The Project Gutenberg eBook of Three Plays This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 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. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE PLAYS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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