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THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
* * * * *
_THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO_
WITH INTRODUCTORY NOTES
BY MALCOLM C. SALAMAN
Paper cover, 1s. 6d.; cloth, 2s. 6d. each
_THE TIMES_
_THE PROFLIGATE_
_THE CABINET MINISTER_
_THE HOBBY-HORSE_
_LADY BOUNTIFUL_
_THE MAGISTRATE_
_DANDY DICK_
_SWEET LAVENDER_
_THE SCHOOLMISTRESS_
_THE WEAKER SEX_
_THE AMAZONS_
_THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY_
_THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH_
_THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT_
_THE PRINCESS AND THE BUTTERFLY_
_TRELAWNY OF THE "WELLS"_
_THE PINERO BIRTHDAY BOOK_
Selected and arranged by MYRA HAMILTON
With a Portrait. 16mo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_
* * * * *
THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
A Play In Four Acts
by
ARTHUR W. PINERO
London: William Heinemann
MCM
First Impression, 1895
Second Impression, 1898
Third Impression, 1900
Copyright, 1895
All rights reserved
Entered at Stationers' Hall
Entered at the Library of Congress
Washington, U.S.A.
All applications respecting amateur performances of this play must be
made to Mr. Pinero's agents, Samuel French, Limited, 89 Strand, London,
W.C.
THIS PLAY WAS PRODUCED
AT THE
ST. JAMES'S THEATRE
ON
Saturday, May 27, 1893.
_THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY_
AUBREY TANQUERAY.
PAULA.
ELLEAN.
CAYLEY DRUMMLE.
MRS. CORTELYON.
CAPTAIN HUGH ARDALE.
GORDON JAYNE, M.D.
FRANK MISQUITH, Q.C., M.P.
SIR GEORGE ORREYED, BART.
LADY ORREYED.
MORSE.
_The Present Day._
_The Scene of the First Act is laid at_ MR. TANQUERAY's
_rooms, No. 2x, The Albany, in the month of November; the
occurrences of the succeeding Acts take place at his house,
"Highercoombe," near Willowmere, Surrey, during the early part
of the following year._
THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
THE FIRST ACT
AUBREY TANQUERAY's _Chambers in the Albany--a richly and
tastefully decorated room, elegantly and luxuriously
furnished: on the right a large pair of doors opening into
another room, on the left at the further end of the room a
small door leading to a bedchamber. A circular table is laid
for a dinner for four persons which has now reached the stage
of dessert and coffee. Everything in the apartment suggests
wealth and refinement. The fire is burning brightly._
AUBREY TANQUERAY, MISQUITH, _and_ JAYNE _are seated at the
dinner-table._ AUBREY _is forty-two, handsome, winning in
manner, his speech and bearing retaining some of the qualities
of young-manhood._ MISQUITH _is about forty-seven, genial and
portly._ JAYNE _is a year or two_ MISQUITH's _senior;
soft-speaking and precise--in appearance a type of the
prosperous town physician._ MORSE, AUBREY's _servant, places a
little cabinet of cigars and the spirit-lamp on the table
beside_ AUBREY, _and goes out._
MISQUITH.
Aubrey, it is a pleasant yet dreadful fact to contemplate, but it's
nearly fifteen years since I first dined with you. You lodged in
Piccadilly in those days, over a hat-shop. Jayne, I met you at that
dinner, and Cayley Drummle.
JAYNE.
Yes, yes. What a pity it is that Cayley isn't here to-night.
AUBREY.
Confound the old gossip! His empty chair has been staring us in the
face all through dinner. I ought to have told Morse to take it away.
MISQUITH.
Odd, his sending no excuse.
AUBREY.
I'll walk round to his lodgings later on and ask after him.
MISQUITH.
I'll go with you.
JAYNE.
So will I.
AUBREY.
[_Opening the cigar-cabinet._] Doctor, it's useless to tempt you, I
know. Frank--[MISQUITH _and_ AUBREY _smoke._] I particularly wished
Cayley Drummle to be one of us to-night. You two fellows and Cayley
are my closest, my best friends----
MISQUITH.
My dear Aubrey!
JAYNE.
I rejoice to hear you say so.
AUBREY.
And I wanted to see the three of you round this table. You can't
guess the reason.
MISQUITH.
You desired to give us a most excellent dinner.
JAYNE.
Obviously.
AUBREY.
[_Hesitatingly._] Well--I--[_glancing at the clock_]--Cayley won't
turn up now.
JAYNE.
H'm, hardly.
AUBREY.
Then you two shall hear it. Doctor, Frank, this is the last time we
are to meet in these rooms.
JAYNE.
The last time?
MISQUITH.
You're going to leave the Albany?
AUBREY.
Yes. You've heard me speak of a house I built in the country years
ago, haven't you?
MISQUITH.
In Surrey.
AUBREY.
Well, when my wife died I cleared out of that house and let it. I
think of trying the place again.
MISQUITH.
But you'll go raving mad if ever you find yourself down there alone.
AUBREY.
Ah, but I sha'n't be alone, and that's what I wanted to tell you.
I'm going to be married.
JAYNE.
Going to be married?
MISQUITH.
Married?
AUBREY.
Yes--to-morrow.
JAYNE.
To-morrow?
MISQUITH.
You take my breath away! My dear fellow, I--I--of course, I
congratulate you.
JAYNE.
And--and so do I--heartily.
AUBREY.
Thanks--thanks.
[_There is a moment or two of embarrassment._
MISQUITH.
Er--ah--this is an excellent cigar.
JAYNE.
Ah--um--your coffee is remarkable.
AUBREY.
Look here; I daresay you two old friends think this treatment very
strange, very unkind. So I want you to understand me. You know a
marriage often cools friendships. What's the usual course of things?
A man's engagement is given out, he is congratulated, complimented
upon his choice; the church is filled with troops of friends, and he
goes away happily to a chorus of good wishes. He comes back, sets up
house in town or country, and thinks to resume the old associations,
the old companionships. My dear Frank, my dear good doctor, it's
very seldom that it can be done. Generally, a worm has begun to eat
its way into those hearty, unreserved, pre-nuptial friendships; a
damnable constraint sets in and acts like a wasting disease; and so,
believe me, in nine cases out of ten a man's marriage severs for him
more close ties than it forms.
MISQUITH.
Well, my dear Aubrey, I earnestly hope----
AUBREY.
I know what you're going to say, Frank. I hope so, too. In the
meantime let's face dangers. I've reminded you of the _usual_ course
of things, but my marriage isn't even the conventional sort of
marriage likely to satisfy society. Now, Cayley's a bachelor, but
you two men have wives. By-the-bye, my love to Mrs. Misquith and to
Mrs. Jayne when you get home--don't forget that. Well, your wives
may not--like--the lady I'm going to marry.
JAYNE.
Aubrey, forgive me for suggesting that the lady you are going to
marry may not like our wives--mine at least; I beg your pardon,
Frank.
AUBREY.
Quite so; then I must go the way my wife goes.
MISQUITH.
Come, come, pray don't let us anticipate that either side will be
called upon to make such a sacrifice.
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, let us anticipate it. And let us make up our minds to have
no slow bleeding-to-death of our friendship. We'll end a pleasant
chapter here to-night, and after to-night start afresh. When my wife
and I settle down at Willowmere it's possible that we shall all come
together. But if this isn't to be, for Heaven's sake let us recognise
that it is simply because it can't be, and not wear hypocritical faces
and suffer and be wretched. Doctor, Frank--[_holding out his hands,
one to_ MISQUITH, _the other to_ JAYNE]--good luck to all of us!
MISQUITH.
But--but--do I understand we are to ask nothing? Not even the lady's
name, Aubrey?
AUBREY.
The lady, my dear Frank, belongs to the next chapter, and in that
her name is Mrs. Aubrey Tanqueray.
JAYNE.
[_Raising his coffee-cup._] Then, in an old-fashioned way, I propose
a toast. Aubrey, Frank, I give you "The Next Chapter!"
[_They drink the toast, saying, "The Next Chapter!"_
AUBREY.
Doctor, find a comfortable chair; Frank, you too. As we're going to
turn out by-and-by, let me scribble a couple of notes now while I
think of them.
MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE.
Certainly--yes, yes.
AUBREY.
It might slip my memory when I get back.
[AUBREY _sits at a writing-table at the other end of the
room, and writes._
JAYNE.
[_To_ MISQUITH, _in a whisper._] Frank---- [MISQUITH _quietly leaves
his chair and sits nearer to Jayne._] What is all this? Simply a
morbid crank of Aubrey's with regard to ante-nuptial acquaintances?
MISQUITH.
H'm! Did you notice _one_ expression he used?
JAYNE.
Let me think----
MISQUITH.
"My marriage is not even the conventional sort of marriage likely to
satisfy society."
JAYNE.
Bless me, yes! What does that suggest?
MISQUITH.
That he has a particular rather than a general reason for
anticipating estrangement from his friends, I'm afraid.
JAYNE.
A horrible _mésalliance_! A dairymaid who has given him a glass of
milk during a day's hunting, or a little anæmic shopgirl! Frank, I'm
utterly wretched!
MISQUITH.
My dear Jayne, speaking in absolute confidence, I have never been
more profoundly depressed in my life.
MORSE _enters._
MORSE.
[_Announcing_] Mr. Drummle.
[CAYLEY DRUMMLE _enters briskly. He is a neat little man of
about five-and-forty, in manner bright, airy, debonair,
but with an undercurrent of seriousness._
[MORSE _retires._
DRUMMLE.
I'm in disgrace; nobody realises that more thoroughly than I do.
Where's my host?
AUBREY.
[_Who has risen._] Cayley.
DRUMMLE.
[_Shaking hands with him._] Don't speak to me till I have tendered
my explanation. A harsh word from anybody would unman me.
[MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE _shake hands with_ DRUMMLE.
AUBREY.
Have you dined?
DRUMMLE.
No--unless you call a bit of fish, a cutlet, and a pancake dining.
AUBREY.
Cayley, this is disgraceful.
JAYNE.
Fish, a cutlet, and a pancake will require a great deal of
explanation.
MISQUITH.
Especially the pancake. My dear friend, your case looks miserably
weak.
DRUMMLE.
Hear me! hear me!
JAYNE.
Now then!
MISQUITH.
Come!
AUBREY.
Well!
DRUMMLE.
It so happens that to-night I was exceptionally early in dressing
for dinner.
MISQUITH.
For which dinner--the fish and cutlet?
DRUMMLE.
For _this_ dinner, of course--really, Frank! At a quarter to eight,
in fact, I found myself trimming my nails, with ten minutes to
spare. Just then enter my man with a note--would I hasten, as fast
as cab could carry me, to old Lady Orreyed in Bruton Street?--"sad
trouble." Now, recollect, please, I had ten minutes on my hands, old
Lady Orreyed was a very dear friend of my mother's, and was in some
distress.
AUBREY.
Cayley, come to the fish and cutlet?
MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE.
Yes, yes, and the pancake!
DRUMMLE.
Upon my word! Well, the scene in Bruton Street beggars description;
the women servants looked scared, the men drunk; and there was poor
old Lady Orreyed on the floor of her boudoir like Queen Bess among
her pillows.
AUBREY.
What's the matter?
DRUMMLE.
[_To everybody._] You know George Orreyed?
MISQUITH.
Yes.
JAYNE.
I've met him.
DRUMMLE.
Well, he's a thing of the past.
AUBREY.
Not dead!
DRUMMLE.
Certainly, in the worst sense. He's married Mabel Hervey.
MISQUITH.
What!
DRUMMLE.
It's true--this morning. The poor mother showed me his letter--a
dozen curt words, and some of those ill-spelt.
MISQUITH.
[_Walking up to the fireplace._] I'm very sorry.
JAYNE.
Pardon my ignorance--who _was_ Mabel Hervey?
DRUMMLE.
You don't----? Oh, of course not. Miss Hervey--Lady Orreyed, as she
now is--was a lady who would have been, perhaps has been, described
in the reports of the Police or the Divorce Court as an actress. Had
she belonged to a lower stratum of our advanced civilisation she
would, in the event of judicial inquiry, have defined her calling
with equal justification as that of a dressmaker. To do her justice,
she is a type of a class which is immortal. Physically, by the
strange caprice of creation, curiously beautiful; mentally, she
lacks even the strength of deliberate viciousness. Paint her
portrait, it would symbolise a creature perfectly patrician; lance
a vein of her superbly-modelled arm, you would get the poorest _vin
ordinaire_! Her affections, emotions, impulses, her very
existence--a burlesque! Flaxen, five-and-twenty, and feebly
frolicsome; anybody's, in less gentle society I should say
everybody's, property! That, doctor, was Miss Hervey who is the new
Lady Orreyed. Dost thou like the picture?
MISQUITH.
Very good, Cayley! Bravo!
AUBREY.
[_Laying his hand on_ DRUMMLE'S _shoulder._] You'd scarcely believe
it, Jayne, but none of us really know anything about this lady, our
gay young friend here, I suspect, least of all.
DRUMMLE.
Aubrey, I applaud your chivalry.
AUBREY.
And perhaps you'll let me finish a couple of letters which Frank and
Jayne have given me leave to write. [_Returning to the writing-table._]
Ring for what you want, like a good fellow!
[AUBREY _resumes his writing._
MISQUITH.
[_To_ DRUMMLE.] Still, the fish and cutlet remain unexplained.
DRUMMLE.
Oh, the poor old woman was so weak that I insisted upon her taking
some food, and felt there was nothing for it but to sit down
opposite her. The fool! the blackguard!
MISQUITH.
Poor Orreyed! Well, he's gone under for a time.
DRUMMLE.
For a time! My dear Frank, I tell you he has absolutely ceased to
be. [AUBREY, _who has been writing busily, turns his head towards
the speakers and listens. His lips are set, and there is a frown
upon his face._] For all practical purposes you may regard him as
the late George Orreyed. To-morrow the very characteristics of his
speech, as we remember them, will have become obsolete.
JAYNE.
But surely, in the course of years, he and his wife will outlive----
DRUMMLE.
No, no, doctor, don't try to upset one of my settled beliefs. You
may dive into many waters, but there is _one_ social Dead Sea----!
JAYNE.
Perhaps you're right.
DRUMMLE.
Right! Good God! I wish you could prove me otherwise! Why, for years
I've been sitting, and watching and waiting.
MISQUITH.
You're in form to-night, Cayley. May we ask where you've been in the
habit of squandering your useful leisure?
DRUMMLE.
Where? On the shore of that same sea.
MISQUITH.
And, pray, what have you been waiting for?
DRUMMLE.
For some of my best friends _to come up_. [AUBREY _utters a
half-stifled exclamation of impatience; then he hurriedly gathers up
his papers from the writing-table. The three men turn to him._] Eh?
AUBREY.
Oh, I--I'll finish my letters in the other room if you'll excuse me
for five minutes. Tell Cayley the news.
[_He goes out._
DRUMMLE.
[_Hurrying to the door._] My dear fellow, my jabbering has disturbed
you! I'll never talk again as long as I live!
MISQUITH.
Close the door, Cayley.
[DRUMMLE _shuts the door._
JAYNE.
Cayley----
DRUMMLE.
[_Advancing to the dinner table._] A smoke, a smoke, or I perish!
[_Selects a cigar from the little cabinet._
JAYNE.
Cayley, marriages are in the air.
DRUMMLE.
Are they? Discover the bacillus, doctor, and destroy it.
JAYNE.
I mean, among our friends.
DRUMMLE.
Oh, Nugent Warrinder's engagement to Lady Alice Tring. I've heard of
that. They're not to be married till the spring.
JAYNE.
Another marriage that concerns us a little takes place to-morrow.
DRUMMLE.
Whose marriage?
JAYNE.
Aubrey's.
DRUMMLE.
Aub----! [_Looking towards_ MISQUITH.] Is it a joke?
MISQUITH.
No.
DRUMMLE.
[_Looking from_ MISQUITH _to_ JAYNE.] To whom?
MISQUITH.
He doesn't tell us.
JAYNE.
We three were asked here to-night to receive the announcement.
Aubrey has some theory that marriage is likely to alienate a man
from his friends, and it seems to me he has taken the precaution to
wish us good-bye.
MISQUITH.
No, no.
JAYNE.
Practically, surely.
DRUMMLE.
[_Thoughtfully._] Marriage in general, does he mean, or this
marriage?
JAYNE.
That's the point. Frank says----
MISQUITH.
No, no, no; I feared it suggested----
JAYNE.
Well, well. [_To_ DRUMMLE.] What do you think Of it?
DRUMMLE.
[_After a slight pause._] Is there a light there? [_Lighting his
cigar._] He--wraps the lady--in mystery--you say?
MISQUITH.
Most modestly.
DRUMMLE.
Aubrey's--not--a very--young man.
JAYNE.
Forty-three.
DRUMMLE.
Ah! _L'age critique!_
MISQUITH.
A dangerous age--yes, yes.
DRUMMLE.
When you two fellows go home, do you mind leaving me behind here?
MISQUITH.
Not at all.
JAYNE.
By all means.
DRUMMLE.
All right. [_Anxiously._] Deuce take it, the man's second marriage
mustn't be another mistake!
[_With his head bent he walks up to the fireplace._
JAYNE.
You knew him in his short married life, Cayley. Terribly
unsatisfactory, wasn't it?
DRUMMLE.
Well---- [_Looking at the door._] I quite closed that door?
MISQUITH.
Yes.
[_Settles himself on the sofa_; JAYNE _is seated in an
armchair._
DRUMMLE.
[_Smoking, with his back to the fire._] He married a Miss Herriott;
that was in the year eighteen--confound dates--twenty years ago. She
was a lovely creature--by Jove, she was; by religion a Roman
Catholic. She was one of your cold sort, you know--all marble arms
and black velvet. I remember her with painful distinctness as the
only woman who ever made me nervous.
MISQUITH.
Ha, ha!
DRUMMLE.
He loved her--to distraction, as they say. Jupiter, how fervently
that poor devil courted her! But I don't believe she allowed him
even to squeeze her fingers. She _was_ an iceberg! As for kissing,
the mere contact would have given him chapped lips. However, he
married her and took her away, the latter greatly to my relief.
JAYNE.
Abroad, you mean?
DRUMMLE.
Eh? Yes. I imagine he gratified her by renting a villa in Lapland,
but I don't know. After a while they returned, and then I saw how
wofully Aubrey had miscalculated results.
JAYNE.
Miscalculated----?
DRUMMLE.
He had reckoned, poor wretch, that in the early days of marriage she
would thaw. But she didn't. I used to picture him closing his doors
and making up the fire in the hope of seeing her features relax.
Bless her, the thaw never set in! I believe she kept a thermometer
in her stays and always registered ten degrees below zero. However,
in time a child came--a daughter.
JAYNE.
Didn't that----?
DRUMMLE.
Not a bit of it; it made matters worse. Frightened at her failure to
stir up in him some sympathetic religious belief, she determined
upon strong measures with regard to the child. He opposed her for a
miserable year or so, but she wore him down, and the insensible
little brat was placed in a convent, first in France, then in
Ireland. Not long afterwards the mother died, strangely enough, of
fever, the only warmth, I believe, that ever came to that woman's
body.
MISQUITH.
Don't, Cayley!
JAYNE.
The child is living, we know.
DRUMMLE.
Yes, if you choose to call it living. Miss Tanqueray--a young woman
of nineteen now--is in the Loretto convent at Armagh. She professes
to have found her true vocation in a religious life, and within a
month or two will take final vows.
MISQUITH.
He ought to have removed his daughter from the convent when the
mother died.
DRUMMLE.
Yes, yes, but absolutely at the end there was reconciliation between
husband and wife, and she won his promise that the child should
complete her conventual education. He reaped his reward. When he
attempted to gain his girl's confidence and affection he was too
late; he found he was dealing with the spirit of the mother. You
remember his visit to Ireland last month?
JAYNE.
Yes.
DRUMMLE.
That was to wish his girl good-bye.
MISQUITH.
Poor fellow?
DRUMMLE.
He sent for me when he came back. I think he must have had a
lingering hope that the girl would relent--would come to life, as it
were--at the last moment, for, for an hour or so, in this room, he
was terribly shaken. I'm sure he'd clung to that hope from the
persistent way in which he kept breaking off in his talk to repeat
one dismal word, as if he couldn't realise his position without
dinning this damned word into his head.
JAYNE.
What word was that?
DRUMMLE.
Alone--alone.
AUBREY _enters._
AUBREY.
A thousand apologies!
DRUMMLE.
[_Gaily._] We are talking about you, my dear Aubrey.
[_During the telling of the story,_ MISQUITH _has risen
and gone to the fire, and_ DRUMMLE _has thrown himself
full-length on the sofa._ AUBREY _now joins_ MISQUITH
_and_ JAYNE.
AUBREY.
Well, Cayley, are you surprised?
DRUMMLE.
Surp----! I haven't been surprised for twenty years.
AUBREY.
And you're not angry with me?
DRUMMLE.
Angry! [_Rising._] Because you considerately withhold the name of a
lady with whom it is now the object of my life to become acquainted?
My dear fellow, you pique my curiosity, you give zest to my
existence! And as for a wedding, who on earth wants to attend that
familiar and probably draughty function? Ugh! My cigar's out.
AUBREY.
Let's talk about something else.
MISQUITH.
[_Looking at his watch._] Not to-night, Aubrey.
AUBREY.
My dear Frank!
MISQUITH.
I go up to Scotland to-morrow, and there are some little matters----
JAYNE.
I am off too.
AUBREY.
No, no.
JAYNE.
I must: I have to give a look to a case in Clifford Street on my way
home.
AUBREY.
[_Going to the door._] Well! [MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE _exchange looks
with_ DRUMMLE. _Opening the door and calling._] Morse, hats and
coats! I shall write to you all next week from Genoa or Florence.
Now, doctor, Frank, remember, my love to Mrs. Misquith and to Mrs.
Jayne!
MORSE _enters with hats and coats._
MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE.
Yes, yes--yes, yes.
AUBREY.
And your young people!
[_As_ MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE _put on their coats there is
the clatter of careless talk._
JAYNE.
Cayley, I meet you at dinner on Sunday.
DRUMMLE.
At the Stratfields'. That's very pleasant.
MISQUITH.
[_Putting on his coat with_ AUBREY's _aid._] Ah-h!
AUBREY.
What's wrong?
MISQUITH.
A twinge. Why didn't I go to Aix in August?
JAYNE.
[_Shaking hands with_ DRUMMLE.] Good-night, Cayley.
DRUMMLE.
Good-night, my dear doctor!
MISQUITH.
[_Shaking hands with_ DRUMMLE.] Cayley, are you in town for long?
DRUMMLE.
Dear friend, I'm nowhere for long. Good-night.
MISQUITH.
Good-night.
[AUBREY, JAYNE, _and_ MISQUITH _go out, followed by_ MORSE;
_the hum of talk is continued outside._
AUBREY.
A cigar, Frank?
MISQUITH.
No, thank you.
AUBREY.
Going to walk, doctor?
JAYNE.
If Frank will.
MISQUITH.
By all means.
AUBREY.
It's a cold night.
[_The door is closed._ DRUMMLE _remains standing with his
coat on his arm and his hat in his hand._
DRUMMLE.
[_To himself, thoughtfully._] Now then! What the devil----!
[AUBREY _returns._
AUBREY.
[_Eyeing_ DRUMMLE _a little awkwardly._] Well, Cayley?
DRUMMLE.
Well, Aubrey?
[AUBREY _walks up to the fire and stands looking into it._
AUBREY.
You're not going, old chap?
DRUMMLE.
[_Sitting._] No.
AUBREY.
[_After a slight pause, with a forced laugh._] Hah! Cayley, I never
thought I should feel--shy--with you.
DRUMMLE.
Why do you?
AUBREY.
Never mind.
DRUMMLE.
Now, I can quite understand a man wishing to be married in the dark,
as it were.
AUBREY.
You can?
DRUMMLE.
In your place I should very likely adopt the same course.
AUBREY.
You think so?
DRUMMLE.
And if I intended marrying a lady not prominently in Society, as I
presume you do--as I presume you do----
AUBREY.
Well?
DRUMMLE.
As I presume you do, I'm not sure that _I_ should tender her for
preliminary dissection at afternoon tea-tables.
AUBREY.
No?
DRUMMLE.
In fact, there is probably only one person--were I in your position
to-night--with whom I should care to chat the matter over.
AUBREY.
Who's that?
DRUMMLE.
Yourself, of course. [_Going to_ AUBREY _and standing beside him._]
Of course, yourself, old friend.
AUBREY.
[_After a pause._] I must seem a brute to you, Cayley. But there are
some acts which are hard to explain, hard to defend----
DRUMMLE.
To defend----?
AUBREY.
Some acts which one must trust to time to put right.
[DRUMMLE _watches him for a moment, then takes up his hat
and coat._
DRUMMLE.
Well, I'll be moving.
AUBREY.
Cayley! Confound you and your old friendship! Do you think I forget
it? Put your coat down! Why did you stay behind here? Cayley, the
lady I am going to marry is the lady--who is known as--Mrs. Jarman.
[_There is a pause._
DRUMMLE.
[_In a low voice_] Mrs. Jarman! are you serious?
[_He walks up to the fireplace, where he leans upon the
mantelpiece uttering something like a groan._
AUBREY.
As you've got this out of me I give you leave to say all you care to
say. Come, we'll be plain with each other. You know Mrs. Jarman?
DRUMMLE.
I first met her at--what does it matter?
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, everything! Come!
DRUMMLE.
I met her at Homburg, two--three seasons ago.
AUBREY.
Not as Mrs. Jarman?
DRUMMLE.
No.
AUBREY.
She was then----?
DRUMMLE.
Mrs. Dartry.
AUBREY.
Yes. She has also seen you in London, she says.
DRUMMLE.
Certainly.
AUBREY.
In Aldford Street. Go on.
DRUMMLE.
Please!
AUBREY.
I insist.
DRUMMLE.
[_With a slight shrug of the shoulders._] Some time last year I was
asked by a man to sup at his house, one night after the theatre.
AUBREY.
Mr. Selwyn Ethurst--a bachelor.
DRUMMLE.
Yes.
AUBREY.
You were surprised therefore to find Mr. Ethurst aided in his cursed
hospitality by a lady.
DRUMMLE.
I was unprepared.
AUBREY.
The lady you had known as Mrs. Dartry? [DRUMMLE _inclines his head
silently._] There is something of a yachting cruise in the
Mediterranean too, is there not?
DRUMMLE.
I joined Peter Jarman's yacht at Marseilles, in the Spring, a month
before he died.
AUBREY.
Mrs. Jarman was on board?
DRUMMLE.
She was a kind hostess.
AUBREY.
And an old acquaintance?
DRUMMLE.
Yes.
AUBREY.
You have told your story.
DRUMMLE.
With your assistance.
AUBREY.
I have put you to the pain of telling it to show you that this is
not the case of a blind man entrapped by an artful woman. Let me add
that Mrs. Jarman has no legal right to that name, that she is simply
Miss Ray--Miss Paula Ray.
DRUMMLE.
[_After a pause._] I should like to express my regret, Aubrey, for
the way in which I spoke of George Orreyed's marriage.
AUBREY.
You mean you compare Lady Orreyed with Miss Ray? [DRUMMLE _is
silent._] Oh, of course! To you, Cayley, all women who have been
roughly treated, and who dare to survive by borrowing a little of
our philosophy, are alike. You see in the crowd of the Ill-used only
one pattern; you can't detect the shades of goodness, intelligence,
even nobility there. Well, how should you? The crowd is dimly
lighted! And, besides, yours is the way of the world.
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, I _live_ in the world.
AUBREY.
The name we give our little parish of St. James's.
DRUMMLE.
[_Laying a hand on_ AUBREY's _shoulder._] And you are quite
prepared, my friend, to forfeit the esteem of your little parish?
AUBREY.
I avoid mortification by shifting from one parish to another. I give
up Pall Mall for the Surrey hills; leave off varnishing my boots and
double the thickness of the soles.
DRUMMLE.
And your skin--do you double the thickness of that also?
AUBREY.
I know you think me a fool, Cayley--you needn't infer that I'm a
coward into the bargain. No! I know what I'm doing, and I do it
deliberately, defiantly. I'm alone; I injure no living soul by the
step I'm going to take; and so you can't urge the one argument which
might restrain me. Of course, I don't expect you to think
compassionately, fairly even, of the woman whom I--whom I am drawn
to----
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, I assure you I consider Mrs.--Miss Jarman--Mrs.
Ray--Miss Ray--delightful. But I confess there is a form of chivalry
which I gravely distrust, especially in a man of--our age.
AUBREY.
Thanks. I've heard you say that from forty till fifty a man is at
heart either a stoic or a satyr.
DRUMMLE.
[_Protestingly._] Ah! now----
AUBREY.
I am neither. I have a temperate, honourable affection for Mrs.
Jarman. She has never met a man who has treated her well--I intend
to treat her well. That's all. And in a few years, Cayley, if you've
not quite forsaken me, I'll prove to you that it's possible to rear
a life of happiness, of good repute, on a--miserable foundation.
DRUMMLE.
[_Offering his hand._] Do prove it!
AUBREY.
[_Taking his hand._] We have spoken too freely of--of Mrs. Jarman. I
was excited--angry. Please forget it!
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, when we next meet I shall remember nothing but my
respect for the lady who bears your name.
MORSE _enters, closing the door behind him carefully._
AUBREY.
What is it?
MORSE.
[_Hesitatingly._] May I speak to you, Sir? [_In an undertone._] Mrs.
Jarman, sir.
AUBREY.
[_Softly to_ MORSE.] Mrs. Jarman! Do you mean she is at the lodge in
her carriage?
MORSE.
No, sir--here. [AUBREY _looks towards_ DRUMMLE, _perplexed._]
There's a nice fire in your--in that room, sir. [_Glancing in the
direction of the door leading to the bedroom._]
AUBREY.
[_Between his teeth, angrily._] Very well.
[MORSE _retires._
DRUMMLE.
[_Looking at his watch._] A quarter to eleven--horrible! [_Taking up
his hat and coat._] Must get to bed--up late every night this week.
[AUBREY _assists_ DRUMMLE _with his coat._] Thank you. Well,
good-night, Aubrey. I feel I've been dooced serious, quite out of
keeping with myself; pray overlook it.
AUBREY.
[_Kindly._] Ah, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
[_Putting on a neck-handkerchief._] And remember that, after all,
I'm merely a spectator in life; nothing more than a man at a play,
in fact; only, like the old-fashioned playgoer, I love to see
certain characters happy and comfortable at the finish. You
understand?
AUBREY.
I think I do.
DRUMMLE.
Then, for as long as you can, old friend, will you--keep a stall for
me?
AUBREY.
Yes, Cayley.
DRUMMLE.
[_Gaily._] Ah, ha! Good-night! [_Bustling to the door._] Don't
bother! I'll let myself out! Good-night! God bless yer!
[_He goes out_; AUBREY _follows him._ MORSE _enters by the
other door, carrying some unopened letters which after
a little consideration he places on the mantelpiece
against the clock._ AUBREY _returns._
AUBREY.
Yes?
MORSE.
You hadn't seen your letters that came by the nine o'clock post,
sir; I've put 'em where they'll catch your eye by-and-by.
AUBREY.
Thank you.
MORSE.
[_Hesitatingly._] Gunter's cook and waiter have gone, sir. Would you
prefer me to go to bed?
AUBREY.
[_Frowning._] Certainly not.
MORSE.
Very well, sir.
[_He goes out._
AUBREY.
[_Opening the upper door_] Paula! Paula!
PAULA _enters and throws her arms round his neck. She is a
young woman of about twenty-seven: beautiful, fresh,
innocent-looking. She is in superb evening dress._
PAULA.
Dearest!
AUBREY.
Why have you come here?
PAULA.
Angry?
AUBREY.
Yes--no. But it's eleven o'clock.
PAULA.
[_Laughing._] I know.
AUBREY.
What on earth will Morse think?
PAULA.
Do you trouble yourself about what servants _think_?
AUBREY.
Of course.
PAULA.
Goose! They're only machines made to wait upon people--and to give
evidence in the Divorce Court. [_Looking round._] Oh, indeed! A snug
little dinner!
AUBREY.
Three men.
PAULA.
[_Suspiciously._] Men?
AUBREY.
Men.
PAULA.
[_Penitently._] Ah! [_Sitting at the table._] I'm so hungry.
AUBREY.
Let me get you some game pie, or some----
PAULA.
No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when
it's expensive. [_He clears a space on the table, places a plate
before her, and helps her to fruit._] I haven't dined, Aubrey dear.
AUBREY.
My poor girl! Why?
PAULA.
In the first place, I forgot to order any dinner, and my cook, who
has always loathed me, thought he'd pay me out before he departed.
AUBREY.
The beast!
PAULA.
That's precisely what I----
AUBREY.
No, Paula!
PAULA.
What I told my maid to call him. What next will you think of me?
AUBREY.
Forgive me. You must be starved.
PAULA.
[_Eating fruit._] _I_ didn't care. As there was nothing to eat, I
sat in my best frock, with my toes on the dining-room fender, and
dreamt, oh, such a lovely dinner-party.
AUBREY.
Dear lonely little woman!
PAULA.
It was perfect. I saw you at the end of a very long table, opposite
me, and we exchanged sly glances now and again over the flowers. We
were host and hostess, Aubrey, and had been married about five
years.
AUBREY.
[_Kissing her hand._] Five years.
PAULA.
And on each side of us was the nicest set imaginable--you know,
dearest, the sort of men and women that can't be imitated.
AUBREY.
Yes, yes. Eat some more fruit.
PAULA.
But I haven't told you the best part of my dream.
AUBREY.
Tell me.
PAULA.
Well, although we had been married only such a few years, I seemed
to know by the look on their faces that none of our guests had ever
heard anything--anything--anything peculiar about the fascinating
hostess.
AUBREY.
That's just how it will be, Paula. The world moves so quickly.
That's just how it will be.
PAULA.
[_With a little grimace._] I wonder! [_Glancing at the fire._] Ugh!
do throw another log on.
AUBREY.
[_Mending the fire._] There. But you mustn't be here long.
PAULA.
Hospitable wretch! I've something important to tell you. No, stay
where you are. [_Turning from him, her face averted._] Look here,
that was my dream, Aubrey; but the fire went out while I was dozing,
and I woke up with a regular fit of the shivers. And the result of
it all was that I ran upstairs and scribbled you a letter.
AUBREY.
Dear baby!
PAULA.
Remain where you are. [_Taking a letter from her pocket._] This is
it. I've given you an account of myself, furnished you with a list
of my adventures since I--you know. [_Weighing the letter in her
hand._] I wonder if it would go for a penny. Most of it you're
acquainted with; _I've_ told you a good deal, haven't I?
AUBREY.
Oh, Paula!
PAULA.
What I haven't told you I daresay you've heard from others. But in
case they've omitted anything--the dears--it's all here.
AUBREY.
In Heaven's name, why must you talk like this to-night?
PAULA.
It may save discussion by-and-by, don't you think? [_Holding out the
letter._] There you are.
AUBREY.
No, dear, no.
PAULA.
Take it. [_He takes the letter._] Read it through after I've
gone, and then--read it again, and turn the matter over in your
mind finally. And if, even at the very last moment, you feel
you--oughtn't to go to church with me, send a messenger to Pont
Street, any time before eleven to-morrow, telling me that you're
afraid, and I--I'll take the blow.
AUBREY.
Why, what--what do you think I am?
PAULA.
That's it. It's because I know you're such a dear good fellow that I
want to save you the chance of ever feeling sorry you married me. I
really love you so much, Aubrey, that to save you that I'd rather
you treated me as--as the others have done.
AUBREY.
[_Turning from her with a cry._] Oh!
PAULA.
[_After a slight pause._] I suppose I've shocked you. I can't help
it if I have.
[_She sits, with assumed languor and indifference. He turns
to her, advances, and kneels by her._
AUBREY.
My dearest, you don't understand me. I--I can't bear to hear you
always talking about--what's done with. I tell you I'll never
remember it; Paula, can't you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we
promise each other to forget, to forget, we're bound to be happy.
After all, it's a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought
enters your head, you quickly think of something bright--it depends
on one's will. Shall I burn this, dear? [_Referring to the letter he
holds in his hand._] Let me, let me!
PAULA.
[_With a shrug of the shoulders._] I don't suppose there's much
that's new to you in it--just as you like.
[_He goes to the fire and burns the letter._
AUBREY.
There's an end of it. [_Returning to her._] What's the matter?
PAULA.
[_Rising, coldly._] Oh, nothing! I'll go and put my cloak on.
AUBREY.
[_Detaining her._] What _is_ the matter?
PAULA.
Well, I think you might have said, "You're very generous, Paula,"
or at least, "Thank you, dear," when I offered to set you free.
AUBREY.
[_Catching her in his arms._] Ah!
PAULA.
Ah! ah! Ha, ha! It's all very well, but you don't know what it cost
me to make such an offer. I do so want to be married.
AUBREY.
But you never imagined----?
PAULA.
Perhaps not. And yet I _did_ think of what I'd do at the end of our
acquaintance if you had preferred to behave like the rest.
[_Taking a flower from her bodice._
AUBREY.
Hush!
PAULA.
Oh, I forgot!
AUBREY.
What would you have done when we parted?
PAULA.
Why, killed myself.
AUBREY.
Paula, dear!
PAULA.
It's true. [_Putting the flower in his buttonhole._] Do you know I
feel certain I should make away with myself if anything serious
happened to me.
AUBREY.
Anything serious! What, has nothing ever been serious to you, Paula?
PAULA.
Not lately; not since a long while ago. I made up my mind then to
have done with taking things seriously. If I hadn't, I---- However,
we won't talk about that.
AUBREY.
But now, now, life will be different to you, won't it--quite
different? Eh, dear?
PAULA.
Oh yes, now. Only, Aubrey, mind you keep me always happy.
AUBREY.
I will try to.
PAULA.
I know I couldn't swallow a second big dose of misery. I know that
if ever I felt wretched again--truly wretched--I should take a leaf
out of Connie Tirlemont's book. You remember? They found her----
[_With a look of horror._]
AUBREY.
For God's sake, don't let your thoughts run on such things!
PAULA.
[_Laughing._] Ha, ha, how scared you look! There, think of the time!
Dearest, what will my coachman say! My cloak!
[_She runs off, gaily, by the upper door._ AUBREY _looks
after her for a moment, then he walks up to the fire
and stands warming his feet at the bars. As he does so
he raises his head and observes the letters upon the
mantelpiece. He takes one down quickly._
AUBREY.
Ah! Ellean! [_Opening the letter and reading._] "My dear father,--A
great change has come over me. I believe my mother in Heaven has
spoken to me, and counselled me to turn to you in your loneliness.
At any rate, your words have reached my heart, and I no longer feel
fitted for this solemn life. I am ready to take my place by you.
Dear father, will you receive me?--ELLEAN."
PAULA _re-enters, dressed in a handsome cloak. He stares at
her as if he hardly realised her presence._
PAULA.
What are you staring at? Don't you admire my cloak?
AUBREY.
Yes.
PAULA.
Couldn't you wait till I'd gone before reading your letters?
AUBREY.
[_Putting the letter away._] I beg your pardon.
PAULA.
Take me downstairs to the carriage. [_Slipping her arm through
his._] How I tease you! To-morrow! I'm so happy!
[_They go out._
THE SECOND ACT
_A morning-room in_ AUBREY TANQUERAY'S _house, "Highercoombe,"
near Willowmere, Surrey--a bright and prettily furnished
apartment of irregular shape, with double doors opening into a
small hall at the back, another door on the left, and a large
recessed window through which is obtained a view of extensive
grounds. Everything about the room is charming and graceful.
The fire is burning in the grate, and a small table is
tastefully laid for breakfast. It is a morning in early
Spring, and the sun is streaming in through the window._
AUBREY _and_ PAULA _are seated at breakfast, and_ AUBREY _is
silently reading his letters. Two servants, a man and a woman,
hand dishes and then retire. After a little while_ AUBREY
_puts his letters aside and looks across to the window._
AUBREY.
Sunshine! Spring!
PAULA.
[_Glancing at the clock._] Exactly six minutes.
AUBREY.
Six minutes?
PAULA.
Six minutes, Aubrey dear, since you made your last remark.
AUBREY.
I beg your pardon; I was reading my letters. Have you seen Ellean
this morning?
PAULA.
[_Coldly._] Your last observation but one was about Ellean.
AUBREY.
Dearest, what shall I talk about?
PAULA.
Ellean breakfasted two hours ago, Morgan tells me, and then went out
walking with her dog.
AUBREY.
She wraps up warmly, I hope; this sunshine is deceptive.
PAULA.
I ran about the lawn last night, after dinner, in satin shoes. Were
you anxious about me?
AUBREY.
Certainly.
PAULA.
[_Melting._] Really?
AUBREY.
You make me wretchedly anxious; you delight in doing incautious
things. You are incurable.
PAULA.
Ah, what a beast I am! [_Going to him and kissing him, then glancing
at the letters by his side._] A letter from Cayley?
AUBREY.
He is staying very near here, with Mrs.---- Very near here.
PAULA.
With the lady whose chimneys we have the honour of contemplating
from our windows?
AUBREY.
With Mrs. Cortelyon--yes.
PAULA.
Mrs. Cortelyon! The woman who might have set the example of calling
on me when we first threw out roots in this deadly-lively soil!
Deuce take Mrs. Cortelyon!
AUBREY.
Hush! my dear girl!
PAULA.
[_Returning to her seat._] Oh, I know she's an old acquaintance of
yours--and of the first Mrs. Tanqueray. And she joins the rest of
'em in slapping the second Mrs. Tanqueray in the face. However, I
have my revenge--she's six-and-forty, and I wish nothing worse to
happen to any woman.
AUBREY.
Well, she's going to town, Cayley says here, and his visit's at an
end. He's coming over this morning to call on you. Shall we ask him
to transfer himself to us? Do say yes.
PAULA.
Yes.
AUBREY.
[_Gladly._] Ah, ha! old Cayley!
PAULA.
[_Coldly._] He'll amuse _you_.
AUBREY.
And you too.
PAULA.
Because you find a companion, shall I be boisterously hilarious?
AUBREY.
Come, come! He talks London, and you know you like that.
PAULA.
London! London or Heaven! which is farther from me!
AUBREY.
Paula!
PAULA.
Oh! Oh, I am so bored, Aubrey!
AUBREY.
[_Gathering up his letters and going to her, leaning over her
shoulder._] Baby, what can I do for you?
PAULA.
I suppose, nothing. You have done all you can for me.
AUBREY.
What do you mean?
PAULA.
You have married me.
[_He walks away from her thoughtfully, to the writing-table.
As he places his letters on the table he sees an
addressed letter, stamped for the post, lying on the
blotting-book; he picks it up._
AUBREY.
[_In an altered tone._] You've been writing this Morning before
breakfast?
PAULA.
[_Looking at him quickly, then away again._] Er--that letter.
AUBREY.
[_With the letter in his hand._] To Lady Orreyed. Why?
PAULA.
Why not? Mabel's an old friend of mine.
AUBREY.
Are you--corresponding?
PAULA.
I heard from her yesterday. They've just returned from the Riviera.
She seems happy.
AUBREY.
[_Sarcastically._] That's good news.
PAULA.
Why are you always so cutting about Mabel? She's a kind-hearted
girl. Every thing's altered; she even thinks of letting her hair go
back to brown. She's Lady Orreyed. She's married to George. What's
the matter with her?
AUBREY.
[_Turning away._] Oh!
PAULA.
You drive me mad sometimes with the tone you take about things!
Great goodness, if you come to that, George Orreyed's wife isn't a
bit worse than yours! [_He faces her suddenly._] I suppose I needn't
have made that observation.
AUBREY.
No, there was scarcely a necessity.
[_He throws the letter on to the table, and takes up the
newspaper._
PAULA.
I am very sorry.
AUBREY.
All right, dear.
PAULA.
[_Trifling with the letter._] I--I'd better tell you what I've
written. I meant to do so, of course. I--I've asked the Orreyeds to
come and stay with us. [_He looks at her and lets the paper fall to
the ground in a helpless way._] George was a great friend of
Cayley's; I'm sure _he_ would be delighted to meet them here.
AUBREY.
[_Laughing mirthlessly._] Ha, ha, ha! They say Orreyed has taken to
tippling at dinner. Heavens above!
PAULA.
Oh! I've no patience with you! You'll kill me with this life! [_She
selects some flowers from a vase on the table, cuts and arranges
them, and fastens them in her bodice._] What is my existence, Sunday
to Saturday? In the morning, a drive down to the village, with the
groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, you and
Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers; if fine, another
drive--_if_ fine! Tea--you and Ellean. Then two hours of dusk; then
dinner--you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while
Ellean reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me,
another from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly
rise--"Good-night, good-night, good-night!" [_Imitating a kiss._]
"God bless you!" Ah!
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, Paula--yes, dearest--that's what it is _now_. But,
by-and-by, if people begin to come round us----
PAULA.
Hah! That's where we've made the mistake, my friend Aubrey!
[_Pointing to the window._] Do you believe these people will _ever_
come round us? Your former crony, Mrs. Cortelyon? Or the grim old
vicar, or that wife of his whose huge nose is positively indecent?
Or the Ullathornes, or the Gollans, or Lady William Petres? I know
better! And when the young ones gradually take the place of the old,
there will still remain the sacred tradition that the dreadful
person who lives at the top of the hill is never, under any
circumstances, to be called upon! And so we shall go on here, year
in and year out, until the sap is run out of our lives, and we're
stale and dry and withered from sheer, solitary respectability. Upon
my word, I wonder we didn't see that we should have been far happier
if we'd gone in for the devil-may-care, _café_-living sort of life
in town! After all, _I_ have a set and you might have joined it.
It's true I did want, dearly, dearly, to be a married woman, but
where's the pride in being a married woman among married women who
are--married! If---- [_Seeing that_ AUBREY'S _head has sunk into his
hands._] Aubrey! My dear boy! You're not--crying?
[_He looks up, with a flushed face._ ELLEAN _enters,
dressed very simply for walking. She is a low voiced,
grave girl of about nineteen, with a face somewhat
resembling a Madonna. Towards_ PAULA _her manner is
cold and distant._
AUBREY.
[_In an undertone._] Ellean!
ELLEAN.
Good-morning, papa. Good-morning, Paula.
[PAULA _puts her arms round_ ELLEAN _and kisses her._
ELLEAN _makes little response._
PAULA.
Good-morning. [_Brightly._] We've been breakfasting this side of the
house, to get the sun.
[_She sits at the piano and rattles at a gay melody.
Seeing that_ PAULA'S _back is turned to them,_ ELLEAN
_goes to_ AUBREY _and kisses him; he returns the kiss
almost furtively. As they separate, the servants
re-enter, and proceed to carry out the breakfast-table._
AUBREY.
[_To_ ELLEAN.] I guess where you've been: there's some gorse
clinging to your frock.
ELLEAN.
[_Removing a sprig of gorse from her skirt._] Rover and I walked
nearly as far as Black Moor. The poor fellow has a thorn in his pad;
I am going upstairs for my tweezers.
AUBREY.
Ellean! [_She returns to him._] Paula is a little depressed--out of
sorts. She complains that she has no companion.
ELLEAN.
I am with Paula nearly all the day, papa.
AUBREY.
Ah, but you're such a little mouse. Paula likes cheerful people
about her.
ELLEAN.
I'm afraid I am naturally rather silent; and it's so difficult to
seem to be what one is not.
AUBREY.
I don't wish that, Ellean.
ELLEAN.
I will offer to go down to the village with Paula this
morning--shall I?
AUBREY.
[_Touching her hand gently._] Thank you--do.
ELLEAN.
When I've looked after Rover, I'll come back to her.
[_She goes out;_ PAULA _ceases playing, and turns on the
music-stool looking at_ AUBREY.
PAULA.
Well, have you and Ellean had your little confidence?
AUBREY.
Confidence?
PAULA.
Do you think I couldn't feel it, like a pain between my shoulders?
AUBREY.
Ellean is coming back in a few minutes to be with you. [_Bending
over her._] Paula, Paula dear, is this how you keep your promise?
PAULA.
Oh! [_Rising impatiently and crossing swiftly to the settee, where
she sits, moving restlessly._] I _can't_ keep my promise; I _am_
jealous; it won't be smothered. I see you looking at her, watching
her; your voice drops when you speak to her. I know how fond you are
of that girl, Aubrey.
AUBREY.
What would you have? I've no other home for her. She is my
daughter.
PAULA.
She is your saint. Saint Ellean!
AUBREY.
You have often told me how good and sweet you think her.
PAULA.
Good!--yes! Do you imagine _that_ makes me less jealous? [_Going to
him and clinging to his arm._] Aubrey, there are two sorts of
affection--the love for a woman you respect, and the love for a
woman you--love. She gets the first from you: I never can.
AUBREY.
Hush, hush! you don't realise what you say.
PAULA.
If Ellean cared for me only a little, it would be different. I
shouldn't be jealous then. Why doesn't she care for me?
AUBREY.
She--she--she will, in time.
PAULA.
You can't say that without stuttering.
AUBREY.
Her disposition seems a little unresponsive; she resembles her
mother in many ways; I can see it every day.
PAULA.
She's marble. It's a shame. There's not the slightest excuse; for
all she knows, I'm as much a saint as she--only married. Dearest,
help me to win her over!
AUBREY.
Help you?
PAULA.