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+Project Gutenberg's The Third Series Plays, Complete, by John Galsworthy
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Third Series Plays, Complete
+
+Author: John Galsworthy
+
+Release Date: October 27, 2006 [EBook #5057]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRD SERIES PLAYS, COMPLETE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SERIES 3
+
+By John Galsworthy
+
+
+     Contents:
+          The Fugitive
+          The Pigeon
+          The Mob
+
+
+
+
+THE FUGITIVE
+
+A Play in Four Acts
+
+
+
+
+PERSONS OF THE PLAY
+
+GEORGE DEDMOND, a civilian
+CLARE, his wife
+GENERAL SIR CHARLES DEDMOND, K.C.B., his father.
+LADY DEDMOND, his mother
+REGINALD HUNTINGDON, Clare's brother
+EDWARD FULLARTON, her friend
+DOROTHY FULLARTON, her friend
+PAYNTER, a manservant
+BURNEY, a maid
+TWISDEN, a solicitor
+HAYWOOD, a tobacconist
+MALISE, a writer
+MRS. MILER, his caretaker
+THE PORTER at his lodgings
+A BOY messenger
+ARNAUD, a waiter at "The Gascony"
+MR. VARLEY, manager of "The Gascony"
+TWO LADIES WITH LARGE HATS, A LADY AND GENTLEMAN, A LANGUID LORD,
+     HIS COMPANION, A YOUNG MAN, A BLOND GENTLEMAN, A DARK GENTLEMAN.
+
+
+
+
+ACT I.  George Dedmond's Flat.  Evening.
+
+ACT II.  The rooms of Malise.  Morning.
+
+ACT III.  SCENE I.  The rooms of Malice.  Late afternoon.
+
+          SCENE II.      The rooms of Malise.  Early Afternoon.
+
+ACT IV. A small supper room at "The Gascony."
+
+
+
+
+Between Acts I and II three nights elapse.
+
+Between Acts II and Act III, Scene I, three months.
+
+Between Act III, Scene I, and Act III, Scene II, three months.
+
+Between Act III, Scene II, and Act IV, six months.
+
+
+
+
+  "With a hey-ho chivy
+  Hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!"
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+     The SCENE is the pretty drawing-room of a flat.  There are two
+     doors, one open into the hall, the other shut and curtained.
+     Through a large bay window, the curtains of which are not yet
+     drawn, the towers of Westminster can be seen darkening in a
+     summer sunset; a grand piano stands across one corner.  The
+     man-servant PAYNTER, clean-shaven and discreet, is arranging two
+     tables for Bridge.
+
+     BURNEY, the maid, a girl with one of those flowery Botticellian
+     faces only met with in England, comes in through the curtained
+     door, which she leaves open, disclosing the glimpse of a white
+     wall.  PAYNTER looks up at her; she shakes her head, with an
+     expression of concern.
+
+PAYNTER.  Where's she gone?
+
+BURNEY.  Just walks about, I fancy.
+
+PAYNTER.  She and the Governor don't hit it!  One of these days
+she'll flit--you'll see.  I like her--she's a lady; but these
+thoroughbred 'uns--it's their skin and their mouths.  They'll go till
+they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but
+jib--jib--jib.  How was it down there before she married him?
+
+BURNEY.  Oh!  Quiet, of course.
+
+PAYNTER.  Country homes--I know 'em.  What's her father, the old
+Rector, like?
+
+BURNEY.  Oh! very steady old man.  The mother dead long before I took
+the place.
+
+PAYNTER.  Not a penny, I suppose?
+
+BURNEY.  [Shaking her head]  No; and seven of them.
+
+PAYNTER.  [At sound of the hall door]  The Governor!
+
+     BURNEY withdraws through the curtained door.
+
+     GEORGE DEDMOND enters from the hall.  He is in evening dress,
+     opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily
+     shaved, but with neat moustaches.  His eyes, clear, small, and
+     blue-grey, have little speculation.  His hair is well brushed.
+
+GEORGE.  [Handing PAYNTER his coat and hat]  Look here, Paynter!
+When I send up from the Club for my dress things, always put in a
+black waistcoat as well.
+
+PAYNTER.  I asked the mistress, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  In future--see?
+
+PAYNTER.  Yes, sir.  [Signing towards the window]  Shall I leave the
+sunset, sir?
+
+     But GEORGE has crossed to the curtained door; he opens it and
+     says: "Clare!"  Receiving no answer, he goes in.  PAYNTER
+     switches up the electric light.  His face, turned towards the
+     curtained door, is apprehensive.
+
+GEORGE.  [Re-entering]  Where's Mrs. Dedmond?
+
+PAYNTER.  I hardly know, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Dined in?
+
+PAYNTER.  She had a mere nothing at seven, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Has she gone out, since?
+
+PAYNTER.  Yes, sir--that is, yes.  The--er--mistress was not dressed
+at all.  A little matter of fresh air, I think; sir.
+
+GEORGE.  What time did my mother say they'd be here for Bridge?
+
+PAYNTER.  Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond were coming at half-past nine;
+and Captain Huntingdon, too--Mr. and Mrs.  Fullarton might be a bit
+late, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  It's that now.  Your mistress said nothing?
+
+PAYNTER.  Not to me, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Send Burney.
+
+PAYNTER.  Very good, sir.  [He withdraws.]
+
+     GEORGE stares gloomily at the card tables.  BURNEY comes in
+     front the hall.
+
+GEORGE.  Did your mistress say anything before she went out?
+
+BURNEY.  Yes, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Well?
+
+BURNEY.  I don't think she meant it, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  I don't want to know what you don't think, I want the fact.
+
+BURNEY.  Yes, sir.  The mistress said: "I hope it'll be a pleasant
+evening, Burney!"
+
+GEORGE.  Oh!--Thanks.
+
+BURNEY.  I've put out the mistress's things, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Ah!
+
+BURNEY.  Thank you, sir.  [She withdraws.]
+
+GEORGE.  Damn!
+
+     He again goes to the curtained door, and passes through.
+     PAYNTER, coming in from the hall, announces: "General Sir
+     Charles and Lady Dedmond."  SIR CHARLES is an upright,
+     well-groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with
+     a keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains.  LADY
+     DEDMOND has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision,
+     not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had
+     faced many situations in many parts of the world.  She is fifty
+     five.
+
+     PAYNTER withdraws.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Hullo!  Where are they?  H'm!
+
+     As he speaks, GEORGE re-enters.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Kissing her son]  Well, George.  Where's Clare?
+
+GEORGE.  Afraid she's late.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Are we early?
+
+GEORGE.  As a matter of fact, she's not in.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Oh?
+
+SIR CHARLES.  H'm!  Not--not had a rumpus?
+
+GEORGE.  Not particularly.  [With the first real sign of feeling]
+What I can't stand is being made a fool of before other people.
+Ordinary friction one can put up with.  But that----
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Gone out on purpose?  What!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  What was the trouble?
+
+GEORGE.  I told her this morning you were coming in to Bridge.
+Appears she'd asked that fellow Malise, for music.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Without letting you know?
+
+GEORGE.  I believe she did tell me.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But surely----
+
+GEORGE.  I don't want to discuss it.  There's never anything in
+particular.  We're all anyhow, as you know.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I see.  [She looks shrewdly at her son]  My dear,
+I should be rather careful about him, I think.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Who's that?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  That Mr. Malise.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Oh!  That chap!
+
+GEORGE.  Clare isn't that sort.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I know.  But she catches up notions very easily.  I
+think it's a great pity you ever came across him.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Where did you pick him up?
+
+GEORGE.  Italy--this Spring--some place or other where they couldn't
+speak English.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Um!  That's the worst of travellin'.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I think you ought to have dropped him.  These literary
+people---[Quietly]  From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't
+very far, George.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  We'll make him play Bridge.  Do him good, if he's that
+sort of fellow.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Is anyone else coming?
+
+GEORGE.  Reggie Huntingdon, and the Fullartons.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Softly]  You know, my dear boy, I've been meaning to
+speak to you for a long time.  It is such a pity you and Clare--What
+is it?
+
+GEORGE.  God knows!  I try, and I believe she does.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  It's distressin'--for us, you know, my dear fellow--
+distressin'.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I know it's been going on for a long time.
+
+GEORGE.  Oh!  leave it alone, mother.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But, George, I'm afraid this man has brought it to a
+point--put ideas into her head.
+
+GEORGE.  You can't dislike him more than I do.  But there's nothing
+one can object to.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Could Reggie Huntingdon do anything, now he's home?
+Brothers sometimes----
+
+GEORGE.  I can't bear my affairs being messed about----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Well! it would be better for you and Clare to be
+supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone.  Go
+quietly into the dining-room and wait for her.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Good!  Leave your mother to make up something.  She'll
+do it!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  That may be he.  Quick!
+
+     [A bell sounds.]
+
+     GEORGE goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his
+     haste.  LADY DEDMOND, following, calls "Paynter!"  PAYNTER
+     enters.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Don't say anything about your master and mistress
+being out.  I'll explain.
+
+PAYNTER.  The master, my lady?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Yes, I know.  But you needn't say so.  Do you
+understand?
+
+PAYNTER.  [In polite dudgeon]  Just so, my lady.
+
+     [He goes out.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  By Jove!  That fellow smells a rat!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Be careful, Charles!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I should think so.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're
+not to wait Bridge for them.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Listening]  He's having a palaver with that man of
+George's.
+
+     PAYNTER, reappearing, announces: "Captain Huntingdon."  SIR
+     CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND turn to him with relief.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Ah!  It's you, Reginald!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do?  How are
+you, sir?  What's the matter with their man?
+
+SHE CHARLES.  What!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar;
+and he said: "Not in there, sir.  The master's there, but my
+instructions are to the effect that he's not."
+
+SHE CHARLES.  I knew that fellow----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is
+waiting for her.  It's so important people shouldn't----
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Rather!
+
+     They draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of
+     members of their families.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  It's getting serious, Reginald.  I don't know what's
+to become of them.  You don't think the Rector--you don't think your
+father would speak to Clare?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Afraid the Governor's hardly well enough.  He takes
+anything of that sort to heart so--especially Clare.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Can't you put in a word yourself?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Don't know where the mischief lies.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road.  Very
+steady-goin' fellow, old George.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Oh, yes; George is all right, sir.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  They ought to have had children.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't.  I really
+don't know what to say, ma'am.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often
+noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer.  Get too much morality and
+rice puddin'.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [With a clear look]  Charles!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What was she like when you were kids?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Oh, all right.  Could be rather a little devil, of
+course, when her monkey was up.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I'm fond of her.  Nothing she wants that she hasn't
+got, is there?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Never heard her say so.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Dimly]  I don't know whether old George is a bit too
+matter of fact for her.  H'm?
+
+     [A short silence.]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night.  I forget
+if you know him.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Yes.  Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  He's literary.  [With hesitation]  You--you don't
+think he--puts--er--ideas into her head?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a
+bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows.  Can't see Clare----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  No.  Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be
+encouraged.  Listen!--It is her-coming in.  I can hear their voices.
+Gone to her room.  What a blessing that man isn't here yet!  [The
+door bell rings] Tt!  There he is, I expect.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What are we goin' to say?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for
+them.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Good!
+
+     The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise."
+     MALISE enters.  He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a
+     strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which
+     seem to have needles in their pupils.  His thick hair is rather
+     untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  How do you do?  My son and daughter-in-law are so very
+sorry.  They'll be here directly.
+
+     [MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We've met, I think.
+
+     He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn
+     the person bowed to of the sort of person he is.  MALISE'S eyes
+     sparkle.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Clare will be so grieved.  One of those invitations
+
+MALISE.  On the spur of the moment.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  You play Bridge, sir?
+
+MALISE.  Afraid not!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Don't mean that?  Then we shall have to wait for 'em.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I forget, Mr. Malise--you write, don't you?
+
+MALISE.  Such is my weakness.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Delightful profession.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Doesn't tie you!  What!
+
+MALISE.  Only by the head.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.
+
+MALISE.  Indeed!
+
+[There is the sound of a door banged.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Hastily]  You smoke, Mr.  MALISE?
+
+MALISE.  Too much.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Ah!  Must smoke when you think a lot.
+
+MALISE.  Or think when you smoke a lot.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Genially]  Don't know that I find that.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [With her clear look at him]  Charles!
+
+     The door is opened.  CLARE DEDMOND in a cream-coloured evening
+     frock comes in from the hall, followed by GEORGE.  She is rather
+     pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown
+     hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of
+     those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of
+     voice and manner.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Well, my dear!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Ah!  George.  Good dinner?
+
+GEORGE.  [Giving his hand to MALISE]  How are you?  Clare!  Mr.
+MALISE!
+
+CLARE.  [Smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp]
+Yes, we met on the door-mat.  [Pause.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Deuce you did!  [An awkward pause.]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Acidly]  Mr. Malise doesn't play Bridge, it appears.
+Afraid we shall be rather in the way of music.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What!  Aren't we goin' to get a game?  [PAYNTER has
+entered with a tray.]
+
+GEORGE.  Paynter!  Take that table into the dining room.
+
+PAYNTER.  [Putting down the tray on a table behind the door]  Yes,
+sir.
+
+MALISE.  Let me give you a hand.
+
+     PAYNTER and MALISE carry one of the Bridge tables out, GEORGE
+     making a half-hearted attempt to relieve MALISE.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Very fine sunset!
+
+     Quite softly CLARE begins to laugh.  All look at her first with
+     surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror.  GEORGE is
+     about to go up to her, but HUNTINGDON heads him off.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Bring the tray along, old man.
+
+     GEORGE takes up the tray, stops to look at CLARE, then allows
+     HUNTINGDON to shepherd him out.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Without looking at CLARE]  Well, if we're going to
+play, Charles? [She jerks his sleeve.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What?  [He marches out.]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Meeting MALISE in the doorway]  Now you will be able
+to have your music.
+
+     [She follows the GENERAL out]
+
+     [CLARE stands perfectly still, with her eyes closed.]
+
+MALISE.  Delicious!
+
+CLARE.  [In her level, clipped voice]  Perfectly beastly of me!  I'm
+so sorry.  I simply can't help running amok to-night.
+
+MALISE.  Never apologize for being fey.  It's much too rare.
+
+CLARE.  On the door-mat!  And they'd whitewashed me so beautifully!
+Poor dears!  I wonder if I ought----[She looks towards the door.]
+
+MALISE.  Don't spoil it!
+
+CLARE.  I'd been walking up and down the Embankment for about three
+hours.  One does get desperate sometimes.
+
+MALISE.  Thank God for that!
+
+CLARE.  Only makes it worse afterwards.  It seems so frightful to
+them, too.
+
+MALISE.  [Softly and suddenly, but with a difficulty in finding the
+right words]  Blessed be the respectable!  May they dream of--me!
+And blessed be all men of the world!  May they perish of a surfeit
+of--good form!
+
+CLARE.  I like that.  Oh, won't there be a row!  [With a faint
+movement of her shoulders]  And the usual reconciliation.
+
+MALISE.  Mrs. Dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours.  Why
+don't you spread your wings?
+
+CLARE.  My dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and
+I've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom I'm
+supposed to set a good example.  Then, I've no money, and I can't do
+anything for a living, except serve in a shop.  I shouldn't be free,
+either; so what's the good?  Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I
+wasn't going to be happy.  You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or
+ill-treated.  It's only----
+
+MALISE.  Prison.  Break out!
+
+CLARE.  [Turning to the window]  Did you see the sunset?  That white
+cloud trying to fly up?
+
+     [She holds up her bare arms, with a motion of flight.]
+
+MALISE.  [Admiring her] Ah-h-h!  [Then, as she drops her arms
+suddenly]  Play me something.
+
+CLARE.  [Going to the piano]  I'm awfully grateful to you.  You don't
+make me feel just an attractive female.  I wanted somebody like that.
+[Letting her hands rest on the notes]  All the same, I'm glad not to
+be ugly.
+
+MALISE.  Thank God for beauty!
+
+PAYNTER.  [Opening the door]  Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton.
+
+MALISE.  Who are they?
+
+CLARE.  [Rising]  She's my chief pal.  He was in the Navy.
+
+     She goes forward.  MRS.  FULLERTON is a rather tall woman, with
+     dark hair and a quick eye.  He, one of those clean-shaven naval
+     men of good presence who have retired from the sea, but not from
+     their susceptibility.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Kissing CLARE, and taking in both MALISE and her
+husband's look at CLARE]  We've only come for a minute.
+
+CLARE.  They're playing Bridge in the dining-room.  Mr. Malise
+doesn't play.  Mr. Malise--Mrs. Fullarton, Mr. Fullarton.
+
+     [They greet.]
+
+FULLARTON.  Most awfully jolly dress, Mrs. Dedmond.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Yes, lovely, Clare.  [FULLARTON abases eyes which
+mechanically readjust themselves]  We can't stay for Bridge, my dear;
+I just wanted to see you a minute, that's all.  [Seeing HUNTINGDON
+coming in she speaks in a low voice to her husband]  Edward, I want
+to speak to Clare.  How d'you do, Captain Huntingdon?
+
+MALISE.  I'll say good-night.
+
+     He shakes hands with CLARE, bows to MRS. FULLARTON, and makes
+     his way out.  HUNTINGDON and FULLERTON foregather in the
+     doorway.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  How are things, Clare?  [CLARE just moves her
+shoulders]  Have you done what I suggested?  Your room?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Why not?
+
+CLARE.  I don't want to torture him.  If I strike--I'll go clean.  I
+expect I shall strike.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  My dear!  You'll have the whole world against you.
+
+CLARE.  Even you won't back me, Dolly?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Of course I'll back you, all that's possible, but I
+can't invent things.
+
+CLARE.  You wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till I could find
+my feet?
+
+     MRS. FULLARTON, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at
+     FULLARTON automatically gazing at CLARE while he talks with
+     HUNTINGDON.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Of course--the only thing is that----
+
+CLARE.  [With a faint smile]  It's all right, Dolly.  I'm not coming.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Oh!  don't do anything desperate, Clare--you are so
+desperate sometimes.  You ought to make terms--not tracks.
+
+CLARE.  Haggle?  [She shakes her head]  What have I got to make terms
+with?  What he still wants is just what I hate giving.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  But, Clare----
+
+CLARE.  No, Dolly; even you don't understand.  All day and every day
+--just as far apart as we can be--and still--Jolly, isn't it?  If
+you've got a soul at all.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  It's awful, really.
+
+CLARE.  I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on
+with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that--comes
+to an end.  Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.
+
+     She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to
+     bits.  It is the only sign of emotion she has given.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Watching]  Look here, my child; this won't do.  You
+must get a rest.  Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  Reggie lives on his pay.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [With one of her quick looks]  That was Mr. Malise,
+then?
+
+FULLARTON.  [Coming towards them]  I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn't
+sing me that little song you sang the other night,  [He hums]  "If I
+might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"?  Remember?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  "The falling dew," Edward.  We simply must go,
+Clare.  Good-night.  [She kisses her.]
+
+FULLARTON.  [Taking half-cover between his wife and CLARE]  It suits
+you down to the ground-that dress.
+
+CLARE.  Good-night.
+
+     HUNTINGDON sees them out.  Left alone CLARE clenches her hands,
+     moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Returning]  Look here, Clare!
+
+CLARE.  Well, Reggie?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  This is working up for a mess, old girl.  You can't do
+this kind of thing with impunity.  No man'll put up with it.  If
+you've got anything against George, better tell me.  [CLARE shakes
+her head]  You ought to know I should stick by you.  What is it?
+Come?
+
+CLARE.  Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong
+person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that
+your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a
+bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.
+
+CLARE.  Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I mean, you--you chose him yourself.  No one forced you
+to marry him.
+
+CLARE.  It does seem monstrous, doesn't it?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My dear child, do give us a reason.
+
+CLARE.  Look!  [She points out at the night and the darkening towers]
+If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah,
+Westminster!  Clock Tower!  Can you see the time by it?"  As if one
+cared where or what it was--beautiful like that!  Apply that to every
+--every--everything.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic.  But, my dear old
+girl, if that's all----
+
+CLARE.  It's not all--it's nothing.  I can't explain, Reggie--it's
+not reason, at all; it's--it's like being underground in a damp cell;
+it's like knowing you'll never get out.  Nothing coming--never
+anything coming again-never anything.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Moved and puzzled]  My dear old thing; you mustn't get
+into fantods like this.  If it's like that, don't think about it.
+
+CLARE.  When every day and every night!--Oh!  I know it's my fault
+for having married him, but that doesn't help.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Look here!  It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent
+chap.  And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent
+on him.  At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep
+going.
+
+CLARE.  I know.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  And you've got to think of the girls.  Any trouble would
+be very beastly for them.  And the poor old Governor would feel it
+awfully.
+
+CLARE.  If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home
+long ago.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Well, what's to be done?  If my pay would run to it--but
+it simply won't.
+
+CLARE.  Thanks, old boy, of course not.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?
+
+CLARE.  I do.  Oh!  don't let's talk about it.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go
+sailing near the wind, will you?  I mean, there are fellows always on
+the lookout.
+
+CLARE.  "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!"  Why?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Well!  I don't know him.  He may be all right, but he's
+not our sort.  And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New
+Woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it.
+
+CLARE.  British home-made summer goods, light and attractive--don't
+wear long.  [At the sound of voices in the hall]  They seem 'to be
+going, Reggie.
+
+     [HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Don't head for trouble, old girl.  Take a pull.  Bless
+you!  Good-night.
+
+     CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door,
+     holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of
+     emotion.  Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table,
+     leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite
+     calm.  GEORGE is coming in.  PAYNTER follows him.
+
+CLARE.  Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter.  You can go home,
+and the maids can go to bed.
+
+PAYNTER.  We are much obliged, ma'am.
+
+CLARE.  I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.
+
+PAYNTER.  Naturally, ma'am!
+
+CLARE.  Good-night.
+
+PAYNTER.  I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?
+
+CLARE.  No, thank you.
+
+PAYNTER.  No, ma'am.  Good-night, ma'am.
+
+     [He withdraws.]
+
+GEORGE.  You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that
+wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig.  [Going up to her]  Pleased with
+yourself to-night?  [CLARE shakes her head]  Before that fellow
+MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!
+
+CLARE.  Is it worth while to rag me?  I know I've behaved badly, but
+I couldn't help it, really!
+
+GEORGE.  Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl?  My God!  You were
+brought up as well as I was.
+
+CLARE.  Alas!
+
+GEORGE.  To let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one
+word for it--Disgusting!
+
+CLARE.  I know.
+
+GEORGE.  Then why do you do it?  I've always kept my end up.  Why in
+heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?
+
+CLARE.  I'm sorry.
+
+GEORGE.  [With intense feeling]  You like making a fool of me!
+
+CLARE.  No--Really!  Only--I must break out sometimes.
+
+GEORGE.  There are things one does not do.
+
+CLARE.  I came in because I was sorry.
+
+GEORGE.  And at once began to do it again!  It seems to me you
+delight in rows.
+
+CLARE.  You'd miss your--reconciliations.
+
+GEORGE.  For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism!
+
+CLARE.  And truth?
+
+GEORGE.  You are my wife, I suppose.
+
+CLARE.  And they twain shall be one--spirit.
+
+GEORGE.  Don't talk wild nonsense!
+
+     [There is silence.]
+
+CLARE.  [Softly]  I don't give satisfaction.  Please give me notice!
+
+GEORGE.  Pish!
+
+CLARE.  Five years, and four of them like this!  I'm sure we've
+served our time.  Don't you really think we might get on better
+together--if I went away?
+
+GEORGE.  I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason,
+and have your name bandied about all over London.  I have some
+primitive sense of honour.
+
+CLARE.  You mean your name, don't you?
+
+GEORGE.  Look here.  Did that fellow Malise put all this into your
+head?
+
+CLARE.  No; my own evil nature.
+
+GEORGE.  I wish the deuce we'd never met him.  Comes of picking up
+people you know nothing of.  I distrust him--and his looks--and his
+infernal satiric way.  He can't even 'dress decently.  He's not--good
+form.
+
+CLARE.  [With a touch of rapture]  Ah-h!
+
+GEORGE.  Why do you let him come?  What d'you find interesting in
+him?
+
+CLARE.  A mind.
+
+GEORGE.  Deuced funny one!  To have a mind--as you call it--it's not
+necessary to talk about Art and Literature.
+
+CLARE.  We don't.
+
+GEORGE.  Then what do you talk about--your minds?  [CLARE looks at
+him]  Will you answer a straight question?  Is he falling in love
+with you?
+
+CLARE.  You had better ask him.
+
+GEORGE.  I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe
+in the guide, philosopher and friend business.
+
+CLARE.  Thank you.
+
+     A silence.  CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.
+
+CLARE.  Let me go!  You'd be much happier with any other woman.
+
+GEORGE.  Clare!
+
+CLARE.  I believe--I'm sure I could earn my living.  Quite serious.
+
+GEORGE.  Are you mad?
+
+CLARE.  It has been done.
+
+GEORGE.  It will never be done by you--understand that!
+
+CLARE.  It really is time we parted.  I'd go clean out of your life.
+I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your
+money.
+
+GEORGE.  Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us
+both.
+
+CLARE.  But if we are already!  Look at us.  We go on, and on.  We're
+a spectacle!
+
+GEORGE.  That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as
+you behave yourself.
+
+CLARE.  That is--behave as you think right.
+
+GEORGE.  Clare, you're pretty riling.
+
+CLARE.  I don't want to be horrid.  But I am in earnest this time.
+
+GEORGE.  So am I.
+
+     [CLARE turns to the curtained door.]
+
+GEORGE.  Look here!  I'm sorry.  God knows I don't want to be a
+brute.  I know you're not happy.
+
+CLARE.  And you--are you happy?
+
+GEORGE.  I don't say I am.  But why can't we be?
+
+CLARE.  I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.
+
+GEORGE.  We can try.
+
+CLARE.  I HAVE--haven't you?
+
+GEORGE.  We used----
+
+CLARE.  I wonder!
+
+GEORGE.  You know we did.
+
+CLARE.  Too long ago--if ever.
+
+GEORGE [Coming closer] I--still----
+
+CLARE.  [Making a barrier of her hand]  You know that's only cupboard
+love.
+
+GEORGE.  We've got to face the facts.
+
+CLARE.  I thought I was.
+
+GEORGE.  The facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and
+certain things are expected of us.  It's suicide for you, and folly
+for me, in my position, to ignore that.  You have all you can
+reasonably want; and I don't--don't wish for any change.  If you
+could bring anything against me--if I drank, or knocked about town,
+or expected too much of you.  I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I
+can see.
+
+CLARE.  Well, I think we've talked enough.
+
+     [She again moves towards the curtained door.]
+
+GEORGE.  Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put
+up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried?
+That's simple purgatory.  You ought to know.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  I haven't yet, have I?
+
+GEORGE.  Don't go like that!  Do you suppose we're the only couple
+who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with
+each other and make the best of it.
+
+CLARE.  Not by thousands.
+
+GEORGE.  Well, why do you imagine they do it?
+
+CLARE.  I don't know.
+
+GEORGE.  From a common sense of decency.
+
+CLARE.  Very!
+
+GEORGE.  By Jove!  You can be the most maddening thing in all the
+world!  [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long
+slithering flutter]  After behaving as you have this evening, you
+might try to make some amends, I should think.
+
+     CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of
+     something she could not avoid.  He puts his hand on her arm.
+
+CLARE.  No, no--no!
+
+GEORGE.  [Dropping his hand]  Can't you make it up?
+
+CLARE.  I don't feel very Christian.
+
+     She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her.
+     GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the
+     room.  He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it
+     with a bang, and again contemplates the door.  Moving forward,
+     he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its
+     edge, and muttering.  Then he crosses to the door into the hall
+     and switches off the light.  He opens the door to go out, then
+     stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh.
+     Suddenly he mutters: "No!"  Crosses resolutely back to the
+     curtained door, and opens it.  In the gleam of light CLARE is
+     standing, unhooking a necklet.
+
+     He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud.
+
+
+                              CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+     The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer
+     door opens on to a corridor and stairway.  Doors on either side
+     lead to other rooms.  On the walls are unframed reproductions of
+     fine pictures, secured with tintacks.  An old wine-coloured
+     armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of
+     the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink,
+     pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to
+     his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only
+     eleven.  On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper,
+     cigarette ends, and two claret bottles.  There are many books on
+     shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a
+     soft hat, and a black knobby stick.  MALISE sits in his
+     armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers,
+     unshaved and uncollared, writing.  He pauses, smiles, lights a
+     cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up
+     a sheet of quarto MS.
+
+MALISE.  "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those
+excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace.  Only
+the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant
+Tyranny."
+
+     While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age,
+     in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the
+     corridor.  She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron
+     and a Bissell broom.  Her movements are slow and imperturbable,
+     as if she had much time before her.  Her face is broad and dark,
+     with Chinese eyebrows.
+
+MALISE.  Wait, Mrs. Miller!
+
+MRS. MILER.  I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.
+
+     She comes and stands before him.  MALISE writes.
+
+MRS. MILER.  There's a man 'angin' about below.
+
+     MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she
+     stops.  But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.
+
+MRS. MILER.  I see him first yesterday afternoon.  I'd just been out
+to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on
+the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion.  I thought
+to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.
+
+MALISE.  Well?
+
+MRS. MILER.  Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im
+lookin' at a photograft.  That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at
+pictures--it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight.  So I giv'
+a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket,
+and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three.  I goes down an' I
+says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?"  "Ah!" 'e
+says with an air of innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers."
+"Oh!" I says, "try round the corner, number ten."  "Ah!" 'e says
+tactful, "much obliged."  "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this
+time o' day.  Good evenin'!"  And I thinks to meself  [She closes one
+eye] Rats!  There's a good many corners hereabouts.
+
+MALISE.  [With detached appreciation]  Very good, Mrs. Miler.
+
+MRS. MILER.  So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor
+with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two.  "Oh!
+you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is
+grandmother.  "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here
+I've got my business."  "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives
+there neither.  Good mornin'!"  And I come straight up.  If you want
+to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the
+ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one.  Wonderful
+resource!
+
+MALISE.  What's he like, this gentleman?
+
+MRS. MILER.  Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily
+papers.  Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock
+hats you can't abide.
+
+MALISE.  Isn't he a dun?
+
+MRS. MILER.  They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir.
+He's after no good.  [Then, after a little pause]  Ain't he to be put
+a stop to?  If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a
+jug o' water.
+
+     [MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.]
+
+MALISE.  You can get on now; I'm going to shave.
+
+     He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room.  MRS.
+     MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the
+     armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly
+     rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she
+     rests.  There is a soft knock on the door.  She gets up
+     leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it.  The door being
+     opened CLARE is revealed.
+
+CLARE.  Is Mr. Malise in?
+
+MRS. MILER.  Yes.  But 'e's dressin'.
+
+CLARE.  Oh.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Won't take 'im long.  What name?
+
+CLARE.  Would you say--a lady.
+
+MRS. MILER.  It's against the rules.  But if you'll sit down a moment
+I'll see what I can do.  [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with
+her apron.  Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks
+through it]  A lady to see you.  [Returning she removes some
+cigarette ends]  This is my hour.  I shan't make much dust.  [Noting
+CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair]  I'm
+particular about not disturbin' things.
+
+CLARE.  I'm sure you are.
+
+MRS. MILER.  He likes 'is 'abits regular.
+
+     Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to
+     the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and
+     holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside
+     down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up
+     the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and
+     drops it into the fold of her skirt.
+
+MRS. MILER.  He takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere
+bawgwars.
+
+CLARE.  [Rising] I think I'll come back later.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Mr. Malise is not in my confidence.  We keep each other
+to ourselves.  Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh
+every mornin'--the Westminister.
+
+     She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to
+     CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood.  MRS. MILER makes
+     a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still.  No
+     longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up.
+
+MRS. MILER.  I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes
+things clean.  [At a sound from the inner room]  That's 'im; 'e's cut
+'isself!  I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!
+
+     She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round
+     the armchair and taps on the door.  It opens.  CLARE moves
+     restlessly across the room.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer.  The lady's
+waitin'.
+
+     CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture
+     "Sacred and Profane Love."  MRS. MILER stands regarding her with
+     a Chinese smile.  MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still
+     hanging to his cheek.
+
+MALISE.  [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to
+her] Do the other room.
+
+     [Enigmatically she goes.]
+
+MALISE.  Jolly of you to come.  Can I do anything?
+
+CLARE.  I want advice-badly.
+
+MALISE.  What!  Spreading your wings?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+MALISE.  Ah!  Proud to have given you that advice.  When?
+
+CLARE.  The morning after you gave it me .  .  .
+
+MALISE.  Well?
+
+CLARE.  I went down to my people.  I knew it would hurt my Dad
+frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see.  No good.
+He was awfully sweet, only--he couldn't.
+
+MALISE.  [Softly]  We English love liberty in those who don't belong
+to us.  Yes.
+
+CLARE.  It was horrible.  There were the children--and my old nurse.
+I could never live at home now.  They'd think I was----.  Impossible
+--utterly!  I'd  made up my mind to go back to my owner--And then--
+he came down himself.  I couldn't d it.  To be hauled back and begin
+all over again; I simply couldn't.  I watched for a chance; and ran
+to the station, and came up to an hotel.
+
+MALISE.  Bravo!
+
+CLARE.  I don't know--no pluck this morning!  You see, I've got to
+earn my living--no money; only a few things I can sell.  All
+yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women.  How does anyone
+ever get a chance?
+
+MALISE.  Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your
+husband would pension you off.
+
+CLARE.  If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it.
+
+MALISE.  Good!
+
+CLARE.  I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do
+so hate watching pain.  The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even
+do art work.  I came to ask you about the stage.
+
+MALISE.  Have you ever acted?  [CLARE shakes her head]  You mightn't
+think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training.
+There's Chorus--I don't recommend it.  How about your brother?
+
+CLARE.  My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get
+married; and he's going back to India in September.  The only friend
+I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's--got a husband.
+
+MALISE.  I remember the gentleman.
+
+CLARE.  Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back.  I
+must lie doggo somehow.
+
+MALISE.  It makes my blood boil to think of women like you.  God help
+all ladies without money.
+
+CLARE.  I expect I shall have to go back.
+
+MALISE.  No, no!  We shall find something.  Keep your soul alive at
+all costs.  What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but--
+emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache.  Sit in his
+drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners,
+return to--duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so
+grow old and--die!
+
+     [The bell rings.]
+
+MALISE.  [Looking at the door in doubt]  By the wayhe'd no means of
+tracing you?
+
+     [She shakes her head.]
+
+     [The bell rings again.]
+
+MALISE.  Was there a man on the stairs as you came up?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  Why?
+
+MALISE.  He's begun to haunt them, I'm told.
+
+CLARE.  Oh!  But that would mean they thought I--oh!  no!
+
+MALISE.  Confidence in me is not excessive.
+
+CLARE.  Spying!
+
+MALISE.  Will you go in there for a minute?  Or shall we let them
+ring--or--what?  It may not be anything, of course.
+
+CLARE.  I'm not going to hide.
+
+     [The bell rings a third time.]
+
+MALISE.  [Opening the door of the inner room]  Mrs. Miler, just see
+who it is; and then go, for the present.
+
+     MRS. MILER comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to
+     the door, and opens it.  A man's voice says: "Mr. Malise?  Would
+     you give him these cards?"
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Re-entering]  The cards.
+
+MALISE.  Mr. Robert Twisden.  Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond.  [He
+looks at CLARE.]
+
+CLARE.  [Her face scornful and unmoved]  Let them come.
+
+MALISE. [TO MRS. MILER] Show them in!
+
+     TWISDEN enters-a clean-shaved, shrewd-looking man, with a
+     fighting underlip, followed by SIR CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND.
+     MRS. MILER goes.  There are no greetings.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mr.  Malise?  How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond?  Had the
+pleasure of meeting you at your wedding.  [CLARE inclines her head]
+I am Mr.  George Dedmond's solicitor, sir.  I wonder if you would be
+so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone?
+
+     At a nod from CLARE, MALISE passes into the inner room, and
+     shuts the door.  A silence.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Suddenly] What!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Mr. Twisden, will you----?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Uneasy]  Mrs. Dedmond I must apologize, but you--you
+hardly gave us an alternative, did you?  [He pauses for an answer,
+and, not getting one, goes on]  Your disappearance has given your
+husband great anxiety.  Really, my dear madam, you must forgive us
+for this--attempt to get into communication.
+
+CLARE.  Why did you spy, HERE?
+
+SIR CHARLES.  No, no!  Nobody's spied on you.  What!
+
+TWISDEN.  I'm afraid the answer is that we appear to have been
+justified.  [At the expression on CLARE'S face he goes on hastily]
+Now, Mrs. Dedmond, I'm a lawyer and I know that appearances are
+misleading.  Don't think I'm unfriendly; I wish you well.  [CLARE
+raises her eyes.  Moved by that look, which is exactly as if she had
+said: "I have no friends," he hurries on]  What we want to say to you
+is this: Don't let this split go on!  Don't commit yourself to what
+you'll bitterly regret.  Just tell us what's the matter.  I'm sure it
+can be put straight.
+
+CLARE.  I have nothing against my husband--it was quite unreasonable
+to leave him.
+
+TWISDEN.  Come, that's good.
+
+CLARE.  Unfortunately, there's something stronger than reason.
+
+TWISDEN.  I don't know it, Mrs. Dedmond.
+
+CLARE.  No?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Disconcerted] Are you--you oughtn't to take a step without
+advice, in your position.
+
+CLARE.  Nor with it?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Approaching her]  Come, now; isn't there anything you feel
+you'd like to say--that might help to put matters straight?
+
+CLARE.  I don't think so, thank you.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  You must see, Clare, that----
+
+TWISDEN.  In your position, Mrs. Dedmond--a beautiful young woman
+without money.  I'm quite blunt.  This is a hard world.  Should be
+awfully sorry if anything goes wrong.
+
+CLARE.  And if I go back?
+
+TWISDEN.  Of two evils, if it be so--choose the least!
+
+CLARE.  I am twenty-six; he is thirty-two.  We can't reasonably
+expect to die for fifty years.
+
+LADY DESMOND.  That's morbid, Clare.
+
+TWISDEN.  What's open to you if you don't go back?  Come, what's your
+position?  Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody.
+Believe me, Mrs. Dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears
+you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken
+flight, is madness.  You must know that no one pays attention to
+anything but facts.  If now--excuse me--you--you had a lover, [His
+eyes travel round the room and again rest on her]  you would, at all
+events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection,
+but  [He pauses]  as you have not--you've none.
+
+CLARE.  Except what I make myself.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Good God!
+
+TWISDEN.  Yes!  Mrs. Dedmond!  There's the bedrock difficulty.  As
+you haven't money, you should never have been pretty.  You're up
+against the world, and you'll get no mercy from it.  We lawyers see
+too much of that.  I'm putting it brutally, as a man of the world.
+
+CLARE.  Thank you.  Do you think you quite grasp the alternative?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Taken aback]  But, my dear young lady, there are two sides
+to every contract.  After all, your husband's fulfilled his.
+
+CLARE.  So have I up till now.  I shan't ask anything from him--
+nothing--do you understand?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But, my dear, you must live.
+
+TWISDEN.  Have you ever done any sort of work?
+
+CLARE.  Not yet.
+
+TWISDEN.  Any conception of the competition nowadays?
+
+CLARE.  I can try.
+
+     [TWISDEN, looking at her, shrugs his shoulders]
+
+CLARE.  [Her composure a little broken by that look]  It's real to
+me--this--you see!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  But, my dear girl, what the devil's to become of
+George?
+
+CLARE.  He can do what he likes--it's nothing to me.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, I say without hesitation you've no notion of
+what you're faced with, brought up to a sheltered life as you've
+been.  Do realize that you stand at the parting of the ways, and one
+leads into the wilderness.
+
+CLARE.  Which?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Glancing at the door through which MALISE has gone]  Of
+course, if you want to play at wild asses there are plenty who will
+help you.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  By Gad!  Yes!
+
+CLARE.  I only want to breathe.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, go back!  You can now.  It will be too late
+soon.  There are lots of wolves about.  [Again he looks at the door]
+
+CLARE.  But not where you think.  You say I need advice.  I came here
+for it.
+
+TWISDEN.  [With a curiously expressive shrug]  In that case I don't
+know that I can usefully stay.
+
+     [He goes to the outer door.]
+
+CLARE.  Please don't have me followed when I leave here.  Please!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  George is outside, Clare.
+
+CLARE.  I don't wish to see him.  By what right have you come here?
+[She goes to the door through which MALISE has passed, opens it, and
+says]  Please come in, Mr. Malise.
+
+     [MALISE enters.]
+
+TWISDEN.  I am sorry.  [Glancing at MALISE, he inclines his head]  I
+am sorry.  Good morning.  [He goes]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Mr. Malise, I'm sure, will see----
+
+CLARE.  Mr. Malise will stay here, please, in his own room.
+
+     [MALISE bows]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  My dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, I can't grasp
+your line of thought at all!
+
+CLARE.  No?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  George is most willing to take up things just as they
+were before you left.
+
+CLARE.  Ah!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Quite frankly--what is it you want?
+
+CLARE.  To be left alone.  Quite frankly, he made a mistake to have
+me spied on.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you
+were, like a reasonable being.  You can't possibly be left to
+yourself without money or position of any kind.  Heaven knows what
+you'd be driven to!
+
+MALISE.  [Softly] Delicious!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  You will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Charles!  Clare, you must know this is all a fit of
+spleen; your duty and your interest--marriage is sacred, Clare.
+
+CLARE.  Marriage!  My marriage has become the--the reconciliation--of
+two animals--one of them unwilling.  That's all the sanctity there is
+about it.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What!
+
+     [She looks at MALISE]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  You ought to be horribly ashamed.  CLARE.  Of the
+fact-I am.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Darting a glance at MALISE]  If we are to talk this
+out, it must be in private.
+
+MALISE.  [To CLARE]  Do you wish me to go?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [At MALISE]  I should have thought ordinary decent
+feeling--Good heavens, girl!  Can't you see that you're being played
+with?
+
+CLARE.  If you insinuate anything against Mr. Malise, you lie.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  If you will do these things--come to a man's rooms----
+
+CLARE.  I came to Mr. Malise because he's the only person I know
+with imagination enough to see what my position is; I came to him a
+quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and
+you instantly suspect him.  That is disgusting.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Frigidly]  Is this the natural place for me to find
+my son's wife?
+
+CLARE.  His woman.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Will you listen to Reginald?
+
+CLARE.  I have.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Haven't you any religious sense at all, Clare?
+
+CLARE.  None, if it's religion to live as we do.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  It's terrible--this state of mind!  It's really
+terrible!
+
+     CLARE breaks into the soft laugh of the other evening.  As if
+     galvanized by the sound, SIR CHARLES comes to life out of the
+     transfixed bewilderment with which he has been listening.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  For God's sake don't laugh like that!
+
+     [CLARE Stops]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [With real feeling]  For the sake of the simple right,
+Clare!
+
+CLARE.  Right?  Whatever else is right--our life is not.  [She puts
+her hand on her heart] I swear before God that I've tried and tried.
+I swear before God, that if I believed we could ever again love each
+other only a little tiny bit, I'd go back.  I swear before God that I
+don't want to hurt anybody.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But you are hurting everybody.  Do--do be reasonable!
+
+CLARE.  [Losing control]  Can't you see that I'm fighting for all my
+life to come--not to be buried alive--not to be slowly smothered.
+Look at me!  I'm not wax--I'm flesh and blood.  And you want to
+prison me for ever--body and soul.
+
+     [They stare at her]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Suddenly]  By Jove!  I don't know, I don't know!
+What!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [To MALISE]  If you have any decency left, sir, you
+will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone.
+[Beckoning to her husband] We'll wait below.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I--I want to speak.  [To CLARE] My dear, if you feel
+like this, I can only say--as a--as a gentleman----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Charles!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Let me alone!  I can only say that--damme, I don't know
+that I can say anything!
+
+     He looks at her very grieved, then turns and marches out,
+     followed by LADY DEDMOND, whose voice is heard without, answered
+     by his: "What!"  In the doorway, as they pass, GEORGE is
+     standing; he comes in.
+
+GEORGE.  [Going up to CLARE, who has recovered all her self-control]
+Will you come outside and speak to me?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+     GEORGE glances at MALISE, who is leaning against the wall with
+     folded arms.
+
+GEORGE.  [In a low voice]  Clare!
+
+CLARE.  Well!
+
+GEORGE.  You try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here,
+and speak before this fellow?  Most men would think the worst,
+finding you like this.
+
+CLARE.  You need not have come--or thought at all.
+
+GEORGE.  Did you imagine I was going to let you vanish without an
+effort----
+
+CLARE.  To save me?
+
+GEORGE.  For God's sake be just!  I've come here to say certain
+things.  If you force me to say them before him--on your head be it!
+Will you appoint somewhere else?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+GEORGE.  Why not?
+
+CLARE.  I know all those "certain things."  "You must come back.  It
+is your duty.  You have no money.  Your friends won't help you.  You
+can't earn your living.  You are making a scandal."  You might even
+say for the moment: "Your room shall be respected."
+
+GEORGE.  Well, it's true and you've no answer.
+
+CLARE.  Oh!  [Suddenly]  Our life's a lie.  It's stupid; it's
+disgusting.  I'm tired of it!  Please leave me alone!
+
+GEORGE.  You rather miss the point, I'm afraid.  I didn't come here
+to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane.  I came
+here to say this: Anyone in her senses could see the game your friend
+here is playing.  It wouldn't take a baby in.  If you think that a
+gentleman like that  [His stare travels round the dishevelled room
+till it rests on MALISE]  champions a pretty woman for nothing, you
+make a fairly bad mistake.
+
+CLARE.  Take care.
+
+     But MALISE, after one convulsive movement of his hands, has
+     again become rigid.
+
+GEORGE.  I don't pretend to be subtle or that kind of thing; but I
+have ordinary common sense.  I don't attempt to be superior to plain
+facts----
+
+CLARE.  [Under her breath]  Facts!
+
+GEORGE.  Oh! for goodness' sake drop that hifalutin' tone.  It
+doesn't suit you.  Look here!  If you like to go abroad with one of
+your young sisters until the autumn, I'll let the flat and go to the
+Club.
+
+CLARE.  Put the fire out with a penny hose.  [Slowly]  I am not
+coming back to you, George.  The farce is over.
+
+GEORGE.  [Taken aback for a moment by the finality of her tone,
+suddenly fronts MALISE] Then there is something between you and this
+fellow.
+
+MALISE.  [Dangerously, but without moving]  I beg your pardon!
+
+CLARE.  There--is--nothing.
+
+GEORGE.  [Looking from one to the other]  At all events, I won't--I
+won't see a woman who once--[CLARE makes a sudden effacing movement
+with her hands]  I won't see her go to certain ruin without lifting a
+finger.
+
+CLARE.  That is noble.
+
+GEORGE.  [With intensity]  I don't know that you deserve anything of
+me.  But on my honour, as a gentleman, I came here this morning for
+your sake, to warn you of what you're doing.  [He turns suddenly on
+MALISE]  And I tell this precious friend of yours plainly what I
+think of him, and that I'm not going to play into his hands.
+
+     [MALISE, without stirring from the wall, looks at CLARE, and his
+     lips move.]
+
+CLARE.  [Shakes her head at him--then to GEORGE]  Will you go,
+please?
+
+GEORGE.  I will go when you do.
+
+MALISE.  A man of the world should know better than that.
+
+GEORGE.  Are you coming?
+
+MALISE.  That is inconceivable.
+
+GEORGE.  I'm not speaking to you, sir.
+
+MALISE.  You are right.  Your words and mine will never kiss each
+other.
+
+GEORGE.  Will you come?  [CLARE shakes her head]
+
+GEORGE.  [With fury]  D'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that
+rhapsodical swine?
+
+MALISE.  [Transformed] By God, if you don't go, I'll kill you.
+
+GEORGE.  [As suddenly calm]  That remains to be seen.
+
+MALISE.  [With most deadly quietness]  Yes, I will kill you.
+
+     He goes stealthily along the wall, takes up from where it lies
+     on the pile of books the great black knobby stick, and
+     stealthily approaches GEORGE, his face quite fiendish.
+
+CLARE.  [With a swift movement, grasping the stick]  Please.
+
+     MALISE resigns the stick, and the two men, perfectly still,
+     glare at each other.  CLARE, letting the stick fall, puts her
+     foot on it.  Then slowly she takes off her hat and lays it on
+     the table.
+
+CLARE.  Now will you go!  [There is silence]
+
+GEORGE.  [Staring at her hat]  You mad little fool!  Understand this;
+if you've not returned home by three o'clock I'll divorce you, and
+you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours.
+And mind this, you sir--I won't spare you--by God!  Your pocket shall
+suffer.  That's the only thing that touches fellows like you.
+
+     Turning, he goes out, and slams the door.  CLARE and MALISE
+     remain face to face.  Her lips have begun to quiver.
+
+CLARE.  Horrible!
+
+     She turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the
+     armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands.  MALISE
+     picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly.  Then putting it
+     down, he moves so that he can see her face.  She is sitting
+     quite still, staring straight before her.
+
+MALISE.  Nothing could be better.
+
+CLARE.  I don't know what to do!  I don't know what to do!
+
+MALISE.  Thank the stars for your good fortune.
+
+CLARE.  He means to have revenge on you!  And it's all my fault.
+
+MALISE.  Let him.  Let him go for his divorce.  Get rid of him.  Have
+done with him--somehow.
+
+     She gets up and stands with face averted.  Then swiftly turning
+     to him.
+
+CLARE.  If I must bring you harm--let me pay you back!  I can't bear
+it otherwise!  Make some use of me, if you don't mind!
+
+MALISE.  My God!
+
+     [She puts up her face to be kissed, shutting her eyes.]
+
+MALISE.  You poor----
+
+     He clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face.
+     She has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is
+     shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands
+     twitching.
+
+MALISE.  [Very quietly] No, no!  This is not the house of a
+"gentleman."
+
+CLARE.  [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper]  I'm sorry.
+
+MALISE.  I understand.
+
+CLARE.  I don't feel.  And without--I can't, can't.
+
+MALISE.  [Bitterly]  Quite right.  You've had enough of that.
+
+     There is a long silence.  Without looking at him she takes up
+     her hat, and puts it on.
+
+MALISE.  Not going?
+
+     [CLARE nods]
+
+MALISE.  You don't trust me?
+
+CLARE.  I do!  But I can't take when I'm not giving.
+
+MALISE.  I beg--I beg you!  What does it matter?  Use me!  Get free
+somehow.
+
+CLARE.  Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in
+for all this.  I know what you want--or will want.  Of course--why
+not?
+
+MALISE.  I give you my solemn word----
+
+CLARE.  No! if I can't be that to you--it's not real.  And I can't.
+It isn't to be manufactured, is it?
+
+MALISE.  It is not.
+
+CLARE.  To make use of you in such a way!  No.
+
+     [She moves towards the door]
+
+MALISE.  Where are you going?
+
+     CLARE does not answer.  She is breathing rapidly.  There is a
+     change in her, a sort of excitement beneath her calmness.
+
+MALISE.  Not back to him?  [CLARE shakes her head]  Thank God!  But
+where?  To your people again?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+MALISE.  Nothing--desperate?
+
+CLARE.  Oh! no.
+
+MALISE.  Then what--tell me--come!
+
+CLARE.  I don't know.  Women manage somehow.
+
+MALISE.  But you--poor dainty thing!
+
+CLARE.  It's all right!  Don't be unhappy!  Please!
+
+MALISE.  [Seizing her arm]  D'you imagine they'll let you off, out
+there--you with your face?  Come, trust me trust me!  You must!
+
+CLARE.  [Holding out her hand]  Good-bye!
+
+MALISE.  [Not taking that hand]  This great damned world, and--you!
+Listen!  [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the
+stillness] Into that!  alone--helpless--without money.  The men who
+work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let
+you be?  The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy,
+bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the
+"chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help
+seeing you're made for love!  Or suppose you don't take covert but
+struggle on in the open.  Society!  The respectable!  The pious!
+Even those who love you!  Will they let you be?  Hue and cry!  The
+hunt was joined the moment you broke away!  It will never let up!
+Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the
+cart, and God pity you!
+
+CLARE.  Well, I'll die running!
+
+MALISE.  No, no!  Let me shelter you!  Let me!
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head and smiling]  I'm going to seek my fortune.
+Wish me luck!
+
+MALISE.  I can't let you go.
+
+CLARE.  You must.
+
+     He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it,
+     suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them.
+
+MALISE.  Good luck, then!  Good luck!
+
+     He releases her hand.  Just touching his bent head with her
+     other hand, CLARE turns and goes.  MALISE remains with bowed
+     head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps.  They
+     die away.  He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with
+     his clenched fist.
+
+
+                              CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+     MALISE'S sitting-room.  An afternoon, three months later.
+     On the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some
+     tea-things.  Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted
+     spirit-stand.  Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced
+     man, with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is
+     contemplating a piece of blue paper.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf
+without any return on your money----
+
+MALISE.  Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood.  I wish I could see
+my way to smoking another.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Well, sir--that's a funny remedy.
+
+     With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears.
+
+MALISE.  Yes.  What is it?
+
+BOY.  Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir.
+
+MALISE.  [Motioning him out] Yes.  Wait!
+
+     The Boy withdraws.  MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns
+     them over, and takes up some volumes.
+
+MALISE.  This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's
+"Decameron," Mr.  Haywood illustrated.  I should say you would get
+more than the amount of your bill for them.
+
+HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head]  Them books worth three pound seven!
+
+MALISE.  It's scarce, and highly improper.  Will you take them in
+discharge?
+
+HAYWOOD.  [Torn between emotions]  Well, I 'ardly know what to say--
+No, Sir, I don't think I'd like to 'ave to do with that.
+
+MALISE.  You could read them first, you know?
+
+HAYWOOD.  [Dubiously]  I've got my wife at 'ome.
+
+MALISE.  You could both read them.
+
+HAYWOOD.  [Brought to his bearings]  No, Sir, I couldn't.
+
+MALISE.  Very well; I'll sell them myself, and you shall have the
+result.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Well, thank you, sir.  I'm sure I didn't want to trouble
+you.
+
+MALISE.  Not at all, Mr. Haywood.  It's for me to apologize.
+
+HAYWOOD.  So long as I give satisfaction.
+
+MALISE.  [Holding the door for him]  Certainly.  Good evening.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Good evenin', sir; no offence, I hope.
+
+MALISE.  On the contrary.
+
+     Doubtfully HAYWOOD goes.  And MALISE stands scratching his head;
+     then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he
+     replaces them at the top of the pile.  The Boy again advances
+     into the doorway.
+
+MALISE.  Yes, now for you.
+
+     He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old
+     portfolio.  But the door is again timidly pushed open, and
+     HAYWOOD reappears.
+
+MALISE.  Yes, Mr. Haywood?
+
+HAYWOOD.  About that little matter, sir.  If--if it's any convenience
+to you--I've--thought of a place where I could----
+
+MALISE.  Read them?  You'll enjoy them thoroughly.
+
+HAYWOOD.  No, sir, no!  Where I can dispose of them.
+
+MALISE.  [Holding out the volumes]  It might be as well.  [HAYWOOD
+takes the books gingerly]  I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it's a
+classic.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Oh, indeed--yes, sir.  In the event of there being any----
+
+MALISE.  Anything over?  Carry it to my credit.  Your bill--[He
+hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt.  Good evening!
+
+     HAYWOOD, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening
+     paper, fumbles out.  "Good evenin', sir!" and departs.  MALISE
+     again takes up the sheets of MS.  and cons a sentence over to
+     himself, gazing blankly at the stolid BOY.
+
+MALISE.  "Man of the world--good form your god!  Poor buttoned-up
+philosopher"  [the Boy shifts his feet]  "inbred to the point of
+cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule  [the Boy
+breathes heavily]--you are the slave of facts!"
+
+     [There is a knock on the door]
+
+MALISE.  Who is it?
+
+     The door is pushed open, and REGINALD HUNTINGDON stands there.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute?
+
+     [MALISE bows with ironical hostility]
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I don't know if you remember me--Clare Dedmond's
+brother.
+
+MALISE.  I remember you.
+
+     [He motions to the stolid Boy to go outside again]
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I've come to you, sir, as a gentleman----
+
+MALISE.  Some mistake.  There is one, I believe, on the first floor.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  It's about my sister.
+
+MALISE.  D--n you!  Don't you know that I've been shadowed these last
+three months?  Ask your detectives for any information you want.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We know that you haven't seen her, or even known where
+she is.
+
+MALISE.  Indeed!  You've found that out?  Brilliant!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We know it from my sister.
+
+MALISE.  Oh!  So you've tracked her down?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Mrs. Fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those
+big shops--selling gloves.
+
+MALISE.  Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband.  Well! you've got
+her.  Clap her back into prison.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We have not got her.  She left at once, and we don't
+know where she's gone.
+
+MALISE.  Bravo!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Taking hold of his bit]  Look here, Mr. Malise, in a
+way I share your feeling, but I'm fond of my sister, and it's
+damnable to have to go back to India knowing she must be all adrift,
+without protection, going through God knows what!  Mrs. Fullarton
+says she's looking awfully pale and down.
+
+MALISE.  [Struggling between resentment and sympathy]  Why do you
+come to me?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We thought----
+
+MALISE.  Who?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My--my father and myself.
+
+MALISE.  Go on.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We thought there was just a chance that, having lost
+that job, she might come to you again for advice.  If she does, it
+would be really generous of you if you'd put my father in touch with
+her.  He's getting old, and he feels this very much.  [He hands
+MALISE a card]  This is his address.
+
+MALISE.  [Twisting the card]  Let there be no mistake, sir; I do
+nothing that will help give her back to her husband.  She's out to
+save her soul alive, and I don't join the hue and cry that's after
+her.  On the contrary--if I had the power.  If your father wants to
+shelter her, that's another matter.  But she'd her own ideas about
+that.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Perhaps you don't realize how unfit my sister is for
+rough and tumble.  She's not one of this new sort of woman.  She's
+always been looked after, and had things done for her.  Pluck she's
+got, but that's all, and she's bound to come to grief.
+
+MALISE.  Very likely--the first birds do.  But if she drops half-way
+it's better than if she'd never flown.  Your sister, sir, is trying
+the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market.  For women as
+for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon,
+and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Admitted--but----
+
+MALISE.  We each have our own views as to what they are.  But they
+all come to--death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases.
+Anything more?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My leave's up.  I sail to-morrow.  If you do see my
+sister I trust you to give her my love and say I begged she would see
+my father.
+
+MALISE.  If I have the chance--yes.
+
+     He makes a gesture of salute, to which HUNTINGDON responds.
+     Then the latter turns and goes out.
+
+MALISE.  Poor fugitive!  Where are you running now?
+
+     He stands at the window, through which the evening sunlight is
+     powdering the room with smoky gold.  The stolid Boy has again
+     come in.  MALISE stares at him, then goes back to the table,
+     takes up the MS., and booms it at him; he receives the charge,
+     breathing hard.
+
+MALISE.  "Man of the world--product of a material age; incapable of
+perceiving reality in motions of the spirit; having 'no use,' as you
+would say, for 'sentimental nonsense'; accustomed to believe yourself
+the national spine--your position is unassailable.  You will remain
+the idol of the country--arbiter of law, parson in mufti, darling of
+the playwright and the novelist--God bless you!--while waters lap
+these shores."
+
+     He places the sheets of MS. in an envelope, and hands them to
+     the Boy.
+
+MALISE.  You're going straight back to "The Watchfire"?
+
+BOY.  [Stolidly]  Yes, sir.
+
+MALISE.  [Staring at him] You're a masterpiece.  D'you know that?
+
+BOY.  No, sir.
+
+MALISE.  Get out, then.
+
+     He lifts the portfolio from the table, and takes it into the
+     inner room.  The Boy, putting his thumb stolidly to his nose,
+     turns to go.  In the doorway he shies violently at the figure of
+     CLARE, standing there in a dark-coloured dress, skids past her
+     and goes.  CLARE comes into the gleam of sunlight, her white
+     face alive with emotion or excitement.  She looks round her,
+     smiles, sighs; goes swiftly to the door, closes it, and comes
+     back to the table.  There she stands, fingering the papers on
+     the table, smoothing MALISE's hat wistfully, eagerly, waiting.
+
+MALISE.  [Returning]  You!
+
+CLARE.  [With a faint smile]  Not very glorious, is it?
+
+     He goes towards her, and checks himself, then slews the armchair
+     round.
+
+MALISE.  Come!  Sit down, sit down!  [CLARE, heaving a long sigh,
+sinks down into the chair]  Tea's nearly ready.
+
+     He places a cushion for her, and prepares tea; she looks up at
+     him softly, but as he finishes and turns to her, she drops that
+     glance.
+
+CLARE.  Do you think me an awful coward for coming?  [She has taken a
+little plain cigarette case from her dress]  Would you mind if I
+smoked?
+
+     MALISE shakes his head, then draws back from her again, as if
+     afraid to be too close.  And again, unseen, she looks at him.
+
+MALISE.  So you've lost your job?
+
+CLARE.  How did you----?
+
+MALISE.  Your brother.  You only just missed him.  [CLARE starts up]
+They had an idea you'd come.  He's sailing to-morrow--he wants you to
+see your father.
+
+CLARE.  Is father ill?
+
+MALI$E.  Anxious about you.
+
+CLARE.  I've written to him every week.  [Excited]  They're still
+hunting me!
+
+MALISE.  [Touching her shoulder gently]  It's all right--all right.
+
+     She sinks again into the chair, and again he withdraws.  And
+     once more she gives him that soft eager look, and once more
+     averts it as he turns to her.
+
+CLARE.  My nerves have gone funny lately.  It's being always on one's
+guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you,
+and dislike your being there.
+
+MALISE.  Yes; that wants pluck.
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  I curl up all the time.  The only thing I
+know for certain is, that I shall never go back to him.  The more
+I've hated what I've been doing, the more sure I've been.  I might
+come to anything--but not that.
+
+MALISE.  Had a very bad time?
+
+CLARE.  [Nodding]  I'm spoilt.  It's a curse to be a lady when you
+have to earn your living.  It's not really been so hard, I suppose;
+I've been selling things, and living about twice as well as most shop
+girls.
+
+MALISE.  Were they decent to you?
+
+CLARE.  Lots of the girls are really nice.  But somehow they don't
+want me, can't help thinking I've got airs or something; and in here
+[She touches her breast]  I don't want them!
+
+MALISE.  I know.
+
+CLARE.  Mrs. Fullarton and I used to belong to a society for helping
+reduced gentlewomen to get work.  I know now what they want: enough
+money not to work--that's all!  [Suddenly looking up at him]  Don't
+think me worse than I am-please!  It's working under people; it's
+having to do it, being driven.  I have tried, I've not been
+altogether a coward, really!  But every morning getting there the
+same time; every day the same stale "dinner," as they call it; every
+evening the same "Good evening, Miss Clare,"  "Good evening, Miss
+Simpson,"  "Good evening, Miss Hart,"  "Good evening, Miss Clare."
+And the same walk home, or the same 'bus; and the same men that you
+mustn't look at, for fear they'll follow you.  [She rises]  Oh! and
+the feeling-always, always--that there's no sun, or life, or hope, or
+anything.  It was just like being ill, the way I've wanted to ride
+and dance and get out into the country.  [Her excitement dies away
+into the old clipped composure, and she sits down again]  Don't think
+too badly of me--it really is pretty ghastly!
+
+MALISE.  [Gruffly]  H'm!  Why a shop?
+
+CLARE.  References.  I didn't want to tell more lies than I could
+help; a married woman on strike can't tell the truth, you know.  And
+I can't typewrite or do shorthand yet.  And chorus--I thought--you
+wouldn't like.
+
+MALISE.  I?  What have I----?  [He checks himself ] Have men been
+brutes?
+
+CLARE.  [Stealing a look at him]  One followed me a lot.  He caught
+hold of my arm one evening.  I just took this out [She draws out her
+hatpin and holds it like a dagger, her lip drawn back as the lips of
+a dog going to bite]  and said: "Will you leave me alone, please?"
+And he did.  It was rather nice.  And there was one quite decent
+little man in the shop--I was sorry for him--such a humble little
+man!
+
+MALISE.  Poor devil--it's hard not to wish for the moon.
+
+     At the tone of his voice CLARE looks up at him; his face is
+     turned away.
+
+CLARE.  [Softly]  How have you been?  Working very hard?
+
+MALISE.  As hard as God will let me.
+
+CLARE.  [Stealing another look] Have you any typewriting I could do?
+I could learn, and I've still got a brooch I could sell.  Which is
+the best kind?
+
+MALISE.  I had a catalogue of them somewhere.
+
+     He goes into the inner room.  The moment he is gone, CLARE
+     stands up, her hands pressed to her cheeks as if she felt them
+     flaming.  Then, with hands clasped, she stands waiting.  He
+     comes back with the old portfolio.
+
+MALISE.  Can you typewrite where you are?
+
+CLARE.  I have to find a new room anyway.  I'm changing--to be safe.
+[She takes a luggage ticket from her glove]  I took my things to
+Charing Cross--only a bag and one trunk.  [Then, with that queer
+expression on her face which prefaces her desperations] You don't
+want me now, I suppose.
+
+MALISE.  What?
+
+CLARE.  [Hardly above a whisper] Because--if you still wanted me--
+I do--now.
+
+     [Etext editors note: In the 1924 revision, 11 years after this
+     1913 edition: "I do--now" is changed to "I could--now"--
+     a significant change in meaning.  D.W.]
+
+MALISE.  [Staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling]
+You mean it?  You do?  You care----?
+
+CLARE.  I've thought of you--so much!  But only--if you're sure.
+
+     He clasps her and kisses her closed eyes; and so they stand for
+     a moment, till the sound of a latchkey in the door sends them
+     apart.
+
+MALISE.  It's the housekeeper.  Give me that ticket; I'll send for
+your things.
+
+     Obediently she gives him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly
+     into the inner room.  MRS. MILER has entered; her face, more
+     Chinese than ever, shows no sign of having seen.
+
+MALISE.  That lady will stay here, Mrs. Miler.  Kindly go with this
+ticket to the cloak-room at Charing Cross station, and bring back her
+luggage in a cab.  Have you money?
+
+MRS. MILER.  'Arf a crown.  [She takes the ticket--then impassively]
+In case you don't know--there's two o' them men about the stairs now.
+
+     The moment she is gone MALISE makes a gesture of maniacal fury.
+     He steals on tiptoe to the outer door, and listens.  Then,
+     placing his hand on the knob, he turns it without noise, and
+     wrenches back the door.  Transfigured in the last sunlight
+     streaming down the corridor are two men, close together,
+     listening and consulting secretly.  They start back.
+
+MALISE.  [With strange, almost noiseless ferocity]  You've run her to
+earth; your job's done.  Kennel up, hounds!  [And in their faces he
+slams the door]
+
+
+                              CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+SCENE II
+
+SCENE II--The same, early on a winter afternoon, three months later.
+The room has now a certain daintiness.  There are curtains over the
+doors, a couch,  under the window, all the books are arranged on
+shelves.  In small vases, over the fireplace, are a few violets and
+chrysanthemums.  MALISE sits huddled in his armchair drawn close to
+the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand.  He looks rather grey and
+drawn, and round his chair is the usual litter.  At the table, now
+nearer to the window, CLARE sits working a typewriter.  She finishes
+a line, puts sheets of paper together, makes a note on a card--adds
+some figures, and marks the total.
+
+CLARE.  Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound
+seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds.  One
+hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred
+and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour.  It's
+only just over an hour a day.  Can't you get me more?
+
+     MALISE lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again.
+     CLARE puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it.
+
+CLARE.  I'm quite packed.  Shall I pack for you?  [He nods]  Can't we
+have more than three days at the sea?  [He shakes his head.  Going up
+to him] You did sleep last night.
+
+MALISE.  Yes, I slept.
+
+CLARE.  Bad head?  [MALISE nods]  By this time the day after to-morrow
+the case will be heard and done with.  You're not worrying for me?
+Except for my poor old Dad, I don't care a bit.
+
+     MALISE heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and
+     down.
+
+CLARE.  Kenneth, do you understand why he doesn't claim damages,
+after what he said that day-here?  [Looking suddenly at him]  It is
+true that he doesn't?
+
+MALISE.  It is not.
+
+CLARE.  But you told me yourself
+
+MALISE.  I lied.
+
+CLARE.  Why?
+
+MALISE.  [Shrugging]  No use lying any longer--you'd know it
+tomorrow.
+
+CLARE.  How much am I valued at?
+
+MALISE.  Two thousand.  [Grimly] He'll settle it on you.  [He laughs]
+Masterly!  By one stroke, destroys his enemy, avenges his "honour,"
+and gilds his name with generosity!
+
+CLARE.  Will you have to pay?
+
+MALISE.  Stones yield no blood.
+
+CLARE.  Can't you borrow?
+
+MALISE.  I couldn't even get the costs.
+
+CLARE.  Will they make you bankrupt, then?  [MALISE nods]  But that
+doesn't mean that you won't have your income, does it?  [MALISE
+laughs]  What is your income, Kenneth?  [He is silent]  A hundred and
+fifty from "The Watchfire," I know.  What else?
+
+MALISE.  Out of five books I have made the sum of forty pounds.
+
+CLARE.  What else?  Tell me.
+
+MALISE.  Fifty to a hundred pounds a year.  Leave me to gnaw my way
+out, child.
+
+     CLARE stands looking at him in distress, then goes quickly into
+     the room behind her.  MALISE takes up his paper and pen.  The
+     paper is quite blank.
+
+MALISE.  [Feeling his head]  Full of smoke.
+
+     He drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left
+     goes in.  CLARE re-enters with a small leather box.  She puts it
+     down on her typing table as MALISE returns followed by MRS.
+     MILER, wearing her hat, and carrying His overcoat.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Put your coat on.  It's a bitter wind.
+
+     [He puts on the coat]
+
+CLARE.  Where are you going?
+
+MALISE.  To "The Watchfire."
+
+     The door closes behind him, and MRS. MILER goes up to CLARE
+     holding out a little blue bottle with a red label, nearly full.
+
+MRS. MILER.  You know he's takin' this [She makes a little motion
+towards her mouth] to make 'im sleep?
+
+CLARE.  [Reading the label]  Where was it?
+
+MRS. MILER.  In the bathroom chest o' drawers, where 'e keeps 'is
+odds and ends.  I was lookin' for 'is garters.
+
+CLARE.  Give it to me!
+
+MRS. MILER.  He took it once before.  He must get his sleep.
+
+CLARE.  Give it to me!
+
+     MRS. MILER resigns it, CLARE takes the cork out, smells, then
+     tastes it from her finger.  MRS. MILER, twisting her apron in
+     her hands, speaks.
+
+MILS. MILER.  I've 'ad it on my mind a long time to speak to yer.
+Your comin' 'ere's not done 'im a bit o' good.
+
+CLARE.  Don't!
+
+MRS. MILER.  I don't want to, but what with the worry o' this 'ere
+divorce suit, an' you bein' a lady an' 'im havin' to be so careful of
+yer, and tryin' to save, not smokin' all day like 'e used, an' not
+gettin' 'is two bottles of claret regular; an' losin' his sleep, an'
+takin' that stuff for it; and now this 'ere last business.  I've seen
+'im sometimes holdin' 'is 'ead as if it was comin' off.  [Seeing
+CLARE wince, she goes on with a sort of compassion in her Chinese
+face] I can see yer fond of him; an' I've nothin' against yer you
+don't trouble me a bit; but I've been with 'im eight years--we're
+used to each other, and I can't bear to see 'im not 'imself, really I
+can't.
+
+     She gives a sadden sniff.  Then her emotion passes, leaving her
+     as Chinese as ever.
+
+CLARE.  This last business--what do you mean by that?
+
+MRS. MILER.  If 'e a'n't told yer, I don't know that I've any call
+to.
+
+CLARE.  Please.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Her hands twisting very fast] Well, it's to do with
+this 'ere "Watchfire."  One of the men that sees to the writin' of
+it 'e's an old friend of Mr. Malise, 'e come 'ere this mornin' when
+you was out.  I was doin' my work in there  [She points to the room
+on the right]  an' the door open, so I 'earl 'em.  Now you've 'ung
+them curtains, you can't 'elp it.
+
+CLARE.  Yes?
+
+MRS. MILER.  It's about your divorce case.  This 'ere "Watchfire,"
+ye see, belongs to some fellers that won't 'ave their men gettin'
+into the papers.  So this 'ere friend of Mr. Malise--very nice 'e
+spoke about it: "If it comes into Court," 'e says, "you'll 'ave to
+go," 'e says.  "These beggars, these dogs, these dogs," 'e says,
+"they'll 'oof you out," 'e says.  An' I could tell by the sound of
+his voice, 'e meant it--proper upset 'e was.  So that's that!
+
+CLARE.  It's inhuman!
+
+MRS. MILER.  That's what I thinks; but it don't 'elp, do it?
+"'Tain't the circulation," 'e says, "it's the principle," 'e says;
+and then 'e starts in swearin' horrible.  'E's a very nice man.  And
+Mr. Malise, 'e says: "Well, that about does for me!" 'e says.
+
+CLARE.  Thank you, Mrs. Miler--I'm glad to know.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Yes; I don't know as I ought to 'ave told you.
+[Desperately uncomfortable]  You see, I don't take notice of Mr.
+MALISE, but I know 'im very well.  'E's a good 'arted gentleman, very
+funny, that'll do things to help others, and what's more, keep on
+doin' 'em, when they hurt 'im; very obstinate 'e is.  Now, when you
+first come 'ere, three months ago, I says to meself: "He'll enjoy
+this 'ere for a bit, but she's too much of a lady for 'im."  What 'e
+wants about 'im permanent is a woman that thinks an' talks about all
+them things he talks about.  And sometimes I fancy 'e don't want
+nothin' permanent about 'im at all.
+
+CLARE.  Don't!
+
+MRS. MILER.  [With another sudden sniff]  Gawd knows I don't want to
+upset ye.  You're situated very hard; an' women's got no business to
+'urt one another--that's what I thinks.
+
+CLARE.  Will you go out and do something for me?  [MRS. MILER nods]
+
+     [CLARE takes up the sheaf of papers and from the leather box a
+     note and an emerald pendant]
+
+Take this with the note to that address--it's quite close.  He'll
+give you thirty pounds for it.  Please pay these bills and bring me
+back the receipts, and what's over.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Taking the pendant and note]  It's a pretty thing.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  It was my mother's.
+
+MRS. MILER.  It's a pity to part with it; ain't you got another?
+
+CLARE.  Nothing more, Mrs. Miler, not even a wedding ring.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Without expression]  You make my 'eart ache sometimes.
+
+     [She wraps pendant and note into her handkerchief and goes out to
+     the door.]
+
+MRS. MILER.  [From the door]  There's a lady and gentleman out here.
+Mrs. Fuller--wants you, not Mr. Malise.
+
+CLARE.  Mrs. Fullarton?  [MRS. MILER nods]  Ask them to come in.
+
+     MRS. MILER opens the door wide, says "Come in," and goes.  MRS.
+     FULLARTON is accompanied not by FULLARTON, but by the lawyer,
+     TWISDON.  They come in.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Clare!  My dear!  How are you after all this time?
+
+CLARE.  [Her eyes fixed on TWISDEN]  Yes?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Disconcerted by the strange greeting]  I brought
+Mr.  Twisden to tell you something.  May I stay?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  [She points to the chair at the same table: MRS.
+FULLARTON sits down]  Now!
+
+     [TWISDEN comes forward]
+
+TWISDEN.  As you're not defending this case, Mrs. Dedmond, there is
+nobody but yourself for me to apply to.
+
+CLARE.  Please tell me quickly, what you've come for.
+
+TWISDEN.  [Bowing slightly]  I am instructed by Mr.  Dedmond to say
+that if you will leave your present companion and undertake not to
+see him again, he will withdraw the suit and settle three hundred a
+year on you.  [At CLARE's movement of abhorrence]  Don't
+misunderstand me, please--it is not--it could hardly be, a request
+that you should go back.  Mr.  Dedmond is not prepared to receive you
+again.  The proposal--forgive my saying so--remarkably Quixotic--is
+made to save the scandal to his family and your own.  It binds you to
+nothing but the abandonment of your present companion, with certain
+conditions of the same nature as to the future.  In other words, it
+assures you a position--so long as you live quietly by yourself.
+
+CLARE.  I see.  Will you please thank Mr. Dedmond, and say that I
+refuse?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Clare, Clare!  For God's sake don't be desperate.
+
+     [CLARE, deathly still, just looks at her]
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, I am bound to put the position to you in its
+naked brutality.  You know there's a claim for damages?
+
+CLARE.  I have just learnt it.
+
+TWISDEN.  You realize what the result of this suit must be: You will
+be left dependent on an undischarged bankrupt.  To put it another
+way, you'll be a stone round the neck of a drowning man.
+
+CLARE.  You are cowards.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Clare, Clare!  [To TWISDEN]  She doesn't mean it;
+please be patient.
+
+CLARE.  I do mean it.  You ruin him because of me.  You get him down,
+and kick him to intimidate me.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  My dear girl!  Mr. Twisden is not personally
+concerned.  How can you?
+
+CLARE.  If I were dying, and it would save me, I wouldn't take a
+penny from my husband.
+
+TWISDEN.  Nothing could be more bitter than those words.  Do you
+really wish me to take them back to him?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  [She turns from them to the fire]
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [In a low voice to TWISDEN]  Please leave me alone
+with her, don't say anything to Mr. Dedmond yet.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, I told you once that I wished you well.
+Though you have called me a coward, I still do that.  For God's sake,
+think--before it's too late.
+
+CLARE.  [Putting out her hand blindly]  I'm sorry I called you a
+coward.  It's the whole thing, I meant.
+
+TWISDEN.  Never mind that.  Think!
+
+     With the curious little movement of one who sees something he
+     does not like to see, he goes.  CLARE is leaning her forehead
+     against the mantel-shelf, seemingly unconscious that she is not
+     alone.  MRS. FULLARTON approaches quietly till she can see
+     CLARE'S face.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  My dear sweet thing, don't be cross with met [CLARE
+turns from her.  It is all the time as if she were trying to get away
+from words and people to something going on within herself]  How can
+I help wanting to see you saved from all this ghastliness?
+
+CLARE.  Please don't, Dolly!  Let me be!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  I must speak, Clare!  I do think you're hard on
+George.  It's generous of him to offer to withdraw the suit--
+considering.  You do owe it to us to try and spare your father and
+your sisters and--and all of us who care for you.
+
+CLARE.  [Facing her] You say George is generous!  If he wanted to be
+that he'd never have claimed these damages.  It's revenge he wants--I
+heard him here.  You think I've done him an injury.  So I did--when I
+married him.  I don't know what I shall come to, Dolly, but I shan't
+fall so low as to take money from him.  That's as certain as that I
+shall die.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Do you know, Clare, I think it's awful about you!
+You're too fine, and not fine enough, to put up with things; you're
+too sensitive to take help, and you're not strong enough to do
+without it.  It's simply tragic.  At any rate, you might go home to
+your people.
+
+CLARE.  After this!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  To us, then?
+
+CLARE.  "If I could be the falling bee, and kiss thee all the day!"
+No, Dolly!
+
+     MRS. FULLARTON turns from her ashamed and baffled, but her quick
+     eyes take in the room, trying to seize on some new point of
+     attack.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  You can't be--you aren't-happy, here?
+
+CLARE.  Aren't I?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Oh!  Clare!  Save yourself--and all of us!
+
+CLARE.  [Very still] You see, I love him.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  You used to say you'd never love; did not want it--
+would never want it.
+
+CLARE.  Did I?  How funny!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Oh!  my dear!  Don't look like that, or you'll make
+me cry.
+
+CLARE.  One doesn't always know the future, does one?  [Desperately]
+I love him!  I love him!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Suddenly] If you love him, what will it be like for
+you, knowing you've ruined him?
+
+CLARE.  Go away!  Go away!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Love!--you said!
+
+CLARE.  [Quivering at that stab-suddenly]  I must--I will keep him.
+He's all I've got.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Can you--can you keep him?
+
+CLARE.  Go!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  I'm going.  But, men are hard to keep, even when
+you've not been the ruin of them.  You know whether the love this man
+gives you is really love.  If not--God help you!  [She turns at the
+door, and says mournfully] Good-bye, my child!  If you can----
+
+     Then goes.  CLARE, almost in a whisper, repeats the words:
+     "Love!  you said!"  At the sound of a latchkey she runs as if to
+     escape into the bedroom, but changes her mind and stands blotted
+     against the curtain of the door.  MALISE enters.  For a moment
+     he does not see her standing there against the curtain that is
+     much the same colour as her dress.  His face is that of a man in
+     the grip of a rage that he feels to be impotent.  Then, seeing
+     her, he pulls himself together, walks to his armchair, and sits
+     down there in his hat and coat.
+
+CLARE.  Well?  "The Watchfire?"  You may as well tell me.
+
+MALISE.  Nothing to tell you, child.
+
+     At that touch of tenderness she goes up to his chair and kneels
+     down beside it.  Mechanically MALISE takes off his hat.
+
+CLARE.  Then you are to lose that, too?  [MALISE stares at her] I
+know about it--never mind how.
+
+MALISE.  Sanctimonious dogs!
+
+CLARE.  [Very low]  There are other things to be got, aren't there?
+
+MALISE.  Thick as blackberries.  I just go out and cry, "MALISE,
+unsuccessful author, too honest journalist, freethinker,
+co-respondent, bankrupt," and they tumble!
+
+CLARE.  [Quietly]  Kenneth, do you care for me?  [MALISE stares at
+her]  Am I anything to you but just prettiness?
+
+MALISE.  Now, now!  This isn't the time to brood!  Rouse up and
+fight.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+MALISE.  We're not going to let them down us, are we?  [She rubs her
+cheek against his hand, that still rests on her shoulder] Life on
+sufferance, breath at the pleasure of the enemy!  And some day in the
+fullness of his mercy to be made a present of the right to eat and
+drink and breathe again.  [His gesture sums up the rage within him]
+Fine!  [He puts his hat on and rises]  That's the last groan they get
+from me.
+
+CLASS.  Are you going out again?  [He nods]  Where?
+
+MALISE.  Blackberrying!  Our train's not till six.
+
+     He goes into the bedroom.  CLARE gets up and stands by the fire,
+     looking round in a dazed way.  She puts her hand up and
+     mechanically gathers together the violets in the little vase.
+     Suddenly she twists them to a buttonhole, and sinks down into
+     the armchair, which he must pass.  There she sits, the violets
+     in her hand.  MALISE comes out and crosses towards the outer
+     door.  She puts the violets up to him.  He stares at them,
+     shrugs his shoulders, and passes on.  For just a moment CLARE
+     sits motionless.
+
+CLARE.  [Quietly]  Give me a kiss!
+
+     He turns and kisses her.  But his lips, after that kiss, have
+     the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have
+     done what does not suit their mood.  He goes out.  She is left
+     motionless by the armchair, her throat working.  Then,
+     feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of
+     paper, and writes.  Looking up suddenly she sees that MRS. MILER
+     has let herself in with her latchkey.
+
+MRS. MILER.  I've settled the baker, the milk, the washin' an' the
+groceries--this 'ere's what's left.
+
+     She counts down a five-pound note, four sovereigns, and two
+     shillings on to the little table.  CLARE folds the letter into
+     an envelope, then takes up the five-pound note and puts it into
+     her dress.
+
+CLARE.  [Pointing to the money on the table]  Take your wages; and
+give him this when he comes in.  I'm going away.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Without him?  When'll you be comin' back?
+
+CLARE.  [Rising] I shan't be coming back.  [Gazing at MRS. MILER'S
+hands, which are plaiting at her dress]  I'm leaving Mr. Malise, and
+shan't see him again.  And the suit against us will be withdrawn--the
+divorce suit--you understand?
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Her face all broken up]  I never meant to say anything
+to yer.
+
+CLARE.  It's not you.  I can see for myself.  Don't make it harder;
+help me.  Get a cab.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Disturbed to the heart]  The porter's outside, cleanin'
+the landin' winder.
+
+CLARE.  Tell him to come for my trunk.  It is packed.  [She goes into
+the bedroom]
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Opening the door-desolately]  Come 'ere!
+
+     [The PORTER appears in shirt-sleeves at the door]
+
+MRS. MILER.  The lady wants a cab.  Wait and carry 'er trunk down.
+
+     CLARE comes from the bedroom in her hat and coat.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [TO the PORTER] Now.
+
+     They go into the bedroom to get the trunk.  CLARE picks up from
+     the floor the bunch of violets, her fingers play with it as if
+     they did not quite know what it was; and she stands by the
+     armchair very still, while MRS. MILER and the PORTER pass her
+     with trunk and bag.  And even after the PORTER has shouldered
+     the trunk outside, and marched away, and MRS. MILER has come
+     back into the room, CLARE still stands there.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Pointing to the typewriter] D'you want this 'ere, too?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+     MRS. MILER carries it out.  Then, from the doorway, gazing at
+     CLARE taking her last look, she sobs, suddenly.  At sound of
+     that sob CLARE throws up her head.
+
+CLARE.  Don't!  It's all right.  Good-bye!
+
+     She walks out and away, not looking back.  MRS. MILER chokes her
+     sobbing into the black stuff of her thick old jacket.
+
+
+                              CURTAIN
+
+
+
+
+ACT IV
+
+     Supper-time in a small room at "The Gascony" on Derby Day.
+     Through the windows of a broad corridor, out of which the door
+     opens, is seen the dark blue of a summer night.  The walls are
+     of apricot-gold; the carpets, curtains, lamp-shades, and gilded
+     chairs, of red; the wood-work and screens white; the palms in
+     gilded tubs.  A doorway that has no door leads to another small
+     room.  One little table behind a screen, and one little table in
+     the open, are set for two persons each.  On a service-table,
+     above which hangs a speaking-tube, are some dishes of hors
+     d'ouvres, a basket of peaches, two bottles of champagne in
+     ice-pails, and a small barrel of oysters in a gilded tub.  ARNAUD,
+     the waiter, slim, dark, quick, his face seamed with a quiet,
+     soft irony, is opening oysters and listening to the robust joy
+     of a distant supper-party, where a man is playing the last bars
+     of: "Do ye ken John Peel" on a horn.  As the sound dies away, he
+     murmurs: "Tres Joli!" and opens another oyster.  Two Ladies with
+     bare shoulders and large hats pass down the corridor.  Their
+     talk is faintly wafted in: "Well, I never like Derby night!  The
+     boys do get so bobbish!"  "That horn--vulgar, I call it!"
+
+     ARNAUD'S eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth droop.  A Lady
+     with bare shoulders, and crimson roses in her hair, comes along
+     the corridor, and stops for a second at the window, for a man to
+     join her.  They come through into the room.  ARNAUD has sprung
+     to attention, but with: "Let's go in here, shall we?" they pass
+     through into the further room.  The MANAGER, a gentleman with
+     neat moustaches, and buttoned into a frock-coat, has appeared,
+     brisk, noiseless, his eyes everywhere; he inspects the peaches.
+
+MANAGER.  Four shillin' apiece to-night, see?
+
+ARNAUD.  Yes, Sare.
+
+     From the inner room a young man and his partner have come in.
+     She is dark, almost Spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale,
+     clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of
+     those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost
+     all save the capacity for hiding their emotions.  He speaks in
+     a----
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  Awful row they're kickin' up in there, Mr. Varley.
+A fellow with a horn.
+
+MANAGER.  [Blandly]  Gaddesdon Hunt, my lord--always have their
+supper with us, Derby night.  Quiet corner here, my lord.  Arnaud!
+
+     ARNAUD is already at the table, between screen and palm.  And,
+     there ensconced, the couple take their seats.  Seeing them
+     safely landed, the MANAGER, brisk and noiseless, moves away.  In
+     the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems
+     uncertain whether to come in.  She advances into the doorway.
+     It is CLARE.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes]  Nice
+table, Madame.
+
+     CLARE moves to the corner of it.  An artist in observation of
+     his clients, ARNAUD takes in her face--very pale under her wavy,
+     simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her
+     lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black
+     dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at
+     her breast three gardenias.  And as he nears her, she lifts her
+     eyes.  It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for
+     guidance.
+
+ARNAUD.  Madame is waiting for some one?  [She shakes her head]  Then
+Madame will be veree well here--veree well.  I take Madame's cloak?
+
+     He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair
+     fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she
+     wishes.  She sits down.
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  [From the corner]  Waiter!
+
+ARNAUD.  Milord!
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  The Roederer.
+
+ARNAUD.  At once, Milord.
+
+     CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her
+     eyes lowered.  Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark
+     rapid figure.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat?  [He scans her with
+increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?
+
+CLARE.  [Again giving him that look]  Must I order?
+
+ARNAUD.  Non, Madame, it is not necessary.  A glass of water.  [He
+pours it out]  I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame's face.
+
+CLARE.  [Faintly smiling]  No.
+
+ARNAUD.  Madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet.
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  Waiter!
+
+ARNAUD.  Pardon!  [He goes]
+
+     The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the
+     corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie!
+     Not she!  Oh!  my goodness, she has got a pride on her!"
+     "Bobbie'll never stick it!"  "Look here, dear----"  Galvanized
+     by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they
+     die away and she subsides.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the
+corridor] It is not rowdy here, Madame, as a rule--not as in some
+places.  To-night a little noise.  Madame is fond of flowers?  [He
+whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from
+some table in the next room] These smell good!
+
+CLARE.  You are very kind.
+
+ARNAUD.  [With courtesy]  Not at all, Madame; a pleasure.  [He bows]
+
+     A young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped,
+     sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of
+     those small, long, lean heads that only grow in Britain; clad in
+     a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a
+     white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the
+     corridor.  He looks round, glances at CLARE, passes her table
+     towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back
+     at her.  Her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast
+     down again.  The young man wavers, catches ARNAUD's eye, jerks
+     his head to summon him, and passes into the further room.
+     ARNAUD takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows
+     him out.  And CLARE sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs
+     of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen.  She is
+     breathing as if she had been running hard.  She lifts her eyes.
+     The tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her
+     table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  How d'you do?  Didn't recognize you at first.  So sorry
+--awfully rude of me.
+
+     CLARE'S eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign
+     herself all at once.  Something in the YOUNG MAN responds.  He
+     drops his hand.
+
+CLARE.  [Faintly]  How d'you do?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Stammering]  You--you been down there to-day?
+
+CLARE.  Where?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [With a smile]  The Derby.  What?  Don't you generally go
+down?  [He touches the other chair]  May I?
+
+CLARE.  [Almost in a whisper] Yes.
+
+     As he sits down, ARNAUD returns and stands before them.
+
+ARNAUD.  The plovers' eggs veree good to-night, Sare.  Veree good,
+Madame.  A peach or two, after.  Veree good peaches.  The Roederer,
+Sare--not bad at all.  Madame likes it frappe, but not too cold--yes?
+
+     [He is away again to his service-table.]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Burying his face in the carnations]  I say--these are
+jolly, aren't they?  They do you pretty well here.
+
+CLARE.  Do they?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  You've never been here?  [CLARE shakes her head] By Jove!
+I thought I didn't know your face.  [CLARE looks full at him.  Again
+something moves in the YOUNG MAN, and he stammers]  I mean--not----
+
+CLARE.  It doesn't matter.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Respectfully]  Of course, if I--if you were waiting for
+anybody, or anything--I----
+
+     [He half rises]
+
+CLARE.  It's all right, thank you.
+
+     The YOUNG MAN sits down again, uncomfortable, nonplussed.  There
+     is silence, broken by the inaudible words of the languid lord,
+     and the distant merriment of the supper-party.  ARNAUD brings
+     the plovers' eggs.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  The wine, quick.
+
+ARNAUD.  At once, Sare.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Abruptly] Don't you ever go racing, then?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+     [ARNAUD pours out champagne]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I remember awfully well my first day.  It was pretty
+thick--lost every blessed bob, and my watch and chain, playin' three
+cards on the way home.
+
+CLARE.  Everything has a beginning, hasn't it?
+
+     [She drinks.  The YOUNG MAN stares at her]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Floundering in these waters deeper than he had bargained
+for] I say--about things having beginnings--did you mean anything?
+
+     [CLARE nods]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  What! D'you mean it's really the first----?
+
+     CLARE nods.  The champagne has flicked her courage.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  By George!  [He leans back]  I've often wondered.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Again filling the glasses]  Monsieur finds----
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Abruptly]  It's all right.
+
+     He drains his glass, then sits bolt upright.  Chivalry and the
+     camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Of course I can see that you're not--I mean, that you're
+a--a lady.  [CLARE smiles]  And I say, you know--if you have to--
+because you're in a hole--I should feel a cad.  Let me lend you----?
+
+CLARE.  [Holding up her glass] 'Le vin est tire, il faut le boire'!
+
+     She drinks.  The French words, which he does not too well
+     understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he
+     remains quite silent, frowning.  As CLARE held up her glass, two
+     gentlemen have entered.  The first is blond, of good height and
+     a comely insolence.  His crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up
+     moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of
+     two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is
+     broad, and coloured with air and wine.  His companion is a tall,
+     thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow
+     cheeks.  They stand looking round, then pass into the further
+     room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at CLARE.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Seeing her wince]  Look here!  I'm afraid you must feel
+me rather a brute, you know.
+
+CLARE.  No, I don't; really.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Are you absolute stoney?  [CLARE nods]  But [Looking at
+her frock and cloak] you're so awfully well----
+
+CLARE.  I had the sense to keep them.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [More and more disturbed]  I say, you know--I wish you'd
+let me lend you something.  I had quite a good day down there.
+
+CLARE.  [Again tracing her pattern on the cloth--then looking up at
+him full] I can't take, for nothing.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  By Jove!  I don't know-really, I don't--this makes me
+feel pretty rotten.  I mean, it's your being a lady.
+
+CLARE.  [Smiling]  That's not your fault, is it?  You see, I've been
+beaten all along the line.  And I really don't care what happens to
+me.  [She has that peculiar fey look on her face now]  I really
+don't; except that I don't take charity.  It's lucky for me it's you,
+and not some----
+
+The supper-party is getting still more boisterous, and there comes a
+long view holloa, and a blast of the horn.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  But I say, what about your people?  You must have people
+of some sort.
+
+     He is fast becoming fascinated, for her cheeks have begun to
+     flush and her eyes to shine.
+
+CLARE.  Oh, yes; I've had people, and a husband, and--everything----
+And here I am!  Queer, isn't it?  [She touches her glass]  This is
+going to my head!  Do you mind?  I sha'n't sing songs and get up and
+dance, and I won't cry, I promise you!
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Between fascination and chivalry]  By George!  One
+simply can't believe in this happening to a lady.
+
+CLARE.  Have you got sisters? [Breaking into her soft laughter]  My
+brother's in India.  I sha'n't meet him, anyway.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  No, but--I say-are you really quite cut off from
+everybody?  [CLARE nods]  Something rather awful must have happened?
+
+     She smiles.  The two gentlemen have returned. The blond one is
+     again staring fixedly at CLARE.  This time she looks back at
+     him, flaming; and, with a little laugh, he passes with his
+     friend into the corridor.
+
+CLARE.  Who are those two?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Don't know--not been much about town yet.  I'm just back
+from India myself.  You said your brother was there; what's his
+regiment?
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  You're not going to find out my name.  I
+haven't got one--nothing.
+
+     She leans her bare elbows on the table, and her face on her
+     hands.
+
+CLARE.  First of June!  This day last year I broke covert--I've been
+running ever since.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I don't understand a bit.  You--must have had a--a--some
+one----
+
+     But there is such a change in her face, such rigidity of her
+     whole body, that he stops and averts his eyes.  When he looks
+     again she is drinking.  She puts the glass down, and gives a
+     little laugh.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [With a sort of awe]  Anyway it must have been like
+riding at a pretty stiff fence, for you to come here to-night.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  What's the other side?
+
+     The YOUNG MAN puts out his hand and touches her arm.  It is
+     meant for sympathy, but she takes it for attraction.
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  Not yet please!  I'm enjoying this.  May
+I have a cigarette?
+
+     [He takes out his case, and gives her one]
+
+CLARE.  [Letting the smoke slowly forth]  Yes, I'm enjoying it.  Had
+a pretty poor time lately; not enough to eat, sometimes.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Not really!  How damnable!  I say--do have something more
+substantial.
+
+     CLARE gives a sudden gasp, as if going off into hysterical
+     laughter, but she stifles it, and shakes her head.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  A peach?
+
+     [ARNAUD brings peaches to the table]
+
+CLARE.  [Smiling] Thank you.
+
+     [He fills their glasses and retreats]
+
+CLARE. [Raising her glass] Eat and drink, for tomorrow we--Listen!
+
+     From the supper-party comes the sound of an abortive chorus:
+     "With a hey ho, chivy, hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!"
+     Jarring out into a discordant whoop, it sinks.
+
+CLARE.  "This day a stag must die."  Jolly old song!
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Rowdy lot!  [Suddenly] I say--I admire your pluck.
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head] Haven't kept my end up.  Lots of women do!
+You see: I'm too fine, and not fine enough!  My best friend said
+that.  Too fine, and not fine enough.  [She laughs] I couldn't be a
+saint and martyr, and I wouldn't be a soulless doll.  Neither one
+thing nor the other--that's the tragedy.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  You must have had awful luck!
+
+CLARE.  I did try.  [Fiercely]  But what's the good--when there's
+nothing before you?--Do I look ill?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  No; simply awfully pretty.
+
+CLARE.  [With a laugh]  A man once said to me: "As you haven't money,
+you should never have been pretty!"  But, you see, it is some good.
+If I hadn't been, I couldn't have risked coming here, could I?  Don't
+you think it was rather sporting of me to buy these  [She touches the
+gardenias]  with the last shilling over from my cab fare?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Did you really?  D---d sporting!
+
+CLARE.  It's no use doing things by halves, is it?  I'm--in for it--
+wish me luck!  [She drinks, and puts her glass down with a smile] In
+for it--deep!  [She flings up her hands above her smiling face] Down,
+down, till they're just above water, and then--down, down, down, and
+--all over!  Are you sorry now you came and spoke to me?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  By Jove, no!  It may be caddish, but I'm not.
+
+CLARE.  Thank God for beauty!  I hope I shall die pretty!  Do you
+think I shall do well?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I say--don't talk like that!
+
+CLARE.  I want to know.  Do you?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Well, then--yes, I do.
+
+CLARE.  That's splendid.  Those poor women in the streets would give
+their eyes, wouldn't they?--that have to go up and down, up and down!
+Do you think I--shall----
+
+     The YOUNG MAN, half-rising, puts his hand on her arm.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I think you're getting much too excited.  You look all--
+Won't you eat your peach?  [She shakes her head]  Do!  Have something
+else, then--some grapes, or something?
+
+CLARE.  No, thanks.
+
+     [She has become quite calm again]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Well, then, what d'you think?  It's awfully hot in here,
+isn't it?  Wouldn't it be jollier drivin'?  Shall we--shall we make a
+move?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+     The YOUNG MAN turns to look for the waiter, but ARNAUD is not in
+     the room.  He gets up.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Feverishly] D---n that waiter!  Wait half a minute, if
+you don't mind, while I pay the bill.
+
+     As he goes out into the corridor, the two gentlemen re-appear.
+     CLARE is sitting motionless, looking straight before her.
+
+DARK ONE.  A fiver you don't get her to!
+
+BLOND ONE.  Done!
+
+     He advances to her table with his inimitable insolence, and
+     taking the cigar from his mouth, bends his stare on her, and
+     says: "Charmed to see you lookin' so well!  Will you have supper
+     with me here to-morrow night?"  Startled out of her reverie,
+     CLARE looks up.  She sees those eyes, she sees beyond him the
+     eyes of his companion-sly, malevolent, amused-watching; and she
+     just sits gazing, without a word.  At that regard, so clear, the
+     BLOND ONE does not wince.  But rather suddenly he says: "That's
+     arranged then.  Half-past eleven.  So good of you.  Good-night!"
+     He replaces his cigar and strolls back to his companion, and in
+     a low voice says: "Pay up!"  Then at a languid "Hullo, Charles!"
+     they turn to greet the two in their nook behind the screen.
+     CLARE has not moved, nor changed the direction of her gaze.
+     Suddenly she thrusts her hand into the pocket of the cloak that
+     hangs behind her, and brings out the little blue bottle which,
+     six months ago, she took from MALISE.  She pulls out the cork
+     and pours the whole contents into her champagne.  She lifts the
+     glass, holds it before her--smiling, as if to call a toast, then
+     puts it to her lips and drinks.  Still smiling, she sets the
+     empty glass down, and lays the gardenia flowers against her
+     face.  Slowly she droops back in her chair, the drowsy smile
+     still on her lips; the gardenias drop into her lap; her arms
+     relax, her head falls forward on her breast.  And the voices
+     behind the screen talk on, and the sounds of joy from the
+     supper-party wax and wane.
+
+     The waiter, ARNAUD, returning from the corridor, passes to his
+     service-table with a tall, beribboned basket of fruit.  Putting
+     it down, he goes towards the table behind the screen, and sees.
+     He runs up to CLARE.
+
+ARNAUD.  Madame! Madame!  [He listens for her breathing; then
+suddenly catching sight of the little bottle, smells at it] Bon Dieu!
+
+     [At that queer sound they come from behind the screen--all four,
+     and look.  The dark night bird says: "Hallo; fainted!" ARNAUD
+     holds out the bottle.]
+
+LANGUID LORD.  [Taking it, and smelling] Good God!  [The woman bends
+over CLARE, and lifts her hands; ARNAUD rushes to his service-table,
+and speaks into his tube]
+
+ARNAUD.  The boss.  Quick!  [Looking up he sees the YOUNG MAN,
+returning] 'Monsieur, elle a fui!  Elle est morte'!
+
+LANGUID LORD.  [To the YOUNG MAN standing there aghast]  What's this?
+Friend of yours?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  My God!  She was a lady.  That's all I know about her.
+
+LANGUID LORD.  A lady!
+
+     [The blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out
+     of the supper-party's distant laughter comes suddenly a long,
+     shrill: "Gone away!" And the sound of the horn playing the seven
+     last notes of the old song: "This day a stag must die!" From the
+     last note of all the sound flies up to an octave higher, sweet
+     and thin, like a spirit passing, till it is drowned once more in
+     laughter.  The YOUNG MAN has covered his eyes with his hands;
+     ARNAUD is crossing himself fervently; the LANGUID LORD stands
+     gazing, with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his
+     fingers; and the woman, bending over CLARE, kisses her forehead.]
+
+
+CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PIGEON
+
+A Fantasy in Three Acts
+
+
+
+PERSONS OF THE PLAY
+
+CHRISTOPHER WELLWYN, an artist
+ANN, his daughter
+GUINEVERE MEGAN, a flower-seller
+RORY MEGAN, her husband
+FERRAND, an alien
+TIMSON, once a cabman
+EDWARD BERTLEY, a Canon
+ALFRED CALWAY, a Professor
+SIR THOMAS HOXTON, a Justice of the Peace
+Also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons
+
+
+
+
+The action passes in Wellwyn's Studio, and the street outside.
+
+ACT I. Christmas Eve.
+
+ACT II. New Year's Day.
+
+ACT III. The First of April.
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+     It is the night of Christmas Eve, the SCENE is a Studio, flush
+     with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow.
+     There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed,
+     above a floor of bare dark boards.  A fire is cheerfully
+     burning.  On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas.
+     There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm.
+     chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window.  A
+     door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall
+     to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the
+     centre of the wall between.  On a low table a Russian samovar is
+     hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses,
+     lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum.  Through a huge uncurtained
+     window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be
+     seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars.
+
+     The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door,
+     and ANN WELLWYN enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a
+     ribbon and covered by a scarf.  Leaving the door open, she turns
+     up the electric light and goes to the fire.  She throws of her
+     scarf and long red cloak.  She is dressed in a high evening
+     frock of some soft white material.  Her movements are quick and
+     substantial.  Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and
+     sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped
+     forehead.  Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands.
+
+     In the doorway appear the figures of two men.  The first is
+     rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft
+     eyes, and a crumply face.  Under his squash hat his hair is
+     rather plentiful and rather grey.  He wears an old brown ulster
+     and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette.  He
+     is ANN'S father, WELLWYN, the artist.  His companion is a
+     well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with
+     a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby
+     clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy.  He is
+     the Vicar of the parish--CANON BERTLEY.
+
+
+BERTLEY.  My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of
+difficulty.  When you have two men like Professor Calway and Sir
+Thomas Hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've
+seen to-night, I confess, I----
+
+WELLWYN.  Come in, Vicar, and have some grog.
+
+BERTLEY.  Not to-night, thanks!  Christmas tomorrow!  Great
+temptation, though, this room!  Goodnight, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann!
+
+ANN.  [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.]  Good-night,
+Canon Bertley.
+
+     [He goes out, and WELLWYN, shutting the door after him,
+     approaches the fire.]
+
+ANN.  [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and
+making tea.]  Daddy!
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear?
+
+ANN.  You say you liked Professor Calway's lecture.  Is it going to
+do you any good, that's the question?
+
+WELLWYN.  I--I hope so, Ann.
+
+ANN.  I took you on purpose.  Your charity's getting simply awful.
+Those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money.
+
+WELLWYN.  Um!  Um!  I quite understand your feeling.
+
+ANN.  They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse--didn't know what
+you'd said to them.  Why don't you make it a rule never to give your
+card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of
+course.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, I have--often.
+
+ANN.  Then why don't you keep it?  It's a frightful habit.  You are
+naughty, Daddy.  One of these days you'll get yourself into most
+fearful complications.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, when they--when they look at you?
+
+ANN.  You know the house wants all sorts of things.  Why do you speak
+to them at all?
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't--they speak to me.
+
+     [He takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an
+     arm-chair.]
+
+ANN.  They see you coming.  Anybody can see you coming, Daddy.
+That's why you ought to be so careful.  I shall make you wear a hard
+hat.  Those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient.
+
+WELLWYN. [Gazing at his hat.]  Calway wears one.
+
+ANN.  As if anyone would beg of Professor Calway.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well-perhaps not.  You know, Ann, I admire that fellow.
+Wonderful power of-of-theory!  How a man can be so absolutely tidy in
+his mind!  It's most exciting.
+
+ANN.  Has any one begged of you to-day?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  No--no.
+
+ANN.  [After a long, severe look.]  Will you have rum in your tea?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Crestfallen.] Yes, my dear--a good deal.
+
+ANN.  [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.]  Well, who
+was it?
+
+WELLWYN.  He didn't beg of me.  [Losing himself in recollection.]
+Interesting old creature, Ann--real type.  Old cabman.
+
+ANN.  Where?
+
+WELLWYN.  Just on the Embankment.
+
+ANN.  Of course!  Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always
+rotters.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, my dear; but this wasn't.
+
+ANN.  Did you give him your card?
+
+WELLWYN.  I--I--don't
+
+ANN.  Did you, Daddy?
+
+WELLWYN.  I'm rather afraid I may have!
+
+ANN.  May have!  It's simply immoral.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann.  Besides, I
+didn't give him any money--hadn't got any.
+
+ANN.  Look here, Daddy!  Did you ever ask anybody for anything?  You
+know you never did, you'd starve first.  So would anybody decent.
+Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters?
+
+WELLWYN.  But, my dear, we're not all the same.  They wouldn't do it
+if it wasn't natural to them.  One likes to be friendly.  What's the
+use of being alive if one isn't?
+
+ANN.  Daddy, you're hopeless.
+
+WELLWYN.  But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so jolly
+complicated.  According to Calway, we're to give the State all we can
+spare, to make the undeserving deserving.  He's a Professor; he ought
+to know.  But old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to
+support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the
+undeserving.  Well, that's just the opposite.  And he's a J.P.
+Tremendous experience.  And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of
+both.  Well, what the devil----?  My trouble is, whichever I'm with,
+he always converts me.  [Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of
+them.
+
+ANN.  [Rising.]  Oh!  Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're
+the despair of all social reformers?  [She envelops him.]  There's a
+tear in the left knee of your trousers.  You're not to wear them
+again.
+
+WELLWYN.  Am I likely to?
+
+ANN.  I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair.
+D'you know what I live in terror of?
+
+     [WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]
+
+ANN.  That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the
+street.  Have you got any money?  [She feels in his coat, and he his
+trousers--they find nothing.]  Do you know that your pockets are one
+enormous hole?
+
+WELLWYN.  No!
+
+ANN.  Spiritually.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  H'm!
+
+ANN.  [Severely.]  Now, look here, Daddy!  [She takes him by his
+lapels.]  Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on
+your part to go on giving away things as you do!  You know what you
+really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist!
+
+WELLWYN.  [Breaking away from her, disturbed.]  It isn't sentiment.
+It's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly.  If I'm to give up
+feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it
+doesn't matter who they are--then I don't know what I'm to do.
+I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.
+
+ANN.  I think you ought to.
+
+WELLWYN.  I suppose they see I like them--then they tell me things.
+After that, of course you can't help doing what you can.
+
+ANN.  Well, if you will love them up!
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, I don't want to.  It isn't them especially--why, I
+feel it even with old Calway sometimes.  It's only Providence that he
+doesn't want anything of me--except to make me like himself--confound
+him!
+
+ANN.  [Moving towards the door into the house--impressively.]  What
+you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, thank God!
+
+ANN.  It's so old-fashioned too!  I'm going to bed--I just leave you
+to your conscience.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!
+
+ANN.  [Opening the door-severely.] Good-night--[with a certain
+weakening] you old--Daddy!
+
+     [She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.]
+
+     [WELLWYN stands perfectly still.  He first gazes up at the
+     skylight, then down at the floor.  Slowly he begins to shake his
+     head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Bad lot.  .  .  .  Low type--no backbone, no stability!
+
+     [There comes a fluttering knock on the outer door.  As the sound
+     slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though
+     he knew, but would not admit its significance.  Then he sits
+     down, covering his ears.  The knocking does not cease.  WELLWYN
+     drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle
+     towards the door.  The knocking becomes louder.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah dear!  Tt!  Tt!  Tt!
+
+     [After a look in the direction of ANN's disappearance, he opens
+     the street door a very little way.  By the light of the lamp
+     there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a
+     shawl to which the snow is clinging.  She has on her arm a
+     basket covered with a bit of sacking.]
+
+WELLWYN.  I can't, you know; it's impossible.
+
+     [The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Wincing.] Let's see--I don't know you--do I?
+
+     [The girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent
+     of reproach: "Mrs. Megan--you give me this---"  She holds out a
+     dirty visiting card.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Recoiling from the card.]  Oh!  Did I?  Ah!  When?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring.  You give
+me 'arf a crown.
+
+     [A smile tries to visit her face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Looking stealthily round.] Ah!  Well, come in--just for a
+minute--it's very cold--and tell us what it is.
+
+     [She comes in stolidly, a Sphinx-like figure, with her pretty
+     tragic little face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't remember you.  [Looking closer.] Yes, I do.  Only--
+you weren't the same-were you?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Dully.]  I seen trouble since.
+
+WELLWYN.  Trouble!  Have some tea?
+
+     [He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes
+     quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum
+     into it.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Handing her the tea.]  Keeps the cold out!  Drink it off!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost
+     immediately seems to get a size larger.  WELLWYN watches her
+     with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his
+     face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Cure for all evils, um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  It warms you.  [She smiles.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Smiling back, and catching himself out.]  Well!  You know,
+I oughtn't.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Conscious of the disruption of his personality, and
+withdrawing into her tragic abyss.]  I wouldn't 'a come, but you told
+me if I wanted an 'and----
+
+WELLWYN.  [Gradually losing himself in his own nature.]  Let me
+see--corner of Flight Street, wasn't it?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With faint eagerness.]  Yes, sir, an' I told you about
+me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day.
+
+WELLWYN.  Beautiful!  Beautiful!  Birds singing, and the trees, &c.!
+We had quite a talk.  You had a baby with you.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  I got married since then.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes!  [Cheerfully.]  And how's the baby?
+
+MRS.  MEGAN.  [Turning to stone.]  I lost her.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  poor--- Um!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Impassive.]  You said something abaht makin' a picture
+of me.  [With faint eagerness.]  So I thought I might come, in case
+you'd forgotten.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Looking at, her intently.]  Things going badly?
+
+MRS.  MEGAN.  [Stripping the sacking off her basket.]  I keep 'em
+covered up, but the cold gets to 'em.  Thruppence--that's all I've
+took.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ho!  Tt! Tt!  [He looks into the basket.]  Christmas, too!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  They're dead.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Drawing in his breath.]  Got a good husband?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  He plays cards.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh, Lord!  And what are you doing out--with a cold like
+that?  [He taps his chest.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  We was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is
+mates.  Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.]  But who
+buys flowers at this time of night?
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and faintly smiles.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Rumpling his hair.]  Saints above us!  Here!  Come to the
+fire!
+
+     [She follows him to the fire.  He shuts the street door.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Are your feet wet?  [She nods.]  Well, sit down here, and
+take them off.  That's right.
+
+     [She sits on the stool.  And after a slow look up at him, which
+     has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years,
+     begins taking off her shoes and stockings.  WELLWYN goes to the
+     door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of
+     stealthy casualness.  He returns whistling, but not out loud.
+     The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her
+     bare toes to the flames.  She shuffles them back under her
+     skirt.]
+
+WELLWYN.  How old are you, my child?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Nineteen, come Candlemas.
+
+WELLWYN.  And what's your name?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Guinevere.
+
+WELLWYN.  What?  Welsh?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes--from Battersea.
+
+WELLWYN.  And your husband?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No.  Irish, 'e is.  Notting Dale, 'e comes from.
+
+WELLWYN.  Roman Catholic?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  My 'usband's an atheist as well.
+
+WELLWYN.  I see.  [Abstractedly.] How jolly!  And how old is he--this
+young man of yours?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  'E'll be twenty soon.
+
+WELLWYN.  Babes in the wood!  Does he treat you badly?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No.
+
+WELLWYN.  Nor drink?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No.  He's not a bad one.  Only he gets playin'
+cards then 'e'll fly the kite.
+
+WELLWYN.  I see.  And when he's not flying it, what does he do?
+
+MRS. MEGAN. [Touching her basket.] Same as me.  Other jobs tires 'im.
+
+WELLWYN.  That's very nice!  [He checks himself.]  Well, what am I to
+do with you?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Of course, I could get me night's lodging if I like to
+do--the same as some of them.
+
+WELLWYN.  No!  no!  Never, my child!  Never!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  It's easy that way.
+
+WELLWYN.  Heavens!  But your husband!  Um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after one I know of.
+
+WELLWYN.  Tt!  What a pickle!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I'll 'ave to walk about the streets.
+
+WELLWYN.  [To himself.]  Now how can I?
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already
+     discovered that he is peculiar.]
+
+WELLWYN.  You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you anything--because
+--well, for one thing I haven't got it.  There are other reasons, but
+that's the--real one.  But, now, there's a little room where my
+models dress.  I wonder if you could sleep there.  Come, and see.
+
+     [The Girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth.  She
+     takes up her wet stockings.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Shall I put them on again?
+
+WELLWYN.  No, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers.  [Seeing the
+steam rising from her.]  Why, you're wet all over.  Here, wait a
+little!
+
+     [He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy
+     listening, steps through.  The Girl, like a cat, steals back to
+     the warmth of the fire.  WELLWYN returns with a candle, a
+     canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Now then!  [He precedes her towards the door of the model's
+room.]  Hsssh!  [He opens the door and holds up the candle to show
+her the room.]  Will it do?  There's a couch.  You'll find some
+washing things.  Make yourself quite at home.  See!
+
+     [The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and
+     her shoes and stockings.  WELLWYN hands her the candle,
+     blankets, and bath gown.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Have a good sleep, child!  Forget that you're alive!
+[He closes the door, mournfully.]  Done it again!  [He goes to the
+table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it
+in.]  Chow-chow!  [Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite
+door.]  Well--damn it, what could I have done?  Not a farthing on me!
+[He goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to
+confirm himself in his hospitality.]  Night like this!
+
+     [A sputter of snow is blown in his face.  A voice says:
+     "Monsieur, pardon!"  WELLWYN recoils spasmodically.  A figure
+     moves from the lamp-post to the doorway.  He is seen to be young
+     and to have ragged clothes.  He speaks again: "You do not
+     remember me, Monsieur?  My name is Ferrand--it was in Paris, in
+     the Champs-Elysees--by the fountain .  .  .  .  When you came to
+     the door, Monsieur--I am not made of iron .  .  .  .  Tenez,
+     here is your card I have never lost it." He holds out to WELLWYN
+     an old and dirty wing card.  As inch by inch he has advanced
+     into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall
+     gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of
+     beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large,
+     grey, rather prominent eyes.  There is a certain grace in his
+     figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Yielding to a pleasant memory.]  Ah!  yes.  By the
+fountain.  I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and
+drank the water.
+
+FERRAND.  [With faint eagerness.]  My breakfast.  I was in poverty--
+veree bad off.  You gave me ten francs.  I thought I had a little the
+right [WELLWYN makes a movement of disconcertion]  seeing you said
+that if I came to England----
+
+WELLWYN.  Um!  And so you've come?
+
+FERRAND.  It was time that I consolidated my fortunes, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  And you--have----
+
+     [He stops embarrassed.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Shrugging his ragged shoulders.]  One is not yet Rothschild.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sympathetically.]  No.  [Yielding to memory.]  We talked
+philosophy.
+
+FERRAND.  I have not yet changed my opinion.  We other vagabonds, we
+are exploited by the bourgeois.  This is always my idea, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes--not quite the general view, perhaps!  Well----
+[Heartily.]  Come in!  Very glad to see you again.
+
+FERRAND.  [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, Monsieur--your
+goodness--I am a little weak.  [He opens his coat, and shows a belt
+drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.]  I tighten him one hole for
+each meal, during two days now.  That gives you courage.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have
+some of this.  It'll buck you up.  [He watches the young man drink.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Becoming a size larger.]  Sometimes I think that I will
+never succeed to dominate my life, Monsieur--though I have no vices,
+except that I guard always the aspiration to achieve success.  But I
+will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing
+every day.  I must find with what to fly a little.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Delicately.] Yes; yes--I remember, you found it difficult
+to stay long in any particular--yes.
+
+FERRAND.  [Proudly.]  In one little corner?  No--Monsieur--never!
+That is not in my character.  I must see life.
+
+WELLWYN.  Quite, quite!  Have some cake?
+
+     [He cuts cake.]
+
+FERRAND.  In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have
+it.  But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content.
+[Refusing the cake.] 'Grand merci', but for the moment I have no
+stomach--I have lost my stomach now for two days.  If I could smoke,
+Monsieur!  [He makes the gesture of smoking.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Rather!  [Handing his tobacco pouch.]  Roll yourself one.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rapidly rolling a cigarette.]  If I had not found you,
+Monsieur--I would have been a little hole in the river to-night--
+I was so discouraged.  [He inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of
+smoke.  Very bitterly.]  Life!  [He disperses the puff of smoke with
+his finger, and stares before him.]  And to think that in a few
+minutes HE will be born!  Monsieur!  [He gazes intently at WELLWYN.]
+The world would reproach you for your goodness to me.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Looking uneasily at the door into the house.]  You think
+so?  Ah!
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, if HE himself were on earth now, there would be a
+little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call
+Him sloppee sentimentalist!  And what is veree funny, these gentlemen
+they would all be most strong Christians.  [He regards WELLWYN
+deeply.]  But that will not trouble you, Monsieur; I saw well from
+the first that you are no Christian.  You have so kind a face.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Indeed!
+
+FERRAND.  You have not enough the Pharisee in your character.  You do
+not judge, and you are judged.
+
+     [He stretches his limbs as if in pain.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Are you in pain?
+
+FERRAND.  I 'ave a little the rheumatism.
+
+WELLWYN.  Wet through, of course!  [Glancing towards the house.] Wait
+a bit!  I wonder if you'd like these trousers; they've--er--they're
+not quite----
+
+     [He passes through the door into the house.  FERRAND stands at
+     the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it,
+     smoking with abandonment.  WELLWYN returns stealthily, dressed
+     in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his
+     trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.]  Can
+you make these do for the moment?
+
+FERRAND.  'Je vous remercie', Monsieur.  [Pointing to the screen.]
+May I retire?
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, yes.
+
+     [FERRAND goes behind the screen.  WELLWYN closes the door into
+     the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains.  He
+     suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Good Lord!
+
+     [There is the sound of tapping on glass.  Against the
+     window-pane is pressed the face of a man. WELLWYN motions to him
+     to go away.  He does not go, but continues tapping.  WELLWYN
+     opens the door.  There enters a square old man, with a red,
+     pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler
+     hat.  He is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Who's that?  Who are you?
+
+TIMSON.  [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir;
+we 'ad a talk this morning.  Timson--I give you me name.  You invited
+of me, if ye remember.
+
+WELLWYN.  It's a little late, really.
+
+TIMSON.  Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer.  I
+was 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein'
+Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day.  [He speaks with
+increasing thickness.]  I'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a
+bed abaht me.  Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my
+age.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into
+his pockets.]  The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me.
+
+TIMSON.  [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.]  Wouldn't
+arsk you if I could 'elp it.  'Ad to do with 'orses all me life.
+It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of.  I'm afraid I'll go to sleep.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, really, I----
+
+TIMSON.  To be froze to death--I mean--it's awkward.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Puzzled and unhappy.]  Well--come in a moment, and let's--
+think it out.  Have some tea!
+
+     [He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not
+     very much, adds rum rather liberally.  TIMSON, who walks a
+     little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Receiving the drink.]  Yer 'ealth.  'Ere's--soberiety!
+[He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand.  Agreeably
+surprised.]  Blimey!  Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it?
+
+FERRAND.  [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of
+which the trousers stop too soon.]  With a needle, Monsieur, I would
+soon have with what to make face against the world.
+
+WELLWYN.  Too short!  Ah!
+
+     [He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes
+     from it a needle and cotton.]
+
+     [While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one
+     dog will another.  The old man, glass in hand, seems to have
+     lapsed into coma.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Indicating TIMSON]  Monsieur!
+
+     [He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Handing him the needle and cotton.]  Um!  Afraid so!
+
+     [They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Gently.]  It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur?  'Ceux
+sont tous des buveurs'.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.]  Now, my old
+friend, sit down a moment.  [They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.]
+Will you smoke?
+
+TIMSON.  [In a drowsy voice.]  Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer.  Old
+'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold.
+
+     [He relapses into coma.]
+
+FERRAND.  [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  He hasn't really left a horse outside, do
+you think?
+
+FERRAND.  Non, non, Monsieur--no 'orse.  He is dreaming.  I know very
+well that state of him--that catches you sometimes.  It is the warmth
+sudden on the stomach.  He will speak no more sense to-night.  At the
+most, drink, and fly a little in his past.
+
+WELLWYN.  Poor old buffer!
+
+FERRAND.  Touching, is it not, Monsieur?  There are many brave gents
+among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses,
+and from sitting still.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.]  Drenched!
+
+FERRAND.  That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all.  He is
+well wet inside, remember--it is Christmas to-morrow.  Put him a rug,
+if you will, he will soon steam.
+
+     [WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the
+     old man.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Faintly roused.]  Tha's right.  Put--the rug on th' old
+'orse.
+
+     [He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Alarmed.]  What's the matter with him?
+
+FERRAND.  It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a
+'orse.  'Il joue "cache-cache,"'  'ide and seek, with what you call--
+'is bitt.
+
+WELLWYN.  But what's to be done with him?  One can't turn him out in
+this state.
+
+FERRAND.  If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear.  I
+charge myself with him.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  You--er--I really don't know, I--hadn't
+contemplated--You think you could manage if I--if I went to bed?
+
+FERRAND.  But certainly, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Still dubiously.] You--you're sure you've everything you
+want?
+
+FERRAND.  [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'.
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't know what I can do by staying.
+
+FERRAND.  There is nothing you can do, Monsieur.  Have confidence in
+me.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly.  You'd better
+take this coat of mine, too.  You'll find it precious cold, I expect,
+about three o'clock.  [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Taking it.]  I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah!  Yes!  Thanks!  Well-good-night!  By the way, I shall
+be down rather early.  Have to think of my household a bit, you know.
+
+FERRAND.  'Tres bien, Monsieur'.  I comprehend.  One must well be
+regular in this life.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a start.]  Lord!  [He looks at the door of the
+model's room.] I'd forgotten----
+
+FERRAND.  Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?
+
+WELLWYN.  No, no!  [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer
+door.] You won't want this, will you?
+
+FERRAND.  'Merci, Monsieur'.
+
+     [WELLWYN switches off the light.]
+
+FERRAND.  'Bon soir, Monsieur'!
+
+WELLWYN.  The devil!  Er--good-night!
+
+     [He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly
+     away.]
+
+FERRAND.  [To himself.]  Poor pigeon!  [Looking long at old TIMSON]
+'Espece de type anglais!'
+
+     [He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and
+     taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of
+     trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary
+     stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed.
+     Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and
+     slips behind the screen.  MRS. MEGAN, attracted by the cessation
+     of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model's
+     room towards the fire.  She has almost reached it before she
+     takes in the torpid crimson figure of old TIMSON. She halts and
+     puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the firelight,
+     garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-wool
+     slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck.
+     Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of
+     stupor, MRS. MEGAN goes close to the fire, and sits on the little
+     stool, smiling sideways at old TIMSON.  FERRAND, coming quietly
+     up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if
+     enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back
+     a yard or two.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Gently.] 'Pardon, Ma'moiselle'.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Springing to her feet.]  Oh!
+
+FERRAND.  All right, all right!  We are brave gents!
+
+TIMSON.  [Faintly roused.]  'Old up, there!
+
+FERRAND.  Trust in me, Ma'moiselle!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN responds by drawing away.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Gently.]  We must be good comrades.  This asylum--it is
+better than a doss-'ouse.
+
+     [He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself.
+     Somewhat reassured, MRS. MEGAN again sits down.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You frightened me.
+
+TIMSON.  [Unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.]  Purple foreigners!
+
+FERRAND.  Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle.  He is a philosopher.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Oh!  I thought 'e was boozed.
+
+     [They both look at TIMSON]
+
+FERRAND.  It is the same-veree 'armless.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  What's that he's got on 'im?
+
+FERRAND.  It is a coronation robe.  Have no fear, Ma'moiselle.  Veree
+docile potentate.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I wouldn't be afraid of him.  [Challenging FERRAND.] I'm
+afraid o' you.
+
+FERRAND.  It is because you do not know me, Ma'moiselle.  You are
+wrong, it is always the unknown you should love.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I don't like the way you-speaks to me.
+
+FERRAND.  Ah! You are a Princess in disguise?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No fear!
+
+FERRAND.  No?  What is it then you do to make face against the
+necessities of life?  A living?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Sells flowers.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rolling his eyes.]  It is not a career.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With a touch of devilry.]  You don't know what I do.
+
+FERRAND.  Ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and slowly smiles.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You're a foreigner.
+
+FERRAND.  It is true.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  What do you do for a livin'?
+
+FERRAND.  I am an interpreter.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You ain't very busy, are you?
+
+FERRAND.  [With dignity.]  At present I am resting.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Looking at him and smiling.]  How did you and 'im come
+here?
+
+FERRAND.  Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  The gentleman let me.  'E's funny.
+
+FERRAND.  'C'est un ange'  [At MRS. MEGAN's blank stare he
+interprets.]  An angel!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Me luck's out-that's why I come.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Ah!  Ma'moiselle!  Luck!  There is the little
+God who dominates us all.  Look at this old!  [He points to TIMSON.]
+He is finished.  In his day that old would be doing good business.
+He could afford himself--[He maker a sign of drinking.]--Then come
+the motor cars.  All goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a
+'cocher'!  Luck!
+
+TIMSON.  [With a vague gesture--drowsily.]  Kick the foreign beggars
+out.
+
+FERRAND.  A real Englishman .  .  .  .  And look at me!  My father
+was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels.  If I had been content
+to go in his business, I would 'ave been rich.  But I was born to
+roll--"rolling stone" to voyage is stronger than myself.  Luck!  .  .
+And you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune?  [He looks in her
+face.]  You were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of
+life.  'Et vous voila'!  Luck!
+
+     [Though she does not in the least understand what he has said,
+     her expression changes to a sort of glee.]
+
+FERRAND.  Yes.  You were born loving pleasure.  Is it not?  You see,
+you cannot say, No.  All of us, we have our fates.  Give me your
+hand.  [He kneels down and takes her hand.]  In each of us there is
+that against which we cannot struggle.  Yes, yes!
+
+     [He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own.
+     MRS. MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Flickering into consciousness.]  Be'ave yourselves!  Yer
+crimson canary birds!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN would withdraw her hand, but cannot.]
+
+FERRAND.  Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle.  He is a Puritan.
+
+     [TIMSON relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which
+     falls with a crash.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Let go my hand, please!
+
+FERRAND.  [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.]
+There is one thing I have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in
+my character.  [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her
+face.]  Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I dunno--lots, I thinks of.
+
+FERRAND.  Shall I tell you?  [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the
+strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along."
+He goes on in his ironic voice.]  It is of the streets--the lights--
+the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it
+is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love.  That is for you
+what the road is for me.  That is for you what the rum is for that
+old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON.  Then bending swiftly
+forward to the girl.]  See!  I kiss you--Ah!
+
+     [He draws her forward off the stool.  There is a little
+     struggle, then she resigns her lips.  The little stool,
+     overturned, falls with a clatter.  They spring up, and move
+     apart.  The door opens and ANN enters from the house in a blue
+     dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above
+     her head.  Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove,
+     she recoils.  Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice
+     sharpened by fright: "Daddy--Daddy!"]
+
+TIMSON. [Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.]  All right!
+I'm comin'!
+
+FERRAND.  Have no fear, Madame!
+
+     [In the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking
+     twelve.  ANN remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened
+     on the strangers.  There is the sound of someone falling
+     downstairs, and WELLWYN appears, also holding a candle above his
+     head.]
+
+ANN.  Look!
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, yes, my dear!  It--it happened.
+
+ANN.  [With a sort of groan.]  Oh!  Daddy!
+
+     [In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Softly, in his ironic voice.] HE is come, Monsieur!  'Appy
+Christmas!  Bon Noel!
+
+     [There is a sudden chime of bells.  The Stage is blotted dark.]
+
+
+                              Curtain.
+
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+It is four o'clock in the afternoon of New Year's Day.  On the raised
+dais MRS. MEGAN is standing, in her rags; with bare feet and ankles,
+her dark hair as if blown about, her lips parted, holding out a
+dishevelled bunch of violets.  Before his easel, WELLWYN is painting
+her.  Behind him, at a table between the cupboard and the door to the
+model's room, TIMSON is washing brushes, with the movements of one
+employed upon relief works.  The samovar is hissing on the table by
+the stove, the tea things are set out.
+
+WELLWYN.  Open your mouth.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN opens her mouth.]
+
+ANN.  [In hat and coat, entering from the house.]  Daddy!
+
+     [WELLWYN goes to her; and, released from restraint, MRS. MEGAN
+     looks round at TIMSON and grimaces.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, my dear?
+
+     [They speak in low voices.]
+
+ANN.  [Holding out a note.] This note from Canon Bentley.  He's going
+to bring her husband here this afternoon.  [She looks at MRS. MEGAN.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  [He also looks at MRS. MEGAN.]
+
+ANN.  And I met Sir Thomas Hoxton at church this morning, and spoke
+to him about Timson.
+
+WELLWYN.  Um!
+
+     [They look at TIMSON.  Then ANN goes back to the door, and
+     WELLWYN follows her.]
+
+ANN.  [Turning.]  I'm going round now, Daddy, to ask Professor Calway
+what we're to do with that Ferrand.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  One each!  I wonder if they'll like it.
+
+ANN.  They'll have to lump it.
+
+     [She goes out into the house.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Back at his easel.] You can shut your mouth now.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN shuts her mouth, but opens it immediately to smile.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Spasmodically.]  Ah!  Now that's what I want.  [He dabs
+furiously at the canvas.  Then standing back, runs his hands through
+his hair and turns a painter's glance towards the skylight.]  Dash!
+Light's gone!  Off you get, child--don't tempt me!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN descends.  Passing towards the door of the model's
+     room she stops, and stealthily looks at the picture.]
+
+TIMSON.  Ah!  Would yer!
+
+WELLWYN.  [Wheeling round.]  Want to have a look?  Well--come on!
+
+     [He takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas.
+     After a stolid moment, she giggles.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  You think so?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Who has lost her hoarseness.]  It's not like my picture
+that I had on the pier.
+
+WELLWYN.  No-it wouldn't be.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Timidly.] If I had an 'at on, I'd look better.
+
+WELLWYN.  With feathers?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, you can't!  I don't like hats, and I don't like
+feathers.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN timidly tugs his sleeve.  TIMSON, screened as he
+     thinks by the picture, has drawn from his bulky pocket a bottle
+     and is taking a stealthy swig.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To MRS. MEGAN, affecting not to notice.] How much do I owe
+you?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [A little surprised.]  You paid me for to-day-all 'cept
+a penny.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well!  Here it is.  [He gives her a coin.]  Go and get your
+feet on!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You've give me 'arf a crown.
+
+WELLWYN.  Cut away now!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room.
+     She looks back at WELLWYN, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he
+     is gazing at the picture; then, catching old TIMSON'S sour
+     glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little
+     squeal.  But when WELLWYN turns to the sound, she is demurely
+     passing through the doorway.]
+
+TIMSON.  [In his voice of dubious sobriety.]  I've finished these yer
+brushes, sir.  It's not a man's work.  I've been thinkin' if you'd
+keep an 'orse, I could give yer satisfaction.
+
+WELLWYN.  Would the horse, Timson?
+
+TIMSON.  [Looking him up and down.]  I knows of one that would just
+suit yer.  Reel 'orse, you'd like 'im.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Shaking his head.]  Afraid not, Timson!  Awfully sorry,
+though, to have nothing better for you than this, at present.
+
+TIMSON.  [Faintly waving the brushes.]  Of course, if you can't
+afford it, I don't press you--it's only that I feel I'm not doing
+meself justice.  [Confidentially.]  There's just one thing, sir; I
+can't bear to see a gen'leman imposed on.  That foreigner--'e's not
+the sort to 'ave about the place.  Talk?  Oh!  ah!  But 'e'll never
+do any good with 'imself.  He's a alien.
+
+WELLWYN.  Terrible misfortune to a fellow, Timson.
+
+TIMSON.  Don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault I says to the
+young lady yesterday: Miss Ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a
+sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are--I don't mind
+sayin' it--but, I said, he's too easy-goin'.
+
+WELLWYN.  Indeed!
+
+TIMSON.  Well, see that girl now!  [He shakes his head.]  I never did
+believe in goin' behind a person's back--I'm an Englishman--but
+[lowering his voice]  she's a bad hat, sir.  Why, look at the street
+she comes from!
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  you know it.
+
+TIMSON.  Lived there meself larst three years.  See the difference a
+few days' corn's made in her. She's that saucy you can't touch 'er
+head.
+
+WELLWYN.  Is there any necessity, Timson?
+
+TIMSON.  Artful too.  Full o' vice, I call'er.  Where's 'er 'usband?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Gravely.] Come, Timson!  You wouldn't like her to----
+
+TIMSON.  [With dignity, so that the bottle in his pocket is plainly
+visible.]  I'm a man as always beared inspection.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a well-directed smile.]  So I see.
+
+TIMSON.  [Curving himself round the bottle.]  It's not for me to say
+nothing--but I can tell a gen'leman as quick as ever I can tell an
+'orse.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Painting.]  I find it safest to assume that every man is a
+gentleman, and every woman a lady.  Saves no end of self-contempt.
+Give me the little brush.
+
+TIMSON.  [Handing him the brush--after a considerable introspective
+pause.]  Would yer like me to stay and wash it for yer again?  [With
+great resolution.]  I will--I'll do it for you--never grudged workin'
+for a gen'leman.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With sincerity.]  Thank you, Timson--very good of you, I'm
+sure.  [He hands him back the brush.]  Just lend us a hand with this.
+[Assisted by TIMSON he pushes back the dais.]  Let's see!  What do I
+owe you?
+
+TIMSON.  [Reluctantly.]  It so 'appens, you advanced me to-day's
+yesterday.
+
+WELLWYN.  Then I suppose you want to-morrow's?
+
+TIMSON.  Well, I 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job.  When
+you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you
+might as well be dead.
+
+WELLWYN.  Quite so!
+
+TIMSON.  It mounts up in the course o' the year.
+
+WELLWYN.  It would.  [Passing him a coin.] This is for an exceptional
+purpose--Timson--see.  Not----
+
+TIMSON.  [Touching his forehead.] Certainly, sir.  I quite
+understand.  I'm not that sort, as I think I've proved to yer, comin'
+here regular day after day, all the week.  There's one thing, I ought
+to warn you perhaps--I might 'ave to give this job up any day.
+
+     [He makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts
+     it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Gravely.]  I'd never stand in the way of your bettering
+yourself, Timson.  And, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend
+about you to-day.  I think something may come of it.
+
+TIMSON.  Oh!  Oh!  She did!  Well, it might do me a bit o' good.  [He
+makes for the outer door, but stops.]  That foreigner!  'E sticks in
+my gizzard.  It's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to
+pluck in 'is own Gawd-forsaken country.  Reg-lar jay, that's what I
+calls 'im.  I could tell yer something----
+
+     [He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that FERRAND himself
+     is standing there.  Sticking out his lower lip, TIMSON gives a
+     roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street.  Owing to a
+     slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly
+     visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his
+     battle against the cold.  FERRAND, having closed the door,
+     stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle.
+     He is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a
+     frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk,
+     the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a
+     tan waistcoat.]
+
+WELLWYN.  What luck to-day?
+
+FERRAND.  [With a shrug.]  Again I have beaten all London, Monsieur
+--not one bite.  [Contemplating himself.]  I think perhaps, that, for
+the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Contemplating him.]  Let's see--I believe I've an old top
+hat somewhere.
+
+FERRAND.  Ah!  Monsieur, 'merci', but that I could not.  It is
+scarcely in my character.
+
+WELLWYN.  True!
+
+FERRAND.  I have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to
+Leicester Square.  I have been to a Society for spreading Christian
+knowledge--I thought there I would have a chance perhaps as
+interpreter.  'Toujours meme chose', we regret, we have no situation
+for you--same thing everywhere.  It seems there is nothing doing in
+this town.
+
+WELLWYN.  I've noticed, there never is.
+
+FERRAND.  I was thinking, Monsieur, that in aviation there might be a
+career for me--but it seems one must be trained.
+
+WELLWYN.  Afraid so, Ferrand.
+
+FERRAND.  [Approaching the picture.]  Ah!  You are always working at
+this.  You will have something of very good there, Monsieur.  You
+wish to fix the type of wild savage existing ever amongst our high
+civilisation.  'C'est tres chic ca'!  [WELLWYN manifests the quiet
+delight of an English artist actually understood.]  In the figures
+of these good citizens, to whom she offers her flower, you would
+give the idea of all the cage doors open to catch and make tame the
+wild bird, that will surely die within.  'Tres gentil'!  Believe me,
+Monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life!  How anxious
+are the tame birds to do the wild birds good.  [His voice changes.]
+For the wild birds it is not funny.  There is in some human souls,
+Monsieur, what cannot be made tame.
+
+WELLWYN.  I believe you, Ferrand.
+
+     [The face of a young man appears at the window, unseen.
+     Suddenly ANN opens the door leading to the house.]
+
+ANN.  Daddy--I want you.
+
+WELLWYN.  [To FERRAND.]  Excuse me a minute!
+
+     [He goes to his daughter, and they pass out.  FERRAND remains
+     at the picture.  MRS. MEGAN dressed in some of ANN's discarded
+     garments, has come out of the model's room.  She steals up
+     behind FERRAND like a cat, reaches an arm up, and curls it
+     round his mouth.  He turns, and tries to seize her; she
+     disingenuously slips away. He follows.  The chase circles the
+     tea table.  He catches her, lifts her up, swings round with
+     her, so that her feet fly out; kisses her bent-back face, and
+     sets her down.  She stands there smiling. The face at the
+     window darkens.]
+
+FERRAND.  La Valse!
+
+     [He takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts her hands
+     against his shoulders to push him of--and suddenly they are
+     whirling.  As they whirl, they bob together once or twice, and
+     kiss.  Then, with a warning motion towards the door, she
+     wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying
+     desperately to appear demure.  WELLWYN and ANN have entered.
+     The face has vanished.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Pointing to the picture.]  One does not comprehend all
+this, Monsieur, without well studying.  I was in train to interpret
+for Ma'moiselle the chiaroscuro.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a queer look.]  Don't take it too seriously,
+Ferrand.
+
+FERRAND.  It is a masterpiece.
+
+WELLWYN.  My daughter's just spoken to a friend, Professor Calway.
+He'd like to meet you.  Could you come back a little later?
+
+FERRAND.  Certainly, Ma'moiselle.  That will be an opening for me, I
+trust.  [He goes to the street door.]
+
+ANN.  [Paying no attention to him.]  Mrs. Megan, will you too come
+back in half an hour?
+
+FERRAND.  'Tres bien, Ma'moiselle'! I will see that she does.  We
+will take a little promenade together.  That will do us good.
+
+     [He motions towards the door; MRS. MEGAN, all eyes, follows him
+     out.]
+
+ANN.  Oh!  Daddy, they are rotters.  Couldn't you see they were
+having the most high jinks?
+
+WELLWYN.  [At his picture.]  I seemed to have noticed something.
+
+ANN.  [Preparing for tea.]  They were kissing.
+
+WELLWYN.  Tt!  Tt!
+
+ANN.  They're hopeless, all three--especially her.  Wish I hadn't
+given her my clothes now.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Absorbed.]  Something of wild-savage.
+
+ANN.  Thank goodness it's the Vicar's business to see that married
+people live together in his parish.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  The Megans are Roman Catholic-Atheists,
+Ann.
+
+ANN.  [With heat.]  Then they're all the more bound.  [WELLWYN gives
+a sudden and alarmed whistle.]
+
+ANN.  What's the matter?
+
+WELLWYN.  Didn't you say you spoke to Sir Thomas, too.  Suppose he
+comes in while the Professor's here.  They're cat and dog.
+
+ANN.  [Blankly.]  Oh!  [As WELLWYN strikes a match.] The samovar is
+lighted.  [Taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to
+the cupboard.]  It's all right.  He won't.
+
+WELLWYN.  We'll hope not.
+
+     [He turns back to his picture.]
+
+ANN.  [At the cupboard.]  Daddy!
+
+WELLWYN.  Hi!
+
+ANN.  There were three bottles.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!
+
+ANN.  Well!  Now there aren't any.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Abstracted.]  That'll be Timson.
+
+ANN.  [With real horror.]  But it's awful!
+
+WELLWYN.  It is, my dear.
+
+ANN.  In seven days.  To say nothing of the stealing.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Vexed.]  I blame myself-very much.  Ought to have kept it
+locked up.
+
+ANN.  You ought to keep him locked up!
+
+     [There is heard a mild but authoritative knock.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Here's the Vicar!
+
+ANN.  What are you going to do about the rum?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Opening the door to CANON BERTLEY.]  Come in, Vicar!
+Happy New Year!
+
+BERTLEY.  Same to you!  Ah!  Ann!  I've got into touch with her
+young husband--he's coming round.
+
+ANN.  [Still a little out of her plate.]  Thank Go---Moses!
+
+BERTLEY.  [Faintly surprised.]  From what I hear he's not really a
+bad youth.  Afraid he bets on horses.  The great thing, WELLWYN,
+with those poor fellows is to put your finger on the weak spot.
+
+ANN.  [To herself-gloomily.]  That's not difficult.  What would you
+do, Canon Bertley, with a man who's been drinking father's rum?
+
+BERTLEY.  Remove the temptation, of course.
+
+WELLWYN.  He's done that.
+
+BERTLEY.  Ah!  Then--[WELLWYN and ANN hang on his words]  then I
+should--er--
+
+ANN.  [Abruptly.]  Remove him.
+
+BERTLEY.  Before I say that, Ann, I must certainly see the
+individual.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Pointing to the window.]  There he is!
+
+     [In the failing light TIMSON'S face is indeed to be seen
+     pressed against the window pane.]
+
+ANN.  Daddy, I do wish you'd have thick glass put in.  It's so
+disgusting to be spied at!  [WELLWYN going quickly to the door, has
+opened it.]  What do you want?  [TIMSON enters with dignity.  He is
+fuddled.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Slowly.] Arskin' yer pardon-thought it me duty to come
+back-found thish yer little brishel on me.  [He produces the little
+paint brush.]
+
+ANN.  [In a deadly voice.]  Nothing else?
+
+     [TIMSON accords her a glassy stare.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Taking the brush hastily.]  That'll do, Timson, thanks!
+
+TIMSON.  As I am 'ere, can I do anything for yer?
+
+ANN.  Yes, you can sweep out that little room.  [She points to the
+model's room.]  There's a broom in there.
+
+TIMSON.  [Disagreeably surprised.]  Certainly; never make bones
+about a little extra--never 'ave in all me life.  Do it at onsh, I
+will.  [He moves across to the model's room at that peculiar broad
+gait so perfectly adjusted to his habits.]  You quite understand me
+--couldn't bear to 'ave anything on me that wasn't mine.
+
+     [He passes out.]
+
+ANN.  Old fraud!
+
+WELLWYN.  "In" and "on."  Mark my words, he'll restore the--bottles.
+
+BERTLEY.  But, my dear WELLWYN, that is stealing.
+
+WELLWYN.  We all have our discrepancies, Vicar.
+
+ANN.  Daddy!  Discrepancies!
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards solids Timson's an
+Individualist, but as regards liquids he's a Socialist .  .  .  or
+'vice versa', according to taste.
+
+BERTLEY.  No, no, we mustn't joke about it.  [Gravely.]  I do think
+he should be spoken to.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, but not by me.
+
+BERTLEY.  Surely you're the proper person.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Shaking his head.]  It was my rum, Vicar.  Look so
+personal.
+
+     [There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Isn't that the Professor's knock?
+
+     [While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens
+     it.  There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved
+     man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking
+     off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead,
+     which completely dominates all that comes below it.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Come in, Professor!  So awfully good of you!  You know
+Canon Bentley, I think?
+
+CALWAY.  Ah!  How d'you do?
+
+WELLWYN.  Your opinion will be invaluable, Professor.
+
+ANN.  Tea, Professor Calway?
+
+     [They have assembled round the tea table.]
+
+CALWAY.  Thank you; no tea; milk.
+
+WELLWYN.  Rum?
+
+     [He pours rum into CALWAY's milk.]
+
+CALWAY.  A little-thanks!  [Turning to ANN.]  You were going to show
+me some one you're trying to rescue, or something, I think.
+
+ANN.  Oh!  Yes.  He'll be here directly--simply perfect rotter.
+
+CALWAY.  [Smiling.]  Really!  Ah!  I think you said he was a
+congenital?
+
+WELLWYN.  [With great interest.]  What!
+
+ANN.  [Low.]  Daddy!  [To CALWAY.] Yes; I--I think that's what you
+call him.
+
+CALWAY.  Not old?
+
+ANN.  No; and quite healthy--a vagabond.
+
+CALWAY.  [Sipping.]  I see!  Yes.  Is it, do you think chronic
+unemployment with a vagrant tendency?  Or would it be nearer the
+mark to say: Vagrancy----
+
+WELLWYN.  Pure!  Oh!  pure!  Professor.  Awfully human.
+
+CALWAY.  [With a smile of knowledge.]  Quite!  And--er----
+
+ANN.  [Breaking in.]  Before he comes, there's another----
+
+BERTLEY.  [Blandly.]  Yes, when you came in, we were discussing what
+should be done with a man who drinks rum--[CALWAY pauses in the act
+of drinking]--that doesn't belong to him.
+
+CALWAY.  Really!  Dipsomaniac?
+
+BERTLEY.  Well--perhaps you could tell us--drink certainly changing
+thine to mine.  The Professor could see him, WELLWYN?
+
+ANN.  [Rising.]  Yes, do come and look at him, Professor CALWAY.
+He's in there.
+
+     [She points towards the model's room.  CALWAY smiles
+     deprecatingly.]
+
+ANN.  No, really; we needn't open the door.  You can see him through
+the glass.  He's more than half----
+
+CALWAY.  Well, I hardly----
+
+ANN.  Oh!  Do!  Come on, Professor CALWAY!  We must know what to do
+with him.  [CALWAY rises.]  You can stand on a chair.  It's all
+science.
+
+     [She draws CALWAY to the model's room, which is lighted by a
+     glass panel in the top of the high door.  CANON BERTLEY also
+     rises and stands watching.  WELLWYN hovers, torn between
+     respect for science and dislike of espionage.]
+
+ANN.  [Drawing up a chair.]  Come on!
+
+CALWAY.  Do you seriously wish me to?
+
+ANN.  Rather!  It's quite safe; he can't see you.
+
+CALWAY.  But he might come out.
+
+     [ANN puts her back against the door.  CALWAY mounts the chair
+     dubiously, and raises his head cautiously, bending it more and
+     more downwards.]
+
+ANN.  Well?
+
+CALWAY.  He appears to be---sitting on the floor.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, that's all right!
+
+     [BERTLEY covers his lips.]
+
+CALWAY.  [To ANN--descending.]  By the look of his face, as far as
+one can see it, I should say there was a leaning towards mania.  I
+know the treatment.
+
+     [There come three loud knocks on the door.  WELLWYN and ANN
+     exchange a glance of consternation.]
+
+ANN.  Who's that?
+
+WELLWYN.  It sounds like Sir Thomas.
+
+CALWAY.  Sir Thomas Hoxton?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Nodding.]  Awfully sorry, Professor.  You see, we----
+
+CALWAY.  Not at all.  Only, I must decline to be involved in
+argument with him, please.
+
+BERTLEY.  He has experience.  We might get his opinion, don't you
+think?
+
+CALWAY.  On a point of reform?  A J.P.!
+
+BERTLEY.  [Deprecating.]  My dear Sir--we needn't take it.
+
+     [The three knocks resound with extraordinary fury.]
+
+ANN.  You'd better open the door, Daddy.
+
+     [WELLWYN opens the door.  SIR, THOMAS HOXTON is disclosed in a
+     fur overcoat and top hat.  His square, well-coloured face is
+     remarkable for a massive jaw, dominating all that comes above
+     it.  His Voice is resolute.]
+
+HOXTON.  Afraid I didn't make myself heard.
+
+WELLWYN.  So good of you to come, Sir Thomas.  Canon Bertley!  [They
+greet.]  Professor CALWAY you know, I think.
+
+HOXTON.  [Ominously.]  I do.
+
+     [They almost greet.  An awkward pause.]
+
+ANN.  [Blurting it out.]  That old cabman I told you of's been
+drinking father's rum.
+
+BERTLEY.  We were just discussing what's to be done with him, Sir
+Thomas.  One wants to do the very best, of course.  The question of
+reform is always delicate.
+
+CALWAY.  I beg your pardon.  There is no question here.
+
+HOXTON.  [Abruptly.]  Oh!  Is he in the house?
+
+ANN.  In there.
+
+HOXTON.  Works for you, eh?
+
+WELLWYN.  Er--yes.
+
+HOXTON.  Let's have a look at him!
+
+     [An embarrassed pause.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Well--the fact is, Sir Thomas----
+
+CALWAY.  When last under observation----
+
+ANN.  He was sitting on the floor.
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't want the old fellow to feel he's being made a show
+of.  Disgusting to be spied at, Ann.
+
+ANN.  You can't, Daddy!  He's drunk.
+
+HOXTON.  Never mind, Miss WELLWYN.  Hundreds of these fellows before
+me in my time.  [At CALWAY.]  The only thing is a sharp lesson!
+
+CALWAY.  I disagree.  I've seen the man; what he requires is steady
+control, and the bobbins treatment.
+
+     [WELLWYN approaches them with fearful interest.]
+
+HOXTON.  Not a bit of it!  He wants one for his knob!  Brace 'em up!
+It's the only thing.
+
+BERTLEY.  Personally, I think that if he were spoken to seriously
+
+CALWAY.  I cannot walk arm in arm with a crab!
+
+HOXTON.  [Approaching CALWAY.]  I beg your pardon?
+
+CALWAY.  [Moving back a little.] You're moving backwards, Sir
+Thomas.  I've told you before, convinced reactionaryism, in these
+days----
+
+     [There comes a single knock on the street door.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Looking at his watch.]  D'you know, I'm rather afraid
+this may be our young husband, WELLWYN.  I told him half-past four.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes.  [Going towards the two reformers.]  Shall
+we go into the house, Professor, and settle the question quietly
+while the Vicar sees a young man?
+
+CALWAY.  [Pale with uncompleted statement, and gravitating
+insensibly in the direction indicated.]  The merest sense of
+continuity--a simple instinct for order----
+
+HOXTON.  [Following.]  The only way to get order, sir, is to bring
+the disorderly up with a round turn.  [CALWAY turns to him in the
+doorway.]  You people without practical experience----
+
+CALWAY.  If you'll listen to me a minute.
+
+HOXTON.  I can show you in a mo----
+
+     [They vanish through the door.]
+
+WELLWYN.  I was afraid of it.
+
+BERTLEY.  The two points of view.  Pleasant to see such keenness.
+I may want you, WELLWYN.  And Ann perhaps had better not be present.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Relieved.]  Quite so!  My dear!
+
+     [ANN goes reluctantly.  WELLWYN opens the street door.  The
+     lamp outside has just been lighted, and, by its gleam, is seen
+     the figure of RORY MEGAN, thin, pale, youthful.  ANN turning at
+     the door into the house gives him a long, inquisitive look,
+     then goes.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Is that Megan?
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.
+
+WELLWYN.  Come in.
+
+     [MEGAN comes in.  There follows an awkward silence, during
+     which WELLWYN turns up the light, then goes to the tea table
+     and pours out a glass of tea and rum.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Kindly.]  Now, my boy, how is it that you and your wife
+are living apart like this?
+
+MEGAN.  I dunno.
+
+BERTLEY.  Well, if you don't, none of us are very likely to, are we?
+
+MEGAN.  That's what I thought, as I was comin' along.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Twinkling.]  Have some tea, Megan?  [Handing him the
+glass.]  What d'you think of her picture?  'Tisn't quite finished.
+
+MEGAN.  [After scrutiny.] I seen her look like it--once.
+
+WELLWYN.  Good!  When was that?
+
+MEGAN.  [Stoically.]  When she 'ad the measles.
+
+     [He drinks.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Ruminating.] I see--yes.  I quite see feverish!
+
+BERTLEY.  My dear WELLWYN, let me--[To, MEGAN.]  Now, I hope you're
+willing to come together again, and to maintain her?
+
+MEGAN.  If she'll maintain me.
+
+BERTLEY.  Oh!  but--I see, you mean you're in the same line of
+business?
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.
+
+BERTLEY.  And lean on each other.  Quite so!
+
+MEGAN.  I leans on 'er mostly--with 'er looks.
+
+BERTLEY.  Indeed!  Very interesting--that!
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.  Sometimes she'll take 'arf a crown off of a toff.  [He
+looks at WELLWYN.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Twinkling.]  I apologise to you, Megan.
+
+MEGAN.  [With a faint smile.]  I could do with a bit more of it.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Dubiously.]  Yes!  Yes!  Now, my boy, I've heard you bet
+on horses.
+
+MEGAN.  No, I don't.
+
+BERTLEY.  Play cards, then?  Come!  Don't be afraid to acknowledge
+it.
+
+MEGAN.  When I'm 'ard up--yus.
+
+BERTLEY.  But don't you know that's ruination?
+
+MEGAN.  Depends.  Sometimes I wins a lot.
+
+BERTLEY.  You know that's not at all what I mean.  Come, promise me
+to give it up.
+
+MEGAN.  I dunno abaht that.
+
+BERTLEY.  Now, there's a good fellow.  Make a big effort and throw
+the habit off!
+
+MEGAN.  Comes over me--same as it might over you.
+
+BERTLEY.  Over me!  How do you mean, my boy?
+
+MEGAN.  [With a look up.]  To tork!
+
+     [WELLWYN, turning to the picture, makes a funny little noise.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Maintaining his good humour.]  A hit!  But you forget,
+you know, to talk's my business.  It's not yours to gamble.
+
+MEGAN.  You try sellin' flowers.  If that ain't a--gamble
+
+BERTLEY.  I'm afraid we're wandering a little from the point.
+Husband and wife should be together.  You were brought up to that.
+Your father and mother----
+
+MEGAN.  Never was.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Turning from the picture.]  The question is, Megan: Will
+you take your wife home?  She's a good little soul.
+
+MEGAN.  She never let me know it.
+
+     [There is a feeble knock on the door.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, now come.  Here she is!
+
+     [He points to the door, and stands regarding MEGAN with his
+     friendly smile.]
+
+MEGAN.  [With a gleam of responsiveness.]  I might, perhaps, to
+please you, sir.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Appropriating the gesture.]  Capital, I thought we should
+get on in time.
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.
+
+     [WELLWYN opens the door.  MRS. MEGAN and FERRAND are revealed.
+     They are about to enter, but catching sight of MEGAN,
+     hesitate.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Come in!  Come in!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN enters stolidly.  FERRAND, following, stands apart
+     with an air of extreme detachment.  MEGAN, after a quick glance
+     at them both, remains unmoved.  No one has noticed that the
+     door of the model's room has been opened, and that the unsteady
+     figure of old TIMSON is standing there.]
+
+BERTLEY. [A little awkward in the presence of FERRAND--to the
+MEGANS.]  This begins a new chapter.  We won't improve the occasion.
+No need.
+
+     [MEGAN, turning towards his wife, makes her a gesture as if to
+     say: "Here!  let's get out of this!"]
+
+BENTLEY.  Yes, yes, you'll like to get home at once--I know.  [He
+holds up his hand mechanically.]
+
+TIMSON.  I forbids the banns.
+
+BERTLEY, [Startled.]  Gracious!
+
+TIMSON.  [Extremely unsteady.]  Just cause and impejiment.  There 'e
+stands.  [He points to FERRAND.] The crimson foreigner!  The mockin'
+jay!
+
+WELLWYN.  Timson!
+
+TIMSON.  You're a gen'leman--I'm aweer o' that but I must speak the
+truth--[he waves his hand] an' shame the devil!
+
+BERTLEY.  Is this the rum--?
+
+TIMSON.  [Struck by the word.]  I'm a teetotaler.
+
+WELLWYN.  Timson, Timson!
+
+TIMSON.  Seein' as there's ladies present, I won't be conspicuous.
+[Moving away, and making for the door, he strikes against the dais,
+and mounts upon it.]  But what I do say, is: He's no better than 'er
+and she's worse.
+
+BERTLEY.  This is distressing.
+
+FERRAND.  [Calmly.]  On my honour, Monsieur!
+
+     [TIMSON growls.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Now, now, Timson!
+
+TIMSON.  That's all right.  You're a gen'leman, an' I'm a gen'leman,
+but he ain't an' she ain't.
+
+WELLWYN.  We shall not believe you.
+
+BERTLEY.  No, no; we shall not believe you.
+
+TIMSON.  [Heavily.]  Very well, you doubts my word.  Will it make
+any difference, Guv'nor, if I speaks the truth?
+
+BERTLEY.  No, certainly not--that is--of course, it will.
+
+TIMSON.  Well, then, I see 'em plainer than I see [pointing at
+BERTLEY]  the two of you.
+
+WELLWYN.  Be quiet, Timson!
+
+BERTLEY.  Not even her husband believes you.
+
+MEGAN.  [Suddenly.]  Don't I!
+
+WELLWYN.  Come, Megan, you can see the old fellow's in Paradise.
+
+BERTLEY.  Do you credit such a--such an object?
+
+     [He points at TIMSON, who seems falling asleep.]
+
+MEGAN.  Naow!
+
+     [Unseen by anybody, ANN has returned.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Well, then, my boy?
+
+MEGAN.  I seen 'em meself.
+
+BERTLEY.  Gracious!  But just now you were will----
+
+MEGAN.  [Sardonically.]  There wasn't nothing against me honour,
+then.  Now you've took it away between you, cumin' aht with it like
+this.  I don't want no more of 'er, and I'll want a good deal more
+of 'im; as 'e'll soon find.
+
+     [He jerks his chin at FERRAND, turns slowly on his heel, and
+     goes out into the street.]
+
+     [There follows a profound silence.]
+
+ANN.  What did I say, Daddy?  Utter!  All three.
+
+     [Suddenly alive to her presence, they all turn.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Waking up and looking round him.]  Well, p'raps I'd better
+go.
+
+     [Assisted by WELLWYN he lurches gingerly off the dais towards
+     the door, which WELLWYN holds open for him.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Mechanically.]  Where to, sir?
+
+     [Receiving no answer he passes out, touching his hat; and the
+     door is closed.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ann!
+
+     [ANN goes back whence she came.]
+
+     [BERTLEY, steadily regarding MRS. MEGAN, who has put her arm up
+     in front of her face, beckons to FERRAND, and the young man
+     comes gravely forward.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Young people, this is very dreadful.  [MRS. MEGAN lowers
+her arm a little, and looks at him over it.]  Very sad!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Dropping her arm.]  Megan's no better than what I am.
+
+BERTLEY.  Come, come!  Here's your home broken up!  [MRS.  MEGAN
+Smiles.  Shaking his head gravely.]  Surely-surely-you mustn't
+smile.  [MRS.  MEGAN becomes tragic.]  That's better.  Now, what is
+to be done?
+
+FERRAND.  Believe me, Monsieur, I greatly regret.
+
+BERTLEY.  I'm glad to hear it.
+
+FERRAND.  If I had foreseen this disaster.
+
+BERTLEY.  Is that your only reason for regret?
+
+FERRAND.  [With a little bow.]  Any reason that you wish, Monsieur.
+I will do my possible.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I could get an unfurnished room if [she slides her eyes
+round at WELLWYN]  I 'ad the money to furnish it.
+
+BERTLEY.  But suppose I can induce your husband to forgive you, and
+take you back?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Shaking her head.]  'E'd 'it me.
+
+BERTLEY.  I said to forgive.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  That wouldn't make no difference.  [With a flash at
+BERTLEY.]  An' I ain't forgiven him!
+
+BERTLEY.  That is sinful.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I'm a Catholic.
+
+BERTLEY.  My good child, what difference does that make?
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, if I might interpret for her.
+
+     [BERTLEY silences him with a gesture.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Sliding her eyes towards WELLWYN.] If I 'ad the money
+to buy some fresh stock.
+
+BERTLEY.  Yes; yes; never mind the money.  What I want to find in
+you both, is repentance.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With a flash up at him.]  I can't get me livin' off of
+repentin'.
+
+BERTLEY.  Now, now!  Never say what you know to be wrong.
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, her soul is very simple.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Severely.]  I do not know, sir, that we shall get any
+great assistance from your views.  In fact, one thing is clear to
+me, she must discontinue your acquaintanceship at once.
+
+FERRAND.  Certainly, Monsieur.  We have no serious intentions.
+
+BERTLEY.  All the more shame to you, then!
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, I see perfectly your point of view.  It is very
+natural.  [He bows and is silent.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I don't want'im hurt'cos o' me.  Megan'll get his mates
+to belt him--bein' foreign like he is.
+
+BERTLEY.  Yes, never mind that.  It's you I'm thinking of.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I'd sooner they'd hit me.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Suddenly.]  Well said, my child!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  'Twasn't his fault.
+
+FERRAND.  [Without irony--to WELLWYN.] I cannot accept that
+Monsieur.  The blame--it is all mine.
+
+ANN.  [Entering suddenly from the house.]  Daddy, they're having an
+awful----!
+
+     [The voices of PROFESSOR CALWAY and SIR THOMAS HOXTON are
+     distinctly heard.]
+
+CALWAY.  The question is a much wider one, Sir Thomas.
+
+HOXTON.  As wide as you like, you'll never----
+
+     [WELLWYN pushes ANN back into the house and closes the door
+     behind her.  The voices are still faintly heard arguing on the
+     threshold.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Let me go in here a minute, Wellyn.  I must finish
+speaking to her.  [He motions MRS. MEGAN towards the model's room.]
+We can't leave the matter thus.
+
+FERRAND.  [Suavely.] Do you desire my company, Monsieur?
+
+     [BERTLEY, with a prohibitive gesture of his hand, shepherds the
+     reluctant MRS. MEGAN into the model's room.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sorrowfully.]  You shouldn't have done this, Ferrand.  It
+wasn't the square thing.
+
+FERRAND.  [With dignity.]  Monsieur, I feel that I am in the wrong.
+It was stronger than me.
+
+     [As he speaks, SIR THOMAS HOXTON and PROFESSOR CALWAY enter
+     from the house.  In the dim light, and the full cry of
+     argument, they do not notice the figures at the fire.  SIR
+     THOMAS HOXTON leads towards the street door.]
+
+HOXTON.  No, Sir, I repeat, if the country once commits itself to
+your views of reform, it's as good as doomed.
+
+CALWAY.  I seem to have heard that before, Sir Thomas.  And let me
+say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime----
+
+HOXTON.  Is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grand-motherly
+methods.  What the old fellow wants is a shock!  With all this
+socialistic molly-coddling, you're losing sight of the individual.
+
+CALWAY.  [Swiftly.] You, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost,"
+have never even seen him.
+
+     [SIR THOMAS HOXTON, throwing back a gesture of disgust, steps
+     out into the night, and falls heavily PROFESSOR CALWAY,
+     hastening to his rescue, falls more heavily still.]
+
+     [TIMSON, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits
+     up.]
+
+HOXTON.  [Struggling to his knees.]  Damnation!
+
+CALWAY.  [Sitting.]  How simultaneous!
+
+     [WELLWYN and FERRAND approach hastily.]
+
+FERRAND. [Pointing to TIMSON.]  Monsieur, it was true, it seems.
+They had lost sight of the individual.
+
+     [A Policeman has appeared under the street lamp.  He picks up
+     HOXTON'S hat.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  Anything wrong, sir?
+
+HOXTON.  [Recovering his feet.]  Wrong?  Great Scott!  Constable!
+Why do you let things lie about in the street like this?  Look here,
+Wellyn!
+
+     [They all scrutinize TIMSON.]
+
+WELLWYN.  It's only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing.
+
+HOXTON.  How did he come here?
+
+CONSTABLE.  Drunk, sir.  [Ascertaining TIMSON to be in the street.]
+Just off the premises, by good luck.  Come along, father.
+
+TIMSON.  [Assisted to his feet-drowsily.]  Cert'nly, by no means;
+take my arm.
+
+     [They move from the doorway.  HOXTON and CALWAY re-enter, and
+     go towards the fire.]
+
+ANN.  [Entering from the house.]  What's happened?
+
+CALWAY.  Might we have a brush?
+
+HOXTON.  [Testily.]  Let it dry!
+
+     [He moves to the fire and stands before it.  PROFESSOR CALWAY
+     following stands a little behind him.  ANN returning begins to
+     brush the PROFESSOR's sleeve.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after
+the receding TIMSON.]  Poor old Timson!
+
+FERRAND.  [Softly.]  Must be philosopher, Monsieur! They will but
+run him in a little.
+
+     [From the model's room MRS. MEGAN has come out, shepherded by
+     CANON BERTLEY.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Let's see, your Christian name is----.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Guinevere.
+
+BERTLEY.  Oh!  Ah!  Ah!  Ann, take Gui--take our little friend into
+the study a minute: I am going to put her into service.  We shall
+make a new woman of her, yet.
+
+ANN.  [Handing CANON BERTLEY the brush, and turning to MRS. MEGAN.]
+Come on!
+
+     [She leads into the house, and MRS. MEGAN follows Stolidly.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Brushing CALWAY'S back.]  Have you fallen?
+
+CALWAY.  Yes.
+
+BERTLEY.  Dear me!  How was that?
+
+HOXTON.  That old ruffian drunk on the doorstep.  Hope they'll give
+him a sharp dose!  These rag-tags!
+
+     [He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on FERRAND.]
+
+FERRAND.  [With his eyes on HOXTON--softly.]  Monsieur, something
+tells me it is time I took the road again.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Fumbling out a sovereign.]  Take this, then!
+
+FERRAND.  [Refusing the coin.]  Non, Monsieur.  To abuse 'ospitality
+is not in my character.
+
+BERTLEY.  We must not despair of anyone.
+
+HOXTON.  Who talked of despairing?  Treat him, as I say, and you'll
+see!
+
+CALWAY.  The interest of the State----
+
+HOXTON.  The interest of the individual citizen sir----
+
+BERTLEY.  Come!  A little of both, a little of both!
+
+     [They resume their brushing.]
+
+FERRAND.  You are now debarrassed of us three, Monsieur.  I leave
+you instead--these sirs.  [He points.]  'Au revoir, Monsieur'!
+[Motioning towards the fire.]  'Appy New Year!
+
+     [He slips quietly out.  WELLWYN, turning, contemplates the
+     three reformers.  They are all now brushing away, scratching
+     each other's backs, and gravely hissing.  As he approaches
+     them, they speak with a certain unanimity.]
+
+HOXTON.  My theory----!
+
+CALWAY.  My theory----!
+
+BERTLEY.  My theory----!
+
+     [They stop surprised.  WELLWYN makes a gesture of discomfort,
+     as they speak again with still more unanimity.]
+
+HOXTON.  My----!  CALWAY.  My----!  BERTLEY.  My----!
+
+     [They stop in greater surprise.  The stage is blotted dark.]
+
+
+                              Curtain.
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+It is the first of April--a white spring day of gleams and driving
+showers.  The street door of WELLWYN's studio stands wide open, and,
+past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper
+bags.  Through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary
+furniture van with its flap let down.  To this van three humble-men
+in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the
+studio.  The hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly
+empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the
+fast-being-gutted room.  WELLWYN in his ulster and soft hat, is
+squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring
+into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette.  He has a moulting air.
+Behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles
+of vertu.
+
+CHIEF H'MAN.  [Stopping, and standing in the attitude of
+expectation.]  We've about pinched this little lot, sir.  Shall we
+take the--reservoir?
+
+     [He indicates the samovar.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah! [Abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding
+coins.]  Thanks--thanks--heavy work, I'm afraid.
+
+H'MAN.  [Receiving the coins--a little surprised and a good deal
+pleased.]  Thank'ee, sir.  Much obliged, I'm sure.  We'll 'ave to
+come back for this.  [He gives the dais a vigorous push with his
+foot.]  Not a fixture, as I understand.  Perhaps you'd like us to
+leave these 'ere for a bit.  [He indicates the tea things.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah! do.
+
+     [The humble-men go out.  There is the sound of horses being
+     started, and the butt end of the van disappears.  WELLWYN stays
+     on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare.  The open
+     doorway is darkened by a figure.  CANON BERTLEY is standing
+     there.]
+
+BERTLEY.  WELLWYN!  [WELLWYN turns and rises.]  It's ages since I
+saw you.  No idea you were moving.  This is very dreadful.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, Ann found this--too exposed.  That tall house in
+Flight Street--we're going there.  Seventh floor.
+
+BERTLEY.  Lift?
+
+     [WELLWYN shakes his head.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Dear me!  No lift?  Fine view, no doubt.  [WELLWYN nods.]
+You'll be greatly missed.
+
+WELLWYN.  So Ann thinks.  Vicar, what's become of that little
+flower-seller I was painting at Christmas?  You took her into
+service.
+
+BERTLEY.  Not we--exactly!  Some dear friends of ours.  Painful
+subject!
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!
+
+BERTLEY.  Yes.  She got the footman into trouble.
+
+WELLWYN.  Did she, now?
+
+BERTLEY.  Disappointing.  I consulted with CALWAY, and he advised me
+to try a certain institution.  We got her safely in--excellent
+place; but, d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago.  And since--
+I've heard  [he holds his hands up]  hopeless, I'm afraid--quite!
+
+WELLWYN.  I thought I saw her last night.  You can't tell me her
+address, I suppose?
+
+BERTLEY.  [Shaking his head.]  The husband too has quite passed out
+of my ken.  He betted on horses, you remember.  I'm sometimes
+tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but
+to pray for death.
+
+     [ANN has entered from the house.  Her hair hangs from under a
+     knitted cap.  She wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk
+     scarf.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Ah!  Ann.  I was telling your father of that poor little
+Mrs. Megan.
+
+ANN.  Is she dead?
+
+BERTLEY.  Worse I fear.  By the way--what became of her accomplice?
+
+ANN.  We haven't seen him since.  [She looks searchingly at
+WELLWYN.]  At least--have you--Daddy?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Rather hurt.]  No, my dear; I have not.
+
+BERTLEY.  And the--old gentleman who drank the rum?
+
+ANN.  He got fourteen days.  It was the fifth time.
+
+BERTLEY.  Dear me!
+
+ANN.  When he came out he got more drunk than ever.  Rather a score
+for Professor Calway, wasn't it?
+
+BERTLEY.  I remember.  He and Sir Thomas took a kindly interest in
+the old fellow.
+
+ANN.  Yes, they fell over him.  The Professor got him into an
+Institution.
+
+BERTLEY.  Indeed!
+
+ANN.  He was perfectly sober all the time he was there.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, they only allow them milk.
+
+ANN.  Well, anyway, he was reformed.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ye-yes!
+
+ANN.  [Terribly.]  Daddy!  You've been seeing him!
+
+WELLWYN.  [With dignity.]  My dear, I have not.
+
+ANN.  How do you know, then?
+
+WELLWYN.  Came across Sir Thomas on the Embankment yesterday; told
+me old Timso--had been had up again for sitting down in front of a
+brewer's dray.
+
+ANN.  Why?
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, you see, as soon as he came out of the what d'you
+call 'em, he got drunk for a week, and it left him in low spirits.
+
+BERTLEY.  Do you mean he deliberately sat down, with the
+intention--of--er?
+
+WELLWYN.  Said he was tired of life, but they didn't believe him.
+
+ANN.  Rather a score for Sir Thomas!  I suppose he'd told the
+Professor?  What did he say?
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, the Professor said  [with a quick glance at BERTLEY]
+he felt there was nothing for some of these poor devils but a lethal
+chamber.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Shocked.]  Did he really!
+
+[He has not yet caught WELLWYN' s glance.]
+
+WELLWYN.  And Sir Thomas agreed.  Historic occasion.  And you, Vicar
+H'm!
+
+     [BERTLEY winces.]
+
+ANN.  [To herself.]  Well, there isn't.
+
+BERTLEY.  And yet!  Some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one
+could put one's finger on it.  [Preparing to go.]  You'll let us
+know, then, when you're settled.  What was the address?  [WELLWYN
+takes out and hands him a card.]  Ah! yes.  Good-bye, Ann.
+Good-bye, Wellyn.  [The wind blows his hat along the street.]  What
+a wind!  [He goes, pursuing.]
+
+ANN.  [Who has eyed the card askance.] Daddy, have you told those
+other two where we're going?
+
+WELLWYN.  Which other two, my dear?
+
+ANN.  The Professor and Sir Thomas.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, Ann, naturally I----
+
+ANN.  [Jumping on to the dais with disgust.]  Oh, dear!  When I'm
+trying to get you away from all this atmosphere.  I don't so much
+mind the Vicar knowing, because he's got a weak heart----
+
+     [She jumps off again. ]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To himself.]  Seventh floor!  I felt there was something.
+
+ANN.  [Preparing to go.]  I'm going round now.  But you must stay
+here till the van comes back.  And don't forget you tipped the men
+after the first load.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Yes, yes.  [Uneasily.]  Good sorts they look, those
+fellows!
+
+ANN.  [Scrutinising him.]  What have you done?
+
+WELLWYN.  Nothing, my dear, really----!
+
+ANN.  What?
+
+WELLWYN.  I--I rather think I may have tipped them twice.
+
+ANN.  [Drily.]  Daddy!  If it is the first of April, it's not
+necessary to make a fool of oneself.  That's the last time you ever
+do these ridiculous things.  [WELLWYN eyes her askance.]  I'm going
+to see that you spend your money on yourself.  You needn't look at
+me like that!  I mean to.  As soon as I've got you away from here,
+and all--these----
+
+WELLWYN.  Don't rub it in, Ann!
+
+ANN.  [Giving him a sudden hug--then going to the door--with a sort
+of triumph.]  Deeds, not words, Daddy!
+
+     [She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out
+     beneath her firm young chin.  WELLWYN returning to the fire,
+     stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To himself.]  Bad lot--low type!  No method!  No theory!
+
+     [In the open doorway appear FERRAND and MRS. MEGAN.  They
+     stand, unseen, looking at him.  FERRAND is more ragged, if
+     possible, than on Christmas Eve.  His chin and cheeks are
+     clothed in a reddish golden beard.  MRS. MEGAN's dress is not
+     so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled.
+     They whisper.  She slips back into the shadow of the doorway.
+     WELLWYN turns at the sound, and stares at FERRAND in
+     amazement.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Advancing.]  Enchanted to see you, Monsieur.  [He looks
+round the empty room.]  You are leaving?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Nodding--then taking the young man's hand.]  How goes it?
+
+FERRAND.  [Displaying himself, simply.]  As you see, Monsieur.  I
+have done of my best.  It still flies from me.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sadly--as if against his will.]  Ferrand, it will always
+fly.
+
+     [The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then
+     controls himself with a great effort.]
+
+FERRAND.  Don't say that, Monsieur!  It is too much the echo of my
+heart.
+
+WELLWYN.  Forgive me!  I didn't mean to pain you.
+
+FERRAND.  [Drawing nearer the fire.]  That old cabby, Monsieur, you
+remember--they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the
+other day.
+
+     [WELLWYN nods.]
+
+FERRAND.  And those Sirs, so interested in him, with their theories?
+He has worn them out?  [WELLWYN nods.]  That goes without saying.
+And now they wish for him the lethal chamber.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Startled.]  How did you know that?
+
+     [There is silence.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Staring into the fire.]  Monsieur, while I was on the
+road this time I fell ill of a fever.  It seemed to me in my illness
+that I saw the truth--how I was wasting in this world--I would never
+be good for any one--nor any one for me--all would go by, and I
+never of it--fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of
+life, ever mocking me.
+
+     [He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the
+     flame.  And while he is speaking, through the doorway MRS.
+     MEGAN creeps in to listen.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Speaking on into the fire.]  And I saw, Monsieur, so
+plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, I
+dying in the end the death of a dog.  I saw it all in my fever--
+clear as that flame--there was nothing for us others, but the herb
+of death.  [WELLWYN takes his arm and presses it.]  And so,
+Monsieur, I wished to die.  I told no one of my fever.  I lay out on
+the ground--it was verree cold.  But they would not let me die on
+the roads of their parishes--they took me to an Institution,
+Monsieur, I looked in their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more
+clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should
+die, although they would not let me.  Then Monsieur, naturally my
+spirit rose, and I said: "So much the worse for you.  I will live a
+little more."  One is made like that!  Life is sweet, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, Ferrand; Life is sweet.
+
+FERRAND.  That little girl you had here, Monsieur  [WELLWYN nods.]
+in her too there is something of wild-savage.  She must have joy of
+life.  I have seen her since I came back.  She has embraced the life
+of joy.  It is not quite the same thing.  [He lowers his voice.]
+She is lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water.  I can see,
+if she cannot.  [As WELLWYN makes a movement of distress.]  Oh!  I
+am not to blame for that, Monsieur.  It had well begun before I knew
+her.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, yes--I was afraid of it, at the time.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN turns silently, and slips away.]
+
+FEERRAND.  I do my best for her, Monsieur, but look at me!  Besides,
+I am not good for her--it is not good for simple souls to be with
+those who see things clear.  For the great part of mankind, to see
+anything--is fatal.
+
+WELLWYN.  Even for you, it seems.
+
+FERRAND.  No, Monsieur.  To be so near to death has done me good; I
+shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave.
+Since I saw you, Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions.  They
+are palaces.  One may eat upon the floor--though it is true--for
+Kings--they eat too much of skilly there.  One little thing they
+lack--those palaces.  It is understanding of the 'uman heart.  In
+them tame birds pluck wild birds naked.
+
+WELLWYN.  They mean well.
+
+FERRAND.  Ah!  Monsieur, I am loafer, waster--what you like--for all
+that  [bitterly]  poverty is my only crime.  If I were rich, should
+I not be simply veree original, 'ighly respected, with soul above
+commerce, travelling to see the world?  And that young girl, would
+she not be "that charming ladee,"  "veree chic, you know!"  And the
+old Tims--good old-fashioned gentleman--drinking his liquor well.
+Eh! bien--what are we now?  Dark beasts, despised by all.  That is
+life, Monsieur.  [He stares into the fire.]
+
+WELLWYN.  We're our own enemies, Ferrand.  I can afford it--you
+can't.  Quite true!
+
+FERRAND.  [Earnestly.]  Monsieur, do you know this?  You are the
+sole being that can do us good--we hopeless ones.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Shaking his head.]  Not a bit of it; I'm hopeless too.
+
+FERRAND.  [Eagerly.]  Monsieur, it is just that.  You understand.
+When we are with you we feel something--here--[he touches his
+heart.]  If I had one prayer to make, it would be, Good God, give me
+to understand!  Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our
+skins and chain our 'abits--that soothes for them the aesthetic
+sense; it gives them too their good little importance.  But our
+spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand.  Without
+that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange.
+
+WELLWYN.  Don't be so bitter.  Think of all the work they do!
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing.  They do a good
+work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame
+old, and the good unfortunate deserving.  Above all to the little
+children.  But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us
+hopeless ones.  What can they do with me, Monsieur, with that girl,
+or with that old man?  Ah!  Monsieur, we, too, 'ave our qualities,
+we others--it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or
+like that young girl's.  We wild ones--we know a thousand times more
+of life than ever will those sirs.  They waste their time trying to
+make rooks white.  Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like
+Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins.  Leave us to live, or
+leave us to die when we like in the free air.  If you do not wish of
+us, you have but to shut your pockets and--your doors--we shall die
+the faster.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With agitation.]  But that, you know--we can't do--now
+can we?
+
+FERRAND.  If you cannot, how is it our fault?  The harm we do to
+others--is it so much?  If I am criminal, dangerous--shut me up!
+I would not pity myself--nevare.  But we in whom something moves--
+like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are
+not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make
+us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it
+is life itself they would enclose!  [He draws up his tattered
+figure, then bending over the fire again.]  I ask your pardon; I am
+talking.  If I could smoke, Monsieur!
+
+     [WELLWYN hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette
+     with his yellow-Stained fingers.]
+
+FERRAND.  The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole
+month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day
+making round business on an office stool!  It is not to my
+advantage.  I cannot help it that I am a vagabond.  What would you
+have?  It is stronger than me.  [He looks suddenly at WELLWYN.]
+Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Quietly.]  Go on, go on.  [There is silence.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Suddenly.]  Monsieur!  Are you really English?  The
+English are so civilised.
+
+WELLWYN.  And am I not?
+
+FERRAND.  You treat me like a brother.
+
+     [WELLWYN has turned towards the street door at a sound of feet,
+     and the clamour of voices.]
+
+TIMSON.  [From the street.]  Take her in 'ere.  I knows 'im.
+
+     [Through the open doorway come a POLICE CONSTABLE and a LOAFER,
+     bearing between them the limp white faced form of MRS. MEGAN,
+     hatless and with drowned hair, enveloped in the policeman's
+     waterproof.  Some curious persons bring up the rear, jostling
+     in the doorway, among whom is TIMSON carrying in his hands the
+     policeman's dripping waterproof leg pieces.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Starting forward.]  Monsieur, it is that little girl!
+
+WELLWYN.  What's happened?  Constable!  What's happened!
+
+     [The CONSTABLE and LOAFER have laid the body down on the dais;
+     with WELLWYN and FERRAND they stand bending over her.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  'Tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't been in the water
+'arf a minute when I got hold of her.  [He bends lower.]  Can't
+understand her collapsin' like this.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Feeling her heart.]  I don't feel anything.
+
+FERRAND.  [In a voice sharpened by emotion.]  Let me try, Monsieur.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Touching his arm.]  You keep off, my lad.
+
+WELLWYN.  No, constable--let him.  He's her friend.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Releasing FERRAND--to the LOAFER.]  Here you!  Cut off
+for a doctor-sharp now!  [He pushes back the curious persons.]  Now
+then, stand away there, please--we can't have you round the body.
+Keep back--Clear out, now!
+
+     [He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through
+     the door and shuts it on them, TIMSON being last.]
+
+FERRAND.  The rum!
+
+     [WELLWYN fetches the decanter.  With the little there is left
+     FERRAND chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some
+     between her lips.  But there is no response from the inert
+     body.]
+
+FERRAND.  Her soul is still away, Monsieur!
+
+     [WELLWYN, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling
+     water.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  It's never drownin', sir--her head was hardly under; I
+was on to her like knife.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rubbing her feet.]  She has not yet her philosophy,
+Monsieur; at the beginning they often try.  If she is dead!  [In a
+voice of awed rapture.]  What fortune!
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With puzzled sadness.]  True enough, sir--that!  We'd
+just begun to know 'er.  If she 'as been taken--her best friends
+couldn't wish 'er better.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Applying the decanter to her dips.]  Poor little thing!
+I'll try this hot tea.
+
+FERRAND.  [Whispering.] 'La mort--le grand ami!'
+
+WELLWYN.  Look!  Look at her!  She's coming round!
+
+     [A faint tremor passes over MRS. MEGAN's body.  He again
+     applies the hot drink to her mouth.  She stirs and gulps.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With intense relief.]  That's brave!  Good lass!
+She'll pick up now, sir.
+
+     [Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again
+     opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back
+     against it.  MRS. MEGAN comes to herself.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sitting on the dais and supporting her--as if to a
+child.]  There you are, my dear.  There, there--better now!  That's
+right.  Drink a little more of this tea.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN drinks from the decanter.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Bring her to the fire, Monsieur.
+
+     [They take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool.
+     From the moment of her restored animation FERRAND has resumed
+     his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms
+     folded, watching.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Feeling better, my child?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.
+
+WELLWYN.  That's good.  That's good.  Now, how was it?  Um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I dunno.  [She shivers.]  I was standin' here just now
+when you was talkin', and when I heard 'im, it cam' over me to do
+it--like.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah, yes I know.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I didn't seem no good to meself nor any one.  But when
+I got in the water, I didn't want to any more.  It was cold in
+there.
+
+WELLWYN.  Have you been having such a bad time of it?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  And listenin' to him upset me.  [She signs with
+her head at FERRAND.]  I feel better now I've been in the water.
+[She smiles and shivers.]
+
+WELLWYN.  There, there!  Shivery?  Like to walk up and down a
+little?
+
+     [They begin walking together up and down.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Beastly when your head goes under?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  It frightened me.  I thought I wouldn't come up
+again.
+
+WELLWYN.  I know--sort of world without end, wasn't it?  What did
+you think of, um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I wished I 'adn't jumped--an' I thought of my baby--
+that died--and--[in a rather surprised voice] and I thought of
+d-dancin'.
+
+     [Her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a choke and a
+     little sob.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Stopping and stroking her.]  There, there--there!
+
+     [For a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then she
+     recovers herself.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah! what a comfort--um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  The water got into me mouth.
+
+     [They walk again.] I wouldn't have gone to do it but for him.
+     [She looks towards FERRAND.]  His talk made me feel all funny,
+     as if people wanted me to.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear child!  Don't think such things!  As if anyone
+would----!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Stolidly.] I thought they did.  They used to look at
+me so sometimes, where I was before I ran away--I couldn't stop
+there, you know.
+
+WELLWYN.  Too cooped-up?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  No life at all, it wasn't--not after sellin'
+flowers, I'd rather be doin' what I am.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah!  Well-it's all over, now!  How d'you feel--eh?
+Better?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  I feels all right now.
+
+     [She sits up again on the little stool before the fire.]
+
+WELLWYN.  No shivers, and no aches; quite comfy?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.
+
+WELLWYN.  That's a blessing.  All well, now, Constable--thank you!
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Who has remained discreetly apart at the
+door-cordially.] First rate, sir!  That's capital!  [He approaches
+and scrutinises MRS. MEGAN.] Right as rain, eh, my girl?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Shrinking a little.] Yes.
+
+CONSTABLE.  That's fine.  Then I think perhaps, for 'er sake, sir,
+the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  don't bother about that--I'll send round for my
+daughter--we'll manage for her here.
+
+CONSTABLE.  Very kind of you, I'm sure, sir.  But [with
+embarrassment] she seems all right.  She'll get every attention at
+the station.
+
+WELLWYN.  But I assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the
+greatest care of her.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Still more embarrassed.]  Well, sir, of course, I'm
+thinkin' of--I'm afraid I can't depart from the usual course.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sharply.] What!  But-oh!  No!  No!  That'll be all right,
+Constable!  That'll be all right!  I assure you.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With more decision.] I'll have to charge her, sir.
+
+WELLWYN.  Good God!  You don't mean to say the poor little thing has
+got to be----
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Consulting with him.]  Well, sir, we can't get over the
+facts, can we?  There it is!  You know what sooicide amounts to--
+it's an awkward job.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Calming himself with an effort.] But look here,
+Constable, as a reasonable man--This poor wretched little girl--you
+know what that life means better than anyone!  Why!  It's to her
+credit to try and jump out of it!
+
+     [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.]
+
+WELLWYN.  You said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her
+better!  [Dropping his voice still more.]  Everybody feels it!  The
+Vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing--the
+Vicar, Constable!  [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.]  Ah!  now, look
+here, I know something of her.  Nothing can be done with her.  We
+all admit it.  Don't you see?  Well, then hang it--you needn't go
+and make fools of us all by----
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, it is the first of April.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With a sharp glance at him.]  Can't neglect me duty,
+sir; that's impossible.
+
+WELLWYN.  Look here!  She--slipped.  She's been telling me.  Come,
+Constable, there's a good fellow.  May be the making of her, this.
+
+CONSTABLE.  I quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it
+very 'ard for me--but, come now!  I put it to you as a gentleman,
+would you go back on yer duty if you was me?
+
+     [WELLWYN raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through and
+     through his hair.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Well!  God in heaven!  Of all the d---d topsy--turvy--!
+Not a soul in the world wants her alive--and now she's to be
+prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her.
+
+CONSTABLE.  Come, sir, come!  Be a man!
+
+     [Throughout all this MRS. MEGAN has sat stolidly before the
+     fire, but as FERRAND suddenly steps forward she looks up at
+     him.]
+
+FERRAND.  Do not grieve, Monsieur!  This will give her courage.
+There is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of
+things.  [He touches MRS. MEGAN'S shoulder.] Go, my child; it will
+do you good.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN rises, and looks at him dazedly.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Coming forward, and taking her by the hand.] That's my
+good lass.  Come along!  We won't hurt you.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I don't want to go.  They'll stare at me.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Comforting.]  Not they!  I'll see to that.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Very upset.]  Take her in a cab, Constable, if you must
+--for God's sake!  [He pulls out a shilling.]  Here!
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Taking the shilling.]  I will, sir, certainly.  Don't
+think I want to----
+
+WELLWYN.  No, no, I know.  You're a good sort.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Comfortable.]  Don't you take on, sir.  It's her first
+try; they won't be hard on 'er.  Like as not only bind 'er over in
+her own recogs. not to do it again.  Come, my dear.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Trying to free herself from the policeman's cloak.] I
+want to take this off.  It looks so funny.
+
+     [As she speaks the door is opened by ANN; behind whom is dimly
+     seen the form of old TIMSON, still heading the curious
+     persons.]
+
+ANN.  [Looking from one to the other in amazement.]  What is it?
+What's happened?  Daddy!
+
+FERRAND.  [Out of the silence.]  It is nothing, Ma'moiselle!  She
+has failed to drown herself.  They run her in a little.
+
+WELLWYN.  Lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll catch her death.
+
+     [ANN, feeling MRS. MEGAN's arm, strips of her jacket, and helps
+     her into it without a word.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Donning his cloak.]  Thank you.  Miss--very good of
+you, I'm sure.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Mazed.]  It's warm!
+
+     [She gives them all a last half-smiling look, and Passes with
+     the CONSTABLE through the doorway.]
+
+FERRAND.  That makes the third of us, Monsieur.  We are not in luck.
+To wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die.
+
+     [He looks at ANN, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her
+     father.  WELLWYN has taken from his pocket a visiting card.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To FERRAND.]  Here quick; take this, run after her!  When
+they've done with her tell her to come to us.
+
+FERRAND.  [Taking the card, and reading the address.]  "No. 7, Haven
+House, Flight Street!"  Rely on me, Monsieur--I will bring her
+myself to call on you.  'Au revoir, mon bon Monsieur'!
+
+     [He bends over WELLWYN's hand; then, with a bow to ANN goes
+     out; his tattered figure can be seen through the window,
+     passing in the wind.  WELLWYN turns back to the fire.  The
+     figure of TIMSON advances into the doorway, no longer holding
+     in either hand a waterproof leg-piece.]
+
+TIMSON.  [In a croaky voice.]  Sir!
+
+WELLWYN.  What--you, Timson?
+
+TIMSON.  On me larst legs, sir.  'Ere!  You can see 'em for yerself!
+Shawn't trouble yer long....
+
+WELLWYN.  [After a long and desperate stare.]  Not now--TIMSON not
+now!  Take this!  [He takes out another card, and hands it to
+TIMSON]  Some other time.
+
+TIMSON.  [Taking the card.]  Yer new address!  You are a gen'leman.
+[He lurches slowly away.]
+
+     [ANN shuts the street door and sets her back against it.  The
+     rumble of the approaching van is heard outside.  It ceases.]
+
+ANN.  [In a fateful voice.]  Daddy!  [They stare at each other.]  Do
+you know what you've done?  Given your card to those six rotters.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a blank stare.]  Six?
+
+ANN.  [Staring round the naked room.]  What was the good of this?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Following her eyes---very gravely.]  Ann!  It is stronger
+than me.
+
+     [Without a word ANN opens the door, and walks straight out.
+     With a heavy sigh, WELLWYN sinks down on the little stool
+     before the fire.  The three humble-men come in.]
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [In an attitude of expectation.]  This is the
+larst of it, sir.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  yes!
+
+     [He gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and
+     he exhibits certain signs of vexation.  Suddenly he recovers,
+     looks from one to the other, and then at the tea things.  A
+     faint smile comes on his face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  You can finish the decanter.
+
+     [He goes out in haste.]
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [Clinking the coins.]  Third time of arskin'!
+April fool!  Not 'arf!  Good old pigeon!
+
+SECOND HUMBLE-MAN.  'Uman being, I call 'im.
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [Taking the three glasses from the last
+packing-case, and pouring very equally into them.] That's right.
+Tell you wot, I'd never 'a touched this unless 'e'd told me to, I
+wouldn't--not with 'im.
+
+SECOND HUMBLE-MAN.  Ditto to that!  This is a bit of orl right!
+[Raising his glass.] Good luck!
+
+THIRD HUMBLE-MAN.  Same 'ere!
+
+[Simultaneously they place their lips smartly against the liquor,
+and at once let fall their faces and their glasses.]
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [With great solemnity.]  Crikey!  Bill!  Tea!
+. . . . 'E's got us!
+
+     [The stage is blotted dark.]
+
+
+Curtain.
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE MOB
+
+A Play in Four Acts
+
+
+
+PERSONS OF THE PLAY
+
+STEPHEN MORE, Member of Parliament
+KATHERINE, his wife
+OLIVE, their little daughter
+THE DEAN OF STOUR, Katherine's uncle
+GENERAL SIR JOHN JULIAN, her father
+CAPTAIN HUBERT JULIAN, her brother
+HELEN, his wife
+EDWARD MENDIP, editor of "The Parthenon"
+ALAN STEEL, More's secretary
+JAMES HOME, architect                   |
+CHARLES SHELDER, Solicitor              |A deputation of More's
+MARK WACE, bookseller                   |constituents
+WILLIAM BANNING, manufacturer           |
+NURSE WREFORD
+WREFORD (her son), Hubert's orderly
+HIS SWEETHEART
+THE FOOTMAN HENRY
+A DOORKEEPER
+SOME BLACK-COATED GENTLEMEN
+A STUDENT
+A GIRL
+
+
+
+
+                         A MOB
+
+ACT I.    The dining-room of More's town house, evening.
+
+ACT II.   The same, morning.
+
+ACT III.  SCENE I. An alley at the back of a suburban theatre.
+          SCENE II. Katherine's bedroom.
+
+ACT IV.   The dining-room of More's house, late afternoon.
+
+AFTERMATH. The corner of a square, at dawn.
+
+
+
+Between ACTS I and II some days elapse.
+Between ACTS II and III three months.
+Between ACT III SCENE I and ACT III SCENE II no time.
+Between ACTS III and IV a few hours.
+Between ACTS IV and AFTERMATH an indefinite period.
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+     It is half-past nine of a July evening.  In a dining-room
+     lighted by sconces, and apparelled in wall-paper, carpet, and
+     curtains of deep vivid blue, the large French windows between
+     two columns are open on to a wide terrace, beyond which are seen
+     trees in darkness, and distant shapes of lighted houses.  On one
+     side is a bay window, over which curtains are partly drawn.
+     Opposite to this window is a door leading into the hall.  At an
+     oval rosewood table, set with silver, flowers, fruit, and wine,
+     six people are seated after dinner.  Back to the bay window is
+     STEPHEN MORE, the host, a man of forty, with a fine-cut face, a
+     rather charming smile, and the eyes of an idealist; to his
+     right, SIR, JOHN JULIAN, an old soldier, with thin brown
+     features, and grey moustaches; to SIR JOHN's right, his brother,
+     the DEAN OF STOUR, a tall, dark, ascetic-looking Churchman: to
+     his right KATHERINE is leaning forward, her elbows on the table,
+     and her chin on her hands, staring across at her husband; to her
+     right sits EDWARD MENDIP, a pale man of forty-five, very bald,
+     with a fine forehead, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that
+     shows his teeth; between him and MORE is HELEN JULIAN, a pretty
+     dark-haired young woman, absorbed in thoughts of her own.  The
+     voices are tuned to the pitch of heated discussion, as the
+     curtain rises.
+
+
+THE DEAN. I disagree with you, Stephen; absolutely, entirely
+disagree.
+
+MORE.  I can't help it.
+
+MENDIP.  Remember a certain war, Stephen!  Were your chivalrous
+notions any good, then?  And, what was winked at in an obscure young
+Member is anathema for an Under Secretary of State.  You can't
+afford----
+
+MORE.  To follow my conscience?  That's new, Mendip.
+
+MENDIP.  Idealism can be out of place, my friend.
+
+THE DEAN.  The Government is dealing here with a wild lawless race,
+on whom I must say I think sentiment is rather wasted.
+
+MORE.  God made them, Dean.
+
+MENDIP.  I have my doubts.
+
+THE DEAN.  They have proved themselves faithless.  We have the right
+to chastise.
+
+MORE.  If I hit a little man in the eye, and he hits me back, have I
+the right to chastise him?
+
+SIR JOHN.  We didn't begin this business.
+
+MORE.  What!  With our missionaries and our trading?
+
+THE DEAN.  It is news indeed that the work of civilization may be
+justifiably met by murder.  Have you forgotten Glaive and Morlinson?
+
+SIR JOHN.  Yes.  And that poor fellow Groome and his wife?
+
+MORE.  They went into a wild country, against the feeling of the
+tribes, on their own business.  What has the nation to do with the
+mishaps of gamblers?
+
+SIR JOHN.  We can't stand by and see our own flesh and blood
+ill-treated!
+
+THE DEAN.  Does our rule bring blessing--or does it not, Stephen?
+
+MORE.  Sometimes; but with all my soul I deny the fantastic
+superstition that our rule can benefit a people like this, a nation
+of one race, as different from ourselves as dark from light--in
+colour, religion, every mortal thing.  We can only pervert their
+natural instincts.
+
+THE DEAN.  That to me is an unintelligible point of view.
+
+MENDIP.  Go into that philosophy of yours a little deeper, Stephen--
+it spells stagnation.  There are no fixed stars on this earth.
+Nations can't let each other alone.
+
+MORE.  Big ones could let little ones alone.
+
+MENDIP.  If they could there'd be no big ones.  My dear fellow, we
+know little nations are your hobby, but surely office should have
+toned you down.
+
+SIR JOHN.  I've served my country fifty years, and I say she is not
+in the wrong.
+
+MORE.  I hope to serve her fifty, Sir John, and I say she is.
+
+MENDIP.  There are moments when such things can't be said, More.
+
+MORE.  They'll be said by me to-night, Mendip.
+
+MENDIP.  In the House?
+
+     [MORE nods.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Stephen!
+
+MENDIP.  Mrs. More, you mustn't let him.  It's madness.
+
+MORE.  [Rising]  You can tell people that to-morrow, Mendip.  Give it
+a leader in 'The Parthenon'.
+
+MENDIP.  Political lunacy!  No man in your position has a right to
+fly out like this at the eleventh hour.
+
+MORE.  I've made no secret of my feelings all along.  I'm against
+this war, and against the annexation we all know it will lead to.
+
+MENDIP.  My dear fellow!  Don't be so Quixotic!  We shall have war
+within the next twenty-four hours, and nothing you can do will stop
+it.
+
+HELEN.  Oh!  No!
+
+MENDIP.  I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hubert.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Not a doubt of it, Helen.
+
+MENDIP.  [TO MORE]  And you mean to charge the windmill?
+
+     [MORE nods.]
+
+MENDIP.  'C'est magnifique'!
+
+MORE.  I'm not out for advertisement.
+
+MENDIP.  You will get it!
+
+MORE.  Must speak the truth sometimes, even at that risk.
+
+SIR JOHN.  It is not the truth.
+
+MENDIP.  The greater the truth the greater the libel, and the greater
+the resentment of the person libelled.
+
+THE DEAN.  [Trying to bring matters to a blander level]  My dear
+Stephen, even if you were right--which I deny--about the initial
+merits, there surely comes a point where the individual conscience
+must resign it self to the country's feeling.  This has become a
+question of national honour.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Well said, James!
+
+MORE.  Nations are bad judges of their honour, Dean.
+
+THE DEAN.  I shall not follow you there.
+
+MORE.  No.  It's an awkward word.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Stopping THE DEAN]  Uncle James!  Please!
+
+     [MORE looks at her intently.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  So you're going to put yourself at the head of the cranks,
+ruin your career, and make me ashamed that you're my son-in-law?
+
+MORE.  Is a man only to hold beliefs when they're popular?  You've
+stood up to be shot at often enough, Sir John.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Never by my country!  Your speech will be in all the
+foreign press-trust 'em for seizing on anything against us.  A
+show-up before other countries----!
+
+MORE.  You admit the show-up?
+
+SIR JOHN.  I do not, sir.
+
+THE DEAN.  The position has become impossible.  The state of things
+out there must be put an end to once for all!  Come, Katherine, back
+us up!
+
+MORE.  My country, right or wrong!  Guilty--still my country!
+
+MENDIP.  That begs the question.
+
+     [KATHERINE rises.  THE DEAN, too, stands up.]
+
+THE DEAN.  [In a low voice] 'Quem Deus volt perdere'----!
+
+SIR JOHN.  Unpatriotic!
+
+MORE.  I'll have no truck with tyranny.
+
+KATHERINE.  Father doesn't admit tyranny.  Nor do any of us, Stephen.
+
+HUBERT JULIAN, a tall Soldier-like man, has come in.
+
+HELEN.  Hubert!
+
+     [She gets up and goes to him, and they talk together near the
+     door.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  What in God's name is your idea?  We've forborne long
+enough, in all conscience.
+
+MORE.  Sir John, we great Powers have got to change our ways in
+dealing with weaker nations.  The very dogs can give us lessons--
+watch a big dog with a little one.
+
+MENDIP.  No, no, these things are not so simple as all that.
+
+MORE.  There's no reason in the world, Mendip, why the rules of
+chivalry should not apply to nations at least as well as to---dogs.
+
+MENDIP.  My dear friend, are you to become that hapless kind of
+outcast, a champion of lost causes?
+
+MORE.  This cause is not lost.
+
+MENDIP.  Right or wrong, as lost as ever was cause in all this world.
+There was never a time when the word "patriotism" stirred mob
+sentiment as it does now.  'Ware "Mob," Stephen---'ware "Mob"!
+
+MORE.  Because general sentiment's against me, I--a public man--am to
+deny my faith?  The point is not whether I'm right or wrong, Mendip,
+but whether I'm to sneak out of my conviction because it's unpopular.
+
+THE DEAN.  I'm afraid I must go.  [To KATHERINE]  Good-night, my
+dear!  Ah!  Hubert!  [He greets HUBERT]  Mr. Mendip, I go your way.
+Can I drop you?
+
+MENDIP.  Thank you.  Good-night, Mrs. More.  Stop him!  It's
+perdition.
+
+     [He and THE DEAN go out.  KATHERINE puts her arm in HELEN'S, and
+     takes her out of the room.  HUBERT remains standing by the door]
+
+SIR JOHN.  I knew your views were extreme in many ways, Stephen, but
+I never thought the husband of my daughter would be a Peace-at-any-
+price man!
+
+MORE.  I am not!  But I prefer to fight some one my own size.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Well!  I can only hope to God you'll come to your senses
+before you commit the folly of this speech.  I must get back to the
+War Office.  Good-night, Hubert.
+
+HUBERT.  Good-night, Father.
+
+     [SIR JOHN goes out.  HUBERT stands motionless, dejected.]
+
+HUBERT.  We've got our orders.
+
+MORE.  What?  When d'you sail?
+
+HUBERT.  At once.
+
+MORE.  Poor Helen!
+
+HUBERT.  Not married a year; pretty bad luck!  [MORE touches his arm
+in sympathy] Well!  We've got to put feelings in our pockets.  Look
+here, Stephen--don't make that speech!  Think of Katherine--with the
+Dad at the War Office, and me going out, and Ralph and old George out
+there already!  You can't trust your tongue when you're hot about a
+thing.
+
+MORE.  I must speak, Hubert.
+
+HUBERT.  No, no!  Bottle yourself up for to-night.  The next few
+hours 'll see it begin.  [MORE turns from him]  If you don't care
+whether you mess up your own career--don't tear Katherine in two!
+
+MORE.  You're not shirking your duty because of your wife.
+
+HUBERT.  Well!  You're riding for a fall, and a godless mucker it'll
+be.  This'll be no picnic.  We shall get some nasty knocks out there.
+Wait and see the feeling here when we've had a force or two cut up in
+those mountains.  It's awful country.  Those fellows have got modern
+arms, and are jolly good fighters.  Do drop it, Stephen!
+
+MORE.  Must risk something, sometimes, Hubert--even in my profession!
+
+     [As he speaks, KATHERINE comes in.]
+
+HUBERT.  But it's hopeless, my dear chap--absolutely.
+
+     [MORE turns to the window, HUBERT to his sister--then with a
+     gesture towards MORE, as though to leave the matter to her, he
+     goes out.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Stephen!  Are you really going to speak?  [He nods] I ask
+you not.
+
+MORE.  You know my feeling.
+
+KATHERINE.  But it's our own country.  We can't stand apart from it.
+You won't stop anything--only make people hate you.  I can't bear
+that.
+
+MORE.  I tell you, Kit, some one must raise a voice.  Two or three
+reverses--certain to come--and the whole country will go wild.  And
+one more little nation will cease to live.
+
+KATHERINE.  If you believe in your country, you must believe that the
+more land and power she has, the better for the world.
+
+MORE.  Is that your faith?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+MORE.  I respect it; I even understand it; but--I can't hold it.
+
+KATHERINE.  But, Stephen, your speech will be a rallying cry to all
+the cranks, and every one who has a spite against the country.
+They'll make you their figurehead.  [MORE smiles]  They will.  Your
+chance of the Cabinet will go--you may even have to resign your seat.
+
+MORE.  Dogs will bark.  These things soon blow over.
+
+KATHERINE.  No, no!  If you once begin a thing, you always go on; and
+what earthly good?
+
+MORE.  History won't say: "And this they did without a single protest
+from their public men!"
+
+KATHERINE.  There are plenty who----
+
+MORE.  Poets?
+
+KATHERINE.  Do you remember that day on our honeymoon, going up Ben
+Lawers?  You were lying on your face in the heather; you said it was
+like kissing a loved woman.  There was a lark singing--you said that
+was the voice of one's worship.  The hills were very blue; that's why
+we had blue here, because it was the best dress of our country.  You
+do love her.
+
+MORE.  Love her!
+
+KATHERINE.  You'd have done this for me--then.
+
+MORE.  Would you have asked me--then, Kit?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.  The country's our country!  Oh!  Stephen, think
+what it'll be like for me--with Hubert and the other boys out there.
+And poor Helen, and Father!  I beg you not to make this speech.
+
+MORE.  Kit!  This isn't fair.  Do you want me to feel myself a cur?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Breathless] I--I--almost feel you'll be a cur to do it
+[She looks at him, frightened by her own words.  Then, as the footman
+HENRY has come in to clear the table--very low]  I ask you not!
+
+     [He does not answer, and she goes out.]
+
+MORE  [To the servant] Later, please, Henry, later!
+
+     The servant retires.  MORE still stands looking down at the
+     dining-table; then putting his hand to his throat, as if to free
+     it from the grip of his collar, he pours out a glass of water,
+     and drinks it of.  In the street, outside the bay window, two
+     street musicians, a harp and a violin, have taken up their
+     stand, and after some twangs and scrapes, break into music.
+     MORE goes towards the sound, and draws aside one curtain.  After
+     a moment, he returns to the table, and takes up the notes of the
+     speech.  He is in an agony of indecision.
+
+MORE.  A cur!
+
+     He seems about to tear his notes across.  Then, changing his
+     mind, turns them over and over, muttering.  His voice gradually
+     grows louder, till he is declaiming to the empty room the
+     peroration of his speech.
+
+MORE.  .  .  .  We have arrogated to our land the title Champion of
+Freedom, Foe of Oppression.  Is that indeed a bygone glory?  Is it
+not worth some sacrifice of our pettier dignity, to avoid laying
+another stone upon its grave; to avoid placing before the searchlight
+eyes of History the spectacle of yet one more piece of national
+cynicism?  We are about to force our will and our dominion on a race
+that has always been free, that loves its country, and its
+independence, as much as ever we love ours.  I cannot sit silent
+to-night and see this begin.  As we are tender of our own land, so we
+should be of the lands of others.  I love my country.  It is because
+I love my country that I raise my voice.  Warlike in spirit these
+people may be--but they have no chance against ourselves.  And war on
+such, however agreeable to the blind moment, is odious to the future.
+The great heart of mankind ever beats in sense and sympathy with the
+weaker.  It is against this great heart of mankind that we are going.
+In the name of Justice and Civilization we pursue this policy; but by
+Justice we shall hereafter be judged, and by Civilization--condemned.
+
+     While he is speaking, a little figure has flown along the
+     terrace outside, in the direction of the music, but has stopped
+     at the sound of his voice, and stands in the open window,
+     listening--a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, in a blue
+     dressing-gown caught up in her hand.  The street musicians,
+     having reached the end of a tune, are silent.
+
+     In the intensity of MORES feeling, a wine-glass, gripped too
+     strongly, breaks and falls in pieces onto a finger-bowl.  The
+     child starts forward into the room.
+
+MORE.  Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  Who were you speaking to, Daddy?
+
+MORE.  [Staring at her]  The wind, sweetheart!
+
+OLIVE.  There isn't any!
+
+MORE.  What blew you down, then?
+
+OLIVE.  [Mysteriously]  The music.  Did the wind break the
+wine-glass, or did it come in two in your hand?
+
+MORE.  Now my sprite!  Upstairs again, before Nurse catches you.
+Fly!  Fly!
+
+OLIVE.  Oh! no, Daddy!  [With confidential fervour]  It feels like
+things to-night!
+
+MORE.  You're right there!
+
+OLIVE.  [Pulling him down to her, and whispering]  I must get back
+again in secret.  H'sh!
+
+     She suddenly runs and wraps herself into one of the curtains of
+     the bay window.  A young man enters, with a note in his hand.
+
+MORE.  Hello, Steel!
+
+     [The street musicians have again begun to play.]
+
+STEEL.  From Sir John--by special messenger from the War Office.
+
+MORE.  [Reading the note] "The ball is opened."
+
+     He stands brooding over the note, and STEEL looks at him
+     anxiously.  He is a dark, sallow, thin-faced young man, with the
+     eyes of one who can attach himself to people, and suffer with
+     them.
+
+STEEL.  I'm glad it's begun, sir.  It would have been an awful pity
+to have made that speech.
+
+MORE.  You too, Steel!
+
+STEEL.  I mean, if it's actually started----
+
+MORE.  [Tearing tie note across]  Yes.  Keep that to yourself.
+
+STEEL.  Do you want me any more?
+
+     MORE takes from his breast pocket some papers, and pitches them
+     down on the bureau.
+
+MORE.  Answer these.
+
+STEEL.  [Going to the bureau]  Fetherby was simply sickening.  [He
+begins to write.  Struggle has begun again in MORE]  Not the faintest
+recognition that there are two sides to it.
+
+     MORE gives him a quick look, goes quietly to the dining-table
+     and picks up his sheaf of notes.  Hiding them with his sleeve,
+     he goes back to the window, where he again stands hesitating.
+
+STEEL.  Chief gem: [Imitating]  "We must show Impudence at last that
+Dignity is not asleep!"
+
+MORE.  [Moving out on to the terrace]  Nice quiet night!
+
+STEEL.  This to the Cottage Hospital--shall I say you will preside?
+
+MORE.  No.
+
+     STEEL writes; then looking up and seeing that MORE is no longer
+     there, he goes to the window, looks to right and left, returns
+     to the bureau, and is about to sit down again when a thought
+     seems to strike him with consternation.  He goes again to the
+     window.  Then snatching up his hat, he passes hurriedly out
+     along the terrace.  As he vanishes, KATHERINE comes in from the
+     hall.  After looking out on to the terrace she goes to the bay
+     window; stands there listening; then comes restlessly back into
+     the room.  OLIVE, creeping quietly from behind the curtain,
+     clasps her round the waist.
+
+KATHERINE.  O my darling!  How you startled me!  What are you doing
+down here, you wicked little sinner!
+
+OLIVE.  I explained all that to Daddy.  We needn't go into it again,
+need we?
+
+KATHERINE.  Where is Daddy?
+
+OLIVE.  Gone.
+
+KATHERINE.  When?
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  only just, and Mr. Steel went after him like a rabbit.
+[The music stops]  They haven't been paid, you know.
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, go up at once.  I can't think how you got down here.
+
+OLIVE.  I can.  [Wheedling]  If you pay them, Mummy, they're sure to
+play another.
+
+KATHERINE.  Well, give them that!  One more only.
+
+     She gives OLIVE a coin, who runs with it to the bay window,
+     opens the aide casement, and calls to the musicians.
+
+OLIVE.  Catch, please!  And would you play just one more?
+
+     She returns from the window, and seeing her mother lost in
+     thought, rubs herself against her.
+
+OLIVE.  Have you got an ache?
+
+KATHARINE.  Right through me, darling!
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!
+
+     [The musicians strike up a dance.]
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  Mummy!  I must just dance!
+
+     She kicks off her lisle blue shoes, and begins dancing.  While
+     she is capering HUBERT comes in from the hall.  He stands
+     watching his little niece for a minute, and KATHERINE looks at
+     him.
+
+HUBERT.  Stephen gone!
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes--stop, Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  Are you good at my sort of dancing, Uncle?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes, chick--awfully!
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, Olive!
+
+     The musicians have suddenly broken off in the middle of a bar.
+     From the street comes the noise of distant shouting.
+
+OLIVE.  Listen, Uncle!  Isn't it a particular noise?
+
+     HUBERT and KATHERINE listen with all their might, and OLIVE
+     stares at their faces.  HUBERT goes to the window.  The sound
+     comes nearer.  The shouted words are faintly heard:  "Pyper----
+     war----our force crosses frontier--sharp fightin'----pyper."
+
+KATHERINE.  [Breathless] Yes!  It is.
+
+     The street cry is heard again in two distant voices coming from
+     different directions: "War--pyper--sharp fightin' on the
+     frontier--pyper."
+
+KATHERINE.  Shut out those ghouls!
+
+     As HUBERT closes the window, NURSE WREFORD comes in from the
+     hall.  She is an elderly woman endowed with a motherly grimness.
+     She fixes OLIVE with her eye, then suddenly becomes conscious of
+     the street cry.
+
+NURSE.  Oh! don't say it's begun.
+
+     [HUBERT comes from the window.]
+
+NURSE.  Is the regiment to go, Mr. Hubert?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes, Nanny.
+
+NURSE.  Oh, dear!  My boy!
+
+KATHERINE.  [Signing to where OLIVE stands with wide eyes]  Nurse!
+
+HUBERT.  I'll look after him, Nurse.
+
+NURSE.  And him keepin' company.  And you not married a year.  Ah!
+Mr. Hubert, now do 'ee take care; you and him's both so rash.
+
+HUBERT.  Not I, Nurse!
+
+     NURSE looks long into his face, then lifts her finger, and
+     beckons OLIVE.
+
+OLIVE.  [Perceiving new sensations before her, goes quietly]
+Good-night, Uncle!  Nanny, d'you know why I was obliged to come down?
+[In a fervent whisper]  It's a secret!
+
+     [As she passes with NURSE out into the hall, her voice is heard
+     saying, "Do tell me all about the war."]
+
+HUBERT.  [Smothering emotion under a blunt manner]  We sail on
+Friday, Kit.  Be good to Helen, old girl.
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh! I wish----!  Why--can't--women--fight?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes, it's bad for you, with Stephen taking it like this.
+But he'll come round now it's once begun.
+
+     KATHERINE shakes her head, then goes suddenly up to him, and
+     throws her arms round his neck.  It is as if all the feeling
+     pent up in her were finding vent in this hug.
+
+     The door from the hall is opened, and SIR JOHN'S voice is heard
+     outside: "All right, I'll find her."
+
+KATHERINE.  Father!
+
+     [SIR JOHN comes in.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  Stephen get my note?  I sent it over the moment I got to
+the War Office.
+
+KATHERINE.  I expect so.  [Seeing the torn note on the table] Yes.
+
+SIR JOHN.  They're shouting the news now.  Thank God, I stopped that
+crazy speech of his in time.
+
+KATHERINE.  Have you stopped it?
+
+SIR JOHN.  What!  He wouldn't be such a sublime donkey?
+
+KATHERINE.  I think that is just what he might be.  [Going to the
+window]  We shall know soon.
+
+     [SIR JOHN, after staring at her, goes up to HUBERT.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  Keep a good heart, my boy.  The country's first.  [They
+exchange a hand-squeeze.]
+
+     KATHERINE backs away from the window.  STEEL has appeared there
+     from the terrace, breathless from running.
+
+STEEL.  Mr. More back?
+
+KATHERINE.  No. Has he spoken?
+
+STEEL.  Yes.
+
+KATHERINE.  Against?
+
+STEEL.  Yes.
+
+SIR JOHN.  What?  After!
+
+     SIR, JOHN stands rigid, then turns and marches straight out into
+     the hall.  At a sign from KATHERINE, HUBERT follows him.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, Mr. Steel?
+
+STEEL.  [Still breathless and agitated]  We were here--he slipped
+away from me somehow.  He must have gone straight down to the House.
+I ran over, but when I got in under the Gallery he was speaking
+already.  They expected something--I never heard it so still there.
+He gripped them from the first word--deadly--every syllable.  It got
+some of those fellows.  But all the time, under the silence you could
+feel a--sort of--of--current going round.  And then Sherratt--I think
+it was--began it, and you saw the anger rising in them; but he kept
+them down--his quietness!  The feeling!  I've never seen anything
+like it there.
+
+Then there was a whisper all over the House that fighting had begun.
+And the whole thing broke out--regular riot--as if they could have
+killed him.  Some one tried to drag him down by the coat-tails, but
+he shook him off, and went on.  Then he stopped dead and walked out,
+and the noise dropped like a stone.  The whole thing didn't last five
+minutes.  It was fine, Mrs.  More; like--like lava; he was the only
+cool person there.  I wouldn't have missed it for anything--it was
+grand!
+
+     MORE has appeared on the terrace, behind STEEL.
+
+KATHERINE.  Good-night, Mr.  Steel.
+
+STEEL.  [Startled]  Oh!--Good-night!
+
+     He goes out into the hall.  KATHERINE picks up OLIVE'S shoes,
+     and stands clasping them to her breast.  MORE comes in.
+
+KATHERINE.  You've cleared your conscience, then!  I didn't think
+you'd hurt me so.
+
+     MORE does not answer, still living in the scene he has gone
+     through, and KATHERINE goes a little nearer to him.
+
+KATHERINE.  I'm with the country, heart and soul, Stephen.  I warn
+you.
+
+     While they stand in silence, facing each other, the footman,
+     HENRY, enters from the hall.
+
+FOOTMAN.  These notes, sir, from the House of Commons.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Taking them] You can have the room directly.
+
+     [The FOOTMAN goes out.]
+
+MORE.  Open them!
+
+     KATHERINE opens one after the other, and lets them fall on the
+     table.
+
+MORE.  Well?
+
+KATHERINE.  What you might expect.  Three of your best friends.  It's
+begun.
+
+MORE.  'Ware Mob!  [He gives a laugh]  I must write to the Chief.
+
+     KATHERINE makes an impulsive movement towards him; then quietly
+     goes to the bureau, sits down and takes up a pen.
+
+KATHERINE.  Let me make the rough draft.  [She waits]  Yes?
+
+MORE.  [Dictating]
+
+"July 15th.
+
+"DEAR SIR CHARLES, After my speech to-night, embodying my most
+unalterable convictions [KATHERINE turns and looks up at him, but he
+is staring straight before him, and with a little movement of despair
+she goes on writing]  I have no alternative but to place the
+resignation of my Under-Secretaryship in your hands.  My view, my
+faith in this matter may be wrong--but I am surely right to keep the
+flag of my faith flying.  I imagine I need not enlarge on the
+reasons----"
+
+
+                         THE CURTAIN FALLS.
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT.  II
+
+     Before noon a few days later.  The open windows of the
+     dining-room let in the sunlight.  On the table a number of
+     newspapers are littered.  HELEN is sitting there, staring
+     straight before her.  A newspaper boy runs by outside calling out
+     his wares.  At the sound she gets up anti goes out on to the
+     terrace.  HUBERT enters from the hall.  He goes at once to the
+     terrace, and draws HELEN into the room.
+
+HELEN.  Is it true--what they're shouting?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes.  Worse than we thought.  They got our men all crumpled
+up in the Pass--guns helpless.  Ghastly beginning.
+
+HELEN.  Oh, Hubert!
+
+HUBERT.  My dearest girl!
+
+     HELEN puts her face up to his.  He kisses her.  Then she turns
+     quickly into the bay window.  The door from the hall has been
+     opened, and the footman, HENRY, comes in, preceding WREFORD and
+     his sweetheart.
+
+HENRY.  Just wait here, will you, while I let Mrs.  More know.
+[Catching sight of HUBERT]  Beg pardon, sir!
+
+HUBERT.  All right, Henry.  [Off-hand]  Ah! Wreford!  [The FOOTMAN
+withdraws]  So you've brought her round.  That's good!  My sister'll
+look after her--don't you worry!  Got everything packed?  Three
+o'clock sharp.
+
+WREFORD.  [A broad faced soldier, dressed in khaki with a certain
+look of dry humour, now dimmed-speaking with a West Country burr]
+That's right, zurr; all's ready.
+
+     HELEN has come out of the window, and is quietly looking at
+     WREFORD and the girl standing there so awkwardly.
+
+HELEN.  [Quietly]  Take care of him, Wreford.
+
+HUBERT.  We'll take care of each other, won't we, Wreford?
+
+HELEN.  How long have you been engaged?
+
+THE GIRL.  [A pretty, indeterminate young woman] Six months.  [She
+sobs suddenly.]
+
+HELEN.  Ah!  He'll soon be safe back.
+
+WREFORD.  I'll owe 'em for this.  [In a lacy voice to her]  Don't 'ee
+now!  Don't 'ee!
+
+HELEN.  No!  Don't cry, please!
+
+     She stands struggling with her own lips, then goes out on to the
+     terrace, HUBERT following.  WREFORD and his girl remain where
+     they were, strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs.
+
+WREFORD.  Don't 'ee go on like that, Nance; I'll 'ave to take you
+'ome.  That's silly, now we've a-come.  I might be dead and buried by
+the fuss you're makin'.  You've a-drove the lady away.  See!
+
+     She regains control of herself as the door is opened and
+     KATHERINE appears, accompanied by OLIVE, who regards WREFORD
+     with awe and curiosity, and by NURSE, whose eyes are red, but
+     whose manner is composed.
+
+KATHERINE.  My brother told me; so glad you've brought her.
+
+WREFORD.  Ye--as, M'.  She feels me goin', a bit.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, yes!  Still, it's for the country, isn't it?
+
+THE GIRL.  That's what Wreford keeps tellin' me.  He've got to go--so
+it's no use upsettin' 'im.  And of course I keep tellin' him I shall
+be all right.
+
+NURSE.  [Whose eyes never leave her son's face]  And so you will.
+
+THE GIRL.  Wreford thought it'd comfort him to know you were
+interested in me.  'E's so 'ot-headed I'm sure somethin'll come to
+'im.
+
+KATHERINE.  We've all got some one going.  Are you coming to the
+docks?   We must send them off in good spirits, you know.
+
+OLIVE.  Perhaps he'll get a medal.
+
+KATHERINE.  Olive!
+
+NURSE.  You wouldn't like for him to be hanging back, one of them
+anti-patriot, stop-the-war ones.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Quickly]  Let me see--I have your address.  [Holding out
+her hand to WREFORD]  We'll look after her.
+
+OLIVE.  [In a loud whisper] Shall I lend him my toffee?
+
+KATHERINE.  If you like, dear.  [To WREFORD]  Now take care of my
+brother and yourself, and we'll take care of her.
+
+WREFORD.  Ye--as, M'.
+
+     He then looks rather wretchedly at his girl, as if the interview
+     had not done so much for him as he had hoped.  She drops a
+     little curtsey.  WREFORD salutes.
+
+OLIVE.  [Who has taken from the bureau a packet, places it in his
+hand] It's very nourishing!
+
+WREFORD.  Thank you, miss.
+
+     Then, nudging each other, and entangled in their feelings and
+     the conventions, they pass out, shepherded by NURSE.
+
+KATHERINE.  Poor things!
+
+OLIVE.  What is an anti-patriot, stop-the-war one, Mummy?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Taking up a newspaper]  Just a stupid name, dear--don't
+chatter!
+
+OLIVE.  But tell me just one weeny thing!
+
+KATHERINE.  Well?
+
+OLIVE.  Is Daddy one?
+
+KATHERINE.  Olive!  How much do you know about this war?
+
+OLIVE.  They won't obey us properly.  So we have to beat them, and
+take away their country.  We shall, shan't we?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.  But Daddy doesn't want us to; he doesn't think it
+fair, and he's been saying so.  People are very angry with him.
+
+OLIVE.  Why isn't it fair?  I suppose we're littler than them.
+
+KATHERINE.  No.
+
+OLIVE.  Oh! in history we always are.  And we always win.  That's why
+I like history.  Which are you for, Mummy--us or them?
+
+KATHERINE.  Us.
+
+OLIVE.  Then I shall have to be.  It's a pity we're not on the same
+side as Daddy.  [KATHERINE shudders]  Will they hurt him for not
+taking our side?
+
+KATHERINE.  I expect they will, Olive.
+
+OLIVE.  Then we shall have to be extra nice to him.
+
+KATHERINE.  If we can.
+
+OLIVE.  I can; I feel like it.
+
+     HELEN and HUBERT have returned along the terrace.  Seeing
+     KATHERINE and the child, HELEN passes on, but HUBERT comes in at
+     the French window.
+
+OLIVE.  [Catching sight of him-softly] Is Uncle Hubert going to the
+front to-day?  [KATHERINE nods]  But not grandfather?
+
+KATHERINE.  No, dear.
+
+OLIVE.  That's lucky for them, isn't it?
+
+     HUBERT comes in.  The presence of the child give him self-control.
+
+HUBERT.  Well, old girl, it's good-bye.  [To OLIVE]  What shall I
+bring you back, chick?
+
+OLIVE.  Are there shops at the front?  I thought it was dangerous.
+
+HUBERT.  Not a bit.
+
+OLIVE.  [Disillusioned]  Oh!
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, darling, give Uncle a good hug.
+
+     [Under cover of OLIVE's hug, KATHERINE repairs her courage.]
+
+KATHERINE.  The Dad and I'll be with you all in spirit.  Good-bye,
+old boy!
+
+     They do not dare to kiss, and HUBERT goes out very stiff and
+     straight, in the doorway passing STEEL, of whom he takes no
+     notice.  STEEL hesitates, and would go away.
+
+KATHERINE.  Come in, Mr. Steel.
+
+STEEL.  The deputation from Toulmin ought to be here, Mrs. More.
+It's twelve.
+
+OLIVE.  [Having made a little ball of newspaper-slyly]  Mr. Steel,
+catch!
+
+     [She throws, and STEEL catches it in silence.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Go upstairs, won't you, darling?
+
+OLIVE.  Mayn't I read in the window, Mummy?  Then I shall see if any
+soldiers pass.
+
+KATHERINE.  No.  You can go out on the terrace a little, and then you
+must go up.
+
+     [OLIVE goes reluctantly out on to the terrace.]
+
+STEEL.  Awful news this morning of that Pass!  And have you seen
+these?  [Reading from the newspaper] "We will have no truck with the
+jargon of the degenerate who vilifies his country at such a moment.
+The Member for Toulmin has earned for himself the contempt of all
+virile patriots."  [He takes up a second journal]  "There is a
+certain type of public man who, even at his own expense, cannot
+resist the itch to advertise himself.  We would, at moments of
+national crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that we
+suspect of incipient rabies .  .  .  ."  They're in full cry after
+him!
+
+KATHERINE.  I mind much more all the creatures who are always
+flinging mud at the country making him their hero suddenly!  You know
+what's in his mind?
+
+STEEL.  Oh!  We must get him to give up that idea of lecturing
+everywhere against the war, Mrs. More; we simply must.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Listening]  The deputation's come.  Go and fetch him,
+Mr. Steel.  He'll be in his room, at the House.
+
+     [STEEL goes out, and KATHERINE Stands at bay.  In a moment he
+     opens the door again, to usher in the deputation; then retires.
+     The four gentlemen have entered as if conscious of grave issues.
+     The first and most picturesque is JAMES HOME, a thin, tall,
+     grey-bearded man, with plentiful hair, contradictious eyebrows,
+     and the half-shy, half-bold manners, alternately rude and over
+     polite, of one not accustomed to Society, yet secretly much
+     taken with himself.  He is dressed in rough tweeds, with a red
+     silk tie slung through a ring, and is closely followed by MARK
+     WACE, a waxy, round-faced man of middle-age, with sleek dark
+     hair, traces of whisker, and a smooth way of continually rubbing
+     his hands together, as if selling something to an esteemed
+     customer.  He is rather stout, wears dark clothes, with a large
+     gold chain.  Following him comes CHARLES SHELDER, a lawyer of
+     fifty, with a bald egg-shaped head, and gold pince-nez.  He has
+     little side whiskers, a leathery, yellowish skin, a rather kind
+     but watchful and dubious face, and when he speaks seems to have
+     a plum in his mouth, which arises from the preponderance of his
+     shaven upper lip.  Last of the deputation comes WILLIAM BANNING,
+     an energetic-looking, square-shouldered, self-made country-man,
+     between fifty and sixty, with grey moustaches, ruddy face, and
+     lively brown eyes.]
+
+KATHERINE.  How do you do, Mr. Home?
+
+HOME.  [Bowing rather extravagantly over her hand, as if to show his
+independence of women's influence]  Mrs. More!  We hardly expected--
+This is an honour.
+
+WACE.  How do you do, Ma'am?
+
+KATHERINE.  And you, Mr. Wace?
+
+WACE.  Thank you, Ma'am, well indeed!
+
+SHELDER.  How d'you do, Mrs. More?
+
+KATHERINE.  Very well, thank you, Mr. Shelder.
+
+BANNING.  [Speaking with a rather broad country accent]  This is but
+a poor occasion, Ma'am.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, Mr.  Banning.  Do sit down, gentlemen.
+
+     Seeing that they will not settle down while she is standing, she
+     sits at the table.  They gradually take their seats.  Each
+     member of the deputation in his own way is severely hanging back
+     from any mention of the subject in hand; and KATHERINE as intent
+     on drawing them to it.
+
+KATHERINE.  My husband will be here in two minutes.  He's only over
+at the House.
+
+SHELDER.  [Who is of higher standing and education than the others]
+Charming position--this, Mrs. More!  So near the--er--Centre of--
+Gravity um?
+
+KATHERINE.  I read the account of your second meeting at Toulmin.
+
+BANNING.  It's bad, Mrs. More--bad.  There's no disguising it.  That
+speech was moon-summer madness--Ah! it was!  Take a lot of explaining
+away.  Why did you let him, now?  Why did you?  Not your views, I'm
+sure!
+
+     [He looks at her, but for answer she only compresses her lips.]
+
+BANNING.  I tell you what hit me--what's hit the whole constituency--
+and that's his knowing we were over the frontier, fighting already,
+when he made it.
+
+KATHERINE.  What difference does it make if he did know?
+
+HOME.  Hitting below the belt--I should have thought--you'll pardon
+me!
+
+BANNING.  Till war's begun, Mrs. More, you're entitled to say what
+you like, no doubt--but after!  That's going against your country.
+Ah! his speech was strong, you know--his speech was strong.
+
+KATHERINE.  He had made up his mind to speak.  It was just an
+accident the news coming then.
+
+     [A silence.]
+
+BANNING.  Well, that's true, I suppose.  What we really want is to
+make sure he won't break out again.
+
+HOME.  Very high-minded, his views of course--but, some consideration
+for the common herd.  You'll pardon me!
+
+SHELDER.  We've come with the friendliest feelings, Mrs. More--but,
+you know, it won't do, this sort of thing!
+
+WACE.  We shall be able to smooth him down.  Oh! surely.
+
+BANNING.  We'd be best perhaps not to mention about his knowing that
+fighting had begun.
+
+     [As he speaks, MORE enters through the French windows.  They all
+     rise.]
+
+MORE.  Good-morning, gentlemen.
+
+     [He comes down to the table, but does not offer to shake hands.]
+
+BANNING.  Well, Mr. More?  You've made a woeful mistake, sir; I tell
+you to your face.
+
+MORE.  As everybody else does, Banning.  Sit down again, please.
+
+     [They gradually resume their seats, and MORE sits in KATHERINE's
+     chair.  She alone remains standing leaning against the corner of
+     the bay window, watching their faces.]
+
+BANNING.  You've seen the morning's telegrams?  I tell you, Mr.
+More--another reverse like that, and the flood will sweep you clean
+away.  And I'll not blame it.  It's only flesh and blood.
+
+MORE, Allow for the flesh and blood in me, too, please.  When I spoke
+the other night it was not without a certain feeling here.  [He
+touches his heart.]
+
+BANNING.  But your attitude's so sudden--you'd not been going that
+length when you were down with us in May.
+
+MORE.  Do me the justice to remember that even then I was against our
+policy.  It cost me three weeks' hard struggle to make up my mind to
+that speech.  One comes slowly to these things, Banning.
+
+SHELDER.  Case of conscience?
+
+MORE.  Such things have happened, Shelder, even in politics.
+
+SHELDER.  You see, our ideals are naturally low--how different from
+yours!
+
+     [MORE smiles.]
+
+     KATHERINE, who has drawn near her husband, moves back again, as
+     if relieved at this gleam of geniality.  WACE rubs his hands.
+
+BANNING.  There's one thing you forget, sir.  We send you to
+Parliament, representing us; but you couldn't find six men in the
+whole constituency that would have bidden you to make that speech.
+
+MORE.  I'm sorry; but I can't help my convictions, Banning.
+
+SHELDER.  What was it the prophet was without in his own country?
+
+BANNING.  Ah! but we're not funning, Mr. More.  I've never known
+feeling run so high.  The sentiment of both meetings was dead against
+you.  We've had showers of letters to headquarters.  Some from very
+good men--very warm friends of yours.
+
+SHELDER.  Come now!  It's not too late.  Let's go back and tell them
+you won't do it again.
+
+MORE.  Muzzling order?
+
+BANNING.  [Bluntly]  That's about it.
+
+MORE.  Give up my principles to save my Parliamentary skin.  Then,
+indeed, they might call me a degenerate!  [He touches the newspapers
+on the table.]
+
+     KATHERINE makes an abrupt and painful movement, then remains as
+     still as before, leaning against the corner of the window-seat.
+
+BANNING.  Well, Well!  I know.  But we don't ask you to take your
+words back--we only want discretion in the future.
+
+MORE.  Conspiracy of silence!  And have it said that a mob of
+newspapers have hounded me to it.
+
+BANNING.  They won't say that of you.
+
+SHELDER.  My dear More, aren't you rather dropping to our level?
+With your principles you ought not to care two straws what people
+say.
+
+MORE.  But I do.  I can't betray the dignity and courage of public
+men.  If popular opinion is to control the utterances of her
+politicians, then good-bye indeed to this country!
+
+BANNING.  Come now!  I won't say that your views weren't sound enough
+before the fighting began.  I've never liked our policy out there.
+But our blood's being spilled; and that makes all the difference.
+I don't suppose they'd want me exactly, but I'd be ready to go
+myself.  We'd all of us be ready.  And we can't have the man that
+represents us talking wild, until we've licked these fellows.  That's
+it in a nutshell.
+
+MORE.  I understand your feeling, Banning.  I tender you my
+resignation.  I can't and won't hold on where I'm not wanted.
+
+BANNING.  No, no, no!  Don't do that!  [His accent broader and
+broader]  You've 'ad your say, and there it is.  Coom now!  You've
+been our Member nine years, in rain and shine.
+
+SHELDER.  We want to keep you, More.  Come!  Give us your promise
+--that's a good man!
+
+MORE.  I don't make cheap promises.  You ask too much.
+
+     [There is silence, and they all look at MORE.]
+
+SHELDER.  There are very excellent reasons for the Government's
+policy.
+
+MORE.  There are always excellent reasons for having your way with
+the weak.
+
+SHELDER.  My dear More, how can you get up any enthusiasm for those
+cattle-lifting ruffians?
+
+MORE.  Better lift cattle than lift freedom.
+
+SHELDER.  Well, all we'll ask is that you shouldn't go about the
+country, saying so.
+
+MORE.  But that is just what I must do.
+
+     [Again they all look at MORE in consternation.]
+
+HOME.  Not down our way, you'll pardon me.
+
+WACE.  Really--really, sir----
+
+SHELDER.  The time of crusades is past, More.
+
+MORE.  Is it?
+
+BANNING.  Ah!  no, but we don't want to part with you, Mr.  More.
+It's a bitter thing, this, after three elections.  Look at the 'uman
+side of it!  To speak ill of your country when there's been a
+disaster like this terrible business in the Pass.  There's your own
+wife.  I see her brother's regiment's to start this very afternoon.
+Come now--how must she feel?
+
+     MORE breaks away to the bay window.  The DEPUTATION exchange
+     glances.
+
+MORE.  [Turning]  To try to muzzle me like this--is going too far.
+
+BANNING.  We just want to put you out of temptation.
+
+MORE.  I've held my seat with you in all weathers for nine years.
+You've all been bricks to me.  My heart's in my work, Banning; I'm
+not eager to undergo political eclipse at forty.
+
+SHELDER.  Just so--we don't want to see you in that quandary.
+
+BANNING.  It'd be no friendliness to give you a wrong impression of
+the state of feeling.  Silence--till the bitterness is overpast;
+there's naught else for it, Mr. More, while you feel as you do.  That
+tongue of yours!  Come!  You owe us something.  You're a big man;
+it's the big view you ought to take.
+
+MORE.  I am trying to.
+
+HOME.  And what precisely is your view--you'll pardon my asking?
+
+MORE.  [Turning on him]  Mr. Home a great country such as ours--is
+trustee for the highest sentiments of mankind.  Do these few outrages
+justify us in stealing the freedom of this little people?
+
+BANNING.  Steal--their freedom!  That's rather running before the
+hounds.
+
+MORE.  Ah, Banning! now we come to it.  In your hearts you're none of
+you for that--neither by force nor fraud.  And yet you all know that
+we've gone in there to stay, as we've gone into other lands--as all
+we big Powers go into other lands, when they're little and weak.  The
+Prime Minister's words the other night were these: "If we are forced
+to spend this blood and money now, we must never again be forced."
+What does that mean but swallowing this country?
+
+SHELDER.  Well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad thing.
+
+HOME.  We don't want their wretched country--we're forced.
+
+MORE.  We are not forced.
+
+SHELDER.  My dear More, what is civilization but the logical,
+inevitable swallowing up of the lower by the higher types of man?
+And what else will it be here?
+
+MORE.  We shall not agree there, Shelder; and we might argue it all
+day.  But the point is, not whether you or I are right--the point is:
+What is a man who holds a faith with all his heart to do?  Please
+tell me.
+
+     [There is a silence.]
+
+BANNING.  [Simply] I was just thinkin' of those poor fellows in the
+Pass.
+
+MORE.  I can see them, as well as you, Banning.  But, imagine!  Up in
+our own country--the Black Valley--twelve hundred foreign devils dead
+and dying--the crows busy over them--in our own country, our own
+valley--ours--ours--violated.  Would you care about "the poor
+fellows" in that Pass?--Invading, stealing dogs!  Kill them--kill
+them!  You would, and I would, too!
+
+     The passion of those words touches and grips as no arguments
+     could; and they are silent.
+
+MORE.  Well!  What's the difference out there?  I'm not so inhuman as
+not to want to see this disaster in the Pass wiped out.  But once
+that's done, in spite of my affection for you; my ambitions, and
+they're not few;  [Very low]  in spite of my own wife's feeling, I
+must be free to raise my voice against this war.
+
+BANNING.  [Speaking slowly, consulting the others, as it were, with
+his eyes]  Mr. More, there's no man I respect more than yourself.  I
+can't tell what they'll say down there when we go back; but I, for
+one, don't feel it in me to take a hand in pressing you farther
+against your faith.
+
+SHELDER.  We don't deny that--that you have a case of sorts.
+
+WACE.  No--surely.
+
+SHELDER.  A--man should be free, I suppose, to hold his own opinions.
+
+MORE.  Thank you, Shelder.
+
+BANNING.  Well! well!  We must take you as you are; but it's a rare
+pity; there'll be a lot of trouble----
+
+     His eyes light on Honk who is leaning forward with hand raised
+     to his ear, listening.  Very faint, from far in the distance,
+     there is heard a skirling sound.  All become conscious of it,
+     all listen.
+
+HOME.  [Suddenly]  Bagpipes!
+
+     The figure of OLIVE flies past the window, out on the terrace.
+     KATHERINE turns, as if to follow her.
+
+SHELDER.  Highlanders!
+
+     [He rises.  KATHERINE goes quickly out on to the terrace.  One
+     by one they all follow to the window.  One by one go out on to
+     the terrace, till MORE is left alone.  He turns to the bay
+     window.  The music is swelling, coming nearer.  MORE leaves the
+     window--his face distorted by the strafe of his emotions.  He
+     paces the room, taking, in some sort, the rhythm of the march.]
+
+     [Slowly the music dies away in the distance to a drum-tap and the
+     tramp of a company.  MORE stops at the table, covering his eyes
+     with his hands.]
+
+     [The DEPUTATION troop back across the terrace, and come in at the
+     French windows.  Their faces and manners have quite changed.
+     KATHERINE follows them as far as the window.]
+
+HOME.  [In a strange, almost threatening voice]  It won't do, Mr.
+More.  Give us your word, to hold your peace!
+
+SHELDER.  Come! More.
+
+WACE.  Yes, indeed--indeed!
+
+BANNING.  We must have it.
+
+MORE.  [Without lifting his head] I--I----
+
+     The drum-tap of a regiment marching is heard.
+
+BANNING.  Can you hear that go by, man--when your country's just been
+struck?
+
+     Now comes the scale and mutter of a following crowd.
+
+MORE.  I give you----
+
+     Then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the words: "Give
+     the beggars hell, boys!"  "Wipe your feet on their dirty
+     country!"  "Don't leave 'em a gory acre!"  And a burst of hoarse
+     cheering.
+
+MORE.  [Flinging up his head]  That's reality!  By Heaven!  No!
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh!
+
+SHELDER.  In that case, we'll go.
+
+BANNING.  You mean it?  You lose us, then!
+
+     [MORE bows.]
+
+HOME.  Good riddance!  [Venomously--his eyes darting between MORE and
+KATHERINE]  Go and stump the country!  Find out what they think of
+you!  You'll pardon me!
+
+     One by one, without a word, only BANNING looking back, they pass
+     out into the hall.  MORE sits down at the table before the pile
+     of newspapers.  KATHERINE, in the window, never moves.  OLIVE
+     comes along the terrace to her mother.
+
+OLIVE.  They were nice ones!  Such a lot of dirty people following,
+and some quite clean, Mummy.  [Conscious from her mother's face that
+something is very wrong, she looks at her father, and then steals up
+to his side]  Uncle Hubert's gone, Daddy; and Auntie Helen's crying.
+And--look at Mummy!
+
+     [MORE raises his head and looks.]
+
+OLIVE.  Do be on our side!  Do!
+
+     She rubs her cheek against his.  Feeling that he does not rub
+     his cheek against hers, OLIVE stands away, and looks from him to
+     her mother in wonder.
+
+
+                         THE CURTAIN FALLS
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+SCENE I
+
+     A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban
+     theatre.  The tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building
+     is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment
+     bills, and the words: "To Let," and with several torn, and one
+     still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the-
+     War Meeting, October 1st.  Addresses by STEPHEN MORE, Esq., and
+     others."  The alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps
+     of paper.  Three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door.  It
+     is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all
+     the light there is.  A faint, confused murmur, as of distant
+     hooting is heard.  Suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough
+     girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is
+     again deserted.  The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking
+     his head out, looks up and down.  He withdraws, but in a second
+     reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen.
+
+DOORKEEPER.  It's all clear.  You can get away down here, gentlemen.
+Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner.
+
+THE THREE.  [Dusting themselves, and settling their ties] Thanks,
+very much!  Thanks!
+
+FIRST BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN.  Where's More?  Isn't he coming?
+
+     They are joined by a fourth black-coated GENTLEMAN.
+
+FOURTH BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN.  Just behind. [TO the DOORKEEPER]
+Thanks.
+
+     They hurry away.  The DOORKEEPER retires.  Another boy runs
+     past.  Then the door opens again.  STEEL and MORE come out.
+
+     MORE stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go
+     back.
+
+STEEL.  Come along, sir, come!
+
+MORE.  It sticks in my gizzard, Steel.
+
+STEEL.  [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down
+the steps]  You owe it to the theatre people.  [MORE still hesitates]
+We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More
+half-past ten; it'll only make her anxious.  And she hasn't seen
+you for six weeks.
+
+MORE.  All right; don't dislocate my arm.
+
+     They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes
+     running down the alley.  Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins
+     round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is!  That's 'im!  'Ere 'e
+     is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came.
+
+STEEL.  Quick, Sir, quick!
+
+MORE.  That is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador
+remarked.
+
+STEEL.  [Pulling him back towards the door]  Well! come inside again,
+anyway!
+
+     A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping
+     quickly from the left.  A motley crew, out for excitement;
+     loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious.  All in
+     the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood.  They gather round
+     the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity
+     that follows on a new development of any chase.  MORE, on the
+     bottom step, turns and eyes them.
+
+A GIRL.  [At the edge] Which is 'im!  The old 'un or the young?
+
+     [MORE turns, and mounts the remaining steps.]
+
+TALL YOUTH.  [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted
+traitor!
+
+     MORE faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the
+     chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they
+     realized that they were spoiling their own sport.
+
+A ROUGH GIRL.  Don't frighten the poor feller!
+
+     [A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.]
+
+STEEL.  [Tugging at MORE's arm]  Come along, sir.
+
+MORE.  [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd]  Well, what do you want?
+
+A VOICE.  Speech.
+
+MORE.  Indeed!  That's new.
+
+ROUGH VOICE.  [At the back of the crowd]  Look at his white liver.
+You can see it in his face.
+
+A BIG NAVY.  [In front]  Shut it!  Give 'im a chanst!
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Silence for the blasted traitor?
+
+     A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt
+     silence.
+
+MORE.  You shall have it in a nutshell!
+
+A SHOPBOY.  [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes MORE on the
+shoulder]  Here y'are!
+
+MORE.  Go home, and think!  If foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be
+fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there?
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Treacherous dogs!  Why don't they come out in the open?
+
+MORE.  They fight the best way they can.
+
+     [A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the
+     outskirt.]
+
+MORE.  My friend there in khaki led that hooting.  I've never said a
+word against our soldiers.  It's the Government I condemn for putting
+them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all
+of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do,
+left to yourselves.
+
+     The TALL YOUTH leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of
+     execration.
+
+MORE.  I say not one of you would go for a weaker man.
+
+VOICES IN THE CROWD.
+
+     ROUGH VOICE.  Tork sense!
+
+     GIRL'S VOICE.  He's gittin' at you!
+
+     TALL YOUTH'S VOICE.  Shiny skunk!
+
+A NAVVY.  [Suddenly shouldering forward]  Look 'ere, Mister!  Don't
+you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the
+worse for you-you go 'ome!
+
+COCKNEY VOICE.  And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears.
+
+     [A spurt of laughter.]
+
+A FRIENDLY VOICE.  [From the outskirts]  Shame! there!  Bravo, More!
+Keep it up!
+
+     [A scuffle drowns this cry.]
+
+MORE.  [With vehemence] Stop that!  Stop that!  You---!
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Traitor!
+
+AN ARTISAN.  Who black-legged?
+
+MIDDLE-AGED MAN.  Ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies!
+
+MORE.  Those tribesmen are defending their homes.
+
+TWO VOICES.  Hear!  hear!
+
+     [They are hustled into silence.]
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Wind-bag!
+
+MORE.  [With sudden passion]  Defending their homes!  Not mobbing
+unarmed men!
+
+     [STEEL again pulls at his arm.]
+
+ROUGH.  Shut it, or we'll do you in!
+
+MORE.  [Recovering his coolness] Ah!  Do me in by all means!  You'd
+deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your
+time.
+
+STEEL.  For God's sake, sir!
+
+MORE.  [Shaking off his touch]  Well!
+
+     There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost
+     figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step.  The crowd
+     recoils.
+
+     There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at
+     them.
+
+COCKNEY VOICE.  Don't 'e speak well!  What eloquence!
+
+     Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE
+     across the face.  He takes no notice.
+
+ROUGH VOICE.  That's it!  Give 'im some encouragement.
+
+     The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous
+     smile on MORE'S face.
+
+A TALL YOUTH.  Traitor!
+
+A VOICE.  Don't stand there like a stuck pig.
+
+A ROUGH.  Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that!
+
+     Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE
+     across the legs with a belt.  STEEL starts forward.  MORE,
+     flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil
+     staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this
+     silence is fast turning to rage.
+
+THE CROWD.  Speak up, or get down!  Get off! Get away, there--or
+we'll make you!  Go on!
+
+     [MORE remains immovable.]
+
+A YOUTH.  [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im speak!  See!
+
+     He darts forward and spits, defiling MORES hand.  MORE jerks it
+     up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever.  A
+     spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the
+     action.  The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of MORES
+     scornful face.
+
+TALL YOUTH.  [Out of murmuring] Shift!  or you'll get it!
+
+A VOICE.  Enough of your ugly mug!
+
+A ROUGH.  Give 'im one!
+
+     Two flung stones strike MORE.  He staggers and nearly falls,
+     then rights himself.
+
+A GIRL'S VOICE.  Shame!
+
+FRIENDLY VOICE.  Bravo, More!  Stick to it!
+
+A ROUGH.  Give 'im another!
+
+A VOICE.  No!
+
+A GIRL'S VOICE.  Let 'im alone!  Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun!
+
+     Still looking up at MORE, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy
+     silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet.  Then the BIG
+     NAVVY in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge
+     of the crowd.
+
+THE NAVVY.  Let 'im be!
+
+     With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd
+     breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is
+     nearly empty.
+
+MORE.  [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting
+his coat]  Well, Steel!
+
+     And followed by STEEL, he descends the steps and moves away.
+     Two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass.  One of them
+     stops and makes a note.
+
+
+                         THE CURTAIN FALLS.
+
+
+
+
+SCENE II
+
+The window-end of KATHERINE'S bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured
+wood.  The light from four candles is falling on KATHERINE, who is
+sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table,
+brushing her hair.  A door, on the left, stands ajar.  An oak chair
+against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other
+furniture.  Through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist
+is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs
+show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky.  As the curtain rises,
+KATHERINE, with brush arrested, is listening.  She begins again
+brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a
+drawer of her dressing-table, reads.  Through the just open door
+behind her comes the voice of OLIVE.
+
+OLIVE.  Mummy!  I'm awake!
+
+     But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in
+     her nightgown.
+
+OLIVE.  [At KATHERINE'S elbow--examining her watch on its stand] It's
+fourteen minutes to eleven.
+
+KATHERINE.  Olive, Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  I just wanted to see the time.  I never can go to sleep if I
+try--it's quite helpless, you know.  Is there a victory yet?
+[KATHERINE, shakes her head] Oh!  I prayed extra special for one in
+the evening papers.  [Straying round her mother]  Hasn't Daddy come?
+
+KATHERINE.  Not yet.
+
+OLIVE.  Are you waiting for him?  [Burying her face in her mother's
+hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy.  It's particular to-night.
+
+     KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm.
+
+OLIVE.  How long has Daddy been away?
+
+KATHERINE.  Six weeks.
+
+OLIVE.  It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it?  Has he been
+making speeches all the time?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  To-night, too?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  The night that man was here whose head's too bald for
+anything--oh!  Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so
+termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind.  It broke a
+wine-glass.  His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they!
+
+KATHERINE.  Very.
+
+OLIVE.  It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know.
+
+KATHERINE.  Talking to the wind is an expression, Olive.
+
+OLIVE.  Does Daddy often?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, nowadays.
+
+OLIVE.  What does it mean?
+
+KATHERINE.  Speaking to people who won't listen.
+
+OLIVE.  What do they do, then?
+
+KATHERINE.  Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd
+comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things,
+and hoot.
+
+OLIVE.  Poor Daddy!  Is it people on our side who throw things?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, but only rough people.
+
+OLIVE.  Why does he go on doing it?  I shouldn't.
+
+KATHERINE.  He thinks it is his duty.
+
+OLIVE.  To your neighbour, or only to God?
+
+KATHERINE.  To both.
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  Are those his letters?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  [Reading from the letter]  "My dear Heart."  Does he always
+call you his dear heart, Mummy?  It's rather jolly, isn't it?
+"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night.  For a few
+hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are
+the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Putting away the letters]  Come, Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  But what are they?
+
+KATHERINE.  Daddy means that he's been very unhappy.
+
+OLIVE.  Have you, too?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  [Cheerfully]  So have I.  May I open the window?
+
+KATHERINE.  No; you'll let the mist in.
+
+OLIVE.  Isn't it a funny mist-all flat!
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, come along, frog!
+
+OLIVE.  [Making time]  Mummy, when is Uncle Hubert coming back?
+
+KATHERINE.  We don't know, dear.
+
+OLIVE.  I suppose Auntie Helen'll stay with us till he does.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  That's something, isn't it?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Picking her up]  Now then!
+
+OLIVE.  [Deliciously limp]  Had I better put in the duty to your
+neighbour if there isn't a victory soon?  [As they pass through the
+door]  You're tickling under my knee!  [Little gurgles of pleasure
+follow.  Then silence.  Then a drowsy voice] I must keep awake for
+Daddy.
+
+     KATHERINE comes back.  She is about to leave the door a little
+     open, when she hears a knock on the other door.  It is opened a
+     few inches, and NURSE'S voice says: "Can I come in, Ma'am?" The
+     NURSE comes in.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Shutting OLIVE's door, and going up to her]  What is it,
+Nurse?
+
+NURSE.  [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning to--I'll never do
+it in the daytime.  I'm giving you notice.
+
+KATHERINE.  Nurse!  You too!
+
+     She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay.  The NURSE smudges a
+     slow tear away from her cheek.
+
+NURSE.  I want to go right away at once.
+
+KATHERINE.  Leave Olive!  That is the sins of the fathers with a
+vengeance.
+
+NURSE.  I've had another letter from my son.  No, Miss Katherine,
+while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish
+creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back.
+
+KATHERINE.  But, Nurse----!
+
+NURSE.  It's not like them  [With an ineffable gesture]  downstairs,
+because I'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke
+again, or mind what the boys in the street say.  I should think not--
+no!  It's my heart.  I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and
+him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water
+that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day
+one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself
+perhaps.  If anything were to 'appen to him.  I'd never forgive
+meself--here.  Ah!  Miss Katherine, I wonder how you bear it--bad
+news comin' every day--And Sir John's face so sad--And all the time
+the master speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself.
+
+KATHERINE.  But, Nurse, how can you leave us, you?
+
+NURSE.  [Smudging at her cheeks]  There's that tells me it's
+encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; and Mr. More coming
+back to-night.  You can't serve God and Mammon, the Bible says.
+
+KATHERINE.  Don't you know what it's costing him?
+
+NURSE.  Ah!  Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than
+that it'll cost him, to go against the country.
+
+KATHERINE.  He's following his conscience.
+
+NURSE.  And others must follow theirs, too.  No, Miss Katherine, for
+you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your
+father fair wasting away with grief.  Sufferin' too as you've been
+these three months past.  What'll you feel if anything happens to my
+three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed
+myself, when your precious mother couldn't?  What would she have said
+--with you in the camp of his enemies?
+
+KATHERINE.  Nurse, Nurse!
+
+NURSE.  In my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and
+makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war
+lasts, there's our blood on this house.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Turning away] Nurse, I can't--I won't listen.
+
+NURSE.  [Looking at her intently]  Ah!  You'll move him to leave off!
+I see your heart, my dear.  But if you don't, then go I must!
+
+     She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room,
+     opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the
+     words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door.
+
+     KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and
+     smooths her lips and eyes.  The door from the corridor is
+     opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit!  You're not in bed?"
+
+KATHERINE.  No.
+
+     HELEN too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her
+     head.  Her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into
+     KATHERINE's arms.
+
+KATHERINE.  My dear, what is it?
+
+HELEN.  I've seen--a vision!
+
+KATHERINE.  Hssh!  You'll wake Olive!
+
+HELEN.  [Staring before her]  I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a
+plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog.  And on it
+there were--dark things.  One grew into a body without a head, and a
+gun by its side.  And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a
+wounded leg.  He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford.  And then
+I saw--Hubert.  His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound,
+an awful wound here [She touches her breast].  The blood was running
+from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh!  Kit--by kissing it [She
+pauses, stifled by emotion].  Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say
+vultures didn't touch live bodies.  And there came a voice, from
+somewhere, calling out: "Oh!  God! I'm dying!"  And Wreford began to
+swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor
+fellow be!"  But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out:
+"I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!"  And Wreford
+dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man
+who's going to kill.
+
+KATHERINE.  My dear!  HOW ghastly!
+
+HELEN.  Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead
+man's gun.  Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along,
+so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him,
+Wreford fired at the man who was crying.  And Hubert called out: "You
+brute!" and fell right down.  And when Wreford saw him lying there,
+he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred.  Then it all got
+black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to
+the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it
+touched him, and sprang away.  And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing
+out at the mist]  Look!  Out there!  The dark things!
+
+KATHERINE.  [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes!  You must
+have been looking at the mist.
+
+HELEN.  [Strangely calm]  He's dead!
+
+KATHERINE.  It was only a dream.
+
+HELEN.  You didn't hear that cry.  [She listens]  That's Stephen.
+Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help
+coming.
+
+     She goes out, KATHERINE, into whom her emotion seems to have
+     passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans
+     out.  MORE comes in.
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+     Catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes quickly to
+     her.
+
+KATHERINE.  Ah!  [She has mastered her emotion.]
+
+MORE.  Let me look at you!
+
+     He draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long
+     at her.
+
+MORE.  What have you done to your hair?
+
+KATHERINE.  Nothing.
+
+MORE.  It's wonderful to-night.
+
+     [He takes it greedily and buries his face in it.]
+
+KATHERINE.  [Drawing her hair away]  Well?
+
+MORE.  At last!
+
+KATHERINE.  [Pointing to OLIVE's room] Hssh!
+
+MORE.  How is she?
+
+KATHERINE.  All right.
+
+MORE.  And you?
+
+     [KATHERINE shrugs her shoulders.]
+
+MORE.  Six weeks!
+
+KATHERINE.  Why have you come?
+
+MORE.  Why!
+
+KATHERINE.  You begin again the day after tomorrow.  Was it worth
+while?
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  It makes it harder for me, that's all.
+
+MORE.  [Staring at her]  What's come to you?
+
+KATHERINE.  Six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your
+meetings.
+
+MORE.  Put that away to-night.  [He touches her]  This is what
+travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Suddenly noticing the cut on his forehead]  Your
+forehead!  It's cut.
+
+MORE.  It's nothing.
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh!  Let me bathe it!
+
+MORE.  No, dear!  It's all right.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Turning away]  Helen has just been telling me a dream
+she's had of Hubert's death.
+
+MORE.  Poor child!
+
+KATHERINE.  Dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide oneself--there's
+been nothing else to do.  Nothing, Stephen--nothing!
+
+MORE.  Hide?  Because of me?
+
+     [KATHERINE nods.]
+
+MORE.  [With a movement of distress] I see.  I thought from your
+letters you were coming to feel----.  Kit!  You look so lovely!
+
+     [Suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes quickly to her.]
+
+MORE.  My dear, don't cry!  God knows I don't want to make things
+worse for you.  I'll go away.
+
+     She draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her,
+     he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the
+     brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words.
+
+MORE.  Never look forward.  After the time I've had--I thought--
+tonight--it would be summer--I thought it would be you--and
+everything!
+
+     While he is speaking KATHERINE has stolen closer.  She suddenly
+     drops on her knees by his side and wraps his hand in her hair.
+     He turns and clasps her.
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  Ah! yes!  But-to-morrow it begins again.  Oh! Stephen!
+How long--how long am I to be torn in two?  [Drawing back in his
+arms] I can't--can't bear it.
+
+MORE.  My darling!
+
+KATHERINE.  Give it up!  For my sake!  Give it up!  [Pressing closer
+to him] It shall be me--and everything----
+
+MORE.  God!
+
+KATHERINE.  It shall be--if--if----
+
+MORE.  [Aghast] You're not making terms?  Bargaining?  For God's
+sake, Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  For God's sake, Stephen!
+
+MORE.  You!--of all people--you!
+
+KATHERINE.  Stephen!
+
+     [For a moment MORE yields utterly, then shrinks back.]
+
+MORE.  A bargain!  It's selling my soul!
+
+     He struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands without
+     speaking, staring at her, and wiping the sweat from his
+     forehead.  KATHERINE remains some seconds on her knees, gazing
+     up at him, not realizing.  Then her head droops; she too gets up
+     and stands apart, with her wrapper drawn close round her.  It is
+     as if a cold and deadly shame had come to them both.  Quite
+     suddenly MORE turns, and, without looking back, feebly makes his
+     way out of the room.  When he is gone KATHERINE drops on her
+     knees and remains there motionless, huddled in her hair.
+
+
+                              THE CURTAIN FALLS
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT IV
+
+     It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of
+     MORE's house.  The windows are closed, but curtains are not
+     drawn.  STEEL is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from
+     MORE's dictation.
+
+STEEL.  [Reading over the letter]  "No doubt we shall have trouble.
+But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the
+hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open.  Let bills be got out, and
+an audience will collect in any case."
+
+MORE.  They will.
+
+STEEL.  "Yours truly"; I've signed for you.
+
+     [MORE nods.]
+
+STEEL.  [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know the servants
+have all given notice--except Henry.
+
+MORE.  Poor Henry!
+
+STEEL.  It's partly nerves, of course--the windows have been broken
+twice--but it's partly----
+
+MORE.  Patriotism.  Quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves.
+That reminds me--to-morrow you begin holiday, Steel.
+
+STEEL.  Oh, no!
+
+MORE.  My dear fellow--yes.  Last night ended your sulphur cure.
+Truly sorry ever to have let you in for it.
+
+STEEL.  Some one must do the work.  You're half dead as it is.
+
+MORE.  There's lots of kick in me.
+
+STEEL.  Give it up, sir.  The odds are too great.  It isn't worth it.
+
+MORE.  To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten--is anything
+better worth it?
+
+STEEL.  Well, then, I'm not going.
+
+MORE.  This is my private hell, Steel; you don't roast in it any
+longer.  Believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but
+yourself.
+
+STEEL.  I can't leave you, sir.
+
+MORE.  My dear boy, you're a brick--but we've got off by a miracle so
+far, and I can't have the responsibility of you any longer.  Hand me
+over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting.
+
+STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them.
+
+MORE.  Come!  [He stretches out his hand for the papers.  As STEEL
+still draws back, he says more sharply]  Give them to me, Steel!
+[STEEL hands them over]  Now, that ends it, d'you see?
+
+     They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset,
+     turns and goes out of the room.  MORE, who has watched him with
+     a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case.  As he is
+     closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr.
+     Mendip, sir."  MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws.  MORE
+     turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand.
+
+MENDIP.  [Taking MORE'S hand] Give me credit for a little philosophy,
+my friend.  Mrs. More told me you'd be back to-day.  Have you heard?
+
+MORE.  What?
+
+MENDIP.  There's been a victory.
+
+MORE.  Thank God!
+
+MENDIP.  Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood.
+
+MORE.  Yes!
+
+MENDIP.  Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen.  You're only flouting
+human nature.
+
+MORE.  So--even you defend the mob!
+
+MENDIP.  My dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common
+instinct in the world.  What do you expect?  That the man in the
+street should be a Quixote?  That his love of country should express
+itself in philosophic altruism?  What on earth do you expect?  Men
+are very simple creatures; and Mob is just conglomerate essence of
+simple men.
+
+MORE.  Conglomerate excrescence.  Mud of street and market-place
+gathered in a torrent--This blind howling "patriotism"--what each man
+feels in here?  [He touches his breast]  No!
+
+MENDIP.  You think men go beyond instinct--they don't.  All they know
+is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call
+country.  They just feel something big and religious, and go it
+blind.
+
+MORE.  This used to be the country of free speech.  It used to be the
+country where a man was expected to hold to his faith.
+
+MENDIP.  There are limits to human nature, Stephen.
+
+MORE.  Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack.  Still
+your advice, is it?
+
+MENDIP.  My advice is: Get out of town at once.  The torrent you
+speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out.  Come, my
+dear fellow, don't stay here!
+
+MORE.  Thanks!  I'll see that Katherine and Olive go.
+
+MENDIP.  Go with them!  If your cause is lost, that's no reason why
+you should be.
+
+MORE.  There's the comfort of not running away.  And--I want comfort.
+
+MENDIP.  This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish--foolish.  Well!  I'm
+going to the House.  This way?
+
+MORE.  Down the steps, and through the gate.  Good-bye?
+
+     KATHERINE has come in followed by NURSE, hatted and cloaked,
+     with a small bag in her hand.  KATHERINE takes from the bureau a
+     cheque which she hands to the NURSE.  MORE comes in from the
+     terrace.
+
+MORE.  You're wise to go, Nurse.
+
+NURSE.  You've treated my poor dear badly, sir.  Where's your heart?
+
+MORE.  In full use.
+
+NURSE.  On those heathens.  Don't your own hearth and home come
+first?  Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father
+fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country.  A bitter
+thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by
+the boys in the street.
+
+     [MORE stands silent under this attack, looking at his wife.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Nurse!
+
+NURSE.  It's unnatural, sir--what you're doing!  To think more of
+those savages than of your own wife!  Look at her!  Did you ever see
+her look like that?  Take care, sir, before it's too late!
+
+MORE.  Enough, please!
+
+     NURSE stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at KATHERINE;
+     then goes.
+
+MORE.  [Quietly] There has been a victory.
+
+     [He goes out.  KATHERINE is breathing fast, listening to the
+     distant hum and stir rising in the street.  She runs to the
+     window as the footman, HENRY, entering, says: "Sir John Julian,
+     Ma'am!" SIR JOHN comes in, a newspaper in his hand.]
+
+KATHERINE.  At last!  A victory!
+
+SIR JOHN.  Thank God!  [He hands her the paper.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh, Dad!
+
+     [She tears the paper open, and feverishly reads.]
+
+KATHERINE.  At last!
+
+     The distant hum in the street is rising steadily.  But SIR JOHN,
+     after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper,
+     stares dumbly at the floor.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Suddenly conscious of his gravity]  Father!
+
+SIR JOHN.  There is other news.
+
+KATHERINE.  One of the boys?  Hubert?
+
+     [SIR JOHN bows his head.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Killed?
+
+     [SIR JOHN again bows his head.]
+
+KATHERINE.  The dream!  [She covers her face]  Poor Helen!
+
+     They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his
+     head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [Huskily]  Whom the gods love----
+
+KATHERINE.  Hubert!
+
+SIR JOHN.  And hulks like me go on living!
+
+KATHERINE.  Dear Dad!
+
+SIR JOHN.  But we shall drive the ruffians now!  We shall break them.
+Stephen back?
+
+KATHERINE.  Last night.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last?
+[KATHERINE shakes her head]  Not?
+
+     [Then, seeing that KATHERINE is quivering with emotion, he
+     strokes her hand.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  My dear!  Death is in many houses!
+
+KATHERINE.  I must go to Helen.  Tell Stephen, Father.  I can't.
+
+SIR JOHN.  If you wish, child.
+
+     [She goes out, leaving SIR JOHN to his grave, puzzled grief, and
+     in a few seconds MORE comes in.]
+
+MORE.  Yes, Sir John.  You wanted me?
+
+SIR JOHN.  Hubert is killed.
+
+MORE.  Hubert!
+
+SIR JOHN.  By these--whom you uphold.  Katherine asked me to let you
+know.  She's gone to Helen.  I understand you only came back last
+night from your----No word I can use would give what I feel about
+that.  I don't know how things stand now between you and Katherine;
+but I tell you this, Stephen: you've tried her these last two months
+beyond what any woman ought to bear!
+
+     [MORE makes a gesture of pain.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  When you chose your course----
+
+MORE.  Chose!
+
+SIR JOHN.  You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her.
+You knew this might come.  It may come again with another of my sons.
+
+MORE.  I would willingly change places with any one of them.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Yes--I can believe in your unhappiness.  I cannot conceive
+of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country.  If I
+could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price--no, nor
+all my sons.  'Pro patri mori'--My boy, at all events, is happy!
+
+MORE.  Yes!
+
+SIR JOHN.  Yet you can go on doing what you are!  What devil of pride
+has got into you, Stephen?
+
+MORE.  Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private
+fighting out there?  Not for a minute.
+
+SIR JOHN.  I don't understand you.  I always thought you devoted to
+Katherine.
+
+MORE.  Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and
+child?
+
+SIR JOHN.  I do.
+
+MORE.  So do I.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [Bewildered]  Whatever my country does or leaves undone, I
+no more presume to judge her than I presume to judge my God.  [With
+all the exaltation of the suffering he has undergone for her]  My
+country!
+
+MORE.  I would give all I have--for that creed.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [Puzzled]  Stephen, I've never looked on you as a crank;
+I always believed you sane and honest.  But this is--visionary mania.
+
+MORE.  Vision of what might be.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation--
+the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them?  I've
+known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country.
+
+MORE.  Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me!
+To see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if I
+were a wall!  To dread the post!  To go to bed every night with the
+sound of hooting in my ears!  To know that my name is never referred
+to without contempt----
+
+SIR JOHN.  You have your new friends.  Plenty of them, I understand.
+
+MORE.  Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night?  Your
+battles are fool's play to it.
+
+     The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder.
+     SIR JOHN turns his head towards it.
+
+SIR JOHN.  You've heard there's been a victory.  Do you carry your
+unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that?  [MORE shakes his
+head]  That's something!  For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's
+gone past mending.  Don't ruin your life with Katherine.  Hubert was
+her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him.  Think
+what that means to her!  Drop this--mad Quixotism--idealism--whatever
+you call it.  Take Katherine away.  Leave the country till the
+thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and--
+traducing.  Take her away!  Come!  What good are you doing?  What
+earthly good?  Come, my boy!  Before you're utterly undone.
+
+MORE.  Sir John!  Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's
+in them!  I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--Am
+I to slink away?  Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds
+who've thanked me for taking this stand.  They look on me now as
+their leader.  Am I to desert them?  When you led your forlorn hope--
+did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come
+through alive?  It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are
+following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred--
+not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [After a long stare]  I give you credit for believing what
+you say.  But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--I'm too
+old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's
+love.  By God!  This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks
+and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of
+your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much
+the better for you.  But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection--
+alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter
+ruin and destruction--as it must--I shall not pity--I cannot pity
+you.  Good-night!
+
+     He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out.  MORE is left
+     standing perfectly still.  The stir and murmur of the street is
+     growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his
+     consciousness.  He goes to the bay window and looks out; then
+     rings the bell.  It is not answered, and, after turning up the
+     lights, he rings again.  KATHERINE comes in.  She is wearing a
+     black hat, and black outdoor coat.  She speaks coldly without
+     looking up.
+
+KATHERINE.  You rang!
+
+MORE.  For them to shut this room up.
+
+KATHERINE.  The servants have gone out.  They're afraid of the house
+being set on fire.
+
+MORE.  I see.
+
+KATHERINE.  They have not your ideals to sustain them.  [MORE winces]
+I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's.
+
+MORE.  [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words]  Good!  You
+prefer that to an hotel?  [KATHERINE nods.   Gently] Will you let me
+say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you--Hubert's----
+
+KATHERINE.  Don't.  I ought to have made what I meant plainer.  I am
+not coming back.
+
+MORE.  Not?  Not while the house----
+
+KATHERINE.  Not--at all.
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  I warned you from the first.  You've gone too far!
+
+MORE.  [Terribly moved]  Do you understand what this means?  After
+ten years--and all--our love!
+
+KATHERINE.  Was it love?  How could you ever have loved one so
+unheroic as myself!
+
+MORE.  This is madness, Kit--Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  Last night I was ready.  You couldn't.  If you couldn't
+then, you never can.  You are very exalted, Stephen.  I don't like
+living--I won't live, with one whose equal I am not.  This has been
+coming ever since you made that speech.  I told you that night what
+the end would be.
+
+MORE.  [Trying to put his arms round her]  Don't be so terribly
+cruel!
+
+KATHERINE.  No!  Let's have the truth!  People so wide apart don't
+love!  Let me go!
+
+MORE.  In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths?
+
+KATHERINE.  Last night you used the word--bargain.  Quite right.  I
+meant to buy you.  I meant to kill your faith.  You showed me what I
+was doing.  I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains,
+Stephen.
+
+MORE.  God knows--I never meant----
+
+KATHERINE.  If I'm not yours in spirit--I don't choose to be your--
+mistress.
+
+     MORE, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an
+     attitude of defence.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, that's cruel!  It shows the heights you live on.  I
+won't drag you down.
+
+MORE.  For God's sake, put your pride away, and see!  I'm fighting
+for the faith that's in me.  What else can a man do?  What else?  Ah!
+Kit!  Do see!
+
+KATHERINE.  I'm strangled here!  Doing nothing--sitting silent--when
+my brothers are fighting, and being killed.  I shall try to go out
+nursing.  Helen will come with me.  I have my faith, too; my poor
+common love of country.  I can't stay here with you.  I spent last
+night on the floor--thinking--and I know!
+
+MORE.  And Olive?
+
+KATHERINE.  I shall leave her at Father's, with Nurse; unless you
+forbid me to take her.  You can.
+
+MORE.  [Icily]  That I shall not do--you know very well.  You are
+free to go, and to take her.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Very low]  Thank you!  [Suddenly she turns to him, and
+draws his eyes on her.  Without a sound, she puts her whole strength
+into that look]  Stephen!  Give it up!  Come down to me!
+
+     The festive sounds from the street grow louder.  There can be
+     heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds
+     of joy.
+
+MORE.  And drown in--that?
+
+KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door.  There she stands and again
+looks at him.  Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents
+of her emotions.
+
+MORE.  So--you're going?
+
+KATHERINE.  [In a whisper]  Yes.
+
+     She bends her head, opens the door, and goes.  MORE starts
+     forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the
+     doorway.  She has on a straight little white coat and a round
+     white cap.
+
+OLIVE.  Aren't you coming with us, Daddy?
+
+     [MORE shakes his head.]
+
+OLIVE.  Why not?
+
+MORE.  Never mind, my dicky bird.
+
+OLIVE.  The motor'll have to go very slow.  There are such a lot of
+people in the street.  Are you staying to stop them setting the house
+on fire?  [MORE nods]  May I stay a little, too?  [MORE shakes his
+head]  Why?
+
+MORE.  [Putting his hand on her head]  Go along, my pretty!
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  love me up, Daddy!
+
+     [MORE takes and loves her up]
+
+OLIVE.  Oo-o!
+
+MORE.  Trot, my soul!
+
+     [She goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and vanishes.]
+
+     MORE follows her to the door, but stops there.  Then, as full
+     realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window,
+     craning his head to catch sight of the front door.  There is the
+     sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its
+     horn as it makes its way among the crowd.  He turns from the
+     window.
+
+MORE.  Alone as the last man on earth!
+
+     [Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the
+     street.]
+
+VOICE.  There 'e is!  That's 'im!  More!  Traitor!  More!
+
+     A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins
+     to rattle against the glass of the window.  Many voices take up
+     the groaning: "More!  Traitor!  Black-leg!  More!"  And through
+     the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese
+     lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos.  The din of execration
+     swells.  MORE stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab.
+     Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of
+     the panes.  It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a
+     hearty groan.  A second stone crashes through the glass.  MORE
+     turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the
+     street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his
+     face.  Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he
+     moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head
+     droop.  The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes
+     through.  MORE raises his head again, and, clasping his hands,
+     looks straight before him.  The footman, HENRY, entering,
+     hastens to the French windows.
+
+MORE.  Ah!  Henry, I thought you'd gone.
+
+FOOTMAN.  I came back, sir.
+
+MORE.  Good fellow!
+
+FOOTMAN.  They're trying to force the terrace gate, sir.  They've no
+business coming on to private property--no matter what!
+
+     In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows
+     fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the
+     terrace, and no more seen.  The MOB is a mixed crowd of
+     revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and
+     girls, and a Boy Scout or two.  Many have exchanged hats--Some
+     wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles.
+     Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside
+     on the terrace.  The medley of noises is very great.  Such
+     ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS,
+     the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an
+     athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and
+     heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge
+     arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion.  When the
+     first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To
+     him, boys!  Chair the hero!"  THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive
+     MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round
+     the room.  When they have twice circled the table to the music
+     of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF
+     THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him
+     down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and
+     stand gaping up at him.
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Speech!  Speech!
+
+     [The noise ebbs, and MORE looks round him.]
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Now then, you, sir.
+
+MORE.  [In a quiet voice]  Very well.  You are here by the law that
+governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force.  By that law, you
+can do what you like to this body of mine.
+
+A VOICE.  And we will, too.
+
+MORE.  I don't doubt it.  But before that, I've a word to say.
+
+A VOICE.  You've always that.
+
+     [ANOTHER VOICE raises a donkey's braying.]
+
+MORE.  You--Mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun.  When
+you walk the street--God goes in.
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Be careful, you--sir.
+
+VOICES.  Down him!  Down with the beggar!
+
+MORE.  [Above the murmurs]  My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you.
+You've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak.
+Put up with the truth for once!  [His words rush out]  You are the
+thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech.  This
+to-day, and that to-morrow.  Brain--you have none.  Spirit--not the
+ghost of it!  If you're not meanness, there's no such thing.  If
+you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the growing
+fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism--there are two kinds--that of
+our soldiers, and this of mine.  You have neither!
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  [Checking a dangerous rush]  Hold on!  Hold on!  [To
+MORE] Swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: Swear
+it!
+
+CROWD.  Ah!  Ay!  Ah!
+
+MORE.  My country is not yours.  Mine is that great country which
+shall never take toll from the weakness of others.  [Above the
+groaning] Ah!  you can break my head and my windows; but don't think
+that you can break my faith.  You could never break or shake it, if
+you were a million to one.
+
+     A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the
+     crowd and shakes her fist at him.
+
+GIRL.  You're friends with them that killed my lad!  [MORE smiles
+down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a Boy
+Scout beside her]  Smile, you--cur!
+
+     A violent rush and heave from behind flings MORE forward on to
+     the steel.  He reels, staggers back, and falls down amongst the
+     crowd.  A scream, a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries.  The CHIEF
+     STUDENT shouts above the riot: "Steady!"  Another: "My God!
+     He's got it!"
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Give him air!
+
+     The crowd falls back, and two STUDENTS, bending over MORE, lift
+     his arms and head, but they fall like lead.  Desperately they
+     test him for life.
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  By the Lord, it's over!
+
+     Then begins a scared swaying out towards the window.  Some one
+     turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts
+     away.  The body of MORE lies in the gleam from a single Chinese
+     lantern.  Muttering the words: "Poor devil!  He kept his end up
+     anyway!" the CHIEF STUDENT picks from the floor a little
+     abandoned Union Jack and lays it on MORE's breast.  Then he,
+     too, turns, and rushes out.
+
+     And the body of MORE lies in the streak of light; and flee
+     noises in the street continue to rise.
+
+
+          THE CURTAIN FALLS, BUT RISES AGAIN ALMOST AT ONCE.
+
+
+
+
+
+                              AFTERMATH
+
+     A late Spring dawn is just breaking.  Against trees in leaf and
+     blossom, with the houses of a London Square beyond, suffused by
+     the spreading glow, is seen a dark life-size statue on a granite
+     pedestal.  In front is the broad, dust-dim pavement.  The light
+     grows till the central words around the pedestal can be clearly
+     read:
+
+                              ERECTED
+                           To the Memory
+                                 of
+                            STEPHEN MORE
+                       "Faithful to his ideal"
+
+High above, the face of MORE looks straight before him with a faint
+smile.  On one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have
+perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and
+singing of birds.
+
+
+THE CURTAIN FALLS.
+
+
+The End
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Third Series Plays, Complete
+by John Galsworthy
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRD SERIES PLAYS, COMPLETE ***
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #5057 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5057)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Third Series Plays, Complete
+*** [Contains: The Fugitive, The Pigeon, The Mob] ***
+#41 in our series by John Galsworthy
+                                             
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+**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
+
+*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****
+
+
+Title: The Third Series Plays, Complete
+
+Author: John Galsworthy
+
+Release Date: February, 2004  [EBook #5057]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on April 11, 2002]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+
+
+
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRD SERIES PLAYS BY GALSWORTHY ***
+
+
+This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
+
+
+
+
+
+THE THIRD SERIES PLAYS, Complete
+
+By John Galsworthy
+
+Contents:
+     The Fugitive
+     The Pigeon
+     The Mob
+
+
+
+
+THE FUGITIVE
+
+A Play in Four Acts
+
+By John Galsworthy
+
+
+
+PERSONS OF THE PLAY
+
+GEORGE DEDMOND, a civilian
+CLARE, his wife
+GENERAL SIR CHARLES DEDMOND, K.C.B., his father.
+LADY DEDMOND, his mother
+REGINALD HUNTINGDON, Clare's brother
+EDWARD FULLARTON, her friend
+DOROTHY FULLARTON, her friend
+PAYNTER, a manservant
+BURNEY, a maid
+TWISDEN, a solicitor
+HAYWOOD, a tobacconist
+MALISE, a writer
+MRS. MILER, his caretaker
+THE PORTER at his lodgings
+A BOY messenger
+ARNAUD, a waiter at "The Gascony"
+MR. VARLEY, manager of "The Gascony"
+TWO LADIES WITH LARGE HATS, A LADY AND GENTLEMAN, A LANGUID LORD,
+     HIS COMPANION, A YOUNG MAN, A BLOND GENTLEMAN, A DARK GENTLEMAN.
+
+
+
+
+ACT I.  George Dedmond's Flat.  Evening.
+
+ACT II.  The rooms of Malise.  Morning.
+
+ACT III.  SCENE I.  The rooms of Malice.  Late afternoon.
+
+          SCENE II.      The rooms of Malise.  Early Afternoon.
+
+ACT IV. A small supper room at "The Gascony."
+
+
+
+
+Between Acts I and II three nights elapse.
+
+Between Acts II and Act III, Scene I, three months.
+
+Between Act III, Scene I, and Act III, Scene II, three months.
+
+Between Act III, Scene II, and Act IV, six months.
+
+
+
+
+  "With a hey-ho chivy
+  Hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!"
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+     The SCENE is the pretty drawing-room of a flat.  There are two
+     doors, one open into the hall, the other shut and curtained.
+     Through a large bay window, the curtains of which are not yet
+     drawn, the towers of Westminster can be seen darkening in a
+     summer sunset; a grand piano stands across one corner.  The
+     man-servant PAYNTER, clean-shaven and discreet, is arranging two
+     tables for Bridge.
+
+     BURNEY, the maid, a girl with one of those flowery Botticellian
+     faces only met with in England, comes in through the curtained
+     door, which she leaves open, disclosing the glimpse of a white
+     wall.  PAYNTER looks up at her; she shakes her head, with an
+     expression of concern.
+
+PAYNTER.  Where's she gone?
+
+BURNEY.  Just walks about, I fancy.
+
+PAYNTER.  She and the Governor don't hit it!  One of these days
+she'll flit--you'll see.  I like her--she's a lady; but these
+thoroughbred 'uns--it's their skin and their mouths.  They'll go till
+they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but
+jib--jib--jib.  How was it down there before she married him?
+
+BURNEY.  Oh!  Quiet, of course.
+
+PAYNTER.  Country homes--I know 'em.  What's her father, the old
+Rector, like?
+
+BURNEY.  Oh! very steady old man.  The mother dead long before I took
+the place.
+
+PAYNTER.  Not a penny, I suppose?
+
+BURNEY.  [Shaking her head]  No; and seven of them.
+
+PAYNTER.  [At sound of the hall door]  The Governor!
+
+     BURNEY withdraws through the curtained door.
+
+     GEORGE DEDMOND enters from the hall.  He is in evening dress,
+     opera hat, and overcoat; his face is broad, comely, glossily
+     shaved, but with neat moustaches.  His eyes, clear, small, and
+     blue-grey, have little speculation.  His hair is well brushed.
+
+GEORGE.  [Handing PAYNTER his coat and hat]  Look here, Paynter!
+When I send up from the Club for my dress things, always put in a
+black waistcoat as well.
+
+PAYNTER.  I asked the mistress, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  In future--see?
+
+PAYNTER.  Yes, sir.  [Signing towards the window]  Shall I leave the
+sunset, sir?
+
+     But GEORGE has crossed to the curtained door; he opens it and
+     says: "Clare!"  Receiving no answer, he goes in.  PAYNTER
+     switches up the electric light.  His face, turned towards the
+     curtained door, is apprehensive.
+
+GEORGE.  [Re-entering]  Where's Mrs. Dedmond?
+
+PAYNTER.  I hardly know, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Dined in?
+
+PAYNTER.  She had a mere nothing at seven, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Has she gone out, since?
+
+PAYNTER.  Yes, sir--that is, yes.  The--er--mistress was not dressed
+at all.  A little matter of fresh air, I think; sir.
+
+GEORGE.  What time did my mother say they'd be here for Bridge?
+
+PAYNTER.  Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond were coming at half-past nine;
+and Captain Huntingdon, too--Mr. and Mrs.  Fullarton might be a bit
+late, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  It's that now.  Your mistress said nothing?
+
+PAYNTER.  Not to me, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Send Burney.
+
+PAYNTER.  Very good, sir.  [He withdraws.]
+
+     GEORGE stares gloomily at the card tables.  BURNEY comes in
+     front the hall.
+
+GEORGE.  Did your mistress say anything before she went out?
+
+BURNEY.  Yes, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Well?
+
+BURNEY.  I don't think she meant it, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  I don't want to know what you don't think, I want the fact.
+
+BURNEY.  Yes, sir.  The mistress said: "I hope it'll be a pleasant
+evening, Burney!"
+
+GEORGE.  Oh!--Thanks.
+
+BURNEY.  I've put out the mistress's things, sir.
+
+GEORGE.  Ah!
+
+BURNEY.  Thank you, sir.  [She withdraws.]
+
+GEORGE.  Damn!
+
+     He again goes to the curtained door, and passes through.
+     PAYNTER, coming in from the hall, announces: "General Sir
+     Charles and Lady Dedmond."  SIR CHARLES is an upright, well-
+     groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with a
+     keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains.  LADY
+     DEDMOND has a firm, thin face, full of capability and decision,
+     not without kindliness; and faintly weathered, as if she had
+     faced many situations in many parts of the world.  She is fifty
+     five.
+
+     PAYNTER withdraws.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Hullo!  Where are they?  H'm!
+
+     As he speaks, GEORGE re-enters.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Kissing her son]  Well, George.  Where's Clare?
+
+GEORGE.  Afraid she's late.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Are we early?
+
+GEORGE.  As a matter of fact, she's not in.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Oh?
+
+SIR CHARLES.  H'm!  Not--not had a rumpus?
+
+GEORGE.  Not particularly.  [With the first real sign of feeling]
+What I can't stand is being made a fool of before other people.
+Ordinary friction one can put up with.  But that----
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Gone out on purpose?  What!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  What was the trouble?
+
+GEORGE.  I told her this morning you were coming in to Bridge.
+Appears she'd asked that fellow Malise, for music.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Without letting you know?
+
+GEORGE.  I believe she did tell me.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But surely----
+
+GEORGE.  I don't want to discuss it.  There's never anything in
+particular.  We're all anyhow, as you know.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I see.  [She looks shrewdly at her son]  My dear,
+I should be rather careful about him, I think.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Who's that?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  That Mr. Malise.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Oh!  That chap!
+
+GEORGE.  Clare isn't that sort.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I know.  But she catches up notions very easily.  I
+think it's a great pity you ever came across him.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Where did you pick him up?
+
+GEORGE.  Italy--this Spring--some place or other where they couldn't
+speak English.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Um!  That's the worst of travellin'.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I think you ought to have dropped him.  These literary
+people---[Quietly]  From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't
+very far, George.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  We'll make him play Bridge.  Do him good, if he's that
+sort of fellow.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Is anyone else coming?
+
+GEORGE.  Reggie Huntingdon, and the Fullartons.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Softly]  You know, my dear boy, I've been meaning to
+speak to you for a long time.  It is such a pity you and Clare--What
+is it?
+
+GEORGE.  God knows!  I try, and I believe she does.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  It's distressin'--for us, you know, my dear fellow--
+distressin'.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I know it's been going on for a long time.
+
+GEORGE.  Oh!  leave it alone, mother.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But, George, I'm afraid this man has brought it to a
+point--put ideas into her head.
+
+GEORGE.  You can't dislike him more than I do.  But there's nothing
+one can object to.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Could Reggie Huntingdon do anything, now he's home?
+Brothers sometimes----
+
+GEORGE.  I can't bear my affairs being messed about----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Well! it would be better for you and Clare to be
+supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone.  Go
+quietly into the dining-room and wait for her.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Good!  Leave your mother to make up something.  She'll
+do it!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  That may be he.  Quick!
+
+     [A bell sounds.]
+
+     GEORGE goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his
+     haste.  LADY DEDMOND, following, calls "Paynter!"  PAYNTER
+     enters.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Don't say anything about your master and mistress
+being out.  I'll explain.
+
+PAYNTER.  The master, my lady?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Yes, I know.  But you needn't say so.  Do you
+understand?
+
+PAYNTER.  [In polite dudgeon]  Just so, my lady.
+
+     [He goes out.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  By Jove!  That fellow smells a rat!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Be careful, Charles!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I should think so.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're
+not to wait Bridge for them.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Listening]  He's having a palaver with that man of
+George's.
+
+     PAYNTER, reappearing, announces: "Captain Huntingdon."  SIR
+     CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND turn to him with relief.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Ah!  It's you, Reginald!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do?  How are
+you, sir?  What's the matter with their man?
+
+SHE CHARLES.  What!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar;
+and he said: "Not in there, sir.  The master's there, but my
+instructions are to the effect that he's not."
+
+SHE CHARLES.  I knew that fellow----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is
+waiting for her.  It's so important people shouldn't----
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Rather!
+
+     They draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of
+     members of their families.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  It's getting serious, Reginald.  I don't know what's
+to become of them.  You don't think the Rector--you don't think your
+father would speak to Clare?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Afraid the Governor's hardly well enough.  He takes
+anything of that sort to heart so--especially Clare.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Can't you put in a word yourself?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Don't know where the mischief lies.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road.  Very
+steady-goin' fellow, old George.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Oh, yes; George is all right, sir.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  They ought to have had children.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't.  I really
+don't know what to say, ma'am.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often
+noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer.  Get too much morality and
+rice puddin'.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [With a clear look]  Charles!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What was she like when you were kids?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Oh, all right.  Could be rather a little devil, of
+course, when her monkey was up.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I'm fond of her.  Nothing she wants that she hasn't
+got, is there?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Never heard her say so.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Dimly]  I don't know whether old George is a bit too
+matter of fact for her.  H'm?
+
+     [A short silence.]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night.  I forget
+if you know him.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Yes.  Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  He's literary.  [With hesitation]  You--you don't
+think he--puts--er--ideas into her head?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a
+bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows.  Can't see Clare----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  No.  Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be
+encouraged.  Listen!--It is her-coming in.  I can hear their voices.
+Gone to her room.  What a blessing that man isn't here yet!  [The
+door bell rings] Tt!  There he is, I expect.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What are we goin' to say?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for
+them.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Good!
+
+     The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise."
+     MALISE enters.  He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a
+     strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which
+     seem to have needles in their pupils.  His thick hair is rather
+     untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  How do you do?  My son and daughter-in-law are so very
+sorry.  They'll be here directly.
+
+     [MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We've met, I think.
+
+     He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn
+     the person bowed to of the sort of person he is.  MALISE'S eyes
+     sparkle.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Clare will be so grieved.  One of those invitations
+
+MALISE.  On the spur of the moment.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  You play Bridge, sir?
+
+MALISE.  Afraid not!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Don't mean that?  Then we shall have to wait for 'em.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  I forget, Mr. Malise--you write, don't you?
+
+MALISE.  Such is my weakness.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Delightful profession.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Doesn't tie you!  What!
+
+MALISE.  Only by the head.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.
+
+MALISE.  Indeed!
+
+[There is the sound of a door banged.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Hastily]  You smoke, Mr.  MALISE?
+
+MALISE.  Too much.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Ah!  Must smoke when you think a lot.
+
+MALISE.  Or think when you smoke a lot.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Genially]  Don't know that I find that.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [With her clear look at him]  Charles!
+
+     The door is opened.  CLARE DEDMOND in a cream-coloured evening
+     frock comes in from the hall, followed by GEORGE.  She is rather
+     pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown
+     hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of
+     those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of
+     voice and manner.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Well, my dear!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Ah!  George.  Good dinner?
+
+GEORGE.  [Giving his hand to MALISE]  How are you?  Clare!  Mr.
+MALISE!
+
+CLARE.  [Smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp]
+Yes, we met on the door-mat.  [Pause.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Deuce you did!  [An awkward pause.]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Acidly]  Mr. Malise doesn't play Bridge, it appears.
+Afraid we shall be rather in the way of music.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What!  Aren't we goin' to get a game?  [PAYNTER has
+entered with a tray.]
+
+GEORGE.  Paynter!  Take that table into the dining room.
+
+PAYNTER.  [Putting down the tray on a table behind the door]  Yes,
+sir.
+
+MALISE.  Let me give you a hand.
+
+     PAYNTER and MALISE carry one of the Bridge tables out, GEORGE
+     making a half-hearted attempt to relieve MALISE.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Very fine sunset!
+
+     Quite softly CLARE begins to laugh.  All look at her first with
+     surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror.  GEORGE is
+     about to go up to her, but HUNTINGDON heads him off.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Bring the tray along, old man.
+
+     GEORGE takes up the tray, stops to look at CLARE, then allows
+     HUNTINGDON to shepherd him out.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Without looking at CLARE]  Well, if we're going to
+play, Charles? [She jerks his sleeve.]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What?  [He marches out.]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Meeting MALISE in the doorway]  Now you will be able
+to have your music.
+
+     [She follows the GENERAL out]
+
+     [CLARE stands perfectly still, with her eyes closed.]
+
+MALISE.  Delicious!
+
+CLARE.  [In her level, clipped voice]  Perfectly beastly of me!  I'm
+so sorry.  I simply can't help running amok to-night.
+
+MALISE.  Never apologize for being fey.  It's much too rare.
+
+CLARE.  On the door-mat!  And they'd whitewashed me so beautifully!
+Poor dears!  I wonder if I ought----[She looks towards the door.]
+
+MALISE.  Don't spoil it!
+
+CLARE.  I'd been walking up and down the Embankment for about three
+hours.  One does get desperate sometimes.
+
+MALISE.  Thank God for that!
+
+CLARE.  Only makes it worse afterwards.  It seems so frightful to
+them, too.
+
+MALISE.  [Softly and suddenly, but with a difficulty in finding the
+right words]  Blessed be the respectable!  May they dream of--me!
+And blessed be all men of the world!  May they perish of a surfeit
+of--good form!
+
+CLARE.  I like that.  Oh, won't there be a row!  [With a faint
+movement of her shoulders]  And the usual reconciliation.
+
+MALISE.  Mrs. Dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours.  Why
+don't you spread your wings?
+
+CLARE.  My dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and
+I've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom I'm
+supposed to set a good example.  Then, I've no money, and I can't do
+anything for a living, except serve in a shop.  I shouldn't be free,
+either; so what's the good?  Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I
+wasn't going to be happy.  You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or
+ill-treated.  It's only----
+
+MALISE.  Prison.  Break out!
+
+CLARE.  [Turning to the window]  Did you see the sunset?  That white
+cloud trying to fly up?
+
+     [She holds up her bare arms, with a motion of flight.]
+
+MALISE.  [Admiring her] Ah-h-h!  [Then, as she drops her arms
+suddenly]  Play me something.
+
+CLARE.  [Going to the piano]  I'm awfully grateful to you.  You don't
+make me feel just an attractive female.  I wanted somebody like that.
+[Letting her hands rest on the notes]  All the same, I'm glad not to
+be ugly.
+
+MALISE.  Thank God for beauty!
+
+PAYNTER.  [Opening the door]  Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton.
+
+MALISE.  Who are they?
+
+CLARE.  [Rising]  She's my chief pal.  He was in the Navy.
+
+     She goes forward.  MRS.  FULLERTON is a rather tall woman, with
+     dark hair and a quick eye.  He, one of those clean-shaven naval
+     men of good presence who have retired from the sea, but not from
+     their susceptibility.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Kissing CLARE, and taking in both MALISE and her
+husband's look at CLARE]  We've only come for a minute.
+
+CLARE.  They're playing Bridge in the dining-room.  Mr. Malise
+doesn't play.  Mr. Malise--Mrs. Fullarton, Mr. Fullarton.
+
+     [They greet.]
+
+FULLARTON.  Most awfully jolly dress, Mrs. Dedmond.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Yes, lovely, Clare.  [FULLARTON abases eyes which
+mechanically readjust themselves]  We can't stay for Bridge, my dear;
+I just wanted to see you a minute, that's all.  [Seeing HUNTINGDON
+coming in she speaks in a low voice to her husband]  Edward, I want
+to speak to Clare.  How d'you do, Captain Huntingdon?
+
+MALISE.  I'll say good-night.
+
+     He shakes hands with CLARE, bows to MRS. FULLARTON, and makes
+     his way out.  HUNTINGDON and FULLERTON foregather in the
+     doorway.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  How are things, Clare?  [CLARE just moves her
+shoulders]  Have you done what I suggested?  Your room?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Why not?
+
+CLARE.  I don't want to torture him.  If I strike--I'll go clean.  I
+expect I shall strike.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  My dear!  You'll have the whole world against you.
+
+CLARE.  Even you won't back me, Dolly?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Of course I'll back you, all that's possible, but I
+can't invent things.
+
+CLARE.  You wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till I could find
+my feet?
+
+     MRS. FULLARTON, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at
+     FULLARTON automatically gazing at CLARE while he talks with
+     HUNTINGDON.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Of course--the only thing is that----
+
+CLARE.  [With a faint smile]  It's all right, Dolly.  I'm not coming.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Oh!  don't do anything desperate, Clare--you are so
+desperate sometimes.  You ought to make terms--not tracks.
+
+CLARE.  Haggle?  [She shakes her head]  What have I got to make terms
+with?  What he still wants is just what I hate giving.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  But, Clare----
+
+CLARE.  No, Dolly; even you don't understand.  All day and every day
+--just as far apart as we can be--and still--Jolly, isn't it?  If
+you've got a soul at all.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  It's awful, really.
+
+CLARE.  I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on
+with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that--comes
+to an end.  Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.
+
+     She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to
+     bits.  It is the only sign of emotion she has given.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Watching]  Look here, my child; this won't do.  You
+must get a rest.  Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  Reggie lives on his pay.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [With one of her quick looks]  That was Mr. Malise,
+then?
+
+FULLARTON.  [Coming towards them]  I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn't
+sing me that little song you sang the other night,  [He hums]  "If I
+might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"?  Remember?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  "The falling dew," Edward.  We simply must go,
+Clare.  Good-night.  [She kisses her.]
+
+FULLARTON.  [Taking half-cover between his wife and CLARE]  It suits
+you down to the ground-that dress.
+
+CLARE.  Good-night.
+
+     HUNTINGDON sees them out.  Left alone CLARE clenches her hands,
+     moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Returning]  Look here, Clare!
+
+CLARE.  Well, Reggie?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  This is working up for a mess, old girl.  You can't do
+this kind of thing with impunity.  No man'll put up with it.  If
+you've got anything against George, better tell me.  [CLARE shakes
+her head]  You ought to know I should stick by you.  What is it?
+Come?
+
+CLARE.  Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong
+person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that
+your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a
+bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.
+
+CLARE.  Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I mean, you--you chose him yourself.  No one forced you
+to marry him.
+
+CLARE.  It does seem monstrous, doesn't it?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My dear child, do give us a reason.
+
+CLARE.  Look!  [She points out at the night and the darkening towers]
+If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah,
+Westminster!  Clock Tower!  Can you see the time by it?"  As if one
+cared where or what it was--beautiful like that!  Apply that to every
+--every--everything.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic.  But, my dear old
+girl, if that's all----
+
+CLARE.  It's not all--it's nothing.  I can't explain, Reggie--it's
+not reason, at all; it's--it's like being underground in a damp cell;
+it's like knowing you'll never get out.  Nothing coming--never
+anything coming again-never anything.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Moved and puzzled]  My dear old thing; you mustn't get
+into fantods like this.  If it's like that, don't think about it.
+
+CLARE.  When every day and every night!--Oh!  I know it's my fault
+for having married him, but that doesn't help.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Look here!  It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent
+chap.  And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent
+on him.  At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep
+going.
+
+CLARE.  I know.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  And you've got to think of the girls.  Any trouble would
+be very beastly for them.  And the poor old Governor would feel it
+awfully.
+
+CLARE.  If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home
+long ago.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Well, what's to be done?  If my pay would run to it--but
+it simply won't.
+
+CLARE.  Thanks, old boy, of course not.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?
+
+CLARE.  I do.  Oh!  don't let's talk about it.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go
+sailing near the wind, will you?  I mean, there are fellows always on
+the lookout.
+
+CLARE.  "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!"  Why?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Well!  I don't know him.  He may be all right, but he's
+not our sort.  And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New
+Woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it.
+
+CLARE.  British home-made summer goods, light and attractive--don't
+wear long.  [At the sound of voices in the hall]  They seem 'to be
+going, Reggie.
+
+     [HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Don't head for trouble, old girl.  Take a pull.  Bless
+you!  Good-night.
+
+     CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door,
+     holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of
+     emotion.  Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table,
+     leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite
+     calm.  GEORGE is coming in.  PAYNTER follows him.
+
+CLARE.  Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter.  You can go home,
+and the maids can go to bed.
+
+PAYNTER.  We are much obliged, ma'am.
+
+CLARE.  I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.
+
+PAYNTER.  Naturally, ma'am!
+
+CLARE.  Good-night.
+
+PAYNTER.  I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?
+
+CLARE.  No, thank you.
+
+PAYNTER.  No, ma'am.  Good-night, ma'am.
+
+     [He withdraws.]
+
+GEORGE.  You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that
+wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig.  [Going up to her]  Pleased with
+yourself to-night?  [CLARE shakes her head]  Before that fellow
+MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!
+
+CLARE.  Is it worth while to rag me?  I know I've behaved badly, but
+I couldn't help it, really!
+
+GEORGE.  Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl?  My God!  You were
+brought up as well as I was.
+
+CLARE.  Alas!
+
+GEORGE.  To let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one
+word for it--Disgusting!
+
+CLARE.  I know.
+
+GEORGE.  Then why do you do it?  I've always kept my end up.  Why in
+heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?
+
+CLARE.  I'm sorry.
+
+GEORGE.  [With intense feeling]  You like making a fool of me!
+
+CLARE.  No--Really!  Only--I must break out sometimes.
+
+GEORGE.  There are things one does not do.
+
+CLARE.  I came in because I was sorry.
+
+GEORGE.  And at once began to do it again!  It seems to me you
+delight in rows.
+
+CLARE.  You'd miss your--reconciliations.
+
+GEORGE.  For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism!
+
+CLARE.  And truth?
+
+GEORGE.  You are my wife, I suppose.
+
+CLARE.  And they twain shall be one--spirit.
+
+GEORGE.  Don't talk wild nonsense!
+
+     [There is silence.]
+
+CLARE.  [Softly]  I don't give satisfaction.  Please give me notice!
+
+GEORGE.  Pish!
+
+CLARE.  Five years, and four of them like this!  I'm sure we've
+served our time.  Don't you really think we might get on better
+together--if I went away?
+
+GEORGE.  I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason,
+and have your name bandied about all over London.  I have some
+primitive sense of honour.
+
+CLARE.  You mean your name, don't you?
+
+GEORGE.  Look here.  Did that fellow Malise put all this into your
+head?
+
+CLARE.  No; my own evil nature.
+
+GEORGE.  I wish the deuce we'd never met him.  Comes of picking up
+people you know nothing of.  I distrust him--and his looks--and his
+infernal satiric way.  He can't even 'dress decently.  He's not--good
+form.
+
+CLARE.  [With a touch of rapture]  Ah-h!
+
+GEORGE.  Why do you let him come?  What d'you find interesting in
+him?
+
+CLARE.  A mind.
+
+GEORGE.  Deuced funny one!  To have a mind--as you call it--it's not
+necessary to talk about Art and Literature.
+
+CLARE.  We don't.
+
+GEORGE.  Then what do you talk about--your minds?  [CLARE looks at
+him]  Will you answer a straight question?  Is he falling in love
+with you?
+
+CLARE.  You had better ask him.
+
+GEORGE.  I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe
+in the guide, philosopher and friend business.
+
+CLARE.  Thank you.
+
+     A silence.  CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.
+
+CLARE.  Let me go!  You'd be much happier with any other woman.
+
+GEORGE.  Clare!
+
+CLARE.  I believe--I'm sure I could earn my living.  Quite serious.
+
+GEORGE.  Are you mad?
+
+CLARE.  It has been done.
+
+GEORGE.  It will never be done by you--understand that!
+
+CLARE.  It really is time we parted.  I'd go clean out of your life.
+I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your
+money.
+
+GEORGE.  Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us
+both.
+
+CLARE.  But if we are already!  Look at us.  We go on, and on.  We're
+a spectacle!
+
+GEORGE.  That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as
+you behave yourself.
+
+CLARE.  That is--behave as you think right.
+
+GEORGE.  Clare, you're pretty riling.
+
+CLARE.  I don't want to be horrid.  But I am in earnest this time.
+
+GEORGE.  So am I.
+
+     [CLARE turns to the curtained door.]
+
+GEORGE.  Look here!  I'm sorry.  God knows I don't want to be a
+brute.  I know you're not happy.
+
+CLARE.  And you--are you happy?
+
+GEORGE.  I don't say I am.  But why can't we be?
+
+CLARE.  I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.
+
+GEORGE.  We can try.
+
+CLARE.  I HAVE--haven't you?
+
+GEORGE.  We used----
+
+CLARE.  I wonder!
+
+GEORGE.  You know we did.
+
+CLARE.  Too long ago--if ever.
+
+GEORGE [Coming closer] I--still----
+
+CLARE.  [Making a barrier of her hand]  You know that's only cupboard
+love.
+
+GEORGE.  We've got to face the facts.
+
+CLARE.  I thought I was.
+
+GEORGE.  The facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and
+certain things are expected of us.  It's suicide for you, and folly
+for me, in my position, to ignore that.  You have all you can
+reasonably want; and I don't--don't wish for any change.  If you
+could bring anything against me--if I drank, or knocked about town,
+or expected too much of you.  I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I
+can see.
+
+CLARE.  Well, I think we've talked enough.
+
+     [She again moves towards the curtained door.]
+
+GEORGE.  Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put
+up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried?
+That's simple purgatory.  You ought to know.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  I haven't yet, have I?
+
+GEORGE.  Don't go like that!  Do you suppose we're the only couple
+who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with
+each other and make the best of it.
+
+CLARE.  Not by thousands.
+
+GEORGE.  Well, why do you imagine they do it?
+
+CLARE.  I don't know.
+
+GEORGE.  From a common sense of decency.
+
+CLARE.  Very!
+
+GEORGE.  By Jove!  You can be the most maddening thing in all the
+world!  [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long
+slithering flutter]  After behaving as you have this evening, you
+might try to make some amends, I should think.
+
+     CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of
+     something she could not avoid.  He puts his hand on her arm.
+
+CLARE.  No, no--no!
+
+GEORGE.  [Dropping his hand]  Can't you make it up?
+
+CLARE.  I don't feel very Christian.
+
+     She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her.
+     GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the
+     room.  He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it
+     with a bang, and again contemplates the door.  Moving forward,
+     he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its
+     edge, and muttering.  Then he crosses to the door into the hall
+     and switches off the light.  He opens the door to go out, then
+     stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh.
+     Suddenly he mutters: "No!"  Crosses resolutely back to the
+     curtained door, and opens it.  In the gleam of light CLARE is
+     standing, unhooking a necklet.
+
+     He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud.
+
+
+                              CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+     The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer
+     door opens on to a corridor and stairway.  Doors on either side
+     lead to other rooms.  On the walls are unframed reproductions of
+     fine pictures, secured with tintacks.  An old wine-coloured
+     armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of
+     the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink,
+     pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to
+     his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only
+     eleven.  On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper,
+     cigarette ends, and two claret bottles.  There are many books on
+     shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a
+     soft hat, and a black knobby stick.  MALISE sits in his
+     armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers,
+     unshaved and uncollared, writing.  He pauses, smiles, lights a
+     cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up
+     a sheet of quarto MS.
+
+MALISE.  "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those
+excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace.  Only
+the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant
+Tyranny."
+
+     While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age,
+     in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the
+     corridor.  She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron
+     and a Bissell broom.  Her movements are slow and imperturbable,
+     as if she had much time before her.  Her face is broad and dark,
+     with Chinese eyebrows.
+
+MALISE.  Wait, Mrs. Miller!
+
+MRS. MILER.  I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.
+
+     She comes and stands before him.  MALISE writes.
+
+MRS. MILER.  There's a man 'angin' about below.
+
+     MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she
+     stops.  But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.
+
+MRS. MILER.  I see him first yesterday afternoon.  I'd just been out
+to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on
+the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion.  I thought
+to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.
+
+MALISE.  Well?
+
+MRS. MILER.  Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im
+lookin' at a photograft.  That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at
+pictures--it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight.  So I giv'
+a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket,
+and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three.  I goes down an' I
+says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?"  "Ah!" 'e
+says with an air of innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers."
+"Oh!" I says, "try round the corner, number ten."  "Ah!" 'e says
+tactful, "much obliged."  "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this
+time o' day.  Good evenin'!"  And I thinks to meself  [She closes one
+eye] Rats!  There's a good many corners hereabouts.
+
+MALISE.  [With detached appreciation]  Very good, Mrs. Miler.
+
+MRS. MILER.  So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor
+with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two.  "Oh!
+you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is
+grandmother.  "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here
+I've got my business."  "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives
+there neither.  Good mornin'!"  And I come straight up.  If you want
+to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the
+ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one.  Wonderful
+resource!
+
+MALISE.  What's he like, this gentleman?
+
+MRS. MILER.  Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily
+papers.  Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock
+hats you can't abide.
+
+MALISE.  Isn't he a dun?
+
+MRS. MILER.  They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir.
+He's after no good.  [Then, after a little pause]  Ain't he to be put
+a stop to?  If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a
+jug o' water.
+
+     [MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.]
+
+MALISE.  You can get on now; I'm going to shave.
+
+     He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room.  MRS.
+     MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the
+     armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly
+     rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she
+     rests.  There is a soft knock on the door.  She gets up
+     leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it.  The door being
+     opened CLARE is revealed.
+
+CLARE.  Is Mr. Malise in?
+
+MRS. MILER.  Yes.  But 'e's dressin'.
+
+CLARE.  Oh.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Won't take 'im long.  What name?
+
+CLARE.  Would you say--a lady.
+
+MRS. MILER.  It's against the rules.  But if you'll sit down a moment
+I'll see what I can do.  [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with
+her apron.  Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks
+through it]  A lady to see you.  [Returning she removes some
+cigarette ends]  This is my hour.  I shan't make much dust.  [Noting
+CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair]  I'm
+particular about not disturbin' things.
+
+CLARE.  I'm sure you are.
+
+MRS. MILER.  He likes 'is 'abits regular.
+
+     Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to
+     the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and
+     holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside
+     down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up
+     the other bottle, arid finding it not empty, she corks it and
+     drops it into the fold of her skirt.
+
+MRS. MILER.  He takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere
+bawgwars.
+
+CLARE.  [Rising] I think I'll come back later.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Mr. Malise is not in my confidence.  We keep each other
+to ourselves.  Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh
+every mornin'--the Westminister.
+
+     She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to
+     CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood.  MRS. MILER makes
+     a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still.  No
+     longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up.
+
+MRS. MILER.  I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes
+things clean.  [At a sound from the inner room]  That's 'im; 'e's cut
+'isself!  I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!
+
+     She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round
+     the armchair and taps on the door.  It opens.  CLARE moves
+     restlessly across the room.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer.  The lady's
+waitin'.
+
+     CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture
+     "Sacred and Profane Love."  MRS. MILER stands regarding her with
+     a Chinese smile.  MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still
+     hanging to his cheek.
+
+MALISE.  [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to
+her] Do the other room.
+
+     [Enigmatically she goes.]
+
+MALISE.  Jolly of you to come.  Can I do anything?
+
+CLARE.  I want advice-badly.
+
+MALISE.  What!  Spreading your wings?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+MALISE.  Ah!  Proud to have given you that advice.  When?
+
+CLARE.  The morning after you gave it me .  .  .
+
+MALISE.  Well?
+
+CLARE.  I went down to my people.  I knew it would hurt my Dad
+frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see.  No good.
+He was awfully sweet, only--he couldn't.
+
+MALISE.  [Softly]  We English love liberty in those who don't belong
+to us.  Yes.
+
+CLARE.  It was horrible.  There were the children--and my old nurse.
+I could never live at home now.  They'd think I was----.  Impossible
+--utterly!  I'd  made up my mind to go back to my owner--And then--
+he came down himself.  I couldn't d it.  To be hauled back and begin
+all over again; I simply couldn't.  I watched for a chance; and ran
+to the station, and came up to an hotel.
+
+MALISE.  Bravo!
+
+CLARE.  I don't know--no pluck this morning!  You see, I've got to
+earn my living--no money; only a few things I can sell.  All
+yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women.  How does anyone
+ever get a chance?
+
+MALISE.  Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your
+husband would pension you off.
+
+CLARE.  If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it.
+
+MALISE.  Good!
+
+CLARE.  I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do
+so hate watching pain.  The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even
+do art work.  I came to ask you about the stage.
+
+MALISE.  Have you ever acted?  [CLARE shakes her head]  You mightn't
+think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training.
+There's Chorus--I don't recommend it.  How about your brother?
+
+CLARE.  My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get
+married; and he's going back to India in September.  The only friend
+I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's--got a husband.
+
+MALISE.  I remember the gentleman.
+
+CLARE.  Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back.  I
+must lie doggo somehow.
+
+MALISE.  It makes my blood boil to think of women like you.  God help
+all ladies without money.
+
+CLARE.  I expect I shall have to go back.
+
+MALISE.  No, no!  We shall find something.  Keep your soul alive at
+all costs.  What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but--
+emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache.  Sit in his
+drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners,
+return to--duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so
+grow old and--die!
+
+     [The bell rings.]
+
+MALISE.  [Looking at the door in doubt]  By the wayhe'd no means of
+tracing you?
+
+     [She shakes her head.]
+
+     [The bell rings again.]
+
+MALISE.  Was there a man on the stairs as you came up?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  Why?
+
+MALISE.  He's begun to haunt them, I'm told.
+
+CLARE.  Oh!  But that would mean they thought I--oh!  no!
+
+MALISE.  Confidence in me is not excessive.
+
+CLARE.  Spying!
+
+MALISE.  Will you go in there for a minute?  Or shall we let them
+ring--or--what?  It may not be anything, of course.
+
+CLARE.  I'm not going to hide.
+
+     [The bell rings a third time.]
+
+MALISE.  [Opening the door of the inner room]  Mrs. Miler, just see
+who it is; and then go, for the present.
+
+     MRS. MILER comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to
+     the door, and opens it.  A man's voice says: "Mr. Malise?  Would
+     you give him these cards?"
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Re-entering]  The cards.
+
+MALISE.  Mr. Robert Twisden.  Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond.  [He
+looks at CLARE.]
+
+CLARE.  [Her face scornful and unmoved]  Let them come.
+
+MALISE. [TO MRS. MILER] Show them in!
+
+     TWISDEN enters-a clean-shaved, shrewd-looking man, with a
+     fighting underlip, followed by SIR CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND.
+     MRS. MILER goes.  There are no greetings.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mr.  Malise?  How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond?  Had the
+pleasure of meeting you at your wedding.  [CLARE inclines her head]
+I am Mr.  George Dedmond's solicitor, sir.  I wonder if you would be
+so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone?
+
+     At a nod from CLARE, MALISE passes into the inner room, and
+     shuts the door.  A silence.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Suddenly] What!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Mr. Twisden, will you----?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Uneasy]  Mrs. Dedmond I must apologize, but you--you
+hardly gave us an alternative, did you?  [He pauses for an answer,
+and, not getting one, goes on]  Your disappearance has given your
+husband great anxiety.  Really, my dear madam, you must forgive us
+for this--attempt to get into communication.
+
+CLARE.  Why did you spy, HERE?
+
+SIR CHARLES.  No, no!  Nobody's spied on you.  What!
+
+TWISDEN.  I'm afraid the answer is that we appear to have been
+justified.  [At the expression on CLARE'S face he goes on hastily]
+Now, Mrs. Dedmond, I'm a lawyer and I know that appearances are
+misleading.  Don't think I'm unfriendly; I wish you well.  [CLARE
+raises her eyes.  Moved by that look, which is exactly as if she had
+said: "I have no friends," he hurries on]  What we want to say to you
+is this: Don't let this split go on!  Don't commit yourself to what
+you'll bitterly regret.  Just tell us what's the matter.  I'm sure it
+can be put straight.
+
+CLARE.  I have nothing against my husband--it was quite unreasonable
+to leave him.
+
+TWISDEN.  Come, that's good.
+
+CLARE.  Unfortunately, there's something stronger than reason.
+
+TWISDEN.  I don't know it, Mrs. Dedmond.
+
+CLARE.  No?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Disconcerted] Are you--you oughtn't to take a step without
+advice, in your position.
+
+CLARE.  Nor with it?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Approaching her]  Come, now; isn't there anything you feel
+you'd like to say--that might help to put matters straight?
+
+CLARE.  I don't think so, thank you.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  You must see, Clare, that----
+
+TWISDEN.  In your position, Mrs. Dedmond--a beautiful young woman
+without money.  I'm quite blunt.  This is a hard world.  Should be
+awfully sorry if anything goes wrong.
+
+CLARE.  And if I go back?
+
+TWISDEN.  Of two evils, if it be so--choose the least!
+
+CLARE.  I am twenty-six; he is thirty-two.  We can't reasonably
+expect to die for fifty years.
+
+LADY DESMOND.  That's morbid, Clare.
+
+TWISDEN.  What's open to you if you don't go back?  Come, what's your
+position?  Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody.
+Believe me, Mrs. Dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears
+you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken
+flight, is madness.  You must know that no one pays attention to
+anything but facts.  If now--excuse me--you--you had a lover, [His
+eyes travel round the room and again rest on her]  you would, at all
+events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection,
+but  [He pauses]  as you have not--you've none.
+
+CLARE.  Except what I make myself.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Good God!
+
+TWISDEN.  Yes!  Mrs. Dedmond!  There's the bedrock difficulty.  As
+you haven't money, you should never have been pretty.  You're up
+against the world, and you'll get no mercy from it.  We lawyers see
+too much of that.  I'm putting it brutally, as a man of the world.
+
+CLARE.  Thank you.  Do you think you quite grasp the alternative?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Taken aback]  But, my dear young lady, there are two sides
+to every contract.  After all, your husband's fulfilled his.
+
+CLARE.  So have I up till now.  I shan't ask anything from him--
+nothing--do you understand?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But, my dear, you must live.
+
+TWISDEN.  Have you ever done any sort of work?
+
+CLARE.  Not yet.
+
+TWISDEN.  Any conception of the competition nowadays?
+
+CLARE.  I can try.
+
+     [TWISDEN, looking at her, shrugs his shoulders]
+
+CLARE.  [Her composure a little broken by that look]  It's real to
+me--this--you see!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  But, my dear girl, what the devil's to become of
+George?
+
+CLARE.  He can do what he likes--it's nothing to me.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, I say without hesitation you've no notion of
+what you're faced with, brought up to a sheltered life as you've
+been.  Do realize that you stand at the parting of the ways, and one
+leads into the wilderness.
+
+CLARE.  Which?
+
+TWISDEN.  [Glancing at the door through which MALISE has gone]  Of
+course, if you want to play at wild asses there are plenty who will
+help you.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  By Gad!  Yes!
+
+CLARE.  I only want to breathe.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, go back!  You can now.  It will be too late
+soon.  There are lots of wolves about.  [Again he looks at the door]
+
+CLARE.  But not where you think.  You say I need advice.  I came here
+for it.
+
+TWISDEN.  [With a curiously expressive shrug]  In that case I don't
+know that I can usefully stay.
+
+     [He goes to the outer door.]
+
+CLARE.  Please don't have me followed when I leave here.  Please!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  George is outside, Clare.
+
+CLARE.  I don't wish to see him.  By what right have you come here?
+[She goes to the door through which MALISE has passed, opens it, and
+says]  Please come in, Mr. Malise.
+
+     [MALISE enters.]
+
+TWISDEN.  I am sorry.  [Glancing at MALISE, he inclines his head]  I
+am sorry.  Good morning.  [He goes]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Mr. Malise, I'm sure, will see----
+
+CLARE.  Mr. Malise will stay here, please, in his own room.
+
+     [MALISE bows]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  My dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, I can't grasp
+your line of thought at all!
+
+CLARE.  No?
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  George is most willing to take up things just as they
+were before you left.
+
+CLARE.  Ah!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Quite frankly--what is it you want?
+
+CLARE.  To be left alone.  Quite frankly, he made a mistake to have
+me spied on.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you
+were, like a reasonable being.  You can't possibly be left to
+yourself without money or position of any kind.  Heaven knows what
+you'd be driven to!
+
+MALISE.  [Softly] Delicious!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  You will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Charles!  Clare, you must know this is all a fit of
+spleen; your duty and your interest--marriage is sacred, Clare.
+
+CLARE.  Marriage!  My marriage has become the--the reconciliation--of
+two animals--one of them unwilling.  That's all the sanctity there is
+about it.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  What!
+
+     [She looks at MALISE]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  You ought to be horribly ashamed.  CLARE.  Of the
+fact-I am.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Darting a glance at MALISE]  If we are to talk this
+out, it must be in private.
+
+MALISE.  [To CLARE]  Do you wish me to go?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [At MALISE]  I should have thought ordinary decent
+feeling--Good heavens, girl!  Can't you see that you're being played
+with?
+
+CLARE.  If you insinuate anything against Mr. Malise, you lie.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  If you will do these things--come to a man's rooms----
+
+CLARE.  I came to Mr. Malise because he's the only person I know
+with imagination enough to see what my position is; I came to him a
+quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and
+you instantly suspect him.  That is disgusting.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [Frigidly]  Is this the natural place for me to find
+my son's wife?
+
+CLARE.  His woman.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Will you listen to Reginald?
+
+CLARE.  I have.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Haven't you any religious sense at all, Clare?
+
+CLARE.  None, if it's religion to live as we do.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  It's terrible--this state of mind!  It's really
+terrible!
+
+     CLARE breaks into the soft laugh of the other evening.  As if
+     galvanized by the sound, SIR CHARLES comes to life out of the
+     transfixed bewilderment with which he has been listening.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  For God's sake don't laugh like that!
+
+     [CLARE Stops]
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [With real feeling]  For the sake of the simple right,
+Clare!
+
+CLARE.  Right?  Whatever else is right--our life is not.  [She puts
+her hand on her heart] I swear before God that I've tried and tried.
+I swear before God, that if I believed we could ever again love each
+other only a little tiny bit, I'd go back.  I swear before God that I
+don't want to hurt anybody.
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  But you are hurting everybody.  Do--do be reasonable!
+
+CLARE.  [Losing control]  Can't you see that I'm fighting for all my
+life to come--not to be buried alive--not to be slowly smothered.
+Look at me!  I'm not wax--I'm flesh and blood.  And you want to
+prison me for ever--body and soul.
+
+     [They stare at her]
+
+SIR CHARLES.  [Suddenly]  By Jove!  I don't know, I don't know!
+What!
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  [To MALISE]  If you have any decency left, sir, you
+will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone.
+[Beckoning to her husband] We'll wait below.
+
+SIR CHARLES.  I--I want to speak.  [To CLARE] My dear, if you feel
+like this, I can only say--as a--as a gentleman----
+
+LADY DEDMOND.  Charles!
+
+SIR CHARLES.  Let me alone!  I can only say that--damme, I don't know
+that I can say anything!
+
+     He looks at her very grieved, then turns and marches out,
+     followed by LADY DEDMOND, whose voice is heard without, answered
+     by his: "What!"  In the doorway, as they pass, GEORGE is
+     standing; he comes in.
+
+GEORGE.  [Going up to CLARE, who has recovered all her self-control]
+Will you come outside and speak to me?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+     GEORGE glances at MALISE, who is leaning against the wall with
+     folded arms.
+
+GEORGE.  [In a low voice]  Clare!
+
+CLARE.  Well!
+
+GEORGE.  You try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here,
+and speak before this fellow?  Most men would think the worst,
+finding you like this.
+
+CLARE.  You need not have come--or thought at all.
+
+GEORGE.  Did you imagine I was going to let you vanish without an
+effort----
+
+CLARE.  To save me?
+
+GEORGE.  For God's sake be just!  I've come here to say certain
+things.  If you force me to say them before him--on your head be it!
+Will you appoint somewhere else?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+GEORGE.  Why not?
+
+CLARE.  I know all those "certain things."  "You must come back.  It
+is your duty.  You have no money.  Your friends won't help you.  You
+can't earn your living.  You are making a scandal."  You might even
+say for the moment: "Your room shall be respected."
+
+GEORGE.  Well, it's true and you've no answer.
+
+CLARE.  Oh!  [Suddenly]  Our life's a lie.  It's stupid; it's
+disgusting.  I'm tired of it!  Please leave me alone!
+
+GEORGE.  You rather miss the point, I'm afraid.  I didn't come here
+to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane.  I came
+here to say this: Anyone in her senses could see the game your friend
+here is playing.  It wouldn't take a baby in.  If you think that a
+gentleman like that  [His stare travels round the dishevelled room
+till it rests on MALISE]  champions a pretty woman for nothing, you
+make a fairly bad mistake.
+
+CLARE.  Take care.
+
+     But MALISE, after one convulsive movement of his hands, has
+     again become rigid.
+
+GEORGE.  I don't pretend to be subtle or that kind of thing; but I
+have ordinary common sense.  I don't attempt to be superior to plain
+facts----
+
+CLARE.  [Under her breath]  Facts!
+
+GEORGE.  Oh! for goodness' sake drop that hifalutin' tone.  It
+doesn't suit you.  Look here!  If you like to go abroad with one of
+your young sisters until the autumn, I'll let the flat and go to the
+Club.
+
+CLARE.  Put the fire out with a penny hose.  [Slowly]  I am not
+coming back to you, George.  The farce is over.
+
+GEORGE.  [Taken aback for a moment by the finality of her tone,
+suddenly fronts MALISE] Then there is something between you and this
+fellow.
+
+MALISE.  [Dangerously, but without moving]  I beg your pardon!
+
+CLARE.  There--is--nothing.
+
+GEORGE.  [Looking from one to the other]  At all events, I won't--I
+won't see a woman who once--[CLARE makes a sudden effacing movement
+with her hands]  I won't see her go to certain ruin without lifting a
+finger.
+
+CLARE.  That is noble.
+
+GEORGE.  [With intensity]  I don't know that you deserve anything of
+me.  But on my honour, as a gentleman, I came here this morning for
+your sake, to warn you of what you're doing.  [He turns suddenly on
+MALISE]  And I tell this precious friend of yours plainly what I
+think of him, and that I'm not going to play into his hands.
+
+     [MALISE, without stirring from the wall, looks at CLARE, and his
+     lips move.]
+
+CLARE.  [Shakes her head at him--then to GEORGE]  Will you go,
+please?
+
+GEORGE.  I will go when you do.
+
+MALISE.  A man of the world should know better than that.
+
+GEORGE.  Are you coming?
+
+MALISE.  That is inconceivable.
+
+GEORGE.  I'm not speaking to you, sir.
+
+MALISE.  You are right.  Your words and mine will never kiss each
+other.
+
+GEORGE.  Will you come?  [CLARE shakes her head]
+
+GEORGE.  [With fury]  D'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that
+rhapsodical swine?
+
+MALISE.  [Transformed] By God, if you don't go, I'll kill you.
+
+GEORGE.  [As suddenly calm]  That remains to be seen.
+
+MALISE.  [With most deadly quietness]  Yes, I will kill you.
+
+     He goes stealthily along the wall, takes up from where it lies
+     on the pile of books the great black knobby stick, and
+     stealthily approaches GEORGE, his face quite fiendish.
+
+CLARE.  [With a swift movement, grasping the stick]  Please.
+
+     MALISE resigns the stick, and the two men, perfectly still,
+     glare at each other.  CLARE, letting the stick fall, puts her
+     foot on it.  Then slowly she takes off her hat and lays it on
+     the table.
+
+CLARE.  Now will you go!  [There is silence]
+
+GEORGE.  [Staring at her hat]  You mad little fool!  Understand this;
+if you've not returned home by three o'clock I'll divorce you, and
+you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours.
+And mind this, you sir--I won't spare you--by God!  Your pocket shall
+suffer.  That's the only thing that touches fellows like you.
+
+     Turning, he goes out, and slams the door.  CLARE and MALISE
+     remain face to face.  Her lips have begun to quiver.
+
+CLARE.  Horrible!
+
+     She turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the
+     armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands.  MALISE
+     picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly.  Then putting it
+     down, he moves so that he can see her face.  She is sitting
+     quite still, staring straight before her.
+
+MALISE.  Nothing could be better.
+
+CLARE.  I don't know what to do!  I don't know what to do!
+
+MALISE.  Thank the stars for your good fortune.
+
+CLARE.  He means to have revenge on you!  And it's all my fault.
+
+MALISE.  Let him.  Let him go for his divorce.  Get rid of him.  Have
+done with him--somehow.
+
+     She gets up and stands with face averted.  Then swiftly turning
+     to him.
+
+CLARE.  If I must bring you harm--let me pay you back!  I can't bear
+it otherwise!  Make some use of me, if you don't mind!
+
+MALISE.  My God!
+
+     [She puts up her face to be kissed, shutting her eyes.]
+
+MALISE.  You poor----
+
+     He clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face.
+     She has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is
+     shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands
+     twitching.
+
+MALISE.  [Very quietly] No, no!  This is not the house of a
+"gentleman."
+
+CLARE.  [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper]  I'm sorry.
+
+MALISE.  I understand.
+
+CLARE.  I don't feel.  And without--I can't, can't.
+
+MALISE.  [Bitterly]  Quite right.  You've had enough of that.
+
+     There is a long silence.  Without looking at him she takes up
+     her hat, and puts it on.
+
+MALISE.  Not going?
+
+     [CLARE nods]
+
+MALISE.  You don't trust me?
+
+CLARE.  I do!  But I can't take when I'm not giving.
+
+MALISE.  I beg--I beg you!  What does it matter?  Use me!  Get free
+somehow.
+
+CLARE.  Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in
+for all this.  I know what you want--or will want.  Of course--why
+not?
+
+MALISE.  I give you my solemn word----
+
+CLARE.  No! if I can't be that to you--it's not real.  And I can't.
+It isn't to be manufactured, is it?
+
+MALISE.  It is not.
+
+CLARE.  To make use of you in such a way!  No.
+
+     [She moves towards the door]
+
+MALISE.  Where are you going?
+
+     CLARE does not answer.  She is breathing rapidly.  There is a
+     change in her, a sort of excitement beneath her calmness.
+
+MALISE.  Not back to him?  [CLARE shakes her head]  Thank God!  But
+where?  To your people again?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+MALISE.  Nothing--desperate?
+
+CLARE.  Oh! no.
+
+MALISE.  Then what--tell me--come!
+
+CLARE.  I don't know.  Women manage somehow.
+
+MALISE.  But you--poor dainty thing!
+
+CLARE.  It's all right!  Don't be unhappy!  Please!
+
+MALISE.  [Seizing her arm]  D'you imagine they'll let you off, out
+there--you with your face?  Come, trust me trust me!  You must!
+
+CLARE.  [Holding out her hand]  Good-bye!
+
+MALISE.  [Not taking that hand]  This great damned world, and--you!
+Listen!  [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the
+stillness] Into that!  alone--helpless--without money.  The men who
+work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let
+you be?  The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy,
+bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the
+"chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help
+seeing you're made for love!  Or suppose you don't take covert but
+struggle on in the open.  Society!  The respectable!  The pious!
+Even those who love you!  Will they let you be?  Hue and cry!  The
+hunt was joined the moment you broke away!  It will never let up!
+Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the
+cart, and God pity you!
+
+CLARE.  Well, I'll die running!
+
+MALISE.  No, no!  Let me shelter you!  Let me!
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head and smiling]  I'm going to seek my fortune.
+Wish me luck!
+
+MALISE.  I can't let you go.
+
+CLARE.  You must.
+
+     He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it,
+     suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them.
+
+MALISE.  Good luck, then!  Good luck!
+
+     He releases her hand.  Just touching his bent head with her
+     other hand, CLARE turns and goes.  MALISE remains with bowed
+     head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps.  They
+     die away.  He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with
+     his clenched fist.
+
+
+                              CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+     MALISE'S sitting-room.  An afternoon, three months later.  On
+     the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some tea-
+     things.  Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted spirit-
+     stand.  Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced man,
+     with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is
+     contemplating a piece of blue paper.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf
+without any return on your money----
+
+MALISE.  Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood.  I wish I could see
+my way to smoking another.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Well, sir--that's a funny remedy.
+
+     With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears.
+
+MALISE.  Yes.  What is it?
+
+BOY.  Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir.
+
+MALISE.  [Motioning him out] Yes.  Wait!
+
+     The Boy withdraws.  MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns
+     them over, and takes up some volumes.
+
+MALISE.  This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's
+"Decameron," Mr.  Haywood illustrated.  I should say you would get
+more than the amount of your bill for them.
+
+HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head]  Them books worth three pound seven!
+
+MALISE.  It's scarce, and highly improper.  Will you take them in
+discharge?
+
+HAYWOOD.  [Torn between emotions]  Well, I 'ardly know what to say--
+No, Sir, I don't think I'd like to 'ave to do with that.
+
+MALISE.  You could read them first, you know?
+
+HAYWOOD.  [Dubiously]  I've got my wife at 'ome.
+
+MALISE.  You could both read them.
+
+HAYWOOD.  [Brought to his bearings]  No, Sir, I couldn't.
+
+MALISE.  Very well; I'll sell them myself, and you shall have the
+result.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Well, thank you, sir.  I'm sure I didn't want to trouble
+you.
+
+MALISE.  Not at all, Mr. Haywood.  It's for me to apologize.
+
+HAYWOOD.  So long as I give satisfaction.
+
+MALISE.  [Holding the door for him]  Certainly.  Good evening.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Good evenin', sir; no offence, I hope.
+
+MALISE.  On the contrary.
+
+     Doubtfully HAYWOOD goes.  And MALISE stands scratching his head;
+     then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he
+     replaces them at the top of the pile.  The Boy again advances
+     into the doorway.
+
+MALISE.  Yes, now for you.
+
+     He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old
+     portfolio.  But the door is again timidly pushed open, and
+     HAYWOOD reappears.
+
+MALISE.  Yes, Mr. Haywood?
+
+HAYWOOD.  About that little matter, sir.  If--if it's any convenience
+to you--I've--thought of a place where I could----
+
+MALISE.  Read them?  You'll enjoy them thoroughly.
+
+HAYWOOD.  No, sir, no!  Where I can dispose of them.
+
+MALISE.  [Holding out the volumes]  It might be as well.  [HAYWOOD
+takes the books gingerly]  I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it's a
+classic.
+
+HAYWOOD.  Oh, indeed--yes, sir.  In the event of there being any----
+
+MALISE.  Anything over?  Carry it to my credit.  Your bill--[He
+hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt.  Good evening!
+
+     HAYWOOD, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening
+     paper, fumbles out.  "Good evenin', sir!" and departs.  MALISE
+     again takes up the sheets of MS.  and cons a sentence over to
+     himself, gazing blankly at the stolid BOY.
+
+MALISE.  "Man of the world--good form your god!  Poor buttoned-up
+philosopher"  [the Boy shifts his feet]  "inbred to the point of
+cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule  [the Boy
+breathes heavily]--you are the slave of facts!"
+
+     [There is a knock on the door]
+
+MALISE.  Who is it?
+
+     The door is pushed open, and REGINALD HUNTINGDON stands there.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute?
+
+     [MALISE bows with ironical hostility]
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I don't know if you remember me--Clare Dedmond's
+brother.
+
+MALISE.  I remember you.
+
+     [He motions to the stolid Boy to go outside again]
+
+HUNTINGDON.  I've come to you, sir, as a gentleman----
+
+MALISE.  Some mistake.  There is one, I believe, on the first floor.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  It's about my sister.
+
+MALISE.  D--n you!  Don't you know that I've been shadowed these last
+three months?  Ask your detectives for any information you want.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We know that you haven't seen her, or even known where
+she is.
+
+MALISE.  Indeed!  You've found that out?  Brilliant!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We know it from my sister.
+
+MALISE.  Oh!  So you've tracked her down?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Mrs. Fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those
+big shops--selling gloves.
+
+MALISE.  Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband.  Well! you've got
+her.  Clap her back into prison.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We have not got her.  She left at once, and we don't
+know where she's gone.
+
+MALISE.  Bravo!
+
+HUNTINGDON.  [Taking hold of his bit]  Look here, Mr. Malise, in a
+way I share your feeling, but I'm fond of my sister, and it's
+damnable to have to go back to India knowing she must be all adrift,
+without protection, going through God knows what!  Mrs. Fullarton
+says she's looking awfully pale and down.
+
+MALISE.  [Struggling between resentment and sympathy]  Why do you
+come to me?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We thought----
+
+MALISE.  Who?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My--my father and myself.
+
+MALISE.  Go on.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  We thought there was just a chance that, having lost
+that job, she might come to you again for advice.  If she does, it
+would be really generous of you if you'd put my father in touch with
+her.  He's getting old, and he feels this very much.  [He hands
+MALISE a card]  This is his address.
+
+MALISE.  [Twisting the card]  Let there be no mistake, sir; I do
+nothing that will help give her back to her husband.  She's out to
+save her soul alive, and I don't join the hue and cry that's after
+her.  On the contrary--if I had the power.  If your father wants to
+shelter her, that's another matter.  But she'd her own ideas about
+that.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Perhaps you don't realize how unfit my sister is for
+rough and tumble.  She's not one of this new sort of woman.  She's
+always been looked after, and had things done for her.  Pluck she's
+got, but that's all, and she's bound to come to grief.
+
+MALISE.  Very likely--the first birds do.  But if she drops half-way
+it's better than if she'd never flown.  Your sister, sir, is trying
+the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market.  For women as
+for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon,
+and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession.
+
+HUNTINGDON.  Admitted--but----
+
+MALISE.  We each have our own views as to what they are.  But they
+all come to--death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases.
+Anything more?
+
+HUNTINGDON.  My leave's up.  I sail to-morrow.  If you do see my
+sister I trust you to give her my love and say I begged she would see
+my father.
+
+MALISE.  If I have the chance--yes.
+
+     He makes a gesture of salute, to which HUNTINGDON responds.
+     Then the latter turns and goes out.
+
+MALISE.  Poor fugitive!  Where are you running now?
+
+     He stands at the window, through which the evening sunlight is
+     powdering the room with smoky gold.  The stolid Boy has again
+     come in.  MALISE stares at him, then goes back to the table,
+     takes up the MS., and booms it at him; he receives the charge,
+     breathing hard.
+
+MALISE.  "Man of the world--product of a material age; incapable of
+perceiving reality in motions of the spirit; having 'no use,' as you
+would say, for 'sentimental nonsense'; accustomed to believe yourself
+the national spine--your position is unassailable.  You will remain
+the idol of the country--arbiter of law, parson in mufti, darling of
+the playwright and the novelist--God bless you!--while waters lap
+these shores."
+
+     He places the sheets of MS. in an envelope, and hands them to
+     the Boy.
+
+MALISE.  You're going straight back to "The Watchfire"?
+
+BOY.  [Stolidly]  Yes, sir.
+
+MALISE.  [Staring at him] You're a masterpiece.  D'you know that?
+
+BOY.  No, sir.
+
+MALISE.  Get out, then.
+
+     He lifts the portfolio from the table, and takes it into the
+     inner room.  The Boy, putting his thumb stolidly to his nose,
+     turns to go.  In the doorway he shies violently at the figure of
+     CLARE, standing there in a dark-coloured dress, skids past her
+     and goes.  CLARE comes into the gleam of sunlight, her white
+     face alive with emotion or excitement.  She looks round her,
+     smiles, sighs; goes swiftly to the door, closes it, and comes
+     back to the table.  There she stands, fingering the papers on
+     the table, smoothing MALISE's hat wistfully, eagerly, waiting.
+
+MALISE.  [Returning]  You!
+
+CLARE.  [With a faint smile]  Not very glorious, is it?
+
+     He goes towards her, and checks himself, then slews the armchair
+     round.
+
+MALISE.  Come!  Sit down, sit down!  [CLARE, heaving a long sigh,
+sinks down into the chair]  Tea's nearly ready.
+
+     He places a cushion for her, and prepares tea; she looks up at
+     him softly, but as he finishes and turns to her, she drops that
+     glance.
+
+CLARE.  Do you think me an awful coward for coming?  [She has taken a
+little plain cigarette case from her dress]  Would you mind if I
+smoked?
+
+     MALISE shakes his head, then draws back from her again, as if
+     afraid to be too close.  And again, unseen, she looks at him.
+
+MALISE.  So you've lost your job?
+
+CLARE.  How did you----?
+
+MALISE.  Your brother.  You only just missed him.  [CLARE starts up]
+They had an idea you'd come.  He's sailing to-morrow--he wants you to
+see your father.
+
+CLARE.  Is father ill?
+
+MALI$E.  Anxious about you.
+
+CLARE.  I've written to him every week.  [Excited]  They're still
+hunting me!
+
+MALISE.  [Touching her shoulder gently]  It's all right--all right.
+
+     She sinks again into the chair, and again he withdraws.  And
+     once more she gives him that soft eager look, and once more
+     averts it as he turns to her.
+
+CLARE.  My nerves have gone funny lately.  It's being always on one's
+guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you,
+and dislike your being there.
+
+MALISE.  Yes; that wants pluck.
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  I curl up all the time.  The only thing I
+know for certain is, that I shall never go back to him.  The more
+I've hated what I've been doing, the more sure I've been.  I might
+come to anything--but not that.
+
+MALISE.  Had a very bad time?
+
+CLARE.  [Nodding]  I'm spoilt.  It's a curse to be a lady when you
+have to earn your living.  It's not really been so hard, I suppose;
+I've been selling things, and living about twice as well as most shop
+girls.
+
+MALISE.  Were they decent to you?
+
+CLARE.  Lots of the girls are really nice.  But somehow they don't
+want me, can't help thinking I've got airs or something; and in here
+[She touches her breast]  I don't want them!
+
+MALISE.  I know.
+
+CLARE.  Mrs. Fullarton and I used to belong to a society for helping
+reduced gentlewomen to get work.  I know now what they want: enough
+money not to work--that's all!  [Suddenly looking up at him]  Don't
+think me worse than I am-please!  It's working under people; it's
+having to do it, being driven.  I have tried, I've not been
+altogether a coward, really!  But every morning getting there the
+same time; every day the same stale "dinner," as they call it; every
+evening the same "Good evening, Miss Clare,"  "Good evening, Miss
+Simpson,"  "Good evening, Miss Hart,"  "Good evening, Miss Clare."
+And the same walk home, or the same 'bus; and the same men that you
+mustn't look at, for fear they'll follow you.  [She rises]  Oh! and
+the feeling-always, always--that there's no sun, or life, or hope, or
+anything.  It was just like being ill, the way I've wanted to ride
+and dance and get out into the country.  [Her excitement dies away
+into the old clipped composure, and she sits down again]  Don't think
+too badly of me--it really is pretty ghastly!
+
+MALISE.  [Gruffly]  H'm!  Why a shop?
+
+CLARE.  References.  I didn't want to tell more lies than I could
+help; a married woman on strike can't tell the truth, you know.  And
+I can't typewrite or do shorthand yet.  And chorus--I thought--you
+wouldn't like.
+
+MALISE.  I?  What have I----?  [He checks himself ] Have men been
+brutes?
+
+CLARE.  [Stealing a look at him]  One followed me a lot.  He caught
+hold of my arm one evening.  I just took this out [She draws out her
+hatpin and holds it like a dagger, her lip drawn back as the lips of
+a dog going to bite]  and said: "Will you leave me alone, please?"
+And he did.  It was rather nice.  And there was one quite decent
+little man in the shop--I was sorry for him--such a humble little
+man!
+
+MALISE.  Poor devil--it's hard not to wish for the moon.
+
+     At the tone of his voice CLARE looks up at him; his face is
+     turned away.
+
+CLARE.  [Softly]  How have you been?  Working very hard?
+
+MALISE.  As hard as God will let me.
+
+CLARE.  [Stealing another look] Have you any typewriting I could do?
+I could learn, and I've still got a brooch I could sell.  Which is
+the best kind?
+
+MALISE.  I had a catalogue of them somewhere.
+
+     He goes into the inner room.  The moment he is gone, CLARE
+     stands up, her hands pressed to her cheeks as if she felt them
+     flaming.  Then, with hands clasped, she stands waiting.  He
+     comes back with the old portfolio.
+
+MALISE.  Can you typewrite where you are?
+
+CLARE.  I have to find a new room anyway.  I'm changing--to be safe.
+[She takes a luggage ticket from her glove]  I took my things to
+Charing Cross--only a bag and one trunk.  [Then, with that queer
+expression on her face which prefaces her desperations] You don't
+want me now, I suppose.
+
+MALISE.  What?
+
+CLARE.  [Hardly above a whisper] Because--if you still wanted me--
+I do--now.
+
+     [Etext editors note: In the 1924 revision, 11 years after this
+     1913 edition: "I do--now" is changed to "I could--now"--
+     a significant change in meaning.  D.W.]
+
+MALISE.  [Staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling]
+You mean it?  You do?  You care----?
+
+CLARE.  I've thought of you--so much!  But only--if you're sure.
+
+     He clasps her and kisses her closed eyes; and so they stand for
+     a moment, till the sound of a latchkey in the door sends them
+     apart.
+
+MALISE.  It's the housekeeper.  Give me that ticket; I'll send for
+your things.
+
+     Obediently she gives him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly
+     into the inner room.  MRS. MILER has entered; her face, more
+     Chinese than ever, shows no sign of having seen.
+
+MALISE.  That lady will stay here, Mrs. Miler.  Kindly go with this
+ticket to the cloak-room at Charing Cross station, and bring back her
+luggage in a cab.  Have you money?
+
+MRS. MILER.  'Arf a crown.  [She takes the ticket--then impassively]
+In case you don't know--there's two o' them men about the stairs now.
+
+     The moment she is gone MALISE makes a gesture of maniacal fury.
+     He steals on tiptoe to the outer door, and listens.  Then,
+     placing his hand on the knob, he turns it without noise, and
+     wrenches back the door.  Transfigured in the last sunlight
+     streaming down the corridor are two men, close together,
+     listening and consulting secretly.  They start back.
+
+MALISE.  [With strange, almost noiseless ferocity]  You've run her to
+earth; your job's done.  Kennel up, hounds!  [And in their faces he
+slams the door]
+
+
+                              CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+SCENE II
+
+SCENE II--The same, early on a winter afternoon, three months later.
+The room has now a certain daintiness.  There are curtains over the
+doors, a couch,  under the window, all the books are arranged on
+shelves.  In small vases, over the fireplace, are a few violets and
+chrysanthemums.  MALISE sits huddled in his armchair drawn close to
+the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand.  He looks rather grey and
+drawn, and round his chair is the usual litter.  At the table, now
+nearer to the window, CLARE sits working a typewriter.  She finishes
+a line, puts sheets of paper together, makes a note on a card--adds
+some figures, and marks the total.
+
+CLARE.  Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound
+seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds.  One
+hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred
+and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour.  It's
+only just over an hour a day.  Can't you get me more?
+
+     MALISE lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again.
+     CLARE puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it.
+
+CLARE.  I'm quite packed.  Shall I pack for you?  [He nods]  Can't we
+have more than three days at the sea?  [He shakes his head.  Going up
+to him] You did sleep last night.
+
+MALISE.  Yes, I slept.
+
+CLARE.  Bad head?  [MALISE nods]  By this time the day after to-
+morrow the case will be heard and done with.  You're not worrying for
+me?  Except for my poor old Dad, I don't care a bit.
+
+     MALISE heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and
+     down.
+
+CLARE.  Kenneth, do you understand why he doesn't claim damages,
+after what he said that day-here?  [Looking suddenly at him]  It is
+true that he doesn't?
+
+MALISE.  It is not.
+
+CLARE.  But you told me yourself
+
+MALISE.  I lied.
+
+CLARE.  Why?
+
+MALISE.  [Shrugging]  No use lying any longer--you'd know it
+tomorrow.
+
+CLARE.  How much am I valued at?
+
+MALISE.  Two thousand.  [Grimly] He'll settle it on you.  [He laughs]
+Masterly!  By one stroke, destroys his enemy, avenges his "honour,"
+and gilds his name with generosity!
+
+CLARE.  Will you have to pay?
+
+MALISE.  Stones yield no blood.
+
+CLARE.  Can't you borrow?
+
+MALISE.  I couldn't even get the costs.
+
+CLARE.  Will they make you bankrupt, then?  [MALISE nods]  But that
+doesn't mean that you won't have your income, does it?  [MALISE
+laughs]  What is your income, Kenneth?  [He is silent]  A hundred and
+fifty from "The Watchfire," I know.  What else?
+
+MALISE.  Out of five books I have made the sum of forty pounds.
+
+CLARE.  What else?  Tell me.
+
+MALISE.  Fifty to a hundred pounds a year.  Leave me to gnaw my way
+out, child.
+
+     CLARE stands looking at him in distress, then goes quickly into
+     the room behind her.  MALISE takes up his paper and pen.  The
+     paper is quite blank.
+
+MALISE.  [Feeling his head]  Full of smoke.
+
+     He drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left
+     goes in.  CLARE re-enters with a small leather box.  She puts it
+     down on her typing table as MALISE returns followed by MRS.
+     MILER, wearing her hat, and carrying His overcoat.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Put your coat on.  It's a bitter wind.
+
+     [He puts on the coat]
+
+CLARE.  Where are you going?
+
+MALISE.  To "The Watchfire."
+
+     The door closes behind him, and MRS. MILER goes up to CLARE
+     holding out a little blue bottle with a red label, nearly full.
+
+MRS. MILER.  You know he's takin' this [She makes a little motion
+towards her mouth] to make 'im sleep?
+
+CLARE.  [Reading the label]  Where was it?
+
+MRS. MILER.  In the bathroom chest o' drawers, where 'e keeps 'is
+odds and ends.  I was lookin' for 'is garters.
+
+CLARE.  Give it to me!
+
+MRS. MILER.  He took it once before.  He must get his sleep.
+
+CLARE.  Give it to me!
+
+     MRS. MILER resigns it, CLARE takes the cork out, smells, then
+     tastes it from her finger.  MRS. MILER, twisting her apron in
+     her hands, speaks.
+
+MILS. MILER.  I've 'ad it on my mind a long time to speak to yer.
+Your comin' 'ere's not done 'im a bit o' good.
+
+CLARE.  Don't!
+
+MRS. MILER.  I don't want to, but what with the worry o' this 'ere
+divorce suit, an' you bein' a lady an' 'im havin' to be so careful of
+yer, and tryin' to save, not smokin' all day like 'e used, an' not
+gettin' 'is two bottles of claret regular; an' losin' his sleep, an'
+takin' that stuff for it; and now this 'ere last business.  I've seen
+'im sometimes holdin' 'is 'ead as if it was comin' off.  [Seeing
+CLARE wince, she goes on with a sort of compassion in her Chinese
+face] I can see yer fond of him; an' I've nothin' against yer you
+don't trouble me a bit; but I've been with 'im eight years--we're
+used to each other, and I can't bear to see 'im not 'imself, really I
+can't.
+
+     She gives a sadden sniff.  Then her emotion passes, leaving her
+     as Chinese as ever.
+
+CLARE.  This last business--what do you mean by that?
+
+MRS. MILER.  If 'e a'n't told yer, I don't know that I've any call
+to.
+
+CLARE.  Please.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Her hands twisting very fast] Well, it's to do with
+this 'ere "Watchfire."  One of the men that sees to the writin' of
+it 'e's an old friend of Mr. Malise, 'e come 'ere this mornin' when
+you was out.  I was doin' my work in there  [She points to the room
+on the right]  an' the door open, so I 'earl 'em.  Now you've 'ung
+them curtains, you can't 'elp it.
+
+CLARE.  Yes?
+
+MRS. MILER.  It's about your divorce case.  This 'ere "Watchfire,"
+ye see, belongs to some fellers that won't 'ave their men gettin'
+into the papers.  So this 'ere friend of Mr. Malise--very nice 'e
+spoke about it: "If it comes into Court," 'e says, "you'll 'ave to
+go," 'e says.  "These beggars, these dogs, these dogs," 'e says,
+"they'll 'oof you out," 'e says.  An' I could tell by the sound of
+his voice, 'e meant it--proper upset 'e was.  So that's that!
+
+CLARE.  It's inhuman!
+
+MRS. MILER.  That's what I thinks; but it don't 'elp, do it?
+"'Tain't the circulation," 'e says, "it's the principle," 'e says;
+and then 'e starts in swearin' horrible.  'E's a very nice man.  And
+Mr. Malise, 'e says: "Well, that about does for me!" 'e says.
+
+CLARE.  Thank you, Mrs. Miler--I'm glad to know.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Yes; I don't know as I ought to 'ave told you.
+[Desperately uncomfortable]  You see, I don't take notice of Mr.
+MALISE, but I know 'im very well.  'E's a good 'arted gentleman, very
+funny, that'll do things to help others, and what's more, keep on
+doin' 'em, when they hurt 'im; very obstinate 'e is.  Now, when you
+first come 'ere, three months ago, I says to meself: "He'll enjoy
+this 'ere for a bit, but she's too much of a lady for 'im."  What 'e
+wants about 'im permanent is a woman that thinks an' talks about all
+them things he talks about.  And sometimes I fancy 'e don't want
+nothin' permanent about 'im at all.
+
+CLARE.  Don't!
+
+MRS. MILER.  [With another sudden sniff]  Gawd knows I don't want to
+upset ye.  You're situated very hard; an' women's got no business to
+'urt one another--that's what I thinks.
+
+CLARE.  Will you go out and do something for me?  [MRS. MILER nods]
+
+     [CLARE takes up the sheaf of papers and from the leather box a
+     note and an emerald pendant]
+
+Take this with the note to that address--it's quite close.  He'll
+give you thirty pounds for it.  Please pay these bills and bring me
+back the receipts, and what's over.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Taking the pendant and note]  It's a pretty thing.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  It was my mother's.
+
+MRS. MILER.  It's a pity to part with it; ain't you got another?
+
+CLARE.  Nothing more, Mrs. Miler, not even a wedding ring.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Without expression]  You make my 'eart ache sometimes.
+
+     [She wraps pendant and note into her handkerchief and goes out to
+     the door.]
+
+MRS. MILER.  [From the door]  There's a lady and gentleman out here.
+Mrs. Fuller--wants you, not Mr. Malise.
+
+CLARE.  Mrs. Fullarton?  [MRS. MILER nods]  Ask them to come in.
+
+     MRS. MILER opens the door wide, says "Come in," and goes.  MRS.
+     FULLARTON is accompanied not by FULLARTON, but by the lawyer,
+     TWISDON.  They come in.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Clare!  My dear!  How are you after all this time?
+
+CLARE.  [Her eyes fixed on TWISDEN]  Yes?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Disconcerted by the strange greeting]  I brought
+Mr.  Twisden to tell you something.  May I stay?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  [She points to the chair at the same table: MRS.
+FULLARTON sits down]  Now!
+
+     [TWISDEN comes forward]
+
+TWISDEN.  As you're not defending this case, Mrs. Dedmond, there is
+nobody but yourself for me to apply to.
+
+CLARE.  Please tell me quickly, what you've come for.
+
+TWISDEN.  [Bowing slightly]  I am instructed by Mr.  Dedmond to say
+that if you will leave your present companion and undertake not to
+see him again, he will withdraw the suit and settle three hundred a
+year on you.  [At CLARE's movement of abhorrence]  Don't
+misunderstand me, please--it is not--it could hardly be, a request
+that you should go back.  Mr.  Dedmond is not prepared to receive you
+again.  The proposal--forgive my saying so--remarkably Quixotic--is
+made to save the scandal to his family and your own.  It binds you to
+nothing but the abandonment of your present companion, with certain
+conditions of the same nature as to the future.  In other words, it
+assures you a position--so long as you live quietly by yourself.
+
+CLARE.  I see.  Will you please thank Mr. Dedmond, and say that I
+refuse?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Clare, Clare!  For God's sake don't be desperate.
+
+     [CLARE, deathly still, just looks at her]
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, I am bound to put the position to you in its
+naked brutality.  You know there's a claim for damages?
+
+CLARE.  I have just learnt it.
+
+TWISDEN.  You realize what the result of this suit must be: You will
+be left dependent on an undischarged bankrupt.  To put it another
+way, you'll be a stone round the neck of a drowning man.
+
+CLARE.  You are cowards.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Clare, Clare!  [To TWISDEN]  She doesn't mean it;
+please be patient.
+
+CLARE.  I do mean it.  You ruin him because of me.  You get him down,
+and kick him to intimidate me.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  My dear girl!  Mr. Twisden is not personally
+concerned.  How can you?
+
+CLARE.  If I were dying, and it would save me, I wouldn't take a
+penny from my husband.
+
+TWISDEN.  Nothing could be more bitter than those words.  Do you
+really wish me to take them back to him?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  [She turns from them to the fire]
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [In a low voice to TWISDEN]  Please leave me alone
+with her, don't say anything to Mr. Dedmond yet.
+
+TWISDEN.  Mrs. Dedmond, I told you once that I wished you well.
+Though you have called me a coward, I still do that.  For God's sake,
+think--before it's too late.
+
+CLARE.  [Putting out her hand blindly]  I'm sorry I called you a
+coward.  It's the whole thing, I meant.
+
+TWISDEN.  Never mind that.  Think!
+
+     With the curious little movement of one who sees something he
+     does not like to see, he goes.  CLARE is leaning her forehead
+     against the mantel-shelf, seemingly unconscious that she is not
+     alone.  MRS. FULLARTON approaches quietly till she can see
+     CLARE'S face.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  My dear sweet thing, don't be cross with met [CLARE
+turns from her.  It is all the time as if she were trying to get away
+from words and people to something going on within herself]  How can
+I help wanting to see you saved from all this ghastliness?
+
+CLARE.  Please don't, Dolly!  Let me be!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  I must speak, Clare!  I do think you're hard on
+George.  It's generous of him to offer to withdraw the suit--
+considering.  You do owe it to us to try and spare your father and
+your sisters and--and all of us who care for you.
+
+CLARE.  [Facing her] You say George is generous!  If he wanted to be
+that he'd never have claimed these damages.  It's revenge he wants--I
+heard him here.  You think I've done him an injury.  So I did--when I
+married him.  I don't know what I shall come to, Dolly, but I shan't
+fall so low as to take money from him.  That's as certain as that I
+shall die.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Do you know, Clare, I think it's awful about you!
+You're too fine, and not fine enough, to put up with things; you're
+too sensitive to take help, and you're not strong enough to do
+without it.  It's simply tragic.  At any rate, you might go home to
+your people.
+
+CLARE.  After this!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  To us, then?
+
+CLARE.  "If I could be the falling bee, and kiss thee all the day!"
+No, Dolly!
+
+     MRS. FULLARTON turns from her ashamed and baffled, but her quick
+     eyes take in the room, trying to seize on some new point of
+     attack.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  You can't be--you aren't-happy, here?
+
+CLARE.  Aren't I?
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Oh!  Clare!  Save yourself--and all of us!
+
+CLARE.  [Very still] You see, I love him.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  You used to say you'd never love; did not want it--
+would never want it.
+
+CLARE.  Did I?  How funny!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Oh!  my dear!  Don't look like that, or you'll make
+me cry.
+
+CLARE.  One doesn't always know the future, does one?  [Desperately]
+I love him!  I love him!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  [Suddenly] If you love him, what will it be like for
+you, knowing you've ruined him?
+
+CLARE.  Go away!  Go away!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Love!--you said!
+
+CLARE.  [Quivering at that stab-suddenly]  I must--I will keep him.
+He's all I've got.
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  Can you--can you keep him?
+
+CLARE.  Go!
+
+MRS. FULLARTON.  I'm going.  But, men are hard to keep, even when
+you've not been the ruin of them.  You know whether the love this man
+gives you is really love.  If not--God help you!  [She turns at the
+door, and says mournfully] Good-bye, my child!  If you can----
+
+     Then goes.  CLARE, almost in a whisper, repeats the words:
+     "Love!  you said!"  At the sound of a latchkey she runs as if to
+     escape into the bedroom, but changes her mind and stands blotted
+     against the curtain of the door.  MALISE enters.  For a moment
+     he does not see her standing there against the curtain that is
+     much the same colour as her dress.  His face is that of a man in
+     the grip of a rage that he feels to be impotent.  Then, seeing
+     her, he pulls himself together, walks to his armchair, and sits
+     down there in his hat and coat.
+
+CLARE.  Well?  "The Watchfire?"  You may as well tell me.
+
+MALISE.  Nothing to tell you, child.
+
+     At that touch of tenderness she goes up to his chair and kneels
+     down beside it.  Mechanically MALISE takes off his hat.
+
+CLARE.  Then you are to lose that, too?  [MALISE stares at her] I
+know about it--never mind how.
+
+MALISE.  Sanctimonious dogs!
+
+CLARE.  [Very low]  There are other things to be got, aren't there?
+
+MALISE.  Thick as blackberries.  I just go out and cry, "MALISE,
+unsuccessful author, too honest journalist, freethinker, co-
+respondent, bankrupt," and they tumble!
+
+CLARE.  [Quietly]  Kenneth, do you care for me?  [MALISE stares at
+her]  Am I anything to you but just prettiness?
+
+MALISE.  Now, now!  This isn't the time to brood!  Rouse up and
+fight.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+MALISE.  We're not going to let them down us, are we?  [She rubs her
+cheek against his hand, that still rests on her shoulder] Life on
+sufferance, breath at the pleasure of the enemy!  And some day in the
+fullness of his mercy to be made a present of the right to eat and
+drink and breathe again.  [His gesture sums up the rage within him]
+Fine!  [He puts his hat on and rises]  That's the last groan they get
+from me.
+
+CLASS.  Are you going out again?  [He nods]  Where?
+
+MALISE.  Blackberrying!  Our train's not till six.
+
+     He goes into the bedroom.  CLARE gets up and stands by the fire,
+     looking round in a dazed way.  She puts her hand up and
+     mechanically gathers together the violets in the little vase.
+     Suddenly she twists them to a buttonhole, and sinks down into
+     the armchair, which he must pass.  There she sits, the violets
+     in her hand.  MALISE comes out and crosses towards the outer
+     door.  She puts the violets up to him.  He stares at them,
+     shrugs his shoulders, and passes on.  For just a moment CLARE
+     sits motionless.
+
+CLARE.  [Quietly]  Give me a kiss!
+
+     He turns and kisses her.  But his lips, after that kiss, have
+     the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have
+     done what does not suit their mood.  He goes out.  She is left
+     motionless by the armchair, her throat working.  Then,
+     feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of
+     paper, and writes.  Looking up suddenly she sees that MRS. MILER
+     has let herself in with her latchkey.
+
+MRS. MILER.  I've settled the baker, the milk, the washin' an' the
+groceries--this 'ere's what's left.
+
+     She counts down a five-pound note, four sovereigns, and two
+     shillings on to the little table.  CLARE folds the letter into
+     an envelope, then takes up the five-pound note and puts it into
+     her dress.
+
+CLARE.  [Pointing to the money on the table]  Take your wages; and
+give him this when he comes in.  I'm going away.
+
+MRS. MILER.  Without him?  When'll you be comin' back?
+
+CLARE.  [Rising] I shan't be coming back.  [Gazing at MRS. MILER'S
+hands, which are plaiting at her dress]  I'm leaving Mr. Malise, and
+shan't see him again.  And the suit against us will be withdrawn--the
+divorce suit--you understand?
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Her face all broken up]  I never meant to say anything
+to yer.
+
+CLARE.  It's not you.  I can see for myself.  Don't make it harder;
+help me.  Get a cab.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Disturbed to the heart]  The porter's outside, cleanin'
+the landin' winder.
+
+CLARE.  Tell him to come for my trunk.  It is packed.  [She goes into
+the bedroom]
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Opening the door-desolately]  Come 'ere!
+
+     [The PORTER appears in shirt-sleeves at the door]
+
+MRS. MILER.  The lady wants a cab.  Wait and carry 'er trunk down.
+
+     CLARE comes from the bedroom in her hat and coat.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [TO the PORTER] Now.
+
+     They go into the bedroom to get the trunk.  CLARE picks up from
+     the floor the bunch of violets, her fingers play with it as if
+     they did not quite know what it was; and she stands by the
+     armchair very still, while MRS. MILER and the PORTER pass her
+     with trunk and bag.  And even after the PORTER has shouldered
+     the trunk outside, and marched away, and MRS. MILER has come
+     back into the room, CLARE still stands there.
+
+MRS. MILER.  [Pointing to the typewriter] D'you want this 'ere, too?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+     MRS. MILER carries it out.  Then, from the doorway, gazing at
+     CLARE taking her last look, she sobs, suddenly.  At sound of
+     that sob CLARE throws up her head.
+
+CLARE.  Don't!  It's all right.  Good-bye!
+
+     She walks out and away, not looking back.  MRS. MILER chokes her
+     sobbing into the black stuff of her thick old jacket.
+
+
+                              CURTAIN
+
+
+
+
+ACT IV
+
+     Supper-time in a small room at "The Gascony" on Derby Day.
+     Through the windows of a broad corridor, out of which the door
+     opens, is seen the dark blue of a summer night.  The walls are
+     of apricot-gold; the carpets, curtains, lamp-shades, and gilded
+     chairs, of red; the wood-work and screens white; the palms in
+     gilded tubs.  A doorway that has no door leads to another small
+     room.  One little table behind a screen, and one little table in
+     the open, are set for two persons each.  On a service-table,
+     above which hangs a speaking-tube, are some dishes of hors
+     d'ouvres, a basket of peaches, two bottles of champagne in ice-
+     pails, and a small barrel of oysters in a gilded tub.  ARNAUD,
+     the waiter, slim, dark, quick, his face seamed with a quiet,
+     soft irony, is opening oysters and listening to the robust joy
+     of a distant supper-party, where a man is playing the last bars
+     of: "Do ye ken John Peel" on a horn.  As the sound dies away, he
+     murmurs: "Tres Joli!" and opens another oyster.  Two Ladies with
+     bare shoulders and large hats pass down the corridor.  Their
+     talk is faintly wafted in: "Well, I never like Derby night!  The
+     boys do get so bobbish!"  "That horn--vulgar, I call it!"
+
+     ARNAUD'S eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth droop.  A Lady
+     with bare shoulders, and crimson roses in her hair, comes along
+     the corridor, and stops for a second at the window, for a man to
+     join her.  They come through into the room.  ARNAUD has sprung
+     to attention, but with: "Let's go in here, shall we?" they pass
+     through into the further room.  The MANAGER, a gentleman with
+     neat moustaches, and buttoned into a frock-coat, has appeared,
+     brisk, noiseless, his eyes everywhere; he inspects the peaches.
+
+MANAGER.  Four shillin' apiece to-night, see?
+
+ARNAUD.  Yes, Sare.
+
+     From the inner room a young man and his partner have come in.
+     She is dark, almost Spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale,
+     clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of
+     those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost
+     all save the capacity for hiding their emotions.  He speaks in
+     a----
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  Awful row they're kickin' up in there, Mr. Varley.
+A fellow with a horn.
+
+MANAGER.  [Blandly]  Gaddesdon Hunt, my lord--always have their
+supper with us, Derby night.  Quiet corner here, my lord.  Arnaud!
+
+     ARNAUD is already at the table, between screen and palm.  And,
+     there ensconced, the couple take their seats.  Seeing them
+     safely landed, the MANAGER, brisk and noiseless, moves away.  In
+     the corridor a lady in black, with a cloak falling open, seems
+     uncertain whether to come in.  She advances into the doorway.
+     It is CLARE.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Pointing to the other table as he flies with dishes]  Nice
+table, Madame.
+
+     CLARE moves to the corner of it.  An artist in observation of
+     his clients, ARNAUD takes in her face--very pale under her wavy,
+     simply-dressed hair; shadowy beneath the eyes; not powdered; her
+     lips not reddened; without a single ornament; takes in her black
+     dress, finely cut, her arms and neck beautifully white, and at
+     her breast three gardenias.  And as he nears her, she lifts her
+     eyes.  It is very much the look of something lost, appealing for
+     guidance.
+
+ARNAUD.  Madame is waiting for some one?  [She shakes her head]  Then
+Madame will be veree well here--veree well.  I take Madame's cloak?
+
+     He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair
+     fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she
+     wishes.  She sits down.
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  [From the corner]  Waiter!
+
+ARNAUD.  Milord!
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  The Roederer.
+
+ARNAUD.  At once, Milord.
+
+     CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her
+     eyes lowered.  Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark
+     rapid figure.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat?  [He scans her with
+increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?
+
+CLARE.  [Again giving him that look]  Must I order?
+
+ARNAUD.  Non, Madame, it is not necessary.  A glass of water.  [He
+pours it out]  I have not the pleasure of knowing Madame's face.
+
+CLARE.  [Faintly smiling]  No.
+
+ARNAUD.  Madame will find it veree good 'ere, veree quiet.
+
+LANGUID VOICE.  Waiter!
+
+ARNAUD.  Pardon!  [He goes]
+
+     The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the
+     corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie!
+     Not she!  Oh!  my goodness, she has got a pride on her!"
+     "Bobbie'll never stick it!"  "Look here, dear----"  Galvanized
+     by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they
+     die away and she subsides.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Back at her table, with a quaint shrug towards the
+corridor] It is not rowdy here, Madame, as a rule--not as in some
+places.  To-night a little noise.  Madame is fond of flowers?  [He
+whisks out, and returns almost at once with a bowl of carnations from
+some table in the next room] These smell good!
+
+CLARE.  You are very kind.
+
+ARNAUD.  [With courtesy]  Not at all, Madame; a pleasure.  [He bows]
+
+     A young man, tall, thin, hard, straight, with close-cropped,
+     sandyish hair and moustache, a face tanned very red, and one of
+     those small, long, lean heads that only grow in Britain; clad in
+     a thin dark overcoat thrown open, an opera hat pushed back, a
+     white waistcoat round his lean middle, he comes in from the
+     corridor.  He looks round, glances at CLARE, passes her table
+     towards the further room, stops in the doorway, and looks back
+     at her.  Her eyes have just been lifted, and are at once cast
+     down again.  The young man wavers, catches ARNAUD's eye, jerks
+     his head to summon him, and passes into the further room.
+     ARNAUD takes up the vase that has been superseded, and follows
+     him out.  And CLARE sits alone in silence, broken by the murmurs
+     of the languid lord and his partner, behind the screen.  She is
+     breathing as if she had been running hard.  She lifts her eyes.
+     The tall young man, divested of hat and coat, is standing by her
+     table, holding out his hand with a sort of bashful hardiness.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  How d'you do?  Didn't recognize you at first.  So sorry-
+awfully rude of me.
+
+     CLARE'S eyes seem to fly from him, to appeal to him, to resign
+     herself all at once.  Something in the YOUNG MAN responds.  He
+     drops his hand.
+
+CLARE.  [Faintly]  How d'you do?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Stammering]  You--you been down there to-day?
+
+CLARE.  Where?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [With a smile]  The Derby.  What?  Don't you generally go
+down?  [He touches the other chair]  May I?
+
+CLARE.  [Almost in a whisper] Yes.
+
+     As he sits down, ARNAUD returns and stands before them.
+
+ARNAUD.  The plovers' eggs veree good to-night, Sare.  Veree good,
+Madame.  A peach or two, after.  Veree good peaches.  The Roederer,
+Sare--not bad at all.  Madame likes it frappe, but not too cold--yes?
+
+     [He is away again to his service-table.]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Burying his face in the carnations]  I say--these are
+jolly, aren't they?  They do you pretty well here.
+
+CLARE.  Do they?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  You've never been here?  [CLARE shakes her head] By Jove!
+I thought I didn't know your face.  [CLARE looks full at him.  Again
+something moves in the YOUNG MAN, and he stammers]  I mean--not----
+
+CLARE.  It doesn't matter.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Respectfully]  Of course, if I--if you were waiting for
+anybody, or anything--I----
+
+     [He half rises]
+
+CLARE.  It's all right, thank you.
+
+     The YOUNG MAN sits down again, uncomfortable, nonplussed.  There
+     is silence, broken by the inaudible words of the languid lord,
+     and the distant merriment of the supper-party.  ARNAUD brings
+     the plovers' eggs.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  The wine, quick.
+
+ARNAUD.  At once, Sare.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Abruptly] Don't you ever go racing, then?
+
+CLARE.  No.
+
+     [ARNAUD pours out champagne]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I remember awfully well my first day.  It was pretty
+thick--lost every blessed bob, and my watch and chain, playin' three
+cards on the way home.
+
+CLARE.  Everything has a beginning, hasn't it?
+
+     [She drinks.  The YOUNG MAN stares at her]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Floundering in these waters deeper than he had bargained
+for] I say--about things having beginnings--did you mean anything?
+
+     [CLARE nods]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  What! D'you mean it's really the first----?
+
+     CLARE nods.  The champagne has flicked her courage.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  By George!  [He leans back]  I've often wondered.
+
+ARNAUD.  [Again filling the glasses]  Monsieur finds----
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Abruptly]  It's all right.
+
+     He drains his glass, then sits bolt upright.  Chivalry and the
+     camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Of course I can see that you're not--I mean, that you're
+a--a lady.  [CLARE smiles]  And I say, you know--if you have to--
+because you're in a hole--I should feel a cad.  Let me lend you----?
+
+CLARE.  [Holding up her glass] 'Le vin est tire, il faut le boire'!
+
+     She drinks.  The French words, which he does not too well
+     understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he
+     remains quite silent, frowning.  As CLARE held up her glass, two
+     gentlemen have entered.  The first is blond, of good height and
+     a comely insolence.  His crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up
+     moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of
+     two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is
+     broad, and coloured with air and wine.  His companion is a tall,
+     thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow
+     cheeks.  They stand looking round, then pass into the further
+     room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at CLARE.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Seeing her wince]  Look here!  I'm afraid you must feel
+me rather a brute, you know.
+
+CLARE.  No, I don't; really.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Are you absolute stoney?  [CLARE nods]  But [Looking at
+her frock and cloak] you're so awfully well----
+
+CLARE.  I had the sense to keep them.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [More and more disturbed]  I say, you know--I wish you'd
+let me lend you something.  I had quite a good day down there.
+
+CLARE.  [Again tracing her pattern on the cloth--then looking up at
+him full] I can't take, for nothing.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  By Jove!  I don't know-really, I don't--this makes me
+feel pretty rotten.  I mean, it's your being a lady.
+
+CLARE.  [Smiling]  That's not your fault, is it?  You see, I've been
+beaten all along the line.  And I really don't care what happens to
+me.  [She has that peculiar fey look on her face now]  I really
+don't; except that I don't take charity.  It's lucky for me it's you,
+and not some----
+
+The supper-party is getting still more boisterous, and there comes a
+long view holloa, and a blast of the horn.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  But I say, what about your people?  You must have people
+of some sort.
+
+     He is fast becoming fascinated, for her cheeks have begun to
+     flush and her eyes to shine.
+
+CLARE.  Oh, yes; I've had people, and a husband, and--everything----
+And here I am!  Queer, isn't it?  [She touches her glass]  This is
+going to my head!  Do you mind?  I sha'n't sing songs and get up and
+dance, and I won't cry, I promise you!
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Between fascination and chivalry]  By George!  One
+simply can't believe in this happening to a lady.
+
+CLARE.  Have you got sisters? [Breaking into her soft laughter]  My
+brother's in India.  I sha'n't meet him, anyway.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  No, but--I say-are you really quite cut off from
+everybody?  [CLARE nods]  Something rather awful must have happened?
+
+     She smiles.  The two gentlemen have returned. The blond one is
+     again staring fixedly at CLARE.  This time she looks back at
+     him, flaming; and, with a little laugh, he passes with his
+     friend into the corridor.
+
+CLARE.  Who are those two?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Don't know--not been much about town yet.  I'm just back
+from India myself.  You said your brother was there; what's his
+regiment?
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  You're not going to find out my name.  I
+haven't got one--nothing.
+
+     She leans her bare elbows on the table, and her face on her
+     hands.
+
+CLARE.  First of June!  This day last year I broke covert--I've been
+running ever since.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I don't understand a bit.  You--must have had a--a--some
+one----
+
+     But there is such a change in her face, such rigidity of her
+     whole body, that he stops and averts his eyes.  When he looks
+     again she is drinking.  She puts the glass down, and gives a
+     little laugh.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [With a sort of awe]  Anyway it must have been like
+riding at a pretty stiff fence, for you to come here to-night.
+
+CLARE.  Yes.  What's the other side?
+
+     The YOUNG MAN puts out his hand and touches her arm.  It is
+     meant for sympathy, but she takes it for attraction.
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head]  Not yet please!  I'm enjoying this.  May
+I have a cigarette?
+
+     [He takes out his case, and gives her one]
+
+CLARE.  [Letting the smoke slowly forth]  Yes, I'm enjoying it.  Had
+a pretty poor time lately; not enough to eat, sometimes.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Not really!  How damnable!  I say--do have something more
+substantial.
+
+     CLARE gives a sudden gasp, as if going off into hysterical
+     laughter, but she stifles it, and shakes her head.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  A peach?
+
+     [ARNAUD brings peaches to the table]
+
+CLARE.  [Smiling] Thank you.
+
+     [He fills their glasses and retreats]
+
+CLARE. [Raising her glass] Eat and drink, for tomorrow we--Listen!
+
+     From the supper-party comes the sound of an abortive chorus:
+     "With a hey ho, chivy, hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!"
+     Jarring out into a discordant whoop, it sinks.
+
+CLARE.  "This day a stag must die."  Jolly old song!
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Rowdy lot!  [Suddenly] I say--I admire your pluck.
+
+CLARE.  [Shaking her head] Haven't kept my end up.  Lots of women do!
+You see: I'm too fine, and not fine enough!  My best friend said
+that.  Too fine, and not fine enough.  [She laughs] I couldn't be a
+saint and martyr, and I wouldn't be a soulless doll.  Neither one
+thing nor the other--that's the tragedy.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  You must have had awful luck!
+
+CLARE.  I did try.  [Fiercely]  But what's the good--when there's
+nothing before you?--Do I look ill?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  No; simply awfully pretty.
+
+CLARE.  [With a laugh]  A man once said to me: "As you haven't money,
+you should never have been pretty!"  But, you see, it is some good.
+If I hadn't been, I couldn't have risked coming here, could I?  Don't
+you think it was rather sporting of me to buy these  [She touches the
+gardenias]  with the last shilling over from my cab fare?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Did you really?  D---d sporting!
+
+CLARE.  It's no use doing things by halves, is it?  I'm--in for it--
+wish me luck!  [She drinks, and puts her glass down with a smile] In
+for it--deep!  [She flings up her hands above her smiling face] Down,
+down, till they're just above water, and then--down, down, down, and
+--all over!  Are you sorry now you came and spoke to me?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  By Jove, no!  It may be caddish, but I'm not.
+
+CLARE.  Thank God for beauty!  I hope I shall die pretty!  Do you
+think I shall do well?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I say--don't talk like that!
+
+CLARE.  I want to know.  Do you?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Well, then--yes, I do.
+
+CLARE.  That's splendid.  Those poor women in the streets would give
+their eyes, wouldn't they?--that have to go up and down, up and down!
+Do you think I--shall----
+
+     The YOUNG MAN, half-rising, puts his hand on her arm.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  I think you're getting much too excited.  You look all--
+Won't you eat your peach?  [She shakes her head]  Do!  Have something
+else, then--some grapes, or something?
+
+CLARE.  No, thanks.
+
+     [She has become quite calm again]
+
+YOUNG MAN.  Well, then, what d'you think?  It's awfully hot in here,
+isn't it?  Wouldn't it be jollier drivin'?  Shall we--shall we make a
+move?
+
+CLARE.  Yes.
+
+     The YOUNG MAN turns to look for the waiter, but ARNAUD is not in
+     the room.  He gets up.
+
+YOUNG MAN.  [Feverishly] D---n that waiter!  Wait half a minute, if
+you don't mind, while I pay the bill.
+
+     As he goes out into the corridor, the two gentlemen re-appear.
+     CLARE is sitting motionless, looking straight before her.
+
+DARK ONE.  A fiver you don't get her to!
+
+BLOND ONE.  Done!
+
+     He advances to her table with his inimitable insolence, and
+     taking the cigar from his mouth, bends his stare on her, and
+     says: "Charmed to see you lookin' so well!  Will you have supper
+     with me here to-morrow night?"  Startled out of her reverie,
+     CLARE looks up.  She sees those eyes, she sees beyond him the
+     eyes of his companion-sly, malevolent, amused-watching; and she
+     just sits gazing, without a word.  At that regard, so clear, the
+     BLOND ONE does not wince.  But rather suddenly he says: "That's
+     arranged then.  Half-past eleven.  So good of you.  Good-night!"
+     He replaces his cigar and strolls back to his companion, and in
+     a low voice says: "Pay up!"  Then at a languid "Hullo, Charles!"
+     they turn to greet the two in their nook behind the screen.
+     CLARE has not moved, nor changed the direction of her gaze.
+     Suddenly she thrusts her hand into the, pocket of the cloak that
+     hangs behind her, and brings out the little blue bottle which,
+     six months ago, she took from MALISE.  She pulls out the cork
+     and pours the whole contents into her champagne.  She lifts the
+     glass, holds it before her--smiling, as if to call a toast, then
+     puts it to her lips and drinks.  Still smiling, she sets the
+     empty glass down, and lays the gardenia flowers against her
+     face.  Slowly she droops back in her chair, the drowsy smile
+     still on her lips; the gardenias drop into her lap; her arms
+     relax, her head falls forward on her breast.  And the voices
+     behind the screen talk on, and the sounds of joy from the
+     supper-party wax and wane.
+
+     The waiter, ARNAUD, returning from the corridor, passes to his
+     service-table with a tall, beribboned basket of fruit.  Putting
+     it down, he goes towards the table behind the screen, and sees.
+     He runs up to CLARE.
+
+ARNAUD.  Madame! Madame!  [He listens for her breathing; then
+suddenly catching sight of the little bottle, smells at it] Bon Dieu!
+
+     [At that queer sound they come from behind the screen--all four,
+     and look.  The dark night bird says: "Hallo; fainted!" ARNAUD
+     holds out the bottle.]
+
+LANGUID LORD.  [Taking it, and smelling] Good God!  [The woman bends
+over CLARE, and lifts her hands; ARNAUD rushes to his service-table,
+and speaks into his tube]
+
+ARNAUD.  The boss.  Quick!  [Looking up he sees the YOUNG MAN,
+returning] 'Monsieur, elle a fui!  Elle est morte'!
+
+LANGUID LORD.  [To the YOUNG MAN standing there aghast]  What's this?
+Friend of yours?
+
+YOUNG MAN.  My God!  She was a lady.  That's all I know about her.
+
+LANGUID LORD.  A lady!
+
+     [The blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out
+     of the supper-party's distant laughter comes suddenly a long,
+     shrill: "Gone away!" And the sound of the horn playing the seven
+     last notes of the old song: "This day a stag must die!" From the
+     last note of all the sound flies up to an octave higher, sweet
+     and thin, like a spirit passing, till it is drowned once more in
+     laughter.  The YOUNG MAN has covered his eyes with his hands;
+     ARNAUD is crossing himself fervently; the LANGUID LORD stands
+     gazing, with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his
+     fingers; and the woman, bending over CLARE, kisses her forehead.]
+
+
+CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE FUGITIVE (play)
+by John Galsworthy.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PIGEON
+
+A Fantasy in Three Acts
+
+By John Galsworthy
+
+
+
+PERSONS OF THE PLAY
+
+CHRISTOPHER WELLWYN, an artist
+ANN, his daughter
+GUINEVERE MEGAN, a flower-seller
+RORY MEGAN, her husband
+FERRAND, an alien
+TIMSON, once a cabman
+EDWARD BERTLEY, a Canon
+ALFRED CALWAY, a Professor
+SIR THOMAS HOXTON, a Justice of the Peace
+Also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons
+
+
+
+
+The action passes in Wellwyn's Studio, and the street outside.
+
+ACT I. Christmas Eve.
+
+ACT II. New Year's Day.
+
+ACT III. The First of April.
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+     It is the night of Christmas Eve, the SCENE is a Studio, flush
+     with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow.
+     There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed,
+     above a floor of bare dark boards.  A fire is cheerfully
+     burning.  On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas.
+     There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm.
+     chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window.  A
+     door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall
+     to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the
+     centre of the wall between.  On a low table a Russian samovar is
+     hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses,
+     lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum.  Through a huge uncurtained
+     window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be
+     seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars.
+
+     The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door,
+     and ANN WELLWYN enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a
+     ribbon and covered by a scarf.  Leaving the door open, she turns
+     up the electric light and goes to the fire.  She throws of her
+     scarf and long red cloak.  She is dressed in a high evening
+     frock of some soft white material.  Her movements are quick and
+     substantial.  Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and
+     sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped
+     forehead.  Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands.
+
+     In the doorway appear the figures of two men.  The first is
+     rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft
+     eyes, and a crumply face.  Under his squash hat his hair is
+     rather plentiful and rather grey.  He wears an old brown ulster
+     and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette.  He
+     is ANN'S father, WELLWYN, the artist.  His companion is a
+     well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with
+     a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby
+     clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy.  He is
+     the Vicar of the parish--CANON BERTLEY.
+
+
+BERTLEY.  My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of
+difficulty.  When you have two men like Professor Calway and Sir
+Thomas Hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've
+seen to-night, I confess, I----
+
+WELLWYN.  Come in, Vicar, and have some grog.
+
+BERTLEY.  Not to-night, thanks!  Christmas tomorrow!  Great
+temptation, though, this room!  Goodnight, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann!
+
+ANN.  [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.]  Good-night,
+Canon Bertley.
+
+     [He goes out, and WELLWYN, shutting the door after him,
+     approaches the fire.]
+
+ANN.  [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and
+making tea.]  Daddy!
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear?
+
+ANN.  You say you liked Professor Calway's lecture.  Is it going to
+do you any good, that's the question?
+
+WELLWYN.  I--I hope so, Ann.
+
+ANN.  I took you on purpose.  Your charity's getting simply awful.
+Those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money.
+
+WELLWYN.  Um!  Um!  I quite understand your feeling.
+
+ANN.  They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse--didn't know what
+you'd said to them.  Why don't you make it a rule never to give your
+card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of
+course.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, I have--often.
+
+ANN.  Then why don't you keep it?  It's a frightful habit.  You are
+naughty, Daddy.  One of these days you'll get yourself into most
+fearful complications.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, when they--when they look at you?
+
+ANN.  You know the house wants all sorts of things.  Why do you speak
+to them at all?
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't--they speak to me.
+
+     [He takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an
+     arm-chair.]
+
+ANN.  They see you coming.  Anybody can see you coming, Daddy.
+That's why you ought to be so careful.  I shall make you wear a hard
+hat.  Those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient.
+
+WELLWYN. [Gazing at his hat.]  Calway wears one.
+
+ANN.  As if anyone would beg of Professor Calway.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well-perhaps not.  You know, Ann, I admire that fellow.
+Wonderful power of-of-theory!  How a man can be so absolutely tidy in
+his mind!  It's most exciting.
+
+ANN.  Has any one begged of you to-day?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  No--no.
+
+ANN.  [After a long, severe look.]  Will you have rum in your tea?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Crestfallen.] Yes, my dear--a good deal.
+
+ANN.  [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.]  Well, who
+was it?
+
+WELLWYN.  He didn't beg of me.  [Losing himself in recollection.]
+Interesting old creature, Ann--real type.  Old cabman.
+
+ANN.  Where?
+
+WELLWYN.  Just on the Embankment.
+
+ANN.  Of course!  Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always
+rotters.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, my dear; but this wasn't.
+
+ANN.  Did you give him your card?
+
+WELLWYN.  I--I--don't
+
+ANN.  Did you, Daddy?
+
+WELLWYN.  I'm rather afraid I may have!
+
+ANN.  May have!  It's simply immoral.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann.  Besides, I
+didn't give him any money--hadn't got any.
+
+ANN.  Look here, Daddy!  Did you ever ask anybody for anything?  You
+know you never did, you'd starve first.  So would anybody decent.
+Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters?
+
+WELLWYN.  But, my dear, we're not all the same.  They wouldn't do it
+if it wasn't natural to them.  One likes to be friendly.  What's the
+use of being alive if one isn't?
+
+ANN.  Daddy, you're hopeless.
+
+WELLWYN.  But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so jolly
+complicated.  According to Calway, we're to give the State all we can
+spare, to make the undeserving deserving.  He's a Professor; he ought
+to know.  But old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to
+support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the
+undeserving.  Well, that's just the opposite.  And he's a J.P.
+Tremendous experience.  And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of
+both.  Well, what the devil----?  My trouble is, whichever I'm with,
+he always converts me.  [Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of
+them.
+
+ANN.  [Rising.]  Oh!  Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're
+the despair of all social reformers?  [She envelops him.]  There's a
+tear in the left knee of your trousers.  You're not to wear them
+again.
+
+WELLWYN.  Am I likely to?
+
+ANN.  I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair.
+D'you know what I live in terror of?
+
+     [WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]
+
+ANN.  That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the
+street.  Have you got any money?  [She feels in his coat, and he his
+trousers--they find nothing.]  Do you know that your pockets are one
+enormous hole?
+
+WELLWYN.  No!
+
+ANN.  Spiritually.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  H'm!
+
+ANN.  [Severely.]  Now, look here, Daddy!  [She takes him by his
+lapels.]  Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on
+your part to go on giving away things as you do!  You know what you
+really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist!
+
+WELLWYN.  [Breaking away from her, disturbed.]  It isn't sentiment.
+It's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly.  If I'm to give up
+feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it
+doesn't matter who they are--then I don't know what I'm to do.
+I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.
+
+ANN.  I think you ought to.
+
+WELLWYN.  I suppose they see I like them--then they tell me things.
+After that, of course you can't help doing what you can.
+
+ANN.  Well, if you will love them up!
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, I don't want to.  It isn't them especially--why, I
+feel it even with old Calway sometimes.  It's only Providence that he
+doesn't want anything of me--except to make me like himself--confound
+him!
+
+ANN.  [Moving towards the door into the house--impressively.]  What
+you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, thank God!
+
+ANN.  It's so old-fashioned too!  I'm going to bed--I just leave you
+to your conscience.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!
+
+ANN.  [Opening the door-severely.] Good-night--[with a certain
+weakening] you old--Daddy!
+
+     [She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.]
+
+     [WELLWYN stands perfectly still.  He first gazes up at the
+     skylight, then down at the floor.  Slowly he begins to shake his
+     head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Bad lot.  .  .  .  Low type--no backbone, no stability!
+
+     [There comes a fluttering knock on the outer door.  As the sound
+     slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though
+     he knew, but would not admit its significance.  Then he sits
+     down, covering his ears.  The knocking does not cease.  WELLWYN
+     drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle
+     towards the door.  The knocking becomes louder.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah dear!  Tt!  Tt!  Tt!
+
+     [After a look in the direction of ANN's disappearance, he opens
+     the street door a very little way.  By the light of the lamp
+     there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a
+     shawl to which the snow is clinging.  She has on her arm a
+     basket covered with a bit of sacking.]
+
+WELLWYN.  I can't, you know; it's impossible.
+
+     [The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Wincing.] Let's see--I don't know you--do I?
+
+     [The girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent
+     of reproach: "Mrs. Megan--you give me this---"  She holds out a
+     dirty visiting card.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Recoiling from the card.]  Oh!  Did I?  Ah!  When?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring.  You give
+me 'arf a crown.
+
+     [A smile tries to visit her face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Looking stealthily round.] Ah!  Well, come in--just for a
+minute--it's very cold--and tell us what it is.
+
+     [She comes in stolidly, a Sphinx-like figure, with her pretty
+     tragic little face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't remember you.  [Looking closer.] Yes, I do.  Only--
+you weren't the same-were you?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Dully.]  I seen trouble since.
+
+WELLWYN.  Trouble!  Have some tea?
+
+     [He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes
+     quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum
+     into it.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Handing her the tea.]  Keeps the cold out!  Drink it off!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost
+     immediately seems to get a size larger.  WELLWYN watches her
+     with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his
+     face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Cure for all evils, um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  It warms you.  [She smiles.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Smiling back, and catching himself out.]  Well!  You know,
+I oughtn't.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Conscious of the disruption of his personality, and
+withdrawing into her tragic abyss.]  I wouldn't 'a come, but you told
+me if I wanted an 'and----
+
+WELLWYN.  [Gradually losing himself in his own nature.]  Let me
+see--corner of Flight Street, wasn't it?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With faint eagerness.]  Yes, sir, an' I told you about
+me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day.
+
+WELLWYN.  Beautiful!  Beautiful!  Birds singing, and the trees, &c.!
+We had quite a talk.  You had a baby with you.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  I got married since then.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes!  [Cheerfully.]  And how's the baby?
+
+MRS.  MEGAN.  [Turning to stone.]  I lost her.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  poor--- Um!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Impassive.]  You said something abaht makin' a picture
+of me.  [With faint eagerness.]  So I thought I might come, in case
+you'd forgotten.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Looking at, her intently.]  Things going badly?
+
+MRS.  MEGAN.  [Stripping the sacking off her basket.]  I keep 'em
+covered up, but the cold gets to 'em.  Thruppence--that's all I've
+took.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ho!  Tt! Tt!  [He looks into the basket.]  Christmas, too!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  They're dead.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Drawing in his breath.]  Got a good husband?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  He plays cards.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh, Lord!  And what are you doing out--with a cold like
+that?  [He taps his chest.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  We was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is
+mates.  Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.]  But who
+buys flowers at this time of night?
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and faintly smiles.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Rumpling his hair.]  Saints above us!  Here!  Come to the
+fire!
+
+     [She follows him to the fire.  He shuts the street door.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Are your feet wet?  [She nods.]  Well, sit down here, and
+take them off.  That's right.
+
+     [She sits on the stool.  And after a slow look up at him, which
+     has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years,
+     begins taking off her shoes and stockings.  WELLWYN goes to the
+     door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of
+     stealthy casualness.  He returns whistling, but not out loud.
+     The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her
+     bare toes to the flames.  She shuffles them back under her
+     skirt.]
+
+WELLWYN.  How old are you, my child?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Nineteen, come Candlemas.
+
+WELLWYN.  And what's your name?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Guinevere.
+
+WELLWYN.  What?  Welsh?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes--from Battersea.
+
+WELLWYN.  And your husband?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No.  Irish, 'e is.  Notting Dale, 'e comes from.
+
+WELLWYN.  Roman Catholic?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  My 'usband's an atheist as well.
+
+WELLWYN.  I see.  [Abstractedly.] How jolly!  And how old is he--this
+young man of yours?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  'E'll be twenty soon.
+
+WELLWYN.  Babes in the wood!  Does he treat you badly?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No.
+
+WELLWYN.  Nor drink?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No.  He's not a bad one.  Only he gets playin'
+cards then 'e'll fly the kite.
+
+WELLWYN.  I see.  And when he's not flying it, what does he do?
+
+MRS. MEGAN. [Touching her basket.] Same as me.  Other jobs tires 'im.
+
+WELLWYN.  That's very nice!  [He checks himself.]  Well, what am I to
+do with you?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Of course, I could get me night's lodging if I like to
+do--the same as some of them.
+
+WELLWYN.  No!  no!  Never, my child!  Never!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  It's easy that way.
+
+WELLWYN.  Heavens!  But your husband!  Um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after one I know of.
+
+WELLWYN.  Tt!  What a pickle!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I'll 'ave to walk about the streets.
+
+WELLWYN.  [To himself.]  Now how can I?
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already
+     discovered that he is peculiar.]
+
+WELLWYN.  You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you anything--because
+--well, for one thing I haven't got it.  There are other reasons, but
+that's the--real one.  But, now, there's a little room where my
+models dress.  I wonder if you could sleep there.  Come, and see.
+
+     [The Girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth.  She
+     takes up her wet stockings.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Shall I put them on again?
+
+WELLWYN.  No, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers.  [Seeing the
+steam rising from her.]  Why, you're wet all over.  Here, wait a
+little!
+
+     [He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy
+     listening, steps through.  The Girl, like a cat, steals back to
+     the warmth of the fire.  WELLWYN returns with a candle, a
+     canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Now then!  [He precedes her towards the door of the model's
+room.]  Hsssh!  [He opens the door and holds up the candle to show
+her the room.]  Will it do?  There's a couch.  You'll find some
+washing things.  Make yourself quite at home.  See!
+
+     [The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and
+     her shoes and stockings.  WELLWYN hands her the candle,
+     blankets, and bath gown.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Have a good sleep, child!  Forget that you're alive!
+[He closes the door, mournfully.]  Done it again!  [He goes to the
+table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it
+in.]  Chow-chow!  [Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite
+door.]  Well--damn it, what could I have done?  Not a farthing on me!
+[He goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to
+confirm himself in his hospitality.]  Night like this!
+
+     [A sputter of snow is blown in his face.  A voice says:
+     "Monsieur, pardon!"  WELLWYN recoils spasmodically.  A figure
+     moves from the lamp-post to the doorway.  He is seen to be young
+     and to have ragged clothes.  He speaks again: "You do not
+     remember me, Monsieur?  My name is Ferrand--it was in Paris, in
+     the Champs-Elysees--by the fountain .  .  .  .  When you came to
+     the door, Monsieur--I am not made of iron .  .  .  .  Tenez,
+     here is your card I have never lost it." He holds out to WELLWYN
+     an old and dirty wing card.  As inch by inch he has advanced
+     into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall
+     gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of
+     beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large,
+     grey, rather prominent eyes.  There is a certain grace in his
+     figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Yielding to a pleasant memory.]  Ah!  yes.  By the
+fountain.  I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and
+drank the water.
+
+FERRAND.  [With faint eagerness.]  My breakfast.  I was in poverty--
+veree bad off.  You gave me ten francs.  I thought I had a little the
+right [WELLWYN makes a movement of disconcertion]  seeing you said
+that if I came to England----
+
+WELLWYN.  Um!  And so you've come?
+
+FERRAND.  It was time that I consolidated my fortunes, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  And you--have----
+
+     [He stops embarrassed.  FERRAND.  [Shrugging his ragged
+     shoulders.]  One is not yet Rothschild.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sympathetically.]  No.  [Yielding to memory.]  We talked
+philosophy.
+
+FERRAND.  I have not yet changed my opinion.  We other vagabonds, we
+are exploited by the bourgeois.  This is always my idea, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes--not quite the general view, perhaps!  Well----
+[Heartily.]  Come in!  Very glad to see you again.
+
+FERRAND.  [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, Monsieur--your
+goodness--I am a little weak.  [He opens his coat, and shows a belt
+drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.]  I tighten him one hole for
+each meal, during two days now.  That gives you courage.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have
+some of this.  It'll buck you up.  [He watches the young man drink.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Becoming a size larger.]  Sometimes I think that I will
+never succeed to dominate my life, Monsieur--though I have no vices,
+except that I guard always the aspiration to achieve success.  But I
+will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing
+every day.  I must find with what to fly a little.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Delicately.] Yes; yes--I remember, you found it difficult
+to stay long in any particular--yes.
+
+FERRAND.  [Proudly.]  In one little corner?  No--Monsieur--never!
+That is not in my character.  I must see life.
+
+WELLWYN.  Quite, quite!  Have some cake?
+
+     [He cuts cake.]
+
+FERRAND.  In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have
+it.  But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content.
+[Refusing the cake.] 'Grand merci', but for the moment I have no
+stomach--I have lost my stomach now for two days.  If I could smoke,
+Monsieur!  [He makes the gesture of smoking.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Rather!  [Handing his tobacco pouch.]  Roll yourself one.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rapidly rolling a cigarette.]  If I had not found you,
+Monsieur--I would have been a little hole in the river to-night--
+I was so discouraged.  [He inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of
+smoke.  Very bitterly.]  Life!  [He disperses the puff of smoke with
+his finger, and stares before him.]  And to think that in a few
+minutes HE will be born!  Monsieur!  [He gazes intently at WELLWYN.]
+The world would reproach you for your goodness to me.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Looking uneasily at the door into the house.]  You think
+so?  Ah!
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, if HE himself were on earth now, there would be a
+little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call
+Him sloppee sentimentalist!  And what is veree funny, these gentlemen
+they would all be most strong Christians.  [He regards WELLWYN
+deeply.]  But that will not trouble you, Monsieur; I saw well from
+the first that you are no Christian.  You have so kind a face.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Indeed!
+
+FERRAND.  You have not enough the Pharisee in your character.  You do
+not judge, and you are judged.
+
+     [He stretches his limbs as if in pain.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Are you in pain?
+
+FERRAND.  I 'ave a little the rheumatism.
+
+WELLWYN.  Wet through, of course!  [Glancing towards the house.] Wait
+a bit!  I wonder if you'd like these trousers; they've--er--they're
+not quite----
+
+     [He passes through the door into the house.  FERRAND stands at
+     the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it,
+     smoking with abandonment.  WELLWYN returns stealthily, dressed
+     in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his
+     trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.]  Can
+you make these do for the moment?
+
+FERRAND.  'Je vous remercie', Monsieur.  [Pointing to the screen.]
+May I retire?
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, yes.
+
+     [FERRAND goes behind the screen.  WELLWYN closes the door into
+     the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains.  He
+     suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Good Lord!
+
+     [There is the sound of tapping on glass.  Against the
+     window-pane is pressed the face of a man. WELLWYN motions to him
+     to go away.  He does not go, but continues tapping.  WELLWYN
+     opens the door.  There enters a square old man, with a red,
+     pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler
+     hat.  He is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Who's that?  Who are you?
+
+TIMSON.  [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir;
+we 'ad a talk this morning.  Timson--I give you me name.  You invited
+of me, if ye remember.
+
+WELLWYN.  It's a little late, really.
+
+TIMSON.  Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer.  I
+was 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein'
+Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day.  [He speaks with
+increasing thickness.]  I'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a
+bed abaht me.  Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my
+age.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into
+his pockets.]  The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me.
+
+TIMSON.  [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.]  Wouldn't
+arsk you if I could 'elp it.  'Ad to do with 'orses all me life.
+It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of.  I'm afraid I'll go to sleep.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, really, I----
+
+TIMSON.  To be froze to death--I mean--it's awkward.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Puzzled and unhappy.]  Well--come in a moment, and let's--
+think it out.  Have some tea!
+
+     [He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not
+     very much, adds rum rather liberally.  TIMSON, who walks a
+     little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Receiving the drink.]  Yer 'ealth.  'Ere's--soberiety!
+[He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand.  Agreeably
+surprised.]  Blimey!  Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it?
+
+FERRAND.  [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of
+which the trousers stop too soon.]  With a needle, Monsieur, I would
+soon have with what to make face against the world.
+
+WELLWYN.  Too short!  Ah!
+
+     [He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes
+     from it a needle and cotton.]
+
+     [While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one
+     dog will another.  The old man, glass in hand, seems to have
+     lapsed into coma.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Indicating TIMSON]  Monsieur!
+
+     [He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Handing him the needle and cotton.]  Um!  Afraid so!
+
+     [They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Gently.]  It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur?  'Ceux
+sont tous des buveurs'.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.]  Now, my old
+friend, sit down a moment.  [They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.]
+Will you smoke?
+
+TIMSON.  [In a drowsy voice.]  Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer.  Old
+'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold.
+
+     [He relapses into coma.]
+
+FERRAND.  [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  He hasn't really left a horse outside, do
+you think?
+
+FERRAND.  Non, non, Monsieur--no 'orse.  He is dreaming.  I know very
+well that state of him--that catches you sometimes.  It is the warmth
+sudden on the stomach.  He will speak no more sense to-night.  At the
+most, drink, and fly a little in his past.
+
+WELLWYN.  Poor old buffer!
+
+FERRAND.  Touching, is it not, Monsieur?  There are many brave gents
+among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses,
+and from sitting still.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.]  Drenched!
+
+FERRAND.  That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all.  He is
+well wet inside, remember--it is Christmas to-morrow.  Put him a rug,
+if you will, he will soon steam.
+
+     [WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the
+     old man.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Faintly roused.]  Tha's right.  Put--the rug on th' old
+'orse.
+
+     [He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Alarmed.]  What's the matter with him?
+
+FERRAND.  It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a
+'orse.  'Il joue "cache-cache,"'  'ide and seek, with what you call--
+'is bitt.
+
+WELLWYN.  But what's to be done with him?  One can't turn him out in
+this state.
+
+FERRAND.  If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear.  I
+charge myself with him.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  You--er--I really don't know, I--hadn't
+contemplated--You think you could manage if I--if I went to bed?
+
+FERRAND.  But certainly, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Still dubiously.] You--you're sure you've everything you
+want?
+
+FERRAND.  [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'.
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't know what I can do by staying.
+
+FERRAND.  There is nothing you can do, Monsieur.  Have confidence in
+me.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly.  You'd better
+take this coat of mine, too.  You'll find it precious cold, I expect,
+about three o'clock.  [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Taking it.]  I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah!  Yes!  Thanks!  Well-good-night!  By the way, I shall
+be down rather early.  Have to think of my household a bit, you know.
+
+FERRAND.  'Tres bien, Monsieur'.  I comprehend.  One must well be
+regular in this life.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a start.]  Lord!  [He looks at the door of the
+model's room.] I'd forgotten----
+
+FERRAND.  Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?
+
+WELLWYN.  No, no!  [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer
+door.] You won't want this, will you?
+
+FERRAND.  'Merci, Monsieur'.
+
+     [WELLWYN switches off the light.]
+
+FERRAND.  'Bon soir, Monsieur'!
+
+WELLWYN.  The devil!  Er--good-night!
+
+     [He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly
+     away.]
+
+FERRAND.  [To himself.]  Poor pigeon!  [Looking long at old TIMSON]
+'Espece de type anglais!'
+
+     [He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and
+     taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of
+     trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary
+     stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well-
+     accustomed.  Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up
+     quickly and slips behind the screen.  MRS. MEGAN, attracted by
+     the cessation of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping
+     from the model's room towards the fire.  She has almost reached
+     it before she takes in the torpid crimson figure of old TIMSON.
+     She halts and puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the
+     firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-
+     wool slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her
+     neck.  Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a
+     sort of stupor, MRS. MEGAN goes close to the fire, and sits on
+     the little stool, smiling sideways at old TIMSON.  FERRAND,
+     coming quietly up behind, examines her from above, drooping his
+     long nose as if enquiring with it as to her condition in life;
+     then he steps back a yard or two.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Gently.] 'Pardon, Ma'moiselle'.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Springing to her feet.]  Oh!
+
+FERRAND.  All right, all right!  We are brave gents!
+
+TIMSON.  [Faintly roused.]  'Old up, there!
+
+FERRAND.  Trust in me, Ma'moiselle!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN responds by drawing away.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Gently.]  We must be good comrades.  This asylum--it is
+better than a doss-'ouse.
+
+     [He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself.
+     Somewhat reassured, MRS. MEGAN again sits down.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You frightened me.
+
+TIMSON.  [Unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.]  Purple foreigners!
+
+FERRAND.  Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle.  He is a philosopher.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Oh!  I thought 'e was boozed.
+
+     [They both look at TIMSON]
+
+FERRAND.  It is the same-veree 'armless.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  What's that he's got on 'im?
+
+FERRAND.  It is a coronation robe.  Have no fear, Ma'moiselle.  Veree
+docile potentate.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I wouldn't be afraid of him.  [Challenging FERRAND.] I'm
+afraid o' you.
+
+FERRAND.  It is because you do not know me, Ma'moiselle.  You are
+wrong, it is always the unknown you should love.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I don't like the way you-speaks to me.
+
+FERRAND.  Ah! You are a Princess in disguise?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  No fear!
+
+FERRAND.  No?  What is it then you do to make face against the
+necessities of life?  A living?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Sells flowers.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rolling his eyes.]  It is not a career.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With a touch of devilry.]  You don't know what I do.
+
+FERRAND.  Ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and slowly smiles.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You're a foreigner.
+
+FERRAND.  It is true.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  What do you do for a livin'?
+
+FERRAND.  I am an interpreter.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You ain't very busy, are you?
+
+FERRAND.  [With dignity.]  At present I am resting.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Looking at him and smiling.]  How did you and 'im come
+here?
+
+FERRAND.  Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  The gentleman let me.  'E's funny.
+
+FERRAND.  'C'est un ange'  [At MRS. MEGAN's blank stare he
+interprets.]  An angel!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Me luck's out-that's why I come.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Ah!  Ma'moiselle!  Luck!  There is the little
+God who dominates us all.  Look at this old!  [He points to TIMSON.]
+He is finished.  In his day that old would be doing good business.
+He could afford himself--[He maker a sign of drinking.]--Then come
+the motor cars.  All goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a
+'cocher'!  Luck!
+
+TIMSON.  [With a vague gesture--drowsily.]  Kick the foreign beggars
+out.
+
+FERRAND.  A real Englishman .  .  .  .  And look at me!  My father
+was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels.  If I had been content
+to go in his business, I would 'ave been rich.  But I was born to
+roll--"rolling stone"to voyage is stronger than myself.  Luck!  .  .
+And you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune?  [He looks in her
+face.]  You were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of
+life.  'Et vous voila'!  Luck!
+
+     [Though she does not in the least understand what he has said,
+     her expression changes to a sort of glee.]
+
+FERRAND.  Yes.  You were born loving pleasure.  Is it not?  You see,
+you cannot say, No.  All of us, we have our fates.  Give me your
+hand.  [He kneels down and takes her hand.]  In each of us there is
+that against which we cannot struggle.  Yes, yes!
+
+     [He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own.
+     MRS. MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Flickering into consciousness.]  Be'ave yourselves!  Yer
+crimson canary birds!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN would withdraw her hand, but cannot.]
+
+FERRAND.  Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle.  He is a Puritan.
+
+     [TIMSON relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which
+     falls with a crash.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Let go my hand, please!
+
+FERRAND.  [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.]
+There is one thing I have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in
+my character.  [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her
+face.]  Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I dunno--lots, I thinks of.
+
+FERRAND.  Shall I tell you?  [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the
+strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along."
+He goes on in his ironic voice.]  It is of the streets--the lights--
+the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it
+is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love.  That is for you
+what the road is for me.  That is for you what the rum is for that
+old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON.  Then bending swiftly
+forward to the girl.]  See!  I kiss you--Ah!
+
+     [He draws her forward off the stool.  There is a little
+     struggle, then she resigns her lips.  The little stool,
+     overturned, falls with a clatter.  They spring up, and move
+     apart.  The door opens and ANN enters from the house in a blue
+     dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above
+     her head.  Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove,
+     she recoils.  Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice
+     sharpened by fright: "Daddy--Daddy!"]
+
+TIMSON. [Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.]  All right!
+I'm comin'!
+
+FERRAND.  Have no fear, Madame!
+
+     [In the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking
+     twelve.  ANN remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened
+     on the strangers.  There is the sound of someone falling
+     downstairs, and WELLWYN appears, also holding a candle above his
+     head.]
+
+ANN.  Look!
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, yes, my dear!  It--it happened.
+
+ANN.  [With a sort of groan.]  Oh!  Daddy!
+
+     [In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Softly, in his ironic voice.] HE is come, Monsieur!  'Appy
+Christmas!  Bon Noel!
+
+     [There is a sudden chime of bells.  The Stage is blotted dark.]
+
+
+                              Curtain.
+
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+It is four o'clock in the afternoon of New Year's Day.  On the raised
+dais MRS. MEGAN is standing, in her rags; with bare feet and ankles,
+her dark hair as if blown about, her lips parted, holding out a
+dishevelled bunch of violets.  Before his easel, WELLWYN is painting
+her.  Behind him, at a table between the cupboard and the door to the
+model's room, TIMSON is washing brushes, with the movements of one
+employed upon relief works.  The samovar is hissing on the table by
+the stove, the tea things are set out.
+
+WELLWYN.  Open your mouth.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN opens her mouth.]
+
+ANN.  [In hat and coat, entering from the house.]  Daddy!
+
+     [WELLWYN goes to her; and, released from restraint, MRS. MEGAN
+     looks round at TIMSON and grimaces.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, my dear?
+
+     [They speak in low voices.]
+
+ANN.  [Holding out a note.] This note from Canon Bentley.  He's going
+to bring her husband here this afternoon.  [She looks at MRS. MEGAN.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  [He also looks at MRS. MEGAN.]
+
+ANN.  And I met Sir Thomas Hoxton at church this morning, and spoke
+to him about Timson.
+
+WELLWYN.  Um!
+
+     [They look at TIMSON.  Then ANN goes back to the door, and
+     WELLWYN follows her.]
+
+ANN.  [Turning.]  I'm going round now, Daddy, to ask Professor Calway
+what we're to do with that Ferrand.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  One each!  I wonder if they'll like it.
+
+ANN.  They'll have to lump it.
+
+     [She goes out into the house.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Back at his easel.] You can shut your mouth now.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN shuts her mouth, but opens it immediately to smile.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Spasmodically.]  Ah!  Now that's what I want.  [He dabs
+furiously at the canvas.  Then standing back, runs his hands through
+his hair and turns a painter's glance towards the skylight.]  Dash!
+Light's gone!  Off you get, child--don't tempt me!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN descends.  Passing towards the door of the model's
+     room she stops, and stealthily looks at the picture.]
+
+TIMSON.  Ah!  Would yer!
+
+WELLWYN.  [Wheeling round.]  Want to have a look?  Well--come on!
+
+     [He takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas.
+     After a stolid moment, she giggles.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  You think so?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Who has lost her hoarseness.]  It's not like my picture
+that I had on the pier.
+
+WELLWYN.  No-it wouldn't be.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Timidly.] If I had an 'at on, I'd look better.
+
+WELLWYN.  With feathers?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, you can't!  I don't like hats, and I don't like
+feathers.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN timidly tugs his sleeve.  TIMSON, screened as he
+     thinks by the picture, has drawn from his bulky pocket a bottle
+     and is taking a stealthy swig.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To MRS. MEGAN, affecting not to notice.] How much do I owe
+you?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [A little surprised.]  You paid me for to-day-all 'cept
+a penny.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well!  Here it is.  [He gives her a coin.]  Go and get your
+feet on!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  You've give me 'arf a crown.
+
+WELLWYN.  Cut away now!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room.
+     She looks back at WELLWYN, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he
+     is gazing at the picture; then, catching old TIMSON'S sour
+     glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little
+     squeal.  But when WELLWYN turns to the sound, she is demurely
+     passing through the doorway.]
+
+TIMSON.  [In his voice of dubious sobriety.]  I've finished these yer
+brushes, sir.  It's not a man's work.  I've been thinkin' if you'd
+keep an 'orse, I could give yer satisfaction.
+
+WELLWYN.  Would the horse, Timson?
+
+TIMSON.  [Looking him up and down.]  I knows of one that would just
+suit yer.  Reel 'orse, you'd like 'im.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Shaking his head.]  Afraid not, Timson!  Awfully sorry,
+though, to have nothing better for you than this, at present.
+
+TIMSON.  [Faintly waving the brushes.]  Of course, if you can't
+afford it, I don't press you--it's only that I feel I'm not doing
+meself justice.  [Confidentially.]  There's just one thing, sir; I
+can't bear to see a gen'leman imposed on.  That foreigner--'e's not
+the sort to 'ave about the place.  Talk?  Oh!  ah!  But 'e'll never
+do any good with 'imself.  He's a alien.
+
+WELLWYN.  Terrible misfortune to a fellow, Timson.
+
+TIMSON.  Don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault I says to the
+young lady yesterday: Miss Ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a
+sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are--I don't mind
+sayin' it--but, I said, he's too easy-goin'.
+
+WELLWYN.  Indeed!
+
+TIMSON.  Well, see that girl now!  [He shakes his head.]  I never did
+believe in goin' behind a person's back--I'm an Englishman--but
+[lowering his voice]  she's a bad hat, sir.  Why, look at the street
+she comes from!
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  you know it.
+
+TIMSON.  Lived there meself larst three years.  See the difference a
+few days' corn's made in her. She's that saucy you can't touch 'er
+head.
+
+WELLWYN.  Is there any necessity, Timson?
+
+TIMSON.  Artful too.  Full o' vice, I call'er.  Where's 'er 'usband?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Gravely.] Come, Timson!  You wouldn't like her to----
+
+TIMSON.  [With dignity, so that the bottle in his pocket is plainly
+visible.]  I'm a man as always beared inspection.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a well-directed smile.]  So I see.
+
+TIMSON.  [Curving himself round the bottle.]  It's not for me to say
+nothing--but I can tell a gen'leman as quick as ever I can tell an
+'orse.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Painting.]  I find it safest to assume that every man is a
+gentleman, and every woman a lady.  Saves no end of self-contempt.
+Give me the little brush.
+
+TIMSON.  [Handing him the brush--after a considerable introspective
+pause.]  Would yer like me to stay and wash it for yer again?  [With
+great resolution.]  I will--I'll do it for you--never grudged workin'
+for a gen'leman.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With sincerity.]  Thank you, Timson--very good of you, I'm
+sure.  [He hands him back the brush.]  Just lend us a hand with this.
+[Assisted by TIMSON he pushes back the dais.]  Let's see!  What do I
+owe you?
+
+TIMSON.  [Reluctantly.]  It so 'appens, you advanced me to-day's
+yesterday.
+
+WELLWYN.  Then I suppose you want to-morrow's?
+
+TIMSON.  Well, I 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job.  When
+you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you
+might as well be dead.
+
+WELLWYN.  Quite so!
+
+TIMSON.  It mounts up in the course o' the year.
+
+WELLWYN.  It would.  [Passing him a coin.] This is for an exceptional
+purpose--Timson--see.  Not----
+
+TIMSON.  [Touching his forehead.] Certainly, sir.  I quite
+understand.  I'm not that sort, as I think I've proved to yer, comin'
+here regular day after day, all the week.  There's one thing, I ought
+to warn you perhaps--I might 'ave to give this job up any day.
+
+     [He makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts
+     it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Gravely.]  I'd never stand in the way of your bettering
+yourself, Timson.  And, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend
+about you to-day.  I think something may come of it.
+
+TIMSON.  Oh!  Oh!  She did!  Well, it might do me a bit o' good.  [He
+makes for the outer door, but stops.]  That foreigner!  'E sticks in
+my gizzard.  It's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to
+pluck in 'is own Gawd-forsaken country.  Reg-lar jay, that's what I
+calls 'im.  I could tell yer something----
+
+     [He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that FERRAND himself
+     is standing there.  Sticking out his lower lip, TIMSON gives a
+     roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street.  Owing to a
+     slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly
+     visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his
+     battle against the cold.  FERRAND, having closed the door,
+     stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle.
+     He is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a
+     frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk,
+     the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a
+     tan waistcoat.]
+
+WELLWYN.  What luck to-day?
+
+FERRAND.  [With a shrug.]  Again I have beaten all London, Monsieur-
+-not one bite.  [Contemplating himself.]  I think perhaps, that, for
+the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Contemplating him.]  Let's see--I believe I've an old top
+hat somewhere.
+
+FERRAND.  Ah!  Monsieur, 'merci', but that I could not.  It is
+scarcely in my character.
+
+WELLWYN.  True!
+
+FERRAND.  I have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to
+Leicester Square.  I have been to a Society for spreading Christian
+knowledge--I thought there I would have a chance perhaps as
+interpreter.  'Toujours meme chose', we regret, we have no situation
+for you--same thing everywhere.  It seems there is nothing doing in
+this town.
+
+WELLWYN.  I've noticed, there never is.
+
+FERRAND.  I was thinking, Monsieur, that in aviation there might be a
+career for me--but it seems one must be trained.
+
+WELLWYN.  Afraid so, Ferrand.
+
+FERRAND.  [Approaching the picture.]  Ah!  You are always working at
+this.  You will have something of very good there, Monsieur.  You
+wish to fix the type of wild savage existing ever amongst our high
+civilisation.  'C'est tres chic ca'!  [WELLWYN manifests the quiet
+delight of an English artist actually understood.]  In the figures
+of these good citizens, to whom she offers her flower, you would
+give the idea of all the cage doors open to catch and make tame the
+wild bird, that will surely die within.  'Tres gentil'!  Believe me,
+Monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life!  How anxious
+are the tame birds to do the wild birds good.  [His voice changes.]
+For the wild birds it is not funny.  There is in some human souls,
+Monsieur, what cannot be made tame.
+
+WELLWYN.  I believe you, Ferrand.
+
+     [The face of a young man appears at the window, unseen.
+     Suddenly ANN opens the door leading to the house.]
+
+ANN.  Daddy--I want you.
+
+WELLWYN.  [To FERRAND.]  Excuse me a minute!
+
+     [He goes to his daughter, and they pass out.  FERRAND remains
+     at the picture.  MRS. MEGAN dressed in some of ANN's discarded
+     garments, has come out of the model's room.  She steals up
+     behind FERRAND like a cat, reaches an arm up, and curls it
+     round his mouth.  He turns, and tries to seize her; she
+     disingenuously slips away. He follows.  The chase circles the
+     tea table.  He catches her, lifts her up, swings round with
+     her, so that her feet fly out; kisses her bent-back face, and
+     sets her down.  She stands there smiling. The face at the
+     window darkens.]
+
+FERRAND.  La Valse!
+
+     [He takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts her hands
+     against his shoulders to push him of--and suddenly they are
+     whirling.  As they whirl, they bob together once or twice, and
+     kiss.  Then, with a warning motion towards the door, she
+     wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying
+     desperately to appear demure.  WELLWYN and ANN have entered.
+     The face has vanished.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Pointing to the picture.]  One does not comprehend all
+this, Monsieur, without well studying.  I was in train to interpret
+for Ma'moiselle the chiaroscuro.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a queer look.]  Don't take it too seriously,
+Ferrand.
+
+FERRAND.  It is a masterpiece.
+
+WELLWYN.  My daughter's just spoken to a friend, Professor Calway.
+He'd like to meet you.  Could you come back a little later?
+
+FERRAND.  Certainly, Ma'moiselle.  That will be an opening for me, I
+trust.  [He goes to the street door.]
+
+ANN.  [Paying no attention to him.]  Mrs. Megan, will you too come
+back in half an hour?
+
+FERRAND.  'Tres bien, Ma'moiselle'! I will see that she does.  We
+will take a little promenade together.  That will do us good.
+
+     [He motions towards the door; MRS. MEGAN, all eyes, follows him
+     out.]
+
+ANN.  Oh!  Daddy, they are rotters.  Couldn't you see they were
+having the most high jinks?
+
+WELLWYN.  [At his picture.]  I seemed to have noticed something.
+
+ANN.  [Preparing for tea.]  They were kissing.
+
+WELLWYN.  Tt!  Tt!
+
+ANN.  They're hopeless, all three--especially her.  Wish I hadn't
+given her my clothes now.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Absorbed.]  Something of wild-savage.
+
+ANN.  Thank goodness it's the Vicar's business to see that married
+people live together in his parish.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  [Dubiously.]  The Megans are Roman Catholic-Atheists,
+Ann.
+
+ANN.  [With heat.]  Then they're all the more bound.  [WELLWYN gives
+a sudden and alarmed whistle.]
+
+ANN.  What's the matter?
+
+WELLWYN.  Didn't you say you spoke to Sir Thomas, too.  Suppose he
+comes in while the Professor's here.  They're cat and dog.
+
+ANN.  [Blankly.]  Oh!  [As WELLWYN strikes a match.] The samovar is
+lighted.  [Taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to
+the cupboard.]  It's all right.  He won't.
+
+WELLWYN.  We'll hope not.
+
+     [He turns back to his picture.]
+
+ANN.  [At the cupboard.]  Daddy!
+
+WELLWYN.  Hi!
+
+ANN.  There were three bottles.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!
+
+ANN.  Well!  Now there aren't any.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Abstracted.]  That'll be Timson.
+
+ANN.  [With real horror.]  But it's awful!
+
+WELLWYN.  It is, my dear.
+
+ANN.  In seven days.  To say nothing of the stealing.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Vexed.]  I blame myself-very much.  Ought to have kept it
+locked up.
+
+ANN.  You ought to keep him locked up!
+
+     [There is heard a mild but authoritative knock.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Here's the Vicar!
+
+ANN.  What are you going to do about the rum?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Opening the door to CANON BERTLEY.]  Come in, Vicar!
+Happy New Year!
+
+BERTLEY.  Same to you!  Ah!  Ann!  I've got into touch with her
+young husband--he's coming round.
+
+ANN.  [Still a little out of her plate.]  Thank Go---Moses!
+
+BERTLEY.  [Faintly surprised.]  From what I hear he's not really a
+bad youth.  Afraid he bets on horses.  The great thing, WELLWYN,
+with those poor fellows is to put your finger on the weak spot.
+
+ANN.  [To herself-gloomily.]  That's not difficult.  What would you
+do, Canon Bertley, with a man who's been drinking father's rum?
+
+BERTLEY.  Remove the temptation, of course.
+
+WELLWYN.  He's done that.
+
+BERTLEY.  Ah!  Then--[WELLWYN and ANN hang on his words]  then I
+should--er
+
+ANN.  [Abruptly.]  Remove him.
+
+BERTLEY.  Before I say that, Ann, I must certainly see the
+individual.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Pointing to the window.]  There he is!
+
+     [In the failing light TIMSON'S face is indeed to be seen
+     pressed against the window pane.]
+
+ANN.  Daddy, I do wish you'd have thick glass put in.  It's so
+disgusting to be spied at!  [WELLWYN going quickly to the door, has
+opened it.]  What do you want?  [TIMSON enters with dignity.  He is
+fuddled.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Slowly.] Arskin' yer pardon-thought it me duty to come
+back-found thish yer little brishel on me.  [He produces the little
+paint brush.]
+
+ANN.  [In a deadly voice.]  Nothing else?
+
+     [TIMSON accords her a glassy stare.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Taking the brush hastily.]  That'll do, Timson, thanks!
+
+TIMSON.  As I am 'ere, can I do anything for yer?
+
+ANN.  Yes, you can sweep out that little room.  [She points to the
+model's room.]  There's a broom in there.
+
+TIMSON.  [Disagreeably surprised.]  Certainly; never make bones
+about a little extra--never 'ave in all me life.  Do it at onsh, I
+will.  [He moves across to the model's room at that peculiar broad
+gait so perfectly adjusted to his habits.]  You quite understand me
+--couldn't bear to 'ave anything on me that wasn't mine.
+
+     [He passes out.]
+
+ANN.  Old fraud!
+
+WELLWYN.  "In" and "on."  Mark my words, he'll restore the--bottles.
+
+BERTLEY.  But, my dear WELLWYN, that is stealing.
+
+WELLWYN.  We all have our discrepancies, Vicar.
+
+ANN.  Daddy!  Discrepancies!
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards solids Timson's an
+Individualist, but as regards liquids he's a Socialist .  .  .  or
+'vice versa', according to taste.
+
+BERTLEY.  No, no, we mustn't joke about it.  [Gravely.]  I do think
+he should be spoken to.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, but not by me.
+
+BERTLEY.  Surely you're the proper person.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Shaking his head.]  It was my rum, Vicar.  Look so
+personal.
+
+     [There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Isn't that the Professor's knock?
+
+     [While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens
+     it.  There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved
+     man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking
+     off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead,
+     which completely dominates all that comes below it.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Come in, Professor!  So awfully good of you!  You know
+Canon Bentley, I think?
+
+CALWAY.  Ah!  How d'you do?
+
+WELLWYN.  Your opinion will be invaluable, Professor.
+
+ANN.  Tea, Professor Calway?
+
+     [They have assembled round the tea table.]
+
+CALWAY.  Thank you; no tea; milk.
+
+WELLWYN.  Rum?
+
+     [He pours rum into CALWAY's milk.]
+
+CALWAY.  A little-thanks!  [Turning to ANN.]  You were going to show
+me some one you're trying to rescue, or something, I think.
+
+ANN.  Oh!  Yes.  He'll be here directly--simply perfect rotter.
+
+CALWAY.  [Smiling.]  Really!  Ah!  I think you said he was a
+congenital?
+
+WELLWYN.  [With great interest.]  What!
+
+ANN.  [Low.]  Daddy!  [To CALWAY.] Yes; I--I think that's what you
+call him.
+
+CALWAY.  Not old?
+
+ANN.  No; and quite healthy--a vagabond.
+
+CALWAY.  [Sipping.]  I see!  Yes.  Is it, do you think chronic
+unemployment with a vagrant tendency?  Or would it be nearer the
+mark to say: Vagrancy----
+
+WELLWYN.  Pure!  Oh!  pure!  Professor.  Awfully human.
+
+CALWAY.  [With a smile of knowledge.]  Quite!  And--er----
+
+ANN.  [Breaking in.]  Before he comes, there's another----
+
+BERTLEY.  [Blandly.]  Yes, when you came in, we were discussing what
+should be done with a man who drinks rum--[CALWAY pauses in the act
+of drinking]--that doesn't belong to him.
+
+CALWAY.  Really!  Dipsomaniac?
+
+BERTLEY.  Well--perhaps you could tell us--drink certainly changing
+thine to mine.  The Professor could see him, WELLWYN?
+
+ANN.  [Rising.]  Yes, do come and look at him, Professor CALWAY.
+He's in there.
+
+     [She points towards the model's room.  CALWAY smiles
+     deprecatingly.]
+
+ANN.  No, really; we needn't open the door.  You can see him through
+the glass.  He's more than half----
+
+CALWAY.  Well, I hardly----
+
+ANN.  Oh!  Do!  Come on, Professor CALWAY!  We must know what to do
+with him.  [CALWAY rises.]  You can stand on a chair.  It's all
+science.
+
+     [She draws CALWAY to the model's room, which is lighted by a
+     glass panel in the top of the high door.  CANON BERTLEY also
+     rises and stands watching.  WELLWYN hovers, torn between
+     respect for science and dislike of espionage.]
+
+ANN.  [Drawing up a chair.]  Come on!
+
+CALWAY.  Do you seriously wish me to?
+
+ANN.  Rather!  It's quite safe; he can't see you.
+
+CALWAY.  But he might come out.
+
+     [ANN puts her back against the door.  CALWAY mounts the chair
+     dubiously, and raises his head cautiously, bending it more and
+     more downwards.]
+
+ANN.  Well?
+
+CALWAY.  He appears to be---sitting on the floor.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, that's all right!
+
+     [BERTLEY covers his lips.]
+
+CALWAY.  [To ANN--descending.]  By the look of his face, as far as
+one can see it, I should say there was a leaning towards mania.  I
+know the treatment.
+
+     [There come three loud knocks on the door.  WELLWYN and ANN
+     exchange a glance of consternation.]
+
+ANN.  Who's that?
+
+WELLWYN.  It sounds like Sir Thomas.
+
+CALWAY.  Sir Thomas Hoxton?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Nodding.]  Awfully sorry, Professor.  You see, we----
+
+CALWAY.  Not at all.  Only, I must decline to be involved in
+argument with him, please.
+
+BERTLEY.  He has experience.  We might get his opinion, don't you
+think?
+
+CALWAY.  On a point of reform?  A J.P.!
+
+BERTLEY.  [Deprecating.]  My dear Sir--we needn't take it.
+
+     [The three knocks resound with extraordinary fury.]
+
+ANN.  You'd better open the door, Daddy.
+
+     [WELLWYN opens the door.  SIR, THOMAS HOXTON is disclosed in a
+     fur overcoat and top hat.  His square, well-coloured face is
+     remarkable for a massive jaw, dominating all that comes above
+     it.  His Voice is resolute.]
+
+HOXTON.  Afraid I didn't make myself heard.
+
+WELLWYN.  So good of you to come, Sir Thomas.  Canon Bertley!  [They
+greet.]  Professor CALWAY you know, I think.
+
+HOXTON.  [Ominously.]  I do.
+
+     [They almost greet.  An awkward pause.]
+
+ANN.  [Blurting it out.]  That old cabman I told you of's been
+drinking father's rum.
+
+BERTLEY.  We were just discussing what's to be done with him, Sir
+Thomas.  One wants to do the very best, of course.  The question of
+reform is always delicate.
+
+CALWAY.  I beg your pardon.  There is no question here.
+
+HOXTON.  [Abruptly.]  Oh!  Is he in the house?
+
+ANN.  In there.
+
+HOXTON.  Works for you, eh?
+
+WELLWYN.  Er--yes.
+
+HOXTON.  Let's have a look at him!
+
+     [An embarrassed pause.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Well--the fact is, Sir Thomas----
+
+CALWAY.  When last under observation----
+
+ANN.  He was sitting on the floor.
+
+WELLWYN.  I don't want the old fellow to feel he's being made a show
+of.  Disgusting to be spied at, Ann.
+
+ANN.  You can't, Daddy!  He's drunk.
+
+HOXTON.  Never mind, Miss WELLWYN.  Hundreds of these fellows before
+me in my time.  [At CALWAY.]  The only thing is a sharp lesson!
+
+CALWAY.  I disagree.  I've seen the man; what he requires is steady
+control, and the bobbins treatment.
+
+     [WELLWYN approaches them with fearful interest.]
+
+HOXTON.  Not a bit of it!  He wants one for his knob!  Brace 'em up!
+It's the only thing.
+
+BERTLEY.  Personally, I think that if he were spoken to seriously
+
+CALWAY.  I cannot walk arm in arm with a crab!
+
+HOXTON.  [Approaching CALWAY.]  I beg your pardon?
+
+CALWAY.  [Moving back a little.] You're moving backwards, Sir
+Thomas.  I've told you before, convinced reactionaryism, in these
+days----
+
+     [There comes a single knock on the street door.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Looking at his watch.]  D'you know, I'm rather afraid
+this may be our young husband, WELLWYN.  I told him half-past four.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes.  [Going towards the two reformers.]  Shall
+we go into the house, Professor, and settle the question quietly
+while the Vicar sees a young man?
+
+CALWAY.  [Pale with uncompleted statement, and gravitating
+insensibly in the direction indicated.]  The merest sense of
+continuity--a simple instinct for order----
+
+HOXTON.  [Following.]  The only way to get order, sir, is to bring
+the disorderly up with a round turn.  [CALWAY turns to him in the
+doorway.]  You people without practical experience----
+
+CALWAY.  If you'll listen to me a minute.
+
+HOXTON.  I can show you in a mo----
+
+     [They vanish through the door.]
+
+WELLWYN.  I was afraid of it.
+
+BERTLEY.  The two points of view.  Pleasant to see such keenness.
+I may want you, WELLWYN.  And Ann perhaps had better not be present.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Relieved.]  Quite so!  My dear!
+
+     [ANN goes reluctantly.  WELLWYN opens the street door.  The
+     lamp outside has just been lighted, and, by its gleam, is seen
+     the figure of RORY MEGAN, thin, pale, youthful.  ANN turning at
+     the door into the house gives him a long, inquisitive look,
+     then goes.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Is that Megan?
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.
+
+WELLWYN.  Come in.
+
+     [MEGAN comes in.  There follows an awkward silence, during
+     which WELLWYN turns up the light, then goes to the tea table
+     and pours out a glass of tea and rum.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Kindly.]  Now, my boy, how is it that you and your wife
+are living apart like this?
+
+MEGAN.  I dunno.
+
+BERTLEY.  Well, if you don't, none of us are very likely to, are we?
+
+MEGAN.  That's what I thought, as I was comin' along.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Twinkling.]  Have some tea, Megan?  [Handing him the
+glass.]  What d'you think of her picture?  'Tisn't quite finished.
+
+MEGAN.  [After scrutiny.] I seen her look like it--once.
+
+WELLWYN.  Good!  When was that?
+
+MEGAN.  [Stoically.]  When she 'ad the measles.
+
+     [He drinks.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Ruminating.] I see--yes.  I quite see feverish!
+
+BERTLEY.  My dear WELLWYN, let me--[To, MEGAN.]  Now, I hope you're
+willing to come together again, and to maintain her?
+
+MEGAN.  If she'll maintain me.
+
+BERTLEY.  Oh!  but--I see, you mean you're in the same line of
+business?
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.
+
+BERTLEY.  And lean on each other.  Quite so!
+
+MEGAN.  I leans on 'er mostly--with 'er looks.
+
+BERTLEY.  Indeed!  Very interesting--that!
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.  Sometimes she'll take 'arf a crown off of a toff.  [He
+looks at WELLWYN.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Twinkling.]  I apologise to you, Megan.
+
+MEGAN.  [With a faint smile.]  I could do with a bit more of it.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Dubiously.]  Yes!  Yes!  Now, my boy, I've heard you bet
+on horses.
+
+MEGAN.  No, I don't.
+
+BERTLEY.  Play cards, then?  Come!  Don't be afraid to acknowledge
+it.
+
+MEGAN.  When I'm 'ard up--yus.
+
+BERTLEY.  But don't you know that's ruination?
+
+MEGAN.  Depends.  Sometimes I wins a lot.
+
+BERTLEY.  You know that's not at all what I mean.  Come, promise me
+to give it up.
+
+MEGAN.  I dunno abaht that.
+
+BERTLEY.  Now, there's a good fellow.  Make a big effort and throw
+the habit off!
+
+MEGAN.  Comes over me--same as it might over you.
+
+BERTLEY.  Over me!  How do you mean, my boy?
+
+MEGAN.  [With a look up.]  To tork!
+
+     [WELLWYN, turning to the picture, makes a funny little noise.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Maintaining his good humour.]  A hit!  But you forget,
+you know, to talk's my business.  It's not yours to gamble.
+
+MEGAN.  You try sellin' flowers.  If that ain't a--gamble
+
+BERTLEY.  I'm afraid we're wandering a little from the point.
+Husband and wife should be together.  You were brought up to that.
+Your father and mother----
+
+MEGAN.  Never was.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Turning from the picture.]  The question is, Megan: Will
+you take your wife home?  She's a good little soul.
+
+MEGAN.  She never let me know it.
+
+     [There is a feeble knock on the door.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, now come.  Here she is!
+
+     [He points to the door, and stands regarding MEGAN with his
+     friendly smile.]
+
+MEGAN.  [With a gleam of responsiveness.]  I might, perhaps, to
+please you, sir.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Appropriating the gesture.]  Capital, I thought we should
+get on in time.
+
+MEGAN.  Yus.
+
+     [WELLWYN opens the door.  MRS. MEGAN and FERRAND are revealed.
+     They are about to enter, but catching sight of MEGAN,
+     hesitate.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Come in!  Come in!
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN enters stolidly.  FERRAND, following, stands apart
+     with an air of extreme detachment.  MEGAN, after a quick glance
+     at them both, remains unmoved.  No one has noticed that the
+     door of the model's room has been opened, and that the unsteady
+     figure of old TIMSON is standing there.]
+
+BERTLEY. [A little awkward in the presence of FERRAND--to the
+MEGANS.]  This begins a new chapter.  We won't improve the occasion.
+No need.
+
+     [MEGAN, turning towards his wife, makes her a gesture as if to
+     say: "Here!  let's get out of this!"]
+
+BENTLEY.  Yes, yes, you'll like to get home at once--I know.  [He
+holds up his hand mechanically.]
+
+TIMSON.  I forbids the banns.
+
+BERTLEY, [Startled.]  Gracious!
+
+TIMSON.  [Extremely unsteady.]  Just cause and impejiment.  There 'e
+stands.  [He points to FERRAND.] The crimson foreigner!  The mockin'
+jay!
+
+WELLWYN.  Timson!
+
+TIMSON.  You're a gen'leman--I'm aweer o' that but I must speak the
+truth--[he waves his hand] an' shame the devil!
+
+BERTLEY.  Is this the rum--?
+
+TIMSON.  [Struck by the word.]  I'm a teetotaler.
+
+WELLWYN.  Timson, Timson!
+
+TIMSON.  Seein' as there's ladies present, I won't be conspicuous.
+[Moving away, and making for the door, he strikes against the dais,
+and mounts upon it.]  But what I do say, is: He's no better than 'er
+and she's worse.
+
+BERTLEY.  This is distressing.
+
+FERRAND.  [Calmly.]  On my honour, Monsieur!
+
+     [TIMSON growls.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Now, now, Timson!
+
+TIMSON.  That's all right.  You're a gen'leman, an' I'm a gen'leman,
+but he ain't an' she ain't.
+
+WELLWYN.  We shall not believe you.
+
+BERTLEY.  No, no; we shall not believe you.
+
+TIMSON.  [Heavily.]  Very well, you doubts my word.  Will it make
+any difference, Guv'nor, if I speaks the truth?
+
+BERTLEY.  No, certainly not--that is--of course, it will.
+
+TIMSON.  Well, then, I see 'em plainer than I see [pointing at
+BERTLEY]  the two of you.
+
+WELLWYN.  Be quiet, Timson!
+
+BERTLEY.  Not even her husband believes you.
+
+MEGAN.  [Suddenly.]  Don't I!
+
+WELLWYN.  Come, Megan, you can see the old fellow's in Paradise.
+
+BERTLEY.  Do you credit such a--such an object?
+
+     [He points at TIMSON, who seems falling asleep.]
+
+MEGAN.  Naow!
+
+     [Unseen by anybody, ANN has returned.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Well, then, my boy?
+
+MEGAN.  I seen 'em meself.
+
+BERTLEY.  Gracious!  But just now you were will----
+
+MEGAN.  [Sardonically.]  There wasn't nothing against me honour,
+then.  Now you've took it away between you, cumin' aht with it like
+this.  I don't want no more of 'er, and I'll want a good deal more
+of 'im; as 'e'll soon find.
+
+     [He jerks his chin at FERRAND, turns slowly on his heel, and
+     goes out into the street.]
+
+     [There follows a profound silence.]
+
+ANN.  What did I say, Daddy?  Utter!  All three.
+
+     [Suddenly alive to her presence, they all turn.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Waking up and looking round him.]  Well, p'raps I'd better
+go.
+
+     [Assisted by WELLWYN he lurches gingerly off the dais towards
+     the door, which WELLWYN holds open for him.]
+
+TIMSON.  [Mechanically.]  Where to, sir?
+
+     [Receiving no answer he passes out, touching his hat; and the
+     door is closed.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ann!
+
+     [ANN goes back whence she came.]
+
+     [BERTLEY, steadily regarding MRS. MEGAN, who has put her arm up
+     in front of her face, beckons to FERRAND, and the young man
+     comes gravely forward.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Young people, this is very dreadful.  [MRS. MEGAN lowers
+her arm a little, and looks at him over it.]  Very sad!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Dropping her arm.]  Megan's no better than what I am.
+
+BERTLEY.  Come, come!  Here's your home broken up!  [MRS.  MEGAN
+Smiles.  Shaking his head gravely.]  Surely-surely-you mustn't
+smile.  [MRS.  MEGAN becomes tragic.]  That's better.  Now, what is
+to be done?
+
+FERRAND.  Believe me, Monsieur, I greatly regret.
+
+BERTLEY.  I'm glad to hear it.
+
+FERRAND.  If I had foreseen this disaster.
+
+BERTLEY.  Is that your only reason for regret?
+
+FERRAND.  [With a little bow.]  Any reason that you wish, Monsieur.
+I will do my possible.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I could get an unfurnished room if [she slides her eyes
+round at WELLWYN]  I 'ad the money to furnish it.
+
+BERTLEY.  But suppose I can induce your husband to forgive you, and
+take you back?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Shaking her head.]  'E'd 'it me.
+
+BERTLEY.  I said to forgive.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  That wouldn't make no difference.  [With a flash at
+BERTLEY.]  An' I ain't forgiven him!
+
+BERTLEY.  That is sinful.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I'm a Catholic.
+
+BERTLEY.  My good child, what difference does that make?
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, if I might interpret for her.
+
+     [BERTLEY silences him with a gesture.  MRS. MEGAN.]
+
+     [Sliding her eyes towards WELLWYN.] If I 'ad the money to buy
+     some fresh stock.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Yes; yes; never mind the money.  What I want to find in
+you both, is repentance.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [With a flash up at him.]  I can't get me livin' off of
+repentin'.
+
+BERTLEY.  Now, now!  Never say what you know to be wrong.
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, her soul is very simple.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Severely.]  I do not know, sir, that we shall get any
+great assistance from your views.  In fact, one thing is clear to
+me, she must discontinue your acquaintanceship at once.
+
+FERRAND.  Certainly, Monsieur.  We have no serious intentions.
+
+BERTLEY.  All the more shame to you, then!
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, I see perfectly your point of view.  It is very
+natural.  [He bows and is silent.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I don't want'im hurt'cos o' me.  Megan'll get his mates
+to belt him--bein' foreign like he is.
+
+BERTLEY.  Yes, never mind that.  It's you I'm thinking of.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I'd sooner they'd hit me.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Suddenly.]  Well said, my child!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  'Twasn't his fault.
+
+FERRAND.  [Without irony--to WELLWYN.] I cannot accept that
+Monsieur.  The blame--it is all mine.
+
+ANN.  [Entering suddenly from the house.]  Daddy, they're having an
+awful----!
+
+     [The voices of PROFESSOR CALWAY and SIR THOMAS HOXTON are
+     distinctly heard.]
+
+CALWAY.  The question is a much wider one, Sir Thomas.
+
+HOXTON.  As wide as you like, you'll never----
+
+     [WELLWYN pushes ANN back into the house and closes the door
+     behind her.  The voices are still faintly heard arguing on the
+     threshold.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Let me go in here a minute, Wellyn.  I must finish
+speaking to her.  [He motions MRS. MEGAN towards the model's room.]
+We can't leave the matter thus.
+
+FERRAND.  [Suavely.] Do you desire my company, Monsieur?
+
+     [BERTLEY, with a prohibitive gesture of his hand, shepherds the
+     reluctant MRS. MEGAN into the model's room.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sorrowfully.]  You shouldn't have done this, Ferrand.  It
+wasn't the square thing.
+
+FERRAND.  [With dignity.]  Monsieur, I feel that I am in the wrong.
+It was stronger than me.
+
+     [As he speaks, SIR THOMAS HOXTON and PROFESSOR CALWAY enter
+     from the house.  In the dim light, and the full cry of
+     argument, they do not notice the figures at the fire.  SIR
+     THOMAS HOXTON leads towards the street door.]
+
+HOXTON.  No, Sir, I repeat, if the country once commits itself to
+your views of reform, it's as good as doomed.
+
+CALWAY.  I seem to have heard that before, Sir Thomas.  And let me
+say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime----
+
+HOXTON.  Is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grand-motherly
+methods.  What the old fellow wants is a shock!  With all this
+socialistic molly-coddling, you're losing sight of the individual.
+
+CALWAY.  [Swiftly.] You, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost,"
+have never even seen him.
+
+     [SIR THOMAS HOXTON, throwing back a gesture of disgust, steps
+     out into the night, and falls heavily PROFESSOR CALWAY,
+     hastening to his rescue, falls more heavily still.]
+
+     [TIMSON, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits
+     up.]
+
+HOXTON.  [Struggling to his knees.]  Damnation!
+
+CALWAY.  [Sitting.]  How simultaneous!
+
+     [WELLWYN and FERRAND approach hastily.]
+
+FERRAND. [Pointing to TIMSON.]  Monsieur, it was true, it seems.
+They had lost sight of the individual.
+
+     [A Policeman has appeared under the street lamp.  He picks up
+     HOXTON'S hat.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  Anything wrong, sir?
+
+HOXTON.  [Recovering his feet.]  Wrong?  Great Scott!  Constable!
+Why do you let things lie about in the street like this?  Look here,
+Wellyn!
+
+     [They all scrutinize TIMSON.]
+
+WELLWYN.  It's only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing.
+
+HOXTON.  How did he come here?
+
+CONSTABLE.  Drunk, sir.  [Ascertaining TIMSON to be in the street.]
+Just off the premises, by good luck.  Come along, father.
+
+TIMSON.  [Assisted to his feet-drowsily.]  Cert'nly, by no means;
+take my arm.
+
+     [They move from the doorway.  HOXTON and CALWAY re-enter, and
+     go towards the fire.]
+
+ANN.  [Entering from the house.]  What's happened?
+
+CALWAY.  Might we have a brush?
+
+HOXTON.  [Testily.]  Let it dry!
+
+     [He moves to the fire and stands before it.  PROFESSOR CALWAY
+     following stands a little behind him.  ANN returning begins to
+     brush the PROFESSOR's sleeve.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after
+the receding TIMSON.]  Poor old Timson!
+
+FERRAND.  [Softly.]  Must be philosopher, Monsieur! They will but
+run him in a little.
+
+     [From the model's room MRS. MEGAN has come out, shepherded by
+     CANON BERTLEY.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Let's see, your Christian name is----.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Guinevere.
+
+BERTLEY.  Oh!  Ah!  Ah!  Ann, take Gui--take our little friend into
+the study a minute: I am going to put her into service.  We shall
+make a new woman of her, yet.
+
+ANN.  [Handing CANON BERTLEY the brush, and turning to MRS. MEGAN.]
+Come on!
+
+     [She leads into the house, and MRS. MEGAN follows Stolidly.]
+
+BERTLEY.  [Brushing CALWAY'S back.]  Have you fallen?
+
+CALWAY.  Yes.
+
+BERTLEY.  Dear me!  How was that?
+
+HOXTON.  That old ruffian drunk on the doorstep.  Hope they'll give
+him a sharp dose!  These rag-tags!
+
+     [He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on FERRAND.]
+
+FERRAND.  [With his eyes on HOXTON--softly.]  Monsieur, something
+tells me it is time I took the road again.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Fumbling out a sovereign.]  Take this, then!
+
+FERRAND.  [Refusing the coin.]  Non, Monsieur.  To abuse 'ospitality
+is not in my character.
+
+BERTLEY.  We must not despair of anyone.
+
+HOXTON.  Who talked of despairing?  Treat him, as I say, and you'll
+see!
+
+CALWAY.  The interest of the State----
+
+HOXTON.  The interest of the individual citizen sir----
+
+BERTLEY.  Come!  A little of both, a little of both!
+
+     [They resume their brushing.]
+
+FERRAND.  You are now debarrassed of us three, Monsieur.  I leave
+you instead--these sirs.  [He points.]  'Au revoir, Monsieur'!
+[Motioning towards the fire.]  'Appy New Year!
+
+     [He slips quietly out.  WELLWYN, turning, contemplates the
+     three reformers.  They are all now brushing away, scratching
+     each other's backs, and gravely hissing.  As he approaches
+     them, they speak with a certain unanimity.]
+
+HOXTON.  My theory----!
+
+CALWAY.  My theory----!
+
+BERTLEY.  My theory----!
+
+     [They stop surprised.  WELLWYN makes a gesture of discomfort,
+     as they speak again with still more unanimity.]
+
+HOXTON.  My----!  CALWAY.  My----!  BERTLEY.  My----!
+
+     [They stop in greater surprise.  The stage is blotted dark.]
+
+
+                              Curtain.
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+It is the first of April--a white spring day of gleams and driving
+showers.  The street door of WELLWYN's studio stands wide open, and,
+past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper
+bags.  Through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary
+furniture van with its flap let down.  To this van three humble-men
+in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the
+studio.  The hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly
+empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the
+fast-being-gutted room.  WELLWYN in his ulster and soft hat, is
+squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring
+into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette.  He has a moulting air.
+Behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles
+of vertu.
+
+CHIEF H'MAN.  [Stopping, and standing in the attitude of
+expectation.]  We've about pinched this little lot, sir.  Shall we
+take the--reservoir?
+
+     [He indicates the samovar.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah! [Abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding
+coins.]  Thanks--thanks--heavy work, I'm afraid.
+
+H'MAN.  [Receiving the coins--a little surprised and a good deal
+pleased.]  Thank'ee, sir.  Much obliged, I'm sure.  We'll 'ave to
+come back for this.  [He gives the dais a vigorous push with his
+foot.]  Not a fixture, as I understand.  Perhaps you'd like us to
+leave these 'ere for a bit.  [He indicates the tea things.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah! do.
+
+     [The humble-men go out.  There is the sound of horses being
+     started, and the butt end of the van disappears.  WELLWYN stays
+     on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare.  The open
+     doorway is darkened by a figure.  CANON BERTLEY is standing
+     there.]
+
+BERTLEY.  WELLWYN!  [WELLWYN turns and rises.]  It's ages since I
+saw you.  No idea you were moving.  This is very dreadful.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, Ann found this--too exposed.  That tall house in
+Flight Street--we're going there.  Seventh floor.
+
+BERTLEY.  Lift?
+
+     [WELLWYN shakes his head.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Dear me!  No lift?  Fine view, no doubt.  [WELLWYN nods.]
+You'll be greatly missed.
+
+WELLWYN.  So Ann thinks.  Vicar, what's become of that little
+flower-seller I was painting at Christmas?  You took her into
+service.
+
+BERTLEY.  Not we--exactly!  Some dear friends of ours.  Painful
+subject!
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!
+
+BERTLEY.  Yes.  She got the footman into trouble.
+
+WELLWYN.  Did she, now?
+
+BERTLEY.  Disappointing.  I consulted with CALWAY, and he advised me
+to try a certain institution.  We got her safely in--excellent
+place; but, d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago.  And since--
+I've heard  [he holds his hands up]  hopeless, I'm afraid--quite!
+
+WELLWYN.  I thought I saw her last night.  You can't tell me her
+address, I suppose?
+
+BERTLEY.  [Shaking his head.]  The husband too has quite passed out
+of my ken.  He betted on horses, you remember.  I'm sometimes
+tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but
+to pray for death.
+
+     [ANN has entered from the house.  Her hair hangs from under a
+     knitted cap.  She wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk
+     scarf.]
+
+BERTLEY.  Ah!  Ann.  I was telling your father of that poor little
+Mrs. Megan.
+
+ANN.  Is she dead?
+
+BERTLEY.  Worse I fear.  By the way--what became of her accomplice?
+
+ANN.  We haven't seen him since.  [She looks searchingly at
+WELLWYN.]  At least--have you--Daddy?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Rather hurt.]  No, my dear; I have not.
+
+BERTLEY.  And the--old gentleman who drank the rum?
+
+ANN.  He got fourteen days.  It was the fifth time.
+
+BERTLEY.  Dear me!
+
+ANN.  When he came out he got more drunk than ever.  Rather a score
+for Professor Calway, wasn't it?
+
+BERTLEY.  I remember.  He and Sir Thomas took a kindly interest in
+the old fellow.
+
+ANN.  Yes, they fell over him.  The Professor got him into an
+Institution.
+
+BERTLEY.  Indeed!
+
+ANN.  He was perfectly sober all the time he was there.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear, they only allow them milk.
+
+ANN.  Well, anyway, he was reformed.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ye-yes!
+
+ANN.  [Terribly.]  Daddy!  You've been seeing him!
+
+WELLWYN.  [With dignity.]  My dear, I have not.
+
+ANN.  How do you know, then?
+
+WELLWYN.  Came across Sir Thomas on the Embankment yesterday; told
+me old Timso--had been had up again for sitting down in front of a
+brewer's dray.
+
+ANN.  Why?
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, you see, as soon as he came out of the what d'you
+call 'em, he got drunk for a week, and it left him in low spirits.
+
+BERTLEY.  Do you mean he deliberately sat down, with the
+intention--of--er?
+
+WELLWYN.  Said he was tired of life, but they didn't believe him.
+
+ANN.  Rather a score for Sir Thomas!  I suppose he'd told the
+Professor?  What did he say?
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, the Professor said  [with a quick glance at BERTLEY]
+he felt there was nothing for some of these poor devils but a lethal
+chamber.
+
+BERTLEY.  [Shocked.]  Did he really!
+
+[He has not yet caught WELLWYN' s glance.]
+
+WELLWYN.  And Sir Thomas agreed.  Historic occasion.  And you, Vicar
+H'm!
+
+     [BERTLEY winces.]
+
+ANN.  [To herself.]  Well, there isn't.
+
+BERTLEY.  And yet!  Some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one
+could put one's finger on it.  [Preparing to go.]  You'll let us
+know, then, when you're settled.  What was the address?  [WELLWYN
+takes out and hands him a card.]  Ah! yes.  Good-bye, Ann.
+Good-bye, Wellyn.  [The wind blows his hat along the street.]  What
+a wind!  [He goes, pursuing.]
+
+ANN.  [Who has eyed the card askance.] Daddy, have you told those
+other two where we're going?
+
+WELLWYN.  Which other two, my dear?
+
+ANN.  The Professor and Sir Thomas.
+
+WELLWYN.  Well, Ann, naturally I----
+
+ANN.  [Jumping on to the dais with disgust.]  Oh, dear!  When I'm
+trying to get you away from all this atmosphere.  I don't so much
+mind the Vicar knowing, because he's got a weak heart----
+
+     [She jumps off again. ]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To himself.]  Seventh floor!  I felt there was something.
+
+ANN.  [Preparing to go.]  I'm going round now.  But you must stay
+here till the van comes back.  And don't forget you tipped the men
+after the first load.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Yes, yes.  [Uneasily.]  Good sorts they look, those
+fellows!
+
+ANN.  [Scrutinising him.]  What have you done?
+
+WELLWYN.  Nothing, my dear, really----!
+
+ANN.  What?
+
+WELLWYN.  I--I rather think I may have tipped them twice.
+
+ANN.  [Drily.]  Daddy!  If it is the first of April, it's not
+necessary to make a fool of oneself.  That's the last time you ever
+do these ridiculous things.  [WELLWYN eyes her askance.]  I'm going
+to see that you spend your money on yourself.  You needn't look at
+me like that!  I mean to.  As soon as I've got you away from here,
+and all--these----
+
+WELLWYN.  Don't rub it in, Ann!
+
+ANN.  [Giving him a sudden hug--then going to the door--with a sort
+of triumph.]  Deeds, not words, Daddy!
+
+     [She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out
+     beneath her firm young chin.  WELLWYN returning to the fire,
+     stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To himself.]  Bad lot--low type!  No method!  No theory!
+
+     [In the open doorway appear FERRAND and MRS. MEGAN.  They
+     stand, unseen, looking at him.  FERRAND is more ragged, if
+     possible, than on Christmas Eve.  His chin and cheeks are
+     clothed in a reddish golden beard.  MRS. MEGAN's dress is not
+     so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled.
+     They whisper.  She slips back into the shadow of the doorway.
+     WELLWYN turns at the sound, and stares at FERRAND in
+     amazement.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Advancing.]  Enchanted to see you, Monsieur.  [He looks
+round the empty room.]  You are leaving?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Nodding--then taking the young man's hand.]  How goes it?
+
+FERRAND.  [Displaying himself, simply.]  As you see, Monsieur.  I
+have done of my best.  It still flies from me.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sadly--as if against his will.]  Ferrand, it will always
+fly.
+
+     [The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then
+     controls himself with a great effort.]
+
+FERRAND.  Don't say that, Monsieur!  It is too much the echo of my
+heart.
+
+WELLWYN.  Forgive me!  I didn't mean to pain you.
+
+FERRAND.  [Drawing nearer the fire.]  That old cabby, Monsieur, you
+remember--they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the
+other day.
+
+     [WELLWYN nods.]
+
+FERRAND.  And those Sirs, so interested in him, with their theories?
+He has worn them out?  [WELLWYN nods.]  That goes without saying.
+And now they wish for him the lethal chamber.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Startled.]  How did you know that?
+
+     [There is silence.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Staring into the fire.]  Monsieur, while I was on the
+road this time I fell ill of a fever.  It seemed to me in my illness
+that I saw the truth--how I was wasting in this world--I would never
+be good for any one--nor any one for me--all would go by, and I
+never of it--fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of
+life, ever mocking me.
+
+     [He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the
+     flame.  And while he is speaking, through the doorway MRS.
+     MEGAN creeps in to listen.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Speaking on into the fire.]  And I saw, Monsieur, so
+plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, I
+dying in the end the death of a dog.  I saw it all in my fever--
+clear as that flame--there was nothing for us others, but the herb
+of death.  [WELLWYN takes his arm and presses it.]  And so,
+Monsieur, I wished to die.  I told no one of my fever.  I lay out on
+the ground--it was verree cold.  But they would not let me die on
+the roads of their parishes--they took me to an Institution,
+Monsieur, I looked in their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more
+clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should
+die, although they would not let me.  Then Monsieur, naturally my
+spirit rose, and I said: "So much the worse for you.  I will live a
+little more."  One is made like that!  Life is sweet, Monsieur.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, Ferrand; Life is sweet.
+
+FERRAND.  That little girl you had here, Monsieur  [WELLWYN nods.]
+in her too there is something of wild-savage.  She must have joy of
+life.  I have seen her since I came back.  She has embraced the life
+of joy.  It is not quite the same thing.  [He lowers his voice.]
+She is lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water.  I can see,
+if she cannot.  [As WELLWYN makes a movement of distress.]  Oh!  I
+am not to blame for that, Monsieur.  It had well begun before I knew
+her.
+
+WELLWYN.  Yes, yes--I was afraid of it, at the time.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN turns silently, and slips away.]
+
+FEERRAND.  I do my best for her, Monsieur, but look at me!  Besides,
+I am not good for her--it is not good for simple souls to be with
+those who see things clear.  For the great part of mankind, to see
+anything--is fatal.
+
+WELLWYN.  Even for you, it seems.
+
+FERRAND.  No, Monsieur.  To be so near to death has done me good; I
+shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave.
+Since I saw you, Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions.  They
+are palaces.  One may eat upon the floor--though it is true--for
+Kings--they eat too much of skilly there.  One little thing they
+lack--those palaces.  It is understanding of the 'uman heart.  In
+them tame birds pluck wild birds naked.
+
+WELLWYN.  They mean well.
+
+FERRAND.  Ah!  Monsieur, I am loafer, waster--what you like--for all
+that  [bitterly]  poverty is my only crime.  If I were rich, should
+I not be simply veree original, 'ighly respected, with soul above
+commerce, travelling to see the world?  And that young girl, would
+she not be "that charming ladee,"  "veree chic, you know!"  And the
+old Tims--good old-fashioned gentleman--drinking his liquor well.
+Eh! bien--what are we now?  Dark beasts, despised by all.  That is
+life, Monsieur.  [He stares into the fire.]
+
+WELLWYN.  We're our own enemies, Ferrand.  I can afford it--you
+can't.  Quite true!
+
+FERRAND.  [Earnestly.]  Monsieur, do you know this?  You are the
+sole being that can do us good--we hopeless ones.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Shaking his head.]  Not a bit of it; I'm hopeless too.
+
+FERRAND.  [Eagerly.]  Monsieur, it is just that.  You understand.
+When we are with you we feel something--here--[he touches his
+heart.]  If I had one prayer to make, it would be, Good God, give me
+to understand!  Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our
+skins and chain our 'abits--that soothes for them the aesthetic
+sense; it gives them too their good little importance.  But our
+spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand.  Without
+that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange.
+
+WELLWYN.  Don't be so bitter.  Think of all the work they do!
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing.  They do a good
+work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame
+old, and the good unfortunate deserving.  Above all to the little
+children.  But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us
+hopeless ones.  What can they do with me, Monsieur, with that girl,
+or with that old man?  Ah!  Monsieur, we, too, 'ave our qualities,
+we others--it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or
+like that young girl's.  We wild ones--we know a thousand times more
+of life than ever will those sirs.  They waste their time trying to
+make rooks white.  Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like
+Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins.  Leave us to live, or
+leave us to die when we like in the free air.  If you do not wish of
+us, you have but to shut your pockets and--your doors--we shall die
+the faster.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With agitation.]  But that, you know--we can't do--now
+can we?
+
+FERRAND.  If you cannot, how is it our fault?  The harm we do to
+others--is it so much?  If I am criminal, dangerous--shut me up!
+I would not pity myself--nevare.  But we in whom something moves--
+like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are
+not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make
+us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it
+is life itself they would enclose!  [He draws up his tattered
+figure, then bending over the fire again.]  I ask your pardon; I am
+talking.  If I could smoke, Monsieur!
+
+     [WELLWYN hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette
+     with his yellow-Stained fingers.]
+
+FERRAND.  The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole
+month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day
+making round business on an office stool!  It is not to my
+advantage.  I cannot help it that I am a vagabond.  What would you
+have?  It is stronger than me.  [He looks suddenly at WELLWYN.]
+Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Quietly.]  Go on, go on.  [There is silence.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Suddenly.]  Monsieur!  Are you really English?  The
+English are so civilised.
+
+WELLWYN.  And am I not?
+
+FERRAND.  You treat me like a brother.
+
+     [WELLWYN has turned towards the street door at a sound of feet,
+     and the clamour of voices.]
+
+TIMSON.  [From the street.]  Take her in 'ere.  I knows 'im.
+
+     [Through the open doorway come a POLICE CONSTABLE and a LOAFER,
+     bearing between them the limp white faced form of MRS. MEGAN,
+     hatless and with drowned hair, enveloped in the policeman's
+     waterproof.  Some curious persons bring up the rear, jostling
+     in the doorway, among whom is TIMSON carrying in his hands the
+     policeman's dripping waterproof leg pieces.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Starting forward.]  Monsieur, it is that little girl!
+
+WELLWYN.  What's happened?  Constable!  What's happened!
+
+     [The CONSTABLE and LOAFER have laid the body down on the dais;
+     with WELLWYN and FERRAND they stand bending over her.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  'Tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't been in the water
+'arf a minute when I got hold of her.  [He bends lower.]  Can't
+understand her collapsin' like this.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Feeling her heart.]  I don't feel anything.
+
+FERRAND.  [In a voice sharpened by emotion.]  Let me try, Monsieur.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Touching his arm.]  You keep off, my lad.
+
+WELLWYN.  No, constable--let him.  He's her friend.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Releasing FERRAND--to the LOAFER.]  Here you!  Cut off
+for a doctor-sharp now!  [He pushes back the curious persons.]  Now
+then, stand away there, please--we can't have you round the body.
+Keep back--Clear out, now!
+
+     [He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through
+     the door and shuts it on them, TIMSON being last.]
+
+FERRAND.  The rum!
+
+     [WELLWYN fetches the decanter.  With the little there is left
+     FERRAND chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some
+     between her lips.  But there is no response from the inert
+     body.]
+
+FERRAND.  Her soul is still away, Monsieur!
+
+     [WELLWYN, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling
+     water.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  It's never drownin', sir--her head was hardly under; I
+was on to her like knife.
+
+FERRAND.  [Rubbing her feet.]  She has not yet her philosophy,
+Monsieur; at the beginning they often try.  If she is dead!  [In a
+voice of awed rapture.]  What fortune!
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With puzzled sadness.]  True enough, sir--that!  We'd
+just begun to know 'er.  If she 'as been taken--her best friends
+couldn't wish 'er better.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Applying the decanter to her dips.]  Poor little thing!
+I'll try this hot tea.
+
+FERRAND.  [Whispering.] 'La mort--le grand ami!'
+
+WELLWYN.  Look!  Look at her!  She's coming round!
+
+     [A faint tremor passes over MRS. MEGAN's body.  He again
+     applies the hot drink to her mouth.  She stirs and gulps.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With intense relief.]  That's brave!  Good lass!
+She'll pick up now, sir.
+
+     [Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again
+     opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back
+     against it.  MRS. MEGAN comes to herself.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sitting on the dais and supporting her--as if to a
+child.]  There you are, my dear.  There, there--better now!  That's
+right.  Drink a little more of this tea.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN drinks from the decanter.]
+
+FERRAND.  [Rising.]  Bring her to the fire, Monsieur.
+
+     [They take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool.
+     From the moment of her restored animation FERRAND has resumed
+     his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms
+     folded, watching.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Feeling better, my child?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.
+
+WELLWYN.  That's good.  That's good.  Now, how was it?  Um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I dunno.  [She shivers.]  I was standin' here just now
+when you was talkin', and when I heard 'im, it cam' over me to do
+it--like.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah, yes I know.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I didn't seem no good to meself nor any one.  But when
+I got in the water, I didn't want to any more.  It was cold in
+there.
+
+WELLWYN.  Have you been having such a bad time of it?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  And listenin' to him upset me.  [She signs with
+her head at FERRAND.]  I feel better now I've been in the water.
+[She smiles and shivers.]
+
+WELLWYN.  There, there!  Shivery?  Like to walk up and down a
+little?
+
+     [They begin walking together up and down.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Beastly when your head goes under?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  It frightened me.  I thought I wouldn't come up
+again.
+
+WELLWYN.  I know--sort of world without end, wasn't it?  What did
+you think of, um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I wished I 'adn't jumped--an' I thought of my baby--
+that died--and--[in a rather surprised voice] and I thought of
+d-dancin'.
+
+     [Her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a choke and a
+     little sob.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [Stopping and stroking her.]  There, there--there!
+
+     [For a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then she
+     recovers herself.]
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah! what a comfort--um?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  The water got into me mouth.
+
+     [They walk again.] I wouldn't have gone to do it but for him.
+     [She looks towards FERRAND.]  His talk made me feel all funny,
+     as if people wanted me to.
+
+WELLWYN.  My dear child!  Don't think such things!  As if anyone
+would----!
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Stolidly.] I thought they did.  They used to look at
+me so sometimes, where I was before I ran away--I couldn't stop
+there, you know.
+
+WELLWYN.  Too cooped-up?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  No life at all, it wasn't--not after sellin'
+flowers, I'd rather be doin' what I am.
+
+WELLWYN.  Ah!  Well-it's all over, now!  How d'you feel--eh?
+Better?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.  I feels all right now.
+
+     [She sits up again on the little stool before the fire.]
+
+WELLWYN.  No shivers, and no aches; quite comfy?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  Yes.
+
+WELLWYN.  That's a blessing.  All well, now, Constable--thank you!
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Who has remained discreetly apart at the
+door-cordially.] First rate, sir!  That's capital!  [He approaches
+and scrutinises MRS. MEGAN.] Right as rain, eh, my girl?
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Shrinking a little.] Yes.
+
+CONSTABLE.  That's fine.  Then I think perhaps, for 'er sake, sir,
+the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  don't bother about that--I'll send round for my
+daughter--we'll manage for her here.
+
+CONSTABLE.  Very kind of you, I'm sure, sir.  But [with
+embarrassment] she seems all right.  She'll get every attention at
+the station.
+
+WELLWYN.  But I assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the
+greatest care of her.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Still more embarrassed.]  Well, sir, of course, I'm
+thinkin' of--I'm afraid I can't depart from the usual course.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Sharply.] What!  But-oh!  No!  No!  That'll be all right,
+Constable!  That'll be all right!  I assure you.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With more decision.] I'll have to charge her, sir.
+
+WELLWYN.  Good God!  You don't mean to say the poor little thing has
+got to be----
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Consulting with him.]  Well, sir, we can't get over the
+facts, can we?  There it is!  You know what sooicide amounts to--
+it's an awkward job.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Calming himself with an effort.] But look here,
+Constable, as a reasonable man--This poor wretched little girl--you
+know what that life means better than anyone!  Why!  It's to her
+credit to try and jump out of it!
+
+     [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.]
+
+WELLWYN.  You said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her
+better!  [Dropping his voice still more.]  Everybody feels it!  The
+Vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing--the
+Vicar, Constable!  [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.]  Ah!  now, look
+here, I know something of her.  Nothing can be done with her.  We
+all admit it.  Don't you see?  Well, then hang it--you needn't go
+and make fools of us all by----
+
+FERRAND.  Monsieur, it is the first of April.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [With a sharp glance at him.]  Can't neglect me duty,
+sir; that's impossible.
+
+WELLWYN.  Look here!  She--slipped.  She's been telling me.  Come,
+Constable, there's a good fellow.  May be the making of her, this.
+
+CONSTABLE.  I quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it
+very 'ard for me--but, come now!  I put it to you as a gentleman,
+would you go back on yer duty if you was me?
+
+     [WELLWYN raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through and
+     through his hair.]
+
+WELLWYN.  Well!  God in heaven!  Of all the d---d topsy--turvy--!
+Not a soul in the world wants her alive--and now she's to be
+prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her.
+
+CONSTABLE.  Come, sir, come!  Be a man!
+
+     [Throughout all this MRS. MEGAN has sat stolidly before the
+     fire, but as FERRAND suddenly steps forward she looks up at
+     him.]
+
+FERRAND.  Do not grieve, Monsieur!  This will give her courage.
+There is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of
+things.  [He touches MRS. MEGAN'S shoulder.] Go, my child; it will
+do you good.
+
+     [MRS. MEGAN rises, and looks at him dazedly.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Coming forward, and taking her by the hand.] That's my
+good lass.  Come along!  We won't hurt you.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  I don't want to go.  They'll stare at me.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Comforting.]  Not they!  I'll see to that.
+
+WELLWYN.  [Very upset.]  Take her in a cab, Constable, if you must-
+-for God's sake!  [He pulls out a shilling.]  Here!
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Taking the shilling.]  I will, sir, certainly.  Don't
+think I want to----
+
+WELLWYN.  No, no, I know.  You're a good sort.
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Comfortable.]  Don't you take on, sir.  It's her first
+try; they won't be hard on 'er.  Like as not only bind 'er over in
+her own recogs. not to do it again.  Come, my dear.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Trying to free herself from the policeman's cloak.] I
+want to take this off.  It looks so funny.
+
+     [As she speaks the door is opened by ANN; behind whom is dimly
+     seen the form of old TIMSON, still heading the curious
+     persons.]
+
+ANN.  [Looking from one to the other in amazement.]  What is it?
+What's happened?  Daddy!
+
+FERRAND.  [Out of the silence.]  It is nothing, Ma'moiselle!  She
+has failed to drown herself.  They run her in a little.
+
+WELLWYN.  Lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll catch her death.
+
+     [ANN, feeling MRS. MEGAN's arm, strips of her jacket, and helps
+     her into it without a word.]
+
+CONSTABLE.  [Donning his cloak.]  Thank you.  Miss--very good of
+you, I'm sure.
+
+MRS. MEGAN.  [Mazed.]  It's warm!
+
+     [She gives them all a last half-smiling look, and Passes with
+     the CONSTABLE through the doorway.]
+
+FERRAND.  That makes the third of us, Monsieur.  We are not in luck.
+To wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die.
+
+     [He looks at ANN, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her
+     father.  WELLWYN has taken from his pocket a visiting card.]
+
+WELLWYN.  [To FERRAND.]  Here quick; take this, run after her!  When
+they've done with her tell her to come to us.
+
+FERRAND.  [Taking the card, and reading the address.]  "No. 7, Haven
+House, Flight Street!"  Rely on me, Monsieur--I will bring her
+myself to call on you.  'Au revoir, mon bon Monsieur'!
+
+     [He bends over WELLWYN's hand; then, with a bow to ANN goes
+     out; his tattered figure can be seen through the window,
+     passing in the wind.  WELLWYN turns back to the fire.  The
+     figure of TIMSON advances into the doorway, no longer holding
+     in either hand a waterproof leg-piece.]
+
+TIMSON.  [In a croaky voice.]  Sir!
+
+WELLWYN.  What--you, Timson?
+
+TIMSON.  On me larst legs, sir.  'Ere!  You can see 'em for yerself!
+Shawn't trouble yer long....
+
+WELLWYN.  [After a long and desperate stare.]  Not now--TIMSON not
+now!  Take this!  [He takes out another card, and hands it to
+TIMSON]  Some other time.
+
+TIMSON.  [Taking the card.]  Yer new address!  You are a gen'leman.
+[He lurches slowly away.]
+
+     [ANN shuts the street door and sets her back against it.  The
+     rumble of the approaching van is heard outside.  It ceases.]
+
+ANN.  [In a fateful voice.]  Daddy!  [They stare at each other.]  Do
+you know what you've done?  Given your card to those six rotters.
+
+WELLWYN.  [With a blank stare.]  Six?
+
+ANN.  [Staring round the naked room.]  What was the good of this?
+
+WELLWYN.  [Following her eyes---very gravely.]  Ann!  It is stronger
+than me.
+
+     [Without a word ANN opens the door, and walks straight out.
+     With a heavy sigh, WELLWYN sinks down on the little stool
+     before the fire.  The three humble-men come in.]
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [In an attitude of expectation.]  This is the
+larst of it, sir.
+
+WELLWYN.  Oh!  Ah!  yes!
+
+     [He gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and
+     he exhibits certain signs of vexation.  Suddenly he recovers,
+     looks from one to the other, and then at the tea things.  A
+     faint smile comes on his face.]
+
+WELLWYN.  You can finish the decanter.
+
+     [He goes out in haste.]
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [Clinking the coins.]  Third time of arskin'!
+April fool!  Not 'arf!  Good old pigeon!
+
+SECOND HUMBLE-MAN.  'Uman being, I call 'im.
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [Taking the three glasses from the last
+packing-case, and pouring very equally into them.] That's right.
+Tell you wot, I'd never 'a touched this unless 'e'd told me to, I
+wouldn't--not with 'im.
+
+SECOND HUMBLE-MAN.  Ditto to that!  This is a bit of orl right!
+[Raising his glass.] Good luck!
+
+THIRD HUMBLE-MAN.  Same 'ere!
+
+[Simultaneously they place their lips smartly against the liquor,
+and at once let fall their faces and their glasses.]
+
+CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN.  [With great solemnity.]  Crikey!  Bill!  Tea!
+.....'E's got us!
+
+     [The stage is blotted dark.]
+
+
+Curtain.
+
+
+
+
+End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of THE PIGEON (Play)
+by John Galsworthy.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE MOB
+
+A Play in Four Acts
+
+
+
+
+PERSONS OF THE PLAY
+
+STEPHEN MORE, Member of Parliament
+KATHERINE, his wife
+OLIVE, their little daughter
+THE DEAN OF STOUR, Katherine's uncle
+GENERAL SIR JOHN JULIAN, her father
+CAPTAIN HUBERT JULIAN, her brother
+HELEN, his wife
+EDWARD MENDIP, editor of "The Parthenon"
+ALAN STEEL, More's secretary
+JAMES HOME, architect                   |
+CHARLES SHELDER, Solicitor              |A deputation of More's
+MARK WACE, bookseller                   |constituents
+WILLIAM BANNING, manufacturer           |
+NURSE WREFORD
+WREFORD (her son), Hubert's orderly
+HIS SWEETHEART
+THE FOOTMAN HENRY
+A DOORKEEPER
+SOME BLACK-COATED GENTLEMEN
+A STUDENT
+A GIRL
+
+
+
+
+                         A MOB
+
+ACT I.    The dining-room of More's town house, evening.
+
+ACT II.   The same, morning.
+
+ACT III.  SCENE I. An alley at the back of a suburban theatre.
+          SCENE II. Katherine's bedroom.
+
+ACT IV.   The dining-room of More's house, late afternoon.
+
+AFTERMATH. The corner of a square, at dawn.
+
+
+
+Between ACTS I and II some days elapse.
+Between ACTS II and III three months.
+Between ACT III SCENE I and ACT III SCENE II no time.
+Between ACTS III and IV a few hours.
+Between ACTS IV and AFTERMATH an indefinite period.
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+     It is half-past nine of a July evening.  In a dining-room
+     lighted by sconces, and apparelled in wall-paper, carpet, and
+     curtains of deep vivid blue, the large French windows between
+     two columns are open on to a wide terrace, beyond which are seen
+     trees in darkness, and distant shapes of lighted houses.  On one
+     side is a bay window, over which curtains are partly drawn.
+     Opposite to this window is a door leading into the hall.  At an
+     oval rosewood table, set with silver, flowers, fruit, and wine,
+     six people are seated after dinner.  Back to the bay window is
+     STEPHEN MORE, the host, a man of forty, with a fine-cut face, a
+     rather charming smile, and the eyes of an idealist; to his
+     right, SIR, JOHN JULIAN, an old soldier, with thin brown
+     features, and grey moustaches; to SIR JOHN's right, his brother,
+     the DEAN OF STOUR, a tall, dark, ascetic-looking Churchman: to
+     his right KATHERINE is leaning forward, her elbows on the table,
+     and her chin on her hands, staring across at her husband; to her
+     right sits EDWARD MENDIP, a pale man of forty-five, very bald,
+     with a fine forehead, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that
+     shows his teeth; between him and MORE is HELEN JULIAN, a pretty
+     dark-haired young woman, absorbed in thoughts of her own.  The
+     voices are tuned to the pitch of heated discussion, as the
+     curtain rises.
+
+
+THE DEAN. I disagree with you, Stephen; absolutely, entirely
+disagree.
+
+MORE.  I can't help it.
+
+MENDIP.  Remember a certain war, Stephen!  Were your chivalrous
+notions any good, then?  And, what was winked at in an obscure young
+Member is anathema for an Under Secretary of State.  You can't
+afford----
+
+MORE.  To follow my conscience?  That's new, Mendip.
+
+MENDIP.  Idealism can be out of place, my friend.
+
+THE DEAN.  The Government is dealing here with a wild lawless race,
+on whom I must say I think sentiment is rather wasted.
+
+MORE.  God made them, Dean.
+
+MENDIP.  I have my doubts.
+
+THE DEAN.  They have proved themselves faithless.  We have the right
+to chastise.
+
+MORE.  If I hit a little man in the eye, and he hits me back, have I
+the right to chastise him?
+
+SIR JOHN.  We didn't begin this business.
+
+MORE.  What!  With our missionaries and our trading?
+
+THE DEAN.  It is news indeed that the work of civilization may be
+justifiably met by murder.  Have you forgotten Glaive and Morlinson?
+
+SIR JOHN.  Yes.  And that poor fellow Groome and his wife?
+
+MORE.  They went into a wild country, against the feeling of the
+tribes, on their own business.  What has the nation to do with the
+mishaps of gamblers?
+
+SIR JOHN.  We can't stand by and see our own flesh and blood
+ill-treated!
+
+THE DEAN.  Does our rule bring blessing--or does it not, Stephen?
+
+MORE.  Sometimes; but with all my soul I deny the fantastic
+superstition that our rule can benefit a people like this, a nation
+of one race, as different from ourselves as dark from light--in
+colour, religion, every mortal thing.  We can only pervert their
+natural instincts.
+
+THE DEAN.  That to me is an unintelligible point of view.
+
+MENDIP.  Go into that philosophy of yours a little deeper, Stephen--
+it spells stagnation.  There are no fixed stars on this earth.
+Nations can't let each other alone.
+
+MORE.  Big ones could let little ones alone.
+
+MENDIP.  If they could there'd be no big ones.  My dear fellow, we
+know little nations are your hobby, but surely office should have
+toned you down.
+
+SIR JOHN.  I've served my country fifty years, and I say she is not
+in the wrong.
+
+MORE.  I hope to serve her fifty, Sir John, and I say she is.
+
+MENDIP.  There are moments when such things can't be said, More.
+
+MORE.  They'll be said by me to-night, Mendip.
+
+MENDIP.  In the House?
+
+     [MORE nods.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Stephen!
+
+MENDIP.  Mrs. More, you mustn't let him.  It's madness.
+
+MORE.  [Rising]  You can tell people that to-morrow, Mendip.  Give it
+a leader in 'The Parthenon'.
+
+MENDIP.  Political lunacy!  No man in your position has a right to
+fly out like this at the eleventh hour.
+
+MORE.  I've made no secret of my feelings all along.  I'm against
+this war, and against the annexation we all know it will lead to.
+
+MENDIP.  My dear fellow!  Don't be so Quixotic!  We shall have war
+within the next twenty-four hours, and nothing you can do will stop
+it.
+
+HELEN.  Oh!  No!
+
+MENDIP.  I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hubert.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Not a doubt of it, Helen.
+
+MENDIP.  [TO MORE]  And you mean to charge the windmill?
+
+     [MORE nods.]
+
+MENDIP.  'C'est magnifique'!
+
+MORE.  I'm not out for advertisement.
+
+MENDIP.  You will get it!
+
+MORE.  Must speak the truth sometimes, even at that risk.
+
+SIR JOHN.  It is not the truth.
+
+MENDIP.  The greater the truth the greater the libel, and the greater
+the resentment of the person libelled.
+
+THE DEAN.  [Trying to bring matters to a blander level]  My dear
+Stephen, even if you were right--which I deny--about the initial
+merits, there surely comes a point where the individual conscience
+must resign it self to the country's feeling.  This has become a
+question of national honour.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Well said, James!
+
+MORE.  Nations are bad judges of their honour, Dean.
+
+THE DEAN.  I shall not follow you there.
+
+MORE.  No.  It's an awkward word.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Stopping THE DEAN]  Uncle James!  Please!
+
+     [MORE looks at her intently.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  So you're going to put yourself at the head of the cranks,
+ruin your career, and make me ashamed that you're my son-in-law?
+
+MORE.  Is a man only to hold beliefs when they're popular?  You've
+stood up to be shot at often enough, Sir John.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Never by my country!  Your speech will be in all the
+foreign press-trust 'em for seizing on anything against us.  A
+show-up before other countries----!
+
+MORE.  You admit the show-up?
+
+SIR JOHN.  I do not, sir.
+
+THE DEAN.  The position has become impossible.  The state of things
+out there must be put an end to once for all!  Come, Katherine, back
+us up!
+
+MORE.  My country, right or wrong!  Guilty--still my country!
+
+MENDIP.  That begs the question.
+
+     [KATHERINE rises.  THE DEAN, too, stands up.]
+
+THE DEAN.  [In a low voice] 'Quem Deus volt perdere'----!
+
+SIR JOHN.  Unpatriotic!
+
+MORE.  I'll have no truck with tyranny.
+
+KATHERINE.  Father doesn't admit tyranny.  Nor do any of us, Stephen.
+
+HUBERT JULIAN, a tall Soldier-like man, has come in.
+
+HELEN.  Hubert!
+
+     [She gets up and goes to him, and they talk together near the
+     door.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  What in God's name is your idea?  We've forborne long
+enough, in all conscience.
+
+MORE.  Sir John, we great Powers have got to change our ways in
+dealing with weaker nations.  The very dogs can give us lessons--
+watch a big dog with a little one.
+
+MENDIP.  No, no, these things are not so simple as all that.
+
+MORE.  There's no reason in the world, Mendip, why the rules of
+chivalry should not apply to nations at least as well as to---dogs.
+
+MENDIP.  My dear friend, are you to become that hapless kind of
+outcast, a champion of lost causes?
+
+MORE.  This cause is not lost.
+
+MENDIP.  Right or wrong, as lost as ever was cause in all this world.
+There was never a time when the word "patriotism" stirred mob
+sentiment as it does now.  'Ware "Mob," Stephen---'ware "Mob"!
+
+MORE.  Because general sentiment's against me, I--a public man--am to
+deny my faith?  The point is not whether I'm right or wrong, Mendip,
+but whether I'm to sneak out of my conviction because it's unpopular.
+
+THE DEAN.  I'm afraid I must go.  [To KATHERINE]  Good-night, my
+dear!  Ah!  Hubert!  [He greets HUBERT]  Mr. Mendip, I go your way.
+Can I drop you?
+
+MENDIP.  Thank you.  Good-night, Mrs. More.  Stop him!  It's
+perdition.
+
+     [He and THE DEAN go out.  KATHERINE puts her arm in HELEN'S, and
+     takes her out of the room.  HUBERT remains standing by the door]
+
+SIR JOHN.  I knew your views were extreme in many ways, Stephen, but
+I never thought the husband of my daughter would be a Peace-at-any-
+price man!
+
+MORE.  I am not!  But I prefer to fight some one my own size.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Well!  I can only hope to God you'll come to your senses
+before you commit the folly of this speech.  I must get back to the
+War Office.  Good-night, Hubert.
+
+HUBERT.  Good-night, Father.
+
+     [SIR JOHN goes out.  HUBERT stands motionless, dejected.]
+
+HUBERT.  We've got our orders.
+
+MORE.  What?  When d'you sail?
+
+HUBERT.  At once.
+
+MORE.  Poor Helen!
+
+HUBERT.  Not married a year; pretty bad luck!  [MORE touches his arm
+in sympathy] Well!  We've got to put feelings in our pockets.  Look
+here, Stephen--don't make that speech!  Think of Katherine--with the
+Dad at the War Office, and me going out, and Ralph and old George out
+there already!  You can't trust your tongue when you're hot about a
+thing.
+
+MORE.  I must speak, Hubert.
+
+HUBERT.  No, no!  Bottle yourself up for to-night.  The next few
+hours 'll see it begin.  [MORE turns from him]  If you don't care
+whether you mess up your own career--don't tear Katherine in two!
+
+MORE.  You're not shirking your duty because of your wife.
+
+HUBERT.  Well!  You're riding for a fall, and a godless mucker it'll
+be.  This'll be no picnic.  We shall get some nasty knocks out there.
+Wait and see the feeling here when we've had a force or two cut up in
+those mountains.  It's awful country.  Those fellows have got modern
+arms, and are jolly good fighters.  Do drop it, Stephen!
+
+MORE.  Must risk something, sometimes, Hubert--even in my profession!
+
+     [As he speaks, KATHERINE comes in.]
+
+HUBERT.  But it's hopeless, my dear chap--absolutely.
+
+     [MORE turns to the window, HUBERT to his sister--then with a
+     gesture towards MORE, as though to leave the matter to her, he
+     goes out.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Stephen!  Are you really going to speak?  [He nods] I ask
+you not.
+
+MORE.  You know my feeling.
+
+KATHERINE.  But it's our own country.  We can't stand apart from it.
+You won't stop anything--only make people hate you.  I can't bear
+that.
+
+MORE.  I tell you, Kit, some one must raise a voice.  Two or three
+reverses--certain to come--and the whole country will go wild.  And
+one more little nation will cease to live.
+
+KATHERINE.  If you believe in your country, you must believe that the
+more land and power she has, the better for the world.
+
+MORE.  Is that your faith?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+MORE.  I respect it; I even understand it; but--I can't hold it.
+
+KATHERINE.  But, Stephen, your speech will be a rallying cry to all
+the cranks, and every one who has a spite against the country.
+They'll make you their figurehead.  [MORE smiles]  They will.  Your
+chance of the Cabinet will go--you may even have to resign your seat.
+
+MORE.  Dogs will bark.  These things soon blow over.
+
+KATHERINE.  No, no!  If you once begin a thing, you always go on; and
+what earthly good?
+
+MORE.  History won't say: "And this they did without a single protest
+from their public men!"
+
+KATHERINE.  There are plenty who----
+
+MORE.  Poets?
+
+KATHERINE.  Do you remember that day on our honeymoon, going up Ben
+Lawers?  You were lying on your face in the heather; you said it was
+like kissing a loved woman.  There was a lark singing--you said that
+was the voice of one's worship.  The hills were very blue; that's why
+we had blue here, because it was the best dress of our country.  You
+do love her.
+
+MORE.  Love her!
+
+KATHERINE.  You'd have done this for me--then.
+
+MORE.  Would you have asked me--then, Kit?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.  The country's our country!  Oh!  Stephen, think
+what it'll be like for me--with Hubert and the other boys out there.
+And poor Helen, and Father!  I beg you not to make this speech.
+
+MORE.  Kit!  This isn't fair.  Do you want me to feel myself a cur?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Breathless] I--I--almost feel you'll be a cur to do it
+[She looks at him, frightened by her own words.  Then, as the footman
+HENRY has come in to clear the table--very low]  I ask you not!
+
+     [He does not answer, and she goes out.]
+
+MORE  [To the servant] Later, please, Henry, later!
+
+     The servant retires.  MORE still stands looking down at the
+     dining-table; then putting his hand to his throat, as if to free
+     it from the grip of his collar, he pours out a glass of water,
+     and drinks it of.  In the street, outside the bay window, two
+     street musicians, a harp and a violin, have taken up their
+     stand, and after some twangs and scrapes, break into music.
+     MORE goes towards the sound, and draws aside one curtain.  After
+     a moment, he returns to the table, and takes up the notes of the
+     speech.  He is in an agony of indecision.
+
+MORE.  A cur!
+
+     He seems about to tear his notes across.  Then, changing his
+     mind, turns them over and over, muttering.  His voice gradually
+     grows louder, till he is declaiming to the empty room the
+     peroration of his speech.
+
+MORE.  .  .  .  We have arrogated to our land the title Champion of
+Freedom, Foe of Oppression.  Is that indeed a bygone glory?  Is it
+not worth some sacrifice of our pettier dignity, to avoid laying
+another stone upon its grave; to avoid placing before the searchlight
+eyes of History the spectacle of yet one more piece of national
+cynicism?  We are about to force our will and our dominion on a race
+that has always been free, that loves its country, and its
+independence, as much as ever we love ours.  I cannot sit silent
+to-night and see this begin.  As we are tender of our own land, so we
+should be of the lands of others.  I love my country.  It is because
+I love my country that I raise my voice.  Warlike in spirit these
+people may be--but they have no chance against ourselves.  And war on
+such, however agreeable to the blind moment, is odious to the future.
+The great heart of mankind ever beats in sense and sympathy with the
+weaker.  It is against this great heart of mankind that we are going.
+In the name of Justice and Civilization we pursue this policy; but by
+Justice we shall hereafter be judged, and by Civilization--condemned.
+
+     While he is speaking, a little figure has flown along the
+     terrace outside, in the direction of the music, but has stopped
+     at the sound of his voice, and stands in the open window,
+     listening--a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, in a blue dressing-
+     gown caught up in her hand.  The street musicians, having
+     reached the end of a tune, are silent.
+
+     In the intensity of MORES feeling, a wine-glass, gripped too
+     strongly, breaks and falls in pieces onto a finger-bowl.  The
+     child starts forward into the room.
+
+MORE.  Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  Who were you speaking to, Daddy?
+
+MORE.  [Staring at her]  The wind, sweetheart!
+
+OLIVE.  There isn't any!
+
+MORE.  What blew you down, then?
+
+OLIVE.  [Mysteriously]  The music.  Did the wind break the wine-
+glass, or did it come in two in your hand?
+
+MORE.  Now my sprite!  Upstairs again, before Nurse catches you.
+Fly!  Fly!
+
+OLIVE.  Oh! no, Daddy!  [With confidential fervour]  It feels like
+things to-night!
+
+MORE.  You're right there!
+
+OLIVE.  [Pulling him down to her, and whispering]  I must get back
+again in secret.  H'sh!
+
+     She suddenly runs and wraps herself into one of the curtains of
+     the bay window.  A young man enters, with a note in his hand.
+
+MORE.  Hello, Steel!
+
+     [The street musicians have again begun to play.]
+
+STEEL.  From Sir John--by special messenger from the War Office.
+
+MORE.  [Reading the note] "The ball is opened."
+
+     He stands brooding over the note, and STEEL looks at him
+     anxiously.  He is a dark, sallow, thin-faced young man, with the
+     eyes of one who can attach himself to people, and suffer with
+     them.
+
+STEEL.  I'm glad it's begun, sir.  It would have been an awful pity
+to have made that speech.
+
+MORE.  You too, Steel!
+
+STEEL.  I mean, if it's actually started----
+
+MORE.  [Tearing tie note across]  Yes.  Keep that to yourself.
+
+STEEL.  Do you want me any more?
+
+     MORE takes from his breast pocket some papers, and pitches them
+     down on the bureau.
+
+MORE.  Answer these.
+
+STEEL.  [Going to the bureau]  Fetherby was simply sickening.  [He
+begins to write.  Struggle has begun again in MORE]  Not the faintest
+recognition that there are two sides to it.
+
+     MORE gives him a quick look, goes quietly to the dining-table
+     and picks up his sheaf of notes.  Hiding them with his sleeve,
+     he goes back to the window, where he again stands hesitating.
+
+STEEL.  Chief gem: [Imitating]  "We must show Impudence at last that
+Dignity is not asleep!"
+
+MORE.  [Moving out on to the terrace]  Nice quiet night!
+
+STEEL.  This to the Cottage Hospital--shall I say you will preside?
+
+MORE.  No.
+
+     STEEL writes; then looking up and seeing that MORE is no longer
+     there, he goes to the window, looks to right and left, returns
+     to the bureau, and is about to sit down again when a thought
+     seems to strike him with consternation.  He goes again to the
+     window.  Then snatching up his hat, he passes hurriedly out
+     along the terrace.  As he vanishes, KATHERINE comes in from the
+     hall.  After looking out on to the terrace she goes to the bay
+     window; stands there listening; then comes restlessly back into
+     the room.  OLIVE, creeping quietly from behind the curtain,
+     clasps her round the waist.
+
+KATHERINE.  O my darling!  How you startled me!  What are you doing
+down here, you wicked little sinner!
+
+OLIVE.  I explained all that to Daddy.  We needn't go into it again,
+need we?
+
+KATHERINE.  Where is Daddy?
+
+OLIVE.  Gone.
+
+KATHERINE.  When?
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  only just, and Mr. Steel went after him like a rabbit.
+[The music stops]  They haven't been paid, you know.
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, go up at once.  I can't think how you got down here.
+
+OLIVE.  I can.  [Wheedling]  If you pay them, Mummy, they're sure to
+play another.
+
+KATHERINE.  Well, give them that!  One more only.
+
+     She gives OLIVE a coin, who runs with it to the bay window,
+     opens the aide casement, and calls to the musicians.
+
+OLIVE.  Catch, please!  And would you play just one more?
+
+     She returns from the window, and seeing her mother lost in
+     thought, rubs herself against her.
+
+OLIVE.  Have you got an ache?
+
+KATHARINE.  Right through me, darling!
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!
+
+     [The musicians strike up a dance.]
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  Mummy!  I must just dance!
+
+     She kicks off her lisle blue shoes, and begins dancing.  While
+     she is capering HUBERT comes in from the hall.  He stands
+     watching his little niece for a minute, and KATHERINE looks at
+     him.
+
+HUBERT.  Stephen gone!
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes--stop, Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  Are you good at my sort of dancing, Uncle?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes, chick--awfully!
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, Olive!
+
+     The musicians have suddenly broken off in the middle of a bar.
+     From the street comes the noise of distant shouting.
+
+OLIVE.  Listen, Uncle!  Isn't it a particular noise?
+
+     HUBERT and KATHERINE listen with all their might, and OLIVE
+     stares at their faces.  HUBERT goes to the window.  The sound
+     comes nearer.  The shouted words are faintly heard:  "Pyper----
+     war----our force crosses frontier--sharp fightin'----pyper."
+
+KATHERINE.  [Breathless] Yes!  It is.
+
+     The street cry is heard again in two distant voices coming from
+     different directions: "War--pyper--sharp fightin' on the
+     frontier--pyper."
+
+KATHERINE.  Shut out those ghouls!
+
+     As HUBERT closes the window, NURSE WREFORD comes in from the
+     hall.  She is an elderly woman endowed with a motherly grimness.
+     She fixes OLIVE with her eye, then suddenly becomes conscious of
+     the street cry.
+
+NURSE.  Oh! don't say it's begun.
+
+     [HUBERT comes from the window.]
+
+NURSE.  Is the regiment to go, Mr. Hubert?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes, Nanny.
+
+NURSE.  Oh, dear!  My boy!
+
+KATHERINE.  [Signing to where OLIVE stands with wide eyes]  Nurse!
+
+HUBERT.  I'll look after him, Nurse.
+
+NURSE.  And him keepin' company.  And you not married a year.  Ah!
+Mr. Hubert, now do 'ee take care; you and him's both so rash.
+
+HUBERT.  Not I, Nurse!
+
+     NURSE looks long into his face, then lifts her finger, and
+     beckons OLIVE.
+
+OLIVE.  [Perceiving new sensations before her, goes quietly]  Good-
+night, Uncle!  Nanny, d'you know why I was obliged to come down?  [In
+a fervent whisper]  It's a secret!
+
+     [As she passes with NURSE out into the hall, her voice is heard
+     saying, "Do tell me all about the war."]
+
+HUBERT.  [Smothering emotion under a blunt manner]  We sail on
+Friday, Kit.  Be good to Helen, old girl.
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh! I wish----!  Why--can't--women--fight?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes, it's bad for you, with Stephen taking it like this.
+But he'll come round now it's once begun.
+
+     KATHERINE shakes her head, then goes suddenly up to him, and
+     throws her arms round his neck.  It is as if all the feeling
+     pent up in her were finding vent in this hug.
+
+     The door from the hall is opened, and SIR JOHN'S voice is heard
+     outside: "All right, I'll find her."
+
+KATHERINE.  Father!
+
+     [SIR JOHN comes in.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  Stephen get my note?  I sent it over the moment I got to
+the War Office.
+
+KATHERINE.  I expect so.  [Seeing the torn note on the table] Yes.
+
+SIR JOHN.  They're shouting the news now.  Thank God, I stopped that
+crazy speech of his in time.
+
+KATHERINE.  Have you stopped it?
+
+SIR JOHN.  What!  He wouldn't be such a sublime donkey?
+
+KATHERINE.  I think that is just what he might be.  [Going to the
+window]  We shall know soon.
+
+     [SIR JOHN, after staring at her, goes up to HUBERT.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  Keep a good heart, my boy.  The country's first.  [They
+exchange a hand-squeeze.]
+
+     KATHERINE backs away from the window.  STEEL has appeared there
+     from the terrace, breathless from running.
+
+STEEL.  Mr. More back?
+
+KATHERINE.  No. Has he spoken?
+
+STEEL.  Yes.
+
+KATHERINE.  Against?
+
+STEEL.  Yes.
+
+SIR JOHN.  What?  After!
+
+     SIR, JOHN stands rigid, then turns and marches straight out into
+     the hall.  At a sign from KATHERINE, HUBERT follows him.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, Mr. Steel?
+
+STEEL.  [Still breathless and agitated]  We were here--he slipped
+away from me somehow.  He must have gone straight down to the House.
+I ran over, but when I got in under the Gallery he was speaking
+already.  They expected something--I never heard it so still there.
+He gripped them from the first word--deadly--every syllable.  It got
+some of those fellows.  But all the time, under the silence you could
+feel a--sort of--of--current going round.  And then Sherratt--I think
+it was--began it, and you saw the anger rising in them; but he kept
+them down--his quietness!  The feeling!  I've never seen anything
+like it there.
+
+Then there was a whisper all over the House that fighting had begun.
+And the whole thing broke out--regular riot--as if they could have
+killed him.  Some one tried to drag him down by the coat-tails, but
+he shook him off, and went on.  Then he stopped dead and walked out,
+and the noise dropped like a stone.  The whole thing didn't last five
+minutes.  It was fine, Mrs.  More; like--like lava; he was the only
+cool person there.  I wouldn't have missed it for anything--it was
+grand!
+
+     MORE has appeared on the terrace, behind STEEL.
+
+KATHERINE.  Good-night, Mr.  Steel.
+
+STEEL.  [Startled]  Oh!--Good-night!
+
+     He goes out into the hall.  KATHERINE picks up OLIVE'S shoes,
+     and stands clasping them to her breast.  MORE comes in.
+
+KATHERINE.  You've cleared your conscience, then!  I didn't think
+you'd hurt me so.
+
+     MORE does not answer, still living in the scene he has gone
+     through, and KATHERINE goes a little nearer to him.
+
+KATHERINE.  I'm with the country, heart and soul, Stephen.  I warn
+you.
+
+     While they stand in silence, facing each other, the footman,
+     HENRY, enters from the hall.
+
+FOOTMAN.  These notes, sir, from the House of Commons.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Taking them] You can have the room directly.
+
+     [The FOOTMAN goes out.]
+
+MORE.  Open them!
+
+     KATHERINE opens one after the other, and lets them fall on the
+     table.
+
+MORE.  Well?
+
+KATHERINE.  What you might expect.  Three of your best friends.  It's
+begun.
+
+MORE.  'Ware Mob!  [He gives a laugh]  I must write to the Chief.
+
+     KATHERINE makes an impulsive movement towards him; then quietly
+     goes to the bureau, sits down and takes up a pen.
+
+KATHERINE.  Let me make the rough draft.  [She waits]  Yes?
+
+MORE.  [Dictating]
+
+"July 15th.
+
+"DEAR SIR CHARLES, After my speech to-night, embodying my most
+unalterable convictions [KATHERINE turns and looks up at him, but he
+is staring straight before him, and with a little movement of despair
+she goes on writing]  I have no alternative but to place the
+resignation of my Under-Secretaryship in your hands.  My view, my
+faith in this matter may be wrong--but I am surely right to keep the
+flag of my faith flying.  I imagine I need not enlarge on the
+reasons----"
+
+
+                         THE CURTAIN FALLS.
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT.  II
+
+     Before noon a few days later.  The open windows of the dining-
+     room let in the sunlight.  On the table a number of newspapers
+     are littered.  HELEN is sitting there, staring straight before
+     her.  A newspaper boy runs by outside calling out his wares.  At
+     the sound she gets up anti goes out on to the terrace.  HUBERT
+     enters from the hall.  He goes at once to the terrace, and draws
+     HELEN into the room.
+
+HELEN.  Is it true--what they're shouting?
+
+HUBERT.  Yes.  Worse than we thought.  They got our men all crumpled
+up in the Pass--guns helpless.  Ghastly beginning.
+
+HELEN.  Oh, Hubert!
+
+HUBERT.  My dearest girl!
+
+     HELEN puts her face up to his.  He kisses her.  Then she turns
+     quickly into the bay window.  The door from the hall has been
+     opened, and the footman, HENRY, comes in, preceding WREFORD and
+     his sweetheart.
+
+HENRY.  Just wait here, will you, while I let Mrs.  More know.
+[Catching sight of HUBERT]  Beg pardon, sir!
+
+HUBERT.  All right, Henry.  [Off-hand]  Ah! Wreford!  [The FOOTMAN
+withdraws]  So you've brought her round.  That's good!  My sister'll
+look after her--don't you worry!  Got everything packed?  Three
+o'clock sharp.
+
+WREFORD.  [A broad faced soldier, dressed in khaki with a certain
+look of dry humour, now dimmed-speaking with a West Country burr]
+That's right, zurr; all's ready.
+
+     HELEN has come out of the window, and is quietly looking at
+     WREFORD and the girl standing there so awkwardly.
+
+HELEN.  [Quietly]  Take care of him, Wreford.
+
+HUBERT.  We'll take care of each other, won't we, Wreford?
+
+HELEN.  How long have you been engaged?
+
+THE GIRL.  [A pretty, indeterminate young woman] Six months.  [She
+sobs suddenly.]
+
+HELEN.  Ah!  He'll soon be safe back.
+
+WREFORD.  I'll owe 'em for this.  [In a lacy voice to her]  Don't 'ee
+now!  Don't 'ee!
+
+HELEN.  No!  Don't cry, please!
+
+     She stands struggling with her own lips, then goes out on to the
+     terrace, HUBERT following.  WREFORD and his girl remain where
+     they were, strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs.
+
+WREFORD.  Don't 'ee go on like that, Nance; I'll 'ave to take you
+'ome.  That's silly, now we've a-come.  I might be dead and buried by
+the fuss you're makin'.  You've a-drove the lady away.  See!
+
+     She regains control of herself as the door is opened and
+     KATHERINE appears, accompanied by OLIVE, who regards WREFORD
+     with awe and curiosity, and by NURSE, whose eyes are red, but
+     whose manner is composed.
+
+KATHERINE.  My brother told me; so glad you've brought her.
+
+WREFORD.  Ye--as, M'.  She feels me goin', a bit.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, yes!  Still, it's for the country, isn't it?
+
+THE GIRL.  That's what Wreford keeps tellin' me.  He've got to go--so
+it's no use upsettin' 'im.  And of course I keep tellin' him I shall
+be all right.
+
+NURSE.  [Whose eyes never leave her son's face]  And so you will.
+
+THE GIRL.  Wreford thought it'd comfort him to know you were
+interested in me.  'E's so 'ot-headed I'm sure somethin'll come to
+'im.
+
+KATHERINE.  We've all got some one going.  Are you coming to the
+docks?   We must send them off in good spirits, you know.
+
+OLIVE.  Perhaps he'll get a medal.
+
+KATHERINE.  Olive!
+
+NURSE.  You wouldn't like for him to be hanging back, one of them
+anti-patriot, stop-the-war ones.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Quickly]  Let me see--I have your address.  [Holding out
+her hand to WREFORD]  We'll look after her.
+
+OLIVE.  [In a loud whisper] Shall I lend him my toffee?
+
+KATHERINE.  If you like, dear.  [To WREFORD]  Now take care of my
+brother and yourself, and we'll take care of her.
+
+WREFORD.  Ye--as, M'.
+
+     He then looks rather wretchedly at his girl, as if the interview
+     had not done so much for him as he had hoped.  She drops a
+     little curtsey.  WREFORD salutes.
+
+OLIVE.  [Who has taken from the bureau a packet, places it in his
+hand] It's very nourishing!
+
+WREFORD.  Thank you, miss.
+
+     Then, nudging each other, and entangled in their feelings and
+     the conventions, they pass out, shepherded by NURSE.
+
+KATHERINE.  Poor things!
+
+OLIVE.  What is an anti-patriot, stop-the-war one, Mummy?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Taking up a newspaper]  Just a stupid name, dear--don't
+chatter!
+
+OLIVE.  But tell me just one weeny thing!
+
+KATHERINE.  Well?
+
+OLIVE.  Is Daddy one?
+
+KATHERINE.  Olive!  How much do you know about this war?
+
+OLIVE.  They won't obey us properly.  So we have to beat them, and
+take away their country.  We shall, shan't we?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.  But Daddy doesn't want us to; he doesn't think it
+fair, and he's been saying so.  People are very angry with him.
+
+OLIVE.  Why isn't it fair?  I suppose we're littler than them.
+
+KATHERINE.  No.
+
+OLIVE.  Oh! in history we always are.  And we always win.  That's why
+I like history.  Which are you for, Mummy--us or them?
+
+KATHERINE.  Us.
+
+OLIVE.  Then I shall have to be.  It's a pity we're not on the same
+side as Daddy.  [KATHERINE shudders]  Will they hurt him for not
+taking our side?
+
+KATHERINE.  I expect they will, Olive.
+
+OLIVE.  Then we shall have to be extra nice to him.
+
+KATHERINE.  If we can.
+
+OLIVE.  I can; I feel like it.
+
+     HELEN and HUBERT have returned along the terrace.  Seeing
+     KATHERINE and the child, HELEN passes on, but HUBERT comes in at
+     the French window.
+
+OLIVE.  [Catching sight of him-softly] Is Uncle Hubert going to the
+front to-day?  [KATHERINE nods]  But not grandfather?
+
+KATHERINE.  No, dear.
+
+OLIVE.  That's lucky for them, isn't it?
+
+     HUBERT comes in.  The presence of the child give him self-
+     control.
+
+HUBERT.  Well, old girl, it's good-bye.  [To OLIVE]  What shall I
+bring you back, chick?
+
+OLIVE.  Are there shops at the front?  I thought it was dangerous.
+
+HUBERT.  Not a bit.
+
+OLIVE.  [Disillusioned]  Oh!
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, darling, give Uncle a good hug.
+
+     [Under cover of OLIVE's hug, KATHERINE repairs her courage.]
+
+KATHERINE.  The Dad and I'll be with you all in spirit.  Good-bye,
+old boy!
+
+     They do not dare to kiss, and HUBERT goes out very stiff and
+     straight, in the doorway passing STEEL, of whom he takes no
+     notice.  STEEL hesitates, and would go away.
+
+KATHERINE.  Come in, Mr. Steel.
+
+STEEL.  The deputation from Toulmin ought to be here, Mrs. More.
+It's twelve.
+
+OLIVE.  [Having made a little ball of newspaper-slyly]  Mr. Steel,
+catch!
+
+     [She throws, and STEEL catches it in silence.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Go upstairs, won't you, darling?
+
+OLIVE.  Mayn't I read in the window, Mummy?  Then I shall see if any
+soldiers pass.
+
+KATHERINE.  No.  You can go out on the terrace a little, and then you
+must go up.
+
+     [OLIVE goes reluctantly out on to the terrace.]
+
+STEEL.  Awful news this morning of that Pass!  And have you seen
+these?  [Reading from the newspaper] "We will have no truck with the
+jargon of the degenerate who vilifies his country at such a moment.
+The Member for Toulmin has earned for himself the contempt of all
+virile patriots."  [He takes up a second journal]  "There is a
+certain type of public man who, even at his own expense, cannot
+resist the itch to advertise himself.  We would, at moments of
+national crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that we
+suspect of incipient rabies .  .  .  ."  They're in full cry after
+him!
+
+KATHERINE.  I mind much more all the creatures who are always
+flinging mud at the country making him their hero suddenly!  You know
+what's in his mind?
+
+STEEL.  Oh!  We must get him to give up that idea of lecturing
+everywhere against the war, Mrs. More; we simply must.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Listening]  The deputation's come.  Go and fetch him,
+Mr. Steel.  He'll be in his room, at the House.
+
+     [STEEL goes out, and KATHERINE Stands at bay.  In a moment he
+     opens the door again, to usher in the deputation; then retires.
+     The four gentlemen have entered as if conscious of grave issues.
+     The first and most picturesque is JAMES HOME, a thin, tall,
+     grey-bearded man, with plentiful hair, contradictious eyebrows,
+     and the half-shy, half-bold manners, alternately rude and over
+     polite, of one not accustomed to Society, yet secretly much
+     taken with himself.  He is dressed in rough tweeds, with a red
+     silk tie slung through a ring, and is closely followed by MARK
+     WACE, a waxy, round-faced man of middle-age, with sleek dark
+     hair, traces of whisker, and a smooth way of continually rubbing
+     his hands together, as if selling something to an esteemed
+     customer.  He is rather stout, wears dark clothes, with a large
+     gold chain.  Following him comes CHARLES SHELDER, a lawyer of
+     fifty, with a bald egg-shaped head, and gold pince-nez.  He has
+     little side whiskers, a leathery, yellowish skin, a rather kind
+     but watchful and dubious face, and when he speaks seems to have
+     a plum in his mouth, which arises from the preponderance of his
+     shaven upper lip.  Last of the deputation comes WILLIAM BANNING,
+     an energetic-looking, square-shouldered, self-made country-man,
+     between fifty and sixty, with grey moustaches, ruddy face, and
+     lively brown eyes.]
+
+KATHERINE.  How do you do, Mr. Home?
+
+HOME.  [Bowing rather extravagantly over her hand, as if to show his
+independence of women's influence]  Mrs. More!  We hardly expected--
+This is an honour.
+
+WACE.  How do you do, Ma'am?
+
+KATHERINE.  And you, Mr. Wace?
+
+WACE.  Thank you, Ma'am, well indeed!
+
+SHELDER.  How d'you do, Mrs. More?
+
+KATHERINE.  Very well, thank you, Mr. Shelder.
+
+BANNING.  [Speaking with a rather broad country accent]  This is but
+a poor occasion, Ma'am.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, Mr.  Banning.  Do sit down, gentlemen.
+
+     Seeing that they will not settle down while she is standing, she
+     sits at the table.  They gradually take their seats.  Each
+     member of the deputation in his own way is severely hanging back
+     from any mention of the subject in hand; and KATHERINE as intent
+     on drawing them to it.
+
+KATHERINE.  My husband will be here in two minutes.  He's only over
+at the House.
+
+SHELDER.  [Who is of higher standing and education than the others]
+Charming position--this, Mrs. More!  So near the--er--Centre of--
+Gravity um?
+
+KATHERINE.  I read the account of your second meeting at Toulmin.
+
+BANNING.  It's bad, Mrs. More--bad.  There's no disguising it.  That
+speech was moon-summer madness--Ah! it was!  Take a lot of explaining
+away.  Why did you let him, now?  Why did you?  Not your views, I'm
+sure!
+
+     [He looks at her, but for answer she only compresses her lips.]
+
+BANNING.  I tell you what hit me--what's hit the whole constituency--
+and that's his knowing we were over the frontier, fighting already,
+when he made it.
+
+KATHERINE.  What difference does it make if he did know?
+
+HOME.  Hitting below the belt--I should have thought--you'll pardon
+me!
+
+BANNING.  Till war's begun, Mrs. More, you're entitled to say what
+you like, no doubt--but after!  That's going against your country.
+Ah! his speech was strong, you know--his speech was strong.
+
+KATHERINE.  He had made up his mind to speak.  It was just an
+accident the news coming then.
+
+     [A silence.]
+
+BANNING.  Well, that's true, I suppose.  What we really want is to
+make sure he won't break out again.
+
+HOME.  Very high-minded, his views of course--but, some consideration
+for the common herd.  You'll pardon me!
+
+SHELDER.  We've come with the friendliest feelings, Mrs. More--but,
+you know, it won't do, this sort of thing!
+
+WACE.  We shall be able to smooth him down.  Oh! surely.
+
+BANNING.  We'd be best perhaps not to mention about his knowing that
+fighting had begun.
+
+     [As he speaks, MORE enters through the French windows.  They all
+     rise.]
+
+MORE.  Good-morning, gentlemen.
+
+     [He comes down to the table, but does not offer to shake hands.]
+
+BANNING.  Well, Mr. More?  You've made a woeful mistake, sir; I tell
+you to your face.
+
+MORE.  As everybody else does, Banning.  Sit down again, please.
+
+     [They gradually resume their seats, and MORE sits in KATHERINE's
+     chair.  She alone remains standing leaning against the corner of
+     the bay window, watching their faces.]
+
+BANNING.  You've seen the morning's telegrams?  I tell you, Mr.
+More--another reverse like that, and the flood will sweep you clean
+away.  And I'll not blame it.  It's only flesh and blood.
+
+MORE, Allow for the flesh and blood in me, too, please.  When I spoke
+the other night it was not without a certain feeling here.  [He
+touches his heart.]
+
+BANNING.  But your attitude's so sudden--you'd not been going that
+length when you were down with us in May.
+
+MORE.  Do me the justice to remember that even then I was against our
+policy.  It cost me three weeks' hard struggle to make up my mind to
+that speech.  One comes slowly to these things, Banning.
+
+SHELDER.  Case of conscience?
+
+MORE.  Such things have happened, Shelder, even in politics.
+
+SHELDER.  You see, our ideals are naturally low--how different from
+yours!
+
+     [MORE smiles.]
+
+     KATHERINE, who has drawn near her husband, moves back again, as
+     if relieved at this gleam of geniality.  WACE rubs his hands.
+
+BANNING.  There's one thing you forget, sir.  We send you to
+Parliament, representing us; but you couldn't find six men in the
+whole constituency that would have bidden you to make that speech.
+
+MORE.  I'm sorry; but I can't help my convictions, Banning.
+
+SHELDER.  What was it the prophet was without in his own country?
+
+BANNING.  Ah! but we're not funning, Mr. More.  I've never known
+feeling run so high.  The sentiment of both meetings was dead against
+you.  We've had showers of letters to headquarters.  Some from very
+good men--very warm friends of yours.
+
+SHELDER.  Come now!  It's not too late.  Let's go back and tell them
+you won't do it again.
+
+MORE.  Muzzling order?
+
+BANNING.  [Bluntly]  That's about it.
+
+MORE.  Give up my principles to save my Parliamentary skin.  Then,
+indeed, they might call me a degenerate!  [He touches the newspapers
+on the table.]
+
+     KATHERINE makes an abrupt and painful movement, then remains as
+     still as before, leaning against the corner of the window-seat.
+
+BANNING.  Well, Well!  I know.  But we don't ask you to take your
+words back--we only want discretion in the future.
+
+MORE.  Conspiracy of silence!  And have it said that a mob of
+newspapers have hounded me to it.
+
+BANNING.  They won't say that of you.
+
+SHELDER.  My dear More, aren't you rather dropping to our level?
+With your principles you ought not to care two straws what people
+say.
+
+MORE.  But I do.  I can't betray the dignity and courage of public
+men.  If popular opinion is to control the utterances of her
+politicians, then good-bye indeed to this country!
+
+BANNING.  Come now!  I won't say that your views weren't sound enough
+before the fighting began.  I've never liked our policy out there.
+But our blood's being spilled; and that makes all the difference.
+I don't suppose they'd want me exactly, but I'd be ready to go
+myself.  We'd all of us be ready.  And we can't have the man that
+represents us talking wild, until we've licked these fellows.  That's
+it in a nutshell.
+
+MORE.  I understand your feeling, Banning.  I tender you my
+resignation.  I can't and won't hold on where I'm not wanted.
+
+BANNING.  No, no, no!  Don't do that!  [His accent broader and
+broader]  You've 'ad your say, and there it is.  Coom now!  You've
+been our Member nine years, in rain and shine.
+
+SHELDER.  We want to keep you, More.  Come!  Give us your promise-
+that's a good man!
+
+MORE.  I don't make cheap promises.  You ask too much.
+
+     [There is silence, and they all look at MORE.]
+
+SHELDER.  There are very excellent reasons for the Government's
+policy.
+
+MORE.  There are always excellent reasons for having your way with
+the weak.
+
+SHELDER.  My dear More, how can you get up any enthusiasm for those
+cattle-lifting ruffians?
+
+MORE.  Better lift cattle than lift freedom.
+
+SHELDER.  Well, all we'll ask is that you shouldn't go about the
+country, saying so.
+
+MORE.  But that is just what I must do.
+
+     [Again they all look at MORE in consternation.]
+
+HOME.  Not down our way, you'll pardon me.
+
+WACE.  Really--really, sir----
+
+SHELDER.  The time of crusades is past, More.
+
+MORE.  Is it?
+
+BANNING.  Ah!  no, but we don't want to part with you, Mr.  More.
+It's a bitter thing, this, after three elections.  Look at the 'uman
+side of it!  To speak ill of your country when there's been a
+disaster like this terrible business in the Pass.  There's your own
+wife.  I see her brother's regiment's to start this very afternoon.
+Come now--how must she feel?
+
+     MORE breaks away to the bay window.  The DEPUTATION exchange
+     glances.
+
+MORE.  [Turning]  To try to muzzle me like this--is going too far.
+
+BANNING.  We just want to put you out of temptation.
+
+MORE.  I've held my seat with you in all weathers for nine years.
+You've all been bricks to me.  My heart's in my work, Banning; I'm
+not eager to undergo political eclipse at forty.
+
+SHELDER.  Just so--we don't want to see you in that quandary.
+
+BANNING.  It'd be no friendliness to give you a wrong impression of
+the state of feeling.  Silence--till the bitterness is overpast;
+there's naught else for it, Mr. More, while you feel as you do.  That
+tongue of yours!  Come!  You owe us something.  You're a big man;
+it's the big view you ought to take.
+
+MORE.  I am trying to.
+
+HOME.  And what precisely is your view--you'll pardon my asking?
+
+MORE.  [Turning on him]  Mr. Home a great country such as ours--is
+trustee for the highest sentiments of mankind.  Do these few outrages
+justify us in stealing the freedom of this little people?
+
+BANNING.  Steal--their freedom!  That's rather running before the
+hounds.
+
+MORE.  Ah, Banning! now we come to it.  In your hearts you're none of
+you for that--neither by force nor fraud.  And yet you all know that
+we've gone in there to stay, as we've gone into other lands--as all
+we big Powers go into other lands, when they're little and weak.  The
+Prime Minister's words the other night were these: "If we are forced
+to spend this blood and money now, we must never again be forced."
+What does that mean but swallowing this country?
+
+SHELDER.  Well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad thing.
+
+HOME.  We don't want their wretched country--we're forced.
+
+MORE.  We are not forced.
+
+SHELDER.  My dear More, what is civilization but the logical,
+inevitable swallowing up of the lower by the higher types of man?
+And what else will it be here?
+
+MORE.  We shall not agree there, Shelder; and we might argue it all
+day.  But the point is, not whether you or I are right--the point is:
+What is a man who holds a faith with all his heart to do?  Please
+tell me.
+
+     [There is a silence.]
+
+BANNING.  [Simply] I was just thinkin' of those poor fellows in the
+Pass.
+
+MORE.  I can see them, as well as you, Banning.  But, imagine!  Up in
+our own country--the Black Valley--twelve hundred foreign devils dead
+and dying--the crows busy over them--in our own country, our own
+valley--ours--ours--violated.  Would you care about "the poor
+fellows" in that Pass?--Invading, stealing dogs!  Kill them--kill
+them!  You would, and I would, too!
+
+     The passion of those words touches and grips as no arguments
+     could; and they are silent.
+
+MORE.  Well!  What's the difference out there?  I'm not so inhuman as
+not to want to see this disaster in the Pass wiped out.  But once
+that's done, in spite of my affection for you; my ambitions, and
+they're not few;  [Very low]  in spite of my own wife's feeling, I
+must be free to raise my voice against this war.
+
+BANNING.  [Speaking slowly, consulting the others, as it were, with
+his eyes]  Mr. More, there's no man I respect more than yourself.  I
+can't tell what they'll say down there when we go back; but I, for
+one, don't feel it in me to take a hand in pressing you farther
+against your faith.
+
+SHELDER.  We don't deny that--that you have a case of sorts.
+
+WACE.  No--surely.
+
+SHELDER.  A--man should be free, I suppose, to hold his own opinions.
+
+MORE.  Thank you, Shelder.
+
+BANNING.  Well! well!  We must take you as you are; but it's a rare
+pity; there'll be a lot of trouble----
+
+     His eyes light on Honk who is leaning forward with hand raised
+     to his ear, listening.  Very faint, from far in the distance,
+     there is heard a skirling sound.  All become conscious of it,
+     all listen.
+
+HOME.  [Suddenly]  Bagpipes!
+
+     The figure of OLIVE flies past the window, out on the terrace.
+     KATHERINE turns, as if to follow her.
+
+SHELDER.  Highlanders!
+
+     [He rises.  KATHERINE goes quickly out on to the terrace.  One
+     by one they all follow to the window.  One by one go out on to
+     the terrace, till MORE is left alone.  He turns to the bay
+     window.  The music is swelling, coming nearer.  MORE leaves the
+     window--his face distorted by the strafe of his emotions.  He
+     paces the room, taking, in some sort, the rhythm of the march.]
+
+     [Slowly the music dies away in the distance to a drum-tap and the
+     tramp of a company.  MORE stops at the table, covering his eyes
+     with his hands.]
+
+     [The DEPUTATION troop back across the terrace, and come in at the
+     French windows.  Their faces and manners have quite changed.
+     KATHERINE follows them as far as the window.]
+
+HOME.  [In a strange, almost threatening voice]  It won't do, Mr.
+More.  Give us your word, to hold your peace!
+
+SHELDER.  Come! More.
+
+WACE.  Yes, indeed--indeed!
+
+BANNING.  We must have it.
+
+MORE.  [Without lifting his head] I--I----
+
+     The drum-tap of a regiment marching is heard.
+
+BANNING.  Can you hear that go by, man--when your country's just been
+struck?
+
+     Now comes the scale and mutter of a following crowd.
+
+MORE.  I give you----
+
+     Then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the words: "Give
+     the beggars hell, boys!"  "Wipe your feet on their dirty
+     country!"  "Don't leave 'em a gory acre!  "And a burst of hoarse
+     cheering.
+
+MORE.  [Flinging up his head]  That's reality!  By Heaven!  No!
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh!
+
+SHELDER.  In that case, we'll go.
+
+BANNING.  You mean it?  You lose us, then!
+
+     [MORE bows.]
+
+HOME.  Good riddance!  [Venomously--his eyes darting between MORE and
+KATHERINE]  Go and stump the country!  Find out what they think of
+you!  You'll pardon me!
+
+     One by one, without a word, only BANNING looking back, they pass
+     out into the hall.  MORE sits down at the table before the pile
+     of newspapers.  KATHERINE, in the window, never moves.  OLIVE
+     comes along the terrace to her mother.
+
+OLIVE.  They were nice ones!  Such a lot of dirty people following,
+and some quite clean, Mummy.  [Conscious from her mother's face that
+something is very wrong, she looks at her father, and then steals up
+to his side]  Uncle Hubert's gone, Daddy; and Auntie Helen's crying.
+And--look at Mummy!
+
+     [MORE raises his head and looks.]
+
+OLIVE.  Do be on our side!  Do!
+
+     She rubs her cheek against his.  Feeling that he does not rub
+     his cheek against hers, OLIVE stands away, and looks from him to
+     her mother in wonder.
+
+
+                         THE CURTAIN FALLS
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+SCENE I
+
+     A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban
+     theatre.  The tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building
+     is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment
+     bills, and the words: "To Let," and with several torn, and one
+     still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the-
+     War Meeting, October 1st.  Addresses by STEPHEN MORE, Esq., and
+     others."  The alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps
+     of paper.  Three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door.  It
+     is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all
+     the light there is.  A faint, confused murmur, as of distant
+     hooting is heard.  Suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough
+     girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is
+     again deserted.  The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking
+     his head out, looks up and down.  He withdraws, but in a second
+     reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen.
+
+DOORKEEPER.  It's all clear.  You can get away down here, gentlemen.
+Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner.
+
+THE THREE.  [Dusting themselves, and settling their ties] Thanks,
+very much!  Thanks!
+
+FIRST BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN.  Where's More?  Isn't he coming?
+
+     They are joined by a fourth black-coated GENTLEMAN.
+
+FOURTH BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN.  Just behind. [TO the DOORKEEPER]
+Thanks.
+
+     They hurry away.  The DOORKEEPER retires.  Another boy runs
+     past.  Then the door opens again.  STEEL and MORE come out.
+
+     MORE stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go
+     back.
+
+STEEL.  Come along, sir, come!
+
+MORE.  It sticks in my gizzard, Steel.
+
+STEEL.  [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down
+the steps]  You owe it to the theatre people.  [MORE still hesitates]
+We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More half-
+past ten; it'll only make her anxious.  And she hasn't seen you for
+six weeks.
+
+MORE.  All right; don't dislocate my arm.
+
+     They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes
+     running down the alley.  Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins
+     round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is!  That's 'im!  'Ere 'e
+     is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came.
+
+STEEL.  Quick, Sir, quick!
+
+MORE.  That is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador
+remarked.
+
+STEEL.  [Pulling him back towards the door]  Well! come inside again,
+anyway!
+
+     A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping
+     quickly from the left.  A motley crew, out for excitement;
+     loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious.  All in
+     the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood.  They gather round
+     the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity
+     that follows on a new development of any chase.  MORE, on the
+     bottom step, turns and eyes them.
+
+A GIRL.  [At the edge] Which is 'im!  The old 'un or the young?
+
+     [MORE turns, and mounts the remaining steps.]
+
+TALL YOUTH.  [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted
+traitor!
+
+     MORE faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the
+     chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they
+     realized that they were spoiling their own sport.
+
+A ROUGH GIRL.  Don't frighten the poor feller!
+
+     [A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.]
+
+STEEL.  [Tugging at MORE's arm]  Come along, sir.
+
+MORE.  [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd]  Well, what do you want?
+
+A VOICE.  Speech.
+
+MORE.  Indeed!  That's new.
+
+ROUGH VOICE.  [At the back of the crowd]  Look at his white liver.
+You can see it in his face.
+
+A BIG NAVY.  [In front]  Shut it!  Give 'im a chanst!
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Silence for the blasted traitor?
+
+     A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt
+     silence.
+
+MORE.  You shall have it in a nutshell!
+
+A SHOPBOY.  [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes MORE on the
+shoulder]  Here y'are!
+
+MORE.  Go home, and think!  If foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be
+fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there?
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Treacherous dogs!  Why don't they come out in the open?
+
+MORE.  They fight the best way they can.
+
+     [A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the
+     outskirt.]
+
+MORE.  My friend there in khaki led that hooting.  I've never said a
+word against our soldiers.  It's the Government I condemn for putting
+them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all
+of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do,
+left to yourselves.
+
+     The TALL YOUTH leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of
+     execration.
+
+MORE.  I say not one of you would go for a weaker man.
+
+VOICES IN THE CROWD.
+
+     ROUGH VOICE.  Tork sense!
+
+     GIRL'S VOICE.  He's gittin' at you!
+
+     TALL YOUTH'S VOICE.  Shiny skunk!
+
+A NAVVY.  [Suddenly shouldering forward]  Look 'ere, Mister!  Don't
+you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the
+worse for you-you go 'ome!
+
+COCKNEY VOICE.  And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears.
+
+     [A spurt of laughter.]
+
+A FRIENDLY VOICE.  [From the outskirts]  Shame! there!  Bravo, More!
+Keep it up!
+
+     [A scuffle drowns this cry.]
+
+MORE.  [With vehemence] Stop that!  Stop that!  You---!
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Traitor!
+
+AN ARTISAN.  Who black-legged?
+
+MIDDLE-AGED MAN.  Ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies!
+
+MORE.  Those tribesmen are defending their homes.
+
+TWO VOICES.  Hear!  hear!
+
+     [They are hustled into silence.]
+
+TALL YOUTH.  Wind-bag!
+
+MORE.  [With sudden passion]  Defending their homes!  Not mobbing
+unarmed men!
+
+     [STEEL again pulls at his arm.]
+
+ROUGH.  Shut it, or we'll do you in!
+
+MORE.  [Recovering his coolness] Ah!  Do me in by all means!  You'd
+deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your
+time.
+
+STEEL.  For God's sake, sir!
+
+MORE.  [Shaking off his touch]  Well!
+
+     There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost
+     figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step.  The crowd
+     recoils.
+
+     There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at
+     them.
+
+COCKNEY VOICE.  Don't 'e speak well!  What eloquence!
+
+     Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE
+     across the face.  He takes no notice.
+
+ROUGH VOICE.  That's it!  Give 'im some encouragement.
+
+     The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous
+     smile on MORE'S face.
+
+A TALL YOUTH.  Traitor!
+
+A VOICE.  Don't stand there like a stuck pig.
+
+A ROUGH.  Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that!
+
+     Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE
+     across the legs with a belt.  STEEL starts forward.  MORE,
+     flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil
+     staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this
+     silence is fast turning to rage.
+
+THE CROWD.  Speak up, or get down!  Get off! Get away, there--or
+we'll make you!  Go on!
+
+     [MORE remains immovable.]
+
+A YOUTH.  [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im speak!  See!
+
+     He darts forward and spits, defiling MORES hand.  MORE jerks it
+     up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever.  A
+     spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the
+     action.  The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of MORES
+     scornful face.
+
+TALL YOUTH.  [Out of murmuring] Shift!  or you'll get it!
+
+A VOICE.  Enough of your ugly mug!
+
+A ROUGH.  Give 'im one!
+
+     Two flung stones strike MORE.  He staggers and nearly falls,
+     then rights himself.
+
+A GIRL'S VOICE.  Shame!
+
+FRIENDLY VOICE.  Bravo, More!  Stick to it!
+
+A ROUGH.  Give 'im another!
+
+A VOICE.  No!
+
+A GIRL'S VOICE.  Let 'im alone!  Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun!
+
+     Still looking up at MORE, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy
+     silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet.  Then the BIG
+     NAVVY in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge
+     of the crowd.
+
+THE NAVVY.  Let 'im be!
+
+     With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd
+     breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is
+     nearly empty.
+
+MORE.  [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting
+his coat]  Well, Steel!
+
+     And followed by STEEL, he descends the steps and moves away.
+     Two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass.  One of them
+     stops and makes a note.
+
+
+                         THE CURTAIN FALLS.
+
+
+
+
+SCENE II
+
+The window-end of KATHERINE'S bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured
+wood.  The light from four candles is falling on KATHERINE, who is
+sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table,
+brushing her hair.  A door, on the left, stands ajar.  An oak chair
+against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other
+furniture.  Through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist
+is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs
+show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky.  As the curtain rises,
+KATHERINE, with brush arrested, is listening.  She begins again
+brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a
+drawer of her dressing-table, reads.  Through the just open door
+behind her comes the voice of OLIVE.
+
+OLIVE.  Mummy!  I'm awake!
+
+     But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in
+     her nightgown.
+
+OLIVE.  [At KATHERINE'S elbow--examining her watch on its stand] It's
+fourteen minutes to eleven.
+
+KATHERINE.  Olive, Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  I just wanted to see the time.  I never can go to sleep if I
+try--it's quite helpless, you know.  Is there a victory yet?
+[KATHERINE, shakes her head] Oh!  I prayed extra special for one in
+the evening papers.  [Straying round her mother]  Hasn't Daddy come?
+
+KATHERINE.  Not yet.
+
+OLIVE.  Are you waiting for him?  [Burying her face in her mother's
+hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy.  It's particular to-night.
+
+     KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm.
+
+OLIVE.  How long has Daddy been away?
+
+KATHERINE.  Six weeks.
+
+OLIVE.  It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it?  Has he been
+making speeches all the time?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  To-night, too?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  The night that man was here whose head's too bald for
+anything--oh!  Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so
+termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind.  It broke a
+wine-glass.  His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they!
+
+KATHERINE.  Very.
+
+OLIVE.  It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know.
+
+KATHERINE.  Talking to the wind is an expression, Olive.
+
+OLIVE.  Does Daddy often?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, nowadays.
+
+OLIVE.  What does it mean?
+
+KATHERINE.  Speaking to people who won't listen.
+
+OLIVE.  What do they do, then?
+
+KATHERINE.  Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd
+comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things,
+and hoot.
+
+OLIVE.  Poor Daddy!  Is it people on our side who throw things?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, but only rough people.
+
+OLIVE.  Why does he go on doing it?  I shouldn't.
+
+KATHERINE.  He thinks it is his duty.
+
+OLIVE.  To your neighbour, or only to God?
+
+KATHERINE.  To both.
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  Are those his letters?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  [Reading from the letter]  "My dear Heart."  Does he always
+call you his dear heart, Mummy?  It's rather jolly, isn't it?
+"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night.  For a few
+hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are
+the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Putting away the letters]  Come, Olive!
+
+OLIVE.  But what are they?
+
+KATHERINE.  Daddy means that he's been very unhappy.
+
+OLIVE.  Have you, too?
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  [Cheerfully]  So have I.  May I open the window?
+
+KATHERINE.  No; you'll let the mist in.
+
+OLIVE.  Isn't it a funny mist-all flat!
+
+KATHERINE.  Now, come along, frog!
+
+OLIVE.  [Making time]  Mummy, when is Uncle Hubert coming back?
+
+KATHERINE.  We don't know, dear.
+
+OLIVE.  I suppose Auntie Helen'll stay with us till he does.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes.
+
+OLIVE.  That's something, isn't it?
+
+KATHERINE.  [Picking her up]  Now then!
+
+OLIVE.  [Deliciously limp]  Had I better put in the duty to your
+neighbour if there isn't a victory soon?  [As they pass through the
+door]  You're tickling under my knee!  [Little gurgles of pleasure
+follow.  Then silence.  Then a drowsy voice] I must keep awake for
+Daddy.
+
+     KATHERINE comes back.  She is about to leave the door a little
+     open, when she hears a knock on the other door.  It is opened a
+     few inches, and NURSE'S voice says: "Can I come in, Ma'am?" The
+     NURSE comes in.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Shutting OLIVE's door, and going up to her]  What is it,
+Nurse?
+
+NURSE.  [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning to--I'll never do
+it in the daytime.  I'm giving you notice.
+
+KATHERINE.  Nurse!  You too!
+
+     She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay.  The NURSE smudges a
+     slow tear away from her cheek.
+
+NURSE.  I want to go right away at once.
+
+KATHERINE.  Leave Olive!  That is the sins of the fathers with a
+vengeance.
+
+NURSE.  I've had another letter from my son.  No, Miss Katherine,
+while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish
+creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back.
+
+KATHERINE.  But, Nurse----!
+
+NURSE.  It's not like them  [With an ineffable gesture]  downstairs,
+because I'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke
+again, or mind what the boys in the street say.  I should think not--
+no!  It's my heart.  I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and
+him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water
+that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day
+one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself
+perhaps.  If anything were to 'appen to him.  I'd never forgive
+meself--here.  Ah!  Miss Katherine, I wonder how you bear it--bad
+news comin' every day--And Sir John's face so sad--And all the time
+the master speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself.
+
+KATHERINE.  But, Nurse, how can you leave us, you?
+
+NURSE.  [Smudging at her cheeks]  There's that tells me it's
+encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; and Mr. More coming
+back to-night.  You can't serve God and Mammon, the Bible says.
+
+KATHERINE.  Don't you know what it's costing him?
+
+NURSE.  Ah!  Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than
+that it'll cost him, to go against the country.
+
+KATHERINE.  He's following his conscience.
+
+NURSE.  And others must follow theirs, too.  No, Miss Katherine, for
+you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your
+father fair wasting away with grief.  Sufferin' too as you've been
+these three months past.  What'll you feel if anything happens to my
+three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed
+myself, when your precious mother couldn't?  What would she have said
+--with you in the camp of his enemies?
+
+KATHERINE.  Nurse, Nurse!
+
+NURSE.  In my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and
+makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war
+lasts, there's our blood on this house.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Turning away] Nurse, I can't--I won't listen.
+
+NURSE.  [Looking at her intently]  Ah!  You'll move him to leave off!
+I see your heart, my dear.  But if you don't, then go I must!
+
+     She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room,
+     opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the
+     words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door.
+
+     KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and
+     smooths her lips and eyes.  The door from the corridor is
+     opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit!  You're not in bed?"
+
+KATHERINE.  No.
+
+     HELEN too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her
+     head.  Her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into
+     KATHERINE's arms.
+
+KATHERINE.  My dear, what is it?
+
+HELEN.  I've seen--a vision!
+
+KATHERINE.  Hssh!  You'll wake Olive!
+
+HELEN.  [Staring before her]  I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a
+plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog.  And on it
+there were--dark things.  One grew into a body without a head, and a
+gun by its side.  And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a
+wounded leg.  He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford.  And then
+I saw--Hubert.  His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound,
+an awful wound here [She touches her breast].  The blood was running
+from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh!  Kit--by kissing it [She
+pauses, stifled by emotion].  Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say
+vultures didn't touch live bodies.  And there came a voice, from
+somewhere, calling out: "Oh!  God! I'm dying!"  And Wreford began to
+swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor
+fellow be!"  But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out:
+"I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!"  And Wreford
+dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man
+who's going to kill.
+
+KATHERINE.  My dear!  HOW ghastly!
+
+HELEN.  Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead
+man's gun.  Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along,
+so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him,
+Wreford fired at the man who was crying.  And Hubert called out: "You
+brute!" and fell right down.  And when Wreford saw him lying there,
+he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred.  Then it all got
+black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to
+the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it
+touched him, and sprang away.  And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing
+out at the mist]  Look!  Out there!  The dark things!
+
+KATHERINE.  [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes!  You must
+have been looking at the mist.
+
+HELEN.  [Strangely calm]  He's dead!
+
+KATHERINE.  It was only a dream.
+
+HELEN.  You didn't hear that cry.  [She listens]  That's Stephen.
+Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help
+coming.
+
+     She goes out, KATHERINE, into whom her emotion seems to have
+     passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans
+     out.  MORE comes in.
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+     Catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes quickly to
+     her.
+
+KATHERINE.  Ah!  [She has mastered her emotion.]
+
+MORE.  Let me look at you!
+
+     He draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long
+     at her.
+
+MORE.  What have you done to your hair?
+
+KATHERINE.  Nothing.
+
+MORE.  It's wonderful to-night.
+
+     [He takes it greedily and buries his face in it.]
+
+KATHERINE.  [Drawing her hair away]  Well?
+
+MORE.  At last!
+
+KATHERINE.  [Pointing to OLIVE's room] Hssh!
+
+MORE.  How is she?
+
+KATHERINE.  All right.
+
+MORE.  And you?
+
+     [KATHERINE shrugs her shoulders.]
+
+MORE.  Six weeks!
+
+KATHERINE.  Why have you come?
+
+MORE.  Why!
+
+KATHERINE.  You begin again the day after tomorrow.  Was it worth
+while?
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  It makes it harder for me, that's all.
+
+MORE.  [Staring at her]  What's come to you?
+
+KATHERINE.  Six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your
+meetings.
+
+MORE.  Put that away to-night.  [He touches her]  This is what
+travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Suddenly noticing the cut on his forehead]  Your
+forehead!  It's cut.
+
+MORE.  It's nothing.
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh!  Let me bathe it!
+
+MORE.  No, dear!  It's all right.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Turning away]  Helen has just been telling me a dream
+she's had of Hubert's death.
+
+MORE.  Poor child!
+
+KATHERINE.  Dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide oneself--there's
+been nothing else to do.  Nothing, Stephen--nothing!
+
+MORE.  Hide?  Because of me?
+
+     [KATHERINE nods.]
+
+MORE.  [With a movement of distress] I see.  I thought from your
+letters you were coming to feel----.  Kit!  You look so lovely!
+
+     [Suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes quickly to her.]
+
+MORE.  My dear, don't cry!  God knows I don't want to make things
+worse for you.  I'll go away.
+
+     She draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her,
+     he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the
+     brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words.
+
+MORE.  Never look forward.  After the time I've had--I thought--
+tonight--it would be summer--I thought it would be you--and
+everything!
+
+     While he is speaking KATHERINE has stolen closer.  She suddenly
+     drops on her knees by his side and wraps his hand in her hair.
+     He turns and clasps her.
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  Ah! yes!  But-to-morrow it begins again.  Oh! Stephen!
+How long--how long am I to be torn in two?  [Drawing back in his
+arms] I can't--can't bear it.
+
+MORE.  My darling!
+
+KATHERINE.  Give it up!  For my sake!  Give it up!  [Pressing closer
+to him] It shall be me--and everything----
+
+MORE.  God!
+
+KATHERINE.  It shall be--if--if----
+
+MORE.  [Aghast] You're not making terms?  Bargaining?  For God's
+sake, Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  For God's sake, Stephen!
+
+MORE.  You!--of all people--you!
+
+KATHERINE.  Stephen!
+
+     [For a moment MORE yields utterly, then shrinks back.]
+
+MORE.  A bargain!  It's selling my soul!
+
+     He struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands without
+     speaking, staring at her, and wiping the sweat from his
+     forehead.  KATHERINE remains some seconds on her knees, gazing
+     up at him, not realizing.  Then her head droops; she too gets up
+     and stands apart, with her wrapper drawn close round her.  It is
+     as if a cold and deadly shame had come to them both.  Quite
+     suddenly MORE turns, and, without looking back, feebly makes his
+     way out of the room.  When he is gone KATHERINE drops on her
+     knees and remains there motionless, huddled in her hair.
+
+
+                              THE CURTAIN FALLS
+
+
+
+
+
+ACT IV
+
+     It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of
+     MORE's house.  The windows are closed, but curtains are not
+     drawn.  STEEL is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from
+     MORE's dictation.
+
+STEEL.  [Reading over the letter]  "No doubt we shall have trouble.
+But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the
+hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open.  Let bills be got out, and
+an audience will collect in any case."
+
+MORE.  They will.
+
+STEEL.  "Yours truly"; I've signed for you.
+
+     [MORE nods.]
+
+STEEL.  [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know the servants
+have all given notice--except Henry.
+
+MORE.  Poor Henry!
+
+STEEL.  It's partly nerves, of course--the windows have been broken
+twice--but it's partly----
+
+MORE.  Patriotism.  Quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves.
+That reminds me--to-morrow you begin holiday, Steel.
+
+STEEL.  Oh, no!
+
+MORE.  My dear fellow--yes.  Last night ended your sulphur cure.
+Truly sorry ever to have let you in for it.
+
+STEEL.  Some one must do the work.  You're half dead as it is.
+
+MORE.  There's lots of kick in me.
+
+STEEL.  Give it up, sir.  The odds are too great.  It isn't worth it.
+
+MORE.  To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten--is anything
+better worth it?
+
+STEEL.  Well, then, I'm not going.
+
+MORE.  This is my private hell, Steel; you don't roast in it any
+longer.  Believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but
+yourself.
+
+STEEL.  I can't leave you, sir.
+
+MORE.  My dear boy, you're a brick--but we've got off by a miracle so
+far, and I can't have the responsibility of you any longer.  Hand me
+over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting.
+
+STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them.
+
+MORE.  Come!  [He stretches out his hand for the papers.  As STEEL
+still draws back, he says more sharply]  Give them to me, Steel!
+[STEEL hands them over]  Now, that ends it, d'you see?
+
+     They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset,
+     turns and goes out of the room.  MORE, who has watched him with
+     a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case.  As he is
+     closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr.
+     Mendip, sir."  MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws.  MORE
+     turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand.
+
+MENDIP.  [Taking MORE'S hand] Give me credit for a little philosophy,
+my friend.  Mrs. More told me you'd be back to-day.  Have you heard?
+
+MORE.  What?
+
+MENDIP.  There's been a victory.
+
+MORE.  Thank God!
+
+MENDIP.  Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood.
+
+MORE.  Yes!
+
+MENDIP.  Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen.  You're only flouting
+human nature.
+
+MORE.  So--even you defend the mob!
+
+MENDIP.  My dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common
+instinct in the world.  What do you expect?  That the man in the
+street should be a Quixote?  That his love of country should express
+itself in philosophic altruism?  What on earth do you expect?  Men
+are very simple creatures; and Mob is just conglomerate essence of
+simple men.
+
+MORE.  Conglomerate excrescence.  Mud of street and market-place
+gathered in a torrent--This blind howling "patriotism"--what each man
+feels in here?  [He touches his breast]  No!
+
+MENDIP.  You think men go beyond instinct--they don't.  All they know
+is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call
+country.  They just feel something big and religious, and go it
+blind.
+
+MORE.  This used to be the country of free speech.  It used to be the
+country where a man was expected to hold to his faith.
+
+MENDIP.  There are limits to human nature, Stephen.
+
+MORE.  Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack.  Still
+your advice, is it?
+
+MENDIP.  My advice is: Get out of town at once.  The torrent you
+speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out.  Come, my
+dear fellow, don't stay here!
+
+MORE.  Thanks!  I'll see that Katherine and Olive go.
+
+MENDIP.  Go with them!  If your cause is lost, that's no reason why
+you should be.
+
+MORE.  There's the comfort of not running away.  And--I want comfort.
+
+MENDIP.  This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish--foolish.  Well!  I'm
+going to the House.  This way?
+
+MORE.  Down the steps, and through the gate.  Good-bye?
+
+     KATHERINE has come in followed by NURSE, hatted and cloaked,
+     with a small bag in her hand.  KATHERINE takes from the bureau a
+     cheque which she hands to the NURSE.  MORE comes in from the
+     terrace.
+
+MORE.  You're wise to go, Nurse.
+
+NURSE.  You've treated my poor dear badly, sir.  Where's your heart?
+
+MORE.  In full use.
+
+NURSE.  On those heathens.  Don't your own hearth and home come
+first?  Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father
+fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country.  A bitter
+thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by
+the boys in the street.
+
+     [MORE stands silent under this attack, looking at his wife.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Nurse!
+
+NURSE.  It's unnatural, sir--what you're doing!  To think more of
+those savages than of your own wife!  Look at her!  Did you ever see
+her look like that?  Take care, sir, before it's too late!
+
+MORE.  Enough, please!
+
+     NURSE stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at KATHERINE;
+     then goes.
+
+MORE.  [Quietly] There has been a victory.
+
+     [He goes out.  KATHERINE is breathing fast, listening to the
+     distant hum and stir rising in the street.  She runs to the
+     window as the footman, HENRY, entering, says: "Sir John Julian,
+     Ma'am!" SIR JOHN comes in, a newspaper in his hand.]
+
+KATHERINE.  At last!  A victory!
+
+SIR JOHN.  Thank God!  [He hands her the paper.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Oh, Dad!
+
+     [She tears the paper open, and feverishly reads.]
+
+KATHERINE.  At last!
+
+     The distant hum in the street is rising steadily.  But SIR JOHN,
+     after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper,
+     stares dumbly at the floor.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Suddenly conscious of his gravity]  Father!
+
+SIR JOHN.  There is other news.
+
+KATHERINE.  One of the boys?  Hubert?
+
+     [SIR JOHN bows his head.]
+
+KATHERINE.  Killed?
+
+     [SIR JOHN again bows his head.]
+
+KATHERINE.  The dream!  [She covers her face]  Poor Helen!
+
+     They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his
+     head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [Huskily]  Whom the gods love----
+
+KATHERINE.  Hubert!
+
+SIR JOHN.  And hulks like me go on living!
+
+KATHERINE.  Dear Dad!
+
+SIR JOHN.  But we shall drive the ruffians now!  We shall break them.
+Stephen back?
+
+KATHERINE.  Last night.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last?
+[KATHERINE shakes her head]  Not?
+
+     [Then, seeing that KATHERINE is quivering with emotion, he `
+     strokes her hand.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  My dear!  Death is in many houses!
+
+KATHERINE.  I must go to Helen.  Tell Stephen, Father.  I can't.
+
+SIR JOHN.  If you wish, child.
+
+     [She goes out, leaving SIR JOHN to his grave, puzzled grief, and
+     in a few seconds MORE comes in.]
+
+MORE.  Yes, Sir John.  You wanted me?
+
+SIR JOHN.  Hubert is killed.
+
+MORE.  Hubert!
+
+SIR JOHN.  By these--whom you uphold.  Katherine asked me to let you
+know.  She's gone to Helen.  I understand you only came back last
+night from your----No word I can use would give what I feel about
+that.  I don't know how things stand now between you and Katherine;
+but I tell you this, Stephen: you've tried her these last two months
+beyond what any woman ought to bear!
+
+     [MORE makes a gesture of pain.]
+
+SIR JOHN.  When you chose your course----
+
+MORE.  Chose!
+
+SIR JOHN.  You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her.
+You knew this might come.  It may come again with another of my sons
+
+MORE.  I would willingly change places with any one of them.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Yes--I can believe in your unhappiness.  I cannot conceive
+of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country.  If I
+could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price--no, nor
+all my sons.  'Pro patri mori'--My boy, at all events, is happy!
+
+MORE.  Yes!
+
+SIR JOHN.  Yet you can go on doing what you are!  What devil of pride
+has got into you, Stephen?
+
+MORE.  Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private
+fighting out there?  Not for a minute.
+
+SIR JOHN.  I don't understand you.  I always thought you devoted to
+Katherine.
+
+MORE.  Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and
+child?
+
+SIR JOHN.  I do.
+
+MORE.  So do I.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [Bewildered]  Whatever my country does or leaves undone, I
+no more presume to judge her than I presume to judge my God.  [With
+all the exaltation of the suffering he has undergone for her]  My
+country!
+
+MORE.  I would give all I have--for that creed.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [Puzzled]  Stephen, I've never looked on you as a crank;
+I always believed you sane and honest.  But this is--visionary mania.
+
+MORE.  Vision of what might be.
+
+SIR JOHN.  Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation--
+the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them?  I've
+known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country.
+
+MORE.  Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me!
+To see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if I
+were a wall!  To dread the post!  To go to bed every night with the
+sound of hooting in my ears!  To know that my name is never referred
+to without contempt----
+
+SIR JOHN.  You have your new friends.  Plenty of them, I understand.
+
+MORE.  Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night?  Your
+battles are fool's play to it.
+
+     The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder.
+     SIR JOHN turns his head towards it.
+
+SIR JOHN.  You've heard there's been a victory.  Do you carry your
+unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that?  [MORE shakes his
+head]  That's something!  For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's
+gone past mending.  Don't ruin your life with Katherine.  Hubert was
+her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him.  Think
+what that means to her!  Drop this--mad Quixotism--idealism--whatever
+you call it.  Take Katherine away.  Leave the country till the
+thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and--
+traducing.  Take her away!  Come!  What good are you doing?  What
+earthly good?  Come, my boy!  Before you're utterly undone.
+
+MORE.  Sir John!  Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's
+in them!  I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--Am
+I to slink away?  Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds
+who've thanked me for taking this stand.  They look on me now as
+their leader.  Am I to desert them?  When you led your forlorn hope--
+did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come
+through alive?  It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are
+following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred--
+not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time.
+
+SIR JOHN.  [After a long stare]  I give you credit for believing what
+you say.  But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--I'm too
+old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's
+love.  By God!  This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks
+and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of
+your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much
+the better for you.  But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection--
+alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter
+ruin and destruction--as it must--I shall not pity--I cannot pity
+you.  Good-night!
+
+     He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out.  MORE is left
+     standing perfectly still.  The stir and murmur of the street is
+     growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his
+     consciousness.  He goes to the bay window and looks out; then
+     rings the bell.  It is not answered, and, after turning up the
+     lights, he rings again.  KATHERINE comes in.  She is wearing a
+     black hat, and black outdoor coat.  She speaks coldly without
+     looking up.
+
+KATHERINE.  You rang!
+
+MORE.  For them to shut this room up.
+
+KATHERINE.  The servants have gone out.  They're afraid of the house
+being set on fire.
+
+MORE.  I see.
+
+KATHERINE.  They have not your ideals to sustain them.  [MORE winces]
+I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's.
+
+MORE.  [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words]  Good!  You
+prefer that to an hotel?  [KATHERINE nods.   Gently] Will you let me
+say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you--Hubert's----
+
+KATHERINE.  Don't.  I ought to have made what I meant plainer.  I am
+not coming back.
+
+MORE.  Not?  Not while the house----
+
+KATHERINE.  Not--at all.
+
+MORE.  Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  I warned you from the first.  You've gone too far!
+
+MORE.  [Terribly moved]  Do you understand what this means?  After
+ten years--and all--our love!
+
+KATHERINE.  Was it love?  How could you ever have loved one so
+unheroic as myself!
+
+MORE.  This is madness, Kit--Kit!
+
+KATHERINE.  Last night I was ready.  You couldn't.  If you couldn't
+then, you never can.  You are very exalted, Stephen.  I don't like
+living--I won't live, with one whose equal I am not.  This has been
+coming ever since you made that speech.  I told you that night what
+the end would be.
+
+MORE.  [Trying to put his arms round her]  Don't be so terribly
+cruel!
+
+KATHERINE.  No!  Let's have the truth!  People so wide apart don't
+love!  Let me go!
+
+MORE.  In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths?
+
+KATHERINE.  Last night you used the word--bargain.  Quite right.  I
+meant to buy you.  I meant to kill your faith.  You showed me what I
+was doing.  I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains,
+Stephen.
+
+MORE.  God knows--I never meant----
+
+KATHERINE.  If I'm not yours in spirit--I don't choose to be your--
+mistress.
+
+     MORE, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an
+     attitude of defence.
+
+KATHERINE.  Yes, that's cruel!  It shows the heights you live on.  I
+won't drag you down.
+
+MORE.  For God's sake, put your pride away, and see!  I'm fighting
+for the faith that's in me.  What else can a man do?  What else?  Ah!
+Kit!  Do see!
+
+KATHERINE.  I'm strangled here!  Doing nothing--sitting silent--when
+my brothers are fighting, and being killed.  I shall try to go out
+nursing.  Helen will come with me.  I have my faith, too; my poor
+common love of country.  I can't stay here with you.  I spent last
+night on the floor--thinking--and I know!
+
+MORE.  And Olive?
+
+KATHERINE.  I shall leave her at Father's, with Nurse; unless you
+forbid me to take her.  You can.
+
+MORE.  [Icily]  That I shall not do--you know very well.  You are
+free to go, and to take her.
+
+KATHERINE.  [Very low]  Thank you!  [Suddenly she turns to him, and
+draws his eyes on her.  Without a sound, she puts her whole strength
+into that look]  Stephen!  Give it up!  Come down to me!
+
+     The festive sounds from the street grow louder.  There can be
+     heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds
+     of joy.
+
+MORE.  And drown in--that?
+
+KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door.  There she stands and again
+looks at him.  Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents
+of her emotions.
+
+MORE.  So--you're going?
+
+KATHERINE.  [In a whisper]  Yes.
+
+     She bends her head, opens the door, and goes.  MORE starts
+     forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the
+     doorway.  She has on a straight little white coat and a round
+     white cap.
+
+OLIVE.  Aren't you coming with us, Daddy?
+
+     [MORE shakes his head.]
+
+OLIVE.  Why not?
+
+MORE.  Never mind, my dicky bird.
+
+OLIVE.  The motor'll have to go very slow.  There are such a lot of
+people in the street.  Are you staying to stop them setting the house
+on fire?  [MORE nods]  May I stay a little, too?  [MORE shakes his
+head]  Why?
+
+MORE.  [Putting his hand on her head]  Go along, my pretty!
+
+OLIVE.  Oh!  love me up, Daddy!
+
+     [MORE takes and loves her up]
+
+OLIVE.  Oo-o!
+
+MORE.  Trot, my soul!
+
+     [She goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and vanishes.]
+
+     MORE follows her to the door, but stops there.  Then, as full
+     realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window,
+     craning his head to catch sight of the front door.  There is the
+     sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its
+     horn as it makes its way among the crowd.  He turns from the
+     window.
+
+MORE.  Alone as the last man on earth!
+
+     [Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the
+     street.]
+
+VOICE.  There 'e is!  That's 'im!  More!  Traitor!  More!
+
+     A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins
+     to rattle against the glass of the window.  Many voices take up
+     the groaning: "More!  Traitor!  Black-leg!  More!"  And through
+     the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese
+     lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos.  The din of execration
+     swells.  MORE stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab.
+     Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of
+     the panes.  It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a
+     hearty groan.  A second stone crashes through the glass.  MORE
+     turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the
+     street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his
+     face.  Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he
+     moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head
+     droop.  The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes
+     through.  MORE raises his head again, and, clasping his hands,
+     looks straight before him.  The footman, HENRY, entering,
+     hastens to the French windows.
+
+MORE.  Ah!  Henry, I thought you'd gone.
+
+FOOTMAN.  I came back, sir.
+
+MORE.  Good fellow!
+
+FOOTMAN.  They're trying to force the terrace gate, sir.  They've no
+business coming on to private property--no matter what!
+
+     In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows
+     fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the
+     terrace, and no more seen.  The MOB is a mixed crowd of
+     revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and
+     girls, and a Boy Scout or two.  Many have exchanged hats--Some
+     wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles.
+     Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside
+     on the terrace.  The medley of noises is very great.  Such
+     ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS,
+     the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an
+     athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and
+     heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge
+     arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion.  When the
+     first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To
+     him, boys!  Chair the hero!"  THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive
+     MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round
+     the room.  When they have twice circled the table to the music
+     of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF
+     THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him
+     down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and
+     stand gaping up at him.
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Speech!  Speech!
+
+     [The noise ebbs, and MORE looks round him.]
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Now then, you, sir.
+
+MORE.  [In a quiet voice]  Very well.  You are here by the law that
+governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force.  By that law, you
+can do what you like to this body of mine.
+
+A VOICE.  And we will, too.
+
+MORE.  I don't doubt it.  But before that, I've a word to say.
+
+A VOICE.  You've always that.
+
+     [ANOTHER VOICE raises a donkey's braying.]
+
+MORE.  You--Mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun.  When
+you walk the street--God goes in.
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Be careful, you--sir.
+
+VOICES.  Down him!  Down with the beggar!
+
+MORE.  [Above the murmurs]  My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you.
+You've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak.
+Put up with the truth for once!  [His words rush out]  You are the
+thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech.  This
+to-day, and that to-morrow.  Brain--you have none.  Spirit--not the
+ghost of it!  If you're not meanness, there's no such thing.  If
+you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the growing
+fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism--there are two kinds--that of
+our soldiers, and this of mine.  You have neither!
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  [Checking a dangerous rush]  Hold on!  Hold on!  [To
+MORE] Swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: Swear
+it!
+
+CROWD.  Ah!  Ay!  Ah!
+
+MORE.  My country is not yours.  Mine is that great country which
+shall never take toll from the weakness of others.  [Above the
+groaning] Ah!  you can break my head and my windows; but don't think
+that you can break my faith.  You could never break or shake it, if
+you were a million to one.
+
+     A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the
+     crowd and shakes her fist at him.
+
+GIRL.  You're friends with them that killed my lad!  [MORE smiles
+down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a Boy
+Scout beside her]  Smile, you--cur!
+
+     A violent rush and heave from behind flings MORE forward on to
+     the steel.  He reels, staggers back, and falls down amongst the
+     crowd.  A scream, a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries.  The CHIEF
+     STUDENT shouts above the riot: "Steady!"  Another: "My God!
+     He's got it!"
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  Give him air!
+
+     The crowd falls back, and two STUDENTS, bending over MORE, lift
+     his arms and head, but they fall like lead.  Desperately they
+     test him for life.
+
+CHIEF STUDENT.  By the Lord, it's over!
+
+     Then begins a scared swaying out towards the window.  Some one
+     turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts
+     away.  The body of MORE lies in the gleam from a single Chinese
+     lantern.  Muttering the words: "Poor devil!  He kept his end up
+     anyway!" the CHIEF STUDENT picks from the floor a little
+     abandoned Union Jack and lays it on MORE's breast.  Then he,
+     too, turns, and rushes out.
+
+     And the body of MORE lies in the streak of light; and flee
+     noises in the street continue to rise.
+
+
+          THE CURTAIN FALLS, BUT RISES AGAIN ALMOST AT ONCE.
+
+
+
+
+
+                              AFTERMATH
+
+     A late Spring dawn is just breaking.  Against trees in leaf and
+     blossom, with the houses of a London Square beyond, suffused by
+     the spreading glow, is seen a dark life-size statue on a granite
+     pedestal.  In front is the broad, dust-dim pavement.  The light
+     grows till the central words around the pedestal can be clearly
+     read:
+
+                              ERECTED
+                           To the Memory
+                                 of
+                            STEPHEN MORE
+                       "Faithful to his ideal"
+
+High above, the face of MORE looks straight before him with a faint
+smile.  On one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have
+perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and
+singing of birds.
+
+
+                    [THE CURTAIN FALLS.]
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRD SERIES PLAYS BY GALSWORTHY ***
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