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Title: Three Plays

Author: A. A. Milne

Release date: August 24, 2019 [eBook #60167]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by MWS, David Wilson and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS ***




Produced by MWS, David Wilson and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)









THREE PLAYS




BY THE SAME AUTHOR


  THE DAY’S PLAY
  THE HOLIDAY ROUND
  ONCE A WEEK
  ONCE ON A TIME
  NOT THAT IT MATTERS
  IF I MAY
  FIRST PLAYS
  SECOND PLAYS
  THE SUNNY SIDE
  MR. PIM
  THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY




THREE PLAYS

BY A. A. MILNE


LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS

1923




PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
R. & R. CLARK, LTD., EDINBURGH

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




To DAFF

FOR MAKING THE FAIRY-BOOKS COME TRUE




Applications regarding Amateur Performances of the Plays in this
Volume should be addressed to Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton
Street, Strand, London, W.C.2.




CONTENTS


                              PAGE
  THE GREAT BROXOPP              1
  THE DOVER ROAD                93
  THE TRUTH ABOUT BLAYDS       179


_These plays are printed here in the order in which they were
written._




INTRODUCTION


I wanted not to write an introduction to these three plays, but
circumstances are too strong for me. Yet, after all, what is to be
said but, to the public, “Here they are; like them,” and, to the
critics, “Here they are; fall on them”? But apparently this is not
enough. I must think of something else.

There was a happy time when I was a critic myself. I, too, have lived
in that Arcady. What nights were then! Red-letter nights when the play
was bad, and in one short hour, standing on the body of the dramatist,
I had delivered my funeral oration; black-letter nights when the play
was good, and it took six hours of solid pushing, myself concealed by
the fellow’s person, to place him fairly in the sun. The years slip
away. Yet even now I have something of my old style. Here, lest you
should think I am boasting, is my _Hamlet_. Yes, by the enterprise of
_The Saturday Review_, I was present on that historic first night.
For, lately, this paper stimulated its readers, with promise of
reward, to imagine themselves there as critics, and I brushed up my
old black doublet and went with the others. Interested, you know, in
this young provincial dramatist; hoping against hope that here at last
was the.... However, luckily the play was a bad one, and (proud am I
to say it) I won the prize.


  HAMLET

  Mr. William Shakespeare, whose well-meaning little costume play
  _Hamlet_ was given in London for the first time last week, bears
  a name that is new to us, although we understand, or at least are
  so assured by the management, that he has a considerable local
  reputation in Warwickshire as a sonneteer. Why a writer of
  graceful little sonnets should have the ambition, still less
  conceive himself to have the ability, to create a tragic play
  capable of holding the attention of a London audience for three
  hours, we are unable to imagine. Merely to kill off seven (or was
  it eight?) of the leading characters in a play is not to write a
  tragedy. It is not thus that the great master-dramatists have
  purged our souls with pity and with terror. Mr. Shakespeare, like
  so many other young writers, mistakes violence for power, and, in
  his unfortunate lighter moments, buffoonery for humour. The real
  tragedy of last night was that a writer should so misunderstand
  and misuse the talent given to him.

  For Mr. Shakespeare, one cannot deny, has talent. He has a certain
  pleasing gift of words. Every now and then a neat line catches the
  ear, as when Polonius (well played by Mr. Macready Jones) warns
  his son that “borrowing often loses a man his friends,” or when
  Hamlet himself refers to death as “a shuffling off of this mortal
  toil.” But a succession of neat lines does not make a play. We
  require something more. Our interest must be held throughout: not
  by such well-worn stage devices as the appearance of a ghostly
  apparition, who strikes terror into the hearts only of his
  fellow-actors; not by comic clowning business at a grave-side; but
  by the spiritual development of the characters. Mr. Shakespeare’s
  characters are no more than mouthpieces for his rhythmic musings.
  We can forgive a Prince of Denmark for soliloquising in blank
  verse to the extent of fifty lines, recognising this as a
  legitimate method of giving dignity to a royal pronouncement; but
  what are we to say of a Captain of Infantry who patly finishes off
  a broken line with the exact number of syllables necessary to
  complete the _iambus_? Have such people any semblance to life at
  all? Indeed, the whole play gives us the impression of having been
  written to the order of a manager as a means of displaying this or
  that “line” which, in the language of the day, he can “do just
  now.” Soliloquies (unhampered by the presence of rivals) for the
  popular star, a mad scene for the leading lady (in white), a ghost
  for the electrician, a duel for the Academy-trained fencers, a
  scene in dumb-show for the cinema-trained rank-and-file—our
  author has provided for them all. No doubt there is money in it,
  and a man must live. But frankly we prefer Mr. Shakespeare as a
  writer of sonnets.


So much for Mr. Shakespeare. I differ from him (as you were about
to say) in that I prefer to see my plays printed, and he obviously
preferred to see his acted. People sometimes say to me: “How
beautifully Mary Brown played that part, and wasn’t John Smith’s
creation wonderful, and how tremendously grateful you must be.” She
did; it was; I am. The more I see of actors and actresses at
rehearsals (and it is only at rehearsals of your own plays that you
can see them at all, or learn anything of their art), by so much the
more do I admire, am I amazed by, their skill. There are heights and
depths and breadths and subtleties in acting, still more in producing,
of which the casual playgoer, even the regular playgoer if he only
sees the stage from the front, knows nothing. But the fact remains
that, to the author, the part must always seem better than the player.
That great actor John Smith may “create” the part of Yorick, but the
author created it first, and created it, to his own vision, every bit
as much in flesh and blood as did, later, the actor. You may read the
plays here, and say that this or the other character does not “live,”
meaning by this that you are unable to visualise him, unable to
imagine for yourself, granted the circumstance, a person so acting, so
reacting. Well—“If it be so, so it is, you know”; it is very easy not
to be a great artist; I have failed. But do not believe that, because
a character does not live for you, therefore it does not live for the
author. While we are writing, how can we help seeing the fellow? We
shut our eyes, and he is there; we open them, and he is there; we dip
our pen into the ink-pot, and he is waiting on the edge for us. We
shake him out on to the paper.... Ah, but now he is dead, you say.
Well, well, he lived a moment before.

So when John Smith “creates” the character of Yorick, he creates him
in his own image—John Smith-Yorick; a great character, it may be, to
those who see him thus for the first time, but lacking something to us
who have lived with the other for months. For the other was plain
Yorick—and only himself could play him. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him
well, a fellow of most excellent fancy. Would that you could know him
too! Well, you may find him in the printed page ... or you may not ...
but here only, if anywhere, is he to be found.

                                        A. A. M.




THE GREAT BROXOPP

FOUR CHAPTERS IN HIS LIFE




CHARACTERS


  Broxopp.
  Nancy (_his wife_).
  Jack (_his son_).
  Sir Roger Tenterden.
  Iris Tenterden.
  Honoria Johns.
  Ronald Derwent.
  Norah Field.
  Benham.
  Mary.
  Alice.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Scene is laid in the Broxopp home of the period._

_Twenty-four years pass between Act I. and Act II., eighteen months
between Act II. and Act III., and a year between Act III. and Act IV._

       *       *       *       *       *

The first performance of this play in London took place at the St.
Martin’s Theatre on March 6, 1923, with the following cast:

  _Nancy Broxopp_             Mary Jerrold.
  _Mary_                      Margaret Carter.
  _Broxopp_                   Edmund Gwenn.
  _Benham_                    J. H. Roberts.
  _Alice_                     Gwen Hubbard.
  _Honoria Johns_             Marjorie Gabain.
  _Jack Broxopp_              Ian Hunter.
  _Iris Tenterden_            Faith Celli.
  _Sir Roger Tenterden_       Dawson Milward.
  _Norah Field_               Beatrix Thomson.
  _Ronald Derwent_            Richard Bird.




THE GREAT BROXOPP




ACT I


SCENE: _The GREAT BROXOPP’S lodgings in Bloomsbury; a humble room in
late Victorian days, for BROXOPP has only just begun. He has been
married for six months, and we see NANCY (the dear) at work, while her
husband is looking for it. He is an advertising agent, in the days
when advertising agents did not lunch with peers and newspaper
proprietors. Probably he would prefer to call himself an “adviser to
men of business.” As we see from a large advertisement over the
sideboard—drawn and lettered by hand (NANCY’S)—he has been hoping to
advise SPENLOW on the best way to sell his suspenders. SPENLOW, we are
assured, “gives that natty appearance.” The comfort, says THE GREAT
ONE, in an inspired moment:_

  “_The comfort is immense
    With Spenlow’s great invention!
  Other makes mean Suspense,
    But Spenlow means Suspension!!_”

_Many such inspirations decorate the walls—some accepted, some even
paid for—and NANCY is now making a fair copy of one of them._

_MARY, the Broxopps’ servant—NANCY thought they could do without one,
but the GREAT BROXOPP wanted to be called “Yes, sir,” and insisted on
it—well then, MARY comes in._

       *       *       *       *       *

NANCY (_without looking up_). Yes, Mary?

MARY. It’s about the dinner, ma’am.

NANCY (_with a sigh_). Yes, I was afraid it was. It isn’t a very nice
subject to talk about, is it, Mary?

MARY. Well, ma’am, it has its awkwardness like.

NANCY (_after a pause, but not very hopefully_). How is the joint
looking?

MARY. Well, it’s past looking like anything very much.

NANCY. Well, there’s the bone.

MARY. Yes, there’s the bone.

NANCY (_gaily_). Well, there we are, Mary. Soup.

MARY. If you remember, ma’am, we had soup yesterday.

NANCY (_wistfully_). Couldn’t you—couldn’t you squeeze it again,
Mary?

MARY. It’s past squeezing, ma’am—in this world.

NANCY. I was reading in a book the other day about two people who went
out to dinner one night—they always dine late in books, Mary—and
ordered a grilled bone. It seemed such a funny thing to have, when
they had everything else to choose from. I suppose _our_ bone——?

MARY. Grilling wouldn’t do it no good, ma’am.

NANCY. Well, I suppose we mustn’t blame it. It has been a good joint
to _us_.

MARY. A good stayer, as you might say.

NANCY. Yes. Well, I suppose we shall have to get another.

MARY. Yes, ma’am.

NANCY. Would you look in my purse? (_MARY goes to the sideboard and
opens the purse._) How much is there?

MARY. Three coppers and two stamps, ma’am.

NANCY. Oh! (_Determined to be brave_) Well, that’s fivepence.

MARY. They are halfpenny stamps, ma’am.

NANCY (_utterly undone_). Oh, Mary! What a very unfortunate morning
we’re having. (_Coaxingly_) Well, anyhow it’s fourpence, isn’t it?

MARY. Yes, ma’am.

NANCY. Well, now what can we get for fourpence?

MARY (_stolidly_). A turkey.

NANCY (_laughing with complete happiness_). Oh, Mary, don’t be so
gloomy about it. (_Collapsing into laughter again_) Let’s have two
turkeys—two tuppenny ones.

MARY. It’s enough to make any one gloomy to see a nice gentleman like
Mr. Broxopp and a nice lady like yourself starving in a garret.

NANCY. I don’t know what a garret is, but if this is one, I love
garrets. And we’re not starving; we’ve got fourpence. (_Becoming
practical again_) What about a nice chop?

MARY. It isn’t much for two of you.

NANCY. Three of us, Mary.

MARY. Oh, I can do all right on bread and cheese, ma’am.

NANCY. Well then, so can I. And Jim can have the chop. There! Now let
me get on with my work. (_Contemptuously to herself as she goes on
with her drawing_) Starving! And in a house _full_ of bread and
cheese!

MARY. Mr. Broxopp is not the sort of gentleman to eat a chop while his
wife is only eating a bit of cheese.

NANCY (_with love in her voice and eyes_). No, he isn’t! (_Proudly_)
Isn’t he a _fine_ man, Mary?

MARY. Yes, he’s a real gentleman is Mr. Broxopp. It’s queer he doesn’t
make more money.

NANCY. Well, you see, he’s an artist.

MARY (_surprised_). An artist? Now that’s funny, I’ve never seen him
painting any of his pictures.

NANCY. I don’t mean that sort of an artist. I mean he’s——
(_Wrinkling her forehead_) Now, how did he put it yesterday? He likes
ideas for their own sake. He wants to educate the public up to them.
He doesn’t believe in pandering to the public for money. He’s in
advance of his generation—like all great artists.

MARY (_hopefully_). Yes, ma’am.

NANCY (_pointing to the advertisement of Spenlow’s suspenders_). Now,
there you see what I mean. Now that’s what the artist in Mr. Broxopp
feels that a suspender-advertisement _ought_ to be like. But
Mr. Spenlow doesn’t agree with him. Mr. Spenlow says it’s above the
public’s head. And so he’s rejected Jim’s work. That’s the worst of
trying to work for a man like Mr. Spenlow. He doesn’t understand
artists. Jim says that if _he_ saw an advertisement like that, he’d
buy ten pairs at once, even if he never wore anything but kilts. And
Jim says you can’t work for men like that, and one day he’ll write
advertisements for something of his own.

MARY. Lor, ma’am! Well, I’ve often wondered myself if it was quite
decent for a gentleman like Mr. Broxopp to write about things that
aren’t spoken of in ordinary give-and-take conversation. But then——

NANCY (_with pretty dignity_). That is not the point, Mary. An artist
has no limitations of that sort. And—and you’re interrupting me at my
work.

MARY (_going over to her and just touching her lightly on the
shoulder_). Bless you, dearie, you _are_ fond of him, aren’t you?

NANCY. Oh, I just love him. (_Eagerly_) And he must have that chop to
himself, Mary, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write him a
little note to say I’ve been invited out to dinner—and who do you
think is going to invite me? Why, you! And we’ll have our bread and
cheese together in the kitchen. Won’t that be fun? (_Suddenly looking
tragic_) Oh!

MARY. What’s the matter, ma’am?

NANCY. Why, perhaps he’ll go out again directly after dinner and then
I shan’t have seen him all day! (_After thinking it over_) No, Mary, I
shall have dinner with him. (_Firmly_) But I shall say I’m _not_
hungry. (_There is a sound of whistling on the stairs._) Listen,
there’s Jim! Oh, Mary, go quickly! He hasn’t seen me for such a long
time and he’ll like to find me alone.

MARY (_sympathetically_). _I_ know, ma’am.

                                        [_She goes out._

  (_The GREAT BROXOPP comes in. He wears a tail-coat of the period,
    a wide-awake hat, and a spreading blue tie—“The Broxopp tie” as
    it is called in later years. He is twenty-five at this time, but
    might be any age, an impetuous, enthusiastic, flamboyant, simple
    creature; candid, generous; a gentleman, yet with no manners; an
    artist, yet not without vulgarity. His beliefs are simple. He
    believes in himself and NANCY; but mostly in himself._)

BROXOPP. Nancy!

NANCY. Jim! (_She flies into his arms._)

BROXOPP (_releasing himself and looking at his watch_). Two hours and
twenty minutes since I kissed you, Nancy.

NANCY. Is that all? It seems so much longer.

BROXOPP (_comparing his watch with the clock_). You’re right; I’m a
little slow. It’s two hours and twenty-three minutes. I must have
another one. (_Has one._)

NANCY. Oh, Jim, darling, it’s lovely having you back. But you’re
early, aren’t you? Tell me what’s been happening.

BROXOPP (_trying to speak indifferently_). How do you know anything
has been happening?

NANCY (_excitedly_). Then it _has_! I knew it had! I felt it. Tell me
quickly! (_With a sudden change_) No, don’t tell me quickly, tell me
very, very slowly. Begin from the very beginning when you left here
after breakfast. (_Pleadingly_) Only just tell me first that it _is_
good news.

BROXOPP (_with an air_). Madam, you see in front of you the Great
Broxopp.

NANCY. Yes, but you’ve told me that every day since we’ve been
married.

BROXOPP (_momentarily shaken, but quickly recovering_). But you
believed it! Say you believed it!

NANCY. Of course I did.

BROXOPP (_strutting about the room_). Aha, _she_ knew! She recognised
the Great Broxopp. (_Striking an attitude_) And now the whole world
will know.

NANCY. Is it as wonderful as that?

BROXOPP. It is, Nancy, it is! I have been singing all the way home.
(_Seriously_) Nancy, when we have lots of money I think I shall learn
to sing. An artist like myself requires to give expression to his
feelings in his great moments. Several people on the bus objected to
my singing. I’m afraid they were right.

NANCY (_awed_). Are we going to have lots of money one day? Oh, quick,
tell me—but slowly right from the beginning. (_She arranges his chair
for him._) Or would you rather walk about, dear?

BROXOPP (_sitting down_). Well, I shall probably have to walk about
directly, but—Where are _you_ going to sit?

NANCY (_on the floor at his knees_). Here.

BROXOPP (_earnestly_). Nancy, you must get me out of my habit of
sitting down before you are seated. It isn’t what a gentleman would
do.

NANCY (_patting his hand_). It’s what a husband would do. That’s what
wives are for—to make their husbands comfy.

BROXOPP. Well, dear, never hesitate to tell me any little thing you
notice about me. I never drop my aitches now, do I?

NANCY (_smiling lovingly at him_). Never, darling.

BROXOPP (_complacently_). Very few people could have got out of that
in a year. But then (_raising his hand with a gesture of pride_)
Broxopp is not like—— Dear me, have I been wearing my hat all the
time?

NANCY. Yes, darling, I love you in your hat.

  (_A little upset, BROXOPP takes it off and throws it on the
    floor._)

BROXOPP (_pained_). Darling, you should have told me.

NANCY. I love you so—just as you are. The Great Broxopp. Now then,
begin from the beginning.

BROXOPP (_his confidence recovered_). Well, after breakfast—a
breakfast so enormous that, as I said to you at the time, I probably
shouldn’t require any dinner after it——

NANCY (_hastily_). Yes, darling, but I said it first, and I really
meant it. (_Carelessly_) I don’t know how it is, but somehow I feel I
shan’t be at all hungry for dinner to-day.

BROXOPP. Nancy, what _is_ for dinner to-day?

NANCY (_as though dinner were a small matter in that house_). Oh,
chops, bread and cheese and all that sort of thing. (_Eagerly_) But
never mind dinner now—go on telling me.

BROXOPP. Nancy, look at me and tell me how many chops you have
ordered?

NANCY (_bravely_). I thought perhaps one would be enough for you,
dear, as you weren’t very hungry, and not being hungry myself——

BROXOPP (_jumping up_). I thought so! The Great Broxopp to dine off
one chop! The Great Broxopp’s wife to dine off no chops! (_He leans
against the wall in a magnificent manner, and with a tremendous
flourish produces a five pound note_) Woman, buy five hundred chops!
(_Producing another five pound note with an even greater air_) Five
hundred tons of fried potatoes! (_Flourishing a third note_) Five
million bottles of tomato sauce! (_Thumping his heart_) That’s the
sort of man I am.

NANCY. Jim! Have you earned all this?

BROXOPP (_disparagingly_). Tut! That’s nothing to what is coming.

NANCY. Fifteen pounds! (_Suddenly remembering_) Now what would you
_really_ like for dinner?

BROXOPP (_going over to her and taking her hands_). Nancy, _you_
believed in me all the time. It has been weary waiting for you, but
now—(_answering her question_) I think I should like a kiss.

NANCY (_kissing him and staying very close_). Of course I believed in
you, my wonderful man. And now they’ll all believe in you. (_After a
pause_) Who believed the fifteen pounds? Was it Mr. Spenlow?

BROXOPP. Spenlow? Bah! (_He strides across the room and tears down the
Spenlow advertisements._) Spenlow comes down—like his suspenders.
_Facilis descensus Spenlovi._ (_Dramatically_) I see the man Spenlow
begging his bread from door to door. I see his wife’s stockings
falling in swathes about her ankles. I see——

NANCY. Darling!

BROXOPP. You’re quite right, dear. I’m being vulgar again. And worse
than that—uncharitable. When we are rich, we will ask the Spenlows
to stay with us. We will be kind to them; we will provide them with
suspenders.

NANCY (_bringing him back to the point_). Jim! (_She holds up the
money._) You haven’t told me yet.

BROXOPP (_carelessly_). Oh, that? That was from Fordyce.

NANCY. The Fordyce cheap Restaurants?

BROXOPP. The same. I had an inspiration this morning. I forced my way
into the office of the man Fordyce, and I took him on one side and
whispered winged words into his ear. I said (_dramatically_) “Fordyce
fills you for fivepence.” It will be all over London to-morrow.
“Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” What an arresting thought to a
hungry man!

NANCY. Shall we have dinner there to-day, dear?

BROXOPP. Good heavens, no! It is sufficient that I drag others into
his beastly eating-house. _We_ will dine on champagne, regally.

NANCY. Darling, I know you are an artist and mustn’t be thwarted,
but—there’s the rent—and—and other days coming—and——

BROXOPP (_dropping into his chair again_). Nancy, come and sit on my
knee. (_With suppressed excitement_) Quick, while I’m sitting down. I
shall be wanting to walk about directly. This room is too small for
me. (_She comes to him._) Nancy, it has been a hard struggle for you,
I’m afraid.

NANCY. I’ve loved it, Jim.

BROXOPP. Well, that’s over now. Now the real fun is beginning.
(_Triumphantly_) Nancy, I’m on my own at last. Broxopp is on his own!
(_He puts her down impetuously and jumps up._) I look into the future
and what do I see? I see on every hoarding, I see on the side of every
omnibus, I see dotted among the fields along the great railway routes
these magic words: “BROXOPP’S BEANS FOR BABIES.”

NANCY (_carried away_). Darling!

BROXOPP. Yes! I have begun. And now the world will see what
advertisement can do in the hands of an artist. Broxopp’s Beans for
Babies!

NANCY. But—(_timidly_) do babies like beans?

BROXOPP (_confidently_). They will. I can make them like anything. I
can make them _cry_ for beans. They will lean out of their little
cradles and hold out their little hands and say: “Broxopp. I want
Broxopp. Give me my beans.”

NANCY (_seeing them_). The darlings. (_Business-like_) Now tell me all
about it.

BROXOPP (_really meaning to this time_). It began with—Ah, Nancy, it
began with _you_. I might have known it would. I owe it, like
everything else, to you.

NANCY (_awed_). To me?

BROXOPP. To you. It was the nail-brush.

NANCY. The nail-brush?

BROXOPP. Yes, you told me the other day to buy a nail-brush. (_Looking
at his fingers_) You were quite right. As you said, a gentleman is
known by his hands. I hadn’t thought of it before. Always tell me,
darling. Well, I went into a chemist’s. Fordyce had given me fifteen
guineas. I had the odd shillings in my pocket and I suddenly
remembered. There was a very nice gentlemanly young fellow behind the
counter, and as sometimes happens on these occasions, I got into
conversation with him.

NANCY (_smiling to herself_). Yes, darling.

BROXOPP. I told him something of my outlook on life. I spoke of the
lack of imagination which is the curse of this country, instancing the
man Spenlow as an example of the type with whom we artists had to
deal. He interrupted me to say that he had found it so, too. A patent
food which he had composed in his leisure moments—I broke in hastily.
“Tell me of your food,” I said. “Perhaps,” and I smote my breast,
“perhaps _I_ am the capitalist for whom you look.”

NANCY. The five hundred pounds!

BROXOPP. The five hundred pounds. The nest-egg which I had been
keeping for just such a moment. In a flash I saw that the moment had
come.

NANCY (_a little frightened_). Then we shall never have that five
hundred pounds behind us again.

BROXOPP. But think of the thousands we shall have in front of us!
Millions!

NANCY. We seemed so safe with that in the bank. My little inheritance.
No, darling, I’m not disagreeing. I know you’re quite right. But I’m
just a little frightened. You see, I’m not so brave as you.

BROXOPP. But you will be brave _with_ me? You believe in me?

NANCY. Oh, yes, yes. (_Bravely_) Go on.

BROXOPP (_going on_). He told me about his discovery. A food for
babies. Thomson’s Food for Babies, he called it. (_Scornfully_) No
wonder nobody would look at it. “The name you want on that food,” I
said, “is Broxopp.” Who is Thomson? Anybody. The next man you meet may
be Thomson. But there is only one Broxopp—the Great Broxopp. (_With
an inspired air_) Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!

NANCY (_timidly_). I still don’t quite see why beans.

BROXOPP. Nor did he, Nancy. “Mr. Thomson,” I said, “this is _my_
business. _You_ go about inventing foods. Do I interfere with you? No.
I don’t say that we must have this, that, and the other in it. All I
do is to put it on the market and advertise it. And when I’m doing
that, don’t you interfere with _me_. Why beans? you say. Exactly! I
want the whole of England to ask that question. Beans for Babies—what
an absurd idea! Who _is_ this Broxopp? Once they begin talking like
that, I’ve got them. As for the food—make it up into bean shape and
let them dissolve it. Or no. Leave it as it is. They’ll talk about it
more that way. _Lucus a non lucendo._ Good-morning!”

NANCY. What does _that_ mean?

BROXOPP (_off-handedly_). It’s Latin, dear, for calling a thing black
because it’s white. Thomson understood; he’s an educated man, he’s not
like Spenlow.

NANCY. And do we share the profits with Mr. Thomson?

BROXOPP. He’ll have to take some, of course, because it’s his food. I
shall be generous to him, Nancy; don’t you be afraid of that.

NANCY. I know you will, darling; that’s what I’m afraid of.

BROXOPP (_carelessly_). We shall have an agreement drawn up. (_On fire
to begin._) It will be hard work for the first year. Every penny we
make will have to be used again to advertise it. (_Thumping the
table_) But I can do it! With you helping me, Nancy, I can do it.

NANCY (_adoringly_). You can do it, my man. And oh! how proud I shall
be of helping you.

BROXOPP. And the time will come when the world will be full of Broxopp
Babies! I look into the future and I see—millions of them!

NANCY (_coming very close_). Jim, when I am all alone, then sometimes
I look into the future, too.

BROXOPP (_indulgently_). And what do you see, Nancy?

NANCY. Sometimes I seem to see _one_ little Broxopp baby.

BROXOPP (_with a shout_). Nancy! You mean——

NANCY. Would you like to have a little one of your very own, Jim?

BROXOPP. My darling! It only needed this! (_He takes her in his
arms._)

NANCY. My husband!

BROXOPP (_releasing her_). A Broxopp—to carry on the name! A little
Broxopp! Nancy, he shall be the first, the pioneer of all the Broxopp
Babies! (_Carried away_) I see him—everywhere—sitting in his little
vest——

NANCY (_seeing him too_). His little vest!

BROXOPP. Holding out his little pudgy hand——

NANCY. His little pudgy hand!

BROXOPP. And saying to all the world (_he hesitates, and a sudden
triumphant inspiration gives him the words_) “I am a Broxopp Baby—are
you?”

  (_They gaze eagerly into the future, BROXOPP seeing his million
    babies, NANCY seeing her one._)




ACT II


SCENE: _A sitting-room in the GREAT BROXOPP’S house in Queen’s Gate.
Being the room in which he is generally interviewed, it is handsomely
furnished, as befits a commercial prince. The desk with the telephone
on it, the bookcase, the chairs and sofa, the mantelpiece are all
handsome. But what really attracts your eye is the large picture of
the baby, looking at you over the end of his cot, and saying: “I am a
Broxopp baby—are you?” At least, he says so on the posters; this is
the original, in a suitable gold frame, for which JACK BROXOPP sat
twenty-three years ago._

(_BENHAM, the new butler, is discovered answering the telephone._)

       *       *       *       *       *

BENHAM (_at telephone_). Hello.... Mr. Broxopp is not here for the
moment, sir. Can I take a message?... To ring Mr. Morris up some time
this morning. Yes, sir.... Thank you, sir. (_He walks back to the door
and meets ALICE coming in._)

ALICE. Oh, Mr. Benham, I was looking for you. There’s a young woman,
name of Johns, just come to see the master. Would you wish to show her
up yourself, Mr. Benham? You see we’re not used to a gentleman with us
downstairs. It’s all so new to us. When you were with His Grace——

BENHAM. Who is this young woman?

ALICE (_giving card_). She comes from one of the newspapers.

BENHAM (_reading_). “Miss Honoria Johns. Contributor to _The Queen_
and other leading journals.” (_Contemptuously_) What does she want? An
interview?

ALICE. She didn’t say, Mr. Benham, but I expect that’s what she wants.

BENHAM. I’ll send her away. Bless you, I had to send hundreds of them
away when I was with His Grace.

ALICE (_alarmed_). Oh, but I don’t think Mr. Broxopp would like that.

BENHAM (_staggered_). Do you mean to say that he wants to be
interviewed?

ALICE. Oh, I’m sure he does. But I suppose he’s gone to his office. Oh
no, he hasn’t, because there’s his hat.

BENHAM (_scandalised_). His hat? Has he only got one hat?

ALICE. Only one that he wears. What the papers call the “Broxopp hat.”

BENHAM (_to Heaven_). If anybody had told me a year ago that I should
take service in a house where we only wore one hat—but there! God
moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.

ALICE. Oh, but it isn’t as if Mr. Broxopp was just an ordinary
gentleman. You mustn’t think that, Mr. Benham.

BENHAM. You all make too much of your Mr. Broxopp, my girl. After all,
who is he? What’s his family?

ALICE. Well, there’s only Mr. Jack, of course.

BENHAM (_contemptuously_). Mr. Jack isn’t “family,” my girl. Mr. Jack
is “hissue.” Not but what Mr. Jack is very well in his way. Eton and
Oxford—I’ve nothing to say against that, though I happen to be
Cambridge myself. But who’s the family? Broxopp! There isn’t such a
family.

ALICE. Well, but I’m sure he’s very rich, Mr. Benham.

BENHAM. Rich, yes, but what does he _do_ with his money? Does he hunt
or shoot? Does he entertain? Has he got a country-house?

ALICE (_sticking to it_). I’m sure you couldn’t find a nicer gentleman
than Sir Roger Tenterden who lives next door, and came to dinner here
only last Tuesday with his daughter.

BENHAM. Tenterden? Ah, now that _is_ family, my girl. That’s the best
I’ve heard of your Mr. Broxopp as yet. But you mustn’t stand talking
here all the morning. Just go down and tell that young woman to wait
until I send for her. They’re used to waiting.

ALICE. Yes, Mr. Benham.

                                        [_She goes out._

BENHAM (_picking up hat delicately and putting it down again_). One
hat—and what a hat!

  (_BROXOPP comes in. Very much the BROXOPP that we know, though his
    hair, moustache, and beard are greying slightly, and his face is
    more lined. He still wears a broad-tailed coat and a spreading
    blue tie, though he probably pays more for them nowadays._)

BROXOPP. Well, Benham, what is it?

BENHAM. A gentleman rang up, your Grace—I beg your pardon—“Sir,” I
should have said.

BROXOPP. Call me your Grace if it’s any comfort to you, Benham.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

BROXOPP. Settling down all right?

BENHAM. I am quite comfortable, sir, thank you.

BROXOPP. I’m afraid you feel that you have come down in the world?

BENHAM. In a sense, yes, sir.

BROXOPP. Well, you’ll have to climb up again, Benham, that’s all. Did
you ever read a little book—you can get it at all bookstalls—called
_Broxoppiana_?

BENHAM. In a general way, sir, I read nothing later than Lord Lytton.

BROXOPP (_genially_). Well, this is by Lord Broxopp—a few suggestive
thoughts that have occurred to me from time to time—with photograph.
On page 7 I say this: “Going there is better fun than getting there.”
I’ve got there, Benham. You’re just going there again. I envy you.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.... I wonder if I might take the liberty of
asking your advice, sir, in a matter of some importance to myself.

BROXOPP. Why not?

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

BROXOPP. What is it? You want to get married?

BENHAM (_shocked_). Heaven forbid, sir.

BROXOPP. Well, Benham, I’ve been married twenty-five years, and I’ve
never regretted it.

BENHAM. I suppose one soon gets used to it, sir. What I wanted to take
your advice about, sir, was a little financial matter in which I am
interested.

BROXOPP. Oh!... I’m not sure that you’re wise, Benham.

BENHAM. Wise, sir?

BROXOPP. In asking my advice about little financial matters. I lost
five thousand myself last month.

BENHAM (_alarmed_). Not in West Africans, I trust, sir?

BROXOPP. God knows what it was in. Jack said they were going up.

BENHAM. I’m sure I’m sorry to hear it, sir.

BROXOPP. You needn’t be. That sort of thing doesn’t worry me (_with a
snap of the fingers_) that much. I’d sooner lose five thousand on the
Stock Exchange than lose one customer who might have bought a five
shilling bottle of Broxopp’s Beans, and didn’t. You should speak to
Sir Roger the next time he comes to dinner. He’s gone into the City
lately, and I daresay he can put you on to a good thing.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir. It would be very condescending of him. Would
you like me to brush your hat, sir?

BROXOPP. I should like you to tell me who this gentleman was who rang
up.

BENHAM. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. A Mr. Morris. He wishes you to
communicate with him this morning, sir, if convenient.

BROXOPP. Morris? Ridiculous fellow. All right, Benham.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

  (_He picks up the hat and goes out as BROXOPP goes to the
    telephone._)

BROXOPP (_at telephone_). Central 99199 ... yes.... Is Mr. Morris in?
Broxopp speaking.... Yes.... Hullo, is that you, Mr. Morris? Broxopp
speaking.... Yes, I’ve got your letter.... Oh no, no, no, I don’t care
how good the offer is. I don’t want to sell.... Well, you see, I
happen to be interested in Broxopp’s Beans.... Yes, yes, of course,
but I mean artistically interested. It’s my work, Morris; it’s what I
live for. I am much too fond of it to want to share it with
anybody.... That’s final, Morris.... Well, look here, if your man is
as keen as all that to buy Broxopp’s Beans I’ll tell you what I’ll do.
(_He looks up at NANCY as she comes in, and nods affectionately to
her, and then goes on speaking down the telephone._) I’ll let him have
one of the large bottles for two and ninepence. Ha, ha, ha! (_Greatly
pleased with himself_) Good-bye, Mr. Morris. (_He puts back the
receiver, and says to NANCY_) Morris has a man who wants to buy
Broxopp’s Beans. I said I’d let him have one of the large bottles for
two and ninepence. Rather good, Nancy, wasn’t it? We must put it in
the next edition of _Broxoppiana_. (_Thoughtfully_) I’m not often
funny. (_He kisses her hand and leads her to the sofa._)

NANCY. Dear one ... aren’t you going to the City this morning?

BROXOPP (_on the sofa with her_). I don’t know. There’s not much to do
just now. Besides (_tapping his button-hole_), how could I go?

NANCY (_getting up_). Oh, you baby. Have you been waiting for me to
put that in? (_She goes to a bowl of carnations and takes one out._)

BROXOPP. Well, I couldn’t go without it, could I? Broxopp without his
pink carnation—what would they say in the City? And after you’d put
it in for me for twenty years, how could I put it in for myself?

NANCY (_giving it the final touch_). There!

BROXOPP (_looking from it to her with a satisfied smile_). Now, then,
give me a kiss, and perhaps I’ll go.

NANCY. You’re only a boy still, Jim; much younger than Jack.

BROXOPP. Oh, Jack’s just at the age when they’re oldest. He’ll grow
out of it. Now then, what about that kiss?

NANCY. Keep young, Jim. (_She kisses him and he takes her in his
arms._)

  _Enter BENHAM noiselessly._

BENHAM (_addressing the ceiling_). I beg your pardon, sir. (_They
disengage hastily._) But there’s a young woman called from one of the
newspapers. I think she desires an interview for the journal with
which she is connected. Or something of that nature, sir. (_He hands
BROXOPP her card._)

BROXOPP. Ah, yes. Well, show her up then.

BENHAM. Yes, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

BROXOPP (_indignantly_). What I say is this, Nancy. If a man can’t
kiss his own wife, on his own sofa, without being interrupted, he
isn’t living in a home at all; he’s living in an hotel. Now, I suppose
that the dignified gentleman who has just left us despises us from the
bottom of his heart. His Grace would never have been so vulgar as to
kiss his _own_ wife on the sofa.

NANCY. It doesn’t matter very much, Jim, does it? And I expect we
shall get used to him.

BROXOPP. I don’t know why we ever had the fellow—except that Master
Jack thought it went better with Eton and Oxford. Eton and Oxford—was
that your idea or mine?

NANCY. Yours, dear.

BROXOPP. Oh! Well, the only thing they taught him there was that his
father’s tie was the wrong shape.

NANCY (_carried back as she looks up at the picture_). There never was
a better baby than Jack.

BROXOPP (_looking at the picture too_). Yes, he used to like my tie in
those days. He was never so happy as when he was playing with it.
Funny how they change when they grow up. (_Looking at his watch_) What
are you doing this morning?

NANCY (_getting up_). All right, darling. I’m going. I know you like
being alone for interviews.

BROXOPP (_going to the door with her_). But you must come in, Nancy,
at the end. That went well last time. (_Quoting_) “Ah,” said
Mr. Broxopp, as a middle-aged but still beautiful woman glided into
the room, “here is my wife. My wife,” he went on, with a tender glance
at the still beautiful woman, “to whom I owe all my success.” As he
said these words——

NANCY. Oh, I expect this one won’t write that sort of rubbish.

BROXOPP (_indignantly_). Rubbish? I don’t call that rubbish.

NANCY. Well, then, nonsense, darling. Only—I rather like nonsense.

  (_NANCY goes out. Left alone, the GREAT BROXOPP gets ready. He
    spreads out his tie, fingers his buttonhole, and sees that a
    volume of Shakespeare is well displayed on a chair. Then he sits
    down at his desk and is discovered by MISS JOHNS hard at it._)

BENHAM (_announcing_). Miss Johns.

  (_BENHAM goes out, leaving MISS JOHNS behind; a nervous young
    woman of about thirty, with pince-nez. But BROXOPP is being too
    quick for her. He has whisked the receiver off, and is busy
    saying, “Quite so,” and “Certainly, half a million bottles,” to
    the confusion of the girl at the Exchange._)

BROXOPP. Sit down, Miss Johns, won’t you? If you’ll excuse me just a
moment—(_Down the telephone_) Yes ... yes, C.O.D. of course....
Good-bye. (_He replaces the receiver and turns to her._) Well, Miss
Johns, and what can I do for you?

MISS JOHNS (_nervously_). You saw my card, Mr. Broxopp?

BROXOPP. Did I? Then where did I put it? You’re from——?

MISS JOHNS. Contributor to _The Queen_ and other leading journals.

BROXOPP. Yes, yes, of course. (_Encouragingly_) And you—er——

  (_He comes away from the desk, so that she can see him better. A
    little dazzled, she turns away, looks round the room for
    inspiration, and catches sight of the picture._)

MISS JOHNS (_impulsively_). Oh, Mr. Broxopp, is that IT?

BROXOPP (_proudly_). My boy Jack—Eton and Oxford—when he was a baby.
You’ve seen the posters, of course.

MISS JOHNS. Who hasn’t, Mr. Broxopp?

BROXOPP. I always say I owe half my success to Jack. He was the first
Broxopp baby—and now there are a million of them. I don’t know
whether—er—you——?

MISS JOHNS (_coyly_). Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Broxopp. I’m afraid I
was born a little too soon.

BROXOPP. A pity, a pity. But no doubt your relations——

MISS JOHNS. Oh yes, my nephews and nieces—they are all Broxopp
babies. And then I have always felt specially interested in Broxopp’s
Beans, Mr. Broxopp, because I live in (_archly_) Bloomsbury,
Mr. Broxopp.

BROXOPP. Really? When my wife (_he looks towards the door in case she
should be choosing that very opportune moment to come in_), to whom I
owe all my success—when my wife and I were first married——

MISS JOHNS (_eagerly_). I know, Mr. Broxopp. You see, that’s what
makes me so interested. I live at Number 26, too, in the floor below.

BROXOPP. Now, now, do you really? Well, I declare. That’s very
curious.

MISS JOHNS. I’ve only been there the last few months. But the very
first thing they told me when I took the room was that _the_
Mr. Broxopp had begun his career in that house.

BROXOPP (_pleased_). Ah, they remember!... Yes, that was where I
began. There was a man called Thomson ... but you wouldn’t be
interested in _him_. He dropped out very soon. He had no faith. I
paid him well—I was too generous, my wife said. But it was worth it
to be alone. Ah, Miss Johns, you see me now in my beautiful home,
surrounded by pictures, books—(_He picks up the Shakespeare and reads
the title_) “The Works of Shakespeare” (_and puts it down
again_)—costly furniture—all that money can buy. And perhaps you
envy me. Yet I think I was happier in those old days at Bloomsbury
when I was fighting for my life.... Did you ever read a little book
called _Broxoppiana_?

MISS JOHNS. Now, isn’t that funny, Mr. Broxopp? I bought it only last
Saturday when I was going down to my brother’s in the country.

BROXOPP. Well, you may remember how I say, “Going there is better fun
than getting there.” It’s true, Miss Johns.

MISS JOHNS (_proud of knowing it_). Didn’t Stevenson say something
like that?

BROXOPP (_firmly_). Not in my hearing.

MISS JOHNS. I mean _the_ Stevenson. I think he said, “To travel
hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.”

BROXOPP. Yes—well, that’s another way of putting it. To travel
hopefully is a better thing than to arrive. So Stevenson found it out,
too, did he? Well, he was right.... All those years when I was
building up Broxopp’s Beans I was happy, really happy. I’m a fighter.
I like taking the public by the throat and making them look at me.
That’s over now. I’ve got ’em almost too tame. They come and eat the
Beans out of my hand. And though my success has given me something—a
comfortable home—servants to wait upon me—butlers and what not—the
best authors to read—(_he picks up the Shakespeare and puts it down
again_)—even a son from Eton and Oxford to gladden my old heart—yet
I miss something. I miss the struggle of those early days when my dear
wife and I (_he has another look at the door just in case_) set out
together hand in hand to beat the world. (_Sighing_) Ah, well! (_In a
business-like voice_) Now what can I tell you about myself, Miss
Johns? Pray, don’t be afraid of making any notes that you like.

MISS JOHNS. I shall remember what you said, Mr. Broxopp, without
taking any notes.

BROXOPP. Ah, well, you must please yourself about that. (_Looking at
his watch_) Now, then, I’m waiting for you.

MISS JOHNS. I—— (_She hesitates._)

BROXOPP (_kindly_). Perhaps you’re not used to interviewing? This is
the first time you’ve done it, eh?

MISS JOHNS. Well, I don’t do it, as a rule. And I’m afraid——

BROXOPP. Well, perhaps I can help you with it. You must send me
your manuscript. My wife (_he looks at the door with a frown—what
has happened to her?_) to whom I owe so much, was my first
interviewer—ah, that was many years ago. She picked up a guinea for
it, but that wasn’t the important thing. It was the publicity. “A Talk
with one of our Commercial Princes”—I don’t suppose the Editor had
ever even heard of me. (_Chuckling_) Ah, but we bluffed him. Lord, how
we piled it on. “‘Tell me, Mr. Broxopp,’ I said—” that was my wife.
“Mr. Broxopp leant against his marble mantelpiece—” that was me—“and
fingered the well-known Broxopp tie—” (_indicating it_) same one as
this. “‘Ah, my dear boy,’ he said—” The dear boy was my wife, of
course—she signed herself N. R. Chillingham, her maiden name; you
women weren’t so popular on the Press in those days—we pretended she
was a man. “‘Ah, my dear boy,’ he said, and I shall never forget the
look which came over his rugged face—” my wife didn’t like rugged,
but I insisted; sounded more like a commercial prince—“‘there is only
one secret of success, and that is hard work.’” (_With a sigh_) Ah,
well, those days are over. Happy days! The world seems to have grown
up since then. (_Looking at his watch_) Well, Miss Johns?

MISS JOHNS (_very nervous_). Mr. Broxopp, I don’t know how to tell
you. I didn’t really come to interview you at all to-day.

BROXOPP (_staggered_). But your card——

MISS JOHNS. Oh, I am on the Press, and please, Mr. Broxopp, I shall
certainly write an article—perhaps two articles—about what you’ve
told me, and I do live in the house where you used to live, and I was
so interested in you, but—— (_She hesitates._)

BROXOPP (_mollified by the two articles_). Well?

MISS JOHNS (_making another effort_). You see, I used to live with my
brother in the country. And he has a small farm. And then I came to
London. And he has invented a chicken food and it is so good, and I
told him I’d ask you if—— You see, I felt that I knew you because of
where I lived—I wondered—(_Taking the plunge_) Mr. Broxopp, did you
ever think of doing anything besides Broxopp’s Beans?

BROXOPP (_nodding to himself_). You wondered if I’d take up this food?
Put it on the market? Boom it?

MISS JOHNS. Oh yes!

  (_He thinks it over and then shakes his head slowly._)

BROXOPP. You’re too late, Miss Johns.

MISS JOHNS. Oh, has somebody else——

BROXOPP. Twenty-four years too late. Now, if you’d come to me
twenty-four years ago——

MISS JOHNS. But I was only six then. (_Hastily_) I mean, about six.

BROXOPP. Yes, if you’d come to me then—— (_Thoughtfully_) Broxopp’s
Beans for Brahmas—Yes, I would have made that go. But not now. It
wouldn’t be fair to the babies. I couldn’t do ’em both justice. (_More
to himself than to her_) You see, Broxopp’s Beans for Babies—it isn’t
just my living, it’s my whole life.

MISS JOHNS (_getting up_). I’m afraid I oughtn’t to have mentioned it.

BROXOPP. Oh, that’s all right. You’ll never get on if you don’t
mention things. (_Shaking hands_) Well, good-bye. Mind, I shall expect
to see that article—two, didn’t you say? And if there’s anything else
you want to know—— (_He stops beneath the picture on his way with
her to the door_) A pretty baby, wasn’t he?

MISS JOHNS. Lovely!

BROXOPP. Yes, my wife and I—— (_The door begins to open_) Ah, here
she is. (_He keeps his attention on the picture_) Nancy, we were just
looking—— Hullo, Jack!

JACK (_coming in_). Sorry. Are you engaged? (_He sees them beneath
that beastly picture, and a look of resigned despair comes into his
face—he shrugs his shoulders._)

BROXOPP (_to MISS JOHNS_). My boy Jack. Eton and Oxford.

  (_And he looks it, too—except perhaps for his hair, which is just
    a little more in keeping with his artistic future than his
    educational past._)

MISS JOHNS (_now completely upset_). How do you do? It’s so nice to
see the—I mean, we were just looking—but I mustn’t keep you,
Mr. Broxopp—and thank you so much, and I’m so sorry that you—but of
course I quite understand. Good-bye! Good-bye! (_And she hurries
out._)

JACK (_strolling towards the sofa_). Bit nervous, isn’t she?

BROXOPP. You frightened her.

JACK (_sitting down_). Fleet Street—and all that?

BROXOPP. Yes. (_Looking round the room_) Where’s my hat?

JACK. I say, you’re not going?

BROXOPP. Must. Got to work, Jack. (_Looking at him mischievously_)
When are you going to begin?

JACK (_airily_). Oh, as soon as I’ve got the studio fixed up.

BROXOPP. You still want to be an artist?

JACK. Well, dash it, I’ve only just begun wanting. You’ve had
twenty-five years of Broxopp’s Beans—and—and I suppose you still
want to go on, don’t you?

BROXOPP (_smiling_). Well, that’s true. Where’s my hat?

JACK. I say, never mind about that beastly hat. You’ve got to stay at
home this morning. I want to talk to you.

BROXOPP (_looking up from his search_). Hullo, boy, what’s the matter?

JACK. I say, do sit down—I keep losing sight of you. (_BROXOPP sits
down obediently._) That’s better.

BROXOPP. Well?

JACK (_defensively_). Well?

BROXOPP. What’s happened?

JACK. What do you mean—happened?

BROXOPP. Well, what is it you want to tell me?

JACK. I didn’t say I wanted to tell you anything. I just said, “Let’s
have a talk.” I don’t see why a father and a son shouldn’t have a
little talk together sometimes.

BROXOPP. Neither do I, Jack. Only I thought perhaps it wasn’t done.
Bad form and all that.

JACK. Oh, rot!

BROXOPP. You see, I don’t want you to be ashamed of me.

JACK (_uneasily_). I say, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.

BROXOPP. Oh, but I mean it. You see, I’m very proud of _you_, Jack.

JACK (_with a smile_). You’re much prouder of your blessed beans,
aren’t you? Own up.

BROXOPP. Well, you were born about the same time, but I’ve always had
more control over the beans.

JACK (_nervously_). You know, I rather wonder sometimes, now that
we’ve decided that I’m not going into the business, that you don’t
chuck it yourself, and retire into the country. It’s worth a good bit,
I should think, if you did want to sell it.

BROXOPP. Would you invest the money for me?

JACK (_with a smile_). Well, I own I had a bit of rotten luck last
time, but I daresay I’d do it as well as you would.

BROXOPP. That’s not saying much. I don’t profess to watch the markets.

JACK. Neither do I, only young Archie happened to say that he’d heard
from a man whose uncle knew a fellow who—— Well, it just didn’t come
off, that’s all. But Sir Roger knows all about that sort of thing.
He’d do it for you.

BROXOPP. Well, if I ever do want to sell it, I daresay I’ll consult
Sir Roger, but that won’t be for a long time yet. (_He gets up_)
Well——

JACK (jumping up hastily). No, look here, you mustn’t go yet. We’ve
only just begun to talk. (_Pushing him back into his chair_) That’s
right.

BROXOPP (_good-humouredly_). Is this a conspiracy to keep me away from
the office, or what?

JACK (_plunging at it_). Dad, you see before you the happiest man in
the world——

BROXOPP (_surprised_). Oh!

JACK. Only, it’s dashed difficult. (_Having another shot_) What do you
think Mother’s doing at this moment?

BROXOPP. Just what I’ve been wondering. I wanted her in here.

JACK. Yes, well, she’s upstairs, introducing herself to her future
daughter-in-law.

BROXOPP. Jack! Who?

JACK. Iris Tenterden. (_But he can’t help being self-conscious about
it._)

BROXOPP (_eagerly_). My dearest Jack! So that’s what you’ve been
trying to get out all this time! (_He comes forward with both hands
held out_) But I’m delighted!

JACK (_more moved than he cares to show_). Thanks, Dad!

BROXOPP (_pulling himself up humorously_). Tut, tut, I was forgetting.
(_Formally_) May I congratulate you, Mr. Broxopp?

JACK (_smiling_). Silly old ass!

BROXOPP (_sitting on the sofa with him_). But this is wonderful news.
Why aren’t you more excited? (_Apologetically_) I mean as excited as
Eton and Oxford will permit?

JACK. You do like her?

BROXOPP. Certainly. She has a way of—a way of——Well, I can’t put it
into words, Jack, but she’s the only one of your friends who has told
me frankly that she doesn’t like my tie. The others try to convey the
impression that I’m not wearing a tie at all—that I am in Holy
Orders, or if not in Holy Orders, have a very large beard which——
(_He indicates with his hand how such a beard would completely cover
his tie._)

JACK. Well, but your tie is a bit—well, _you_ know, I mean frankly,
isn’t it?

BROXOPP (_smiling_). Yes, but so am I a bit—well, _you_ know, I mean
frankly, isn’t it? If I hadn’t been, you would never have gone to Eton
and Oxford. But don’t think I don’t like Iris. I do—immensely. Well,
if you’re as happy together as Nancy and I have been, you’ll do.
Twenty-five years, Jack, and I always say that——

JACK. Good old Dad. She’s a ripper, isn’t she?

BROXOPP. She’ll do you a lot of good. But tell me more about it. When
did you first discover that she was—a ripper?

JACK. Oh, months ago, but we only fixed it up at that dance last
night. I pushed round this morning to see Sir Roger and talk things
over. He’s coming round for a pow-wow directly.

BROXOPP. My boy married! And it seems only yesterday that your mother
and I were just beginning to keep house together, and there was no
Jack at all.

JACK. Well, of course, it seems longer ago than that to me.

BROXOPP (_looking at the picture_). “I am a Broxopp baby, are you?”
Perhaps one of these days there may be——

JACK. Steady on, Dad. You’re not going to talk to Iris like that, I
hope.

BROXOPP (_with a laugh_). I shall be strictly proper and respectable,
my boy. Not a word shall escape my lips of which you would disapprove.

JACK. You know what I mean. When a young girl has only just got
engaged, you don’t want to start talking about——

BROXOPP. Say no more. And so Sir Roger is coming round too, is he?

JACK. Yes.

BROXOPP. What does _he_ say about it?

JACK (_knowing that it’s got to come now_). Well, that’s just it. You
see Iris and I—I mean he and I—well, of course I always thought
so—I mean I don’t want you to think that Iris—though naturally she
agrees with me—well, we think, I mean I think—oh, thank the
Lord—here _is_ Iris.

  (_IRIS comes in with NANCY—tall, cool, confident, with something
    of the boy in her; utterly honest and unafraid. But even if you
    don’t like these qualities, you forgive her because she is
    lovely._)

NANCY. Jack’s told you, Jim?

BROXOPP. Yes, the rascal. Iris! (_He holds out his hands to her._)

IRIS (_taking them_). Daddy Broxopp! Bend down. (_He bends towards her
and she kisses him gently on the forehead._) There! You don’t mind
being called Daddy Broxopp? Nancy doesn’t mind; I mean being called
Nancy. I’ve been talking it over with her, and she’s going to let me
call her Nancy because she’s so young and pretty.

BROXOPP (_enjoying it_). And I’m not young and pretty?

IRIS. No, you’re middle-aged and Broxoppy. It’s a nice thing to be.

BROXOPP (_taking her hands again_). Thank you for thinking her young
and pretty.

NANCY. I don’t feel very young, with a big son wanting to get married.

IRIS. He? He’s only a baby. (_She blows a kiss to the picture._)

JACK (_resigned_). Oh, Lord!

BROXOPP. Well, Iris, if you’re as happy together as Nancy and I have
been, you’ll do. Twenty-five years we have been married, and I always
say that if it hadn’t been for Nancy——

NANCY (_stopping him_). Yes, dear.

IRIS. If it hadn’t been for Nancy, there wouldn’t have been a Jack for
me to marry.

BROXOPP (_joining in the general laughter_). Well, that’s true. And
what does Sir Roger say about it? (_The laughter stops suddenly. JACK
and IRIS look at each other._) Hullo, he does say something about it?

NANCY. I think we’d better sit down, darling, and——

  (_She leads the way to the sofa. They sit down._)

BROXOPP. Well, what is it? Jack’s been trying to get something out for
the last five minutes.

IRIS. Jack, you’re a coward. I wasn’t. I told Nancy.

JACK. Oh, all right then.... Look here, Dad, you’ll think me a beast
for what I’m going to say, but I want you and Mother to understand
that it’s not just a sudden idea put into my head by—(_he looks at
IRIS and goes on_) by Sir Roger, but it’s what I’ve felt for years.

BROXOPP. Well?

  (_NANCY takes his hand and presses it._)

JACK. Well, then—I’m—I’m—— (_From the heart_) Well, I’m simply
_fed up_ with Broxopp’s Beans.

BROXOPP (_surprised_). But you haven’t had them since you were a baby.

JACK (_seeing the opening_). Haven’t had them? Have I ever stopped
having them? Weren’t they rammed down my throat at school till I was
sick of them? Did they ever stop pulling my leg about them at Oxford?
Can I go anywhere without seeing that beastly poster—a poster of
me—me, if you please—practically naked—telling everybody that I
love my Beans. Don’t I see my name—Broxopp, Broxopp,
Broxopp—everywhere in every size of lettering—on every omnibus,
on every hoarding; spelt out in three colours at
night—B-R-O-X-O-P-P—until I can hardly bear the sight of it. Free
bottles given away on my birthday, free holidays for Broxopp mothers
to celebrate my coming of age! I’m not a man at all. I’m just a living
advertisement of Beans.

BROXOPP (_quietly_). I think that’s putting it a little too strongly,
Jack.

  (_NANCY presses his hand and strokes it gently._)

JACK. I know it is, but that’s how I’ve felt sometimes. Of course I
know that if it hadn’t been for Broxopp, I’d be sitting on a high
stool and lucky to earn thirty bob a week. But you must see my side of
it, Dad. I want to paint. How can any one called Broxopp be taken
seriously as an artist? How can I make any sort of name with all those
Beans and babies overshadowing me and keeping me out of the light? I
don’t say I’m ever going to be a great painter, but how do I stand a
chance as things are? “Have you seen the new Broxopp?” What’s that
going to mean to anybody? Not that I’ve painted a picture, but that
you’ve brought out a new-sized bottle, or a full strength for
Invalids, or something.

BROXOPP. I think you exaggerate, Jack.

JACK. I know I do. But you can’t get over it that it’s going to be
pretty rotten for me. It’s always been rotten for _me_—and now it’s
going to be rotten for Iris.

BROXOPP. Is it, Iris? You’d tell me the truth, I know.

IRIS. I want to marry Jack, Daddy Broxopp. But I don’t want to marry
the Beans. I told Nancy so.

NANCY (_to BROXOPP_). I do understand, dear.

JACK. I don’t want you to think that Iris put this into my head. It’s
always been there.

IRIS (_frankly_). I expect I brought it out, though.

BROXOPP. And what does Sir Roger say about it?

JACK. Sir Roger says that his grandson is not going to have a name
that every Tom, Dick and Harry gapes at on the hoardings.

IRIS. I ought to explain that Jack wants to marry _me_, not Father’s
way of expressing himself. I told Father so.

JACK. Still, you do see his—well, our point of view? Don’t you, Dad?

NANCY. Oh yes, dear.

BROXOPP. Certainly, my boy.

JACK (_relieved_). Good man. I thought you would.

BROXOPP (_getting up_). The only thing I’m wondering is whether there
is any chance of your seeing mine.

JACK (_surprised_). Yours?

BROXOPP (_on his own hearth—THE GREAT BROXOPP—but speaking
quietly_). I was educated at a Board school, Iris—I daresay you’ve
noticed it. I used to drop my aitches—I don’t think you’ve noticed
that—Nancy got me out of it. I wear funny clothes—partly because it
is in keeping with the name I have made for myself; partly, I daresay,
because I’ve got no taste. But, you see, at fourteen, the age at which
Jack went to Eton, I was earning my own living. I took a resolve then.
I told myself that one day I would make my name of Broxopp famous. I
made it famous. My name; Broxopp. Well, that’s all. That’s my point of
view. But don’t think I don’t see yours.

  (_IRIS looks at him wonderingly and then goes over and sits by
    NANCY’S side._)

IRIS. You must be very, very proud of him.

NANCY. I am, dear; he knows it.

JACK (_miserably_). Well, of course, when you talk like that, you only
make me feel an utter beast.

IRIS (_with a sigh_). The only thing is that the utter beast feeling
might pass off. Whereas the feeling about Broxopp’s Beans never will.
It’s a rotten thing to say, but I expect it’s true.

  (_There is a moment’s silence, broken by the arrival of SIR ROGER
    TENTERDEN. He is a magnificent-looking man, with a military
    moustache and tight-fitting black tail-coat with a light
    waistcoat. His manner is superb—the sort of manner that can
    borrow a thousand pounds from anybody and leave the creditor with
    the feeling that he has had a favour conferred upon him. He is an
    intense egotist, although his company does not always realise it._

  _The three BROXOPPS are distinctly overawed by him; JACK, of
    course, less than the other two._)

BENHAM (_enjoying it_). Sir Roger Tenterden!

                                        [_Exit BENHAM._

TENTERDEN. How do you do, Mrs.—ah—Broxopp? (_Metaphorically they all
stand to attention._)

NANCY. How do you do, Sir Roger?

TENTERDEN. How do, Broxopp? Ah, Jack—Iris.

NANCY. Where will you sit, Sir Roger?

TENTERDEN. Don’t trouble, I beg you. (_The best chair is ready for
him._) I shall be all right here. (_He sits down._) You will forgive
me for intruding upon you in the morning, but having just heard the
great news—well, we must congratulate each other—eh, Mrs. Broxopp?
(_He smiles pleasantly at her._)

NANCY (_smiling too_). Indeed, we must.

BROXOPP (_flattered_). That’s very good of you, Sir Roger. I need
hardly say how delighted I am that Jack and—er—your Iris should
have——

TENTERDEN. Quite so, quite so. Well, they’ve fixed it up between
themselves without consulting _us_, Mrs. Broxopp—quite right too, eh,
Iris?—eh, Jack?—(_he gives them his pleasant smile_)—but we old
people must come in at the end and have our say. Eh, Broxopp?

BROXOPP. Very glad to talk over anything you like, Sir Roger. Of
course, I should give Jack a suitable allowance——

TENTERDEN (_holding up a protesting hand_). Ah, well—that—I have no
doubt whatever—I, too, would see that my daughter—but all that can
be arranged later. That goes without saying. But naturally there are
also other matters which will require to be discussed. I don’t know if
Jack——

IRIS. You mean about the Beans? I told Daddy Broxopp.

TENTERDEN (_blankly_). You told—ah?

IRIS. Daddy Broxopp.

BROXOPP (_with a proud smile_). What she is pleased to call me, Sir
Roger.

TENTERDEN. Oh—ah—yes. Quite so. Well there, we all understand the
position. (_With his pleasant smile_) That clears the ground, doesn’t
it, Mrs. Broxopp?

NANCY. It’s much better to have things out.

TENTERDEN. You put it admirably. It was with that purpose that I came
round this morning. Jack had given me a hint of his feelings
and—well, naturally, I had my feelings, too. It is a matter which,
after all, concerns me very closely.

BROXOPP (_puzzled_). Yes?

TENTERDEN. Surely, my dear Broxopp! Iris’s child, Jack’s child, would
be—_my_ grandson!

IRIS. Father always looks well ahead. They have to in the City—don’t
they, Father?

TENTERDEN (_kindly_). My dear Iris, we have to do many things in the
City, as Mr. Broxopp knows——

BROXOPP. Oh, I know nothing of your part of the City. I’m not a
financier. It’s no good coming to _me_ for a good investment.

TENTERDEN (_with a bow_). Then may I hope that you will come to me if
ever you should want one?

BROXOPP (_taken aback_). Thank you. It’s very good of you, Sir Roger.

TENTERDEN. Not at all. But I was saying that we need not talk about
the City now. In all walks of life we have to look ahead. And I have
to ask myself this, Mrs. Broxopp. Is “Roger Broxopp” a desirable name
for—my grandson?

IRIS (_to JACK_). Father’s got as far as the christening now. I shall
have another baby directly.

JACK (_miserably_). I wish he wouldn’t.

BROXOPP. I see your point of view, Sir Roger. Don’t think that I don’t
see it.

TENTERDEN (_bowing_). That is very generous of you. And I think it is
important. There is—ah—a poster to which my attention has naturally
been called, saying—ah—“I am a Broxopp baby, are you?” I think——
(_He looks enquiringly at BROXOPP._)

BROXOPP. That’s right, Sir Roger. I thought of that twenty-five years
ago. Do you remember, Nancy?

NANCY (_pressing his hand_). I remember, Jim.

TENTERDEN. An excellent poster for its purpose, I have no doubt,
Mrs. Broxopp. An excellent picture, no doubt, of Master Jack at that
age. (_He smiles at JACK._) But seeing that all babies are pretty much
alike——

NANCY (_quickly_). Oh no!

TENTERDEN (_with a charming bow_). Who would contradict a woman on
such a question? Let me say rather that since, to the undiscerning
male, all babies are alike, there would be the danger, the very
serious danger, that people might suppose the words beneath the
picture to have been uttered by—(_he pauses dramatically_) my
grandson!

IRIS. Roger Broxopp.

TENTERDEN. Exactly. A Broxopp baby. (_To BROXOPP_) Of course I am
saying nothing against the food, which is, I am sure, admirably suited
for its purpose. I am merely looking at the matter in the interests
of—my grandson.

BROXOPP. Quite so, Sir Roger, quite so. You see that, Nancy?

NANCY. Oh yes, dear.

TENTERDEN. Well, my friend Jack has been talking it over with me. I
think we agree that for Mr. Broxopp to retire from the business—and I
am sure he has well earned his rest after all these years of strenuous
work—for him to retire and settle down in the country, would not
altogether meet the case. The name of Broxopp would continue with the
business—one could not get away from it. (_To BROXOPP_) I think I am
right in saying that?

BROXOPP. Undoubtedly, Sir Roger. The name _is_ the business.

TENTERDEN. That was my view. So our friend Jack and I think that
something more must be done. A question merely of another name. He
has suggested, my dear Mrs. Broxopp (_with a bow_), your name,
Chillingham.

BROXOPP. I don’t quite understand.

TENTERDEN. Merely that you should start your new life—freed from the
cares of business—as—ah—Chillingham.

BROXOPP. Oh!

IRIS (_to herself_). Roger Chillingham.

TENTERDEN (_charmingly to NANCY_). A name I should be proud for my
grandson to bear. I seem to remember a Chillingham in the Coldstream
with me years ago. Are yours military people?

NANCY (_eagerly_). Oh yes! My father was a sergeant-major in the
Wiltshires.

TENTERDEN (_bearing it gallantly_). Ah! A younger branch, no doubt.
But it is a good name, Chillingham. After all, why should the wife
always take the husband’s name? Eh, Mrs. Broxopp? Why should not the
husband take the wife’s, the son take the mother’s.... Jack
Chillingham to Iris Tenterden. And a handsome couple, are they not? I
shall be proud of my grandson.

IRIS (_amused, as always, by her father_). Say something, Jack. A few
words of thanks.

TENTERDEN. You agree with me, Jack?

JACK (_mumbling_). I’ve been telling Father.

BROXOPP. Of course, I quite see your point of view, Sir Roger. Don’t
think that I don’t see it perfectly. _You_ see it, don’t you, Nancy?

NANCY. Oh yes, dear. I should be very proud for you to take my name.
Just as I was very proud to take yours.

TENTERDEN. Charmingly put, Mrs. Broxopp. But alas! It is no longer
your husband’s name. He has been too generous with it. He has given it
to the world. That is what I have to think of—for my grandson. (_He
gets up_) Well, Mrs. Broxopp, I have to thank you for listening to me
so courteously, and I need not tell you how glad I am that we see eye
to eye in this matter. Broxopp, we must have a talk some day in the
City. And if I can be of any assistance to you in the matter of your
investments, or in any other particular, pray regard me as entirely at
your service.

BROXOPP. It’s very good of you, Sir Roger.

TENTERDEN. Not at all. Jack, you’re dining with us to-night, I
understand. If you can spare him, Mrs. Broxopp. Well, I must get along
to the City. Busy times just now. Good-bye, and again my apologies for
interrupting your morning.

NANCY. Good-bye, Sir Roger. (_She rings the bell._)

TENTERDEN. Then I shall be seeing you one of these days, Broxopp.
Good-bye! (_He goes beautifully out._)

  (_There is silence after he has gone. The BROXOPPS are a little
    overwhelmed._

  _Then BROXOPP goes over to the fireplace, and stands with his back
    to it. In this position he feels more like himself._)

BROXOPP. Well, Jack?

  (_JACK says nothing. IRIS goes over to NANCY and sits beside
    her._)

IRIS. He’s a little overwhelming, isn’t he? But you get used to
it—and then you aren’t overwhelmed.

NANCY. Iris!

IRIS. Nancy thinks I’m too modern. She’s afraid that when we go out
together, everybody will say, “What a very fast creature
Mrs. Broxopp’s elder sister is!”

BROXOPP. Mrs. Chillingham’s elder sister, isn’t it?

IRIS. So it is, Daddy Chillingham.

JACK (_getting firmly to his feet_). Look here, Dad, if you don’t
change yours, I don’t change mine. But if you think you have given the
Beans a good run for their money, and you like to sell out and settle
down in the country as Chillingham, well, I’ll say thank you. Iris and
I have got precious little right to ask it, and Sir Roger has got no
right at all——

IRIS (_rising and protesting in the TENTERDEN manner_). Surely, my
dear Broxopp, I have a right to consider—my grandson!

JACK. Shut up, Iris, for a moment—no right at all, but—but I’ll
thank you. Only I’m not going to be Chillingham while you and Mother
are Broxopp. I’ve made up my mind about that.

IRIS. And I’m not going to be Tenterden while all of you are
Chillingham. I’ve made up my mind about that.

BROXOPP. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t keep on the business as
Chillingham?

JACK (_doubtfully_). N—no.

IRIS. As long as you make Jack a good allowance.

JACK. Shut up, Iris.

IRIS. Well, that’s what it comes to, darling. We may as well be honest
about it.

NANCY (_to IRIS_). Don’t make it too hard for him. And, of course, Jim
will make him an allowance until his painting brings him in enough for
both of you.

BROXOPP (_after a pause_). Jack, does Eton and Oxford allow you to
kiss Iris sometimes?

IRIS. _I_ allow him to.

BROXOPP. Well, there’s an empty drawing-room upstairs. You will
probably be interrupted by a gentleman called Benham. But if you tell
him you aren’t married to each other, he won’t mind.

JACK (_awkwardly_). Oh, it’s all right—very decent of you, but——

IRIS (_getting up and taking him firmly by the arm_). Come along.

JACK. Yes, but hadn’t we better——

IRIS. Jack, do you really think Daddy Broxopp is being tactful?

JACK. Well, of course it’s——

IRIS. Oh, my dear, we aren’t the only pair of lovers in the house.
Can’t you see that _they_ want to be alone?

JACK (_stuttering_). Oh—oh! (_She leads him away._)

BROXOPP (_smiling_). She’ll teach you a lot, my boy.

IRIS (_stopping beneath the picture with the unwilling JACK_).
Good-bye, Baby Broxopp!

  (_She blows a kiss to it and they go out. BROXOPP goes over to
    his wife and sits on the sofa with her. She takes his hand._)

NANCY. Darling, do you mind very much?

BROXOPP. I wonder if Jack’s painting is ever going to come to
anything.

NANCY. He must find that out for himself, mustn’t he? We can’t help
him.

BROXOPP. Iris is a fine girl; I like a girl who tells the truth.

NANCY (_smiling to herself_). I don’t think you’d have liked her to
write your advertisements.

BROXOPP (_chuckling_). Well done, Nancy. You’ve got me there.

NANCY. Say you liked me doing them.

BROXOPP (_gravely_). I liked you doing them. I’ve liked everything
you’ve ever done for me.... All the same, Nancy, we _were_ truthful.
Artistically truthful. An artist is a man who knows what to leave out.
Did I say that in _Broxoppiana_? (_Remembering suddenly that there
will never be another edition_) Oh, well, it doesn’t matter now.

NANCY. You won’t mind very much? We’ve had our time. It’s Jack’s time
now.

BROXOPP. Yes, we’ve had our time. Twenty-five years. After all, we’ve
had the best of the fun, Nancy. Sir Roger is quite right about the
name. It has been a handicap to Jack—I can see it now. It mustn’t be
a handicap to Jack’s son.

NANCY. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t keep on with the business
if you like.

BROXOPP (_doubtfully_). I don’t think Sir Roger——

NANCY. But it’s for _you_ to decide.

BROXOPP (_jumping up_). No, I’ll do the thing handsomely! You didn’t
marry a baronet, Nancy, an old county name, but there’s a Broxopp way
as well as a Tenterden way. I do my things the Broxopp way, and the
Great Broxopp is not the man for half-measures. We’ll make a clean
sweep of it all. We’ll rest—you and I together in the
country—Mr. and Mrs. Chillingham. You’ve given me everything, you
won’t mind giving me your name?

NANCY (_entranced by him_). Jim, you _are_ the Great Broxopp!

BROXOPP (_entranced by himself_). I am! (_He takes her hands and lifts
her out of the sofa._) Propose to me, Nancy!

NANCY (_shyly_). Jim, I love you; will you marry me and live with me
in the country and take my name?

BROXOPP. I will. (_He kisses her, puts her back in the sofa and goes
to the telephone. It is good-bye now to the Beans._) Central 99199....
Hullo, is Mr. Morris in? Broxopp speaking ... _Broxopp_ speaking....
Good heavens, haven’t you ever heard the name of Broxopp before? For
the last time—(_he looks up at NANCY_) for the last time,
Nancy—(_down the telephone very firmly_) Broxopp speaking!




ACT III


SCENE: _The big hall in the country place which MR. CHILLINGHAM (né
BROXOPP) has bought. Through the open front doors can be seen a hint
of the drive and the park beyond. It was JACK who chose it, and he has
done the GREAT BROXOPP rather well; there was no such view from that
third floor in Bloomsbury._

_It is about four o’clock in the afternoon. Hidden away in a big
arm-chair sits NORAH FIELD, deep in a book. She is about twenty, wears
a very short tweed skirt and very serviceable country shoes, has very
decided opinions, and no hesitation at all about expressing them.
RONNY DERWENT comes in. RONNY is also twenty, but younger than NORAH,
and with no views on life other than that one’s hair ought to be kept
well down. Without seeing NORAH, he rings the bell, and lights a
cigarette while waiting for BENHAM to attend to him._

  _Enter BENHAM_

       *       *       *       *       *

RONNY. Oh, I want a whisky and soda, please, Benham.

BENHAM. Yes, sir.

NORAH (_from her chair_). You don’t really want one, Ronny.

RONNY. Good Lord! I didn’t know you were there.

NORAH. Mr. Derwent won’t have a whisky and soda, Benham; you can get
him a glass of water if he’s thirsty.

RONNY. Look here, Norah—— (_She looks at him, and he ends up
weakly_) Oh, very well.

BENHAM. Will you have the glass of water, sir?

RONNY (_sulkily_). No, thanks.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

                                        [_BENHAM goes out._

RONNY. I didn’t know you were here, Norah. All the same, I don’t know
why I shouldn’t have a drink if I want one.

NORAH. I can’t stand the way you children are always wanting to drink.
You’ve done nothing to make you thirsty.

RONNY. If you knew a bit more, you’d know that it’s doing nothing that
makes you thirsty. Talk to me and I’ll struggle on without it. What
are you reading?

NORAH. Nobody you’ve ever heard of, Ronny. A man called Meredith.

RONNY. Oh! Any good?

NORAH (_looking at him with a smile_). In his way. A different way
from the _Winning Post_, you know.

RONNY (_wanting to be fair_). Oh, well, there’s no accounting for
tastes. Now, what do you think I found old man Chillingham reading
last night?

NORAH (_returning to her book_). Don’t know.

RONNY. _Broxoppiana_. Ever heard of it?

NORAH. I’ve seen it on the bookstalls.

RONNY. _Broxoppiana_. That’s the name of the heroine, I suppose. And
no better than she should be, if you ask _me_, because, when old man
Chillingham saw I was looking, he slipped the book into his pocket and
pretended to be very busy over another one.

NORAH. And I suppose you looked over his shoulder and found out what
that one was too?

RONNY. Well, if you want to know, I didn’t. I knew what it was
without looking over his shoulder. It was _The Science of Dry Fly
Fishing_. Old man Chillingham trying to be a sportsman in his old age.

NORAH (_shutting her book_). I think you had better have that whisky
and soda, Ronny; at any rate, it will prevent you trying to discuss
your host with another of his guests.

RONNY. Rot, old girl. Jack’s my host.

NORAH. This is not Jack’s house.

RONNY. Then why did Iris write to me as if it was? “Dear Ronny, do
come and spend a few days with us.—Yours sincerely, Iris
Chillingham.” How’s that, eh?

NORAH (_patiently_). It is Mr. Chillingham’s house, but
Mrs. Chillingham has been away for a few weeks. So Iris is playing
hostess. I happened to mention that I had a disreputable little
boy-cousin called Ronald Derwent, and she very kindly——

RONNY. Not so much of it, Norah. I knew Iris before you did, and I
knew Jack as soon as you did. And if it’s old man Chillingham’s house,
all I can say is that old man Chillingham has got a pretty taste in
claret.

NORAH. Really, Ronny, to hear you talk about claret, anybody would
think that you were grown up. Whereas we all know what you do with
your threepence a week every Saturday. Pear-drops, my lad, pear-drops.

RONNY (_grimly_). Very well, Norah, you’ve done for yourself.

  (_He seizes a cushion and advances upon her. She jumps out of the
    chair and runs to the other side of the hall, picking up a cushion
    on the way._)

NORAH. You’ll get your hair ruffled if you aren’t careful.

RONNY. You’ll be lucky if you have any hair left by the time I’ve
finished with you. (_He hurls a cushion at her._)

NORAH. Oh, rotten shot!

  (_He goes to the sofa to get more cushions, and dodges behind it
    as she flings hers at him. They are interrupted by BENHAM, who is
    crossing the hall with whisky and papers for SIR ROGER._)

RONNY (_who is about to throw a cushion_). All right, Benham. You go
on.

BENHAM (_politely_). After you, sir. (_The cushion whizzes past his
head at NORAH_) Thank you, sir.

  (_He goes on to the morning-room. By the time that he returns the
    combatants have disappeared, leaving most of their ammunition
    behind them. As he crosses by the window, BROXOPP is seen
    approaching from the outside. BROXOPP is now the complete country
    gentleman, with fishing outfit. But he looks unhappy in his new
    clothes, and he is not the BROXOPP he was._)

BROXOPP. Ah, Benham.

BENHAM (_taking his things_). Any sport, sir?

BROXOPP. No.... That is to say, _I_ didn’t have any. I can’t speak for
the fish. They may have enjoyed it.

BENHAM. I’ve heard gentlemen say that it can be a very attractive
recreation, even when (_he looks into the obviously empty basket_)—as
in this case, sir.

BROXOPP. To a man who really enjoys fishing—as I am told I do—no
doubt that is so.

BENHAM. Yes, you’re quite an enthusiast, sir.

BROXOPP. So they assure me, Benham. Golf is another pastime to
which—I understand—I am devoted. (_He looks in astonishment at the
disordered hall, with its overturned chairs and scattered cushions_)
Has anything been happening?

BENHAM (_as he begins to restore the place to order_). Nothing at all
out of the way, sir.

BROXOPP. Oh!

BENHAM. Quite a feature of the best country-house life, sir, as you
might say. The younger members of the party are often extremely
partial to it. In this case, sir, Mr. Derwent and Miss Field were
letting off their high spirits with a few cushions. It brought back
the old castle days very pleasurably, sir.

BROXOPP. Yes.... Yes.... They come back, the old days, don’t they,
Benham?

BENHAM. They do, indeed, sir.

BROXOPP (_with a sigh_). Yes. Mrs. Chillingham has not arrived yet, I
suppose?

BENHAM. No, sir. Is she expected back this afternoon?

BROXOPP. Of course she is. The 4.10. (_Looking at his watch_) I
suppose the train was late. Didn’t Mr. Jack tell you about sending in
the car?

BENHAM. I have not had any instructions myself, sir, but no doubt he
informed Rogers. He was down at the stables after lunch with
Mr. Derwent.

BROXOPP. Ah, yes.... Well, I’ll go and wash. (_He moves off._)

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

  (_BROXOPP is still in the hall, putting a cushion or two straight,
    when RONNY comes back, his hair rather rumpled._)

RONNY. Hullo! Any luck?

BROXOPP (_wishing to be fair to the sport_). Compared with
yesterday—yes.

RONNY. What happened yesterday?

BROXOPP. I fell in.

RONNY (_tittering_). Bad luck. I’m not frightfully keen on fishing
myself—I prefer golf. We’re having a foursome after tea; I expect
you’d rather practise by yourself, wouldn’t you?

BROXOPP. Thank you, I shall not be playing golf after tea to-day.

RONNY. I thought you were so frightfully keen. Jack said so.

BROXOPP. Ah, well, Jack would know. But, you see, Mrs. Chillingham
will be here directly——

RONNY (_surprised_). Oh, is she coming back?

BROXOPP (_nodding_). Yes. She has been away three weeks now, staying
in London with her sister. She’ll be glad to get back. She is very
fond of the country, you know. And this house.

RONNY (_kindly_). Well, it isn’t half a bad place really. I don’t know
what the shooting’s like.

BROXOPP. Very good, Jack’s friends tell me.... Well, I must go and
wash, if you will excuse me, Mr. Derwent.

RONNY (_with a nod_). Righto.

                                        [_BROXOPP goes out._

  (_RONNY lights a cigarette and goes across to the billiard-room
    door and opens it._)

RONNY. Good Lord, haven’t you finished yet?

JACK (_from inside_). This very minute as ever is.

  (_IRIS and JACK come out together_)

RONNY. Who won?

IRIS. Jack gave me twenty-five and—— My dear Ronny, what _have_ you
been doing to your hair?

RONNY (_looking at himself in the glass—horrified_). Good Lord, I
oughtn’t to be seen like this.

                                        [_He hurries out._

JACK. It’s all right, we won’t tell anybody. I suppose I was as young
as Ronny once, but it must have been a long time ago. (_He goes to the
bell and rings it_) Shall we have tea in here?

IRIS. If you like.

JACK. I suppose Dad isn’t back yet.... Oh, Lord!

IRIS. What is it, darling? Have you been bad?

JACK. I’m a blessed idiot.

  _Enter BENHAM._

BENHAM. Yes, sir?

JACK. Benham, is any one meeting the 4.10?

BENHAM. I have given no instructions in the matter myself, sir.

IRIS. Jack, do you mean to say that nobody is meeting Nancy?

JACK. Kick me if you like, darling. It’s my fault entirely. (_Looking
at his watch_) Send the car at once, Benham. It will probably be too
late, but it can bring the luggage along.

BENHAM. Yes, sir. Rogers informs me that he only requires the level
five minutes when meeting trains—unhampered, as you might say.

JACK (_to IRIS_). I’m afraid she’ll walk through the
woods, you know. (_To BENHAM_) We’ll have tea in here.

BENHAM. Yes, sir.
                                        [_Exit BENHAM._

IRIS. Jack, you _have_ been bad.

JACK. After all, darling, it’s only a mile by the short way, and it’s
a jolly afternoon. There won’t be anything about it in the papers.

IRIS (_shaking her head at him_). Oh, Jack! (_She sits on the arm of
his chair_) Jack, don’t you think it’s time we had a house of our own?
This has been very jolly for a few months, but—you _do_ want to get
started on your work, don’t you?

JACK. Of course I do, sweetheart. Only, we can’t begin till we get the
studio, can we?

IRIS. London’s full of studios, lazy one.

JACK. Yes, but you don’t realise how important it is to an artist to
get the exact surroundings. Now that we’ve found _the_ studio in
_all_ London, and the man who’s in it happens to be leaving in six
months, it’s absurd to go looking about for another. It’s simply a
question of waiting.

IRIS. Six months?

JACK. Well, if we’re lucky, he might die suddenly.... You should read
your Bible more. Moses, or somebody, said that no husband ought to do
any work for a year after he’s married. I quite agree with him.
(_Playing with her hair_) Did I ever tell you that I much prefer your
hair to the stuff you see hanging in shop windows in Bond Street?

IRIS (_softly_). Do you?

JACK. It’s all fastened on quite naturally, isn’t it?

IRIS. I think it must be.

JACK. Wonderful hair.... Did I ever tell you that I like your eyes
much better than the ones you see lying about in fishmongers’ shops
next to the ice?

IRIS (_smiling_). Do you?

JACK. They’ve got so much more expression.... Did I ever tell you——
Hullo, here’s tea. (_BENHAM comes in_) Has the car gone, Benham?

BENHAM. Yes, sir.

JACK. Good. Let’s hope the train’s late.

BENHAM (_arranging the tea_). I’m afraid it is not very likely, sir. I
remember His Grace once commenting on the curious fact that, whenever
one particularly wished a train to be late, it was invariably
punctual.

JACK. His Grace seems to have been a highly original thinker.

BENHAM. Yes, sir, he was very well tolerated in the family.

JACK. Well, this must seem rather a holiday for you after the
intellectual life at the Castle. You must make the most of it,
Benham.

BENHAM. Thank you, sir.

IRIS. Is Mr. Chillingham back yet?

BENHAM. Yes, madam. He will be down directly. Sir Roger is engaged in
the morning-room, madam, with the financial papers, and will not
require tea.

IRIS. Thank you.

BENHAM. Thank you, madam.
                                        [_He goes out._

IRIS. I wonder what Father’s up to now?

JACK (_carelessly_). Losing Dad’s money for him, I expect.

IRIS (_seriously_). Jack, you don’t really mean that?

JACK (_laughing_). Of course not, darling. What’s the matter with
giving me some tea? We needn’t wait for Dad. (_To NORAH and RONNY as
they come in_) Come along. You’re just in time.... Ah, now you look
quite nice again, Ronny.

  (_They all sit round the tea-things._)

IRIS. What had you been doing to him, Norah?

NORAH. I told him he wasn’t grown-up yet, and he tried to prove he was
by throwing cushions at me.

JACK. That’s a nasty one, Ronny. You’ll have to write to your
solicitors about that.

RONNY. Now, look here, I don’t want any more of it, Norah. I’m older
than you, anyway. And Jack and Iris aren’t exactly bald yet.... What
about that foursome after tea?

IRIS (_doubtfully_). Well, I’m not quite sure if I——

RONNY. If you’re thinking about Mr. Chillingham, he doesn’t want to
play. I asked him.

IRIS (_relieved_). Oh well, then, that’s all right. He wants to wait
for Nancy, I expect. Bless them!

NORAH. I’m not at all sure that I approve of this old-fashioned
sentiment about married life.

JACK. I say, this is rather alarming.

  (_BROXOPP comes in, and stands waiting, awkwardly._)

NORAH. Women will never be properly free——

RONNY (_offering plate_). Oh, Lord! have a bun!

NORAH (_taking one_) ——until it is recognised that marriage——

JACK (_seeing BROXOPP_). Hullo, Dad, what luck?

BROXOPP (_sitting in an uncomfortable chair a little way from the
table_). Ah, tea.

JACK. Fish rising?

BROXOPP. They may have risen, Jack, but if so they went back again.
(_Looking at his watch_) The train’s very late. She ought to have been
here by now.

IRIS. There was some mistake about the car, dear. She will be here
directly. (_She gives BROXOPP his tea._)

BROXOPP. Thank you, thank you.

NORAH. I was just saying, Mr. Chillingham, that women will never be
properly free until it is recognised that marriage is only an
intellectual partnership in which both the contracting parties have
equal rights. Of course, I can hardly expect you to agree with me.

BROXOPP (_looking blankly at her_). I’m afraid I——

RONNY. Agree with you? I should think not, indeed. If you knew a
little more about the world——

NORAH. My dear Ronny, the only world that _you_ know is bounded on the
north by Newmarket, on the south by the Savoy, on the east by the
Empire, and on the west by the _Winning Post_.

IRIS. You’ll have to write to your solicitors again, Ronny.

JACK. I say, Norah, you mustn’t say things like that without warning.
Must she, Dad? Bread and butter? (_He offers the plate to BROXOPP, who
takes a piece._)

BROXOPP (_bewildered_). I’m afraid I hardly——Thank you.

IRIS. Was that original, Norah?

NORAH. Perfectly. Why not? I suppose Jack thinks that all the clever
things must be said by men. I don’t know what you feel about it,
Mr. Chillingham——

BROXOPP. I—er——

JACK. Then, all I can say is, that you must have bribed Ronny to lead
up to it.

IRIS. They might go on at the Palladium as “Ronald and Norah,” Ronald
leaning over the piano in white gloves.

JACK. Norah in a smile and shoulder-straps threatening to return to
Dixie.

NORAH (_to BROXOPP_). This, Mr. Chillingham, is the marriage of
intellect on an equal basis, which I was advocating just now.

BROXOPP. You—er—were advo——?

JACK. Ronny, it’s _your_ turn to say something brilliant.

RONNY. No, thanks, I’ll leave that to Norah’s husband. When they are
living in intellectual companionship together, they can fire off
epigrams at each other all day long. What a life! Don’t you agree with
me, Mr. Chillingham? Have another bun, won’t you? (_He takes one
himself._)

BROXOPP. Miss Field was talking about the marriage of intellects. I
remember. (_To RONNY with the bun plate_) No, thank you.

NORAH. Don’t eat too many, Ronny. We’ve got to beat them afterwards,
you know. You’re not playing, Mr. Chillingham?

BROXOPP. No, I think I——

JACK. Beat us, indeed! I should like to see you do it.

RONNY. Well, you will, Jack, old boy.

IRIS (_to BROXOPP_). You’ll want to wait for Nancy; won’t you, dear?

RONNY. Do play if you’d like to, you know. Of course, it will dish the
foursome rather.

BROXOPP. Thank you, Mr. Derwent, but I shall be waiting for
Mrs. Chillingham.

NORAH. I was saying just now, Mr. Chillingham, that I don’t altogether
approve of married people——

JACK. Help! She’s leading up to her epigram again.

BROXOPP. Yes, Miss Field? You were saying——?

RONNY. I say, don’t encourage her; we’ve had it all once. (_To IRIS,
as he gets up_) Are you ready?

IRIS. I think so; aren’t we, Jack? (_To BROXOPP_) Will you have some
more tea, dear?

BROXOPP. Not now, thank you, Iris. I’ll wait for Nancy.

JACK (_finishing his tea_). I say, what’s the hurry? I’ve only just
begun.

RONNY. Rot. Come on.

IRIS (_getting up_). I’ll have half-a-crown on it, Norah.

NORAH. Done.

RONNY. You, too, Jack?

JACK. Rather!

RONNY. Good man! What about Mr. Chillingham? Care to bet against us?
I’ll give you five to four as you’re a friend.

BROXOPP. No, I think not, thank you, Mr. Derwent.

RONNY. Perhaps you’re wise. You wouldn’t have a chance. (_To the
others_) Come along.

IRIS. Benham will make you some fresh tea, dear. Give Nancy a special
kiss from me.

BROXOPP. Thank you, Iris, I will.

NORAH (_at the door_). The whole question of kissing seems to me——

RONNY. Oh, come off it. (_He drags her away._)

JACK. Cheer-oh, Dad! You and Mother might come along and watch us if
you’ve nothing better to do. (_To RONNY, in front_) All right, we’re
coming.

                                        [_They go out._

  (_Left alone, BROXOPP rings the bell, and then sits down in rather
    a bewildered way._)

  _BENHAM comes in._

BROXOPP. We shall want some fresh tea for Mrs. Chillingham when she
comes in.

BENHAM. Yes, sir. I think I saw her just coming through the
rose-garden, sir.

BROXOPP (_jumping up and going to the door_). Coming through the—you
don’t mean to say that—— Why, Nancy! (_He brings her in_) Benham,
get that fresh tea at once!

BENHAM (_going to tea-table_). Yes, sir.

NANCY. How are you, Benham? Isn’t it nice to be back! Yes, I should
like some tea, please. And you had better send the car for my luggage.

BROXOPP. Your luggage? You don’t mean——

BENHAM. The car has gone, madam.

NANCY. Ah, that’s right.

                                        [_BENHAM goes out._

BROXOPP (_horrified_). Nancy, you weren’t _met_?

NANCY. No, darling. I suppose there was some mistake.

BROXOPP (_throwing up his hands in despair_). I thought I could leave
that much to Jack. Well, let’s have a look at you. (_He holds her at
arms’ length_) And they forgot all about you!

NANCY. Oh, but I enjoyed my walk, you know. The woods, Jim! You never
saw anything like them just now.

BROXOPP. Oh, well, nothing matters now you’re here. (_He kisses her._)
Do you know Miss Norah Field, Nancy?

NANCY. I expect she was at the wedding, wasn’t she? Iris told me she
wanted to ask her here. Is she nice?

BROXOPP (_kissing her again_). She doesn’t approve of kissing.

NANCY (_sitting down at the tea-table_). Perhaps she’s never tried.
(_Enter BENHAM._) Tea! how nice! You must have it with me, Jim.

BROXOPP (_firmly_). I’m going to.

BENHAM. Is there anything more, madam?

NANCY. No, thank you. Are you quite well, Benham?

BENHAM. Yes, thank you, madam. Pretty well, considering.

NANCY. That’s right.

                                        [_BENHAM goes out._

  (_As soon as they are alone NANCY blows BROXOPP a kiss, and then
    pours out tea._)

NANCY. Well, how has everybody been getting on without me?

BROXOPP (_tapping his chest_). Me?

NANCY. You, and everybody. I suppose Sir Roger is still here?

BROXOPP. Oh yes.

NANCY. Well, all of you. Have you been very lonely without me?

BROXOPP. Very.

NANCY. The one letter I had from Iris seemed to say that you were all
enjoying yourselves very much. What have _you_ been doing? You didn’t
tell me much about yourself.

BROXOPP. Oh, fishing, golf—all the usual things. Talking to Jack and
his friends. (_Grimly_) They are wonderful talkers.

NANCY (_proudly_). So are you, Jim.

BROXOPP (_shaking his head_). The world is getting too quick for me.
When I talk I like to finish what I have to say. I never seem to have
a chance now.... But never mind about me. Tell me about yourself.
How’s old London looking?

NANCY (_smiling_). Just the same.... Where do you think I was
yesterday?

BROXOPP (_excitedly_). Broxopp’s?

NANCY (_shaking her head_). No—but not far wrong. Bloomsbury way.

BROXOPP. Number 26?

NANCY. Yes! I happened to be that way, and I thought I’d go past the
door, and there was a board up on the third floor, so I went in and
asked to look over the rooms—pretended I was just married. There they
were, just the same—and I did wish you had been with me.

BROXOPP (_with a laugh_). We’ve climbed a bit since those days.

NANCY. We always knew we should, didn’t we?

BROXOPP. And I began as an errand-boy at fourteen! Let Mr. Ronny
Derwent beat that if he can!

NANCY. I’m sure Mr. Ronny Derwent couldn’t.

BROXOPP (_casually_). And you didn’t happen to look in at Broxopp’s at
all?

NANCY. Oh no. I don’t suppose anybody would have known me.

BROXOPP (_eagerly_). Old Carter would—I suppose he’s still there.
They wouldn’t get rid of Carter. He always used to remember how you
came up the first day we opened the office, and I’d had lunch sent
in—do you remember?—and a bottle of champagne. The first champagne
you’d ever had—do you remember, Nancy?—and how frightened you were
when the cork came out?

NANCY (_gently_). I remember, Jim.

BROXOPP. I thought perhaps you might just have passed by outside—on
your way somewhere. (_Wistfully_) I suppose you still see the
same—the same advertisements everywhere? Have we—have they got any
new ones?

NANCY. I didn’t notice any.

BROXOPP (_nodding his head_). They can’t do better than the old ones.
(_After a pause_) Of course, there are new ideas—(_he gets up and
walks about_)—there was one I was thinking of this morning when I was
out—nothing to do with me now—I just happened to think of it. (_He
is carried away by it as he goes on_) I don’t know if you’ve ever seen
a man drawing on a film—you see a few lines first, which mean
nothing, and then gradually it begins to take shape. Well, you’d have
your posters like that—altering every week. A large poster with just
a few meaningless lines on it. Everybody would wonder what it meant.
They’d all talk about it. Next week a curve here and there, a bit of
shading somewhere. People get more and more interested. What is
coming? And so it goes on. And then, in the last week, the lines all
join together, some of them become writing, you see “BROXOPP’S”——
(_He breaks off, pulls himself together, and says casually_) The idea
just came to me this morning when I was out. Of course, it’s nothing
to do with me now. (_He gives a little laugh and sits down again._)

NANCY (_who has been listening raptly_). It’s a wonderful idea.

BROXOPP (_pleased_). Not bad, is it? (_With an effort_) However,
that’s nothing to do with it, now.

NANCY (_with a sigh_). No, not now.

BROXOPP. And how did you leave Emily?

NANCY. Oh, she was very well. She sent her love to you.

BROXOPP. That’s good. And did you bring me an evening paper?

NANCY (_smiling_). Of course I did. (_She takes it out of her bag_)
Knowing what a baby you are.

BROXOPP (_apologetically_). There’s something about an evening
paper—— You know, Nancy, I think I miss my evening paper more than
anything. (_He opens it_) So much more happens in an evening paper. Of
course, this is an early edition.... And so Emily was well, was she?
That’s good.

NANCY. They’d had rather a fright about their money. There was a
Building Society—I forget its name—all the advertisements said it
was a wonderful investment——

BROXOPP. They didn’t put their money into it?

NANCY. They were just going to when——

BROXOPP. That’s all right. Because here you are—in the Stop Press
News. (_Reading_) “Great City Failure. Collapse of Excelsior Building
Society.” Was that the one?

NANCY. Jim! (_Trying to remember_) Excelsior—no, I don’t think——
Well, it doesn’t matter, because they didn’t put their money in,
anyhow. A friend warned them——

BROXOPP. Funny how everybody thinks he can make money in the City
without working for it. People used to say to me, “You’re a business
man.” I used to say, “I’m not a business man. I’m an artist. I have
large ideas. I _employ_ business men.” Same way I employ Sir Roger. He
knows; I don’t. I am above all that.

NANCY. I’ve been thinking about Sir Roger. _Does_ he know?

BROXOPP (_a little alarmed_). What do you mean, Nancy?

NANCY. Of course, he’s quite honest, but I think sometimes we’ve been
rather foolish in letting him have so much to say in the investing of
your money. I suppose you keep an eye on things for yourself, Jim?

BROXOPP (_hastily_). Yes, yes, of course I do.... He is a little
difficult to—er—I mean he _has_ rather a way with him, which—— But
I must certainly go into things with him. You’re quite right, Nancy.
I’m not going to let Sir Roger or any one else play ducks and drakes
with the money which _I_ earned.

NANCY. The money on which we were going to retire so happily.

BROXOPP (_with a sigh_). Yes!

NANCY (_with a sigh_). Yes! (_They are silent for a little._) No more
anxieties, no more hard work. Just a happy, quiet life, all the day to
yourself, doing whatever you liked.

BROXOPP (_less heartily_). Er—yes. Yes.

NANCY. Fishing——

BROXOPP (_doing his best_). Yes.

NANCY. Golf——

BROXOPP (_looking at her and looking away again_). Yes.

NANCY. Talking to Jack’s friends—(_BROXOPP doesn’t exactly say
anything_) enjoying yourself from morning till night.

BROXOPP. You, too, Nancy. A house always full of people—plenty of
servants to look after—bazaars to open—society——

NANCY (_with a sigh_). Yes!

  (_They are silent again. Then BROXOPP—sure that they are
    alone—brings his chair a little nearer to Nancy’s._)

BROXOPP. You know, Nancy, sometimes I have hoped—I mean, I have
thought—that perhaps Sir Roger—that perhaps he is being a little
reckless—a little foolish—that perhaps——

NANCY (_eagerly_). Oh, Jim! Do you think he is?

BROXOPP. Supposing he came to me and said, “The fact is, Brox”—I mean
Chillingham—“the fact is, Chillingham, things haven’t turned out
quite as I expected, and—er—we have had losses.” I should say,
“That’s all right, Sir Roger, I don’t blame you; you have done your
best.” And even if it meant giving up the house, and——

NANCY. And the fishing, and the golf——

BROXOPP. Er—exactly. I shouldn’t reproach him.

NANCY. No, dear.

BROXOPP (_drawing his chair still closer and speaking eagerly_).
Suppose we found that we only had £1000 a year left—I mean after we’d
provided for Jack and Iris——

NANCY (_surprised_). A thousand?

BROXOPP. Well, six hundred. I’m only supposing. Six hundred. Enough
for just a little house—well, where shall we say? I—I don’t think
the country, do you?

NANCY. Well, of course, I _do_ like the country, Jim, but——

BROXOPP. The worst of the country is that people will come and stay
with you. One is never alone.

NANCY. Yes.... And you _must_ have your evening paper.

BROXOPP (_with a shrug_). Oh, well.... Now, I thought of a little
house, Streatham way, as it might be. You’re in touch with
everything—you get the papers—you have neighbours who don’t come and
live with you, but drop in when you want them—you can get to London
easily, and yet, at the same time—— Or Norwood, say.

NANCY. Norwood, yes.

BROXOPP. I daresay I should join the Borough Council. I’ve no doubt I
could give them a few ideas——

NANCY. Of course you could.

BROXOPP. I daresay it isn’t often they have an artist on the Borough
Council. And then there would be a Norwood Literary and Debating
Society, no doubt. They might care about a lecture on modern methods
of advertising, or something of the sort—a reading from
_Broxoppiana_, maybe—one way and another there would be plenty to
occupy us. What do you say, Nancy?

NANCY (_thoughtfully_). I think perhaps £800 a year would be safer.

BROXOPP. Well, we should want a couple of servants, I suppose. You
could manage with a couple?

NANCY. Oh yes!

BROXOPP. Say £80 a year for the rent—with a bit of a garden—you’d
like that, wouldn’t you?—rates, taxes, say another——

  (_But at this moment, when they are just moving into the house,
    SIR ROGER comes in. In some confusion, the BROXOPPS get to their
    feet._)

TENTERDEN. Ah, Mrs. Chillingham, so you’re back! Welcome home!

NANCY. How do you do, Sir Roger?

TENTERDEN. A pleasant visit, I hope?

NANCY. Very, thank you. But I’m glad to be home again.

TENTERDEN. With so beautiful a house, who would not?

BROXOPP. Oh, we’re very comfortable here—aren’t we, Nancy?

NANCY. I’ve always liked the country.... Have you had tea, Sir Roger?

TENTERDEN. Yes, yes, thank you, all I want. Been busy all day,
Mrs. Chillingham. A great nuisance, business, on a day like this. And
when there is so much that is attractive all around one. And there’s
your lucky husband—no cares at all—goes off fishing—— By the way,
Chillingham, what luck?

BROXOPP (_carelessly_). Oh, about the usual.... Er—I was—er—wanting
to talk to you, Sir Roger, about—er—

TENTERDEN. My dear friend, by all means.

NANCY (_preparing to go_). Well, I must take off my things. And you
can talk business together. But don’t keep him too long, Sir Roger,
because I want him.

  (_TENTERDEN is moving politely to the door, but BROXOPP does not
    move._)

BROXOPP (_with a smile_). You’re my business partner, Nancy. I’ve no
secrets from you. If you don’t mind, Sir Roger?

TENTERDEN. It is just as Mrs. Chillingham wishes.

NANCY. You can always tell me afterwards, Jim.

BROXOPP. Nonsense, we may want your help. (_To TENTERDEN_) I remember
once putting a little money into a mine, which a friend had spoken
well of. My wife was very much against it—do you remember, Nancy? She
said that it would be much safer in the bank. Well, she was quite
right.

NANCY (_sitting down again_). Of course I was. (_With a smile of
remembrance_) But do you remember what fun we had watching the papers
to see whether it went up or down?

BROXOPP. Yes ... it went down.

TENTERDEN. Ah, what mine was that?

BROXOPP. Oh, I really forget now. Some Welsh gold-mine, I believe.

TENTERDEN. Yes. I think I could have given you a word of warning about
Welsh gold-mines, Chillingham, if you had consulted me.

BROXOPP. This was long before we had the pleasure of knowing you, Sir
Roger.

TENTERDEN. Ah, a pity, a pity!

NANCY. That’s why we’re so glad to have your help now. I should never
have trusted Jim with all the money he got from Broxopp’s Beans.

TENTERDEN (_wincing at the hated word_). All the money he—ah—retired
with. Yes. Well, I hope, Chillingham, I really hope that we shall be
able to do something for you before very long.

BROXOPP. Well, I left it to you, Sir Roger. But naturally I like to
know how things are going on. How are those oil shares?

TENTERDEN. Oil! Oil! Ah yes! Well, we have lost a little there. (_With
a charming smile_) You know how it is, Mrs. Chillingham. One loses a
little here, and picks up a little more there.... Yes, I have been
disappointed over the oil.

NANCY. I always think that something safe, however little interest it
pays, is—is safest.

TENTERDEN. Safer than losing it, my dear Mrs. Chillingham—all women
will agree with you there—but not so pleasant as winning a little
more. Your husband sold his business at an unfortunate time. Our hand
was forced; we had to sell; we had to take the price they offered.
Naturally your husband felt that a little speculation before
investing—— And had it come off——

BROXOPP (_sharply_). Had it come off, you say?

TENTERDEN. Exactly. As you know, my dear Chillingham, one loses a
little here and picks up a little there. In the end, one finds that
one has picked up a good deal more than one has lost. If one knows the
ropes, Mrs. Chillingham.

BROXOPP (_fiercely_). How much of my money have you lost?

TENTERDEN (_gently_). I think, Chillingham, that that is hardly the
way to put it. I am not (_with a bow_) an absconding solicitor.

NANCY. (_To JIM_) Dear one!

BROXOPP. I beg your pardon, Sir Roger. But I understood——

TENTERDEN (_beautifully_). My dear Chillingham, of course, of course.
I will let you have a note of your investments this evening. Naturally
you will wish to conduct your business yourself in the future, or to
take other advice.

NANCY. Oh, but I’m sure Jim didn’t mean to suggest——

TENTERDEN (_smiling_). That I was a knave? No, hardly. But that I was
a fool! Eh, Chillingham? Oh, I think so. I think so.

BROXOPP (_very uncomfortably_). Sir Roger—you see—of course I
don’t——

TENTERDEN (_holding up his hand_). Please, please don’t say any more.
If anything, the apology should come from me. I have lost your money.
(_To NANCY, charmingly_) Yes, Mrs. Chillingham, a good deal of it. And
a good deal of my own, too. Fortunately I have already taken steps to
recover it. What we lose on the oil, we gain on—shall I say the
cocoanuts?

NANCY (_prompting him_). Jim! “That’s all right, Sir Roger....”

BROXOPP (_with an effort_). That’s all right, Sir Roger. I don’t blame
you. You have done your best.

TENTERDEN (_amazed that there should have been any thought of blame_).
I’m afraid that I haven’t made myself clear. When I say cocoanuts——

NANCY. Sir Roger, has my husband lost much of his money?

TENTERDEN. My dear Mrs. Chillingham, five minutes ago I should not
have used the word “lost” at all. It was just, if I may put it so,
the opening skirmish in a campaign. One does not say that a campaign
is lost because at the first few shots—— (_He shrugs his
shoulders._)

NANCY. Yes, I understand.... And the cocoanuts——?

TENTERDEN. A manner of speaking. Actually (_he beams at them both_) a
Building Society. Our motto is—Excelsior!

BROXOPP (_jumping up_). The Excelsior? My money is in that?

TENTERDEN. All, my dear Chillingham. And safe as—shall I say houses?
But, of course, whether you leave it there or not is now a matter for
your own judgment. Between ourselves, Mrs. Chillingham, I shall be
glad to be relieved of the responsibility. (_Looking through the
window_) Beautiful weather we’re having just now. The young people are
out enjoying themselves, I suppose? Golf, what? No cares, no
responsibilities—lucky young people! (_He gives them a pleasant nod
and goes out._)

  (_BROXOPP and NANCY stand looking at each other._)

BROXOPP. Well, Nancy?

NANCY. Well, Jim?

BROXOPP (_with a bitter laugh_). Funny, isn’t it?

NANCY (_smiling_). Well, it is rather.

BROXOPP (_with a groan_). Funny! I said six hundred a year—you said
eight hundred—and now we shall have tuppence.

NANCY. That’s what makes it rather funny.

BROXOPP. Sir Roger’s a fool, but I’m a worse one to have trusted him.

NANCY. There’ll be something left.

BROXOPP. And yet—I daresay I’d do it again. There were those
Tenterdens and Jack. They wanted me to give up things for them—my
name, my home, my business. Well, I wasn’t going to give grudgingly.
Let them have it all, I said. Let Sir Roger play the fool with my
money, let Jack choose my house for me, let Iris fill it with her
friends. It was their show this time. That’s the way I have to do
things—the large way. It—it appeals to me somehow, Nancy. Well, you
know me—you married that sort of man.

NANCY. I’m glad I married that sort of man.

BROXOPP. And now he’s let you down.

NANCY. There’ll be something left. We were just saying——

BROXOPP (_shaking his head_). There’s Jack to remember. We must give
him his chance—he may be a genius—my son—(_as an afterthought_)
your son—why not?

NANCY. Yes, dear.... If we only had five hundred a year, it wouldn’t
be—I could make you comfortable—even four hundred——

  (_She is already adding up the butcher’s bills, and the baker’s
    bills, and the servant’s wages—only one servant ... when BROXOPP
    breaks in on her thoughts._)

BROXOPP. Nancy!

NANCY. Yes, Jim.

BROXOPP. I’m just over fifty.

NANCY. Yes, Jim.

BROXOPP. And you?

NANCY. Just under fifty.

BROXOPP. M’m.... A hundred between us.

NANCY. I don’t feel that we’re a hundred, do you?

BROXOPP. No. Still, there it is. Will you mind very much?

NANCY. Mind what?

BROXOPP. Beginning again at fifty?

NANCY (_a little frightened now_). Do you mean—working again?

BROXOPP. Yes. Looking for work again. Trying to earn a living again.
Will you mind very much?

NANCY (_coming close_). N—no, dear.

BROXOPP. Not frightened?

NANCY (_coming closer_). N—no, dear.

BROXOPP (_valiantly_). After all, what I have done, I can do!

NANCY (_now much more bravely_). Yes, dear.... (_After a pause_) It
was funny my going into Number 26 this morning.

BROXOPP. What?

NANCY. The rooms at 26 are empty—our old rooms—I told you.

BROXOPP (_eagerly_). Go back to them?

NANCY. Well, there they are.

BROXOPP (_dropping into a chair_). Beginning again at fifty.... It
will be a hard struggle.

NANCY. Yes, dear.

  (_They are sitting side by side now, looking in front of them at
    that struggle. He follows it in his mind.... There must be
    something pleasing in the prospect of it, for the frown slowly
    becomes a smile. Still smiling, he gives a sidelong glance at
    NANCY. Curiously enough, she too is not altogether miserable. But
    as their eyes meet they pull themselves together with a start,
    and BROXOPP frowns heavily and speaks again._)

BROXOPP. A hard struggle.

NANCY (_sternly_). A hard struggle.

  (_Again they look in front of them at it, and again there seems to
    be something in the prospect not unattractive. Once more their
    eyes meet, but this time they do not try to hide from each other
    what their hearts are saying. They are saying quite unmistakably,
    “What fun!” Hand in hand they sit there, waiting for it to
    begin._)




ACT IV


SCENE: _BROXOPP is back at No. 26. The room looks much the same as
it did those many years ago, but it has been improved by one or two
pieces of furniture saved from the wreck._

_The BROXOPPS are out, and SIR ROGER TENTERDEN is waiting for the
return of one of them. He is getting impatient. He looks at his watch
and decides that he can wait no longer. He picks up his hat, and is on
his way to the door, when NANCY comes in with some parcels in a string
bag._

       *       *       *       *       *

NANCY (_taken by surprise_). Oh, how you startled me!... Why, it’s Sir
Roger!

TENTERDEN. I must apologise——

NANCY (_smiling_). So must I. I’ve been shopping. And it’s the maid’s
afternoon out.

TENTERDEN (_a little blankly_). Oh—ah—yes. They told me down below
to come up and—ah——

NANCY. That’s right. I just went out to get some kidneys. (_She holds
up a parcel, and SIR ROGER shudders._) I haven’t bought kidneys for I
don’t know how many years; it feels quite strange. Do come and sit
down. How’s Iris? We haven’t seen her lately. (_She leads the way to
the table and puts the bag down on it._)

TENTERDEN. Well, it was really about Iris that I ventured to come and
see you so informally, Mrs. Chillingham. I happened to have a
business appointment just across the road, and—ah——

NANCY. How nice of you!

TENTERDEN. Is Iris quite well?

NANCY. Oh, I think so. Jack seems to be very busy. We have a note from
him every now and then saying that they will come and see us when his
picture is finished.

TENTERDEN. Ah! So he’s painting. Excellent.

NANCY. They’ve a studio in St. John’s Wood. But surely Iris must have
told you?

TENTERDEN. I assure you, Mrs. Chillingham, that Iris has not
condescended to communicate with me since—ah——

NANCY. Since we lost all our money.

TENTERDEN. Since that very unfortunate Excelsior business. Upon my
word, I don’t know what the City is coming to nowadays. With so many
rogues about, it is almost impossible for a gentleman to make an
honest living. However, things have been looking up lately. (_Smiling
to himself_) Oh yes, looking up—decidedly. But then I knew they
would. I only wish, my dear Mrs. Chillingham, that your husband could
have been participating in my good fortune.

NANCY. Well, we had no money left, you see.

TENTERDEN (_holding up a hand_). Don’t think I am blaming your
husband. Pray don’t think that. I assure you, I quite understand. And
so Jack is painting? Making quite a good living by it, what? You
relieve my mind considerably, Mrs. Chillingham. I shall go away happy
now. I shouldn’t have liked to think that my daughter was
uncomfortable. What a thing it is to be born with such a gift! Lucky
Jack! And Mr. Chillingham, I trust, quite well?

NANCY. Very well indeed, thank you. He hasn’t looked so well for a
long time.

TENTERDEN. Excellent, excellent. And making his fortune again, I’ve no
doubt. I’m delighted to hear it. Well, Mrs. Chillingham, I must be
getting on. I am most relieved to hear your good news. Remember me to
your husband, please, and tell him that if, at any time, he wants a
good investment, I shall only be too delighted to be of any service.
No, don’t thank me. I should be only too glad to. It would be a
privilege. (_He shakes her warmly by the hand_) Good-bye, good-bye.

                                        [_He goes out magnificently._

  (_As soon as she has recovered, NANCY takes off her hat and goes
    to the table to work. She is drawing an advertisement for BROXOPP,
    as we can see by the way she bites her pencil and frowns to
    herself._

  _A cheerful voice, singing a song without words, is heard outside,
    and the GREAT ONE comes in. He is wearing the old sombrero—the
    Broxopp hat—and (a novelty this) a pale grey tail-coat and
    trousers. He carries two or three parcels in his hand._)

BROXOPP. Nancy!

NANCY (_jumping up_). Jim!

BROXOPP. My darling! Just wait a moment till I put down these
parcels.... Now then! (_He holds out his arms and she comes to him.
After he has kissed her, he says solemnly_) I’ve thanked Heaven every
day since we’ve been here that I can kiss you now without being
observed by butlers. Another one! (_He kisses her again, and then
holds her at arms’ length_) All right?

NANCY. Of course I am.

BROXOPP (_taking off his hat_). I met Sir Roger just outside.

NANCY. Did you speak to him?

BROXOPP. I said “Hallo!” and he said, “Ah, Chillingham, Chillingham!”
Has he been here?

NANCY. Just to ask after Iris and (_smiling_) to say how glad he was
that you were making your fortune again.

BROXOPP. Did you tell him that I was making my fortune again?

NANCY. He told himself. I didn’t say anything.

BROXOPP. Well, it’s true. I’m going to. And what have _you_ been
doing?

NANCY. Shopping. And—(_looking rather sadly at her drawing_)—and
Ajax. (_She sits down to it again._)

BROXOPP. Ajax?

NANCY. Ajax defying the lightning.

BROXOPP (_pleased_). Ah, that was a good idea, wasn’t it?
(_Declaiming_) “Ajax defied the lightning. Why? Because he knew that
he was insured against fire with the West End Insurance Company.”
(_Going over to her work_) Have you been doing that for me?

NANCY. Yes, darling, but I can’t get Ajax properly. He doesn’t look as
though he’s defying anything.

BROXOPP (_looking at Ajax_). No, he doesn’t, does he? Yet what a touch
you had with suspenders in the old days!

NANCY (_sadly_). I think suspenders must be easier than
Ajaxes—unless, perhaps, it’s because I’m getting old.

BROXOPP (_indignantly_). Old? You get younger every day.

NANCY. Of course, in a way it’s fun beginning all over again——

BROXOPP. Fun! It’s Life! Did you ever hear of a man called Stephenson?
He invented the first steam-engine. He said, “To travel hopefully is a
better thing than to arrive.” Just what I’ve always said myself. Going
there is better fun than getting there. We got there once, Nancy, and
now we are going there again.

NANCY. But we’re twenty-five years older.

BROXOPP. And twenty-five years wiser, and twenty-five years more in
love with each other.

NANCY. Yes, but what I’m rather afraid of is that we’ve had—well,
fifteen years of _spending_ money, and——

BROXOPP. You needn’t be afraid. We’re going to have money to spend
again. But we’ll have the fun of making it again first. (_With an
air_) Madam, you see before you The Great Chillingham!... (_A little
hurt_) You don’t say anything.

NANCY (_at her drawing again_). Darling! (_But how she would have
flown to him twenty-five years ago!_)

BROXOPP. Perhaps it is as well. The Great Chillingham is not yet
before you. I spoke too soon. (_He begins to undo the parcels._)

NANCY (_mechanically_). Yes, darling.

BROXOPP. Wait! (_He opens the parcels—a Chillingham grey hat and a
Chillingham pink tie are disclosed_) Permit me, madam, to introduce to
you the Chillingham hat and the Chillingham tie! (_He holds them up._)

NANCY (_wistfully_). There has never been more than one Broxopp baby!

BROXOPP. This is not babyness; it’s business. I called on the Aquavim
people to-day—the Brain Tonic for Tired Workers. I announced that I
was willing to undertake the entire management and reconstruction of
their business for them. They declined. I then said that temporarily,
and until greater opportunities offered, I might be induced to
advertise their poison for them. They replied that they no longer
wrote their own advertisements; they were written for them by eminent
authors, actors, painters, soldiers, and statesmen, in exchange for a
few bottles and the publicity which it brought them. I said modestly
that, if it came to that, I myself was at one time not unknown in the
world of commerce. The manager looked at my card again, and regretted
that he could not seem to recall the name of Chillingham. That opened
my eyes, Nancy, and I decided that all the world should know (_putting
on the bowler hat and striking an attitude_) The Great Chillingham!
But you’ll see it better directly, when I’ve got the tie on.

NANCY (_going to him_). Say you don’t regret Broxopp very much!

BROXOPP. Does an artist regret selling a picture after he has painted
it? I made the name of Broxopp, and when I had made it, I sold it. Now
I’m going to make the name of Chillingham. I can make any name—with
you helping me, Nancy.

NANCY (_hopefully_). Of course you can. (_Twenty-five years ago how
certain she would have been!_) Have you decided what we shall make the
name of Chillingham famous about?

BROXOPP (_offhand_). Well, well, there’s no hurry. I shall find
something. I shall think of something directly. Don’t let us be in a
hurry. (_Taking off his hat and regarding it_) I think the new hat is
striking—don’t you? But keep the old one, Nancy. When the story of my
life comes to be written, the author may wish to see it personally.
Well, I’ll go and put the tie on.... But I was forgetting. Who do you
think I saw to-day?

NANCY (_eagerly_). Not Jack?

BROXOPP. Jack.

NANCY. But why didn’t you tell me? How is he? How is he looking?

BROXOPP. You’ll see for yourself directly. He and Iris are coming
round this afternoon.

NANCY. How nice! Then I suppose his picture is finished. How is Iris?

BROXOPP. He didn’t tell me anything, except that
he was coming. We were both of us in a hurry. Well,
I’ll go and put on this tie. On this day The Great
Chillingham was born.
                                        [_BROXOPP goes out._

  (_NANCY returns to Ajax, but she has hardly begun to do anything
    to it when there is a gentle tap at the door._)

NANCY. Come in!

IRIS (_her head round the door_). May I come in?

NANCY. Oh, Iris! And I’m not dressed or anything. (_She gets up._)

IRIS. Well, I’m not very grand myself. (_Kissing her_) You look as
young as ever, Nancy. Is Jack here?

NANCY. No. He’s coming, isn’t he?

IRIS. He was going to meet me here. (_Looking round the room she says
sadly_) Oh, Nancy!

NANCY. Why “Oh, Nancy!”?

IRIS. To see you in this room—after what you’re accustomed to.

NANCY (_smiling_). But I’m accustomed to this. This is where we lived
before Jack was born.

IRIS. I know. And now Jack and I have brought you back to it.... Do
you forgive me?

NANCY. I shan’t if you talk so foolishly.

IRIS. You’ll never forgive Father, of course. Neither shall I. I told
him so.

NANCY. Yes. I’m not sure that you ought to have.... You see, Jim
wasn’t happy at the Manor House. I thought at first that he might
manage to be, but he wasn’t. And now here we are, dear, and Jim is as
happy as can be.

IRIS. And is Nancy?

NANCY (_a little sadly_). Well, of course, I do love the country.
(_With a sudden smile_) But this is fun, you know. It’s like a second
honeymoon.

IRIS. Oh, Nancy!... And how is Daddy Broxopp getting on?

NANCY. Oh, we shall be all right. He’ll get hold of some idea soon.
Come and take off your hat. You mustn’t be a visitor. (_There is a
knock at the door_) There! That’s Jack!

  _Enter JACK._

JACK (_announcing himself_). The Return of the Prodigal!

NANCY. Oh, Jack, how nice to see you again, dear!

JACK (_kissing her_). How _are_ you, darling? You look remarkably
blooming. (_Shaking hands with IRIS_) How do you do, madam?

IRIS. How do you do, sir?

NANCY. Iris is just coming into my room. We won’t be long.

JACK. Right. Where’s Dad?

NANCY. He’ll be here in a moment.

JACK. Good man. (_He opens the door for them. To IRIS_) You haven’t
broken the bad news yet?

IRIS. No.

NANCY. Jack! There’s nothing——?

IRIS (_smiling_). It’s all right, dear. It’s only a little discovery
we’ve made.

NANCY. There are plenty of discoveries to be made when you are poor.

                                  [_NANCY and IRIS go out together._

  (_JACK wanders round the room and comes to the unfinished Ajax on
    the table._)

JACK (_catching sight of it_). Good heavens! who’s this? (_Looking at
it carefully_) It can’t be anybody at the Club.

  (_Enter BROXOPP, in hat and tie, with a terrific air. The GREAT
    CHILLINGHAM! He pulls up at seeing only JACK._)

BROXOPP. Hallo, boy. So you’ve come.

JACK. Hallo, Dad.

BROXOPP. Iris here?

JACK. Yes, she’s in with mother.

BROXOPP. How are you getting on? We haven’t seen much of you lately.

JACK. Well, we’ve all been working so hard. (_Going up to him_) You’re
looking extraordinarily bright, Dad. (_He puts an arm affectionately
round his father’s shoulder and fingers the Chillingham tie_) Who’s
your lady friend?

BROXOPP (_with dignity_). Have you never heard of the Chillingham tie,
boy?

JACK. Never. Is that it?

BROXOPP. It is. (_Simply_) It will be heard of one day.

JACK (_smiling_). I’m sure it will. I can almost hear it now.
(_Patting him affectionately_) Dear old Dad—I’ve been a rotten son to
you, haven’t I? (_He drops into a chair._)

BROXOPP (_considering it fairly_). No, I won’t say that, Jack. You
were a very good son to me when you were a baby. You did a lot for the
Broxopp business, and I used to like telling people in the City all
the funny little things you said. Besides, you made your mother very
happy. And then, when you were growing up, I used to enjoy talking
about my boy at Eton and my boy at Oxford. One way and another I’ve
got a good deal of happiness out of you.

JACK. And then, when I was grown up, you suddenly found that I was a
selfish beast.

BROXOPP. You can’t expect father and son to see things the same way.
One or the other has got to be selfish. It’s generally the father....
Well, and how’s the picture? Finished?

JACK. Wait till Iris comes in. We’ve decided to tell you our sad story
hand in hand. Besides, while we’ve got the chance, there’s something I
want you to tell _me_.

BROXOPP. Well, what is it?

JACK. Well, then—as man to man—how are you getting on?

BROXOPP. As man to man, Jack, I am really happy again.

JACK. Yes, I know, but I didn’t ask if you were happy. I asked you how
you were getting on.

BROXOPP (_refusing to be cornered_). This is the life I like, my boy.
It’s harder than it was when I first began, but I made good once, and
I can do it again. (_Thumping the table_) I like doing it.

JACK (_plaintively_). Yes, but you still haven’t told me how you are
getting on.

BROXOPP. Don’t you worry about _me_. I’ll make my fortune again long
before you make yours with painting.

JACK. Yes, you might well do that.... Look here, you gave me £500 a
year out of the wreck. Did you leave anything for yourself?

BROXOPP. Of course I did. Don’t you worry about me. The moment will
come and I shall seize it. Just at present I am looking round. Don’t
you worry about _me_.

JACK. Well, all I can say is you’re a sportsman, and good luck to you.

  _NANCY and IRIS come in._

IRIS. Hallo, Daddy Broxopp.

BROXOPP (_kissing her_). Hallo, my girl. You haven’t called me that
for a long time.

IRIS. I know. Let’s try and forget that. Are you going to forgive me?
She has.

BROXOPP. Forgive you for what?

IRIS. Well, for not having been an orphan for one thing.

NANCY (_shaking her head at her with a smile_). Iris!

IRIS. And for putting a lot of nonsense into Jack’s head, and making
an utter mess of things.

JACK. My dear girl, any nonsense in my head came there of itself; it
wasn’t put in by you.

IRIS. Well, there it was, anyhow. The fact is, Daddy Broxopp, we’ve
made a discovery in the last few months.

BROXOPP. Hallo, what’s that?

IRIS. Well, it’s rather important. Are you ready, Jack? (_Taking
JACK’S hand_) We have discovered——

JACK. Once, finally and for all——

IRIS. That Jack Chillingham——

JACK. _Né_ Broxopp——

IRIS. Cannot paint.

JACK. He cannot paint.

JACK and IRIS (_together_). He cannot, cannot paint.

NANCY (_knowing what it feels like_). Oh, Jack, what a disappointment
for you!

BROXOPP. How did you discover it, boy?

JACK. By regarding my latest masterpiece in a dispassionate light. You
ought to have seen it, Dad. It was called “The First Meeting of
Henry V. with Katherine of France.”

IRIS. I sat for Katherine.

JACK. She also stood for Henry V. I wish you had seen her as Henry V.;
it would have been a surprise for you.

IRIS. I was jolly good.

JACK. It was going to be my Academy picture. That was why I chose
that subject. It was the dullest I could think of. Unfortunately, when
I had finished it, I regarded it in a dispassionate light,
and—(_frankly_) it was rotten.

IRIS. Very rotten.

JACK. Very, very rotten.

NANCY. Oh, poor Jack! I understand how you must have felt.

JACK. Well, then, we put our heads together.

IRIS (_leaning her head against his_). Like this.

JACK. And decided that we were taking your money under false
pretences.

IRIS. Because, you see, he cannot paint.

JACK. He cannot paint.

JACK and IRIS (_together_). He cannot, cannot paint.

BROXOPP. Well, what are you going to do, then?

IRIS (_surprised_). Give you back your money, of course.

BROXOPP. Don’t be silly. I didn’t mean that. What work are you going
to do?

JACK (_wandering round the room_). Well, that’s rather the question.
Iris thought—(_He stops suddenly at the sight of his mother’s
drawing_) Oh, Lord, here’s this again. What on earth——?

BROXOPP (_off-handedly_). Just a rough sketch for an advertisement—a
little idea of mine—Ajax defying the lightning—your mother was——
Well, then, Jack, you——

JACK (_looking up at his mother reproachfully_). Mother, darling!

NANCY. Oh, Jack, Ajaxes are so hard.

JACK (_sitting down and picking up the pencil_). Oh, but—Iris, you’ll
have to stand for Ajax. Imagine Dad’s the lightning and defy him like
the dickens. (_Beginning to draw_) Right foot out a bit more. Hands
behind the back, I think. Keep the head well up—as though you thought
nothing of him.

IRIS. Daddy Broxopp, I defy you. (_She gives a glance at JACK to make
sure he is not looking, blows a hasty kiss to BROXOPP, and hastily
resumes her defiant attitude._)

JACK (_drawing_). You’d find yourself much safer with a model, Mother,
even for a rough sketch. You get so much more life into it.

NANCY. Oh, Jack, I wish I could draw like that.

IRIS. He isn’t bad, is he?

JACK (_still at it_). Keep your head up.... I can’t draw—but when I
say I can’t draw, I don’t mean the same as when I say I can’t paint.
You see—Listen!

  (_A loud knocking is heard at the outer door._)

IRIS (_nodding her head at BROXOPP_). That’s you, Daddy Broxopp. You
did the lightning so well that you’ve brought on the thunder.

NANCY. Oh, I’d better go. The maid’s out.

JACK (_getting up_). No, you don’t; I’ll go. It’s Dad’s lady
friend—I’ll bet you what you like—come to see his tie. Perhaps I can
buy her off on the mat.

                                        [_He goes out._

IRIS (_relaxing_). Well, I suppose he won’t want Ajax any more. (_She
goes over to look at the sketch_) Doesn’t he draw nicely? (_To
BROXOPP_) That squiggly bit is you. (_Looking from one to the other_)
No, I shouldn’t recognise you.

BROXOPP (_picking up the sketch_). Yes, that’s the way to draw. (_To
NANCY_) All the same, darling, I shall never forget the way you drew
those suspenders in the old days. There was something about them——

_JACK and MISS JOHNS come in._

JACK (_protesting as he comes in_). Oh, but I assure you I remember
you perfectly. Mother, this is Miss Johns. You remember her, don’t
you? (_He doesn’t himself at all._) She was—er—in the old
days—don’t you remember——?

NANCY (_holding out her hand_). How do you do, Miss Johns? It’s very
nice of you to come and see us now. (_Hopefully to BROXOPP_) Jim, you
remember Miss Johns?

BROXOPP (_the only one who does, and he can’t place her for the
moment_). Delighted to see you again, Miss Johns. Of course, I
remember you perfectly. (_He looks at her with a puzzled expression._)

MISS JOHNS. It’s very good of you to remember me, Mr. Broxopp—I mean
Chillingham. I can hardly expect you to. I only just came because I’m
your neighbour, and—(_looking round her awkwardly_)—but perhaps
you’d rather I——

BROXOPP. Oh, not at all. You know Jack’s wife, don’t you? (_They bow
to each other._) Sit down and tell us what you have been doing lately.

  (_She sits down. JACK wanders back to his sketch and IRIS goes
    with him, looking over his shoulder as he touches it up._)

MISS JOHNS. You know, I don’t believe you do remember me,
Mr. Broxopp—I beg your pardon, I mean Mr. Chillingham.

BROXOPP (_grimly_). I don’t, but I’m going to. (_He looks at her with
a frown._)

NANCY (_kindly, as MISS JOHNS is obviously getting uncomfortable under
BROXOPP’S gaze_). Darling one——

BROXOPP. Wait! (_Thumping his hand with his fist_) I’ve got it!
(_Pointing to her_) You interviewed me on that day—of course, I
remember you now.

MISS JOHNS. Oh, Mr. Brox—Oh, how wonderful of you to remember when
you must have been interviewed so often.

BROXOPP. Yes, but you were the last person to interview The Great
Broxopp. You heard that I had changed my name?

MISS JOHNS. Oh, I was so sorry! I heard about it all, and how you——

BROXOPP. Oh, well, you mustn’t pity us too much. We’re quite happy
here, aren’t we, Nancy?

NANCY. This is where we began, you know, Miss Johns.

BROXOPP. Why, of course she knows. I remember your saying that you
lived on the floor below. And are you still on the same paper?

MISS JOHNS. Yes, but—er—— (_She is obviously uncomfortable._)

BROXOPP. But they don’t want an interview with The Great Chillingham?
(_With utter confidence_) They will, Miss Johns, they will.

MISS JOHNS (_enthusiastically_). Oh, I’m sure they will.

BROXOPP (_suddenly_). How’s your brother?

MISS JOHNS (_very much flattered_). Oh, do you remember him? How
wonderful you are!

BROXOPP (_struggling with his memories_). Yes—I remember. He had some
invention—what was it?—a Chicken Food, wasn’t it?

MISS JOHNS. Yes, that was it. Fancy you remembering!

BROXOPP. Oh, I have a wonderful memory. My wife would tell you.
(_Garrulously_) Yes, I remember your telling me about this food which
he had invented. You wanted me to take it up. I said—now, what was it
I said?—I said——

JACK (_looking up alertly_). What’s happened to that Chicken Food?

MISS JOHNS. Er—nothing. He hadn’t the money—he didn’t know how——

BROXOPP (_still talking_). “Yes,” I said, “if you had come to me
twenty years earlier——”

JACK (_sharply_). Where is your brother now? In the country?

MISS JOHNS (_frightened_). Yes!

JACK. Can you get him up to London?

MISS JOHNS. Y—yes. I think——

IRIS (_excitedly_). Jack!

BROXOPP. What is it, boy?

JACK. How far away is it? Can you get him up at once? This evening?

MISS JOHNS. I—I think—it’s in Surrey——

JACK. Send him a telegram now—don’t be afraid of a long one—I’m
paying for it. (_Taking out half-a-crown_) Here you are. (_Going with
her to the door_) That’s right, now, off you go. Remember, I’ve got to
see him to-night. Got that? Good!

                                        [_She goes out, overwhelmed._

NANCY (_the hostess_). Jack, dear!

BROXOPP. What is it, boy?

JACK. You said the moment would come. It has come. (_In the BROXOPP
manner_) Chillingham’s Cheese for Chickens!

IRIS (_eagerly_). Yes, yes! What fun!

BROXOPP. Are you suggesting that I should take up this food—patent
it—put it on the market?

JACK. I—you—we—all of us. You’re in it, Iris?

IRIS. Rather!

BROXOPP. But—but——

JACK. Chillingham’s Cheese for Chickens. It’s the idea of a century.

NANCY. But do chickens like cheese?

IRIS (_firmly_). They’ve got to like this.

BROXOPP (_doubtfully_). Yes, yes, why cheese, boy?

JACK. Why not?

BROXOPP. Er—well——

JACK. We’ll have a hen sitting on an enormous egg—this is where _I_
come in, drawing the posters. Above, Chillingham’s Cheese for
Chickens. Underneath, Makes Hens Lay.

BROXOPP. Does it make them lay? I thought Chicken Food only made
chickens grow.

JACK (_grimly_). If we say that it makes them lay, it makes them lay.

IRIS. It’s a question of faith, Daddy Broxopp. If the hen knows you
have faith in her, she will respond. She’s jolly well got to.

JACK. That’s right. We’re not going to stand any nonsense from a Buff
Orpington.

BROXOPP. Jack, are you serious about this?

JACK (_surprised_). Serious? Good Lord, yes.

BROXOPP (_nervously_). It’s a risk. What do you say, Nancy?

NANCY. I’m used to risks, dear.

JACK (_excitedly_). Of course it’s a risk. That’s what makes it such
fun. By Jove, to be really doing something at last! Makes Hens Lay! A
Poultry Farm in every back-garden! Eggs on every breakfast-table.
Chillingham eggs!

IRIS. Chillingham and bacon for breakfast, Daddy Broxopp.

BROXOPP (_shaking his head_). It’s a risk. It will want a lot of
capital. What do you say, Nancy?

NANCY. We’ve got a little left.

IRIS. There’s what you gave Jack. We can do it on that, can’t we?

JACK. Of course we can.

BROXOPP (_unnerved_). I—I must think it over. One wants to think
things over. There’s no hurry, after all. One naturally wants to
look round a little before deciding. _If_ we decide on this, Iris,
then——

JACK. Who was that fellow you were so keen on—came over from the
office when you were ill—young chap—wrote your letters for you—what
was his name?

BROXOPP. Driver?

JACK. Driver. That’s the chap. How can I get hold of him? Is he still
at the office?

BROXOPP. They’d know his address, anyhow.

JACK. He’s good, isn’t he?

BROXOPP. Excellent. You remember, Nancy, my telling you that I was
going to promote him as soon as——

IRIS. What do you want him for?

JACK. Business manager. Terribly keen. We must have somebody like
that.... What about offices?

BROXOPP (_vaguely_). Offices?

NANCY. We went to Pritchard the agents. In Victoria Street
somewhere——

JACK (_getting into his hat and coat_). That’s _your_ job, Iris. Get
orders for half-a-dozen—three to four rooms, I should think. Central.
We’d better make the stuff down at this chap’s place to start
with—enlarge whatever plant he’s got. I’ll go after Driver, while
you’re Pritcharding.

IRIS (_getting her things together_). Right. Pritchard, Victoria
Street. What number?

JACK. Telephone book at the chemist’s round the corner.

IRIS. Righto. (_To NANCY_) Good-bye, dear.

JACK (_to NANCY_). We shall have supper with you, dear, so see that
there’s some food. So will Miss Johns and her brother, probably. Food
for six at eight, say. But we’ll be back before that, I expect. So
long. (_He goes to the door._)

IRIS. Good-bye, Daddy Broxopp. We’re making our fortune again.

BROXOPP (_still bewildered_). Yes, but, Jack—Jack, you mustn’t——

JACK (_a last shout from the passage_). That’s all right, Dad, leave
it to me!

  (_The door slams. They are gone. BROXOPP and NANCY are alone
    together. He is unhappy; she feels that he is unhappy. They sit
    there, saying nothing...._)

BROXOPP (_almost to himself_). What did I call myself? The Great
Chillingham. (_With a sad, disillusioned little laugh_) The Great
Chillingham!

NANCY (_comforting him_). Darling!

BROXOPP. I said that the moment would come. It came. I said that I
would seize it. (_He shrugs his shoulders._)

NANCY. You were going to. Jack was too quick for you.

BROXOPP. No. I was afraid.... I’m getting old.... I talk and I talk,
and then when the moment comes—(_Sadly_) The Great Chillingham!

NANCY. You wanted to think it over—of course you did.

BROXOPP. Was there ever a Great Broxopp? Or was it just a fluke,
Nancy, twenty-five years ago?

NANCY. No, no!

BROXOPP. Then why——?

NANCY (_with a sigh_). It was twenty-five years ago.

BROXOPP. Yes. Never again. On this day The Great Chillingham died.
(_He drops his head into his hands._)

NANCY. But something else was born. (_He shakes his head._) (_She says
quietly_) Yes, Chillingham—and Son.

  (_Slowly he raises his head and looks at her. His eyes begin to
    light up. He rises, slowly. There is a smile about his mouth now.
    He is seeing himself as the Head of CHILLINGHAM AND SON. Look—he
    is striking an attitude! All is saved. NANCY regards him fondly.
    CHILLINGHAM AND SON._)




THE DOVER ROAD

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS




PEOPLE IN THE PLAY


  THE HOUSE

  Dominic.
  The Staff.
  Mr. Latimer.


  THE GUESTS

  Leonard.
  Anne.
  Eustasia.
  Nicholas.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Scene is the reception-room of MR. LATIMER’S house, a little way
off the Dover Road._

       *       *       *       *       *

The first performance of this play in London took place at the Theatre
Royal, Haymarket, on June 7, 1922, with the following cast:

  _Dominic_                   Allan Aynesworth.
  _Mr. Latimer_               Henry Ainley.
  _Leonard_                   Nicholas Hannen.
  _Anne_                      Nancy Atkin.
  _Eustasia_                  Athene Seyler.
  _Nicholas_                  John Deverell.




THE DOVER ROAD




ACT I


_What MR. LATIMER prefers to call the reception-room of his house is
really the hall. You come straight into it through the heavy oak front
door. But this door is so well built, so well protected by a thick
purple curtain, and the room so well warmed by central heating, that
none of the usual disadvantages of a hall on a November night attaches
to it. Just now, of course, all the curtains are drawn, so that the
whole of this side of the hall is purple-hung. In the middle of the
room, a little to the right, is a mahogany table, clothless, laid for
three. A beautiful blue bowl, filled with purple anemones, helps, with
the silver and the old cut glass, to decorate it. Over the whole room
there is something of an Arabian-night-adventure air. In the daytime,
perhaps, it is an ordinary hall, furnished a trifle freakishly, but in
the night time one wonders what is going to happen next._

_DOMINIC, tall, stout, and grave, the major-domo of the house, in a
butler’s old-fashioned evening-dress, comes in. He stands looking at
the room to see that all is as it should be, then walks to the table
and gives a little touch to it here and there. He turns round and
waits a moment. The Staff materialises suddenly—two footmen and two
chambermaids. The men come from the left, the women from the right;
over their clothes, too, MR. LATIMER has been a little freakish. They
stand in a line._

       *       *       *       *       *

DOMINIC. The blue room in the east wing is ready?

THE MEN. Yes, Mr. Dominic.

DOMINIC. The white room in the west wing is ready?

THE WOMEN. Yes, Mr. Dominic.

DOMINIC. The procedure will be as before.

THE FOUR. Yes, Mr. Dominic.

DOMINIC. See to it that I have no fault to find. That will do.

  (_They go out. He looks at his watch and then follows the men. He
    is hardly out of the room when a bell rings. He returns slowly,
    draws the curtain from the front door, and opens it. LEONARD, in
    fur-coat and cap, is seen standing outside. He is a big, well-made
    man of about thirty-five—dark, with a little black tooth-brush
    moustache. When the door opens he gets his first sight of the
    interior of the room, and is evidently taken by surprise._)

LEONARD. Oh—er—is this—er—an hotel? My chauffeur said—we’ve had
an accident, been delayed on the way—he said that we could put up
here. (_He turns round and calls_) Here, Saunders! This can’t be the
place. (_To DOMINIC_) Perhaps you could tell me——

ANNE (_from outside, invisible_). Saunders has gone, Leonard.

LEONARD (_turning round_). Gone! What the devil——(_He plunges into
the darkness._)

DOMINIC. Saunders was perfectly correct, my lord. This _is_ a sort of
hotel.

ANNE (_getting out of the car, but still invisible_). He went off as
soon as you got out of the car. Leonard, are you sure——?

  (_She comes into the light; he is holding her arm. Pretty she is,
    to the first sight; but what holds you is the mystery of her
    youthfulness; her aloof, untouched innocence; her grave coolness;
    her—well, we shall let her speak for herself. Just at present she
    is a little upset by the happenings of the night._)

DOMINIC. Saunders was perfectly correct, my lord. This _is_ a sort of
hotel.

LEONARD (_puzzled_). What the devil’s happened to him? (_He looks out
into the darkness._)

DOMINIC. Doubtless he has gone round to the garage to get the doors
open. Won’t your lordship——

LEONARD. You can put us up? Just for to-night. My—er—wife and
myself——

DOMINIC. If your lordship and her ladyship will come in—— (_He waits
for them._)

LEONARD (_to ANNE_). It’s the best we can do, dear. I’m frightfully
sorry about it, but, after all, what difference——

ANNE (_giving him a look which means “Don’t talk like this in front of
hotel servants”_). I daresay it will be quite comfortable. It’s only
for one night. (_She comes in, followed by LEONARD._)

DOMINIC. Thank you, my lady.

  (_He shuts and bolts the doors, then draws the curtains. There is
    an air of finality about it. ANNE looks back at the noise of the
    bolts going home with something of a start. They are locked in now
    for good. LEONARD, his eye on the supper-table, is saying to
    himself, “Dashed rummy sort of hotel.”_)

DOMINIC. Allow me, my lady. (_He helps them off with their coats._)

LEONARD. You can give us something to eat?

ANNE. I don’t want anything, Leonard.

LEONARD. Nonsense, dear.

DOMINIC. Supper will be served in five minutes, my lord.

ANNE (_suddenly_). Do you know who we are?

DOMINIC. I have not that pleasure, my lady.

ANNE. Then why do you call me “my lady”?

LEONARD (_disliking a scene_). My dear!

ANNE (_waving back LEONARD’S protesting arm_). No, Leonard. (_To
DOMINIC_) Well?

DOMINIC. His lordship mentioned that your ladyship was his wife.

ANNE. Y—yes.... Then you know _him_ by sight?

LEONARD (_complacently_). Well, my dear, that need not surprise you.

DOMINIC. I know his lordship’s rank, my lady. Not his lordship’s name.

LEONARD (_surprised_). My rank? How the devil——

DOMINIC. Supper will be served in five minutes, my lady. (_He bows and
goes out._)

  (_There is silence for a little. They look at the table, at the
    room, at each other. Then LEONARD says it aloud._)

LEONARD. Dashed rummy sort of hotel!

ANNE (_coming closer and holding his arm_). Leonard, I don’t like it.

LEONARD. Pooh! Nonsense, dear.

ANNE. It almost seems as though they had expected us.

LEONARD (_laughing_). My dear child, how could they? In the ordinary
way we should have been at Dover—why, almost at Calais by this time.

ANNE. I know. (_In distress_) Why aren’t we?

LEONARD. The car—Saunders, a fool of a chauffeur—a series of
unfortunate accidents——

ANNE. Do you often have these unfortunate accidents, Leonard?

LEONARD. My dear Anne, you aren’t suggesting that I’ve done this on
purpose!

ANNE. No, no. (_She leaves him, and goes and sits down._) But why
to-night of all nights?

LEONARD. Of course, it’s damned annoying missing the boat, but we can
get it to-morrow morning. We shall be in Paris to-morrow night.

ANNE. To-morrow night—but that makes such a difference. I hate every
hour we spend together like this in England.

LEONARD. Well, really, I don’t see why——

ANNE. You must take it that I do, Leonard. I told you from the first
that it was run-away or nothing with me; there was going to be no
intrigue, no lies and pretences and evasions. And somehow it seems
less—less sordid, if we begin our new life together in a new country.
(_With a little smile_) Perhaps the French for what we are doing is
not quite so crude as the English.... Yes, I know it’s absurd of me,
but there it is.

LEONARD (_with a shrug_). Oh, well! (_Taking out his case_) Do you
mind a cigarette?

ANNE (_violently_). Oh, why do men _always_ want to smoke, even up to
the moment when they’re going to eat? Can’t you breathe naturally for
five minutes?

LEONARD (_sulkily, putting his case back_). I beg your pardon.

ANNE. No, I beg yours.

LEONARD. You’re all to bits.

ANNE. Nerves, I suppose.

LEONARD. Nonsense! My Anne with nerves? (_Bitterly_) Now if it had
been Eustasia——

ANNE (_coldly_). Really, Leonard, I think we had better leave your
wife out of the conversation.

LEONARD. I beg your pardon.

ANNE (_to herself_). Perhaps you’re right. In a crisis we are all
alike, we women.

LEONARD (_going over to her_). No, damn it, I won’t have that.
It’s—it’s blasphemy. Anne, my darling——(_She stands up and he takes
her hands._)

ANNE. Oh!... I _am_ different, aren’t I?

LEONARD. Darling!

ANNE. I’m not a bit like—like anybody else, am I, not even when I’m
cross?

LEONARD. Darling!

ANNE. And you do love me?

LEONARD. Darling! (_He wants to kiss her, but she stops him._)

ANNE. No. Now you’re going to smoke. (_She settles him in his chair,
takes a cigarette from his case, and puts it in his mouth_) I’ll light
it for you. Matches? (_She holds out her hand for them._)

DOMINIC (_who has a way of being there when wanted_). Matches, my
lady. (_He hands them to her. They are both rather confused._)

ANNE. Thank you.

LEONARD (_annoyed_). Thanks. (_He gets up, takes the matches from
ANNE, and lights his cigarette. DOMINIC gives a professional touch to
the table and goes out._) Damn that fellow!

ANNE (_smiling_). After all, darling, he thinks I’m your wife.... Or
don’t wives light their husband’s cigarettes?

LEONARD. I believe you’re right, Anne. There’s something odd about
this place.

ANNE. So _you_ feel it now?

LEONARD. What did he mean by saying he knew my rank, but not my name?

ANNE (_lightly_). Perhaps he looked inside your cap—like Sherlock
Holmes—and saw the embroidered coronet.

LEONARD. How do you mean? There’s nothing inside my cap.

ANNE. No, darling. That was a joke. (_He nods tolerantly._)

LEONARD. And the table laid. Only one table.

ANNE. Yes, but it’s for three. They didn’t expect _us_.

LEONARD (_relieved_). So it is.... It’s probably a new idea in
hotels—some new stunt of Harrods—or what’s the fellow’s
name?—Lyons. A country-house hotel. By the way, what will you drink?

DOMINIC (_there as usual_). Bollinger 1906, my lord. (_He has startled
them again._) Mr. Latimer will be down in two minutes, my lady. He
asks you to forgive him for not being here to receive you.

LEONARD. Mr. Latimer? Who on earth’s Mr. Latimer?

DOMINIC. If you would wish to be shown your room, my lady——

ANNE (_who has not taken her eyes off him_). No, thank you.

LEONARD (_stepping forward_). Look here, my man, is this an hotel or
have we come to a private house by mistake?

DOMINIC. A sort of hotel, my lord. I assure your lordship there is no
mistake. Thank you, my lady.

                                        [_He goes out._

ANNE (_laughing half-hysterically as she sits down_). Very original
man, Harrod. Or is it Lyons?

LEONARD. Look here, I’m going to get to the bottom of this. (_He
starts after DOMINIC._)

ANNE. Why bother? Mr. Latimer will be here in two minutes.

LEONARD (_turning back_). Yes, but who the devil’s Mr. Latimer?

ANNE (_with interest_). Leonard, do you always arrange something
fascinating like this when you elope? I think it’s so romantic of you.
But don’t you think that the mere running away is enough just at
first? Leaving the fogs and the frets of England, the weariness and
the coldness of it, and escaping together to the warm, blue,
sun-filled South—isn’t that romantic enough? Why drag in a mysterious
and impossible inn, a mysterious and impossible Mr. Latimer? You
should have kept them for afterwards; for the time when the poetry was
wearing out, and we were beginning to get used to each other.

LEONARD. My dear girl, what _are_ you driving at? I say again—do you
really think that I _arranged_ all this?

ANNE. Well, somebody did.

  (_The two Footmen and the two Chambermaids come in and take up
    positions on each side of the table. They are followed by
    DOMINIC._)

DOMINIC. Mr. Latimer!

  (_MR. LATIMER comes in, looks at the visitors, goes off
    absent-mindedly with DOMINIC and his Staff, and then comes
    apologetically back again._)

LATIMER. Good evening!

  (_He bows with an air; an airy gentleman, neither young nor old,
    dressed rather fantastically as regards his tie and his
    dinner-jacket and the flower in his button-hole, and enjoying
    impishly every word of it._)

LEONARD. Good evening. Er——

LATIMER (_confidentially_). You will forgive me for being announced in
my own house, but I find that it saves so much trouble. If I had just
come in and said, “I am Mr. Latimer,” then _you_ would have had to
say, “And I am—er—So-and-so, and this is—er——” Exactly. I mean we
can get on so much better without names. But of course——

LEONARD. You will excuse me, sir, but——

LATIMER (_going happily on_). But of course, as you were just going to
say, we must call each other _something_. (_Thoughtfully_) I think I
shall call you Leonard. There is something about you—forgive the
liberty—something Leonardish. (_With a very sweet smile to ANNE_) I
am sure you agree with me.

ANNE. I am wondering whether this is really happening, or whether I am
dreaming it.

LATIMER (_his back to LEONARD_). And Leonard isn’t wondering at all;
he is just tapping his forehead with a great deal of expression.

  (_LEONARD, who was doing this, stops in some confusion._)

LEONARD (_coldly_). I think we have had enough of this, Mr. Latimer. I
was giving you the benefit of the doubt. If you are not mad, then I
will ask you for some other explanation of all this nonsense.

LATIMER (_sniffing at the flower in his button-hole_). An impetuous
character, Leonard. It must be so obvious to everybody else in the
room that an explanation will be forthcoming. But why not a friendly
explanation following a friendly supper?

ANNE. Are we your guests?

LATIMER. Please.

ANNE. Thank you.

LATIMER. But there is still this question of names. Now we agreed
about Leonard——

ANNE (_looking at him fearlessly_). My name is Anne.

LATIMER. Thank you, Miss Anne.

LEONARD (_awkwardly_). Er—my wife.

LATIMER. Then I am tempted to leave out the “Miss.”

LEONARD (_annoyed again_). Look here——

LATIMER (_turning to him_). But there is nothing to look at if I do,
Leonard. (_The Staff comes in._) Ah, supper! Will you sit here, Anne?
(_He goes to the head of the table, and indicates the chair on the
right of him._) And you here, Leonard? (_The chair on the left._)
That’s right. (_They all sit down._)

  (_DOMINIC and the Staff serve the supper. Five of them, so things
    go quickly._)

LATIMER. “A little fish, a bird, a little sweet. Enough to drink, but
not too much to eat.” I composed that in my bath this morning. The
wine has been waiting for you since 1906. How different from the
turbot! ’Twas but yesterday it scarce had heard the name of Le-o-nard.
(_They are all served with fish, and the wine has been poured out._)
Dominic, dismiss the Staff. We would be alone. (_They are alone. He
rises, glass in hand_) My friends, I will give you a toast. (_He
raises his glass_) A Happy Ending!

ANNE (_lifting her glass_). A Happy Ending!

LATIMER. You don’t drink, Leonard. You would have the adventure end
unhappily, as is the way of the modern novel?

LEONARD. I don’t understand the beginning of it, Mr. Latimer. I
don’t—you will forgive me for saying so—I don’t see how _you_ came
into it. Who _are_ you?

ANNE. Our host, Leonard.

LEONARD. So it seems, my dear. But in that case, how did we come here?
My chauffeur told us that this was an hotel—your man assured me, when
I asked, that it was an hotel, a sort of hotel. And now it seems that
we are in a private house. Moreover, we seem to have been expected.
And then again—if you will forgive me—it appears to be an unusual
kind of house. I tell you frankly that I don’t understand it.

LATIMER. I see your difficulty, Leonard.

LEONARD (_stiffly_). Nor am I accustomed to being called Leonard by a
perfect stranger.

LATIMER. What you are saying for yourself is, “Who is this man
Latimer? Is he _known_? Is he in the Stud Book?—I mean Debrett. Is he
perhaps one of the Hammersmith Latimers, or does he belong to the
Ealing Branch?”

ANNE (_calmly eating_). What does it matter?

LATIMER. Yes, but then _you_ like the fish. Leonard doesn’t.

LEONARD. I have no fault to find with the fish. You have an excellent
cook.

LATIMER (_gravely bowing_). I beg your pardon, I thank you. (_DOMINIC
comes in._) His lordship likes the fish.

DOMINIC. Thank you, sir. I will inform the cook.

                                        [_He goes out._

ANNE. When you are giving us your tiresome explanations after supper,
Mr. Latimer, I wish you would just add one more to them.

LATIMER. But of course!

ANNE. Your Mr. Dominic’s appearances are so apt. How is it done?

LATIMER (_pulling down his cuff_). Yes, I’ll make a note of that. (_He
writes on it_) Dominic—Apt appearance of.

  _DOMINIC reappears._

LATIMER. Admit the bird, Dominic.

                                        [_DOMINIC goes out._

LEONARD (_rising stiffly_). I’m afraid we shall have to be getting on
now, Mr. Latimer.... Anne, dear.... We are much obliged for your
hospitality, but—er—I imagine we are not far from Dover——

LATIMER. On the Dover Road, certainly.

LEONARD. Exactly. So if you would—er—have instructions given to my
chauffeur—er—— (_He hesitates as the Staff comes in._)

LATIMER. Dominic, his lordship’s glass is empty. He wishes to drink my
health.

DOMINIC. I beg your pardon, my lord. (_The glass is filled._)

LATIMER. And while he is up, just find his lordship a more comfortable
chair. He has been a little uneasy on that one all through the fish.

DOMINIC. I beg your pardon, my lord. (_The chair is changed._)

LATIMER (_rising with his glass and drinking to LEONARD_). Your
happiness! (_He sits down, and LEONARD mechanically sits down too._)
Now for the bird. (_To ANNE_) I like these little ceremonies in
between the courses. Don’t you?

ANNE. I’m liking my supper.

LATIMER. I am so glad. (_As ANNE is helped_) I shot this bird myself.
(_He looks at it through his glass_) What is it, Dominic?

DOMINIC. _Poulet en casserole_ with mushrooms, sir.

LATIMER. _Poulet en casserole_ with mushrooms. I shot the
mushrooms.... A large help for his lordship, Dominic. (_To LEONARD_)
Let me introduce your chicken to you, Leonard. One of the
Buff-Orpingtons. I daresay you know the family. His mother was a
Wyandotte. He was just about to contract an alliance with one of the
Rock girls, the Plymouth Rocks, when the accident happened.

  (_They are alone again now, plates and glasses well filled.
    LEONARD, who has been waiting impatiently for the Staff to go,
    pushes back his chair and gets up._)

LATIMER. Dear me! Not a third chair, surely?

LEONARD. Now look here, Mr. Latimer, this farce has gone on long
enough. I do not propose to sit through a whole meal without some
further explanation. Either we have that explanation now, or
else—Anne, dear—or else we’ll be getting on our way.

LATIMER (_thoughtfully_). Ah, but which is your way?

LEONARD. Dover. My chauffeur seems to have got off the track a little,
but if you can put us on to the Dover Road——

LATIMER (_to himself_). The Dover Road! The Dover Road! A dangerous
road, my friends. And you’re travelling in the dark.

LEONARD. Really, Mr. Latimer, that needn’t frighten us.

ANNE (_putting her hand on his arm_). What do you mean?

LATIMER. A strange road, Anne, for _you_. A new, untravelled road.

LEONARD. Nonsense. She’s often been this way before. Haven’t you,
dear?

ANNE (_shaking her head_). No.... But I’m not frightened, Mr. Latimer.

  (_There is silence for a little. Then DOMINIC appears noiselessly._)

LATIMER. Dominic, supper is over. His lordship loved the chicken—too
well to eat it. He adored the mushrooms—in silence. Inform the cook.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

LATIMER (_offering his case to ANNE_). A cigarette?

ANNE. No, thank you.

LATIMER. You permit it?

ANNE. Of course.

LATIMER. Thank you.

DOMINIC (_to LEONARD_). Cigar, my lord?

LEONARD. Er—er—(_but they are good ones_)—thanks.

LATIMER. Well, shall we——?

  (_They get up, and move into more comfortable chairs, LATIMER
    talking._)

LATIMER. Which chair would you like, Anne? There? (_She sits down._)
That’s right. Now then, Leonard, we want something especially
comfortable for you. You are a little finicky about chairs, if you
don’t mind my saying so.... What about _that_ one? Just try it and see
how you like it. (_LEONARD tries it, and sinks into it up to the
neck._) Yes, I think you will be happy there. And I shall sit here.
Now everything is ready. (_They are alone again._)

LEONARD (_with as much dignity as is possible from that sort of
chair_). I am waiting, Mr. Latimer.

LATIMER. I am waiting, Leonard, for your questions.

ANNE. Let me begin with one. (_He turns to her._) Your table was laid
for three. For whom were the other two places intended?

LATIMER. For yourself and Leonard.

ANNE. You expected us?

LATIMER. Yes.

ANNE. How did you know we were coming?

LATIMER. Saunders had his instructions to bring you.

LEONARD (_starting up from his chair—or trying to_). Saunders! My
chauffeur! Do you mean to say——

LATIMER. Let me help you up, Leonard. You have the wrong chair again.
It is difficult to be properly indignant in that one. (_He helps him
into a sitting position_) That’s better. You were saying——

LEONARD. You mean to tell me that you had the audacity to bribe my
chauffeur?

LATIMER. No, no, Leonard. What I mean is that _you_ had the
foolhardiness to bribe my friend Saunders to be your chauffeur.

LEONARD. Upon my word——

ANNE. Who is Saunders?

LATIMER. Saunders? He’s Joseph’s brother. Joseph was the gentleman in
orange. He helped you to fish.

LEONARD (_out of the chair at last_). How dare you interfere in my
concerns in this way, sir!

ANNE. Before you explain how you dare, Mr. Latimer, I should like to
know _why_ you are so interested in us. Who are you?

LATIMER. No more than Mr. Latimer. It is a purely impersonal interest
which I take—and I take it just because you are going the Dover Road,
my dear, and it is a dangerous road for a young girl to travel.

ANNE (_very cool, very proud_). I don’t think I asked you to be
interested in me.

LATIMER. Nobody does, my dear. But I am. Very interested. In all my
fellow-travellers. It is my hobby.

LEONARD. Anne! (_He means, “Let’s get out of this.” He makes a
movement to the front door._)

LATIMER. The door is locked, Leonard.

LEONARD (_bending over him and putting his face very close to
LATIMER’S_). Ah! Then I will give you one minute in which to open it.

  _DOMINIC has come in._

LATIMER. Dominic, his lordship’s face is just a little too close to
mine. Could you—thank you! (_LEONARD has started back on noticing
DOMINIC._) Coffee? Excellent. (_The Footmen are there with coffee._)

ANNE. No, thank you.

LEONARD. No, thanks. (_He sits on another chair._)

LATIMER. No, thank you. By the way, Dominic, did you go round to the
Hospital this afternoon?

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. The young gentleman is getting on nicely. He was
able to take a little bread-and-milk this morning.

LATIMER. Ah, I’m glad. Nothing solid yet?

DOMINIC. No, sir. The jaw is still very tender.

                                        [_He goes out._

LATIMER (_to LEONARD_). He bumped it against my knuckles last week. An
impetuous young fellow. He was running away with—dear me, I forget
her name—I always forget names. I think he called her Pussy. She had
several children. (_Unconsciously he has shot his cuff, and sees
suddenly the note he has made_) What’s this? “Dominic—Apt appearance
of.” Ah, yes. (_He turns to ANNE_) It’s very simple. A little fad of
mine. There are bells everywhere in this room—in every chair, on the
table, in the floor; wherever I am, I can press a bell for Dominic. He
is always close at hand on reception-evenings. Yes.

ANNE. That was a little warning which you were giving us just now?

LATIMER (_apologetically_). Yes. I thought it better. Leonard is so
impetuous. Joseph and Jacob were both amateur champions in their day.
Dominic is a very heavy fall-er. He never has to fall on a man twice.
If all this is quite understood at the beginning, it makes it so much
easier.

ANNE (_getting up_). Mr. Latimer, I assure you that this is not a
sudden freak of fancy, and that I know my own mind. I ask you, as a
gentleman, to open the door.

LATIMER (_shaking his head_). I am afraid it is impossible, Anne.
(_She shrugs her shoulders and sits down._)

LEONARD (_calm for the moment_). So we are kept here by force?

LATIMER. Need we insist upon it? Let us rather say that you have
postponed your visit to France in order to spend a few days with a
friend.

LEONARD. I prefer to say force.

LATIMER (_with a bow_). I do not dictate your words to you. Your
movements for the moment, yes. So let us say “force.”

LEONARD. We are prisoners, in fact?

LATIMER. Within the limits of my house.

LEONARD. And if my—my wife chooses to walk out of your front door
to-morrow morning, your—your fellow-conspirators would lay hands on
her and stop her?

LATIMER. My dear Leonard, why should your—your wife want to walk out
of the front door to-morrow? What would she want to do in the garden
in November? Do be reasonable.

LEONARD. Suppose she wished to walk to the nearest police-station?

LATIMER (_to ANNE_). Do you?

ANNE (_with a smile_). Could I?

LATIMER. If you stood on Leonard’s shoulders you might just reach the
top of the wall.... Dominic tells me that they have lost the key of
the gates. Very careless of them.

LEONARD. Well, I’m—— It’s monstrous!

ANNE. Yes, but we can’t keep on saying that. Here we are apparently,
and here we have to stay. But I still want to know very much _why_
Mr. Latimer has this great desire for our company.

LEONARD. You have the advantage of me now, sir, but you will not
always have it. The time will come when I shall demand satisfaction
for this insult.

LATIMER (_with an air—rising and bowing_). My lord! Letters addressed
to me at the Charing Cross Post Office will always be forwarded!

LEONARD (_slightly upset_). This gross insult to myself and—er—my
wife.

LATIMER. No, no, not your wife.

LEONARD. How dare you!

LATIMER (_in alarm_). Surely I haven’t made a mistake. (_To ANNE_) You
and he are running away together, aren’t you?

LEONARD (_a step nearer_). Look here, sir——

ANNE. Oh, Leonard, what’s the good? We aren’t ashamed of it, are we?
Yes, Mr. Latimer, we are running away together.

LATIMER. Of course! Why not? Leonard, _you_ aren’t ashamed of it, are
you?

LEONARD. I object to this interference in my private affairs by a——

LATIMER. Yes, yes, but you’ve said all that. It’s interfering of me,
damnably interfering. But I am doing it because I want you both to be
happy.

LEONARD. I can look after my own happiness.

LATIMER. _And_ this lady’s?

LEONARD. She is good enough to believe it.

ANNE. I am not a child. Do you think I haven’t thought? The scandal,
the good name I am going to lose, the position of that other woman, I
have thought of all these things.

LATIMER. There is one thing of which you haven’t thought, Anne.

ANNE (_how young she is_). I am afraid you are old-fashioned. You are
going to talk to me of morality.

LATIMER (_smiling_). Oh no, I wasn’t.

ANNE (_not heeding him_). Living alone here, a bachelor, within these
high walls which keep the world out, you believe what the fairy-books
tell us, that once two people are married they live happy ever after.

LATIMER. Oh, no, I don’t.

ANNE. I am the wicked woman, coming between the happy husband and
wife, breaking up the happy home. Is that it, Mr. Latimer?

LEONARD. Rubbish! The happy home! Why, this is my first real chance of
happiness.

LATIMER. His first real chance of happiness! As he said when he
proposed to Eustasia.

LEONARD (_upset_). What’s that?

LATIMER (_to ANNE_). May I ask _you_ some questions now?

ANNE. Yes?

LATIMER. Eustasia will divorce him?

LEONARD. We shall not defend the suit.

LATIMER. And then you will marry Anne?

LEONARD. Another insult. I shall not forget it.

LATIMER. I beg your pardon. I simply wanted an answer.

ANNE. He will marry me.

LATIMER. I see. And then, as the fairy-books tell us, you will live
happy ever after? (_ANNE is silent._)

LEONARD. I need hardly say that I shall do my best to——

LATIMER (_to ANNE_). And then, as the fairy-books tell us, you will
live happy ever after? (_ANNE is silent._) I live within my high walls
which keep the world out; I am old-fashioned, Anne. You are modern,
you know the world. You don’t believe the fairy-books, and yet—you
are going to live happy ever after?

LEONARD. I don’t see what you’re driving at.

LATIMER. Anne does.

ANNE (_raising her eyes to his_). I take the risk, Mr. Latimer.

LATIMER. But a big risk.... Oh, believe me, I am not so much out of
the world as you think. Should I have known all about you, should I
have brought you here, if I were? I know the world; I know the risks
of marriage. Marriage is an art—well, it’s a profession in itself.
(_Sharply_) And what are you doing? Marrying a man whose only
qualification for the profession is that he has tried it once, and
made a damned hash of it.

LEONARD. Well, really, sir!

LATIMER. Isn’t it true?

LEONARD. Well—er—I admit my marriage has not been a happy one, but I
venture to say—well, I don’t wish to say anything against
Eustasia——

LATIMER. Go on. Life is too short for us to be gentlemen all the time.

LEONARD (_explosively_). Well, then, I say that not even St. Michael
and all his angels could have made a success of it. I mean, not even
St. Michael.

LATIMER. Yet you chose her.

LEONARD. Er—well—— (_But he has nothing to say._)

LATIMER (_after a pause_). Miss Anne, I am not being moral. You see, I
am a very rich man, and we know on good authority that it is difficult
for a very rich man to be a very good man. But being a very rich man I
try to spend my money so that it makes somebody else happy besides
myself. It’s the only happy way of spending money, isn’t it? And it’s
my hobby to prevent people—to try if I can prevent people—making
unhappy marriages.... It’s wonderful what power money gives you.
Nobody realises it, because nobody ever spends it save in the obvious
ways.... You may say that I should have prevented Leonard from
marrying Eustasia in the first place. I have done that sometimes. I
have asked two young people here—oh, properly chaperoned—and
guests, not prisoners as you are—two young people who thought that
they were in love, and I have tried to show each to the other in the
most unromantic light.... Sometimes the engagement has been broken
off. Sometimes they have married and—lived happy ever after.... But
mostly it is my hobby to concentrate on those second marriages into
which people plunge—with no parents now to restrain them—so much
more hastily even than they plunge into their first adventure. Yet how
much more carefully they should be considered, seeing that one at
least of the parties has already proved his utter ignorance of the art
of marriage.... And so, my dear friends, when I hear—and a rich man
has many means of hearing—when I hear that two people are taking the
Dover Road, as you were taking it to-night, I venture to stop them,
and say, in the words of the fairy-book, “Are you _sure_ you are going
to live happy ever after?”

LEONARD. Your intentions may be good, but I can only repeat that your
interference is utterly unwarranted, and you are entirely mistaken as
to the power and authority which your money gives you.

LATIMER. Authority, none. But power? (_He laughs_) Why, my dear
Leonard, if I offered you a hundred thousand pounds to go back to your
wife to-night, this lady would never see you again.

LEONARD. Well, of all the damnable things to say——

LATIMER. How damnable the truth is! Think it over to-night, Leonard.
You are a poor man for your position—think of all the things you
could do with a hundred thousand pounds. Turn it over in your
mind—and then over and over again. A hundred thousand pounds.

  (_For a moment it seems as if LEONARD is beginning to turn it, but
    ANNE interrupts._)

ANNE (_scornfully_). Is this part of the treatment? Am I being shown
my lover when he is mercenary?

LATIMER (_with a laugh_). Oh no! If that were part of my treatment,
there would be no marriages at all. Oh no, it isn’t a genuine offer.
(_To LEONARD_) It’s off, Leonard. You needn’t think it out any more.
(_LEONARD wakes up suddenly, a poor man._) Besides, you misunderstand
me. I don’t want to separate you by force—I have no right to.

ANNE. But how modest suddenly!

LATIMER (_with a bow and a smile_). Madam, I admire your spirit.

ANNE. Leonard, I am receiving the attentions of another man. Beware of
jealousy.... All part of the treatment, Mr. Latimer?

LATIMER. You’re splendid. (_Seriously_) But I meant what I said just
now. I am not preventing you from going the Dover Road, I am only
asking you to wait a few days and see how you get on. It may be that
you two are the perfect soul-mates; that your union has already been
decreed in Heaven and will be watched over by the angels. If so,
nobody will rejoice in your happiness more than I. I shall not say,
“You have no right to be happy together. Leonard must remain with his
lawfully-wedded Eustasia.” Believe me, I do not waste my money, my
time, my breath in upholding the sanctity of an unhappy marriage. I
was brought up in the sanctity of an unhappy marriage; even as a child
I knew all about it. (_Less seriously_) But oh, my dear Anne, let us
have a little common sense before we adventure marriage with a man who
is always making a mess of it. We know what Leonard is—how perfectly
hopeless as a husband.

ANNE. I don’t think that is quite fair.

LATIMER. Well, as far as we can tell. You’ve never made a happy
marriage yet, have you, Leonard?

LEONARD (_sulkily_). I don’t want to say anything against Eustasia——

LATIMER. Good God, man, aren’t you shouting it all the time? Why else
are you here? But don’t try to pretend that it’s all Eustasia’s fault.

LEONARD (_doubtfully_). Well——

LATIMER. Or that it will be all Anne’s fault _next_ year.

LEONARD. What do you mean, next year?

LATIMER. I beg your pardon. I should have said the year after next.
(_There is a little silence._)

ANNE (_getting up_). I think I will go to bed. How long do you want us
to wait?

LATIMER. Can you spare a week? You with so many years in front of you.

ANNE (_deciding that the moment has come to put MR. LATIMER in his
place_). I have a father. I left him a note to say what I was doing.
We don’t see much of each other, but I thought it polite.
(_Triumphantly_) Does _that_ interfere with your plans at all?

LATIMER (_smiling_). Not at all. There was a little mistake about the
delivery of that note. Your father is under the impression that you
are staying with friends—in Kent.... A great power, money.

ANNE (_deciding, with dignity, that the moment has not come_). I
congratulate you on the perfection of your methods. Good night.

  (_DOMINIC is in the room._)

LATIMER. Her ladyship will retire.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

LATIMER. Good night, Miss Anne.

ANNE (_holding out her hand suddenly_). Without prejudice.

LATIMER (_bending over it gallantly_). Ah, but you are prejudicing me
entirely.

  _A MAID comes in._

MAID. This way, my lady.

  (_She leads the way to a door on the right, and ANNE follows
    her._)

LATIMER (_pleasantly, to LEONARD_). And did _you_ leave a note for
_your_ father, Leonard?

LEONARD. You ought to know. You appear to have your conspirators
everywhere. Saunders—and, I suppose, Anne’s maid—and God knows who
else.

LATIMER. Money, Leonard, money. A pity you refused that hundred
thousand pounds. You could have bribed the Archbishop of Canterbury to
curse me.... Well, a week here won’t do either of you any harm. Have a
whisky and soda?

LEONARD. I am not at all sure that I ought to drink in your house.

LATIMER. You will be thirsty before you go.

LEONARD (_hesitating_). Well——

  (_A Footman appears with the whisky._)

LATIMER. That’s right. Help yourself, won’t you?

LEONARD (_helping himself_). Please understand that I do this, as I do
everything else in your house, under protest.

LATIMER (_shooting his cuff and taking out his pencil_). Your protest
is noted.

LEONARD (_returning to the too comfortable chair_). As I have already
said, your conduct is perfectly outrageous. (_He sinks into its
depths._)

LATIMER. And as I have already said, you can’t do moral indignation
from that chair. Remember what happened to you last time.

LEONARD. Perfectly outrageous. (_He drinks._)

LATIMER. Have another cigar?

LEONARD. I shall go to bed as soon as I have drunk this. (_He
drinks._)

LATIMER. You wouldn’t care for a game of billiards first?

LEONARD. I am not in the mood for billiards.

LATIMER. By the way, we have another runaway couple here. But their
week of probation is just over. They expect to leave to-morrow.

LEONARD. I am not interested in your earlier crimes.

LATIMER. I think you would be interested in _this_ couple, Leonard.

LEONARD. I assure you I am not.

LATIMER. Ah! (_Picking up a review and settling himself_) Very good
article this month by Sidney Webb. You ought to read it.

LEONARD. I am not interested in Sidney Webb.

LATIMER. Breakfast is at ten o’clock. In here.

LEONARD (_struggling out of his chair_). I shall eat it under protest.

LATIMER. You’re off? Then I’ll say good night.

  (_DOMINIC and the two Footmen, JOSEPH and JACOB, have come in._)

LEONARD (_stiffly_). Good night.

  (_He walks up to the door on the right. JACOB is in front of it.
    LEONARD is pulled up at sight of him. DOMINIC indicates the door
    on the left._)

DOMINIC. _This_ way, my lord.

LEONARD. Er—er—thank you.

  (_He goes out, followed by JOSEPH.... MR. LATIMER is alone with
    Sidney Webb._)




ACT II

_It is next morning. EUSTASIA, LEONARD’S wife (who should be sitting
patiently at home wondering when he will return), is having breakfast
with a harmless young man called NICHOLAS. She is what people who talk
like that call a “nice little thing,” near enough to thirty-five to
begin to wish it were twenty-five. At present she is making a good
deal of fuss over this dear boy NICHOLAS. Breakfast is practically
over. NICHOLAS, in fact, is wiping his mouth._

       *       *       *       *       *

EUSTASIA. Finished, darling?

NICHOLAS. Yes, thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. A little more toast?

NICHOLAS. No, thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. Just a little tiny teeny-weeny bit, if his Eustasia butters
it for him?

NICHOLAS. No, thank you. I’ve really finished.

EUSTASIA. Another cup of coffee?

NICHOLAS (_with a sigh_). No, thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. Just a little bit of a cup if his Eustasia pours it out for
her own Nicholas, and puts the sugar in with her own ickle fingers?

NICHOLAS. No more coffee, thank you.

EUSTASIA. Then he shall sit in a more comfy chair while he smokes his
nasty, horrid pipe, which he loves so much better than his Eustasia.
(_He gets up without saying anything._) He doesn’t really love it
better?

NICHOLAS (_laughing uneasily_). Of course he doesn’t.

EUSTASIA. Kiss her to show that he doesn’t.

NICHOLAS (_doing it gingerly_). You baby!

EUSTASIA. And now give me your pipe. (_He gives it to her reluctantly.
She kisses it and gives it back to him._) There! And she doesn’t
really think it’s a nasty, horrid pipe, and she’s ever so sorry she
said so.... Oh! (_She sees a dish of apples suddenly._)

NICHOLAS. What is it?

EUSTASIA. Nicholas never had an apple!

NICHOLAS. Oh no, thanks, I don’t want one.

EUSTASIA. Oh, but he must have an apple! It’s so good for him. An
apple a day keeps the doctor away. You _must_ keep the doctor away,
darling, else poor Eustasia will be miserable.

NICHOLAS (_with an effort_). I’ve finished my breakfast.

EUSTASIA. Not even if his Eustasia peels it for him?

NICHOLAS. No, thank you. I assure you that I have had all I want.

EUSTASIA. Sure?

NICHOLAS. Quite sure, thank you. Where are you going to sit?

EUSTASIA (_indicating the sofa_). Nicholas sit there and Eustasia sit
next to him.

NICHOLAS (_without much enthusiasm_). Right. (_They sit down._)

EUSTASIA. Shall Eustasia fill his pipe for him? (_She takes it._)

NICHOLAS (_taking it back_). No, thank you. It is filled. (_They are
silent for a little, and at last he speaks uncomfortably_)
Er—Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. Yes, darling.

NICHOLAS. We’ve been here a week.

EUSTASIA. Yes, darling. A wonderful, wonderful week. And now to-day we
leave this dear house where we have been so happy together, and go out
into the world together——

NICHOLAS (_who has not been listening to her_). A week. Except for the
first day, we have had all our meals alone together.

EUSTASIA (_sentimentally_). Alone, Nicholas.

NICHOLAS. Four meals a day—that’s twenty-four meals.

EUSTASIA. Twenty-four!

NICHOLAS. And at every one of those meals you have asked me at least
four times to have something more, when I had already said that I
didn’t want anything more; or, in other words, you have forced me to
say “No, thank you, Eustasia,” ninety-six times when there was
absolutely no need for it.

EUSTASIA (_hurt_). Nicholas!

NICHOLAS (_inexorably_). We are both young. I am twenty-six, you
are——

EUSTASIA (_hopefully_). Twenty-five.

NICHOLAS (_looking at her quickly and then away again_). You are
twenty-five. If all goes well, we may look to have fifty years more
together. Say two thousand five hundred weeks. Multiply that by a
hundred, and we see that in the course of our joint lives you will, at
the present rate, force me to say “No, thank you, Eustasia,” two
hundred and fifty thousand times more than is necessary. (_He relights
his pipe._)

EUSTASIA (_pathetically_). Nicholas! (_She applies her handkerchief._)

NICHOLAS. I wondered if we couldn’t come to some arrangement about it.
That’s all.

EUSTASIA. You’re cruel! Cruel! (_She sobs piteously._)

NICHOLAS (_doggedly_). I just wondered if we couldn’t come to some
arrangement.

EUSTASIA (_completely overcome_). Oh! Oh! Nicholas! My darling!

  (_NICHOLAS, his hands clenched, looks grimly in front of him. He
    winces now and then at her sobs. He tries desperately hard not
    to give way, but in the end they are too much for him._)

NICHOLAS (_putting his arms round her_). Darling! Don’t! (_She goes on
sobbing._) There! There! I’m sorry. Nicholas is sorry. I oughtn’t to
have said it. Forgive me, darling.

EUSTASIA (_between sobs_). It’s only because I love you so much, and
w-want you to be well. And you m-must eat.

NICHOLAS. Yes, yes, Eustasia, I know. It is dear of you.

EUSTASIA. Ask any d-doctor. He would say you m-must eat.

NICHOLAS. Yes, darling.

EUSTASIA. You m-must eat.

NICHOLAS (_resignedly_). Yes, darling.

EUSTASIA (_sitting up and wiping her eyes_). What’s a wife for, if it
isn’t to look after her husband when he’s ill, and to see that he
eats?

NICHOLAS. All right, dear, we won’t say anything more about it.

EUSTASIA. And when you had that horrid cold and were so ill, the first
day after we came here, I did look after you, didn’t I, Nicholas, and
take care of you and make you well again?

NICHOLAS. You did, dear. Don’t think I am not grateful. You were very
kind. (_Wincing at the recollection_) Too kind.

EUSTASIA. Not too kind, darling. I love looking after you, and doing
things for you, and taking care of you, and cosseting you.
(_Thoughtfully to herself_) Leonard was _never_ ill.

NICHOLAS. Leonard?

EUSTASIA. My husband.

NICHOLAS. Oh!... I’d never thought of him as Leonard. I prefer not to
think about him. I’ve never seen him, and I don’t want to talk about
him.

EUSTASIA. No, darling. _I_ don’t want to either.

NICHOLAS. We’ve taken the plunge and—(_bravely_) and we’re not going
back on it.

EUSTASIA (_surprised_). Darling!

NICHOLAS. As a man of honour I—— Besides, you can’t go back now—I
mean I took you away, and—— Well, here we are. (_With
determination_) Here we are.

EUSTASIA. Darling, you aren’t regretting?

NICHOLAS (_hastily_). No, no! (_She takes out her handkerchief
ominously._) No, no, no! (_She begins to sob._) _No! No!_ (_He is
almost shouting._) Eustasia, listen! I love you! I’m _not_ regretting!
I’ve _never_ been so happy! (_She is sobbing tumultuously._) So happy,
Eustasia! I have never, never been so happy! _Can’t_ you hear?

EUSTASIA (_throwing herself into his arms_). Darling!

NICHOLAS. There, there!

EUSTASIA (_drying her eyes_). Oh, Nicholas, you frightened me so! Just
for a moment I was afraid you were regretting.

NICHOLAS. No, no!

EUSTASIA. How right Mr. Latimer was!

NICHOLAS (_with conviction_). He was indeed.

EUSTASIA. How little we really knew of each other when you asked me to
come away with you!

NICHOLAS. How little!

EUSTASIA. But this week has shown us to each other as we really are.

NICHOLAS. It has.

EUSTASIA. And now I feel absolutely safe. We are ready to face the
world together, Nicholas. (_She sighs and leans back happily in his
arms._)

NICHOLAS. Ready to face the world together.

  (_He has his pipe in his right hand, which is round her waist. Her
    eyes are closed, her left hand, encircling his neck, holds his
    left hand. He tries to bend his head down so as to get hold of his
    pipe with his teeth. Several times he tries and just misses it.
    Each time he pulls her a little closer to him, and she sighs
    happily. At last he gets hold of it. He leans back with a gasp of
    relief._)

EUSTASIA (_still with her eyes closed_). What is it, darling?

NICHOLAS. Nothing, Eustasia, nothing. Just happiness.

  (_But they are not to be alone with it for long, for MR. LATIMER
    comes in._)

LATIMER. Good morning, my friends, good morning.

  (_They move apart and NICHOLAS jumps up._)

NICHOLAS. Oh, good morning.

EUSTASIA. Good morning.

LATIMER. So you are leaving me this morning and going on your way?

NICHOLAS (_without enthusiasm_). Yes.

EUSTASIA. But we shall never forget this week, dear Mr. Latimer.

LATIMER. You have forgiven me for asking you to wait a little so as to
make sure?

EUSTASIA. Oh, but you were so right! I was just saying so to Nicholas.
Wasn’t I, Nicholas?

NICHOLAS. Yes. About a minute ago. About two minutes ago.

LATIMER. And so now you are sure of yourselves?

EUSTASIA. Oh, so sure, so very sure. Aren’t we, Nicholas?

NICHOLAS. Absolutely sure.

LATIMER. That’s right. (_Looking at his watch_) Well, I don’t want to
hurry you, but if you have any little things to do, the car will be
here in half an hour, and——

EUSTASIA. Half an hour? Oh, I must fly. (_She begins._)

NICHOLAS (_not moving_). Yes, we must fly.

LATIMER (_going to the door with EUSTASIA_). By the way, you will be
interested to hear that I had two other visitors last night.

EUSTASIA (_stopping excitedly_). Mr. Latimer! You don’t mean
another—couple?

LATIMER. Yes, another romantic couple.

EUSTASIA. Oh, if I could but see them before we go! Just for a moment!
Just to reconcile them to this week of probation! To tell them what a
wonderful week it can be!

LATIMER. You shall. I promise you that you shall.

EUSTASIA. Oh, thank you, dear Mr. Latimer!

  (_He goes to the door with her. As he comes back, NICHOLAS is
    coming slowly towards him._)

NICHOLAS. I say?

LATIMER. Yes?

NICHOLAS (_thoughtfully_). I say, what would _you_—I
mean—supposing—— Because you see—I mean, it isn’t as if—— Of
course, _now_—— (_He looks at his watch and finishes up sadly_) Half
an hour. Well, I suppose I must be getting ready. (_He goes towards
the door._)

LATIMER (_as he gets there_). Er—Nicholas.

NICHOLAS. Yes?

LATIMER. Just a moment.

NICHOLAS (_coming back to him_). Yes?

  (_LATIMER takes him by the arm, and looks round the room to see
    that they are alone._)

LATIMER (_in a loud whisper_). Cheer up!

NICHOLAS (_excitedly_). What?

  (_LATIMER has let go of his arm and moved away, humming casually
    to himself. The light dies out of NICHOLAS’ eyes, and he shrugs
    his shoulders despairingly._)

NICHOLAS (_without any hope_). Well, I’ll go and get ready.

                                        [_He goes out._

  (_DOMINIC comes in and begins to rearrange the breakfast-table._)

LATIMER. Ah, good morning, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Good morning, sir. A nicish morning it seems to be, sir.

LATIMER. A very nicish morning. I have great hopes of the world
to-day.

DOMINIC. I am very glad to hear it, sir.

LATIMER. We must all do what we can, Dominic.

DOMINIC. That’s the only way, isn’t it, sir?

LATIMER. Great hopes, great hopes.

DOMINIC (_handing him “The Times”_). The paper, sir.

LATIMER. Thank you. (_He looks at the front page_). Any one married
this morning? Dear me, quite a lot. One, two, three, four ... ten.
Ten! Twenty happy people, Dominic!

DOMINIC. Let us hope so, sir.

LATIMER. Let us hope so.... By the way, how was his lordship this
morning?

DOMINIC. A little depressed, sir.

LATIMER. Ah!

DOMINIC. There seems to have been some misunderstanding about his
luggage. A little carelessness on the part of somebody, I imagine,
sir.

LATIMER. Dear me! Didn’t it come with him?

DOMINIC. I’m afraid not, sir.

LATIMER. Tut, tut, how careless of somebody. Can’t we lend him
anything?

DOMINIC. Joseph offered to lend him a comb, sir—his own comb—a
birthday present last year, Joseph tells me. His lordship decided not
to avail himself of the offer.

LATIMER. Very generous of Joseph, seeing that it was a birthday
present.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Unfortunately Joseph had come down to the last
blade of his safety razor this morning. His lordship is rather upset
about the whole business, sir.

LATIMER. Well, well, I daresay a little breakfast will do him good.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Are you ready for breakfast now, sir?

  (_ANNE comes in. All this is rather fun. She is not so sure of
    LEONARD now, but LEONARD doesn’t matter. Dover is a long way off.
    Meanwhile this is fun. The jolly house, the excitement of not
    knowing what will happen next; and MR. LATIMER—to be put in his
    place._)

LATIMER (_getting up and going to her_). Good morning, Anne. May I
hope that you slept well?

ANNE. Very well, thank you.

LATIMER. I am so glad.... All right, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

LATIMER. You are ready for breakfast?

ANNE. Quite ready. But what about Leonard?

LATIMER. Leonard?

ANNE. I made sure that I was to have a practice breakfast with
Leonard this morning. I have been thinking of a few things to say up
in my room.

LATIMER (_smiling_). Say them to me instead.

ANNE. They are very wifely. (_She sits down._)

LATIMER. But think what good practice.

ANNE. Very well. (_At the cups_) Tea or coffee, darling?

LATIMER. Oh no, that will never do. You know by now that I always have
coffee—half milk and three lumps of sugar.

ANNE. Of course, how silly of me. (_She pours out the coffee._)

LATIMER (_taking the covers off the dishes_). Omelette—fish—kidney
and bacon?

ANNE. Now _you’re_ forgetting.

LATIMER (_putting back the covers_). No, I’m remembering. Toast and
marmalade—isn’t that right?

ANNE. Quite right, dear.

LATIMER (_to himself_). I knew she would like marmalade. No wonder
that Leonard ran away with her. (_He puts the toast and marmalade
close to her._)

ANNE. Your coffee, darling.

LATIMER. Thank you, my love.... “My love” is very connubial, I think.

ANNE. Delightfully so. Do go on.

LATIMER. Er—I am sorry to see in the paper this morning—which I
glanced at, my precious, before you came down—— How do you like “My
precious”?

ANNE. Wonderfully life-like. Are you sure you haven’t been married
before?

LATIMER. Only once. Eustasia. You had not forgotten, Eustasia?

ANNE. I am afraid I had. In fact, I had forgotten for the moment that
you were being Leonard.

LATIMER (_bowing_). Thank you. I could wish no better compliment.

ANNE (_laughing in spite of herself_). Oh, you’re too absurd.

LATIMER (_in LEONARD’S manner_). Of course I don’t wish to say
anything against Eustasia——

ANNE. My dear Leonard, I really think we might leave your first wife
out of it.

LATIMER. Yes, you want to get that off pat. You’ll have to say that a
good deal, I expect. Well, to resume. I am sorry to see in the paper
this morning that Beelzebub, upon whom I laid my shirt for the 2.30
race at Newmarket yesterday—and incidentally your shirt too,
darling—came in last, some five minutes after the others had finished
the course.... Tut, tut, how annoying!

ANNE. Oh, my poor darling!

LATIMER. The word “poor” is well chosen. We are ruined. I shall have
to work.

ANNE. You know what I _want_ you to do, Leonard?

LATIMER. No, I have forgotten.

ANNE (_seriously_). I should like to see you in the House of Lords,
taking your rightful place as a leader of men, making great speeches.

LATIMER. My dear Anne! I may be a peer, but I am not a dashed
politician.

ANNE (_wistfully_). I wish you were, Leonard.

LATIMER. I will be anything you like, Anne. (_He leans towards her,
half-serious, half-mocking._)

ANNE (_with a little laugh_). How absurd you are! Some more coffee?

LATIMER (_passing his cup_). To which I answer, “A little more milk.”
Do you realise that this goes on for fifty years?

ANNE. Well, and why not?

LATIMER. Fifty years. A solemn thought. But do not let it mar our
pleasure in the meal that we are having together now. Let us continue
to talk gaily together. Tell me of any interesting dream you may have
had last night—any little adventure that befell you in the bath—any
bright thought that occurred to you as you were dressing.

ANNE (_thoughtfully_). I had a very odd dream last night.

LATIMER. I am longing to hear it, my love.

ANNE. I dreamt that you and I were running away together, Leonard, and
that we lost our way and came to what we thought was an hotel. But it
was not an hotel. It was a very mysterious house, kept by a very
mysterious man called Mr. Latimer.

LATIMER. How very odd. Latimer? Latimer? No, I don’t seem to have
heard of the fellow.

ANNE. He told us that we were his prisoners. That we must stay in his
house a week before we went on our way again. That all the doors were
locked, and there were high walls round the garden, that the gates
from the garden were locked, so that we could not escape, and that we
must wait a week together in his house to see if we were really suited
to each other.

LATIMER. My dear, what an extraordinary dream!

ANNE. It _was_ only a dream, wasn’t it?

LATIMER. Of course! What is there mysterious about this house? What is
there mysterious about this—er—Mr. Latimer? And as for any one being
kept prisoner—here—in this respectable England—why!

ANNE. It is absurd, isn’t it?

LATIMER. Quite ridiculous.

ANNE (_getting up—now she will show him_). I thought it was. (_She
goes to the front door and turns the handle. To her surprise the door
opens. But MR. LATIMER mustn’t know that she is surprised._) You see,
I thought it was! (_She steps out into the garden._) You see, the
gates are open too! (_She comes back._) What an absurd dream to have
had! (_She sits down again._)

LATIMER. There’s no accounting for dreams. I had an absurd one too
last night.

ANNE. What was it?

LATIMER. A lonely house. Father and daughter living together. Father
old, selfish, absorbed in his work. Daughter left to herself; her only
companion, books; knowing nothing of the world. A man comes into her
life—the first. He makes much of her. It is a new experience for the
daughter. She is grateful to him, so grateful, so very proud that she
means anything to him. He tells her when it is too late that he is
married; talks of an impossible wife; tells her that she is his real
mate. Let her come with him and see something of the world which she
has never known. She comes.... Dear me, what silly things one dreams!

ANNE. Absurd things.... (_So he knows! He knows all about it! But she
will not be treated as a child. She will carry it off yet._) When can
we have the car? (_Now she is carrying it off._)

LATIMER. The car?

ANNE. Leonard’s car.

LATIMER. You wish to continue the adventure?

ANNE. Why not?

LATIMER. Dear, dear! What a pity! (_Looking at his watch._) In
twenty-five minutes?

ANNE. That will do nicely, thank you.

LATIMER. We must let Leonard have a little breakfast first, if he is
to cross the Channel to-day. (_He gets up._) In twenty-five minutes
then.

ANNE (_half holding out her hand_). I shall see you again?

LATIMER (_bending over it_). If only to wish you Godspeed.

  (_She looks at him for a moment, and then turns and goes out. He
    picks up his paper and settles with it in an arm-chair, his back
    to the breakfast-table. LEONARD comes in. He is in a dirty, rather
    disreputable, once white, bath-gown. His hair is unbrushed, his
    cheeks—the cheeks of a dark man—unshaved and blue. He has a
    horrible pair of bedroom slippers on his feet, above which, not
    only his socks, but almost a hint of pantaloons, may be seen on
    the way to the dressing-gown. He comes in nervously, and is
    greatly relieved to find that the breakfast-table is empty. He
    does not notice MR. LATIMER. On his way to the table he stops at a
    mirror on the wall, and standing in front of it, tries to persuade
    himself that his chin is not so bad after all. Then he pours
    himself out some coffee, helps himself to a kipper and falls to
    ravenously._)

LATIMER. Ah, good morning, Leonard.

LEONARD (_starting violently and turning round_). Good Lord! I didn’t
know you were there.

LATIMER. You were so hungry.... I trust you slept well.

LEONARD. Slept well! Of all the damned draughty rooms—— Yes, and
what about my luggage?

LATIMER (_surprised_). Your luggage?

LEONARD. Yes, never put on the car, your fellow, what’s ’is
name—Joseph says.

LATIMER. Dear me, we must enquire into this. Lost your luggage? Dear
me, that’s a very unfortunate start for a honeymoon. That means bad
luck, Leonard. (_DOMINIC comes in._) Dominic, what’s this about his
lordship’s luggage?

DOMINIC. Joseph tells me there must have been some misunderstanding
about it, sir. A little carelessness on the part of somebody, I
imagine, sir.

LATIMER. Dear me! Didn’t it come with him?

DOMINIC. I’m afraid not, sir.

LATIMER. Tut, tut, how careless of somebody! Thank you, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

LATIMER. Lost your luggage. How excessively annoying! (_Anxiously_) My
dear Leonard, what is it?

LEONARD (_whose face has been shaping for it for some seconds_)
A-tish-oo!

LATIMER. At any rate I can find you a handkerchief. (_He does so.
LEONARD takes it just in time, and sneezes violently again._)

LEONARD. Thank you.

LATIMER. Not at all. That’s a very nasty cold you’ve got. How wise of
you to have kept on a dressing-gown.

LEONARD. The only thing I had to put on.

LATIMER. But surely you were travelling in a suit yesterday? I seem to
remember a brown suit.

LEONARD. That fool of a man of yours——

LATIMER (_distressed_). You don’t mean to tell me——(_DOMINIC comes
in._) Dominic, what’s this about his lordship’s brown suit?

DOMINIC. Owing to a regrettable misunderstanding, sir, his lordship’s
luggage——

LATIMER. Yes, but I’m not talking about his twenty-five other suits, I
mean the nice brown suit that he was wearing yesterday. It must be
somewhere. I remember noticing it. I remember—— (_He holds up his
hand_) Just a moment, Dominic——

LEONARD. A-tish-oo!

LATIMER. I remember saying to myself, “What a nice brown suit Leonard
is wearing.” Well, where is it, Dominic?

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. I seem to remember the suit to which you are
referring. I regret to say that Joseph had an unfortunate accident
with it.

LEONARD (_growling_). Damned carelessness.

DOMINIC. Joseph was bringing back the clothes after brushing them,
sir, and happened to have them in his arms while bending over the bath
in order to test the temperature of the water for his lordship. A
little surprised by the unexpected heat of the water, Joseph
relinquished the clothes for a moment, and precipitated them into the
bath.

LATIMER. Dear me, how extremely careless of Joseph!

DOMINIC. Yes, sir, I have already reprimanded him.

LEONARD. The fellow ought to be shot.

LATIMER. You’re quite right, Leonard. Dominic, shoot Joseph this
morning.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

LATIMER. And see that his lordship’s suit is dried as soon as
possible.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. It is being dried now, sir.

LATIMER. But it must be dried thoroughly, Dominic. His lordship has a
nasty cold, and——

LEONARD. A-tish-oo!

LATIMER. A very nasty one. I’m afraid you are subject to colds,
Leonard?

LEONARD. The first one I’ve ever had in my life.

LATIMER. Do you hear that, Dominic? The first one he’s ever had in his
life.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. If you remember, sir, Mr. Nicholas, and one or two
other gentlemen who have slept there, caught a very nasty cold. Almost
looks as if there must be something the matter with the room.

LEONARD. Damned draughtiest room——

LATIMER. Dear me! You should have told me of this before. We must have
the room seen to at once. And be sure that his lordship has a
different room to-night.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir; thank you, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

LATIMER (_sympathetically_). My dear fellow, I am distressed beyond
words. But you know the saying, “Feed a cold, starve a fever.” You
must eat, you must eat. (_He pushes all the dishes round Leonard._) We
must be firm with this cold. We must suffocate it. (_Pressing more
dishes upon him._) You were quite right not to shave. The protection
offered by the beard, though small, is salutary. But I was
forgetting—perhaps your razor is lost too?

LEONARD. Damned careless fellows!

LATIMER. I must lend you mine.

LEONARD (_feeling his chin_). I say, I wish you would.

LATIMER. I will get it at once. Meanwhile, eat. No half measures with
this cold of yours. My poor fellow!

  (_He hurries out. Just as LEONARD is getting busy with his
    breakfast again, ANNE comes in._)

ANNE. Leonard, my dear! (_She observes him more thoroughly_) My _dear_
Leonard!

LEONARD (_his mouth full_). G’morning, Anne.

ANNE (_coldly_). Good morning.

LEONARD (_getting up, napkin in hand_). How are you this morning? (_He
comes towards her, wiping his mouth._)

ANNE. No, please go on with your breakfast. (_In alarm_) What is it?

  (_His face assumes an agonized expression. He sneezes. ANNE
    shudders._)

LEONARD. Got a nasty cold. Can’t understand it. First I’ve ever had in
my life.

ANNE. Do you sneeze like that much?

LEONARD. Off and on.

ANNE. Oh!... Hadn’t you better get on with your breakfast?

LEONARD. Well, I will if you don’t mind. Good thing for a cold, isn’t
it? Eat a lot.

ANNE. I really know very little about colds.... Do get on with your
breakfast.

LEONARD (_going back_). Well, I will, if you don’t mind. You had
yours?

ANNE. Yes.

LEONARD. That’s right. (_Resuming it_) Did you have one of these
kippers?

ANNE. No.

LEONARD. Ah! A pity. I will say that for Latimer’s cook. She knows how
to do a kipper. Much more difficult than people think.

ANNE. I really know very little about kippers.

LEONARD. I have often wondered why somebody doesn’t invent one without
bones. (_He takes a mouthful._) Seeing what science can do
nowadays—— (_He stops. ANNE’S eye is on him. He says nothing, but
waves his hand for her to look the other way._)

ANNE. What is it? (_He frowns fiercely and continues to wave. She
turns away coldly._) I beg your pardon. (_He removes a mouthful of
bones._)

LEONARD (_cheerfully_). Right oh, darling.... After all, what do they
_want_ all these bones for? Other fish manage without them. (_He
continues his kipper._)

ANNE. Leonard, when you can spare me a moment I should like to speak
to you.

LEONARD (_eating_). My darling, all my time is yours.

ANNE. I should like your undivided attention if I can have it.

LEONARD. Fire away, darling, I’m listening.

ANNE (_going up to him_). Have you finished your—kipper? (_She takes
the plate away_) What are you going to have next?

LEONARD. Well—what do you recommend?

ANNE (_taking off a cover_). Omelette? I don’t think it has any bones.

LEONARD. What’s in that other dish? (_She takes off the cover._)
Kidneys? What are the kidneys like?

ANNE. Well, you can see what they _look_ like.

LEONARD. Did you try one?

ANNE (_impatiently_). They’re delightful, I tried several. (_She helps
him_) There! Got the toast? Butter? Salt? What is it?

LEONARD. Pepper.

ANNE. Pepper—there. Now have you got everything?

LEONARD. Yes, thank you, my dear. (_He picks up his knife and fork._)

ANNE (_putting them down again_). Then before you actually begin, I
have something I want to say to you.

LEONARD. You’re very mysterious. What is it?

ANNE. There is nothing mysterious about it at all. It’s perfectly
plain and obvious. Only I do want you to grasp it.

LEONARD. Well? (_He blows his nose. She waits for him to finish._)
Well? (_He is still flourishing his handkerchief. She waits patiently.
He puts it back in his pocket._) Well?

ANNE. The car will be here in a quarter of an hour.

LEONARD. The car?

ANNE. The automobile.

LEONARD. But whose?

ANNE. Ours. More accurately, yours.

LEONARD. But what for?

ANNE (_patiently_). We are running away together, dear. You and I. It
had slipped your memory perhaps, but I assure you it is a fact. The
car will take us to Dover, and the boat will take us to Calais, and
the train will take us to the South of France. You and I, dear. When
you’ve finished your breakfast.

LEONARD. But what about Latimer?

ANNE. Just you and I, dear. Two of us only. The usual number. We shall
not take Mr. Latimer.

LEONARD. My dear Anne, you seem quite to have forgotten that this
confounded fellow Latimer has got us prisoners here until he chooses
to let us go. (_With dignity_) _I_ have not forgotten. I eat his
kidneys now, but he shall hear from me afterwards. Damned
interference!

ANNE. Have you been dreaming, Leonard? _Before_ all these kippers and
kidneys and things?

LEONARD. Dreaming?

ANNE. The car will be here in a quarter of an hour. Why not? It is
_your_ car. This is England; this is the twentieth century. We missed
the boat and spent the night here. We go on our way this morning. Why
not?

LEONARD. Well, you know, I said last night it was perfectly ridiculous
for Latimer to talk that way. I mean, what has it got to do with
_him_? Just a bit of leg-pulling—that’s what I felt all the time.
Stupid joke. (_Picking up his knife and fork_) Bad taste too.

ANNE. You did hear what I said, didn’t you? The car will be here in a
quarter of an hour. I don’t know how long it takes you to—(_she
glances him over_) to shave, and—and dress properly, and—and brush
your hair, but I fancy you ought to be thinking about it quite
seriously. (_Kindly_) You can have some more kidneys another time.

LEONARD. B-but I can’t possibly go like this.

ANNE. No, that’s what I say.

LEONARD. I mean I haven’t got any luggage for one thing—and, with a
cold like this, I’m not at all sure——

ANNE. You’ve lost your luggage?

LEONARD. Apparently it was left behind by——

ANNE (_with anger_). You let yourself be tricked and humiliated by
this Mr. Latimer, you let _me_ be humiliated, and then when I say
that, whatever happens, I won’t be humiliated, you—you lose your
luggage!

LEONARD. _I_ didn’t lose it. It just happens to _be_ lost.

ANNE. And you catch a cold!

LEONARD. _I_ didn’t catch it. It caught _me_.

ANNE. The—the humiliation of it!... And what do you propose to do
now?

LEONARD. As soon as my luggage turns up, and I am well enough to
travel——

ANNE. Meanwhile you accept this man’s hospitality——

LEONARD. Under protest. (_Helping himself from the dish._) I shall
keep a careful account of everything that we have here——

ANNE. Well, that’s your third kidney; you’d better make a note of it.

LEONARD (_with dignity_). As it happens I was helping myself to a
trifle more bacon.... As I say, I shall keep a careful account, and
send him a cheque for our board and lodging as soon as we have left
his roof.

ANNE. Oh!... I had some coffee and one slice of toast and a little
marmalade. About a spoonful. And a cup of tea and two thin slices of
bread and butter upstairs. Oh, and I’ve had two baths. They’re extra,
aren’t they? A hot one last night and a cold one this morning. I
think that’s all. Except supper last night, and you wouldn’t let me
finish that, so I expect there’ll be a reduction.... You want a
note-book with one of those little pencils in it.

LEONARD (_reproachfully_). I say, Anne, look here——

ANNE. Do go on with your breakfast.

LEONARD. You’re being awfully unfair. How can we possibly go now? Why,
I haven’t even got a pair of trousers to put on.

ANNE. You’re not going to say you’ve lost those too!

LEONARD (_sulkily_). It’s not my fault. That fellow—What’s ’is
name——

ANNE (_wonderingly_). What made you ever _think_ that you could take
anybody to the South of France? Without any practice at all?... Now,
if you had been taking an aunt to Hammersmith—well, you might have
lost a bus or two ... and your hat might have blown off ... and you
would probably have found yourselves at Hampstead the first two or
three times ... and your aunt would have stood up the whole way ...
but still you might have got there eventually. I mean, it would be
worth trying—if your aunt was very anxious to get to Hammersmith. But
the South of France! My dear Leonard! It’s so audacious of you.

LEONARD (_annoyed_). Now, look here, Anne——

  (_MR. LATIMER comes in cheerily with shaving-pot, brush,
    safety-razor, and towel._)

LATIMER. Now then, Leonard, we’ll soon have you all right. (_He puts
the things down._) Ah, Anne! You don’t mind waiting while Leonard has
a shave? He wanted to grow a special beard for the Continent, but I
persuaded him not to. The French accent will be quite enough.
(_Picking up the razor_) Do you mind Wednesday’s blade? I used
Tuesday’s myself this morning.

ANNE (_all sweetness in a moment_). Oh, Mr. Latimer, I find that we
shall not want the car after all.

LATIMER. No?

ANNE. No. Poor Leonard is hardly well enough to travel. I hope that by
to-morrow, perhaps—— But I am afraid that we must trespass on your
hospitality until then. I am so sorry.

LATIMER. But I am charmed to have you. Let me tell your maid to
unpack.

ANNE. Don’t trouble, thanks. I’ve got to take my hat off. (_Very
lovingly for LATIMER’S benefit_) I shan’t be a moment, Leonard
darling.

  (_She goes out, her chin in the air. She is still carrying it
    off._)

LATIMER. Now then, Leonard darling, to work.

LEONARD (_picking up the things_). Thanks.

LATIMER. But where are you going?

LEONARD. Upstairs, of course.

LATIMER. Is that wise? With a cold like yours?

LEONARD. Damn it, I can’t shave down here.

LATIMER. Oh, come, we mustn’t stand on ceremony when your life is at
stake. You were complaining only five minutes ago of the draught in
your room. Now, here we have a nice even temperature——

LEONARD. Well, there’s something in that.

LATIMER. There’s everything in it. Of course you’ve never had a cold
before, so you don’t know, but any doctor will tell you how important
it is to stay in one room—with a nice even temperature. You mustn’t
dream of going upstairs.

LEONARD (_surrendering_). Well——

LATIMER. That’s right. Got everything you want? There are plenty of
mirrors. Which period do you prefer? Queen Anne?

LEONARD. It’s all right, thanks.

LATIMER. Good. Then I’ll leave you to it.

  (_He goes out. Standing in front of a glass on the wall, LEONARD
    applies the soap. His cheeks are just getting beautifully creamy
    when NICHOLAS enters._)

NICHOLAS. Hallo!

LEONARD (_looking round_). Hallo!

NICHOLAS. Shaving?

LEONARD (_exasperated_). Well, what the devil did you think I was
doing?

NICHOLAS. Shaving. (_He sits down. LEONARD gets on with the good
work._)

LEONARD. A-tish-oo!

NICHOLAS. Got a cold?

LEONARD. Obviously.

NICHOLAS (_sympathetically_). Horrid, sneezing when you’re all covered
with soap.

LEONARD. Look here, I didn’t ask for your company, and I don’t want
your comments.

NICHOLAS. Well, if it comes to that, I was here first, and I didn’t
ask you to shave in the hall.

LEONARD (_with dignity_). There are reasons why it is necessary for me
to shave in the hall.

NICHOLAS. Don’t bother to tell me. I know ’em.

LEONARD. What do you mean?

NICHOLAS. You’re the couple that arrived last night.

LEONARD (_looking at him, thoughtfully_). And you’re the couple that
is leaving this morning.

NICHOLAS. Exactly.

LEONARD. Yes, but I don’t see——

NICHOLAS. You haven’t tumbled to it yet?

LEONARD. Tumbled to what?

NICHOLAS. The fact that a week ago there were reasons why it was
necessary for _me_ to shave in the hall.

LEONARD. You!... You don’t mean——

NICHOLAS. Yes, I do.

LEONARD. You lost your luggage?

NICHOLAS. Yes.

LEONARD. You woke up with a cold?

NICHOLAS. Yes.... Horrid, sneezing when you’re all covered with soap.

LEONARD (_excitedly_). I say, that fellow—what’s ’is name—didn’t
drop _your_ clothes in the bath?

NICHOLAS. Oh, rather.... Damned smart chap, Latimer.

LEONARD. Damned scoundrel.

NICHOLAS. Oh no. He’s quite right. One learns a lot down here.

LEONARD. I shall leave his house at once ... as soon as I have shaved.

NICHOLAS. You still want to? (_LEONARD looks at him in surprise_) Oh,
well, you’ve hardly been here long enough, I suppose.

LEONARD. What do you mean? Don’t _you_ want to any more?

NICHOLAS. Latimer’s quite right, you know. One learns a lot down here.

LEONARD (_shaving_). What about the lady?

NICHOLAS. That’s the devil of it.

LEONARD. My dear fellow, as a man of honour, you’re bound to go on.

NICHOLAS. As a man of honour, ought I ever to have started?

LEONARD (_little knowing_). Naturally I can’t give an opinion on that.

NICHOLAS. No.... You want to be careful with that glass. The light
isn’t too good. I should go over it all again.

LEONARD (_stiffly_). Thank you. I am accustomed to shaving myself.

NICHOLAS. I was just offering a little expert advice. You needn’t take
it.

LEONARD (_surveying himself doubtfully_). H’m, perhaps you’re right.
(_He lathers himself again. In the middle of it he stops and says_)
Curious creatures, women.

NICHOLAS. Amazing.

LEONARD. It’s a life’s work in itself trying to understand ’em. And
then you’re no further.

NICHOLAS. A week told _me_ all I wanted to know.

LEONARD. They’re so unexpected.

NICHOLAS. So unreasonable.

LEONARD. What was it the poet said about them?

NICHOLAS. What didn’t he say?

LEONARD. No, _you_ know the one I mean. How does it begin?... “O
woman, in our hours of ease——”

NICHOLAS. “Uncertain, coy and hard to please.”

LEONARD. That’s it. Well, I grant you _that_——

NICHOLAS. Grant it me! I should think you do! They throw it at you
with both hands.

LEONARD. But in the next two lines he misses the point altogether.
When—what is it?—“When pain and anguish wring the brow”——

NICHOLAS (_with feeling_). “A ministering angel thou.”

LEONARD. Yes, and it’s a lie. It’s simply a lie.

NICHOLAS. My dear fellow, it’s the truest thing anybody ever said.
Only—only one gets too much of it.

LEONARD. True? Nonsense!

NICHOLAS. Evidently you don’t know anything about women.

LEONARD (_indignantly_). _I!_ Not know anything about women!

NICHOLAS. Well, you said yourself just now that you didn’t.

LEONARD. I never said—— What I said——

NICHOLAS. If you did know anything about ’em, you’d know that there’s
nothing they like more than doing the ministering angel business.

LEONARD. Ministering angel!

NICHOLAS. Won’t you have a little more of this, and won’t you have a
little more of that, and how is the poor cold to-day, and——

LEONARD. You really think that women talk like that?

NICHOLAS. How else do you think they talk?

LEONARD. My dear fellow!... Why, I mean, just take my own case as an
example. Here am I, with a very nasty cold, the first I’ve ever had in
my life. I sit down for a bit of breakfast—not wanting it
particularly, but feeling that, for the sake of my health, I ought to
try and eat something. And what happens?

  (_LATIMER has come in during this speech. He stops and listens to
    it._)

LATIMER (_trying to guess the answer_). You eat too much.

LEONARD (_turning round angrily_). Ah, so it’s you! You have come just
in time, Mr. Latimer. I propose to leave your house at once.

LATIMER (_surprised_). Not like that? Not with a little bit of soap
behind the ear? (_LEONARD hastily wipes it._) The other ear. (_LEONARD
wipes that one_) That’s right.

LEONARD. At once, sir.

NICHOLAS. You’d better come with us. We’re just going.

LEONARD. Thank you.

LATIMER. Four of you. A nice little party.

  _ANNE comes in._

LEONARD. Anne, my dear, we are leaving the house at once. Are you
ready?

ANNE. But——

EUSTASIA (_from outside_). Nich-o-las!

  (_LEONARD looks up in astonishment._)

NICHOLAS (_gloomily_). Hallo!

EUSTASIA. Where are you?

NICHOLAS. Here!

  _EUSTASIA comes in._

EUSTASIA. Are you ready, darling? (_She stops on seeing them all, and
looks from one to the other. She sees her husband_) Leonard!

NICHOLAS (_understanding_). Leonard!

LEONARD. Eustasia!

ANNE. Eustasia!

  (_They stare at each other—open-mouthed—all but MR. LATIMER.
    MR. LATIMER has picked up “The Times,” and seems to have forgotten
    that they are there...._)

ANNE (_after hours and hours_). Oh, isn’t anybody going to say
anything? Mr. Latimer, while Leonard is thinking of something, you
might introduce me to his wife.

LATIMER (_recalled suddenly from the leading article_). I beg your
pardon! Eustasia, this is Anne.

ANNE. How do you do? (_Not that she minds._)

EUSTASIA. How do you do? (_Nor she._)

LATIMER. Leonard, this is Nicholas.

NICHOLAS (_nodding_). We’ve met. Quite old friends.

LEONARD (_indignantly_). I repudiate the friendship. We met under
false pretences. I—I—Well, upon my word, I don’t know _what_ to say.

NICHOLAS. Then don’t say it, old boy. Here we all are, and we’ve got
to make the best of it.

LEONARD. I—I—_a-tish-oo!_

EUSTASIA (_alarmed_). Leonard, you have a cold?

NICHOLAS. A very nasty cold.

ANNE (_coldly_). It will be better when he has finished his breakfast.

LEONARD (_hurt_). I _have_ finished my breakfast. A long time ago.

ANNE. I beg your pardon. (_She indicates the towel round his neck_) I
misunderstood.

LEONARD (_pulling it away_). I’ve been shaving.

EUSTASIA. But, Leonard dear, I don’t understand. I’ve never known you
ill before.

LEONARD. I never have been ill before. But I am ill now. Very ill. And
nobody minds. Nobody minds at all. This fellow Latimer invaygles me
here—

LATIMER. Inveegles.

LEONARD. I shall pronounce it how I like. It is quite time I asserted
myself. I have been too patient. You invaygle me here and purposely
give me a cold. You—(_pointing accusingly to ANNE_)—are entirely
unmoved by my sufferings, instead of which you make fun of the very
simple breakfast which I had forced myself to eat. You—(_to
NICHOLAS_)—run away with my wife, at a time when I am ill and unable
to protect her, and you—(_to EUSTASIA_)—well, all I can say is that
you surprise me, Eustasia, you surprise me. I didn’t think you had it
in you.

LATIMER. A masterly summing up of the case. Well, I hope you’re all
ashamed of yourselves.

EUSTASIA. But, Leonard, how rash of you to _think_ of running away
with a cold like this. (_She goes up and comforts him_) You must take
care of yourself—Eustasia will take care of you and get you well.
Poor boy! He had a nasty, nasty cold, and nobody looked after him.
Mr. Latimer, I shall want some mustard, and hot water, and
eucalyptus.

LATIMER. But of course!

LEONARD (_to ANNE_). There you are! As soon as somebody who really
understands illness comes on the scene, you see what happens. Mustard,
hot water, eucalyptus—she has it all at her finger-ends.

  _Enter DOMINIC._

DOMINIC. Yes, sir?

LATIMER. A small mustard and water for his lordship.

EUSTASIA. It’s to put his feet in, not to drink.

LATIMER. A large mustard and water.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

EUSTASIA. Hot water.

DOMINIC. Yes, my lady.

EUSTASIA. And if you have any eucalyptus——

DOMINIC. Yes, my lady; we got some in specially for his lordship.

LATIMER. Did Mr. Nicholas absorb all the last bottle?

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

NICHOLAS (_with feeling_). I fairly lived on it.

DOMINIC (_to EUSTASIA_). Is there anything else his lordship will
require?

NICHOLAS. What about a mustard-plaster?

LEONARD. Please mind your own business.

EUSTASIA. No, I don’t think there’s anything else, thank you.

NICHOLAS. Well, I call that very unfair. I had one.

LEONARD (_asserting his rights as a husband_). Oh, did you? Well, in
that case, Eustasia, I certainly don’t see why——

LATIMER (_to DOMINIC_). Two mustard-plasters. We mustn’t grudge his
lordship anything.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

                                        [_He retires._

EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). Now come over here, darling, away from the
door. (_She leads him to an arm-chair in the corner of the room_) Lean
on me.

ANNE. Surely one can walk with a cold in the head!

NICHOLAS. No, it’s very dangerous.

LATIMER. Nicholas speaks as an expert.

EUSTASIA (_settling LEONARD_). There! Is that comfy?

LEONARD. Thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. We’ll soon have you all right, dear.

LEONARD (_pressing her hand_). Thank you.

LATIMER (_after a little silence_). Well, as Nicholas said just now,
“Here we all are, and we’ve got to make the best of it.” What are we
all going to do?

ANNE. Please leave me out of it. (_She is beaten, but that doesn’t
matter. The only thing that matters now is to get out of this horrible
house._) I can make my own arrangements. (_She gives them a cool
little bow as she goes out._) If you will excuse me.

  (_DOMINIC comes in with a clinical thermometer on a tray._)

DOMINIC. I thought that her ladyship might require a thermometer for
his lordship’s temperature.

EUSTASIA. Thank you. I think it would be safer just to take it. And I
wondered if we couldn’t just put this screen round his lordship’s
chair.

DOMINIC. Certainly, my lady, one can’t be too careful. (_He helps her
with it._)

EUSTASIA. Yes, that’s right.

LATIMER (_to NICHOLAS_). Did _you_ have the screen?

NICHOLAS. Oh, rather.

LATIMER. And the thermometer?

NICHOLAS. Yes.... Funny thing was I liked it just at first. I don’t
mean the actual thermometer, I mean all the fussing.

LATIMER. It’s a wonderful invention, a cold in the head. It finds you
out. There’s nothing like it, Nicholas, nothing.

EUSTASIA (_to DOMINIC_). Thank you. And you’re bringing the other
things?

DOMINIC. Yes, my lady, as soon as ready.

                                        [_He goes out._

EUSTASIA. Thank you. (_To LEONARD_) Now, dear, under the tongue. (_She
puts it in his mouth._)

LEONARD (_mumbling_). I don’t think I ever——

EUSTASIA. No, dear, don’t try to talk.

  (_And now it is the turn of NICHOLAS._)

NICHOLAS (_coming close to LATIMER_). I say——

LATIMER. Well?

NICHOLAS (_indicating the screen_). I say, not too loud.

LATIMER (_in a whisper_). Well?

NICHOLAS. Well, what about it?

LATIMER. What about what?

NICHOLAS. I mean, where do I come in? As a man of honour, oughtn’t I
to—er—— You see what I mean? Of course I want to do the right
thing.

LATIMER. Naturally, my dear Nicholas. It’s what one expected of you.

NICHOLAS. I thought that if I slipped away now, unostentatiously....

LATIMER. With just a parting word of farewell——

NICHOLAS. Well, that was what I was wondering. Would anything in the
nature of a farewell be in good taste?

LATIMER. I see your point.

NICHOLAS. Don’t think that I’m not just as devoted to Eustasia as ever
I was.

LATIMER. But you feel that in the circumstances you could worship her
from afar with more propriety.

NICHOLAS (_waving a hand at the screen_). Yes. You see, I had no idea
that they were so devoted.

LATIMER. But their devotion may not last for ever.

NICHOLAS. Exactly. That’s why I thought I’d slip away now.

LATIMER. Oh, Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas!

NICHOLAS (_a little offended_). Well, I don’t want to say anything
against Eustasia——

LATIMER. The house is full of people who don’t want to say anything
against Eustasia.

NICHOLAS. But, you see—— Look out, here’s Miss Anne.

  _ANNE comes in._

LATIMER. Anne, you’re just in time. Nicholas wants your advice.

NICHOLAS. I say, shut up! We can’t very well——

ANNE (_with all that is left of her dignity, but she is only a child
after all_). Mr. Latimer, I went upstairs to get my things and find my
way to the nearest railway station. But—but there is a reason why I
am not going after all. Just yet. I thought I’d better tell you.

LATIMER. Were you really thinking of going? (_She nods._) I’m so glad
you’ve changed your mind.

ANNE (_with a smile_). There are reasons why I had to.

LATIMER. Bless them!... Nicholas, I believe she stayed just so that
she might help you.

ANNE. What does Mr. Nicholas want?

NICHOLAS. I say, it’s awfully good of you and all that, but this is
rather—I mean, it’s a question that a fellow ought to settle for
himself.

LATIMER. What he means is, ought _he_ to get his things and find his
way to the nearest railway station?

ANNE (_dismayed_). Oh no!

LATIMER. There you are, Nicholas.

NICHOLAS (_rather flattered_). Oh, well—well—— (_He looks at her
admiringly_) Well, perhaps you’re right.

EUSTASIA (_the three minutes up_). There! (_She takes the thermometer
out and comes from behind the screen in order to get nearer the
light._)

LATIMER. His temperature! This is an exciting moment in the history of
the House of Lords. (_He follows EUSTASIA to the window._)

NICHOLAS (_to ANNE_). I say, do you really think I ought to stay?

ANNE. Please, Mr. Nicholas, I want you to stay.

NICHOLAS. Righto! then I’ll stay.

LATIMER (_over EUSTASIA’S shoulder_). A hundred and nine.

LEONARD (_putting his head round the screen_). I say, what ought it to
be?

NICHOLAS. Ninety-eight.

LEONARD. Good Lord! I’m dying!

EUSTASIA. It’s just ninety-nine. A little over normal, Leonard, but
nothing to matter.

LATIMER. _Ninety_-nine—so it is. I should never have forgiven myself
if it had been a hundred and nine.

NICHOLAS (_coming up to LATIMER_). It’s all right, I’m going to.

EUSTASIA (_surprised_). Going to? Going to what?

NICHOLAS (_confused_). Oh, nothing.

LATIMER. What he means is that he is going to be firm. He thinks we
all ought to have a little talk about things. Just to see where we
are.

EUSTASIA. Well, things aren’t quite as they were, are they? If I’d
known that Leonard was ill—but I’ve seen so little of him lately. And
he’s _never_ been ill before!

NICHOLAS. Of course we ought to know where we are.

LATIMER. Yes. At present Leonard is behind that screen, which makes it
difficult to discuss things properly. Leonard, could you——

EUSTASIA. Oh, we mustn’t take any risks! But if we moved the screen a
little, and all sat up at that end of the room——

LATIMER. Delightful!

NICHOLAS (_leading the way_). Sit here, Miss Anne, won’t you?

  (_They arrange themselves. LATIMER in the middle._)

LATIMER. There! Now, are we all here?... We are. Then with your
permission, Ladies and Gentlemen, I will open the proceedings with a
short speech.

NICHOLAS. Oh, I say, must you?

LATIMER. Certainly.

EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). Hush, dear.

LEONARD. I didn’t say anything.

EUSTASIA. No, but you were just going to.

LATIMER (_severely_). Seeing that I refrained from making my speech
when Leonard had the thermometer in his mouth, the least he can do now
is to listen in silence.

LEONARD. Well, I’m——

LATIMER. I resume.... By a fortunate concatenation of circumstances,
ladies and gentlemen—or, as more illiterate men would say, by a bit
of luck—two runaway couples have met under my roof. No need to
mention names. You can all guess for yourselves. But I call now—this
is the end of my speech, Leonard—I call now upon my noble friend on
the right to tell us just why he left the devoted wife by his side in
order to travel upon the Continent.

LEONARD. Well, really——

LATIMER. Naturally Leonard does not wish to say anything against
Eustasia. Very creditable to him. But can it be that the devoted wife
by his side wishes to say anything against Leonard?

EUSTASIA. You neglected me, Leonard, you know you did. And when I was
so ill——

LEONARD. My dear, you were _always_ ill. That was the trouble.

LATIMER. And you were never ill, Leonard. _That_ was the trouble....
You heartless ruffian!

EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). Hush, dear.

LATIMER. Why couldn’t you have had a cold sometimes? Why couldn’t you
have come home with a broken leg, or lost your money, or made a rotten
speech in the House of Lords? If she could never be sorry for _you_,
for whom else could she be sorry, except herself? (_To EUSTASIA_) I
don’t suppose he even lost his umbrella, did he?

ANNE (_feeling that anything is possible to a man who mislays his
trousers_). Oh, he must have lost that.

LATIMER. Eustasia, ladies and gentlemen, is one of those dear women,
those sweet women, those delightful women—(_aside to ANNE_)—stop me
if I’m overdoing it—those adorable women who must always cosset or be
cosseted. She couldn’t cosset Leonard; Leonard wouldn’t cosset her.
Hence—the Dover Road.

EUSTASIA. How well you understand, Mr. Latimer!

LATIMER. Enter, then, my friend Nicholas. (_Shaking his head at him_)
Oh, Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas!

NICHOLAS (_uneasily_). What’s all that about?

LATIMER. Anything you say will be used in evidence against you.
Proceed, my young friend.

NICHOLAS. Well—well—well—I mean, there she was.

LATIMER. Lonely.

NICHOLAS. Exactly.

LATIMER. Neglected by her brute of a husband—(_As LEONARD opens his
mouth_) fingers crossed, Leonard—who spent day and night rioting in
the House of Lords while his poor little wife cried at home.

NICHOLAS. Well——

LATIMER. Then out spake bold Sir Nicholas—(_Aside to ANNE_) This was
also composed in my bath—

  Then out spake bold Sir Nicholas,
    An Oxford man was he;
  “Lo, I will write a note to-night
    And ask her out to tea.”

NICHOLAS. Well, you see——

LATIMER. I see, Nicholas.... And so here we all are.

ANNE. Except me.

LATIMER. I guessed at you, Anne. Did I guess right?

ANNE (_meekly_). Yes.

LATIMER. And so here we all are.... And what are we all going to do?
My house is at your disposal for as long as you wish. The doors are
open for those who wish to go.... Eustasia?

EUSTASIA. My duty is to stay here—to look after my husband.

LATIMER. Well, that settles Eustasia.... Anne?

ANNE. Of necessity I must stay here—for the present.

LATIMER. Well, that settles Anne.... Nicholas?

NICHOLAS. I stay here too—(_looking at ANNE_) from choice.

LATIMER. Well, that settles Nicholas.... Leonard?

  (_DOMINIC, followed by all the Staff, comes in, together with a
    collection of mustard-baths, plasters, eucalyptus, etc., etc._)

LATIMER (_looking round at the interruption_). Ah!... And this will
settle Leonard.

  (_It settles him._)




ACT III


_Three days later, and evening again. ANNE is busy with a pencil and
paper, an A.B.C., and her purse. She is trying to work out how much it
costs to go home, and subtracting three and fourpence ha’penny from
it. Having done this, she puts the paper, pencil, and purse in her
bag, returns the A.B.C. to its home, and goes towards the door. One
gathers that she has come to a decision._

       *       *       *       *       *

ANNE (_calling_). Nich-o-las!

NICHOLAS (_from outside_). Hallo!

ANNE. Where—are—you?

NICHOLAS. Coming. (_He comes._) Just went upstairs to get a pipe.
(_Putting his hand to his pocket_) And now I’ve forgotten it.

  (_They go to the sofa together._)

ANNE. Oh, Nicholas, how silly you are! (_She sits down._)

NICHOLAS (_sitting close_). I don’t want to smoke, you know.

ANNE. I thought men always did.

NICHOLAS. Well, it depends what they’re doing.

  (_There is no doubt what he is doing. He is making love to ANNE,
    the dog, and ANNE is encouraging him._)

ANNE (_looking away_). Oh!

NICHOLAS. I say, it has been rather jolly here the last three days,
don’t you think?

ANNE. It _has_ been rather nice.

NICHOLAS. We’ve sort of got so friendly.

ANNE. We have, haven’t we?

NICHOLAS. You’ve been awfully nice to me.

ANNE. You’ve been nice to _me_.

NICHOLAS. I should have gone, you know, if it hadn’t been for you.

ANNE. I don’t know _what_ I should have done if you had gone.

NICHOLAS. You did ask me to stay, didn’t you?

ANNE. Yes, I couldn’t let you go.

NICHOLAS. Do you know what you said? You said, “Please, Mr. Nicholas,
I want you to stay.” I shall always remember that. (_Fatuously to
himself_) “Please, Mr. Nicholas, I want you to stay.” I wonder what
made you think of saying that?

ANNE. I wanted us to be friends. I wanted to get to know you; to make
you think of me as—as your friend.

NICHOLAS. We _are_ friends, Anne, aren’t we?

ANNE. I think we are now, Nicholas.

NICHOLAS (_with a sentimental sigh_). Friends!

  (_ANNE looks at him, wondering if she shall risk it; then away
    again; then summons up her courage and takes the plunge._)

ANNE. Nicholas!

NICHOLAS. Yes?

ANNE (_timidly_). I—I want you to do something for me.

NICHOLAS. Anything, Anne, anything.

ANNE. I don’t know whether I ought to ask you.

NICHOLAS. Of course you ought!

ANNE. But you see, we _are_ friends—almost like brother and
sister——

NICHOLAS (_disappointed_). Well, I shouldn’t put it quite like
that——

ANNE. And I thought I might ask you——

NICHOLAS. Of course, Anne! You know I would do anything for you.

ANNE. Yes.... Well—well—— (_In a rush_) Well, then, will you lend
me one pound two and sixpence till next Monday?

NICHOLAS. Lend you——!

ANNE. To-day’s Friday, I’ll send you the money off on Sunday. I
promise. Of course I know one oughtn’t to borrow from men, but you’re
different. Almost like a brother. I knew you would understand.

NICHOLAS. But—but—I _don’t_ understand.

ANNE (_ashamed_). You see, I—I only have three and fourpence
ha’penny. And it costs one pound five and twopence to get home.
(_Indignantly_) Oh, it’s a shame the way men always pay for us, and
then when we really want money we haven’t got any.... But I will pay
you back on Sunday. I have some money at home; I meant to have brought
it.

NICHOLAS. But—but why do you suddenly——

ANNE. Suddenly? I’ve been wanting it ever since that first morning. I
went upstairs to get my hat, meaning to walk straight out of the
house—and then I looked in my purse and found—(_pathetically_) three
and fourpence ha’penny. What was I to do?

NICHOLAS. Any one would have lent you anything.

ANNE (_coldly_). Leonard, for instance?

NICHOLAS (_thoughtfully_). Well ... no.... No. You couldn’t very well
have touched Leonard. But Latimer——

ANNE. Mr. Latimer! The man who had brought us here, locked us up here,
and started playing Providence to us—I was to go on my knees to _him_
and say, “Please, dear Mr. Latimer, could you lend me one pound two
and sixpence, so that I may run away from your horrid house?” Really!

NICHOLAS. Well, you seem to have been pretty friendly with him these
three days.

ANNE. Naturally I am polite to a man when I am staying in his house.
That’s different.

NICHOLAS. As a matter of fact, Latimer has been jolly decent. Anyway,
he has saved us both from making silly asses of ourselves.

ANNE. And you think I am grateful to him for that?... Doesn’t _any_
man understand _any_ woman?

NICHOLAS (_annoyed_). Are you suggesting that _I_ don’t understand
women?

ANNE. I’m suggesting that you should lend me one pound two shillings
and sixpence.

NICHOLAS (_sulkily, feeling in his pockets_). Of course, if you’re in
such a confounded hurry to get away from here—— Do you mind all
silver?

ANNE. Not at all.

NICHOLAS. In such a confounded hurry to get away from here—— (_He
counts the money._)

ANNE. Why ever should I want to stay?

NICHOLAS. Well—well—— (_With a despairing shrug_) Oh, Lord!... Ten
shillings ... fourteen and six ... why should she want to stay! Why do
you think _I’m_ staying?

ANNE (_wickedly_). Because you’re so fond of Mr. Latimer. He’s so
jolly decent.

NICHOLAS (_looking at the money in his hand_). One pound two shillings
and sixpence. I suppose if I told you what I really thought about it
all, you’d get on your high horse again and refuse the money from
_me_. So I won’t tell you. Here you are.

ANNE (_gently_). You didn’t think I was in love with you, Nicholas?
(_NICHOLAS looks uncomfortable._) In three days? Oh, Nicholas!

NICHOLAS. Well—well, I don’t see—— (_He holds out the money. But
ANNE won’t take it on those terms._)

ANNE. From a friend?

NICHOLAS. From a friend.

ANNE. Lent to a friend?

NICHOLAS. Lent to a friend.

ANNE (_taking it_). Thank you, Nicholas. (_She hurries out, clasping
the precious money. NICHOLAS will never see her again.... And then,
suddenly, her head comes round the door_) Thank you very much,
Nicholas! (_She is gone._)

NICHOLAS. Well, I’m damned!

  (_He sits there gloomily, his legs stretched out, and regards his
    shoes. So far as we can tell he goes on saying, “Well, I’m damned”
    to himself. EUSTASIA and LEONARD come in. He is properly dressed
    now, but still under EUSTASIA’S care, and she has his arm, as if
    he were attempting a very difficult feat in walking across the
    hall._)

NICHOLAS (_looking round_). Hallo! (_Getting up_) Do you want to come
here?

LEONARD (_hastily_). Don’t go, old boy, don’t go. Plenty of room for
us all.

EUSTASIA. Thank you so much. Leonard is not very strong yet. His
temperature is up again to-day. (_To LEONARD_) You will be better on
the sofa, darling. (_Distantly to NICHOLAS_) I’m so sorry to trouble
you.

NICHOLAS. Not at all. I was just going anyhow.

LEONARD (_sitting on the sofa_). Oh, nonsense. Stay and talk to us.
Plenty of room for us all.

NICHOLAS (_feeling in his pockets_). Got to get my pipe. Left it
upstairs, like an ass.

LEONARD (_taking out his case_). Have a cigarette instead?

NICHOLAS. Rather have a pipe, thanks. (_He makes for the door._)

LEONARD (_anxiously_). But you’ll come back?

NICHOLAS (_unwillingly_). Oh—er—righto.

                                        [_He goes out._

LEONARD. Come and keep us company. (_To EUSTASIA, who is tucking him
up_) Thanks, Eustasia, thanks. That’s quite all right.

EUSTASIA. Another cushion for your back, darling?

LEONARD. No, thanks.

EUSTASIA. Quite sure?

LEONARD. Quite sure, thanks.

EUSTASIA. I can easily get it for you.

LEONARD (_weakly_). Oh, very well.

EUSTASIA. That’s right. (_Getting the cushion_) You must be
comfortable. Now, are you sure that’s all right?

LEONARD. Quite all right, thank you.

EUSTASIA. Sure, darling? Anything else you want, I can get it for you
at once. A rug over your knees?

LEONARD. No, thank you, Eustasia. (_Now_ he _is saying it._)

EUSTASIA. You wouldn’t like a hot-water bottle?

LEONARD (_with a sigh_). No, thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. You’ve only got to say, you know. Now shall we talk, or
would you like me to read to you? (_She settles down next to him._)

LEONARD (_choosing the lesser evil_). I think read—no, I mean,
talk—no, read to me.

EUSTASIA. It’s for you to say, darling.

LEONARD (_his eyes closed_). Read to me, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA (_opening her book_). We’ll go on from where we left off. We
didn’t get very far—I marked the place.... Yes, here we are. “... the
sandy deserts of Arabia and Africa.... 4.” And then there’s a little
footnote at the bottom; that’s how I remember it. (_Reading the
footnote_) “Tacit. Annal. l. ii., Dion Cassius l. lvi. p. 833, and the
speech of Augustus himself.” That doesn’t seem to mean much. “It
receives great light from the learned notes of his French translator,
M. Spanheim.” Well, that’s a good thing. Spanheim—sounds more like a
German, doesn’t it? Now are you sure you’re quite comfortable, dear?

LEONARD (_his eyes closed_). Yes, thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. Then I’ll begin. (_In her reading-aloud voice_) “Happily for
the repose of mankind, the moderate system recommended by the wisdom
of Augustus was adopted by the fears and vices of his immediate
successors. Engaged in the pursuit of pleasure or the exercise of
tyranny, the first Caesars seldom showed themselves to the armies or
to the provinces; nor were they disposed to suffer that those triumphs
which their indolence neglected should be usurped by the conduct and
valour of their lieutenants.” (_Speeding up_) “The military fame of a
subject was considered as an insolent invasion of the Imperial
prerogative; and it became the duty as well as interest of every Roman
General to guard the frontiers entrusted to his care”—(_recklessly_)
“without aspiring for conquests which might have proved no less fatal
to himself than to the vanquished barbarians.”... And then there’s
another little footnote. Perhaps it would be better if I read all the
little footnotes afterwards—what do you think, darling? Or shall we
take them as they come?

LEONARD (_without opening his eyes_). Yes, dear.

EUSTASIA. Very well. This is footnote 5. “Germanicus, Suetonius
Paulinus and Agricola”—(_she stumbles over the names_)—“were checked
and recalled in the course of their victories. Corbulo was put to
death.” Oh, what a shame! “Military merit, as it is admirably
expressed by Tacitus, was, in the strictest sense of the word——”
well, there are _two_ words, and they are both in Latin. I suppose
Tacitus wrote in Latin. But it doesn’t really matter, because it’s
only a little footnote. (_Anxiously_) Are you liking the book,
darling?

LEONARD. Very much, dear.

EUSTASIA. It’s nicely written, but I don’t think it’s very exciting. I
don’t think Mr. Latimer has a very good taste in books. I asked him to
recommend me something really interesting to read aloud, and he said
that the two most interesting books he knew were Carlyle’s _French
Revolution_ and—and—(_looking at the cover_) Gibbon’s _Roman
Empire_.... Fancy, there are four volumes of it and six hundred pages
in a volume. We’re at page 3 now. (_She reads a line or two to
herself._) Oh, now, this is rather interesting, because it’s all about
_us_. “The only accession which the Roman Empire received during the
first century of the Christian era was the province of Britain.”
Fancy! “The proximity of its situation to the coast of Gaul seemed to
invite their arms, the pleasing though doubtful intelligence of a
pearl fishery attracted their avarice.” And then there’s a little
footnote—I suppose that’s to say it was Whitstable. (_Getting to it_)
Oh no—“The British pearls proved, however, of little value, on
account of their dark and livid colour.” How horrid. “Tacitus
observes——” well, then, Tacitus says something again.... I _wish_ he
would write in English.... Now where was I? Something about the
pearls. Oh yes. “After a war of about forty years”—good
gracious!—“undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the most
dissolute, and——”

  (_NICHOLAS returns with his pipe._)

NICHOLAS. Oh, sorry, I’m interrupting.

LEONARD (_waking up_). No, no. Eustasia was just reading to me. (_To
her_) You mustn’t tire yourself, dear. (_To NICHOLAS_) Stay and talk.

NICHOLAS. What’s the book? Carlyle’s _French Revolution_?

EUSTASIA (_primly_). Certainly not. (_Looking at the title again_)
Gibbon’s _Roman Empire_.

NICHOLAS. Any good?

EUSTASIA. Fascinating, isn’t it, Leonard?

LEONARD. Very.

NICHOLAS. You ought to try Carlyle, old chap.

LEONARD. Is _he_ good?

NICHOLAS (_who has had eight pages read aloud to him by EUSTASIA_).
Oh, topping.

EUSTASIA (_looking at her watch_). Good gracious! I ought to be
dressing.

LEONARD (_looking at his_). Yes, it _is_ about time.

NICHOLAS (_looking at his_). Yes.

EUSTASIA. Leonard, darling, I don’t think it would be safe for you to
change. Not to-night; to-morrow if you like.

LEONARD. I say, look here, you said that last night.

EUSTASIA. Ah, but your temperature has gone up again.

NICHOLAS. I expect that’s only because the book was so exciting.

LEONARD. Yes, that’s right.

EUSTASIA. But I took his temperature _before_ I began reading.

NICHOLAS. Perhaps yesterday’s instalment was still hanging about a
bit.

EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). No, darling, not to-night. Just to please his
Eustasia.

LEONARD (_sulkily_). All right.

EUSTASIA. That’s a good boy. (_She walks to the door, NICHOLAS going
with her to open it._) And if he’s _very_ good, and Eustasia is _very_
quick dressing, perhaps she’ll read him another little bit of that
nice book before dinner.

                                        [_She goes out._

LEONARD. I say, don’t go, old chap. You can change in five minutes.

NICHOLAS. Righto.

  (_He comes back. There is silence for a little._)

LEONARD. I say!

NICHOLAS. Yes?

LEONARD (_thinking better of it_). Oh, nothing.

NICHOLAS (_after a pause_). Curious creatures, women.

LEONARD. Amazing.

NICHOLAS. They’re so unexpected.

LEONARD. So unreasonable.

NICHOLAS. Yes....

LEONARD (_suddenly_). I hate England at this time of year.

NICHOLAS. So do I.

LEONARD. Do you go South as a rule?

NICHOLAS. As a rule.

LEONARD. Monte?

NICHOLAS. Sometimes. We _had_ thought—I half thought of Nice.

LEONARD. Not bad. We were—I think I prefer Cannes myself.

NICHOLAS. There’s not much in it.

LEONARD. No.... (_After a pause_) Between ourselves, you know—quite
between ourselves—I’m about fed up with women.

NICHOLAS. Absolutely.

LEONARD. You are too?

NICHOLAS. Rather. I should think so.

LEONARD. They’re so dashed unreasonable.

NICHOLAS. So unexpected....

LEONARD (_suddenly_). Had you booked your rooms?

NICHOLAS. At Nice? Yes.

LEONARD. So had I.

NICHOLAS. At Cannes?

LEONARD. Yes.... I say, what about it?

NICHOLAS. Do you mean—— (_He waves a hand at the door._)

LEONARD. Yes.

NICHOLAS. Evaporating?

LEONARD. Yes. Quite quietly, you know.

NICHOLAS. Without ostentation.

LEONARD. That’s it.

NICHOLAS. It’s rather a scheme. And then we shouldn’t waste the rooms.
At least, only one set of them. I’ll tell you what. I’ll toss you
whether we go to Nice or Cannes.

LEONARD. Right. (_He takes out a coin and tosses._)

NICHOLAS. Tails.

LEONARD (_uncovering the coin_). Heads. Do you mind coming to Cannes?

NICHOLAS. Just as soon, really. When shall we go? To-morrow?

LEONARD. Mightn’t get a chance to-morrow. Why not to-night? It seems a
pity to waste the opportunity.

NICHOLAS. You mean while Eustasia’s dressing?

LEONARD. The—er—opportunity. Sleep the night at Dover and cross
to-morrow morning.

NICHOLAS. She’ll be after us.

LEONARD. Nonsense.

NICHOLAS. My dear man, you don’t know Eustasia.

LEONARD. I don’t know Eustasia? Well!

NICHOLAS (_with conviction_). She’ll be after you like a bird. You’ve
never seen Eustasia when she has got somebody ill to look after.

LEONARD. I’ve never seen Eustasia? Well!

NICHOLAS. My dear chap, you’ve only had three days of her; I’ve had
six.... Lord!... Look here. We shall have to——

  _Enter LATIMER._

LATIMER. What, Leonard, all alone?

NICHOLAS. I say, you’re the very man we want.

LEONARD (_frowning_——). S’sh.

LATIMER. Leonard, don’t “s’sh” Nicholas when he wants to speak to me.

NICHOLAS (_to LEONARD_). It’s all right, old chap, Latimer is a
sportsman.

LATIMER (_to LEONARD_). There! You see the sort of reputation I have
in the West End. (_To NICHOLAS_) What is it you want to do? Run away?

LEONARD. Well—er——

NICHOLAS. I say, however did you guess?

LATIMER. Leonard’s car has had steam up for the last twenty-four
hours, waiting for a word from its owner.

LEONARD (_seeing the south of France_). By Jove!

LATIMER. And you are going with him, Nicholas?

NICHOLAS. Yes. Thought I might as well be getting on. Very grateful
and all that, but can’t stay here for ever.

LATIMER (_wondering what has happened between NICHOLAS and ANNE_). So
you are going too! I thought—— Well! Nicholas is going too.

LEONARD. I say, you do understand—I mean about—er—I mean, when I’m
quite well again—start afresh and all that. Cosset _her_ a bit. But
when you’re ill—or supposed to be ill—— Well, I mean, ask Nicholas.

NICHOLAS. Oh, rather.

LATIMER. My dear Leonard, why these explanations? Who am I to
interfere in other people’s matrimonial affairs? You and Nicholas are
going away—good-bye. (_He holds out his hand._)

NICHOLAS. Yes, but what about Eustasia? She’s not going to miss the
chance of cosseting Leonard just when she is getting into it. She’ll
be after him like a bird.

LATIMER. I see. So you want me to keep her here?

NICHOLAS. That’s the idea, if you could.

LATIMER. How can I keep her here if she doesn’t want to stay?

LEONARD. Well, how do you keep _any_body here?

LATIMER. Really, Leonard, I am surprised at you. By the charm of my
old-world courtesy and hospitality, of course.

LEONARD. Oh! Well, I doubt if that keeps Eustasia.

LATIMER (_shaking his head sadly_). I am afraid that that is only too
true. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I realise that there
is only one thing which will keep this devoted wife from her afflicted
and suffering husband.

LEONARD and NICHOLAS. What?

  _DOMINIC comes in._

LATIMER. His lordship and Mr. Nicholas are leaving at once. His
lordship’s car will wait for them outside the gates. See that a bag is
packed for them.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

LATIMER. And come back when you’ve seen about that.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

LATIMER. The car can return for the rest of your luggage, and take it
over in the morning.

NICHOLAS. Good!

LEONARD. Er—thanks very much. (_Anxiously_) What were you going to
say about the only way of—er——

LATIMER. The only way of keeping this devoted wife from her afflicted
and suffering husband?

LEONARD (_gruffly_). Yes. What is it?

LATIMER. Somebody else must have a temperature. Somebody else must be
ill. Eustasia must have somebody else to cosset.

NICHOLAS. I say, how awfully sporting of you!

LATIMER. Sporting?

NICHOLAS. To sacrifice yourself like that.

LATIMER. I? You don’t think _I_ am going to sacrifice myself, do you?
No, no, it’s Dominic.

DOMINIC (_coming in_). Yes, sir.

LATIMER. Dominic, are you ever ill?

DOMINIC. Never, sir, barring a slight shortness of the breath.

LATIMER (_to the others_). That’s awkward. I don’t think you can
cosset a shortness of the breath.

NICHOLAS (_to DOMINIC_). I say, you could pretend to be ill, couldn’t
you?

DOMINIC. With what object, sir?

NICHOLAS. Well—er——

LATIMER. Her ladyship is training to be a nurse. She has already cured
two very obstinate cases of nasal catarrh accompanied by debility and
a fluctuating temperature. If she brings one more case off
successfully, she earns the diploma and the gold medal of the Royal
Therapeutical Society.

NICHOLAS. That’s right.

DOMINIC. And you would wish me to be that third case, sir?

NICHOLAS. That’s the idea.

DOMINIC. And be cosseted back to health by her ladyship?

LATIMER. Such would be your inestimable privilege.

DOMINIC. I am sorry, sir. I must beg respectfully to decline.

NICHOLAS. I say, be a sport.

LEONARD (_awkwardly_). Of course we should—— Naturally you would
not—er—lose anything by—er——

LATIMER. His lordship wishes to imply that not only would your mental
horizon be widened during the period of convalescence, but that
material blessings would also flow. Isn’t that right, Leonard?

NICHOLAS. A commission on the gold medal. Naturally.

DOMINIC. I am sorry, sir. I am afraid I cannot see my way.

NICHOLAS. I say——

LATIMER. Thank you, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

NICHOLAS. Well, that’s torn it. (_To LATIMER_) If you’re quite sure
that you wouldn’t like to have a go? It’s the chance of a lifetime to
learn all about the French Revolution.

LATIMER. Well, well! Something must be done. (_He smiles suddenly_)
After all, why not?

LEONARD (_eagerly_). You will?

LATIMER. I will.

NICHOLAS. I say——

LATIMER (_waving them off_). No, no. Don’t wait. Fly.

LEONARD. Yes, we’d better be moving. Come on!

NICHOLAS (_with a grin, as he goes_). There’s an awfully good bit in
the second chapter——

LATIMER (_holding up a finger_). Listen! I hear her coming.

LEONARD. Good Lord!

  (_They fly._

  _LATIMER, left alone, gives himself up to thought. What illness
    shall he have? He rings one of his many bells, and DOMINIC comes
    in._)

LATIMER. Oh, Dominic. In consequence of your obstinate good-health, I
am going to sacrifice myself—I mean, I myself am going to embrace
this great opportunity of mental and spiritual development.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Very good of you, I’m sure, sir.

LATIMER. What sort of illness would you recommend?

DOMINIC. How about a nice sprained ankle, sir?

LATIMER. You think that would go well?

DOMINIC. It would avoid any interference with the customary habits at
meal-time, sir. There’s a sort of monotony about bread-and-milk; no
inspiration about it, sir, whether treated as a beverage or as a
comestible.

LATIMER. I hadn’t thought about bread-and-milk.

DOMINIC. You’ll find that you will have little else to think about,
sir, if you attempt anything stomachic. Of course you could have the
usual nasty cold, sir.

LATIMER. No, no, not that. Let us be original....

DOMINIC. How about Xerostomia, sir? Spelt with an x.

LATIMER. Is that good?

DOMINIC. Joseph tells me that his father has had it for a long time.

LATIMER. Oh! Then perhaps we oughtn’t to deprive him of it.

DOMINIC. I looked it up in the dictionary one Sunday afternoon, sir.
They describe it there as “an abnormal dryness of the mouth.”

LATIMER. I said I wanted to be original, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Quite so, sir.

  (_They both think in silence._)

LATIMER. Perhaps I had better leave it to the inspiration of the
moment.

EUSTASIA (_off_). Dominic! Dominic!

DOMINIC. This appears to be the moment, sir.

LATIMER. Quick. (_Bustling him off_) Don’t let her ladyship come in
for a moment. I must assume a recumbent position.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

                                        [_He goes out._

  (_LATIMER lies down at full length on the sofa and begins to
    groan; putting a hand first on his stomach, then on his head, then
    on his elbow. EUSTASIA does not come. He cautiously raises his
    head; the room is empty._)

LATIMER (_disappointedly_). Throwing it away! (_He hears footsteps,
and settles down again._)

  (_ANNE comes in, hat on, bag in hand. She is just at the door when
    a groan reaches her. She stops. Another groan comes. She puts down
    her bag and comes towards the sofa with an “Oh!” of anxiety._)

LATIMER. Oh, my poor—er—head! (_He clasps it._)

ANNE (_alarmed_). What is it? (_She kneels by him._)

LATIMER. Oh, my—— (_Cheerfully_) Hallo, Anne, is it you? (_He sits
up._)

ANNE (_still anxious_). Yes, what is it?

LATIMER (_bravely_). Oh, nothing, nothing. A touch of neuralgia.

ANNE. Oh!... You frightened me.

LATIMER. Did I, Anne? I’m sorry.

ANNE. You were groaning so. I thought—I didn’t know what had
happened.... (_Sympathetically_) Is it very bad?

LATIMER. Not so bad as it sounded.

ANNE (_taking off her gloves_). I know how bad it can be. Father has
it sometimes. Then I have to send it away. (_She has her gloves off
now_) May I try?

LATIMER (_remorsefully_). Anne!

  (_She leans over from the back of him and begins to stroke his
    forehead with the tips of her fingers. He looks up at her._)

ANNE. Close your eyes.

LATIMER. Ah, but I don’t want to now.

  (_She laughs without embarrassment._)

ANNE. It will go soon.

LATIMER. Not too soon....

ANNE (_laughing suddenly_). Aren’t faces funny when they’re upside
down?

LATIMER. You have the absurdest little upside-down face that ever I
saw, Anne.

ANNE (_happily_). Have I?

LATIMER. Why do you wear a hat on your chin? (_She laughs._) Why do
you wear a hat?

ANNE. I was going away.

LATIMER. Without saying good-bye?

ANNE (_ashamed_). I—I think so.

LATIMER. Oh, Anne!

ANNE (_hastily_). I should have written.

LATIMER. A post-card!

ANNE. A letter.

LATIMER. With many thanks for your kind hospitality, yours sincerely.

ANNE. Yours _very_ sincerely.

LATIMER. P.S.—I shall never see you again.

ANNE. P.S.—I shall never forget.

LATIMER. Ah, but you _must_ forget....

ANNE (_after a pause_). Is it better?

LATIMER (_lazily_). It is just the same. It will always be the same.
It is unthinkable that anything different should ever happen. In a
hundred years’ time we shall still be like this. You will be a little
tired, perhaps; your fingers will ache; but I shall be lying here,
quite, quite happy.

ANNE. You shall have another minute—no more.

LATIMER. Then I shall go straight to the chemist and ask for three
pennyworth of Anne’s fingers. (_They are silent for a little. Then she
stops and listens._) What is it?

ANNE. I heard something. Whispers.

LATIMER. Don’t look round.

  (_LEONARD and NICHOLAS, in hats and coats, creep cautiously in.
    Very noiselessly, fingers to lips, they open the front door and
    creep out._)

ANNE. What was it? Was it——

LATIMER. An episode in your life. Over, buried, forgotten....

ANNE (_pleadingly_). It never really happened, did it?

LATIMER. Of course not! We must have read about it somewhere—or was
it in a play?

ANNE (_eagerly_). That was it! We were in a box together.

LATIMER. Munching chocolates. (_With a sigh_) What a child she
was—that girl in the play—with her little, funny, grown-up airs!

  (_DOMINIC comes in, and stops suddenly on seeing them._)

DOMINIC. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.

LATIMER. Go on, Anne. (_Happily_) I am having neuralgia, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. A stubborn complaint, as I have heard, sir.

LATIMER. Miss Anne is making me well.... What did you want?

DOMINIC. Her ladyship says will you please excuse her if she is not
down to-night.

LATIMER (_to ANNE_). Shall we excuse her if she is not down to-night?

DOMINIC. The fact is, sir, that Joseph is taken ill suddenly, and——

LATIMER (_to himself_). I never thought of Joseph!

ANNE. Oh, poor Joseph! What is it?

DOMINIC. A trifling affection of the throat, but necessitating careful
attention, her ladyship says.

LATIMER. Please tell her ladyship how very much I thank her for
looking after Joseph ... and tell Joseph how very sorry I am for him.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.
                                        [_He goes out._

LATIMER. You can’t go now, Anne. You will have to stay and chaperone
Eustasia and me. (_She laughs and shakes her head._) Must you go?

ANNE. Yes.

LATIMER. Back to your father?

ANNE. Yes. (_He looks at her. She is so very pretty; so brave._)

LATIMER (_it must be somebody else speaking—he hardly recognises the
voice_). Let us say good-bye now. There is a magic in your fingers
which goes to my head, and makes me think ridiculous things. Let us
say good-bye now.

ANNE (_taking his hand_). Good-bye! (_Impulsively_) I wish _you_ had
been my father.

  (_Then she goes out. And she has won, after all. For MR. LATIMER
    stands there dumb, wondering what has happened. He walks across to
    a mirror to have a look at himself. While he is there, DOMINIC
    comes in to superintend the laying of the table._)

LATIMER (_at the mirror_). Dominic, how old would you say I was?

DOMINIC. More than that, sir.

LATIMER (_with a sigh_). Yes, I’m afraid I am. And yet I look very
young. Sometimes I think I look too young.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

LATIMER. Miss Anne has just asked me to be her father.

DOMINIC. Very considerate of her, I’m sure, sir.

LATIMER. Yes.... To prevent similar mistakes in the future, I think I
shall wear a long white beard.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Shall I order one from the Stores?

LATIMER. Please.

DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.... Is Miss Anne leaving us, sir?

LATIMER. Yes.... Don’t overdo the length, Dominic, and I like the
crinkly sort.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.... One of our most successful weeks on the whole,
if I may say so, sir.

LATIMER (_thoughtfully_). Yes.... Well, well, we must all do what we
can, Dominic.

DOMINIC. That’s the only way, isn’t it, sir?

  (_They stand looking at each other. Just for a moment DOMINIC is
    off duty. That grave face relaxes; the eyes crease into a smile.
    MR. LATIMER smiles back.... Very gently they begin to laugh
    together; old friends; master and servant no longer. “Dear, dear!
    These children!” says DOMINIC’S laugh. “How very amusing they are,
    to be sure!” LATIMER’S laugh is a little rueful; a moment ago he,
    too, was almost a child. Yet he laughs. “Good old DOMINIC!”_

  _Suddenly the front-door bell rings. Instinctively they stiffen to
    attention. They are on duty again. They turn and march off,
    almost, as it were, saluting each other; MR. LATIMER to his
    quarters, DOMINIC to his bolts and bars. He draws the curtains and
    opens the big front door._)

A MANLY VOICE. Oh, is this—er—an hotel?

DOMINIC. A sort of hotel, your Grace.

HIS GRACE (_coming in, a lady on his arm_). My chauffeur said—we’ve
had an accident—been delayed on the way—he said that——

  (_Evidently another romantic couple. Let us leave them to
    MR. LATIMER._)




THE TRUTH ABOUT BLAYDS




CHARACTERS


  Oliver Blayds.
  Isobel (_his younger daughter_).
  Marion Blayds-Conway (_his elder daughter_).
  William Blayds-Conway (_his son-in-law_).
  Oliver Blayds-Conway  }
  Septima Blayds-Conway } (_his grandchildren_).
  A. L. Royce.
  Parsons.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A room in OLIVER BLAYDS’ house in Portman Square._

       *       *       *       *       *

This play was first produced at the Globe Theatre on December 20,
1921, with the following cast:

  _Oliver Blayds_             Norman McKinnel.
  _Isobel_                    Irene Vanbrugh.
  _Marion Blayds-Conway_      Irene Rooke.
  _William Blayds-Conway_     Dion Boucicault.
  _Oliver_                    Jack Hobbs.
  _Septima_                   Faith Celli.
  _A. L. Royce_               Ion Swinley.
  _Parsons_                   Ethel Wellesley.




ACT I


_A solid, handsomely-furnished room in a house in Portman
Square—solid round table, solid writing-desk, solid chairs and sofa,
with no air of comfort, but only of dignity. Over the fireplace is a
painting of OLIVER BLAYDS, also handsome and dignified.... OLIVER
BLAYDS-CONWAY, his young grandson, comes in with ROYCE, the latter a
clean-shaven man of forty, whose thick dark hair shows a touch of
grey. It is about three o’clock in the afternoon._

       *       *       *       *       *

OLIVER (_as he comes in_). This way. (_He holds the door open for
ROYCE._)

ROYCE (_coming in_). Thanks.

OLIVER. Some of the family will be showing up directly. Make yourself
comfortable. (_For himself, he does his best in one of the dignified
chairs._)

ROYCE. Thanks. (_He looks round the room with interest, and sees the
picture over the fireplace_) Hallo, there he is.

OLIVER. What? (_Bored_) Oh, the old ’un, yes.

ROYCE (_reverently_). Oliver Blayds, the last of the Victorians.
(_OLIVER sighs and looks despairingly to Heaven._) I can’t take my hat
off because it’s off already, but I should like to.

OLIVER. Good Lord, you don’t really feel like that, do you?

ROYCE. Of course. Don’t you?

OLIVER. Well, hardly. He’s my grandfather.

ROYCE. True. (_Smiling_) All the same, there’s nothing in the Ten
Commandments about _not_ honouring your grandfather.

OLIVER. Nothing about honouring ’em either. It’s left optional. Of
course, he’s a wonderful old fellow—ninety, and still going strong;
but—well, as I say, he’s my grandfather.

ROYCE. I’m afraid, Conway, that even the fact of his being your
grandfather doesn’t prevent me thinking him a very great poet, a very
great philosopher, and a very great man.

OLIVER (_interested_). I say, do you really mean that, or are you just
quoting from the Address you’ve come to present?

ROYCE. Well, it’s in the Address, but then I wrote the Address, and
got it up.

OLIVER. Yes, I know—you told me—“To Oliver Blayds on his ninetieth
birthday: Homage from some of the younger writers.” Very pretty of
them and all that, and the old boy will love it. But do they really
feel like that about him—that’s what interests me. I’ve always
thought of him as old-fashioned, early Victorian, and that kind of
thing.

ROYCE. Oh, he is. Like Shakespeare. Early Elizabethan and that kind of
thing.

OLIVER. Shakespeare’s different. I meant more like Longfellow....
Don’t think I am setting up my opinion against yours. If you say that
Blayds’ poetry is as good as the best, I’ll take your word for it.
Blayds the poet, _you’re_ the authority. Blayds the grandfather, _I_
am.

ROYCE. All right, then, you can take my word for it that his best is
as good as the best. Simple as Wordsworth, sensuous as Tennyson,
passionate as Swinburne.

OLIVER. Yes, but what about the modern Johnnies? The Georgians.

ROYCE. When they’re ninety I’ll tell you. If I’m alive.

OLIVER. Thanks very much.

  (_There is a short silence. ROYCE leaves the picture and comes
    slowly towards the writing-table._)

OLIVER (_shaking his head_). Oh, no!

ROYCE (_turning round_). What?

OLIVER. That’s not the table where the great masterpieces are written,
and that’s not the pen they are written with.

ROYCE. My dear fellow——

OLIVER. Is there a pen there, by the way?

ROYCE (_looking_). Yes. Yours?

OLIVER. The family’s. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to keep pens
there.

ROYCE. Why, where do they go to?

OLIVER. The United States, mostly. Everybody who’s let in here makes
for the table sooner or later and pinches one of the pens. “Lands’
sake, what a head,” they say, waving at the picture with their right
hand and feeling behind their back with the left; it’s wonderful to
see ’em. Tim, my sister—Tim and I glued a pen on to the tray once
when one of ’em was coming, and watched him clawing at it for about
five minutes, and babbling about the picture the whole time. I should
think he knew what the poet Blayds looked like by the time he got the
pen into his pocket.

ROYCE (_going back to the picture_). Well, it’s a wonderful head.

OLIVER. Yes, I will say that for the old boy, he does look like
somebody.

ROYCE. When was this done?

OLIVER. Oh, about eighteen years ago.

ROYCE. Yes. That was about when I met him.

OLIVER. You never told me you’d met him. Did you meet _me_ by any
chance?

ROYCE. No.

OLIVER. I was five then, and people who came to see Blayds the poet
patted the head of Blayds the poet’s grandson and said: “Are you going
to be a poet too, my little man, when you grow up?”

ROYCE (_smiling_). And what did Blayds the poet’s grandson say?

OLIVER. Urged on by Blayds the poet’s son-in-law, Blayds the poet’s
grandson offered to recite his grandfather’s well-known poem, “A
Child’s Thoughts on Waking.” I’m sorry you missed it, Royce, but it’s
no good asking for it now.

ROYCE (_half to himself_). It was at Bournemouth. He was there with
his daughter. Not your mother, she would have been younger than that.

OLIVER. You mean Aunt Isobel.

ROYCE. Isobel, yes. (_After a little silence_) Isobel Blayds. Yes,
that was eighteen years ago. I was about your age.

OLIVER. A fine handsome young fellow like me?

ROYCE. Yes.

OLIVER. Any grandfathers living?

ROYCE. No.

OLIVER. Lucky devil. But I don’t suppose you realised it.

ROYCE. No, I don’t think I realised it.

OLIVER (_thinking it out_). I suppose if I had a famous father I
shouldn’t mind so much. I should feel that it was partly my doing. I
mean that he wouldn’t have begun to be famous until I had been born.
But the poet Blayds was a world-wide celebrity long before I came on
the scene, and I’ve had it hanging over me ever since.... Why do you
suppose I am a member of the club?

ROYCE. Well, why not? It’s a decent club. We are all very happy there.

OLIVER. Yes, but why did they elect _me_?

ROYCE. Oh, well, if we once began to ask ourselves that——

OLIVER. Not at all. The answer in your case is because A. L. Royce is
a well-known critic and a jolly good fellow. The answer in my case is
because there’s a B. in both. In other words, because there’s a Blayds
in Blayds-Conway. If my father had stuck to his William Conway when he
got married, I should never have been elected. Not at the age of
twenty-two, anyway.

ROYCE. Then I’m very glad he changed his name. Because otherwise, it
seems, I might not have had the pleasure of meeting you.

OLIVER. Oh, well, there’s always a something. But, compliments aside,
it isn’t much fun for a man when things happen to him just because of
the Blayds in Blayds-Conway. You know what I am doing now, don’t you?
I told you.

ROYCE. Secretary to some politician, isn’t it?

OLIVER. Yes. And why? Because of the Blayds in——

ROYCE. Oh, nonsense!

OLIVER. It’s true. Do you think I want to be a private secretary to a
dashed politician? What’s a private secretary at his best but a
superior sort of valet? I wanted to be a motor engineer. Not allowed.
Why not? Because the Blayds in Blayds-Conway wouldn’t have been any
use. But politicians simply live on that sort of thing.

ROYCE. What sort of thing?

OLIVER. Giving people jobs because they’re the grandsons of somebody.

ROYCE. Yes, I wonder if I was as cynical as you eighteen years ago.

OLIVER. Probably not; there wasn’t a Grandfather Royce. By the way,
talking about being jolly good fellows and all that, have you noticed
that I haven’t offered you a cigarette yet?

ROYCE. I don’t want to smoke.

OLIVER. Well, that’s lucky. Smoking isn’t allowed in here.

ROYCE (_annoyed by this_). Now look here, Conway, do you mind if I
speak plainly?

OLIVER. Do. But just one moment before you begin. My name,
unfortunately, is _Blayds_-Conway. Call me Conway at the Club and I’ll
thank you for it. But if you call me Conway in the hearing of certain
members of my family, I’m afraid there will be trouble. Now what were
you going to say?

ROYCE (_his annoyance gone_). Doesn’t matter.

OLIVER. No, do go on, Mr. Blayds-Royce.

ROYCE. Very well, Mr. Blayds-Conway. I am old enough to be—no, not
your grandfather—your uncle—and I want to say this. Oliver Blayds is
a very great man and also a very old man, and I think that while you
live in the house of this very great man, the inconveniences to which
his old age puts you, my dear Conway——

OLIVER. Blayds-Conway.

ROYCE (_smiling_). Blayds-Conway, I’m sorry.

OLIVER. Perhaps you’d better call me Oliver.

ROYCE. Yes, I think I will. Well, then, Oliver——

OLIVER. Yes, but you’ve missed the whole point. The whole point is
that I don’t _want_ to live in his house. Do you realise that I’ve
never had a house I could call my own? I mean a house where I could
ask people. I brought you along this afternoon because you’d got
permission to come anyhow with that Address of yours. But I shouldn’t
have dared to bring anybody else along from the club. Here we all are,
and always have been, living not _our_ lives, but _his_ life.
Because—well, just because he likes it so.

ROYCE (_almost to himself_). Yes ... yes.... I know.

OLIVER. Well!

  (_And there is so much conviction behind it that ROYCE has nothing
  to say. However, nothing is needed, for at this moment SEPTIMA
  BLAYDS-CONWAY comes in, a fair-haired nineteen-year-old modern,
  with no sentimental nonsense about her._)

SEPTIMA. Hallo!

OLIVER (_half getting out of his chair_). Hallo, Tim. Come and be
introduced. This is Mr. A. L. Royce. My sister, Septima.

ROYCE (_surprised_). Septima? (_Mechanically he quotes_):

    “Septima, seventh dark daughter;
  I saw her once where the black pines troop to the water—
  A rock-set river that broke into bottomless pools—”

SEPTIMA. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce. (_Holding out her hand to
OLIVER_) Noll, I’ll trouble you.

OLIVER (_feeling in his pockets_). Damn! I did think, Royce—— (_He
hands her a shilling_) Here you are.

SEPTIMA. Thanks. Thank you again, Mr. Royce.

ROYCE. I’m afraid I don’t understand.

SEPTIMA. It’s quite simple. I get a shilling when visitors quote
“Septima” at me, and Noll gets a shilling when they don’t.

OLIVER (_reproachfully_). I did think that _you_ would be able to
control yourself, Royce.

ROYCE (_smiling_). Sorry! My only excuse is that I never met any one
called Septima before, and that it came quite unconsciously.

SEPTIMA. Oh, don’t apologise. I admire you immensely for it. It’s the
only fun I get out of the name.

OLIVER. Septima Blayds-Conway, when you’re the only daughter, and fair
at that—I ask you.

ROYCE (_defensively_). It’s a beautiful poem.

SEPTIMA. Have you come to see Blayds the poet?

ROYCE. Yes.

OLIVER. One of the homage merchants.

ROYCE. Miss Blayds-Conway, I appeal to you.

SEPTIMA. Anything I can do in return for your shilling——

ROYCE. I have come here on behalf of some of my contemporaries, in
order to acquaint that very great man Oliver Blayds with the feelings
of admiration which we younger writers entertain for him. It appears
now that not only is Blayds a great poet and a great philosopher, but
also a——

OLIVER. Great-grandfather.

ROYCE. But also a grandfather. Do you think you can persuade your
brother that Blayds’ public reputation as a poet is in no way affected
by his private reputation as a grandfather, and beg him to spare me
any further revelations?

SEPTIMA. Certainly; I could do all that for ninepence, and you’d still
be threepence in hand. (_Sternly to OLIVER_) Blayds-Conway, young
fellow, have you been making r-revelations about your ger-rand-father?

OLIVER. My dear girl, I’ve made no r-revelations whatever. What’s
upset him probably is that I refused to recite to him “A Child’s
Thoughts on Waking.”

SEPTIMA. Did he pat your head and ask you to?

ROYCE. No, he didn’t.

SEPTIMA. Well, you needn’t be huffy about it, Mr. Royce. You would
have been in very good company. Meredith and Hardy have, and lots of
others.

OLIVER. Well, anyway, I’ve never been kissed by Maeterlinck.

SEPTIMA (_looking down coyly_). Mr. Royce, you have surprised my
secret, which I have kept hidden these seventeen years.
Maeterlinck—Maurice and I——

ROYCE. Revelations was not quite the word. What I should have said was
that I have been plunged suddenly, and a little unexpectedly, into an
unromantic, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which hardly suits the occasion
of my visit. On any other day—you see what I mean, Miss Septima.

SEPTIMA. You’re quite right. This is not the occasion for persiflage.
Besides, we’re very proud of him really.

ROYCE. I’m sure you are.

SEPTIMA (_weightily_). You know, Noll, there are times when I think
that possibly we have misjudged Blayds.

OLIVER. Blayds the poet or Blayds the man?

SEPTIMA. Blayds the man. After all, Uncle Thomas was devoted to him,
and _he_ was rather particular. Wasn’t he, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. I don’t think I know your Uncle Thomas, do I?

SEPTIMA. He wasn’t mine, he was mother’s.

OLIVER. The Sage of Chelsea.

ROYCE. Oh, Carlyle. Surely——

SEPTIMA. Mother called them all “uncle” in her day.

ROYCE. Well, now, there you are. That’s one of the most charming
things about Oliver Blayds. He has always had a genius for friendship.
Read the lives and letters of all the great Victorians, and you find
it all the way. They loved him. They——

OLIVER (_striking up_). God save our gracious Queen!

ROYCE (_with a good-humoured shrug_). Oh, well!

SEPTIMA. Keep it for father and mother, Mr. Royce. We’re hopeless.
Shall I tell you why?

ROYCE. Yes?

SEPTIMA. When you were a child, did you ever get the giggles in
church?

ROYCE. Almost always—when the Vicar wasn’t looking.

SEPTIMA. There’s something about it, isn’t there—the solemnity of it
all—which starts you giggling? When the Vicar isn’t looking.

ROYCE. Yes.

SEPTIMA. Exactly. And that’s why _we_ giggle—when the Vicar isn’t
looking.

MARION (_from outside_). Septima!

OLIVER. And here comes the Vicar’s wife.

  (_MARION BLAYDS-CONWAY is fifty-five now. A dear, foolish woman,
    who has never got over the fact that she is OLIVER BLAYDS’
    daughter, but secretly thinks that it is almost more wonderful
    to be WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY’S wife._)

MARION. Oh, there you are. Why didn’t you—— (_She sees ROYCE_) Oh!

OLIVER. This is Mr. A. L. Royce, Mother.

MARION (_distantly_). How do you do?

ROYCE. How do you do?

  (_There is an awkward silence._)

MARION. You’ll excuse me a moment, Mr.—er—er——

OLIVER. Royce, Mother, A. L. Royce.

MARION. Septima—— This is naturally rather a busy day, Mr.—er——
We hardly expected—— (_She frowns at OLIVER, who ought to have
known better by this time._) Septima, I want you just a moment—Oliver
will look after his friend. I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr.—er——

ROYCE. Oh, quite. Of course.

SEPTIMA. Mr. Royce has come to see Grandfather, Mother.

MARION (_appalled_). To see Grandfather!

ROYCE. I was hoping—Mr. Blayds-Conway was good enough to say——

MARION. I am afraid it is quite impossible. I am very sorry, but
really quite impossible. My son shouldn’t have held out hopes.

OLIVER. He didn’t. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mother. It’s
Father who invited him.

ROYCE. I am here on behalf of certain of my contemporaries——

OLIVER. Homage from some of our younger writers——

ROYCE. Mr. Blayds was gracious enough to indicate that——

SEPTIMA (_in a violent whisper_). A. L. Royce, Mother!

MARION. Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon. Why didn’t you tell me it was A. L.
Royce, Oliver? Of course! We wrote to you.

ROYCE. Yes.

MARION (_all hospitality_). How silly of me! You must forgive me,
Mr. Royce. Oliver ought to have told me. Grandfather—Mr. Blayds—will
be ready at three-thirty. The doctor was very anxious that Grandfather
shouldn’t see any one this year—outside the family, of course. I
couldn’t tell you how many people wrote asking if they could come
to-day. Presidents of Societies and that sort of thing. From all over
the world. Father did tell us. Do you remember, Septima?

SEPTIMA. I’m afraid I don’t, Mother. I know I didn’t believe it.

MARION (_to ROYCE_). Septima—after the poem, you know. “Septima,
seventh dark daughter——” (_And she would quote the whole of it, but
that her children interrupt._)

OLIVER (_solemnly_). Don’t say you’ve never heard of it, Royce.

SEPTIMA (_distressed_). I don’t believe he has.

OLIVER (_encouragingly_). You must read it. I think you’d like it.

MARION. It’s one of his best known. _The Times_ quoted it only last
week. We had the cutting. “Septima, seventh dark daughter——” It was
a favourite of my husband’s even before he married me.

ROYCE. It has been a favourite of mine for many years.

MARION. And many other people’s, I’m sure. We often get letters—Oh,
if you could see the letters we get!

ROYCE. I wonder you don’t have a secretary.

MARION (_with dignity_). My husband—Mr. Blayds-Conway—_is_
Grandfather’s secretary. He was appointed to the post soon after he
married me. Twenty-five years ago. There is almost nothing he mightn’t
have done, but he saw where his duty lay, and he has devoted himself
to Grandfather—to Mr. Blayds—ever since.

ROYCE. I am sure we are all grateful to him.

MARION. Grandfather, as you know, has refused a Peerage more than
once. But I always say that if devotion to duty counts for anything,
William, my husband, ought to have been knighted long ago. Perhaps
when Grandfather has passed away—— But there!

ROYCE. I was telling Oliver that I did meet Mr. Blayds once—and Miss
Blayds. Down at Bournemouth. She was looking after him. He wasn’t
very well at the time.

MARION. Oh, Isobel, yes. A wonderful nurse. I don’t know what
Grandfather would do without her.

ROYCE. She is still——? I thought perhaps she was married, or——

MARION. Oh, no! Isobel isn’t the marrying sort. I say that I don’t
know what Grandfather would do without her, but I might almost say
that I don’t know what she would do without Grandfather. (_Looking at
her watch_) Dear me, I promised Father that I would get those letters
off. Septima, dear, you must help me. Have you been round the house at
all, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No, I’ve only just come.

MARION. There are certain rooms which are shown to the public. Signed
photographs, gifts from Tennyson, Ruskin, Carlyle and many others.
Illuminated addresses and so on, all most interesting. Oliver, perhaps
you would show Mr. Royce—if it would interest you——

ROYCE. Oh, indeed, yes.

MARION. Oliver!

OLIVER (_throwing down the book he was looking at_). Right. (_He gets
up._) Come on, Royce. (_As they go out_) There’s one thing that I can
show you, anyway.

ROYCE. What’s that?

OLIVER (_violently_). My bedroom. We’re allowed to
smoke there.

                                        [_They go out._

MARION (_sitting down at the writing-table_). He seems a nice man.
About thirty-five, wouldn’t you say—or more?

SEPTIMA. Forty. But you never can tell with men. (_She comes to the
table._)

MARION (_getting to work_). Now those letters just want putting into
their envelopes. And _those_ want envelopes written for them. If you
will read out the addresses, dear—I think that will be the quickest
way—I will——

SEPTIMA (_thinking her own thoughts_). Mother!

MARION. Yes, dear? (_Writing_) Doctor John Treherne.

SEPTIMA. I want to speak to you.

MARION. Do you mean about anything important?

SEPTIMA. For me, yes.

MARION. You haven’t annoyed your grandfather, I hope.

SEPTIMA. It has nothing to do with Grandfather.

MARION. Beechcroft, Bexhill-on-Sea. We’ve been so busy all day.
Naturally, being the Birthday. Couldn’t you leave it till to-morrow,
dear?

SEPTIMA (_eagerly_). Rita Ferguson wants me to share rooms with her.
You know I’ve always wanted to, and now she’s just heard of some;
there’s a studio goes with it. On Campden Hill.

MARION. Yes, dear. We’ll see what Grandfather says.

SEPTIMA (_annoyed_). I said that this has nothing to do with
Grandfather. We’re talking about _me_. It’s no good trying to do
anything here, and——

MARION. There! I’ve written _Campden_ Hill; how stupid of me.
_Haverstock_ Hill. We’ll see what Grandfather says, dear.

SEPTIMA (_doggedly_). It has nothing to do with Grandfather.

MARION (_outraged_). Septima!

SEPTIMA. “We’ll see what Grandfather says”—that has always been the
answer to everything in this house.

MARION (_as sarcastically as she can, but she is not very good at
it_). You can hardly have forgotten who Grandfather is.

SEPTIMA. I haven’t.

MARION (_awed_). What was it the _Telegraph_ called him only this
morning? “The Supreme Songster of an Earlier Epoch.” (_Her own
father!_)

SEPTIMA. I said that I hadn’t forgotten what Grandfather _is_. You’re
telling me what he _was_. He _is_ an old man of ninety. I’m twenty.
Anything that I do will affect him for at most five years. It will
affect me for fifty years. That’s why I say this has nothing to do
with Grandfather.

MARION (_distressed_). Septima, sometimes you almost seem as if you
were irreligious. When you think who Grandfather is—and his birthday
too. (_Weakly_) You must talk to your father.

SEPTIMA. That’s better. Father’s only sixty.

MARION. You must talk to your father. He will see what Grandfather
says.

SEPTIMA. And there we are—back again to ninety! It’s always the way.

MARION (_plaintively_). I really don’t understand you children. You
ought to be proud of living in the house of such a great man. I don’t
know what Grandfather will say when he hears about it. (_Tearfully_)
The Reverend William Styles ... Hockley Vicarage ... Bishop Stortford.
(_And from every line she extracts some slight religious comfort._)

SEPTIMA (_thoughtfully_). I suppose father would cut off my allowance
if I just went.

MARION. Went?

SEPTIMA. Yes. Would he? It would be beastly unfair, of course, but I
suppose he would.

MARION (_at the end of her resources_). Septima, you’re _not_ to talk
like that.

SEPTIMA. I think I’ll get Aunt Isobel to tackle Grandfather. She’s
only forty. Perhaps _she_ could persuade him.

MARION. I won’t hear another word. And you had better tidy yourself
up. I will finish these letters myself.

SEPTIMA (_going to the door_). Yes, I must go and tidy up. (_At the
door_) But I warn you, Mother, I mean to have it out this time. And if
Grandfather—— (_She breaks off as her father comes in_) Oh, Lord!
(_She comes back into the room, making way for him._)

  (_WILLIAM BLAYDS-CONWAY was obviously meant for the Civil Service.
    His prim neatness, his gold pince-nez, his fussiness would be
    invaluable in almost any Department. However, running BLAYDS is
    the next best thing to running the Empire._)

WILLIAM. What is this, Septima? Where are you going?

SEPTIMA. Tidy myself up.

WILLIAM. That’s right. And then you might help your mother to
entertain Mr. Royce until we send for him. Perhaps we might—wait a
moment——

MARION. Oh, have you seen Mr. Royce, William? He seems a nice young
man, doesn’t he? I’m sure Grandfather will like him.

WILLIAM (_pontifically_). I still think that it was very unwise of us
to attempt to see anybody to-day. Naturally I made it clear to
Mr. Royce what a very unexpected departure this is from our usual
practice. I fancy that he realises the honour which we have paid to
the younger school of writers. Those who are knocking at the door, so
to speak.

MARION. Oh, I’m sure he does.

SEPTIMA (_to the ceiling_). Does anybody want me?

WILLIAM. Wait a moment, please. (_He takes a key out of his pocket and
considers._) Yes.... Yes.... (_He gives the key to SEPTIMA_) You may
show Mr. Royce the autograph letter from Queen Victoria, on the
occasion of your grandmother’s death. Be very careful, please. I think
he might be allowed to take it in his hands—don’t you think so,
Marion?—but lock it up immediately afterwards, and bring me back the
key.

SEPTIMA. Yes, Father. (_As she goes_) What fun he’s going to have!

WILLIAM. Are those the letters?

MARION. Yes, dear, I’ve nearly finished them.

WILLIAM. They will do afterwards. (_Handing her a bunch of telegrams_)
I want you to sort these telegrams. Isobel is seeing about the
flowers?

MARION. Oh, yes, sure to be, dear. How do you mean, sort them?

WILLIAM. In three groups will be best. Those from societies or public
bodies, those from distinguished people, including Royalty—you will
find one from the Duchess there; her Royal Highness is very faithful
to us—and those from unknown or anonymous admirers.

MARION. Oh, yes, I see, dear. (_She gets to work._)

WILLIAM. He will like to know who have remembered him. I fancy that we
have done even better than we did on the eightieth birthday, and of
course the day is not yet over. (_He walks about the room importantly,
weighing great matters in his mind. This is his day._)

MARION. Yes, dear.

WILLIAM (_frowning anxiously_). What did we do last year about
drinking the health? Was it in here, or did we go to his room?

MARION. He was down to lunch last year. Don’t you remember, dear?

WILLIAM. Ah, yes, of course. Stupid of me. Yes, this last year has
made a great difference to him. He is breaking up, I fear. We cannot
keep him with us for many more birthdays.

MARION. Don’t say that, dear.

WILLIAM. Well, we can but do our best.

MARION. What would you like to do, dear, about the health?

WILLIAM. H’m. Let me think. (_He thinks._)

MARION (_busy with the telegrams_). Some of these are a little
difficult. Do you think that Sir John and Lady Wilkins would look
better among the distinguished people including Royalty, or with the
unknown and anonymous ones?

WILLIAM. Anybody doubtful is unknown. I only want a rough grouping. We
shall have a general acknowledgment in the _Times_. And oh, that
reminds me. I want an announcement for the late editions of the
evening papers. Perhaps you had better just take this down. You can
finish those afterwards.

MARION. Yes, dear. (_She gets ready_) Yes, dear?

WILLIAM (_after tremendous thought_). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.

MARION (_writing_). Oliver Blayds, ninety to-day.

WILLIAM. The veteran poet spent his ninetieth birthday——

MARION (_to herself_). The veteran poet——

WILLIAM. Passed his ninetieth birthday—that’s better—passed his
ninetieth birthday quietly, amid his family——

MARION. Amid his family——

WILLIAM. At his well-known house—residence—in Portman Square. (_He
stops suddenly. You thought he was just dictating, but his brain has
been working all the time, and he has come to a decision. He announces
it._) We will drink the health in here. See that there is an extra
glass for Mr. Royce. “In Portman Square”—have you got that?

MARION. Yes, dear.

WILLIAM. Mr. William Blayds-Conway, who courteously gave—granted our
representative an interview, informed us that the poet was in good
health—— It’s a pity you never learnt shorthand, Marion.

MARION. I did try, dear.

WILLIAM (_remembering that historic effort_). Yes, I know ... in good
health——

MARION. Good health——

WILLIAM. And keenly appreciative of the many tributes of affection
which he had received.

MARION. Which he had received.

WILLIAM. Among those who called during the day were——

MARION. Yes, dear?

WILLIAM. Fill that in from the visitors’ book. (_He holds out his hand
for the paper_) How does that go?

MARION (_giving it to him_). I wasn’t quite sure how many “p’s” there
were in appreciative.

WILLIAM. Two.

MARION. Yes, I thought two was safer.

WILLIAM (_handing it back to her_). Yes, that’s all right. (_Bringing
out his keys_) I shall want to make a few notes while Mr. Royce is
being received. It may be that Oliver Blayds will say something worth
recording. One would like to get something if it were possible. (_He
has unlocked a drawer in the table and brought out his manuscript
book._) And see that that goes off now. I should think about eight
names. Say three Society, three Artistic and Literary, and two Naval,
Military and Political. (_Again you see his brain working.... He has
come to another decision. He announces it._) Perhaps two Society would
be enough.

MARION. Yes, dear. (_Beginning to make for the door_) Will there be
anything else you’ll want? (_Holding out the paper_) After I’ve done
this?

WILLIAM (_considering_). No ... no.... I’m coming with you. (_Taking
out his keys_) I must get the port. (_He opens the door for her, and
they go out together._)

  (_The room is empty for a moment, and then ISOBEL comes in. She is
    nearly forty. You can see how lovely she was at twenty, but she
    gave up being lovely eighteen years ago, said good-bye to ISOBEL,
    and became just Nurse. If BLAYDS wants cheerfulness, she is
    cheerful; if sympathy, sympathetic; if interest, interested. She
    is off duty now, and we see at once how tired she is. But she has
    some spiritual comfort, some secret pride to sustain her, and it
    is only occasionally that the tiredness, the deadness, shows
    through. She has flowers in her arms, and slowly, thoughtfully,
    she decks the room for the great man. We see now for a moment that
    she is much older than we thought; it is for her own ninetieth
    birthday that she is decorating the room.... Now she has finished,
    and she sits down, her hands in her lap, waiting, waiting
    patiently.... Some thought brings a wistful smile to her mouth.
    Yes, she must have been very lovely at twenty. Then ROYCE comes
    in._)

ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (_He sees who it is._) Oh!

ISOBEL. It’s all right, I—— Are you waiting to see—— (_She
recognises him_) Oh!

  (_They stand looking at each other, about six feet apart, not
    moving, saying nothing. Then very gently he begins to hum the
    refrain of a waltz. Slowly she remembers._)

ISOBEL. How long ago was it?

ROYCE. Eighteen years.

ISOBEL (_who has lived eighty years since then_). So little?

ROYCE (_distressed_). Isobel!

ISOBEL (_remembering his name now_). Austin.

ROYCE. It comes back to you?

ISOBEL. A few faded memories—and the smell of the pine woods. And
there was a band, wasn’t there? That was the waltz they played. _How_
did it go? (_He gives her a bar or two again.... She nods_) Yes. (_She
whispers the tune to herself._) Why does that make me think of——
Didn’t you cut your wrist? On the rocks?

ROYCE. You remember? (_He holds out his wrist_) Look!

ISOBEL (_nodding_). I knew that came into it. I tied it up for you.

ROYCE (_sentimentally_). I have the handkerchief still. (_More
honestly_) Somewhere.... I know I have it. (_He tries to think where
it would be._)

ISOBEL. There was a dog, wasn’t there?

ROYCE. How well you remember. Rags. A fox terrier.

ISOBEL (_doubtfully_). Yes?

ROYCE. Or was that later? I had an Aberdeen before that.

ISOBEL. Yes, that was it, I think.

ROYCE. Thomas.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Thomas. Yes.... Only eighteen little years ago.
But what worlds away. Just give me that tune again. (_He gives it to
her, and the memories stir again._) You had a pipe you were very proud
of—with a cracked bowl—and a silver band to keep it together. What
silly things one remembers ... you’d forgotten it.

ROYCE. I remember that pink cotton dress.

ISOBEL. Eighty years ago. Or is it only eighteen? And now we meet
again. You married? I seem to remember hearing.

ROYCE (_uncomfortably_). Yes.

ISOBEL. I hope it was happy.

ROYCE. No. We separated.

ISOBEL. I am sorry.

ROYCE. Was it likely it would be?

ISOBEL (_surprised_). Was that all the chance of happiness you gave
her?

ROYCE. You think I oughtn’t to have married?

ISOBEL. Oh, my dear, who am I to order people’s lives?

ROYCE. You ordered mine.

ISOBEL (_ignoring this_). But you _have_ been happy? Marriage isn’t
everything. You have been happy in your work, in your books, in your
friends?

ROYCE (_after thinking_). Yes, Isobel, on the whole, yes.

ISOBEL. I’m glad.... (_She holds out her hand suddenly with a smile_)
How do you do, Mr. Royce? (_She is inviting him to step off the
sentimental footing._)

ROYCE (_stepping off_). How do you do, Miss Blayds? It’s delightful to
meet you again.

ISOBEL. Let’s sit down; shall we? (_They sit down together._) My
father will be coming in directly. You are here to see him, of course?

ROYCE. Yes. Tell me about him—or rather about yourself. You are still
looking after him?

ISOBEL. Yes.

ROYCE. For eighteen years.

ISOBEL. Nearly twenty altogether.

ROYCE. And has it been worth it?

ISOBEL. He has written wonderful things in those twenty years. Not
very much, but very wonderful.

ROYCE. Yes, that has always been the miracle about him, the way he
has kept his youth. And the fire and spirit of youth. You have helped
him there.

ISOBEL (_proudly_). Has it been worth it?

ROYCE (_puzzled_). I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. The world
would think so; but I—naturally I am prejudiced.

ISOBEL. Yes.

ROYCE (_smiling_). You might have looked after _me_ for those eighteen
years.

ISOBEL. Did you want it as much as he? (_As he protests_) No, I don’t
mean “want” it—need it?

ROYCE. Well, that’s always the problem, isn’t it—whether the old or
the young have the better right to be selfish. We both needed you, in
different ways. You gave yourself to him, and he has wasted your life.
I don’t think _I_ should have wasted it.

ISOBEL. I am proud to have helped him. No one will know. Everything
which he wrote will be his. Only _I_ shall know how much of it was
mine. Well, that’s something. Not wasted.

ROYCE. Sacrificed.

ISOBEL. Am I to regret that?

ROYCE. Do you regret it?

ISOBEL (_after considering_). When you asked me to marry you I—I
couldn’t. He was an old man then; he wanted me; I was everything to
him. Oh, he has had his friends, more friends than any man, but he had
to be the head of a family too, and without me—I’ve kept him alive,
active. He has sharpened his brains on me. (_With a shrug_) On whom
else?

ROYCE. Yes, I understand that.

ISOBEL. You wouldn’t have married me and come to live with us all, as
Marion and William have done?

ROYCE. No, no, that’s death.

ISOBEL. Yes, I knew you felt like that. But I couldn’t leave him.
(_ROYCE shrugs his shoulders unconvinced._) Oh, I _did_ love you then;
I _did_ want to marry you! But I couldn’t. He wasn’t just an ordinary
man—you must remember that, please. He was Blayds.... Oh, what are we
in the world for but to find beauty, and who could find it as he, and
who could help him as I?

ROYCE. I was ready to wait.

ISOBEL. Ah, but how could we? Until he died! Every day you would be
thinking, “I wonder how he is to-day,” and I should be knowing that
you were thinking that. Oh, horrible! Sitting and waiting for his
death.

ROYCE (_thoughtfully, recognising her point of view_). Yes.... Yes....
But if you were back now, knowing what you know, would you do it
again?

ISOBEL. I think so. I think it has been worth it. It isn’t fair to ask
me. I’m glad now that I have given him those eighteen years, but
perhaps I should have been afraid of it if I had known it was to be as
long as that. It has been trying, of course—such a very old man in
body, although so young in mind—but it has not been for an old man
that I have done it; not for a selfish father; but for the glorious
young poet who has never grown up, and who wanted me.

ROYCE (_looking into her soul_). But you have had your bad moments.

ISOBEL (_distressed_). Oh, don’t! It isn’t fair.

  (_ROYCE, his eyes still on her, begins the refrain again._)

ISOBEL (_smiling sadly_). Oh, no, Mr. Royce! That’s all over. I’m an
old woman now.

ROYCE (_rather ashamed_). I’m sorry.... Yes, you’re older now.

ISOBEL. Twenty and thirty-eight—there’s a world of difference between
them.

ROYCE. I’m forty.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Don’t ask me to pity you. What’s forty to a man?

ROYCE. You’re right. In fact I’m masquerading here to-day as one of
the younger writers.

ISOBEL (_glad to be off the subject of herself_). Father likes to feel
that he is admired by the younger writers. So if you’ve brought all
their signatures with you, he’ll be pleased to see you, Mr. Royce. I
had better give you just one word of warning. Don’t be too hard on the
1863 volume.

ROYCE. I shan’t even mention it.

ISOBEL. But if _he_ does——? It has been attacked so much that he has
a sort of mother-love for it now, and even I feel protective towards
it, and want to say, “Come here, darling, nobody loves you.” Say
something kind if you can. Of course I know it isn’t his best, but
when you’ve been praised as much as he, the little praise which is
withheld is always the praise you want the most.

ROYCE. How delightfully human that sounds. That is just what I’ve
always felt in my own small way.

  _WILLIAM comes fussily in._

WILLIAM. Is Mr. Royce——? Ah, there you are! (_Looking round the
room_) You’ve done the flowers, Isobel? That’s right. Well, Mr. Royce,
I hope they’ve been looking after you properly.

ROYCE. Oh, yes, thanks.

WILLIAM. That’s right. Isobel—(_he looks, in a statesmanlike way, at
his watch_)—in five minutes, shall we say?

ISOBEL. Yes.

WILLIAM. How is he just now?

ISOBEL. He seems better to-day.

WILLIAM. That’s right. We shall drink the health in here.

ISOBEL. Very well.
                                        [_She goes out._

WILLIAM. A little custom we have, Mr. Royce.

ROYCE. Oh, yes.

WILLIAM. We shall all wish him many happy returns of the day—you
understand that he isn’t dressed now until the afternoon—and then I
shall present you. After that, we shall all drink the health—you will
join us, of course.

ROYCE (_smiling_). Certainly.

WILLIAM. Then, of course, it depends how we are feeling. We may feel
in the mood for a little talk, or we may be too tired for anything
more than a few words of greeting. You have the Address with you?

ROYCE. Yes. (_Looking about him_) At least I put it down somewhere.

WILLIAM (_scandalised_). You put it down—somewhere! My dear Mr. Royce
(_he searches anxiously_)—at any moment now—— (_He looks at his
watch._) Perhaps I’d better—— (_A Maid comes in with the port and
glasses_) Parsons, have you seen a—— (_He makes vague rectangular
shapes with his hands._)

ROYCE. Here it is.

WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. (_As the Maid puts the tray down_) Yes,
there, I think, Parsons. How many glasses have you brought?

PARSONS. Seven, sir.

WILLIAM. There should be six. One—two—three——

PARSONS (_firmly_). Madam said seven, sir.

WILLIAM. Seven, yes, that’s right. When I ring the bell, you’ll tell
Miss Isobel that we are ready.

PARSONS. Yes, sir.

  (_She goes out, making way for MARION, SEPTIMA, and OLIVER as
  she does so._)

WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. Now then, let me see.... I think——
Marion, will you sit here? Septima, you there. Oliver—Oliver, that’s
a very light suit you’re wearing.

OLIVER. It’s a birthday, Father, not a funeral.

WILLIAM (_with dignity_). Yes, but whose birthday? Well, it’s too late
now—you sit there. Mr. Royce, you sit next to me, so that I can take
you up. Now are we all ready?

SEPTIMA (_wickedly_). Wait a moment. (_She blows her nose_) Right.

WILLIAM. All ready? (_He rings the bell with an air._)

  (_There is a solemn silence of expectation. Then OLIVER shifts a
    leg and catches his ankle against SEPTIMA’S chair._)

OLIVER. Damn! Oo! (_He rubs his ankle._)

WILLIAM (_in church_). S’sh!

  (_There is another solemn silence, and then the Maid opens the
    door. BLAYDS, in an invalid chair, is wheeled in by ISOBEL. They
    all stand up. With his long white beard, his still plentiful white
    hair curling over his ears, OLIVER BLAYDS does indeed “look like
    somebody.” Only his eyes, under their shaggy brows, are still
    young. Indomitable spirit and humour gleam in them. With all the
    dignity, majesty even, which he brings to the part, you feel that
    he realises what great fun it is being OLIVER BLAYDS._)

BLAYDS. Good-day to you all.

MARION (_going forward and kissing his forehead_). Many happy returns
of the day, Father.

BLAYDS. Thank you, Marion. Happy, I hope; many, I neither expect nor
want.

  (_WILLIAM, who is just going forward, stops for a moment to jot
    this down on his shirt cuff. Then, beckoning to ROYCE to follow
    him, he approaches._)

WILLIAM. My heartiest congratulations, sir.

BLAYDS. Thank you, William. When you are ninety, I’ll do as much for
you.

WILLIAM (_laughing heartily_). Ha, ha! Very good, sir. May I present
Mr. A. L. Royce, the well-known critic?

BLAYDS (_looking thoughtfully at ROYCE_). We have met before,
Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. At Bournemouth, sir. Eighteen years ago.

BLAYDS (_nodding_). Yes. I remember.

WILLIAM. Wonderful, wonderful!

BLAYDS (_holding out his hand_). Thank you for wasting your time now
on an old man. You must stay and talk to me afterwards.

ROYCE. It’s very kind of you, sir. I——

WILLIAM. Just a moment, Mr. Royce. (_He indicates SEPTIMA and
OLIVER._)

ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (_He steps on one side._)

WILLIAM (_in a whisper_). Septima.

SEPTIMA (_coming forward_). Congratulations, Grandfather. (_She bends
her head, and he kisses her._)

BLAYDS. Thank you, my dear. I don’t know what I’ve done, but thank
you.

OLIVER (_coming forward_). Congratulations, Grandfather. (_He bends
down and BLAYDS puts a hand on his head._)

BLAYDS. Thank you, my boy, thank you. (_Wistfully_) I was your age
once.

  (_WILLIAM, who has been very busy pouring out port, now gets busy
    distributing it. When they are all ready he holds up his glass._)

WILLIAM. Are we all ready? (_They are._) Blayds!

ALL. Blayds! (_They drink._)

BLAYDS (_moved as always by this_). Thank you, thank you. (_Recovering
himself_) Is that the Jubilee port, William?

WILLIAM. Yes, sir.

BLAYDS (_looking wistfully at ISOBEL_). May I?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear, if you like. William——

WILLIAM (_anxiously_). Do you think——? (_She nods, and he pours out
a glass._) Here you are, sir.

BLAYDS (_taking it in rather a shaky hand_). Mr. Royce, I will drink
to you; and, through you, to all that eager youth which is seeking,
each in his own way, for beauty. (_He raises his glass._) May they
find it at the last! (_He drinks._)

ROYCE. Thank you very much, sir. I shall remember.

WILLIAM. Allow me, sir. (_He recovers BLAYDS’ glass._) Marion, you
have business to attend to? Oliver——? Septima——?

MARION. Yes, dear. (_Cheerfully to BLAYDS_) We’re going now,
Grandfather.

BLAYDS (_nodding_). I shall talk a little to Mr. Royce.

MARION. That’s right, dear; don’t tire yourself. Come along, children.

  (_OLIVER comes along. SEPTIMA hesitates. She “means to have it out
    this time.”_)

SEPTIMA (_irresolutely_). Grandfather——

BLAYDS. Well?

MARION. Come along, dear.

SEPTIMA (_overawed by the majesty of BLAYDS_). Oh—all right. (_They
go. But she will certainly have it out next time._)

WILLIAM (_in a whisper to ROYCE_). The Address? (_To BLAYDS_)
Mr. Royce has a message of congratulation from some of the younger
writers, which he wishes to present to you, sir. Mr. Royce——

  (_ROYCE comes forward with it._)

BLAYDS. It is very good of them.

ROYCE (_doubtfully_). Shall I read it, sir?

BLAYDS (_smiling_). The usual thing?

ROYCE (_smiling too_). Pretty much. A little better than usual, I
hope, because I wrote it.

  (_WILLIAM is now at the writing-table, waiting hopefully for
    crumbs._)

BLAYDS (_holding out his hand_). Give it to me. And sit down, please.
Near me. I don’t hear too well. (_He takes the book and glances at
it._) Pretty. (_He glances at some of the names and says, with a
pleased smile_) I didn’t think they took any interest in an old man.
Isobel, you will read it to me afterwards, and tell me who they all
are?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear.

BLAYDS. Will that do, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. Of course, sir.... I should just like you to know, to have the
privilege of telling you here, and on this day, that every one of us
there has a very real admiration for your work and a very real
reverence for yourself. And we feel that, in signing, we have done
honour to ourselves, rather than honour to Blayds, whom no words of
ours can honour as his own have done.

BLAYDS. Thank you.... You must read it to me, Isobel. (_He gives her
the book._) A very real admiration for _all_ my work, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. Yes, sir.

BLAYDS. Except the 1863 volume?

ROYCE. I have never regretted that, sir.

BLAYDS (_pleased_). Ah! You hear, Isobel?

ROYCE. I don’t say that it is my own favourite, but I could quite
understand if it were the author’s. There are things about it——

BLAYDS. Isobel, are you listening?

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Yes, Father.

ROYCE. Things outside your usual range, if I may say so——

BLAYDS (_nodding and chuckling_). You hear, Isobel? Didn’t I always
tell you? Well, well, we mustn’t talk any more about that.... William!

WILLIAM (_jumping up_). Sir?

BLAYDS. What are you doing?

WILLIAM. Just finishing off a few letters, sir.

BLAYDS. Would you be good enough to bring me my Sordello?

WILLIAM. The one which Browning gave you, sir?

BLAYDS. Of course. I wish to show Mr. Royce the inscription—(_to
ROYCE_)—an absurd one, all rhymes to Blayds. It will be in the
library somewhere; it may have got moved.

WILLIAM. Certainly, sir.

ISOBEL. Father——

BLAYDS (_holding up a hand to stop her_). Thank you, William.
(_William goes out._) You were saying, Isobel?

ISOBEL. Nothing. I thought it was in your bedroom. I was reading to
you last night.

BLAYDS (_sharply_). Of course it’s in my bedroom. But can’t I get my
own son-in-law out of the room if I want to?

ISOBEL (_soothingly_). Of course, dear. It was silly of me.

BLAYDS. My son-in-law, Mr. Royce, meditates after my death a little
book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all
over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two
volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in
the Cotswolds,” but I am not certain of this yet. (_He chuckles to
himself._)

ISOBEL (_reproachfully_). Father!

BLAYDS (_apologetically_). All right, Isobel. Mr. Royce won’t mind.

ISOBEL (_smiling reluctantly_). It’s very unkind.

BLAYDS. You never knew Whistler, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No, sir; he was a bit before my time.

BLAYDS. Ah, he was the one to say unkind things. But you forgave him
because he had a way with him. And there was always the hope that when
he had finished with _you_, he would say something still worse about
one of your friends. (_He chuckles to himself again._) I sent him a
book of mine once—which one was it, Isobel?

ISOBEL. _Helen._

BLAYDS. _Helen_, yes. I got a postcard from him a few days later:
“Dear Oliver, rub it out and do it again.” Well, I happened to meet
him the next day, and I said that I was sorry I couldn’t take his
advice, as it was too late now to do anything about it. “Yes,” said
Jimmie, “as God said when he’d made Swinburne.”

ISOBEL. You’ve heard that, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No. Ought I to have?

ISOBEL. It has been published.

BLAYDS (_wickedly_). I told my son-in-law. Anything which I tell my
son-in-law is published.

ISOBEL. I always say that father made it up.

BLAYDS. You didn’t know Jimmie, my dear. There was nothing he couldn’t
have said. But a most stimulating companion.

ROYCE. Yes, he must have been.

BLAYDS. So was Alfred. He had a great sense of humour. All of us who
knew him well knew that.

ROYCE. It is curious how many people nowadays regard Tennyson as
something of a prig, with no sense of humour. I always feel that his
association with Queen Victoria had something to do with it. A Court
poet is so very un-stimulating.

BLAYDS. I think you’re right. It was a pity. (_He chuckles to himself.
ROYCE waits expectantly._) I went to Court once.

ROYCE (_surprised_). You?

BLAYDS (_nodding_). Yes, I went to Osborne to see the Queen. Alfred’s
doing I always suspected, but he wouldn’t own to it. (_He chuckles._)

ISOBEL. Tell him about it, dear.

BLAYDS. I had a new pair of boots. They squeaked. They squeaked all
the way from London to the Isle of Wight. The Queen was waiting for me
at the end of a long room. I squeaked in. I bowed. I squeaked my way
up to her. We talked. I was not allowed to sit down, of course; I just
stood shifting from one foot to the other—and squeaking. She said:
“Don’t you think Lord Tennyson’s poetry is very beautiful?” and I
squeaked and said, “Damn these boots!” A gentleman-in-waiting told me
afterwards that it was contrary to etiquette to start a new topic of
conversation with Royalty—so I suppose that that is why I have never
been asked to Court again.

ISOBEL. It was your joke, Father, not the gentleman-in-waiting’s.
(_BLAYDS chuckles._)

ROYCE. Yes, I’m sure of that.

BLAYDS. Isobel knows all my stories.... When you’re ninety, they know
all your stories.

ISOBEL. I like hearing them again, dear, and Mr. Royce hasn’t heard
them.

BLAYDS. I’ll tell you one you _don’t_ know, Isobel.

ISOBEL. Not you.

BLAYDS. Will you bet?

ISOBEL. It’s taking your money.

BLAYDS. Mr. Royce will hold the stakes. A shilling.

ISOBEL. You will be ruined. (_She takes out her purse._)

BLAYDS (_childishly_). Have you got one for me too?

ISOBEL (_taking out two_). One for you and one for me. Here you are,
Mr. Royce.

ROYCE. Thank you. Both good ones? Right.

BLAYDS. George Meredith told me this. Are you fond of cricket,
Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. Yes, very.

BLAYDS. So was Meredith, so was I.... A young boy playing for his
school. The important match of the year; he gets his colours only if
he plays—you understand? Just before the game began, he was sitting
in one of those—what do they call them?—deck chairs, when it
collapsed, his hand between the hinges. Three crushed fingers; no
chance of playing; no colours. At that age a tragedy; it seems that
one’s whole life is over. You understand?

ROYCE. Yes. Oh, very well.

BLAYDS. But if once the match begins with him, he has his colours,
whatever happens afterwards. So he decides to say nothing about the
fingers. He keeps his hand in his pocket; nobody has seen the
accident, nobody guesses. His side is in first. He watches—his hand
is in his pocket. When his turn comes to bat, he forces a glove over
the crushed fingers and goes to the wickets. He makes nothing—well,
that doesn’t matter; he is the wicket-keeper and has gone in last. But
he knows now that he can never take his place in the field; and he
knows, too, what an unfair thing he has done to his school to let them
start their game with a cripple. It is impossible now to confess....
So, in between the innings, he arranges another accident with his
chair, and falls back on it, with his fingers—his already crushed
fingers this time—in the hinges. So nobody ever knew. Not until he
was a man, and it all seemed very little and far away.

ISOBEL. What a horrible story! Give him the money, Mr. Royce.

BLAYDS. Keep it for me, Isobel. (_ISOBEL takes it._)

ROYCE. Is it true, sir?

BLAYDS. So Meredith said. He told me.

ROYCE. Lord, what pluck! I think I should have forgiven him for that.

BLAYDS. Yes, an unfair thing to do; but having done it, he carried it
off in the grand manner.

ISOBEL. To save himself.

BLAYDS. Well, well. But he had qualities. Don’t you think so,
Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. I do indeed.

  (_There is a silence. The excitement of the occasion has died
    away, and you can almost see BLAYDS getting older._)

BLAYDS (_after a pause_). I could tell you another story, Isobel,
which you don’t know.... Of another boy who carried it off.

ISOBEL. Not now, dear. You mustn’t tire yourself.

BLAYDS (_a very old man suddenly_). No, not now. But I shall tell you
one day. Yes, I shall have to tell you.... I shall have to tell you.

ISOBEL (_quietly, to ROYCE_). I think perhaps——

ROYCE (_getting up_). It is very kind of you to have seen me, sir. I
mustn’t let you get tired of me.

BLAYDS (_very tired_). Good-bye, Mr. Royce. He liked the 1863 volume,
Isobel.

ISOBEL. Yes, Father.

ROYCE. Good-bye, sir, and thank you; I shall always remember.

ISOBEL (_in a whisper to ROYCE_). You can find your way out, can’t
you? I don’t like to leave him.

ROYCE. Of course. I may see you again?

ISOBEL (_her tragedy_). I am always here.

ROYCE. Good-bye.

                                        [_He goes._

BLAYDS. Isobel, where are you?

ISOBEL (_at his side again_). Here I am, dear.

BLAYDS. How old did you say I was?

ISOBEL. Ninety.

BLAYDS. Ninety.... I’m tired.

ISOBEL. It has been too much for you, dear. I oughtn’t to have let him
stay so long. You’d like to go to bed now, wouldn’t you? (_She walks
away to ring the bell._)

BLAYDS (_a frightened child_). Where are you going? Don’t leave me.

ISOBEL (_stopping_). Only to ring the bell, dear.

BLAYDS. Don’t leave me. I want you to hold my hand.

ISOBEL. Yes, dear. (_She holds it._)

BLAYDS. Did you say I was ninety? There’s no going back at ninety.
Only forward—into the grave that’s waiting for you. So cold and
lonely there, Isobel.

ISOBEL. I am always with you, dear.

BLAYDS. Hold me tight. I’m frightened.... Did I tell you about the
boy—who carried it off?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear, you told us.

BLAYDS. No, not that boy—the other one. Are we alone, Isobel?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear.

BLAYDS. Listen, Isobel. I want to tell you——

ISOBEL. Tell me to-morrow, dear.

BLAYDS (_in weak anger, because he is frightened_). There are no
to-morrows when you are ninety ... when you are ninety ... and they
have all left you ... alone.

ISOBEL. Very well, dear. Tell me now.

BLAYDS (_eagerly_). Yes, yes, come closer.... Listen, Isobel. (_He
draws her still closer and begins._) Isobel....

  (_But we do not hear it until afterwards._)




ACT II


SCENE: _The same room a few days later._

_OLIVER comes in dressed in the deepest black, having just returned
from the funeral of OLIVER BLAYDS. He looks round the room, and then
up at the old gentleman who has now left it for ever, and draws his
first deep breath of freedom. Then, sitting at his ease on the sofa,
he takes out a cigarette and lights it._

       *       *       *       *       *

OLIVER (_blowing out smoke_). Ah!

  _SEPTIMA comes in._

SEPTIMA (_seeing the cigarette_). Hallo!

OLIVER (_a little on the defensive_). Hallo!

SEPTIMA. I think I’ll join you. Got one?

OLIVER. I expect so. (_He offers her one._)

SEPTIMA. Thanks. (_He lights it for her._) Thanks. (_She also takes
her first deep breath._) Well, that’s that.

OLIVER. What did you think of it?

SEPTIMA. It’s rather awful, isn’t it? I mean awe-inspiring.

OLIVER. Yes. I don’t know why it should be. Did you cry? You looked
like it once or twice.

SEPTIMA. Yes. Not because it was Grandfather. Not because it was
Oliver Blayds. But—just because.

OLIVER. Because it was the last time.

SEPTIMA. Yes.... I suppose that’s why one cries at weddings. Or
at—no, I’ve never been to a christening.

OLIVER. You have. And I bet you cried.

SEPTIMA. Oh, my own, yes....

OLIVER. Wonderful crowd of people. I don’t think I ever realised
before what a great man he was.

SEPTIMA. No, one doesn’t....

OLIVER (_after a pause_). You know there’s a lot of rot talked about
death.

SEPTIMA. A lot of rot talked about everything.

OLIVER. Here was Oliver Blayds—the greatest man of his day—seen
everything, known everybody, ninety years old, honoured by all—and
then he goes out. Well!

SEPTIMA. Nothing is here for tears, in fact.

OLIVER. Not only nothing for tears, but everything for rejoicings. I
don’t understand these religious people. They’re quite certain that
there’s an after life, and that this life is only a preparation for
it—like a cold bath in the morning to the rest of the day. And yet
they are always the people who make the most fuss, and cover
themselves with black, and say, “Poor Grandfather!” ever after. Why
poor? He is richer than ever according to them.

SEPTIMA. Can’t you _see_ Oliver Blayds in Heaven enjoying it all? What
poetry he would make of it!

OLIVER. “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking”—eh? I’ve laughed at it, and
loathed it, but it was the real stuff, you know. What’s the
text—“Except ye be born again as a little child, ye shall not enter
into the kingdom of Heaven”—is that right? _His_ thoughts—on waking
in Heaven.

SEPTIMA (_thoughtfully_). Septima Blayds-Conway. It’s rather a thing
to be, you know.

OLIVER. I used to think once that, when the old boy died, I’d chuck
the Blayds and just be plain Oliver Conway. I’m beginning to think I
was wrong.... Oliver Blayds-Conway.

SEPTIMA. The well-known statesman. Sorry—I mean engineer.

OLIVER. Well, I wonder about that.

SEPTIMA. What sort of wondering?

OLIVER. Things will be a bit different now. I’m the only genuine
Blayds left——

SEPTIMA. Oh, indeed!

OLIVER. You know what I mean—male Blayds. And it’s rather up to me
not to let the old man down. Oliver Blayds-Conway, M.P. There’s
something in it, you know. I was thinking about it in the church. Or
should I drop the Conway and just be Blayds? Or Conway Blayds and drop
the Oliver? It’s a bit of a problem.

SEPTIMA. I shall keep the Blayds when I marry. Drop the Conway, of
course.

OLIVER. It’s a dirty game, politics, but that’s all the more reason
why there should be some really good people in it. Irreproachable
people, I mean. Conway Blayds.... (_And the Duke of Devonshire, and so
forth_).

SEPTIMA (_after a pause_). I wonder what Aunt Isobel wants to talk to
us all about.

OLIVER. The old man’s last dying instructions or something. I was
rather hoping to get down to the Oval. I’ve got the day off. Bit of a
change to go to the Oval when you really _have_ buried your
grandfather. But perhaps I ought to be careful if I’m going in
seriously for politics.

SEPTIMA. Noll, have you realised that it’s all going to be rather
interesting now?

OLIVER. Of course it is. But why particularly?

SEPTIMA. Father.

OLIVER. You mean he’s lost his job.

SEPTIMA. Yes. It’s terribly exciting when your father’s out of work.

OLIVER. He’ll have more work than ever. He’ll write Blayds’ life.
That’ll take him years.

SEPTIMA. Yes; but, don’t you see, he hasn’t any real standing now. Who
is he? Only Blayds’ late secretary. Whose house is this now, do you
think?

OLIVER. Depends how the old man left it.

SEPTIMA. Of course it does. But you can be quite sure he didn’t leave
it to father. I think it’s all going to be rather exciting.

OLIVER. Well, you won’t be here to see it, my child.

SEPTIMA. Why not?

OLIVER. I thought you were going to live with that Ferguson girl.

SEPTIMA. Not so sure now. There’s no hurry anyway. I think I’ll wait
here a bit, and see what happens. It’s all going to be so different.

OLIVER. It is. (_He smiles at his thoughts._)

SEPTIMA. What?

OLIVER (_smiling broadly_). It’s just on the cards that it’s my house
now. (_Looking round the room._) I don’t think I shall let father
smoke in here.

SEPTIMA. What fun that would be!... I hope he’s left Aunt Isobel
something.

OLIVER. Yes, poor dear, she’s rather in the air, isn’t she?

SEPTIMA. It’s funny how little we know _her_.

OLIVER. We’ve hardly ever seen her, apart from the old man. I don’t
suppose there’s much to know. A born nurse, and that’s all there is to
it.

SEPTIMA. Perhaps you’re right.

OLIVER. I’m sure I am.

  _WILLIAM and MARION come on._

WILLIAM (_continuing a conversation which has obviously been going on
since BLAYDS died_). I say again, Oliver Blayds ought to have been
buried in the Abbey. The nation expected it. The nation had the right
to it.

MARION. Yes, dear, but we couldn’t go against his own wish. His last
wish.

WILLIAM. If it was his wish, why did he not express it to me?

MARION. He told Isobel, dear.

WILLIAM. So we are to believe. And of course I was careful to let the
public understand that this was so in my letter to the _Times_. But in
what circumstances did he express the wish? (_He suddenly realises
OLIVER’S cigarette and says sharply_) Oliver, you know quite well that
your grandfather—— (_But then he remembers where grandfather is._)

OLIVER (_not understanding_). Yes?

MARION. I think Father meant—of course Grandfather can’t see you
now—not to mind.

WILLIAM. I should have thought your instinct would have told you that
this is hardly the moment, when Oliver Blayds is just laid to rest——

MARION. Your cigarette, dear.

OLIVER. Oh! (_He throws it away._) Sorry, Mother, if you mind. I
didn’t think it would matter either way—now.

MARION. That’s all right, dear.

WILLIAM. As I was saying, in what circumstances did he express the
wish?

MARION. What, dear?

WILLIAM. On his death-bed, his faculties rapidly going, he may have
indicated preference for a simple ceremony. But certainly up to a few
weeks of his passing, although it was naturally a subject which I did
not care myself to initiate, he always gave me the impression that he
anticipated an interment in the Abbey.

MARION. Yes, dear. I daresay I shall feel it more later, but just now
I like to think of him where he wanted to be himself.

SEPTIMA. After all, Shakespeare isn’t buried in the Abbey.

WILLIAM. I don’t think that that has anything to do with it, Septima.
I am not saying that the reputation of Oliver Blayds will suffer by
reason of his absence from the national Valhalla—he has built his own
monument in a thousand deathless lines; but speaking as an Englishman,
I say that the Abbey had a right to him.

MARION. Well, it’s too late now, dear.

WILLIAM. I shall speak to Isobel again; I still feel sure she was
mistaken.

MARION. Very well, dear. But don’t worry her more than you need. I
feel rather uneasy about her. She has been so strange since he died.

WILLIAM. She will be worried enough as it is. Of all the extraordinary
wills to make!

  (_OLIVER and SEPTIMA exchange glances._)

OLIVER. Why, what’s he done? We were wondering about that.

WILLIAM. Yes, yes, yes, you will know in good time, my boy.

OLIVER. Why not now? This seems a very good time.

SEPTIMA. Are we too young to be told?

WILLIAM (_ignoring them_). Marion, don’t let me forget that message to
the public—returning thanks for their sympathy, and so on. (_Moving
to the desk._) We might draft that now.

MARION. Yes, dear.

SEPTIMA. Oliver was asking you about the will, Father.

WILLIAM. Yes, yes, another time. Marion——

OLIVER. I suppose I am mentioned in it?

WILLIAM. Of course, of course.

OLIVER. To what extent?

  (_WILLIAM is too busy to answer._)

SEPTIMA. Father, don’t be so childish.

WILLIAM (_outraged_). Septima!

MARION. Septima dear, you oughtn’t to talk to your father like that.

WILLIAM (_with dignity_). I think you had better go to your room.

SEPTIMA (_unmoved_). But that’s the whole point. Is it my room?
(_WILLIAM looks bewildered._) Or is it Oliver’s, or Mother’s, or Aunt
Isobel’s?

OLIVER. I believe he has left everything to Aunt Isobel.

MARION. Oh no, dear, he wouldn’t do that. He would never have
favourites. Share and share alike.

SEPTIMA. Half for you and half for Aunt Isobel?

MARION. Of course, dear. And all to you and Oliver after our death.
And something down to you now. I forget how much. (_To WILLIAM_) What
was it, dear?

WILLIAM (_sulkily_). A thousand pounds each.

OLIVER. Sportsman! What about you, Father? Do you get anything?

MARION. Father gets a thousand too.

SEPTIMA. Then why “of all the extraordinary wills——”?

MARION. It’s because of Aunt Isobel being made sole executor—literary
executor too—isn’t that it, dear?

WILLIAM (_mumbling_). Yes.

OLIVER. Oho! Meaning that _she_ runs Blayds now? New editions,
biographies, unpublished fragments, and all the rest of it?

MARION. Naturally she will leave it in Father’s hands. But, of course,
Father is a little hurt that Grandfather didn’t think of that for
himself.

OLIVER. Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters much. Then that’s why she
wants to see us all now.

  (_WILLIAM grunts assent; and stands up as ISOBEL comes in._)

WILLIAM. Ah, here you are.

ISOBEL. I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting.

MARION. It’s all right, dear.

WILLIAM. I was just telling Marion that I am more than ever convinced
that Oliver Blayds’ rightful resting-place was the Abbey.

ISOBEL (_shaking her head wearily_). No.

WILLIAM. I was saying to Marion, even if he expressed the wish in his
last moments for a quiet interment——

ISOBEL. He never expressed the wish, one way or the other.

WILLIAM. My dear Isobel! You distinctly told us——

MARION. You did say, dear.

ISOBEL. Yes, I owe you an apology about that.

WILLIAM (_indignantly_). An apology!

ISOBEL. There is something I have to tell you all. Will you please
listen, all of you? Won’t you sit down, William? (_They sit down._)

MARION. What is it, dear?

WILLIAM. You’ve been very mysterious these last few days.

ISOBEL. I didn’t want to say anything until he had been buried. I
shall not be mysterious now; I shall be only too plain.

SEPTIMA (_to OLIVER_). I say, what’s up?

  (_OLIVER shrugs his shoulders._)

WILLIAM. Well?

ISOBEL. I told you that Father didn’t want to be buried in the Abbey,
not because he had said so, but because it was quite impossible that
he should be buried in the Abbey.

WILLIAM. Impossible!

MARION. I’m sure the Dean would have been only——

ISOBEL. Impossible because he had done nothing to make him worthy of
that honour.

WILLIAM. Well!

OLIVER. Oh no, Aunt Isobel, you’re wrong there. I mean when you think
of some of the people——

ISOBEL. Will you listen to me, please? And ask any questions
afterwards. You may think I’m mad; I’m not.... I wish I were.

WILLIAM. Well, what is it?

  (_She tells them; it is almost as if she were repeating a lesson
    which she had learnt by heart. BLAYDS, you may be sure, made a
    story of it when he told her—we seem to hear snatches of that
    story now._)

ISOBEL. Nearly seventy years ago there were two young men, boys
almost, twenty-three, perhaps, living together in rooms in Islington.
Both poor, both eager, ambitious, certain of themselves, very certain
of their destiny. But only one of them was a genius. He was a poet,
this one; perhaps the greater poet because he knew that he had not
long to live. The poetry came bubbling out of him, and he wrote it
down feverishly, quick, quick before the hand became cold and the
fingers could no longer write. That was all his ambition. He had no
thoughts of present fame; there was no time for it. He was content to
live unknown, so that when dead he might live for ever. His friend was
ambitious in a different way. He wanted the present delights of fame.
So they lived together there, one writing and writing, always writing;
the other writing and then stopping to think how famous he was going
to be, and envying those who were already famous, and then regretfully
writing again. A time came when the poet grew very ill, and lay in
bed, but still writing, but still hurrying, hurrying to keep pace with
the divine music in his brain. Then one day there was no more writing,
no more music. The poet was dead. (_She is silent for a little._)

WILLIAM (_as her meaning slowly comes to him_). Isobel, what are you
saying?

MARION. I don’t understand. Who was it?

OLIVER. Good Lord!

ISOBEL (_in the same quiet voice_). The friend was left—with the body
of the poet—and all that great monument which the dead man had raised
for himself. The poet had no friends but this one; no relations of
whom he had ever spoken or who claimed him now. He was dead, and it
was left to his friend to see that he won now that immortality for
which he had given his life.... His friend betrayed him.

SEPTIMA. I say!

WILLIAM. I _won’t_ believe it! It’s monstrous!

MARION. I don’t understand.

ISOBEL (_wearily_). One can see the temptation. There he was, this
young man of talent, of great ambition, and there were these works of
genius lying at his feet, waiting to be picked up—and fathered by
him. I suppose that, like every other temptation, it came suddenly. He
writes out some of the verses, scribbled down anyhow by the poet in
his mad hurry, and sends them to a publisher; one can imagine the
publisher’s natural acceptance of the friend as the true author, the
friend’s awkwardness in undeceiving him, and then his sudden
determination to make the most of the opportunity given him.... Oh,
one can imagine many things—but what remains? Always and always this.
That Oliver Blayds was not a poet; that he did not write the works
attributed to him; and that he betrayed his friend. (_She stops and
then says in an ordinary matter-of-fact voice_) That was why I thought
that he ought not to be buried in the Abbey.

OLIVER. Good Lord!

WILLIAM (_sharply_). Is this true, Isobel?

ISOBEL. It isn’t the sort of story that I should make up.

MARION. I don’t understand. (_To WILLIAM_) What is it? I don’t
understand.

WILLIAM. Isobel is telling us that Oliver Blayds stole all his poetry
from another man.

MARION. Stole it!

WILLIAM. Passed it off as his own.

MARION (_firmly to ISOBEL_). Oh no, dear, you must be wrong. Why
should Grandfather want to steal anybody else’s poetry when he wrote
so beautifully himself?

SEPTIMA. That’s just the point, Mother. Aunt Isobel says that he
didn’t write anything himself.

MARION. But there are the books with his name on them!

ISOBEL. Stolen—from his friend.

MARION (_shocked_). Isobel, how can you? Your own father!

WILLIAM. I don’t believe it. I had the privilege of knowing Oliver
Blayds for nearly thirty years and I say that I don’t believe it.

ISOBEL. I knew him for some time too. He was my father.

WILLIAM. When did he tell you this?

OLIVER. It’s a dashed funny thing that——

WILLIAM. If you will allow me, Oliver. I want to get to the bottom of
this. When did he tell you?

ISOBEL. That last evening. His birthday.

WILLIAM. How? Why? Why should he tell you?

ISOBEL. He seemed frightened suddenly—of dying. I suppose he’d always
meant to tell somebody before he died.

MARION. Why didn’t you tell us before, dear?

WILLIAM (_holding up his hand_). Please. Let me. (_To ISOBEL_) Why
didn’t you tell us before?

ISOBEL. I promised not to say anything until he was dead. Then I
thought I would wait until he was buried.

MARION. You couldn’t have made a mistake? You couldn’t have
misunderstood him?

ISOBEL (_smiling sadly_). No.

WILLIAM. You say that this other man died—how many years ago?

ISOBEL. Sixty, seventy.

WILLIAM. Ah! (_Sarcastically_) And sixty years after he was dead he
was apparently still writing poetry for Oliver Blayds to steal?

ISOBEL. He had already written it—sixty years ago—for Oliver Blayds
to steal.

OLIVER. Good Lord! What a man!

SEPTIMA. You mean that his last volume——

WILLIAM (_holding up his hand_). Please, Septima.... Take this last
volume published when he was over eighty. You say that everything
there had been written by this other man sixty years ago?

ISOBEL. Yes.

WILLIAM. And the manuscripts were kept by Oliver Blayds for sixty
years, written out again by him and published in his old age as his
own?

ISOBEL. Yes.

WILLIAM (_triumphantly_). And can you explain how it was that he
didn’t publish them earlier if he had had them in his possession all
those years?

ISOBEL. He didn’t dare to. He was afraid of being left with nothing to
publish. He took care always to have something in reserve. And that’s
why everybody said how wonderfully vigorous and youthful his mind was
at eighty, how amazing that the spirit and fire of youth had remained
with him so long. Yes, it was the spirit and fire of youth, but of a
youth who died seventy years ago.

OLIVER (_impressed_). Gad, you know, fancy the old chap keeping it up
like that. Shows how little one really knows people. I had no idea he
was such a sportsman.

SEPTIMA. Such a liar.

OLIVER. Same thing, sometimes.

SEPTIMA. I call it perfectly disgusting.

WILLIAM. Please, please! We shan’t arrive at the truth like that. (_To
ISOBEL_) You want me to understand that Oliver Blayds has never
written a line of his own poetry in his life?

MARION. Why, Grandfather was always writing poetry. Even as a child I
remember——

SEPTIMA (_impatiently_). Mother, can’t you understand that the Oliver
Blayds we thought we knew never existed?

MARION. But I was telling you, dear, that even as a child——

SEPTIMA (_to OLIVER_). It’s no good, she’s hopelessly muddled.

WILLIAM. Yes, yes.... Do you wish me to understand——

ISOBEL. I wish you to know the truth. We’ve been living in a lie, all
of us, all our lives, and now at last we have found the truth. You
talk as if, for some reason, I wanted to spread slanders about Oliver
Blayds now that he is dead; as if in some way all this great lie were
my doing; as if it were no pain but a sort of a pleasure to me to find
out what sort of man my father really was. Ask me questions—I want
you to know everything; but don’t cross-examine me as if I were
keeping back the truth.

WILLIAM (_upset and apologetic_). Quite so, quite so. It’s the truth
which we want.

MARION. As Grandfather said so beautifully himself in his “Ode to
Truth”—What are the lines?

SEPTIMA (_hopelessly_). Oh, Mother!

MARION. Yes, and that was what I was going to say—could a man who
wrote so beautifully about Truth as Grandfather did tell lies and
deceive people as Isobel says he did? (_To ISOBEL_) I’m sure you must
have made a mistake, dear.

OLIVER. You never told us—what was the other fellow’s name?

WILLIAM. I am coming to that directly. What I am asking you now is
this. Did Oliver Blayds write no line of poetry himself at all?

ISOBEL. He wrote the 1863 volume.

WILLIAM (_staggered_). Oh!

OLIVER. The wash-out? By Jove! Then _that_ explains it!

ISOBEL. Yes, that explains it. He tried to tell himself that he was a
poet too; that he had only used the other man in order to give himself
a start. So he brought out a volume of his own poems. And then when
everybody said “Blayds is finished,” he went back hastily to his
friend and never ventured by himself again. And that explains why he
resented the criticism of that volume, why he was so pleased when it
was praised. It was all that he had written.

WILLIAM (_defeated now_). Yes, that would explain it. (_To himself_)
Oliver Blayds!...

  (_They are all silent for a little._)

SEPTIMA. Then he didn’t write “Septima.”

OLIVER. Of course he didn’t. You’re illegitimate, old girl.

SEPTIMA. Who did?

ISOBEL. The other man’s name was Jenkins.

SEPTIMA (_in disgust_). Christened after Jenkins!

OLIVER. Oliver Jenkins-Conway, M.P. Good Lord!

SEPTIMA. It will have to be Oliver Conway now.

OLIVER (_gloomily_). Yes, I suppose so. But everybody will know.

WILLIAM (_still fighting_). His friends, Isobel. The great friends he
had had. The stories he has told us about them—were those all lies
too? No, they couldn’t have been. I’ve seen them here myself.

MARION. Why, I remember going to see Uncle Thomas once when I was a
little girl—Carlyle—Uncle Thomas I called him.

OLIVER. Well, if it comes to that, _I_ can remember——

ISOBEL. Oh, the friends were there. They accepted him for what he
seemed to be, just as we did. He deceived them as cleverly as he
deceived us.

WILLIAM. Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne——

ISOBEL (_bitterly_). Oh, he had his qualities. He talked well. There
were his books. Why should they doubt him?

WILLIAM. Yes.... Yes.

  (_There is silence for a little._)

MARION (_going over to ISOBEL and shaking her by the arm_). Is it
really true what you’ve been saying?

ISOBEL. Oh, how I wish it weren’t.

MARION (_to WILLIAM_). _Is_ it true?

WILLIAM. He told her. She wouldn’t make it up.

MARION. But there’s all that beautiful poetry. I’ve been brought up to
believe in it all my life. I’ve lived on it. And now you’ve taken it
away, and you’ve left—nothing.

ISOBEL. Nothing.

MARION (_quite lost_). I don’t understand. (_She goes back in a vague,
bewildered way to her chair...._)

SEPTIMA (_defiantly_). The poetry is still there—and Jenkins.

OLIVER (_shouting_). Shut up, Tim!

SEPTIMA (_angrily_). Shut up about what?

OLIVER. Jenkins. Don’t rub it in. It’s much worse for Mother than it
is for us.

SEPTIMA. Oh, all right! But you don’t gain anything by not being frank
about it.

  (_The little storm dies down as suddenly as it began. There is
    another silence._)

OLIVER. Good Lord! I’ve just thought of something. (_They look at
him._) The money.

WILLIAM. The money?

OLIVER. All this. (_He indicates the room_) Who does it belong to?

WILLIAM. According to the provisions of your Grandfather’s will——

OLIVER. Yes, but it wasn’t his to leave.

WILLIAM. Not his to——

OLIVER. No, Jenkins.

SEPTIMA. I thought we weren’t going to mention Mr. Jenkins.

OLIVER. Shut up, Tim, that’s different. (_To the others_) All the
money comes from the books—at least I suppose it does—and the books
aren’t his, so the money isn’t either.

WILLIAM (_turning in a bewildered way to ISOBEL_). Is that so?

ISOBEL (_with a shrug_). I suppose so.

WILLIAM. You say he had no family, this other man.

ISOBEL. None who bothered about him. But there must be relations
somewhere.

WILLIAM. We shall have to find that out.

ISOBEL. Anyhow, as Oliver says, the money isn’t ours. (_Bitterly_) I
wouldn’t touch a penny.

WILLIAM. Some of the money would be rightfully his. There was that one
volume anyhow. It may not have been praised, but it was bought. Then
there’s the question of his investments. It may prove that some of his
most profitable investments were made about that time—with that very
money. In which case, if it could be established——

ISOBEL (_indignantly_). Oh, how can you talk like that! As if it
mattered. It’s tainted money, all of it.

WILLIAM. I think that is going too far. Very much too far. I
recognise, of course, that we have certain obligations towards the
relatives of this man—er—Jenkins. Obviously we must fulfil those
obligations. But when that is done——

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). We shall be generous, of course, dear, that’s
only fair.

OLIVER. Yes, but what are you going to do if no relations turn up?

WILLIAM (_turning doubtfully to ISOBEL_). Well, there is that, of
course.

MARION. In that case we couldn’t do anything, could we, dear?

ISOBEL. We could throw the money into the sea; we could bury it deep
in the ground; we could even give it away, Marion.

WILLIAM. That’s going much too far.

OLIVER. It’s rather a problem, you know.

SEPTIMA. It isn’t a problem at all. May I speak for a moment? I really
think I have a right to say something.

WILLIAM. Well?

SEPTIMA. I want to say this. Oliver and I have been brought up in a
certain way to expect certain things. Oliver wanted to be an engineer;
he wasn’t allowed to, as Grandfather wanted him to go into politics. I
wanted to share a studio with a friend and try and get on with my
painting; I wasn’t allowed to, as Grandfather wanted me at home.
Perhaps if Oliver had been an engineer, he would have been doing well
by now. Perhaps if I had had my way, I might have been earning my
living by now. As it is, we have been brought up as the children and
grandchildren of rich people; I can’t earn my own living, and Oliver
is in a profession in which money means success. Aunt Isobel has been
telling us how a young man of Oliver’s age, seventy years ago, was
cheated out of his rights. Apparently she thinks that the best way now
of making up for that is to cheat Oliver and me out of our rights. I
don’t agree with her.

OLIVER. Yes, there’s a good deal in that. Well done, Tim.

ISOBEL. It’s hard on you, I know. But you are young; you still have
your lives in front of you, to make what you will of them.

SEPTIMA. That’s what old people always say to people of our age, and
they seem to think that it excuses any injustice.

MARION. Poor Grandfather!

SEPTIMA. Yes, but I don’t see why it should be “Poor Oliver” and
“Poor Septima” too. Suppose any relation did turn up—(_to
WILLIAM_)—suppose they do, Father. Well, what will they all be?
Grand-nephews, or fifth cousins twice removed or something, who have
never heard of Jenkins, who never did anything _for_ Jenkins, and on
whose lives Jenkins has had no effect whatever. Is there any sort of
justice which says that they ought to have the money? But Noll and I
have given up a good deal for Oliver Blayds, and he owes us something.

ISOBEL (_with ironic sadness_). Oh yes, you have given up a good deal
for Oliver Blayds. It ought to be paid back to you.

WILLIAM (_still trying to be fair_). There’s another thing we must
remember. Even if this other man——

SEPTIMA. Jenkins.

WILLIAM. Yes, even if he wrote all the books—always excepting the
1863 volume—even so, it was Oliver Blayds who arranged for their
publication. He could fairly claim, therefore, an agent’s commission
on all moneys received. Ten per cent.

ISOBEL (_scornfully_). Oliver Blayds, the well-known commission agent!

WILLIAM. Ten per cent of all moneys, therefore, is, in any case,
rightfully ours.

MARION. Only ten per cent, dear. That seems very little.

WILLIAM. I am working on a minimum basis. Isobel says, “Throw all the
money into the sea; it doesn’t belong to us.” I say no, that is going
too far. We have one volume which is certainly ours. We have the ten
per cent commission which is certainly ours. There may be other sums
due to us, such as the profits of certain of the investments. We can
look into the matter carefully at our leisure. The great point, I
take it, is that we want to be fair to the relatives of this man
Jenkins, but also fair to the relatives of Oliver Blayds, who, as
Septima points out, have at least done something to earn any money
that comes to them.

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). We want to be fair to everybody, dear.

SEPTIMA. Well, I think you are going to give the Jenkinses much too
much. What right have the Jenkinses got to _any_ of the money which
Grandfather made by investing?

OLIVER. Well, it was Jenkins’ money which was invested.

MARION. We shouldn’t like to think of them starving because we weren’t
quite fair.

SEPTIMA. They let Jenkins starve. They didn’t worry about _him_.

OLIVER. Of course they didn’t, they weren’t even born.

WILLIAM. The whole question is extremely difficult. We may require an
arbitrator, or, at any rate, a qualified chartered accountant.

MARION. Yes, that would be better, dear. To let somebody else decide
what is fair and what isn’t.

ISOBEL (_in a low voice_). Oh, it’s horrible ... horrible.

MARION. What, dear?

ISOBEL. The way you talk—about the money. As if all that we had lost
was so much money. As if you could estimate the wrong that Oliver
Blayds did to his friend in the terms of money. I said the money was
tainted. It is. How can you bear to touch it? How can you bear to
profit by such a betrayal?

SEPTIMA. That’s pure sentiment, Aunt Isobel. Quite apart from not
being reasonable, it isn’t even practical. Where are you going to
draw the line? If you’re going to throw the money away, then you’ve
got to throw the house away and everything in the house away—all our
clothes to begin with. Because everything—everything that belongs to
us owes itself to that betrayal of seventy years ago.... We should
look very funny, the five of us, walking out of the house to-morrow,
with nothing on, and starting life all over again.

MARION. Septima, dear, I don’t think that’s quite——

  (_SEPTIMA begins to laugh to herself at the picture of them._)

OLIVER. That isn’t fair, Tim. An extreme case makes anything seem
absurd. (_Earnestly to ISOBEL_) You know, I do see what you mean and I
do sympathise. But even if we kept all the money, would that matter
very much? All this man Jenkins wanted was to leave an immortal name
behind him. You’ve just told us that nothing else interested him.
Jenkins—I don’t say it’s much of a name, but neither was Keats for
that matter. Well, Grandfather robbed him of that, and a damned shame
too, but now we are giving it back to him. So all that’s happened is
that he’s had seventy years less immortality than he expected. But he
can’t worry seriously about that, any more than Wordsworth can worry
because he was born two hundred years after Shakespeare. They are all
equally immortal.

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). You see, dear, that’s quite fair to everybody.

ISOBEL. One can’t argue about it; you feel it or you don’t. And I give
up my share of the money, so there should be plenty for all of you,
even after you have been “fair” to the others.

WILLIAM (_who has felt ISOBEL’S scorn deeply_). Isobel! I don’t think
you can realise how much you have hurt me by your words. After the
first shock of your revelation it has been my one object to keep my
real feelings, my very deep feelings, under control. I suppose that
this revelation, this appalling revelation, has meant more to me than
to any one in this room. Put quite simply, it means the end of my life
work, the end of a career.... I think you know how I devoted myself to
Oliver Blayds——

MARION. Simply devoted himself, dear.

WILLIAM. I gave up whatever other ambitions I may have had—

MARION (_to the children_). I always said that Father could have done
anything.

WILLIAM. —And I set myself from that day on to live for one thing
only, Oliver Blayds. It was a great pride to me to be his son-in-law,
a great pride to be his secretary, but the greatest pride of all was
the thought that I was helping others to know and to love, as I knew
and loved him, that very great poet, that very great man, Oliver
Blayds. You tell me now that he is—(_he snaps his fingers_)—nothing.
A hollow mask. (_His voice rises_) I think I have some right to be
angry; I think I have some right to bear resentment against this man
who has tricked me, who has been making a fool of me for all these
years. When I think of the years of labour which I have spent already
in getting the materials together for this great man’s life; when I
think how I have listened to him and taken down eagerly his every
word; when I think that to-morrow I am to be held up to the derision
of the world for the gullible fool I have shown myself to be, I think
I have a right to be angry. (_With a great effort he controls himself
and goes on more quietly_) But I have tried to control my feelings. I
have remembered that he was your father and Marion’s father, and I
have tried to control myself. To forget my own feelings, and to
consider only how best to clear up this wreckage that Oliver Blayds
has left behind. It is not for you to scorn me, me who have been the
chief one to suffer.

MARION. Poor Father! (_She puts out a hand._)

WILLIAM (_patting it_). That’s all right. I don’t want pity. I just
want Isobel to try to realise what it means to me.

OLIVER. Yes, by Jove, it is a bit rough on the governor.

SEPTIMA. Rough on all of us.

MARION. But your father has suffered most. You must always remember
that.

ISOBEL. Poor William! Yes, it is hard on you. Your occupation’s gone.

WILLIAM. It is a terrible blow to us all, this dreadful news that you
have given us. But you can understand that to me it is absolutely
crushing.

ISOBEL (_in a whisper_). And to me? (_They look at her in surprise._)
What has it been to me?

WILLIAM. Well, as I was saying——

ISOBEL. You have enjoyed your life here, yes, every moment of it. If
you hadn’t been secretary to Oliver Blayds, you would have been
secretary to somebody else—it’s what you’re best fitted for. Yes, you
have lived your life; you have had interests, a hundred interests
every day to keep you active and eager.... (_Almost to herself_) But I
say, what of me? What has my life been? Look at me now—what am I?—a
wasted woman. I might have been a wife, a mother—with a man of my
own, children of my own, in my own home. Look at me now...!

MARION. My dear, I never dreamt——

ISOBEL (_eighteen years away from them all_). He asked me to marry
him. Tall and straight and clean he was, and he asked me to marry him.
Ah, how happy we should have been together, he and I—should we not
have been happy? He asked me to marry him.

MARION. Isobel!

ISOBEL. Such a long time ago. I was young then, and pretty then, and
the world was very full then of beautiful things. I used to laugh
then—we laughed together—such a gay world it was all those years
ago. And he asked me to marry him.... (_In a hard voice_) I didn’t. I
sent him away. I said that I must stay with my father, Oliver Blayds,
the great poet. Yes, I was helping the great poet. (_With a bitter
laugh_) Helping!... And I sent my man away.

SEPTIMA (_distressed_). Oh, don’t!

ISOBEL. You thought I liked nursing. “A born nurse”—I can hear you
saying it. (_Fiercely it bursts out after all these years_) I hated
it! Do you know what it’s like nursing a sick old man—day after day,
night after night? And then year after year. Always a little older, a
little more difficult. Do you know what it is to live with an old man
when you are young, as I was young once, to live always with old age
and never with youth, and to watch your own youth gradually creeping
up to join his old age? Ah, but I was doing it for Blayds, for the
sake of his immortal poetry. (_She laughs—such a laugh_) And look
at me now, all wasted. The wife I might have been, the mother I might
have been. (_In a whisper_) How beautiful the world was, all those
years ago!

  (_They say nothing, for there is nothing to say. ISOBEL looks in
    front of her, seeing nothing which they can see. Very gently they
    go out, leaving her there with her memories...._)




ACT III


_Afternoon, three days later. ROYCE is at the desk, at work on a
statement for publication. He has various documents at hand, to which
he refers from time to time. OLIVER comes in._

       *       *       *       *       *

OLIVER. Hallo!

ROYCE (_without looking up_). Hallo!

OLIVER (_after waiting hopefully_). Very busy! (_He sits down._)

ROYCE. Yes.

OLIVER. Where is everybody?

ROYCE. About somewhere.

OLIVER. Oh!... I’ve been away for a couple of days. My chief made a
speech at Bradford. My God! Just for my benefit he dragged in a
reference to Oliver Blayds. Also “My God.”

ROYCE (_realising suddenly that somebody is talking_). Oh! (_He goes
on with his work._)

OLIVER. Yes, you seem quite excited about it.

ROYCE. Sorry, but I’ve really got rather a lot to do, and not too much
time to do it in.

OLIVER. Oh!... You won’t mind my asking, but are you living in the
house?

ROYCE. Practically. For the last three days.

OLIVER. Oh, I say, are you really? I was being sarcastic—as practised
by the best politicians.

ROYCE. Don’t mention it.

OLIVER. What’s happened?

ROYCE. Miss Blayds asked me to help her. As you know, she is executor
to Blayds. Of course your father is helping too, but there’s a good
deal to be done.

OLIVER. I see. (_Awkwardly_) I say, I suppose you—I mean has she—I
mean, what about——

ROYCE. Miss Blayds has told me.

OLIVER. Oh! Nobody else yet?

ROYCE. No.

OLIVER. I’ve been rushing for the papers every morning expecting to
see something about it.

ROYCE. We want to get everything in order first—the financial side of
it as well as the other—and then make a plain straightforward
statement of what has happened and what we propose to do.

OLIVER. Yes, of course you can’t just write to _The Times_ and say:
“Dear Sir, Blayds’ poetry was written by Jenkins, Yours
faithfully.”... When will it be, do you think?

ROYCE. We ought to have it ready by to-morrow.

OLIVER. H’m.... Then I had better start looking for a job at once.

ROYCE. Nonsense!

OLIVER. It isn’t nonsense. What do you think my chief will want me
for, if I’m not Blayds the poet’s grandson?

ROYCE. Your intrinsic qualities.

OLIVER. I’m afraid they are not intrinsic enough in the present state
of the market.

ROYCE. Well, you said you wanted to be a motor engineer—now’s your
chance.

OLIVER. Helpful fellow, Royce. Now, as he says, is my chance. (_There
is a pause and then he says suddenly_) I say, what do _you_ think
about it all?

ROYCE. What do you mean, think about it all? What is there to think?
One tries not to think. It’s—shattering.

OLIVER. No, I don’t mean that. I mean—do you really think he did it?

ROYCE. Did what?

OLIVER. Did _it_. Did Jenkins.

ROYCE. I don’t understand. Is there any doubt about it?

OLIVER. Well, that’s just it.... The fact is, I had a brain-wave at
Bradford.

ROYCE. Oh?

OLIVER. Yes. Quite suddenly it flashed across me, and I said, “By
Jove! Of course! That’s it!”

ROYCE. What’s what?

OLIVER. He never did it! He just imagined it! It was all—what was the
word I used?

ROYCE. Hallucination?

OLIVER. Hallucination. (_He nods_) That’s the word. I wrote to Father
last night. I said, “Hallucination.” You can back it both ways, Royce,
and you won’t be far out.

ROYCE. Yes, I can see how attractive the word must have looked—up at
Bradford.

OLIVER. You don’t think it looks so well down here?

ROYCE. I’m afraid not.

OLIVER. Well, why not? Which is more probable, that Oliver Blayds
carried out this colossal fraud for more than sixty years, or that
when he was an old man of ninety his brain wobbled a bit, and he
started imagining things?

ROYCE (_shaking his head regretfully_). No.

OLIVER. It’s all very well to say “No.” Anybody can say “No.” As the
Old Man said yesterday, you refuse to face the facts, Royce. Look at
all the Will cases you see in the papers. Whenever an old gentleman
over seventy leaves his money to anybody but his loving nephews and
nieces, they always bring an action to prove that he can’t have been
quite right in the head when he died; and nine times out of ten they
win. Well, Blayds was ninety.

ROYCE. Yes, but I thought he left you a thousand pounds.

OLIVER. Well, I suppose that was a lucid interval.... Look here, _you_
think it over seriously. I read a book once about a fellow who stole
another man’s novel. Perhaps Blayds read it too and got it mixed up.
Why not at that age? Or perhaps he was thinking of using the idea
himself. And turning it over and over in his mind, living with it, so
to speak, day and night, he might very easily begin to think that it
was something that had happened to himself. At his age. And then on
his death-bed, feeling that he must confess something—thoroughly
muddled, poor old fellow—well, you see how easily it might happen.
Hallucination.

ROYCE (_regarding him admiringly_). You know, Oliver, I think you
underrate your intrinsic qualities as a politician. You mustn’t waste
yourself on engineering.

OLIVER. Thanks very much. I suppose Father hasn’t mentioned the word
“hallucination” to you yet?

ROYCE. No, not yet.

OLIVER. Perhaps he hadn’t got my letter this morning. But it’s worth
thinking about, it is really.

ROYCE (_hard at it again_). Yes, I am sure it is.

OLIVER. You know——

ROYCE. You know, Oliver, I’m really very busy.

OLIVER (_getting up_). Oh, all right. And I want a wash anyway. Is
Father in his study?

ROYCE. Yes. Also very busy. If you really are going, I wish you’d see
if Miss Blayds could spare me a moment.

OLIVER. Right. (_Turning to the door and seeing ISOBEL come in_) She
can. Hallo, Aunt Isobel!

ISOBEL. I thought I heard your voice. Did you have an interesting
time?

OLIVER. Rather! I was telling Royce. (_He takes her hand and pats it
kindly_) And I say, it’s all right. Quite all right. (_He kisses her
hand_) Believe me, it’s going to be absolutely all right. You see.
(_He pats her hand soothingly and goes out._)

ISOBEL (_rather touched_). Dear boy!

ROYCE. Yes, Oliver has a great future in politics.

ISOBEL (_going to the sofa_). I’m tired.

ROYCE. You’ve been doing too much. Sit down and rest a little.

ISOBEL (_sitting_). No, go on. I shan’t disturb you?

ROYCE. Talk to me. I’ve worked quite enough too.

ISOBEL. Shall we be ready by to-morrow?

ROYCE. I think so.

ISOBEL. I want to be rid of it—to get it out of my head where it just
goes round and round. It will be a relief when the whole world knows.
(_With a little smile_) What a sensation for them!

ROYCE. Yes. (_Also smiling_) Isn’t it funny how that comes in?

ISOBEL. What?

ROYCE. The excitement at the back of one’s mind when anything unusual
happens, however disastrous.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Did I sound very excited?

ROYCE. You sounded alive for the first time.

ISOBEL. These last two days have helped me. It has been a great
comfort to have you here. It was good of you to come.

ROYCE. But of course I came.

ISOBEL. I was looking up _Who’s Who_ for an address, and I went on to
your name—you know how one does. I hadn’t realised you were so famous
or so busy. It was good of you to come.... Your wife died?

ROYCE (_surprised_). Yes.

ISOBEL. I didn’t know.

ROYCE. Ten years ago. Surely——

ISOBEL. Is there a special manner of a man whose wife died ten years
ago which I ought to have recognised?

ROYCE (_laughing_). Well, no. But one always feels that a fact with
which one has lived for years must have impressed itself somehow on
others.

ISOBEL. I didn’t know....

ROYCE (_suddenly_). I wish I could persuade you that you were quite
wrong not to take any of this money.

ISOBEL. Am I “quite wrong”?

ROYCE (_shaking his head_). No. That’s why it’s so hopeless my trying
to persuade you.... What are you going to do?

ISOBEL (_rather sadly_). Aren’t I a “born nurse”?

ROYCE. You tied my hand up once.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Well, there you are.... Oh, I daresay it’s just
pride, but somehow I can’t take the money. The others can; you were
right about that—I was wrong; but they have not been so near to him
as I have.... I thought the whole world was at an end at first. But
now——

ROYCE. But now you don’t.

ISOBEL. No. I don’t know why. How hopeful we are. How—unbreakable. If
I were God, I should be very proud of Man.

ROYCE. Let Him go on being proud of you.

ISOBEL. Oh, I’m tough. You can’t be a nurse without being tough. I
shan’t break.

ROYCE. And just a smile occasionally?

ISOBEL (_smiling_). And even perhaps just a smile occasionally?

ROYCE. Thank you.

  (_WILLIAM comes in fussily. But there is a suppressed air of
    excitement about him. He has OLIVER’S letter in his hand._)

WILLIAM. Isobel, there are two pass-books missing—two of the early
ones. I thought you had found them all. You haven’t seen them,
Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No, I’ve had nothing to do with them.

WILLIAM. You found most of the early ones in the bottom drawer of his
desk, you told me.

ISOBEL (_getting up_). I may have overlooked one; I’ll go and see.
There was a great deal of rubbish there.

ROYCE. Can’t I?

ISOBEL. Would you? You know where. Thank you so much.

ROYCE (_going_). Right.

WILLIAM. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce, I’m sorry to trouble you.

  (_There is a little silence after ROYCE is gone. ISOBEL is
    thinking her own thoughts, not quite such unhappy ones now;
    WILLIAM is nervous and excited. After much polishing of his
    glasses he begins._)

WILLIAM. Isobel, I have been thinking very deeply of late about this
terrible business.

ISOBEL. Yes?

WILLIAM (_going to the desk_). Is this the statement?

ISOBEL. Is it?

WILLIAM (_glancing over it_). Yes ... yes. I’ve been wondering if
we’ve been going too far.

ISOBEL. About the money?

WILLIAM. No, no. No, no, I wasn’t thinking about the money.

ISOBEL. What, then?

WILLIAM. Well.... Well.... I’m wondering.... Can we feel quite certain
that if we make this announcement—can we feel quite certain that we
are not—well—going too far?

ISOBEL. You mean about the money?

WILLIAM. No, no, no, no.

ISOBEL. Then what else? I don’t understand.

WILLIAM. Suppose—I only say suppose—it were not true. I mean, can we
be so certain that it _is_ true? You see, once we make this
announcement it is then too late. We cannot contradict it afterwards
and say that we have made a mistake. It is irrevocable.

ISOBEL (_hardly able to believe it_). Are you suggesting that we
should—hush it up?

WILLIAM. Now you are putting words into my mouth that I have not yet
used. I say that it has occurred to me, thinking things over very
earnestly, that possibly we are in too much of a hurry to believe this
story of—er—this Jenkins story.

ISOBEL. You mean that I have invented it, dreamed it, imagined it——?

WILLIAM. No, no, no, no, please. It would never occur to me to suggest
any such thing. What I do suggest as a possibility worth considering
is that Oliver Blayds—er—imagined it.

ISOBEL. You mean he thought it was the other man’s poetry when it was
really his own?

WILLIAM. You must remember that he was a very old man. I was saying to
Marion in this very room, talking over what I understood then to be
his last wish for a simple funeral, that the dying words of an old man
were not to be taken too seriously. Indeed, I used on that occasion
this actual phrase, “An old man, his faculties rapidly going.” I
repeat the phrase. I say again that an old man, his faculties rapidly
going, may have imagined this story. In short, it has occurred to me
that the whole thing may very well be—hallucination.

ISOBEL (_looking at him fixedly_). Or self-deception.

WILLIAM (_misunderstanding her_). Exactly. Well, in short, I suggest
there never was anybody called Jenkins.

ISOBEL (_brightly—after a pause_). Wouldn’t it be nice?

WILLIAM. One can understand how upon his death-bed a man feels the
need of confession, of forgiveness and absolution. It may well be that
Oliver Blayds, instinctively feeling this need, bared his soul to you,
not of some real misdeed of his own, but of some imaginary misdeed
with which, by who knows what association of ideas, his mind had
become occupied.

ISOBEL. You mean he meant to confess to a murder or something, and got
muddled.

WILLIAM. Heaven forbid that I should attribute any misdeed to so
noble, so knightly a man as Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Knightly?

WILLIAM. I am of course assuming that this man Jenkins never existed.

ISOBEL. Oh, you _are_ assuming that?

WILLIAM. The more I think of it, the more plain it becomes to me that
we _must_ assume it.

ISOBEL. Yes, I quite see that the more one thinks of it, the more——
(_She indicates the rest of the sentence with her fingers._)

WILLIAM. Well, what do you think of the suggestion?

ISOBEL. It’s so obvious that I’m wondering why it didn’t occur to you
before.

WILLIAM. The truth is I was stunned.

ISOBEL. Oh yes.

WILLIAM. And then, I confess, the fact of the 1863 volume seemed for
the moment conclusive.

ISOBEL. But now it doesn’t?

WILLIAM. I explain it now, as one always explained it when he was
alive. Every great poet has these lapses.

ISOBEL. Oh! (_She is silent, looking at WILLIAM wonderingly, almost
admiringly._)

WILLIAM (_after waiting for her comment_). Well?

ISOBEL. What can I say, William, except again how nice it will be? No
scandal, no poverty, no fuss, and his life in two volumes just as
before. We are a little too late for the Abbey, but, apart from that,
everything is as nice as it can be.

WILLIAM (_solemnly_). You have not mentioned the best thing of all,
Isobel.

ISOBEL. What?

WILLIAM (_looking up reverently at the picture_). That our faith in
him has not been misplaced.

  (_She wonders at him, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry._)

ISOBEL. Oh!... oh!... (_But there are no words available._)

  _MARION comes in._

MARION (_excitedly_). Isobel, dear, have you heard? Have you heard the
wonderful news?

ISOBEL (_turning to her blankly_). News?

MARION. About the hallucination. I always felt that there must have
been some mistake. And now our faith has been justified—as faith
always is. It’s such a comfort to know. Really to know at last. Poor
dear Grandfather! He was so very old. I think sometimes we forget how
very old he was. And the excitement of that last day—his
birthday—and perhaps the glass of port. No wonder.

WILLIAM (_shaking his head wisely_). Very strange, very strange, but,
as you say, not unexpected. One might almost have predicated some such
end.

MARION. I shall never forgive myself for having doubted. (_To ISOBEL_)
I think Grandfather will forgive us, dear. I can’t help feeling that
wherever he is, he will forgive us.

WILLIAM (_nodding_). Yes, yes.... I shall say nothing about it in the
book, of course—this curious lapse in his faculties at the last.

MARION. Of course not, dear.

WILLIAM. I shall merely——

ISOBEL. Then you won’t want that pass-book now?

MARION. Pass-book?

ISOBEL. Yes. You were going into the accounts, weren’t you, to see how
much——

WILLIAM. Oh—ah—yes, the Jenkins Fund.

MARION. But of course there is no Jenkins now! So there can’t be a
Jenkins Fund. Such a comfort from every point of view.

ISOBEL (_to WILLIAM_). You’re quite happy about the money, then?

WILLIAM (_who obviously isn’t_). Er—yes—I.... That is to say, that,
while absolutely satisfied that this man Jenkins never existed, I—at
the same time—I—well, perhaps to be on the safe side—there are
certain charities.... As I say, there _are_ certain charities for
distressed writers, and so on, and perhaps one would feel—you see
what I mean. (_He goes to the desk._)

ISOBEL. Yes. It’s what they call conscience-money, isn’t it?

WILLIAM. But of course all that can be settled later. (_He picks up
ROYCE’S statement._) The main point is that this will not now be
wanted. (_He prepares to tear it in two._)

ISOBEL (_fiercely_). No! Put that down!

  (_Startled he puts it down, and she snatches it up and holds it
    close to her heart._)

MARION. Isobel, dear!

ISOBEL. It’s his, and you’re not to touch it! He has given his time to
it, and you’re not going to throw it away as if it were nothing. It’s
for _him_ to say.

WILLIAM (_upset_). Really! I was only just——

  _ROYCE comes in._

ROYCE (_excitedly_). I say!

ISOBEL. Mr. Royce, we have some news for you. We have decided that the
man Jenkins never existed. Isn’t it nice?

ROYCE. Never existed?

ISOBEL. He was just an hallucination. (_To WILLIAM_) Wasn’t that the
word?

ROYCE (_laughing_). Oh, I see. That’s rather funny. For what do you
think I’ve got here? (_He holds up a faded piece of paper._) Stuck in
this old pass-book. A letter from Jenkins!

WILLIAM (_staggered_). O-o-o-o-oh!

MARION (_bewildered_). It must be another Jenkins. Because we’ve just
decided that our one never lived.

ISOBEL. What is it? What does it say?

ROYCE (_reading_). “Dear Oliver, You have given me everything. I leave
you everything. Little enough, but it is yours. God bless you, dear
Oliver.”

ISOBEL (_moved_). Oh!

WILLIAM. Let me look. (_He takes it._)

ISOBEL (_to herself_). All those years ago!

WILLIAM. Yes, there’s no doubt of it. (_He gives the paper back to
ROYCE._) Wait! Let me think. (_He sits down, head in hands._)

ROYCE. Well, that settles the money side of it, anyway. Whatever
should have been the other man’s came rightly to Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Except the immortality.

ROYCE. Ah, yes. I say nothing of that. (_Going to the desk and picking
up his statement_) I shall have to rewrite this.... Well, the first
part can stand.... I’m glad we aren’t going to be bothered about
money. It would have been an impossible business to settle.

WILLIAM (_triumphantly_). I’ve got it!

MARION. What, dear?

WILLIAM. Now I understand everything.

ROYCE. What?

WILLIAM. The 1863 volume. That always puzzled me. Always! Now, at
last, we have the true explanation. (_Dramatically_) The 1863 volume
was written by Jenkins!

  (_ISOBEL and ROYCE look at him in amazement; MARION in
    admiration._)

ROYCE (_to himself_). Poor old Jenkins.

MARION. Of course I liked all Grandfather’s poetry. There was some of
it I didn’t understand, but I felt that _he_ knew——

WILLIAM. No, we can be frank now. The 1863 volume was bad. And now we
see why. He wished to give this dear dead friend of his a chance. I
can see these two friends—Oliver—and—er—— (_Going to ROYCE_) What
was Mr.—er—Jenkins’ other name? (_He reads it over ROYCE’S
shoulder_) Ah, yes, Willoughby—I can see that last scene when
Willoughby lay dying, and his friend Oliver stood by his side. I can
hear Willoughby lamenting that none of his poetry will ever be heard
now in the mouths of others—and Oliver’s silent resolve that in some
way, at some time, Willoughby’s work shall be given to the world. And
so in 1863, when his own position was firmly established, he issues
this little collection of his dead friend’s poetry, these few choicest
sheaves from poor Willoughby’s indiscriminate harvest, sheltering
them, as he hoped, from the storm of criticism with the mantle of his
own great name. A noble resolve, a chivalrous undertaking, but alas!
of no avail.

ROYCE. You will say this in your life of Oliver Blayds?

WILLIAM. I shall—er—hint at the doubtful authorship of the 1863
volume; perhaps it would be better not to go into the matter too
fully.

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). It would be much nicer, dear, if we didn’t refer
to any of the unhappy thoughts which we have all had about Grandfather
in the last few days. We know now that we never ought to have doubted.
He was—Grandfather.

ISOBEL (_after a pause, to ROYCE_). Well? (_He shrugs his shoulders._)
Will you find the children? I think they ought to know this.

ROYCE. Right. Do you want me to come back?

ISOBEL. Please. (_He goes out. When he has gone she turns to WILLIAM_)
I am going to publish the truth about Oliver Blayds.

MARION. But that’s what we all want to do, dear.

WILLIAM. What do you mean by the truth?

ISOBEL. What we all know to be the truth in our hearts.

WILLIAM. I deny it. I deny it utterly. I am convinced that the
explanation which I have given is the true one.

ISOBEL. Then I shall publish the explanation which he gave _me_.

WILLIAM. Isobel, I should have thought that you, of all people, would
have wanted to believe in Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Wanted to! If only “wanting to” were the same as believing,
how easy life would be!

MARION. It _is_ very nearly the same, dear. If you try very hard. I
have found it a great comfort.

WILLIAM. I must beg you to reconsider your decision. I had the honour
of the friendship of Oliver Blayds for many years, and I tell you
frankly that I will not allow this slander of a dead man to pass
unchallenged.

ISOBEL. Which dead man?

WILLIAM (_a little upset_). This slander on Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. It is not slander. I shall tell the truth about him.

WILLIAM. Then I shall tell the truth about him too.

  (_ISOBEL turns away with a shrug, and sees SEPTIMA, ROYCE, and
    OLIVER coming in._)

ISOBEL. Thank you, Mr. Royce. Septima, Oliver——

  (_She gives them the letter to read._)

OLIVER (_after reading_). By Jove! Sportsman! I always said——
(_Frankly_) No, I didn’t.

SEPTIMA (_after reading_). Good. Well, that’s all right then.

ISOBEL. We have been talking over what I told you the other day, and
your father now has a theory that it was the 1863 volume which was
written by this man, and that your grandfather in telling me the story
had got it into his head somehow——

WILLIAM. A very old man, his faculties rapidly going——

ISOBEL. Had muddled the story up.

OLIVER (_brightening up_). Good for you, Father! I see! Of course!
Then it was hallucination after all?

ISOBEL. You had discussed it before?

OLIVER. Oh, rather!

ISOBEL (_to SEPTIMA_). And you?

OLIVER. I told Septima the idea.

ISOBEL. And what does Septima say?

  (_They all turn to her._)

SEPTIMA (_emphatically_). Rot!

MARION (_shocked_). Septima! Your father!

SEPTIMA. Well, you asked me what I said, and I’m telling you. Rot.
R-O-T.

WILLIAM (_coldly_). Kindly explain yourself a little more lucidly.

OLIVER. It’s all rot saying “rot”——

WILLIAM. One at a time, please. Septima?

SEPTIMA. I think it’s rot, trying to deceive ourselves by making up a
story about Grandfather, just because we don’t like the one which he
told Aunt Isobel. What does it all matter anyhow? There’s the poetry,
and jolly good too, most of it. What does it matter when you’ve quoted
it, whether you add, “As Blayds nobly said” or “As Jenkins nobly
said”? It’s the same poetry. There was Grandfather. We all knew him
well, and we all had plenty of chances of making up our minds about
him. How can what he did seventy years ago, when he was another person
altogether, make any difference to our opinion of him? And then
there’s the money. I said that it ought to be ours, and it is ours.
Well, there we are.

WILLIAM. You are quite content that your Aunt should publish, as she
proposes to, this story of—er—Willoughby Jenkins, which I am
convinced is a base libel on the reputation of Oliver Blayds?

OLIVER. I say, Aunt Isobel, are you really going to? I mean do you
_still_ believe——

ISOBEL. I am afraid I do, Oliver.

OLIVER. Good Lord!

WILLIAM. Well—Septima?

SEPTIMA. I am quite content with the truth. And if you want the truth
about Septima Blayds-Conway, it is that the truth about Blayds is not
really any great concern of hers.

OLIVER. Well, that’s a pretty selfish way of looking at it.

MARION. I don’t know what Grandfather would say if he could hear you.

ISOBEL. Thank you, Septima. You’re honest anyhow.

SEPTIMA. Well, of course.

OLIVER. It’s all very well for _her_ to talk like that, but it’s a
jolly big concern of mine. If it comes out, I’m done. As a politician
anyway.

ROYCE. What do _you_ believe, Oliver?

OLIVER. I told you. Hallucination. At least it seems just as likely as
the other. And that being so, I think we ought to give it the benefit
of the doubt. What _is_ the truth about Blayds—I don’t know——

ISOBEL (_calmly_). I do, Oliver.

WILLIAM (_sharply_). So do I.

OLIVER. Well, I mean, there you are. Probably the truth lies somewhere
in between——

ROYCE (_with a smile, speaking almost unconsciously_). No, no, you
mustn’t waste yourself on engineering. (_Recovering himself with a
start_) I beg your pardon.

OLIVER. Anyway, I’m with Father. I don’t think we ought to take the
risk of doing Oliver Blayds an injustice by saying anything about
this—this hallucination.

WILLIAM. There is no question of risk. It’s a certainty. Come, Marion.
(_He leads the way to the door._) We have much to do.
(_Challengingly_) We have much work yet to do upon the life of this
great poet, this great and chivalrous gentleman, Oliver Blayds!

MARION (_meekly_). Yes, dear.

                                        [_They go out._

OLIVER. Oh, Lord, a family row! I’m not sure that that isn’t
worse.... “Interviewed by our representative, Mr. Oliver Blayds-Conway
said that he preferred not to express an opinion.” I think that’s my
line.

SEPTIMA. Yes, it would be.

OLIVER. Well, I must go. (_Grandly_) We have much work yet to do....
Coming, Tim?

SEPTIMA (_getting up_). Yes. (_She goes slowly after him, hesitates,
and then comes back to ISOBEL. Awkwardly she touches her shoulder and
says_) Good luck!

                                        [_Then she goes out._

  (_ROYCE and ISOBEL stand looking at each other. First he begins to
    smile; then she. Suddenly they are both laughing._)

ISOBEL. How absurd!

ROYCE. I was afraid you wouldn’t appreciate it. Well, what are you
going to do?

ISOBEL. What can I do but tell the world the truth?

ROYCE. H’m! I wonder if the world will be grateful.

ISOBEL. Does that matter?

ROYCE. Yes, I think it does. I think you ought to feel that you are
benefiting somebody—other than yourself.

ISOBEL (_with a smile_). I am hardly benefiting myself.

ROYCE. Not materially, of course—but spiritually? Aren’t you just
easing your conscience?

ISOBEL. I don’t see why the poor thing shouldn’t be eased.

ROYCE. At the other people’s expense?

ISOBEL. Oh, but no, Austin, no. I’m sure that’s wrong. Surely the
truth means more than that. Surely it’s an end in itself. The only
end. Call it Truth or call it Beauty, it’s all we’re here for.

ROYCE. You know, the trouble is that the Truth about Blayds won’t seem
very beautiful. There’s your truth, and then there’s William’s truth,
too. To the public it will seem not so much like Beauty as like an
undignified family squabble. And William will win. His story can be
made to sound so much more likely than yours. No, it’s no good. You
can’t start another miserable Shakespeare-Bacon controversy. Because
that is what it would be in a few years. There would be no established
truth, but just a Jenkins’ theory. Hadn’t we better just leave him
with the poetry?

ISOBEL. It seems so unfair that this poor dead boy should be robbed of
the immortality which he wanted.

ROYCE. Hasn’t he got it? There are his works. Didn’t he have the
wonderful happiness and pain of writing them? How can you do anything
for him now? It’s just pure sentiment, isn’t it?

ISOBEL (_meekly_). If you say so, sir.

ROYCE (_laughing_). Am I lecturing? I’m sorry.

ISOBEL. No, I don’t mind. And I expect you’re right. I can’t do
anything. (_After a pause_) Are one’s motives ever pure?

ROYCE. One hopes so. One never knows.

ISOBEL. I keep telling myself that I want the truth to prevail—but is
it only that? Or is it that I want to punish him?... He hurt me so.
All those years he was pretending that I helped him. And all the time
it was just a game to him. A game—and he was laughing. Do you wonder
that I was bitter? It was just a game to him.

ROYCE. As he said, he carried it off.

ISOBEL. Yes, he carried it off.... Even in those last moments he was
carrying it off. Just that. He was frightened at first—he was dying;
it was so lonely in the grave; there was no audience there; no one to
listen, to admire. Only God. Ah, but when he had begun his story, how
quickly he was the artist again! No fear now, no remorse. Just the
artist glorying in his story; putting all he knew into the telling of
it, making me see that dead boy whom he had betrayed so vividly that I
could have stretched out my hand to him and said, “Oh, my dear, I’m
sorry—I will make it all right for you.” Oh, he had his qualities,
Oliver Blayds. My father, yes; but somehow he never seemed that. A
great man; a little man; but never quite my father.

ROYCE. A great man, I think.

ISOBEL. Yes, he was a great man, and he did less hurt to the world
than most great men do.

ROYCE (_picking up his statement_). Then I can tear up this?

ISOBEL (_after a little struggle with herself_). Yes! Let us bury the
dead, and forget about them. (_He tears it up. She gives a sigh of
relief_) There!

ROYCE (_coming to her_). Isobel!

ISOBEL. Ah—but she’s dead too. Let’s forget about her.

ROYCE. She is not dead. I have seen her.

ISOBEL. When did you see her?

ROYCE. To-day I have seen her. She peeped out for a moment, and was
gone.

ISOBEL. She just peeped out to say good-bye to you.

ROYCE (_shaking his head_). No. To say “How do you do” to me.

ISOBEL. My dear, she died eighteen years ago, that child.

ROYCE (_smiling_). Then introduce me to her mother.

ISOBEL (_gravely, with a smile behind it_). Mr. Royce, let me
introduce you to my mother—thirty-eight, poor dear. (_Bowing_) How do
you do, Mr. Royce? I have heard my daughter speak of you.

ROYCE. How do you do, Mrs. Blayds? I’m glad to meet you, because I
once asked your daughter to marry me.

ISOBEL. Ah, don’t, don’t!

ROYCE (_cheerfully_). Do you know what she said? She said, like all
properly brought up girls, “You must ask my mother.” So now I ask
her—“Isobel’s mother, will _you_ marry me?”

ISOBEL. Oh!

ROYCE. Isobel was quite right. I was too old for her. Look, I’m grey.
And then I’ve got a bit of rheumatism about me somewhere—I really
want a nurse. Isobel said you were a born nurse.... Isobel’s mother,
will you marry me?

ISOBEL. I’m afraid to. I shall be so jealous.

ROYCE. Jealous! Of whom?

ISOBEL. Of that girl we call my daughter. You will always be looking
for her. You will think that I shan’t see; you will try to hide it
from me; but I shall see. Always you will be looking for her—and I
shall see.

ROYCE. I shall find her.

ISOBEL. No, it’s too late now.

ROYCE (_confidently_). I shall find her. Not yet, perhaps; but some
day. Perhaps it will be on a day in April, when the primroses are out
between the wood-stacks, and there is a chatter of rooks in the tall
elms. Then, a child again, she will laugh for joy of the clean blue
morning, and I shall find her. And when I have found her, I shall
say——

ISOBEL (_gently_). Yes?

ROYCE. I shall say, “Thank God, you are so like your mother—whom I
love.”

ISOBEL. No, no, it can’t be true.

ROYCE. It is true. (_Holding out his hands_) I want you—not her.

ISOBEL. Oh, my dear!

  (_She puts out her hands to his. As he takes them, MARION comes in
    hurriedly. Their hands drop, and they stand there, looking happily
    at each other._)

MARION. Isobel! I had to come and tell you how hurt William is. Dear,
don’t you think you _could_ believe—just for William’s sake——

ISOBEL (_gently_). It’s all right, dear. I am not going to say
anything.

MARION (_eagerly_). You mean you believe? (_WILLIAM comes in, and she
rushes to him_) She believes! She believes!

  (_ISOBEL and ROYCE exchange a smile._)

WILLIAM (_with satisfaction_). Ah! I am very glad to hear this. As
regards the biography. In the circumstances, since we are all agreed
as to the facts, I almost think we might record the story of Oliver
Blayds’ chivalrous attempt to assist his friend, definitely assigning
to Willoughby Jenkins the 1863 volume. (_He looks at them for
approval. MARION nods._)

ISOBEL (_looking demurely at ROYCE and then back again_). Yes,
William.

WILLIAM. I feel strongly, and I am sure you will agree with me, that
it is our duty to tell the _whole_ truth about that great man. (_Again
he looks to MARION for approval. She assents._)

ISOBEL (_aside to ROYCE—enjoying it with him_). Do I still say, “Yes,
William”? (_He smiles and nods._) Yes, William.

  (_And so that is how the story will be handed down. But, as
    SEPTIMA says, the poetry will still be there._)




_Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh._




Transcriber’s Note


Inconsistent hyphenation (buttonhole/button-hole, Good
morning/Good-morning, half-measures/half measures, postcard/post-card,
runaway/run-away, safety-razor/safety razor) and inconsistent spelling
(Hallo/Hullo) have been left as printed in the original.







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