SCENE. _The sitting-room of a flat in Knightsbridge. Back: centre,
a fireplace with fire burning; right, a cupboard containing tea
things; left, a tall lacquered screen. Front: a table on which are
illustrated papers and a parcel of books tied with string; a chair to
each side of the table._
_The outside door is heard closing._
DOROTHEA (_without_). Kate!
(_She enters, right, in a fashionable Spring walking costume._)
So I've caught her! Gone at half-past three--
Gone to 'the pictures' with her young man Bill.
I hope she'll not be foolish.... Now for tea.
(_She puts a kettle on the fire and brings a plate of cakes to the
table._)
Ah! So the Mudie books have come--but still
Nothing from James. He really is _too_ shy--
And Mother always whispers when we meet,
'Well, dear, no startling news?' I wish he'd try!
What have they sent me from New Oxford Street?
'Poems,' by Marshlight.... Quite a charming face....
_Four_ portraits!... And how good it is to find
A note that tells the very hour and place
When each mouse-lyric shook that mountain mind!...
And here? Oh Mudie! Sending _this_ to _me_!
'A Bed of Roses. George....' I'll try again....
'Peeled Onions'! Now, whatever might _they_ be?
Of course! New tales by Ethel Colburn Mayne.
How hypodermic! What she does without!
What whittling of mere obvious fact! Indeed
I sometimes tremble when her books come out
For fear there won't be any words to read....
The last two? These--hobnobbing all this time,
Not rent to rags, not mutually destroyed?
For here's that famous work, 'Soul from the Slime,'
By Jung, and here 'Slime from the Soul,' by Freud.
They may be _risqué_ but how up to date--
And James need never know I've read them.... Stop!
Surely? It is! A telegram! Oh, Kate,
You little fool, to dump the books on top!
Reply paid, too.... (_Reading_) 'Wylde, 15 Claridge Hill.
Would you accept me for your husband? James....'
At last!... What answer? If I say I will,
The _Morning Post_ will paragraph our names
With me as 'Dorothea, second child'--
Et cetera--and _The Tatler_, I expect,
Will have a picture, 'Cupid's Bag. Miss Wylde,
Sir James Adolphus Porter's bride-elect,
A well-known figure both where Fashion reigns
And where our young intelligenzia meet....'
But shall I? If he read more, had more brains,
More fire, and just a little less conceit!
A VOICE (_behind the screen_). Marry him at your peril!
DOROTHEA (_not hearing_). He's a man
Of wealth and rank--an O.B.E.--and yet
To marry without love.... Some people can.
THE VOICE. I gave you honest warning. Don't forget!
DOROTHEA (_as before_). Most girls would jump at such an offer. Why
Should I resent so much his pompous air,
His embonpoint?
THE VOICE. It isn't you, but I!
DOROTHEA (_as before_). Or possibly, as Freud and Jung declare,
Far under what we know ourselves to be
Another self lies hidden. Am I, then----