suppose now you are going to run down my sister. I suppose no
one in Melchester is good enough for you. That’s how it is.

ARIADNE. _You_ were once, John.

JOHN. The long and the short of it is that you don’t like Meldrum.
If it’s any satisfaction to you, neither do I. But for the sake of
the business, on which you depend as much as I do, I ask you to be
friendly to him. Well, polite, anyhow.

ARIADNE. I will be more than polite. I will be friendly. That I
promise.

JOHN (_coming up to her_). You’ve got a way with you, you know. You
can’t pretend you haven’t. I’ve seen you with all sorts of people,
people you must have hated, smiling at ’em as sweetly as if you’d
loved them all your life.

ARIADNE (_smiling to herself_). I will smile like that at Mr.
Meldrum. Watch me.

JOHN. Only the other day Hester was admitting that there was
something about you----

ARIADNE. How nice of her! I love to think of you and Hester having
long talks about me, and your sister admitting things like that.
(_She takes a rose from the bowl, and holds it up_) Aren’t they
pretty?

JOHN (_very friendly_). He throws his money about, doesn’t he? But
then he can afford to.

ARIADNE (_putting the rose in her dress_). I like people who _throw_
it about.

JOHN. He’s quite a good sort when you get to know him.

ARIADNE. I must get to know him, I can see.

                     (_And there the discussion ends for the moment._)

JOHN (_looking at his watch_). Hester’s late. She isn’t usually late.
I suppose Hector has been kept by some business. I don’t know why one
expects them always to be first----

ARIADNE. I suppose because they always are.

JOHN. Meldrum is sure to be late, of course.

ARIADNE. Detained--by business.

JOHN. Well, he _is_ pretty busy just now with all these new cheap
cottages he’s putting up.

ARIADNE (_suitably impressed_). Ah! (_John returns to his paper._)
(_After a pause_) Oh, by the way, I am going up to London to-morrow.

JOHN. To-morrow? Saturday?

ARIADNE. Yes.

JOHN (_a little annoyed_). Can’t you wait till Wednesday?

ARIADNE. I don’t like excursion trains. I suppose I’m fussy.

JOHN. Oh well.... What is it? Shopping?

ARIADNE. One or two things. I shall lunch at the club.

JOHN. The club! Now there’s a needless extravagance. How many times
do you go to your club in a year?

ARIADNE (_lightly_). I don’t know, John, and I don’t care, John, and
I’m going to lunch there to-morrow, John. Now don’t say another word
while I get my smile ready for Hector.

JOHN (_suspiciously_). Smile?

ARIADNE. Smile of welcome.

                                  (_A hearty voice is heard outside._)

JOHN (_looking at his watch_). Here they are at last.

ARIADNE. I expect he forgot to put his watch right by the Town Hall.

MARY (_announcing_). Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick.

  (HECTOR, _a bore in the grand style, with every cliché at his
  command, a bore who--it would seem--really takes a pride in his
  art, has been too much for Hester. She has faded, without quite
  knowing why. She is still proud of_ HECTOR; _one could not fail
  to be of so supreme an artist; and she has given up her right
  to the hearth-rug and the central position, without resentment;
  but she feels that there should have been something more in life
  than_ HECTOR’S _voice. She is fond of her brother, and has always
  known that_ ARIADNE _was not good enough for him_.)

HECTOR. Good-evening!

JOHN. Ah, here you are.

ARIADNE (_offering a cheek_). Good-evening, Hester.

HESTER. Good-evening. Good-evening, John. (_She goes and kisses him._)

JOHN. Good-evening, dear.

HECTOR (_shaking hands with_ ARIADNE). I was afraid we were late. A
rush of business came in just as I was leaving the office----

HESTER. Hector is very busy just now.

HECTOR (_taking out his watch_). Is that clock right, John?

JOHN. Right by the Town Hall.

HECTOR. That’s good enough for me. (_Altering his watch_) I’m five
minutes slow. Funny thing about watches. Now I daresay if somebody
else wore this watch, it would be five minutes fast.

ARIADNE. You’re too quick for it, Hector.

                                                    (_They sit down._)

HESTER. Who else are coming?

JOHN (_a little awkwardly_). Meldrum.

HECTOR. Horace Meldrum. Ah! These new houses of his will be a pretty
good thing for you, John. I suppose you’ve got the conveyancing of
them.

JOHN. The Sutton Road ones anyhow. But you know what Meldrum is.

ARIADNE (_brightly_). We are going to get them all, Hector. We are
going to do all Mr. Meldrum’s work for him. Even if he gets mixed up
in a divorce case we are going to act for him.

HESTER. My dear Ariadne!

JOHN. Ariadne’s joking, of course.

HECTOR. _Honi soit_--and so on. Horace is much too careful to get
mixed up in anything of that sort.

HESTER. Anybody else?

ARIADNE. Janet Ingleby.

HESTER. Oh, Janet. And Charlie, I suppose?

ARIADNE. No, not Charlie.

JOHN. We only knew at the last moment that Mr. Meldrum was coming, so
we just got Miss Ingleby to make up the number.

HESTER. Oh, I see.

HECTOR. Charlie will be doing well for himself if that comes off.
I wonder what old Ingleby will cut up for when his time comes. Any
idea, John?

JOHN. Hundred thousand. More.

ARIADNE. Good heavens! We _must_ be nice to Janet.

HECTOR (_profoundly impressed, to_ JOHN). You don’t mean it, you
don’t mean it.

JOHN. I don’t _know_, of course.

ARIADNE (_disappointed_). Oh, aren’t you his solicitor?

JOHN. If I were, dear, I shouldn’t even be able to guess at what he’s
worth.

HECTOR. Professional etiquette, Ariadne. The Law Society would
rap you pretty sharply over the knuckles if you talked about your
client’s affairs in public, eh, John?

JOHN. I can’t imagine a decent solicitor doing it.

HESTER (_to_ ARIADNE). Like doctors and bankers. It wouldn’t do at
all.

HECTOR. Secrets of the confessional. Even in the Law Courts--but I
think that that point hasn’t been decided yet.

ARIADNE (_apologetically_). Oh, I see. But who is the lucky man who
really knows how much Mr. Ingleby will--cut up for?

JOHN. Some London firm. Parkinsons, I think.

HESTER. He’s always been like that. They even run an account at
Harrod’s, Janet tells me.

HECTOR. Uncivic of him. Distinctly uncivic.

ARIADNE. But you must have a local solicitor as well, mustn’t you?
Supposing a dog bit him outside the Town Hall----

JOHN (_considering_). County Court action. Yes, he would then, of
course.

ARIADNE (_with decision_). Then in case a dog bites him, I shall be
very nice to Janet.

HECTOR (_to_ HESTER). What was that? I didn’t quite get that.

HESTER. I don’t think it was very important.

JOHN (_stiffly_). A joke of Ariadne’s.

HECTOR. Well, well, nobody likes a good joke more than I do. Let’s
have it, Ariadne.

ARIADNE. Shall I explain it, John?

JOHN. I hardly think it necessary.

ARIADNE. I am sorry, Hector. You’ll have to imagine it as being
tremendously funny.

                             _Enter_ MARY.

MARY (_announcing_). Miss Ingleby.

  (JANET INGLEBY _is a handsome, rather discontented-looking girl
  of 25, with no illusions, a lazily dangerous tongue, and an eye
  to business_.)

JANET. Good-evening. (_To_ ARIADNE) How are you, dear? (_Shaking
hands with the others_) I do hope I haven’t come at the wrong moment.

HECTOR (_gallantly_). Could any moment be the wrong moment for a
young and charming lady?

JANET. Easily.

HECTOR (_taken aback_). Oh!

JANET. If I had come in five minutes ago when you were all discussing
me----

JOHN. No, no.

HECTOR. I protest, upon my soul, I protest.

JANET. Am I the last?

ARIADNE. Mr. Meldrum.

JANET. Well, aren’t we all going to discuss _him_ now?

HESTER. My dear Janet, as if we should.

ARIADNE. Of course not. We’ve done it already.

JANET. That’s hardly fair, is it? You ought to have waited for _me_.

JOHN (_with a smile_). We thought perhaps you would rather discuss
Charlie.

HECTOR. Ah, how is my dear friend Charlie?

JANET. Charlie is off.

HECTOR. Dear, dear!

ARIADNE. Oh, Janet! Why?

JANET. Father turned him down.

HESTER. I thought the modern girl didn’t pay any attention to her
father’s views.

JANET. I don’t suppose she does. But, if she’s not a fool, she pays a
good deal of attention to her father’s money.

HECTOR. Dear, dear! And so he threatened to cut you off with the
proverbial shilling.

JANET. Yes. And both Charlie and I felt that a shilling wasn’t enough.

ARIADNE (_reproachfully_). But he wasn’t just marrying you for your
money, dear?

JANET. No, that was the trouble. Father said, “Look here, Janet, if
any enterprising young man comes along who wants a wife and twenty
thousand, to put into his business, I’m ready to talk to him. But
this young fellow isn’t thinking about business at all. You’ll just
fritter the money away between you, and what’s the good of that?”

HECTOR. Yes, I see his point.

JANET. Oh, so do I. You can’t live on the interest of twenty
thousand. You must _do_ something with it. Charlie couldn’t think of
anything.

JOHN. Yes, that’s true enough.

ARIADNE. Well, as long as you aren’t broken-hearted, Janet.

JANET. Oh Lord, no. We had a very good time together, and that’s all
of that.

                             _Enter_ MARY.

MARY (_announcing_). Mr. Meldrum.

  (_Enter_ HORACE--_handsome, if you like that style--dashing, as
  far as his weight will allow--a supreme egotist, without a wonder
  or a misgiving in him. A bounder undoubtedly, but in the heroic
  manner._)

HORACE (_to the company_). Good-evening, good-evening. (_To_ ARIADNE)
Good-evening, dear lady, I trust I am not late, but as I daresay your
husband will have told you, I have a good deal on just now. (_With a
nod_) Evening, John. (_To_ HESTER) Ah, Mrs. Hector! and how has the
world been treating _you_ since I last saw you? Let me see, that was
on Tuesday, wasn’t it? (HESTER _murmurs that it was Monday, but he is
already on his way to_ JANET.) Ah, Miss Janet! I was talking to your
father over the phone only this morning. You’re looking very pretty,
my dear. Got a new way of doing your hair, haven’t you?

JANET. Yes, it is fairly new. _You_ keep to your old way?

HORACE. Ha, ha, very good! I like a young woman to show a bit of
spirit. You’ll get on, my dear. I always told your father so. (_To_
HECTOR) Ah, Hector! Before I forget, come and have a talk with me on
Monday. I’ve got something I can put in your way.

HECTOR. Splendid, splendid, my dear fellow.

HORACE (_taking out his watch and looking at the clock_). Yes, I
thought I wasn’t as late as all that. (_To_ JOHN) You’re a couple of
minutes fast.

JOHN (_a little diffidently_). I don’t think so. I put it right by
the Town Hall clock.

ARIADNE. Yes, we put it right by the Town Hall.

HORACE (_with finality_). A couple of minutes fast.

JOHN. Oh--thank you. (_He goes to the clock and alters it. While he
is doing this_, MARY _comes in_.)

ARIADNE. Dinner, Mary?

MARY. Yes, madam.

ARIADNE. Thank you. (_To the others_) Shall we go in?

  (_There is a little natural hesitation near the door on the
  point of procedure. True_, HESTER _is a married woman, but
  then_ JANET’S _father may cut up for a hundred thousand pounds.
  Fortunately_ HORACE _keeps his head_.)

HORACE (_genially_). Ah, shall I go first?

  (_He goes first. The others follow. As they go_, JOHN _at the
  door turns off the switches. The lamps by the fire are still
  alight--good money thrown away. Firmly, without hurrying, he
  walks across the room and puts them out; then back again after
  the others._)


                                ACT I

                               SCENE 2

  _The curtain drops--to rise again three hours later._ ARIADNE
  _and_ HESTER _are on the sofa_, HESTER _at work on something. The
  others are playing bridge._ HORACE (_with him_ JOHN) _is winning;
  you can see it by the way he is snapping down the cards_; JANET
  _is losing and doesn’t like it_; JOHN _is dummy; and_ HECTOR _for
  once is not talking, save for an occasional “Ah!” or “H’m!” or
  “You play that.”_

HORACE. The last two are ours. Four tricks. That’s thirty-two below.
That’s the rubber.

ARIADNE. Did you win, Mr. Meldrum?

HORACE. I did, dear lady.

ARIADNE. How clever of you!

HECTOR. You know the old adage, Horace. Lucky at cards, unlucky in
love.

ARIADNE. Oh, I’m sure that doesn’t apply to Mr. Meldrum.

HORACE. I’m sure it doesn’t too.

HESTER. How much have you lost, Hector?

HECTOR. We haven’t worked it out yet, dear.

JANET (_who has been scoring_). Four hundred and seventy--that’s four
and sixpence.

JOHN (_who is also scoring_). Five hundred and two.

HORACE. Five hundred and two, that’s five shillings.

JANET. How do you make that? (_She looks over his shoulder_) You have
given yourself sixteen above, what’s that for?

JOHN. Simple honours.

HECTOR. We had the honours, dear boy.

JANET. Of course we did.

HECTOR. I had the knave.

JANET. And I had the queen and ten. Four and sixpence.

JOHN. Sorry. Four and sixpence.

HORACE (_calmly_). _I_ had the knave.

HECTOR. My dear boy----

JANET. I distinctly remember----

HORACE. _I_ had the knave.

JANET. I _know_ Mr. Chadwick had the knave.

ARIADNE. Does it matter very much who had the knave?

JANET (_to_ HORACE). We’ll turn up the tricks, if you like.

JOHN (_to_ ARIADNE). It just makes the difference, dear.

HECTOR (_to_ JANET). I’m afraid I’ve shuffled the cards now.

HORACE (_getting up_). Five shillings. Well, I’d sooner win it than
lose it.

HECTOR (_getting up and coming over to the sofa_). You see, it’s
either five shillings or four and six, according to who had the knave.

ARIADNE. Dear me! Then you all ought to have watched the poor man
much more carefully.

JANET. I _know_ Mr. Chadwick had it.

HORACE. Well, look here, I tell you what I’ll do, Hector. I’ll toss
you ten shillings or nothing.

HECTOR. Right. (HORACE _spins a coin._) Tails.

HORACE. Heads. My luck’s in.

HECTOR (_making sure it was heads_). Right. (_He takes out a note
which_ HORACE _solemnly tucks away_.)

JANET (_defiantly to_ JOHN). Four and six. (_She gives him the
money._)

JOHN. Thanks. That’s all right.

HORACE. I’ll help myself to another drink if nobody objects.

JOHN. Oh do! Sorry! What about you, Hester?

HESTER. No, thank you.

HORACE. Mrs. John? Can’t I persuade you?

ARIADNE. No, thank you.

HORACE (_humorously_). I can afford it, you know. I’ve won ten
shillings. (ARIADNE _laughs kindly_.) Miss Janet, what about you?
Just to show there is no ill-feeling.

JANET (_still rather ruffled over that sixpence_). Thanks.

HESTER (_getting up_). Well, we ought to be going, I suppose. (_To_
HECTOR) Are you ready?

HECTOR. Yes, dear. Ready, aye ready. (_They say good-byes, and_ JOHN
_goes to the door with them_.) (_To_ JANET) I’m afraid it’s no good
offering you a lift, as you don’t go our way.

ARIADNE (_to_ JANET). Haven’t you got the car, dear?

JANET. Good Lord, no. Father doesn’t waste the car on _me_ like that.
I don’t mind walking. It isn’t far.

HECTOR (_relieved_). Ah well, that’s all right.

JOHN (_from the door_). I’ll see Miss Ingleby home.

JANET. No need to.

JOHN. Of course I will.

ARIADNE (_the perfect wife_). Of course he will! How _is_ your father?

JANET (_not realising how nearly a dog bit him outside the Town
Hall_). Oh, all right. Well then, I’ll say good-night. And thanks
very much.

ARIADNE. Good-night, dear. Sure you are all right?

JANET. Of course. Good-night, Mr. Meldrum.

HORACE. Good-night, Miss Janet. Remember me to your father. I’ll be
round seeing him one of these days, I expect.

JANET (_as she goes out_). Right. I’ll count the spoons.

HORACE. Ha, ha, ha! Smart little devil. I like a girl with spirit.

  (_Final good-nights are heard from the hall. Then after a pause
  comes “Ready?” from_ JOHN _and “Right” from_ JANET. _After
  another pause the front door is heard to shut. During this,_
  HORACE _has been staring at_ ARIADNE, _the self-assured stare of
  the man who is certain that that is what a pretty woman likes._
  ARIADNE _sits demurely on the sofa waiting for him to begin._)

HORACE. I got your message.

ARIADNE. What message was that?

HORACE. The one you are sending me now.

ARIADNE. Am I?

HORACE. Your rose, dear lady.

ARIADNE (_demurely_). Oh!

HORACE. My rose.

ARIADNE (_more demurely_). Oh!

HORACE. Our rose.

ARIADNE (_most demurely_). Oh!

HORACE. How beautiful it looks there. (_Striving for the right
metaphor_) Nesting.

ARIADNE. I didn’t know roses did that.

HORACE. Ariadne’s does. It nests in her bosom like a--like----

ARIADNE. It is difficult, isn’t it? You’ll have to start again.

HORACE (_who has probably had just a little too much whisky_). Like a
dove. Like a little dove. A little pink dove.

ARIADNE. Fancy! I wonder what a pink dove looks like, nesting in a
buttonhole. (_He comes towards her. She takes it out of her dress and
puts it in his buttonhole_) There! It looks just like a rose.

HORACE. Thank you, dear lady. (_He kisses her fingers; then goes back
to his place, and expands himself_) Somehow I never feel properly
dressed until a pretty woman has put a flower in my buttonhole. (_He
stands in front of the fireplace jingling his money._)

ARIADNE. Had a good week?

HORACE. Pretty fair, pretty fair. And a bit more to come to-morrow
morning.

ARIADNE. I suppose I mustn’t ask how much.

HORACE. You’d be surprised if I told you.

ARIADNE. Try me.

HORACE. Not far short of a cool thousand. That’s about what it will
work out at for the week.

ARIADNE. A cool thousand! Fancy. And a bachelor. No wonder you are
always properly dressed.

HORACE. So to-morrow afternoon I am running up to dear old London to
see what Piccadilly Circus looks like.

ARIADNE. On business?

HORACE (_chuckling_). Strictly on business. Strictly on business. And
if anybody asks me what business, I shall say that’s _my_ business.
(_He laughs heartily._)

ARIADNE. Then I shan’t ask you what business.

HORACE. I’d tell _you_, my dear lady. I’m going to see my doctor. Ha,
ha! That’s a good one. My doctor.

ARIADNE. Yes, that’s a good one. I like that one.

HORACE. Joking apart, my dear, I’ll tell you why I’m going to London.
Just for a little bit of fun. Just a little bit of fun after a hard
week’s work. On a Friday night I say to myself sometimes, “Horace,
you’ve been a good boy all the week, and you’ve earned your little
bit of fun.”

ARIADNE. I’m sure you have.

HORACE. That’s what I call going to see my doctor. Doctor Fun I call
him. L. B. Fun.

ARIADNE. What amusing things you say.

HORACE. Little Bitta Fun. L. B. Fun--see it?

ARIADNE. Yes, now I do.

HORACE. Well, that’s what I’m going to London for. Get up in time for
lunch. What about a cosy little lunch at Frascati’s; just as a start?

ARIADNE. Alone?

HORACE. Aha, dear lady, that’s telling.

ARIADNE. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have asked.

HORACE. Well, let’s say not quite alone. A little bit of pink muslin
opposite, with perhaps something inside it.

ARIADNE. What a sweet way of putting it.

HORACE. After lunch--what shall we say? _You_ shall say, dear lady.

ARIADNE. Well--what about the South Kensington Museum?

HORACE (_much amused_). Aha, that’s a good one! A visit to the South
Kensington Museum, tea with the Dean of St. Paul’s, dinner at an
A.B.C., a concert at the Albert Hall, and a snack of something at
Fulham Palace to end up with. Ha, ha, ha! That’s me!

ARIADNE (_pretending to be offended_). I don’t believe you’re
serious. You’re laughing at me.

HORACE. Laughing at you? Bless my soul, whatever put that into your
pretty little head? Look in at the South Kensington Museum at three
o’clock to-morrow, and you will find your humble servant talking to
the head keeper.

ARIADNE. I’ve a good mind to take you at your word, and look in at
three o’clock.

HORACE (_coming closer to her_). Why don’t you?

ARIADNE. I shan’t have time, I’m afraid. I’m catching the 3.10 back.

HORACE. Back? Are _you_ going to London to-morrow?

ARIADNE. Yes.

HORACE. Fancy that. Alone?

ARIADNE. I don’t know yet.

HORACE. When will you know?

ARIADNE. Perhaps in a minute or two.

HORACE (_joining her on the sofa_). How very curious that you should
be going to London to-morrow--too.

ARIADNE. That’s what John said.

HORACE (_doubtfully_). John? So John said that. Why did John say that?

ARIADNE. He said that it was cheaper to go on Wednesday.

HORACE (_relieved_). Oh, I see! But only if you go third class.

ARIADNE. But then I always do.

HORACE. Poor little woman, what a shame!

ARIADNE. Why? It’s much more amusing.

HORACE. If you are alone, perhaps----

ARIADNE. Oh, you are never alone third class.

HORACE (_getting very close_). But for two it’s much more amusing
first class.

ARIADNE. Is it?

HORACE. Particularly if the guard is a friend of yours.

ARIADNE. Oh?

HORACE. He’s a very great friend of mine.

ARIADNE. Oh!

HORACE. It’s funny we should both be going to London to-morrow, isn’t
it?

ARIADNE. But we mightn’t both be going by the same train.

HORACE. Ah!... What train are you going by?

ARIADNE. The 10.15.

HORACE (_disappointed_). Oh! That’s a pity.

ARIADNE. Why?

HORACE. I can’t get away before the 12.5. There’s a bit of business
I’ve got to see to----

ARIADNE (_demurely_). I think I _am_ going first class.

HORACE (_considering_). It may mean a matter of a hundred pounds----

ARIADNE. Or aren’t there any first-class carriages on the 10.15 train?

HORACE (_making up his mind_). No, dammit, one can’t throw away good
business just for a bit of fun.

ARIADNE. Not even if it wore pink muslin?

HORACE (_slapping his knee_). That’s it! You do your shopping or
whatever it is, and I’ll come up later, call for you wherever you
like, and we’ll have that little lunch at Frascati’s. How’s that?
I’ll be with you at half-past one.

ARIADNE. Well, of course, I do like something to eat about then.

HORACE. Right! That’s a bet! Where do I pick you up?

ARIADNE. Well, I shall be at my club----

HORACE (_jovially contemptuous_). Your club! You women and your
clubs! But bless you, in spite of your votes and your clubs and your
cigarettes, you are just the same women under your clothes as Eve was
before you. And, thank God, you always will be.

ARIADNE. Yes, but that isn’t the address of the club. Or don’t you
want to know the address?

HORACE. Well, give us the name. I suppose the cabman will know where
it is.

ARIADNE. The United Arts.

HORACE (_whipping out his pencil and writing on his cuff_). A. W.
United Arts, 1.30.

ARIADNE (_watching him_). What an interesting time your laundress
must have.

HORACE. Naturally, I never put any business secrets there. (_He puts
back his pencil._)

ARIADNE. A very wise distinction.

HORACE. One-thirty at the United Arts. And now what about that train
back?

ARIADNE. Which one?

HORACE. Exactly, which one?

ARIADNE. _I’m_ catching the 3.10.

HORACE. But that makes it such a very little bit of fun.

ARIADNE. I think John will expect me----

HORACE. Not if you tell him you are coming by a later one.

ARIADNE. Is there a later one?

HORACE. There’s one about five.

ARIADNE. I don’t think I know that one.

HORACE. It isn’t a very good one. There’s a better one about eight.

ARIADNE. It seems a much later one.

HORACE. But the best of them all is the 10.45.

ARIADNE. Why is that the best of them all?

HORACE. I would try to explain why--before we caught it.

ARIADNE. It seems a very long explanation.

HORACE. You wouldn’t be bored.

ARIADNE. Attractive man!

HORACE. Adorable woman!

ARIADNE. You seem very certain of yourself.

HORACE. It isn’t difficult to entertain a pretty woman.

ARIADNE. Experienced man!

HORACE. Well, yes, I’ve knocked about a bit.

ARIADNE. But all women like that, don’t they?

HORACE. They do, you may take my word for it.

ARIADNE. I don’t think I shall go to London to-morrow.

HORACE. Oh yes, you will.

ARIADNE. Well, perhaps I will.

HORACE. Of course you will.

ARIADNE. But I shall come back by the 3 train.

HORACE. Oh no, you won’t.

ARIADNE. Well, perhaps I won’t.

HORACE. Of course you won’t.

ARIADNE. Masterful man!

HORACE. I know how to manage women, bless their pretty little faces.

ARIADNE. I can see you do.

HORACE. Now, let’s be practical.

ARIADNE. Businesslike.

HORACE. You can’t be shopping in London till ten o’clock at night;
you’ll have to say you’ve been called away suddenly--to a sick
relative.

ARIADNE. Why are sick people always supposed to want their relations
so badly? I never want anybody when I’m looking my worst.

HORACE. Have you got any relations?

ARIADNE. Heaps--and all John’s.

HORACE. Any in London of your own?

ARIADNE. An uncle. I was telling Hester about him. He lost his liver
in Burmah. He’s touchy about it now.

HORACE. Well, there you are; he’s ill. D’you see? You leave a note
to-morrow to say you’ve just been rung up as you were starting to the
station. Uncle dying. May not be back till late. See?

ARIADNE. I see. Isn’t it rather deceitful?

HORACE. Little bit of fun. What’s the harm in a little bit of fun?

ARIADNE. True. You mustn’t think I haven’t got a sense of humour.

HORACE. Well then, you see, it doesn’t matter _what_ time you come
back. Your ground’s prepared ... even if----(_He hesitates._)

ARIADNE. Well?

HORACE. Even if--(_very softly_)--we found a better train than the
10.45.

ARIADNE. But I thought you said that that was the best?

HORACE. The best--on Saturday night.

ARIADNE (_looking at him thoughtfully_). Do you know you’re a
very wonderful man? (HORACE _laughs comfortably_.) Even I--hardly
realised----(_He leans towards her. She gets up hastily._)

HORACE. What is it?

ARIADNE. John. I heard the door.

HORACE (_getting up_). One-thirty. (_He kisses his hand to her._)

                           JOHN _comes in._

ARIADNE. How quick you’ve been!

HORACE. Well, I must be getting along.

ARIADNE. Oh no! Must you?

JOHN. Have another drink?

HORACE. No thanks, my boy. (_To_ ARIADNE) Afraid I must, Mrs. John.
Got a lot to do to-morrow. (_Holding out his hand_) Good-bye--and
thank you for a _most_ delightful evening.

ARIADNE. Good-night. I’ve enjoyed it too, you know.

HORACE. How nice of you! (_To_ JOHN) No, don’t bother.

  (_But_ JOHN _insists on seeing his most important client out.
  Alone_, ARIADNE _drops into the sofa with the evening paper_.)

JOHN (_coming back_). Well! It wasn’t so bad after all, was it? (_He
pours himself out a drink._)

ARIADNE (_reading her paper_). Not so bad.

JOHN. Did you get on with Meldrum all right?

ARIADNE. Quite all right, John.

JOHN (_with a sigh of relief_). That’s good.

                                                        (_He drinks._)




                                ACT II


  _Saturday. About five o’clock._ HESTER _and_ HECTOR _are outside;
  we hear their voices_. MARY _is telling them that her mistress is
  out. She opens the door, and they come in._

HESTER. Oh! Then will you tell your master we’re here?

MARY. Yes, madam. I think he’s just come in.

HESTER. Where has your mistress gone?

MARY. She has gone up to London, madam.

HESTER. London!

MARY. Yes, madam.

HESTER. When do you expect her back?

MARY. She didn’t say, madam. She had a dressing-case with her, but
she didn’t say she was staying the night.

HESTER. A dressing-case!

MARY. Yes, madam. I’ll tell the master you’re here.

                                                      [_She goes out._

HESTER. London. She didn’t say anything about London last night, did
she?

HECTOR. Nothing. It’s very odd.

HESTER. I wonder if----

HECTOR. What?

HESTER. She was telling us after dinner, before you came in, that her
uncle----

HECTOR. The General?

HESTER. Yes--was suffering from indigestion very badly. We happened
to be talking about illnesses.

HECTOR. You think that a sudden fatal stroke--fatal spasm, perhaps I
should say----

HESTER. Being Saturday it looks like something urgent.

HECTOR. Evidently.

HESTER. If it had been Wednesday, it wouldn’t have been so surprising.

HECTOR. The General, no doubt.... I suppose he’s pretty comfortably
off?

HESTER. He has his pension, of course.

HECTOR. But that would die with him. Anything to leave? Anything to
come in Ariadne’s direction?

HESTER. I shouldn’t think so. She would have told us.

HECTOR. Ariadne’s queer in some ways. It would be just like her not
to have said anything about it.

                        (HESTER _sees the letter on the mantelpiece_.)

HESTER. Ah, there you are!

HECTOR. What?

HESTER. A note for John. (_She picks it up._)

HECTOR. From Ariadne?

HESTER. Yes. Called away suddenly, you see.

HECTOR (_going up to examine the envelope_). Now what would you say
that meant? (_He gives the matter his full consideration._) I see it
like this. If the General’s attack had actually been fatal, she would
have rung John up at his office.

HESTER. He would have gone with her in that case.

HECTOR. That may be. He is very busy just now. The point is that she
would have rung him up. Leaving a note makes it clear that, whatever
has happened to the General, it is no more than a preliminary warning.

HESTER (_looking at the envelope_). Sprawly handwriting.

  (JOHN _comes in, and they back hastily away from the letter_.)

JOHN. Hullo!

HESTER. Ah, here you are.

  (JOHN _kisses her and shakes hands solemnly with_ HECTOR.)

JOHN. Didn’t expect you to-day. I had to go over to Handfield. Only
just got back.

HESTER. I’ve heard of a cook for Ariadne--so I just----

HECTOR. I thought I’d just walk round with her, and pass the time of
day.

HESTER. She’s gone to London, I hear.

JOHN. Yes.

HECTOR. No bad news from the General, I trust.

JOHN. The General?

HECTOR. We supposed that she must have been called away suddenly.

JOHN. Oh no. Shopping!

HESTER. On a Saturday?

JOHN. She particularly wanted to go. I suggested that she should wait
till Wednesday.

HECTOR. Exactly! That was what misled us.

HESTER. But the shops would be shut on Saturday afternoon....
Besides, why stay the night?

JOHN (_surprised_). But she’s not staying the night.

HESTER. Oh, well, Mary said----

HECTOR. Her dressing-case----

HESTER. There’s a note for you.

JOHN. What? Oh yes! (_He goes to it._) She caught a very early train.

HESTER. Oh, well! But it’s a funny day to go.

HECTOR (_taking out his pocket time-table_). The 10.15, I suppose.
Let me see, if she caught the 10.15--they’ve altered it now. It used
to run into King’s Cross at---- Here we are--10.15. Runs into King’s
Cross at----

JOHN. Good God!

HESTER. What is it, John?

HECTOR (_resigned_). Ah! He _is_ dead.

JOHN. It’s impossible!

HECTOR. Not impossible, my dear boy. Inevitable, alas! But none the
less distressing.

JOHN. Ariadne!

HESTER. What is it, John? Let me look. (_She takes the letter from
him._)

JOHN. It’s ridiculous!

HECTOR. Well, but what is it, my dear boy? (_Trying to get at the
letter_) May I----

HESTER. Good gracious!

HECTOR. May I be allowed----

HESTER. Had you any idea of this?

JOHN. Is it likely?

HECTOR. Might I----

HESTER. But _why_?

JOHN. Why, indeed!

HECTOR. _Might_ I be allowed---- (_He gets the letter at last. They
watch him reading it._) Merciful heavens!

JOHN. I don’t believe it.

HECTOR. My old friend Horace Meldrum!

HESTER. She doesn’t actually say Mr. Meldrum.

HECTOR. True. Let us be fair. She just says Horace. “Horace and I are
going into the unknown together. Do not try to follow us.” But if it
is not Horace Meldrum, who can it be?

HESTER (_to_ JOHN). Did she know any other Horace?

HECTOR. There _are_ no other Horaces.

JOHN. Not that I know of. But it can’t be Meldrum. That’s impossible.

HECTOR (_turning over the letter_). Ah, a postscript! This may throw
more light on the matter.

JOHN. A postscript?

HESTER (_trying to look over his shoulder_). I didn’t see that.

HECTOR. “P.S. I am putting this against the clock so that you will be
sure to see it.” That, at any rate, shows thoughtfulness.

JOHN (_bitterly_). Ha! (_To_ HECTOR) Here, give it me! (_He takes the
letter._)

HESTER. Why do you say it can’t be Mr. Meldrum?

JOHN. She hates him. She told me so only yesterday.

HESTER. Ah!

HECTOR. Hate and love! You know what the old adage says. Love and
Hate--I forget the actual wording.

JOHN (_fiercely_). I tell you she hated him. She thought he was a
bounder.

HECTOR (_staggered_). My old friend Horace Meldrum a bounder!

JOHN. A bounder, I tell you! A cad! That’s not love!

HESTER. It might be deception.

HECTOR. You think she was just throwing dust in his eyes? It may be
so.

JOHN (_going to the door_). I’ll ring up Meldrum now. I’ll prove it
to you----

HECTOR (_suddenly_). John! My poor John!

JOHN (_turning back at the door_). What?

HECTOR. To think that it should have escaped my memory!

HESTER. What? You never told me.

HECTOR. How can I have been so foolish! I called in to see Horace
Meldrum earlier this afternoon on a small matter of business----

JOHN (_eagerly_). Well?

HECTOR. I was told that he had gone to London.

JOHN. Good God!

HESTER. Are you sure, Hector?

HECTOR. My dear, how can I be mistaken now that it comes back to me?

HESTER. Well, that’s odd certainly.

JOHN. Perhaps Ariadne didn’t go herself, after all. Perhaps she has
just gone out somewhere in the town.

HESTER. Mary told us she had gone to London.

JOHN. Did she?... What were you saying about a dressing-case?

HECTOR. Taking, according to Mary, a dressing-case with her.

HESTER. Why should she do that?

HECTOR. And not on a Wednesday, mark you, but a Saturday!

HESTER. On the excuse of doing some shopping.

JOHN. Mary told you, you say. Well, I’ll make sure of that anyway.
(_He strides across the room and rings the bell._)

HECTOR. Steady, dear boy, steady!

HESTER. Don’t bring the servants into it until you have to, John.

JOHN. Yes, that’s true.... But I’ve rung.

HECTOR (_holding up a large white hand_). Allow me to deal with it.

                          [_He goes out and is heard dealing with it._

HESTER. I’m always so frightened of the servants knowing anything.

HECTOR (_outside_). Have you--ah, it’s all right, thank you. I
thought I had mislaid a small parcel. Yes, that was all, thank you.
(_He comes in with a brown paper bag which he puts down_) Don’t
let me forget that, dear, when we go. (_To_ JOHN) A small pine for
dessert to-morrow.

HESTER. Well, they both went to London. That seems certain.

JOHN. Why shouldn’t they both go to London?

HECTOR. Why not? But you have her letter, and you have the
corroborative evidence of the dressing-case and the absence of
Meldrum. We must reconcile ourselves to the facts.

JOHN. The letter, yes. (_He reads it again._)

HESTER. What is it she says about some disagreement with you?

HECTOR. Yes, she brought _me_ into it there.

HESTER (_taking the letter_). May I? (_Reading it_) Yes, this. “We
are poles asunder, as Hector would say, on the most vitally important
thing in life.”

HECTOR. Why as _I_ would say? I don’t recollect ever using the phrase.

HESTER. The most vitally important thing in life. (_Giving him back
the letter_) What was that, John?

HECTOR. Some money trouble? The question of her allowance?

JOHN. No, no. She knows I never grudged her anything. This comes out
of a clear sky.

HECTOR. I understand, my dear fellow; a thunderbolt from the blue.

JOHN. There was the usual give and take of married life, of course.
But she was happy. You saw her last night. Wouldn’t you have said she
was as happy as--well, as anybody else?

HESTER. She seemed much as usual, certainly.

  (_There is a short silence._)

JOHN (_suddenly_). Why, of course!

HESTER. What?

JOHN. That letter.

HECTOR. You have it.

JOHN. No, the one he wrote to her.

HESTER. When? You haven’t told us of this.

JOHN. Last night--he sent those flowers and a letter.

HECTOR. Flowers and a letter! Now we are getting to something
tangible. What did the letter say?

JOHN. I didn’t read it.

HESTER. Well, but she may have left it somewhere.

JOHN (_awkwardly_). No. I--she tore it up.

HESTER. In here?

JOHN. Yes. (_He goes to the basket, looks in it, then rings the
bell_) Cleared away, of course.

HESTER. John, what are you doing?

HECTOR. Steady, dear boy, steady.

JOHN. They have the waste paper in the kitchen, I suppose. What
happens to it?

HESTER. But you can’t ask the servants about a torn-up letter.

JOHN. Why not? A business letter accidentally thrown away----

HESTER. No, no! It’s so--you can’t. They will guess.

JOHN. They’ll guess soon enough if every time I ring the bell I have
to send out Hector to make an excuse for it.

HESTER (_proudly_). Hector will think of something _without_ going
out this time.

HECTOR. Er--yes--er----(_The door opens and he hastily whispers to_
JOHN.)

MARY. Did you ring, sir?

JOHN. A whisky and soda for Mr. Chadwick.

MARY. Yes, sir.

                                                      [_She goes out._

HECTOR (_apologetically_). On the spur of the moment, and seeing what
a warm day it is----

HESTER. In any case, John, she saw him last night. Were they alone
together after we’d gone?

JOHN (_reluctantly_). Ye--yes. I saw Janet home, you know.

HESTER. Of course. Then there you are!

  (_They are all silent, thinking._ JOHN _looks at his watch and
  automatically looks at the clock_.)

HECTOR (_keeping all their spirits up_). The old clock keeping pretty
good time? (_But, for once, nobody minds._)

JOHN (_suddenly_). I shall go to London.

HECTOR. Ah!

HESTER. What can you do there?

JOHN. Make inquiries at her club. Something. Anything.

HECTOR. Her club. Come! This gives us a starting-point. We must
explore every avenue. Her club. (_He thinks._)

HESTER (_for it still rankles_). Why did she ever want a club--in
London?

JOHN. She said she was going to lunch there. I could find that out
anyhow.

HECTOR (_with great presence of mind_). Tsss! (MARY _is coming in
with the whisky. He hurries forward to take charge of it._) Thank
you. (_Bottle in hand_) John?

                                                     [MARY _goes out_.

JOHN. No, no.

HECTOR (_pouring himself out one_). You won’t mind if _I_ do? You
won’t think it unfeeling?

HESTER. Of course not, Hector, how could he think so?

HECTOR (_raising glass_). I can only say, in the most profound
meaning of the phrase--Here’s luck!

JOHN. I can catch the--what is it--5.30?

HECTOR (_dropping his glass and whipping out his time-table_). Just a
moment. 5.29, isn’t it?

HESTER. It seems so hopeless.

JOHN. Good God! What else can I do? Must do something.

HECTOR (_proudly_). 5.29, I thought so.

HESTER. Suppose you find them together?

JOHN. I’ll break his damned neck for him.

HESTER. No, no, John, nothing rash.

HECTOR (_still on the 5.29_). John was speaking metaphorically, dear.

HESTER. Hadn’t Hector better go with you?

HECTOR. I am at your service, my dear fellow. Very fortunate that
it has all happened at a week-end. There are no rival claims of
business. The 5.29 runs in at----

JOHN. No, no, I can’t bother Hector.

HECTOR. It would be a pleasure--a melancholy pleasure. I shall engage
Horace Meldrum in conversation, while you----

JOHN. While I break his neck.

HECTOR. I was going to say, “While you reason with Ariadne.” ... Runs
in at....

JOHN. Put it how you like. Only for God’s sake come on.

  (_He takes_ HECTOR’S _arm and marches him to the door. The door
  opens and_ ARIADNE _comes in_. JOHN _and_ HECTOR _draw back in
  amazement_.)

JOHN (_carried away for the moment_). Ariadne! My darling!

ARIADNE. John!

HECTOR. Well, well, well!

JOHN (_sternly, remembering that he is an injured husband_). Where
have you been?

HECTOR. You may well ask!

ARIADNE. Running away from you, John.

JOHN. Then what are you doing here now?

ARIADNE. I have come back to you, John. (_She sits down._)

JOHN (_angry at the fright he has had_). It was just a joke, was it,
your letter?

HECTOR. A joke in very doubtful taste. In more than doubtful taste.

HESTER. If it _was_ a joke.

ARIADNE (_looking at them_). You have shown them my letter?

HECTOR. We know all.

JOHN. What could I--they were here. Do you think I can read a letter
like that, and put it calmly in my pocket, as if nothing had happened?

ARIADNE. No, no, of course not, dear.

HESTER. Dear!

HECTOR. Have you any right to call him “dear,” that is the question.

ARIADNE (_reproachfully_). I only ran away this morning, Hector.

HECTOR. True, true. Nothing could have----Quite so, quite so.

JOHN. You _have_ been to London?

ARIADNE. Yes.

JOHN. And why have you come back now?

ARIADNE. He missed his train.

JOHN. Who?

ARIADNE. The gentleman I was running away with.

HECTOR. Meldrum. My old friend Horace Meldrum.

JOHN (_fiercely_). Was it Meldrum? Where is Meldrum?

ARIADNE. He missed his train.

JOHN. What do you mean? You say here in your letter----(_He turns it
over, trying to find the place._)

ARIADNE. Let me find it for you, dear.

JOHN (_refusing her offer_). Here it is. “Horace and I,” that’s
Meldrum?

ARIADNE. Of course. (_Surprised_) You haven’t any other friends
called Horace?

HECTOR. The very point I made. Do you remember, Hester?

JOHN. “Horace and I are going into the unknown together. Do not try
to follow us.”

ARIADNE. Yes, that’s right.

JOHN. Well?

ARIADNE. Darling, I keep telling you. He missed his train. The 12.5.

HECTOR (_as if he now understood it all_). The 12.5. Ah! (_He nods
his head solemnly. A dangerous train._)

JOHN. But I don’t see----

ARIADNE. When you arrange to go into the unknown with a woman by
a certain train, you can’t just go and _miss_ the train. It’s so
careless.

HESTER. You could have gone by the next.

ARIADNE (_carelessly_). I expect he did. I daresay he is searching
London for me now.... Ring the bell, Hector, will you? I am dying for
some tea.

HECTOR (_indignantly_). Tea! (_But he rings the bell._)

ARIADNE (_sweetly_). I’ve been going backwards and forwards all day.

JOHN. I am afraid I am still very stupid. Meldrum, as I understand
it, was to have gone with you to London by the 12.5 train?

ARIADNE. No, no. I had gone by the 10.15. He was to come up later and
call for me at my club.

HECTOR. Her club. You see, Hester, we were right to make that the
starting-point.

JOHN. And he was coming up by the 12.5?

ARIADNE. Yes. Only he missed it.

HECTOR. Presumably he was detained by some business----

ARIADNE. Presumably. (_Enter_ MARY.) Tea, please, Mary. (_To them
all_) Have you had any?

HESTER. Is it likely?

HECTOR. Tsss! (_He indicates the maid._)

ARIADNE. You waited for me. How nice of you! Tea for four.

MARY. Yes, madam.

                                                      [_She goes out._

ARIADNE. I am sorry, dear. You were saying that Horace was probably
detained by business.

JOHN. Well?

ARIADNE. Well, you see, if a man is detained by business when you are
going to watch a cricket match with him, that doesn’t matter so much,
but if he is detained by business when you are running away with
him--well, ask Hester.

HECTOR. My dear lady!

HESTER (_coldly_). I have never run away from my husband.

ARIADNE. But you must often have wanted to. I am sorry, Hector,
but--_any_ husband.... (_To_ HESTER) How would you feel if just as
you had worked yourself up to it, you got a telegram “Missed train.”
Just like that. “Missed train.” It’s so--so uncomplimentary. Wouldn’t
you feel that if he had really loved you, he would have run the whole
way to London _behind_ the train, rather than waste a moment sending
telegrams?

JOHN. That’s absurd.

ARIADNE. Oh, of course, if you are going to stand up for him----

JOHN (_indignantly_). I am doing nothing of the sort! I merely say----

ARIADNE. And I merely say that when you are running away with a woman
it’s an insult to her to miss the train.

HECTOR. He might have only _just_ missed it.

ARIADNE. Then he should have taken a special, shouldn’t he, Hester?

HESTER (_unwillingly_). Well, certainly, it would have shown a
more----

ARIADNE. There you are! Hester feels just as I do.

HESTER (_indignantly_). I feel nothing of the sort!

ARIADNE (_coaxingly_). A little bit.

HECTOR. A special! Do you know how much a special costs?

ARIADNE. Ah, now we’re talking! How much does a special cost, John?

JOHN (_absently_). Fifty pounds? (_Furiously_) I don’t know! (_This
is not in the least how he had meant the scene to go._)

ARIADNE. I thought solicitors knew all those things.

HECTOR. Every penny of fifty pounds!

ARIADNE. And what am I worth? About twenty? Oh, ridiculous of him to
have taken a special! Most unbusiness-like. Ariadne’s one thing, but
fifty _pounds_!

JOHN (_now entirely lost_). Really! I don’t think----

HECTOR (_warningly_). Tsss! (MARY _comes in to prepare the tea_.
HECTOR _becomes tactful_.) You came back by the 3.10, I suppose? Did
you have a good day’s shopping?

ARIADNE (_smiling to herself_). I did all I wanted.

HESTER. Such a good train, the 3.10.

HECTOR. I always say it’s the best down train we have.

ARIADNE. I say it a good deal, but not so often as that.

HECTOR. Excellent train, don’t you think so, John?

ARIADNE. The 12.5 is a very good train _up_ to London--if you can
catch it.

HECTOR (_uncomfortably_). Quite so, quite so.

                                                (MARY _has now gone_.)

ARIADNE. Let’s see, where were we?

HESTER. She’ll be coming in again directly with the tea.

ARIADNE. What shall we do? Go on talking about trains till she comes
in and goes out again, or go on now, and then get back to the trains
when----

JOHN (_sharply_). What do the servants know? What did you say to them
when you went off this morning?

ARIADNE. Just that I was going up to London to do a little shopping.

HECTOR. Ah! the very impression I was endeavouring to give Mary just
now.

JOHN. Shopping with a dressing-case?

ARIADNE. Well, I might have been taking a dress up to be cleaned or
something. Mightn’t I, Hester?

HESTER. They wouldn’t have guessed anything yet. But servants always
know the sort of woman you are. You can never hide _that_ from them.

ARIADNE. Only from husbands.

JOHN. Well, if they don’t know, that’s something to start with. I was
afraid----

HECTOR (_always ready_). Tsss!

                     MARY _comes in with the tea_.

ARIADNE (_with an air_). I went up by the 10.15. Another good train.

HECTOR. I always say that the few trains we have are _good_. Only
what we want is _more_. Quantity as well as quality.

ARIADNE. How true!

HECTOR. When you get into Parliament, John, you’ll have to see to
that.

ARIADNE. Thank you, Mary.

                                                     [MARY _goes out_.

Now then, we’re quite safe unless somebody comes and calls. Perhaps I
had better tell Mary that I am not at home?

JOHN (_impatiently_). Nobody will call. The position then is this:
you had arranged to go off with Meldrum. You were to go first, and he
was to follow you by a certain train?

ARIADNE. Yes, dear. Tea, Hester?

JOHN (_violently_). Oh, damn the tea! Tea, tea, tea! How can we
settle anything when you’re always talking about tea?

ARIADNE (_soothingly_). The sooner we start drinking it, the sooner
we shall stop talking about it. Hester?

HESTER (_haughtily_). No, thank you.

ARIADNE (_coldly_). Hector, pass Hester a bun.

HESTER. I don’t want anything, thank you.

ARIADNE. Hector? You do, don’t you?

HECTOR (_taking a cup_). Thank you. After all, it’s a stimulant.
One wants to keep a very clear head. (_He takes a bun--another
stimulant._)

ARIADNE. Did you say you wouldn’t have any, John?

JOHN (_gruffly_). No, thank you.

ARIADNE (_pouring herself a cup_). There! Now, then, where were we?
Oh, yes--I was to go first and he was to follow me by a certain
train. That’s right.

JOHN. And he didn’t follow you?

ARIADNE. Not by that train.

HECTOR. Let me see, if he missed the 12.5, he’d probably catch
the----(_Out comes the time-table_) Now, then.

HESTER. What does it matter what train he went by?

HECTOR (_turning the pages rapidly with a moistened finger_). In a
case like this nothing is immaterial.

JOHN. Well, then, you got a telegram at your club saying that he’d
missed his train.

ARIADNE. And was coming by the next. (_Taking a telegram from her
bag_) Here it is.

JOHN. Ah! (_He reads it._)

HECTOR. May I? (_He takes it and reads_) Ah! Handed in at Melchester
Central, 12.20. Received Knightsbridge, 12.38. “Missed train. Expect
me at three. Horace.”

JOHN. And what did you do?

HECTOR. One moment, dear boy. (_Returning to time-table)_ He would
catch the 1.17. Runs into town--runs into town----(_He turns a page._)

JOHN (_his temper rising_). And what did you do, when you read the
telegram?

ARIADNE. Came home again.

HECTOR. Change at West Hutton. I knew it wasn’t a good train. Yes, he
ought to have caught the 12.5.

ARIADNE. He ought. That’s what I keep saying.

JOHN (_sarcastically_). And as he didn’t, you have decided that you
don’t want to go into the unknown with him after all?

ARIADNE. No. It would be so very unknown if he kept on missing trains.

JOHN. Whereupon you come coolly back here, as if nothing had
happened, and order tea?

ARIADNE. I was too excited to have lunch. Thinking of him.

JOHN. And now what do you propose to do?

ARIADNE (_at last saying the right thing_). Wait to hear what you
propose to do with me, John.

JOHN. Ah!

HECTOR. Exactly. Now we are getting to grips with the problem. To
take the possibilities. Divorce.

JOHN (_staggered_). Divorce?

HESTER. Rubbish!

HECTOR (_with dignity_). Divorce, I was about to say, is impossible.

ARIADNE. Not impossible, but very bad for business.

JOHN (_sharply_). Why not impossible?

ARIADNE. John! And you a solicitor! Is anything impossible to a
really good solicitor? Think of me in the witness box! How your
counsel would rend me! I wonder who you would brief.

HESTER. It’s absurd, anyway. We don’t want a divorce in the family.

ARIADNE. Of course we don’t.

HECTOR. So be it. We rule out divorce and come to the second
alternative. Separation. Judicial or otherwise.

ARIADNE (_shaking her head_). So expensive.

HECTOR. What would a separation figure out at, John, all told?

                     (_It is as much as_ JOHN _can do not to shriek_.)

ARIADNE. I was thinking of the expense afterwards. It would mean two
establishments for John. Even as it is, with me helping him by making
love to his clients, we can only just keep this one going. Isn’t it
so, John?

                          (_But at this_ JOHN _gives way altogether_.)

JOHN (_shouting_). What do you want? What do you think is going to
happen? Do you think you can come back here----

HECTOR (_always helpful_). The past blotted out----

JOHN. Do you think you can go off as you please----

HECTOR (_still helping_). Here to-day and gone to-morrow.

JOHN. Do you think you can just go away and come back when you
like----

HECTOR (_explanatorily_). Without so much as a with-your-leave or a
by-your-leave----

JOHN (_swinging round on_ HECTOR). _Shut up!_

HESTER (_appalled_). John!

ARIADNE (_gleefully to herself_). He’s angry!

JOHN (_still shouting_). Why do _you_ come interfering? Can’t I
manage my own affairs? You keep talking and talking and talking----

HECTOR. My dear John!

JOHN. I can’t say anything, but what you must say something----

HECTOR. I am dumbfounded.

JOHN (_almost crying_). Why can’t you leave me alone? She’s my wife,
isn’t she?

ARIADNE (_under her breath_). Well done!

HECTOR (_to the world_). I am absolutely at a loss! In this very
distressing business I am merely putting my brains, such as they are,
at your disposal. And _this_ happens! I am absolutely at a loss!

HESTER (_hurrying to her wounded husband’s aid_). After all, John,
you asked for our advice----

HECTOR. You took us into your confidence----

HESTER (_stroking her wounded husband’s head_). Hector only wants to
help.

HECTOR (_sadly_). It is beyond me. I am out of my depth.

ARIADNE (_recalling_ JOHN _to the present_). Dear, Hector is out of
his depth.

JOHN (_ashamed of himself_). I am sorry, Hector. (_He holds out his
hand which_ HECTOR _shakes heartily_.)

HECTOR (_happily, the perfect gentleman_). Say no more, my dear
fellow! An apology--between friends----

JOHN (_opening the door_). Would you mind? Forgive me, Hester.
(HESTER _gets up and he shakes her hand._) I think perhaps Ariadne
and I----It was very kind of you to----Perhaps to-morrow we may----Of
course you won’t say anything until----

                                      (_He has got them to the door._)

HESTER. That’s all right, John.

HECTOR (_vaguely_). An apology--between friends. (_Under his breath
to_ HESTER) My dear, do we----(_He indicates saying good-bye to_
ARIADNE) No? Doubtful taste, perhaps. Perhaps better not. Quite so.

  (JOHN _takes them out. While he is away_ ARIADNE _touches herself
  up in front of the glass and comes back to her tea_.)

JOHN (_as he comes back_). Damn that fellow!

ARIADNE. Hector? Such a nice man.

JOHN. Gas-bag.

ARIADNE. It’s your brother-in-law. Your own sister’s husband, and
making lots of money. You can’t call a man like that a gas-bag.

JOHN. Never mind that. (_Firmly. A husband and a solicitor_) Now
then, Ariadne.

ARIADNE. Yes, John.

JOHN. I want some explanation of this. Why did you go away with that
fellow?

ARIADNE. You told me to be nice to him.

JOHN. (_to Heaven_). _Nice_ to him!

ARIADNE. Yes, it was the nicest thing I could think of.

JOHN. And when your husband asks you to be friendly to a man who is a
good client of his, that’s how you do it.

ARIADNE. Yes. When they don’t miss their train.

JOHN. Well!

ARIADNE (_anxiously_). You don’t think I was too friendly? I had to
think of the business, and he’s such a very important client, isn’t
he?

JOHN. Look here, if you think that by ridiculous exaggeration of my
words like that----

ARIADNE. Don’t sneer at exaggeration. All art is exaggeration. It
isn’t until you look at a thing a little out of its perspective that
you see it as it really is.

JOHN. I don’t want a lecture on art.

ARIADNE. No, John. And it means using such long words. But I want you
to understand that my heart was in the right place if--if the rest of
me wasn’t. I overdid the faithful wife, that’s all.

JOHN. _Faithful_ wife! You have a sense of humour, Ariadne.

ARIADNE. I have, John. Nothing can take that from me.

JOHN (_suddenly_). I don’t believe a word you’ve been saying. You
ran away with him because you loved him. (_She says nothing. He goes
over to her and shakes her by the shoulders._) Answer! Do you love
this fellow?

ARIADNE. Why do you call him a fellow? Only yesterday you were
telling me what a good sort he was.

JOHN (_to himself_). Meldrum! Good God! How little one knows one’s
friends! That sort of man!

ARIADNE. But I told you yesterday he was that sort of man.

JOHN. God! I’ll break his neck for him.

ARIADNE (_interested_). Is that legal?

JOHN (_grimly_). I’ll--break--his--neck for him.

ARIADNE. Is it businesslike? Of course you’d have the winding up of
the estate----

JOHN. If he thinks he can try any of those games in this house----

ARIADNE. Isn’t it funny? Yesterday you liked him and I didn’t, and
to-day you don’t like him and I----

JOHN (_turning to her suddenly_). Supposing he had caught that train!
Where would you be now?

ARIADNE. Ah, but he didn’t. He was detained by business. Business
first.

JOHN (_melodramatically_). In all but actual fact you are unfaithful
to me!

ARIADNE. Ah, but facts are what count in this hard-headed town.

JOHN. But for the trifling accident of missing a train----

ARIADNE (_excusing him_). I suppose he is very busy just now.

JOHN (_the husband forgotten in the solicitor_). Those new houses. I
told you.

ARIADNE. I suppose he suddenly decided that they could be run up for
less or that they didn’t really want bathrooms. I must ask him what
it was.

JOHN (_the husband roused_). You’ll do nothing of the sort! I’ll take
damned good care you never see him again.

ARIADNE. Darling, is that wise?

JOHN. What do you mean?

ARIADNE. We don’t want to offend him, do we?

JOHN. Offend! That’s funny! That’s very funny! (_He laughs bitterly._)

ARIADNE. Yes, dear, but we mustn’t let our sense of humour interfere
with our sense of business.

JOHN (_very sarcastic_). He hasn’t offended _me_. Oh no! He has only
run away with my wife.

ARIADNE. But you must save something from the wreck. You don’t want
to lose a wife _and_ a good client on the same day.

JOHN (_now entirely unmanned_). Damn my clients!

ARIADNE. John, you’re losing your head. You’re saying things you’ll
be sorry for one day.

JOHN (_violently_). And you’re saying things _you’ll_ be sorry for.
And what’s more, my girl, you’ll be sorry for them now. I tell
you I’ve had about enough of this. (_He goes up to her fiercely_)
You shame me in front of my relations, you insult me, you ruin my
business for me, you----

ARIADNE (_triumphantly_). Ah ha! I knew that would come in. Business!
Business!

JOHN (_seizing her wrists_). Stop it, do you hear? Stop it, or by
God, I’ll----

                 (_The door opens very quietly and HECTOR creeps in._)

HECTOR (_in a stage whisper_). It’s all right, I’m not staying. I
just----Did I leave a small pine--ah, there it is. Thank you, thank
you.

  (_He picks up his pineapple and tip-toes softly out of the room._)




                               ACT III


  _Monday._ ARIADNE _is alone in the drawing-room, reading_. MARY
  _is clearing away tea. The front door bell rings._

ARIADNE. I am at home to anybody, Mary. From the Mayor
downwards--(_after thought_)--upwards--(_after further
thought_)--downwards.

MARY. Yes, madam.

  (_She goes out, leaving the door open. In a little while_
  HECTOR’S _voice is heard booming_.)

HECTOR’S VOICE. Ah, Mary! Is Mr. Winter in? I just dropped in on my
way next door.... (MARY’S _voice is not heard_.) ... Ah! No, I think
perhaps.... No, it was your master I particularly wished--in the
circumstances perhaps hardly----Thank you, thank you.

                                       (_He goes_, MARY _comes back_.)

MARY. It was Mr. Chadwick, madam. He said----

ARIADNE (_smiling_). I heard him, Mary. He talks very clearly.

MARY. Thank you, madam.

                                                      [_She goes out._

                                      (ARIADNE _returns to her book_.)

ARIADNE (_to herself_). Cut by Hector. (JOHN _comes in, evening paper
in hand. She jumps up_) Darling! (JOHN _takes no notice._) Cut--by
John. (_She goes back to the sofa and picks up her book_) And now
I’ve lost the place. That comes of being impetuous. (JOHN _settles
down with the paper._) Did you see Hector? (JOHN _grunts_.) Yes or
no, as the case may be.... He’s just gone out.... He’s coming back
again.... (_After a long pause_) How delightful.

JOHN (_sulkily_). What?

ARIADNE. Oh, nothing. (_After a pause_) Anything in the paper?

JOHN. No.

ARIADNE. Nothing in the paper. (_After a pause_) Did you have a good
day?

JOHN. H’m.

ARIADNE. A good day. Now what shall I say next? (_Brightly, after a
pause_) I’m reading a book about bees.

JOHN. H’m.

ARIADNE. What a mercy! I’ve found a subject which interests him....
It says in my book about bees that when the queen bee has finished
with her husband she kills him. Did you know that? It’s a funny idea,
isn’t it? You’d have thought that she’d have kept him to talk to her
in the evenings. It must be so lonely for her without anybody.

JOHN. H’m.

ARIADNE. He isn’t as fascinated as I thought. (_After a pause_) I
wish I had been married to Hector. Whatever his faults, nobody can
say that he doesn’t _talk_.

JOHN (_rudely_). And nobody can say that his wife ran away from him.

ARIADNE (_sweetly_). Oh, is _that_ what it is? I knew there was
something the matter.

JOHN (_throwing down his paper_). What do you expect me to do? Thank
you for coming back to me, and then chatter away gaily as though
nothing had happened?

ARIADNE. No, but I think that, after two days of completely silent
thought, you ought to do _some_thing. What _are_ you going to do,
John?

JOHN (_mumbling_). Haven’t decided.

ARIADNE. Would you like me to go away for a few days until you _have_
decided?

JOHN (_brutally_). With whom?

ARIADNE. Oh, John! (_She shakes her head at him._)

JOHN (_angrily_). Why do you make me say things like that? I was just
reading my paper--and then you make me say horrible things like that.
What do you expect me to do? I’ve tried to see Meldrum, I keep on
trying to see Meldrum, but if he’s away, what can I do?

ARIADNE (_surprised_). Away?

JOHN. Of course he’s away. At least he’s never at home or at his
office when I go to see him.

ARIADNE (_eagerly_). What are you going to say to him?

JOHN. Tell him that, if I see him inside my house again, I’ll knock
his head off.

ARIADNE. John! My darling! (_She goes to him and puts her arms round
his neck._)

JOHN. Go away! (_He tries to unloose her arms._)

ARIADNE. And you are prepared to lose all his business?

JOHN (_bravely_). If necessary.

ARIADNE (_admiringly_). John!

JOHN (_hopefully_). It may not come to that, of course.

ARIADNE. But it must!

JOHN (_uncomfortably_). My dear child, you can’t let sentiment
interfere with business. No business man does. If it’s convenient to
Meldrum that I should continue to act for him, naturally he will want
me to.

ARIADNE. And naturally you will?

JOHN. Naturally.

ARIADNE (_leaving him_). I think I shall go on with my book about
bees.

                             _Enter_ MARY.

MARY. Miss Ingleby is at the door and wants to know if you’re
engaged, madam.

ARIADNE. Oh no, ask her in, Mary.

MARY. Yes, madam.

                                                      [_She goes out._

ARIADNE. You’d better pretend you’re busy, hadn’t you, dear? Janet
would know at once that you didn’t love me any more.

JOHN (_sulkily_). Right.

                        [_He goes out and is heard speaking to_ JANET.

JOHN (_outside_). How are you? You’ll find Ariadne in there. I’ve got
one or two letters to write.

JANET. Thanks. (_She comes in._)

ARIADNE. Good-evening, dear. I suppose you’ve had tea.

JANET. Oh, Lord, yes, ages ago. (_She sits down._) I rather want your
advice, that’s why I came.

ARIADNE. Well, as long as you promise not to take it----

JANET. That’s something about you that makes you different from most
of the people here.

ARIADNE. I suppose Hector would think it uncivic of me to take that
as a compliment.

JANET. Well, anyway, I’ll tell you what’s happened; though, I know
pretty well what you’ll say.

ARIADNE. How disappointing of you!... Go ahead. (_Tucking them away_)
I’m all ears.

JANET. Well, I went to London on Saturday.

ARIADNE. London! On Saturday! Fancy!

JANET. To have lunch with some friends. I was coming back by that 5
train----

ARIADNE. I know. It isn’t a very good one.

JANET. How funny! That was just what Horace Meldrum said.

ARIADNE (_surprised_). Horace Meldrum? When?

JANET. When he saw me catching it.

ARIADNE (_innocently_). Oh, did _he_ go to London on Saturday?

JANET. He had to run up to see a man about something.

ARIADNE. Oh, I see.

JANET. We were both catching the 5 train back.

ARIADNE. Fancy! So _he_ was coming back too?

JANET. Well, he was at the station anyway.

ARIADNE. Looking for somebody perhaps.

JANET. Well, anyhow we met just outside the platform, and naturally
we got talking, and he said that the best train of the day was the
10.45.

ARIADNE. Yes, I’ve heard that very well spoken of.

JANET. And he thought it would be rather fun if we had dinner
somewhere and came back by that train together.

ARIADNE. He likes a little bit of fun, I know.

JANET. _I_ thought it would be rather fun, too. So we did.

ARIADNE (_anxiously_). He didn’t mention any--better trains?

JANET. No, that was the best.

ARIADNE. And you caught it?

JANET. Yes.

ARIADNE (_with a sigh of relief_). Then what do you want my advice
about?

JANET. Well, I’m telling you.

ARIADNE. Sorry.

JANET. He got a bit wuzzy at dinner--well, I don’t mind that, I’ve
seen a bit of it in my time.

ARIADNE. However old are you? A hundred and one?

JANET. When I say wuzzy, I don’t mean--well, he could have driven
a car all right. I mean fond of himself--and of me--and of the
waiters--_you_ know.

ARIADNE. I know.

JANET. And in the train--we had a carriage to ourselves----

ARIADNE. Really? First class, I suppose?

JANET. Yes, and the guard was a friend of his.

ARIADNE. Mr. Meldrum has a great many friends in the guards.

JANET. Well, in the train----

ARIADNE. I suppose he kissed you.

JANET. Well, of course! You don’t think I am making a song about
that, do you?

ARIADNE. I’m sorry, go on.

JANET. Well, in the train he asked me to marry him.

ARIADNE (_awed_). Janet, I wish I could have heard him.

JANET. It _was_ rather funny. He asked me to share his little nest,
and things like that. Well, I told him that I couldn’t say off-hand,
and he said, “That’s right, little woman, you think it over.” But
he’s been practically living with us since, talking business with
Father, and _he_ thinks it’s settled, and Father thinks it’s settled,
and----

ARIADNE. And Janet?

JANET. Janet isn’t quite certain. Because, you see, there’s a lot to
be said on both sides.

ARIADNE. I see. And which side do you want me to say it on?

JANET. I know what _you’ll_ say--you’ll say, “Of _course_ you
mustn’t.”

ARIADNE (_indignantly_). I shan’t say anything of the sort.

JANET. You’re a bit old-fashioned in some ways. Don’t you think so?

ARIADNE. I’m trying not to be.

JANET. I feel that at any moment you’ll ask me if I’m in _love_ with
Horace.

ARIADNE. My dear child--I mean, my dear elderly friend, how could I
ask you anything so ridiculous?

JANET. Mind you, I’m not saying that I have no use for love. But what
I feel is that love and marriage are two different things.

ARIADNE. They are sometimes, of course.

JANET. Well, look round a bit, at all the married couples you know.
How many of them are in love with each other? Are the Chadwicks?

ARIADNE (_twinkling_). You must ask Hector one day--when I’m there.

JANET (_suddenly_). I’ll ask somebody else. Are you and John?

ARIADNE. Oh, my dear! How embarrassing of you!

JANET. Well, tell me.

ARIADNE (_after a pause_). I think so, Janet.... In our hearts....
It gets covered up from time to time with business, and domestic
worries, and other things, but I think it’s there.

JANET (_a little taken aback_). Oh!

ARIADNE. That’s what makes marriage such terrible fun. Trying to keep
it. Trying to find it again. The other thing is so ridiculously easy.
Any fool can get married, and throw her hand in.

JANET. Y-yes.

ARIADNE. You and I are much too good for that, Janet. We’re in a
different class. Any brainless little fluffity girl can marry, and
fall in love with somebody else, and be fallen in love with. It takes
a real woman to keep marriage intact.... _You_ could do it.... And it
_is_ such fun. But you must have the right husband to start with....
Oh yes, John and I are all right ... really ... though perhaps he
doesn’t know it just at this moment.

JANET (_thoughtfully_). I felt perhaps it was a bit cheap.

ARIADNE. Cheap ... yes.... Free love--and free verse. They may be
better, but--(_with a smile_)--but they’re a damn sight easier. I
like difficult things. (_There is a short silence._)

JANET (_getting up slowly_). Yes. Horace is too easy.

ARIADNE. Much.

JANET. Thanks, Ariadne.

ARIADNE. Do something for me.

JANET. Of course.

ARIADNE (_smiling to herself_). Let him think--for to-day
anyhow--that it _is_ settled.

JANET. My dear, it will take me more than a day to persuade him that
it isn’t.

ARIADNE. And it really isn’t?

JANET. It isn’t. Horace is off.... Charlie was off.... I suppose I
shall find somebody one day.

ARIADNE. Why not find a job of work to do while you’re looking round?

JANET (_struck by the novelty of it_). Good idea! I will. So long.
(_She goes ... wondering what she could do._)

  (_Left alone_, ARIADNE _waits until_ JANET _is out of the house,
  and then opens the door and calls across to_ JOHN’S _study_.)

ARIADNE. John!... John.... It’s all right, Janet has gone. We can
resume our silence from where we left off.... Bother! (_She wanders
round the room in an undecided way, and then goes back to the sofa
and picks up her book._) I suppose it will have to be bees again.

                             _Enter_ MARY.

MARY. Oh, Mr. Meldrum rang up, madam, while you were engaged with
Miss Ingleby. I couldn’t quite catch whether it was Mr. or Mrs.
Winter he was asking for. He just wanted to know if you was in.

ARIADNE (_hopefully_). Yes, Mary?

MARY. He was coming round, I understood him to say, madam. I think
the master has gone up to dress. I think I heard him going into the
bathroom.

                                        (_The front door bell rings._)

ARIADNE. Oh! Well, you’d better show Mr. Meldrum in here in case
it’s very urgent business.

MARY. Yes, madam, I think that’s him now.

ARIADNE. Very well, Mary. (MARY _goes out and_ ARIADNE _smiles to
herself on the sofa_.) Dear Horace!

MARY (_announcing_). Mr. Meldrum.

                          HORACE _comes in_.

HORACE (_advancing airily, hand extended_). Ah, dear lady, I just
looked round to say how sorry I was----

ARIADNE (_rising dramatically_). Horace!

HORACE (_less airily_). How sorry I was our little luncheon fell
through----

ARIADNE. My darling!

HORACE (_startled_). Eh?

ARIADNE. I was afraid something had happened to you.

HORACE. Oh no, no, no. A little bit of business turned up. You know
how it does. And I said to myself, “Mrs. John is a sensible woman,
she’ll understand how it is when a little bit of business turns up.
She’ll let me off that little bit of lunch I promised her.” But I
thought I’d just come round--only polite----

ARIADNE (_bewildered_). Horace!

HORACE. What’s the matter?

ARIADNE. Ah, I understand. How tactful of you. But you can speak
quite safely now. We are alone. My husband is upstairs having a bath.
Darling!

HORACE. I--I--I--Really!

ARIADNE. As if business would have kept you away from me! What was
it, dear? You had an accident? You fell down?

HORACE. Really, Mrs. Winter, I don’t quite--I think you must have
made----(_He breaks off, not knowing what to say._)

ARIADNE. Ah, but never mind! We are all right now.

HORACE (_mechanically_). All right now.

ARIADNE. Quite sure?

HORACE. Quite sure.

ARIADNE. Then when do we start?

HORACE. When do we----?

ARIADNE. When do we start?

HORACE (_mechanically_). Start.

ARIADNE. Yes, start.

HORACE. Start where?

ARIADNE. That’s for you to say, Horace. What about Spain?

HORACE. Spain?

ARIADNE. Yes, Spain.

HORACE (_mechanically_). Spain.... Spain.... Spain.... Spain....

ARIADNE. Spain--until it’s all blown over.

HORACE. Spain until it’s all blown over.... (_With an effort_) My
dear lady, I--I don’t know what you’re talking about.

ARIADNE (_horrified_). Horace!

HORACE. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

ARIADNE. Have I made a terrible mistake?

HORACE (_seeming to find some comfort in the phrase_). I don’t know
what you’re talking about.

ARIADNE. You did ask me to come away with you?

HORACE. I don’t know what----

ARIADNE. To leave my husband and come away with you?

HORACE (_with energy_). Never! Never! Never! Never!

ARIADNE. Not on that Friday night when I wore your rose?

HORACE. Never!

ARIADNE. And you wore mine?

HORACE. Never!

ARIADNE. We _are_ thinking of the same Friday? I mean this last one.

HORACE. Never thought of such a thing. Never entered my head.

ARIADNE (_wrinkling her forehead_). I’m sure you said something.

HORACE (_awkwardly_). Just a little bit of lunch--I don’t say I
didn’t suggest a little bit of lunch. What’s the harm in that?

ARIADNE. Was that really all?

HORACE. Absolutely all, ’pon my honour.

ARIADNE. Oh! How awful!

HORACE. Awful? What’s awful?

ARIADNE. What have I done?

HORACE. What _have_ you done?

ARIADNE. Why, you see, I left a note for John.

HORACE (_faintly_). You left what?

ARIADNE. You see, I misunderstood you, and I left a note for John
saying we were going away together.

HORACE. But--but--but----

ARIADNE. And then you didn’t meet me as we arranged, and I thought
you must have had some terrible accident, so I hurried back here to
wait until you were well again.

HORACE (_anxiously_). Yes, but what about the note?

ARIADNE. It was too late. John had read it.

HORACE. But--but--but--my dear lady----

ARIADNE. Wasn’t it a pity?

HORACE. But wha--wha--what did it say?

ARIADNE. Oh, just that you and I were going away together, and he
wasn’t to follow us. I didn’t say anything about Spain, because I
wasn’t quite sure.

HORACE. Well, of all the--well, of all the--well, of all the----

ARIADNE (_penitently_). I was hasty, I see that now. But what are we
going to do?

HORACE. What’s _he_ going to do, that’s the point?

ARIADNE. Do you mean John?

HORACE (_anxiously_). What’s he been doing these last two days?

ARIADNE (_simply_). Waiting for _you_, Horace.

HORACE (_nervously_). How do you mean, waiting for me?

ARIADNE. Just waiting for you. I think he wants to speak to you.

HORACE (_hopefully_). Ah, yes, yes. Perhaps that’s it. There _is_ a
little matter of business between us----

ARIADNE. This wasn’t business, Horace. He talked as though it would
be a pleasure. He’s been looking for you everywhere.

HORACE. What do you think he’s going to say?

ARIADNE. He didn’t tell me. All he _said_ was that he was going to
break your neck for you.

HORACE (_in alarm_). But--but--but--but--but----

ARIADNE. But I suppose he’ll say, “Ah, Meldrum, here you are,” first.

HORACE. But--but--but I’ve just fixed things up with old Ingleby.
Little Miss Janet and I--well, but that shows how ridiculous the
whole thing is. I’m marrying Miss Ingleby.

ARIADNE (_reproachfully_). Not with a broken neck!

HORACE (_anxiously_). But look here, my dear lady, you must explain.
Tell him the whole thing was a horrible mistake.

ARIADNE. Oh, I shall. In fact I’m sure he’ll feel it for himself.
He’ll look down at the body and say, “Yes, it was a mistake. I
oughtn’t to have done it.” And I shall say, “I told you so, John.
You see, we’ve got nowhere to put it.” And he’ll say, “What about
the cellar?” and I shall say, “It’s much too big for the cellar,”
and he will say----(_But the sight of_ HORACE’S _face is too much
for her. Weakly she adds_) And he will say----(_and then breaks down
altogether, and laughs hysterically_).

HORACE (_anxiously_). There, there, my dear lady! _(He tries to
pat her back. She waves him away, and goes on laughing._) There!
there!... There! there!... Try holding the breath ... there, there!

ARIADNE (_shaking her head at him_). Oh, Mr. Meldrum! (_She laughs
again._)

HORACE (_with sudden relief_). You were joking? Of course! That’s it!
You were just joking about John and the letter you left for him! You
haven’t told him anything. Of course you haven’t.

ARIADNE (_still rather weak_). Oh, Mr. Meldrum!

HORACE (_anxious again_). What? Wasn’t it----

ARIADNE. And the poor man actually thought I was attracted by him!

HORACE (_indignantly_). What?

ARIADNE. He thought I wanted to share a first-class carriage with him!

HORACE. Who?

ARIADNE. Have a little bit of lunch with him--a little bit of dinner
with him--in pink muslin!

HORACE (_utterly undone_). Well, I’m damned!

ARIADNE. Catch the last train with him! Good gracious, the man even
thought I wanted to _miss_ the last train with him! With _him_! (_She
points to him, and goes off into laughter again._)

HORACE. Well, upon my word----

ARIADNE. Oh, Mr. Meldrum, you funny, funny man!

HORACE (_hardly able to believe it_). You mean to tell me that you
were pulling my leg from the word “Go”?

ARIADNE (_weakly_). Yes. At least, from the word “nesting.”

HORACE. You’ve just been making a fool of me?

ARIADNE. No, no. Looking on while you made a fool of yourself.

HORACE. Well, upon my soul! (_He stares at her in wonderment._)

ARIADNE. You really mustn’t make love to married women, you know. You
haven’t got the figure for it. I’m not sure that you ought to make
love to anybody.

HORACE. Fooled me! Fooled poor old Horace Meldrum!

ARIADNE. From the word muslin.

HORACE (_gazing at her in admiration_). You _are_ a little devil!

ARIADNE. But then you like them to show a bit of spirit, don’t you?

HORACE. By gad, I do! To think that a bit of a woman like you----

ARIADNE. Oh, I’m rather more than that. I’m almost all of it.

HORACE (_beginning to laugh reminiscently_). Right from the
beginning! Poor old Horace bringing round his flowers ... poor old
Horace arranging his little bit of dinner.... Why, I’d actually
telephoned for a table--what do you think of that? At least my clerk
had.... Well, well, well--and you were fooling me all the time!
Fooling poor old Horace Meldrum! What the boys would say if they
knew! Ha, ha, ha! (_He goes off into happy laughter._)

ARIADNE. It _is_ funny, isn’t it? (_She laughs too._)

HORACE (_rolling with laughter_). The way you kept it up!

ARIADNE. If you could have seen your face!

HORACE. Fooled by a woman! Ha, ha, ha!

JOHN (_outside_). Is that Meldrum?

HORACE (_still laughing weakly--his back to the door_). And of course
_he’s_ in the joke too! Ha, ha, ha!

  (JOHN _comes down the stairs two at a time, and bursts in, in his
  shirt sleeves, his coat in his hand._)

JOHN (_fiercely_). Ah, Meldrum, here you are!

HORACE (_weakly_). That’s how you said he’d begin! Ha, ha, ha....
Yes, John, old boy, here I am ... oh dear, oh dear! (_He mops at his
eyes, still shaking with laughter._)

JOHN. Stand up!

HORACE (_chuckling to_ ARIADNE). He’s going through with it. (_Meekly
as he stands up_) Yes, John.

JOHN. Don’t call me John.

ARIADNE. No, John. (_To_ ARIADNE) And he’s taken his coat off and all!

ARIADNE (_going to_ JOHN). Shall I help you on, dear?

JOHN (_to_ ARIADNE). I think you had better leave us.

HORACE. That’s good! “I think you had better leave us.” That’s damned
good. (_He chuckles._)

ARIADNE (_helping him on_). Why, dear?

HORACE. He’s going to break my neck, Mrs. Winter. You can’t do that
in the presence of ladies. It isn’t polite.

JOHN (_stiffly_). I wish to have a few words in private with Mr.
Meldrum.

HORACE. A few words in private. Capital!

ARIADNE. As this concerns _me_, I feel that I ought to be present.

HORACE. Of course she ought. Come, come, John, you can’t spoil the
fun by sending her away.

JOHN (_grimly_). Fun!

HORACE (_chuckling_). As pretty a little bit of fun as ever I saw.
And I like a joke. Nobody can say I don’t like a joke. I like a joke
with any man. _(He sinks into the sofa again._)

JOHN. Stand up!

ARIADNE. John, he’s tired.

HORACE (_getting up_). No, no, I’ll play the game. You don’t catch
Horace Meldrum spoiling a bit of fun.... Do I hold my hands up? (_He
winks at_ ARIADNE.)

JOHN. You ran away with my wife.

HORACE. Yes, that’s right. Spain.

JOHN. What?

HORACE. Spain. We were going to Spain. (_To_ ARIADNE) It was Spain,
wasn’t it?

ARIADNE (_nodding_). Ronda.

HORACE. That’s right. What she said. In Spain.

JOHN. Oh, so it was to be Spain, was it? And, but for the accident of
missing your train, you would be in Spain together now?

HORACE (_murmuring to himself_). But for the accident of missing the
train, Mrs. Winter and I would have been in Spain. That’s good. I
thought there was a bit of poetry there. (_Putting it to music_) But
for the accident----

JOHN (_terrifyingly_). Answer! Is it so?

HORACE. Well, I don’t know what the trains--(_hastily_) that is to
say, I did look them up, of course--(_looking at his watch_)--yes, we
should just about have been there now--where she said.

JOHN. And what the devil do you mean by it?

HORACE (_playing up nobly_). I can only say, as one gentleman to
another, I’m sorry. (_To_ ARIADNE) That’s pretty good for an amateur.

JOHN. What are you saying to my wife?

HORACE. That was what they call an “aside,” old boy.

JOHN. How dare you address my wife at all! Kindly confine your
remarks to me in future.

HORACE (_chuckling_). Oh, damn good, damn good, on my soul.

JOHN (_suddenly_). What’s the matter with you? Have you been drinking?

HORACE (_earnestly_). Not a drop, my dear fellow, not a drop since
tea--well, just after tea.

JOHN. You can understand what I’m saying?

HORACE. Perfectly. And believe me, my dear boy, I appreciate it. I
didn’t know you had it in you.

JOHN (_a trifle bewildered_). Then if you can understand, listen to
_me_.

HORACE (_weakly_). Yes, John. Don’t make it too difficult for me.

JOHN (_very impressively_). First: If I ever catch you in my house
again, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life. Secondly: Your
deeds and papers will be sent back to you to-morrow, and after that I
won’t soil my fingers by touching any of your dirty business again.

ARIADNE (_to herself, meaning it_). Oh, well done, John!

HORACE (_meaning something else_). Isn’t he good?

JOHN. And thirdly: If you so much as put a foot into my office again,
I’ll tell one of my clerks to kick you out.

HORACE (_in sheer admiration_). Marvellous, my dear fellow,
marvellous. (_He chuckles to himself._) Wonderful touch that about
soiling your fingers--with _my_ business!

JOHN (_to_ ARIADNE). Is he mad? What’s the matter with him?

ARIADNE. I think he thinks you’re joking, dear. I think he thinks
you’ve been joking all the time.

JOHN (_staggered_). Joking?

ARIADNE. Yes, I think that’s what he thinks. I don’t think he’s
taking you quite seriously.

JOHN (_grimly_). Oh!... So you think I’m joking, eh?

HORACE (_comfortably_). My dear man, I _know_ you’re joking.

JOHN. And how do you know that?

HORACE. Good Lord, I’m not a fool. You wouldn’t be talking about
business like that if you weren’t joking.

ARIADNE. Ah, John, you see!

JOHN (_nettled_). I’ll soon show you if I’m joking or not.

HORACE. You did it so damn well that just for a moment you almost
took me in. But when you talk about throwing away good business--all
the nice little jobs I’ve given you, and all the nice little jobs I’m
going to give you--(_chuckling_) why then, bless you, I _know_ you’re
trying to pull my leg. That’s _over_-acting, my boy.

JOHN. So you think I’m joking when I say that I won’t do any more
business for a man who tries to run away with my wife?

HORACE. Course I do.

JOHN. Damn you, I mean it.

HORACE (_waving him down_). No, no, dear boy.

JOHN (_appealingly_). Ariadne, tell him I mean it. Tell him I’m
serious.

ARIADNE. But it sounds so silly, John.

JOHN (_to_ HORACE). I mean it, do you hear?

HORACE (_chuckling comfortably_). No, no, dear boy. You’ve put up
a very good performance, but now you’re getting carried away. It’s
going to your head. As long as you talk about breaking my neck, and
thrashing me within an inch of my life, that’s all right, I say
nothing against that. That’s all in the character. But for a man to
talk of throwing away good business, just because his wife and his
best client----

JOHN (_grimly_). Now I’m going to kill you.

HORACE (_chuckling_). Ah, stick to that and you can’t go wrong.
That’s expected of a husband. That’s in the character. All I say----

JOHN (_advancing threateningly_). I shouldn’t waste your breath
talking. Put your hands up!

HORACE (_in an ecstasy of admiring laughter_). Oh, John, John, you’ll
be the death of me. You ought to have gone on the stage.

JOHN. Put them up!

HORACE (_retreating behind_ ARIADNE). Keep him off, Mrs. Winter. Stop
him! Oh Lord, oh Lord, I haven’t laughed like this----

JOHN. Out of the way, Ariadne.

ARIADNE. What are you going to do, John?

HORACE (_between laughs_). He’s going to kill me.

ARIADNE. You mustn’t do that.

HORACE. He’s doing it, Mrs. Winter, he’s doing it. I shall never get
over this.

ARIADNE. I think you had better go, Mr. Meldrum.

HORACE. Yes, yes, I’ll go. Oh Lord, oh Lord! (_As he goes to the
door_, JOHN _makes a move after him_.)

ARIADNE. John! (JOHN _stops_.) Stay here, please. I want to talk to
you. (JOHN _hesitates_.) You’d better sit down. (JOHN _sits down_.)
Thank you, dear. (_Coldly_) Good-bye, Mr. Meldrum.

HORACE (_at the door, still rather weak_). Good-bye, dear lady,
good----(_Suddenly recovering himself_) Why, bless my soul, I’d
almost forgotten what I came about. Our little joke put it clean out
of my head. (_Very businesslike_) John, I want to see you to-morrow
about my marriage settlement--Janet and I have fixed things up--I
arranged with old Ingleby to meet him at your office. Eleven o’clock
suit you? Right. I’ll tell him. So long. (_He nods to_ JOHN, _and
then slowly begins to chuckle to himself again_.) You wag!

                                                       [_He goes out._

JOHN (_rather bewildered--after a pause_). What was that he said?
Marriage settlement?

ARIADNE. Yes, dear.

JOHN. Getting married? To Janet?

ARIADNE. He thinks so.

JOHN. Then how----But in that case he couldn’t----

ARIADNE. Exactly.

JOHN (_after a pause, still puzzling it out_). He said he thought it
was all a joke my being angry. Why did he think it was all a joke?

ARIADNE. Because of what you said about giving up good business.

JOHN. Ridiculous nonsense!

ARIADNE. That was what he thought.

JOHN. Why shouldn’t I have given it up? Of course, to a man like
Meldrum business _would_ seem the only thing that mattered. But to
any decent man----(_He stops._)

ARIADNE. To any decent man----?

JOHN (_still thinking_). But that wasn’t it. Directly I came in he
treated the whole thing as a joke. Why?

ARIADNE. Perhaps because I told him that the whole thing _was_ a joke.

JOHN. You told him? (_He stares at her._) Good Lord, then, you mean
it wasn’t true that you were going off with him?

ARIADNE (_reproachfully_). True!

JOHN. Your letter----(_He feels in his pocket for it._)

ARIADNE. John, did you really think I could possibly----

JOHN. But that telegram. You had made _some_ sort of an arrangement
with him.

ARIADNE. I might have had lunch with him if he’d caught his train. I
don’t know. Would you mind that? Your favourite client.

JOHN (_having found the letter_). But if it was just lunch, why do
you say this about going into the unknown together.

ARIADNE. We were lunching at Frascati’s.

JOHN. And that was all? Did he only suggest lunch? (_She says
nothing._) Did he?

ARIADNE (_smiling to herself_). Well, I led him on a little. Just to
see how far he _would_ go.

JOHN. Why? Oh, I see, to teach him a lesson.

ARIADNE. Mr. Meldrum? You can’t teach _him_ anything.

JOHN. Then why?

ARIADNE. Well, perhaps to teach somebody else a lesson.

JOHN (_blustering_). I can’t make women out. How you could ever have
thought of lunching with a man like that. But women are all the same,
they never know a bounder when they see one.

ARIADNE. I suppose they don’t.

JOHN. Meldrum! And Janet Ingleby is going to marry him! There you are
again. Just what I say.

ARIADNE. Women _are_ funny, of course.

JOHN (_still with the letter_). Oh, then there’s this: “We are
poles asunder, as Hector--We are poles asunder on the most vitally
important thing in life.” What does that mean? What is the most
vitally important thing in life?

ARIADNE (_quietly_). The order in which you put things. What comes
first?

JOHN (_uncomfortably_). I don’t know what you mean. (_Pathetically_)
God, I _have_ had a rotten week-end.

ARIADNE (_sympathetically_). Have you, darling?

JOHN. I’ve been perfectly miserable. (_Awkwardly_) I told Meldrum off
all right, didn’t I?

ARIADNE. You did, dear.

JOHN. I suppose he did go pretty far?

ARIADNE. Pretty far.

JOHN. That’s what I thought. That’s why I said I wouldn’t have any of
his business in my office again. You heard me say that?

ARIADNE. Didn’t you hear me clapping?

JOHN (_eagerly_). Did you?

ARIADNE. Didn’t you see the pride of me?

JOHN (_after a pause_). I suppose I shall just have to do this
marriage settlement for him. I can hardly get out of that very well.
I mean--old Ingleby----

ARIADNE. You needn’t be afraid. I fancy you’ll find that he has been
rather hopeful about that.

JOHN. You mean she won’t marry him after all?

ARIADNE. Not she.

JOHN. Oh!... (_Thoughtfully_) What a pity! That might have led
to something with old Ingleby. Well then (_bravely, but a little
reluctantly_), I wash my hands of Meldrum’s business altogether.
That’s settled.

ARIADNE. I don’t think you need go quite as far as that, John.

JOHN (_relieved_). Oh!... (_Very firmly_) Well, anyhow, he never
comes into this house again.

ARIADNE. You know, I don’t think it would matter if he did. I think
we understand each other now, and he rather amuses me.

JOHN (_relieved_) Oh! ... well--well, anyhow----

  (_But there he stops. There seems to be no other heroic gesture
  available._)

ARIADNE. Well, I must be dressing. You’re ready. (_She gets up._)

JOHN. I’ll come up. I’ve got one or two things to do. (_He looks at
his watch and mechanically goes to the clock to put it right. While
he is doing this, his back to her, he says shyly_) Ariadne!

ARIADNE. Yes?

JOHN (_very shyly, very humbly_). Thank you for not going away from
me. (_He holds out a hand behind him._)

ARIADNE (_taking it_). Oh, John!

  (_Hand in hand they walk to the door. He opens it for her._)

JOHN (_with a little smile_). Ariadne first!

ARIADNE (_smiling too_). Just for a little longer.

                                                      [_She goes out._

  (_He waits to turn off the switch. The lamps by the fire are
  still alight--good money thrown away. Firmly, without hurrying,
  he begins to walk across the room----_)

ARIADNE (_from outside_). Come along, darling!

  (_He stops; looks at the light. After all, what is twopence?_
  ARIADNE _first! Magnificently he switches all the lights on, and
  goes after her._)




                 PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN IN SLIPPERS

                         A COMEDY IN ONE ACT




                              CHARACTERS

                      KING HILARY XXIV.
                      OTHO (_his body-servant_).
                      PRINCESS AMARIL.
                      THE STRANGER.

_A room in the King’s Palace--once upon a time_




  _It is mid-morning, and His Majesty (aged 30, shall we say?) is
  being shaved by_ OTHO _in one of the rooms in his Palace. It
  is not his bedroom, for he does not sleep there; nor is it a
  reception room, though he is soon to receive his Chancellor. Let
  us call it his dressing-room, and assume that a man, so fond of
  posing as he, will spend much of his time within it._

  _He is all the Kings that there have been in fairy-tales
  and history. All the stories which have been told of the
  condescension of Kings were first told of him. When the workman’s
  little child falls down in front of the King’s carriage; when
  the intoxicated reveller, unaware of his identity, treats him
  as a boon-companion and a fellow-republican; when the sentry
  challenges him at the Palace gates, and refuses to let him pass;
  in these and a hundred emergencies none so conventionally royal
  as_ HILARY. _He sees himself always as the hero of a royal story,
  or as sitter for a royal portrait._

  _At the moment he is the King condescending to his faithful
  servant--one of his favourite poses. We must assume that he is
  wearing his crown--or will as soon as_ OTHO _has finished with
  him. In those days they always did._

OTHO. There! As pretty a shave as ever your Majesty has had.

KING. I am indebted to you, good Otho.

OTHO. It is a pleasure to deal with a beard like your Majesty’s.
(_Sponging his face_) A beard so--so--if I may use the phrase----

KING. You have my permission.

OTHO. So responsive. A beard like your Majesty’s, which, in a manner
of speaking, meets the razor half-way----

KING. I don’t know that I am interested in the assignations of my
beard.

OTHO. As your Majesty pleases. (_He prepares to spray the royal
face_) If you will condescend to close your Majesty’s eyes----

KING (_closing them_). Gladly. I was fast wearying of the pattern of
the ceiling. It has a sort of----

OTHO. If it were also your Majesty’s pleasure to close the
mouth--Thank you, your Majesty. (_He sprays him_) The towel. (_He
hands it._)

KING (_dabbing his face_). You are the only man in my kingdom who
dare tell me to shut my mouth. It is an unusual privilege. You have
no children?

OTHO. No, your Majesty, nor likely to.

KING. If I were sure of that, I should make the privilege hereditary.
It would be an appropriate reward for your services.

OTHO (_gracefully_). The pleasure and privilege of serving your
Majesty----

KING. Is enough? Is that what you were about to say?

OTHO. To tell truth, your Majesty, I proposed to leave the
sentence in the air, as a simple expression of loyalty. There were
difficulties in the way of finishing it.

KING. Wise Otho.

OTHO. One must live.

KING. True. (_With a yawn_) And we must marry, it seems.

OTHO. It is generally expected of a King.

KING. So much is expected of a King. He has nothing to do but to
fulfil expectations.

OTHO. The approaching ceremony is a matter of the utmost rejoicing,
your Majesty.

KING. Another simple expression of loyalty?

OTHO. Not only on my lips this time, your Majesty, but in the hearts
of your devoted subjects.

KING. Ah! (_He permits himself a faint smile_) Now, Otho, here is a
question for you. See how you answer it.

OTHO. I will answer it truthfully, your Majesty.

KING. Can loyalty and truth be combined?

OTHO. By one who has made it his particular study, your Majesty.

KING. Come, then! Is it for my sake that the people most rejoice, or
for the sake of Her Royal Highness?

OTHO. For both, your Majesty. But in their great loyalty they do not
lose sight of the fact that the day is proclaimed a national holiday.

KING (_on his dignity_). Otho!

OTHO. (_bowing_). Your Majesty!

KING (_recovering his sense of humour_). You are a good fellow, Otho.
(_He laughs._)

OTHO. Thank you, your Majesty. Your Majesty will understand how
devoted I am to your Majesty’s service.

KING. A good fellow. But there are moments when I weary of being
called Your Majesty more than three times in a sentence. Particularly
when, as now, in undress. (_Graciously_) After all, Otho, I am only a
man like yourself.

OTHO. It is very condescending of your Majesty.

KING. “Of you.”

OTHO (_surprised_). Of me?

KING. No, no!... Well, well, call me what you like.

OTHO. Thank you, your Majesty. It is, I assure your Majesty, no
trouble to me at all.

KING. You will hardly believe it, but that was not in my mind at the
moment.

OTHO. Naturally, your Majesty.... (_He busies himself
professionally._)

KING. So our good people rejoice at the marriage?

OTHO. Men and women, your Majesty, young and old. Indeed, some of the
old women, in a spirit of loyal anticipation, have already named the
first baby for your Majesty.

KING (_airily_). Boy or girl?

OTHO. They have taken the liberty of anticipating a beautiful young
Prince of the name of Rollo.

KING. Remind me when the time comes.

OTHO. Thank you, your Majesty.

KING. Rollo--it is as good a name as any other.

OTHO. The people will be much gratified by your Majesty’s choice.

KING. What more can a King desire, my good Otho?

OTHO. It depends a little on the King, your Majesty.

KING (_ironically_). Their gratification would not be lessened by
the fact that any such happy event might be made the occasion for
_another_ national holiday?

OTHO. Speaking as one who will probably not be participating in it, I
should imagine not, your Majesty.

KING. Otho!

OTHO (_bowing_). Your Majesty!

KING (_recovering his sense of humour_). You are irresistible. I
give you the day now. Make your arrangements. I regret that I cannot
guarantee the weather.

OTHO. Your Majesty is gracious as ever to his humble servant. I shall
take the liberty of anticipating King’s Weather.

KING. That should be easy to a man who has already anticipated the
baby.

                                     (_There is a knock at the door._)

A VOICE. May I come in?

OTHO. Her Royal Highness.

KING (_loftily_). See to it, Otho.

  (AMARIL _comes in, as pretty as a princess in a story-book. The
  only fault that we can find in her is that she has a sense of
  humour. Poor girl._)

PRINCESS. But I _am_ in. (_She curtseys_) Good morning!

KING (_royally_). We are delighted to see your Royal Highness. (_He
advances towards her._)

PRINCESS (_kissing his hand_). Your Majesty!

KING (_raising her to her feet and kissing her formally on the
cheek_). Princess! (_He leads her to a couch._) You wish to see me?

PRINCESS. Do I? I suppose I do. Is it too early--or too late? Are you
at business--or at rest? To come to a point, have I chosen the wrong
moment, or are you glad that I am here?... How difficult for you to
answer!

KING. Leave us, Otho.

OTHO (_bowing_). Your Majesty! Your Royal Highness!

                                                       [_He goes out._

PRINCESS. Well?

KING (_stiffly_). No moment is the wrong moment for your Royal
Highness, no hour too early, nor too late.

PRINCESS. And yet----?

KING. And yet?

PRINCESS. You are the King, and I should have craved audience?

KING. Five minutes ago I was being shaved.

PRINCESS (_happily_). I wish I had seen you.

KING. So that even were I not the King----

PRINCESS. And even were we already married----

KING. I should have wished to know that your Royal Highness----

PRINCESS. “Your Majesty” in that case.

KING. --that your Majesty were coming.

PRINCESS. I understand. I have been forward, ill-bred, unroyal.

KING. My dear Amaril! (_But he looks a little uncomfortable._)

PRINCESS (_after a pause_). Hilary!

KING. Yes?

PRINCESS (_anxiously_). I may call you Hilary--before we are married?

KING. It is for your Royal Highness to call me whatever she is
pleased to call me.

PRINCESS (_smiling_). I used to call you Toto. Do you remember?

KING. I beg you not to call me Toto in front of the Chancellor. He
would undoubtedly resign.

PRINCESS. Do you remember?

KING (_stiffly_). We were very young in those days.

PRINCESS. We are not very old now.

KING (_wearily_). I am a hundred and nine. Or is it a hundred and ten?

PRINCESS. I think I could make you younger than that.... We used to
kiss when we were children. Do you remember?

KING (_gracefully_). It is a privilege which is still granted to me
from time to time.

PRINCESS (_shaking her head_). Oh, no! It is not a privilege ...
which is granted ... from time to time. It just happens.... Do you
remember how it happened that first time?

KING. How does it happen with children? They are told to kiss each
other good-night. Did I have my mouth wiped for me first? I forget.

PRINCESS (_smiling to herself_). We were playing in the gardens. You
said you wanted to practise rescues, and you asked me if I minded
falling into the pond, so that you could jump in and save me. And I
said I would. And I fell in ... and a gardener jumped in after me and
pulled me out. And I taunted you, and said you had been afraid, and
that I should have drowned if the gardener hadn’t saved me. And you
said you were just going to jump, only your foot slipped; and I said,
No, you were a coward, and the gardener was a much braver man, and
I would tell my father, and he would let me marry the gardener when
I grew up. And I put my tongue out, and kept saying “Coward!” And
suddenly you smacked my face--oh, with all your strength--and cried
that you _weren’t_ a coward, you _weren’t_, you _weren’t_, and you
burst into tears ... and then your arms were round my neck and you
kissed me, and sobbed, “_Don’t_ marry the gardener. My foot did slip,
_really_--but I promise you it will _never_ slip again.” And so we
clung to each other, and cried together. And I promised you that I
would marry _you_, not the gardener.... And that is why I am marrying
you to-morrow--because I promised.... (_There is a silence between
them._)

KING (_coldly_). I struck you, I betrayed you, I was a coward; and
you choose this moment to remind me of it.

PRINCESS (_distressed_). Oh _no_, Hilary, no!... It was just the
little boy I loved. I wanted to remind you of _him_.

KING. Do you think I need to be reminded? Do you think I am not
ashamed? A coward!

PRINCESS. No, no, your foot slipped.

KING (_bitterly_). And a liar!

PRINCESS. Oh, let me say it did! Let me find excuses for you!

KING. We can be honest with each other now.

PRINCESS (_sadly_). Am I going to lose that little boy?

KING. I want you to know me as I am. Yes, you were right to remind
me of what I was, but you will have nothing to fear from me in the
future. That I can promise you. I shall not betray you again.

PRINCESS. I was not frightened, Hilary.

KING. Even now, if you were afraid--if you wished to return to your
own country--even now----

PRINCESS. Do you want me to go?

KING (_formally_). How can you ask me?

PRINCESS (_wistfully_). How can you not answer?

KING (_gallantly_). Your Royal Highness has made me the proudest man
in my Kingdom--and her most devoted subject.

PRINCESS (_with a sigh_). And I once called him Toto!

KING. I think we may assume that Toto is dead.

PRINCESS (_sadly_). I think we may.

KING. But Hilary remains.

PRINCESS. Toto the First is dead. Long live Hilary the Twenty-fourth!

KING. And Long live the Queen!

PRINCESS (_with a sigh_). So long as it doesn’t seem long. (_She gets
up_) Have I permission to leave your Majesty?

KING (_smiling_). My reluctant permission. (_He comes to her._)

PRINCESS. Reluctantly I avail myself of it. (_She kisses his hand. He
raises her and kisses her cheek._)

KING (_whispering as he kisses her_). Don’t marry the gardener!

PRINCESS (_turning to him eagerly_). Toto! (_But he is the King
again. She says coldly_) I beg your pardon, Hilary. (_She moves
away._)

KING. Otho!

OTHO (_coming in_). Your Majesty! (_He opens the door for the_
PRINCESS) Your Royal Highness!

                                                      [_She goes out._

KING. Is the Chancellor here?

OTHO. Not yet, your Majesty. But there is a sort of person outside
who craves admittance into your Majesty’s presence.

KING. What sort of person?

OTHO. Just a sort of person, your Majesty.

KING. What does he want?

OTHO. What he actually said was: “I want to see the King.”

KING. And that is what you call “craving admittance”?

OTHO. Another form of it, your Majesty. I fancy that he brings a gift
for your Majesty’s gracious consideration.

KING (_doubtfully_). H’m!

OTHO (_helpfully_). The gift appears to be about two feet by one.

KING (_ironically_). One deduces that it is neither a horse nor a
diamond.

OTHO. Of which your Majesty has already a sufficiency.

KING. Why is it that you wish me to see him?

OTHO. I assure your Majesty that I know nothing of him. Yet there is
an air about him....

KING (_resigned_). Well, let him come. (_He seats himself regally._)

OTHO. Yes, your Majesty.

  (_He goes out and returns with the_ STRANGER. _The_ STRANGER _has
  something wrapped up, two feet by one, under his arm. He bows to
  the_ KING.)

KING. Otho! (OTHO, _who was going, remains_.) You wish to see me?

STRANGER. I wish to see your Majesty.... I have already had the
privilege of seeing your Majesty’s body-servant.

KING (_coldly_). Well, now you see us both.

STRANGER. It would seem to be so, your Majesty, but, alas! it is
not. In my great humility, my eyes keep resting upon the humble
countenance of your Majesty’s servant.

KING. If you have anything to say, you may say it in front of him. He
does not talk.

STRANGER. You mean that your Majesty does not listen.

KING (_after a pause_). Leave us, Otho.

OTHO. Your Majesty!

                                                           [_He goes._

KING (_coldly_). Well?

STRANGER. I have a marriage gift for your Majesty.

KING. Which my servant may not see?

STRANGER. Your Majesty would wish to see it first.

KING. Is it so very alarming?

STRANGER. It is just a mirror.

KING. And what shall I see there?

STRANGER. Your Majesty will see--himself.

KING (_picking up the hand-mirror_). What else do I see in this?

STRANGER. Your Majesty sees only the King.

KING (_with a sigh_). True, they are different. The mirror does not
show what the skilled painter can show. The portrait of me in my
coronation robes which the Court Painter----

STRANGER (_smilingly_). Oh, your Majesty, the Court Painter!

KING (_coldly_). You are in error, sir. I ordered him on this
occasion to paint me as I really am. The man beneath the King.

STRANGER (_thoughtfully_). The Court Painter has an extravagant wife
and many children.

KING. Well?

STRANGER. I think he painted the King.

KING (_warningly_). You are a brave man.

STRANGER. I have neither wife nor children.

KING. And a foolish one. There are men, and not Kings only, whose
secret selves are hidden from the world. So much is true. Indeed,
with a King it must be so. His life is so public that he must needs
build himself a private life in which he may take refuge. There
are men, yes, and Kings, whose secret selves are hidden even from
themselves. They know not of what they are capable. Sometimes I wish
that I were one of them. For, oh! my friend, if ever there was a man
who knew himself, and was weary of himself, it is I.

STRANGER. Now, where have I heard that said?

KING. And so, if your mirror be truly as you say it be, I shall greet
the face which I see there as that of an old friend; the face of a
lonely man; a man who wishes what he will never achieve--to be loved
for himself, as he is, with all his faults.

STRANGER. I seem to have heard _that_ said too.

KING (_with a sentimental sigh_). With all his faults!

STRANGER. What particular faults were you thinking of, your Majesty?

KING (_warming to it_). I have, perhaps, an impetuosity which I do
not show my people; a nature capable of more passion than I will
let be seen. At heart I am indolent; I would gladly spend my day
listening to music, or in contemplation of nature. I am rash; it may
be that I jump to conclusions too quickly. Extravagant, yes; those
who really knew me would say, “Recklessly so.” Ah yes, sir, there is
indeed a very humble fellow beneath the King.

STRANGER. He sounds an attractive fellow.

KING (_with a sigh_). I would that I could think so.

STRANGER. I have often noticed that the faults to which humble
people most readily confess are those which, in less humble men,
would be regarded as virtues.

KING (_coldly_). Explain yourself.

STRANGER. I have yet to meet a man who says: “Alas, I know myself! I
know that I am a liar and a coward.”

KING (_rising furiously_). Sir!

STRANGER. But I have met many who say: “Alas, I am full of faults! My
generosity is extravagance; my courage, recklessness; my chivalry,
mere foolishness!”

KING (_grimly_). Of your generosity and chivalry I know nothing, but
certainly your courage has the appearance of recklessness.

STRANGER. How so, your Majesty?

KING. You are at my mercy.

STRANGER. I am content to be so. To every man there comes a time when
life has no longer the charm which once he found in it ... and even
to a King there must come a day when the sudden death of another man
loses its first beauty.

KING (_sulkily_). I suffer no man to call me coward.

STRANGER. I call your Majesty nothing. It is the mirror which will
tell your Majesty the truth.

KING. You think I am afraid to look?

STRANGER. If your Majesty knows himself, he has no reason to be
afraid.

                                           (_He begins to unwrap it_.)

KING (_hesitating_). Why do you bring it to me now?

STRANGER. Your Majesty is to be married to-morrow.

KING. But what of that?

STRANGER. A man can hide from himself what he cannot hide from his
wife. Within a year Her Majesty will know what you will never know,
unless you have seen it here--the truth about yourself.

KING. Is it well that I should know?

STRANGER. A wife should have no secrets from her husband.

                                (_He stands the mirror on the table._)

KING (_suspiciously_). This is some trick. (_He comes slowly to the
mirror, looking doubtfully at the_ STRANGER _as he comes._)

STRANGER. No trick, your Majesty.

  (_The_ KING _stands in front of the mirror. Suddenly he starts
  back in horror._)

KING (_furiously_). It is a trick!

STRANGER. No, your Majesty.

  (_The_ KING _looks more closely. He moves his head, his hands,
  his eyes ... and watches himself, fascinated._)

KING (_in a low voice_). It is no trick.

STRANGER. What does your Majesty see?

KING (_his eyes still on the mirror, and beckoning with his hand_).
Look!

STRANGER (_not moving_). What does your Majesty see?

KING (_slowly_). Cruelty, cowardice, deceit, vanity, cunning,
arrogance----

STRANGER. It is a catalogue of the lesser virtues.

KING. Treachery, meanness, false humility----

STRANGER. False humility. One must avoid that.

KING. Never have I seen such a face.

STRANGER. It is remarkable how most of us carry it off.

KING. And this man--can I call him a man?--this monster is to be
married to-morrow.... Poor girl!

STRANGER (_calmly_). Doubtless she knows.

KING (_turning to him_). How can she know? Until two days ago, we had
not met since we were children.

STRANGER. True. I was forgetting. It is thus that royalty marries.

KING. She must know.

STRANGER. She will find out.

KING. But it will be too late.

STRANGER. Is it not too late now?

KING. No! No! She must see! She must be warned!

STRANGER. Is it a marriage of love, then?

KING (_in a low voice_). I love her.... Can a King love? But I do
love her.

STRANGER. Let her see, then.

KING (_still at the mirror_). Yes, yes! (_He rings a bell._)

OTHO (_coming in_). Your Majesty!

KING. Otho! Here! (_He beckons him to the mirror._)

STRANGER (_warningly_). Your Majesty! (_He shakes his head._)

KING (_taking the hint_). Otho, ask Her Royal Highness if she can
give me a moment of her time.

OTHO (_withdrawing_). Yes, your Majesty.

KING. You are right. Otho must not know the truth about me.

STRANGER (_with a smile_). I was not thinking of that, your Majesty.
I was thinking that it would be unwise for you to know the truth
about Otho.

KING. Unwise?

STRANGER. The world is at an end if we lose our illusions about our
friends. It is a small matter that they should lose theirs about us.

KING (_haughtily_). Otho is my servant.

STRANGER. Yet if he is not your friend, who is?

KING (_sadly_). True. A King can have no friends.

STRANGER. Which is an excellent reason why he should seek one in the
woman he marries. Perhaps it would be better not to show the mirror
to Her Royal Highness.

KING. My mind is made up. It is her right.

STRANGER. Then may I suggest that your Majesty stands a little to one
side of the mirror, and avoids looking into it, lest he should see
Her Royal Highness there.

KING (_angrily_). Do you dare to suggest----

STRANGER. Your Majesty would see nothing but truth and goodness in
her face; yet--what is a woman if she has no secrets from us?

OTHO (_announcing_). Her Royal Highness!

                           (_The_ STRANGER _covers the mirror again_.)

PRINCESS (_coming in_). Your Majesty wanted me?

STRANGER. Have I your Majesty’s permission to retire?

KING (_regally_). We are indebted to you for your gift.

STRANGER (_bowing_). Your Majesty is most gracious.

                                                [OTHO _takes him off_.

PRINCESS. Nice-looking man.... Is it a present, Hilary?

KING. Come here, Amaril.

PRINCESS (_coming_). Yes?

KING (_taking her by the shoulders and looking at her_). You will be
brave? But I can see that you are brave.

PRINCESS. What is it? Are you trying to frighten me? What has
happened? Why are you so strange?

KING (_bitterly_). Strange--yes. (_After a pause_) Amaril, what do
you really know of me?

PRINCESS. Nothing, Hilary.

KING. You see the King, wearing his crown--and his mask. But what do
you know of the man beneath?

PRINCESS. Nothing, Hilary.

KING. Yet you are willing to marry me?

PRINCESS. We have not much choice in our world.

KING. If I could show you the real man; if the sight of him filled
you with horror; would you have the courage, even at this hour, to
leave him and go back to your own country?

PRINCESS. I am not a coward, Hilary. I would have the courage to
leave him, if I wished to leave him--and I would have the courage to
stay with him, if I wished to help him.

KING (_bitterly_). No, _you_ are not a coward. But what am I?

PRINCESS. I think you are a little morbid about yourself sometimes.

KING. And I have reason to be.

PRINCESS. You have a picture of yourself to show me. Is that it?

KING. A mirror in which you shall see me as I really am.

                                           (_He takes the cover off._)

PRINCESS. Ah!

KING. When you have seen it, you will know ... and I shall not see
you again. (_He motions her to stand in front of it._) Come!

PRINCESS (_not moving_). Is it so terrible?

KING. To me, yes. To you, also, when you have seen it.

PRINCESS. Yet you are willing to show it to me?

KING (_with dignity_). It is only fair to your Royal Highness. As a
man of honour----

PRINCESS. As a man of honour you are prepared to throw away your
chance of happiness with me?

KING (_heroically_). As a man of honour I must.

PRINCESS. It is happiness? You still wish me to marry you?

KING. If your Royal Highness could stoop so low. But I am ashamed to
ask.

PRINCESS (_her temper rising_). At least, then, I shall see in the
mirror the portrait of a man of honour. There will be humility also,
and shame. Is it so terrible a picture? (_The_ KING _says nothing.
She goes on scornfully_) Or shall I see none of these things? Is His
Majesty still posing, still wearing his crown and mask, still making
a portrait of himself for his own delight?

KING (_regally_). Madam, you go too far!

PRINCESS (_exhibiting him to the world_). Portrait of King Hilary the
Twenty-Fourth on his royal dignity: “Madam, you go too far.” One more
portrait for your private gallery! Portrait of the King condescending
royally to his body-servant: “Amuse me, good Otho. I am aweary of
this world.” Portrait of the King graciously accepting marriage
gifts from strangers: “Sir, we thank you. We Kings are lonely
men....” Portrait of the King discovering that he is full of evil and
resolving to enter a monastery--portrait of the King deciding that
for the sake of his beloved people he will remain outside--portrait
of the----

KING (_furiously_). You _dare_ to say these things to me?

PRINCESS. I dare to say these things to you! _I_ am not a false,
dressed-up coward like--_that_ man! (_In her anger she has been
walking up and down, and now finds herself enough in front of the
mirror to see the_ KING’S _face in it. She points scornfully at it as
she says, “That man.” Then suddenly her expression changes; she looks
in amazement at the mirror--at the_ KING--_at the mirror again_.)
Toto!

KING (_staggered_). What?

PRINCESS (_turning eagerly to him_). Toto! My darling! You’ve come
back to me!

KING. What madness is this?

PRINCESS (_to the mirror_). My ugly little, stupid little, vain
little, bad little, _funny_ little Toto! (_She goes to him and throws
her arms round him._) My darling, why didn’t you tell me?

KING (_with dignity_). Really, Amaril, this is most----(_He tries to
disengage himself._)

PRINCESS (_soothing him_). There, there!

OTHO (_outside_). Your Majesty?

KING (_frantically_). Amaril!... Enter, Otho!

  (OTHO _comes in, as the_ PRINCESS _slips away from the_ KING.
  _The latter hastily covers the mirror._)

OTHO. Your Majesty, the Chancellor is without.

KING (_very regal_). We will receive him, Otho. (_He seats himself._)

PRINCESS (_with immense dignity_). Have I your Majesty’s leave to
withdraw?

KING (_offering a royal hand_). Your Royal Highness!

PRINCESS (_kissing it_). Your Majesty!

  (OTHO _conducts her out by the one door, and returns to the
  other for the Chancellor. The_ KING _assumes the portrait of
  “Hilary XXIV. receiving his Chancellor in audience.” Just as his
  expression is at its best, the_ PRINCESS _pops her head in at the
  door_.)

PRINCESS (_in a babyish sing-song voice_). To-to!

  (_He turns angrily. She blows a kiss to him and disappears
  again._)

OTHO (_announcing_). His Excellency the Chancellor!

                                    (_The_ KING _awaits him regally_.)




                                SUCCESS

                         A PLAY IN THREE ACTS




                              CHARACTERS


                 THE RT. HON. R. SELBY MANNOCK, M.P.
                 LADY JANE MANNOCK.
                 ARTHUR MANNOCK.
                 FREDA MANNOCK.
                 DIGBY.
                 EDWARD EVERSLEY.
                 BERTIE CAPP.
                 JOHN READER.
                 LORD CARCHESTER.
                 NITE.
                 SQUIER.
                 BUTEUS MAIDEN.
                 SALLY.


      Act I. Cavendish Square. Evening.

      Act II. Enderways, Yorkshire.

        _Scene_ 1: Dick’s Room. Midnight ... and after.

        _Scene_ 2: A Corner of the Wilderness. Early Morning.

      Act III. Cavendish Square.

        _Scene_ 1: Afternoon.

        _Scene_ 2: Afternoon, two days later.


This play was first produced at the Haymarket Theatre on June 21,
1923, with the following cast:

      _The Rt. Hon. R. Selby Mannock, M.P._      CHARLES CHERRY.
      _Lady Jane Mannock_                        GRACE LANE.
      _Arthur Mannock_                           JOHN WILLIAMS.
      _Freda Mannock_                            JOYCE KENNEDY.
      _Digby_                                    EUGENE LEAHY.
      _Edward Eversley_                          HALLIWELL HOBBES.
      _Bertie Capp_                              REGINALD OWEN.
      _John Reader_                              REGINALD BACH.
      _Lord Carchester_                          ERIC STANLEY.
      _Nite_                                     SYDNEY BROMLEY.
      _Squier_                                   LEWIS SHAW.
      _Buteus Maiden_.                           RITA SEYMOUR.
      _Sally_                                    MOYNA MACGILL.




                                ACT I


  SCENE: _Cavendish Square. Evening. The_ MANNOCK _family has
  finished with the grosser forms of eating, and is now dealing
  politely with the nuts and wine. It does this in what is called
  the library (though_ MANNOCK _is not much of a reader), leaving
  the debris of the dinner, and the airs which cling to it, to
  the dining-room. The four of them, very clean, very proper,
  very safe, sit round the polished mahogany, cracking, munching,
  talking._ SELBY MANNOCK, _that rising young Cabinet Minister
  in the late forties, is intent on a particularly tiresome nut
  which won’t declare itself. He deals with it methodically, his
  grave, handsome face showing no sign of anxiety. Probably he was
  human once, but now the official manner has descended on him. He
  can say things like “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have nailed our
  colours to the mast,” or “Our glorious Empire on which the sun
  never sets,” without feeling uncomfortable. He is obviously an
  important man; not pompously so, but with the quiet assurance
  which only middle-aged politicians can bring to the pretence that
  any of us matters more to Heaven than another. There was a time
  when he had a conscience, but it gave up the struggle some years
  ago, and is now as departmental as his manner._ LADY JANE, _his
  wife, has the manner too. She was born in high politics, whereas_
  MANNOCK _has only acquired them. She still has the prettiness,
  though it is colder now, which, with her position and money,
  carried him off his feet twenty-five years ago, and replaced him
  a dozen rungs of the ladder ahead of his contemporaries. Her
  world is divided into people who matter at the moment, and people
  who don’t; to the former she can be very pleasant indeed; to
  the latter also, if there is a chance of their mattering later
  on. On the other side of her is their only son_ ARTHUR, _just
  down from the Varsity. At the moment he is rebellious, hating
  the manner as much as a Vicar’s son hates the Litany. But it is
  doubtful if he has the moral backbone to fight against it for
  long. Success will have him for her own; let him make the most of
  his freedom meanwhile by denouncing the dishonesty of politics
  and the servitude of a career. At any rate he will amuse_ FREDA,
  _his younger sister. She also will be successful--probably at St.
  Margaret’s, possibly in the Abbey--but her sense of humour will
  do something to save her. Their leisurely, well-fed talk has been
  going on intermittently since the wine went round...._

ARTHUR (_suddenly, after a drink_). Well, all I can say is that, if
that’s the case, you ought to resign! (_He waits with an air, as if
for the reporters to write “Sensation.”_)

LADY JANE (_after a pause_). Nutcrackers, Arthur.

FREDA. Father’s got them. (_Taking them from him_) Here you are.

LADY JANE. Thank you.

ARTHUR (_trying again_). It’s the only honest thing to do!

LADY JANE (_languidly_). You’re very young, dear. (_Crack!_)

ARTHUR. I suppose I ought to be crushed by that, Mother, but I’m
afraid I’m not. I might just as well say that Father’s very
middle-aged. That isn’t the point.

FREDA. What _is_ the point? I seem to have missed it. After you with
the crackers, Mother.

ARTHUR. Honesty, even in politics, isn’t a question of age. At least
it oughtn’t to be.

FREDA (_to_ LADY JANE). Thanks.... It’s a question of what you call
honesty.

ARTHUR. Exactly! You have two standards; one for private life and one
for public life. That’s what I protest against.

FREDA. Exit protesting.

LADY JANE. My dear boy, what do you expect? It always has been so,
and always will be.

ARTHUR (_aggressively_). Why?

LADY JANE. Don’t ask _me_. Why does the sun go round the earth----

FREDA. It doesn’t.

LADY JANE (_taken aback, but recovering gallantly_). Well then, why
doesn’t it? Why----(_with a wave of her hand_) Why anything? _I_
don’t know. You’ve got to take the world as you find it. When you’re
young, you think that you’re going to make a wonderful new world of
it, all by yourself. As you grow up, you realise that you can’t, and
that, as you haven’t very long to be in it, you’ll be happier if you
make the best you can of the old world.

ARTHUR (_with an air_). Again I protest.

FREDA. Protesting’s never any good. You want to break something.

  (_And now, at last_, SELBY MANNOCK _has finished his nut_.)

MANNOCK (_wiping his mouth_). There!... What were you saying, Arthur?
(_This is too much for_ ARTHUR, _who, after one indignant look, drops
into sulky silence_. FREDA _laughs_.) Ring the bell, will you,
there’s a good boy.

LADY JANE. What is it?

  (ARTHUR _slouches out of his chair and rings the bell_.)

MANNOCK. Thanks, old fellow.... Why don’t I send in my resignation
from the Cabinet? Because my resignation would certainly be accepted.

LADY JANE (_to her son_). It’s ridiculous, dear, to expect your
Father to throw up his whole career just for nothing at all. What
good would it do?

FREDA (_with interest_). _Would_ the P.M. accept it, Father?

MANNOCK. I think undoubtedly.

FREDA. I thought that that was where Marjory came in. The Duke
wouldn’t allow it, would he?

MANNOCK. He mightn’t like it, but----In any case that isn’t the point
now. Arthur wants, not a mock resignation, but a real one. Why?

ARTHUR (_mumbling_). The Redistribution Bill.

MANNOCK. Well?

ARTHUR. You said that you thought it monstrous.

MANNOCK. Monstrous was _your_ word.

LADY JANE. Your Father only said that he didn’t like the Bill.

MANNOCK. And if you had given me time, Arthur, I should have added
that I didn’t like it because it didn’t go far enough.

ARTHUR. Good Lord!

FREDA. It goes pretty far. It will dish Labour jolly well at the next
election.

MANNOCK. Well, what am I in politics for at all, if not to do that?

ARTHUR (_rudely_). You can fight fair, I suppose?

MANNOCK (_calmly_). My dear Arthur, how on earth is any one to say
what distribution of seats is fair and what isn’t?

ARTHUR. You admit that the Government wants redistribution just so as
to improve its own electoral chances?

FREDA (_to her Mother_). Its own electoral chances----Arthur is
getting quite the manner, isn’t he?

  (_But_ LADY JANE _does not smile. She has been brought up on the
  manner._)

MANNOCK. Certainly I admit it.

ARTHUR (_with a shrug_). Well!

MANNOCK. And I suppose _you_ admit that Labour is opposing it just
because it spoils _its_ own electoral chances?

ARTHUR. Er--naturally----

MANNOCK (_with Arthur’s shrug_). Well!

FREDA. Each for himself, and himself for--for himself. Our motto.

ARTHUR (_contemptuously_). Exactly.

MANNOCK. And rightly.

LADY JANE (_with conviction_). Certainly.

MANNOCK. _We_ paint England Blue, and Labour comes and paints it
Red, and the result is the Purple which suits her. But only if we
have the courage to put our whole hearts into the True Blue. If we
begin weakly dabbing on a sort of purply blue, what’s the result? Not
purple at all, but a dirty red. And nobody wants that.

LADY JANE (_interested_). Have you ever used that in the House,
Richard? It’s rather good.

MANNOCK (_doubtfully_). I don’t think so. (_Trying to remember_) No,
I don’t think so. It would be better on the platform, I think. It
isn’t altogether sound.

LADY JANE. Sound enough.

MANNOCK. For the platform, yes.... Oh, Digby!

                                         [DIGBY _the butler is there_.

DIGBY. Yes, sir?

MANNOCK. Mr. Edward Eversley is coming in this evening. Show him in
here.

DIGBY. Yes, sir.

MANNOCK. He’ll probably have coffee.

DIGBY. Very good, sir.

                                                       [_He goes out._

MANNOCK (_to his wife_). I’m sorry, dear, I meant to have told you.

LADY JANE (_trying to place him_). Eversley.... Eversley.

MANNOCK. No, you don’t know him. At least, you’ve met him, I suppose.
He was at our wedding.

LADY JANE. Oh!

  (_One gathers that many strange friends of her husband’s youth
  were there._)

MANNOCK. No, I’m not sure that he was.

LADY JANE. What does he do? (_Not that it matters._)

MANNOCK. He’s become a great authority on gardens, I believe. Writes
in the papers about them.

LADY JANE (_brightening_). Oh! We might ask him down to Drayton. He
could help us with the terraces. Mr. Ferris is so conventional--and
so expensive. Not next week--the week after. No, that won’t do,
because----(_She tries to remember._)

FREDA. Have you suddenly found him again, Father, or has he always
been about?

MANNOCK. I met him to-day at the Club. He was lunching with somebody.
I hadn’t seen him for twenty years.... More.... (_He is thoughtful._)

FREDA. Twenty years! Almost good enough for a dinner, I should have
thought.

MANNOCK. He was only up from the country for a night. He hadn’t got
any clothes with him.

LADY JANE. I suppose he has some at home?

MANNOCK. I imagine so.

LADY JANE. Then we’d better make it the 23rd. That’s the Saturday.

ARTHUR (_aggressively_). Why shouldn’t he dine in a tweed suit? And
anyway, what’s the difference between dining in a tweed suit and
coming in after dinner in a tweed suit?

FREDA. About two hours, Arthur.

MANNOCK (_thoughtfully_). I hardly knew him at first. He’s gone very
grey.

FREDA. Was he your fag at school, or were you his? It’s always one or
the other.

MANNOCK. Neither. We were contemporaries. And we lived in the same
village. He might be a year older. I forget now.

LADY JANE. Well, we’ll leave you to talk about the old days together.
Is there a Mrs. Eversley?

MANNOCK. Yes. In the country. There was a son, I believe. But that
was twenty years ago. I don’t know what’s happened to him; we didn’t
get as far as that.

LADY JANE. I suppose she’d have to be asked. (_Hopefully_) Perhaps
she’s an invalid.

  (DIGBY _opens the door and announces_ EDWARD EVERSLEY. _He
  is the same age as_ MANNOCK, _but looks older and greyer. A
  pleasant, kindly man, but with the absurd air of being a dear old
  gentleman. As boys together_, MANNOCK _was his hero, and even now
  there is something of that simple boyish admiration and love left
  in his eyes_.)

DIGBY. Mr. Eversley!

                                                       [_He goes out._

MANNOCK (_getting up_). Good! You’re just in time for a glass of
port. Let me see, you have met my wife, haven’t you?

EVERSLEY (_shaking hands_). How do you do?

LADY JANE (_graciously_). How do you do?

EVERSLEY. You will forgive my clothes, won’t you? Dick explained to
you how it was----

LADY JANE (_wondering who Dick is_). Dick?... Oh, my husband, yes! Of
course!

  (_She smiles pleasantly at him. After all, he is going to
  do the gardens at Drayton for nothing, and he may even be a
  constituent._)

MANNOCK. My younger daughter, Freda. My son, Arthur. (_They bow and
murmur to each other._) Freda, you must make room for Mr. Eversley.

FREDA (_making room_). Come on, Mr. Eversley. We’re longing to hear
how you and Father robbed the apple orchard together, and were chased
by the farmer, and thrashed by the headmaster, and all that sort of
thing.

  (DIGBY _and a parlourmaid have come in with coffee, and glasses
  for the visitor. The coffee is put in front of_ LADY JANE. DIGBY
  _walks round the table with the port and fills_ EVERSLEY’S
  _glass_.)

LADY JANE. Don’t be ridiculous, Freda.

EVERSLEY (_sadly_). Alas, there are no such stories. We were model
boys. Your father made a false quantity once--let me see, that would
be in ’88--but otherwise we gave no trouble at all. (_With a smile_)
Eh, Dick? (_He drinks his port._)

MANNOCK (_without enthusiasm for the subject_). We were pretty
ordinary boys, I expect. Cigars, Arthur.

LADY JANE (_handing him a cup_). For Freda. You’ll have coffee?

EVERSLEY. No, thank you.

ARTHUR. Cigar or cigarette?

EVERSLEY. Neither, thank you.

ARTHUR. Father?

MANNOCK (_taking one_). Thank you.

FREDA. Thank you, Arthur.

ARTHUR. Sorry. (_He holds out the box to her and takes one himself,
and then goes back to his place._)

LADY JANE. I hear you’re a great authority on gardens.

EVERSLEY. I have a great love for gardens.

LADY JANE. Oh!... But you do write about them?

EVERSLEY. Oh yes, yes.

LADY JANE. How delightful! Richard, Mr. Eversley must come down to
Drayton--(_to_ EVERSLEY) our house in Sussex--and see the gardens
there. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? (_To_ EVERSLEY) We’ve been
making some alterations lately. We should value your opinion--and
help.

EVERSLEY. That’s very kind of you.

LADY JANE (_with a gesture of “Not at all”_). We must fix up a
week-end. Mrs. Eversley too, if she would come. _(She waits hopefully
for an announcement that the lady is bedridden, but_ EVERSLEY _only
bows._) That will be nice.

FREDA. You’ll like Drayton, it’s terribly beautiful.

EVERSLEY. I’m sure I shall.

LADY JANE. You write a great deal, I expect?

EVERSLEY. Well, yes, about things which interest me.

LADY JANE. And know all the editors.... Arthur wants to write. It’s
difficult at first, unless you know the people. A word in the right
ear----

EVERSLEY. Ah, but which is the right ear?

LADY JANE. Oh well, of course!

EVERSLEY. I think I should want to whisper a word in the ear of Mr.
Arthur. “Trust to yourself. Never mind about introductions. They
can’t help you.”

MANNOCK (_with authority, cigar in mouth_). Naturally, you have to
have it in you. Dickens would always be Dickens, that’s true enough.
But human nature being what it is.... pass the port, Arthur.

EVERSLEY. No more, thank you.

MANNOCK. And what of your own boy, Eversley? You have a son, haven’t
you?

EVERSLEY (_gently_). Yes, I have a son. I suppose I should say, “I
had a son.” (_They all look elaborately unconcerned._) He was killed
in the war.

LADY JANE (_shocked_). Oh!

MANNOCK. My dear fellow, I beg your pardon.

EVERSLEY (_going on quietly_). But you know, we still say to
ourselves, “We have a son.” We still have--what made him our son--our
love and our pride in him--and we have the sure knowledge that we
shall see him again.

  (_They look at each other, and away from each other,
  uncomfortably. Really, the man is being almost irreligious._)

MANNOCK (_hastily_). Of course, of course!

FREDA. Was he in the Flying Corps?

EVERSLEY. At the end, yes. But he was in the infantry long enough for
me to salute him.

                                 [_They all look at him in amazement._

LADY JANE. To--to salute him?

EVERSLEY (_smiling_). Yes. You remember all those comic pictures at
the time--the manager saluting his clerk--the father saluting his
son. Well, we really did it. I was in his battalion, actually in his
company, as a private when he was a second lieutenant. (_He beams at
them proudly._)

LADY JANE (_with a glance from him to her husband and back again_).
But--but however old were you?

EVERSLEY. Oh, not too old in those days. I’ve aged since. And, you
see, my boy was just a little under the limit. So he borrowed two
years from me, and that made us both quite happy.

  (_Now you can almost see_ LADY JANE _looking from that dead boy
  to her own son, and back again._)

FREDA. Were you in France together?

EVERSLEY. In different parts of the line. But we managed to meet once
or twice.

ARTHUR. _You_ were in France?

EVERSLEY. Yes! Why not?

ARTHUR. Really in France? At the front? In the trenches?

EVERSLEY. Of course.

ARTHUR. And your boy. How old was he when war broke out?

MANNOCK (_knowing what is coming_). Arthur! (_To_ LADY JANE) My dear!

ARTHUR. How old----

LADY JANE (_getting up_). How extraordinarily interesting, Mr.
Eversley. But you and Richard must have a great deal to talk about
with each other. (_They are all up now_) Freda! Arthur! You must
bring Mr. Eversley upstairs before he goes, Richard.

MANNOCK. Of course. (_He is opening the door for her._)

LADY JANE. Thank you.... Arthur! (_Reluctantly ARTHUR follows the
ladies out._)

  (_As soon as they are alone_ EVERSLEY _turns to his friend._)

EVERSLEY. I say, may I smoke a pipe?

MANNOCK (_absently_). Of course!

EVERSLEY. Good! (_He fills it._)

MANNOCK (_still absently_). We’ve taken to coming in here at the nuts
and wine stage--an old custom of my wife’s people.

EVERSLEY. They used to do it at Cambridge--the Dons. Oxford too, I
suppose.

MANNOCK. Yes.... It’s my room really.... (_Getting to the point_)
What you were saying--about the Army--of course you were younger than
I was----

EVERSLEY. One day--don’t you remember? (MANNOCK _looks inquiringly at
him_) Our birthdays? Mine was the day after yours.

MANNOCK. Oh, was that all? I knew you were younger.... You were lucky
to be your own master--free to join up. I--I was--it was impossible.

EVERSLEY. My dear Dick, of course! You were an important member of
the Government, running the war for us. I was just at your orders.

MANNOCK. It was my one regret that my--my responsibilities prevented
me from shouldering a rifle with--with my friends.

EVERSLEY (_reflectively_). It’s funny how people always talked about
“shouldering” a rifle. You only shoulder arms in a Rifle Regiment.
_We_ sloped ’em. (_With a laugh_) There! That’s about all of my
soldiering that I remember now. Funny how it slips away.

MANNOCK (_still justifying himself_). Arthur was very anxious to run
away from school. Naturally. So was every boy. He wasn’t actually
eighteen until the last summer.... The war was finishing then, and I
... it seemed a pity, his last term ... I arranged----

EVERSLEY (_helping him out_). Tell me about your children, Dick. Have
I seen them all?

MANNOCK. There’s my elder girl. Marjory.

EVERSLEY. Ah, what about _her_?

MANNOCK. She married young Robert Harlow.

EVERSLEY (_no wiser_). Oh!

MANNOCK. The Duke’s second son, you know.

EVERSLEY. Oh!... I am afraid I am very ignorant. Is there only one
Duke?

MANNOCK. In politics, at present, yes. Only one that matters.

EVERSLEY. Oh!

MANNOCK. It all helps.

EVERSLEY. Oh! (_With a smile_) But it’s no good your trying to
pretend that she married him just so as to help your political
career, Dick.

MANNOCK. Not “just so” of course. She’s keen on politics too. Young
Harlow is in the House. It helps him to have married my daughter; it
helps me that she married _him_.

EVERSLEY. Oh! (_After a pause_) Whom is Miss Freda marrying?

MANNOCK. She’s only a child. There’s nothing settled.

EVERSLEY. Is she keen on politics too?

MANNOCK. Naturally.

EVERSLEY. And the boy? He wants to write?

MANNOCK. Every young man of intelligence wants to write. He’ll get
over it.

EVERSLEY. Is he destined for politics too?

MANNOCK. Naturally the choice is his. But I imagine that that’s what
he will settle down to directly. He has great opportunities.

EVERSLEY. He has indeed....

MANNOCK (_after a pause_). You only had the one boy?

EVERSLEY. Yes.

MANNOCK. A pity.

EVERSLEY. You believe in the large family, Dick?

MANNOCK (_cigar in mouth_). Three or possibly four, yes.
Childless marriages in a country like ours--with our Empire, our
responsibilities--well, where should we be in another hundred years?

EVERSLEY (_quietly_). We were very poor when we were first married.
When my boy was born, we lived in two rooms. Mary was in one; I was
in the other. The walls are thin in those houses. I realised then
that it was she who was saving the Empire, not I. It was not for me
to say how many children we should have.

MANNOCK. Oh, come! A man can’t escape his responsibilities like that.

EVERSLEY. Where were you, Dick, when your first child was born?

MANNOCK. Well, really! I don’t know that----Let me see, what year
would that be?

EVERSLEY (_to himself_). Ah, then you weren’t in the other room.

MANNOCK. No, I was down in Liverpool; of course! My by-election
was on. Yes, I remember now. I got a telegram the evening before
polling-day. It was just in time. I used to tell Arthur that he won
the seat for me. (_Blowing out smoke_) A little human touch like that
helps enormously at election time.

EVERSLEY. I see.... But of course one can never be quite certain when
an election is coming on.

MANNOCK (_taking it literally_). No.

EVERSLEY (_keeping the joke to himself_). Well, well, you haven’t
much to complain of, Dick. Cabinet Minister! Prime Minister one day,
perhaps.

MANNOCK (_with a shrug_). It’s just possible, I suppose.

EVERSLEY. Who would have guessed it in the old days?

MANNOCK. I’ve been lucky, of course. And my wife has helped me
enormously.

EVERSLEY. I am sure she has.

MANNOCK. I couldn’t have done it without her. It is difficult for an
outsider, as I was in the early days. Of course it _has_ been done,
but only by very exceptional people, and I never claimed to be that.
She knew everybody; introduced me to the right people; kept me in
front of them. I suppose you would say that I played my cards well,
but she dealt me the hand.

EVERSLEY (_to himself_). Yes, yes, I think I understand.

MANNOCK (_with a laugh at the absurdity of it_). In the old days,
when we were boys, I used to think it was you who were going to do
the big things.

EVERSLEY. No, no. It was always you. Don’t you remember? It was
always you who were Nite, and I was your Squier. Don’t you remember?

MANNOCK (_remembering_). Yes, Nite, Squier and--Yes.

EVERSLEY And Buteus Maiden.

MANNOCK (_he has never quite forgotten_). And Buteus Maiden.

                                     (_They are silent for a little._)

EVERSLEY (_humming to himself_). _How_ did it go?

MANNOCK. The War Song of the--what was it?----

EVERSLEY The Dreadnought Knight.

MANNOCK. Dreadnought?

EVERSLEY Don’t you remember? She said you were her Red Cross Knight,
and I said you weren’t a Cross, you were only a Nought--you were a
Red Nought Knight.

MANNOCK. That’s right. And _I_ said----

EVERSLEY No, _she_ said----

MANNOCK. Yes. _She_ said I was her Dreadnought Knight.

  (_He is a little ashamed of all this, but for the first time you
  see something of that eager boy who died twenty-five years ago._)

EVERSLEY (_humming again_). How did it go?

MANNOCK (_awkwardly; yet, in some unaccountable way, happy even to be
singing it again_).

   “Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
    Half a pound of treacle,
  That’s the way the money goes--
    Pop goes the weasel!”

EVERSLEY (_eagerly_). That’s it!

MANNOCK. Do you remember how I said----

EVERSLEY. No, _I_ said----

MANNOCK (_after thinking_). That’s right. _You_ said that you didn’t
like rice----

EVERSLEY. And I was always going to say, “Half a pound of ham and
eggs”----

MANNOCK. And _I_ said that the Squier _always_ had to sing the same
song as the Nite----

EVERSLEY. And I said anyhow I would jolly well _think_ ham and
eggs----

MANNOCK (_very eagerly_). And _she_ said----(_He breaks off suddenly,
and there is a little silence._)

EVERSLEY (_gently_). Dick, have you--do you ever--have you ever seen
Sally--well, I mean, since we----

MANNOCK (_in a low voice_). No. Not since----

EVERSLEY. That last summer?

MANNOCK (_shaking his head_). No. I went to London----

EVERSLEY. We both went to London.

MANNOCK. I had just been called.

EVERSLEY. I had just got a job in the City.

MANNOCK. Didn’t _you_ ever go down to Enderways again?

EVERSLEY. No.

MANNOCK. Why not?

EVERSLEY. I was afraid to.

MANNOCK. How do you mean?

EVERSLEY (_awkwardly_). I thought I--I thought you----Of course, a
little later, when I met Mary, I knew that I never had been really
in love with Sally, but I thought I was then, and I thought you--it
seemed to be understood. (_To himself_) You were her Dreadnought
Knight.

MANNOCK (_with a self-conscious laugh_). Just a boy and girl romance.
I--it was impossible. She--we had no money. How could we? Better to
make a clean sweep of it all, and begin again.

EVERSLEY (_to himself_). So you began again.... And gradually success
closed in on you.

MANNOCK (_looking at him sharply_). What an extraordinary remark!

EVERSLEY (_surprised_). What?

MANNOCK. Success “closed in” on you.

EVERSLEY. Did I say that? (_With an embarrassed little laugh_) I beg
your pardon. I had no idea. No idea even that I was thinking it.
Ridiculous! (_After a pause_) She’s married now, you know.

MANNOCK (_wishing to be done with the subject_). I’m glad.

EVERSLEY. But not very happily.

MANNOCK. Ah, I’m sorry about that. The Old Man’s dead long ago, of
course?

EVERSLEY. Of course.

MANNOCK (_with a laugh_). The Old Man. (_Tapping his head_) Never
quite all there, was he?

EVERSLEY. I don’t think that we used to say that when we were boys,
Dick. Sally didn’t.

MANNOCK. Of course! Her own father!

EVERSLEY. Unworldly.... Perhaps that’s the same nowadays as not being
quite all there.

MANNOCK. The two of them alone together all those years in that
rambling old house!

EVERSLEY (_with a chuckle_). Hardly alone. We practically lived there
in the holidays.

MANNOCK. What happened to the place?

EVERSLEY. She lives there still. That was all he left her, you know.
I think she married to save it.

MANNOCK. It all seems very long ago.

  (_They sit there silently thinking of the long ago...._ FREDA
  _comes in, followed by_ BERTIE CAPP, _a stout young man, who
  tries to hide his extreme cleverness beneath the make-up of a
  fool_.)

FREDA. Here’s Bertie, Father.

MANNOCK (_coming out of the past_). Hullo, Bertie. How are you?

BERTIE (_dropping his eye-glass_). Pretty well, thanks.

FREDA. Don’t go too close to him, he’s covered with eucalyptus.

BERTIE. A precautionary measure only. The cold belongs to somebody
else. My private microbes----

MANNOCK (_to_ EVERSLEY). Do you know Bertie Capp?... This is Mr.
Eversley.

BERTIE. How are _you_, sir?

EVERSLEY. How do you do?

BERTIE. My private microbes, who distribute gout and insomnia, are
resting for the moment. It’s a hard life.

MANNOCK. How’s the Prime Minister?

BERTIE (_waving his handkerchief_). Like that.

FREDA (_with a face_). Oh, put it away, Bertie. I’d rather have the
cold.

BERTIE. I give him two more days in bed. Between ourselves he likes
it there.

FREDA (_to_ EVERSLEY). Bertie is the P.M.’s P.P.S.

EVERSLEY (_with a smile_). Thank you very much.

FREDA. The Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary. In other
words, Bertie runs England.

BERTIE. I consult Miss Freda on all the important points.

MANNOCK. (_to_ BERTIE). Did you want to see me?

BERTIE. Well--er----

FREDA. Come on, Mr. Eversley. We’ll go upstairs.

EVERSLEY (_to_ MANNOCK). Perhaps I’d better say good-bye, Dick.

MANNOCK (_carelessly_). Good-bye. I’ll be seeing you again before
very long. Talk to my wife about that week-end.

EVERSLEY. Thank you, thank you. (_To_ BERTIE) Good-night.

BERTIE. Good-night. (_He opens the door_) I hope I haven’t given you
the Prime Minister’s cold.

EVERSLEY (_smiling_). It would be an honour to have it.

BERTIE. Oh well, he’s nearly finished with it. Good-night.
Good-night, Freda, if I don’t see you again.

FREDA. Good-night.

                                                       [_They go out._

BERTIE (_closing the door_). Is that the Garden Eversley?

MANNOCK (_surprised_). Yes. Do you know him?

BERTIE. I know his book, of course.

MANNOCK. Oh! (_With a faint touch of pride_) We were boys together.

BERTIE. He’s a good bit older than you, isn’t he?

MANNOCK (_hastily_). There was not much in it. Well?

BERTIE (_taking a large envelope from his pocket_). The Prime
Minister’s compliments, and would you rather have a Baronetcy or an
absolute snip for the 2.30?

MANNOCK (_not surprised_). Ah! It’s all right, then?

BERTIE. Very much all right. Between ourselves, it’s a damn good
speech. I read it to him. He just lay there, without a movement.
Absorbed.

MANNOCK. Asleep, probably.

BERTIE (_candidly_). Well, so _I_ thought at first. But I drank his
medicine once by mistake--being a thirsty sort of speech, I had put
a glass of water handy--and the subsequent noise woke him. I mean it
was obvious he was awake all the time.

MANNOCK (_unamused_). Any comments?

BERTIE. Well, yes.

MANNOCK What?

BERTIE. “Clever fellow, Mannock. Er----”

MANNOCK. Go on.

BERTIE. “Clever fellow, Mannock. He brings to the obvious such a
wealth of reticence that it almost sounds improper.” Said between
coughs and grunts, you know, it sounded rather good. But I daresay
there isn’t much in it.

MANNOCK. You have to be obvious on the platform.

BERTIE. Oh, quite.... I say, do you see _The Sunday Socialist_?

MANNOCK (_curtly_). Never.

BERTIE (_taking it from his pocket_). You haven’t seen this week’s?

MANNOCK. Why should I?

BERTIE. We take it in, of course. “My attention has been drawn ...”
and all that sort of thing. (_Pointing to the place_) There! (_As_
MANNOCK _reads_) I thought I’d better bring it along.

MANNOCK (_reading_). Yes.... Yes.

BERTIE. Once doesn’t matter--you can deny anything once--but if he’s
going to make a habit of it----

MANNOCK (_firmly_). He is not. (_He goes on reading._)

BERTIE. Well, I’ll be getting along.

MANNOCK. Thanks very much for letting me see this. Are you going
upstairs?

BERTIE. Just for a moment.

MANNOCK. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling Arthur that I should like
to see him.

BERTIE. Right. (_Going to the door_) By the way, where are you
sleeping to-morrow night? Hotel?

MANNOCK (_still reading the paper_). Carchester’s putting me up. He’s
got some sort of place in the neighbourhood, I believe.

BERTIE. Ah! I didn’t know that you----(_He hesitates._)

MANNOCK. We don’t.

BERTIE (_tolerantly_). Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a party.

MANNOCK. Exactly. This is politics. He’s popular down there, they
say. He’s taking the chair at the evening meeting.

BERTIE. Oh, quite. Well, good-night and good luck.

MANNOCK. Good-night.

  (_He settles down to this damnable article again._ ARTHUR _comes
  in_.)

ARTHUR. Bertie said you wanted me.

MANNOCK (_getting up_). Yes; sit down, won’t you? (ARTHUR _sits
down_) Did you write this? (_He gives him the paper._)

ARTHUR (_bracing himself for the row that’s coming_). Yes.

MANNOCK. Ah! Proud of it?

ARTHUR. Not ashamed of it anyway.

MANNOCK. Then you ought to be.

ARTHUR. I don’t see why.

MANNOCK. An inflammatory article in a revolutionary rag----

ARTHUR. Papers aren’t rags just because you don’t agree with their
opinions.

MANNOCK. An impertinent article in a revolutionary rag, charging
members of the Government, amongst them your own Father, with every
sort of crime and folly.

ARTHUR (_calmly_). It just means that I take the opposite side to
you, that’s all.

MANNOCK (_reading_). “There is more here than political dishonour.
There is personal dishonour.”

ARTHUR (_uncomfortably_). Well--I mean----

MANNOCK. Thank you, Arthur.

ARTHUR. Well, it isn’t _my_ fault you’re a Cabinet Minister. I happen
to be a Socialist----

MANNOCK. A Socialist!

ARTHUR. Why not?

MANNOCK (_contemptuously_). Why not! Have another cigar? Have another
glass of port? A Socialist! Look at yourself in the glass!

ARTHUR. Well, you can’t have it both ways. If I’m a poor, uneducated
devil, you say contemptuously, “Of course you’re a Socialist; you
want my money,” and if I happen to be well-off and educated, you say
contemptuously, “You a Socialist! Look at yourself in the glass!” You
can’t have it both ways.

MANNOCK. I beg your pardon. In fact, I’m not sure that I ought to be
discussing this with you at all. This article (_tapping the paper_)
is signed “Arthur _Selby_ Mannock.” I don’t think I know him. Who is
he?

ARTHUR. That’s not my fault. I suppose----

MANNOCK. Your name, I think, is Arthur James Mannock? Why do you give
a false name?

ARTHUR. I signed it “Arthur Mannock.” Of course it had this address
on it. I suppose----

MANNOCK. You suppose that the editor, wishing everybody to know that
a Cabinet Minister was being accused of personal dishonour by his own
son, altered it to Selby Mannock so that there should be no chance of
misapprehension.

ARTHUR. I suppose he thought it was a double-barrelled name. All the
papers call you Selby Mannock as if it were.

MANNOCK (_quietly_). You know quite well why he did it. (ARTHUR _is
silent_.) How many more of these articles are you writing--from my
house?

ARTHUR. Well--well, as a matter of fact, they’ve offered me a job,
sort of assistant editor--two fifty--I could get rooms somewhere--I
mean, naturally I want to. I mean----

MANNOCK (_with a sneer_). Assistant editor!... As assistant editor
it would be your job to see that the “Selby” didn’t go into your
articles----

ARTHUR. Naturally----

MANNOCK. Or did go in, according as the editor wished.

ARTHUR. Well, of course I should----(_His voice trails away._)

  (_They are silent._ MANNOCK, _realising that he is not getting
  much further, decides on a new line of attack_.)

MANNOCK (_with a friendly smile_). Look here, Arthur, let’s talk this
over reasonably.

ARTHUR. I shall be only too glad to.

MANNOCK (_charmingly_). Well, then, first, thank you for having kept
your temper so well. I’m afraid I’ve been rather provocative.

ARTHUR. Oh, I say, not at all.

MANNOCK. I do say it. And that’s the trouble, Arthur. You’ve got such
a lot of fine qualities. Brains--more brains than I have, I fancy----

ARTHUR. Oh, rot!

MANNOCK. Enthusiasm, good temper, courage----Well, I mean, how many
young men would have dared to do that? (_He waves at the paper._)

ARTHUR. Oh, I don’t know.

MANNOCK. As the Prime Minister said to me the other day, “That boy
of yours will go far.” I know it. But in which direction?... It’s a
funny thing, Arthur, how so many great political geniuses, writers
too, have started in the wrong direction. Disraeli began as a
Radical, Gladstone as a Tory----It almost seems as if one false start
were necessary before you can get going. The trouble is that your
enemies remember that false start, and bring it up against you. Happy
the man who has no past, as somebody said. Well, that’s what I’m
anxious about. You’re preparing a past for yourself _now_. I wonder
if----You don’t mind my talking like this?

ARTHUR (_interested and flattered_). Of course not.

MANNOCK. You’re a Socialist. Right. I don’t agree with your opinions,
but that has nothing to do with it. Now what I’m wondering is----Need
you be a _public_ Socialist for--well, say for a year?

ARTHUR. How do you mean? (_With a laugh_) I shan’t change in a year,
if that’s what you’re hoping.

MANNOCK (_laughing too_). I’m afraid you won’t. (_With an air
of great seriousness_) But frankly, Arthur, old boy, I’m in a
difficulty. I’ve been wanting to make a suggestion to you for some
weeks now, only--I’ve been afraid.

ARTHUR. Afraid?

MANNOCK. Yes, afraid of your refusing it. I’ve preferred to go on
hoping, rather than to close the door on my hopes by speaking to you.

ARTHUR (_after waiting for him_). Well?

MANNOCK. My secretary is leaving me. It puts me in rather an awkward
position.

ARTHUR. Which of the many?

MANNOCK. Well, naturally I don’t mean at the Ministry. Reader. (_He
jerks his head at the door behind him._)

ARTHUR. Reader? Why?

MANNOCK. He’s got a better job in prospect. He’s been with me a long
time, but he’s leaving me at last. I shall be rather lost without
him. Arthur, old boy, I wish you’d take his place.

ARTHUR (_staggered_). But----

MANNOCK. Three hundred a year I’ll give you. Three fifty if you want
to live out, but I’d rather you didn’t.

ARTHUR. But I’m--my political opinions----

MANNOCK. I know, I know. That’s why I was afraid to ask you. But
couldn’t you manage to keep an open mind for a year? I want you to
see something of the inside of politics. If at the end of a year,
you’re more of a Socialist than ever, well, what a chance for you!
You’ll be able to expose us properly! You’ll know all about us! But
if I’m lucky enough to win your confidence, why perhaps one day the
proudest moment of my life will come. Do you know what that will be?

ARTHUR. What?

MANNOCK. The moment when I introduce you to the Speaker in the House
of Commons. Arthur Mannock, M.P. for ----. We can find you a dozen
seats.

  (_They sit there, Arthur thinking, Mannock watching him
  anxiously._)

ARTHUR (_after a pause_). It’s really awfully decent of you, Father.

MANNOCK. You see, I want you rather badly.

ARTHUR. You’re sure it doesn’t commit me to anything?

MANNOCK (_quickly_). Not a bit.

ARTHUR. And if, after a year----

MANNOCK. Exactly.

ARTHUR. And you would absolve me of any charge of disloyalty, if----

MANNOCK. Of course! of course!

ARTHUR (_after thinking_). Right you are, Father. I’ll take it on.

                     (MANNOCK _turns away with a big sigh of relief_.)

MANNOCK. Thank you, old boy. I’m sure you won’t regret it.... Oh,
there’s just one other thing. I shall keep you pretty busy. Better
take a holiday now, while Reader is still here.

ARTHUR. Well----

MANNOCK. Hard up?

ARTHUR (_smiling_). Fairly.

MANNOCK (_smiling_). I’ll see to that.

ARTHUR. I say, you are a sportsman. Thanks awfully!

Mannock. That’s all right. (_Dismissing him_) Well, I must go through
my speech with Reader.

ARTHUR. That’s to-morrow, isn’t it? At Leeds.

MANNOCK. Yes.

ARTHUR (_smiling_). Well, entirely without prejudice to my political
opinions, I hope they won’t throw anything at you.

  (_He goes._ MANNOCK _laughs heartily until the door closes. Then,
  in a flash, his pleasant manner disappears. He walks to his desk
  and picks up the telephone._)

MANNOCK. Hullo! Come in, will you? (_He sits down and writes out a
cheque. While he is so engaged_, JOHN READER _comes in, a serious
young man with the great virtues of industry and loyalty, but a
pathetic lack of anything else_.) Ah, Reader, just wait a moment. Got
the speech?

READER. Yes, sir.

MANNOCK (_getting up, cheque in hand_). Good. All right?

READER. I have verified the dates and the extracts from other
speeches. There was one misquotation from Wordsworth which I have
corrected.

MANNOCK. I’m not sure that a misquotation isn’t a good thing
sometimes. Some fool is sure to write to the papers to point it out,
and then one writes back and says that it’s the fault of the reporter
or the printer, and then the reporter writes and says--well, it’s all
publicity.

READER (_reproachfully_). You remember what _The Spectator_ said last
week--the one member of the Cabinet who could be trusted not to
bungle a literary quotation.

MANNOCK. Yes, well, that’s something.

READER (_turning the pages_). One or two little angularities of style
I have ventured to----Oh, and then there’s this passage. This was not
in the Prime Minister’s draft----

MANNOCK (_looking over his shoulder_). No, it wasn’t, was it?

READER. You seem to go some way beyond your colleagues. Of course
it’s not for me----

MANNOCK. Naturally.

READER. I just wanted to be sure that there was no mistake.

MANNOCK. There is no mistake, Reader--at present. It may be necessary
for there to be one later on. I may find--later on--that I spoke from
the wrong draft, in error. You understand?

READER. Quite so, sir. I thought I would just mention it.

MANNOCK. That’s right.... And now, my dear fellow, I have something
to tell you which I cannot flatter myself will be the distress to you
that it is to me. The fact is that I am unable to avail myself of
your services, your very great services, any longer.

READER (_utterly taken aback_). You mean that I--that you----

MANNOCK. I’m afraid so, Reader.

READER. But what have I--aren’t you----

MANNOCK. Perfectly satisfied. Oh, it’s not that at all. I can
recommend you with the utmost confidence, and, in fact, I will make
it my business to see that you are comfortably settled with some one
else. But my son is very anxious to get an insight into politics,
and I have been thinking that the best way--it has been in my mind
for some weeks, and he is delighted at the suggestion--the best way
would be for him to take over your duties, and----(_Fingering the
cheque_) In the circumstances, I have ventured to make this out for
two months’ salary, although I shall only require your services for
one month longer. Here you are, my dear fellow.

READER (_mechanically_). That’s very good of you, sir.... It’s
a little awkward--my wife--coming just now--she’s not--she will
be----(_Looking at the cheque_) Of course this is very generous of
you----

MANNOCK. Not at all. I owe it to you. But you understand that I must
think of my boy--it is his desire----

READER. Of course, sir. Naturally that comes first with you. I only
wish--you see, just now my wife----

MANNOCK (_holding up his hand_). I don’t think, Reader, that I can be
expected----(_Reproachfully_) I can hardly be expected----

READER. No, no, of course not.... Coming just now--she will be
frightened----

MANNOCK. I think that both of you will be distressing yourselves
needlessly. There will be no difficulty whatever about finding
you----I will speak to Mr. Capp to-morrow. Remind me. I fancy that
Carfax----

                         LADY JANE _comes in_.

LADY JANE. Busy?

MANNOCK (_glad of the interruption_). Oh no, not at all. (_To_
READER) Then that’s understood. I will speak to-morrow to Mr. Capp.
I think Carfax is the man. (_Taking the speech from him_) Thank you.
Good-night, Reader.

READER (_a trifle dazed_). Good-night, sir. Good-night, Lady Jane.

LADY JANE. Good-night. (_He goes out._ LADY JANE _sits down
gracefully_. MANNOCK _stands at the fireplace, turning over the pages
of his speech_) Arthur tells me he’s coming to you.

MANNOCK. Yes.

LADY JANE. I’m glad.

MANNOCK. You heard what he’d been doing?

LADY JANE. Yes. Silly boy.

MANNOCK. He didn’t realise--and I didn’t tell him.

LADY JANE. The least thing might make the difference now.

MANNOCK. Yes.

LADY JANE. Bertie tells me that C. J. is going to the Lords almost at
once.

MANNOCK. I thought you knew.

LADY JANE. Not definitely. I suppose Mowbray will be Chancellor of
the Exchequer?

MANNOCK. Sure to be.

LADY JANE. Bertie seemed to think it wasn’t absolutely settled yet.

MANNOCK. The Duke doesn’t like Mowbray, of course.

LADY JANE. No.... It’s all been so sudden. We haven’t had time to do
anything.

MANNOCK. C. J. has been breaking up for months.

LADY JANE. Yes, but not publicly before. He might easily have lasted
another year.

MANNOCK. Yes.

LADY JANE. Suppose it _is_ Mowbray, who’ll have the Admiralty?
(MANNOCK _shrugs his shoulders_.) Would _you_ take it?

MANNOCK (_not sure_). What do you think?

LADY JANE. No.

MANNOCK. Yes, that’s what I feel.

LADY JANE. “Too devoted to your present work,” and so on. That always
sounds well with the public.

MANNOCK. Yes. (_They smile faintly at each other, and are silent,
both thinking...._) Eversley gone?

LADY JANE. Yes.

MANNOCK. What did you do about that week-end?

LADY JANE. Left it vague. Said I’d write.

MANNOCK (_relieved_). Ah! Then, in that case, I think perhaps----

LADY JANE. So do I.... It’s always a mistake--trying to get back.

MANNOCK. Yes.... Bertie knew about him. The Garden Eversley.

LADY JANE (_surprised_). Oh?... Oh! (_meaning that, of course, that
makes a difference_) ... Oh, then perhaps----

MANNOCK (_shaking his head_). I think I would rather--He’s a little
disturbing.

LADY JANE. They always are--coming in suddenly from outside like
that. Particularly when----

MANNOCK (_wishing to be fair_). He was the Vicar’s son, I was the
Doctor’s.

LADY JANE. Oh, _then_, yes.... (_She gets up_) Shall I see you in the
morning?

MANNOCK. I don’t expect so. I have a fairly early train. There are
the two meetings.

LADY JANE. Yes.... Leeds might make a difference.

MANNOCK. It might.

LADY JANE. I suppose Mowbray _is_ a certainty?

MANNOCK (_with a shrug_). He may not last long.

LADY JANE. If only we had seen it coming.... Bertie doesn’t think
much of him.

MANNOCK. Bertie, no.

LADY JANE. Bertie counts for a good deal with the Prime Minister.

MANNOCK. Up to a point, yes. Not beyond.

LADY JANE. Still--(_she is silent for a little and then says_) I
sometimes wonder if Freda--(_and is silent again_).

MANNOCK. It would help, of course.

LADY JANE. Yes.... Good-night. (_She holds up her cheek and he kisses
it carelessly._)

MANNOCK. Good-night. (_She goes out--to_ FREDA’S _room, we may be
sure._)

  (MANNOCK _glances at his speech, spreads it out on the desk
  beside him, puts on his glasses, and with a final glance at the
  opening, stands up and delivers it._)

MANNOCK. Mr. Chairman, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. In coming
before you to-night at this great crisis in our political affairs,
when, not for the first time in her eventful history our country
stands at the parting of the ways, I am conscious--(_He glances at
the speech and corrects himself_)--I am not unconscious--I am not
unconscious of a certain pride in the knowledge that it is before
my own good friends of Yorkshire--my own people, as I must always
think of them--that I am privileged to plead my cause. I was born
on Yorkshire soil, I was nurtured through youth to early manhood
in the bosom of your hills. Memories of my boyhood come back to me
as I stand here to-night ... memories of those happy days return
to me (_And quite unexpectedly, just for a moment, they do. He
breaks off, and says in a whisper_) Those happy days.... (_He is at
Enderways now. There, armed to the teeth, march_ NITE _and_ SQUIER;
_there, waiting to be rescued_, sits the BUTEUS MAIDEN. _Now it is_
DICK _and_ TEDDY _and_ SALLY. _“Sally!” With a jerk he comes awake
again, and hurries back to Leeds_) And so, ladies and gentlemen,
in delivering my message to you to-night--speaking as I do, not
only for myself, but for the Government which I have the honour to
represent.... (_And so on. We can always read it in “The Times.”_)




                                ACT II


                   SCENE 1: _Enderways, Yorkshire_

  _It was known as Dick’s room in the old days, so perhaps we may
  still call it that. For a small boy, home for his holidays, it
  was all very well, this exciting nest in the roof, but it is
  terrible to think that a Cabinet Minister is now expected to
  sleep there._

  _The room is empty at first, and in darkness. Then we hear a
  voice outside, and_ LORD CARCHESTER _opens the door and puts
  the light on for us. So we get our one glimpse of him--Sally’s
  husband; a big, easy-going, easy-moralled, rather battered
  man-of-the-world, who, as usual with him at this time of the
  night, has had just enough to drink and means to have one or two
  more._

CARCHESTER (_outside_). Wait a moment. I’d better go first and put
the light on. (_He does so, and makes way for_ MANNOCK) There you are.

MANNOCK (_coming in_). Thanks. (_He sees the room_) By Jove!

CARCHESTER (_for the tenth time_). I really do apologise, but Sally
insisted on it.

MANNOCK (_impatiently_). My dear Carchester, of course! (_To
himself_) Of course she did.

CARCHESTER. Said you would understand.

MANNOCK. I understand.

  (_He is still looking, looking at the room, drinking it in. The
  years are dropping off him._)

CARCHESTER. Never argue with a woman. I’ve learnt that--(_the
man-of-the-world laughs_)--if I’ve learnt nothing else.

MANNOCK (_carelessly_). I shall be quite all right here, thanks. (_He
wants to be alone with the memories of the room._)

CARCHESTER (_sitting down on the bed_). Funny your turning out to be
an old friend of Sally’s like this.

MANNOCK. We were boy and girl together. I used to stay here in the
holidays. (_With a deep sigh of remembrance_) This was my room.

CARCHESTER. Ah well, then, that accounts for it. Still, why not
be comfortable in a decent room when you can? (_He sinks into
somnolence, rousing himself a moment to say sleepily_) That was a
damn good speech you made.

  (MANNOCK _is not listening to his host; it is the room which is
  calling to him. He goes quickly to the window, to the cupboard,
  finding, remembering, missing. Suddenly he bends down, and turns
  back a corner of the carpet._)

MANNOCK. Hullo!

CARCHESTER (_waking up with a start_). What’s the matter?

MANNOCK (_accusingly_). There used to be a rat-hole here. It’s been
boarded up.

CARCHESTER. Good Lord, what do _you_ do to rat-holes? (_He settles
down to sleep again. But not for long._)

MANNOCK (_severely_). That bed ought to be over here!

CARCHESTER (_dimly feeling that it is his fault_). I beg your pardon,
I didn’t--(_he tries to rise in apology, but sinks back again._)

MANNOCK. Up against the wall.

  (_He goes to the wall suddenly and taps; a peculiar rhythmic
  series of taps, just above where the bed used to be._)

CARCHESTER. Hullo!

MANNOCK (_coming to himself with an apologetic laugh_). Who sleeps
there now?

CARCHESTER. The staff. I dunno. P’raps it’s the cook. (_Wagging his
head in reproof_) Too old, Mannock, my boy. Too stout.

  (MANNOCK _turns away in disgust. Then he goes back to the wall,
  and begins to talk, looking at_ CARCHESTER, _but seeing only
  himself as a boy, thirty-five years ago_.)

MANNOCK. That was the signal. That meant “I want to talk to you.”
Then we talked to each other through the wall. One tap for A, two
for B, and so on, spelling out messages. Oh, for hours sometimes ...
just making up things to say ... plans for to-morrow ... wonderful
plans for to-morrow ... adventures which never quite happened. “G”
meant “Good-bye”--if one sent it, the other had to stop and go to
sleep. “G.D.” meant “Good-bye, dear”--that was when we had had a
specially happy day together. Then, in the morning, the first one
awake sent the signal. If the other one answered it, the first one
sent “S.W.”--that meant “Shall we?” Shall we get up? “Y” for “Yes,”
and we’d race each other to be first down on that old broken wall in
the Wilderness.

  (_He stops; he is racing to be first down_; SALLY’S _door
  flies open; she has the start of him. She can run--how she can
  run!--but he will catch her_ ... CARCHESTER _breaks in on his
  vision_.)

CARCHESTER. A damn good speech. (_He yawns_) And mind you, I know
what I’m talking about, because I was awake practically all the time.
(_He struggles to his feet_) I say, what about another spot of whisky?

MANNOCK (_curtly_). No, thanks.

CARCHESTER. Just a little baby spot? You won’t? Well, I will. Quite
sure you’re all right here?

MANNOCK. Yes, thanks.

CARCHESTER (_getting to the door_). Well then, g’night.

MANNOCK. Good-night.

CARCHESTER (_after thought_). G’night. (_He opens the door, and then
turns round with the air of one having a message to deliver. He
delivers it._) G’night. (_He goes._)

  (MANNOCK _is alone with his room; alone with a thousand ghosts, a
  thousand memories; most of them happy ones, bringing a smile to
  his face; all of them tearing at that solemn mask of success in
  which, for so many years, he has hidden himself. You can see the
  mask falling from him, you can see those years dropping away...._

  _He takes off his coat and waistcoat and puts on a dressing-gown;
  takes off his shoes and puts on bedroom slippers. Then he sits
  on the bed, still smiling at his thoughts. He swings his feet
  up and puts his head back on the pillows, looking up at the
  well-remembered ceiling. He gives a deep sigh, and just breathes
  the word “Sally!” Sleepily he puts his hand up to the wall and
  gives that rhythmic knock. There is no answer; it is the wrong
  wall; it was a thousand years ago. But, still sleepily, he taps
  out G.D., “Good-bye, dear, God be with you, dear.” Then his hand,
  coming down from the wall, feels the electric switch. With the
  happy sigh of one on the very threshold of sleep, he turns off
  the light ... and the thousand ghosts, who have been waiting for
  him, rush thronging into his dreams...._

                  *       *       *       *       *

  _Listen! Very faint, very far-off, a tune is coming--the War Song
  of the Dreadnought Nite ... Pom-perom-perompity-pom...._

  _Now it comes again, clearer, louder ...
  Pom-perom-perompity-pom...._

  _Now the_ DREADNOUGHT NITE _is here; here too is his faithful_
  SQUIER.... _Pom-perom-perompity-pom.... A whole orchestra of
  sound._

  _Listen! It is only a child’s trumpet.... And--see!--there are
  the children. For it is light now, and we can see where we are.
  Yet, even so, we are not quite certain. For there is the bed
  with_ MANNOCK _(is it?) still lying there, but there also is that
  overgrown, tangled corner of the Wilderness, and the broken wall
  where_ DICK _and_ SALLY _used to meet_.

  _“Pom-perom-perompity-pom.” It is the faithful_ SQUIER _who has
  the trumpet_. NITE, _in a paper cap, and with a martial sword in
  hand, leads the way_. SQUIER, _a toy gun hung round him, follows
  tooting_....

  _Enough, however, of toots. Let_ NITE _give tongue_.)

NITE (_singing lustily_).

      Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
        Half a pound of treacle,
      That’s the way the money goes--
        Pop goes the weasel!

Come on, Squier!

SQUIER.

      Half a pound of ham and eggs,
        Half a pound of treacle--
      That’s the way--

NITE. That’s _not_ the way! It’s “tuppenny rice.”

SQUIER (_reproachfully_). You know I _always_ say ham and eggs, Nite!

NITE. Well, what’s the good of being my Squier, if you don’t sing
the same as me? Squiers _always_ sing the same as Nites.

SQUIER. _Sally_ said----

NITE (_seeing_ MANNOCK). Hullo! Here’s an old, dead gentleman.

SQUIER. Oughtn’t I to salute him? (_He unslings his gun._)

NITE (_sternly_). Wait till I give the order. Now then, Squier, shun!
Shoulder--_arms_! (SQUIER _slopes_) That’s not shouldering arms,
stupid, that’s sloping.

SQUIER. That’s all the shouldering you’ll get. (_Proudly_) We don’t
shoulder in _our_ regiment.

NITE. Then you can jolly well take a month’s notice, and I shall
engage an entirely new Squier. (SQUIER _salutes, walks away a few
paces and comes back again_.) Are you an entirely new Squier?

SQUIER (_saluting_). Yes.

NITE. Then I shall give you 350 a year.

SQUIER. 350 what?

NITE. Oh, I dunno. Stand easy. (_Kindly_) You can look at the old
gentleman if you like.

SQUIER (_looking_). Is he a _very_ old gentleman, Nite?

NITE. Not so tremendous. About 25 or 50 or something.

SQUIER. Is he dead?

NITE. Oh, a long time ago, I should think. Just as dead as dead.

SQUIER. Then I shall sing to him. (_Singing_) “Half a pound----”

MANNOCK (_sitting up_). I’m not dead. I’ve heard every word you’ve
been saying.

NITE (_to_ SQUIER). He says he isn’t dead.

SQUIER. Ask him if he can sing.

NITE. Can you sing?

MANNOCK. Rather!

NITE. All right, sing!

MANNOCK. “Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle----”

NITE (_triumphantly_). There you are, Squier!

SQUIER (_wistfully_). I always say “Ham and eggs.”

MANNOCK (_shaking his head_). Wrong!

NITE. There you are, Squier!

SQUIER (_sadly_). I don’t like rice.

MANNOCK. Ah, but wait till you try the tuppenny sort. Whew!

SQUIER. Is that a bit better?

MANNOCK. Ever so much.

SQUIER. Oh! (_Humbly_) Still, I think I’ll go on saying ham and eggs,
if you don’t mind very much.

MANNOCK. Right!

NITE (_pointing to_ SQUIER’S _trumpet_). That’s his loot, what he
plays on.

SQUIER (_proudly_). I got it at the sack of Jerusalem.

NITE. When there’s a sack on, there’s always a lot of loots. Almost
everybody gets one. I lost mine. (_Carelessly_) Don’t mind, because a
Nite has such a lot of fighting to do, he can’t bother about loots. I
say, where’s the Buteus Maiden?

MANNOCK. That’s just what I was going to ask _you_.

SQUIER. I’m going to shout for her. Shall we shout for her, Nite?

NITE. Yes, let’s shout for her.

MANNOCK. All together. One, two, three----_Buteus Maiden_!

NITE (_apologetically_). I don’t expect she heard.

SQUIER. Perhaps she’s being Sleeping Beauty, and is waiting for Nite
to kiss her.

NITE (_rather hot and red_). Shut up, Squier.

MANNOCK. Well, _I_ shall try calling “Sally.”

NITE. Yes, let’s call Sally.

ALL. Sally! Sally! Sally!

BUTEUS MAIDEN. Here I am!

  (_And here she is. Only ten at the moment, but as sweet, as
  precious, as daintily dignified, as our Sally when she grew up._)

NITE (_rushing to her--even then she was everything to him_).
Oh, Sally, you _have_ been a long time. We’ve found an old, dead
gentleman to play with us.

MANNOCK (_indignantly_). I’m not dead! I’m not dead!

NITE. Yes, you are. Isn’t he, Squier?

SQUIER. I thought he was at first. And then I thought p’raps he
wasn’t.

MANNOCK (_almost in tears_). I’m _not_ dead. I shan’t play if he says
I’m dead.

MAIDEN. Do play! Then that will show you’re not.

MANNOCK. I’m a very important, successful man.

SQUIER. I saw at once he was a very important, successful man, so
that’s what made me think he was all dead. (_Kindly_) But p’raps he
isn’t.

MANNOCK (_doggedly_). I’m _not_ dead.

NITE. Yes, he is.

MAIDEN (_to_ NITE). Dear, if he says he isn’t dead, I don’t think it
would be kind not to believe him.

SQUIER. We can pretend he isn’t, anyhow.

MAIDEN (_to_ NITE). Please, dear.

NITE (_magnanimously_). All right, we’ll pretend you’re alive, and
see how you get on.

MANNOCK (_humbly_). Thank you very much.

NITE (_moving him_). Now you just stand there, out of the way. What
shall we be, Squier?

SQUIER. I think--I think----

NITE. I know! We’ll be Three Suitors. Sally, you sit over
there----We’ll be Three Suitors, Squier.

SQUIER (_wistfully_). I suppose I shan’t be the _Third_ Suitor?

NITE. No, _I’ll_ be----(_Impatiently_) Sally, why don’t----

MAIDEN (_sitting down_). Here I am, dear.

NITE (_to_ MANNOCK). What would you like to be? You could be another
Squier, if you like, (SQUIER _looks sadly at the Buteus Maiden_.)

MAIDEN (_gently_). There couldn’t be more than one Squier, dear.

MANNOCK (_hopefully_). Could I be a Lord of High Degree?

NITE (_doubtfully, to_ MAIDEN). Could he?

MANNOCK. I’m a Right Honourable, really.

NITE. That’s an _awful_ thing to be.

MANNOCK (_humbly_). Oh!

SQUIER. Couldn’t he just be a wight or a varlet or something?

NITE. A wight of low renowne! A wight of low renowne! That’s what he
is. Isn’t he, Sally?

MAIDEN. If you like, dear.

MANNOCK. Thank you very much.

NITE. Now, Squier goes first. We’re all Suitors, and Squier goes
first. Go on, Squier. (_In a whisper to_ MANNOCK) You go next.

  (SQUIER _slopes his gun, makes a long detour of the castle walls,
  and arrives at the Great Gate. He pulls an imaginary bell._)

NITE. Bom! Bom! Bom! (_To_ MANNOCK) That’s the bell ringing inside to
summon the agéd Seneschal. Go on, Squier.

SQUIER. What ho, within!

NITE (_as Seneschal_). What ho, without!

SQUIER. Open the door, thou scurvy bald-pate!

NITE. What name, please?

SQUIER. Faithful Squier. I am come to pay attentions to thy mistress,
the Buteus Maiden.

NITE. Not at home.

SQUIER. Have a care, agéd man, lest I carve thee to the brisket! (_He
pushes past the_ SENESCHAL _into the_ MAIDEN’S _presence_.)

MAIDEN (_turning to him_). Who seeks me?

SQUIER. It is I, thy faithful Squier, who loves thee.

MAIDEN. Alas!

SQUIER. If thou wilt wed with me, I will give thee a golden castle,
two palfreys, a box of fireworks and--and--lots of things.

MAIDEN (_drooping_). I want none of these things.

SQUIER. Oh!... Not even a box of fireworks?

MAIDEN. No.

SQUIER. Oh! (_He salutes_) Good-bye! (_He retreats._)

NITE. Well done, Squier!

  (SQUIER, _rather pleased with himself, lies down and rests_.)

MAIDEN (_kindly_). Dear Squier. (_She resumes her character._)

NITE (_to_ MANNOCK). Now then, Low Renowne, it’s your turn.

MANNOCK (_confidently_). Right! (_He marches up to the castle gate
and pulls the bell. There is dead silence. He pulls it again. Still
there is silence. He looks round, a little alarmed, at_ NITE) This
bell doesn’t ring! (NITE _laughs loudly_. MANNOCK _rings it again,
vigorously, but with no effect. He turns round to_ NITE _again_) I
say----(_But_ NITE _and_ SQUIER _have vanished. He calls out loudly,
frightened_) I say! (_There is no answer. The_ BUTEUS MAIDEN _still
waits silent_. MANNOCK _suddenly drops the bell, and attempts to push
his way into the castle, but_ DIGBY, _the immaculate butler, bars the
way_.)

DIGBY. Yes, sir?

MANNOCK. Open the door, thou scurvy bald-pate.

DIGBY (_coldly_). What name, please?

MANNOCK. Wight of Low Renowne.

DIGBY. Then it’s no good your hanging about here. Only people of high
renown, successful people, are allowed in _this_ house.

MANNOCK. Have a care, agéd man, lest I carve thee to the brisket.

DIGBY (_calmly_). Those are my instructions. Her ladyship is not at
home to _any_ of her husband’s old friends. Mr. Selby Mannock says he
might perhaps give you a job in the garden, if you come round to the
back door.

MANNOCK (_desperately_). But--but I’ve come to see the Buteus Maiden!

DIGBY (_contemptuously_). Dressed like that?

MANNOCK. You don’t understand. I’ve just come up from the country
for a day. (_He turns round_) Nite, how _can_ I play this game
if----(_But_ NITE _is not there; and when he turns back_, DIGBY _has
vanished. He rings the bell again_. ARTHUR _appears_.)

ARTHUR. Name, please.

MANNOCK. Wight of Low Renowne.

ARTHUR (_coldly_). I don’t think I know him. Who is he?

MANNOCK. I--I don’t---- It was Nite, who----

ARTHUR. _Your_ name, I think, is Richard Selby Mannock?

MANNOCK. Y--Yes.

ARTHUR. Then why do you give a false name? It only leads to
misapprehension.

MANNOCK. I want to see the Buteus Maiden.

ARTHUR. Dressed like that?

MANNOCK. I--I----

ARTHUR. Look at yourself in the glass! A wight of low renowne! Have a
glass of port! Have a cigar! A wight of low renowne!

MANNOCK (_turning round_). Nite! I can’t get in! People keep
stopping me! (_He turns back._ ARTHUR _has gone. He rings the bell._
BERTIE CAPP _is there_.)

BERTIE. Name, please.

MANNOCK. Selby Mannock--I mean Wight of Low--(_pathetically_) I don’t
know.

BERTIE. I thought perhaps it was the Chancellor of the Exchequer?

MANNOCK. N--no, I don’t think so.

BERTIE. What a pity! Couldn’t you work it somehow? Pull a few
strings? Talk to the Duke? Square an editor? I’m sure, if you had
a little time, you could think of something. Ask the Archbishop of
Canterbury to dinner! Invent a scandal about Mowbray! Intrigue a bit!
Surely you can do _something_!

MANNOCK. I--I want to see the Buteus Maiden.

BERTIE. Dressed like that? Without the Chancellor’s robes?

MANNOCK. I _must_ speak to her! I want to tell her----

BERTIE. You know, that was a damn good speech of yours. The Prime
Minister knows what he is talking about, and he was awake practically
all the time.

MANNOCK. Let me in! I must get in!

BERTIE. I don’t know what the Prime Minister will say. You see,
Eversley--the Garden Eversley--has just given him a month’s notice,
and the Chancellor of the Exchequer----But, of course, if I were to
marry Freda, we should keep it in the family. It all helps.

MANNOCK (_despairingly_). Nite, Squier, where are you? (_He pulls the
bell again. To his surprise it rings--or is it the_ BUTEUS MAIDEN
_saying “Bom, bom, bom”? He takes a step forward, and is there at
last--at her feet._)

MAIDEN (_turning to him_). Who seeks me?

MANNOCK. Er--er--(_but he can say nothing_).

MAIDEN (_leaning to him_). Tell me.

MANNOCK (_struggling desperately to tell her_). Er--er--(_and
behold! Reader, his secretary, is prompting him_) Mr. Chairman, my
lords, ladies and gentlemen!

MAIDEN (_turning away in disappointment_). Oh!

MANNOCK (_longing to say just the one word “Sally”--and then, “Sally,
I love you!” but Reader won’t have it_). Mr. Chairman, my lords,
ladies and gentlemen!

MAIDEN (_sadly_). Have you nothing more to say to me?

MANNOCK (_after another desperate struggle_). Mr. Chairman, my lords,
ladies and gentlemen!

MAIDEN (_knowing that it is hopeless_). Alas! he hath a sickness!

  (_And now, suddenly_, NITE _and_ SQUIER _have him by the arms,
  and are leading him away_.)

NITE. That’s not the way, is it, Squier?

SQUIER (_sadly_). I s’pose he _must_ have been dead all the time.

NITE. _I’ll_ show you! Now you watch _me_! (_He walks bravely up to
the_ BUTEUS MAIDEN. _No door-bells, no parleyings for him._) Buteus
Maiden, I would speak with thee.

MAIDEN. Who seeks me?

NITE. It is I, thy love-lorn Nite.

MAIDEN (_wistfully_). What wouldst thou, Nite?

NITE. Fain would I marry thee.

MAIDEN. Ah!

NITE. No jewels do I bring thee; no golden palaces do I offer thee;
only----

MAIDEN (_whispering_). Only----?

NITE. Only my love and my faithful service.

MAIDEN (_getting down off the wall and giving him her hand_). Then do
I plight thee my troth.

  (_He goes on one knee to her and kisses her hand. Then, her arm
  in his, he marches out of the castle, followed by the faithful_
  SQUIER, _who plays the War Song of the Dreadnought Nite_.)

MANNOCK (_as they go_). Don’t go! Don’t go! (_But they go_) Sally!
Sally!

SQUIER (_popping back_). Tell her it’s Dick calling. (_He hurries
back after the others._)

MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you? It’s Dick! (_He goes from one side
to the other, calling_ “Sally!” _and then_ “It’s Dick!” _And as he
comes back to the castle, there she is, sitting on the wall in just
the same attitude as that child Sally--and as beautiful, as dear.
Nineteen, twenty; and_ MANNOCK, _seeing her, is himself no older, so
eagerly his face lights up_.) Ah, Sally, Sally! (At last he has found
her again.)

SALLY. Here I am, Dick.

MANNOCK. Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.

SALLY. Just down by the river.

MANNOCK (_jealously_). What were you doing?

SALLY. Just sitting in the buttercups, looking at the river.

MANNOCK. Is that all?

SALLY (_nodding_). That’s all, dear.

MANNOCK (_after a pause_). Did you look at yourself in the river,
Sally?

SALLY (_nodding_). Yes.

MANNOCK (_with a deep sigh_). Oh, Sally! (_There is so much that he
cannot say, that words cannot express. She cannot help him now. She
waits, tremulous_) Sally, listen! (_She is listening. He taps the
signal. She nods. Then he sends “I.” She nods again_) Did you get
that?

SALLY. Yes.

MANNOCK. What was it?

SALLY. “I.”

MANNOCK. That’s right. That’s all the word.

SALLY (_to herself_). Dick.

MANNOCK. Listen! (_He taps “L.” She nods._)

SALLY (_so gently_). “L.”

MANNOCK. That’s right. (_He taps “O.” She nods._)

SALLY (_as gently_). “O.”

MANNOCK. Yes. (_He taps “V.” When he gets as far as “U,” he pauses a
moment, his hand up._ SALLY _is waiting breathlessly. With a smile he
makes it “V”; out comes her deep sigh of relief; she laughs back at
him._)

SALLY (_nodding_). “V.”

MANNOCK. Did you think it would be “V,” Sally?

SALLY (_shyly_). I wondered if it might be “V.”

MANNOCK (_tapping “E”_). There!

SALLY. “Love!” (_She looks straight in front of her seeing--who shall
say what?_) “I love----”

MANNOCK. I haven’t finished yet.

SALLY (_softly_). No, you haven’t finished yet.

MANNOCK. Shall I do the alphabet backwards for this letter?

SALLY. Does it come at the end of the alphabet?

MANNOCK. It does come rather at the end, Sally.

SALLY (_with a deep sigh of happiness_). I think I’d like you to do
it forward, Dick. (_Gently_) To make it longer.

MANNOCK. All right. (_He taps “Y.”_)

  (_Breathlessly, her chin up, her eyes all love_, SALLY _is
  counting_.)

SALLY (_certain now_). Ah!

MANNOCK. Did you know it would be “Y,” Sally?

SALLY (_ever so softly_). I think I knew, Dick.

MANNOCK. Did you--did you want it to be “Y,” Sally?

SALLY. Oh, I wanted it to be “Y”!

MANNOCK. (_holding out his arms to her_). Oh, Sally, Sally, I love
you! Could you ... do you----

SALLY (_nodding_). Always, dearest, always.

MANNOCK. Sally!

  (_If it were real, he would have her in his arms now, but it is
  a dream, insubstantial._ BERTIE _and_ FREDA _are there suddenly,
  between them. They each have an arm of_ MANNOCK’S, _and are
  marching him away; yet talking to each other across him, as if he
  were not there_.)

BERTIE. As I said to the Prime Minister, the more these things are
kept in the family, the better.

FREDA. That’s just what Father said, when Marjory married Robert.

BERTIE. It will be useful for me, my wife being the Chancellor’s
daughter, and it will be useful for your Father, his daughter being
married to the Prime Minister’s secretary.

FREDA. Exactly, Bertie. It all helps.

  (_They have let go of_ MANNOCK, _and are now arm-in-arm, but
  still talking as if he had never been there_.)

BERTIE. In these days, we must stick together, or where are we?

FREDA. Exactly! Where _are_ we?

  (_And they are gone. But, alas!_ SALLY _is gone too_.)

MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you?

  (_He hurries from one side to the other, calling for her. But it
  is_ EVERSLEY, _as old as when we last saw him, who appears_.)

MANNOCK (_turning round with a shout of welcome_). Teddy!

EVERSLEY. I beg your pardon?

MANNOCK (_coming closer_). I’m sorry, sir--you looked much younger--I
thought at first----

EVERSLEY (_smiling_). Not at all. Very charming of you to think so.
You live here, I suppose?

MANNOCK (_charmingly boyish_). I’m staying here. Teddy and I stay
here in the vac. sometimes. We’re up at Cambridge. At least, we’ve
just come down.

EVERSLEY (_smiling_). And what are you going to do?

MANNOCK. I’m going to the Bar. But--(_shyly_) I want to write.

EVERSLEY. Ah!

MANNOCK. You see, you don’t get much money at the Bar, and I _must_
have _some_, because you see--you see, Sally and I--we’ve just got
engaged.

EVERSLEY. Oh, youth, youth! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.
But to be young was very heaven!

MANNOCK. Only between ourselves, you know. We shan’t tell anybody
until I’m making a living.

EVERSLEY. I shan’t say a word--except just to myself sometimes,
“Bless them.”

MANNOCK (_shyly_). I say, thanks awfully. Sally would love that.

EVERSLEY. Perhaps I shall be able to give you a hand later on. I
write too. I daresay I could introduce you--a word in the right
ear----

MANNOCK. I say, that’s awfully decent of you. I don’t suppose I’m
much good. But it’s fun.... It _is_ fun, isn’t it? I mean being alive
... and trying ... and wondering ... and having somebody else who
wonders too.... Oh, what a lot there is in the world that nobody
knows anything about! All the lovely things! All the precious things!
(_Ashamed suddenly_) I say, I’m awfully sorry--talking such rot----

EVERSLEY. Keep on looking for the lovely things.... And bless you
both.

LADY JANE (_off_). Edward!

                                    (MANNOCK _looks up at the voice_.)

EVERSLEY. There she is!

                         (LADY JANE _comes on in full evening dress_.)

LADY JANE. Ah, there you are, Edward!

  (MANNOCK _gazes at her, struggling with horrible memories_.)

EVERSLEY. Here I am, my dear. (_To_ MANNOCK) This is my wife, Lady
Jane.

MANNOCK (_to himself_). _His_ wife! (_He draws a deep breath of
relief_) How do you do?

LADY JANE (_casually_). How do you do? Are we ready, Edward?

EVERSLEY. Yes, my dear.

  (_They turn and go off together, talking loudly to each other as
  if_ MANNOCK _were not there_.)

LADY JANE. Who is he?

EVERSLEY. Just a nice young man.

LADY JANE. He looks as if he had possibilities. Ask him to Drayton,
if you like. He might do. (_They are gone._)

MANNOCK (_still looking for her_). Sally, where _are_ you?... Sally!

  (NITE _and_ SQUIER _march across, singing the Dreadnought war
  song_.)

SQUIER (_as they disappear_). Say it’s Dick calling.

MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you? It’s Dick!

  (_And there she is, on her wall again, just as if she had never
  gone._)

SALLY. Here I am, dear.

MANNOCK (_rushing to her_). Oh, Sally, I’ve had the most awful dream!
I dreamed--just for a moment--I was married to--to somebody else. It
was horrible. And then I couldn’t find you, and--Oh, Sally, it _is_
you, isn’t it? Say it’s you.

SALLY (_nodding_). It is, dearest, it is. Never mind the dream.

MANNOCK. It couldn’t happen, could it?

SALLY (_trembling_). Oh it couldn’t, it couldn’t.... Oh, if it did!

MANNOCK (_comforting her_). It couldn’t, Sally. It will always be you.

SALLY. It was always you. From the very first. Those dear, silly
games we played as children--do you remember?----

MANNOCK. I remember.

SALLY. I think I _liked_ Teddy better--(_doubtfully_) I think he was
_nicer_, Dick--(_hurriedly_) Oh no, no, he wasn’t----

MANNOCK. He was. I was a little beast.

SALLY. You weren’t, you weren’t. It was always you.... I loved Teddy;
I love him now; it’s sort of friendly, loving _him_. But you were
different. It’s sort of terrible, loving _you_, Dick. You’re right in
my heart, so twined that it can hardly beat without hurting me. You
can’t go now; not unless you tear my heart out too.

MANNOCK. I’m happy being in your heart.

SALLY. It was always you. I used to say to myself when we were
children, “Squier’s heaps nicer, _really_”--(_nodding_) Yes, he
was--but Squier couldn’t hurt me. Only you could hurt me. I think
that was how I knew that I loved you.

MANNOCK. I won’t hurt you, darling. Never again.

SALLY (_wistfully, wondering at his innocence_). Oh, my dear!...
(_Very gently_) If you stop hurting me, I have stopped loving you.

MANNOCK (_softly_). I will stay in your heart.

SALLY (_putting her hands to her heart_). You are all that I have
there.

  (_They are silent together.... Very faintly the War Song of the
  Dreadnought Nite is heard._ SALLY _stands up_.)

SALLY. Come, dearest.

MANNOCK. I come, my beautiful.

SALLY. Into the world, for whatever the world may send, but always
together.

MANNOCK. Always together, my lovely.

  (_They begin to move, but are held there. It is a deputation
  arriving. The War Song grows louder, as all the people of_
  MANNOCK’S _dream file in. Now they are between_ SALLY _and her
  lover. She calls to him with her eyes, “Come, dearest,” but he
  cannot.... She is gone._)

DIGBY. Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! The Chancellor of the Exchequer will now put
on his robe of office.

  (_The deputation solemnly presents_ MANNOCK _with the robe and
  departs with dignity_.)

MANNOCK. Half a moment, Sally, I must just put this on. (_He
struggles into it_) Sally! (_He looks up, still struggling. She is
not there_) Wait a moment, Sally! (_He struggles_) Sally, I must get
this on! Don’t you understand, dear?... (_Frightened_) Sally! Wait
for me! (_Desperately_) Sally!... Sally!----

                                              (_But he has lost her._)


                                ACT II

                SCENE 2: _A Corner of the Wilderness_

  _It is early morning, perhaps seven o’clock, in that corner of
  the Wilderness which we have already seen in_ MANNOCK’S _dream.
  On the wall sits_ SALLY, LADY CARCHESTER, _a woman in the forties
  now, but still our_ SALLY. MANNOCK, _seeking the fresh air after
  a restless night, his dream still strong upon him, comes suddenly
  upon her_.

MANNOCK (_with a shout_). Sally! Oh, my darling! (_And then he
realises suddenly_) I beg your pardon! (_He is staggered at what he
has said._) I--I beg your pardon, Lady Carchester. Please forgive me.

SALLY (_smiling sadly_). It’s all right.

MANNOCK. I’m really----What can you think? My only excuse--but I’m
ashamed to give it.

SALLY. Please tell me.

MANNOCK (_with a laugh_). It’s absurd. (_Then he tells her_) I dreamt
last night--the most vivid, absurd--(_softly_) the most wonderful
dream. You and I--here; first as children, then--afterwards.
Sometimes I seemed to be looking on at myself; in some funny way
there were two of me. Sometimes you were a child, sometimes you
were grown up. But always it was you and I. Other people came in;
everybody; you know how; but always you and I. Here. Just where you
are sitting now--just where, just how, you always used to sit.... And
then I woke up and came out here--it was early, nobody else could be
up--and there you were. Just as you always used to sit.

SALLY (_leaning back on her hands and nodding_). I understand.

MANNOCK. Don’t! Don’t!

SALLY. What?

MANNOCK (_in distress_). It’s the Sally I used to know! Everything.
The way she sits, the way she talks, the way she moves. Oh, Sally,
don’t! (_He recovers himself with an effort_) I beg your pardon.

SALLY (_smiling faintly_). It’s all right.

MANNOCK (_trying not to look at her_). I’ve never had such a real
dream. It almost seems as if _you_ must have been dreaming it too.
(_With an awkward laugh_) Were you?

SALLY. I have those dreams. (_Poor dear, it’s all she has._)

MANNOCK. I suppose it was being in that room again. (_With a laugh_)
There are ghosts in that room, Lady Carchester.

SALLY. There are ghosts in every room--in every corner of the
gardens----

MANNOCK. And here.

SALLY. And here....

MANNOCK. It must be--how many years since we met?

SALLY. I don’t know.... Did your speeches go off well?

MANNOCK. I think so. Yes. I don’t know.

SALLY. I expect they did ... I’m sorry I wasn’t up when you came. I
went to bed early.

MANNOCK. We were late. Nearly midnight. I dined at the hotel, in
between the speeches.

SALLY. I thought you would ... I thought you wouldn’t mind if I was
not up when you came.

MANNOCK. But you were. (_She turns to him_) In every room--in every
corner of the house.... I tapped on the wall--G.D. (_Gently to
himself_) Good-bye, dear. That’s “God be with you, dear.”

SALLY (_softly_). I heard it.

  (_And suddenly, the unearthly sweetness of his dream still with
  him_, MANNOCK _forgets that he is married, father of a family,
  an important and successful man; forgets that this is Lady
  Carchester. They are boy and girl still, just as in the dream. Is
  it too late?_)

MANNOCK. Sally, Sally, I love you! Oh, my beautiful, I’ve always
loved you. It’s too late now--I’ve thrown your love away--but I love
you, I love you. Oh, just to say it again--I love you.

SALLY (_whispering to herself_). Oh, just to hear you say it
again--“I love you.”

MANNOCK. I’ve thrown them away--all the lovely things of life, all
the precious things. I’ve thrown them away--for nothing. Oh, if you
could forgive me--it’s too late now, but if you could forgive me!
I’ve hurt you, but I’ve hurt myself more, for it was always you. How
can you forgive me? I tore myself out of your heart--you said that
would hurt you, Sally--but if you could forgive!

SALLY. I forgive, dearest.

MANNOCK. Success! It closes in on you. That’s what Teddy said. I
tried to get free--I did try, Sally--but I couldn’t. It had got me.
It closes in on you.

SALLY. I understand, dearest.

MANNOCK. Oh, but just to say, “I love you, Sally,” again!

SALLY. Oh, just to hear you say it, dearest.

MANNOCK (_timidly_). I suppose you couldn’t say, “I love you, Dick.”
Oh no, how can I ask it?

SALLY. “If you stop hurting me, I have stopped loving you”--do you
remember?

MANNOCK (_remorsefully_). Sally!

SALLY (_her hand to her heart_). It has never stopped hurting....
I had to make something of my life. To sit alone with Pain--(_she
shakes her head_) I had to make something of it. But it has never
stopped hurting.

MANNOCK. Oh, my dear! Forgive me.

SALLY. It is early. We are alone with the world. This is part of the
dream--you and I. And so--I love you, Dick.

MANNOCK (_humbly_). Thank you, Sally.

SALLY (_giving him her hand_). It is part of the dream. (_They are
hand in hand--silent._)

MANNOCK (_quietly_). Need it be a dream? There is so much in the
world that nobody knows anything about--is it too late to find it
together?

SALLY (_trembling_). It is only part of the dream, dearest.

MANNOCK (_earnestly_). Need it be? Here we are, you and I--need it be
a dream?

SALLY (_how she loves him_). Your career.

MANNOCK (_bitterly_). My career! My successful career! (_He tears it
away_) Let me get away from it! Help me to get away from it! It is
not too late. Come with me, my beautiful.

SALLY (_her last defence_). It means giving up everything.

MANNOCK (_triumphantly_). It means finding everything....

SALLY (_quietly_). I have always loved you. From the first--from the
very first. It was always you. It is you now. If you want me--if you
think it is not too late--if it would be better for you--(_she breaks
off, and then begins again_) I don’t know if it’s wrong. I don’t
know much about Right and Wrong. But I think, perhaps, that there
are some wrongs which are better and braver than Right, and some
rights which are worse and more destroying than Wrong.... It is only
of you I am thinking. If it would be better for you--(_she breaks
off again, and then nods gently to herself_) I will come with you,
dearest.

MANNOCK. Sally, my lovely one! (_He holds out his hands to her; she
takes them_) But you _want_ to come? You do love me still--after all
I’ve done to you? Say “I love you, Dick.”

SALLY (_from her broken heart_). God knows how I love you, Dick.

MANNOCK. Oh, my dear, my dear! (_He kisses her hands reverently, and
is silent for a little. Then, thinking it out slowly, now for the
first time seeing the thing as it is, he says_) Now then, you must
give me a week, a week to get out of it all, a week to get clear.
Sally, you _do_ see, don’t you? I can’t only think of myself--now.
Not now. That was the old way--only myself--my success--my
career--but now! I must get out of it all first. I must have a
week--to get clear.

SALLY (_perhaps she guesses_). You must have a week--to be certain.

MANNOCK (_confidently_). Oh, I’m certain enough. (_He laughs
happily._)

SALLY. Yet I want you to have a week. Not seeing me, not writing to
me. I can do nothing for you now, dear. It is for you.... Here am I.
If, at the end of a week, you want me, tell me where you want me, and
I will come.

MANNOCK. There is a place I’ve seen, a little sleepy village between
hills; you will feel at rest there. Nobody comes, nobody will know
us. When we are there together, then I will try to thank you.

SALLY (_seeing it then, if never afterwards_). I will wait for you to
say “Come!”

MANNOCK (_nodding_). A week. Only a week. (_He makes a movement as
if to go; she too_). No, don’t move! Let me have this picture of you
for our last week away from each other.... Hands behind you in that
way you always had. There! Sally the child, Sally the girl, Sally the
woman--and always my belovéd. (_Clasping his hands to her_) Oh, my
lovely!

  (_He is gone; she waits there. So it was twenty-five years ago.
  So it is now._)




                               ACT III


                     SCENE 1: _Cavendish Square_

  _It is the afternoon of the same day._ BERTIE, _ushered in by_
  DIGBY, _comes into the empty library. He has just been told that_
  MR. MANNOCK _is not yet home_.

BERTIE (_looking at his watch_). I suppose the train was late.

DIGBY. No, sir, apparently not. The car has returned with Mr.
Mannock’s dressing-case.

BERTIE. Then where----

DIGBY. I understand from Lawson that Mr. Mannock gave instructions
that he would be walking home.

BERTIE (_amazed_). Walking! Why?

DIGBY. Naturally I can’t say, sir, except that it is a fine
afternoon, and that Mr. Mannock may have felt in good spirits.

BERTIE. Good spirits! Good Lord!

DIGBY. Yes, sir. Even if he walked all the way he should be here very
soon now, sir. Of course, if he popped on to a ’bus----

BERTIE. My good Digby, you can’t pop on to a ’bus without years of
practice. If he has taken his life in his hands like that, he may be
at Crouch End, or God knows where, by now. Well, I shall wait, if I
wait all day.

DIGBY. Yes, sir.

BERTIE. Tell her ladyship I’m here.

DIGBY. Very good, sir.

  (_He goes out._ BERTIE _sits down with a paper and waits_. FREDA
  _comes in_.)

FREDA. Hullo, Bertie.

BERTIE (_getting up and taking her hand_). Hullo, Freda.
(_Petulantly_) Why on earth do you let your Father dash off to
Cricklewood like this?

FREDA. Is that where he is?

BERTIE. _I_ don’t know. Oh, confound their knavish tricks!

FREDA (_surprised_). Bertie, you’re quite ruffled.

BERTIE. I’ve had a ruffling morning.

FREDA. Bobo a trifle tetchy?

BERTIE. If you are referring to the Prime Minister----

FREDA. I am.

BERTIE. The answer is in the affirmative. “Tetchy,” perhaps, hardly
does it justice.

FREDA. How very grim for you.

BERTIE. Oh, I shall survive.

FREDA. I’m sure you will. You’re the surviving sort. (_She sits
down._)

BERTIE (_thoughtfully_). Now I wonder if that’s a compliment or not.
(_He sits down too._)

FREDA. Well, I shouldn’t have much use for anybody who wasn’t a
survivor.

BERTIE. Ah, then it _is_ a compliment.

FREDA. Of course it is.

BERTIE (_tentatively_). But if he _were_ a survivor, if he very
distinctly were, then you--you could imagine yourself having some
slight use for him?

FREDA (_demurely_). You might go as far as that, Mr. Capp--quite
unofficially.

BERTIE. Yes.... I’m forty. I just mention it.

FREDA. I’m nineteen. I just throw it out.

BERTIE. In a mid-Victorian novel I should point out sadly that I was
old enough to be your father.

FREDA. And in a modern novel I should agree that, if you had married
at twenty, and got to work at once, you might just have done it.

BERTIE (_after a pause_). Did I tell you that my Uncle Joseph died
the other day?

FREDA.. No.... My sister’s small baby has just been vaccinated.

BERTIE (_reproachfully_). He was the rich one, you know.

FREDA. Oh, I beg his pardon! (_Tactfully_) Did he--was his mind clear
at the last?

BERTIE. Perfectly, I’m glad to say.

FREDA. How clear?

BERTIE. About a hundred and twenty thousand.

FREDA (_delighted_). Bertie, what a brain!

BERTIE (_looking at her proudly_). You know, every now and then,
you’re just like the Freda of ten years ago, who used to sit on my
knee and try to wear my eye-glass.

FREDA. My dear Bertie, surely I’ve sat on your knee since then!

BERTIE. Not so systematically.

FREDA (_sitting on it and wearing his eye-glass_). But how absurd to
let these old customs die out. (_After a pause_) Have you actually
proposed to me yet?

BERTIE (_with dignity_). I am just going to.

FREDA. I don’t want to hurry you.

BERTIE (_beginning_). Freda!

FREDA. Yes?

BERTIE. What about it? I should like to be married to
you--tremendously.

FREDA. Nice person.

BERTIE. Would you care about it at all?

FREDA. Terribly.

BERTIE. I think your Father and Mother would like the idea. I don’t
know if that matters nowadays.

FREDA. My dear Bertie, of course it does. Family quarrels are so
vulgar--besides upsetting things. I want you to get on.

BERTIE. Quite.... Then that’s all right.

FREDA. Yes, that’s all right.

BERTIE. Do we celebrate it in the usual way?

FREDA. Well, we shall have to begin some time. (_Kissing him_) Dear
Bertie!

BERTIE (_rather moved_). Thank you. I’ll try not to let you down.

  (LADY JANE _comes in_. BERTIE, _full of apologetic noises,
  struggles to get up_.)

FREDA (_calmly_). Subterfuge is useless, Bertie. (_She gets off his
knee_) Bertie has just asked me to marry him, Mother.

LADY JANE (_delighted_). My dear Bertie! How--(_she seeks for the
right word_)--how satisfactory! (_She holds out her hand, which he
kisses_) I am _so_ glad. (_To_ FREDA) Dear child! (_She puts up a
cheek._)

FREDA. Tell her about your Uncle Joseph.

BERTIE. He died, you know, the other day.

LADY JANE. Not unexpectedly, I hope?

BERTIE. Oh, no! On the contrary.

LADY JANE. That’s a comfort. And--all satisfactory?

BERTIE. Very.

LADY JANE. You must tell Richard the details. (_To_ FREDA) Run along
now, dear. Bertie really came here on business, I suspect. (_To him_)
Isn’t that so?

FREDA (_holding up a finger_). Now, Bertie, don’t say I was just an
accident.

BERTIE. A delightful interlude.

FREDA. That’s better. But I still think----

LADY JANE. Nonsense, Freda, you know how busy Bertie is.

FREDA. “For men must work, and women must weep....” I shall be
weeping upstairs, if you want another interlude before you go.

BERTIE (_opening the door for her_). Rather! Of course I do. (_She
goes out. He closes the door and comes quickly to_ LADY JANE) I say,
what about it? You read the speech, of course.

LADY JANE. Naturally.

BERTIE. The P.M.’s furious.

LADY JANE. That’s also natural.

BERTIE. Did you know he was going to? I beg your pardon, I oughtn’t
to have asked you that.

LADY JANE. I knew what Richard’s views were. Naturally.

BERTIE. Well, of course, we all did. (_He takes a turn up and down_)
Look here, we had a draft of the speech. Knowing his views, the P.M.
insisted on it. That draft merely echoed the policy of the Cabinet.
It went no further. I brought it back to Mannock the night before
last, and told him that the P.M. approved. He goes down to Leeds,
gives ’em the speech, and at the critical point throws over the
Cabinet and dashes off on his own. Just as we were afraid he would.

LADY JANE. It won’t be difficult to explain that.

BERTIE. So I told the P.M. Naturally he feels that he has been done,
Mannock having practically promised him that the other speech was----

LADY JANE (_horrified_). Bertie, you’re not suggesting anything
against Richard’s honour!

BERTIE (_equally horrified_). Good Lord, of course I’m not!

LADY JANE. But is the Prime Minister?

BERTIE (_apologetically_). You must make allowances for him. You see,
he’s just getting over influenza. When he’s quite strong again,
he’ll see that it’s ridiculous to talk about honour--it’s just a
question of tactics. But at present--well, you know how you feel
after influenza.

LADY JANE (_in the voice of one who knows the explanation by heart_).
It’s perfectly simple. Richard made a private memorandum of his own
views, which he intended to lay before the Cabinet. Accidentally,
owing to some carelessness of his secretary, this must have been
included in the first draft of the speech. When it was discovered,
the speech was typed out afresh and sent to the Prime Minister.
Richard, again owing to some carelessness, took the earlier draft to
Leeds.

BERTIE (_also knowing it by heart_). Quite, quite.

LADY JANE. Richard will tell us what happened then. He may have
found himself in the middle of it before he realised that he had the
wrong draft, and have been carried away. Or he may have thought that
this was the draft which had been submitted to the Prime Minister,
and that the P.M., though not approving it, had wished a kite to be
flown, knowing that he could always repudiate Richard afterwards.

BERTIE. Quite.

LADY JANE. Of course it was careless of Reader. He has been
dismissed, by the way.

BERTIE. Quite. Oh, there are plenty of explanations. And if the P.M.
had been in normal health----

LADY JANE. What does he want?

BERTIE. Well, he wants an explanation of some kind, and he wants it
for the Press. And he wants something pretty humble from Mannock
personally. And he wants to smoke very badly and can’t, because of
his throat--that’s really what’s worrying him.

LADY JANE. Oh!... Oh, well!... Who’s going to the Admiralty?

BERTIE (_uncomfortably_). Nothing’s settled as far as I know. And
won’t be until he’s well again.

LADY JANE. Not even Mowbray?

BERTIE. No....

LADY JANE. Bertie, you’re one of the family now. Tell me frankly: is
it certain that Mowbray will be Chancellor of the Exchequer?

BERTIE. Nothing is certain.

LADY JANE. Oh! Well, that’s something. (_After a pause_) Has Leeds
done Richard any harm?

BERTIE. At the moment, yes, certainly. Ultimately, I should say, no.

LADY JANE. He’s played the wrong card?

BERTIE. I think so. But you never know. The P.M.’s queer in some
ways. And it depends a little on how the Press takes it up. They were
very non-committal this morning.

LADY JANE. In the circumstances, to be non-committal is to be on our
side.

BERTIE. Quite.... (_Looking at his watch_) But where _is_ he, where
_is_ he? What’s all this about walking home?

LADY JANE. Walking home? What do you mean?

BERTIE. Why, Digby said----(_and now_ MANNOCK _comes in_) Ah!

MANNOCK (_cheerfully_). Hullo, Bertie. Digby told me you were here.
(_To his wife_) Ah, you’ve been looking after him. That’s good. (_He
is younger than when we first saw him, more eager._)

BERTIE. We wondered what had happened to you.

MANNOCK. I sent the car on and walked. It was such a jolly afternoon.

LADY JANE. Walked! From Euston? (_She looks at him in amazement._)

MANNOCK. Yes. Such a jolly afternoon.

LADY JANE. Oh!... (_Before words come to her, she decides that, after
all, it doesn’t matter very much._) Bertie has come round about the
speech.

MANNOCK (_at a loss_). Speech?

LADY JANE. He thinks it was a mistake in tactics, as it turns out.

BERTIE. Yes, but there’s more to it than that. The P.M.----

MANNOCK. Oh, the speech! Oh, I see.

LADY JANE. I was telling him that that could easily be explained.

BERTIE. Quite.

LADY JANE. He thinks--oh, by the way, we may regard Bertie as one of
the family now. Freda----

BERTIE. Please.

LADY JANE. Freda----

MANNOCK. Freda and Bertie?

LADY JANE. Yes. I have told Bertie how delighted we are.

MANNOCK (_violently_). No! I won’t have it!

LADY JANE (_amazed_). Richard!

BERTIE (_equally amazed_). Why, what----

MANNOCK (_recovering himself with an effort_). I beg your pardon.

LADY JANE. But I don’t understand. Only the other day----

MANNOCK. I want Freda to marry for love ... I’m sorry, Bertie.
Perhaps she does love you.

BERTIE (_embarrassed_). Well, I--I don’t understand. I asked her to
marry me, and she--apparently she----

MANNOCK. Are you in love with _her_?

BERTIE (_out of his depth_). Well, I--I asked her to marry me,
and----Yes, of course I am. I mean--(_bewildered_) I don’t understand.

MANNOCK. Good God, man, you must know if you’re in love or not.

LADY JANE (_interposing firmly_). Bertie, perhaps you wouldn’t mind
fetching Freda.

BERTIE (_relieved_). Right.

                                                       [_He goes out._

LADY JANE. Thank you.... Richard, what’s the matter? What has
happened?

  (MANNOCK _takes a turn up the room, wondering how much to tell
  her, when to tell her_.)

MANNOCK (_looking up suddenly_). Do you mean about Freda?

LADY JANE. Why this sudden change? Two nights ago we were both
saying----

MANNOCK. That’s just it. I want to be sure that she is not doing it
just because she thinks we want it.

LADY JANE. I probably know Freda better than you----

MANNOCK. I don’t know her at all.

LADY JANE. Then you may take my word for it that, if she marries
anybody, it will be because she wants to do so.

MANNOCK (_thoughtfully_). Yes, I suppose so. (_With a laugh to
himself_) After all, it hasn’t really very much to do with me--now.

LADY JANE. Naturally we both want her to be happy. Bertie has come
into money, he tells me. I suppose he was waiting for that. I think
it’s the most satisfactory thing that could have happened.

MANNOCK (_thoughtfully_). Yes, I’m not sure that it isn’t.

LADY JANE. Well, then!

MANNOCK. Yes.... (_To himself_) God, how difficult it all is, when
you get close to it.

LADY JANE. All what?

MANNOCK (waving his hands). Life. Everything.

  (_Before_ LADY JANE _can take his temperature_, BERTIE _and_
  FREDA _come in_.)

FREDA. What is it?

MANNOCK. Come here, Freda. (_She comes to him, looking up into his
face_) Fond of Bertie?

FREDA (_smiling_). I’ve adored him for years.

MANNOCK. Going to be happy with him?

FREDA. I hope so.

MANNOCK (_kissing her forehead_). Well, good luck to you both.
(_Shaking Bertie’s hand_) Good luck to you, Bertie.

LADY JANE. I think Freda is a very lucky girl. Bertie has a wonderful
career in front of him.

BERTIE (_modestly_). Well, I hope----

FREDA. Oh, Bertie’s all right.

MANNOCK (_with a note of dismissal_). All right, Freda. I just wanted
to feel quite sure----That’s all right, Bertie.

                   [BERTIE _opens the door for_ FREDA, _who goes out_.

LADY JANE. Now then, tell Richard just what you were telling me.
(_She sits down for it._)

BERTIE (_coming back to them_). Well, what it really comes to----

MANNOCK (_smiling to himself happily_). I have sent in my resignation
to the Prime Minister.

LADY JANE. Richard! Is that wise? At this moment? (_She turns to
Bertie for help_) Bertie?

BERTIE (_shaking his head_). He’s in the mood to accept it. You can’t
hold a pistol to his head just now.

LADY JANE. That’s what I felt. (_Anxiously to her husband_) Has the
letter gone?

MANNOCK. It has gone.

BERTIE. Good Lord!

LADY JANE. Is it too late? (_To_ BERTIE) Can’t _you_----

MANNOCK (_patiently_). I have resigned. He will accept my
resignation. He can’t help himself. Well, I intend him to. That’s why
I resigned.

LADY JANE (_with restraint_). I don’t want to--I daresay you know
best. But surely it was a matter which should have been discussed
first. You must think that it was wise, or you wouldn’t have done it.
But at least let us hear your reasons. Here are Bertie and I, only
too anxious to help.

  (MANNOCK _looks at her--and at_ BERTIE. _A smile comes on to his
  face as he imagines himself saying, “Well, the fact is, I am
  running away with another woman.” Impossible, of course, with_
  BERTIE _there. Impossible anyhow, yet. He cannot mention_ SALLY’S
  _name in this atmosphere; cannot hint that there is another
  woman, for fear of_ SALLY _being identified. Impossible to
  discuss her, them, the situation, with anybody. Unless it were a
  friend of_ SALLY’S. EVERSLEY, _perhaps. But he must be out of the
  Government first. Some such thoughts as these are in his mind,
  even if we cannot read them._)

MANNOCK. Well, yes, that’s reasonable. And yet--it’s no good. I can’t
explain now. Except to say that I’m doing it with my eyes open. (_In
a whisper_) At last. (_To_ LADY JANE) You must give me a week--then
I’ll explain everything.

LADY JANE (_uncertain_). Well--of course you know best----

BERTIE (_quite certain_). That’s all right, Lady Jane. (_He almost
winks at her_) I understand.

LADY JANE. Do you really think----

BERTIE. You never can tell with the P.M. I’ve said that before.
Mannock’s way--he has always played his cards well--there’s
something up his sleeve--you leave it to him.

  (MANNOCK _has wandered away in search of an A.B.C. Trains don’t
  touch that sleepy little village between hills, but they can
  bring lovers within reach of it. Just to look up the train is
  something._)

LADY JANE (_nodding to_ BERTIE). Very well. If you think----

BERTIE. He knows what he’s doing.

LADY JANE. Very well, Richard. You do it your own way. Meanwhile----

BERTIE. Meanwhile no harm in letting it be known that----

LADY JANE. Important changes in the Cabinet are pending.

BERTIE. Well, yes, _that_----

LADY JANE. I’ll ask Roger Coombes to lunch to-morrow, and drop a hint.

BERTIE. Yes.... I was going to say that I could let fall a word
or two. By the way, perhaps we’d better say nothing about Freda
until this is safely over. I should like to be able to preserve my
impartiality for what it’s worth. A suggestion that, from what I
have seen of Mannock lately, he is tired of the confinements of his
present office----

LADY JANE. And that a post of greater freedom----

BERTIE. And more responsibility--exactly. (_Chuckling_) Otherwise he
seriously thinks of retiring from public life altogether.

LADY JANE (_laughing at the absurdity of it_). I think that can be
safely left to you, Bertie. And you’re right about Freda. I hope she
hasn’t been ringing up all her friends. I’d better see about that at
once.

BERTIE. I’ll come along too. Well, so long, Mannock.

MANNOCK (_who was just stepping out of the train_). Going?

BERTIE. You’ll be seeing some more of me before very long, I expect.
(_With sudden enthusiasm_) By Jove, if you play this hand properly, I
believe--well, almost anything might happen.

MANNOCK (_happily_). I believe it might, Bertie.

                                     [LADY JANE _and_ BERTIE _go out_.

  (MANNOCK, _with the A.B.C. in his hands, is back in the train
  with_ SALLY.... _This time it is_ READER _who interrupts them_.)

READER. Are you busy, sir?

MANNOCK (_looking up_). No ... no.

READER (_formally_). I gather, from what I have read in the papers,
that I accidentally gave you the wrong draft of the speech. It was
very careless of me, and I wish to express my regret.

MANNOCK (_smiling_). _Very_ careless of you, Reader.

READER (_his first smile in_ MANNOCK’S _house_). I thought I had
better mention it.

MANNOCK. Thank you.... But we are not bothering about that now.

READER. Oh?

MANNOCK. No. Life has other things to offer than speeches at
Leeds.... (_Suddenly remembering_) By the way, what were you trying
to tell me about Mrs. Reader the other day?

READER (_distressed_). I oughtn’t to have--it was only in the shock
of your----

MANNOCK (_smiling_). Yes, never mind all that. I should like to know,
if you would like to tell me.

READER (_awkwardly, after a pause_). She--we--we’re going to have a
baby.

MANNOCK. Ah!... The first? (READER _nods_) Frightened? (READER _nods
again_.)

READER (_suddenly_). I--I do love her so.

MANNOCK (_gently_). How long have you been married?

READER. Ten years.... It’s like yesterday.

MANNOCK (_moved_). Yes.... Oh, before I forget, I’d better write to
Carfax. I know he wants somebody. (_He goes to his desk_) Sit down,
won’t you?

READER. Thank you very much. It’s very kind of you. You see, I
haven’t liked to tell her yet----

MANNOCK (_writing_). Well, don’t, until we’ve got this fixed up.

READER. No.

MANNOCK. I daresay Carfax will stand for another fifty, if he’s sure
he’s getting the right man. Then that will be a pleasant surprise for
her.

READER (_thawing_). I am afraid she won’t look at it quite like that.
You see, she is--if I may say so--very much interested in you. In
your career. She will be sorry to.... You see, we often talk about
you in the evenings. We wonder what you are going to do. Having no
career of our own, so to speak----

MANNOCK (_writing_). No career of your own. Lucky man!

READER. We find our interest in following yours. I believe that if
I could go home to-morrow and tell my wife--before it got into the
papers, you understand--that you were to be the new Chancellor of the
Exchequer, she would be as happy and excited as if it had happened to
me.

MANNOCK (_with a laugh for the vanity of these things_) Chancellor of
the Exchequer, eh? (_Shaking his head_) No, Reader, no.

READER. Well, that’s as may be.... (_Enthusiastically_) To be
Chancellor of the Exchequer! Think of the power it gives you! To know
that there isn’t a house in the whole country which isn’t waiting
for _your_ decision--from the tiniest cottage to the hugest castle!
Not a family that won’t be affected! It must be wonderful. The
power of affecting all those people! It has always seemed to me the
supreme goal for any man to reach. (_Apologetically_) Sometimes we
have pretended--only in play, you understand--that it was I who had
reached it ... we have wondered ... the power it gives you ... (_he
sees himself there, Ethel with him_)--we have talked over what we
should do----

  (_And_ MANNOCK _has been seeing himself there too. Just for a
  moment he has been there._)

MANNOCK (_with a sigh_). Yes.... (_Then he is back with_ SALLY
_again. Gently he says_) But there is something better than that.
Something.... (_You can see him thinking of it, smiling.... But now
his thoughts have changed; the smile gives place to a frown. The
career is fighting its way back into his mind. Fighting with_ SALLY.
_He jerks his head round at_ READER, READER _who is tempting him,
and says sharply_) Chancellor of the Exchequer, eh? No, Reader, no.
(_Returning to the letter_) I shan’t be a moment.


                               ACT III

          SCENE 2: _Cavendish Square_, MANNOCK’S _library_.

  _It is afternoon, two days later._ MANNOCK _is alone, restlessly
  doing nothing_. ARTHUR _comes in._

ARTHUR. Busy?

MANNOCK _(looking up_). No ... no.

ARTHUR. Thought I’d say good-bye. I’m just off.

MANNOCK. Off?

ARTHUR. Yes, that’s right, isn’t it? You said you didn’t want me till
the end of the month.

MANNOCK (_remembering_). Oh!... Oh, yes. (_He remembers that now he
won’t want_ ARTHUR _at all_) Yes. (_With an effort_) What are you
going to do?

ARTHUR. Going to Marjory’s for a week. Then down to Cornwall for a
little golf.

MANNOCK (_remembering his elder daughter_). Marjory.... Yes. (_How
complicated life is!_)

ARTHUR. Any messages for any of them?

MANNOCK. Yes--no. I’ll write. (_To himself_) Yes, I shall have to
write to Marjory.

ARTHUR. Right. Then if I’m back by the 30th, that will do?

MANNOCK (_after a silence_). Arthur!

ARTHUR. Yes?

MANNOCK. I’ve sent in my resignation.

ARTHUR. Your resignation? Why? Oh, I see. The old resignation stunt.
Hasn’t that been rather overdone?

MANNOCK. You don’t understand, Arthur----

ARTHUR. All these political tactics--there’s something so tawdry
about them, so shoddy, so----Sorry, Father, I was forgetting. I’m a
neutral now. Well, I suppose I shall get used to them.

MANNOCK. I say again, I have resigned my seat in the Cabinet.

ARTHUR (_with a smile_). If you’re not careful, the P.M. will accept
it, and then where will you be?

MANNOCK (_sharply_). Out of the Cabinet, which is where I want to be.

ARTHUR. Not really? Why? (MANNOCK _shrugs his shoulders_.) No, but
why, Father?

MANNOCK. I’m tired of it. I want to get out of it all.

ARTHUR (_eagerly_). I say! You’re not crossing over, are you? How
terribly sporting of you!

MANNOCK (_firmly_). I’m giving up politics altogether.

ARTHUR (_his jaw falling_). Giving up----? Then what about me?

MANNOCK. That’s been worrying me.

ARTHUR. Worrying you! I should think it had! You made me chuck a
jolly good job to come to _you_, and then when it’s been filled up by
somebody else----

MANNOCK. Are you sure? I hoped that perhaps----

ARTHUR (_shaking his head gravely_). I say, Father, this really is a
bit steep.

MANNOCK (_humbly_). I’m very sorry, Arthur. I’m to blame. I never
ought to have persuaded you to come to me. It was your career to
choose for yourself. I’m sorry.

ARTHUR (_still aggrieved_). You practically ruin a man’s life----

MANNOCK (_smiling sadly_). Twenty-two, aren’t you? No man’s life
is ruined at twenty-two. (_With sudden emotion_) Oh, my God, to be
twenty-two again!

ARTHUR. Well, but I mean----

MANNOCK. Arthur, forget all that I’ve said to you, will you, just for
a week? Enjoy yourself at Marjory’s, don’t say anything to her about
it, and I’ll write to you. I can’t talk about it now--not for another
week. Will you do that for me?

ARTHUR (_reluctantly_). Oh, all right. (_Looking thoughtfully at
his father_) You know, I believe it _is_ a stunt, after all. A
super-stunt. I don’t know what the game is----

                            _Enter_ DIGBY.

DIGBY. Mr. Eversley is here, sir.

MANNOCK. Yes, that’s right, Digby. Show him in here.

ARTHUR (_to_ DIGBY). Is the car here?

DIGBY. Yes, sir.

                                                       [_He goes out._

ARTHUR. Then I’ll be getting on. (_Holding out his hand_) Good-bye,
Father--and I’ll wait for your letter.

MANNOCK. Yes. (_Taking his hand_) Good-bye, Arthur. (_When will he
see him again?_) Good-bye, old boy. Good luck to you always.

ARTHUR (_a little surprised_). Thanks!

                                                       [_He goes out._

  (MANNOCK _walks up and down, thinking, thinking. How difficult it
  all is!... Then_ DIGBY _announces_ EVERSLEY.)

DIGBY. Mr. Eversley.

MANNOCK (_eagerly_). I knew you would come. (_To_ DIGBY, _who still
waits_) What is it? (DIGBY _presents a letter_) Oh, put it down.
(DIGBY _walks across to the writing-desk and places the letter
there_) Were you in London, or did I drag you up from the country? I
had to see you.

                                                    [DIGBY _goes out_.

EVERSLEY. Well, I _was_ at home, but of course I was only too glad to
come up, if you wanted me.

MANNOCK (_looking at him fondly_) I never ought to have let you go,
Teddy. I ought always to have kept you with me.

EVERSLEY (_happy at the “Teddy”_). And what should _I_ have been
doing all the time?

MANNOCK (_settling him in a chair_). Nothing. Just admiring me. What
else is a Squier for?

EVERSLEY. What else? The world is full of Nites and Squiers--the
admired and the admiring. I wonder which are the happier?

MANNOCK (_gently_). The loved and the loving.

EVERSLEY. Yes. Which are the happier, Dick?

MANNOCK (_suddenly, after a little silence_). Got your pipe with you?
(EVERSLEY _nods_.) Well, fill it, then.

EVERSLEY (_taking it out_). It is filled.

MANNOCK. Well, light it, then.

EVERSLEY (_lighting it_). There! (_He smokes._)

MANNOCK. Teddy, I’m giving it all up.

EVERSLEY. All what?

MANNOCK. Everything. Politics. My career. My successful career.

EVERSLEY (_smoking placidly_). Any particular reason?

  (MANNOCK _looks at him, and hesitates. Then he gives reasons--but
  not the particular reason._)

MANNOCK. It’s odd how wrapped up in my career I have been. I never
saw it from outside. I’ve been looking at it lately. I think it was
you--that other night--who made me struggle outside and look at it.
You were the first. That was the beginning of it.

EVERSLEY. I had no idea I was precipitating a political crisis. What
did I say?

MANNOCK. You said, “And then success closed in on you.”

EVERSLEY. Yes, I remember. But I apologised for it.

MANNOCK. It’s a stifling thing, success. It shuts out so much.
(_Gently_) All the lovely things, all the precious things ... I’ve
been looking back at my career. After all, he’s in a position of
trust, a Cabinet Minister. He is responsible for the happiness of the
people, his fellow countrymen and women. How often have I thought of
their happiness? How often of my personal triumph--my success? What
are all our intrigues for, our strategy, our tactics? To improve the
condition of England? Or to improve our personal position? I look
back on my career, and never once can I say, “He did that for others.”

EVERSLEY. The others are no better.

MANNOCK. That isn’t a very proud thought for----

EVERSLEY. For a Dreadnought Nite?

MANNOCK. Don’t!... Oh, my God, to be twenty-two again!

EVERSLEY. What would you do?

MANNOCK. Live. There is so much that I have missed. All the lovely
things of life. But, perhaps, even now, it isn’t too late.

EVERSLEY (_after smoking in silence for a little_). And so you’re
giving it all up?

MANNOCK. Yes. This is between ourselves, of course, until it is made
public.

EVERSLEY. Of course.... It’s a big career to give up, as the world
judges it.

MANNOCK (_a little vain of his sacrifice_). I suppose it is.

EVERSLEY. They were talking politics in the train--as they always
do--and one or two of them were saying that you ought to be the new
Chancellor of the Exchequer.

MANNOCK (_pleased_). Oh? Oh, but I shouldn’t have been anyhow.
Mowbray.

EVERSLEY. They didn’t seem to think very much of Mowbray.

MANNOCK. He’s the obvious man.

EVERSLEY. A little too obvious, they felt....

MANNOCK (_after a pause_). It was my one ambition in the old days.

EVERSLEY (_smiling_). Not such very old days.

MANNOCK (_a little annoyed_). You know what I mean ... I wanted to be
that, even more than to be Prime Minister. It fascinated me.

EVERSLEY. It would terrify _me_.

MANNOCK. I think I’ve only realised lately how much I wanted it;
how certain I was I could be one of the Great Ones.... It may never
come now. (_Remembering suddenly_) Well, of course _now_ it never
will--obviously. (_He sighs_) I’m well out of it all. But even if--I
mean Mowbray--well, he’ll last this Government--and after the next
Election, who knows? (_He is thoughtful._)

EVERSLEY. And what are you going to do when you retire?

MANNOCK. Teddy, you do think I’m right, don’t you?

EVERSLEY. Well, I don’t quite know all the circumstances, do I?

MANNOCK. I must have _you_ on my side. Everybody here--well,
naturally----

EVERSLEY. They think you’re mad? They’ve sent for the doctor?

MANNOCK. They simply don’t believe it. But _you_--you’re not
prejudiced--_you_ think----?

EVERSLEY. Aren’t I prejudiced?

MANNOCK. You?

EVERSLEY (_through clouds of smoke_). I had a friend once. I lived
with him, played with him, made plans with him, for--how many years?
I was fond of him, Dick. I don’t think he knew how fond we were of
him, Sally and I; two of the admiring ones, the loving ones; yes,
the happier ones. Then I lost him ... and more than twenty years
afterwards I found him again. And he was dead. Now you say that he
is coming to life again, and you ask me to tell you--quite without
prejudice--whether I should like him to come to life again.... It is
a little difficult for me, Dick, to be quite unprejudiced.

MANNOCK (_remorsefully_). Teddy!

EVERSLEY (_a little wistfully_). But--I _should_ like to find him
again, you know. Just to talk to him about those--rather jolly days.

MANNOCK. They _were_ good days.

EVERSLEY. Perhaps we didn’t realise at the time how good they were.

MANNOCK. Do you remember--(_he breaks off impetuously_) Oh, Teddy,
there are a hundred things I want to talk to you about, a hundred
things I want to tell you.

EVERSLEY. Well, that’s why I came.

MANNOCK. I know. (_Suddenly_) Teddy! I--(_and then he pulls himself
up_) No, I can’t tell you now. Not here. I must see you--where can I
see you? Not in this house. Where can I see you, where can we really
talk?

EVERSLEY. Couldn’t we dine together somewhere?

MANNOCK. Yes, that’s it. Somewhere where we can be by ourselves. Now,
let me think----

EVERSLEY. “The Cock,” in Fleet Street? Not many people there in the
evening.

MANNOCK. That will do.... I wonder what you’ll think.... But I can’t
tell you here.... I’ll call for you. Where are you staying? Your club?

EVERSLEY. I am staying with friends. At Porchester Terrace. But they
don’t expect me to dinner.

MANNOCK. Then I’ll call for you at a quarter to eight. What number?
You’d better write it down. (EVERSLEY _takes out a card_) Got a
pencil?

EVERSLEY (_feeling in his pockets_). Somewhere.

MANNOCK (_going to the desk_). Here you are. (_And then he sees the
letter and stops short._)

EVERSLEY (_finding his own_). It’s all right. (_He writes the
address._)

  (MANNOCK _gazes at the letter. This is from the Prime
  Minister--to accept his resignation. So his career is over. He
  stands there, letter in hand, breathing heavily as if he had been
  running._ EVERSLEY _looks at him in surprise_.)

MANNOCK. When did this----

EVERSLEY. What is it?

MANNOCK (_turning, letter in hand_). How long----

EVERSLEY. Your butler brought it in, didn’t he, when he brought _me_
in?

MANNOCK. Yes, of course.

EVERSLEY. Don’t mind me, Dick, if it’s important.

MANNOCK. No, no, it’s nothing. I----

  (LADY JANE _comes in, followed by_ BERTIE. _They are obviously
  excited._)

LADY JANE (_eagerly_). Richard! (_She sees_ EVERSLEY) Oh,
I--(_coldly_) Oh, how do you do, Mr. Eversley?

EVERSLEY. How do you do, Lady Jane? I was just going. (_He and_
BERTIE _nod to each other_) Well, good-bye, Dick. (_Giving him the
card_) Here’s the address. And a quarter to eight?

MANNOCK (_mechanically_). Yes, yes. Good-bye. (_He rings the bell,
and puts down the card._)

EVERSLEY (_to_ LADY JANE). Good-bye. (_To_ BERTIE) Good-bye. (BERTIE
_nods_.)

LADY JANE (_with an effort_). Oh, but we mustn’t drive you away like
this.

EVERSLEY (_smiling pleasantly_). But I really was going. Good-bye.

LADY JANE. Good-bye.

                           [DIGBY _is there to show him out. He goes._

  (_All this time_ MANNOCK _has been standing with the unopened
  letter in his hands, fingering the envelope_.)

LADY JANE (_in suppressed excitement_). Richard! Bertie says.... Why,
what’s that? (_She is looking at the letter_) But that’s--why don’t
you open it? That’s the letter. Open it! Open it!

MANNOCK (_dully_). This is just acknowledging and accepting my
resignation.

LADY JANE. But have you opened it yet? (_She snatches it from him,
looks at it, and gives it back to him_) But you haven’t opened it
yet! Open it! Bertie says----

BERTIE. The omens are distinctly favourable. But--well, now we shall
know.

MANNOCK (_opening it_). It’s only just to accept my resignation. (_He
reads. You can see at once that it is not that._)

LADY JANE. (_watching his face_). It is! (MANNOCK _looks in front
of him, seeing visions_) May I--(_she takes the letter from him_) I
must. (_She reads_) Oh, well done, Richard!

  (MANNOCK _stands there, breathing heavily. To be Chancellor of
  the Exchequer!_)

BERTIE. He has? (_She nods_) By Jove! Congratulations!

LADY JANE. I never thought----

BERTIE. Well, I don’t know. Mowbray has a good deal against him one
way and another.

LADY JANE. Yes. But I was almost afraid to hope.

BERTIE (_proudly_). Didn’t I tell you to leave it to him? (_He nods
towards_ MANNOCK.)

LADY JANE. Yes, you were quite right, Bertie. (_She looks admiringly
at her husband._)

BERTIE. Of course, I know all about the resignation stunt--it’s as
old as the hills. But if you can do it with conviction, you can still
pull it off sometimes.

LADY JANE. Yes, yes.

BERTIE. Mannock carried conviction--that’s where he’s such an artist.
The P.M. really thought he was going. Didn’t dare to lose him.
Prepared to offer anything to keep him.

LADY JANE. Yes.

BERTIE. I’ve always said that, in the matter of political strategy,
Mannock can give them all points. Even the P.M. I knew he’d pull it
off.

LADY JANE. Richard! (_She means “Come and talk to us.”_)

MANNOCK (_his control suddenly giving way_). So you knew I’d pull it
off? (_He is almost shouting._)

BERTIE. Rather!

MANNOCK. I can give ’em all points in political strategy?

BERTIE. I’ve always said so.

MANNOCK. And I carry conviction--eh?--that’s where I’m such an artist.

BERTIE. Exactly. (MANNOCK _gives a loud, bitter laugh_.) Well, I
mean----

MANNOCK (_half hysterically_). An artist! That’s what I am. Carry
conviction! I carried conviction all right. I pulled _your_ leg
pretty well, Bertie. (_To_ LADY JANE) _And_ yours. You thought I
meant to resign--yes, you did, both of you--you thought I meant
it--you were frightened to death, yes, you were. You thought I really
meant to give it all up. So did Arthur. I had Arthur in here just
now--frightened to death--thought I meant to give it all up--talked
about _his_ career--his career!--my God!--frightened to death he
was, just like you two. Ha! I pulled your legs pretty well. Resign?
Why the devil should I resign? Haven’t I got what I always wanted?
You ask Reader--he’ll tell you--the supreme goal for any man to
reach. Chancellor of the Exchequer--_that_ gives you power. Me! I’ve
done it! Just pure strategy. Pretending I wanted to give up politics.
Why should I? Success--it closes in on you! My God, there’s nothing I
can’t do! Nothing! (_His voice rises almost to a shriek, as he drops
into a chair, and sits there, his hands over his face, his shoulders
shaking with long, tearless sobs._)

BERTIE (_soothingly_). I say, old fellow----

LADY JANE (_quietly_). No. Go, Bertie.

BERTIE. Oh, right. (_Going_) I’ll come in this evening if I can.
He’ll be all right? (_She nods._) Right.

                                                       [_He goes out._

LADY JANE (_putting an arm calmly on_ MANNOCK’S _shoulders_). It’s
all right now, Richard. I know how you must feel. It has been a very
anxious time for both of us. But it’s all over now. You’ve got what
you wanted. I’m proud of you, very proud of you.

MANNOCK (_pulling himself together_). I’m sorry. I----

LADY JANE (_calmly_). It’s all right. I understand perfectly. The
strain--naturally.

MANNOCK. Yes.

LADY JANE. I’ll leave you now. You’ll want to be alone. But come and
talk to me afterwards.

MANNOCK (_nodding_). Yes.

LADY JANE (_giving him the letter_). You’ll want to answer this.

MANNOCK. Yes. Thank you.

LADY JANE (_looking at him admiringly_). I’m very proud of you,
Richard.

                                                      [_She goes out._

  (_Alone_, MANNOCK _walks slowly to his desk, a tired man. There,
  he sees_ EVERSLEY’S _card, picks it up, looks at it, puts it
  down, and takes up the telephone_.)

MANNOCK (_at the telephone_). Hullo! Come in, will you? (_He goes
back to his chair and waits._ READER _comes in, note-book in hand_.)
I want a telegram sent at once. To Mr. Eversley. You’ll find a
card on my desk. (READER _goes there_). Got it? With an address in
Porchester Terrace.

READER. Yes, sir. (_He writes down the name and address and waits._)

MANNOCK. “Afraid cannot dine to-night.”

READER (_writing_). “Afraid cannot dine to-night.”

MANNOCK. That’s all.

READER. Signed?

MANNOCK. Yes, “Dick.” ... (_An end to this weakness. He corrects
himself firmly_) No--Mannock.

READER. “Afraid cannot dine to-night. Mannock.” ... Anything else,
sir?

MANNOCK. No.... Yes.... Yes.... (READER _waits_) Another telegram.

READER (_waiting_). Yes?

MANNOCK. Lady Carchester, Enderways, Riley, Yorkshire.

READER (_murmuring to himself_). Enderways, Riley, R-I-L-E-Y?

MANNOCK. Yes.

READER. Yorkshire. (_He waits_).

MANNOCK (_after a long pause_). “I beg your pardon.” (READER _says
nothing_. MANNOCK _looks up_) That’s all.

READER. Oh, I beg--I see--I didn’t understand. (_Writing_) “I beg
your pardon.”

MANNOCK. We had a--a discussion. I--I was wrong. I have found out
since that I was wrong. This is--(_he shrugs_).

READER (_pleasantly_). A very graceful way of saying so, if I may be
allowed----

MANNOCK (_to himself_). Graceful!

READER (_after waiting_). Signed? Or will she understand?

MANNOCK. She will understand. (_To himself, ashamed_) I think she will
understand.... All right, Reader.

                                                   [READER _goes out_.

  (MANNOCK _walks slowly to his desk. For a little while he sits
  there, holding the letter in his hand...._

  SALLY _is dead. He has killed her. No good explaining,
  apologising, whining, to a person whom you have killed. Let him
  be man enough to spare her that last insult. No, there’s nothing
  to say. It was_ EVERSLEY _and that damned tune that got into a
  man’s head, and made him dream.... The sweetness of her in his
  dream! But that was twenty-five years ago. They’re dead now; both
  dead.... But--Chancellor of the Exchequer! It will be in all the
  papers to-morrow. Chancellor of the Exchequer! What will the
  papers say? What will people say? Everybody will see it.... Sally
  will see it. Will know, will understand. No, there’s nothing to
  be said. That damned tune, that damned dream. O Sally, Sally,
  Sally! Don’t! Don’t come into my dreams again...._

  _So for a little he sits, thinking. Then, with a bitter,
  contemptuous laugh, he tosses away his thoughts and comes back to
  the letter. Chancellor of the Exchequer! Briskly he dips his pen
  into the ink, and writes to the Prime Minister._)




  _Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
silently corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences in
this work and consultation of external sources. Some hyphens in words
have been silently removed and some silently added when a predominant
preference was found in the original work. Except for those changes
noted below, original spellings in the text and inconsistent or
archaic usage have been retained.

  Page 31: “Madame Boolager” replaced by “Madame Boulager”.
  Page 74: “I I don’t know” replaced by “I don’t know”.

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Page numbers for Acts and Scenes have been added to the original
Table of Contents. The formatting of Scene titles was also
standardized.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78748 ***