ROBERT YARDSLEY, } suitors for the hand of Miss Andrews.
JACK BARLOW, }
DOROTHY ANDREWS, a much-loved young woman.
JENNIE, a housemaid.
HICKS, a coachman, who does not appear.
The scene is laid in a fashionable New York drawing-room. The time
is late in October, and Wednesday afternoon. The curtain rising
shows an empty room. A bell rings. After a pause the front door is
heard opening and closing. Enter Yardsley through portiere at rear
of room.
Yardsley. Ah! So far so good; but I wish it were over. I've had
the nerve to get as far as the house and into it, but how much
further my courage will carry me I can't say. Confound it! Why is
it, I wonder, that men get so rattled when they're head over heels in
love, and want to ask the fair object of their affections to wed? I
can't see. Now I'm brave enough among men. I'm not afraid of
anything that walks, except Dorothy Andrews, and generally I'm not
afraid of her. Stopping runaway teams and talking back to impudent
policemen have been my delight. I've even been courageous enough to
submit a poem in person to the editor of a comic weekly, and yet here
this afternoon I'm all of a tremble. And for what reason? Just
because I've co-come to ask Dorothy Andrews to change her name to
Mrs. Bob Yardsley; as if that were such an unlikely thing for her to
do. Gad! I'm almost inclined to despise myself. (Surveys himself
in the mirror at one end of the room. Then walking up to it and
peering intently at his reflection, he continues.) Bah! you coward!
Afraid of a woman--a sweet little woman like Dorothy. You ought to
be ashamed of yourself, Bob Yardsley. _She_ won't hurt you. Brace
up and propose like a man--like a real lover who'd go through fire
for her sake, and all that. Ha! That's easy enough to talk about,
but how shall I put it? That's the question. Let me see. How _do_
men do it? I ought to buy a few good novels and select the sort of
proposal I like; but not having a novel at hand, I must invent my
own. How will it be? Something like this, I fancy. (The portieres
are parted, and Jennie, the maid, enters. Yardsley does not observe
her entrance.) I'll get down on my knees. A man on his knees is a
pitiable object, and pity, they say, is akin to love. Maybe she'll
pity me, and after that--well, perhaps pity's cousin will arrive.
(The maid advances, but Yardsley is so intent upon his proposal that
he still fails to observe her. She stands back of the sofa, while
he, gazing downward, kneels before it.) I'll say: "Divine creature!
At last we are alone, and I--ah--I can speak freely the words that
have been in my heart to say to you for so long--oh, so long a time."
(Jennie appears surprised.) "I have never even hinted at how I feel
towards you. I have concealed my love, fearing lest by too sudden a
betrayal of my feelings I should lose all." (Aside.) Now for a
little allusion to the poets. Poetry, they say, is a great thing for
proposals. "You know, dearest, you must know, how the poet has
phrased it--'Fain would I fall but that I fear to climb.' But now--
now I must speak. An opportunity like this may not occur again.
Will you--will you be my wife?"
[Jennie gives a little scream of delight.
Jennie. Oh, Mr. Yardsley, this is so suddent like and unexpected,
and me so far beneath you!
[Yardsley looks up and is covered with confusion.
Yardsley. Great Scott! What have I done?