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TWO PLAYS 
 
 RODERICK'S CAREER 
 GAME! 
 
 BY 
 
 KATHARINE SEARLE 
 
 Boston 
 
 The Four Seas Company 
 
 1920 
 
Copyright, 1920, by 
 The Four Seas Company 
 
 ^p-; 
 
 All rights are expressly reserved. For rights of public per- 
 formance, address the publishers, who are the author's agents. 
 
 The Four Seas Company 
 Boston, Mass, U. S. A. 
 
 
 iCLD 55697 
 
o 
 
 TO 
 
 S. W. 
 
 IN LOVING RECOGNITION 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 
 
CAST 
 
 Roderick Scarsdale 
 
 Cyrilla 
 
 Ann, their child. 
 
 Mrs. Mays (Aunt Ann), Roderick's aunt. 
 
 Imogene, the maid from Jamaica. 
 
 Marian, ) 
 
 Frances, > Roderick's friends. 
 
 Gladys, ) 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 
 
 Scene: throughout the play, the study in Roderick's house. 
 Roderick is a student, therefore the books. Roderick 
 is an artist, therefore pictures finished and unfinished 
 hang about the room, some by Roderick, some by other 
 people. Roderick is also a man of taste, therefore the 
 furniture is fine, not profuse, not absurdly rare and 
 costly. The wall-papers only an artist could have 
 chosen, the hangings likewise. It is a characteristic 
 room. Only some one with a definite taste and a defi- 
 nite, or perhaps I had better say an aspiring personality, 
 has furnished it, for Roderick is still aspiring. He is 
 not yet definite. 
 
 There is a fireplace at right, and long windows out 
 onto a terrace at the back. What can be seen of 
 the garden is bright and formal. At the left is 
 a door which leads into the stair-hall. The front door 
 can be seen when this door is left open, also part of the 
 flight of stairs. There is another door which leads into 
 the dining-room at the right, above the fireplace. A 
 fiat-topped desk in mahogany with claw feet stands in 
 the middle of the room, with its left end up toward the 
 windows. At its right end, facing the audience, a fine 
 antique sofa. At the upper end of the fire-place stands 
 a large leather-upholstered arm-chair with bandy legs. 
 There is a gate-legged tea-table up stage to the left of 
 the French windows. There is a lyre-backed chair 
 behind the tea-table, and several more of the same sort 
 about the walls. To the right of the window there is 
 a light stand, with a picture, a few books and a vase of 
 
 9 
 
io TWO PLAYS 
 
 flowers. Rare books under glass, and a beautiful 
 carved chest, down left. 
 It is spring of any year. The house stands in one of the 
 Hudson suburbs of New York. 
 
 When we first see the room, it appears to be full of ladies. 
 There are only four, but in a small room, four ladies, 
 very well and expensively dressed, are quite a crowd. 
 The clothes are certainly expensive, but that does not 
 necessarily mean that the ladies are affluent. For in- 
 stance, Marian is quite poor, but she refuses to look 
 poor. Is it to her credit? At least, she will capture a 
 husband whose appearance is Uke hers, for only expen- 
 sive-looking young men like Marian. So her dressing 
 is for her an asset. Frances, — she is never called Fanny 
 nowadays, — is also a garland of pretty and expensive 
 colors. Frances can afford it. Her mother u married 
 well" But the mother is unhappy. So is Frances. 
 Yet there is nothing of the weeping willow in Frances's 
 apparel. Gladys, — she is going to spell it Gwladys as 
 soon as her name appears on a program, — is desperately 
 smart. She cannot afford to be and is heavily in debt 
 for it. But it impresses people and Gladys, though she 
 cannot afford to be well-dressed, cannot afford to be 
 ill-dressed. Marian, Frances and Gladys do not mat- 
 ter, but they feel they do and so they matter. Is it not 
 a curious society in which we live? We are impressed 
 from birth with the fact that self-advertising is essential 
 and we practice it as religiously as our grandmothers 
 practised deportment. 
 
 Mrs. Mays is of an earlier vintage than the above ladies and 
 her clothes are naturally good because she has a large 
 income and can afford them. She has an expensive 
 figure. This is where she outshines the younger 
 women. She has been perfectly corsetted all her life. 
 They wear no corsets at all and they slouch terribly, 
 though one might suppose they would have the better 
 carriage. Mrs. Mays matters much more than the 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER it 
 
 younger women. And though she is at least twenty 
 years older, she does not look more than five years 
 older. This is because she is always alert, and alertness 
 is the only preserver of youth. The younger women 
 feel no need of looking young because they are young. 
 They have no bloom. And the paint they wear only 
 gives them a hard tired look which is very unflattering 
 did they but know it. The young girls of today are too 
 apt tp leave the "ingenue stuff' to the chorus girl. The 
 young girls of today, rarely sleep. They study as 
 well as dance all night, and by day are in constant 
 motion. Granted that they exercise and wear sensible 
 clothes, all that they do takes the form of rivalry of 
 some sort, and their usual ambition is to appear in the 
 public press in one way or another. Their bodies get 
 no rest. Perpetual motion makes women passionate, 
 but does it make them kindly or restful? 
 
 Mrs. Mays is not passionate, but she is fashionable. She is 
 aware of the value of position, such as it is in America, 
 whether one cultivates a clan, plain and intermarried ; 
 or the hard-won position of new money, much 
 advertised and jealously guarded; or whether one owns 
 the position of inherited wealth, which is after all the 
 only real social position we have established in America. 
 This last is an aristocracy derived from the English, 
 rather anaemic, but neither loud nor insecure. Mrs. 
 Mays belongs to the lesser ranks of the latter class. 
 Her people have always been in society both here and 
 abroad. She has a standard of manners and customs 
 not to be deranged by passing fads, and she can make 
 herself agreeable on all occasions without the slightest 
 effort. But all this has not prevented her from 
 encountering the distresses of life. No one suspects 
 how distressful they are to her. She is very game. But 
 in private, Mrs. Mays is inclined to be caustic, a trifle 
 over suspicious, and not very optimistic. 
 
 Among all these ladies Roderick is quite lost. But Roderick 
 cannot be extinguished. Even though he is rather 
 
12 TWO PLAYS 
 
 small, he considers himself very much of a person. He 
 is dapper in his dress. He was originally intended to 
 follow his aunt's style in the masculine, but he was 
 artistic and definitely artistic. People have always said 
 that Roderick would surely make a name for himself 
 some day and his friends are all prepared to come and 
 buy his pictures. No obscurity for Roderick. No 
 struggles through the early years. Roderick is not 
 affluent. His father failed in business, — it was an 
 honorable failure. But when Roderick lost his parents, 
 his aunt Mrs. Mays, herself without children, became 
 his best friend. And Roderick is so promising! And so 
 delightful! Roderick will surely get on. Mrs. Mays 
 always adds, "If he doesn't make an unfortunate mar- 
 riage." So she has taken pains to pick out these girls 
 from among the daughters of her acquaintance to meet 
 him, — daily if possible, — as sweetly unaware as the rest 
 of the world that these girls are as much misalliances 
 for Roderick as any he could make for himself. For the 
 fact that they all come of stated families, or do the 
 things all girls do, or dazzle the world with the taste of 
 their modistes, will not make them more understanding 
 or sympathetic, and give them humor or sense or reserve 
 or self-command. All of which are needed in a wife 
 for a man, — and in a husband for a woman. However, 
 Mrs. Mays, though she affects to admire the modern 
 girl openly, secretly criticises her, preferring her own 
 style. She does not analyse her discontent, — perhaps 
 thinks it rests on jealousy. For she does not dare to 
 realize that the present is not on the whole an age of 
 successful wives and husbands, mothers and fathers. 
 Neither does Roderick! He does not realize matri- 
 mony at all. He does not feel it is his business. It is 
 his business. He should be giving it careful considera- 
 tion. He should have been made to understand this from 
 the time he was able to understand anything. But be- 
 yond feeling it is nice to be popular and wishing to turn 
 his back entirely on all modern inventions and devote 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 13 
 
 himself to art, Roderick feels there is no necessity for 
 him to be anything but engrossed in his own work, he 
 calls it, — self is what he really means. And of course 
 the promiscuity of acquaintance between sexes and de- 
 grees and races, such as exists for children in our public 
 schools, has been denied him. Roderick is a private 
 school product. Beyond being more or less coerced 
 into the "right' dancing-schools and going to occasional 
 house-parties at the houses of the "right' people, having 
 done the conventional thing in his study of art in New 
 York and Paris and having tried one or two secret 
 adventures on the way, — not many for Roderick is not 
 of the robust school now called "red-blooded", — Rod- 
 erick knows very little about women and cares not at all 
 what they think. He knows he will always be kindly 
 treated, for "people of our sort" always are. And he 
 secretly believes he is a catch, and puts that aside for 
 whenever the time comes to marry. 
 Ladies may struggle with kitchen problems, but Roderick 
 has no need of that. Mrs. Mays has seen to it that 
 Imogene and her husband have been persuaded, at high 
 wages and at her expense, to take care of him. Imo- 
 gene is a pretty light-colored mulatto from Jamaica, 
 with starry eyes and pearly teeth and a high sweet voice 
 and very little energy. She speaks the patois of Jamai- 
 ca negroes, part cockney, part Old English, part the 
 dialect of the Southern United States. Imogene 
 possesses the pearl of refinement which her white 
 sisters have temporarily laid aside for higher things, 
 and she begins many of her sentences with "Peradven- 
 ture." 
 
 When the curtain rises, Mrs. Mays is discovered at the tea- 
 table. Imogene attends with a tray. Marian is flirting 
 in a strictly conventional manner with Roderick at the 
 left of the stage. Roderick, always charming, is 
 showing Marian sketches which he takes from the 
 chest.. Frances, a discontented but good-looking girl, 
 
i 4 TWO PLAYS 
 
 and Gladys, a smart up-to-date girl with immense self- 
 assurance, are sitting at the right end of the sofa. 
 There is a murmur of conversation. 
 
 Mrs. M. Here's the other, Imogene. [She hands her a 
 cup.] And pass the muffins again. 
 Im. Yes, Mis' Mays. 
 
 [Imogene passes two cups to Frances and Gladys 
 and passes the curate's assistant at the same time. 
 Then she languidly retires through the door up 
 right. ] 
 Marian. Isn't she pretty? 
 Rod. Who? 
 
 Mar. Imogen, of course. [To Roderick] You're in 
 luck. 
 
 Mrs. M. She pronounces it "Armogene." And don't go 
 telling Roderick she is pretty. He hadn't noticed it. 
 
 Mar. Trust him! Roderick knows a good thing when 
 he sees it. 
 
 Rod. [Going to Mrs. Mays] I know a good aunt when I 
 see one. Believe me, I do. She supplied me with Charles 
 and Imogene his wife. 
 
 [He pats Mrs. Mays's shoulder. She looks up 
 gratified. ] 
 Mar. Men can always get servants. 
 Glad. Naturally. No one to nag them. 
 Fran. Some one for them to fuss over. 
 Mar. Women do like to be bossed ! 
 Rod. Do they? You surprise me! 
 Glad. You'd hardly guess it from this bunch, would 
 you? 
 
 Mar. [Putting down her cup and turning to the port- 
 folios] Fascinating! I do so love your pictures! 
 
 [Roderick takes a portfolio from the chest and 
 begins to turn over the sketches for Marian. 
 Mrs. Mays rises and goes out on the terrace.] 
 Mar. [Artfully artless] O I'm crazy about this one! 
 Rod. That? No. I don't care about it myself. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 15 
 
 Mar. [Persistently] I dare say I don't know! But I 
 like it. 
 
 Rod. [Pleasantly flattered] Very kind. I did that at 
 Mentone. 
 
 [Gladys and Frances exchange glances.] 
 
 Glad. [Pretending to examine a book on the desk] She 
 never was so interested before ! 
 
 Fran. They're just a fad of hers. 
 
 Glad. Pictures ? 
 
 Fran. Men. 
 
 Glad. Cut her out. Now you've seen the house. It 
 certainly is a peach. And Roderick certainly is a peach. 
 He'll make a good husband. 
 
 Fran. Rubbish! Why don't you — ? 
 
 Glad. Not money enough. 
 
 Fran. But Roderick's aunt has. She's practically 
 adopted him. 
 
 Glad. She'll support him. But she'll be hanged if she 
 supports his wife. I know these aunts ! I have my way to 
 make. Roderick would only be an ornament as far as I am 
 concerned. 
 
 Fran. Why I should think he could help you! He's 
 studied all about these new Theatre Arts. 
 
 Glad. [Laughing] I couldn't face a manager with that 
 High Brow Stuff. Besides, I know better than to tie up to 
 anyone just now. A woman who wants a career is a fool 
 to marry while she's still at the foot of the ladder. [She 
 regards Frances a moment.] What's the matter? I 
 always thought you and he might hit it off. 
 
 Fran. [Bitterly] O we've bravely gotten over that. 
 
 Glad. [Looking at her quickly] Didn't come to anything. 
 
 Fran. No. — I still think you might have — he admires 
 you. 
 
 Glad. Yes, I dare say. But I wouldn't let Marian get 
 him, Frances. She wouldn't know what to do with him. 
 You would. You and he were brought up in the same way. 
 
 Fran. [With a sour laugh] You're most kind. 
 
 Glad. I mean it. It's a shame that you should have to 
 
16 TWO PLAYS 
 
 live at home. Just hanging around. Not appreciated. 
 You must get married and get away. 
 Fran. You mean well, Gladys. 
 
 [She rises and walks disdainfully out onto the terrace 
 and joins Mrs. Mays. Gladys shrugs and turns 
 to the pictures. Imogene comes in at the door up 
 right. ] 
 Im. Yo' car, Mis' Mays. 
 
 [There is a general movement. Mrs. Mays and 
 
 Frances come in. Roderick and Marian break 
 
 up their flirtation. Gladys moves toward Mrs. 
 
 Mays. ] 
 
 Glad. We must be going now, Mrs. Mays. It's been 
 
 perfectly lovely. 
 
 Mrs. M. Thank you, dear. I think I'll send you girls 
 along in the car without me. 
 
 [Imogene crosses the stage and goes out into the 
 hall, leaving the door open. The girls exclaim 
 and talk together.] 
 Glad. Can't you go with us? 
 Mar. How too bad! 
 Fran. Don't mind. We can walk. 
 Mrs. M. O no, no, no, don't mention it. Ruggles will 
 put you down anywhere you want to go and come back for 
 me. I still have things to arrange here in the house. And 
 I want to talk to Imogene. 
 
 [Imogene appears at the door left with wraps. 
 She and Roderick assist the girls into their wraps. 
 They all talk at once. After various polite expos- 
 tulations and exclamations, they make their adieux 
 and are finally bundled off at the outer door. Rod- 
 erick goes off with them. Mrs. Mays and Imo- 
 gene are left in the room. Mrs. Mays turns from 
 the door and sits at the desk.] 
 Mrs. M. [Taking out some memoranda] Are the 
 right number of pieces coming back from the laundry every 
 week, Imogene? 
 
 Im. No, Mis' Mays. Dey take tings sometin' awful. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 17 
 
 Mrs. M. Hm. Well, the other laundries are just as bad. 
 None of them can resist real linen nowadays. I'll send the 
 car for the things and have my laundress do them. — I 
 looked for the finger bowls everywhere at home. I can't 
 find them. 
 
 Im. Peradventure dey in yo storeroom, Mrs. Mays. 
 Dey uster be lotter tings dere yo didn' know about when I 
 live wit yo. 
 
 Mrs. M. I'll look there. I had forgotten. — I want to 
 account for the telephone calls. They sent me the bill on 
 Wednesday and it seems rather large, — so many Long 
 Distance calls. 
 
 Im. Charles and I don' use it none, Mis' Mays. 
 
 Mrs. M. I know you don't. But you may. You are at 
 liberty to use it from time to time. 
 
 Im. Tanks, Mis' Mays. 
 
 Mrs. M. I'll speak to Mr. Scarsdale myself about the 
 bill. 
 
 Im. Tanks, Mis' Mays. [She starts toward the door, 
 then comes back.] Mr. Roderick don' call so very much. 
 Some folks call im alia time. But dat wouldn' make no 
 bill, would it ? 
 
 Mrs. M. [Smiling] No, Imogene. It wouldn't. And 
 Imogene, don't let Mr. Roderick leave the door unlatched. 
 He's very careless about it and with all that silver here, it 
 makes me nervous. 
 
 Im. I know, Mis' Mays. But he don' like ter ave me 
 tell im tings. 
 
 Mrs. M. Just watch and do it yourself, then. Thanks, 
 Imogene. 
 
 [Imogene goes off at right. Roderick comes in at 
 left] 
 
 Mrs. M. Got them safely off? 
 
 Rod. O yes. You'll stay and test Charles's cooking, 
 won't you? 
 
 Mrs. M. Not tonight. I'm dining out. We'll have a 
 dinner here sometime, shall we? And ask the girls. 
 
18 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. And please some boys, Aunt Ann. It's very hard 
 to spread oneself out so thin. 
 
 Mrs. M. Of course! But the girls had been begging 
 to see your house so long that I had to bring them down. 
 How do you like them? 
 
 Rod. Who? The girls? O. All very nice girls. 
 
 [He wanders about the room.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, you must settle down. 
 
 Rod. [Collapsing on the sofa] O don't say it like that! 
 
 Mrs. M. I mean it. You must settle down. You have 
 this house now. You must settle down. 
 
 Rod. Is that why you helped me with the house? That 
 I should settle down? 
 
 Mrs. M. Partly. That is, of course, I thought you 
 meant to settle down when you wanted a house out here. 
 
 Rod. I didn't say I was going to, did I ? 
 
 Mrs. M. No. But I assumed it. And of course every- 
 one else assumed it. 
 
 Rod. O. How very like Everyone. Very kind of them 
 I'm sure. 
 
 Mrs. M. Well, of course it's only natural. 
 
 Rod. To think I'm going to settle down to please them? 
 It may be natural to others. Not to me. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Looking at her memoranda] Roderick, the 
 telephone bill is rather large. Toll calls. 
 
 Rod. Is it? So sorry. 
 
 Mrs. M. No matter at all. I'll simply change the ser- 
 vice. Telephone all you like. I had the small service put 
 in because you said you didn't like modern inventions, — 
 much as I knew you'd need them. But — 
 
 [She looks down at the bill.] 
 
 Rod. What's the matter? 
 
 Mrs. M. [Looking up] That is what I long to ask you. 
 
 Rod. You mean? — what do you mean? 
 
 Mrs. M. Haven't these telephone calls got something to 
 do with — settling down? 
 
 [Roderick leaps into the air and then approaches his 
 aunt.] 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 19 
 
 Rod. Bless my soul, Aunt Ann. Are you a Pinkerton 
 in disguise? 
 
 Mrs. M. All aunts are. And Imogene rather let the cat 
 out of the bag — 
 
 Rod. [With heat] I'll thank her! If she's going to spy 
 on me, I don't want her round. 
 
 Mrs. M. She simply reported in all innocence that she 
 didn't know you called as much as you were called. 
 
 [She laughs.] 
 
 Rod. [Walking away disgusted] Servants! She's al- 
 ways looking after me. I think it was a mistake to have a 
 servant who has been so long in the family. 
 
 Mrs. M. You're fortunate to have anyone at all in these 
 times. Don't be annoyed, Roderick. I only hoped the 
 telephone calls meant this settling down. 
 
 Rod. When a man settles down, must it always mean he 
 marries ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Certainly. 
 
 Rod. Aunt Ann, I don't want to marry. Don't make 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. M. Very well. As you like. I'm not trying to 
 make you. 
 
 Rod. Yes you are. You dragged all those girls over — 
 
 Mrs. M. [Laughing] Dragged! They were wild to 
 come. I was afraid they'd come without me. Tell me, 
 Roderick. I thought there was something between you and 
 Frances. 
 
 Rod. [Shortly] O dear no. 
 
 Mrs. M. You used to go there a great deal. 
 
 Rod. I did. Can't a man go to a girl's house a lot and 
 like to dance or like to flirt, or the devil knows what ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Well, you grew up with her. I rather ex- 
 pected. 
 
 Rod. You needn't. Frances doesn't know a thing about 
 what I'm interested in. She knows she doesn't. Besides, 
 I can't bear her family. And a man's a great fool that 
 marries a girl with a family he can't bear. 
 
20 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mrs. M. Excellent. Continue in the same strain. 
 Marian is dreadful. I hope you'll never take her. 
 
 Rod. Marian? She's very good-looking. A man might 
 certainly do worse. 
 
 Mrs. M. O Lord. It's Marian then. 
 
 Rod. It is not Marian. Marian may propose. But I 
 shall dispose. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Laughing] Gladys, I suppose isn't to be 
 thought of? A girl of her family go on the stage! It's 
 preposterous. Besides she can't act. 
 
 Rod. My dear aunt, you don't suppose being able to act 
 has anything to do with going on the stage ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Why not? 
 
 Rod. It hasn't. Gladys's talent is business. She's 
 going to be a great success. And she would never waste 
 her time on me. 
 
 Mrs. M. O. That's it. Well, she doesn't sound like a 
 good wife. That's certain. 
 
 Rod. It certainly is ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Unless she tried her hand at managing you? 
 
 Rod. I wouldn't have it ! 
 
 Mrs. M. You can't help yourself, you know. When I 
 was young, women were expected to conceal their efforts. 
 The murder's out in these days. Men are chosen Roderick. 
 Very few are strong enough to choose. And you might as 
 well put up with it! 
 
 Rod. [Angrily] I want you to understand / choose my 
 wife. I will not be chosen. A great many things go into 
 the making of my wife. 
 
 Mrs. M. Well? 
 
 Rod. Family. Taste. Fondness for home life. Also 
 travel. A knowledge of how to meet people. And she 
 must have a little money in her stocking. You know how 
 much is your gift here. [He motions to the room.] I'm a 
 poor man. Poor and struggling. 
 
 Mrs. M. Struggling? 
 
 Rod. [Smiling] No. Not struggling. And what's 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 21 
 
 more I don't have to be. I am a very happy artist. Then 
 why marry? 
 
 Mrs. M. O, if it comes to that, the right woman will be 
 a help, not a hindrance. But the thing is to find the help 
 and not the hindrance. 
 
 Rod. Better do without. I am comfortable single. 
 Double Fd be devilish uncomfortable on my income. Why 
 should I marry then? Aunt Ann, I've a perfect horror of 
 a baby. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Leniently] I know you have. 
 
 Rod. You know, they're awful! And never to have 
 any place to one's self. Some one always interrupting. 
 No. I have all the benefits, none of the disadvantages of 
 married life. A perfectly good cook, for one thing, and a 
 perfectly good waitress for another. How many married 
 people can say that? A perfectly futile useless aunt who 
 never does what I like and dresses badly — 
 
 Mrs. M. [As Roderick stands behind her and puts his 
 hands over her shoulders] Wha-at ! 
 
 [She takes his hands in hers.] 
 
 Rod. To preside when I have dinner parties. Why do 
 I need a wife, when I've got you, Aunt Ann? 
 
 Mrs. M. [Distinctly pleased] Well Roderick dear, I do 
 the best I can. 
 
 [Her very smiling face denies the indifference of 
 her words.] 
 
 Mrs. M. [After a pause] Roderick, if you marry an 
 unsuitable girl, we'll lose each other. 
 
 [She bites her lips.] 
 
 Rod. Will you kindly tell me what makes you harp on 
 that? 
 
 Mrs. M. Because I feel so uncertain. A man never 
 knows himself on the subject of women. Only women 
 know the subject of women. 
 
 Rod. Aunt Ann, I'm getting fearfully bored with this. 
 
 Mrs. M. I know you are. And it isn't like me to pursue 
 a boring subject but — 
 
 Rod. But— 
 
22 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mrs. M. [Slowly] Entangling alliances. 
 
 Rod. What about them? 
 
 Mrs. M. Have you never made any, Roderick? 
 
 Rod. [After considering] On what evidence do you base 
 that question? 
 
 Mrs. M. On Imogene's remarks, a photograph you have 
 had for some time, and my own intuitions. 
 
 Rod. [After another pause] Whose photograph? 
 
 Mrs. M. I don't know. That's it. You left it about 
 while you were staying with us. You left it about, Rod- 
 erick. That encouraged me. I felt you were not serious. 
 But— 
 
 Rod. But? 
 
 Mrs. M. She was a very handsome girl. And she'll 
 make you very unhappy if you marry her. 
 
 Rod. [Puzzled] How do you — do you know who she is? 
 
 Mrs. M. I never saw her. 
 
 Rod. [After another pause] Aunt Ann, you know we 
 men have a devil of a time. 
 
 Mrs. M. I know you do. That's why I'm interfering in 
 this tasteless and unwarranted way. 
 
 Rod. I never call this interfering, Aunt Ann. I call it 
 interest. And I like to have interest shown in my little doings. 
 
 Mrs. M. Are you engaged to her Roderick? O dear, I 
 suppose you won't want to answer a plain question. 
 
 Rod. I am not engaged to her, Aunt Ann. I am very 
 plain about that. 
 
 Mrs. M. I know. But living, as you have, with artists, 
 it's quite possible to form an alliance of a special kind. 
 
 Rod. It is not possible. For me. For to tell the truth 
 I'm not fearfully interested in women. It seems to me, my 
 work is the chief business of my life. I exclude everything 
 else. Particularly women. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ah, that's it. Your sort are always snapped 
 up so easily. Roderick, do be careful. I don't want you to 
 spoil your life. I want your little interior to look just like 
 your little house. You are a dear and I love you very much. 
 

 RODERICKS CAREER 23 
 
 You're my boy you know. And, well, — that girl is dang- 
 erous if you want to know it. 
 
 Rod. [Astounded] But I've done sketches of her that 
 really look like her. [Mrs. M.'s eyes widen.] How did 
 you get all that from a bad photograph? 
 
 Mrs. M. I've got rather keen sight, and a great deal of 
 experience, not all of it pleasant. Where did you meet her ? 
 
 Rod. In New York. 
 
 Mrs. M. I take it she is some sort of a public character. 
 
 Rod. Not yet. She has a big voice. She's a bully good 
 singer. And she's having a very uphill pull. Singers do, 
 you know. Nobody is ever decent to them. 
 
 Mrs. M. O. She's made you think that, has she? 
 
 Rod. See here, Aunt Ann, that's all wrong. You know 
 it's true. Women in the opera world are never expected to 
 be respectable. 
 
 [Mrs. Mays looks at him sharply.] 
 
 Rod. And she's respectable. Absolutely. That's why she's 
 having such a hard time. The only way out is for her to 
 marry a man with a fortune. 
 
 Mrs. M. O. Yes. I've heard that. 
 
 Rod. And — it doesn't look as if / could be that man, 
 does it? 
 
 Mrs. M. [Partially appeased] No. It doesn't. 
 
 Rod. You are fearfully prejudiced against her. Other- 
 wise I should so like to have you meet her. And hear her sing. 
 
 Mrs. M. Is she going to stay long in this country? 
 
 Rod. She thinks she has just struck oil. A rich woman 
 down in Hackensack wants to educate a singer. She thinks 
 she can work Hackensack. 
 
 Mrs. M. It's disgusting how they work people — 
 
 Rod. Indeed it's not. That's the way everybody gets on. 
 
 Mrs. M. Do you work people, Roderick? 
 
 Rod. Of course. 
 
 Mrs. M. OI don't mean making yourself socially agree- 
 able. But surely you have too much pride to beg cleverly 
 for your living. 
 
 Rod. Well, of course, I shall be careful not to make 
 
24 TWO PLAYS 
 
 enemies. That is certainly legitimate. If they like you, 
 they buy your pictures. If they don't like you, you can 
 whistle, — even though you're a Rembrandt. 
 
 Mrs. M. After all, you don't have to toady. Your 
 position is as good as can be had in this country. You 
 have the entree anywhere you go, Roderick. You have 
 breeding. And education. And the best friends. And 
 I'm pleased with you. That is why I like to worry you 
 with these things. Forgive me. And kiss me goodbye. I 
 have to go now. Look and see if Ruggles is there. 
 
 [Roderick runs out on the terrace.] 
 Rod. He is there. Patience on a mantlepiece. The 
 picture of misery. Fighting it out on this line if it takes 
 all summer and all that kind of thing. 
 
 [He goes out into the hall and gets her wraps, then 
 
 sees her out at the front door. Imogene comes in at 
 
 the door right with two cock-tails on a tray. She 
 
 places the tray on the desk, lights the fire and the 
 
 lamp, and begins to clear up in a ladylike way. 
 
 She hesitates as if waiting to speak to Roderick.] 
 
 Rod. [Coming in] O Imogene ! Yes. That's right. You 
 
 lighted the fire. This room is no end cosy. N'est-ce pas, 
 
 Imogene ? 
 
 Im. Hit a aansome room, Mr. Roderick. Is yo haunt 
 goin ter stay for dinner? 
 
 Rod. [Sipping his cock-tail] She couldn't. — No, leave 
 the other one. I can manage two. 
 
 [Imogene is about to depart when Roderick calls 
 her back.] 
 Rod. Imogene! I think I'll have dinner in here! 
 Im. Li-ike to ave dinner in ere, Mr. Roderick? 
 Rod. I surely would. 
 
 Im. Very good, Mr. Roderick. Peradventure you li-ike 
 dis table? 
 
 Rod. Yes! Just the thing. 
 
 [She brings forward the light table from the right 
 of the windows. She goes out, right, and returns 
 with a cloth for the table, and the necessary silver, 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 25 
 
 etc., and sets Roderick',? place while he looks on 
 with undisguised satisfaction.] 
 
 Rod. [Grandly] I shall have that chair. 
 
 Im. [Obediently placing the large arm-chair] Yes, Mr. 
 Roderick. Shall I draw to de curtains? 
 
 Rod. You may draw the curtains, Imogene. 
 
 [She does so and starts again for the door at right.] 
 
 Rod. Imogene, what's Charles got for dinner? 
 
 Im. Oysters, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. Very good. And then? 
 
 Im. Yo soup, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. What is it? 
 
 Im. Charles, e call it pottage allareen. 
 
 Rod. [Puzzling] O. Yes. And I hope Vienna rolls. 
 I'll never forgive him if he hasn't given me Vienna rolls. 
 
 Im. E ave, Mr. Roderick. An e say yo might ave ad 
 dem ere dis. 
 
 Rod. Ere what? 
 
 Im. Ere dis. 
 
 Rod. Imogene, you are delicious. Go on. 
 
 Im. An dere's breast a duck, Mr. Roderick. Wine 
 sauce. An macaroni gratt'n. An Charles e wanter know 
 if yo like red peppers on yo salad. 
 
 Rod. What's the salad? 
 
 Im. Hit one Charles ave invented. E call it Ungareen. 
 
 [She smiles shyly.] 
 
 Rod. That's very nice, Imogene. I haven't the least 
 idea what it is. All the better! And I like red peppers. 
 I hope I know as little about the dessert. 
 
 Im. Muss-an-bananas. 
 
 Rod. What? 
 
 Im. Yo know bananas, Mr. Roderick? 
 
 Rod. I don't like bananas. Charles knows it. 
 
 Im. Hit hain't bananas, Mr. Roderick. Hit pine-apple. 
 
 Rod. [Slowly smiling] O. Thanks. It's all very nice 
 and surprising. And I like to have it in a language I can't 
 understand. 
 
26 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Im. [Smiling] O dat French, Mr. Roderick. Charles 
 says. 
 
 Rod. Why — why! So it is, to be sure. 
 
 Im. Charles, e put a dinner on a tray. 
 
 [She goes out right and returns with the oysters 
 which she sets before Roderick. He sits to eat 
 with the greatest satisfaction.] 
 
 Im. Mr. Roderick? 
 
 Rod. Yes, Imogene. 
 
 Im. [Swinging from side to side] Charles an I would 
 like ter go ter my huncle's ternight. 
 
 Rod. [His joy somewhat dashed] O that's begun, has it? 
 
 Im. My huncle, e ave a baby, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. A new one or an old one? 
 
 Im. A new one, Mr. Roderick. He go'n be christened 
 ternight. 
 
 Rod. Well. Who's to answer the door? And the 
 telephone ? 
 
 Im. I stay, Mr.Roderick, if yo don' want me ter go. 
 
 Rod. O no. Go. But does your uncle have — christen- 
 ings every week? 
 
 Im. O no, Mr. Roderick. On'y once a year. 
 
 Rod. Very moderate I'm sure. Well. I shall be going 
 out later on, probably. So we'll let all the bells ring. 
 When are you going? 
 
 Im. When you can leave us go, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. Go ahead. Bring in all the French dishes and let 
 me wait on myself. 
 
 Im. [Showing all her pearly teeth] Tanks, Mr. Rod- 
 erick. Charles, e tank yo too. 
 
 Rod. Very welcome. When may I expect you back? 
 
 Im. O we be ere to yo breakfas', Mr. Roderick. 
 
 [Roderick holds up his hands.] 
 
 Im. Yo don' wan yo breakfas befo nine. 
 
 Rod. [Mildly] All right. I won't expect you till ten. 
 [He hands her the oyster-plate. She goes out and 
 returns with the remainder of the dinner on a tray 
 which she puts on the desk.] 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 2j 
 
 Im. Yo want anyting, Mr. Roderick? 
 Rod. Ah. The evening paper, Imogene. 
 
 [Imogene goes into the hall, opens the front door, 
 
 picks up the paper, deliberately puts the door on 
 
 the latch and starts to shut it.] 
 
 Rod. [ Calling ] Here. Don't do that ? [ I mogene waits. ] 
 
 Leave the latch! [Imogene obeys.] I shall be going in 
 
 and out mailing letters. I do like to feel for once I can get 
 
 on without a latch-key. 
 
 [Imogene comes in with the paper which she lays 
 beside the tray.] 
 Im. Yo lock de door befo yo leave de ouse, Mr. Rod- 
 erick? 
 
 Rod. [Impatiently] O yes, yes. I'll attend to it. 
 Im. Yo want anyting, Mr. Roderick? 
 Rod. Nothing but company, Imogene. Next time tell 
 me before the baby's born, so I can arrange to dine at the 
 Club. 
 
 Im. Yes, Mr. Roderick. Goodnight, Mr. Roderick. 
 Rod. [Shortly] Goodnight. 
 
 [Imogene goes out at right.] 
 [Roderick becomes absorbed in the breast of duck 
 and the evening paper. He has a good deal of 
 trouble in eating and reading at the same time. 
 He cannot arrange the light or the paper satisfac- 
 torily. When he has made an elaborate arrange- 
 ment, the paper slides down. And when he has 
 made a simple arrangement, he cannot see. He 
 persists nevertheless, and finally when he begins to 
 read, he forgets to eat. When he eats, he forgets 
 to read. By and by he begins to realize his own 
 solid comfort. He eats his salad, I am sorry to 
 say, at one mouthful, tastes the dessert, begins to 
 laugh at Imogene, finds the "mousse" too sweet 
 and pushes it grandly away, and places the coffee, 
 which is on a separate tray, before him on the 
 table. He pours out the coffee and lights a cig- 
 
28 TWO PLAYS 
 
 arette and continues the paper. He presents a 
 front of solid comfort. 
 Night has fallen outside. The firelight glows warm 
 and Roderick, deep in books and newspapers, 
 certainly looks the ideal of evening tranquillity, 
 when the door into the hall is slowly pushed open 
 and a tall young woman in travelling clothes stands 
 on the threshhold. Roderick, suddenly aware of 
 the draught, raises his head and looks across. 
 What he sees is Cyrilla. 
 Cyrilla is a finely built woman of middle height and 
 with a mass of blonde hair. She suggests a very 
 high vitality, rather under eclipse just now. She 
 looks defeated. Her clothes are plain but well made 
 and in the height of the prevailing style. Though it 
 is certainly astonishing to see her there, she does 
 not look like a siren, only a very vigorous healthy 
 up-to-date American girl] 
 Rod. [Jumping to his feet] Cyrilla! 
 
 [Cyrilla stands smiling at him.] 
 Rod. How on earth did you get in? 
 Cyr. Nobody answered the bell. The door was ' un- 
 latched. Aren't you glad to see me? 
 
 Rod. Of course. But — speechless with surprise. I 
 thought you were in New York. 
 
 Cyr. I'm not, am I? [She looks about the room.] So 
 this is the little house. It's a dream, Roderick. And so 
 like you. 
 
 [She wanders about a little.] 
 Rod. But Cyrilla, — why did you come? — Anything 
 wrong? — Why didn't you telephone? 
 
 [Cyrilla sits on the sofa.] 
 Cyr. I — thought I'd just come to see you, Roderick. 
 I hope you don't mind. 
 Rod. Delighted. 
 
 Cyr. [After quite a long pause] Hackensack threw me 
 over, Roderick. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 29 
 
 [She looks down a moment, then begins suddenly to 
 wipe away tears.] 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla, — you don't mean to say after all she said — 
 
 Cyr. After all the beast said, she thought she'd have to 
 think it over. And she heard other girls. And finally 
 settled on a girl who looks like Lillian Russell. 
 
 Rod. Can she sing? 
 
 Cyr. No. Of course she can't sing. 
 
 Rod. O it's beastly. 
 
 Cyr. Now it's all got to be done over again. 
 
 Rod. Better luck next time ! 
 
 Cyr. No. I don't look like Lillian Russell. That's all 
 they care about. That's all! I shall never get anywhere 
 now. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla! Nonsense! With a voice like yours — 
 
 Cyr. O you don't know what it is. Voices have nothing 
 to do with it. 
 
 Rod. I thought Manstrom considered you had the big- 
 gest future of any girl he has taught in the past ten years. 
 
 Cyr. So he said. — Do you know what he meant? 
 [Roderick does not answer, but walks about.] 
 
 Cyr. Since / wouldn't, he wouldn't. That's all. I've gam- 
 bled on this chance. It's slipped up. Now I haven't got a cent. 
 
 [She rises restlessly.] 
 
 Rod. But Cyrilla. You're not going to give up the fight. 
 
 Cyr. I'll have to borrow money to go home. That's 
 what I've come for. 
 
 Rod. Of course. How much do you want? 
 
 [He opens the desk drawer.] 
 
 Cyr. O no hurry, Roderick. Let's talk a little first. 
 Or haven't you time? I've no one but you to advise me. 
 
 Rod. At your service. 
 
 Cyr. Awfully sweet of you. [She sits again.] By the 
 way, is there anyone in the house to be shocked at my 
 calling on you ? 
 
 Rod. No. The servants are out. 
 
 Cyr. I forget these little things. I expect I put Hack- 
 
3 o TWO PLAYS 
 
 ensack out with my ways. But Lord! You can't be 
 thinking every single minute! 
 
 Rod. You have to, Cyrilla, to get on. 
 
 Cyr. I know your line. But that's not me. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla, answer me one question. 
 
 Cyr. [Turning with a winning smile] Shoot, boss. 
 
 Rod. What did you do to Hackensack to make her turn 
 against you? 
 
 Cyr. It was nothing! Nothing at all! A member of 
 the Dawn Club told on the bunch and it got to her. We 
 never did any harm. Just had fun. We've got to have 
 fun sometimes. 
 
 Rod. Hm. 
 
 Cyr. O now don't be a stiff. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla, it's these things that do for you. 
 
 Cyr. Rubbish. Look at the people on top. How did 
 they get to the top? Because they looked like Lillian Russell, 
 and acted like Old Scratch. It isn't morality, its want of it, 
 that succeeds. 
 
 Rod. I know but — tact, Cyrilla. Some of the girls in 
 New York get on with that. 
 
 Cyr. O rubbish. Tact be blowed. Give me a cigarette. 
 All the big people tell me the same thing. Either pull with 
 a big man, and we know what that means. Or marry well. 
 That's the whole story. 
 
 Rod. [Desperately] Marry well, Cyrilla. Do marry 
 well. 
 
 [Cyrilla pauses lost in thought.] 
 
 Cyr. I can't marry well. It bores me to the point of 
 screaming even to think of it! Down home I could have 
 married well as you say! God! God! [She beats her 
 forehead with her fist. ] No. I'd rather do the other thing. 
 
 Rod. [Disgusted] Don't! 
 
 Cyr. Why the high moral tone? You know what I'm 
 up against. 
 
 Rod. I know but — 
 
 [He walks about nervously. Cyrilla watches him 
 rather closely.] 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 31 
 
 Cyr. [After a long pause] Roderick, do you know what 
 has kept me from throwing my cap over the mill long ago ? 
 
 Rod. [Wheeling] No. 
 
 Cyr. You ! 
 
 Rod. O come, Cyrilla, I'm not that sort of a pious 
 example. 
 
 Cyr. You have to be whether you like it or not. You 
 are a gentleman. I mean really a gentleman. You're fas- 
 tidious. That bunch I go with aren't like that. Greenwich 
 Village maggots. I'm so sick of them. 
 
 Rod. Drop the whole push. You can't do better. 
 
 Cyr. I mean to. Especially now. [She sighs, and 
 pauses.] But I wish I hadn't met you. 
 
 Rod. Why? 
 
 Cyr. You have made me unsteady. You've made me 
 doubt. You've made me want things I can't have and 
 which would stand in my light if I did them. 
 
 Rod. I'm sorry, Cyrilla. Very sorry. 
 
 Cyr, So I thought I had better come and see you 
 before — 
 
 Rod. What? 
 
 Cyr. Well, — I go back to New York and call up 
 Manstrom. 
 
 Rod. No ! ! 
 
 Cyr. Why not? 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla, the thing for you to do, obviously, is to go 
 home and rest awhile. It'll do your voice good, it'll do 
 your nerves good, you can get over that New York racket — 
 
 Cyr. [Crying out] No!! 
 
 [She bursts into tears. Roderick regards her uncer- 
 tainly. Then in his nervous march through the 
 room he goes to her and pats her shoulder.] 
 
 Rod. There, there, Cyrilla. There, there, my dear girl. 
 
 Cyr. [Through her sobs, rather grotesque] O Roderick, 
 don't tell me to go home! You don't know what you're 
 saying! It's hideous. The very thought — after believing 
 I should see Paris. 
 
32 TWO PLAYS 
 
 [Cyrilla leans back, red-eyed, blowing her nose, the 
 picture of despair.] 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla dear, you know I only meant for the best. 
 
 Cyr. [Limply] I know you did, Roderick. But what 
 is best? I don't know. — Going to Manstrom is only what 
 they all do. What I'll have to get on with later. There's 
 no such thing as being nice and decent in the profession of 
 opera. Now don't go telling me about the singers that 
 made good in New York during the war. All-America 
 Brand. And perfectly fine. I'm not their kind. I 
 can't manage. And I can sing. [With sudden violence.] 
 I will not give up my voice ! I will not ! It's my gift ! It's 
 what I've got. I think about it night and day. It's all I 
 want to make me happy. It's my gift! It's my gift! 
 
 Rod. [Sitting down beside her, patting her hand] It is. 
 It is. 
 
 Cyr. Thank you, Roderick. I feel somehow you under- 
 stand. You're very sweet with me coming in this way. 
 But I'm up against it. I suppose I ought to think about 
 suicide. I don't want to. But I suppose I ought. 
 
 [She has risen during the last. He jumps up, seiz- 
 ing her hands.] 
 
 Rod. [Shocked] Cyrilla, don't talk that way! 
 
 Cyr. [Smiling] Don't worry, Roddy. I've too much 
 fight in me to give up yet. But what else is there for me 
 to do? 
 
 Rod. You can't earn money, — can you? — teaching? 
 
 Cyr. You can't make a living that way, Roddy, unless 
 you want to be a slave to it. You know I've tried to teach 
 along with my other work. It's killing and it hurts my 
 voice. But I have tried, now haven't I ? 
 
 Rod. You have. I give you credit for everything! I 
 admire your sand immensely. Always have. Sit down, 
 Cyrilla, and don't talk about dying for goodness sake. 
 
 [They sit again, she a little more tranquil and 
 he a little less so.] 
 
 Cyr. [Finally, squeezing his hand a little] You're aw- 
 fully cunning to take it this way, Roddy. I couldn't go to 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 33 
 
 a single other friend with my troubles. That's why I came 
 to you. 
 
 Rod. Of course you can come to me. Of course you 
 can. You did exactly the right thing. 
 
 Cyr. I wish we could go out and take a Fifth Avenue 
 bus. It was always after these times, we used to take a bus. 
 
 Rod. There are no buses here. Only beautifully laid 
 out roads with stupid people living in large houses. 
 
 Cyr. Why on earth did you settle out here, Roddy? 
 
 Rod. To be near Aunt Ann of course. 
 
 Cyr. But why didn't you live with Aunt Ann? 
 
 Rod. Her husband you know. He kills everything. 
 
 Cyr. I know it. They do. 
 
 Rod. And out here there's a beautiful light and I can 
 get a lot of orders for my portraits. 
 
 Cyr. [Dreamily] Lucky Roddy. Lucky Roddy. Inde- 
 pendent Roddy. 
 
 Rod. I'm not a rich man, Cyrilla. 
 
 Cyr. Not rich, but independent. 
 
 [She sighs deeply.] 
 
 Rod. We ought to think up some plan by which you 
 could be independent. 
 
 Cyr. Dear Roddy! 
 
 Rod. But I mean it. 
 
 Cyr. [Dropping his hand, very sane and motherly] No. 
 There's only one thing to do. And that is to go back to — 
 
 Rod. Don't! I can't bear it! It makes me sick! 
 
 Cyr. I suppose it does. 
 
 Rod. If you do that, say goodbye to me. 
 
 Cyr. [Tremulously; rising] Then I must say goodbye — 
 [He stops her with his arms.] O Roddy, can't you 
 see why I came? 
 
 Rod. For my advice, of course. 
 
 Cyr. And your advice is for me to go home. Shame 
 on you! Shame on you! 
 
 Rod. No. No. You are too big. You musn't throw 
 yourself away. 
 
 L 
 
34 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Cyr. It won't be throwing myself away. It may be 
 finding myself. The others do. The others do. 
 
 Rod. I don't care what the others do. You are bigger 
 than they. 
 
 Cyr. I'm a singer. First of all! I'm a singer. Do 
 you hear me? 
 
 Rod. You are a woman too! A fine straight honest 
 sincere woman! That's what makes you so much greater 
 than those others. Animals! I won't have it! I won't 
 have you like them ! 
 
 Cyr. [Surprised at his vehemence] Why Roddy! 
 
 Rod. I've decided. I won't have you destroyed. 
 Marry me. 
 
 Cyr. Marry you, Roddy? 
 
 Rod. Yes. 
 
 Cyr. But Roderick — 
 
 Rod. It's the only way out. 
 
 Cyr. And spoil your career? 
 
 Rod. Yes. Anything. But why should it? We can 
 live here. You and I can get on with my income. Perfect- 
 ly. Why didn't I think of this before? We both have 
 careers. Love art. We've always been the best of friends. 
 And out here you can work quietly. I can get people 
 interested in you. Through Aunt Ann. You shall go to 
 Paris. I will go with you. We'll find the means. 
 
 Cyr. [Incredulously] You mean it? You mean it, 
 Roddy? 
 
 Rod. Of course I mean it. You and I are made for 
 each other. We always were. I see it now. Daylight. 
 
 Cyr. [After a minute] I've always loved you, Roddy. 
 
 Ever since I knew you. But I never thought you cared — 
 
 [She leans against him. His arm goes about her.] 
 
 Rod. Cared! It's always been here inside me. I know 
 now! 
 
 [He holds her close and kisses her deeply.] 
 
 Cyr. [Raising herself] Roddy, I can't stand it. I can't. 
 What shall we do ? 
 
 Rod. Get married. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 35 
 
 Cyr. Yes. But when, you foolish boy? 
 
 Rod. Tomorrow ! 
 
 Cyr. Darling, if I dared — 
 
 Rod. You do dare. You do ! Say you do ! 
 
 Cyr. [Slowly smiling; with passion] I — dare, Roddy. 
 [She laughs, kisses him and turns away. She picks 
 up her gloves, puts her hat to rights. ] 
 
 Rod. [Taking her gloves and throwing them down] 
 Don't go yet! Don't go yet! You splendid thing! Kiss 
 me! 
 
 Cyr. [Laughing] Why Roddy! 
 
 [She kisses him.] 
 
 Cyr. [Not drawing away but suddenly very maternal] 
 Roddy, I've never loved anyone but you. And before this, 
 our careers always seemed in our way. Not now. It 
 seems right now that we should come together. But I've 
 always kept myself for you, dear, always. 
 
 Rod. I — I'm not such a very bad man, Cyrilla — 
 
 Cyr. [Playfully] Goosie! Of course you're not. 
 Compared to me — 
 
 Rod. [Shocked] Cyrilla! 
 
 Cyr. Don't be angry. I told you I'd kept myself for 
 you. But — ■ [She stands away from him.] Roddy, I'm a 
 terribly passionate woman. And I've been tempted. O 
 I've been tempted!! If it hadn't been for you. And now 
 this. You came in time ! I'm so happy. 
 
 [She goes to him again. They embrace.] 
 
 Cyr. [Tearing herself away again] I must go now, dear. 
 I must go — 
 
 Rod. Where ? 
 
 Cyr. I don't know. But I must go. Back to New 
 York. Tomorrow — 
 
 Rod. [With a kind of fear] Not back to New York! 
 Go to Aunt Ann ! 
 
 Cyr. Nonsense Roderick. I will not go to Aunt Ann. 
 What business have I with Aunt Ann? 
 
 Rod. I can't have you wandering about the streets. 
 
36 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Cyr. Dear Roddy, I've been out at night alone before. 
 Had to be — 
 
 Rod. Let me keep you here, Cyrilla. 
 Cyr. [Suddenly pulling him close; whispering] O Rod- 
 dy, — servants. 
 
 Rod. They won't be in all night — 
 
 Cyr. [Trying now to push him away] They might come 
 back — 
 
 Rod. Good Lord! They might! 
 
 [He suddenly drops her and wanders wildly about 
 the room.] 
 Cyr. I'll go back to New York. 
 Rod. [Peremptory] I wish you'd go to Aunt Ann. 
 Cyr. Tell me, — is Aunt Ann prepared? 
 Rod. [Stopping short] No. [Cyrilla watches him.] 
 You stay here. Let me go to Aunt Ann. 
 
 Cyr. [Suddenly suspicious] No. [She goes up to him 
 deliberately and puts her arm about him.] I love 
 you and I'm not going to leave you. 
 
 Rod. [Putting his arms about her slowly; looking into 
 her face] You will stay here? In my little house? With 
 me? 
 
 Cyr. [Sinking into his arms] I can't help it. You came 
 just in time, Roddy. I was giving out. Yes. I'll stay 
 with you. 
 
 Rod. And tomorrow, — early, — we'll be married. And 
 live in the little house. You'll stay here! Tonight! And 
 let me take care of you ! My darling ! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene : the same. Eighteen months later. The pretty room 
 is terribly untidy. Baby clothes are hanging before the 
 fireplace. Most of Roderick's personal belongings are 
 gone. A baby grand piano fills the space at the win- 
 dow. It is an ungainly piece of furniture in the room, 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 37 
 
 and is evidently placed solely for the convenience of 
 the person using it. The personality of the room has 
 vanished. It is distinctly shabby, — the furniture cov- 
 erings and the curtains look dingy, even torn here and 
 there. Autumn. The garden is bare, the trees russet. 
 A baby's crying is heard off stage at left when the curtain 
 rises. It is loud and lusty, and Roderick, who is dis- 
 covered, rises and closes the hall-door in an irritable 
 manner. Imogene is also on the stage. She looks as 
 sullen and defiant as a perfect lady can. Roderick is 
 in the act of paying her wages. 
 
 Im. [After waiting till the baby's howl is excluded] I 
 don' wish ter stay, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. Well. I suppose you must go. I'm glad you 
 stuck it out as long as this. Have you told Mrs. Scarsdale? 
 
 Im. Ah hain't tell er anyting, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. Why not? After all, she's the person to tell. 
 
 Im. Ah know, Mr. Roderick. But — 
 
 Rod. Well? 
 
 Im. Mrs. Scarsdale hain't what Ah calls a lady, Mr. 
 Roderick. 
 
 Rod. [Severely] Imogene. That will do. 
 
 Im. Ah hain't go'n ter talk ter Mis' Scarsdale. Not de 
 way she talk ter me last night, Mr. Roderick. No lady 
 talk dat way. 
 
 Rod. [After a minute] Does Charles want you to leave? 
 
 Im. When Charles lef' ere, e make so much money in 
 de chef business, e don want me ter work out no longer. 
 
 Rod. Ah. That's it. Well. That's reasonable. Why 
 should you? All right, Imogene. I'm sorry on account of 
 the baby. I don't know whom we can get now. When 
 are you leaving? 
 
 • Im. Now Mr. Roderick. Tank you, Mr. Roderick. 
 Goodbye. 
 
 Rod. Goodbye, Imogene. 
 
 [Imogene departs at the door up right. Enter al- 
 
38 TWO PLAYS 
 
 most immediately at left, Cyrilla. She tears the 
 door open and rushes in. Cyrilla is slightly, but 
 not much, altered by the experience of mother- 
 hood. She is one of those who changes for the 
 worse. 
 
 Cyr. {Sweeping across the room toward the opposite 
 door] Where's that beast of an Imogene. 
 
 Rod. I wouldn't call her that. 
 
 Cyr. [Angrily] And why not? 
 
 Rod. She's leaving! 
 
 Cyr. Leaving! [She comes back.] What on earth 
 shall we do? [Roderick shrugs but does not answer.] 
 Don't shrug like that! You make me so mad. What on 
 earth are we to do? 
 
 Rod. [After a pause] I should suggest going without 
 for a time altogether. 
 
 Cyr. Going without! Going without! What do you 
 mean? [Her voice is hard and unlovely.] 
 
 Rod. I mean we can't afford it. 
 
 Cyr. But your aunt is paying for Imogene. 
 
 Rod. You mean, Aunt Ann was kind enough to bribe 
 Imogene to come here by the day after Charles left. Other- 
 wise we would have been in this fix long ago. 
 
 Cyr. Why isn't there enough money, — that's what I 
 want to know? 
 
 Rod. Because I'm not earning enough. 
 
 Cyr. You surely are sitting at the feet of those rich 
 women all day — 
 
 Rod. Your lessons, my dear. That was the thing we 
 forgot to figure on when we started in. And the lessons, 
 I take it, are most important. 
 
 Cyr. O if your aunt would only come forward. We 
 ought to be in Paris ! With all her money, it's outrageous 
 for us to be hanging around here. 
 
 Rod. If you please, don't say anything about Aunt Ann. 
 
 Cyr. I will too. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 39 
 
 Rod. [Very quietly] You will not. 
 
 [Cyrilla is surprised into silence a moment.] 
 
 Cyr. [With intense sarcasm] Well. What do you ex- 
 pect of me now Imogene is going and there's no money for 
 my lessons? 
 
 Rod. I only thought you might try your hand at taking 
 care of the baby. She's older now — 
 
 Cyr. I take care of that baby ! What I do now is nearly 
 killing me. You know it is! 
 
 Rod. It won't be for long, Cyrilla — 
 
 Cyr. Not for long! I guess it won't! 
 
 Rod. I mean the baby will grow up. In five years she'll 
 be quite a little girl. Going to school. 
 
 Cyr. five years! I won't take care of her at all. 
 
 [Roderick is silent for a while.] 
 
 Rod. Blake tells me they are looking for more assistants 
 in Fine Arts at the University. He asked me if I wouldn't 
 go in. 
 
 Cyr. How much will it pay? 
 
 Rod. I don't know. Chances of a rise, of course. 
 
 Cyr. [Her eyes brightening] Well, do it! 
 
 Rod. I'll go down and see Blake this afternoon. 
 
 Cyr. That will be steady money at any rate. And then 
 you can keep on with the portraits beside. 
 
 Rod. That's the difficulty. There may not be time. 
 
 Cyr. You've got to make time, Roderick. We've got 
 to have the money. [Roderick is silent.] I always 
 thought you were the vogue out here and could have any- 
 thing you liked for the asking. 
 
 Rod. No. Not exactly that. 
 
 Cyr. O. I suppose as long as a man is unmarried, he's 
 the vogue. That's it. Women don't want a married man 
 about. 
 
 [Roderick is silent. The telephone on the desk 
 rings. Roderick answers it.] 
 
 Rod. Hello. O — yes. Yes. I'll be up in half an hour. 
 
 Cyr. Where is this? 
 
4 o TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. [Covering the receiver] Aunt Ann wants to see 
 me. 
 
 Cyr. What about? 
 
 Rod. I don't know. I'll go up and find out. 
 
 Cyr. You can't go. If Imogene's leaving, you've got 
 to stay and mind the baby. I'm due at Manstrom's at 
 eleven. 
 
 Rod. O. Well. I'll see if she can come down here. 
 
 Cyr. Of course she can come down here. It's time she 
 did come down here. 
 
 Rod. [Speaking into the telephone] Aunt Ann. Cyrilla 
 has to go to town. Imogene's leaving and I'll have to stay 
 and mind the baby, — What? — Imogene? — I don't know. 
 But they all go, you know. In that respect they are per- 
 fectly dependable. — All right. I'll expect you. 
 
 [He hangs up.] 
 
 Cyr. She hasn't been into this house but once since we 
 were married. 
 
 Rod. You quarrelled with her. 
 
 Cyr. Why doesn't your aunt like me ? 
 
 Rod. [A little bored] You say that quite often, Cyrilla. 
 I'm sure I don't know. 
 
 Cyr. Jealous. She's jealous. 
 
 Rod. Don't keep saying that. 
 
 Cyr. Anyhow, she's no need to be. You're a great deal 
 fonder of her than you are of me. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla — 
 
 Cyr. O no, no, no! Don't lecture. You are. It's 
 Aunt Ann this and Aunt Ann that. Always was. I might 
 have known. What fools women are to love men. 
 
 [Roderick is silent.] 
 
 Cyr. And you won't talk. And you won't answer back. 
 I could stand anything if you'd only come out into the open. 
 
 [Roderick is silent.] 
 
 Cyr. I know what you want to say to me. Why did you 
 have a baby? Yes. I was a fool. I was. It's the baby 
 that's spoiled everything. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 41 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla ! 
 
 Cyr. Say it! Say it! I'm unwomanly. All right. 
 Then I am unwomanly. But artists ought not to have chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla. You weren't always so set against the 
 baby. 
 
 Cyr. Well, if there's anything to live on, there's no 
 harm in a singer having a baby. It generally helps her 
 voice. But if she's worried every minute, and can't afford 
 the baby, she's no business with it. I know better now. 
 
 Rod. We go over this once a week, Cyrilla. There's no 
 need of going into it again. The only thing for me to do is 
 to try to earn steady money and with my income, we may 
 make out. The truth is what with the taxes out here, we 
 ought to sell the house. 
 Cyr. And live where? 
 
 Rod. In a flat ! [ Cyrilla gives vent to a dramatic ex- 
 clamation.] There it is. You see you can't stand 
 it. And there's nothing more to be said about it. 
 
 Cyr. There is too! Why didn't you tell me all this 
 when you married me? 
 
 Rod. You know as well as I do how we got married. 
 Cyr. That's right. Blame me for it. It was you who 
 proposed the thing anyhow. 
 
 Rod. Sh, sh. Here's Aunt Ann now. 
 
 [He opens the door at left as the door-bell rings. 
 He goes into the hall and admits Mrs. Mays. 
 Cyrilla makes a dive for the baby-things before 
 the fireplace, but she is too late to escape up the 
 stairs. She confronts Aunt Ann in her most 
 unbecoming guise, hair untidy, negligee mussed, 
 with her hands full of useful though compromising 
 articles. Aunt Ann, on the other hand, was nev- 
 er in better form herself. A difficult husband is 
 not too much for a woman like Ann Mays to 
 manage. Greetings are exchanged with the usual 
 lack of cordiality that exists between Aunt Ann 
 and Roderick's wife.] 
 
42 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Cyr. I beg your pardon. I was just taking the baby's 
 things upstairs. 
 
 Mrs. M. Certainly. How is the baby? 
 
 Cyr. I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. M. Well, who does? Roderick, do you? [She 
 says this brusquely but with humor. ] 
 
 Rod. Baby's very well, Aunt Ann. We'll go and see her. 
 
 Cyr. Not now. If you please. 
 
 Rod. Very well. She's not dressed up. 
 
 Mrs. M. O. Is she ever dressed up? 
 
 [Cyrilla is much offended.] 
 
 Cyr. I have to go to her now. 
 
 Mrs. M. It seems fitting that somebody should be with 
 her. 
 
 Cyr. She's never alone. I always leave Imogene with 
 her, when I have to go out. 
 
 Mrs. M. I hear Imogene is leaving. What are you go- 
 ing to do now? Stay in? Many mothers do. 
 
 Cyr. I don't know what other mothers do. But I am a 
 singer by profession. Not a mother. 
 
 Rod. Don't. Don't. 
 
 [Mrs. Mays knows exactly how to irritate Cyrilla 
 without getting ruffled herself. She has succeeded 
 perfectly] 
 
 Cyr. I will, too! But'of course you side with Mrs. 
 Mays. Woman's place is the home. Well, it isn't. 
 
 Mrs. M. So we perceive. However, I suppose the baby 
 will grow up in spite of it. 
 
 Cyr. Thank you. Roderick and I can manage very well 
 — if we are not interfered with. 
 
 [She goes off left and upstairs. Roderick closes the 
 door.] 
 
 Mrs. M. [Observing Roderick]. Well, Roderick. 
 
 Rod. Well, Aunt Ann. 
 
 Mrs. M. You realize this is the first time I have been 
 here for a year? 
 
 Rod. I certainly do. 
 
 Mrs. M. Aren't you glad to see me? 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 43 
 
 Rod. [After a slight pause] Aunt Ann, we'll waive all 
 that. 
 
 Mrs. M. I doubt if we can. Your wife makes 
 explanations necessary. [In a rather hard voice] I've come 
 to say I cannot possibly continue to pay for your servant. 
 I've got to have decent treatment in return. 
 
 Rod. There is no need to pay for our servant. I have 
 been doing it all along. Here is the money. [He opens the 
 drawer and hands it to her. ] 
 
 Mrs. M. You never used it? 
 
 Rod. No. 
 
 Mrs. M. But you always cashed the checks. 
 
 Rod. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. M. Why was that? 
 
 Rod. To avoid explanations. 
 
 Mrs. M. I told you when I was last here that you and 
 I would always be on the same footing. That I would pay 
 for the maid anyway. 
 
 Rod. Excuse me, Aunt Ann, we are not on the same 
 footing. 
 
 Mrs. M. Why not? 
 
 Rod. Because you won't accept my wife. 
 
 Mrs. M. I know it. And I think now I was a fool. 
 For I have lost you. I don't want this money, Roderick. 
 It burns my fingers. And by the look of things, you need 
 it. 
 
 Rod. Whether I need it or not is not the question. 
 
 Mrs. M. It certainly is. I am not going to have my 
 nephew living like a scarecrow. 
 
 Rod. Sorry Aunt Ann, but you'll have to put up with it. 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, I will not put up with it. 
 
 [Roderick is silent. Mrs. Mays watches him for a 
 long time. Then she rises.] 
 
 Mrs. M. [Laying the money on the desk] Put this in 
 the bank for little Ann. 
 
 [Roderick turns away shaking his head.] 
 
 Mrs. M. [Putting it into her bag] Then I will. 
 
44 TWO PLAYS 
 
 [She goes to Roderick and tarns him toward her.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, I've done wrong. 
 
 Rod. [Struck with her tone, looks up quickly] No you 
 haven't, Aunt Ann. 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes. Fve done very wrong. I ought to have 
 done better by your — by Cyrilla. 
 
 Rod. I don't ask it. If you couldn't, you couldn't. 
 
 Mrs. M. I ought to have put up with any wife you 
 brought to me. 
 
 Rod. Never mind, Aunt Ann. I expect all this will 
 work out eventually. 
 
 Mrs. M. Wait. I'm going to confess. I have been 
 jealous of Cyrilla. I don't suppose we were ever made to 
 like each other. But I ought to have been woman enough 
 to have borne with her. And I called up this morning because 
 I haven't been able to sleep for a month, thinking about it. 
 
 Rod. Aunt Ann! Don't. Not so long. 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes. It was a month, because it has taken that 
 time for me to conquer my obstinacy. Now, as for you, 
 whether you married well or ill ought not to have mattered 
 to me. All the more if you married ill. Because I did the 
 same. 
 
 [Roderick pats her hand and is silent a moment.] 
 
 Rod. Now, Aunt Ann, you needn't think I've done bad- 
 ly. You see, Cyrilla is an artist. A kind of genius. That 
 isn't understood out here. But I understand her. The 
 truth is, I'm the one that's at fault. I'm not up to this kind 
 of thing. I'm not a bread-winner. I — I've had no train- 
 ing for it. 
 
 Mrs. M. Well, why should you? 
 
 Rod. Because I wasn't born a rich man. 
 
 Mrs. M. But, my dear child, you know very well every 
 cent I have is yours when I go. And while I live it's the 
 same — 
 
 Rod. No. It's not the same. Not at all.— But that's 
 where I've failed. It's easy enough to see. I'm going 
 to settle down to hard pan now. I'm going to the Univer- 
 sity to teach. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER , 45 
 
 Mrs. M. Since when? You're not! No. I can't hear 
 of it. With all your talent. 
 
 Rod. Blake has recommended me. Never mind my 
 talent, Aunt Ann. I don't know whether I have any. I 
 used to think I had. But — I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick! You had a career. Everybody said 
 so. It's worry that is spoiling your work. 
 
 Rod. [Rising and walking about] I know what people 
 said. And I know the kind of work I've begun to do. The 
 truth is, a career isn't made for one by one's friends. A 
 real career is entirely distinct from pull. And I don't be- 
 lieve I'm equal to it. 
 
 Mrs. M. Cyrilla, — Roderick, I've got to be frank, now 
 don't stop me, — Cyrilla is living for her career. She is liv- 
 ing on pull. She is living off of you, — on anything that 
 comes along. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla lives for her voice. Which is remarkable. 
 That is a fact. 
 
 Mrs. M. But — her utter neglect of everything else! 
 Surely a remarkable voice doesn't presuppose that ! 
 
 Rod. Sorry, Aunt Ann, but it does. I'm not a great 
 artist myself. But I've lived with them. They can't do 
 anything but what they're made for. That's the whole 
 story. 
 
 Mrs. M. But, Roderick. The baby. She doesn't care 
 for it at all. 
 
 Rod. She doesn't seem to, perhaps. She does. She's 
 very warm-hearted. And whatever else Cyrilla is, she's 
 honest. She's the most honest woman I know. 
 
 Mrs. M. But, Roderick, how well did you know women 
 before you married? 
 
 Rod. I thought I knew them ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Aha. That's it. A man never really does 
 know women until he lives with one. Simply sampling 
 them from time to time won't do it. 
 
 Rod. Maybe. But that doesn't alter anything. Here 
 we are. 
 
46 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mrs. M. Don't you see it, Roderick? You were 
 caught by her. 
 
 Rod. [Stung] Nonsense! I'll tell you — I always wanted 
 Cyrilla. But I thought marrying her was impossible. She 
 thought the same until — 
 
 Mrs. M. You found it was possible. She told you 
 it was possible, Roderick. In other words, she needed you 
 in her business. Don't you see? 
 
 Rod. I'm glad she did. I'm only sorry I don't measure 
 up. That's where the trouble lies. 
 
 Mrs. M. You've knuckled under. I never thought you 
 would. 
 
 Rod. Aunt Ann, it's too late for this sort of autopsy. 
 I've got to use what brains I have to give Cyrilla what she 
 needs. 
 
 Mrs. M. O Cyrilla ! You say you're not measuring up. 
 But is she? Come now. She has chances enough to make 
 friends with people who will help her. Me for one. And 
 she's thrown them all away. 
 
 Rod. [Biting his lips] You just accused her of living on 
 pull. 
 
 Mrs. M. Living off of you. But she isn't clever enough 
 to use a little tact ! 
 
 Rod. You call it cleverness. Perhaps it is. But I call 
 it dishonesty. 
 
 Mrs. M. Since when? 
 
 Rod. It's disgusting to go about licking people's boots. 
 The boots of stupid people particularly. 
 
 Mrs. M. Thank you. You never called me stupid be- 
 fore. 
 
 Rod. How on earth can you make that inference? 
 
 Mrs. M. I mean — if Cyrilla had treated me decently, I 
 would have done the right thing by you both. 
 
 Rod. Where you are concerned, Cyrilla has been stupid. 
 Very. But I'd rather face my own responsibilities, Aunt 
 Ann, though you are very kind to have wanted to help. 
 And as for Cyrilla, she can't help what she's done. That's 
 Cyrilla. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 47 
 
 Mrs. M. When you first brought her to me, she used to 
 sit like a bump on a log, saying nothing. And when she 
 opened her mouth at last, it was to abuse me. 
 
 Rod. Maybe. But the point now is, how can I get along 
 best. Do most for her. 
 
 Mrs. M. Think of yourself! 
 
 Rod. O no. Her career is the important one. If mine 
 were, I would have done exactly as she has done ! 
 
 Mrs. M. O I've no patience with you! 
 
 Rod. Yes, you have. You have the patience to come 
 here. That is having patience. Great patience. And I'm 
 very grateful. 
 
 Mrs. M. But you refuse my money. 
 
 Rod. I do. 
 
 Mrs. M. O this honesty as you call it! It's such 
 nonsense. 
 
 [Roderick is silent.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, don't be silent. Answer back. 
 
 Rod. No. I'm not going to. 
 
 Mrs. M. You are very much changed. You have 
 changed immensely in a year. 
 
 Rod. Never mind that. All I've got to do now is work 
 in at the University and work up. 
 
 Mrs. M. O but those pitiful salaries! 
 
 Rod. Then endow a chair of Fine Arts, Aunt Ann. 
 
 Mrs. M. See here, Roderick. You may try as hard as 
 you like at the University. Cyrilla will spoil it all. They 
 care a deal for social standing there and Cyrilla won't help 
 that. University wives have social duties all their own. 
 And their husband's places depend on them. 
 
 Rod. [Suddenly] Hang it all! Hang it! 
 
 Mrs. M. Hang what? 
 
 Rod. All this. I don't care if the social standing is so 
 fine at the University. If I teach well and the students like 
 me — 
 
 Mrs. M. But you have never taught! 
 
 Rod. O yes. I have from time to time. And — I've been 
 preparing myself for this. 
 
48 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mrs. M. You will never get anywhere. Why are you so 
 fearfully set? Why will you go into this thing? Why 
 must you earn a living which that stupid lazy wife of yours 
 will tear down? People like you, Roderick. They liked 
 your portraits. You can be a success without your wife if 
 you want to. 
 
 Rod. [Loudly] I don't want to. 
 Mrs. M. Why not? 
 
 Rod. I want to be a success on my own serious merits. 
 What you are offering me is only another kind of graft. I'm 
 sick of that. I want honest work. You needn't think I 
 wouldn't have come to this anyway, Aunt Ann. Married 
 or single. 
 
 Mrs. M. You are very much changed. 
 Rod. Thank you. I always liked honest work. And 
 now I've no choice, I'm going to do honest work. 
 Mrs. M. For this thankless woman? 
 Rod. That's not all. 
 Mrs. M. What then? 
 Rod. The baby. 
 
 [Mrs. Mays looks up at him, suddenly shaken. 
 There is a long pause.] 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, my dear, you are very brave. I'm 
 going to leave you to do as you think best. 
 
 [She is very gentle and womanly. She goes to him 
 and puts her arms about his neck.] 
 Mrs. M. I regret this year of separation more than I 
 can say. 
 
 Rod. Don't regret — 
 
 [She holds up her hand.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes. Because it will keep me watchful. I 
 
 won't make the same mistake. I'm going to live up to your 
 
 standard. My dear boy, whatever happens, I'm back of 
 
 you, and you shall never want a friend. 
 
 [She kisses him. At this moment Cyrilla opens the 
 door. She is dressed in her street clothes. She 
 is immensely well gotten up and she looks 
 like a haughty goddess. She carries a small 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 49 
 
 travelling bag. She pauses at the sight of Rod- 
 erick and Mrs. Mays and her face hardens. 
 They turn.] 
 
 Cyr. I'm going now, Roderick. I shall leave this door 
 open in case the baby cries. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Not quite at her ease in her new role of 
 friend.] Can't I stay with the baby? 
 
 Rod. O no, Aunt Ann, dear — 
 
 Cyr. [Haughtily] Tt will not be necessary. 
 
 Mrs. M. Can't I take you to the station in my motor? 
 
 Cyr. Thank you, no. It's such a little way. I always 
 walk. In all weathers. 
 
 Rod. It's only a block after all, Aunt Ann. Cyrilla won't 
 mind. 
 
 Cyr. [Abruptly] Goodbye. [She goes out at the front 
 door banging it behind her. ] 
 
 Mrs. M. [Sighing, turning to Roderick] Never mind, 
 dear. It's my own fault. I'll make her like me yet. And 
 I promise, for your sake, to try and like her. Goodbye. 
 
 [He sees her out of the door: While he is gone, in 
 comes Imogene at the door right. She has on her 
 coat and hat. She waits, looking sulky. Roderick 
 comes back.] 
 
 Rod. Going, Imogene? 
 
 Im. Yes, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. [Shaking hands with her] Well. I hope you'll get 
 on. 
 
 Im. [Hesitating] Tanks, Mr. Roderick. Mr. Roderick, 
 did anyone give de baby her ten o'clock bottle? 
 
 Rod. I'm sure I don't know, Imogene. 
 
 Im. Ah know, Mr. Roderick. Nobody did give her de 
 bottle. 
 
 Rod. Well, I'll see to it at once. 
 
 Im. Ah did, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. O. Thank you, Imogene. When does she get the 
 next? [He looks nervously at his watch.] 
 
 Im. At one, Mr. Roderick. I changed er jest now. 
 
5o 
 
 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. [With a sinking heart] Thank you. At what hour 
 does that process take place again? 
 
 Im. Yo ave ter watch, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 Rod. All right. Is all the — er — apparatus up there? 
 
 Im. Yes, Mr. Roderick. [Her voice suddenly runs up 
 higher than usual. She begins to cry.] 
 
 Rod. What is the matter, Imogene? 
 
 Im. Ah cry ter leave de baby, Mr. Roderick. Ah cry 
 ter leave de baby. She — won't ave — nobody — ter take care 
 — of er — when I do be gone. 
 
 Rod. Well. You're determined to go in spite of it, Imo- 
 gene. 
 
 Im. If it wasn't fer Mis' Scarsdale, Ah could do all right, 
 Mr. Roderick. She spoil eveyting. 
 
 Rod. Sorry. But she's the baby's mother. 
 
 Im. [Shrilly] Mr. Roderick, she spoil eveyting. When 
 I get de baby go'n right, she come an break hit all up. Baby 
 never ave colic when I takes all de care. Baby always 
 fresh an sweet when I got er. An' ah train er so she 
 don' ave ter be changed alf so many times — 
 
 Rod. I dare say. 
 
 Im. An ah saves de washin'. 
 
 [Suddenly the front door at left is torn open and 
 Cyrilla appears again.] 
 
 Cyr. [Furiously to Imogene] You can go! I never 
 want you in the house again ! 
 
 [Imogene, bridling, goes off as violently as her lan- 
 guid nature permits. Cyrilla drops her bag in 
 the hall, comes in and flings herself on the sofa.] 
 
 Rod. Why, Cyrilla. You've missed the train. 
 
 Cyr. [Shortly] I'm not going. 
 
 Rod. But— ~ 
 
 Cyr. Now see here. We've got to settle this thing. 
 
 Rod. [Tremulously] Yes? 
 
 Cyr. Now. 
 
 [Roderick waits.] 
 
 Cyr. I heard you talking to your aunt. 
 
 Rod. Well. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 51 
 
 Cyr. I heard every word. 
 
 [Roderick takes a short turn.] 
 
 Rod. Then I overestimated your honesty. 
 
 Cyr. What for? [Rod. is silent.] Why? What's dis- 
 honest in listening to what people say? 
 
 Rod. It's generally considered so. 
 
 Cyr. Well, I don't consider it so, — especially when it 
 concerns me. I didn't step to listen. I was coming in when 
 I heard what you were saying. And I thought it was a 
 very good chance to find out exactly where I stood. 
 
 Rod. Well. 
 
 Cyr. And I know now. Your aunt thinks I'm a swine 
 and doesn't mind saying so and you stand by and let her say 
 so. 
 
 Rod. I never let her talk on. And she didn't call you 
 a swine. What's more, I defended you when she said things 
 I did not consider true. And you know that. 
 
 Cyr. Between you, you made me out a very nice charac- 
 ter. I'm an idiot and a selfish egotist and I live on pull, 
 that's what I married you for, and all artists live on pull, 
 and pull isn't decent. And yet I'm too much of an idiot to 
 get the pull I should. Ah faugh ! And I'm a rotten mother. 
 And now I'm an eavesdropper. And with all this I've had 
 about enough. I'm going where I'm appreciated. 
 
 Rod. [After a moment's bitter silence] I know I've failed 
 to do the right thing by you, Cyrilla. I know I've failed. 
 
 Cyr. [A little softened] We were fools to get married, 
 Roddy. Fools ! 
 
 Rod. Not altogether. 
 
 Cyr. Altogether. 
 
 Rod. No. 
 
 Cyr. Why not? 
 
 Rod. The baby. 
 
 Cyr. The baby ! The poor baby'd much better not have 
 been born. The baby was the biggest mistake of all. 
 
 Rod. No, no. 
 
 Cyr. They don't want to be born. We're awfully mean 
 to bring them into the world. Rotten world ! 
 
52 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. Well. We disagree on that point. 
 
 Cyr. Naturally. Men usually do. It costs them no 
 trouble to bring the babies into the world. And they aren't 
 asked to look after them. "If s not a man's place" 
 
 Rod. Well. I have taken care of little Ann sometimes. 
 You'll have to admit that. 
 
 Cyr. [Starting at the name] That's it. Little Ann. You 
 named her after the woman who's treated me worse than 
 anyone ever treated me. 
 
 Rod. We agreed about the name when we named her. 
 
 Cyr. I did it to humor you. Never again. The stupid 
 selfish woman isn't altogether stupid. Selfish, yes. I hope 
 I am. I ought never to have been anything else. I ought 
 to have pulled and pushed for myself from the first minute. 
 
 Rod. We would have missed something, Cyrilla. You 
 know we would. 
 
 Cyr. I don't care. I wish it all undone. I shall undo 
 it. I've got just the bracer I want out of this. Now I'll do 
 everything — everything for myself and my career. And 
 I'll never stop till I get to the top. 
 
 Rod. Good enough for you, Cyrilla. You ought to. 
 
 Cyr. But you can't do anything for me. You can't. 
 You've admitted it. I'll have to go to the people who can! 
 
 Rod. What do you mean by the people who can? Don't ! 
 Don't! Don't threaten me with that! I can't stand it! 
 
 Cyr. You'll have to hear it now. Never again. If I go 
 to town today, I don't come back. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla! 
 
 Cyr. I mean it. I've had enough. How can a woman 
 like me stand a life like this? Drudging in a little house, 
 day to day and day to day, and never any light, never any 
 life. I shall die of it! I shall die of it! I've got to have 
 what I need! [She sobs.] 
 
 Rod. Ldon't wonder. I've expected this. 
 
 Cyr. I can't stand it any longer. Dragging myself about 
 all day. Taking trains. Thinking about money. I've come 
 to the end. I've come to the end. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 
 
 53 
 
 Rod. [Desperately] Cyrilla, I'll go anywhere with you, 
 you want me to go ! 
 
 Cyr. No, no ! Fve got to be alone. I can't drag you 
 around with me. You and your everlasting principles ! I've 
 got to live! 
 
 Rod. [A little stunned] Then — you want to leave me? 
 
 Cyr. Yes. I've got to go and live my life and be myself ! 
 You are right to call me stupid ! I have been ! It's all been 
 a wretched mistake. Artists can't love. They can't settle 
 down. And I'm an artist. You know it. 
 
 Rod. I do. I have all along. I've expected this. 
 
 Cyr. You did it all in the first place. It's the least you 
 can do to let me go. You made me love you and admire 
 your principles. You insisted we should be married. I 
 love you still only I — don't. I mustn't ! I must not let this 
 interfere with my life any longer. 
 
 Rod. Didn't you come to me that first night because you 
 were up against it ? I saved you then anyway. 
 
 Cyr. I came because I cared for you! I could have 
 gone to Manstrom. You know it. 
 
 Rod. [Almost shrieking] Cyrilla! Don't! Don't! I 
 can't stand it ! 
 
 Cyr. [Suddenly hushed] All right. I won't. 
 
 Rod. Promise me. Not to him. 
 
 Cyr. [Considering] Well. — No! I can't promise. 
 
 [Roderick looks at her appalled.] 
 
 Cyr. You're awfully decent, Roddy. And I would 
 promise if I could, but I can't. And I won't lie to you. 
 
 Rod. [ Slowly ] I give you your freedom absolutely, if 
 you wish it. But — you are always free to come back. 
 
 Cyr. Then you wouldn't get a divorce? 
 
 Rod. Certainly. If that's what you want. 
 
 Cyr. I do. I've got to be perfectly unhampered. 
 
 Rod. Very well. At once. But what I say is the same. 
 You are always free to come back. 
 
 Cyr. Not a bit of hard feeling? You know you're quite 
 wonderful. 
 
54 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. Well. I've cared for you, Cyrilla, tremendously. 
 Not that it matters now, or ever did to you. 
 
 Cyr. I see it, Roddy. IVe been awfully grateful. And 
 it has kept me down to you. And it mustn't keep me down 
 any more. 
 
 Rod. You're right. But — 
 
 Cyr. What? 
 
 Rod. You are always perfectly free to come to this 
 house. 
 
 Cyr. But why? 
 
 Rod. There's the baby. 
 
 Cyr. No. I can't help it. I can't be tied. 
 
 Rod. You might want to be sometime. 
 
 Cyr. Never now ! 
 
 Rod. You don't know. It might come to you. 
 
 Cyr. [Softly] Roddy, I'll never know a man as good as 
 you. 
 
 Rod. [A little bitter] I'm nothing out of the ordinary. 
 Besides, there are decent men in the world. I hope you'll 
 find that out. 
 
 Cyr. No. Not in the life that's before me. Well, I 
 must go now. I can catch the next. [She looks at her 
 watch. ] 
 
 Rod. Have you got your things ? 
 
 Cyr. Yes. My bag's out there. 
 
 [Roderick goes out into the hall and picks up her bag.] 
 
 Rod. Won't you need more than this? 
 
 Cyr. Can you send — no, I shan't ask it ! I shan't ask it ! 
 
 Rod. Give me an address. 
 
 Cyr. No. Let me send for the things when I'm ready. 
 I'll send some one for them. You needn't trouble. [Sud- 
 denly] I'll come down for them, maybe. 
 
 [She takes a look about the room as if loath to say 
 goodbye to it.] 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 55 
 
 Rod. [Looking at his watch] You haven't a great deal of 
 time. [He gets his hat.] 
 
 Cyr. [Suspicious] You're going with me? 
 Rod. Only to the train. I'll carry the bag — 
 
 [They go out. The door closes behind them.] 
 
 [curtain] 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene — The same. Six years later. The room has changed 
 again. It is now excessively bare of ornament. The 
 pictures that appeared in Act I on the walls are still 
 there, but all unframed pictures and sketches have dis- 
 appeared. There are no curtains at all at the windows. 
 The piano vanished with Cyrilla. The wall space is 
 now entirely filled with cheap bookcases filled with use- 
 ful books. The rare editions still linger in their glass 
 cases. If one could look in on them, one would see 
 that they have been used and are not treated with the 
 respect which first editions generally exact. The fire- 
 place mantle has no ornaments. It has a number of 
 photographs of little Ann at various stages, also smok- 
 ers' materials. The room is distinctly a man's work- 
 room. The desk is littered. The various tables piled 
 high. Portfolios of prints and drawings stand about. 
 They do not contain Roderick's work. A dictionary- 
 stand is in evidence. A rack with reference books 
 stands near the desk, where the sofa used to be. The 
 gate-legged tea-table has been denuded of tea-things. 
 It is at present covered with a child's new toys, among 
 which a very new doll is conspicuous. Before the fire, 
 the leather-upholstered arm-chair still stands. The 
 leather is torn here and there and the lining is sagging 
 underneath. Beside it stands a child's chair. 
 It is spring again. The garden is green. The bud- 
 ding vines are hanging unpruned about the windows. 
 
56 TWO PLAYS 
 
 But all the flowers, except a small patch of crocuses in 
 a sunny corner of the garden, have vanished. 
 
 At the rise of the curtain, Mrs. Mays is discovered out 
 on the terrace, looking intently off at left. She holds 
 her hands tightly pressed together as if she were 
 anxiously expecting something. Imogene suddenly 
 joins her from the left side of the terrace and they both 
 come into the room. Mrs. Mays wears her hat and an 
 afternoon dress. She presents a much less striking ap- 
 pearance than in Acts I and II. In fact, her costume is 
 noticeably plain. She looks distinctly older. Imogene 
 is the same Imogene. At the present moment she is in 
 tears. 
 Im. Hain't e found er yet? 
 Mrs. M. No, Imogene. 
 
 Im. Ah look evey where. All tru de garden. Ah call 
 eveywhere. De gard'ner next door hain't seed er. Ah went 
 down ter de store. Nobody ad seed er. 
 
 Mrs. M. Don't cry, Imogene. It isn't too late to find 
 her yet. Why, she's hardly been gone an hour. 
 
 Im. [Through her tears] Why, Ah see er on'y jest be- 
 fore. She say, "Armogene, see my little suit-case Haunt Ann 
 gimme f er my birf day." I say, " Yes, Ann. Now put hit away 
 and put away all yo presents. I'm go'n get yo supper." I 
 went inter de kitchen like Ah always does. Mr. Roderick 
 was in ere wit yo — 
 
 Mrs. M. No. We were out in the garden just then. 
 Im. Leastways, Ah didn't think nothin' could appen ter 
 er. 
 
 Mrs. M. Ann is very quick. Children are all like that. 
 
 [She walks about nervously.] 
 Im. She say, "See my little suit-case." She was awful 
 pleased wif dat, Mis Mays. She been askin' fer one dis 
 long time. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Absently] Yes, I know. 
 Im. She play go'n to see er motter. 
 Mrs. M. What? 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 57 
 
 Im. She play go'n ter see er motter. It was one a er 
 plays. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Thoughtfully] I wonder if — 
 Im, An' Ah say ter er, "Go an put hit away, Ann. Ar- 
 mogene go'n ter get yo supper." An Ah adn't scarcely gone 
 inter de kitchen when Mr. Roderick e come callin' fer er. 
 "Hain't she in de study?" Ah say, "No." E say, "Where 
 is she?" "Upstairs," Ah say. No, she hain't upstairs. O, 
 Mis' Mays, where can she ave got ter?" 
 
 Mrs. M. Her father will find her. You'd better get her 
 supper ready. They may be here any minute. 
 
 Im. Yes, Mis' Mays. [At the door] She say ter me, 
 "See my little suit-case." 
 Mrs. M. Yes, Imogene. 
 
 [Imogene closes the door up right reluctantly. Her 
 sobs recede. Enter at the front door almost im- 
 mediately, Roderick, holding Ann by the hand. 
 Roderick, already a little grey about the temples, 
 still preserves the artist in his appearance. This is 
 accentuated by the well-worn suit he wears. His 
 face has the set look of a man whose life has been 
 thwarted. 
 Ann is now a little girl of six. She is fair and has 
 her father's cast of features and her mother's large 
 eyes. She is a comely child, but there is something 
 unmistakably odd about her. She wears a white 
 smock and white shoes and stockings. The latter 
 are at present much soiled, and the large bow of 
 blue ribbon, with which her curls are garnished, is 
 half untied and hanging down. She is whimper- 
 ing. With one hand she clings to a tiny suit-case, 
 such as is made for children. Her father holds her 
 by the other hand with a strong grip, and they have 
 all the appearance of having come along at a rapid 
 rate, Ann running beside her father.] 
 Mrs. M. [Involuntarily] O, Roderick! Thank goodness! 
 Rod. [In a low tone to Mrs. M.] Just a prank. We 
 won't discuss it before her. 
 
58 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mrs. M. Where did you find her? 
 Rod. Down at the station. 
 Mrs. M. Good gracious ! 
 
 [Imogene bursts in at the door up right.] 
 Im. Why, Ann Scarsdale ! Yo run away. Yo bad girl ! 
 Armogene scold yer! Yo adn't orter ave no supper! On 
 yo birfday too ! Yo bad girl ! [All this is spoken very fast 
 as Imogene goes up to Ann, kneels down before her and 
 twitches her with every exclamation. Roderick interposes 
 as Ann begins to cry and runs to him.] 
 
 Rod. I wouldn't, Imogene. She's been scared. She 
 won't do it again. Will you, Ann? 
 
 [Ann, without replying, embraces her father's leg, 
 buries her face on his knee and bursts into howls. ] 
 Rod. There. You see she's all upset. We'll give her 
 supper and put her to bed. 
 
 Ann [Without raising her face, convulsively clutching 
 her father's leg] No, no. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Bending over her] Ann, look up, dear. Aunt 
 Ann wants to speak to you. 
 
 [Ann refuses her Aunt.] 
 Rod. Too much birthday. That's what's the matter. 
 Mrs. M. I suppose so. With all those children and all 
 the excitement. Tired out. 
 
 Im. Ah tell yer, wit all dat candy an cake an ice-cream — 
 Rod. Well, it's over for the year.. 
 
 [These last remarks are made in an undertone above 
 Ann's head. Roderick seats himself in the big 
 chair, and with that wonderful air of experience 
 which fathers possess who are obliged to be moth- 
 ers, draws Ann up on his knee and settles her. 
 She buries her face in his shoulder.] 
 Im. Where ad she got to, de naughty girl? 
 Rod. We'll talk about that later. Better get her supper 
 ready, Imogene. 
 
 Ann. Don' want any! 
 
 Rod. Wouldn't you like to have it in here for a change? 
 Father will read you Peter Rabbit. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 59 
 
 Ann. [More faintly] No, no. 
 Rod. Bring it in here, Imogene. 
 
 Im. She a naughty girl, jes' de same. She orter be put 
 in de cupboard. 
 Ann. No, no. 
 
 Im. I tell yo, Mr. Roderick, Ann orter ave no supper at 
 all. 
 
 Rod. Bring it in here. 
 Im. Well— 
 
 [She goes out very much on her dignity.] 
 Rod. Now Ann, we'll get the little table, shall we? 
 
 [He sets Ann on her feet.] 
 Ann. No. 
 Rod. Yes. 
 
 [He goes to the table and begins to remove the toys.] 
 Ann. No, no. 
 
 Rod. We'll put them on the shelves. 
 Ann. No. 
 
 [But she helps a very little. Between them they 
 bring the table to the little chair. Ann begins to 
 show more interest in life. Roderick has taken a 
 little book from among the presents. He sits and 
 Ann slowly climbs to his knee. Roderick reads a 
 passage from Peter Rabbit with the air of having 
 done so several hundreds of times. Mrs. Mays 
 sits in a chair on the other side of the fireplace and 
 begins to work on a little dress of Ann's which she 
 has taken from a large flowered work-bag.] 
 Ann. Let me read, fadie. 
 
 [She pretends to read. Her finger mechanically fol- 
 lows the lines, but her eyes run about the room. 
 She even twists the book to look at the pictures, 
 Her voice keeping on with the text.] 
 Rod. Very nice. Don't you sometimes turn the pages 
 when you read? I do. 
 Ann. [Hastily] O yes. 
 
 [She turns several pages.] 
 Rod. Very nice. Go on. 
 
60 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Ann. I don't know what comes next. 
 
 [Imogene comes in with the child's supper on a tray.] 
 Rod. Well, we'll stop there for here comes Imogene with 
 your supper. 
 
 Ann. [Beginning to whimper again] Can't I have sup- 
 per with you, fadie? I'm growed up now. I'm six. 
 
 Rod. No. Fadie and Aunt Ann have theirs later. No 
 crying. From a grown-up girl. 
 
 Ann. [Reflectively while Imogene places the tray] Why 
 does being six years old make me growed up, fadie ? 
 
 Rod. When we're six, we stop being babies, — strictly 
 speaking. [He kisses her,] 
 
 [The door-bell rings.] 
 Rod. That's the postman. 
 Ann. O, fadie, let me get the letters. 
 Im. No, no, Ann. Yo lose de letters. Yo a bad girl. 
 Ann. [Indignant, appealing] Fadie! 
 Rod. Ann is sorry, Imogene. She won't run away again. 
 Will you, Ann ? 
 Ann. [In a small voice] No, fadie. 
 Rod. All right now. Run and get the letters. 
 
 [Ann runs out.] 
 Mrs. M. Haven't you heard yet from those people? 
 Rod. The University Board? I ought to hear from 
 them now. I'm looking for a letter tonight. 
 
 [Ann comes in with the letters, examining them, and 
 consequently dropping them.] 
 Mrs. M. O pick them up, darling. Don't lose the let- 
 ters. They're very precious. 
 
 [Ann laboriously picks them up one by one. Rode- 
 rick puts out his hand for them, but Ann refuses. 
 She enjoys looking them over.] 
 Ann. No, no. Let me see if there is one for you. 
 Im. Yo spoil er, Mr. Roderick. Yo let er do jest what 
 she likes. She orter be punished fer bein' so naughty. 
 
 Rod. Well, Imogene, I think justice should be tempered 
 with mercy. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 61 
 
 Im. [Not in the least understanding and pretending that 
 she does] Peradventure. 
 
 [She goes out haughtily at right. ] 
 Rod. Does there appear to be one for me, Ann? 
 Ann. [Still puzzling] Peradventure. 
 
 [Roderick and Mrs. Mays exchange glances and 
 smile. Ann hands Roderick one letter. Rode- 
 rick pauses, looking at the handwriting, then opens 
 it slowly.] 
 Mrs. M. Come now and eat your supper, darling. 
 
 [Ann unceremoniously thrusts the rest of the letters 
 into Roderick's hand and goes to the table. She 
 sits in her little chair and Mrs. Mays ties on her 
 bib. She is very motherly with Ann.] 
 Mrs. M. Eat nicely, darling. Don't spill. Did the let- 
 ter come, Roderick? 
 Rod. [Absently] No. 
 
 Mrs. M. I thought as much. These funds people give 
 to enlarge professors' salaries only go to the salaries that 
 are already large. The little ones stay where they are or 
 shrink. 
 
 [Roderick does not answer, absorbed in the letter. 
 Mrs. Mays, sitting beside Ann goes on with her 
 work. ] 
 Mrs. M. The Universities need the underpaid and over- 
 worked professors to keep them out of debt. I know. 
 
 [The clock strikes six.] 
 Ann. [Jubilantly] It's six o'clock, fadie. And I am 
 six. Isn't that funny? 
 
 [Roderick does not answer.] 
 Ann. [Imperiously] Fadie! 
 Rod. What dear? 
 
 Ann. Fadie ! It's six o'clock and I am six ! 
 Rod. O yes. Very funny. Have you finished your sup- 
 per, Ann? 
 
 Mrs. M. She hasn't. But I think she's probably had 
 enough. 
 
 [Mrs. M. begins to remove the tray.] 
 
62 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Ann. [Whimpering] No, I want it. 
 
 [Mrs. M. puts the tray back, Ann begins to eat. 
 She soon puts down her spoon with a bored ex- 
 pression. ] 
 
 Rod. There now. That's enough, isn't it? 
 
 [He picks Ann up and holds her in his lap. She puts 
 her head down wearily. ] 
 
 Mrs. M. [Looking down at her] Perfectly exhausted. 
 
 [Imogene comes in at right.] 
 
 Im. Yo wan' me to put Ann ter bed, Mr. Roderick? 
 
 Rod. It's still a little early, Imogene. She'll wake up so 
 early if she goes now. 
 
 Im. She alf asleep now. 
 
 Rod. I know. But I want her to stay here a little longer. 
 
 Im. I doubt she sick, Mr. Roderick. A party dis after- 
 noon an runnin away like dat. 
 
 Ann. [Sitting up suddenly] I am not sick, Imogene. 
 
 Im. If she don't come up now, I can't wait in ter put er 
 ter bed. 
 
 Rod. [Placidly] O that's the trouble. I'll put her to bed 
 myself. And I'll get dinner when I'm ready. You needn't 
 mind. 
 
 Ann. [Sitting up again] I can put myself to bed now, 
 can't I fadie? 
 
 Rod. Yes. Ann can put herself to bed now, Imogene. 
 
 Im. [Very scornful] All right, Mr. Roderick. 
 
 [She goes out abruptly at right.] 
 
 Mrs, M. [After a moment, making sure that Ann has 
 dropped off] Imogene is growing into a regular problem, 
 isn't she? 
 
 Rod. She is. 
 
 Mrs. M. They all do. There's one thing worse than 
 having them leave and that is to have them stay on. 
 
 Rod. I believe you're right. The only way I can get rid 
 of her is to take a flat. [He speaks nervously] I sometimes 
 feel I shall do it some night and hide. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Alarmed] O no. Not yet, Roderick. You 
 can't let Imogene go yet. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 63 
 
 Rod. [His arms tightening about Ann] Why not? I've 
 always looked after Ann. 
 
 Mrs. M. I know, but you're away at your work, hours 
 at a time. 
 
 Rod. But Ann's begun to go to school and I'm always 
 home to lunch. 
 
 Mrs. M. No. Don't Roderick. Why will you always 
 think you can take all the care of the child? 
 
 Rod. [With sudden bitterness] Well, I may not be al- 
 lowed to keep her anyway. 
 
 Mrs. M. What do you mean? There's something the 
 matter ! Has that — 
 
 [Ann sits bolt upright.] 
 
 Rod. Ann dear, let's see how big a girl you are. Let's 
 see if you can go upstairs and undress by yourself. 
 
 [Ann solemnly nods.] 
 
 Rod. Now kiss Aunt Ann goodnight and thank her for 
 all your lovely things. 
 
 [Ann goes slowly to her Aunt and kisses her.] 
 
 Rod. Thank you, Aunt Ann — 
 
 Ann. Thank you, Aunt Ann — 
 
 Rod. For my nice presents — 
 
 Ann. [Perfunctorily] For-my-nice-presents. Aunt Ann, 
 I want to take my new doll to bed wif me. 
 
 Mrs. M. Do, dear. 
 
 Rod. Run and get it. 
 
 [Ann gets the doll slowly.] 
 
 Mrs. M. What are you going to name your doll? 
 
 Ann. Cyrilla. 
 
 [Mrs. Mays glances quickly at Roderick.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Cyrilla? 
 
 Ann. That was my muvver's name. I think it's pretty. 
 Don't you? 
 
 Rod. Now run upstairs. And when you're undressed 
 call me. 
 
 Ann. Must I have a baf tonight, fadie? 
 
 Rod. Yes, dear. 
 
 Ann. Aw — it's my birfday. 
 
64 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. Birthdays only come once a year. Baths every 
 night. 
 
 Ann. [Yawning] I wish it was the oder way. 
 
 Rod. I find this arrangement more restful. I think I 
 shall continue it. Run along. 
 
 [Ann goes slowly toward the hall-door. She sees 
 her little suit-case and takes it along.] 
 
 Ann. I wish my muvver would come and see me. Fadie, 
 would my muvver make me take bafs? 
 
 Rod. [Firmly] Yes. Of course. 
 
 Ann. Then I hope she won't come. [At the door] I 
 think my muvver is very tall and wears a hat wif f ewers 
 on it. Sometime, I think I will go and see my muvver. 
 
 Rod. And leave poor fadie? 
 
 Ann. [Her little face softening at once] O fadie, you 
 must come too. [She runs back to him. Roderick con- 
 ducts her firmly to the stairs.] 
 
 Rod. Now let me see you go up. 
 
 [Ann goes slowly upstairs with her burdens. Rode- 
 rick zvatches her progress.] 
 
 Ann. [Triumphantly, from above] I'm up. 
 
 [He comes back into the room.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, it's uncanny. 
 
 Rod. [After a minute] When I found her this afternoon, 
 she was going to take the train. She was going to see her 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick! 
 
 Rod. It was all right. The station master is a good 
 friend of hers. He had her in charge. 
 
 Mrs. M. I don't see how you could ever talk to the child 
 about her. It would never have occurred to me. 
 
 Rod. We agree to differ on that point. 
 
 Mrs. M. But now this running away. Some day she'll 
 do it. 
 
 [Roderick's face twitches,] 
 
 Rod. What are you going to do? She found other 
 children were equipped with mothers. She came and asked 
 me where hers was. She's very imaginative, — you know 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 65 
 
 she is. So now she's all the time playing things about her 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. M. I had no idea about all this ! You never told 
 me. I would never have given her that little bag if I had 
 known. 
 
 Rod. Aunt Ann, do you think it's strange I'm a little 
 shy about mentioning Cyrilla to you? 
 
 Mrs. M. [With a dry laugh] No. I suppose it isn't. 
 [There is a long pause. Mrs. Mays sews. Rode- 
 rick smokes.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, she's in New York. 
 
 Rod. I know it. 
 
 Mrs. M. She is the greatest possible success. Every- 
 body is talking about her since she appeared in Tosca, I 
 think it was. Though, of course, American singers haven't 
 the same standing as European. 
 
 Rod. Not in advertising. They sing as well. Better. 
 
 Mrs. M. Have you heard her? 
 
 [He shakes his head.] 
 
 Mrs. M. I spent yesterday at the lawyer's — your un- 
 cle's affairs again. [She sighs.] In the waiting-room, 
 two women were talking about Cyrilla. I don't know who 
 they were. But they were enthusiastic. That's a great deal 
 from women. If it had been a tenor, I'd have expected it. 
 
 Rod. I thought she would succeed. — Tell me about Un- 
 ck ? How is he ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Just the same. It's going to be a long thing, 
 Roderick. 
 
 Rod. And the business ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Hopeless. Hopeless. You've simply no idea 
 what he has been doing with his affairs. It's awful. To 
 tell the truth, I'm frightened. I'm a poor woman now, 
 Roderick. 
 
 Rod. O I can't have you go through this, after 
 what you've had to put up with from him ! It's so unfair ! 
 Aunt Ann, is there no way out? 
 
 Mrs. M. Mr. Chandler thinks some may be saved. I'll 
 have a little income. Cheer up. 
 
66 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. Aunt Ann, when he goes, you'll come to me. 
 
 Mrs. M. O Roderick dear, that's looking far ahead. But 
 I will. Gladly. Thankfully. 
 
 [They both pause.] 
 
 Rod. [Suddenly] Read this. 
 
 [Mrs. Mays takes the letter he hands her and glances 
 at it.] 
 
 Mrs. M. [With vehemence] When did you get this? 
 
 Rod. [Quickly] Just now. 
 
 Mrs. M. Why — why didn't you tell me? 
 
 Rod. Haven't I? 
 
 [Mrs. Mays reads in silence.] 
 
 Rod. Well. What do you think of it? 
 
 Mrs. M. I think it's preposterous! Insufferable! Of 
 course you will take no notice of it. 
 
 Rod. That's just what I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. M. [Leanmg forward] Roderick. Be careful. 
 She will have the child kidnapped. Go to your lawyer. 
 Take every precaution. 
 
 [Roderick looks dubious.] 
 
 Mrs. M. Surely you won't hesitate? 
 
 Rod. Yes. Frankly, I do. 
 
 Mrs. M. But why — for heaven's sake! The woman di- 
 vorced you, — left the child in your hands. 
 
 Rod. I know, but — 
 
 Mrs. M. But what? 
 
 Rod. But after all she's the mother. 
 
 Mrs. M. Fiddlestick! 
 
 Rod. Hardly. 
 
 Mrs. M. That's so like her. To repudiate a trouble, a 
 nuisance. And now she wants a plaything! — But surely 
 you're not thinking of letting her have the child? 
 
 Rod. [After a pause] No. She ought not to have the 
 child. 
 
 Mrs. M. I'm glad you are fixed on that point. She has 
 forfeited the right — 
 
 Rod. Not the right to see the child. 
 
 Mrs. M. It was folly to allow it. Besides, not to put 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 67 
 
 too fine a point upon it/ — she can have children whenever 
 she wants them. 
 Rod. Aunt Ann ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Don't Aunt Ann me. And don't be shocked. 
 It's the truth. Everyone knows what she is. [Leaning for- 
 zvard] Roderick, you surely know the scandal that went on 
 the year and a half you were married to her? 
 Rod. Yes. I do. 
 
 Mrs. M. She refers here to some promise. 
 Rod. I promised her that she was free to come back 
 whenever she chose — 
 Mrs. M. [Amazed] You did! 
 
 Rod. That was before I knew. Of course when I found 
 out what her conduct had been, I felt I was released. But 
 she will think otherwise. 
 
 Mrs. M. How on earth did you come to make such an 
 insane promise? 
 
 Rod. Aunt Ann, we can't discuss this. I cared for Cy- 
 rilla then. 
 
 Mrs. M. Yes. You did. I never knew how much till 
 the break came. 
 
 Rod. Besides, there is no getting round it, — she is the 
 mother of this child. 
 
 Mrs. M. [With great bitterness] There are mothers and 
 mothers. Or I should say, mothers and no mothers. The 
 fact that a woman can bear children is no proof of mother- 
 liness. It's merely a natural phenomenon. And it is ri- 
 diculous that this woman should suddenly ask for a child 
 she's neglected for six years. And from the man she in- 
 jured. 
 
 [She rises and walks about.] 
 Mrs. M. Roderick, will you or will you not make up 
 your mind to pay no attention to this ? 
 
 [Roderick does not answer.] 
 Mrs. M. Then all we've succeeded in doing, so far, is to 
 make conversation. Why did you show me that letter if 
 you won't do as I say ? 
 
68 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. Of course I ought to decide these things for my- 
 self. 
 
 Mrs. M. You can't. Old association is too strong. It's 
 the same with me, Roderick. Loyalty is in our blood. But 
 in this case, your duty is perfectly plain, and I want to back 
 you up in it. I'm afraid to leave you. I don't know what 
 mad thing you'll do the moment I turn my back. 
 
 Rod. [After a moment] You needn't be afraid, Aunt 
 Ann. That child and I have not been separated a night or 
 a day since her mother left the house. 
 
 Mrs. M. I know it. And it's wonderful ! 
 
 Rod. O no. 
 
 Mrs. M. It is wonderful to me, my dear boy. 
 
 Rod. No. It isn't. Little Ann has come to be the great 
 interest of my life. It's true, — nothing, no work, can take 
 the place of it. And that's why Cyrilla will never get her 
 back. 
 
 Mrs. M. Thank God. [She kisses him warmly.] My 
 dear child. I can leave you now with a free mind. Good 
 gracious, it's late. Your uncle will be looking for me. 
 [She hurries to put up her work.] 
 
 Rod. I only wish I could see you home. 
 
 Mrs. M. Don't think of it. I like the way fair Imogene 
 goes off every evening and leaves you to do her work. 
 
 Rod. [Bringing her coat] I'm used to it. But I don't 
 like to have you walking home in the dark. 
 
 Mrs. M. Don't worry about it, Roderick. It's such a 
 short way. And like you, I'm getting used to it. 
 
 [They go to the outer door as they talk and Roderick 
 opens it for Mrs. Mays. They stand on the 
 threshold talking a moment, then Mrs. Mays goes 
 out and Roderick closes the door.] 
 
 Rod. [At the foot of the stairs] Ann! 
 
 Ann. [Above] What? 
 
 Rod. Are you undressing? 
 
 Ann. [Very slowly] No. 
 
 Rod. What are you doing? 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 69 
 
 Ann. Playing. 
 
 Rod. What are you playing, Ann? Where are you? 
 Ann. I'm looking out of the window. I'm playing about 
 what I see in the garden. 
 
 Rod. Ann, stop playing. Now undress. Do as you're 
 told. Fadie's going to start his dinner. Then he's coming 
 up. Do you hear me ? 
 
 Ann. [Very unwilling] Yes — fadie. 
 
 [Her voice dies away. Roderick comes into the 
 study, turns on the light, takes down a smoking- 
 jacket and puts it on. He puts on a pair of slip- 
 pers. With his pipe relighted, he goes off at right, 
 the picture of a worn instructor of American youth. 
 When he is gone, Ann is seen running down the 
 stairs. She peers through the lights on either side 
 of the front door. Then, with some difficulty, she 
 turns the handle and opens the door wide. She 
 ushers in Cyrilla. 
 Cyrilla is now gorgeously artificial. She does indeed 
 wear a hat with plumes, as Ann has imagined. She 
 wears a handsome fur stole and jewelled chains, 
 and her hands, when she removes her gloves, glitter 
 with jewels. She is the epitome of fashion. Her 
 face is painted, but skilfully. Her eyebrows are 
 shaped and pencilled into an exquisite arch. She 
 wears orchids. Altogether she more than fulfils 
 Ann's dream. Ann stands staring at her and she 
 stands gazing down at Ann for a moment.] 
 Cyr. [In an artificial and melodious voice] Does Mr. 
 Roderick Scarsdale live here? 
 
 [Ann nods her head.] 
 Cyr. [After a pause] Are you Mr. Scarsdale's little girl? 
 
 [Ann nods again.] 
 Cyr. Is — Mr. Scarsdale at home? 
 
 [Ann nods again.] 
 Cyr. [Winningly] May I come in? 
 
 [Ann nods again and closes the door with Cyrilla's 
 help. They come into the room, Ann preceding. 
 
jo TWO PLAYS 
 
 Ann runs quickly and shoves out the big chair, 
 completely disappearing as she does so. Cyrilla 
 graciously sits.] 
 Cyr. Thank you. And where are you going to sit? 
 
 [Ann runs and pushes up her little chair. They sit 
 facing each other. Cyrilla finally appears a lit- 
 tle embarrassed under the child's scrutiny.] 
 Cyr. Where is your father, little Ann? 
 Ann. [Surprised into speech] How do you know my 
 name? 
 
 [Cyrilla is taken aback. Tears come into her eyes.] 
 Cyr. I — I have known your father a long time. 
 Ann. Did you know me? 
 
 [Cyrilla cannot answer.] 
 Ann. You're my muvver, aren't you? 
 Cyr. [Her voice vanishing] Yes. 
 Ann. I knew you'd come. 
 Cyr. Did you ? How did you know ? 
 Ann. Fadie told me about you. And I make stories 
 about you. [She speaks with the surprised confidence of a 
 little girl who has made a very nice friend. ] 
 Cyr. What — what were the stories? 
 Ann. That you would come and see me. And then — that 
 I would go and see you. 
 
 Cyr. [Suddenly wiping her eyes] That is very right. So 
 father talked to you about me. 
 
 [Ann nods.] 
 Cyr. So you did not forget me. 
 
 [Ann shakes her head.] 
 Cyr. That was very good of father wasn't it? 
 Ann. Yes. 
 Cyr. You love father? 
 Ann. Yes. 
 
 Cyr. Father's very good to you ? 
 Ann. Yes. 
 
 [She approaches Cyrilla shyly and touches her 
 chain. ] 
 Ann. What is that? 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 71 
 
 Cyr. Do you like it? 
 Ann. Yes. 
 
 [She leans rather heavily on Cyrilla as she plays with 
 the chain. Cyrilla draws away a little, unaccus- 
 tomed to having her finery mussed. Ann touches 
 the flowers.] 
 Ann. What are those? 
 
 Cyr. They are called orchids. So you would like to 
 come and visit me. 
 
 [Ann nods.] 
 Cyr. Do you know where I live ? 
 
 [Ann shakes her head.] 
 Cyr. I am living in New York now. 
 Ann. Are you? 
 
 Cyr. That is not far away, is it? 
 
 Ann. No. Fadie took me to New York once. Do you 
 live in a house? 
 
 Cyr. No. I have an apartment in a hotel. 
 Ann. Where is that? 
 Cyr. On Fifth Avenue. 
 
 Ann. I know where that is. That is where the circus 
 parade was. 
 
 Cyr. There are many beautiful parades on Fifth Avenue. 
 You can see them all from my rooms. 
 
 Ann. [Shyly] I think I would like to go to your house. 
 Cyr. You would? I came here to ask father if he 
 would let you visit me? 
 
 Ann. [Suddenly a little appalled] Did you? 
 
 [She draws away a trifle.] 
 Cyr. Yes. When would you like to come? 
 Ann. [Shyly] I don't know. 
 Cyr. Shall we ask father? 
 
 [Ann nods.] 
 Ann. [After a minute] Why didn't you come to see me 
 sooner? 
 
 Cyr. Because, dear, I have been across the sea. In Paris. 
 For many years. 
 Ann. Is Paris as nice as New York? 
 
72 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Cyr. It is nicer. 
 
 Ann. Do they have parades in Paris? 
 Cyr. Sometimes. But they have a place for children 
 to play. It is called the Tuileries Gardens. It has a big 
 fountain where all the girls and boys sail little boats. And 
 there are many little booths — 
 Ann. What is that? 
 
 Cyr. Little houses that can be set up and taken down 
 very easily. Where they have children's toys. And little 
 theatres for Punch and Judy. And the men sell colored 
 balloons there. And little airships. 
 
 [Ann is listening intently, lost to the world.] 
 Cyr. Would you like to see the Tuileries Gardens? 
 
 [Ann nods. At this moment, Roderick opens the 
 door at right and sees them. He stands stock still, 
 until first Ann turns, then Cyrilla.] 
 Cyr. [Rising; gloriously at her ease] Why Roderick. I 
 did not hear you ! Ann has been entertaining me. 
 
 [Ann slips her hand into Cyrilla',? hand.] 
 Ann. Aren't you going to say anything to my muvver, 
 f adie ? 
 Rod. How do you do, Cyrilla. — Ann! 
 Ann. Yes, fadie? 
 
 Rod. [Sternly] Come here. [Ann goes to him.] I 
 told you to go to bed long ago. 
 
 [Ann hangs her head.] 
 Rod. [Very gently] Now run upstairs to bed. Will you? 
 
 [Ann nods.] 
 Rod. Kiss me goodnight. 
 
 [Ann kisses him.] 
 Ann. And must I have a baf tonight, fadie? 
 Rod. Not tonight. It's too late now. 
 Ann. O goody! 
 
 [She goes to Cyrilla and offers her mouth. Cyrilla 
 kisses her, surprised at her own sensations.] 
 Ann. It's my birfday today. I'm six years old. I can 
 undress all alone now. 
 
 [She goes upstairs very dutifully. Roderick con- 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 73 
 
 tinues to stand, though Cyrilla sits in the big 
 chair. ] 
 
 Cyr. You got my letter? 
 
 Rod. I did. But only just. 
 
 Cyr. I couldn't wait. 
 
 Rod. You have waited nearly six years, however. 
 
 Cyr. Making a career. — You don't seem awfully pleased 
 to see me. 
 
 Rod. Why should I be? 
 
 Cyr. I don't know. You used to care for me. 
 
 [She is provocative as only a well-dressed woman 
 who is sure of herself can be.] 
 
 Rod. [Pale] I am afraid that used is the word. 
 
 Cyr. Well? How about it? You remember your 
 promise? 
 
 Rod. Yes. I do. 
 
 Cyr. Are you willing to keep it? 
 
 [Roderick takes a turn through the room.] 
 
 Rod. I told you you were free to come back. That was 
 my promise. There is only one thing you would come back 
 for, — to a place like this. — What do you propose to do? 
 
 Cyr. I can do a great deal for the child now. 
 
 [Roderick says nothing.] 
 
 Cyr. More than you could ever do. 
 
 [Roderick looks at her, but says nothing,] 
 
 Cyr. I could even help you. — O talk, Roderick! You 
 haven't changed a bit, have you ? 
 
 Rod. As I understand it from your letter, you want to 
 have Ann with you ? 
 
 Cyr. I do. 
 
 Rod. I made no promise of that kind, you know. 
 
 Cyr. You told me I was free to come back whenever I 
 chose. On account of the baby. I said I didn't choose to 
 be tied. You said sometime I might want to be. I remem- 
 ber every word you said. The time has come. I do want 
 to be tied. Now it stands to reason I can't live here any 
 more. And I can give the child untold advantages. It is 
 for the child's sake after all — 
 
74 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. I'm sorry, but I can't recognize a promise of any 
 kind any more. 
 
 Cyr. [With sarcasm] O? Why is that? 
 
 Rod. If I had known then what I know now — I would 
 never have made it. 
 
 Cyr. Well? What was that? 
 
 Rod. You needn't ask me. You know. 
 
 Cyr. All the same — I am the child's mother. And in 
 those days you recognized that. 
 
 Rod. And I now recognize that you are a very success- 
 ful opera-singer. 
 
 Cyr. [Her lips tightening] I'm glad it appears so. 
 
 Rod. Well, it's so, isn't it? 
 
 Cyr. [Shaking one foot to and fro] No. ]With rage[ 
 No! No! [She speaks hoarsely.] 
 
 Rod. Why not? 
 
 Cyr. O you in America! You don't appreciate your 
 own. Cheap! Common! You buy art as you buy 
 clothes. No feeling. No instinct ! Nothing but the coarse 
 vulgar demand for money and to get ahead. Any fool with 
 an Italian name and a cracked voice, women who are never 
 heard in Europe, can take precedent here in New York of an 
 artist like me! And I am an artist. The Paris public 
 recognized it. Fool that I was to come here — [She is on 
 the point of tears.] And I want the child. If I don't have 
 the child I shall go mad. 
 
 Rod. We've got to consider the child first. 
 
 Cyr. Who could consider the child now, better than I? 
 I can afford it ! You can't ! 
 
 Rod. There are other considerations than money. I 
 told you I could not keep any promise to you. 
 
 Cyr. I wonder what is tormenting that conscience of 
 yours? There's something I don't get. Tell me, what is 
 this thing that makes you — the soul of honor — break your 
 word? 
 
 Rod. I refuse to talk about it. 
 
 [Cyrilla considers.] 
 
 Cyr. [Suddenly] O! When you made that promise, we 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 75 
 
 were still married. And you think it was something I did 
 while we were married? Of course! Listen, Roderick. 
 You used to tell me I was honest. [He nods.] Well, that 
 is my nature. I have learned to lie. O yes! With the 
 best of the crew! But I was always honest with you. I 
 am honest now. Will you believe me ? 
 
 Rod. Yes. 
 
 Cyr. While we were married, I encouraged old Mans- 
 trom. — Poor old Manstrom ! — I did it because I felt I ought. 
 It was good business. But while I was under this roof 
 there was nothing between us. Nothing but talk. I was 
 afraid at the time it might reach you. And I knew gossip 
 would stretch it as far as possible. It did, didn't it? 
 
 Rod. [Nods] Yes. 
 
 Cyr. I've thought of that since. Do you believe what 
 I've told you? 
 
 Rod. [Turning to her] I do. 
 
 [Roderick looks greatly relieved. The muscles of 
 his face relax suddenly. ] 
 
 Cyr. Very well then. The promise holds. 
 
 [Roderick winces.] 
 
 Cyr. It does, doesn't it? 
 
 Rod. We've got to be practical. A child can't suddenly 
 be taken away from the only parent she has known and put 
 into the arms of a woman she doesn't remember. 
 
 Cyr. You talked to her of me. She said so. 
 
 Rod. I thought it was only right — 
 
 Cyr. [Smiling] Still a man of principle. [Gravely] I 
 told you before I left there weren't many men like you. I've 
 found that true enough. Tell me, Roderick, how are you 
 getting on ? 
 
 Rod. As you see. 
 
 Cyr. Haven't they raised you yet at that rotten Uni- 
 versity ? 
 
 Rod. No. 
 
 Cyr. On my account ? 
 
 [Roderick says nothing.] 
 
 Cyr. I asked a man I met once in Paris what they 
 
76 TWO PLAYS 
 
 thought of you here. He said the students were wild about 
 you. 
 
 Rod. [Sighing humorously] Yes. I have some snap 
 courses like the others. 
 
 Cyr. It was more than that. This man was at the 
 Beaux Arts. He said he couldn't be grateful enough to 
 you for what you had taught him. He really had learned 
 something. It shows in Paris, you know, what a man has 
 had when he comes over. It's a shame. A rotten shame. 
 Tell me, doesn't Mrs. Mays help out or — 
 
 Rod. She can't. 
 
 Cyr. Why not? 
 
 Rod. Her money's gone. That husband of hers mud- 
 dled it all away. And now he's an invalid on her hands. 
 
 Cyr. [Bursting out] That a good man like you — ! O, 
 it's true in this world. Virtue is certainly its own reward. 
 It never has any other. Roderick, let me take the child and 
 educate her. 
 
 [Roderick gives a fearful start which he suppresses.] 
 
 Cyr. You said we must be practical. You've got to 
 think of her if you won't think of yourself. She's a charm- 
 ing child. She ought to have the best. You can't do any- 
 thing. Tied by the leg. 
 
 [Roderick winces.] 
 
 Cyr. And it's my fault. I see it. 
 
 [A long pause.] 
 
 Cyr. [Hoarsely] And anyway I want her! I must 
 have her! I've got to have my child. I've got to have 
 something as the years go on. Faced with this horrible dis- 
 appointment. I can't stand it. 
 
 Rod. What disappointment. What do you know about 
 it? 
 
 Cyr. [Leaning forward] A good deal more than you will 
 ever know. I've succeeded, with the public. And now I'm 
 held back. By rotten politics. By rotten envy. By your 
 commercial managers. By your low vulgar country. Buried 
 in money. And barren of taste. It's awful ! And I want 
 my child. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 77 
 
 Rod. Answer me one question. Why don't you marry 
 again? 
 
 Cyr. I ? Marry? The men I meet? [She throws back 
 her head and laughs.] 
 
 Rod. O stop. You could if you liked. 
 
 Cyr. [Shortly] No. — Now are you going to let me have 
 her? 
 
 Rod. It isn't possible. 
 
 Cyr. You will condemn that child to poverty and a poor 
 social position, because of your principles. 
 
 Rod. There are things worse than poverty. [He looks 
 Cyrilla in the eye. Her lids droop.] And as for social 
 position, mine is safe at any rate. 
 
 . Cyr. [Quietly] Safe and dull. She'll have a dull time 
 of it, Roderick. Young people need fun and change, and 
 yes, — they do need experience. Perhaps if you had had 
 more, Roddy, things would have turned out differently. 
 
 Rod. You will be surprised to hear that I am satisfied. 
 
 Cyr. Well. There's no making you out. You don't 
 seem to want the things other people want at all. And — I 
 like you the better for it! All the same, think of what 
 I say. You can't turn aside what might be a chance for 
 Ann. 
 
 Rod. You've got to give me time to work this out. 
 
 Cyr. I can't give you more than a week. We're going 
 to the Coast very soon. 
 
 Rod. And you'd drag the child out there? 
 
 Cyr. O no. She could come back here, while I'm tra- 
 velling, I suppose. Couldn't she? She'd be in the way on 
 a journey. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla, you don't want the child. 
 
 Cyr. You can't pay for her. I can. 
 
 Rod. But to let her go on this uncertain basis ! 
 
 Cyr. Let her visit me then. 
 
 Rod. She's so little. And never been away. She's got 
 to be consulted. She can't go just like that! To strangers. 
 
 Cyr. Children easily forget when they're amused. 
 
 [Roderick's face twitches.] 
 
78 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Rod. Take her out of school now? We've got to wait 
 till summer. 
 
 Cyr. No. Now ! 
 
 Rod. IVe got to have two days to think it over. 
 
 Cyr. [Rising] It won't be safe to give you time. You'll 
 be consulting Aunt Ann. 
 
 Rod. Are you out of your senses! What do you know 
 about children? 
 
 Cyr. I know this. That the child has dreamed about 
 me all these years. She told me so when I came in. She 
 looks to me as if I were her goddess. She longs to be with 
 me. 
 
 Rod. [Violently] Drag a child away to New York at 
 this time of night? I won't have it! She's my child. The 
 law gave her to me. 
 
 Cyr. And allowed me freedom in seeing her. 
 
 Rod. I will say nothing further about it. She's sound 
 asleep by now — 
 
 [Ann, with hat and coat on, with her suit-case in one 
 hand and her doll in the other, is seen descending 
 the stairs.] 
 
 Ann. [Entering. To Cyrilla] I think I will go with 
 you tonight. 
 
 Cyr. [Triumphantly] There! You see? 
 
 Rod. Ann, you can't — 
 
 Cyr. [Taking Ann's hand] Only a visit. You would 
 like to go ? How dear ! The little bag and all. 
 
 Ann. [Correcting her] Suit-case. 
 
 Rod. And you want to go with her, Ann? And leave 
 fadie all alone? 
 
 [Ann nods her head.] 
 
 Cyr. There's nothing more to be said. Let her go. 
 
 Rod. It is against everything in me — 
 
 Cyr. O nonsense. It's only for a few days. Overnight 
 perhaps. Don't make such a mountain. 
 
 Rod. Cyrilla, this is only for overnight. Where are you 
 stopping ? 
 
 Cyr. At the Plaza. Now come, dear. Say goodnight. 
 
RODERICK'S CAREER 79 
 
 Ann. Goodbye, fadie. 
 
 Rodd. [Hoarsely] Goodbye, Ann. Will you come back 
 in the morning? 
 
 Ann. [Quickly realizing the long night is ahead] O yes ! 
 
 [They go toward the hall.] 
 Cyr. Come along. Mademoiselle is in the car. She 
 will take care of you. 
 
 [They open the door and go out. The door closes 
 after them. Roderick stands paralyzed. Then 
 he runs after them, tears the door open and stands 
 staring out into the darkness. The wind blows 
 through the room, disturbing the papers and blow- 
 ing them about. Roderick walks rapidly to and 
 fro. Then he suddenly sinks into the big chair, his 
 head in his hands, 
 [Suddenly, little Ann runs in at the door and rushes 
 to him. She is whimpering, and at the sight of 
 him she bursts into tears, throws her doll and the 
 suit-case on the floor and climbs up on his lap. 
 His arms tighten about her at once.[ 
 Ann. [Sobbing] Fadie, I runned away. I runned away. 
 Fadie, fadie, I want to stay with you! — 
 
 [curtain] 
 
GAME! 
 
 Comedy in Three Acts 
 
CAST 
 
 Clarence Buell, an American Scientist. 
 
 Mary Buell, his wife. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Price, an English gentleman connected with 
 
 the English legation in Vienna. 
 Sonya, his foreign wife. 
 Griggs, his English valet. 
 Marie, his wife's English maid. 
 Rev. Ezra Simpson, Clarence's uncle, pastor of the New 
 
 Church at Georgetown Corners, Mass. 
 
 Mr. Graves, an Englishman} 
 
 M. Clement, a Frenchman j Uncle Ezra ' s friends tn Pans. 
 
 Madame Monterini, Swiss landlady 
 Rosa, her Italian maid 
 
 Place: Acts I and II — A Swiss Pension in the Italian Alps. 
 
 Act HI — A hotel in Paris. 
 Time: The summer of ig 14. 
 
GAME! 
 
 ACTI. 
 
 Scene: A room on the lower floor of a Swiss pension. The 
 room is plainly furnished. It is a sitting-room. At 
 the back are French windows, which lead out onto a 
 low terrace or veranda, and that in turn leads into a 
 small garden, which has a gate onto the street. There 
 is a view across the garden and across the street to high 
 and snow-covered peaks. There is a door into the hall- 
 way down left. 
 
 When the curtain rises, a gentleman is discovered sitting on 
 a trunk, the cover of which is askew and some of the 
 contents of which are strewn on the floor. Before him, 
 talking to him with great earnestness, is a plain man, 
 evidently his servant. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Price (the gentleman on the trunk) is a deli- 
 cate featured, exquisitely precise Englishman in middle 
 life. His clothes are only conspicuous because they are 
 elegant and at the same time do not obtrude themselves, 
 or in any way divert our attention from his face, which 
 is charming, quizzical and yet sympathetic. 
 
 Griggs, his valet, is a nondescript man, youngish, and with 
 
 that air of helpless refinement some English servants 
 
 have. One cannot see Griggs outside his setting as a 
 
 valet. 
 
 Griggs. [Evidently continuing] And I feel it's only fair 
 
 to old England to go back, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 83 
 
84 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Sir G. You will enlist? 
 
 Griggs. I 'ad it in mind, Sir Gilbert, if they'll take me. 
 
 Sir G. It is obviously your duty to go. 
 
 Griggs. That's the way I look at it, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Sir G. Well. Having decided that, you had best go. 
 Now, without delay. 
 
 [Griggs continues to stand where he is.] 
 
 Sir G. Why don't you go? 
 
 Griggs. O, first I must clear you up, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Sir G. [Rising, speaking seriously] No, Griggs. I'll 
 have to learn to clear myself up, sooner or later. Better 
 sooner. 
 
 Griggs. But, Sir Gilbert, you don' know a thing about 
 putting away an' as f er foldin' — 
 
 Sir G. [Waving him off] Never mind, never mind. If 
 I can't fold myself or put myself away, I shall have to take 
 the consequences. 
 
 Griggs. O don't be down-'earted, Sir Gilbert. If it's as 
 bad as all that / won't go — 
 
 Sir G. Man, the Germans are driving through Belgium. 
 
 Griggs. [Obedient but doubtful] Yes, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 [He turns as if to go, but turns back at once.] 
 
 Griggs. At least lemme repair the box, Sir Gilbert, that 
 beast of a cabby broke for us — 
 
 Sir G. Go ! 
 
 Griggs. [Quite severely for Griggs] Now, Sir Gilbert, 
 you'll never be gettin' these thing straight by yerself. I 
 can't go yet. 
 
 Sir G. Perhaps my wife may turn up. I'll ask her to 
 help me! 
 
 Griggs. [With real horror] Lady Price, — O no, Sir Gil- 
 bert! 
 
 Sir G. It may be the chance of a lifetime to teach her 
 a sense of order. 
 
 [Griggs face continues to protest, though he dares 
 not continue in words. He busies himself with 
 the articles on the floor.] 
 
 Sir G. Do you know where she vanished, by the way? 
 
GAME! 85 
 
 Griggs. [With studied contempt] Don't know, Sir Gil- 
 bert. Off walkin' over the 'ills, I dare say. 'Eard 'er talk- 
 in' about the beautiful mountings when we'd 'ardly got out 
 of the train. 
 
 Sir G. If that's the case, there's no knowing when she'll 
 be back. 
 
 Griggs. No, Sir Gilbert. She won't be back. 
 
 Sir G. You're very sure, Griggs. 
 
 Griggs. One can never be sure a the 'abits a furriners, 
 Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Sir G. She's not a foreigner, Griggs. She's my wife. 
 Been so for fifteen years. 
 
 Griggs. [Folding] Yes, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Sir G. You never got used to it, did you ! In all these 
 years. 
 
 Griggs. [Folding] What, Sir Gilbert? 
 
 Sir G. Her being a foreigner. 
 
 Griggs. O she's your wife, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Sir G. Well, I never got used to it, either. 
 
 Griggs. O Sir Gilbert! 
 
 Sir G. That's just what I like about it, Griggs. Never 
 being used to it. 
 
 Griggs. You will in time, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 [Sir Gilbert pleasantly shakes his head.] 
 
 Sir G. How very like you to spoil it, Griggs. [Sud- 
 denly aware of Grigg's labors] Here ! Here ! Drop it, I say ! 
 
 Griggs. Yes, Sir Gilbert. In a moment, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Sir G. That's enough, Griggs. I really mean it. I dis- 
 charge you! 
 
 Griggs. [His face suddenly beginning to work] O you 
 don' mean that, Sir Gilbert ! 
 
 Sir G. No, I don't. But you are discharged, all the 
 same. History has discharged you. History has made a 
 soldier of you. Very likely, if you hadn't said you must 
 go, I'd have kept you from habit. The habit of not knowing 
 how to dress myself, what to eat and when to eat it. Ab- 
 surd. All this must be changed. Go now, Griggs. Good- 
 bye. 
 
86 TWO PLAYS 
 
 [They shake hands with an emotion, which neither 
 will give way to.] 
 Sir G. [Walking away, speaking quietly] I shall man- 
 age, Griggs. Drop me a line how you go on. I shall reach 
 England as soon as ever I can. 
 Griggs. Yes, sir. 
 
 [He waits a moment, then turns, crosses the terrace 
 and the garden and disappears out of the gate. 
 Sir Gilbert, seating himself again on the broken 
 trunk, watches him go off. He muses in silence. 
 Off left, a tremendous chattering in Italian is sud- 
 denly heard. Some one is talking in an Italian 
 dialect, broadly and volubly. Enter the maid, 
 Rosa, followed by Mary Buell at left. 
 Mary Buell is a slender well-built young American 
 woman, dressed plainly in travelling clothes and 
 a plain hat devoid of the slightest coquetry, and 
 wearing spectacles with tortoise-shell rims. But 
 in spite of the spectacles, in spite of the clothes, 
 Mary Buell has charm. She carries a suit-case 
 in one hand, a leather manuscript case in the other. 
 Rosa is a healthy peasant girl, dressed in peasant's 
 clothes adapted for housework. She is not very 
 tidy, but she is distinctly cheerful. 
 Mary. [Stopping short, trying to back out] O this is 
 not the room, I am sure. 
 
 Ros. [Nodding vigorously] Ye-es. Ye-es. [She points 
 to Sir Gilbert.] 
 
 Mary. [To Rosa] You speak English? 
 Ros. [Proudly] O ye-es! 
 Mary. This is some one else's room! 
 Ros. [Shaking her head violently] You wan' — you wan' 
 — 'osban'? [She points violently to Sir Gilbert, who turns 
 slowly. ] 
 
 Mary. [Hastily] No. Not my husband. 
 Ros. [To Sir Gilbert] 'Ere. 'Ere. Wi-ife. 
 Sir G. [Rising] You were addressing me? 
 
GAME! 87 
 
 Ros. Ye-es. You wan' wi-fe. 'Ere. 'Ere. [She pushes 
 Mary forward.] 
 
 Ros. [Laughing delightedly] O Ye-es. Ye-es. Wi-ife 
 wan' 'osban'. 'Osban' wan' wi-ife. O ye-es. I spik Eeng- 
 leesh. 
 
 [She goes out laughing and pleased with herself, and 
 bangs the door behind her. Mary and Sir Gil- 
 bert confront each other. They begin to smile.] 
 
 Sir G. Well. At least we are introduced. 
 
 Mary. Isn't it a little strange we never met before? 
 
 Sir G. I am most happy to make your acquaintance. 
 
 Mary. Thank you. And I yours. — Our landlady seems 
 to be away. 
 
 Sir G. O yes. Like everyone else, she is gaping about 
 town for news. 
 
 Mary. That is what my husband is doing. 
 
 Sir G. My wife is climbing mountains. 
 
 Mary. [Cheerfully] Very well. Then we must put up 
 with each other. 
 
 Sir G. [Gallantly] More difficult for you than for me. 
 
 Mary. [Pointing to the trunk] Your trunk seems out of 
 commission. 
 
 Sir G. Yes. The cabmen have gone mad like the rest 
 of the world. 
 
 Mary. While we are waiting, suppose I help? 
 
 Sir G. [Overcome] O I wouldn't think of it. 
 
 Mary. [With solicitude] You are stepping into a per- 
 fectly clean handkerchief. 
 
 Sir G. [Stepping off] So I am. [He picks it up.] 
 
 Sir G. And I ought to put things rights for you, — for 
 this is certainly not my room. My valet ordered rooms up 
 one flight. 
 
 Mary. Then this must be ours. The rooms I engaged 
 were on the first floor. 
 
 Sir G. O dear, dear ! I beg your pardon. 
 
 [He begins stuffing things wildly into the broken 
 trunk. ] 
 
88 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mary. O no, no, no ! Don't do that ! Everything will 
 be ruined. 
 
 Sir G. But I cannot allow you — 
 
 Mary. O please ! 
 
 [She begins folding and packing with great neatness 
 and ten times the speed of Griggs. Sir Gilbert 
 stands by and marvels.] 
 
 Sir G. [Suddenly, after he has watched Mary for a 
 while with the greatest surprise] What a very remarkable 
 person you are! I never saw a pair of hands work so fast. 
 
 Mary. They have to. To keep up. 
 
 Sir G. With whom, may I ask? 
 
 Mary. My husband. My husband is remarkable if you 
 like. 
 
 Sir G. Ah. A superman. 
 
 Mary. [Pausing and looking up] He was meant to be. 
 But so far he is only a great problem. 
 
 Sir G. I believe all husbands are that? 
 
 Mary. Yes. And it's the study of my life to find out 
 why. 
 
 Sir G. [Settling again on the top of the trunk] This is 
 very interesting. 
 
 Mary. Please move. 
 
 [Sir Gilbert dismounts wonderingly. Mary takes 
 off her shoe and with the heavy flat heel bangs a 
 nail into the trunk.] 
 
 Mary. There! That will answer to hold until you get 
 upstairs. 
 
 Sir G. By Jove! I never thought of that! I might 
 have done it for myself ! 
 
 Mary. O no. Not you. But your wife would have 
 when she came. 
 
 Sir G. On that point I can absolutely refute you. 
 
 Mary. [Continuing to work] Given you up, I suppose? 
 
 Sir G. No. We have never given each other up. Not 
 in fifteen years. [He sits again on the trunk.] 
 
 [Mary pauses in her folding, her arms outstretched.] 
 
 Mary. Not in fifteen years. I've only been married two. 
 
GAME! 89 
 
 Sir G. One gets used to it in time. 
 Mary. Does one? 
 
 Sir G. Yes. Not to each other. But to it. To get 
 used to each other would be fatal. 
 
 Mary. [Giving up work] I never thought of that. 
 Sir G. One should never get used to each other. And 
 one should always keep trying. 
 
 Mary. That means I suppose that one at least should be 
 superhuman. 
 
 Sir G. Yes. One should be superhuman and the other 
 should be a problem. Should I say. I don't say is. 
 
 Mary. And the solving of the problem is what keeps one 
 going. 
 
 Sir GL Exactly. 
 
 Mary. [Beginning to work again[ I'm going to think 
 about that. Your socks are in a frightful condition. 
 Sir G. Are they? 
 
 Mary. Your wife is evidently not superhuman. 
 Sir G. I can never make up my mind whether she is, or 
 whether she is the problem. 
 
 Mary. And you didn't know your own socks were full 
 of holes? 
 
 Sir G. No. You are shocked. You will probably be 
 more so when you hear I have always been tended by a valet. 
 He threw away my old socks and bought me new. 
 Mary. Waste. 
 
 Sir G. Yes that is the way the world has been getting on 
 hitherto. 
 
 [Mary takes off her hat and puts it on the table. She 
 has blonde hair, not brilliant, but fine and soft with 
 an inclination to curl about the temples and the 
 nape of the neck. It is harmoniously done and the 
 shape of her head is good. She finds a little per- 
 fectly equipped sewing-case in her bag, and sitting 
 on the other end of the trunk, starts in on the 
 socks.] 
 Mary. You know I like it ! 
 Sir G. [Startled] What? Waste? You! 
 
9 o TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mary. Yes. Because it gives me so much to do. 
 Sir G. My dear young lady, you are a philosopher. 
 Mary. [Honestly] O no. I never took a philosophy 
 course in college. 
 
 Sir G. [Smiling gently] No need. One should never 
 study philosophy. Other people's theories are never im- 
 portant, any more than other people's experience can be 
 used. 
 
 [He is about to dilate on this subject when they are 
 interrupted by loud and clamorous cries from Ma- 
 dame Monterini, the landlady, who enters after 
 a frantic knock.] 
 Madame Monterini is a typical landlady and to be 
 found in any country. She is rather colorless and 
 fat f very neat and wears a wig. 
 Madame. O teese an outrage ! Dat foolish maid ! She 
 put you een de wrong room. I will scold her well. It 
 shall be made right. I will call and scold her. Eet iss an 
 outrage. I cannot get over eet. Two strrangers ! Een de 
 same room. Dat girl ees — 
 
 Sir G. [When he can interpose] But my dear Madame, 
 we are not strangers. 
 
 Mad. O you know each oder? 
 
 [She regards them a little suspiciously.] 
 Mary. [Laughing] Only for ten minutes. 
 Mad. [Severely] Dat girl shall move de trunk. 
 Sir G. I beg— 
 
 [Rosa is dragged in by Madame. Rosa is crying.] 
 Sir G. O I cannot permit this. 
 
 [Rosa wipes her tears off on her apron, and tackles 
 the trunk. She lifts it with perfect ease just as 
 Clarence Buell enters at left.] 
 Clarence Buell is a tall thin young man with even 
 clear sharp features. He wears glasses. He is 
 well if a trifle carelessly dressed and represents 
 the new, not the old, professorial type. He is 
 nervous and excitable, very evidently, and always 
 
GAME! 91 
 
 too intent on carrying out what he has on his mind 
 at the moment.] 
 Clar. [At the door] Here! Tell that girl to drop that 
 thing ! 
 
 Rosa. [Indignantly] He tink I kinnot! Huh! 
 
 [She makes a grand sweep with the trunk and 
 
 brushes Clarence out of the way as if he were so 
 
 much down. They all stand flabbergasted for a 
 
 moment.] 
 
 Sir G. [Exclaiming] This is a form of pride unknown 
 
 to me! 
 
 Clar. Who's trunk is that? 
 Sir G. Mine. 
 
 Clar. [Looking at him with a suspicion of contempt.] 
 Well, Til go that girl one better ! 
 
 [He dashes out, followed by Madame and a great 
 hubbub on the stairs is the result.] 
 Sir G. [Smiling, going to Mary] I am deeply obliged. I 
 shall look forward to meeting you again. I take it, that is 
 your problem charging up the stairs with the trunk. I envy 
 him. I have been a martyr to a bad heart. It seems I 
 must only look on at life. And now at this crisis of the 
 world's history, I shall be brushed aside. It is the hour for 
 the young and strong, — 
 
 Mary. I am not sure. We never needed our minds so 
 much — 
 
 Sir G. It is kind of you to say so, Mrs. — ? 
 Mary. Buell. And you? 
 
 Sir G. My card. [He takes out a card.] Lady Price 
 and I will be most happy to receive you. Now I must 
 follow the commissariat. 
 
 [He bows graciously as he passes Clarence, who 
 regards him a little coldly.] 
 Clar. [Coming down to Mary] Who is that — guy? 
 Mary. Someone Madame put in here by mistake. 
 Clar. O. Was it a mistake for you to be sitting on 
 that trunk with him, mending his blame socks? 
 
 [Mary laughs.] 
 
92 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mary. Where were you? 
 
 Clar. Coming in through the garden. 
 
 Mary. He is a very nice man. I take it he is even more 
 than nice. 
 
 Clar. [Grumbling] Considerably more. 
 
 Mary. [Reading the card] Sir Gilbert Price, English 
 Legation, Vienna. A diplomat! I told you so. 
 
 Clar. I'm not interested in titles. 
 
 Mary. What are you interested in just now? That 
 telegram ? 
 
 [She puts out her hand. Clarence puts into it 
 without question a telegram he has been holding.] 
 
 Mary. [Reading] "Wire money if possible. Stranded 
 in Paris. Need you. Uncle Ezra." 
 
 Mary. Are you going? 
 
 Clar. Read this. 
 
 [He hands her a letter.] 
 
 Mary. [Opening the letter, reads] "Dear Clarence, I 
 must have money. I cannot get home otherwise. Cannot 
 you come to me? Your affectionate uncle, Ezra Simpson." 
 
 [She pauses in thought.] 
 
 Mary. The man's got to have money, I suppose. 
 
 Clar. We haven't enough for ourselves. And no 
 chance of our ever getting home. Curse this war. What 
 shall I do? 
 
 Mary. You can wire the money. His congregation will 
 have us lynched if we desert their pastor. The first thing 
 is to find the American Express. Let me call Madame. 
 
 [She finds a bell-cord and pulls it. Rosa appears.] 
 
 Mary. [Speaking distinctly and rather loud] Please tell 
 Madame Monterini I would like to speak with her. 
 
 Clar. [Seeing the girl does not understand; coming to 
 the rescue] Speak, you know ! [Pointing to his mouth] 
 Lips and tongue. Speak. E as in squeak — 
 
 Mary. O hush. She thinks you want beer. 
 
 Ros. [Cheerfully] Beer. Ye-es. I spik Engleesh. 
 
 [She turns on her heel and runs off.] 
 
GAME! 93 
 
 Mary. There now. She will probably bring a bottle of 
 beer. 
 
 Clar. That's what you said. 
 
 Mary. But you suggested it. 
 
 [She pulls the cord. Rosa runs in again.] 
 
 Ros. [Cheerfully] Madame Monterini she geta beer. 
 
 Clar. and Mary. [In several kinds of pantomime] No, 
 no, no. Madame Monterini — come here — [They shake 
 their heads.] No beer! No beer! 
 
 Ros. You no wan' a beer? 
 
 Clar. and Mary. NO ! ! 
 
 Ros. [Shaking her head] You no spik Eengleesh. I 
 spik Eengleesh. O ye-es. 
 
 [Rosa departs huffily. Mary and Clarence stand 
 looking after her blankly.] 
 
 Mary. [Sighing] We'll have to get on without Madame 
 it seems. [She takes an account-book from her bag.] 
 Yes. We've hardly got enough for ourselves. And 
 the war will go on and on. 
 
 Clar. I know. And I want to see it. 
 
 Mary. I know you do. And you will. But first you 
 must finish your book. As your widow I must derive an 
 income from it. 
 
 Clar. You assume that I am going to get killed. 
 
 Mary. You might. 
 
 Clar. You also assume that anybody can be induced to 
 take an interest in the book. 
 
 Mary. I certainly do. 
 
 Clar. You think anything I can do is an asset ? 
 
 Mary. Yes. 
 
 Clar. Then why didn't you say so sooner? In Egypt. 
 In Syria. In Mesopotamia. You worked away, climbed 
 rocks, kept government secrets and didn't mind the fleas. 
 You are a perfect archaeologist, Mary. But you never 
 allowed that I was. 
 
 Mary. I did frequently. 
 
 Clar. No. You said: "O Clarence, that was clever of 
 you." But never, "O Clarence ! That was clever of you ! !" 
 
94 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mary. If I had you might have sat down and admired 
 yourself. 
 
 Clar. Am I as bad as all that? 
 
 Mary. I don't know. I didn't give you the chance. 
 — Now listen. Two things are clear. We must keep Uncle 
 Ezra quiet by sending him money. And you must finish 
 your book. 
 
 Clar. Well — but I want to see this war. 
 Mary. Clarence, you know you always let today drive 
 yesterday out of your head — 
 
 [She is interrupted. Across the bright sunshine of 
 the garden and terrace, there passes from the gate 
 to the house a vision. A finely built woman, 
 swarthy and black-eyed, springs with extraor- 
 dinary grace up the steps of the terrace and is 
 about to pass out of sight, into the house. She is 
 clad in a single garment in the tunic style and her 
 bare feet are encased in sandals. Clarence and 
 Mary both start.] 
 Clar. Good Lord! 
 Mary. O ! 
 
 [The woman stops and looks into the room. She 
 casts but a fleeting glance at Mary, then rivets a 
 long and passionate gaze on Clarence. She dis- 
 appears. There is a dead silence. ] 
 Clar. Good God! Is that the way women dress here? 
 Mary. [Judicially] Well. I hardly think so. But if 
 they do we'll have to get used to it. 
 Clar. [Positively] I never shall. 
 Mary. [Judicially] Yes. I think you will. 
 Clar. Good Lord! Who could she be anyhow? 
 Mary. I am going to ask Madame Monterini — 
 Clar. [Eagerly] Yes do! 
 Mary. — about the American Express. 
 
 [Mary turns toward the door left, Clarence at her 
 heels. ] 
 Mary. [Turning] You had better stay here. 
 
 [Mary goes out left. Clarence is at first half 
 
GAME! 95 
 
 inclined to follow Mary. Then he has another 
 
 idea. He springs to the window and tries to look 
 
 out without himself being seen, gives that up and 
 
 impatiently steps out on the terrace, looking in the 
 
 direction in which the strange woman has gone. 
 
 Evidently he sees her, for he comes running back, 
 
 closes the window, and comes down stage looking 
 
 very uncomfortable. 
 
 Reenter Mary with Madame who is carrying a tray 
 
 with an open bottle of beer and two glasses and 
 
 who is evidently protesting. Clarence detaches 
 
 Mary from Madame.] 
 
 Clar. I ran out and looked after that woman and will 
 
 you believe it, — what did she do but turn and start to come 
 
 back ! Gee ! 
 
 Mary. Don't worry. She'll stay away when she sees 
 me. You don't happen to want any beer? 
 Clar. Take it away. Madame — 
 Mary. [Quickly] Remember — American Express — 
 Madame. [Interupting] But dat girl she say you wan' 
 beer. An' I have open de bottle. Eet will spoil an' eet iss 
 so — costly — an' now dis war have come — 
 
 Mary. [Quietly going for her purse and paying 
 Madame] I hope you will drink it yourself, Madame. 
 
 Madame. I? O. Tank you. Very much. [She is 
 suddenly silenced; then exclaims] But you pay for beer you 
 do not drink? Ex-travagance ! 
 Mary. We wanted — 
 
 Madame. Dat ees so like de Americans. Dey trow 
 away deyre money. Trow it out of de window — 
 Mary. We want to ask a question, Madame — 
 Mad. But pay for what you do not use! You do not 
 know what eet iss to be poor. To save — 
 Clar. [Interposing] O say! Madame! 
 Mad. [Obedient to the voice of the male] Monsieur? 
 Clar. Who was that extraordinary looking person who 
 just galloped by here? 
 
96 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mad. [Looking terribly puzzled and turning to Mary 
 for assistance] Gal-op? I do not know what you say? 
 
 Mary. He means the foreign looking lady who came 
 across the terrace, peculiarly dressed. 
 
 Mad. Dat? O. Dat iss de wi-ife of de Eenglish gen- 
 tleman upstairs. She has very great rank in Volhynia. 
 She iss 'ow you say, very — very cultured. An' spik Eeng- 
 lish very well. 
 
 Clar. Gee whillikins ! Who'd a guessed it ! I thought 
 she'd just come out of the woods. 
 
 [Madame looks anxiously inquiring.] 
 
 Mary. We have never seen anyone dressed like that 
 before. 
 
 Mad. [Exclaiming] Iss not dat strange! So many 
 people do eet 'ere. Dey walk airly in de dew wit bare feet. 
 Eet iss for de healt'. De doctor, he sen' people 'ere. 
 
 Clar. [To Mary] Lead me to him, Mary. 
 
 Mary. [Quickly] Madame, where is the American Ex- 
 press ? 
 
 Mad. Am-erican Express. O. Eet iss la-bas. De 
 tram-car will show you how. 
 
 Mary. [Rapidly going for hat and gloves] I will go. 
 
 Clar. I will go. [He goes for his hat.] 
 
 Mary. No. You must work. You started the day by 
 saying you would work. You have not worked. You had 
 better. 
 
 Clar. I want the air — dew and all that. 
 
 Mary. [Quietly; pointing to the table] Work. 
 
 [She goes to the writing-table near the windows, 
 takes a manuscript out of the case and arranges it 
 on the table.] 
 
 Clar. [Frivolously to Madame] Madame, lead me to 
 this doctor. 
 
 Mary. [Swiftly going to Madame who is standing stock 
 still observing her inmates as one observes the habits of 
 apes] Thank you, Madame. May I call you again if I want 
 to ask questions? 
 
 Mad. Certainement. 
 
GAME! 97 
 
 [She goes slowly, looking back curiously as if she 
 still had much to see.] 
 Mary. [Seeing her to the door] Thank you. 
 
 [Exit Madame.] 
 Mary. Now then. What's the matter? 
 Clar. Matter! Good heavens, the Empress of Mus- 
 covy! 
 
 Mary. The foreign woman? 
 Clar. Why notski? 
 
 Mary. [Going to the window and looking up and down 
 the terrace] Not a trace of her. 
 Clar. If I look she'll be there. 
 Mary. See for yourself. 
 
 [Clarence, with great precautions, goes and looks up 
 and down. He comes back obviously disappoint- 
 ed.] 
 Mary. Did you see her? 
 Clar. No. 
 
 Mary. Then you feel better? 
 
 Clar. No. — Let me go with ybu Mary, perhaps 
 we'll — meet her. 
 
 Mary. [Surveying Clarence quietly] On the whole — 
 I think you'd better stay here. Now come. I've laid out 
 all the notes. We'll turn your back to the window so if 
 she comes by you won't have to look. 
 
 [Clarence goes to the table and sits down with great 
 meekness. ] 
 Clar. But Mary, supposing she does come while you're 
 gone. 
 
 Mary. I shan't be long. 
 Clar. She may be waiting to see you go out. 
 Mary. That is nonsense. 
 
 Clar. It is not nonsense. It is human nature. 
 Mary. Clarence ! 
 Clar. Well? 
 
 Mary. [Looking him in the eye] Were there any more 
 adventures than those you told me about? 
 
98 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Clar. [Looking Mary in the eye] You mean — with 
 extraordinary damsels — en route? 
 
 Mary. Yes. 
 
 Clar. No. 
 
 Mary. Or any with ordinary damsels? At home? 
 
 Clar. No. I told you all about those when we were 
 married. 
 
 Mary. Yes. Then — my judgement is, it is better for 
 you to stay here and work this morning. 
 
 Clar. The risk is very great. 
 
 Mary. I want you to run the risk. I want you to 
 harden yourself. I consider this a great opportunity. You 
 can't always have me around to protect you, you know. 
 
 [Clarence arranges his work humbly. He pauses 
 and turns again to Mary.] 
 
 Clar. How do you suppose one addresses her? 
 
 Mary. Do not worry. She will address you. 
 
 Clar. I know but — it would seem a pretty compliment 
 to use her native tongue. Madame Muscovitch, I am 
 gladovitch to meetski. Then how do I go on? 
 
 Mary. Never fear. She will go on. 
 
 Clar. What shall I answer then? I know. I refero- 
 vitch you to my wifeski. 
 
 Mary. [Quickly] No. I don't want you referring her 
 to me! You must answer her for yourself! 
 
 Clar. All right. Madame Muscovitch, Inowrunaway- 
 ski! 
 
 Mary. Don't do any such thing. Face it through. 
 Now do be careful of those notes. I feel you are not going 
 to work very well. But I don't want all the labor of the 
 last months destroyed while you are thinking of your 
 Empress. 
 
 Clar. I don't see why you put me to this fearful test. 
 
 Mary. Well. Do you want these things to throw you 
 into a state every time they happen? 
 
 Clar. No ! That is, yes. I like to be in a state. 
 
 Mary. [Patiently] The last time you cursed for a whole 
 day because a woman had put you off your work. 
 
GAME ! 99 
 
 Clar. I know it. They do. That's the nuisance of it. 
 But you know I claim that civilized man can safely indulge 
 in this pastime. 
 
 Mary. O. You are civilized? 
 
 Clar. [Hastily] And all work and no play makes Jack 
 a dull boy. 
 
 Mary. No. You are never dull. You are many things 
 you ought not to be, but you are never dull. 
 
 Clar. Why Mary! That's positively sentimental! 
 
 Mary. I am stating a fact. Perhaps if you were dull, 
 I might recommend these adventures as a pastime. To tell 
 the truth, the women always end by making you fearfully 
 mad — 
 
 Clar. O come — 
 
 Mary. Yes, they do. I have kept notes on the subject. 
 
 Clar. Horrors. [He springs from his chair.] 
 
 Mary. Never fear, they are in short-hand. 
 
 Clar. But my seriousness as a scientific man — most 
 good scientists read short-hand. 
 
 Mary. Their secretaries do. [Clarence redoubles his 
 efforts.] Yours does, you know. You can't. And you 
 might destroy something of real value. [Clarence gives it 
 up.] You see, Clarence, hitherto I have always stood be- 
 tween you and these — er — seismic disturbances. But they 
 are recurrent I think you had better see one through 
 alone. Then you'll be immune. 
 
 Clar. O no. I don't feel strong enough. Besides, it 
 won't be half the fun. 
 
 Mary. Fun ! 
 
 Clar. Yes. The whole point is, I want to feel I can 
 make a quick slick getaway. 
 
 Mary. That's the trouble! You don't want to get 
 caught. I think for once you ought to get caught — 
 
 Clar. Well, I don't! And I greatly question your 
 morality in giving me any such advice! That comes of 
 your living over here so long among these Europeans and 
 their wretched lack of standards. Now, in America we 
 have standards. We can live up to them — if we want to ! 
 
ioo TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mary. Then live up to them. Goodbye. 
 
 [She goes out rapidly at the terrace and disappears 
 through the gate. Clarence runs after her, 
 watches her down the road, finally waves to her 
 and then comes back slowly and rather ruefully. 
 He sits at his desk and begins to write. Then he 
 dreams as he turns over his notes. Then he gives 
 two or three fearful glances over his shoulder. 
 Then he really becomes absorbed. When he is 
 thoroughly absorbed, Sonya is seen coming slowly 
 along the terrace. She pauses at the window and 
 looks at Clarence's absorbed back with interest. 
 She waits, hoping he will turn. He does not. 
 Her attitudes and poses, as she waits, are various, 
 attractive and unconscious. But finally, growing 
 weary of crouching for her prey, with the tread of 
 a panther in those sandals, she slowly pushes in 
 through the window. The audience has a sensa- 
 tion that she is going to spring on Clarence's back. 
 She does not. She merely stands close enough to 
 him to let her shadow fall on his page. Clarence 
 turns with several inarticulate exclamations. He 
 is genuinely startled. He jumps up.] 
 Sonya. O pardon. I disturb you. May I ask what it 
 is you do? [Her tone is very mellow and pleasant.] 
 Clar. [Conventionally] Er. Ah. O. I was writing. 
 Son. [With a slow and rather sly smile] But what? I 
 watch you write, out dere. You do not move. You arre 
 all — buried in your work. You forget yourself. [Ex- 
 claiming] You arre a grreat arrtist! 
 
 Clar. I? O no. No. I'm nothing but a scientific 
 man. 
 
 Son. But — dey arre our grreatest men. Dey remake 
 de worrld for us. O I grreatly reverence de scientific man. 
 All de morre dat I am myself very ignorant. 
 Clar. Hm. 
 
 [She assumes an air of great humility. He regards 
 her grimly. She moves toward him a step. ] 
 
GAME! 101 
 
 Son. [Suavely] What science do you study? 
 Clar. Archaeology. I've been engaged on a special 
 branch. 
 
 Son. [Really not interested; fingering his notes absent- 
 ly; even tumbling them about] Ah. Dat is very fine. 
 
 [Clarence's fingers twitch with anxiety when she 
 touches the papers and shifts them about.] 
 Son. [Looking up with a flashing glance] I feel you are 
 a great man. 
 
 Clar. [Deprecating] O no. Not — so you'd notice it. 
 [Here she seizes him warmly by the hand and shakes 
 it. Then she leaves her hand in his. He does not 
 know what to do with it. She drops his hand and 
 tries another tack. She seats herself gracefully on 
 a sofa down stage, and stretches out her feet.] 
 Son. [Yawning] O. I am tired. 
 
 Clar. [Who has not yet recovered] You — you have 
 been walking? 
 
 Son. Yes. I do so every day. My 'usband. He will 
 nevaire go wit me. I must go alone. Ees eet not sad? 
 Clar. T-terribly. 
 
 Son. [Pleased] You tink so? And you? You are 
 alone too. You work here in de dark house, when all out- 
 doors is so beautiful. 
 
 Clar. Yes. To — to be sure. 
 
 Son. O — verry sad. To see a young man like you shut 
 away from de sunshine. 
 
 Clar. Yes. [As if thinking what to say next.] I think 
 it's sad too. Sad as — anything! 
 
 Son. [Encouraged] Ah, I must take you up over dese 
 mountains. Togedder we will climb dose great peaks. 
 
 [She jumps up, seizes him by the arm and drags him 
 to the window.] 
 Son. See dere ! Far up ! In de pure air ! 
 Clar. [Abruptly, drawing himself away] No! I can't 
 say I care about it! [He turns abruptly away.] 
 Son. [Taken aback and angry] Mon Dieu! 
 Clar. [By way of apology] You see my wife told me — 
 
102 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Son. Your wife ! 
 
 Clar. I have a wife. Yes. What harm is there in that? 
 
 Son. I do not want your wife. 
 
 Clar. Well see here. You have a husband. How about 
 that? 
 
 Son. He does not count. [Laughing a Utile.] O he 
 is good. I love him. [She blows a kiss.] O he is much more 
 older dan me. He is over fifty. An invalid. You say not 
 much of a companion for a woman like me. Hein? Strong 
 and active and young. 
 
 Clar. Well, I didn't say that and I wasn't going to. 
 However, you are certainly strong, and I should judge ac- 
 tive, and young — probably ! 
 
 Son. Probably! [She looks furious; then reconsiders 
 and laughs. ] My friend, do you always pay court to ladies 
 by walking about de room and turning your back on dem? 
 
 Clar. [Squaring about] No. 
 
 Son. Den why wit me? 
 
 Clar. It gives me a curious sensation to see you in that 
 bathrobe, that's all. 
 
 Son. Civilized people believe in de beauty of de human 
 body and de simple garment. 
 
 Clar. Well, I guess Fm not civilized and these artistic 
 things give me the Willies. 
 
 Son. What is dat? 
 
 Clar. [Leniently] Breeze in my garret. Same thing. 
 
 Son. O I do not understand! 
 
 Clar. No, you certainly do not. The point of the whole 
 thing is you're up against a proposition you never struck 
 before — a savage from North America. 
 
 Son. [Flinging herself back on her sofa with an ex- 
 clamation] O, you arre a savage! But a parrt of me is a 
 savage too! Would you believe it? [With her swarthy 
 hair and shapeless costume she looks as if she were from the 
 wilds.] De civilized woman of Europe, wit her knowledge 
 of diplomatic life and de grreat worrld, — she too has a trace 
 of wildness. 
 
GAME ! 103 
 
 Clar. [Holding onto his forehead] You don't say! 
 Civilized! Ye gods, that's good! 
 
 Son. [Pouting] You do not like a child of nature. I 
 remember. Dey always say de first ting de savage asks of 
 de white man is de choker and de tall hat! Ha, ha! It 
 takes de civilization of a tousand years to have a real love of 
 beauty! [She stands up.] 
 
 Clar. Going? So sorry. 
 
 Son. [Furious.] Going! Not at all! Look at me! I 
 am beautiful. I am complete. You have never seen any- 
 one like me before. When I am gone, you will remember, 
 and it will be torment. [She speaks gently with a malicious 
 smile. ] I shall teach you to love beauty. I shall teach you 
 to forget your stupid conventions. I shall teach you real 
 freedom. You Americans arre all alike. You arre afraid 
 of life. 
 
 Clar. [Imploring] Don't — don't go on. Please — I 
 beg— 
 
 Son. O yes, my dear friend. It is I who will teach 
 you — 
 
 Clar. My good woman, you can teach me nothing. It 
 is in all the novels. Those dirty little girls in the Orient 
 never read any of those things. They do it a great deal bet- 
 ter. Be-lieve me ! 
 
 Son. [Giving way to her temper at last] Ah! You 
 are a cub. I will have noting morre to do wit you. 
 
 Clar. That's right ! I think it's the very best thing you 
 can possibly do. 
 
 Son. [Turning on him] It is your wife! You arre 
 afraid of your wife ! I am not afraid of Her ! 
 
 Clar. That is very nice, for my wife is not in the least 
 afraid of you. Stay and see her — 
 
 Son. I ? ! [ Clarence starts slightly at her violence. ] I 
 stay and see a wife! Fool ! [She laughs suddenly in a per- 
 fectly natural way.] And I am going to stay and see your 
 wife. She piques my curiosity. She must be like you, — 
 new, piquant. [She sits again.] Will you not give me a 
 
104 TWO PLAYS 
 
 cigarette, my friend? I have been suffering for one dis long 
 time. 
 
 Clar. [With alacrity] Certainly. 
 
 [He takes out cigarettes and matches and hands them 
 to her.] 
 Clar. May I ? 
 
 [She nods and he turns aside to light his cigarette. 
 She looks distinctly peevish for a moment, then 
 lights hers. ] 
 Son. [Mellow] Now tell me about yourself. 
 
 [Suddenly, Sonya is the woman of the world and her 
 bizarrerie seems to fall away. She even looks 
 well dressed. ] 
 Son. And you have been working down dere in de 
 Orient? How? 
 
 Clar. [A little at a loss at the sudden change in the 
 weather] Why, we've been digging into the old ruins and 
 sorting and arranging notes. Stupid, isn't it? 
 Son. Not at all. To me it is new. Tell me — 
 Clar. Why it's hard work. That's all. But I will say 
 we made quite a little dent into the past. 
 
 Son. Yes? We? Your wife? She worked wit you? 
 Clar. [Nodding] Yes. And I believe she's better at it 
 than I ! 
 
 Son. O. [She looks thoughtful.] Perhaps dat is 
 why — 
 
 Clar. Well? 
 
 Son. Dat is why you feel so bound to her, no doubt. 
 Clar. No. I wouldn't call it that. We leave each 
 other singularly free. How can I tell, while I'm here with 
 you, she may be running off with another man, — your hus- 
 band perhaps. But I'm perfectly calm. 
 
 [Son. frowns suddenly, unwillingly.] 
 Clar. Why, you surely wouldn't grudge her a little thing 
 like that? 
 
 [Son. frowns more, but appears puzzled rather than 
 angry. Finally she looks up with a sigh.] 
 
GAME! ios 
 
 Son. But you talk of her so much. She must be a won- 
 der, dis wife! 
 
 Clar. She is mighty good at archaeology. 
 
 [Sonya throzvs her cigarette on the floor with a dis- 
 contented expression. ] 
 Clar. O, you don't like it? 
 Son. No. Dey arre not good. 
 
 [Clarence stoops and picks up the cigarette.] 
 Son. Why do you do dat? It can stay. 
 Clar. But it was setting the mat on fire. 
 Son. Never mind. I tink your wife is different from 
 any woman on eart\ Or — [with a really friendly and 
 charming smile] — you are really loyal. Why you are inter- 
 esting people. 
 Clar. Thank you. 
 
 {He approaches Sonya entirely off his guard and 
 offers her another box of cigarettes. Mary enters 
 the garden and comes up on the terrace. They do 
 not see her.] 
 Clar. These are more your sort. 
 
 Son. Ah yes. [She puts one to her lips.] Here! 
 [She draws Clarence down to her and lights her cigarette 
 at his.] Voila. Merci. Yes. Dis is better. — But it is so 
 wonderful to see such loyalty in a man. It is so rare. 
 
 [Clarence much more susceptible to this gentle 
 treatment than to the lady f s former onslaughts, 
 stays where he is and leans on the arm of her sofa. 
 She smiles, looks up at him and takes his hand.] 
 Son. [With real kindness] My friend, I tink we arre 
 going to have an interesting time. It is not often a man 
 like you comes my way. And you live and work wit one 
 who is in sympathy. Dat is de best of life. I envy you. 
 [Mary comes in and slowly down beside them.] 
 Mary. [Quietly] There. You see, Clarence, you're 
 really doing very well without me after all. 
 
 [Clarence springs to the right-about. Sonya rises 
 not at all dismayed.] 
 
 [curtain] 
 
io6 TWO PLAYS 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene: The salon of the Price's apartment at Madame 
 Monterini's. Doors left and up right. Two long 
 windows leading oat onto a balcony right center and 
 left center. A huge mirror between the windows. A 
 grand piano up stage, across the left window. A chaise 
 longue down left. It is piled high with Oriental and 
 rather soiled pillows. There are small tables up center 
 and at right. The room is as untidy as cigarette stumps, 
 faded flowers, newspapers and magazines, cosmetic 
 boxes, plates with sweetmeats and unnecessary knick- 
 nacks can make it. 
 
 It is afternoon a few days later. The sun shines through 
 the two windows which command a view of the moun- 
 tains. As the curtain rises, some one is heard playing 
 modern Russian music. The player, who is Sonya, 
 dressed elegantly if a little carelessly in a Paris confec- 
 tion, plays extremely well and continues a moment after 
 the curtain is up. Suddenly she breaks down. 
 
 Son. Ah bah ! No. 
 
 [She glances across the room as if to see the effect on 
 someone who is sitting in an arm-chair with its 
 back to the audience. This is Sir Gilbert, reading 
 a newspaper. There are many others piled neatly 
 beside his chair. He puts down his paper when the 
 music breaks off.] 
 Sir G. Well, my dear. What is the matter? 
 Son. O nothing. Read your paper. 
 
 [Her tone to her husband is brusque, but not unkind. 
 He reads on, while she continues to play. Then 
 she breaks down on purpose and bangs the keys 
 childishly. ] 
 Son. [Banging] Ah — brr. Mrr. Mn! 
 
 [She rises with an air of triumph.] 
 SirG. Well. Is it dead? 
 
 Son. [Wandering to the window; fingering her untidy 
 hair] What? 
 
GAME! 107 
 
 Sir G. The piano. 
 
 Son. I did not break it. 
 
 Sir G. I thought you hoped you had. 
 
 Son. [With guile] Do you not like to hear me practice? 
 
 Sir G. With your fingers, yes. With your fists, no. 
 [Sonya immediately goes to the piano and bangs on 
 the keys.] 
 
 Sir G. [Rising] A suggestion on your part that I should 
 leave you, my dear. I am going. It is time I went to the 
 cafe. I shall get the latest news there. [He goes for his 
 hat. ] 
 
 Son. [Eagerly; giving him his hat] Yes. Go and get 
 de latest news. 
 
 Sir G. [Smiling; shaking his head at Sonya] A little too 
 obvious, the method, my dear. [He goes toward the door; 
 turns back.] What did you say you were going to do with 
 yourself this afternoon? 
 
 Son. I did not say. What difference can it make to 
 you? 
 
 Sir G. [At the door] Because I have asked the little 
 lady who sits opposite to us at table, — Mrs. Buell, — to take 
 tea with us. She is very nice. 
 
 Son. [Pouting] You ask her witout consulting me? 
 Disgusting ! 
 
 Sir G. Yes. The room is. Please tidy up before I 
 come back. I set the time at four o'clock. I shall hurry 
 home. I am very anxious to talk to the little woman. 
 
 Son. Why are you so anxious to talk to her? 
 
 Sir G. Because she is so unlike you. I asked her to 
 bring her husband to amuse you. [Sonya's frown behind 
 her hand changes to a naughty smile.] I'm not interested 
 in him myself. Please keep him entertained and leave her 
 to me. 
 
 [She runs to him and gives his ears a box.] 
 
 Sir G. My dear, do be careful. 
 
 Son. O cheri! Did I hurt you? Let me kiss you! 
 
 [She throws her arms about his neck.] 
 
108 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Sir G. There, there. Not quite so violent. You know, 
 my dear, your scorn and your pity express themselves so 
 very similarly. I wish you would break yourself of this 
 violence. I have been lecturing you so many years about 
 it. There now. Let me kiss you properly. 
 
 [He kisses her properly. She teases him by con- 
 'tinuing to kiss him.] 
 Sir G. [Quite desperate] My dear, if you would only 
 become domesticated. 
 
 [He puts her away and puts himself to rights.] 
 . Sir G. Now have the samovar going at four — promptly. 
 And do your hair. 
 
 [He goes out up right. She stretches herself and 
 laughs. Then she calls off left.] 
 Son. Marie! Come here! 
 
 [A typical London maid, — very wooden, — appears at 
 door left.] 
 Mar. [Stiffly] Were you addressing me, Madam? 
 Son. Certainly. 
 
 Mar. Me nyme's Mosher, Madam. I prefer to be 
 called it. 
 
 Son. I prefer to call you by your first name. And also 
 to be addressed as Lady Price. 
 
 Mar. Beg parding, Madam. Furriners is always called 
 Madam. 
 
 Son. Hurry! Tidy me, will you? Hurry! 
 Mar. [Stiffly] Madam? 
 
 [Sonya seats herself before the mirror and begins to 
 powder herself heavily. Marie disappears and 
 reappears with comb and brush.] 
 Son. [Calling over her shoulder] Make me tidy, do you 
 hear? Make me beautiful! 
 
 Marie. [Going to Sonya with great deliberation] It 
 ayn't possible to myke yer tidy, Madam. I've told yer that. 
 I don't like to ave ter repeat it so often. If yer would only 
 wear a 'air-net I could do somethin' with yer 'air. It's 'ard 
 at best ter myke yer beautiful. 
 
GAME! 109 
 
 Son. [Inclined to he amused at first] Tell me, what must 
 one be to be beautiful, in your opinion? 
 
 Mar. It ayn't my opinion, Madam. It's wot is beauti- 
 ful. To be raly beautiful, one 'as ter be a rale lidy first. 
 
 [She has pushed in a final hair-pin and goes to pick 
 up the room. Sonya nurses her rage for a mo- 
 ment, then she throws comb and brush at Marie. 
 Marie catches them and puts them down with the 
 agility born of long practise and continues about 
 her work. A faint and timid knock is now heard 
 at the door up right. Neither of the women pays 
 attention. ] 
 Son. Beast! [Then she addresses Marie volubly in 
 Russian. ] 
 
 Marie. Go on ! Wen yer talk like that I dunno wot yer 
 sy. It's true wot I tell yer all the sime. 
 
 Son. [Laughing in spite of herself] Then why do you 
 stay? 
 
 Mar. I'm o'ny styin' on till Lidy Beecham gets back 
 outer Germany. Now with this war an' all she may not be 
 back. But I'll wite a wile. I'll accomodite yer. 
 
 [Sonya suddenly flings her chair at Marie. Marie 
 
 catches it even more deftly than the comb and 
 
 brush. At that instant the door opens and 
 
 Clarence is seen standing outside, frozen with 
 
 astonishment.] 
 
 Mar. [Patiently] It do beat all the wy yer toss things 
 
 abart. [She sees Clarence; without changing her voice] 
 
 The gentleman's 'ere, Madam. 
 
 [ Sonya' s face instantly assumes a charming smile.] 
 Son. [Mellow] O come in. Come in. 
 
 [She goes to him graciously and draws him into the 
 
 room by the hand. Marie throws the pillows to 
 
 rights on the lounge, picks up a paper or two and 
 
 some faded roses and goes out left.] 
 
 Son. What ees de matter? Why do you look at me so? 
 
 Arre we not frriends? 
 
no TWO PLAYS 
 
 Clar. O dear no. Nothing like it. Accidental acquain- 
 tances. Perhaps accidental — enemies ? 
 
 Son. O de chair was for my maid. She angers me. 
 Clar. You don't say. I thought you were greatly 
 pleased. 
 
 [He wanders about the room uncomfortably.] 
 Son. Now dere you go wandering again. Cannot you 
 be happy wit me a moment ? 
 
 Clar. I might be a moment, yes. But not a whole hour, 
 — which was the time set, I believe? 
 
 [Sonya pouts.] 
 
 Clar. O what's the matter now ! Don't throw a chair. 
 
 [He takes one up and holds it before him as a guard.] You 
 
 ought to have prepared me for this particular trait in your 
 
 character. For this facet in the diamond. 
 
 Son. How can I? I never know how I'm going to be. 
 Ees not dat de charrm? 
 
 [She arranges herself becomingly on the sofa.] 
 Son. [Holding a pillow out to Clarence; very childish] 
 Put it behind my head. So. Tanks. Yes. Now sit be- 
 side me. 
 
 [She draws a chair slowly to the side of the couch.] 
 Son. [Seductively] Come? Hn? 
 
 [She begins on cigarettes at once. She lights her 
 
 own, and offers one to him. As he comes forward 
 
 to take it, she pulls him down into the chair and 
 
 lights his cigarette for him at her own.] 
 
 Clar. [Ruffled] O come now, you know. This is so 
 
 sudden. 
 
 Son. I? Am I ever anyting else? 
 Clar. No. You are not. 
 
 [He tries to look at his ease.] 
 Clar. [Conversing] So the gentleman we met at lunch 
 is your husband? 
 
 Son. Don't talk of my husband. Will you never learn? 
 Clar. I must say just one thing about him. I suppose 
 you were — sudden — too about marrying him, weren't you? 
 Son. O I married him when I was a fool. One does. 
 
GAME! in 
 
 Clar. [Reflectively] Yes. I suppose that is what my 
 wife is thinking about me. 
 
 Son. Your wife \ [She sits up. ] Young man, you have 
 a wife. I know it. You have shown her to me. And you 
 have talked, talked, talked about her. But while you are 
 here wit me, we do not mention her. No. You are here 
 for someting else dan to talk about your wife. 
 
 Clar. I wish you'd tell me what I am here for. It's 
 what I've been asking myself. My wife won't tell me. 
 
 [Sonya shrieks. Clarence rises quickly and holds 
 up his chair for protection.] 
 
 Son. Put down your chair. Sit down. Learn de world. 
 When you call on a married woman and are yourself a mar- 
 ried man, husbands and wives are not important. You did 
 not tell your wife you were coming here? 
 
 Clar. I wanted to, but she wouldn't let me. 
 
 Son. You see. She knows de world. Shame. And 
 you a great scholar. You look like a man of de world. I 
 believe you have more experience dan you will admit. 
 
 Clar. [Turning to her with a comical expression] How 
 you read me. 
 
 Son. I knew dat. When I saw dose spectacles on your 
 
 wife — ah. [She buries her face in the pillows and laughs.] 
 
 It is de men wit de spectacled wives dat have de experience. 
 
 [Clarence, really angry, jumps up and strides across 
 
 the room like lightning.] 
 
 Son. Where are you going? 
 
 Clar. I thought you were not to talk about my wife ! 
 
 Son. You may not talk about her. But I may. It makes 
 you so angry. And I love to see you angry. No, you are 
 not cold. Coldness is wit you a pose. 
 
 [He regards her sourly from across the room.] 
 
 Son. Ah, what ees de matter, my friend? Do you not 
 like me ? 
 
 Clar. Not yet. 
 
 Son. Ah but you will ! 
 
 Clar. It all depends. 
 
 Son. On what? 
 
ii2 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Clar. On whether you're different. So far, you're very 
 much the same. 
 
 Son. [Frowns, but speaks quite calmly] I tink you will 
 find me different. How can you tell? I have so many 
 moods. And I like you so much. You will like me. 
 
 Clar. I shan't if I don't want to. That's my way. 
 
 Son. Dey always like me. 
 
 Clar. Tell me. Do you make a specialty of making 
 them like you? 
 
 Son. Yes. It is a speciality. I do as you do in your 
 work. 
 
 Clar. No, you don't. There's no play about work. I 
 come all kinds of croppers in mine. Never sure from 
 minute to minute whether I'm coming out on top or not. 
 
 Son. Dat is it! Dat makes de excitement of de chase! 
 
 Clar. O. Hunting. That's your line, is it? Well al- 
 low me to say your form is bad. 
 
 Son. [Breaking in angrily] Mine! 
 
 Clar. It's so obvious ! 
 
 [Sonya is not sure whether to rage or to cry.] 
 
 Clar. Any near-sighted game could see you wig-wag- 
 ging miles away. All this clatter would warn a deaf rab- 
 bit. Really you know, it's awfully startling and disintegrat- 
 ing to see anyone going about the way you were yesterday 
 morning. But it's — all overdone. You ought not to have 
 come in and talked. You ought to have made me wonder. 
 I did. I really did. Until you came in. 
 
 Son. Ha! You are not subtle. You do not know de 
 art of love. All its high contrast. Its fine shading. Its 
 delicacy in tings unsaid. Anoder man wit a quick warm 
 temperament, he would have been moved by de unusual, 
 de bizarre. But you Americans have not quick warm tem- 
 peraments. I should have remembered. 
 
 Clar. True. We're all from Missouri. 
 
 Son. Where is dat? 
 
 Clar. It's a place where they have temperamental chil- 
 blains. But that's not the point. I know there are men 
 enough who would have fallen for this child-of-nature stuff. 
 
GAME! 113 
 
 But Lord! It isn't subtle! If that's subtlety, give me a 
 broncho and a lariat. 
 
 Son. [With a sudden change to genuine frankness] 
 Well. I cannot help what I am. I come from a wild pas- 
 sionate race, and wheder I am subtle or not, I do not know. 
 I do not care. I grew up, — you know how dat is in Volhy- 
 nia? Miles and miles from a city on a great estate. Great 
 house, yes. But de roof leaked and it was never mended. 
 Many servants, many, — much vodka. Fine clothes, dirty. 
 You do not tink from what I tell you I had station? My 
 fader was a great nobleman. And I entered de best society 
 in Vienna. And den dey flatter me. "You are so subtle. 
 O you Slavs are so subtle." So I play I am subtle. What 
 did I care? It was de game of love I loved. No. I am 
 not subtle. I do not care. 
 
 Clar. It's a great deal better to admit it. And it was 
 too bad anyone ever put it into your head. I think you'd 
 have been a first rate girl if you'd had a chance ! 
 
 Son. I ! What do you mean by chance ! 
 
 Clar. What are the Court circles of a European town — 
 
 Son. I know dem all, princes and diplomats. And dey 
 have loved me. What can you in America know about dat ? 
 
 Clar. Everything. It's all in the Sunday papers. 
 
 Son. Young man, I am on footing wit Emperors — 
 
 Clar. That's nothing. We can have the plumber to din- 
 ner if we like. 
 
 Son. My love has inspired music. Artists have painted 
 me. Yes. Great scholars, — I have had dem at my feet. 
 
 Clar. Can you pass the examinations they set? My 
 wife can! Can you take a Ford car apart and put it to- 
 gether again? My wife can! 
 
 Son. [With a contemptuous exclamation] I make an art 
 of life and love. I live wit people, not tings, tings, tings! 
 
 Clar. You've missed it. You never went into the woods 
 a hundred miles from anywhere, and lived in the rain for a 
 month, tramping, hunting your food, cooking it, doing all 
 your own chores, and sleeping at the end of the day the way 
 one sleeps in heaven ! 
 
ii 4 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Son. What do you call dat? 
 
 Clar. Vacation! Glorious! And you've missed it all. 
 You couldn't do that, could you ? My wife can. Well, I'd 
 better mosey along home — 
 
 Son. [Looking dangerous] Wait. [He waits.] Come 
 here. [Clarence approaches her most reluctantly.] 
 Your wife is coming here at four. 
 
 Clar. [Looking as pleased as possible] Well, well. 
 
 Son. You are pleased. My husband asked her. She is 
 coming to see him. And he wants me to entertain you so 
 dat he can devote himself to your wife. 
 
 Clar. Say: — this is interesting. 
 
 Son. [Teasing] What if your wife comes in and finds 
 you alone wit me? 
 
 Clar. Doesn't bother me at all. She knows my habits. 
 But how about your husband? 
 
 Son. You are afraid he will shoot you if he finds you 
 here? 
 
 Clar. What does he usually do under the circumstances ? 
 I'm not used to diplomatic life. 
 
 Son. I will hide you. 
 
 Clar. I'd look nice, — wouldn't I? — squeezed into your 
 wardrobe. 
 
 Son. Den I will tell a little story. 
 
 Clar. I suppose you think he would believe you. 
 
 Son. Of course. 
 
 Clar. [Grinning] I don't believe it. * 
 
 Son. It is true. I keep him ignorant. He does not 
 know how much I like de society of men. 
 
 Clar. What good does diplomatic life do him if he 
 doesn't? 
 
 Son. Bah. You are cynical. 
 
 Clar. No. Only a trifle bored. 
 
 [He suppresses a yawn behind his hand.] 
 
 Son. I do not know why you treat me so. Dis has 
 never happened to me before ! 
 
 Clar. Hasn't it? It has happened to me lots of times. 
 
GAME! 115 
 
 [He pretends to yawn again. She sits up looking 
 uncommonly wild.] 
 Clar. Now don't. You know that panther pose of 
 yours frightens me. It doesn't charm me. 
 Son. It is not a pose. I mean it. 
 
 [Clarence rises very quietly and tries to steal away.] 
 Son. [Seizing him by the arm] You shall not go. I shall 
 understand you yet. 
 
 Clar. Better not. I'm really not interesting. One gets 
 to the end of me very quickly. 
 
 Son. [With a cry] I will make you want to stay! 
 Clar. My dear woman, you don't know how. You 
 can't ! 
 
 Son. It is not natural. Dere is someting behind it. It 
 is absolutely unheard of — 
 
 [She is on the verge of tears.] 
 Clar. O good God, don't cry about it. I'm not myself. 
 Not in my best form, — 
 Son. But why — why — 
 
 Clar. You won't let me tell you why. It is a subject 
 you told me never to mention. Isn't done in diplomatic 
 circles and all that sort of thing! So I never never can 
 explain ! 
 
 Son. [Holding onto his arm] Your wife is back of all 
 dis. I feel it. She torments you. She is jalouse! 
 
 [The door opens and Sir Gilbert admits Mary and 
 follows immediately himself. Clarence moves 
 toward Mary at once. Mary is simply clad in an 
 afternooyi gown which accords with her blonde 
 hair. She wears a Panama hat of the best quality, 
 the sort that will squeeze into a suit-case and can 
 be worn in the rain and yet never lose its shape.] 
 Mary. [Passing her husband] Getting on famously. 
 Don't need me at all. 
 
 Clar. [Piteously] Don't I just! — 
 Mary. Hush. 
 
 [She goes to Sonya and shakes hands. Sir Gilbert 
 greets Clarence.] 
 
n6 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Sir G. [To his wife] Well, my dear. Where's the samo- 
 var? Where's everything? Mrs. Buell has been walking. 
 And I've promised her some Russian tea. 
 Son. [Sulkily] You may ring. 
 
 [He does so without being asked.] 
 Sir G. [Passing close to Sonya] My dear, our guests. 
 [Sonya grunts, but does not rise. Enter Marie at 
 left with the samovar. She sets it down on the 
 table the wrong way round. ] 
 Son. [Shouting] Wrong again! Not dat way! 
 
 [She rises swiftly and turns it about. Marie re- 
 gards her coldly.] 
 Mar. Beg parding, but I never could get the 'ang of the 
 thing. Nothin' I'm uster. 
 
 [She brings cake in a disdainful manner, then goes 
 out at left, shutting the door. Sonya pours tea in 
 the customary glasses, deftly, gracefully, and dis- 
 penses it like a woman of the world. Then, taking 
 Mary's arm she goes back to the couch and makes 
 Mary sit beside her. Sir Gilbert passes them 
 cake. Sonya nibbles her cake, half reclining and 
 regarding Mary sideways. Mary looks at Sonya. 
 The men look at Mary, subsiding helplessly at the 
 other side of the room.] 
 Mary. Wouldn't you be more comfortable if you sat up 
 to eat your cake? 
 
 [She tries to make Sonya comfortable by arranging 
 the pillows.] 
 Son. O no. I am Oriental. I love to recline. 
 Mary. But don't the crumbs get under your elbow ? 
 Son. Crumbs? What matter if dey do? — Tell me, do 
 you never give way? 
 Mary. To what? 
 
 Son. Passion. Or anger. Or luxury. 
 Mary. No. They're too uncomfortable. 
 Sir G. My dear, I don't think Mrs. Buell is comfortable 
 in that chair. 
 
 Son. You are comfortable ? 
 
GAME! 117 
 
 Mary. Anywhere. 
 
 Clar. She makes a point of that. 
 
 Sir G. She has a remarkably trained mind. 
 
 Clar. I trained it. 
 
 Sir G. It seems to me clearly original. 
 
 Son. [Querulously] Why do you talk so much about 
 her? 
 
 Sir G. Because we cannot talk to her. 
 
 Son. But you can look at her. [She looks at Mary and 
 begins to laugh.] You know I really must laugh when I 
 look at dose spectacles. Dey are so very ugly. 
 
 Sir G. Now, my dear — 
 
 Clar. O Mary doesn't mind. 
 
 Mary. It is awfully hard to talk to footnotes, Clarence. 
 
 Sir G. She is quite right. I will show you my collec- 
 tion of coins. Kept expressly for occasions like these. 
 
 [He rises and gets them out. The men studiously 
 entertain themselves. ] 
 
 Son. Tell me, how do you ever expect to hold a man wit 
 dose goggles? 
 
 Mary. Hold a man with these goggles? I never tried. 
 
 Son. O dat is not true. You are a great coquette. 
 
 Mary. Yes. That is why I wear them — to protect man- 
 kind. 
 
 Son. [Seriously] Den you miss de one ting in life wort' 
 having. 
 
 Mary. Ah, but holding a man implies, I suppose, that he 
 is trying to get away! 
 
 Son. Dat makes de great sport. He does not want to, 
 but against his will he is held. 
 
 [Mary slowly shakes her head.] 
 
 Son. You do not deserve your charming husband, my 
 dear. He is all a husband should be. He is loyal. 
 
 Mary. Not acutely. Chronically. 
 
 Son. Den he is sometimes forgetful of you? 
 
 Mary. Never wholly. That is what I complain of. He 
 is too dependent. I appeal to you. Wouldn't you think he 
 would want to manage his flirtations himself ? 
 
n8 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Son. [Her face depicting horror] He — you manage his 
 affairs for him? 
 
 Mary. No. But he would like to have me. Now I 
 think he should stand on his own feet. Don't you think so? 
 
 Son. [Sitting up in genuine bewilderment] But — is dat 
 done in your country? 
 
 Mary. Not always. There are very few men so ab- 
 surdly dependent as my husband. You know I get very 
 tired. I should feel it a great kindness if you would take 
 him completely off my hands. 
 
 Son. [Terribly excited] You really want him off your 
 hands ? 
 
 Mary. O we all need vacations now and again, don't we ? 
 
 Son. I never heard of anyting like dis before! [More 
 circumspectly] He seems very fond of me. I am not very 
 eager for men's society. But he has sought me out. I can- 
 not get rid of him. 
 
 Mary. O don't let him make himself a bother! 
 
 Son. It is hard when one is compassionate. I wish I 
 had your temperament. Adamant ! No heart ! 
 
 Mary. O yes. But I keep it perfectly regulated. I 
 regulate it every morning when I get up. 
 
 Son. No ! I do not believe dat ! But since you are so 
 cold, I tink it will be a very good ting to be kind to your 
 husband. I have de idea he too needs a vacation. Do 
 you regulate his heart, every morning? 
 
 Mary. No. I leave that to him. But I really think I ought. 
 You see it runs behind or too fast so much of the time. One 
 can never depend on it. Now you have nothing particular 
 to do? 
 
 Son. Why do you ask? 
 
 Mary. For if it is so, I wish you would undertake to 
 regulate my husband's heart. 
 
 Sir G. [Calling] My dear, I feel sure Mrs. Buell has run 
 through your favorite topic by this time. This is a Roman 
 coin, Mrs. Buell. Very old. 
 
 Mary. [To Sonya; rising] I'll send my husband to you. 
 [She crosses to the other side of the room. Her 
 
GAME! 
 
 husband gives up his chair to her, but lingers be- 
 hind it.] 
 
 Son. [Calling to him] Come here! Come here! 
 Clar. [Turning to Son.] Now keep perfectly still. We 
 don't want you to move. Everything is very nice as it is. 
 Son. [Laughing] Come here! Your wife sends you. 
 Clar. [To Mary] Is that true? 
 
 [Mary nods. Clarence goes reluctantly to the foot 
 of the couch.] 
 Clar. You like my wife, don't you? You get on with 
 her. 
 
 Son. [Comfortably] O not at all. But I let her tink so. 
 It makes her so happy. But I have someting to say to you. 
 I do not wish to shout. 
 
 Clar. I told you I do not want to come here. 
 
 [Sonya kneels up on the foot of the couch with her 
 face close to his.] 
 Son, [Rapidly] Your wife wishes me to take you on a 
 vacation. 
 
 Clar. [Staring] My wife! 
 Son. She said so. 
 Clar. I don't believe it ! 
 
 [He tries to turn to Mary.] 
 
 Son. [Holding him fast] She is tired of you. She said 
 
 so. I never heard anyting so barefaced. She wants — [she 
 
 laughs] — dat you and I should take a holiday togeder. 
 
 Paris ! 
 
 Clar. Shades of Uncle Ezra! Not Paris! Anywhere 
 else! Not Paris! 
 
 Son. Why not? Well. We will go anywhere else! 
 
 [Clarence breaks away and goes out on the balcony. 
 
 Sonya rises swiftly and follows. The other two 
 
 keep their heads studiously bent over the coins.] 
 
 Sir G. That is a Winged Victory. Very neatly done. 
 
 The poise is light and firm. Well-balanced. Like you. 
 
 Mary. [Smiling] Thank you. That is a compliment I 
 like. 
 
 Sir G. I will say more. I think you are far better worth 
 
120 TWO PLAYS 
 
 study than any of these coins. It is a pleasure to see some 
 one who knows her place in the scheme of things, at a time 
 when the endeavor of mankind is proving itself so futile. 
 
 Mary. O I cannot believe it is futile, Sir Gilbert ! 
 
 Sir G. Take me as an example. My life has been spent 
 in what is known as the world of diplomacy. Playing little 
 games, with some few well-worn kings and queens as the 
 pawns. My life has been spent that way. And I thought 
 its objects of vital importance. It seems now the stakes 
 were countless human lives more useful than mine. And 
 my occupation, such as it was, has been taken away. And 
 of what use am I? I cannot, as you say, even fold my own 
 coat successfully. 
 
 Mary. [Quickly] That reminds me. 
 
 [She takes from her bag several pairs of socks neatly 
 folded.] 
 
 Sir G. My word! I shall not wear these. I shall 
 treasure them. 
 
 Mary. [Protesting] O please don't! They are for use. 
 
 Sir G. Symbols. Of an order we men have never at- 
 tained. I feel I have much to learn from you about man- 
 kind. 
 
 Mary. You have come to the wrong person. I am not a 
 siren! [She smiles.] 
 
 Sir G. Exactly so. I was speaking of women. And 
 women are an ancient institution. We men are very recent 
 inventions. Now this is where you can help me. Why do 
 we never learn from you! 
 
 Mary. Because the world is so full of nagging wives ! 
 
 Sir G. You do not nag. 
 
 Mary. O no. I learned I mustn't. 
 
 Sir G. Our greatest saints are those who have volun- 
 tarily renounced the world's pleasures. But I fear your 
 husband felt himself neglected. 
 
 Mary. O no. I hope not. 
 
 Sir G. I am sure not. The best food at regular hours — 
 
 Mary. [Softly] It is ready, but he won't come — 
 
 Sir G. These always in order. [He holds up the socks.] 
 
GAME! 121 
 
 And you learned stenography. I'm sure you learned sten- 
 ography ? 
 
 [Mary nods.] 
 
 Sir G. Ah. All modern wives should have the pen of 
 a ready typewriter. And a great capacity for listening. 
 You have the greatest genius for listening ! Happy man [ 
 [He glances over his shoulder at the balcony door.] All he 
 has to do is work — and talk. All else is provided. But it 
 is not a good plan. 
 
 Mary. O? [She seems surprised and a little amused.] 
 
 Sir G. It is not a good plan to be all things to one man. 
 He becomes too dependent. 
 
 Mary. O Clarence is not dependent. [She interrupts 
 herself as if suddenly wondering, then proceeds] I want him 
 to feel he can always do without me. 
 
 Sir G. Very artful. He now believes he never can. 
 Otherwise, you could not so peacefully abandon him to the 
 winds of chance, — as now you do! 
 
 [There is a slight expression of doubt on Mary's face, 
 but she conceals it from Sir Gilbert. ] 
 
 Sir G. As a former diplomat, I am interested in your 
 method. 
 
 Mary. [Quickly] O there was never any method. Ex- 
 cept — we were always very frank. I explain women to him, 
 you know, so he can never be fooled. 
 
 Sir G. But I supposed in matters of this kind it was the 
 fooling process that was the great enjoyment. 
 
 Mary. [Nodding wisely] He knows the after effects. 
 
 Sir G. After effects deter none of us! And yet I feel 
 you are strangely confident. May I tell you something? 
 [Mary nods.] You never explain to him. You listen be- 
 nignly while he explains himself. He has — we'll say — a 
 scarcely perceptible penchant for flirtation. And so he talks 
 to you about the needs of "nature." And "human nature." 
 And "his nature." 
 
 Mary. [Surprised; naive] He does! How did you 
 know ? 
 
122 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Sir G. How? — One day perhaps he quite unconsciously 
 explains to you that the whole history of mankind, which he 
 is digging out of these shop-worn deserts, is simply putting 
 nature in her place. "Nature!" Where has he heard that 
 word? He talks no more. 
 
 Mary. [Laughing] How did you guess? 
 
 Sir G. That is my secret. But now he knows that the 
 pastime of flirtation is flat, stale and unprofitable. He has 
 convinced himself. And this you brought about. Master- 
 ly! You have the makings of a great diplomat. I would 
 say, it is we diplomats who have learned from the nobler 
 calling. [He bows.] Let me thank you for restoring my 
 faith that the study of mankind is of permanent use. [He 
 regards Mary with his quizzical smile.] So you have ar- 
 rived at a point in his training — 
 
 Mary. [Quickly] But you just said he had trained him- 
 self! 
 
 Sir G. I should say, you have arrived at a point in train- 
 ing him to train himself, where you are sure his enjoyments 
 are now entirely intelligent and farsighted? 
 
 Mary. He has not completed his own training, I admit. 
 
 Sir G. [After regarding Mary a moment] After all, the 
 wonder is not how you trained him, but how you trained 
 yourself. You are very staunch. You are very hopeful. 
 You are tremendously sincere. But I think you must get 
 excessively tired. You must sometimes need a vacation, and 
 I am going to give you one. 
 
 Mary. [Brightly] Thank you. 
 
 Sir G. You take it in the right spirit. We understand 
 one another. 
 
 Mary. Possibly. 
 
 Sir G. Why not? 
 
 Mary. [Archly] All we need is to understand the situ- 
 ation. [She bends over the coins.] 
 
 Sir G. [Admiringly] Perfect balance. My wife is not 
 like that. 
 
 Mary. That is why you married her. 
 
 Sir G. Clever ! It was. 
 
GAME! 123 
 
 Mary. We like irregular action. 
 
 Sir G. Not all the time ? 
 
 Mary. Not all the time. On the whole. 
 
 Sir G. On the whole. 
 
 [Clarence who has been looking in at the two, here 
 breaks away from Sonya and comes in.] 
 Clar. Mary ! 
 
 Mary. [To Sir G.] I think we ought to go out on the 
 balcony. 
 
 Sir G. As you please. I will point out the caves along 
 the lake where there are inscriptions. I will take you there 
 myself, — on our vacation. 
 
 [They go out. Clarence stands looking after them 
 half inclined to follow. Sonya comes up to him 
 and puts her arm through his.] 
 Son. To Paris. We can have such a good time. 
 Clar. No ! Not Paris ! 
 Son. Say where. 
 Clar. I said where. Anywhere! 
 Son. May I den choose? 
 
 Clar. Yes. Route, tickets, luggage, everything! 
 Son. Ah, but you should help me. 
 
 [She is very seductive. In fact, hanging on his 
 
 arm, she goes through quite a range of expressions. 
 
 It is all lost on Clarence who is looking out on the 
 
 balcony. ] 
 
 Clar. [Suddenly] Why should I go when I don't want 
 
 to? 
 
 Son. Yes you do. You want to start tonight. 
 Clar. I do want to start tonight. But I shall leave you 
 behind. — I'll meet you on the way. How's that? 
 Son. You will not meet me. Men — all de same. 
 Clar. Good heavens, have you had that happen to you? 
 Deuced awkward, isn't it? 
 Son. [Furious] O! 
 
i2 4 TWO PLAYS 
 
 [She walks away in one of her fits of despair. This 
 always stimulates Clarence.] 
 
 Clar. I am curious to see how you'll get me to go. 
 
 Son. But I shall. 
 
 Clar. Try it, little one, try it! Exhaust the little bag 
 of tricks ! 
 
 Son. I do not care. You will see. We will be in Paris 
 togeder. Ha! Mon joyeux compagnon! Ha! [She 
 laughs. ] 
 
 Clar. I'll bet anything you like, you don't manage it ! 
 
 Son. Good! De one who loses pays de trip! 
 
 Clar. I'll match you pennies. [He claps his hand into 
 his pocket.] Heads I win, tails you lose, see? 
 
 Son. No, no. I shall win eider way. It is Paris. And 
 the Boulevards. And the war and the excitement and — 
 you ! Mon ami, it will be better dan you tink ! 
 
 [She suddenly pats both his cheeks smartly.] 
 
 Clar. [Exclaiming] O too much! Too much! You've 
 lost! You've spoiled it. Now you'll never pull it off. 
 
 [He goes to the balcony door.] 
 
 Clar. Good-bye, Sir Gilbert. 
 
 [Sir Gilbert and Mary come in.] 
 
 Clar. [To Mary] Get me out of this ! 
 
 Sir G. You're not going? 
 
 Mary. [Giving him her hand] We must. We've had a 
 delightful time. 
 
 Sir G. You won't forget. The caves. Tomorrow. 
 You and I. 
 
 Son. [Overhearing] Wha-at? You go wit her? 
 
 Sir G. You are not going, my dear! Mrs. Buell will 
 accompany me. I find I need a little vacation. 
 
 [Sonya flings herself on the couch with an outburst 
 of laughter.] 
 
 Sir G. [Going to her.] My dear. Order. Comport 
 yourself. Sit up. Our guests ! 
 
 Son. A vacation! We all need dem! Everyone needs 
 dem! Mon Dieu! C'est charmante! 
 
GAME! 125 
 
 Clar. [Under cover of Sonya's exclamations; to 
 Mary] Take me to Uncle Ezra/ — now! 
 
 Mary. Go alone. I have another engagement. 
 
 [Clarence goes out abruptly. Mary meets Sir Gil- 
 bert and he accompanies her to the door, chatting.] 
 [curtain] 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene: A bedroom in a Parisian hotel. Small, not ornate, 
 suggests being the cheapest and smallest and most lofty 
 room in the house. A bed stands with its head against 
 the left wall, its foot out into the middle of the room. 
 There is a door up center. The occupants of the 
 room, — Uncle Ezra, Clarence, Mr. Graves, an Eng- 
 lishman, and M. Clement, a Frenchman, are sitting 
 more or less squeezed together in the space left by the 
 bed, three on uncomfortable chairs, the fourth — Clar- 
 ence — on the foot of the bed. 
 
 Uncle Ezra is a clergyman, perhaps slightly rural, unmis- 
 takably American, and presents at this time a very 
 dilapidated appearance. His face is haggard and un- 
 shorn, his linen soiled, also his hands, and his clerical 
 clothes are greatly in need of a brushing. In fact, he 
 is a wreck of his former self. His companions, the 
 Englishman and the Frenchman, represent equal stages 
 of exhaustion in their several ways. It is evident that 
 the three in question have not slept for many nights, 
 and have had little food and opportunity for washing. 
 And yet, it must be repeated, they are all respectable 
 men. Clarence, the only one who is not respectable, 
 is not so dishevelled, but he certainly looks crushed and 
 defeated. 
 
 Mr. Graves, as the curtain rises, is evidently finishing a long 
 tale to Clarence in a low voice. The Frenchman is 
 sitting with a polite and glazed stare, trying not to wink, 
 for if he winks he knows he will nod. Uncle Ezra 
 has frankly dropped off. 
 
126 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Mr. G. — And last night he spent in a railway station, 
 helping the crowds of refugees. Most devoted. But we 
 found him finally, absolutely exhausted, hungry and penni- 
 less. His money — all he had — 
 
 M. Clem. [Excitedly] Given to ze people of France! 
 He ees a saint ! 
 
 Clarence. [Grumpily] All right. And what do you 
 suggest ? 
 
 Mr. G. That you take him to Switzerland at once. 
 
 M. Clem. Oui. Oui. It is ze good idea. 
 
 Clar. Not on any account. 
 
 Mr. G. But my dear fellow, I thought you came down to 
 find him. 
 
 Clar. I must confess it was far more to lose myself ! 
 
 Mr. G. Ah. But to do that you are doubtless provided 
 with funds. 
 
 Clar. No. Forgot all about that. 
 
 [He feels in his empty pockets.] 
 
 Mr. G. [Greatly troubled] It seems to me then you 
 would have done better to stay where you were. Well, at 
 least you can put your uncle up here for a day or two, till we 
 can reach his people and funds. 
 
 [Clarence looks disconsolately about the room and 
 nods moodily. ] 
 
 Mr. G. [Looking at his watch] We must be going back. 
 But I say, might we order up some tea? I haven't seen 
 food all day. Neither has Clement. 
 
 Clar. By all means. Make yourselves at home. 
 
 M. Clem. [To Mr. G., shaking his head] Cest dom- 
 mage! 
 
 [The two men go to the telephone.] 
 
 Mr. G. I say, will you order the tea, Clement? I've 
 been talking French uninterruptedly for five days and nights 
 and Fm run out. 
 
 Clem. Mais certainement. 
 
 [He orders tea in French. Uncle Ezra wakes up. 
 Clarence and he regard each other.] 
 
GAME! 127 
 
 Clar. Well, Uncle Ezra, we're two of a kind for once, 
 aren't we ? 
 
 Unc. E. [With great dignity] Clarence! 
 
 Clar. It's the greatest rest to see you looking so tough. 
 
 Unc. E. Clarence! 
 
 M. Clem. [At the telephone] What ees thees ! Monsieur ! 
 
 Mr. G. Buell. Someone wants to talk to you. 
 
 [Clarence goes.] 
 
 Clar. What? Who? No. Can't see anyone. Gone 
 to bed very ill. Something infectious. 
 
 [He hangs up with an apprehensive face and groans.] 
 
 Unc. E. Clarence. What was that you were saying? If 
 you referred to yourself, it was an untruth. 
 
 Clar. Better that than the fearful consequences of 
 truth ! 
 
 Unc. E. You are not in bed nor are you ill — 
 
 Clar. I expect to be at any minute ! 
 
 Unc E. I think for your own credit you had best cor- 
 rect your statements. 
 
 Clar. For the credit of everybody here, I shall not. 
 
 Unc. E. Clarence, I am very tired, so I think I will go 
 back to Switzerland with you this afternoon. 
 
 Clar. I repeat what I said. I have no money to go 
 with or to take you. 
 
 Unc. E. It's the most singular — the most unkind thing I 
 ever heard in my life. 
 
 Clar. I agree with you. 
 
 Unc E. We cannot both stay in this little room. 
 
 Clar. O each of us can sleep every other night— pro- 
 vided the other fellow doesn't whistle and sing! 
 
 Unc E. [Turning his back] If this should ever be 
 known at home, Clarence. If this should ever be known in 
 Georgetown Corners. 
 
 Clar. No doubt you will see to it that it is, Uncle Ezra. 
 
 Unc E. Why on earth will you not take me back to 
 Switzerland ? 
 
 Guar. It's too dangerous. 
 
 Unc E. Good Heavens! You left Mary in danger? 
 
128 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Clar. Mary is well protected. Very well protected. 
 Too well protected. But she left me exposed to the gravest 
 danger and in the most heartless manner. 
 
 [Suddenly there is a knock at the door.] 
 Clem. Cest le garcjon! 
 
 [He opens the door wide. Sonya stands on the 
 threshold, carrying a tea-tray. She is dressed in a 
 travelling costume, very chic, and she wears a touch 
 of barbaric color. She is radiant. The gentlemen 
 turn. A chair or two tips over. M. Clement 
 gallantly takes the tea-tray.] 
 Mr. G. Bless my soul ! 
 Unc. E. Really, Clarence! What is this? 
 Clar. [Still on the bed and shrunk into his collar] This, 
 Uncle Ezra, is the danger. 
 
 Unc. E. [In desperation; as nobody says anything] Um. 
 Somebody's got to say something. Say she is a relation. 
 Clar. Which one would you select? 
 Unc. E. Say it is Mary ! 
 
 Clar. [Waking up; greatly entertained] Well, well, 
 Uncle Ezra. This is good of you. Too good to be true ! 
 
 Unc. E. To protect my reputation. What would be- 
 come of me if this were known in Georgetown Corners. 
 [He goes toward Sonya with determination] Mary! Come 
 in! You are very welcome! Gentlemen, — Mr. Graves, M. 
 Clement, — Mrs. Buell. 
 
 [Sonya looks at him round-eyed for a moment, then 
 bursts out laughing.] 
 Mr. G. Delighted, Mrs. Buell. 
 M. Clem. [Bowing low] Madame — 
 Son. I am most happy. I am just in time wit de tea. 
 Mr. G. [Brightening visibly] It is a very fortunate 
 thing you have come. We are all in a frightfully demoral- 
 ized state. Mr. Simpson, after the most heroic efforts on 
 behalf of the refugees, found himself penniless. And I fear 
 your husband is not entirely practical. He says now he 
 has not money enough to go back to Switzerland. 
 
 Son. [Charmed] I can believe you. He is very thought- 
 
GAME ! 129 
 
 less. But I have de money. We will send de uncle back to 
 Switzerland dis afternoon. 
 
 Unc. E. You will! Er — Clarence, I think, had better 
 go too. 
 
 Son. O no. I have oder plans for Clarence. 
 Clar. Now you see, Uncle Ezra. Don't you think for 
 your credit you had best correct your statements? 
 
 [Sonya who has poured out the tea now comes to 
 Clarence with a cup. Uncle Ezra moves hastily 
 away. Mr. Graves and M. Clement, quite para- 
 lyzed with pleasure, stand drinking tea. ] 
 Clar. How on earth did you find me out? 
 Son. [Enchanted] I came on de same train wit you. 
 [She leaves Clarence and, placing a chair between 
 the Englishman and the Frenchman, takes out her 
 money.] 
 Son. You see? I have plenty. 
 
 [Mr. Graves, munching bread and butter, assents 
 cheerfully. M. Clement gesticulates with his 
 bread and butter.] 
 Son. Dere! Dat is enough for de journey. Is it not? 
 [The two Allies assent. She appeals to Uncle Ezra.] 
 Unc. E. [Suddenly aware he is being appealed to; cold- 
 ly] I do not know! 
 
 Mr. G. But my dear man, Mrs. Buell is heaven-sent ! 
 What on earth is the matter with you now? 
 
 M. Clem. [Taking the money from Sonya and handing 
 it to Unc E.] Mais, monsieur. Eet ees here. Eet ees 
 enough. Eet ees good money. Take it. We implore. 
 
 [Uncle Ezra remains obdurate. M. Clement 
 slowly gives the money back to Sonya. ] 
 Clar. Take it, Uncle Ezra, and leave me to my fate. 
 Unc E. [Coming to Clarence and speaking confiden- 
 tially] I will not take the wages of sin. 
 
 Clar. Well, it's not to begin with. And it wouldn't hurt 
 you if it were! 
 
 Mr. G. Very well. And we can now leave you to put 
 him on the train? 
 
i 3 o TWO PLAYS 
 
 Son. Cer-tainly. Clarence and I would be delighted. 
 
 Clar. I wouldn't be delighted at all. 
 
 Mr. G. Why, man, you're not even a gentleman. 
 
 Clar. It wouldn't do to be a gentleman. To be a gen- 
 tleman would compromise me beyond repair. 
 
 Mr. G. [Looking anxiously at his watch] We can't let 
 Mrs. Buell do it alone! Very well then, — M. Clement and 
 I will see that he gets off. But I must say your actions are 
 very singular. 
 
 Clar. Yes they are. It is because I am a doomed man, 
 and it doesn't matter any more how I behave. 
 
 Mr. G. [Going gravely to Sonya] We really must be 
 going on, M. Clement and I. We will see your uncle to 
 the train. But — really I had expected that your husband — 
 
 Son. Let me explain. We have very important business 
 here togeder, he and I. It is a great perplexity to him. He 
 is not quite himself. And it is I who always take de cares 
 and make de plans. [She tries to imitate Mary's manner.] 
 It will be better if you leave me undisturbed wit him. If 
 you will see dat Uncle gets de train, I will surely show my 
 gratitude. I will not forget you. 
 
 [They shake her warmly by the hand.] 
 
 M. Clem. Madame est tres aimable. Tres charmante. 
 
 Mr. G. By Jove, we're awfully obliged to you ! 
 
 Son. Here. Take de money. Uncle, he is a good man, 
 but so careless. And his pockets are always full of holes. 
 I have to mend dem when he visits me. 
 
 [Uncle Ezra shows sudden symptoms of anxiety.] 
 Unc. E. But I never did — that's not so — 
 Clar. [Warningly] O Uncle Ezra. How can you ex- 
 plain it in Georgetown Corners ? 
 
 [Sonya has handed the money to Mr. Graves.] 
 
 Unc. E. I shall see that money is immediately returned. 
 
 When I get to Switzerland I shall ask Ma — . [He goes to 
 
 Clar.] I am going with them. There is no other choice. 
 
 But I leave you, my friend, with the gravest misgivings. 
 
 Clar. [Feebly] Your misgivings are nothing to mine. 
 Be-lieve me. Goodbye. 
 
GAME! 131 
 
 [The three men go out. Sonya stands laughing at 
 Clarence.] 
 Clar. [Sunk in his collar; looking up] My God, you 
 have a nerve. Mine's gone. I admit it. 
 
 [She continues to laugh, then calmly goes and sits be- 
 side him on the bed. He gets up and slinks away. ] 
 Clar. What the devil makes you follow me up like this ? 
 Son. [Shrugging] Because you are so unwilling. 
 Clar. Game ! That's all I am to you ! 
 Son. Yes. I confess it. And you ? It is the same with 
 you. 
 
 Clar. And we call ourselves civilized. Hunting each 
 other like beasts in the jungle. How soon do you tire of 
 your victims ? 
 
 Son. It all depends on how dey entertain me. Intimacy 
 soon wears out — 
 
 Clar. Thank goodness ! 
 
 Son. If you do not wish to be intimate with me, why do 
 you stay? 
 
 Clar. Because my mind is — numb, all but the bump of 
 curiosity. I want to see what you'll do next. 
 
 Son. I shall do noting. I shall sit here. Dat is all. 
 Clar. I confess it. I'm fascinated. 
 
 [A swift look of triumph passes over Sonya's face. 
 She suppresses it.] 
 Son. [Quietly] Are you? Dey never show it in dis way. 
 Dey never ran so far from me. 
 
 Clar. O they did run a little way. Well, at least I have 
 company ! 
 
 Son. Very few. 
 
 Clar. Tell me, I must know, — did they ever get away? 
 Son. Never. If dey went it was because I sent dem. 
 Clar. Did they ever come back again ? 
 Son. Hundreds! Yes. Dey are always coming back. 
 Dat tires me. But you are not like de oders. It takes 
 cleverness to reach you. You are fascinated, yes. But your 
 eyes, dey arre wide open. You will not have de child of 
 
132 TWO PLAYS 
 
 nature. No. Nor de siren. De good companion? Per- 
 haps. Dat is what I am here to prove. 
 
 Clar. O I've been catalogued. It seems to me the 
 method is clumsy. [He looks disgusted.] You are treat- 
 ing me like a frog under a microscope. 
 
 Son. I do not. I am natural. You must feel de same. 
 
 Clar. But you've trapped me. Vulgarly trapped me. 
 
 Son. Your good uncle, — he was so kind as to help me ! 
 [She laughs.] 
 
 Clar. I tell you I can't feel natural in a cage. 
 
 Son. [Calmly] O my friend, we need not argue. If 
 you do not like me, go. If you do, stay. I will not be un- 
 kind I assure you. We can find Paris very charming to- 
 geder. 
 
 Clar. Charming! Paris! With this horror on every- 
 body's face? No. Paris was charming. But just now, 
 Paris is not natural either. I am going to leave you. I am 
 going out to work for these people. 
 
 Son. I go wit you ! 
 
 Clar. Don't ! 
 
 Son. Why not ? 
 
 Clar. I want to go alone. 
 
 Son. [Angry] I am tired of your insults ! 
 
 Clar. There. You are natural, all right. Very natural. 
 
 [He holds up a chair.] 
 
 Son. [Suppressing her feelings] You will be no use 
 among de wounded and de fugitives witout your wife to 
 tell you what to do ! 
 
 Clar. Happy thought ! I'll send for her. [Feels in his 
 pocket and takes out a little coin.] Just enough for a tele- 
 gram. Thanks for the advice. 
 
 [He starts for the door. She places herself between 
 him and the door looking dangerous.] 
 
 Son. You treat me shamefully. 
 
 Clar. Well. Why shouldn't I ? We're nothing to each 
 other. 
 
 Son. We might be. 
 
 Clar. In God's name why? 
 
GAME! 133 
 
 Son. Because you are a very great man — 
 
 Clar. How did you find me out? 
 
 Son. I hear it on all sides. I need not hear it. I see it 
 in your face. 
 
 Clar. I'll wear a mask. 
 
 Son. Such a man as you should have une grande passion. 
 It would do your work good. 
 
 Clar. You know I've heard great claims for that theory. 
 Never saw it succeed. All flirting ever did for me was to 
 knock my work galley west. 
 
 Son. [Eyeing him wildly] Den dere have been oders ! 
 
 Clar. Why not? I should think that fitted perfectly 
 into your theory. 
 
 Son. Not now! Not now! [She pleads.] I do not 
 want you to remember. Look at me. 
 
 Clar. Be-lieve me, I've done little else for the last half 
 hour. 
 
 Son. I will not fail you ! I of all de oders. I will not ! 
 Love me! I am here! 
 
 Clar. O don't say that! I know you're here! And 
 what I believe is that Mary sent you ! 
 
 Son. [Livid with anger] Your wife! [She mumbles in- 
 articulately for a moment] — 
 
 Clar. See here. Do you want me to send for the people 
 downstairs ? 
 
 Son. [Whispering] No, no! I love — you — Clarence. 
 
 Clar. [Desperately to himself] Horrors! It's come! 
 
 Son. [Advancing step by step] You love me! 
 
 Clar. [Steadily] No. I do not. 
 
 Son. I will kill you! [She is panting.] 
 
 Clar. Extracts from our best sellers. 
 
 Son. If I cannot have your love I will have your life. 
 
 Clar. There ! Grand climax on page 200 ! 
 
 [She suddenly fastens herself about his neck. He is 
 really suffering from a violent revulsion.] 
 
 Clar. This — is — sickening. 
 
 [She throws him off suddenly and, sitting on the foot 
 of the bed, begins to sob.] 
 
134 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Clar. Take care! Take care! The authorities in this 
 place will begin to wake up. 
 
 [She flings herself face downward on the bed and 
 gives way to an outburst of tragic feeling.] 
 
 Clar. My dear woman, no, not that ! What shall I say ? 
 Don't carry on like this. I didn't mean to hurt you so — I 
 didn't mean — 
 
 Son. [Raising herself and drawing his head down to 
 her] What did you mean den? 
 
 Clar. I won't have this unlovely hand-to-hand tussle I 
 tell you. 
 
 [He unfastens her hands.] 
 
 Clar. Now listen. To me this thing has been a pastime. 
 I thought you felt the same. I ought to have known that a 
 woman with your feelings can be hurt. I have been very 
 thoughtless. I am deeply ashamed. I can only ask your 
 pardon. 
 
 Son. I forgive you. 
 
 Clar. No. Don't. I don't deserve it. Too bad. Too 
 bad. Life hasn't been good to you. You haven't had 
 half a chance. 
 
 Son. [Ever watchful; panting; half sobbing] Den per- 
 haps you do — like me — a little? 
 
 Clar. Now will you promise me to sit perfectly still? 
 
 [Sonya nods her head.] 
 
 Clar. I like you very much — [At a movement on her 
 part; quickly] — I like you so much that I'm going to tell 
 you something. Get into the life about you. Stop playing. 
 
 Son. Playing? 
 
 Clar. All this — hunting — you do, — it's child's play. 
 Study something. Do something. Be somebody. God 
 knows we all make life hard enough for each other. It's 
 only work that counts. And as long as we're working, we 
 leave each other alone and are kind. Good heavens ! I 
 never thought I should preach like this to a single soul. 
 
 Son. [Meekly] Go on. 
 
 Clar. I've finished. Think it over. Now goodbye! 
 
 [She makes a quick movement.] 
 
GAME! 
 
 135 
 
 Clar. Keep quiet. There's nothing to be done about it. 
 I'm going to find — my wife. 
 
 [He gets his hat and goes out quickly. Sonya waits 
 only an instant. Then she shoots out after him, 
 banging the door. There is a moment's pause. 
 Then there is a knock at the door. Finally it is 
 pushed open. Sir Gilbert puts in his head.] 
 Sir G. This is certainly the number. Nobody here. 
 Mary. [Following him] We'll wait a while. 
 
 [They come in.] 
 Sir G. And yet the clerk said he was here. Assured me 
 he hadn't gone out. 
 
 Mary. He might have gone down by the stairs while we 
 were in the lift. I wonder what he has been doing without 
 money all this time. He's probably sending me a telegram — 
 [She sits on the foot of the bed as she talks. Sud- 
 denly she takes a bit of bright velvet from the 
 coverlid. Sir Gilbert sees it. They look at it 
 and at each other. Mary's color visibly changes.] 
 Sir G. My dear young lady. It was rather an experi- 
 ment, this journey of ours. 
 
 [Mary suddenly takes off her glasses and wipes her 
 
 eyes. Mary has very nice eyes.] 
 
 Sir G. I only wish for your sake that men were civilized. 
 
 Mary. [Bravely] Well. I'm not sorry I tried. I know 
 
 it was the only thing to do. If he couldn't stand it, he's not 
 
 the man I thought. If there's still a chance for him, — why 
 
 there's still a chance! 
 
 [Clarence tears the door open.] 
 
 Clar. [Going to Mary and disregarding Sir Gilbert] 
 Thank God you've come! You shouldn't have left me 
 alone ! 
 
 [Mary's little hat falls to the floor. She throws her 
 arms about Clarence's neck with real abandon. 
 Here Sir Gilbert quietly withdraws. ] 
 
136 TWO PLAYS 
 
 Clar. Never again! Ne-ver again! I couldn't live 
 through it twice ! 
 
 Mary. I'm — so — glad ! 
 
 [His arms are about her. Her face is buried in his 
 chest. ] 
 Clar. [Hurriedly] But you know you really ought not 
 to have — 
 
 [the curtain falls on his homily] 
 
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