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Title: Half Hours
Author: Barrie, James Matthew (1860-1937)
Date of first publication: 1914
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London, New York, and Toronto: Hodder and Stoughton, undated
Date first posted: 13 September 2009
Date last updated: 13 September 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #383

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




HALF HOURS

BY

J. M. BARRIE


HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LONDON    NEW YORK    TORONTO


CONTENTS

                             PAGE

PANTALOON                       3

THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK          43

ROSALIND                       89

THE WILL                      155




PANTALOON

_The scene makes believe to be the private
home of_ PANTALOON _and_ COLUMBINE, _though
whether they ever did have a private home is
uncertain._

_In the English version (and with that alone
are we concerning ourselves) these two were
figures in the harlequinade, which in Victorian
days gave a finish to pantomime as vital as
a tail to a dog. Now they are vanished from
the boards; or at best they wander through the
canvas streets, in everybody's way, at heart
afraid of their own policeman, really dead,
and waiting, like the faithful old horse, for
some one to push them over. Here at the
theatre is perhaps a scrap of_ COLUMBINE's
_skirt, torn off as she squeezed through the
wings for the last time, or even placed there
intentionally by her as a souvenir:_ COLUMBINE
_to her public, a kiss hanging on a
nail_.

_They are very illusive. One has to toss
to find out what was their relation to each
other: whether_ PANTALOON, _for instance, was_
COLUMBINE's _father. He was an old, old
urchin of the streets over whom some fairy
wand had been waved, rather carelessly, and
this makes him a child of art; now we must
all be nice to children of art, and the nicest
thing we can do for_ PANTALOON _is to bring
the penny down heads and give him a delightful
daughter. So_ COLUMBINE _was_ PANTALOON's
_daughter_.

_It would be cruel to her to make her his wife,
because then she could not have a love-affair.

The mother is dead, to give the little home
a touch of pathos.

We have now proved that_ PANTALOON _and
his daughter did have a home, and as soon as
we know that, we know more. We know,
for instance, that as half a crown seemed almost
a competency to them, their home must have
been in a poor locality and conveniently small.
We know also that the sitting-room and kitchen
combined must have been on the ground floor.
We know it, because in the harlequinade they
were always flying from the policeman or
bashing his helmet, and_ PANTALOON _would
have taken ill with a chamber that was not
easily commanded by the policeman on his
beat. Even COLUMBINE, we may be sure,
refined as she was and incapable of the pettiest
larceny, liked the homely feeling of dodging
the policeman's eye as she sat at meals.
Lastly, we know that directly opposite the
little home was a sausage-shop, the pleasantest
of all sights to_ PANTALOON, _who, next to his
daughter, loved a sausage. It is being almost
too intimate to tell that_ COLUMBINE _hated
sausages; she hated them as a literary
hand's daughter might hate manuscripts. But
like a loving child she never told her hate,
and spent great part of her time toasting
sausages to a turn before the fire, and eating
her own one bravely when she must, but concealing
it in the oddest places when she could._

_We should now be able to reconstitute_
PANTALOON's _parlour. It is agreeably stuffy,
with two windows and a recess between them,
from which one may peep both ways for the
policeman. The furniture is in horse-hair,
no rents showing, because careful COLUMBINE
_has covered them with antimacassars. All
the chairs (but not the sofa) are as sound of
limb as they look except one, and_ COLUMBINE,
who is as light as an air balloon, can sit on
this one even with her feet off the floor. Though
the time is summer there is a fire burning,
so that_ PANTALOON _need never eat his sausages
raw, which he might do inadvertently if_ COLUMBINE
_did not take them gently from his
hand. There is a cosy round table with a
wax-cloth cover adhering to it like a sticking-plaster,
and this table is set for tea. Histrionic
dignity is given to the room by a large
wicker trunk in which_ PANTALOON's _treasures
are packed when he travels by rail, and on it
is a printed intimation that he is one of the
brightest wits on earth._ COLUMBINE _could be
crushed, concertina-like, into half of this trunk,
and it may be that she sometimes travels thus
to save her ticket. Between the windows hangs
a glass case, such as those at inns wherein
Piscator preserves his stuffed pike, but this
one contains a poker. It is interesting to
note that PANTALOON is sufficiently catholic
in his tastes to spare a favourable eye for other
arts than his own. There are various paintings
on the walls, all of himself, with the
exception of a small one of his wife. These
represent him not in humorous act but for
all time, as, for instance, leaning on a bracket
and reading a book, with one finger laid
lightly against his nose._

_So far our work of reconstitution has been
easy, but we now come to the teaser. In all
these pictures save one (to be referred to in its
proper place)_ PANTALOON _is presented not on
the stage but in private life, yet he is garbed
and powdered as we know him in the harlequinade.
If they are genuine portraits, therefore,
they tell us something profoundly odd
about the home life of_ PANTALOON; _nothing
less than this, that as he was on the stage, so
he was off it, clothes, powder, and all; he
was not acting a part in the harlequinade,
he was merely being himself. It was undoubtedly
this strange discovery that set us
writing a play about him._

_Of course bitter controversy may come of
this, for not every one will agree that we are
right. It is well known among the_ cognoscenti
_that actors in general are not the same
off the stage as on; that they dress for their
parts, speak words written for them which
they do not necessarily believe, and afterwards
wash the whole thing off and then go to clubs
and coolly cross their legs. I accept this to
be so (though I think it a pity), but_ PANTALOON
_was never an actor in their sense; he would
have scorned to speak words written for him
by any whippersnapper; what he said and
did before the footlights were the result of
mature conviction and represented his philosophy
of life. It is the more easy to believe
this of him because we are so anxious to believe
it of_ COLUMBINE. _Otherwise she could
not wear her pretty skirts in our play, and
that would be unbearable._

_If this noble and simple consistency was
the mark of_ PANTALOON _and_ COLUMBINE _(as
we have now proved up to the hilt), it must have
distinguished no less the other members of the
harlequinade. There were two others, the_
HARLEQUIN _and the_ CLOWN.

_In far-back days, when the world was so
young that pieces of the original egg-shell still
adhered to it, one boy was so desperately
poor that he alone of children could not don
fancy dress on fair days. Presently the other
children were sorry for this drab one, so each
of them clipped a little bit off his own clothing
and gave it to him. These were sewn together
and made into a costume for him, by the jolly
little tailors who in our days have quite gone
out, and that is why_ HARLEQUIN _has come down
to us in patchwork. He was a lovely boy
with no brains at all (not that this matters),
while the_ CLOWN _was all brain_.

_It has been our whim to make_ PANTALOON
_and_ COLUMBINE _our chief figures, but we
have had to go for them, as it were, to the
kitchen; the true head of the harlequinade was
the_ CLOWN. _You could not become a clown
by taking thought, you had to be born one. It
was just a chance. If the_ CLOWN _had wished
to walk over the others they would have spread
themselves on the ground so that he should
be able to do it without inconveniencing himself.
Any money they had they got from him,
and it was usually pennies. If they displeased
him he caned them. He had too much
power and it brutalised him, as we shall see,
but in fairness it should be told that he owed
his supremacy entirely to his funniness. The
family worshipped funniness, and he was the
funniest._

_It is not necessary for our play to reconstitute
the homes of_ HARLEQUIN _and_ CLOWN, _but
it could be done_. HARLEQUIN, _as a bachelor
with no means but with a secret conviction that
he was a gentleman, had a sitting-and-bed
combined at the top of a house too near Jermyn
Street for his purse. He made up by not eating
very much, which was good for his figure.
He always carried his wand, which had curious
magical qualities, for instance it could make
him invisible; but in the street he seldom
asked this of it, having indeed a friendly
desire to be looked at. He had delightful
manners and an honest heart. The_ CLOWN,
_who, of course, had appearances to keep up,
knew the value of a good address, and undoubtedly
lived in the Cromwell Road. He
smoked cigars with bands round them, and
his togs were cut in Savile Row._

CLOWN _and_ PANTALOON _were a garrulous
pair, but_ COLUMBINE _and_ HARLEQUIN _never
spoke. I don't know whether they were what
we call dumb. Perhaps if they had tried to
talk with their tongues they could have done
so, but they never thought of it. They were
such exquisite dancers that they did all their
talking with their legs. There is nothing
that may be said which they could not express
with this leg or that. It is the loveliest of all
languages, and as soft as the fall of snow._

_When the curtain rises we see_ COLUMBINE
_alone in the little house, very happy and gay,
for she has no notion that her tragic hour is
about to strike. She is dressed precisely as
we may have seen her on the stage. It is the
pink skirt, the white one being usually kept
for Sunday, which is also washing-day; and
we almost wish this had been Sunday, just
to show_ COLUMBINE _in white at the tub, washing
the pink without letting a single soap-sud pop
on to the white. She is toasting bread rhythmically
by the fire, and hides the toasting-fork
as the policeman passes suspiciously outside.
Presently she is in a whirl of emotion because
she has heard HARLEQUIN's knock. She
rushes to the window and hides (they were
always hiding), she blows kisses, and in her
excitement she is everywhere and nowhere at
once, like a kitten that leaps at nothing and
stops half-way. She has the short quick steps
of a bird on a lawn. Long before we have
time to describe her movements she has bobbed
out of sight beneath the table to await_ HARLEQUIN
_funnily, for we must never forget that
they are a funny family. With a whirl of his
wand that is itself a dance,_ HARLEQUIN_ makes
the door fly open. He enters, says the stage
direction, but what it means is that somehow
he is now in the room. He probably knows
that COLUMBINE is beneath the table, as she
hides so often and there are so few places in
the room to hide in, but he searches for her
elsewhere, even in a jug, to her extreme mirth,
for of course she is peeping at him. He taps
the wicker basket with his wand and the lid
flies open. Still no_ COLUMBINE_! He sits
dejectedly on a chair by the table, with one
foot toward the spot where we last saw her
head. This is irresistible. She kisses the
foot. She is out from beneath the table now,
and he is pursuing her round the room. They
are as wayward as leaves in a gale. The
cunning fellow pretends he does not want her,
and now it is she who is pursuing him. There
is something entrancing in his hand. It is
a ring. It is the engagement-ring at last!
She falters, she blushes, but she snatches at
the ring. He tantalises her, holding it beyond
her reach, but soon she has pulled down
his hand and the ring is on her finger. They
are dancing ecstatically when PANTALOON
comes in and has to drop his stick because
she leaps into his arms. If she were not so
flurried she would see that the aged man has
brought excitement with him also._

PANTALOON. Ah, Fairy! Fond of her dad,
is she? Sweetest little daughter ever
an old 'un had. (_He sees_ HARLEQUIN
_and is genial to him, while HARLEQUIN
_pirouettes a How-d'ye-do._) You here,
Boy; welcome, Boy. (_He is about to
remove his hat in the ordinary way, but_
HARLEQUIN, _to save his prospective father-in-law
any little trouble, waves his wand
and the hat goes to rest on a door-peg. The
little service so humbly tendered pleases_
PANTALOON, _and he surveys_ HARLEQUIN
_with kindly condescension._) Thank you,
Boy. You are a good fellow, Boy, and an
artist too, in your limited way, not here
(_tapping his head_), not in a brainy way,
but lower down (_thoughtfully, and including_
COLUMBINE _in his downward survey_).
That's where your personality lies--lower
down. (_At the noble word personality_
COLUMBINE _thankfully crosses herself, and
then indicates that tea is ready._) Tea,
Fairy? I have such glorious news; but I
will have a dish of tea first. You will join
us, Boy? Sit down. (_They sit down to tea,
the lovers exchanging shy, happy glances, but
soon_ PANTALOON _rises petulantly._) Fairy,
there are no sausages! Tea without a
sausage. I am bitterly disappointed.
And on a day, too, when I have great
news. It's almost more than I can bear.
No sausages! (_He is old and is near
weeping, but_ COLUMBINE _indicates with
her personality that if he does not forgive her
she must droop and die, and soon again he is
a magnanimous father._) Yes, yes, my pet,
I forgive you. You can't abide sausages;
nor can you, Boy. (_They hide their
shamed heads._) It's not your fault.
Some are born with the instinct for a
sausage, and some have it not. (_More
brightly_) Would you like me to be funny
now, my dear, or shall we have tea first?
(_They prefer to have tea first, and the courteous
old man sits down with them._) But
you do think me funny, don't you, Fairy?
Neither of you can look at me without
laughing, can you? Try, Boy; try,
Fairy. (_They try, but fail. He is moved._)
Thank you both, thank you kindly.
If the public only knew how anxiously
we listen for the laugh they would be
less grudging of it. (_Hastily_) Not that
I have any cause of complaint. Every
night I get the laugh from my generous
patrons, the public, and always
by legitimate means. When I think
what a favourite I am I cannot keep my
seat. (_He rises proudly._) I am acknowledged
by all in the know to be a funny
old man. (_He moves about exultantly,
looking at the portraits that are to hand
him down to posterity._) That picture of
me, Boy, was painted to commemorate
my being the second funniest man on
earth. Of course Joey is the funniest,
but I am the second funniest. (_They
have scarcely listened; they have been exchanging
delicious glances with face and
foot. But at mention of the_ CLOWN _they
shudder a little, and their hands seek each
other for protection._) This portrait I had
took--done--in honour of your birth, my
love. I call it 'The Old 'Un on First
Hearing that He is a Father.' (_He
chuckles long before another picture which
represents him in the dress of ordinary
people._) This is me in fancy dress; it is
how I went to a fancy-dress ball. Your
mother, Fairy, was with me, in a long
skirt! Very droll we must have looked,
and very droll we felt. I call to mind
we walked about in this way; the way
the public walks, you know. (_In his
gaiety he imitates the walk of the public,
and roguish_ COLUMBINE _imitates them also,
but she loses her balance._) Yes, try it.
Don't flutter so much. Ah, it won't do,
Fairy. Your natural way of walking's
like a bird bobbing about on a lawn after
worms. Your mother was the same,
and when she got low in spirits I just
blew her about the room till she was
lively again. Blow Fairy about, Boy.
(HARLEQUIN _blows her divinely about the
room, against the wall, on to seats and off
them, and for some sad happy moments
PANTALOON _gazes at her, feeling that his
wife is alive again. They think it is the
auspicious time to tell him of their love, but
bashfulness falls upon them. He only sees
that their faces shine._) Ah, she is happy,
my Fairy, but I have news that will make
her happier! (_Curiously_) Fairy, you
look as if you had something you wanted
to tell me. Have you news too?
(_Tremblingly she extends her hand and
shows him the ring on it. For a moment he
misunderstands._) A ring! Did _he_ give
you that? (_She nods rapturously._) Oho,
oho, this makes me so happy. I'll be
funnier than ever, if possible. (_At this
they dance gleefully, but his next words
strike them cold._) But, the rogue! He
said he wanted me to speak to you about
it first. That was my news. Oh, the
rogue! (_They are scared, and sudden
fear grips him._) There's nothing wrong,
is there? It was Joey gave you that
ring, wasn't it, Fairy? (_She shakes her
head, and the movement shakes tears from
her eyes._) If it wasn't Joey, who was it?
(HARLEQUIN _steps forward._) You! You
are not fond of Boy, are you, Fairy?
(_She is clinging to her lover now, and_
PANTALOON _is a little dazed._) But, my
girl, Joey wants you. A clown wants
you. When a clown wants you, you are
not going to fling yourself away on a
harlequin, are you? (_They go on their
knees to him, and he is touched, but also
frightened._) Don't try to get round me;
now don't. Joey would be angry with
me. He can be hard when he likes, Joey
can. (_In a whisper_) Perhaps he would
cane me! You wouldn't like to see your
dad caned, Fairy. (COLUMBINE's _head
sinks to the floor in woe, and_ HARLEQUIN
_eagerly waves his wand._) Ah, Boy, you
couldn't defy him. He is our head.
You can do wonderful things with that
wand, but you can't fight Joey with it.
(_Sadly enough the wand is lowered._) You
see, children, it won't do. You have no
money, Boy, except the coppers Joey
sometimes gives you in an envelope of a
Friday night, and we can't marry without
money (_with an attempt at joviality_),
can't marry without money, Boy. (HARLEQUIN
_with a rising chest produces money._)
Seven shillings and tenpence! You have
been saving up, Boy. Well done! But
it's not enough. (COLUMBINE _darts to
the mantelshelf for her money-box and
rattles it triumphantly._ PANTALOON _looks
inside it._) A half-crown and two sixpences!
It won't do, children. I had a pound and
a piano-case when I married, and yet I
was pinched. (_They sit on the floor with
their fingers to their eyes, and with difficulty
he restrains an impulse to sit beside
them._) Poor souls! poor true love! (_The
thought of Joey's power and greatness
overwhelms him._) Think of Joey's individuality,
Fairy. He banks his money,
my love. If you saw the boldness of Joey
in the bank when he hands the slip across
the counter and counts his money, my
pet, instead of being thankful for whatever
they give him. And then he puts out
his tongue at them! The artist in him
makes him put out his tongue at them.
For he is a great artist, Joey. He is a
greater artist than I am. I know it and
I admit it. He has a touch that is
beyond me. (_Imploringly_) Did you say
you would marry him, my love? (_She does
not raise her head, and he continues with a
new break in his voice._) It is not his
caning me I am so afraid of, but--but
I'm oldish now, Fairy, even for an old
'un, and there is something I must tell
you. I have tried to keep it from myself,
but I know. It is this: I am afraid,
my sweet, I am not so funny as I used to
be. (_She encircles his knees in dissent._)
Yes, it's true, and Joey knows it. On
Monday I had to fall into the barrel three
times before I got the laugh. Joey saw!
If Joey were to dismiss me I could never
get another shop. I would be like a dog
without a master. He has been my
master so long. I have put by nearly
enough to keep me, but oh, Fairy, the
awfulness of not being famous any longer.
Living on without seeing my kind friends
in front. To think of my just being
one of the public, of my being pointed at
in the streets as the old 'un that was
fired out of the company because he
missed his laughs. And that's what
Joey will bring to pass if you don't marry
him, my girl. (_It is an appeal for mercy,
and_ COLUMBINE _is his loving daughter.
Her face is wan, but she tries to smile. She
hugs the ring to her breast, and then gives
it back to_ HARLEQUIN. _They try to dance
a last embrace, but their legs are leaden.
He kisses her cheeks and her foot and goes
away broken-hearted. The brave girl puts
her arm round her father's neck and hides
her wet face. He could not look at it
though it were exposed, for he has more to
tell._) I haven't told you the worst yet,
my love. I didn't dare tell you the worst
till Boy had gone. Fairy, the marriage
is to be to-day! Joey has arranged it
all. It's his humour, and we dare not
thwart him. He is coming here to take
you to the wedding. (_In a tremble she
draws away from him._) I haven't been
a bad father to you, have I, my girl?
When we were waiting for you before
you were born, your mother and I, we
used to wonder what you would be like,
and I--it was natural, for I was always
an ambitious man--I hoped you would
be a clown. But that wasn't to be, and
when the doctor came to me--I was walking
up and down this room in a tremble,
for my darling was always delicate--when
the doctor came to me and said, 'I congratulate
you, sir, on being the father
of a fine little columbine,' I never uttered
one word of reproach to him or to you
or to her. (_There is a certain grandeur
about the old man as he calls attention to
the nobility of his conduct, but it falls from
him on the approach of the_ CLOWN. _We
hear Joey before we see him: he is singing
a snatch of one of his triumphant ditties,
less for his own pleasure perhaps than to
warn the policeman to be on the alert.
He has probably driven to the end of the
street, and then walked. A tremor runs
through_ COLUMBINE _at sound of him, but_
PANTALOON _smiles, a foolish, ecstatic
smile. Joey has always been his hero._)
Be ready to laugh, my girl. Joey will
be angry if he doesn't get the laugh.

    (_The_ CLOWN _struts in, as confident of
    welcome as if he were the announcement
    of dinner. He wears his motley
    like an order. A silk hat and an
    eye-glass indicate his superior social
    position. A sausage protruding from
    a pocket shows that he can unbend at
    times. A masterful man when you
    don't applaud enough, he is at present
    in uproarious spirits, as if he had
    just looked in a mirror. At first he
    affects not to see his host, to_ PANTALOON's
    _great entertainment._)

CLOWN. Miaw, miaw!

PANTALOON (_bent with merriment_). He is at
his funniest, quite at his funniest.

    (_CLOWN kicks him hard but good-naturedly,
    and_ PANTALOON _falls to
    the ground._)

CLOWN. Miaw!

PANTALOON (_reverently_). What an artist.

CLOWN (_pretends to see_ COLUMBINE _for the
first time in his life. In a masterpiece of
funniness he starts back, like one dazzled
by a naked light_). Oh, Jiminy Crinkles!
Oh, I say, what a beauty.

PANTALOON. There's nobody like him.

CLOWN. It's Fairy. It's my little Fairy.

    (_Strange, but all her admiration for
    this man has gone. He represents
    nothing to her now but wealth and
    social rank. He ogles her, and she
    shrinks from him as if he were something
    nauseous._)

PANTALOON (_warningly_). Fairy!

CLOWN (_showing sharp teeth_). Hey, what's
this, old 'un? Don't she admire me?

PANTALOON. Not admire you, Joey? That's
a good 'un. Joey's at his best to-day.

CLOWN. Ain't she ready to come to her
wedding?

PANTALOON. She's ready, Joey.

CLOWN (_producing a cane, and lowering_).
Have you told her what will happen to
you if she ain't ready?

PANTALOON (_backing_). I've told her, Joey
(_supplicating_). Get your hat, Fairy.

CLOWN. Why ain't she dancing wi' joy and
pride?

PANTALOON. She is, Joey, she is.

    (COLUMBINE _attempts to dance with joy
      and pride, and the_ CLOWN _has been
      so long used to adulation that he is
      deceived._)

CLOWN (_amiable again_). Parson's waiting.
Oh, what a lark.

PANTALOON (_with a feeling that lark is not
perhaps the happiest word for the occasion_).
Get your things, Fairy.

CLOWN (_riding on a chair_). Give me something
first, my lovey-dovey. I shuts my
eyes and opens my mouth, and waits
for what's my doo. (_She knows what he
means, and it is sacrilege to her. But her
father's arms are extended beseechingly.
She gives the now abhorred countenance
a kiss, and runs from the room. The_
CLOWN _plays with the kiss as if it were a
sausage, a sight abhorrent to_ HARLEQUIN,
_who has stolen in by the window. Fain
would he strike, but though he is wearing
his mask, which is a sign that he is invisible,
he fears to do so. As if conscious of the
unseen presence, the_ CLOWN's _brow darkens_.)
Joey, when I came in I saw Boy hanging
around outside.

PANTALOON (_ill at ease_). Boy? What can
he be wanting?

CLOWN. I know what he is wanting, and
I know what he will get. (_He brandishes
the cane threateningly. At the same
moment the wedding bells begin to peal_.)

PANTALOON. Hark!

CLOWN (_with grotesque accompaniment_). My
wedding bells. Fairy's wedding bells.
There they go again, here we are again,
there they go again, here we are again.
(COLUMBINE _returns. She has tried to
hide the tears on her cheeks behind a
muslin veil. There is a melancholy bouquet
in her hand. She passionately desires to
be like the respectable public on her marriage
day._ HARLEQUIN _raises his mask for a
moment that she may see him, and they
look long at each other, those two, who are
never to have anything lovely to look at
again. 'Won't he save her yet?' says
her face, but 'I am afraid' says his. Still
the bells are jangling._)

PANTALOON. My girl.

CLOWN. Mine. (_He kisses her, but it is the
sausage look that is in his eyes._ PANTALOON,
_bleeding for his girl, raises his staff
to strike him, but_ COLUMBINE _will not have
the sacrifice. She gives her arm to the_
CLOWN.) To the wedding. To the
wedding. Old 'un, lead on, and we
will follow thee. Oh, what a lark!

   (_They are going toward the door, but
    in this supreme moment love turns
    timid Boy into a man. He waves
    his mysterious wand over them, so
    that all three are suddenly bereft of
    movement. They are like frozen
    figures. He removes his mask and
    smiles at them with a terrible face.
    Fondly and leisurely he gathers_ COLUMBINE
    _in his arms and carries her
    out by the window. The_ CLOWN _and_
    PANTALOON _remain there, as if struck
    in the act of taking a step forward.
    The wedding bells are still pealing._)

    _The curtain falls for a moment only.
    It rises on the same room several
    years later._

    _The same room; as one may say of
    a suit of clothes, out of which the
    whilom tenant has long departed,
    that they are the same man. A
    room cold to the touch, dilapidated,
    fragments of the ceiling fallen and
    left where they fell, wall-paper peeling
    damply, portraits of_ PANTALOON
    _taken down to sell, unsaleable,
    and never rehung. Once such a
    clean room that its ghost to-day might
    be_ COLUMBINE _chasing a speck of
    dust, it is now untended. Even the
    windows are grimy, which tells a
    tale of_ PANTALOON's _final capitulation;
    while any heart was left him
    we may he sure he kept the windows
    clean so that the policeman might
    spy upon him. Perhaps the policeman
    has gone from the street, bored,
    nothing doing there now._

    _It is evening and winter time, and the
    ancient man is moving listlessly
    about his room, mechanically blowing
    life into his hands as if he had forgotten
    that there is no real reason why
    there should be life in them. The
    clothes_ COLUMBINE _used to brush
    with such care are slovenly, the hair
    she so often smoothed with all her
    love is unkempt. He is smaller, a
    man who has shrunk into himself in
    shame, not so much shame that he is
    uncared for as that he is forgotten._

    _He is sitting forlorn by the fire when
    the door opens to admit his first
    visitor for years. It is the_ CLOWN,
    _just sufficiently stouter to look more
    resplendent. The drum, so to say, is
    larger. He gloats over the bowed_
    PANTALOON like a spiteful boy.

CLOWN (_poking_ PANTALOON _with his cane_).
Who can this miserable ancient man be?

    (_Visited at last by some one who
    knows him,_ PANTALOON _rises in a
    surge of joy._)

PANTALOON. You have come back, Joey,
after all these years!

CLOWN. Hands off. I came here, my good
fellow, to inquire for a Mr. Joseph.

PANTALOON (_shuddering_). Yes, that's me;
that's all that's left of me; Mr. Joseph!
Me that used to be Joey.

CLOWN. I think I knew you once, Mr.
Joseph?

PANTALOON. Joey, you're hard on me. It
wasn't my fault that Boy tricked us and
ran off wi' her.

CLOWN. May I ask, Mr. Joseph, were you
ever on the boards?

PANTALOON. This to me as was your right
hand!

CLOWN. I seem to call to mind something
like you as used to play the swell.

PANTALOON (_fiercely_). It's a lie! I was
born a Pantaloon, and a Pantaloon I'll die.

CLOWN. Yes, I heard you was dead, Mr.
Joseph. Everybody knows it except
yourself. (_He gnaws a sausage._)

PANTALOON (_greedily_). Gie me a bite, Joey.

CLOWN (_relentless_). I only bites with the
profession. I never bites with the
public.

PANTALOON. What brought you here? Just
to rub it in?

CLOWN. Let's say I came to make inquiries
after the happy pair.

PANTALOON. It's years and years, Joey,
since they ran away, and I've never seen
them since.

CLOWN. Heard of them?

PANTALOON. Yes, I've heard. They're in
distant parts.

CLOWN. Answer their letters?

PANTALOON (_darkening_). No.

CLOWN. They will be doing well, Mr. Joseph,
without me?

PANTALOON (_boastfully_). At first they did
badly, but when the managers heard
Fairy was my daughter they said the
daughter o' such a famous old 'un was
sure to draw by reason of her father's
name. And they print the name of her
father in big letters.

CLOWN (_rapping it out_). It's you that lie
now. I know about them. They go
starving like vagabonds from town to
town.

PANTALOON. Ay, it's true. They write that
they're starving.

CLOWN. And they've got a kid to add to
their misery. All vagabonds, father,
mother, and kid.

PANTALOON. Rub it in, Joey.

CLOWN. You looks as if you would soon be
starving too.

PANTALOON (_not without dignity_). I'm
pinched.

CLOWN. Well, well, I'm a kindly soul, and
what brought me here was to make you
an offer.

PANTALOON (_glistening_). A shop?

CLOWN. For old times' sake.

PANTALOON (_with indecent eagerness_). To be
old 'un again?

CLOWN. No, you crock, but to carry a sandwich-board
in the street wi' my new old
'un's name on it.

    (_PANTALOON raises his withered arm,
    but he lets it fall._)

PANTALOON. May you be forgiven for that,
Joey.

CLOWN. Miaw!

PANTALOON (_who is near his end_). Joey,
there stands humbled before you an old
artist.

CLOWN. Never an artist.

PANTALOON (_firmly_). An artist--at present
disengaged.

CLOWN. Forgotten--clean forgotten.

PANTALOON (_bowing his head_). Yes, that's it--forgotten.
Once famous--now forgotten.
Joey, they don't know me even at the
sausage-shop. I am just one of the
public. My worst time is when we should
be going on the stage, and I think I hear
the gallery boys calling for the old 'un--'Bravo,
old 'un!' Then I sort of break
up. I sleep bad o' nights. I think sleep
would come to me if I could rub my back
on the scenery again. (_He shudders._) But
the days are longer than the nights. I
allus see how I am to get through to-day,
but I sit thinking and thinking how I
am to get through to-morrow.

CLOWN. Poor old crock. Well, so long.

PANTALOON (_offering him the poker_). Joey,
gie me one rub before you go--for old
times' sake.

CLOWN. You'll never be rubbed by a clown
again, Mr. Joseph.

PANTALOON. Call me Joey once--say 'Good-bye,
old 'un'--for old times' sake.

CLOWN. You will never be called Joey or old
'un by a clown again, Mr. Joseph.

    (_With a noble gesture_ PANTALOON _bids
    him begone and the_ CLOWN _miaws and
    goes, twisting a sausage in his mouth
    as if it were a cigar. So he passes
    from our sight, funny to the last, or
    never funny, an equally tragic figure._
    PANTALOON _rummages in the wicker
    basket among his gods and strokes
    them lovingly, a painted goose, his
    famous staff, a bladder on a stick.
    He does not know that he is hugging
    the bladder to his cold breast as he
    again crouches by the fire._

    _The door opens, and_ COLUMBINE _and_
    HARLEQUIN _peep in, prepared to receive
    a blow for welcome. Their faces
    are hollow and their clothes in rags,
    and, saddest of all, they cannot dance
    in. They walk in like the weary public._
    COLUMBINE _looks as if she could walk
    as far as her father's feet, but never
    any farther. With them is the child.
    This is the great surprise:_ HE IS A
    CLOWN. _They sign to the child
    to intercede for them, but though only
    a baby, he is a clown, and he must
    do it in his own way. He pats his
    nose, grins deliciously with the wrong
    parts of his face, and dives beneath
    the table._ PANTALOON _looks round
    and sees his daughter on her knees
    before him._)

PANTALOON. You! Fairy! Come back!
(_For a moment he is to draw her to him,
then he remembers._) No, I'll have none
of you. It was you as brought me to
this. Begone, I say begone. (_They are
backing meekly to the door._) Stop a
minute. Little Fairy, is it true--is it
true my Fairy has a kid? (_She nods,
with glistening eyes that say 'Can you put
me out now?' The baby peers from under
the table, and rubs_ PANTALOON's _legs with
the poker. Poor little baby, he is the last
of the clowns, and knows not what is in
store for him._ PANTALOON _trembles, it
is so long since he has been rubbed. He
dare not look down._) Fairy, is it the kid?
(_She nods again; the moment has come._)
My Fairy's kid! (_Somehow he has
always taken for granted that his grandchild
is merely a columbine. If the child
had been something greater they would all
have got a shop again and served under
him._) Oh, Fairy, if only he had been a
clown!

    (_Now you see how it is going. The
    babe emerges, and he is a clown.

    Just for a moment_ PANTALOON _cries.
    Then the babe is tantalising him
    with a sausage._ PANTALOON _revolves
    round him like a happy teetotum.
    Who so gay now as_ COLUMBINE _and_
    HARLEQUIN, _dancing merrily as if it
    were again the morning? Oh what
    a lark is life. Ring down the curtain
    quickly, Mr. Prompter, before
    we see them all swept into the dust-heap._)




THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK


_If quite convenient (as they say about
cheques) you are to conceive that the scene is
laid in your own house, and that_ HARRY SIMS
_is you. Perhaps the ornamentation of the
house is a trifle ostentatious, but if you
cavil at that we are willing to re-decorate:
you don't get out of being_ HARRY SIMS _on
a mere matter of plush and dados. It pleases
us to make him a city man, but (rather than
lose you) he can be turned with a scrape of the
pen into a K.C., fashionable doctor, Secretary
of State, or what you will. We conceive him
of a pleasant rotundity with a thick red neck,
but we shall waive that point if you know him
to be thin._

_It is that day in your career when everything
went wrong just when everything seemed to be
superlatively right._

_In_ HARRY's _case it was a woman who did
the mischief. She came to him in his great
hour and told him she did not admire him.
Of course he turned her out of the house and
was soon himself again, but it spoilt the morning
for him. This is the subject of the play,
and quite enough too._

HARRY _is to receive the honour of knighthood
in a few days, and we discover him in
the sumptuous 'snuggery' of his home in
Kensington (or is it Westminster?), rehearsing
the ceremony with his wife. They have been
at it all the morning, a pleasing occupation._
MRS. SIMS _(as we may call her for the last
time, as it were, and strictly as a good-natured
joke) is wearing her presentation gown, and personates
the august one who is about to dub her_
HARRY _knight. She is seated regally. Her
jewelled shoulders proclaim aloud her husband's
generosity. She must be an extraordinarily
proud and happy woman, yet she has a drawn
face and shrinking ways as if there were some
one near her of whom she is afraid. She
claps her hands, as the signal to_ HARRY.
_He enters bowing, and with a graceful
swerve of the leg. He is only partly in
costume, the sword and the real stockings not
having arrived yet. With a gliding motion
that is only delayed while one leg makes up
on the other, he reaches his wife, and, going
on one knee, raises her hand superbly to his
lips. She taps him on the shoulder with a
paper-knife and says huskily, 'Rise, Sir
HARRY.' He rises, bows, and glides about
the room, going on his knees to various articles
of furniture, and rising from each a knight.
It is a radiant domestic scene, and_ HARRY
_is as dignified as if he knew that royalty was
rehearsing it at the other end._

SIR HARRY (_complacently_). Did that seem
all right, eh?

LADY SIMS (_much relieved_). I think perfect.

SIR HARRY. But was it dignified?

LADY SIMS. Oh, very. And it will be still
more so when you have the sword.

SIR HARRY. The sword will lend it an air.
There are really the five moments--(_suiting
the action to the word_)--the glide--the
dip--the kiss--the tap--and you
back out a knight. It's short, but it's
a very beautiful ceremony. (_Kindly_)
Anything you can suggest?

LADY SIMS. No--oh no. (_Nervously, seeing
him pause to kiss the tassel of a cushion_)
You don't think you have practised till
you know what to do almost too well?

    (_He has been in a blissful temper, but
    such niggling criticism would try
    any man._)

SIR HARRY. I do not. Don't talk nonsense.
Wait till your opinion is asked for.

LADY SIMS (_abashed_). I'm sorry, Harry.

    (_A perfect butler appears and presents a
    card._) 'The Flora Type-Writing Agency.'

SIR HARRY. Ah, yes. I telephoned them
to send some one. A woman, I suppose,
Tombes?

TOMBES. Yes, Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. Show her in here. (_He has very
lately become a stickler for etiquette._) And,
Tombes, strictly speaking, you know, I
am not Sir Harry till Thursday.

TOMBES. Beg pardon, sir, but it is such a
satisfaction to us.

SIR HARRY (_good-naturedly_). Ah, they like
it downstairs, do they?

TOMBES (_unbending_). Especially the females,
Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. Exactly. You can show her in,
Tombes. (_The butler departs on his mighty
task._) You can tell the woman what she
is wanted for, Emmy, while I change. (_He
is too modest to boast about himself, and
prefers to keep a wife in the house for that
purpose._) You can tell her the sort of
things about me that will come better from
you. (_Smiling happily_) You heard what
Tombes said, 'Especially the females.'
And he is right. Success! The women
like it even better than the men. And
rightly. For they share. _You_ share, _Lady_
Sims. Not a woman will see that gown
without being sick with envy of it. I know
them. Have all our lady friends in to see
it. It will make them ill for a week.

    (_These sentiments carry him off light-heartedly,
    and presently the disturbing
    element is shown in. She is a mere
    typist, dressed in uncommonly good
    taste, but at contemptibly small expense,
    and she is carrying her typewriter
    in a friendly way rather than
    as a badge of slavery, as of course it is.
    Her eye is clear; and in odd contrast
    to LADY SIMS, she is self-reliant and
    serene._)

KATE (_respectfully, but she should have waited
to be spoken to_). Good morning, madam.

LADY SIMS (_in her nervous way, and scarcely
noticing that the typist is a little too ready
with her tongue_). Good morning. (_As a
first impression she rather likes the woman,
and the woman, though it is scarcely worth
mentioning, rather likes her._ LADY SIMS
_has a maid for buttoning and unbuttoning
her, and probably another for waiting on the
maid, and she gazes with a little envy perhaps
at a woman who does things for herself._)
Is that the type-writing machine?

KATE (_who is getting it ready for use_). Yes
(_not 'Yes, madam,' as it ought to be_). I
suppose if I am to work here I may take
this off. I get on better without it. (_She
is referring to her hat._)

LADY SIMS. Certainly. (_But the hat is
already off._) I ought to apologise for my
gown. I am to be presented this week,
and I was trying it on. (_Her tone is not
really apologetic. She is rather clinging
to the glory of her gown, wistfully, as if
not absolutely certain, you know, that it is
a glory._)

KATE. It is beautiful, if I may presume to
say so. (_She frankly admires it. She
probably has a best, and a second best of
her own: that sort of thing._)

LADY SIMS (_with a flush of pride in the gown_).
Yes, it is very beautiful. (_The beauty of
it gives her courage._) Sit down, please.

KATE (_the sort of woman who would have sat
down in any case_). I suppose it is some
copying you want done? I got no particulars.
I was told to come to this
address, but that was all.

LADY SIMS (_almost with the humility of a
servant_). Oh, it is not work for me, it is
for my husband, and what he needs is not
exactly copying. (_Swelling, for she is proud
of_ Harry). He wants a number of letters
answered--hundreds of them--letters and
telegrams of congratulation.

KATE (_as if it were all in the day's work_).
Yes?

LADY SIMS (_remembering that_ Harry _expects
every wife to do her duty_). My husband
is a remarkable man. He is about to be
knighted. (_Pause, but_ KATE _does not
fall to the floor._) He is to be knighted for
his services to--(_on reflection_)--for his services.
(_She is conscious that she is not
doing_ Harry _justice._) He can explain
it so much better than I can.

KATE (_in her business-like way_). And I am
to answer the congratulations?

LADY SIMS (_afraid that it will be a hard task_).
Yes.

KATE (_blithely_). It is work I have had some
experience of. (_She proceeds to type._)

LADY SIMS. But you can't begin till you
know what he wants to say.

KATE. Only a specimen letter. Won't it
be the usual thing?

LADY SIMS (_to whom this is a new idea_). Is
there a usual thing?

KATE. Oh, yes.

    (_She continues to type, and_ LADY SIMS,
    _half-mesmerised, gazes at her nimble
    fingers. The useless woman watches
    the useful one, and she sighs, she could
    not tell why._)

LADY SIMS. How quickly you do it. It
must be delightful to be able to do something,
and to do it well.

KATE (_thankfully_). Yes, it is delightful.

LADY SIMS (_again remembering the source of
all her greatness_). But, excuse me, I don't
think that will be any use. My husband
wants me to explain to you that his is an
exceptional case. He did not try to get
this honour in any way. It was a complete
surprise to him----

KATE (_who is a practical Kate and no dealer
in sarcasm_). That is what I have written.

LADY SIMS (_in whom sarcasm would meet a
dead wall_). But how could you know?

KATE. I only guessed.

LADY SIMS. Is that the usual thing?

KATE. Oh, yes.

LADY SIMS. They don't try to get it?

KATE. I don't know. That is what we are
told to say in the letters.

    (_To her at present the only important
    thing about the letters is that they are
    ten shillings the hundred._)

LADY SIMS (_returning to surer ground_). I
should explain that my husband is not
a man who cares for honours. So long
as he does his duty----

KATE. Yes, I have been putting that in.

LADY SIMS. Have you? But he particularly
wants it to be known that he would have
declined a title were it not----

KATE. I have got it here.

LADY SIMS. What have you got?

KATE (_reading_). 'Indeed I would have asked
to be allowed to decline had it not been
that I want to please my wife.'

LADY SIMS (_heavily_). But how could you
know it was that?

KATE. Is it?

LADY SIMS (_who after all is the one with the
right to ask questions_). Do they all accept
it for that reason?

KATE. That is what we are told to say in
the letters.

LADY SIMS (_thoughtlessly_). It is quite as if
you knew my husband.

KATE. I assure you, I don't even know his
name.

LADY SIMS (_suddenly showing that she knows
him_). Oh, he wouldn't like that.

    (_And it is here that_ HARRY _re-enters in
    his city garments, looking so gay,
    feeling so jolly that we bleed for him.
    However, the annoying KATHERINE
    is to get a shock also._)

LADY SIMS. This is the lady, Harry.

SIR HARRY (_shooting his cuffs_). Yes, yes.
Good morning, my dear.

    (_Then they see each other, and their
    mouths open, but not for words.
    After the first surprise_ KATE _seems
    to find some humour in the situation,
    but_ Harry _lowers like a thunder-cloud._)

LADY SIMS (_who has seen nothing_). I have
been trying to explain to her----

SIR HARRY. Eh--what? (_He controls himself._)
Leave it to me, Emmy; I'll attend
to her.

    (LADY SIMS _goes, with a dread fear
    that somehow she has vexed her lord,
    and then_ HARRY _attends to the intruder._)

SIR HARRY (_with concentrated scorn_). You!

KATE (_as if agreeing with him_). Yes, it's
funny.

SIR HARRY. The shamelessness of your daring
to come here.

KATE. Believe me, it is not less a surprise
to me than it is to you. I was sent here
in the ordinary way of business. I was
given only the number of the house. I
was not told the name.

SIR HARRY (_withering her_). The ordinary
way of business! This is what you have
fallen to--a typist!

KATE (_unwithered_). Think of it.

SIR HARRY. After going through worse
straits, I'll be bound.

KATE (_with some grim memories_). Much
worse straits.

SIR HARRY (_alas, laughing coarsely_). My
congratulations.

KATE. Thank you, Harry.

SIR HARRY (_who is annoyed, as any man
would be, not to find her abject_).
Eh? What was that you called me,
madam?

KATE. Isn't it Harry? On my soul, I
almost forget.

SIR HARRY. It isn't Harry to you. My
name is Sims, if you please.

KATE. Yes, I had not forgotten that. It
was my name, too, you see.

SIR HARRY (_in his best manner_). It was
your name till you forfeited the right
to bear it.

KATE. Exactly.

SIR HARRY (_gloating_). I was furious to find
you here, but on second thoughts it
pleases me. (_From the depths of his
moral nature_) There is a grim justice
in this.

KATE (_sympathetically_). Tell me?

SIR HARRY. Do you know what you were
brought here to do?

KATE. I have just been learning. You
have been made a knight, and I was
summoned to answer the messages of
congratulation.

SIR HARRY. That's it, that's it. You come
on this day as my servant!

KATE. I, who might have been Lady Sims.

SIR HARRY. And you are her typist instead.
And she has four men-servants. Oh, I
am glad you saw her in her presentation
gown.

KATE. I wonder if she would let me do her
washing, Sir Harry?

    (_Her want of taste disgusts him._)

SIR HARRY (_with dignity_). You can go.
The mere thought that only a few flights
of stairs separates such as you from my
innocent children----

    (_He will never know why a new light
    has come into her face._)

KATE (_slowly_). You have children?

SIR HARRY (_inflated_). Two.

    (_He wonders why she is so long in
    answering._)

KATE (_resorting to impertinence_). Such a nice
number.

SIR HARRY (_with an extra turn of the screw_).
Both boys.

KATE. Successful in everything. Are they
like you, Sir Harry?

SIR HARRY (_expanding_). They are very like
me.

KATE. That's nice.

    (_Even on such a subject as this she can
    be ribald._)

SIR HARRY. Will you please to go.

KATE. Heigho! What shall I say to my
employer?

SIR HARRY. That is no affair of mine.

KATE. What will you say to Lady Sims?

SIR HARRY. I flatter myself that whatever
I say, Lady Sims will accept without
comment.

    (_She smiles, heaven knows why, unless
    her next remark explains it._)

KATE. Still the same Harry.

SIR HARRY. What do you mean?

KATE. Only that you have the old confidence
in your profound knowledge of the sex.

SIR HARRY (_beginning to think as little of her
intellect as of her morals_). I suppose I
know my wife.

KATE (_hopelessly dense_). I suppose so. I
was only remembering that you used to
think you knew her in the days when I
was the lady. (_He is merely wasting his
time on her, and he indicates the door.
She is not sufficiently the lady to retire
worsted._) Well, good-bye, Sir Harry.
Won't you ring, and the four men-servants
will show me out?

    (_But he hesitates._)

SIR HARRY (_in spite of himself_). As you
are here, there is something I want to
get out of you. (_Wishing he could ask
it less eagerly_) Tell me, who was the
man?

    (_The strange woman--it is evident now
    that she has always been strange to
    him--smiles tolerantly._)

KATE. You never found out?

SIR HARRY. I could never be sure.

KATE (_reflectively_). I thought that would
worry you.

SIR HARRY (_sneering_). It's plain that he
soon left you.

KATE. Very soon.

SIR HARRY. As I could have told you.
(_But still she surveys him with the smile
of Monna Lisa. The badgered man
has to entreat_) Who was he? It was
fourteen years ago, and cannot matter
to any of us now. Kate, tell me who
he was?

    (_It is his first youthful moment, and
    perhaps because of that she does not
    wish to hurt him._)

KATE (_shaking a motherly head_). Better not
ask.

SIR HARRY. I do ask. Tell me.

KATE. It is kinder not to tell you.

SIR HARRY (_violently_). Then, by James, it
was one of my own pals. Was it Bernard
Roche? (_She shakes her head._) It
may have been some one who comes to
my house still.

KATE. I think not. (_Reflecting_) Fourteen
years! You found my letter that night
when you went home?

SIR HARRY (_impatient_). Yes.

KATE. I propped it against the decanters.
I thought you would be sure to see it
there. It was a room not unlike this,
and the furniture was arranged in the
same attractive way. How it all comes
back to me. Don't you see me, Harry,
in hat and cloak, putting the letter there,
taking a last look round, and then stealing
out into the night to meet----

SIR HARRY. Whom?

KATE. Him. Hours pass, no sound in the
room but the tick-tack of the clock, and
then about midnight you return alone.
You take----

SIR HARRY (_gruffly_). I wasn't alone.

KATE (_the picture spoilt_). No? oh. (_Plaintively_)
Here have I all these years been
conceiving it wrongly. (_She studies his
face._) I believe something interesting
happened?

SIR HARRY (_growling_). Something confoundedly
annoying.

KATE (_coaxing_). Do tell me.

SIR HARRY. We won't go into that. Who
was the man? Surely a husband has a
right to know with whom his wife bolted.

KATE (_who is detestably ready with her tongue_).
Surely the wife has a right to know how
he took it. (_The woman's love of bargaining
comes to her aid._) A fair exchange.
You tell me what happened, and I will
tell you who he was.

SIR HARRY. You will? Very well. (_It is
the first point on which they have agreed,
and, forgetting himself, he takes a place
beside her on the fire-seat. He is thinking
only of what he is to tell her, but she, woman-like,
is conscious of their proximity._)

KATE (_tastelessly_). Quite like old times. (_He
moves away from her indignantly._) Go
on, Harry.

SIR HARRY (_who has a manful shrinking from
saying anything that is to his disadvantage._)
Well, as you know, I was dining at the
club that night.

KATE. Yes.

SIR HARRY. Jack Lamb drove me home.
Mabbett Green was with us, and I asked
them to come in for a few minutes.

KATE. Jack Lamb, Mabbett Green? I
think I remember them. Jack was in
Parliament.

SIR HARRY. No, that was Mabbett. They
came into the house with me and--(_with
sudden horror_)--was it him?

KATE (_bewildered_). Who?

SIR HARRY. Mabbett?

KATE. What?

SIR HARRY. The man?

KATE. What man? (_understanding_) Oh no.
I thought you said he came into the house
with you.

SIR HARRY. It might have been a blind.

KATE. Well, it wasn't. Go on.

SIR HARRY. They came in to finish a talk
we had been having at the club.

KATE. An interesting talk, evidently.

SIR HARRY. The papers had been full that
evening of the elopement of some countess
woman with a fiddler. What was her
name?

KATE. Does it matter?

SIR HARRY. No. (_Thus ends the countess._)
We had been discussing the thing and--(_he
pulls a wry face_)--and I had been
rather warm----

KATE (_with horrid relish_). I begin to see.
You had been saying it served the husband
right, that the man who could not
look after his wife deserved to lose her.
It was one of your favourite subjects.
Oh, Harry, say it was that!

SIR HARRY (_sourly_). It may have been
something like that.

KATE. And all the time the letter was there,
waiting; and none of you knew except
the clock. Harry, it is sweet of you to
tell me. (_His face is not sweet. The
illiterate woman has used the wrong adjective._)
I forget what I said precisely
in the letter.

SIR HARRY (_pulverising her_). So do I. But
I have it still.

KATE (_not pulverised_). Do let me see it
again. (_She has observed his eye wandering
to the desk._)

SIR HARRY. You are welcome to it as a
gift. (_The fateful letter, a poor little dead
thing, is brought to light from a locked
drawer._)

KATE (_taking it_). Yes, this is it. Harry, how
you did crumple it! (_She reads, not without
curiosity._) 'Dear husband--I call
you that for the last time--I am off. I
am what you call making a bolt of it.
I won't try to excuse myself nor to explain,
for you would not accept the excuses
nor understand the explanation.
It will be a little shock to you, but only
to your pride; what will astound you
is that any woman could be such a fool
as to leave such a man as you. I am
taking nothing with me that belongs to
you. May you be very happy.--Your ungrateful
KATE. _P.S._--You need not try
to find out who he is. You will try, but
you won't succeed.' (_She folds the nasty
little thing up._) I may really have it for
my very own?

SIR HARRY. You really may.

KATE (_impudently_). If you would care for
a typed copy----?

SIR HARRY (_in a voice with which he used to
frighten his grandmother_). None of your
sauce. (_Wincing_) I had to let them
see it in the end.

KATE. I can picture Jack Lamb eating it.

SIR HARRY. A penniless parson's daughter.

KATE. That is all I was.

SIR HARRY. We searched for the two of
you high and low.

KATE. Private detectives?

SIR HARRY. They couldn't get on the track
of you.

KATE (_smiling_). No?

SIR HARRY. But at last the courts let me
serve the papers by advertisement on a
man unknown, and I got my freedom.

KATE. So I saw. It was the last I heard of
you.

SIR HARRY (_each word a blow for her_). And I
married again just as soon as ever I could.

KATE. They say that is always a compliment
to the first wife.

SIR HARRY (_violently_). I showed them.

KATE. You soon let them see that if one
woman was a fool, you still had the
pick of the basket to choose from.

SIR HARRY. By James, I did.

KATE (_bringing him to earth again_). But still,
you wondered who he was.

SIR HARRY. I suspected everybody--even
my pals. I felt like jumping at their
throats and crying, 'It's you!'

KATE. You had been so admirable to me,
an instinct told you that I was sure to
choose another of the same.

SIR HARRY. I thought, it can't be money,
so it must be looks. Some dolly face.
(_He stares at her in perplexity._) He must
have had something wonderful about
him to make you willing to give up all
that you had with me.

KATE (_as if he was the stupid one_). Poor
Harry.

SIR HARRY. And it couldn't have been
going on for long, for I would have
noticed the change in you.

KATE. Would you?

SIR HARRY. I knew you so well.

KATE. You amazing man.

SIR HARRY. So who was he? Out with it.

KATE. You are determined to know?

SIR HARRY. Your promise. You gave your
word.

KATE. If I must----(_She is the villain of the
piece, but it must be conceded that in this
matter she is reluctant to pain him._) I
am sorry I promised. (_Looking at him
steadily._) There was no one, Harry; no
one at all.

SIR HARRY (_rising_). If you think you can
play with me----

KATE. I told you that you wouldn't like it.

SIR HARRY (_rasping_). It is unbelievable.

KATE. I suppose it is; but it is true.

SIR HARRY. Your letter itself gives you the lie.

KATE. That was intentional. I saw that
if the truth were known you might have
a difficulty in getting your freedom; and
as I was getting mine it seemed fair that
you should have yours also. So I wrote
my good-bye in words that would be
taken to mean what you thought they
meant, and I knew the law would back
you in your opinion. For the law, like
you, Harry, has a profound understanding
of women.

SIR HARRY (_trying to straighten himself_). I
don't believe you yet.

KATE (_looking not unkindly into the soul of
this man_). Perhaps that is the best way
to take it. It is less unflattering than
the truth. But you were the only one.
(_Summing up her life._) You sufficed.

SIR HARRY. Then what mad impulse----

KATE. It was no impulse, Harry. I had
thought it out for a year.

SIR HARRY. A year? (_dazed_). One would
think to hear you that I hadn't been a
good husband to you.

KATE (_with a sad smile_). You were a good
husband according to your lights.

SIR HARRY (_stoutly_). I think so.

KATE. And a moral man, and chatty, and
quite the philanthropist.

SIR HARRY (_on sure ground_). All women
envied you.

KATE. How you loved me to be envied.

SIR HARRY. I swaddled you in luxury.

KATE (_making her great revelation_). That
was it.

SIR HARRY (_blankly_). What?

KATE (_who can be serene because it is all over_).
How you beamed at me when I sat at the
head of your fat dinners in my fat jewellery,
surrounded by our fat friends.

SIR HARRY (_aggrieved_). They weren't so fat.

KATE (_a side issue_). All except those who
were so thin. Have you ever noticed,
Harry, that many jewels make women
either incredibly fat or incredibly thin?

SIR HARRY (_shouting_). I have not. (_Is it
worth while to argue with her any longer?_)
We had all the most interesting society
of the day. It wasn't only business
men. There were politicians, painters,
writers----

KATE. Only the glorious, dazzling successes.
Oh, the fat talk while we ate too much--about
who had made a hit and who was
slipping back, and what the noo house
cost and the noo motor and the gold soup-plates,
and who was to be the noo knight.

SIR HARRY (_who it will be observed is unanswerable
from first to last_). Was anybody
getting on better than me, and
consequently you?

KATE. Consequently me! Oh, Harry, you
and your sublime religion.

SIR HARRY (_honest heart_). My religion? I
never was one to talk about religion,
but----

KATE. Pooh, Harry, you don't even know
what your religion was and is and will be
till the day of your expensive funeral.
(_And here is the lesson that life has taught
her_). One's religion is whatever he is
most interested in, and yours is Success.

SIR HARRY (_quoting from his morning paper_).
Ambition--is the last infirmity of noble
minds.

KATE. Noble minds!

SIR HARRY (_at last grasping what she is talking
about_). You are not saying that you
left me because of my success?

KATE. Yes, that was it. (_And now she
stands revealed to him._) I couldn't endure
it. If a failure had come now and
then--but your success was suffocating
me. (_She is rigid with emotion._) The
passionate craving I had to be done with
it, to find myself among people who had
not got on.

SIR HARRY (_with proper spirit_). There are
plenty of them.

KATE. There were none in our set. When
they began to go down-hill they rolled
out of our sight.

SIR HARRY (_clinching it_). I tell you I am
worth a quarter of a million.

KATE (_unabashed_). That is what you are
worth to yourself. I'll tell you what
you are worth to me: exactly twelve
pounds. For I made up my mind that
I could launch myself on the world alone
if I first proved my mettle by earning
twelve pounds; and as soon as I had
earned it I left you.

SIR HARRY (_in the scales_). Twelve pounds!

KATE. That is your value to a woman. If
she can't make it she has to stick to you.

SIR HARRY (_remembering perhaps a rectory
garden_). You valued me at more than
that when you married me.

KATE (_seeing it also_). Ah, I didn't know you
then. If only you had been a man,
Harry.

SIR HARRY. A man? What do you mean
by a man?

KATE (_leaving the garden_). Haven't you
heard of them? They are something
fine; and every woman is loath to admit
to herself that her husband is not
one. When she marries, even though she
has been a very trivial person, there is
in her some vague stirring toward a
worthy life, as well as a fear of her
capacity for evil. She knows her chance
lies in him. If there is something good
in him, what is good in her finds it, and
they join forces against the baser parts.
So I didn't give you up willingly, Harry.
I invented all sorts of theories to explain
you. Your hardness--I said it was a
fine want of mawkishness. Your coarseness--I
said it goes with strength. Your
contempt for the weak--I called it virility.
Your want of ideals was clear-sightedness.
Your ignoble views of women--I tried to
think them funny. Oh, I clung to you
to save myself. But I had to let go;
you had only the one quality, Harry,
success; you had it so strong that it
swallowed all the others.

SIR HARRY (_not to be diverted from the main
issue_). How did you earn that twelve
pounds?

KATE. It took me nearly six months; but
I earned it fairly. (_She presses her hand
on the typewriter as lovingly as many a
woman has pressed a rose._) I learned this.
I hired it and taught myself. I got some
work through a friend, and with my first
twelve pounds I paid for my machine.
Then I considered that I was free to go,
and I went.

SIR HARRY. All this going on in my house
while you were living in the lap of luxury!
(_She nods._) By God, you were determined.

KATE (_briefly_). By God, I was.

SIR HARRY (_staring_). How you must have
hated me.

KATE (_smiling at the childish word_). Not a
bit--after I saw that there was a way
out. From that hour you amused me,
Harry; I was even sorry for you, for
I saw that you couldn't help yourself.
Success is just a fatal gift.

SIR HARRY. Oh, thank you.

KATE (_thinking, dear friends in front, of you
and me perhaps_). Yes, and some of your
most successful friends knew it. One or
two of them used to look very sad at
times, as if they thought they might have
come to something if they hadn't got on.

SIR HARRY (_who has a horror of sacrilege_).
The battered crew you live among now--what
are they but folk who have tried
to succeed and failed?

KATE. That's it; they try, but they fail.

SIR HARRY. And always will fail.

KATE. Always. Poor souls--I say of them.
Poor soul--they say of me. It keeps us
human. That is why I never tire of
them.

SIR HARRY (_comprehensively_). Bah! Kate,
I tell you I'll be worth half a million yet.

KATE. I'm sure you will. You're getting
stout, Harry.

SIR HARRY. No, I'm not.

KATE. What was the name of that fat old
fellow who used to fall asleep at our
dinner-parties?

SIR HARRY. If you mean Sir William Crackley----

KATE. That was the man. Sir William was
to me a perfect picture of the grand
success. He had got on so well that he
was very, very stout, and when he sat
on a chair it was thus (_her hands meeting
in front of her_)--as if he were holding
his success together. That is what you
are working for, Harry. You will have
that and the half million about the same
time.

SIR HARRY (_who has surely been very patient_).
Will you please to leave my house.

KATE (_putting on her gloves, soiled things_).
But don't let us part in anger. How do
you think I am looking, Harry, compared
to the dull, inert thing that used to roll
round in your padded carriages?

SIR HARRY (_in masterly fashion_). I forget
what you were like. I'm very sure you
never could have held a candle to the
present Lady Sims.

KATE. That is a picture of her, is it
not?

SIR HARRY (_seizing his chance again_). In
her wedding-gown. Painted by an R.A.

KATE (_wickedly_). A knight?

SIR HARRY (_deceived_). Yes.

KATE (_who likes_ LADY SIMS: _a piece of presumption
on her part_). It is a very pretty
face.

SIR HARRY (_with the pride of possession_).
Acknowledged to be a beauty everywhere.

KATE. There is a merry look in the eyes, and
character in the chin.

SIR HARRY (_like an auctioneer_). Noted for
her wit.

KATE. All her life before her when that was
painted. It is a _spirituelle_ face too.
(_Suddenly she turns on him with anger,
for the first and only time in the play._)
Oh, Harry, you brute!

SIR HARRY (_staggered_). Eh? What?

KATE. That dear creature capable of becoming
a noble wife and mother--she is
the spiritless woman of no account that
I saw here a few minutes ago. I forgive
you for myself, for I escaped, but that
poor lost soul, oh, Harry, Harry.

SIR HARRY (_waving her to the door_). I'll
thank you--  If ever there was a woman
proud of her husband and happy in her
married life, that woman is Lady Sims.

KATE. I wonder.

SIR HARRY. Then you needn't wonder.

KATE (_slowly_). If I was a husband--it is my
advice to all of them--I would often
watch my wife quietly to see whether
the twelve-pound look was not coming
into her eyes. Two boys, did you say,
and both like you?

SIR HARRY. What is that to you?

KATE (_with glistening eyes_). I was only
thinking that somewhere there are two
little girls who, when they grow up--the
dear, pretty girls who are all meant for
the men that don't get on! Well, good-bye,
Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY (_showing a little human weakness, it
is to be feared_). Say first that you're sorry.

KATE. For what?

SIR HARRY. That you left me. Say you
regret it bitterly. You know you do.
(_She smiles and shakes her head. He is
pettish. He makes a terrible announcement._)
You have spoilt the day for me.

KATE (_to hearten him_). I am sorry for that;
but it is only a pin-prick, Harry. I
suppose it is a little jarring in the moment
of your triumph to find that there is--one
old friend--who does not think you
a success; but you will soon forget it.
Who cares what a typist thinks?

SIR HARRY (_heartened_). Nobody. A typist
at eighteen shillings a week!

KATE (_proudly_). Not a bit of it, Harry. I
double that.

SIR HARRY (_neatly_). Magnificent!

    (_There is a timid knock at the door._)

LADY SIMS. May I come in?

SIR HARRY (_rather appealingly_). It is Lady
Sims.

KATE. I won't tell. She is afraid to come into
her husband's room without knocking!

SIR HARRY. She is not. (_Uxoriously_) Come
in, dearest. (_Dearest enters carrying the
sword. She might have had the sense not to
bring it in while this annoying person is
here._)

LADY SIMS (_thinking she has brought her welcome
with her_). Harry, the sword has
come.

SIR HARRY (_who will dote on it presently_).
Oh, all right.

LADY SIMS. But I thought you were so eager
to practise with it.

    (_The person smiles at this. He wishes
    he had not looked to see if she was
    smiling._)

SIR HARRY (_sharply_). Put it down.

    (_LADY SIMS flushes a little as she lays
    the sword aside._)

KATE (_with her confounded courtesy_). It is a
beautiful sword, if I may say so.

LADY SIMS (_helped_). Yes.

    (_The person thinks she can put him in
    the wrong, does she? He'll show
    her._)

SIR HARRY (_with one eye on_ KATE). Emmy,
the one thing your neck needs is more
jewels.

LADY SIMS (_faltering_). More!

SIR HARRY. Some ropes of pearls. I'll see
to it. It's a bagatelle to me. (KATE
_conceals her chagrin, so she had better be
shown the door. He rings._) I won't
detain you any longer, miss.

KATE. Thank you.

LADY SIMS. Going already? You have
been very quick.

SIR HARRY. The person doesn't suit, Emmy.

LADY SIMS. I'm sorry.

KATE. So am I, madam, but it can't be
helped. Good-bye, your ladyship--good-bye,
Sir Harry. (_There is a suspicion of
an impertinent curtsy, and she is escorted
off the premises by_ TOMBES. _The air of the
room is purified by her going._ SIR HARRY
_notices it at once._)

LADY SIMS (_whose tendency is to say the
wrong thing_). She seemed such a capable
woman.

SIR HARRY (_on his hearth_). I don't like her
style at all.

LADY SIMS (_meekly_). Of course you know
best. (_This is the right kind of woman._)

SIR HARRY (_rather anxious for corroboration_).
Lord, how she winced when I said I was
to give you those ropes of pearls.

LADY SIMS. Did she? I didn't notice. I
suppose so.

SIR HARRY (_frowning_). Suppose? Surely
I know enough about women to know
that.

LADY SIMS. Yes, oh yes.

SIR HARRY. (_Odd that so confident a man should
ask this._) Emmy, I know you well, don't
I? I can read you like a book, eh?

LADY SIMS (_nervously_). Yes, Harry.

SIR HARRY (_jovially, but with an inquiring
eye_). What a different existence yours is
from that poor lonely wretch's.

LADY SIMS. Yes, but she has a very contented
face.

SIR HARRY (_with a stamp of his foot_). All put
on. What?

LADY SIMS (_timidly_). I didn't say anything.

SIR HARRY (_snapping_). One would think you
envied her.

LADY SIMS. Envied? Oh no--but I thought
she looked so alive. It was while she
was working the machine.

SIR HARRY. Alive! That's no life. It is
you that are alive. (_Curtly_) I'm busy,
Emmy. (_He sits at his writing-table._)

LADY SIMS (_dutifully_). I'm sorry; I'll go,
Harry. (_Inconsequentially_) Are they very
expensive?

SIR HARRY. What?

LADY SIMS. Those machines?

    (_When she has gone the possible
    meaning of her question startles him.
    The curtain hides him from us, but
    we may be sure that he will soon be
    bland again. We have a comfortable
    feeling, you and I, that there
    is nothing of_ HARRY SIMS _in us._)




ROSALIND


_Two middle-aged ladies are drinking tea in
the parlour of a cottage by the sea. It is
far from London, and a hundred yards from
the cry of children, of whom middle-aged ladies
have often had enough. Were the room_ MRS.
PAGE'S _we should make a journey through it
in search of character, but she is only a bird
of passage; nothing of herself here that has
not strayed from her bedroom except some
cushions and rugs: touches of character after
all maybe, for they suggest that_ MRS. PAGE
_likes to sit soft._

_The exterior of the cottage is probably
picturesque, with a thatched roof, but we shall
never know for certain, it being against the
rules of the game to step outside and look. The
old bowed window of the parlour is of the engaging
kind that still brings some carriage folk
to a sudden stop in villages, not necessarily to
sample the sweets of yester-year exposed within
in bottles; its panes are leaded; but_ MRS.
QUICKLY _will put something more modern in
their place if ever her ship comes home. They
will then be used as the roof of the hen-coop, and
ultimately some lovely lady, given, like the
chickens, to 'picking up things,' may survey
the world through them from a window in
Mayfair. The parlour is, by accident, like some
woman's face that scores by being out of drawing.
At present the window is her smile, but
one cannot fix features to the haphazard floor,
nor to the irregular walls, which nevertheless
are part of the invitation to come and stay
here. There are two absurd steps leading
up to_ MRS. PAGE'S _bedroom, and perhaps
they are what give the room its_ retrousse
_touch. There is a smell of sea-weed; twice
a day Neptune comes gallantly to the window
and hands_ MRS. PAGE _the smell of sea-weed.
He knows probably that she does not like to
have to go far for her sea-weed. Perhaps he
also suspects her to be something of a spark,
and looks forward to his evening visits, of
which we know nothing._

_This is a mere suggestion that there may
be more in_ MRS. PAGE _(when the moon is up,
say) than meets the eye, but we see at present
only what does meet the eye as she gossips
with her landlady at the tea-table. Is she
good-looking? is the universal shriek; the
one question on the one subject that really
thrills humanity. But the question seems
beside the point about this particular lady, who
has so obviously ceased to have any interest
in the answer. To us who have a few moments
to sum her up while she is still at the tea-table
(just time enough for sharp ones to form a
wrong impression), she is an indolent, sloppy
thing, this_ MRS. PAGE _of London, decidedly too
plump, and averse to pulling the strings that
might contract her; as_ MRS. QUICKLY _may
have said, she has let her figure go and snapped
her fingers at it as it went. Her hair is braided
back at a minimum of labour (and the brush
has been left on the parlour mantelpiece). She
wears at tea-time a loose and dowdy dressing-gown
and large flat slippers. Such a lazy
woman (shall we venture?) that if she were a
beggar and you offered her alms, she would ask
you to put them in her pocket for her._

_Yet we notice, as contrary to her type, that
she is not only dowdy but self-consciously
enamoured of her dowdiness, has a kiss for
it so to speak. This is odd, and perhaps we
had better have another look at her. The
thing waggling gaily beneath the table is one
of her feet, from which the sprawling slipper
has dropped, to remain where it fell. It is
an uncommonly pretty foot, and one instantly
wonders what might not the rest of her be like
if it also escaped from its moorings._

_The foot returns into custody, without its
owner having to stoop, and_ MRS. PAGE _crosses
with cheerful languor to a chair by the fire.
She has a drawling walk that fits her gown.
There is no footstool within reach, and she
pulls another chair to her with her feet and
rests them on it contentedly. The slippers
almost hide her from our view._

DAME QUICKLY. You Mrs. Cosy Comfort.

MRS. PAGE (_whose voice is as lazy as her
walk_). That's what I am. Perhaps
a still better name for me would be
Mrs. Treacly Contentment. Dame, you
like me, don't you? Come here, and
tell me why.

DAME. What do I like you for, Mrs. Page?
Well, for one thing, its very kind of
you to let me sit here drinking tea and
gossiping with you, for all the world as
if I were your equal. And for another,
you always pay your book the day I
bring it to you, and that is enough to
make any poor woman like her lodger.

MRS. PAGE. Oh, as a lodger I know I'm
well enough, and I love our gossips over
the tea-pot, but that is not exactly what
I meant. Let me put it in this way:
If you tell me what you most envy in
me, I shall tell you what I most envy in
you.

DAME (_with no need to reflect_). Well, most
of all, ma'am, I think I envy you your
contentment with middle-age.

MRS. PAGE (_purring_). I am middle-aged, so
why should I complain of it?

DAME (_who feels that only yesterday she was
driving the youths to desperation_). You
even say it as if it were a pretty word.

MRS. PAGE. But isn't it?

DAME. Not when you are up to the knees in
it, as I am.

MRS. PAGE. And as I am. But I dote on it.
It is such a comfy, sloppy, pull-the-curtains,
carpet-slipper sort of word. When
I wake in the morning, Dame, and am
about to leap out of bed like the girl I
once was, I suddenly remember, and I
cry 'Hurrah, I'm middle-aged.'

DAME. You just dumbfounder me when you
tell me things like that. (_Here is something
she has long wanted to ask._) You
can't be more than forty, if I may make
so bold?

MRS. PAGE. I am forty and a bittock, as the
Scotch say. That means forty, and a
good wee bit more.

DAME. There! And you can say it without
blinking.

MRS. PAGE. Why not? Do you think I
should call myself a 30-to-45, like a
motor-car? Now what I think I
envy you for most is for being a grandmamma.

DAME (_smiling tolerantly at some picture the
words have called up_). That's a cheap
honour.

MRS. PAGE (_summing up probably her whole
conception of the duties of a grandmother_).
I should love to be a grandmamma, and
toss little toddlekins in the air.

DAME (_who knows that there is more in it than
that_). I dare say you will be some day.

    (_The eyes of both turn to a photograph
    on the mantelpiece. It represents
    a pretty woman in the dress of Rosalind.
    The_ DAME _fingers it for the
    hundredth time, and_ MRS. PAGE
    _regards her tranquilly._)

DAME. No one can deny but your daughter
is a pretty piece. How old will she be
now?

MRS. PAGE. Dame, I don't know very
much about the stage, but I do know
that you should never, never ask an
actress's age.

DAME. Surely when they are as young and
famous as this puss is.

MRS. PAGE. She is getting on, you know.
Shall we say twenty-three?

DAME. Well, well, it's true you might be
a grandmother by now. I wonder she
doesn't marry. Where is she now?

MRS. PAGE. At Monte Carlo, the papers say.
It is a place where people gamble.

DAME (_shaking her head_). Gamble? Dear,
dear, that's terrible. (_But she knows of
a woman who once won a dinner service
without anything untoward happening afterwards._)
And yet I would like just once
to put on my shilling with the best of
them. If I were you I would try a
month of that place with her.

MRS. PAGE. Not I, I am just Mrs. Cosy Comfort.
At Monte Carlo I should be a fish
out of water, Dame, as much as Beatrice
would be if she were to try a month down
here with me.

DAME (_less in disparagement of local society
than of that sullen bore the sea, and blissfully
unaware that it intrudes even at
Monte Carlo_). Yes, I'm thinking she
would find this a dull hole. (_In the
spirit of adventure that has carried the
English far_) And yet, play-actress
though she be, I would like to see her,
God forgive me.

    (_She is trimming the lamp when there
    is a knock at the door. She is
    pleasantly flustered, and indicates
    with a gesture that something is constantly
    happening in this go-ahead
    village._)

DAME. It has a visitor's sound.

    (_The lodger is so impressed that she
    takes her feet off the chair. Thus
    may_ MRS. QUICKLY'S _ancestors have
    stared at each other in this very
    cottage a hundred years ago when
    they thought they heard Napoleon
    tapping._)

MRS. PAGE (_keeping her head_). If it is the
doctor's lady, she wants to arrange
with me about the cutting out for the
mothers' meeting.

DAME (_who has long ceased to benefit from
these gatherings_). Drat the mothers'
meetings.

MRS. PAGE. Oh no, I dote on them. (_She
is splendidly active; in short, the spirited
woman has got up._) Still, I want my
evening snooze now, so just tell her I am
lying down.

DAME (_thankful to be in a plot_). I will.

MRS. PAGE. Yes, but let me lie down first,
so that it won't be a fib.

DAME. There, there. That's such a middle-aged
thing to say.

    (_In the most middle-aged way_ MRS.
    PAGE _spreads herself on a couch.
    They have been speaking in a
    whisper, and as the_ DAME _goes to the
    door we have just time to take note
    that_ MRS. QUICKLY _whispered most
    beautifully: a softer whisper than
    the_ DAME's, _but so clear that it might
    be heard across a field. This is the
    most tell-tale thing we have discovered
    about her as yet._

    _Before_ MRS. QUICKLY _has reached the
    door it opens to admit an impatient
    young man in knickerbockers and a
    Norfolk jacket, all aglow with rain-drops.
    Public school (and the particular
    one) is written on his forehead,
    and almost nothing else; he has
    scarcely yet begun to surmise that anything
    else may be required. He is
    modest and clear-eyed, and would ring
    for his tub in Paradise; reputably
    athletic also, with an instant smile
    always in reserve for the antagonist
    who accidentally shins him. Whatever
    you, as his host, ask him to do, he says
    he would like to awfully if you don't
    mind his being a priceless duffer at it;
    his vocabulary is scanty, and in his
    engaging mouth 'priceless' sums up
    all that is to be known of good or ill
    in our varied existence; at a pinch it
    would suffice him for most of his simple
    wants, just as one may traverse the
    Continent with_ Combien? _His brain
    is quite as good as another's, but as yet
    he has referred scarcely anything to
    it. He respects learning in the aged,
    but shrinks uncomfortably from it in
    contemporaries, as persons who have
    somehow failed. To him the proper
    way to look upon ability is as something
    we must all come to in the end.
    He has a nice taste in the arts that
    has come to him by the way of socks,
    spats and slips, and of these he has
    a large and happy collection, which
    he laughs at jollily in public (for his
    sense of humour is sufficient), but in the
    privacy of his chamber he sometimes
    spreads them out like troutlet on the
    river's bank and has his quiet thrills of
    exultation. Having lately left Oxford,
    he is facing the world confidently with
    nothing to impress it except these
    and his Fives Choice (having beaten
    Hon. Billy Minhorn in the final).
    He has not yet decided whether to drop
    into business or diplomacy or the bar.
    (There will be a lot of fag about this);
    and all unknown to him there is a grim
    piece of waste land waiting for him in
    Canada, which he will make a hash
    of, or it will make a man of him.
    Billy will be there too._)

CHARLES (_on the threshold_). I beg your pardon
awfully, but I knocked three times.

DAME (_liking the manner of him, and indeed
it is the nicest manner in the world_).
What's your pleasure?

CHARLES. You see how jolly wet my things
are. (_These boys get on delightful terms of
intimacy at once._) I am on a walking tour--not
that I have walked much--(_they never
boast; he has really walked well and far_)--and
I got caught in that shower. I
thought when I saw a house that you
might be kind enough to let me take
my jacket off and warm my paws, until
I can catch a train.

DAME (_unable to whisper to_ MRS. PAGE _'He
is good-looking'_). I'm sorry, sir, but I
have let the kitchen fire out.

CHARLES (_peeping over her shoulder_). This
fire----?

DAME. This is my lodger's room.

CHARLES. Ah, I see. Still, I dare say that
if he knew----  (_He has edged farther
into the room, and becomes aware that
there is a lady with eyes closed on the sofa._)
I beg your pardon; I didn't know there
was any one here.

    (_But the lady on the sofa replies not,
    and to the_ DAME _this is his dismissal._)

DAME. The station is just round the corner,
and there is a waiting-room there.

CHARLES. A station waiting-room fire; I
know them. Is she asleep?

DAME. Yes.

CHARLES (_who nearly always gets round them
when he pouts_). Then can't I stay? I
won't disturb her.

DAME (_obdurate_). I'm sorry.

CHARLES (_cheerily--he will probably do well
on that fruit-farm_). Heigho! Well, here
is for the station waiting-room.

    (_And he is about to go when_ MRS.
    PAGE _signs to the_ DAME _that he may
    stay. We have given the talk between
    the_ DAME _and_ CHARLES _in
    order to get it over, but our sterner
    eye is all the time on_ MRS. PAGE.
    _Her eyes remain closed as if in sleep
    and she is lying an the sofa, yet for the
    first time since the curtain rose she
    has come to life. As if she knew we
    were watching her she is again inert,
    but there was a twitch of the mouth a
    moment ago that let a sunbeam loose
    upon her face. It is gone already,
    popped out of the box and returned
    to it with the speed of thought. Noticeable
    as is_ MRS. PAGE's _mischievous
    smile, far more noticeable is her
    control of it. A sudden thought
    occurs to us that the face we had
    thought stolid is made of elastic._)

DAME (_cleverly_). After all, if you're willing
just to sit quietly by the fire and take
a book----

CHARLES. Rather. Any book. Thank you
immensely. (_And in his delightful way
of making himself at home he whips off his
knapsack and steps inside the fender.
'He is saucy, thank goodness,' is what the_
DAME's _glance at_ MRS. PAGE _conveys.
That lady's eyelids flicker as if she had
discovered a way of watching_ CHARLES
_while she slumbers. Anon his eye alights
on the photograph that has already been
the subject of conversation, and he is instantly
exclamatory._)

DAME (_warningly_). Now, you promised not
to speak.

CHARLES. But that photograph. How funny
you should have it.

DAME (_severely_). Hsh. It's not mine.

CHARLES (_with his first glance of interest at
the sleeper_). Hers?

    (_The eyelids have ceased to flicker. It
    is placid_ MRS. PAGE _again. Never
    was such an inelastic face._)

DAME. Yes; only don't talk.

CHARLES. But this is priceless (_gazing at the
photograph_). I must talk. (_He gives his
reason._) I know her (_a reason that would
be complimentary to any young lady_). It
is Miss Beatrice Page.

DAME (_who knows the creature man_). You
mean you've seen her?

CHARLES (_youthfully_). I know her quite well.
I have had lunch with her twice. She
is at Monte Carlo just now. (_Swelling_) I
was one of those that saw her off.

DAME. Yes, that's the place. Read what
is written across her velvet chest.

CHARLES (_deciphering the writing on the
photograph_). 'To darling Mumsy with
heaps of kisses.' (_His eyes gleam. Is
he in the middle of an astonishing adventure?_)
You don't tell me--  Is that----?

DAME (as coolly as though she were passing
the butter). Yes, that's her mother. And
a sore trial it must have been to her when
her girl took to such a trade.

CHARLES (_waving aside such nonsense_). But I
say, she never spoke to me about a mother.

DAME. The more shame to her.

CHARLES (_deeply versed in the traffic of the
stage_). I mean she is famed as being
almost the only actress who doesn't have
a mother.

DAME (_bewildered_). What?

CHARLES (_seeing the uselessness of laying
pearls before this lady_). Let me have a
look at her.

DAME. It is not to be thought of. (_But an
unexpected nod from the sleeper indicates
that it may be permitted._) Oh, well, I
see no harm in it if you go softly.

    (_He tiptoes to the sofa, but perhaps_
    MRS. PAGE _is a light sleeper, for she
    stirs a little, just sufficiently to become
    more compact, while the slippers rise
    into startling prominence. Some
    humorous dream, as it might be,
    slightly extends her mouth and turns
    the oval of her face into a round. Her
    head has sunk into her neck. Simultaneously,
    as if her circulation were
    suddenly held up, a shadow passes
    over her complexion. This is a bad
    copy of the_ MRS. PAGE _we have seen
    hitherto, and will give_ CHARLES _a
    poor impression of her._)

CHARLES (_peering over the slippers_). Yes,
yes, yes.

DAME. Is she like the daughter, think
you?

CHARLES (_judicially_). In a way, very. Hair's
not so pretty. She's not such a fine
colour. Heavier build, and I should say
not so tall. None of Miss Page's distinction,
nothing _svelte_ about her. As
for the feet (_he might almost have said the
palisade_)--the feet----  (_He shudders a
little, and so do the feet._)

DAME. She is getting on, you see. She is
forty and a bittock.

CHARLES. A whattock?

DAME (_who has never studied the Doric_). It
may be a whattock.

CHARLES (_gallantly_). But there's something
nice about her. I could have told she
was her mother anywhere. (_With which
handsome compliment he returns to the
fire, and_ MRS. PAGE, _no doubt much gratified,
throws a kiss after him. She also
signs to the_ DAME _a mischievous desire to
be left alone with this blade._)

DAME (_discreetly_). Well, I'll leave you, but,
mind, you are not to disturb her.

    (_She goes, with the pleasant feeling
    that there are two clever women in
    the house; and with wide-open
    eyes_ MRS. PAGE _watches_ CHARLES
    _dealing amorously with the photograph.
    Soon he returns to her
    side, and her eyes are closed, but
    she does not trouble to repeat the
    trifling with her appearance. She
    probably knows the strength of first
    impressions._)

CHARLES (_murmuring the word as if it were
sweet music_). Mumsy. (_With conviction_)
You lucky mother.

MRS. PAGE (_in a dream_). Is that you,
Beatrice?

    (_This makes him skurry away, but he
    is soon back again, and the soundness
    of her slumber annoys him_).

CHARLES (_in a reproachful whisper_). Woman,
wake up and talk to me about your
daughter.

    (_The selfish thing sleeps on, and somewhat
    gingerly he pulls away the
    cushion from beneath her head. Nice
    treatment for a lady._ MRS. PAGE
    _starts up, and at first is not quite
    sure where she is, you know._)

MRS. PAGE. Why--what----

CHARLES (_contritely_). I am very sorry. I'm
afraid I disturbed you.

MRS. PAGE (_blankly_). I don't know you, do I?

CHARLES (_who has his inspirations_). No,
madam, but I wish you did.

MRS. PAGE (_making sure that she is still in
the_ DAME's _cottage_). Who are you? and
what are you doing here?

CHARLES (_for truth is best_). My name is
Roche. I am nobody in particular. I'm
just the usual thing; Eton, Oxford, and
so to bed--as Pepys would say. I am
on a walking tour, on my way to the
station, but there is no train till seven,
and your landlady let me in out of the
rain on the promise that I wouldn't disturb
you.

MRS. PAGE (_taking it all in with a woman's
quickness_). I see. (_Suddenly_) But you
have disturbed me.

CHARLES. I'm sorry.

MRS. PAGE (_with a covert eye on him_). It
wasn't really your fault. This cushion
slipped from under me, and I woke up.

CHARLES (_manfully_). No, I--I pulled it
away.

MRS. PAGE (_indignant_). You did! (_She
advances upon him like a stately ship_.)
Will you please to tell me why?

CHARLES (_feebly_). I didn't mean to pull so
hard. (_Then he gallantly leaps into the
breach_.) Madam, I felt it was impossible
for me to leave this house without first
waking you to tell you of the feelings of
solemn respect with which I regard you.

MRS. PAGE. Really.

CHARLES. I suppose I consider you the
cleverest woman in the world.

MRS. PAGE. On so short an acquaintance?

CHARLES (_lucidly_). I mean, to have had the
priceless cleverness to have her----

MRS. PAGE. Have her? (_A light breaks
on her._) My daughter?

CHARLES. Yes, I know her. (_As who should
say, Isn't it a jolly world._)

MRS. PAGE. You know Beatrice personally?

CHARLES (_not surprised that it takes her a
little time to get used to the idea_). I assure
you I have that honour. (_In one mouthful_)
I think she is the most beautiful
and the cleverest woman I have ever
known.

MRS. PAGE. I thought I was the cleverest.

CHARLES. Yes, indeed; for I think it even
cleverer to have had her than to be her.

MRS. PAGE. Dear me. I must wait till I
get a chair before thinking this out. (_A
chair means two chairs to her, as we have
seen, but she gives the one on which her feet
wish to rest to_ CHARLES.) You can have
this half, Mr.--ah--Mr.----?

CHARLES. Roche.

MRS. PAGE (_resting from her labours of the last
minute_.) You are so flattering, Mr.
Roche, I think you must be an actor
yourself.

CHARLES (_succinctly_). No, I'm nothing. My
father says I'm just an expense. But
when I saw Beatrice's photograph there
(_the nice boy pauses a moment because this
is the first time he has said the name to her
mother; he is taking off his hat to it_) with
the inscription on it----

MRS. PAGE. That foolish inscription.

CHARLES (_arrested_). Do you think so?

MRS. PAGE. I mean foolish, because she
has quite spoilt the picture by writing
across the chest. That beautiful gown
ruined.

CHARLES (_fondly tolerant_). They all do it,
even across their trousers; the men I
mean.

MRS. PAGE (_interested_). Do they? I wonder
why.

CHARLES (_remembering now that other callings
don't do it_). It does seem odd. (_But after all
the others are probably missing something._)

MRS. PAGE (_shaking her wise head_). I know
very little about them, but I am afraid
they are an odd race.

CHARLES (_who has doted on many of them,
though they were usually not sitting at his
table_). But very attractive, don't you
think? The ladies I mean.

MRS. PAGE (_luxuriously_). I mix so little with
them. I am not a Bohemian, you see.
Did I tell you that I have never even seen
Beatrice act?

CHARLES. You haven't? How very strange.
Not even her Rosalind?

MRS. PAGE (_stretching herself_). No. Is it
cruel to her?

CHARLES (_giving her one_). Cruel to yourself.
(_But this is no policy for an admirer of
Miss Page._) She gave me her photograph
as Rosalind. (_Hurriedly_) Not a
postcard.

MRS. PAGE (_who is very likely sneering_). With
writing across the chest, I'll be bound.

CHARLES (_stoutly_). Do you think I value it
the less for that?

MRS. PAGE (_unblushing_). Oh no, the more.
You have it framed on your mantelshelf,
haven't you, so that when the other young
bloods who are just an expense drop in
they may read the pretty words and say,
'Roche, old man, you are going it.'

CHARLES. Do you really think that I----

MRS. PAGE. Pooh, that was what Beatrice
expected when she gave it you.

CHARLES. Silence! (_She raises her eyebrows,
and he is stricken._) I beg your pardon,
I should have remembered that you are
her mother.

MRS. PAGE (_smiling on him_). I beg yours. I
should like to know, Mr. Roche, where
you do keep that foolish photograph.

CHARLES (_with a swelling_). Why, here. (_He
produces it in a case from an honoured
pocket._) Won't you look at it?

MRS. PAGE (_with proper solemnity_). Yes. It
is one I like.

CHARLES (_cocking his head_). It just misses her
at her best.

MRS. PAGE. Her best? You mean her way
of screwing her nose?

CHARLES (_who was never sent up for good for
lucidity--or perhaps he was_). That comes
into it. I mean--I mean her navet.

MRS. PAGE. Ah yes, her navet. I have
often seen her practising it before a glass.

CHARLES (_with a disarming smile_). Excuse
me; you haven't, you know.

MRS. PAGE (_disarmed_). Haven't I? Well,
well, I dare say she is a wonder, but, mind
you, when all is said and done, it is for
her nose that she gets her salary. May
I read what is written on the chest?
(_She reads._) The baggage! (_Shaking her
head at him_). But this young lady on
the other side, who is she, Lothario?

CHARLES (_boyish and stumbling_). That is my
sister. She died three years ago. We
were rather--chums--and she gave me
that case to put her picture in. So
I did.

    (_He jerks it out, glaring at her to see if
    she is despising him. But_ MRS.
    PAGE, _though she cannot be sentimental
    for long, can be very good at it
    while it lasts._)

MRS. PAGE (_quite moved_). Good brother.
And it is a dear face. But you should not
have put my Beatrice opposite it, Mr.
Roche: your sister would not have liked
that. It was thoughtless of you.

CHARLES. My sister would have liked it very
much. (_Floundering_) When she gave me
the case she said to me--you know what
girls are--she said, 'If you get to love a
woman, put her picture opposite mine,
and then when the case is closed I shall
be kissing her.'

    (_His face implores her not to think him
    a silly. She is really more troubled
    than we might have expected._)

MRS. PAGE (_rising_). Mr. Roche, I never
dreamt----

CHARLES. And that is why I keep the two
pictures together.

MRS. PAGE. You shouldn't.

CHARLES. Why shouldn't I? Don't you
dare to say anything to me against my
Beatrice.

MRS. PAGE (_with the smile of ocean on her
face_). Your Beatrice. You poor boy.

CHARLES. Of course I haven't any right to
call her that. I haven't spoken of it to
her yet. I'm such a nobody, you see.
(_Very nice and candid of him, but we may
remember that his love has not set him
trying to make a somebody out of the
nobody. Are you perfectly certain_,
CHARLES, _that to be seen with the celebrated_
Page _is not almost more delightful
to you than to be with her? Her mother
at all events gives him the benefit of the
doubt, or so we interpret her sudden action.
She tears the photograph in two. He protests
indignantly._)

MRS. PAGE. Mr. Roche, be merry and gay
with Beatrice as you will, but don't take
her seriously. (_She gives him back the case._)
I think you said you had to catch a train.

CHARLES (_surveying his torn treasure. He is
very near to tears, but decides rather
recklessly to be a strong man_). Not yet;
I must speak of her to you now.

MRS. PAGE (_a strong woman without having
to decide_). I forbid you.

CHARLES (_who, if he knew himself, might see
that a good deal of gloomy entertainment
could be got by desisting here and stalking
London as the persecuted of his lady's
mamma_). I have the right. There is no
decent man who hasn't the right to tell a
woman that he loves her daughter.

MRS. PAGE (_determined to keep him to earth
though she has to hold him down_). She
doesn't love you, my friend.

CHARLES (_though a hopeless passion would be
another rather jolly thing_). How do you
know? You have already said----

MRS. PAGE (_rather desperate_). I wish you had
never come here.

CHARLES (_manfully_). Why are you so set
against me? I think if I was a woman
I should like at any rate to take a good
straight look into the eyes of a man who
said he was fond of her daughter. You
might have to say 'No' to him, but--often
you must have had thoughts of
the kind of man who would one day
take her from you, and though I may
not be the kind, I assure you, I--I am
just as fond of her as if I were. (_Not
bad for_ CHARLES. _Sent up for good this
time._)

MRS. PAGE (_beating her hands together in
distress_). You are torturing me, Charles.

CHARLES. But why? Did I tell you my
name was Charles? (_With a happy
thought._) She has spoken of me to you!
What did she say?

    (_If he were thinking less of himself
    and a little of the woman before him
    he would see that she has turned into
    an exquisite supplicant._)

MRS. PAGE. Oh, boy--you boy! Don't say
anything more. Go away now.

CHARLES. I don't understand.

MRS. PAGE. I never had an idea that you
cared in that way. I thought we were
only jolly friends.

CHARLES. We?

MRS. PAGE (_with a wry lip for the word that
has escaped her_). Charles, if you must
know, can't you help me out a little.
Don't you see at last?

    (_She has come to him with undulations
    as lovely as a swallow's flight,
    mocking, begging, not at all the
    woman we have been watching; she
    has become suddenly a disdainful,
    melting armful. But_ CHARLES _does
    not see._)

CHARLES (_the obtuse_). I--I----

MRS. PAGE. Very well. But indeed I am
sorry to have to break your pretty toy.
(_Drooping still farther on her stem._)
Beatrice, Mr. Roche, has not had a
mother this many a year. Do you see
now?

CHARLES. No.

MRS. PAGE. Well, well. (_Abjectly_) Beatrice,
Mr. Roche, is forty and a bittock.

CHARLES. I--you--but--oh no.

MRS. PAGE (_for better, for worse_). Yes, I am
Beatrice. (_He looks to the photograph to
rise up and give her the lie._) The writing
on the photograph? A jest. I can explain
that.

CHARLES. But--but it isn't only on the stage
I have seen her. I know her off
too.

MRS. PAGE. A little. I can explain that
also. (_He is a very woeful young man._)
I am horribly sorry, Charles.

CHARLES (_with his last kick_). Even now----

MRS. PAGE. Do you remember an incident
with a pair of scissors one day last June
in a boat near Maidenhead?

CHARLES. When Beatrice--when you--when
she--cut her wrist?

MRS. PAGE. And you kissed the place to
make it well. It left its mark.

CHARLES. I have seen it since.

MRS. PAGE. You may see it again, Charles.
(_She offers him her wrist, but he does not
look. He knows the mark is there. For
the moment the comic spirit has deserted
her, so anxious is she to help this tragic
boy. She speaks in the cooing voice that
proves her to be Beatrice better than any
wrist-mark._) Am I so terribly unlike
her as you knew her?

CHARLES (_Ah, to be stabbed with the voice you
have loved._) No, you are very like, only--yes,
I know now it's you.

MRS. PAGE (_pricked keenly_). Only I am looking
my age to-day. (_Forlorn_) This is my
real self, Charles--if I have one. Why
don't you laugh, my friend. I am laughing.
(_No, not yet, though she will be presently._)
You won't give me away, will
you? (_He shakes his head._) I know you
won't now, but it was my first fear when
I saw you. (_With a sigh._) And now, I
suppose, I owe you an explanation.

CHARLES (_done with the world_). Not unless
you wish to.

MRS. PAGE. Oh yes, I wish to. (_The
laughter is bubbling up now._) Only it will
leave you a wiser and a sadder man.
You will never be twenty-three again,
Charles.

CHARLES (_recalling his distant youth_). No, I
know I won't.

MRS. PAGE (_now the laughter is playing round
her mouth_). Ah, don't take it so lugubriously.
You will only jump to twenty-four,
say. (_She sits down beside him to
make full confession._) You must often
have heard gossip about actresses' ages?

CHARLES. I didn't join in it.

MRS. PAGE. Then you can't be a member of
a club.

CHARLES. If they began it----

MRS. PAGE. You wouldn't listen?

CHARLES. Not about you. I dare say I listened
about the others.

MRS. PAGE. You nice boy. And now to
make you twenty-four. (_Involuntarily,
true to the calling she adorns, she makes the
surgeon's action of turning up her sleeves._)
You have seen lots of plays, Charles?

CHARLES. Yes, tons.

MRS. PAGE. Have you noticed that there are
no parts in them for middle-aged ladies?

CHARLES (_who has had too happy a life to
notice this or almost anything else_). Aren't
there?

MRS. PAGE. Oh no, not for 'stars.' There
is nothing for them between the ages of
twenty-nine and sixty. Occasionally one
of the less experienced dramatists may
write such a part, but with a little coaxing
we can always make him say, 'She
needn't be more than twenty-nine.' And
so, dear Charles, we have succeeded in
keeping middle-age for women off the
stage. Why, even Father Time doesn't
let on about us. He waits at the wings
with a dark cloth for us, just as our dressers
wait with dust-sheets to fling over our expensive
frocks; but we have a way with
us that makes even Father Time reluctant
to cast his cloak; perhaps it is the
coquettish imploring look we give him
as we dodge him; perhaps though he is
an old fellow he can't resist the powder
on our pretty noses. And so he says, 'The
enchanting baggage, I'll give her another
year.' When you come to write my
epitaph, Charles, let it be in these delicious
words, 'She had a long twenty-nine.'

CHARLES. But off the stage--I knew you off.
(_Recalling a gay phantom_) Why, I was
one of those who saw you into your train
for Monte Carlo.

MRS. PAGE. You thought you did. That
made it easier for me to deceive you here.
But I got out of that train at the next
station.

    (_She makes a movement to get out of the
    train here. We begin to note how she
    suits the action to the word in obedience
    to Shakespeare's lamentable injunction;
    she cannot mention the tongs
    without forking two of her fingers._)

CHARLES. You came here instead?

MRS. PAGE. Yes, stole here.

CHARLES (_surveying the broken pieces of her_).
Even now I can scarcely--  You who
seemed so young and gay.

MRS. PAGE (_who is really very good-natured,
else would she clout him on the head_). I was
a twenty-nine. Oh, don't look so solemn,
Charles. It is not confined to the stage.
The stalls are full of twenty-nines. Do
you remember what fun it was to help
me on with my cloak? Remember why
I had to put more powder on my chin
one evening?

CHARLES (_with a groan_). It was only a few
weeks ago.

MRS. PAGE. Yes. Sometimes it was Mr.
Time I saw in the mirror, but the wretch
only winked at me and went his way.

CHARLES (_ungallantly_). But your whole appearance--so
girlish compared to----

MRS. PAGE (_gallantly_). To this. I am coming
to 'this,' Charles. (_Confidentially;
no one can be quite so delightfully confidential
as_ BEATRICE PAGE.) You see,
never having been more than twenty-nine,
not even in my sleep--for we have to keep
it up even in our sleep--I began to wonder
what middle-age was like. I wanted to
feel the sensation. A woman's curiosity,
Charles.

CHARLES. Still, you couldn't----

MRS. PAGE. Couldn't I! Listen. Two
summers ago, instead of going to Biarritz--see
pictures of me in the illustrated
papers stepping into my motor-car, or
going a round of country houses--see
photograph of us all on the steps--the
names, Charles, read from left to right--instead
of doing any of these things I
pretended I went there, and in reality I
came down here, determined for a whole
calendar month to be a middle-aged lady.
I had to get some new clothes, real, cosy,
sloppy, very middle-aged clothes; and
that is why I invented mamma; I got
them for her, you see. I said she was
about my figure, but stouter and shorter,
as you see she is.

CHARLES (_his eyes wandering up and down
her--and nowhere a familiar place_). I can't
make out----

MRS. PAGE. No, you are too nice a boy to
make it out. You don't understand the
difference that a sober way of doing one's
hair, and the letting out of a few strings,
and sundry other trifles that are no
trifles, make; but you see I vowed that
if the immortal part of me was to get a
novel sort of rest, my figure should get
it also. _Voila!_ And thus all cosy within
and without, I took lodgings in the most
out-of-the-world spot I knew of, in the
hope that here I might find the lady of
whom I was in search.

CHARLES. Meaning?

MRS. PAGE (_rather grimly_). Meaning myself.
Until two years ago she and I had never
met.

CHARLES (_the cynic_). And how do you like
her?

MRS. PAGE. Better than you do, young sir.
She is really rather nice. I don't suppose
I could do with her all the year round,
but for a month or so I am just wallowing
in her. You remember my entrancing
little shoes? (_she wickedly exposes her
flapping slippers_). At local dances I sit
out deliciously as a wall-flower. Drop a
tear, Charles, for me as a wall-flower.
I play cards, and the engaged ladies give
me their confidences as a dear old thing;
and I never, never dream of setting my
cap at their swains.

CHARLES. How strange. You who, when
you liked----

MRS. PAGE (_plaintively_). Yes, couldn't I,
Charles?

CHARLES (_falling into the snare_). It was just
the wild gaiety of you.

MRS. PAGE (_who is in the better position to
know_). It was the devilry of me.

CHARLES. Whatever it was, it bewitched
us.

MRS. PAGE (_candidly, but forgiving herself_).
It oughtn't to.

CHARLES. If you weren't all glee you were
the saddest thing on earth.

MRS. PAGE. But I shouldn't have been sad
on your shoulders, Charles.

CHARLES (_appealing_). You weren't sad on
all our shoulders, were you?

MRS. PAGE (_reassuring_). No, not all.

    Oh the gladness of her gladness when she's glad,
    And the sadness of her sadness when she's sad,
    But the gladness of her gladness
    And the sadness of her sadness
    Are as nothing, Charles,
    To the badness of her badness when she's bad.

    (_This dagger-to-her-breast business is
    one of her choicest tricks of fence,
    and is very dangerous if you can coo
    like Beatrice._)

CHARLES (_pinked_). Not a word against yourself.

MRS. PAGE (_already seeing what she has been
up to_). Myself! I suppose even now I
am only playing a part.

CHARLES (_who has become her handkerchief_).
No, no, this is your real self.

MRS. PAGE (_warily_). Is it? I wonder.

CHARLES. I never knew any one who had
deeper feelings.

MRS. PAGE. Oh, I am always ready with
whatever feeling is called for. I have a
wardrobe of them, Charles. Don't blame
me, blame the public of whom you are
one; the pitiless public that has made
me what I am. I am their slave and
their plaything, and when I please them
they fling me nuts. (_Her voice breaks; no
voice can break so naturally as_ BEATRICE'S.)
I would have been a darling of a wife--don't
you think so, Charles?--but they
wouldn't let me. I am only a bundle
of emotions; I have two characters for
each day of the week. Home became
a less thing to me than a new part.
Charles, if only I could have been a
nobody. Can't you picture me, such
a happy, unknown woman, dancing along
some sandy shore with half a dozen
little boys and girls hanging on to my
skirts? When my son was old enough,
wouldn't he and I have made a rather
pretty picture for the king the day he
joined his ship. And I think most of
all I should have loved to deck out my
daughter in her wedding-gown.

    When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,
    Tying up her laces, looping up her hair--

But the public wouldn't have it, and I
had to pay the price of my success.

CHARLES (_heart-broken for that wet face_).
Beatrice!

MRS. PAGE. I became a harum-scarum,
Charles; sometimes very foolish--(_With
a queer insight into herself_) chiefly
through good-nature I think. There
were moments when there was nothing
I wouldn't do, so long as I was all right
for the play at night. Nothing else
seemed to matter. I have kicked over
all the traces, my friend. You remember
the Scottish poet who

    Keenly felt the friendly glow
      And softer flame,
    But thoughtless follies laid him low
      And stained his name.

(_Sadly enough_) Thoughtless follies laid
her low, Charles, and stained her name.

CHARLES (_ready to fling down his glove in
her defence_). I don't believe it. No, no,
Beatrice--Mrs. Page----

MRS. PAGE. Ah, it's Mrs. Page now.

CHARLES. You are crying.

MRS. PAGE (_with some satisfaction_). Yes, I
am crying.

CHARLES. This is terrible to me. I never
dreamt your life was such a tragedy.

MRS. PAGE (_coming to_). Don't be so concerned.
I am crying, but all the time
I am looking at you through the corner
of my eye to see if I am doing it well.

CHARLES (_hurt_). Don't--don't.

MRS. PAGE (_well aware that she will always
be her best audience_). Soon I'll be laughing
again. When I have cried, Charles,
then it is time for me to laugh.

CHARLES. Please, I wish you wouldn't.

MRS. PAGE (_already in the grip of another
devil_). And from all this, Charles, you
have so nobly offered to save me. You
are prepared to take me away from this
dreadful life and let me be my real self.
(CHARLES _distinctly blanches._) Charles, it
is dear and kind of you, and I accept
your offer. (_She gives him a come-and-take-me
curtsy and awaits his rapturous
response. The referee counts ten, but_
CHARLES _has not risen from the floor.
Goose that he is; she trills with merriment,
though there is a touch of bitterness in it._)
You see the time for laughing has come
already. You really thought I wanted
you, you conceited boy. (_Rather grandly_)
I am not for the likes of you.

CHARLES (_abject_). Don't mock me. I am
very unhappy.

MRS. PAGE (_putting her hand on his shoulder
in her dangerous, careless, kindly way_).
There, there, it is just a game. All life's
a game.

    (_It is here that the telegram comes._
    MRS. QUICKLY _brings it in; and the
    better to read it, but with a glance at_
    CHARLES _to observe the effect on him,_
    MRS. PAGE _puts on her large horn
    spectacles. He sighs._)

DAME. Is there any answer? The girl is
waiting.

MRS. PAGE. No answer, thank you.

    (MRS. QUICKLY _goes, wondering what
    those two have had to say to each
    other._)

CHARLES (_glad to be a thousand miles away from
recent matters_). Not bad news, I hope?

MRS. PAGE (_wiping her spectacles_). From
my manager. It is in cipher, but what
it means is that the summer play isn't
drawing, and that they have decided to
revive _As You Like It._ They want me
back to rehearse to-morrow at eleven.

CHARLES (_indignant_). They can't even let you
have a few weeks.

MRS. PAGE (_returning from London_). What?
Heigho, is it not sad. But I had been
warned that this might happen.

CHARLES (_evolving schemes_). Surely if you----

    (_But she has summoned_ MRS. QUICKLY.)

MRS. PAGE (_plaintively_). Alas, Dame, our
pleasant gossips have ended for this year.
I am called back to London hurriedly.

DAME. Oh dear, the pity! (_She has already
asked herself what might be in the telegram._)
Your girl has come back, and she wants
you? Is that it?

MRS. PAGE. That's about it. (_Her quiet,
sad manner says that we must all dree our
weird._) I must go. Have I time to
catch the express?

CHARLES (_dispirited_). It leaves at seven.

MRS. PAGE (_bravely_). I think I can do it. Is
that the train you are to take?

CHARLES. Yes, but only to the next station.

MRS. PAGE (_grown humble in her misfortune_).
Even for that moment of your company
I shall be grateful. Dame, this gentleman
turns out to be a friend of Beatrice.

DAME. So he said, but I suspicioned him.

MRS. PAGE. Well, he is. Mr. Roche, this is
my kind Dame. I must put a few things
together.

DAME. If I can help----

MRS. PAGE. You can send on my luggage to-morrow;
but here is one thing you might
do now. Run down to the Rectory and
tell them why I can't be there for the
cutting-out.

DAME. I will.

MRS. PAGE. I haven't many minutes.
Good-bye, you dear, for I shall be gone
before you get back. I'll write and settle
everything. (_With a last look round_) Cosy
room! I have had a lovely time.

    (_Her face quivers a little, but she does
    not break down. She passes, a
    courageous figure, into the bedroom.
    The slippers plop as she mounts the
    steps to it. Her back looks older
    than we have seen it; at least such
    is its intention._)

DAME (_who has learned the uselessness of railing
against fate_). Dearie dear, what a pity.

CHARLES (_less experienced_). It's horrible.

DAME (_wisely turning fate into a gossip_).
Queer to think of a lady like Mrs. Page
having a daughter that jumps about for
a living. (_Good God, thinks_ CHARLES_,
how little this woman knows of life._) What
I sometimes fear is that the daughter
doesn't take much care of her. I dare say
she's fond of her, but does she do the little
kind things for her that a lady come Mrs.
Page's age needs?

CHARLES (_wincing_). She's not so old.

DAME (_whose mind is probably running on
breakfast in bed and such-like matters_).
No, but at our age we are fond of--of
quiet, and I doubt she doesn't get it.

CHARLES. I know she doesn't.

DAME (_stumbling among fine words which
attract her like a display of drapery_). She
says it's her right to be out of the hurly-burly
and into what she calls the delicious
twilight of middle-age.

CHARLES (_with dizzying thoughts in his brain_).
If she is so fond of it, isn't it a shame
she should have to give it up?

DAME. The living here?

CHARLES. Not so much that as being middle-aged.

DAME. Give up being middle-aged! How
could she do that?

    (_He is saved replying by_ MRS. PAGE_,
    who calls from the bedroom._)

MRS. PAGE. Dame, I hear you talking, and
you promised to go at once.

    (_The_ DAME _apologises, and is off._
    CHARLES _is left alone with his great
    resolve, which is no less than to do
    one of the fine things of history. It
    carries him toward the bedroom door,
    but not quickly; one can also see
    that it has a rival who is urging him
    to fly the house._)

CHARLES (_with a drum beating inside him_).
Beatrice, I want to speak to you at once.

MRS. PAGE (_through the closed door_). As soon
as I have packed my bag.

CHARLES (_finely_). Don't pack it.

MRS. PAGE. I must.

CHARLES. I have something to say.

MRS. PAGE. I can hear you.

CHARLES (_who had been honourably mentioned
for the school prize poem_). Beatrice, until
now I hadn't really known you at all.
The girl I was so fond of, there wasn't
any such girl.

MRS. PAGE. Oh yes, indeed there was.

CHARLES (_now in full sail for a hero's crown_).
There was the dear woman who was
Rosalind, but she had tired of it. Rosalind
herself grew old and gave up the
forest of Arden, but there was one man
who never forgot the magic of her being
there; and I shall never forget yours.
(_Strange that between the beatings of the
drum he should hear a little voice within
him calling, 'Ass, Charles, you ass!' or
words to that effect. But he runs nobly on._)
My dear, I want to be your Orlando to the
end. (_Surely nothing could be grander. He
is chagrined to get no response beyond
what might be the breaking of a string._) Do
you hear me?

MRS. PAGE. Yes. (_A brief answer, but he is
off again._)

CHARLES. I will take you out of that hurly-burly
and accompany you into the delicious
twilight of middle-age. I shall
be staid in manner so as not to look too
young, and I will make life easy for you
in your declining years. ('_Ass, Charles,
you ass!_') Beatrice, do come out.

MRS. PAGE. I am coming now. (_She comes
out carrying her bag._) You naughty
Charles, I heard you proposing to mamma.

    (_The change that has come over her is
    far too subtle to have grown out of
    a wish to surprise him, but its effect
    on_ CHARLES _is as if she had struck
    him in the face._

    _Too subtle also to be only an affair of
    clothes, though she is now in bravery
    hot from Mdme. Make-the-woman,
    tackle by Monsieur, a Rosalind cap
    jaunty on her head, her shoes so
    small that one wonders if she ever
    has to light a candle to look for her
    feet. She is a tall, slim young
    creature, easily breakable;_ svelte _is
    the word that encompasses her as
    we watch the flow of her figure, her
    head arching on its long stem, and
    the erect shoulders that we seem, God
    bless us, to remember as a little
    hunched. Her eyes dance with life
    but are easily startled, because they
    are looking fresh upon the world,
    wild notes in them as from the woods.
    Not a woman this but a maid, or
    so it seems to_ CHARLES.

    _She has been thinking very little about
    him, but is properly gratified by
    what she reads in his face._)

Do I surprise you as much as that,
Charles?

    (_She puts down her bag,_ BEATRICE
    PAGE'S _famous bag. If you do not
    know it, you do not, alas, know_
    BEATRICE. _It is seldom out of her
    hand, save when cavaliers have been
    sent in search of it. She is always
    late for everything except her call,
    and at the last moment she sweeps
    all that is most precious to her into
    the bag, and runs. Jewels? Oh no,
    pooh; letters from nobodies, postal
    orders for them, a piece of cretonne that
    must match she forgets what, bits of
    string she forgets why, a book given
    her by darling What's-his-name, a
    broken miniature, part of a watch-chain,
    a dog's collar, such a neat
    parcel tied with ribbon (golden gift or
    biscuits? she means to find out some
    day), a purse, but not the right one, a
    bottle of frozen gum, and a hundred
    good-natured scatter-brained things
    besides. Her servants (who all adore
    her) hate the bag as if it were a little
    dog; swains hate it because it gets lost
    and has to be found in the middle
    of a declaration; managers hate it
    because she carries it at rehearsals,
    when it bursts open suddenly like a
    too tightly laced lady, and its contents
    are strewn on the stage; authors
    make engaging remarks about it
    until they discover that it has an
    artful trick of bursting because she
    does not know her lines. If you
    complain, really furious this time,
    she takes you all in her arms. Well,
    well, but what we meant to say was
    that when_ BEATRICE _sees_ CHARLES's
    _surprise she puts down her bag._)

CHARLES. Good God! Is there nothing
real in life.

    (_She curves toward him in one of those
    swallow-flights which will haunt the
    stage long after_ BEATRICE PAGE _is
    but a memory. What they say
    and how they said it soon passes
    away; what lives on is the pretty
    movements like_ BEATRICE'S _swallow-flights.
    All else may go, even the
    golden voices go, but the pretty movements
    remain and play about the stage
    for ever. They are the only ghosts
    of the theatre._)

MRS. PAGE. Heaps of things. Rosalind is
real, and I am Rosalind; and the forest
of Arden is real, and I am going back
to it; and cakes and ale are real, and
I am to eat and drink them again.
Everything is real except middle-age.

    (_She puts her hand on his shoulder in
    the old, dangerous, kindly, too friendly
    way. That impulsive trick of yours,
    madam, has a deal to answer for._)

CHARLES. But you said----

    (_She flings up her hands in mockery;
    they are such subtle hands that she
    can stand with her back to you, and,
    putting them behind her, let them play
    the drama._)

MRS. PAGE. I said! (_She is gone from him
in another flight._) I am Rosalind and I
am going back. Hold me down, Charles,
unless you want me to go mad with
glee.

CHARLES (_gripping her_). I feel as if in the
room you came out of you have left the
woman who went into it five minutes ago.

MRS. PAGE (_slipping from him as she slips
from all of us_). I have, Charles, I have.
I left the floppy, sloppy old frump in a
trunk to be carted to the nearest place
where they store furniture; and I tell
you, my friend (_she might have said
friends, for it is a warning to the Charleses
of every age_), if I had a husband and
children I would cram them on top of
the cart if they sought to come between
me and Arden.

CHARLES (_with a shiver_). Beatrice!

MRS. PAGE. The stage is waiting, the
audience is calling, and up goes the curtain.
Oh, my public, my little dears,
come and foot it again in the forest, and
tuck away your double chins.

CHARLES. You said you hated the public.

MRS. PAGE. It was mamma said that. They
are my slaves and my playthings, and I
toss them nuts. (_He knows not how she
got there, but for a moment of time her head
caressingly skims his shoulder, and she is
pouting in his face._) Every one forgives
me but you, Charles, every one but you.

CHARLES (_delirious_). Beatrice, you unutterable
delight----

MRS. PAGE (_worlds away_). Don't forgive me
if you would rather not,

    Here's a sigh to those who love me,
      And a smile to those who hate.

CHARLES (_pursuing her_). There is no one
like you on earth, Beatrice. Marry me,
marry me (_as if he could catch her_).

MRS. PAGE (_cruelly_). As a staff for my declining
years?

CHARLES. Forget that rubbish and marry
me, you darling girl.

MRS. PAGE. I can't and I won't, but I'm
glad I am your darling girl. (_Very likely
she is about to be delightful to him, but
suddenly she sees her spoil-sport of a bag._)
I am trusting to you not to let me miss
the train.

CHARLES. I am coming with you all the way
(_as if she needed to be told_). We had
better be off.

MRS. PAGE (_seizing the bag_). Charles, as we
run to the station we will stop at every
telegraph post and carve something sweet
on it--'From the East to Western Ind'--

CHARLES (_inspired_). 'No jewel is like Rosalind'--

MRS. PAGE. 'Middle-age is left behind'--

CHARLES. 'For ever young is Rosalind.'
Oh, you dear, Motley's the only wear.

MRS. PAGE. And all the way up in the train,
Charles, you shall woo me exquisitely.
Nothing will come of it, but you are
twenty-three again, and you will have
a lovely time.

CHARLES. I'll win you, I'll win you.

MRS. PAGE. And eventually you will marry
the buxom daughter of the wealthy
tallow-chandler----

CHARLES. Never, I swear.

MRS. PAGE (_screwing her nose_). And bring
your children to see me playing the Queen
in _Hamlet_.

    (_Here_ CHARLES ROCHE, _bachelor, kisses
    the_ famous BEATRICE PAGE. _Another
    sound is heard._)

CHARLES. The whistle of the train.

MRS. PAGE. Away, away! 'Tis Touchstone
calling. Fool, I come, I come. (_To
bedroom door_) Ta-ta, mamma.

    (_They are gone._)




THE WILL


_The scene is any lawyers office._

_It may be, and no doubt will be, the minute
reproduction of some actual office, with all
the characteristic appurtenances thereof, every
blot of ink in its proper place; but for the
purpose in hand any bare room would do just
as well. The only thing essential to the room,
save the two men sitting in it, is a framed engraving
on the wall of Queen Victoria, which
dates sufficiently the opening scene, and will be
changed presently to King Edward; afterwards
to King George, to indicate the passing of time.
No other alteration is called for. Doubtless
different furniture came in, and the tiling
of the fire-place was renewed, and at last some
one discovered that the flowers in the window-box
were dead, but all that is as immaterial
to the action as the new blue-bottles; the
succession of monarchs will convey allegorically
the one thing necessary, that time is
passing, but that the office of Devizes, Devizes,
and Devizes goes on._

_The two men are_ DEVIZES SENIOR _and_
JUNIOR. SENIOR, _who is middle-aged, succeeded
to a good thing years ago, and as the
curtain rises we see him bent over his table
making it a better thing. It is pleasant to
think that before he speaks he adds another
thirteen and fourpence, say, to the fortune of
the firm._

JUNIOR _is quite a gay dog, twenty-three,
and we catch him skilfully balancing an office
ruler on his nose. He is recently from Oxford--_

    If you show him in Hyde Park, lawk, how they will stare,
    Tho' a very smart figure in Bloomsbury Square.

_Perhaps_ JUNIOR _is a smarter figure in the
office (among the clerks) than he was at Oxford,
but this is one of the few things about him that
his shrewd father does not know._

_There comes to them by the only door into
the room a middle-aged clerk called_ SURTEES,
_who is perhaps worth looking at, though his
manner is that of one who has long ceased to
think of himself as of any importance to either
God or man. Look at him again, however
{which few would do), and you may guess that
he has lately had a shock--touched a living
wire--and is a little dazed by it. He brings
a card to_ MR. DEVIZES, SENIOR, _who looks at
it and shakes his head._

MR. DEVIZES. 'Mr. Philip Ross.' Don't
know him.

SURTEES (_who has an expressionless voice_).
He says he wrote you two days ago, sir,
explaining his business.

MR. DEVIZES. I have had no letter from a
Philip Ross.

ROBERT. Nor I.

    (_He is more interested in his feat with
    the ruler than in a possible client,
    but_ SURTEES _looks at him oddly._)

MR. DEVIZES. Surtees looks as if he thought
you had.

    (ROBERT _obliges by reflecting in the
    light of_ SURTEES's _countenance._)

ROBERT. Ah, you think it may have been
that one, Surty?

MR. DEVIZES (_sharply_). What one?

ROBERT. It was the day before yesterday.
You were out, father, and Surtees brought
me in some letters. His mouth was wide
open. (_Thoughtfully_) I suppose that was
why I did it.

MR. DEVIZES. What did you do?

ROBERT. I must have suddenly recalled a
game we used to play at Oxford. You
try to fling cards one by one into a hat.
It requires great skill. So I cast one
of the letters at Surtees's open mouth,
and it missed him and went into the fire.
It may have been Philip Ross's letter.

MR. DEVIZES (_wrinkling his brows_). Too bad,
Robert.

ROBERT (_blandly_). Yes, you see I am out of
practice.

SURTEES. He seemed a very nervous person,
sir, and quite young. Not a gentleman
of much consequence.

ROBERT (_airily_). Why not tell him to write
again?

MR. DEVIZES. Not fair.

SURTEES. But she----

ROBERT. She? Who?

SURTEES. There is a young lady with him,
sir. She is crying.

ROBERT. Pretty?

SURTEES. I should say she is pretty, sir, in
a quite inoffensive way.

ROBERT (_for his own gratification_). Ha!

MR. DEVIZES. Well, when I ring show them in.

ROBERT (_with roguish finger_). And let this
be a lesson to you, Surty, not to go about
your business with your mouth open.
(SURTEES _tries to smile as requested, but
with poor success._) Nothing the matter,
Surty? You seem to have lost your
sense of humour.

SURTEES (_humbly enough_). I'm afraid I have,
sir. I never had very much, Mr. Robert.

    (_He goes quietly. There has been a
    suppressed emotion about him that
    makes the incident poignant._)

ROBERT. Anything wrong with Surtees,
father?

MR. DEVIZES. Never mind him. I am very
angry with you, Robert.

ROBERT (_like one conceding a point in a debating
society_). And justly.

MR. DEVIZES (_frowning_). All we can do is
to tell this Mr. Ross that we have not
read his letter.

ROBERT (_bringing his knowledge of the world
to bear_). Is that necessary?

MR. DEVIZES. We must admit that we don't
know what he has come about.

ROBERT (_tolerant of his father's limitations_).
But don't we?

MR. DEVIZES. Do you?

ROBERT. I rather think I can put two and
two together.

MR. DEVIZES. Clever boy! Well, I shall
leave them to you.

ROBERT. Right.

MR. DEVIZES. Your first case, Robert.

ROBERT (_undismayed_). It will be as good as
a play to you to sit there and watch me
discovering before they have been two
minutes in the room what is the naughty
thing that brings them here.

MR. DEVIZES (_drily_). I am always ready to
take a lesson from the new generation.
But of course we old fogies could do
that also.

ROBERT. How?

MR. DEVIZES. By asking them.

ROBERT. Pooh. What did I go to Oxford
for?

MR. DEVIZES. God knows. Are you ready?

ROBERT. Quite.

    (MR. DEVIZES _rings._)

MR. DEVIZES. By the way, we don't know
the lady's name.

ROBERT. Observe me finding it out.

MR. DEVIZES. Is she married or single?

ROBERT. I'll know at a glance. And mark
me, if she is married it is our nervous
gentleman who has come between her
and her husband; but if she is single it
is little Wet Face who has come between
him and his wife.

MR. DEVIZES. A Daniel!

    (_A young man and woman are shown
    in: very devoted to each other, though_
    ROBERT _does not know it. Yet it
    is the one thing obvious about them;
    more obvious than his cheap suit,
    which she presses carefully beneath
    the mattress every night, or than the
    strength of his boyish face. Thinking
    of him as he then was by the light
    of subsequent events one wonders
    whether if he had come alone his
    face might have revealed something
    disquieting which was not there while
    she was by. Probably not; it was
    certainly already there, but had not yet
    reached the surface. With her, too,
    though she is to be what is called
    changed before we see them again, all
    seems serene; no warning signals; nothing
    in the way of their happiness in
    each other but this alarming visit to
    a lawyer's office. The stage direction
    might be 'Enter two lovers.'
    He is scarcely the less nervous of the
    two, but he enters stoutly in front of
    her as if to receive the first charge.
    She has probably nodded valiantly
    to him outside the door, where she let
    go his hand._)

ROBERT (_master of the situation_). Come in,
Mr. Ross (_and he bows reassuringly to the
lady_). My partner--indeed my father.
(MR. DEVIZES _bows but remains in the
background._)

PHILIP (_with a gulp_). You got my letter?

ROBERT. Yes--yes.

PHILIP. I gave you the details in it.

ROBERT. Yes, I have them all in my head.
(_Cleverly_) You will sit down Miss--  I
don't think I caught the name.

    (_As much as to say, 'You see, father,
    I spotted that she was single at
    once.'_)

MR. DEVIZES (_who has also formed his opinion_).
You didn't ask for it, Robert.

ROBERT (_airily_). Miss--?

PHILIP. This is Mrs. Ross, my wife.

    (ROBERT _is a little taken aback, and has
    a conviction that his father is smiling._)

ROBERT. Ah yes, of course; sit down,
please, Mrs. Ross.

    (_She sits as if this made matters rather
    worse._)

PHILIP (_standing guard by her side_). My wife
is a little agitated.

ROBERT. Naturally. (_He tries a 'feeler.'_)
These affairs--very painful at the time--but
one gradually forgets.

EMILY (_with large eyes_). That is what Mr.
Ross says, but somehow I can't help--  (_the
eyes fill_). You see, we have been married
only four months.

ROBERT. Ah--that does make it--yes, certainly.
(_He becomes the wife's champion,
and frowns on_ PHILIP.)

PHILIP. I suppose the sum seems very small
to you?

ROBERT (_serenely_). I confess that is the impression
it makes on me.

PHILIP. I wish it was more.

ROBERT (_at a venture_). You are sure you
can't make it more?

PHILIP. How can I?

ROBERT. Ha!

EMILY (_with sudden spirit_). I think it's a
great deal.

PHILIP. Mrs. Ross is so nice about it.

ROBERT (_taking a strong line_). I think so.
But she must not be taken advantage of.
And of course we shall have something
to say as to the amount.

PHILIP (_blankly_). In what way? There it is.

ROBERT (_guardedly_). Hum. Yes, in a sense.

EMILY (_breaking down_). Oh dear!

ROBERT (_more determined than ever to do his
best for this wronged woman_). I am very
sorry, Mrs. Ross. (_Sternly_) I hope, sir,
you realise that the mere publicity to a
sensitive woman----

PHILIP. Publicity?

ROBERT (_feeling that he has got him on the
run_). Of course for her sake we shall
try to arrange things so that the names
do not appear. Still----

PHILIP. The names?

    (_By this time_ EMILY _is in tears._)

EMILY. I can't help it. I love him so.

ROBERT (_still benighted_). Enough to forgive
him? (_Seeing himself suddenly as a mediator_)
Mrs. Ross, is it too late to patch
things up?

PHILIP (_now in flame_). What do you mean,
sir?

MR. DEVIZES (_who has been quietly enjoying
himself_). Yes, Robert, what do you mean
precisely?

ROBERT. Really I--(_he tries brow-beating_)
I must tell you at once, Mr. Ross, that
unless a client gives us his fullest confidence
we cannot undertake a case of
this kind.

PHILIP. A case of what kind, sir? If you
are implying anything against my good
name----

ROBERT. On your honour, sir, is there
nothing against it?

PHILIP. I know of nothing, sir.

EMILY. Anything against my husband, Mr.
Devizes! He is an angel.

ROBERT (_suddenly seeing that little Wet Face
must be the culprit_). Then it is you!

EMILY. Oh, sir, what is me?

PHILIP. Answer that, sir.

ROBERT. Yes, Mr. Ross, I will. (_But he
finds he cannot._) On second thoughts I
decline. I cannot believe it has been all
this lady's fault, and I decline to have
anything to do with such a painful case.

MR. DEVIZES (_promptly_). Then I will take
it up.

PHILIP (_not to be placated_). I think your son
has insulted me.

EMILY. Philip, come away.

MR. DEVIZES. One moment, please. As _I_
did not see your letter, may I ask Mr.
Ross what is your business with us?

PHILIP. I called to ask whether you would
be so good as to draw up my will.

ROBERT (_blankly_). Your will! Is that all?

PHILIP. Certainly.

MR. DEVIZES. Now we know, Robert.

ROBERT. But Mrs. Ross's agitation?

PHILIP (_taking her hand_). She feels that to
make my will brings my death nearer.

ROBERT. So that's it!

PHILIP. It was all in the letter.

MR. DEVIZES (coyly). Anything to say,
Robert?

ROBERT.   Most--ah--extremely--  (_He has an
inspiration._) But even now I'm puzzled.
You are Edgar Charles Ross?

PHILIP. No, Philip Ross.

ROBERT (_brazenly_). Philip Ross? We have
made an odd mistake, father. (_There is
a twinkle in_ MR. DEVIZES's _eye. He
watches interestedly to see how his son is to
emerge from the mess._) The fact is, Mrs.
Ross, we are expecting to-day a Mr.
Edgar Charles Ross on a matter--well--of
a kind--  Ah me. (_With fitting gravity_)
His wife, in short.

EMILY (_who has not read the newspapers in
vain_). How awful. How sad.

ROBERT. Sad indeed. You will quite understand
that professional etiquette prevents
my saying one word more.

PHILIP. Yes, of course--we have no desire--But
I did write.

ROBERT. Assuredly. But about a will.
That is my father's department. No
doubt you recall the letter now, father?

MR. DEVIZES (_who if he won't hinder won't
help_). I can't say I do.

ROBERT (_unabashed_). Odd. You must have
overlooked it.

MR. DEVIZES. Ha. At all events, Mr. Ross,
I am quite at your service now.

PHILIP. Thank you.

ROBERT (_still ready to sacrifice himself on the
call of duty_). You don't need me any
more, father?

MR. DEVIZES. No, Robert; many thanks.
You run off to your club now and have
a bit of lunch. You must be tired.
Send Surtees in to me. (_To his clients_)
My son had his first case to-day.

PHILIP (_politely_). I hope successfully.

MR. DEVIZES. Not so bad. He rather
bungled it at first, but he got out of
a hole rather cleverly. I think you'll
make a lawyer yet, Robert.

ROBERT. Thank you, father. (_He goes
jauntily, with a flower in his button-hole._)

MR. DEVIZES. Now, Mr. Ross.

    (_The young wife's hand goes out for
    comfort and finds_ PHILIP's _waiting
    for it._)

PHILIP. What I want myself is that the
will should all go into one sentence, 'I
leave everything of which I die possessed
to my beloved wife.'

MR. DEVIZES (_thawing to the romance of this
young couple_). Well, there have been
many worse wills than that, sir.

    (EMILY _is emotional._)

PHILIP. Don't give way, Emily.

EMILY. It was those words, 'of which I
die possessed.' (_Imploring_) Surely he
doesn't need to say that--please, Mr.
Devizes?

MR. DEVIZES. Certainly not. I am confident
I can draw up the will without mentioning
death at all.

EMILY (_huskily_). Oh, thank you.

MR. DEVIZES. At the same time, of course,
in a legal document in which the widow
is the sole----

    (EMILY _again needs attention._)

PHILIP (_reproachfully_). What was the need
of saying 'widow'?

MR. DEVIZES. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ross.
I unreservedly withdraw the word
'widow.' Forgive a stupid old solicitor.
(_She smiles gratefully through her tears._
SURTEES _comes in._) Surtees, just take a
few notes, please. (SURTEES _sits in the
background and takes notes._) The facts
of the case as I understand, Mrs. Ross,
are these: Your husband--(_Quickly_) who
is in the prime of health--but knows life
to be uncertain----

EMILY. Oh!

MR. DEVIZES. --though usually, as we learn
from holy script itself, it lasts seven times
ten years--and believing that he will in all
probability live the allotted span, nevertheless,
because of his love of you,
thinks it judicious to go through the
form--it is a mere form--of making a
will.

EMILY (_fervently_). Oh, thank you.

MR. DEVIZES. Any details, Mr. Ross?

PHILIP. I am an orphan. I live at Belvedere,
14 Tulphin Road, Hammersmith.

EMILY (_to whom the address has a seductive
sound_). We live there.

PHILIP. And I am a clerk in the employ of
Curar and Gow, the foreign coaling
agents.

MR. DEVIZES. Yes, yes. Any private income?

    (_They cannot help sniggering a little at
    the quaint question._)

PHILIP. Oh no!

MR. DEVIZES. I see it will be quite a brief will.

PHILIP (_to whom the remark sounds scarcely
worthy of a great occasion_). My income is
a biggish one.

MR. DEVIZES. Yes?

EMILY (_important_). He has 170 a year.

MR. DEVIZES. Ah.

PHILIP. I began at 60. But it is going
up, Mr. Devizes, by leaps and bounds.
Another 15 this year.

MR. DEVIZES. Good.

PHILIP (_darkly_). I have a certain ambition.

EMILY (_eagerly_). Tell him, Philip.

PHILIP (_with a big breath_). We have made
up our minds to come to 365 a year
before I--retire.

EMILY. That is a pound a day.

MR. DEVIZES (_smiling sympathetically on
them_). So it is. My best wishes.

PHILIP. Thank you. Of course the furnishing
took a good deal.

MR. DEVIZES. It would.

EMILY. He insisted on my having the very
best. (_She ceases. She is probably thinking
of her superb spare bedroom._)

PHILIP. But we are not a penny in debt;
and I have 200 saved.

MR. DEVIZES. I think you have made a brave
beginning.

EMILY. They have the highest opinion of
him in the office.

PHILIP. Then I am insured for 500.

MR. DEVIZES. I am glad to hear that.

PHILIP. Of course I would like to leave her
a house in Kensington and a carriage and
pair.

MR. DEVIZES. Who knows, perhaps you will.

EMILY. Oh!

MR. DEVIZES. Forgive me.

EMILY. What would houses and horses be
to me without him.

MR. DEVIZES (_soothingly_). Quite so. What
I take Mr. Ross to mean is that when
he dies--if he ever should die--everything
is to go to his--his spouse.

PHILIP (_dogged_). Yes.

EMILY (_dogged_). No.

PHILIP (_sighing_). This is the only difference
we have ever had. Mrs. Ross insists on
certain bequests. You see, I have two
cousins, ladies, not well off, whom I have
been in the way of helping a little. But
in my will, how can I?

MR. DEVIZES. You must think first of your
wife.

PHILIP. But she insists on my leaving 50
to each of them. (_He looks appealingly
to his wife._)

EMILY (_grandly_). 100.

PHILIP. 50.

EMILY. Dear, 100.

MR. DEVIZES. Let us say 75.

PHILIP (_reluctantly_). Very well.

EMILY. No, 100.

PHILIP. She'll have to get her way. Here
are their names and addresses.

MR. DEVIZES. Anything else?

PHILIP (_hurriedly_). No.

EMILY. The convalescent home, dear. He was
in it a year ago, and they were so kind.

PHILIP. Yes, but----

EMILY. 10. (_He has to yield, with a reproachful,
admiring look._)

MR. DEVIZES. Then if that is all, I won't detain
you. If you look in to-morrow, Mr.
Ross, about this time, we shall have
everything ready for you.

    (_Their faces fall._)

EMILY. Oh, Mr. Devizes, if only it could all
be drawn up now, and done with.

PHILIP. You see, sir, we are screwed up to it
to-day.

    (_'Our fate is in your hands,' they might
    be saying, and the lawyer smiles to
    find himself such a power._)

MR. DEVIZES (_looking at his watch_). Well, it
certainly need not take long. You go
out and have lunch somewhere, and then
come back.

EMILY. Oh, don't ask me to eat.

PHILIP. We are too excited.

EMILY. Please may we just walk about the
street?

MR. DEVIZES (_smiling_). Of course you may,
you ridiculous young wife.

EMILY. I know it's ridiculous of me, but
I am so fond of him.

MR. DEVIZES. Yes, it is ridiculous. (_Kindly,
and with almost a warning note_) But
don't change; especially if you get on
in the world, Mr. Ross.

PHILIP. No fear!

EMILY (_backing from the will, which may now
be said to be in existence_). And please
don't give us a copy of it to keep. I
would rather not have it in the house.

MR. DEVIZES (_nodding reassuringly_). In an
hour's time. (_They go, and the lawyer
has his lunch, which is simpler than_
ROBERT's: _a sandwich and a glass of wine.
He speaks as he eats._) You will get that
ready, Surtees. Here are the names and
addresses he left. (_Cheerily_) A nice couple.

SURTEES (_who is hearing another voice_). Yes,
sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_unbending_). Little romance of
its kind. Makes one feel quite gay.

SURTEES. Yes, sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_struck perhaps by the deadness
of his voice_). You don't look very gay,
Surtees.

SURTEES. I'm sorry, sir. We can't all be
gay. (_He is going out without looking at
his employer._) I'll see to this, sir.

MR. DEVIZES. Stop a minute. Is there anything
wrong? (SURTEES _has difficulty
in answering, and_ MR. DEVIZES _goes to
him kindly._) Not worrying over that
matter we spoke about? (SURTEES _inclines
his head._) Is the pain worse?

SURTEES. It's no great pain, sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_uncomfortably_). I'm sure it's
not--what you fear. Any specialist
would tell you so.

SURTEES (_without looking up_). I have been
to one, sir--yesterday.

MR. DEVIZES. Well?

SURTEES. It's--that, sir.

MR. DEVIZES. He couldn't be sure.

SURTEES. Yes, sir.

MR. DEVIZES. An operation----

SURTEES. Too late, he said, for that. If I
had been operated on long ago there
might have been a chance.

MR. DEVIZES. But you didn't have it long ago.

SURTEES. Not to my knowledge, sir; but
he says it was there all the same, always
in me, a black spot, not so big as a pin's
head, but waiting to spread and destroy
me in the fulness of time. All the rest
of me as sound as a bell. (_That is the
voice that_ SURTEES _has been hearing._)

MR. DEVIZES (_helpless_). It seems damnably
unfair.

SURTEES (_humbly_). I don't know, sir. He
says there's a spot of that kind in pretty
nigh all of us, and if we don't look out it
does for us in the end.

MR. DEVIZES (_hurriedly_). No, no, no.

SURTEES. He called it the accursed thing.
I think he meant we should know of it
and be on the watch. (_He pulls himself
together._) I'll see to this at once, sir.

    (_He goes out._ MR. DEVIZES _continues
    his lunch.

    The curtain falls here for a moment
    only, to indicate the passing of a
    number of years. When it rises we
    see that the engraving of Queen
    Victoria has given way to one of
    King Edward._

    ROBERT _is discovered, immersed in
    affairs. He is now a middle-aged
    man who has long forgotten how to
    fling cards into a hat. To him
    comes_ Sennet, _a brisk clerk._ )

Sennet. Mrs. Philip Ross to see you, sir.

ROBERT. Mr. Ross, don't you mean, Sennet?

Sennet. No, sir.

ROBERT. Ha. It was Mr. Ross I was expecting.
Show her in. (_Frowning_)
And, Sennet, less row in the office, if
you please.

Sennet (_glibly_). It was those young clerks,
sir----

ROBERT. They mustn't be young here, or
they go. Tell them that.

Sennet (_glad to be gone_). Yes, sir.

    (_He shows in_ Mrs. Ross. _We have
    not seen her for twenty years and
    would certainly not recognise her in
    the street. So shrinking her first
    entrance into this room, but she sails
    in now like a galleon. She is not so
    much dressed as richly upholstered.
    She is very sure of herself. Yet she
    is not a different woman from the_
    EMILY _we remember; the pity of it is
    that somehow this is the same woman._)

ROBERT (_who makes much of his important
visitor and is also wondering why she has
come_). This is a delightful surprise, Mrs.
Ross. Allow me. (_He removes her fine
cloak with proper solicitude, and_ EMILY
_walks out of it in the manner that makes
it worth possessing_). This chair, alas, is
the best I can offer you.

EMILY (_who is still a good-natured woman if
you attempt no nonsense with her_). It will
do quite well.

ROBERT (_gallantly_). Honoured to see you
in it.

EMILY (_smartly_). Not you. You were saying
to yourself, 'Now, what brings the woman
here?'

ROBERT. Honestly, I----

EMILY. And I'll tell you. You are expecting
Mr. Ross, I think?

ROBERT (_cautiously_). Well--ah----

EMILY. Pooh. The cunning of you lawyers.
I know he has an appointment with you,
and that is why I've come.

ROBERT. He arranged with you to meet him
here?

EMILY (_preening herself_). I wouldn't say that.
I don't know that he will be specially
pleased to find me here when he comes.

ROBERT (_guardedly_). Oh?

EMILY (_who is now a woman that goes straight
to her goal_). I know what he is coming
about. To make a new will.

ROBERT (_admitting it_). After all, not the
first he has made with us, Mrs. Ross.

EMILY (_promptly_). No, the fourth.

ROBERT (_warming his hands at the thought_).
Such a wonderful career. He goes from
success to success.

EMILY (_complacently_). Yes, we're big folk.

ROBERT. You are indeed.

EMILY (_sharply_). But the last will covered
everything.

ROBERT (_on guard again_). Of course it is a
matter I cannot well discuss even with
you. And I know nothing of his intentions.

EMILY. Well, I suspect some of them.

ROBERT. Ah.

EMILY. And that's why I'm here.
Just to see that he does nothing
foolish.

    (_She settles herself more comfortably
    as_ MR. ROSS _is announced. A city
    magnate walks in. You know he is
    that before you see that he is_ PHILIP
    ROSS.)

PHILIP (_speaking as he enters_). How do,
Devizes, how do. Well, let us get at
this thing at once. Time is money, you
know, time is money. (_Then he sees his
wife._) Hello, Emily.

EMILY (_unperturbed_). You didn't ask me to
come, Philip, but I thought I might as
well.

PHILIP. That's all right.

    (_His brow had lowered at first sight of
    her, but now he gives her cleverness
    a grin of respect._)

EMILY. It is the first will you have made
without taking me into your confidence.

PHILIP. No important changes. I just
thought to save you the--unpleasantness
of the thing.

EMILY. How do you mean?

PHILIP (_fidgeting_). Well, one can't draw up
a will without feeling for the moment
that he is bringing his end nearer. Is
that not so, Devizes?

ROBERT (_who will quite possibly die intestate_).
Some do have that feeling.

EMILY. But what nonsense. How can it
have any effect of that kind one way or
the other.

ROBERT. Quite so.

EMILY (_reprovingly_). Just silly sentiment,
Philip. I would have thought it would
be a pleasure to you, handling such a big
sum.

PHILIP (_wincing_). Not handling it, giving it
up.

EMILY. To those you love.

PHILIP (_rather shortly_). I'm not giving it
up yet. You talk as if I was on my last
legs.

EMILY (_imperturbably_). Not at all. It's you
that are doing that.

ROBERT (_to the rescue_). Here is my copy of
the last will. I don't know if you would
like me to read it out?

PHILIP. It's hardly necessary.

EMILY. We have our own copy at home and
we know it well.

PHILIP (_sitting back in his chair_). What do
you think I'm worth to-day, Devizes?

    (_Every one smiles. It is as if the sun
    had peeped in at the window._)

ROBERT. I daren't guess.

PHILIP. An easy seventy thou.

EMILY. And that's not counting the house
and the country cottage. We call it a
cottage. You should see it!

ROBERT. I have heard of it.

EMILY (_more sharply, though the sun still
shines_). Well, go on, Philip. I suppose
you are not thinking of cutting me out
of anything.

PHILIP (_heartily_). Of course not. There will
be more to you than ever.

EMILY (_coolly_). There's more to leave.

PHILIP (_hesitating_). At the same time----

EMILY. Well? It's to be mine absolutely
of course. Not just a life interest.

PHILIP (_doggedly_). That is a change I was
thinking of.

EMILY. Just what I have suspected for days.
Will you please to say why?

ROBERT (_whose client after all is the man_). Of
course it is quite common.

EMILY. I didn't think my husband was quite
common.

ROBERT. I only mean that as there are children----

PHILIP. That's what I mean too.

EMILY. And I can't be trusted to leave my
money to my own children! In what
way have I ever failed them before?

PHILIP (_believing it too_). Never, Emily, never.
A more devoted mother--  If you have
one failing it is that you spoil them.

EMILY. Then what's your reason?

PHILIP (_less sincerely_). Just to save you
worry when I'm gone.

EMILY. It's no worry to me to look after
my money.

PHILIP (bridling). After all, it's my money.

EMILY. I knew that was what was at the
back of your mind.

PHILIP (_reverently_). It's such a great
sum.

EMILY. One would think you were afraid I
would marry again.

PHILIP (_snapping_). One would think you
looked to my dying next week.

EMILY. Tuts.

    (PHILIP _is unable to sit still._)

PHILIP.   My money. If you were to invest
it badly and lose it! I tell you, Devizes,
I couldn't lie quiet in my grave if I
thought my money was lost by injudicious
investments.

EMILY (_coldly_). You are thinking of yourself,
Philip, rather than of the children.

PHILIP. Not at all.

ROBERT (_hastily_). How are the two children?

EMILY. Though I say it myself, there never
were better. Harry is at Eton, you know,
the most fashionable school in the country.

ROBERT. Doing well, I hope.

PHILIP (_chuckling_). We have the most gratifying
letters from him. Last Saturday
he was caught smoking cigarettes with a
lord. (_With pardonable pride_) They were
sick together.

ROBERT. And Miss Gwendolen? She must
be almost grown up now.

    (_The parents exchange important
    glances._)

EMILY. Should we tell him?

PHILIP. Under the rose, you know, Devizes.

ROBERT. Am I to congratulate her?

EMILY. No names, Philip.

PHILIP. No, no names--but she won't be a
plain Mrs., no sir.

ROBERT. Well done, Miss Gwendolen. (_With
fitting jocularity_) Now I see why you
want a new will.

PHILIP. Yes, that's my main reason, Emily.

EMILY. But none of your life interests for
me, Philip.

PHILIP (_shying_). We'll talk that over presently.

ROBERT. Will you keep the legacies as they
are?

PHILIP. Well, there's that 500 for the
hospitals.

EMILY. Yes, with so many claims on us, is
that necessary?

PHILIP (_becoming stouter_). I'm going to
make it 1000.

EMILY. Philip!

PHILIP. My mind is made up. I want to
make a splash with the hospitals.

ROBERT (_hurrying to the next item_). There is
50 a year each to two cousins, ladies.

PHILIP. I suppose we'll keep that as it is,
Emily?

EMILY. It was just gifts to them of 100
each at first.

PHILIP. I was poor at that time myself.

EMILY. Do you think it's wise to load them
with so much money? They'll not
know what to do with it.

PHILIP. They're old.

EMILY. But they're wiry. 75 a year
between them would surely be enough.

PHILIP. It would be if they lived together,
but you see they don't. They hate each
other like cat and dog.

EMILY. That's not nice between relatives.
You could leave it to them on condition
that they do live together. That would
be a Christian action.

PHILIP. There's something in that.

ROBERT. Then the chief matter is whether
Mrs. Ross----

EMILY. Oh, I thought that was settled.

PHILIP (_with a sigh_). I'll have to give in to
her, sir.

ROBERT. Very well. I suppose my father
will want to draw up the will. I'm
sorry he had to be in the country to-day.

EMILY. (_affable now that she has gained her
point_). I hope he is wearing well?

ROBERT. Wonderfully. He is away playing
golf.

PHILIP (_grinning_). Golf. I have no time
for games. (_Considerately_) But he must
get the drawing up of my will. I couldn't
deprive the old man of that.

ROBERT. He will be proud to do it again.

PHILIP (_well satisfied_). Ah! There's many
a one would like to look over your father's
shoulder when he's drawing up my will.
I wonder what I'll cut up for in the end.
But I must be going.

EMILY. Can I drop you anywhere? I have
the greys out.

PHILIP. Yes, at the club.

    (_Now_ Mrs. Ross _walks into her cloak._)

Good-day, Devizes. I won't have time
to look in again, so tell the old man to
come to me.

ROBERT (_deferentially_). Whatever suits you
best. (_Ringing._) He will be delighted.
I remember his saying to me on the day
you made your first will----

PHILIP (_chuckling_). A poor little affair that.

ROBERT. He said to me you were a couple
whose life looked like being a romance.

PHILIP. And he was right--eh, Emily?--though
he little thought what a romance.

EMILY. No, he little thought what a romance.

    (_They make a happy departure, and_
    ROBERT _is left reflecting._)

    _The curtain again falls, and rises immediately,
    as the engraving shows,
    on the same office in the reign of King
    George. It is a foggy morning and
    a fire burns briskly._ MR. DEVIZES,
    SENIOR, _arrives for the day's work
    just as he came daily for over half
    a century. But he has no right to
    be here now. A year or two ago
    they got him to retire, as he was grown
    feeble; and there is an understanding
    that he does not go out of his house
    alone. He has, as it were, escaped
    to-day, and his feet have carried him
    to the old office that is the home of
    his mind. He was almost portly
    when we saw him first, but he has
    become little again and as light as the
    schoolboy whose deeds are nearer to
    him than many of the events of later
    years. He arrives at the office,
    thinking it is old times, and a clerk surveys
    him uncomfortably from the door._

CREED (_not quite knowing what to do_). Mr.
Devizes has not come in yet, sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_considering_). Yes, I have.
Do you mean Mr. Robert?

CREED. Yes, sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_querulously_). Always late.
Can't   get   that   boy   to   settle   down.
(_Leniently_) Well, well, boys will be
boys--eh, Surtees?

CREED (_wishing MR. ROBERT would come_).
My name is Creed, sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_sharply_). Creed? Don't know
you. Where is Surtees?

CREED. There is no one of that name in the
office, sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_growing timid_). No? I remember
now. Poor Surtees! (_But his
mind cannot grapple with troubles._) Tell
him I want him when he comes in.

    (_He is changing, after his old custom,
    into an office coat._)

CREED. That is Mr. Dev--Mr. Robert's coat,
sir.

MR. DEVIZES. He has no business to hang
it there. That is my nail.

CREED. He has hung it there for years, sir.

MR. DEVIZES. Not at all. I must have it.
Why does Surtees let him do it. Help
me into my office coat, boy.

(CREED _helps him into the coat he has taken off, and the old man is
content._)

CREED (_seeing him lift up the correspondence_).
I don't think Mr. Devizes would like you
to open the office letters, sir.

MR. DEVIZES (_pettishly_). What's that? Go
away, boy. Send Surtees.

    (_To the relief of_ CREED, ROBERT _arrives,
    and, taking in the situation, signs to
    the clerk to go. He has a more youthful
    manner than when last we saw him
    has_ ROBERT, _but his hair is iron grey.
    He is kindly to his father._)

ROBERT. You here, father.

MR. DEVIZES (_after staring at him_). Yes, you
are Robert. (_A little frightened._) You
are an old man, Robert.

ROBERT (_without wincing_). Getting on, father.
But why did they let you come? You
haven't been here for years.

MR. DEVIZES (_puzzled_). Years? I think I
just came in the old way, Robert, without
thinking.

ROBERT. Yes, yes. I'll get some one to go
home with you.

MR. DEVIZES (_rather abject_). Let me stay,
Robert. I like being here. I won't disturb
you. I like the smell of the
office, Robert.

ROBERT. Of course you may stay. Come
over to the fire. (_He settles his father by
the fire in the one arm-chair._) There;
you can have a doze by the fire.

MR. DEVIZES. A doze by the fire. That is
all I'm good for now. Once--but my
son hangs his coat there now. (_Then
he looks up fearfully._) Robert, tell me
something in a whisper: Is Surtees
dead?

ROBERT (_who has forgotten the name_). Surtees?

MR. DEVIZES. My clerk, you know.

ROBERT. Oh, why, he has been dead this
thirty years, father.

MR. DEVIZES. So long. Seems like yesterday.

ROBERT. It is just far back times that seem
clear to you now.

MR. DEVIZES (_meekly_). Is it?

    (ROBERT _opens his letters, and his
    father falls asleep._ CREED _comes._)

CREED. Sir Philip Ross.

    (_The great_ SIR PHILIP _enters, nearly
    sixty now, strong of frame still, but
    a lost man. He is in mourning,
    and carries the broken pieces of his
    life with an air of braggadocio.
    It should be understood that he is not
    a 'sympathetic' part, and any actor
    who plays him as such will be rolling
    the play in the gutter._)

ROBERT (_on his feet at once to greet such a
client_). You, Sir Philip.

PHILIP (_head erect_). Here I am.

ROBERT (_because it will out_). How are
you?

PHILIP (_as if challenged_). I'm all right--great.
(_With defiant jocularity_) Called on
the old business.

ROBERT. To make another will?

PHILIP. You've guessed it--the very first
time. (_He sees the figure by the fire._)

ROBERT. Yes, it's my father. He's dozing.
Shouldn't be here at all. He forgets
things. It's just age.

PHILIP (_grimly_). Forgets things. That must
be fine.

ROBERT (_conventionally_). I should like, Sir
Philip, to offer you my sincere condolences.
In the midst of life we are--How
true that is. I attended the funeral.

PHILIP. I saw you.

ROBERT. A much esteemed lady. I had
a great respect for her.

PHILIP (_almost with relish_). Do you mind,
when we used to come here about the
will, somehow she--we--always took for
granted I should be the first to go.

ROBERT (_devoutly_). These things are hid
from mortal eyes.

PHILIP (_with conviction_). There's a lot hid.
We needn't have worried so much about
the will if--well, let us get at it. (_Fiercely_)
I haven't given in, you know.

ROBERT. We must bow our heads----

PHILIP. Must we? Am I bowing mine?

ROBERT (_uncomfortably_). Such courage in
the great hour--yes--and I am sure Lady
Ross----

PHILIP (_with the ugly humour that has come
to him_). She wasn't that.

ROBERT. The honour came so soon afterwards--I
feel she would like to be thought
of as Lady Ross. I shall always remember
her as a fine lady richly dressed
who used----

PHILIP (_harshly_). Stop it. That's not how
I think of her. There was a time before
that--she wasn't richly dressed--(_he
stamps upon his memories_). Things went
wrong, I don't know how. It's a beast
of a world. I didn't come here to talk
about that. Let us get to work.

ROBERT (_turning with relief from the cemetery_).
Yes, yes, and after all life has its compensations.
You have your son who----

PHILIP (_snapping_). No, I haven't. (_This
startles the lawyer._) I'm done with him.

ROBERT. If he has been foolish----

PHILIP. Foolish! (_Some dignity comes into
the man._) Sir, I have come to a pass
when foolish as applied to my own son
would seem to me a very pretty word.

ROBERT. Is it as bad as that?

PHILIP. He's a rotter.

ROBERT. It is very painful to me to hear
you say that.

PHILIP. More painful, think you, than for
me to say it? (_Clenching his fists._) But
I've shipped him off. The law had to
wink at it, or I couldn't have done it.
Why don't you say I pampered him
and it serves me right? It's what they
are all saying behind my back. Why
don't you ask me about my girl? That's
another way to rub it in.

ROBERT. Don't, Sir Philip. I knew about
her. My sympathy----

PHILIP. A chauffeur! that is what he was.
The man who drove her own car.

ROBERT. I was deeply concerned----

PHILIP. I want nobody's pity. I've done
with both of them, and if you think I'm
a broken man you're much mistaken. I'll
show them. Have you your papers there?
Then take down my last will. I have
everything in my head. I'll show them.

ROBERT. Would it not be better to wait
till a calmer----

PHILIP. Will you do it now, or am I to go
across the street?

ROBERT. If I must.

PHILIP. Then down with it. (_He wets his
lips._) I, Philip Ross, of 77 Bath Street,
W., do hereby revoke all former wills
and testaments, and I leave everything
of which I die possessed----

ROBERT. Yes?

PHILIP. Everything of which I die possessed----

ROBERT. Yes?

PHILIP. I leave it--I leave it--  (_The game is
up._) My God, Devizes, I don't know
what to do with it.

ROBERT. I--I--really--come----

PHILIP (_cynically_). Can't you make any suggestions?

ROBERT. Those cousins are dead, I think?

PHILIP. Years ago.

ROBERT (_troubled_). In the case of such a
large sum----

PHILIP (_letting all his hoarded gold run through
his fingers_). The money I've won with
my blood. God in heaven. (_Showing his
teeth._) Would that old man like it to
play with? If I bring it to you in
sacks, will you fling it out of the window
for me?

ROBERT. Sir Philip!

PHILIP (_taking a paper from his pocket_). Here,
take this. It has the names and addresses
of the half-dozen men I've fought
with most for gold; and I've beaten
them. Draw up a will leaving all my
money to be divided between them, with
my respectful curses, and bring it to my
house and I'll sign it.

ROBERT (_properly shocked_). But really I can't
possibly----

PHILIP. Either you or another; is it to be
you?

ROBERT. Very well.

PHILIP. Then that's settled. (_He rises with
an ugly laugh. He regards_ MR. DEVIZES
_quizzically._) So you weren't in at the last
will after all, old Sleep by the Fire.

    (_To their surprise the old man stirs._)

MR. DEVIZES. What's that about a will?

ROBERT. You are awake, father?

MR. DEVIZES (_whose eyes have opened on_
PHILIP's _face_). I don't know you, sir.

ROBERT. Yes, yes, father, you remember
Mr. Ross. He is Sir Philip now.

MR. DEVIZES (_courteously_). Sir Philip? I
wish you joy, sir, but I don't know you.

ROBERT (_encouragingly_). Ross, father.

MR. DEVIZES. I knew a Mr. Ross long ago.

ROBERT. This is the same.

MR. DEVIZES (_annoyed_). No, no. A bright
young fellow he was, with such a dear,
pretty wife. They came to make a will.
(_He chuckles._) And bless me, they had
only twopence halfpenny. I took a
fancy to them; such a happy pair.

ROBERT (_apologetically_). The past is clearer
to him than the present nowadays. That
will do, father.

PHILIP (_brusquely_). Let him go on.

MR. DEVIZES. Poor souls, it all ended unhappily,
you know.

PHILIP (_who is not brusque to him_). Yes, I
know. Why did things go wrong, sir?
I sit and wonder, and I can't find the
beginning.

MR. DEVIZES. That's the sad part of it.
There was never a beginning. It was
always there. He told me all about it.

ROBERT. He is thinking of something else;
I don't know what.

PHILIP. Quiet. What was it that was
always there?

MR. DEVIZES. It was always in them--a spot
no bigger than a pin's head, but waiting
to spread and destroy them in the fulness
of time.

ROBERT. I don't know what he has got hold
of.

PHILIP. He knows. Could they have done
anything to prevent it, sir?

MR. DEVIZES. If they had been on the watch.
But they didn't know, so they weren't
on the watch. Poor souls.

PHILIP. Poor souls.

MR. DEVIZES. It's called the accursed thing.
It gets nearly everybody in the end, if
they don't look out.

    (_He sinks back into his chair and
    forgets them._)

ROBERT. He is just wandering.

PHILIP. The old man knows.

    (_He slowly tears up the paper he had
    given_ ROBERT.)

ROBERT (_relieved_). I am glad to see you do
that.

PHILIP. A spot no bigger than a pin's head.
(_A wish wells up in him, too late perhaps._)
I wish I could help some young things
before that spot has time to spread and
destroy them as it has destroyed me and
mine.

ROBERT (_brightly_). With such a large fortune----

PHILIP (_summing up his life_). It can't be done
with money, sir.

    (_He goes away; God knows where._)



Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press




[End of _Half Hours_ by J. M. Barrie]
