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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fanny's First Play, by George Bernard Shaw
+#33 in our series by George Bernard Shaw
+
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+
+Title: Fanny's First Play
+
+Author: George Bernard Shaw
+
+Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5698]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on August 9, 2002]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY'S FIRST PLAY ***
+
+
+
+
+Scanned and proofed by Ron Burkey (rburkey@heads-up.com) and Amy Thomte.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+This text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays
+"Misalliance", "The Dark Lady of the Sonnets", "Fanny's First Play",
+and the essay "A Treatise on Parents and Children".
+
+Notes on the editing:  Italicized text is delimited with underlines
+("_").  Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text.
+Shaw intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard
+system.  For example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe),
+"Dr." is given as "Dr" (without a period at the end), and
+"Shakespeare" is given as "Shakespear" (no "e" at the end).  Where
+several characters in the play are speaking at once, I have indicated
+it with vertical bars ("|").  The pound (currency) symbol has been
+replaced by the word "pounds".
+
+
+
+
+
+FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
+
+BY BERNARD SHAW
+
+1911
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE TO FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
+
+Fanny's First Play, being but a potboiler, needs no preface.  But its
+lesson is not, I am sorry to say, unneeded.  Mere morality, or the
+substitution of custom for conscience was once accounted a shameful
+and cynical thing:  people talked of right and wrong, of honor and
+dishonor, of sin and grace, of salvation and damnation, not of
+morality and immorality.  The word morality, if we met it in the
+Bible, would surprise us as much as the word telephone or motor car.
+Nowadays we do not seem to know that there is any other test of
+conduct except morality; and the result is that the young had better
+have their souls awakened by disgrace, capture by the police, and a
+month's hard labor, than drift along from their cradles to their
+graves doing what other people do for no other reason than that other
+people do it, and knowing nothing of good and evil, of courage and
+cowardice, or indeed anything but how to keep hunger and concupiscence
+and fashionable dressing within the bounds of good taste except when
+their excesses can be concealed.  Is it any wonder that I am driven to
+offer to young people in our suburbs the desperate advice:  Do
+something that will get you into trouble?  But please do not suppose
+that I defend a state of things which makes such advice the best that
+can be given under the circumstances, or that I do not know how
+difficult it is to find out a way of getting into trouble that will
+combine loss of respectability with integrity of self-respect and
+reasonable consideration for other peoples' feelings and interests on
+every point except their dread of losing their own respectability.
+But when there's a will there's a way.  I hate to see dead people
+walking about:  it is unnatural.  And our respectable middle class
+people are all as dead as mutton.  Out of the mouth of Mrs Knox I have
+delivered on them the judgment of her God.
+
+The critics whom I have lampooned in the induction to this play under
+the names of Trotter, Vaughan, and Gunn will forgive me:  in fact Mr
+Trotter forgave me beforehand, and assisted the make-up by which Mr
+Claude King so successfully simulated his personal appearance.  The
+critics whom I did not introduce were somewhat hurt, as I should have
+been myself under the same circumstances; but I had not room for them
+all; so I can only apologize and assure them that I meant no
+disrespect.
+
+The concealment of the authorship, if a _secret de Polichinelle_ can
+be said to involve concealment, was a necessary part of the play.  In
+so far as it was effectual, it operated as a measure of relief to
+those critics and playgoers who are so obsessed by my strained
+legendary reputation that they approach my plays in a condition which
+is really one of derangement, and are quite unable to conceive a play
+of mine as anything but a trap baited with paradoxes, and designed to
+compass their ethical perversion and intellectual confusion.  If it
+were possible, I should put forward all my plays anonymously, or hire
+some less disturbing person, as Bacon is said to have hired
+Shakespear, to father my plays for me.
+
+Fanny's First Play was performed for the first time at the Little
+Theatre in the Adelphi, London, on the afternoon of Wednesday, April
+19th 1911.
+
+
+
+
+FANNY'S FIRST PLAY
+
+
+
+INDUCTION
+_The end of a saloon in an old-fashioned country house (Florence
+Towers, the property of Count O'Dowda) has been curtained off to form
+a stage for a private theatrical performance.  A footman in grandiose
+Spanish livery enters before the curtain, on its O.P. side._
+
+FOOTMAN.  [announcing]  Mr Cecil Savoyard.  [Cecil Savoyard comes
+in:  a middle-aged man in evening dress and a fur-lined overcoat.  He
+is surprised to find nobody to receive him.  So is the Footman].  Oh,
+beg pardon, sir:  I thought the Count was here.  He was when I took up
+your name.  He must have gone through the stage into the library.
+This way, sir.  [He moves towards the division in the middle of the
+curtains].
+
+SAVOYARD.  Half a mo.  [The Footman stops].  When does the play
+begin?  Half-past eight?
+
+FOOTMAN.  Nine, sir.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Oh, good.  Well, will you telephone to my wife at the
+George that it's not until nine?
+
+FOOTMAN.  Right, sir.  Mrs Cecil Savoyard, sir?
+
+SAVOYARD.  No:  Mrs William Tinkler.  Dont forget.
+
+THE FOOTMAN.  Mrs Tinkler, sir.  Right, sir.  [The Count comes in
+through the curtains].  Here is the Count, sir.  [Announcing]  Mr
+Cecil Savoyard, sir.  [He withdraws].
+
+COUNT O'DOWDA.  [A handsome man of fifty, dressed with studied
+elegance a hundred years out of date, advancing cordially to shake
+hands with his visitor]  Pray excuse me, Mr Savoyard.  I suddenly
+recollected that all the bookcases in the library were locked--in fact
+theyve never been opened since we came from Venice--and as our
+literary guests will probably use the library a good deal, I just ran
+in to unlock everything.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Oh, you mean the dramatic critics.  M'yes.  I suppose
+theres a smoking room?
+
+THE COUNT.  My study is available.  An old-fashioned house, you
+understand.  Wont you sit down, Mr Savoyard?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Thanks.  [They sit.  Savoyard, looking at his host's
+obsolete costume, continues]  I had no idea you were going to appear
+in the piece yourself.
+
+THE COUNT.  I am not.  I wear this costume because--well, perhaps I
+had better explain the position, if it interests you.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Certainly.
+
+THE COUNT.  Well, you see, Mr Savoyard, I'm rather a stranger in your
+world.  I am not, I hope, a modern man in any sense of the word.  I'm
+not really an Englishman:  my family is Irish:  Ive lived all my life
+in Italy--in Venice mostly--my very title is a foreign one:  I am a
+Count of the Holy Roman Empire.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Where's that?
+
+THE COUNT.  At present, nowhere, except as a memory and an ideal.
+[Savoyard inclines his head respectfully to the ideal].  But I am by
+no means an idealogue.  I am not content with beautiful dreams:  I
+want beautiful realities.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Hear, hear!  I'm all with you there--when you can get them.
+
+THE COUNT.  Why not get them?  The difficulty is not that there are no
+beautiful realities, Mr Savoyard:  the difficulty is that so few of us
+know them when we see them.  We have inherited from the past a vast
+treasure of beauty--of imperishable masterpieces of poetry, of
+painting, of sculpture, of architecture, of music, of exquisite
+fashions in dress, in furniture, in domestic decoration.  We can
+contemplate these treasures.  We can reproduce many of them.  We can
+buy a few inimitable originals.  We can shut out the nineteenth
+century--
+
+SAVOYARD.  [correcting him]  The twentieth.
+
+THE COUNT.  To me the century I shut out will always be the nineteenth
+century, just as your national anthem will always be God Save the
+Queen, no matter how many kings may succeed.  I found England befouled
+with industrialism:  well, I did what Byron did:  I simply refused to
+live in it.  You remember Byron's words:  "I am sure my bones would
+not rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that
+country.  I believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed
+could I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey
+my carcase back to her soil.  I would not even feed her worms if I
+could help it."
+
+SAVOYARD.  Did Byron say that?
+
+THE COUNT.  He did, sir.
+
+SAVOYARD.  It dont sound like him.  I saw a good deal of him at one
+time.
+
+THE COUNT.  You!  But how is that possible?  You are too young.
+
+SAVOYARD.  I was quite a lad, of course.  But I had a job in the
+original production of Our Boys.
+
+THE COUNT.  My dear sir, not that Byron.  Lord Byron, the poet.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Oh, I beg your pardon.  I thought you were talking of the
+Byron.  So you prefer living abroad?
+
+THE COUNT.  I find England ugly and Philistine.  Well, I dont live in
+it.  I find modern houses ugly.  I dont live in them:  I have a palace
+on the grand canal.  I find modern clothes prosaic.  I dont wear them,
+except, of course, in the street.  My ears are offended by the Cockney
+twang:  I keep out of hearing of it and speak and listen to Italian.
+I find Beethoven's music coarse and restless, and Wagner's senseless
+and detestable.  I do not listen to them.  I listen to Cimarosa, to
+Pergolesi, to Gluck and Mozart.  Nothing simpler, sir.
+
+SAVOYARD.  It's all right when you can afford it.
+
+THE COUNT.  Afford it!  My dear Mr Savoyard, if you are a man with a
+sense of beauty you can make an earthly paradise for yourself in
+Venice on 1500 pounds a year, whilst our wretched vulgar industrial
+millionaires are spending twenty thousand on the amusements of
+billiard markers.  I assure you I am a poor man according to modern
+ideas.  But I have never had anything less than the very best that
+life has produced.  It is my good fortune to have a beautiful and
+lovable daughter; and that girl, sir, has never seen an ugly sight or
+heard an ugly sound that I could spare her; and she has certainly
+never worn an ugly dress or tasted coarse food or bad wine in her
+life.  She has lived in a palace; and her perambulator was a gondola.
+Now you know the sort of people we are, Mr Savoyard.  You can imagine
+how we feel here.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Rather out of it, eh?
+
+THE COUNT.  Out of it, sir!  Out of what?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Well, out of everything.
+
+THE COUNT.  Out of soot and fog and mud and east wind; out of
+vulgarity and ugliness, hypocrisy and greed, superstition and
+stupidity.  Out of all this, and in the sunshine, in the enchanted
+region of which great artists alone have had the secret, in the sacred
+footsteps of Byron, of Shelley, of the Brownings, of Turner and
+Ruskin.  Dont you envy me, Mr Savoyard?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Some of us must live in England, you know, just to keep the
+place going.  Besides--though, mind you, I dont say it isnt all right
+from the high art point of view and all that--three weeks of it would
+drive me melancholy mad.  However, I'm glad you told me, because it
+explains why it is you dont seem to know your way about much in
+England.  I hope, by the way, that everything has given satisfaction
+to your daughter.
+
+THE COUNT.  She seems quite satisfied.  She tells me that the actors
+you sent down are perfectly suited to their parts, and very nice
+people to work with.  I understand she had some difficulties at the
+first rehearsals with the gentleman you call the producer, because he
+hadnt read the play; but the moment he found out what it was all about
+everything went smoothly.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Havnt you seen the rehearsals?
+
+THE COUNT.  Oh no.  I havnt been allowed even to meet any of the
+company.  All I can tell you is that the hero is a Frenchman
+[Savoyard is rather scandalized]:  I asked her not to have an
+English hero.  That is all I know.  [Ruefully]  I havnt been
+consulted even about the costumes, though there, I think, I could have
+been some use.
+
+SAVOYARD.  [puzzled]  But there arnt any costumes.
+
+THE COUNT.  [seriously shocked]  What!  No costumes!  Do you mean to
+say it is a modern play?
+
+SAVOYARD.  I dont know:  I didnt read it.  I handed it to Billy
+Burjoyce--the producer, you know--and left it to him to select the
+company and so on.  But I should have had to order the costumes if
+there had been any.  There wernt.
+
+THE COUNT.  [smiling as he recovers from his alarm]  I understand.
+She has taken the costumes into her own hands.  She is an expert in
+beautiful costumes.  I venture to promise you, Mr Savoyard, that what
+you are about to see will be like a Louis Quatorze ballet painted by
+Watteau.  The heroine will be an exquisite Columbine, her lover a
+dainty Harlequin, her father a picturesque Pantaloon, and the valet
+who hoodwinks the father and brings about the happiness of the lovers
+a grotesque but perfectly tasteful Punchinello or Mascarille or
+Sganarelle.
+
+SAVOYARD.  I see.  That makes three men; and the clown and policeman
+will make five.  Thats why you wanted five men in the company.
+
+THE COUNT.  My dear sir, you dont suppose I mean that vulgar, ugly,
+silly, senseless, malicious and destructive thing, the harlequinade of
+a nineteenth century English Christmas pantomime!  What was it after
+all but a stupid attempt to imitate the success made by the genius of
+Grimaldi a hundred years ago?  My daughter does not know of the
+existence of such a thing.  I refer to the graceful and charming
+fantasies of the Italian and French stages of the seventeenth and
+eighteenth centuries.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Oh, I beg pardon.  I quite agree that harlequinades are
+rot.  Theyve been dropped at all smart theatres.  But from what Billy
+Burjoyce told me I got the idea that your daughter knew her way about
+here, and had seen a lot of plays.  He had no idea she'd been away in
+Venice all the time.
+
+THE COUNT.  Oh, she has not been.  I should have explained that two
+years ago my daughter left me to complete her education at Cambridge.
+Cambridge was my own University; and though of course there were no
+women there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the
+eighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be at
+Cambridge.  About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I
+wished to give her a present on her next birthday.  Of course I said
+yes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that she
+had written a play, and that the present she wanted was a private
+performance of it with real actors and real critics.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Yes:  thats what staggered me.  It was easy enough to
+engage a company for a private performance:  it's done often enough.
+But the notion of having critics was new.  I hardly knew how to set
+about it.  They dont expect private engagements; and so they have no
+agents.  Besides, I didnt know what to offer them.  I knew that they
+were cheaper than actors, because they get long engagements:  forty
+years sometimes; but thats no rule for a single job.  Then theres such
+a lot of them:  on first nights they run away with all your stalls:
+you cant find a decent place for your own mother.  It would have cost
+a fortune to bring the lot.
+
+THE COUNT.  Of course I never dreamt of having them all.  Only a few
+first-rate representative men.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Just so.  All you want is a few sample opinions.  Out of a
+hundred notices you wont find more than four at the outside that say
+anything different.  Well, Ive got just the right four for you.  And
+what do you think it has cost me?
+
+THE COUNT.  [shrugging his shoulders]  I cannot guess.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Ten guineas, and expenses.  I had to give Flawner Bannal
+ten.  He wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty.  I had to give it,
+because if we hadnt had him we might just as well have had nobody at
+all.
+
+THE COUNT.  But what about the others, if Mr Flannel--
+
+SAVOYARD.  [shocked]  Flawner Bannal.
+
+THE COUNT.  --if Mr Bannal got the whole ten?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Oh, I managed that.  As this is a high-class sort of thing,
+the first man I went for was Trotter.
+
+THE COUNT.  Oh indeed.  I am very glad you have secured Mr Trotter.  I
+have read his Playful Impressions.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Well, I was rather in a funk about him.  Hes not exactly
+what I call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off at first.  But
+when I explained and told him your daughter--
+
+THE COUNT.  [interrupting in alarm]  You did not say that the play
+was by her, I hope?
+
+SAVOYARD.  No:  thats been kept a dead secret.  I just said your
+daughter has asked for a real play with a real author and a real
+critic and all the rest of it.  The moment I mentioned the daughter I
+had him.  He has a daughter of his own.  Wouldnt hear of payment!
+Offered to come just to please her!  Quite human.  I was surprised.
+
+THE COUNT.  Extremely kind of him.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as
+the drama:  and you said you thought there would be music.  I told him
+Trotter would feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird.
+Then I thought youd like one of the latest sort:  the chaps that go
+for the newest things and swear theyre oldfashioned.  So I nailed
+Gilbert Gunn.  The four will give you a representative team.  By the
+way [looking at his watch] theyll be here presently.
+
+THE COUNT.  Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hints
+about them that would help me to make a little conversation with them?
+I am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might
+unwittingly say something tactless.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Well, let me see.  As you dont like English people, I dont
+know that youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English:
+never happy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so
+unnecessarily well that everybody there spots him as an Englishman the
+moment he opens his mouth.  Very witty and all that.  Pretends to turn
+up his nose at the theatre and says people make too much fuss about
+art [the Count is extremely indignant].  But thats only his modesty,
+because art is his own line, you understand.  Mind you dont chaff him
+about Aristotle.
+
+THE COUNT.  Why should I chaff him about Aristotle?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Well, I dont know; but its one of the recognized ways of
+chaffing him.  However, youll get on with him all right:  hes a man of
+the world and a man of sense.  The one youll have to be careful about
+is Vaughan.
+
+THE COUNT.  In what way, may I ask?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Well, Vaughan has no sense of humor; and if you joke with
+him he'll think youre insulting him on purpose.  Mind:  it's not that
+he doesnt see a joke:  he does; and it hurts him.  A comedy scene
+makes him sore all over:  he goes away black and blue, and pitches
+into the play for all hes worth.
+
+THE COUNT.  But surely that is a very serious defect in a man of his
+profession?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Yes it is, and no mistake.  But Vaughan is honest, and dont
+care a brass farthing what he says, or whether it pleases anybody or
+not; and you must have one man of that sort to say the things that
+nobody else will say.
+
+THE COUNT.  It seems to me to carry the principle of division of labor
+too far, this keeping of the honesty and the other qualities in
+separate compartments.  What is Mr Gunn's speciality, if I may ask?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Gunn is one of the intellectuals.
+
+THE COUNT.  But arnt they all intellectuals?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Lord! no:  heaven forbid!  You must be careful what you say
+about that:  I shouldnt like anyone to call me an Intellectual:  I
+dont think any Englishman would!  They dont count really, you know;
+but still it's rather the thing to have them.  Gunn is one of the
+young intellectuals:  he writes plays himself.  Hes useful because he
+pitches into the older intellectuals who are standing in his way.  But
+you may take it from me that none of these chaps really matter.
+Flawner Bannal's your man.  Bannal really represents the British
+playgoer.  When he likes a thing, you may take your oath there are a
+hundred thousand people in London thatll like it if they can only be
+got to know about it.  Besides, Bannal's knowledge of the theatre is
+an inside knowledge.  We know him; and he knows us.  He knows the
+ropes:  he knows his way about:  he knows what hes talking about.
+
+THE COUNT.  [with a little sigh]  Age and experience, I suppose?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Age!  I should put him at twenty at the very outside,
+myself.  It's not an old man's job after all, is it?  Bannal may not
+ride the literary high horse like Trotter and the rest; but I'd take
+his opinion before any other in London.  Hes the man in the street;
+and thats what you want.
+
+THE COUNT.  I am almost sorry you didnt give the gentleman his full
+terms.  I should not have grudged the fifty guineas for a sound
+opinion.  He may feel shabbily treated.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Well, let him.  It was a bit of side, his asking fifty.
+After all, what is he?  Only a pressman.  Jolly good business for him
+to earn ten guineas:  hes done the same job often enough for half a
+quid, I expect.
+
+_Fanny O'Dowda comes precipitately through the curtains, excited and
+nervous.  A girl of nineteen in a dress synchronous with her
+father's._
+
+FANNY.  Papa, papa, the critics have come.  And one of them has a
+cocked hat and sword like a--  [she notices Savoyard]  Oh, I beg
+your pardon.
+
+THE COUNT.  This is Mr Savoyard, your impresario, my dear.
+
+FANNY.  [shaking hands]  How do you do?
+
+SAVOYARD.  Pleased to meet you, Miss O'Dowda.  The cocked hat is all
+right.  Trotter is a member of the new Academic Committee.  He induced
+them to go in for a uniform like the French Academy; and I asked him
+to wear it.
+
+THE FOOTMAN.  [announcing]  Mr Trotter, Mr Vaughan, Mr Gunn, Mr
+Flawner Bannal.  [The four critics enter.  Trotter wears a diplomatic
+dress, with sword and three-cornered hat.  His age is about 50.
+Vaughan is 40.  Gunn is 30.  Flawner Bannal is 20 and is quite unlike
+the others.  They can be classed at sight as professional men:  Bannal
+is obviously one of those unemployables of the business class who
+manage to pick up a living by a sort of courage which gives him
+cheerfulness, conviviality, and bounce, and is helped out positively
+by a slight turn for writing, and negatively by a comfortable
+ignorance and lack of intuition which hides from him all the dangers
+and disgraces that keep men of finer perception in check.  The Count
+approaches them hospitably].
+
+SAVOYARD.  Count O'Dowda, gentlemen.  Mr Trotter.
+
+TROTTER.  [looking at the Count's costume]  Have I the pleasure of
+meeting a confrere?
+
+THE COUNT.  No, sir:  I have no right to my costume except the right
+of a lover of the arts to dress myself handsomely.  You are most
+welcome, Mr Trotter.  [Trotter bows in the French manner].
+
+SAVOYARD.  Mr Vaughan.
+
+THE COUNT.  How do you do, Mr Vaughan?
+
+VAUGHAN.  Quite well, thanks.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Mr Gunn.
+
+THE COUNT.  Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Gunn.
+
+GUNN.  Very pleased.
+
+SAVOYARD.  Mr Flawner Bannal.
+
+THE COUNT.  Very kind of you to come, Mr Bannal.
+
+BANNAL.  Dont mention it.
+
+THE COUNT.  Gentlemen, my daughter.  [They all bow].  We are very
+greatly indebted to you, gentlemen, for so kindly indulging her whim.
+[The dressing bell sounds.  The Count looks at his watch].  Ah!  The
+dressing bell, gentlemen.  As our play begins at nine, I have had to
+put forward the dinner hour a little.  May I shew you to your rooms?
+[He goes out, followed by all the men, except Trotter, who, going
+last, is detained by Fanny].
+
+FANNY.  Mr Trotter:  I want to say something to you about this play.
+
+TROTTER.  No:  thats forbidden.  You must not attempt to _souffler_
+the critic.
+
+FANNY.  Oh, I would not for the world try to influence your opinion.
+
+TROTTER.  But you do:  you are influencing me very shockingly.  You
+invite me to this charming house, where I'm about to enjoy a charming
+dinner.  And just before the dinner I'm taken aside by a charming
+young lady to be talked to about the play.  How can you expect me to
+be impartial?  God forbid that I should set up to be a judge, or do
+more than record an impression; but my impressions can be influenced;
+and in this case youre influencing them shamelessly all the time.
+
+FANNY.  Dont make me more nervous than I am already, Mr Trotter.  If
+you knew how I feel!
+
+TROTTER.  Naturally:  your first party:  your first appearance in
+England as hostess.  But youre doing it beautifully.  Dont be afraid.
+Every _nuance_ is perfect.
+
+FANNY.  It's so kind of you to say so, Mr Trotter.  But that isnt
+whats the matter.  The truth is, this play is going to give my father
+a dreadful shock.
+
+TROTTER.  Nothing unusual in that, I'm sorry to say.  Half the young
+ladies in London spend their evenings making their fathers take them
+to plays that are not fit for elderly people to see.
+
+FANNY.  Oh, I know all about that; but you cant understand what it
+means to Papa.  Youre not so innocent as he is.
+
+TROTTER.  [remonstrating]  My dear young lady--
+
+FANNY.  I dont mean morally innocent:  everybody who reads your
+articles knows youre as innocent as a lamb.
+
+TROTTER.  What!
+
+FANNY.  Yes, Mr Trotter:  Ive seen a good deal of life since I came to
+England; and I assure you that to me youre a mere baby:  a dear, good,
+well-meaning, delightful, witty, charming baby; but still just a wee
+lamb in a world of wolves.  Cambridge is not what it was in my
+father's time.
+
+TROTTER.  Well, I must say!
+
+FANNY.  Just so.  Thats one of our classifications in the Cambridge
+Fabian Society.
+
+TROTTER.  Classifications?  I dont understand.
+
+FANNY.  We classify our aunts into different sorts.  And one of the
+sorts is the "I must says."
+
+TROTTER.  I withdraw "I must say."  I substitute "Blame my cats!"  No:
+I substitute "Blame my kittens!"  Observe, Miss O'Dowda:  kittens.  I
+say again in the teeth of the whole Cambridge Fabian Society, kittens.
+Impertinent little kittens.  Blame them.  Smack them.  I guess what is
+on your conscience.  This play to which you have lured me is one of
+those in which members of Fabian Societies instruct their grandmothers
+in the art of milking ducks.  And you are afraid it will shock your
+father.  Well, I hope it will.  And if he consults me about it I shall
+recommend him to smack you soundly and pack you off to bed.
+
+FANNY.  Thats one of your prettiest literary attitudes, Mr Trotter;
+but it doesnt take me in.  You see, I'm much more conscious of what
+you really are than you are yourself, because weve discussed you
+thoroughly at Cambridge; and youve never discussed yourself, have you?
+
+TROTTER.  I--
+
+FANNY.  Of course you havnt; so you see it's no good Trottering at me.
+
+TROTTER.  Trottering!
+
+FANNY.  Thats what we call it at Cambridge.
+
+TROTTER.  If it were not so obviously a stage _cliche_, I should say
+Damn Cambridge.  As it is, I blame my kittens.  And now let me warn
+you.  If youre going to be a charming healthy young English girl, you
+may coax me.  If youre going to be an unsexed Cambridge Fabian virago,
+I'll treat you as my intellectual equal, as I would treat a man.
+
+FANNY.  [adoringly]  But how few men are your intellectual equals,
+Mr Trotter!
+
+TROTTER.  I'm getting the worst of this.
+
+FANNY.  Oh no.  Why do you say that?
+
+TROTTER.  May I remind you that the dinner-bell will ring presently?
+
+FANNY.  What does it matter?  We're both ready.  I havnt told you yet
+what I want you to do for me.
+
+TROTTER.  Nor have you particularly predisposed me to do it, except
+out of pure magnanimity.  What is it?
+
+FANNY.  I dont mind this play shocking my father morally.  It's good
+for him to be shocked morally.  It's all that the young can do for the
+old, to shock them and keep them up to date.  But I know that this
+play will shock him artistically; and that terrifies me.  No moral
+consideration could make a breach between us:  he would forgive me for
+anything of that kind sooner or later; but he never gives way on a
+point of art.  I darent let him know that I love Beethoven and Wagner;
+and as to Strauss, if he heard three bars of Elektra, it'd part us for
+ever.  Now what I want you to do is this.  If hes very angry--if he
+hates the play, because it's a modern play--will you tell him that
+it's not my fault; that its style and construction, and so forth, are
+considered the very highest art nowadays; that the author wrote it in
+the proper way for repertory theatres of the most superior kind--you
+know the kind of plays I mean?
+
+TROTTER.  [emphatically]  I think I know the sort of entertainments
+you mean.  But please do not beg a vital question by calling them
+plays.  I dont pretend to be an authority; but I have at least
+established the fact that these productions, whatever else they may
+be, are certainly not plays.
+
+FANNY.  The authors dont say they are.
+
+TROTTER.  [warmly]  I am aware that one author, who is, I blush to
+say, a personal friend of mine, resorts freely to the dastardly
+subterfuge of calling them conversations, discussions, and so forth,
+with the express object of evading criticism.  But I'm not to be
+disarmed by such tricks.  I say they are not plays.  Dialogues, if you
+will.  Exhibitions of character, perhaps:  especially the character of
+the author.  Fictions, possibly, though a little decent reticence as
+to introducing actual persons, and thus violating the sanctity of
+private life, might not be amiss.  But plays, no.  I say NO.  Not
+plays.  If you will not concede this point I cant continue our
+conversation.  I take this seriously.  It's a matter of principle.  I
+must ask you, Miss O'Dowda, before we go a step further, Do you or do
+you not claim that these works are plays?
+
+FANNY.  I assure you I dont.
+
+TROTTER.  Not in any sense of the word?
+
+FANNY.  Not in any sense of the word.  I loathe plays.
+
+TROTTER.  [disappointed]  That last remark destroys all the value of
+your admission.  You admire these--these theatrical nondescripts?  You
+enjoy them?
+
+FANNY.  Dont you?
+
+TROTTER.  Of course I do.  Do you take me for a fool?  Do you suppose
+I prefer popular melodramas?  Have I not written most appreciative
+notices of them?  But I say theyre not plays.  Theyre not plays.  I
+cant consent to remain in this house another minute if anything
+remotely resembling them is to be foisted on me as a play.
+
+FANNY.  I fully admit that theyre not plays.  I only want you to tell
+my father that plays are not plays nowadays--not in your sense of the
+word.
+
+TROTTER.  Ah, there you go again!  In my sense of the word!  You
+believe that my criticism is merely a personal impression; that--
+
+FANNY.  You always said it was.
+
+TROTTER.  Pardon me:  not on this point.  If you had been classically
+educated--
+
+FANNY.  But I have.
+
+TROTTER.  Pooh!  Cambridge!  If you had been educated at Oxford, you
+would know that the definition of a play has been settled exactly and
+scientifically for two thousand two hundred and sixty years.  When I
+say that these entertainments are not plays, I dont mean in my sense
+of the word, but in the sense given to it for all time by the immortal
+Stagirite.
+
+FANNY.  Who is the Stagirite?
+
+TROTTER.  [shocked]  You dont know who the Stagirite was?
+
+FANNY.  Sorry.  Never heard of him.
+
+TROTTER.  And this is Cambridge education!  Well, my dear young lady,
+I'm delighted to find theres something you don't know; and I shant
+spoil you by dispelling an ignorance which, in my opinion, is highly
+becoming to your age and sex.  So we'll leave it at that.
+
+FANNY.  But you will promise to tell my father that lots of people
+write plays just like this one--that I havnt selected it out of mere
+heartlessness?
+
+TROTTER.  I cant possibly tell you what I shall say to your father
+about the play until Ive seen the play.  But I'll tell you what I
+shall say to him about you.  I shall say that youre a very foolish
+young lady; that youve got into a very questionable set; and that the
+sooner he takes you away from Cambridge and its Fabian Society, the
+better.
+
+FANNY.  It's so funny to hear you pretending to be a heavy father.  In
+Cambridge we regard you as a _bel esprit_, a wit, an Irresponsible, a
+Parisian Immoralist, _tres chic_.
+
+TROTTER.  I!
+
+FANNY.  Theres quite a Trotter set.
+
+TROTTER.  Well, upon my word!
+
+FANNY.  They go in for adventures and call you Aramis.
+
+TROTTER.  They wouldnt dare!
+
+FANNY.  You always make such delicious fun of the serious people.
+Your _insouciance_--
+
+TROTTER.  [frantic]  Stop talking French to me:  it's not a proper
+language for a young girl.  Great heavens! how is it possible that a
+few innocent pleasantries should be so frightfully misunderstood?  Ive
+tried all my life to be sincere and simple, to be unassuming and
+kindly.  Ive lived a blameless life.  Ive supported the Censorship in
+the face of ridicule and insult.  And now I'm told that I'm a centre
+of Immoralism! of Modern Minxism! a trifler with the most sacred
+subjects! a Nietzschean!! perhaps a Shavian!!!
+
+FANNY.  Do you mean you are really on the serious side, Mr Trotter?
+
+TROTTER.  Of course I'm on the serious side.  How dare you ask me such
+a question?
+
+FANNY.  Then why dont you play for it?
+
+TROTTER.  I do play for it--short, of course, of making myself
+ridiculous.
+
+FANNY.  What! not make yourself ridiculous for the sake of a good
+cause!  Oh, Mr Trotter.  Thats _vieux jeu_.
+
+TROTTER.  [shouting at her]  Dont talk French.  I will not allow it.
+
+FANNY.  But this dread of ridicule is so frightfully out of date.  The
+Cambridge Fabian Society--
+
+TROTTER.  I forbid you to mention the Fabian Society to me.
+
+FANNY.  Its motto is "You cannot learn to skate without making
+yourself ridiculous."
+
+TROTTER.  Skate!  What has that to do with it?
+
+FANNY.  Thats not all.  It goes on, "The ice of life is slippery."
+
+TROTTER.  Ice of life indeed!  You should be eating penny ices and
+enjoying yourself.  I wont hear another word.
+
+_The Count returns._
+
+THE COUNT.  We're all waiting in the drawing-room, my dear.  Have you
+been detaining Mr Trotter all this time?
+
+TROTTER.  I'm so sorry.  I must have just a little brush up:  I [He
+hurries out].
+
+THE COUNT.  My dear, you should be in the drawing-room.  You should
+not have kept him here.
+
+FANNY.  I know.  Dont scold me:  I had something important to say to
+him.
+
+THE COUNT.  I shall ask him to take you in to dinner.
+
+FANNY.  Yes, papa.  Oh, I hope it will go off well.
+
+THE COUNT.  Yes, love, of course it will.  Come along.
+
+FANNY.  Just one thing, papa, whilst we're alone.  Who was the
+Stagirite?
+
+THE COUNT.  The Stagirite?  Do you mean to say you dont know?
+
+FANNY.  Havnt the least notion.
+
+THE COUNT.  The Stagirite was Aristotle.  By the way, dont mention him
+to Mr Trotter.
+
+_They go to the dining-room._
+
+
+
+
+THE PLAY
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+_In the dining-room of a house in Denmark Hill, an elderly lady sits
+at breakfast reading the newspaper.  Her chair is at the end of the
+oblong dining-table furthest from the fire.  There is an empty chair
+at the other end.  The fireplace is behind this chair; and the door is
+next the fireplace, between it and the corner.  An arm-chair stands
+beside the coal-scuttle.  In the middle of the back wall is the
+sideboard, parallel to the table.  The rest of the furniture is mostly
+dining-room chairs, ranged against the walls, and including a baby
+rocking-chair on the lady's side of the room.  The lady is a placid
+person.  Her husband, Mr Robin Gilbey, not at all placid, bursts
+violently into the room with a letter in his hand._
+
+GILBEY.  [grinding his teeth]  This is a nice thing.  This is a b--
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [cutting him short]  Leave it at that, please.
+Whatever it is, bad language wont make it better.
+
+GILBEY.  [bitterly]  Yes, put me in the wrong as usual.  Take your
+boy's part against me.  [He flings himself into the empty chair
+opposite her].
+
+MRS GILBEY.  When he does anything right, hes your son.  When he does
+anything wrong hes mine.  Have you any news of him?
+
+GILBEY.  Ive a good mind not to tell you.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Then dont.  I suppose hes been found.  Thats a comfort,
+at all events.
+
+GILBEY.  No, he hasnt been found.  The boy may be at the bottom of the
+river for all you care.  [Too agitated to sit quietly, he rises and
+paces the room distractedly].
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Then what have you got in your hand?
+
+GILBEY.  Ive a letter from the Monsignor Grenfell.  From New York.
+Dropping us.  Cutting us.  [Turning fiercely on her]  Thats a nice
+thing, isnt it?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  What for?
+
+GILBEY.  [flinging away towards his chair]  How do _I_ know what
+for?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  What does he say?
+
+GILBEY.  [sitting down and grumblingly adjusting his spectacles]
+This is what he says.  "My dear Mr Gilbey:  The news about Bobby had
+to follow me across the Atlantic:  it did not reach me until to-day.
+I am afraid he is incorrigible.  My brother, as you may imagine, feels
+that this last escapade has gone beyond the bounds; and I think,
+myself, that Bobby ought to be made to feel that such scrapes involve
+a certain degree of reprobation."  "As you may imagine"!  And we know
+no more about it than the babe unborn.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  What else does he say?
+
+GILBEY.  "I think my brother must have been just a little to blame
+himself; so, between ourselves, I shall, with due and impressive
+formality, forgive Bobby later on; but for the present I think it had
+better be understood that he is in disgrace, and that we are no longer
+on visiting terms.  As ever, yours sincerely."  [His agitation
+masters him again]  Thats a nice slap in the face to get from a man
+in his position!  This is what your son has brought on me.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Well, I think it's rather a nice letter.  He as good as
+tells you hes only letting on to be offended for Bobby's good.
+
+GILBEY.  Oh, very well:  have the letter framed and hang it up over
+the mantelpiece as a testimonial.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Dont talk nonsense, Rob.  You ought to be thankful to
+know that the boy is alive after his disappearing like that for nearly
+a week.
+
+GILBEY.  Nearly a week!  A fortnight, you mean.  Wheres your feelings,
+woman?  It was fourteen days yesterday.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Oh, dont call it fourteen days, Rob, as if the boy was in
+prison.
+
+GILBEY.  How do you know hes not in prison?  It's got on my nerves so,
+that I'd believe even that.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Dont talk silly, Rob.  Bobby might get into a scrape like
+any other lad; but he'd never do anything low.
+
+_Juggins, the footman, comes in with a card on a salver.  He is a
+rather low-spirited man of thirty-five or more, of good appearance and
+address, and iron self-command._
+
+JUGGINS.  [presenting the salver to Mr Gilbey]  Lady wishes to see
+Mr Bobby's parents, sir.
+
+GILBEY.  [pointing to Mrs Gilbey]  Theres Mr Bobby's parent.  I
+disown him.
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, sir.  [He presents the salver to Mrs Gilbey].
+
+MRS GILBEY.  You mustnt mind what your master says, Juggins:  he
+doesnt mean it.  [She takes the card and reads it].  Well, I never!
+
+GILBEY.  Whats up now?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [reading]  "Miss D. Delaney.  Darling Dora."  Just like
+that--in brackets.  What sort of person, Juggins?
+
+GILBEY.  Whats her address?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  The West Circular Road.  Is that a respectable address,
+Juggins?
+
+JUGGINS.  A great many most respectable people live in the West
+Circular Road, madam; but the address is not a guarantee of
+respectability.
+
+GILBEY.  So it's come to that with him, has it?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Dont jump to conclusions, Rob.  How do you know?  [To
+Juggins]  Is she a lady, Juggins?  You know what I mean.
+
+JUGGINS.  In the sense in which you are using the word, no, madam.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  I'd better try what I can get out of her.  [To Juggins]
+Shew her up.  You dont mind, do you, Rob?
+
+GILBEY.  So long as you dont flounce out and leave me alone with her.
+[He rises and plants himself on the hearth-rug].
+
+_Juggins goes out._
+
+MRS GILBEY.  I wonder what she wants, Rob?
+
+GILBEY.  If she wants money, she shant have it.  Not a farthing.  A
+nice thing, everybody seeing her on our doorstep!  If it wasnt that
+she may tell us something about the lad, I'd have Juggins put the
+hussy into the street.
+
+JUGGINS.  [returning and announcing]  Miss Delaney.  [He waits for
+express orders before placing a chair for this visitor].
+
+_Miss Delaney comes in.  She is a young lady of hilarious disposition,
+very tolerable good looks, and killing clothes.  She is so affable and
+confidential that it is very difficult to keep her at a distance by
+any process short of flinging her out of the house._
+
+DORA.  [plunging at once into privileged intimacy and into the middle
+of the room]  How d'ye do, both.  I'm a friend of Bobby's.  He told
+me all about you once, in a moment of confidence.  Of course he never
+let on who he was at the police court.
+
+GILBEY.  Police court!
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [looking apprehensively at Juggins]  Tch--!  Juggins:
+a chair.
+
+DORA.  Oh, Ive let it out, have I!  [Contemplating Juggins
+approvingly as he places a chair for her between the table and the
+sideboard]  But hes the right sort:  I can see that.  [Buttonholing
+him]  You wont let on downstairs, old man, will you?
+
+JUGGINS.  The family can rely on my absolute discretion.  [He
+withdraws].
+
+DORA.  [sitting down genteelly]  I dont know what youll say to me:
+you know I really have no right to come here; but then what was I to
+do?  You know Holy Joe, Bobby's tutor, dont you?  But of course you
+do.
+
+GILBEY.  [with dignity]  I know Mr Joseph Grenfell, the brother of
+Monsignor Grenfell, if it is of him you are speaking.
+
+DORA.  [wide-eyed and much amused]  No!!!  You dont tell me that old
+geezer has a brother a Monsignor!  And youre Catholics!  And I never
+knew it, though Ive known Bobby ever so long!  But of course the last
+thing you find out about a person is their religion, isnt it?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  We're not Catholics.  But when the Samuelses got an
+Archdeacon's son to form their boy's mind, Mr Gilbey thought Bobby
+ought to have a chance too.  And the Monsignor is a customer.  Mr
+Gilbey consulted him about Bobby; and he recommended a brother of his
+that was more sinned against than sinning.
+
+GILBEY.  [on tenderhooks]  She dont want to hear about that, Maria.
+[To Dora]  Whats your business?
+
+DORA.  I'm afraid it was all my fault.
+
+GILBEY.  What was all your fault?  I'm half distracted.  I dont know
+what has happened to the boy:  hes been lost these fourteen days--
+
+MRS GILBEY.  A fortnight, Rob.
+
+GILBEY.  --and not a word have we heard of him since.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Dont fuss, Rob.
+
+GILBEY.  [yelling]  I will fuss.  Youve no feeling.  You dont care
+what becomes of the lad.  [He sits down savagely].
+
+DORA.  [soothingly]  Youve been anxious about him.  Of course.  How
+thoughtless of me not to begin by telling you hes quite safe.  Indeed
+hes in the safest place in the world, as one may say:  safe under lock
+and key.
+
+GILBEY.  [horrified, pitiable]  Oh my-- [his breath fails him].
+Do you mean that when he was in the police court he was in the dock?
+Oh, Maria!  Oh, great Lord!  What has he done?  What has he got for
+it?  [Desperate]  Will you tell me or will you see me go mad on my
+own carpet?
+
+DORA.  [sweetly]  Yes, old dear--
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [starting at the familiarity]  Well!
+
+DORA.  [continuing]  I'll tell you:  but dont you worry:  hes all
+right.  I came out myself this morning:  there was such a crowd! and a
+band! they thought I was a suffragette:  only fancy!  You see it was
+like this.  Holy Joe got talking about how he'd been a champion
+sprinter at college.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  A what?
+
+DORA.  A sprinter.  He said he was the fastest hundred yards runner in
+England.  We were all in the old cowshed that night.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  What old cowshed?
+
+GILBEY.  [groaning]  Oh, get on.  Get on.
+
+DORA.  Oh, of course you wouldnt know.  How silly of me!  It's a
+rather go-ahead sort of music hall in Stepney.  We call it the old
+cowshed.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Does Mr Grenfell take Bobby to music halls?
+
+DORA.  No.  Bobby takes him.  But Holy Joe likes it:  fairly laps it
+up like a kitten, poor old dear.  Well, Bobby says to me, "Darling--"
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [placidly]  Why does he call you Darling?
+
+DORA.  Oh, everybody calls me Darling:  it's a sort of name Ive got.
+Darling Dora, you know.  Well, he says, "Darling, if you can get Holy
+Joe to sprint a hundred yards, I'll stand you that squiffer with the
+gold keys."
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Does he call his tutor Holy Joe to his face [Gilbey
+clutches at his hair in his impatience].
+
+DORA.  Well, what would he call him?  After all, Holy Joe is Holy Joe;
+and boys will be boys.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Whats a squiffer?
+
+DORA.  Oh, of course:  excuse my vulgarity:  a concertina.  Theres one
+in a shop in Green Street, ivory inlaid, with gold keys and Russia
+leather bellows; and Bobby knew I hankered after it; but he couldnt
+afford it, poor lad, though I knew he just longed to give it to me.
+
+GILBEY.  Maria:  if you keep interrupting with silly questions, I
+shall go out of my senses.  Heres the boy in gaol and me disgraced for
+ever; and all you care to know is what a squiffer is.
+
+DORA.  Well, remember it has gold keys.  The man wouldnt take a penny
+less than 15 pounds for it.  It was a presentation one.
+
+GILBEY.  [shouting at her]  Wheres my son?  Whats happened to my
+son?  Will you tell me that, and stop cackling about your squiffer?
+
+DORA.  Oh, aint we impatient!  Well, it does you credit, old dear.
+And you neednt fuss:  theres no disgrace.  Bobby behaved like a
+perfect gentleman.  Besides, it was all my fault.  I'll own it:  I
+took too much champagne.  I was not what you might call drunk; but I
+was bright, and a little beyond myself; and--I'll confess it--I wanted
+to shew off before Bobby, because he was a bit taken by a woman on the
+stage; and she was pretending to be game for anything.  You see youve
+brought Bobby up too strict; and when he gets loose theres no holding
+him.  He does enjoy life more than any lad I ever met.
+
+GILBEY.  Never you mind how hes been brought up:  thats my business.
+Tell me how hes been brought down:  thats yours.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Oh, dont be rude to the lady, Rob.
+
+DORA.  I'm coming to it, old dear:  dont you be so headstrong.  Well,
+it was a beautiful moonlight night; and we couldnt get a cab on the
+nod; so we started to walk, very jolly, you know:  arm in arm, and
+dancing along, singing and all that.  When we came into Jamaica
+Square, there was a young copper on point duty at the corner.  I says
+to Bob:  "Dearie boy: is it a bargain about the squiffer if I make Joe
+sprint for you?"  "Anything you like, darling," says he:  "I love
+you."  I put on my best company manners and stepped up to the copper.
+"If you please, sir," says I, "can you direct me to Carrickmines
+Square?"  I was so genteel, and talked so sweet, that he fell to it
+like a bird.  "I never heard of any such Square in these parts," he
+says.  "Then," says I, "what a very silly little officer you must
+be!"; and I gave his helmet a chuck behind that knocked it over his
+eyes, and did a bunk.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Did a what?
+
+DORA.  A bunk.  Holy Joe did one too all right:  he sprinted faster
+than he ever did in college, I bet, the old dear.  He got clean off,
+too.  Just as he was overtaking me half-way down the square, we heard
+the whistle; and at the sound of it he drew away like a streak of
+lightning; and that was the last I saw of him.  I was copped in the
+Dock Road myself:  rotten luck, wasn't it?  I tried the innocent and
+genteel and all the rest; but Bobby's hat done me in.
+
+GILBEY.  And what happened to the boy?
+
+DORA.  Only fancy! he stopped to laugh at the copper!  He thought the
+copper would see the joke, poor lamb.  He was arguing about it when
+the two that took me came along to find out what the whistle was for,
+and brought me with them.  Of course I swore I'd never seen him before
+in my life; but there he was in my hat and I in his.  The cops were
+very spiteful and laid it on for all they were worth:  drunk and
+disorderly and assaulting the police and all that.  I got fourteen
+days without the option, because you see--well, the fact is, I'd done
+it before, and been warned.  Bobby was a first offender and had the
+option; but the dear boy had no money left and wouldnt give you away
+by telling his name; and anyhow he couldnt have brought himself to buy
+himself off and leave me there; so hes doing his time.  Well, it was
+two forty shillingses; and Ive only twenty-eight shillings in the
+world.  If I pawn my clothes I shant be able to earn any more.  So I
+cant pay the fine and get him out; but if youll stand 3 pounds I'll
+stand one; and thatll do it.  If youd like to be very kind and nice
+you could pay the lot; but I cant deny that it was my fault; so I wont
+press you.
+
+GILBEY.  [heart-broken]  My son in gaol!
+
+DORA.  Oh, cheer up, old dear:  it wont hurt him:  look at me after
+fourteen days of it; I'm all the better for being kept a bit quiet.
+You mustnt let it prey on your mind.
+
+GILBEY.  The disgrace of it will kill me.  And it will leave a mark on
+him to the end of his life.
+
+DORA.  Not a bit of it.  Dont you be afraid:  Ive educated Bobby a
+bit:  hes not the mollycoddle he was when you had him in hand.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Indeed Bobby is not a mollycoddle.  They wanted him to go
+in for singlestick at the Young Men's Christian Association; but, of
+course, I couldnt allow that:  he might have had his eye knocked out.
+
+GILBEY.  [to Dora, angrily]  Listen here, you.
+
+DORA.  Oh, aint we cross!
+
+GILBEY.  I want none of your gaiety here.  This is a respectable
+household.  Youve gone and got my poor innocent boy into trouble.
+It's the like of you thats the ruin of the like of him.
+
+DORA.  So you always say, you old dears.  But you know better.  Bobby
+came to me:  I didnt come to him.
+
+GILBEY.  Would he have gone if you hadnt been there for him to go to?
+Tell me that.  You know why he went to you, I suppose?
+
+DORA.  [charitably]  It was dull for him at home, poor lad, wasnt
+it?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Oh no.  I'm at home on first Thursdays.  And we have the
+Knoxes to dinner every Friday.  Margaret Knox and Bobby are as good as
+engaged.  Mr Knox is my husband's partner.  Mrs Knox is very
+religious; but shes quite cheerful.  We dine with them on Tuesdays.
+So thats two evenings pleasure every week.
+
+GILBEY.  [almost in tears]  We done what we could for the boy.
+Short of letting him go into temptations of all sorts, he can do what
+he likes.  What more does he want?
+
+DORA.  Well, old dear, he wants me; and thats about the long and short
+of it.  And I must say youre not very nice to me about it.  Ive talked
+to him like a mother, and tried my best to keep him straight; but I
+dont deny I like a bit of fun myself; and we both get a bit giddy when
+we're lighthearted.  Him and me is a pair, I'm afraid.
+
+GILBEY.  Dont talk foolishness, girl.  How could you and he be a pair,
+you being what you are, and he brought up as he has been, with the
+example of a religious woman like Mrs Knox before his eyes?  I cant
+understand how he could bring himself to be seen in the street with
+you.  [Pitying himself]  I havnt deserved this.  Ive done my duty as
+a father.  Ive kept him sheltered.  [Angry with her]  Creatures like
+you that take advantage of a child's innocence ought to be whipped
+through the streets.
+
+DORA.  Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady to lose my
+temper; and I dont think Bobby would like me to tell you what I think
+of you; for when I start giving people a bit of my mind I sometimes
+use language thats beneath me.  But I tell you once for all I must
+have the money to get Bobby out; and if you wont fork out, I'll hunt
+up Holy Joe.  He might get it off his brother, the Monsignor.
+
+GILBEY.  You mind your own concerns.  My solicitor will do what is
+right.  I'll not have you paying my son's fine as if you were anything
+to him.
+
+DORA.  Thats right.  Youll get him out today, wont you?
+
+GILBEY.  It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it?
+
+DORA.  I'd like to know when theyll let him out.
+
+GILBEY.  You would, would you?  Youre going to meet him at the prison
+door.
+
+DORA.  Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of a
+lady?
+
+GILBEY.  [bitterly]  Oh yes:  I know.  Here!  I must buy the lad's
+salvation, I suppose.  How much will you take to clear out and let him
+go?
+
+DORA.  [pitying him:  quite nice about it]  What good would that do,
+old dear?  There are others, you know.
+
+GILBEY.  Thats true.  I must send the boy himself away.
+
+DORA.  Where to?
+
+GILBEY.  Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your
+like.
+
+DORA.  Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old
+dear.  I'm sorry for you:  I really am, though you mightnt believe it;
+and I think your feelings do you real credit.  But I cant give him up
+just to let him fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I?
+
+GILBEY.  [beside himself, rising]  Wheres the police?  Wheres the
+Government?  Wheres the Church?  Wheres respectability and right
+reason?  Whats the good of them if I have to stand here and see you
+put my son in your pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly
+out of gaol as a common drunk and disorderly?  Whats the world coming
+to?
+
+DORA.  It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear?
+
+_Mr Gilbey rushes from the room, distracted._
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [unruffled]  Where did you buy that white lace?  I want
+some to match a collaret of my own; and I cant get it at Perry and
+John's.
+
+DORA.  Knagg and Pantle's:  one and fourpence.  It's machine
+hand-made.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  I never give more than one and tuppence.  But I suppose
+youre extravagant by nature.  My sister Martha was just like that.
+Pay anything she was asked.
+
+DORA.  Whats tuppence to you, Mrs Bobby, after all?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [correcting her]  Mrs Gilbey.
+
+DORA.  Of course, Mrs Gilbey.  I am silly.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Bobby must have looked funny in your hat.  Why did you
+change hats with him?
+
+DORA.  I dont know.  One does, you know.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  I never did.  The things people do!  I cant understand
+them.  Bobby never told me he was keeping company with you.  His own
+mother!
+
+DORA.  [overcome]  Excuse me:  I cant help smiling.
+
+_Juggins enters._
+
+JUGGINS.  Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, madam.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Have you ever been in a police court, Juggins?
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, madam.
+
+MRS GILBEY [rather shocked]  I hope you had not been exceeding,
+Juggins.
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, madam, I had.  I exceeded the legal limit.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Oh, that!  Why do they give a woman a fortnight for
+wearing a man's hat, and a man a month for wearing hers?
+
+JUGGINS.  I didnt know that they did, madam.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  It doesnt seem justice, does it, Juggins?
+
+JUGGINS.  No, madam.
+
+MRS GILBEY [to Dora, rising]  Well, good-bye.  [Shaking her hand]
+So pleased to have made your acquaintance.
+
+DORA.  [standing up]  Dont mention it.  I'm sure it's most kind of
+you to receive me at all.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  I must go off now and order lunch.  [She trots to the
+door].  What was it you called the concertina?
+
+DORA.  A squiffer, dear.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [thoughtfully]  A squiffer, of course.  How funny!
+[She goes out].
+
+DORA.  [exploding into ecstasies of mirth]  Oh my! isnt she an old
+love?  How do you keep your face straight?
+
+JUGGINS.  It is what I am paid for.
+
+DORA.  [confidentially]  Listen here, dear boy.  Your name isnt
+Juggins.  Nobody's name is Juggins.
+
+JUGGINS.  My orders are, Miss Delaney, that you are not to be here
+when Mr Gilbey returns from Wormwood Scrubbs.
+
+DORA.  That means telling me to mind my own business, doesnt it?
+Well, I'm off.  Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling.  [She kisses her hand to
+him and goes].
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+_On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in her
+drawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall.
+Anyone placed so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door
+on the right and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs
+Knox, whose back is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the
+opposite side of the room.  The sofa is near the piano.  There is a
+small table in the middle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and
+albums on it, and chairs near it._
+
+_Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner,
+harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a soft
+stoutish man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox has
+coarse black hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving can
+whiten.  Mrs Knox is a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion,
+with thoughtful eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere of
+peace and some solemnity.  She is surprised to see her husband at home
+during business hours._
+
+MRS KNOX.  What brings you home at this hour?  Have you heard
+anything?
+
+KNOX.  No.  Have you?
+
+MRS KNOX.  No.  Whats the matter?
+
+KNOX.  [sitting down on the sofa]  I believe Gilbey has found out.
+
+MRS KNOX.  What makes you think that?
+
+KNOX.  Well, I dont know:  I didnt like to tell you:  you have enough
+to worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever since it
+happened.  I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I was
+depending on him.  But hes worse than me.  Hes not looking after
+anything; and he keeps out of my way.  His manner's not natural.  He
+hasnt asked us to dinner; and hes never said a word about our not
+asking him to dinner, after all these years when weve dined every week
+as regular as clockwork.  It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop
+me socially.  Well, why should he do that if he hasnt heard?
+
+MRS KNOX.  I wonder!  Bobby hasnt been near us either:  thats what I
+cant make out.
+
+KNOX.  Oh, thats nothing.  I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall
+with her aunt.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [reproachfully]  Jo!  [She takes her handkerchief from
+the writing-table and cries a little].
+
+KNOX.  Well, I got to tell lies, aint I?  You wont.  Somebody's got to
+tell em.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [putting away her handkerchief]  It only ends in our not
+knowing what to believe.  Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton for
+the sea air.  Theres something queer about that.  Gilbey would never
+let the boy loose by himself among the temptations of a gay place like
+Brighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington High
+Street the very day she told me.
+
+KNOX.  If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby and
+Margaret, and all over between us and them.
+
+MRS KNOX.  It's all over between us and everybody.  When a girl runs
+away from home like that, people know what to think of her and her
+parents.
+
+KNOX.  She had a happy, respectable home--everything--
+
+MRS KNOX.  [interrupting him]  Theres no use going over it all
+again, Jo.  If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy
+anywhere.  Youd better go back to the shop and try to keep your mind
+off it.
+
+KNOX.  [rising restlessly]  I cant.  I keep fancying everybody knows
+it and is sniggering about it.  I'm at peace nowhere but here.  It's a
+comfort to be with you.  It's a torment to be with other people.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [going to him and drawing her arm through his]  There,
+Jo, there!  I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could.  But it cant
+be.  God's work must go on from day to day, no matter what comes.  We
+must face our trouble and bear it.
+
+KNOX.  [wandering to the window arm in arm with her]  Just look at
+the people in the street, going up and down as if nothing had
+happened.  It seems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care.
+
+MRS KNOX.  If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking
+up at us.  You shouldnt keep thinking about it.
+
+KNOX.  I know I shouldnt.  You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm
+sure I'm glad it comforts you.  But it doesnt come to me that way.
+Ive worked hard to get a position and be respectable.  Ive turned many
+a girl out of the shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres
+my own daughter gone for a fortnight without word or sign, except a
+telegram to say shes not dead and that we're not to worry about her.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [suddenly pointing to the street]  Jo, look!
+
+KNOX.  Margaret!  With a man!
+
+MRS KNOX.  Run down, Jo, quick.  Catch her:  save her.
+
+KNOX.  [lingering]  Shes shaking bands with him:  shes coming across
+to the door.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [energetically]  Do as I tell you.  Catch the man before
+hes out of sight.
+
+_Knox rushes from the room.  Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly
+from the window.  Then she throws up the sash and leans out.  Margaret
+Knox comes in, flustered and annoyed.  She is a strong, springy girl
+of eighteen, with large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily
+resolute manner, even peremptory on occasions like the present, when
+she is annoyed._
+
+MARGARET.  Mother.  Mother.
+
+_Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter._
+
+MRS KNOX.  [sternly]  Well, miss?
+
+MARGARET.  Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene in the
+street.  He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away my
+daughter" loud enough for all the people to hear.  Everybody stopped.
+We shall have a crowd round the house.  Do do something to stop him.
+
+_Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer._
+
+MARGARET.  Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry--so ashamed.  Mother:
+this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me.
+Monsieur Duvallet:  my mother.  [Duvallet bows].
+
+KNOX.  A Frenchman!  It only needed this.
+
+MARGARET.  [much annoyed]  Father:  do please be commonly civil to a
+gentleman who has been of the greatest service to me.  What will he
+think of us?
+
+DUVALLET.  [debonair]  But it's very natural.  I understand Mr
+Knox's feelings perfectly.  [He speaks English better than Knox,
+having learnt it on both sides of the Atlantic].
+
+KNOX.  If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize.  But I want to
+know where my daughter has been for the last fortnight.
+
+DUVALLET.  She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place.
+
+KNOX.  Will you tell me what place?  I can judge for myself how safe
+it was.
+
+MARGARET.  Holloway Gaol.  Was that safe enough?
+
+KNOX AND MRS KNOX.  Holloway Gaol!
+
+KNOX.  Youve joined the Suffragets!
+
+MARGARET.  No.  I wish I had.  I could have had the same experience in
+better company.  Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet.  [She sits
+between the table and the sofa.  Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the
+other side of the table.  Knox remains standing in the middle of the
+room].
+
+DUVALLET.  [sitting down on the sofa]  It was nothing.  An
+adventure.  Nothing.
+
+MARGARET.  [obdurately]  Drunk and assaulting the police!  Forty
+shillings or a month!
+
+MRS KNOX.  Margaret!  Who accused you of such a thing?
+
+MARGARET.  The policeman I assaulted.
+
+KNOX.  You mean to say that you did it!
+
+MARGARET.  I did.  I had that satisfaction at all events.  I knocked
+two of his teeth out.
+
+KNOX.  And you sit there coolly and tell me this!
+
+MARGARET.  Well, where do you want me to sit?  Whats the use of saying
+things like that?
+
+KNOX.  My daughter in Holloway Gaol!
+
+MARGARET.  All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters.
+Really, father, you must make up your mind to it.  If you had sat in
+that cell for fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would
+understand that I'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying
+to persuade yourself that it cant be real.  These things really do
+happen to real people every day; and you read about them in the papers
+and think it's all right.  Well, theyve happened to me:  thats all.
+
+KNOX.  [feeble-forcible]  But they shouldnt have happened to you.
+Dont you know that?
+
+MARGARET.  They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose.  But they do.
+[Rising impatiently]  And really I'd rather go out and assault
+another policeman and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and
+round it like this.  If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn
+me out:  the sooner I go the better.
+
+DUVALLET.  [rising quickly]  That is impossible, mademoiselle.  Your
+father has his position to consider.  To turn his daughter out of
+doors would ruin him socially.
+
+KNOX.  Oh, youve put her up to that, have you?  And where did you come
+in, may I ask?
+
+DUVALLET.  I came in at your invitation--at your amiable insistence,
+in fact, not at my own.  But you need have no anxiety on my account.
+I was concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your
+daughter's incarceration.  I got a fortnight without the option of a
+fine on the ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the
+policeman with my fist.  I should have done so with pleasure had I
+known; but, as it was, I struck him on the ear with my boot--a
+magnificent _moulinet_, I must say--and was informed that I had been
+guilty of an act of cowardice, but that for the sake of the _entente
+cordiale_ I should be dealt with leniently.  Yet Miss Knox, who used
+her fist, got a month, but with the option of a fine.  I did not know
+this until I was released, when my first act was to pay the fine.  And
+here we are.
+
+MRS KNOX.  You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo.
+
+KNOX.  [reddening]  Oh, certainly.  [He takes out some money].
+
+DUVALLET.  Oh please! it does not matter.  [Knox hands him two
+sovereigns].  If you insist--  [he pockets them]  Thank you.
+
+MARGARET.  I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet.
+
+DUVALLET.  Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle?
+
+MARGARET.  I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you
+dont mind.
+
+DUVALLET.  Perfectly.  Madame [bow]--Mademoiselle [bow]--Monsieur
+[bow]--[He goes out].
+
+MRS KNOX.  Dont ring, Jo.  See the gentleman out yourself.
+
+_Knox hastily sees Duvallet out.  Mother and daughter sit looking
+forlornly at one another without saying a word.  Mrs Knox slowly sits
+down.  Margaret follows her example.  They look at one another again.
+Mr Knox returns._
+
+KNOX.  [shortly and sternly]  Amelia:  this is your job.  [To
+Margaret]  I leave you to your mother.  I shall have my own say in
+the matter when I hear what you have to say to her.  [He goes out,
+solemn and offended].
+
+MARGARET.  [with a bitter little laugh]  Just what the Suffraget
+said to me in Holloway.  He throws the job on you.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [reproachfully]  Margaret!
+
+MARGARET.  You know it's true.
+
+MRS KNOX.  Margaret:  if youre going to be hardened about it, theres
+no use my saying anything.
+
+MARGARET.  I'm not hardened, mother.  But I cant talk nonsense about
+it.  You see, it's all real to me.  Ive suffered it.  Ive been shoved
+and bullied.  Ive had my arms twisted.  Ive been made scream with pain
+in other ways.  Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other
+poor wretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a
+cellar.  And the only difference between me and the others was that I
+hit back.  Yes I did.  And I did worse.  I wasnt ladylike.  I cursed.
+I called names.  I heard words that I didnt even know that I knew,
+coming out of my mouth just as if somebody else had spoken them.  The
+policeman repeated them in court.  The magistrate said he could hardly
+believe it.  The policeman held out his hand with his two teeth in it
+that I knocked out.  I said it was all right; that I had heard myself
+using those words quite distinctly; and that I had taken the good
+conduct prize for three years running at school.  The poor old
+gentleman put me back for the missionary to find out who I was, and to
+ascertain the state of my mind.  I wouldnt tell, of course, for your
+sakes at home here; and I wouldnt say I was sorry, or apologize to the
+policeman, or compensate him or anything of that sort.  I wasnt sorry.
+The one thing that gave me any satisfaction was getting in that smack
+on his mouth; and I said so.  So the missionary reported that I seemed
+hardened and that no doubt I would tell who I was after a day in
+prison.  Then I was sentenced.  So now you see I'm not a bit the sort
+of girl you thought me.  I'm not a bit the sort of girl I thought
+myself.  And I dont know what sort of person you really are, or what
+sort of person father really is.  I wonder what he would say or do if
+he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm with one hand
+and rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the other.  He
+couldnt whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down by a
+glorious kick on the helmet.  Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought
+we'd have beaten them.
+
+MRS KNOX.  But how did it all begin?
+
+MARGARET.  Oh, I dont know.  It was boat-race night, they said.
+
+MRS KNOX.  Boat-race night!  But what had you to do with the boat
+race?  You went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall
+with your aunt.  She put you into the bus that passes the door.  What
+made you get out of the bus?
+
+MARGARET.  I dont know.  The meeting got on my nerves, somehow.  It
+was the singing, I suppose:  you know I love singing a good swinging
+hymn; and I felt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had
+been singing so wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to
+heaven.  I wanted more music--more happiness--more life.  I wanted
+some comrade who felt as I did.  I felt exalted:  it seemed mean to be
+afraid of anything:  after all, what could anyone do to me against my
+will?  I suppose I was a little mad:  at all events, I got out of the
+bus at Piccadilly Circus, because there was a lot of light and
+excitement there.  I walked to Leicester Square; and went into a great
+theatre.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [horrified]  A theatre!
+
+MARGARET.  Yes.  Lots of other women were going in alone.  I had to
+pay five shillings.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [aghast]  Five shillings!
+
+MARGARET.  [apologetically]  It was a lot.  It was very stuffy; and
+I didnt like the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying
+themselves; but the stage was splendid and the music lovely.  I saw
+that Frenchman, Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking
+a cigarette.  He seemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike.
+I went and stood beside him, hoping he would speak to me.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [gasps]  Margaret!
+
+MARGARET.  [continuing]  He did, just as if he had known me for
+years.  We got on together like old friends.  He asked me would I have
+some champagne; and I said it would cost too much, but that I would
+give anything for a dance.  I longed to join the people on the stage
+and dance with them:  one of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever
+saw.  He told me he had come there to see her, and that when it was
+over we could go somewhere where there was dancing.  So we went to a
+place where there was a band in a gallery and the floor cleared for
+dancing.  Very few people danced:  the women only wanted to shew off
+their dresses; but we danced and danced until a lot of them joined in.
+We got quite reckless; and we had champagne after all.  I never
+enjoyed anything so much.  But at last it got spoilt by the Oxford and
+Cambridge students up for the boat race.  They got drunk; and they
+began to smash things; and the police came in.  Then it was quite
+horrible.  The students fought with the police; and the police
+suddenly got quite brutal, and began to throw everybody downstairs.
+They attacked the women, who were not doing anything, and treated them
+just as roughly as they had treated the students.  Duvallet got
+indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was shoving a woman
+though she was going quietly as fast as she could.  The policeman
+flung the woman through the door and then turned on Duvallet.  It was
+then that Duvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the
+policeman down.  And then three policemen rushed at him and carried
+him out by the arms and legs face downwards.  Two more attacked me and
+gave me a shove to the door.  That quite maddened me.  I just got in
+one good bang on the mouth of one of them.  All the rest was dreadful.
+I was rushed through the streets to the police station.  They kicked
+me with their knees; they twisted my arms; they taunted and insulted
+me; they called me vile names; and I told them what I thought of them,
+and provoked them to do their worst.  Theres one good thing about
+being hard hurt:  it makes you sleep.  I slept in that filthy cell
+with all the other drunks sounder than I should have slept at home.  I
+cant describe how I felt next morning:  it was hideous; but the police
+were quite jolly; and everybody said it was a bit of English fun, and
+talked about last year's boat-race night when it had been a great deal
+worse.  I was black and blue and sick and wretched.  But the strange
+thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm not sorry.  And I dont feel that
+I did anything wrong, really.  [She rises and stretches her arms with
+a large liberating breath]  Now that it's all over I'm rather proud
+of it; though I know now that I'm not a lady; but whether thats
+because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's really a lady
+except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont know.  [She throws
+herself into a corner of the sofa].
+
+MRS KNOX.  [lost in wonder]  But how could you bring yourself to do
+it, Margaret?  I'm not blaming you:  I only want to know.  How could
+you bring yourself to do it?
+
+MARGARET.  I cant tell you.  I dont understand it myself.  The prayer
+meeting set me free, somehow.  I should never have done it if it were
+not for the prayer meeting.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [deeply horrified]  Oh, dont say such a thing as that.  I
+know that prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me
+when I told you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil.
+
+MARGARET.  Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set
+free for evil as well as good.  As father says, you cant have anything
+both ways at once.  When I was at home and at school I was what you
+call good; but I wasnt free.  And when I got free I was what most
+people would call not good.  But I see no harm in what I did; though I
+see plenty in what other people did to me.
+
+MRS KNOX.  I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance.
+
+MARGARET.  Oh no.  [She sits down again at the table].  I'm a
+heroine of reality, if you can call me a heroine at all.  And reality
+is pretty brutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it.  Yet
+it's glorious all the same.  It's so real and satisfactory.
+
+MRS KNOX.  I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret.  I dont like your
+talking to me in that tone.
+
+MARGARET.  It's no use, mother.  I dont care for you and Papa any the
+less; but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again.  Ive
+made a sort of descent into hell--
+
+MRS KNOX.  Margaret!  Such a word!
+
+MARGARET.  You should have heard all the words that were flying round
+that night.  You should mix a little with people who dont know any
+other words.  But when I said that about a descent into hell I was not
+swearing.  I was in earnest, like a preacher.
+
+MRS KNOX.  A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice.
+
+MARGARET.  I know:  the tone that shews they dont mean anything real
+to him.  They usent to mean anything real to me.  Now hell is as real
+to me as a turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that.
+Anyhow, Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth
+doing but redeeming people from it.
+
+MRS KNOX.  They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it.
+
+MARGARET.  Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it?
+You dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist
+their arms.  Whats the good of pretending?  Thats all our
+respectability is, pretending, pretending, pretending.  Thank heaven
+Ive had it knocked out of me once for all!
+
+MRS KNOX.  [greatly agitated]  Margaret:  dont talk like that.  I
+cant bear to hear you talking wickedly.  I can bear to hear the
+children of this world talking vainly and foolishly in the language of
+this world.  But when I hear you justifying your wickedness in the
+words of grace, it's too horrible:  it sounds like the devil making
+fun of religion.  Ive tried to bring you up to learn the happiness of
+religion.  Ive waited for you to find out that happiness is within
+ourselves and doesnt come from outward pleasures.  Ive prayed oftener
+than you think that you might be enlightened.  But if all my hopes and
+all my prayers are to come to this, that you mix up my very words and
+thoughts with the promptings of the devil, then I dont know what I
+shall do:  I dont indeed:  itll kill me.
+
+MARGARET.  You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you
+didnt want me to be enlightened.  If the truth were known, I suspect
+we all want our prayers to be answered only by halves:  the agreeable
+halves.  Your prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother.  Youve got
+more than you bargained for in the way of enlightenment.  I shall
+never be the same again.  I shall never speak in the old way again.
+Ive been set free from this silly little hole of a house and all its
+pretences.  I know now that I am stronger than you and Papa.  I havnt
+found that happiness of yours that is within yourself; but Ive found
+strength.  For good or evil I am set free; and none of the things that
+used to hold me can hold me now.
+
+_Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense._
+
+KNOX.  How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia?  Do you
+think I'm made of iron?  Whats the girl done?  What are we going to
+do?
+
+MRS KNOX.  Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours.  I cant even
+pray for her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for.
+
+KNOX.  Dont talk nonsense, woman:  is this a time for praying?  Does
+anybody know?  Thats what we have to consider now.  If only we can
+keep it dark, I don't care for anything else.
+
+MARGARET.  Dont hope for that, father.  Mind:  I'll tell everybody.
+It ought to be told.  It must be told.
+
+KNOX.  Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house this
+instant.
+
+MARGARET.  I'm quite ready.  [She takes her hat and turns to the
+door].
+
+KNOX.  [throwing himself in front of it]  Here! where are you going?
+
+MRS KNOX.  [rising]  You mustnt turn her out, Jo!  I'll go with her
+if she goes.
+
+KNOX.  Who wants to turn her out?  But is she going to ruin us?  To
+let everybody know of her disgrace and shame?  To tear me down from
+the position Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard
+struggling?
+
+MARGARET.  Yes:  I'm going to tear it all down.  It stands between us
+and everything.  I'll tell everybody.
+
+KNOX.  Magsy, my child:  dont bring down your father's hairs with
+sorrow to the grave.  Theres only one thing I care about in the world:
+to keep this dark.  I'm your father.  I ask you here on my knees--in
+the dust, so to speak--not to let it out.
+
+MARGARET.  I'll tell everybody.
+
+_Knox collapses in despair.  Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot.
+Margaret stands inflexible._
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+_Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room.  Afternoon.  The table is not
+laid:  it is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an
+exercise-book, and school-books on it.  Bobby Gilbey is in the
+arm-chair, crouching over the fire, reading an illustrated paper.  He
+is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, strong and manly enough
+by nature, but untrained and unsatisfactory, his parents having
+imagined that domestic restriction is what they call "bringing up."
+He has learnt nothing from it except a habit of evading it by deceit._
+
+_He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch.  Juggins
+answers the bell._
+
+BOBBY.  Juggins.
+
+JUGGINS.  Sir?
+
+BOBBY.  [morosely sarcastic]  Sir be blowed!
+
+JUGGINS.  [cheerfully]  Not at all, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  I'm a gaol-bird:  youre a respectable man.
+
+JUGGINS.  That doesnt matter, sir.  Your father pays me to call you
+sir; and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain.
+
+BOBBY.  Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it?
+
+JUGGINS.  No, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  Ive been talking to Dora about you.
+
+JUGGINS.  Indeed, sir?
+
+BOBBY.  Yes.  Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have
+the manners of a gentleman.  I always thought you hadnt any manners.
+Anyhow, your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in
+my set.
+
+JUGGINS.  They would be, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of
+Dora's notion, I suppose.
+
+JUGGINS.  No, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over
+the arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman]  It was part
+of your bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it?
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an
+engagement to a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise
+or behaving like a regular cad?
+
+JUGGINS.  No, sir.  You cant get out of an engagement without behaving
+like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it.
+
+BOBBY.  But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dont
+really care for her.
+
+JUGGINS.  Women dont always marry for happiness, sir.  They often
+marry because they wish to be married women and not old maids.
+
+BOBBY.  Then what am I to do?
+
+JUGGINS.  Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad.
+
+BOBBY.  [Jumping up]  Well, I wont marry her:  thats flat.  What
+would you do if you were in my place?
+
+JUGGINS.  I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil
+my engagement.
+
+BOBBY.  But youd have to make some excuse, you know.  I want to give
+it a gentlemanly turn:  to say I'm not worthy of her, or something
+like that.
+
+JUGGINS.  That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir.  Quite the contrary.
+
+BOBBY.  I dont see that at all.  Do you mean that it's not exactly
+true?
+
+JUGGINS.  Not at all, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been.
+That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather
+exceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can
+ever be of anyone else.  You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of
+a girl's feelings.
+
+JUGGINS.  If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her.
+If you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get
+credit for considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare
+them.  She wont like it.  And it will start an argument, of which you
+will get the worse.
+
+BOBBY.  But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her.
+
+JUGGINS.  Probably she never supposed you were, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist.
+
+JUGGINS.  [preparing to go]  Anything else, sir?
+
+BOBBY.  [querulously]  You havnt been much use.  [He wanders
+disconsolately across the room].  You generally put me up to the
+correct way of doing things.
+
+JUGGINS.  I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting.  It's
+not correct in itself.
+
+BOBBY.  [hopefully]  I'll tell you what.  I'll say I cant hold her
+to an engagement with a man whos been in quod.  Thatll do it.  [He
+seats himself on the table, relieved and confident].
+
+JUGGINS.  Very dangerous, sir.  No woman will deny herself the
+romantic luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the
+form of doing something agreeable.  Shes almost sure to say that your
+misfortune will draw her closer to you.
+
+BOBBY.  What a nuisance!  I dont know what to do.  You know, Juggins,
+your cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark
+Hill.
+
+JUGGINS.  I daresay not, sir.  No doubt youd prefer to make it look
+like an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke
+her to break the engagement herself.  Both plans have been tried
+repeatedly, but never with success, as far as my knowledge goes.
+
+BOBBY.  You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law.  You
+know, in my class you have to wrap up things a bit.  Denmark Hill
+isn't Camberwell, you know.
+
+JUGGINS.  I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the
+higher you go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and
+that only tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere.  Thats a mistake.
+Tramps are often shameless; but theyre never sincere.  Swells--if I
+may use that convenient name for the upper classes--play much more
+with their cards on the table.  If you tell the young lady that you
+want to jilt her, and she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction
+may leave much to be desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if
+you say youre not worthy.
+
+BOBBY.  Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins.  The girl isnt a
+scullery-maid.  I want to do it delicately.
+
+JUGGINS.  A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in
+that line.--Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell.  [He goes
+out].
+
+_Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes
+off the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes
+reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write.  Juggins returns._
+
+JUGGINS.  [announcing]  Miss Knox.
+
+_Margaret comes in.  Juggins withdraws._
+
+MARGARET.  Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination,
+Bobby?  Youll never pass.
+
+BOBBY.  [rising]  No:  I was just writing to you.
+
+MARGARET.  What about?
+
+BOBBY.  Oh, nothing.  At least--  How are you?
+
+MARGARET.  [passing round the other end of the table and putting down
+on it a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag]  Quite well, thank
+you.  How did you enjoy Brighton?
+
+BOBBY.  Brighton!  I wasnt at--  Oh yes, of course.  Oh, pretty well.
+Is your aunt all right?
+
+MARGARET.  My aunt!  I suppose so.  I havent seen her for a month.
+
+BOBBY.  I thought you were down staying with her.
+
+MARGARET.  Oh! was that what they told you?
+
+BOBBY.  Yes.  Why?  Werent you really?
+
+MARGARET.  No.  Ive something to tell you.  Sit down and lets be
+comfortable.
+
+_She sits on the edge of the table.  He sits beside her, and puts his
+arm wearily round her waist._
+
+MARGARET.  You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby.  Suppose we get
+off duty for the day, just to see what it's like.
+
+BOBBY.  Off duty?  What do you mean?
+
+MARGARET.  You know very well what I mean.  Bobby:  did you ever care
+one little scrap for me in that sort of way?  Dont funk answering:
+_I_ dont care a bit for you--that way.
+
+BOBBY.  [removing his arm rather huffily]  I beg your pardon, I'm
+sure.  I thought you did.
+
+MARGARET.  Well, did you?  Come!  Dont be mean.  Ive owned up.  You
+can put it all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more
+than I do.
+
+BOBBY.  You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars.
+
+MARGARET.  Yes.
+
+BOBBY.  Well, it's not that I dont care for you:  in fact, no girl can
+ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much
+together that it feels more like brother and sister than--well, than
+the other thing, doesnt it?
+
+MARGARET.  Just so.  How did you find out the difference?
+
+BOBBY.  [blushing]  Oh, I say!
+
+MARGARET.  I found out from a Frenchman.
+
+BOBBY.  Oh, I say!  [He comes off the table in his consternation].
+
+MARGARET.  Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman?  You know you must
+have learnt it from somebody.
+
+BOBBY.  Not a Frenchwoman.  Shes quite a nice woman.  But shes been
+rather unfortunate.  The daughter of a clergyman.
+
+MARGARET.  [startled]  Oh, Bobby!  That sort of woman!
+
+BOBBY.  What sort of woman?
+
+MARGARET.  You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do
+you, you silly boy?  It's a stock joke.
+
+BOBBY.  Do you mean to say you dont believe me?
+
+MARGARET.  No:  I mean to say I dont believe her.
+
+BOBBY.  [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table
+beside her].  What do you know about her?  What do you know about all
+this sort of thing?
+
+MARGARET.  What sort of thing, Bobby?
+
+BOBBY.  Well, about life.
+
+MARGARET.  Ive lived a lot since I saw you last.  I wasnt at my
+aunt's.  All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean.
+
+BOBBY.  I wasnt at Brighton, Meg.  I'd better tell you:  youre bound
+to find out sooner or later.  [He begins his confession humbly,
+avoiding her gaze].  Meg:  it's rather awful:  youll think me no end
+of a beast.  Ive been in prison.
+
+MARGARET.  You!
+
+BOBBY.  Yes, me.  For being drunk and assaulting the police.
+
+MARGARET.  Do you mean to say that you--oh! this is a let-down for me.
+[She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the
+end of it furthest from the hearth].
+
+BOBBY.  Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that.  I
+was writing to you to break it off.  [He also descends from the table
+and makes slowly for the hearth].  You must think me an utter rotter.
+
+MARGARET.  Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and
+assaulting the police?  How long were you in?
+
+BOBBY.  A fortnight.
+
+MARGARET.  Thats what I was in for.
+
+BOBBY.  What are you talking about?  In where?
+
+MARGARET.  In quod.
+
+BOBBY.  But I'm serious:  I'm not rotting.  Really and truly--
+
+MARGARET.  What did you do to the copper?
+
+BOBBY.  Nothing, absolutely nothing.  He exaggerated grossly.  I only
+laughed at him.
+
+MARGARET.  [jumping up, triumphant]  Ive beaten you hollow.  I
+knocked out two of his teeth.  Ive got one of them.  He sold it to me
+for ten shillings.
+
+BOBBY.  Now please do stop fooling, Meg.  I tell you I'm not rotting.
+[He sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily].
+
+MARGARET.  [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him]
+And I tell you I'm not either.  Look!  Heres a report of it.  The
+daily papers are no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid.  [She
+sits on the arm of the chair].  See!  [Reading]:  "Hardened at
+Eighteen.  A quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her
+name"--thats me.
+
+BOBBY.  [pausing a moment in his perusal]  Do you mean to say that
+you went on the loose out of pure devilment?
+
+MARGARET.  I did no harm.  I went to see a lovely dance.  I picked up
+a nice man and went to have a dance myself.  I cant imagine anything
+more innocent and more happy.  All the bad part was done by other
+people:  they did it out of pure devilment if you like.  Anyhow, here
+we are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever.  Isnt it a relief?
+
+BOBBY.  [rising stiffly]  But you know, it's not the same for a
+girl.  A man may do things a woman maynt.  [He stands on the
+hearthrug with his back to the fire].
+
+MARGARET.  Are you scandalized, Bobby?
+
+BOBBY.  Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg?  I
+never thought you were that sort of girl.
+
+MARGARET.  [rising indignantly]  I'm not.  You mustnt pretend to
+think that _I_'m a clergyman's daughter, Bobby.
+
+BOBBY.  I wish you wouldnt chaff about that.  Dont forget the row you
+got into for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back
+on him quickly]--a footman!  And what about the Frenchman?
+
+MARGARET.  [facing him again]  I know nothing about the Frenchman
+except that hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like
+the hand of a clock and knock a policeman down with it.  He was in
+Wormwood Scrubbs with you.  I was in Holloway.
+
+BOBBY.  It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit
+thick, you know.
+
+MARGARET.  Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison?
+
+BOBBY.  [hastily]  No.  I never said that.  It might even give a
+woman a greater claim on a man.  Any girl, if she were thoughtless and
+a bit on, perhaps, might get into a scrape.  Anyone who really
+understood her character could see there was no harm in it.  But youre
+not the larky sort.  At least you usent to be.
+
+MARGARET.  I'm not; and I never will be.  [She walks straight up to
+him].  I didnt do it for a lark, Bob:  I did it out of the very
+depths of my nature.  I did it because I'm that sort of person.  I did
+it in one of my religious fits.  I'm hardened at eighteen, as they
+say.  So what about the match, now?
+
+BOBBY.  Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg.  Of
+course it would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or
+anything of that sort.  I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and
+I dont pretend to.  I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as
+long as it is understood that it is only a lark or a slip.  But to go
+on the loose on principle; to talk about religion in connection with
+it; to--to--well, Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say.  I hope
+youre not in earnest when you talk that way.
+
+MARGARET.  Bobby:  youre no good.  No good to me, anyhow.
+
+BOBBY.  [huffed]  I'm sorry, Miss Knox.
+
+MARGARET.  Goodbye, Mr Gilbey.  [She turns on her heel and goes to
+the other end of the table].  I suppose you wont introduce me to the
+clergyman's daughter.
+
+BOBBY.  I dont think she'd like it.  There are limits, after all.
+[He sits down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books:  a
+hint to her to go].
+
+MARGARET.  [on her way to the door]  Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell
+Juggins to shew me out.
+
+BOBBY.  [reddening]  I'm not a cad, Meg.
+
+MARGARET.  [coming to the table]  Then do something nice to prevent
+us feeling mean about this afterwards.  Youd better kiss me.  You
+neednt ever do it again.
+
+BOBBY.  If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you.
+
+MARGARET.  Oh, it'd be no fun.  If I wanted what you call fun, I
+should ask the Frenchman to kiss me--or Juggins.
+
+BOBBY.  [rising and retreating to the hearth]  Oh, dont be
+disgusting, Meg.  Dont be low.
+
+MARGARET.  [determinedly, preparing to use force]  Now, I'll make
+you kiss me, just to punish you.  [She seizes his wrist; pulls him
+off his balance; and gets her arm round his neck].
+
+BOBBY.  No.  Stop.  Leave go, will you.
+
+_Juggins appears at the door._
+
+JUGGINS.  Miss Delaney, Sir.  [Dora comes in.  Juggins goes out.
+Margaret hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the
+room.]
+
+DORA.  [through the door, to the departing Juggins]  Well, you are a
+Juggins to shew me up when theres company.  [To Margaret and Bobby]
+It's all right, dear:  all right, old man:  I'll wait in Juggins's
+pantry til youre disengaged.
+
+MARGARET.  Dont you know me?
+
+DORA.  [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very
+attentively]  Why, it's never No. 406!
+
+MARGARET.  Yes it is.
+
+DORA.  Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform.  How
+did you get out?  You were doing a month, wernt you?
+
+MARGARET.  My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself.
+
+DORA.  A real gentleman!  [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring
+open-mouthed]  Look at him.  He cant take it in.
+
+BOBBY.  I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg.  But when
+it comes to talking about blokes and all that--well!
+
+MARGARET.  Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it.  It's another
+barrier broken down.
+
+BOBBY.  It's not so much the language, Meg.  But I think [he looks at
+Dora and stops].
+
+MARGARET.  [suddenly dangerous]  What do you think, Bobby?
+
+DORA.  He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie.  It does
+him credit:  he always was a gentleman, you know.
+
+MARGARET.  Does him credit!  To insult you like that!  Bobby:  say
+that that wasnt what you meant.
+
+BOBBY.  I didnt say it was.
+
+MARGARET.  Well, deny that it was.
+
+BOBBY.  No.  I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think
+it's not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her.
+
+DORA.  Of course it isnt, old man.  [To Margaret]  I'll just trot
+off and come back in half an hour.  You two can make it up together.
+I'm really not fit company for you, dearie:  I couldnt live up to you.
+[She turns to go].
+
+MARGARET.  Stop.  Do you believe he could live up to me?
+
+DORA.  Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and a
+respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself.
+I have a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some.
+
+MARGARET.  You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's
+behaving like a skunk.
+
+BOBBY.  [much ruffled]  Nice language that!
+
+DORA.  Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep
+up their respectability.  But you cant blame them for that, can you?
+Ive met Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead.
+I wont pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear?
+
+MARGARET.  And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in
+countenance.  Well, I shant:  not if my whole family were there.  But
+I'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat you properly.  [To Bobby, with a
+threatening move in his direction]  I'll educate you, you young
+beast.
+
+BOBBY.  [furious, meeting her half way]  Who are you calling a young
+beast?
+
+MARGARET.  You.
+
+DORA.  [peacemaking]  Now, dearies!
+
+BOBBY.  If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly well
+clouted.
+
+MARGARET.  If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be
+the beginning of a collection.
+
+DORA.  Now, loveys, be good.
+
+_Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at
+Margaret.  Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended
+countenance a box on the cheek.  He hurls himself her.  They wrestle._
+
+BOBBY.  Cat!  I'll teach you.
+
+MARGARET.  Pig!  Beast!  [She forces him backwards on the table].
+Now where are you?
+
+DORA.  [calling]  Juggins, Juggins.  Theyll murder one another.
+
+JUGGINS.  [throwing open the door, and announcing]  Monsieur
+Duvallet.
+
+_Duvallet enters.  Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence.
+The combatants separate by the whole width of the room.  Juggins
+withdraws._
+
+DUVALLET.  I fear I derange you.
+
+MARGARET.  Not at all.  Bobby:  you really are a beast:  Monsieur
+Duvallet will think I'm always fighting.
+
+DUVALLET.  Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling.
+Admirable, Miss Knox.  The athletic young Englishwoman is an example
+to all Europe.  [Indicating Bobby]  Your instructor, no doubt.
+Monsieur--  [he bows].
+
+BOBBY.  [bowing awkwardly]  How d'y' do?
+
+MARGARET.  [to Bobby]  I'm so sorry, Bobby:  I asked Monsieur
+Duvallet to call for me here; and I forgot to tell you.
+[Introducing]  Monsieur Duvallet:  Miss Four hundred and seven.  Mr
+Bobby Gilbey.  [Duvallet bows].  I really dont know how to explain
+our relationships.  Bobby and I are like brother and sister.
+
+DUVALLET.  Perfectly.  I noticed it.
+
+MARGARET.  Bobby and Miss--Miss-
+
+DORA.  Delaney, dear.  [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to
+real friends.
+
+MARGARET.  Bobby and Dora are--are--well, not brother and sister.
+
+DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension]  Perfectly.
+
+MARGARET.  Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison.  You dont
+mind, do you?
+
+DUVALLET.  No, naturally.  _I_ have spent the last fortnight in
+prison.
+
+_The conversation drops.  Margaret renews it with an effort._
+
+MARGARET.  Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison.
+
+DUVALLET.  Quite so.  I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement.
+
+DORA.  _Trop merci_, as they say in Boulogne.  No call to be stiff
+with one another, have we?
+
+_Juggins comes in._
+
+JUGGINS.  Beg pardon, sir.  Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the
+street.
+
+DORA.  Let me absquatulate [making for the door].
+
+JUGGINS.  If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step
+into my pantry and leave afterwards.
+
+DORA.  Right oh!  [She bursts into song]
+Hide me in the meat safe til the cop goes by.
+Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh.
+[She goes out on tiptoe].
+
+MARGARET.  I wont stay here if she has to hide.  I'll keep her company
+in the pantry.  [She follows Dora].
+
+BOBBY.  Lets all go.  We cant have any fun with the Mar here.  I say,
+Juggins:  you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you?
+
+JUGGINS.  Certainly, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  Right.  Say nothing to my mother.  You dont mind, Mr.
+Doovalley, do you?
+
+DUVALLET.  I shall be charmed.
+
+BOBBY.  Right you are.  Come along.  [At the door]  Oh, by the way,
+Juggins, fetch down that concertina from my room, will you?
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, sir.  [Bobby goes out.  Duvallet follows him to the
+door].  You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely
+_comme il faut_?
+
+DUVALLET.  Perfectly.  But the other?
+
+JUGGINS.  The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately
+described in your native idiom as a daughter of joy.
+
+DUVALLET.  It is what I thought.  These English domestic interiors are
+very interesting.  [He goes out, followed by Juggins].
+
+_Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in.  They take their accustomed
+places:  he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table._
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob?
+
+GILBEY.  No, I didnt.  And I dont want to smell it.  Dont you go
+looking for trouble, Maria.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere]  Shes been here.
+[Gilbey rings the bell].  What are you ringing for?  Are you going
+to ask?
+
+GILBEY.  No, I'm not going to ask.  Juggins said this morning he
+wanted to speak to me.  If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not
+going to ask; and dont you either.  [Juggins appears at the door].
+You said you wanted to say something to me.
+
+JUGGINS.  When it would be convenient to you, sir.
+
+GILBEY.  Well, what is it?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea.
+
+GILBEY.  He knows that.  [He sits down.  Then, to Juggins]  What is
+it?
+
+JUGGINS.  [advancing to the middle of the table]  Would it
+inconvenience you, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice?
+
+GILBEY.  [taken aback]  What!  Why?  Aint you satisfied?
+
+JUGGINS.  Perfectly, sir.  It is not that I want to better myself, I
+assure you.
+
+GILBEY.  Well, what do you want to leave for, then?  Do you want to
+worse yourself?
+
+JUGGINS.  No, sir.  Ive been well treated in your most comfortable
+establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbey
+were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction.
+
+GILBEY.  [paternally]  Now you listen to me, Juggins.  I'm an older
+man than you.  Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh.
+Dont get too big for your boots.  Youre like all servants nowadays:
+you think youve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a
+dozen jobs.  But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated here.
+In bed every night before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on
+Mrs Gilbey's day once a month; and no other manservant to interfere
+with you.  It may be a bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of
+adventure.  Take my advice:  think over it.  You suit me; and I'm
+prepared to make it suit you if youre dissatisfied--in reason, you
+know.
+
+JUGGINS.  I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private reasons--
+
+GILBEY.  [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug in
+dudgeon]  Oh, I know.  Very well:  go.  The sooner the better.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Oh, not until we're suited.  He must stay his month.
+
+GILBEY.  [sarcastic]  Do you want to lose him his character, Maria?
+Do you think I dont see what it is?  We're prison folk now.  Weve been
+in the police court.  [To Juggins]  Well, I suppose you know your
+own business best.  I take your notice:  you can go when your month is
+up, or sooner, if you like.
+
+JUGGINS.  Believe me, sir--
+
+GILBEY.  Thats enough:  I dont want any excuses.  I dont blame you.
+You can go downstairs now, if youve nothing else to trouble me about.
+
+JUGGINS.  I really cant leave it at that, sir.  I assure you Ive no
+objection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison.  You may do six months
+yourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me.
+I'm leaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement,
+and feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets
+over it.
+
+GILBEY.  And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend your
+savings in comforting him?  Have some sense, man:  how can you afford
+such things?
+
+JUGGINS.  My brother can afford to keep me, sir.  The truth is, he
+objects to my being in service.
+
+GILBEY.  Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him?  Dont
+do it, Juggins:  pay your own way like an honest lad; and dont eat
+your brother's bread while youre able to earn your own.
+
+JUGGINS.  There is sound sense in that, sir.  But unfortunately it is
+a tradition in my family that the younger brothers should spunge to a
+considerable extent on the eldest.
+
+GILBEY.  Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man.
+
+JUGGINS.  A Radical sentiment, sir.  But an excellent one.
+
+GILBEY.  Radical!  What do you mean?  Dont you begin to take
+liberties, Juggins, now that you know we're loth to part with you.
+Your brother isnt a duke, you know.
+
+JUGGINS.  Unfortunately, he is, sir.
+
+GILBEY.     |   What!    |
+            |            | _together_
+            |            |
+MRS GILBEY. |   Juggins! |
+
+JUGGINS.  Excuse me, sir:  the bell.  [He goes out].
+
+GILBEY.  [overwhelmed]  Maria:  did you understand him to say his
+brother was a duke?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Fancy his condescending!  Perhaps if youd offer to raise
+his wages and treat him as one of the family, he'd stay.
+
+GILBEY.  And have my own servant above me!  Not me.  Whats the world
+coming to?  Heres Bobby and--
+
+JUGGINS.  [entering and announcing]  Mr and Mrs Knox.
+
+_The Knoxes come in.  Juggins takes two chairs from the wall and
+places them at the table, between the host and hostess.  Then he
+withdraws._
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [to Mrs Knox]  How are you, dear?
+
+MRS KNOX.  Nicely, thank you.  Good evening, Mr Gilbey.  [They shake
+hands; and she takes the chair nearest Mrs Gilbey.  Mr Knox takes the
+other chair].
+
+GILBEY.  [sitting down]  I was just saying, Knox, What is the world
+coming to?
+
+KNOX.  [appealing to his wife]  What was I saying myself only this
+morning?
+
+MRS KNOX.  This is a strange time.  I was never one to talk about the
+end of the world; but look at the things that have happened!
+
+KNOX.  Earthquakes!
+
+GILBEY.  San Francisco!
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Jamaica!
+
+KNOX.  Martinique!
+
+GILBEY.  Messina!
+
+MRS GILBEY.  The plague in China!
+
+MRS KNOX.  The floods in France!
+
+GILBEY.  My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs!
+
+KNOX.  Margaret in Holloway!
+
+GILBEY.  And now my footman tells me his brother's a duke!
+
+KNOX.       |   No!
+            |
+MRS KNOX.   | Whats that?
+
+GILBEY.  Just before he let you in.  A duke!  Here has everything been
+respectable from the beginning of the world, as you may say, to the
+present day; and all of a sudden everything is turned upside down.
+
+MRS KNOX.  It's like in the book of Revelations.  But I do say that
+unless people have happiness within themselves, all the earthquakes,
+all the floods, and all the prisons in the world cant make them really
+happy.
+
+KNOX.  It isnt alone the curious things that are happening, but the
+unnatural way people are taking them.  Why, theres Margaret been in
+prison, and she hasnt time to go to all the invitations shes had from
+people that never asked her before.
+
+GILBEY.  I never knew we could live without being respectable.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Oh, Rob, what a thing to say!  Who says we're not
+respectable?
+
+GILBEY.  Well, it's not what I call respectable to have your children
+in and out of gaol.
+
+KNOX.  Oh come, Gilbey! we're not tramps because weve had, as it were,
+an accident.
+
+GILBEY.  It's no use, Knox:  look it in the face.  Did I ever tell you
+my father drank?
+
+KNOX.  No.  But I knew it.  Simmons told me.
+
+GILBEY.  Yes:  he never could keep his mouth quiet:  he told me your
+aunt was a kleptomaniac.
+
+MRS KNOX.  It wasnt true, Mr Gilbey.  She used to pick up
+handkerchiefs if she saw them lying about; but you might trust her
+with untold silver.
+
+GILBEY.  My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller.  My father used to say to
+me:  Rob, he says, dont you ever have a weakness.  If you find one
+getting a hold on you, make a merit of it, he says.  Your Uncle Phil
+doesnt like spirits; and he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of
+the Blue Ribbon Committee.  I do like spirits; and I make a merit of
+it, and I'm the King Cockatoo of the Convivial Cockatoos.  Never put
+yourself in the wrong, he says.  I used to boast about what a good boy
+Bobby was.  Now I swank about what a dog he is; and it pleases people
+just as well.  What a world it is!
+
+KNOX.  It turned my blood cold at first to hear Margaret telling
+people about Holloway; but it goes down better than her singing used
+to.
+
+MRS KNOX.  I never thought she sang right after all those lessons we
+paid for.
+
+GILBEY.  Lord, Knox, it was lucky you and me got let in together.  I
+tell you straight, if it hadnt been for Bobby's disgrace, I'd have
+broke up the firm.
+
+KNOX.  I shouldnt have blamed you:  I'd have done the same only for
+Margaret.  Too much straightlacedness narrows a man's mind.  Talking
+of that, what about those hygienic corset advertisements that Vines &
+Jackson want us to put in the window?  I told Vines they werent decent
+and we couldnt shew them in our shop.  I was pretty high with him.
+But what am I to say to him now if he comes and throws this business
+in our teeth?
+
+GILBEY.  Oh, put em in.  We may as well go it a bit now.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Youve been going it quite far enough, Rob.  [To Mrs
+Knox]  He wont get up in the mornings now:  he that was always out of
+bed at seven to the tick!
+
+MRS KNOX.  You hear that, Jo?  [To Mrs Gilbey]  Hes taken to whisky
+and soda.  A pint a week!  And the beer the same as before!
+
+KNOX.  Oh, dont preach, old girl.
+
+MRS KNOX.  [To Mrs Gilbey]  Thats a new name hes got for me.  [to
+Knox]  I tell you, Jo, this doesnt sit well on you.  You may call it
+preaching if you like; but it's the truth for all that.  I say that if
+youve happiness within yourself, you dont need to seek it outside,
+spending money on drink and theatres and bad company, and being
+miserable after all.  You can sit at home and be happy; and you can
+work and be happy.  If you have that in you, the spirit will set you
+free to do what you want and guide you to do right.  But if you havent
+got it, then youd best be respectable and stick to the ways that are
+marked out for you; for youve nothing else to keep you straight.
+
+KNOX.  [angrily]  And is a man never to have a bit of fun?  See
+whats come of it with your daughter!  She was to be content with your
+happiness that youre always talking about; and how did the spirit
+guide her?  To a month's hard for being drunk and assaulting the
+police.  Did _I_ ever assault the police?
+
+MRS KNOX.  You wouldnt have the courage.  I dont blame the girl.
+
+MRS GILBEY.     |   Oh, Maria!  What are you saying?
+                |
+
+GILBEY.         |   What!  And you so pious!
+
+MRS KNOX.  She went where the spirit guided her.  And what harm there
+was in it she knew nothing about.
+
+GILBEY.  Oh, come, Mrs Knox!  Girls are not so innocent as all that.
+
+MRS KNOX.  I dont say she was ignorant.  But I do say that she didnt
+know what we know:  I mean the way certain temptations get a sudden
+hold that no goodness nor self-control is any use against.  She was
+saved from that, and had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no
+earthly protection that did that.  But dont think, you two men, that
+youll be protected if you make what she did an excuse to go and do as
+youd like to do if it wasnt for fear of losing your characters.  The
+spirit wont guide you, because it isnt in you; and it never had been:
+not in either of you.
+
+GILBEY.  [with ironic humility]  I'm sure I'm obliged to you for
+your good opinion, Mrs Knox.
+
+MRS KNOX.  Well, I will say for you, Mr Gilbey, that youre better than
+my man here.  Hes a bitter hard heathen, is my Jo, God help me!  [She
+begins to cry quietly].
+
+KNOX.  Now, dont take on like that, Amelia.  You know I always give in
+to you that you were right about religion.  But one of us had to think
+of other things, or we'd have starved, we and the child.
+
+MRS KNOX.  How do you know youd have starved?  All the other things
+might have been added unto you.
+
+GILBEY.  Come, Mrs Knox, dont tell me Knox is a sinner.  I know
+better.  I'm sure youd be the first to be sorry if anything was to
+happen to him.
+
+KNOX.  [bitterly to his wife]  Youve always had some grudge against
+me; and nobody but yourself can understand what it is.
+
+MRS KNOX.  I wanted a man who had that happiness within himself.  You
+made me think you had it; but it was nothing but being in love with
+me.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  And do you blame him for that?
+
+MRS KNOX.  I blame nobody.  But let him not think he can walk by his
+own light.  I tell him that if he gives up being respectable he'll go
+right down to the bottom of the hill.  He has no powers inside himself
+to keep him steady; so let him cling to the powers outside him.
+
+KNOX.  [rising angrily]  Who wants to give up being respectable?
+All this for a pint of whisky that lasted a week!  How long would it
+have lasted Simmons, I wonder?
+
+MRS KNOX.  [gently]  Oh, well, say no more, Jo.  I wont plague you
+about it.  [He sits down].  You never did understand; and you never
+will.  Hardly anybody understands:  even Margaret didnt til she went
+to prison.  She does now; and I shall have a companion in the house
+after all these lonely years.
+
+KNOX.  [beginning to cry]  I did all I could to make you happy.  I
+never said a harsh word to you.
+
+GILBEY.  [rising indignantly]  What right have you to treat a man
+like that? an honest respectable husband? as if he were dirt under
+your feet?
+
+KNOX.  Let her alone, Gilbey.  [Gilbey sits down, but mutinously].
+
+MRS KNOX.  Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and if it wasnt what I
+wanted, that wasnt your fault.  But I'd rather have you as you were
+than since you took to whisky and soda.
+
+KNOX.  I dont want any whisky and soda.  I'll take the pledge if you
+like.
+
+MRS KNOX.  No:  you shall have your beer because you like it.  The
+whisky was only brag.  And if you and me are to remain friends, Mr
+Gilbey, youll get up to-morrow morning at seven.
+
+GILBEY.  [defiantly]  Damme if I will!  There!
+
+MRS KNOX.  [with gentle pity]  How do you know, Mr Gilbey, what
+youll do to-morrow morning?
+
+GILBEY.  Why shouldnt I know?  Are we children not to be let do what
+we like, and our own sons and daughters kicking their heels all over
+the place?  [To Knox]  I was never one to interfere between man and
+wife, Knox; but if Maria started ordering me about like that--
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Now dont be naughty, Rob.  You know you mustnt set
+yourself up against religion?
+
+GILBEY.  Whos setting himself up against religion?
+
+MRS KNOX.  It doesnt matter whether you set yourself up against it or
+not, Mr. Gilbey.  If it sets itself up against you, youll have to go
+the appointed way:  it's no use quarrelling about it with me that am
+as great a sinner as yourself.
+
+GILBEY.  Oh, indeed!  And who told you I was a sinner?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Now, Rob, you know we are all sinners.  What else is
+religion?
+
+GILBEY.  I say nothing against religion.  I suppose were all sinners,
+in a manner of speaking; but I dont like to have it thrown at me as if
+I'd really done anything.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Mrs Knox is speaking for your good, Rob.
+
+GILBEY.  Well, I dont like to be spoken to for my good.  Would anybody
+like it?
+
+MRS KNOX.  Dont take offence where none is meant, Mr Gilbey.  Talk
+about something else.  No good ever comes of arguing about such things
+among the like of us.
+
+KNOX.  The like of us!  Are you throwing it in our teeth that your
+people were in the wholesale and thought Knox and Gilbey wasnt good
+enough for you?
+
+MRS KNOX.  No, Jo:  you know I'm not.  What better were my people than
+yours, for all their pride?  But Ive noticed it all my life:  we're
+ignorant.  We dont really know whats right and whats wrong.  We're all
+right as long as things go on the way they always did.  We bring our
+children up just as we were brought up; and we go to church or chapel
+just as our parents did; and we say what everybody says; and it goes
+on all right until something out of the way happens:  theres a family
+quarrel, or one of the children goes wrong, or a father takes to
+drink, or an aunt goes mad, or one of us finds ourselves doing
+something we never thought we'd want to do.  And then you know what
+happens:  complaints and quarrels and huff and offence and bad
+language and bad temper and regular bewilderment as if Satan possessed
+us all.  We find out then that with all our respectability and piety,
+weve no real religion and no way of telling right from wrong.  Weve
+nothing but our habits; and when theyre upset, where are we?  Just
+like Peter in the storm trying to walk on the water and finding he
+couldnt.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [piously]  Aye!  He found out, didnt he?
+
+GILBEY.  [reverently]  I never denied that youve a great intellect,
+Mrs Knox--
+
+MRS KNOX.  Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you begin talking about
+my intellect.  Give us some tea, Maria.  Ive said my say; and Im sure
+I beg the company's pardon for being so long about it, and so
+disagreeable.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Ring, Rob.  [Gilbey rings].  Stop.  Juggins will think
+we're ringing for him.
+
+GILBEY.  [appalled]  It's too late.  I rang before I thought of it.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Step down and apologize, Rob.
+
+KNOX.  Is it him that you said was brother to a--
+
+_Juggins comes in with the tea-tray.  All rise.  He takes the tray to
+Mrs. Gilbey._
+
+GILBEY.  I didnt mean to ask you to do this, Mr Juggins.  I wasnt
+thinking when I rang.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [trying to take the tray from him]  Let me, Juggins.
+
+JUGGINS.  Please sit down, madam.  Allow me to discharge my duties
+just as usual, sir.  I assure you that is the correct thing.  [They
+sit down, ill at ease, whilst he places the tray on the table.  He
+then goes out for the curate].
+
+KNOX.  [lowering his voice]  Is this all right, Gilbey?  Anybody may
+be the son of a duke, you know.  Is he legitimate?
+
+GILBEY.  Good lord!  I never thought of that.
+
+_Juggins returns with the cakes.  They regard him with suspicion._
+
+GILBEY.  [whispering to Knox]  You ask him.
+
+KNOX.  [to Juggins]  Just a word with you, my man.  Was your mother
+married to your father?
+
+JUGGINS.  I believe so, sir.  I cant say from personal knowledge.  It
+was before my time.
+
+GILBEY.  Well, but look here you know--[he hesitates].
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, sir?
+
+KNOX.  I know whatll clinch it, Gilbey.  You leave it to me.  [To
+Juggins]  Was your mother the duchess?
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, sir.  Quite correct, sir, I assure you.  [To Mrs
+Gilbey]  That is the milk, madam.  [She has mistaken the jugs].
+This is the water.
+
+_They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment._
+
+MRS KNOX.  What did I tell you?  Heres something out of the common
+happening with a servant; and we none of us know how to behave.
+
+JUGGINS.  It's quite simple, madam.  I'm a footman, and should be
+treated as a footman.  [He proceeds calmly with his duties, handing
+round cups of tea as Mrs Knox fills them].
+
+_Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the company._
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Whats that noise?  Is Master Bobby at home?  I heard his
+laugh.
+
+MRS KNOX.  I'm sure I heard Margaret's.
+
+GILBEY.  Not a bit of it.  It was that woman.
+
+JUGGINS.  I can explain, sir.  I must ask you to excuse the liberty;
+but I'm entertaining a small party to tea in my pantry.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  But youre not entertaining Master Bobby?
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, madam.
+
+GILBEY.  Who's with him?
+
+JUGGINS.  Miss Knox, sir.
+
+GILBEY.  Miss Knox!  Are you sure?  Is there anyone else?
+
+JUGGINS.  Only a French marine officer, sir, and--er--Miss Delaney.
+[He places Gilbey's tea on the table before him].  The lady that
+called about Master Bobby, sir.
+
+KNOX.  Do you mean to say theyre having a party all to themselves
+downstairs, and we having a party up here and knowing nothing about
+it?
+
+JUGGINS.  Yes, sir.  I have to do a good deal of entertaining in the
+pantry for Master Bobby, sir.
+
+GILBEY.  Well, this is a nice state of things!
+
+KNOX.  Whats the meaning of it?  What do they do it for?
+
+JUGGINS.  To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Enjoy themselves!  Did ever anybody hear of such a thing?
+
+GILBEY.  Knox's daughter shewn into my pantry!
+
+KNOX.  Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a footman--  [Suddenly
+realizing that the footman is offering him cake.]  She doesnt know
+about--about His Grace, you know.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Perhaps she does.  Does she, Mr Juggins?
+
+JUGGINS.  The other lady suspects me, madam.  They call me Rudolph, or
+the Long Lost Heir.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  It's a much nicer name than Juggins.  I think I'll call
+you by it, if you dont mind.
+
+JUGGINS.  Not at all, madam.
+
+_Roars of merriment from below._
+
+GILBEY.  Go and tell them to stop laughing.  What right have they to
+make a noise like that?
+
+JUGGINS.  I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir.  But the French
+gentleman always sets them off again.
+
+KNOX.  Do you mean to tell me that my daughter laughs at a Frenchman's
+jokes?
+
+GILBEY.  We all know what French jokes are.
+
+JUGGINS.  Believe me:  you do not, sir.  The noise this afternoon has
+all been because the Frenchman said that the cat had whooping cough.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [laughing heartily]  Well, I never!
+
+GILBEY.  Dont be a fool, Maria.  Look here, Knox:  we cant let this go
+on.  People cant be allowed to behave like this.
+
+KNOX.  Just what I say.
+
+_A concertina adds its music to the revelry._
+
+MRS GILBEY.  [excited]  Thats the squiffer.  Hes bought it for her.
+
+GILBEY.  Well, of all the scandalous--  [Redoubled laughter from
+below].
+
+KNOX.  I'll put a stop to this.  [He goes out to the landing and
+shouts]  Margaret!  [Sudden dead silence].  Margaret, I say!
+
+MARGARET'S VOICE.  Yes, father.  Shall we all come up?  We're dying
+to.
+
+KNOX.  Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like wild
+Indians.
+
+DORA'S VOICE [screaming]  Oh! oh! oh!  Dont Bobby.  Now--oh!  [In
+headlong flight she dashes into and right across the room, breathless,
+and slightly abashed by the company].  I beg your pardon, Mrs Gilbey,
+for coming in like that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby,
+he pretends it's a cat biting my ankles; and I just must scream.
+
+_Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently in high
+spirits.  Bobby places himself near his father, on the hearthrug, and
+presently slips down into the arm-chair._
+
+MARGARET.  How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey?  [She posts herself behind her
+mother].
+
+_Duvallet comes in behaving himself perfectly.  Knox follows._
+
+MARGARET.  Oh--let me introduce.  My friend Lieutenant Duvallet.  Mrs
+Gilbey.  Mr Gilbey.  [Duvallet bows and sits down on Mr Knox's left,
+Juggins placing a chair for him].
+
+DORA.  Now, Bobby:  introduce me:  theres a dear.
+
+BOBBY.  [a little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his
+spirits]  Miss Delaney:  Mr and Mrs Knox.  [Knox, as he resumes his
+seat, acknowledges the introduction suspiciously.  Mrs Knox bows
+gravely, looking keenly at Dora and taking her measure without
+prejudice].
+
+DORA.  Pleased to meet you.  [Juggins places the baby rocking-chair
+for her on Mrs Gilbey's right, opposite Mrs Knox].  Thank you.  [She
+sits and turns to Mrs Gilbey]  Bobby's given me the squiffer.  [To
+the company generally]  Do you know what theyve been doing
+downstairs?  [She goes off into ecstasies of mirth].  Youd never
+guess.  Theyve been trying to teach me table manners.  The Lieutenant
+and Rudolph say I'm a regular pig.  I'm sure I never knew there was
+anything wrong with me.  But live and learn [to Gilbey] eh, old
+dear?
+
+JUGGINS.  Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney.  [He retires to the
+end of the sideboard nearest the door].
+
+DORA.  Oh get out!  I must call a man something.  He doesnt mind:  do
+you, Charlie?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  His name isnt Charlie.
+
+DORA.  Excuse me.  I call everybody Charlie.
+
+JUGGINS.  You mustnt.
+
+DORA.  Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold my tongue
+altogether; and then how sorry youd be!  Lord, how I do run on!  Dont
+mind me, Mrs Gilbey.
+
+KNOX.  What I want to know is, whats to be the end of this?  It's not
+for me to interfere between you and your son, Gilbey:  he knows his
+own intentions best, no doubt, and perhaps has told them to you.  But
+Ive my daughter to look after; and it's my duty as a parent to have a
+clear understanding about her.  No good is ever done by beating about
+the bush.  I ask Lieutenant--well, I dont speak French; and I cant
+pronounce the name--
+
+MARGARET.  Mr Duvallet, father.
+
+KNOX.  I ask Mr Doovalley what his intentions are.
+
+MARGARET.  Oh father:  how can you?
+
+DUVALLET.  I'm afraid my knowledge of English is not enough to
+understand.  Intentions?  How?
+
+MARGARET.  He wants to know will you marry me.
+
+MRS GILBEY. |   What a thing to say!
+            |
+
+KNOX.       |   Silence, miss.
+            |
+
+DORA.       |   Well, thats straight, aint it?
+
+DUVALLET.  But I am married already.  I have two daughters.
+
+KNOX.  [rising, virtuously indignant]  You sit there after carrying
+on with my daughter, and tell me coolly youre married.
+
+MARGARET.  Papa:  you really must not tell people that they sit there.
+[He sits down again sulkily].
+
+DUVALLET.  Pardon.  Carrying on?  What does that mean?
+
+MARGARET.  It means--
+
+KNOX.  [violently]  Hold your tongue, you shameless young hussy.
+Dont you dare say what it means.
+
+DUVALLET.  [shrugging his shoulders]  What does it mean, Rudolph?
+
+MRS KNOX.  If it's not proper for her to say, it's not proper for a
+man to say, either.  Mr Doovalley:  youre a married man with
+daughters.  Would you let them go about with a stranger, as you are to
+us, without wanting to know whether he intended to behave honorably?
+
+DUVALLET.  Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls.  That is very
+different.  It would not be correct for a French girl to go about
+alone and speak to men as English and American girls do.  That is why
+I so immensely admire the English people.  You are so free--so
+unprejudiced--your women are so brave and frank--their minds are
+so--how do you say?--wholesome.  I intend to have my daughters
+educated in England.  Nowhere else in the world but in England could I
+have met at a Variety Theatre a charming young lady of perfect
+respectability, and enjoyed a dance with her at a public dancing
+saloon.  And where else are women trained to box and knock out the
+teeth of policemen as a protest against injustice and violence?
+[Rising, with immense elan]  Your daughter, madam, is superb.  Your
+country is a model to the rest of Europe.  If you were a Frenchman,
+stifled with prudery, hypocrisy and the tyranny of the family and the
+home, you would understand how an enlightened Frenchman admires and
+envies your freedom, your broadmindedness, and the fact that home life
+can hardly be said to exist in England.  You have made an end of the
+despotism of the parent; the family council is unknown to you;
+everywhere in these islands one can enjoy the exhilarating, the
+soul-liberating spectacle of men quarrelling with their brothers,
+defying their fathers, refusing to speak to their mothers.  In France
+we are not men:  we are only sons--grown-up children.  Here one is a
+human being--an end in himself.  Oh, Mrs Knox, if only your military
+genius were equal to your moral genius--if that conquest of Europe by
+France which inaugurated the new age after the Revolution had only
+been an English conquest, how much more enlightened the world would
+have been now!  We, alas, can only fight.  France is unconquerable.
+We impose our narrow ideas, our prejudices, our obsolete institutions,
+our insufferable pedantry on the world by brute force--by that stupid
+quality of military heroism which shews how little we have evolved
+from the savage:  nay, from the beast.  We can charge like bulls; we
+can spring on our foes like gamecocks; when we are overpowered by
+reason, we can die fighting like rats.  And we are foolish enough to
+be proud of it!  Why should we be?  Does the bull progress?  Can you
+civilize the gamecock?  Is there any future for the rat?  We cant even
+fight intelligently:  when we lose battles, it is because we have not
+sense enough to know when we are beaten.  At Waterloo, had we known
+when we were beaten, we should have retreated; tried another plan; and
+won the battle.  But no:  we were too pigheaded to admit that there is
+anything impossible to a Frenchman:  we were quite satisfied when our
+Marshals had six horses shot under them, and our stupid old grognards
+died fighting rather than surrender like reasonable beings.  Think of
+your great Wellington:  think of his inspiring words, when the lady
+asked him whether British soldiers ever ran away.  "All soldiers run
+away, madam," he said; "but if there are supports for them to fall
+back on it does not matter."  Think of your illustrious Nelson, always
+beaten on land, always victorious at sea, where his men could not run
+away.  You are not dazzled and misled by false ideals of patriotic
+enthusiasm:  your honest and sensible statesmen demand for England a
+two-power standard, even a three-power standard, frankly admitting
+that it is wise to fight three to one:  whilst we, fools and braggarts
+as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a host in himself, and that
+when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is guilty of an act of
+cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikes a woman.  It is
+folly:  it is nonsense:  a Frenchman is not really stronger than a
+German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman.  Sir:  if all
+Frenchwomen were like your daughter--if all Frenchmen had the good
+sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm
+judgment, the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true
+courage, which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are
+hardly conscious of possessing them, France would become the greatest
+nation in the world.
+
+MARGARET.  Three cheers for old England!  [She shakes hands with him
+warmly].
+
+BOBBY.  Hurra-a-ay!  And so say all of us.
+
+_Duvallet, having responded to Margaret's handshake with enthusiasm,
+kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping his
+perspiring brow._
+
+GILBEY.  Well, this sort of talk is above me.  Can you make anything
+out of it, Knox?
+
+KNOX.  The long and short of it seems to be that he cant lawfully
+marry my daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her.
+
+DORA.  I'm ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction.
+
+GILBEY.  No you dont.  Not if I know it.
+
+MRS KNOX.  He ought to, Mr Gilbey.
+
+GILBEY.  Well, if thats your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of
+it.  Would you invite them to your house if he married her?
+
+MRS KNOX.  He ought to marry her whether or no.
+
+BOBBY.  I feel I ought to, Mrs Knox.
+
+GILBEY.  Hold your tongue.  Mind your own business.
+
+BOBBY.  [wildly]  If I'm not let marry her, I'll do something
+downright disgraceful.  I'll enlist as a soldier.
+
+JUGGINS.  That is not a disgrace, sir.
+
+BOBBY.  Not for you, perhaps.  But youre only a footman.  I'm a
+gentleman.
+
+MRS GILBEY.  Dont dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr Rudolph, Bobby.
+For shame!
+
+JUGGINS.  [coming forward to the middle of the table]  It is not
+gentlemanly to regard the service of your country as disgraceful.  It
+is gentlemanly to marry the lady you make love to.
+
+GILBEY.  [aghast]  My boy is to marry this woman and be a social
+outcast!
+
+JUGGINS.  Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably condemned by
+respectable society to spend the rest of their days in precisely the
+sort of company they seem to like best and be most at home in.
+
+KNOX.  And my daughter?  Whos to marry my daughter?
+
+JUGGINS.  Your daughter, sir, will probably marry whoever she makes up
+her mind to marry.  She is a lady of very determined character.
+
+KNOX.  Yes:  if he'd have her with her character gone.  But who would?
+Youre the brother of a duke.  Would--
+
+BOBBY.      |   Whats that?
+            |
+MARGARET.   |   Juggins a duke?
+            |
+DUVALLET.   |   _Comment!_
+            |
+DORA.       |   What did I tell you?
+
+KNOX.  Yes:  the brother of a duke:  thats what he is.  [To Juggins]
+Well, would you marry her?
+
+JUGGINS.  I was about to propose that solution of your problem, Mr
+Knox.
+
+MRS GILBEY. |   Well I never!
+            |
+KNOX.       |   D'ye mean it?
+            |
+MRS KNOX.   |   Marry Margaret!
+
+JUGGINS.  [continuing]  As an idle younger son, unable to support
+myself, or even to remain in the Guards in competition with the
+grandsons of American millionaires, I could not have aspired to Miss
+Knox's hand.  But as a sober, honest, and industrious domestic
+servant, who has, I trust, given satisfaction to his employer [he
+bows to Mr Gilbey] I feel I am a man with a character.  It is for
+Miss Knox to decide.
+
+MARGARET.  I got into a frightful row once for admiring you, Rudolph.
+
+JUGGINS.  I should have got into an equally frightful row myself,
+Miss, had I betrayed my admiration for you.  I looked forward to those
+weekly dinners.
+
+MRS KNOX.  But why did a gentleman like you stoop to be a footman?
+
+DORA.  He stooped to conquer.
+
+MARGARET.  Shut up, Dora:  I want to hear.
+
+JUGGINS.  I will explain; but only Mrs Knox will understand.  I once
+insulted a servant--rashly; for he was a sincere Christian.  He
+rebuked me for trifling with a girl of his own class.  I told him to
+remember what he was, and to whom he was speaking.  He said God would
+remember.  I discharged him on the spot.
+
+GILBEY.  Very properly.
+
+KNOX.  What right had he to mention such a thing to you?
+
+MRS GILBEY.  What are servants coming to?
+
+MRS KNOX.  Did it come true, what he said?
+
+JUGGINS.  It stuck like a poisoned arrow.  It rankled for months.
+Then I gave in.  I apprenticed myself to an old butler of ours who
+kept a hotel.  He taught me my present business, and got me a place as
+footman with Mr Gilbey.  If ever I meet that man again I shall be able
+to look him in the face.
+
+MRS KNOX.  Margaret:  it's not on account of the duke:  dukes are
+vanities.  But take my advice and take him.
+
+MARGARET.  [slipping her arm through his]  I have loved Juggins
+since the first day I beheld him.  I felt instinctively he had been in
+the Guards.  May he walk out with me, Mr Gilbey?
+
+KNOX.  Dont be vulgar, girl.  Remember your new position.  [To
+Juggins]  I suppose youre serious about this, Mr--Mr Rudolph?
+
+JUGGINS.  I propose, with your permission, to begin keeping company
+this afternoon, if Mrs Gilbey can spare me.
+
+GILBEY.  [in a gust of envy, to Bobby]  Itll be long enough before
+youll marry the sister of a duke, you young good-for-nothing.
+
+DORA.  Dont fret, old dear.  Rudolph will teach me high-class manners.
+I call it quite a happy ending:  dont you, lieutenant?
+
+DUVALLET.  In France it would be impossible.  But here--ah!  [kissing
+his hand] la belle Angleterre!
+
+
+
+EPILOGUE
+
+_Before the curtain.  The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4
+critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats._
+
+THE COUNT.  Gentlemen:  do not speak to me.  I implore you to withhold
+your opinion.  I am not strong enough to bear it.  I could never have
+believed it.  Is this a play?  Is this in any sense of the word, Art?
+Is it agreeable?  Can it conceivably do good to any human being?  Is
+it delicate?  Do such people really exist?  Excuse me, gentlemen:  I
+speak from a wounded heart.  There are private reasons for my
+discomposure.  This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches
+and menaces to all of us who are parents.
+
+TROTTER.  Pooh! you take it too seriously.  After all, the thing has
+amusing passages.  Dismiss the rest as impertinence.
+
+THE COUNT.  Mr Trotter:  it is easy for you to play the pococurantist.
+[Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat,
+making a noise like a pheasant].  You see hundreds of plays every
+year.  But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before,
+the effect of this play is terribly disquieting.  Sir:  if it had been
+what people call an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit.
+[Vaughan is shocked].  Love beautifies every romance and justifies
+every audacity.  [Bannal assents gravely].  But there are reticences
+which everybody should respect.  There are decencies too subtle to be
+put into words, without which human society would be unbearable.
+People could not talk to one another as those people talk.  No child
+could speak to its parent--no girl could speak to a youth--no human
+creature could tear down the veils--  [Appealing to Vaughan, who is
+on his left flank, with Gunn between them]  Could they, sir?
+
+VAUGHAN.  Well, I dont see that.
+
+THE COUNT.  You dont see it! dont feel it!  [To Gunn]  Sir:  I
+appeal to you.
+
+GUNN.  [with studied weariness]  It seems to me the most ordinary
+sort of old-fashioned Ibsenite drivel.
+
+THE COUNT [turning to Trotter, who is on his right, between him and
+Bannal]  Mr Trotter:  will you tell me that you are not amazed,
+outraged, revolted, wounded in your deepest and holiest feelings by
+every word of this play, every tone, every implication; that you did
+not sit there shrinking in every fibre at the thought of what might
+come next?
+
+TROTTER.  Not a bit.  Any clever modern girl could turn out that kind
+of thing by the yard.
+
+THE COUNT.  Then, sir, tomorrow I start for Venice, never to return.
+I must believe what you tell me.  I perceive that you are not
+agitated, not surprised, not concerned; that my own horror (yes,
+gentlemen, horror--horror of the very soul) appears unaccountable to
+you, ludicrous, absurd, even to you, Mr Trotter, who are little
+younger than myself.  Sir:  if young people spoke to me like that, I
+should die of shame:  I could not face it.  I must go back.  The world
+has passed me by and left me.  Accept the apologies of an elderly and
+no doubt ridiculous admirer of the art of a bygone day, when there was
+still some beauty in the world and some delicate grace in family life.
+But I promised my daughter your opinion; and I must keep my word.
+Gentlemen:  you are the choice and master spirits of this age:  you
+walk through it without bewilderment and face its strange products
+without dismay.  Pray deliver your verdict.  Mr Bannal:  you know that
+it is the custom at a Court Martial for the youngest officer present
+to deliver his judgment first; so that he may not be influenced by the
+authority of his elders.  You are the youngest.  What is your opinion
+of the play?
+
+BANNAL.  Well, whos it by?
+
+THE COUNT.  That is a secret for the present.
+
+BANNAL.  You dont expect me to know what to say about a play when I
+dont know who the author is, do you?
+
+THE COUNT.  Why not?
+
+BANNAL.  Why not!  Why not!!  Suppose you had to write about a play by
+Pinero and one by Jones!  Would you say exactly the same thing about
+them?
+
+THE COUNT.  I presume not.
+
+BANNAL.  Then how could you write about them until you knew which was
+Pinero and which was Jones?  Besides, what sort of play is this? thats
+what I want to know.  Is it a comedy or a tragedy?  Is it a farce or a
+melodrama?  Is it repertory theatre tosh, or really straight paying
+stuff?
+
+GUNN.  Cant you tell from seeing it?
+
+BANNAL.  I can see it all right enough; but how am I to know how to
+take it?  Is it serious, or is it spoof?  If the author knows what his
+play is, let him tell us what it is.  If he doesnt, he cant complain
+if I dont know either.  _I_'m not the author.
+
+THE COUNT.  But is it a good play, Mr Bannal?  Thats a simple
+question.
+
+BANNAL.  Simple enough when you know.  If it's by a good author, it's
+a good play, naturally.  That stands to reason.  Who is the author?
+Tell me that; and I'll place the play for you to a hair's breadth.
+
+THE COUNT.  I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to divulge the author's name.
+The author desires that the play should be judged on its merits.
+
+BANNAL.  But what merits can it have except the author's merits?  Who
+would you say it's by, Gunn?
+
+GUNN.  Well, who do you think?  Here you have a rotten old-fashioned
+domestic melodrama acted by the usual stage puppets.  The hero's a
+naval lieutenant.  All melodramatic heroes are naval lieutenants.  The
+heroine gets into trouble by defying the law (if she didnt get into
+trouble, thered be no drama) and plays for sympathy all the time as
+hard as she can.  Her good old pious mother turns on her cruel father
+when hes going to put her out of the house, and says she'll go too.
+Then theres the comic relief:  the comic shopkeeper, the comic
+shopkeeper's wife, the comic footman who turns out to be a duke in
+disguise, and the young scapegrace who gives the author his excuse for
+dragging in a fast young woman.  All as old and stale as a fried fish
+shop on a winter morning.
+
+THE COUNT.  But--
+
+GUNN [interrupting him]  I know what youre going to say, Count.
+Youre going to say that the whole thing seems to you to be quite new
+and unusual and original.  The naval lieutenant is a Frenchman who
+cracks up the English and runs down the French:  the hackneyed old
+Shaw touch.  The characters are second-rate middle class, instead of
+being dukes and millionaires.  The heroine gets kicked through the
+mud:  real mud.  Theres no plot.  All the old stage conventions and
+puppets without the old ingenuity and the old enjoyment.  And a feeble
+air of intellectual pretentiousness kept up all through to persuade
+you that if the author hasnt written a good play it's because hes too
+clever to stoop to anything so commonplace.  And you three experienced
+men have sat through all this, and cant tell me who wrote it!  Why,
+the play bears the author's signature in every line.
+
+BANNAL.  Who?
+
+GUNN.  Granville Barker, of course.  Why, old Gilbey is straight out
+of The Madras House.
+
+BANNAL.  Poor old Barker!
+
+VAUGHAN.  Utter nonsense!  Cant you see the difference in style?
+
+BANNAL.  No.
+
+VAUGHAN.  [contemptuously]  Do you know what style is?
+
+BANNAL.  Well, I suppose youd call Trotter's uniform style.  But it's
+not my style--since you ask me.
+
+VAUGHAN.  To me it's perfectly plain who wrote that play.  To begin
+with, it's intensely disagreeable.  Therefore it's not by Barrie, in
+spite of the footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton.  He
+was an earl, you may remember.  You notice, too, the author's
+offensive habit of saying silly things that have no real sense in them
+when you come to examine them, just to set all the fools in the house
+giggling.  Then what does it all come to?  An attempt to expose the
+supposed hypocrisy of the Puritan middle class in England:  people
+just as good as the author, anyhow.  With, of course, the inevitable
+improper female:  the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth.  Well, if you
+cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken your professions:
+thats all I have to say.
+
+BANNAL.  Why are you so down on Pinero?  And what about that touch
+that Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech.  I believe it's Shaw.
+
+GUNN.  Rubbish!
+
+VAUGHAN.  Rot!  You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal.  Poor
+as this play is, theres the note of passion in it.  You feel somehow
+that beneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she
+really loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him.  Now Ive repeatedly
+proved that Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion.
+
+BANNAL.  Yes, I know.  Intellect without emotion.  Thats right.  I
+always say that myself.  A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart.
+
+GUNN.  Oh, shut up, Bannal.  This crude medieval psychology of heart
+and brain--Shakespear would have called it liver and wits--is really
+schoolboyish.  Surely weve had enough of second-hand Schopenhauer.
+Even such a played-out old back number as Ibsen would have been
+ashamed of it.  Heart and brain, indeed!
+
+VAUGHAN.  You have neither one nor the other, Gunn.  Youre decadent.
+
+GUNN.  Decadent!  How I love that early Victorian word!
+
+VAUGHAN.  Well, at all events, you cant deny that the characters in
+this play were quite distinguishable from one another.  That proves
+it's not by Shaw, because all Shaw's characters are himself:  mere
+puppets stuck up to spout Shaw.  It's only the actors that make them
+seem different.
+
+BANNAL.  There can be no doubt of that:  everybody knows it.  But Shaw
+doesnt write his plays as plays.  All he wants to do is to insult
+everybody all round and set us talking about him.
+
+TROTTER.  [wearily]  And naturally, here we are all talking about
+him.  For heaven's sake, let us change the subject
+
+VAUGHAN.  Still, my articles about Shaw--
+
+GUNN.  Oh, stow it, Vaughan.  Drop it.  What Ive always told you about
+Shaw is--
+
+BANNAL.  There you go, Shaw, Shaw, Shaw!  Do chuck it.  If you want to
+know my opinion about Shaw--
+
+TROTTER.    |   No, please, we dont.    |
+            |                           |
+VAUGHAN.    |   Shut your head, Bannal. | [yelling]
+            |                           |
+GUNN.       |   Oh, do drop it.         |
+
+_The deafened Count puts his fingers in his ears and flies from the
+centre of the group to its outskirts, behind Vaughan._
+
+BANNAL.  [sulkily]  Oh, very well.  Sorry I spoke, I'm sure.
+
+TROTTER.    |   Shaw--  |
+            |           | [beginning again
+VAUGHAN.    |   Shaw--  | simultaneously]
+            |           |
+GUNN.       |   Shaw--  |
+
+_They are cut short by the entry of Fanny through the curtains.  She
+is almost in tears._
+
+FANNY.  [coming between Trotter and Gunn]  I'm so sorry, gentlemen.
+And it was such a success when I read it to the Cambridge Fabian
+Society!
+
+TROTTER.  Miss O'Dowda:  I was about to tell these gentlemen what I
+guessed before the curtain rose:  that you are the author of the play.
+[General amazement and consternation].
+
+FANNY.  And you all think it beastly.  You hate it.  You think I'm a
+conceited idiot, and that I shall never be able to write anything
+decent.
+
+_She is almost weeping.  A wave of sympathy carries away the critics._
+
+VAUGHAN.  No, no.  Why, I was just saying that it must have been
+written by Pinero.  Didnt I, Gunn?
+
+FANNY.  [enormously flattered]  Really?
+
+TROTTER.  I thought Pinero was much too popular for the Cambridge
+Fabian Society.
+
+FANNY.  Oh yes, of course; but still--Oh, did you really say that, Mr
+Vaughan?
+
+GUNN.  I owe you an apology, Miss O'Dowda.  I said it was by Barker.
+
+FANNY.  [radiant]  Granville Barker!  Oh, you couldnt really have
+thought it so fine as that.
+
+BANNAL.  _I_ said Bernard Shaw.
+
+FANNY.  Oh, of course it would be a little like Bernard Shaw.  The
+Fabian touch, you know.
+
+BANNAL.  [coming to her encouragingly]  A jolly good little play,
+Miss O'Dowda.  Mind:  I dont say it's like one of Shakespear's--Hamlet
+or The Lady of Lyons, you know--but still, a firstrate little bit of
+work.  [He shakes her hand].
+
+GUNN.  [following Bannal's example]  I also, Miss O'Dowda.  Capital.
+Charming.  [He shakes hands].
+
+VAUGHAN [with maudlin solemnity]  Only be true to yourself, Miss
+O'Dowda.  Keep serious.  Give up making silly jokes.  Sustain the note
+of passion.  And youll do great things.
+
+FANNY.  You think I have a future?
+
+TROTTER.  You have a past, Miss O'Dowda.
+
+FANNY.  [looking apprehensively at her father]  Sh-sh-sh!
+
+THE COUNT.  A past!  What do you mean, Mr Trotter?
+
+TROTTER.  [to Fanny]  You cant deceive me.  That bit about the
+police was real.  Youre a Suffraget, Miss O'Dowda.  You were on that
+Deputation.
+
+THE COUNT.  Fanny:  is this true?
+
+FANNY.  It is.  I did a month with Lady Constance Lytton; and I'm
+prouder of it than I ever was of anything or ever shall be again.
+
+TROTTER.  Is that any reason why you should stuff naughty plays down
+my throat?
+
+FANNY.  Yes:  itll teach you what it feels like to be forcibly fed.
+
+THE COUNT.  She will never return to Venice.  I feel now as I felt
+when the Campanile fell.
+
+_Savoyard comes in through the curtains._
+
+SAVOYARD.  [to the Count]  Would you mind coming to say a word of
+congratulation to the company?  Theyre rather upset at having had no
+curtain call.
+
+THE COUNT.  Certainly, certainly.  I'm afraid Ive been rather remiss.
+Let us go on the stage, gentlemen.
+
+_The curtains are drawn, revealing the last scene of the play and the
+actors on the stage.  The Count, Savoyard, the critics, and Fanny join
+them, shaking hands and congratulating._
+
+THE COUNT.  Whatever we may think of the play, gentlemen, I'm sure you
+will agree with me that there can be only one opinion about the
+acting.
+
+THE CRITICS.  Hear, hear!  [They start the applause].
+
+
+
+
+AYOT ST. LAWRENCE, March 1911.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Fanny's First Play, by George Bernard Shaw
+
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