MICHAEL.
Yes.
LADY PATRICIA.
I thought for a moment some one had climbed the tree, as you seemed to be
speaking up into it.
MICHAEL.
I was making fluting sounds so as to encourage the bird to sing.
LADY PATRICIA.
How clever of you, dear! And now it’s singing in the bushes near the pond.
MICHAEL.
Perhaps I frightened it out of the tree.
LADY PATRICIA.
Perhaps you did.... Darling.
MICHAEL.
Yes?
LADY PATRICIA.
Has it ever occurred to you that child may misconstrue your beautiful
friendship for her?
MICHAEL.
(_Startled._) Clare!
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Coldly._) Clare?
MICHAEL.
Er—Miss Lesley?
LADY PATRICIA.
Yes.
MICHAEL.
Oh, Patricia, how can you think such a thing! Our friendship is like
the friendship of two men or two women, the elder tenderly guiding the
younger towards a higher, saner, nobler, larger view of life. (_He
glances apprehensively at the tree._)
LADY PATRICIA.
Exquisite! Ideal! But haven’t you noticed, Michael, that the child no
longer accepts your companionship with the same frank pleasure as before?
I have watched her lately. It seems to me as though she were always
trying to avoid you.
MICHAEL.
(_Roused._) Avoid _me_! Clare!
LADY PATRICIA.
Do you call her by her Christian name?
MICHAEL.
Only in moments of excitement. Avoid me! Impossible!
LADY PATRICIA.
No, dear, not impossible. And when a girl pointedly avoids a man, it too
often means—pursue me.
MICHAEL.
(_Distinctly relieved._) Ah!... Ah! yes. But I think you must be mistaken.
LADY PATRICIA.
Indeed, I hope so. But you must be careful. You are so attractive,
Michael.
MICHAEL.
Oh, nonsense, darling!... Strangely enough, a week or two ago I was on
the point of warning you in just the same way.
LADY PATRICIA.
Warning me?
MICHAEL.
I used to watch that boy’s eyes when he looked at you. They were the eyes
of a loving spaniel.
LADY PATRICIA.
Cousin Bill’s?
MICHAEL.
Yes; and I felt sorry for him. But I think his infatuation was only
temporary.
LADY PATRICIA.
(_Sharply._) Temporary? What do you mean?
MICHAEL.
He no longer sits at your feet and follows you about as much as he used
to.
LADY PATRICIA.
You are quite wrong. His cousinly affection is the same now as it ever
was. He was never in any way infatuated.
MICHAEL.
How could he help it, dearest? You are so wonderful!
LADY PATRICIA.
Am I? I wonder! (_A pause._) I think we really ought to join the others
now, dearest.
MICHAEL.
(_With a glance into the tree._) Very well.
(_LADY PATRICIA, who has moved towards the ladder on the
left, turns and notices MICHAEL’S upward gaze._)
LADY PATRICIA.
What is it, dear?
MICHAEL.
I—I was looking for a star.
LADY PATRICIA.
Which star?
MICHAEL.
Arcturus.
LADY PATRICIA.
But Arcturus is low in the west.
MICHAEL.
How stupid of me!
(_They go out. The stage is empty for a moment. The
nightingale sings on. Then BALDWIN enters—hurriedly for
him—up the central ladder. He goes—softly for him—to the
summer-house, after carefully looking over the edge of
the platform to see that the coast is quite clear. He
listens, nods his head, and grins. Then he taps gently
on the door and listens again. Receiving no reply, he
taps once more and listens. Finally he speaks in a husky
whisper._)
BALDWIN.
It’s all right, sir. It’s all right, miss. They’ve gorne. (_The
summer-house remains silent._) They’ve gorne.... It’s all right, sir.
(_Taps at the door._) They’ve gorne. (_Taps again after a pause._)
They’ve gorne....
(_The door suddenly flies open._)
BILL.
(_In the doorway._) What the devil d’you want, Baldwin?
BALDWIN.
Beg pardon, sir?
BILL.
What do you want?
BALDWIN.
They’ve gorne, sir.
BILL.
I can’t help that, can I?
BALDWIN.
No, sir.
BILL.
Well, then?
BALDWIN.
You see, sir, it’s like this. I thought as ’ow——
CLARE.
(_Invisible in the dark interior of the summer-house._) Oh, Baldwin, for
the love of heaven, hook it!
BALDWIN.
’Ook it?
CLARE.
Yes; run away, like a dear.
BALDWIN.
Very good, miss.
(_BALDWIN goes out by the central ladder._)
BILL.
(_Speaking into the summer-house._) Darling.
CLARE.
(_In the summer-house._) You’ve pulled all my hair down——
BILL.
Oh, I——
CLARE.
I’ve lost at least six hair-pins. You needn’t have been so rough.
BILL.
I’m awfully sorry, darling—but—— (_He is about to re-enter the
summer-house._)
CLARE.
No, stay where you are....
(_She emerges from the summer-house, and moves past him
to the front of the platform. Her hair is all loose and
dishevelled. She starts shaking it out._)
BILL.
Darling——
CLARE.
Don’t touch me....
BILL.
Clare!...
CLARE.
Please find those hair-pins, and the two side-combs. They’re all real
tortoise-shell.
BILL.
But I say——
CLARE.
Find those hair-pins, or, at any rate, the side-combs.
BILL.
Oh, all right....
(_He goes into the summer-house, strikes a match, and
searches about the floor for the missing hair-pins. CLARE
stands plaiting her hair into a “pigtail,” and looking
straight before her with very grave eyes._)
BILL.
(_Half to himself while searching._) Here are a couple.... By Jove! one
of ’em’s got rammed tight behind the seat.... Another—that’s three....
Four!... I’ve found one of the side-combs.... I say, they are jolly
pretty!... Where the deuce has t’other one got to?... Oh, Lord, I’m
awfully sorry! It’s smashed. I put my clumsy hoof on it.... (_He joins
her at the front of the platform._)
CLARE.
It’s all right....
BILL.
But—— (_Looks at her with puzzled eyes._) I say, darling, is anything the
matter with you? (_Puts his arm around her._) A moment ago——
CLARE.
(_Freeing herself._) You must never call me that again.
BILL.
Call you what?
CLARE.
“Darling.”
BILL.
But——
CLARE.
Or put your arm round me....
BILL.
But——
CLARE.
(_Passionately._) Oh, Bill, I was mad—I lost my head—I forgot.... It was
so—so thrilling in there.... I should never have let you—I should never
have let you....
BILL.
But I—I only kissed you.
CLARE.
You—you——
BILL.
And told you that I loved you.
CLARE.
Yes....
BILL.
And you said you loved me....
CLARE.
I didn’t!
BILL.
You kissed me.
CLARE.
That’s not the same thing.
BILL.
Then you don’t love me?
CLARE.
I never said so.
BILL.
Do you love me, Clare?
CLARE.
I should never have kissed you if I didn’t.
BILL.
Clare! (_Tries to take her in his arms._)
CLARE.
(_Decidedly._) No....
BILL.
No?...
CLARE.
I am not free.
BILL.
Not ... free.... Then you’re—you’re—engaged?
CLARE.
No.
BILL.
No?... But——
CLARE.
I am not free.
BILL.
But you’re _not_ engaged?
CLARE.
No.
BILL.
Clare! You don’t mean—you can’t mean that you are married?...
CLARE.
Married?
BILL.
Yes—married!
CLARE.
Don’t be silly.
BILL.
That’s no answer. Are you married?
CLARE.
Of course I’m not.
BILL.
You’re neither engaged nor married—but you’re not free to marry me. What
does it all mean?
CLARE.
You must be content with that.
BILL.
Must I? Then you don’t know me. I’ll give you no rest—I’ll persecute you
night and day till I get at the truth.
CLARE.
(_After a pause._) You may be right, Bill; perhaps I do owe you an
explanation since I allowed you to kiss me....
BILL.
And kissed me....
CLARE.
(_Tragically._) I belong to another man....
BILL.
But you said just now——
CLARE.
Whom I can never marry....
BILL.
What!
CLARE.
Because he is already married.
BILL.
(_Horrified._) Clare! you—you——
CLARE.
(_Loftily._) Our bond is purely of the spirit.
BILL.
Eh?
CLARE.
(_Unconsciously imitating MICHAEL’S manner._) He is a noble and
high-souled gentleman. His life is one long self-sacrifice for the woman
whom he married. She loves him, and for her sake he fought against his
love for me. But that love mastered him: he confessed it. I told him it
was returned, though I know now it was the pity and friendship I felt
for him which I mistook for love. We promised to be true to each other.
I cannot—I dare not break my promise. My love is all he has to make life
bearable....
(_BILL is about to speak when LADY PATRICIA’S voice,
singing in the distance, brings him up with a jerk. He
listens a moment. When he speaks his tone is one of
dismay._)
BILL.
Great—Scott!
CLARE.
(_Coldly._) I beg your pardon?
BILL.
I say, Clare, d’you know I’ve made an ass of myself in just the same way
as you!
CLARE.
An ass?... Will you kindly explain yourself.
BILL.
I had no right to tell you I loved you, because I am bound to another
woman.
CLARE.
Not—not to a married woman?
BILL.
A married woman....
CLARE.
Oh, how dreadful!
BILL.
Our bond is purely of the spirit.
CLARE.
Oh?... What is she like?
BILL.
Noble and high-souled like your——
CLARE.
Is she pretty?
BILL.
Oh, yes, she——
CLARE.
Did you love her?
BILL.
Till I met you five weeks ago I believe I did. Then I—— Anyhow, I’m
afraid I’ll have to stick to her. If I threw her over now I don’t know
what the poor woman would do.
CLARE.
You have a pretty high notion of your attractions.
BILL.
And you of yours.
CLARE.
You appear to forget that I am a woman.
(_You hear LADY PATRICIA’S voice just beneath talking to
MICHAEL. BILL exclaims with a scared look_:)
She’s coming here!...
CLARE.
Well?... (_With dawning comprehension. She seizes his arm._) Bill—you
don’t mean to say that she——
(_MICHAEL is heard replying to LADY PATRICIA. CLARE
whispers with startled eyes_:)
That’s he!
BILL.
(_Staring at her._) That’s Michael.... Good God! Clare, it’s not—it’s not
Michael that you——
CLARE.
Hush!... They’re going past....
BILL.
(_In a fierce undertone._) The blackguard!
CLARE.
What do you mean?
BILL.
If I hadn’t been a blind fool, I would have seen through this precious
friendship for you long ago. It never dawned on me that the fellow was
such a scoundrel. And a precious hypocrite, too, by Jove! Playing up
so as to make that poor, trusting woman believe him madly in love with
her....
CLARE.
That poor, trusting woman? Are you, by any chance, speaking of Patricia?
BILL.
Of course I am. Hanging about her neck while all the time he’s making
love to an innocent girl! It’s perfectly disgusting!
CLARE.
And what has your noble, high-souled Patricia been doing, I should like
to know? Shamming infatuation for poor Michael to hide her shameful
flirtation with a callow boy.
BILL.
It was not a shameful flirtation—and I’m no more a callow boy than you
are.
CLARE.
What amazes me is that you should ever have allowed yourself to be fooled
by a shallow, deceitful _poseuse_ like Patricia.
BILL.
She hasn’t fooled me. She’s deeply and truly in love with me.
CLARE.
Contradiction isn’t argument: it’s merely rude.
BILL.
If it had been any one else but Michael there might have been some excuse
for you. But Michael! How could you? A dull, priggish ass——
CLARE.
He’s not a dull, priggish ass!
BILL.
Contradiction isn’t argument: it’s merely rude.
CLARE.
How dare you speak to me like that!
BILL.
(_Sulkily._) I beg your pardon.
(_He moves away from her, and they both stand staring in
opposite directions._)
CLARE.
(_After a pause._) I don’t think there’s anything more to be said.
BILL.
Neither do I.
(_A pause._)
CLARE.
Nothing.
BILL.
Nothing.
(_A pause._)
CLARE.
Things must remain as they are.
BILL.
Yes, I suppose they must.
(_A pause._)
CLARE.
Of course, any one who was at all unprejudiced would see at once the—the
higher morality of my decision.
BILL.
The what?
CLARE.
The higher morality. Michael has often told me that our pure love and the
fact that he does his duty as best he can to his wife are the only things
that keep him from suicide....
BILL.
(_Under his breath._) Bosh!
CLARE.
I beg your pardon?
BILL.
Nothing.... It’s awfully funny to think of Michael spooning away with you
and Patricia and boring you both to death without knowing it.
CLARE.
I don’t see that it’s any funnier than Patricia doing the same with you
and Michael.
BILL.
Well, anyhow, I shall have to stick to Patricia—not because of “higher
morality”—whatever that means—but because I know she would pine away if I
left her now.
CLARE.
Tchah!
(_They stand miserably silent, looking in opposite
directions. The nightingale starts singing, and sings
through the next scene. The voices of the DEAN and MRS.
O’FARREL come up from beneath._)
MRS. O’FARREL.
Well, I find it chilly, Dean—distinctly chilly.
DEAN.
For Whitsuntide, dear lady—surely not. True, Whitsuntide is very late
this year....
(_MRS. O’FARREL enters, followed by the DEAN, up the
central ladder._)
MRS. O’FARREL.
Why, here’s the child! All alone, my dear? Whatever have you been doing
to your hair?
CLARE.
It’s such a hot night I had to take it down.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Hot?
DEAN.
But, my dear child, you can’t possibly go home like that!
CLARE.
I’ll put it up when I get back to the house.
MRS. O’FARREL.
(_Perceiving BILL._) Is that my son?
BILL.
(_Gloomily._) Hullo, mater....
DEAN.
Enchanting night, my boy!
BILL.
(_As before._) Awfully jolly....
MRS. O’FARREL.
And where are the others?
CLARE.
I don’t know.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Sentimentalising in the moonlight....
CLARE.
I suppose so.
(_MRS. O’FARREL regards both the young people critically
through her lorgnette._)
DEAN.
(_Breezily._) And what have you two been up to?
BILL.
Mootching around.
CLARE.
Playing about.
DEAN.
Your mother and I thought we’d like a little stroll before going home.
BILL.
Good idea....
(_The DEAN fixes his monocle, and, slightly puzzled,
scrutinises them each in turn._)
MRS. O’FARREL.
What’s the matter with you both?
BILL AND CLARE.
The matter?...
MRS. O’FARREL.
Have you been quarrelling?
BILL AND CLARE.
Quarrelling?...
MRS. O’FARREL.
You’re as sulky as two bears.
BILL AND CLARE.
I?
MRS. O’FARREL.
As two bears. Aren’t they, Dean?
DEAN.
Sulky? No, no; surely not sulky! Chastened! Thoughtful! A little
overcome, perhaps, by the beauty of the night—as all sensitive young
souls should be.
MRS. O’FARREL.
H’m!... Sensitive young souls!...
(_LADY PATRICIA, followed by MICHAEL, enters on the left._)
LADY PATRICIA.
All of you? But how charming! How delightful!
DEAN.
Dear Lady Patricia!
(_MICHAEL moves towards CLARE, who evades his ardent
gaze._)
MRS. O’FARREL.
What have you been doing with yourselves?
LADY PATRICIA.
Looking at the guelder-roses in the moonlight, and wondering whether they
were guelder-roses at all or great pearls.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Personally I should say they were guelder-roses.
LADY PATRICIA.
Ah, but dear Aunt Eileen, how can you tell what pranks the fairies may
not play on such a night as this?
DEAN.
What an exquisite fancy!
BILL.
(_Who has been looking jealously at CLARE and MICHAEL. He speaks
defiantly with eyes on CLARE._) I say, Cousin Patricia....
LADY PATRICIA.
Yes, Cousin Bill?
(_CLARE looks at them._)
BILL.
If it wouldn’t bother you too much, I wonder if you’d care to take me to
have a look at those thingumybob roses. It would be simply corking!
LADY PATRICIA.
I shall be charmed, Cousin Bill. We’ll settle the question of
guelder-rose or pearl together.
(_They move towards the ladder on the left._)
CLARE.
(_In a low voice to BILL as he passes her._) Worm! (_In a defiant
voice to MICHAEL._) Mr. Cosway, you’ve never shown me the—the
what’s-its-name....
MICHAEL.
The spiral nebula in Andromeda? It’s scarcely favourable for a view of
the nebula to-night. Shall we look at the mountains of the moon?
CLARE.
Thanks awfully.
(_She and MICHAEL move to the central ladder._)
LADY PATRICIA.
(_To BILL as they descend on the left._) Do you believe in fairies,
Cousin Bill?
MICHAEL.
(_To CLARE as they descend the central ladder._)
I have often wondered how the night would look if we had nine moons like
Jupiter.
(_A pause. The DEAN looks disapprovingly after the
disappearing BILL, MRS. O’FARREL through her lorgnette
after CLARE._)
MRS. O’FARREL.
H’m....
DEAN.
I beg your pardon?... You were saying?...
MRS. O’FARREL.
I didn’t say anything. I was thinking.
DEAN.
Ah, thinking—yes, thinking.... So was I.... By the way, Eileen,
your—er—cherished project for marrying Clare to your son doesn’t appear
to be materialising quite—er—satisfactorily.
MRS. O’FARREL.
No, it doesn’t.
DEAN.
Not quite as smoothly as we—as you hoped.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Give me a whisky-and-soda.
DEAN.
A whisky——
MRS. O’FARREL.
And soda.
(_The DEAN pours out a drop of whisky._)
Go on....
(_The DEAN sets the syphon going._)
Nearly full.... When!... And you had better take something as well—to
fortify yourself against what I am going to say.
DEAN.
Ah.... A little soda-water. (_Helps himself._) So you are going to be
unpleasant, my dear Eileen?
MRS. O’FARREL.
I am. Those two _had_ been quarrelling just now.
DEAN.
That was evident—even to me.
MRS. O’FARREL.
They had been quarrelling bitterly—and I can make a shrewd guess at the
cause.
DEAN.
I also.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Indeed. Well, I think it’s high time to speak plainly.
DEAN.
I quite agree with you.
MRS. O’FARREL.
I’m glad to hear it.... Bill had very evidently been taking your daughter
to task for her amazing indiscretions.
DEAN.
Amazing indiscretions? Clare’s? Will you kindly be more explicit.
MRS. O’FARREL.
I mean to be. Perhaps you remember some weeks ago I warned you that her
intimacy with Michael Cosway ought to be stopped?
DEAN.
Certainly. And I took leave to disagree with you entirely.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Well, you were wrong. You should immediately have put an end to this
intimacy—to use the mildest word for her friendship with Michael.
DEAN.
Mrs. O’Farrel, is it possible you are speaking of my daughter?
MRS. O’FARREL.
And it’s your duty to put an end to it at once. I only hope that you may
not be too late.
DEAN.
This—this—this is beyond anything!... Perhaps you will be so good——
MRS. O’FARREL.
Now then, Dean, pray don’t lose your temper. It’s neither wise
nor becoming, and at our age very bad for the heart. Listen to me
quietly for a moment. I refused for a long time to believe any ill of
this—er—friendship. I knew Michael to be infatuated with his wife, and
Clare to be a healthy-minded girl. But last week Emily Fitzgerald told
me she had seen Michael walking in the Stanton Woods with his arm around
Clare’s shoulder. She added that the affair was becoming quite notorious
in the neighbourhood.... You must act, and act at once.
DEAN.
Is that all? So you condescend to listen to the tittle-tattle of a
notorious old gossip like Emily Fitzgerald? Upon my word I’m ashamed of
you!
MRS. O’FARREL.
Dean! Have you taken leave of your senses?
DEAN.
I might well put that question to you, Mrs. O’Farrel. But I refrain from
vulgar _tu quoque_ repartee. I have no more to say except to warn you
that before looking after the morals of my daughter, you had far better
look after those of your son.
MRS. O’FARREL.
My son?
DEAN.
Precisely—your son.
MRS. O’FARREL.
What do you mean?
DEAN.
I and others—unlike yourself, I will not drag in the names of
outsiders—have for some time past watched your son and Lady Patricia with
grief and dismay.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Patricia!
DEAN.
Just now you believed your son had been impertinently taking Clare to
task for her charming friendship with Michael Cosway. I am convinced
you were mistaken. It was Clare who had been warning your son that his
indiscretions were becoming the talk of the place.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Bill entangled with Patricia! And Clare—_Clare_ preaching propriety! It’s
too laughable! A boy’s innocent homage for a woman at least ten years his
senior! You’re a very foolish old man.
DEAN.
Again I put away from me the _tu quoque_ retort.... Add two and two
together. I don’t for a moment blame _her_. I can’t find it in my heart
to blame her. The dear and beautiful creature is as God made her:
exquisitely sensitive, sentimental and infinitely affectionate.... But I
warn you, Mrs. O’Farrel, I warn you.
MRS. O’FARREL.
I refuse to hear another word. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!...
And the saddest part of the whole affair is my poor boy’s undoubted
affection for your daughter.
DEAN.
Affection for Clare! I don’t believe it!
MRS. O’FARREL.
Are you his mother?
DEAN.
Certainly not!... But I have watched him—with the result that I am
convinced of his infatuation for Lady Patricia.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Fiddle-sticks!
DEAN.
And I may as well tell you, though you will not believe it, that my poor
girl’s affections are centred on your son.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Oh, dam’ foolishness!
DEAN.
This has gone far enough, Mrs. O’Farrel.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Quite far enough. I am going home.
DEAN.
So am I.
(_Followed by the DEAN, MRS. O’FARREL moves towards the
central ladder. Suddenly he stops, hurries on tiptoe
to the back, and looks cautiously over the railing. He
whispers_:)
Eileen!...
MRS. O’FARREL.
What is it?
DEAN.
Hush!... Clare’s coming here with Michael Cosway. I offer you a chance to
substantiate the aspersions you have made against her character.
MRS. O’FARREL.
What do you mean?
DEAN.
We will conceal ourselves in the summer-house and hear what they have to
say to each other.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Really, Dean!
DEAN.
We may disregard the rules of ordinary morality in a situation like this.
I speak professionally. Quick! (_He draws her towards the summer-house._)
MRS. O’FARREL.
Well, upon my word!...
(_They go into the summer-house, and sit with the door
open, but invisible in the gloom of the interior. Voices
are heard beneath. Then CLARE enters on the left, followed
by MICHAEL._)
CLARE.
Father!... (_She looks around her._) Why, they’ve gone!...
MICHAEL.
They must have returned to the house.
CLARE.
We had better go too.
MICHAEL.
Oh, Clare, a moment.... Look at me, dear.... (_He takes her hands._)
CLARE.
Well?
MICHAEL.
Are you unhappy?
CLARE.
Why should I be?
MICHAEL.
You are no longer the wild and buoyant thing you were. You have grown so
pensive and _distrait_. And is it my jealous imagination?—so often lately
you have seemed to avoid me....
CLARE.
I—I’m sorry....
MICHAEL.
There’s trouble in your eyes, my dearest. Clare, do you chafe at the
restrictions fate has put on our love?
CLARE.
Oh, I—I don’t know. I’m all right, Michael—but you—— We’d better go in
now. Father’s waiting for me.
MICHAEL.
Clare.
CLARE.
Yes.
MICHAEL.
Kiss me before you go.
CLARE.
Oh, not now....
MICHAEL.
(_Bending down to her._) Kiss me, dear.
(_She kisses him perfunctorily on the cheek; he sighs;
she turns and descends the ladder on the left; he follows
her._)
How sweet it is!...
CLARE.
Sweet?
MICHAEL.
Your “pigtail,” dear. The sight of it makes me feel a boy again. I should
like to pull it and run away.
(_CLARE laughs and they both descend out of sight. A
pause. The nightingale starts singing. MRS. O’FARREL
emerges from the summer-house. Her step is almost jaunty
with suppressed triumph, and her manner elaborately
off-hand. The DEAN remains invisible in the summer-house._)
MRS. O’FARREL.
Ah, the nightingale! How charmingly it sings to-night!... I do wish we
had some nightingales at Ashurst. I suppose they prefer low-lying ground
like this.... Do they sing in your garden at the Deanery?
(_The DEAN comes out of the summer-house in a very
crestfallen condition._)
DEAN.
Eileen——
MRS. O’FARREL.
(_Cheerfully._) Yes?
DEAN.
This is dreadful—dreadful....
MRS. O’FARREL.
On the contrary, I think it’s most delightful! One can hear every note so
perfectly at this elevation.
DEAN.
Is it generous of you—is it generous of you, Eileen, to flaunt your
terrible triumph like this? I am heart-broken! I am distracted! What on
earth am I to do?
MRS. O’FARREL.
(_Pouring him out a whisky-and-soda._) Drink this!
DEAN.
(_Pettishly._) I don’t care for whisky.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Oh, you needn’t make such a fuss! It’s perfectly obvious from what we saw
just now that no real harm has been done. The way she kissed Michael——
(_She bursts out laughing._)
DEAN.
How can you, Eileen? How can you?
MRS. O’FARREL.
It reminded me of a child taking castor-oil!... But Michael—the
double-faced hypocrisy of the man! I’m really very sorry for Patricia.
DEAN.
I don’t see the necessity for lavishing sympathy on her.
MRS. O’FARREL.
What do you mean? Doesn’t she believe he returns her devotion?
DEAN.
Her devotion doesn’t prevent her philandering with other men, as I told
you just now.
MRS. O’FARREL.
Well, upon my word! I wouldn’t have believed it! In spite of this gross
example of your obtuseness, you still have the—the audacity to stick to
your slander against Bill! Really I—— (_She stops short, listens, then
hurries to the back and looks over the railing. She turns to the DEAN and
speaks in a quiet whisper._) We must hide in the summer-house....
DEAN.
Eh? What?