good, but they’ve been kindness itself. I’ve only once been rudely
treated, and that--if you’ll believe it--was by a mere nobody. I told
him all my symptoms, and he said to me, Madam, can you eat? Yes, I said.
I have breakfast in the morning and a little soup at eleven o’clock; and
then I have lunch, and I always make a good tea, and I eat a little
dinner at half-past seven, and before I go to bed I have some bread and
milk. Then he said, Madam, can you sleep? Yes, I said, for an old woman
I sleep very well; I sleep eight or nine hours regularly. Then he said,
Madam, can you walk? Oh! yes, I said, I always make a point of walking
four miles a day. Then he said, My opinion is that you’ve got nothing
the matter with you at all. Good afternoon.
DICKIE.
Fancy.
MRS. WATSON.
Well, I just looked him up and down, and I said to him, Sir, your
opinion is not shared by Sir Benjamin Broadstairs, or Sir William
Wilson, or Sir Arthur Thomas. And I didn’t even offer him a fee, but I
just swept out of the room. [_Archly._] You won’t give me that new
medicine?
DICKIE.
Honestly, I don’t think it’s quite what you want.
MRS. WATSON.
Very well. I expect you know best. And now I mustn’t take up any more of
your time.
DICKIE.
[_Sarcastically._] Oh, it’s of no value, thank you.
MRS. WATSON.
[_Persuasively._] Will you tell me what I owe you?
DICKIE.
Oh, as a doctor’s widow, of course, I couldn’t dream of accepting a fee.
MRS. WATSON.
That is kind of you. But you must allow me to give you a little present.
DICKIE.
[_Rather feebly, but brightening up a little._] Oh, really, you know....
MRS. WATSON.
I’ve seen every doctor in London of any importance, and they’ve none of
them charged me a penny, but I always make them a little present. I know
that you doctors have to go out in all weathers, and you never wrap
yourselves up. So I give them a woollen comforter.
[_She takes out of her bag a large red woollen comforter._
DICKIE.
[_Blankly._] Oh, thank you very much.
MRS. WATSON.
I made it myself.
DICKIE.
Did you!
MRS. WATSON.
And Sir Benjamin promised to wear his every winter. You’ll find it so
warm.
DICKIE.
I’m very grateful to you.
MRS. WATSON.
And now, good-bye, and thank you so much.
DICKIE.
When you come back from the Riviera, you might do worse than consult Dr.
Rogers. He lives just at the other end of the street, you know. He’s
very good in cases like yours.
MRS. WATSON.
Thank you so much.
DICKIE.
Good-bye.
[_She goes out, and he shuts the door. He runs to the other and
calls out._
DICKIE.
Pen! Pen!
PENELOPE’S VOICE.
Yes.
[_There is a knock at the door._
DICKIE.
[_Irritably._] Come in.
[MRS. WATSON _enters_.
MRS. WATSON.
I knew there was something I wanted to ask you particularly, and I
nearly forgot it. Sir Benjamin Broadstairs said I ought never to eat
anything but toast, and Sir William Wilson said he didn’t think toast
was at all good for me, and I only ought to eat bread. Now, I wonder
what I had better do?
DICKIE.
[_Seriously, as if he were deliberating._] Well, if I were you, I’d eat
bread toasted only on one side.
MRS. WATSON.
Thank you so much. Good-bye. I hope you’ll like the comforter.
DICKIE.
I’m sure I shall. Good-bye.
[_She goes out again, and_ DICKIE _shuts the door_.
DICKIE.
Pen! Pen!
[PENELOPE _comes in by the other door_.
PENELOPE.
What is the matter?
[DICKIE _goes up to her furiously with the comforter in his hands_.
DICKIE.
Look! That’s my fee! That!
PENELOPE.
It’s a woollen comforter.
DICKIE.
Don’t be idiotic, Penelope. I can see it’s a woollen comforter.
PENELOPE.
But what’s the meaning of it?
DICKIE.
She’s a doctor’s widow. Of course I couldn’t charge her anything. She
kept it dark till to-day. I’ll tell you what, doctors’ widows oughtn’t
to be allowed to survive their husbands.
PENELOPE.
Oh!
DICKIE.
When you’re my widow, Pen, you go right up one side of Harley Street and
then right down the other and see them all.
PENELOPE.
But supposing I’m not ill?
DICKIE.
Hang it all, when you’ve lost me the least you can do is to enjoy
indifferent health.
[PEYTON _comes in_.
PEYTON.
If you please, sir, Mrs. Watson says, may she just see you for one
minute.
DICKIE.
[_Resigned._] Yes.
[_Exit_ PEYTON.
DICKIE.
What the dickens does she want now?
[PEYTON _shows_ MRS. WATSON _in_.
MRS. WATSON.
You’ll think you’ve never seen the last of me.
DICKIE.
[_Blandly._] Not at all. Not at all.
MRS. WATSON.
I’ve been thinking about what you said about toasting my bread on one
side.... On which side shall I put the butter?
DICKIE.
[_With his chin in his hand._] H’m. H’m. You must put the butter on the
toasted side.
MRS. WATSON.
Oh, thank you. Now just one more question, do you think a little jam
would hurt me?
DICKIE.
No, I don’t think a little jam would hurt you, but you mustn’t put it on
the same side as you put the butter.
MRS. WATSON.
Oh, thank you. Good afternoon. I’m so much obliged.
DICKIE.
Not at all. Not at all.
[MRS. WATSON _goes out_.
DICKIE.
[_Shaking his fist at the door._] Suttee.... That’s the word. Suttee.
PENELOPE.
Dickie, what are you talking about?
DICKIE.
I’ve been trying to think of it for ten minutes. That’s what doctors’
widows ought to do--Suttee. Like the Hindoos.
PENELOPE.
Burn themselves alive at their husbands’ death?
DICKIE.
You’ve hit it. Suttee. That’s the word.
PENELOPE.
But, darling, I should hate to grace your funeral by making a bonfire of
myself.
DICKIE.
Oh, you have no affection for me.
PENELOPE.
Lots, but that’s asking a great deal, isn’t it?
DICKIE.
No, you don’t care for me as much as you used to. You’re quite
different. I’ve noticed lots of things.
PENELOPE.
[_With a rapid glance at him, but keeping her chaffing manner._] Oh,
nonsense.
DICKIE.
You’ve changed lately. You never come down to see me off in the morning,
and you don’t ask me at what time I’m coming back. You always used to
sit on the arm of my chair after breakfast when I was smoking my pipe
and reading the paper.
PENELOPE.
You must have hated it, didn’t you?
DICKIE.
Of course I hated it, but it showed you were fond of me, and now that
you don’t do it any more I miss it.
[PEYTON _comes in, followed by_ MRS. FERGUSSON, _and withdraws_.
PEYTON.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[DICKIE _gives a slight start, and shows faint signs of annoyance.
He cannot make out what_ MRS. FERGUSSON _has come for_.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
The maid told me you were here, so I asked her to show me straight in. I
hope you don’t mind.
PENELOPE.
Of course not. We’re delighted to see you anywhere. Won’t you have some
tea?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
No, thank you. The fact is, I’ve come to see Dr. O’Farrell
professionally.
PENELOPE.
You’re not ill?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I’ve not been very well lately, and I thought I’d like to see a doctor.
[_To_ DICKIE.] Will you treat me?
DICKIE.
I’ll do anything I can for you.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
But it must be really a professional visit. You know, I want to pay.
PENELOPE.
Oh, nonsense, Dickie couldn’t dream of accepting money from one of my
friends.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
No, I’ve got the strictest principles on that point. I think it’s too
bad of people to want a doctor to treat them for nothing. I really
insist on paying the usual fee.
DICKIE.
Oh, well, we’ll discuss that later.
PENELOPE.
I’ll leave you alone, shall I?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Do you mind, dear? It makes me a little uncomfortable to discuss my
symptoms before a third party.
PENELOPE.
Of course.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
We shall only be five minutes.
PENELOPE.
I warn you that Dickie’s medicines are perfectly beastly.
[_She goes out._
DICKIE.
I’m sorry you’re seedy. You were all right yesterday.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Laughing._] I’ve never been better in my life, thank you.
[DICKIE _is rather taken aback_.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
That’s the advantage of you being a doctor. When I want to see you alone
I can do it under your wife’s very nose. Don’t you think it was rather
ingenious?
DICKIE.
[_Dryly._] Very.
[_She gives a little laugh. She gets up and steps cautiously to the
door, and suddenly flings it open._
DICKIE.
What on earth are you doing?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I wanted to see if Penelope was listening.
DICKIE.
[_Rather sharply._] Of course she wasn’t listening. That’s about the
last thing she’d do.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, my dear, don’t get in a temper about it. Lots of women do listen,
you know.
DICKIE.
Do they? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Fiddle.
DICKIE.
Then will you tell me in what way I can be of use to you?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Good-humouredly._] Certainly not, if you ask me as crossly as that.
You may kiss my hand. [_He does so._] That’s right. Still cross?
DICKIE.
No.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Do you love me as much as ever?
DICKIE.
Yes.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
You wouldn’t say no if you didn’t, would you?
DICKIE.
No.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Brute!
DICKIE.
[_Rather impatiently._] I say, what on earth have you come for?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
You _are_ nice to me to-day.
DICKIE.
Well, when I left you yesterday we fixed up everything. I gave you your
ticket, and I wrote down the time the train started.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Well, for one thing I wanted to see Penelope.
DICKIE.
Why?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
It amuses me to see her simplicity. I get a lot of pleasure in looking
at her and thinking how little she suspects what is going on under her
very nose. She’s the most trusting person I ever met in my life.
DICKIE.
If you want to know anything, it makes me feel devilish uncomfortable.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
My poor, dear boy, what _are_ you talking about?
DICKIE.
It wouldn’t be so bad if we had to take any precautions. But she trusts
us absolutely. Why, she’s always throwing us together. It never enters
her head that there can be the least reason for suspicion. It’s like
knocking a man down who can’t defend himself.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I suppose that means that you no longer love me?
DICKIE.
Of course I love you. Good heavens, I’ve told you so till I’m blue in
the face.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, no, you no longer love me. Men only begin to have scruples when they
stop caring for you.
[DICKIE _gives a sigh of resignation. This is not the first scene
he has had to put up with._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I’ve sacrificed everything for your sake. And now you insult me. And
when I think of my poor husband bravely serving his country in a foreign
land! Oh, it’s cruel, cruel!
DICKIE.
But I’ve only said it made me feel low down to treat Penelope badly.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
You don’t think of my feelings. You don’t think how I feel. What about
my husband?
DICKIE.
Well, you see I don’t happen to know your husband, and I do know my
wife.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Don’t be so stupid. Of course you know your wife.
DICKIE.
That’s why I don’t like behaving like an utter cad.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
If you really loved me you would think of nothing but me, nothing,
nothing, nothing.
[_She puts her handkerchief to her eyes._
DICKIE.
Oh, I say, don’t cry.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I shall cry. I’ve never been treated like this before. If you don’t love
me any more, why don’t you say so?
DICKIE.
Yes, I do love you. But....
MRS. FERGUSSON.
But what?
DICKIE.
[_Nervously._] Well--er--I think it would be much better if we--put the
trip to Paris off for a bit.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Gasping with anger._] Oh! Oh! Oh!
DICKIE.
Penelope’s so blindly confident.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I’ll never speak to you again. I wish I had never met you. Oh, how can
you insult me like this!
[_She begins to sob._
DICKIE.
Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! I say, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be horrid. I’m
awfully sorry.
[_He tries to take away her hands from her face._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.
DICKIE.
I’ll do anything you like if you won’t cry. I say, just think if
Penelope came in--I was only thinking of the risk to you. Of course,
there’s nothing I’d like so much as a jaunt over the Channel.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Is that true?
DICKIE.
Yes.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Do you really want me to come?
DICKIE.
Of course I do, if you don’t mind the risk.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_With a smile._] Oh, I’ll make that all right.
DICKIE.
Why, what are you going to do?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Wait a minute or two and you’ll see.
[_She is perfectly composed again, and in high good-humour._
DICKIE.
We might tell Penelope that we’re ready.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Very well. [_As_ DICKIE _goes to the door_.] Oh, I quite forgot. I’ve
simply got a head like a sieve.
DICKIE.
What’s the matter?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Well, I almost forgot the very thing I came to see you about. And all
through you making a scene.
DICKIE.
Did I make a scene? I wasn’t aware of it.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I want to ask you something. You won’t be angry, will you?
DICKIE.
I shouldn’t think so.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Of course it’s nothing very important really, but it’s just a little
awkward to ask.
DICKIE.
Oh, nonsense. Of course I’ll do anything I can.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Well, a friend of mine on the Stock Exchange gave me a splendid tip,
and....
DICKIE.
It hasn’t come off. I know those splendid tips.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, but it’s bound to be all right, only there are some differences to
pay. I don’t quite understand what it all means, but Solly Abrahams....
DICKIE.
[_Interrupting._] Is that your friend on the Stock Exchange?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Yes, why?
DICKIE.
Oh, nothing. Good old Scotch name, that’s all.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Solly says I must send him a cheque for a hundred and eighty pounds.
[DICKIE _gives a slight start, and his face falls_.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
And it’s just a little awkward for me to pay that just now. You see my
income is always paid me half-yearly, and I really haven’t got a hundred
and eighty pounds in the bank. I never borrow--it’s a thing I can’t
bear--and I felt the only person I could come to now was you.
DICKIE.
I’m sure that’s awfully nice of you, not to say flattering.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I knew you’d give it me at once, and, of course, I’ll pay you back out
of my profits.
DICKIE.
Oh, that’s very good of you. I’ll see what I can do.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to write out a cheque now?
It’ll be such a weight off my mind.
DICKIE.
Of course. I’ll be only too glad. By the way, what are the shares
called?
[_He sits down at his desk and writes a cheque._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, it’s a gold mine. It’s called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem.
DICKIE.
The name inspires confidence.
[_He gives her the cheque._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Thanks, so much. It’s awfully good of you. Now just write out a little
prescription so as to have something to show Penelope.
DICKIE.
You forget nothing.
[_He writes._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
And I must give you a fee.
DICKIE.
Oh, I wouldn’t bother about that.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh yes, I insist. Besides, it makes it look so much more probable.
[_She looks in her purse._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, how stupid of me! I’ve only got a two-shilling bit in my purse. You
don’t happen to have a couple of sovereigns on you.
DICKIE.
Oh, yes, I think I have. The only money I’ve earned to-day.
[_He takes them out of his pocket and gives them to_ _Mrs.
Fergusson_. _She puts them on the desk with a two-shilling piece._
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Thank you.... There. That looks a most imposing fee. You must leave it
on there for Penelope to see.
DICKIE.
Shall I call her?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I will. [_She goes to the door and calls._] Penelope, we’ve quite done.
DICKIE.
[_Hearing voices upstairs._] Hulloa, there’s our Uncle Davenport.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, I met him in the park the other day. He made himself so pleasant. He
asked me if I was a Fergusson of Glengary. I didn’t know what he meant,
but I said I was, and he seemed so pleased.
DICKIE.
You’d better not let him know you were a Miss Jones or he’ll have a fit.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, I shall tell him I’m a Jones of Llandudno. I think that sounds
rather smart.
DICKIE.
You have what one might politely describe as a remarkable power of
invention.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I don’t know about that, but I am a womanly woman, and that’s why men
like me.
[PENELOPE _and_ BARLOW _come in_.
BARLOW.
Ah, Mrs. Fergusson, this is a delightful surprise.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
You wicked, wicked man, I am told you’re such a rake.
PENELOPE.
Uncle Davenport?
BARLOW.
[_Delighted._] Ah, ah. Tales out of school, Mrs. Fergusson.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
If I’d known what a reputation you had I wouldn’t have let you talk to
me for half an hour in the park.
BARLOW.
[_Bubbling over with delight._] Oh, you mustn’t listen to all you hear.
A man who goes out as much as I do is sure to get talked about. Our
world is so small and so censorious.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Dr. O’Farrell has been writing a prescription for me. I haven’t been
very well lately.
BARLOW.
Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. You look the picture of health and
extremely handsome.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, you horrid cruel thing! I wanted you to sympathise with me and tell
me how ill I looked.
BARLOW.
If you will allow me to call on you I can promise to sympathise with
you, but I’m afraid I shall never be able to tell you that you look
anything but charming.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
That’s too nice of you. You must come and see me the moment I get back
from Paris.
[DICKIE _gives a start_.
PENELOPE.
Are you going to Paris?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
I came on purpose to tell you. Really, I’ve got a head like a sieve.
Poor Mrs. Mack has asked me if I would go as far as Paris with her. A
most unfortunate thing has happened. Her maid’s mother has suddenly
died, and the poor thing naturally wants to go to the funeral. And
so....
PENELOPE.
Mrs. Mack has asked you to go in her maid’s place?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Only for two days, of course. Now, I want to know, dear, tell me
honestly, do you mind?
PENELOPE.
I?
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Some women are so funny. I thought you mightn’t like the idea of my
going with Dr. O’Farrell as far as Paris, and, of course, we shall be
travelling back together.
PENELOPE.
What nonsense! Of course, I’m only too glad. It’ll be so nice for Dickie
to have some one to travel with.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Then that settles it. I like to do everything above board, you know.
BARLOW.
[_Seeing the guineas on the desk._] I see you’ve been raking in the
shekels, Dickie.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, that’s my fee. I insisted on paying a fee--I particularly want you
to know that, Penelope--I’m so scrupulous about that sort of thing.
PENELOPE.
Oh, but Dickie can’t accept it. [_To_ DICKIE.] You are a grasping old
thing!
DICKIE.
I’m sure I didn’t want the money.
PENELOPE.
You really must take it back, Ada.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_Putting up a defensive hand._] No, I couldn’t really. It’s one of my
principles.
PENELOPE.
I know your principles are excellent, but I really shouldn’t like Dickie
to accept a fee for seeing my greatest friend.
[PENELOPE _takes up the money and gives it to_ MRS. FERGUSSON.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, well, of course, if you take it like that, I don’t know what to do.
PENELOPE.
Put it in your purse and say no more about it.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
Oh, it’s too good of you.
[_She puts it in her purse._ DICKIE’S _face falls as he sees his
own money disappearing_.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
And now I must really fly. [_Holding out her hand to_ BARLOW.] Good-bye.
Don’t forget to come and see me, but, remember, I shall expect to hear
all about that little ballet-girl.
BARLOW.
[_Delighted to be thought so gay._] You mustn’t ask me to be indiscreet.
MRS. FERGUSSON.
[_To_ PENELOPE.] Good-bye, dear.
PENELOPE.
I’ll come to the door with you.
[PENELOPE _and_ MRS. FERGUSSON _go out_.
DICKIE.
[_Going to the telephone._] I don’t believe you’ve ever known a
ballet-girl in your life.
BARLOW.
No, but it pleases women of our class to think one is hand and glove
with persons of that profession.
DICKIE.
Central 1234. If they only knew that nine ballet-girls out of ten go
home every night to their children and a husband in the suburbs! I just
want to ring up my broker. Is that you, Robertson? I say, d’you know
anything about a mine called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem? Rotten?
I thought as much. That’s all, thank you. [_He puts on the receiver--to
himself, acidly._] A hundred and eighty pounds gone bang.
BARLOW.
Look here, Dickie, now that you have a moment to spare you might give me
a little professional advice. Of course, I shan’t pay you.
DICKIE.
Good Lord! I might as well be a hospital. I’m not even supported by
voluntary contributions.
BARLOW.
The fact is, I’ve noticed lately that I’m not so thin as I was.
DICKIE.
It can’t have required great perspicacity to notice that.
BARLOW.
I’m not asking you for repartee, Dickie, but advice.
DICKIE.
You don’t want to bother about a figure at your time of life.
BARLOW.
To tell you the truth, I have an inkling that I’ve made something of an
impression on a very charming lady....
DICKIE.
[_Interrupting._] Take my advice and marry her quickly before the
impression wears off.
BARLOW.
Strange as it may appear to you, she’s a married woman.
DICKIE.
Then don’t hesitate--do a bolt.
BARLOW.
What do you mean, Dickie?
DICKIE.
My dear Uncle Davenport, I’m young enough to be your son; philandering
with a married woman is the most exaggerated form of amusement that’s
ever been invented. Take care! That’s all I say. Take care!
BARLOW.
Why?
DICKIE.
She’ll bind you hand and foot, and put a halter round your neck and lead
you about by it. She’ll ask you ten times a day if you love her, and
each time you get up to go away she’ll make a scene to force you to stay
longer. Each time you put on your hat she’ll pin you down to the exact
hour of your next visit.
BARLOW.
But all women do that. It only shows that they like you.
DICKIE.
Yes, I suppose all women do that--except Pen. Pen never bothers. She
never asks you if you love her. She never keeps you when you want to
get away. She never insists on knowing all your movements. And when you
leave her she never asks that fatal, fiendish question, at what time
will you be back?
BARLOW.
Well, my boy, if my wife were as indifferent to me as that, I should ask
myself who the other feller was.
DICKIE.
What the dickens do you mean by that?
BARLOW.
My dear Dickie, it’s woman’s nature to be exacting. If she’s in love
with you she’s always a nuisance, and a very charming nuisance too, to
my mind. I like it.
DICKIE.
You are not suggesting that Penelope....
BARLOW.
Now, my dear boy, I didn’t come to talk to you about Penelope, but about
my own health.
DICKIE.
[_Impatiently._] Oh, you’ve got chronic adiposity. That’s all that’s the
matter with you.
BARLOW.
Good gracious me, that sounds very alarming. And what shall I do for
it?
DICKIE.
[_Savagely, very quickly._] Give up wines, spirits and liqueurs, bread,
butter, milk, cream, sugar, potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, peas,
turnips, rice, sago, tapioca, macaroni, jam, honey, and marmalade.
BARLOW.
But that’s not treatment, that’s homicide!
DICKIE.
[_Taking no notice._] Put on a sweater and run round the park every
morning before breakfast. Let’s have a look at your liver.
BARLOW.
But, my dear Dickie....
DICKIE.
Lie down on that sofa. Now don’t make a fuss about it. I’m not going to
kill you. [BARLOW _lies down_.] Put your knees up.
BARLOW.
[_As_ DICKIE _feels his liver_.] She’s a fine, dashing woman. There’s no
doubt about that.
DICKIE.
Let yourself go quite loose. Who’s a fine, dashing woman?
BARLOW.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[DICKIE _starts. He gives_ BARLOW _a look, and then walks away,
open-mouthed_.
BARLOW.
Dickie, Dickie.
[_Much alarmed he gets off the sofa._
BARLOW.
Is my liver very wrong?
DICKIE.
[_Completely abstracted._] It’s in a beastly state. I thought it would
be.
BARLOW.
[_In tragic tones._] Richard, tell me the worst at once.
DICKIE.
[_Impatiently._] Don’t be such an old donkey. Your liver’s as right as
mine is. There’s nothing the matter with you except that you do yourself
too well, and don’t take enough exercise.
BARLOW.
[_With unction._] I suppose one has to pay for being the most popular
diner-out of one’s time.
DICKIE.
[_Looking at him sharply._] Is it on Mrs. Fergusson that you’ve made
something of an impression?
BARLOW.
[_With great self-satisfaction._] My dear fellow, I am the last man to
give a woman away.
DICKIE.
Ah!
BARLOW.
Between ourselves, Dickie, do you think Mrs. Fergusson would find it
peculiar if I asked her to lunch with me _tête-à-tête_ at the Carlton?
DICKIE.
Peculiar! She’d jump at it.
BARLOW.
Do you think her husband would mind?
DICKIE.
Oh, her husband’s all right. He keeps on bravely serving his country in
a foreign land.
BARLOW.
It shows that she has a nice nature, or she wouldn’t have come to ask
Penelope if she minded your going to Paris together.
DICKIE.
Yes, she has a charming nature.
BARLOW.
Lucky dog, I wish I were going to Paris with her.
DICKIE.
[_Fervently._] I wish you were.
BARLOW.
Ha, ha. Well, well, I must be running away. I’m dining out as usual.
These good duchesses, they will not leave me alone. Good-bye.
[_He goes out._ DICKIE _walks up and down the room thinking. In a
moment_ PENELOPE _puts her head in_.
PENELOPE.