II

_The same drawing-room. _Isabel_ enters from the lawn in hat and gloves.

The tea-table is set out, and the footman just lighting the lamp under

the kettle_.

_Isabel_. You may take the tea-things away. I never take tea.

_Footman_. Very good, m’m. (_He hesitates_.) I understood, m’m, that Mr.

Oberville was to have tea?

_Isabel_. Mr. Oberville? But he was to arrive long ago! What time is it?

_Footman_. Only a quarter past five, m’m.

_Isabel_. A quarter past five? (_She goes up to the clock_.) Surely

you’re mistaken? I thought it was long after six. (_To herself_.) I

walked and walked--I must have walked too fast ... (_To the Footman_.)

I’m going out again. When Mr. Oberville arrives please give him his tea

without waiting for me. I shall not be back till dinner-time.

_Footman_. Very good, m’m. Here are some letters, m’m.

_Isabel (glancing at them with a movement of disgust)_. You may send

them up to my room.

_Footman_. I beg pardon, m’m, but one is a note from Mme. Fanfreluche,

and the man who brought it is waiting for an answer.

_Isabel_. Didn’t you tell him I was out?

_Footman_. Yes, m’m. But he said he had orders to wait till you came in.

_Isabel_. Ah--let me see. (_She opens the note_.) Ah, yes. (_A pause_.)

Please say that I am on my way now to Mme Fanfreluche’s to give her the

answer in person. You may tell the man that I have already started. Do

you understand? Already started.

_Footman_. Yes, m’m.

_Isabel_. And--wait. (_With an effort_.) You may tell me when the man

has started. I shall wait here till then. Be sure you let me know.

_Footman_. Yes, m’m. (_He goes out_.)

_Isabel (sinking into a chair and hiding her face)_. Ah! (_After a

moment she rises, taking up her gloves and sunshade, and walks toward

the window which opens on the lawn_.) I’m so tired. (_She hesitates and

turns back into the room_.) Where can I go to? (_She sits down again by

the tea-table, and bends over the kettle. The clock strikes half-past

five_.)

_Isabel (picking up her sunshade, walks back to the window)_. If I

_must_ meet one of them...

_Oberville (speaking in the hall)_. Thanks. I’ll take tea first. (_He

enters the room, and pauses doubtfully on seeing Isabel_.)

_Isabel (stepping towards him with a smile)_. It’s not that I’ve

changed, of course, but only that I happened to have my back to the

light. Isn’t that what you are going to say?

_Oberville_. Mrs. Warland!

_Isabel_. So you really _have_ become a great man! They always remember

people’s names.

_Oberville_. Were you afraid I was going to call you Isabel?

_Isabel_. Bravo! _Crescendo!_

_Oberville_. But you have changed, all the same.

_Isabel_. You must indeed have reached a dizzy eminence, since you can

indulge yourself by speaking the truth!

_Oberville_. It’s your voice. I knew it at once, and yet it’s different.

_Isabel_. I hope it can still convey the pleasure I feel in seeing

an old friend. (_She holds out her hand. He takes it_.) You know, I

suppose, that Mrs. Raynor is not here to receive you? She was called

away this morning very suddenly by her aunt’s illness.

_Oberville_. Yes. She left a note for me. (_Absently_.) I’m sorry to

hear of Mrs. Griscom’s illness.

_Isabel_. Oh, Mrs. Griscom’s illnesses are less alarming than her

recoveries. But I am forgetting to offer you any tea. (_She hands him a

cup_.) I remember you liked it very strong.

_Oberville_. What else do you remember?

_Isabel_. A number of equally useless things. My mind is a store-room of

obsolete information.

_Oberville_. Why obsolete, since I am providing you with a use for it?

_Isabel_. At any rate, it’s open to question whether it was worth

storing for that length of time. Especially as there must have been

others more fitted--by opportunity--to undertake the duty.

_Oberville_. The duty?

_Isabel_. Of remembering how you like your tea.

_Oberville (with a change of tone)_. Since you call it a duty--I may

remind you that it’s one I have never asked any one else to perform.

_Isabel_. As a duty! But as a pleasure?

_Oberville_. Do you really want to know?

_Isabel_. Oh, I don’t require and charge you.

_Oberville_. You dislike as much as ever having the _i_‘s dotted?

_Isabel_. With a handwriting I know as well as yours!

_Oberville (recovering his lightness of manner)_. Accomplished woman!

(_He examines her approvingly_.) I’d no idea that you were here. I never

was more surprised.

_Isabel_. I hope you like being surprised. To my mind it’s an overrated

pleasure.

_Oberville_. Is it? I’m sorry to hear that.

_Isabel_. Why? Have you a surprise to dispose of?

_Oberville_. I’m not sure that I haven’t.

_Isabel_. Don’t part with it too hastily. It may improve by being kept.

_Oberville (tentatively)_. Does that mean that you don’t want it?

_Isabel_. Heaven forbid! I want everything I can get.

_Oberville_. And you get everything you want. At least you used to.

_Isabel_. Let us talk of your surprise.

_Oberville_. It’s to be yours, you know. (_A pause. He speaks gravely_.)

I find that I’ve never got over having lost you.

_Isabel (also gravely)_. And is that a surprise--to you too?

_Oberville_. Honestly--yes. I thought I’d crammed my life full. I didn’t

know there was a cranny left anywhere. At first, you know, I stuffed in

everything I could lay my hands on--there was such a big void to fill.

And after all I haven’t filled it. I felt that the moment I saw you. (_A

pause_.) I’m talking stupidly.

_Isabel_. It would be odious if you were eloquent.

_Oberville_. What do you mean?

_Isabel_. That’s a question you never used to ask me.

_Oberville_. Be merciful. Remember how little practise I’ve had lately.

_Isabel_. In what?

_Oberville_. Never mind! (_He rises and walks away; then comes back and

stands in front of her_.) What a fool I was to give you up!

_Isabel_. Oh, don’t say that! I’ve lived on it!

_Oberville_. On my letting you go?

_Isabel_. On your letting everything go--but the right.

_Oberville_. Oh, hang the right! What is truth? We had the right to be

happy!

_Isabel (with rising emotion)_. I used to think so sometimes.

_Oberville_. Did you? Triple fool that I was!

_Isabel_. But you showed me--

_Oberville_. Why, good God, we belonged to each other--and I let you go!

It’s fabulous. I’ve fought for things since that weren’t worth a crooked

sixpence; fought as well as other men. And you--you--I lost you because

I couldn’t face a scene! Hang it, suppose there’d been a dozen

scenes--I might have survived them. Men have been known to. They’re not

necessarily fatal.

_Isabel_. A scene?

_Oberville_. It’s a form of fear that women don’t understand. How you

must have despised me!

_Isabel_. You were--afraid--of a scene?

_Oberville_. I was a damned coward, Isabel. That’s about the size of it.

_Isabel_. Ah--I had thought it so much larger!

_Oberville_. What did you say?

_Isabel_. I said that you have forgotten to drink your tea. It must be

quite cold.

_Oberville_. Ah--

_Isabel_. Let me give you another cup.

_Oberville (collecting himself)_. No--no. This is perfect.

_Isabel_. You haven’t tasted it.

_Oberville (falling into her mood) _. You always made it to perfection.

Only you never gave me enough sugar.

_Isabel_. I know better now. (_She puts another lump in his cup_.)

_Oberville (drinks his tea, and then says, with an air of reproach)_.

Isn’t all this chaff rather a waste of time between two old friends who

haven’t met for so many years?

_Isabel (lightly)_. Oh, it’s only a _hors d’oeuvre_--the tuning of the

instruments. I’m out of practise too.

_Oberville_. Let us come to the grand air, then. (_Sits down near her_.)

Tell me about yourself. What are you doing?

_Isabel_. At this moment? You’ll never guess. I’m trying to remember

you.

_Oberville_. To remember me?

_Isabel_. Until you came into the room just now my recollection of you

was so vivid; you were a living whole in my thoughts. Now I am engaged

in gathering up the fragments--in laboriously reconstructing you....

_Oberville_. I have changed so much, then?

_Isabel_. No, I don’t believe that you’ve changed. It’s only that I

see you differently. Don’t you know how hard it is to convince elderly

people that the type of the evening paper is no smaller than when they

were young?

_Oberville_. I’ve shrunk then?

_Isabel_. You couldn’t have grown bigger. Oh, I’m serious now; you

needn’t prepare a smile. For years you were the tallest object on my

horizon. I used to climb to the thought of you, as people who live in

a flat country mount the church steeple for a view. It’s wonderful how

much I used to see from there! And the air was so strong and pure!

_Oberville_. And now?

_Isabel_. Now I can fancy how delightful it must be to sit next to you

at dinner.

_Oberville_. You’re unmerciful. Have I said anything to offend you?

_Isabel_. Of course not. How absurd!

_Oberville_. I lost my head a little--I forgot how long it is since we

have met. When I saw you I forgot everything except what you had once

been to me. (_She is silent_.) I thought you too generous to resent

that. Perhaps I have overtaxed your generosity. (_A pause_.) Shall I

confess it? When I first saw you I thought for a moment that you

had remembered--as I had. You see I can only excuse myself by saying

something inexcusable.

_Isabel (deliberately)_. Not inexcusable.

_Oberville_. Not--?

_Isabel_. I had remembered.

_Oberville_. Isabel!

_Isabel_. But now--

_Oberville_. Ah, give me a moment before you unsay it!

_Isabel_. I don’t mean to unsay it. There’s no use in repealing an

obsolete law. That’s the pity of it! You say you lost me ten years ago.

(_A pause_.) I never lost you till now.

_Oberville_. Now?

_Isabel_. Only this morning you were my supreme court of justice; there

was no appeal from your verdict. Not an hour ago you decided a case

for me--against myself! And now--. And the worst of it is that it’s not

because you’ve changed. How do I know if you’ve changed? You haven’t

said a hundred words to me. You haven’t been an hour in the room. And

the years must have enriched you--I daresay you’ve doubled your capital.

You’ve been in the thick of life, and the metal you’re made of brightens

with use. Success on some men looks like a borrowed coat; it sits on you

as though it had been made to order. I see all this; I know it; but

I don’t _feel_ it. I don’t feel anything... anywhere... I’m numb. (_A

pause_.) Don’t laugh, but I really don’t think I should know now if you

came into the room--unless I actually saw you. (_They are both silent_.)

_Oberville (at length)_. Then, to put the most merciful interpretation

upon your epigrams, your feeling for me was made out of poorer stuff

than mine for you.

_Isabel_. Perhaps it has had harder wear.

_Oberville_. Or been less cared for?

_Isabel_. If one has only one cloak one must wear it in all weathers.

_Oberville_. Unless it is so beautiful and precious that one prefers to

go cold and keep it under lock and key.

_Isabel_. In the cedar-chest of indifference--the key of which is

usually lost.

_Oberville_. Ah, Isabel, you’re too pat! How much I preferred your

hesitations.

_Isabel_. My hesitations? That reminds me how much your coming has

simplified things. I feel as if I’d had an auction sale of fallacies.

_Oberville_. You speak in enigmas, and I have a notion that your riddles

are the reverse of the sphinx’s--more dangerous to guess than to give

up. And yet I used to find your thoughts such good reading.

_Isabel_. One cares so little for the style in which one’s praises are

written.

_Oberville_. You’ve been praising me for the last ten minutes and I find

your style detestable. I would rather have you find fault with me like a

friend than approve me like a _dilettante_.

_Isabel_. A _dilettante_! The very word I wanted!

_Oberville_. I am proud to have enriched so full a vocabulary. But I am

still waiting for the word _I_ want. (_He grows serious_.) Isabel, look

in your heart--give me the first word you find there. You’ve no idea how

much a beggar can buy with a penny!

_Isabel_. It’s empty, my poor friend, it’s empty.

_Oberville_. Beggars never say that to each other.

_Isabel_. No; never, unless it’s true.

_Oberville (after another silence)_. Why do you look at me so curiously?

_Isabel_. I’m--what was it you said? Approving you as a _dilettante_.

Don’t be alarmed; you can bear examination; I don’t see a crack

anywhere. After all, it’s a satisfaction to find that one’s idol makes a

handsome _bibelot_.

_Oberville (with an attempt at lightness)_. I was right then--you’re a

collector?

_Isabel (modestly)_. One must make a beginning. I think I shall begin

with you. (_She smiles at him_.) Positively, I must have you on my

mantel-shelf! (_She rises and looks at the clock_.) But it’s time to

dress for dinner. (_She holds out her hand to him and he kisses it. They

look at each other, and it is clear that he does not quite understand,

but is watching eagerly for his cue_.)

_Warland (coming in)_. Hullo, Isabel--you’re here after all?

_Isabel_. And so is Mr. Oberville. (_She looks straight at Warland_.) I

stayed in on purpose to meet him. My husband--(_The two men bow_.)

_Warland (effusively)_. So glad to meet you. My wife talks of you so

often. She’s been looking forward tremendously to your visit.

_Oberville_. It’s a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Mrs.

Warland.

_Isabel_. But now we are going to make up for lost time. (_As he goes to

the door_.) I claim you to-morrow for the whole day.

_Oberville bows and goes out_.

_Isabel_. Lucius... I think you’d better go to Washington, after all.

(_Musing_.) Narragansett might do for the others, though.... Couldn’t

you get Fred Langham to ask all the rest of the party to go over there

with him to-morrow morning? I shall have a headache and stay at home.

(_He looks at her doubtfully_.) Mr. Oberville is a bad sailor.

_Warland advances demonstratively_.

_Isabel (drawing back)_. It’s time to go and dress. I think you said the

black gown with spangles?