The Project Gutenberg eBook of Penelope, by William Somerset Maugham.

This play, originally called Man and Wife, was produced at the Comedy Theatre on Saturday, January 9, 1909, with the following cast:

CHARACTERS

PENELOPE

THE FIRST ACT

Scene: A drawing-room in O’Farrell’s house in John Street. It is very prettily but not extravagantly furnished. The O’Farrells are a young married couple of modest income.

It is between six and seven in the evening.

Peyton, a neat parlour-maid, opens the door and shows in Mr. Davenport Barlow.

Barlow is a short, self-important person of middle age. He is very bald, red in the face, and wears a small, neatly curled moustache; he is dressed in the height of fashion. His manner is fussy and pompous. He comes forward as though he expected to find some one in the room. Seeing that it is empty, he stops and looks at Peyton. He cannot make out why there is no one to receive him.

Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you kindly sit down and make yourself comfortable? And I was to give you the Morning Post.

[Pompously.] I can’t imagine why Mrs. O’Farrell should think I haven’t read the Morning Post at six o’clock in the evening.

[Imperturbably.] And Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a whisky and soda, sir?

But she telegraphed to me this afternoon, asking me to come and see her at once.

It seems very extraordinary that she should have gone out. The matter was of considerable importance.

Very well, I’ll sit down and wait. But I can’t stay long. I’m dining at ... no matter.

[Half to himself.] The Duchess of St. Erth returned to Wales yesterday. The Marchioness of Mereston has arrived at 89 Grosvenor Square. The Marchioness of Serlo and Lady Eleanor King leave for Paris this morning.

Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you kindly sit down and make yourself comfortable, ma’am? And I was to bring you the Church Times.

[Calmly.] And Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a strong cup of tea, ma’am?

I’m surprised that Mrs. O’Farrell should have gone out, because she expected me.

[With a look of exasperation at Barlow.] Oh, thank you.... I think I will have a cup of tea, please.

So have I, asking me to come at once. [With a ray of light.] Perhaps we shall find some explanation in the Church Times.

Nonsense. What can the Church Times have to do with the Archduchess Anastasia?

Hulloa, Davenport! [To his wife.] My dear, you’re the last person I expected to find here. I thought there was a meeting of the Missionary Society at the Albert Hall.

[To Golightly.] Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a glass of barley-water, sir?

And I was to bring you the Athenæum. We couldn’t get this week’s, sir, but this is last week’s, and Mrs. O’Farrell hopes it will do as well.

What on earth does Penelope want me to do with last week’s Athenæum and a glass of barley-water?

[To his wife.] My dear, I think it’s very hard that you should have brought up our only child on the idea that my favourite form of refreshment is barley-water.

It’s so extraordinary that she shouldn’t be here. It makes me feel very nervous.

Well, frankly, I couldn’t make head or tail of it, so I jumped into a motor cab and came round from the club at once.

[Shaking hands with Mrs. Golightly.] I’ve just had a telegram from Penelope asking me to come at once. [Turning to Peyton.] Will you let Mrs. O’Farrell know I’m here?

Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you make yourself comfortable, sir, and we’ve got the Law Times if you’d like to read it, and will you have a glass of port, sir?

I asked the same question when Peyton handed me last week’s Athenæum, and Davenport, with the perspicacity that distinguishes him, answered: read it.

Can you tell me what Penelope wants? Her telegram suggested that she wished to see me not as an old friend, but in my official capacity as the family solicitor.

[Rather pompously.] I think I can put your minds at rest. I am in a position to explain the whole matter to you. The telegram she sent me makes it perfectly clear. I daresay you know that the Archduchess Anastasia is a patient of Dickie’s. And a very nice patient for him to have. I’ve never met her, though I happen to know several members of her family, and she’s a very cultivated, pleasant woman. I’ve always said to Dickie that that is the sort of practice he ought to get. The middle classes do a doctor no good.

Well, it appears that the Archduchess Anastasia has signified her desire to know Penelope. Very charming and graceful action on her part, and just like her. Of course she’s extremely grateful to Dickie for all he’s done. He’s worked a miraculous cure, and I daresay she’s heard that Penelope is my niece. It’s a maxim you can always go on: royalty knows everything. And the long and the short of it is that she’s coming to lunch here. Of course Penelope knows nothing about these matters, and in a state of great excitement she’s sent for me. It’s the best thing she could do. I can tell her everything. I’ve lived in that set all my life. It’s nothing to be particularly proud about—mere accident of birth—I happen to be a gentleman. A certain family. Well, there it is, you see.

But do you mean to say that Penelope wired all that to you? It must have cost her a perfect fortune.

I can’t imagine why she should send for me because a royalty is coming to luncheon with her. It was very inconvenient to get away. I had a dozen people waiting to see me, and I was obliged to slip out by the back door in order to avoid them.

You can see it if you like. [Taking it from his pocket and reading.] “Come at once. Archduchess Anastasia. Penelope.”

But d’you mean to say that you made up all that story out of those three words?

Penelope knew I had a certain amount of intelligence. She didn’t want to waste her money, so she just put what was essential, and left me to gather the rest.

[Taking out the telegram.] “Come at once! Grave scandal! Central African Mission. Penelope.”

But that’s absurd. You know how stupid the Post Office is. They must have made a mistake. I know that the Pomeranian Royal Family is very odd, but there are limits, and I can’t imagine the Archduchess Anastasia being mixed up in a scandal with a Central African missionary.

[With a twinkle.] My impression is that the Archduchess Anastasia, instead of paying Dickie’s bill for miraculously curing her, has eloped with a missionary, and Penelope, by aid of the law [with a gesture towards Beadsworth], wants to recover the money.

Oh, Mr. Beadsworth, how nice of you to come. [She shakes hands with him.] Kiss me, Uncle Davenport. [She calmly puts up her face. With some irritation he kisses her.]

Thank you.... Was your whisky and soda quite right? [Looking round.] And the port? Father, you haven’t touched the barley-water. You ungrateful old thing!

I—I’ve been sitting in the consulting-room. [With a roguish smile.] I watched you all come in.

You see, I thought if I saw you one after the other as you came in, I should have to make four scenes instead of one. It would have been very exhausting and not nearly so effective.

[With the greatest satisfaction.] I’m going to make a dreadful scene in a minute.

Now, my dear, before you go any further, for goodness’ sake tell us what you meant by your telegrams.

Well, you see, I wanted you all to come immediately, and I thought the best thing was to trail your ruling passions under your noses.

My dear mother, it’s the simplest thing in the world. You spend your life in converting the heathen—from a distance—and I knew if I mentioned the Central African Mission you’d fly here on the wings of the wind.

In point of fact I came in an omnibus. But do you mean to tell me that there has been no scandal in connection with the Central African Mission?

[Chuckling.] I think it’s a capital idea. And she just flung the words six and eightpence at you, Beadsworth, and knew she’d fetch the lawyer.

And now, my dear, that you’ve disposed of them, tell me all about the Archduchess Anastasia.

What d’you mean, you invented her? I know her well, I’ve known her for years. I know her whole family.

[Rather embarrassed, but trying not to laugh.] Well, you see—I wanted you to come, too. And....

I don’t understand what you mean at all, Penelope. You mention one of my most intimate friends, and then you tell me you invented her.

I’m awfully sorry. I really didn’t know there was such a person, and I thought I’d made her up out of my own head.... [With a chuckle.] I think it was rather clever of me to hit upon some one you know so well.

I don’t know why you should think the mere mention of the Archduchess’s name would make me come here.

Well, you see, I know that you go out a great deal, and you know such crowds of people. I felt quite sure that if there were an Archduchess Anastasia you’d know her, and [with a wave of the hand] well, there it is you see.

[Ruefully.] I intended to make such a scene, and now you’ve made me blurt it all out in three words.

[Indignantly.] Of course I mean it. I’m never going to speak to him again. That’s to say, I shall have a scene with him first. I’m quite determined to have a scene with somebody.

He’s on his way home with the usual story. [With a sudden break in her voice.] Oh, if you only knew how utterably miserable I am.

The best way would be to begin at the beginning, and tell us all about it coherently.

[Pompously.] My dear Charles, this is not the kind of matter in which you can be of any use. You’re a mathematician, and you’re not expected to know anything about practical affairs.

Well, the first thing is that I simply dote upon Dickie. I’ve never loved any one else, and I never shall.

We’ve never had a quarrel. We’ve never even been cross with one another. It’s been a honeymoon that’s never come to an end.

And now I’ve discovered that he’s been lying to me for the last month. He’s been coming home dreadfully late, and when I’ve asked him where he’s been, he’s said that he had to see a patient who was very ill—such an interesting case—and it worried him so much that he was obliged to go to his club and have a rubber to settle his nerves. And the interesting case and the rubber of bridge are Ada Fergusson.

Ada Fergusson’s a great friend of mine. And I hate her. I always knew she was a cat. For the last four weeks Dickie’s been spending every afternoon with her from four till seven.

[Raising his eyebrows.] But do you always ask your husband where he’s been when he comes in?

[Impatiently.] My dear papa, what has that got to do with it? We all know that you’re an old dear, and the greatest mathematician in the world, but you know nothing about life at all.

Give him a sheet of paper and a pencil, Penelope, and he’ll amuse himself by doing sums while we talk the matter out.

[Impatiently.] Oh, what does it matter how I found out! I’ve got all sorts of proofs.

I have expected it all along. You will remember, Isabel, that I was against the marriage from the beginning. I said, one doesn’t marry a doctor. One sometimes meets them in society when they’ve had their angles rubbed off a little and perhaps have been knighted, but one never meets their wives. We suppose they do marry, but they don’t marry any one we know. I may be old-fashioned, but I stick to my opinion that there are only three possible professions for a gentleman, the law, the army, and the church.

[Huffily.] You ask me for my opinion, and I give it you. I regret that you should think it nonsense.

[With great determination.] I’m never going to live with Dickie again. As soon as I’ve seen him I shall leave this house for ever.

Several. I’m going to tell him that I despise him, and that I hate him; I’m going to throw my wedding ring in his face, and then I shall sweep out of the room.

Nothing would induce me ever to speak to him again if it weren’t that I want to tell him exactly what I think of him.

Besides, you’ve got your family to think of. Of course you must leave him. You see, that is what I say, you’re not safe with people of no birth. I look upon all this as a blessing in disguise.

My dear Mr. Beadsworth, what are you talking about! I’m going to divorce him. I’m going to make an awful scandal.

Well, I suppose we could arrange that at a pinch with the help of the newspapers. Has he ever been cruel to you?

Good heavens, no! That’s what makes me so angry. The last month he’s been more perfectly charming and delightful than ever. Oh, I wish I could do something really unpleasant to Ada Fergusson. Something with boiling oil in it.

I am shocked, frankly shocked. I would never have thought that Dickie could be so wicked.

Mother, a dreadful thing has happened. Papa has suddenly become a drivelling lunatic.

He’s been adding two and two together all over that piece of paper, and he makes it five every time.

I expect you’ve been working too hard, father dear. Why don’t you go and lie down for half an hour? And when Dickie comes in he’ll give you a tonic.

You buy Pears’ soap because you’re told on fifty thousand hoardings that it’s matchless for the complexion.

You’ve only got to say a thing often enough, and all the world will believe it. And when the world believes it, it’s very hard to say if it’s true or not.

I thought if I wrote “two and two are five” often enough I might come to think it true.

The whole of life is merely a matter of adding two and two together and getting the right answer.

My dear Charles, if you’re going to discuss life I think there’s no need for me to stay. I’ve told you for twenty years that you’re a scholar and a recluse. I have lived in the world, and I’m a practical man. If Penelope wants to consult me, I am at her service; if not....

During the last five years I’ve seen you adding two and two together and making them about seventy-nine.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charles. Dickie’s behaviour is abominable, and there are no excuses for him. It’s a mere matter of common morality.

My dear, I have no objection to you talking common morality if you’ll let me talk common sense.

If you think you can make me forgive Dickie by telling me that you were a wicked old thing yourself in your youth, I may as well tell you at once that it won’t wash.

Well, I’ve noticed that when a woman discovers that her husband has been unfaithful, her male relations invariably try to console her by telling her how shockingly they’ve treated their own wives.

Of course, if it were the other way about, and mamma had kicked over the traces a little....

If your mother had behaved to me as you’ve behaved to Dickie, I should certainly have taken to drink.

But I’ve been a perfect angel. I’ve simply worshipped the ground he walked on. I’ve loved him as no man was ever loved before.

My dear, you’ve loved him morning, noon, and night. You’ve loved him when he talked, and you’ve loved him when he was silent. You’ve loved him walking, you’ve loved him eating, you’ve loved him sleeping. He’s never been able to escape from your love.

No; but strange as it may seem to you, they’re human beings. When you were a child you doted on strawberry ices.

Would you like to eat strawberry ice for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner every day for a month?

Poor Dickie has lived on strawberry ice for five years. It’s been his only means of sustenance.

You’ve never let him go out without coming into the hall to put on his hat and kiss him good-bye; he’s never come into the house without you running down to help him off with his coat and kiss him welcome. When he sat down after breakfast in the morning to read his paper and smoke his pipe, I’ve seen you sit down on the arm of his chair and put your arm round his neck.

[To Beadsworth.] Did Mrs. Beadsworth never sit on the arm of your chair when you were smoking your pipe?

I must confess I’m thankful my wife occupied those moments in attending to her household duties.

You are a lot of horrid old things. I ask you to come here to sympathise with me, and you’re perfectly brutal to me.

Let’s do another little simple addition, shall we? Perhaps two and two will make four a second time.

Don’t you think, instead of divorcing your husband, it would be better to win back his affection?

[With tears in her voice.] Papa, d’you think I ever could win back his love? You say I’ve lost it through my own fault. Oh, I don’t know what to do without him. I’ve been so wretched since I knew. I’ve tried to put a cheerful face on it, but if you knew what I feel in my heart.... Oh, the brutes, why didn’t they hide it from me?

My dear Penelope, I expected you to have more spirit. He’s a person of no family. I should have thought you were well rid of him.

Uncle Davenport, if you say a word against him, I will immediately have an attack of hysterics.

I shouldn’t have thought one could describe you as either. But, in any case, I can stay no longer.

It appears that my advice is not wanted, and I promised to look in on dear Lady Hollington before dinner.

Do telephone to her that you can’t come. You’ll find a telephone in my sitting-room.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] I’m too indulgent. People don’t rate me at my proper value.

My dear, it’s very simple. It merely requires a great deal of tact, a great deal of courage, and a great deal of self-control.

A good deal. You must never let yourself out of hand; you must keep guard on your tongue and your eyes and your smiles—and your temper.

If a man falls in love with a pretty woman, he falls out of it. But if he falls in love with a plain one, he’ll be in love with her all his life.

It means a good deal. When he comes in, don’t make a scene, but be charming to him. For once, don’t ask him where he’s been. When he leaves you, don’t ask him where he’s going, nor at what time he’ll be back. Don’t let him know that you have the least suspicion that anything has happened. On the contrary, take every opportunity of throwing him into Ada Fergusson’s society.

When every difficulty disappears, Dickie will find half the savour of the intrigue gone. Half your battle is won. Leave the rest to time and Ada Fergusson. Let Ada Fergusson sit on the arm of his chair when he wants to read his paper. Let him account to Ada Fergusson for all his movements. Under such circumstances a woman is always on tenterhooks, and consequently she’s always exacting. Whenever there’s a pause in the conversation, Ada Fergusson will say, Do you care for me as much as ever you did? That speech is the rope around love’s throat. Whenever he wants to go away, Ada Fergusson will implore him to stay five minutes longer. Those five minutes that a man stays against his will are the nails in love’s coffin. Each time he leaves her Ada Fergusson will say, At what time will you be back? That question is the earth shovelled into love’s grave.

[With a deprecating shrug.] It’s a mere matter of adding two and two together, my darling.

But if Dickie falls out of love with Ada Fergusson there’s no reason why he should fall in love again with me.

It only requires a little more tact, a little more courage, and a little more self-control.

But if I acquire so many virtues I shan’t be a woman, but a monster, and how can he love me then?

My dear, I highly disapprove of your father’s idea, and I can’t imagine how it ever came into his head, but I’m bound to say I think there’s some sense in it.

[Making up her mind.] I’ll try. Remember, no one knows anything that has happened. You’ll back me up, mamma, won’t you?

I could not get on to her. I don’t know what’s the matter with those telephone girls. Hussies!

Uncle Davenport, I find I’ve been entirely mistaken about Dickie. He’s not to blame in any way.

Upon my word! I must say, it annoys me that I should have been forced to break an important engagement for no reason. I should have thought....

[Interrupting.] Uncle Davenport, it’s quite bad enough that I should be done out of a scene, but if you’re going to make one it’s more than I can stand.

Well, as I can’t be of any more use to you, I think I’ll get back to the bosom of my family.

I couldn’t dream of accepting your services for nothing. You must really let me know what I owe you.

I wasn’t thinking of paying you. But I’d like to think I owed it you. You see, then, I shan’t feel under any obligation.

Good-bye, Beadsworth. You must come and dine with me at the club one of these days.

Very nice fellow. Quite a gentleman. No one would think he was a solicitor. I shall ask him to dinner with one or two people who don’t matter.

There’s Dickie. D’you hear him whistling? He’s evidently in the best of spirits.

[Gaily.] That’s no reason why you should neglect a devoted husband. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Golightly.] How is your sainted mother? Hulloa, Uncle Davenport, what price duchesses to-day?

[Looking round at the decanters and glasses with which the room is scattered.] I say, you’ve been doing yourselves rather proud, haven’t you? Who’s been drinking port?

That’s how providence behaves to me. Deliberately puts temptation in my way. It’s simply poison. Gout in my family, you know. My ancestors have lived on colchicum for a hundred years. I feel a tingling in my toes at the mere sight of a bottle of port. And yet I drink it.

It’s a great mistake, of course, to think that gout is a mark of good family. The porter of my club is a martyr to it.

Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of an earl. You should ask him if he has a strawberry mark on his left shoulder. What’s the matter, Pen?

I don’t know. You’re not quite up to your usual form, are you? You’ve not asked me what I’ve been doing to-day. As a rule you’re so interested in my movements.

I say, I do think that’s a bit thick. I go slaving my very soul out to provide you with a motor and nice frocks and things, and you don’t take the smallest interest in what I do.

[With a sigh of relief.] Oh, I’ve had the very deuce of a day. I’ve got a very interesting case on just now. Taking up a lot of my time. Of course, it worries me rather, but I suppose all these things come in the day’s march. Well, I spent the best part of an hour there.

Yesterday? Yes, she’s a fussy old thing. She’s always wanting consultations.

I’ve been hankering after an ermine stole for a long time. I shall buy it now.

[To change the conversation.] Well, after my consultation I was so fagged that I had to go into the club to have a rubber of Bridge.

Oh, yes, I was telling papa that you’d got a new patient who was bringing in pots of money. I couldn’t remember her name.

How d’you mean, Mrs. Macnothing? I’ve never heard of a family called Macnothing.

Oh, it was a great piece of luck. She heard about me from that little friend of yours, Pen. What is her name?

You seem to have a very bad memory for names, Dickie. You should make a knot in your handkerchief.

It’s a friend of Pen’s. [Pretending to try and remember.] Her husband’s in the navy, stationed at Malta, isn’t he?

I don’t know at all. Quite a nice little thing, I thought. I must confess that she didn’t interest me very much.

I’ve been shopping the whole afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t seen you for ages.

[With pompous gallantry.] Dickie feels that only a physical impediment can excuse a man for not seeing a pretty woman.

[Hastily, seeing her look of astonishment.] I’ve just been telling my wife about Mrs. Mack.

It was really awfully good of you to tell her to send for me. I’ve been to see her this afternoon.

[Understanding.] Oh, yes. I like to do all I can for people. I hope you’ll find her a nice patient.

Yes, she was only telling me the other day how much she liked Dr. O’Farrell. I’m afraid she’s very ill, poor dear.

It’s a great comfort to all her friends to know that Dr. O’Farrell is looking after her.

I’ve been wondering if she’s one of the Staffordshire Macks or one of the Somersetshire Macks.

Catherine Mack? Mother, it’s your old friend Catherine Mack. What an extraordinary coincidence!

Catherine Mack. Why, of course, I remember her perfectly. Little grey corkscrew curls and very pretty blue eyes.

[Rather stiffly, getting up.] I think I ought to be going. Will you come, Charles?

D’you mean to say your wife asks you where you’ve been and where you’re going? How like a woman. [Innocently.] By the way, what are you doing this evening?

[With amusement.] Oh, Penelope and I are dining at the Carlton grill room, and going to a music hall.

Oh, no! I live very quietly. There’s nothing that I enjoy more than an evening all by myself, with a book.

I know that my husband prefers me to remain at home. And when I think of him bravely serving his country in a foreign land I have no heart for gaiety.

[To Dickie.] My husband’s in a man-of-war. He’s stationed at Malta, you know. It’s so dreadful that my health forces me to remain in England.

[Triumphantly.] I knew there was something the matter with you the moment I came in.

We’ve got a couple of stalls for a music hall to-night. It would be awfully kind of you if you’d go with Dickie instead of me.

Dickie hates going out alone, and I simply can’t stir. You can have a jolly little dinner together at a restaurant, and you can go on afterwards.

Oh, no! It’ll do him good to go out. He’s been working so dreadfully hard. This afternoon he had a consultation that lasted nearly an hour.

Thanks so much. But it’s getting very late. I think you ought to start at once.

I do envy you, having your husband always at hand. When I think of mine bravely serving his country—and you know, every doctor I go to tells me it would be most dangerous for me to join him.

Oh, no, Dickie. I’ll take it after you’ve gone. I really will. I promise you I’ll take it.

[With great determination.] I’m not going to stir from this room till you’ve taken it.

THE SECOND ACT

Scene: Dr. O’Farrell’s consulting-room. It is a comfortably furnished room, with engravings on the walls, photographs in silver frames, and flowers on the chimney-piece. There is a large desk on one side, with papers on it, books, and a reading-lamp. There is a revolving-chair for Dickie to sit in, and a chair on the other side of the desk for the patient. On a side table are a microscope, a stand for test tubes, one or two medicine bottles, a row of large bottles containing chemicals, and an electric lamp. There is a sofa without arms for patients to lie upon, and there are two or three chairs besides. On the shelves are medical books. On a little table is a pile of “Lancets.”

Dickie is sitting at his desk, with his stethoscope still in his ears. A patient is standing up, buttoning up his braces. He puts on his waistcoat and coat as the conversation proceeds. He is a very timid little man, with a bald head and gold spectacles. He has an intensely nervous, apologetic manner.

[Dreadfully embarrassed.] Oh, whatever you like, please. It’s too good of you.

[Apologetically.] Yes, of course, I’m very much pleased. I didn’t mean that. I’ve taken up so much of your time.

It’s only out of the people who’ve got nothing the matter with them that I make a living. The people who are ill either get well or die, and that’s the end of them.

Oh, it’s too good of you. Thank you, thank you. I’m afraid I’m taking up so much of your time.

I always make my patients sit on the other side of my desk since one of them suddenly saw a snake on me, and flung himself at my throat in order to save me from being bitten. He nearly throttled me in the process, and when I knelt on his chest, he said I was an ungrateful devil, and he wouldn’t interfere with the snakes next time they went for me.

[Extremely agitated.] Oh, but you don’t think there’s any danger of my flying at your throat, do you?

I suppose you wouldn’t think you’d had your money’s worth if I gave you no medicine?

Oh, it’s too good of you, but I think, for my wife’s sake, I’d like to take something.

Well, look here, I’ve given you some strychnine to buck you up, and some bismuth to quiet you down. Take it three times a day after meals.

Oh, thank you so much. I’m sure it’s just what I want. And now—er. And now—er....

No, er—thank you very much. I—er—it’s so good of you to have taken so much trouble. Yes, er....

[Infinitely relieved.] Oh, thank you so much. That’s just what I wanted to ask you. Shall I write you a cheque?

We always prefer to have it in hard cash, you know, in case it’s a bogus cheque.

It’s extraordinary how nervous people are about giving a doctor money. If you only knew how jolly glad he is to get it.

I can see that. If you did you’d probably give me two pounds and say you hadn’t got two shillings on you, especially if you were a woman.

Hulloa! Come in, won’t you? [Calling upstairs.] Pen, here’s your noble parent.

Oh, it’s just on five o’clock. I don’t suppose any one else will come. We might have tea down here.

Rotten. Look here, a wretched two guineas. That’s all I’ve made this afternoon.

What can you expect with this beastly weather! Fine, dry, cold day after day. We haven’t had a fog this autumn. It doesn’t give one a chance. Of course everybody keeps well. Times are getting worse and worse. Everybody has decent drains now. An officious Government gives people pure water. If it weren’t for patent medicines and the malade imaginaire half the doctors in London would starve.

Never mind, Dickie. There may be a motor accident just outside our front door one of these days.

It would be just like my luck if they were all killed outright. No, what I want is a really good epidemic, a very complicated form of influenza that’d keep people on their backs for about a month.

Well, if you got it that bounder on the other side of the street would have to treat you. And he couldn’t charge you as you’re my wife, and he’d simply grind his teeth at having to waste his time.

The bounder on the other side of the street is Dr. Rogers. I like him much better than Dickie.

You’ve never seen my bedside manner. [Looking at his hands.] I say, I must just go and wash my hands, they’re covered with Picric Acid.

[Breaking out.] I can’t go on with it any longer. I’ve come to the end of my strength.

Yes. I can’t imagine what he sees in her. I sit and watch her sometimes and wonder what she has that I haven’t got. You don’t think I’m plain, do you?

Certainly not. If you had been I should have exposed you at your birth, like the ancient Spartans.

There are lots of men who are willing to tell me that I’m extremely attractive.

[Shaking her head.] No, I don’t know whether I shall ever get Dickie back again, but I don’t want to get him back by exciting his jealousy. I don’t want his love if I can only have it by making him think other men are in love with me.

[Impatiently.] It’s easy enough to give advice. You’ve only got to sit still and watch. I’ve got to do things. And the worst of it is that doing things means doing nothing.

Now, father, don’t look as if you didn’t understand or I shall throw something at your head. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could be up and doing, but I just have to sit still and keep my temper. You don’t know what I’ve suffered this month with a smiling face. I’ve laughed while my heart ached. I’ve chaffed Dickie when I’ve known he was just going to meet Ada Fergusson. I’ve arranged little parties so that they might be together. I haven’t even dared to cry by myself in case Ada Fergusson should see that my eyes were red and tell Dickie. He’s seen her every day, every single day for the last month, and all the time I’ve been cheerful and pleasant and amusing.

Of course he’s been neglecting his practice. He’s sent his assistant to people he ought to have seen himself. You remember Mrs. Mack, don’t you?

If you knew how I hated Mrs. Mack! She’s been having operations. She has an operation about once a week, and Dickie goes off for the whole day in his car.

And the curious thing is that she always has an operation when there’s a race meeting. She had an operation for the Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton; and she had another operation for the Cesarewitch, and a third for Sandown.

It is till you know that Ada Fergusson adores racing. And the thing that makes me so furious is that I’m quite certain Dickie puts on her money for her; and when her horse wins she pockets the profits, and when it loses she doesn’t pay her stake.

I do it myself.... Poor Dickie, it’s going to cost him a lot of money this month.

Because whenever he goes out for the day I have to console myself by buying something. I generally choose something rather dear.

Because the end has come. And I can’t stand it any longer. This morning Dickie said that Mrs. Mack was well enough to be moved, and he was going to take her over to Paris to put her in the Riviera train.

[With an angry shrug of the shoulders.] Ada Fergusson wants a little jaunt in Paris.

I’m going to tell him he must choose between us. I’m going to do everything I can to prevent him from going. And I mean to let him know that if he goes it’s the end.

You don’t suppose he wants to go to Paris. No man in his senses would take the risk.

Because she’s making him. And once a woman in these circumstances makes a man do what he doesn’t want to, it’s the beginning of the end.

It seems to me that a lifetime spent in the study of mathematics has resulted in some very various knowledge.

You were right when you said I should want a great deal of tact, and a great deal of patience, and a great deal of self-control. My word!

I’ll do nothing. I’ll hold my tongue, I’ll smile, I’ll make jokes, but....

I want some hats badly. I’ll just go and ring up Françoise and tell her to send me all she’s got in the shop.

You must come back. This is the first time I’ve been separated from Dickie since our marriage, and I shall want to hide my head in the maternal bosom while my noble father pats my hand.

But, darling, I’m making every preparation to have fit after fit of violent hysterics. I can’t do more.

[With meaning.] After all, Dickie, I know you wouldn’t go if you could help it. It’s only because you feel it’s your duty, isn’t it?

[Relieved.] Oh, you see, there’s so much less of a crowd. It’s more convenient when you’re carting an invalid about.

[Gaily.] It’ll be great fun, because you’ll see all the gay young men who are making a little excursion to Paris with the object of their affections. I’m told they always go by night so that no one should see them on the journey.

Don’t be too long, father, in case my emotions get the better of me before you come back.

[Taking papers out of his pocket and giving them to Penelope.] D’you know what these are?

[Flourishing one of them.] This is for the frock I’ve got on. You wouldn’t think it cost so much, would you? [Looking down at it.] You see, you have to pay for the cut.

[Indifferently.] You can put them in the waste-paper basket if you like, but it would be shorter to pay them.

[Flying into a passion.] Now, look here, Pen. It’s perfectly preposterous. You know I’m not going to stand this sort of thing.

[Apparently much astonished, quite good-humouredly.] Darling, you’re not going to make a scene for a few little things I’ve bought myself. I was positively in rags, and I thought you liked me to dress neatly.

Hang it all, I’m a poor man, and you’ve spent more than a hundred and fifty pounds in this one month.

[Calmly.] Does it come to as much as that? It’s lucky you’ve got such a good patient in Mrs. Mack, isn’t it?

Senseless extravagance I call it. Now look here, here’s thirty-five pounds for a dress in blue cloth—absurd price to pay—on 9th of October.

I just happen to remember they were on that day because Madame Claude was so surprised to see me. It was only by the merest chance that she hadn’t gone to the races herself.

[Sweetly.] Well, you see, darling, it was the day of the first operation that was performed on Mrs. Mack. And you were away all day, and I felt awfully depressed and lonely. And I knew how anxious you were, and it made me anxious, so I just went and ordered a blue cloth to cheer myself up a bit.

[Suddenly.] And look here, on the 13th of October there’s an ermine stole and a muff.

Well, I had to do something while you were away. And it made me feel so miserable to see everybody driving off with race glasses to Liverpool Street.

And I suppose all the others are to be explained in the same way. [Looking at a bill.] October 22.

[Innocently.] I wonder why you always had your operations on the same day as an important race meeting.

Well, it isn’t odd at all. It’s one of old Peter Marsden’s cranky ways. I told you it was Peter Marsden who did the operations, didn’t I? [Penelope nods.] The fact is, he’s simply mad on racing. And he’s lost such a pot of money that he always fixes an important operation for the same day as a race meeting so that he absolutely won’t be able to go to it.

Now look here, Pen, we’ll say no more about these bills. I’ll pay them this time....

I really don’t know why you should make such a fuss. After all, you’ve been earning simply heaps and heaps of money with Mrs. Mack.

We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched. I haven’t had a penny out of her yet.

I think you’re awfully heartless, Pen. You forget that I’m very much attached to the old lady. I look upon her as a friend as well as a patient.

Perhaps she’ll leave you something in her will. We want a new electric brougham, don’t we?

Oh, I shouldn’t accept it. I have the strongest feeling against doctors getting legacies from their patients.

Well, you’ll be able to charge at least a hundred and fifty pounds for taking her to Paris.

Well, darling, I know that when I get up to-morrow morning and you’re not here, I shall feel dreadfully lonely and depressed.

[Persuasively.] It’ll make my frocks last so much longer if I have some nice hats. You see, you ring the changes, and people think you have a new gown on.

And may I venture to inquire how many hats you’ll want to overcome your depression?

Now look here, Dickie, I’m willing to meet you half way; I promise you they shan’t cost more than five pounds each. You can afford that out of the hundred and fifty.

The fact is, Pen, that Mrs. Mack is more a friend than a patient, and she’s not so well to do as I thought. I’m proposing to make no charge for accompanying her to Paris.

[Quite firmly.] Oh, no, Dickie, I won’t hear of it. You’ve got a wife to think of—if you died to-morrow I should be totally unprovided for. You have no right to be quixotic. It’s not fair to me.

Thank heaven, there’s somebody. I’ll get a few guineas out of her at all events. [Looking at his case book.] Four visits. That’ll be five guineas. By Jove, I want them.

You mustn’t mind my coming so late. I know you don’t see any one after five, but I’m going away.

I’m starting for the Riviera with my daughter to-morrow, and I thought I’d like to see you again before I went.

Sir Benjamin Broadstairs tried everything, and he couldn’t cure me; and then I went to Sir William Wilson, and he told me not to do any of the things that Sir Benjamin Broadstairs told me to do, and I got worse and worse!

I’ve been to every doctor in London, and they all say I’m a wonderful case. I like being examined by doctors, and they take such an interest in me. The hours and hours they’ve spent over me. I can never be grateful enough for all the kindness I’ve had from them.

It’s very nice of you to say so. I think I’ll try you on something else to-day.

Well, I like taking medicines. It’s something to do; and now my daughter’s married I’m very much alone. I think I’ve taken every medicine in the Pharmacopœia, and they’ve none of them done me any good.

[Handing her a prescription.] Well, perhaps this will. You must take it three times a day before meals.

[Looking at it.] Oh! but I’ve had this before, Dr. O’Farrell. Sir Arthur Thomas gave me this only a few months ago.

I was reading in the Lancet the other day that a German doctor had discovered a new medicine which does nerve cases such a lot of good. I’m sure it’s the very thing for me.

Oh, I always read the Lancet and the British Medical Journal. You see, my poor husband had to take them in for his practice.

I can never bear to hear doctors spoken badly of. They never do me any good, but they’ve been kindness itself. I’ve only once been rudely treated, and that—if you’ll believe it—was by a mere nobody. I told him all my symptoms, and he said to me, Madam, can you eat? Yes, I said. I have breakfast in the morning and a little soup at eleven o’clock; and then I have lunch, and I always make a good tea, and I eat a little dinner at half-past seven, and before I go to bed I have some bread and milk. Then he said, Madam, can you sleep? Yes, I said, for an old woman I sleep very well; I sleep eight or nine hours regularly. Then he said, Madam, can you walk? Oh! yes, I said, I always make a point of walking four miles a day. Then he said, My opinion is that you’ve got nothing the matter with you at all. Good afternoon.

Well, I just looked him up and down, and I said to him, Sir, your opinion is not shared by Sir Benjamin Broadstairs, or Sir William Wilson, or Sir Arthur Thomas. And I didn’t even offer him a fee, but I just swept out of the room. [Archly.] You won’t give me that new medicine?

Very well. I expect you know best. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time.

I’ve seen every doctor in London of any importance, and they’ve none of them charged me a penny, but I always make them a little present. I know that you doctors have to go out in all weathers, and you never wrap yourselves up. So I give them a woollen comforter.

When you come back from the Riviera, you might do worse than consult Dr. Rogers. He lives just at the other end of the street, you know. He’s very good in cases like yours.

I knew there was something I wanted to ask you particularly, and I nearly forgot it. Sir Benjamin Broadstairs said I ought never to eat anything but toast, and Sir William Wilson said he didn’t think toast was at all good for me, and I only ought to eat bread. Now, I wonder what I had better do?

[Seriously, as if he were deliberating.] Well, if I were you, I’d eat bread toasted only on one side.

She’s a doctor’s widow. Of course I couldn’t charge her anything. She kept it dark till to-day. I’ll tell you what, doctors’ widows oughtn’t to be allowed to survive their husbands.

When you’re my widow, Pen, you go right up one side of Harley Street and then right down the other and see them all.

Hang it all, when you’ve lost me the least you can do is to enjoy indifferent health.

I’ve been thinking about what you said about toasting my bread on one side.... On which side shall I put the butter?

[With his chin in his hand.] H’m. H’m. You must put the butter on the toasted side.

Oh, thank you. Now just one more question, do you think a little jam would hurt me?

No, I don’t think a little jam would hurt you, but you mustn’t put it on the same side as you put the butter.

I’ve been trying to think of it for ten minutes. That’s what doctors’ widows ought to do—Suttee. Like the Hindoos.

But, darling, I should hate to grace your funeral by making a bonfire of myself.

No, you don’t care for me as much as you used to. You’re quite different. I’ve noticed lots of things.

You’ve changed lately. You never come down to see me off in the morning, and you don’t ask me at what time I’m coming back. You always used to sit on the arm of my chair after breakfast when I was smoking my pipe and reading the paper.

Of course I hated it, but it showed you were fond of me, and now that you don’t do it any more I miss it.

The maid told me you were here, so I asked her to show me straight in. I hope you don’t mind.

Of course not. We’re delighted to see you anywhere. Won’t you have some tea?

I’ve not been very well lately, and I thought I’d like to see a doctor. [To Dickie.] Will you treat me?

Oh, nonsense, Dickie couldn’t dream of accepting money from one of my friends.

No, I’ve got the strictest principles on that point. I think it’s too bad of people to want a doctor to treat them for nothing. I really insist on paying the usual fee.

Do you mind, dear? It makes me a little uncomfortable to discuss my symptoms before a third party.

That’s the advantage of you being a doctor. When I want to see you alone I can do it under your wife’s very nose. Don’t you think it was rather ingenious?

[Rather sharply.] Of course she wasn’t listening. That’s about the last thing she’d do.

Oh, my dear, don’t get in a temper about it. Lots of women do listen, you know.

[Good-humouredly.] Certainly not, if you ask me as crossly as that. You may kiss my hand. [He does so.] That’s right. Still cross?

Well, when I left you yesterday we fixed up everything. I gave you your ticket, and I wrote down the time the train started.

It amuses me to see her simplicity. I get a lot of pleasure in looking at her and thinking how little she suspects what is going on under her very nose. She’s the most trusting person I ever met in my life.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we had to take any precautions. But she trusts us absolutely. Why, she’s always throwing us together. It never enters her head that there can be the least reason for suspicion. It’s like knocking a man down who can’t defend himself.

Of course I love you. Good heavens, I’ve told you so till I’m blue in the face.

Oh, no, you no longer love me. Men only begin to have scruples when they stop caring for you.

I’ve sacrificed everything for your sake. And now you insult me. And when I think of my poor husband bravely serving his country in a foreign land! Oh, it’s cruel, cruel!

You don’t think of my feelings. You don’t think how I feel. What about my husband?

If you really loved me you would think of nothing but me, nothing, nothing, nothing.

I shall cry. I’ve never been treated like this before. If you don’t love me any more, why don’t you say so?

[Nervously.] Well—er—I think it would be much better if we—put the trip to Paris off for a bit.

I’ll never speak to you again. I wish I had never met you. Oh, how can you insult me like this!

Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! I say, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be horrid. I’m awfully sorry.

I’ll do anything you like if you won’t cry. I say, just think if Penelope came in—I was only thinking of the risk to you. Of course, there’s nothing I’d like so much as a jaunt over the Channel.

Very well. [As Dickie goes to the door.] Oh, I quite forgot. I’ve simply got a head like a sieve.

Well, I almost forgot the very thing I came to see you about. And all through you making a scene.

Of course it’s nothing very important really, but it’s just a little awkward to ask.

Oh, but it’s bound to be all right, only there are some differences to pay. I don’t quite understand what it all means, but Solly Abrahams....

And it’s just a little awkward for me to pay that just now. You see my income is always paid me half-yearly, and I really haven’t got a hundred and eighty pounds in the bank. I never borrow—it’s a thing I can’t bear—and I felt the only person I could come to now was you.

I knew you’d give it me at once, and, of course, I’ll pay you back out of my profits.

Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to write out a cheque now? It’ll be such a weight off my mind.

Thanks, so much. It’s awfully good of you. Now just write out a little prescription so as to have something to show Penelope.

Oh, how stupid of me! I’ve only got a two-shilling bit in my purse. You don’t happen to have a couple of sovereigns on you.

Thank you.... There. That looks a most imposing fee. You must leave it on there for Penelope to see.

Oh, I met him in the park the other day. He made himself so pleasant. He asked me if I was a Fergusson of Glengary. I didn’t know what he meant, but I said I was, and he seemed so pleased.

Oh, I shall tell him I’m a Jones of Llandudno. I think that sounds rather smart.

I don’t know about that, but I am a womanly woman, and that’s why men like me.

If I’d known what a reputation you had I wouldn’t have let you talk to me for half an hour in the park.

[Bubbling over with delight.] Oh, you mustn’t listen to all you hear. A man who goes out as much as I do is sure to get talked about. Our world is so small and so censorious.

Dr. O’Farrell has been writing a prescription for me. I haven’t been very well lately.

Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. You look the picture of health and extremely handsome.

Oh, you horrid cruel thing! I wanted you to sympathise with me and tell me how ill I looked.

If you will allow me to call on you I can promise to sympathise with you, but I’m afraid I shall never be able to tell you that you look anything but charming.

That’s too nice of you. You must come and see me the moment I get back from Paris.

I came on purpose to tell you. Really, I’ve got a head like a sieve. Poor Mrs. Mack has asked me if I would go as far as Paris with her. A most unfortunate thing has happened. Her maid’s mother has suddenly died, and the poor thing naturally wants to go to the funeral. And so....

Only for two days, of course. Now, I want to know, dear, tell me honestly, do you mind?

Some women are so funny. I thought you mightn’t like the idea of my going with Dr. O’Farrell as far as Paris, and, of course, we shall be travelling back together.

What nonsense! Of course, I’m only too glad. It’ll be so nice for Dickie to have some one to travel with.

[Seeing the guineas on the desk.] I see you’ve been raking in the shekels, Dickie.

Oh, that’s my fee. I insisted on paying a fee—I particularly want you to know that, Penelope—I’m so scrupulous about that sort of thing.

[Putting up a defensive hand.] No, I couldn’t really. It’s one of my principles.

I know your principles are excellent, but I really shouldn’t like Dickie to accept a fee for seeing my greatest friend.

And now I must really fly. [Holding out her hand to Barlow.] Good-bye. Don’t forget to come and see me, but, remember, I shall expect to hear all about that little ballet-girl.

[Going to the telephone.] I don’t believe you’ve ever known a ballet-girl in your life.

No, but it pleases women of our class to think one is hand and glove with persons of that profession.

Central 1234. If they only knew that nine ballet-girls out of ten go home every night to their children and a husband in the suburbs! I just want to ring up my broker. Is that you, Robertson? I say, d’you know anything about a mine called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem? Rotten? I thought as much. That’s all, thank you. [He puts on the receiver—to himself, acidly.] A hundred and eighty pounds gone bang.

Look here, Dickie, now that you have a moment to spare you might give me a little professional advice. Of course, I shan’t pay you.

Good Lord! I might as well be a hospital. I’m not even supported by voluntary contributions.

To tell you the truth, I have an inkling that I’ve made something of an impression on a very charming lady....

[Interrupting.] Take my advice and marry her quickly before the impression wears off.

My dear Uncle Davenport, I’m young enough to be your son; philandering with a married woman is the most exaggerated form of amusement that’s ever been invented. Take care! That’s all I say. Take care!

She’ll bind you hand and foot, and put a halter round your neck and lead you about by it. She’ll ask you ten times a day if you love her, and each time you get up to go away she’ll make a scene to force you to stay longer. Each time you put on your hat she’ll pin you down to the exact hour of your next visit.

Yes, I suppose all women do that—except Pen. Pen never bothers. She never asks you if you love her. She never keeps you when you want to get away. She never insists on knowing all your movements. And when you leave her she never asks that fatal, fiendish question, at what time will you be back?

Well, my boy, if my wife were as indifferent to me as that, I should ask myself who the other feller was.

My dear Dickie, it’s woman’s nature to be exacting. If she’s in love with you she’s always a nuisance, and a very charming nuisance too, to my mind. I like it.

Now, my dear boy, I didn’t come to talk to you about Penelope, but about my own health.

[Impatiently.] Oh, you’ve got chronic adiposity. That’s all that’s the matter with you.

[Savagely, very quickly.] Give up wines, spirits and liqueurs, bread, butter, milk, cream, sugar, potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, peas, turnips, rice, sago, tapioca, macaroni, jam, honey, and marmalade.

[Taking no notice.] Put on a sweater and run round the park every morning before breakfast. Let’s have a look at your liver.

Lie down on that sofa. Now don’t make a fuss about it. I’m not going to kill you. [Barlow lies down.] Put your knees up.

[As Dickie feels his liver.] She’s a fine, dashing woman. There’s no doubt about that.

[Impatiently.] Don’t be such an old donkey. Your liver’s as right as mine is. There’s nothing the matter with you except that you do yourself too well, and don’t take enough exercise.

[With unction.] I suppose one has to pay for being the most popular diner-out of one’s time.

[Looking at him sharply.] Is it on Mrs. Fergusson that you’ve made something of an impression?

[With great self-satisfaction.] My dear fellow, I am the last man to give a woman away.

Between ourselves, Dickie, do you think Mrs. Fergusson would find it peculiar if I asked her to lunch with me tête-à-tête at the Carlton?

Oh, her husband’s all right. He keeps on bravely serving his country in a foreign land.

It shows that she has a nice nature, or she wouldn’t have come to ask Penelope if she minded your going to Paris together.

Ha, ha. Well, well, I must be running away. I’m dining out as usual. These good duchesses, they will not leave me alone. Good-bye.

I’m horribly afraid I’m growing middle-aged. I’ve discovered how much more comfortable it is to have a chair of my own.

[Trying to hide a slight embarrassment.] Weren’t you rather surprised when Mrs. Fergusson told you she was going to Paris to-night?

[Bubbling over.] Darling, you must think me an old silly. Of course, I knew you were going together.

[Making up his mind to be very haughty.] Will you have the goodness to explain yourself?

My dear, didn’t you see that I did everything in the world to throw you together?

I thought it would only embarrass you. I didn’t mean to say anything to-day, but I couldn’t help laughing when you asked me if I was surprised.

Darling, we’ve been married for five years. It’s absurd to think there could be anything between us after all that time.

The whole thing seemed to me of no importance. I was pleased to think you were happy.

[Flying into a passion.] Well, I think it’s positively disgraceful, Penelope.

That’s just it. You ought to have done something. You ought to have kicked up a row; you ought to have made scenes; you ought to have divorced me. But just to sit there and let it go on as if it were nothing at all! It’s too monstrous.

I’m awfully sorry. If I’d known you wanted me to make a scene of course I would have, but really it didn’t seem worth making a fuss about.

I’ve never heard anything so callous, anything so cold-blooded, anything so cynical.

No, I’ve been a bad husband. I’m man enough to acknowledge it. And I mean to turn over a new leaf, Penelope; I will give Ada up. I promise you never to see her again.

Darling, why should you cause her needless pain? After all, she’s an old friend of mine. I think the least I can expect is that you should treat her nicely.

It’s an arrangement that suits us all three. It amuses you, Ada has some one to take her about, and I get a lot of new frocks.

Yes, you see, I’ve been consoling my aching heart by replenishing my wardrobe.

So you’re willing to sacrifice our whole happiness to your frocks. Oh, I’ve cherished a viper in my bosom. I may have acted like a perfect beast, but, hang it all, I do know what’s right and wrong. I have a moral sense.

Do you know that all these weeks I’ve been tortured with remorse? I’ve told myself every day that I was treating you shamefully, I’ve not had a moment’s happiness. I’ve lived on a perfect rack.

We’ve been mistaken in one another. I’m not the man to stand such a position with indifference. And I’ve been mistaken in you, Penelope. I thought you cared for me.

[Hearing voices in the hall.] Here are papa and mamma. They said they were coming back.

I hope they’ll never find out what a wicked, cruel woman you are. It would send down their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.

We didn’t tell Uncle Davenport. He’s such a man of the world, he has no sense of humour.

[Kissing Mrs. Golightly.] Well, mother ... Papa, Dickie wants to separate from me because I won’t divorce him.

I didn’t mean to say anything about it, but Dickie found out that we knew all about his little love affair.

That’s just it. Any woman of feeling would make a scene. There must be something radically wrong about her, or she would have wept and stamped and torn her hair.

[Mildly.] Oh, my dear boy, don’t you exaggerate the enormity of your offence?

It was a mere trifle. It would show a lamentable want of humour in Penelope if she took it seriously.

Oh! Mrs. Golightly, you spend your time in converting the heathen. Don’t you think your own family needs some of your attention?

A long acquaintance with savage races has led me to the conclusion that man is naturally a polygamous animal.

I confess I was relieved to hear it was a married woman. It seems to make it so much more respectable.

I haven’t a leg to stand on, but, by Jove, I’ve got a moral sense, and I tell you all that I’m simply outraged. You’re overthrowing the foundations of society. Whatever I’ve done, I’ve got more respect for the sanctity of the home and the decencies of family life than all of you put together.

She came here to-day, and I saw that he was sick to death of her.... Mamma, you behaved like a heroine of romance.

Oh, yes, you will, mother. Fast an extra day all through next Lent. It’ll be equally good for your soul and for your figure.

What women? Oh, I know.... [She goes to the door.] Please come in. They’re from Françoise. The Modiste.

On the other hand, I’ve never taken little jaunts to Paris without you, my dear.

Oh, isn’t this a dream? [Looking at the other.] Oh! oh! Did you ever see anything so lovely? Dickie, you are a dear. I’m so glad you’re going to Paris.

Hulloa, hulloa. Gerrard 1234. Tell Mrs. Fergusson that Mrs. Mack has had a relapse, and will not be able to go to Paris to-night.

THE THIRD ACT

Scene: Penelope’s boudoir. It is an attractive room, furnished with bright-coloured chintzes, and gay with autumn flowers and great bunches of leaves. There is a large looking-glass. It is a room to live in, and there are books and magazines scattered about. Photographs of Dickie in every imaginable attitude.

Pen, in a ravishing costume, is alone, standing in the middle of the room. She looks at herself in the glass and turns right round, smiling with satisfaction. She preens herself. Suddenly she sees something she does not quite like; she frowns a little, then she makes a face at herself, solemnly and elaborately curtsies, and gaily throws herself a kiss.

Peyton comes in, followed by the Golightlys.

I told Peyton to bring you up here so that no one should come and bother us. [With a dramatic gesture.] My noble father!

Sit down, mamma, and get your breath back, because I’m just going to take it away again.

But it’s the most surprising, exquisite, wonderful thing in the world, and I’m in the seventh heaven of delight.

He went out immediately after you left last night, and didn’t come home till past twelve. I heard him stop at my door, so I huddled myself under the bed-clothes and pretended to be fast asleep, but I just let my hand drop carelessly over one side of the bed. Then he gave a tiny little knock, and as I didn’t answer he came in, and he crept up on tip-toe, and he looked at me as if—as if he’d like to eat me up.

[Putting her finger at the back of her head.] I saw him through the back of my head—there. And then he bent down and just touched my hand with his lips. [Showing her hand to Golightly.] Look, that’s where he kissed it—just on the knuckle.

Don’t be silly. And then he crept softly out again, and I had the first really good sleep I’ve had for a month. And this morning I had my breakfast in bed, and when I got up he’d gone out.

Well, Charles, I’m grateful that you never showed your passion for me by keeping systematically out of my way.

But, my dear, it’s so simple. Of course, he’s in a dreadful temper. I’ve made him feel a perfect fool, and he hates it. But, good heavens! after five years I know how to deal with him when I’ve hurt his pride. I’ll just give him a chance of saving his face, and then we’ll fall into one another’s arms and be happy ever afterwards.

No, I’m wiser than that. I’m not going to do anything till Ada Fergusson is quite disposed of.

She rang up last night and spoke [imitating a man’s tones] in a deep voice, like this, so that I shouldn’t recognise her. She asked if Dickie was at home, and I said he wasn’t. [Imitating the man’s voice again.] Will you ask him to ring up Mrs. Mack as soon as he comes back? Oh! I said, I think he’s been at Mrs. Mack’s all the evening, and I rang off quickly. And this morning I just took the receiver off, and I think by now Ada must be in a pretty temper.

[Tapping the table sharply with her open hand.] Two and two don’t make five, father.

You seem to think they do, my dear; and I have the highest respect for your intelligence.

Mamma, if you thought it absolutely necessary to provide a father for your offspring, I wish you had chosen one who wasn’t quite so irritating.

You’re preparing for Dickie once more an uninterrupted diet of strawberry ices.

[Joining his hands and leaning back in his chair.] How are you going to keep your husband’s love now you have got it back?

[With a nod and a smile.] I’m never going to bore him with demonstrations of affection. I’m never going to ask him if he loves me. And when he goes out I’m never going to inquire at what time he’ll be back.

[Calmly.] And what will you do when the next pretty little grass-widow throws herself at his head?

[With a deprecating shrug of the shoulders.] Your mother, from her unrivalled knowledge of heathen races, has told you that man is naturally a polygamous animal.

Do you mean to say I’m to expect Dickie to have flirtations with half a dozen different women?

Remember that man is by nature a hunter. But how the dickens can he pursue if you’re always flinging yourself in his arms? Even the barndoor hen gives her lawful mate a run for his money.

It was so easy for me to love, honour, and obey him, and so delightful. It never struck me that I ought to keep watch over my feelings.

We all strive for happiness, but what would happiness be if it clung to us like a poor relation?

[Nodding her head.] Strawberry ice for breakfast, strawberry ice for luncheon, and strawberry ice for tea.

[With a smile.] Well, you made your love too cheap, my dear. You should have let your husband beg for it, and you made it a drug in the market. Dole out your riches. Make yourself a fortress that must be freshly stormed each day. Let him never know that he has all your heart. He must think always that at the bottom of your soul there is a jewel of great price that is beyond his reach.

A wise woman never lets her husband be quite, quite sure of her. The moment he is—[with a shrug of the shoulders]—Cupid puts on a top-hat and becomes a churchwarden.

I suppose you mean it depends on how much I love Dickie. [A pause. Tremulously.] I love him with all my heart, and if I can keep his love everything is worth while. [She rests her face on her hands, and looks straight in front of her. Her voice is filled with tears.] But, oh, father, why can’t we go back to the beginning when we loved one another without a thought of wisdom or prudence? That was the real love. Why couldn’t it last?

[With a flash of her old spirit.] But my friends have husbands, and they don’t philander with every pretty woman they meet.

Scylla and Charybdis. The price they pay is satiety. Would you rather have the placid indifference of nine couples out of ten, or at the cost of a little trouble and a little common sense keep Dickie loving you passionately to the end of his days?

[With a roguish twinkle.] You and mamma show no signs of being bored to death with one another.

She has had an affair with the Additional Curates’ Society, and an intrigue with the English Church Mission. She has flirted with Christian Science, made eyes at Homœopathy, and her relations with vegetarianism have left a distinct mark on her figure. How could I help adoring a woman so depraved?

[Good-humouredly.] It’s monstrous of you to reproach me, Charles, when you have conducted for years a harem of algebraical symbols.

[Lifting up her hands in mock horror.] And to think that I never knew how immoral my parents were!

[Patting his wife’s hand.] I think we must be the lucky ones, dear. We’ve been married for twenty years....

[Interrupting.] Make it a quarter of a century, father. I really can’t pass for less than twenty-four.

Sh! sh! sh! I cannot allow my parents to flirt in my presence. I never heard of such a thing.

[Hearing a sound.] Listen. There’s Dickie. Father, quickly—what must I do to make him love me always?

[Ruefully.] If you only knew how I want to fly into his arms and forget the wretched past!

My dear, a merciful providence has given you roguish eyes and a sharp tongue. Make use of them.

Charles, I shall be thankful when you return to your mathematics. The morals of that hussy X are already so bad that you can’t make them much worse.

The fact is, papa, that as a guide for the young you have rather advanced views.

[With a grotesque, dramatic flourish.] Ungrateful child! And I, like the pelican, have offered you my very heart to dine on.

[Looking up from her magazine.] Oh, Peyton, you might pack up some things for me in that little flat portmanteau of the doctor’s. Put my green charmeuse in.

How stupid of me! You see, I was expecting you to spend two or three days in Paris with Ada, and I arranged to motor down to Cornwall with the Hendersons.

In any case I’m afraid I can’t throw the Hendersons over. They’ve made up a little partie carrée so that we can play bridge in the evenings.

I thought it was very nice of you to make up a plausible excuse for being away so much.

Then, when you bought all those things because I was making such a pot of money, you were just pulling my leg.

[When he recovers.] I say, you have scored us off. Upon my soul, you are a wonderful little woman. I can’t think how I ever saw anything in Ada Fergusson.

And when you left her, did she want to know exactly at what time you’d come back?

[Going towards her as if to take her in his arms.] Oh, Pen, let’s forget and forgive.

[Making a step towards her.] I suppose you want me to eat the dust.... I have behaved like a perfect brute. I’m awfully sorry, and I’ll never do it again.

[Eluding him as though by accident.] I daresay the game isn’t worth the candle.

[Keeping out of his reach.] And I was under the impression you were having such a good time.

That’s where women have such an advantage over men. Their conscience never strikes them till they’ve lost their figure and their complexion.

[Stopping.] I say, what are you running round the room for in that ridiculous fashion?

Don’t be a little beast, Pen. You know you love me, and I simply dote upon you.... I can’t do more than I have done.

I think that’s rather drastic punishment. After all, she did nothing but succumb to your fatal fascination.

That’s right, put all the blame on me. As if it were men who made the running on these occasions! I never want to see her again.

[Going towards her eagerly.] I’m never going to change again. I’ve had my lesson, and I’m going to be good in future.

[Getting a chair between herself and him.] Anyhow, don’t you think you’d better be off with the old love before you get on with the new?

You don’t want me by any chance to tell Ada Fergusson that you don’t care for her any more?

[With a shrug of the shoulders.] My dear, since the days of Ariadne there’s only been one satisfactory way of consoling a deserted maiden.

[At the telephone.] Mayfair 7521. I promise you he shall come to no harm. Before it gets serious we’ll tell him that she’s not a Jones of Llandudno, but a Jones of Notting Hill Gate.

Hulloa, can I speak to Mr. Barlow? Hulloa, is that you, Uncle Davenport? No, I didn’t go to Paris after all. [With a wink at Penelope.] Mrs. Mack had a sudden relapse, and couldn’t be moved. No, Mrs. Fergusson hasn’t gone either.

I’ve been expecting her all the afternoon. Ask her if she wouldn’t mind coming up here.

I say, there’s no getting out of it. [At the telephone.] Hulloa. Why don’t you come round? Mrs. Fergusson is calling on Pen, and you can arrange about your luncheon party then.... All right. Good-bye.... I say, I’m going to bolt.

[Pretending to be very dignified.] I’m not a coward, Penelope. I shall be back in two minutes. But I’m thirsty, and I’m going to have a brandy and soda.

I think it’s a bit thick that a man shouldn’t be allowed to embrace the wife of his bosom.

[Kissing her effusively.] Dearest ... I hope you don’t mind being dragged up here.

Of course not. I like this room. I always think it’s just the place for a heart-to-heart talk.

Is Dr. O’Farrell at home? I wanted to ask him something about the medicine he prescribed for me yesterday.

Now don’t say you’ve come to see Dickie. I was hoping you’d come to see me.

You know, I think you must be the only person who’s known him ten minutes without calling him Dickie.

I think he’s lying down. You see he was with poor Mrs. Mack till twelve o’clock last night.

It’s so bad that she should have had a relapse when she seemed to be going on so well.

And it must have been so inconvenient for you after you’d made all your arrangements for going to Paris.

I think in this life we ought to do what we can for one another. I only did my duty.

When I think of my husband bravely serving his country in a foreign land, I feel that I ought to do anything I can to help others.

My poor, dear Ada. I’m distracted that I should have to give you this bitter, bitter blow. Mrs. Mack is—dead.

I don’t wonder you say that. She was quite frisky a day or two ago.... Sit down, dear. You’re quite upset. You were very fond of her, weren’t you?

Why don’t you have a good cry? Can’t you find your handkerchief? Take this. It’s very sad, isn’t it? And after all you’d done for her?

Oh, I know. I feel for you, dear. Dickie was devoted to her. He said he’d never had such a patient. [Putting her handkerchief to her own eyes.] She died, with a smile on her lips, mentioning her dead husband’s name. Dickie was so moved, he couldn’t eat any lunch, poor boy; and we’re going to have a new landaulette.

You ought to have let her know, Dickie. She would have liked to be—in at the death.

That’s just what I said. Murmuring the name of her husband, who’d been dead for forty years. What did you say the name was, Dickie?

[To Mrs. Fergusson.] Wouldn’t you like a glass of sherry, dearest? I can see you’re quite upset.

To tell you the truth, I expected it last night. But I quite understand your emotion.

No, stay with Ada, darling. You have such a way with you when one’s in trouble.

[Preventing him from moving.] No, you know just the right thing to say. I shall never forget how charming you were when our last cook gave notice.

It means that Mrs. Mack, like the rest of us, is mortal. The funeral takes place the day after to-morrow at Kensal Green. Friends kindly accept this the only intimation.

How can Mrs. Mack be dead? You know just as well as I do that she never existed.

Upon my word, I’m beginning to be not quite certain. I’ve talked about her so much that she seems much more real than—than my bank balance, for instance. And I could write a beautiful article for the Lancet on the case.

After all, she did have a rotten time of it, poor old lady. Operation after operation. Life wasn’t worth living. She was bound to die. And I call it a jolly happy release.

I was at Mrs. Mack’s—no, of course, I wasn’t. I’m so used to saying that that it slips out quite naturally. I’m awfully sorry.

Well, I think I will if you don’t mind. [He pours himself out a glass.] I have an idea that sherry’s coming into fashion again.

Look here, I’ve got something to tell you that I’m afraid you won’t very much like. I daresay you’ll think me an awful brute, but I’m bound to say it. [Mrs. Fergusson does not answer, and after a moment’s pause he goes on.] The fact is, I’m not built the proper way for intrigue. All these lies make me awfully uncomfortable. I don’t like to think I’m treating Penelope badly. [Another pause.] I may as well tell you the whole truth bang out. I’ve discovered that I’m desperately in love with Penelope.

[Trying to make it out.] No, no. Of course a man’s a conceited ass who thinks a woman’s in love with him.

It was convenient to have some one to do things for me. I’m a womanly woman and....

For the last month you’ve bored me to extinction. I’ve done everything in my power to show you except say it right out.

[With an amiable smile.] D’you think it would be rude if I described you in your own words as a conceited ass?

It’s a trap! I might have known she wasn’t such a fool as she seemed. She wants to divorce you, and she’s used me. My husband will never stand that.

I can imagine that even the most affectionate husband would draw the line there.

Well, you needn’t get into a state about it. Penelope’s not going to do anything.

Don’t you? It’s very simple. It’s a matter of no importance. She’s glad that I’ve been amused. If she only knew how much amusement I’ve got out of it! She looks upon it in the light of a—of a change of air.

Oh, what a humiliation! I’ve been just a convenience because she had other fish to fry. How sordid it makes the whole thing! And I was yearning for romance. I would never have looked at you if I hadn’t thought she doted on you.

I have an idea that affairs of this sort are only romantic when they happen to other people. When they happen to yourself—well, sordid’s just the word.

You fool! Don’t you see that if she’s charming to me it’s because she thinks she’s prettier than I am, and cleverer than I am, and more fascinating than I am? She doesn’t even despise me, she’s indifferent to me.

[With a little smile, as if she were talking to a child.] Don’t. Don’t cry.

It’s so tiresome of our little sins to look foolish when they’re found out, instead of wicked.

Dry your tears, dear. Uncle Davenport has just come, and he wants to know if it’s respectable to ask you to lunch with him alone.

[With a suspicion of her old manner.] He’s so sympathetic. I’d like to have a heart-to-heart talk with him.

[Advancing gallantly to Mrs. Fergusson.] This is a pleasing surprise. I was under the impression you were in Paris.

It’s too nice of you to say so, but I’m leaving London at once all the same.

He tells me that now I’m quite strong enough for a foreign climate, and, of course, nothing will induce me to remain an hour away from my husband if I’m not obliged to.

Well, you see, there doesn’t happen to be any fighting for him to do just now, and he’s taken a very nice house at Malta. And I shall start to-morrow.

Then would you mind looking after me on the journey? You see, I’m a womanly woman, and I’m quite helpless in the train by myself.

I should look upon it as a privilege. And perhaps we might go to one or two plays while you’re there.

[To Penelope.] Well, dear, I must say good-bye to you. I’m afraid we shan’t meet again for some time.

[To Dickie.] Good-bye. If you hear of anything good on the Stock Exchange, you might let me know. I think I shall cut my loss on Johannesburg and New Jerusalems.

[Shaking hands with Penelope.] Charming creature. So dashing and a thorough gentlewoman.

Then I’m afraid you must go on another time. I’ve got a taxi at the door, and it’s costing twopence a minute.

[Looking at the watch on her wrist.] Good gracious, I’m keeping them waiting.

[Taking both her hands.] Now don’t tease me. Go and take those horrid motor things off, and let’s have a comfortable little tea together. And tell Peyton you’re not at home.

I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid I can’t break an engagement.

[Beginning to be rather perplexed.] But, Pen dear, pull yourself together. I love you just as much as you love me.

[Aghast.] You—you don’t mean to say that you don’t care for me any more?

[Judicially.] I—no longer feel that the world is coming to an end when you go out of the room.

What!... Why don’t you say straight out that you can’t bear the sight of me?

I don’t understand. This is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I always thought you adored me.

Oh, I know I made a fool of myself. I shall never cease to regret it. D’you think I was happy? D’you think I had a jolly time? Not much.... I suppose it’s that. You can’t forgive me?

[With a gesture of desperation.] The whole thing’s Greek to me. I loved you always, Pen. I never ceased for a moment to love you.

My dear, you need not protest so much. It doesn’t very much interest me either way.

What a fool I was! I ought to have known that if you took it so calmly it could only be because you didn’t care. If a woman doesn’t make scenes it can only mean that she doesn’t love you.... You used to love me?

I fancied you’d lost your sense of humour. I was just seeing if I could find it.

I’m very unfortunate. I seem quite unable to please you. I think it’s just as well that I’m going away for a week.

[Smiling.] And are you under the delusion that at your command I shall fall flat on my face?

My dear, since you pay the rent and the taxes it’s quite right that you should rule this house with a rod of iron if you wish it. Personally, at the moment I only want to get out of it.

I think it’s about time I showed you I’m not going to be made a perfect fool of.

[Angrily.] Ugh. [He looks at her.] Now, look here, Pen, be reasonable about it. Why the deuce d’you want to go for this stupid trip?

It’s not the time of year for a motor trip. [Pause. Penelope looks straight in front of her, taking no notice of what he says.] It’ll rain cats and dogs, and you’ll catch a beastly cold. You’ll probably get pneumonia. [Pause.] I’m feeling awfully run down, and I shouldn’t wonder if I were sickening for something myself. [Penelope smothers a giggle and continues to stare into vacancy. Dickie breaks out passionately.] But don’t you see that if I’m preventing you from going, it’s because I can’t bear to let you out of my sight? I want you. I want you always by me. I want you to love me.... Oh, if you only knew how much I love you, you wouldn’t be so heartless.

[Turning to him and speaking quite calmly.] But surely, if you cared for me, you wouldn’t try to deprive me of a little enjoyment. You’d be willing to sacrifice yourself sometimes. You’d have a certain regard for my wishes. You wouldn’t put every absurd obstacle in the way when the chance offers for me to have some amusement.

[In a broken voice.] You’re quite right. I’ve simply been beastly selfish. I was only thinking of myself. I dare say I bore you. Perhaps you’ll like me better when you’ve been away for a few days.

If it’ll give you pleasure to go, I shall be pleased to think you’re happy. I only want you to be happy.

I don’t know what I shall do without you. I feel as if I were only now getting to know you. It’s as though—oh, I don’t know how to express it.

I don’t want to think of myself any more. I want to think only of you. It makes me so happy to think of you, Pen. I want to sacrifice myself.

Then—[she gives him a look from beneath her eye-lashes]—ring and tell her to bring it up again.

Oh, you’re much too good to me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Oh, Pen, if you only knew how much I adore you!

Is there any chance for me at all? D’you think you’ll ever love me as you used to?

Oh, why can’t we go back to the beginning? D’you remember how we loved one another then? You used to come down with me every day when I went out, and when I came back you always ran down to kiss me. And d’you remember how you used to sit on my chair in the morning while I smoked my pipe and we read the paper together?

[Starting up.] Friends! What’s the good of offering me your friendship when I’m starving for your love? How can you make me so unhappy?

[Smiling indulgently.] But I’m not going to make you unhappy. I hope I shall always be very pleasant and agreeable.

And when you are sure of it I suppose you won’t care twopence for me any more?

I never knew that you were so adorable. It fills me with rapture merely to kiss your hands.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PENELOPE: A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Dr. O’Farrell	W. Graham Browne
Professor Golightly	Alfred Bishop
Davenport Barlow	Eric Lewis
Mr. Beadsworth	Herbert Ross
Mr. Anderson	J. H. Brewer
Mrs. Fergusson	Norma Whalley
Mrs. Golightly	Kate Bishop
Mrs. Watson	Mrs. Charles Calvert
Peyton	E. Arthur Jones
Penelope	Marie Tempest

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Penelope: A Comedy in Three Acts

Penelope

CHARACTERS

PENELOPE

THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

THE THIRD ACT

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE