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THE NEW YORK IDEA
[Illustration: LANGDON MITCHELL]
LANGDON MITCHELL
(Born Philadelphia, Pa., February 17, 1862)
The performance of "The New York Idea" at the Lyric Theatre, New York,
on November 19, 1906, was one of the rare, distinguished events in the
American Theatre. It revealed the fact that at last an American
playwright had written a drama comparable with the very best European
models, scintillating with clear, cold brilliancy, whose dialogue
carried with it an exceptional literary style. It was a play that
showed a vitality which will serve to keep it alive for many
generations, which will make it welcome, however often it is revived;
for there is a universal import to its satire which raises it above
the local, social condition it purports to portray. And though there
is nothing of an ideal character about its situations, though it seems
to be all head, with a minimum of apparent heart, it none the less is
universal in the sense that Restoration comedy is universal. It
presents a type of vulgarity, of sporting spirit, that is common in
every generation, whether in the time of Congreve and Wycherley,
whether in the period of Sheridan or Oscar Wilde. Its wit is not
dependent on local colour, though ostensibly it is written about New
York. On its first presentment, it challenged good writing on the part
of the critics. High Comedy always does that--tickles the brain and
stimulates it, drives it at a pace not usually to be had in the
theatre. Is it comedy or is it farce, the critics queried? Is Mr.
Mitchell sincere, and does he flay the evil he so photographically
portrays? Does he treat the sacred subject of matrimony too
flippantly? And should the play, in order to be effective, have a
moral tag, or should it be, what on the surface it appears to be, a
series of realistic scenes about people whom one cannot admire and
does not want to know intimately? Some of the writers found the
picture not to their liking--that is the effect good satire sometimes
has when it strikes home. Yet when Grace George revived "The New York
Idea" in a spirit so different from Mrs. Fiske's, nine years after, on
September 28, 1915, at the Playhouse, New York, the _Times_ was bound
to make the following confession: "A vast array of American authors
have turned out plays innumerable, but not one of them has quite
matched in sparkling gayety and wit this work of Langdon Mitchell's.
And the passing years have left its satire still pointed. They have
not dimmed its polish nor so much as scratched its smart veneer."
The play was written expressly for Mrs. Fiske. Its hard, sharp
interplay of humour was knowingly cut to suit her hard, sharp method
of acting. Her interpretation was a triumph of head over heart. Grace
George tried to read into _Cynthia Karslake_ an element of romance
which is suggested in the text, but which was somewhat
over-sentimentalized by her soft portrayal. There is some element of
relationship between "The New York Idea" and Henry Arthur Jones' "Mary
Goes First;" there is the same free air of sporting life, so
graphically set forth in "Lord and Lady Algy." But the American play
is greater than these because of its impersonal strain.
In a letter to the present Editor, Mr. Mitchell has broken silence
regarding the writing of "The New York Idea." Never before has he
tried to analyze its evolution. He says:
The play was written for Mrs. Fiske. The choice of subject
was mine. I demanded complete freedom in the treatment, and
my most wise manager, Mr. Harrison Grey Fiske, accorded this.
The play was produced and played as written, with the
exception of one or two short scenes, which were not
acceptable to Mrs. Fiske; that is, she felt, or would have
felt, somewhat strained or unnatural in these scenes.
Accordingly, I cut them out, or rather rewrote them. The
temperament of the race-horse has to be considered--much
more, that of the 'star'.
When I was writing the play, I had really no idea of
satirizing divorce or a law or anything specially
temperamental or local. What I wanted to satirize was a
certain extreme frivolity in the American spirit and in our
American life--frivolity in the deep sense--not just a girl's
frivolity, but that profound, sterile, amazing frivolity
which one observes and meets in our churches, in political
life, in literature, in music; in short, in every department
of American thought, feeling and action. The old-fashioned,
high-bred family in "The New York Idea" are solemnly
frivolous, and the fast, light-minded, highly intelligent
hero and heroine are frivolous in their own delightful
way--frivolity, of course, to be used for tragedy or comedy.
Our frivolity is, I feel, on the edge of the tragic. Indeed,
I think it entirely tragic, and there are lines, comedy
lines, in "The New York Idea," that indicate this aspect of
the thing.
Of course, there is more than merely satire or frivolity in
the play: there is the Englishman who appears to Americans to
be stupid on account of his manner, but who is frightfully
intelligent; and there are also the energy and life and vigor
of the two men characters. There is, too, throughout the
play, the conscious humour of these two characters, and of
the third woman, _Vida_. The clergyman is really more
frivolous often and far less conscious of his
frivolity--enough, that I rather thought one of the strongest
things about the play was the consciousness of their own
humour, of the three important characters.
The characters were selected from that especial class, or
set, in our Society, whose ancestors and traditions go back
to colonial times. They are not merely _society_ characters,
for, of course, people in society may lack all traditions. I
mention this merely because my selection of characters from
such a set of people gives the play a certain mellowness and
a certain air which it otherwise would not have. If _Jack_
and _Cynthia_ were both completely self-made, or the son and
daughter of powerful, self-made people, their tone could not
be the same.
The piece was played in England as a farce; and it was given
without the permission of the author or American manager. It
was given for a considerable number of performances in
Berlin, after the Great War began. In the German translation
it was called "Jonathan's Daughter."[A] Our relations with
Germany at the time were strained on account of 'certain
happenings', but, notwithstanding, the play was
extraordinarily well received.
When "The New York Idea" was first published by the Walter Baker Co.,
of Boston, it carried as an introduction a notice of the play written
by William Archer, and originally published in the London _Tribune_ of
May 27, 1907. This critique follows the present foreword, as its use
in the early edition represents Mr. Mitchell's choice.
The writing of "The New York Idea" was not Mr. Mitchell's first
dramatic work for Mrs. Fiske. At the New York Fifth Avenue Theatre, on
September 12, 1899, she appeared in "Becky Sharp," his successful
version of Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," which held the stage for some
time, and was later revived with considerable renewal of its former
interest. Two years after, rival versions were presented in London,
one by David Balsillie (Theatre Royal, Croydon, June 24, 1901) and the
other by Robert Hichens and Cosmo Gordon Lennox (Prince of Wales's
Theatre, August 27, 1901)--the latter play used during the existence
of the New Theatre (New York). Most of Mr. Mitchell's attempts in
play-writing have been in dramatization, first of his father's "The
Adventures of Francois," and later of Thackeray's "Pendennis,"
Atlantic City, October 11, 1916. He was born February 17, 1862, at
Philadelphia, the son of Silas Weir Mitchell, and received his
education largely abroad. He studied law at Harvard and Columbia, and
was admitted to the bar in 1882. He was married, in 1892, to Marion
Lea, of London, whose name was connected with the early introduction
of Ibsen to the English public; she was in the initial cast of "The
New York Idea," and to her the play is dedicated.
MR. WILLIAM ARCHER'S NOTICE OF
"THE NEW YORK IDEA."
... This play, too, I was unable to see, but I have read it
with extraordinary interest. It is a social satire so largely
conceived and so vigorously executed that it might take an
honourable place in any dramatic literature. We have nothing
quite like it on the latter-day English stage. In tone and
treatment it reminds one of Mr. Carton; but it is far broader
in conception and richer in detail than "Lord and Lady Algy"
or "Lady Huntworth's Experiment." In France, it might perhaps
be compared to "La Famille Benoiton" or "Le Monde ou l'on
s'ennuie," or better, perhaps, to a more recent, but now
almost forgotten satire of the 'nineties, "Paris
Fin-de-Siecle."
I find it very hard to classify "The New York Idea" under any
of the established rubrics. It is rather too extravagant to
rank as a comedy; it is much too serious in its purport, too
searching in its character-delineation and too thoughtful in
its wit, to be treated as a mere farce. Its title--not,
perhaps, a very happy one--is explained in this saying of one
of the characters: "Marry for whim and leave the rest to the
divorce court--that's the New York idea of marriage." And
again: "The modern American marriage is like a wire
fence--the woman's the wire--the posts are the husbands.
One--two--three! And if you cast your eye over the future,
you can count them, post after post, up hill, down dale, all
the way to Dakota."
Like all the plays, from Sardou's "Divorcons" onward, which
deal with a too facile system of divorce, this one shows a
discontented woman, who has broken up her home for a caprice,
suffering agonies of jealousy when her ex-husband proposes
to make use of the freedom she has given him, and returning
to him at last with the admission that their divorce was at
least "premature." In this central conception there is
nothing particularly original. It is the wealth of humourous
invention displayed in the details both of character and
situation that renders the play remarkable.
It is interesting to note, by the way, a return on Mr.
Mitchell's part to that convenient assumption of the
Restoration and eighteenth century comedy writers that any
one in holy orders could solemnize a legal marriage at any
time or place, without the slightest formality of banns,
witnesses, registration or anything of the sort. One gathers
that in New York the entrance to and the exit from the holy
estate of matrimony are equally prompt and easy; or that, as
one of the characters puts it, "the church is a regular
quick-marriage counter."
I presume there is some exaggeration in this, and that a
marriage cannot actually be celebrated at midnight, over a
champagne-and-lobster supper, by a clergyman who happened to
drop in. But there can be no doubt that whatever the social
merits or demerits of the system, facility of divorce and
remarriage is an immense boon to the dramatist. It places
within his reach an inexhaustible store of situations and
complications which are barred to the English playwright, to
whom divorce always means an ugly and painful scandal. The
moralist may insist that this ought always to be the case;
and indeed that is the implication which Mr. Mitchell, as a
moralist, conveys to us.
He sacrifices the system of divorce for every trivial flaw of
temper which prevails in the society he depicts; but he no
doubt realizes that his doctrine as a satirist is hostile to
his interest as a dramatist. Restrict the facilities of
divorce and you at once restrict the possibilities of
matrimonial comedy. Marriage becomes no longer a comic, but a
tragic institution.
In order to keep his theme entirely on the comic plane, Mr.
Mitchell has given no children to either of the two couples
whom he puts through such a fantastic quadrille. Law or no
law, the separation of its parents is always a tragedy to the
child; which is not to say, of course, that their remaining
together may not in some cases be the more tragic of the two
alternatives. Be this as it may, Mr. Mitchell has eluded the
issue.
Nor has he thereby falsified his problem, for his characters
belong to that class of society in which, as Mr. Dooley
points out, the multiplication of automobiles is preferred
to that of progeny. But he has not omitted to hint at the
problem of the children, and, as it were, confess his
deliberate avoidance of it. He does so in a touch of
exquisite irony. _John_ and _Cynthia Karslake_ are a couple
devoted, not to automobiles, but to horses. Even their common
passion for racing cannot keep them together; but their
divorce is so "premature," and leaves _John_ so restless and
dissatisfied, that he actually neglects the cares of the
stable. His favourite mare, Cynthia K, falls ill, and when
his trainer brings him the news he receives it with shocking
callousness. Then the trainer meets _Cynthia_ and complains
to her of her ex-husband's indifference. "Ah, ma'am," he
says, "when husband and wife splits, it's the horses that
suffers." I know not where to look for a speech of profounder
ironic implication. More superficial, but still a good
specimen of Mr. Mitchell's wit, is _William Sudley's_ remark
as to _John Karslake_: "Oh, yes, he comes of a very
respectable family, though I remember his father served a
term in the Senate."
Altogether "The New York Idea" is, from the intellectual
point of view, the most remarkable piece of work I have
encountered in America. It is probably too true to the
details of American life to have much success in England; but
the situation at the end of the third act could not fail to
bring down the house even here. It would take too long to
describe it in detail. Suffice it to say that just at the
point where _Cynthia Karslake_ dismisses her second
bridegroom, to return to her first, the choir assembled for
the marriage ceremony, mistaking a signal, bursts forth with
irresistibly ludicrous effect into "The Voice That Breathed
O'er Eden."[B]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: At the Kammerspiel Theatre, Berlin, under the direction
of Max Reinhardt, October 7, 1916. There are translations in Danish,
Swedish and Hungarian.]
[Footnote B: _The Editor takes the occasion to express his thanks to
Mr. William Archer for his kind permission to quote this analysis of
the play._]
LYRIC THEATRE
REGINALD DeKOVEN, Proprietor
SAM S. and LEE SHUBERT (Inc.), Lessees and Managers
NINTH AND LAST WEEK.
BEGINNING MONDAY EVENING. JANUARY 14, 1907.
Matinee Saturday.
Under the Direction of HARRISON GREY FISKE
MRS. FISKE
--AND--
THE MANHATTAN COMPANY
Presenting a Play in Four Acts, Entitled
THE NEW YORK IDEA
BY LANGDON MITCHELL
Cast of Characters.
Philip Phillimore Charles Harbury
Mrs. Phillimore, his mother Ida Vernon
The Reverend Mathew Phillimore, his brother Dudley Clinton
Grace Phillimore, his sister Emily Stevens
Miss Heneage, his aunt Blanche Weaver
William Sudley, his cousin Dudley Digges
Mrs. Vida Phillimore, his divorced wife Marion Lea
Brooks, her footman Frederick Kerby
Benson, her maid Belle Bohn
Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby George Arliss
John Karslake John Mason
Mrs. Cynthia Karslake, his divorced wife Mrs. Fiske
Nogam, his valet James Morley
Tim Fiddler Robert V. Ferguson
Thomas, the Phillimore's family servant Richard Clarke
ACT I--Drawing-Room in the Phillimore house. Washington Square.
_Wednesday afternoon, at five o'clock._
ACT II--Mrs. Vida Phillimore's Boudoir. Fifth Avenue.
_Thursday morning at eleven._
ACT III--Same as Act I.
_Thursday evening, at ten._
ACT IV--John Karslake's House. Madison Avenue.
_Thursday, at midnight._
Scene--New York Time--The Present.
The production staged by Mr. and Mrs. Fiske.
THE NEW YORK IDEA
_A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS_
By LANGDON MITCHELL
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY LANGDON MITCHELL
[This play, copyrighted in 1907, 1908, and published originally by
Walter H. Baker and Co., of Boston, Mass., is fully protected and the
right of representation is reserved. Application for the right of
performing this play may be made to Alice Kauser, 1402 Broadway, New
York, N. Y. The Editor takes this opportunity of thanking Mr. Langdon
Mitchell for his great interest in the compilation of this Collection,
and for his permission to have "The New York Idea" used in it. The
complete revision of the stage directions, especially for this volume,
makes it possible to regard the play, here printed, as the only
authentic version.]
THE PEOPLE.
PHILIP PHILLIMORE, _a Judge on the bench, age 50_.
GRACE PHILLIMORE, _his sister, age 20_.
MRS. PHILLIMORE, _his mother, age 70_.
MISS HENEAGE, _his aunt, age 60_.
MATTHEW PHILLIMORE, _his brother--a bishop, age 45_.
WILLIAM SUDLEY, _his cousin, age 50_.
MRS. VIDA PHILLIMORE, _his divorced wife, age 35_.
SIR WILFRID CATES-DARBY.
JOHN KARSLAKE, _lawyer, politician and racing-man, age 35_.
MRS. CYNTHIA KARSLAKE, _his divorced wife, age 25_.
BROOKS, MRS. PHILLIMORE'S _footman_.
TIM FIDDLER, MR. KARSLAKE'S _trainer_.
NOGAM, _his valet_.
THOMAS, _the family servant of the_ PHILLIMORES, _age 45_.
BENSON, MRS. VIDA PHILLIMORE'S _maid, age 20_.
The following is the Cast for the evening performance at the Lyric
Theatre, New York, Monday, November 19, 1906.
PHILIP PHILLIMORE Charles Harbury.
MRS. PHILLIMORE, _his mother_ Ida Vernon.
THE REVEREND MATTHEW PHILLIMORE, _his brother_ Dudley Clinton.
GRACE PHILLIMORE, _his sister_ Emily Stevens.
MISS HENEAGE, _his aunt_ Blanche Weaver.
WILLIAM SUDLEY, _his cousin_ William B. Mack.
MRS. VIDA PHILLIMORE, _his divorced wife_ Marion Lea.
BROOKS, _her footman_ George Harcourt.
BENSON, _her maid_ Belle Bohn.
SIR WILFRID CATES-DARBY George Arliss.
JOHN KARSLAKE John Mason.
MRS. CYNTHIA KARSLAKE, _his divorced wife_ Mrs. Fiske.
NOGAM, _his valet_ Dudley Digges.
TIM FIDDLER Robert V. Ferguson.
THOMAS, THE PHILLIMORE'S _family servant_ Richard Clarke.
Scene--New York. Time--The Present.
Revived in New York at The Playhouse, Tuesday Evening, September 28,
1915, with the following Cast.
PHILIP PHILLIMORE Lumsden Hare.
GRACE PHILLIMORE Norah Lamison.
MRS. PHILLIMORE Eugenie Woodward.
MISS HENEAGE Josephine Lovett.
MATTHEW PHILLIMORE Albert Reed.
WILLIAM SUDLEY John Cromwell.
MRS. VIDA PHILLIMORE Mary Nash.
SIR WILFRID CATES-DARBY Ernest Lawford.
JOHN KARSLAKE Conway Tearle.
MRS. CYNTHIA KARSLAKE Grace George.
BROOKS Selwyn Joyce.
TIM FIDDLER Tracy Barrow.
NOGAM G. Guthrie McClintic.
THOMAS Richard Clarke.
BENSON Anita Wood.
_To Marion Lea_
THE NEW YORK IDEA
ACT I.
SCENE. _Living-room in the house of_ PHILIP PHILLIMORE.
_Five_ P. M. _of an afternoon of May. The general air and
appearance of the room is that of an old-fashioned, decorous,
comfortable interior. There are no electric lights and no
electric bells. Two bell ropes as in old-fashioned houses.
The room is in dark tones inclining to sombre and of
old-fashioned elegance._
_Seated in the room are_ MISS HENEAGE, MRS. PHILLIMORE _and_
THOMAS. MISS HENEAGE _is a solidly built, narrow-minded woman
in her sixties. She makes no effort to look younger than she
is, and is expensively but quietly dressed, with heavy
elegance. She commands her household and her family
connection, and on the strength of a large and steady income
feels that her opinion has its value._ MRS. PHILLIMORE _is a
semi-professional invalid, refined and unintelligent. Her
movements are weak and fatigued. Her voice is habitually
plaintive and she is entirely a lady without a trace of being
a woman of fashion._ THOMAS _is an easy-mannered, but
respectful family servant, un-English both in style and
appearance. He has no deportment worthy of being so called,
and takes an evident interest in the affairs of the family he
serves._
MISS HENEAGE _is seated at the tea-table, facing the
footlights._ MRS. PHILLIMORE _is seated at the table on the
right._ THOMAS _stands near by. Tea things on table. Decanter
of sherry in coaster. Bread and butter on plate. Vase with
flowers. Silver match-box. Large old-fashioned tea urn. Guard
for flame. "The Evening Post" on tea-table._ MISS HENEAGE
_and_ MRS. PHILLIMORE _both have cups of tea._ MISS HENEAGE
_sits up very straight, and pours tea for_ GRACE, _who enters
from door. She is a pretty and fashionably dressed girl of
twenty. She speaks superciliously, coolly, and not too fast.
She sits on the sofa gracefully and without lounging. She
wears a gown suitable for spring visiting, hat, parasol, and
gloves._
GRACE. [_As she moves to the sofa._] I never in my life walked so far
and found so few people at home. [_Pauses. Takes off gloves. Somewhat
querulously._] The fact is the nineteenth of May is ridiculously late
to be in town.
MISS HENEAGE. Thomas, Mr. Phillimore's sherry?
THOMAS. [_Indicating the particular table._] The sherry, ma'am.
MISS HENEAGE. Mr. Phillimore's _Post_?
THOMAS. [_Pointing to "The Evening Post" on the tea-table._] The
_Post_, ma'am.
MISS HENEAGE. [_Indicating cup._] Miss Phillimore.
THOMAS _takes cup of tea to_ GRACE. _Silence. They all sip tea._
THOMAS _goes back, fills sherry glass, remaining round and about the
tea-table. They all drink tea during their entire conversation._
GRACE. The Dudleys were at home. They wished to know when my brother
Philip was to be married, and where and how?
MISS HENEAGE. If the Dudleys were persons of breeding, they'd not
intrude their curiosity upon you.
GRACE. I like Lena Dudley.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. [_Speaking slowly and gently._] Do I know Miss
Dudley?
GRACE. She knows Philip. She expects an announcement of the wedding.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. I trust you told her that my son, my sister and
myself are all of the opinion that those who have been divorced should
remarry with modesty and without parade.
GRACE. I told the Dudleys Philip's wedding was here, to-morrow.
MISS HENEAGE. [_To_ MRS. PHILLIMORE, _picking up a sheet of paper from
the table._] I have spent the afternoon, Mary, in arranging and
listing the wedding gifts, and in writing out the announcements of the
wedding. I think I have attained a proper form of announcement.
[_Taking the sheet of note-paper and giving it to_ THOMAS.] Of course
the announcement Philip himself made was quite out of the question.
[GRACE _smiles._] However, there is mine. [_She points to the paper._
THOMAS _gives the list to_ MRS. PHILLIMORE _and moves away._
GRACE. I hope you'll send an announcement to the Dudleys.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. [_Prepared to make the best of things, plaintively
reads._] "Mr. Philip Phillimore and Mrs. Cynthia Dean Karslake
announce their marriage, May twentieth, at three o'clock, Nineteen A,
Washington Square, New York." [_Replacing the paper on_ THOMAS'S
_salver._] It sounds very nice.
[THOMAS _returns the paper to_ MISS HENEAGE.
MISS HENEAGE. In my opinion it barely escapes sounding nasty. However,
it is correct. The only remaining question is--to whom the
announcement should not be sent. [THOMAS _goes out._] I consider an
announcement of the wedding of two divorced persons to be in the
nature of an intimate communication. It not only announces the
wedding--it also announces the divorce. [_Returning to her teacup._]
The person I shall ask counsel of is cousin William Sudley. He
promised to drop in this afternoon.
GRACE. Oh! We shall hear all about Cairo.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. William is judicious. [THOMAS _returns._
MISS HENEAGE. [_With finality._] Cousin William will disapprove of the
match unless a winter in Cairo has altered his moral tone.
THOMAS. [_Announcing._] Mr. Sudley.
_He ushers in_ WILLIAM SUDLEY, _a little oldish gentleman. He
is and appears thoroughly insignificant. But his opinion of
the place he occupies in the world is enormous. His manners,
voice, presence, are all those of a man of breeding and
self-importance._
MRS. PHILLIMORE _and_ MISS HENEAGE. [_Rising and greeting_ SUDLEY; _a
little tremulously._] My dear William!
[THOMAS _withdraws._
SUDLEY. [_Shakes hands with_ MRS. PHILLIMORE, _soberly glad to see
them._] How d'ye do, Mary? [_Greeting_ MISS HENEAGE.] A very warm May
you're having, Sarah.
GRACE. [_Coming forward to welcome him._] Dear Cousin William!
MISS HENEAGE. Wasn't it warm in Cairo when you left?
_She will have the strict truth, or nothing; still, on
account of_ SUDLEY'S _impeccable respectability, she treats
him with more than usual leniency._
SUDLEY. [_Sitting down._] We left Cairo six weeks ago, Grace, so I've
had no news since you wrote in February that Philip was engaged.
[_After a pause._] I need not to say I consider Philip's engagement
excessively regrettable. He is a judge upon the Supreme Court bench
with a divorced wife--and such a divorced wife!
GRACE. Oh, but Philip has succeeded in keeping everything as quiet as
possible.
SUDLEY. [_Acidly._] No, my dear! He has not succeeded in keeping his
former wife as quiet as possible. We had not been in Cairo a week when
who should turn up but Vida Phillimore. She went everywhere and did
everything no woman should!
GRACE. [_With unfeigned interest._] Oh, what did she do?
SUDLEY. She "did" Cleopatra at the tableaux at Lord Errington's! She
"did" Cleopatra, and she did it robed only in some diaphanous material
of a nature so transparent that--in fact she appeared to be draped in
moonshine. [MISS HENEAGE _indicates the presence of_ GRACE _and
rises._] That was only the beginning. As soon as she heard of Philip's
engagement, she gave a dinner in honour of it! Only divorcees were
asked! And she had a dummy--yes, my dear, a dummy!--at the head of the
table. He stood for Philip--that is he sat for Philip!
[_Rising and moving to the table._
MISS HENEAGE. [_Irritated and disgusted._] Ah!
MRS. PHILLIMORE. [_With dismay and pain._] Dear me!
MISS HENEAGE. [_Confident of the value of her opinion._] I disapprove
of Mrs. Phillimore.
SUDLEY. [_Taking a cigarette._] Of course you do, but has Philip taken
to Egyptian cigarettes in order to celebrate my winter at Cairo?
GRACE. Those are Cynthia's.
SUDLEY. [_Thinking that no one is worth knowing whom he does not
know._] Who is "Cynthia?"
GRACE. Mrs. Karslake--She's staying here, Cousin William. She'll be
down in a minute.
SUDLEY. [_Shocked._] You don't mean to tell me--?--!
MISS HENEAGE. Yes, William, Cynthia is Mrs. Karslake--Mrs. Karslake
has no New York house. I disliked the publicity of a hotel in the
circumstances, and, accordingly, when she became engaged to Philip, I
invited her here.
SUDLEY. [_Suspicious and distrustful._] And may I ask _who_ Mrs.
Karslake is?
MISS HENEAGE. [_With confidence._] She was a Deane.
SUDLEY. [_Walking about the room, sorry to be obliged to concede good
birth to any but his own blood._] Oh, oh--well, the Deanes are
extremely nice people. [_Approaching the table._] Was her father J.
William Deane?
MISS HENEAGE. [_Nodding, still more secure._] Yes.
SUDLEY. [_Giving in with difficulty._] The family is an old one. J.
William Deane's daughter? Surely he left a very considerable--
MISS HENEAGE. Oh, fifteen or twenty millions.
SUDLEY. [_Determined not to be dazzled._] If I remember rightly she
was brought up abroad.
MISS HENEAGE. In France and England--and I fancy brought up with a
very gay set in very gay places. In fact she is what is called a
"sporty" woman.
SUDLEY. [_Always ready to think the worst._] We might put up with
that. But you don't mean to tell me Philip has the--the--assurance to
marry a woman who has been divorced by--
MISS HENEAGE. Not at all. Cynthia Karslake divorced her husband.
SUDLEY. [_Gloomily, since he has less fault to find than he
expected._] She divorced him! Ah!
[_He seeks the consolation of his tea._
MISS HENEAGE. The suit went by default. And, my dear William, there
are many palliating circumstances. Cynthia was married to Karslake
only seven months. There are no-- [_Glancing at_ GRACE] no hostages to
Fortune! Ahem!
SUDLEY. [_Still unwilling to be pleased._] Ah! What sort of a young
woman is she?
GRACE. [_With the superiority of one who is not too popular._] Men
admire her.
MISS HENEAGE. She's not conventional.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. [_Showing a faint sense of justice._] I am bound to
say she has behaved discreetly ever since she arrived in this house.
MISS HENEAGE. Yes, Mary--but I sometimes suspect that she exercises a
degree of self-control--
SUDLEY. [_Glad to have something against some one._] She claps on the
lid, eh? And you think that perhaps some day she'll boil over? Well,
of course fifteen or twenty millions--but who's Karslake?
GRACE. [_Very superciliously._] He owns Cynthia K. She's the famous
mare.
MISS HENEAGE. He's Henry Karslake's son.
SUDLEY. [_Beginning to make the best of fifteen millions-in-law._]
Oh!--Henry!--Very respectable family. Although I remember his father
served a term in the Senate. And so the wedding is to be to-morrow?
MRS. PHILLIMORE. [_Assenting._] To-morrow.
SUDLEY. [_Rising, his respectability to the front when he thinks of
the ceremony._ GRACE _rises._] To-morrow. Well, my dear Sarah, a
respectable family with some means. We must accept her. But on the
whole, I think it will be best for me not to see the young woman. My
disapprobation would make itself apparent.
GRACE. [_Whispering to_ SUDLEY.] Cynthia's coming.
[_He doesn't hear._
CYNTHIA _comes in, absorbed in reading a newspaper. She is a
young creature in her twenties, small and high-bred, full of
the love of excitement and sport. Her manner is wide-awake
and keen, and she is evidently in no fear of the opinion of
others. Her dress is exceedingly elegant, but with the
elegance of a woman whose chief interests lie in life out of
doors. There is nothing hard or masculine in her style, and
her expression is youthful and ingenuous._
SUDLEY. [_Sententious and determinately epigrammatic._] The uncouth
modern young woman, eight feet high, with a skin like a rhinoceros and
manners like a cave-dweller--an habitue of the race-track and the
divorce court--
GRACE. [_Aside to_ SUDLEY.] Cousin William!
SUDLEY. Eh, oh!
CYNTHIA. [_Reading her newspaper, advances into the room, immersed,
excited, trembling. She lowers paper to catch the light._] "Belmont
favourite--six to one--Rockaway--Rosebud, and Flying Cloud. Slow
track--raw wind--h'm, h'm, h'm--At the half, Rockaway forged ahead,
when Rosebud under the lash made a bold bid for victory--neck by
neck--for a quarter--when Flying Cloud slipped by the pair and won on
the post by a nose in one forty nine!" [_Speaking with the enthusiasm
of a sport._] Oh, I wish I'd seen the dear thing do it. Oh, it's Mr.
Sudley! You must think me very rude. How do you do, Mr. Sudley?
[_Going over to_ SUDLEY.
SUDLEY. [_Bowing without cordiality._] Mrs. Karslake.
[CYNTHIA _pauses, feeling he should say something. As he says nothing,
she speaks again._
CYNTHIA. I hope Cairo was delightful? Did you have a smooth voyage?
SUDLEY. [_Pompously._] You must permit me, Mrs. Karslake--
CYNTHIA. [_With good temper, somewhat embarrassed, and talking herself
into ease._] Oh, please don't welcome me to the family. All that
formal part is over, if you don't mind. I'm one of the tribe now!
You're coming to our wedding to-morrow?
SUDLEY. My dear Mrs. Karslake, I think it might be wiser--
CYNTHIA. [_Still with cordial good temper._] Oh, but you must come! I
mean to be a perfect wife to Philip and all his relations! That sounds
rather miscellaneous, but you know what I mean.
SUDLEY. [_Very sententious._] I am afraid--
CYNTHIA. [_Gay and still covering her embarrassment._] If you don't
come, it'll look as if you were not standing by Philip when he's in
trouble! You'll come, won't you--but of course you will.
SUDLEY. [_After a self-important pause._] I will come, Mrs. Karslake.
[_Pausing._] Good-afternoon. [_In a tone of sorrow and light
compassion._] Good-bye, Mary. Good-afternoon, Sarah. [_Sighing._]
Grace, dear. [_To_ MISS HENEAGE.] At what hour did you say the alimony
commences?
MISS HENEAGE. [_Quickly and commandingly to cover his slip._] The
ceremony is at three P. M., William.
[SUDLEY _walks toward the door._
MRS. PHILLIMORE. [_With fatigued voice and manner as she rises._] I am
going to my room to rest awhile.
[_She trails slowly from the room._
MISS HENEAGE. [_To_ SUDLEY.] Oh, William, one moment--I entirely
forgot! I've a most important social question to ask you! [_She
accompanies him slowly to the door._] in regard to the announcements
of the wedding--who they shall be sent to and who not. For
instance--the Dudleys-- [_Deep in their talk_, SUDLEY _and_ MISS
HENEAGE _pass out together._
CYNTHIA. [_From the sofa._] So that's Cousin William?
GRACE. [_From the tea-table._] Don't you like him?
CYNTHIA. [_Calmly sarcastic._] Like him? I love him. He's so generous.
He couldn't have received me with more warmth if I'd been a mulatto.
THOMAS _comes in, preceded by_ PHILLIMORE. PHILIP PHILLIMORE
_is a self-centered, short-tempered, imperious member of the
respectable fashionables of New York. He is well and solidly
dressed, and in manner and speech evidently a man of family.
He is accustomed to being listened to in his home circle and
from the bench, and it is practically impossible for him to
believe that he can make a mistake._
GRACE. [_Outraged._] Really you know-- [CYNTHIA _moves to the table._]
Philip!
PHILIP _nods to_ GRACE _absent-mindedly. He is in his working
suit and looks tired. He walks into the room silently; goes
over to the tea-table, bends over and kisses_ CYNTHIA _on the
forehead. Goes to his chair, which_ THOMAS _has moved to suit
him. He sits, and sighs with satisfaction._
PHILIP. [_As if exhausted by brain work._] Ah, Grace! [GRACE
_immediately sails out of the room._] Well, my dear, I thought I
should never extricate myself from the court-room. You look very
debonnair!
CYNTHIA. The tea's making. You'll have your glass of sherry?
PHILIP. [_The strain of the day evidently having been severe._]
Thanks! [_Taking it from_ THOMAS _and sighing._] Ah!
CYNTHIA. I can see it's been a tiring day with you.
PHILIP. [_His great tussle with the world leaving him unworsted but
utterly spent._] H'm! [_He gratefully sips his tea._
CYNTHIA. Were the lawyers very long-winded?
PHILIP. [_Almost too tired for speech._] Prolix to the point of
somnolence. It might be affirmed without inexactitude that the
prolixity of counsel is the somnolence of the judiciary. I am
fatigued, ah! [_A little suddenly, awaking to the fact that his orders
have not been carried out to the letter._] Thomas! My _Post_ is not in
its usual place!
CYNTHIA. It's here, Philip. [THOMAS _gets it._
PHILIP. Thanks, my dear. [_Opening "The Post."_] Ah! This hour with
you--is--is really the--the-- [_Absently._] the one vivid moment of the
day. [_Reading._] H'm--shocking attack by the President on vested
interests. H'm--too bad--but it's to be expected. The people insisted
on electing a desperado to the presidential office--they must take the
hold-up that follows. [_After a pause, he reads._] H'm! His English is
lacking in idiom, his spelling in conservatism, his mind in balance,
and his character in repose.
CYNTHIA. [_Amiable but not very sympathetic._] You seem more fatigued
than usual. Another glass of sherry, Philip?
PHILIP. Oh, I ought not to--
CYNTHIA. I think you seem a little more tired than usual.
PHILIP. Perhaps I am. [_She pours out sherry._ PHILIP _takes glass but
does not sip._] Ah, this hour is truly a grateful form of restful
excitement. [_After an inspired interval._] You, too, find it--eh?
[_He looks at_ CYNTHIA.
CYNTHIA. [_With veiled sarcasm._] Decidedly.
PHILIP. Decidedly what, my dear?
CYNTHIA. [_Her sarcasm still veiled._] Restful.
PHILIP. H'm! Perhaps I need the calm more than you do. Over the case
to-day I actually--eh-- [_Sipping his tea._] slumbered. I heard myself
do it. That's how I know. A dressmaker sued on seven counts. [_Reading
his newspaper._] Really, the insanity of the United States Senate--you
seem restless, my dear. Ah--um--have you seen the evening paper? I see
there has been a lightning change in the style or size of hats which
ladies--
[_Sweeping a descriptive motion with his hand, he gives the
paper to_ CYNTHIA, _then moves his glass, reads, and sips._
CYNTHIA. The lamp, Thomas.
THOMAS _blows out the alcohol lamp on the tea-table with
difficulty. Blows twice. Movement of_ PHILIP _each time.
Blows again._
PHILIP. [_Irritably._] Confound it, Thomas! What are you puffing and
blowing at--?
THOMAS. It's out, ma'am--yes, sir.
PHILIP. You're excessively noisy, Thomas!
THOMAS. [_In a fluster._] Yes, sir--I am.
CYNTHIA. [_Soothing_ THOMAS'S _wounded feelings._] We don't need you,
Thomas.
THOMAS. Yes, ma'am.
PHILIP. Puffing and blowing and shaking and quaking like an automobile
in an ecstasy! [THOMAS _meekly withdraws._
CYNTHIA. [_Not unsympathetically._] Too bad, Philip! I hope my
presence isn't too agitating?
PHILIP. Ah--it's just because I value this hour with you,
Cynthia--this hour of tea and toast and tranquillity. It's quite as if
we were married--happily married--already.
CYNTHIA. [_Admitting that married life is a blank, begins to look
through paper._] Yes, I feel as if we were married already.
PHILIP. [_Not recognizing her tone._] Ah! It's the calm, you see.
CYNTHIA. [_Without warmth._] The calm? Yes--yes, it's--it's the calm.
PHILIP. [_Sighs._] Yes, the calm--the Halcyon calm of--of second
choice. H'm! [_He reads and turns over the leaves of the paper._
CYNTHIA _reads. There is a silence._] After all, my dear--the feeling
which I have for you--is--is--eh--the market is in a shocking
condition of plethora! H'm--h'm--and what are you reading?
CYNTHIA. [_Embarrassed._] Oh, eh--well--I--eh--I'm just running over
the sporting news.
PHILIP. Oh! [_He looks thoughtful._
CYNTHIA. [_Beginning to forget_ PHILIP _and to remember more
interesting matters._] I fancied Hermes would come in an easy winner.
He came in nowhere. Nonpareil was ridden by Henslow--he's a rotten bad
rider. He gets nervous.
PHILIP. [_Still interested in his newspaper._] Does he? H'm! I suppose
you do retain an interest in horses and races. H'm--I trust some day
the--ah--law will attract--Oh [_Turning a page._], here's the report
of my opinion in that dressmaker's case--Haggerty _vs._ Phillimore.
CYNTHIA. [_Puzzled._] Was the case brought against you?
PHILIP. Oh--no. The suit was brought by Haggerty, Miss Haggerty, a
dressmaker, against the--in fact, my dear, against the former Mrs.
Phillimore. [_After a pause, he returns to his reading._
CYNTHIA. [_Curious about the matter._] How did you decide it?
PHILIP. I was obliged to decide in Mrs. Phillimore's favour.
Haggerty's plea was preposterous.
CYNTHIA. Did you--did you meet the--the--former--?
PHILIP. No.
CYNTHIA. I often see her at afternoon teas.
PHILIP. How did you recognize--
CYNTHIA. Why-- [_Opening the paper._] because Mrs. Vida Phillimore's
picture appears in every other issue of most of the evening papers.
And I must confess I was curious. But, I'm sure you find it very
painful to meet her again.
PHILIP. [_Slowly, considering._] No,--would you find it so impossible
to meet Mr.--
CYNTHIA. [_Much excited and aroused._] Philip! Don't speak of him.
He's nothing. He's a thing of the past. I never think of him. I forget
him!
PHILIP. [_Somewhat sarcastic._] That's extraordinarily original of you
to forget him.
CYNTHIA. [_Gently, and wishing to drop the subject._] We each of us
have something to forget, Philip--and John Karslake is to me--Well,
he's dead!
PHILIP. As a matter of fact, my dear, he _is_ dead, or the next thing
to it--for he's bankrupt.
CYNTHIA. [_After a pause._] Bankrupt? [_Excited and moved._] Let's not
speak of him. I mean never to see him or think about him or even hear
of him! [_He assents. She reads her paper. He sips his tea and reads
his paper. She turns a page, starts and cries out._
PHILIP. God bless me!
CYNTHIA. It's a picture of--of--
PHILIP. John Karslake?
CYNTHIA. Picture of him, and one of me, and in the middle between us
"Cynthia K!"
PHILIP. "Cynthia K!"
CYNTHIA. [_Excited._] My pet riding mare! The best horse he has! She's
an angel even in a photograph! Oh! [_Reading._] "John Karslake drops a
fortune at Saratoga." [_Rises and walks up and down excitedly._ PHILIP
_takes the paper and reads._
PHILIP. [_Unconcerned, as the matter hardly touches him._]
Hem--ah--Advertises country place for sale--stables, famous mare
"Cynthia K"--favourite riding-mare of former Mrs. Karslake, who is
once again to enter the arena of matrimony with the well-known and
highly respected judge of--
CYNTHIA. [_Sensitive and much disturbed._] Don't! Don't, Philip,
please don't!
PHILIP. My dear Cynthia--take another paper--here's my _Post_! You'll
find nothing disagreeable in _The Post_.
[CYNTHIA _takes paper._
CYNTHIA. [_After reading, near the table._] It's much worse in _The
Post_. "John Karslake sells the former Mrs. Karslake's jewels--the
famous necklace now at Tiffany's, and the sporty ex-husband sells his
wife's portrait by Sargent!" Philip, I can't stand this. [_Puts paper
on the table._
PHILIP. Really, my dear, Mr. Karslake is bound to appear occasionally
in print--or even you may have to meet him.
[Thomas _comes in._
CYNTHIA. [_Determined and distressed._] I won't meet him! I won't meet
him. Every time I hear his name or "Cynthia K's" I'm so depressed.
THOMAS. [_Announcing with something like reluctance._] Sir, Mr.
Fiddler. Mr. Karslake's trainer.
FIDDLER _walks in. He is an English horse trainer, a
wide-awake, stocky, well-groomed little cockney. He knows his
own mind and sees life altogether through a stable door.
Well-dressed for his station, and not too young._
CYNTHIA. [_Excited and disturbed._] Fiddler? Tim Fiddler? His coming
is outrageous!
FIDDLER. A note for you, sir.
CYNTHIA. [_Impulsively._] Oh, Fiddler--is that you?
FIDDLER. Yes'm!
CYNTHIA. [_In a half whisper, still speaking on impulse._] How is she!
Cynthia K? How's Planet II and the colt and Golden Rod? How's the
whole stable? Are they well?
FIDDLER. No'm--we're all on the bum. [_Aside._] Ever since you kicked
us over!
CYNTHIA. [_Reproving him, though pleased._] Fiddler!
FIDDLER. The horses is just simply gone to Egypt since you left, and
so's the guv'nor.
CYNTHIA. [_Putting an end to_ FIDDLER.] That will do, Fiddler.
FIDDLER. I'm waiting for an answer, sir.
CYNTHIA. What is it, Philip?
PHILIP. [_Uncomfortable._] A mere matter of business. [_Aside to_
FIDDLER.] The answer is, Mr. Karslake can come. The--the coast will be
clear. [FIDDLER _goes out._
CYNTHIA. [_Amazed; rising._] You're not going to see him?
PHILIP. But Karslake, my dear, is an old acquaintance of mine. He
argues cases before me. I will see that you do not have to meet him.
[CYNTHIA _walks the length of the room in excited dejection._
MATTHEW _comes in. He is a High-church clergyman to a highly
fashionable congregation. His success is partly due to his
social position and partly to his elegance of speech, but
chiefly to his inherent amiability, which leaves the sinner
in happy peace and smiles on the just and unjust alike._
MATTHEW. [_Most amiably._] Ah, my dear brother!
PHILIP. [_Greeting him._] Matthew.
MATTHEW. [_Nodding to_ PHILIP.] Good afternoon, my dear Cynthia. How
charming you look! [CYNTHIA _sits down at the tea-table. To_
CYNTHIA.] Ah, why weren't you in your pew yesterday? I preached a most
original sermon.
[_He lays his hat and cane on the divan._
THOMAS. [_Aside to_ PHILIP.] Sir, Mrs. Vida Phillimore's maid called
you up on the telephone, and you're to expect Mrs. Phillimore on a
matter of business.
PHILIP. [_Astonished and disgusted._] Here, impossible! [_To_
CYNTHIA.] Excuse me, my dear! [PHILIP, _much embarrassed, goes out,
followed by_ THOMAS.
MATTHEW. [_Approaching_ CYNTHIA'S _chair, happily and pleasantly
self-important._] No, really, it was a wonderful sermon, my dear. My
text was from Paul--"It is better to marry than to burn." It was a
strictly logical sermon. I argued--that, as the grass withereth, and
the flower fadeth,--there is nothing final in Nature; not even Death!
And, as there is nothing final in Nature, not even Death;--so then if
Death is not final--why should marriage be final? [_Gently._] And so
the necessity of--eh--divorce! You see? It was an exquisite sermon!
All New York was there! And all New York went away happy! Even the
sinners--if there were any! I don't often meet sinners--do you?
CYNTHIA. [_Indulgently, in spite of his folly, because he is kind._]
You're such a dear, delightful Pagan! Here's your tea!
MATTHEW. [_Taking the tea._] Why, my dear--you have a very sad
expression!
CYNTHIA. [_A little bitterly._] Why not?
MATTHEW. [_With sentimental sweetness._] I feel as if I were of no use
in the world when I see sadness on a young face. Only sinners should
feel sad. You have committed no sin!
CYNTHIA. [_Impulsively._] Yes, I have!
MATTHEW. Eh?
CYNTHIA. I committed the unpardonable sin--whe--when I married for
love!
MATTHEW. One must not marry for anything else, my dear!
CYNTHIA. Why am I marrying your brother?
MATTHEW. I often wonder why? I wonder why you didn't choose to remain
a free woman.
CYNTHIA. [_Going over the ground she has often argued with herself._]
I meant to; but a divorcee has no place in society. I felt horridly
lonely! I wanted a friend. Philip was ideal as a friend--for months.
Isn't it nice to bind a friend to you?
MATTHEW. [_Setting down his teacup._] Yes--yes!
CYNTHIA. [_Growing more and more excited and moved as she speaks._] To
marry a friend--to marry on prudent, sensible grounds--a man--like
Philip? That's what I should have done first, instead of rushing into
marriage--because I had a wild, mad, sensitive, sympathetic--passion
and pain and fury--of, I don't know what--that almost strangled me
with happiness!
MATTHEW. [_Amiable and reminiscent._] Ah--ah--in my youth--I,--I too!
CYNTHIA. [_Coming back to her manner of every day._] And besides--the
day Philip asked me I was in the dumps! And now--how about marrying
only for love? [PHILIP _comes back._
MATTHEW. Ah, my dear, love is not the only thing in the world!
PHILIP. [_Half aside._] I got there too late, she'd hung up.
CYNTHIA. Who, Philip?
PHILIP. Eh--a lady--eh--
[THOMAS, _flurried, comes in with a card on a salver._
THOMAS. A card for you, sir. Ahem--ahem--Mrs. Phillimore--that was,
sir.
PHILIP. Eh?
THOMAS. She's on the stairs, sir. [_He nods backward, only to find_
VIDA _at his side. He announces her as being the best way of meeting
the difficulty._] Mrs. Vida Phillimore!
VIDA _comes in slowly, with the air of a spoiled beauty. She
stops just inside the door and speaks in a very casual
manner. Her voice is languorous and caressing. She is dressed
in the excess of the French fashion and carries a daring
parasol. She smiles and comes in, undulating, to the middle
of the room. Tableau._ THOMAS _withdraws._
VIDA. How do you do, Philip. [_After a pause._] Don't tell me I'm a
surprise! I had you called up on the 'phone and I sent up my
card--and, besides, Philip dear, when you have the--the--habit of the
house, as unfortunately I have, you can't treat yourself like a
stranger in a strange land. At least, I can't--so here I am. My reason
for coming was to ask you about that B. & O. stock we hold in common.
[_To_ MATTHEW, _condescendingly, the clergy being a class of
unfortunates debarred by profession from the pleasures of the world._]
How do you do? [_Pause. She then goes to the real reason of her
visit._] Do be polite and present me to your wife-to-be.
PHILIP. [_Awkwardly._] Cynthia--
CYNTHIA. [_Cheerfully, with dash, putting the table between_ VIDA _and
herself._] We're delighted to see you, Mrs. Phillimore. I needn't ask
you to make yourself at home, but will you have a cup of tea? [MATTHEW
_sits near the little table._
VIDA. [_To_ PHILIP.] My dear, she's not in the least what I expected.
I heard she was a dove! She's a very dashing kind of a dove! [_To_
CYNTHIA, _who moves to the tea-table._] My dear, I'm paying you
compliments. Five lumps and quantities of cream. I find single life
very thinning. [_To_ PHILIP, _calm and ready to be agreeable to any
man._] And how well you're looking! It must be the absence of
matrimonial cares--or is it a new angel in the house?
CYNTHIA. [_Outraged at_ VIDA'S _intrusion, but polite though
delicately sarcastic._] It's most amusing to sit in your place. And
how at home you must feel here in this house where you have made so
much trouble--I mean tea. [_Rises._] Do you know it would be in much
better taste if you would take the place you're accustomed to?
VIDA. [_As calm as before._] My dear, I'm an intruder only for a
moment; I sha'n't give you a chance to score off me again! But I must
thank you, dear Philip, for rendering that decision in my favour--
PHILIP. I assure you--
Vida. [_Unable to resist a thrust._] Of course, you would like to have
rendered it against me. It was your wonderful sense of justice, and
that's why I'm so grateful--if not to you, to your Maker!
PHILIP. [_Feels that this is no place for his future wife. Rises
quickly. To_ CYNTHIA.] Cynthia, I would prefer that you left us.
[MATTHEW _moves to the sofa and sits down._
CYNTHIA. [_Determined not to leave the field first, remains seated._]
Certainly, Philip!
PHILIP. I expect another visitor who--
VIDA. [_With flattering insistence, to_ CYNTHIA.] Oh, my dear--don't
go! The truth is--I came to see you! I feel most cordially towards
you--and really, you know, people in our position should meet on
cordial terms.
CYNTHIA. [_Taking it with apparent calm, but pointing her remarks._]
Naturally. If people in our position couldn't meet, New York society
would soon come to an end. [THOMAS _comes in._
VIDA. [_Calm, but getting her knife in too._] Precisely. Society's no
bigger than a band-box. Why, it's only a moment ago I saw Mr. Karslake
walking--
CYNTHIA. Ah!
THOMAS. [_Announcing clearly. Everyone changes place, in
consternation, amusement or surprise._ CYNTHIA _moves to leave the
room, but stops for fear of attracting_ KARSLAKE'S _attention._] Mr.
John Karslake!
_Enter_ KARSLAKE. _He is a powerful, generous personality, a
man of affairs, breezy, gay and careless. He gives the
impression of being game for any fate in store for him. His
clothes indicate sporting propensities and his taste in
waistcoats and ties is brilliant._ KARSLAKE _sees first_
PHILIP _and then_ MATTHEW. THOMAS _goes out._
PHILIP. How do you do?
JOHN. [_Very gay and no respecter of persons._] Good-afternoon, Mr.
Phillimore. Hello--here's the church! [_Crossing to_ MATTHEW _and
shaking hands. He slaps him on the back._] I hadn't the least
idea--how are you? By George, your reverence, that was a racy sermon
of yours on Divorce! What was your text? [_Sees_ VIDA _and bows, very
politely._] Galatians 4:2, "The more the merrier," or "Who next?"
[_Smiles._] As the whale said after Jonah! [CYNTHIA _makes a sudden
movement, upsetting her tea-cup._ JOHN _faces about quickly and they
face each other._ JOHN _gives a frank start. A pause holds them._
JOHN. [_Astounded, in a low voice._] Mrs. Karslake-- [_Bowing._] I was
not aware of the pleasure in store for me. I understood you were in
the country. [_Recovering and moving to her chair._] Perhaps you'll be
good enough to make me a cup of tea?--that is if the teapot wasn't
lost in the scrimmage. [_There is another pause._ CYNTHIA, _determined
to equal him in coolness, returns to the tea-tray._] Mr. Phillimore, I
came to get your signature in that matter of Cox _vs._ Keely.
PHILIP. I shall be at your service, but pray be seated.
[_He indicates a chair by the tea-table._
JOHN. [_Sitting beyond but not far from the tea-table._] And I also
understood you to say you wanted a saddle-horse.
PHILIP. You have a mare called--eh--"Cynthia K?"
JOHN. [_Promptly._] Yes--she's not for sale.
PHILIP. Oh, but she's just the mare I had set my mind on.
JOHN. [_With a touch of humour._] You want her for yourself?
PHILIP. [_A little flustered._] I--eh--I sometimes ride.
JOHN. [_Now sure of himself._] She's rather lively for you, Judge.
Mrs. Karslake used to ride her.
PHILIP. You don't care to sell her to me?
JOHN. She's a dangerous mare, Judge, and she's as delicate and
changeable as a girl. I'd hate to leave her in your charge!
CYNTHIA. [_Eagerly but in a low voice._] Leave her in mine, Mr.
Karslake!
JOHN. [_After a slight pause._] Mrs. Karslake knows all about a horse,
but-- [_Turning to_ CYNTHIA.] Cynthia K's got rather tricky of late.
CYNTHIA. [_Haughtily._] You mean to say you think she'd chuck me?
JOHN. [_With polite solicitude and still humourous. To_ PHILIP.] I'd
hate to have a mare of mine deprive you of a wife, Judge. [_Rises._
CYNTHIA _shows anger._] She goes to Saratoga next week, C. W.
VIDA. [_Who has been sitting and talking to_ MATTHEW _for lack of a
better man, comes to talk to_ KARSLAKE.] C. W.?
JOHN. [_Rising as she rises._] Creditors willing.
VIDA. [_Changing her seat for one near the tea-table._] I'm sure your
creditors are willing.
JOHN. Oh, they're a breezy lot, my creditors. They're giving me a
dinner this evening.
VIDA. [_More than usually anxious to please._] I regret I'm not a
breezy creditor, but I do think you owe it to me to let me see your
Cynthia K! Can't you lead her around to my house?
JOHN. At what hour, Mrs. Phillimore?
VIDA. Say eleven? And you, too, might have a leading in my
direction--771 Fifth Avenue.
[JOHN _bows._ CYNTHIA _hears and notes this._
CYNTHIA. Your cup of tea, Mr. Karslake.
JOHN. Thanks. [_Taking his tea and sipping it._] I beg your
pardon--you have forgotten, Mrs. Karslake--very naturally, it has
slipped your memory, but I don't take sugar. [CYNTHIA, _furious with
him and herself. He hands the cup back. She makes a second cup._
CYNTHIA. [_Cheerfully; in a rage._] Sorry!
JOHN. [_Also apparently cheerful._] Yes, gout. It gives me a twinge
even to sit in the shadow of a sugar-maple! First you riot, and then
you diet!
VIDA. [_Calm and amused; aside to_ MATTHEW.] My dear Matthew, he's a
darling! But I feel as if we were all taking tea on the slope of a
volcano! [MATTHEW _sits down._
PHILIP. It occurred to me, Mr. Karslake, you might be glad to find a
purchaser for your portrait by Sargent?
JOHN. It's not _my_ portrait. It's a portrait of Mrs. Karslake, and to
tell you the truth--Sargent's a good fellow--I've made up my mind to
keep it--to remember the artist by.
[CYNTHIA _is wounded by this._
PHILIP. H'm!
[CYNTHIA _hands a second cup to_ JOHN.
CYNTHIA. [_With careful politeness._] Your cup of tea, Mr. Karslake.
JOHN. [_Rising and taking the tea with courteous indifference._]
Thanks--sorry to trouble you.
[_He drinks the cup of tea standing by the tea-table._
PHILIP. [_To make conversation._] You're selling your country place?
JOHN. If I was long of hair--I'd sell that.
CYNTHIA. [_Excited. Taken out of herself by the news._] You're not
really selling your stable?
JOHN. [_Finishes his tea, places the empty cup on the tea-table, and
reseats himself._] Every gelding I've got--seven foals and a donkey! I
don't mean the owner.
CYNTHIA. [_Still interested and forgetting the discomfort of the
situation._] How did you ever manage to come such a cropper?
JOHN. Streak of blue luck!
CYNTHIA. [_Quickly._] I don't see how it's possible--
JOHN. You would if you'd been there. You remember the head man?
[_Sitting down._] Bloke?
CYNTHIA. Of course!
JOHN. Well, his wife divorced him for beating her over the head with a
bottle of Fowler's Solution, and it seemed to prey on his mind. He
sold me--
CYNTHIA. [_Horrified._] Sold a race?
JOHN. About ten races, I guess.
CYNTHIA. [_Incredulous._] Just because he'd beaten his wife?
JOHN. No. Because she divorced him.
CYNTHIA. Well, I can't see why that should prey on his mind!
[_Suddenly remembers._
JOHN. Well, I have known men that it stroked the wrong way. But he
cost me eighty thousand. And then Urbanity ran third in the
thousand-dollar stakes for two-year-olds at Belmont.
CYNTHIA. [_Throws this remark in._] I never had faith in that horse.
JOHN. And, of course, it never rains monkeys but it pours gorillas! So
when I was down at St. Louis on the fifth, I laid seven to three on
Fraternity--
CYNTHIA. Crazy! Crazy!
JOHN. [_Ready to take the opposite view._] I don't see it. With her
record she ought to have romped it an easy winner.
CYNTHIA. [_Her sporting instinct asserting itself._] She hasn't the
stamina! Look at her barrel!
JOHN. Well, anyhow, Geranium finished me!
CYNTHIA. You didn't lay odds on Geranium!
JOHN. Why not? She's my own mare--
CYNTHIA. Oh!
JOHN. Streak o' bad luck--
CYNTHIA. [_Plainly anxious to say "I told you so."_] Streak of poor
judgment! Do you remember the day you rode Billy at a six-foot stone
wall, and he stopped and you didn't, and there was a hornet's nest
[MATTHEW _rises._] on the other side, and I remember you were hot just
because I said you showed poor judgment? [_She laughs at the memory. A
general movement of disapproval. She remembers the situation._] I beg
your pardon.
MATTHEW. [_Rises to meet_ VIDA. _Hastily._] It seems to me that horses
are like the fourth gospel. Any conversation about them becomes
animated almost beyond the limits of the urbane! [VIDA, _disgusted by
such plainness of speech, rises and goes to_ PHILIP _who waves her to
a chair._
PHILIP. [_Formally._] I regret that you have endured such reverses,
Mr. Karslake. [JOHN _quietly bows._
CYNTHIA. [_Concealing her interest and speaking casually._] You
haven't mentioned your new English horse--Pantomime. What did he do at
St. Louis?
JOHN. [_Sitting down._] Fell away and ran fifth.
CYNTHIA. Too bad. Was he fully acclimated? Ah, well--
JOHN. We always differed--you remember--on the time needed--
MATTHEW. [_Coming over to_ CYNTHIA, _and speaking to carry off the
situation as well as to get a tip._] Isn't there a--eh--a race
to-morrow at Belmont Park?
JOHN. Yes. I'm going down in my auto.
CYNTHIA. [_Evidently wishing she might be going too._] Oh!
MATTHEW. And what animal shall you prefer?
[_Covering his personal interest with amiable altruism._
JOHN. I'm backing Carmencita.
CYNTHIA. [_With a gesture of despair._] Carmencita! Carmencita!
[MATTHEW _returns to_ VIDA'S _side._
JOHN. You may remember we always differed on Carmencita.
CYNTHIA. [_Disgusted at_ JOHN'S _dunderheadedness._] But there's no
room for difference. She's a wild, headstrong, dissatisfied, foolish
little filly. The deuce couldn't ride her--she'd shy at her own
shadow--"Carmencita." Oh, very well then, I'll wager you--and I'll
give you odds too--"Decorum" will come in first, and I'll lay three to
one he'll beat Carmencita by five lengths! How's that for fair?
JOHN. [_Never forgetting the situation._] Sorry I'm not flush enough
to take you.
CYNTHIA. [_Impetuously._] Philip, dear, you lend John enough for the
wager.
MATTHEW. [_As nearly horrified as so soft a soul can be._] Ahem!
Really--
JOHN. It's a sporty idea, Mrs. Karslake, but perhaps in the
circumstances--
CYNTHIA. [_Her mind on her wager._] In what circumstances?
PHILIP. [_With a nervous laugh._] It does seem to me there is a
certain impropriety--
CYNTHIA. [_Remembering the conventions, which, for a moment, had
actually escaped her._] Oh, I forgot. When horses are in the air--
MATTHEW. [_Pouring oil on troubled waters. Moving, he speaks to_ VIDA
_from the back of her armchair._] It's the fourth gospel, you see.
[THOMAS _comes in with a letter on a salver, which he hands to_
PHILIP.
CYNTHIA. [_Meekly._] You are quite right, Philip. [PHILIP _goes up._]
The fact is, seeing Mr. Karslake again [_Laying on her indifference
with a trowel._] he seems to me as much a stranger as if I were
meeting him for the first time.
MATTHEW. [_Aside to_ VIDA.] We are indeed taking tea on the slope of a
volcano.
VIDA. [_About to go, but thinking she will have a last word with_
JOHN.] I'm sorry your fortunes are so depressed, Mr. Karslake.
PHILIP. [_Looking at the card that_ THOMAS _has just brought in._] Who
in the world is Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby?
[_There is a general stir._
JOHN. Oh--eh--Cates-Darby? [PHILIP _opens the letter which_ THOMAS
_has brought with the card._] That's the English chap I bought
Pantomime of.
PHILIP. [_To_ THOMAS.] Show Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby in.
THOMAS _goes out. The prospect of an Englishman with a handle
to his name changes_ VIDA'S _plans and, instead of leaving
the house, she goes to sofa, and poses there._
JOHN. He's a good fellow, Judge. Place near Epsom. Breeder. Over here
to take a shy at our races.
THOMAS. [_Opening the door and announcing._] Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby.
_Enter_ SIR WILFRID CATES-DARBY. _He is a high-bred, sporting
Englishman. His manner, his dress and his diction are the
perfection of English elegance. His movements are quick and
graceful. He talks lightly and with ease. He is full of life
and unsmiling good temper._
PHILIP. [_To_ SIR WILFRID _and referring to the letter of introduction
in his hand._] I am Mr. Phillimore. I am grateful to Stanhope for
giving me the opportunity of knowing you, Sir Wilfrid. I fear you find
it warm?
SIR WILFRID. [_Delicately mopping his forehead._] Ah, well--ah--warm,
no--hot, yes! Deuced extraordinary climate yours, you know, Mr.
Phillimore.
PHILIP. [_Conventionally._] Permit me to present you to-- [_The
unconventional situation pulls him up short. It takes him a moment to
decide how to meet it. He makes up his mind to pretend that everything
is as usual, and presents_ CYNTHIA _first._] Mrs. Karslake.
[SIR WILFRID _bows, surprised and doubtful._
CYNTHIA. How do you do?
PHILIP. And to Mrs. Phillimore. [VIDA _bows nonchalantly, but with a
view to catching_ SIR WILFRID'S _attention._ SIR WILFRID _bows, and
looks from her to_ PHILIP.] My brother--and Mr. Karslake you know.
SIR WILFRID. How do, my boy. [_Half aside, to_ JOHN.] No idea you had
such a charming little wife--What?--Eh? [KARSLAKE _moves to speak to_
MATTHEW _and_ PHILIP _in the further room._
CYNTHIA. You'll have a cup of tea, Sir Wilfrid?
SIR WILFRID. [_At the table._] Thanks, awfully. [_Very cheerfully._]
I'd no idea old John had a wife! The rascal never told me!
CYNTHIA. [_Pouring tea and facing the facts._] I'm not Mr. Karslake's
wife!
SIR WILFRID. Oh!--Eh?--I see--
[_He is evidently trying to think this out._
VIDA. [_Who has been ready for some time to speak to him._] Sir
Wilfrid, I'm sure no one has asked you how you like our country?
SIR WILFRID. [_Going to_ VIDA _and standing by her at the sofa._] Oh,
well, as to climate and horses, I say nothing. But I like your
American humour. I'm acquiring it for home purposes.
VIDA. [_Getting down to love as the basis of conversation._] Aren't
you going to acquire an American girl for home purposes?
SIR WILFRID. The more narrowly I look the agreeable project in the
face, the more I like it. Oughtn't to say that in the presence of your
husband. [_He casts a look at_ PHILIP, _who has gone into the next
room._
VIDA. [_Cheerful and unconstrained._] He's not my husband!
SIR WILFRID. [_Completely confused._] Oh--eh?--my brain must be
boiled. You are--Mrs.--eh--ah--of course, now I see! I got the wrong
names! I thought you were Mrs. Phillimore. [_Sitting down by her._]
And that nice girl, Mrs. Karslake! You're deucedly lucky to be Mrs.
Karslake. John's a prime sort. I say, have you and he got any kids?
How many?
VIDA. [_Horrified at being suspected of maternity, but speaking very
sweetly._] He's not my husband.
SIR WILFRID. [_His good spirits all gone, but determined to clear
things up._] Phew! Awfully hot in here! Who the deuce is John's wife?
VIDA. He hasn't any.
SIR WILFRID. Who's Phillimore's wife?
VIDA. He hasn't any.
SIR WILFRID. Thanks, fearfully! [_To_ MATTHEW, _whom he approaches;
suspecting himself of having lost his wits._] Would you excuse me, my
dear and Reverend Sir--you're a churchman and all that--would you mind
straightening me out?
MATTHEW. [_Most graciously._] Certainly, Sir Wilfrid. Is it a matter
of doctrine?
SIR WILFRID. Oh, damme--beg your pardon,--no, it's not words, it's
women.
MATTHEW. [_Ready to be outraged._] Women!
SIR WILFRID. It's divorce. Now, the lady on the sofa--
MATTHEW. _Was_ my brother's wife; he divorced
her--incompatibility--Rhode Island. The lady at the tea-table _was_
Mr. Karslake's wife; she divorced him--desertion--Sioux Falls. One
moment--she is about to marry my brother.
SIR WILFRID. [_Cheerful again._] I'm out! Thought I never would be!
Thanks! [VIDA _laughs._
VIDA. [_Not a whit discountenanced and ready to please._] Have you got
me straightened out yet?
SIR WILFRID. Straight as a die! I say, you had lots of fun, didn't
you? [_Returning to his position by the sofa._] And so _she's_ Mrs.
John Karslake?
VIDA. [_Calm, but secretly disappointed._] Do you like her?
SIR WILFRID. My word!
VIDA. [_Fully expecting personal flattery._] Eh?
SIR WILFRID. She's a box o' ginger!
VIDA. You haven't seen many American women!
SIR WILFRID. Oh, haven't I?
VIDA. If you'll pay me a visit to-morrow--at twelve, you shall meet a
most charming young woman, who has seen you once, and who admires
you--ah!
SIR WILFRID. I'm there--what!
VIDA. Seven hundred and seventy-one Fifth Avenue.
SIR WILFRID. Seven seventy-one Fifth Avenue--at twelve.
VIDA. At twelve.
SIR WILFRID. Thanks! [_Indicating_ CYNTHIA.] She's a thoroughbred--you
can see that with one eye shut. Twelve. [_Shaking hands._] Awfully
good of you to ask me. [_He joins_ JOHN.] I say, my boy, your former's
an absolute certainty. [_To_ CYNTHIA.] I hear you're about to marry
Mr. Phillimore, Mrs. Karslake?
KARSLAKE _crosses to_ VIDA _and together they move to the
sofa and sit down._
CYNTHIA. To-morrow, 3 P. M., Sir Wilfrid.
SIR WILFRID. [_Much taken with_ CYNTHIA.] Afraid I've run into a sort
of family party, eh? [_Indicating_ VIDA.] The Past and the
Future--awfully chic way you Americans have of asking your divorced
husbands and wives to drop in, you know--celebrate a christenin', or
the new bride, or--
CYNTHIA. Do you like your tea strong?
SIR WILFRID. Middlin'.
CYNTHIA. Sugar?
SIR WILFRID. One!
CYNTHIA. Lemon?
SIR WILFRID. Just torture a lemon over it. [_He makes a gesture as of
twisting a lemon peel. She hands him his tea._] Thanks! So you do it
to-morrow at three?
CYNTHIA. At three, Sir Wilfrid.
SIR WILFRID. Sorry!
CYNTHIA. Why are you sorry?
SIR WILFRID. Hate to see a pretty woman married. Might marry her
myself.
CYNTHIA. Oh, but I'm sure you don't admire American women.
SIR WILFRID. Admire you, Mrs. Karslake--
CYNTHIA. Not enough to marry me, I hope.
SIR WILFRID. Marry you in a minute! Say the word. Marry you now--here.
CYNTHIA. You don't think you ought to know me a little before--
SIR WILFRID. Know you? Do know you.
CYNTHIA. [_Covering her hair with her handkerchief._] What colour is
my hair?
SIR WILFRID. Pshaw!
CYNTHIA. You see! You don't know whether I'm a chestnut or a
strawberry roan! In the States we think a few months of friendship is
quite necessary.
SIR WILFRID. Few months of moonshine! Never was a friend to a
woman--thank God, in all my life.
CYNTHIA. Oh--oh, oh!
SIR WILFRID. Might as well talk about being a friend to a
whiskey-and-soda.
CYNTHIA. A woman has a soul, Sir Wilfrid.
SIR WILFRID. Well, good whiskey is spirits--dozens o' souls!
CYNTHIA. You are so gross!
SIR WILFRID. [_Changing his seat for one at the tea-table._] Gross?
Not a bit! Friendship between the sexes is all fudge! I'm no friend to
a rose in my garden. I don't call it friendship--eh--eh--a warm,
starry night, moonbeams and ilex trees, "and a spirit who knows how"
and all that--eh-- [_Getting closer to her._] You make me feel awfully
poetical, you know-- [PHILIP _comes toward them, glances nervously at_
CYNTHIA _and_ SIR WILFRID, _and walks away again._] What's the matter?
But, I say--poetry aside--do you, eh---- [_Looking around to place_
PHILIP.] Does he--y'know--is he--does he go to the head?
CYNTHIA. Sir Wilfrid, Mr. Phillimore is my sober second choice.
SIR WILFRID. Did you ever kiss him? I'll bet he fined you for contempt
of court. Look here, Mrs. Karslake, if you're marryin' a man you don't
care about--
CYNTHIA. [_Amused and excusing his audacity as a foreigner's
eccentricity._] Really!
SIR WILFRID. Well, I don't offer myself--
CYNTHIA. Oh!
SIR WILFRID. Not this instant--
CYNTHIA. Ah!
SIR WILFRID. But let me drop in to-morrow at ten.
CYNTHIA. What country and state of affairs do you think you have
landed in?
SIR WILFRID. New York, by Jove! Been to school, too. New York is
bounded on the North, South, East and West by the state of Divorce!
Come, come, Mrs. Karslake, I like your country. You've no fear and no
respect--no cant and lots of can. Here you all are, you see--your
former husband, and your new husband's former wife--sounds like
Ollendoff! Eh? So there you are, you see! But, jokin' apart--why do
you marry him? Oh, well, marry him if you must! You can run around the
corner and get a divorce afterwards--
CYNTHIA. I believe you think they throw one in with an ice-cream soda!
SIR WILFRID. [_Rising._] Damme, my dear lady, a marriage in your
country is no more than a--eh--eh--what do you call 'em? A thank you,
ma'am. That's what an American marriage is--a thank you, ma'am.
Bump--bump--you're over it and on to the next.
CYNTHIA. You're an odd fish! What? I believe I like you!
SIR WILFRID. 'Course you do! You'll see me when I call to-morrow--at
ten? We'll run down to Belmont Park, eh?
CYNTHIA. Don't be absurd!
VIDA. [_Has finished her talk with_ JOHN, _and breaks in on_ SIR
WILFRID, _who has hung about_ CYNTHIA _too long to suit her._]
To-morrow at twelve, Sir Wilfrid!
SIR WILFRID. Twelve!
VIDA. [_Shaking hands with_ JOHN.] Don't forget, Mr. Karslake--eleven
o'clock to-morrow.
JOHN. [_Bowing assent._] I won't!
VIDA. [_Coming over to_ CYNTHIA.] Oh, Mrs. Karslake, I've ordered
Tiffany to send you something. It's a sugar-bowl to sweeten the
matrimonial lot! I suppose nothing would induce you to call?
CYNTHIA. [_Distantly and careless of offending._] Thanks, no--that is,
is "Cynthia K" really to be there at eleven? I'd give a gold mine to
see her again.
VIDA. Do come!
CYNTHIA. If Mr. Karslake will accommodate me by his absence.
VIDA. Dear Mr. Karslake, you'll have to change your hour.
JOHN. Sorry, I'm not able to.
CYNTHIA. I can't come later for I'm to be married.
JOHN. It's not as bad as that with me, but I am to be sold
up--Sheriff, you know. Can't come later than eleven.
VIDA. [_To_ CYNTHIA.] Any hour but eleven, dear.
CYNTHIA. [_Perfectly regardless of_ VIDA, _and ready to vex_ JOHN _if
possible._] Mrs. Phillimore, I shall call on you at eleven--to see
Cynthia K. I thank you for the invitation. Good-afternoon.
VIDA. [_Aside to_ JOHN, _crossing to speak quietly to him._] It's mere
bravado; she won't come.
JOHN. You don't know her.
_There is a pause and general embarrassment._ SIR WILFRID
_uses his eye-glass._ JOHN _angry._ CYNTHIA _triumphant._
MATTHEW _embarrassed._ VIDA _irritated._ PHILIP _puzzled.
Everybody is at odds._
SIR WILFRID. [_For the first time a witness to the pretty
complications of divorce. To_ MATTHEW.] Do you have it as warm as this
ordinarily?
MATTHEW. [_For whom these moments are more than usually painful, and
wiping his brow._] It's not so much the heat as the humidity.
JOHN. [_Looks at watch and, relieved, glad to be off._] I shall be
late for my creditors' dinner.
SIR WILFRID. [_Interested and walking toward_ JOHN.] Creditors'
dinner.
JOHN. [_Reading the note._] Fifteen of my sporting creditors have
arranged to give me a blow-out at Sherry's, and I'm expected right
away or sooner. And, by the way, I was to bring my friends--if I had
any. So now's the time to stand by me! Mrs. Phillimore?
VIDA. Of course!
JOHN. [_Ready to embarrass_ CYNTHIA, _if possible, and speaking as if
he had quite forgotten their former relations._] Mrs. Karslake--I beg
your pardon. Judge? [PHILIP _declines._] No? Sir Wilfrid?
SIR WILFRID. I'm with you!
JOHN. [_To_ MATTHEW.] Your Grace?
MATTHEW. I regret--
SIR WILFRID. Is it the custom for creditors--
JOHN. Come on, Sir Wilfrid! [THOMAS _opens door._] Good-night,
Judge--Your Grace--
SIR WILFRID. Is it the custom--
JOHN. Hang the custom! Come on--I'll show you a gang of creditors
worth having!
SIR WILFRID _and_ JOHN _go out, arm in arm, preceded by_
VIDA. MATTHEW _crosses the room, smiling, as if pleased, in a
Christian way, with this display of generous gaiety. He stops
short suddenly and looks at his watch._
MATTHEW. Good gracious! I had no idea the hour was so late. I've been
asked to a meeting with Maryland and Iowa, to talk over the divorce
situation. [_He leaves the room quickly and his voice is heard in the
hall._] Good-afternoon! Good-afternoon!
CYNTHIA _is evidently much excited. The outer door slams._
PHILIP _comes down slowly._ CYNTHIA _stands, her eyes wide,
her breathing visible, until_ PHILIP _speaks, when she seems
suddenly to realize her position. There is a long pause._
PHILIP. [_With a superior air._] I have seldom witnessed a more
amazing cataclysm of jocundity! Of course, my dear, this has all been
most disagreeable for you.
CYNTHIA. [_Excitedly._] Yes, yes, yes!
PHILIP. I saw how much it shocked your delicacy.
CYNTHIA. [_Distressed and moved._] Outrageous.
[PHILIP _sits down._
PHILIP. Do be seated, Cynthia. [_Taking up the paper. Quietly._] Very
odd sort of an Englishman--that Cates-Darby!
CYNTHIA. Sir Wilfrid?--Oh, yes! [PHILIP _settles down to the paper. To
herself._] Outrageous! I've a great mind to go at eleven--just as I
said I would!
PHILIP. Do sit down, Cynthia!
CYNTHIA. What? What?
PHILIP. You make me so nervous--
CYNTHIA. Sorry--sorry. [_She sits down and, seeing the paper, takes
it, looking at the picture of_ JOHN KARSLAKE.
PHILIP. [_Sighing with content._] Ah! now that I see him, I don't
wonder you couldn't stand him. There's a kind of--ah--spontaneous
inebriety about him. He is incomprehensible! If I might with reverence
cross-question the Creator, I would say to him: "Sir, to what end or
purpose did you create Mr. John Karslake?" I believe I should obtain
no adequate answer! However, [_Sighs._] at last we have peace--and
_The Post_! [PHILIP, _settling himself, reads his paper;_ CYNTHIA,
_glancing at her paper, occasionally looks across at_ PHILIP.] Forget
the dust of the arena--the prolixity of counsel--the involuntary
fatuity of things in general. [_After a pause, he goes on with his
reading._] Compose yourself!
MISS HENEAGE, MRS. PHILLIMORE _and_ GRACE _come in._ CYNTHIA
_sighs without letting her sigh be heard. She tries to
compose herself. She glances at the paper and then, hearing_
MISS HENEAGE, _starts slightly._ MISS HENEAGE _and_ MRS.
PHILLIMORE _stop at the table._
MISS HENEAGE. [_Carrying a sheet of paper._] There, my dear Mary, is
the announcement as I have now reworded it. I took William's
suggestion. [MRS. PHILLIMORE _takes and casually reads it._] I also
put the case to him, and he was of the opinion that the announcement
should be sent _only_ to those people who are really _in_ society.
[_She sits near the table._ CYNTHIA _braces herself to bear the_
PHILLIMORE _conversation._
GRACE. I wish you'd make an exception of the Dudleys.
[CYNTHIA _rises and moves to the chair by the table._
MISS HENEAGE. And, of course, that excludes the Oppenheims--the
Vance-Browns.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. It's just as well to be exclusive.
GRACE. I do wish you'd make an exception of Lena Dudley.
MISS HENEAGE. We might, of course, include those new Girardos, and
possibly--possibly the Paddingtons.
GRACE. I do wish you would take in Lena Dudley.
[_They are now sitting._
MRS. PHILLIMORE. The mother Dudley is as common as a charwoman, and
not nearly as clean.
PHILIP. [_Sighing, his own feelings, as usual, to the fore._] Ah! I
certainly am fatigued!
CYNTHIA _begins to slowly crush the newspaper she has been
reading with both hands, as if the effort of self-repression
were too much for her._
MISS HENEAGE. [_Making the best of a gloomy future._] We shall have to
ask the Dudleys sooner or later to dine, Mary--because of the elder
girl's marriage to that dissolute French Marquis.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. [_Plaintively._] I don't like common people any more
than I like common cats, and of course in my time--
MISS HENEAGE. I think I shall include the Dudleys.
MRS. PHILLIMORE. You think you'll include the Dudleys?
MISS HENEAGE. Yes, I think I will include the Dudleys!
_Here_ CYNTHIA'S _control breaks down. Driven desperate by
their chatter, she has slowly rolled her newspaper into a
ball, and at this point tosses it violently to the floor and
bursts into hysterical laughter._
MRS. PHILLIMORE. Why, my dear Cynthia--Compose yourself.
PHILIP. [_Hastily._] What is the matter, Cynthia?
[_They speak together._
MISS HENEAGE. Why, Mrs. Karslake, what is the matter?
GRACE. [_Coming quickly forward._] Mrs. Karslake!
CURTAIN.