two large French windows, sheltered by a verandah, leading
into the garden; on the right is a door opening into a small
hall. The fireplace, with a large mirror above it, is on the
left-hand side of the room, and higher up in the same wall are
double doors recessed. The room is richly furnished, and
everything betokens taste and luxury. The windows are open,
and there is moonlight in the garden._
LADY ORREYED, _a pretty, affected doll of a woman with a
mincing voice and flaxen hair, is sitting on the ottoman, her
head resting against the drum, and her eyes closed._ PAULA,
_looking pale, worn, and thoroughly unhappy, is sitting at a
table. Both are in sumptuous dinner-gowns._
LADY ORREYED.
[_Opening her eyes._] Well, I never! I dropped off! [_Feeling her
hair._] Just fancy! Where are the men?
PAULA.
[_Icily._] Outside, smoking.
_A_ SERVANT _enters with coffee, which he hands to_ LADY
ORREYED. SIR GEORGE ORREYED _comes in by the window. He is a
man of about thirty-five, with a low forehead, a receding
chin, a vacuous expression, and an ominous redness about the
nose._
LADY ORREYED.
[_Taking coffee._] Here's Dodo.
SIR GEORGE.
I say, the flies under the verandah make you swear. [_The_ SERVANT
_hands coffee to_ PAULA, _who declines it, then to_ SIR GEORGE, _who
takes a cup._] Hi! wait a bit! [_He looks at the tray searchingly,
then puts back his cup._] Never mind. [_Quietly to_ LADY ORREYED.] I
say, they're dooced sparin' with their liqueur, ain't they?
[_The_ SERVANT _goes out at window._
PAULA.
[_To_ SIR GEORGE.] Won't you take coffee, George?
SIR GEORGE.
No, thanks. It's gettin' near time for a whisky and potass.
[_Approaching_ PAULA, _regarding_ LADY ORREYED _admiringly._] I say,
Birdie looks rippin' to-night, don't she?
PAULA.
Your wife?
SIR GEORGE.
Yaas--Birdie.
PAULA.
Rippin'?
SIR GEORGE.
Yaas.
PAULA.
Quite--quite rippin'.
[_He moves round to the settee._ PAULA _watches him with
distaste, then rises and walks away._ SIR GEORGE _falls
asleep on the settee._
LADY ORREYED.
Paula love, I fancied you and Aubrey were a little more friendly at
dinner. You haven't made it up, have you?
PAULA.
We? Oh, no. We speak before others, that's all.
LADY ORREYED.
And how long do you intend to carry on this game, dear?
PAULA.
[_Turning away impatiently._] I really can't tell you.
LADY ORREYED.
Sit down, old girl; don't be so fidgety. [PAULA _sits on the upper
seat of the ottoman with her back to_ LADY ORREYED.] Of course, it's
my duty, as an old friend, to give you a good talking-to--[PAULA
_glares at her suddenly and fiercely._]--but really I've found one
gets so many smacks in the face through interfering in matrimonial
squabbles that I've determined to drop it.
PAULA.
I think you're wise.
LADY ORREYED.
However, I must say that I do wish you'd look at marriage in a more
solemn light--just as I do, in fact. It is such a beautiful
thing--marriage, and if people in our position don't respect it, and
set a good example by living happily with their husbands, what can
you expect from the middle classes? When did this sad state of
affairs between you and Aubrey actually begin?
PAULA.
Actually, a fortnight and three days ago; I haven't calculated the
minutes.
LADY ORREYED.
A day or two before Dodo and I turned up--arrived.
PAULA.
Yes. One always remembers one thing by another; we left off speaking
to each other the morning I wrote asking you to visit us.
LADY ORREYED.
Lucky for you I was able to pop down, wasn't it, dear?
PAULA.
[_Glaring at her again._] Most fortunate.
LADY ORREYED.
A serious split with your husband without a pal on the premises--I
should say, without a friend in the house--would be most unpleasant.
PAULA.
[_Turning to her abruptly._] This place must be horribly doleful for
you and George just now. At least you ought to consider him before
me. Why don't you leave me to my difficulties?
LADY ORREYED.
Oh, we're quite comfortable, dear, thank you--both of us. George and
me are so wrapped up in each other, it doesn't matter where we are.
I don't want to crow over you, old girl, but I've got a perfect
husband.
[SIR GEORGE _is now fast asleep, his head thrown back and
his mouth open, looking hideous._
PAULA.
[_Glancing at_ SIR GEORGE.] So you've given me to understand.
LADY ORREYED.
Not that we don't have our little differences. Why, we fell out only
this very morning. You remember the diamond and ruby tiara Charley
Prestwick gave poor dear Connie Tirlemont years ago, don't you?
PAULA.
No, I do not.
LADY ORREYED.
No? Well, it's in the market. Benjamin of Piccadilly has got it in
his shop-window, and I've set my heart on it.
PAULA.
You consider it quite necessary?
LADY ORREYED.
Yes, because what I say to Dodo is this--a lady of my station must
smother herself with hair ornaments. It's different with you,
love--people don't look for so much blaze from you, but I've got
rank to keep up; haven't I?
PAULA.
Yes.
LADY ORREYED.
Well, that was the cause of the little set-to between I and Dodo
this morning. He broke two chairs, he was in such a rage. I forgot,
they're your chairs; do you mind?
PAULA.
No.
LADY ORREYED.
You know, poor Dodo can't lose his temper without smashing
something; if it isn't a chair, it's a mirror; if it isn't that,
it's china--a bit of Dresden for choice. Dear old pet! he loves a
bit of Dresden when he's furious. He doesn't really throw things
_at_ me, dear; he simply lifts them up and drops them, like a
gentleman. I expect our room upstairs will look rather wrecky before
I get that tiara.
PAULA.
Excuse the suggestion, perhaps your husband can't afford it.
LADY ORREYED.
Oh, how dreadfully changed you are, Paula! Dodo can always mortgage
something, or borrow of his ma. What _is_ coming to you!
PAULA.
Ah!
[_She sits at the piano and touches the keys._
LADY ORREYED.
Oh, yes, do play! That's the one thing I envy you for.
PAULA.
What shall I play?
LADY ORREYED.
What was that heavenly piece you gave us last night, dear?
PAULA.
A bit of Schubert. Would you like to hear it again?
LADY ORREYED.
You don't know any comic songs, do you?
PAULA.
I'm afraid not.
LADY ORREYED.
I leave it to you, then.
[PAULA _plays._ AUBREY _and_ CAYLEY DRUMMLE _appear outside
the window; they look into the room._
AUBREY.
[_To_ DRUMMLE. ] You can see her face in that mirror. Poor girl, how
ill and wretched she looks.
DRUMMLE.
When are the Orreyeds going?
AUBREY.
Heaven knows!
[_Entering the room._
DRUMMLE.
But _you're_ entertaining them; what's it to do with Heaven?
[_Following_ AUBREY.
AUBREY.
Do you know, Cayley, that even the Orreyeds serve a useful purpose?
My wife actually speaks to me before our guests--think of that! I've
come to rejoice at the presence of the Orreyeds!
DRUMMLE.
I daresay; we're taught that beetles are sent for a benign end.
AUBREY.
Cayley, talk to Paula again to-night.
DRUMMLE.
Certainly, if I get the chance.
AUBREY.
Let's contrive it. George is asleep; perhaps I can get that doll out
of the way. [_As they advance into the room,_ PAULA _abruptly ceases
playing and finds interest in a volume of music._ SIR GEORGE _is now
nodding and snoring apoplectically._] Lady Orreyed, whenever you
feel inclined for a game of billiards I'm at your service.
LADY ORREYED.
[_Jumping up._] Charmed, I'm sure! I really thought you'd forgotten
poor little me. Oh, look at Dodo!
AUBREY.
No, no, don't wake him; he's tired.
LADY ORREYED.
I must, he looks so plain. [_Rousing_ SIR GEORGE.] Dodo! Dodo!
SIR GEORGE.
[_Stupidly._] 'Ullo!
LADY ORREYED.
Dodo, dear, you were snoring.
SIR GEORGE.
Oh, I say, you could 'a told me that by-and-by.
AUBREY.
You want a cigar, George; come into the billiard-room. [_Giving his
arm to_ LADY ORREYED.] Cayley, bring Paula.
[AUBREY _and_ LADY ORREYED _go out._
SIR GEORGE.
[_Rising._] Hey, what! Billiard-room! [_Looking at his watch._] How
goes the----? Phew! 'Ullo, 'Ullo! Whisky and potass!
[_He goes rapidly after_ AUBREY _and_ LADY ORREYED. PAULA
_resumes playing._
PAULA.
[_After a pause._] Don't moon about after me, Cayley; follow the
others.
DRUMMLE.
Thanks, by-and-by. [_Sitting._] That's pretty.
PAULA.
[_After another pause, still playing._] I wish you wouldn't stare
so.
DRUMMLE.
Was I staring? I'm sorry. [_She plays a little longer, then stops
suddenly, rises, and goes to the window, where she stands looking
out._ DRUMMLE _moves from the ottoman to the settee._] A lovely
night.
PAULA.
[_Startled._] Oh! [_Without turning to him._] Why do you hop about
like a monkey?
DRUMMLE.
Hot rooms play the deuce with the nerves. Now, it would have done
you good to have walked in the garden with us after dinner and made
merry. Why didn't you?
PAULA.
You know why.
DRUMMLE.
Ah, you're thinking of the--difference between you and Aubrey?
PAULA.
Yes, I _am_ thinking of it.
DRUMMLE.
Well, so am I. How long----?
PAULA.
Getting on for three weeks.
DRUMMLE.
Bless me, it must be! And this would have been such a night to have
healed it! Moonlight, the stars, the scent of flowers; and yet
enough darkness to enable a kind woman to rest her hand for an
instant on the arm of a good fellow who loves her. Ah, ha! it's a
wonderful power, dear Mrs. Aubrey, the power of an offended woman!
Only realise it! Just that one touch--the mere tips of her
fingers--and, for herself and another, she changes the colour of the
whole world!
PAULA.
[_Turning to him, calmly._] Cayley, my dear man, you talk exactly
like a very romantic old lady.
[_She leaves the window and sits playing with the
knick-knacks on the table._
DRUMMLE.
[_To himself._] H'm, that hasn't done it! Well--ha, ha!--I accept
the suggestion. An old woman, eh?
PAULA.
Oh, I didn't intend----
DRUMMLE.
But why not? I've every qualification--well, almost. And I confess
it would have given this withered bosom a throb of grandmotherly
satisfaction if I could have seen you and Aubrey at peace before I
take my leave to-morrow.
PAULA.
To-morrow, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
I must.
PAULA.
Oh, this house is becoming unendurable.
DRUMMLE.
You're very kind. But you've got the Orreyeds.
PAULA.
[_Fiercely._] The Orreyeds! I--I hate the Orreyeds! I lie awake at
night, hating them!
DRUMMLE.
Pardon me, I've understood that their visit is, in some degree,
owing to--hem!--your suggestion.
PAULA.
Heavens! that doesn't make me like them better. Somehow or another,
I--I've outgrown these people. This woman--I used to think her
"jolly!"--sickens me. I can't breathe when she's near me: the whiff
of her handkerchief turns me faint! And she patronises me by the
hour, until I--I feel my nails growing longer with every word she
speaks!
DRUMMLE.
My dear lady, why on earth don't you say all this to Aubrey?
PAULA.
Oh, I've been such an utter fool, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
[_Soothingly._] Well, well, mention it to Aubrey!
PAULA.
No, no, you don't understand. What do you think I've done?
DRUMMLE.
Done! What, _since_ you invited the Orreyeds?
PAULA.
Yes; I must tell you----
DRUMMLE.
Perhaps you'd better not.
PAULA.
Look here. I've intercepted some letters from Mrs. Cortelyon and
Ellean to--him. [_Producing three unopened letters from the bodice
of her dress._] There are the accursed things! From Paris--two from
the Cortelyon woman, the other from Ellean!
DRUMMLE.
But why--why?
PAULA.
I don't know. Yes, I do! I saw letters coming from Ellean to her
father; not a line to me--not a line. And one morning it happened I
was downstairs before he was, and I spied this one lying with his
heap on the breakfast-table, and I slipped it into my pocket--out of
malice, Cayley, pure devilry! And a day or two afterwards I met
Elwes the postman at the Lodge, and took the letters from him, and
found these others amongst 'em. I felt simply fiendish when I saw
them--fiendish! [_Returning the letters to her bodice._] And now I
carry them about with me, and they're scorching me like a mustard
plaster!
DRUMMLE.
Oh, this accounts for Aubrey not hearing from Paris lately!
PAULA.
That's an ingenious conclusion to arrive at! Of course it does!
[_With an hysterical laugh._] Ha, ha!
DRUMMLE.
Well, well! [_Laughing._] Ha, ha, ha!
PAULA.
[_Turning upon him._] I suppose it _is_ amusing!
DRUMMLE.
I beg pardon.
PAULA.
Heaven knows I've little enough to brag about! I'm a bad lot, but not
in mean tricks of this sort. In all my life this is the most caddish
thing I've done. How am I to get rid of these letters--that's what I
want to know? How am I to get rid of them?
DRUMMLE.
If I were you I should take Aubrey aside and put them into his hands
as soon as possible.
PAULA.
What! and tell him to his face that I----! No, thank you. I suppose
_you_ wouldn't like to----
DRUMMLE.
No, no; I won't touch 'em!
PAULA.
And you call yourself my friend?
DRUMMLE.
[_Good-humouredly._] No, I don't!
PAULA.
Perhaps I'll tie them together and give them to his man in the
morning.
DRUMMLE.
That won't avoid an explanation.
PAULA.
[_Recklessly._] Oh, then he must miss them----
DRUMMLE.
And trace them.
PAULA.
[_Throwing herself upon the ottoman._] I don't care!
DRUMMLE.
I know you don't; but let me send him to you now, may I?
PAULA.
Now! What do you think a woman's made of? I couldn't stand it,
Cayley. I haven't slept for nights; and last night there was
thunder, too! I believe I've got the horrors.
DRUMMLE.
[_Taking the little hand-mirror from the table._] You'll sleep well
enough when you deliver those letters. Come, come, Mrs. Aubrey--a
good night's rest! [_Holding the mirror before her face._] It's
quite time.
[_She looks at herself for a moment, then snatches the
mirror from him._
PAULA.
You brute, Cayley, to show me that!
DRUMMLE.
Then--may I? Be guided by a fr--a poor old woman! May I?
PAULA.
You'll kill me, amongst you!
DRUMMLE.
What do you say?
PAULA.
[_After a pause._] Very well. [_He nods his head and goes out
rapidly. She looks after him for a moment, and calls "Cayley!
Cayley!" Then she again produces the letters, deliberately, one by
one, fingering them with aversion. Suddenly she starts, turning her
head towards the door._] Ah!
AUBREY _enters quickly._
AUBREY.
Paula!
PAULA.
[_Handing him the letters, her face averted._] There! [_He examines
the letters, puzzled, and looks at her inquiringly._] They are many
days old. I stole them, I suppose to make you anxious and unhappy.
[_He looks at the letters again, then lays them aside on
the table._
AUBREY.
[_Gently._] Paula, dear, it doesn't matter.
PAULA.
[_After a short pause._] Why--why do you take it like this?
AUBREY.
What did you expect?
PAULA.
Oh, but I suppose silent reproaches are really the severest. And
then, naturally, you are itching to open your letters.
[_She crosses the room as if to go._
AUBREY.
Paula! [_She pauses._] Surely, surely it's all over now?
PAULA.
All over! [_Mockingly._.] Has my step-daughter returned then? When
did she arrive? I haven't heard of it!
AUBREY.
You can be very cruel.
PAULA.
That word's always on a man's lips; he uses it if his soup's cold.
[_With another movement as if to go._] Need we----
AUBREY.
I know I've wounded you, Paula. But isn't there any way out of
this?
PAULA.
When does Ellean return? To-morrow? Next week?
AUBREY.
[_Wearily._] Oh! Why should we grudge Ellean the little pleasure she
is likely to find in Paris and in London.
PAULA.
I grudge her nothing, if that's a hit at me. But with that
woman----!
AUBREY.
It must be that woman or another. You know that at present we are
unable to give Ellean the opportunity of--of----
PAULA.
Of mixing with respectable people.
AUBREY.
The opportunity of gaining friends, experience, ordinary knowledge
of the world. If you are interested in Ellean, can't you see how
useful Mrs. Cortelyon's good offices are?
PAULA.
May I put one question? At the end of the London season, when Mrs.
Cortelyon has done with Ellean, is it quite understood that the
girl comes back to us? [AUBREY _is silent._] Is it? Is it?
AUBREY.
Let us wait till the end of the season----
PAULA.
Oh! I knew it. You're only fooling me; you put me off with any
trash. I believe you've sent Ellean away, not for the reasons you
give, but because you don't consider me a decent companion for her,
because you're afraid she might get a little of her innocence rubbed
off in my company? Come, isn't that the truth? Be honest! Isn't that
it?
AUBREY.
Yes.
[_There is a moment's silence on both sides._
PAULA.
[_With uplifted hands as if to strike him._] Oh!
AUBREY.
[_Taking her by the wrists._] Sit down. Sit down. [_He puts her into
a chair; she shakes herself free with a cry._] Now listen to me.
Fond as you are, Paula, of harking back to your past, there's one
chapter of it you always let alone. I've never asked you to speak of
it; you've never offered to speak of it. I mean the chapter that
relates to the time when you were--like Ellean. [_She attempts to
rise; he restrains her._] No, no.
PAULA.
I don't choose to talk about that time. I won't satisfy your
curiosity.
AUBREY.
My dear Paula, I have no curiosity--I know what you were at Ellean's
age. I'll tell you. You hadn't a thought that wasn't a wholesome
one, you hadn't an impulse that didn't tend towards good, you never
harboured a notion you couldn't have gossiped about to a parcel of
children. [_She makes another effort to rise: he lays his hand
lightly on her shoulder._] And this was a very few years back--there
are days now when you look like a schoolgirl--but think of the
difference between the two Paulas. You'll have to think hard,
because after a cruel life one's perceptions grow a thick skin. But,
for God's sake, do think till you get these two images clearly in
your mind, and then ask yourself what sort of a friend such a woman
as you are to-day would have been for the girl of seven or eight
years ago.
PAULA.
[_Rising._] How dare you? I could be almost as good a friend to
Ellean as her own mother would have been had she lived. I know what
you mean. How dare you?
AUBREY.
You say that; very likely you believe it. But you're blind, Paula;
you're blind. You! Every belief that a young, pure-minded girl holds
sacred--that you once held sacred--you now make a target for a jest,
a sneer, a paltry cynicism. I tell you, you're not mistress any
longer of your thoughts or your tongue. Why, how often, sitting
between you and Ellean, have I seen her cheeks turn scarlet as
you've rattled off some tale that belongs by right to the club or
the smoking-room! Have you noticed the blush? If you have, has the
cause of it ever struck you? And this is the girl you say you love,
I admit that you _do_ love, whose love you expect in return! Oh,
Paula, I make the best, the only, excuse for you when I tell you
you're blind!
PAULA.
Ellean--Ellean blushes easily.
AUBREY.
You blushed as easily a few years ago.
PAULA.
[_After a short pause._] Well! Have you finished your sermon?
AUBREY.
[_With a gesture of despair._] Oh, Paula!
[_Going up to the window and standing with his back to
the room._
PAULA.
[_To herself._] A few--years ago! [_She walks slowly towards the
door, then suddenly drops upon the ottoman in a paroxysm of
weeping._] O God! A few years ago!
AUBREY.
[_Going to her._] Paula!
PAULA.
[_Sobbing._] Oh, don't touch me!
AUBREY.
Paula!
PAULA.
Oh, go away from me! [_He goes back a few steps, and after a little
while she becomes calmer and rises unsteadily; then in an altered
tone._] Look here----! [_He advances a step; she checks him with a
quick gesture._] Look here! Get rid of these people--Mabel and her
husband--as soon as possible! I--I've done with them!
AUBREY.
[_In a whisper._] Paula!
PAULA.
And then--then--when the time comes for Ellean to leave Mrs.
Cortelyon, give me--give me another chance! [_He advances again, but
she shrinks away._] No, no!
[_She goes out by the door on the right. He sinks on to
the settee, covering his eyes with his hands. There is
a brief silence, then a_ SERVANT _enters._]
SERVANT.
Mrs. Cortelyon, sir, with Miss Ellean.
[AUBREY _rises to meet_ MRS. CORTELYON, _who enters,
followed by_ ELLEAN, _both being in travelling dresses.
The_ SERVANT _withdraws._
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_Shaking hands with_ AUBREY.] Oh, my dear Aubrey!
AUBREY.
Mrs. Cortelyon! [_Kissing_ ELLEAN.] Ellean dear!
ELLEAN.
Papa, is all well at home?
MRS. CORTELYON.
We're shockingly anxious.
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, all's well. This is quite unexpected. [_To_ MRS.
CORTELYON.] You've found Paris insufferably hot?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Insufferably hot! Paris is pleasant enough. We've had no letter from
you!
AUBREY.
I wrote to Ellean a week ago.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Without alluding to the subject I had written to you upon.
AUBREY.
[_Thinking._] Ah, of course----
MRS. CORTELYON.
And since then we've both written and you've been absolutely silent.
Oh, it's too bad!
AUBREY.
[_Picking up the letters from the table._] It isn't altogether my
fault. Here are the letters----
ELLEAN.
Papa!
MRS. CORTELYON.
They're unopened.
AUBREY.
An accident delayed their reaching me till this evening. I'm afraid
this has upset you very much.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Upset me!
ELLEAN.
[_In an undertone to_ MRS. CORTELYON.] Never mind. Not now,
dear--not to-night.
AUBREY.
Eh?
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_To_ ELLEAN _aloud._] Child, run away and take your things off. She
doesn't look as if she'd journeyed from Paris to-day.
AUBREY.
I've never seen her with such a colour.
[_Taking_ ELLEAN'S _hands._
ELLEAN.
[_To_ AUBREY, _in a faint voice._] Papa, Mrs. Cortelyon has been so
very, very kind to me, but I--I have come home.
[_She goes out._
AUBREY.
Come home! [_To_ MRS. CORTELYON.] Ellean returns to us, then?
MRS. CORTELYON.
That's the very point I put to you in my letters, and you oblige me
to travel from Paris to Willowmere on a warm day to settle it. I
think perhaps it's right that Ellean should be with you just now,
although I---- My dear friend, circumstances are a little altered.
AUBREY.
Alice, you're in some trouble.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Well--yes, I _am_ in trouble. You remember pretty little Mrs.
Brereton who was once Caroline Ardale?
AUBREY.
Quite well.
MRS. CORTELYON.
She's a widow now, poor thing. She has the _entresol_ of the house
where we've been lodging in the Avenue de Friedland. Caroline's a
dear chum of mine; she formed a great liking for Ellean.
AUBREY.
I'm very glad.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Yes, it's nice for her to meet her mother's friends. Er--that young
Hugh Ardale the papers were full of some time ago--he's Caroline
Brereton's brother, you know.
AUBREY.
No, I didn't know. What did he do? I forget.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Checked one of those horrid mutinies at some far-away station in
India, marched down with a handful of his men and a few faithful
natives, and held the place until he was relieved. They gave him his
company and a V.C. for it.
AUBREY.
And he's Mrs. Brereton's brother?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Yes. He's with his sister--_was_, rather--in Paris. He's
home--invalided. Good gracious, Aubrey, why don't you help me out?
Can't you guess what has occurred?
AUBREY.
Alice!
MRS. CORTELYON.
Young Ardale--Ellean!
AUBREY.
An attachment?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Yes, Aubrey. [_After a little pause._] Well, I suppose I've got
myself into sad disgrace. But really I didn't foresee anything of
this kind. A serious, reserved child like Ellean, and a boyish,
high-spirited soldier--it never struck me as being likely. [AUBREY
_paces to and fro thoughtfully._] I did all I could directly Captain
Ardale spoke--wrote to you at once. Why on earth don't you receive
your letters promptly, and when you do get them why can't you open
them? I endured the anxiety till last night, and then made up my
mind--home! Of course, it has worried me terribly. My head's
bursting. Are there any salts about? [AUBREY _fetches a bottle from
the cabinet and hands it to her._] We've had one of those hateful
smooth crossings that won't let you be properly indisposed.
AUBREY.
My dear Alice, I assure you I've no thought of blaming you.
MRS. CORTELYON.
That statement always precedes a quarrel.
AUBREY.
I don't know whether this is the worst or the best luck. How will my
wife regard it? Is Captain Ardale a good fellow?
MRS. CORTELYON.
My dear Aubrey, you'd better read up the accounts of his wonderful
heroism. Face to face with death for a whole week; always with a
smile and a cheering word for the poor helpless souls depending on
him! Of course, it's that that has stirred the depths of your
child's nature. I've watched her while we've been dragging the story
out of him, and if angels look different from Ellean at that moment,
I don't desire to meet any, that's all!
AUBREY.
If you were in my position----? But you can't judge.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Why, if I had a marriageable daughter of my own and Captain Ardale
proposed for her, naturally I should cry my eyes out all night--but
I should thank Heaven in the morning.