EDWARD. Do other men propose to you?
ALICE. Such a thing may have happened . . when I was young. Perhaps it
might even now if I were to allow it.
EDWARD. You encourage me shamelessly.
ALICE. It isn't everyone who proposes on principle. As a rule a man does
it because he can't help himself. And then to be said no to . . hurts.
_They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of_ MRS. HUGH VOYSEY, _a
brisk, bright little woman, in an evening gown, which she has bullied a
cheap dressmaker into making look exceedingly smart_. BEATRICE _is as
hard as nails and as clever as paint. But if she keeps her feelings
buried pretty deep it is because they are precious to her; and if she is
impatient with fools it is because her own brains have had to win her
everything in the world, so perhaps she does overvalue them a little.
She speaks always with great decision and little effort._
BEATRICE. I believe I could write important business letters upon an
island in the middle of Fleet Street. But while Booth is poking at a
ventilator with a billiard cue . . no, I can't.
_She goes to the fireplace, waving her half finished letter._
ALICE. [_soothingly._] Didn't you expect Hugh back to dinner?
BEATRICE. Not specially. . He went to rout out some things from his
studio. He'll come back in a filthy mess.
ALICE. Now if you listen . . Booth doesn't enjoy making a fuss by
himself . . you'll hear him rout out Honor.
_They listen. But what happens is that_ BOOTH _appears at the door,
billiard cue in hand, and says solemnly_ . .
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Edward, I wish you'd come and have a look at this
ventilator, like a good fellow.
_Then he turns and goes again, obviously with the weight of an important
matter on his shoulders. With the ghost of a smile_ EDWARD _gets up and
follows him_.
ALICE. If I belonged to this family I should hate Booth.
_With which comment she joins_ BEATRICE _at the fireplace_.
BEATRICE. A good day's shopping?
ALICE. 'M. The baby bride and I bought clothes all the morning. Then we
had lunch with Denis and bought furniture.
BEATRICE. Nice furniture?
ALICE. It'll be very good and very new. They neither of them know what
they want. [_Then suddenly throwing up her chin and exclaiming._] When
it's a question of money I can understand it . . but if one can provide
for oneself or is independent why get married! Especially having been
brought up on the sheltered life principle . . one may as well make the
most of its advantages . . one doesn't go falling in love all over the
place as men seem to . . most of them. Of course with Ethel and Denis
it's different. They've both been caught young. They're two little birds
building their nests and it's all ideal. They'll soon forget they've
ever been apart.
_Now_ HONOR _flutters into the room, patient but wild eyed_.
HONOR. Mother wants last week's Notes and Queries. Have you seen it?
BEATRICE. [_exasperated at the interruption._] No.
HONOR. It ought not to be in here. [_so she proceeds to look for it._]
She's having a long argument with Mr. Colpus over Oliver Cromwell's
relations.
ALICE. [_her eyes twinkling._] I thought Auntie didn't approve of Oliver
Cromwell.
HONOR. She doesn't and she's trying to prove that he was a brewer or
something. I suppose someone has taken it away.
_So she gives up the search and flutters out again._
ALICE. This is a most unrestful house.
BEATRICE. I once thought of putting the Voyseys into a book of mine.
Then I concluded they'd be as dull there as they are anywhere else.
ALICE. They're not duller than most other people.
BEATRICE. But how very dull that is!
ALICE. They're a little noisier and perhaps not quite so well mannered.
But I love them.
BEATRICE. I don't. I should have thought Love was just what they
couldn't inspire.
ALICE. Of course, Hugh is unlike any of the others.
BEATRICE. He has most of their bad points. I don't love Hugh.
ALICE. [_her eyebrows up, though she smiles._] Beatrice, you shouldn't
say so.
BEATRICE. It sounds affected, doesn't it? Never mind; when he dies I'll
wear mourning . . but not weeds; I bargained against that when we were
engaged.
ALICE. [_her face growing a little thoughtful._] Beatrice, I'm going to
ask questions. You were in love with Hugh when you married him?
BEATRICE. Well . . I married him for his money.
ALICE. He hadn't much.
BEATRICE. I had none . . and I wanted to write books. Yes, I loved him.
ALICE. And you thought you'd be happy?
BEATRICE. [_considering carefully._] No, I didn't. I hoped he'd be
happy.
ALICE. [_a little ironical._] Did you think your writing books would
make him so?
BEATRICE. My dear Alice, wouldn't you feel it a very degrading thing to
have your happiness depend upon somebody else?
ALICE. [_after pausing to find her phrase._] There's a joy of service.
BEATRICE. [_ironical herself now._] I forgot . . you've four hundred a
year?
ALICE. What has that to do with it?
BEATRICE. [_putting her case very precisely._] I've had to earn my own
living, consequently there isn't one thing in my life that I have ever
done quite genuinely for its own sake . . but always with an eye towards
bread-and-butter, pandering to the people who were to give me that.
Happiness has been my only independence.
_The conservatory door opens and through it come_ MR. VOYSEY _and_ MR.
BOOTH _in the midst of a discussion_.
MR. VOYSEY. Very well, man, stick to the shares and risk it.