Produced by Ron Burkey
FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
BY BERNARD SHAW
1911
This text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays
"Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets", "Fanny's First Play", and
the essay "A Treatise on Parents and Children".
Notes on the editing: Italicized text is delimited with underlines
("_ _"). Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text. Shaw
intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard system. For
example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe), "Dr." is given
as "Dr" (without a period at the end), and "Shakespeare" is given as
"Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). Where several characters in the play
are speaking at once, I have indicated it with vertical bars ("|"). The
pound (currency) symbol has been replaced by the word "pounds".
PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
Fanny's First Play, being but a potboiler, needs no preface. But its
lesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded. Mere morality, or the
substitution of custom for conscience was once accounted a shameful and
cynical thing: people talked of right and wrong, of honor and dishonor,
of sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of morality and
immorality. The word morality, if we met it in the Bible, would surprise
us as much as the word telephone or motor car. Nowadays we do not seem
to know that there is any other test of conduct except morality; and
the result is that the young had better have their souls awakened by
disgrace, capture by the police, and a month's hard labor, than drift
along from their cradles to their graves doing what other people do for
no other reason than that other people do it, and knowing nothing of
good and evil, of courage and cowardice, or indeed anything but how to
keep hunger and concupiscence and fashionable dressing within the bounds
of good taste except when their excesses can be concealed. Is it any
wonder that I am driven to offer to young people in our suburbs the
desperate advice: Do something that will get you into trouble? But
please do not suppose that I defend a state of things which makes such
advice the best that can be given under the circumstances, or that I do
not know how difficult it is to find out a way of getting into trouble
that will combine loss of respectability with integrity of self-respect
and reasonable consideration for other peoples' feelings and interests
on every point except their dread of losing their own respectability.
But when there's a will there's a way. I hate to see dead people walking
about: it is unnatural. And our respectable middle class people are all
as dead as mutton. Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I have delivered on them
the judgment of her God.
The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction to this play under
the names of Trotter, Vaughan, and Gunn will forgive me: in fact Mr
Trotter forgave me beforehand, and assisted the make-up by which Mr
Claude King so successfully simulated his personal appearance. The
critics whom I did not introduce were somewhat hurt, as I should have
been myself under the same circumstances; but I had not room for them
all; so I can only apologize and assure them that I meant no disrespect.
The concealment of the authorship, if a _secret de Polichinelle_ can be
said to involve concealment, was a necessary part of the play. In so far
as it was effectual, it operated as a measure of relief to those critics
and playgoers who are so obsessed by my strained legendary reputation
that they approach my plays in a condition which is really one of
derangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play of mine as anything
but a trap baited with paradoxes, and designed to compass their ethical
perversion and intellectual confusion. If it were possible, I should put
forward all my plays anonymously, or hire some less disturbing person,
as Bacon is said to have hired Shakespear, to father my plays for me.
Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time at the Little
Theatre in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, April
19th 1911.
FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
INDUCTION
_The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence Towers,
the property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form a stage
for a private theatrical performance. A footman in grandiose Spanish
livery enters before the curtain, on its O.P. side._
FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard. [Cecil Savoyard comes in:
a middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat. He is
surprised to find nobody to receive him. So is the Footman]. Oh, beg
pardon, sir: I thought the Count was here. He was when I took up your
name. He must have gone through the stage into the library. This way,
sir. [He moves towards the division in the middle of the curtains].
SAVOYARD. Half a mo. [The Footman stops]. When does the play begin?
Half-past eight?
FOOTMAN. Nine, sir.
SAVOYARD. Oh, good. Well, will you telephone to my wife at the George
that it's not until nine?
FOOTMAN. Right, sir. Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir?
SAVOYARD. No: Mrs William Tinkler. Dont forget.
THE FOOTMAN. Mrs Tinkler, sir. Right, sir. [The Count comes in through
the curtains]. Here is the Count, sir. [Announcing] Mr Cecil Savoyard,
sir. [He withdraws].
COUNT O'DOWDA. [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied elegance
a hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake hands with his
visitor] Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard. I suddenly recollected that all
the bookcases in the library were locked--in fact theyve never been
opened since we came from Venice--and as our literary guests will
probably use the library a good deal, I just ran in to unlock
everything.
SAVOYARD. Oh, you mean the dramatic critics. M'yes. I suppose theres a
smoking room?
THE COUNT. My study is available. An old-fashioned house, you
understand. Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard?
SAVOYARD. Thanks. [They sit. Savoyard, looking at his host's obsolete
costume, continues] I had no idea you were going to appear in the piece
yourself.
THE COUNT. I am not. I wear this costume because--well, perhaps I had
better explain the position, if it interests you.
SAVOYARD. Certainly.
THE COUNT. Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in your
world. I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word. I'm
not really an Englishman: my family is Irish: Ive lived all my life in
Italy--in Venice mostly--my very title is a foreign one: I am a Count of
the Holy Roman Empire.
SAVOYARD. Where's that?
THE COUNT. At present, nowhere, except as a memory and an ideal.
[Savoyard inclines his head respectfully to the ideal]. But I am by
no means an idealogue. I am not content with beautiful dreams: I want
beautiful realities.
SAVOYARD. Hear, hear! I'm all with you there--when you can get them.
THE COUNT. Why not get them? The difficulty is not that there are no
beautiful realities, Mr Savoyard: the difficulty is that so few of
us know them when we see them. We have inherited from the past a vast
treasure of beauty--of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of painting,
of sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite fashions in
dress, in furniture, in domestic decoration. We can contemplate these
treasures. We can reproduce many of them. We can buy a few inimitable
originals. We can shut out the nineteenth century--
SAVOYARD. [correcting him] The twentieth.
THE COUNT. To me the century I shut out will always be the nineteenth
century, just as your national anthem will always be God Save the Queen,
no matter how many kings may succeed. I found England befouled with
industrialism: well, I did what Byron did: I simply refused to live in
it. You remember Byron's words: "I am sure my bones would not rest in an
English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe
the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed could I suppose that any
of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcase back to her
soil. I would not even feed her worms if I could help it."
SAVOYARD. Did Byron say that?
THE COUNT. He did, sir.
SAVOYARD. It dont sound like him. I saw a good deal of him at one time.
THE COUNT. You! But how is that possible? You are too young.
SAVOYARD. I was quite a lad, of course. But I had a job in the original
production of Our Boys.
THE COUNT. My dear sir, not that Byron. Lord Byron, the poet.
SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you were talking of the
Byron. So you prefer living abroad?
THE COUNT. I find England ugly and Philistine. Well, I dont live in it.
I find modern houses ugly. I dont live in them: I have a palace on the
grand canal. I find modern clothes prosaic. I dont wear them, except, of
course, in the street. My ears are offended by the Cockney twang: I keep
out of hearing of it and speak and listen to Italian. I find Beethoven's
music coarse and restless, and Wagner's senseless and detestable. I do
not listen to them. I listen to Cimarosa, to Pergolesi, to Gluck and
Mozart. Nothing simpler, sir.
SAVOYARD. It's all right when you can afford it.
THE COUNT. Afford it! My dear Mr Savoyard, if you are a man with a sense
of beauty you can make an earthly paradise for yourself in Venice on
1500 pounds a year, whilst our wretched vulgar industrial millionaires
are spending twenty thousand on the amusements of billiard markers. I
assure you I am a poor man according to modern ideas. But I have never
had anything less than the very best that life has produced. It is my
good fortune to have a beautiful and lovable daughter; and that girl,
sir, has never seen an ugly sight or heard an ugly sound that I could
spare her; and she has certainly never worn an ugly dress or tasted
coarse food or bad wine in her life. She has lived in a palace; and her
perambulator was a gondola. Now you know the sort of people we are, Mr
Savoyard. You can imagine how we feel here.
SAVOYARD. Rather out of it, eh?
THE COUNT. Out of it, sir! Out of what?
SAVOYARD. Well, out of everything.
THE COUNT. Out of soot and fog and mud and east wind; out of vulgarity
and ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, superstition and stupidity. Out of
all this, and in the sunshine, in the enchanted region of which great
artists alone have had the secret, in the sacred footsteps of Byron, of
Shelley, of the Brownings, of Turner and Ruskin. Dont you envy me, Mr
Savoyard?
SAVOYARD. Some of us must live in England, you know, just to keep the
place going. Besides--though, mind you, I dont say it isnt all right
from the high art point of view and all that--three weeks of it would
drive me melancholy mad. However, I'm glad you told me, because it
explains why it is you dont seem to know your way about much in England.
I hope, by the way, that everything has given satisfaction to your
daughter.
THE COUNT. She seems quite satisfied. She tells me that the actors you
sent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice people
to work with. I understand she had some difficulties at the first
rehearsals with the gentleman you call the producer, because he hadnt
read the play; but the moment he found out what it was all about
everything went smoothly.
SAVOYARD. Havnt you seen the rehearsals?
THE COUNT. Oh no. I havnt been allowed even to meet any of the company.
All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman [Savoyard is rather
scandalized]: I asked her not to have an English hero. That is all I
know. [Ruefully] I havnt been consulted even about the costumes, though
there, I think, I could have been some use.
SAVOYARD. [puzzled] But there arnt any costumes.
THE COUNT. [seriously shocked] What! No costumes! Do you mean to say it
is a modern play?
SAVOYARD. I dont know: I didnt read it. I handed it to Billy
Burjoyce--the producer, you know--and left it to him to select the
company and so on. But I should have had to order the costumes if there
had been any. There wernt.
THE COUNT. [smiling as he recovers from his alarm] I understand. She
has taken the costumes into her own hands. She is an expert in beautiful
costumes. I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what you are about
to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by Watteau. The
heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a dainty Harlequin,
her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet who hoodwinks the
father and brings about the happiness of the lovers a grotesque but
perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or Sganarelle.
SAVOYARD. I see. That makes three men; and the clown and policeman will
make five. Thats why you wanted five men in the company.
THE COUNT. My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly,
silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of
a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime! What was it after
all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of
Grimaldi a hundred years ago? My daughter does not know of the existence
of such a thing. I refer to the graceful and charming fantasies of the
Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
SAVOYARD. Oh, I beg pardon. I quite agree that harlequinades are rot.
Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres. But from what Billy Burjoyce
told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about here, and
had seen a lot of plays. He had no idea she'd been away in Venice all
the time.
THE COUNT. Oh, she has not been. I should have explained that two
years ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge.
Cambridge was my own University; and though of course there were no
women there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the
eighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be at
Cambridge. About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I
wished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of course I said
yes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that she
had written a play, and that the present she wanted was a private
performance of it with real actors and real critics.
SAVOYARD. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was easy enough to engage
a company for a private performance: it's done often enough. But the
notion of having critics was new. I hardly knew how to set about it.
They dont expect private engagements; and so they have no agents.
Besides, I didnt know what to offer them. I knew that they were cheaper
than actors, because they get long engagements: forty years sometimes;
but thats no rule for a single job. Then theres such a lot of them: on
first nights they run away with all your stalls: you cant find a decent
place for your own mother. It would have cost a fortune to bring the
lot.
THE COUNT. Of course I never dreamt of having them all. Only a few
first-rate representative men.
SAVOYARD. Just so. All you want is a few sample opinions. Out of a
hundred notices you wont find more than four at the outside that say
anything different. Well, Ive got just the right four for you. And what
do you think it has cost me?
THE COUNT. [shrugging his shoulders] I cannot guess.
SAVOYARD. Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give Flawner Bannal ten.
He wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it, because
if we hadnt had him we might just as well have had nobody at all.
THE COUNT. But what about the others, if Mr Flannel--
SAVOYARD. [shocked] Flawner Bannal.
THE COUNT. --if Mr Bannal got the whole ten?
SAVOYARD. Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class sort of thing, the
first man I went for was Trotter.
THE COUNT. Oh indeed. I am very glad you have secured Mr Trotter. I have
read his Playful Impressions.
SAVOYARD. Well, I was rather in a funk about him. Hes not exactly what
I call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off at first. But when I
explained and told him your daughter--
THE COUNT. [interrupting in alarm] You did not say that the play was by
her, I hope?
SAVOYARD. No: thats been kept a dead secret. I just said your daughter
has asked for a real play with a real author and a real critic and all
the rest of it. The moment I mentioned the daughter I had him. He has
a daughter of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment! Offered to come just to
please her! Quite human. I was surprised.
THE COUNT. Extremely kind of him.
SAVOYARD. Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as the
drama: and you said you thought there would be music. I told him Trotter
would feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird. Then I
thought youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that go for the
newest things and swear theyre oldfashioned. So I nailed Gilbert Gunn.
The four will give you a representative team. By the way [looking at his
watch] theyll be here presently.
THE COUNT. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hints
about them that would help me to make a little conversation with them?
I am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might unwittingly
say something tactless.
SAVOYARD. Well, let me see. As you dont like English people, I dont know
that youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English: never
happy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so unnecessarily well
that everybody there spots him as an Englishman the moment he opens
his mouth. Very witty and all that. Pretends to turn up his nose at
the theatre and says people make too much fuss about art [the Count is
extremely indignant]. But thats only his modesty, because art is his own
line, you understand. Mind you dont chaff him about Aristotle.
THE COUNT. Why should I chaff him about Aristotle?
SAVOYARD. Well, I dont know; but its one of the recognized ways of
chaffing him. However, youll get on with him all right: hes a man of
the world and a man of sense. The one youll have to be careful about is
Vaughan.
THE COUNT. In what way, may I ask?
SAVOYARD. Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and if you joke with
him he'll think youre insulting him on purpose. Mind: it's not that he
doesnt see a joke: he does; and it hurts him. A comedy scene makes him
sore all over: he goes away black and blue, and pitches into the play
for all hes worth.
THE COUNT. But surely that is a very serious defect in a man of his
profession?
SAVOYARD. Yes it is, and no mistake. But Vaughan is honest, and dont
care a brass farthing what he says, or whether it pleases anybody or
not; and you must have one man of that sort to say the things that
nobody else will say.
THE COUNT. It seems to me to carry the principle of division of labor
too far, this keeping of the honesty and the other qualities in separate
compartments. What is Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask?
SAVOYARD. Gunn is one of the intellectuals.
THE COUNT. But arnt they all intellectuals?
SAVOYARD. Lord! no: heaven forbid! You must be careful what you say
about that: I shouldnt like anyone to call me an Intellectual: I dont
think any Englishman would! They dont count really, you know; but
still it's rather the thing to have them. Gunn is one of the young
intellectuals: he writes plays himself. Hes useful because he pitches
into the older intellectuals who are standing in his way. But you may
take it from me that none of these chaps really matter. Flawner Bannal's
your man. Bannal really represents the British playgoer. When he likes
a thing, you may take your oath there are a hundred thousand people in
London thatll like it if they can only be got to know about it. Besides,
Bannal's knowledge of the theatre is an inside knowledge. We know him;
and he knows us. He knows the ropes: he knows his way about: he knows
what hes talking about.
THE COUNT. [with a little sigh] Age and experience, I suppose?
SAVOYARD. Age! I should put him at twenty at the very outside, myself.
It's not an old man's job after all, is it? Bannal may not ride the
literary high horse like Trotter and the rest; but I'd take his opinion
before any other in London. Hes the man in the street; and thats what
you want.
THE COUNT. I am almost sorry you didnt give the gentleman his full
terms. I should not have grudged the fifty guineas for a sound opinion.
He may feel shabbily treated.
SAVOYARD. Well, let him. It was a bit of side, his asking fifty. After
all, what is he? Only a pressman. Jolly good business for him to earn
ten guineas: hes done the same job often enough for half a quid, I
expect.
_Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, excited and
nervous. A girl of nineteen in a dress synchronous with her father's._
FANNY. Papa, papa, the critics have come. And one of them has a cocked
hat and sword like a-- [she notices Savoyard] Oh, I beg your pardon.
THE COUNT. This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my dear.
FANNY. [shaking hands] How do you do?
SAVOYARD. Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Dowda. The cocked hat is all
right. Trotter is a member of the new Academic Committee. He induced
them to go in for a uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him to
wear it.
THE FOOTMAN. [announcing] Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, Mr Gunn, Mr Flawner
Bannal. [The four critics enter. Trotter wears a diplomatic dress, with
sword and three-cornered hat. His age is about 50. Vaughan is 40. Gunn
is 30. Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike the others. They can be
classed at sight as professional men: Bannal is obviously one of those
unemployables of the business class who manage to pick up a living by a
sort of courage which gives him cheerfulness, conviviality, and
bounce, and is helped out positively by a slight turn for writing, and
negatively by a comfortable ignorance and lack of intuition which hides
from him all the dangers and disgraces that keep men of finer perception
in check. The Count approaches them hospitably].
SAVOYARD. Count O'Dowda, gentlemen. Mr Trotter.
TROTTER. [looking at the Count's costume] Have I the pleasure of meeting
a confrere?
THE COUNT. No, sir: I have no right to my costume except the right of a
lover of the arts to dress myself handsomely. You are most welcome, Mr
Trotter. [Trotter bows in the French manner].
SAVOYARD. Mr Vaughan.
THE COUNT. How do you do, Mr Vaughan?
VAUGHAN. Quite well, thanks.
SAVOYARD. Mr Gunn.
THE COUNT. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Gunn.
GUNN. Very pleased.
SAVOYARD. Mr Flawner Bannal.
THE COUNT. Very kind of you to come, Mr Bannal.
BANNAL. Dont mention it.
THE COUNT. Gentlemen, my daughter. [They all bow]. We are very greatly
indebted to you, gentlemen, for so kindly indulging her whim. [The
dressing bell sounds. The Count looks at his watch]. Ah! The dressing
bell, gentlemen. As our play begins at nine, I have had to put forward
the dinner hour a little. May I shew you to your rooms? [He goes out,
followed by all the men, except Trotter, who, going last, is detained by
Fanny].
FANNY. Mr Trotter: I want to say something to you about this play.
TROTTER. No: thats forbidden. You must not attempt to _souffler_ the
critic.
FANNY. Oh, I would not for the world try to influence your opinion.
TROTTER. But you do: you are influencing me very shockingly. You invite
me to this charming house, where I'm about to enjoy a charming dinner.
And just before the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming young lady to
be talked to about the play. How can you expect me to be impartial? God
forbid that I should set up to be a judge, or do more than record an
impression; but my impressions can be influenced; and in this case youre
influencing them shamelessly all the time.
FANNY. Dont make me more nervous than I am already, Mr Trotter. If you
knew how I feel!
TROTTER. Naturally: your first party: your first appearance in England
as hostess. But youre doing it beautifully. Dont be afraid. Every
_nuance_ is perfect.
FANNY. It's so kind of you to say so, Mr Trotter. But that isnt whats
the matter. The truth is, this play is going to give my father a
dreadful shock.
TROTTER. Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say. Half the young
ladies in London spend their evenings making their fathers take them to
plays that are not fit for elderly people to see.
FANNY. Oh, I know all about that; but you cant understand what it means
to Papa. Youre not so innocent as he is.
TROTTER. [remonstrating] My dear young lady--
FANNY. I dont mean morally innocent: everybody who reads your articles
knows youre as innocent as a lamb.
TROTTER. What!
FANNY. Yes, Mr Trotter: Ive seen a good deal of life since I came to
England; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby: a dear, good,
well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a wee
lamb in a world of wolves. Cambridge is not what it was in my father's
time.
TROTTER. Well, I must say!
FANNY. Just so. Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge Fabian
Society.
TROTTER. Classifications? I dont understand.
FANNY. We classify our aunts into different sorts. And one of the sorts
is the "I must says."
TROTTER. I withdraw "I must say." I substitute "Blame my cats!" No: I
substitute "Blame my kittens!" Observe, Miss O'Dowda: kittens. I say
again in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens.
Impertinent little kittens. Blame them. Smack them. I guess what is on
your conscience. This play to which you have lured me is one of those in
which members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers in the art
of milking ducks. And you are afraid it will shock your father. Well,
I hope it will. And if he consults me about it I shall recommend him to
smack you soundly and pack you off to bed.
FANNY. Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter;
but it doesnt take me in. You see, I'm much more conscious of what you
really are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you thoroughly
at Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you?
TROTTER. I--
FANNY. Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me.
TROTTER. Trottering!
FANNY. Thats what we call it at Cambridge.
TROTTER. If it were not so obviously a stage _cliche_, I should say Damn
Cambridge. As it is, I blame my kittens. And now let me warn you. If
youre going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you may coax
me. If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago, I'll treat
you as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man.
FANNY. [adoringly] But how few men are your intellectual equals, Mr
Trotter!
TROTTER. I'm getting the worst of this.
FANNY. Oh no. Why do you say that?
TROTTER. May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently?
FANNY. What does it matter? We're both ready. I havnt told you yet what
I want you to do for me.
TROTTER. Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except out
of pure magnanimity. What is it?
FANNY. I dont mind this play shocking my father morally. It's good for
him to be shocked morally. It's all that the young can do for the old,
to shock them and keep them up to date. But I know that this play will
shock him artistically; and that terrifies me. No moral consideration
could make a breach between us: he would forgive me for anything of that
kind sooner or later; but he never gives way on a point of art. I darent
let him know that I love Beethoven and Wagner; and as to Strauss, if he
heard three bars of Elektra, it'd part us for ever. Now what I want you
to do is this. If hes very angry--if he hates the play, because it's a
modern play--will you tell him that it's not my fault; that its style
and construction, and so forth, are considered the very highest art
nowadays; that the author wrote it in the proper way for repertory
theatres of the most superior kind--you know the kind of plays I mean?
TROTTER. [emphatically] I think I know the sort of entertainments you
mean. But please do not beg a vital question by calling them plays. I
dont pretend to be an authority; but I have at least established the
fact that these productions, whatever else they may be, are certainly
not plays.
FANNY. The authors dont say they are.
TROTTER. [warmly] I am aware that one author, who is, I blush to say, a
personal friend of mine, resorts freely to the dastardly subterfuge of
calling them conversations, discussions, and so forth, with the express
object of evading criticism. But I'm not to be disarmed by such tricks.
I say they are not plays. Dialogues, if you will. Exhibitions of
character, perhaps: especially the character of the author. Fictions,
possibly, though a little decent reticence as to introducing actual
persons, and thus violating the sanctity of private life, might not be
amiss. But plays, no. I say NO. Not plays. If you will not concede this
point I cant continue our conversation. I take this seriously. It's a
matter of principle. I must ask you, Miss O'Dowda, before we go a step
further, Do you or do you not claim that these works are plays?
FANNY. I assure you I dont.
TROTTER. Not in any sense of the word?
FANNY. Not in any sense of the word. I loathe plays.
TROTTER. [disappointed] That last remark destroys all the value of your
admission. You admire these--these theatrical nondescripts? You enjoy
them?
FANNY. Dont you?
TROTTER. Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose I
prefer popular melodramas? Have I not written most appreciative notices
of them? But I say theyre not plays. Theyre not plays. I cant consent to
remain in this house another minute if anything remotely resembling them
is to be foisted on me as a play.
FANNY. I fully admit that theyre not plays. I only want you to tell my
father that plays are not plays nowadays--not in your sense of the word.
TROTTER. Ah, there you go again! In my sense of the word! You believe
that my criticism is merely a personal impression; that--
FANNY. You always said it was.
TROTTER. Pardon me: not on this point. If you had been classically
educated--
FANNY. But I have.
TROTTER. Pooh! Cambridge! If you had been educated at Oxford, you
would know that the definition of a play has been settled exactly and
scientifically for two thousand two hundred and sixty years. When I say
that these entertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense of
the word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the immortal
Stagirite.
FANNY. Who is the Stagirite?
TROTTER. [shocked] You dont know who the Stagirite was?
FANNY. Sorry. Never heard of him.
TROTTER. And this is Cambridge education! Well, my dear young lady, I'm
delighted to find theres something you don't know; and I shant spoil you
by dispelling an ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly becoming to
your age and sex. So we'll leave it at that.
FANNY. But you will promise to tell my father that lots of people
write plays just like this one--that I havnt selected it out of mere
heartlessness?
TROTTER. I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to your father about
the play until Ive seen the play. But I'll tell you what I shall say to
him about you. I shall say that youre a very foolish young lady; that
youve got into a very questionable set; and that the sooner he takes you
away from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, the better.
FANNY. It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a heavy father. In
Cambridge we regard you as a _bel esprit_, a wit, an Irresponsible, a
Parisian Immoralist, _tres chic_.
TROTTER. I!
FANNY. Theres quite a Trotter set.
TROTTER. Well, upon my word!
FANNY. They go in for adventures and call you Aramis.
TROTTER. They wouldnt dare!
FANNY. You always make such delicious fun of the serious people. Your
_insouciance_--
TROTTER. [frantic] Stop talking French to me: it's not a proper language
for a young girl. Great heavens! how is it possible that a few innocent
pleasantries should be so frightfully misunderstood? Ive tried all my
life to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and kindly. Ive lived a
blameless life. Ive supported the Censorship in the face of ridicule
and insult. And now I'm told that I'm a centre of Immoralism! of Modern
Minxism! a trifler with the most sacred subjects! a Nietzschean!!
perhaps a Shavian!!!
FANNY. Do you mean you are really on the serious side, Mr Trotter?
TROTTER. Of course I'm on the serious side. How dare you ask me such a
question?
FANNY. Then why dont you play for it?
TROTTER. I do play for it--short, of course, of making myself
ridiculous.
FANNY. What! not make yourself ridiculous for the sake of a good cause!
Oh, Mr Trotter. Thats _vieux jeu_.
TROTTER. [shouting at her] Dont talk French. I will not allow it.
FANNY. But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out of date. The
Cambridge Fabian Society--
TROTTER. I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society to me.
FANNY. Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without making yourself
ridiculous."
TROTTER. Skate! What has that to do with it?
FANNY. Thats not all. It goes on, "The ice of life is slippery."
TROTTER. Ice of life indeed! You should be eating penny ices and
enjoying yourself. I wont hear another word.
_The Count returns._
THE COUNT. We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my dear. Have you been
detaining Mr Trotter all this time?
TROTTER. I'm so sorry. I must have just a little brush up: I [He hurries
out].
THE COUNT. My dear, you should be in the drawing-room. You should not
have kept him here.
FANNY. I know. Dont scold me: I had something important to say to him.
THE COUNT. I shall ask him to take you in to dinner.
FANNY. Yes, papa. Oh, I hope it will go off well.
THE COUNT. Yes, love, of course it will. Come along.
FANNY. Just one thing, papa, whilst we're alone. Who was the Stagirite?
THE COUNT. The Stagirite? Do you mean to say you dont know?
FANNY. Havnt the least notion.
THE COUNT. The Stagirite was Aristotle. By the way, dont mention him to
Mr Trotter.
_They go to the dining-room._
THE PLAY
ACT I
_In the dining-room of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly lady sits at
breakfast reading the newspaper. Her chair is at the end of the oblong
dining-table furthest from the fire. There is an empty chair at the
other end. The fireplace is behind this chair; and the door is next the
fireplace, between it and the corner. An arm-chair stands beside the
coal-scuttle. In the middle of the back wall is the sideboard, parallel
to the table. The rest of the furniture is mostly dining-room chairs,
ranged against the walls, and including a baby rocking-chair on the
lady's side of the room. The lady is a placid person. Her husband, Mr
Robin Gilbey, not at all placid, bursts violently into the room with a
letter in his hand._
GILBEY. [grinding his teeth] This is a nice thing. This is a b----
MRS GILBEY. [cutting him short] Leave it at that, please. Whatever it
is, bad language wont make it better.
GILBEY. [bitterly] Yes, put me in the wrong as usual. Take your boy's
part against me. [He flings himself into the empty chair opposite her].
MRS GILBEY. When he does anything right, hes your son. When he does
anything wrong hes mine. Have you any news of him?
GILBEY. Ive a good mind not to tell you.
MRS GILBEY. Then dont. I suppose hes been found. Thats a comfort, at all
events.
GILBEY. No, he hasnt been found. The boy may be at the bottom of the
river for all you care. [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and paces
the room distractedly].
MRS GILBEY. Then what have you got in your hand?
GILBEY. Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell. From New York.
Dropping us. Cutting us. [Turning fiercely on her] Thats a nice thing,
isnt it?
MRS GILBEY. What for?
GILBEY. [flinging away towards his chair] How do _I_ know what for?
MRS GILBEY. What does he say?
GILBEY. [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles] This is
what he says. "My dear Mr Gilbey: The news about Bobby had to follow me
across the Atlantic: it did not reach me until to-day. I am afraid he
is incorrigible. My brother, as you may imagine, feels that this last
escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think, myself, that Bobby
ought to be made to feel that such scrapes involve a certain degree of
reprobation." "As you may imagine"! And we know no more about it than
the babe unborn.
MRS GILBEY. What else does he say?
GILBEY. "I think my brother must have been just a little to blame
himself; so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressive
formality, forgive Bobby later on; but for the present I think it had
better be understood that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer
on visiting terms. As ever, yours sincerely." [His agitation masters him
again] Thats a nice slap in the face to get from a man in his position!
This is what your son has brought on me.
MRS GILBEY. Well, I think it's rather a nice letter. He as good as tells
you hes only letting on to be offended for Bobby's good.
GILBEY. Oh, very well: have the letter framed and hang it up over the
mantelpiece as a testimonial.
MRS GILBEY. Dont talk nonsense, Rob. You ought to be thankful to know
that the boy is alive after his disappearing like that for nearly a
week.
GILBEY. Nearly a week! A fortnight, you mean. Wheres your feelings,
woman? It was fourteen days yesterday.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if the boy was in
prison.
GILBEY. How do you know hes not in prison? It's got on my nerves so,
that I'd believe even that.
MRS GILBEY. Dont talk silly, Rob. Bobby might get into a scrape like any
other lad; but he'd never do anything low.
_Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver. He is a rather
low-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good appearance and address,
and iron self-command._
JUGGINS. [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey] Lady wishes to see Mr
Bobby's parents, sir.
GILBEY. [pointing to Mrs Gilbey] Theres Mr Bobby's parent. I disown him.
JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey].
MRS GILBEY. You mustnt mind what your master says, Juggins: he doesnt
mean it. [She takes the card and reads it]. Well, I never!
GILBEY. Whats up now?
MRS GILBEY. [reading] "Miss D. Delaney. Darling Dora." Just like
that--in brackets. What sort of person, Juggins?
GILBEY. Whats her address?
MRS GILBEY. The West Circular Road. Is that a respectable address,
Juggins?
JUGGINS. A great many most respectable people live in the West Circular
Road, madam; but the address is not a guarantee of respectability.
GILBEY. So it's come to that with him, has it?
MRS GILBEY. Dont jump to conclusions, Rob. How do you know? [To Juggins]
Is she a lady, Juggins? You know what I mean.
JUGGINS. In the sense in which you are using the word, no, madam.
MRS GILBEY. I'd better try what I can get out of her. [To Juggins] Shew
her up. You dont mind, do you, Rob?
GILBEY. So long as you dont flounce out and leave me alone with her. [He
rises and plants himself on the hearth-rug].
_Juggins goes out._
MRS GILBEY. I wonder what she wants, Rob?
GILBEY. If she wants money, she shant have it. Not a farthing. A nice
thing, everybody seeing her on our doorstep! If it wasnt that she may
tell us something about the lad, I'd have Juggins put the hussy into the
street.
JUGGINS. [returning and announcing] Miss Delaney. [He waits for express
orders before placing a chair for this visitor].
_Miss Delaney comes in. She is a young lady of hilarious disposition,
very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes. She is so affable and
confidential that it is very difficult to keep her at a distance by any
process short of flinging her out of the house._
DORA. [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into the middle
of the room] How d'ye do, both. I'm a friend of Bobby's. He told me all
about you once, in a moment of confidence. Of course he never let on who
he was at the police court.
GILBEY. Police court!
MRS GILBEY. [looking apprehensively at Juggins] Tch--! Juggins: a chair.
DORA. Oh, Ive let it out, have I! [Contemplating Juggins approvingly as
he places a chair for her between the table and the sideboard] But
hes the right sort: I can see that. [Buttonholing him] You wont let on
downstairs, old man, will you?
JUGGINS. The family can rely on my absolute discretion. [He withdraws].
DORA. [sitting down genteelly] I dont know what youll say to me: you
know I really have no right to come here; but then what was I to do? You
know Holy Joe, Bobby's tutor, dont you? But of course you do.
GILBEY. [with dignity] I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the brother of
Monsignor Grenfell, if it is of him you are speaking.
DORA. [wide-eyed and much amused] No!!! You dont tell me that old geezer
has a brother a Monsignor! And youre Catholics! And I never knew it,
though Ive known Bobby ever so long! But of course the last thing you
find out about a person is their religion, isnt it?
MRS GILBEY. We're not Catholics. But when the Samuelses got an
Archdeacon's son to form their boy's mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobby
ought to have a chance too. And the Monsignor is a customer. Mr Gilbey
consulted him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother of his that was
more sinned against than sinning.
GILBEY. [on tenderhooks] She dont want to hear about that, Maria. [To
Dora] Whats your business?
DORA. I'm afraid it was all my fault.
GILBEY. What was all your fault? I'm half distracted. I dont know what
has happened to the boy: hes been lost these fourteen days--
MRS GILBEY. A fortnight, Rob.
GILBEY. --and not a word have we heard of him since.
MRS GILBEY. Dont fuss, Rob.
GILBEY. [yelling] I will fuss. Youve no feeling. You dont care what
becomes of the lad. [He sits down savagely].
DORA. [soothingly] Youve been anxious about him. Of course. How
thoughtless of me not to begin by telling you hes quite safe. Indeed hes
in the safest place in the world, as one may say: safe under lock and
key.
GILBEY. [horrified, pitiable] Oh my-- [his breath fails him]. Do you
mean that when he was in the police court he was in the dock? Oh, Maria!
Oh, great Lord! What has he done? What has he got for it? [Desperate]
Will you tell me or will you see me go mad on my own carpet?
DORA. [sweetly] Yes, old dear--
MRS GILBEY. [starting at the familiarity] Well!
DORA. [continuing] I'll tell you: but dont you worry: hes all right. I
came out myself this morning: there was such a crowd! and a band! they
thought I was a suffragette: only fancy! You see it was like this. Holy
Joe got talking about how he'd been a champion sprinter at college.
MRS GILBEY. A what?
DORA. A sprinter. He said he was the fastest hundred yards runner in
England. We were all in the old cowshed that night.
MRS GILBEY. What old cowshed?
GILBEY. [groaning] Oh, get on. Get on.
DORA. Oh, of course you wouldnt know. How silly of me! It's a rather
go-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney. We call it the old cowshed.
MRS GILBEY. Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music halls?
DORA. No. Bobby takes him. But Holy Joe likes it: fairly laps it up like
a kitten, poor old dear. Well, Bobby says to me, "Darling--"
MRS GILBEY. [placidly] Why does he call you Darling?
DORA. Oh, everybody calls me Darling: it's a sort of name Ive got.
Darling Dora, you know. Well, he says, "Darling, if you can get Holy Joe
to sprint a hundred yards, I'll stand you that squiffer with the gold
keys."
MRS GILBEY. Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face [Gilbey clutches
at his hair in his impatience].
DORA. Well, what would he call him? After all, Holy Joe is Holy Joe; and
boys will be boys.
MRS GILBEY. Whats a squiffer?
DORA. Oh, of course: excuse my vulgarity: a concertina. Theres one in
a shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, with gold keys and Russia leather
bellows; and Bobby knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt afford it,
poor lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me.
GILBEY. Maria: if you keep interrupting with silly questions, I shall go
out of my senses. Heres the boy in gaol and me disgraced for ever; and
all you care to know is what a squiffer is.
DORA. Well, remember it has gold keys. The man wouldnt take a penny less
than 15 pounds for it. It was a presentation one.
GILBEY. [shouting at her] Wheres my son? Whats happened to my son? Will
you tell me that, and stop cackling about your squiffer?
DORA. Oh, aint we impatient! Well, it does you credit, old dear. And you
neednt fuss: theres no disgrace. Bobby behaved like a perfect gentleman.
Besides, it was all my fault. I'll own it: I took too much champagne. I
was not what you might call drunk; but I was bright, and a little beyond
myself; and--I'll confess it--I wanted to shew off before Bobby, because
he was a bit taken by a woman on the stage; and she was pretending to be
game for anything. You see youve brought Bobby up too strict; and when
he gets loose theres no holding him. He does enjoy life more than any
lad I ever met.
GILBEY. Never you mind how hes been brought up: thats my business. Tell
me how hes been brought down: thats yours.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob.
DORA. I'm coming to it, old dear: dont you be so headstrong. Well, it
was a beautiful moonlight night; and we couldnt get a cab on the nod; so
we started to walk, very jolly, you know: arm in arm, and dancing along,
singing and all that. When we came into Jamaica Square, there was a
young copper on point duty at the corner. I says to Bob: "Dearie boy: is
it a bargain about the squiffer if I make Joe sprint for you?" "Anything
you like, darling," says he: "I love you." I put on my best company
manners and stepped up to the copper. "If you please, sir," says I, "can
you direct me to Carrickmines Square?" I was so genteel, and talked so
sweet, that he fell to it like a bird. "I never heard of any such Square
in these parts," he says. "Then," says I, "what a very silly little
officer you must be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that knocked
it over his eyes, and did a bunk.
MRS GILBEY. Did a what?
DORA. A bunk. Holy Joe did one too all right: he sprinted faster than he
ever did in college, I bet, the old dear. He got clean off, too. Just as
he was overtaking me half-way down the square, we heard the whistle; and
at the sound of it he drew away like a streak of lightning; and that
was the last I saw of him. I was copped in the Dock Road myself: rotten
luck, wasn't it? I tried the innocent and genteel and all the rest; but
Bobby's hat done me in.
GILBEY. And what happened to the boy?
DORA. Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper! He thought the
copper would see the joke, poor lamb. He was arguing about it when the
two that took me came along to find out what the whistle was for, and
brought me with them. Of course I swore I'd never seen him before in
my life; but there he was in my hat and I in his. The cops were very
spiteful and laid it on for all they were worth: drunk and disorderly
and assaulting the police and all that. I got fourteen days without the
option, because you see--well, the fact is, I'd done it before, and been
warned. Bobby was a first offender and had the option; but the dear boy
had no money left and wouldnt give you away by telling his name; and
anyhow he couldnt have brought himself to buy himself off and leave me
there; so hes doing his time. Well, it was two forty shillingses; and
Ive only twenty-eight shillings in the world. If I pawn my clothes I
shant be able to earn any more. So I cant pay the fine and get him out;
but if youll stand 3 pounds I'll stand one; and thatll do it. If youd
like to be very kind and nice you could pay the lot; but I cant deny
that it was my fault; so I wont press you.
GILBEY. [heart-broken] My son in gaol!
DORA. Oh, cheer up, old dear: it wont hurt him: look at me after
fourteen days of it; I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet. You
mustnt let it prey on your mind.
GILBEY. The disgrace of it will kill me. And it will leave a mark on him
to the end of his life.
DORA. Not a bit of it. Dont you be afraid: Ive educated Bobby a bit: hes
not the mollycoddle he was when you had him in hand.
MRS GILBEY. Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle. They wanted him to go
in for singlestick at the Young Men's Christian Association; but, of
course, I couldnt allow that: he might have had his eye knocked out.
GILBEY. [to Dora, angrily] Listen here, you.
DORA. Oh, aint we cross!
GILBEY. I want none of your gaiety here. This is a respectable
household. Youve gone and got my poor innocent boy into trouble. It's
the like of you thats the ruin of the like of him.
DORA. So you always say, you old dears. But you know better. Bobby came
to me: I didnt come to him.
GILBEY. Would he have gone if you hadnt been there for him to go to?
Tell me that. You know why he went to you, I suppose?
DORA. [charitably] It was dull for him at home, poor lad, wasnt it?
MRS GILBEY. Oh no. I'm at home on first Thursdays. And we have the
Knoxes to dinner every Friday. Margaret Knox and Bobby are as good as
engaged. Mr Knox is my husband's partner. Mrs Knox is very religious;
but shes quite cheerful. We dine with them on Tuesdays. So thats two
evenings pleasure every week.
GILBEY. [almost in tears] We done what we could for the boy. Short of
letting him go into temptations of all sorts, he can do what he likes.
What more does he want?
DORA. Well, old dear, he wants me; and thats about the long and short of
it. And I must say youre not very nice to me about it. Ive talked to him
like a mother, and tried my best to keep him straight; but I dont deny
I like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit giddy when we're
lighthearted. Him and me is a pair, I'm afraid.
GILBEY. Dont talk foolishness, girl. How could you and he be a pair, you
being what you are, and he brought up as he has been, with the example
of a religious woman like Mrs Knox before his eyes? I cant understand
how he could bring himself to be seen in the street with you. [Pitying
himself] I havnt deserved this. Ive done my duty as a father. Ive kept
him sheltered. [Angry with her] Creatures like you that take advantage
of a child's innocence ought to be whipped through the streets.
DORA. Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady to lose my temper;
and I dont think Bobby would like me to tell you what I think of you;
for when I start giving people a bit of my mind I sometimes use language
thats beneath me. But I tell you once for all I must have the money to
get Bobby out; and if you wont fork out, I'll hunt up Holy Joe. He might
get it off his brother, the Monsignor.
GILBEY. You mind your own concerns. My solicitor will do what is right.
I'll not have you paying my son's fine as if you were anything to him.
DORA. Thats right. Youll get him out today, wont you?
GILBEY. It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it?
DORA. I'd like to know when theyll let him out.
GILBEY. You would, would you? Youre going to meet him at the prison
door.
DORA. Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of a
lady?
GILBEY. [bitterly] Oh yes: I know. Here! I must buy the lad's salvation,
I suppose. How much will you take to clear out and let him go?
DORA. [pitying him: quite nice about it] What good would that do, old
dear? There are others, you know.
GILBEY. Thats true. I must send the boy himself away.
DORA. Where to?
GILBEY. Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your like.
DORA. Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old dear.
I'm sorry for you: I really am, though you mightnt believe it; and I
think your feelings do you real credit. But I cant give him up just to
let him fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I?
GILBEY. [beside himself, rising] Wheres the police? Wheres the
Government? Wheres the Church? Wheres respectability and right reason?
Whats the good of them if I have to stand here and see you put my son in
your pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly out of gaol as
a common drunk and disorderly? Whats the world coming to?
DORA. It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear?
_Mr Gilbey rushes from the room, distracted._
MRS GILBEY. [unruffled] Where did you buy that white lace? I want some
to match a collaret of my own; and I cant get it at Perry and John's.
DORA. Knagg and Pantle's: one and fourpence. It's machine hand-made.
MRS GILBEY. I never give more than one and tuppence. But I suppose youre
extravagant by nature. My sister Martha was just like that. Pay anything
she was asked.
DORA. Whats tuppence to you, Mrs Bobby, after all?
MRS GILBEY. [correcting her] Mrs Gilbey.
DORA. Of course, Mrs Gilbey. I am silly.
MRS GILBEY. Bobby must have looked funny in your hat. Why did you change
hats with him?
DORA. I dont know. One does, you know.
MRS GILBEY. I never did. The things people do! I cant understand them.
Bobby never told me he was keeping company with you. His own mother!
DORA. [overcome] Excuse me: I cant help smiling.
_Juggins enters._
JUGGINS. Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, madam.
MRS GILBEY. Have you ever been in a police court, Juggins?
JUGGINS. Yes, madam.
MRS GILBEY [rather shocked] I hope you had not been exceeding, Juggins.
JUGGINS. Yes, madam, I had. I exceeded the legal limit.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, that! Why do they give a woman a fortnight for wearing a
man's hat, and a man a month for wearing hers?
JUGGINS. I didnt know that they did, madam.
MRS GILBEY. It doesnt seem justice, does it, Juggins?
JUGGINS. No, madam.
MRS GILBEY [to Dora, rising] Well, good-bye. [Shaking her hand] So
pleased to have made your acquaintance.
DORA. [standing up] Dont mention it. I'm sure it's most kind of you to
receive me at all.
MRS GILBEY. I must go off now and order lunch. [She trots to the door].
What was it you called the concertina?
DORA. A squiffer, dear.
MRS GILBEY. [thoughtfully] A squiffer, of course. How funny! [She goes
out].
DORA. [exploding into ecstasies of mirth] Oh my! isnt she an old love?
How do you keep your face straight?
JUGGINS. It is what I am paid for.
DORA. [confidentially] Listen here, dear boy. Your name isnt Juggins.
Nobody's name is Juggins.
JUGGINS. My orders are, Miss Delaney, that you are not to be here when
Mr Gilbey returns from Wormwood Scrubbs.
DORA. That means telling me to mind my own business, doesnt it? Well,
I'm off. Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling. [She kisses her hand to him and
goes].