DICKIE.
Come in and let’s smoke a cigarette together.
PENELOPE.
All right.
[_She takes a cigarette, which he lights for her._
PENELOPE.
I hope you’ll have a splendid time in Paris.
[_She sits down._
DICKIE.
You never sit on the arm of my chair as you used to.
PENELOPE.
I’m horribly afraid I’m growing middle-aged. I’ve discovered how much
more comfortable it is to have a chair of my own.
DICKIE.
[_Trying to hide a slight embarrassment._] Weren’t you rather surprised
when Mrs. Fergusson told you she was going to Paris to-night?
PENELOPE.
Surprised?
[PENELOPE _gives a little gurgle, tries to stifle it but cannot,
then, giving way, bursts into peal upon peal of laughter_. DICKIE
_watches her with increasing astonishment_.
DICKIE.
What on earth are you laughing at?
PENELOPE.
[_Bubbling over._] Darling, you must think me an old silly. Of course, I
knew you were going together.
DICKIE.
[_Thoroughly startled._] I don’t know what you’re talking about.
PENELOPE.
I have tried not to see anything, but you do make it so difficult.
DICKIE.
[_Making up his mind to be very haughty._] Will you have the goodness to
explain yourself?
PENELOPE.
My dear, of course I know all about it.
DICKIE.
I entirely fail to gather your meaning. What do you know all about?
PENELOPE.
About you and Ada, silly.
DICKIE.
[_Very haughtily._] Penelope, do you mean to say you suspect me of ...?
PENELOPE.
[_With an affectionate smile._] Darling!
DICKIE.
[_Suddenly alarmed._] What d’you know?
PENELOPE.
Everything.
[_He gives a gasp and looks at_ PENELOPE _anxiously_.
PENELOPE.
I’ve been so amused to watch you during the last two months.
DICKIE.
Amused?
PENELOPE.
Upon my word, it’s been as good as a play.
DICKIE.
[_Quite at a loss._] Have you known all along?
PENELOPE.
My dear, didn’t you see that I did everything in the world to throw you
together?
DICKIE.
But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in it.
PENELOPE.
[_Good-humouredly._] Come, come, Dickie!
DICKIE.
But why haven’t you said anything?
PENELOPE.
I thought it would only embarrass you. I didn’t mean to say anything
to-day, but I couldn’t help laughing when you asked me if I was
surprised.
DICKIE.
Aren’t you angry?
PENELOPE.
Angry? What about?
DICKIE.
Aren’t you jealous?
PENELOPE.
Jealous? You must think me a little donkey.
DICKIE.
You took it as a matter of course? It amused you? It was as good as a
play?
PENELOPE.
Darling, we’ve been married for five years. It’s absurd to think there
could be anything between us after all that time.
DICKIE.
Oh, is it? I wasn’t aware of that fact.
PENELOPE.
The whole thing seemed to me of no importance. I was pleased to think
you were happy.
DICKIE.
[_Flying into a passion._] Well, I think it’s positively disgraceful,
Penelope.
PENELOPE.
Oh, my dear, don’t exaggerate. It was a harmless peccadillo.
DICKIE.
I’m not talking of my behaviour, but of yours.
PENELOPE.
Mine?
DICKIE.
Yes, scandalous I call it.
PENELOPE.
[_Quite disappointed._] And I thought it was so tactful.
DICKIE.
Tactful be blowed. You must be entirely devoid of any sense of decency.
PENELOPE.
My dear, _I_ haven’t done anything.
DICKIE.
That’s just it. You ought to have done something. You ought to have
kicked up a row; you ought to have made scenes; you ought to have
divorced me. But just to sit there and let it go on as if it were
nothing at all! It’s too monstrous.
PENELOPE.
I’m awfully sorry. If I’d known you wanted me to make a scene of course
I would have, but really it didn’t seem worth making a fuss about.
DICKIE.
I’ve never heard anything so callous, anything so cold-blooded, anything
so cynical.
PENELOPE.
You are difficult to please.
DICKIE.
But don’t you realise that I’ve treated you abominably.
PENELOPE.
Oh, no, you’ve always been the best and most discreet of husbands.
DICKIE.
No, I’ve been a bad husband. I’m man enough to acknowledge it. And I
mean to turn over a new leaf, Penelope; I will give Ada up. I promise
you never to see her again.
PENELOPE.
Darling, why should you cause her needless pain? After all, she’s an old
friend of mine. I think the least I can expect is that you should treat
her nicely.
DICKIE.
D’you mean to say you want it to go on?
PENELOPE.
It’s an arrangement that suits us all three. It amuses you, Ada has some
one to take her about, and I get a lot of new frocks.
DICKIE.
Frocks?
PENELOPE.
Yes, you see, I’ve been consoling my aching heart by replenishing my
wardrobe.
DICKIE.
So you’re willing to sacrifice our whole happiness to your frocks. Oh,
I’ve cherished a viper in my bosom. I may have acted like a perfect
beast, but, hang it all, I do know what’s right and wrong. I have a
moral sense.
PENELOPE.
It seems to have displaced your sense of humour.
DICKIE.
Do you know that all these weeks I’ve been tortured with remorse? I’ve
told myself every day that I was treating you shamefully, I’ve not had a
moment’s happiness. I’ve lived on a perfect rack.
PENELOPE.
It doesn’t seem to have had any serious effect on your health.
DICKIE.
And here have you been laughing up your sleeve all the time. It can’t go
on.
PENELOPE.
Upon my word, I don’t see why not?
DICKIE.
We’ve been mistaken in one another. I’m not the man to stand such a
position with indifference. And I’ve been mistaken in you, Penelope. I
thought you cared for me.
PENELOPE.
I dote upon you.
DICKIE.
That’s a jolly nice way of showing it.
PENELOPE.
That’s just what I thought it was.
DICKIE.
You’ve outraged all my better nature.
PENELOPE.
Then what do you propose to do?
DICKIE.
I’m going to do the only possible thing. Separate.
PENELOPE.
[_Hearing voices in the hall._] Here are papa and mamma. They said they
were coming back.
DICKIE.
I hope they’ll never find out what a wicked, cruel woman you are. It
would send down their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.
PENELOPE.
But, my dear, they know all about it.
DICKIE.
What! Is there any one who doesn’t know?
PENELOPE.
We didn’t tell Uncle Davenport. He’s such a man of the world, he has no
sense of humour.
[PEYTON _comes in to announce the_ GOLIGHTLYS, _then goes out_.
PEYTON.
Professor and Mrs. Golightly.
[_The_ GOLIGHTLYS _come in_.
PENELOPE.
[_Kissing_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY.] Well, mother ... Papa, Dickie wants to
separate from me because I won’t divorce him.
GOLIGHTLY.
That doesn’t sound very logical.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
What has happened?
PENELOPE.
Nothing’s happened. I can’t make out why Dickie’s so cross.
DICKIE.
[_Indignantly._] Nothing!
PENELOPE.
I didn’t mean to say anything about it, but Dickie found out that we
knew all about his little love affair.
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, how tactless of you! A man likes to keep those things from his
wife.
DICKIE.
And d’you know the attitude Penelope takes up?
GOLIGHTLY.
She hasn’t been making a scene?
DICKIE.
That’s just it. Any woman of feeling would make a scene. There must be
something radically wrong about her, or she would have wept and stamped
and torn her hair.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Mildly._] Oh, my dear boy, don’t you exaggerate the enormity of your
offence?
DICKIE.
There are no excuses for me.
GOLIGHTLY.
It was a mere trifle. It would show a lamentable want of humour in
Penelope if she took it seriously.
DICKIE.
D’you mean to say you agree with her?
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear fellow, we’re in the twentieth century.
DICKIE.
Oh! Mrs. Golightly, you spend your time in converting the heathen. Don’t
you think your own family needs some of your attention?
[PENELOPE, _unseen by_ DICKIE, _makes a face at_ MRS. GOLIGHTLY
_to induce her to keep up the scene_.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
A long acquaintance with savage races has led me to the conclusion that
man is naturally a polygamous animal.
DICKIE.
My brain reels.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I confess I was relieved to hear it was a married woman. It seems to
make it so much more respectable.
DICKIE.
It appears to me I’m the only moral man here.
PENELOPE.
Dickie, darling, _I_ haven’t been having an affair with the policeman.
DICKIE.
I wish you had. I wouldn’t have treated you like this.
PENELOPE.
I thought of it, but I didn’t like the colour of his moustache.
DICKIE.
I know I’m to blame. I’ve behaved like a perfect brute.
PENELOPE.
Oh, nonsense.
DICKIE.
Don’t contradict, Penelope. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself.
GOLIGHTLY.
Come, come!
DICKIE.
I repeat, there are no excuses for me.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Poor fellow, he seems quite cut up.
DICKIE.
I haven’t a leg to stand on, but, by Jove, I’ve got a moral sense, and I
tell you all that I’m simply outraged. You’re overthrowing the
foundations of society. Whatever I’ve done, I’ve got more respect for
the sanctity of the home and the decencies of family life than all of
you put together.
[_He flings towards the door, stops, and turns round to shake his
fist at them._
DICKIE.
A moral sense. That’s what I’ve got.
[_He goes out, slamming the door behind him._
PENELOPE.
[_With a laugh._] Poor darling.
GOLIGHTLY.
What on earth made you blurt it all out?
PENELOPE.
She came here to-day, and I saw that he was sick to death of her....
Mamma, you behaved like a heroine of romance.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I shall never forgive myself for the dreadful things you’ve made me say.
PENELOPE.
Oh, yes, you will, mother. Fast an extra day all through next Lent.
It’ll be equally good for your soul and for your figure.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Penelope!
PENELOPE.
[_To_ GOLIGHTLY.] I suddenly felt the moment had come.
GOLIGHTLY.
Take care.
[DICKIE _bursts violently into the room_.
DICKIE.
I say, what are these two confounded women doing in the hall?
PENELOPE.
What women? Oh, I know.... [_She goes to the door._] Please come in.
They’re from Françoise. The Modiste.
[_The girls come in, laden with hat boxes._
PENELOPE.
You told me I might get a hat or two to console myself for your trip to
Paris.
GOLIGHTLY.
Very nice of you, Dickie. That shows you haven’t a selfish nature.
[PENELOPE _makes another face at her mother_.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
You’ve never given me a free hand to buy hats, Charles.
GOLIGHTLY.
On the other hand, I’ve never taken little jaunts to Paris without you,
my dear.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Some women are so lucky in their husbands.
[_Meanwhile the girls have been taking hats out, and_ PENELOPE
_puts one on. She is perfectly delighted._
PENELOPE.
Oh, isn’t this a dream? [_Looking at the other._] Oh! oh! Did you ever
see anything so lovely? Dickie, you are a dear. I’m so glad you’re going
to Paris.
DICKIE.
[_Furiously._] I’m not going to Paris.
PENELOPE.
What!
DICKIE.
Take all these hats away.
PENELOPE.
But Mrs. Mack?
DICKIE.
Mrs. Mack can go to the devil.
[_He seizes the telephone._
DICKIE.
Hulloa, hulloa. Gerrard 1234. Tell Mrs. Fergusson that Mrs. Mack has had
a relapse, and will not be able to go to Paris to-night.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
THE THIRD ACT
SCENE: PENELOPE’S _boudoir. It is an attractive room, furnished
with bright-coloured chintzes, and gay with autumn flowers and
great bunches of leaves. There is a large looking-glass. It is a
room to live in, and there are books and magazines scattered about.
Photographs of_ DICKIE _in every imaginable attitude_.
PEN, _in a ravishing costume, is alone, standing in the middle of
the room. She looks at herself in the glass and turns right round,
smiling with satisfaction. She preens herself. Suddenly she sees
something she does not quite like; she frowns a little, then she
makes a face at herself, solemnly and elaborately curtsies, and
gaily throws herself a kiss._
PEYTON _comes in, followed by the_ GOLIGHTLYS.
PEYTON.
Professor and Mrs. Golightly.
PENELOPE.
[_Stretching out her arms._] Oh, my sainted mother!
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Out of breath._] I’ve never climbed up so many stairs in my life.
PENELOPE.
I told Peyton to bring you up here so that no one should come and bother
us. [_With a dramatic gesture._] My noble father!
GOLIGHTLY.
My chiyld!
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Don’t be ridiculous, Pen.
PENELOPE.
Sit down, mamma, and get your breath back, because I’m just going to
take it away again.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
It sounds hardly worth while.
PENELOPE.
Dickie adores me.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Is that all?
PENELOPE.
But it’s the most surprising, exquisite, wonderful thing in the world,
and I’m in the seventh heaven of delight.
GOLIGHTLY.
But has he told you so?
PENELOPE.
Oh, no, we’re not on speaking terms at present.
GOLIGHTLY.
Ah, I suppose you express your mutual affection in dumb show.
PENELOPE.
He went out immediately after you left last night, and didn’t come home
till past twelve. I heard him stop at my door, so I huddled myself under
the bed-clothes and pretended to be fast asleep, but I just let my hand
drop carelessly over one side of the bed. Then he gave a tiny little
knock, and as I didn’t answer he came in, and he crept up on tip-toe,
and he looked at me as if--as if he’d like to eat me up.
GOLIGHTLY.
Penelope, you’re romancing. How on earth could you know that?
PENELOPE.
[_Putting her finger at the back of her head._] I saw him through the
back of my head--there. And then he bent down and just touched my hand
with his lips. [_Showing her hand to_ GOLIGHTLY.] Look, that’s where he
kissed it--just on the knuckle.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Gravely looking at her hand._] It seems to have left no mark.
PENELOPE.
Don’t be silly. And then he crept softly out again, and I had the first
really good sleep I’ve had for a month. And this morning I had my
breakfast in bed, and when I got up he’d gone out.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
You haven’t seen him to-day at all?
PENELOPE.
No, he didn’t come in to luncheon.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Well, Charles, I’m grateful that you never showed your passion for me by
keeping systematically out of my way.
PENELOPE.
But, my dear, it’s so simple. Of course, he’s in a dreadful temper. I’ve
made him feel a perfect fool, and he hates it. But, good heavens! after
five years I know how to deal with him when I’ve hurt his pride. I’ll
just give him a chance of saving his face, and then we’ll fall into one
another’s arms and be happy ever afterwards.
[GOLIGHTLY, _who has been sitting near a table, draws a sheet of
paper towards him and begins, meditatively, to write_.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
But, darling, don’t waste the precious hours, do it at once.
PENELOPE.
No, I’m wiser than that. I’m not going to do anything till Ada Fergusson
is quite disposed of.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Has anything been seen of her?
PENELOPE.
No, but I expect her here every minute.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a gasp._] Here?
PENELOPE.
She rang up last night and spoke [_imitating a man’s tones_] in a deep
voice, like this, so that I shouldn’t recognise her. She asked if Dickie
was at home, and I said he wasn’t. [_Imitating the man’s voice again._]
Will you ask him to ring up Mrs. Mack as soon as he comes back? Oh! I
said, I think he’s been at Mrs. Mack’s all the evening, and I rang off
quickly. And this morning I just took the receiver off, and I think by
now Ada must be in a pretty temper.
[_She catches sight of_ GOLIGHTLY _and goes up to look at what he
is writing_.
PENELOPE.
[_Tapping the table sharply with her open hand._] Two and two don’t make
five, father.
GOLIGHTLY.
I never said they did, darling.
PENELOPE.
Then why are you writing it down?
GOLIGHTLY.
You seem to think they do, my dear; and I have the highest respect for
your intelligence.
PENELOPE.
Mamma, if you thought it absolutely necessary to provide a father for
your offspring, I wish you had chosen one who wasn’t quite so
irritating.
[GOLIGHTLY _does not answer, but quietly adds two and two
together_. PENELOPE _watches him for a moment_.
PENELOPE.
D’you think I’m a perfect fool, father?
GOLIGHTLY.
Yes, my dear.
PENELOPE.
Why?
GOLIGHTLY.
You’re preparing for Dickie once more an uninterrupted diet of
strawberry ices.
[PENELOPE _goes up to her father and sits down opposite to him. She
takes the pencil out of his hand._
PENELOPE.
Put that down, father, and tell me what you’re talking about.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Joining his hands and leaning back in his chair._] How are you going
to keep your husband’s love now you have got it back?
PENELOPE.
[_With a nod and a smile._] I’m never going to bore him with
demonstrations of affection. I’m never going to ask him if he loves me.
And when he goes out I’m never going to inquire at what time he’ll be
back.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Calmly._] And what will you do when the next pretty little grass-widow
throws herself at his head?
PENELOPE.
[_Rather outraged at the mere thought._] I hope he’ll duck and dodge
her.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a deprecating shrug of the shoulders._] Your mother, from her
unrivalled knowledge of heathen races, has told you that man is
naturally a polygamous animal.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
I shall never forgive myself.
PENELOPE.
Do you mean to say I’m to expect Dickie to have flirtations with half a
dozen different women?
GOLIGHTLY.
I only see one way to avoid it.
PENELOPE.
And what is that?
GOLIGHTLY.
Be half a dozen different women yourself.
PENELOPE.
It sounds dreadfully exhausting.
GOLIGHTLY.
Remember that man is by nature a hunter. But how the dickens can he
pursue if you’re always flinging yourself in his arms? Even the barndoor
hen gives her lawful mate a run for his money.
[PENELOPE _looks from her father to her mother. She gives a little
sigh._
PENELOPE.
It was so easy for me to love, honour, and obey him, and so delightful.
It never struck me that I ought to keep watch over my feelings.
GOLIGHTLY.
We all strive for happiness, but what would happiness be if it clung to
us like a poor relation?
PENELOPE.
[_Nodding her head._] Strawberry ice for breakfast, strawberry ice for
luncheon, and strawberry ice for tea.
GOLIGHTLY.
Put a Rembrandt on your walls, and in a week you’ll pass it without a
glance.
PENELOPE.
[_Pulling out deprecating hands._] Papa, don’t batter me with metaphors.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a smile._] Well, you made your love too cheap, my dear. You
should have let your husband beg for it, and you made it a drug in the
market. Dole out your riches. Make yourself a fortress that must be
freshly stormed each day. Let him never know that he has all your heart.
He must think always that at the bottom of your soul there is a jewel of
great price that is beyond his reach.
PENELOPE.
Do you mean to say that I must be always on my guard?
GOLIGHTLY.
A wise woman never lets her husband be quite, quite sure of her. The
moment he is--[_with a shrug of the shoulders_]--Cupid puts on a top-hat
and becomes a churchwarden.
PENELOPE.
[_Huskily._] D’you think it’s worth all that?
GOLIGHTLY.
That is a question only you can answer.
PENELOPE.
I suppose you mean it depends on how much I love Dickie. [_A pause.
Tremulously._] I love him with all my heart, and if I can keep his love
everything is worth while. [_She rests her face on her hands, and looks
straight in front of her. Her voice is filled with tears._] But, oh,
father, why can’t we go back to the beginning when we loved one another
without a thought of wisdom or prudence? That was the real love. Why
couldn’t it last?
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Tenderly._] Because you and Dickie are man and woman, my dear.
PENELOPE.
[_With a flash of her old spirit._] But my friends have husbands, and
they don’t philander with every pretty woman they meet.
GOLIGHTLY.
Scylla and Charybdis. The price they pay is satiety. Would you rather
have the placid indifference of nine couples out of ten, or at the cost
of a little trouble and a little common sense keep Dickie loving you
passionately to the end of his days?
PENELOPE.
[_With a roguish twinkle._] You and mamma show no signs of being bored
to death with one another.
GOLIGHTLY.
Your sainted mother has been systematically unfaithful to me for twenty
years.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Charles!
GOLIGHTLY.
She has had an affair with the Additional Curates’ Society, and an
intrigue with the English Church Mission. She has flirted with Christian
Science, made eyes at Homœopathy, and her relations with
vegetarianism have left a distinct mark on her figure. How could I help
adoring a woman so depraved?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Good-humouredly._] It’s monstrous of you to reproach me, Charles, when
you have conducted for years a harem of algebraical symbols.
PENELOPE.
[_Lifting up her hands in mock horror._] And to think that I never knew
how immoral my parents were!
GOLIGHTLY.
[_Patting his wife’s hand._] I think we must be the lucky ones, dear.
We’ve been married for twenty years....
PENELOPE.
[_Interrupting._] Make it a quarter of a century, father. I really can’t
pass for less than twenty-four.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_To his wife._] And we seem to have got on pretty well, don’t we?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Affectionately._] You’ve been very good to me, Charles, dear.
GOLIGHTLY.
We’ve clomb the hill together....
PENELOPE.
Sh! sh! sh! I cannot allow my parents to flirt in my presence. I never
heard of such a thing.
GOLIGHTLY.
We tender our apologies.
PENELOPE.
[_Hearing a sound._] Listen. There’s Dickie. Father, quickly--what must
I do to make him love me always?
GOLIGHTLY.
In two words, lead him a devil of a life.
PENELOPE.
[_Ruefully._] If you only knew how I want to fly into his arms and
forget the wretched past!
GOLIGHTLY.
Don’t, but tell him you’re going for a motor trip.
PENELOPE.
[_Her face falling._] Supposing he lets me go?
GOLIGHTLY.
My dear, a merciful providence has given you roguish eyes and a sharp
tongue. Make use of them.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Charles, I shall be thankful when you return to your mathematics. The
morals of that hussy X are already so bad that you can’t make _them_
much worse.
PENELOPE.
The fact is, papa, that as a guide for the young you have rather
advanced views.
GOLIGHTLY.
[_With a grotesque, dramatic flourish._] Ungrateful child! And I, like
the pelican, have offered you my very heart to dine on.
[DICKIE _comes in. He is a little embarrassed and uncomfortable._
DICKIE.
May I come in?
PENELOPE.
Yes, do!
DICKIE.
[_Nodding to the_ GOLIGHTLYS.] How d’you do?
GOLIGHTLY.
[_To his wife._] Are you ready?
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
[_Getting up._] Yes.
DICKIE.
I hope I’m not driving you away.
GOLIGHTLY.
Oh no, we only came in for ten minutes to say good-bye to Penelope.
[DICKIE, _rather puzzled at this, gives_ PENELOPE _a quick look_.
DICKIE.
Are you ...? [_He stops._]
GOLIGHTLY.
I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, dear.
PENELOPE.
Oh, I’m sure I shall.
MRS. GOLIGHTLY.
Good-bye, darling.
PENELOPE.
[_Kissing her mother._] Good-bye.
[_She goes to the bell and rings it._
GOLIGHTLY.
We can find our way out. Don’t bother about Peyton.
PENELOPE.
I want to speak to her.
GOLIGHTLY.
Oh, I see. [_Nodding to_ DICKIE.] Good-bye.
[_The_ GOLIGHTLYS _go out_. PENELOPE, _with a slight smile, lies
down on the sofa and takes up a magazine. She pays no attention to_
DICKIE. _He gives her a sidelong glance and arranges his tie in the
glass._ PEYTON _comes in_.
PENELOPE.
[_Looking up from her magazine._] Oh, Peyton, you might pack up some
things for me in that little flat portmanteau of the doctor’s. Put my
green charmeuse in.
PEYTON.
Very well, ma’am.
PENELOPE.
You can call a cab in half an hour.
PEYTON.
Very well, ma’am.
[_Exit._
DICKIE.
Are you going away?
PENELOPE.
Oh, yes, didn’t I tell you?
DICKIE.
[_Stiffly._] No.
PENELOPE.
How stupid of me! You see, I was expecting you to spend two or three
days in Paris with Ada, and I arranged to motor down to Cornwall with
the Hendersons.
DICKIE.
But I gave up the trip to Paris so as not to annoy you.
PENELOPE.
[_Smiling._] It wouldn’t have annoyed me a bit, darling.
DICKIE.
It ought to have annoyed you.
PENELOPE.
In any case I’m afraid I can’t throw the Hendersons over. They’ve made
up a little _partie carrée_ so that we can play bridge in the evenings.
[DICKIE _goes up to_ PEN _and sits on the sofa beside her_.
DICKIE.
Look here, Pen, let’s make it up.
PENELOPE.
[_Quite pleasantly._] But we haven’t quarrelled, have we?
DICKIE.
[_With a smile._] I don’t know whether I want to shake you or hug you.
PENELOPE.
Well, if I were you, I’d do neither.
DICKIE.
[_Taking her hands._] Pen, I want to talk seriously to you.
PENELOPE.
[_Releasing them, with a look at the clock._] Have you time?
DICKIE.
What on earth d’you mean?
PENELOPE.
You generally start off for Mrs. Mack’s about now.
[DICKIE _gets up and walks up and down the room_.
DICKIE.
[_Resolutely._] Mrs. Mack’s dead.
PENELOPE.
[_Jumping off the sofa._] Dead! When’s the funeral?
DICKIE.
The date hasn’t been settled yet.
PENELOPE.
Well, now you’ll be able to send in your bill.
DICKIE.
[_Nervously._] Pen, Mrs. Mack never existed.