OLIVIA (dreamily). Widow of well-known ex-convict takes possession of

J.P.'s house. Popular country gentleman denied entrance to his own

home. Doomed to travel.

GEORGE (angrily). I've had enough of this. Do you mean all this

nonsense?

OLIVIA. I do mean, George, that I am in no hurry to go up to London

and get married. I love the country just now, and (with a sigh) after

this morning, I'm--rather tired of husbands.

GEORGE (in a rage). I've never heard so much--damned nonsense in my

life. I will leave you to come to your senses. (He goes out

indignantly.)

(OLIVIA, who has forgiven him already, throws a loving kiss after him,

and then turns triumphantly to her dear curtains. She takes them,

smiling, to the sofa, and has just got to work again, when MR. PIM

appears at the open windows.)

PIM (in a whisper). Er, may I come in, Mrs. Marden?

OLIVIA (turning round in surprise). Mr. Pim!

PIM (anxiously). Mr. Marden is--er--not here?

OLIVIA (getting up). Do you want to see him? I will tell him.

PIM. No, no, no! Not for the world! (He comes in and looks anxiously

at the door) There is no immediate danger of his returning, Mrs.

Marden?

OLIVIA (surprised). No, I don't think so. What is it? You--

PIM. I took the liberty of returning by the window in the hope

of--er--coming upon you alone, Mrs. Marden.

OLIVIA. Yes?

PIM (still rather nervous). I--er--Mr. Marden will be very angry with

me. Quite rightly. I blame myself entirely. I do not know how I can

have been so stupid.

OLIVIA. What is it, Mr. Pim? Has my husband come to life again?

PIM. Mrs. Marden, I throw myself on your mercy entirely. The fact

is--his name was Polwittle.

OLIVIA (at a loss). Whose? My husband's?

PIM. Yes, yes. The name came back to me suddenly, just as I reached

the gate. Polwittle, poor fellow.

OLIVIA. But, Mr. Pim, my husband's name was Telworthy.

PIM. No, no, Polwittle.

OLIVIA. But, really I ought to. . . .

PIM (firmly). Polwittle. It came back to me suddenly just as I reached

the gate. For the moment, I had thoughts of conveying the news by

letter. I was naturally disinclined to return in person,

and--Polwittle. (Proudly) If you remember, I always said it was a

curious name.

OLIVIA. But who _is_ Polwittle?

PIM (in surprise at her stupidity). The man I have been telling you

about, who met with the sad fatality at Marseilles. Henry

Polwittle--or was it Ernest? No, Henry, I think. Poor fellow.

OLIVIA (indignantly). But you said his name was Telworthy! How _could_

you?

PIM. Yes, yes, I blame myself entirely.

OLIVIA. But how could you _think_ of a name like Telworthy, if it

wasn't Telworthy?

PIM (eagerly). Ah, that is the really interesting thing about the

whole matter.

OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, all your visits here to-day have been interesting.

PIM. Yes, but you see, on my first appearance here this morning, I was

received by--er--Miss Diana.

OLIVIA. Dinah.

PIM. Miss Dinah, yes. She was in--er--rather a communicative mood, and

she happened to mention, by way of passing the time, that before your

marriage to Mr. Marden you had been a Mrs.--er--

OLIVIA. Telworthy.

PIM. Yes, yes, Telworthy, of course. She mentioned also Australia. By

some process of the brain--which strikes me as decidedly curious--when

I was trying to recollect the name of the poor fellow on the boat,

whom you remember I had also met in Australia, the fact that this

other name was also stored in my memory, a name equally peculiar--this

fact I say . . .

OLIVIA (seeing that the sentence is rapidly going to pieces). Yes, I

understand.

PIM. I blame myself, I blame myself entirely.

OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't do that, Mr. Pim. It was really Dinah's fault

for inflicting all our family history on you.

PIM. Oh, but a charming young woman. I assure you I was very

much interested in all that she told me. (Getting up) Well,

Mrs.--er--Marden, I can only hope that you will forgive me for the

needless distress I have caused you to-day.

OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn't worry about that--please.

PIM. And you will tell your husband--you will break the news to him?

OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I will--break the news to him.

PIM. You understand how it is that I thought it better to come to you

in the first place?

OLIVIA. I am very glad you did.

PIM (holding out his hand). Then I will say good-bye, and--er--

OLIVIA. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. Let us have it quite clear this time.

You never knew my husband, Jacob Telworthy, you never met him in

Australia, you never saw him on the boat, and nothing whatever

happened to him at Marseilles. Is that right?

PIM. Yes, yes, that is so.

OLIVIA. So that, since he was supposed to have died in Australia six

years ago, he is presumably still dead?

PIM. Yes, yes, undoubtedly.

OLIVIA (holding out her hand with a charming smile). Then good-bye,

Mr. Pim, and thank you so much for--for all your trouble.

PIM. Not at all, Mrs. Marden. I can only assure you I--

DINAH (from the window). Hullo, here's Mr. Pim! (She comes in,

followed by BRIAN.)

PIM (anxiously looking at the door in case MR. MARDEN should come in).

Yes, yes, I--er--

DINAH. Oh, Mr. Pim, you mustn't run away without even saying how do

you do! Such old friends as we are. Why, it is ages since I saw you!

Are you staying to tea?

PIM. I'm afraid I--

OLIVIA. Mr. Pim has to hurry away, Dinah. You mustn't keep him.

DINAH. Well, but you'll come back again?

PIM. I fear that I am only a passer-by, Miss--er--Dinah.

OLIVIA. You can walk with him to the gate, dear.

PIM (gratefully to OLIVIA). Thank you. (He edges towards the window)

If you would be so kind, Miss Dinah--

BRIAN. I'll catch you up.

DINAH. Come along then, Mr. Pim. (As they go out) I want to hear all

about your _first_ wife. You haven't really told me anything yet.

(OLIVIA resumes her work, and BRIAN sits on the back of the sofa

looking at her.)

BRIAN (awkwardly). I just wanted to say, if you don't think it cheek,

that I'm--I'm on your side, if I may be, and if I can help you at all

I should be very proud of being allowed to.

OLIVIA (looking up at him). Brian, you dear. That's sweet of you . . .

But it's quite all right now, you know.

BRIAN. Oh, I'm so glad.

OLIVIA. Yes, that's what Mr. Pim came back to say. He'd made a mistake

about the name. (Smiling) George is the only husband I have.

BRIAN (surprised). What? You mean that the whole thing--that

Pim--(With conviction) Silly ass!

OLIVIA (kindly). Oh, well, he didn't mean to be. (After a pause)

Brian, do you know anything about the Law?

BRIAN. I'm afraid not. I hate the Law. Why?

OLIVIA (casually). Oh, I just--I was wondering--thinking about all the

shocks we've been through to-day. Second marriages, and all that.

BRIAN. Oh! It's a rotten business.

OLIVIA. I suppose there's nothing wrong in getting married to the

_same_ person twice?

BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think.

OLIVIA. Oh?

BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice, don't

they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in church.

OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it's rather a

nice idea. They ought to do it in England more.

BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can work it.

(Anxiously) D'you think there's any chance, Olivia?

OLIVIA (smiling). Every chance, dear.

BRIAN (jumping up). I say, do you really? Have you squared him? I

mean, has he--

OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We'll talk about it later on.

BRIAN. Bless you. Righto.

(As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the door. GEORGE

stands looking after him, and then turns to OLIVIA, who is absorbed in

her curtains. He walks up and down the room, fidgeting with things,

waiting for her to speak. As she says nothing, he begins to talk

himself, but in an obviously unconcerned way. There is a pause after

each answer of hers, before he gets out his next remark.)

GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange.

OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian--yes, isn't he? And such a nice

boy . . .

GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn't he? Hey?

OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . .

GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what?

OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don't think there's any

doubt about it . . .

GEORGE. Of course, I don't profess to know anything about painting.

OLIVIA. You've never had time to take it up, dear.

GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can't say I see much in this

new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can't he paint like--like

Rubens or--or Reynolds?

OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find his

directly. Of course, he's only just beginning. . . .

GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what?

OLIVIA. Oh yes!

GEORGE. H'm! . . . Good-looking fellow. (There is rather a longer silence

this time, GEORGE continues to hope that he is appearing casual and

unconcerned. He stands looking at OLIVIA'S work for a moment.)

GEORGE. Nearly finished 'em?

OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there?

GEORGE (looking round). Scissors?

OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . .

GEORGE. Where are you going to put 'em?

OLIVIA (as if really wondering). I don't quite know. . . . I _had_

thought of this room, but--I'm not quite sure.

GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit.

OLIVIA. Yes. . . .

GEORGE (walking over to the present curtains). H'm. They _are_ a bit

faded.

OLIVIA (shaking out hers, and looking at them critically). Sometimes I

think I love them, and sometimes I'm not quite sure.

GEORGE. Best way is to hang 'em up and see how you like 'em then.

Always take 'em down again.

OLIVIA. That's rather a good idea, George!

GEORGE. Best way.

OLIVIA. Yes. . . . I think we might do that. . . . The only thing is--(she

hesitates).

GEORGE. What?

OLIVIA. Well, the carpet and the chairs, and the cushions and things--

GEORGE. What about 'em?

OLIVIA. Well, if we had new curtains--

GEORGE. You'd want a new carpet, eh?

OLIVIA (doubtfully). Y--yes. Well, new chair-covers anyhow.

GEORGE. H'm. . . . Well, why not?

OLIVIA. Oh, but--

GEORGE (with an awkward laugh). We're not so hard up as all that, you

know.

OLIVIA. No, I suppose not. (Thoughtfully) I suppose it would mean that

I should have to go up to London for them. That's rather a nuisance.

GEORGE (extremely casual). Oh, I don't know. We might go up together

one day.

OLIVIA. Well, of course if we _were_ up--for anything else--we could

just look about us, and see if we could find what we want.

GEORGE. That's what I meant.

(There is another silence. GEORGE is wondering whether to come to

closer quarters with the great question.)

OLIVIA. Oh, by the way, George--

GEORGE. Yes?

OLIVIA (innocently). I told Brian, and I expect he'll tell Dinah, that

Mr. Pim had made a mistake about the name.

GEORGE (astonished). You told Brian that Mr. Pim--

OLIVIA. Yes--I told him that the whole thing was a mistake. It seemed

the simplest way.

GEORGE. Olivia! Then you mean that Brian and Dinah think that--that we

have been married all the time?

OLIVIA. Yes . . . They both think so now.

GEORGE (coming close to her). Olivia, does that mean that you _are_

thinking of marrying me?

OLIVIA. At your old Registry Office?

GEORGE (eagerly). Yes!

OLIVIA. To-morrow?

GEORGE. Yes!

OLIVIA. Do you want me to _very_ much?

GEORGE. My darling, you know I do!

OLIVIA (a little apprehensive). We should have to do it very quietly.

GEORGE. Of course, darling. Nobody need know at all. We don't _want_

anybody to know. And now that you've put Brian and Dinah off the

scent, by telling them that Mr. Pim made a mistake--(He breaks off,

and says admiringly) That was very clever of you, Olivia. I should

never have thought of that.

OLIVIA (innocently). No, darling. . . . You don't think it was wrong,

George?

GEORGE (his verdict). An innocent deception . . . perfectly harmless.

OLIVIA. Yes, dear, that was what I thought about--about what I was

doing.

GEORGE. Then you will come to-morrow? (She nods.) And if we happen to

see the carpet, or anything that you want--

OLIVIA. Oh, what fun!

GEORGE (beaming). And a wedding lunch at the Carlton, what? (She nods

eagerly.) And--and a bit of a honeymoon in Paris?

OLIVIA. Oh, George!

GEORGE (hungrily). Give us a kiss, old girl.

OLIVIA (lovingly). George!

(She holds up her cheek to him. He kisses it, and then suddenly takes

her in his arms.)

GEORGE. Don't ever leave me, old girl.

OLIVIA (affectionately). Don't ever send me away, old boy.

GEORGE (fervently). I won't. . . . (Awkwardly) I--I don't think I would

have, you know. I--I--

(DINAH and BRIAN appear at the windows, having seen MR. PIM safely

off.)

DINAH (surprised). Oo, I say!

(GEORGE hastily moves away.)

GEORGE. Hallo!

DINAH (going up impetuously to him). Give _me_ one, too, George; Brian

won't mind.

BRIAN. Really, Dinah, you are the limit.

GEORGE (formally, but enjoying it). Do you mind, Mr. Strange?

BRIAN (a little uncomfortably). Oh, I say, sir--

GEORGE. We'll risk it, Dinah. (He kisses her.)

DINAH (triumphantly to BRIAN). Did you notice that one? That

wasn't just an ordinary affectionate kiss. It was a special

bless--you--my--children one. (to GEORGE) Wasn't it?

OLIVIA. You do talk nonsense, darling.

DINAH. Well, I'm so happy, now that Mr. Pim has relented about your

first husband--

(GEORGE catches OLIVIA'S eye and smiles; she smiles back; but they are

different smiles.)

GEORGE (the actor). Yes, yes, stupid fellow Pim, what?

BRIAN. Absolute idiot.

DINAH.--And now that George has relented about _my_ first husband.

GEORGE. You get on much too quickly, young woman. (to BRIAN) So you

want to marry my Dinah, eh?

BRIAN (with a smile). Well, I do rather, sir.

DINAH (hastily). Not at once, of course, George. We want to be engaged

for a long time first, and write letters to each other, and tell each

other how much we love each other, and sit next to each other when we

go out to dinner.

GEORGE (to OLIVIA). Well, _that_ sounds fairly harmless, I think.

OLIVIA (smiling). I think so. . . .

GEORGE (to BRIAN). Then you'd better have a talk with me--er--Brian.

BRIAN. Thank you very much, sir.

GEORGE. Well, come along then. (Looking at his watch) I am going up to

town after tea, so we'd better--

DINAH. I say! Are you going to London?

GEORGE (with the smile of the conspirator). A little business. Never

you mind, young lady.

DINAH (calmly). All right. Only, bring me back something nice.

GEORGE (to BRIAN). Shall we walk down and look at the pigs?

BRIAN. Righto!

OLIVIA. Don't go far, dear. I may want you in a moment.

GEORGE. All right, darling, we'll be on the terrace.

[They go out together.

DINAH. Brian and George always try to discuss me in front of the pigs.

So tactless of them. Are you going to London, too, darling?

OLIVIA. To-morrow morning.

DINAH. What are you going to do in London?

OLIVIA. Oh, shopping, and--one or two little things.

DINAH. With George?

OLIVIA. Yes. . . .

DINAH. I say, wasn't it lovely about Pim?

OLIVIA. Lovely?

DINAH. Yes; he told me all about it. Making such a hash of things, I

mean.

OLIVIA (innocently). Did he make a hash of things?

DINAH. Well, I mean keeping on coming like that. And if you look at it

all round--well, for all he had to say, he needn't really have come at

all.

OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I shouldn't quite say that, Dinah. (She

stands up and shakes out the curtains.)

DINAH. I say, aren't they jolly?

OLIVIA (demurely). I'm so glad everybody likes them. Tell George I'm

ready, will you?

DINAH. I say, is _he_ going to hang them up for you?

OLIVIA. Well, I thought he could reach best.

DINAH. Righto! What fun! (At the windows) George! George! (to OLIVIA)

Brian is just telling George about the five shillings he's got in the

Post Office. . . . George!

GEORGE (from the terrace). Coming!

(He hurries in, the model husband, BRIAN follows.)

OLIVIA. Oh, George, just hang these up for me, will you?

GEORGE. Of course, darling. I'll get the steps from the library.

[He hurries out.

(BRIAN takes out his sketching block. It is obvious that his five

shillings has turned the scale. He bows to DINAH. He kisses OLIVIA'S

hand with an air. He motions to DINAH to be seated.)

DINAH (impressed). What is it?

BRIAN (beginning to draw). Portrait of Lady Strange.

(GEORGE hurries in with the steps, and gets to work. There is a great

deal of curtain, and for the moment he becomes slightly involved in

it. However, by draping it over his head and shoulders, he manages to

get successfully up the steps. There we may leave him.)

(But we have not quite finished with MR. PIM. It is a matter of honour

with him now that he should get his little story quite accurate before

passing out of the MARDENS' life for ever. So he comes back for the

last time; for the last time we see his head at the window. He

whispers to OLIVIA.)

MR. PIM. Mrs. Marden! I've just remembered. His name was _Ernest_

Polwittle--_not_ Henry.

(He goes off happily. A curious family the MARDENS. Perhaps somebody

else would have committed bigamy if he had not remembered in time that

it was Ernest. . . . Ernest. . . . Yes. . . . Now he can go back with an

easy conscience to the Trevors.)

THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

CHARACTERS

KATE CAMBERLEY.

CYRIL NORWOOD (her lover).

DENNIS CAMBERLEY (her husband).

* * * * *

This play was first produced by Mr. Godfrey Tearle at the Coliseum on

September 8, 1919, with the following cast:

Dennis Camberley--GODFREY TEARLE.

Kate Camberley--MARY MALONE.

Cyril Norwood--EWAN BROOK.

THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE

(It is an evening of 1919 in KATE'S drawing-room. She is expecting

him, and the Curtain goes up as he is announced.)

MAID. Mr. Cyril Norwood.

(He comes in.)

NORWOOD (for the MAID'S benefit, but you may be sure she knows). Ah,

good evening, Mrs. Camberley!

KATE. Good evening!

(They shake hands. NORWOOD is sleek and prosperous, in a morning coat

with a white slip to his waistcoat. He is good-looking in rather an

obvious way with rather an obvious moustache. Most women like him--at

least, so he will tell you.)

NORWOOD (as soon as they are alone). My darling!

KATE. Cyril!

(He takes her hands and kisses them. He would kiss her face, but she

is not quite ready for this.)

NORWOOD. You let me yesterday. Why mayn't I kiss you to-day?

KATE. Not just yet, dear. I want to talk to you. Come and sit down.

(They sit on the sofa together.)

NORWOOD. You aren't sorry for what you said yesterday?

KATE (looking at him thoughtfully, and then shaking her head). No.

NORWOOD. Then what's happened?

KATE. I've just had a letter from Dennis.

NORWOOD (anxiously). Dennis--your husband?

KATE. Yes.

NORWOOD. Where does he write from?

KATE. India.

NORWOOD. Oh, well!

KATE. He says I may expect him home almost as soon as I get the

letter.

NORWOOD. Good Heavens!

KATE. Yes. . . .

NORWOOD (always hopeful). Perhaps he didn't catch the boat that he

expected to. Wouldn't he have cabled from somewhere on the way?

KATE. You can't depend on cables nowadays. _I_ don't know--What are we

to do, Cyril?

NORWOOD. You know what I always wanted you to do. (He takes her hands)

Come away with me.

KATE (doubtfully). And let Dennis come home and find--an empty house?

NORWOOD (eagerly). You are nothing to him, and he is nothing to you. A

war-wedding!--after you'd been engaged to each other for a week! And

forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent out to India--and you haven't

seen him since.

KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that.

NORWOOD. The world may say that you're his wife and he's your husband,

but--what do you know of him? He won't even be the boy you married.

He'll be a stranger whom you'll hardly recognise. And you aren't the

girl _he_ married. You're a woman now, and you're just beginning to

learn what love is. Come with _me_.

KATE. It's true, it's true. But he _has_ been fighting for us. And to

come home again after those four years of exile, and find--

NORWOOD. Exile--that's making much too much of it. He's come through

the war safely, and he's probably had what he'd call a topping good

time. Like enough he's been in love half-a-dozen times himself

since--on leave in India and that sort of thing. India! Well, you

should read Kipling.

KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don't know him. But I feel

that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight about

it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing what you

say, he would understand--and perhaps be glad of it.

NORWOOD (uneasily). Really, darling, it's hardly a thing you can talk

over calmly with a husband, even if he--We don't want any unpleasantness,

and--er--(Taking her hands again) Besides, I want you, Kate. It

may be weeks before he comes back. We can't go on like this . . . Kate!

KATE. Do you love me so very much?

NORWOOD. My darling!

KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week--in case he comes. I

don't want to seem to be afraid of him.

NORWOOD (eagerly). And then?

KATE. Then I'll come with you.

NORWOOD (taking her in his arms). My darling! . . . There! And now what

are you going to do? Ask me to stay to dinner or what?

KATE. Certainly not, sir. I'm going _out_ to dinner to-night.

NORWOOD (jealously). Who with?

KATE. You.

NORWOOD (eagerly). At our little restaurant? (She nods) Good girl!

Then go and put on a hat, while I ring 'em up and see if they've got a

table.

KATE. What fun! I won't be a moment. (She goes to the door) Cyril, you

will _always_ love me?

NORWOOD. Of course I will, darling. (She nods at him and goes out. He

is very well pleased with himself when he is left alone. He goes to

the telephone with a smile) Gerrard 11,001. Yes . . . I want a table for

two. To-night . . . Mr. Cyril Norwood . . . Oh, in about half an hour . . .

Yes, for two. Is that all right? . . . Thank you.

(He puts the receiver back and turns round to see DENNIS CAMBERLEY,

who has just come in. DENNIS is certainly a man now; very easily and

pleasantly master of himself and of anybody else who gets in his way.)

NORWOOD (surprised). Hallo!

DENNIS (nodding pleasantly). Hallo!

NORWOOD (wondering who he is). You--er----?

DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood.

NORWOOD. You know my name?

DENNIS. Oh yes, I've heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril Norwood.

NORWOOD (stiffly). I don't think I've had the pleasure of--er----

DENNIS (winningly). Oh, but I'm sure you must have heard a good deal

about _me_.

NORWOOD. Good God, you don't mean----

DENNIS. I do, indeed. (With a bow) Dennis Camberley, the missing

husband. (Pleadingly) You _have_ heard about me, _haven't_ you?

NORWOOD. I--er--Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So you're back?

DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. Norwood,

and sometimes--they do. . . . Even after four years. . . . But you _did_

talk about me sometimes?

NORWOOD. How did you know my name?

DENNIS. A little bird told me about you.

NORWOOD (turning away in anger). Pooh!

DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the backs of

crocodiles, searching for--well, let us say, breakfast. He said to me

one morning: "Talking of parasites," he said, "do you know Mr. Cyril

Norwood?" he said, "because I could tell you an interesting story

about him," he said, "if you care to--"

NORWOOD (wheeling round furiously). Look here, sir, we'd better have

it out quite plainly. I don't want any veiled insults and sneers from

you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has arisen, but we must

look facts in the face. You may be Mrs. Camberley's husband, but she

has not seen you for four years, and--well, she and I love each other.

There you have it. What are you going to do?

DENNIS (anxiously). You don't feel that I have neglected her, Mr.

Norwood? You see, I couldn't come home for week-ends very well, and--

NORWOOD. What are you going to do?

DENNIS (pleasantly). Well, what do you suggest?

NORWOOD (taken aback). Really, sir, I--er--

DENNIS. You see, I feel so out of it all. I've been leading such a

nasty, uncivilised life for the last four years, I really hardly know

what is--what is being done. Now _you_ have been mixing in Society . . .

making munitions . . .

NORWOOD (stiffly). I have been engaged on important work for the

Government of a confidential nature--

DENNIS. You, as I was saying, have been mixing in Society, engaged on

important work for the Government of a confidential nature----

NORWOOD. It was my great regret that I had no opportunity of

enlisting----

DENNIS. With no opportunity, as I was about to say, of enlisting, but

with many opportunities, fortunately, of making love to my wife.

NORWOOD. Now look here, Mr. Camberley, I've already told you----

DENNIS (soothing him). But, my dear Mr. Norwood, I'm only doing what

you said. I'm looking facts in the face. (Surprised) You aren't

ashamed of having made love to my wife, are you?

NORWOOD (impatiently). What are you going to do? That's all that

matters between you and me. What are you going to do?

DENNIS. Well, that was what I was going to ask you. You're so much

more in the swim than I am. (Earnestly) What _is_ being done in

Society just now? You must have heard a good deal of gossip about it.

All your friends, who were also engaged on important work of a

confidential nature, with no opportunity of enlisting--don't they tell

you their own experiences? What _have_ the husbands been doing lately

when they came back from the front?

NORWOOD (advancing on him angrily). Now, once and for all, sir----

(KATE comes in, with a hat in each hand, calling to NORWOOD as she

comes.)

KATE. Oh, Cyril--which of these two hats--(she sees her

husband)--Dennis!

DENNIS (looking at her steadfastly). How are _you_, Kate?

KATE (stammering). You've--you've come back? (She puts the hats down.)

DENNIS. I've come back. As I was telling Mr. Norwood.

KATE (looking from one to the other). You--?

DENNIS (smiling). Oh, we're quite old friends.

NORWOOD (going to her). I've told him, Kate.

(He takes her hands, and tries to look defiantly at DENNIS, though he

is not feeling like that at all.)

KATE (looking anxiously at DENNIS). What are you going to do?

(She can hardly make him out. He is different from the husband who

left her four years ago.)

DENNIS. Well, that's what Cyril keeps asking me. (to NORWOOD) You

don't mind my calling you Cyril?--such an old friend of my wife's--

KATE (unable to make him out). Dennis! (She is frightened.)

NORWOOD (soothingly). It's all right, dear.

DENNIS. Do let's sit down and talk it over in a friendly way.

KATE (going to him). Dennis, can you ever forgive me? We never ought

to have got married--we knew each other so little--you had to go away

so soon--I--I was going to write and tell you--oh, I wish--

DENNIS. That's all right, Kate. (He will not let her come too close to

him. He steps back and looks at her from head to feet) You've altered.

KATE. That's just it, Dennis. I'm not the girl who--

DENNIS. You've grown four years younger and four years prettier.

KATE (dropping her eyes). Have I?

DENNIS. Yes. . . . You do your hair a new way.

KATE (surprised). Do you like it?

DENNIS. I love it.

NORWOOD (coughing). Yes, well, perhaps we'd better--

DENNIS (with a start). I beg your pardon, Cyril. I was forgetting you

for the moment. Well, now do sit down, (NORWOOD and KATE sit down

together on the sofa, but DENNIS remains standing) That's right.

KATE. Well?

DENNIS (to KATE). You want to marry him, eh?

NORWOOD. We have already told you the circumstances, Mr. Camberley. I

need hardly say how regrettable it is that--er--but at the same time

these--er--things will happen, and since it--er--has happened--

KATE. I feel I hardly know you, Dennis. Did I love you when I married

you? I don't know. It was so sudden. We had no time to find out

anything about each other. And now you come back--a stranger--

DENNIS (jerking his head at NORWOOD). And he's not a stranger, eh?

KATE (dropping her eyes). N-no.

DENNIS. You feel you know all about _him_?

KATE. I--we--(She is unhappy.)

NORWOOD. We have discovered that we love each other. (Taking her

hands) My darling one, this is distressing for you. Let _me_--

DENNIS (sharply). It wouldn't be distressing for her, if you didn't

keep messing her about. Why the devil can't you sit on a chair by

yourself?

NORWOOD (indignantly). Really!

KATE (freeing herself from him, and moving to the extreme end of the

sofa). What are you going to do, Dennis?

DENNIS (looking at them thoughtfully, his chin on his hand). I don't

know. . . . It's difficult. I don't want to do anything melodramatic. I

mean (to KATE) it wouldn't really help matters if I did shoot him,

would it?

(KATE looks at him without saying anything, trying to understand this

new man who has come into her life. NORWOOD swallows, and tries very

hard to say something)

NORWOOD. I--I--

DENNIS (turning to him). You_ don't think so, do you?

NORWOOD. I--I--

DENNIS. No, I'm quite sure you're right. It wouldn't really help. It

is difficult, isn't it? You see (to KATE) _you_ love _him_--(he waits

a moment for her to say it if she will, but she only looks at

him)--and _he_ says _he_ loves _you_, but at the same time I _am_ your

husband. . . . (He walks up and down thoughtfully, and then says suddenly

to NORWOOD) I'll tell you what--I'll fight you for her.

NORWOOD (trying to be firm). I think we'd better leave this

eighteenth-century nonsense out of it.

DENNIS (pleasantly). They fight in the twentieth century, too, Mr.

Norwood. Perhaps you hadn't heard what we've been doing these last

four years? Oh, quite a lot of it. . . . Well?

NORWOOD. You don't wish me to believe that you're serious?

DENNIS. Perfectly. Swords, pistols, fists, catch-as-catch-can--what

would you like?

NORWOOD. I do not propose to indulge in an undignified scuffle for

the--er--lady of my heart.

DENNIS (cheerfully). Nothing doing in scuffles, eh? All right, then,

I'll toss you for her.

NORWOOD. Now you're merely being vulgar. (to KATE) My dear--

(She motions him back with her hand, but does not take her eyes off

DENNIS.)

DENNIS. Really, Mr. Norwood, you're a little hard to please. If you

don't like my suggestions, perhaps you will make one of your own.

NORWOOD. This is obviously a matter in which it is for the--er--lady

to choose.

DENNIS. You think Mrs. Camberley should choose between us?

NORWOOD. Certainly.

DENNIS. What do you say, Kate?

KATE. You are very generous, Dennis.

DENNIS (after a pause). Very well, you shall choose.

NORWOOD (complacently). Ah!

DENNIS. Wait a moment, Mr. Norwood. (to KATE) When did you first meet

him?

KATE. A year ago.

DENNIS. And he's been making love to you for a year? (KATE bends her

head) He's been making love to you for a year?

NORWOOD. I think, sir, that the sooner the lady makes her choice, and

brings this distressing scene to a close--After all, is it fair to her

to--?

DENNIS. Are you fair to _me_? You've been making love to her for a

year. _I_ made love to her for a fort-night--four years ago. And now

you want her to choose between us. Is _that_ fair?

NORWOOD. You hardly expect us to wait a year before she is allowed to

make up her mind?

DENNIS. I waited four years for her out there. . . . However, I won't ask

you to wait a year. I'll ask you to wait for five minutes.

KATE. What is it you want us to do, Dennis?

DENNIS. I want you to listen to both of us, for five minutes each;

that's all. After all, we're your suitors, aren't we? You're going to

choose between us. Very well, then, you must hear what we have to say.

Mr. Norwood shall have five minutes alone with you in which to present

his case; five minutes in which to tell you how beautiful you

are. . . . and how rich he is . . . and how happy you'll be together.

And I shall have _my_ five minutes.

NORWOOD (sneering). Five minutes in which to tell her lies about _me_,

eh?

DENNIS. Damn it, you've had a whole year in which to tell her lies

about yourself; you oughtn't to grudge me five minutes. (to KATE)

Well?

KATE. I agree, Dennis.

DENNIS. Good. (He spins a coin, puts it on the back of his hand, and

says to NORWOOD) Call!

NORWOOD. What on _earth_--

DENNIS. Choice of innings.

NORWOOD. I never heard of anything so--Tails.

DENNIS (uncovering it). Heads. You shall have first knock.

NORWOOD (bewildered). What do you--I don't--

DENNIS. You have five minutes in which to lay your case before Mrs.

Camberley. (He looks at his watch) Five minutes--and then I shall come

back. . . . Is there a fire in the dining-room, Kate?

KATE (smiling in spite of herself). A gas-fire; it isn't lit.

DENNIS. Then I shall light it. (to NORWOOD) That will make the room

nice and warm for you by the time you've finished. (He goes to the

door and says again) Five minutes.

(There is an awkward silence after he is gone. KATE waits for NORWOOD

to say something, but NORWOOD doesn't know in the least what is

expected of him.)

NORWOOD (looking anxiously at the door). What's the fellow's game, eh?

KATE. Game?

NORWOOD. Yes. What's he up to?

KATE. Is he up to anything?

NORWOOD. I don't like it. Why the devil did he choose to-day to come

back? If he'd waited another week, we'd have been safely away

together. What's his game, I wonder?

(He walks up and down, worrying it out.)

KATE. I don't think he's playing a game. He's just giving me my

chance.

NORWOOD. What chance?

KATE. A chance to decide between you.

NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think about

it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming away with

me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he up to?

KATE (sitting down and talking to herself). You're quite right about

my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage in those early

days of the war--knowing nothing about each other. And then they come

back, and even the little one thought one did know is different. . . . I

suppose he feels the same about me.

NORWOOD (to himself). Damn him!

KATE (after a pause). Well, Cyril?

NORWOOD (looking sharply round at her). Well?

KATE. We haven't got very long.

NORWOOD (looking at his watch). He really means to come back--in five

minutes?

KATE. You heard him say so.

NORWOOD (going up to her and speaking eagerly). What's the matter with

slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can slip out quietly. He

won't hear us. He'll come back and find us gone--well, what can he do?

Probably he'll hang about for a bit and then go to his club. We'll

have a bit of dinner; ring up your maid; get her to meet you with some

things, and go off by the night mail. Scotland--anywhere you like. Let

the whole business simmer down a bit. We don't want any melodramatic

eighteenth-century nonsense.

KATE. Go out now, and not wait for him to have _his_ five minutes?

NORWOOD (impatiently). What does he _want_ with five minutes? What's

the _good_ of it to him? Just to take a pathetic farewell of you, and

pretend that you've ruined his life, when all the time he's chuckling

in his sleeve at having got rid of you so easily. _I_ know these young

fellows. Some Major's wife in India is what _he's_ got his eye on. . . .

Or else he'll try fooling around with the hands-up business. You don't

want to be mixed up with any scandal of _that_ sort. No, the best

thing we can do--I'm speaking for _your_ sake, Kate--is to slip off

quietly, while we've got the chance. We can _write_ and explain all

that we want to explain.

KATE (looking wonderingly at him--another man whom she doesn't know).

Is that playing quite fair to Dennis?

NORWOOD. Good Lord, this isn't a game! Camberley may think so with his

tossing-up and all the rest of it, but you and I aren't children.

Everything's fair in a case like this. Put your hat on--quickly--(he

gets it for her)--here you are--

KATE (standing up). I'm not sure, Cyril.

NORWOOD. What d'you mean?

KATE. He expects me to wait for him.

NORWOOD. If it comes to that, he expected you to wait for him four

years ago.

KATE. Yes. . . . (Quietly) Thank you for reminding me.

NORWOOD. Kate, don't be stupid. What's happened to you? Of course, I

know it's been beastly upsetting for you, all this--but then, why do

you want to go on with it? Why do you want _more_ upsetting scenes?

You've got a chance now of getting out of it all, and--(He looks at

his watch) Good Lord!

KATE. Is the five minutes over?

NORWOOD. Quick, quick! (He puts his fingers to his lips) Quietly. (He

walks on tiptoe to the door.)

KATE. Cyril!

NORWOOD. H'sh!

KATE (sitting down again). It's no good, Cyril, I must wait for him.

(The door opens, and NORWOOD starts back quickly as DENNIS comes in.)

DENNIS (looking at his watch). Innings declared closed. (to NORWOOD)

The dining-room is nicely warmed now, and I've left you an evening

paper.

NORWOOD (going to KATE). Look here, Mr. Camberley, Kate and I--

DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley, no doubt, will tell me.

(He holds the door open and waits politely for NORWOOD to go.)

NORWOOD. I don't know what your game is--

DENNIS. You've never been in Mesopotamia, Mr. Norwood?

NORWOOD. Never.

DENNIS. It's a very trying place for the temper. . . . I'm waiting for

you.

NORWOOD (irresolute). Well, I---- (He comes sulkily to the door) Well,

I shall come back for Kate in five minutes.

DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley and I will be ready for you. You know your way?

[NORWOOD goes out.

(DENNIS shuts the door. He comes into the room and stands looking at

KATE.)

KATE (uncomfortably). Well?

DENNIS. No, don't move. I just want to look at you. . . . I've seen you

like that for four years. Don't move. . . . I've been in some dreary

places, but you've been with me most of the time. Just let's have a

last look.

KATE. A last look?

DENNIS. Yes.

KATE. You're saying good-bye to me?

DENNIS. I don't know whether it's to you, Kate. To the girl who has

been with me these last four years. Was that you?

KATE (dropping her eyes). I don't know, Dennis.

DENNIS. I wish to God I wasn't your husband.

KATE. What would you do if you weren't my husband?

DENNIS. Make love to you.

KATE. Can't you do that now?

DENNIS. Being your husband rather handicaps me, you know. I never

really stood a chance against the other fellow.

KATE. I was to choose between you, you said. You think that I have

already made up my mind?

DENNIS (smiling). I think so.

KATE. And chosen him?

DENNIS (shaking his head). Oh, no!

KATE (surprised). You think I have chosen _you_?

DENNIS (nodding). M'm.

KATE (indignantly). Really, Dennis! Considering that I had practically

arranged to run away with him twenty minutes ago! You must think me

very fickle.

DENNIS. Not fickle. Imaginative.

KATE. What do you mean? And why are you so certain that I am going to

choose you? And why in that case did you talk about taking a last look

at me? And what--?

DENNIS. Of course, we've only got five minutes, but I think that if

you asked your questions one at a time----

KATE (smiling). Well, you needn't _answer_ them all together.

DENNIS. All right then, one at a time. Why am I certain that you will

choose me? Because for the first time in your life you have just been

alone with Mr. Cyril Norwood. That's what I meant by saying you were

imaginative. The Norwood you've been thinking yourself in love with

doesn't exist. I'm certain that you've seen him for the first time in

these last few minutes. Why, the Archangel Gabriel would have made a

hash of a five minutes like that; it would have been impossible for

him to have said the right thing to you. Norwood? Good Lord, he didn't

stand a chance. You were judging him all the time, weren't you?

KATE (thoughtfully). You're very clever, Dennis.

DENNIS (cheerfully). Four years' study of the Turkish character.

KATE. But how do you know I'm not judging _you_ all the time?

DENNIS. Of course you are. But there's all the difference in the world

between judging a stranger like me, and judging the man you thought

you were in love with.

KATE. You _are_ a stranger to me.

DENNIS. I know. That's why I said good-bye to the girl who had been

with me these last four years, the girl I had married. Well, I've said

good-bye to her. You're not my wife any longer, Kate; but if you don't

mind pretending that I'm not your husband, and just give me a chance

of making love to you--well, that's all I want.

KATE. You're very generous, Dennis.

DENNIS. No, I'm not. I'm very much in love; and for a man very much in

love I'm being rather less of a silly ass than usual. Why should you

love me? You fell in love with my uniform at the beginning of the war.

I was ordered out, and you fell in love with the departing hero. After

that? Well, I had four years--alone--in which to think about _you_,

and you had four years--with other men--in which to forget _me_. Is it

any wonder that--?

(NORWOOD comes in.)

NORWOOD (roughly). Well?

DENNIS. You arrive just in time, Mr. Norwood. I was talking too much.

(to KATE) Mrs. Camberley, we are both at your disposal. Will you

choose between us, which one is to have the happiness of--serving you?

NORWOOD (holding out his hand to her, and speaking in the voice of the

proprietor). Kate!

(KATE goes slowly up to him with her hand held out.)

KATE (shaking NORWOOD'S hand). Good-bye, Mr. Norwood.

NORWOOD (astounded). Kate! (to DENNIS) You devil!

DENNIS. And only a moment ago I was comparing you to the Archangel

Gabriel.

NORWOOD (sneeringly to KATE). So you're going to be a loving wife to

him after all?

DENNIS (tapping him kindly on the shoulder). You'll remember what I

said about Mesopotamia?

NORWOOD (pulling himself together hastily). Good-bye, Mrs. Camberley.

I can only hope that you will be happy.

(He goes out with dignity.)

DENNIS (closing the door). Well, there we agree.

(He comes back to her.)

KATE. What a stupid little fool I have been. (She holds out her arms

to him) Dennis!

DENNIS (retreating in mock alarm). Oh no, you don't! (He shakes a

finger at her) We're not going to rush it _this_ time.

KATE (reproachfully). Dennis!

DENNIS. I think you should call me Mr. Camberley.

KATE (with a smile). Mr. Camberley.

DENNIS. That's better. Now our courtship begins. (Bowing low) Madam,

will you do me the great honour of dining with me this evening?

KATE (curtseying). I shall be charmed.

DENNIS. Then let us hasten. The carriage waits.

KATE (holding up the two hats). Which of these two chapeaux do you

prefer, Mr. Camberley?

DENNIS. Might I express a preference for the black one with the pink

roses?

KATE. It is very elegant, is it not? (She puts it on.)

DENNIS. Vastly becoming, upon my life. . . . I might mention that I am

staying at the club. Is your ladyship doing anything to-morrow?

KATE. Nothing of any great importance.

(He offers his arm and she takes it.)

DENNIS (as they go to the door). Then perhaps I may be permitted to

call round to-morrow morning about eleven, and make inquiries as to

your ladyship's health.

KATE. It would be very obliging of you, sir.

[They go out together.

THE ROMANTIC AGE

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

CHARACTERS

HENRY KNOWLE.

MARY KNOWLE (his wife).

MELISANDE (his daughter).

JANE BAGOT (his niece).

BOBBY COOTE.

GERVASE MALLORY.

ERN.

GENTLEMAN SUSAN.

ALICE.

* * * * *

ACT I

The hall of MR. KNOWLE'S house. Evening.

ACT II

A glade in the wood. Morning.

ACT III

The hall again. Afternoon.

* * * * *

This play was first produced by Mr. Arthur Wontner at the Comedy

Theatre on October 18, 1920, with the following cast:

Henry Knowle--A. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT.

Mary Knowle--LOTTIE VENNE.

Melisande--BARBARA HOFFE.

Jane--DOROTHY TETLEY.

Bobby--JOHN WILLIAMS.

Gervase Mallory--ARTHUR WONTNER.

Ern--ROY LENNOL.

Gentleman Susan--H.O. NICHOLSON.

Alice--IRENE RATHBONE.

THE ROMANTIC AGE

ACT I

(We are looking at the inner hall of MR. HENRY KNOWLE'S country house,

at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors R. and L.--on the

right leading to the drawing-room, on the left to the entrance hall,

the dining-room and the library. At the back are windows--French

windows on the right, then an interval of wall, then casement

windows.)

(MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, her daughter, MELISANDE, and her niece, JANE

BAGOT, are waiting for their coffee, MRS. KNOWLE, short and stoutish,

is reclining on the sofa; JANE, pleasant-looking and rather obviously

pretty, is sitting in a chair near her, glancing at a book; MELISANDE,

the beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows,

gazing into the night.)

(ALICE, the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands in front

of MRS. KNOWLE, a little embarrassed because MRS. KNOWLE'S eyes are

closed. She waits there until JANE looks up from her book.)

JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee?

MRS. KNOWLE (opening her eyes with a start). Coffee. Oh, yes, coffee.

Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr. Anderson is very firm

about that. "No sugar, Mrs. Knowle," he said. "Oh, Dr. Anderson!" I

said.

(ALICE has taken the tray to JANE, who pours out her own and her

aunt's coffee, and takes her cup off the tray.)

JANE. Thank you.

(ALICE takes the tray to MRS. KNOWLE.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you.

(ALICE goes over to MELISANDE, who says nothing, but waves her away.)

MRS. KNOWLE (as soon as ALICE is gone). Jane!

JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary?

MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open?

JANE. Oh, _no_, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I'm glad of that. It's so bad for the servants. (She

finishes her coffee.)

JANE (getting up). Shall I put it down for you?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear.

(JANE puts the two cups down and goes back to her book. MRS. KNOWLE

fidgets a little on her sofa.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (There is no answer) Sandy!

JANE. Melisande!

(MELISANDE turns round and comes slowly towards her mother.)

MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother?

MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn't you hear me?

MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other things.

MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the great

poet tells us. "Do noble things, not dream them all day long."

Tennyson, wasn't it? I know I wrote it in your album for you when you

were a little girl. It's so true.

MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson.

JANE (nodding). Kingsley, that's right.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it's the same thing. I know when _my_ mother used

to call me I used to come running up, saying, "What is it, Mummy,

darling?" And even if it was anything upstairs, like a handkerchief or

a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off happily, saying to

myself, "Do noble things, not dream them all day long."

MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want doing?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I've forgotten. If only you'd come at

once, dear--

MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It's a wonderful night.

Midsummer Night.

MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will start

drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know where we

are. All these changes of the seasons are very inconsiderate to an

invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted, dear. Can you find me

another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it most important that the

small of the back should be well supported after a meal. (Indicating

the place) Just here, dear.

JANE (jumping up with the cushion from her chair). Let me, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. (JANE arranges it.)

JANE. Is that right?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson's sake.

(JANE goes back to her book and MELISANDE goes back to her Midsummer

Night. There is silence for a little.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy!

JANE. Melisande!

MELISANDE (coming patiently down to them). Yes, Mother?

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I've just remembered--(MELISANDE shudders.)

What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That comes of standing by the

open window in a treacherous climate like this. Close the window and

come and sit down properly.

MELISANDE. It's a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I'm not

cold.

MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder. Didn't

you see her, Jane?

JANE. I'm afraid I wasn't looking, Aunt Mary.

MELISANDE. I didn't shudder because I was cold. I shuddered because

you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder every time I

hear it.

MRS. KNOWLE (surprised). What name, Sandy?

MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by such a

wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were going to

call me Sandy?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I've told you, that was a mistake

of your father's. I suppose he got it out of some book. I should

certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him distinctly. I

thought he said Millicent--after your Aunt Milly. And not being very

well at the time, and leaving it all to him, I never really knew about

it until it was too late to do anything. I did say to your father,

"Can't we christen her again?" But there was nothing in the prayer

book about it except "riper years," and nobody seemed to know when

riper years began. Besides, we were all calling you Sandy then. I

think Sandy is a very pretty name, don't you, Jane?

JANE. Oh, but don't you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary? I

mean really beautiful.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not for a

nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes me think

of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to whom she has

never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest with her hair

coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a pool. Not at all

the thing one wants for one's daughter.

JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds!

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with "Jane," dear. Your

mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child from

floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it is my

duty to do so.

MELISANDE (to her self ecstatically). Melisande!

MRS. KNOWLE (to MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about floating in a pool

reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner to-night. You heard what

your father said? You must give cook a good talking to in the morning.

She has been getting very careless lately. I don't know what's come

over her.

MELISANDE. _I've_ come over her. When _you_ were over her, everything

was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you take an interest

in it. I don't. I hate it. How can you expect the house to be run

properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you ever give it up and

make me do it when you know how I hate it?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I'm sure Jane here

doesn't hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a great help

she is.

MELISANDE (warningly). It's no good your saying you like it, Jane,

after what you told me yesterday.

JANE. I don't like it, but it doesn't make me miserable doing it. But

then I'm different. I'm not romantic like Melisande.

MELISANDE. One doesn't need to be very romantic not to want to talk

about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this!

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of myself. If

I thought about myself I should disregard all the warnings that Dr.

Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on doing the

housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to think of you. I

want to see you married to some nice, steady young man before I

die--my handkerchief, Jane--(JANE gets up and gives her her

handkerchief from the other end of the sofa)--before I die (she

touches her eyes with her handkerchief), and no nice young man will

want to marry you, if you haven't learnt how to look after his house

for him.

MELISANDE (contemptuously). If that's marriage, I shall never get

married.

JANE (shocked). Melisande, darling!

MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to make

me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live another

hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't _want_ to live

another hundred years. I only want to live until my dear daughter,

Melisande"--I didn't say Sandy to him because it seemed rather

familiar--"I only want to live until my daughter Melisande is happily

married to some nice, steady young man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson,"

I said, "and I shall be your lifelong debtor." He promised to do his

best. It was then that he mentioned about the cushion in the small of

the back after meals. And so don't forget to tell cook about the

bread-sauce, will you, dear?

MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother.

MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his food.

I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper interest

in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been married some

years, and told each other everything you did and saw before you met,

there isn't really anything to talk about at meals except food. And

you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. Nothing breaks up

the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, breakfast doesn't

matter, because he has his paper then; and after you have said, "Is

there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has said, "No," then he

doesn't expect anything more. I wonder sometimes why they go on

printing the newspapers. I've been married twenty years, and there has

never been anything in the paper yet.

MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage like

that. Wasn't there ever _any_ kind of romance between you and Father?

Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one magic Midsummer

morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald twinkle in the

grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't there ever one

passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with one long kiss my

whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew"? Or did you talk

about bread-sauce _all_ the time?

JANE (eagerly). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am quite

sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, as Sandy

suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at Surbiton. He used

to come down from London with his racquet and play tennis with us. And

then he would stay on to supper sometimes, and then after supper we

would go into the garden together--it was quite dark then, but

everything smelt so beautifully, I shall always remember it--and we

talked, oh, I don't know what about, but I knew somehow that I should

marry him one day. I don't think _he_ knew--he wasn't sure--and then

he came to a subscription dance one evening--I think Mother, your

grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because she

was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me

upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right pair

of shoes on--rather a tight pair--however, I put them on. And there

was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and

he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?" Well, of course, I was

only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round

Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don't know, but,

of course, I never told her. And when we got home after the dance, I

went up to her room--as soon as I'd got my shoes off--and said,

"Mother, I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "_Not_ Mr.

Knowle--Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, and

wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" and--Jane,

where's my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks

it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that's really all,

you know, except that--(she dabs her eyes again)--I'm afraid I'm

feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very

bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, dear,

why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and compose

myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't know what I

should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And

after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that

if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little

girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather

than cause either of them a moment's remorse. (She is up now) There!

JANE. Shall I come with you?

MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a little.

(She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the

men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your

Uncle Henry--if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of

course.

[She goes.

JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so

queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their

romances too.

MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription

dances and wearing tight shoes?

JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you

know what I mean.

MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has

just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history.

Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so

little?

JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt Mary--

MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost everywhere

nowadays. There is no romance left.

JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do

agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is no--(she searches for

the right word)--no _romance_ left.

MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one shudder.

JANE (doing her best). Positively shudder!

MELISANDE. He meets Her at--(she shudders)--a subscription dance, or a

tennis party--(she shudders again) or--at _golf_. He calls upon her

mother--perhaps in a top hat--perhaps (tragically) even in a bowler

hat.

JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders.

MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his

income--discovers that he is a nice, steady young man--and decides

that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked to come again, he is

invited to parties; it is understood that he is falling in love with

the daughter. The rest of the family are encouraged to leave them

alone together--if the opportunity occurs, Jane. (Contemptuously) But,

of course, only if it occurs.

JANE (awkwardly). Yes, dear.

MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her.

JANE (to herself ecstatically). Oh!

MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she takes to

be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and tells Father.

They are engaged. They talk about each other as "my fiancé." Perhaps

they are engaged for months and months--

JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande.

MELISANDE. For years and years--and wherever they go, people make

silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if they go into a

room where the two of them are. And then they get married at last, and

everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly

jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell

everybody--they shout it out in the newspapers--_where_ they are going

for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about

bread-sauce. Oh, Jane, it's horrible.

JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you?

MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I,

Jane?

JANE. Because you see, Sandy--I mean Melisande--you see, darling, this

_is_ the twentieth century, and--

MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my

lattice window.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,

The helmet and the helmet feather

Burned like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot.

And from his blazoned baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung

As he rode down to Camelot.

JANE. I know, dear. But of course they _don't_ nowadays.

MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave

one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage

for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose.

JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him?

(She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather--_you_ know. Rather

forward.

MELISANDE. Forward!

JANE (upset). Well, I mean--Well, of course, I suppose it was

different in those days.

MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he

wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?

JANE. Well, of course, there _is_ that.

MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes

back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope--for I have

been immured in my room--and I let myself down to him. He places me on

the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the

world--together for always!

JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get _married_, I suppose,

darling, or do you--er--

MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest

marries us.

JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes.

MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince from

Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a country

which is sorely troubled by a dragon.

JANE. By a what, dear?

MELISANDE. A dragon.

JANE. Oh, yes, of course.

MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his kingdom to

anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens to be passing

through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the dragon devours

him.

JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't _the_ one?

MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused no

emotion in my heart.

JANE. Oh, I'm so glad.

MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes upon

the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed.

JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow

MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in blue

and gold appears at my father's court, and begs that he too be allowed

to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the great hall on

my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our eyes meet. . . . Oh,

Jane!

JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days, Melisande.

They would have suited you so well.

MELISANDE. Will they never come back again?

JANE. Well, I don't quite see how they can. People don't dress in blue

and gold nowadays. I mean men.

MELISANDE. No. (She sighs) Well, I suppose I shall never marry.

JANE. Of course, I'm not romantic like you, darling, and I don't have

time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I quite

agree with everything you say, and of course it must have been

thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still here we

are, and (with a wave of the hand)--and what I mean is--here we are.

MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and to

make the ordinary commonplace marriage?

JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn't be commonplace if it was the

right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't say

beautiful--pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not very clever

perhaps, but making enough money----

MELISANDE (carelessly). It sounds rather like Bobby.

JANE (confused). It isn't like Bobby, or any one else particularly.

It's just anybody. It wasn't any particular person. I was just

describing the sort of man without thinking of any one in----

MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right.

JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby's devoted to _you_.

MELISANDE (firmly). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you solemnly that if

you think you are going to leave me and Bobby alone together this

evening---- (Voices are heard outside.) Well, I warn you.

JANE (in a whisper). Of course not, darling. (With perfect tact) And,

as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the most----Ah, here you are

at last! We wondered what had happened to you!

(Enter BOBBY and MR. KNOWLE. JANE has already described BOBBY for us.

MR. KNOWLE is a pleasant, middle-aged man with a sense of humour,

which he cultivates for his own amusement entirely.)

BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (He goes towards them.)

JANE (laughing). Very.

(MELISANDE gets up as BOBBY comes, and moves away.)

MR. KNOWLE. Where's your Mother, Sandy?

MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won't forget what I

said about the bread-sauce, will you?

MELISANDE. You don't want it remembered, Father, do you? What you

said?

MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that you

should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between

bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there is

no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy chicken,

such as we had to-night, but that a properly made bread-sauce is a

necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to be obtained.

MELISANDE. "Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained." Yes, Father.

MR. KNOWLE. That's right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A little

quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it's Midsummer Night. Why

aren't you two out in the garden looking for fairies?

BOBBY. I say, it's a topping night, you know. We ought to be out.

D'you feel like a stroll, Sandy?

MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don't think I'll go out.

BOBBY. Oh, I say, it's awfully warm.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take _you_ out. If we meet any of

Sandy's fairy friends, you can introduce me.

MELISANDE (looking across warningly at her). Jane----

JANE (awkwardly). I'm afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande and I--I

promised Sandy--we----

MR. KNOWLE (putting her arm firmly through his). Nonsense. I'm not

going to have my niece taken away from me, when she is only staying

with us for such a short time. Besides I insist upon being introduced

to Titania. I want to complain about the rings on the tennis-lawn.

They must dance somewhere else.

JANE (looking anxiously at MELISANDE). You see, Uncle Henry, I'm not

feeling very----

MELISANDE (resigned) All right, Jane.

JANE (brightly). All right, Uncle Henry.

MR. KNOWLE (very brightly). It's all right, Bobby.

JANE. Come along! (They go to the open windows together.)

MR. KNOWLE (as they go). Any message for Oberon, if we meet him?

MELISANDE (gravely). No, thank you, Father.

MR. KNOWLE. It's his turn to write, I suppose.

(JANE laughs as they go out together.)

(Left alone, MELISANDE takes up a book and goes to the sofa with it,

while BOBBY walks about the room unhappily, whistling to himself. He

keeps looking across at her, and at last their eyes meet.)

MELISANDE (putting down her book). Well, Bobby?

BOBBY (awkwardly). Well, Sandy?

MELISANDE (angrily). Don't call me that; you know how I hate it.

BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it's such a dashed mouthful. And your

father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn't say anything.

MELISANDE. One cannot always control one's parents. There comes a time

when it is almost useless to say things to them.

BOBBY (eagerly). I never mind your saying things to _me_, Sandy--I

mean, Melisande. I never shall mind, really I shan't. Of course, I

know I'm not worthy of you, and all that, but--I say, Melisande, isn't

there _any_ hope?

MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that again.

BOBBY (coming to her). I know you did, but I must. I can't believe

that you--

MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like that

again, then I wouldn't tell anybody anything about it, so that it

shouldn't be awkward for you. And I haven't told anybody, not even

Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they propose to a

girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of the country and

shoot lions; it's the only thing left for them to do. But I did try

and make it easy for _you_, Bobby. (Sadly) And now you're beginning

all over again.

BOBBY (awkwardly). I though perhaps you might have changed your mind.

Lots of girls do.

MELISANDE (contemptuously). Lots of girls! Is that how you think of

me?

BOBBY. Well, your mother said--(He breaks off hurriedly.)

MELISANDE (coldly). Have you been discussing me with my mother?

BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don't be angry. Sorry; I mean Melisande.

MELISANDE. Don't apologise. Go on.

BOBBY. Well, I didn't _discuss_ you with your mother. She just

happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and that they

always said "No" the first time, and that I needn't be downhearted,

because--

MELISANDE. That _you_ needn't? You mean you _told_ her?

BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out.

MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn't say anything, you went

and _told_ her! And then I suppose you went and told the cook, and

_she_ said that her brother's young woman was just the same, and then

you told the butcher, and _he_ said, "You stick to it, sir. All women

are alike. My missis said 'No' to me the first time." And then you

went and told the gardeners--I suppose you had all the gardeners

together in the potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it--and

when you had told them, you said, "Excuse me a moment, I must now go

and tell the postman," and then--

BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn't fair.

MELISANDE. Oh, what a world!

BOBBY. I say, you know that isn't fair.

MELISANDE (picking up her book). Father and Jane are outside, Bobby,

if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I suppose they know

already. (She pretends to read.)

BOBBY. I say, you know--(He doesn't quite know what to say. There is

an awkward silence. Then he says humbly) I'm awfully sorry, Melisande.

Please forgive me.

MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). That's nice of you, Bobby. Please

forgive _me_. I wasn't fair.

BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your

mother. And it sort of came out with _her_. She began talking about

you--

MELISANDE. _I_ know.

BOBBY. But I never told anybody else.

MELISANDE. It wouldn't be necessary if you told Mother.

BOBBY. I'm awfully sorry, but I really don't see why you should mind

so much. I mean, I know I'm not anybody very much, but I can't help

falling in love with you, and--well, it _is_ a sort of a compliment to

you, isn't it?--even if it's only me.

MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the

compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so--so unromantic.

(After a pause) Sometimes I think I shall never marry.

BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do _like_ me, don't you?

MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking Englishman--I don't

say beautiful--

BOBBY. I should hope not!

MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable--not very clever,

perhaps, but making enough money--

BOBBY. Well, I mean, that's not so bad.

MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more!

BOBBY. What sort of things?

MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you're so--so ordinary!

BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn't want me to be a freak, did you?

MELISANDE. So--commonplace. So--unromantic.

BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don't say I'm always reading poetry and all

that, if that's what you mean by romantic, but--commonplace! I'm

blessed if I see how you make out that.

MELISANDE. Bobby, I don't want to hurt your feelings--

BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings.

MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass!

(BOBBY goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his clothes.)

BOBBY (looking back at her). Well?

MELISANDE. Well!

BOBBY. I don't see what's wrong.

MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything's wrong. The man to whom I give

myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my

prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how

can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like that!

BOBBY (looking at it). What's the matter with it? It's what every

other fellow wears.

MELISANDE (contemptuously). What every other fellow wears! And you

think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what every other fellow

talks, and eat what every other--I suppose _you_ didn't like the

bread-sauce this evening?

BOBBY (guardedly). Well, not as bread-sauce.

MELISANDE (nodding her head). I thought so, I thought so.

BOBBY (struck by an idea). I say, you didn't make it, did you?

MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it?

BOBBY. I thought perhaps--You know, I really don't know what you _do_

want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean--

MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I'd rather you did.

BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is _he_ going to do

the cooking? I don't understand you, Sandy, really I don't.

MELISANDE (shaking her head gently at him). No, I'm sure you don't,

Bobby.

BOBBY (still trying, however). I suppose it's because he's doing the

cooking that he won't be able to dress for dinner. He sounds a funny

sort of chap; I should like to see him.

MELISANDE. You wouldn't understand him if you did see him.

BOBBY (jealously). Have you seen him?

MELISANDE. Only in my dreams.

BOBBY (relieved). Oh, well.

MELISANDE (dreamily to herself). Perhaps I shall never see him in this

world--and then I shall never marry. But if he ever comes for me, he

will come not like other men; and because he is so different from

everybody else, then I shall know him when he comes for me. He won't

talk about bread-sauce--billiards--and the money market. He won't wear

a little black suit, with a little black tie--all sideways. (BOBBY

hastily pulls his tie straight.) I don't know how he will be dressed,

but I know this, that when I see him, that when my eyes have looked

into his, when his eyes have looked into mine--

BOBBY. I say, steady!

MELISANDE (waking from her dream). Yes? (She gives a little laugh)

Poor Bobby!

BOBBY (appealingly). I say, Sandy! (He goes up to her.)

(MRS. KNOWLE has seized this moment to come back for her handkerchief.

She sees them together, and begins to walk out on tiptoe.)

(They hear her and turn round suddenly.)

MRS. KNOWLE (in a whisper). Don't take any notice of me. I only just

came for my handkerchief. (She continues to walk on tiptoe towards the

opposite door.)

MELISANDE (getting up). We were just wondering where you were, Mother.

Here's your handkerchief. (She picks it up from the sofa.)

MRS. KNOWLE (still in the voice in which you speak to an invalid).

Thank you, dear. Don't let me interrupt you--I was just going--

MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to

Bobby, won't you?

MRS. KNOWLE (with a happy smile, hoping for the best). Yes, my

darling.

MELISANDE (going to the windows). That's right. (She stops at the

windows and holds out her hands to the night)--

The moon shines bright: In such a night as this

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees

And they did make no noise, in such a night

Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls,

And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents,

Where Cressid lay that night. In such a night

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,

Upon the wild sea banks, and waft her love

To come again to Carthage.

(She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling voice) In such

a night! Ah!

[She goes to it.

MRS. KNOWLE (in a different voice). Ah! . . . Well, Mr. Coote?

BOBBY (turning back to her with a start). Oh--er--yes?

MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you Bobby,

mayn't I?

BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle.

MRS. KNOWLE (archly). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can't you think of a better

name?

BOBBY (wondering if he ought to call her MARY). Er--I'm--I'm afraid I

don't quite--

MRS. KNOWLE. Mother.

BOBBY. Oh, but I say--

MRS. KNOWLE (giving him her hand). And now come and sit on the sofa

with me, and tell me all about it.

(They go to the sofa together.)

BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle--

MRS. KNOWLE (shaking a finger playfully at him). Not Mrs. Knowle,

Bobby.

BOBBY. But I say, you mustn't think--I mean Sandy and I--we aren't--

MRS. KNOWLE. You don't mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has

refused you again.

BOBBY. Yes. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other day

was true. Girls don't know their own minds.

BOBBY (ruefully). I think Sandy knows hers--about me, anyhow.

MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet

said--Shakespeare, or was it the other man?--"Faint heart never won

fair lady." If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would never have

won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he came again--like

Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a revolver, and threatened to shoot

himself. I was shaking like an aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I

loved him. "Henry," I said, "I am yours." He took me in his

arms--putting down the revolver first, of course. I have never

regretted my surrender, Mr. Coote. (With a sigh) Ah, me! We women are

strange creatures.

BOBBY. I don't believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot myself.

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don't say that, Mr. Coote. She is very warm-hearted.

I'm sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you are taking too

gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it.

BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her again.

I know when I'm not wanted.

MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and I--

BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I

practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to you this

time.

MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how should

I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not?

BOBBY. Well, of course--I mean I haven't really said anything, have I?

Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about things.

MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she gets it

from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was all the

result of being christened in that irreligious way--I quite thought he

said Millicent--and reading all those books, instead of visiting the

sick as I used to do. I was quite a little Red Riding Hood until Henry

sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE and JANE come in by the window,

and she turns round towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was

wondering where you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all

about his prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get

your feet wet, I hope.

JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary.

MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been talking

to the fairies--haven't we, Jane?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see Sandy?

MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania--and Peters. He had an

appointment, apparently--but not with Titania.

JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the

morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an

unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a mistake.

MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about it as

you. He is doing his best to remedy the error.

MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I have been

through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know about.

MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What's the matter, my love? Indigestion?

MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my lips

are sealed. I shall suffer my cross--my mental cross--in silence.

JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary?

MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (To Heaven) My only daughter has

left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece has offered to

help me out of my--to help me. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Mr.

Coote.

BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle.

MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (in a loud whisper) what

Shakespeare said. (She presses his hand and holds it) Good-night!

Good-night! . . . Good-night!

MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he said,

"Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I could

say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE looks at him severely,

and then, without saying anything, goes over to him and holds up her

cheek.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well.

MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane.

JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary.

(MRS. KNOWLE goes to the door, BOBBY hurrying in front to open it for

her.)

MRS. KNOWLE (at the door). I shall _not_ sleep well. I shall lie awake

all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much distressed. "Dr. Anderson,"

I shall say, "it is not your fault. I lay awake all night, thinking of

my loved ones." In five minutes, Jane.

[She goes out.

MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the library, if

anybody wants to think of me--or say good-night to me--or anything

like that.

JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now, Uncle Henry. (She

goes up to him.)

MR. KNOWLE (kissing her). Good-night, dear.

JANE. Good-night.

MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss me--what about

you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library and have a smoke first?

BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather tired

to-day, somehow.

MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a business this

is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she should come back,

Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she will find it in the

library--just above the back of the armchair nearest the door. [He

goes out.

JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden?

BOBBY (gloomily). Yes--about five minutes ago.

JANE (timidly). I'm so sorry, Bobby.

BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (After a pause) Don't let's

talk about it.

JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I _had_ to

say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did you?

BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind.

JANE (gently). I mind very much when my friends are unhappy.

BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (He stands up, buttons his coat, and looks at

himself) I say, do _you_ see anything wrong with it?

JANE. Wrong with what?

BOBBY. My clothes. (He revolves slowly.)

JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully.

BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she means half

the time.

JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what you

mean. She's so (searching for the right word)--so _romantic_.

BOBBY (eagerly). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of living up to.

I say, have a cigarette, won't you?

JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do

feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who marries her.

BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that?

JANE. Yes. She's too (getting the right word at last)--too _romantic_.

BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about doing

deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but when one

marries and settles down--you know what I mean?

JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to Melisande

only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I happen to

like the twentieth century. That's all.

BOBBY. I see what you mean.

JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen on

games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else wears--as long as

they fit well, of course--and to talk about the ordinary things that

everybody talks about. Of course, Melisande would say that that was

very stupid and unromantic of me----

BOBBY. I don't think it is at all.

JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do understand so

wonderfully.

BOBBY (with a laugh). I say, that's rather funny. I was just thinking

the same about you.

JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that we are

really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't know

whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make friends very

easily.

BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends?

JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly think of

any--not what you call real friends.

BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each other all

your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you?

JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I could

never tell even her. (Impressively) I could never show her my inmost

heart.

BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I bet

there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything.

JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. That

sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be liked.

BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit

horrid.

JANE. How nice of you. (She gets up) Well, I must be going, I suppose.

BOBBY. What's the hurry?

JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes.

BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down again,

won't you?

JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. (Holding

out her hand) Good-night, Bobby.

BOBBY (taking it). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light your candle

for you.

JANE. How nice of you!

(She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door

together.)

BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself.

JANE (at the door). Well, if you are, we'd better put the lights out.

BOBBY. Righto. (He puts them out.) I say, what a night! (The moonlight

streams through the windows on them.) You'll hardly want a candle.

[They go out together.

(The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to ring.

After a little interval, ALICE comes in, turns on the light, and looks

round the hall. She is walking across the hall to the drawing-room

when MR. KNOWLE comes in from behind her, and she turns round.)

MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice?

ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it?

ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he wondered

if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how very sorry he

was to trouble you----

MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all--particularly if Peters

is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if it's not

troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And ask the

gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the door-mat.

ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is about

to bring in the whiskey.

ALICE. Yes, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey.

ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out, and returns a moment later) He says,

thank you very much, sir, but he really won't come in, and he's very

sorry indeed to trouble you about the petrol.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him.

ALICE (hopefully). Yes, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present Mr.

Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much honoured if he

will drink a glass of whiskey with me before proceeding on his

journey.

ALICE. Yes, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. And then--bring in the whiskey.

ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out. In a little while she comes back

followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in a long

cloak.) Mr. Gervase Mallory.

[She goes out.

MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see you.

(They shake hands.)

GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for bothering

you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance.

MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far?

GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty miles

away. Do you know it?

MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as far

away as that.

GERVASE (with a laugh). Well, perhaps only by the way I came. The fact

is I've lost myself rather.

MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to have come

within five miles of us.

GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now that you

_are_ here.

GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you.

(ALICE comes in.)

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE puts down the whiskey.) You've

told Peters?

ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now.

MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE goes out.) You'll have some whiskey,

won't you?

GERVASE. Thanks very much.

(He comes to the table.)

MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make yourself

comfortable?

GERVASE. Er--thanks. I don't think---- (He smiles to himself and keeps

his cloak on.)

MR. KNOWLE (busy with the drinks). Say when.

GERVASE. Thank you.

MR. KNOWLE. And soda?

GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks!

(He takes the glass.)

MR. KNOWLE (giving himself one). I'm so glad you came, because I have

a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives me cough-mixture,

I insist on somebody else in the house having cough-mixture too. A

glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just before going to bed----

(He looks up) But do take your coat off, won't you, and sit down and

be comfortable?

GERVASE. Er--thanks very much, but I don't think---- (With a shrug and

a smile) Oh, well! (He puts down his glass and begins to take it off.

He is in fancy dress--the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold of

MELISANDE'S dream.)

(MR. KNOWLE turns round to him again just as he has put his cloak

down. He looks at GERVASE in amazement.)

MR. KNOWLE (pointing to his whiskey glass). But I haven't even begun

it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port.

GERVASE (laughing). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder what on earth

I'm doing.

MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth _I'd_ been doing.

GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at Collingham.

MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably.

GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in--or take my cloak off.

MR. KNOWLE (inspecting him). It becomes you extraordinarily well, if I

may say so.

GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it when

other people are in ordinary clothes.

MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. I

don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but

(looking at himself) I am sure that I could have found something more

expressive of my emotions than this.

GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, Davy."

MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed.

GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a whiskey and

soda.

MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette, too?

GERVASE. May I have one of my own?

MR. KNOWLE. Do.

GERVASE (feeling for it). If I can find it. They were very careless

about pockets in the old days. I had a special one put in somewhere,

only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, here it is. (He takes a

cigarette from his case, and after trying to put the case back in his

pocket again, places it on the table.)

MR. KNOWLE. Match?

GERVASE. Thanks. (Picking up his whiskey) Well, here's luck, and--my

most grateful thanks.

MR. KNOWLE (raising his glass). May you slay all your dragons.

GERVASE. Thank you. (They drink.)

MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw a map

outside in the hall.

GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was too much

interested in your prints.

MR. KNOWLE (eagerly). You don't say that you are interested in prints?

GERVASE. Very much--as an entire amateur.

MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the art

began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I have

something in the library--but of course I mustn't take up your time

now. If you could bear to come over another day--after all, we are

neighbours----

GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it.

MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it because

you seem to have lost your way so completely----

GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different in the

moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on

afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your

hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in

one afternoon.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea.

GERVASE. That will be ripping. (Getting up) Well, I suppose I ought to

be getting on. (He picks up his cloak.)

MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the way.

GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's.

(They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking at the

casement windows.)

MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (He switches off the

lights, and the moon streams through the windows) Just look.

GERVASE (with a deep sigh). Wonderful!

[They go out together.

(The hall is empty for a moment. Then GERVASE reappears. He has

forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and on his way out again

stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking through the casement

windows.)

(MELISANDE comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and at the

same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. It is He!

The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each other. . . . Silently

he makes obeisance to her; silently she acknowledges it. . . . Then he is

gone.)

ACT II

(It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The scene is a

glade in a wood a little way above the village of Hedgling.)

GERVASE MALLORY, still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak on,

comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He takes

off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns round, and,

seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While he is looking he

hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round with a start; the

whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries to get to his cloak.

It is too late. ERN, a very small boy, comes through the trees into

the glade. GERVASE gives a sigh of resignation and stands there. ERN

stops in the middle of his tune and gazes at him.

ERN. Oo--er! Oo! (He circles slowly round GERVASE.)

GERVASE. I quite agree with you.

ERN. Oo! Look!

GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the

back--take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . . Been all

round? Good!

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very difficult.

Do you mind if I sit down?

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE (sitting down on a log). I gather that I have your consent. I

thank you.

ERN. Oo! Look! (He points at GERVASE'S legs.)

GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed those

before?

ERN (sitting down in front of GERVASE). Oo!

GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a walk in

a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say "Oo." What

does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you don't walk

all round _him_ and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle George wear when

he's reaping? I suppose you don't--By the way, I wish you'd tell me

your name. (ERN gazes at him dumbly.) Oh, come! They must have told

you your name when you got up this moving.

ERN (smiling sheepishly). Ern.

GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? I am very glad to meet you, Mr.

Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN grins) Thank you.

ERN (tapping himself). I'm Ern.

GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory.

ERN. Ern.

GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, you

know, because then we never get any farther. Once an introduction is

over, Mr. Hearne, we are--

ERN. Ern.

GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But now--Oh, I see

what you mean. Ern--short for Ernest?

ERN (nodding). They calls me Ern.