SHE. Let her deserve it first. Just to Georgina, indeed!
HE. She really sees the world in that way. That is her punishment.
SHE. How can it be her punishment when she likes it? It'll be my
punishment when she brings that budget of poems to Teddy. I wish you'd
have some sense, and sympathize with my position a little.
HE. [going away from the piano and beginning to walk about rather
testily] My dear: I really don't care about Georgina or about Teddy. All
these squabbles belong to a plane on which I am, as you say, no use. I
have counted the cost; and I do not fear the consequences. After all,
what is there to fear? Where is the difficulty? What can Georgina do?
What can your husband do? What can anybody do?
SHE. Do you mean to say that you propose that we should walk right bang
up to Teddy and tell him we're going away together?
HE. Yes. What can be simpler?
SHE. And do you think for a moment he'd stand it, like that half-baked
clergyman in the play? He'd just kill you.
HE [coming to a sudden stop and speaking with considerable confidence]
You don't understand these things, my darling, how could you? In one
respect I am unlike the poet in the play. I have followed the Greek
ideal and not neglected the culture of my body. Your husband would make
a tolerable second-rate heavy weight if he were in training and ten
years younger. As it is, he could, if strung up to a great effort by
a burst of passion, give a good account of himself for perhaps fifteen
seconds. But I am active enough to keep out of his reach for fifteen
seconds; and after that I should be simply all over him.
SHE [rising and coming to him in consternation] What do you mean by all
over him?
HE [gently] Don't ask me, dearest. At all events, I swear to you that
you need not be anxious about me.
SHE. And what about Teddy? Do you mean to tell me that you are going to
beat Teddy before my face like a brutal prizefighter?
HE. All this alarm is needless, dearest. Believe me, nothing will
happen. Your husband knows that I am capable of defending myself. Under
such circumstances nothing ever does happen. And of course I shall do
nothing. The man who once loved you is sacred to me.
SHE [suspiciously] Doesn't he love me still? Has he told you anything?
HE. No, no. [He takes her tenderly in his arms]. Dearest, dearest: how
agitated you are! how unlike yourself! All these worries belong to
the lower plane. Come up with me to the higher one. The heights, the
solitudes, the soul world!
SHE [avoiding his gaze] No: stop: it's no use, Mr Apjohn.
HE [recoiling] Mr Apjohn!!!
SHE. Excuse me: I meant Henry, of course.
HE. How could you even think of me as Mr Apjohn? I never think of you as
Mrs Bompas: it is always Cand-- I mean Aurora, Aurora, Auro--
SHE. Yes, yes: that's all very well, Mr Apjohn [He is about to interrupt
again: but she won't have it] no: it's no use: I've suddenly begun to
think of you as Mr Apjohn; and it's ridiculous to go on calling you
Henry. I thought you were only a boy, a child, a dreamer. I thought you
would be too much afraid to do anything. And now you want to beat Teddy
and to break up my home and disgrace me and make a horrible scandal in
the papers. It's cruel, unmanly, cowardly.
HE [with grave wonder] Are you afraid?
SHE. Oh, of course I'm afraid. So would you be if you had any common
sense. [She goes to the hearth, turning her back to him, and puts one
tapping foot on the fender].
HE [watching her with great gravity] Perfect love casteth out fear. That
is why I am not afraid. Mrs Bompas: you do not love me.
SHE [turning to him with a gasp of relief] Oh, thank you, thank you! You
really can be very nice, Henry.
HE. Why do you thank me?
SHE [coming prettily to him from the fireplace] For calling me Mrs
Bompas again. I feel now that you are going to be reasonable and behave
like a gentleman. [He drops on the stool; covers his face with his hand;
and groans]. What's the matter?
HE. Once or twice in my life I have dreamed that I was exquisitely happy
and blessed. But oh! the misgiving at the first stir of consciousness!
the stab of reality! the prison walls of the bedroom! the bitter, bitter
disappointment of waking! And this time! oh, this time I thought I was
awake.
SHE. Listen to me, Henry: we really haven't time for all that sort of
flapdoodle now. [He starts to his feet as if she had pulled a trigger
and straightened him by the release of a powerful spring, and goes past
her with set teeth to the little table]. Oh, take care: you nearly hit
me in the chin with the top of your head.
HE [with fierce politeness] I beg your pardon. What is it you want me to
do? I am at your service. I am ready to behave like a gentleman if you
will be kind enough to explain exactly how.
SHE [a little frightened] Thank you, Henry: I was sure you would. You're
not angry with me, are you?
HE. Go on. Go on quickly. Give me something to think about, or I will--I
will--[he suddenly snatches up her fan and it about to break it in his
clenched fists].
SHE [running forward and catching at the fan, with loud lamentation]
Don't break my fan--no, don't. [He slowly relaxes his grip of it as she
draws it anxiously out of his hands]. No, really, that's a stupid trick.
I don't like that. You've no right to do that. [She opens the fan,
and finds that the sticks are disconnected]. Oh, how could you be so
inconsiderate?
HE. I beg your pardon. I will buy you a new one.
SHE [querulously] You will never be able to match it. And it was a
particular favorite of mine.
HE [shortly] Then you will have to do without it: that's all.
SHE. That's not a very nice thing to say after breaking my pet fan, I
think.
HE. If you knew how near I was to breaking Teddy's pet wife and
presenting him with the pieces, you would be thankful that you are alive
instead of--of--of howling about five shillings worth of ivory. Damn
your fan!
SHE. Oh! Don't you dare swear in my presence. One would think you were
my husband.
HE [again collapsing on the stool] This is some horrible dream. What has
become of you? You are not my Aurora.
SHE. Oh, well, if you come to that, what has become of you? Do you think
I would ever have encouraged you if I had known you were such a little
devil?
HE. Don't drag me down--don't--don't. Help me to find the way back to
the heights.
SHE [kneeling beside him and pleading] If you would only be reasonable,
Henry. If you would only remember that I am on the brink of ruin, and
not go on calmly saying it's all quite simple.
HE. It seems so to me.
SHE [jumping up distractedly] If you say that again I shall do something
I'll be sorry for. Here we are, standing on the edge of a frightful
precipice. No doubt it's quite simple to go over and have done with it.
But can't you suggest anything more agreeable?
HE. I can suggest nothing now. A chill black darkness has fallen: I can
see nothing but the ruins of our dream. [He rises with a deep sigh].
SHE. Can't you? Well, I can. I can see Georgina rubbing those poems into
Teddy. [Facing him determinedly] And I tell you, Henry Apjohn, that you
got me into this mess; and you must get me out of it again.
HE [polite and hopeless] All I can say is that I am entirely at your
service. What do you wish me to do?
SHE. Do you know anybody else named Aurora?
HE. No.
SHE. There's no use in saying No in that frozen pigheaded way. You must
know some Aurora or other somewhere.
HE. You said you were the only Aurora in the world. And [lifting his
clasped fists with a sudden return of his emotion] oh God! you were
the only Aurora in the world to me. [He turns away from her, hiding his
face].
SHE [petting him] Yes, yes, dear: of course. It's very nice of you; and
I appreciate it: indeed I do; but it's not reasonable just at present.
Now just listen to me. I suppose you know all those poems by heart.
HE. Yes, by heart. [Raising his head and looking at her, with a sudden
suspicion] Don't you?
SHE. Well, I never can remember verses; and besides, I've been so busy
that I've not had time to read them all; though I intend to the very
first moment I can get: I promise you that most faithfully, Henry. But
now try and remember very particularly. Does the name of Bompas occur in
any of the poems?
HE [indignantly] No.
SHE. You're quite sure?
HE. Of course I am quite sure. How could I use such a name in a poem?
SHE. Well, I don't see why not. It rhymes to rumpus, which seems
appropriate enough at present, goodness knows! However, you're a poet,
and you ought to know.
HE. What does it matter--now?
SHE. It matters a lot, I can tell you. If there's nothing about Bompas
in the poems, we can say that they were written to some other Aurora,
and that you showed them to me because my name was Aurora too. So you've
got to invent another Aurora for the occasion.