SECOND PLAYS

TO

INTRODUCTION

Encouraged by the reviewer who announced that the Introduction
to my previous collection of plays was the best part of the book, I
venture to introduce this collection in a similar manner. But I
shall be careful not to overdo it this time, in the hope that I may
win from my critic some such tribute as, “Mr. Milne has certainly
improved as a dramatist, in that his plays are now slightly better
than his Introduction.”

Since, then, I am trying to make this preface as distasteful as
possible, in order that the plays may shine out the more
pleasantly, I shall begin (how better?) with an attack on the
dramatic critics. I will relate a little conversation which took
place, shortly after the publication of “First Plays,” between
myself and a very much more eminent dramatist.

EMINENT DRAMATIST (kindly) Your book seems to have been
well reviewed.

MYSELF (ungratefully). Not bad—by those who
reviewed it. But I doubt if it was noticed by more than three
regular dramatic critics. And considering that two of the plays in
it had never been produced—

EMINENT DRAMATIST (amused by my innocence). My dear
fellow, you needn’t complain. I published an unproduced play
a little while ago, and it didn’t get a single notice from
anybody.

Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays
which follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be
disturbed by this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in
the theatre are accustomed to read, and sometimes to make,
ridiculous accusations against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn
the mercenary fellow because he will not risk a loss of two or
three thousand pounds on the intellectual masterpiece of a
promising young dramatist, preferring to put on some contemptible
but popular rubbish which is certain to fill his theatre. But now
we see that the dramatic critic, that stern upholder of the best
interests of the British Drama, will not himself risk six shillings
(and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in order to read the
intellectual masterpiece of the promising young dramatist, and so
to be able to tell us with authority whether the Manager really
is refusing masterpieces or no. He will not risk six
shillings in order to encourage that promising young
dramatist—discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his
hopes of fame and fortune—by telling him that he is
right, and that his plays are worth something, or (alternatively)
to prevent him from wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form
to which he is not suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but
he will write an important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded)
article, informing us that the British Drama is going to the dogs,
and that no promising young dramatist is ever given a fair
chance.

Absurd, isn’t it?

Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask
ourselves why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three
reasons—in their order of importance.

(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of
not writing. He gets this anyhow.

(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the
criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank,
réclame—call it what you will. But it is
obvious that he cannot have it unless the masterpiece is given to
the world, either by manager or publisher.

(3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if
produced, possibly a great deal.

As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest
with ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a
desert island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps
all of us; for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves,
our manuscripts—written on bark with a burnt
stick—clutched in a skeleton hand—might be recovered
later by some literary sea-captain. (As it might be, Conrad.) But
how many of us would write masterpieces if we had to burn them
immediately afterwards, or if we were alone upon the world, the
last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to write? Could we
bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we can admit this
much without reserve; it is the second reward which tears at us,
and, lacking it, we should lose courage.

So when the promising young dramatist has his play refused by
the Managers—after what weeks, months, years of hope and
fear, uncertainty and bitter disappointment—he has this great
consolation: “Anyway, I can always publish it.” Perhaps, after a
dozen refusals, a Manager offers to put on his play, on condition
that he alters the obviously right (and unhappy) ending into the
obviously foolish, but happy, ending which will charm the public.
Does he, the artist, succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must
get his play before the public somehow, and that, even if it is not
his play now, yet the first two acts are as he wrote them,
and that, if only to feel the thrill of the audience at that great
scene between the Burglar and the Bishop (his creations!) he must
deaden his conscience to the absurdity of a happy ending. But does
he succumb? No. Heroically he tells himself: “Anyway, I can publish
it; and I’m certain that the critics will agree with me
that——” But the critics are too busy to bother about
him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is
going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets
a fair chance.

Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt
if any dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the
critics, the managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever
right I have I renounce, in return for the good things which I have
received from them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our
craft. I say that, in the case of all dramatists, it is the
business of the dramatic critics to review their unacted plays when
published. Some of them do; most of them do not. It is ridiculous
for those who do not to pretend that they take any real interest in
the British Drama. But I say “review,” not “praise.” Let them damn,
by all means, if the plays are unworthy; and, by damning, do so
much of justice to the Managers who refused them.

We can now pass on safely to the plays in this volume.

We begin with a children’s play. The difficulty in the way of
writing a children’s play is that Barrie was born too soon. Many
people must have felt the same about Shakespeare. We who came later
have no chance. What fun to have been Adam, and to have had the
whole world of plots and jokes and stories at one’s disposal.
Possibly, however, one would never have thought of the things. Of
course, there are still others to come after us, but our works are
not immortal, and they will plagiarise us without protest. Yet I
have hopes of Make-Believe, for it had the honour of
inaugurating Mr. Nigel Playfair’s management at the Lyric,
Hammersmith. It is possible that the historians will remember this,
long after they have forgotten my plays; more likely (alas!) that
their history will be dated A.D. (After Drinkwater) and that the
honour will be given to “Abraham Lincoln.” I like to think that in
this event my ghost will haunt them. Make-Believe appeared
with a Prologue by the Manager, lyrics by C.E. Burton, and music by
Georges Dorlay. As the title-page states that this book is, in the
language of children’s competitions, “my own unaided work,” I print
the play with a new Prologue, and without the charming lyrics. But
the reader is told when he may burst into an improvisation of his
own, though I warn him that he will not make such a good show of it
as did my collaborators.

Mr. Pim Passes By appeared at several theatres. Let us
admit cheerfully that it was a success—in spite of the
warning of an important gentleman in the theatrical world, who told
me, while I was writing it, that the public wouldn’t stand any talk
of bigamy, and suggested that George and Olivia should be engaged
only, not married. (Hence the line, “Bigamy! . . . It is an
ugly word,” in the Second Act.) But, of course, nobody sees more
clearly than I how largely its success was due to Mr. Dion
Boucicault and Miss Irene Vanbrugh.

The Romantic Age appeared first at the Comedy, and (like
Mr. Pim) found, in its need, a home at The Playhouse. Miss
Gladys Cooper has a charming way of withdrawing into a nursing home
whenever I want a theatre, but I beg her not to make a habit of it.
My plays can be spared so much more easily than she. By the way, a
word about Melisande. Many of the critics said that nobody behaved
like that nowadays. I am terrified at the thought of arguing with
them, for they can always reduce me to blushes with a scornful, “My
dear man, you can’t do that in a play!” And when they
tell me to remember what Strindberg said in ’93 (if he were alive
then; I really don’t know) or what Aristotle wrote in—no, I
shan’t even guess at Aristotle, well, then, I want to burst into
tears, my ignorance is so profound. So, very humbly, I just say now
that, when Melisande talks and behaves in a certain way, I do not
mean that a particular girl exists (Miss Jones, of 999 Bedford
Park) who talks and behaves like this, but I do mean that there is
a type of girl who, in her heart, secretly, thinks like
this. If, from your great knowledge of the most secret places of a
young girl’s heart, you tell me that there is no such type, then I
shall only smile. But if you inform me sternly that a dramatist has
no business to express an attitude in terms of an actress, then you
reduce me to blushes again. For I really know nothing about
play-writing, and I am only sustained by two beliefs. The first is
that rules are always made for the other people; the second is
that, if a play by me is not obviously by me, and as obviously not
by anybody else, then (obviously) I had no business to write
it.

Of the one-act plays, The Camberley Triangle and The
Stepmother, nothing much need be said. The former was played at
the Coliseum; the latter, written for Miss Winifred Emery, was
deemed by the management too serious for that place of amusement.
This, however, was to the great advantage of the play, for now it
has appeared only at Charity matinées with an
“all-star” cast.

As before, the plays are printed in the order in which they were
written; in this case between October 1918 and June 1920. May the
reader get as much enjoyment from them as I had in their writing.
But no; that is plainly impossible.

MAKE-BELIEVE

Make-Believe was first produced at the Lyric Theatre,
Hammersmith, on December 24, 1918. The chief parts were played by
Marjory Holman, Jean Cadell, Rosa Lynd, Betty Chester, Roy Lennol,
John Barclay, Kinsey Peile, Stanley Drewitt, Ivan Berlyn, and
Herbert Marshall—several parts each.

MAKE-BELIEVE

PROLOGUE

The playroom of the HUBBARD FAMILY—nine of them.
Counting MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, we realize that there
are eleven HUBBARDS in all, and you would think that one at
least of the two people we see in the room would be a HUBBARD
of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is JAMES, the
HUBBARDS’ butler, for the HUBBARDS are able to afford a
butler now. How different from the time when Old Mother
Hubbard—called “old” because she was at least twenty-two, and
“mother” because she had a passion for children—could not
even find a bone for her faithful terrier; but, of course, that was
before HENRY went into work. Well, the tall figure is
JAMES, the butler, and the little one is ROSEMARY, a
friend of the HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY is going in for
literature this afternoon, as it’s raining, and JAMES is
making her quite comfortable first with pens and ink and
blotting-paper—always so important when one wants to write.
He has even thought of a stick of violet sealing-wax; after that
there can be no excuse.

ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (She sits down.) If any one
calls I am not at home.

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my
auto—autobiography.

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY. It’s what every one writes, isn’t it, James?

JAMES. I believe so, Miss.

ROSEMARY. Thank you. (He goes to the door.) Oh,
James?

JAMES. Yes, Miss?

ROSEMARY. What is an autobiography?

JAMES. Well, I couldn’t rightly say, Miss—not to explain
it properly.

ROSEMARY (dismayed). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew
everything.

JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and
then——

ROSEMARY. It’s very upsetting.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead?
Very easy work, they tell me.

ROSEMARY (nodding). Yes, that’s much better. I’ll write a
play. Thank you, James.

JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.

(ROSEMARY bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the
inspiration comes.)

ROSEMARY (as she writes). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen
B-e-l—— (she stops and frowns) Now which way
is it? (She tries it on the blotting-paper) That
looks wrong. (She tries it again) So does that. Oh, dear!
(She rings the bell . . . JAMES returns.)

JAMES. Yes, Miss?

ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play
Make-Believe.

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY (carelessly). When you spell “believe,” it is
“i-e,” isn’t it?

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was “e-i.”

JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss.

ROSEMARY (reproachfully). Oh, James! Aren’t you
certain?

JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l—— (He stops and
scratches his whiskers.)

ROSEMARY. Yes. I got as far as that.

JAMES. B-e-l——

ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an
accident to the very first word of it.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l——I’ve noticed sometimes that
if one writes a word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then
looks at it with the head on one side, there’s a sort of instinct
comes over one, as makes one say (with a shake of the head)
“Rotten.” One can then write it the other way more hopeful.

ROSEMARY. I’ve tried that.

JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name
altogether? As it might be, “Susan’s Saturday Night,” all easy
words to spell, or “Red Revenge,” or——

ROSEMARY. I must call it Make-Believe, because it’s all
of the play I’ve thought of so far.

JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on
purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes.

ROSEMARY. Does it?

JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes ’em laugh.

ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which is the wrong way?

JAMES. Ah, there you’ve got me again, Miss.

ROSEMARY (inspired). I know what I’ll do. I’ll spell it
“i-e”; and if it’s right, then I’m right, and if it’s wrong, then
I’m funny.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. That’s the safest.

ROSEMARY. Thank you, James.

JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.

ROSEMARY (writing). Make-Believe. A Christmas
Entertainment—— (She stops and thinks, and then
shakes her head.) No, play—a Christmas Play in three
acts. Er—— (She is stuck.)

Enter JAMES.

JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are
without, and crave admittance.

ROSEMARY. All nine of them?

JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the
majority of them were present.

ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home?

JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and
you being a visitor, if you had been at home, then you
wouldn’t have been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram,
Miss.

ROSEMARY. It’s very upsetting when you’re writing a play.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more
the merrier, as you might say.

ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. (He opens the door and says very
rapidly) The Misses Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and
Isabel Hubbard, The Masters Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold
Hubbard. (They come in.)

ROSEMARY. How do you do?

ADA. Rosemary, darling, what are you doing?

BERTRAM. It’s like your cheek, bagging our room.

CAROLINE (primly). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be
polite to our visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if
Rosemary wants our room——

DENNIS. Oh, chuck it!

ADA (at ROSEMARY’S shoulder). Oh, I say, she’s
writing a play!

(Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at ROSEMARY.)

{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What’s it about? Bet
it’s awful rot. }

{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am I in it? Do tell us about
it. Is it for Christmas? }

ROSEMARY (in alarm). James, could you——?

JAMES (firmly). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis,
down! Miss Gwendoline, if you wouldn’t mind—— (He
picks her up and places her on the floor.) Thank you. (Order
is restored.)

ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. . . . Yes, it’s a play for
Christmas, and it is called “Make-Believe,” and that’s all I’m
certain about yet, except that we’re all going to be in it.

BERTRAM. Then I vote we have a desert island——

DENNIS. And pirates——

FRANK. And cannibals——

HAROLD (gloatingly). Cannibals eating
people—Oo!

CAROLINE (shocked). Harold! How would you like to
be eaten by a cannibal?

DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! How would you like to be a cannibal
and have nobody to eat? (CAROLINE is silent, never having
thought of this before.)

ADA. Let it be a fairy-story, Rosemary, darling. It’s so much
prettier.

ELSIE. With a lovely princess——

GWENDOLINE. And a humble woodcutter who marries
her——

ISABEL (her only contribution). P’itty P’incess.

BERTRAM. Princesses are rot.

ELSIE (with spirit). So are pirates!
(Deadlock.)

CAROLINE. I should like something about Father Christmas,
and snow, and waits, and a lovely ball, and everybody getting nice
presents and things.

DENNIS (selfishly, I’m afraid). Bags I all the
presents.

(Of course, the others aren’t going to have that. They all
say so together.)

ROSEMARY (above the turmoil). James, I must have
silence.

JAMES. Silence, all!

ROSEMARY. Thank you. . . . You will be interested to hear that I
have decided to have a Fairy Story and a Desert Island
and a Father Christmas.

ALL. Good! (Or words to that effect)

ROSEMARY (biting her pen). I shall begin with the Fairy
Story. (There is an anxious silence. None of them has ever seen
anybody writing a play before. How does one do it? Alas,
ROSEMARY herself doesn’t know. She appeals to JAMES.) James,
how do you begin a play? I mean when you’ve got the
title.

JAMES (a man of genius). Well, Miss Rosemary, seeing that
it’s to be called “Make-Believe,” why not make-believe as it’s
written already?

ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James!

JAMES. All that is necessary is for the company to think very
hard of what they want, and—there we are! Saves all the
bother of writing and spelling and what not.

ROSEMARY (admiringly.) James, how clever you are!

JAMES. So-so, Miss Rosemary.

ROSEMARY. Now then, let’s all think together. Are you all
ready?

ALL. Yes! (They clench their hands.)

ROSEMARY. Then one, two, three—Go!

(They think. . . . The truth is that JAMES, who wasn’t
really meant to be in it, thinks too. If there is anything in the
play which you don’t like, it is JAMES thinking.)

ACT I.—THE PRINCESS AND THE
WOODCUTTER

(The WOODCUTTER is discovered singing at his work, in
a glade of the forest outside his hut. He is tall and strong, and
brave and handsome; all that a woodcutter ought to be. Now it
happened that the PRINCESS was passing, and as soon as his
song is finished, sure enough, on she comes.)

PRINCESS. Good morning, Woodcutter.

WOODCUTTER. Good morning. (But he goes on with his
work.)

PRINCESS (after a pause). Good morning, Woodcutter.

WOODCUTTER. Good morning.

PRINCESS. Don’t you ever say anything except good morning?

WOODCUTTER. Sometimes I say good-bye.

PRINCESS. You are a cross woodcutter to-day.

WOODCUTTER. I have work to do.

PRINCESS. You are still cutting wood? Don’t you ever do anything
else?

WOODCUTTER. Well, you are still a Princess; don’t you
ever do anything else?

PRINCESS (reproachfully). Now, that’s not fair,
Woodcutter. You can’t say I was a Princess yesterday, when I came
and helped you stack your wood. Or the day before, when I tied up
your hand where you had cut it. Or the day before that, when we had
our meal together on the grass. Was I a Princess then?

WOODCUTTER. Somehow I think you were. Somehow I think you were
saying to yourself, “Isn’t it sweet of a Princess to treat a mere
woodcutter like this?”

PRINCESS. I think you’re perfectly horrid. I’ve a good mind
never to speak to you again. And—and I would, if only I could
be sure that you would notice I wasn’t speaking to you.

WOODCUTTER. After all, I’m just as bad as you. Only yesterday I
was thinking to myself how unselfish I was to interrupt my work in
order to talk to a mere Princess.

PRINCESS. Yes, but the trouble is that you don’t
interrupt your work.

WOODCUTTER (interrupting it and going up to her with a
smile). Madam, I am at your service.

PRINCESS. I wish I thought you were.

WOODCUTTER. Surely you have enough people at your service
already. Princes and Chancellors and Chamberlains and Waiting
Maids.

PRINCESS. Yes, that’s just it. That’s why I want your help.
Particularly in the matter of the Princes.

WOODCUTTER. Why, has a suitor come for the hand of her Royal
Highness?

PRINCESS. Three suitors. And I hate them all.

WOODCUTTER. And which are you going to marry?

PRINCESS. I don’t know. Father hasn’t made up his mind yet.

WOODCUTTER. And this is a matter which father—which His
Majesty decides for himself?

PRINCESS. Why, of course! You should read the History Books,
Woodcutter. The suitors to the hand of a Princess are always set
some trial of strength or test of quality by the King, and the
winner marries his daughter.

WOODCUTTER. Well, I don’t live in a Palace, and I think my own
thoughts about these things. I’d better get back to my work. (He
goes on with his chopping.)

PRINCESS (gently, after a pause). Woodcutter!

WOODCUTTER (looking up). Oh, are you there? I thought you
were married by this time.

PRINCESS (meekly). I don’t want to be married.
(Hastily) I mean, not to any of those three.

WOODCUTTER. You can’t help yourself.

PRINCESS. I know. That’s why I wanted you to help me.

WOODCUTTER (going up to her). Can a simple woodcutter
help a Princess?

PRINCESS. Well, perhaps a simple one couldn’t, but a clever one
might.

WOODCUTTER. What would his reward be?

PRINCESS. His reward would be that the Princess, not being
married to any of her three suitors, would still be able to help
him chop his wood in the mornings. . . . I am helping you,
aren’t I?

WOODCUTTER (smiling). Oh, decidedly.

PRINCESS (nodding). I thought I was.

WOODCUTTER. It is kind of a great lady like yourself to help so
humble a fellow as I.

PRINCESS (meekly). I’m not very great. (And she
isn’t. She is the smallest, daintiest little Princess that ever you
saw.)

WOODCUTTER. There’s enough of you to make a hundred men
unhappy.

PRINCESS. And one man happy?

WOODCUTTER. And one man very, very happy.

PRINCESS (innocently). I wonder who he’ll be. . . .
Woodcutter, if you were a Prince, would you be my
suitor?

WOODCUTTER (scornfully). One of three?

PRINCESS (excitedly). Oo, would you kill the others? With
that axe?

WOODCUTTER. I would not kill them, in order to help His Majesty
make up his mind about his son-in-law. But if the Princess had made
up her mind—and wanted me——

PRINCESS. Yes?

WOODCUTTER. Then I would marry her, however many suitors she
had.

PRINCESS. Well, she’s only got three at present.

WOODCUTTER. What is that to me?

PRINCESS. Oh, I just thought you might want to be doing
something to your axe.

WOODCUTTER. My axe?

PRINCESS. Yes. You see, she has made up her mind.

WOODCUTTER (amazed). You mean—But—but I’m
only a woodcutter.

PRINCESS. That’s where you’ll have the advantage of them, when
it comes to axes.

WOODCUTTER. Princess! (He takes her in his arms) My
Princess!

PRINCESS. Woodcutter! My woodcutter! My, oh so very slow and
uncomprehending, but entirely adorable woodcutter!

(They sing together. They just happen to feel like
that)

WOODCUTTER (the song finished). But what will His Majesty
say?

PRINCESS. All sorts of things. . . . Do you really love me,
woodcutter, or have I proposed to you under a misapprehension?

WOODCUTTER. I adore you!

PRINCESS (nodding). I thought you did. But I wanted to
hear you say it. If I had been a simple peasant, I suppose you
would have said it a long time ago?

WOODCUTTER. I expect so.

PRINCESS (nodding). Yes. . . . Well, now we must think of
a plan for making Mother like you.

WOODCUTTER. Might I just kiss you again before we begin?

PRINCESS. Well, I don’t quite see how I am to stop you.

(The WOODCUTTER picks her up in his arms and kisses
her.)

WOODCUTTER. There!

PRINCESS (in his arms). Oh, Woodcutter, woodcutter, why
didn’t you do that the first day I saw you? Then I needn’t have had
the bother of proposing to you. (He puts her down suddenly)
What is it?

WOODCUTTER (listening). Somebody coming. (He peers
through the trees and then says in surprise) The King!

PRINCESS. Oh! I must fly!

WOODCUTTER. But you’ll come back?

PRINCESS. Perhaps.

[She disappears quickly through the trees.

(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and is
discovered at it a minute later by the KING and
QUEEN.)

KING (puffing). Ah! and a seat all ready for us. How
satisfying. (They sit down, a distinguished couple—reading
from left to right, “KING, QUEEN”—on a bench outside
the WOODCUTTER’S hut.)

QUEEN (crossly—she was like that). I don’t know why
you dragged me here.

KING. As I told you, my love, to be alone.

QUEEN. Well, you aren’t alone. (She indicates the
WOODCUTTER.)

KING. Pooh, he doesn’t matter. . . . Well now, about these three
Princes. They are getting on my mind rather. It is time we decided
which one of them is to marry our beloved child. The trouble is to
choose between them.

QUEEN. As regards appetite, there is nothing to choose between
them. They are three of the heartiest eaters I have met for some
time.

KING. You are right. The sooner we choose one of them, and send
the other two about their business, the better.
(Reflectively) There were six peaches on the breakfast-table
this morning. Did I get one? No.

QUEEN. Did I get one? No.

KING. Did our darling child get one—not that it matters?
No.

QUEEN. It is a pity that the seven-headed bull died last
year.

KING. Yes, he had a way of sorting out competitors for the hand
of our beloved one that was beyond all praise. One could have felt
quite sure that, had the three competitors been introduced to him,
only one of them would have taken any further interest in the
matter.

QUEEN (always the housekeeper). And even he mightn’t have
taken any interest in his meals.

KING (with a sigh). However, those days are over. We must
think of a new test. Somehow I think that, in a son-in-law, moral
worth is even more to be desired than mere brute strength. Now my
suggestion is this: that you should disguise yourself as a beggar
woman and approach each of the three princes in turn, supplicating
their charity. In this way we shall discover which of the three has
the kindest heart. What do you say, my dear?

QUEEN. An excellent plan. If you remember, I suggested it myself
yesterday.

KING (annoyed). Well, of course, it had been in my mind
for some time. I don’t claim that the idea is original; it has
often been done in our family. (Getting up) Well then, if
you will get ready, my dear, I will go and find our three friends
and see that they come this way. [They go out together.

(As soon as they are out of sight the PRINCESS comes
back.)

PRINCESS. Well, Woodcutter, what did I tell you?

WOODCUTTER. What did you tell me?

PRINCESS. Didn’t you listen to what they said?

WOODCUTTER. I didn’t listen, but I couldn’t help hearing.

PRINCESS. Well, I couldn’t help listening. And unless you
stop it somehow, I shall be married to one of them to-night.

WOODCUTTER. Which one?

PRINCESS. The one with the kindest heart—whichever that
is.

WOODCUTTER. Supposing they all three have kind hearts?

PRINCESS (confidently). They won’t. They never have. In
our circles when three Princes come together, one of them has a
kind heart and the other two haven’t. (Surprised) Haven’t
you read any History at all?

WOODCUTTER. I have no time for reading. But I think it’s time
History was altered a little. We’ll alter it this afternoon.

PRINCESS. What do you mean?

WOODCUTTER. Leave this to me. I’ve got an idea.

PRINCESS (clapping her hands). Oh, how clever of you! But
what do you want me to do?

WOODCUTTER (pointing). You know the glade over there
where the brook runs through it? Wait for me there.

PRINCESS. I obey my lord’s commands.

[She blows him a kiss and runs off

(The WOODCUTTER resumes his work. By and by the
RED PRINCE comes along. He is a—well, you will see for
yourself what he is like.)

RED PRINCE. Ah, fellow. . . . Fellow! . . . I said fellow!
(Yes, that sort of man.)

WOODCUTTER (looking up.) Were you speaking to me, my
lord?

RED PRINCE. There is no other fellow here that I can see.

(The WOODCUTTER looks round to make sure, peers behind
a tree or two, and comes back to the PRINCE.)

WOODCUTTER. Yes, you must have meant me.

RED PRINCE. Yes, of course I meant you, fellow. Have you seen
the Princess come past this way? I was told she was waiting for me
here.

WOODCUTTER. She is not here, my lord. (Looking round to see
that they are alone) My lord, are you one of the Princes who is
seeking the hand of the Princess.

RED PRINCE (complacently). I am, fellow.

WOODCUTTER. His Majesty the King was here a while ago. He is to
make his decision between you this afternoon. (Meaningly) I
think I can help you to be the lucky one, my lord.

RED PRINCE. You suggest that I take an unfair advantage over my
fellow-competitors?

WOODCUTTER. I suggest nothing, my lord. I only say that I can
help you.

RED PRINCE (magnanimously). Well, I will allow you to
help me.

WOODCUTTER. Thank you. Then I will give you this advice. If a
beggar woman asks you for a crust of bread this afternoon,
remember—it is the test!

RED PRINCE (staggered). The test! But I haven’t
got a crust of bread!

WOODCUTTER. Wait here and I will get you one.

(He goes into the hut)

RED PRINCE (speaking after him as he goes). My good
fellow, I am extremely obliged to you, and if ever I can do
anything for you, such as returning a crust to you of similar size,
or even lending you another slightly smaller one, or——
(The WOODCUTTER comes back with the crust.)
Ah, thank you, my man, thank you.

WOODCUTTER. I would suggest, my lord, that you should take a
short walk in this direction (pointing to the opposite direction
to that which the PRINCESS has taken), and stroll back
casually in a few minutes’ time when the Queen is here.

RED PRINCE. Thank you, my man, thank you.

(He puts the crust in his pocket and goes off.)
(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work. The BLUE
PRINCE comes in and stands watching him in silence for some
moments.) WOODCUTTER (looking up). Hullo!

BLUE PRINCE. Hullo!

WOODCUTTER. What do you want?

BLUE PRINCE. The Princess.

WOODCUTTER. She’s not here.

BLUE PRINCE. Oh!

(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and the
PRINCE goes on looking at him.)

WOODCUTTER (struck with an idea). Are you one of the
Princes who is wooing the Princess?

BLUE PRINCE. Yes.

WOODCUTTER (coming towards him). I believe I could help
your Royal Highness.

BLUE PRINCE. Do.

WOODCUTTER (doubtfully). It would perhaps be not Quite
fair to the others.

BLUE PRINCE. Don’t mind.

WOODCUTTER. Well then, listen. (He pauses a moment and looks
round to see that they are alone.)

BLUE PRINCE. I’m listening.

WOODCUTTER. If you come back in five minutes, you will see a
beggar woman sitting here. She will ask you for a crust of bread.
You must give it to her, for it is the way His Majesty has chosen
of testing your kindness of heart.

BLUE PRINCE (feeling in his pockets). No bread.

WOODCUTTER. I will give you some.

BLUE PRINCE. Do.

WOODCUTTER (taking a piece from his pocket). Here you
are.

BLUE PRINCE. Thanks.

WOODCUTTER. Not at all, I’m very glad to have been able to help
you.

(He goes on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE remains
looking at him.)

BLUE PRINCE (with a great effort). Thanks.

(He goes slowly away. A moment later the YELLOW PRINCE
makes a graceful and languid entry.)

YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, come hither, my man, come hither.

WOODCUTTER (stopping his work and looking up). You want
me, sir?

YELLOW PRINCE. Come hither, my man. Tell me, has her Royal
Highness the Princess passed this way lately?

WOODCUTTER. The Princess?

YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, the Princess, my bumpkin. But perhaps you
have been too much concerned in your own earthy affairs to have
noticed her. You—ah—cut wood, I see.

WOODCUTTER. Yes, sir, I am a woodcutter.

YELLOW PRINCE. A most absorbing life. Some day we must have a
long talk about it. But just now I have other business waiting for
me. With your permission, good friend, I will leave you to your
faggots. (He starts to go.)

WOODCUTTER. Beg your pardon, sir, but are you one of those
Princes that want to marry our Princess?

YELLOW PRINCE. I had hoped, good friend, to obtain your
permission to do so. I beg you not to refuse it.

WOODCUTTER. You are making fun of me, sir.

YELLOW PRINCE. Discerning creature.

WOODCUTTER. All the same, I can help you.

YELLOW PRINCE. Then pray do so, log-chopper, and earn my
everlasting gratitude.

WOODCUTTER. The King has decided that whichever of you three
Princes has the kindest heart shall marry his daughter.

YELLOW PRINCE. Then you will be able to bear witness to him that
I have already wasted several minutes of my valuable time in
condescending to a mere faggot-splitter. Tell him this and the
prize is mine. (Kissing the tips of his fingers) Princess, I
embrace you.

WOODCUTTER. The King will not listen to me. But if you return
here in five minutes, you will find an old woman begging for bread.
It is the test which their Majesties have arranged for you. If you
share your last crust with her—

YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, but do I look as if I carried a last crust
about with me?

WOODCUTTER. But see, I will give you one.

YELLOW PRINCE (taking it between the tips of his
fingers). Yes, but—

WOODCUTTER. Put it in your pocket, and when—

YELLOW PRINCE. But, my dear bark-scraper, have you no feeling
for clothes at all? How can I put a thing like this in my pocket?
(Handing it back to him) I beg you to wrap it up. Here take
this. (Gives him a scarf) Neatly, I pray you. (Taking an
orange ribbon out of his pocket) Perhaps a little of this round
it would make it more tolerable. You think so? I leave it to you. I
trust your taste entirely. . . . Leaving a loop for the little
finger, I entreat you . . . so. (He hangs it on his little
finger) In about five minutes, you said? We will be there.
(With a bow) We thank you.

(He departs delicately. The WOODCUTTER smiles to
himself, puts down his axe and goes off to the PRINCESS. And
just in time. For behold! the KING and QUEEN return.
At least we think it is the QUEEN, but she is so heavily
disguised by a cloak which she wears over her court dress, that for
a moment we are not quite sure.)

KING. Now then, my love, if you will sit down on that log
there—(placing her)—excellent—I think
perhaps you should remove the crown. (Removes it) There! Now
the disguise is perfect.

QUEEN. You’re sure they are coming? It’s a very uncomfortable
seat.

KING. I told them that the Princess was waiting for them here.
Their natural disappointment at finding I was mistaken will make
the test of their good nature an even more exacting one. My own
impression is that the Yellow Prince will be the victor.

QUEEN. Oh, I hate that man.

KING (soothingly). Well, well, perhaps it will be the
Blue one.

QUEEN. If anything, I dislike him more intensely.

KING. Or even the Red.

QUEEN. Ugh! I can’t bear him.

KING. Fortunately, dear, you are not called upon to marry any of
them. It is for our darling that we are making the great decision.
Listen! I hear one coming. I will hide in the cottage and take note
of what happens.

(He disappears into the cottage as the BLUE PRINCE
comes in.)

QUEEN. Oh, sir, can you kindly spare a crust of bread for a poor
old woman! Please, pretty gentleman!

BLUE PRINCE (standing stolidly in front of her and feeling in
his pocket). Bread . . . Bread . . . Ah! Bread! (He offers
it.)

QUEEN. Oh, thank you, sir. May you be rewarded for your gentle
heart.

BLUE PRINCE. Thank you.

(He stands gazing at her. There is an awkward pause.)

QUEEN. A blessing on you, sir.

BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. (He indicates the crust)
Bread.

QUEEN. Ah, you have saved the life of a poor old
woman——

BLUE PRINCE. Eat it.

QUEEN (embarrassed).
I—er—you—er——(She takes a bite and
mumbles something.)

BLUE PRINCE. What?

QUEEN (swallowing with great difficulty). I’m almost too
happy to eat, sir. Leave a poor old woman alone with her happiness,
and——

BLUE PRINCE. Not too happy. Too weak. Help you eat. (He
breaks off a piece and holds it to her mouth. With a great effort
the QUEEN disposes of it.) Good! . . . Again! (She
does it again.) Now! (She swallows another piece.) Last
piece! (She takes it in. He pats her kindly on the back, and she
nearly chokes.) Good. . . . Better now?

QUEEN (weakly). Much.

BLUE PRINCE. Good day.

QUEEN (with an effort). Good day, kind gentleman.

[He goes out.

(The KING is just coming from the cottage, when he
returns suddenly. The KING slips back again.)

BLUE PRINCE. Small piece left over. (He gives it to her. She
looks hopelessly at him.) Good-bye.

[He goes.

QUEEN (throwing the piece down violently). Ugh! What a
man!

KING (coming out). Well, well, my dear, we have
discovered the winner.

QUEEN (from the heart). Detestable person!

KING. The rest of the competition is of course more in the
nature of a formality—

QUEEN. Thank goodness.

KING. However, I think that it will prevent unnecessary
discussion afterwards if we—Take care, here is another one.
(He hurries back.)

Enter the RED PRINCE.

QUEEN (with not nearly so much conviction). Could you
spare a crust of bread, sir, for a poor hungry old woman?

RED PRINCE. A crust of bread, madam? Certainly. As luck will
have it, I have a crust on me. My last one, but—your need is
greater than mine. Eat, I pray.

QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir.

RED PRINCE. Not at all. Come, eat. Let me have the pleasure of
seeing you eating.

QUEEN. M-might I take it home with me, pretty gentleman?

RED PRINCE (firmly). No, no. I must see you eating. Come!
I will take no denial.

QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. (Hopefully) Won’t you share it
with me?

RED PRINCE. No, I insist on your having it all. I am in the mood
to be generous. Oblige me by eating it now for I am in a hurry; yet
I will not go until you have eaten. (She does her best.) You
eat but slowly. (Sternly) Did you deceive me when you said
you were hungry?

QUEEN. N-no. I’m very hungry. (She eats)

RED PRINCE. That’s better. Now understand—however poor I
am, I can always find a crust of bread for an old woman. Always!
Remember this when next you are hungry. . . . You spoke? (She
shakes her head and goes on eating.) Finished?

QUEEN (with great difficulty). Yes, thank you, pretty
gentleman.

RED PRINCE. There’s a piece on the ground there that you
dropped. (She eats it in dumb agony) Finished?

QUEEN (huskily). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman.

RED PRINCE. Then I will leave you, madam. Good morning.

[He goes out.

(The QUEEN rises in fury. The KING is about
to come out of the cottage, when the YELLOW PRINCE
enters. The QUEEN sits down again and mumbles
something. It is certainly not an appeal for bread, but
the YELLOW PRINCE is not to be denied.)

YELLOW PRINCE (gallantly). My poor woman, you are in
distress. It pains me to see it, madam, it pains me terribly. Can
it be that you are hungry? I thought so, I thought so. Give me the
great pleasure, madam, of relieving your hunger. See (holding up
his finger), my own poor meal. Take it! It is yours.

QUEEN (with difficulty). I am not hungry.

YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, madam, I see what it is. You do not wish to
deprive me. You tell yourself, perchance, that it is not fitting
that one in your station of life should partake of the meals of the
highly born. You are not used, you say, to the food of Princes.
Your rougher palate——

QUEEN (hopefully). Did you say food of princes?

YELLOW PRINCE. Where was I, madam? You interrupted me. No
matter—eat. (She takes the scarf and unties the
ribbon.) Ah, now I remember. I was saying that your rougher
palate——

QUEEN (discovering the worst). No! No! Not bread!

YELLOW PRINCE. Bread, madam, the staff of life. Come, madam,
will you not eat? (She tries desperately.) What can be more
delightful than a crust of bread by the wayside?

(The QUEEN shrieks and falls back in a swoon. The
KING rushes out to her.)

KING (to YELLOW PRINCE). Quick, quick, find the
Princess.

YELLOW PRINCE. The Princess—find the Princess! (He goes
vaguely off and we shall not see him again. But the WOODCUTTER
and the PRINCESS do not need to be found. They are
here.)

WOODCUTTER (to PRINCESS). Go to her, but don’t show that
you know me.

(He goes into the cottage, and the PRINCESS hastens to
her father.)

PRINCESS. Father!

KING. Ah, my dear, you’re just in time. Your
mother——

PRINCESS. My mother?

KING. Yes, yes. A little plan of mine—of hers—your
poor mother. Dear, dear!

PRINCESS. But what’s the matter?

KING. She is suffering from a surfeit of bread,
and——

(The WOODCUTTER comes up with a flagon of
wine)

WOODCUTTER. Poor old woman! She has fainted from exhaustion. Let
me give her some——

QUEEN (shrieking). No, no, not bread! I will not
have any more bread.

WOODCUTTER. Drink this, my poor woman.

QUEEN (opening her eyes). Did you say drink? (She
seizes the flagon and drinks)

PRINCESS. Oh, sir, you have saved my mother’s life!

WOODCUTTER. Not at all.

KING. I thank you, my man, I thank you.

QUEEN. My deliverer! Tell me who you are!

PRINCESS. It is my mother, the Queen, who asks you.

WOODCUTTER (amazed, as well he may be). The Queen!

KING. Yes, yes. Certainly, the Queen.

WOODCUTTER (taking off his hat). Pardon, your Majesty. I
am a woodcutter, who lives alone here, far away from courts.

QUEEN. Well, you’ve got more sense in your head than any of the
Princes that I’ve seen lately. You’d better come to
court.

PRINCESS (shyly). You will be very welcome, sir.

QUEEN. And you’d better marry the Princess.

KING. Isn’t that perhaps going a little too far,
dear?

QUEEN. Well, you wanted kindness of heart in your son-in-law,
and you’ve got it. And he’s got common sense too. (To
WOODCUTTER) Tell me, what do you think of bread as—as a form
of nourishment?

WOODCUTTER (cautiously). One can have too much of it.

QUEEN. Exactly my view. (To KING) There you are, you
see.

KING. Well, if you insist. The great thing, of course, is that
our darling child should be happy.

PRINCESS. I will do my best, father. (She takes the
WOODCUTTER’S hand.)

KING. Then the marriage will take place this evening. (With a
wave of his wand) Let the revels begin.

(They begin)

ACT II.—OLIVER’S ISLAND

SCENE I.—The Schoolroom (Ugh!)

OLIVER is discovered lying flat on his—well,
lying flat on the floor, deep in a book. The CURATE
puts his head in at the door.

CURATE. Ah, our young friend, Oliver! And how are we this
morning, dear lad?

OLIVER (mumbling). All right, thanks.

CURATE. That’s well, that’s well. Deep in our studies, I see,
deep in our studies. And what branch of Knowledge are we pursuing
this morning?

OLIVER (without looking up). “Marooned in the Pacific,”
or “The Pirate’s Bride.”

CURATE. Dear, dear, what will Miss Pinniger say to this
interruption of our studies?

OLIVER. Silly old beast.

CURATE. Tut-tut, dear lad, that is not the way to speak of our
mentors and preceptors. So refined and intelligent a lady as Miss
Pinniger. Indeed I came here to see her this morning on a little
matter of embroidered vestments. Where is she, dear lad?

OLIVER. It isn’t nine yet.

CURATE (looking at his watch). Past nine, past nine.

OLIVER (jumping up). Je-hoshaphat!

CURATE. Oliver! Oliver! My dear lad! Swearing at your
age! Really, I almost feel it my duty to inform your
aunt——

OLIVER. Fat lot of swearing in just mentioning one of the Kings
of Israel.

CURATE. Of Judah, dear boy, of Judah. To be ignorant on such a
vital matter makes it even more reprehensible. I cannot believe
that our dear Miss Pinniger has so neglected your education
that——

Enter our dear MISS PINNIGER, the Governess.

GOVERNESS. Ah, Mr. Smilax; how pleasant to see you!

CURATE. My dear Miss Pinniger! You will forgive me for
interrupting you in your labours, but there is a small matter
of—ah!——

GOVERNESS. Certainly, Mr. Smilax. I will walk down to the gate
with you. Oliver, where is Geraldine?

OLIVER. Aunt Jane wanted her.

GOVERNESS. Well, you should be at your lessons. It’s nine
o’clock. The fact that I am momentarily absent from the room should
make no difference to your zeal.

OLIVER (without conviction). No, Miss Pinniger. (He
sits down at his desk, putting “Marooned in the Pacific” inside
it.)

CURATE (playfully). For men must work, Oliver, men must
work. How doth the little busy bee—Yes, Miss Pinniger, I am
with you. [They go out.

OLIVER (opening his poetry book and saying it to
himself). It was a summer evening—It was a summer
evening—(He stops, refers to the book, and then goes on to
himself) Old Kaspar’s work was done. It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar’s work was done——

Enter GERALDINE—or JILL.

JILL. Where’s Pin?

OLIVER. Hallo, Jill. Gone off with Dearly Belovéd. Her
momentary absence from the room should make no difference to your
zeal, my dear Geraldine. And what are we studying this morning,
dear child? (To himself) It was a summer evening, Old
Kaspar’s work was done.

JILL (giggling). Is that Pin?

OLIVER. Pin and Dearly Belovéd between them. She’s a bit
batey this morning.

JILL (at her desk). And all my sums have done themselves
wrong. (Hard at it with paper and pencil) What’s nine times
seven, Oliver?

OLIVER. Fifty-six. Old Kaspar’s work was done. Jolly well wish
mine was. And he before his cottage door. Fat lot of good my
learning this stuff if I’m going to be a sailor. I bet Beatty
didn’t mind what happened to rotten old Kaspar when he saw a German
submarine.

JILL. Six and carry five. Aunt Jane has sent for the doctor to
look at my chest.

OLIVER. What’s the matter with your chest?

JILL. I blew my nose rather loud at prayers this morning.

OLIVER. I say, Jill, you are going it!

JILL. It wasn’t my fault, Oliver. Aunt Jane turned over two
pages at once and made me laugh, so I had to turn it into a
blow.

OLIVER. Bet you what you like she knew.

JILL. Of course she did, and she’ll tell the doctor, and he’ll
be as beastly as he can. What did she say to you for being
late?

OLIVER. I said somebody had bagged my sponge, and she wouldn’t
like me to come down to prayers all unsponged, and she said,
“Excuses, Oliver, always excuses! Leave me. I will see you
later.” Suppose that means I’ve got to go to bed this afternoon.
Jill, if I do, be sporty and bring me up “Marooned in the
Pacific.”

JILL. They’ll lock the door. They always do.

OLIVER. Then I shall jolly well go up for a handkerchief this
morning, and shove it in the bed, just in case.
Cavé—here’s Pin.

MISS PINNIGER returns to find them full of zeal.

GOVERNESS (sitting down at her desk). Well, Oliver, have
you learnt your piece of poetry?

OLIVER (nervously). I—I think so, Miss
Pinniger.

GOVERNESS. Close the book, and stand up and say it. (Oliver
takes a last despairing look, and stands up.) Well?

OLIVER. It was a summer evening——

GOVERNESS. The title and the author first, Oliver. Everything in
its proper order.

OLIVER. Oh, I say, I didn’t know I had to learn the title.

JILL (in a whisper). After Blenheim.

GOVERNESS. Geraldine, kindly attend to your own work.

OLIVER. After Blenheim. It was a summer evening.

GOVERNESS. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey. One of our
greatest poets.

OLIVER. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey, one of our greatest
poets. It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar’s work was
done—er—Old Kaspar’s work was done—er—work
was done, er . . .

GOVERNESS. And he before——

OLIVER. Oh yes, of course. And he before—er—and he
before—er—It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar’s work
was done, and he before—er—and he before——
Er, it was a summer evening——

GOVERNESS. So you have already said, Oliver.

OLIVER. I just seem to have forgotten this bit, Miss Pinniger.
And he before——

GOVERNESS. Well, what was he before?

OLIVER (hopefully). Blenheim? Oh no, it was after
Blenheim.

GOVERNESS (wearily). His cottage door.

OLIVER. Oo, yes. And he before his cottage door was sitting in
the sun. (He clears his throat) Was sitting in the sun.
Er—(He coughs again)—er——

GOVERNESS. You have a cough, Oliver. Perhaps the doctor had
better see you when he comes to see Geraldine.

OLIVER. It was just something tickling my throat, Miss Pinniger.
Er—it was a summer evening.

GOVERNESS. You haven’t learnt it, Oliver?

OLIVER. Yes, I have, Miss Pinniger, only I can’t quite remember
it. And he before his cottage door——

GOVERNESS. Is it any good, Geraldine, asking you if you have got
any of your sums right?

JILL. I’ve got one, Miss Pinniger . . . nearly right . . .
except for some of the figures.

GOVERNESS. Well, we shall have to spend more time at our
lessons, that’s all. This
afternoon—ah—er——

(She stands up as AUNT JANE and the DOCTOR come
in.)

AUNT JANE. I’m sorry to interrupt lessons, Miss Pinniger, but I
have brought the Doctor to see Geraldine. (To DOCTOR) You
will like her to go to her room?

DOCTOR. No, no, dear lady. There is no need. Her pulse—(He
feels it)——dear, dear! Her tongue—(She
puts it out)—tut-tut! A milk diet, plenty of
rice-pudding, and perhaps she would do well to go to bed this
afternoon.

AUNT JANE. I will see to it, doctor.

JILL (mutinously). I feel quite well.

DOCTOR (to AUNT JANE). A dangerous symptom. Plenty
of rice-pudding.

GOVERNESS. Oliver was coughing just now.

OLIVER (to himself). Shut up!

DOCTOR (turning to OLIVER). Ah! His pulse—(Feels
it) —tut-tut! His tongue—(OLIVER puts it
out) Dear, dear! The same treatment, dear lady, as prescribed
in the other case.

OLIVER (under his breath). Beast!

AUNT JANE. Castor-oil, liquorice-powder, ammoniated
quinine—anything of that nature, doctor?

DOCTOR. As necessary, dear lady, as necessary. The
system must be stimulated. Nature must be reinforced.

AUNT JANE (to GOVERNESS). Which do they dislike least?

OLIVER and JILL (hastily). Liquorice-powder!

DOCTOR. Then concentrate on the other two, dear lady.

AUNT JANE. Thank you, doctor. [They go out.

GOVERNESS. We will now go on with our lessons. Oliver, you will
have opportunities in your bedroom this afternoon of learning your
poetry. By the way, I had better have that book which you were
reading when I came in just now.

OLIVER (trying to be surprised). Which book?

JILL (nobly doing her best to save the situation). Miss
Pinniger, if you’re multiplying rods, poles, or perches by nine,
does it matter if——

GOVERNESS. I am talking to Oliver, Geraldine. Where is that
book, Oliver?

OLIVER. Oh, I know the one you mean. I must have put it
down somewhere. (He looks vaguely about the room.)

GOVERNESS. Perhaps you put it in your desk.

OLIVER. My desk?

JILL (going up to MISS PINNIGER with her work).
You see, it’s all gone wrong here, and I think I must have
multiplied—— (Moving in front of her as she
moves) I think I must have multiplied——

(Under cover of this, OLIVER makes a great effort to
get the book into JILL’S desk, but it is no good.)

GOVERNESS (brushing aside JILL and advancing on
OLIVER). Thank you, I will take it.

OLIVER (looking at the title). Oh yes, this is the
one.

GOVERNESS. And I will speak to your aunt at once about
the behaviour of both of you. [She goes out.

OLIVER (gallantly). I don’t care.

JILL. I did try to help you, Oliver.

OLIVER. You wait. Won’t I jolly well bag something of hers one
day, just when she wants it.

JILL. I’m afraid you’ll find the afternoon rather tiring without
your book. What will you do?

OLIVER. I suppose I shall have to think.

JILL. What shall you think about?

OLIVER. I shall think I’m on my desert island.

JILL. Which desert island?

OLIVER. The one I always pretend I’m on when I’m thinking.

JILL. Isn’t there any one else on it ever?

OLIVER. Oo, lots of pirates and Dyaks and cannibals
and—other people.

JILL. What sort of other people?

OLIVER. I shan’t tell you. This is a special think I thought
last night. As soon as I thought of it, I decided to keep it for
(impressively) a moment of great emergency.

JILL (silenced). Oh! . . . Oliver?

OLIVER Yes?

JILL. Let me be on your desert island this time. Because I did
try to help you.

OLIVER. Well—well—— (Generously) Well,
you can if you like.

JILL. Oh, thank you, Oliver. Won’t you tell me what it’s about,
and then we can both think it together this afternoon.

OLIVER. I expect you’ll think all sorts of silly things that
never happen on a desert island.

JILL. I’ll try not to, Oliver, if you tell me.

OLIVER. All right.

JILL (coming close to him). Go on.

OLIVER. Well, you see, I’ve been wrecked, you see, and the ship
has foundered with all hands, you see, and I’ve been cast ashore on
a desert island, you see.

JILL. Haven’t I been cast ashore too?

OLIVER. Well, you will be this afternoon, of course. Well, you
see, we land on the island, you see, and it’s a perfectly ripping
island, you see, and—and we land on it, you see, and . .
.

But we are getting on too fast. When the good ship crashed
upon the rock and split in twain, it seemed like that all aboard
must perish. Fortunately OLIVER was made of stern mettle.
Hastily constructing a raft and placing the now unconscious
JILL upon it, he launched it into the seething maelstrom of
waters and pushed off. Tossed like a cockle-shell upon the
mountainous waves, the tiny craft with its precious freight was in
imminent danger of foundering. But OLIVER was made of stern
mettle. With dauntless courage he rigged a jury-mast, and placed a
telescope to his eye. “Pull for the lagoon, JILL,” cried the
dauntless OLIVER, and in another moment. . . .

As the raft glides into the still waters beyond the reef, we
can see it more clearly. Can it be JILL’S bed, with
OLIVER in his pyjamas perched on the rail, and holding up his
bath-towel? Does he shorten sail for a moment to thump his chest
and say, “But OLIVER was made of stern mettle”? Or is
it——

But the sun is sinking behind the swamp where the
rattlesnakes bask. For a moment longer the sail gleams like copper
in its rays, and then—-fizz-z—we have
lost it. See! Is that speck on the inky black waters the dauntless
Oliver? It is. Let us follow to the island and see what adventures
befall him.

SCENE II.—It is the island which we have dreamed about
all our lives. But at present we cannot see it properly, for it is
dark. In one of those tropical darknesses which can be felt rather
than seen OLIVER hands JILL out of the boat.

OLIVER. Tread carefully, Jill, there are lots of deadly
rattlesnakes about.

JILL (stepping hastily back into the boat). Oli-ver!

OLIVER. You hear the noise of their rattles sometimes when the
sun is sinking behind the swamp. (The deadly rattle of the
rattlesnake is heard) There!

JILL. Oh, Oliver, are they very deadly? Because if they are, I
don’t think I shall like your island.

OLIVER. Those aren’t. I always have their teeth taken out when
ladies are coming. Besides, it’s daylight now.

(With a rapidity common in the tropics—although
it may just be OLIVER’S gallantry—the sun
climbs out of the sea, and floods the island, JILL, no
longer frightened, steps out of the boat, and they walk up to the
clearing in the middle.)

JILL (looking about her). Oh, what a lovely island! I
think it’s lovely, Oliver.

OLIVER (modestly). It’s pretty decent, isn’t it? Won’t
you lie down? I generally lie down here and watch the turtles
coming out of the sea to deposit their eggs on the sand.

JILL (lying down). How many do they de-deposit usually,
Oliver?

OLIVER. Oh, three—or a hundred. Just depends how hungry I
am. Have a bull’s-eye, won’t you?

JILL (excitedly). Oh, did you bring some?

OLIVER (annoyed). Bring some? (Brightening up) Oh,
you mean from the wreck?

JILL (hastily). Yes, from the wreck. I mean besides the
axe and the bag of nails and the gunpowder.

OLIVER. Couldn’t. The ship sank with all hands before I could
get them. But it doesn’t matter, because (going up to one of the
trees) I recognise this as the bull’s-eye tree. (He picks a
couple of bull’s-eyes and gives one to her.)

JILL. Oh, Oliver, how lovely! Thank you. (She puts it in her
mouth.)

OLIVER (sucking hard). There was nothing but breadfruit
trees here the first time I was marooned on it. Rotten things to
have on a decent island. So I planted a bull’s-eye tree, and a
barley-sugar-cane grove, and one or two other things, and made a
jolly ripping place of it.

JILL (pointing). What’s that tree over there?

OLIVER. That one? Rice-pudding tree.

JILL (getting up indignantly). Oliver! Take me back to
the boat at once.

OLIVER. I say, shut up, Jill. You didn’t think I meant it for
you, did you?

JILL. But there’s only you and me on the island.

OLIVER. What about the domestic animals? I suppose
they’ve got to eat.

JILL. Oh, how lovely! Have we got a goat and a parrot, and
a—a—

OLIVER. Much better than that. Look in that cage there.

JILL. Oh, is that a cage? I never noticed it. What do I do?

OLIVER (going to it). Here, I’ll show you (He draws
the blind, and the DOCTOR is exposed sitting on a stump of
wood and blinking at the sudden light) What do you think of
that?

JILL. Oliver!

OLIVER (proudly). I thought of that in bed one night.
Spiffing idea, isn’t it? I’ve got some other ones in the plantation
over there. Awfully good specimens. I feed ’em on rice-pudding.

JILL. Can this one talk?

OLIVER. I’m teaching it. (Stirring it up with a stick)
Come up there.

DOCTOR (mumbling). Ninety-nine, ninety-nine . . .

OLIVER. That’s all it can say at present. I’m going to give it a
swim in the lagoon to-morrow. I want to see if there are any
sharks. If there aren’t, then we can bathe there afterwards.

(The DOCTOR shudders.)

JILL. Have you given it a name yet? I think I should like to
call it Fluffkins.

OLIVER. Righto! Good night, Fluffkins. Time little doctors were
in bed. (He pulls down the blind.)

JILL (lying down again). Well, I think it’s a lovely
island.

OLIVER (lying beside her). If there’s anything you want,
you know, you’ve only got to say so. Pirates or anything like that.
There’s a ginger-beer well if you’re thirsty.

JILL (closing her eyes). I’m quite happy, Oliver, thank
you.

OLIVER (after a pause, a little awkwardly). Jill, you
didn’t ever want to marry a pirate, did you?

JILL (still on her back with her eyes shut). I hadn’t
thought about it much, Oliver dear.

OLIVER. Because I can get you an awfully decent pirate, if you
like, and if I was his brother-in-law it would be ripping. I’ve
often been marooned with him, of course, but never as his
brother-in-law.

JILL. Why don’t you marry his daughter and be his
son-in-law?

OLIVER. He hasn’t got a daughter.

JILL. Well, you could think him one.

OLIVER. I don’t want to. If ever I’m such a silly ass as to
marry, which I’m jolly well not going to be, I shall marry
a—a dusky maiden. Jill, be sporty. All girls have to get
married some time. It’s different with men.

JILL. Very well, Oliver. I don’t want to spoil your
afternoon.

OLIVER. Good biz. (He stands up, shuts his eyes and waves his
hands about.)

Enter the PIRATE CHIEF.

PIRATE CHIEF (with a flourish). Gentles, your servant.
Commodore Crookshank, at your service. Better known on the Spanish
Main as One-eared Eric.

OLIVER. Glad to meet you, Commodore. I’m—er—
Two-toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks. But you may call me
Oliver, if you like. This is my sister Jill—the Pride of the
Pampas.

PIRATE CHIEF (with another bow). Charmed!

JILL (politely). Don’t mention it, Commodore.

OLIVER. My sister wants to marry you. Er—carry on. (He
moves a little away from them and lies down.)

JILL (sitting down and indicating a place beside her).
Won’t you sit down, Commodore?

PIRATE CHIEF. Thank you, madam. The other side if I may. I shall
hear better if you condescend to accept me. (He sits down on the
other side of her.)

JILL. Oh, I’m so sorry! I was forgetting about your ear.

PIRATE CHIEF. Don’t mention it. A little discussion in the La
Plata river with a Spanish gentleman. At the end of it I was an ear
short and he was a head short. It was considered in the family that
I had won.

(There is an awkward pause.)

JILL (shyly). Well, Commodore?

PIRATE CHIEF. Won’t you call me Eric?

JILL. I am waiting, Eric.

PIRATE CHIEF. Madam, I am not a marrying man, not to any extent,
but if you would care to be Mrs. Crookshank, I’d undertake on my
part to have the deck swabbed every morning, and to put a polish on
the four-pounder that you could see your pretty face in.

JILL. Eric, how sweet of you. But I think you must speak to my
brother in the library first. Oli-ver!

OLIVER (coming up). Hallo! Settled it?

JILL. It’s all settled, Oliver, between Eric and myself, but you
will want to ask him about his prospects, won’t you?

OLIVER. Yes, yes, of course.

PIRATE. I shall be very glad to tell you anything I can, sir. I
think I may say that I am doing fairly well in my profession.

OLIVER. What’s your ship? A sloop or a frigate?

PIRATE. A brigantine.

JILL (excited). Oh, that’s what Oliver puts on his hair
when he goes to a party.

OLIVER (annoyed). Shut up, Jill! A brigantine? Ah yes, a
rakish craft, eh, Commodore?

PIRATE (earnestly). Extremely rakish.

OLIVER. And how many pieces of eight have you?

PIRATE. Nine thousand.

OLIVER. Ah! (To JILL) What’s nine times eight?

JILL (to herself). Nine times eight.

OLIVER (to himself). Nine times eight.

PIRATE (to himself). Nine times eight.

JILL. Seventy-two.

PIRATE. I made it seventy-one, but I expect you’re right.

OLIVER. Then you’ve seventy-two thousand pieces altogether?

PIRATE. Yes, sir, about that.

OLIVER. Any doubloons?

PIRATE. Hundreds of ’em.

OLIVER. Ingots of gold?

PIRATE. Lashings of ’em.

JILL. And he’s going to polish up the four-pounder until I can
see my face in it.

OLIVER. I was just going to ask you about your guns. You’ve got
’em fore and aft of course?

PIRATE. Yes, sir. A four-pounder fore and a half-pounder
haft.

OLIVER (a little embarrassed). And do you ever have
brothers-in-law in your ship?

PIRATE. Well, I never have had yet, but I have always been
looking about for one.

JILL. Oh, Oliver, isn’t Eric a nice man?

OLIVER (casually). I suppose the captain’s brother-in-law
is generally the first man to board the Spaniard with his cutlass
between his teeth?

PIRATE. You might almost say always. Many a ship on the Spanish
Main I’ve had to leave unboarded through want of a brother-in-law.
They’re touchy about it somehow. Unless the captain’s
brother-in-law comes first they get complaining.

OLIVER (bashfully). And there’s just one other thing. If
the brigantine happened to put in at an island for water, and the
captain’s brother-in-law happened—just happened—to be a
silly ass and go and marry a dusky maiden, whom he met on the
beach——

PIRATE. Bless you, it’s always happening to a captain’s
brother-in-law.

OLIVER (in a magnificent manner). Then, Captain
Crookshank, you may take my sister!

JILL. Thank you, Oliver.

(It is not every day that one-eared ERIC, that famous
chieftain, marries into the family of the TERROR OF THE DYAKS.
Naturally the occasion is celebrated by the whole pirate crew
with a rousing chorus, followed by a dance in which the dusky
maidens of the Island join. At the end of it, JILL finds
herself alone with TUA-HEETA, the Dusky Princess.)

JILL (fashionably). I’m so pleased to meet my brother’s
future wife. It’s so nice of you to come to see me. You will have
some tea, won’t you? (She puts out her hand and presses an
imaginary bell) I wanted to see you, because I can tell you so
many little things about my brother, which I think you ought to
know. You see, Eric—my husband—

TUA-HEETA. Ereec?

JILL. Yes. I wish you could see him. He’s so nice-looking. But
I’m afraid he won’t be home to tea. That’s the worst of marrying a
sailor. They are away so much. Well, I was telling you about
Oliver. I think it would be better if you knew at once
that—he doesn’t like rice-pudding.

TUA-HEETA. Rice-poodeeng?

JILL. Yes, he hates it. It is very important that you should
remember that. Then there’s another thing—(An untidy
looking servant comes in. Can it be—can it possibly be
AUNT JANE? Horrors!) He dislikes—— Oh, there you
are, Jane. You’ve been a very long time answering the bell.

AUNT JANE. I’m so sorry ma’am, I was just dressing.

JILL. Excuses, Jane, always excuses. Leave me. Take a week’s
notice. (To TUA-HEETA) YOU must excuse my maid. She’s very
stupid. Tea at once, Jane. (AUNT JANE sniffs and goes off)
What was I saying? Oh yes, about Oliver. He doesn’t care for
cod-liver oil in the way that some men do. You would be wise not to
force it on him just at first. . . . Have you any idea where you
are going to live?

TUA-HEETA. Live? (These dusky maidens are no
conversationalists.)

JILL. I expect Oliver will wish to reside at Hammersmith, so
convenient for the City. You’ll like Hammersmith. You’ll go to St.
Paul’s Church, I expect. The Vicar will be sure to call.
(Enter AUNT JANE with small tea-table.) Ah, here’s
tea. (To JANE) You’re very slow, Jane.

AUNT JANE. I’m sorry, ma’am.

JILL. It’s no good being sorry. Take another week’s notice.
(To TUA-HEETA) You must forgive my talking to my maid. She
wants such a lot of looking after. (JANE puts down the
table) That will do, Jane, (JANE bumps against the
table) Dear, dear, how clumsy you are. What wages am I giving
you now?

AUNT JANE. A shilling a month, ma’am.

JILL. Well, we’d better make it ninepence. (JANE goes out in
tears.) Servants are a great nuisance, aren’t they? Jane is a
peculiarly stupid person. She used to be aunt to my brother, and I
have only taken her on out of charity. (She pours out from an
imaginary tea-pot) Milk? Sugar? (She puts them in and hands
the imaginary cup to TUA-HEETA.)

TUA-HEETA. Thank you. (Drinks.)

JILL (pouring herself a cup). I hope you like China.
(She drinks, and then rings an imaginary bell) Well, as I
was saying——(Enter AUNT JANE.) You can clear
away, Jane.

AUNT JANE. Yes, ma’am.

(She clears away the tea and TUA-HEETA and—
very quickly—herself, as OLIVER comes
back. OLIVER has been discussing boarding-tactics with his
brother-in-law. CAPTAIN CROOKSHANK belongs to the now
old-fashioned Marlinspike School; OLIVER is for well-primed
pistols.)

JILL. Oh, Oliver, I love your island. I’ve been thinking things
all by myself. You’re married to Tua-heeta. You don’t mind, do
you?

OLIVER. Not at all, Jill. Make yourself at home. I’ve just been
trying the doctor in the lagoon. There were sharks there,
after all, so we’ll have to find another place for bathing. Oh, and
I shot an elephant. What would you like to do now?

JILL. Just let’s lie here and see what happens. (What happens
is that a cassowary comes along.) Oh, what a lovely
bird! Is it an ostrich?

(The cassowary sniffs the air, puts its beak to the ground
and goes off again.)

OLIVER. Silly! It’s a cassowary, of course.

JILL. What’s a cassowary?

OLIVER. Jill! Don’t you remember the rhyme?

JILL. Is that all they’re for?

OLIVER. Well, what else would you want them for?

(A MISSIONARY, pith-helmet, gloves, hymn-book,
umbrella, all complete—creeps cautiously up. He bears
a strong likeness to the curate, the REVEREND SMILAX.)

MISSIONARY. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, dear
friends, but have you observed a cassowary on this island,
apparently looking for something?

OLIVER. Yes, we saw one just now.

MISSIONARY (shuddering). Dear, dear, dear. You didn’t
happen to ask him what was the object of his researches?

JILL. He went so quickly.

MISSIONARY (coming out of the undergrowth to them). I
wonder if you have ever heard of a little rhyme which apparently
attributes to the bird in question, when residing in the level
pastures of Timbuctoo, an unholy lust for the body and
appurtenances thereto of an unnamed clerical gentleman?

OLIVER and JILL (shouting together). Yes!
Rather!

MISSIONARY. Dear, dear! Fortunately—I say
fortunately—this is not Timbuctoo! (OLIVER slips away and
comes back with a notice-board “Timbuctoo,” which he places at the
edge of the trees, unseen by the MISSIONARY, who goes on
talking to JILL) I take it that a cassowary residing in other
latitudes is of a more temperate habit. His appetite, I venture to
suggest, dear lady, would be under better restraint. That being so,
I may perhaps safely—— (He begins to move off, and
comes suddenly up to the notice-board) Dear, dear, dear, dear,
dear! This is terrible! You said, I think, that
the—ah—bird in question was moving in this
direction?

OLIVER. That’s right.

MISSIONARY. Then I shall move, hastily yet with all due
precaution, in that direction. (He walks off on tiptoe,
looking over his shoulder in case the cassowary should reappear.
Consequently, he does not observe the enormous CANNIBAL who
has appeared from the trees on the right, until he bumps into
him) I beg your—— (He looks up) Dear, dear,
dear, dear, dear!

CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. Yes, my dear sir, it is as you say, a beautiful
morning.

CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. But I was just going a little walk—in this
direction—if you will permit me.

CANNIBAL (threateningly). Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. I have noticed it, my dear sir, I have often made
that very observation to my parishioners.

CANNIBAL (very threateningly). Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. Oh, what’s he saying?

OLIVER. He says it’s his birthday to-morrow.

CANNIBAL. Wurra, wurra wug!

OLIVER. And will you come to the party?

MISSIONARY (to CANNIBAL). My dear sir, it is most kind of
you to invite me, but a prior engagement in a different part of the
country—a totally unexpected call upon me in another
locality—will unfortunately——

(While he is talking, the cassowary comes back, sidles up to
him, and taps with his beak on the MISSIONARY’S
pith-helmet.)

MISSIONARY (absently, without looking round). Come in! .
. . As I was saying, my dear sir—— (The bird taps
again. The MISSIONARY turns round annoyed) Can’t you see
I’m engaged——Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, dear!

(He clasps the CANNIBAL in his anguish, recoils from
the CANNIBAL and clasps the cassowary. The three of them go
off together, OLIVER and JILL following eagerly
behind to see who gets most.)

(The PIRATES come back, each carrying a small wooden
ammunition-box, and sit round in a semicircle, the PIRATE CHIEF
in the middle.)

PIRATE. Steward! Steward!

STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir.

CHIEF. Now then, tumble up, my lad. I would carouse. Circulate
the dry ginger.

STEWARD (hurrying out). Yes, sir, going, sir.

CHIEF. Look lively, my lad, look lively.

STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. (He
hands round mugs to them all.)

CHIEF (rising). Gentlemen! (They all stand up) The
crew of the Cocktail will carouse—— (They all
take one step to the right, one back, and one
left—which brings them behind their
boxes—and then place their right feet on the boxes
together) One! (They raise their mugs) Two! (They
drink) Three! (They bang down their mugs) Four! (They
wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands) So! . . .
Steward!

STEWARD. Yes, sir, here, sir.

CHIEF. The carouse is over.

STEWARD. Yes, sir. (He collects the mugs and goes out.)
(The PIRATES sit down again.)

CHIEF (addressing the men). Having passed an hour thus in
feasting and song——

(Hark! is it the voice of our dear MISS PINNIGER? It
is.)

GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Oliver! Jill! You may get up now
and come down to tea.

CHIEF. Having, as I say, slept off our carouse——

GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Jill! (She comes in) Oh,
I beg your pardon, I—er——

(All the PIRATES rise and draw their weapons)

CHIEF. Pray do not mention it. (Polishing his pistol
lovingly) You were asking——

GOVERNESS. I—I was l-looking for a small
boy—Oliver—

CHIEF. Oliver? (To 1ST PIRATE) Have we any Olivers on
board?

1ST PIRATE. NO, Captain. Only Bath Olivers.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to my
brother-in-law, hight Two-Toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks?

GOVERNESS. Oh no, no—Just a small boy and his
sister—Jill.

CHIEF (to 2ND PIRATE). Have we any Jills on board?

2ND PIRATE. No, Captain. Only gills of rum.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to Mrs.
Crookshank, styled the Pride of the Pampas?

GOVERNESS. Oh no, no, I am so sorry. Perhaps
I—er—

CHIEF. Wait, woman. (To 6TH PIRATE) Ernest, offer your
seat to the lady.

(The 6TH PIRATE stands up.)

GOVERNESS (nervously). Oh please don’t trouble, I’m
getting out at the next station—I mean I—

6TH PIRATE (thunderously). Sit down!

(She sits down tremblingly and he stands by her with his
pistol.)

CHIEF. Thank you. (To 1ST PIRATE) Cecil, have you your
pencil and notebook with you?

1ST PIRATE (producing them). Ay, ay, Captain.

CHIEF. Then we will cross-examine the prisoner. (To
GOVERNESS) Name?

GOVERNESS. Pinniger.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Pincher.

CHIEF. Christian names, if any?

GOVERNESS. Letitia.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Letisher—how would you spell
it, Captain?

CHIEF. Spell it like a sneeze. Age?

GOVERNESS. Twenty-three.

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Habits—untruthful.
Appearance—against her. Got that?

1ST PIRATE. Yes, sir.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). And what are you for?

GOVERNESS. I teach. Oliver and Jill, you know.

CHIEF. And what do you teach them?

GOVERNESS. Oh, everything. Arithmetic, French, Geography,
History, Dancing——

CHIEF (holding up his hand). A moment! I would take
counsel with Percy. (To 2ND PIRATE) Percy, what shall we ask
her in Arithmetic? (The 2ND PIRATE whispers to him.)
Excellent. (To her) If you really are a teacher as you say,
answer me this question. The brigantine Cocktail is in
longitude 40° 39′ latitude 22° 50′, sailing closehauled on
the port tack at 8 knots in a 15-knot nor’-nor’ westerly
breeze—how soon before she sights the Azores?

GOVERNESS. I—I—I’m afraid I——You
see—I——

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Arithmetic rotten.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Arithmetic rotten.

CHIEF (to 3RD PIRATE). Basil, ask her a question in French.

3RD PIRATE. What would the mate of a French frigate say if he
wanted to say in French, “Avast there, ye lubbering swab” to a
friend like?

GOVERNESS. Oh, but I hardly—I——

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). French futile.

1ST PIRATE (writing). French futile.

CHIEF (to 4TH PIRATE). I don’t suppose it’s much use,
Francis. But try her in Geography.

4TH PIRATE. Well now, lady. If you was wanting a nice creek to
lay up cosy in, atween Dago Point and the Tortofitas, where would
you run to?

GOVERNESS. It-run to? But that isn’t—of course
I——

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Geography ghastly.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Geography ghastly.

CHIEF (to 5TH PIRATE). Give her a last chance, Mervyn. See if
she knows any history.

5TH PIRATE. I suppose you couldn’t tell me what year it was when
old John Cann took the Saucy Codfish over Black Tooth Reef
and laid her alongside the Spaniard in the harbour there, and up
comes the Don in his nightcap. “Shiver my timbers,” he says in
Spanish, “but there’s only one man in the whole of the Spanish
Main,” he says, “and that’s John Cann,” he says, “who
could——”

(The GOVERNESS looks dumbly at him.)

CHIEF. She couldn’t. History hopeless.

1ST PIRATE. History hopeless.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). What else do you teach?

GOVERNESS. Music, dancing—er—but I don’t
think——

CHIEF. Steward!

STEWARD (coming in). Yes, sir, coming, sir.

CHIEF. Concertina.

STEWARD (going out). Yes, sir, going, sir.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). Can you dance a hornpipe?

GOVERNESS. No, I——

CHIEF. Dancing dubious.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Dancing dubious.

STEWARD (coming in). Concertina, sir.

CHIEF. Give it to the woman. (He takes it to her.)

GOVERNESS. I’m afraid I——(She produces one
ghastly noise and drops the concertina in alarm.)

1ST PIRATE (writing). What shall I say, sir? Music mouldy
or music measly?

CHIEF (standing up). Gentlemen, I think you will agree
with me that the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly
incapable of teaching anybody anything. Twenty-five years, man and
boy, I have sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible
exception of a dumb and half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in
’64, I have never met any one so profoundly lacking in intellect. I
propose, therefore, that for the space of twenty-four hours the
woman Pinniger should be incarcerated in the smuggler’s cave, in
the company of a black beetle of friendly temperament.

GOVERNESS. Mercy! Mercy!

1ST PIRATE. I should like to second that.

CHIEF. Those in favour—ay! (They all say “Ay.”)

Contrary—No! (The GOVERNESS says “No.”) The
motion is carried.

(One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave. The
GOVERNESS rushes to the CHIEF and throws herself at his
feet. OLIVER and JILL appear in the nick of
time.)

OLIVER. A maiden in distress! I will rescue her. (She looks
up and OLIVER recognises her) Oh! Carry on,
Commodore.

(The GOVERNESS is lowered into the cave and the
door is shut.)

CHIEF (to his men). Go, find that black beetle, and
having found it, introduce it circumspectly by the back door.

PIRATES. Ay, ay, sir. [They go out.

OLIVER. All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to
rescue somebody.

JILL (excitedly). Oo, rescue me, Oliver.

CHIEF (solemnly). Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks,
and Pest of the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one.
Wilt fight me for the wench? (He puts an arm round
JILL.)

OLIVER. I will.

CHIEF. Swords?

OLIVER. Pistols.

CHIEF. At twenty paces?

OLIVER. Across a handkerchief.

CHIEF. Done! (Feeling in his pockets) Have you got a
handkerchief? I think I must have left mine on the
dressing-table.

OLIVER (bringing out his and putting it hastily back
again). Mine’s rather—Jill, haven’t you got one?

JILL (feeling). I know I had one, but I——

CHIEF. This is an ill business. Five-and-thirty duels have I
fought—and never before been delayed for lack of a
handkerchief.

JILL. Ah, here it is. (She produces a very small one and lays
it on the ground. They stand one each side of it, pistols
ready.)

OLIVER. Jill, you must give the word. JILL. Are you ready?

(The sound of a gong is heard.)

CHIEF. Listen! (The gong is heard again) The Spanish
Fleet is engaged!

JILL. I thought it was our tea gong.

CHIEF. Ah, perhaps you’re right.

OLIVER. I say, we oughtn’t to miss tea. (Holding out his hand
to her) Come on, Jill.

CHIEF. But you’ll come back? We shall always be waiting here for
you whenever you want us.

JILL. Yes, we’ll come back, won’t we, Oliver?

OLIVER. Oo, rather.

(The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and
Dusky Maidens, come on. They sing as they wave good-bye to the
children who are making their way to the boat.)

JILL (from the boat). Good-bye, good-bye.

OLIVER. Good-bye, you chaps.

JILL (politely). And thank you all for a very pleasant
afternoon.

[They are all singing as the boat pushes off. Night comes on
with tropical suddenness. The singing dies slowly down.

ACT III.—FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE
HUBBARD FAMILY

SCENE I.—The drawing-room of the HUBBARDS before
Fame and Prosperity came to them. It is simply furnished with a
deal table and two cane chairs.

MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, in faultless evening dress, are
at home, MR. HUBBARD reading a magazine, MRS. HUBBARD
with her hands in her lap. She sighs.

MR. HUBBARD (impetuously throwing down his magazine).
Dearest, you sighed?

MRS. HUBBARD (quickly). No, no, Henry. In a luxurious and
well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh?

MR. HUBBARD. True, dear. Not only is it artistically furnished,
as you say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all
things—(he lifts up the magazine)—a library.

MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful
for.

MR. HUBBARD. We have indeed. But I am selfish. Would you care to
read? (He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to
her.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry.

(They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs
again.)

MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves
you.

MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me.

MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully). Isabel?

MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don’t you remember, she
comes after Harold?

MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers). A, B, C, D, E, F,
G, H, I—dear me, have we got nine already?

MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly). Darling, say you don’t think
it’s too many.

MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it
isn’t as if they were real children.

MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly). Henry! How can you say they
are not real?

MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they’re only the children we thought
we’d like to have if Father Christmas gave us any.

MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here
in the house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis,
pretty Elsie with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired
Frank—

MR. HUBBARD (firmly). Darling one, Frank has curly brown
hair. It was an understood thing that you should choose the girls,
and I should choose the boys. When we decided to
take—A, B, C, D, E, F—a sixth child, it was my turn for
a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly brown hair and a fondness
for animals.

MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you’re right, dear. Of course it is a
little confusing when you never see your children.

MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will
give us some.

MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our
stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a
diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order
would be something.

MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the
chimney has not been swept for some years may have something to do
with it. Or he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot
help feeling that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this
way he would be very much annoyed.

MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I
am standing up in—I mean sitting down in.

MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of
us in the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening
dress. We are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately
cuts us off in this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go
on reading or would you like to walk up and down the room?
Fortunately these simple pleasures are left to us.

MRS. HUBBARD. I’ve finished this page.

MR. HUBBARD (tearing out one). Have another, my love.
(They read for a little while, until interrupted by a knock at
the door.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Some one at the door! Who could it be?

MR. HUBBARD (getting up). Just make the room look a
little more homey, dear, in case it’s any one important.

(He goes out, leaving her to alter the position of the chairs
slightly.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Well?

MR. HUBBARD (coming in). A letter. (He opens
it.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Quick!

MR. HUBBARD (whistling with surprise). Father Christmas!
An invitation to Court! (Reading) “Father Christmas at Home,
25th December. Jollifications, 11.59 P.M.” My love, he has found us
at last! (They embrace each other.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Henry, how gratifying!

MR. HUBBARD. Yes. (Sadly, after a pause) But we can’t
go.

MRS. HUBBARD (sadly). No, I have no clothes.

MR. HUBBARD. Nor I.

MRS. HUBBARD. How can I possibly go without a diamond necklace?
None of the Montmorency-Smythe women has ever been to Court without
a diamond necklace.

MR. HUBBARD. The Hubbards are a proud race. No male Hubbard
would dream of appearing at Court without a gentleman’s gold Albert
watch-chain. . . . Besides, there is another thing. There will be
many footmen at Father Christmas’s Court, who will doubtless
require coppers pressed into their palms. My honour would be
seriously affected, were I compelled to whisper to them that I had
no coppers.

MRS. HUBBARD. It is very unfortunate. Father Christmas may have
hundreds of presents waiting for us.

MR. HUBBARD. True. But how would it be to hang up our stockings
again this evening—now that we know he knows we are here? I
would suggest tied on to the door-knocker, to save him the trouble
of coming down the chimney.

MRS. HUBBARD (excitedly). Henry, I wonder! But of course
we will.

(They begin to take off—the one a sock, the other a
stocking.)

MR. HUBBARD. I almost wish now that my last suit had been a
knickerbocker one. However, we must do what we can with a sock.

MRS. HUBBARD (holding up her stocking and looking at it a
little anxiously). I hope Father Christmas won’t give me a
bicycle. A stocking never sets so well after it has had a bicycle
in it.

MR. HUBBARD (taking it from her). Now, dear, I will go
down and put them in position. Let us hope that fortune will be
kind to us.

MRS. HUBBARD. Let us hope so, darling. And quickly. For
(picking up her page of the magazine) it is a trifle cold.
[He goes out and she is left reading.

SCENE II.—Outside the house the snow lies deep. The
stocking and sock are tied on to the door-knocker. There is a light
in the window.

A party of carol-singers, with lanterns, come by and halt in
the snow outside the house.

PETER ABLEWAYS. Friends, are we all assembled?

JONAS HUMPHREY. Ay, ay, Peter Ableways, assembled and met
together in a congregation, for the purpose of lifting up our
voices in joyous thanksgiving, videlicet the singing of a carol or
other wintry melody.

JENNIFER LING. Keep your breath for your song, Master Humphrey.
That last “Alleluia” of yours was a poor windy thing, lacking
grievously in substance.

JONAS (sadly). It is so. I never made much of an
Alleluia. It is not in my nature somehow. ‘Tis a vain boastful
thing an Alleluia.

MARTHA PORRITT. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet
are cold.

JONAS. What matter the feet, Martha Porritt, if the heart be
warm with loving-kindness and seasonable emotions?

MARTHA. Well, nothing of me will be warm soon.

JENNIFER. Ay, let’s begin, Peter Ableways, while we carry the
tune in our heads. It is ill searching for the notes in the middle
of the carol, as some singers do.

PETER. Well spoken, Mistress Jennifer. Now listen all, while I
unfold the nature of the entertainment. Item—A carol
or birth song to draw the attention of all folk to the company here
assembled and the occasion celebrated. Item—Applause
and the clapping of hands. Item—A carol or song of
thanksgiving. Item—A collection.

JONAS. An entertainment well devised, Master Ableways, sobeit
the words of the second song remain with me after I am delivered of
the first.

MARTHA. Are we to begin soon, Master Ableways? My feet are
cold.

PETER. Are we all ready, friends? I will say
one—two—three—and at “three” I pray you all to
give it off in a hearty manner from the chest.
One—two—

JONAS. Hold, hold, Master Ableways! Does it begin—No,
that’s the other one. (JENNIFER whispers the first line to
him) Ay, ay—I have it now—and bursting to get out
of me. Proceed, Peter Ableways.

PETER. One—two—three—(They carol.)

PETER. Well sung, all.

HUMPHREY. The applause followed, good Master Peter, as ordained.
Moreover, I have the tune of the second song ready within me.
Likewise a la-la-la or two to replace such words as I have
forgotten.

MARTHA. Don’t forget the collection, Master Ableways.

PETER. Ay, the collection. (He takes off his hat and places
it on the ground.)

HUMPHREY. Nay, not so fast, Master Peter. It would be ill if the
good folk thought that our success this night were to be estimated
by an empty hat. Place some of our money in it, Master Ableways.
Where money is, money will come.

JENNIFER. Ay, it makes a pleasing clink.

PETER. True, Mistress Jennifer. Master Humphrey speaks true.
(He pours some coppers from his pockets into his hat.)

MARTHA. Are we to go on, Master Ableways? My feet are cold.

PETER (shaking the hat). So, a warming noise.

HUMPHREY. To it again, gentles.

PETER. Are all ready? One—two—three! (They
carol.)

PETER. Well sung, all.

HUMPHREY. Have you the hat, Master Peter?

PETER (picking it up). Ay, friend, all is ready.

(The door opens and MR. HUBBARD appears at the
entrance.)

MR. HUBBARD. Good evening, friends.

PETER. Good evening, sir. (He holds out the hat.)

MR. HUBBARD (looking at it). What is this? (PETER
shakes it) Aha! Money!

PETER. Remember the carol singers, sir.

MR. HUBBARD (helping himself). My dear friends, I will
always remember you. This is most generous. I shall never forget
your kindness. This is most unexpected. But not the less welcome,
not the less—I think there’s a ha’penny down there that I
missed—thank you. As I was saying, unexpected but welcome. I
thank you heartily. Good evening, friends.

[He goes in and shuts the door.

PETER (who has been too surprised to do anything but keep his
mouth open). Well! . . . Well! . . . Well, friends, let us to
the next house. We have got all that we can get here.

[They trail off silently.

MARTHA (as they go off). Master Ableways!

PETER. Ay, lass!

MARTHA. My feet aren’t so cold now.

(But this is to be an exciting night. As soon as they are
gone, a Burglar and a Burglaress steal into view)

BILL. Wotcher get, Liz? (She holds up a gold watch and chain.
He nods and holds up a diamond necklace) ‘Ow’s that?

LIZ (starting suddenly). H’st!

BILL (in a whisper). What is it?

LIZ. Copper!

BILL (desperately). ‘Ere, quick, get rid of these. ‘Ide
’em in the snow, or——

LIZ. Bill! (He turns round) Look! (She points to the
stocking and sock hanging up) We can come back for ’em as soon
as ‘e’s gone.

(BILL looks at them, and back at her, and grins. He drops the
necklace into one and the watch into the other. As the
POLICEMAN approaches they strike up, “While shepherds watched
their flock by night,” with an air of great enthusiasm.)

POLICEMAN. Now then, move along there.

(They move along. The POLICEMAN flashes his light on
the door to see that all is well. The stocking and sock are
revealed. He beams sentimentally at them.)

SCENE III.—We are inside the house again. MRS.
HUBBARD is still reading a page of the magazine. In dashes
MR. HUBBARD with the sock and stocking.

MR. HUBBARD. My darling, what do you think? Father Christmas has
sent you a little present. (He hands her the stocking.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Has he sent you one too?

MR. HUBBARD (holding up his sock). Observe!

MRS. HUBBARD. How sweet of him! I wonder what mine is. What is
yours, darling?

MR. HUBBARD. I haven’t looked yet, my love. Perhaps just a few
nuts or something of that sort, with a card attached saying, “To
wish you the old, old wish.” We must try not to be disappointed,
whatever it is, darling.

MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, Henry. After all, it is the kindly
thought which really matters.

MR. HUBBARD. Certainly. All the same, I hope—Will you look
in yours, dear, first, or shall I?

MRS. HUBBARD. I think I should like to, darling. (Feeling
it) It feels so exciting. (She brings out a diamond
necklace) Henry!

MR. HUBBARD. My love! (They embrace) Now you will be able
to go to Court. You must say that your husband is unfortunately in
bed with a bad cold. You can tell me all about it when you come
home. I shall be able to amuse myself with—(He is feeling
in his sock while talking, and now brings out the watch and
chain.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! My love!

MR. HUBBARD. A gentleman’s gold hunter and Albert watch-chain.
My darling!

(They put down their presents on the table and embrace each
other again.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Let’s put them on at once, Henry, and see how they
suit us.

MR. HUBBARD. Allow me, my love. (He fastens her
necklace.)

MRS. HUBBARD (happily). Now I feel really dressed again!
Oh, I wish we had a looking-glass.

MR. HUBBARD (opening his gold watch). Try in here, my
darling.

MRS. HUBBARD (surveying herself). How perfectly sweet! .
. . Now let me put your watch-chain on for you, dear. (She
arranges it for him—HENRY very proud.)

MR. HUBBARD. Does it suit me, darling?

MRS. HUBBARD. You look fascinating, Henry!

(They strut about the room with an air.)

MR. HUBBARD (taking out his watch and-looking at it
ostentatiously). Well, well, we ought to be starting. My watch
makes it 11.58. (He holds it to her ear) Hasn’t it got a
sweet tick?

MRS. HUBBARD. Sweet! But starting where, Henry? Do you mean we
can really—But you haven’t any money.

MR. HUBBARD. Money? (Taking out a handful) Heaps of
it.

MRS. HUBBARD. Father Christmas?

MR. HUBBARD. Undoubtedly, my love. Brought round to the front
door just now by some of his messengers. By the way,
dear—(indicating the sock and stocking)—hadn’t
we better put these on before we start?

MRS. HUBBARD. Of course. How silly of me!

(They sit down and put them on.)

MR. HUBBARD. Really this is a very handsome watch-chain.

MRS. HUBBARD. It becomes you admirably, Henry.

MR. HUBBARD. Thank you, dear. There’s just one little point.
Father Christmas is sometimes rather shy about acknowledging the
presents he gives. He hates being thanked. If, therefore, he makes
any comment on your magnificent necklace or my handsome
watch-chain, we must say that they have been in the family for some
years.

MRS. HUBBARD. Of course, dear. (They get up.)

MR. HUBBARD. Well, now we’re ready.

MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, don’t you think we might bring the
children?

MR. HUBBARD. Of course, dear! How forgetful of me! . . .
Children—’shun! (Listen! Their heels click as they come to
attention) Number! (Their voices—alternate boy and
girl, one to nine—are heard) Right turn!

MRS. HUBBARD. Darling one, I almost seem to hear them!

MR. HUBBARD. Are you ready, my love?

MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, Henry.

MR. HUBBARD. Quick march!

(The children are heard tramping off. Very proudly MR.
and MRS. HUBBARD bring up the rear.)

SCENE IV.—The Court of FATHER CHRISTMAS. Shall
we describe it? No. But there is everything there which any
reasonable person could want, from ices to catapults. And the
decorations, done in candy so that you can break off a piece
whenever you are hungry, are superb.

1ST USHER (from the back). Father Christmas!

SEVERAL USHERS (from the front). Father Christmas! (He
comes in.)

FATHER CHRISTMAS (genially). Good evening, everybody.

I ought to have said that there are already some hundreds of
people there, though how some of them got invitations—but,
after all, that is not our business. Wishing to put them quite at
their ease, FATHER CHRISTMAS, who has a very creditable
baritone, gives them a song. After the applause which follows it,
he retires to the throne at the back, and awaits his more important
guests. The USHERS take up their places, one at the
entrance, one close to the throne.

1ST USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard! (They come
in.)

MR. HUBBARD (pressing twopence into his palm). Thank you,
my man, thank you.

2ND USHER. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hubbard.

MR. HUBBARD (handing out another twopence). Not at all,
my man, not at all.

(MRS. HUBBARD curtsies and MR. HUBBARD bows to
FATHER CHRISTMAS.)

FATHER CHRISTMAS. I am delighted to welcome you to my Court. How
are you both?

MR. HUBBARD. Very well, thank you, sir. My wife has a slight
cold in one foot, owing to—

MRS. HUBBARD (hastily). A touch of gout, sir, inherited
from my ancestors, the Montmorency-Smythes.

FATHER CHRISTMAS. Dear me, it won’t prevent you dancing, I
hope?

MRS. HUBBARD. Oh no, sir.

FATHER CHRISTMAS. That’s right. We shall have a few more friends
coming in soon. You have been giving each other presents already, I
see. I congratulate you, madam, on your husband’s taste.

MRS. HUBBARD (touching her necklace). Oh no, this is a
very old heirloom of the Montmorency-Smythe family.

MR. HUBBARD. An ancestress of Mrs. Hubbard’s—a
lady-in-waiting at the Tottenham Court—at the Tudor
Court—was fortunate enough to catch the eye
of—er—

MRS. HUBBARD. Elizabeth.

MR. HUBBARD. Queen Elizabeth, and—er—

FATHER CHRISTMAS. I see. You are lucky, madam, to have such
beautiful jewels. (Turning to MR. HUBBARD) And this
delightful gold Albert watch-chain—

MR. HUBBARD. Presented to an ancestor of mine, Sir Humphrey de
Hubbard, at the battle of—er—

MRS. HUBBARD. Agincourt.

MR. HUBBARD. As you say, dear, Agincourt. By King Richard
the—I should say William the—well, by the King.

FATHER CHRISTMAS. How very interesting.

MR. HUBBARD. Yes. My ancestor clove a scurvy knave from the
chaps to the chine. I don’t quite know how you do that, but I
gather that he inflicted some sort of a scratch upon his adversary,
and the King rewarded him with this handsome watch-chain.

USHERS (announcing). Mr. Robinson Crusoe! (He comes
in.)

FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?

CRUSOE (bowing). I’m a little late, I’m afraid, sir. My
raft was delayed by adverse gales.

(FATHER CHRISTMAS introduces him to the HUBBARDS, who
inform him that the weather is very seasonable.)

USHERS. Miss Riding Hood! (She comes in.)

FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?

RIDING HOOD (curtseying). I hope I am in time, sir. I had
to look in on my grandmother on the way here.

(FATHER CHRISTMAS makes the necessary introductions.)

MRS. HUBBARD (to CRUSOE). Do come and see me, Mr. Crusoe.
Any Friday. I should like your advice about my parrot. He’s
moulting in all the wrong places.

MR. HUBBARD (to RED RIDING HOOD). I don’t know if you’re
interested in wolves at all, Miss Hood. I heard a very good story
about one the other day. (He begins to tell it, but she has
hurried away before he can remember whether it was Thursday or
Friday.)

USHERS. Baron Bluebeard! (He comes in.)

FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?

BLUEBEARD (bowing). I trust you have not been waiting for
me, sir. I had a slight argument with my wife before starting,
which delayed me somewhat.

(FATHER CHRISTMAS forgives him.)

USHERS. Princess Goldilocks!

FATHER CHRISTMAS. How do you do?

GOLDILOCKS (curtseying). I brought the youngest bear with
me—do you mind? (She introduces the youngest bear to
FATHER CHRISTMAS and the other guests) Say, how do you do,
darling? (To an USHER) Will you give him a little porridge,
please, and if you have got a nice bed where he could rest a little
afterwards—he gets tired so quickly.

USHER. Certainly, your Royal Highness.

(Music begins.)

GOLDILOCKS (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Are we going to dance?
How lovely!

FATHER CHRISTMAS (to the HUBBARDS). You will dance, won’t
you?

MRS. HUBBARD. I think not just at first, thank you.

GOLDILOCKS (to CRUSOE). Come along!

CRUSOE. I am a little out of practice—er—but if you
don’t mind—er—(He comes.)

BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). May I have the pleasure?

MRS. HUBBARD (to RIDING HOOD). Be careful, dear; he has a
very bad reputation.

RIDING HOOD (to BLUEBEARD). You don’t eat people, do
you?

BLUEBEARD (pained by this injustice). Never!

RIDING HOOD. Oh then, I don’t mind. But I do hate being
eaten.

Now we can’t possibly describe the whole dance to you, for in
every corner of the big ballroom couples were revolving and
sliding, and making small talk with each other. So we will just
take two specimen conversations.

CRUSOE (nervous, poor man). Princess Goldilocks, may I
speak to you on a matter of some importance to me?

GOLDILOCKS. I wish you would.

CRUSOE (looking across at BLUEBEARD and RED RIDING
HOOD, who are revolving close by). Alone.

GOLDILOCKS (to BLUEBEARD). Do you mind? You can have your
turn afterwards.

BLUEBEARD (to RIDING HOOD). Shall we adjourn to the
Buffet?

RIDING HOOD. Oh, do let’s. [They adjourn.

CRUSOE (bravely). Princess, I am a lonely man.

GOLDILOCKS (encouragingly). Yes, Robinson?

CRUSOE. I am not much of a one for society, and I don’t quite
know how to put these things, but—er—if you would like
to share my island, I—I should so love to have you there.

GOLDILOCKS. Oh, Robbie!

CRUSOE (warming to it). I have a very comfortable house,
and a man-servant, and an excellent view from the south windows,
and several thousands of acres of good rough-shooting,
and—oh, do say you’ll come!

GOLDILOCKS. May I bring my bears with me?

CRUSOE. Of course! I ought to have said that. I have a great
fondness for animals.

GOLDILOCKS. How sweet of you! But perhaps I ought to warn you
that we all like porridge. Have you——

CRUSOE. I have a hundred acres of oats.

GOLDILOCKS. Then, Robinson, I am yours. (They embrace)
There! Now tell me—did you make all your clothes
yourself?

CRUSOE (proudly). All of them.

GOLDILOCKS (going off with him). How wonderful of you!
Really you hardly seem to want a wife.

[They go out. Now it is the other couple’s turn.

Enter, then, BLUEBEARD and RIDING HOOD

BLUEBEARD. Perhaps I ought to tell you at once, Miss Riding
Hood, that I have been married before.

RIDING HOOD. Yes?

BLUEBEARD. My last wife unfortunately died just before I started
out here this evening.

RIDING HOOD (calmly). Did you kill her?

BLUEBEARD (taken aback). I—I—I—

RIDING HOOD. Are you quite a nice man, Bluebeard?

BLUEBEARD. W-what do you mean? I am a very rich man. If
you will marry me, you will live in a wonderful castle, full of
everything that you want.

RIDING HOOD. That will be rather jolly.

BLUEBEARD (dramatically) But there is one room into which
you must never go. (Holding up a key) Here is the key of it.
(He offers it to her.)

RIDING HOOD (indifferently) But if I’m never to go into
it, I shan’t want the key.

BLUEBEARD (upset). You—you must have the
key.

RIDING HOOD. Why?

BLUEBEARD. The—the others all had it.

RIDING HOOD (coldly). Bluebeard, you aren’t going to talk
about your other wives all the time, are you?

BLUEBEARD. N—no.

RIDING HOOD. Then don’t be silly. And take this key, and go and
tidy up that ridiculous room of yours, and when it’s nice and
clean, and when you’ve shaved off that absurd beard, perhaps I’ll
marry you.

BLUEBEARD (furiously drawing his sword). Madam!

RIDING HOOD. Don’t do it here. You’ll want some hot water.

BLUEBEARD (trying to put his sword back). This is too
much, this is—

RIDING HOOD. You’re putting it in the wrong way round.

BLUEBEARD (stiffly). Thank you. (He manages to get it
in.)

RIDING HOOD. Well, do you want to marry me?

BLUEBEARD. Yes!

RIDING HOOD. Sure?

BLUEBEARD (admiringly). More than ever. You’re the first
woman I’ve met who hasn’t been afraid of me.

RIDING HOOD (surprised). Are you very alarming? Wolves
frighten me sometimes, but not just silly men. . . . (Giving him
her hand) All right then. But you’ll do what I said?

BLUEBEARD. Beloved one, I will do anything for you.

(CRUSOE and GOLDILOCKS come back. Probably it will
occur to the four of them to sing a song indicative of the happy
family life awaiting them. On the other hand they may prefer to
dance. . . ..)

But enough of this. Let us get on to the great event of the
evening. Ladies and gentlemen, are you all assembled? Then silence,
please, for FATHER CHRISTMAS.

FATHER CHRISTMAS. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great
pleasure to see you here at my Court this evening; and in
particular my friends Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, of whom I have been too
long neglectful. However, I hope to make up for it to-night. (To
an USHER) Disclose the Christmas Tree!

The Christmas Tree is disclosed, and—what do you think?
Children disguised as crackers are hanging from every branch! Well,
I never!

FATHER CHRISTMAS (quite calmly). Distribute the
presents!

(An USHER takes down the children one by one and
places them in a row, reading from the labels on them. “MRS.
HUBBARD, MR. HUBBARD” alternately.)

USHER (handing list to MR. HUBBARD). Here is the nominal
roll, sir.

MR. HUBBARD (looking at it in amazement). What’s this?
(MRS. HUBBARD looks over his shoulder) Ada, Bertram,
Caroline—My darling one!

MRS. HUBBARD. Henry! Our children at last! Oh, are they
all—all there?

MR. HUBBARD. We’ll soon see, dear. Ada!

ADA (springing to attention). Father! (She stands at
ease.)

MR. HUBBARD. Bertram! . . . (And so on up to ELSIE) . . .
Frank!

FRANK. Father!

MR. HUBBARD. There you are, darling, I told you he had curly
brown hair. . . . Gwendoline! (And so on.)

MRS. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). Oh thank you so much.
It is sweet of you.

MR. HUBBARD (to FATHER CHRISTMAS). We are slightly
overcome. Do you mind if we just dance it off. (FATHER CHRISTMAS
nods genially.) Come on, children!

(He holds out his hands, and he and his wife and the children
dance round in a ring singing, “Here we go round the Christmas
Tree, all on a Christmas evening. . . .”)

And then—But at this moment JAMES and
ROSEMARY and the HUBBARD children stopped thinking, so of
course the play came to an end. And if there were one or two bits
in it which the children didn’t quite understand, that was
JAMES’S fault. He never ought to have been thinking at all,
really.

MR. PIM PASSES BY

CHARACTERS

MR. PIM PASSES BY

The morning-room at Marden House (Buckinghamshire) decided
more than a hundred years ago that it was all right, and has not
bothered about itself since. Visitors to the house have called the
result such different adjectives as “mellow” “old-fashioned,”
“charming”—even “baronial” and “antique”; but nobody ever
said it was “exciting.” Sometimes OLIVIA wants it to be more
exciting, and last week she let herself go over some new curtains.
At present they are folded up and waiting for her; she still has
the rings to put on. It is obvious that the curtains alone will
overdo the excitement; they will have to be harmonised with a new
carpet and cushions. OLIVIA has her eye on just the things,
but one has to go carefully with GEORGE. What was good
enough for his great-great-grandfather is good enough for him.
However, we can trust OLIVIA to see him through it, although
it may take time.

There are two ways of coming into the room; by the open
windows leading from the terrace or by the door. On this pleasant
July morning MR. PIM chooses the latter way—or
rather ANNE chooses it for him; and old MR. PIM,
wistful, kindly, gentle, little MR. PIM, living in some
world of his own whither we cannot follow, ambles after
her.

ANNE. I’ll tell Mr. Marden you’re here, sir. Mr. Pim, isn’t
it?

PIM (coming back to this world). Yes—er—Mr.
Carraway Pim. He doesn’t know me, you understand, but if he could
just see me for a moment—er—(He fumbles in his
pockets) I gave you that letter?

ANNE. Yes, sir, I’ll give it to him.

PIM (bringing out a letter which is not the one he was
looking for, but which reminds him of something else he has
forgotten). Dear me!

ANNE. Yes, sir?

PIM. I ought to have sent a telegram, but I can do it on my way
back. You have a telegraph office in the village?

ANNE. Oh yes, sir. If you turn to the left when you get outside
the gates, it isn’t more than a hundred yards down the hill.

PIM. Thank you, thank you. Very stupid of me to have
forgotten.

[ANNE goes out.

(MR. PIM wanders about the room humming to himself, and
looking vaguely at the pictures. He has his back to the door as
DINAH comes in. She is nineteen, very pretty, very happy, and
full of boyish high spirits and conversation.)

DINAH. Hullo!

PIM (turning round). Ah, good morning, Mrs. Marden. You
must forgive my—er—

DINAH. Oh I say, I’m not Mrs. Marden. I’m Dinah.

PIM (with a bow). Then I will say, Good morning, Miss
Diana.

DINAH (reproachfully). Now, look here, if you and I are
going to be friends you mustn’t do that. Dinah, not Diana.
Do remember it, there’s a good man, because I get so tired of
correcting people. Have you come to stay with us?

PIM. Well no, Miss—er—Dinah.

DINAH (nodding). That’s right. I can see I shan’t have to
speak to you again. Now tell me your name, and I bet
you I get it right first time. And do sit down.

PIM (sitting down). Thank you. My name
is—er—Pim, Carraway Pim—

DINAH. Pim, that’s easy.

PIM. And I have a letter of introduction to your
father—

DINAH. Oh no; now you’re going wrong again, Mr. Pim. George
isn’t my father; he’s my uncle. Uncle George—he
doesn’t like me calling him George. Olivia doesn’t mind—I
mean she doesn’t mind being called Olivia, but George is rather
touchy. You see, he’s been my guardian since I was about two, and
then about five years ago he married a widow called Mrs.
Telworthy—that’s Olivia—so she became my Aunt Olivia,
only she lets me drop the Aunt. Got that?

PIM (a little alarmed). I—I think so, Miss
Marden.

DINAH (admiringly). I say, you are quick, Mr. Pim.
Well, if you take my advice, when you’ve finished your business
with George, you will hang about a bit and see if you can’t see
Olivia. She’s simply devastating. I don’t wonder George fell in
love with her.

PIM. It’s only the merest matter of business—just a few
minutes with your uncle—I’m afraid I shall hardly—

DINAH. Well, you must please yourself, Mr. Pim. I’m just giving
you a friendly word of advice. Naturally, I was awfully glad to get
such a magnificent aunt, because, of course, marriage is
rather a toss up, isn’t it, and George might have gone off with
anybody. It’s different on the stage, where guardians always marry
their wards, but George couldn’t marry me because I’m his
niece. Mind you, I don’t say that I should have had him, because
between ourselves he’s a little bit old-fashioned.

PIM. So he married—er—Mrs. Marden instead.

DINAH. Mrs. Telworthy—don’t say you’ve forgotten already,
just when you were getting so good at names. Mrs. Telworthy. You
see, Olivia married the Telworthy man and went to Australia with
him, and he drank himself to death in the bush, or wherever you
drink yourself to death out there, and Olivia came home to England,
and met my uncle, and he fell in love with her and proposed to her,
and he came into my room that night—I was about
fourteen—and turned on the light and said, “Dinah, how would
you like to have a beautiful aunt of your very own?” And I said:
“Congratulations, George.” That was the first time I called him
George. Of course, I’d seen it coming for weeks. Telworthy,
isn’t it a funny name?

PIM. Very singular. From Australia, you say?

DINAH. Yes, I always say that he’s probably still alive, and
will turn up here one morning and annoy George, because that’s what
first husbands always do in books, but I’m afraid there’s not much
chance.

PIM (shocked). Miss Marden!

DINAH. Well, of course, I don’t really want it to happen,
but it would be rather exciting, wouldn’t it? However,
things like that never seem to occur down here, somehow. There was
a hay-rick burnt last year about a mile away, but that isn’t quite
the same thing, is it?

PIM. No, I should say that that was certainly different.

DINAH. Of course, something very, very wonderful did happen last
night, but I’m not sure if I know you well enough——
(She looks at him hesitatingly.)

PIM (uncomfortably). Really, Miss Marden, I am only
a—a passer-by, here to-day and gone to-morrow. You really
mustn’t——

DINAH. And yet there’s something about you, Mr. Pim, which
inspires confidence. The fact is—(in a stage
whisper)—I got engaged last night!

PIM. Dear me, let me congratulate you.

DINAH. I expect that’s why George is keeping you such a long
time. Brian, my young man, the well-known painter—only nobody
has ever heard of him—he’s smoking a pipe with George in the
library and asking for his niece’s hand. Isn’t it exciting? You’re
really rather lucky, Mr. Pim—I mean being told so soon. Even
Olivia doesn’t know yet.

PIM (getting up). Yes, yes. I congratulate you, Miss
Marden. Perhaps it would be better——

[ANNE comes in.

ANNE. Mr. Marden is out at the moment, sir—— Oh, I
didn’t see you, Miss Dinah.

DINAH. It’s all right, Anne. I’m looking after Mr.
Pim.

ANNE. Yes, Miss.

[She goes out.

DINAH (excitedly). That’s me. They can’t discuss me in
the library without breaking down, so they’re walking up and down
outside, and slashing at the thistles in order to conceal their
emotion. You know. I expect Brian——

PIM (looking at his watch). Yes, I think, Miss Marden, I
had better go now and return a little later. I have a telegram
which I want to send, and perhaps by the time I came
back——

DINAH. Oh, but how disappointing of you, when we were getting on
together so nicely. And it was just going to be your turn to tell
me all about yourself.

PIM. I have really nothing to tell, Miss Marden. I have a letter
of introduction to Mr. Marden, who in turn will give me, I hope, a
letter to a certain distinguished man whom it is necessary for me
to meet. That is all. (Holding out his hand) And now, Miss
Marden——

DINAH. Oh, I’ll start you on your way to the post office. I want
to know if you’re married, and all that sort of thing. You’ve got
heaps to tell me, Mr. Pim. Have you got your hat? That’s right.
Then we’ll—hullo, here’s Brian.

(BRIAN STRANGE comes in at the windows. He is what GEORGE
calls a damned futuristic painter-chap, aged twenty-four. To
look at, he is a very pleasant boy, rather untidily
dressed.)

BRIAN (nodding). How do you do?

DINAH (seizing him). Brian, this is Mr. Pim. Mr. Carraway
Pim. He’s been telling me all about himself. It’s so interesting.
He’s just going to send a telegram, and then he’s coming back
again. Mr. Pim, this is Brian—you know.

BRIAN (smiling and shaking hands). How do you do?

DINAH (pleadingly). You won’t mind going to the
post office by yourself, will you, because, you see, Brian and
I—(she looks lovingly at BRIAN).

PIM (because they are so young). Miss Dinah and
Mr.—er—Brian, I have only come into your lives for a
moment, and it is probable that I shall now pass out of them for
ever, but you will allow an old man——

DINAH. Oh, not old!

PIM (chuckling happily). Well, a middle-aged man—to
wish you both every happiness in the years that you have before
you. Good-bye, good-bye.

[He disappears gently through the windows.

DINAH. Brian, he’ll get lost if he goes that way.

BRIAN (going to the windows and calling after him). Round
to the left, sir. . . . That’s right. (He comes back into the
room) Rum old bird. Who is he?

DINAH. Darling, you haven’t kissed me yet.

BRIAN (taking her in his arms). I oughtn’t to, but then
one never ought to do the nice things.

DINAH. Why oughtn’t you?

(They sit on the sofa together.)

BRIAN. Well, we said we’d be good until we’d told your uncle and
aunt all about it. You see, being a guest in their
house——

DINAH. But, darling child, what have you been doing all
this morning except telling George?

BRIAN. Trying to tell George.

DINAH (nodding). Yes, of course, there’s a
difference.

BRIAN. I think he guessed there was something up, and he took me
down to see the pigs—he said he had to see the pigs at
once—I don’t know why; an appointment perhaps. And we talked
about pigs all the way, and I couldn’t say, “Talking about pigs, I
want to marry your niece——”

DINAH (with mock indignation). Of course you
couldn’t.

BRIAN. No. Well, you see how it was. And then when we’d finished
talking about pigs, we started talking to the
pigs——

DINAH (eagerly). Oh, how is Arnold?

BRIAN. The little black-and-white one? He’s very jolly, I
believe, but naturally I wasn’t thinking about him much. I was
wondering how to begin. And then Lumsden came up, and wanted to
talk pig-food, and the atmosphere grew less and less romantic,
and—and I gradually drifted away.

DINAH. Poor darling. Well, we shall have to approach him through
Olivia.

BRIAN. But I always wanted to tell her first; she’s so much
easier. Only you wouldn’t let me.

DINAH. That’s your fault, Brian. You would tell Olivia
that she ought to have orange-and-black curtains.

BRIAN. But she wants orange-and-black curtains.

DINAH. Yes, but George says he’s not going to have any
futuristic nonsense in an honest English country house, which has
been good enough for his father and his grandfather and his
great-grandfather, and—and all the rest of them. So there’s a
sort of strained feeling between Olivia and George just now, and if
Olivia were to—sort of recommend you, well, it wouldn’t do
you much good.

BRIAN (looking at her). I see. Of course I know what
you want, Dinah.

DINAH. What do I want?

BRIAN. You want a secret engagement, and notes left under
door-mats, and meetings by the withered thorn, when all the
household is asleep. I know you.

DINAH. Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered
thorns.

BRIAN. Well, I’m not going to have it.

DINAH (childishly). Oh, George! Look at us being
husbandy!

BRIAN. You babe! I adore you. (He kisses her and holds her
away from him and looks at her) You know, you’re rather
throwing yourself away on me. Do you mind?

DINAH. Not a bit.

BRIAN. We shall never be rich, but we shall have lots of fun,
and meet interesting people, and feel that we’re doing something
worth doing, and not getting paid nearly enough for it, and we can
curse the Academy together and the British Public, and—oh,
it’s an exciting life.

DINAH (seeing it). I shall love it.

BRIAN. I’ll make you love it. You shan’t be sorry, Dinah.

DINAH. You shan’t be sorry either, Brian.

BRIAN (looking at her lovingly). Oh, I know I shan’t. . .
. What will Olivia think about it? Will she be surprised?

DINAH. She’s never surprised. She always seems to have thought
of things about a week before they happen. George just begins to
get hold of them about a week after they’ve happened.
(Considering him) After all, there’s no reason why George
shouldn’t like you, darling.

BRIAN. I’m not his sort, you know.

DINAH. You’re more Olivia’s sort. Well, we’ll tell Olivia this
morning.

OLIVIA (coming in). And what are you going to tell Olivia
this morning? (She looks at them with a smile) Oh, well, I
think I can guess.

Shall we describe OLIVIA? But you will know all about
her before the day is over.

DINAH (jumping up). Olivia, darling!

BRIAN (following). Say you understand, Mrs. Marden.

OLIVIA. Mrs. Marden, I am afraid, is a very dense person, Brian,
but I think if you asked Olivia if she understood——

BRIAN. Bless you, Olivia. I knew you’d be on our side.

DINAH. Of course she would.

OLIVIA. I don’t know if it’s usual to kiss an aunt-in-law,
Brian, but Dinah is such a very special sort of niece
that—(she inclines her cheek and BRIAN kisses
it).

DINAH. I say, you are in luck to-day, Brian.

OLIVIA (going over to her chair by the work-table and getting
to business with the curtains) And how many people have been
told the good news?

BRIAN. Nobody yet.

DINAH. Except Mr. Pim.

BRIAN. Oh, does he—

OLIVIA. Who’s Mr. Pim?

DINAH. Oh, he just happened—I say, are those the
curtains? Then you’re going to have them after all?

OLIVIA (with an air of surprise). After all what? But I
decided on them long ago. (To BRIAN) You haven’t told George
yet?

BRIAN. I began to, you know, but I never got any farther than
“Er—there’s just—er—”

DINAH. George would talk about pigs all the time.

OLIVIA. Well, I suppose you want me to help you.

DINAH. Do, darling.

BRIAN. It would be awfully decent of you. Of course, I’m not
quite his sort really—

DINAH. You’re my sort.

BRIAN. But I don’t think he objects to me, and—

(GEORGE comes in, a typical, narrow-minded, honest country
gentleman of forty odd.)

GEORGE (at the windows). What’s all this about a Mr. Pim?
(He kicks some of the mud off his boots) Who is he? Where is
he? I had most important business with Lumsden, and the girl comes
down and cackles about a Mr. Pim, or Ping, or something. Where did
I put his card? (Bringing it out) Carraway Pim. Never heard
of him in my life.

DINAH. He said he had a letter of introduction, Uncle
George.

GEORGE. Oh, you saw him, did you? Yes, that reminds me,
there was a letter—(he brings it out and reads
it).

DINAH. He had to send a telegram. He’s coming back.

OLIVIA. Pass me those scissors, Brian.

BRIAN. These? (He picks them up and comes close to
her.)

OLIVIA. Thank you. (She indicates GEORGE’S back.
“Now?” says BRIAN with his eyebrows. She nods.)

GEORGE (reading). Ah well, a friend of Brymer’s. Glad to
oblige him. Yes, I know the man he wants. Coming back, you say,
Dinah? Then I’ll be going back. Send him down to the farm, Olivia,
when he comes. (To BRIAN) Hallo, what happened to
you?

OLIVIA. Don’t go, George, there’s something we want to talk
about.

GEORGE. Hallo, what’s this?

BRIAN (to OLIVIA). Shall I——?

OLIVIA. Yes.

BRIAN (stepping out). I’ve been wanting to tell you all
this morning, sir, only I didn’t seem to have an opportunity of
getting it out.

GEORGE. Well, what is it?

BRIAN. I want to marry Dinah, sir.

GEORGE. You want to marry Dinah? God bless my soul!

DINAH (rushing to him and putting her cheek against his
coat). Oh, do say you like the idea, Uncle George.

GEORGE. Like the idea! Have you heard of this nonsense,
Olivia?

OLIVIA. They’ve just this moment told me, George. I think they
would be happy together.

GEORGE (to BRIAN). And what do you propose to be happy
together on?

BRIAN. Well, of course, it doesn’t amount to much at present,
but we shan’t starve.

DINAH. Brian got fifty pounds for a picture last March!

GEORGE (a little upset by this). Oh! (Recovering
gamely) And how many pictures have you sold since?

BRIAN. Well, none, but—

GEORGE. None! And I don’t wonder. Who the devil is going to buy
pictures with triangular clouds and square sheep? And they call
that Art nowadays! Good God, man, (waving him to the
windows) go outside and look at the clouds!

OLIVIA. If he draws round clouds in future, George, will you let
him marry Dinah?

GEORGE. What—what? Yes, of course, you would be on
his side—all this Futuristic nonsense. I’m just taking these
clouds as an example. I suppose I can see as well as any man in the
county, and I say that clouds aren’t triangular.

BRIAN. After all, sir, at my age one is naturally experimenting,
and trying to find one’s (with a laugh)—well, it
sounds priggish, but one’s medium of expression. I shall find out
what I want to do directly, but I think I shall always be able to
earn enough to live on. Well, I have for the last three years.

GEORGE. I see, and now you want to experiment with a wife, and
you propose to start experimenting with my niece?

BRIAN (with a shrug). Well, of course, if you—

OLIVIA. You could help the experiment, darling, by giving Dinah
a good allowance until she’s twenty-one.

GEORGE. Help the experiment! I don’t want to help the
experiment.

OLIVIA (apologetically). Oh, I thought you did.

GEORGE. You will talk as if I was made of money. What with taxes
always going up and rents always going down, it’s as much as we can
do to rub along as we are, without making allowances to everybody
who thinks she wants to get married. (To BRIAN) And that’s
thanks to you, my friend.

BRIAN (surprised) To me?

OLIVIA. You never told me, darling. What’s Brian been doing?

DINAH (indignantly). He hasn’t been doing anything.

GEORGE. He’s one of your Socialists who go turning the country
upside down.

OLIVIA. But even Socialists must get married sometimes.

GEORGE. I don’t see any necessity.

OLIVIA. But you’d have nobody to damn after dinner, darling, if
they all died out.

BRIAN. Really, sir, I don’t see what my politics and my art have
got to do with it. I’m perfectly ready not to talk about either
when I’m in your house, and as Dinah doesn’t seem to object to
them—

DINAH. I should think she doesn’t.

GEORGE. Oh, you can get round the women, I daresay.

BRIAN. Well, it’s Dinah I want to marry and live with. So what
it really comes to is that you don’t think I can support a
wife.

GEORGE. Well, if you’re going to do it by selling pictures, I
don’t think you can.

BRIAN. All right, tell me how much you want me to earn in a
year, and I’ll earn it.

GEORGE (hedging). It isn’t merely a question of money. I
just mention that as one thing—one of the important things.
In addition to that, I think you are both too young to marry. I
don’t think you know your own minds, and I am not at all persuaded
that, with what I venture to call your outrageous tastes, you and
my niece will live happily together. Just because she thinks she
loves you, Dinah may persuade herself now that she agrees with all
you say and do, but she has been properly brought up in an honest
English country household, and—er—she—well, in
short, I cannot at all approve of any engagement between you.
(Getting up) Olivia, if this Mr.—er—Pim comes, I
shall be down at the farm. You might send him along to me.

(He walks towards the windows.)

BRIAN (indignantly). Is there any reason why I shouldn’t
marry a girl who has been properly brought up?

GEORGE. I think you know my views, Strange.

OLIVIA. George, wait a moment, dear. We can’t quite leave it
like this.

GEORGE. I have said all I want to say on the subject.

OLIVIA. Yes, darling, but I haven’t begun to say all that
I want to say on the subject.

GEORGE. Of course, if you have anything to say, Olivia, I will
listen to it; but I don’t know that this is quite the time, or that
you have chosen—(looking darkly at the
curtains)—quite the occupation likely
to—er—endear your views to me.

DINAH (mutinously). I may as well tell you, Uncle George,
that I have got a good deal to say, too.

OLIVIA. I can guess what you are going to say, Dinah, and I
think you had better keep it for the moment.

DINAH (meekly). Yes, Aunt Olivia.

OLIVIA. Brian, you might take her outside for a walk. I expect
you have plenty to talk about.

GEORGE. Now mind, Strange, no love-making. I put you on your
honour about that.

BRIAN. I’ll do my best to avoid it, sir.

DINAH (cheekily). May I take his arm if we go up a
hill?

OLIVIA. I’m sure you’ll know how to behave—both of
you.

BRIAN. Come on, then, Dinah.

DINAH. Righto.

GEORGE (as they go). And if you do see any clouds,
Strange, take a good look at them. (He chuckles to himself)
Triangular clouds—I never heard of such nonsense. (He goes
back to his chair at the writing-table) Futuristic rubbish. . .
. Well, Olivia?

OLIVIA. Well, George?

GEORGE. What are you doing?

OLIVIA. Making curtains, George. Won’t they be rather sweet? Oh,
but I forgot—you don’t like them.

GEORGE. I don’t like them, and what is more, I don’t mean to
have them in my house. As I told you yesterday, this is the house
of a simple country gentleman, and I don’t want any of these
new-fangled ideas in it.

OLIVIA. Is marrying for love a new-fangled idea?

GEORGE. We’ll come to that directly. None of you women can keep
to the point. What I am saying now is that the house of my fathers
and forefathers is good enough for me.

OLIVIA. Do you know, George, I can hear one of your ancestors
saying that to his wife in their smelly old cave, when the
new-fangled idea of building houses was first suggested. “The Cave
of my Fathers is—”

GEORGE. That’s ridiculous. Naturally we must have progress. But
that’s just the point. (Indicating the curtains) I don’t
call this sort of thing progress.
It’s—ah—retrogression.

OLIVIA. Well, anyhow, it’s pretty.

GEORGE. There I disagree with you. And I must say once more that
I will not have them hanging in my house.

OLIVIA. Very well, George. (But she goes on working.)

GEORGE. That being so, I don’t see the necessity of going on
with them.

OLIVIA. Well, I must do something with them now I’ve got the
material. I thought perhaps I could sell them when they’re
finished—as we’re so poor.

GEORGE. What do you mean—so poor?

OLIVIA. Well, you said just now that you couldn’t give Dinah an
allowance because rents had gone down.

GEORGE (annoyed). Confound it, Olivia! Keep to the point!
We’ll talk about Dinah’s affairs directly. We’re discussing our own
affairs at the moment.

OLIVIA. But what is there to discuss?

GEORGE. Those ridiculous things.

OLIVIA. But we’ve finished that. You’ve said you wouldn’t have
them hanging in your house, and I’ve said, “Very well, George.” Now
we can go on to Dinah and Brian.

GEORGE (shouting). But put these beastly things away.

OLIVIA (rising and gathering up the curtains). Very well,
George. (She puts them away, slowly, gracefully. There is an
uncomfortable silence. Evidently somebody ought to
apologise.)

GEORGE (realising that he is the one). Er—look
here, Olivia, old girl, you’ve been a jolly good wife to me, and we
don’t often have rows, and if I’ve been rude to you about
this—lost my temper a bit perhaps, what?—I’ll say I’m
sorry. May I have a kiss?

OLIVIA (holding up her face). George, darling! (He
kisses her.) Do you love me?

GEORGE. You know I do, old girl.

OLIVIA. As much as Brian loves Dinah?

GEORGE (stiffly). I’ve said all I want to say about that.
(He goes away from her.)

OLIVIA. Oh, but there must be lots you want to say—and
perhaps don’t like to. Do tell me, darling.

GEORGE. What it comes to is this. I consider that Dinah is too
young to choose a husband for herself, and that Strange isn’t the
husband I should choose for her.

OLIVIA. You were calling him Brian yesterday.

GEORGE. Yesterday I regarded him as a boy, now he wants me to
look upon him as a man.

OLIVIA. He’s twenty-four.

GEORGE. And Dinah’s nineteen. Ridiculous!

OLIVIA. If he’d been a Conservative, and thought that clouds
were round, I suppose he’d have seemed older, somehow.

GEORGE. That’s a different point altogether. That has nothing to
do with his age.

OLIVIA (innocently). Oh, I thought it had.

GEORGE. What I am objecting to is these ridiculously early
marriages before either party knows its own mind, much less the
mind of the other party. Such marriages invariably lead to
unhappiness.

OLIVIA. Of course, my first marriage wasn’t a happy
one.

GEORGE. As you know, Olivia, I dislike speaking about your first
marriage at all, and I had no intention of bringing it up now, but
since you mention it—well, that is a case in point.

OLIVIA (looking back at it). When I was eighteen, I was
in love. Or perhaps I only thought I was, and I don’t know if I
should have been happy or not if I had married him. But my father
made me marry a man called Jacob Telworthy; and when things were
too hot for him in England—”too hot for him”—I think
that was the expression we used in those days—then we went to
Australia, and I left him there, and the only happy moment I had in
all my married life was on the morning when I saw in the papers
that he was dead.

GEORGE (very uncomfortable). Yes, yes, my dear, I know.
You must have had a terrible time. I can hardly bear to think about
it. My only hope is that I have made up to you for it in some
degree. But I don’t see what bearing it has upon Dinah’s case.

OLIVIA. Oh, none, except that my father liked
Jacob’s political opinions and his views on art. I expect that that
was why he chose him for me.

GEORGE. You seem to think that I wish to choose a husband for
Dinah. I don’t at all. Let her choose whom she likes as long as he
can support her and there’s a chance of their being happy together.
Now, with regard to this fellow—

OLIVIA. You mean Brian?

GEORGE. He’s got no money, and he’s been brought up in quite a
different way from Dinah. Dinah may be prepared to believe
that—er—all cows are blue, and
that—er—waves are square, but she won’t go on believing
it for ever.

OLIVIA. Neither will Brian.

GEORGE. Well, that’s what I keep telling him, only he won’t see
it. Just as I keep telling you about those ridiculous curtains. It
seems to me that I am the only person in the house with any
eyesight left.

OLIVIA. Perhaps you are, darling; but you must let us find out
our own mistakes for ourselves. At any rate, Brian is a gentleman;
he loves Dinah, Dinah loves him; he’s earning enough to support
himself, and you are earning enough to support Dinah. I think it’s
worth risking, George.

GEORGE (stiffly). I can only say the whole question
demands much more anxious thought than you seem to have given it.
You say that he is a gentleman. He knows how to behave, I admit;
but if his morals are as topsy-turvy as his tastes
and—er—politics, as I’ve no doubt they are,
then—er—In short, I do not approve of Brian
Strange as a husband for my niece and ward.

OLIVIA (looking at him thoughtfully). You are a
curious mixture, George. You were so very unconventional when you
married me, and you’re so very conventional when Brian wants to
marry Dinah. . . . George Marden to marry the widow of a
convict!

GEORGE. Convict! What do you mean?

OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy, convict—I forget his
number—surely I told you all this, dear, when we got
engaged?

GEORGE. Never!

OLIVIA. I told you how he carelessly put the wrong signature to
a cheque for a thousand pounds in England; how he made a little
mistake about two or three companies he’d promoted in Australia;
and how—

GEORGE. Yes, yes, but you never told me he was
convicted!

OLIVIA. What difference does it make?

GEORGE. My dear Olivia, if you can’t see that—a
convict!

OLIVIA. So, you see, we needn’t be too particular about our
niece, need we?

GEORGE. I think we had better leave your first husband out of
the conversation altogether. I never wished to refer to him; I
never wish to hear about him again. I certainly had not realised
that he was actually—er—convicted for
his—er—

OLIVIA. Mistakes.

GEORGE. Well, we needn’t go into that. As for this other matter,
I don’t for a moment take it seriously. Dinah is an exceptionally
pretty girl, and young Strange is a good-looking boy. If they are
attracted to each other, it is a mere outward attraction which I am
convinced will not lead to any lasting happiness. That must be
regarded as my last word in the matter, Olivia. If this
Mr.—er—what was his name, comes, I shall be down at the
farm.

[He goes out by the door.

(Left alone, OLIVIA brings out her curtains again, and
gets calmly to work upon them.)

(DINAH and BRIAN come in by the windows.)

DINAH. Finished?

OLIVIA. Oh no, I’ve got all these rings to put on.

DINAH. I meant talking to George.

BRIAN. We walked about outside—

DINAH. Until we heard him not talking to you any
more—

BRIAN. And we didn’t kiss each other once.

DINAH. Brian was very George-like. He wouldn’t even let me
tickle the back of his neck. (She goes up suddenly to OLIVIA
and kneels by her and kisses her) Darling, being George-like
is a very nice thing to be—I mean a nice thing for other
people to be—I mean—oh, you know what I mean. But say
that he’s going to be decent about it.

OLIVIA. Of course he is, Dinah.

BRIAN. You mean he’ll let me come here as—as—

DINAH. As my young man?

OLIVIA. Oh, I think so.

DINAH. Olivia, you’re a wonder. Have you really talked him
round?

OLIVIA. I haven’t said anything yet. But I daresay I shall think
of something.

DINAH (disappointedly). Oh!

BRIAN (making the best of it). After all, Dinah, I’m
going back to London to-morrow—

OLIVIA. You can be good for one more day, Dinah, and then when
Brian isn’t here, we’ll see what we can do.

DINAH. Yes, but I didn’t want him to go back to-morrow.

BRIAN (sternly). Must. Hard work before me. Earn
thousands a year. Paint the Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey,
life-size, including chains of office; paint slice of haddock on
plate. Copy Landseer for old gentleman in Bayswater. Design
antimacassar for middle-aged sofa in Streatham. Earn a living for
you, Dinah.

DINAH (giggling). Oh, Brian, you’re heavenly. What fun we
shall have when we’re married.

BRIAN (stiffly). Sir Brian Strange, R.A., if you please,
Miss Marden. Sir Brian Strange, R.A., writes: “Your Sanogene has
proved a most excellent tonic. After completing the third acre of
my Academy picture ‘The Mayor and Corporation of Pudsey’ I was
completely exhausted, but one bottle of Sanogene revived me, and I
finished the remaining seven acres at a single sitting.”

OLIVIA (looking about her). Brian, find my scissors for
me.

BRIAN. Scissors. (Looking for them) Sir Brian Strange,
R.A., looks for scissors. (Finding them) Aha! Once more we
must record an unqualified success for the eminent Academician.
Your scissors.

OLIVIA. Thank you so much.

DINAH. Come on, Brian, let’s go out. I feel open-airy.

OLIVIA. Don’t be late for lunch, there’s good people. Lady
Marden is coming.

DINAH. Aunt Juli-ah! Help! (She faints in BRIAN’S
arms) That means a clean pinafore. Brian, you’ll jolly well
have to brush your hair.

BRIAN (feeling it). I suppose there’s no time now to go
up to London and get it cut?

Enter ANNE, followed by PIM.

ANNE. Mr. Pim!

DINAH (delighted). Hullo, Mr. Pim! Here we are again! You
can’t get rid of us so easily, you see.

PIM. I—er—dear Miss Marden—

OLIVIA. How do you do, Mr. Pim? I can’t get up, but do come and
sit down. My husband will be here in a minute. Anne, send somebody
down to the farm—

ANNE. I think I heard the Master in the library, madam.

OLIVIA. Oh, will you tell him then?

ANNE. Yes, madam.

[ANNE goes out.

OLIVIA. You’ll stay to lunch, of course, Mr. Pim?

DINAH. Oh, do!

PIM. It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Marden, but—

DINAH. Oh, you simply must, Mr. Pim. You haven’t told us half
enough about yourself yet. I want to hear all about your early
life.

OLIVIA. Dinah!

PIM. Oh, we are almost, I might say, old friends, Mrs.
Marden.

DINAH. Of course we are. He knows Brian, too. There’s more in
Mr. Pim than you think. You will stay to lunch, won’t
you?

PIM. It’s very kind of you to ask me, Mrs. Marden, but I am
lunching with the Trevors.

OLIVIA. Oh, well, you must come to lunch another day.

DINAH. The reason why we like Mr. Pim so much is that he was the
first person to congratulate us. We feel that he is going to have a
great influence on our lives.

PIM (to OLIVIA). I, so to speak, stumbled on the
engagement this morning and—er—

OLIVIA. I see. Children, you must go and tidy yourselves up. Run
along.

BRIAN. Sir Brian and Lady Strange never run; they walk.
(Offering his arm) Madam!

DINAH (taking it). Au revoir, Mr. Pim.
(Dramatically)
We—shall—meet—again!

PIM (chuckling). Good morning, Miss Dinah.

BRIAN. Good morning.

[He and DINAH go out.

OLIVIA. You must forgive them, Mr. Pim. They’re such children.
And naturally they’re rather excited just now.

PIM. Oh, not at all, Mrs. Marden.

OLIVIA. Of course you won’t say anything about their engagement.
We only heard about it five minutes ago, and nothing has been
settled yet.

PIM. Of course, of course!

[Enter GEORGE.

GEORGE. Ah, Mr. Pim, we meet at last. Sorry to have kept you
waiting before.

PIM. The apology should come from me, Mr. Marden for
having—er—

GEORGE. Not at all. Very glad to meet you now. Any friend of
Brymer’s. You want a letter to this man Fanshawe?

OLIVIA. Shall I be in your way at all?

PIM. Oh, no, no, please don’t.

GEORGE. It’s only just a question of a letter. (Going to his
desk) Fanshawe will put you in the way of seeing all that you
want to see. He’s a very old friend of mine. (Taking a sheet of
notepaper) You’ll stay to lunch, of course?

PIM. I’m afraid I am lunching with the Trevors—

GEORGE. Oh, well, they’ll look after you all right. Good chap,
Trevor.

PIM (to OLIVIA). You see, Mrs. Marden, I have only
recently arrived from Australia after travelling about the world
for some years, and I’m rather out of touch with
my—er—fellow-workers in London.

OLIVIA. Oh yes. You’ve been in Australia, Mr. Pim?

GEORGE (disliking Australia). I shan’t be a moment, Mr.
Pim. (He frowns at OLIVIA.)

PIM. Oh, that’s all right, thank you. (To OLIVIA) Oh yes,
I have been in Australia more than once in the last few years.

OLIVIA. Really? I used to live at Sydney many years ago. Do you
know Sydney at all?

GEORGE (detesting Sydney). H’r’m! Perhaps I’d better
mention that you are a friend of the Trevors?

PIM. Thank you, thank you. (To OLIVIA) Indeed yes, I
spent several months in Sydney.

OLIVIA. How curious. I wonder if we have any friends in common
there.

GEORGE (hastily). Extremely unlikely, I should think.
Sydney is a very big place.

PIM. True, but the world is a very small place, Mr. Marden. I
had a remarkable instance of that, coming over on the boat this
last time.

GEORGE. Ah! (Feeling that the conversation is now safe, he
resumes his letter.)

PIM. Yes. There was a man I used to employ in Sydney some years
ago, a bad fellow, I’m afraid, Mrs. Marden, who had been in prison
for some kind of fraudulent company-promoting and had taken to
drink and—and so on.

OLIVIA. Yes, yes, I understand.

PIM. Drinking himself to death I should have said. I gave him at
the most another year to live. Yet to my amazement the first person
I saw as I stepped on board the boat that brought me to England
last week was this fellow. There was no mistaking him. I spoke to
him, in fact; we recognised each other.

OLIVIA. Really?

PIM. He was travelling steerage; we didn’t meet again on board,
and as it happened at Marseilles, this poor
fellow—er—now what was his name? A very unusual
one. Began with a—a T, I think.

OLIVIA (with suppressed feeling). Yes, Mr. Pim, yes?
(She puts out a hand to GEORGE.)

GEORGE (in an undertone). Nonsense, dear!

PIM (triumphantly). I’ve got it! Telworthy!

OLIVIA. Telworthy!

GEORGE. Good God!

PIM (a little surprised at the success of his story). An
unusual name, is it not? Not a name you could forget when once you
had heard it.

OLIVIA (with feeling). No, it is not a name you could
forget when once you had heard it.

GEORGE (hastily coming over to PIM). Quite so, Mr. Pim, a
most remarkable name, a most odd story altogether. Well, well,
here’s your letter, and if you’re sure you won’t stay to
lunch—

PIM. I’m afraid not, thank you. You see, I—

GEORGE. The Trevors, yes. I’ll just see you on your
way—(To OLIVIA) Er—my dear—

OLIVIA (holding out her hand, but not looking at him).
Good-bye, Mr. Pim.

PIM. Good-bye, good-bye!

GEORGE (leading the way through the windows). This way,
this way. Quicker for you.

PIM. Thank you, thank you.

[GEORGE hurries MR. PIM out.

(OLIVIA sits there and looks into the past. Now and then she
shudders.)

[GEORGE comes back.

GEORGE. Good God! Telworthy! Is it possible? (Before
OLIVIA can answer, LADY MARDEN is announced. They pull
themselves together and greet her.)

ACT II

Lunch is over and coffee has been served on the terrace.
Conversation drags on, to the satisfaction of LADY MARDEN,
but of nobody else. GEORGE and OLIVIA want to be
alone; so do BRIAN and DINAH. At last BRIAN
murmurs something about a cigarette-case; and, catching
DINAH’S eye, comes into the house. He leans against the sofa and
waits for DINAH.

DINAH (loudly as she comes in). Have you found it?

BRIAN. Found what?

DINAH (in her ordinary voice). That was just for
their benefit. I said I’d help you find it. It is
your cigarette-case we’re looking for, isn’t it?

BRIAN (taking it out). Yes. Have one?

DINAH. No, thank you, darling. Aunt Juli-ah still thinks it’s
unladylike. . . . Have you ever seen her beagling?

BRIAN. No. Is that very ladylike?

DINAH. Very. . . . I say, what has happened, do you think?

BRIAN. Everything. I love you, and you love me.

DINAH. Silly! I meant between George and Olivia. Didn’t you
notice them at lunch?

BRIAN. I noticed that you seemed to be doing most of the
talking. But then I’ve noticed that before sometimes. Do you think
Olivia and your uncle have quarrelled because of us?

DINAH. Of course not. George may think he has quarrelled,
but I’m quite sure Olivia hasn’t. No, I believe Mr. Pim’s at the
bottom of it. He’s brought some terribly sad news about George’s
investments. The old home will have to be sold up.

BRIAN. Good. Then your uncle won’t mind your marrying me.

DINAH. Yes, darling, but you must be more dramatic about it than
that. “George,” you must say, with tears in your eyes, “I cannot
pay off the whole of the mortgage for you. I have only two and
ninepence; but at least let me take your niece off your hands.”
Then George will thump you on the back and say gruffly, “You’re a
good fellow, Brian, a damn good fellow,” and he’ll blow his nose
very loudly, and say, “Confound this cigar, it won’t draw
properly.” (She gives us a rough impression of GEORGE
doing it.)

BRIAN. Dinah, you’re a heavenly idiot. And you’ve simply got to
marry me, uncles or no uncles.

DINAH. It will have to be “uncles,” I’m afraid, because, you
see, I’m his ward, and I can get sent to Chancery or Coventry or
somewhere beastly, if I marry without his consent. Haven’t
you got anybody who objects to your marrying me?

BRIAN. Nobody, thank Heaven.

DINAH. Well, that’s rather disappointing of you. I saw myself
fascinating your aged father at the same time that you were
fascinating George. I should have done it much better than you. As
a George-fascinator you aren’t very successful, sweetheart.

BRIAN. What am I like as a Dinah-fascinator?

DINAH. Plus six, darling.

BRIAN. Then I’ll stick to that and leave George to Olivia.

DINAH. I expect she’ll manage him all right. I have great faith
in Olivia. But you’ll marry me, anyhow, won’t you, Brian?

BRIAN. I will.

DINAH. Even if we have to wait till I’m twenty-one?

BRIAN. Even if we have to wait till you’re fifty-one.

DINAH (holding out her hands to him). Darling!

BRIAN (uneasily). I say, don’t do that.

DINAH. Why not?

BRIAN. Well, I promised I wouldn’t kiss you.

DINAH. Oh! . . . Well, you might just send me a kiss. You
can look the other way as if you didn’t know I was here.

BRIAN. Like this?

(He looks the other way, kisses the tips of his fingers, and
flicks it carelessly in her direction.)

DINAH. That was a lovely one. Now here’s one coming for you.

(He catches it gracefully and conveys it to his
mouth.)

BRIAN (with a low bow). Madam, I thank you.

DINAH (curtseying). Your servant, Mr. Strange.

OLIVIA (from outside). Dinah!

DINAH (jumping up). Hullo!

(OLIVIA comes in through the windows, followed by GEORGE
and LADY MARDEN, the latter a vigorous young woman of
sixty odd, who always looks as if she were beagling.)

OLIVIA. Aunt Julia wants to see the pigs, dear. I wish you’d
take her down. I’m rather tired, and your uncle has some business
to attend to.

LADY MARDEN. I’ve always said that you don’t take enough
exercise, Olivia. Look at me—sixty-five and proud of it.

OLIVIA. Yes, Aunt Julia, you’re wonderful.

DINAH. How old would Olivia be if she took exercise?

GEORGE. Don’t stand about asking silly questions, Dinah. Your
aunt hasn’t much time.

BRIAN. May I come, too, Lady Marden?

LADY MARDEN. Well, a little exercise wouldn’t do you any
harm, Mr. Strange. You’re an artist, ain’t you?

BRIAN. Well, I try to paint.

DINAH. He sold a picture last March for—

GEORGE. Yes, yes, never mind that now.

LADY MARDEN. Unhealthy life. Well, come along.

[She strides out, followed by DINAH and BRIAN.

(GEORGE sits down at his desk with his head in his hand, and
stabs the blotting-paper with a pen. OLIVIA takes the
curtains with her to the sofa and begins to work on them.)

GEORGE (looking up and seeing them). Really, Olivia,
we’ve got something more important, more vital to us than curtains,
to discuss, now that we are alone at last.

OLIVIA. I wasn’t going to discuss them, dear.

GEORGE. I’m always glad to see Aunt Julia in my house, but I
wish she hadn’t chosen this day of all days to come to lunch.

OLIVIA. It wasn’t Aunt Julia’s fault. It was really Mr. Pim who
chose the wrong day.

GEORGE (fiercely). Good Heavens, is it true?

OLIVIA. About Jacob Telworthy?

GEORGE. You told me he was dead. You always said that he was
dead. You—you—

OLIVIA. Well, I always thought that he was dead. He was as dead
as anybody could be. All the papers said he was dead.

GEORGE (scornfully). The papers!

OLIVIA (as if this would settle it for GEORGE). The
Times said he was dead. There was a paragraph about him.
Apparently even his death was fraudulent.

GEORGE. Yes, yes, I’m not blaming you, Olivia, but what are we
going to do, that’s the question, what are we going to do? My God,
it’s horrible! You’ve never been married to me at all! You don’t
seem to understand.

OLIVIA. It is a little difficult to realise. You see, it doesn’t
seem to have made any difference to our happiness.

GEORGE. No, that’s what’s so terrible. I mean—well, of
course, we were quite innocent in the matter. But, at the same
time, nothing can get over the fact that we—we had no right
to—to be happy.

OLIVIA. Would you rather we had been miserable?

GEORGE. You’re Telworthy’s wife, that’s what you don’t seem to
understand. You’re Telworthy’s wife. You—er—forgive me,
Olivia, but it’s the horrible truth—you committed bigamy when
you married me. (In horror) Bigamy!

OLIVIA. It is an ugly word, isn’t it?

GEORGE. Yes, but don’t you understand—(He jumps up and
comes over to her) Look here, Olivia, old girl, the whole thing
is nonsense, eh? It isn’t your husband, it’s some other Telworthy
that this fellow met. That’s right, isn’t it? Some other shady
swindler who turned up on the boat, eh? This sort of thing doesn’t
happen to people like us—committing bigamy and all
that. Some other fellow.

OLIVIA (shaking her head). I knew all the shady swindlers
in Sydney, George. . . . They came to dinner. . . . There were no
others called Telworthy.

(GEORGE goes back despondently to his seat.)

GEORGE. Well, what are we going to do?

OLIVIA. You sent Mr. Pim away so quickly. He might have told us
things. Telworthy’s plans. Where he is now. You hurried him away so
quickly.

GEORGE. I’ve sent a note round to ask him to come back. My one
idea at the moment was to get him out of the house—to hush
things up.

OLIVIA. You can’t hush up two husbands.

GEORGE (in despair). You can’t. Everybody will know.
Everybody!

OLIVIA. The children, Aunt Julia, they may as well know now as
later. Mr. Pim must, of course.

GEORGE. I do not propose to discuss my private affairs with Mr.
Pim——

OLIVIA. But he’s mixed himself up in them rather, hasn’t he, and
if you’re going to ask him questions——

GEORGE. I only propose to ask him one question. I shall ask him
if he is absolutely certain of the man’s name. I can do that quite
easily without letting him know the reason for my inquiry.

OLIVIA. You couldn’t make a mistake about a name like Telworthy.
But he might tell us something about Telworthy’s plans. Perhaps
he’s going back to Australia at once. Perhaps he thinks I’m dead,
too. Perhaps— oh, there are so many things I want to
know.

GEORGE. Yes, yes, dear. It would be interesting to—that
is, one naturally wants to know these things, but of course it
doesn’t make any real difference.

OLIVIA (surprised). No difference?

GEORGE. Well, that is to say, you’re as much his wife if he’s in
Australia as you are if he’s in England.

OLIVIA. I am not his wife at all.

GEORGE. But, Olivia, surely you understand the
position——

OLIVIA (shaking her head). Jacob Telworthy may be alive,
but I am not his wife. I ceased to be his wife when I became
yours.

GEORGE. You never were my wife. That is the terrible part
of it. Our union—you make me say it, Olivia—has been
unhallowed by the Church. Unhallowed even by the Law. Legally, we
have been living in—living in—well, the point is, how
does the Law stand? I imagine that Telworthy could get a—a
divorce. . . . Oh, it seems impossible that things like this can be
happening to us.

OLIVIA (Joyfully). A divorce?

GEORGE. I—I imagine so.

OLIVIA. But then we could really get married, and we
shouldn’t be living in—living in—whatever we were
living in before.

GEORGE. I can’t understand you, Olivia. You talk about it so
calmly, as if there was nothing blameworthy in being divorced, as
if there was nothing unusual in my marrying a divorced woman, as if
there was nothing wrong in our having lived together for years
without having been married.

OLIVIA. What seems wrong to me is that I lived for five years
with a bad man whom I hated. What seems right to me is that I lived
for five years with a good man whom I love.

GEORGE. Yes, yes, my dear, I know. But right and wrong don’t
settle themselves as easily as that. We’ve been living together
when you were Telworthy’s wife. That’s wrong.

OLIVIA. Do you mean wicked?

GEORGE. Well, no doubt the Court would consider that we acted in
perfect innocence—

OLIVIA. What Court?

GEORGE. These things have to be done legally, of course. I
believe the proper method is a nullity suit, declaring our marriage
null and—er—void. It would, so to speak, wipe out these
years of—er—

OLIVIA. Wickedness?

GEORGE. Of irregular union, and—er—then—

OLIVIA. Then I could go back to Jacob. . . . Do you really mean
that, George?

GEORGE (uneasily). Well, dear, you see—that’s how
things are—one can’t get away from—er——

OLIVIA. What you feel is that Telworthy has the greater claim?
You are prepared to—make way for him?

GEORGE. Both the Church and the Law would say that I had no
claim at all, I’m afraid. I—I suppose I haven’t.

OLIVIA. I see. (She looks at him curiously) Thank you for
making it so clear, George.

GEORGE. Of course, whether or not you go back
to—er—Telworthy is another matter altogether. That
would naturally be for you to decide.

OLIVIA (cheerfully). For me and Jacko to decide.

GEORGE. Er—Jacko?

OLIVIA. I used to call my first husband—I mean my only
husband—Jacko. I didn’t like the name of Jacob, and Jacko
seemed to suit him somehow. . . . He had very long arms. Dear
Jacko.

GEORGE (annoyed). You don’t seem to realise that this is
not a joke, Olivia.

OLIVIA (a trifle hysterically). It may not be a joke, but
it is funny, isn’t it?

GEORGE. I must say I don’t see anything funny in a tragedy that
has wrecked two lives.

OLIVIA. Two? Oh, but Jacko’s life isn’t wrecked. It has just
been miraculously restored to him. And a wife, too. There’s nothing
tragic for Jacko in it.

GEORGE (stiffly). I was referring to our two
lives—yours and mine.

OLIVIA. Yours, George? Your life isn’t wrecked. The Court will
absolve you of all blame; your friends will sympathise with you,
and tell you that I was a designing woman who deliberately took you
in; your Aunt Julia——

GEORGE (overwrought). Stop it! What do you mean? Have you
no heart? Do you think I want to lose you, Olivia? Do you
think I want my home broken up like this? Haven’t you been
happy with me these last five years?

OLIVIA. Very happy.

GEORGE. Well then, how can you talk like that?

OLIVIA (pathetically). But you want to send me away.

GEORGE. There you go again. I don’t want to. I have
hardly had time to realise just what it will mean to me when you
go. The fact is I simply daren’t realise it. I daren’t think about
it.

OLIVIA (earnestly). Try thinking about it, George.

GEORGE. And you talk as if I wanted to send you away!

OLIVIA. Try thinking about it, George.

GEORGE. You don’t seem to understand that I’m not sending
you away. You simply aren’t mine to keep.

OLIVIA. Whose am I?

GEORGE. Your husband’s. Telworthy’s.

OLIVIA (gently). If I belong to anybody but myself, I
think I belong to you.

GEORGE. Not in the eyes of the Law. Not in the eyes of the
Church. Not even in the eyes of—er——

OLIVIA. The County?

GEORGE (annoyed). I was about to say “Heaven.”

OLIVIA (unimpressed). Oh!

GEORGE. That this should happen to us! (He gets up and
walks about the room, wondering when he will wake up from this
impossible dream, OLIVIA works in silence. Then she stands
up and shakes out her curtains.)

OLIVIA (looking at them). I do hope Jacko will like
these.

GEORGE. What! You—— (Going up to her) Olivia,
Olivia, have you no heart?

OLIVIA. Ought you to talk like that to another man’s wife?

GEORGE. Confound it, is this just a joke to you?

OLIVIA. You must forgive me, George; I am a little
over-excited—at the thought of returning to Jacob, I
suppose.

GEORGE. Do you want to return to him?

OLIVIA. One wants to do what is right. In the eyes
of—er—Heaven.

GEORGE. Seeing what sort of man he is, I have no doubt that you
could get a separation, supposing that he
didn’t—er—divorce you. I don’t know what is
best. I must consult my solicitor. The whole position has been
sprung on us, and—(miserably) I don’t know, I don’t
know. I can’t take it all in.

OLIVIA. Wouldn’t you like to consult your Aunt Julia too? She
could tell you what the County—I mean what Heaven really
thought about it.

GEORGE. Yes, yes. Aunt Julia has plenty of common sense. You’re
quite right, Olivia. This isn’t a thing we can keep from the
family.

OLIVIA. Do I still call her Aunt Julia?

GEORGE (looking up from his pacings). What? What? (ANNE
comes in.) Well, what is it?

ANNE. Mr. Pim says he will come down at once, sir.

GEORGE. Oh, thank you, thank you.

[ANNE goes out.

OLIVIA. George, Mr. Pim has got to know.

GEORGE. I don’t see the necessity.

OLIVIA. Not even for me? When a woman suddenly hears that her
long-lost husband is restored to her, don’t you think she wants to
ask questions? Where is he living, and how is he looking,
and——

GEORGE (coldly). Of course, if you are interested in
these things—

OLIVIA. How can I help being? Don’t be so silly, George. We
must know what Jacko—

GEORGE (annoyed). I wish you wouldn’t call him by that
ridiculous name.

OLIVIA. My husband—

GEORGE (wincing). Yes, well—your husband?

OLIVIA. Well, we must know his plans—where we can
communicate with him, and so on.

GEORGE. I have no wish to communicate with him.

OLIVIA. I’m afraid you’ll have to, dear.

GEORGE. I don’t see the necessity.

OLIVIA. Well, you’ll want to—to apologise to him for
living with his wife for so long. And as I belong to him, he ought
to be told where he can—call for me.

GEORGE (after a struggle). You put it in a very peculiar
way, but I see your-point. (With a shudder) Oh, the horrible
publicity of it all!

OLIVIA (going up to him and comforting him). Poor George.
Dear, don’t think I don’t sympathise with you. I understand so
exactly what you are feeling. The publicity! It’s terrible.

GEORGE (miserably). I want to do what’s right, Olivia.
You believe that?

OLIVIA. Of course I do. It’s only that we don’t quite agree as
to what is right and what is wrong.

GEORGE. It isn’t a question of agreeing. Right is right, and
wrong is wrong, all the world over.

OLIVIA (with a sad little smile). But more particularly
in Buckinghamshire, I think.

GEORGE. If I only considered myself, I should say: “Let us pack
this man Telworthy back to Australia. He would make no claim. He
would accept money to go away and say nothing about it.” If I
consulted simply my own happiness, Olivia, that is what I should
say. But when I consult—er——

OLIVIA (surprised). Mine?

GEORGE. My conscience——

OLIVIA. Oh!

GEORGE. Then I can’t do it. It’s wrong. (He is at the window
as he says this.)

OLIVIA (making her first and last appeal). George, aren’t
I worth a little——

GEORGE (turning round). H’sh! Dinah! (Loudly for
DINAH’S benefit) Well, then I’ll write to him and—Ah,
Dinah, where’s Aunt Julia?

DINAH (coming in). We’ve seen the pigs, and now she’s
discussing the Art of Landseer with Brian. I just came to
ask——

OLIVIA. Dinah, dear, bring Aunt Julia here. And Brian too. We
have things we want to talk about with you all.

GEORGE (outraged). Olivia!

DINAH. Righto. What fun!

[Exit DINAH.

GEORGE. Olivia, you don’t seriously suggest that we should
discuss these things with a child like Dinah and a young man like
Strange, a mere acquaintance.

OLIVIA. Dinah will have to know. I’m very fond of her, George.
You can’t send me away without telling Dinah. And Brian is my
friend. You have your solicitor and your aunt and your conscience
to consult—mayn’t I even have Brian?

GEORGE (forgetting). I should have thought that your
husband——

OLIVIA. Yes, but we don’t know where Jacko is.

GEORGE. I was not referring to—er—Telworthy.

OLIVIA. Well then?

GEORGE. Well, naturally I—you mustn’t—Oh, this is
horrible!

(He comes back to his desk as the others come in.)

OLIVIA (getting up). George and I have had some rather
bad news, Aunt Julia. We wanted your advice. Where will you
sit?

LADY MARDEN. Thank you, Olivia. I can sit down by myself.
(She does so, near GEORGE. DINAH sits on the sofa
with OLIVIA, and BRIAN half leans against the back of
it. There is a hush of expectation. . . .) What is it? Money, I
suppose. Nobody’s safe nowadays.

GEORGE (signalling for help). Olivia—

OLIVIA. We’ve just heard that my first husband is still
alive.

DINAH. Telworthy!

BRIAN. Good Lord!

LADY MARDEN. George!

DINAH (excitedly). And only this morning I was saying
that nothing ever happened in this house! (Remorsefully to
OLIVIA) Darling, I don’t mean that. Darling one!

LADY MARDEN. What does this mean, George? I leave you for ten
minutes—barely ten minutes—to go and look at the pigs,
and when I come back you tell me that Olivia is a bigamist.

BRIAN (indignantly). I say—

OLIVIA (restraining him). H’sh!

BRIAN (to OLIVIA). If this is a row, I’m on your
side.

LADY MARDEN. Well, George?

GEORGE. I’m afraid it’s true, Aunt Julia. We heard the news just
before lunch—just before you came. We’ve only this moment had
an opportunity of talking about it, of wondering what to do.

LADY MARDEN. What was his
name—Tel—something—

OLIVIA. Jacob Telworthy.

LADY MARDEN. So he’s alive still?

GEORGE. Apparently. There seems to be no doubt about it.

LADY MARDEN (to OLIVIA). Didn’t you see him die? I
should always want to see my husband die before I married
again. Not that I approve of second marriages, anyhow. I told you
so at the time, George.

OLIVIA. And me, Aunt Julia.

LADY MARDEN. Did I? Well, I generally say what I think.

GEORGE. I ought to tell you, Aunt Julia, that no blame attaches
to Olivia over this. Of that I am perfectly satisfied. It’s
nobody’s fault, except——

LADY MARDEN. Except Telworthy’s. He seems to have been
rather careless. Well, what are you going to do about it?

GEORGE. That’s just it. It’s a terrible situation. There’s bound
to be so much publicity. Not only all this, but—but
Telworthy’s past and—and everything.

LADY MARDEN. I should have said that it was Telworthy’s present
which was the trouble. Had he a past as well?

OLIVIA. He was a fraudulent company promoter. He went to prison
a good deal.

LADY MARDEN. George, you never told me this!

GEORGE. I—er——

OLIVIA. I don’t see why he should want to talk about
it.

DINAH (indignantly). What’s it got to do with Olivia,
anyhow? It’s not her fault.

LADY MARDEN (sarcastically). Oh no, I daresay it’s
mine.

OLIVIA (to GEORGE). YOU wanted to ask Aunt Julia what was
the right thing to do.

BRIAN (bursting out). Good Heavens, what is there
to do except the one and only thing? (They all look at him and
he becomes embarrassed) I’m sorry. You don’t want me
to—

OLIVIA. I do, Brian.

LADY MARDEN. Well, go on, Mr. Strange. What would you do
in George’s position?

BRIAN. Do? Say to the woman I loved, “You’re mine, and
let this other damned fellow come and take you from me if he can!”
And he couldn’t—how could he?—not if the woman chose
me.

(LADY MARDEN gazes at BRIAN in amazement, GEORGE
in anger, OLIVIA presses his hand gratefully. He has said
what she has been waiting—oh, so eagerly—for GEORGE
to say.)

DINAH (adoringly). Oh, Brian! (In a whisper) It
is me, isn’t it, and not Olivia?

BRIAN. You baby, of course!

LADY MARDEN. I’m afraid, Mr. Strange, your morals are as
peculiar as your views on Art. If you had led a more healthy
life—

BRIAN. This is not a question of morals or of art, it’s a
question of love.

DINAH. Hear, hear!

LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Isn’t it that girl’s bedtime
yet?

OLIVIA (to DINAH). We’ll let her sit up a little longer
if she’s good.

DINAH. I will be good, Olivia, only I thought anybody, however
important a debate was, was allowed to say “Hear, hear!”

GEORGE (coldly) I really think we could discuss this
better if Mr. Strange took Dinah out for a walk. Strange, if
you—er—

OLIVIA. Tell them what you have settled first, George.

LADY MARDEN. Settled? What is there to be settled? It settles
itself.

GEORGE (sadly). That’s just it.

LADY MARDEN. The marriage must be annulled—is that the
word, George?

GEORGE. I presume so.

LADY MARDEN. One’s solicitor will know all about that of
course.

BRIAN. And when the marriage has been annulled, what then?

LADY MARDEN. Presumably Olivia will return to her husband.

BRIAN (bitterly). And that’s morality! As
expounded by Bishop Landseer!

GEORGE (angered). I don’t know what you mean by Bishop
Landseer. Morality is acting in accordance with the Laws of the
Land and the Laws of the Church. I am quite prepared to believe
that your creed embraces neither marriage nor monogamy, but
my creed is different.

BRIAN (fiercely). My creed includes both marriage
and monogamy, and monogamy means sticking to the woman you
love, as long as she wants you.

LADY MARDEN (calmly). You suggest that George and Olivia
should go on living together, although they have never been legally
married, and wait for this Telworthy man to divorce her, and
then—bless the man, what do you think the County would
say?

BRIAN (scornfully). Does it matter?

DINAH. Well, if you really want to know, the men would say,
“Gad, she’s a fine woman; I don’t wonder he sticks to her,” and the
women would say, “I can’t think what he sees in her to stick
to her like that,” and they’d both say, “After all, he may be a
damn fool, but you can’t deny he’s a sportsman.” That’s what the
County would say.

GEORGE (indignantly) Was it for this sort of thing,
Olivia, that you insisted on having Dinah and Mr. Strange in here?
To insult me in my own house?

LADY MARDEN. I can’t think what young people are coming to
nowadays.

OLIVIA. I think, dear, you and Brian had better go.

DINAH (getting up). We will go. But I’m just going to say
one thing, Uncle George. Brian and I are going to marry each
other, and when we are married we’ll stick to each other,
however many of our dead husbands and wives turn up!

[She goes out indignantly, followed by BRIAN.

GEORGE. Upon my word, this is a pleasant discussion.

OLIVIA. I think the discussion is over, George. It is only a
question of where I shall go, while you are bringing
your—what sort of suit did you call it?

LADY MARDEN (to GEORGE). Nullity suit. I suppose that
is the best thing?

GEORGE. It’s horrible. The awful publicity. That it should be
happening to us, that’s what I can’t get over.

LADY MARDEN. I don’t remember anything of the sort in the Marden
Family before, ever.

GEORGE (absently). Lady Fanny.

LADY MARDEN (recollecting). Yes, of course; but that was
two hundred years ago. The standards were different then. Besides,
it wasn’t quite the same, anyhow.

GEORGE (absently). No, it wasn’t quite the same.

LADY MARDEN. No. We shall all feel it. Terribly.

GEORGE (his apology). If there were any other way!
Olivia, what can I do? It is the only way, isn’t it?
All that that fellow said—of course, it sounds very
well—but as things are. . . . Is there anything in
marriage, or isn’t there? You believe that there is, don’t you? You
aren’t one of these Socialists. Well, then, can we go on
living together when you’re another man’s wife? It isn’t only what
people will say, but it is wrong, isn’t it? . . . And
supposing he doesn’t divorce you, are we to go on living together,
unmarried, for ever? Olivia, you seem to think that I’m just
thinking of the publicity—what people will say. I’m not. I’m
not. That comes in any way. But I want to do what’s right, what’s
best. I don’t mean what’s best for us, what makes us
happiest, I mean what’s really best, what’s rightest. What anybody
else would do in my place. I don’t know. It’s so unfair.
You’re not my wife at all, but I want to do what’s right. . . . Oh,
Olivia, Olivia, you do understand, don’t you?

(They have both forgotten LADY MARDEN. OLIVIA has
never taken her eyes off him as he makes his last attempt to
convince himself.)

OLIVIA (almost tenderly). So very very well, George. Oh,
I understand just what you are feeling. And oh, I do so wish that
you could—(with a little sigh)—but then it
wouldn’t be George, not the George I married—(with a
rueful little laugh)—or didn’t quite marry.

LADY MARDEN. I must say, I think you are both talking a little
wildly.

OLIVIA (repeating it, oh, so tenderly). Or
didn’t—quite—marry. (She looks at him with all her
heart in her eyes. She is giving him his last chance to say “Damn
Telworthy; you’re mine!” He struggles desperately with himself. . .
. Will he?—will he? . . . But we shall never know, for at
that moment ANNE comes in.)

ANNE. Mr. Pim is here, sir.

GEORGE (emerging from the struggle with an effort). Pim?
Pim? Oh, ah, yes, of course. Mr. Pim. (Looking up) Where
have you put him?

OLIVIA. I want to see Mr. Pim, too, George.

LADY MARDEN. Who on earth is Mr. Pim?

OLIVIA. Show him in here, Anne.

ANNE. Yes, madam. [She goes out.

OLIVIA. It was Mr. Pim who told us about my husband. He came
across with him in the boat, and recognised him as the Telworthy he
knew in Australia.

LADY MARDEN. Oh! Shall I be in the way?

GEORGE. No, no. It doesn’t matter, does it, Olivia?

OLIVIA. Please stay.

ANNE enters followed by MR. PIM.

ANNE. Mr. Pim.

GEORGE (pulling himself together). Ah, Mr. Pim! Very good
of you to have come. The fact is—er—(It is too much
for him; he looks despairingly at OLIVIA.)

OLIVIA. We’re so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Pim. By the way, do
you know Lady Marden? (MR. PIM and LADY MARDEN bow to
each other.) Do come and sit down, won’t you? (She makes
room for him on the sofa next to her) The fact is, Mr. Pim, you
gave us rather a surprise this morning, and before we had time to
realise what it all meant, you had gone.

MR. PIM. A surprise, Mrs. Marden? Dear me, not an unpleasant
one, I hope?

OLIVIA. Well, rather a—surprising one.

GEORGE. Olivia, allow me a moment. Mr. Pim, you mentioned a man
called Telworthy this morning. My wife used to—that is to
say, I used to—that is, there are reasons—

OLIVIA. I think we had better be perfectly frank, George.

LADY MARDEN. I am sixty-five years of age, Mr. Pim, and I can
say that I’ve never had a moment’s uneasiness by telling the
truth.

MR. PIM (after a desperate effort to keep up with the
conversation). Oh! . . . I—er—I’m afraid I am
rather at sea. Have I—er—left anything unsaid in
presenting my credentials to you this morning? This Telworthy whom
you mention—I seem to remember the name—

OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, you told us this morning of a man whom you had
met on the boat, a man who had come down in the world, whom you had
known in Sydney. A man called Telworthy.

MR. PIM (relieved). Ah yes, yes, of course. I did say
Telworthy, didn’t I? Most curious coincidence, Lady Marden. Poor
man, poor man! Let me see, it must have been ten years
ago—

GEORGE. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. You’re quite sure that his name
was Telworthy?

MR. PIM. Telworthy—Telworthy—didn’t I say Telworthy?
Yes, that was it—Telworthy. Poor fellow!

OLIVIA. I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Pim. I
feel quite sure that I can trust you. This man Telworthy whom you
met is my husband.

MR. PIM. Your husband? (He looks in mild surprise at
GEORGE.) But—er—

OLIVIA. My first husband. His death was announced six years ago.
I had left him some years before that, but there seems no doubt
from your story that he’s still alive. His record—the country
he comes from—above all, the very unusual
name—Telworthy.

MR. PIM. Telworthy—yes—certainly a most peculiar
name. I remember saying so. Your first husband? Dear me! Dear
me!

GEORGE. You understand, Mr. Pim, that all this is in absolute
confidence.

MR. PIM. Of course, of course.

OLIVIA. Well, since he is my husband, we naturally want to know
something about him. Where is he now, for instance?

MR. PIM (surprised). Where is he now? But surely I told
you? I told you what happened at Marseilles?

GEORGE. At Marseilles?

MR. PIM. Yes, yes, poor fellow, it was most unfortunate.
(Quite happy again) You must understand, Lady Marden, that
although I had met the poor fellow before in Australia, I was never
in any way intimate—

GEORGE (thumping the desk). Where is he now,
that’s what we want to know?

(MR. PIM turns to him with a start.)

OLIVIA. Please, Mr. Pim!

PIM. Where is he now? But—but didn’t I tell you of the
curious fatality at Marseilles—poor fellow—the
fish-bone?

ALL. Fish-bone?

MR. PIM. Yes, yes, a herring, I understand.

OLIVIA (understanding first). Do you mean he’s dead?

MR. PIM. Dead—of course—didn’t I—?

OLIVIA (laughing hysterically). Oh, Mr. Pim,
you—oh, what a husband to have—oh, I—(But that
is all she can say for the moment.)

LADY MARDEN. Pull yourself together, Olivia. This is so
unhealthy for you. (To PIM) So he really is dead this
time?

MR. PIM. Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly. A fishbone lodged in his
throat.

GEORGE (trying to realise it). Dead!

OLIVIA (struggling with her laughter). I think you must
excuse me, Mr. Pim—I can never thank you enough—a
herring—there’s something about a herring—morality
depends on such little things—George, you—(Shaking
her head at him in a weak state of laughter, she hurries out of the
room.)

MR. PIM. Dear me! Dear me!

GEORGE. Now, let us have this quite clear, Mr. Pim. You say that
the man, Telworthy, Jacob Telworthy, is dead?

MR. PIM. Telworthy, yes—didn’t I say Telworthy? This man I
was telling you about—

GEORGE. He’s dead?

MR. PIM. Yes, yes, he died at Marseilles.

LADY MARDEN. A dispensation of Providence, George. One can look
at it in no other light.

GEORGE. Dead! (Suddenly annoyed) Really, Mr. Pim, I think
you might have told us before.

MR. PIM. But I—I was telling you—I—

GEORGE. If you had only told us the whole story at once, instead
of in two—two instalments like this, you would have saved us
all a good deal of anxiety.

MR. PIM. Really, I—

LADY MARDEN. I am sure Mr. Pim meant well, George, but it seems
a pity he couldn’t have said so before. If the man was dead,
why try to hush it up?

MR. PIM (lost again). Really, Lady Marden, I—

GEORGE (getting up). Well, well, at any rate, I am much
obliged to you, Mr. Pim, for having come down to us this afternoon.
Dead! De mortuis, and so forth, but the situation would have
been impossible had he lived. Good-bye! (Holding out his
hand) Good-bye!

LADY MARDEN. Good-bye, Mr. Pim.

MR. PIM. Good-bye, good-bye! (GEORGE takes him to the
door.) Of course, if I had—(to himself)
Telworthy—I think that was the name. (He goes out,
still wondering.)

GEORGE (with a sigh of thankfulness). Well! This is
wonderful news, Aunt Julia.

LADY MARDEN. Most providential! . . . You understand, of course,
that you are not married to Olivia?

GEORGE (who didn’t). Not married?

LADY MARDEN. If her first husband only died at Marseilles a few
days ago—

GEORGE. Good Heavens!

LADY MARDEN. Not that it matters. You can get married quietly
again. Nobody need know.

GEORGE (considering it). Yes . . . yes. Then all these
years we have been—er—Yes.

LADY MARDEN. Who’s going to know?

GEORGE. Yes, yes, that’s true. . . . And in perfect innocence,
too.

LADY MARDEN. I should suggest a Registry Office in London.

GEORGE. A Registry Office, yes.

LADY MARDEN. Better go up to town this afternoon. Can’t do it
too quickly.

GEORGE. Yes, yes. We can stay at an hotel—

LADY MARDEN (surprised). George!

GEORGE. What?

LADY MARDEN. You will stay at your club.

GEORGE. Oh—ah—yes, of course, Aunt Julia.

LADY MARDEN. Better take your solicitor with you to be on the
safe side. . . . To the Registry Office, I mean.

GEORGE. Yes.

LADY MARDEN (getting up). Well, I must be getting along,
George. Say good-bye to Olivia for me. And those children. Of
course, you won’t allow this absurd love-business between them to
come to anything?

GEORGE. Most certainly not. Good-bye, Aunt Julia!

LADY MARDEN (indicating the windows). I’ll go this
way. (As she goes) And get Olivia out more, George. I don’t
like these hysterics. You want to be firm with her.

GEORGE (firmly) Yes, yes! Good-bye!

(He waves to her and then goes back to his seat.)

(OLIVIA comes in, and stands in the middle of the room
looking at him. He comes to her eagerly.)

GEORGE (holding out his hands). Olivia! Olivia! (But
it is not so easy as that.)

OLIVIA (drawing herself up proudly). Mrs. Telworthy!

ACT III

OLIVIA is standing where we left her at the end of the last
act.

GEORGE (taken aback). Olivia, I—I don’t
understand.

OLIVIA (leaving melodrama with a little laugh and coming down
to him). Poor George! Did I frighten you rather?

GEORGE. You’re so strange to-day. I don’t understand you. You’re
not like the Olivia I know.

(They sit down on the sofa together.)

OLIVIA. Perhaps you don’t know me very well after all.

GEORGE (affectionately). Oh, that’s nonsense, old girl.
You’re just my Olivia.

OLIVIA. And yet it seemed as though I wasn’t going to be your
Olivia half an hour ago.

GEORGE (with a shudder). Don’t talk about it. It doesn’t
bear thinking about. Well, thank Heaven that’s over. Now we can get
married again quietly and nobody will be any the wiser.

OLIVIA. Married again?

GEORGE. Yes, dear. As you—er—(he laughs
uneasily) said just now, you are Mrs. Telworthy. Just for the
moment. But we can soon put that right. My idea was to go up this
evening and—er—make arrangements, and if you come up
to-morrow morning, if we can manage it by then, we could get
quietly married at a Registry Office, and—er—nobody any
the wiser.

OLIVIA. Yes, I see. You want me to marry you at a Registry
Office to-morrow?

GEORGE. If we can arrange it by then. I don’t know how long
these things take, but I should imagine there would be no
difficulty.

OLIVIA. Oh no, that part ought to be quite easy.
But—(She hesitates.)

GEORGE. But what?

OLIVIA. Well, if you want to marry me to-morrow, George,
oughtn’t you to propose to me first?

GEORGE (amazed). Propose?

OLIVIA. Yes. It is usual, isn’t it, to propose to a person
before you marry her, and—and we want to do the usual thing,
don’t we?

GEORGE (upset). But you—but we . . .

OLIVIA. You see, dear, you’re George Marden, and I’m Olivia
Telworthy, and you—you’re attracted by me, and think I would
make you a good wife, and you want to marry me. Well, naturally you
propose to me first, and—tell me how much you are attracted
by me, and what a good wife you think I shall make, and how badly
you want to marry me.

GEORGE (falling into the humour of it, as he thinks). The
baby! Did she want to be proposed to all over again?

OLIVIA. Well, she did rather.

GEORGE (rather fancying himself as an actor). She shall
then. (He adopts what he considers to be an appropriate
attitude) Mrs. Telworthy, I have long admired you in silence,
and the time has now come to put my admiration into words.
Er—(But apparently he finds a difficulty.)

OLIVIA (hopefully). Into words.

GEORGE. Er—

OLIVIA (with the idea of helping). Oh, Mr. Marden!

GEORGE. Er—may I call you Olivia?

OLIVIA. Yes, George.

GEORGE (taking her hand). Olivia—I—(He
hesitates.)

OLIVIA. I don’t want to interrupt, but oughtn’t you to be on
your knees? It is—usual, I believe. If one of the servants
came in, you could say you were looking for my scissors.

GEORGE. Really, Olivia, you must allow me to manage my own
proposal in my own way.

OLIVIA (meekly). I’m sorry. Do go on.

GEORGE. Well, er—confound it, Olivia, I love you. Will you
marry me?

OLIVIA. Thank you, George, I will think it over.

GEORGE (laughing). Silly girl! Well then, to-morrow
morning. No wedding-cake, I’m afraid, Olivia. (He laughs
again) But we’ll go and have a good lunch somewhere.

OLIVIA. I will think it over, George.

GEORGE (good-humouredly). Well, give us a kiss while
you’re thinking.

OLIVIA. I’m afraid you mustn’t kiss me until we are actually
engaged.

GEORGE (laughing uneasily). Oh, we needn’t take it as
seriously as all that.

OLIVIA. But a woman must take a proposal seriously.

GEORGE (alarmed at last). What do you mean?

OLIVIA. I mean that the whole question, as I heard somebody say
once, demands much more anxious thought than either of us has given
it. These hasty marriages—

GEORGE. Hasty!

OLIVIA. Well, you’ve only just proposed to me, and you want to
marry me to-morrow.

GEORGE. Now you’re talking perfect nonsense, Olivia. You know
quite well that our case is utterly different from—from any
other.

OLIVIA. All the same, one has to ask oneself questions. With a
young girl like—well, with a young girl, love may well seem
to be all that matters. But with a woman of my age, it is
different. I have to ask myself if you can afford to support a
wife.

GEORGE (coldly). Fortunately that is a question that you
can very easily answer for yourself.

OLIVIA. Well, but I have been hearing rather bad reports lately.
What with taxes always going up, and rents always going down, some
of our landowners are getting into rather straitened circumstances.
At least, so I’m told.

GEORGE. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

OLIVIA (surprised). Oh, isn’t it true? I heard of a case
only this morning—a landowner who always seemed to be very
comfortably off, but who couldn’t afford an allowance for his only
niece when she wanted to get married. It made me think that one
oughtn’t to judge by appearances.

GEORGE. You know perfectly well that I can afford to support a
wife as my wife should be supported.

OLIVIA. I’m so glad, dear. Then your income—you aren’t
getting anxious at all?

GEORGE (stiffly). You know perfectly well what my income
is. I see no reason for anxiety in the future.

OLIVIA. Ah, well, then we needn’t think about that any more.
Well, then, there is another thing to be considered.

GEORGE. I can’t make out what you’re up to. Don’t you want to
get married; to—er—legalise this extraordinary
situation in which we are placed?

OLIVIA. I want to be sure that I am going to be happy, George. I
can’t just jump at the very first offer I have had since my husband
died, without considering the whole question very carefully.

GEORGE. So I’m under consideration, eh?

OLIVIA. Every suitor is.

GEORGE (sarcastically, as he thinks). Well, go on.

OLIVIA. Well, then, there’s your niece. You have a niece who
lives with you. Of course Dinah is a delightful girl, but one
doesn’t like marrying into a household in which there is another
grown-up woman. But perhaps she will be getting married herself
soon?

GEORGE. I see no prospect of it.

OLIVIA. I think it would make it much easier if she did.

GEORGE. Is this a threat, Olivia? Are you telling me that if I
do not allow young Strange to marry Dinah, you will not marry
me?

OLIVIA. A threat? Oh no, George.

GEORGE. Then what does it mean?

OLIVIA. I’m just wondering if you love me as much as Brian loves
Dinah. You do love me?

GEORGE (from his heart). You know I do, old girl. (He
comes to her.)

OLIVIA. You’re not just attracted by my pretty face? . . .
Is it a pretty face?

GEORGE. It’s an adorable one. (He tries to kiss it, but she
turns away.)

OLIVIA. How can I be sure that it is not only my face
which makes you think that you care for me? Love which rests upon a
mere outward attraction cannot lead to any lasting
happiness—as one of our thinkers has observed.

GEORGE. What’s come over you, Olivia? I don’t understand what
you’re driving at. Why should you doubt my love?

OLIVIA. Ah!—Why?

GEORGE. You can’t pretend that we haven’t been happy together.
I’ve—I’ve been a good pal to you, eh? We—we suit each
other, old girl.

OLIVIA. Do we?

GEORGE. Of course we do.

OLIVIA. I wonder. When two people of our age think of getting
married, one wants to be very sure that there is real community of
ideas between them. Whether it is a comparatively trivial matter,
like the right colour for a curtain, or some very much more serious
question of conduct which arises, one wants to feel that there is
some chance of agreement between husband and wife.

GEORGE. We—we love each other, old girl.

OLIVIA. We do now, yes. But what shall we be like in five years’
time? Supposing that after we have been married five years, we
found ourselves estranged from each other upon such questions as
Dinah’s future, or the decorations of the drawing-room, or even the
advice to give to a friend who had innocently contracted a bigamous
marriage? How bitterly we should regret then our hasty plunge into
a matrimony which was no true partnership, whether of tastes, or of
ideas, or even of consciences! (With a sigh) Ah me!

GEORGE (nastily). Unfortunately for your argument,
Olivia, I can answer you out of your own mouth. You seem to have
forgotten what you said this morning in the case
of—er—young Strange.

OLIVIA (reproachfully). Is it quite fair, George, to drag
up what was said this morning?

GEORGE. You’ve brought it on yourself.

OLIVIA. I? . . . Well, and what did I say this morning?

GEORGE. You said that it was quite enough that Strange was a
gentleman and in love with Dinah for me to let them marry each
other.

OLIVIA. Oh! . . . Is that enough, George?

GEORGE (triumphantly). You said so.

OLIVIA (meekly). Well, if you think so, too, I—I
don’t mind risking it.

GEORGE (kindly). Aha, my dear! You see!

OLIVIA. Then you do think it’s enough?

GEORGE. I—er—Yes, yes, I—I think so.

OLIVIA (going to him). My darling one! Then we can have a
double wedding. How jolly!

GEORGE (astounded). A double one!

OLIVIA. Yes. You and me, Brian and Dinah.

GEORGE (firmly). Now look here, Olivia, understand once
and for all, I am not to be blackmailed into giving my consent to
Dinah’s engagement. Neither blackmailed nor tricked. Our marriage
has nothing whatever to do with Dinah’s.

OLIVIA. No, dear. I quite understand. They may take place about
the same time, but they have nothing to do with each other.

GEORGE. I see no prospect of Dinah’s marriage taking place for
many years.

OLIVIA. No, dear, that was what I said.

GEORGE (not understanding for the moment). You said. . .?
I see. Now, Olivia, let us have this perfectly clear. You
apparently insist on treating my—er—proposal as
serious.

OLIVIA (surprised). Wasn’t it serious? Were you trifling
with me?

GEORGE. You know quite well what I mean. You treat it as an
ordinary proposal from a man to a woman who have never been more
than acquaintances before. Very well then. Will you tell me what
you propose to do, if you decide to—ah—refuse me? You
do not suggest that we should go on living
together—unmarried?

OLIVIA (shocked). Of course not, George! What would the
County—I mean Heaven—I mean the Law—I mean, of
course not! Besides, it’s so unnecessary. If I decide to
accept you, of course I shall marry you.

GEORGE. Quite so. And if you—ah—decide to refuse me?
What will you do?

OLIVIA. Nothing.

GEORGE. Meaning by that?

OLIVIA. Just that, George. I shall stay here—just as
before. I like this house. It wants a little re-decorating perhaps,
but I do like it, George . . . Yes, I shall be quite happy
here.

GEORGE. I see. You will continue to live down here—in
spite of what you said just now about the immorality of it.

OLIVIA (surprised). But there’s nothing immoral in a
widow living alone in a big country house, with perhaps the niece
of a friend of hers staying with her, just to keep her company.

GEORGE (sarcastic). And what shall I be doing,
when you’ve so very kindly taken possession of my house for me?

OLIVIA. I don’t know, George. Travelling, I expect. You could
come down sometimes with a chaperone. I suppose there would be
nothing wrong in that.

GEORGE (indignant). Thank you! And what if I refuse to be
turned out of my house?

OLIVIA. Then, seeing that we can’t both be in it, it
looks as though you’d have to turn me out. (Casually)
I suppose there are legal ways of doing these things. You’d have to
consult your solicitor again.

GEORGE (amazed). Legal ways?

OLIVIA. Well, you couldn’t throw me out, could you? You’d
have to get an injunction against me—or prosecute me for
trespass—or something. It would make an awfully unusual case,
wouldn’t it? The papers would be full of it.

GEORGE. You must be mad!

OLIVIA (dreamily). Widow of well-known ex-convict takes
possession of J.P.’s house. Popular country gentleman denied
entrance to his own home. Doomed to travel.

GEORGE (angrily). I’ve had enough of this. Do you mean
all this nonsense?

OLIVIA. I do mean, George, that I am in no hurry to go up to
London and get married. I love the country just now, and (with a
sigh) after this morning, I’m—rather tired of
husbands.

GEORGE (in a rage). I’ve never heard so much—damned
nonsense in my life. I will leave you to come to your senses.
(He goes out indignantly.)

(OLIVIA, who has forgiven him already, throws a loving kiss
after him, and then turns triumphantly to her dear curtains. She
takes them, smiling, to the sofa, and has just got to work again,
when MR. PIM appears at the open windows.)

PIM (in a whisper). Er, may I come in, Mrs. Marden?

OLIVIA (turning round in surprise). Mr. Pim!

PIM (anxiously). Mr. Marden is—er—not
here?

OLIVIA (getting up). Do you want to see him? I will tell
him.

PIM. No, no, no! Not for the world! (He comes in and looks
anxiously at the door) There is no immediate danger of his
returning, Mrs. Marden?

OLIVIA (surprised). No, I don’t think so. What is it?
You—

PIM. I took the liberty of returning by the window in the hope
of—er—coming upon you alone, Mrs. Marden.

OLIVIA. Yes?

PIM (still rather nervous). I—er—Mr. Marden
will be very angry with me. Quite rightly. I blame myself entirely.
I do not know how I can have been so stupid.

OLIVIA. What is it, Mr. Pim? Has my husband come to life
again?

PIM. Mrs. Marden, I throw myself on your mercy entirely. The
fact is—his name was Polwittle.

OLIVIA (at a loss). Whose? My husband’s?

PIM. Yes, yes. The name came back to me suddenly, just as I
reached the gate. Polwittle, poor fellow.

OLIVIA. But, Mr. Pim, my husband’s name was Telworthy.

PIM. No, no, Polwittle.

OLIVIA. But, really I ought to. . .

PIM (firmly). Polwittle. It came back to me suddenly just
as I reached the gate. For the moment, I had thoughts of conveying
the news by letter. I was naturally disinclined to return in
person, and—Polwittle. (Proudly) If you remember, I
always said it was a curious name.

OLIVIA. But who is Polwittle?

PIM (in surprise at her stupidity). The man I have been
telling you about, who met with the sad fatality at Marseilles.
Henry Polwittle—or was it Ernest? No, Henry, I think. Poor
fellow.

OLIVIA (indignantly). But you said his name was
Telworthy! How could you?

PIM. Yes, yes, I blame myself entirely.

OLIVIA. But how could you think of a name like Telworthy,
if it wasn’t Telworthy?

PIM (eagerly). Ah, that is the really interesting thing
about the whole matter.

OLIVIA. Mr. Pim, all your visits here to-day have been
interesting.

PIM. Yes, but you see, on my first appearance here this morning,
I was received by—er—Miss Diana.

OLIVIA. Dinah.

PIM. Miss Dinah, yes. She was in—er—rather a
communicative mood, and she happened to mention, by way of passing
the time, that before your marriage to Mr. Marden you had been a
Mrs.—er—

OLIVIA. Telworthy.

PIM. Yes, yes, Telworthy, of course. She mentioned also
Australia. By some process of the brain—which strikes me as
decidedly curious—when I was trying to recollect the name of
the poor fellow on the boat, whom you remember I had also met in
Australia, the fact that this other name was also stored in my
memory, a name equally peculiar—this fact I say. . .

OLIVIA (seeing that the sentence is rapidly going to
pieces). Yes, I understand.

PIM. I blame myself, I blame myself entirely.

OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn’t do that, Mr. Pim. It was really Dinah’s
fault for inflicting all our family history on you.

PIM. Oh, but a charming young woman. I assure you I was very
much interested in all that she told me. (Getting up) Well,
Mrs.—er—Marden, I can only hope that you will forgive
me for the needless distress I have caused you to-day.

OLIVIA. Oh, you mustn’t worry about that—please.

PIM. And you will tell your husband—you will break the
news to him?

OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I will—break the news
to him.

PIM. You understand how it is that I thought it better to come
to you in the first place?

OLIVIA. I am very glad you did.

PIM (holding out his hand). Then I will say good-bye,
and—er—

OLIVIA. Just a moment, Mr. Pim. Let us have it quite clear this
time. You never knew my husband, Jacob Telworthy, you never met him
in Australia, you never saw him on the boat, and nothing whatever
happened to him at Marseilles. Is that right?

PIM. Yes, yes, that is so.

OLIVIA. So that, since he was supposed to have died in Australia
six years ago, he is presumably still dead?

PIM. Yes, yes, undoubtedly.

OLIVIA (holding out her hand with a charming smile). Then
good-bye, Mr. Pim, and thank you so much for—for all your
trouble.

PIM. Not at all, Mrs. Marden. I can only assure you I—

DINAH (from the window). Hullo, here’s Mr. Pim! (She
comes in, followed by BRIAN.)

PIM (anxiously looking at the door in case MR. MARDEN
should come in). Yes, yes, I—er—

DINAH. Oh, Mr. Pim, you mustn’t run away without even saying how
do you do! Such old friends as we are. Why, it is ages since I saw
you! Are you staying to tea?

PIM. I’m afraid I—

OLIVIA. Mr. Pim has to hurry away, Dinah. You mustn’t keep
him.

DINAH. Well, but you’ll come back again?

PIM. I fear that I am only a passer-by,
Miss—er—Dinah.

OLIVIA. You can walk with him to the gate, dear.

PIM (gratefully to OLIVIA). Thank you. (He edges
towards the window) If you would be so kind, Miss
Dinah—

BRIAN. I’ll catch you up.

DINAH. Come along then, Mr. Pim. (As they go out) I want
to hear all about your first wife. You haven’t really told
me anything yet.

(OLIVIA resumes her work, and BRIAN sits on the back
of the sofa looking at her.)

BRIAN (awkwardly). I just wanted to say, if you don’t
think it cheek, that I’m—I’m on your side, if I may be, and
if I can help you at all I should be very proud of being allowed
to.

OLIVIA (looking up at him). Brian, you dear. That’s sweet
of you . . . But it’s quite all right now, you know.

BRIAN. Oh, I’m so glad.

OLIVIA. Yes, that’s what Mr. Pim came back to say. He’d made a
mistake about the name. (Smiling) George is the only husband
I have.

BRIAN (surprised). What? You mean that the whole
thing—that Pim—(With conviction) Silly ass!

OLIVIA (kindly). Oh, well, he didn’t mean to be.
(After a pause) Brian, do you know anything about the
Law?

BRIAN. I’m afraid not. I hate the Law. Why?

OLIVIA (casually). Oh, I just—I was
wondering—thinking about all the shocks we’ve been through
to-day. Second marriages, and all that.

BRIAN. Oh! It’s a rotten business.

OLIVIA. I suppose there’s nothing wrong in getting married to
the same person twice?

BRIAN. A hundred times if you like, I should think.

OLIVIA. Oh?

BRIAN. After all, in France, they always go through it twice,
don’t they? Once before the Mayor or somebody, and once in
church.

OLIVIA. Of course they do! How silly of me . . . I think it’s
rather a nice idea. They ought to do it in England more.

BRIAN. Well, once will be enough for Dinah and me, if you can
work it. (Anxiously) D’you think there’s any chance,
Olivia?

OLIVIA (smiling). Every chance, dear.

BRIAN (jumping up). I say, do you really? Have you
squared him? I mean, has he—

OLIVIA. Go and catch them up now. We’ll talk about it later
on.

BRIAN. Bless you. Righto.

(As he goes out by the windows, GEORGE comes in at the
door. GEORGE stands looking after him, and then turns to
OLIVIA, who is absorbed in her curtains. He walks up and down
the room, fidgeting with things, waiting for her to speak. As she
says nothing, he begins to talk himself, but in an obviously
unconcerned way. There is a pause after each answer of hers, before
he gets out his next remark.)

GEORGE (casually). Good-looking fellow, Strange.

OLIVIA (equally casually). Brian—yes, isn’t he? And
such a nice boy. . .

GEORGE. Got fifty pounds for a picture the other day, didn’t he?
Hey?

OLIVIA. Yes. Of course he has only just begun. . . .

GEORGE. Critics think well of him, what?

OLIVIA. They all say he has genius. Oh, I don’t think there’s
any doubt about it. . .

GEORGE. Of course, I don’t profess to know anything about
painting.

OLIVIA. You’ve never had time to take it up, dear.

GEORGE. I know what I like, of course. Can’t say I see much in
this new-fangled stuff. If a man can paint, why can’t he paint
like—like Rubens or—or Reynolds?

OLIVIA. I suppose we all have our own styles. Brian will find
his directly. Of course, he’s only just beginning. . . .

GEORGE. But they think a lot of him, what?

OLIVIA. Oh yes!

GEORGE. H’m! . . . Good-looking fellow. (There is rather a
longer silence this time, GEORGE continues to hope that he
is appearing casual and unconcerned. He stands looking at
OLIVIA’S work for a moment.)

GEORGE. Nearly finished ’em?

OLIVIA. Very nearly. Are my scissors there?

GEORGE (looking round). Scissors?

OLIVIA. Ah, here they are. . . .

GEORGE. Where are you going to put ’em?

OLIVIA (as if really wondering). I don’t quite know. . .
. I had thought of this room, but—I’m not quite
sure.

GEORGE. Brighten the room up a bit.

OLIVIA. Yes. . . .

GEORGE (walking over to the present curtains). H’m. They
are a bit faded.

OLIVIA (shaking out hers, and looking at them
critically). Sometimes I think I love them, and sometimes I’m
not quite sure.

GEORGE. Best way is to hang ’em up and see how you like ’em
then. Always take ’em down again.

OLIVIA. That’s rather a good idea, George!

GEORGE. Best way.

OLIVIA. Yes. . . . I think we might do that. . . . The only
thing is—(she hesitates).

GEORGE. What?

OLIVIA. Well, the carpet and the chairs, and the cushions and
things—

GEORGE. What about ’em?

OLIVIA. Well, if we had new curtains—

GEORGE. You’d want a new carpet, eh?

OLIVIA (doubtfully). Y—yes. Well, new chair-covers
anyhow.

GEORGE. H’m. . . . Well, why not?

OLIVIA. Oh, but—

GEORGE (with an awkward laugh). We’re not so hard up as
all that, you know.

OLIVIA. No, I suppose not. (Thoughtfully) I suppose it
would mean that I should have to go up to London for them. That’s
rather a nuisance.

GEORGE (extremely casual). Oh, I don’t know. We might go
up together one day.

OLIVIA. Well, of course if we were up—for anything
else—we could just look about us, and see if we could find
what we want.

GEORGE. That’s what I meant.

(There is another silence. GEORGE is wondering whether
to come to closer quarters with the great question.)

OLIVIA. Oh, by the way, George—

GEORGE. Yes?

OLIVIA (innocently). I told Brian, and I expect he’ll
tell Dinah, that Mr. Pim had made a mistake about the name.

GEORGE (astonished). You told Brian that Mr.
Pim—

OLIVIA. Yes—I told him that the whole thing was a mistake.
It seemed the simplest way.

GEORGE. Olivia! Then you mean that Brian and Dinah think
that—that we have been married all the time?

OLIVIA. Yes . . . They both think so now.

GEORGE (coming close to her). Olivia, does that mean that
you are thinking of marrying me?

OLIVIA. At your old Registry Office?

GEORGE (eagerly). Yes!

OLIVIA. To-morrow?

GEORGE. Yes!

OLIVIA. Do you want me to very much?

GEORGE. My darling, you know I do!

OLIVIA (a little apprehensive). We should have to do it
very quietly.

GEORGE. Of course, darling. Nobody need know at all. We don’t
want anybody to know. And now that you’ve put Brian and
Dinah off the scent, by telling them that Mr. Pim made a
mistake—(He breaks off, and says admiringly) That was
very clever of you, Olivia. I should never have thought of
that.

OLIVIA (innocently). No, darling. . . You don’t think it
was wrong, George?

GEORGE (his verdict). An innocent deception . . .
perfectly harmless.

OLIVIA. Yes, dear, that was what I thought about—about
what I was doing.

GEORGE. Then you will come to-morrow? (She nods.) And if
we happen to see the carpet, or anything that you want—

OLIVIA. Oh, what fun!

GEORGE (beaming). And a wedding lunch at the Carlton,
what? (She nods eagerly.) And—and a bit of a honeymoon
in Paris?

OLIVIA. Oh, George!

GEORGE (hungrily). Give us a kiss, old girl.

OLIVIA (lovingly). George!

(She holds up her cheek to him. He kisses it, and then
suddenly takes her in his arms.)

GEORGE. Don’t ever leave me, old girl.

OLIVIA (affectionately). Don’t ever send me away, old
boy.

GEORGE (fervently). I won’t. . . . (Awkwardly)
I—I don’t think I would have, you know. I—I—

(DINAH and BRIAN appear at the windows, having
seen MR. PIM safely off.)

DINAH (surprised). Oo, I say!

(GEORGE hastily moves away.)

GEORGE. Hallo!

DINAH (going up impetuously to him). Give me one,
too, George; Brian won’t mind.

BRIAN. Really, Dinah, you are the limit.

GEORGE (formally, but enjoying it). Do you mind, Mr.
Strange?

BRIAN (a little uncomfortably). Oh, I say, sir—

GEORGE. We’ll risk it, Dinah. (He kisses her.)

DINAH (triumphantly to BRIAN). Did you notice that one?
That wasn’t just an ordinary affectionate kiss. It was a special
bless—you—my—children one. (To GEORGE)
Wasn’t it?

OLIVIA. You do talk nonsense, darling.

DINAH. Well, I’m so happy, now that Mr. Pim has relented about
your first husband—

(GEORGE catches OLIVIA’S eye and smiles; she smiles
back; but they are different smiles.)

GEORGE (the actor). Yes, yes, stupid fellow Pim,
what?

BRIAN. Absolute idiot.

DINAH.—And now that George has relented about my
first husband.

GEORGE. You get on much too quickly, young woman. (To
BRIAN) So you want to marry my Dinah, eh?

BRIAN (with a smile). Well, I do rather, sir.

DINAH (hastily). Not at once, of course, George. We want
to be engaged for a long time first, and write letters to each
other, and tell each other how much we love each other, and sit
next to each other when we go out to dinner.

GEORGE (to OLIVIA). Well, that sounds fairly
harmless, I think.

OLIVIA (smiling). I think so. . . .

GEORGE (to BRIAN). Then you’d better have a talk with
me—er—Brian.

BRIAN. Thank you very much, sir.

GEORGE. Well, come along then. (Looking at his watch) I
am going up to town after tea, so we’d better—

DINAH. I say! Are you going to London?

GEORGE (with the smile of the conspirator). A little
business. Never you mind, young lady.

DINAH (calmly). All right. Only, bring me back something
nice.

GEORGE (to BRIAN). Shall we walk down and look at the
pigs?

BRIAN. Righto!

OLIVIA. Don’t go far, dear. I may want you in a moment.

GEORGE. All right, darling, we’ll be on the terrace.

[They go out together.

DINAH. Brian and George always try to discuss me in front of the
pigs. So tactless of them. Are you going to London, too,
darling?

OLIVIA. To-morrow morning.

DINAH. What are you going to do in London?

OLIVIA. Oh, shopping, and—one or two little things.

DINAH. With George?

OLIVIA. Yes. . . .

DINAH. I say, wasn’t it lovely about Pim?

OLIVIA. Lovely?

DINAH. Yes; he told me all about it. Making such a hash of
things, I mean.

OLIVIA (innocently). Did he make a hash of things?

DINAH. Well, I mean keeping on coming like that. And if you look
at it all round—well, for all he had to say, he needn’t
really have come at all.

OLIVIA (smiling to herself). I shouldn’t quite say that,
Dinah. (She stands up and shakes out the curtains.)

DINAH. I say, aren’t they jolly?

OLIVIA (demurely). I’m so glad everybody likes them. Tell
George I’m ready, will you?

DINAH. I say, is he going to hang them up for you?

OLIVIA. Well, I thought he could reach best.

DINAH. Righto! What fun! (At the windows) George! George!
(To OLIVIA) Brian is just telling George about the five
shillings he’s got in the Post Office. . . . George!

GEORGE (from the terrace). Coming!

(He hurries in, the model husband, BRIAN
follows.)

OLIVIA. Oh, George, just hang these up for me, will you?

GEORGE. Of course, darling. I’ll get the steps from the
library.

[He hurries out.

(BRIAN takes out his sketching block. It is obvious that his
five shillings has turned the scale. He bows to DINAH. He
kisses OLIVIA’S hand with an air. He motions to DINAH
to be seated.)

DINAH (impressed). What is it?

BRIAN (beginning to draw). Portrait of Lady Strange.

(GEORGE hurries in with the steps, and gets to work. There is
a great deal of curtain, and for the moment he becomes slightly
involved in it. However, by draping it over his head and shoulders,
he manages to get successfully up the steps. There we may leave
him.

But we have not quite finished with MR. PIM. It is a
matter of honour with him now that he should get his little story
quite accurate before passing out of the MARDENS’ life for
ever. So he comes back for the last time; for the last time we see
his head at the window. He whispers to OLIVIA.)

MR. PIM. Mrs. Marden! I’ve just remembered. His name was
Ernest Polwittle—not Henry.

(He goes off happily. A curious family the MARDENS.
Perhaps somebody else would have committed bigamy if he had not
remembered in time that it was Ernest. . . . Ernest. . . . Yes. . .
. Now he can go back with an easy conscience to the
Trevors.)

THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE

CHARACTERS

THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE

It is an evening of 1919 in KATE’S drawing-room. She
is expecting him, and the Curtain goes up as he is
announced.

MAID. Mr. Cyril Norwood.

(He comes in.)

NORWOOD (for the MAID’S benefit, but you may be sure
she knows). Ah, good evening, Mrs. Camberley!

KATE. Good evening!

(They shake hands. NORWOOD is sleek and prosperous, in
a morning coat with a white slip to his waistcoat. He is
good-looking in rather an obvious way with rather an obvious
moustache. Most women like him—at least, so he will tell
you.)

NORWOOD (as soon as they are alone). My darling!

KATE. Cyril!

(He takes her hands and kisses them. He would kiss her face,
but she is not quite ready for this.)

NORWOOD. You let me yesterday. Why mayn’t I kiss you to-day?

KATE. Not just yet, dear. I want to talk to you. Come and sit
down.

(They sit on the sofa together.)

NORWOOD. You aren’t sorry for what you said yesterday?

KATE (looking at him thoughtfully, and then shaking her
head). No.

NORWOOD. Then what’s happened?

KATE. I’ve just had a letter from Dennis.

NORWOOD (anxiously). Dennis—your husband?

KATE. Yes.

NORWOOD. Where does he write from?

KATE. India.

NORWOOD. Oh, well!

KATE. He says I may expect him home almost as soon as I get the
letter.

NORWOOD. Good Heavens!

KATE. Yes. . . .

NORWOOD (always hopeful). Perhaps he didn’t catch the
boat that he expected to. Wouldn’t he have cabled from somewhere on
the way?

KATE. You can’t depend on cables nowadays. I don’t
know—What are we to do, Cyril?

NORWOOD. You know what I always wanted you to do. (He takes
her hands) Come away with me.

KATE (doubtfully). And let Dennis come home and
find—an empty house?

NORWOOD (eagerly). You are nothing to him, and he is
nothing to you. A war-wedding!—after you’d been engaged to
each other for a week! And forty-eight hours afterwards he is sent
out to India—and you haven’t seen him since.

KATE. Yes. I keep telling myself that.

NORWOOD. The world may say that you’re his wife and he’s your
husband, but—what do you know of him? He won’t even be the
boy you married. He’ll be a stranger whom you’ll hardly recognise.
And you aren’t the girl he married. You’re a woman now, and
you’re just beginning to learn what love is. Come with
me.

KATE. It’s true, it’s true. But he has been fighting for
us. And to come home again after those four years of exile, and
find—

NORWOOD. Exile—that’s making much too much of it. He’s
come through the war safely, and he’s probably had what he’d call a
topping good time. Like enough he’s been in love half-a-dozen times
himself since—on leave in India and that sort of thing.
India! Well, you should read Kipling.

KATE. I wonder. Of course, as you say, I don’t know him. But I
feel that we should be happier afterwards if we were quite straight
about it and told him just what had happened. If he had been doing
what you say, he would understand—and perhaps be glad of
it.

NORWOOD (uneasily). Really, darling, it’s hardly a thing
you can talk over calmly with a husband, even if he—We don’t
want any unpleasantness, and—er—(Taking her hands
again) Besides, I want you, Kate. It may be weeks before he
comes back. We can’t go on like this . . . Kate!

KATE. Do you love me so very much?

NORWOOD. My darling!

KATE. Well, let us wait till the end of the week—in case
he comes. I don’t want to seem to be afraid of him.

NORWOOD (eagerly). And then?

KATE. Then I’ll come with you.

NORWOOD (taking her in his arms). My darling! . . .
There! And now what are you going to do? Ask me to stay to dinner
or what?

KATE. Certainly not, sir. I’m going out to dinner
to-night.

NORWOOD (jealously). Who with?

KATE. You.

NORWOOD (eagerly). At our little restaurant? (She
nods) Good girl! Then go and put on a hat, while I ring ’em up
and see if they’ve got a table.

KATE. What fun! I won’t be a moment. (She goes to the
door) Cyril, you will always love me?

NORWOOD. Of course I will, darling. (She nods at him and goes
out. He is very well pleased with himself when he is left alone. He
goes to the telephone with a smile) Gerrard 11,001. Yes . . . I
want a table for two. To-night . . . Mr. Cyril Norwood . . . Oh, in
about half an hour . . . Yes, for two. Is that all right? . . .
Thank you.

(He puts the receiver back and turns round to see DENNIS
CAMBERLEY, who has just come in. DENNIS is certainly a
man now; very easily and pleasantly master of himself and of
anybody else who gets in his way.)

NORWOOD (surprised). Hallo!

DENNIS (nodding pleasantly). Hallo!

NORWOOD (wondering who he is).
You—er——?

DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood.

NORWOOD. You know my name?

DENNIS. Oh yes, I’ve heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril
Norwood.

NORWOOD (stiffly). I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure
of—er——

DENNIS (winningly). Oh, but I’m sure you must have heard
a good deal about me.

NORWOOD. Good God, you don’t mean——

DENNIS. I do, indeed. (With a bow) Dennis Camberley, the
missing husband. (Pleadingly) You have heard about
me, haven’t you?

NORWOOD. I—er—Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So
you’re back?

DENNIS. Yes, I’m back. Sometimes they don’t come back, Mr.
Norwood, and sometimes—they do. . . . Even after four years.
. . . But you did talk about me sometimes?

NORWOOD. How did you know my name?

DENNIS. A little bird told me about you.

NORWOOD (turning away in anger). Pooh!

DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the
backs of crocodiles, searching for—well, let us say,
breakfast. He said to me one morning: “Talking of parasites,” he
said, “do you know Mr. Cyril Norwood?” he said, “because I could
tell you an interesting story about him,” he said, “if you care
to—”

NORWOOD (wheeling round furiously). Look here, sir, we’d
better have it out quite plainly. I don’t want any veiled insults
and sneers from you. I admit that an unfortunate situation has
arisen, but we must look facts in the face. You may be Mrs.
Camberley’s husband, but she has not seen you for four years,
and—well, she and I love each other. There you have it. What
are you going to do?

DENNIS (anxiously). You don’t feel that I have neglected
her, Mr. Norwood? You see, I couldn’t come home for week-ends very
well, and—

NORWOOD. What are you going to do?

DENNIS (pleasantly). Well, what do you suggest?

NORWOOD (taken aback). Really, sir, I—er—

DENNIS. You see, I feel so out of it all. I’ve been leading such
a nasty, uncivilised life for the last four years, I really hardly
know what is—what is being done. Now you have been
mixing in Society . . . making munitions . . .

NORWOOD (stiffly). I have been engaged on important work
for the Government of a confidential nature—

DENNIS. You, as I was saying, have been mixing in Society,
engaged on important work for the Government of a confidential
nature——

NORWOOD. It was my great regret that I had no opportunity of
enlisting——

DENNIS. With no opportunity, as I was about to say, of
enlisting, but with many opportunities, fortunately, of making love
to my wife.

NORWOOD. Now look here, Mr. Camberley, I’ve already told
you——

DENNIS (soothing him). But, my dear Mr. Norwood, I’m only
doing what you said. I’m looking facts in the face.
(Surprised) You aren’t ashamed of having made love to my
wife, are you?

NORWOOD (impatiently). What are you going to do? That’s
all that matters between you and me. What are you going to do?

DENNIS. Well, that was what I was going to ask you. You’re so
much more in the swim than I am. (Earnestly) What is
being done in Society just now? You must have heard a good deal of
gossip about it. All your friends, who were also engaged on
important work of a confidential nature, with no opportunity of
enlisting—don’t they tell you their own experiences? What
have the husbands been doing lately when they came back from
the front?

NORWOOD (advancing on him angrily). Now, once and for
all, sir——

(KATE comes in, with a hat in each hand, calling to
NORWOOD as she comes.)

KATE. Oh, Cyril—which of these two hats—(she sees
her husband)—Dennis!

DENNIS (looking at her steadfastly). How are you,
Kate?

KATE (stammering). You’ve—you’ve come back? (She
puts the hats down.)

DENNIS. I’ve come back. As I was telling Mr. Norwood.

KATE (looking from one to the other). You—?

DENNIS (smiling). Oh, we’re quite old friends.

NORWOOD (going to her). I’ve told him, Kate.

(He takes her hands, and tries to look defiantly at
DENNIS, though he is not feeling like that at all.)

KATE (looking anxiously at DENNIS). What are you going to
do?

(She can hardly make him out. He is different from the
husband who left her four years ago.)

DENNIS. Well, that’s what Cyril keeps asking me. (To
NORWOOD) You don’t mind my calling you Cyril?—such an old
friend of my wife’s—

KATE (unable to make him out). Dennis! (She is
frightened.)

NORWOOD (soothingly). It’s all right, dear.

DENNIS. Do let’s sit down and talk it over in a friendly
way.

KATE (going to him). Dennis, can you ever forgive me? We
never ought to have got married—we knew each other so
little—you had to go away so soon—I—I was going
to write and tell you—oh, I wish—

DENNIS. That’s all right, Kate. (He will not let her come too
close to him. He steps back and looks at her from head to feet)
You’ve altered.

KATE. That’s just it, Dennis. I’m not the girl who—

DENNIS. You’ve grown four years younger and four years
prettier.

KATE (dropping her eyes). Have I?

DENNIS. Yes. . . . You do your hair a new way.

KATE (surprised). Do you like it?

DENNIS. I love it.

NORWOOD (coughing). Yes, well, perhaps we’d
better—

DENNIS (with a start). I beg your pardon, Cyril. I was
forgetting you for the moment. Well, now do sit down, (NORWOOD
and KATE sit down together on the sofa, but DENNIS
remains standing) That’s right.

KATE. Well?

DENNIS (to KATE). You want to marry him, eh?

NORWOOD. We have already told you the circumstances, Mr.
Camberley. I need hardly say how regrettable it is
that—er—but at the same time
these—er—things will happen, and since
it—er—has happened—

KATE. I feel I hardly know you, Dennis. Did I love you when I
married you? I don’t know. It was so sudden. We had no time to find
out anything about each other. And now you come back—a
stranger—

DENNIS ((jerking his head at NORWOOD). And he’s not a
stranger, eh?

KATE (dropping her eyes). N-no.

DENNIS. You feel you know all about him?

KATE. I—we—(She is unhappy.)

NORWOOD. We have discovered that we love each other. (Taking
her hands) My darling one, this is distressing for you. Let
me—

DENNIS (sharply). It wouldn’t be distressing for her, if
you didn’t keep messing her about. Why the devil can’t you sit on a
chair by yourself?

NORWOOD (indignantly). Really!

KATE (freeing herself from him, and moving to the extreme end
of the sofa). What are you going to do, Dennis?

DENNIS (looking at them thoughtfully, his chin on his
hand). I don’t know. . . . It’s difficult. I don’t want to do
anything melodramatic. I mean (to KATE) it wouldn’t really
help matters if I did shoot him, would it?

(KATE looks at him without saying anything, trying to
understand this new man who has come into her life. NORWOOD
swallows, and tries very hard to say something)

NORWOOD. I—I—

DENNIS (turning to him). You don’t think so, do you?

NORWOOD. I—I—

DENNIS. No, I’m quite sure you’re right. It wouldn’t really
help. It is difficult, isn’t it? You see (to KATE)
you love him—(he waits a moment for her to
say it if she will, but she only looks at him)—and
he says he loves you, but at the same time I
am your husband. . . . (He walks up and down
thoughtfully, and then says suddenly to NORWOOD) I’ll tell you
what—I’ll fight you for her.

NORWOOD (trying to be firm). I think we’d better leave
this eighteenth-century nonsense out of it.

DENNIS (pleasantly). They fight in the twentieth century,
too, Mr. Norwood. Perhaps you hadn’t heard what we’ve been doing
these last four years? Oh, quite a lot of it. . . . Well?

NORWOOD. You don’t wish me to believe that you’re serious?

DENNIS. Perfectly. Swords, pistols, fists,
catch-as-catch-can—what would you like?

NORWOOD. I do not propose to indulge in an undignified scuffle
for the—er—lady of my heart.

DENNIS (cheerfully). Nothing doing in scuffles, eh? All
right, then, I’ll toss you for her.

NORWOOD. Now you’re merely being vulgar. (To KATE) My
dear—

(She motions him back with her hand, but does not take her
eyes off DENNIS.)

DENNIS. Really, Mr. Norwood, you’re a little hard to please. If
you don’t like my suggestions, perhaps you will make one of your
own.

NORWOOD. This is obviously a matter in which it is for
the—er—lady to choose.

DENNIS. You think Mrs. Camberley should choose between us?

NORWOOD. Certainly.

DENNIS. What do you say, Kate?

KATE. You are very generous, Dennis.

DENNIS (after a pause). Very well, you shall choose.

NORWOOD (complacently). Ah!

DENNIS. Wait a moment, Mr. Norwood. (To KATE) When did
you first meet him?

KATE. A year ago.

DENNIS. And he’s been making love to you for a year? (KATE
bends her head) He’s been making love to you for a year?

NORWOOD. I think, sir, that the sooner the lady makes her
choice, and brings this distressing scene to a close—After
all, is it fair to her to—?

DENNIS. Are you fair to me? You’ve been making love to
her for a year. I made love to her for a
fort-night—four years ago. And now you want her to choose
between us. Is that fair?

NORWOOD. You hardly expect us to wait a year before she is
allowed to make up her mind?

DENNIS. I waited four years for her out there. . . . However, I
won’t ask you to wait a year. I’ll ask you to wait for five
minutes.

KATE. What is it you want us to do, Dennis?

DENNIS. I want you to listen to both of us, for five minutes
each; that’s all. After all, we’re your suitors,
aren’t we? You’re going to choose between us. Very well, then, you
must hear what we have to say. Mr.
Norwood shall have five minutes alone with you in which to present
his case; five minutes in which to
tell you how beautiful you are. . .and how rich he is . . . and how
happy you’ll be together. And I shall
have my five minutes.

NORWOOD (sneering). Five minutes in which to tell her
lies about me, eh?

DENNIS. Damn it, you’ve had a whole year in which to tell her
lies about yourself; you oughtn’t to grudge me five minutes.
(To KATE) Well?

KATE. I agree, Dennis.

DENNIS. Good. (He spins a coin, puts it on the back of his
hand, and says to NORWOOD) Call!

NORWOOD. What on earth—

DENNIS. Choice of innings.

NORWOOD. I never heard of anything so—Tails.

DENNIS (uncovering it). Heads. You shall have first
knock.

NORWOOD (bewildered). What do you—I
don’t—

DENNIS. You have five minutes in which to lay your case before
Mrs. Camberley. (He looks at his watch) Five
minutes—and then I shall come back. . . . Is there a fire in
the dining-room, Kate?

KATE (smiling in spite of herself). A gas-fire; it isn’t
lit.

DENNIS. Then I shall light it. (To NORWOOD) That will
make the room nice and warm for you by the time you’ve finished.
(He goes to the door and says again) Five minutes.

(There is an awkward silence after he is gone. KATE
waits for NORWOOD to say something, but NORWOOD
doesn’t know in the least what is expected of him.)

NORWOOD (looking anxiously at the door). What’s the
fellow’s game, eh?

KATE. Game?

NORWOOD. Yes. What’s he up to?

KATE. Is he up to anything?

NORWOOD. I don’t like it. Why the devil did he choose to-day to
come back? If he’d waited another week, we’d have been safely away
together. What’s his game, I wonder?

(He walks up and down, worrying it out.)

KATE. I don’t think he’s playing a game. He’s just giving me my
chance.

NORWOOD. What chance?

KATE. A chance to decide between you.

NORWOOD. You’ve decided that, Kate. You’ve had a year to think
about it in, and you’ve decided. We love each other; you’re coming
away with me; that’s all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he
up to?

KATE (sitting down and talking to herself). You’re quite
right about my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage
in those early days of the war—knowing nothing about each
other. And then they come back, and even the little one thought one
did know is different. . . . I suppose he feels the same about
me.

NORWOOD (to himself). Damn him!

KATE (after a pause). Well, Cyril?

NORWOOD (looking sharply round at her). Well?

KATE. We haven’t got very long.

NORWOOD (looking at his watch). He really means to come
back—in five minutes?

KATE. You heard him say so.

NORWOOD (going up to her and speaking eagerly). What’s
the matter with slipping out now? You’ve got a hat here. We can
slip out quietly. He won’t hear us. He’ll come back and find us
gone—well, what can he do? Probably he’ll hang about for a
bit and then go to his club. We’ll have a bit of dinner; ring up
your maid; get her to meet you with some things, and go off by the
night mail. Scotland—anywhere you like. Let the whole
business simmer down a bit. We don’t want any melodramatic
eighteenth-century nonsense.

KATE. Go out now, and not wait for him to have his five
minutes?

NORWOOD (impatiently). What does he want with five
minutes? What’s the good of it to him? Just to take a
pathetic farewell of you, and pretend that you’ve ruined his life,
when all the time he’s chuckling in his sleeve at having got rid of
you so easily. I know these young fellows. Some Major’s wife
in India is what he’s got his eye on. . . . Or else he’ll
try fooling around with the hands-up business. You don’t want to be
mixed up with any scandal of that sort. No, the best thing
we can do—I’m speaking for your sake, Kate—is to
slip off quietly, while we’ve got the chance. We can write
and explain all that we want to explain.

KATE (looking wonderingly at him—another man whom she
doesn’t know). Is that playing quite fair to Dennis?

NORWOOD. Good Lord, this isn’t a game! Camberley may think so
with his tossing-up and all the rest of it, but you and I aren’t
children. Everything’s fair in a case like this. Put your hat
on—quickly—(he gets it for her)—here you
are—

KATE (standing up). I’m not sure, Cyril.

NORWOOD. What d’you mean?

KATE. He expects me to wait for him.

NORWOOD. If it comes to that, he expected you to wait for him
four years ago.

KATE. Yes. . . . (Quietly) Thank you for reminding
me.

NORWOOD. Kate, don’t be stupid. What’s happened to you? Of
course, I know it’s been beastly upsetting for you, all
this—but then, why do you want to go on with it? Why do you
want more upsetting scenes?

You’ve got a chance now of getting out of it all,
and—(He looks at his watch) Good Lord!

KATE. Is the five minutes over?

NORWOOD. Quick, quick! (He puts his fingers to his lips)
Quietly. (He walks on tiptoe to the door.)

KATE. Cyril!

NORWOOD. H’sh!

KATE (sitting down again). It’s no good, Cyril, I must
wait for him.

(The door opens, and NORWOOD starts back quickly
as DENNIS comes in.)

DENNIS (looking at his watch). Innings declared closed.
(To NORWOOD) The dining-room is nicely warmed now, and I’ve
left you an evening paper.

NORWOOD (going to KATE). Look here, Mr. Camberley, Kate
and I—

DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley, no doubt, will tell me.

(He holds the door open and waits politely for NORWOOD
to go.)

NORWOOD. I don’t know what your game is—

DENNIS. You’ve never been in Mesopotamia, Mr. Norwood?

NORWOOD. Never.

DENNIS. It’s a very trying place for the temper. . . . I’m
waiting for you.

NORWOOD (irresolute). Well, I—— (He comes
sulkily to the door) Well, I shall come back for Kate in five
minutes.

DENNIS. Mrs. Camberley and I will be ready for you. You know
your way?

[NORWOOD goes out.

(DENNIS shuts the door. He comes into the room and stands
looking at KATE.)

KATE (uncomfortably). Well?

DENNIS. No, don’t move. I just want to look at you. . . . I’ve
seen you like that for four years. Don’t move. . . . I’ve been in
some dreary places, but you’ve been with me most of the time. Just
let’s have a last look.

KATE. A last look?

DENNIS. Yes.

KATE. You’re saying good-bye to me?

DENNIS. I don’t know whether it’s to you, Kate. To the girl who
has been with me these last four years. Was that you?

KATE (dropping her eyes). I don’t know, Dennis.

DENNIS. I wish to God I wasn’t your husband.

KATE. What would you do if you weren’t my husband?

DENNIS. Make love to you.

KATE. Can’t you do that now?

DENNIS. Being your husband rather handicaps me, you know. I
never really stood a chance against the other fellow.

KATE. I was to choose between you, you said. You think that I
have already made up my mind?

DENNIS (smiling). I think so.

KATE. And chosen him?

DENNIS (shaking his head). Oh, no!

KATE (surprised). You think I have chosen you?

DENNIS (nodding). M’m.

KATE (indignantly). Really, Dennis! Considering that I
had practically arranged to run away with him twenty minutes ago!
You must think me very fickle.

DENNIS. Not fickle. Imaginative.

KATE. What do you mean? And why are you so certain that I am
going to choose you? And why in that case did you talk about taking
a last look at me? And what—?

DENNIS. Of course, we’ve only got five minutes, but I think that
if you asked your questions one at a time——

KATE (smiling). Well, you needn’t answer them all
together.

DENNIS. All right then, one at a time. Why am I certain that you
will choose me? Because for the first time in your life you have
just been alone with Mr. Cyril Norwood. That’s what I meant by
saying you were imaginative. The Norwood you’ve been thinking
yourself in love with doesn’t exist. I’m certain that you’ve seen
him for the first time in these last few minutes. Why, the
Archangel Gabriel would have made a hash of a five minutes like
that; it would have been impossible for him to have said the right
thing to you. Norwood? Good Lord, he didn’t stand a chance. You
were judging him all the time, weren’t you?

KATE (thoughtfully). You’re very clever, Dennis.

DENNIS (cheerfully). Four years’ study of the Turkish
character.

KATE. But how do you know I’m not judging you all the
time?

DENNIS. Of course you are. But there’s all the difference in the
world between judging a stranger like me, and judging the man you
thought you were in love with.

KATE. You are a stranger to me.

DENNIS. I know. That’s why I said good-bye to the girl who had
been with me these last four years, the girl I had married. Well,
I’ve said good-bye to her. You’re not my wife any longer, Kate; but
if you don’t mind pretending that I’m not your husband, and just
give me a chance of making love to you—well, that’s all I
want.

KATE. You’re very generous, Dennis.

DENNIS. No, I’m not. I’m very much in love; and for a man very
much in love I’m being rather less of a silly ass than usual. Why
should you love me? You fell in love with my uniform at the
beginning of the war. I was ordered out, and you fell in love with
the departing hero. After that? Well, I had four
years—alone—in which to think about you, and you
had four years—with other men—in which to forget
me. Is it any wonder that—?

(NORWOOD comes in.)

NORWOOD (roughly). Well?

DENNIS. You arrive just in time, Mr. Norwood. I was talking too
much. (To KATE) Mrs. Camberley, we are both at your
disposal. Will you choose between us, which one is to have the
happiness of—serving you?

NORWOOD (holding out his hand to her, and speaking in the
voice of the proprietor). Kate!

(KATE goes slowly up to him with her hand held out.)

KATE (shaking NORWOOD’S hand). Good-bye, Mr.
Norwood.

NORWOOD (astounded). Kate! (To DENNIS) You
devil!

DENNIS. And only a moment ago I was comparing you to the
Archangel Gabriel.

NORWOOD (sneeringly to KATE). So you’re going to be a
loving wife to him after all?

DENNIS (tapping him kindly on the shoulder). You’ll
remember what I said about Mesopotamia?

NORWOOD (pulling himself together hastily). Good-bye,
Mrs. Camberley. I can only hope that you will be happy.

(He goes out with dignity.)

DENNIS (closing the door). Well, there we agree.

(He comes back to her.)

KATE. What a stupid little fool I have been. (She holds out
her arms to him) Dennis!

DENNIS (retreating in mock alarm). Oh no, you don’t!
(He shakes a finger at her) We’re not going to rush it
this time.

KATE (reproachfully). Dennis!

DENNIS. I think you should call me Mr. Camberley.

KATE (with a smile). Mr. Camberley.

DENNIS. That’s better. Now our courtship begins. (Bowing
low) Madam, will you do me the great honour of dining with me
this evening?

KATE (curtseying). I shall be charmed.

DENNIS. Then let us hasten. The carriage waits.

KATE (holding up the two hats). Which of these two
chapeaux do you prefer, Mr. Camberley?

DENNIS. Might I express a preference for the black one with the
pink roses?

KATE. It is very elegant, is it not? (She puts it
on.)

DENNIS. Vastly becoming, upon my life. . . . I might mention
that I am staying at the club. Is your ladyship doing anything
to-morrow?

KATE. Nothing of any great importance.

(He offers his arm and she takes it.)

DENNIS (as they go to the door). Then perhaps I may be
permitted to call round to-morrow morning about eleven, and make
inquiries as to your ladyship’s health.

KATE. It would be very obliging of you, sir.

[They go out together.

THE ROMANTIC AGE

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

CHARACTERS

THE ROMANTIC AGE

ACT I

We are looking at the inner hall of MR. HENRY KNOWLE’S
country house, at about 9.15 of a June evening. There are doors
R. and L.—on the right leading to the drawing-room, on the
left to the entrance hall, the dining-room and the library. At the
back are windows—French windows on the right, then an
interval of wall, then casement windows.

MRS. HENRY KNOWLE, her daughter, MELISANDE, and her
niece, JANE BAGOT, are waiting for their coffee, MRS.
KNOWLE, short and stoutish, is reclining on the sofa; JANE,
pleasant-looking and rather obviously pretty, is sitting in a
chair near her, glancing at a book; MELISANDE, the
beautiful, the romantic, is standing by the open French windows,
gazing into the night.

ALICE, the parlourmaid, comes in with the coffee. She stands
in front of MRS. KNOWLE, a little embarrassed because
MRS. KNOWLE’S eyes are closed. She waits there until JANE
looks up from her book.

JANE. Aunt Mary, dear, are you having coffee?

MRS. KNOWLE (opening her eyes with a start). Coffee. Oh,
yes, coffee. Jane, put the milk in for me. And no sugar. Dr.
Anderson is very firm about that. “No sugar, Mrs. Knowle,” he said.
“Oh, Dr. Anderson!” I said.

(ALICE has taken the tray to JANE, who pours out her
own and her aunt’s coffee, and takes her cup off the tray.)

JANE. Thank you.

(ALICE takes the tray to MRS. KNOWLE.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you.

(ALICE goes over to MELISANDE, who says nothing, but
waves her away.)

MRS. KNOWLE (as soon as ALICE is gone). Jane!

JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary?

MRS. KNOWLE. Was my mouth open?

JANE. Oh, no, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, I’m glad of that. It’s so bad for the servants.
(She finishes her coffee.)

JANE (getting up). Shall I put it down for you?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear.

(JANE puts the two cups down and goes back to her book.
MRS. KNOWLE fidgets a little on her sofa.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy! (There is no answer) Sandy!

JANE. Melisande!

(MELISANDE turns round and comes slowly towards her
mother.)

MELISANDE. Did you call me, Mother?

MRS. KNOWLE. Three times, darling. Didn’t you hear me?

MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother, I was thinking of other
things.

MRS. KNOWLE. You think too much, dear. You remember what the
great poet tells us. “Do noble things, not dream them all day
long.” Tennyson, wasn’t it? I know I wrote it in your album for you
when you were a little girl. It’s so true.

MELISANDE. Kingsley, Mother, not Tennyson.

JANE (nodding). Kingsley, that’s right.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it’s the same thing. I know when my
mother used to call me I used to come running up, saying, “What is
it, Mummy, darling?” And even if it was anything upstairs, like a
handkerchief or a pair of socks to be mended, I used to trot off
happily, saying to myself, “Do noble things, not dream them all day
long.”

MELISANDE. I am sorry, Mother. What is the noble thing you want
doing?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well now, you see, I’ve forgotten. If only you’d
come at once, dear—

MELISANDE. I was looking out into the night. It’s a wonderful
night. Midsummer Night.

MRS. KNOWLE. Midsummer Night. And now I suppose the days will
start drawing in, and we shall have winter upon us before we know
where we are. All these changes of the seasons are very
inconsiderate to an invalid. Ah, now I remember what I wanted,
dear. Can you find me another cushion? Dr. Anderson considers it
most important that the small of the back should be well supported
after a meal. (Indicating the place) Just here, dear.

JANE (jumping up with the cushion from her chair). Let
me, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, Jane. Just here, please. JANE
arranges it.)

JANE. Is that right?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you, dear. I only do it for Dr. Anderson’s
sake.

(JANE goes back to her book and MELISANDE goes back to
her Midsummer Night. There is silence for a little.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy . . . Sandy!

JANE. Melisande!

MELISANDE (coming patiently down to them). Yes,
Mother?

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Sandy, I’ve just remembered—(MELISANDE
shudders.) What is it, darling child? Are you cold? That
comes of standing by the open window in a treacherous climate like
this. Close the window and come and sit down properly.

MELISANDE. It’s a wonderful night, Mother. Midsummer Night. I’m
not cold.

MRS. KNOWLE. But you shuddered. I distinctly saw you shudder.
Didn’t you see her, Jane?

JANE. I’m afraid I wasn’t looking, Aunt Mary.

MELISANDE. I didn’t shudder because I was cold. I shuddered
because you will keep calling me by that horrible name. I shudder
every time I hear it.

MRS. KNOWLE (surprised). What name, Sandy?

MELISANDE. There it is again. Oh, why did you christen me by
such a wonderful, beautiful, magical name as Melisande, if you were
going to call me Sandy?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, as I think I’ve told you, that was a
mistake of your father’s. I suppose he got it out of some book. I
should certainly never have agreed to it, if I had heard him
distinctly. I thought he said Millicent—after your Aunt
Milly. And not being very well at the time, and leaving it all to
him, I never really knew about it until it was too late to do
anything. I did say to your father, “Can’t we christen her again?”
But there was nothing in the prayer book about it except “riper
years,” and nobody seemed to know when riper years began. Besides,
we were all calling you Sandy then. I think Sandy is a very pretty
name, don’t you, Jane?

JANE. Oh, but don’t you think Melisande is beautiful, Aunt Mary?
I mean really beautiful.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it never seems to me quite respectable, not
for a nicely-brought-up young girl in a Christian house. It makes
me think of the sort of person who meets a strange young man to
whom she has never been introduced, and talks to him in a forest
with her hair coming down. They find her afterwards floating in a
pool. Not at all the thing one wants for one’s daughter.

JANE. Oh, but how thrilling it sounds!

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I think you are safer with “Jane,” dear. Your
mother knew what she was about. And if I can save my only child
from floating in a pool by calling her Sandy, I certainly think it
is my duty to do so.

MELISANDE (to her self ecstatically). Melisande!

MRS. KNOWLE (to MELISANDE). Oh, and talking about
floating in a pool reminds me about the bread-sauce at dinner
to-night. You heard what your father said? You must give cook a
good talking to in the morning. She has been getting very careless
lately. I don’t know what’s come over her.

MELISANDE. I’ve come over her. When you were over
her, everything was all right. You know all about housekeeping; you
take an interest in it. I don’t. I hate it. How can you expect the
house to be run properly when they all know I hate it? Why did you
ever give it up and make me do it when you know how I hate it?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, you must learn not to hate it. I’m sure Jane
here doesn’t hate it, and her mother is always telling me what a
great help she is.

MELISANDE (warningly). It’s no good your saying you like
it, Jane, after what you told me yesterday.

JANE. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t make me miserable doing
it. But then I’m different. I’m not romantic like Melisande.

MELISANDE. One doesn’t need to be very romantic not to want to
talk about bread-sauce. Bread-sauce on a night like this!

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I’m only thinking of you, Sandy, not of
myself. If I thought about myself I should disregard all the
warnings that Dr. Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on
doing the housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to
think of you. I want to see you married to some nice, steady young
man before I die—my handkerchief, Jane—(JANE gets up
and gives her her handkerchief from the other end of the
sofa)—before I die (she touches her eyes with her
handkerchief), and no nice young man will want to marry you, if
you haven’t learnt how to look after his house for him.

MELISANDE (contemptuously). If that’s marriage, I shall
never get married.

JANE (shocked). Melisande, darling!

MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to
make me more cheerful, “Why, Mrs. Knowle,” he said, “you’ll live
another hundred years yet.” “Dr. Anderson,” I said, “I don’t
want to live another hundred years. I only want to live
until my dear daughter, Melisande”—I didn’t say Sandy to him
because it seemed rather familiar—”I only want to live until
my daughter Melisande is happily married to some nice, steady young
man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson,” I said, “and I shall be your
lifelong debtor.” He promised to do his best. It was then that he
mentioned about the cushion in the small of the back after meals.
And so don’t forget to tell cook about the bread-sauce, will you,
dear?

MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother.

MRS. KNOWLE. That’s right. I like a man to be interested in his
food. I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper
interest in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been
married some years, and told each other everything you did and saw
before you met, there isn’t really anything to talk about at meals
except food. And you must talk; I hope you will both remember that.
Nothing breaks up the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course,
breakfast doesn’t matter, because he has his paper then; and after
you have said, “Is there anything in the paper, dear?” and he has
said, “No,” then he doesn’t expect anything more. I wonder
sometimes why they go on printing the newspapers. I’ve been married
twenty years, and there has never been anything in the paper
yet.

MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage
like that. Wasn’t there ever any kind of romance between you
and Father? Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn’t there ever one
magic Midsummer morning when you saw suddenly “a livelier emerald
twinkle in the grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea”? Wasn’t
there ever one passionate ecstatic moment when “once he drew with
one long kiss my whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh
dew”? Or did you talk about bread-sauce all the time?

JANE (eagerly). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn’t very much to tell. I am
quite sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that,
as Sandy suggests, and it wasn’t by the sea at all, it was at
Surbiton. He used to come down from London with his racquet and
play tennis with us. And then he would stay on to supper sometimes,
and then after supper we would go into the garden together—it
was quite dark then, but everything smelt so beautifully, I shall
always remember it—and we talked, oh, I don’t know what
about, but I knew somehow that I should marry him one day. I don’t
think he knew—he wasn’t sure—and then he came to
a subscription dance one evening—I think Mother, your
grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because
she was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me
upstairs again before we started, because I hadn’t got the right
pair of shoes on—rather a tight pair—however, I put
them on. And there was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our
last dance together, and he said, “Shall we sit it out, Miss
Bagot?” Well, of course, I was only too glad to, and we sat it out
in the hansom, driving all round Surbiton, and what your
grandmother would have said I don’t know, but, of course, I never
told her. And when we got home after the dance, I went up to her
room—as soon as I’d got my shoes off—and said, “Mother,
I have some wonderful news for you,” and she said, “Not Mr.
Knowle—Henry?” and I said, “‘M,” rather bright-eyed you know,
and wanting to cry. And she said, “Oh, my darling child!”
and—Jane, where’s my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the
sofa and JANE picks it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs
her eyes) Well, that’s really all, you know, except
that—(she dabs her eyes again)—I’m afraid I’m
feeling rather overcome. I’m sure Dr. Anderson would say it was
very bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane,
dear, why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and
compose myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don’t
know what I should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins
to get up) And after calling me a Spartan Mother only
yesterday, because I said that if any nice, steady young man came
along and took my own dear little girl away from me, I should bear
the terrible wrench in silence rather than cause either of them a
moment’s remorse. (She is up now) There!

JANE. Shall I come with you?

MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a
little. (She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps
later on, when the men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you
might join me, with your Uncle Henry—if the opportunity
occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of course.

[She goes.

JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always
seems so queer that one’s mother and aunts and people should have
had their romances too.

MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and
subscription dances and wearing tight shoes?

JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of
course, but you know what I mean.

MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which
mother has just told us, and compare it with any of the
love-stories of history. Isn’t it pitiful, Jane, that people should
be satisfied now with so little?

JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don’t think Aunt
Mary—

MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost
everywhere nowadays. There is no romance left.

JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I
do agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is
no—(she searches for the right word)—no
romance left.

MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one
shudder.

JANE (doing her best). Positively shudder!

MELISANDE. He meets Her at—(she shudders)—a
subscription dance, or a tennis party—(she shudders
again) or—at golf. He calls upon her
mother—perhaps in a top hat—perhaps (tragically)
even in a bowler hat.

JANE. A bowler hat! One shudders.

MELISANDE. Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his
income—discovers that he is a nice, steady young
man—and decides that he shall marry her daughter. He is asked
to come again, he is invited to parties; it is understood that he
is falling in love with the daughter. The rest of the family are
encouraged to leave them alone together—if the opportunity
occurs, Jane. (Contemptuously) But, of course, only if it
occurs.

JANE (awkwardly). Yes, dear.

MELISANDE. One day he proposes to her.

JANE (to herself ecstatically). Oh!

MELISANDE. He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she
takes to be a proposal. She goes and tells Mother. He goes and
tells Father. They are engaged. They talk about each other as “my
fiancé.” Perhaps they are engaged for months and
months—

JANE. Years and years sometimes, Melisande.

MELISANDE. For years and years—and wherever they go,
people make silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if
they go into a room where the two of them are. And then they get
married at last, and everybody comes and watches them get married,
and makes more silly jokes, and they go away for what they call a
honeymoon, and they tell everybody—they shout it out in the
newspapers—where they are going for their honeymoon;
and then they come back and start talking about bread-sauce. Oh,
Jane, it’s horrible.

JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what
would you?

MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah,
what would I, Jane?

JANE. Because you see, Sandy—I mean Melisande—you
see, darling, this is the twentieth century, and—

MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath
my lattice window.

JANE. I know, dear. But of course they don’t
nowadays.

MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself,
I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a
gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose—perhaps just
a rose.

JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily
hand to him? (She waves one) I mean, wouldn’t it be
rather—you know. Rather forward.

MELISANDE. Forward!

JANE (upset). Well, I mean—Well, of course, I
suppose it was different in those days.

MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else
could he wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?

JANE. Well, of course, there is that.

MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he
comes back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a
rope—for I have been immured in my room—and I let
myself down to him. He places me on the saddle in front of him, and
we ride forth together into the world—together for
always!

JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get married,
I suppose, darling, or do you—er—

MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good
priest marries us.

JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes.

MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince
from Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a
country which is sorely troubled by a dragon.

JANE. By a what, dear?

MELISANDE. A dragon.

JANE. Oh, yes, of course.

MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his
kingdom to anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens
to be passing through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the
dragon devours him.

JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn’t the one?

MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused
no emotion in my heart.

JANE. Oh, I’m so glad.

MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes
upon the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed.

JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow

MELISANDE. And then one evening a beautiful and modest youth in
blue and gold appears at my father’s court, and begs that he too be
allowed to try his fortune with the dragon. Passing through the
great hall on my way to my bed-chamber, I see him suddenly. Our
eyes meet. . . . Oh, Jane!

JANE. Darling! . . . You ought to have lived in those days,
Melisande. They would have suited you so well.

MELISANDE. Will they never come back again?

JANE. Well, I don’t quite see how they can. People don’t dress
in blue and gold nowadays. I mean men.

MELISANDE. No. (She sighs) Well, I suppose I shall never
marry.

JANE. Of course, I’m not romantic like you, darling, and I don’t
have time to read all the wonderful books you read, and though I
quite agree with everything you say, and of course it must have
been thrilling to have lived in those wonderful old days, still
here we are, and (with a wave of the hand)—and what I
mean is—here we are.

MELISANDE. You are content to put romance out of your life, and
to make the ordinary commonplace marriage?

JANE. What I mean is, that it wouldn’t be commonplace if it was
the right man. Some nice, clean-looking Englishman—I don’t
say beautiful—pleasant, and good at games, dependable, not
very clever perhaps, but making enough money——

MELISANDE (carelessly). It sounds rather like Bobby.

JANE (confused). It isn’t like Bobby, or any one else
particularly. It’s just anybody. It wasn’t any particular person. I
was just describing the sort of man without thinking of any one
in——

MELISANDE. All right, dear, all right.

JANE. Besides, we all know Bobby’s devoted to you.

MELISANDE (firmly). Now, look here, Jane, I warn you
solemnly that if you think you are going to leave me and Bobby
alone together this evening—— (Voices are heard
outside.) Well, I warn you.

JANE (in a whisper). Of course not, darling. (With
perfect tact) And, as I was saying, Melisande, it was quite the
most——Ah, here you are at last! We wondered what had
happened to you!

Enter BOBBY and MR. KNOWLE. JANE has already
described BOBBY for us. MR. KNOWLE is a pleasant,
middle-aged man with a sense of humour, which he cultivates for his
own amusement entirely.

BOBBY. Were you very miserable without us? (He goes towards
them.)

JANE (laughing). Very.

(MELISANDE gets up as BOBBY comes, and moves
away.)

MR. KNOWLE. Where’s your Mother, Sandy?

MELISANDE. In the dining-room, I think, Father.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! Resting, no doubt. By the way, you won’t forget
what I said about the bread-sauce, will you?

MELISANDE. You don’t want it remembered, Father, do you? What
you said?

MR. KNOWLE. Not the actual words. All I want, my dear, is that
you should endeavour to explain to the cook the difference between
bread-sauce and a bread-poultice. Make it clear to her that there
is no need to provide a bread-poultice with an obviously healthy
chicken, such as we had to-night, but that a properly made
bread-sauce is a necessity, if the full flavour of the bird is to
be obtained.

MELISANDE. “Full flavour of the bird is to be obtained.” Yes,
Father.

MR. KNOWLE. That’s right, my dear. Bring it home to her. A
little quiet talk will do wonders. Well, and so it’s Midsummer
Night. Why aren’t you two out in the garden looking for
fairies?

BOBBY. I say, it’s a topping night, you know. We ought to be
out. D’you feel like a stroll, Sandy?

MELISANDE. No, thank you, Bobby, I don’t think I’ll go out.

BOBBY. Oh, I say, it’s awfully warm.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, Jane, I shall take you out. If we meet
any of Sandy’s fairy friends, you can introduce me.

MELISANDE (looking across warningly at her).
Jane——

JANE (awkwardly). I’m afraid, Uncle Henry, that Melisande
and I—I promised Sandy—we——

MR. KNOWLE (putting her arm firmly through his).
Nonsense. I’m not going to have my niece taken away from me, when
she is only staying with us for such a short time. Besides I insist
upon being introduced to Titania. I want to complain about the
rings on the tennis-lawn. They must dance somewhere else.

JANE (looking anxiously at MELISANDE). You see, Uncle
Henry, I’m not feeling very——

MELISANDE (resigned) All right, Jane.

JANE (brightly). All right, Uncle Henry.

MR. KNOWLE (very brightly). It’s all right, Bobby.

JANE. Come along! (They go to the open windows
together.)

MR. KNOWLE (as they go). Any message for Oberon, if we
meet him?

MELISANDE (gravely). No, thank you, Father.

MR. KNOWLE. It’s his turn to write, I suppose.

(JANE laughs as they go out together.)

(Left alone, MELISANDE takes up a book and goes to the
sofa with it, while BOBBY walks about the room unhappily,
whistling to himself. He keeps looking across at her, and at last
their eyes meet.)

MELISANDE (putting down her book). Well, Bobby?

BOBBY (awkwardly). Well, Sandy?

MELISANDE (angrily). Don’t call me that; you know how I
hate it.

BOBBY. Sorry. Melisande. But it’s such a dashed mouthful. And
your father was calling you Sandy just now, and you didn’t say
anything.

MELISANDE. One cannot always control one’s parents. There comes
a time when it is almost useless to say things to them.

BOBBY (eagerly). I never mind your saying things to
me, Sandy—I mean, Melisande. I never shall mind,
really I shan’t. Of course, I know I’m not worthy of you, and all
that, but—I say, Melisande, isn’t there any hope?

MELISANDE. Bobby, I asked you not to talk to me like that
again.

BOBBY (coming to her). I know you did, but I must. I
can’t believe that you—

MELISANDE. I told you that, if you promised not to talk like
that again, then I wouldn’t tell anybody anything about it, so that
it shouldn’t be awkward for you. And I haven’t told anybody, not
even Jane, to whom I tell all my secrets. Most men, when they
propose to a girl, and she refuses them, have to go right out of
the country and shoot lions; it’s the only thing left for them to
do. But I did try and make it easy for you, Bobby.
(Sadly) And now you’re beginning all over again.

BOBBY (awkwardly). I though perhaps you might have
changed your mind. Lots of girls do.

MELISANDE (contemptuously). Lots of girls! Is that how
you think of me?

BOBBY. Well, your mother said—(He breaks off
hurriedly.)

MELISANDE (coldly). Have you been discussing me with my
mother?

BOBBY. I say, Sandy, don’t be angry. Sorry; I mean
Melisande.

MELISANDE. Don’t apologise. Go on.

BOBBY. Well, I didn’t discuss you with your mother. She
just happened to say that girls never knew their own minds, and
that they always said “No” the first time, and that I needn’t be
downhearted, because—

MELISANDE. That you needn’t? You mean you told
her?

BOBBY. Well, it sort of came out.

MELISANDE. After I had promised that I wouldn’t say anything,
you went and told her! And then I suppose you went and told
the cook, and she said that her brother’s young woman was
just the same, and then you told the butcher, and he said,
“You stick to it, sir. All women are alike. My missis said ‘No’ to
me the first time.” And then you went and told the
gardeners—I suppose you had all the gardeners together in the
potting-shed, and gave them a lecture about it—and when you
had told them, you said, “Excuse me a moment, I must now go and
tell the postman,” and then—

BOBBY. I say, steady; you know that isn’t fair.

MELISANDE. Oh, what a world!

BOBBY. I say, you know that isn’t fair.

MELISANDE (picking up her book). Father and Jane are
outside, Bobby, if you have anything you wish to tell them. But I
suppose they know already. (She pretends to read.)

BOBBY. I say, you know—(He doesn’t quite know what to
say. There is an awkward silence. Then he says humbly) I’m
awfully sorry, Melisande. Please forgive me.

MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). That’s nice of you,
Bobby. Please forgive me. I wasn’t fair.

BOBBY. I swear I never said anything to anybody else, only your
mother. And it sort of came out with her. She began talking
about you—

MELISANDE. I know.

BOBBY. But I never told anybody else.

MELISANDE. It wouldn’t be necessary if you told Mother.

BOBBY. I’m awfully sorry, but I really don’t see why you should
mind so much. I mean, I know I’m not anybody very much, but I can’t
help falling in love with you, and—well, it is a sort
of a compliment to you, isn’t it?—even if it’s only me.

MELISANDE. Of course it is, Bobby, and I do thank you for the
compliment. But mixing Mother up in it makes it all so—so
unromantic. (After a pause) Sometimes I think I shall never
marry.

BOBBY. Oh, rot! . . . I say, you do like me, don’t
you?

MELISANDE. Oh yes. You are a nice, clean-looking
Englishman—I don’t say beautiful—

BOBBY. I should hope not!

MELISANDE. Pleasant, good at games, dependable—not very
clever, perhaps, but making enough money—

BOBBY. Well, I mean, that’s not so bad.

MELISANDE. Oh, but I want so much more!

BOBBY. What sort of things?

MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, you’re so—so ordinary!

BOBBY. Well, dash it all, you didn’t want me to be a freak, did
you?

MELISANDE. So—commonplace. So—unromantic.

BOBBY. I say, steady on! I don’t say I’m always reading poetry
and all that, if that’s what you mean by romantic,
but—commonplace! I’m blessed if I see how you make out
that.

MELISANDE. Bobby, I don’t want to hurt your feelings—

BOBBY. Go on, never mind my feelings.

MELISANDE. Well then, look at yourself in the glass!

(BOBBY goes anxiously to the glass, and then pulls at his
clothes.)

BOBBY (looking back at her). Well?

MELISANDE. Well!

BOBBY. I don’t see what’s wrong.

MELISANDE. Oh, Bobby, everything’s wrong. The man to whom I give
myself must be not only my lover, but my true knight, my hero, my
prince. He must perform deeds of derring-do to win my love. Oh, how
can you perform deeds of derring-do in a stupid little suit like
that!

BOBBY (looking at it). What’s the matter with it? It’s
what every other fellow wears.

MELISANDE (contemptuously). What every other fellow
wears! And you think what every other fellow thinks, and talk what
every other fellow talks, and eat what every other—I suppose
you didn’t like the bread-sauce this evening?

BOBBY (guardedly). Well, not as bread-sauce.

MELISANDE (nodding her head). I thought so, I thought
so.

BOBBY (struck by an idea). I say, you didn’t make it, did
you?

MELISANDE. Do I look as if I made it?

BOBBY. I thought perhaps—You know, I really don’t know
what you do want, Sandy. Sorry; I mean—

MELISANDE. Go on calling me Sandy, I’d rather you did.

BOBBY. Well, when you marry this prince of yours, is he
going to do the cooking? I don’t understand you, Sandy, really I
don’t.

MELISANDE (shaking her head gently at him). No, I’m sure
you don’t, Bobby.

BOBBY (still trying, however). I suppose it’s because
he’s doing the cooking that he won’t be able to dress for dinner.
He sounds a funny sort of chap; I should like to see him.

MELISANDE. You wouldn’t understand him if you did see him.

BOBBY (jealously). Have you seen him?

MELISANDE. Only in my dreams.

BOBBY (relieved). Oh, well.

MELISANDE (dreamily to herself). Perhaps I shall never
see him in this world—and then I shall never marry. But if he
ever comes for me, he will come not like other men; and because he
is so different from everybody else, then I shall know him when he
comes for me. He won’t talk about
bread-sauce—billiards—and the money market. He won’t
wear a little black suit, with a little black tie—all
sideways. (BOBBY hastily pulls his tie straight.) I don’t
know how he will be dressed, but I know this, that when I see him,
that when my eyes have looked into his, when his eyes have looked
into mine—

BOBBY. I say, steady!

MELISANDE (waking from her dream). Yes? (She gives a
little laugh) Poor Bobby!

BOBBY (appealingly). I say, Sandy! (He goes up to
her.)

(MRS. KNOWLE has seized this moment to come back for her
handkerchief. She sees them together, and begins to walk out on
tiptoe.)

(They hear her and turn round suddenly.)

MRS. KNOWLE (in a whisper). Don’t take any notice of me.
I only just came for my handkerchief. (She continues to walk on
tiptoe towards the opposite door.)

MELISANDE (getting up). We were just wondering where you
were, Mother. Here’s your handkerchief. (She picks it up from
the sofa.)

MRS. KNOWLE (still in the voice in which you speak to an
invalid). Thank you, dear. Don’t let me interrupt you—I
was just going—

MELISANDE. But I am just going into the garden. Stay and talk to
Bobby, won’t you?

MRS. KNOWLE (with a happy smile, hoping for the best).
Yes, my darling.

MELISANDE (going to the windows). That’s right. (She
stops at the windows and holds out her hands to the
night)—

(She stays there a moment, and then says in a thrilling
voice) In such a night! Ah!

[She goes to it.

MRS. KNOWLE (in a different voice). Ah! . . . Well, Mr.
Coote?

BOBBY (turning back to her with a start).
Oh—er—yes?

MRS. KNOWLE. No, I think I must call you Bobby. I may call you
Bobby, mayn’t I?

BOBBY. Oh, please do, Mrs. Knowle.

MRS. KNOWLE (archly). Not Mrs. Knowle! Can’t you think of
a better name?

BOBBY (wondering if he ought to call her MARY).
Er—I’m—I’m afraid I don’t quite—

MRS. KNOWLE. Mother.

BOBBY. Oh, but I say—

MRS. KNOWLE (giving him her hand). And now come and sit
on the sofa with me, and tell me all about it.

(They go to the sofa together.)

BOBBY. But I say, Mrs. Knowle—

MRS. KNOWLE (shaking a finger playfully at him). Not Mrs.
Knowle, Bobby.

BOBBY. But I say, you mustn’t think—I mean Sandy and
I—we aren’t—

MRS. KNOWLE. You don’t mean to tell me, Mr. Coote, that she has
refused you again.

BOBBY. Yes. I say, I’d much rather not talk about it.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, it just shows you that what I said the other
day was true. Girls don’t know their own minds.

BOBBY (ruefully). I think Sandy knows hers—about
me, anyhow.

MRS. KNOWLE. Mr. Coote, you are forgetting what the poet
said—Shakespeare, or was it the other man?—”Faint heart
never won fair lady.” If Mr. Knowle had had a faint heart, he would
never have won me. Seven times I refused him, and seven times he
came again—like Jacob. The eighth time he drew out a
revolver, and threatened to shoot himself. I was shaking like an
aspen leaf. Suddenly I realised that I loved him. “Henry,” I said,
“I am yours.” He took me in his arms—putting down the
revolver first, of course. I have never regretted my surrender, Mr.
Coote. (With a sigh) Ah, me! We women are strange
creatures.

BOBBY. I don’t believe Sandy would mind if I did shoot
myself.

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, don’t say that, Mr. Coote. She is very
warm-hearted. I’m sure it would upset her a good deal. Oh no, you
are taking too gloomy a view of the situation, I am sure of it.

BOBBY. Well, I shan’t shoot myself, but I shan’t propose to her
again. I know when I’m not wanted.

MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and
I—

BOBBY. I say, I’d much rather not talk about it, if you don’t
mind. I practically promised her that I wouldn’t say anything to
you this time.

MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how
should I know if I were to call you “Bobby,” or not?

BOBBY. Well, of course—I mean I haven’t really said
anything, have I? Nothing she’d really mind. She’s so funny about
things.

MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don’t know where she
gets it from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was
all the result of being christened in that irreligious way—I
quite thought he said Millicent—and reading all those books,
instead of visiting the sick as I used to do. I was quite a little
Red Riding Hood until Henry sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE
and JANE come in by the window, and she turns round
towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was wondering where
you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all about his
prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn’t get your
feet wet, I hope.

JANE. It’s quite dry, Aunt Mary.

MR. KNOWLE. It’s a most beautiful night, my dear. We’ve been
talking to the fairies—haven’t we, Jane?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn’t get cold. Did you see
Sandy?

MR. KNOWLE. We didn’t see any one but Titania—and Peters.
He had an appointment, apparently—but not with Titania.

JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the
morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an
unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a
mistake.

MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about
it as you. He is doing his best to remedy the error.

MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I
have been through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know
about.

MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What’s the matter, my love?
Indigestion?