SHE. Surely, as a man of honor--as a gentleman, you wouldn't tell the
truth, would you?
HE. Very well. You have broken my spirit and desecrated my dreams.
I will lie and protest and stand on my honor: oh, I will play the
gentleman, never fear.
SHE. Yes, put it all on me, of course. Don't be mean, Henry.
HE [rousing himself with an effort] You are quite right, Mrs Bompas: I
beg your pardon. You must excuse my temper. I have got growing pains, I
think.
SHE. Growing pains!
HE. The process of growing from romantic boyhood into cynical maturity
usually takes fifteen years. When it is compressed into fifteen minutes,
the pace is too fast; and growing pains are the result.
SHE. Oh, is this a time for cleverness? It's settled, isn't it, that
you're going to be nice and good, and that you'll brazen it out to Teddy
that you have some other Aurora?
HE. Yes: I'm capable of anything now. I should not have told him the
truth by halves; and now I will not lie by halves. I'll wallow in the
honor of a gentleman.
SHE. Dearest boy, I knew you would. I--Sh! [she rushes to the door, and
holds it ajar, listening breathlessly].
HE. What is it?
SHE [white with apprehension] It's Teddy: I hear him tapping the new
barometer. He can't have anything serious on his mind or he wouldn't
do that. Perhaps Georgina hasn't said anything. [She steals back to the
hearth]. Try and look as if there was nothing the matter. Give me my
gloves, quick. [He hands them to her. She pulls on one hastily and
begins buttoning it with ostentatious unconcern]. Go further away from
me, quick. [He walks doggedly away from her until the piano prevents his
going farther]. If I button my glove, and you were to hum a tune, don't
you think that--
HE. The tableau would be complete in its guiltiness. For Heaven's sake,
Mrs Bompas, let that glove alone: you look like a pickpocket.
Her husband comes in: a robust, thicknecked, well groomed city man,
with a strong chin but a blithering eye and credulous mouth. He has a
momentous air, but shows no sign of displeasure: rather the contrary.
HER HUSBAND. Hallo! I thought you two were at the theatre.
SHE. I felt anxious about you, Teddy. Why didn't you come home to
dinner?
HER HUSBAND. I got a message from Georgina. She wanted me to go to her.
SHE. Poor dear Georgina! I'm sorry I haven't been able to call on her
this last week. I hope there's nothing the matter with her.
HER HUSBAND. Nothing, except anxiety for my welfare and yours. [She
steals a terrified look at Henry]. By, the way, Apjohn, I should like a
word with you this evening, if Aurora can spare you for a moment.
HE [formally] I am at your service.
HER HUSBAND. No hurry. After the theatre will do.
HE. We have decided not to go.
HER HUSBAND. Indeed! Well, then, shall we adjourn to my snuggery?
SHE. You needn't move. I shall go and lock up my diamonds since I'm not
going to the theatre. Give me my things.
HER HUSBAND [as he hands her the cloud and the mirror] Well, we shall
have more room here.
HE [looking about him and shaking his shoulders loose] I think I should
prefer plenty of room.
HER HUSBAND. So, if it's not disturbing you, Rory--?
SHE. Not at all. [She goes out].
When the two men are alone together, Bompas deliberately takes the poems
from his breast pocket; looks at them reflectively; then looks at Henry,
mutely inviting his attention. Henry refuses to understand, doing his
best to look unconcerned.
HER HUSBAND. Do these manuscripts seem at all familiar to you, may I
ask?
HE. Manuscripts?
HER HUSBAND. Yes. Would you like to look at them a little closer? [He
proffers them under Henry's nose].
HE [as with a sudden illumination of glad surprise] Why, these are my
poems.
HER HUSBAND. So I gather.
HE. What a shame! Mrs Bompas has shown them to you! You must think me an
utter ass. I wrote them years ago after reading Swinburne's Songs Before
Sunrise. Nothing would do me then but I must reel off a set of Songs
to the Sunrise. Aurora, you know: the rosy fingered Aurora. They're all
about Aurora. When Mrs Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldn't
resist the temptation to lend them to her to read. But I didn't bargain
for your unsympathetic eyes.
HER HUSBAND [grinning] Apjohn: that's really very ready of you. You are
cut out for literature; and the day will come when Rory and I will be
proud to have you about the house. I have heard far thinner stories from
much older men.
HE [with an air of great surprise] Do you mean to imply that you don't
believe me?
HER HUSBAND. Do you expect me to believe you?
HE. Why not? I don't understand.
HER HUSBAND. Come! Don't underrate your own cleverness, Apjohn. I think
you understand pretty well.
HE. I assure you I am quite at a loss. Can you not be a little more
explicit?
HER HUSBAND. Don't overdo it, old chap. However, I will just be so far
explicit as to say that if you think these poems read as if they were
addressed, not to a live woman, but to a shivering cold time of day at
which you were never out of bed in your life, you hardly do justice to
your own literary powers--which I admire and appreciate, mind you, as
much as any man. Come! own up. You wrote those poems to my wife. [An
internal struggle prevents Henry from answering]. Of course you did.
[He throws the poems on the table; and goes to the hearthrug, where
he plants himself solidly, chuckling a little and waiting for the next
move].
HE [formally and carefully] Mr Bompas: I pledge you my word you are
mistaken. I need not tell you that Mrs Bompas is a lady of stainless
honor, who has never cast an unworthy thought on me. The fact that she
has shown you my poems--
HER HUSBAND. That's not a fact. I came by them without her knowledge.
She didn't show them to me.
HE. Does not that prove their perfect innocence? She would have shown
them to you at once if she had taken your quite unfounded view of them.
HER HUSBAND [shaken] Apjohn: play fair. Don't abuse your intellectual
gifts. Do you really mean that I am making a fool of myself?
HE [earnestly] Believe me, you are. I assure you, on my honor as a
gentleman, that I have never had the slightest feeling for Mrs Bompas
beyond the ordinary esteem and regard of a pleasant acquaintance.
HER HUSBAND [shortly, showing ill humor for the first time] Oh, indeed.
[He leaves his hearth and begins to approach Henry slowly, looking him
up and down with growing resentment].
HE [hastening to improve the impression made by his mendacity] I should
never have dreamt of writing poems to her. The thing is absurd.
HER HUSBAND [reddening ominously] Why is it absurd?
HE [shrugging his shoulders] Well, it happens that I do not admire Mrs
Bompas--in that way.
HER HUSBAND [breaking out in Henry's face] Let me tell you that Mrs
Bompas has been admired by better men than you, you soapy headed little
puppy, you.
HE [much taken aback] There is no need to insult me like this. I assure
you, on my honor as a--
HER HUSBAND [too angry to tolerate a reply, and boring Henry more and
more towards the piano] You don't admire Mrs Bompas! You would never
dream of writing poems to Mrs Bompas! My wife's not good enough for you,
isn't she. [Fiercely] Who are you, pray, that you should be so jolly
superior?