_Archibald Vining's house in the Polygon the following afternoon. The
room is large and lofty with the air of serene mellowness common to old
houses. The door is r., behind the large mantelpiece. Behind is a French
window, beyond which the-garden is seen. The room is panelled; its
incidental trappings suggest occupants hardly able to live up to their
surroundings; the furniture is faded; the carpet worn. Walter sits on
a chair to the r. of the window against the wall. Down l. is his father
Augustus Montgomery at an escritoire. On a large settee placed crosswise
l. sit Mrs. Montgomery and Mrs. Vining. Archibald Vining is posed with
an elbow on the mantelpiece, looking across at Montgomery. The ladies
gaze at him with admiration. Montgomery Senior is sixty, rather bald,
weak-faced, futile, dressed in light grey morning coat and trousers.
Vining is ruddy, irascible, with white moustache and grey hair, in black
morning coat and grey trousers. The women are both rather foolish. Mrs.
Montgomery is stout and Mrs. Vining lean, but there is otherwise not
much to choose between them in age, which is about fifty, or anything
else. Their dress is conventional without being fashionable or
expensive. They live next door and Mrs. Montgomery has come in without
a hat. The light is of a sunny afternoon and there is no fire. Marjorie
Vining, a tall athletic girl, sits by the window c., with a tennis
racket, looking, increasingly bored._
[Illustration: 0093]
Vining (_dictating_). "Your rumoured intention to sell the Polygon"--got
that, Montgomery?
Montgomery. Yes. (_Looking up timidly._) Excuse me, Vining, I can't help
saying it again, but are you quite sure we form a quorum?
Vin. (_assertively_). Of course we do, my dear fellow. Don't distress
yourself.
Mont, (_desperately_). But--but there are five houses in the Polygon and
only two are represented here.
Vin. We know the views of the rest.
Mrs. Vin. Their views are ours.
Vin. Quite so. Allow for unavoidable absentees, and your scruples
vanish. Shall I proceed?
(_Approval from settee. Montgomery bends and writes._)
"Dear Sir,--At an indignation meeting of your tenants in the
Polygon----"
(_Montgomery writes at intervals, when others talk._)
Mrs. V. Archibald, have we any right to be indignant with Sir Charles?
Vin. We _are_ indignant, aren't we?
Mrs. V. Yes. But will Sir Charles quite like us to tell him so?
Mont, (_pathetically_). It's deucedly--beg pardon--it's hard to be
diplomatic. How would "protest meeting" do?
Vin. Too political. Let "indignation" stand. We must show him he's
roused the sleeping lion.
Mont, (_acquiescent_). I'll underline it if you like.
Vin. No! No! Firmness, my dear Monty, firmness, not ostentation.
Mrs. M. (_gushingly to Mrs. Vining_). What a man of affairs Mr. Vining
is!
Vin. (_filling his chest_). I flatter myself I put things through, Mrs.
Montgomery. Now, Monty!
Mont. (_reading_). "At the indignation meeting--um--held on the--um--it
was resolved to respectfully address----"
Mrs. V. Oh!
Vin. (_reprovingly_). Well, Cecilia?
Mont, (_puzzled_). That's in order, I think.
Vin. Quite. Go on.
Mrs. V. But, Archibald, to address a split infinitive to a baronet!
Vin. I stand corrected. Thanks, Cecilia.
Mont. I don't quite see----------
Vin. (_moving him to write_). It was resolved respectfully to
address----
Mont, (_correcting and reading_). To address a letter to you on the
subject of your rumoured intention to sell the Polygon.
Vin. Correct, I think? (_Approval from the settee._)
Mont. (_proceeding_). It is our hope that should this information
be correct, bracket, which we hesitate to believe, bracket, you will
reconsider your decision to give over to the hands of the jerry builder
the only residences in Carrington habitable by persons of refinement.
Vin. Excellent. (_Approval from settee. Vining crosses l. to above
Montgomery and takes letter; patronisingly._) You write a clerkly hand,
Monty. (_Picks up pen._) I'll sign as the oldest resident present.
(_Montgomery swallows a protest, remaining seated, Vining signs, bending
over._)
What a pity Sir Charles is abroad. We shall be kept waiting for his
reply.
Mont. You got his address from Dunkerly?
Vin. (_putting envelope before him_). Yes. _Hotel Métropole_, Monte
Carlo.
(_Montgomery writes and encloses letter. Vining goes to French window
and opens it._)
I'll have this posted at once. (_Calls._) Pilling!
(_He returns. Montgomery crosses r. and sits above fireplace._)
Mont. Ah, well! That's settled..
Vin. (_sitting at desk_). Yes.
Mar. (_rises_). Jolly glad to hear it. I'm fed up. Come out and play
tennis, Walter. (_Puts chair down c._)
Walter. Not this afternoon, Marjorie.
Mar. Oh, be a sport.
Walter. Some other time.
Mar. It's always some other time with you, now. I'm forgetting what you
look like in flannels. You'll lose all your form if you don't practice a
bit.
Walter. I'm afraid I must let it go. (_Rises and crosses l._)
Mar. It's pure slacking. Don't be so beastly serious, if you are in
Orders. Come and be a muscular Christian on the lawn.
Walter. Something more serious to-day, Marjorie. Mar. Oh, rot! What's
the good of having the courts if you don't use 'em?
Mont. They certainly might be used more by you young people.
Walter. They might be used by hundreds of people if----
Mar. Oh, blow, you're getting on your hobby horse again. I'm going to
practice putting if you won't give me a game. You are a rotter.
(_Exit Marjorie c. to l. Pilling appears c. from l. in his
shirt-sleeves._)
Vin. (_closes desk and crosses up l.c._). Oh, Pilling, just post this
letter at once. Are your hands clean?
Pilling (_inspecting his very black hands_). Not very, sir.
Vin. Go and wash them and come back for it.
Pilling. Yes, sir.
(_Pilling vanishes to r. Vining crosses to fire._)
Mrs. M. I can't understand Sir Charles wanting to sell at all.
Mrs. V. No. What would Carrington be without the Polygon?
Walter (_quietly_). I'm not sure that it wouldn't be a good deal better
off, Mrs. Vining.
(_They all stare at him astonished._)
Vin. What an extraordinary thing to say. Why, we _are_ Carrington.
Mrs. V. We've always lived in the Polygon. We've taken root,
Carrington's gone on its way----
Vin. A precious bad way, too.
Mont. Other times, other manners, Vining.
Vin. Carrington has no manners--but the Polygon has stood aloof. Thank
God we leisured people have no connection with the town roughs.
Walter. Then how can you say you _are_ Carrington?
Vin. We are the best people in Carrington, sir. Do you judge a place by
its quality or by the counting of heads?
Walter. I wish I could make you see their point of view, Mr. Vining.
Vin. (_snorting_). Their point of view.
Walter (_quietly_). They have one, you know. Before that letter goes to
Sir Charles, I'd like to try----
Mrs. M. Walter, remember what the Polygon means to all of us.
Walter. It's a survival, mother. It's out of date in the midst of a
modern manufacturing town.
Mont, (_pathetically_). But--but, Walter, it means so tremendously much
to us all. It may be out of date, but I did hope it was going to last
our time.
Vin. It's _got_ to last our time. (_Sincerely._) I'm not a deeply
religious man, but I get reverent when I think of the Polygon.
Mrs. M. That's just it. We all love the Polygon.
Mrs. V. The five houses.
Mont. Chatsworth.
Mrs. V. Apsley House.
Mrs. M. Marlborough Lodge.
Vin. Kenilworth and Abbotsford.
Mont. And our gardens.
Vin. And the tennis ground in the middle.
Walter. Which nobody uses except Marjorie.
Mrs. V. Are we to lose it _all?_
Vin. (_with appropriate chest expansion_). Not if Archibald Vining can
prevent it.
Walter. You make it very hard for me to go on.
Vin. Then don't go on.
Walter. (_crosses c._). I must. Father, Mr. Vining, you--all of you--are
wrapped up in the Polygon. You hardly go out of it except to the
station. |
Mont. There's nothing else in Carrington to go to.
Vin. Thank goodness we've no business to take us into those mean
streets.
Walter. You haven't, Mr. Vining, but I have. I see the other side of the
picture, if you don't.
Vin. Well, my dear boy, every town has its back stairs.
Walter (_sits c._). Carrington's all back stairs, and cramped stairs
they are. There's no breathing space. What right have we to monopolize
the air? We've room to move about--so much room that you need never go
out of the Polygon.
Mont. We pay for the privilege, don't we?
Walter. Yes, you pay for it in money and they pay for the lack of it in
health.
Mont. If there's overcrowding it's a matter for the town authorities to
deal with.
Walter. They want to deal with it. They want the Polygon.
Vin. They can't have it. They must know it 'ud be cutting off their nose
to spite their face. The Polygon's essential to Carrington.
Walter. Why?
Vin. It _is_ Carrington. I tell you this, young man, Carrington's
last state would be worse than its first if you took us away. We--we
circulate money. We give the place a tone.
Walter. It's a tone the place could do without. It could do without
your money. We are not Carrington. The factories are the essential
Carrington. Mr. Vining, (_rising and taking a step to r. c._) let me
show you what it's like--whole families living--no, not living--pigging
in a single room. Rooms cut up amongst two or three families. All in
Carrington, our neighbours in Christian Carrington.
Vin. Thanks. I'm not the sort of man to put my head into a noose. I
prefer to keep out of infection.
Walter (_appealingly_). Don't send that letter to Sir Charles. Don't try
to influence his decision. The workpeople can't move out of the town.
They must live near their work. You can move. Dividends can reach you
anywhere just as easily.
Mrs. V. Move of ourselves! Never!
Mrs. M. Walter, you don't understand what you're asking us to do. You're
young. You can change easily, because you're young and restless. But
when you've lived in a house that's dear to you till it's become part of
your life, you can't leave it in your old age.
(_Walter crosses above settee._)
Mont. I can't leave my garden. You know that. No other garden would mean
the same to me.
Vin. My dear friends, you needn't worry. Carrington would never let
us go. Walter's got hold of the wrong end of the stick. We're an
institution.
Walter. How do you know? Did you ever ask them what they think of us?
Vin. I'll ask Pilling. You'll see. (_Crosses up c._)
Walter. I shouldn't advise you to. I know Pilling's home. He's a wife
and child. They all live in one room.
Vin. Why, I pay the man twenty-two shillings a week. What does he live
like that for?
Walter. He's no choice. Pilling 'ull tell you what Carrington thinks of
the Polygon.
Vin. He's a long time washing his hands. (_Goes up to window and looks
off r._)
Walter. But you're not going to send that letter now.
Vin. Certainly we are. (_Returns r.c._)
Walter. But----
Mont. I think we're all agreed on that?
Vin. Quite. No stone unturned. That fellow who's coming, what's his
name--you know, Walter--that alderman----
Walter. Verity?
Vin. Verity. That's it. We must make sure of the town authorities. A
little affability goes a long way with people of that sort.
Mrs. V. Yes. He's not the type of man you're accustomed to meet in my
drawing-room, Mrs. Montgomery, still----
Mont. It's in a good cause, Mrs. Vining.
Mrs. M. He's an architect, isn't he?
Walter. He's a builder who's his own architect. That's why his houses
fall to pieces.
Mrs. M. That's what I say. An architect. Almost a professional man.
Walter. But you mustn't pin your faith on Verity. He's, the last man----
Vin. Walter, as a Churchman, I am always willing to accept your views on
religious matters. But when it comes to worldly questions, permit me to
have an opinion of my own.
(_Pilling appears and knocks on the window without advancing into the
room._)
Oh, Pilling!
Pilling (_in c.o._). Yes, sir?
Vin. Come in.
(_Pilling advances a foot and stands awkwardly near the window._)
Pilling. Letter ready, sir?
Vin. (_absently_). Yes, yes. (_Montgomery rises gets letter from
mantel; hands it to Vining._) There you are.
(_Up to Pilling, who turns to go._)
One moment, Pilling, I want to ask you something. Can you tell me how
people in the town talk of the Polygon?
Pilling. How they talk, sir?
Vin. Yes. What's the general opinion of us? Pilling. It's not for the
likes of me to talk against the gentry.
Walter. They _do_ talk against us, then?
Pilling (_awkwardly_). Well, sir----- (_He pauses._)
Walter (_helping him out_). Tell them how you live, Pilling.
Pilling. You can tell that as well as me.
Vin. (_impatiently_). Yes, yes, but that's not the point. Doesn't your
class feel what a privilege it is to have us living in your midst?
Pilling (_earnestly_). _I'd_ be badly off without you, sir.
Vin. You'd be sorry to lose us, eh?
Walter. Of course _he_ would. A gardener's no use if there's nothing to
garden. Only Carrington's not a garden city. It's a manufacturing town.
Mont. (_with back to fire, to Pilling_). Supposing now you weren't a
gardener?
Vin. Yes. What's the common view of us?
Pilling. Well, sir, it 'ud seem to me against nature if the town had no
quality in it.
Vin. (_turning triumphantly to Walter_). You see? (_Patronising
Pilling._) You're perfectly right, Pilling. I've noticed it before.
(_Talking at the ladies._) The masses always have this instinctive
clinging to their superiors. They know we're the source of all
prosperity.
Pilling (_shyly_). There's queer talk, sometimes, sir. _I_ know
gentlemen are different from us, but there's men in this town wanting to
tell me we're all born equal--asking your pardon, sir.
Mrs. V. You know better than that, Pilling.
Pilling. Yes, mum.
Vin. You could never get on without us.
Pilling. No, sir.
Walter. Be honest, man. No one's going to hurt you for it. Tell us the
truth, about the overcrowding and the waste of valuable space in the
Polygon.
Mrs. V. Yes. Tell us the truth, Pilling, and say you know how necessary
we are.
Pilling. You're bread and butter to me, mum, and I know it.
Vin. There you are, Walter.
Walter (_impatiently_). But he's an exception. He's
Vin. (_interrupting_). You've got the letter, Pilling.
Pilling. Yes, sir. (_Turning, then courageously._) There's no denying as
the overcrowding's something cruel. I wouldn't say a word of it, not to
you, sir, if I didn't know and see and suffer it.
(_Montgomery sits again below fire._)
Vin. That'll do, Pilling.
Pilling. Yes, sir. (_Turns to go._)
Walter (_to Vining, crossing above sofa c._). You heard that. Won't you
wait? Wait till Verity's been. You'll catch the same post.
Vin. (_pause_). Give me the letter, Pilling, I'll keep it back a little.
Pilling. Yes, sir..
(_Exit Pilling, c._)
Walter. Thank you, Mr. Vining.
(_Maid announces Mr. Verity. Maid withdraws Stephen is dressed as Act
II, and very sure of himself, except at odd moments._)
Vin. (_patronisingly_). Ah, Mr. Verity. Pleased to see you.
(_Advancing._)
Ste. (_up R. c., shaking hands; very formally_). How do you do?
Vin. You know us all, I think?
Ste. (_dryly_). By sight.
Vin. (_hurriedly_). Yes. Sit down, won't you? (_Sits above fire._)
(_Stephen does so, uncomfortably, c. Walter stands R. end of settee._)
Now come to business, Mr. Verity.
Ste. Yes?
Vin. What we want to see you about is this confounded rumour of the
Polygon's being up for sale for building lots. No doubt you've heard it?
Ste. I've heard tell of it.
Vin. Have you thought about it at all?
Ste. I've thought a lot.
Mont. Well, what do you think, Mr. Verity? Could anything be more
absurd?
Ste. (_nodding his head towards Walter_). Ask him. He knows what I
think.
Walter. Mr. Verity's of my opinion, father. Vin. We don't want
your opinion, sir. You're full up with all sorts of idiotic modern
sentimentalism about the poor. It all comes of the Church meddling with
secular matters instead of minding its own business. Mr. Verity's a man
of sense.
Ste. Thank you; but I don't know that I can do anything.
Mrs. M. (_sweetly_). Oh, but I'm sure you can, Mr. Verity. You've such
influence in the town. You're a man of weight.
Ste. If I am, madam, what had the town to do with Sir Charles selling
the Polygon?
Mont. How can the town get on without the Polygon?
Mrs. M. I'm sure you, as an architect, Mr. Verity, must feel the
importance of preserving such fine examples as these are of old Georgian
mansions.
Mrs. V. So many links with the historic past.
Vin. (_impatiently_). It 'ud be a blue ruin for the town.
Mont. Sheer catastrophe. You're a leading personage here, Mr.
Verity--alderman and so on. Of course you have the interest of the town
at heart.
Ste. (_with faint irony_). As much as you have yourselves, I dare say.
Vin. (_recovering first from the slight general embarrassment_). Er,
yes. Now, don't you think a petition from the Town Council to Sir
Charles might do the trick? You see, the Polygon's the backbone of the
place. I can't for the life of me imagine what Sir Charles is thinking
of.
Ste. The price.
Mrs. V. Now, that's ungenerous of you, Mr. Verity. Sir Charles would
never be so selfish.
Ste. (_stolidly_). Think not?
Mrs. V. He wouldn't turn us out for money. (_Vining and Montgomery are
not so sure._)
Ste. It's hard times for the rich.
Mont. (_timidly_). Yes, I suppose it is.
Ste. (_with aggression_). It is. I know. I'm rich.
Vin. (_pompously_). I agree with you. We people of independent means
have been hard hit lately. What with the differential income tax and the
super tax, we----
Ste. We all think we'd like to pay the super tax, don't we?
Vin. Er--yes--we can rely on your sending that petition then?
Ste. Can you?
Mont. I thought you said so.
Ste. I don't remember.
Vin. Dash it, Verity, we men of property must hang together. In a little
matter of this sort I'm sure you'll come in with us.
Ste. Yes? Well, I'm sorry to disoblige you.
Mrs. M. But surely as an architect----
Ste. (_interrupting_). Now it's no use of you talking. I've said my say.
Mont. But you must have some reason. This is really most extraordinary.
Ste. Is it? What's extraordinary in a man getting back a bit of his own?
Vin. Have we offended you, Mr. Verity? I'm very sorry. You speak as if
you had some grudge against us.
Ste. Grudge? I hate the sight of you if that's your meaning.
Mont, (_rising_). This is simply staggering. Why, Mr. Verity, we've
always been good neighbours, I hope.
Ste. (_still sitting_). You've kept yourselves to yourselves, if that's
what you call being good neighbours. Who've you been good neighbours to?
The shopkeepers? You don't deal with them if you can help it. London's
your mark when you've money to spend, and that's not every day of the
week. How often have you got your hand down for a local charity? Folks
get sick and tired of coming to ask. You buttoned up your pockets so
tight.
Vin. Other people, at least, don't share your views, sir.
Ste. Ask 'em. (_Rising._) You silly little set of genteel paupers, who
did you think you were? (_Ladies rise._) We weren't good enough for you.
You lived in the Polygon; we lived in the town, and you held your noses
too high to see us if you met us, which wasn't often, because you stuck
inside your private preserve and didn't have truck with us vulgar folk
outside. We weren't your class. You patronising snobs, do you fancy
I can't see through your getting me here and soaping me to send your
petition from the town for you? The town can go to blazes for all you
care, so long as you're left alone in your nice big gardens.
Vin. (_rises and goes up to door R._) Mr. Verity, I'm sorry to have to
remind you there are ladies present.
Ste. I can see 'em. That's why I'm letting you down so easy. I'd let it
rip if you'd the courage to turn 'em out and meet me man to man.
Mrs. M. (_moving towards door_). We'll go.
Mont, (_r., timidly_). I'd rather you didn't, my dear.
Ste. Yes. He'd rather you stayed, and kept a stopper on my tongue.
(_Vining opens door and signs to ladies to go._)
Walter (_coming to r. of Verity_). No, mother. Mr. Verity, don't let us
lose our tempers about this. It's too important for petty feelings.
Vin. (_indignantly_). Petty feelings, indeed!
(_The ladies stand by door, irresolute._)
Walter (_appealingly_). Oh, don't split hairs over words. The town's
crying for fresh air and health. The town wants to buy the Polygon.
Mont. The town does?
Walter. Yes, didn't you know?
Vin. (_looking at Stephen_). So it's the town?
Walter (_as Stephen doesn't answer_). Yes.
Mrs. M. (_up by door, r., dropping to Montgomery by fire_). Augustus,
don't you think, after all, we ought perhaps to---- (_Hesitating._)
Vin. (_l. c. fiercely_). To what, Mrs. Montgomery?
Mrs. M. Well, I'm sure there's something in what Mr. Verity and Walter
say. (_Sits in armchair above fire._)
Mont. Come, this is weakness, my dear.
Vin. No compromise, Mrs. Montgomery.
Mrs. M. I shall never feel at ease again when I think of the
overcrowding in the town.
Vin. Then don't think of it.
Mrs. M. I can't help thinking of it now.
Mont, (_to Walter_). Oh, dear, I do wish you'd kept your mouth closed.
Walter. And my eyes closed, and my nose closed, and gone about
Carrington without looking at it. No, father, I meant to stir your
conscience, and I'm glad I've done it. (_Sits._)
Vin. Well, I must admit--hang it, Verity, if people are crowded why
don't you build 'em houses? It's your trade.
Ste. No land.
(_About here Pilling appears c. with some garden stuff in his hand, and
Mrs. Vining exit with him for some consultation._)
Vin. There's land enough outside. Why can't the town expand outwards? To
hear you talk about the Polygon the town might have a wall round it.
Mont. Yes, there's lots of moorland about the place.
Ste. Quite so. Lots of moor.
Mont. Well, then!
Ste. Shooting moor. Sir Charles' shooting moor.
Vin. Well, what difference do a few acres more or less make to a
shooting moor? Surely he'd rather sell you some of that.
Ste. Think so?
Mont. I'm certain of it.
Ste. (_sitting on settee_). You're wrong, then. He's holding on for
a rise. He's held on to this till the value went up. Land here in the
centre's' worth more, than land outside. This is ripe. The other isn't.
That's why he'll sell this.
Vin. (_r. c._). Well, if that's really so----
Ste. (_grimly_). It's really so.
Vin. (_with-an air of finality_). All I can say is I shall most
certainly have to revise my opinion of Sir Charles. (_Crosses down L._)
(_Pilling is visible through the window working a mowing machine in the
garden; he passes and repasses at intervals._)
Ste. Did you think your tin pot rents paid Sir Charles to let land like
this lie idle?
Mont. He likes to have us here. We're desirable tenants.
Ste. Pardon me. As a property owner I know. Desirable tenants are paying
tenants.
Vin. Do you insinuate that we don't pay?
Ste. You don't pay a profitable price. He can make a little gold, mine
of the Polygon. Land values in the town have been going up all the time.
He's cute enough to know it, or his agent is. The only question is, will
our price tempt him or is he able to be greedy and wait a bit longer
till the land's worth more.
Mont. And you mean to tell me we've been living on the edge of a volcano
all these years?
Ste. You've been living in Sir Charles' almshouses for decayed
gentlefolk. That's our name for it in the town.
Vin. Sir!
Ste. (_calmly_). It's the truth. What did it matter to him how little
he got out of you meantime? He knew very well it's a fortune waiting for
him whenever he wants it.
Mont. I'd no idea of this. (_Sits below fire._)
Ste. You know now. If you hadn't been so busy with thinking what nice
people you were and what nasty brutes lived outside you'd have found it
out for yourselves. Not one of you's on lease. You can all be turned out
at six months' notice.
Vin. We trusted to Sir Charles' sense of honour.
Ste. I wouldn't trust him with sixpence, and I'm a sound Tory at that.
Vin. I still think you're wrong, sir. You've given us your view. We're
much obliged. (_Sits l._)
Ste. (_sneering_). You'd be more obliged if I'd given you your petition.
Vin. Your view was unexpected.
Ste. Was it? (_Turning to Walter._) I thought he'd told you.
Vin. Unexpectedly strong.
Ste. You've not heard the half of it. You've been the bane of the town.
It's a working town and it does the working man no good to have the
sight of a lot of idle people living well and doing nothing for it.
Breeds discontent. Makes him ask questions. That's what you've been to
us. A public nuisance. Easy game for every agitator to have his shy at.
Do you think we employers loved you? They didn't mind us. They could see
we worked for our living. But you set of do-nothing wastrels----
Walter (_c._). Mr. Verity! (_Vining rises and goes up to back, returns,
then round to R. c._)
Ste. What's to do? You've been saying the same to them yourself, haven't
you?
Walter. I did my best to gild the pill.
Ste. Well, I'm not a parson. I haven't the gift of using big words for
little 'uns and talking sweetly about Hell.
Vin. (_dropping r. of Walter to below him_). Well, now look here, Mr.
Verity, you needn't suppose that I'm influenced in the slightest by your
extremely forcible language, but a possible compromise occurs to me.
Ste. Does it? I thought I heard you say just now "no compromise."
Vin. (_r. c._). This is a compromise of my own suggesting, sir.
Ste. I'm not the compromising sort. Still, go ahead. What's your idea?
Vin. It's this, sir. I grant you we're drones, and I can see there's
something in what you say about the sight of a few idle people taking a
lot of room, though I take exception to the way you put it.
Ste. (_drily_). Aye.
Vin. (_r. c._). Now we've an affection for these houses of ours.
Ste. Of Sir Charles'.
Vin. Yes, of Sir Charles'. We're attached to the bricks and mortar. You
can understand it.
Ste. I never thought you'd shift willing.
Vin. Just so. We're not willing to shift. But my idea is this. We're all
old people, and our families have married off. There's no young blood
in the Polygon, except Walter here and my daughter, to use those tennis
courts and croquet lawns of ours. They're pleasant to walk about in and
it's a real sacrifice to part with them. But I propose writing to Sir
Charles suggesting that if (_crossing to l. c. and back; returns to l.
for end of speech_) he cares to sell you some building land outside the
town we will sacrifice our lawns for a park if he will leave our bricks
and mortar standing till--till we old fogies have done with them. How
does that strike you, Mr. Verity?
Ste. It strikes me your motto will do for me as Well as for you.
Vin. My motto?
Ste. No compromise, Mr. Vining.
Walter. Mr. Verity, surely it's a fair offer. It's generous. It's----
Ste. Indeed! If that's your notion of generosity----
Vin. It's my last word.
Ste. (_rises_). Then I need stay no longer. (_Moves towards door._)
Walter (_rises_). Oh, but----
(_Maid announces, "Miss Verity." Enter Lucy. Exit Maid._)
Ste. You! What are you doing here?
Lucy (_crosses up r. c._). I came to see Walter.
Ste. But--I locked you up.
Lucy. As you see, I've escaped.
Walter. Locked you up!
Lucy. Oh, yes. Father does things like that.
Ste. Come home, girl.
Lucy. Not yet. I'm a rebel to-day. You locked me up because I refused to
marry Mr. Bamford----
Walter. What!
Lucy. And I've escaped to tell the truth about you and----
Ste. Hold your tongue.
Lucy. No. I'm going to tell Walter all I know.
Ste. (_sneering_). He's welcome to all _you_ know.
Lucy. He's welcome to all I know and all I am.
Mrs. M. Walter, what does this mean? (_Rises._)
Vin. I have never heard a more immodest speech.
Walter. Miss Verity and I are engaged.
Ste. You're not. You agreed last night that you weren't.
Lucy. That was before you had thrown me at Bamford's head. I'm engaged
to Walter, and I've things to tell him, things I've discovered about----
Ste. Be quiet, will you.
Lucy. No. This is no time for concealment. We've got beyond all that.
Ste. You've nothing to conceal.
Lucy. Then why do you try to stop my mouth?
Ste. I don't. I'm here on business. I've no time for girls' foolishness.
Vining, can we go somewhere to draft that letter? (_Crosses down to
Vining._)
Vin. Letter? What letter?
Ste. The compromise.
Vin. I thought you said---- (_Crossing slowly._)
Ste. Never mind what I said. Shall we go? Lucy. Yes, go, while I tell
Walter all I know. Ste. Tell him what you like now.
(_Exit Stephen with Vining._)
CURTAIN.