SCENE I.--_Terrace in front of quaint old country house._ VIOLA
TRAVERS _and_ MURIEL VANE _on garden-chairs._ VIOLA _is twenty,
dark-eyed, and animated; she holds a scarlet parasol._ MURIEL _is
eighteen; she has very fair hair, parted with puritanical precision;
the naïve innocence of her manner is not without a suggestion of
artistic premeditation._
_Muriel_ (_embroidering_). It is a marvel to me, VIOLA, that you can
ever have a discontented moment in a house so Elizabethan as this.
_Viola._ It _is_ lovely, MURIEL; a background for mystery and romance.
And I have no romance. I have everything else; but I have not a
romance.
_Muriel._ You have ALBERT.
_Viola._ You know that ALBERT is not a romance.
_Muriel._ Once----
_Viola._ Ah, when everyone opposed our marriage. I married him for
love, and because he was poor and "unsuitable." How could I know
that his uncle would die and leave him money and a country house?
Everything has turned out so well! It is rather hard to have made "a
good match," as they say, without intending it. Of course, I never
reproach him.
_Muriel._ No; you have been very nice about it.
_Viola._ ALBERT is perfectly happy, playing at being a country
gentleman. He was so amazed to find there were real ducks and fowls in
the country--and buttercups! He tells me everything. He boasts we
tell each other everything. Oh! I should _so_ like to have some little
thing to conceal from him--some secret, just for fun! Of course I
should tell him all about it afterwards, you know.
[Illustration: "Enter Alan Roy."]
_Muriel._ I am sure you would, dear. You have dropped your
handkerchief. (MURIEL _picks up handkerchief, book, and paper-knife,
and gives them to_ VIOLA.)
_Viola._ Dear MURIEL, it is so nice to have you here. You are so calm,
and soothing, and decorative, and you never take anyone away from
anyone else!
_Muriel._ I think I _have_ been rather unfortunate lately, VIOLA. No
one seems to like me but middle-aged married men--often, too, with
whiskers!
_Viola._ You mean poor Mr. AVERIDGE? He has been married so long that
he has forgotten all about it. To-night CLAUDE MIGNON is coming to
stay with us. He is the most accomplished idiot in London. He sings,
plays, paints, plays games, flirts--I think his flirting, though, has
rather gone off. It is getting mechanical. By the way, have you an
ideal, MURIEL? I wonder what is your ideal?
_Muriel_ (_promptly and cheerfully_). A man past his first youth, who
has suffered; with iron-grey hair and weary eyes, who knows everything
about life and could guide me, and would do exactly what I told him.
_Viola._ And _mine_ is a young man of genius, just beginning
life, with the world before him, who would look up to me as an
inspiration--a guiding star!
_Muriel._ You have dropped your handkerchief again, VIOLA. Who is this
coming out?
_Viola._ It is only Dr. ROBERTS. He has been to see JANE, the
housemaid. She has been rather ill.
_Muriel._ I suppose she had a housemaid's knee.
_Viola._ You are quite wrong. She had writer's cramp, poor thing!
_Muriel._ How absurd, VIOLA! How are you, Dr. ROBERTS!
[Dr. ROBERTS _has iron-grey hair and dark eyes. As he joins
them_ MURIEL _leans down to pat a dog with all the graceful
self-consciousness of youth._ Dr. ROBERTS _looks at_ VIOLA
_admiringly_.
_Viola._ I hope poor JANE is better?
_Dr. Roberts._ Oh yes; she is quite out of the wood now, Mrs. TRAVERS.
In fact, I don't think I need see her anymore. (MURIEL _looks up._)
Perhaps though, I had better just look in--say--on Thursday?
_Viola._ Do; and stay and have some tennis.
[Dr. ROBERTS _accepts with evident enthusiasm, and takes leave
with obvious regret_.
_Muriel_ (_watching him drive away_). Dr. ROBERTS admires you
dreadfully. Is that a romance?
_Viola._ For him perhaps--not for me! And it isn't a mystery!
[_A telegram is brought in._
_Viola._ Oh, how delightful! ALAN ROY, the wonderful boy harpist, is
coming down! He's coming by the early train! He'll be here directly!
_Muriel._ You never told me you had asked him! I suppose you forgot
it--or remembered it. Doesn't he profess to be even younger than he
is? I mean, when he was four, didn't he say he was three? I wonder if
he'll come down in a sailor-suit.
_Viola._ He's quite nineteen. Here are those tiresome AVERIDGES again!
I thought I got rid of them for a long drive. (_Aloud._) Ah! Here is
dear Mr. AVERIDGE!
_Mr. Averidge_ (_ponderously, to_ MURIEL). And how is Miss VANE
to-day? Looking as she always does, like a rose in June.
_Muriel_ (_coldly_). Yes, Mr. AVERIDGE?
_Viola_ (_to_ Mrs. AVERIDGE _and_ ALBERT, _who are coming up the steps
of the terrace_). ALAN ROY is coming down, _the_ ALAN ROY. He will be
here directly.
_Albert._ All right, though I don't approve of child artists. Poor
little chap!
_Viola._ He is very nearly quite grown up, ALBERT! He has golden hair
and any amount of _usage du monde_.
_Muriel._ ALBERT will call it _cheek_--I daresay!
_Mrs. Averidge._ He is most amusing. I met him at Lady BAYSWATER'S. He
looks quite an angel playing the harp.
_Albert._ I hope he'll bring his halo in a hat-box. What is that text
about "Young lions do lack----"
_Muriel._ Oh, ALBERT!
_Servant._ Master ALAN ROY!
_Albert_ (_aside_). Now, don't make the poor child shy.
_Enter_ ALAN ROY. _Tall young man, in light grey suit. He
wears a turned-down collar, a pink button-hole, and carries a
little stick._
_Alan._ How _are_ you, Mrs. TRAVERS? So sweet of you to ask me! Isn't
it a _dear_ day!
[_Greetings._
_Mr. Averidge._ And how did the infant prodigy manage to get here all
alone?
_Alan._ I pushed myself in a perambulator. Miss VANE, you look like a
Botticelli in a Paris dress. I didn't bring my harp, _does_ it matter?
[_Chorus of sham disappointment and real relief._
_Alan_ (_smiling_). It was dreadful of me! But I have been keeping the
poor thing up so late; I thought a rest----
[_Lunch is announced._ MURIEL _stoops to collect_ VIOLA'S
_handkerchief, &c._
_Alan_ (_to_ VIOLA). Oh, what a _sweet_ scarlet parasol!
_Curtain. End of Scene 1._
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
NEITHER FREE NOR EASY.--The Larne Town Commissioners cannot make up
their minds whether they shall acquire the McGarel Town Hall which
apparently (to judge from a report in the _Northern Whig_) appears
to be in the market. The room, it seems, would be used for a free
library. The Committee, after a very lengthy discussion, have
adjourned the consideration of the question to some distant date
for further information. In the meanwhile, no doubt, they will
appropriately adopt for the municipal motto "Live and Larne."
* * * * *