_PENELOPE_
_THE PLAYS OF
WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM_
Uniformly bound cloth, 2s 6d; paper covers, 1s 6d each
_LADY FREDERICK_
_JACK STRAW_
_A MAN OF HONOUR_
_MRS. DOT_
_THE EXPLORER_
_NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
Price 6s each
_THE EXPLORER_
_THE MAGICIAN_
_THE MERRY-GO-ROUND_
_MRS. CRADDOCK_
_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_
_PENELOPE_
_A COMEDY_
_In Three Acts_
_BY W. S. MAUGHAM_
_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_
_MCMXII_
_Copyright 1912_
This play, originally called _Man and Wife_, was produced at the Comedy
Theatre on Saturday, January 9, 1909, with the following cast:
DR. O’FARRELL W. GRAHAM BROWNE
PROFESSOR GOLIGHTLY ALFRED BISHOP
DAVENPORT BARLOW ERIC LEWIS
MR. BEADSWORTH HERBERT ROSS
MR. ANDERSON J. H. BREWER
MRS. FERGUSSON NORMA WHALLEY
MRS. GOLIGHTLY KATE BISHOP
MRS. WATSON MRS. CHARLES CALVERT
PEYTON E. ARTHUR JONES
PENELOPE MARIE TEMPEST
_CHARACTERS_
PENELOPE
DR. O’FARRELL
PROFESSOR GOLIGHTLY
MRS. GOLIGHTLY
MR. DAVENPORT BARLOW
MRS. FERGUSSON
MR. BEADSWORTH
MRS. WATSON
A PATIENT
PEYTON
SCENE: _Dr. O’Farrell’s house in John Street, Mayfair_
TIME: _The Present Day_
_The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission
to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in
advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green
Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be
obtained._
PENELOPE
THE FIRST ACT
SCENE: _A drawing-room in_ O’FARRELL’S _house in John Street. It is
very prettily but not extravagantly furnished. The_ O’FARRELLS _are
a young married couple of modest income_.
_It is between six and seven in the evening._
PEYTON, _a neat parlour-maid, opens the door and shows in_ MR.
DAVENPORT BARLOW.
BARLOW _is a short, self-important person of middle age. He is very
bald, red in the face, and wears a small, neatly curled moustache;
he is dressed in the height of fashion. His manner is fussy and
pompous. He comes forward as though he expected to find some one in
the room. Seeing that it is empty, he stops and looks at_ PEYTON.
_He cannot make out why there is no one to receive him._
BARLOW.
[_In a tone of surprise._] Is Mrs. O’Farrell not here?
PEYTON.
No, sir.
BARLOW.
H’m.... Will you let her know I’ve come?
PEYTON.
Mrs. O’Farrell is not at home, sir.
BARLOW.
Not at home?... But....
PEYTON.
Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you kindly sit down and make yourself
comfortable? And I was to give you the _Morning Post_.
BARLOW.
[_Pompously._] I can’t imagine why Mrs. O’Farrell should think I haven’t
read the _Morning Post_ at six o’clock in the evening.
PEYTON.
[_Imperturbably._] And Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a whisky and
soda, sir?
BARLOW.
But when is Mrs. O’Farrell coming in?
PEYTON.
I don’t know at all, sir.
BARLOW.
But she telegraphed to me this afternoon, asking me to come and see her
at once.
PEYTON.
Yes, sir; I took the telegram to the post office myself.
BARLOW.
It seems very extraordinary that she should have gone out. The matter
was of considerable importance.
PEYTON.
[_Politely._] Yes, sir.
BARLOW.
Very well, I’ll sit down and wait. But I can’t stay long. I’m dining at
... no matter.
PEYTON.
Very good, sir.
[PEYTON _goes out_. BARLOW _goes to a looking-glass, takes a little
brush out of his pocket, and brushes his moustache_. PEYTON _comes
in again with a small tray on which are a decanter, a syphon, and a
glass_.
BARLOW.
Oh, thank you. Did you say you had the _Morning Post_?
PEYTON.
Yes, sir. [_She hands it to him.
BARLOW.
Ah, thank you.
[PEYTON _goes out_. BARLOW _helps himself to a whisky and soda,
turns to the fashionable intelligence in the paper, and begins to
read it with a little smile of self-satisfaction_.
BARLOW.
[_Half to himself._] The Duchess of St. Erth returned to Wales
yesterday. The Marchioness of Mereston has arrived at 89 Grosvenor
Square. The Marchioness of Serlo and Lady Eleanor King leave for Paris
this morning.
[PEYTON _comes in, followed by_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY. MRS. GOLIGHTLY _is
an extremely stout, good-natured lady of middle age. She is very
active, but short of breath. She gives one a continual impression
of having just run up a steep hill. She is_ DAVENPORT BARLOW’S
_sister_.
PEYTON.
Mrs. Golightly.
BARLOW.
Isabel!
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Are you here, Davenport? Where’s Penelope?
BARLOW.
[_As if it were the most extraordinary thing in the world._] She’s out!
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Astonished._] Out?
[_She turns to_ PEYTON _with a look of inquiry_.
PEYTON.
Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you kindly sit down and make yourself
comfortable, ma’am? And I was to bring you the _Church Times_.
BARLOW.
But....
PEYTON.
[_Calmly._] And Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a strong cup of tea,
ma’am?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I’m surprised that Mrs. O’Farrell should have gone out, because she
expected me.
PEYTON.
[_Handing_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY _a paper_.] Yes, ma’am.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Taking it._] What is this?
PEYTON.
The _Church Times_, ma’am.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a look of exasperation at_ BARLOW.] Oh, thank you.... I think I
will have a cup of tea, please.
PEYTON.
Very good, ma’am.
[_Exit._
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I wonder why on earth Penelope should insist on my reading the _Church
Times_.
BARLOW.
I’ve just had a telegram from her.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
So have I, asking me to come at once. [_With a ray of light._] Perhaps
we shall find some explanation in the _Church Times_.
BARLOW.
Nonsense. What can the _Church Times_ have to do with the Archduchess
Anastasia?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
My dear Davenport, what are you talking about?
[PEYTON _enters to announce_ PROFESSOR GOLIGHTLY _and immediately
afterwards goes out_. GOLIGHTLY _is a tall, spare man with grey
hair, well groomed and alert. He is neatly dressed, quite tidy, and
might just as well be a lawyer or a doctor as a professor of
mathematics. He is clean-shaven._
PEYTON.
Professor Golightly.
GOLIGHTLY.
Hulloa, Davenport! [_To his wife._] My dear, you’re the last person I
expected to find here. I thought there was a meeting of the Missionary
Society at the Albert Hall.
[PEYTON _comes in with a tray on which are tea-things, a glass of
barley-water, and a copy of the “Athenæum_.”
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Oh, thank you.
PEYTON.
[_To_ GOLIGHTLY.] Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a glass of
barley-water, sir?
GOLIGHTLY.
Barley-water!
PEYTON.
And I was to bring you the _Athenæum_. We couldn’t get this week’s, sir,
but this is last week’s, and Mrs. O’Farrell hopes it will do as well.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a faint smile._] It’s very kind of you to have taken so much
trouble.
PEYTON.
Thank you, sir.
[_Exit._
GOLIGHTLY.
What on earth does Penelope want me to do with last week’s _Athenæum_
and a glass of barley-water?
BARLOW.
Well, presumably she wants you to drink the one and to read the other.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_To his wife._] My dear, I think it’s very hard that you should have
brought up our only child on the idea that my favourite form of
refreshment is barley-water.
BARLOW.
It looks as if Penelope expected you, too.
GOLIGHTLY.
I’ve just had a wire from her.
BARLOW.
Have you? I wonder why on earth she wired to you.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
It’s so extraordinary that she shouldn’t be here. It makes me feel very
nervous.
GOLIGHTLY.
Well, frankly, I couldn’t make head or tail of it, so I jumped into a
motor cab and came round from the club at once.
[PEYTON _comes in, followed by_ BEADSWORTH. _He is a middle-aged
solicitor, with a benign manner._
PEYTON.
Mr. Beadsworth.
GOLIGHTLY.
Well, I’m hanged.
BARLOW.
My dear Charles, I wish you wouldn’t be slangy. It’s gone out in our
set.
BEADSWORTH.
[_Shaking hands with_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY.] I’ve just had a telegram from
Penelope asking me to come at once. [_Turning to_ PEYTON.] Will you let
Mrs. O’Farrell know I’m here?
GOLIGHTLY.
She’s out.
PEYTON.
Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you make yourself comfortable, sir, and we’ve
got the _Law Times_ if you’d like to read it, and will you have a glass
of port, sir?
[BEADSWORTH _looks round at the others in bewilderment_.
GOLIGHTLY.
By all means have a glass of port, and I’ll swop it for my barley-water.
BEADSWORTH.
[_To_ PEYTON.] Thank you.
PEYTON.
[_Handing him the paper._] Very good, sir.
[_Exit._
BEADSWORTH.
What does she want me to do with the _Law Times_?
GOLIGHTLY.
I asked the same question when Peyton handed me last week’s _Athenæum_,
and Davenport, with the perspicacity that distinguishes him, answered:
read it.
BEADSWORTH.
Can you tell me what Penelope wants? Her telegram suggested that she
wished to see me not as an old friend, but in my official capacity as
the family solicitor.
GOLIGHTLY.
I haven’t an idea. I thought her telegram most mysterious.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I wish she’d come in. I’m beginning to be dreadfully uneasy.
BARLOW.
[_Rather pompously._] I think I can put your minds at rest. I am in a
position to explain the whole matter to you. The telegram she sent me
makes it perfectly clear. I daresay you know that the Archduchess
Anastasia is a patient of Dickie’s. And a very nice patient for him to
have. I’ve never met her, though I happen to know several members of her
family, and she’s a very cultivated, pleasant woman. I’ve always said to
Dickie that that is the sort of practice he ought to get. The middle
classes do a doctor no good.
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear Davenport, do go on with your story.
BARLOW.
Well, it appears that the Archduchess Anastasia has signified her desire
to know Penelope. Very charming and graceful action on her part, and
just like her. Of course she’s extremely grateful to Dickie for all he’s
done. He’s worked a miraculous cure, and I daresay she’s heard that
Penelope is my niece. It’s a maxim you can always go on: royalty knows
everything. And the long and the short of it is that she’s coming to
lunch here. Of course Penelope knows nothing about these matters, and in
a state of great excitement she’s sent for me. It’s the best thing she
could do. I can tell her everything. I’ve lived in that set all my life.
It’s nothing to be particularly proud about--mere accident of birth--I
happen to be a gentleman. A certain family. Well, there it is, you see.
GOLIGHTLY.
But do you mean to say that Penelope wired all that to you? It must have
cost her a perfect fortune.
BARLOW.
She put it a little more briefly, of course, but that was the gist of
it.
BEADSWORTH.
I can’t imagine why she should send for me because a royalty is coming
to luncheon with her. It was very inconvenient to get away. I had a
dozen people waiting to see me, and I was obliged to slip out by the
back door in order to avoid them.
GOLIGHTLY.
But what are the exact words of the wire she sent you, Davenport?
BARLOW.
You can see it if you like. [_Taking it from his pocket and reading._]
“Come at once. Archduchess Anastasia. Penelope.”
GOLIGHTLY.
But d’you mean to say that you made up all that story out of those three
words?
BARLOW.
Penelope knew I had a certain amount of intelligence. She didn’t want to
waste her money, so she just put what was essential, and left me to
gather the rest.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
But my telegram says nothing about the Archduchess Anastasia.
BARLOW.
What did Penelope say to you?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Taking out the telegram._] “Come at once! Grave scandal! Central
African Mission. Penelope.”
BARLOW.
But that’s absurd. You know how stupid the Post Office is. They must
have made a mistake. I know that the Pomeranian Royal Family is very
odd, but there _are_ limits, and I can’t imagine the Archduchess
Anastasia being mixed up in a scandal with a Central African missionary.
BEADSWORTH.
Well, my wire merely said: “Come at once; six and eightpence. Penelope.”
BARLOW.
Six and eightpence! Why six and eightpence?
BEADSWORTH.
I don’t know. That is why I lost no time in coming.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a twinkle._] My impression is that the Archduchess Anastasia,
instead of paying Dickie’s bill for miraculously curing her, has eloped
with a missionary, and Penelope, by aid of the law [_with a gesture
towards_ BEADSWORTH], wants to recover the money.
BARLOW.
It’s nonsense! You’re so unpractical, Charles.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_To her husband._] But you had a telegram too, dear.
GOLIGHTLY.
“Come at once. Decimal 7035. Penelope.”
BARLOW.
How very odd.
[_The door is softly opened and_ PENELOPE _slips in; for a moment
the others do not see her, and she stands smiling at them_.
GOLIGHTLY _catches sight of her. All the others turn._]
GOLIGHTLY.
Penelope.
THE OTHERS.
Penelope.
PENELOPE.
[_Coming forward and kissing_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY.] Good evening, mamma!
BARLOW.
[_Eagerly._] Well?
PENELOPE.
Well, papa. [_She puts her face up for him to kiss._]
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Anxiously._] Now, Penelope.
PENELOPE.
Oh, Mr. Beadsworth, how nice of you to come. [_She shakes hands with
him._] Kiss me, Uncle Davenport. [_She calmly puts up her face. With
some irritation he kisses her._]
PENELOPE.
Thank you.... Was your whisky and soda quite right? [_Looking round._]
And the port? Father, you haven’t touched the barley-water. You
ungrateful old thing!
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Exasperated._] My dear, for goodness’ sake explain.
BARLOW.
Where have you been all this time?
PENELOPE.
I--I’ve been sitting in the consulting-room. [_With a roguish smile._] I
watched you all come in.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Rather injured._] Peyton said you were out.
BARLOW.
Really, Penelope, I think your behaviour is outrageous.
PENELOPE.
You see, I thought if I saw you one after the other as you came in, I
should have to make four scenes instead of one. It would have been very
exhausting and not nearly so effective.
GOLIGHTLY.
Are you going to make a scene?
PENELOPE.
[_With the greatest satisfaction._] I’m going to make a dreadful scene
in a minute.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Now, my dear, before you go any further, for goodness’ sake tell us what
you meant by your telegrams.
PENELOPE.
Well, you see, I wanted you all to come immediately, and I thought the
best thing was to trail your ruling passions under your noses.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Do you understand what she means, Charles?
PENELOPE.
My dear mother, it’s the simplest thing in the world. You spend your
life in converting the heathen--from a distance--and I knew if I
mentioned the Central African Mission you’d fly here on the wings of the
wind.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
In point of fact I came in an omnibus. But do you mean to tell me that
there has been no scandal in connection with the Central African
Mission?
PENELOPE.
[_Smiling._] I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint you, mother.
GOLIGHTLY.
And what in heaven’s name made you wire decimal 7035 to me?
PENELOPE.
Oh, that’s our telephone number, and I just put decimal instead of
Gerrard.
GOLIGHTLY.
I thought the figures were strangely familiar.
PENELOPE.
And there you are, you see.
BARLOW.
[_Chuckling._] I think it’s a capital idea. And she just flung the words
six and eightpence at you, Beadsworth, and knew she’d fetch the lawyer.
PENELOPE.
[_To_ BEADSWORTH.] You’re not cross with me, are you?
[_He shakes his head, smiling._
BARLOW.
And now, my dear, that you’ve disposed of them, tell me all about the
Archduchess Anastasia.
PENELOPE.
[_Looking at him blankly._] The Archduchess Anastasia? But I invented
her.
BARLOW.
What d’you mean, you invented her? I know her well, I’ve known her for
years. I know her whole family.
PENELOPE.
[_Rather embarrassed, but trying not to laugh._] Well, you see--I wanted
you to come, too. And....
BARLOW.
I don’t understand what you mean at all, Penelope. You mention one of my
most intimate friends, and then you tell me you invented her.
PENELOPE.
I’m awfully sorry. I really didn’t know there was such a person, and I
thought I’d made her up out of my own head.... [_With a chuckle._] I
think it was rather clever of me to hit upon some one you know so well.
BARLOW.
I don’t know why you should think the mere mention of the Archduchess’s
name would make me come here.
PENELOPE.
Well, you see, I know that you go out a great deal, and you know such
crowds of people. I felt quite sure that if there were an Archduchess
Anastasia you’d know her, and [_with a wave of the hand_] well, there it
is you see.
[BARLOW _fumes silently, but does not answer_.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Now, Penelope, tell us what you really do want.
PENELOPE.
[_In matter-of-fact tones._] I want to divorce Dickie.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
What!
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear child.
BARLOW.
Good gracious!
[_These three speeches are said simultaneously._
PENELOPE.
[_Ruefully._] I intended to make such a scene, and now you’ve made me
blurt it all out in three words.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
But I don’t understand.
PENELOPE.
I’ll say it again, shall I? I want to divorce Dickie.
BEADSWORTH.
You don’t really mean it, do you?
PENELOPE.
[_Indignantly._] Of course I mean it. I’m never going to speak to him
again. That’s to say, I shall have a scene with him first. I’m quite
determined to have a scene with somebody.
GOLIGHTLY.
And where is Dickie now?
PENELOPE.
He’s on his way home with the usual story. [_With a sudden break in her
voice._] Oh, if you only knew how utterably miserable I am.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
My darling, is it really serious?
PENELOPE.
[_Desperately._] Oh, what can I do to make you all understand?
GOLIGHTLY.
The best way would be to begin at the beginning, and tell us all about
it coherently.
BARLOW.
[_Pompously._] My dear Charles, this is not the kind of matter in which
you can be of any use. You’re a mathematician, and you’re not expected
to know anything about practical affairs.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Faintly ironic._] I apologise profusely.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_To_ PENELOPE, _to ask her to speak_.] Darling?
PENELOPE.
Well, the first thing is that I simply dote upon Dickie. I’ve never
loved any one else, and I never shall.
BEADSWORTH.
That’s a very satisfactory confession after four years of matrimony.
PENELOPE.
Five years, three months, and two days. And every day I’ve loved Dickie
more.
BEADSWORTH.
I’ve never seen a more devoted couple.
PENELOPE.
We’ve never had a quarrel. We’ve never even been cross with one another.
It’s been a honeymoon that’s never come to an end.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Well?
PENELOPE.
And now I’ve discovered that he’s been lying to me for the last month.
He’s been coming home dreadfully late, and when I’ve asked him where
he’s been, he’s said that he had to see a patient who was very ill--such
an interesting case--and it worried him so much that he was obliged to
go to his club and have a rubber to settle his nerves. And the
interesting case and the rubber of bridge are Ada Fergusson.
BARLOW.
[_Pompously._] But who is Ada Fergusson? I’ve never heard of her.
PENELOPE.
Ada Fergusson’s a great friend of mine. And I hate her. I always knew
she was a cat. For the last four weeks Dickie’s been spending every
afternoon with her from four till seven.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Raising his eyebrows._] But do you always ask your husband where he’s
been when he comes in?
PENELOPE.
[_Impatiently._] My dear papa, what has that got to do with it? We all
know that you’re an old dear, and the greatest mathematician in the
world, but you know nothing about life at all.
GOLIGHTLY.
I apologise again.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Give him a sheet of paper and a pencil, Penelope, and he’ll amuse
himself by doing sums while we talk the matter out.
PENELOPE.
[_Pushing writing materials over to him._] There you are, papa.
BEADSWORTH.
But how did you find out?
PENELOPE.
[_Impatiently._] Oh, what does it matter how I found out! I’ve got all
sorts of proofs.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
You could knock me down with a feather.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a smile._] My dear!
BARLOW.
I am not in the least surprised.
PENELOPE.
Uncle Davenport!
BARLOW.
I have expected it all along. You will remember, Isabel, that I was
against the marriage from the beginning. I said, one doesn’t marry a
doctor. One sometimes meets them in society when they’ve had their
angles rubbed off a little and perhaps have been knighted, but one never
meets their wives. We suppose they do marry, but they don’t marry any
one we know. I may be old-fashioned, but I stick to my opinion that
there are only three possible professions for a gentleman, the law, the
army, and the church.
PENELOPE.
My dear Uncle Davenport, you’re talking nonsense.
BARLOW.
[_Huffily._] You ask me for my opinion, and I give it you. I regret that
you should think it nonsense.
BEADSWORTH.
And what are you proposing to do now?
PENELOPE.
[_With great determination._] I’m never going to live with Dickie again.
As soon as I’ve seen him I shall leave this house for ever.
BEADSWORTH.
You’re proposing to have a few words with him?
PENELOPE.
Several. I’m going to tell him that I despise him, and that I hate him;
I’m going to throw my wedding ring in his face, and then I shall sweep
out of the room.
BEADSWORTH.
Have you really made up your mind that you won’t forgive him?
PENELOPE.
Nothing would induce me ever to speak to him again if it weren’t that I
want to tell him exactly what I think of him.
BARLOW.
Besides, you’ve got your family to think of. Of course you must leave
him. You see, that is what I say, you’re not safe with people of no
birth. I look upon all this as a blessing in disguise.
BEADSWORTH.
Do you wish to bring an action for judicial separation?
PENELOPE.
My dear Mr. Beadsworth, what are you talking about! I’m going to divorce
him. I’m going to make an awful scandal.
BEADSWORTH.
Well, I suppose we could arrange that at a pinch with the help of the
newspapers. Has he ever been cruel to you?
PENELOPE.
Good heavens, no! That’s what makes me so angry. The last month he’s
been more perfectly charming and delightful than ever. Oh, I wish I
could do something really unpleasant to Ada Fergusson. Something with
boiling oil in it.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I am shocked, frankly shocked. I would never have thought that Dickie
could be so wicked.
BARLOW.
Family life in England is going to the dogs. That is the long and short
of it.
[_Suddenly_ PENELOPE _catches sight of what_ GOLIGHTLY _has been
diligently writing_. _She gives the paper a startled look and then
turns round._
PENELOPE.
Mother, a dreadful thing has happened. Papa has suddenly become a
drivelling lunatic.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, what are you saying?
PENELOPE.
He’s been adding two and two together all over that piece of paper, and
he makes it five every time.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Charles!
[PENELOPE _hands the sheet to_ BARLOW.
PENELOPE.
Look.
BARLOW.
Two and two are five. Two and two are five.
[_He passes it on to_ BEADSWORTH.
BEADSWORTH.
Two and two are five. Two and two are five.
BARLOW.
I knew this would happen. I’ve been expecting it for years.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Charles, pull yourself together.
PENELOPE.
Papa, you don’t really think that two and two are five?
GOLIGHTLY.
On the contrary, I’m convinced that two and two are four.
PENELOPE.
Then why on earth have you made it five?
GOLIGHTLY.
Do you know why you buy Pears’ soap?
PENELOPE.
I expect you’ve been working too hard, father dear. Why don’t you go and
lie down for half an hour? And when Dickie comes in he’ll give you a
tonic.
GOLIGHTLY.
You buy Pears’ soap because you’re told on fifty thousand hoardings that
it’s matchless for the complexion.
PENELOPE.
That’s not funny, papa, that’s silly.
GOLIGHTLY.
You’ve only got to say a thing often enough, and all the world will
believe it. And when the world believes it, it’s very hard to say if
it’s true or not.
PENELOPE.
What has that got to do with two and two?
GOLIGHTLY.
I thought if I wrote “two and two are five” often enough I might come to
think it true.
PENELOPE.
But if you wrote it a million times it wouldn’t be any truer.
GOLIGHTLY.
That is the conclusion I’m regretfully forced to.
PENELOPE.
Well?
GOLIGHTLY.
The whole of life is merely a matter of adding two and two together and
getting the right answer.
BARLOW.
My dear Charles, if you’re going to discuss life I think there’s no need
for me to stay. I’ve told you for twenty years that you’re a scholar and
a recluse. I have lived in the world, and I’m a practical man. If
Penelope wants to consult me, I am at her service; if not....
PENELOPE.
Hold your tongue, Uncle Davenport.
BARLOW.
Really, Penelope.
GOLIGHTLY.
During the last five years I’ve seen you adding two and two together
and making them about seventy-nine.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charles. Dickie’s behaviour is
abominable, and there are no excuses for him. It’s a mere matter of
common morality.
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, I have no objection to you talking common morality if you’ll
let me talk common sense.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
My dear Charles, they’re the same thing.
PENELOPE.
If you think you can make me forgive Dickie by telling me that you were
a wicked old thing yourself in your youth, I may as well tell you at
once that it won’t wash.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Outraged._] What are you talking about, my dear?
PENELOPE.
Well, I’ve noticed that when a woman discovers that her husband has been
unfaithful, her male relations invariably try to console her by telling
her how shockingly they’ve treated their own wives.
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, I was going to confess nothing of the sort. I never confess.
PENELOPE.
Of course, if it were the other way about, and mamma had kicked over the
traces a little....
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Darling, can you see me performing an acrobatic feat of that character?
PENELOPE.
Go on, papa.
GOLIGHTLY.
I think you’ve treated Dickie shamefully.
PENELOPE.
[_Astounded._] I?
GOLIGHTLY.
If your mother had behaved to me as you’ve behaved to Dickie, I should
certainly have taken to drink.
PENELOPE.
But I’ve been a perfect angel. I’ve simply worshipped the ground he
walked on. I’ve loved him as no man was ever loved before.
GOLIGHTLY.
No man could stand it.
PENELOPE.
Papa, what do you mean?
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, you’ve loved him morning, noon, and night. You’ve loved him
when he talked, and you’ve loved him when he was silent. You’ve loved
him walking, you’ve loved him eating, you’ve loved him sleeping. He’s
never been able to escape from your love.
PENELOPE.
But I couldn’t help it.
GOLIGHTLY.
You need not have shown it.
PENELOPE.
And do you mean to say that justifies him in philandering with Ada
Fergusson?
GOLIGHTLY.
It excuses him.
PENELOPE.
What beasts men must be!
GOLIGHTLY.
No; but strange as it may seem to you, they’re human beings. When you
were a child you doted on strawberry ices.
PENELOPE.
I dote on them still.
GOLIGHTLY.
Would you like to eat strawberry ice for breakfast, lunch, tea, and
dinner every day for a month?
PENELOPE.
Good heavens! the thought fills me with horror.
GOLIGHTLY.
Poor Dickie has lived on strawberry ice for five years. It’s been his
only means of sustenance.
PENELOPE.
[_With consternation._] Oh!
GOLIGHTLY.
You’ve never let him go out without coming into the hall to put on his
hat and kiss him good-bye; he’s never come into the house without you
running down to help him off with his coat and kiss him welcome. When he
sat down after breakfast in the morning to read his paper and smoke his
pipe, I’ve seen you sit down on the arm of his chair and put your arm
round his neck.
BARLOW.
[_Outraged._] Penelope!
PENELOPE.
Do you think it was very awful?
BARLOW.
My dear child!
PENELOPE.
[_To_ BEADSWORTH.] Did Mrs. Beadsworth never sit on the arm of your
chair when you were smoking your pipe?
BEADSWORTH.
I must confess I’m thankful my wife occupied those moments in attending
to her household duties.
PENELOPE.
You are a lot of horrid old things. I ask you to come here to sympathise
with me, and you’re perfectly brutal to me.
BARLOW.
My dear Penelope, there are limits.
PENELOPE.
Well, I don’t care; I’m going to divorce him.
GOLIGHTLY.
Let’s do another little simple addition, shall we? Perhaps two and two
will make four a second time.
PENELOPE.
I don’t know that I much like being a mathematician’s daughter.
GOLIGHTLY.
Don’t you think, instead of divorcing your husband, it would be better
to win back his affection?
PENELOPE.
I don’t want his affection.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Smiling._] Are you sure you wouldn’t if you could get it?
[PENELOPE _looks at her father for a moment, then goes up to him
quickly_.
PENELOPE.
[_With tears in her voice._] Papa, d’you think I ever could win back his
love? You say I’ve lost it through my own fault. Oh, I don’t know what
to do without him. I’ve been so wretched since I knew. I’ve tried to put
a cheerful face on it, but if you knew what I feel in my heart.... Oh,
the brutes, why didn’t they hide it from me?
BARLOW.
My dear Penelope, I expected you to have more spirit. He’s a person of
no family. I should have thought you were well rid of him.
PENELOPE.
Uncle Davenport, if you say a word against him, I will immediately have
an attack of hysterics.
BARLOW.
What you expect your father to be able to tell you I can’t imagine.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Smiling._] Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings, Davenport....
BARLOW.
I shouldn’t have thought one could describe you as either. But, in any
case, I can stay no longer.
PENELOPE.
Oh, no, don’t go yet, Uncle Davenport.
BARLOW.
It appears that my advice is not wanted, and I promised to look in on
dear Lady Hollington before dinner.
PENELOPE.
Do telephone to her that you can’t come. You’ll find a telephone in my
sitting-room.
BARLOW.
[_Shrugging his shoulders._] I’m too indulgent. People don’t rate me at
my proper value.
[_He goes out._
PENELOPE.
Papa, say you’ll get Dickie back for me. I want him. I want him.
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, it’s very simple. It merely requires a great deal of tact, a
great deal of courage, and a great deal of self-control.
PENELOPE.
[_Ironically._] Nothing else?
GOLIGHTLY.
A good deal. You must never let yourself out of hand; you must keep
guard on your tongue and your eyes and your smiles--and your temper.
PENELOPE.
I think you said it was very simple.
GOLIGHTLY.
Is Ada Fergusson pretty?
PENELOPE.
No, she’s perfectly hideous.
GOLIGHTLY.
Is she? That makes it more serious.
PENELOPE.
Why?
GOLIGHTLY.
If a man falls in love with a pretty woman, he falls out of it. But if
he falls in love with a plain one, he’ll be in love with her all his
life.
PENELOPE.
You take a load off my mind. Ada Fergusson’s extremely attractive.
GOLIGHTLY.
Then you’ll get him back.
PENELOPE.
Tell me exactly what to do, and I’ll do it.
GOLIGHTLY.
Give him his head.
PENELOPE.
Is that all?
GOLIGHTLY.
It means a good deal. When he comes in, don’t make a scene, but be
charming to him. For once, don’t ask him where he’s been. When he leaves
you, don’t ask him where he’s going, nor at what time he’ll be back.
Don’t let him know that you have the least suspicion that anything has
happened. On the contrary, take every opportunity of throwing him into
Ada Fergusson’s society.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Charles, you’re asking Penelope to connive at immorality.
GOLIGHTLY.
When every difficulty disappears, Dickie will find half the savour of
the intrigue gone. Half your battle is won. Leave the rest to time and
Ada Fergusson. Let Ada Fergusson sit on the arm of his chair when he
wants to read his paper. Let him account to Ada Fergusson for all his
movements. Under such circumstances a woman is always on tenterhooks,
and consequently she’s always exacting. Whenever there’s a pause in the
conversation, Ada Fergusson will say, Do you care for me as much as ever
you did? That speech is the rope around love’s throat. Whenever he wants
to go away, Ada Fergusson will implore him to stay five minutes longer.
Those five minutes that a man stays against his will are the nails in
love’s coffin. Each time he leaves her Ada Fergusson will say, At what
time will you be back? That question is the earth shovelled into love’s
grave.
[_All this while_ PENELOPE _has been staring at_ GOLIGHTLY _with
astonishment_.
PENELOPE.
Where did you learn all this, father?
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a deprecating shrug._] It’s a mere matter of adding two and two
together, my darling.
PENELOPE.
I had no idea that mathematics were so interesting--nor so immoral.
GOLIGHTLY.
What do you think of it?
PENELOPE.
But if Dickie falls out of love with Ada Fergusson there’s no reason why
he should fall in love again with me.
GOLIGHTLY.
You must make him.
PENELOPE.
I wish I knew how.
GOLIGHTLY.
It only requires a little more tact, a little more courage, and a little
more self-control.
PENELOPE.
But if I acquire so many virtues I shan’t be a woman, but a monster, and
how can he love me then?
BEADSWORTH.
[_From the window._] There’s a car stopping at the door.
PENELOPE.
Listen.... I can hear a key being turned. It must be Dickie.
BEADSWORTH.
What are you going to do?
PENELOPE.
[_Hesitating._] What do you think, mamma?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, I highly disapprove of your father’s idea, and I can’t imagine
how it ever came into his head, but I’m bound to say I think there’s
some sense in it.
PENELOPE.
[_Making up her mind._] I’ll try. Remember, no one knows anything that
has happened. You’ll back me up, mamma, won’t you?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
You’re not going to ask me to tell a pack of lies, darling?
PENELOPE.
Only white ones, mother. If there’s a whopper to tell, I’ll tell it
myself.
BEADSWORTH.
But what about Barlow?
GOLIGHTLY.
He’s a man of the world. He’s sure to put his foot in it.
PENELOPE.
I’ll settle him.
[BARLOW _comes in_.
PENELOPE.
Ah!
BARLOW.
I could not get on to her. I don’t know what’s the matter with those
telephone girls. Hussies!
PENELOPE.
Uncle Davenport, I find I’ve been entirely mistaken about Dickie. He’s
not to blame in any way.
BARLOW.
Good gracious me! And Ada Fergusson?
PENELOPE.
Is, I have no doubt, no worse than anybody else.
BARLOW.
This is a surprise. How on earth have you come to this conclusion?
PENELOPE.
By adding two and two together.
BARLOW.
Upon my word! I must say, it annoys me that I should have been forced to
break an important engagement for no reason. I should have thought....
PENELOPE.
[_Interrupting._] Uncle Davenport, it’s quite bad enough that I should
be done out of a scene, but if you’re going to make one it’s more than I
can stand.
BEADSWORTH.
Well, as I can’t be of any more use to you, I think I’ll get back to the
bosom of my family.
PENELOPE.
Of course, I look upon this as a professional visit.
BEADSWORTH.
Oh, nonsense!
PENELOPE.
I couldn’t dream of accepting your services for nothing. You must really
let me know what I owe you.
BEADSWORTH.
I really don’t know what to say.
PENELOPE.
Dickie charges a guinea when he goes to see anybody.
BEADSWORTH.
You only mentioned six and eightpence in your telegram.
PENELOPE.
Very well, I’ll owe you that. It would really make me feel more
comfortable.
BEADSWORTH.
You’re not going to hand it over in hard cash?
PENELOPE.
I wasn’t thinking of paying you. But I’d like to think I owed it you.
You see, then, I shan’t feel under any obligation.
BEADSWORTH.
In that case I surrender. Good-bye.
PENELOPE.
Good-bye.
BARLOW.
Good-bye, Beadsworth. You must come and dine with me at the club one of
these days.
BEADSWORTH.
I should like to. Good-bye.
[_Exit._
BARLOW.
Very nice fellow. Quite a gentleman. No one would think he was a
solicitor. I shall ask him to dinner with one or two people who don’t
matter.
PENELOPE.
There’s Dickie. D’you hear him whistling? He’s evidently in the best of
spirits.
[DICKIE _comes in. He is a good-looking, well-dressed, professional
man of five-and-thirty. He has boisterous spirits and high good
humour. He is seldom put out of countenance. He has a charm of
manner which explains_ PENELOPE’S _infatuation_.
DICKIE.
Hulloa! I couldn’t make out what had become of you, Pen.
PENELOPE.
Why?
DICKIE.
You generally come down to meet me when I get in.
[PENELOPE _gives a slight start and conceals a smile_.
PENELOPE.
My sainted mother is here.
DICKIE.
[_Gaily._] That’s no reason why you should neglect a devoted husband.
[_Shaking hands with_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY.] How is your sainted mother?
Hulloa, Uncle Davenport, what price duchesses to-day?
BARLOW.
I beg your pardon. I don’t know what you mean.
DICKIE.
[_Looking round at the decanters and glasses with which the room is
scattered._] I say, you’ve been doing yourselves rather proud, haven’t
you? Who’s been drinking port?
PENELOPE.
Nobody. It’s an empty glass.
DICKIE.
That’s how providence behaves to me. Deliberately puts temptation in my
way. It’s simply poison. Gout in my family, you know. My ancestors have
lived on colchicum for a hundred years. I feel a tingling in my toes at
the mere sight of a bottle of port. And yet I drink it.
[_He fills himself a glass and sips it with great content._
BARLOW.
It’s a great mistake, of course, to think that gout is a mark of good
family. The porter of my club is a martyr to it.
DICKIE.
Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of an earl. You should ask him if he
has a strawberry mark on his left shoulder. What’s the matter, Pen?
PENELOPE.
[_Astonished._] With me?
DICKIE.
I thought you seemed a bit under the weather.
PENELOPE.
Why?
DICKIE.
I don’t know. You’re not quite up to your usual form, are you? You’ve
not asked me what I’ve been doing to-day. As a rule you’re so interested
in my movements.
PENELOPE.
[_With a glance at her father._] I thought you’d tell me if you wanted
to.
DICKIE.
I say, I do think that’s a bit thick. I go slaving my very soul out to
provide you with a motor and nice frocks and things, and you don’t take
the smallest interest in what I do.
PENELOPE.
[_Smiling._] Well, what have you been doing this afternoon?
DICKIE.
[_With a sigh of relief._] Oh, I’ve had the very deuce of a day. I’ve
got a very interesting case on just now. Taking up a lot of my time. Of
course, it worries me rather, but I suppose all these things come in the
day’s march. Well, I spent the best part of an hour there.
PENELOPE.
An hour?
DICKIE.
Yes, we had a consultation, you know.
PENELOPE.
But you had a consultation yesterday.
DICKIE.
Yesterday? Yes, she’s a fussy old thing. She’s always wanting
consultations.
PENELOPE.
That’s jolly, isn’t it?
DICKIE.
I don’t think it is. It looks as if she hadn’t really confidence in me.
PENELOPE.
On the other hand, you can charge double, can’t you?
DICKIE.
Yes, of course, it has that advantage.
PENELOPE.
I’ve been hankering after an ermine stole for a long time. I shall buy
it now.
DICKIE.
[_His face falling._] Oh, but I haven’t been paid yet.
PENELOPE.
They’ll be only too glad to wait. And it’s such a bargain.
DICKIE.
[_To change the conversation._] Well, after my consultation I was so
fagged that I had to go into the club to have a rubber of Bridge.
GOLIGHTLY.
By the way, what is the name of your patient?
DICKIE.
The name of my patient?
PENELOPE.
Oh, yes, I was telling papa that you’d got a new patient who was
bringing in pots of money. I couldn’t remember her name.
DICKIE.
[_Embarrassed._] Oh--er, Mrs. Mac....
PENELOPE.
Mrs. Mac what?
DICKIE.
Mrs. Macnothing.
BARLOW.
How d’you mean, Mrs. Macnothing? I’ve never heard of a family called
Macnothing.
DICKIE.
No, of course, her name isn’t Macnothing.
BARLOW.
But you distinctly said it was Mrs. Macnothing.
DICKIE.
Now, my dear Pen, did I say anything about Macnothing?
PENELOPE.
Well, what is her name then?
DICKIE.
I’ve been telling you for the last ten minutes. Her name’s Mrs. Mack.
BARLOW.
Why on earth didn’t you say so at once?
GOLIGHTLY.
How did you find such a profitable patient?
DICKIE.
Oh, it was a great piece of luck. She heard about me from that little
friend of yours, Pen. What is her name?
GOLIGHTLY.
You seem to have a very bad memory for names, Dickie. You should make a
knot in your handkerchief.
DICKIE.
It’s a friend of Pen’s. [_Pretending to try and remember._] Her
husband’s in the navy, stationed at Malta, isn’t he?
PENELOPE.
Ada Fergusson.
DICKIE.
That’s it, of course. Mrs. Fergusson.
BARLOW.
One of the Fergussons of Kingarth, I suppose?
DICKIE.
I don’t know at all. Quite a nice little thing, I thought. I must
confess that she didn’t interest me very much.
[PEYTON _comes in to announce_ MRS. FERGUSSON. MRS. FERGUSSON _is a
handsome, showy woman of about thirty_.
PEYTON.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[DICKIE _is filled with consternation_. PEYTON _goes out. There is
a very brief moment of embarrassment, but_ PENELOPE _quickly
recovers herself and goes up to the visitor effusively_.
PENELOPE.
How d’you do?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Is it a preposterous hour to pay a call?
PENELOPE.
Of course not. I’m always delighted to see you.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I’ve been shopping the whole afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me
that I hadn’t seen you for ages.
PENELOPE.
Do you know my sainted mother?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
How d’you do?
PENELOPE.
This is my noble father, and this is my uncle.
BARLOW.
How d’you do?
[_He is evidently much struck by_ MRS. FERGUSSON.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Turning blandly to_ DICKIE.] You haven’t forgotten me?
DICKIE.
Of course not.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
We haven’t met for ages, have we?
DICKIE.
Simply ages.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I passed you in Piccadilly the other day, and you cut me dead.
DICKIE.
I’m so sorry, I’m so short-sighted.
PENELOPE.
Dickie, you’re not at all short-sighted. How can you tell such fibs?
BARLOW.
[_With pompous gallantry._] Dickie feels that only a physical impediment
can excuse a man for not seeing a pretty woman.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, how very nice of you to say that.
BARLOW.
Not at all, not at all.
PENELOPE.
I wanted to thank you for getting Dickie such a splendid patient.
DICKIE.
[_Hastily, seeing her look of astonishment._] I’ve just been telling my
wife about Mrs. Mack.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Not in the least understanding._] Oh, yes.
DICKIE.
It was really awfully good of you to tell her to send for me. I’ve been
to see her this afternoon.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Understanding._] Oh, yes. I like to do all I can for people. I hope
you’ll find her a nice patient.
PENELOPE.
She seems to require a lot of visits.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Yes, she was only telling me the other day how much she liked Dr.
O’Farrell. I’m afraid she’s very ill, poor dear.
DICKIE.
To tell you the truth, I’m extremely worried about her.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
It’s a great comfort to all her friends to know that Dr. O’Farrell is
looking after her.
BARLOW.
I’ve been wondering if she’s one of the Staffordshire Macks or one of
the Somersetshire Macks.
DICKIE.
I don’t know at all.
BARLOW.
How d’you mean you don’t know at all? She must be one or the other.
DICKIE.
I don’t see that it matters either way.
PENELOPE.
What is she like?
DICKIE.
Oh, I don’t know. Like everybody else, I suppose.
PENELOPE.
Don’t be silly, Dickie. You must know if she’s fat or thin.
DICKIE.
[_Looking at_ MRS. FERGUSSON.] I should say fat, wouldn’t you?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Obese.
PENELOPE.
Yes?
DICKIE.
She has grey hair.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
All in little corkscrew curls.
DICKIE.
[_Laughing._] Yes. I wonder how she does them.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
She has very pretty blue eyes, hasn’t she?
DICKIE.
Yes, very pretty blue eyes.
PENELOPE.
What is her Christian name?
DICKIE.
Er--I don’t know at all.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Promptly._] Catherine.
PENELOPE.
Catherine Mack? Mother, it’s your old friend Catherine Mack. What an
extraordinary coincidence!
GOLIGHTLY.
Catherine Mack. Why, of course, I remember her perfectly. Little grey
corkscrew curls and very pretty blue eyes.
PENELOPE.
Wouldn’t she like mamma to go and see her?
DICKIE.
I’m afraid she can’t see any one just yet.
GOLIGHTLY.
You must tell her how sorry we are to hear she’s so ill.
DICKIE.
Oh, yes, I’ll give her any message you like.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Rather stiffly, getting up._] I think I ought to be going. Will you
come, Charles?
GOLIGHTLY.
Yes, my dear.
PENELOPE.
Good-bye, mother, darling.
[_They talk aside as_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY _is helped on with her cloak_.
DICKIE _is left practically alone with_ MRS. FERGUSSON.
DICKIE.
[_In an undertone._] I say, what the dickens have you come here for
now?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
You didn’t tell me when I should see you to-morrow.
DICKIE.
Good heavens, you might have rung me up on the telephone.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, I never trust the telephone.
DICKIE.
How do you mean you never trust the telephone? Are you in the habit....
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Dickie!
DICKIE.
I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean that.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Why on earth did you invent that cock-and-bull story about Mrs. Mack?
DICKIE.
I didn’t. It invented itself. I was obliged to account for my movements.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
D’you mean to say your wife asks you where you’ve been and where you’re
going? How like a woman. [_Innocently._] By the way, what are you doing
this evening?
DICKIE.
[_With amusement._] Oh, Penelope and I are dining at the Carlton grill
room, and going to a music hall.
[BARLOW _comes up to them_.
BARLOW.
Good-bye, Mrs. Fergusson.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Effusively._] Good-bye.
BARLOW.
[_To_ PENELOPE, _as he shakes hands with her_.] Devilish fine woman.
PENELOPE.
[_Pretending to be outraged._] Uncle Davenport!
BARLOW.
Good-bye, dear. Quite a lady.
PENELOPE.
Good-bye.
[BARLOW _and_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY _go out_.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_As he is following._] Are you all right?
PENELOPE.
Yes, leave it to me. I’m beginning to feel my feet.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a smile._] I noticed it.
[GOLIGHTLY _goes out_.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Charming man your uncle is, Penelope. So distinguished.
PENELOPE.
You’ve made a conquest of him. He told me you were a devilish fine
woman.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Not really? Men often tell me I’m a womanly woman.
PENELOPE.
I daresay it means the same thing.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
But I must fly too. I really had no idea it was so late.
PENELOPE.
Are you doing anything to-night?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, no! I live very quietly. There’s nothing that I enjoy more than an
evening all by myself, with a book.
PENELOPE.
You used to be so fond of going out.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I know that my husband prefers me to remain at home. And when I think of
him bravely serving his country in a foreign land I have no heart for
gaiety.
PENELOPE.
What a charming nature you have.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_To_ DICKIE.] My husband’s in a man-of-war. He’s stationed at Malta,
you know. It’s so dreadful that my health forces me to remain in
England.
PENELOPE.
I wonder if you’d do me a great kindness.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
My dear, I’ll always do anything for an old friend.
PENELOPE.
The fact is, I’ve had a perfectly fiendish headache the whole afternoon.
DICKIE.
[_Triumphantly._] I knew there was something the matter with you the
moment I came in.
PENELOPE.
We’ve got a couple of stalls for a music hall to-night. It would be
awfully kind of you if you’d go with Dickie instead of me.
[_A look of intelligence passes between_ DICKIE _and_ MRS.
FERGUSSON.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I?
PENELOPE.
Dickie hates going out alone, and I simply can’t stir. You can have a
jolly little dinner together at a restaurant, and you can go on
afterwards.
DICKIE.
Are you really sure you can’t go, Pen?
PENELOPE.
It’s absolutely out of the question.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Don’t you think Dr. O’Farrell ought to stay and look after you?
PENELOPE.
Oh, no! It’ll do him good to go out. He’s been working so dreadfully
hard. This afternoon he had a consultation that lasted nearly an hour.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_To_ DICKIE.] Would you like me to come with you?
DICKIE.
I should love it, if it wouldn’t bore you.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Then I shall be delighted.
PENELOPE.
Thanks so much. But it’s getting very late. I think you ought to start
at once.
DICKIE.
You’re sure you don’t mind my leaving you, Penelope?
PENELOPE.
Positive.
DICKIE.
Well, just wait a moment, and I’ll make you up a dose of something.
PENELOPE.
[_Hastily._] Oh, no, I promise you I’m much better without medicine.
DICKIE.
Nonsense. Of course I must give you something.
[_He goes out._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
That’s the advantage of having a doctor in the family.
PENELOPE.
[_Crossly._] Yes, it’s a great advantage.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I do envy you, having your husband always at hand. When I think of mine
bravely serving his country--and you know, every doctor I go to tells me
it would be most dangerous for me to join him.
[DICKIE _comes in with a little medicine glass, filled with a milky
fluid_.
DICKIE.
Here it is.
PENELOPE.
Oh, no, Dickie, I’d much rather not.
DICKIE.
Don’t be silly, darling. This’ll pull you together like anything.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I’m sure she ought to lie down.
PENELOPE.
No, I think I’d rather stand up if you don’t mind.
DICKIE.
How extraordinarily unreasonable you are! Now lie down on this sofa.
PENELOPE.
Of course, if I absolutely must.
[_She lies down on a sofa._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
We must make you comfortable before we go.
DICKIE.
Let’s put all the cushions behind her. Is that nice?
PENELOPE.
Yes, thank you.
DICKIE.
Poor little thing.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I’m sure she ought to have something over her feet.
DICKIE.
Let’s put this rug over her feet. There. Now take this medicine....
There....
PENELOPE.