MRS. HOPE. Now Joy, come and sit down; your mother's been told tea's

ready; if she lets it get cold it's her lookout.

DICK. [Producing a rug, and spreading it beneath the tree.] Plenty

of room, Joy.

JOY. I don't believe Mother knows, Aunt Nell.

[MRS. GWYN and LEVER appear in the opening of the wall.]

LETTY. [Touching ERNEST's arm.] Look, Ernie! Four couples and

Peachey----

ERNEST. [Preoccupied.] What couples?

JOY. Oh! Mums, here you are!

[Seizing her, she turns her back on LEVER. They sit in various

seats, and MRS. HOPE pours out the tea.]

MRS. HOPE. Hand the sandwiches to Mr. Lever, Peachey. It's our own

jam, Mr. Lever.

LEVER. Thanks. [He takes a bite.] It's splendid!

MRS. GWYN. [With forced gaiety.] It's the first time I've ever seen

you eat jam.

LEVER. [Smiling a forced smile.] Really! But I love it.

MRS. GWYN. [With a little bow.] You always refuse mine.

JOY. [Who has been staring at her enemy, suddenly.] I'm all burnt

up! Are n't you simply boiled, Mother?

[She touches her Mother's forehead.]

MRS. GWYN. Ugh! You're quite clammy, Joy.

JOY. It's enough to make any one clammy.

[Her eyes go back to LEVER'S face as though to stab him.]

ERNEST. [From the swing.] I say, you know, the glass is going down.

LEVER. [Suavely.] The glass in the hall's steady enough.

ERNEST. Oh, I never go by that; that's a rotten old glass.

COLONEL. Oh! is it?

ERNEST. [Paying no attention.] I've got a little ripper--never puts

you in the cart. Bet you what you like we have thunder before

tomorrow night.

MISS BEECH. [Removing her gaze from JOY to LEVER.] You don't think

we shall have it before to-night, do you?

LEVER. [Suavely.] I beg your pardon; did you speak to me?

MISS BEECH. I said, you don't think we shall have the thunder before

to-night, do you?

[She resumes her watch on joy.]

LEVER. [Blandly.] Really, I don't see any signs of it.

[Joy, crossing to the rug, flings herself down. And DICK sits

cross-legged, with his eyes fast fixed on her.]

MISS BEECH. [Eating.] People don't often see what they don't want

to, do they?

[LEVER only lifts his brows.]

MRS. GWYN. [Quickly breaking ivy.] What are you talking about? The

weather's perfect.

MISS BEECH. Isn't it?

MRS. HOPE. You'd better make a good tea, Peachey; nobody'll get

anything till eight, and then only cold shoulder. You must just put

up with no hot dinner, Mr. Lever.

LEVER. [Bowing.] Whatever is good enough for Miss Beech is good

enough for me.

MISS BEECH. [Sardonically-taking another sandwich.] So you think!

MRS. GWYN. [With forced gaiety.] Don't be so absurd, Peachey.

[MISS BEECH, grunts slightly.]

COLONEL. [Once more busy with his papers.] I see the name of your

engineer is Rodriguez--Italian, eh?

LEVER. Portuguese.

COLONEL. Don't like that!

LEVER. I believe he was born in England.

COLONEL. [Reassured.] Oh, was he? Ah!

ERNEST. Awful rotters, those Portuguese!

COLONEL. There you go!

LETTY. Well, Father, Ernie only said what you said.

MRS. HOPE. Now I want to ask you, Mr. Lever, is this gold mine safe?

If it isn't--I simply won't allow Tom to take these shares; he can't

afford it.

LEVER. It rather depends on what you call safe, Mrs. Hope.

MRS. HOPE. I don't want anything extravagant, of course; if they're

going to pay their 10 per cent, regularly, and Tom can have his money

out at any time--[There is a faint whistle from the swing.] I only

want to know that it's a thoroughly genuine thing.

MRS. GWYN. [Indignantly.] As if Maurice would be a Director if it

was n't?

MRS. HOPE. Now Molly, I'm simply asking----

MRS. GWYN. Yes, you are!

COLONEL. [Rising.] I'll take two thousand of those shares, Lever.

To have my wife talk like that--I 'm quite ashamed.

LEVER. Oh, come, sir, Mrs. Hope only meant----

[MRS. GWYN looks eagerly at LEVER.]

DICK. [Quietly.] Let's go on the river, Joy.

[JOY rises, and goes to her Mother's chair.]

MRS. HOPE. Of course! What rubbish, Tom! As if any one ever

invested money without making sure!

LEVER. [Ironically.] It seems a little difficult to make sure in

this case. There isn't the smallest necessity for Colonel Hope to

take any shares, and it looks to me as if he'd better not.

[He lights a cigarette.]

MRS. HOPE. Now, Mr. Lever, don't be offended! I'm very anxious for

Tom to take the shares if you say the thing's so good.

LEVER. I 'm afraid I must ask to be left out, please.

JOY. [Whispering.] Mother, if you've finished, do come, I want to

show you my room.

MRS. HOPE. I would n't say a word, only Tom's so easily taken in.

MRS. GWYN. [Fiercely.] Aunt Nell, how can't you? [Joy gives a

little savage laugh.]

LETTY. [Hastily.] Ernie, will you play Dick and me? Come on, Dick!

[All three go out towards the lawn.]

MRS. HOPE. You ought to know your Uncle by this time, Molly. He's

just like a child. He'd be a pauper to-morrow if I did n't see to

things.

COLONEL. Understand once for all that I shall take two thousand

shares in this mine. I 'm--I 'm humiliated. [He turns and goes

towards the house.]

MRS. HOPE. Well, what on earth have I said?

[She hurries after him. ]

MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice as she passes.] You need n't insult my

friends!

[LEVER, shrugging his shoulders, has strolled aside. JOY, with

a passionate movement seen only by Miss BEECH, goes off towards

the house. MISS BEECH and MRS. GWYN aye left alone beside the

remnants of the feast.]

MISS BEECH. Molly!

[MRS. GWYN looks up startled.]

Take care, Molly, take care! The child! Can't you see?

[Apostrophising LEVER.] Take care, Molly, take care!

LEVER. [Coming back.] Awfully hot, is n't it?

MISS BEECH. Ah! and it'll be hotter if we don't mind.

LEVER. [Suavely.] Do we control these things?

[MISS BEECH looking from face to face, nods her head repeatedly;

then gathering her skirts she walks towards the house. MRS.

GWYN sits motionless, staying before her.]

Extraordinary old lady! [He pitches away his cigarette.] What's the

matter with her, Molly?

MRS. GWYN, [With an effort.] Oh! Peachey's a character!

LEVER. [Frowning.] So I see! [There is a silence.]

MRS. GWYN. Maurice!

LEVER. Yes.

MRS. GWYN. Aunt Nell's hopeless, you mustn't mind her.

LEVER. [In a dubious and ironic voice.] My dear girl, I 've too

much to bother me to mind trifles like that.

MRS. GWYN. [Going to him suddenly.] Tell me, won't you?

[LEVER shrugs his shoulders.]

A month ago you'd have told me soon enough!

LEVER. Now, Molly!

MRS. GWYN. Ah! [With a bitter smile.] The Spring's soon over.

LEVER. It 's always Spring between us.

MRS. GWYN. Is it?

LEVER. You did n't tell me what you were thinking about just now

when you sat there like stone.

MRS. GWYN. It does n't do for a woman to say too much.

LEVER. Have I been so bad to you that you need feel like that,

Molly?

MRS. GWYN. [With a little warm squeeze of his arm.] Oh! my dear,

it's only that I'm so---

[She stops.]

LEVER. [Gently]. So what?

MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice.] It's hateful here.

LEVER. I didn't want to come. I don't understand why you suggested

it. [MRS. GWYN is silent.] It's been a mistake.

MRS. GWYN. [Her eyes fixed on the ground.] Joy comes home

to-morrow. I thought if I brought you here--I should know----

LEVER. [Vexedly.] Um!

MRS. GWYN. [Losing her control.] Can't you SEE? It haunts me? How

are we to go on? I must know--I must know!

LEVER. I don't see that my coming----

MRS. GWYN. I thought I should have more confidence; I thought I

should be able to face it better in London, if you came down here

openly--and now--I feel I must n't speak or look at you.

LEVER. You don't think your Aunt----

MRS. GWYN. [Scornfully.] She! It's only Joy I care about.

LEVER. [Frowning.] We must be more careful, that's all. We mustn't

give ourselves away again, as we were doing just now.

MRS. GWYN. When any one says anything horrid to you, I can't help

it.

[She puts her hand on the label of his coat.]

LEVER. My dear child, take care!

[MRS. GWYN drops her hand. She throws her head back, and her

throat is seen to work as though she were gulping down a bitter

draught. She moves away.]

[Following hastily.] Don't dear, don't! I only meant--Come, Molly,

let's be sensible. I want to tell you something about the mine.

MRS. GWYN. [With a quavering smile.] Yes-let 's talk sensibly, and

walk properly in this sensible, proper place.

[LEVER is seen trying to soothe her, and yet to walk properly.

As they disappear, they are viewed by JOY, who, like the shadow

parted from its figure, has come to join it again. She stands

now, foiled, a carnation in her hand; then flings herself on a

chair, and leans her elbows on the table.]

JOY. I hate him! Pig!

ROSE. [Who has come to clear the tea things.] Did you call, Miss?

JOY. Not you!

ROSE. [Motionless.] No, Miss!

JOY. [Leaning back and tearing the flower.] Oh! do hurry up, Rose!

ROSE. [Collects the tea things.] Mr. Dick's coming down the path!

Aren't I going to get you to do your frock, Miss Joy?

JOY. No.

ROSE. What will the Missis say?

JOY. Oh, don't be so stuck, Rose!

[ROSE goes, but DICK has come.]

DICK. Come on the river, Joy, just for half an hour, as far as the

kingfishers--do! [Joy shakes her head.] Why not? It 'll be so

jolly and cool. I'm most awfully sorry if I worried you this

morning. I didn't mean to. I won't again, I promise. [Joy slides a

look at him, and from that look he gains a little courage.] Do come!

It'll be the last time. I feel it awfully, Joy.

JOY. There's nothing to hurt you!

DICK. [Gloomily.] Isn't there--when you're like this?

JOY. [In a hard voice.] If you don't like me, why do you follow me

about?

DICK. What is the matter?

JOY. [Looking up, as if for want of air.] Oh! Don't!

DICK. Oh, Joy, what is the matter? Is it the heat?

JOY. [With a little laugh.] Yes.

DICK. Have some Eau de Cologne. I 'll make you a bandage. [He

takes the Eau de Cologne, and makes a bandage with his handkerchief.]

It's quite clean.

JOY. Oh, Dick, you are so funny!

DICK. [Bandaging her forehead.] I can't bear you to feel bad; it

puts me off completely. I mean I don't generally make a fuss about

people, but when it 's you----

JOY. [Suddenly.] I'm all right.

DICK. Is that comfy?

JOY. [With her chin up, and her eyes fast closed.] Quite.

DICK. I'm not going to stay and worry you. You ought to rest.

Only, Joy! Look here! If you want me to do anything for you, any

time----

JOY. [Half opening her eyes.] Only to go away.

[DICK bites his lips and walks away.]

Dick--[softly]--Dick!

[DICK stops.]

I didn't mean that; will you get me some water-irises for this

evening?

DICK. Won't I? [He goes to the hollow tree and from its darkness

takes a bucket and a boat-hook.] I know where there are some

rippers!

[JOY stays unmoving with her eyes half closed.]

Are you sure you 're all right. Joy? You 'll just rest here in the

shade, won't you, till I come back?--it 'll do you no end of good. I

shan't be twenty minutes.

[He goes, but cannot help returning softly, to make sure.]

You're quite sure you 're all right?

[JOY nods. He goes away towards the river. But there is no

rest for JOY. The voices of MRS. GWYN and LEVER are heard

returning.]

JOY. [With a gesture of anger.] Hateful! Hateful!

[She runs away.]

[MRS. GWYN and LEVER are seen approaching; they pass the tree,

in conversation.]

MRS. GWYN. But I don't see why, Maurice.

LEVER. We mean to sell the mine; we must do some more work on it,

and for that we must have money.

MRS. GWYN. If you only want a little, I should have thought you

could have got it in a minute in the City.

LEVER. [Shaking his head.] No, no; we must get it privately.

MRS. GWYN. [Doubtfully.] Oh! [She slowly adds.] Then it isn't

such a good thing!

[And she does not look at him.]

LEVER. Well, we mean to sell it.

MRS. GWYN. What about the people who buy?

LEVER. [Dubiously regarding her.] My dear girl, they've just as

much chance as we had. It 's not my business to think of them.

There's YOUR thousand pounds----

MRS. GWYN. [Softly.] Don't bother about my money, Maurice. I don't

want you to do anything not quite----

LEVER. [Evasively.] Oh! There's my brother's and my sister's too.

I 'm not going to let any of you run any risk. When we all went in

for it the thing looked splendid; it 's only the last month that we

've had doubts. What bothers me now is your Uncle. I don't want him

to take these shares. It looks as if I'd come here on purpose.

MRS. GWYN. Oh! he mustn't take them!

LEVER. That 's all very well; but it 's not so simple.

MRS. GWYN. [Shyly.] But, Maurice, have you told him about the

selling?

LEVER. [Gloomily, under the hollow tree.] It 's a Board secret.

I'd no business to tell even you.

MRS. GWYN. But he thinks he's taking shares in a good--a permanent

thing.

LEVER. You can't go into a mining venture without some risk.

MRS. GWYN. Oh yes, I know--but--but Uncle Tom is such a dear!

LEVER. [Stubbornly.] I can't help his being the sort of man he is.

I did n't want him to take these shares; I told him so in so many

words. Put yourself in my place, Molly: how can I go to him and say,

"This thing may turn out rotten," when he knows I got you to put your

money into it?

[But JOY, the lost shadow, has come back. She moves forward

resolutely. They are divided from her by the hollow tree; she

is unseen. She stops.]

MRS. GWYN. I think he ought to be told about the selling; it 's not

fair.

LEVER. What on earth made him rush at the thing like that? I don't

understand that kind of man.

MRS. GWYN. [Impulsively.] I must tell him, Maurice; I can't let him

take the shares without----

[She puts her hand on his arm.]

[Joy turns, as if to go back whence she came, but stops once

more.]

LEVER. [Slowly and very quietly.] I did n't think you'd give me

away, Molly.

MRS. GWYN. I don't think I quite understand.

LEVER. If you tell the Colonel about this sale the poor old chap

will think me a man that you ought to have nothing to do with. Do

you want that?

[MRS. GWYN, giving her lover a long look, touches his sleeve.

JOY, slipping behind the hollow tree, has gone.]

You can't act in a case like this as if you 'd only a principle to

consider. It 's the--the special circumstances.

MRS. GWYN. [With a faint smile.] But you'll be glad to get the

money won't you?

LEVER. By George! if you're going to take it like this, Molly

MRS. GWYN. Don't!

LEVER. We may not sell after all, dear, we may find it turn out

trumps.

MRS. GWYN. [With a shiver.] I don't want to hear any more. I know

women don't understand. [Impulsively.] It's only that I can't bear

any one should think that you----

LEVER. [Distressed.] For goodness sake don't look like that, Molly!

Of course, I'll speak to your Uncle. I'll stop him somehow, even if

I have to make a fool of myself. I 'll do anything you want----

MRS. GWYN. I feel as if I were being smothered here.

LEVER. It 's only for one day.

MRS. GWYN. [With sudden tenderness.] It's not your fault, dear. I

ought to have known how it would be. Well, let's go in!

[She sets her lips, and walks towards the house with LEVER

following. But no sooner has she disappeared than JOY comes

running after; she stops, as though throwing down a challenge.

Her cheeks and ears are burning.]

JOY. Mother!

[After a moment MRS. GWYN reappears in the opening of the wall.]

MRS. GWYN. Oh! here you are!

JOY. [Breathlessly.] Yes.

MRS. GWYN. [Uncertainly.] Where--have you been? You look

dreadfully hot; have you been running?

JOY. Yes----no.

MRS. GWYN. [Looking at her fixedly.] What's the matter--you 're

trembling! [Softly.] Are n't you well, dear?

JOY. Yes--I don't know.

MRS. GWYN. What is it, darling?

JOY. [Suddenly clinging to her.] Oh! Mother!

MRS. GWYN. I don't understand.

JOY. [Breathlessly.] Oh, Mother, let me go back home with you now

at once----

MRS. GWYN. [Her face hardening.] Why? What on earth----

JOY. I can't stay here.

MRS. GWYN. But why?

JOY. I want to be with you--Oh! Mother, don't you love me?

MRS. GWYN. [With a faint smile.] Of course I love you, Joy.

JOY. Ah! but you love him more.

MRS. GWYN. Love him--whom?

JOY. Oh! Mother, I did n't--[She tries to take her Mother's hand,

but fails.] Oh! don't.

MRS. GWYN. You'd better explain what you mean, I think.

JOY. I want to get you to--he--he 's--he 'snot----!

MRS. GWYN. [Frigidly.] Really, Joy!

JOY. [Passionately.] I'll fight against him, and I know there's

something wrong about----

[She stops.]

MRS. GWYN. About what?

JOY. Let's tell Uncle Tom, Mother, and go away.

MRS. GWYN. Tell Uncle--Tom--what?

JOY. [Looking down and almost whispering.] About--about--the mine.

MRS. GWYN. What about the mine? What do you mean? [Fiercely.]

Have you been spying on me?

JOY. [Shrinking.] No! oh, no!

MRS. GWYN. Where were you?

JOY. [Just above her breath.] I--I heard something.

MRS. GWYN. [Bitterly.] But you were not spying?

JOY. I was n't--I wasn't! I didn't want--to hear. I only heard a

little. I couldn't help listening, Mother.

MRS. GWYN. [With a little laugh.] Couldn't help listening?

JOY. [Through her teeth.] I hate him. I didn't mean to listen, but

I hate him.

MRS. GWYN. I see. Why do you hate him?

[There is a silence.]

JOY. He--he----[She stops.]

MRS. GWYN. Yes?

JOY. [With a sort of despair.] I don't know. Oh! I don't know!

But I feel----

MRS. GWYN. I can't reason with you. As to what you heard, it 's--

ridiculous.

JOY. It 's not that. It 's--it 's you!

MRS. GWYN. [Stonily.] I don't know what you mean.

JOY. [Passionately.] I wish Dad were here!

MRS. GWYN. Do you love your Father as much as me?

JOY. Oh! Mother, no-you know I don't.

MRS. GWYN. [Resentfully.] Then why do you want him?

JOY. [Almost under her breath.] Because of that man.

MRS. GWYN. Indeed!

JOY. I will never--never make friends with him.

MRS. GWYN. [Cuttingly.] I have not asked you to.

JOY. [With a blind movement of her hand.] Oh, Mother!

[MRS. GWYN half turns away.]

Mother--won't you? Let's tell Uncle Tom and go away from him?

MRS. GWYN. If you were not, a child, Joy, you wouldn't say such

things.

JOY. [Eagerly.] I'm not a child, I'm--I'm a woman. I am.

MRS. GWYN. No! You--are--not a woman, Joy.

[She sees joy throw up her arms as though warding off a blow,

and turning finds that LEVER is standing in the opening of the

wall.]

LEVER. [Looking from face to face.] What's the matter? [There is

no answer.] What is it, Joy?

JOY. [Passionately.] I heard you, I don't care who knows. I'd

listen again.

LEVER. [Impassively.] Ah! and what did I say that was so very

dreadful?

JOY. You're a--a--you 're a--coward!

MRS. GWYN. [With a sort of groan.] Joy!

LEVER. [Stepping up to JOY, and standing with his hands behind him--

in a low voice.] Now hit me in the face--hit me--hit me as hard as

you can. Go on, Joy, it'll do you good.

[Joy raises her clenched hand, but drops it, and hides her

face.]

Why don't you? I'm not pretending!

[Joy makes no sign.]

Come, joy; you'll make yourself ill, and that won't help, will it?

[But joy still makes no sign.]

[With determination.] What's the matter? now come--tell me!

JOY. [In a stifled, sullen voice.] Will you leave my mother alone?

MRS. GWYN. Oh! my dear Joy, don't be silly!

JOY. [Wincing; then with sudden passion.] I defy you--I defy you!

[She rushes from their sight.]

MRS. GWYN. [With a movement of distress.] Oh!

LEVER. [Turning to MRS. GWYN with a protecting gesture.] Never

mind, dear! It'll be--it'll be all right!

[But the expression of his face is not the expression of his

words.]

The curtain falls.

ACT III

It is evening; a full yellow moon is shining through the

branches of the hollow tree. The Chinese lanterns are alight.

There is dancing in the house; the music sounds now loud, now

soft. MISS BEECH is sitting on the rustic seat in a black

bunchy evening dress, whose inconspicuous opening is inlaid with

white. She slowly fans herself.

DICK comes from the house in evening dress. He does not see

Miss BEECH.

DICK. Curse! [A short silence.] Curse!

MISS BEECH. Poor young man!

DICK. [With a start.] Well, Peachey, I can't help it

[He fumbles off his gloves.]

MISS BEECH. Did you ever know any one that could?

DICK. [Earnestly.] It's such awfully hard lines on Joy. I can't get

her out of my head, lying there with that beastly headache while

everybody's jigging round.

MISS BEECH. Oh! you don't mind about yourself--noble young man!

DICK. I should be a brute if I did n't mind more for her.

MISS BEECH. So you think it's a headache, do you?

DICK. Did n't you hear what Mrs. Gwyn said at dinner about the sun?

[With inspiration.] I say, Peachey, could n't you--could n't you

just go up and give her a message from me, and find out if there 's

anything she wants, and say how brutal it is that she 's seedy; it

would be most awfully decent of you. And tell her the dancing's no

good without her. Do, Peachey, now do! Ah! and look here!

[He dives into the hollow of the tree, and brings from out of it

a pail of water in which are placed two bottles of champagne,

and some yellow irises--he takes the irises.]

You might give her these. I got them specially for her, and I have

n't had a chance.

MISS BEECH. [Lifting a bottle.] What 's this?

DICK. Fizz. The Colonel brought it from the George. It 's for

supper; he put it in here because of--[Smiling faintly]--Mrs. Hope,

I think. Peachey, do take her those irises.

MISS. BEECH. D' you think they'll do her any good?

DICK. [Crestfallen.] I thought she'd like--I don't want to worry

her--you might try.

[MISS BEECH shakes her head.]

Why not?

MISS BEECH. The poor little creature won't let me in.

DICK. You've been up then!

MISS BEECH. [Sharply.] Of course I've been up. I've not got a

stone for my heart, young man!

DICK. All right! I suppose I shall just have to get along somehow.

MISS BEECH. [With devilry.] That's what we've all got to do.

DICK. [Gloomily.] But this is too brutal for anything!

MISS BEECH. Worse than ever happened to any one!

DICK. I swear I'm not thinking of myself.

MISS BEECH. Did y' ever know anybody that swore they were?

DICK. Oh! shut up!

MISS BEECH. You'd better go in and get yourself a partner.

DICK. [With pale desperation.] Look here, Peachey, I simply loathe

all those girls.

MISS BEECH. Ah-h! [Ironically.] Poor lot, are n't they?

DICK. All right; chaff away, it's good fun, isn't it? It makes me

sick to dance when Joy's lying there. Her last night, too!

MISS BEECH. [Sidling to him.] You're a good young man, and you 've

got a good heart.

[She takes his hand, and puts it to her cheek.]

DICK. Peachey--I say, Peachey d' you think there 's--I mean d' you

think there'll ever be any chance for me?

MISS BEECH. I thought that was coming! I don't approve of your

making love at your time of life; don't you think I 'm going to

encourage you.

DICK. But I shall be of age in a year; my money's my own, it's not

as if I had to ask any one's leave; and I mean, I do know my own

mind.

MISS BEECH. Of course you do. Nobody else would at your age, but

you do.

DICK. I would n't ask her to promise, it would n't be fair when

she 's so young, but I do want her to know that I shall never change.

MISS BEECH. And suppose--only suppose--she's fond of you, and says

she'll never change.

DICK. Oh! Peachey! D' you think there's a chance of that--do you?

MISS BEECH. A-h-h!

DICK. I wouldn't let her bind herself, I swear I wouldn't.

[Solemnly.] I'm not such a selfish brute as you seem to think.

MISS BEECH. [Sidling close to him and in a violent whisper.] Well--

have a go!

DICK. Really? You are a brick, Peachey!

[He kisses her.]

MISS BEACH. [Yielding pleasurably; then remembering her principles.]

Don't you ever say I said so! You're too young, both of you.

DICK. But it is exceptional--I mean in my case, is n't it?

[The COLONEL and MRS. GWYN are coming down the lawn.]

MISS BEECH. Oh! very!

[She sits beneath the tree and fans herself.]

COLONEL. The girls are all sitting out, Dick! I've been obliged to

dance myself. Phew!

[He mops his brow.]

[DICK swinging round goes rushing off towards the house.]

[Looking after him.] Hallo! What's the matter with him? Cooling

your heels, Peachey? By George! it's hot. Fancy the poor devils in

London on a night like this, what? [He sees the moon.] It's a full

moon. You're lucky to be down here, Molly.

MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice.] Very!

MISS BEECH. Oh! so you think she's lucky, do you?

COLONEL. [Expanding his nostrils.] Delicious scent to-night! Hay

and roses--delicious.

[He seats himself between them.]

A shame that poor child has knocked up like this. Don't think it was

the sun myself--more likely neuralgic--she 's subject to neuralgia,

Molly.

MRS. GWYN. [Motionless.] I know.

COLONEL. Got too excited about your coming. I told Nell not to keep

worrying her about her frock, and this is the result. But your Aunt

--you know--she can't let a thing alone!

MISS BEECH. Ah! 't isn't neuralgia.

[MRS. GWYN looks at her quickly and averts her eyes.]

COLONEL. Excitable little thing. You don't understand her, Peachey.

MISS BEECH. Don't I?

COLONEL. She's all affection. Eh, Molly? I remember what I was

like at her age, a poor affectionate little rat, and now look at me!

MISS BEECH. [Fanning herself.] I see you.

COLONEL. [A little sadly.] We forget what we were like when we were

young. She's been looking forward to to-night ever since you wrote;

and now to have to go to bed and miss the, dancing. Too bad!

MRS. GWYN. Don't, Uncle Tom!

COLONEL. [Patting her hand.] There, there, old girl, don't think

about it. She'll be all right tomorrow.

MISS BEECH. If I were her mother I'd soon have her up.

COLONEL. Have her up with that headache! What are you talking

about, Peachey?

MISS BEECH. I know a remedy.

COLONEL. Well, out with it.

MISS BEECH. Oh! Molly knows it too!

MRS. GWYN. [Staring at the ground.] It's easy to advise.

COLONEL. [Fidgetting.] Well, if you're thinking of morphia for her,

don't have anything to do with it. I've always set my face against

morphia; the only time I took it was in Burmah. I'd raging neuralgia

for two days. I went to our old doctor, and I made him give me some.

"Look here, doctor," I said, "I hate the idea of morphia, I 've never

taken it, and I never want to."

MISS BEECH. [Looking at MRS. GWYN.] When a tooth hurts, you should

have it out. It 's only puttin' off the evil day.

COLONEL. You say that because it was n't your own.

MISS BEECH. Well, it was hollow, and you broke your principles!

COLONEL. Hollow yourself, Peachey; you're as bad as any one!

MISS BEECH [With devilry.] Well, I know that! [She turns to MRS.

GWYN.] He should have had it out! Shouldn't he, Molly?

MRS. GWYN. I--don't--judge for other people.

[She gets up suddenly, as though deprived of air.]

COLONEL. [Alarmed.] Hallo, Molly! Are n't you feeling the thing,

old girl?

MISS BEECH. Let her get some air, poor creature!

COLONEL. [Who follows anxiously.] Your Aunt's got some first-rate

sal volatile.

MRS. GWYN. It's all right, Uncle Tom. I felt giddy, it's nothing,

now.

COLONEL. That's the dancing. [He taps his forehead.] I know what

it is when you're not used to it.

MRS. GWYN. [With a sudden bitter outburst.] I suppose you think I

'm a very bad mother to be amusing myself while joy's suffering.

COLONEL. My dear girl, whatever put such a thought into your head?

We all know if there were anything you could do, you'd do it at once,

would n't she, Peachey?

[MISS BEECH turns a slow look on MRS. GWYN.]

MRS. GWYN. Ah! you see, Peachey knows me better.

COLONEL. [Following up his thoughts.] I always think women are

wonderful. There's your Aunt, she's very funny, but if there's

anything the matter with me, she'll sit up all night; but when she's

ill herself, and you try to do anything for her, out she raps at

once.

MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice.] There's always one that a woman will

do anything for.

COLONEL. Exactly what I say. With your Aunt it's me, and by George!

Molly, sometimes I wish it was n't.

MISS BEECH, [With meaning.] But is it ever for another woman!

COLONEL. You old cynic! D' you mean to say Joy wouldn't do anything

on earth for her Mother, or Molly for Joy? You don't know human

nature. What a wonderful night! Have n't seen such a moon for

years, she's like a great, great lamp!

[MRS. GWYN hiding from Miss BEECH's eyes, rises and slips her

arm through his; they stand together looking at the moon.]

Don't like these Chinese lanterns, with that moon-tawdry! eh! By

Jove, Molly, I sometimes think we humans are a rubbishy lot--each of

us talking and thinking of nothing but our own petty little affairs;

and when you see a great thing like that up there--[Sighs.] But

there's your Aunt, if I were to say a thing like that to her she 'd--

she'd think me a lunatic; and yet, you know, she 's a very good

woman.

MRS. GWYN. [Half clinging to him.] Do you think me very selfish,

Uncle Tom?

COLONEL. My dear--what a fancy! Think you selfish--of course I

don't; why should I?

MRS. GWYN. [Dully.] I don't know.

COLONEL. [Changing the subject nervously.] I like your friend,

Lever, Molly. He came to me before dinner quite distressed about

your Aunt, beggin' me not to take those shares. She 'll be the first

to worry me, but he made such a point of it, poor chap--in the end I

was obliged to say I wouldn't. I thought it showed very' nice

feeling. [Ruefully.] It's a pretty tight fit to make two ends meet

on my income--I've missed a good thing, all owing to your Aunt.

[Dropping his voice.] I don't mind telling you, Molly, I think

they've got a much finer mine there than they've any idea of.

[MRS. GWYN gives way to laughter that is very near to sobs.]

[With dignity.] I can't see what there is to laugh at.

MRS. GWYN. I don't know what's the matter with me this evening.

MISS BEECH. [In a low voice.] I do.

COLONEL. There, there! Give me a kiss, old girl! [He kisses her on

the brow.] Why, your forehead's as hot as fire. I know--I know-you

're fretting about Joy. Never mind--come! [He draws her hand

beneath his arm.] Let's go and have a look at the moon on the river.

We all get upset at times; eh! [Lifting his hand as if he had been

stung.] Why, you 're not crying, Molly! I say! Don't do that, old

girl, it makes me wretched. Look here, Peachey. [Holding out the

hand on which the tear has dropped.] This is dreadful!

MRS. GWYN. [With a violent effort.] It's all right, Uncle Tom!

[MISS BEECH wipes her own eyes stealthily. From the house is

heard the voice of MRS. HOPE, calling "Tom."]

MISS BEECH. Some one calling you.

COLONEL. There, there, my dear, you just stay here, and cool

yourself--I 'll come back--shan't be a minute. [He turns to go.]

[MRS. HOPE'S voice sounds nearer.]

[Turning back.] And Molly, old girl, don't you mind anything I said.

I don't remember what it was--it must have been something, I suppose.

[He hastily retreats.]

MRS. GWYN. [In a fierce low voice.] Why do you torture me?

MISS BEECH. [Sadly.] I don't want to torture you.

MRS. GWYN, But you do. D' you think I haven't seen this coming--all

these weeks. I knew she must find out some time! But even a day

counts----

MISS BEECH. I don't understand why you brought him down here.

MRS. GWYN. [After staring at her, bitterly.] When day after day and

night after night you've thought of nothing but how to keep them

both, you might a little want to prove that it was possible, mightn't

you? But you don't understand--how should you? You've never been a

mother! [And fiercely.] You've never had a lov----

[MISS BEECH raises her face-it is all puckered.]

[Impulsively.] Oh, I did n't mean that, Peachey!

MISS BEECH. All right, my dear.

MRS. GWYN. I'm so dragged in two! [She sinks into a chair.] I knew

it must come.

MISS BEECH. Does she know everything, Molly?

MRS. GWYN. She guesses.

MISS BEECH. [Mournfully.] It's either him or her then, my dear; one

or the other you 'll have to give up.

MRS. GWYN. [Motionless.] Life's very hard on women!

MISS BEECH. Life's only just beginning for that child, Molly.

MRS. GWYN. You don't care if it ends for me!

MISS BEECH. Is it as bad as that?

MRS. GWYN. Yes.

MISS BEECH. [Rocking hey body.] Poor things! Poor things!

MRS. GWYN. Are you still fond of me?

MISS BEECH. Yes, yes, my dear, of course I am.

MRS. GWYN. In spite of my-wickedness?

[She laughs.]

MISS BEECH. Who am I to tell what's wicked and what is n't? God

knows you're both like daughters to me!

MRS. GWYN. [Abruptly.] I can't.

MISS BEECH. Molly.

MRS. GWYN. You don't know what you're asking.

MISS BEECH. If I could save you suffering, my dear, I would. I hate

suffering, if it 's only a fly, I hate it.

MRS. GWYN. [Turning away from her.] Life is n't fair. Peachey, go

in and leave me alone.

[She leans back motionless.]

[Miss BEECH gets off her seat, and stroking MRS. GWYN's arm in

passing goes silently away. In the opening of the wall she

meets LEVER who is looking for his partner. They make way for

each other.]

LEVER. [Going up to MRS. GWYN--gravely.] The next is our dance,

Molly.

MRS. GWYN. [Unmoving.] Let's sit it out here, then.

[LEVER sits down.]

LEVER. I've made it all right with your Uncle.

MRS. GWYN. [Dully.] Oh?

LEVER. I spoke to him about the shares before dinner.

MRS. GWYN. Yes, he told me, thank you.

LEVER. There 's nothing to worry over, dear.

MRS. GWYN. [Passionately.] What does it matter about the wretched

shares now? I 'm stifling.

[She throws her scarf off.]

LEVER. I don't understand what you mean by "now."

MRS. GWYN. Don't you?

LEVER. We were n't--Joy can't know--why should she? I don't believe

for a minute----

MRS. GWYN. Because you don't want to.

LEVER. Do you mean she does?

MRS. GWYN. Her heart knows.

[LEVER makes a movement of discomfiture; suddenly MRS. GWYN

looks at him as though to read his soul.]

I seem to bring you nothing but worry, Maurice. Are you tired of me?

LEVER. [Meeting her eyes.] No, I am not.

MRS. GWYN. Ah, but would you tell me if you were?

LEVER. [Softly.] Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

[MRS. GWYN struggles to look at him, then covers her face with

her hands.]

MRS. GWYN. If I were to give you up, you'd forget me in a month.

LEVER. Why do you say such things?

MRS. GWYN. If only I could believe I was necessary to you!

LEVER. [Forcing the fervour of his voice.] But you are!

MRS. GWYN. Am I? [With the ghost of a smile.] Midsummer day!

[She gives a laugh that breaks into a sob.]

[The music o f a waltz sounds from the house.]

LEVER. For God's sake, don't, Molly--I don't believe in going to

meet trouble.

MRS. GWYN. It's staring me in the face.

LEVER. Let the future take care of itself!

[MRS. GWYN has turned away her face, covering it with her

hands.]

Don't, Molly! [Trying to pull her hands away.] Don't!

MRS. GWYN. Oh! what shall I do?

[There is a silence; the music of the waltz sounds louder from

the house.]

[Starting up.] Listen! One can't sit it out and dance it too.

Which is it to be, Maurice, dancing--or sitting out? It must be one

or the other, must n't it?

LEVER. Molly! Molly!

MRS. GWYN. Ah, my dear! [Standing away from him as though to show

herself.] How long shall I keep you? This is all that 's left of

me. It 's time I joined the wallflowers. [Smiling faintly.] It's

time I played the mother, is n't it? [In a whisper.] It'll be all

sitting out then.

LEVER. Don't! Let's go and dance, it'll do you good.

[He puts his hands on her arms, and in a gust of passion kisses

her lips and throat.]

MRS. GWYN. I can't give you up--I can't. Love me, oh! love me!

[For a moment they stand so; then, with sudden remembrance of

where they are, they move apart.]

LEVER. Are you all right now, darling?

MRS. GWYN. [Trying to smile.] Yes, dear--quite.

LEVER. Then let 's go, and dance. [They go.]

[For a few seconds the hollow tree stands alone; then from the house

ROSE comes and enters it. She takes out a bottle of champagne, wipes

it, and carries it away; but seeing MRS. GWYN's scarf lying across

the chair, she fingers it, and stops, listening to the waltz.

Suddenly draping it round her shoulders, she seizes the bottle of

champagne, and waltzes with abandon to the music, as though avenging

a long starvation of her instincts. Thus dancing, she is surprised

by DICK, who has come to smoke a cigarette and think, at the spot

where he was told to "have a go." ROSE, startled, stops and hugs the

bottle.]

DICK. It's not claret, Rose, I should n't warm it.

[ROSE, taking off the scarf, replaces it on the chair; then with

the half-warmed bottle, she retreats. DICK, in the swing, sits

thinking of his fate. Suddenly from behind the hollow tree he

sees Joy darting forward in her day dress with her hair about

her neck, and her skirt all torn. As he springs towards her,

she turns at bay.]

DICK. Joy!

JOY. I want Uncle Tom.

DICK. [In consternation.] But ought you to have got up--I thought

you were ill in bed; oughtn't you to be lying down?

JOY. If have n't been in bed. Where's Uncle Tom?

DICK. But where have you been?-your dress is all torn. Look! [He

touches the torn skirt.]

JOY. [Tearing it away.] In the fields. Where's Uncle Tom?

DICK. Are n't you really ill then?

[Joy shakes her head.]

DICK, [showing her the irises.] Look at these. They were the best I

could get.

JOY. Don't! I want Uncle Tom!

DICK. Won't you take them?

JOY. I 've got something else to do.

DICK. [With sudden resolution.] What do you want the Colonel for?

JOY. I want him.

DICK. Alone?

JOY. Yes.

DICK. Joy, what is the matter?

JOY. I 've got something to tell him.

DICK. What? [With sudden inspiration.] Is it about Lever?

JOY. [In a low voice.] The mine.

DICK. The mine?

JOY. It 's not--not a proper one.

DICK. How do you mean, Joy?

JOY. I overheard. I don't care, I listened. I would n't if it had

been anybody else, but I hate him.

DICK. [Gravely.] What did you hear?

JOY. He 's keeping back something Uncle Tom ought to know.

DICK. Are you sure?

[Joy makes a rush to pass him.]

[Barring the way.] No, wait a minute--you must! Was it something

that really matters?--I don't want to know what.

JOY. Yes, it was.

DICK. What a beastly thing--are you quite certain, Joy?

JOY. [Between her teeth.] Yes.

DICK. Then you must tell him, of course, even if you did overhear.

You can't stand by and see the Colonel swindled. Whom was he talking

to?

JOY. I won't tell you.

DICK. [Taking her wrist.] Was it was it your Mother?

[Joy bends her head.]

But if it was your Mother, why does n't she----

JOY. Let me go!

DICK. [Still holding her.] I mean I can't see what----

JOY. [Passionately.] Let me go!

DICK. [Releasing her.] I'm thinking of your Mother, Joy. She would

never----

JOY. [Covering her face.] That man!

DICK. But joy, just think! There must be some mistake. It 's so

queer--it 's quite impossible!

JOY. He won't let her.

DICK. Won't let her--won't let her? But [Stopping dead, and in a

very different voice.] Oh!

JOY. [Passionately.] Why d' you look at me like that? Why can't

you speak?

[She waits for him to speak, but he does not.]

I'm going to show what he is, so that Mother shan't speak to him

again. I can--can't I--if I tell Uncle Tom?--can't I----?

DICK. But Joy--if your Mother knows a thing like--that----

JOY. She wanted to tell--she begged him--and he would n't.

DICK. But, joy, dear, it means----

JOY. I hate him, I want to make her hate him, and I will.

DICK. But, Joy, dear, don't you see--if your Mother knows a thing

like that, and does n't speak of it, it means that she--it means that

you can't make her hate him--it means----If it were anybody else--

but, well, you can't give your own Mother away!

JOY. How dare you! How dare you! [Turning to the hollow tree.] It

is n't true--Oh! it is n't true!

DICK. [In deep distress.] Joy, dear, I never meant, I didn't

really!

[He tries to pull her hands down from her face.]

JOY. [Suddenly.] Oh! go away, go away!

[MRS. GWYN is seen coming back. JOY springs into the tree.

DICK quickly steals away. MRS. GWYN goes up to the chair and

takes the scarf that she has come for, and is going again when

JOY steals out to her.]

Mother!

[MRS. GWYN stands looking at her with her teeth set on her lower

lip.]

Oh! Mother, it is n't true?

MRS. GWYN. [Very still.] What is n't true?

JOY. That you and he are----

[Searching her Mother's face, which is deadly still. In a

whisper.]

Then it is true. Oh!

MRS. GWYN. That's enough, Joy! What I am is my affair--not yours--

do you understand?

JOY. [Low and fierce.] Yes, I do.

MRS. GWYN. You don't. You're only a child.

JOY. [Passionately.] I understand that you've hurt [She stops.]

MRS. GWYN. Do you mean your Father?

JOY. [Bowing her head.] Yes, and--and me. [She covers her face.]

I'm--I'm ashamed.

MRS. GWYN. I brought you into the world, and you say that to me?

Have I been a bad mother to you?

JOY. [In a smothered voice.] Oh! Mother!

MRS. GWYN. Ashamed? Am I to live all my life like a dead woman

because you're ashamed? Am I to live like the dead because you 're a

child that knows nothing of life? Listen, Joy, you 'd better

understand this once for all. Your Father has no right over me and

he knows it. We 've been hateful to each other for years. Can you

understand that? Don't cover your face like a child--look at me.

[Joy drops her hands, and lifts her face. MRS. GWYN looks back

at her, her lips are quivering; she goes on speaking with

stammering rapidity.]

D' you think--because I suffered when you were born and because I 've

suffered since with every ache you ever had, that that gives you the

right to dictate to me now? [In a dead voice.] I've been unhappy

enough and I shall be unhappy enough in the time to come. [Meeting

the hard wonder in Joy's face.] Oh! you untouched things, you're as

hard and cold as iron!

JOY. I would do anything for you, Mother.

MRS. GWYN. Except--let me live, Joy. That's the only thing you won't

do for me, I quite understand.

JOY. Oh! Mother, you don't understand--I want you so; and I seem to

be nothing to you now.

MRS. GWYN. Nothing to me? [She smiles.]

JOY. Mother, darling, if you're so unhappy let's forget it all,

let's go away and I 'll be everything to you, I promise.

MRS. GWYN. [With the ghost of a laugh.] Ah, Joy!

JOY. I would try so hard.

MRS. GWYN. [With the same quivering smile.] My darling, I know you

would, until you fell in love yourself.

JOY. Oh, Mother, I wouldn't, I never would, I swear it.

MRS. GWYN. There has never been a woman, joy, that did not fall in

love.

JOY. [In a despairing whisper.] But it 's wrong of you it's wicked!

MRS. GWYN. If it's wicked, I shall pay for it, not you!

JOY. But I want to save you, Mother!

MRS. GWYN. Save me? [Breaking into laughter.]

JOY. I can't bear it that you--if you 'll only--I'll never leave

you. You think I don't know what I 'm saying, but I do, because even

now I--I half love somebody. Oh, Mother! [Pressing her breast.]

I feel--I feel so awful--as if everybody knew.

MRS. GWYN. You think I'm a monster to hurt you. Ah! yes! You'll

understand better some day.

JOY. [In a sudden outburst of excited fear.] I won't believe it--

I--I--can't--you're deserting me, Mother.

MRS. GWYN. Oh, you untouched things! You----

[Joy' looks up suddenly, sees her face, and sinks down on her

knees.]

JOY. Mother--it 's for me!

GWYN. Ask for my life, JOY--don't be afraid.

[Joy turns her face away. MRS. GWYN bends suddenly and touches

her daughter's hair; JOY shrinks from that touch.]

[Recoiling as though she had been stung.] I forgot--I 'm deserting

you.

[And swiftly without looking back she goes away. Joy, left alone

under the hollow tree, crouches lower, and her shoulders shake.

Here DICK finds her, when he hears no longer any sound o f

voices. He falls on his knees beside her.]

DICK. Oh! Joy; dear, don't cry. It's so dreadful to see you! I 'd

do anything not to see you cry! Say something.

[Joy is still for a moment, then the shaking of the shoulders

begins again.]

Joy, darling! It's so awful, you 'll make yourself ill, and it is

n't worth it, really. I 'd do anything to save you pain--won't you

stop just for a minute?

[Joy is still again.]

Nothing in the world 's worth your crying, Joy. Give me just a

little look!

JOY. [Looking; in a smothered voice.] Don't!

DICK. You do look so sweet! Oh, Joy, I'll comfort you, I'll take it

all on myself. I know all about it.

[Joy gives a sobbing laugh]

I do. I 've had trouble too, I swear I have. It gets better, it

does really.

JOY. You don't know--it's--it's----

DICK. Don't think about it! No, no, no! I know exactly what it's

like. [He strokes her arm.]

JOY. [Shrinking, in a whisper.] You mustn't.

[The music of a waltz is heard again.]

DICK. Look here, joy! It's no good, we must talk it over calmly.

JOY. You don't see! It's the--it 's the disgrace----

DICK. Oh! as to disgrace--she's your Mother, whatever she does; I'd

like to see anybody say anything about her--[viciously]--I'd punch

his head.

JOY. [Gulping her tears.] That does n't help.

DICK. But if she doesn't love your Father----

JOY. But she's married to him!

DICK. [Hastily.] Yes, of course, I know, marriage is awfully

important; but a man understands these things.

[Joy looks at him. Seeing the impression he has made, he tries

again.]

I mean, he understands better than a woman. I've often argued about

moral questions with men up at Oxford.

JOY. [Catching at a straw.] But there's nothing to argue about.

DICK. [Hastily.] Of course, I believe in morals.

[They stare solemnly at each other.]

Some men don't. But I can't help seeing marriage is awfully

important.

JOY. [Solemnly.] It's sacred.

DICK. Yes, I know, but there must be exceptions, Joy.

Joy. [Losing herself a little in the stress of this discussion.]

How can there be exceptions if a thing 's sacred?

DICK. [Earnestly.] All rules have exceptions; that's true, you

know; it's a proverb.

JOY. It can't be true about marriage--how can it when----?

DICK. [With intense earnestness.] But look here, Joy, I know a

really clever man--an author. He says that if marriage is a failure

people ought to be perfectly free; it isn't everybody who believes

that marriage is everything. Of course, I believe it 's sacred, but

if it's a failure, I do think it seems awful--don't you?

JOY. I don't know--yes--if--[Suddenly] But it's my own Mother!

DICK. [Gravely.] I know, of course. I can't expect you to see it

in your own case like this. [With desperation.] But look here, Joy,

this'll show you! If a person loves a person, they have to decide,

have n't they? Well, then, you see, that 's what your Mother's done.

JOY. But that does n't show me anything!

DICK. But it does. The thing is to look at it as if it was n't

yourself. If it had been you and me in love, Joy, and it was wrong,

like them, of course [ruefully] I know you'd have decided right.

[Fiercely.] But I swear I should have decided wrong.

[Triumphantly.] That 's why I feel I understand your Mother.

JOY. [Brushing her sleeve across her eyes.] Oh, Dick, you are so

sweet--and--and--funny!

DICK. [Sliding his arm about her.] I love you, Joy, that 's why,

and I 'll love you till you don't feel it any more. I will. I'll

love you all day and every day; you shan't miss anything, I swear it.

It 's such a beautiful night--it 's on purpose. Look' [JOY looks; he

looks at her.] But it 's not so beautiful as you.

JOY. [Bending her head.] You mustn't. I don't know--what's coming?

DICK. [Sidling closer.] Are n't your knees tired, darling? I--I

can't get near you properly.

JOY. [With a sob.] Oh! Dick, you are a funny--comfort!

DICK. We'll stick together, Joy, always; nothing'll matter then.

[They struggle to their feet-the waltz sounds louder.]

You're missing it all! I can't bear you to miss the dancing. It

seems so queer! Couldn't we? Just a little turn?

JOY. No, no?

DICK. Oh! try!

[He takes her gently by the waist, she shrinks back.]

JOY. [Brokenly.] No-no! Oh! Dick-to-morrow 'll be so awful.

DICK. To-morrow shan't hurt you, Joy; nothing shall ever hurt you

again.

[She looks at him, and her face changes; suddenly she buries it

against his shoulder.]

[They stand so just a moment in the moon light; then turning to the

river move slowly out of sight. Again the hollow tree is left alone.

The music of the waltz has stopped. The voices of MISS BEECH and the

COLONEL are heard approaching from the house. They appear in the

opening of the wall. The COLONEL carries a pair of field glasses

with which to look at the Moon.]

COLONEL. Charming to see Molly dance with Lever, their steps go so

well together! I can always tell when a woman's enjoying herself,

Peachey.

MISS BEECH. [Sharply.] Can you? You're very clever.

COLONEL. Wonderful, that moon! I'm going to have a look at her!

Splendid glasses these, Peachy [he screws them out], not a better

pair in England. I remember in Burmah with these glasses I used to

be able to tell a man from a woman at two miles and a quarter. And

that's no joke, I can tell you. [But on his way to the moon, he has

taken a survey of the earth to the right along the river. In a low

but excited voice] I say, I say--is it one of the maids--the

baggage! Why! It's Dick! By George, she's got her hair down,

Peachey! It's Joy!

[MISS BEECH goes to look. He makes as though to hand the

glasses to her, but puts them to his own eyes instead--

excitedly.]

It is! What about her headache? By George, they're kissing. I say,

Peachey! I shall have to tell Nell!

MISS BEECH. Are you sure they're kissing? Well, that's some

comfort.

COLONEL. They're at the stile now. Oughtn't I to stop them, eh?

[He stands on tiptoe.] We must n't spy on them, dash it all. [He

drops the glasses.] They're out of sight now.

MISS BEECH. [To herself.] He said he wouldn't let her.

COLONEL. What! have you been encouraging them!

MISS BEECH. Don't be in such a hurry!

[She moves towards the hollow tree.]

COLONEL. [Abstractedly.] By George, Peachey, to think that Nell and

I were once--Poor Nell! I remember just such a night as this

[He stops, and stares before him, sighing.]

MISS BEECH, [Impressively.] It's a comfort she's got that good young

man. She's found out that her mother and this Mr. Lever are--you

know.

COLONEL. [Losing all traces of his fussiness, and drawing himself up

as though he were on parade.] You tell me that my niece?

MISS BEECH. Out of her own mouth!

COLONEL. [Bowing his head.] I never would have believed she'd have

forgotten herself.

MISS BEECH. [Very solemnly.] Ah, my dear! We're all the same;

we're all as hollow as that tree! When it's ourselves it's always a

special case!

[The COLONEL makes a movement of distress, and Miss BEECH goes

to him.]

Don't you take it so to heart, my dear!

[A silence.]

COLONEL. [Shaking his head.] I couldn't have believed Molly would

forget that child.

MISS BEECH. [Sadly.] They must go their own ways, poor things! She

can't put herself in the child's place, and the child can't put

herself in Molly's. A woman and a girl--there's the tree of life

between them!

COLONEL. [Staring into the tree to see indeed if that were the tree

alluded to.] It's a grief to me, Peachey, it's a grief! [He sinks

into a chair, stroking his long moustaches. Then to avenge his

hurt.] Shan't tell Nell--dashed if I do anything to make the trouble

worse!

MISS BEECH. [Nodding.] There's suffering enough, without adding to

it with our trumpery judgments! If only things would last between

them!

COLONEL. [Fiercely.] Last! By George, they'd better----

[He stops, and looking up with a queer sorry look.]

I say, Peachey Life's very funny!

MISS BEECH. Men and women are! [Touching his forehead tenderly.]

There, there--take care of your poor, dear head! Tsst! The blessed

innocents!

[She pulls the COLONEL'S sleeve. They slip away towards the

house, as JOY and DICK come back. They are still linked

together, and stop by the hollow tree.]

JOY. [In a whisper.] Dick, is love always like this?

DICK. [Putting his arms around her, with conviction.] It's never

been like this before. It's you and me!

[He kisses her on the lips.]

The curtain falls.

STRIFE

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

JOHN ANTHONY, Chairman of the Trenartha Tin Plate Works

EDGAR ANTHONY, his Son

FREDERIC H. WILDER, |

WILLIAM SCANTLEBURY,| Directors Of the same

OLIVER WANKLIN, |

HENRY TENCH, Secretary of the same

FRANCIS UNDERWOOD, C.E., Manager of the same

SIMON HARNESS, a Trades Union official

DAVID ROBERTS, |

JAMES GREEN, |

JOHN BULGIN, | the workmen's committee

HENRY THOMAS, |

GEORGE ROUS, |

HENRY ROUS, |

LEWIS, |

JAGO, |

EVANS, | workman at the Trenartha Tin Plate Works

A BLACKSMITH, |

DAVIES, |

A RED-HAIRED YOUTH. |

BROWN |

FROST, valet to John Anthony

ENID UNDERWOOD, Wife of Francis Underwood, daughter of John Anthony

ANNIE ROBERTS, wife of David Roberts

MADGE THOMAS, daughter of Henry Thomas

MRS. ROUS, mother of George and Henry Rous

MRS. BULGIN, wife of John Bulgin

MRS. YEO, wife of a workman

A PARLOURMAID to the Underwoods

JAN, Madge's brother, a boy of ten

A CROWD OF MEN ON STRIKE

ACT I. The dining-room of the Manager's house.

ACT II,

SCENE I. The kitchen of the Roberts's cottage near the works.

SCENE II. A space outside the works.

ACT III. The drawing-room of the Manager's house.

The action takes place on February 7th between the hours of noon and

six in the afternoon, close to the Trenartha Tin Plate Works, on the

borders of England and Wales, where a strike has been in progress

throughout the winter.

ACT I

It is noon. In the Underwoods' dining-room a bright fire is

burning. On one side of the fireplace are double-doors leading

to the drawing-room, on the other side a door leading to the

hall. In the centre of the room a long dining-table without a

cloth is set out as a Board table. At the head of it, in the

Chairman's seat, sits JOHN ANTHONY, an old man, big,

clean-shaven, and high-coloured, with thick white hair, and thick

dark eyebrows. His movements are rather slow and feeble, but his

eyes are very much alive. There is a glass of water by his side.

On his right sits his son EDGAR, an earnest-looking man of thirty,

reading a newspaper. Next him WANKLIN, a man with jutting

eyebrows, and silver-streaked light hair, is bending over transfer

papers. TENCH, the Secretary, a short and rather humble, nervous

man, with side whiskers, stands helping him. On WANKLIN'S right

sits UNDERWOOD, the Manager, a quiet man, with along, stiff jaw,

and steady eyes. Back to the fire is SCANTLEBURY, a very large,

pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, rather bald. Between him and

the Chairman are two empty chairs.

WILDER. [Who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping

grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] I say, this fire's the

devil! Can I have a screen, Tench?

SCANTLEBURY. A screen, ah!

TENCH. Certainly, Mr. Wilder. [He looks at UNDERWOOD.] That is--

perhaps the Manager--perhaps Mr. Underwood----

SCANTLEBURY. These fireplaces of yours, Underwood----

UNDERWOOD. [Roused from studying some papers.] A screen? Rather!

I'm sorry. [He goes to the door with a little smile.] We're not

accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now.

[He speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly,

ironically.]

WILDER. [In an injured voice.] You mean the men. H'm!

[UNDERWOOD goes out.]

SCANTLEBURY. Poor devils!

WILDER. It's their own fault, Scantlebury.

EDGAR. [Holding out his paper.] There's great distress among them,

according to the Trenartha News.

WILDER. Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin. Suit his Radical views.

They call us monsters, I suppose. The editor of that rubbish ought

to be shot.

EDGAR. [Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the

Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would

condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing

amongst their work-people during this strike----"

WILDER. Well, we have come.

EDGAR. [Continuing.] "We cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton

hearts would remain untouched."

[WANKLIN takes the paper from him.]

WILDER. Ruffian! I remember that fellow when he had n't a penny to

his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black-guarding

everybody who takes a different view to himself.

[ANTHONY says something that is not heard.]

WILDER. What does your father say?

EDGAR. He says "The kettle and the pot."

WILDER. H'm!

[He sits down next to SCANTLEBURY.]

SCANTLEBURY. [Blowing out his cheeks.] I shall boil if I don't get

that screen.

[UNDERWOOD and ENID enter with a screen, which they place before

the fire. ENID is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is

twenty-eight years old.]

ENID. Put it closer, Frank. Will that do, Mr. Wilder? It's the

highest we've got.

WILDER. Thanks, capitally.

SCANTLEBURY. [Turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] Ah! Merci,

Madame!

ENID. Is there anything else you want, Father? [ANTHONY shakes his

head.] Edgar--anything?

EDGAR. You might give me a "J" nib, old girl.

ENID. There are some down there by Mr. Scantlebury.

SCANTLEBURY. [Handing a little box of nibs.] Ah! your brother uses

"J's." What does the manager use? [With expansive politeness.]

What does your husband use, Mrs. Underwood?

UNDERWOOD. A quill!

SCANTLEBURY. The homely product of the goose. [He holds out

quills.]

UNDERWOOD. [Drily.] Thanks, if you can spare me one. [He takes a

quill.] What about lunch, Enid?

ENID. [Stopping at the double-doors and looking back.] We're going

to have lunch here, in the drawing-room, so you need n't hurry with

your meeting.

[WANKLIN and WILDER bow, and she goes out.]

SCANTLEBURY. [Rousing himself, suddenly.] Ah! Lunch! That hotel--

Dreadful! Did you try the whitebait last night? Fried fat!

WILDER. Past twelve! Are n't you going to read the minutes, Tench?

TENCH. [Looking for the CHAIRMAN'S assent, reads in a rapid and

monotonous voice.] "At a Board Meeting held the 31st of January at

the Company's Offices, 512, Cannon Street, E.C. Present--Mr. Anthony

in the chair, Messrs. F. H. Wilder, William Scantlebury, Oliver

Wanklin, and Edgar Anthony. Read letters from the Manager dated

January 20th, 23d, 25th, 28th, relative to the strike at the

Company's Works. Read letters to the Manager of January 21st, 24th,

26th, 29th. Read letter from Mr. Simon Harness, of the Central

Union, asking for an interview with the Board. Read letter from the

Men's Committee, signed David Roberts, James Green, John Bulgin,

Henry Thomas, George Rous, desiring conference with the Board; and it

was resolved that a special Board Meeting be called for February 7th

at the house of the Manager, for the purpose of discussing the

situation with Mr. Simon Harness and the Men's Committee on the spot.

Passed twelve transfers, signed and sealed nine certificates and one

balance certificate."

[He pushes the book over to the CHAIRMAN.]

ANTHONY. [With a heavy sigh.] If it's your pleasure, sign the same.

[He signs, moving the pen with difficulty. ]

WANKLIN. What's the Union's game, Tench? They have n't made up

their split with the men. What does Harness want this interview for?

TENCH. Hoping we shall come to a compromise, I think, sir; he's

having a meeting with the men this afternoon.

WILDER. Harness! Ah! He's one of those cold-blooded, cool-headed

chaps. I distrust them. I don't know that we didn't make a mistake

to come down. What time'll the men be here?

UNDERWOOD. Any time now.

WILDER. Well, if we're not ready, they'll have to wait--won't do

them any harm to cool their heels a bit.

SCANTLEBURY. [Slowly.] Poor devils! It's snowing. What weather!

UNDERWOOD. [With meaning slowness.] This house'll be the warmest

place they've been in this winter.

WILDER. Well, I hope we're going to settle this business in time for

me to catch the 6.30. I've got to take my wife to Spain to-morrow.

[Chattily.] My old father had a strike at his works in '69; just

such a February as this. They wanted to shoot him.

WANKLIN. What! In the close season?

WILDER. By George, there was no close season for employers then! He

used to go down to his office with a pistol in his pocket.

SCANTLEBURY. [Faintly alarmed.] Not seriously?

WILDER. [With finality.] Ended in his shootin' one of 'em in the

legs.

SCANTLEBURY. [Unavoidably feeling his thigh.] No? Which?

ANTHONY. [Lifting the agenda paper.] To consider the policy of the

Board in relation to the strike. [There is a silence.]

WILDER. It's this infernal three-cornered duel--the Union, the men,

and ourselves.

WANKLIN. We need n't consider the Union.

WILDER. It's my experience that you've always got to, consider the

Union, confound them! If the Union were going to withdraw their

support from the men, as they've done, why did they ever allow them

to strike at all?

EDGAR. We've had that over a dozen times.

WILDER. Well, I've never understood it! It's beyond me. They talk

of the engineers' and furnace-men's demands being excessive--so they

are--but that's not enough to make the Union withdraw their support.

What's behind it?

UNDERWOOD. Fear of strikes at Harper's and Tinewell's.

WILDER. [With triumph.] Afraid of other strikes--now, that's a

reason! Why could n't we have been told that before?

UNDERWOOD. You were.

TENCH. You were absent from the Board that day, sir.

SCANTLEBURY. The men must have seen they had no chance when the

Union gave them up. It's madness.

UNDERWOOD. It's Roberts!

WILDER. Just our luck, the men finding a fanatical firebrand like

Roberts for leader. [A pause.]

WANKLIN. [Looking at ANTHONY.] Well?

WILDER. [Breaking in fussily.] It's a regular mess. I don't like

the position we're in; I don't like it; I've said so for a long time.

[Looking at WANKLIN.] When Wanklin and I came down here before

Christmas it looked as if the men must collapse. You thought so too,

Underwood.

UNDERWOOD. Yes.

WILDER. Well, they haven't! Here we are, going from bad to worse

losing our customers--shares going down!

SCANTLEBURY. [Shaking his head.] M'm! M'm!

WANKLIN. What loss have we made by this strike, Tench?

TENCH. Over fifty thousand, sir!

SCANTLEBURY, [Pained.] You don't say!

WILDER. We shall never got it back.

TENCH. No, sir.

WILDER. Who'd have supposed the men were going to stick out like

this--nobody suggested that. [Looking angrily at TENCH.]

SCANTLEBURY. [Shaking his head.] I've never liked a fight--never

shall.

ANTHONY. No surrender! [All look at him.]

WILDER. Who wants to surrender? [ANTHONY looks at him.] I--I want

to act reasonably. When the men sent Roberts up to the Board in

December--then was the time. We ought to have humoured him; instead

of that the Chairman--[Dropping his eyes before ANTHONY'S]--er--we

snapped his head off. We could have got them in then by a little

tact.

ANTHONY. No compromise!

WILDER. There we are! This strike's been going on now since

October, and as far as I can see it may last another six months.

Pretty mess we shall be in by then. The only comfort is, the men'll

be in a worse!

EDGAR. [To UNDERWOOD.] What sort of state are they really in,

Frank?

UNDERWOOD. [Without expression.] Damnable!

WILDER. Well, who on earth would have thought they'd have held on

like this without support!

UNDERWOOD. Those who know them.

WILDER. I defy any one to know them! And what about tin? Price

going up daily. When we do get started we shall have to work off our

contracts at the top of the market.

WANKLIN. What do you say to that, Chairman?

ANTHONY. Can't be helped!

WILDER. Shan't pay a dividend till goodness knows when!

SCANTLEBURY. [With emphasis.] We ought to think of the

shareholders. [Turning heavily.] Chairman, I say we ought to think

of the shareholders. [ANTHONY mutters.]

SCANTLEBURY. What's that?

TENCH. The Chairman says he is thinking of you, sir.

SCANTLEBURY. [Sinking back into torpor.] Cynic!

WILDER. It's past a joke. I don't want to go without a dividend for

years if the Chairman does. We can't go on playing ducks and drakes

with the Company's prosperity.

EDGAR. [Rather ashamedly.] I think we ought to consider the men.

[All but ANTHONY fidget in their seats.]

SCANTLEBURY. [With a sigh.] We must n't think of our private

feelings, young man. That'll never do.

EDGAR. [Ironically.] I'm not thinking of our feelings. I'm

thinking of the men's.

WILDER. As to that--we're men of business.

WANKLIN. That is the little trouble.

EDGAR. There's no necessity for pushing things so far in the face of

all this suffering--it's--it's cruel.

[No one speaks, as though EDGAR had uncovered something whose

existence no man prizing his self-respect could afford to

recognise.]

WANKLIN. [With an ironical smile.] I'm afraid we must n't base our

policy on luxuries like sentiment.

EDGAR. I detest this state of things.

ANTHONY. We did n't seek the quarrel.

EDGAR. I know that sir, but surely we've gone far enough.

ANTHONY. No. [All look at one another.]

WANKLIN. Luxuries apart, Chairman, we must look out what we're

doing.

ANTHONY. Give way to the men once and there'll be no end to it.

WANKLIN. I quite agree, but----

[ANTHONY Shakes his head]

You make it a question of bedrock principle?

[ANTHONY nods.]

Luxuries again, Chairman! The shares are below par.

WILDER. Yes, and they'll drop to a half when we pass the next

dividend.

SCANTLEBURY. [With alarm.] Come, come! Not so bad as that.

WILDER. [Grimly.] You'll see! [Craning forward to catch ANTHONY'S

speech.] I didn't catch----

TENCH. [Hesitating.] The Chairman says, sir, "Fais que--que--devra."

EDGAR. [Sharply.] My father says: "Do what we ought--and let things

rip."

WILDER. Tcha!

SCANTLEBURY. [Throwing up his hands.] The Chairman's a Stoic--I

always said the Chairman was a Stoic.

WILDER. Much good that'll do us.

WANKLIN. [Suavely.] Seriously, Chairman, are you going to let the

ship sink under you, for the sake of--a principle?

ANTHONY. She won't sink.

SCANTLEBURY. [With alarm.] Not while I'm on the Board I hope.

ANTHONY. [With a twinkle.] Better rat, Scantlebury.

SCANTLEBURY. What a man!

ANTHONY. I've always fought them; I've never been beaten yet.

WANKLIN. We're with you in theory, Chairman. But we're not all made

of cast-iron.

ANTHONY. We've only to hold on.

WILDER. [Rising and going to the fire.] And go to the devil as fast

as we can!

ANTHONY. Better go to the devil than give in!

WILDER. [Fretfully.] That may suit you, sir, but it does n't suit

me, or any one else I should think.

[ANTHONY looks him in the face-a silence.]

EDGAR. I don't see how we can get over it that to go on like this

means starvation to the men's wives and families.

[WILDER turns abruptly to the fire, and SCANTLEBURY puts out a

hand to push the idea away.]

WANKLIN. I'm afraid again that sounds a little sentimental.

EDGAR. Men of business are excused from decency, you think?

WILDER. Nobody's more sorry for the men than I am, but if they

[lashing himself] choose to be such a pig-headed lot, it's nothing

to do with us; we've quite enough on our hands to think of ourselves

and the shareholders.

EDGAR. [Irritably.] It won't kill the shareholders to miss a

dividend or two; I don't see that that's reason enough for knuckling

under.

SCANTLEBURY. [With grave discomfort.] You talk very lightly of your

dividends, young man; I don't know where we are.

WILDER. There's only one sound way of looking at it. We can't go on

ruining ourselves with this strike.

ANTHONY. No caving in!

SCANTLEBURY. [With a gesture of despair.] Look at him!

[ANTHONY'S leaning back in his chair. They do look at him.]

WILDER. [Returning to his seat.] Well, all I can say is, if that's

the Chairman's view, I don't know what we've come down here for.

ANTHONY. To tell the men that we've got nothing for them----

[Grimly.] They won't believe it till they hear it spoken in plain

English.

WILDER. H'm! Shouldn't be a bit surprised if that brute Roberts had

n't got us down here with the very same idea. I hate a man with a

grievance.

EDGAR. [Resentfully.] We didn't pay him enough for his discovery.

I always said that at the time.

WILDER. We paid him five hundred and a bonus of two hundred three

years later. If that's not enough! What does he want, for goodness'

sake?

TENCH. [Complainingly.] Company made a hundred thousand out of his

brains, and paid him seven hundred--that's the way he goes on, sir.

WILDER. The man's a rank agitator! Look here, I hate the Unions.

But now we've got Harness here let's get him to settle the whole

thing.

ANTHONY. No! [Again they look at him.]

UNDERWOOD. Roberts won't let the men assent to that.

SCANTLEBURY. Fanatic! Fanatic!

WILDER. [Looking at ANTHONY.] And not the only one! [FROST enters

from the hall.]

FROST. [To ANTHONY.] Mr. Harness from the Union, waiting, sir. The

men are here too, sir.

[ANTHONY nods. UNDERWOOD goes to the door, returning with

HARNESS, a pale, clean-shaven man with hollow cheeks, quick

eyes, and lantern jaw--FROST has retired.]

UNDERWOOD. [Pointing to TENCH'S chair.] Sit there next the

Chairman, Harness, won't you?

[At HARNESS'S appearance, the Board have drawn together, as it

were, and turned a little to him, like cattle at a dog.]

HARNESS. [With a sharp look round, and a bow.] Thanks! [He sits---

his accent is slightly nasal.] Well, gentlemen, we're going to do

business at last, I hope.

WILDER. Depends on what you call business, Harness. Why don't you

make the men come in?

HARNESS. [Sardonically.] The men are far more in the right than you

are. The question with us is whether we shan't begin to support them

again.

[He ignores them all, except ANTHONY, to whom he turns in

speaking.]

ANTHONY. Support them if you like; we'll put in free labour and have

done with it.

HARNESS. That won't do, Mr. Anthony. You can't get free labour, and

you know it.

ANTHONY. We shall see that.

HARNESS. I'm quite frank with you. We were forced to withhold our

support from your men because some of their demands are in excess of

current rates. I expect to make them withdraw those demands to-day:

if they do, take it straight from me, gentlemen, we shall back them

again at once. Now, I want to see something fixed upon before I go

back to-night. Can't we have done with this old-fashioned tug-of-war

business? What good's it doing you? Why don't you recognise once

for all that these people are men like yourselves, and want what's

good for them just as you want what's good for you [Bitterly.] Your

motor-cars, and champagne, and eight-course dinners.

ANTHONY. If the men will come in, we'll do something for them.

HARNESS. [Ironically.] Is that your opinion too, sir--and yours--

and yours? [The Directors do not answer.] Well, all I can say is:

It's a kind of high and mighty aristocratic tone I thought we'd grown

out of--seems I was mistaken.

ANTHONY. It's the tone the men use. Remains to be seen which can

hold out longest--they without us, or we without them.

HARNESS. As business men, I wonder you're not ashamed of this waste

of force, gentlemen. You know what it'll all end in.

ANTHONY. What?

HARNESS. Compromise--it always does.

SCANTLEBURY. Can't you persuade the men that their interests are the

same as ours?

HARNESS. [Turning, ironically.] I could persuade them of that, sir,

if they were.

WILDER. Come, Harness, you're a clever man, you don't believe all

the Socialistic claptrap that's talked nowadays. There 's no real

difference between their interests and ours.

HARNESS. There's just one very simple question I'd like to put to

you. Will you pay your men one penny more than they force you to pay

them?

[WILDER is silent.]

WANKLIN. [Chiming in.] I humbly thought that not to pay more than

was necessary was the A B C of commerce.

HARNESS. [With irony.] Yes, that seems to be the A B C of commerce,

sir; and the A B C of commerce is between your interests and the

men's.

SCANTLEBURY. [Whispering.] We ought to arrange something.

HARNESS. [Drily.] Am I to understand then, gentlemen, that your

Board is going to make no concessions?

[WANKLIN and WILDER bend forward as if to speak, but stop.]

ANTHONY. [Nodding.] None.

[WANKLIN and WILDER again bend forward, and SCANTLEBURY gives an

unexpected grunt.]

HARNESS. You were about to say something, I believe?

[But SCANTLEBURY says nothing.]

EDGAR. [Looking up suddenly.] We're sorry for the state of the men.

HARNESS. [Icily.] The men have no use for your pity, sir. What

they want is justice.

ANTHONY. Then let them be just.

HARNESS. For that word "just" read "humble," Mr. Anthony. Why

should they be humble? Barring the accident of money, are n't they

as good men as you?

ANTHONY. Cant!

HARNESS. Well, I've been five years in America. It colours a man's

notions.

SCANTLEBURY. [Suddenly, as though avenging his uncompleted grunt.]

Let's have the men in and hear what they've got to say!

[ANTHONY nods, and UNDERWOOD goes out by the single door.]

HARNESS. [Drily.] As I'm to have an interview with them this

afternoon, gentlemen, I 'll ask you to postpone your final decision

till that's over.

[Again ANTHONY nods, and taking up his glass drinks.]

[UNDERWOOD comes in again, followed by ROBERTS, GREEN, BULGIN,

THOMAS, ROUS. They file in, hat in hand, and stand silent in a

row. ROBERTS is lean, of middle height, with a slight stoop.

He has a little rat-gnawn, brown-grey beard, moustaches, high

cheek-bones, hollow cheeks, small fiery eyes. He wears an old

and grease-stained blue serge suit, and carries an old bowler

hat. He stands nearest the Chairman. GREEN, next to him, has a

clean, worn face, with a small grey goatee beard and drooping

moustaches, iron spectacles, and mild, straightforward eyes. He

wears an overcoat, green with age, and a linen collar. Next to

him is BULGIN, a tall, strong man, with a dark moustache, and

fighting jaw, wearing a red muffler, who keeps changing his cap

from one hand to the other. Next to him is THOMAS, an old man

with a grey moustache, full beard, and weatherbeaten, bony face,

whose overcoat discloses a lean, plucked-looking neck. On his

right, ROUS, the youngest of the five, looks like a soldier; he

has a glitter in his eyes.]

UNDERWOOD. [Pointing.] There are some chairs there against the

wall, Roberts; won't you draw them up and sit down?

ROBERTS. Thank you, Mr. Underwood--we'll stand in the presence of

the Board. [He speaks in a biting and staccato voice, rolling his

r's, pronouncing his a's like an Italian a, and his consonants short

and crisp.] How are you, Mr. Harness? Did n't expect t' have the

pleasure of seeing you till this afternoon.

HARNESS. [Steadily.] We shall meet again then, Roberts.

ROBERTS. Glad to hear that; we shall have some news for you to take

to your people.

ANTHONY. What do the men want?

ROBERTS. [Acidly.] Beg pardon, I don't quite catch the Chairman's

remark.

TENCH. [From behind the Chairman's chair.] The Chairman wishes to

know what the men have to say.

ROBERTS. It's what the Board has to say we've come to hear. It's

for the Board to speak first.

ANTHONY. The Board has nothing to say.

ROBERTS. [Looking along the line of men.] In that case we're

wasting the Directors' time. We'll be taking our feet off this

pretty carpet.

[He turns, the men move slowly, as though hypnotically

influenced.]

WANKLIN: [Suavely.] Come, Roberts, you did n't give us this long

cold journey for the pleasure of saying that.

THOMAS. [A pure Welshman.] No, sir, an' what I say iss----

ROBERTS.[Bitingly.] Go on, Henry Thomas, go on. You 're better able

to speak to the--Directors than me. [THOMAS is silent.]

TENCH. The Chairman means, Roberts, that it was the men who asked

for the conference, the Board wish to hear what they have to say.

ROBERTS. Gad! If I was to begin to tell ye all they have to say, I

wouldn't be finished to-day. And there'd be some that'd wish they'd

never left their London palaces.

HARNESS. What's your proposition, man? Be reasonable.

ROBERTS. You want reason Mr. Harness? Take a look round this

afternoon before the meeting. [He looks at the men; no sound escapes

them.] You'll see some very pretty scenery.

HARNESS. All right my friend; you won't put me off.

ROBERTS. [To the men.] We shan't put Mr. Harness off. Have some

champagne with your lunch, Mr. Harness; you'll want it, sir.

HARNESS. Come, get to business, man!

THOMAS. What we're asking, look you, is just simple justice.

ROBERTS. [Venomously.] Justice from London? What are you talking

about, Henry Thomas? Have you gone silly? [THOMAS is silent.] We

know very well what we are--discontented dogs--never satisfied. What

did the Chairman tell me up in London? That I did n't know what I

was talking about. I was a foolish, uneducated man, that knew

nothing of the wants of the men I spoke for,

EDGAR. Do please keep to the point.

ANTHONY. [Holding up his hand.] There can only be one master,

Roberts.

ROBERTS. Then, be Gad, it'll be us.

[There is a silence; ANTHONY and ROBERTS stare at one another.]

UNDERWOOD. If you've nothing to say to the Directors, Roberts,

perhaps you 'll let Green or Thomas speak for the men.

[GREEN and THOMAS look anxiously at ROBERTS, at each other, and

the other men.]

GREEN. [An Englishman.] If I'd been listened to, gentlemen----

THOMAS. What I'fe got to say iss what we'fe all got to say----

ROBERTS. Speak for yourself, Henry Thomas.

SCANTLEBURY. [With a gesture of deep spiritual discomfort.] Let the

poor men call their souls their own!

ROBERTS. Aye, they shall keep their souls, for it's not much body

that you've left them, Mr. [with biting emphasis, as though the word

were an offence] Scantlebury! [To the men.] Well, will you speak,

or shall I speak for you?

ROUS. [Suddenly.] Speak out, Roberts, or leave it to others.

ROBERTS. [Ironically.] Thank you, George Rous. [Addressing himself

to ANTHONY.] The Chairman and Board of Directors have honoured us by

leaving London and coming all this way to hear what we've got to say;

it would not be polite to keep them any longer waiting.

WILDER. Well, thank God for that!

ROBERTS. Ye will not dare to thank Him when I have done, Mr. Wilder,

for all your piety. May be your God up in London has no time to

listen to the working man. I'm told He is a wealthy God; but if he

listens to what I tell Him, He will know more than ever He learned in

Kensington.

HARNESS. Come, Roberts, you have your own God. Respect the God of

other men.

ROBERTS. That's right, sir. We have another God down here; I doubt

He is rather different to Mr. Wilder's. Ask Henry Thomas; he will

tell you whether his God and Mr. Wilder's are the same.

[THOMAS lifts his hand, and cranes his head as though to

prophesy.]

WANKLIN. For goodness' sake, let 's keep to the point, Roberts.

ROBERTS. I rather think it is the point, Mr. Wanklin. If you can

get the God of Capital to walk through the streets of Labour, and pay

attention to what he sees, you're a brighter man than I take you for,

for all that you're a Radical.

ANTHONY. Attend to me, Roberts! [Roberts is silent.] You are here

to speak for the men, as I am here to speak for the Board.

[He looks slowly round.]

[WILDER, WANKLIN, and SCANTLEBURY make movements of uneasiness,

and EDGAR gazes at the floor. A faint smile comes on HARNESS'S

face.]

Now then, what is it?

ROBERTS. Right, Sir!

[Throughout all that follows, he and ANTHONY look fixedly upon

each other. Men and Directors show in their various ways

suppressed uneasiness, as though listening to words that they

themselves would not have spoken.]

The men can't afford to travel up to London; and they don't trust you

to believe what they say in black and white. They know what the post

is [he darts a look at UNDERWOOD and TENCH], and what Directors'

meetings are: "Refer it to the manager--let the manager advise us on

the men's condition. Can we squeeze them a little more?"

UNDERWOOD. [In a low voice.] Don't hit below the belt, Roberts!

ROBERTS. Is it below the belt, Mr. Underwood? The men know. When I

came up to London, I told you the position straight. An' what came

of it? I was told I did n't know what I was talkin' about. I can't

afford to travel up to London to be told that again.

ANTHONY. What have you to say for the men?

ROBERTS. I have this to say--and first as to their condition. Ye

shall 'ave no need to go and ask your manager. Ye can't squeeze them

any more. Every man of us is well-nigh starving. [A surprised

murmur rises from the men. ROBERTS looks round.] Ye wonder why I

tell ye that? Every man of us is going short. We can't be no worse

off than we've been these weeks past. Ye need n't think that by

waiting yell drive us to come in. We'll die first, the whole lot of

us. The men have sent for ye to know, once and for all, whether ye

are going to grant them their demands. I see the sheet of paper in

the Secretary's hand. [TENCH moves nervously.] That's it, I think,

Mr. Tench. It's not very large.

TENCH. [Nodding.] Yes.

ROBERTS. There's not one sentence of writing on that paper that we

can do without.

[A movement amongst the men. ROBERTS turns on them sharply.]

Isn't that so?

[The men assent reluctantly. ANTHONY takes from TENCH the paper

and peruses it.]

Not one single sentence. All those demands are fair. We have not.

asked anything that we are not entitled to ask. What I said up in

London, I say again now: there is not anything on that piece of paper

that a just man should not ask, and a just man give.

[A pause.]

ANTHONY. There is not one single demand on this paper that we will

grant.

[In the stir that follows on these words, ROBERTS watches the

Directors and ANTHONY the men. WILDER gets up abruptly and goes

over to the fire.]

ROBERTS. D' ye mean that?

ANTHONY. I do.

[WILDER at the fire makes an emphatic movement of disgust.]

ROBERTS. [Noting it, with dry intensity.] Ye best know whether the

condition of the Company is any better than the condition of the men.

[Scanning the Directors' faces.] Ye best know whether ye can afford

your tyranny--but this I tell ye: If ye think the men will give way

the least part of an inch, ye're making the worst mistake ye ever

made. [He fixes his eyes on SCANTLEBURY.] Ye think because the

Union is not supporting us--more shame to it!--that we'll be coming

on our knees to you one fine morning. Ye think because the men have

got their wives an' families to think of--that it's just a question

of a week or two----

ANTHONY. It would be better if you did not speculate so much on what

we think.

ROBERTS. Aye! It's not much profit to us! I will say this for you,

Mr. Anthony--ye know your own mind! [Staying at ANTHONY.] I can

reckon on ye!

ANTHONY. [Ironically.] I am obliged to you!

ROBERTS. And I know mine. I tell ye this: The men will send their

wives and families where the country will have to keep them; an' they

will starve sooner than give way. I advise ye, Mr. Anthony, to

prepare yourself for the worst that can happen to your Company. We

are not so ignorant as you might suppose. We know the way the cat is

jumping. Your position is not all that it might be--not exactly!

ANTHONY. Be good enough to allow us to judge of our position for

ourselves. Go back, and reconsider your own.

ROBERTS. [Stepping forward.] Mr. Anthony, you are not a young man

now; from the time I remember anything ye have been an enemy to every

man that has come into your works. I don't say that ye're a mean

man, or a cruel man, but ye've grudged them the say of any word in

their own fate. Ye've fought them down four times. I've heard ye

say ye love a fight--mark my words--ye're fighting the last fight

ye'll ever fight!

[TENCH touches ROBERTS'S sleeve.]

UNDERWOOD. Roberts! Roberts!

ROBERTS. Roberts! Roberts! I must n't speak my mind to the

Chairman, but the Chairman may speak his mind to me!

WILDER. What are things coming to?

ANTHONY, [With a grim smile at WILDER.] Go on, Roberts; say what you

like!

ROBERTS. [After a pause.] I have no more to say.

ANTHONY. The meeting stands adjourned to five o'clock.

WANKLIN. [In a low voice to UNDERWOOD.] We shall never settle

anything like this.

ROBERTS. [Bitingly.] We thank the Chairman and Board of Directors

for their gracious hearing.

[He moves towards the door; the men cluster together stupefied;

then ROUS, throwing up his head, passes ROBERTS and goes out.

The others follow.]

ROBERTS. [With his hand on the door--maliciously.] Good day,

gentlemen! [He goes out.]

HARNESS. [Ironically.] I congratulate you on the conciliatory

spirit that's been displayed. With your permission, gentlemen, I'll

be with you again at half-past five. Good morning!

[He bows slightly, rests his eyes on ANTHONY, who returns his

stare unmoved, and, followed by UNDERWOOD, goes out. There is a

moment of uneasy silence. UNDERWOOD reappears in the doorway.]

WILDER. [With emphatic disgust.] Well!

[The double-doors are opened.]

ENID. [Standing in the doorway.] Lunch is ready.

[EDGAR, getting up abruptly, walks out past his sister.]

WILDER. Coming to lunch, Scantlebury?

SCANTLEBURY. [Rising heavily.] I suppose so, I suppose so. It's

the only thing we can do.

[They go out through the double-doors.]

WANKLIN. [In a low voice.] Do you really mean

to fight to a finish, Chairman?

[ANTHONY nods.]

WANKLIN. Take care! The essence of things is to know when to stop.

[ANTHONY does not answer.]

WANKLIN. [Very gravely.] This way disaster lies. The ancient

Trojans were fools to your father, Mrs. Underwood. [He goes out

through the double-doors.]

ENID. I want to speak to father, Frank.

[UNDERWOOD follows WANKLIN Out. TENCH, passing round the table,

is restoring order to the scattered pens and papers.]

ENID. Are n't you coming, Dad?

[ANTHONY Shakes his head. ENID looks meaningly at TENCH.]

ENID. Won't you go and have some lunch, Mr. Tench?

TENCH. [With papers in his hand.] Thank you, ma'am, thank you! [He

goes slowly, looking back.]

ENID. [Shutting the doors.] I do hope it's settled, Father!

ANTHONY. No!

ENID. [Very disappointed.] Oh! Have n't you done anything!

[ANTHONY shakes his head.]

ENID. Frank says they all want to come to a compromise, really,

except that man Roberts.

ANTHONY. I don't.

ENID. It's such a horrid position for us. If you were the wife of

the manager, and lived down here, and saw it all. You can't realise,

Dad!

ANTHONY. Indeed?

ENID. We see all the distress. You remember my maid Annie, who

married Roberts? [ANTHONY nods.] It's so wretched, her heart's

weak; since the strike began, she has n't even been getting proper

food. I know it for a fact, Father.

ANTHONY. Give her what she wants, poor woman!

ENID. Roberts won't let her take anything from us.

ANTHONY. [Staring before him.] I can't be answerable for the men's

obstinacy.

ENID. They're all suffering. Father! Do stop it, for my sake!

ANTHONY. [With a keen look at her.] You don't understand, my dear.

ENID. If I were on the Board, I'd do something.

ANTHONY. What would you do?

ENID. It's because you can't bear to give way. It's so----

ANTHONY. Well?

ENID. So unnecessary.

ANTHONY. What do you know about necessity? Read your novels, play

your music, talk your talk, but don't try and tell me what's at the

bottom of a struggle like this.

ENID. I live down here, and see it.

ANTHONY. What d' you imagine stands between you and your class and

these men that you're so sorry for?

ENID. [Coldly.] I don't know what you mean, Father.

ANTHONY. In a few years you and your children would be down in the

condition they're in, but for those who have the eyes to see things

as they are and the backbone to stand up for themselves.

ENID. You don't know the state the men are in.

ANTHONY. I know it well enough.

ENID. You don't, Father; if you did, you would n't

ANTHONY. It's you who don't know the simple facts of the position.

What sort of mercy do you suppose you'd get if no one stood between

you and the continual demands of labour? This sort of mercy--

[He puts his hand up to his throat and squeezes it.] First would go

your sentiments, my dear; then your culture, and your comforts would

be going all the time!

ENID. I don't believe in barriers between classes.

ANTHONY. You--don't--believe--in--barriers--between the classes?

ENID. [Coldly.] And I don't know what that has to do with this

question.

ANTHONY. It will take a generation or two for you to understand.

ENID. It's only you and Roberts, Father, and you know it!

[ANTHONY thrusts out his lower lip.]

It'll ruin the Company.

ANTHONY. Allow me to judge of that.

ENID. [Resentfully.] I won't stand by and let poor Annie Roberts

suffer like this! And think of the children, Father! I warn you.

ANTHONY. [With a grim smile.] What do you propose to do?

ENID. That's my affair.

[ANTHONY only looks at her.]

ENID. [In a changed voice, stroking his sleeve.] Father, you know

you oughtn't to have this strain on you--you know what Dr. Fisher

said!

ANTHONY. No old man can afford to listen to old women.

ENID. But you have done enough, even if it really is such a matter

of principle with you.

ANTHONY. You think so?

ENID. Don't Dad! [Her face works.] You--you might think of us!

ANTHONY. I am.

ENID. It'll break you down.

ANTHONY. [Slowly.] My dear, I am not going to funk; on that you may

rely.

[Re-enter TENCH with papers; he glances at them, then plucking

up courage.]

TENCH. Beg pardon, Madam, I think I'd rather see these papers were

disposed of before I get my lunch.

[ENID, after an impatient glance at him, looks at her father,

turns suddenly, and goes into the drawing-room.]

TENCH. [Holding the papers and a pen to ANTHONY, very nervously.]

Would you sign these for me, please sir?

[ANTHONY takes the pen and signs.]

TENCH. [Standing with a sheet of blotting-paper behind EDGAR'S

chair, begins speaking nervously.] I owe my position to you, sir.

ANTHONY. Well?

TENCH. I'm obliged to see everything that's going on, sir; I--I

depend upon the Company entirely. If anything were to happen to it,

it'd be disastrous for me. [ANTHONY nods.] And, of course, my

wife's just had another; and so it makes me doubly anxious just now.

And the rates are really terrible down our way.

ANTHONY. [With grim amusement.] Not more terrible than they are up

mine.

TENCH. No, Sir? [Very nervously.] I know the Company means a great

deal to you, sir.

ANTHONY. It does; I founded it.

TENCH. Yes, Sir. If the strike goes on it'll be very serious. I

think the Directors are beginning to realise that, sir.

ANTHONY. [Ironically.] Indeed?

TENCH. I know you hold very strong views, sir, and it's always your

habit to look things in the face; but I don't think the Directors--

like it, sir, now they--they see it.

ANTHONY. [Grimly.] Nor you, it seems.

TENCH. [With the ghost of a smile.] No, sir; of course I've got my

children, and my wife's delicate; in my position I have to think of

these things.

[ANTHONY nods.]

It was n't that I was going to say, sir, if you'll excuse me----

[hesitates]

ANTHONY. Out with it, then!

TENCH. I know--from my own father, sir, that when you get on in life

you do feel things dreadfully----

ANTHONY. [Almost paternally.] Come, out with it, Trench!

TENCH. I don't like to say it, sir.

ANTHONY. [Stonily.] You Must.

TENCH. [After a pause, desperately bolting it out.] I think the

Directors are going to throw you over, sir.

ANTHONY. [Sits in silence.] Ring the bell!

[TENCH nervously rings the bell and stands by the fire.]

TENCH. Excuse me for saying such a thing. I was only thinking of

you, sir.

[FROST enters from the hall, he comes to the foot of the table,

and looks at ANTHONY; TENCH coveys his nervousness by arranging

papers.]

ANTHONY. Bring me a whiskey and soda.

FROST. Anything to eat, sir?

[ANTHONY shakes his head. FROST goes to the sideboard, and

prepares the drink.]

TENCH. [In a low voice, almost supplicating.] If you could see your

way, sir, it would be a great relief to my mind, it would indeed.

[He looks up at ANTHONY, who has not moved.] It does make me so very

anxious. I haven't slept properly for weeks, sir, and that's a fact.

[ANTHONY looks in his face, then slowly shakes his head.]

[Disheartened.] No, Sir? [He goes on arranging papers.]

[FROST places the whiskey and salver and puts it down by

ANTHONY'S right hand. He stands away, looking gravely at

ANTHONY.]

FROST. Nothing I can get you, sir?

[ANTHONY shakes his head.]

You're aware, sir, of what the doctor said, sir?

ANTHONY. I am.

[A pause. FROST suddenly moves closer to him, and speaks in a

low voice.]

FROST. This strike, sir; puttin' all this strain on you. Excuse me,

sir, is it--is it worth it, sir?

[ANTHONY mutters some words that are inaudible.]

Very good, sir!

[He turns and goes out into the hall. TENCH makes two attempts

to speak; but meeting his Chairman's gaze he drops his eyes,

and, turning dismally, he too goes out. ANTHONY is left alone.

He grips the glass, tilts it, and drinks deeply; then sets it

down with a deep and rumbling sigh, and leans back in his

chair.]

The curtain falls.

ACT II

SCENE I

It is half-past three. In the kitchen of Roberts's cottage a

meagre little fire is burning. The room is clean and tidy, very

barely furnished, with a brick floor and white-washed walls,

much stained with smoke. There is a kettle on the fire. A door

opposite the fireplace opens inward from a snowy street. On the

wooden table are a cup and saucer, a teapot, knife, and plate of

bread and cheese. Close to the fireplace in an old arm-chair,

wrapped in a rug, sits MRS. ROBERTS, a thin and dark-haired

woman about thirty-five, with patient eyes. Her hair is not

done up, but tied back with a piece of ribbon. By the fire,

too, is MRS. YEO; a red-haired, broad-faced person. Sitting

near the table is MRS. ROUS, an old lady, ashen-white, with

silver hair; by the door, standing, as if about to go, is MRS.

BULGIN, a little pale, pinched-up woman. In a chair, with her

elbows resting on the table, avid her face resting in her hands,

sits MADGE THOMAS, a good-looking girl, of twenty-two, with high

cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark untidy hair. She is

listening to the talk, but she neither speaks nor moves.

MRS. YEO. So he give me a sixpence, and that's the first bit o'

money I seen this week. There an't much 'eat to this fire. Come and

warm yerself Mrs. Rous, you're lookin' as white as the snow, you are.

MRS. ROUS. [Shivering--placidly.] Ah! but the winter my old man

was took was the proper winter. Seventy-nine that was, when none of

you was hardly born--not Madge Thomas, nor Sue Bulgin. [Looking at

them in turn.] Annie Roberts, 'ow old were you, dear?

MRS ROBERTS. Seven, Mrs. Rous.

MRS. ROUS. Seven--well, there! A tiny little thing!

MRS. YEO. [Aggressively.] Well, I was ten myself, I remembers it.

MRS. Rous. [Placidly.] The Company hadn't been started three years.

Father was workin' on the acid, that's 'ow he got 'is pisoned-leg.

I kep' sayin' to 'im, "Father, you've got a pisoned leg." "Well," 'e

said, "Mother, pison or no pison, I can't afford to go a-layin' up."

An' two days after, he was on 'is back, and never got up again. It

was Providence! There was n't none o' these Compensation Acts then.

MRS. YEO. Ye had n't no strike that winter! [With grim humour.]

This winter's 'ard enough for me. Mrs. Roberts, you don't want no

'arder winter, do you? Wouldn't seem natural to 'ave a dinner, would

it, Mrs. Bulgin?

MRS. BULGIN. We've had bread and tea last four days.

MRS. YEO. You got that Friday's laundry job?

MRS. BULGIN. [Dispiritedly.] They said they'd give it me, but when

I went last Friday, they were full up. I got to go again next week.

MRS. YEO. Ah! There's too many after that. I send Yeo out on the

ice to put on the gentry's skates an' pick up what 'e can. Stops 'im

from broodin' about the 'ouse.

MRS. BULGIN. [In a desolate, matter-of-fact voice.] Leavin' out the

men--it's bad enough with the children. I keep 'em in bed, they

don't get so hungry when they're not running about; but they're that

restless in bed they worry your life out.

MRS. YEO. You're lucky they're all so small. It 's the goin' to

school that makes 'em 'ungry. Don't Bulgin give you anythin'?

MRS. BULGIN. [Shakes her head, then, as though by afterthought.]

Would if he could, I s'pose.

MRS. YEO. [Sardonically.] What! 'Ave n't 'e got no shares in the

Company?

MRS. ROUS. [Rising with tremulous cheerfulness.] Well, good-bye,

Annie Roberts, I'm going along home.

MRS. ROBERTS. Stay an' have a cup of tea, Mrs. Rous?

MRS. ROUS. [With the faintest smile.] Roberts 'll want 'is tea when

he comes in. I'll just go an' get to bed; it's warmer there than

anywhere.

[She moves very shakily towards the door.]

MRS. YEO. [Rising and giving her an arm.] Come on, Mother, take my

arm; we're all going' the same way.

MRS. ROUS. [Taking the arm.]Thank you, my dearies!

[THEY go out, followed by MRS. BULGIN.]

MADGE. [Moving for the first time.] There, Annie, you see that! I

told George Rous, "Don't think to have my company till you've made an

end of all this trouble. You ought to be ashamed," I said, "with

your own mother looking like a ghost, and not a stick to put on the

fire. So long as you're able to fill your pipes, you'll let us

starve." "I 'll take my oath, Madge," he said, "I 've not had smoke

nor drink these three weeks!" "Well, then, why do you go on with

it?" "I can't go back on Roberts!" . . . That's it! Roberts,

always Roberts! They'd all drop it but for him. When he talks it's

the devil that comes into them.

[A silence. MRS. ROBERTS makes a movement of pain.]

Ah! You don't want him beaten! He's your man. With everybody like

their own shadows! [She makes a gesture towards MRS. ROBERTS.] If

ROUS wants me he must give up Roberts. If he gave him up--they all

would. They're only waiting for a lead. Father's against him--

they're all against him in their hearts.

MRS. ROBERTS. You won't beat Roberts!

[They look silently at each other.]

MADGE. Won't I? The cowards--when their own mothers and their own

children don't know where to turn.

MRS. ROBERTS. Madge!

MADGE. [Looking searchingly at MRS. ROBERTS.] I wonder he can look

you in the face. [She squats before the fire, with her hands out to

the flame.] Harness is here again. They'll have to make up their

minds to-day.

MRS. ROBERTS. [In a soft, slow voice, with a slight West-country

burr.] Roberts will never give up the furnace-men and engineers.

'T wouldn't be right.

MADGE. You can't deceive me. It's just his pride.

[A tapping at the door is heard, the women turn as ENID enters.

She wears a round fur cap, and a jacket of squirrel's fur. She

closes the door behind her.]

ENID. Can I come in, Annie?

MRS. ROBERTS. [Flinching.] Miss Enid! Give Mrs. Underwood a chair,

Madge!

[MADGE gives ENID the chair she has been sitting on.]

ENID. Thank you!

ENID. Are you any better?

MRS. ROBERTS. Yes, M'm; thank you, M'm.

ENID. [Looking at the sullen MADGE as though requesting her

departure.] Why did you send back the jelly? I call that really

wicked of you!

MRS. ROBERTS. Thank you, M'm, I'd no need for it.

ENID. Of course! It was Roberts's doing, wasn't it? How can he let

all this suffering go on amongst you?

MADGE. [Suddenly.] What suffering?

ENID. [Surprised.] I beg your pardon!

MADGE. Who said there was suffering?

MRS. ROBERTS. Madge!

MADGE. [Throwing her shawl over her head.] Please to let us keep

ourselves to ourselves. We don't want you coming here and spying on

us.

ENID. [Confronting her, but without rising.] I did n't speak to

you.

MADGE. [In a low, fierce voice.] Keep your kind feelings to

yourself. You think you can come amongst us, but you're mistaken.

Go back and tell the Manager that.

ENID. [Stonily.] This is not your house.