ACT I.

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THE MOTH AND THE FLAME

[Illustration: CLYDE FITCH]

CLYDE FITCH

(1865-1909)

Clyde Fitch brought a vivacity to the American stage that no other

American playwright has thus far succeeded in emulating. The total

impression of his work leads one to believe that he also brought to

the American stage a style which was at the same time literary and

distinctly his own. His personality was interesting and lovable,

quickly responsive to a variety of human nature. No play of his was

ever wholly worthless, because of that personal equation which lent

youth and spontaneity to much of his dialogue. When he attained

popular fame, he threw off his dramas--whether original or adapted

from the French and German--with a rapidity and ease that did much to

create a false impression as to his haste and casualness. But Fitch,

though a nervously quick worker, was never careless. He pondered his

dramas long, he carried his characters in mind for years, he almost

memorized his dialogue before he set it down on paper. And if he wrote

in his little note-books with the same staccato speed that an artist

sketches, it was merely because he saw the picture vividly, and

because the preliminaries had been done beforehand.

The present Editor was privileged to know Fitch as a friend. And to be

taken into the magic circle was to be given freely of that personal

equation which made his plays so personal. This association was begun

over a negative criticism of a play. An invitation followed to come

and talk it over in his Fortieth Street study, the same room

which--decorations, furniture, books and all--was bequeathed to

Amherst College, and practically reproduces there the Fitchean

flavour.

I have seen Clyde Fitch on many diverse occasions. Through incisive

comment on people, contemporary manners, and plays, which was let drop

in conversation, I was able to estimate the natural tendency of

Fitch's mind. His interest was never concerned solely with dominant

characters; he was quick rather to sense the idiosyncrasies of the

average person. His observation was caught by the seemingly

unimportant, but no less identifying peculiarities of the middle

class. Besides which, his irony was never more happy than when aimed

against that social set which he knew, and good-humouredly satirized.

To know Clyde Fitch intimately--no matter for how short a while--was

to be put in possession of his real self. From early years, he showed

the same tendencies which later developed more fully, but were not

different. Success gave him the money to gratify his tastes for

_objets d'art_, which he used to calculate closely to satisfy in the

days when "Beau Brummell" and "Frederic Lemaitre" gave hint of his

dramatic talent. He was a man of deep sentiment, shown to his friends

by the countless graceful acts as host, and shown to his players. As

soon as a Fitch play began to be a commodity, coveted by the

theatrical manager, he nearly always had personal control of its

production, and could dictate who should be in his casts. No dramatist

has left behind him more profoundly pleasing memories of artistic

association than Clyde Fitch. The names of his plays form a roster of

stage associations--the identification of "Beau Brummell" with Richard

Mansfield; of "Nathan Hale" with N. C. Goodwin; of "Barbara Frietchie"

with Julia Marlowe; of "The Climbers" with Amelia Bingham; of "The

Stubbornness of Geraldine" with Mary Mannering; of "The Truth" and

"The Girl With Green Eyes" with Clara Bloodgood--to mention a few

instances. Those who recall happy hours spent with Fitch at his

country homes--either at "Quiet Corner," Greenwich, Connecticut, or at

"The Other House," Katonah, New York, have vivid memory of his

pervasive cordiality. His players, likewise, those whose identifying

talent caught his fancy, had the same care and attention paid them in

his playwriting. Sometimes, it may be, this graciousness of his made

him cut his cloth to suit the figure. "Beau Brummell" was the very

mold and fashion of Mansfield: but that was _Brummell's_ fault and

Mansfield's genius, to which was added the adaptability of Fitch. But

there are no seams or patches to "Captain Jinks of the Horse

Marines"--its freshness caught the freshness of Ethel Barrymore, and

Fitch was confident of the blend. His eye was unerring as to stage

effect, and he would go to all ends of trouble, partly for sentiment,

partly for accuracy, and always for novelty, to create the desired

results. Did he not, with his own hands, wire the apple-blossoms for

the orchard scene in "Lovers' Lane?" Was he not careful to get the

right colour for the dawn in "Nathan Hale," and the Southern evening

atmosphere in "Barbara Frietchie?" And in such a play as "Girls," did

he not delight in the accessories, like the clatter of the steam-pipe

radiator, for particular New York environment which he knew so

graphically how to portray?

That was the boy--the Peter Pan quality--in Clyde Fitch; it was not

his love for the trivial, for he could be serious in the midst of it.

His temperament in playwriting was as variable as Spring weather--it

was extravagant in its responsiveness to the momentary mood. He would

suggest a whole play in one scene; a real flash of philosophy or of

psychology would be lost in the midst of a slight play on words for

the sake of a laugh. One finds that often the case in "A Happy

Marriage." He was never more at home than when squeezing all the human

traits and humour out of a given situation, which was subsidiary to

the plot, yet in atmosphere complete in itself. The _Hunter's_

drawing-room just after the funeral, in "The Climbers;" the church

scene in "The Moth and the Flame," which for jocularity and small

points is the equal of Langdon Mitchell's wedding scene in "The New

York Idea," though not so sharply incisive in its satire; the deck on

board ship in "The Stubbornness of Geraldine" (so beautifully

burlesqued by Weber and Fields as "The Stickiness of Gelatine"); and

_Mr. Roland's_ rooms in _Mrs. Crespigny's_ flat, which almost upset,

in its humourous bad taste, the tragedy of "The Truth"--these are

instances of his unusual vein. One finds it is by these fine points,

these obvious clevernesses that Fitch paved the way to popular

success. But there was far more to him than this--there was the

literary sense which gave one the feeling of reality in his plays--not

alone because of novelty or familiarity of scene, but because of the

uttered word.

Human foibles and frailties were, therefore, his specialty. Out of his

vast product of playwriting, one remembers stories and scenes, rather

than personages; one recalls characteristics rather than characters;

one treasures quick interplay of words rather than the close reason

for such. Because of that, some are right in attributing to him a

feminine quickness of observation, or rather a minute observation for

the feminine. That is why he determined, in "The City," to dispel the

illusion that he could not write a man's play, or draw masculine

characters. Yet was not _Sam Coast_, in "Her Own Way," almost the

equal of _Georgiana Carley_?

I recall, one midnight--the week before Mr. Fitch sailed on his last

trip to Europe--he read me "The City," two acts of which were in

their final shape, the third in process of completion. There used to

be a superstition among the managers to the effect that if you ever

wished to consider a play by Fitch, he must be kept from reading it

himself; for if he did, you would accept it on the spot. All the

horror of that powerful arraignment of city life, and the equally

powerful criticism of country life, was brought out on this evening we

were together, and I was able to see just where, as a stage director,

Clyde Fitch must have been the mainstay at rehearsals. He never lived

to give the final touches to his manuscript of "The City,"--touches

which always meant so much to him; he was dead by the time rehearsals

were called, and there slipped from the performance some of the

significant atmosphere he described to me.

There comes vividly to my mind his questions after the reading--trying

out his effects on me, so to speak. Rapidly he reviewed the work on

the third act he had planned for the morrow, consulting with me as

though suddenly I had become a collaborator. In such a way he must

have planned with Mansfield over _Brummell_; thus he may have worked

with Julia Marlowe, telling her some of the romantic incidents he had

drawn from his mother's own Maryland love story for "Barbara

Frietchie." In the same naive spirit, he consulted, by letter, with

Arthur Byron for his "stardom" in "Major Andre"--which waned so soon

after the first night.

Everything about the room that evening he read "The City" bore

evidence of the playwright's personality. The paintings and

bric-a-brac, the books--mostly biography and letters--the tapestries

which seemed to blend with the bowls of flowers and furniture of

French design, the windows looking out on lawns, gardens, and a pond

with swans upon it, the moonlight on the Cupids that kept guard at

intervals along the top of a snakelike stone fence--and Fitch, vital,

happy in his work, happy in his friends, happy in life, as he had

planned to live it in the years to come. And death waiting him across

the water!

"Beau Brummell" began Clyde Fitch's career as a dramatist. It was

produced at the New York Madison Square Theatre, May 17, 1890. At that

time he had not evinced any determination to be a dramatist--but was

writing juvenile sketches for _The Churchman_, afterwards gathered in

a charming volume called "The Knighting of the Twins, and Ten Other

Tales" (1891). Previous to this, he had attempted "A Wave of Life"--a

novel whose chief value is autobiographic. Then he showed his clever

facility at dialogue in a collection of "Six Conversations and Some

Correspondence;" also in "The Smart Set." But, after the success of

"Brummell," followed by "Frederic Lemaitre" (December 1, 1890) for

Henry Miller, a dramatic season hardly passed that Fitch was not

represented on the bill-boards by two or three comedies. It was very

rarely that he rewrote his dramas under new titles; it was unusual for

him to use over again material previously exploited. Exceptions to

this were in the cases of "The Harvest," a one-act sketch given by the

New York Theatre of Arts and Letters (January 26, 1893), afterwards

(April 11, 1898) included as an act of "The Moth and the Flame;"

"Mistress Betty" (October 15, 1895), for Mme. Modjeska, afterwards

revamped as "The Toast of the Town" (November 27, 1905) for Viola

Allen. Interest in the period of Beau Brummell stretched over into

"The Last of the Dandies" for Beerbohm Tree. But otherwise the bulk of

his work came each season as a Fitch novelty. He often played against

himself, the popularity of one play killing the chances of the other.

For instance, when "Lovers' Lane" opened in New York, there were also

running "Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines," "Barbara Frietchie" and

"The Climbers." When "The Cowboy and the Lady" was given in

Philadelphia, "Nathan Hale" beat it in box-office receipts, and Fitch

wrote to a friend: "If any play is going to beat it, I'd rather it was

one of mine, eh?"

By the time he was ready to write "The Moth and the Flame," Fitch had

won distinction with a variety of picturesque pieces, like "His Grace

de Grammont," for Otis Skinner, and "Nathan Hale," for Goodwin and

Maxine Elliott. It may be said to have come just when his vivacity was

on the increase, for touches in it gave foretaste of his later society

dramas, and showed his planning, in the manner of the French, for

excellent theatrical effect. He was to become more expert in the use

of materials, but no whit less clever in his expansion of "small talk"

and society shallowness.

"The Harvest" is an early example of Fitch's method of workmanship. It

was carefully planned and quickly written; in fact, it was set down on

paper while Fitch was on the four o'clock train between New York and

Boston; his motive was to show the dangerous power and fascination of

a clever, dissipated, attractive man-of-the-world on a young girl,

who, in her innocence, does not understand the warnings given her on

all sides. The idea grew in his mind, and this growth resulted in "The

Moth and the Flame," which entered more fully into the "fast" life of

a man about town, and the dangerous ignorance of the society girl.

Fitch loved to sketch the smart woman, like _Mrs. Lorrimer_, who, as

someone has said, is frivolously constituted, but sharply witty and

with some depth of heart. The fancy-dress party scene is

autobiographic, he having attended such an occasion at Carroll

Beckwith's studio, in New York. In technique, this scene is comparable

with the one of similar gaiety in "Lord and Lady Algy"--both having an

undercurrent of serious strain. The tragedy motive is relieved at

almost calculated times by comedy, which shows that Fitch held to the

old dramatic theory of comic relief. Often this was irritating,

discounting the mood he was trying to maintain. He was not as skilful

in the use of these varying elements as Pinero, with whom he might be

compared--not for strength of characterization, for fullness of story

or for the sheer art of interest, but for creative vitality and

variety, as well as for literary feeling in the use of materials. But

more important than all these was his desire to be true to the

materials he had selected. On this subject he always had much to say,

and his comments about Truth in the theatre comprise an enlightening

exposition of his dramatic theory. This it is well to examine. In

1901, he adapted, from the French, "Sapho"--to the production of which

was attached some unpleasant notoriety--and "The Marriage Game." And

of these he wrote (in _Harper's Weekly_), in response to current

criticism, as follows:

It is only fair to myself and to my work done on the two

plays to say that my intention and desire in both instances

were to be faithful to the French original, and to have the

outcome a resultant moral--to the good. To put it mildly, I

do not seem to have created that impression exactly in the

minds of the public. From their verdict and yours I have

picked myself up, pulled myself together, and realized my

failure. I had thought I was taking a building from one

country and rebuilding it in another with the same stones,

but I discovered I had apparently pulled down one structure

and raised no other. Believe me, no one regretted this more

than I. But I think I have finally learned my lesson. I have

learned another thing that I can't do, and I have added it to

the list of things I sha'n't try to do. What I _am_ trying to

do is to reflect life of all kinds as I see it. To write,

first, plays that will interest and mean something; and,

after that, amuse. I would rather entertain everybody than

one body. And always and in any case with a result to the

good. I am trying especially to reflect our own life of the

present, and to get into the heart of the pictures made by

the past. To do this I do not consider any detail too small,

so long as it is not boring. Nor any method wrong which I

feel to be true. I am naturally not always believed in, and I

do not always make myself clear. Sometimes I think I am

misunderstood through laziness. To give one instance, of one

or the other: in a recent play of mine, 'The Climbers',

something which I meant to be psychologically true was taken

to be a theatrical trick. A man who was dishonest in

business, but who loved his wife with the really strong love

that such weak natures are capable of, is asked to look that

wife in the face and, before a group of angry friends and

relatives, confess the extent of his crime, his disgrace! I

felt, and I still feel, the man couldn't look into his wife's

eyes and say the whole ugly truth. And doubly he couldn't

with the to him cruel environment of the outraged circle

holding back the sympathy of his wife from him. He would feel

and cry out to her, 'Let me tell you alone, if I must tell

it, and _in the dark, in the dark_!' when he could not see

the heart-breaking shame grow upon her face, nor see his own

guilty face reflected in her eyes. The end of this sentence

he would reiterate, grasping it, too, on the impulse, as a

means to put off the ordeal. 'In the dark,--later in the

dark', he would tell her everything. But there is no time to

be lost if a public scandal is to be averted. The worst must

be known at once. The chief friend of them all is there. It

is he who is to fight hardest to save them. He knows the

house well, and besides he has seen that very evening, after

dinner, the lights turned on by the servant with the electric

lever. He stands beside this lever. He quickly seizes the

last sentence of the cornered guilty man, and, before the

latter can think or retract, cries: 'Tell it in the dark,

then!' and plunges the room in darkness. The natural impulse

of that defaulter under those circumstances would be to blurt

out with it; at least so I believe. Such was his vacillating,

impulsive nature. And for the same reason the attempt to

escape in the dark, which was silly, futile! It was another

sudden impulse; had it been otherwise, he was far too

sensible to have tried it. I developed that scene by taking

the place mentally, or trying to, of each one of the persons

engaged in it. I did not start with the so-called 'dark

scene'. I had no idea I was going to do what I did until I

reached the moment in my writing when it had to be done--at

least done that way or not at all. As it occurred to me, so

it would have occurred to the friend in the play. And so it

did! And knowing this evolution of the scene, I cannot think

myself that it was 'a theatrical trick'. In all cases I try

to paint my personages from the inside instead of the out,

and to cling to human nature as both my starting-point and my

goal. This is what I want to do and am trying to do--in a

sentence--to tell the Truth in the Theatre. I am trying

honestly, and my heart is in it. That's all, except that I am

glad of your belief in me.

This frankness and sincerity were typical of Fitch's correspondence

with everyone who took him seriously. He went to every pains to

explain himself, and no man more gratefully acknowledged earnest

attention. It was his quickness to detect in others the spark of

creative appreciation that made him answer letters to perfect

strangers, giving them advice as to playwriting. "I like the tone of

that man's note," he once said to me. "I'll send for him; he may be a

good actor."

It was not often that he wrote on the theory of his work. There is an

essay by him, published in 1904, and called "The Play and the Public."

It is often quoted. But a good thing bears constant repetition, and

the following sounds Fitch's conviction on a fundamental belief:

I feel myself very strongly the particular value--a value

which, rightly or wrongly, I can't help feeling

inestimable--in a modern play of reflecting absolutely and

truthfully the life and environment about us; every class,

every kind, every emotion, every motive, every occupation,

every business, every idleness! Never was life so varied, so

complex; what a choice, then! Take what strikes you most, in

the hope it will interest others. Take what suits you most to

do--what perhaps you can do best--and then do it better. Be

truthful, and then nothing can be too big, nothing should be

too small, so long as it is here, and _there_! Apart from the

question of literature, apart from the question of art,

reflect the real thing with true observation and with sincere

feeling for what it is and what it represents, and that is

art and literature in a modern play. If you inculcate an idea

in your play, so much the better for your play and for

you--and for your audience. In fact, there is small hope for

your play _as_ a play if you haven't some small idea in it

somewhere and somehow, even if it is hidden--it is sometimes

better for you if it is hidden, but it must of course be

integral. Some ideas are mechanical. Then they are no good.

These are the ideas for which the author does all the work,

instead of letting the ideas do the work for him. One should

write what one sees, but observe under the surface. It is a

mistake to look at the reflection of the sky in the water of

theatrical convention. Instead, look up and into the sky of

real life itself.

All sound advice, and a compressed manual of dramatic technique for

the beginner! But Fitch had the darting eye of a migratory interest.

He often didn't "follow through," as they say in golf. With the

result that he is often scored for insufficient motivation. But my

knowledge of him makes me realize he felt and saw deeper than his

epigrammatic style indicated. His technique was therefore often

threadbare in spots,--not of that even mesh which makes of Pinero such

an exceptional designer. I would put Fitch's "Captain Jinks of the

Horse Marines" above Edward Sheldon's "Romance" for the faithful

reproduction of early New York atmosphere. I would put it by the side

of Pinero's "Trelawney of the 'Wells'." But there is no play of

Fitch's which, for strength, I would hold beside "The Thunderbolt." In

his feminine analyses, too, he did not probe as deep as Pinero.

Within a few months of his death, Fitch was asked to deliver an

address on the theatre at Harvard and at Yale. He enlarged his

magazine article on "The Play and the Public" for that purpose. It is

now easily accessible, included in the fourth volume of the Memorial

Edition of his plays. It was found among his many papers and

unfinished manuscripts. There is no recent playwright whose "Life and

Letters" are more worthy of preservation. I have looked through most

of the materials; have seen letters descriptive of his childhood in

Schenectady, New York, (he was born, May 2, 1865 in Elmira); have read

accounts of his student days at Amherst, where vagaries of dress used

to stir his associates to student pranks; have relished an illustrated

diary he kept while tutoring in his early years of struggle, his

father refusing to countenance playwriting instead of architecture.

These early years were filled with the same vivacity, affection and

sympathy which later made him such a rare friend. It bears repeating

what has been often said before--he had a genius for friendship, and

an equal genius for losing those he did not want.

Such a biography as should be written of his picturesque popularity as

a playwright would mostly be autobiographic. For a letter from Fitch

had rare flavour, more personal than his plays but of the same

Fitchean quality. It would, as well, be a personal record of the

stage, and would set at rest many myths that have floated around his

name--such as William Winter wilfully circulated about "Beau

Brummell."[A]

"The Moth and the Flame" is here reproduced because it has never

before been issued, and should be made available to the student of

American Drama. To say that it is typically Fitchean does not mean

that, in technique or in characterization, it is his best. But it is

confession that whatever he wrote bore that incommunicable touch which

gives him a unique position--a position no American playwright thus

far has been able to usurp.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Since this was written, it has been announced that a

volume, "Clyde Fitch and his Letters," is being prepared by the

Editors of the "Memorial Edition" of Fitch's plays.]

LYCEUM THEATRE. 12th Season.

NEW YORK THEATRE CO., PROPRIETORS

DANIEL FROHMAN, MANAGER

* * * * *

WEEK COMMENCING MONDAY EVENING, APRIL 11, 1898.

Evenings at 8.30. Thursday and Saturday Matinees, at 2.15.

* * * * *

DANIEL FROHMAN takes pleasure in presenting

=THE KELCEY-SHANNON=

COMPANY,

_Herbert Kelcey, Effie Shannon, Wm. J. LeMoyne, Sarah Cowell

LeMoyne_ and their organization, under the management of

SAMUEL F. KINGSTON, presenting

=THE MOTH AND THE FLAME=

an Original Play, in Three Acts.

By CLYDE FITCH.

* * * * *

CAST OF CHARACTERS.

EDWARD FLETCHER Mr. KELCEY

MR. DAWSON Mr. WM. J. LeMOYNE

MR. WOLTON Mr. E. W. THOMAS

DOUGLAS RHODES Mr. BRUCE McRAE

JOHNSTONE Mr. EDWARD SEE

FANSHAW Mr. DAVID TORRENCE

TRIMMINS Mr. EDW. H. WILKINSON

CLERGYMAN Mr. SYLVESTER DEEHAN

HOWES Mr. EDWIN JAMES

MARION WOLTON Miss SHANNON

MRS. LORRIMER Mrs. SARAH COWELL LeMOYNE

MRS. WOLTON Mrs. ISABEL WALDRON

JEANNETTE GROSS Miss ELEANOR MORETTI

ETHEL Miss LEILA ELLIS

KITTY Miss EDNA PHILLIPS

GERTRUDE Miss ETHEL KINGSTON

BLANCHE Miss MARY HANSON

BESSY Miss MAMIE DUNN

MRS. FLETCHER, SR. Mrs. FRANCES FERREN

MAID Miss EMMA JANVIER

Guests, Bridesmaids, etc., by Pupils of the Stanhope-Wheatcroft School.

Produced under the stage direction of the Author.

Costumes for Act I. from special designs executed by Maurice Herrmann.

Programme continued on second page following.

ACT I.--

_Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Wolton

At Home

Tuesday Evening, January ----

at Ten O'clock._

_Children's Costumes

de rigueur._ _---- East 69th Street._

* * * * *

ACT II.--_One year later_--

_Mrs. Lawrence Wolton

requests the honor of your presence

at the Marriage of her Daughter,

Marion,

to

Mr. Edward Houghton Fletcher,

Thursday, February 10th,

at Five o'clock,

St. Hubert's Chapel, New York._

* * * * *

ACT III.--THE FOLLOWING DAY.

THE MOTH AND THE FLAME

_By_ CLYDE FITCH

COPYRIGHT, 1908

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BY CLYDE FITCH AND ALICE KAUSER

Copyright, 1919, by E. P. Dutton & Company, Alice Kauser, and Frank E.

Whitman and Bernard M. L. Ernst, as Executors of the Estate of Alice

M. Fitch, deceased.

[The Editor wishes to record here, in memoriam, his grateful

appreciation of the desire shown by the late Mrs. Fitch to have in the

present Collection a hitherto unpublished play by her son, Clyde

Fitch. Through her courtesy, "The Moth and the Flame" is here

included.]

CAST OF CHARACTERS

EDWARD FLETCHER

MR DAWSON

MR WOLTON

DOUGLAS RHODES

JOHNSTONE

FANSHAW

TRIMMINS

CLERGYMAN

HOWES

MARION WOLTON

MRS. LORRIMER

MRS. WOLTON

JEANETTE GROSS

ETHEL

KITTY

GERTRUDE

BLANCHE

MAID

MRS. FLETCHER

_Guests, Bridesmaids, Choristers, Servants and others_.

ACT I.

SCENE. _The First Act takes place in the_ WOLTON'S _house

during a large fancy ball. All the guests are in children's

costumes--that being insisted upon in the invitations. The

stage represents a reception-room; the end of a conservatory,

or ball-room, being seen through a large archway. In the

upper right hand corner of the stage is a small stage built

with curtains and foot-lights, for an amateur vaudeville

performance, which is taking place._

_At rise of curtain the room is filled with guests in

costume, on chairs before improvised stage, and the curtain

of stage is just falling, as one of the Lady Guests--who,

dressed (and blacked) as a small Darky Girl, has been singing

a popular negro ballad ("Warmest Baby.") The mimic curtain

rises again, owing to the applause of the mimic audience. The

chorus of song is repeated and the curtain again falls to

applause. There is a general movement among guests--with

laughter and conversation._

DISCOVERED. MARION WOLTON, _dressed in Empire Child's gown,

is sitting in one of the third row of chairs next the

foot-lights. Up to now her back is partly turned toward the

audience._ KITTY RAND, _dressed in short skirts, is just

behind her_.

FANSHAW. [_Leaning over to_ MARION.] I think, Marion, this was really

a most amusing idea of yours, having us all come as children.

_Enter_ DOUGLAS RHODES, _in white sailor costume. He meets_

MRS. WOLTON _who enters. They talk._

MARION. [_To_ KITTY.] Your costume, Kitty, is charming.

KITTY. [_With a ball on rubber cord._] My dear, I'm sure I look a

sight. I feel as if it were bathing hour at Narragansett.

MARION. Here's Bessie. How splendid she was. [_Rises._] [_Enter_

BESSIE. _She laughs as she is greeted by shouts of laughter and

applause by guests. She joins_ MARION, _who shakes her hand_.] You

were too funny, Bessie. [_A guest rises and offers seat to_ BESSIE.

_She accepts it and sits._

JOHNSTONE. [_Monkey; white kilt suit._] [_To_ BESSIE _as she sits_.]

Yes. Isn't this an awfully lovely party? [_To_ FANSHAW.] Here,

Fanshaw, it's your turn.

GUESTS _and_ ALL. Yes, come on Fanshaw, etc. [FANSHAW _exits_.

RHODES _comes from_ MRS. WOLTON, _nodding pleasantly to guests as he

passes round behind them, to_ MARION. _He shakes her hand._

MARION. Why so late, Douglas?

DOUGLAS. I was dining with Mrs. Lorrimer; but I hope you've saved me a

seat by you. [BLANCHE _exits, ready for stage_.

MARION. I'm sorry, but I haven't. There's the curtain.

_She sits and_ DOUGLAS _takes a place back of guests, shaking

hands with_ TRIMMINS _as he does so. Mimic curtain rises,

music begins, all interrupt with "Sh-h."_ FANSHAW _enters on

mimic stage, dressed as Little Lord Fauntleroy, and sings.

Mimic curtain falls to applause. Curtain is raised. Black

rag-baby thrown to him during song._ FANSHAW _enters, bows,

and, as he does so_, BLANCHE _throws a small bouquet of

flowers to him. This he catches and makes entrance upon stage

by jumping over mimic foot-lights. He is congratulated and

thanked by_ MARION _and resumes his seat_.

_Music begins. All interrupt again with "Sh-h." Curtain is

raised, and enter_ ETHEL, _dressed as a child of 1840, in

white and green. She comes forward and sings_ ("_Henrietta_"),

_with orchestral accompaniment, a flute obligato being a

feature of the latter, which, every little while, indulges in

loud variations, entirely drowning the singer's voice, much to

her annoyance, and the only half-suppressed amusement of the

guests. As she reaches the chorus all_ (_at_ MARION'S

_suggestion_) _join in with her and finish the song_. MARION

_rises, giving the signal that the entertainment is over.

Servants come in and take away most of the chairs, leaving one

in centre of stage and three up toward the left centre. All

rise and form groups; those of guests near the door move into

ball-room and off._ ETHEL _enters, and_ MARION _at once greets

her_, KITTY _and_ JOHNSTONE _joining them_.

MARION. Thank you ever so much.

JOHNSTONE. Yes, indeed. Isn't this an awfully lovely party.

ETHEL. [_With large hoople and stick; quickly, much put out_.] My dear

Marion, I could choke that flute player.

MARION. Don't be selfish, Ethel; the man wanted to be heard. [_Goes up

to_ DOUGLAS.

ETHEL. If I were a witch, I'd curse him with asthma. Mr. Johnstone, go

and curse him for me.

JOHNSTONE. With pleasure.

ETHEL. Just give him a piece of my mind. [_Enter_ GIRL.

JOHNSTONE. [_Flatteringly._] He doesn't deserve such a gift. But isn't

this a lovely party? Will you excuse me? [_He goes up stage to_

BLANCHE, _offers his arm, which she takes, and they exit._ KITTY _and_

ETHEL _watch_ BLANCHE _and_ JOHNSTONE, _amused._

KITTY. [_To_ ETHEL.] Just look at Blanche. Do you suppose she's going

to--

ETHEL. She's going to with all her might and main, if he will only ask

her.

KITTY. A large if-- [_Laughing._ FANSHAW _and_ GERTRUDE _join_ ETHEL

_and_ KITTY _down stage._

FANSHAW. Looks as if Johnny were getting pretty stuck on Blanche,

doesn't it? [_Goes to_ KITTY. TRIMMINS _moves up centre._

ETHEL. Yes, or just the other way round. [_All laugh._

GERTRUDE. Who are you dancing the cotillon with, Ethel?

ETHEL. Don't know. I've promised two men, but I haven't made up my

mind who I'll dance with yet.

FANSHAW. A nice person to engage for a partner. [_Calling._] Trimmins!

ETHEL. Sh-h! He's one of the men I've promised.

FANSHAW. [_Laughing._] Never mind. I'm the other. [_All laugh._

GERTRUDE _says_, "Oh, Ethel!" GERTRUDE _goes toward_ MARION, ETHEL _and_

KITTY _at same time._ MARION _exits._

FANSHAW. [_To_ TRIMMINS.] Who are you dancing the cotillon with,

Trimmins?

TRIMMINS. Ethel Stevens!

FANSHAW. Who?

TRIMMINS. Ethel Stevens!

FANSHAW. I'll bet a fiver you're not. She's dancing with me.

TRIMMINS. [_Very pleased._] Delighted! I owe you the five with joy.

[_Rushes_ FANSHAW _out of the way. Crossing to_ GERTRUDE.] Will you

give me the pleasure? [DOUGLAS _out at back, exits._] Thank you.

[_Offers his arm, which_ GERTRUDE _takes, and they go out at back._

FANSHAW. Well!

MARION. Are you going to stand perfectly still and be robbed in that

manner? [_Laughing._

FANSHAW. Well, but what am I-- [_Interrupted by one of the girl

guests, who says_, "I'm here!"] Oh, so you are. [_Puts his arm in

hers, and they run off together._

ETHEL. Marion, isn't Mr. Ned Fletcher coming to-night?

MARION. Yes. [_Exit._

KITTY. I'm so glad; he's quite the most amusing man in town this

winter. [_Sitting on chair which servant left._

ETHEL. And so many people won't ask him to their houses, you know.

Mamma won't.

KITTY. Well, you know, your mother's a ridiculous person; she asks

lots of awfully fast men!

ETHEL. Yes, but they are all relatives.

KITTY. [_Putting arm around_ ETHEL, _pricks her finger._] I don't

believe Net Fletcher is as bad as people hint. He's too good looking.

[_Fixing dress._

ETHEL. And I don't care whether he's bad or not, he's charming enough

to make up for it. Besides, I suppose all men are bad.

KITTY. Oh--I don't know.

ETHEL. I mean all nice men.

KITTY. Where has Mr. Fletcher been before this winter?

ETHEL. My dear, he's one of those men who live all over the

place--most of the time in Europe--but he's been here always off and

on--and in Newport and in Lenox he has yachts and things, don't you

know! [_Exits down right._

MARION. [_Enters._] Girls, will you go into the ball-room, till the

men get the tables ready here? [_She speaks aside to one of the

servants, and exits. Servants bring on small table and place it with

bottles, lunch, etc., a broken glass covered with napkins to fall on

stage. Place seven chairs about table. Exit._

ETHEL. _Of course._ [_To_ KITTY, _crossing to her._] Do you notice how

she won't talk about Fletcher and won't listen to any one else either?

KITTY. My dear, she's heels over head.

ETHEL. Poor Douglas Rhodes! [_Half smiling, in part satire._

KITTY. Serves him right for hanging around her all his life! Why

didn't he flirt with one of us girls for a time, if only to make her

jealous! [ETHEL _sees_ DOUGLAS _enter, and tries to warn_ KITTY. ETHEL

_gives_ KITTY _a violent pull of the arm to warn her to stop speaking

of_ DOUGLAS.

ETHEL. [_To_ DOUGLAS.] You can't stay here; we're driven out.

KITTY. Come, help us make fun of the other people.

DOUGLAS. In a few minutes. I must give you a chance to make fun of me!

KITTY. Oh, we've been doing that for years! [_ETHEL blows DOUGLAS'

whistle which he has suspended from neck, pulling it out of his

pocket. ETHEL and KITTY smile coquettishly at DOUGLAS and exit into

ball-room, arm in arm. Distant music off stage. DOUGLAS follows up

centre. A pause. Enter MARION. DOUGLAS, up stage, looks admiringly at

her, and smiles. Then, smiling and putting himself into a boyish

attitude, he says boyishly._

DOUGLAS. Hello, Molly!

MARION. [_Smiling back, catching his mood, speaks girlishly._] Hello,

Dug! It does take one back to old days, doesn't it!

DOUGLAS. That was what I was thinking of, Marion, the days of

dancing-school. How good you were to always be my partner, even though

I couldn't reverse without treading on your toes!

MARION. [_Smiling._] You were a bad dancer--and death to slippers.

DOUGLAS. And the children's parties, with the old games, "Post

Office," "Copenhagen," "Kiss in the Ring."

MARION. [_Smiling mischievously._] You were good enough at "Kiss in

the Ring" to make up for your not reversing.

DOUGLAS. [_With real sentiment, crosses to her._] Do you remember it

all as well as I do?

MARION. [_Realizing his sentiment, and trying to change their mood,

but pleasantly._] Of course I do! We were great friends then, as we

are now, and as I hope we always will be, Douglas.

DOUGLAS. But if we played the old games again, would it be the same?

MARION. No, no, things are never the same.

DOUGLAS. But would you let me choose you always? Would you pretend not

to see me coming, so I could slap your hands on the Copenhagen rope

and take my reward? If we played "Post Office," would _I_ have all my

letters from _your_ lips! Would you mind if, in "bow to the wittiest,

kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the one you loved best," I choose you

again, openly, for all three? Would you give me _all_ your dances?

MARION. [_More serious, though still smiling kindly, sweetly._] That's

just it, Douglas! You can reverse now, and there are so many other

girls wanting partners!

DOUGLAS. But-- [_Interrupted._

MARION. Besides, after all, we're only children _outside_ to-night;

our _hearts_ have come of age!

DOUGLAS. Yes, Marion, but, boy's and man's, my heart's the same. I

want the same partner I did then, only I want her for the game of

life!

MARION. I am so sorry!

DOUGLAS. Sorry? Then you won't let your hands lie on the rope for me

any more?

MARION. I am very fond of you, Douglas, and I always was, but-- [_She

hesitates._

DOUGLAS. [_A little bitterly, disappointed._] I know what you mean. I

was all right for dancing-school, but life is a more serious

matter-- [_MARION goes to chair and sits down._] I know I'm not like

you, Marion--I know what an intellectual woman you are, and what an

ordinary sort of fellow I am. But I _love_ you! and I hoped-- [_He

breaks off and continues with his first idea._] You went to a woman's

college, and I _only_ to a _man's_--You made a study of sociology--I,

[_Smiling._] principally of athletics. I know I never read books, and

you seem to read everything. But I love you. You have your clubs for

working girls, your charities; I know the busy, helpful life you lead.

You have so much in it, I was in hopes that what room was left for a

_husband_ was so little, even _I_ could fill it. And somehow or other

I've always taken it for granted you more or less understood, and

were--willing.

MARION. I was--once--

DOUGLAS. You were?

MARION. There was no one in the world I liked so much to be with as

you, and I think I, too, believed my happiness was in your hands, and

that some day we would decide together it was so. But I lately-- [_She

hesitates._

DOUGLAS. Some one else?

MARION. I don't like you one bit less, Douglas, only-- [_Rises._

DOUGLAS. Only you liked some one else more! I was afraid so. I've

heard whispers and guesses--

MARION. Don't let it make any difference with _us_, Douglas!

DOUGLAS. You love him?

MARION. Yes.

DOUGLAS. Very much?

MARION. You see, every one is against him, and I feel that I have a

chance to save him.

DOUGLAS. You believe in him?

MARION. [_Shortly._] Yes.

DOUGLAS. Would you believe anything against him?

MARION. [_On the defensive, indignant._] _No!_

DOUGLAS. If some one told you of something dishonourable this man had

done?

MARION. I would suspect the motive of the person who told me. Do you

think I haven't heard plenty of gossip against him? Every girl I know

has done her best to take away his character, and _begged me to

introduce him to her_ in the same breath.

DOUGLAS. And if I spoke against him?

MARION. [_Leaning on back of chair._] I know I couldn't help it, after

what you have told me; I should have to feel you might be influenced

by jealousy.

DOUGLAS. To _unjustly_ accuse a man?

MARION. Oh, Douglas, no, of course you would believe what you said,

but I wouldn't trust your judgment. Don't I know every one is down on

him. Even you men; are all the men in New York so proud of their past

lives--not to mention the _present_ of several I know?--Well, if men

turn a cold shoulder, then we women must give him our hands.

DOUGLAS. You girls don't understand.

MARION. Oh, girls understand a good deal nowadays. Society and some of

the newspapers attend to that. He doesn't pretend to be a saint to

me--I find him perfectly frank--and I am afraid he has been rather

fast! But I don't believe he is capable of an outright dishonourable

action, and nothing would make me believe it!

DOUGLAS. No proof?

MARION. Only the proof of my own eyes. When I see him do something

contemptible, then I'll believe _half_ the stories I hear of him!

[_Moving a little up centre._

DOUGLAS. I see you _do_ love him.

MARION. I do, though you are the only person I have confessed it

to,--not even to him--and forgive me, [_Down a little._] but I never

liked you less than I do now when you have spoken against him. [_Up to

arch._

DOUGLAS. [_Following her._] No, tell me you will forget it, and keep

me the same old friend, and I'll promise not to speak against him to

you again.

MARION. [_Smiling._] Very well-- [_They shake hands._] Why, I want you

two to be the best of friends--you _must_ be--

DOUGLAS. [_Also smiling._] Oh, I don't promise that--I haven't given

you up yet, and I sha'n't until--

MARION. [_Smiling._] When--?

DOUGLAS. [_Smiling._] Until I see you going into the church to be

married.

MARION. You'll say nothing more against Ned?

DOUGLAS. Not to you. [_Moving down, right centre._

MARION. Oh, but you will to others? [_Follows._

DOUGLAS. I will say what I have to say to--_him._

MARION. To _him?_

_Enter_ MRS. WOLTON _and_ FLETCHER. FLETCHER _is dressed in

dark sailor clothes._

MRS. WOLTON. Marion, here's another little boy. [MARION _turns and

greets_ FLETCHER, _going to him._ DOUGLAS _and_ FLETCHER _see each

other and say_ "Good evening" _pleasantly._

MARION. It's too bad you missed the vaudeville.

FLETCHER. Did _you_ do anything. [MARION _laughs and exits with_

FLETCHER.

DOUGLAS _turns around quickly, annoyed, to speak to_ MRS.

WOLTON, _but, in his quick turning and in his movement of

annoyance, keeping his eyes on_ MARION _and_ FLETCHER, _he has

struck glasses and a bottle on the little supper-table beside

them. They crash on the floor. He and_ MRS. WOLTON _both

start._

DOUGLAS. Oh! Mrs. Wolton, forgive me; how clumsy! [_Starts to pick

up._

MRS. WOLTON. No, never mind. [_As_ SERVANT _enters_.] Here is

Howes-- [_To_ SERVANT.] Howes, see to this, please, at once.

SERVANT. Yes, m'm. Please, Mr. Dawson is here to see Mr. Wolton.

MRS. WOLTON. Mr. Dawson, my brother! Why, he's in Boston, Howes.

SERVANT. Beg pardon, m'm, but he must have returned to-day. Most

important, he says, m'm. Where shall I show him? The ladies and

gentlemen are playing "Blind Man's Buff" in Mr. Wolton's room.

MRS. WOLTON. This is the quietest place. Show Mr. Dawson in here.

Where is Mr. Wolton?

SERVANT. [_Trying not to smile._] He's blind-folded, m'm!

MRS. WOLTON. [_Smiling._] Tell him.

SERVANT. Yes, m'm. [_Exits._

DOUGLAS. Shall we join the game?

MRS. WOLTON. Yes, come, I will take Mr. Wolton's place! I haven't

played Blind Man's Buff for-- [_She calculates a moment, and then

speaks amusedly._] Good gracious!--_never mind how many years_!!

DOUGLAS. Oh, not so many as all that, I am sure! [_They go out at

back._

_Enter_ SERVANT _with_ DAWSON _in cutaway coat and vest and

usual trousers._ SERVANT _at once begins to pick up the

debris made by_ DOUGLAS.

DAWSON. What's going on here, Howes?

SERVANT. A children's party, sir.

DAWSON. A what?

SERVANT. A children's party, sir.

DAWSON. Who are the children?

SERVANT. Mr. Wolton and Miss Wolton, sir, and her friends. Mr.

Wolton's playing games now, sir, but he said he would join you in a

minute.

DAWSON. [_Out loud, involuntarily, but speaking to himself--very

seriously, almost tragically._] Playing games! My God!

SERVANT. Yes, sir--one don't know what rich folks'll do next, sir.

_We're_ in hopes, in the kitchen, they'll take to pretending they're

the servants, sir, and turn us loose in the ball-room. [_Smiling.

Exits._

DAWSON. [_Who hardly hears_ SERVANT.] Playing games, with ruin and

disgrace staring him in the face. [_Enter_ MR. WOLTON.

MR. WOLTON. [_Flushed and gay--an elderly man in knickerbockers and

evening coat, a sort of English Court costume. The handkerchief, which

was tied around his eyes in the game, has slipped, and lies about his

neck._] Well, Fred, what's the good news?

DAWSON. The worst there could be!

MR. WOLTON. [_Half whispers._] What do you mean!!

DAWSON. [_Dragging off the Blind Man's Buff handkerchief from_

WOLTON'S _neck_.] What do you mean by going in for all this

tomfoolery, to-night, with ruin and disgrace ready for you in the

morning?

MR. WOLTON. So soon--?

DAWSON. How much longer did you think you could stave it off?

MR. WOLTON. [_Sinks exhausted into a chair._] I didn't know.

DAWSON. Why didn't you tell me your credit was as exhausted in Boston

as here? [_Taking chair from table, and sitting right of_ WOLTON.

MR. WOLTON. I thought, with you doing the negotiating, it mightn't be!

DAWSON. Well, it is; do you hear me, you haven't any such thing as

_credit there_ nor _here!_ nor anywhere, for aught I know! To-morrow

is the last day of grace. Your sister-in-law has to pay this money?

MR. WOLTON. Yes.

DAWSON. What did you let her buy that house for?

MR. WOLTON. [_Testily._] How could I help it! My brother didn't

appoint me her guardian! He simply left her money in trust in my

hands!

DAWSON. "In trust in your hands!" [_Laughs cruelly._

MR. WOLTON. Don't do that!

DAWSON. And you speculated with it, and lost every cent!

MR. WOLTON. Yes.

DAWSON. What a scoundrel you are! [WOLTON _squirms miserably in his

chair._ DAWSON _adds quietly_.] And yet I don't suppose there's at

this moment a more popular man in New York, socially, than you.

MR. WOLTON. No, I don't believe there is!--but a damned lot of good it

does me!

DAWSON. Will your sister-in-law accept her ruin quietly?

MR. WOLTON. No, she's never liked me; she'll take pleasure in exposing

me!

DAWSON. But for your _wife_ and _child's_ sake!

MR. WOLTON. You know very well she _hates them_! They have never taken

her up; she wasn't possible, socially. [DAWSON _laughs again

bitterly_.] _Don't_ do that!

DAWSON. Well, then, after ruining yourself and your brother's wife,

you must ruin your _own_!

MR. WOLTON. [_Alarmed, uneasy_.] What do you mean?

DAWSON. I mean that my sister's own money is enough to pay for your

sister's silence. Don't you understand? Your sister mustn't know, of

course, that you've stolen her fortune. Instead, your wife must be

told,--poor Laura--and for her daughter's sake, she must consent to

beggar herself. Her bonds will about meet the payment of the house

to-morrow--they must be sold the first thing--I will see to it.----

[_As he speaks, he is looking_ WOLTON _straight in the face. Something

in_ WOLTON'S _face grows upon him with conviction as he speaks his

last few words. He breaks off suddenly_.] What! you've taken hers,

too! [_He leans over_ WOLTON _in the chair, his hands on his

shoulders, close to his neck, in a rage. Rises._] You've beggared _my

sister_, your wife and child! You-- [_Interrupted._

MR. WOLTON. [_With a big effort, rises, throwing off_ DAWSON'S

_hands_.] Sh!--For God's sake, lower your voice! You'll be heard!

DAWSON. [_With a change of tone, but speaking with utter contempt_.]

By a couple hundred fools! To-morrow _thousands_ will hear of your

dirty dishonour!! [_Going toward right a little_.

MR. WOLTON. [_To_ DAWSON.] But _you_, you have money--won't you come

to my rescue?

DAWSON. I couldn't if I would. You have borrowed half a fortune of me

already. What I have left must go to take care of my sister and niece.

Do you think I'd support _you_! No, the _State_ will do that.

MR. WOLTON. That!! You'd let me go to--?

DAWSON. You'll get twenty years at least!

MR. WOLTON. You won't help me _escape_!

DAWSON. No.

MR. WOLTON. But Laura? she loves me, and Marion. _They_ will suffer

for me; I may be weakly dishonourable, but I've always loved them, and

they me. Besides, any public dishonour which comes to my name must

touch theirs too.

DAWSON. I'm not so sure about that--I think there is material for a

divorce here.

MR. WOLTON. A divorce! My God, must I lose everything! Show a little

pity, Fred! Remember the old days at school; was I a bad boy? We were

chums for years, you know it!--You were my best man when I married

Laura, and you were the gayest at the wedding! It's only been this

curse of gambling with the stocks that has driven me to the

devil,--that and my cursed luck.

DAWSON. _Luck_ has nothing to do with _honour_.

MR. WOLTON. You don't know--oftener than you think, it has everything!

[_Enter_ SERVANT.

SERVANT. Supper is ready, sir. Can we have this room?

DAWSON. Yes, Howes, I'm going!

SERVANT. Thank you, sir. [_Exits._

MR. WOLTON. Give me a word of hope, Fred!--something! What are you

going to do?

DAWSON. Nothing till to-morrow morning.

MR. WOLTON. And that's all you have to say?

DAWSON. All. [_The two men stand looking at each other a moment in a

sort of grim embarrassment, then_ DAWSON _exits. Music. It must be

evident to the audience, though not to the hysterically excited_

WOLTON, _that_ DAWSON _has a little, a very little, pity, but doesn't

wish to show it,--at any rate not yet_. WOLTON, _who has stood a

moment lost in thought, an expression of despair in his face, shudders

and comes to himself. He looks around to see that he is alone. He

grasps his forehead tight a moment in his right hand, drops his hand,

and with compressed lips nods his head determinedly. He is standing by

one of the smaller supper-tables; he looks down at it and takes up a

silver knife at one of the places, feels its dull edge, and throws it

down sneering. A_ SERVANT _appears_.

MR. WOLTON. Howes?

SERVANT. [_Coming into the room and going to_ WOLTON.] Yes, sir.

MR. WOLTON. I am going up to my room. [_With a motion of his head,

indicating upstairs._] I am not feeling well. If my absence should be

noticed, explain to Mrs. Wolton, but do not disturb me--do you

understand?

SERVANT. Yes, sir.

MR. WOLTON. _On no account am I to be disturbed._ No one is to come to

me until _after_ the party is entirely over. _Don't make any mistake

about that._

SERVANT. No, sir.

WOLTON, _who is half way between centre and door right, turns

for a moment, looking about the room. He is seized with a

nervous twitching of his muscles. He clenches his fists,

grinds his teeth to control himself, and, bowing his head,

goes from the room by door_. KITTY _and_ JOHNSTONE _appear in

ball-room doorway, at exit of_ WOLTON.

KITTY. [_Looking into room on stage._] Here's a dear table, all by

itself. [_Speaks as she appears in the doorway. The two turn and look

off right at_ ETHEL _and_ FANSHAW _who are following them slowly_.

JOHNSTONE. Come along, Fanshaw, here's a lovely, quiet table, where we

can say just what we like about everybody! [_They stand in doorway a

moment, looking off right, waiting for the other couple with their

backs to_ WOLTON _and room_. ETHEL _and_ FANSHAW _join the first

couple, and all come forward, speaking. The following speeches are

made as they come forward to table_.

JOHNSTONE. [_To_ FANSHAW _and_ ETHEL.] How you dawdle.

ETHEL. Jack Wright tore my lace.

FANSHAW. Trying to kiss her in Copenhagen. [_They are about the

table._ JOHNSTONE _at once sits down first in the chair the_ SERVANT

_was holding for one of the ladies_. SERVANT _then opens a bottle of

champagne and pours in the glasses_.

JOHNSTONE. [_Sitting._] Come on.

KITTY. Look at him!

ETHEL. What a rude little beast you are, Johnny!

FANSHAW. Get up! [_Pushing him._

JOHNSTONE. Well, you girls dawdle so! [KITTY _and_ ETHEL _sit. Enter_

MRS. LORRIMER _from ball-room, dressed as a Watteau Shepherdess. She

is greeted by a chorus of four. Carries lamb and crook._

ETHEL, KITTY, JOHNSTONE, FANSHAW. Oh, look at Mrs. Lorrimer!

MRS. LORRIMER. [_Pirouettes once around, and makes a bob curtsy._]

Good evening. [_Laughing._] Well, I don't want to throw bouquets at

myself, but I don't think it's bad.

ETHEL _and_ KITTY. You're splendid!

JOHNSTONE. Love---- [_Sits._]

KITTY. Get Mrs. Lorrimer a chair. [_They all move to make more room

for her, and_ FANSHAW _gets an extra chair from arch_.

MRS. LORRIMER. I'm afraid I'm a fifth spoke in your wheel! [_She sits.

A_ SERVANT _passes them bouillon which they take and eat._

ETHEL. Don't be foolish; girls at a ball nowadays can't expect to have

a man apiece. [JOHNSTONE _lights a cigarette and smokes. A_ SERVANT

_in ball-room is seen taking away the bouillon cups, while a second

passes Bouches a la Reine there._ FANSHAW _sits above_ ETHEL _left of

table, after taking lamb and crook from_ MRS. LORRIMER _and placing

them down left corner_.

MRS. LORRIMER. How is the party?

JOHNSTONE. Awfully lovely party!

KITTY. A tearing success!

ETHEL. You ought to have seen the vaudeville!

MRS. LORRIMER. How did your stunt go, Ethel?

FANSHAW. Great.

ETHEL. Oh, my dear, a brute of a flute player ruined it. I felt like

thirty cents.

FANSHAW. No one could spend much more money on a party than old Wolton

is doing to-night.

MRS. LORRIMER. Does Marion show her age in a child's dress?

KITTY. She looks charmingly, but then Marion isn't so old.

ETHEL. Perhaps not so old as she usually looks.

JOHNSTONE. Aren't you a Kitty cat?

MRS. LORRIMER. Why doesn't she paint a little?

JOHNSTONE. What!

KITTY. _Marion?_ Paint! Her _face_!

ETHEL. My dear, she'd die first! [_All laugh, saying_ "Marion".

MRS. LORRIMER. [_Grandiloquently._] Not that I approve of painting!

[_Music stops._

ALL. [_Laughing._] Oh, no!

ETHEL. Nor I!

ALL. [_Laughing._] Oh, no!

MRS. LORRIMER. Who's here?

JOHNSTONE. Everybody.

MRS. LORRIMER. Anyone I can marry?

KITTY. Oh, Mrs. Lorrimer, do be decent. You haven't been divorced a

year yet.

MRS. LORRIMER. My dear, divorce isn't like death--you don't have to go

into mourning! Besides, that's what I want to get married for! I find

I've a perfect passion for divorce! Just like men have it for drink.

The more I get the more I want! [_Laugh._] I've only had two divorces,

and I want another!

JOHNSTONE. You must be damned careful--I beg your pardon--

MRS. LORRIMER. Oh, don't apologize, I say it myself!--careful about

what?

JOHNSTONE. What sort of _husband you choose_.

MRS. LORRIMER. Exactly! None of your _ideal_ men for me! I want a man

with a bad record! [_Laugh._] Plenty of proof concealed about his

person, or not buried too deep in his past for me and my lawyer to

ferret out. I've a perfect duck of a lawyer! He made up every bit of

evidence about my last husband; that won me my case, and, my dears, it

just _happened_ to turn out to be true! [_Laugh._

ETHEL. Speaking of records, who do you think is here to-night?

MRS. LORRIMER. _Ned_ Fletcher--!!

KITTY. Yes.

MRS. LORRIMER. Girls--I'll tell you a secret--

JOHNSTONE. I don't want to hear it. [_Takes a chair left centre, sits

and lights cigarette._

MRS. LORRIMER. I'm crazy about him! Where is he? [_Glancing over her

shoulder._

KITTY. You've no chance; he's going to marry Marion, if she'll have

him.

MRS. LORRIMER. What a shame! And will she?

ETHEL. She's mad about him!

MRS. LORRIMER. The moth and the flame! What a pity! because he'd be

simply ideal for me! Why, do you know I hear that he-- [_Stops

suddenly, looking at_ JOHNSTONE _and_ FANSHAW.

JOHNSTONE. What do you hear? I'm in this.

MRS. LORRIMER. I forgot Johnny and Mr. Fanshaw--there are certain

things you mustn't talk about before innocent little boys!

FANSHAW. You couldn't tell _us anything about Ned Fletcher_!

MRS. LORRIMER. [_Laughing._] I don't want to! But I thought Marion was

always going to marry Douglas Rhodes.

KITTY. Oh, that's all off now. It's Ned Fletcher or nothing with

Marion.

ETHEL. [_Laughing_.] I believe she thinks she's going to reform him!

[_All laugh._

KITTY. There's one thing, he isn't after Marion's money.

ETHEL. Is he so rich?

JOHNSTONE. Oh, rotten! [KITTY _slaps_ JOHNSTONE.

MRS. LORRIMER. Very well, do you know what I shall do? I shall take

Douglas.

ETHEL. [_Hastily._] Yes, catch his heart on the rebound; they say it's

easier that way!

JOHNSTONE. That's one on you, Mrs. Lorrimer. [_Party gag._]

MRS. LORRIMER. Oh, I'm not so very old, and have had two splendid

husbands already. I don't think I have to bother about the easiest

way.

JOHNSTONE. Philopene, Ethel? That's one on _you_.

MRS. LORRIMER. Has it been your method, my dear, because if so I can't

congratulate you on the result. You must look out for a stronger

rebound next time! Try a divorced man; I hear they come back with a

terrific force! I'll be generous; try one of mine. [_All laugh. As

they stop laughing there is the sound of something heavy falling in

the room above. The chandelier trembles slightly, the lustres sound.

All four lift their heads and listen a moment. A short pause._

KITTY. What was that!

MRS. LORRIMER. The servants probably, upstairs! [_Enter_ MARION _from

ball-room, smiling at the table of people as she passes_.

JOHNSTONE. [_As she comes._] Here's Miss Wolton.

MRS. LORRIMER. My dear Marion, pardon me for not rising, but I assure

you I look much better sitting down! [MARION _stops by_ MRS. LORRIMER.

JOHNSTONE. Not at all, Mrs. Lorrimer, they're awfully lovely!

MRS. LORRIMER. Well, I'm sure they don't compare with yours.

JOHNSTONE. Oh, I don't know, there are others. [MARION _goes down

centre_.

MRS. LORRIMER. Marion, is Mr. Dawson here?

MARION. No, he's in Boston.--Why?

MRS. LORRIMER. Oh, nothing, only he's an unmarried man, so I thought

I'd ask. [SERVANT _in ball-room takes away plates, and second_ SERVANT

_passes ices_.

MARION. [_To_ MRS. LORRIMER.] Why are you so late, Emily? [_Back to_

MRS. LORRIMER.

MRS. LORRIMER. My little girl was seedy, and I couldn't get away until

I saw her asleep comfortably. It's an awful care for a young woman, my

dear, having a _posthumous_ child!

MARION. A what?

MRS. LORRIMER. A _posthumous_ child!

MARION. [_Laughing._] _How do you mean, Emily?_

MRS. LORRIMER. Why, born after it's father's divorce!

MARION. Are you girls going to have coffee?

MRS. LORRIMER. No.

ETHEL. Nor I.

MARION. Very well, then; join us for another game-- [_She makes a

movement of starting._] Unless you men want to smoke. In that case,

take your coffee in the library, where you'll find cigarettes and

other smoking materials.

JOHNSTONE. [_Who has a cigarette in his mouth, and has been smoking

all through the supper._] I say! Oughtn't I to have smoked here?

MARION. [_Smiling._] No! [_She starts to go out through ball-room._

JOHNSTONE. I beg your pardon. Well, any way it's an awfully lovely

party.

MRS. LORRIMER. Marion, is it true you're going to be divorced--I mean

married?

MARION. [_By doorway._] Married? I hope so, some day. [_Smiling, exits

into ball-room._ JOHNSTONE _is eating ice_. MRS. LORRIMER _crosses to

him_. KITTY _in front of table_. ETHEL _takes up lamb_. FANSHAW

_exits._

MRS. LORRIMER. Haven't you finished your ice, Johnny?

JOHNSTONE. No. I like to squash mine all up, and eat it soft.

MRS. LORRIMER. Johnny, who made your bow?

JOHNSTONE. Mother. [KITTY _drives_ JOHNNY _out of room by hitting him

with her ball_. MRS. LORRIMER _crosses to_ ETHEL _and takes lamb_.

ETHEL. [_Who has looked back over her shoulder into the ball-room,

goes up to arch_.] Mr. Fletcher has joined Marion.

MRS. LORRIMER. Oh, that's why Marion wished us to hurry! She wanted

this room for herself and Fletcher!

ETHEL. _Probably._

MRS. LORRIMER. Let's go--as if we were gone for good, and then stroll

back _casually_ in a few minutes, and see how we find them!

KITTY. Isn't that eavesdropping?

MRS. LORRIMER. Don't be absurd! There isn't any such thing as

eavesdropping nowadays. Everybody listens to everything they can, and

everyone more or less knows they're being listened to.

KITTY. But what good will it do?

MRS. LORRIMER. Why, if we--come back and catch them with his arm

around her, we can take it for granted they are engaged.

ETHEL. I don't think that follows. I'm sure if I were engaged to every

man I let-- [_She stops quickly. All laugh._

KITTY. [_Laughing._] You gave yourself away that time, Ethel! [_They

move out by door into ball-room. As they do so_, SERVANT _enters from

right, and_ MARION _enters, meeting girls and_ MRS. LORRIMER.

MARION. Going to dance?--

GIRLS. Yes.

MRS. LORRIMER. No, play games. Kissing games. [_All laugh and

exeunt._

MARION. Oh, Mrs. Lorrimer! [_Enter_ FLETCHER.

FLETCHER. Why did you run away?

MARION. I was afraid if I didn't the servants would never get this

room ready.

FLETCHER. Have you a partner?

MARION. No.

FLETCHER. [_Pleased to be with her and yet embarrassed._] May I--will

you--that is--won't you dance with me?

MARION. Yes.

FLETCHER. [_Near her._] I wonder why I feel so diffident with you. I

think I never was diffident before! [_Smiling._

MARION. [_Smiling._] No, you haven't that reputation.

FLETCHER. [_Smiling apologetically, but humourously._] Dear me, I hope

you don't know what my reputation isn't--or _is_.

MARION. [_Seriously._] I don't judge a man by his reputation.

FLETCHER. [_Involuntarily half under his breath, humourously._] Thank

heaven! [MARION _looks at him, hearing him. There is a pause. She

waits willingly for him to speak, hoping he will._] I've been a very

bad fellow.

MARION. Some of the best men in the world have begun that way.

FLETCHER. They probably had some one to help--to believe in them.

MARION. And haven't you?

FLETCHER. Will you believe in me enough to-- [_Looks off in ball-room

up a little_; MARION _follows. He loses his control and speaks

passionately._] Don't you understand,--I love you-- [_He embraces her;

she allows him. The embrace lasts a moment._] You can be my salvation!

Will you be?

MARION. [_In his arms, looking up at him._] I will--if I can--

FLETCHER. [_Whose eyes never quite look into_ MARION'S, _loosening the

embrace._] You will marry me?

MARION. Yes. [_Kisses him, then quickly moves down right._

FLETCHER. [_Following her. Not looking at her._] People say I'm a

blackguard!

MARION. People say a great many things that aren't true. What can a

man do with all the world against him! "People" can force him into

being as bad as they say he is.

FLETCHER. Then you won't believe them.

MARION. No, not if you deny what they say. [_He holds out his hand;

she takes it. At this moment_, MRS. LORRIMER _and_ ETHEL _appear in

ball-room, ostentatiously counting the chairs and making small

calculation about the cotillion, but really watching slyly_ MARION

_and_ FLETCHER. MARION _sees it and speaks to_ FLETCHER _quickly under

her breath._] Don't move! Don't drop my hand, but shake it as if we'd

been making a bet, and follow my lead! [_Aloud._] It's settled then!

You take my bet?

FLETCHER. [_Shaking her hand and then dropping it casually._ A box of

cigars, against a box of gloves! [_Sotto voce._] What is it?

MARION [_Sotto voce._] Mrs. Lorrimer in the next room watching us.

[_Speaks in low voce satirically to_ FLETCHER _as if she were speaking

to_ MRS. LORRIMER.] Oh, no, Emily! I am going to marry Mr. Fletcher,

but _I_ intend to be the one to announce that fact, and not you. [MRS.

LORRIMER _and_ ETHEL _turn. They see_ MARION _and_ FLETCHER _and

pretend surprise; they remain in the ball-room._]

MRS. LORRIMER. [_With trumpet._] Oh! Marion! are _you_ here?

MARION. Ahem! [_With a quick, amused side glance to_ FLETCHER.] We've

been watching you for some time; what was the matter with the chairs?

MRS. LORRIMER [_Embarrassed._] Nothing--we were merely choosing

places!

ETHEL. They lead from the other end, don't they? [_Joining_ FLETCHER.

MARION. Yes, you know Kitty is leading for me. [_Enter_ DOUGLAS. _He

joins them._] Who are you dancing with, Douglas?

DOUGLAS. No one; I'm stagging it.

MRS. LORRIMER You don't mean to say, Marion, you have more men than

women to-night!

MARION. [_With mock pride._] Who says I don't know how to give a

party?

MRS. LORRIMER [_To_ DOUGLAS.] Damn it! I wish I hadn't said I'd dance

with little Johnny, or I'd come to your rescue. [DOUGLAS, _secretly

amused, bows his thanks._ ETHEL _and_ MARION _exchange an amused

glance._

ETHEL. [_To_ MARION.] Douglas ought to give Johnny a vote of thanks.

MARION. Come, they are taking their places. [_A movement of all to go

off._ DOUGLAS _touches_ FLETCHER _on the arm._

DOUGLAS. [_To_ FLETCHER.] May I speak to you just a moment?

FLETCHER. Certainly-- [_All go but_ MARION.] Excuse me one moment,

Miss Wolton,--Rhodes wants a word with me. [MARION _starts slightly,

and, turning quickly, looks questioningly at_ DOUGLAS. _He answers her

gaze seriously and unflinchingly. She turns to_ FLETCHER.

MARION. [_To_ FLETCHER.] No--I won't excuse you. [_Assuming a more or

less coquettish air._] You must come with me at once. [FLETCHER _looks

surprised, but moves as if to obey her_.

DOUGLAS. But why won't you trust Mr. Fletcher with me? [FLETCHER

_laughs amused_.

MARION. [_Nonplussed for a moment; then she changes her mind._] I was

only jesting. [_To_ FLETCHER.] But you won't-- [_To_ DOUGLAS, _looking

at him meaningly and seriously._] --keep us waiting long, will you? I

warn you, Mr. Fletcher, I shall let them begin without us. [_Exits

through ball-room as_ FLETCHER _quickly kisses her hand._ DOUGLAS

_waits till they are quite alone._ FLETCHER _moves down right_.

DOUGLAS. [_Following. Quietly._] Are you going to ask Miss Wolton to

marry you?

FLETCHER. I am not.

DOUGLAS. [_Momentary surprise--doubt, then relief--a sigh._] In that

case I've nothing more to say; let's join the others. [_Both make a

move to go._

FLETCHER. [_Who cannot resist saying it._] You see, Rhodes, I _have_

asked her already.

DOUGLAS. [_Stops and, turning, faces_ FLETCHER, _whose back is toward

audience._]

FLETCHER. [_Turning leisurely._] About fifteen minutes ago--but I

can't see what business it is of yours.

DOUGLAS. I love her.

FLETCHER. That's no news to anybody!

DOUGLAS. And I don't intend she shall marry a-- [_He stops. Short

pause._

FLETCHER. What? Why don't you finish?

DOUGLAS. [_More quietly._] A man like you.

FLETCHER. Oh, I'm not so very unique; lots of girls run the risk of

marrying a man like me!

DOUGLAS. I suppose you told her she is more to you than any one in the

world.

FLETCHER. No. "Men like me" don't talk that rot. I put my arms around

her-- [_Stops, interrupted by the movement of_ DOUGLAS, _expressive of

rage, controlled instantaneously; he clenches his fists. Finishes with

a half-smile at_ DOUGLAS.] And told her I loved her.

DOUGLAS. [_Suppressed anger._] You _couldn't_ say she was more than

any one else to you, because it would have been a lie!

FLETCHER. [_Smiling._] You flatter me. [_Crosses to left._

DOUGLAS. The one that is _most_ to _you_ is YOUR CHILD. [FLETCHER

_starts; is surprised_.] You can't deny the child--

FLETCHER. I "can!" I can deny anything.

DOUGLAS. The lie could be proved to your face. In May, 1893, at Lenox,

a young kindergarten teacher,--you blackguard, you!

FLETCHER. [_A little angry._] Who told you that story?

DOUGLAS. [_Sneers._] I'm not the only man who knows it! That sort of

thing never lies buried!

FLETCHER. The girl's all right now!

DOUGLAS. Oh, I know, you sent her abroad, and pay for the child. Well,

that's the mother's lookout, and not mine. But I don't believe she's

the only case. One has only to look at your life now.--It was

fortunate for you this winter that Mrs. Clipton's divorce trial didn't

come off.

FLETCHER. [_A little more angry. Back to_ DOUGLAS.] Still, what has

all this to do with you, and I'll deny it all besides, if I feel like

it, or need to.

DOUGLAS. You know you're not fit to marry Marion Wolton!

FLETCHER. I know I love her.

DOUGLAS. For how long?

FLETCHER. I can't say, but neither can you.--And besides, _she loves

me_!

DOUGLAS. Would she if she knew you?

FLETCHER. [_Smilingly._] Oh, come, Rhodes, drop it! I don't care a

damn what I have done. I'm going to marry her! I haven't made any

bones about myself. I've told her I've been a bad lot!

DOUGLAS. Oh, yes, I know, you've confessed probably to having been

"fast;" that nearly always appeals to a woman, heaven knows why; I

suppose it's the instinct for reformation in them. But how much of

your life does that word "fast" convey to a pure girl like Marion?

FLETCHER. [_Smiling._] Quite enough! [_Serious._] But if she did know

all there was to be known, Love forgives a great deal.

DOUGLAS. But not _everything_. There are certain things Marion would

never accept. She would refuse to take the place that was the right of

another.

FLETCHER. [_Down to him._] Oh, that's your point, is it! Well, hunt

out Jeannette Gros if you can; it'll do you no good! [_Crosses._

DOUGLAS. [_Follows quickly. Angry._] You can't prove that, because

it's _not true_!

FLETCHER. [_Facing_ DOUGLAS. _Angry too._] I'll prove she had other

lovers before me. Good God, man, you don't know what Marion Wolton's

love means to me! I've never loved like this before! Why, if it were

possible for me to treat her as I have--the other, I _couldn't_. I

want to marry Marion Wolton--I _want_ to make _her my wife!_ and I

_will!_ I've had all there can be got out of my old life, and I'm sick

of it. Here's my chance at a new life, and do you think I'm going to

give it up? No! [_Forgetting and raising his voice._] Do you hear me,

No!!

DOUGLAS. [_Softly._] Not so loud!

FLETCHER. [_Lowered voice._] No! I'll fight for it with my last

breath.

DOUGLAS. Then I say again, you're a blackguard!

FLETCHER. [_Laughs, turns back to audience._] What do you want to do,

fight? You know we can't here. I give you liberty to say to her all

you can against me.

DOUGLAS. She won't believe me.

FLETCHER. Exactly--she loves me--

DOUGLAS. But there is one other I can tell the truth to, who may

believe me.

FLETCHER. Look out you don't make yourself ridiculous, going

about--the jilted lover, trying to take away the character of the

accepted man! [_Leisurely following him a little._

DOUGLAS. I don't have to do any "going about!" You are well enough

known in our world to keep most of our doors closed against you. Few

people are as blind as the Woltons, and I will open _his_ eyes!

FLETCHER. You'll tell her father?

DOUGLAS. He is the one person she would listen to, and he can verify

what I say.

FLETCHER. [_Change of tone, showing he fears this._] Damn it! I mean

to be a decent man.

DOUGLAS. [_Goes close to him and looks straight in his face._] Then go

to Jeannette Gros and marry her!

FLETCHER. [_Angry again._] Go to H--. [_Change of tone._] You think if

I'm out of the way you'll get her?

DOUGLAS. She's told me she doesn't love me, and she proved to me that

she won't believe the truth of you without extraordinary proof. There

is only one person in the world who could naturally interfere and give

her anything like that proof, and that's her father; and I shall tell

him to-night, before I leave this house, before you can announce your

engagement!

FLETCHER. With Miss Wolton's permission, I will announce our

engagement to-night, in spite of you, and her father. [_Music stops.

Enter_ MRS. LORRIMER, _with a favour, lamb and trumpet_.

MRS. LORRIMER. Oh, here you men are! If you think this is going to be

allowed, you are very much mistaken! What do men think we ask them to

parties for? Eh? Anyway, a cotillion is a leap-year dance; on such an

occasion you are our natural prey! Come, sir! [_Pretending to blow

trumpet._

DOUGLAS. No. [_Smiling apologetically._] Postpone my pleasure till a

little later in the evening, will you? Don't be angry with me; I want

to have a few words with Mr. Wolton,--then I'll come and give _all_ my

favours to you!

MRS. LORRIMER. That sounds attractive; I'll let you off. [_Makes lamby

squeak. Smiling, turns to_ FLETCHER.] But I won't let you off.

FLETCHER. [_Smiling._] _Don't_, please! I'm very happy to be your

_consolation_ prize. [_Takes lamb. Music._

MRS. LORRIMER. I'm a dangerous woman to make that remark to. You'd

better be careful, or I might take you literally at your word.

FLETCHER. Oh, if you only would! [_Pulls lamb's head._

MRS. LORRIMER. What a charming speech. [_She and_ FLETCHER _go into

ball-room and off._ FLETCHER _makes lamb squeak_. MRS. WOLTON, _her

arms full of a set of gay favours, crosses the ball-room_; DOUGLAS

_sees her and takes a step or two towards her, then waits till she has

finished speaking to the girl_. MRS. WOLTON _turns, and_ DOUGLAS

_addresses her_.

DOUGLAS. Mrs. Wolton, is Mr. Wolton in the ball-room?

MRS. WOLTON. No, I think he's in the smoking-room.--Aren't you going

to dance? [_Coming into room._

DOUGLAS. Not just yet--later-- [_Half bows apologetically. At the same

moment, the music swells and the procession of dancers, in couples,

dance in five or six couples into the front room, the line curving

away to right to suggest that there are very many more couples in the

ball-room out of sight. As they dance, they are laughing and

talking--the first couple turns, the other couples making bridges

under which the first couple goes, and passes into ball-room and off,

followed by each couple the same. Music softens._ MRS. WOLTON _has

drawn to one side, when the dancers came in. In this dance, scarfs are

used by dancers._

DOUGLAS. Mr. Wolton there?

MRS. WOLTON. [_Mildly surprised._] He?

DOUGLAS. I want to see Mr. Wolton very much to-night--_now_. It is a

matter of the greatest importance. [_Enter_ SERVANT _from ball-room._

MRS. WOLTON. Where is Mr. Wolton, Howes?

SERVANT. He has gone to his bedroom, m'm. [_Crosses behind_ MRS.

WOLTON.

MRS. WOLTON. [_Surprised, but not too much so._] What?

SERVANT. He said he was on no account to be disturbed until the party

was over.

MRS. WOLTON. [_A little anxious._] Was he ill?

SERVANT. He didn't appear so, m'm.

DOUGLAS. [_To_ MRS. WOLTON.] Was he feeling ill to-night?

MRS. WOLTON. [_With a relieved voice, showing no anxiety._] No, not at

all. He was in splendid spirits. Probably he was bored and thought he

would be quieter upstairs.

DOUGLAS. I don't want to be offensive, but I must, if possible, see

him to-night.

MRS. WOLTON. [_Speaking very casually._] Howes, you might go and say

to Mr. Wolton, Mr. Rhodes wants to speak to him about something very

urgent. [_To_ DOUGLAS.] If he doesn't want to come down stairs again,

he can send for you to come up.

SERVANT. Beg pardon, m'm, but he was so very strong with me that I

shouldn't under any circumstances go to him, I don't quite like

to-- [_He hesitates, embarrassed at having not to obey_ MRS. WOLTON'S

_request at once._

MRS. WOLTON. Really, he made such a point of it! Oh, very well then,

you needn't go, Howes. [_With a nod of dismissal._ SERVANT _exits into

ball-room and off_.

MRS. WOLTON. [_Lowers her voice so that_ HOWES _sha'n't hear her, as

he goes._] Mr. Wolton is rather hard on the servants if they fail to

obey his orders to the letter. I'll go myself and see if he won't see

you. [_Enter_ MARION _from ball-room, as her mother starts._

MARION. Mother, where are you going with the favours?

MRS. WOLTON. To your father for a moment.

MARION. But you can't; we need them. [_Crosses. Music stops._] I'll go

for you. [MRS. WOLTON _exits centre as_ MARION _exits right_. FANSHAW

_appears from ball-room, enters_.

FANSHAW. Come on, Rhodes, we need your help. [_Seizing_ DOUGLAS.

DOUGLAS. How long will it take?

FANSHAW. Oh, only a couple of minutes. [RHODES _and_ FANSHAW _exeunt,

followed by_ MRS. WOLTON.

TRIMMINS. [_Off stage._] Mrs. Lorrimer! Mrs. Lorrimer! [_Enters._] Oh,

Mrs. Lorrimer, won't you dance through with me? [TRIMMINS _does this_.

MRS. LORRIMER. Do excuse me. [_Adds a little sotto voce and

coaxingly._] And as a favour to me, go and take out poor Susie

Woodruff. You know it's only "snap the whip" figure, so it won't make

much difference to you if she is a bit heavy. [TRIMMINS _makes a bored

grimace, and goes up stage_. MRS. LORRIMER _catches him_.] Yes, to

please me! It isn't as if it were a waltz and you had to get her

around all by yourself!

TRIMMINS. [_Smiling._] Very well, to please you! But Susan Woodruff,

she's the limit. [_Doubles up his arm and feels his muscles meaningly,

and exits._ MARION _enters tragically. White, frightened, she staggers

quickly into the room and, stopping for a second, gasps in a horrified

whisper._

MARION. Mother! [_Crosses to arch._] Mother!! [_Music, "Won't You Come

And Play With Me." Singing heard._ MARION _turns, frightened, goes

down. Her mother comes to her. They meet._

MRS. WOLTON. [_Frightened, puzzled._] What is it? What's the matter?

MARION. [_For a moment, can't speak. She opens her lips, but the words

refuse to come. Then she manages to gasp out:_] Father!

MRS. WOLTON. Your father--what? [_Starts and looks at her

questioningly, frightened, as the music swells, and is joined in by

the voices of the dancers._

MARION. He is dead!

MRS. WOLTON. Dead!! [_She makes a movement towards door._ MARION

_stops her_.

MARION. It's too horrible!--he has killed himself-- [_Adds the latter

in lower tone, almost fainting. The dancers appear in the ball-room,

hand in hand in single file, led by_ FANSHAW, _and dance wildly

in--all singing "Won't You Come And Play With Me." They make a big

circle about_ MARION _and_ MRS. WOLTON, _dancing out through the

ball-room, the music and singing becoming fainter as they disappear.

The two women are left alone. Re-enter_ DOUGLAS _from ball-room._

DOUGLAS. May I go up? [_He sees the condition of_ MRS. WOLTON _and the

expression of_ MARION.] Is your mother ill?

MARION. Help me take her to--my room--I will tell you. [_Dancers cross

as they exit. Music changes to waltz. All go out._ MRS. LORRIMER, _on

end, drops their hands._ MRS. WOLTON _and_ MARION _shudder as they go

out_.

MRS. LORRIMER. Where is Mr. Rhodes?

FANSHAW. He was here a moment ago. [_Enter_ SERVANT. _He has his

overcoat on and carries his hat._ MRS. LORRIMER _turns_.

MRS. LORRIMER. Have you seen Mr. Rhodes?

SERVANT. He is just coming, m'm.

MRS. LORRIMER. [_Looking at_ SERVANT _and seeing something in his face

and manner._ SERVANT _crosses hurriedly_.] Is there anything the

matter? Where is Mrs. Wolton? [DOUGLAS _enters before_ SERVANT _can

answer_. MRS. LORRIMER _at once turns to him, ignoring_ SERVANT, _who,

on a run, bows slightly and exits_.

MRS. LORRIMER. [_To_ DOUGLAS.] What's the matter?

DOUGLAS. A most terrible thing has happened.

MRS. LORRIMER. What?

DOUGLAS. You must help me to get rid of all the guests!

MRS. LORRIMER. To get rid-- [_Interrupted._

DOUGLAS. [_Interrupting._] Mr. Wolton has committed suicide.

MRS. LORRIMER. [_Starts and shudders; speaks very rapidly._] Mr.--how

awful! What are you going to do? You can't tell the people now. What

in the world did the man mean by not waiting till the party was over!

If it isn't like you men! Your own comfort before anybody

else's.--Well--the only thing is to pretend it hasn't happened at

all--make some excuse for Marion and her mother--the guests needn't

know anything about it,--and finish the party!

DOUGLAS. Mrs. Lorrimer! Impossible!

MRS. LORRIMER. It would be sort of uncomfortable for us who know,

[_She adds sincerely._] --and the poor Woltons, of course,--it is awful

for them.

DOUGLAS. I thought if you spoke to Fanshaw and stopped the cotillion

and told a few of the guests-- [_Interrupted._

MRS. LORRIMER. [_Aghast._] What! The truth?

DOUGLAS. No, say Mr. Wolton has been taken suddenly and most

dangerously ill--

MRS. LORRIMER. [_To_ DOUGLAS.] Very well, I'll do what I can.

DOUGLAS. Stop! [_Music stops._ DOUGLAS _goes to doorway into ball-room

and draws the heavy portieres, shutting out the ball-room._ MARION

_enters_.

MARION. [_To_ DOUGLAS, _who stays at curtains._] They are going?

DOUGLAS. Yes.

MARION. They know?

DOUGLAS. Not the truth!

MARION. Thank you.

DOUGLAS. Mrs. Lorrimer is arranging it. [FOOTMAN _off stage calls_

"43." _The numbers are repeated in another voice and farther away. A

moment's pause._

DOUGLAS. I wish I could comfort you.

MARION. [_Smiling strainedly at him._] Thank you. [FOOTMAN _calls_

"56!--56!--89!" "32!--32!--61!" DOUGLAS _holds back the portiere into

ball-room_.

MARION. I'd better go back to mother. How good you are to us--believe

me, I appreciate it all, Douglas, _all_. [_Enter_ DAWSON _hurriedly.

Shows excitement and emotion. At the same moment enter_ FLETCHER _from

ball-room at back. The two men speak the word_ "Marion" _at the same

time, and turning, see each other._ DAWSON _also observes the presence

of_ DOUGLAS.] Uncle Fred! [_Crosses to him._ FOOTMAN _calls_ "115!"]

[_To_ DAWSON.] You know!

FLETCHER. [_Gently, persuasively joining her._] Why didn't you send

for me at once?

DAWSON. Gentlemen, you will forgive me if I thank you both and say the

guests are leaving. The family would like to be alone.

DOUGLAS. I understand, but if I can be of any use?

DAWSON. Thank you.

DOUGLAS. Shall we go, Fletcher?

FLETCHER. Good-night, Rhodes. [_Politely._] My place is here; it is my

privilege to stay by Miss Wolton. [DAWSON _looks up, surprised_.

RHODES _looks angry_. FLETCHER _continues, to_ MARION.] May I speak?

[MARION _bows her head in assent_.] Mr. Dawson, your niece has

promised to-night to be my wife. At such a terrible moment as this, I

claim the right of membership of the family, to be with you and help

all I can. You will accept my offices? [_Holding out his hand._

DAWSON. [_Shaking his hand._] Certainly. You have won a wife in a

thousand. But you may be called on to do more perhaps than you

imagine.

FLETCHER. I am entirely at your service.

DOUGLAS. [_Near doorway back, to all. At curtains, leaves curtains

open._] Good-night! [_All turn slightly._ DOUGLAS _bows and exits_.

FLETCHER _going to_ MARION.

DAWSON. [_Watching them._] Thank God! His money will save them!

[SERVANT _enters; speaks softly to_ DAWSON.

SERVANT. Mr. Dawson! [DAWSON _starts, nods to_ SERVANT, _who holds

door open_.

DAWSON. I'm coming. [_Slowly, seriously, meaningly._] Fletcher, I want

a long talk with you to-night before you go.

FLETCHER. Very well, sir. [DAWSON _sighs heavily and exits_. SERVANT

_leaves door open. The two_, MARION _and_ FLETCHER, _hear the door

shut behind them, and make a movement; they realize they are alone. A

heavy front door slams. Lights out. There is silence. Taking_ MARION

_in his arms._] My poor little girl!--My poor little girl!--Cry, for

God's sake, cry!

MARION. [_With an outburst._] Oh, it is so horrible! [_She sobs loud

and hysterically in_ FLETCHER'S _arms, her own arms about his

neck._]--so--horrible--

CURTAIN.