ACT I. George Dedmond's Flat. Evening.

ACT II. The rooms of Malise. Morning.

ACT III. SCENE I. The rooms of Malice. Late afternoon.

SCENE II. The rooms of Malise. Early Afternoon.

ACT IV. A small supper room at "The Gascony."

Between Acts I and II three nights elapse.

Between Acts II and Act III, Scene I, three months.

Between Act III, Scene I, and Act III, Scene II, three months.

Between Act III, Scene II, and Act IV, six months.

"With a hey-ho chivy

Hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!"

ACT I

The SCENE is the pretty drawing-room of a flat. There are two

doors, one open into the hall, the other shut and curtained.

Through a large bay window, the curtains of which are not yet

drawn, the towers of Westminster can be seen darkening in a

summer sunset; a grand piano stands across one corner. The

man-servant PAYNTER, clean-shaven and discreet, is arranging two

tables for Bridge.

BURNEY, the maid, a girl with one of those flowery Botticellian

faces only met with in England, comes in through the curtained

door, which she leaves open, disclosing the glimpse of a white

wall. PAYNTER looks up at her; she shakes her head, with an

expression of concern.

PAYNTER. Where's she gone?

BURNEY. Just walks about, I fancy.

PAYNTER. She and the Governor don't hit it! One of these days

she'll flit--you'll see. I like her--she's a lady; but these

thoroughbred 'uns--it's their skin and their mouths. They'll go till

they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but

jib--jib--jib. How was it down there before she married him?

BURNEY. Oh! Quiet, of course.

PAYNTER. Country homes--I know 'em. What's her father, the old

Rector, like?

BURNEY. Oh! very steady old man. The mother dead long before I took

the place.

PAYNTER. Not a penny, I suppose?

BURNEY. [Shaking her head] No; and seven of them.

PAYNTER. [At sound of the hall door] The Governor!

BURNEY withdraws through the curtained door.

GEORGE DEDMOND enters from the hall. He is in evening dress,

opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily

shaved, but with neat moustaches. His eyes, clear, small, and

blue-grey, have little speculation. His hair is well brushed.

GEORGE. [Handing PAYNTER his coat and hat] Look here, Paynter!

When I send up from the Club for my dress things, always put in a

black waistcoat as well.

PAYNTER. I asked the mistress, sir.

GEORGE. In future--see?

PAYNTER. Yes, sir. [Signing towards the window] Shall I leave the

sunset, sir?

But GEORGE has crossed to the curtained door; he opens it and

says: "Clare!" Receiving no answer, he goes in. PAYNTER

switches up the electric light. His face, turned towards the

curtained door, is apprehensive.

GEORGE. [Re-entering] Where's Mrs. Dedmond?

PAYNTER. I hardly know, sir.

GEORGE. Dined in?

PAYNTER. She had a mere nothing at seven, sir.

GEORGE. Has she gone out, since?

PAYNTER. Yes, sir--that is, yes. The--er--mistress was not dressed

at all. A little matter of fresh air, I think; sir.

GEORGE. What time did my mother say they'd be here for Bridge?

PAYNTER. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond were coming at half-past nine;

and Captain Huntingdon, too--Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton might be a bit

late, sir.

GEORGE. It's that now. Your mistress said nothing?

PAYNTER. Not to me, sir.

GEORGE. Send Burney.

PAYNTER. Very good, sir. [He withdraws.]

GEORGE stares gloomily at the card tables. BURNEY comes in

front the hall.

GEORGE. Did your mistress say anything before she went out?

BURNEY. Yes, sir.

GEORGE. Well?

BURNEY. I don't think she meant it, sir.

GEORGE. I don't want to know what you don't think, I want the fact.

BURNEY. Yes, sir. The mistress said: "I hope it'll be a pleasant

evening, Burney!"

GEORGE. Oh!--Thanks.

BURNEY. I've put out the mistress's things, sir.

GEORGE. Ah!

BURNEY. Thank you, sir. [She withdraws.]

GEORGE. Damn!

He again goes to the curtained door, and passes through.

PAYNTER, coming in from the hall, announces: "General Sir

Charles and Lady Dedmond." SIR CHARLES is an upright,

well-groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with

a keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains. LADY

DEDMOND has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision,

not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had

faced many situations in many parts of the world. She is fifty

five.

PAYNTER withdraws.

SIR CHARLES. Hullo! Where are they? H'm!

As he speaks, GEORGE re-enters.

LADY DEDMOND. [Kissing her son] Well, George. Where's Clare?

GEORGE. Afraid she's late.

LADY DEDMOND. Are we early?

GEORGE. As a matter of fact, she's not in.

LADY DEDMOND. Oh?

SIR CHARLES. H'm! Not--not had a rumpus?

GEORGE. Not particularly. [With the first real sign of feeling]

What I can't stand is being made a fool of before other people.

Ordinary friction one can put up with. But that----

SIR CHARLES. Gone out on purpose? What!

LADY DEDMOND. What was the trouble?

GEORGE. I told her this morning you were coming in to Bridge.

Appears she'd asked that fellow Malise, for music.

LADY DEDMOND. Without letting you know?

GEORGE. I believe she did tell me.

LADY DEDMOND. But surely----

GEORGE. I don't want to discuss it. There's never anything in

particular. We're all anyhow, as you know.

LADY DEDMOND. I see. [She looks shrewdly at her son] My dear,

I should be rather careful about him, I think.

SIR CHARLES. Who's that?

LADY DEDMOND. That Mr. Malise.

SIR CHARLES. Oh! That chap!

GEORGE. Clare isn't that sort.

LADY DEDMOND. I know. But she catches up notions very easily. I

think it's a great pity you ever came across him.

SIR CHARLES. Where did you pick him up?

GEORGE. Italy--this Spring--some place or other where they couldn't

speak English.

SIR CHARLES. Um! That's the worst of travellin'.

LADY DEDMOND. I think you ought to have dropped him. These literary

people---[Quietly] From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't

very far, George.

SIR CHARLES. We'll make him play Bridge. Do him good, if he's that

sort of fellow.

LADY DEDMOND. Is anyone else coming?

GEORGE. Reggie Huntingdon, and the Fullartons.

LADY DEDMOND. [Softly] You know, my dear boy, I've been meaning to

speak to you for a long time. It is such a pity you and Clare--What

is it?

GEORGE. God knows! I try, and I believe she does.

SIR CHARLES. It's distressin'--for us, you know, my dear fellow--

distressin'.

LADY DEDMOND. I know it's been going on for a long time.

GEORGE. Oh! leave it alone, mother.

LADY DEDMOND. But, George, I'm afraid this man has brought it to a

point--put ideas into her head.

GEORGE. You can't dislike him more than I do. But there's nothing

one can object to.

LADY DEDMOND. Could Reggie Huntingdon do anything, now he's home?

Brothers sometimes----

GEORGE. I can't bear my affairs being messed about----

LADY DEDMOND. Well! it would be better for you and Clare to be

supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone. Go

quietly into the dining-room and wait for her.

SIR CHARLES. Good! Leave your mother to make up something. She'll

do it!

LADY DEDMOND. That may be he. Quick!

[A bell sounds.]

GEORGE goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his

haste. LADY DEDMOND, following, calls "Paynter!" PAYNTER

enters.

LADY DEDMOND. Don't say anything about your master and mistress

being out. I'll explain.

PAYNTER. The master, my lady?

LADY DEDMOND. Yes, I know. But you needn't say so. Do you

understand?

PAYNTER. [In polite dudgeon] Just so, my lady.

[He goes out.]

SIR CHARLES. By Jove! That fellow smells a rat!

LADY DEDMOND. Be careful, Charles!

SIR CHARLES. I should think so.

LADY DEDMOND. I shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're

not to wait Bridge for them.

SIR CHARLES. [Listening] He's having a palaver with that man of

George's.

PAYNTER, reappearing, announces: "Captain Huntingdon." SIR

CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND turn to him with relief.

LADY DEDMOND. Ah! It's you, Reginald!

HUNTINGDON. [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do? How are

you, sir? What's the matter with their man?

SHE CHARLES. What!

HUNTINGDON. I was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar;

and he said: "Not in there, sir. The master's there, but my

instructions are to the effect that he's not."

SHE CHARLES. I knew that fellow----

LADY DEDMOND. The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is

waiting for her. It's so important people shouldn't----

HUNTINGDON. Rather!

They draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of

members of their families.

LADY DEDMOND. It's getting serious, Reginald. I don't know what's

to become of them. You don't think the Rector--you don't think your

father would speak to Clare?

HUNTINGDON. Afraid the Governor's hardly well enough. He takes

anything of that sort to heart so--especially Clare.

SIR CHARLES. Can't you put in a word yourself?

HUNTINGDON. Don't know where the mischief lies.

SIR CHARLES. I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road. Very

steady-goin' fellow, old George.

HUNTINGDON. Oh, yes; George is all right, sir.

LADY DEDMOND. They ought to have had children.

HUNTINGDON. Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. I really

don't know what to say, ma'am.

SIR CHARLES. Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often

noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and

rice puddin'.

LADY DEDMOND. [With a clear look] Charles!

SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids?

HUNTINGDON. Oh, all right. Could be rather a little devil, of

course, when her monkey was up.

SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't

got, is there?

HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so.

SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too

matter of fact for her. H'm?

[A short silence.]

LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I forget

if you know him.

HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.

LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You--you don't

think he--puts--er--ideas into her head?

HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a

bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare----

LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be

encouraged. Listen!--It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices.

Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The

door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.

SIR CHARLES. What are we goin' to say?

HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for

them.

SIR CHARLES. Good!

The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise."

MALISE enters. He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a

strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which

seem to have needles in their pupils. His thick hair is rather

untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.

LADY DEDMOND. How do you do? My son and daughter-in-law are so very

sorry. They'll be here directly.

[MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.]

SIR CHARLES. [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir?

HUNTINGDON. We've met, I think.

He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn

the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. MALISE'S eyes

sparkle.

LADY DEDMOND. Clare will be so grieved. One of those invitations

MALISE. On the spur of the moment.

SIR CHARLES. You play Bridge, sir?

MALISE. Afraid not!

SIR CHARLES. Don't mean that? Then we shall have to wait for 'em.

LADY DEDMOND. I forget, Mr. Malise--you write, don't you?

MALISE. Such is my weakness.

LADY DEDMOND. Delightful profession.

SIR CHARLES. Doesn't tie you! What!

MALISE. Only by the head.

SIR CHARLES. I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.

MALISE. Indeed!

[There is the sound of a door banged.]

SIR CHARLES. [Hastily] You smoke, Mr. MALISE?

MALISE. Too much.

SIR CHARLES. Ah! Must smoke when you think a lot.

MALISE. Or think when you smoke a lot.

SIR CHARLES. [Genially] Don't know that I find that.

LADY DEDMOND. [With her clear look at him] Charles!

The door is opened. CLARE DEDMOND in a cream-coloured evening

frock comes in from the hall, followed by GEORGE. She is rather

pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown

hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of

those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of

voice and manner.

LADY DEDMOND. Well, my dear!

SIR CHARLES. Ah! George. Good dinner?

GEORGE. [Giving his hand to MALISE] How are you? Clare! Mr.

MALISE!

CLARE. [Smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp]

Yes, we met on the door-mat. [Pause.]

SIR CHARLES. Deuce you did! [An awkward pause.]

LADY DEDMOND. [Acidly] Mr. Malise doesn't play Bridge, it appears.

Afraid we shall be rather in the way of music.

SIR CHARLES. What! Aren't we goin' to get a game? [PAYNTER has

entered with a tray.]

GEORGE. Paynter! Take that table into the dining room.

PAYNTER. [Putting down the tray on a table behind the door] Yes,

sir.

MALISE. Let me give you a hand.

PAYNTER and MALISE carry one of the Bridge tables out, GEORGE

making a half-hearted attempt to relieve MALISE.

SIR CHARLES. Very fine sunset!

Quite softly CLARE begins to laugh. All look at her first with

surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror. GEORGE is

about to go up to her, but HUNTINGDON heads him off.

HUNTINGDON. Bring the tray along, old man.

GEORGE takes up the tray, stops to look at CLARE, then allows

HUNTINGDON to shepherd him out.

LADY DEDMOND. [Without looking at CLARE] Well, if we're going to

play, Charles? [She jerks his sleeve.]

SIR CHARLES. What? [He marches out.]

LADY DEDMOND. [Meeting MALISE in the doorway] Now you will be able

to have your music.

[She follows the GENERAL out]

[CLARE stands perfectly still, with her eyes closed.]

MALISE. Delicious!

CLARE. [In her level, clipped voice] Perfectly beastly of me! I'm

so sorry. I simply can't help running amok to-night.

MALISE. Never apologize for being fey. It's much too rare.

CLARE. On the door-mat! And they'd whitewashed me so beautifully!

Poor dears! I wonder if I ought----[She looks towards the door.]

MALISE. Don't spoil it!

CLARE. I'd been walking up and down the Embankment for about three

hours. One does get desperate sometimes.

MALISE. Thank God for that!

CLARE. Only makes it worse afterwards. It seems so frightful to

them, too.

MALISE. [Softly and suddenly, but with a difficulty in finding the

right words] Blessed be the respectable! May they dream of--me!

And blessed be all men of the world! May they perish of a surfeit

of--good form!

CLARE. I like that. Oh, won't there be a row! [With a faint

movement of her shoulders] And the usual reconciliation.

MALISE. Mrs. Dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours. Why

don't you spread your wings?

CLARE. My dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and

I've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom I'm

supposed to set a good example. Then, I've no money, and I can't do

anything for a living, except serve in a shop. I shouldn't be free,

either; so what's the good? Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I

wasn't going to be happy. You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or

ill-treated. It's only----

MALISE. Prison. Break out!

CLARE. [Turning to the window] Did you see the sunset? That white

cloud trying to fly up?

[She holds up her bare arms, with a motion of flight.]

MALISE. [Admiring her] Ah-h-h! [Then, as she drops her arms

suddenly] Play me something.

CLARE. [Going to the piano] I'm awfully grateful to you. You don't

make me feel just an attractive female. I wanted somebody like that.

[Letting her hands rest on the notes] All the same, I'm glad not to

be ugly.

MALISE. Thank God for beauty!

PAYNTER. [Opening the door] Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton.

MALISE. Who are they?

CLARE. [Rising] She's my chief pal. He was in the Navy.

She goes forward. MRS. FULLERTON is a rather tall woman, with

dark hair and a quick eye. He, one of those clean-shaven naval

men of good presence who have retired from the sea, but not from

their susceptibility.

MRS. FULLARTON. [Kissing CLARE, and taking in both MALISE and her

husband's look at CLARE] We've only come for a minute.

CLARE. They're playing Bridge in the dining-room. Mr. Malise

doesn't play. Mr. Malise--Mrs. Fullarton, Mr. Fullarton.

[They greet.]

FULLARTON. Most awfully jolly dress, Mrs. Dedmond.

MRS. FULLARTON. Yes, lovely, Clare. [FULLARTON abases eyes which

mechanically readjust themselves] We can't stay for Bridge, my dear;

I just wanted to see you a minute, that's all. [Seeing HUNTINGDON

coming in she speaks in a low voice to her husband] Edward, I want

to speak to Clare. How d'you do, Captain Huntingdon?

MALISE. I'll say good-night.

He shakes hands with CLARE, bows to MRS. FULLARTON, and makes

his way out. HUNTINGDON and FULLERTON foregather in the

doorway.

MRS. FULLARTON. How are things, Clare? [CLARE just moves her

shoulders] Have you done what I suggested? Your room?

CLARE. No.

MRS. FULLARTON. Why not?

CLARE. I don't want to torture him. If I strike--I'll go clean. I

expect I shall strike.

MRS. FULLARTON. My dear! You'll have the whole world against you.

CLARE. Even you won't back me, Dolly?

MRS. FULLARTON. Of course I'll back you, all that's possible, but I

can't invent things.

CLARE. You wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till I could find

my feet?

MRS. FULLARTON, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at

FULLARTON automatically gazing at CLARE while he talks with

HUNTINGDON.

MRS. FULLARTON. Of course--the only thing is that----

CLARE. [With a faint smile] It's all right, Dolly. I'm not coming.

MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! don't do anything desperate, Clare--you are so

desperate sometimes. You ought to make terms--not tracks.

CLARE. Haggle? [She shakes her head] What have I got to make terms

with? What he still wants is just what I hate giving.

MRS. FULLARTON. But, Clare----

CLARE. No, Dolly; even you don't understand. All day and every day

--just as far apart as we can be--and still--Jolly, isn't it? If

you've got a soul at all.

MRS. FULLARTON. It's awful, really.

CLARE. I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on

with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that--comes

to an end. Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.

She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to

bits. It is the only sign of emotion she has given.

MRS. FULLARTON. [Watching] Look here, my child; this won't do. You

must get a rest. Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?

CLARE. [Shaking her head] Reggie lives on his pay.

MRS. FULLARTON. [With one of her quick looks] That was Mr. Malise,

then?

FULLARTON. [Coming towards them] I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn't

sing me that little song you sang the other night, [He hums] "If I

might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"? Remember?

MRS. FULLARTON. "The falling dew," Edward. We simply must go,

Clare. Good-night. [She kisses her.]

FULLARTON. [Taking half-cover between his wife and CLARE] It suits

you down to the ground-that dress.

CLARE. Good-night.

HUNTINGDON sees them out. Left alone CLARE clenches her hands,

moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.

HUNTINGDON. [Returning] Look here, Clare!

CLARE. Well, Reggie?

HUNTINGDON. This is working up for a mess, old girl. You can't do

this kind of thing with impunity. No man'll put up with it. If

you've got anything against George, better tell me. [CLARE shakes

her head] You ought to know I should stick by you. What is it?

Come?

CLARE. Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong

person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that

your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know.

HUNTINGDON. My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a

bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.

CLARE. Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.

HUNTINGDON. I mean, you--you chose him yourself. No one forced you

to marry him.

CLARE. It does seem monstrous, doesn't it?

HUNTINGDON. My dear child, do give us a reason.

CLARE. Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers]

If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah,

Westminster! Clock Tower! Can you see the time by it?" As if one

cared where or what it was--beautiful like that! Apply that to every

--every--everything.

HUNTINGDON. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic. But, my dear old

girl, if that's all----

CLARE. It's not all--it's nothing. I can't explain, Reggie--it's

not reason, at all; it's--it's like being underground in a damp cell;

it's like knowing you'll never get out. Nothing coming--never

anything coming again-never anything.

HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get

into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.

CLARE. When every day and every night!--Oh! I know it's my fault

for having married him, but that doesn't help.

HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent

chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent

on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep

going.

CLARE. I know.

HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would

be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it

awfully.

CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home

long ago.

HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it--but

it simply won't.

CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not.

HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?

CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it.

HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go

sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on

the lookout.

CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why?

HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's

not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New

Woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it.

CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light and attractive--don't

wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem 'to be

going, Reggie.

[HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]

HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless

you! Good-night.

CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door,

holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of

emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table,

leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite

calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him.

CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home,

and the maids can go to bed.

PAYNTER. We are much obliged, ma'am.

CLARE. I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.

PAYNTER. Naturally, ma'am!

CLARE. Good-night.

PAYNTER. I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?

CLARE. No, thank you.

PAYNTER. No, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am.

[He withdraws.]

GEORGE. You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that

wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with

yourself to-night? [CLARE shakes her head] Before that fellow

MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!

CLARE. Is it worth while to rag me? I know I've behaved badly, but

I couldn't help it, really!

GEORGE. Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? My God! You were

brought up as well as I was.

CLARE. Alas!

GEORGE. To let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one

word for it--Disgusting!

CLARE. I know.

GEORGE. Then why do you do it? I've always kept my end up. Why in

heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?

CLARE. I'm sorry.

GEORGE. [With intense feeling] You like making a fool of me!

CLARE. No--Really! Only--I must break out sometimes.

GEORGE. There are things one does not do.

CLARE. I came in because I was sorry.

GEORGE. And at once began to do it again! It seems to me you

delight in rows.

CLARE. You'd miss your--reconciliations.

GEORGE. For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism!

CLARE. And truth?

GEORGE. You are my wife, I suppose.

CLARE. And they twain shall be one--spirit.

GEORGE. Don't talk wild nonsense!

[There is silence.]

CLARE. [Softly] I don't give satisfaction. Please give me notice!

GEORGE. Pish!

CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've

served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better

together--if I went away?

GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason,

and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some

primitive sense of honour.

CLARE. You mean your name, don't you?

GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your

head?

CLARE. No; my own evil nature.

GEORGE. I wish the deuce we'd never met him. Comes of picking up

people you know nothing of. I distrust him--and his looks--and his

infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not--good

form.

CLARE. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h!

GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in

him?

CLARE. A mind.

GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind--as you call it--it's not

necessary to talk about Art and Literature.

CLARE. We don't.

GEORGE. Then what do you talk about--your minds? [CLARE looks at

him] Will you answer a straight question? Is he falling in love

with you?

CLARE. You had better ask him.

GEORGE. I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe

in the guide, philosopher and friend business.

CLARE. Thank you.

A silence. CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.

CLARE. Let me go! You'd be much happier with any other woman.

GEORGE. Clare!

CLARE. I believe--I'm sure I could earn my living. Quite serious.

GEORGE. Are you mad?

CLARE. It has been done.

GEORGE. It will never be done by you--understand that!

CLARE. It really is time we parted. I'd go clean out of your life.

I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your

money.

GEORGE. Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us

both.

CLARE. But if we are already! Look at us. We go on, and on. We're

a spectacle!

GEORGE. That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as

you behave yourself.

CLARE. That is--behave as you think right.

GEORGE. Clare, you're pretty riling.

CLARE. I don't want to be horrid. But I am in earnest this time.

GEORGE. So am I.

[CLARE turns to the curtained door.]

GEORGE. Look here! I'm sorry. God knows I don't want to be a

brute. I know you're not happy.

CLARE. And you--are you happy?

GEORGE. I don't say I am. But why can't we be?

CLARE. I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.

GEORGE. We can try.

CLARE. I HAVE--haven't you?

GEORGE. We used----

CLARE. I wonder!

GEORGE. You know we did.

CLARE. Too long ago--if ever.

GEORGE [Coming closer] I--still----

CLARE. [Making a barrier of her hand] You know that's only cupboard

love.

GEORGE. We've got to face the facts.

CLARE. I thought I was.

GEORGE. The facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and

certain things are expected of us. It's suicide for you, and folly

for me, in my position, to ignore that. You have all you can

reasonably want; and I don't--don't wish for any change. If you

could bring anything against me--if I drank, or knocked about town,

or expected too much of you. I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I

can see.

CLARE. Well, I think we've talked enough.

[She again moves towards the curtained door.]

GEORGE. Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put

up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried?

That's simple purgatory. You ought to know.

CLARE. Yes. I haven't yet, have I?

GEORGE. Don't go like that! Do you suppose we're the only couple

who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with

each other and make the best of it.

CLARE. Not by thousands.

GEORGE. Well, why do you imagine they do it?

CLARE. I don't know.

GEORGE. From a common sense of decency.

CLARE. Very!

GEORGE. By Jove! You can be the most maddening thing in all the

world! [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long

slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you

might try to make some amends, I should think.

CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of

something she could not avoid. He puts his hand on her arm.

CLARE. No, no--no!

GEORGE. [Dropping his hand] Can't you make it up?

CLARE. I don't feel very Christian.

She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her.

GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the

room. He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it

with a bang, and again contemplates the door. Moving forward,

he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its

edge, and muttering. Then he crosses to the door into the hall

and switches off the light. He opens the door to go out, then

stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh.

Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the

curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is

standing, unhooking a necklet.

He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud.

CURTAIN.

ACT II

The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer

door opens on to a corridor and stairway. Doors on either side

lead to other rooms. On the walls are unframed reproductions of

fine pictures, secured with tintacks. An old wine-coloured

armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of

the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink,

pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to

his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only

eleven. On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper,

cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. There are many books on

shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a

soft hat, and a black knobby stick. MALISE sits in his

armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers,

unshaved and uncollared, writing. He pauses, smiles, lights a

cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up

a sheet of quarto MS.

MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those

excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace. Only

the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant

Tyranny."

While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age,

in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the

corridor. She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron

and a Bissell broom. Her movements are slow and imperturbable,

as if she had much time before her. Her face is broad and dark,

with Chinese eyebrows.

MALISE. Wait, Mrs. Miller!

MRS. MILER. I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.

She comes and stands before him. MALISE writes.

MRS. MILER. There's a man 'angin' about below.

MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she

stops. But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.

MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out

to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on

the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought

to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.

MALISE. Well?

MRS. MILER. Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im

lookin' at a photograft. That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at

pictures--it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. So I giv'

a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket,

and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three. I goes down an' I

says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "Ah!" 'e

says with an air of innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers."

"Oh!" I says, "try round the corner, number ten." "Ah!" 'e says

tactful, "much obliged." "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this

time o' day. Good evenin'!" And I thinks to meself [She closes one

eye] Rats! There's a good many corners hereabouts.

MALISE. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler.

MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor

with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh!

you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is

grandmother. "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here

I've got my business." "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives

there neither. Good mornin'!" And I come straight up. If you want

to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the

ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. Wonderful

resource!

MALISE. What's he like, this gentleman?

MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily

papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock

hats you can't abide.

MALISE. Isn't he a dun?

MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir.

He's after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put

a stop to? If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a

jug o' water.

[MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.]

MALISE. You can get on now; I'm going to shave.

He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. MRS.

MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the

armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly

rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she

rests. There is a soft knock on the door. She gets up

leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. The door being

opened CLARE is revealed.

CLARE. Is Mr. Malise in?

MRS. MILER. Yes. But 'e's dressin'.

CLARE. Oh.

MRS. MILER. Won't take 'im long. What name?

CLARE. Would you say--a lady.

MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment

I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with

her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks

through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some

cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting

CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm

particular about not disturbin' things.

CLARE. I'm sure you are.

MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular.

Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to

the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and

holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside

down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up

the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and

drops it into the fold of her skirt.

MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere

bawgwars.

CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later.

MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other

to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh

every mornin'--the Westminister.

She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to

CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER makes

a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. No

longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up.

MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes

things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut

'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!

She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round

the armchair and taps on the door. It opens. CLARE moves

restlessly across the room.

MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's

waitin'.

CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture

"Sacred and Profane Love." MRS. MILER stands regarding her with

a Chinese smile. MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still

hanging to his cheek.

MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to

her] Do the other room.

[Enigmatically she goes.]

MALISE. Jolly of you to come. Can I do anything?

CLARE. I want advice-badly.

MALISE. What! Spreading your wings?

CLARE. Yes.

MALISE. Ah! Proud to have given you that advice. When?

CLARE. The morning after you gave it me . . .

MALISE. Well?

CLARE. I went down to my people. I knew it would hurt my Dad

frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see. No good.

He was awfully sweet, only--he couldn't.

MALISE. [Softly] We English love liberty in those who don't belong

to us. Yes.

CLARE. It was horrible. There were the children--and my old nurse.

I could never live at home now. They'd think I was----. Impossible

--utterly! I'd made up my mind to go back to my owner--And then--

he came down himself. I couldn't d it. To be hauled back and begin

all over again; I simply couldn't. I watched for a chance; and ran

to the station, and came up to an hotel.

MALISE. Bravo!

CLARE. I don't know--no pluck this morning! You see, I've got to

earn my living--no money; only a few things I can sell. All

yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women. How does anyone

ever get a chance?

MALISE. Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your

husband would pension you off.

CLARE. If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it.

MALISE. Good!

CLARE. I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do

so hate watching pain. The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even

do art work. I came to ask you about the stage.

MALISE. Have you ever acted? [CLARE shakes her head] You mightn't

think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training.

There's Chorus--I don't recommend it. How about your brother?

CLARE. My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get

married; and he's going back to India in September. The only friend

I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's--got a husband.

MALISE. I remember the gentleman.

CLARE. Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back. I

must lie doggo somehow.

MALISE. It makes my blood boil to think of women like you. God help

all ladies without money.

CLARE. I expect I shall have to go back.

MALISE. No, no! We shall find something. Keep your soul alive at

all costs. What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but--

emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. Sit in his

drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners,

return to--duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so

grow old and--die!

[The bell rings.]

MALISE. [Looking at the door in doubt] By the wayhe'd no means of

tracing you?

[She shakes her head.]

[The bell rings again.]

MALISE. Was there a man on the stairs as you came up?

CLARE. Yes. Why?

MALISE. He's begun to haunt them, I'm told.

CLARE. Oh! But that would mean they thought I--oh! no!

MALISE. Confidence in me is not excessive.

CLARE. Spying!

MALISE. Will you go in there for a minute? Or shall we let them

ring--or--what? It may not be anything, of course.

CLARE. I'm not going to hide.

[The bell rings a third time.]

MALISE. [Opening the door of the inner room] Mrs. Miler, just see

who it is; and then go, for the present.

MRS. MILER comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to

the door, and opens it. A man's voice says: "Mr. Malise? Would

you give him these cards?"

MRS. MILER. [Re-entering] The cards.

MALISE. Mr. Robert Twisden. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond. [He

looks at CLARE.]

CLARE. [Her face scornful and unmoved] Let them come.

MALISE. [TO MRS. MILER] Show them in!

TWISDEN enters-a clean-shaved, shrewd-looking man, with a

fighting underlip, followed by SIR CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND.

MRS. MILER goes. There are no greetings.

TWISDEN. Mr. Malise? How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond? Had the

pleasure of meeting you at your wedding. [CLARE inclines her head]

I am Mr. George Dedmond's solicitor, sir. I wonder if you would be

so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone?

At a nod from CLARE, MALISE passes into the inner room, and

shuts the door. A silence.

SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] What!

LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Twisden, will you----?

TWISDEN. [Uneasy] Mrs. Dedmond I must apologize, but you--you

hardly gave us an alternative, did you? [He pauses for an answer,

and, not getting one, goes on] Your disappearance has given your

husband great anxiety. Really, my dear madam, you must forgive us

for this--attempt to get into communication.

CLARE. Why did you spy, HERE?

SIR CHARLES. No, no! Nobody's spied on you. What!

TWISDEN. I'm afraid the answer is that we appear to have been

justified. [At the expression on CLARE'S face he goes on hastily]

Now, Mrs. Dedmond, I'm a lawyer and I know that appearances are

misleading. Don't think I'm unfriendly; I wish you well. [CLARE

raises her eyes. Moved by that look, which is exactly as if she had

said: "I have no friends," he hurries on] What we want to say to you

is this: Don't let this split go on! Don't commit yourself to what

you'll bitterly regret. Just tell us what's the matter. I'm sure it

can be put straight.

CLARE. I have nothing against my husband--it was quite unreasonable

to leave him.

TWISDEN. Come, that's good.

CLARE. Unfortunately, there's something stronger than reason.

TWISDEN. I don't know it, Mrs. Dedmond.

CLARE. No?

TWISDEN. [Disconcerted] Are you--you oughtn't to take a step without

advice, in your position.

CLARE. Nor with it?

TWISDEN. [Approaching her] Come, now; isn't there anything you feel

you'd like to say--that might help to put matters straight?

CLARE. I don't think so, thank you.

LADY DEDMOND. You must see, Clare, that----

TWISDEN. In your position, Mrs. Dedmond--a beautiful young woman

without money. I'm quite blunt. This is a hard world. Should be

awfully sorry if anything goes wrong.

CLARE. And if I go back?

TWISDEN. Of two evils, if it be so--choose the least!

CLARE. I am twenty-six; he is thirty-two. We can't reasonably

expect to die for fifty years.

LADY DESMOND. That's morbid, Clare.

TWISDEN. What's open to you if you don't go back? Come, what's your

position? Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody.

Believe me, Mrs. Dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears

you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken

flight, is madness. You must know that no one pays attention to

anything but facts. If now--excuse me--you--you had a lover, [His

eyes travel round the room and again rest on her] you would, at all

events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection,

but [He pauses] as you have not--you've none.

CLARE. Except what I make myself.

SIR CHARLES. Good God!

TWISDEN. Yes! Mrs. Dedmond! There's the bedrock difficulty. As

you haven't money, you should never have been pretty. You're up

against the world, and you'll get no mercy from it. We lawyers see

too much of that. I'm putting it brutally, as a man of the world.

CLARE. Thank you. Do you think you quite grasp the alternative?

TWISDEN. [Taken aback] But, my dear young lady, there are two sides

to every contract. After all, your husband's fulfilled his.

CLARE. So have I up till now. I shan't ask anything from him--

nothing--do you understand?

LADY DEDMOND. But, my dear, you must live.

TWISDEN. Have you ever done any sort of work?

CLARE. Not yet.

TWISDEN. Any conception of the competition nowadays?

CLARE. I can try.

[TWISDEN, looking at her, shrugs his shoulders]

CLARE. [Her composure a little broken by that look] It's real to

me--this--you see!

SIR CHARLES. But, my dear girl, what the devil's to become of

George?

CLARE. He can do what he likes--it's nothing to me.

TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I say without hesitation you've no notion of

what you're faced with, brought up to a sheltered life as you've

been. Do realize that you stand at the parting of the ways, and one

leads into the wilderness.

CLARE. Which?

TWISDEN. [Glancing at the door through which MALISE has gone] Of

course, if you want to play at wild asses there are plenty who will

help you.

SIR CHARLES. By Gad! Yes!

CLARE. I only want to breathe.

TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, go back! You can now. It will be too late

soon. There are lots of wolves about. [Again he looks at the door]

CLARE. But not where you think. You say I need advice. I came here

for it.

TWISDEN. [With a curiously expressive shrug] In that case I don't

know that I can usefully stay.

[He goes to the outer door.]

CLARE. Please don't have me followed when I leave here. Please!

LADY DEDMOND. George is outside, Clare.

CLARE. I don't wish to see him. By what right have you come here?

[She goes to the door through which MALISE has passed, opens it, and

says] Please come in, Mr. Malise.

[MALISE enters.]

TWISDEN. I am sorry. [Glancing at MALISE, he inclines his head] I

am sorry. Good morning. [He goes]

LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Malise, I'm sure, will see----

CLARE. Mr. Malise will stay here, please, in his own room.

[MALISE bows]

SIR CHARLES. My dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, I can't grasp

your line of thought at all!

CLARE. No?

LADY DEDMOND. George is most willing to take up things just as they

were before you left.

CLARE. Ah!

LADY DEDMOND. Quite frankly--what is it you want?

CLARE. To be left alone. Quite frankly, he made a mistake to have

me spied on.

LADY DEDMOND. But, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you

were, like a reasonable being. You can't possibly be left to

yourself without money or position of any kind. Heaven knows what

you'd be driven to!

MALISE. [Softly] Delicious!

SIR CHARLES. You will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir.

LADY DEDMOND. Charles! Clare, you must know this is all a fit of

spleen; your duty and your interest--marriage is sacred, Clare.

CLARE. Marriage! My marriage has become the--the reconciliation--of

two animals--one of them unwilling. That's all the sanctity there is

about it.

SIR CHARLES. What!

[She looks at MALISE]

LADY DEDMOND. You ought to be horribly ashamed. CLARE. Of the

fact-I am.

LADY DEDMOND. [Darting a glance at MALISE] If we are to talk this

out, it must be in private.

MALISE. [To CLARE] Do you wish me to go?

CLARE. No.

LADY DEDMOND. [At MALISE] I should have thought ordinary decent

feeling--Good heavens, girl! Can't you see that you're being played

with?

CLARE. If you insinuate anything against Mr. Malise, you lie.

LADY DEDMOND. If you will do these things--come to a man's rooms----

CLARE. I came to Mr. Malise because he's the only person I know

with imagination enough to see what my position is; I came to him a

quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and

you instantly suspect him. That is disgusting.

LADY DEDMOND. [Frigidly] Is this the natural place for me to find

my son's wife?

CLARE. His woman.

LADY DEDMOND. Will you listen to Reginald?

CLARE. I have.

LADY DEDMOND. Haven't you any religious sense at all, Clare?

CLARE. None, if it's religion to live as we do.

LADY DEDMOND. It's terrible--this state of mind! It's really

terrible!

CLARE breaks into the soft laugh of the other evening. As if

galvanized by the sound, SIR CHARLES comes to life out of the

transfixed bewilderment with which he has been listening.

SIR CHARLES. For God's sake don't laugh like that!

[CLARE Stops]

LADY DEDMOND. [With real feeling] For the sake of the simple right,

Clare!

CLARE. Right? Whatever else is right--our life is not. [She puts

her hand on her heart] I swear before God that I've tried and tried.

I swear before God, that if I believed we could ever again love each

other only a little tiny bit, I'd go back. I swear before God that I

don't want to hurt anybody.

LADY DEDMOND. But you are hurting everybody. Do--do be reasonable!

CLARE. [Losing control] Can't you see that I'm fighting for all my

life to come--not to be buried alive--not to be slowly smothered.

Look at me! I'm not wax--I'm flesh and blood. And you want to

prison me for ever--body and soul.

[They stare at her]

SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] By Jove! I don't know, I don't know!

What!

LADY DEDMOND. [To MALISE] If you have any decency left, sir, you

will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone.

[Beckoning to her husband] We'll wait below.

SIR CHARLES. I--I want to speak. [To CLARE] My dear, if you feel

like this, I can only say--as a--as a gentleman----

LADY DEDMOND. Charles!

SIR CHARLES. Let me alone! I can only say that--damme, I don't know

that I can say anything!

He looks at her very grieved, then turns and marches out,

followed by LADY DEDMOND, whose voice is heard without, answered

by his: "What!" In the doorway, as they pass, GEORGE is

standing; he comes in.

GEORGE. [Going up to CLARE, who has recovered all her self-control]

Will you come outside and speak to me?

CLARE. No.

GEORGE glances at MALISE, who is leaning against the wall with

folded arms.

GEORGE. [In a low voice] Clare!

CLARE. Well!

GEORGE. You try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here,

and speak before this fellow? Most men would think the worst,

finding you like this.

CLARE. You need not have come--or thought at all.

GEORGE. Did you imagine I was going to let you vanish without an

effort----

CLARE. To save me?

GEORGE. For God's sake be just! I've come here to say certain

things. If you force me to say them before him--on your head be it!

Will you appoint somewhere else?

CLARE. No.

GEORGE. Why not?

CLARE. I know all those "certain things." "You must come back. It

is your duty. You have no money. Your friends won't help you. You

can't earn your living. You are making a scandal." You might even

say for the moment: "Your room shall be respected."

GEORGE. Well, it's true and you've no answer.

CLARE. Oh! [Suddenly] Our life's a lie. It's stupid; it's

disgusting. I'm tired of it! Please leave me alone!

GEORGE. You rather miss the point, I'm afraid. I didn't come here

to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane. I came

here to say this: Anyone in her senses could see the game your friend

here is playing. It wouldn't take a baby in. If you think that a

gentleman like that [His stare travels round the dishevelled room

till it rests on MALISE] champions a pretty woman for nothing, you

make a fairly bad mistake.

CLARE. Take care.

But MALISE, after one convulsive movement of his hands, has

again become rigid.

GEORGE. I don't pretend to be subtle or that kind of thing; but I

have ordinary common sense. I don't attempt to be superior to plain

facts----

CLARE. [Under her breath] Facts!

GEORGE. Oh! for goodness' sake drop that hifalutin' tone. It

doesn't suit you. Look here! If you like to go abroad with one of

your young sisters until the autumn, I'll let the flat and go to the

Club.

CLARE. Put the fire out with a penny hose. [Slowly] I am not

coming back to you, George. The farce is over.

GEORGE. [Taken aback for a moment by the finality of her tone,

suddenly fronts MALISE] Then there is something between you and this

fellow.

MALISE. [Dangerously, but without moving] I beg your pardon!

CLARE. There--is--nothing.

GEORGE. [Looking from one to the other] At all events, I won't--I

won't see a woman who once--[CLARE makes a sudden effacing movement

with her hands] I won't see her go to certain ruin without lifting a

finger.

CLARE. That is noble.

GEORGE. [With intensity] I don't know that you deserve anything of

me. But on my honour, as a gentleman, I came here this morning for

your sake, to warn you of what you're doing. [He turns suddenly on

MALISE] And I tell this precious friend of yours plainly what I

think of him, and that I'm not going to play into his hands.

[MALISE, without stirring from the wall, looks at CLARE, and his

lips move.]

CLARE. [Shakes her head at him--then to GEORGE] Will you go,

please?

GEORGE. I will go when you do.

MALISE. A man of the world should know better than that.

GEORGE. Are you coming?

MALISE. That is inconceivable.

GEORGE. I'm not speaking to you, sir.

MALISE. You are right. Your words and mine will never kiss each

other.

GEORGE. Will you come? [CLARE shakes her head]

GEORGE. [With fury] D'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that

rhapsodical swine?

MALISE. [Transformed] By God, if you don't go, I'll kill you.

GEORGE. [As suddenly calm] That remains to be seen.

MALISE. [With most deadly quietness] Yes, I will kill you.

He goes stealthily along the wall, takes up from where it lies

on the pile of books the great black knobby stick, and

stealthily approaches GEORGE, his face quite fiendish.

CLARE. [With a swift movement, grasping the stick] Please.

MALISE resigns the stick, and the two men, perfectly still,

glare at each other. CLARE, letting the stick fall, puts her

foot on it. Then slowly she takes off her hat and lays it on

the table.

CLARE. Now will you go! [There is silence]

GEORGE. [Staring at her hat] You mad little fool! Understand this;

if you've not returned home by three o'clock I'll divorce you, and

you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours.

And mind this, you sir--I won't spare you--by God! Your pocket shall

suffer. That's the only thing that touches fellows like you.

Turning, he goes out, and slams the door. CLARE and MALISE

remain face to face. Her lips have begun to quiver.

CLARE. Horrible!

She turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the

armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands. MALISE

picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly. Then putting it

down, he moves so that he can see her face. She is sitting

quite still, staring straight before her.

MALISE. Nothing could be better.

CLARE. I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!

MALISE. Thank the stars for your good fortune.

CLARE. He means to have revenge on you! And it's all my fault.

MALISE. Let him. Let him go for his divorce. Get rid of him. Have

done with him--somehow.

She gets up and stands with face averted. Then swiftly turning

to him.

CLARE. If I must bring you harm--let me pay you back! I can't bear

it otherwise! Make some use of me, if you don't mind!

MALISE. My God!

[She puts up her face to be kissed, shutting her eyes.]

MALISE. You poor----

He clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face.

She has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is

shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands

twitching.

MALISE. [Very quietly] No, no! This is not the house of a

"gentleman."

CLARE. [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper] I'm sorry.

MALISE. I understand.

CLARE. I don't feel. And without--I can't, can't.

MALISE. [Bitterly] Quite right. You've had enough of that.

There is a long silence. Without looking at him she takes up

her hat, and puts it on.

MALISE. Not going?

[CLARE nods]

MALISE. You don't trust me?

CLARE. I do! But I can't take when I'm not giving.

MALISE. I beg--I beg you! What does it matter? Use me! Get free

somehow.

CLARE. Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in

for all this. I know what you want--or will want. Of course--why

not?

MALISE. I give you my solemn word----

CLARE. No! if I can't be that to you--it's not real. And I can't.

It isn't to be manufactured, is it?

MALISE. It is not.

CLARE. To make use of you in such a way! No.

[She moves towards the door]

MALISE. Where are you going?

CLARE does not answer. She is breathing rapidly. There is a

change in her, a sort of excitement beneath her calmness.

MALISE. Not back to him? [CLARE shakes her head] Thank God! But

where? To your people again?

CLARE. No.

MALISE. Nothing--desperate?

CLARE. Oh! no.

MALISE. Then what--tell me--come!

CLARE. I don't know. Women manage somehow.

MALISE. But you--poor dainty thing!

CLARE. It's all right! Don't be unhappy! Please!

MALISE. [Seizing her arm] D'you imagine they'll let you off, out

there--you with your face? Come, trust me trust me! You must!

CLARE. [Holding out her hand] Good-bye!

MALISE. [Not taking that hand] This great damned world, and--you!

Listen! [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the

stillness] Into that! alone--helpless--without money. The men who

work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let

you be? The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy,

bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the

"chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help

seeing you're made for love! Or suppose you don't take covert but

struggle on in the open. Society! The respectable! The pious!

Even those who love you! Will they let you be? Hue and cry! The

hunt was joined the moment you broke away! It will never let up!

Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the

cart, and God pity you!

CLARE. Well, I'll die running!

MALISE. No, no! Let me shelter you! Let me!

CLARE. [Shaking her head and smiling] I'm going to seek my fortune.

Wish me luck!

MALISE. I can't let you go.

CLARE. You must.

He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it,

suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them.

MALISE. Good luck, then! Good luck!

He releases her hand. Just touching his bent head with her

other hand, CLARE turns and goes. MALISE remains with bowed

head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. They

die away. He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with

his clenched fist.

CURTAIN.

ACT III

MALISE'S sitting-room. An afternoon, three months later.

On the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some

tea-things. Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted

spirit-stand. Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced

man, with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is

contemplating a piece of blue paper.

HAYWOOD. Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf

without any return on your money----

MALISE. Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood. I wish I could see

my way to smoking another.

HAYWOOD. Well, sir--that's a funny remedy.

With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears.

MALISE. Yes. What is it?

BOY. Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir.

MALISE. [Motioning him out] Yes. Wait!

The Boy withdraws. MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns

them over, and takes up some volumes.

MALISE. This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's

"Decameron," Mr. Haywood illustrated. I should say you would get

more than the amount of your bill for them.

HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head] Them books worth three pound seven!

MALISE. It's scarce, and highly improper. Will you take them in

discharge?

HAYWOOD. [Torn between emotions] Well, I 'ardly know what to say--

No, Sir, I don't think I'd like to 'ave to do with that.

MALISE. You could read them first, you know?

HAYWOOD. [Dubiously] I've got my wife at 'ome.

MALISE. You could both read them.

HAYWOOD. [Brought to his bearings] No, Sir, I couldn't.

MALISE. Very well; I'll sell them myself, and you shall have the

result.

HAYWOOD. Well, thank you, sir. I'm sure I didn't want to trouble

you.

MALISE. Not at all, Mr. Haywood. It's for me to apologize.

HAYWOOD. So long as I give satisfaction.

MALISE. [Holding the door for him] Certainly. Good evening.

HAYWOOD. Good evenin', sir; no offence, I hope.

MALISE. On the contrary.

Doubtfully HAYWOOD goes. And MALISE stands scratching his head;

then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he

replaces them at the top of the pile. The Boy again advances

into the doorway.

MALISE. Yes, now for you.

He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old

portfolio. But the door is again timidly pushed open, and

HAYWOOD reappears.

MALISE. Yes, Mr. Haywood?

HAYWOOD. About that little matter, sir. If--if it's any convenience

to you--I've--thought of a place where I could----

MALISE. Read them? You'll enjoy them thoroughly.

HAYWOOD. No, sir, no! Where I can dispose of them.

MALISE. [Holding out the volumes] It might be as well. [HAYWOOD

takes the books gingerly] I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it's a

classic.

HAYWOOD. Oh, indeed--yes, sir. In the event of there being any----

MALISE. Anything over? Carry it to my credit. Your bill--[He

hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt. Good evening!

HAYWOOD, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening

paper, fumbles out. "Good evenin', sir!" and departs. MALISE

again takes up the sheets of MS. and cons a sentence over to

himself, gazing blankly at the stolid BOY.

MALISE. "Man of the world--good form your god! Poor buttoned-up

philosopher" [the Boy shifts his feet] "inbred to the point of

cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule [the Boy

breathes heavily]--you are the slave of facts!"

[There is a knock on the door]

MALISE. Who is it?

The door is pushed open, and REGINALD HUNTINGDON stands there.

HUNTINGDON. I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute?

[MALISE bows with ironical hostility]

HUNTINGDON. I don't know if you remember me--Clare Dedmond's

brother.

MALISE. I remember you.

[He motions to the stolid Boy to go outside again]

HUNTINGDON. I've come to you, sir, as a gentleman----

MALISE. Some mistake. There is one, I believe, on the first floor.

HUNTINGDON. It's about my sister.

MALISE. D--n you! Don't you know that I've been shadowed these last

three months? Ask your detectives for any information you want.

HUNTINGDON. We know that you haven't seen her, or even known where

she is.

MALISE. Indeed! You've found that out? Brilliant!

HUNTINGDON. We know it from my sister.

MALISE. Oh! So you've tracked her down?

HUNTINGDON. Mrs. Fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those

big shops--selling gloves.

MALISE. Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband. Well! you've got

her. Clap her back into prison.

HUNTINGDON. We have not got her. She left at once, and we don't

know where she's gone.

MALISE. Bravo!

HUNTINGDON. [Taking hold of his bit] Look here, Mr. Malise, in a

way I share your feeling, but I'm fond of my sister, and it's

damnable to have to go back to India knowing she must be all adrift,

without protection, going through God knows what! Mrs. Fullarton

says she's looking awfully pale and down.

MALISE. [Struggling between resentment and sympathy] Why do you

come to me?

HUNTINGDON. We thought----

MALISE. Who?

HUNTINGDON. My--my father and myself.

MALISE. Go on.

HUNTINGDON. We thought there was just a chance that, having lost

that job, she might come to you again for advice. If she does, it

would be really generous of you if you'd put my father in touch with

her. He's getting old, and he feels this very much. [He hands

MALISE a card] This is his address.

MALISE. [Twisting the card] Let there be no mistake, sir; I do

nothing that will help give her back to her husband. She's out to

save her soul alive, and I don't join the hue and cry that's after

her. On the contrary--if I had the power. If your father wants to

shelter her, that's another matter. But she'd her own ideas about

that.

HUNTINGDON. Perhaps you don't realize how unfit my sister is for

rough and tumble. She's not one of this new sort of woman. She's

always been looked after, and had things done for her. Pluck she's

got, but that's all, and she's bound to come to grief.

MALISE. Very likely--the first birds do. But if she drops half-way

it's better than if she'd never flown. Your sister, sir, is trying

the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market. For women as

for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon,

and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession.

HUNTINGDON. Admitted--but----

MALISE. We each have our own views as to what they are. But they

all come to--death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases.

Anything more?

HUNTINGDON. My leave's up. I sail to-morrow. If you do see my

sister I trust you to give her my love and say I begged she would see

my father.

MALISE. If I have the chance--yes.

He makes a gesture of salute, to which HUNTINGDON responds.

Then the latter turns and goes out.

MALISE. Poor fugitive! Where are you running now?

He stands at the window, through which the evening sunlight is

powdering the room with smoky gold. The stolid Boy has again

come in. MALISE stares at him, then goes back to the table,

takes up the MS., and booms it at him; he receives the charge,

breathing hard.

MALISE. "Man of the world--product of a material age; incapable of

perceiving reality in motions of the spirit; having 'no use,' as you

would say, for 'sentimental nonsense'; accustomed to believe yourself

the national spine--your position is unassailable. You will remain

the idol of the country--arbiter of law, parson in mufti, darling of

the playwright and the novelist--God bless you!--while waters lap

these shores."

He places the sheets of MS. in an envelope, and hands them to

the Boy.

MALISE. You're going straight back to "The Watchfire"?

BOY. [Stolidly] Yes, sir.

MALISE. [Staring at him] You're a masterpiece. D'you know that?

BOY. No, sir.

MALISE. Get out, then.

He lifts the portfolio from the table, and takes it into the

inner room. The Boy, putting his thumb stolidly to his nose,

turns to go. In the doorway he shies violently at the figure of

CLARE, standing there in a dark-coloured dress, skids past her

and goes. CLARE comes into the gleam of sunlight, her white

face alive with emotion or excitement. She looks round her,

smiles, sighs; goes swiftly to the door, closes it, and comes

back to the table. There she stands, fingering the papers on

the table, smoothing MALISE's hat wistfully, eagerly, waiting.

MALISE. [Returning] You!

CLARE. [With a faint smile] Not very glorious, is it?

He goes towards her, and checks himself, then slews the armchair

round.

MALISE. Come! Sit down, sit down! [CLARE, heaving a long sigh,

sinks down into the chair] Tea's nearly ready.

He places a cushion for her, and prepares tea; she looks up at

him softly, but as he finishes and turns to her, she drops that

glance.

CLARE. Do you think me an awful coward for coming? [She has taken a

little plain cigarette case from her dress] Would you mind if I

smoked?

MALISE shakes his head, then draws back from her again, as if

afraid to be too close. And again, unseen, she looks at him.

MALISE. So you've lost your job?

CLARE. How did you----?

MALISE. Your brother. You only just missed him. [CLARE starts up]

They had an idea you'd come. He's sailing to-morrow--he wants you to

see your father.

CLARE. Is father ill?

MALI$E. Anxious about you.

CLARE. I've written to him every week. [Excited] They're still

hunting me!

MALISE. [Touching her shoulder gently] It's all right--all right.

She sinks again into the chair, and again he withdraws. And

once more she gives him that soft eager look, and once more

averts it as he turns to her.

CLARE. My nerves have gone funny lately. It's being always on one's

guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you,

and dislike your being there.

MALISE. Yes; that wants pluck.

CLARE. [Shaking her head] I curl up all the time. The only thing I

know for certain is, that I shall never go back to him. The more

I've hated what I've been doing, the more sure I've been. I might

come to anything--but not that.

MALISE. Had a very bad time?

CLARE. [Nodding] I'm spoilt. It's a curse to be a lady when you

have to earn your living. It's not really been so hard, I suppose;

I've been selling things, and living about twice as well as most shop

girls.

MALISE. Were they decent to you?

CLARE. Lots of the girls are really nice. But somehow they don't

want me, can't help thinking I've got airs or something; and in here

[She touches her breast] I don't want them!

MALISE. I know.

CLARE. Mrs. Fullarton and I used to belong to a society for helping

reduced gentlewomen to get work. I know now what they want: enough

money not to work--that's all! [Suddenly looking up at him] Don't

think me worse than I am-please! It's working under people; it's

having to do it, being driven. I have tried, I've not been

altogether a coward, really! But every morning getting there the

same time; every day the same stale "dinner," as they call it; every

evening the same "Good evening, Miss Clare," "Good evening, Miss

Simpson," "Good evening, Miss Hart," "Good evening, Miss Clare."

And the same walk home, or the same 'bus; and the same men that you

mustn't look at, for fear they'll follow you. [She rises] Oh! and

the feeling-always, always--that there's no sun, or life, or hope, or

anything. It was just like being ill, the way I've wanted to ride

and dance and get out into the country. [Her excitement dies away

into the old clipped composure, and she sits down again] Don't think

too badly of me--it really is pretty ghastly!

MALISE. [Gruffly] H'm! Why a shop?

CLARE. References. I didn't want to tell more lies than I could

help; a married woman on strike can't tell the truth, you know. And

I can't typewrite or do shorthand yet. And chorus--I thought--you

wouldn't like.

MALISE. I? What have I----? [He checks himself ] Have men been

brutes?

CLARE. [Stealing a look at him] One followed me a lot. He caught

hold of my arm one evening. I just took this out [She draws out her

hatpin and holds it like a dagger, her lip drawn back as the lips of

a dog going to bite] and said: "Will you leave me alone, please?"

And he did. It was rather nice. And there was one quite decent

little man in the shop--I was sorry for him--such a humble little

man!

MALISE. Poor devil--it's hard not to wish for the moon.

At the tone of his voice CLARE looks up at him; his face is

turned away.

CLARE. [Softly] How have you been? Working very hard?

MALISE. As hard as God will let me.

CLARE. [Stealing another look] Have you any typewriting I could do?

I could learn, and I've still got a brooch I could sell. Which is

the best kind?

MALISE. I had a catalogue of them somewhere.

He goes into the inner room. The moment he is gone, CLARE

stands up, her hands pressed to her cheeks as if she felt them

flaming. Then, with hands clasped, she stands waiting. He

comes back with the old portfolio.

MALISE. Can you typewrite where you are?

CLARE. I have to find a new room anyway. I'm changing--to be safe.

[She takes a luggage ticket from her glove] I took my things to

Charing Cross--only a bag and one trunk. [Then, with that queer

expression on her face which prefaces her desperations] You don't

want me now, I suppose.

MALISE. What?

CLARE. [Hardly above a whisper] Because--if you still wanted me--

I do--now.

[Etext editors note: In the 1924 revision, 11 years after this

1913 edition: "I do--now" is changed to "I could--now"--

a significant change in meaning. D.W.]

MALISE. [Staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling]

You mean it? You do? You care----?

CLARE. I've thought of you--so much! But only--if you're sure.

He clasps her and kisses her closed eyes; and so they stand for

a moment, till the sound of a latchkey in the door sends them

apart.

MALISE. It's the housekeeper. Give me that ticket; I'll send for

your things.

Obediently she gives him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly

into the inner room. MRS. MILER has entered; her face, more

Chinese than ever, shows no sign of having seen.

MALISE. That lady will stay here, Mrs. Miler. Kindly go with this

ticket to the cloak-room at Charing Cross station, and bring back her

luggage in a cab. Have you money?

MRS. MILER. 'Arf a crown. [She takes the ticket--then impassively]

In case you don't know--there's two o' them men about the stairs now.

The moment she is gone MALISE makes a gesture of maniacal fury.

He steals on tiptoe to the outer door, and listens. Then,

placing his hand on the knob, he turns it without noise, and

wrenches back the door. Transfigured in the last sunlight

streaming down the corridor are two men, close together,

listening and consulting secretly. They start back.

MALISE. [With strange, almost noiseless ferocity] You've run her to

earth; your job's done. Kennel up, hounds! [And in their faces he

slams the door]

CURTAIN.

SCENE II

SCENE II--The same, early on a winter afternoon, three months later.

The room has now a certain daintiness. There are curtains over the

doors, a couch, under the window, all the books are arranged on

shelves. In small vases, over the fireplace, are a few violets and

chrysanthemums. MALISE sits huddled in his armchair drawn close to

the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand. He looks rather grey and

drawn, and round his chair is the usual litter. At the table, now

nearer to the window, CLARE sits working a typewriter. She finishes

a line, puts sheets of paper together, makes a note on a card--adds

some figures, and marks the total.

CLARE. Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound

seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds. One

hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred

and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour. It's

only just over an hour a day. Can't you get me more?

MALISE lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again.

CLARE puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it.

CLARE. I'm quite packed. Shall I pack for you? [He nods] Can't we

have more than three days at the sea? [He shakes his head. Going up

to him] You did sleep last night.

MALISE. Yes, I slept.

CLARE. Bad head? [MALISE nods] By this time the day after to-morrow

the case will be heard and done with. You're not worrying for me?

Except for my poor old Dad, I don't care a bit.

MALISE heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and

down.

CLARE. Kenneth, do you understand why he doesn't claim damages,

after what he said that day-here? [Looking suddenly at him] It is

true that he doesn't?

MALISE. It is not.

CLARE. But you told me yourself

MALISE. I lied.

CLARE. Why?

MALISE. [Shrugging] No use lying any longer--you'd know it

tomorrow.

CLARE. How much am I valued at?

MALISE. Two thousand. [Grimly] He'll settle it on you. [He laughs]

Masterly! By one stroke, destroys his enemy, avenges his "honour,"

and gilds his name with generosity!

CLARE. Will you have to pay?

MALISE. Stones yield no blood.

CLARE. Can't you borrow?

MALISE. I couldn't even get the costs.

CLARE. Will they make you bankrupt, then? [MALISE nods] But that

doesn't mean that you won't have your income, does it? [MALISE

laughs] What is your income, Kenneth? [He is silent] A hundred and

fifty from "The Watchfire," I know. What else?

MALISE. Out of five books I have made the sum of forty pounds.

CLARE. What else? Tell me.

MALISE. Fifty to a hundred pounds a year. Leave me to gnaw my way

out, child.

CLARE stands looking at him in distress, then goes quickly into

the room behind her. MALISE takes up his paper and pen. The

paper is quite blank.

MALISE. [Feeling his head] Full of smoke.

He drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left

goes in. CLARE re-enters with a small leather box. She puts it

down on her typing table as MALISE returns followed by MRS.

MILER, wearing her hat, and carrying His overcoat.

MRS. MILER. Put your coat on. It's a bitter wind.

[He puts on the coat]

CLARE. Where are you going?

MALISE. To "The Watchfire."

The door closes behind him, and MRS. MILER goes up to CLARE

holding out a little blue bottle with a red label, nearly full.

MRS. MILER. You know he's takin' this [She makes a little motion

towards her mouth] to make 'im sleep?

CLARE. [Reading the label] Where was it?

MRS. MILER. In the bathroom chest o' drawers, where 'e keeps 'is

odds and ends. I was lookin' for 'is garters.

CLARE. Give it to me!

MRS. MILER. He took it once before. He must get his sleep.

CLARE. Give it to me!

MRS. MILER resigns it, CLARE takes the cork out, smells, then

tastes it from her finger. MRS. MILER, twisting her apron in

her hands, speaks.

MILS. MILER. I've 'ad it on my mind a long time to speak to yer.

Your comin' 'ere's not done 'im a bit o' good.

CLARE. Don't!

MRS. MILER. I don't want to, but what with the worry o' this 'ere

divorce suit, an' you bein' a lady an' 'im havin' to be so careful of

yer, and tryin' to save, not smokin' all day like 'e used, an' not

gettin' 'is two bottles of claret regular; an' losin' his sleep, an'

takin' that stuff for it; and now this 'ere last business. I've seen

'im sometimes holdin' 'is 'ead as if it was comin' off. [Seeing

CLARE wince, she goes on with a sort of compassion in her Chinese

face] I can see yer fond of him; an' I've nothin' against yer you

don't trouble me a bit; but I've been with 'im eight years--we're

used to each other, and I can't bear to see 'im not 'imself, really I

can't.

She gives a sadden sniff. Then her emotion passes, leaving her

as Chinese as ever.

CLARE. This last business--what do you mean by that?

MRS. MILER. If 'e a'n't told yer, I don't know that I've any call

to.

CLARE. Please.

MRS. MILER. [Her hands twisting very fast] Well, it's to do with

this 'ere "Watchfire." One of the men that sees to the writin' of

it 'e's an old friend of Mr. Malise, 'e come 'ere this mornin' when

you was out. I was doin' my work in there [She points to the room

on the right] an' the door open, so I 'earl 'em. Now you've 'ung

them curtains, you can't 'elp it.

CLARE. Yes?

MRS. MILER. It's about your divorce case. This 'ere "Watchfire,"

ye see, belongs to some fellers that won't 'ave their men gettin'

into the papers. So this 'ere friend of Mr. Malise--very nice 'e

spoke about it: "If it comes into Court," 'e says, "you'll 'ave to

go," 'e says. "These beggars, these dogs, these dogs," 'e says,

"they'll 'oof you out," 'e says. An' I could tell by the sound of

his voice, 'e meant it--proper upset 'e was. So that's that!

CLARE. It's inhuman!

MRS. MILER. That's what I thinks; but it don't 'elp, do it?

"'Tain't the circulation," 'e says, "it's the principle," 'e says;

and then 'e starts in swearin' horrible. 'E's a very nice man. And

Mr. Malise, 'e says: "Well, that about does for me!" 'e says.

CLARE. Thank you, Mrs. Miler--I'm glad to know.

MRS. MILER. Yes; I don't know as I ought to 'ave told you.

[Desperately uncomfortable] You see, I don't take notice of Mr.

MALISE, but I know 'im very well. 'E's a good 'arted gentleman, very

funny, that'll do things to help others, and what's more, keep on

doin' 'em, when they hurt 'im; very obstinate 'e is. Now, when you

first come 'ere, three months ago, I says to meself: "He'll enjoy

this 'ere for a bit, but she's too much of a lady for 'im." What 'e

wants about 'im permanent is a woman that thinks an' talks about all

them things he talks about. And sometimes I fancy 'e don't want

nothin' permanent about 'im at all.

CLARE. Don't!

MRS. MILER. [With another sudden sniff] Gawd knows I don't want to

upset ye. You're situated very hard; an' women's got no business to

'urt one another--that's what I thinks.

CLARE. Will you go out and do something for me? [MRS. MILER nods]

[CLARE takes up the sheaf of papers and from the leather box a

note and an emerald pendant]

Take this with the note to that address--it's quite close. He'll

give you thirty pounds for it. Please pay these bills and bring me

back the receipts, and what's over.

MRS. MILER. [Taking the pendant and note] It's a pretty thing.

CLARE. Yes. It was my mother's.

MRS. MILER. It's a pity to part with it; ain't you got another?

CLARE. Nothing more, Mrs. Miler, not even a wedding ring.

MRS. MILER. [Without expression] You make my 'eart ache sometimes.

[She wraps pendant and note into her handkerchief and goes out to

the door.]

MRS. MILER. [From the door] There's a lady and gentleman out here.

Mrs. Fuller--wants you, not Mr. Malise.

CLARE. Mrs. Fullarton? [MRS. MILER nods] Ask them to come in.

MRS. MILER opens the door wide, says "Come in," and goes. MRS.

FULLARTON is accompanied not by FULLARTON, but by the lawyer,

TWISDON. They come in.

MRS. FULLARTON. Clare! My dear! How are you after all this time?

CLARE. [Her eyes fixed on TWISDEN] Yes?

MRS. FULLARTON. [Disconcerted by the strange greeting] I brought

Mr. Twisden to tell you something. May I stay?

CLARE. Yes. [She points to the chair at the same table: MRS.

FULLARTON sits down] Now!

[TWISDEN comes forward]

TWISDEN. As you're not defending this case, Mrs. Dedmond, there is

nobody but yourself for me to apply to.

CLARE. Please tell me quickly, what you've come for.

TWISDEN. [Bowing slightly] I am instructed by Mr. Dedmond to say

that if you will leave your present companion and undertake not to

see him again, he will withdraw the suit and settle three hundred a

year on you. [At CLARE's movement of abhorrence] Don't

misunderstand me, please--it is not--it could hardly be, a request

that you should go back. Mr. Dedmond is not prepared to receive you

again. The proposal--forgive my saying so--remarkably Quixotic--is

made to save the scandal to his family and your own. It binds you to

nothing but the abandonment of your present companion, with certain

conditions of the same nature as to the future. In other words, it

assures you a position--so long as you live quietly by yourself.

CLARE. I see. Will you please thank Mr. Dedmond, and say that I

refuse?

MRS. FULLARTON. Clare, Clare! For God's sake don't be desperate.

[CLARE, deathly still, just looks at her]

TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I am bound to put the position to you in its

naked brutality. You know there's a claim for damages?

CLARE. I have just learnt it.

TWISDEN. You realize what the result of this suit must be: You will

be left dependent on an undischarged bankrupt. To put it another

way, you'll be a stone round the neck of a drowning man.

CLARE. You are cowards.

MRS. FULLARTON. Clare, Clare! [To TWISDEN] She doesn't mean it;

please be patient.

CLARE. I do mean it. You ruin him because of me. You get him down,

and kick him to intimidate me.

MRS. FULLARTON. My dear girl! Mr. Twisden is not personally

concerned. How can you?

CLARE. If I were dying, and it would save me, I wouldn't take a

penny from my husband.

TWISDEN. Nothing could be more bitter than those words. Do you

really wish me to take them back to him?

CLARE. Yes. [She turns from them to the fire]

MRS. FULLARTON. [In a low voice to TWISDEN] Please leave me alone

with her, don't say anything to Mr. Dedmond yet.

TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I told you once that I wished you well.

Though you have called me a coward, I still do that. For God's sake,

think--before it's too late.

CLARE. [Putting out her hand blindly] I'm sorry I called you a

coward. It's the whole thing, I meant.

TWISDEN. Never mind that. Think!

With the curious little movement of one who sees something he

does not like to see, he goes. CLARE is leaning her forehead

against the mantel-shelf, seemingly unconscious that she is not

alone. MRS. FULLARTON approaches quietly till she can see

CLARE'S face.

MRS. FULLARTON. My dear sweet thing, don't be cross with met [CLARE

turns from her. It is all the time as if she were trying to get away

from words and people to something going on within herself] How can

I help wanting to see you saved from all this ghastliness?

CLARE. Please don't, Dolly! Let me be!

MRS. FULLARTON. I must speak, Clare! I do think you're hard on

George. It's generous of him to offer to withdraw the suit--

considering. You do owe it to us to try and spare your father and

your sisters and--and all of us who care for you.

CLARE. [Facing her] You say George is generous! If he wanted to be

that he'd never have claimed these damages. It's revenge he wants--I

heard him here. You think I've done him an injury. So I did--when I

married him. I don't know what I shall come to, Dolly, but I shan't

fall so low as to take money from him. That's as certain as that I

shall die.

MRS. FULLARTON. Do you know, Clare, I think it's awful about you!

You're too fine, and not fine enough, to put up with things; you're

too sensitive to take help, and you're not strong enough to do

without it. It's simply tragic. At any rate, you might go home to

your people.

CLARE. After this!

MRS. FULLARTON. To us, then?

CLARE. "If I could be the falling bee, and kiss thee all the day!"

No, Dolly!

MRS. FULLARTON turns from her ashamed and baffled, but her quick

eyes take in the room, trying to seize on some new point of

attack.

MRS. FULLARTON. You can't be--you aren't-happy, here?

CLARE. Aren't I?

MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! Clare! Save yourself--and all of us!

CLARE. [Very still] You see, I love him.

MRS. FULLARTON. You used to say you'd never love; did not want it--

would never want it.

CLARE. Did I? How funny!

MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! my dear! Don't look like that, or you'll make

me cry.

CLARE. One doesn't always know the future, does one? [Desperately]

I love him! I love him!

MRS. FULLARTON. [Suddenly] If you love him, what will it be like for

you, knowing you've ruined him?

CLARE. Go away! Go away!

MRS. FULLARTON. Love!--you said!

CLARE. [Quivering at that stab-suddenly] I must--I will keep him.

He's all I've got.

MRS. FULLARTON. Can you--can you keep him?

CLARE. Go!

MRS. FULLARTON. I'm going. But, men are hard to keep, even when

you've not been the ruin of them. You know whether the love this man

gives you is really love. If not--God help you! [She turns at the

door, and says mournfully] Good-bye, my child! If you can----

Then goes. CLARE, almost in a whisper, repeats the words:

"Love! you said!" At the sound of a latchkey she runs as if to

escape into the bedroom, but changes her mind and stands blotted

against the curtain of the door. MALISE enters. For a moment

he does not see her standing there against the curtain that is

much the same colour as her dress. His face is that of a man in

the grip of a rage that he feels to be impotent. Then, seeing

her, he pulls himself together, walks to his armchair, and sits

down there in his hat and coat.

CLARE. Well? "The Watchfire?" You may as well tell me.

MALISE. Nothing to tell you, child.

At that touch of tenderness she goes up to his chair and kneels

down beside it. Mechanically MALISE takes off his hat.

CLARE. Then you are to lose that, too? [MALISE stares at her] I

know about it--never mind how.

MALISE. Sanctimonious dogs!

CLARE. [Very low] There are other things to be got, aren't there?

MALISE. Thick as blackberries. I just go out and cry, "MALISE,

unsuccessful author, too honest journalist, freethinker,

co-respondent, bankrupt," and they tumble!

CLARE. [Quietly] Kenneth, do you care for me? [MALISE stares at

her] Am I anything to you but just prettiness?

MALISE. Now, now! This isn't the time to brood! Rouse up and

fight.

CLARE. Yes.

MALISE. We're not going to let them down us, are we? [She rubs her

cheek against his hand, that still rests on her shoulder] Life on

sufferance, breath at the pleasure of the enemy! And some day in the

fullness of his mercy to be made a present of the right to eat and

drink and breathe again. [His gesture sums up the rage within him]

Fine! [He puts his hat on and rises] That's the last groan they get

from me.

CLASS. Are you going out again? [He nods] Where?

MALISE. Blackberrying! Our train's not till six.

He goes into the bedroom. CLARE gets up and stands by the fire,

looking round in a dazed way. She puts her hand up and

mechanically gathers together the violets in the little vase.

Suddenly she twists them to a buttonhole, and sinks down into

the armchair, which he must pass. There she sits, the violets

in her hand. MALISE comes out and crosses towards the outer

door. She puts the violets up to him. He stares at them,

shrugs his shoulders, and passes on. For just a moment CLARE

sits motionless.

CLARE. [Quietly] Give me a kiss!

He turns and kisses her. But his lips, after that kiss, have

the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have

done what does not suit their mood. He goes out. She is left

motionless by the armchair, her throat working. Then,

feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of

paper, and writes. Looking up suddenly she sees that MRS. MILER

has let herself in with her latchkey.

MRS. MILER. I've settled the baker, the milk, the washin' an' the

groceries--this 'ere's what's left.

She counts down a five-pound note, four sovereigns, and two

shillings on to the little table. CLARE folds the letter into

an envelope, then takes up the five-pound note and puts it into

her dress.

CLARE. [Pointing to the money on the table] Take your wages; and

give him this when he comes in. I'm going away.

MRS. MILER. Without him? When'll you be comin' back?

CLARE. [Rising] I shan't be coming back. [Gazing at MRS. MILER'S

hands, which are plaiting at her dress] I'm leaving Mr. Malise, and

shan't see him again. And the suit against us will be withdrawn--the

divorce suit--you understand?

MRS. MILER. [Her face all broken up] I never meant to say anything

to yer.

CLARE. It's not you. I can see for myself. Don't make it harder;

help me. Get a cab.

MRS. MILER. [Disturbed to the heart] The porter's outside, cleanin'

the landin' winder.

CLARE. Tell him to come for my trunk. It is packed. [She goes into

the bedroom]

MRS. MILER. [Opening the door-desolately] Come 'ere!

[The PORTER appears in shirt-sleeves at the door]

MRS. MILER. The lady wants a cab. Wait and carry 'er trunk down.

CLARE comes from the bedroom in her hat and coat.

MRS. MILER. [TO the PORTER] Now.

They go into the bedroom to get the trunk. CLARE picks up from

the floor the bunch of violets, her fingers play with it as if

they did not quite know what it was; and she stands by the

armchair very still, while MRS. MILER and the PORTER pass her

with trunk and bag. And even after the PORTER has shouldered

the trunk outside, and marched away, and MRS. MILER has come

back into the room, CLARE still stands there.

MRS. MILER. [Pointing to the typewriter] D'you want this 'ere, too?

CLARE. Yes.

MRS. MILER carries it out. Then, from the doorway, gazing at

CLARE taking her last look, she sobs, suddenly. At sound of

that sob CLARE throws up her head.

CLARE. Don't! It's all right. Good-bye!

She walks out and away, not looking back. MRS. MILER chokes her

sobbing into the black stuff of her thick old jacket.

CURTAIN

ACT IV

Supper-time in a small room at "The Gascony" on Derby Day.

Through the windows of a broad corridor, out of which the door

opens, is seen the dark blue of a summer night. The walls are

of apricot-gold; the carpets, curtains, lamp-shades, and gilded

chairs, of red; the wood-work and screens white; the palms in

gilded tubs. A doorway that has no door leads to another small

room. One little table behind a screen, and one little table in

the open, are set for two persons each. On a service-table,

above which hangs a speaking-tube, are some dishes of hors

d'ouvres, a basket of peaches, two bottles of champagne in

ice-pails, and a small barrel of oysters in a gilded tub. ARNAUD,

the waiter, slim, dark, quick, his face seamed with a quiet,

soft irony, is opening oysters and listening to the robust joy

of a distant supper-party, where a man is playing the last bars

of: "Do ye ken John Peel" on a horn. As the sound dies away, he

murmurs: "Tres Joli!" and opens another oyster. Two Ladies with

bare shoulders and large hats pass down the corridor. Their

talk is faintly wafted in: "Well, I never like Derby night! The

boys do get so bobbish!" "That horn--vulgar, I call it!"

ARNAUD'S eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth droop. A Lady

with bare shoulders, and crimson roses in her hair, comes along

the corridor, and stops for a second at the window, for a man to

join her. They come through into the room. ARNAUD has sprung

to attention, but with: "Let's go in here, shall we?" they pass

through into the further room. The MANAGER, a gentleman with

neat moustaches, and buttoned into a frock-coat, has appeared,

brisk, noiseless, his eyes everywhere; he inspects the peaches.

MANAGER. Four shillin' apiece to-night, see?

ARNAUD. Yes, Sare.

From the inner room a young man and his partner have come in.

She is dark, almost Spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale,

clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of

those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost

all save the capacity for hiding their emotions. He speaks in

a----

LANGUID VOICE. Awful row they're kickin' up in there, Mr. Varley.

A fellow with a horn.

MANAGER. [Blandly] Gaddesdon Hunt, my lord--always have their

supper with us, Derby night. Quiet corner here, my lord. Arnaud!

ARNAUD is already at the table, between screen and palm. And,

there ensconced, the couple take their seats. Seeing them

safely landed, the MANAGER, brisk and noiseless, moves away. In

the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems

uncertain whether to come in. She advances into the doorway.

It is CLARE.

ARNAUD. [Pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes] Nice

table, Madame.

CLARE moves to the corner of it. An artist in observation of

his clients, ARNAUD takes in her face--very pale under her wavy,

simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her

lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black

dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at

her breast three gardenias. And as he nears her, she lifts her

eyes. It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for

guidance.

ARNAUD. Madame is waiting for some one? [She shakes her head] Then

Madame will be veree well here--veree well. I take Madame's cloak?

He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair

fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she

wishes. She sits down.

LANGUID VOICE. [From the corner] Waiter!

ARNAUD. Milord!

LANGUID VOICE. The Roederer.

ARNAUD. At once, Milord.

CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her

eyes lowered. Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark

rapid figure.

ARNAUD. [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat? [He scans her with

increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?

CLARE. [Again giving him that look] Must I order?

ARNAUD. Non, Madame, it is not necessary. A glass of water. [He

pours it out] I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame's face.

CLARE. [Faintly smiling] No.

ARNAUD. Madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet.

LANGUID VOICE. Waiter!

ARNAUD. Pardon! [He goes]

The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the

corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie!

Not she! Oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!"

"Bobbie'll never stick it!" "Look here, dear----" Galvanized

by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they

die away and she subsides.

ARNAUD. [Back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the

corridor] It is not rowdy here, Madame, as a rule--not as in some

places. To-night a little noise. Madame is fond of flowers? [He

whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from

some table in the next room] These smell good!

CLARE. You are very kind.

ARNAUD. [With courtesy] Not at all, Madame; a pleasure. [He bows]

A young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped,

sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of

those small, long, lean heads that only grow in Britain; clad in

a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a

white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the

corridor. He looks round, glances at CLARE, passes her table

towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back

at her. Her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast

down again. The young man wavers, catches ARNAUD's eye, jerks

his head to summon him, and passes into the further room.

ARNAUD takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows

him out. And CLARE sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs

of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen. She is

breathing as if she had been running hard. She lifts her eyes.

The tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her

table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness.

YOUNG MAN. How d'you do? Didn't recognize you at first. So sorry

--awfully rude of me.

CLARE'S eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign

herself all at once. Something in the YOUNG MAN responds. He

drops his hand.

CLARE. [Faintly] How d'you do?

YOUNG MAN. [Stammering] You--you been down there to-day?

CLARE. Where?

YOUNG MAN. [With a smile] The Derby. What? Don't you generally go

down? [He touches the other chair] May I?

CLARE. [Almost in a whisper] Yes.

As he sits down, ARNAUD returns and stands before them.

ARNAUD. The plovers' eggs veree good to-night, Sare. Veree good,

Madame. A peach or two, after. Veree good peaches. The Roederer,

Sare--not bad at all. Madame likes it frappe, but not too cold--yes?

[He is away again to his service-table.]

YOUNG MAN. [Burying his face in the carnations] I say--these are

jolly, aren't they? They do you pretty well here.

CLARE. Do they?

YOUNG MAN. You've never been here? [CLARE shakes her head] By Jove!

I thought I didn't know your face. [CLARE looks full at him. Again

something moves in the YOUNG MAN, and he stammers] I mean--not----

CLARE. It doesn't matter.

YOUNG MAN. [Respectfully] Of course, if I--if you were waiting for

anybody, or anything--I----

[He half rises]

CLARE. It's all right, thank you.

The YOUNG MAN sits down again, uncomfortable, nonplussed. There

is silence, broken by the inaudible words of the languid lord,

and the distant merriment of the supper-party. ARNAUD brings

the plovers' eggs.

YOUNG MAN. The wine, quick.

ARNAUD. At once, Sare.

YOUNG MAN. [Abruptly] Don't you ever go racing, then?

CLARE. No.

[ARNAUD pours out champagne]

YOUNG MAN. I remember awfully well my first day. It was pretty

thick--lost every blessed bob, and my watch and chain, playin' three

cards on the way home.

CLARE. Everything has a beginning, hasn't it?

[She drinks. The YOUNG MAN stares at her]

YOUNG MAN. [Floundering in these waters deeper than he had bargained

for] I say--about things having beginnings--did you mean anything?

[CLARE nods]

YOUNG MAN. What! D'you mean it's really the first----?

CLARE nods. The champagne has flicked her courage.

YOUNG MAN. By George! [He leans back] I've often wondered.

ARNAUD. [Again filling the glasses] Monsieur finds----

YOUNG MAN. [Abruptly] It's all right.

He drains his glass, then sits bolt upright. Chivalry and the

camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him.

YOUNG MAN. Of course I can see that you're not--I mean, that you're

a--a lady. [CLARE smiles] And I say, you know--if you have to--

because you're in a hole--I should feel a cad. Let me lend you----?

CLARE. [Holding up her glass] 'Le vin est tire, il faut le boire'!

She drinks. The French words, which he does not too well

understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he

remains quite silent, frowning. As CLARE held up her glass, two

gentlemen have entered. The first is blond, of good height and

a comely insolence. His crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up

moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of

two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is

broad, and coloured with air and wine. His companion is a tall,

thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow

cheeks. They stand looking round, then pass into the further

room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at CLARE.

YOUNG MAN. [Seeing her wince] Look here! I'm afraid you must feel

me rather a brute, you know.

CLARE. No, I don't; really.

YOUNG MAN. Are you absolute stoney? [CLARE nods] But [Looking at

her frock and cloak] you're so awfully well----

CLARE. I had the sense to keep them.

YOUNG MAN. [More and more disturbed] I say, you know--I wish you'd

let me lend you something. I had quite a good day down there.

CLARE. [Again tracing her pattern on the cloth--then looking up at

him full] I can't take, for nothing.

YOUNG MAN. By Jove! I don't know-really, I don't--this makes me

feel pretty rotten. I mean, it's your being a lady.

CLARE. [Smiling] That's not your fault, is it? You see, I've been

beaten all along the line. And I really don't care what happens to

me. [She has that peculiar fey look on her face now] I really

don't; except that I don't take charity. It's lucky for me it's you,

and not some----

The supper-party is getting still more boisterous, and there comes a

long view holloa, and a blast of the horn.

YOUNG MAN. But I say, what about your people? You must have people

of some sort.

He is fast becoming fascinated, for her cheeks have begun to

flush and her eyes to shine.

CLARE. Oh, yes; I've had people, and a husband, and--everything----

And here I am! Queer, isn't it? [She touches her glass] This is

going to my head! Do you mind? I sha'n't sing songs and get up and

dance, and I won't cry, I promise you!

YOUNG MAN. [Between fascination and chivalry] By George! One

simply can't believe in this happening to a lady.

CLARE. Have you got sisters? [Breaking into her soft laughter] My

brother's in India. I sha'n't meet him, anyway.

YOUNG MAN. No, but--I say-are you really quite cut off from

everybody? [CLARE nods] Something rather awful must have happened?

She smiles. The two gentlemen have returned. The blond one is

again staring fixedly at CLARE. This time she looks back at

him, flaming; and, with a little laugh, he passes with his

friend into the corridor.

CLARE. Who are those two?

YOUNG MAN. Don't know--not been much about town yet. I'm just back

from India myself. You said your brother was there; what's his

regiment?

CLARE. [Shaking her head] You're not going to find out my name. I

haven't got one--nothing.

She leans her bare elbows on the table, and her face on her

hands.

CLARE. First of June! This day last year I broke covert--I've been

running ever since.

YOUNG MAN. I don't understand a bit. You--must have had a--a--some

one----

But there is such a change in her face, such rigidity of her

whole body, that he stops and averts his eyes. When he looks

again she is drinking. She puts the glass down, and gives a

little laugh.

YOUNG MAN. [With a sort of awe] Anyway it must have been like

riding at a pretty stiff fence, for you to come here to-night.

CLARE. Yes. What's the other side?

The YOUNG MAN puts out his hand and touches her arm. It is

meant for sympathy, but she takes it for attraction.

CLARE. [Shaking her head] Not yet please! I'm enjoying this. May

I have a cigarette?

[He takes out his case, and gives her one]

CLARE. [Letting the smoke slowly forth] Yes, I'm enjoying it. Had

a pretty poor time lately; not enough to eat, sometimes.

YOUNG MAN. Not really! How damnable! I say--do have something more

substantial.

CLARE gives a sudden gasp, as if going off into hysterical

laughter, but she stifles it, and shakes her head.

YOUNG MAN. A peach?

[ARNAUD brings peaches to the table]

CLARE. [Smiling] Thank you.

[He fills their glasses and retreats]

CLARE. [Raising her glass] Eat and drink, for tomorrow we--Listen!

From the supper-party comes the sound of an abortive chorus:

"With a hey ho, chivy, hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!"

Jarring out into a discordant whoop, it sinks.

CLARE. "This day a stag must die." Jolly old song!

YOUNG MAN. Rowdy lot! [Suddenly] I say--I admire your pluck.

CLARE. [Shaking her head] Haven't kept my end up. Lots of women do!

You see: I'm too fine, and not fine enough! My best friend said

that. Too fine, and not fine enough. [She laughs] I couldn't be a

saint and martyr, and I wouldn't be a soulless doll. Neither one

thing nor the other--that's the tragedy.

YOUNG MAN. You must have had awful luck!

CLARE. I did try. [Fiercely] But what's the good--when there's

nothing before you?--Do I look ill?

YOUNG MAN. No; simply awfully pretty.

CLARE. [With a laugh] A man once said to me: "As you haven't money,

you should never have been pretty!" But, you see, it is some good.

If I hadn't been, I couldn't have risked coming here, could I? Don't

you think it was rather sporting of me to buy these [She touches the

gardenias] with the last shilling over from my cab fare?

YOUNG MAN. Did you really? D---d sporting!

CLARE. It's no use doing things by halves, is it? I'm--in for it--

wish me luck! [She drinks, and puts her glass down with a smile] In

for it--deep! [She flings up her hands above her smiling face] Down,

down, till they're just above water, and then--down, down, down, and

--all over! Are you sorry now you came and spoke to me?

YOUNG MAN. By Jove, no! It may be caddish, but I'm not.

CLARE. Thank God for beauty! I hope I shall die pretty! Do you

think I shall do well?

YOUNG MAN. I say--don't talk like that!

CLARE. I want to know. Do you?

YOUNG MAN. Well, then--yes, I do.

CLARE. That's splendid. Those poor women in the streets would give

their eyes, wouldn't they?--that have to go up and down, up and down!

Do you think I--shall----

The YOUNG MAN, half-rising, puts his hand on her arm.

YOUNG MAN. I think you're getting much too excited. You look all--

Won't you eat your peach? [She shakes her head] Do! Have something

else, then--some grapes, or something?

CLARE. No, thanks.

[She has become quite calm again]

YOUNG MAN. Well, then, what d'you think? It's awfully hot in here,

isn't it? Wouldn't it be jollier drivin'? Shall we--shall we make a

move?

CLARE. Yes.

The YOUNG MAN turns to look for the waiter, but ARNAUD is not in

the room. He gets up.

YOUNG MAN. [Feverishly] D---n that waiter! Wait half a minute, if

you don't mind, while I pay the bill.

As he goes out into the corridor, the two gentlemen re-appear.

CLARE is sitting motionless, looking straight before her.

DARK ONE. A fiver you don't get her to!

BLOND ONE. Done!

He advances to her table with his inimitable insolence, and

taking the cigar from his mouth, bends his stare on her, and

says: "Charmed to see you lookin' so well! Will you have supper

with me here to-morrow night?" Startled out of her reverie,

CLARE looks up. She sees those eyes, she sees beyond him the

eyes of his companion-sly, malevolent, amused-watching; and she

just sits gazing, without a word. At that regard, so clear, the

BLOND ONE does not wince. But rather suddenly he says: "That's

arranged then. Half-past eleven. So good of you. Good-night!"

He replaces his cigar and strolls back to his companion, and in

a low voice says: "Pay up!" Then at a languid "Hullo, Charles!"

they turn to greet the two in their nook behind the screen.

CLARE has not moved, nor changed the direction of her gaze.

Suddenly she thrusts her hand into the, pocket of the cloak that

hangs behind her, and brings out the little blue bottle which,

six months ago, she took from MALISE. She pulls out the cork

and pours the whole contents into her champagne. She lifts the

glass, holds it before her--smiling, as if to call a toast, then

puts it to her lips and drinks. Still smiling, she sets the

empty glass down, and lays the gardenia flowers against her

face. Slowly she droops back in her chair, the drowsy smile

still on her lips; the gardenias drop into her lap; her arms

relax, her head falls forward on her breast. And the voices

behind the screen talk on, and the sounds of joy from the

supper-party wax and wane.

The waiter, ARNAUD, returning from the corridor, passes to his

service-table with a tall, beribboned basket of fruit. Putting

it down, he goes towards the table behind the screen, and sees.

He runs up to CLARE.

ARNAUD. Madame! Madame! [He listens for her breathing; then

suddenly catching sight of the little bottle, smells at it] Bon Dieu!

[At that queer sound they come from behind the screen--all four,

and look. The dark night bird says: "Hallo; fainted!" ARNAUD

holds out the bottle.]

LANGUID LORD. [Taking it, and smelling] Good God! [The woman bends

over CLARE, and lifts her hands; ARNAUD rushes to his service-table,

and speaks into his tube]

ARNAUD. The boss. Quick! [Looking up he sees the YOUNG MAN,

returning] 'Monsieur, elle a fui! Elle est morte'!

LANGUID LORD. [To the YOUNG MAN standing there aghast] What's this?

Friend of yours?

YOUNG MAN. My God! She was a lady. That's all I know about her.

LANGUID LORD. A lady!

[The blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out

of the supper-party's distant laughter comes suddenly a long,

shrill: "Gone away!" And the sound of the horn playing the seven

last notes of the old song: "This day a stag must die!" From the

last note of all the sound flies up to an octave higher, sweet

and thin, like a spirit passing, till it is drowned once more in

laughter. The YOUNG MAN has covered his eyes with his hands;

ARNAUD is crossing himself fervently; the LANGUID LORD stands

gazing, with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his

fingers; and the woman, bending over CLARE, kisses her forehead.]

CURTAIN.

THE PIGEON

A Fantasy in Three Acts

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

CHRISTOPHER WELLWYN, an artist

ANN, his daughter

GUINEVERE MEGAN, a flower-seller

RORY MEGAN, her husband

FERRAND, an alien

TIMSON, once a cabman

EDWARD BERTLEY, a Canon

ALFRED CALWAY, a Professor

SIR THOMAS HOXTON, a Justice of the Peace

Also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons

The action passes in Wellwyn's Studio, and the street outside.

ACT I. Christmas Eve.

ACT II. New Year's Day.

ACT III. The First of April.

ACT I

It is the night of Christmas Eve, the SCENE is a Studio, flush

with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow.

There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed,

above a floor of bare dark boards. A fire is cheerfully

burning. On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas.

There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm.

chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window. A

door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall

to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the

centre of the wall between. On a low table a Russian samovar is

hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses,

lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. Through a huge uncurtained

window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be

seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars.

The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door,

and ANN WELLWYN enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a

ribbon and covered by a scarf. Leaving the door open, she turns

up the electric light and goes to the fire. She throws of her

scarf and long red cloak. She is dressed in a high evening

frock of some soft white material. Her movements are quick and

substantial. Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and

sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped

forehead. Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands.

In the doorway appear the figures of two men. The first is

rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft

eyes, and a crumply face. Under his squash hat his hair is

rather plentiful and rather grey. He wears an old brown ulster

and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette. He

is ANN'S father, WELLWYN, the artist. His companion is a

well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with

a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby

clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy. He is

the Vicar of the parish--CANON BERTLEY.

BERTLEY. My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of

difficulty. When you have two men like Professor Calway and Sir

Thomas Hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've

seen to-night, I confess, I----

WELLWYN. Come in, Vicar, and have some grog.

BERTLEY. Not to-night, thanks! Christmas tomorrow! Great

temptation, though, this room! Goodnight, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann!

ANN. [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] Good-night,

Canon Bertley.

[He goes out, and WELLWYN, shutting the door after him,

approaches the fire.]

ANN. [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and

making tea.] Daddy!

WELLWYN. My dear?

ANN. You say you liked Professor Calway's lecture. Is it going to

do you any good, that's the question?

WELLWYN. I--I hope so, Ann.

ANN. I took you on purpose. Your charity's getting simply awful.

Those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money.

WELLWYN. Um! Um! I quite understand your feeling.

ANN. They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse--didn't know what

you'd said to them. Why don't you make it a rule never to give your

card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of

course.

WELLWYN. My dear, I have--often.

ANN. Then why don't you keep it? It's a frightful habit. You are

naughty, Daddy. One of these days you'll get yourself into most

fearful complications.

WELLWYN. My dear, when they--when they look at you?

ANN. You know the house wants all sorts of things. Why do you speak

to them at all?

WELLWYN. I don't--they speak to me.

[He takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an

arm-chair.]

ANN. They see you coming. Anybody can see you coming, Daddy.

That's why you ought to be so careful. I shall make you wear a hard

hat. Those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient.

WELLWYN. [Gazing at his hat.] Calway wears one.

ANN. As if anyone would beg of Professor Calway.

WELLWYN. Well-perhaps not. You know, Ann, I admire that fellow.

Wonderful power of-of-theory! How a man can be so absolutely tidy in

his mind! It's most exciting.

ANN. Has any one begged of you to-day?

WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] No--no.

ANN. [After a long, severe look.] Will you have rum in your tea?

WELLWYN. [Crestfallen.] Yes, my dear--a good deal.

ANN. [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] Well, who

was it?

WELLWYN. He didn't beg of me. [Losing himself in recollection.]

Interesting old creature, Ann--real type. Old cabman.

ANN. Where?

WELLWYN. Just on the Embankment.

ANN. Of course! Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always

rotters.

WELLWYN. Yes, my dear; but this wasn't.

ANN. Did you give him your card?

WELLWYN. I--I--don't

ANN. Did you, Daddy?

WELLWYN. I'm rather afraid I may have!

ANN. May have! It's simply immoral.

WELLWYN. Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann. Besides, I

didn't give him any money--hadn't got any.

ANN. Look here, Daddy! Did you ever ask anybody for anything? You

know you never did, you'd starve first. So would anybody decent.

Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters?

WELLWYN. But, my dear, we're not all the same. They wouldn't do it

if it wasn't natural to them. One likes to be friendly. What's the

use of being alive if one isn't?

ANN. Daddy, you're hopeless.

WELLWYN. But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so jolly

complicated. According to Calway, we're to give the State all we can

spare, to make the undeserving deserving. He's a Professor; he ought

to know. But old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to

support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the

undeserving. Well, that's just the opposite. And he's a J.P.

Tremendous experience. And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of

both. Well, what the devil----? My trouble is, whichever I'm with,

he always converts me. [Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of

them.

ANN. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're

the despair of all social reformers? [She envelops him.] There's a

tear in the left knee of your trousers. You're not to wear them

again.

WELLWYN. Am I likely to?

ANN. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair.

D'you know what I live in terror of?

[WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]

ANN. That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the

street. Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his

trousers--they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one

enormous hole?

WELLWYN. No!

ANN. Spiritually.

WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! H'm!

ANN. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his

lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on

your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you

really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist!

WELLWYN. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn't sentiment.

It's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly. If I'm to give up

feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it

doesn't matter who they are--then I don't know what I'm to do.

I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.

ANN. I think you ought to.

WELLWYN. I suppose they see I like them--then they tell me things.

After that, of course you can't help doing what you can.

ANN. Well, if you will love them up!

WELLWYN. My dear, I don't want to. It isn't them especially--why, I

feel it even with old Calway sometimes. It's only Providence that he

doesn't want anything of me--except to make me like himself--confound

him!

ANN. [Moving towards the door into the house--impressively.] What

you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you.

WELLWYN. Well, thank God!

ANN. It's so old-fashioned too! I'm going to bed--I just leave you

to your conscience.

WELLWYN. Oh!

ANN. [Opening the door-severely.] Good-night--[with a certain

weakening] you old--Daddy!

[She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.]

[WELLWYN stands perfectly still. He first gazes up at the

skylight, then down at the floor. Slowly he begins to shake his

head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.]

WELLWYN. Bad lot. . . . Low type--no backbone, no stability!

[There comes a fluttering knock on the outer door. As the sound

slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though

he knew, but would not admit its significance. Then he sits

down, covering his ears. The knocking does not cease. WELLWYN

drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle

towards the door. The knocking becomes louder.]

WELLWYN. Ah dear! Tt! Tt! Tt!

[After a look in the direction of ANN's disappearance, he opens

the street door a very little way. By the light of the lamp

there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a

shawl to which the snow is clinging. She has on her arm a

basket covered with a bit of sacking.]

WELLWYN. I can't, you know; it's impossible.

[The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.]

WELLWYN. [Wincing.] Let's see--I don't know you--do I?

[The girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent

of reproach: "Mrs. Megan--you give me this---" She holds out a

dirty visiting card.]

WELLWYN. [Recoiling from the card.] Oh! Did I? Ah! When?

MRS. MEGAN. You 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring. You give

me 'arf a crown.

[A smile tries to visit her face.]

WELLWYN. [Looking stealthily round.] Ah! Well, come in--just for a

minute--it's very cold--and tell us what it is.

[She comes in stolidly, a Sphinx-like figure, with her pretty

tragic little face.]

WELLWYN. I don't remember you. [Looking closer.] Yes, I do. Only--

you weren't the same-were you?

MRS. MEGAN. [Dully.] I seen trouble since.

WELLWYN. Trouble! Have some tea?

[He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes

quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum

into it.]

WELLWYN. [Handing her the tea.] Keeps the cold out! Drink it off!

[MRS. MEGAN drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost

immediately seems to get a size larger. WELLWYN watches her

with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his

face.]

WELLWYN. Cure for all evils, um?

MRS. MEGAN. It warms you. [She smiles.]

WELLWYN. [Smiling back, and catching himself out.] Well! You know,

I oughtn't.

MRS. MEGAN. [Conscious of the disruption of his personality, and

withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] I wouldn't 'a come, but you told

me if I wanted an 'and----

WELLWYN. [Gradually losing himself in his own nature.] Let me

see--corner of Flight Street, wasn't it?

MRS. MEGAN. [With faint eagerness.] Yes, sir, an' I told you about

me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day.

WELLWYN. Beautiful! Beautiful! Birds singing, and the trees, &c.!

We had quite a talk. You had a baby with you.

MRS. MEGAN. Yes. I got married since then.

WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! Yes! [Cheerfully.] And how's the baby?

MRS. MEGAN. [Turning to stone.] I lost her.

WELLWYN. Oh! poor--- Um!

MRS. MEGAN. [Impassive.] You said something abaht makin' a picture

of me. [With faint eagerness.] So I thought I might come, in case

you'd forgotten.

WELLWYN. [Looking at, her intently.] Things going badly?

MRS. MEGAN. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] I keep 'em

covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. Thruppence--that's all I've

took.

WELLWYN. Ho! Tt! Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too!

MRS. MEGAN. They're dead.

WELLWYN. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good husband?

MRS. MEGAN. He plays cards.

WELLWYN. Oh, Lord! And what are you doing out--with a cold like

that? [He taps his chest.]

MRS. MEGAN. We was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is

mates. Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'.

WELLWYN. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] But who

buys flowers at this time of night?

[MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and faintly smiles.]

WELLWYN. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us! Here! Come to the

fire!

[She follows him to the fire. He shuts the street door.]

WELLWYN. Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit down here, and

take them off. That's right.

[She sits on the stool. And after a slow look up at him, which

has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years,

begins taking off her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN goes to the

door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of

stealthy casualness. He returns whistling, but not out loud.

The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her

bare toes to the flames. She shuffles them back under her

skirt.]

WELLWYN. How old are you, my child?

MRS. MEGAN. Nineteen, come Candlemas.

WELLWYN. And what's your name?

MRS. MEGAN. Guinevere.

WELLWYN. What? Welsh?

MRS. MEGAN. Yes--from Battersea.

WELLWYN. And your husband?

MRS. MEGAN. No. Irish, 'e is. Notting Dale, 'e comes from.

WELLWYN. Roman Catholic?

MRS. MEGAN. Yes. My 'usband's an atheist as well.

WELLWYN. I see. [Abstractedly.] How jolly! And how old is he--this

young man of yours?

MRS. MEGAN. 'E'll be twenty soon.

WELLWYN. Babes in the wood! Does he treat you badly?

MRS. MEGAN. No.

WELLWYN. Nor drink?

MRS. MEGAN. No. He's not a bad one. Only he gets playin'

cards then 'e'll fly the kite.

WELLWYN. I see. And when he's not flying it, what does he do?

MRS. MEGAN. [Touching her basket.] Same as me. Other jobs tires 'im.

WELLWYN. That's very nice! [He checks himself.] Well, what am I to

do with you?

MRS. MEGAN. Of course, I could get me night's lodging if I like to

do--the same as some of them.

WELLWYN. No! no! Never, my child! Never!

MRS. MEGAN. It's easy that way.

WELLWYN. Heavens! But your husband! Um?

MRS. MEGAN. [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after one I know of.

WELLWYN. Tt! What a pickle!

MRS. MEGAN. I'll 'ave to walk about the streets.

WELLWYN. [To himself.] Now how can I?

[MRS. MEGAN looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already

discovered that he is peculiar.]

WELLWYN. You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you anything--because

--well, for one thing I haven't got it. There are other reasons, but

that's the--real one. But, now, there's a little room where my

models dress. I wonder if you could sleep there. Come, and see.

[The Girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth. She

takes up her wet stockings.]

MRS. MEGAN. Shall I put them on again?

WELLWYN. No, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers. [Seeing the

steam rising from her.] Why, you're wet all over. Here, wait a

little!

[He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy

listening, steps through. The Girl, like a cat, steals back to

the warmth of the fire. WELLWYN returns with a candle, a

canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.]

WELLWYN. Now then! [He precedes her towards the door of the model's

room.] Hsssh! [He opens the door and holds up the candle to show

her the room.] Will it do? There's a couch. You'll find some

washing things. Make yourself quite at home. See!

[The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and

her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN hands her the candle,

blankets, and bath gown.]

WELLWYN. Have a good sleep, child! Forget that you're alive!

[He closes the door, mournfully.] Done it again! [He goes to the

table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it

in.] Chow-chow! [Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite

door.] Well--damn it, what could I have done? Not a farthing on me!

[He goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to

confirm himself in his hospitality.] Night like this!

[A sputter of snow is blown in his face. A voice says:

"Monsieur, pardon!" WELLWYN recoils spasmodically. A figure

moves from the lamp-post to the doorway. He is seen to be young

and to have ragged clothes. He speaks again: "You do not

remember me, Monsieur? My name is Ferrand--it was in Paris, in

the Champs-Elysees--by the fountain . . . . When you came to

the door, Monsieur--I am not made of iron . . . . Tenez,

here is your card I have never lost it." He holds out to WELLWYN

an old and dirty wing card. As inch by inch he has advanced

into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall

gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of

beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large,

grey, rather prominent eyes. There is a certain grace in his

figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.]

WELLWYN. [Yielding to a pleasant memory.] Ah! yes. By the

fountain. I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and

drank the water.

FERRAND. [With faint eagerness.] My breakfast. I was in poverty--

veree bad off. You gave me ten francs. I thought I had a little the

right [WELLWYN makes a movement of disconcertion] seeing you said

that if I came to England----

WELLWYN. Um! And so you've come?

FERRAND. It was time that I consolidated my fortunes, Monsieur.

WELLWYN. And you--have----

[He stops embarrassed.]

FERRAND. [Shrugging his ragged shoulders.] One is not yet Rothschild.

WELLWYN. [Sympathetically.] No. [Yielding to memory.] We talked

philosophy.

FERRAND. I have not yet changed my opinion. We other vagabonds, we

are exploited by the bourgeois. This is always my idea, Monsieur.

WELLWYN. Yes--not quite the general view, perhaps! Well----

[Heartily.] Come in! Very glad to see you again.

FERRAND. [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, Monsieur--your

goodness--I am a little weak. [He opens his coat, and shows a belt

drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.] I tighten him one hole for

each meal, during two days now. That gives you courage.

WELLWYN. [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have

some of this. It'll buck you up. [He watches the young man drink.]

FERRAND. [Becoming a size larger.] Sometimes I think that I will

never succeed to dominate my life, Monsieur--though I have no vices,

except that I guard always the aspiration to achieve success. But I

will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing

every day. I must find with what to fly a little.

WELLWYN. [Delicately.] Yes; yes--I remember, you found it difficult

to stay long in any particular--yes.

FERRAND. [Proudly.] In one little corner? No--Monsieur--never!

That is not in my character. I must see life.

WELLWYN. Quite, quite! Have some cake?

[He cuts cake.]

FERRAND. In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have

it. But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content.

[Refusing the cake.] 'Grand merci', but for the moment I have no

stomach--I have lost my stomach now for two days. If I could smoke,

Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of smoking.]

WELLWYN. Rather! [Handing his tobacco pouch.] Roll yourself one.