BXJl^ERT HENRY. DAVIE S'"'
 
 «-/lr
 
 THE PLAYS OF 
 HUBERT HENRY DAVIES 
 
 VOLUME ONE
 
 HUBERT HENRY DAVIES.
 
 J THE PLAYS OF 
 
 hubeIJt henry davies 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ' '^ 
 
 HUGH WALPOLE 
 
 VOLUME ONE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 
 1921
 
 NOTE 
 
 All rights reserved. The Amateur Fee for each 
 and every representation of any one of these plays 
 is five guineas, payable in advance to the Author's 
 sole agents, Messrs. Samuel French, Limited, 
 26 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Hubert Henry Davies was born on the 30th March 
 1869 at Woodley in Cheshire. He was the fourth child 
 of Wilham Henry and Martha Davies. WiUiam Henry 
 Davies came of a long line of Welsh Nonconformist 
 divines and was born at Ludlow, on the Shropshire 
 border of Wales, in the year 1837. It would probably 
 have been difficult to find any more remarkable survival 
 of primitive Puritanism down the generations than that 
 instanced by Will Davies and his ancestors. Since the 
 days before the Commonwealth they had held fast their 
 faith, permitting no development in respect either of its 
 precept or its practice ; and in matters of doctrine and 
 Sabbath observance Will Davies, at the end of the nine- 
 teenth century, saw eye to eye with the forefather who 
 had been shot at in his Welsh pulpit for preaching Non- 
 conformity at the beginning of the seventeenth. The 
 problem for the student of heredity is — how did the 
 writer of some of the gayest comedies in the English 
 language come to grow on so stiff and uncompromising 
 a stock ? 
 
 But though Hubert Henry's early environment was 
 entailed upon him by the stern tradition of his father, 
 he was by temperament much more akin to his mother. 
 Martha Davies's father had begun life as a workman in 
 an iron-foundry at Hyde in Cheshire, but having a strain 
 of inventiveness in him he lifted himself out of this 
 laborious level, dying in early middle age the master of 
 his own ironworks. His wife, who came from the same 
 humble class as himself, worked in her girlhood at a
 
 vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 neighbouring cotton mill, only quitting her spindles the 
 day before her marriage. From these parents Martha 
 inherited a natural simj)licity and dignity of character ; 
 and without being in the least intellectual she was 
 endowed with a fine and quick perception to which a 
 temper was given by the admirable education which her 
 father contrived for her. She suffered from great physical 
 weakness almost all her life, and this, together with the 
 rigid home discipline imposed by her husband, severely 
 restricted both her own life and that of her young 
 children. 
 
 The first years of young Hubert's life were spent in 
 a smoky suburb of Manchester, where the distance was 
 everywhere shut out by bricks and mortar and where 
 the sky overhead was never clear. In those early days 
 his only form of outdoor sport was running or walking 
 on cinder roads and stone pavements, and his only 
 contact with nature was the tending of a sycamore 
 sapling and a monkey-flower plant that grew in the tiny 
 plot of earth apportioned to him in the dreary back 
 garden. When he was eight years old his family removed 
 to Wilmslow, a Cheshire village some twelve miles from 
 Manchester. Here for a space he knew the freedom of 
 green fields and wide skies ; and it was during these 
 impressionable years of his boyhood that he uncon- 
 sciously absorbed the atmosphere that later on charac- 
 terised his comedies of simple domestic life. Not that 
 the people in his plays were ever drawn direct from 
 life ; there is nowhere in his characterisation anything 
 approaching to portraiture, though it may be noted in 
 passing that the majority of the names he gave to his 
 characters were locally familiar to him in the Wilmslow 
 days. When he had reached the age of eleven he was 
 sent to a little school in the village as preparatory to the 
 Grammar School in Manchester, whither he soon de- 
 parted ; but in 1886, the father's affairs having become 
 seriously involved, the family went back again to live 
 in Manchester, and at the age of seventeen Hubert was 
 taken from school and put into business. 
 
 The story of his life could be told in very few lines. 
 Outwardly it was singularly uneventful and devoid of 
 incident, but between the end of his school days and the 
 beginning of his success as a dramatist he lived through
 
 INTRODUCTION vii 
 
 years of very intense subjective drama — drama that was 
 by no means chiefly comedy. During the long slow- 
 moving time of boyhood his life had been a happy, 
 humdrum affair enough, and the glamour of his own 
 vivid vitality and imagination hid from him the extreme 
 narrowness of his environment ; but when youth came, 
 quickening all the springs of his being and opening the 
 eyes of his self-consciousness, he began to be aware of 
 the larger possibilities which life contained, and thence- 
 forward his soul entered into rebellion against the cramp- 
 ing traditions of his lot. When the time came for him 
 to be broken into business he was, by a strangely unhappy 
 prompting, put into his father's office to undergo the 
 process. He had made no especial mark while at school 
 and he now shone still less at business. He had not yet 
 formed any definite idea of being a writer, but the whole 
 atmosphere of commerce was utterly distasteful to him, 
 and he never at any time in his life attempted to assume 
 an interest in things which he did not feel. Nonchalance 
 towards the processes of calico-printing on the part of 
 a beginner was, naturally enough, very trying to his 
 father, to whom a manner of business-like alertness was 
 a matter of conscience rather than of temperament, 
 and the relationship between father and son, never 
 at any time a close or sympathetic one, began under the 
 daily friction of office life to grow more strained and 
 critical. 
 
 The vein of religious melancholy which Will Davies, 
 the father, had inherited from his Welsh ancestors was, 
 under stress of accumulating misfortune, developing into 
 a state of morbid spiritual nervousness, which reacted 
 upon his family in innumerable little acts of interference 
 and discipline. While his children were in the stage of 
 unthinking infancy his carefulness and kindness towards 
 them had been never-failing, but as they grew to years 
 of reason and began to form opinions of their own he 
 failed to understand them or sympathise with them, and 
 where he could not understand he knew no other way 
 than to coerce and forbid. What this constant criticism 
 and repression must have cost to a generous, sensitive 
 temperament like Hubert's it is impossible to estimate. 
 It was the clash of two diametrically opposed systems 
 and temperaments ; and both father and son suffered 
 
 VOL. I b
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 painfully from its effects. But though, as always in such 
 cases, it was the younger and more ardent who received 
 the deepest hurt, in later life Hubert had come to the 
 belief that no man can fairly be blamed for having a 
 narrow mind any more than for having a narrow chest, 
 and after he had achieved his full liberation it is certain 
 that all the personal bitterness had died out of his early 
 memories. 
 
 Both at home and in the office these years were for 
 Hubert full of deep difficulty and depression ; his 
 relations with his mother and his brother and his sisters 
 were, however, so happy and intimate that they lightened 
 all this period, and it is unquestionably true that it was 
 just the stern experiences of this time that taught him 
 concentration and self-discipline. 
 
 It was when he was about twenty that he first formed 
 the determination to be a dramatist, and thenceforward 
 nothing ever shook his conviction that he was going 
 to be a successful one. The first time that he had ever 
 been inside a theatre was one summer when at the 
 age of fourteen he had gone from Wilmslow to visit some 
 elderly relatives in London. He stayed in Camden 
 Square and was taken to the Adelphi Theatre to see The 
 Streets of London^ and the performance in that play of 
 Miss Clara Jecks in the part of the Cockney boy Dan 
 filled him with the keenest delight. But this was in 
 London, and when later on at home in Manchester he 
 went to the play there were great heart-burnings about 
 it. His father's habitual attitude towards even the most 
 innocent forms of amusement had then become one of 
 pained and solemn disapproval, and it will readily be 
 understood, therefore, that the theatre called forth his 
 severest reprobation. There were many painful scenes 
 between them about it, conducted in a sombre tragedy 
 strain ; and when on the occasion of one of Henry 
 Irving and Ellen Terry's rare visits to Manchester 
 Hubert persisted, in spite of the parental displeasure, in 
 going to see them in The Merchant of Venice all Will's 
 Welsh ancestry rose up indignantly within him and he 
 threatened his son with expulsion from the home. 
 
 Nevertheless, Hubert now never for a moment desisted 
 from his ambition, and summer or winter, week-day or 
 Sunday, it was only at the end of the evening, after the
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 usual good-nights had been said, that, mounting the 
 creaking Httle stair to the top of the house, he began the 
 real work of the day. Whether the evening had been 
 spent at home or away, whether he went upstairs early 
 or late, scarcely an evening passed at that time that he 
 did not sit for hours at an old dressing-table in the attic, 
 surrounded by the family's dusty travelling trunks, 
 writing pieces long and short, tragic and comic, while the 
 family slept below and the street outside grew silent and 
 empty. Side by side with his writing he had now also 
 become a close student of modern play construction, both 
 French and English. He was probably in those days 
 moie influenced by the construction of Pinero than by 
 that of any other English dramatist, and among con- 
 temporary French writers, by the work of Scribe and 
 Sardou. He read widely the plays of the period, IbsenJ 
 Wilde, Sudermann, Maeterlinck, all had their turn. 
 Also the older English writers — Goldsmith and Sheridan, 
 the dramatists of the Restoration, and the Elizabethans 
 both great and small. 
 
 Doubtless those early efforts were no less artificial 
 and derived than the experimental work of most young 
 writers. His MSS. when completed came back to him 
 with painful regularity from the actors and managers to 
 whom they had been sent ; but though disappointments 
 were many and bitter, and though he had not a single 
 friend at hand to advise him as to the best method of 
 pursuing his end, he never for an instant lost the belief 
 that he would one day succeed, and when a note of praise 
 and encouragement came one day from Mrs. Kendal, he 
 walked to business on air for a week afterwards even 
 though she had at the same time returned his MS. He 
 nevertheless perceived that he was now in a back-water, 
 that the years were passing swiftly by and that he was 
 achieving nothing. He had an uncle who in early life 
 had gone forth to seek his fortune in the New World 
 and had prospered exceedingly, not only in the group of 
 islands in the Pacific, where he had his headquarters, but 
 also on the mainland of America. To this uncle now 
 living in England Hubert, in the summer of 1893, went 
 for advice ; the uncle was practical and encouraging, 
 and by his generosity it was arranged there and then 
 that Hubert should go out to America in the following
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
 September with a sufficient sum of money in his pocket 
 to hve on for three months, thus giving him time to look 
 round for employment. If at the end of that time he 
 had been unsuccessful in making any connections for 
 himself, his uncle undertook to find him a post in San 
 Francisco in a large shipping office there allied to his 
 own firm. On the 16th September 1893 he sailed from 
 Liverpool in the s.s. Campania in company with his uncle 
 and two cousins. 
 
 I will pass swiftly over his American experiences. 
 He stayed for the rest of that year in Chicago and sought 
 everywhere for a situation, tried to get work on various 
 papers, made many efforts and many false hopes and 
 starts but no success. In April of the next year he 
 reached San Francisco and at once began work in the 
 office of Messrs. Williams Dimond, shippers. In May of 
 1898 he had his first play produced, a one -act piece 
 entitled A Bream of Love, part dialogue, part pantomime ; 
 it was written for and acted by Madame Pilar-Morin, a 
 French pantomimist, and was produced by her at the 
 Orpheum, San Francisco. He had good press notices 
 but no striking success with the public. It was just at 
 this time that his Uncle Theo Davies died and he left 
 Hubert £1000, which, while not immediately altering his 
 plans, gave him the all-important breathing-space for 
 play-writing. During the next few months he stayed 
 on in San Francisco at the office, continually writing 
 and occasionally contributing short stories, poems, 
 and articles to various San Francisco papers, "The 
 Lotus," " Philistine," etc. Then in October 1897 he was 
 appointed musical and dramatic critic to the News 
 Letter, a San Francisco weekly, and on the last day of 
 that year he left the office for ever to devote himself 
 entirely to journalism and literature. 
 
 In March of 1899 he received an offer from Daniel 
 Frohman to produce The Weldons, a drama in four acts 
 which Hubert had completed in the previous autumn, 
 for a single performance at the Empire Theatre, New 
 York. This decided Hubert to leave San Francisco at 
 once for New York. He attended the last week's 
 rehearsals, and the public performance on April 6 had 
 a good reception and encouraging notices but was never 
 afterwards revived. He then paid a short visit to
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 England, returned to America in September, settling 
 this time in New York, where he stayed two years. His 
 history henceforward is the history of his plays. 
 
 In March of 1900 a one-act piece. Fifty Years Ago, 
 was successfully produced by Miss Lilian Burkhart. 
 She opened at Omaha and toured the States with it. 
 The rest of the year he was hard at work, chiefly on a 
 play that Daniel Frohman had asked him to write. This 
 was Cynthia, which, however, did not satisfy Frohman. 
 He spent the earlier part of 1901 in New York writing 
 notably Mrs. Gorringe's Necklace. Then he left America 
 for good and spent the summer with his family in 
 Shropshire, where he wrote most of Cousin Kate. Then 
 in the autumn he came to London and settled in the 
 Royal Avenue, Chelsea. 1902 was his fateful year. In 
 the spring Cousin Kate was submitted to Frederick 
 Harrison and Cyril Maude. They accepted it immedi- 
 ately as it stood and made a contract to produce it 
 within twelve months. In October he read Mrs. 
 Gorringe^s Necklace to Charles Wyndham and Mary 
 Moore. They closed with it at once, made a contract, 
 and promised to produce it as early in the following 
 year as possible. 
 
 Mrs. Gorringe^s Necklace had its first production May 
 12, 1903, and it was at once an immense success. This 
 was followed in the same year by the appearance on 
 June 18 of Cousin Kate, another most successful play. 
 The dates of the production of his other plays were as 
 follows : 
 
 Cynthia . . . May l6, 1904 (produced in 
 
 New York, March l6, 1903). 
 
 Captain Drew on Leave October 24, 1905, 
 
 The Mollusc . . October 15, 1907. 
 
 Ladi/ Epping's Lawsuit October 12, 1908. 
 
 Bevis .... April 1, I909. 
 
 A Sitigle Man . . November 8, 1910. 
 
 Doormats . . . October 3, 1912. 
 
 Outcast . . . September 1914. 
 
 After the production of Outcast he went to France 
 and did notable work in the hospitals of Paris and else- 
 where. In the following year, however, he had a bad 
 nervous breakdown, and after a long and trying illness
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 he died, as truly a willing victim in the cause of his 
 country as any soldier in France, on August 17, 1917. 
 
 II 
 
 Such are the bare facts of Davies's life. When one 
 comes to an attempt at estimating his character and 
 personality, one is faced with a real difficulty. Of all 
 the notable figures in that pre-war London, now so rapidly 
 becoming traditional and even romantic, Davies was the 
 very last to wear his heart on his sleeve. On the very 
 first five minutes of that now famous premiere of Mrs. 
 Gorringe's Necklace a certain attitude was forced upon 
 Davies from the outside. He was the recognised jester 
 of that pre-M'ar London world ; there is nothing that 
 human nature likes better than the emphasising of little 
 foibles, weaknesses, and oddities by some observer who 
 has not too acid or malicious a touch. Best of all is the 
 satirist of human society who at the same time satirises 
 himself. With him we feel absolutely safe, and although 
 he may laugh at us, we are secure from treachery because 
 he is target with ourselves. 
 
 It was just this position that Davies occupied. Those 
 early years of stem discipline and dreary surroundings 
 had trained him to snatch fun wherever he found it. He 
 could see nothing, hear nothing, share in nothing without 
 finding something that made life more entertaining, more 
 whimsical, more delicately absurd than it had been 
 before, and so delighted was he with his little discoveries 
 that he must share them with his friends, and those 
 friends, finding that to them also life was suddenly more 
 entertaining and whimsical, delighted in his company, 
 demanded that he should be for ever at his best, and in 
 many cases refused to see him in any other role but the 
 one that he so beautifully filled. Again and again, 
 watching him, I used to wonder that he could so buoy- 
 antly keep it up. I used to wonder still more that he 
 could find certain people, who seemed to all the rest of 
 the world tiresome and heavy, such excellent company. 
 His wit v/as quick, clean, darting, always sure of its aim, 
 always knowing when to stop, always kindly and, best 
 of all, original. The pageant of London entertained him
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 unceasingly, and although he loved Italy and enjoyed 
 his visits to America, it was London that was his real 
 hunting ground. He was able to say the obvious things 
 about people and places without ever being obvious at 
 all, giving his point of view a sudden little twist which 
 made it entirely his own, a point of view generally a 
 little kinder than the others, and always a little neater. 
 He showed that characteristic so frequently seen in those 
 who have had dull and restricted childhoods, of a per- 
 petual pleasure in the tiniest adventures that life brought 
 to him. It was not that he marvelled at his own success, 
 because, as I have already said, he had from the very 
 beginning determined to succeed, but the things that 
 success brought to him were always twice as delightful 
 as he had expected them to be. People were more 
 amusing, places more beautiful, books and pictures and 
 travel more entrancing, the London bustle more enter- 
 taining than he had ever dreamt that he would find 
 them, and one of the things that made his company so 
 perpetually refreshing was the sensation that one had 
 with him that to-day was the first day and the last day, 
 there had never been any day like it before, that there 
 would never be any day like it again, and that therefore 
 one must live every moment of it. He had the actual 
 consciousness of his happiness at the instant that he was 
 experiencing it, and that is perhaps one of the rarest gifts 
 given to human beings. Behind his fun and happiness 
 one always had the sense of the artist at work. Not 
 that he was deliberately using everything that came to 
 him as material for future plays, but rather that he took 
 the things — a little dinner party, a first night, a ride on 
 an omnibus, luncheon at the Garrick Club, an interview in 
 the middle of Piccadilly with an old gentleman who had 
 just lost his dog and was very unhappy about it, a visit 
 to Madame Tussaud's, a ride in a taxi on a summer's 
 evening out to Harrow — whatever it might be — and 
 made them little rounded episodes coloured and decorated 
 with his fantasy and humour, and then left them there 
 for you to enjoy so that they remain for ever afterwards 
 as something distinct and framed, hanging upon the wall 
 of your mind so long as your house should endure. 
 
 His brother describes him when he was eight years 
 old as " a chubby, pink-faced child, with bright yellow
 
 XIV 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 hair, his busy figure a familiar object in the country, 
 playing rounders in the hayfield, catching frogs in the 
 poiid, bustling in and out of the stables and shippons of 
 the neighbouring farm in order to investigate the mystery 
 of the birth of calves and foals and the death of pigs, 
 a cheerful, laughter-loving creature though somewhat 
 easily moved to scorn and disrespect of elders." That 
 description might remain almost true of him to the very 
 outbreak of the war. He stayed incredibly young, and 
 I have often seen on his face exactly that look of an 
 inquiring child in whose mind some small roguery is 
 plotting, an expression humorous, a little malicious, 
 entirely engaging, breaking into laughter at the earliest 
 possible moment. It was in this particular character 
 that he was known to most of his contemporaries. Where 
 Davies was there would be sure to be fun, games different 
 from any other games, points of view that never did any 
 harm and made the heaviest bore entertaining. It was 
 natural that he should be wanted everywhere and super- 
 ficially he seemed to give himself up to that life of 
 amusement and light-hearted laughter. His own family 
 and one or two of his most intimate friends knew that 
 underneath there was quite another Hubert Henry. He 
 was himself desperately shy of his deeper side. This 
 shyness came, I used to think, from an innate modesty 
 and his vision of himself as some one of a small, cheerful 
 talent who had no right to bother the rest of the world 
 with his real feelings about life. He approached his 
 friends with an attitude of easy comradeship and light- 
 hearted fun, and it was not until they had enjoyed his 
 friendship for some time that they realised his unswerv- 
 ing loyalty, his immediate unselfishness if they made 
 any demands upon him, his extraordinary wisdom and 
 common sense when they were in trouble. They never 
 made any appeal to him that he refused. He never 
 forgot an obligation that he owed. When he chose to 
 speak seriously of literature and art and music, you were 
 surprised to discover how quietly and without any self- 
 intrusion he had been working and developing his own 
 hne of study as consistently as though he had no social 
 existence at kll. 
 
 After the success of his earlier comedies, he was 
 determined to prove to the world liis ability to write
 
 INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 plays of a much more serious kind, and in the first half 
 of Outcast he undoubtedly did this. Had the war not 
 smashed in upon the world, we would have seen, I am 
 convinced, quite a new development in his art, but the 
 war did come and it killed him. His attitude of fun and 
 humorous observation of life had never hidden from his 
 friends his deep tenderness of heart. He simply could 
 not bear that people should suffer and be unhappy. 
 Until the war he had the sense that human beings on the 
 whole got enough out of life to make it worth while for 
 them, and although there was unhappiness and misery 
 there was sufficient love and laughter and beauty to make 
 the world go round. During the early months of the war, 
 when he was doing his hospital work in France, he still 
 felt the impulse of courage and unselfishness that those 
 first weeks of August 1914 brought so magnificently 
 forward. Then as the months went on, as the war so 
 hopelessly lengthened, as he saw in those same hospitals 
 the pain and the agony, the frustrated hopes, and the 
 lingering deaths, he began to feel, I think, that the whole 
 of his earlier estimate of life was wrong and that the 
 world was a hideous place into which he had been some- 
 how tricked in believing. He was now forty-five years 
 of age and it all must suddenly have seemed to him too 
 vast and terrible for any one to deal with. He violently 
 overworked his strength, broke down in health, came 
 home, and then for two years struggled to secure again 
 some of his earlier vitality and confidence ; but his heart 
 was too tender, his imagination too keen. I remember 
 in the second or third year of the war, when I w^as home 
 on leave, paying him a visit in Oxford. He had just 
 read a book of mine that had for its background the 
 Russian Front in Galicia. I remember how he spoke 
 with a sort of feverish urgency as though he wanted to 
 drive everybody together to stop the horrible massacre 
 at the earliest possible moment, and then suddenly, with 
 a little broken gesture, cried, " And here am I in Oxford 
 doing nothing to help to stop it. Nothing at all." The 
 war overwhelmed him so dreadfully that he could not 
 think of his plays, he could get no theme that did not 
 seem to him unspeakably trivial, he despised himself 
 and his art and his earlier view of life with a contempt 
 that those things never for a moment deserved and that
 
 xvi INTRODUCTIO^ 
 
 had been fed by the working of his imagination ceaselessly 
 upon the miseries and tragedies of the war. Hedid literally 
 die of a broken heart. He loved his fellow-beings too 
 deeply to endure the thought of their great unhappiness, 
 and he was too immediately conscious of their suffering 
 to look forward to the day when the world would recover 
 from its sickness and men be brothers once again. 
 
 To so many of us looking back he will always stand 
 out as the happiest, freest, kindest, and warmest-hearted 
 of all the figures in that pre-war London. Nobody since 
 has seemed to have quite that mixture of childlike 
 simplicity, wise common sense, burning generosity, and 
 unfaltering loyalty. He remains a whimsical, laughing 
 knight-errant, and there is no one like him any more. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Any consideration of the plays of Hubert Henry 
 Davies must lead at least to one inevitable conclusion 
 about them and that is their timelessness. There is 
 perhaps no form of art that dates quite so decisively as 
 the play of social manners, and it is only when, as in 
 The Way of the World and The School for Scandal, the 
 motives of the human beings concerned are universal 
 and not of a period that the play has any chance of 
 survival with a fresh generation. Davies had this at 
 least in common with Sheridan, that every one of his 
 plays contains one or two scenes built on the pathos and 
 humour of characteristics that are eternally in human 
 nature, and it is because of these little scenes that his 
 work will live. When one considers them — -the losing 
 of Mrs. Gorringe's necklace, " the tea a deux " in 
 Cousin Kate, the little meal with the typist in A Single 
 Man, the breakfast scene in Doormats, the knitting scene 
 in Captain Drew, and every scene from first to last in 
 The Mollusc — these are the things that bring Davies 
 into the true line of English writers of comedy in full 
 and rightful succession to Wycherley, Congreve, Sheridan, 
 and Wilde. These scenes are often, let it at once be 
 confessed, placed in a setting unworthy of them. A 
 dramatist who sees human nature as human nature is 
 and ^vishes to put upon the boards truthfully what he 
 sees has a difficulty of construction and development
 
 INTRODUCTION xvii 
 
 that a writer who is thinking first and foremost of the 
 stage and the stage world cannot feel. In our own time 
 we have seen two schools of the drama abruptly diverge. 
 We have allowed our realists, St. John Ervine, Lennox 
 Robinson, and others, to give us real life as they see it, 
 however slender the theme upon which they hang their 
 pictures. Many of our other dramatists have quite 
 frankly sacrificed human nature to dramatic effect, 
 and we have understood from the beginning of their 
 plays that they are going to do this and have accepted 
 their convention. It is a noteworthy illustration of this 
 that the one play of John Galsworthy that has been a 
 real popular success departs further from real human 
 nature than any other that he has written. 
 
 Davies in those years before the war must have felt 
 that difficulty less sharply than the dramatists of to-day. 
 Bernard Shaw and Hankin were almost alone at that 
 time in their determination to write of life as they saw 
 it, and to sacrifice all the dramatic conventions at once 
 if by doing so they could tell the truth. In Davies's 
 very first success, Mrs. Gorringe's Necklace, this struggle 
 between real life and the life of the theatre was apparent. 
 Listen to Mrs. Gorringe, who has just lost her necklace 
 and is explaining to a detective how she lost it. 
 
 JERNIGAN. And now how did you come to discover the 
 diamonds were missing ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Well, I Went up to my room when I came 
 in from the polo match, and suppose the dressing-table to 
 be there — {'points to vicky) where Miss Jardine is. And the 
 door where this one is. {Points to the door.) I came in at 
 the door something like this. {Goes to the door, opens it, goes 
 just outside and comes in again.) I closed the door. {Closes 
 the door and goes towards vicky as she says.) Then I crossed 
 over to the dressing-table in quite an ordinary manner, just 
 as I am doing now. {When she has nearly arrived at vicky 
 she stops suddenly.) Oh, no. I've made a mistake. The 
 dressing-table, of course, would be there. {Points towards 
 MRS. JARDINE.) I was thinking of the one at home. {She 
 pauses a moment undecided, then says.) I must come in 
 again. {She then runs to the door, opens it, goes just outside, 
 closes it, opens it again and puts her head just inside to say.) 
 Now you are to suppose I didn't come in before. {Takes 
 her head back and closes the door.)
 
 xviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (scarcely able to restrain her impatience), 
 I shall scream in a minute. 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. I crossed over to the dressing - table — 
 which, of course, is here now. [Points to a spot near mrs. 
 JARDINE, ivalks towards it, and stands still.) I opened my 
 jewel-case. I don't know what made me do that then. I 
 suppose I must have had a presentiment. Oh, no. It was to 
 get these rings. (Bends up her hand to show her rings.) I 
 thought it looked different somehow, and what was it I said 
 to myself ? (Frowns as she thinks a moment.) Oh, yes. I 
 remember saying to myself, " AVell, that's funny ! " Then 
 all at once it came across me like a flash of lightning, and I 
 clasped my hands and exclaimed (clasps her hands dramatic- 
 ally), " Great Heavens, my diamond necklace has gone ! " 
 (Drops her dramatic pose and tone.) Just like that. 
 
 Contrast with that the following scene in the same 
 play when the young villain of the piece confesses to the 
 noble elderly friend that he has committed the theft. 
 
 DAVID. I know I'm unworthy of her, but — I'm not all 
 bad. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I know that. I don't ask you to be perfect. 
 We all have our faults. But it isn't the number of his sins 
 that mark a man — it's the kind. 
 
 DAVID (humbly). Don't you think — with this experience — 
 I can be different ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. The curse of degeneracy is always there, in 
 your mind and in your heart. It's Uke a taint in the blood. 
 It warps your judgement, poisons your impulses, lures you 
 into constant danger. 
 
 DAVID. But with Isabel to help me 
 
 MOWBRAY. To help you — she — to give up her life to 
 you will bring her only shame and sorrow — to expose her 
 sweet nature day after day to your contamination — to 
 make her the mother of your children. No, it's not to be 
 thought of — you must not marry her. 
 
 DAVID. I can't give her up. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then she must know the truth. If you don't 
 break your engagement before you leave this house I shall 
 tell her that 
 
 ISABEL (calls outside). David ! 
 
 Is not the one quotation as true to real life as the 
 other is true to the life of the theatre ? He was never 
 again to blend so crudely the two elements as he did in
 
 INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 Mrs. Gorringe, but he found it always, I think, exceed- 
 ingly difficult to find a fable which would be interest- 
 ing enough dramatically without driving him from the 
 work that he really loved. Once in The Mollusc he was 
 entirely successful, and in Cousin Kate he almost suc- 
 ceeded, but he gravely endangered what is to myself 
 his very best play. Captain Drew on Leave, by the old 
 theatrical scene of the woman going to the man's rooms 
 at night, there to be discovered by man No. 2, and in 
 his less successful plays, Bevis, A Single Man, and the 
 last two acts of Outcast his sense of reality frequently 
 deserted him. There remain, however, four plays, 
 Mrs. Gorringe's Necklace, Cousin Kate, The Mollusc, and 
 Captain Drew on Leave, that contain so much of the real 
 Davies that they must surely endure in the line of great 
 English comedy so long as the English stage endures at 
 all. The best scenes in these plays, the second act of 
 Cousin Kate, the whole of The Mollusc, the second act of 
 Mrs. Gorringe, and the second act of Captain Drew, 
 remind us more definitely of the art of Jane Austen than 
 of any other writer. That great lady would beyond any 
 question have delighted in Mrs. Gorringe, in Mrs. Baxter 
 and Mr. Baxter from The Mollusc, in Cousin Kate, first 
 sister to Elizabeth Bennet, and in Miss Mills, the amorous 
 spinster of Captain Drew. It is indeed astonishing to 
 notice how little time has changed these types, how 
 English these types are, and how admirably they are 
 suited to the friendly, satirical spirit that belonged to 
 the creator of Mrs. Baxter just as surely as to the 
 chronicler of Miss Bates. And here one may notice a 
 very remarkable characteristic of these Davies plays, 
 that they more perhaps than any other plays in the 
 English language do what good novels do — make us 
 speculate on the lives of the characters in them before 
 and after the action that we have been shown. Does 
 any one in the world believe in the existence of Paula 
 Tanqueray or of Mrs. Dane or of Lady Windermere after 
 the fall of the curtain ? St. John Hankin indeed created 
 people who lived beyond the action of the play, but his 
 touch was so much more bitter than Davies's that we 
 do not feel any affection for his people ; but Cousin 
 Kate, Mrs. Moxon of Captain Drew, the little typist in 
 A Single Man, the poor heroine of Outcast, are our friends
 
 XX INTRODUCTION 
 
 even as Elizabeth Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, and David 
 Copperfield are our friends. Davies himself loves them 
 and as he develops them he has that sense of discovery 
 about them that belongs always to the true creative 
 artist. Without making any odious comparison, this 
 can be seen very clearly when one compares The Mollusc 
 with a play like The Tyranny of Tears by the late Mr. 
 Haddon Chambers, the theme of the two plays being 
 almost identical. Clever though The Tyranny of Tears 
 is, it is a play of the theatre and its characters are 
 theatrical puppets. But Mrs. Baxter goes gloriously on, 
 far into time, triumphantly conscious that she will get 
 her way so long as there is a man in the world, a way 
 that no votes for women can affect so long as human 
 nature remains unchanged. 
 
 It is interesting to speculate on the probable develop- 
 ment of Davies's work had he lived. He was tending, as 
 I have already said, towards more serious themes and 
 a deeper presentation of life. The first act of Outcast 
 shows that he was justified of his ambition, but artists 
 are given only one of two things to do supremely well, 
 and although I believe that he would have seen more 
 and more clearly the way to blend plot with character 
 and comedy with drama, we have definitely here in 
 these two volumes the real essence of his art. One 
 wonders sometimes when one goes to the theatre of 
 to-day and sees so many plays false to life, lacking in all 
 the true genius of the theatre, how long it will be before 
 Cousin Kate, The Mollusc, and Captain Drew will delight 
 us once again. That they will be delighting theatre- 
 goers of a hundred years from now is my own implicit 
 belief. 
 
 HUGH WALPOLE.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAQE 
 
 INTRODUCTION BY HUGH WALPOLE v 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 1 
 
 COUSIN KATE 77 
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 147 
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 213 
 
 XXI
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 VOL. II B
 
 COPY OF "FIRST NIGHT" PEOGRAMME 
 AT 
 
 WYNDHAM'S THEATRE, LONDON 
 
 TUESDAY, MAY 12, 1903, AND EVERY EVENING, AT 8.45 
 
 Will be presented a New and Original Play in Four Acts, 
 Entitled, 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE, 
 
 BY 
 HUBERT HENRY DAVIES 
 
 Captain Mowbray (Retired) . . Charles Wyndham 
 
 Colonel Jardine (Retired) . . Mr. Alfred Bishop 
 
 Lieutenant David Cairn . . , Mr. Leslie Faber 
 
 Mr. Jernigan (a Detective-Inspector) Mr. Eille Norwood 
 
 Charles (a Footman) . . . Mr. Reginald Walter 
 
 Mrs. Jardine .... Miss Marie Illington 
 
 Isabel Kirke 1 (her . . i Miss Mabel Terry-Lewis 
 
 Vicky Jardine) Daughters) . . \Miss Lettice Fairfax 
 
 Miss Potts Miss Ethel Marry at 
 
 Mrs. Gorringe . . . .Miss Mary Moore 
 
 The scene of the Play is laid in the Library in Colonel Jardine' s 
 
 House 
 
 The action takes place near a Garrison Town at a little distance 
 from London and covers a period of about twenty hours
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 THE FIRST ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The library of colonel jardine's house, situ- 
 ated near a garrison town in the south of England. 
 The library is much used by all the family as a sitting- 
 room. Opposite the audience there is a French 
 window affording a view of a large well-kept garden. 
 On one side of the stage there is a fireplace, and in 
 the wall opposite, a door. There is an electric bell 
 beside the fireplace and a switch for turning on the 
 electric light beside the door. The room is well 
 furnished with bookshelves, a large writing - table, 
 tivo or three smaller tables, a sofa, chairs, etc., etc., 
 presenting a comfortable and homelike appearance. 
 
 Near the fireplace, and in full view of the whole 
 audience, there is an ornamental bowl, standing on 
 a high pedestal and containing a flowering plant. It 
 is the late afternoon of a summer day. 
 
 MRS. jardine, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, is 
 lying asleep on the sofa. 
 
 Enter mrs. gorringe, a younger woman, always elabor- 
 ately but never vulgarly dressed. She wears a hand- 
 some house dress and no hat. She appears restless 
 and preoccupied all through her scene with mrs. 
 JARDINE. When MRS. GORRINGE closcs the door, 
 MRS. JARDINE wakcs with a start, blinks and looks up 
 without taking her feet down. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Oh ! Is that you, Mrs. Gorringe ? 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I hopc I haveii't disturbed you. 
 MRS. JARDINE. No. It must be about my waking-up 
 time. 
 
 3
 
 4 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. It's after five. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Then they'll be home soon. I thought 
 you had all gone to watch the polo. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Yes, but I left the ground early. 
 {Sits and gazes at the fireplace). 
 
 iMRS. JARDINE. How was the game going ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I dou't kuow. As soon as any one 
 explains to me how the score stands, they always go 
 and change the board. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Was any one hurt ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. That's a mercy. Every time they 
 play, I have visions of my husband being borne home 
 mangled on a shutter. I was so wrought up over the 
 idea this afternoon, it took me several minutes to drop 
 asleep. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Colonel Jardiuc was umpiring to-day. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Oh, ycs. Who played for our side ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Captain Mowbray, and Mr. What's- 
 his-name, and that Mr. Thingamy Avith the white eye- 
 lashes and some one else — I forget who. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Sounds like a very strong team. I 
 suppose Captain Mowbray carried all before him as usual. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (gazifig at the fireplace, and not 
 attending). Yes. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I'm glad Isabel was there to see his 
 triumph. I really believe he's been in love with her 
 ever since he first met her, when he came home a few 
 years ago. And now that he has made this enormous 
 fortune in South Africa, I see no obstacle to a marriage. 
 There used to be some goings-on between Isabel and 
 David Cairn, but I hope that's all bloAvn over. He has 
 no money, you see, so of course it's no good — {looks 
 towards mrs. gorringe and sees she is not attending). 
 I'm afraid I bore you. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {starts and turns to her). Oh, no, 
 indeed — you talk so interestingly about polo. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {surpriscd). Polo ? What's the matter, 
 dear ; aren't you well ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {ncrvously). I'm a little upset. In 
 fact — very much upset. I've lost something. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Oh ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs — a — a — diamond necklace.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 5 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {in constemation). A diamond neck- 
 lace ! 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. With a pearl clasp. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. But how How could it have 
 
 happened ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (Hses). I don't know. I can't 
 think. {Speaks volubly as she moves about describing 
 the scene.) I went to my room when I came in. You 
 know how the dressing-table stands — as if it were there. 
 {Points to a table.) And the door of course is like this. 
 {Indicates the door, goes towards it, opens it, goes just 
 outside and then comes in again.) Well, I came in at 
 the door just as I'm coming in now. Of course I had 
 my hat on. I closed the door. {Closes the door and 
 walks towards the imaginary dressing-table, talking all 
 the time.) Then I crossed over to the dressing-table in 
 quite an ordinary manner. Just as I'm doing now. 
 {Stands before the imaginary dressing-table.) Well, I 
 looked into my jewel-case. I wanted to get some rings. 
 These rings, in fact. {Bends her hand to show her rings.) 
 I thought it looked different from usual. I couldn't 
 think what it was at first, but I remember saying to 
 myself, " Well, that's funny ! " Then all at once it 
 flashed across me and I clasped my hands and exclaimed 
 {clasps her hands dramatically), " Great heavens, my 
 diamond necklace has gone ! " {Drops the dramatic 
 pose and tone.) Just like that. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. What a terrible situation for me. To 
 think it should be lost in my house. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. My uccklace. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. It must bc ouc of the servants. We 
 haven't had Pipkin long, and she's always looking out 
 of the window. I shouldn't wonder if she stole it. (mrs. 
 jardine's attention is attracted to the window as Isabel, 
 VICKY and miss potts pass without, dressed in their out- 
 door clothes. ISABEL is a handsome, independent girl of 
 twenty-five ; vicky a giddy creature of fifteen with a plait 
 coming undone; miss potts an unimportant spinster.) 
 Here are the girls. Don't say a word about it. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No. It's better not. I told my 
 maid to stay in my room and guard the rest of my jewels. 
 {Sits, gazing in front of her, and sighs.) 
 
 (ISABEL enters, followed by vicky and miss potts.)
 
 6 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 ISABEL (coming forward as she speaks). We've 
 brought Miss Potts to tea. {Rings the bell beside the 
 fireplace.) 
 
 MRS. JARDiNE {shaking hands with miss potts). Did 
 you enjoy the polo ? 
 
 miss potts. Oh, exceedingly. 
 
 ISABEL. We won. Four to three. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Hurrah ! 
 
 (MRS. JARDINE and MISS POTTS Sit on the sofa con- 
 versing together.) 
 
 VICKY. And we had such fun coming home. We all 
 squashed into the cart and sat on each other's laps. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {remonstrating). Oh, Vicky, dear. 
 
 VICKY. Not Isabel. {With meaning.) David wasn't 
 there. 
 
 ISABEL. Vicky, don't you think you'd better go and 
 do your hair ? It looks as if you'd been sweeping the 
 field with it. 
 
 VICKY. Will you do it, Mrs. Gorringe ? 
 
 {Produces a ribbon from her pocket and gives it to 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE aS shc Spcaks. MRS. GORRINGE 
 
 starts from a reverie zvhen addressed, vicky 
 kneels beside mrs. gorringe 's chair while she 
 plaits her hair and whispers to her.) 
 miss POTTS and vicky {together). Oh ! Lor ! 
 
 {They both turn to Isabel.) 
 MISS potts and vicky {together). Isabel, Mrs. Gor- 
 ringe has lost her diamond necklace. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE, MRS. GORRINGE and ISABEL {sharply 
 
 together). Sh ! 
 
 {They say " Sh ! " because charles, a young 
 footman, enters with a tea-tray. As they say 
 
 " Sh ! " MRS. JARDINE ScizCS MISS POTTS SO 
 
 suddenly by the arm that she utters a little scream, 
 while MRS. GORRINGE pulls VICKY back by her 
 plait. They remain silent, watching charles 
 as he arranges the tea-table. As soon as 
 CHARLES goes out they all begin talking at once 
 until CHARLES returns with a teapot, which he 
 places upon the table. There is dead silence 
 from the moment charles enters until he goes 
 out again, closing the door after him. Then 
 ISABEL speaks.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 7 
 
 ISABEL. Your diamond necklace ? 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. With the pearl clasp. 
 
 ISABEL. How very dreadful. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Wc aren't saying anything about it at 
 present. 
 
 ISABEL. How very silly. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Is it ? I dou't kuow what we really 
 ought to do ; you see, I never lost anything of any value 
 before I came to stay with you. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. And we never lost anything at all 
 before you came to stay with us. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. If Pipkin really stole it— — 
 
 ISABEL {interrupting mrs. gorringe). Who says Pip- 
 kin stole it ? 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE looks Ol MRS. JARDINE.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I Only Said she might have done. 
 You know she is always looking out of the windows, 
 and she lived with a French family before she came 
 to us. 
 
 VICKY [giggling). Oh, isn't that just like mother ? 
 
 ISABEL {pausing as she makes the tea to say thought- 
 fully). That's rather queer. {They look towards Isabel.) 
 Do you remember that story Captain Mowbray told at 
 luncheon yesterday about a man who stole a woman's 
 bracelet and had it copied in paste ? 
 
 VICKY. Oh, yes, and she never knew the difference. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. He livcd on the bracelet for years. 
 
 MISS POTTS. The villain ! 
 
 VICKY. And she'd never have found out, only he con- 
 fessed on his death-bed. 
 
 MISS POTTS. How very singular. 
 
 ISABEL. Whenever he wanted money he took a 
 diamond from the setting and sold it. 
 
 VICKY. How he must have hurt his nails. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Don't be silly. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {plaintively). But what's all that got 
 to do with my necklace ? 
 
 ISABEL. One can't help recalling it now because, you 
 know, you said you hoped nothing like that would 
 happen to you, and that you always leave your jewel- 
 cases lying about on your dressing-table. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Ycs, I remember thinking at the time 
 how foolish it was of Mrs. Gorringe to say that.
 
 8 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I thought I was quite safe to say it 
 here. Let me see. Who was at luncheon yesterday ? 
 
 ISABEL. We were all there. 
 
 MISS POTTS (emphatically). I wasn't. I assure you this 
 is all news to me. 
 
 VICKY (giggling). Poor Potty, she thinks we suspect 
 her. 
 
 ISABEL (seriously to vicky). This isn't a joke. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No. 
 
 ISABEL. I mean all the family and the people staying 
 here, Mrs. Gorringe, Captain Mowbray and David. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (with sudden excitement). And Pipkin 
 was waiting at table. 
 
 ISABEL. No, mother, Charles was. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. The Same thing. He's probably in 
 love with her — she has quite a tolerable figure. And I 
 bet you anything you like he went straight from the table 
 and told her. 
 
 ISABEL. You've no right to accuse the servants in that 
 general way. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Well — what else would you do ? 
 
 ISABEL. Send for a detective. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Of coursc. (Rising and going eagerly 
 towards isabel.) And I'll run down to the Post Office and 
 give them a description of my necklace. 
 
 ISABEL. Why the Post Office ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I thought that was the kind of place 
 one would go to in a case of this sort. 
 
 (colonel JARDINE is heard talking and laughing 
 boisterously without.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. By Jovc, Mowbray, I never saw 
 you in better form. Ha — Ha — Ha ! 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Your father ! All sit down and pre- 
 tend nothing has happened. 
 
 (They all sit down with the exception of mrs. 
 
 GORRINGE.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. If wc prctcud nothing has happened 
 I shall never get my necklace back. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Hush ! 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE sits down reluctantly.) 
 MISS POTTS. I think I should tell Colonel Jardine. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. YcS. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Not till after dinner. That's the
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 9 
 
 best time to tell him things. His temper's so un- 
 certain. 
 
 (colonel jardine is again heard laughing without.) 
 
 VICKY. He sounds in a good temper now. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. His good tempers are more trying to 
 put up with than his bad ones. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE (without, laugMng boisterously as he 
 speaks). By Jove, yes ! Hottest finish I ever saw. 
 
 (colonel JARDINE euters explosively. He is a 
 rubicund, excitable, middle - aged man. He 
 wears plain riding clothes. When he speaks, 
 MRS. JARDINE lays her cup on her lap, closes her 
 eyes and contracts her face as if in intense 
 suffering. ) 
 
 colonel JARDINE (rubbing his hands together). Well, 
 well, well. We beat 'em — four to three. Close score, 
 eh, girls ? {Claps his hands together and laughs, pokes 
 MRS. JARDINE iu the back.) D'you hear that, mother — 
 four to three ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {bows her head, her eyes still closed as if 
 suffering). I hear. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {shaking hands with miss potts). 
 How d'you do. Miss Potts ? You saw the game. As 
 I was just saying to Mowbray, " Hottest finish I ever 
 saw." 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {as bcforc). We heard you. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Mowbray saved the day. We 
 put him on the last minute, when David didn't turn up. 
 Shot three goals himself. I believe he would have shot 
 another, but just then the bell went {imitating gong), 
 " Wang-wang-wang-wang-wang ! " 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {putting her fingers in her ears, exclaims 
 loudly). Christopher ! Please confine yourself to speech 
 and laughter. 
 
 ISABEL. Tea, father ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Tca, tea, tea ? Yes. Give us 
 some tea. {Turning to the tea-table, he faces mrs. gor- 
 RiNGE.) Why, Mrs. Gorringe, what's the matter ? You 
 look as doleful as I don't know what. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. So WOuld yOU. {To ISABEL.) I'll 
 
 go and put on my hat and wait for you in the hall. 
 ISABEL. All right. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {tO MRS. GORRINGE, ttS shc gOCS tOWttrds
 
 10 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 the door). Are you going to send the h'm h'm about the 
 h'm li'm ? 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. H'm h'm. 
 
 COLONEL JARDiNE. What's h'm h'm and h'm h'm ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Something you don't know about. 
 Don't tell him, girls. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. I iusist on knowing. I won't 
 have this talking in hieroglyphics before me. 
 
 ISABEL. He'll have to be told soon. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Told, told what ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE, MISS POTTS, ISABEL and VICKY (together). 
 Mrs. Gorringe has lost her diamond necklace. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [speaking with the others). I've lost my 
 diamond necklace. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {undbU to hear a word). What ! 
 Don't all shout at me like that. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. My diamond necklace — 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Well — wcU. What about it ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. It's lost. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE (excitedly). The devil it is. By 
 Jove ! Something must be done. 
 
 ISABEL (comes to COLONEL JARDINE, lays her hand on 
 his arm and says quietly). We are going to wire to Scot- 
 land Yard. (To mrs. gorringe.) We might write the 
 telegram here. 
 
 (Takes a sheet of paper from the jjaper-rack and a 
 pencil from the pen-tray and lays them on the 
 writing-table, mrs. gorringe sits down and 
 writes, miss potts rises and takes leave of 
 
 MRS. JARDINE.) 
 
 VICKY. Going, Pott}^ ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (sharply). Vicky, don't be impertinent. 
 
 VICKY. I'll go with you. 
 
 ISABEL. Now, Vicky and everybody, please don't tell 
 any one we are going to have a detective in the house. 
 The servants aren't to know who he is. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Especially Pipkin. 
 
 VICKY. All right. Come on. Potty. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Vicky ! 
 
 (vicKY arid miss potts go out.) 
 
 ISABEL. Is your telegram ready, Mrs. Gorringe ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. How will this do ? (Looks round at 
 the others before she begins to read gravely, in a clear, high
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 11 
 
 voice.) " Lost, a beautiful diamond necklace. Five 
 large drops in front. One pearl clasp behind," (isabel 
 goes into a fit of laughter and turns away. mrs. gorringe 
 looks at her in surprise.) What's the matter with it ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE (fussHy). You don't need so many 
 words. See. Let me cross some of them out. {He 
 signs to MRS. GORRINGE to get out of her chair and let him 
 sit there. She rises and stands beside him, watching him 
 as he hastily crosses out words.) Say, " Lost, beautiful 
 diamond necklace ! " You don't need to say " a " 
 beautiful diamond necklace. Never use the articles 
 " a," " an " and " the " in a telegram. You don't even 
 need " beautiful " or " diamond." {Crossing out words.) 
 Just say, " Lost necklace." 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. But they might think it was nothing 
 but a string of imitation pearls, and that wouldn't be 
 worth sending a detective for. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Well, leavc " diamond " in if you 
 like. {Puzzling over paper.) What's the next ? I can't 
 read your writing. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {bcnds ovcr him). " Five large drops 
 in front." 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. You Can savc three words there. 
 Just say " Drops front " and {pouncing on words 
 with his pencil and crossing them out) " Clasp behind." 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {wotching them with contempt from her 
 chair). If they know anything at all at Scotland Yard 
 they'll know the clasp wouldn't be in front and the drops 
 behind. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Yes, that's true. We can save 
 two more words. {Crossing out words.) Just say — 
 " Drops — clasp." 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. That's not sense. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No. That's what / think. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {getting confuscd between them). 
 Well, just say " Drops front, clasp hind." 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {snapping him up). Hind ! Hind isn't 
 a word. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {getting angry). You're getting me 
 so mixed up I don't know what I'm doing. {Puzzles 
 over the telegram.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Well, scud them something they can 
 understand. I'm sure I shouldn't know what to make
 
 12 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 of it if I received a telegram that said " Drops front — 
 clasp hind." I should suppose Front and Hind were 
 two men, shouldn't you, Mrs. Gorringe ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. YcS, I should. 
 
 COLONEL JARDiNE (angrily). Oh, well, if you think 
 you can do it better yourself. {Rises, throws his pencil 
 on the table, muttering as he goes towards the door.) What's 
 the good of trying to be business-like with a pack of 
 women ? (colonel jardine goes out fuming.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {nearly crying as she looks at the 
 ruins of her telegram). Oh, isn't it too bad ? And the 
 thief may be bargaining with the pa^^^lbroker at 
 this very moment, and here's my telegram worse than 
 not begun. 
 
 (ISABEL takes the pencil, turns the paper over, 
 scribbles a few words and then gives the paper 
 
 to MRS. GORRINGE.) 
 
 ISABEL. Let US go and send that. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {reading the paper). But you've said 
 nothing about my necklace. 
 
 ISABEL. It's so unnecessary. 
 
 (captain MOWBRAY enter s. He is a strong, self- 
 reliant man, about forty-five, grizzled and tanned 
 with hard out-door life.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {oll smilcs). Oh. Hcrc's Captain 
 Mowbray. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Captain Mowbray ! Isabel shall give 
 you tea before she goes and sends the — {to isabel) you 
 know what. 
 
 MOWBRAY {smiling at Isabel). Yes, do stay and give 
 me tea before you go and send the — you know what, 
 / don't. 
 
 ISABEL {regretfully). I'm sorry, but it's very urgent. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I'm sorry. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. But stiU, there is no need for us both 
 to go, is there, Isabel ? 
 
 ISABEL {intending to stay, and offering the telegram to 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE). No. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {swcctly, to mowbray). So Fll Stay 
 and give you your tea. 
 
 {Seats herself at the tea-table and begins to make 
 CAPTAIN mowbray's tea. ISABEL looks annoyed 
 a moment, then goes out with the telegram.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 13 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I feel SO relieved now my telegram 
 has nearly started. 
 
 MRS. JARDiNE. You'd better be careful, Mrs. Gorringe, 
 or you'll let the cat out of the bag. 
 
 (MRS. JARDINE gOeS OUt.) 
 
 MOWBRAY {sitting at the tea-table with mrs. gorringe). 
 Have you got a secret, Mrs. Gorringe ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs. Docs that make me very inter- 
 esting ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Not unless you tell it. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {pretending to be annoyed). Oh. How 
 ungallant you are. 
 
 MOWBRAY. To suggest you don't need a secret to 
 make you interesting ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {smiUng with pleasure at the compli- 
 ment). Now, Captain Mowbray, I believe you're making 
 fun of me. It's very naughty of you. {Giving him his 
 tea.) There ! {Archly.) You don't deserve it. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Aren't you going to give me something 
 with it ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {smilcs and drops her eyes). How 
 dare you ! 
 
 MOWBRAY. I mean to eat. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {sUghtly confuscd at her mistake). 
 Oh. {Offers him cake and bread-and-butter with both 
 hands.) Cake or bread-and-butter ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Cake, please. {Puts out his hand to take 
 a piece of cake.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {playfully snatching the cake plate 
 away and offering him only the bread - and - butter). No, 
 you must have bread-and-butter. Good little boys 
 always begin their tea with a piece of bread-and-butter. 
 
 MOWBRAY {taking bread-and-butter). I'm so hungry, 
 I'll take what I can get. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {relenting, offers him the cake and says in 
 baby language). Poo' ickle sing. Then it s'all have its 
 cake. {Lays down the plates.) Now, I'm not going to 
 let you talk any more nonsense. {Turns seriously to 
 him.) Tell me all about yourself. 
 
 MOWBRAY. All ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Yes. Begin at the beginning. 
 MOWBRAY. Well — in the first place — I was born — 
 shall we say — forty-two years ago ?
 
 14 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 !siRS. GORRiNGE. Oh. Just Mr. Gomngc's age. Go on. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Do you Want the poor but honest parents ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {coquetHskly) . Now, you're making 
 fun again. I shall get up and go out of the room if you 
 aren't sensible. {Seriously.) I want to hear about 
 your travels and experiences. It seems to me as if 
 your life must have been quite a panorama of romances 
 and adventures. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I suppose I havc knocked about a good 
 bit. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I judged SO from things I've heard 
 you drop at meals. 
 
 MOWBRAY {protesting humorously). I never drop 
 things at meals. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {playfully threatening to slap him). 
 Oh, now, I mean remarks, siUy. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {resting her cheek on her hand, and 
 looking at him with serious interest). You know, I could 
 picture you in a storm at sea — standing dauntlessly on 
 the poop — or single-handed cutting your way through 
 an army of Dervishes with the colours, or rescuing a 
 Spanish girl or — ^things of that sort. 
 
 MOWBRAY {amused). You'll make me feel quite a 
 hero if you go on. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {making eyes at him). I think you 
 are a hero. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh, dear no. I've always been a most 
 ordinary person. I went into the Army because my 
 father did. I left because it cost too much. I went to 
 South Africa because I couldn't think of anywhere else 
 to go. I made a fortune because I had good luck. You 
 can't make a hero out of that. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. When the war broke out you offered 
 to lay do^\^l your life for your country. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh, well — you see I happened to be on 
 the spot and I knew the country and that sort of thing, 
 so I wrote to the War Office and asked them if they 
 wanted me, 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs. Well, now tell me about the 
 women. 
 
 MOWBRAY {surprised at her abrupt change). What 
 women ?
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 15 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. Which do you hke the best — foreigners 
 or us ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. I hke women individually — not geo- 
 graphically. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Of course, but I never can see how 
 an Englishman could bring himself to fall in love with a 
 brown woman. 
 
 MOWBRAY. If we're talking of love — (Pauses.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {seiziug her chance). Now I suppose 
 you are going to tell me you are in love. 
 
 MOWBRAY {seriously). Have you noticed it ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {archly). With some one you met in 
 this house, no doubt. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You havc noticed it. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {smilmg coyly). Wretch. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Has she ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Don't bc absurd. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Do tell me. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I shan't. {Enter colonel and mrs. 
 JARDINE. MRS. GORRINGE is visibly annoycd with this 
 interruption and says under her breath.) Bother ! 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Still here, Mrs. Gorringe ? We are 
 going to take a turn in the garden before we dress for 
 dinner. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. That wHl be nice. {Rises and goes 
 to MRS. JARDINE.) Captain Mowbray has been telling 
 me such interesting stories— all about his life in South 
 Africa. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Mrs. Gorringe was trying to make me out 
 a hero, so I had to confess I'm really only an adventurer. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {laughing). Come, come, come ! 
 That's a pretty name to call yourself. 
 
 (colonel JARDINE and CAPTAIN MOWBRAY COn- 
 
 verse together.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {glanccs at CAPTAIN MOWBRAY, then 
 drops her voice to speak to mrs. gorringe). Did he say 
 anything about his passion ? 
 
 MRS. gorringe {coyly.) How did you guess ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. From the way he looked at her when 
 she went out. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {pUZZlcd). Who ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Surcly you noticed. He's over head 
 and ears in love with Isabel.
 
 16 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. Oh, iiidccd. If you think that I'm 
 afraid you'll find yourself very much mistaken. 
 
 [MRS. GORRINGE gOeS OUt. 
 
 MOWBRAY {calling off from the open window). David ! 
 We're in here ! 
 
 ( DAVID CAIRN enters. He is a handsome young 
 officer about twenty-seven. His demeanour is 
 depressed, though he tries to conceal this under 
 an off-hand manner.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDiNE (fussHy). Oh, David, why didn't 
 you turn up for polo ? 
 
 DAVID. I missed my train. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. You ought to have wired. 
 
 DAVID. Yes. I didn't think of it. And I knew 
 {indicating Mowbray) Frank would play if I didn't turn 
 up. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. That doesn't excuse you. 
 
 MOWBRAY {good-naturedly). Let him off this time, 
 Colonel. I suppose he has a lot of things to attend to 
 before he sails. 
 
 DAVID. Yes, and we never know what day we may 
 get our marching orders. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. I know. I know. But when you 
 went to London yesterday you said you'd come back 
 to-day by the two o'clock train. 
 
 DAVID. I told you I missed it. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Havc you just come now by the 
 five o'clock ? 
 
 DAVID. Yes. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I Tcally don't think it's of so much 
 importance how many trains he missed. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. But Still he ought to havc wired. 
 It doesn't take long to write a telegram — if you don't 
 have a lot of women buzzing round you. 
 
 (colonel and mrs. jardine go out into the garden. 
 DAVID sits at the tea-table and helps himself to 
 tea during the following scene.) 
 
 DAVID. I say, who was that girl watching the polo 
 with Isabel and Vicky ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. A Miss Potts. Why ? 
 
 DAVID. Oh. I thought it looked like some one else. 
 
 MOWBRAY {puzzled). Looked ? How did you see her ? 
 I thought you'd only just come from the station.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 17 
 
 DAVID {confused). Yes, but I saw them for a minute — 
 from a distance — on my way up. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I don't see how you could possibly have 
 seen them from anywhere between the station and the 
 house. You can only just see the polo ground from the 
 upstairs windows. 
 
 DAVID. I was in my room for a minute — just now. 
 That's how I saw them. 
 
 MOWBRAY. But we'd finished playing more than half 
 an hour before your train came in. You said you'd come 
 by the five o'clock. 
 
 DAVID. Yes, but — I made a mistake. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I do wish you'd learn to be straightforward. 
 
 {He emphasises this remark by clapping david on 
 
 the shoulder, david, in his nervousness, lifting 
 
 his cup to his lips, spills some tea on his knee.) 
 
 DAVID. Damn it, I've spilt my tea — I haven't a hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 {Feels for a handkerchief, and finds he hasnt one. 
 MOWBRAY hands him his. david scrubs his 
 knee with it as mowbray speaks.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. You ucvcr seem to think it matters if you 
 fib or not, if it saves you the trouble of a little explanation. 
 Really, old man, it won't do. There, I'm not going to 
 preach to you again. 
 
 (CHARLES, the footman, enters to clear away the tea 
 things. MOWBRAY lights a cigarette.) 
 
 DAVID {to CHARLES). All right, I'vc finished. {Look- 
 ing at the handkerchief as he goes towards mowbray.) 
 I've made rather a mess of it. I'll put it in my wash. 
 {Puts handkerchief in his pocket. He has no ulterior 
 motive in doing this, charles goes out, having cleared 
 away the tea things.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. David, I need a confidant. 
 
 DAVID. Well. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Now look interested. 
 
 DAVID. I am — awfully interested. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You scc, I'vc finished fighting and knock- 
 ing about, and I've made my pile, and I think it's getting 
 about time I settled down. 
 
 DAVID. And married ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Bright Boy. 
 
 DAVID. Who ? 
 
 VOL. I C
 
 18 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MOWBRAY. You're not as bright as Mrs. Gorringe. 
 She said she'd noticed it at once. And I thought I'd 
 displayed such wonderful reserve. We always do, you 
 know. 
 
 DAVID. I've noticed that you seem rather fond of 
 being with — a certain person. 
 
 MOWBRAY. A certain Miss ? 
 
 DAVID. Isabel. 
 
 MOWBRAY (smiling). Isabel ! I wonder how soon I 
 shall call her Isabel. I really think she rather likes me, 
 don't you ? 
 
 DAVID. I know she likes you very much, but I don't 
 know that it's anything more. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Well, my dear fellow, I don't see how you 
 should know. It's what Fve got to find out. 
 
 DAVID. I wouldn't say anything yet. 
 
 MOWBRAY (a little surprised and amused). Why not ? 
 
 DAVID. Because — I wouldn't. 
 
 MOWBRAY. But I feel in great form for saying some- 
 thing now, — since Mrs. Gorringe made me out such a 
 hero. And if you've noticed, and Mrs. Gorringe has 
 noticed, she must have noticed herself. {Sees isabel 
 from the window.) By Jove, there she is ! 
 
 DAVID (uneasily). But, Frank, I really don't think 
 this is a good moment. 
 
 MOW BRAY. Rubbish, David ; it's an ideal moment. 
 Getting dusk ; everybody out of the way till dinner — 
 except you, — can't you get out of the way till dinner- 
 time ? 
 
 (ISABEL enters.) 
 
 ISABEL. David ! Do you mind ordering the cart to 
 meet the seven twenty-five ? The new groom is so 
 stupid, he never gets a message right, or I wouldn't ask 
 you to do it. 
 
 DAVID. That's all right. (He hesitates.) 
 
 ISABEL. Now, please, or he'll have gone home. 
 
 (david looks at mow^bray, then at Isabel, and goes 
 out rather reluctantly. Isabel watches him till 
 he is out of sight.) 
 
 ISABEL. Is anything the matter with David ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Not that I know of. 
 
 ISABEL. I want to talk to you about him. 
 
 (Sits on the sofa.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 19 
 
 MOWBRAY. I want to talk to you about myself. {Sits 
 near her.) 
 
 ISABEL. Afterwards. {Throughout the following scene 
 her manner is nothing more than friendly. She does not 
 think MOWBRAY is in love with her. His tenderness and 
 earnestness do not make the impression on her that they 
 might at another time, as she is now absorbed in thoughts of 
 DAVID.) I shouldn't say what I'm going to, only I trust 
 you more than any man I know. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You've made me feel prouder than I ever 
 felt before. 
 
 ISABEL. I'm glad you're so fond of — David. {He 
 betrays disappointment when she names david.) I've 
 often wondered why it is. You are so different. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Are we ? 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, yes — in everything. The way you play 
 polo, for instance. You are so terribly in earnest. I 
 was watching you this afternoon. Your whole life 
 seemed to depend on winning the game. And when 
 David plays, I can't help seeing that he always knows 
 what a good picture he makes, (mowbray laughs. 
 Smiles at him.) He does look very nice, doesn't he ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. I rather like his little vanities. He 
 wouldn't be so — so David without them. 
 
 ISABEL. He is forgiven many things just because he 
 is David. 
 
 MOWBRAY. A charming personality covers a multitude 
 of sins. 
 
 ISABEL. Every one likes David, but What do 
 
 you think of him ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. I never think what I think of people I like. 
 
 ISABEL. Do you think I oughtn't to have asked you ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh, no. Because I know you like him too. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. But a girl can know so very little 
 about a man's real life. You see David as one man of 
 the world sees another ; that's why I ask you what you 
 think of him. 
 
 MOWBRAY. When I first met David — I thought him 
 a charming fellow with a weak character. Now — several 
 years later — I think precisely the same thing. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. I know, he isn't bad — but, oh, so weak. 
 
 MOWBRAY. But not SO youiig. 
 
 ISABEL. No,
 
 20 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MOWBRAY. And if a man doesn't check the weak- 
 nesses tliat are part of his youth, they become part of 
 his character. 
 
 ISABEL. I'm afraid that's true. 
 
 MOWBRAY. He is one of those people who are so 
 absorbed in the present that they learn nothing from the 
 past and prepare nothing for the future. Of course, he 
 is always resolving to spend his time more profitably, — 
 but somehow he never does, — and he mistakes these good 
 resolutions for practical virtues. Whenever he yields to 
 temptation he promptly suffers remorse. He considers 
 remorse is a virtue and sufficient penalty for his sin. 
 Then instead of principles he has a few nice, gentlemanly 
 instincts — and these I think constitute his whole chance 
 of scraping through life respectably. He has no con- 
 ception that characters are built and don't grow. It's 
 pitiful, isn't it ? I know so many men like him — wasters 
 and drifters — and the very best company in the world. 
 
 ISABEL. They need some one strong to guide them. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Unless it's in the wrong direction — and 
 then, — any one will do. 
 
 ISABEL. I had to ask you, I must know. And there 
 is no one else in the world I can ask. [Pauses before she 
 says, simply.) We have been engaged for three years. 
 
 MOWBRAY {concealing his disappointment with diffi- 
 culty). Oh, I didn't know. I shouldn't have said that 
 if I'd known. 
 
 ISABEL. I'm grateful to you. You have only put 
 into words what I couldn't help feeling was true. I 
 think if we could be married soon I might help him to 
 be the man I used to hope he would be of himself. But 
 I don't see how we can be. David has nothing but his 
 pay. I have a home here, but that's all. IMother and 
 I lived almost on charity after my father died, till mother 
 married Colonel Jardine — so I have no money of my own. 
 That's why we have had to keep our engagement secret. 
 When David asked to be engaged to me three years ago, 
 the}^ wouldn't hear of it. They think it is all over 
 between us now. But it's far from all over. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Do you still love him ? 
 
 ISABEL {earnestly). Yes, yes. I do love him. But 
 love like mine is such tyranny that sometimes I have 
 almost prayed to escape from it.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 21 
 
 MOWBRAY {tenderly). Poor child. I know you are 
 brave and self-reliant. {Trying to force a lighter tone 
 through his emotion.) You are the general of this house- 
 hold. Any one can see that. {His emotion getting the 
 better of him.) But it is hard to always have to brace 
 yourself to be a prop to the weak. I know you must 
 often grow weary, and long to lean on some one strong. 
 
 ISABEL {half -sobbing). Don't — don't say that. {Try- 
 ing to smile through her tears.) I have to go on — being 
 the prop. 
 
 MOWBRAY. If we could bear one another's burdens, 
 but we can't carry them far. We all live our inmost 
 lives alone. {Enter david.) Ah, David, — finished your 
 stroll ? I'll go and take mine. 
 
 (captain MOWBRAY ^0^5 OUt.) 
 
 DAVID {with a genuinely generous impulse). Isabel, 
 I'll go away. I'll set you free if you like. 
 
 ISABEL {taken aback). David. 
 
 DAVID. Am I standing between you and him ? 
 
 ISABEL. How can you say that ? Captain Mowbray 
 and I have never been anything more than friends. 
 
 DAVID. I thought {Takes her by the arm and turns 
 
 her towards him, looking in her face.) What has he been 
 saying to you ? 
 
 ISABEL {simply). We were talking of you. I told him 
 of our engagement. 
 
 DAVID. I thought you were beginning to care for him 
 
 more than you used, and {Hesitates, drops his hold 
 
 of her and turns away.) I'm so unhappy. {He sits down 
 and buries his face in his hands. She stands looking at 
 him with mournful resignation, waiting for him to con- 
 tinue.) You don't know what I've been through this 
 last week. I felt as if I should go mad, I was so angry 
 and jealous — seeing how you seemed to care for him, 
 and how he cared for you and knowing how unworthy 
 I am. I thought you were slipping away from me. The 
 other day I thought I'd make one last effort to keep you 
 — so I went and got that. {He takes a marriage licence 
 from his pocket and shows it to her. She peruses it before 
 she speaks.) 
 
 ISABEL. You went to the Registry Office and got a 
 licence ? 
 
 DAVID. I realised what a mad thing it was to do as
 
 22 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 soon as I saw you. You were talking to him. I daren't 
 show it to you, so I went away. That was yesterday. 
 When I left here I fully determined never to come back. 
 I made up my mind to write and tell you you were free 
 and that I'd gone away for ever. 
 
 ISABEL {calmly ; returning the licence to him). Why 
 did you come back ? 
 
 DAVID. W^hen I got to London I took all my money 
 out of the Bank. You know it isn't much, but I thought 
 it would be enough to get me abroad somewhere. I 
 wanted to get out of it all. I was desperate ; then, all 
 at once, I thought I'd give my luck one last chance. I 
 went to a place I know and gambled. I thought perhaps 
 I'd win — win a lot, so that I could come back and ask 
 you to marry me at once. {Despondently.) Of course I 
 lost everything. {Bitterly.) That's why I came back. 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, David — and you promised me you 
 wouldn't gamble again. 
 
 DAVID. Do you want me to set you free ? I will, if 
 you want. 
 
 ISABEL. I've been thinking it might be A\dser. {He 
 turns away.) Suppose we do set each other free. What 
 will become of you ? 
 
 DAVID. It wouldn't matter much what became of me 
 then. 
 
 ISABEL. It would matter a great deal to me. Oh, 
 David, I've been very loyal to you these three years, 
 but when you disappoint me so and break your promises 
 — you make it very hard for me. You seem to have 
 no ambition and no sense of responsibility. You show 
 so little moral force in every way that I really can't see 
 what makes you stop short of crime. 
 
 DAVID. I've tried to keep straight for your sake. 
 
 ISABEL. But I want you to do right because it is 
 right. 
 
 DAVID. That's the way Frank talks to me. He's 
 strong — so are you. You both have a lot of what you 
 call moral force. That's why you can't understand 
 us who have hardly any. Frank was born to rise. He 
 can do it alone. But I'm what the woman I love makes 
 me. 
 
 ISABEL. You make me so afraid. 
 
 DAVID. I suppose I'm not worth saving. It's wasting
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 23 
 
 your good life to try and make something of mine. You'd 
 better give me up. 
 
 ISABEL. How can I ? Suppose you loved a bad 
 woman ? 
 
 DAVID. Well ? 
 
 ISABEL. How could I bear to see you dragged down 
 by a bad woman, knowing that I might have saved you ? 
 {Goes to him with sudden impulse, kneels beside him and 
 puts her arms about him.) David! David! You must 
 try — try hard — for my sake. 
 
 DAVID {holds her in his arms, speaks brokenly). Don't 
 let me go. It's only you can save me. I'll try to be 
 different. I can't do it alone. But I'll try to be what 
 you want me to be ; I'll begin again — where we began 
 three years ago. You trusted me then. I'll try to 
 make you proud of me again. 
 
 ISABEL {half-crying, as she leans against him). I was 
 so proud of you then. You will try, dear — won't you ? 
 Oh, you will try. {He takes her in his arms and kisses 
 her. Then she rises, still holding his hand.) It will be 
 hard work, David. We shall need all our courage. 
 
 {Vicky enters with an open telegram in her hand.) 
 
 VICKY. Isabel, (isabel goes towards her. david re- 
 mains seated and doesn't hear what they say.) Here is a 
 telegram from the detective. He'll be here on the seven 
 twenty-five. 
 
 ISABEL {reading the telegram). Oh, then I'll go down 
 and meet him. I can tell him all about it on the 
 way up. 
 
 VICKY. Well, you'd better hurry up or you'll be late 
 for dinner. Mother and Mrs. Gorringe have gone up to 
 dress already. 
 
 ( VICKY goes out.) 
 
 ISABEL. David, (david looks towards her.) I have 
 to go and meet the seven twenty-five. Will you drive 
 me to the station ? 
 
 DAVID {smiles). Yes. 
 
 ISABEL. Wait here while I put my things on. 
 
 (ISABEL goes out. It is now dusk, david takes 
 the diamond necklace from an inner pocket and 
 looks at it, his face expressing mental agony. 
 He closes his hand over it.) 
 
 DAVID {praying earnestly). Lord, I repent. Help
 
 24 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 me to restore it. Help me, dear Lord. Don't bring 
 disgrace upon me now. 
 
 ISABEL {calls without). David ! {He starts violently, 
 taking his handkerchief from his pocket, and wrapping 
 it round the necklace.) David ! {He looks about dis- 
 tracted, rising with his hand resting on the pedestal for 
 support as Isabel enters. She wears her hat and jacket 
 and turns on the electric light as she enters.) I'm ready. 
 {He hesitates, his hand still resting on the pedestal, which 
 is hidden from her by his body.) Aren't you coming ? 
 {He still hesitates. She betrays a little disappointment 
 as she says.) I thought you'd Hke to come with me. 
 
 DAVID. {He drops the handkerchief and the necklace in 
 the bowl, then goes to her.) Yes. 
 
 ISABEL {affectionately). Let it be hke the old times, 
 David. Shall it ? 
 
 DAVID {with a breaking voice). Yes, dear. It shall 
 be, — like the old times. 
 
 {They go out together.) 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE SECOND ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The same as Act I. It is the evening of the same 
 day. 
 
 Enter Isabel, david cairn and jernigan, a detective in 
 plain clothes. He is a tall, grave man, approaching 
 middle-age. His manner is always formal and pro- 
 fessional. He is never amused by anything the other 
 characters do or say. Isabel and david are dressed 
 as at end of Act I. All the characters who enter later 
 wear dinner dress. 
 
 ISABEL {entering). I suppose they are at dinner. {To 
 JERNIGAN.) Colonel Jardine will see you here when 
 he has finished. Have you dined yourself ? 
 
 JERNIGAN. Yes, thank you. 
 
 ISABEL. You might like to go to your room now. 
 {She rings the bell beside the fireplace, then comes to jerni- 
 gan, speaking so that david, who is standing at a little 
 distance, does not hear her.) Of course, none of the 
 servants know that you are a detective. I thought it 
 better not to tell them. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Certainly. 
 
 (CHARLES, the footman, enters.) 
 
 ISABEL. Show Mr. Jernigan his room, and see that 
 he has everything he wants. 
 
 CHARLES. Yes, Miss. {Holds the door open for jerni- 
 gan.) 
 
 (jernigan goes out.) 
 
 ISABEL. Charles, are they still at dinner ? 
 
 CHARLES. They've almost done, Miss. 
 
 ISABEL. Mr. Cairn and I will dine when they have 
 finished, 
 
 CHARLES. Yes, Miss. 
 
 (CHARLES goes out and closes the door after him.) 
 
 25
 
 26 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 DAVID {glances at the bowl and says to himself.) Now. 
 If I could get it back while they are all at dinner ! 
 
 ISABEL. What are you saying, David ? 
 
 DAVID {turns to her). Nothing. 
 
 ISABEL {comes to him). Don't be too down-hearted, 
 dear. I feel sure you are going to conquer, and I'm 
 going to help you. And it isn't as if you'd done some- 
 thing really bad. Now, I'd better go and dress for 
 dinner — so had you. 
 
 DAVID. Yes, I'll go directly. I shan't take as long 
 as you. 
 
 (MRS. JARDINE CntcrS.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. What's made you so late, Isabel ? 
 We've finished dinner. 
 
 ISABEL. The train was late. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I woudcr they don't make the railway 
 guides an hour later, then one would know what time to 
 expect the trains. Did you bring the detective ? 
 
 {David is startled at the mention of a detective, hut 
 conceals his dismay from the others.) 
 
 ISABEL {to DAVID). I didn't tell you Mr. Jernigan was 
 a detective. 
 
 DAVID. What do you want a detective for ? 
 
 ISABEL. Mrs. Gorringe has missed her diamond neck- 
 lace, and we think it may have been stolen. 
 
 DAVID. Oh, I hope she'll find it. 
 
 (colonel JARDINE enters.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Oh, my dear Isabel, we've finished 
 dinner, and you've not changed. 
 
 ISABEL. I shan't be long. 
 
 (ISABEL goes out.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Are you going to sit here, Emily ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {who has taken a magazine from the 
 table and seated herself in an armchair). You can't expect 
 me to sit in the drawing-room and watch Mrs. Gorringe 
 making sheep's eyes at Captain Mowbray. I can't say 
 I enjoyed my dinner. The fish was burnt, and I never 
 did care for meringues. And the way that woman 
 
 cackled about her diamond necklace was enough to 
 
 Well, I'm sick of the whole thing before we've even 
 begun to look for it. {Peruses her magazine, david 
 goes out. COLONEL JARDINE paccs moodily up and down 
 with his hands in his pockets, mrs. jardine casts
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 27 
 
 impatient glances at him. He does not notice her. She 
 endures a few moments before she speaks.) I have quite 
 enough to bear, without seeing you sulk. 
 COLONEL JARDINE. I'm not sulking. 
 MRS. JARDINE. You are. You haven't said a word 
 since the roast left the table. You know how you annoy 
 me when you sulk. {She peruses her magazine a moment, 
 then glances at him impatiently as before.) I wish you'd 
 stop waddling about like that. Can't you see I'm on 
 the verge of hysteria ? (jernigan enters. He pauses 
 on the threshold, mrs. jardine stares at him.) Who's 
 this ? 
 
 (colonel jardine goes to meet jernigan. His 
 manner is more restrained before jernigan 
 than when he is alone with his family, mrs. 
 jardine, too wrought up to heed the conven- 
 tions, puts no constraint upon herself.) 
 jernigan. The servant said you would like to see me. 
 colonel jardine. Ah, yes. How d'you do ? {Going 
 to MRS. JARDINE.) Emily, this is Mr. Jernigan, the 
 detective. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {asidc to her husband). Ought I to 
 shake hands ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {asidc to her). No. {Turns to 
 JERNIGAN.) My wife, Mr. Jernigan. (mrs. jardine 
 and JERNIGAN bow stiffly to each other.) Now, I suppose 
 you want to ask me a lot of questions. {Sits on sofa, 
 signing to jernigan to be seated.) Well— fire away. 
 
 JERNIGAN {remains standing). Do you suspect any 
 particular person of having taken this necklace ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. No. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. We supposc it's ouc of the servants. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. My dear — we don't know. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Who clsc would stcal it ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. My dear 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {to her husband). Allow me to speak, 
 please. {To jernigan.) I strongly suspect one of the 
 housemaids, called Pipkin. 
 
 jernigan. May I ask why you suspect Pipkin ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. There's something I don't like about 
 her eyes. I didn't like them from the first, and I'm 
 never mistaken in eyes. Then, she's always looking out 
 of the windows, and — oh, several things.
 
 28 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 JERNIGAN. I see. {Taking out a note-hook.) I suppose 
 you keep a large staff of servants ? 
 
 MES. JARDINE {smUing conceitedly). Oh, veiy large. 
 I believe I have more servants than any one m this 
 neighbourhood . 
 
 JERNIGAN. Were they all in the house when the 
 robbery was discovered ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. No. Sonie of them were watch- 
 ing the polo. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I'll ring and find out which of them 
 were in. {Rings the bell by the fireplace.) 
 
 JERNIGAN {to COLONEL jardine). You havc scvcral 
 guests staj'ing here, I think ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Three. 
 
 JERNIGAN. All of them people you know well, and 
 trust ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Oh, Certainly. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I wouldu't be too surc. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {remonstrating). My dear. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You'll ucvcr get at it if you are so 
 afraid to suspect any one. I am tr^dng to help Mr. 
 Jernigan with a few suggestions. {Sits down again in 
 her armchair.) 
 
 (CHARLES enters.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Oh, Charlcs, I want you to tell 
 me which of the servants went to watch the polo this 
 afternoon ? 
 
 CHARLES. All of us, sir. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Do you mean to say I was left asleep 
 in an empty house ? 
 
 CHARLES. Oh, no, ma'am, I was forgetting. One of 
 the maids stayed in. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Which OUe ? 
 
 CHARLES. Pipkin. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {springing up excitedly). There ! I 
 said all along it was Pipkin. {To jernigan.) You'd 
 better go straight to the kitchen and arrest her. Have 
 you got the handcuffs ? 
 
 jernigan {quietly and politely). One moment, please. 
 {To CHARLES.) You are quite sure that no one else was in 
 the house this afternoon, besides the housemaid Pipkin ? 
 
 CHARLES. Only the mistress, sir. 
 
 jernigan {to MRS. jardine). Oh, were you at home ?
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 29 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {reluctantly). Yes. (She glances un- 
 easily at the other three.) I hope you don't suggest that 
 / stole it. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE (going towards her, to restrain her). 
 My dear Emily. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. This is a pretty pass you've brought 
 things to, bringing your detectives into the house, and 
 turning the library into a police court. I suppose you 
 know I'm as good as committed to appear at the next 
 Petty Sessions. 
 
 JERNIGAN. When was the necklace last seen ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (crossly). I don't know. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {to CHARLEs). Ask Mrs. Gorriugc 
 to come here, (charles goes out. colonel jardine 
 turns to JERNIGAN.) She'll be able to tell us that. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {to jernigan). You scc, Mr. Jemigau, 
 if Mrs. Gorringe had locked up her jewels properly, as 
 she ought to have done, all this would never have 
 happened, and we might now be playing bridge as usual. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Yes. 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE enters, followed by vicky, who sits 
 in the window, mrs. gorringe comes forward, 
 smiling, and evidently pleased with the import- 
 ance of her situation. ) 
 
 colonel JARDINE. Mrs. Gorringe, this is Mr. Jernigan 
 the detective, (mrs. gorringe Z?ow5 ^o jernigan.) Now, 
 he's going to put some questions to you, and you must 
 be very exact in your replies. Think you're in court, 
 you know. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. I understand. 
 
 {Takes up a conspicuous position : very self- 
 conscious from being the centre of interest. ) 
 
 JERNIGAN. I didn't quite catch the name. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {pronouncing very distinctly). Gorringe. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Mrs. Gorringe. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs, I married Mr. Gorringe in the 
 year ninety-five. Before that I was a Miss Rose Pil- 
 kington of Ipswich. Is it necessary to give the age ? 
 
 JERNIGAN. Oh, no, thank you. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Thank you. I have had three 
 children 
 
 JERNIGAN {interrupting her). Yes, but it's not necessary 
 to give these details now.
 
 30 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Oh, I sec. 
 
 JERNIGAN. You've lost a diamond necklace ? 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs. It had a pearl clasp. 
 MRS. JARDiNE {impatiently). Oh ! 
 JERNIGAN. When did you last see it ? 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Last night, when I went to bed. 
 JERNIGAN. Did you wear it last evening ? 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No, I worc turquoisc. 
 JERNIGAN. But you remember seeing the necklace 
 when you went to bed ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs, I had it on. 
 JERNIGAN. When you went to bed ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No, bcforC. 
 
 JERNIGAN. You had it on after you went to your room, 
 and before you went to bed ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. YcS. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Was any one else in your room. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Oh, uo. I was quitc alone. Mr. 
 Gorringe is at home in Croydon. 
 
 JERNIGAN. W^ere you wearing any other jewelry at 
 the time ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {reluctantly). Yes. 
 
 JERNIGAN. I should like to know exactly what other 
 jewellery you had on then. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Somc bracelets and rings and pins, 
 three necklaces, and some hair ornaments. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Had you these ornaments on separately 
 or at one time ? 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE hesitotes, glances uneasily at mrs. 
 JARDINE, who is staring at her mercilessly.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I prefer not to answer that question. 
 
 JERNIGAN. I am trying to find out if it is not possible 
 that some one saw you last night with your necklace on. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {frightened). Oh, no, I'm sure no one 
 saw me. 
 
 JERNIGAN. As you havc not lost any of the other 
 ornaments, I want to know if you had them on separately 
 or at one time. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {reluctantly, after looking askance at 
 MRS. jardine). I had them all on together. 
 
 (mrs. jardine looks at her husband, vicky puts 
 her hand over her face, jernigan is unmoved. 
 Nobody laughs.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 31 
 
 JERNIGAN. Had you any particular reason for wearing 
 them then ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. YeS. 
 JERNIGAN. What ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I Wanted to see how I should look 
 as an Oriental. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Ah, I understand. Then you don't re- 
 member this diamond necklace more particularly than 
 the other jewelry ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs, I do. Bccausc wheu I took it 
 off I examined it to see if the drops were quite firm. I 
 ought to tell you first that it has five drops in front 
 which come off and make into a tiara 
 
 JERNIGAN {trying to restrain her). Yes, yes. And now 
 how did you come to discover the diamonds were 
 missing ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Well, I Went up to my loom when I 
 came in from the polo match, and suppose the dressing- 
 table to be there {points to vicky) — where Miss Jardine 
 is. And the door where this one is. {Points to the door.) 
 I came in at the door something like this — {Goes to the 
 door, opens it, goes just outside and comes in again.) I 
 closed the door. {Closes the door, and goes towards vicky 
 as she says.) Then I crossed over to the dressing-table 
 in quite an ordinary manner, just as I am doing now. 
 {When she has nearly arrived at vicky she stops suddenly.) 
 Oh, no. I've made a mistake. The dressing-table, of 
 course, would be there. {Points towards mrs. jardine.) 
 I was thinking of the one at home. {She pauses a moment 
 undecided, then says.) I must come in again. {She then 
 runs to the door, opens it, goes just outside, closes it, opens 
 it again and puts her head just inside to say.) Now you 
 are to suppose I didn't come in before. {Takes her head 
 back, and closes the door.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {scarccly able to restrain her impatience). 
 I shall scream in a minute. 
 
 (vicky begins to shake with laughter, putting her 
 handkerchief over her mouth. The others watch 
 MRS. GORRINGE gravcly. MRS. GORRINGE enters 
 and closes the door.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I crosscd ovcr to the dressing-table 
 — which, of course, is here now. {Points to a spot near 
 MRS. JARDINE, wolks towards it, and stands still.) I
 
 32 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 opened my jewel-case, I don't know what made me 
 do that then. I suppose I must have had a presenti- 
 ment. Oh, no. It was to get these rmgs. {Bends up 
 her hand to show her rings.) I thought it looked different 
 somehow, and what was it I said to myself ? {Frowns 
 as she thinks a rnoment.) Oh, yes. I remember saying 
 to myself, " Well, that's funny ! " Then all at once it 
 came across me like a flash of lightning and I clasped my 
 hands and exclaimed : {Clasps her hands dramatically.) 
 " Great heavens, my diamond necklace has gone ! " 
 {Drops her dramatic pose and tone.) Just like that. 
 JERNIGAN {gravely). I see. 
 
 (vicKY, screaming with laughter, and holding her 
 
 handkerchief over her mouth in a vain attempt 
 
 to smother the sound, rushes out. Shrieks of 
 
 hysterical laughter are heard from without. 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE is vcvy much hurt and annoyed.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Vicky, hush, hush. {Shuts the 
 
 door after vicky, then goes to mrs. jardine, as he says.) 
 
 My dear, that child is becoming intolerable. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {almost Crying with indignation, drawing 
 JERNIGAN towards the sofa). Mr. Jernigan, I want to 
 speak to you privately a moment. {They sit doivn.) 
 Now, — I want the house thoroughly searched for my 
 necklace. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Certainly. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I Want ever}i:hing done. {Looks to- 
 wards COLONEL and mrs. jardine to see if they are listen- 
 ing, then moves nearer to jernigan.) I never saw^ such 
 indifference as they all show about my loss. This after- 
 noon I could scarcely get them to send for you. They 
 just dawdled over their tea^and Mrs. Jardine didn't 
 want me to say anything at all about it. The way she 
 went on you'd think my diamonds were only paste. 
 
 JERNIGAN. I will do everything in my power to recover 
 your jewels. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Thank you. It's a most valuable 
 necklace. A lapidary once told me that the middle 
 pendant — I think I told you there were five drops in 
 front — is as large as a roc's egg. 
 
 JERNIGAN. A roc's Cgg. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Was it a roc or a pigeon ? I forget, 
 but it was some sort of egg.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 33 
 
 JERNIGAN. Will you take me to your room ? 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE (misunderstanding him, rises indig- 
 nantly). Certainly not. I couldn't think of such a thing. 
 
 JERNIGAN. If you waut me to trace your necklace, 
 I must visit your room first. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (seeing her mistake, smiles confusedly). 
 Oh, I see. Excuse me. (Addresses colonel and mrs. 
 JARDiNE.) Mr. Jernigan and I are going upstairs to 
 my room for a few minutes. (They stare blankly at her. 
 She explains hastily.) Any one can come with us. 
 Come, Mr. Jernigan. This way, Mr. Jernigan. 
 
 (mrs. GORRINGE goes out, fallowed by jernigan. 
 As soon as the door is closed after them, mrs. 
 JARDINE rises and walks about, giving vent to 
 her suppressed irritation.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. How I'm to bear the rest of Mrs. 
 Gorringe's visit I don't see. She's only been here three 
 days, and she came for a week, and she's just one of 
 those women who if she came for a week would stay for 
 a week, — whatever happened. I suppose she'll never 
 see what inconvenience she's put us all to by having 
 her necklace stolen. Every one in the house suspected, 
 — especially me, it seems. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. That's nonsense, Emily. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I ncvcr likcd Mrs. Gorringe. I don't 
 see how I ever came to invite her here — (colonel 
 JARDINE makes a movement of irritation.) You needn't 
 do that. 
 
 colonel JARDINE. Do what ? 
 
 (She imitates the movement of irritation he has just 
 made.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Why, that ! I suppose there'll be no 
 bridge this evening. 
 
 colonel JARDINE. Why not ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Well, who's to play ? You know we 
 can't make a four without Mrs. Gorringe, — not that she's 
 such a good player. 
 
 colonel JARDINE. We cau get some one else. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. And how do you expect me to keep 
 my mind on the game with the house in such a state 
 of uproar ? I never can settle properly for the night 
 if I don't have a game of cards. (Takes her patience- 
 board and cards from a table near the window and brings 
 
 vol. I D
 
 34 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 them to the writing-table.) I suppose I must content 
 myself with patience. {Sits at the writing-table, opens 
 her patience-board, and lays out her cards, mowbray 
 enters.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. I didn't know Mrs. Gorringe was expecting 
 her husband. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. She isu't that I know of. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh, I thought that must be Mr. Gorringe 
 who went into her room with her. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I supposc shc won't be satisfied till 
 she makes a scandal in the house. 
 
 ( VICKY enters, mimicking mrs. gorringe a^ she 
 moves about.) 
 
 VICKY. I came in at the door something like this. I 
 closed the door. I crossed over to my dressing-table 
 in quite an ordinary way, just like this, to get some 
 rings. Then I said to myself, " Great heavens, my 
 diamond necklace has gone ! " Just like that. 
 
 {The others watch her, amused, then mrs. jardine 
 laughs heartily. She becomes quite amiable in 
 seeing mrs. gorringe derided.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Excellent, excellent ! Mrs. Gorringe 
 to the life ! 
 
 MOWBRAY. What's that ? 
 
 VICKY {becoming suddenly serious). Oh, you don't 
 know. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You may as well. {Addressing mow- 
 bray.) Mrs. Gorringe has lost a diamond necklace. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Not the one with the pearl clasp and five 
 drops in front ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {laugMng). Yes {Seriously.) Really 
 
 some women are peculiar. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Now I scc why she talked about it all 
 through dinner and asked me to repeat the story I told 
 you about the fellow who stole a bracelet. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. And that was a detective. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh, not the father of her three children ? 
 (MRS. GORRINGE enter s. mrs. JARDINE betray s her 
 irritation as soon as mrs. gorringe speaks 
 and begins packing up her patience-board.) 
 
 MRS. gorringe {to COLONEL jardine). He's going to 
 question the servants now. And he wants to know if 
 you'll go.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 35 
 
 COLONEL JARDiNE. Yes, vcs, Certainly. 
 
 (colonel JARDINE hustles out.) 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE [looking archli) at captain mowbray). 
 Have you been wondering where I'd run away to for so 
 long ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. I am always wondering about you. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Vicky ! (vicKY comes to her. mrs. 
 JARDINE gives her her patience-hoard and cards.) Carry 
 that into the drawing-room for me. I feel as if I couldn't 
 sit in the same room with that woman. 
 
 (MRS. JARDINE gocs out. YiCKY follows her. Carry- 
 ing the patience-board.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. I'm sure I hope you'll soon find your 
 necklace. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (sigMng). Thank you, I hope so. 
 (Archly.) And until I do I shall expect my friends to 
 do all they can to console me. [Sits on the sofa.) Now, 
 amuse me. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Shall I sing or recite ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. What a tease you are. We were 
 having a delightful talk about something at tea this 
 afternoon, when the others came in and interrupted us. 
 [Pretending to forget.) What were we talking about ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Polo ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [stUl as if trying to remember). I don't 
 think it was polo. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Heroes ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [annoycd at his obtuseness). Oh, no — 
 something interesting. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Love ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [archly). For shame. [Sits with her 
 hack to him, playfully severe.) I won't speak to you if 
 you're going to be naughty. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I remember. You said you noticed — 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [tuming to Mm, playfully indignant). 
 I'm sure I never said anything so forward. 
 
 MOWBRAY. That I was in love with some one I met 
 in this house. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [coyly dropping her eyes). You're in- 
 corrigible. 
 
 MOWBRAY. It's all off now. I've withdrawn. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [showing the disappointment she feels 
 in this sudden end to her flirtation). Oh ! [As he wanders
 
 36 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 away, she looks after him, then says archly) I think I 
 shall have to call you Captain Faint Heart. 
 
 MOWBRAY (turning to her). But if I can't honourably 
 make love to the lady. 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE (cooingly). Isn't all fair in love ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. It's love itsclf that's so unfair. It's a 
 field in which merit doesn't count. Incompetence as 
 often wins. The champions must have bright eyes, 
 smooth cheeks, and charming ways. That's all they 
 need. An old stager is too heavily handicapped when 
 he has to run against a youngster. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE [enjoying herself immensely again). So 
 there's a youngster in love with your fair lady too ! 
 This is most interesting. (Laughs.) 
 
 MOWBRAY (grimly). Quite laughable, isn't it ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Poor Captain Faint Heart. But I 
 daresay the lady would listen to you before the 
 youngster. 
 
 MOWBRAY (says earnestly). Oh, do you think so ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I didn't Say she'd listen to either. 
 (mowbray moves away. mrs. gorringe looks after him 
 in mild surprise.) I declare, I believe you're quite in 
 earnest. 
 
 MOWBRAY (looking at her). In earnest ? Did you 
 suppose I was flirting ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (smiUug pensively). I thought there 
 might be just a soupyon of reality in it. 
 
 MOWBRAY (sighing half-humorously). Just a soup9on 
 —eh? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (coming towards him). How could I 
 believe you meant more ? (With a touch of reproach in 
 her tone.) Did you think I should have let you go on 
 if I'd known your heart was involved ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. You kucw all along it was hopeless ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (sentimentally). Yes. It is hopeless, 
 I'm not angry with you. 
 
 MOWBRAY (puzzled). Angry ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Perhaps I'm even a little proud of 
 my conquest, 
 
 MOWBRAY. Your couqucst ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. But I hopc I shall ncvcr forget my 
 duty to Mr. Gorringe and the children. 
 
 (The shock of surprise is so great to mowbray
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 37 
 
 that he laughs, mrs. gorringe looks extremely 
 hurt, and seeing she has tnade a mistake hurries 
 towards the door.) 
 
 MOWBRAY {trying not to laugh). I beg your pardon, 
 Mrs. Gorringe — but there must have been a mistake. 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE does not quite go out of the door, 
 hut stands with her hand on the handle, con- 
 sidering a moment. She then breaks into 
 forced laughter and comes towards mowbray.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {pretending to he in fits of laughter, 
 which are obviously forced). So you thought — that I 
 thought — you meant me. What a trick I played on 
 you ! It was too bad of me. But, oh, what fun it was ! 
 I took you in so beautifully. You ought to have seen 
 your face. It was fun — such fun — oh, what fun ! 
 {Finding her vocabulary exhausted, and as mowbray 
 doesnH help her, hut only watches her, she goes towards the 
 door, still laughing. As she does so mowbray turns 
 away. She stops laughing suddenly when she reaches the 
 door, smothers an angry exclamation and goes out in a huff.) 
 
 MOWBRAY {chuckling to himself). Mr. Gorringe and the 
 
 children. What a morass that woman's mind must be. 
 
 ( DAVID enters, dressed in his evening clothes.) 
 
 DAVID. Where are the others ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Hunting for Mrs. Gorringe's necklace 
 with five pearl clasps and a drop in front. It's a great 
 secret. Everybody's talking about it. 
 
 DAVID. Oh, I didn't hear them, but I've been dining 
 alone with Isabel. 
 
 MOWBRAY {looking earnestly at david). David, be very 
 good to that girl. 
 
 DAVID. I did offer to let her off. I told her if she 
 thought she could be happier with you 
 
 MOWBRAY. What did she say ? 
 
 DAVID. She said you'd never been any more than 
 friends. I don't think she ever thought of you any 
 other way. 
 
 MOWBRAY {slowly, with a sigh). No, I don't think she 
 ever did. She doesn't think every man is in love with 
 her — like some people. She can be a friend. It's a 
 wonderful thing in a woman. 
 
 DAVID {troubled). I know it's not right that a bungler 
 like me should stand between you and Isabel.
 
 88 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MOWBRAY (generously). You aren't to blame. Nobody 
 is. It's just one of those damned things that can't be 
 helped. And you must try not to be a bungler. And 
 I must try what my philosophy is worth. 
 
 DAVID. You always had lots of philosophy, hadn't you ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh, lots — to give away. It's so easy to 
 be a philosopher in one's unimpassioned moments. 
 (With conviction.) But I believe in my philosophy all 
 the same, and when I've had time to remember that I'm 
 only one man in a big world, with no special licence to 
 have everything my own way, I shall find there are 
 still a few things worth Hving for. But I must be alone. 
 
 DAVID. Shall I go ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. No, I didn't mean that. But I can't stay 
 in this house now. It's an impossible situation — so I 
 think I shall just pack my things and go up to London 
 to-night. 
 
 DAVID. How are you going to explain it ? 
 
 MOWBRAY (meditating). Yes— that's awkward. I don't 
 want to explain it. I'll leave a note and say I was 
 called away, and you can back me up in the morning. 
 
 DAVID. I'm a^vfully sorry. 
 
 MOWBRAY. That's all right. And we're just as good 
 pals as ever, aren't we, old boy ? 
 
 (mowbray goes out. david stands still a few 
 moments, expressing trouble and anxiety in his 
 face. He glances at the howl.) 
 
 DAVID. No one has guessed yet. Shall I never get a 
 chance of taking it back ? 
 
 ISABEL (heard outside). I suppose we can't do an^i:hing 
 more to-night ? 
 
 (Enter mrs. jardine, mrs. gorringe and isabel, 
 now wearing an evening dress.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I Can't Say I think much of your 
 detective, Mrs. Gorringe, spending a whole evening 
 ransacking the house and then finding nothing. 
 
 ISABEL. It may not be in the house. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (moumfuUy). No. Most likely at this 
 very moment they're boiling it do\ATi in some thieves' 
 kitchen. Oh, dear ! (Nearly cries. Isabel comforts 
 her.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (turnS to ISABEL). I SUppoSC yOu'vC 
 
 heard the latest ?
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 39 
 
 ISABEL. No — what ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. They accuse me. 
 
 ISABEL {laughing incredulously). Oh, mother ! 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You Weren't here when he cornered 
 me in his nasty poHce court way and forced me to admit 
 I was alone in the house with Pipkin. 
 
 ISABEL. What did he say ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. It wasn't what he said. It was the 
 look he gave me. You know I'm never mistaken in 
 eyes. 
 
 ISABEL. We are all equally under suspicion ; every 
 one who was in the house since Mrs. Gorringe saw her 
 diamonds. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {with Scarcely veiled contempt). Yes — 
 since you dressed up in all your jewels, Mrs. Gorringe — 
 to see how you would look as an Oriental. [Pauses 
 before she adds.) That only lets David off. (david 
 starts slightly, unnoticed by the others.) It's a lucky 
 thing for you, David, that you had to go away yesterday. 
 You are the only person in the house who couldn't have 
 stolen Mrs. Gorringe's necklace. (An expression of relief 
 passes over david 's face for a moment, then he looks 
 gloomy again, vicky enters.) 
 
 VICKY. I've come to say good-night. Good-night, 
 Mrs. Gorringe. {Kisses her.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {sadly). Good-uight, dear. 
 
 VICKY {kissing her mother). Good-night, mother. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I supposc it's nearly time for us all 
 to retire ; not that we shall sleep, but it's been such 
 a dreadful day we may as well finish it as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I fccl SO timid about going to bed in 
 that room. 
 
 ISABEL. David has the room next yours, and you can 
 have a bell by your bed if you like. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. But supposc the thief should enter 
 in the dead of night and should seize my hand before 
 I could grasp the bell, thinking to find rings upon it, 
 or my throat before I could scream, thinking to find a 
 necklace there. 
 
 ISABEL. Would you like to share my room ? (david 
 listens intently for the answer.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {eagerly). Oh, thank you, yes. I'll
 
 40 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 go and take ray things there. I think we'd better put 
 what's left of my jewehy under our pillows. 
 
 ISABEL. Won't that be rather uncomfortable ? 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. I'll give you the flat cases and take 
 the lumpy ones myself. Good-night, Mr. David. {Goes 
 to MRS. JARDiNE, offering to kiss her.) Good-night, Mrs. 
 Jardine ! 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (embracing mrs. gorringe and kissing 
 her affectionately on each cheek). Good-night, dear Mrs. 
 Gon'inge. Sleep well. (mrs. gorringe ^oes ow^.) What 
 a woman ! (mrs. jardine and vicky go out.) 
 
 DAVID. Isabel. {She comes to him.) I am going to 
 try and be worthy of you. 
 
 ISABEL. You're beginning to be hopeful. 
 
 DAVID. Yes. 
 
 ISABEL. You looked so depressed I was almost sorry 
 for what I said. 
 
 DAVID. You did me a world of good. I think you 
 saved me. 
 
 (colonel jardine enters, drawing mowbray by 
 the arm. mowbray wears an overcoat and 
 carries a suit-case in his hand, jernigan 
 follows them and stands near the door.) 
 
 COLONEL jardine {in his most jovial manner, laughing 
 and drawing mowbray along). What do you think I 
 found this rascal doing ? Sneaking out of the house 
 to get the last train without saying a word to any 
 of us. 
 
 MOWBRAY {embarrassed). I was called away. I left a 
 note and asked David to explain. 
 
 ISABEL {seeing mowbray is embarrassed, goes towards 
 him to help him out). Father, Captain Mowbray may be 
 going on important business. Don't make him miss his 
 train. 
 
 JERNIGAN {comes forward). Excuse me. {They all look 
 towards jernigan.) No one ought to leave the house 
 to-night if it can possibly be avoided. 
 
 (DAVID turns away to conceal his alarm from the 
 others. ) 
 
 MOWBRAY {readily). Certainly. {Puts his suit-case on 
 the floor.) 
 
 JERNIGAN {naturally, — not at all suspicious of mow- 
 bray). Just while this enquiry is going on.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 41 
 
 MOWBRAY. Yes, I see. I didn't think of that. I'll 
 stay. (Stoops to pick up his suit-case.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Don't you bother about that, the 
 servant will take it up. 
 MOWBRAY. Thank you. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE (to jernigan). Now, I'm thinking 
 of going to bed. Do you want me for anything more 
 to-night ? 
 
 jernigan. No, I can get on all right. I may look 
 about the house after you have retired, but I shan't 
 disturb any one. 
 
 (colonel JARDINE and MOWBRAY and jernigan 
 go out.) 
 ISABEL. Now I must rush up and help Mrs. Gorringe 
 to install herself in my room. She's sure to bring about 
 a dozen dressing-gowns and little jackets. You wait 
 here and then I'll come back and say good-night to you 
 properly. 
 
 (Goes out quickly, smiling back at david.) 
 DAVID (with decision). Her room is empty and next 
 to mine, I'll take it back now. 
 
 (He crosses quickly to the bowl, looks hastily towards 
 the door, then dips his hand in the bowl, mow- 
 bray strolls in. He has taken off his overcoat. 
 He pauses and looks at david. He shows 
 plainly that his curiosity is aroused. He closes 
 the door. Hearing the door close, david takes 
 his hand quickly from the bowl, turns round and 
 sees MOWBRAY. He is uncertain whether mow- 
 bray has noticed anything or not. He comes 
 towards him with an assumption of ease. ) 
 DAVID. Hullo, Frank. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Hullo. 
 
 DAVID. It's awfully hard lines to have to stay when 
 you're feeling so bad about it. 
 
 MOWBRAY [searching the book-shelves and the writing- 
 table). Yes, but it can't be helped. 
 
 DAVID {after a slight pause). Aren't you going up ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Not yet. I shall stay here awhile. I was 
 looking for something to read, but I can't find anything 
 I want. {Sees his suit-case.) Oh. {Pulls it towards 
 him and unstraps it as he speaks.) I have a book here 
 that I took to read in the train. {Opens the suit-case
 
 42 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 and takes out a hook, lets the lid of the case fall down 
 without shutting it.) If they aren't coming back, we 
 may as well make ourselves comfortable. {Puts his feet 
 up on the sofa, facing david, opens the book and reads. 
 DAVID looks at him undecidedly, then strolls towards the 
 window. When his hack is turned, mowbray glances up 
 from his book and watches david. When david turns 
 towards him he pretends to be absorbed in his book.) 
 
 DAVID. I say, Frank, Isabel asked me to wait for her 
 here. 
 
 MOWBRAY {without looking up). Did she ? 
 
 DAVID. She's coming back to say good-night to me. 
 
 MOWBRAY {as before). Oh. 
 
 DAVID. We can't very well say good-night with you 
 in the room. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then say it in another room. {Continues 
 reading.) 
 
 DAVID. Well, how long are you going to stay here ? 
 
 MOWBRAY {without lookiug up). An hour or two, 
 (david goes out into the garden reluctantly, looking back 
 at MOWBRAY from the window, mowbray appears to be 
 absorbed in his book. As soon as david is out of sight, 
 mowbray throws down his book, jumps up, goes quickly 
 to the bowl, dips his hand in, takes out the necklace wrapped 
 in the handkerchief, unwraps the handkerchief and dis- 
 covers the necklace.) Good God ! 
 
 (ISABEL enters.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. Look here, I know I can trust you ; I've 
 found the necklace. {She looks at the necklace with great 
 surprise. ) 
 
 ISABEL. Where ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. In that bowl. {Indicates the bowl.) Take 
 
 it back to her room — and say 
 
 (jERNiGAN enters.) 
 
 JERNIGAN. I beg your pardon. I have just come in 
 to make a thorough search here {Points to the neck- 
 lace in Isabel's hands.) May I see what you have 
 there ? 
 
 ISABEL. The necklace. Captain Mowbray has just 
 found it in that bowl. 
 
 (ISABEL looks at MOWBRAY. He nods. She gives 
 the necklace to jernigan.) 
 
 JERNIGAN. I'll take charge of it.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 43 
 
 ISABEL. I'll go and tell her it's found. {Going towards 
 the door.) 
 
 MOWBRAY (going towards the garden entrance). I must 
 go and see David. 
 
 (ISABEL ^055 OUt.) 
 
 JERNIGAN. It's a most unpleasant duty, but I am 
 bound to ask if you wish to make any explanation. 
 
 MOWBRAY (hesitates a moment). I ? None. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Do you mind telling me what made you 
 look in there ? (Indicating the bowl.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. I'd rather not say anything yet. It's a 
 little late to disturb the household. You and I will see 
 the Colonel in the morning. 
 
 (mowbray goes out into the garden.) 
 
 JERNIGAN (looks after mowbray, then looks into the 
 bowl. Next he examines the handkerchief to see if it has 
 a name on it. He then kneels beside the suit-case, opens 
 it, finds another handkerchief, compares the two and ex- 
 claims). Mowbray ! 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE THIRD ACT 
 
 SCENE. — Same as Acts I. and II. It is after breakfast the 
 next morning, david a7id Isabel are standing, look- 
 ing in each other's eyes, holding each other s hands. 
 ISABEL is dressed to go out. 
 
 ISABEL. I shall tell them I'm going to do my shopping, 
 and you follow me in a few minutes. 
 
 DAVID. Yes. 
 
 (MOWBRAY enters from the garden.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. Are you going out ? 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. I'm going into the town. 
 
 (ISABEL goes out.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. Last night when I came to tell you where 
 I found Mrs. Gorringe's necklace, I couldn't get much 
 out of you. 
 
 DAVID. I felt awfully sleepy. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I suppose you'rc wide awake this morning. 
 
 DAVID {smiling — uneasily). Yes— why ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. It was scciug you take your hand out of 
 that bowl that made me look there afterwards. 
 
 DAVID. I remember you saying that. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I've been wondering ever since what you 
 could have been looking there for ? 
 
 DAVID. Oh — for matches. They sometimes keep a 
 box there. 
 
 MOWBRAY. It was funny that when you were looking 
 for the matches you didn't see the necklace. 
 
 DAVID. Yes. I don't know how it was. 
 
 MOWBRAY. H'm. (david tums away.) Is that all 
 you've got to say about it ? 
 
 DAVID {trying to bluff mowbray). You trust my word 
 — don't you ? 
 
 mowbray {looks at him sorrowfully, goes to him and 
 
 44
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 45 
 
 lays his hand on him as he says). My dear old boy, I'm 
 the best friend you have. 
 
 DAVID (uneasily). I know that. 
 
 MOWBRAY (looking at his face). Have you nothing 
 more to tell me ? 
 
 DAVID (glances uneasily at mowbray before he answers). 
 No. (Moves away.) 
 
 (colonel jardine enters.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. David, I hear you've got your 
 marching orders. 
 
 DAVID. Yes. We sail on Friday. I must join to- 
 night, so I shall have to leave here this morning. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. We shall be sorry to lose you. 
 
 DAVID. Thank you. (Takes up a newspaper and pre- 
 tends to read it, as he listens anxiously to the other two.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Well, uow, Mowbray, what would 
 you do about Mrs. Gorringe's necklace, if you were in 
 my place ? 
 
 MOWBRAY (deliberately). Nothing. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE (suvprised). Nothing ? Pooh, 
 nonsense ! Must do something. It's only fair to Mrs. 
 Gorringe. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Mrs. Gorringe has got it back. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Ycs, but — it was a very awkward 
 thing, you know, her losing it in our house. We ought 
 to go to the bottom of this. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I should think, as she is a visitor here, 
 she'd be very unwilling to make any trouble about it. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. But Still, you kuow — it makcs 
 me feel very insecure. If one of the servants is a thief, 
 I want to know which it is. 
 
 MOWBRAY. It never seems quite fair to suppose that 
 it's one of the servants just because you've no evidence 
 that it isn't. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. It Can't bc OUC of US. 
 
 MOWBRAY (speaks very earnestly, aiming his words at 
 DAVID as well as at colonel jardine). It may be 
 some one who fell suddenly in a moment of overwhelming 
 temptation. This may be the first and last crime of 
 some one — going about the house this morning showing 
 an inscrutable face but hiding a heart that's quivering 
 with shame and terror. If you track him with detectives 
 you'll make a criminal of him ; you'll push him into that
 
 46 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 damning underworld of society which is the only one 
 open to the gaol-bird. If you let this thing rest now — 
 persuade your detective it was a mistake — say the 
 necklace was only mislaid, and send him away — you 
 may save a man. 
 
 {He stands watching the effects of his words on 
 COLONEL JARDINE. DAVID wotchcs them fur- 
 tively with painful anxiety.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. You make me extremely un- 
 comfortable. It's taking such a responsibihty either 
 way. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Give him the chance. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. But — hc may be a regular thief — 
 or he may be she. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then give her the chance. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. I dou't know that it's quite fair 
 to Mrs. Gorringe not to sift this thing to the bottom. 
 
 MOWBRAY. But, Colonel — if you take away a man's 
 last chance of turning honest — think how uncomfortable 
 you'll feel for the rest of your life. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. I am thinking of that. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Never to know another good night's rest. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Stop that, Mowbray. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Colonel, you used to be the best-hearted 
 man in your regiment. Your only fault, as a soldier, 
 was that you were a bit too kind, but it's a fault that 
 becomes you now you've retired. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE [smilcs, wcll pleased with himself). 
 Oh, my dear fellow — what nonsense. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Live up to your reputation ! 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Well, pcrhaps we'd better let this 
 thing slide now. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Shall I tell the detective ? {About to go 
 and do so. colonel jardine stops him.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. No. I'll tell him. I shall have to 
 give him something for himself. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then we may consider it settled ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. YcS. 
 
 (DAVID can scarcely conceal his relief. He lays 
 down his paper and goes out. ) 
 COLONEL JARDINE {stUl smiUng under the influence of 
 mowbray's flattery). I suppose I am a soft-hearted old 
 duffer, but you know I'm a happier man for it.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 47 
 
 MOWBRAY. Of course you are ; and what a rare com- 
 bination that is. A soft heart and a hard brain. 
 
 COLONEL JARDiNE {delighted). You've noticed the 
 working of my brain ! 
 
 MOWBRAY. With amazement. 
 
 (MRS. GORRiNGE enters ft om the garden.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {cordially greeting colonel jardine). 
 Good-morning. Isn't it a lovely day ? 
 
 MOWBRAY [cheerfully). Good-morning, Mrs. Gorringe. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {hows coldly). Good-morning. 
 
 colonel jardine. So you've got your necklace back. 
 
 MRS. gorringe {in an aggrieved tone). That detective 
 won't give it me. He says he is going to keep it himself. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Only during the investigation. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. That's what he says. How do I 
 know he won't keep it altogether. I should never have 
 sent for him if I'd known he was going to behave like 
 that. 
 
 MOWBRAY {amused). Did you tell him so ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Not in SO many words. But when 
 he refused to give it up, I couldn't help saying " Oh ! " 
 
 MOWBRAY. By Jove ! that was severe. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Let me explain it to you. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I don't Want explanations. I want 
 my necklace. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You'll get it back at once — (mrs. 
 GORRINGE turns quickly to mowbray.) — if you persuade 
 the detective you mislaid it. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. But I didn't mislay it. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Couldn't you stretch the truth just about 
 a quarter of an inch ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Why ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. To make it meet charity. Say you put 
 your necklace there yourself. {Points to the bozvl.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Hc would think me a silly woman. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. You scc, Mrs. Gorriugc, we don't 
 want to prosecute any one if we can avoid it. It 
 has just occurred to me that the thief may be some 
 poor fellow who wants to turn honest — so give him a 
 chance. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Don't trample on the Colonel's generous 
 impulses. 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGi?:, But what about my other jewels ?
 
 48 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 COLONEL JARDiNE. Good gracious ! You haven't 
 lost anything else ? 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. Not yet. But if I give him a chance 
 I shall. He might take my rubies next, or my emerald 
 lizard. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {becomifig uncomfortable). To be 
 sure, we might all lose our valuables. It wasn't entirely 
 my suggestion to let the matter drop. In fact, it was 
 Mowbray's. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {with marked disapproval). Then I 
 consider that Captain Mowbray took a great deal upon 
 himself. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Don't trample on my generous impulses. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. It's all Very well for gentlemen to 
 talk about being generous to thieves. They never have 
 any jewelry to speak of. {Turns her back on mowbray.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Mrs. Gorriugc is very wise to think 
 about her other jewels. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs, am I not wise ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. I don't think the emerald lizard is in 
 danger, as, after this, Mrs. Gorringe is sure to be more 
 careful what she leaves about. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I shall do cxactly as I please about 
 locking up my jewelry. 
 
 MOWBRAY {persuasively, to mrs. gorringe). Though 
 our generous impulses don't move you, I'm sure, from 
 what I know of you, your own will. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {trying to be dignified and firm). I beg 
 you will not try to flatter me again. I don't like it. If 
 Mr. Gorringe were here, I should certainly speak to him 
 about it. {Moves away from him.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Of coursc, Mrs. Gorringe must 
 keep the detective if she wants to. 
 
 MOWBRAY {calculating the effect of his words on mrs. 
 gorringe). I suppose there's nothing for it but to find 
 the thief and try him — while Scotland Yard keeps the 
 necklace. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Eh ! — {To COLONEL JARDINE.) HoW 
 
 long will that take ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Oh a fcW WCCks. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {in dismay). Weeks \ 
 MOWBRAY. Months — more likely. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Months !
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 49 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Now, what shall we do ? 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. I don't cai'c what you do, as long as 
 I get my necklace back. I must say I think the whole 
 affair looks extremely fishy. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE, Well, Ict's go and interview this 
 fellow Jernigan. {Goes towards the door, then stops.) 
 But you know, I don't like this tarradiddling with 
 Scotland Yard. 
 
 MOWBRAY (seriously). Nor do I, I don't like it at all. 
 (To COLONEL JARDINE.) But, believc me, it's for the 
 best, (colonel jardine goes out.) Believe me, Mrs. 
 Gorringe, it is for the best. 
 
 (MRS. gorringe tosses her head, takes up a news- 
 paper and turns her back on mowbray. mow- 
 BRAY goes out.) 
 
 MRS. gorringe {with the newspaper in her hand). 
 Just because he has been out to South Africa, he thinks 
 he can teach us everything. They are so determined 
 to hush it up, I suppose there'll be nothing about it in 
 the paper, (mrs. jardine enters.) They aren't going 
 to try and find out who stole my necklace. 
 
 MRS. jardine. It seems funny you should know that, 
 Mrs. Gorringe. I have not been consulted yet. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. Captain Mowbray has persuaded 
 Colonel Jardine to send the detective away. 
 
 MRS. jardine. Since when did Captain Mowbray 
 become the mistress of this house ? 
 
 MRS. gorringe. That's what / felt inclined to ask. 
 I never met such a forward busybody as he is. 
 
 MRS. jardine {bridling quickly). I'm sorry you don't 
 like our guests, Mrs. Gorringe. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. I don't blame you, dear Mrs. Jardine 
 — not for anything. I'm sure you had no idea — when 
 you invited me — that my necklace would be stolen. 
 And I shan't let it make any difference between us. I 
 shall still stay my week out. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {after a moment of dismay, says very 
 politely). Of course, if you prefer to curtail your visit, I 
 shall quite understand. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Oh, no, dear. I really have no ill- 
 feeling about it, but I suppose I shall never convince 
 you if I don't stay on, so I'll even extend my visit a 
 little if you like. {Sits smiling on the sofa.) 
 
 VOL. I E
 
 50 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {with « foTced smile). Oh, I hope you 
 will. 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE {cTiccrfully) . Of course I will. 
 
 [vicKY enters, followed by colonel jardine with 
 the necklace, which he gives to mrs. gorringe. 
 
 VICKY. Here it is ! 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Oh, thank you. {Purrs over her 
 necklace.) 
 
 VICKY. Let me see it. (Tries to take the necklace in 
 her hands, mrs. gorringe draws it away and holds it up 
 for her to see at a safe distance, vicky touches it with her 
 finger as she says.) There they are ! There are the five 
 drops in front and there's the pearl clasp. 
 
 MRS. jardine. Christopher, have you sent the detec- 
 tive away ? (Holds up her hand to prevent him answer- 
 ing.) Wait ! Before you tell me, perhaps you'd better 
 go and ask Captain Mowbray's permission. 
 
 colonel jardine (good-naturedly). Nonsense, Emily ! 
 I told Jemigan if he'd Uke to stay till noon I'd show 
 him round the place. 
 
 MRS. jardine. a very superfluous attention. 
 
 COLONEL jardine (smiUng conceitedly). Oh, ^\e\\. It 
 never does us any harm to be good-natured ; we feel all 
 the happier for it. He'll be so pleased he won't expect 
 a present, 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (purring over her necklace). I do wish 
 I knew who stole you. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (with dccision). There isn't any doubt 
 at all in my mind. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Who ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Pipkin. Nothing will ever convince 
 me otherwise. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE (uTWOfiscious that he is quoting 
 MOWBRAY. He thinks it is his own sentiment). It never 
 seems quite fair to suppose it's one of the servants just 
 because you've got no evidence that it isn't. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (obstinately). I shall certainly discharge 
 Pipkin. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. We havc no proof against her. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I havc all the proof I want. (Turns 
 to the others and speaks as if she were delivering a strong 
 argument.) If she had no motive for concealing the 
 necklace, she'd have found it when she did the room.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 51 
 
 That proves that if she is innocent — she doesn't do the 
 rooms . 
 
 VICKY (giggling). Oh, mother, you are so funny ! 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {thoughtfully). In spite of what 
 Mowbray said, I think we ought to get to the root of 
 this matter. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. So do I. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE, If Isabel had left it to me, instead 
 of sending for a detective on her own account, I've no 
 doubt I could have sifted this thing down myself. It 
 only needs a little cross-examination. {He sets about 
 his cross-examination in a quick, alert way which he thinks 
 is business-like and penetrating, mrs. gorringe pays 
 the deepest attention, mrs. jardine superciliously ignores 
 them. He addresses mrs. gorringe, speaking rapidly.) 
 Now, you say you saw the necklace for the last time the 
 night before it was lost, but you didn't see it in the 
 morning. No. You saw it again in the afternoon— 
 that is, you saw it wasn't there in the afternoon. Is 
 that right ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. YcS. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {without Waiting for MRS. GORRINGE 
 
 to say more, shoots his next question at mrs. jardine). 
 Now, then, where were you ? {Waits for her to reply. 
 She ignores him by turning her chair with its back to him.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Mrs. Jardiuc was here. 
 
 colonel JARDINE {tums quickhj to mrs. gorringe). 
 Oh, she was here. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs. On this sofa. {Pats the sofa.) 
 
 colonel JARDINE {addressing mrs. gorringe in the 
 same alert manner). Oh — well, now. You didn't see it 
 practically all yesterday, so it might have been taken 
 any time yesterday up to the time you found it was 
 taken. You can't tell. {Dwells on next line as if he 
 were making an important point.) But you did see it the 
 night before ? 
 
 MRS. gorringe {deeply impressed). Yes. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Well, uow — wc'vc got that far. 
 {Turns suddenly to mrs. jardine.) When did you last 
 see it ? {She still ignores him.) Emily, when did you 
 last see Mrs. Gorringe' s necklace ? {She slowly changes 
 her position, elaborately ignoring them.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {after a pause, during which she and
 
 52 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE botk wtttck MRS. jardine). Plcasc Say 
 when you last saw it. 
 
 {A look of irritation passes over mrs. jardine's 
 face when mrs. gorringe speaks.) 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Emily, we are trying to sift this 
 thing down. I want you to say when you last saw Mrs. 
 Gorringe's necklace. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. We Can't go on till you do. 
 
 {A long pause, during which colonel jardine and 
 MRS. gorringe watch mrs. jardine, waiting 
 for her reply. She shows signs of growing 
 impatience. ) 
 colonel jardine, Emily. 
 
 (mrs. jardine begins to writhe with annoyance.) 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Please say, Mrs. Jardine. 
 MRS. JARDINE {unoblc to curb herself any longer, rises 
 and rounds on mrs. gorringe). Hold your tongue. 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE uttcrs tt scrcam of surprise and 
 indignation. Then there is dead silence, during 
 which they all remain perfectly still, no one 
 looking at any one else. Isabel enters, looks 
 round in surprise. They all remain still as 
 waxworks.) 
 ISABEL. What's happened ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Your father thinks he was cut out for 
 a detective, and as if I wasn't on the rack long enough 
 yesterday, he must begin goading me with questions 
 again this morning. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I'm surc Coloucl Jardine didn't mean 
 to goad you. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {tuming angrily to mrs. gorringe). If 
 you'd lock your things up properly, instead of letting 
 them lie about all over the house, we should have been 
 saved all this turmoil, 
 
 {They are all shocked as before, mrs. gorringe 
 utters another scream. Isabel tries to calm her 
 mother.) 
 ISABEL. Mother ! 
 
 MRS. JARDINE [refuses to be calmed). Yes, I mean it. 
 My house was a happy home till she came. Now I can't 
 tell it from a police court, 
 
 (mrs. gorringe screams again. The other three 
 all remonstrate at once with mrs. jardine.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 53 
 
 ISABEL and VICKY {together). Mother ! 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. My dear ! 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I was surrounded by a loving family, 
 and now see them turn on me. {To mrs. gorringe.) 
 And it's all you ! 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {wUdly). Do you know what you are 
 saying ? 
 
 ISABEL {to MRS. jardine). Don't say any more. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Oh, of course, you all take Mrs. 
 Gorringe's side and turn on me. That's just what I 
 should have expected of you. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {Hses and tries to assume dignity as 
 she addresses mrs. jardine). I could say a good deal. 
 I might say how unsympathetic you have been all along 
 about my necklace, but I think it would be more digni- 
 fied simply to draw my visit to a close. 
 
 {Goes out.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {muttering after her). About time, too. 
 
 ISABEL {to VICKY, aS MRS. GORRINGE gOeS OUt). YoU gO 
 
 with Mrs. Gorringe. 
 
 (VICKY goes out after mrs. gorringe.) 
 
 ISABEL. Now, mother, do pull yourself together and 
 apologise to her. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Apologisc ? She'll want to stay her 
 week out. 
 
 ISABEL. You're breaking all the laws of hospitality. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Whocvcr made the laws of hospitality 
 didn't know Mrs. Gorringe. I'd believe anything of that 
 woman. I'd like to know what she was before Mr. 
 Gorringe married her — if they are married. 
 
 ISABEL {protesting). Mother ! 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. She Said she was a Miss Rose 
 Pilkington of Ipswich. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {derisively). Ipswich ! A shop-keeper's 
 daughter, I suppose. Chemist, I should think. Can't 
 you see the sign over the shop door, " Pilkington. 
 Chemist " ? Gold letters on a black ground. {Having 
 really convinced herself that mrs. gorringe was a chemist's 
 daughter.) That accounts for her lack of breeding. No 
 lady would quarrel with her hostess. But I suppose she 
 can't be expected to know better — poor thing — with her 
 upbringing. 
 
 (viCKY enters quickly.)
 
 54 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 VICKY. Mrs. Gorringe says she won't stay another 
 minute. 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE enters. Her only change of dress 
 
 is that she now wears her hat. mrs. jardine 
 
 turns her back on mrs. gorringe.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No, I Couldn't think of it. I flew 
 
 upstairs and opened the wardrobe and simply snatched 
 
 the first hat I saw. I didn't even stop to get a veil. 
 
 Then I flew down again, and, now, though it's damp 
 
 under foot this morning, I'm going out in my house 
 
 shoes. {Goes to colonel jardine, extending her hand 
 
 cordially.) Good-bye. {Shakes hands cordially with 
 
 ISABEL.) Good-bye. 
 
 ISABEL. But you aren't going to the train that way. 
 MRS. gorringe {pleasantly). Oh, no ; I'm only going 
 to Miss Potts'. 
 
 (mrs. gorringe and mrs. jardine look at each 
 other, up and down ; then turn away contemptu- 
 ously. MRS. gorringe goes out, followed by 
 
 VICKY.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Now, let US breathe again. I feel as 
 if we'd had some infectious disease in the house. 
 
 (MRS. JARDINE gOCS OUt.) 
 
 ISABEL. How did it all begin ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {scratchcs Ms head, puzzled). I 
 hardly know. Your mother is so uncertain. She an- 
 swered the detective's questions all right. I don't see 
 why she wouldn't answer mine. I was just trying to 
 sift this thing down with a little cross-examination. 
 You know I think we ought to find out who took that 
 necklace. 
 
 ISABEL. So do I. 
 
 (jERNiGAN enters.) 
 JERNIGAN. I'm ready to be shown round, if it's con- 
 venient to you. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Oil, ycs. Sit dowu a minute. 
 
 (JERNIGAN and COLONEL JARDINE sit On the sofa, ISABEL 
 
 at a little distance.) I was just saying, I think I ought 
 to know who took that necklace. 
 
 JERNIGAN {surprised). I understood you to say it was 
 only mislaid. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Oh, ycs — SO I did, didn't I ? But 
 my wife doesn't agree with me. She still believes that
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 55 
 
 the housemaid, Pipkin, is the culprit. She's going to 
 discharge her. 
 
 JERNIGAN (deliberately). If it was stolen — I don't think 
 it was by one of your servants. 
 
 ISABEL. Mr. Jernigan evidently suspects some one. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Then speak out. 
 
 JERNIGAN. All the evidence I have been able to gather 
 points against one of your guests. 
 
 ISABEL. Oh ! 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Good gracious ! But we only 
 have — well, there's David Cairn — we've always known 
 him ; besides, he was away when it was stolen. 
 
 JERNIGAN. I don't suspect Mr. Cairn. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. It Couldn't be Mrs. Gorringe. She 
 wouldn't steal her own necklace. 
 
 JERNIGAN. You havc one other guest. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. You Can't mean Mowbray. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Last night Captain Mowbray attempted 
 to leave the house quietly with a bag. Soon afterwards 
 he was found in this room alone with the necklace in 
 his hands, wrapped in a handkerchief, the duplicate of 
 which was in his bag, and that was open. 
 
 ISABEL. But he found the necklace in that bowl. 
 
 JERNIGAN {looking at isabel). Did you see him take 
 it out ? 
 
 ISABEL. Of course I know that in your work you have 
 to judge by external evidence, but in this case I am sure 
 it has misled you. Captain Mowbray is an old friend 
 of ours. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Wait SL minutc, Isabel. This is 
 certainly very strange. 
 
 ISABEL. But, father — you've known him for years. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Ycs, but — hc's bccu at me just 
 now, urging me with all his might to send you {looking 
 at jernigan) away and have no more enquiry. 
 
 JERNIGAN. H'm. That doesn't improve his case. 
 
 ISABEL. What motive could he have for stealing 
 jewelry ? He's a rich man. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {to ISABEL). How did he bccomc 
 rich ? 
 
 ISABEL {uncertainly). Mining — didn't he ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. I don't kuOW. {To JERNIGAN.) 
 
 A few years ago he had nothing. Then he went to
 
 56 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 South Africa and came back rich. It was only yesterday 
 afternoon he called himself an adventurer. 
 
 ISABEL. A good proof that he isn't one. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Mrs. Gorringe told me she knew some- 
 thing against him. When I questioned her, she refused 
 to say what it was. But she admitted that since an 
 interview she had with him last evening her opinion of 
 him had undergone a change. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. She sccmcd very huffy with him 
 just now. 
 
 ISABEL {losing her temper). Mrs. Gorringe is a fool. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. That's no way to argue, Isabel. 
 You women are so emotional. You won't stop and 
 reason. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Do you know when Captain Mowbray dis- 
 covered you had a detective in the house ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Yes, it was after dinner. I heard 
 my wife tell him. And — yes — {turns excitedly to jerni- 
 gan) it was immediately after that I caught him escaping. 
 
 ISABEL {with a smothered exclamation of indignation, 
 which attracts their attention). Oh ! 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {tuming to ISABEL). Do you kuow 
 why he wanted to leave in such a hurry — without a 
 word to any of us ? 
 
 ISABEL. No. But I think it's shameful to make such 
 charges agamst a man like Captain Mowbray. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. I'm uot goiug to make a charge 
 against him, 
 
 ISABEL. Then you ought to, and give him a chance 
 to clear himself. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. No, uo. Better to hush it up. 
 I don't want to do him any harm, and he'd find it very 
 difficult to explain away so much evidence. 
 
 ISABEL. What's evidence when you know a man ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. You arguc just like your mother. 
 
 ISABEL, Mother's going to discharge Pipkin. If only 
 to stop that you ought to tell Captain Mowbray what 
 you've been saying, and if you don't, / shall, 
 
 (MOWBRAY enters.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {nodding awkwardly and trying to 
 appear friendly). Hello, Mowbray. {Quickly, to jerni- 
 GAN.) Now, if you're ready I'll show you round the 
 place.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 57 
 
 JERNIGAN {rising, as he says aside to colonel jardine). 
 I should like to question you further about Captain 
 Mowbray. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {urging JERNIGAN towards the win- 
 dow). Yes, outside. She'll get me into trouble with him 
 if I stay here. 
 
 (colonel jardine and jernigan go out hurriedly 
 into the garden. ) 
 
 ISABEL. Can you tell me why you wanted to leave us 
 so suddenly last night ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Didn't you guess ? 
 
 ISABEL {innocently). No. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then I mustn't tell you. 
 
 ISABEL. I only ask you because — well, nobody seems 
 to know — only they suspect — oh, dreadful things. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Who do ? 
 
 ISABEL. Father and that detective. I may as well 
 tell you at once. You know you went to father this 
 morning and urged him to send the detective away, and 
 you were found with the necklace last night, and so 
 
 they think you {Halts, not knowing how to express 
 
 herself inoffensively.) 
 
 MOWBRAY {looks ot her, then says deliberately). They 
 think / stole it ? 
 
 (ISABEL nods. He looks away from her slowly, 
 stands still, looking very grave.) 
 
 ISABEL {watches him anxiously before she says). You 
 know I don't believe a word of it. 
 
 MOWBRAY {presses her hand gratefully, not looking at 
 her as he says). What do they say ? 
 
 ISABEL. You know the way men argue. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Yes, yes ! 
 
 ISABEL. They go by little bits of evidence — pocket- 
 handkerchiefs and bags and things of that sort, instead 
 of by what they know. They've piled up a whole 
 mountain of what they call evidence — ^things you've 
 said and done at different times, probably without think- 
 ing — and when I tell them it's all ridiculous, they call 
 me emotional. Oh, I'm glad I'm not a man ! 
 
 MOWBRAY. Are they going to take any sort of pro- 
 ceedings ? 
 
 ISABEL. I don't know. But you will clear yourself, 
 won't you ?
 
 58 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MOWBRAY. I must. 
 
 ISABEL. I can't bear to hear such things said of you. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I will clear myself. 
 
 ISABEL. That's right. {Moves away.) Then there's 
 another thing. {He looks askance at her.) Mother's 
 going to discharge one of the maids. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Oh ! 
 
 ISABEL. There's no evidence against her. It's all 
 so silly. Father suspecting you, and mother, Pipkin. 
 Aren't people dreadful ? 
 
 (DAVID enters, isabel turns to him, smiling 
 affectionately.) 
 
 ISABEL. Well, David, have you finished packing ? 
 {Turns to mowbray.) Now, do go and see them. They 
 are somewhere in the garden. 
 
 MOWBRAY {quietly, but firmly). I want to speak to 
 David first. 
 
 ISABEL. No, afterwards. David and I haven't long 
 to be together. He'll have to go to his train soon. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I must spcak to David now. 
 
 DAVID. Won't it do afterwards, Frank ? 
 
 MOWBRAY {with authority). No, now. 
 
 ISABEL {impressed with the authority of his tone). If 
 it's so important. Don't keep him long. 
 
 {Goes out.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. Since you went out they've been trying 
 again to solve the mystery of who stole the necklace. 
 
 DAVID {trying to conceal his dismay). I thought they 
 were going to let it drop. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Mrs. Jardine is going to discharge one of 
 the maids. 
 
 DAVID. Oh, I'm sorry. 
 
 MOWBRAY {carelessly, to put him off his guard). Why 
 are you sorry ? 
 
 DAVID. Well — if she's innocent. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I didn't say she was. {Goes nearer to t>ayit>.) 
 I suppose you don't know if she's innocent or guilty ? 
 
 DAVID. Of course not. How should I ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then you couldn't be blamed for letting 
 her go away with a ruined character ? 
 
 DAVID {uneasy under mowbray's gaze). Of course I 
 couldn't. I say, you must excuse me. Isabel is waiting 
 for me. {Goes towards the door.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 59 
 
 MOWBRAY. The Colonel suspects some one else. 
 DAVID {stopping at the door). Who ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Me. 
 
 DAVID {taken aback). You ? But — {coming towards 
 MOWBRAY) can't you clear yourself ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. How do you know I'm not guilty ? 
 
 DAVID. That's absurd. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You Say you don't know how the necklace 
 got in that bowl ? 
 
 DAVID. I said I didn't know it was there. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I did — according to circumstantial evi- 
 dence. You'd think me rather a cad if I said nothing 
 and let the poor girl be ruined — wouldn't you ? 
 
 DAVID {reluctantly). Yes. 
 
 MOWBRAY. When I saw you looking there — for 
 matches — By the way, what did you want a match 
 for? 
 
 DAVID. To light my cigarette. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You hadn't got one. 
 
 DAVID. I was getting a match first. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I never heard of any one getting his match 
 before he got his cigarette. 
 
 DAVID. I can't explain the reason for every little 
 thing I do. 
 
 MOWBRAY {assuming an easy manner, to put david ojf 
 his guard). If they come and ask me awkward questions, 
 I suppose you wouldn't mind me telling them why I 
 looked in the bowl. 
 
 DAVID {uneasily). No — only {Pauses.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. Only what ? 
 
 DAVID. I was only thinking it might make it look a 
 Ijit queer for me. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Why ? Even if you'd been found with 
 the necklace in your hands, as / was, you'd be beyond 
 suspicion. 
 
 DAVID. Yes — I hope so. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Yes, because you left the house before it 
 was last seen, and didn't come back till after it was 
 stolen. 
 
 DAVID. Yes — I know. 
 
 MOWBRAY {sternly). You told me you were in the 
 house yesterday afternoon when there was nobody 
 about.
 
 60 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 DAVID {taken aback, but still trying to bluff). Well ? 
 That's no proof of anything. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I'm not going to have my character 
 blackened for something I didn't do. 
 
 DAVID. But I shouldn't think they'll charge you with 
 it? 
 
 MOWBRAY. They'll gossip about it. I may have to 
 bring an action for slander. 
 
 DAVID. I shouldn't do that. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You'll be abroad when I do. 
 
 DAVID. What have / got to do with it ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. I thought I might count on you to vouch 
 for my good character. 
 
 DAVID. Yes — of course. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then let us go out and see the detective 
 now. {Goes towards the window, then stops and turns to 
 DAVID.) Will you come ? 
 
 DAVID. No. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Why not ? 
 
 DAVID. You needn't take any notice of this. They 
 won't do anything, and it'll all die down soon. 
 
 MOWBRAY {looking steadily at david). Are you quite 
 satisfied to have the maid discharged ? 
 
 DAVID {losing his self- control). Why do you look at 
 me like that ? You keep your eyes on me every minute 
 — as if you suspected me. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You've denied all knowledge of it. 
 
 DAVID. Isn't that enough ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Have I always found you so truthful ? 
 (david quails before him, then sinks into an arm-chair.) 
 David, if you confess to me now anything that in- 
 criminates you — I'll do what I can to shield you. Unless 
 these charges increase till I'm forced to defend myself 
 before the world, I'll take no notice of them, although 
 Isabel has urged me to dispel them, and God knows what 
 she'll think of me if I don't. Now, although they may 
 have enough evidence to arrest me, they'll need a good 
 deal more to convict me. This will be a big case, — the ji 
 kind of case the whole country watches and reads about. '' 
 You'll be drawn into it, because I shall be compelled to 
 explain why I looked in that bowl. It will not be 
 difficult to find witnesses to testify what train you came 
 down by yesterday — not the one you said. It may not
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 61 
 
 be hard to find some one who saw you enter the house 
 while we were all out, for I shall not scruple to say in 
 my own defence that you had told me you were here 
 then, knowing that if you are innocent you have nothing 
 to fear. Then they'll look into our past lives — mine and 
 yours. They'll examine your record to see if you have 
 a reputation for truth and honesty — 
 
 DAVID {completely breaking down). Frank ! Don't 
 go on ! I did it. Oh, why did you tell that story ? 
 It was that made me think of it — that story about a 
 man who stole some diamonds and was never found out. 
 It stuck in my mind so. I'd gone to pieces anyway. 
 I'd been drinking and lost all my money — and I was so 
 jealous of you and Isabel. When I came in yesterday 
 I could see you both from my window — laughing together. 
 When I came out of my room I passed Mrs. Gorringe's 
 door. It was open a little way, and I remembered her 
 saying how she left her things about, and that story 
 about the man who was never found out came back and 
 possessed me. When I pushed the door I could see the 
 things lying there — and it seemed so easy. {He covers 
 his face with his hands, then proceeds more calmly.) I 
 came to my senses as soon as I saw you all. I thought 
 I could get it back without any one knowing. I prayed 
 for the chance to put it back. I promised Isabel I'd 
 make a fresh start — and I will — I will, — if you won't 
 tell. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I'll shield you on one condition. You 
 must give up Isabel. 
 
 DAVID {suddenly scared, says hurriedly). I can't. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You Can't marry her now. 
 
 DAVID. She won't know — no one will know. 
 
 MOWBRAY. That's not it. Whether you and I know 
 or whether the whole world knows — you fell because you 
 are dishonest. That is why you must give her up. 
 
 DAVID. I know I'm unworthy of her, but — I'm not 
 all bad. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I know that. I don't ask you to be per- 
 fect. We all have our faults. But it isn't the number 
 of his sins that mark a man — it's the kind. 
 
 DAVID {humbly). Don't you think — with this experi- 
 ence — I can be different ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. The curse of degeneracy is always there,
 
 62 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 in your mind and in your heart. It's like a taint in the 
 blood. It warps your judgement, poisons your impulses, 
 lures you into constant danger. 
 
 DAVID. But with Isabel to help me — 
 MOWBRAY. To help you — she — to give up her life to 
 you who bring her only shame and sorrow — to expose 
 her sweet nature day after day to your contamination 
 — to make her the mother of your children. No, it's 
 not to be thought of — you must not marry her. 
 DAVID. I can't give her up. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then she must know the truth. If you 
 don't break your engagement before you leave this 
 house I shall tell her that — 
 ISABEL {calls outside). David ! 
 
 (ISABEL enters, mowbray breaks off suddenly in 
 his sentence as she enters.) 
 MOWBRAY {looks at ISABEL, then says to david). Tell 
 her. 
 
 (mowbray goes out into the garden.) 
 
 ISABEL. David, it's nearly time for you to go. (david 
 
 goes towards Isabel, looks at her, breaks down and sinks 
 
 071 the sofa, sobbing. Isabel comforts him.) Don't, dear, 
 
 don't. We shan't be parted very long. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {knocks ou the door and calls with- 
 out). David ! It's time to go. 
 ISABEL. They're calling you. 
 
 COLONEL JARDixE {knocking and calling as before). 
 You'll miss the train. 
 
 (ISABEL draws david gently towards the door. He 
 folds her in his arms in a long embrace.) 
 DAVID. Isabel ! 
 
 ISABEL. Good-bye ! {He goes out ; she goes towards 
 the window, looking after him and crying.) 
 
 (mowbray enters quietly. She does not see him. 
 
 He stands and watches her sorrowfully as she 
 
 waves her handkerchief out of the window, trying 
 
 to smile. She turns from the window and sees 
 
 mowbray.) 
 
 ISABEL {drying her eyes). I'm glad you know about 
 
 David and me. I can talk to you about him. It's so 
 
 terrible to say good-bye. {Dries her eyes and recovers 
 
 her composure gradually.) But it's only for a httle while. 
 
 If they keep him long out there I shall go to join him.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 63 
 
 (mowbray betrays increasing dismay as she continues.) 
 I feel content about him now. I think it's going to be 
 all right. 
 
 (jERNiGAN enters, with an open letter in his hand.) 
 
 JERNIGAN. I've just received this letter from Mrs. 
 Gorringe. She desires me to continue my investigation. 
 
 MOWBRAY (^0 jernigan). I hear you have circum- 
 stantial evidence against me. 
 
 ISABEL. I'm glad you have this chance to clear your- 
 self. {Goes towards the door.) 
 
 JERNIGAN {to ISABEL). Plcase don't go. 
 
 MOWBRAY. I don't wish to explain before her. 
 
 JERNIGAN. I need her evidence. {To Isabel.) If 
 this matter is brought into court you will be the most 
 important witness. Please remember this, and answer 
 me now as carefully as if you were on oath. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes. 
 
 JERNIGAN. What is your Christian name ? 
 
 ISABEL. Isabel. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Single ? 
 
 ISABEL. Married. 
 
 MOWBRAY {startled). Married ? 
 
 ISABEL. I was married this morning at the Registry 
 Office to David Cairn. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Last evening when I came into this room 
 and saw you receiving the stolen necklace from Captain 
 Mowbray, did you see him take it from that bowl ? 
 
 ISABEL. No. 
 
 JERNIGAN. Thank you. {To mowbray.) What is 
 your explanation ? 
 
 mowbray {looking at isabel). Married ! {To jerni- 
 gan.) I — can't explain — 
 
 JERNIGAN. I must prcss you to do so, or it will be 
 my painful duty to take you into custody. 
 
 MOWBRAY {to himself). Married ! {Turns to jerni- 
 gan.) I decline to explain. 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE FOURTH ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The same as Acts I., II. and III. About one 
 
 minute has elapsed since Act III. 
 ISABEL is alone, distracted ivith anxiety. She draws her 
 hand across her eyes, rings the hell, goes to the writing- 
 table, sits and writes a note, places it in an envelope 
 and seals it. 
 
 (CHARLES enters.) 
 ISABEL {addressing the envelope as she speaks). Take 
 this to Mrs. Gorringe at once. She's at Miss Potts' — 
 just over the way. {Gives the letter to charles.) 
 CHARLES. Yes, miss. 
 
 (charles goes out with the letter, holding the door 
 
 open as he goes to allow colonel and mrs. 
 
 jardine to enter. Their faces express solemn 
 
 amazement. ) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. We've just heard. You could knock 
 
 me down with a feather. {She looks at the others.) 
 
 Hasn't any one anything to say ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE {in « supcrior tone). I'm not as 
 surprised as you are. I suspected it was IMowbray for 
 some time. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You always did know beforehand — 
 when it's all over. You weren't the only one who sus- 
 pected, either. Don't you remember me saying the 
 day he came, " There's something I don't like about 
 that man's eyes " ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. No ; I dou't remember you saying 
 anything of the kind. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Well, I thought it. I've heard of 
 people entertaining angels unawares, but I never heard 
 of any one entertaining a thief and a chemist's daughter 
 unawares. 
 
 64
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 65 
 
 COLONEL JARDiNE. I wondcr what we'd better do ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. There's nothing for us to do. I sup- 
 pose Black Maria will call for him in the usual way. 
 
 ISABEL. Father, I've just sent a note to Mrs. 
 Gorringe to ask her not to prosecute him. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Do you think she won't want to 
 now ? 
 
 ISABEL. I hope she won't. We shall find out when 
 she comes. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. When who comes ? 
 
 ISABEL. Mrs. Gorringe. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I'm not going to have that woman 
 coming here. 
 
 ISABEL. Mother, this is no time to think about trifles. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Triflcs ! Do you call it a trifle when 
 a shopkeeper's daughter insults your mother ? 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. My dear, you don't know that she's 
 a shopkeeper's daughter. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You don't kuow what she isn't. 
 
 ISABEL. Captain Mowbray will be taken away by the 
 detective directly. If you don't care about him, I 
 suppose you don't want to be mixed up in a public 
 scandal. It rests with Mrs. Gorringe to prevent that. 
 
 (CHARLES enters.) 
 
 CHARLES {announcing). Mrs. Gorringe. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Not at homc. 
 
 (CHARLES turns to go.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Wait a minute, Charles. {Goes 
 to his wife.) My dear, Mrs. Gorringe knows something 
 else against Mowbray. Now we ought to find out what 
 it is, so I think you'd better apologise. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I sliall uot apologisc. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. We shall never find out what she 
 knows if you don't. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {after a moment's reflection says to 
 CHARLES). At home. 
 
 (CHARLES goes OUt.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. As it may be something of a 
 private nature, I'll leave you and Isabel to get it out of 
 
 her 
 
 (colonel JARDINE gocs out into the garden. Enter 
 
 CHARLES.) 
 
 CHARLES. Mrs. Gorringe. 
 
 VOL. I F
 
 66 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 (MRS. GORRiNGE enters, a little nervous as to how 
 she will he received, charles goes out.) 
 
 MRS. JARDiNE {meeting mrs. gorringe with great 
 cordiality). Dear INIrs. Gorringe, I told Isabel to ask you 
 to come so that I might tell you how much I regret our 
 quarrel. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. Dear Mrs. Jardine, it was all my 
 fault. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. No, no. / was entirely to blame. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. Oh, now, I won't hear you say that. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You must try to forgive me. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Indeed, it is you who must try to 
 forgive me, may I say Emily ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I wish you would — er — {'puzzles a 
 moment.) What's your name ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Rose. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. What a pretty name ! {Sits on the 
 sofa, drawing mrs. gorringe down beside her.) Now, 
 Rosie — what's the other thing you know against this 
 Captain Mowbray ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {verging on a nervous breakdown 
 throughout the scene). I'll tell you presently. 
 
 ISABEL. Are you going to prosecute Captain Mow- 
 bray ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I'll comc to that directly. I can't 
 tell you what I felt when I got Isabel's letter. My 
 head" all went dizzy and my heart fluttered like a 
 bird. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You Can't liavc been surprised to hear 
 this man Mowbray had been arrested, after what you 
 knew. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I've hardly had time to realise if I 
 was sui-prised or not. My knees are quivering like aspen 
 leaves. 
 
 ISABEL. But you won't prosecute, will you ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Give me a little time to get over the 
 shock. I was in a state of palpitation anj^vay, — after 
 the words we had. (mrs. jardine pats mrs. gorringe 
 forgivingly.) I'd run all the way to Miss Potts's — perhaps 
 not quite all the way — but most of the way — in nothing 
 but my house-shoes and a hat. Oh, dear ! It's begin- 
 ning again. {Puts her hand to her heart and closes her 
 eyes.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 67 
 
 ISABEL. The salts. {Takes a bottle of salts from a 
 table.) 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE (vecovers in a moment and goes on 
 volubly). When I got to Miss Potts's I rang the bell. 
 Jane came to the door, or was it Minnie ? My head's 
 going round and round so I can't even remember who 
 came to the door. 
 
 ISABEL (exasperated). Never mind who came to the 
 door. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Oh, don't say that, Isabel. My 
 nerves are so upset. There ! You've made it begin 
 again. {Closes her eyes and lays her hand on her heart.) 
 
 MRS. JARDiNE. We sliall never find out what Mowbray 
 did, at this rate. 
 
 (ISABEL applies the salts to mrs. gorringe's nose 
 so suddenly that mrs. gorringe screams.) 
 
 MRS. gorringe. Thank you, dear. I believe I should 
 have swooned if I hadn't had that sniff. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Now, tell US about Mowbray. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Yes. Where was I ? Oh. After 
 I'd written that letter to Mr. Jernigan we went upstairs. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Who ? You and Mowbray ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No. Miss Potts and I. Miss Potts 
 poured out some water and said, " There, dear, bathe 
 your eyes." And I said, " Thank you, dear, and if you 
 could lend me a comb I should be so grateful, as I've 
 brought nothing with me." 
 
 ISABEL {exasperated). Mrs. Gorringe ! 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Don't interrupt me, dear ; I shall 
 lose the thread. 
 
 ISABEL. There's no time to waste. Are you going to 
 prosecute or are you not ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Now I'vc lost it. I don't know 
 where I was. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. You wcrc in Miss Potts's bedroom. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs. And whilc I was trying to 
 make myself fit to be seen — all of a sudden 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Mowbray came in. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No — uot Mowbray. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {exasperated). Well, where does Mow- 
 bray come in ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I'll tell you presently. I can't 
 speak more than one word at once. Minnie or Jane, or
 
 68 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 whichever of them it was, came in with Isabel's letter. 
 I can't tell you what I felt. My head went all dizzy and 
 my heart fluttered like a bird. 
 
 MRS. JARDiNE. Ycs, ycs — {losing her temper) and 
 
 your knees quivered like aspen leaves. Oh 
 
 {Moves away from mrs. gorringe.) 
 
 ISABEL. I'll get the detective to her. 
 
 (ISABEL goes out quickly.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {looking after Isabel). I'm afraid 
 Isabel doesn't like me. (Rising.) I really must go to 
 the chemist and get a nerve tonic. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE (pricking up her ears). The chemist ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Yes. I woiidcr which is the best one 
 to go to. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. I should havc thought you could tell 
 me that. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Why ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Ncvcr mind the chemist ; let us pre- 
 pare a little statement for the detective. (Sits at the 
 writing-table, takes a pen and paper.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Oh, uo, no. If I havc to undergo 
 any more of those searching questions, I shall lose my 
 reason. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. It wou't take long. (Writing as she 
 speaks.) Birthplace Ipswich. (Turns to mrs. gorringe.) 
 Father's name ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Arnold Pilkington. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Occupation ? (Looks searchingly at 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (losiug her head). What do they call 
 
 them ?— Che— Che 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Cliemist ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE (ou her dignity). No. County 
 Councillor. Papa's the Mayor of Ipswich. 
 
 (ISABEL enters, followed by jernigan. About the 
 same time, colonel jardine enters from the 
 garden.) 
 ISABEL (to MRS. gorringe). Plcasc tell Mr. Jernigan 
 if you intend to prosecute or not. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Of coursc I dou't Want any one to go 
 to prison. 
 
 ISABEL (to jernigan). There ! You see ! She 
 won't !
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 69 
 
 JERNIGAN {to MRS. gorringe). Ill your letter you 
 instructed me to arrest whomever I suspected. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Ycs — bccausc — — {laughing as she 
 goes towards mrs. jardine) You know you said they 
 suspected you. 
 
 MRS. jardine {indignantly). Me ? What next ! 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE {laugMng as she explains to jernigan). 
 I ought to tell you that Mrs. Jardine and I had a tiff 
 this morning, and — well, I was so put out I felt ready to 
 do anything to annoy her. {Turns to mrs. jardine. 
 They laugh together, mrs. jardine's laughter is a good 
 deal forced.) 
 
 jernigan. This question of prosecution doesn't affect 
 Mrs. Jardine, but Captain Mowbray. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. All ! He was very rude to me. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {eagerly). Ask her what he did, Mr. 
 Jernigan. 
 
 JERNIGAN. What is it you know against him ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Well — wc Were standing about there 
 — no, there. {Points to the carpet near her feet.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Wlio ? You and Miss Potts ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. No. Captain Mowbray and I. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE. Wc've come to Mowbray at last. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Don't interrupt her. Now, what 
 did he say ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. You pi'omise you won't tell Mr. 
 Gorringe ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {whccdUng MRS. GORRINGE). NoW, 
 
 Rosie — trust Emily. 
 
 (mrs. GORRINGE patS MRS. JARDINE 071 the chcck. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE is intensely annoyed by this 
 familiarity.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Well 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Out with it. We're all waiting to 
 hear what he said. 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. I dou't rcmcmbcr what he said, but 
 I said 
 
 OMNES. Yes — yes — well ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. " I hopc I shall ucvcr forget my 
 duty to Mr. Gorringe and the children." 
 
 {Draws herself up and looks round at the others, 
 very well satisfied with herself.) 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {eagerly). What had he done ?
 
 70 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 MRS. GORRiNGE. Nothing. 
 
 MRS. JARDiNE. Well — what did he do ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Notllhlg. 
 
 MRS. JARDiXE. Is that the whole story ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. YeS. 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {turning angrily from mrs. gorrtnge, 
 and marching towards her husband). And you made me 
 apologise to her to hear that. 
 
 {All their backs are turned to mrs. gorringe, hut 
 she does not perceive this as she rambles on.) 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. That shows you the kind of a man he 
 
 is He's the sort of man to lead a woman on and 
 
 make her say things that — well, I don't think I know 
 
 you well enough to explain {She looks at the others 
 
 and sees that no one is paying any attention to her.) If 
 you've all done with me, I'll go. 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Don't go, Mrs. Gorringe. Now 
 that you and Emily have kissed and made friends, why 
 don't you stay and finish your visit ? 
 
 MRS. JARDINE {pulls the ColoYieVs coat-tails, as she 
 interposes herself between him and mrs. gorringe). 
 Christopher ! How inconsiderate of you ! Of course, 
 dear Rosie, we should love to have you \vith us, but 
 I'm sure you'd have hysterics all night long in that 
 room. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. Oh, I know I should. Did I ever 
 tell you how I came in and closed the door ? It's as 
 if the dressing-table were there — {Points to the window.) 
 No, there. {Points somewhere else.) And the door — 
 {Coming towards the door.) 
 
 COLONEL and mrs. jardine {quickly, together). Yes, 
 you showed us. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. Oh, of course. You were in the room 
 when I was telling Mr. Jernigan. Good-bye. {Shakes 
 hands with mrs. jardine.) 
 
 MRS. jardine. Good-bye. 
 
 MRS. gorringe. Good-bye. {Shakes hands with col- 
 onel jardine.) 
 
 colonel jardine. Good-bye. 
 
 ISABEL. Are you going back to Miss Potts ? 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE. Oh, uo, dear. I'm going back to 
 Mr. Gorringe and the children. 
 
 (MRS. GORRINGE gOCS OUt.)
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 71 
 
 MRS. JARDiNE. Comc, Chiistopher, let us speed the 
 parting guest. 
 
 (MRS. JARDINE gOCS OUt after MRS. GORRINGE.) 
 
 COLONEL JARDINE. Certainly. You always were a 
 model hostess. 
 
 (colonel JARDINE goes out after mrs. jardine and 
 
 MRS. GORRINGE.) 
 
 jernigan. I must go back to Captain Mowbray. 
 
 ISABEL. As Mrs. Gorringe knows nothing against him, 
 and won't prosecute — you can release him, can't you ? 
 
 jernigan. If she won't prosecute — I must. 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, no. 
 
 jernigan. I believe a felony has been committed. 
 Captain Mowbray has practically confessed. It is my 
 duty to arrest him. 
 
 ISABEL. But you'll ruin him — you will, indeed. I 
 know he didn't do it. The necklace is found. There's 
 no harm done. 
 
 jernigan {unmoved, hut not harshly). My work 
 accustoms me to scenes like this. I have seen so many 
 women weep and pray for mercy that I have become 
 hardened. {Turns to the door.) 
 
 ISABEL {quietly). I would like to speak to him before 
 you go — only a few words, but alone. Please don't 
 refuse me that. It's only to say good-bye. 
 
 jernigan. It's a violation of my duty, but I feel I 
 can trust you. 
 
 (jernigan goes out.) 
 
 ISABEL. What can we do ? {Enter captain mow- 
 BRAY.) I'm so sure this is all a mistake. Can't you 
 tell me ? I'll keep your secret. 
 
 MOWBRAY. It's best as it is. 
 
 ISABEL. But if they send you to prison. Oh, think — 
 {She is overcome with emotion.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. They won't send me to prison. There'll 
 be a trial, most likely, but I think I shall get off. 
 
 ISABEL. Then you admit it's a mistake ? 
 
 MOWBRAY {momentarily confused). I — I — You said 
 yesterday you trusted me. 
 
 ISABEL. More than any man. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Then — trust me still. 
 
 ISABEL. I do. But you leave me so in the dark. I 
 thought you'd explain it to me, — just me. {He turns
 
 72 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 silently away.) If you can't — {Giving vent to her 
 emotion.) Oh, I can't bear it. To see you taken away 
 like a criminal — if they'd only take nie instead of you ! 
 If only / could bear the shame we've somehow brought 
 on you to-day — {Falters.) My wedding-day. {Breaks 
 down.) 
 
 MOWBRAY {comes towards her, speaking tenderly and 
 sorrowfully). Yes, poor child, your wedding-day, but 
 brighter days will come, and soon you'll forget that your 
 wedding-bells never rang. 
 
 ISABEL {broke7ily). It isn't that I care about. 
 
 MOWBRAY. No. I know, but Fd pictured your wed- 
 ding-day so differently. 
 
 ISABEL. You know why I married David, — you, only 
 you. You know I don't regret it, and I think he's 
 going to turn out well now. But I can't realise that 
 we are married. We spoke a few hurried words in the 
 Registry Office — that was all. It hasn't made any 
 difference to me yet. And David isn't in danger and 
 you are. I must place you first now. {Seeing his 
 emotion as she looks into his eyes.) Do I make it harder 
 for you ? 
 
 MOWBRAY {with exaltation). No — no — so much easier. 
 
 ISABEL {innocently). How can / make it easier ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. Because whatever my life is now — and it's 
 likely to be lonely — I shall always remember that for 
 one moment you placed me first in yours. 
 
 ISABEL {innocently, putting her face near to his). Will 
 that make it easier ? 
 
 MO^VBRAY {looks iuto her face, then draws hack sud- 
 denly). Don't tempt me. You know what I mean. 
 I've wasted the best years of my life — an exile — working 
 to grow rich — for you. And then — when I thought I'd 
 won you — to see you snatched from me — by a boy. 
 {She turns away.) Forgive me. Don't make me feel 
 ashamed of myself. {She gives him her hands.) If ever 
 we meet again we shall both be loyal to David. And 
 if we never meet— perhaps the pain will grow less in 
 time — and I shall be glad to think you know how sweet 
 your memory will be to me. I shall often see your kind 
 eyes smiling — and hear your voice, — Good-bye. 
 
 ISABEL. Good-bye. 
 
 (ISABEL goes out slowly, closing the door after her.
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 73 
 
 DAVID enters suddenly from, the garden. His 
 face is drawn and white. He seems on the 
 verge of nervous prostration.) 
 
 DAVID. Frank ! 
 
 MOWBRAY. David ! 
 
 DAVID. You mustn't do this for me. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Why are you here ? 
 
 DAVID. To give myself up. 
 
 MOWBRAY. How did you hear about it ? 
 
 DAVID. The servant said you'd been arrested. 
 
 MOWBRAY. But why did you come ? 
 
 DAVID. Because I'm not fit to be in the army. I'm 
 not fit to look the other fellows in the face. I thought 
 they could all see it in my face. Isn't it there ? Can't 
 every one see it ? 
 
 MOWBRAY {laying his hand firmly on david). David, 
 you've got to think of Isabel. 
 
 DAVID. Isabel ! {Sinks into a chair sobbing.) 
 
 MOWBRAY {firmly). Pull yourself together, man. 
 She mustn't see this. 
 
 DAVID. She's got to know the truth. 
 
 MOWBRAY. She must never know it. Forget the 
 past. 
 
 DAVID. I can't. 
 
 MOWBRAY. You must. Brand yourself, you dis- 
 honour her. Think what that means, some of her friends 
 shunning her, some pitying her — all humiliating her. 
 If you confess now, she will have to live in the glare of 
 your crime. Don't bring her to that. Think man, 
 think — Grip hold of yourself and think. 
 
 DAVID. I can't let you suffer for me. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Don't think of me. Think of the girl you 
 married this morning. She placed all her life in your 
 keeping. Oh, take care of it, take care of it. 
 
 DAVID. It's too late. 
 
 MOWBRAY. It's not too late. You're a boy yet. 
 You've made a bad start, but you can get over that. 
 Begin again, your life is before you. The past is only 
 to warn you, not to make you despair. Begin again ; 
 say, " I will conquer," and you can. No man succeeds 
 by accident. It's by faith and self-control, and hard 
 work, and it's worth it. It's worth everything to be 
 your own master and not your own slave. Begin again
 
 74 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 at once, and don't delay. That's why people fail, 
 because they put off making that first big effort. Make 
 yours now. Be strong, (david breaks down.) She 
 mustn't see you like this ; I'll detain her while you pull 
 yourself together. Look forward, lad— there's always 
 hope ahead. You repent, there's hope in that, and 
 you're not going out alone, you're going to face the 
 world with a true woman. And with youth, and hope 
 and faith, and Isabel — why, damn it, you can triumph 
 over everything. 
 
 (MOWBRAY goes OUt.) 
 
 DAVID [hopelessly). The curse is always there in my 
 mind and heart. I'm tainted — Oh ! Isabel ! (Rises 
 with determination.) I won't bring her dishonour, I'll 
 set her free. There's only one way — I'll do it — I'll 
 do it. {Goes to the writing-table, sits down, and writes a 
 letter in feverish haste. His voice breaks as he says.) 
 And now, good-bye — Isabel. Good-bye. {Puts the letter 
 in the envelope, addresses it.) For Isabel. 
 
 (CHARLES enters as if looking for some one.) 
 
 DAVID. Who are you looking for ? 
 
 CHARLES. Miss Isabel, sir. 
 
 DAVID. Here, (charles comes to david, who hands 
 him the letter.) Give her that — in five minutes. 
 
 CHARLES {takes the letter). I'll give it to her now, sir. 
 
 DAVID {angrily). Not now. Have you no sense ? 
 
 CHARLES. Beg pardon, sir. In five minutes. {Turns 
 to the door.) 
 
 DAVID. Charles, (charles comes to him.) I didn't 
 mean to speak angrily to you. I mean, — I don't want 
 
 those to be my last words. Here {Feels in his 
 
 pockets, takes out some coins and gives them to charles.) 
 
 CHARLES {taking the money). Thank you, sir. 
 
 DAVID {puts his hand on charles' shoulder as he 
 speaks). Don't make a mess of your life, Charles. 
 
 (charles goes out and closes the door, david takes 
 a revolver from his pocket, examines it, then goes 
 out into the garden. Enter Isabel and captain 
 
 MOWBRAY.) 
 
 ISABEL. I thought you said David was here. 
 MOWBRAY. I left him here. 
 
 (ISABEL rings the bell.) 
 ISABEL. But why should he come back ?
 
 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 75 
 
 MOWBRAY. He's awfully broken up about me. 
 
 ISABEL. How could he know ? It all happened after 
 he left. 
 
 MOWBRAY. He knew the suspicion was on me. 
 
 ISABEL {as if struck by an inspiration). Oh ! {Goes 
 quickly to mowbray.) Are you doing this to shield — 
 anybody ? 
 
 ( CHARLES enters, holding the letter.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. Where is Mr. Cairn ? 
 
 CHARLES. He was here just now. 
 
 MOWBRAY. Did he say anything about going away ? 
 
 CHARLES. No, sir. 
 
 ISABEL {noticing the letter in charles' hand). What's 
 that letter ? 
 
 CHARLES. He said I wasn't to give it you for five 
 minutes. It must be five minutes now. {Hands the 
 letter to Isabel.) 
 
 (CHARLES goes OUt.) 
 
 MOWBRAY {trying to stop her opening it). Don't read 
 it! 
 
 ISABEL. I must. 
 
 MOWBRAY. No. 
 
 ISABEL. Yes, I begin to see. {Opens the letter and 
 reads aloud.) " I stole the necklace when you were all 
 
 out yesterday afternoon If you don't believe this, 
 
 I daresay you can find out at the station what train I 
 came by — when I came to the house about three o'clock, 
 the gardener saw me." {Her face expresses horror. 
 Then she looks up and says firmly.) They must all see 
 this. 
 
 MOWBRAY. No, destroy it. 
 
 ISABEL. Oh, how could he let you take it on yourself ? 
 
 MOWBRAY. I made him do it. I shall get off all 
 right, but he wouldn't. He'd be ruined. {Trying to 
 take the letter from her.) Destroy it. 
 
 ISABEL. Wait. There's more yet. {Turns over the 
 page and reads.) " Frank loves you — " {Stops short, 
 reading the rest to herself, her horror giving way to alarm.) 
 Oh ! {Drops the letter.) 
 
 (mowbray picks it up and reads it.) 
 
 MOWBRAY. " Frank loves you. I hope you will 
 marry him some day. When you get this letter you will 
 be free, so it will be no use to try and stop me. I know
 
 76 MRS. GORRINGE'S NECKLACE 
 
 now that you will only find happiness after my death." 
 {Runs to the window, jernigan meets mowbray at the 
 window and whispers to him.) Dead ! ! (jernigan 
 disappears.) Oh, poor David ! 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 COUSIN KATE 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 77
 
 COPY or THE "FIRST NIGHT" PROGRAMME 
 AT THE 
 
 HAYMARKET THEATRE, LONDON 
 COUSIN KATE 
 
 A NEW COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 HUBERT HENRY DAVIES 
 
 PERFOKMED FOR THE FIRST TIME 
 ON THURSDAY EVENING, JUNE 18, 1903 
 
 Heath Desmond 
 Rev. James Bartlett 
 Bobby Spencer 
 Mrs. Spencer 
 Amy Spencer 
 Jane 
 Kate Curtis 
 
 Mr. Cyril Maude 
 Mr. Rudge Harding 
 Master Cyril Smith 
 Miss Carlotta Addison 
 Miss Beatrice Ferrar 
 Miss Pamela Gaythorne 
 Miss Ellis Jeffreys 
 
 The action takes place in a rural district of England, and covers 
 a period of about five hours 
 
 Acts I. & HI. — Drawing-room at Mrs. Spencer's Walter Hann 
 Act n. — The Sitting-roota at " Owlscot " Walter Hann 
 
 78
 
 COUSIN KATE 
 
 THE FIRST ACT 
 
 SCENE. — A drazving-room at mrs. spencer's. There 
 is a door on the left-hand side and a French window 
 ojyposite the audience. It is a cheerful room, used as 
 a general sitting-room, with simple and rather old- 
 fashioned furniture. The window is wide open and 
 shows a pretty country garden in mid-summer. There 
 is a large oval table near the centre, with books and a 
 howl of flowers upon it. A writing-table against the 
 wall near the door. A sofa, several chairs and other 
 suitable furniture to complete scene; pictures and 
 brackets on the wall. A picture over the writing-table 
 represents a girl feeding pigeons. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER is Seated on the sofa, sewing, with a capaci- 
 ous work-basket by her side. She is a middle-aged 
 widow, a gentlewoman who has always lived in the 
 country and is unsophisticated in the ways of the 
 world. By nature she is soft and affectionate, tactless, 
 and with no force of character. She is well, but not 
 stylishly, dressed. 
 
 AMY SPENCER, her daughter, is seated in an armchair doing 
 nothing. She is a pretty girl of twenty, ivell, but 
 plainly, dressed. She is a serious girl, practical and 
 without imagination or hu?nour ; very honestly trying 
 to do her duty — ahvays very sincere and unaffected. 
 
 BOBBY SPENCER, Amy' s brother, a boy of fourteen, is 
 seated at the table reading ; his book and elbows are 
 on the table and his head clasped between his hands. 
 He wears a flannel shirt and trousers, a dark coat and 
 canvas shoes. 
 
 79 
 
 I
 
 80 COUSIN KATE 
 
 From the serious demeanour of the Spencers when the 
 curtain rises, it is evident that something is weighing 
 heavily upon them, amy listlessly turns her engage- 
 m,ent ring round on her finger, then takes it off and 
 examines it, without noticing the others. When she 
 takes it off, mrs. spencer watches her furtively over 
 her work, and bobby steals a glance at her. amy 
 replaces the ring. mrs. spencer and bobby con- 
 tinue sewing and reading, amy rises, goes to the 
 window and looks off. As soon as amy's hack is 
 turned, mrs. spencer drops her work and watches her. 
 BOBBY also looks up from his hook and watches her ; 
 then MRS. spencer and bobby look at each other. 
 AMY turns from the window and glances at the others, 
 who continue sewing and reading and pretend not to 
 he watching her. amy goes out and closes the door. 
 As soon as she has gone, mrs. spencer lays her work 
 down beside her, takes out her handkerchief and dries 
 her eyes, bobby pushes his hook away and leans 
 back in his chair. 
 
 MRS. spencer. Poor Amy ! 
 
 BOBBY. I'd like to kill him. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. He may have had some good reason 
 for going away. I try to believe so. 
 
 BOBBY. But wouldn't he have told her if he had, 
 instead of leaving her like this without a word ? He's 
 had two days to tell her in. We may as well make up 
 our minds that he's gone for good. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {with a fresh hurst of tears). Oh, it's 
 terrible to see her going about the house so pale and 
 quiet. If she'd only talk about it, but she won't. She 
 feels the humihation so. {Wipes her eyes.) 
 
 BOBBY. I can't help thinking / ought to do some- 
 thing ! 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (sorrowfully). What could you do ? 
 
 BOBBY. If I knew where he was, I might go for him. 
 Of course, he could lick me, but I might land him a 
 punch or two on his beastly jaw first — and that 'ud be 
 somethin' ! {Gloomily.) It's sittin' still and doin' 
 nothin' that's so a^\^ul. I ought to be doin' somethin' — 
 because — well — I'm the only man in our family. 
 
 {There is a knock on the door ; mrs. spencer
 
 COUSIN KATE 81 
 
 quickly 7'esumes her work, trying to look com- 
 jjosed.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Come in. 
 
 (jane, a country servant maid, with a perpetual 
 grin, enters with a parcel.) 
 
 JANE. Is Miss Amy 'ere ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. She just went out. What have you 
 there, Jane ? 
 
 JANE. I think it's another wedding present, mum. 
 Miss 'Orner left it. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Miss Homer ? 
 
 JANE. The 'ousemaid at Darbisher's, mum. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, from Mrs. Darbisher. Please put 
 it on the table. 
 
 JANE. Yes, mum. {Lays the parcel on the table.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {as JANE gocs to the door). Don't disturb 
 Miss Amy. I'll tell her. 
 
 JANE. Yes, mum. 
 
 (jane goes out ; mrs. spencer goes to the table, 
 takes up the parcel and looks at it.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I'd better put it where Amy won't 
 see it. {Puts the parcel in a drawer of the writing-table.) 
 I don't think Jane knows yet that there's anything the 
 matter. 
 
 BOBBY {watching his mother). We might as well tell 
 everybody. He won't come back, and it might stop the 
 presents comin'. {Nearly crying.) I can't bear it when 
 the presents come. {Turns quickly to window to hide his 
 emotion, mrs. spencer goes back to the sofa and resumes 
 her sewing.) 
 
 MRS. spencer. It'll be better when Cousin Kate 
 comes. 
 
 BOBBY. What can she do ? 
 
 MRS. spencer. I don't know, but I always have a 
 feeling that things will be better when Cousin Kate 
 comes. 
 
 BOBBY {going nearer to the window as if he sees some one 
 approaching). Here's Mr. Bartlett. {Turns to his mother.) 
 Shall I go and say you won't see him ? 
 
 MRS. spencer {dropping her work). No, I asked him 
 to call. 
 
 BOBBY. Are you goin' to tell him ? 
 
 MRS. spencer. Yes, I must. You see, he's going on 
 
 VOL. I G
 
 82 COUSIN KATE 
 
 with the arrangements at the church. {There is a knock 
 at the door.) Come in. 
 
 (jane enters.) 
 JANE. Mr. Bartlett, mum. 
 
 (MRS. SPENCER j^^dces her work and basket on the 
 
 table. THE REV. JAMES BARTLETT, a SCrioUS 
 
 young Anglican clergyman, enters. He is about 
 thirty-Jive, rather stiff, and pompous, and 
 always very much in earnest. His oratorical 
 and platitudinous style of talking has become 
 natural through habit. He quite sincerely does 
 what he thinks is right, but he can't see through 
 himself. He always employs a genial manner 
 in greeting people, but geniality is not natural to 
 him.) 
 BARTLETT. Good aftcrnoon, Mrs. Spencer. {He shakes 
 hands with her.) 
 
 (jane goes out. BOBBY shakcs hands with mr. 
 
 BARTLETT.) 
 
 BOBBY {lugubriously). How d'you do, Mr. Bartlett ? 
 
 BARTLETT {in Ms genial manner — patting bobby on 
 the back). Well, Robert, how are the holiday tasks 
 going ? 
 
 bobby. Not very well. 
 
 BARTLETT. Too much crickct, eh ? 
 
 bobby {with a sigh). No — it isn't that. {Turns 
 away.) 
 
 (mr. BARTLETT scats Mmsclf in an armchair and 
 addresses mrs. spencer.) 
 
 BARTLETT. Wc'vc just been practising the wedding 
 hymn. The boys really give a capital rendering of 
 " The voice that breathed o'er Eden." 
 
 MRS. spencer {embarrassed, trying to control her 
 emotion ; bobby watching her). Mr. Bartlett, we are in 
 great trouble. {She pauses, bartlett instaritly drops 
 the genial manner and leans forward in the attitude of 
 professional symjjathiser.) Amy will not be married the 
 day after to-morrow. {Beginning to weep.) Mr. Des- 
 mond has gone away. {She pauses to wipe her eyes 
 before proceeding.) 
 
 BARTLETT {not quitc Understanding). Gone away ? 
 
 BOBBY {bitterly). He's jilted her — the cad. 
 
 BARTLETT {sincerely but professionally to mrs.
 
 COUSIN KATE 83 
 
 spencer). May I say that I sympathise with you most 
 deeply in this visitation ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {recovering herself). Thank you. I was 
 sure you would. I don't know what to think of it all. 
 Mr. Desmond was here as usual on Sunday evening, and 
 he said nothing about going away, but when Bobby went 
 round to his lodgings on Monday morning, they told him 
 he had packed his things and gone. 
 
 BARTLETT. He seut you no explanation ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. No — and he left no address. 
 
 BARTLETT. Have you taken any steps to find out 
 where he went ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. No. I thought it would hardly be- 
 come us to go after him if he wishes to leave us. Per- 
 haps I was wrong. I don't know what to do. I'm 
 afraid we are rather a helpless little family ; but we've 
 never had to face anything like this before. {Dries her 
 eyes again.) 
 
 BARTLETT. Let US hope that though your way now 
 seems so dark it may ultimately prove to be all for the 
 best. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Ycs, but two days before the wed- 
 ding {Weeps again.) 
 
 BOBBY {sorrowfully). She's got her dress and veil and 
 everythin', and the cake came this morning. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Their home is almost ready for them. 
 He wouldn't go away now if he meant to marry 
 Amy. 
 
 BARTLETT. It's Very lamentable — very lamentable. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {cheering up a bit). It will be better 
 when Cousin Kate comes. 
 
 BOBBY. Mr. Bartlett doesn't know who Cousin Kate 
 is, mother. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. My cousiu, Miss Curtis. She is coming 
 on a visit. She was coming to the wedding. She 
 doesn't know yet — of course. We are all very fond of 
 her, and she's seen us through many a trouble. When 
 my dear husband died, and Amy and I were prostrate 
 with grief, she came and did everything for us. I don't 
 know what we should do without Cousin Kate. 
 
 BOBBY. She lives in London. She writes novels. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I think you told me that you had read 
 some of her books.
 
 84 COUSIN KATE 
 
 BARTLETT {stiffening with disapprobation). I have. 
 MRS. SPENCER {simplij). She isn't at all like her books. 
 She's very nice. 
 
 BOBBY. Yes, she's jolly. She used to play cricket 
 with me when I was a kid. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. She's bccH like an elder sister to these 
 children — and to me too. {Observing bartlett's stiff 
 attitude.) I'm afraid you don't approve of her books, 
 by your face. 
 
 BARTLETT. I fouud her cynical attitude towards love 
 and marriage very distressing. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I don't pretend to be a critic, and I 
 couldn't make head or tail of Kate's last book, but no 
 one could help loving her. She is so unselfish and 
 affectionate — wayward and impulsive too. When she 
 was younger I was afraid she might do something im- 
 prudent. I could so easily imagine her eloping or 
 going upon the stage. But she'll be a great help now. 
 (amy enters.) She's devoted to Amy. {Sees amy.) Oh, 
 dear, here's Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 (amy goes to MR. BARTLETT, "who vises and shakes 
 hands with her. mrs. spencer and bobby both 
 watch her anxiously. She is very composed.) 
 AMY. Bobby, I think it's time you went to meet 
 Cousin Kate. 
 
 bobby {looking sorrowfully at amy). Yes, I'll go. 
 
 (bobby goes out.) 
 AMY {to MRS. spencer). Aren't you going to the 
 Mothers' Meeting ? 
 
 MRS. spencer {rising). Perhaps I'd better. I suppose 
 they'd wonder if I didn't come. 
 
 AMY. I think there is no need for us to neglect our 
 duties. 
 
 MRS. spencer. No, dear, I'll just go and put in an 
 appearance, any way, and if Cousin Kate comes before 
 I'm back you can look after her — can't you ? You'll 
 excuse me, won't you, IMr. Bartlett ? 
 
 (mr. BARTLETT opcns the door for mrs. spencer. 
 She looks at amy, hesitates, then goes to her and 
 kisses her emotionally, amy receives the kiss 
 kindly but undemonstratively. mrs. spencer 
 goes out, iviping her eyes. mr. bartlett closes 
 the door after her.)
 
 COUSIN KATE 85 
 
 BARTLETT {impressively). Oh, if only there were more 
 Christian women hke you, Miss Spencer. 
 
 AMY {turns to him a little surprised). Like me ? 
 
 BARTLETT. Morc who place their duties before their 
 pleasures or — what is even rarer, before their griefs. 
 
 AMY. I want to do my duty, but sometimes it is 
 very hard even to know what it is. 
 
 BARTLETT. Be patient, and be assured that every- 
 thing will be made plain. 
 
 AMY. I am patient, but everything is not made plain. 
 I know it is rebellious of me to speak so, but I think 
 you understand a Christian's difficulties better than 
 most people do. Our own vicar is very good, of course 
 — but he is so old, I suppose he can't understand a 
 young person's temptations very well, and since you 
 came here to take his place you have so often helped 
 me. You say things that seem to be meant specially 
 for me. 
 
 BARTLETT. I am vcry grateful if I have been the 
 instrument chosen to bring the truth home to you. 
 
 AMY. You preached two Sundays ago against the 
 danger of yoking ourselves with unbelievers. Did you 
 mean wicked people — like atheists — or just flighty people 
 — like — like 
 
 BARTLETT. The Irish. (amy drops her eyes.) I am 
 afraid there is not a very wide difference between the 
 two states. Flightiness is the forerunner of crime. 
 
 amy. Oh, but with a person to whom crime is out of 
 the question — a person who doesn't trouble much about 
 going to church, but who is always good and kind ? 
 
 BARTLETT. That is uot a very easy question to decide 
 offhand. 
 
 AMY. It is a question / have to decide. I know I 
 am weak and inexperienced, but I do want to do what 
 is right, and I want to do right by other people, too. 
 It isn't always easy to do both. 
 
 BARTLETT. Do you find it impossible to fulfil your 
 duties towards others, and at the same time to follow 
 the dictates of your own conscience ? 
 
 AMY (simply). I don't know till I try. I suppose I 
 ought to be wise enough to settle my own difficulties, 
 but you see I'm not. (Sits on the sofa.) 
 
 BARTLETT {speaking more earnestly than he has yet
 
 86 COUSIN KATE 
 
 done). If you were free from all obligations, would you 
 be able to perform your duties better singly, or yoked 
 with one whose aims were the same as your own, whose 
 loving interest would support, not hinder you, in your 
 life's work ? {Sits beside her.) 
 
 AMY {looking on the ground). I think I could do more 
 good \\4th some one to guide me. {Looks up at him.) 
 I suppose that's very weak ? 
 
 BARTLETT. No, uo. {He looks into her eyes. She 
 turns them away embarrassed.) It is a divine ordinance 
 that each should have a loving helpmeet to assist and 
 cheer him on this earthly pilgrimage. {He bends towards 
 
 her, speaking like a lover.) Miss Spencer — Amy 
 
 {There is a knock on the door, amy rises abruptly. 
 JANE bursts in.) 
 
 JANE {excitedly). She's coming. 
 
 AMY {to MR. BARTLETT). It's CoUsin KatC. 
 
 JANE. She's not here yet, Miss, but I see the cab go 
 round the corner, and it's her box — the same she had 
 last time. 
 
 (jane goes out.) 
 
 AMY {constrained as she turns to mr. bartlett). Will 
 you stay and meet her ? 
 
 BARTLETT. I think uot. May I come and renew this 
 conversation another time ? 
 
 AMY. We shall be very pleased to see you if you care 
 to come {pauses, then says hurriedly) to supper this 
 evening. 
 
 BARTLETT. Thank you. I will come. 
 
 (mr. BARTLETT gOCS OUt.) 
 
 {Enter cousin kate. She is a charming, humor- 
 ous, high-spirited, affectionate woman of twenty- 
 nine. She knows the world, and her experience 
 has only matured, not embittered her. She is 
 devoted to the Spencers ; their simplicity appeals 
 to her heart, and she feels as if she were their 
 guardian — a position they very willingly grant 
 her. She is charmingly dressed. She carries a 
 small bag in one hand, an umbrella and sun- 
 shade closed in the other, and a light dust-coat 
 over one arm. As she is passing the window 
 she sees amy, stops, and enters by the window.) 
 KATE. Here you are. {Swoops upon amy, embraces
 
 COUSIN KATE 87 
 
 her with her arms full, and kisses her on each cheek.) I'm 
 so glad to see you. {She turns to deposit her things on 
 the table ; amy helps her.) Oh, my dear, I've had such 
 an adventure in the train. 
 
 AMY {apprehensively). What — an accident ? 
 KATE. No — a man. 
 AMY. Did he speak to you ? 
 
 KATE {demurely as she draws off her gloves). Yes — ^he 
 spoke to me. 
 
 AMY. How dreadful ! It's getting worse and worse on 
 this line. Florrie Cutler told me the most awful ex- 
 perience she had the other day. I think the man put 
 his feet up and whistled, — and when she looked at him 
 he winked. {Looks at kate, who is wrestling with her 
 gloves.) I can see you are all in a flutter, (kate smiles 
 at her.) Did he go far ? 
 KATE. All the way. 
 
 (amy opens her mouth and eyes in surprise.) 
 KATE. Yes. He got out at this station. 
 AMY {relieved). Oh, I meant did he do more than just 
 speak ? 
 
 KATE. He laughed and (amy looks horrified. 
 
 KATE smiles at her as she throws her gloves on the table.) 
 My dear, he was perfectly charming. 
 AMY {shocked). Oh, Cousin Kate ! 
 KATE {demurely). How's your mother ? 
 AMY. She's quite well. But how did you get into 
 conversation with him ? 
 
 KATE. The usual way. He asked me if I'd like the 
 window up or down. I said " up " . . . or was it 
 " down " ? Anyhow I said I'd have it the way it 
 wasn't. You know he wasn't at all like a man in a 
 train. Generally I accept the window up or down and 
 refuse the newspaper, but he offered his so charmingly 
 — a little shyly, but not at all clumsily. He was so nice. 
 AMY {thoughtfully). I suppose there is no harm in 
 accepting a newspaper from a fellow traveller. 
 KATE. Of course not. 
 AMY. If one isn't a very young woman. 
 KATE {turns suddenly on amy, protesting good- 
 humour edly). Oh, Amy, you demon ! 
 
 AMY {afraid she has hurt kate's feelings). Oh, I don't 
 mean
 
 88 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE. You mean me. {Smiling.) But I don't mind, 
 because a very young woman wouldn't know the sort of 
 man she has to snub from the sort it's safe to be nice 
 to. {Folds her hands in mock resignation.) Old age has 
 its compensations. 
 
 AMY. Of course you merely returned his paper with 
 a word of thanks. 
 
 KATE. Er — er How's Bobby ? {She wanders 
 
 about looking at things.) 
 
 AMY. He went to the station to meet you. 
 
 KATE. Did he ? I didn't see him. But I was in 
 such a state. 
 
 AMY {innocently). Were you ? Why ? 
 
 KATE. Oh, with my luggage, of course. I leapt into 
 a cab and flew up here without saying good-bye. 
 
 AMY. Good-bye ? Who came with you ? 
 
 KATE {darting an impatient look at amy). Oh, Amy ! 
 {Stops in front of the picture.) What a pretty picture ! 
 It's new since I was here. {Goes closer to it as if to 
 examine it carefully.) A girl feeding pigeons — very nice. 
 
 AMY {puzzling). Oh, I see — ^without saying good-bye 
 to the man who lent you the newspaper. Who was 
 he? 
 
 KATE {still regarding the picture). I don't know. I 
 never saw him before. {Slowly — almost with a sigh.) I 
 shall never see him again. {Pauses, gazing in front of 
 her, but not at the picture. Blinks her eyes and turns 
 round quickly, speaking more to herself than amy.) Of 
 course I shall never see him again. What am I thinking 
 of? 
 
 AMY. But you say he got out here. 
 
 KATE. If I happened to meet him — I daresay I might 
 — bow to him. I suppose I could do that without 
 behaving like a servant ? 
 
 AMY. I wonder if I know him. I know every one 
 about here by sight. What was he Uke ? 
 
 KATE. Sunshine. 
 
 AMY. Tall or short ? 
 
 KATE. Just right — not too anything. 
 
 AMY. What Avas it that attracted you so greatlv to 
 him? 
 
 KATE. I don't know ; he wasn't much to look at. 
 
 AMY. Ugly ?
 
 COUSIN KATE 89 
 
 KATE. No ! or I shouldn't have asked him to share 
 lunch. 
 
 AMY (amazed). Share lunch ? 
 
 KATE (embarrassed ; laughs and comes quickly towards 
 amy). Oh, I forgot. I didn't tell you that. You see, 
 Amy, it's a long journey from town — so I had a lunch- 
 basket — and he hadn't one, and I was sure he must be 
 getting hungry — and they give you so much in those 
 lunch-baskets— I never can eat it all ; can you ? And — 
 well. Amy, you wouldn't put a whole chicken leg under 
 the seat if you saw a starving man opposite, would you ? 
 
 AMY. So you ? 
 
 KATE. So we nursed the lunch-basket between us. 
 
 AMY (horrified). Nursed it ! 
 
 KATE. It was the easiest way. Would you have us 
 put it on the seat and eat sideways like this ? (She 
 illustrates how awkward it would he.) Very awkward. 
 
 AMY (thoughtfully). I wonder who he was ? 
 
 KATE (seriously). You see, I never thought he'd get 
 out here — at such a little station. 
 
 AMY. What sort of eyes had he ? 
 
 KATE (with enthusiasm). Oh, nice eyes. 
 
 AMY. But what colour ? 
 
 KATE (speaks slowly, not looking at amy). First I 
 thought they were grey — then when he came nearer I 
 
 saw they were deep blue, and when he leaned over 
 
 (amy looks shocked) over the lunch-basket and talked, 
 they looked almost black — wonderful eyes. (Slowly and 
 softly as if her thoughts had gone far.) Wonderful eyes. 
 
 AMY (watching her). Cousin Kate, I believe you're 
 in love with him. 
 
 KATE (brought back suddenly ; rises, really a little 
 annoyed). Now, how ridiculous. Just because he 
 happened to be civil in a train — a man I've never seen 
 before. I wish you wouldn't say such silly things, Amy. 
 
 AMY (trying to conciliate her). I beg your pardon — I 
 didn't mean to 
 
 KATE. I'm sorry I told you now ; I didn't mean to 
 tell any one. Not that there was the least reason to 
 keep it secret. But I did think that being in love your- 
 self, you'd be able to understand how one may be a little 
 excited by meeting a man — and want to tell every one 
 about it — without being at all in love.
 
 90 COUSIN KATE 
 
 AMY. But I always thought that being excited and 
 wanting to talk about him — was a sign 
 
 KATE. Now, Amy, you'll make me quite angry if you 
 keep on like that. I did think you'd have more sense 
 when you are just going to be married. 
 
 AMY. But I'm not going to be married. 
 
 KATE (electrified). What ? You don't mean to tell 
 me it's broken off ? 
 
 AMY {quietly). He has left me. 
 
 KATE {in a rush of pity and affection sits beside amy 
 and puts her arms about her). Oh, you poor, dear child. 
 And I've just been so horrid and cross to you. I'm sure 
 you are well rid of him. But we'll get him back for you, 
 some way or other. He shan't go away and leave you. 
 How dare he — -the monster ? 
 
 AMY {distressed). No — don't say that. It was my 
 fault. 
 
 KATE. Your fault ? 
 
 AMY. Yes. The others don't know that, and they 
 are all saying such hard things about him, and I feel so 
 guilty. 
 
 (kate watches her a moment before she speaks.) 
 
 KATE. Well, whatever you did, he'd no right to run 
 away just before the wedding and upset everything so. 
 I don't think he's a nice man. 
 
 AMY. Oh, but it was my fault. 
 
 KATE. Not at all. You couldn't have quarrelled 
 unless he'd quarrelled too. I've no patience with the 
 way men go on now. They think they can do an}^i:hing 
 they like because there are so many of us. I'll teach one 
 of them a lesson one of these days. 
 
 AMY. But Heath wasn't like that. 
 
 KATE. I don't know what he was like. I'm thankful 
 to say I never saw him. 
 
 AMY. I'll tell you how it was. You know Heath is 
 an artist. 
 
 KATE. That's no excuse. 
 
 AMY. And he says artists can't take life seriously all 
 the time. 
 
 KATE {pleased and impressed with this remark). He's 
 quite right. {Annoyed to find herself pleased with anything 
 he said.) I suppose he read that in a book. 
 
 AMY. It has often troubled me that he couldn't take
 
 COUSIN KATE 91 
 
 life as seriously as I do. The other evening I spoke to 
 him about it. I began by telling him the way I should 
 Uke us to keep Sunday after we are married. He paints 
 on Sundays. 
 
 KATE (unimpressed). Does he ? 
 
 AMY. Yes, and I don't think it's right. And he is 
 often flippant in a way I don't like. I spoke about that, 
 too. 
 
 KATE {looking away from amy, speaks half to herself). 
 I'm beginning to feel rather sorry for poor Heath. 
 
 AMY. And when he laughed at me I lost my temper. 
 It is hard to be made fun of when you are trying to do 
 what's right — isn't it ? 
 
 KATE. Yes, I think it was nasty of him to make fun 
 of you. What did he say ? 
 
 AMY. When I said I didn't like him to paint on 
 Sunday — he said he'd only paint religious subjects. 
 
 KATE (amused). He's nice, isn't he ? 
 
 AMY (gravely). But he said it to make fun. He 
 wouldn't see that I was in earnest. 
 
 KATE. But he really is in love with you, isn't he ? 
 
 AMY (smiles). Oh, yes, I'm sure he's very much in 
 love with me. But don't you think I was right to speak 
 out ? 
 
 KATE. Well, you know. Amy, it seems to me that if 
 a man was nice and witty, and in love with me — I'd let 
 him paint devils on Sunday if he wanted to. But still, 
 I don't think that was any reason for his going away 
 without a word. You must have said more than that. 
 
 AMY. Well — Yes. He seemed to think he had 
 only to give me a kiss and we could go on laughing and 
 talking as if nothing had happened. But it was the last 
 Sunday before our marriage and I couldn't help realising 
 how serious it all was. I think so many people become 
 selfish when they marry. They live only for each other 
 and forget their higher duties. And I said I wanted 
 ours to be an ideal marriage, and to make it that we 
 ought to eliminate passion as much as possible. 
 
 KATE (very gravely). Oh ! What did he say to that ? 
 
 AMY. He said I didn't know what I was talking about. 
 
 Then I grew very angry, and I said rather more than I 
 
 intended. I told him I couldn't marry him unless he 
 
 changed.
 
 92 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE (as before). Oh ! ! 
 
 AMY. And he just walked out of the room. I haven't 
 seen him since. I thought he'd come back ; but he 
 didn't. 
 
 (MRS. SPENCER euters in her bonnet ; goes to kate 
 and greets her affectionately.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, Kate ! I'm so glad you've come. 
 Forgive me for not being here to welcome you, but I had 
 to go to the Mothers' Meeting. 
 
 KATE. You good little thing. 
 
 AMY. I'll go and tell them to take your trunk upstairs. 
 {Takes the bag, dust-cloak and umbrella from the table.) 
 
 KATE. Oh, thank you. {Produces a key from her 
 pocket.) Here's the key. {As she gives it to amy she 
 speaks aside to her with a glance to mrs. spencer, who has 
 seated herself on the sofa and is drawing off her gloves.) 
 Don't tell any one about the man in the train. 
 
 (amy goes out.) 
 
 MRS. spencer. Has Amy told you ? 
 
 KATE. Yes. I'm so sorry. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, Kate, it's breaking my heart. I 
 never felt so much in need of you as I do now. You will 
 help us, won't you, dear ? 
 
 KATE. If I can — of course — but — tell me Do 
 
 people know ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Only Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 KATE. Who's he ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. A youug clergyman who is taking our 
 vicar's duty while he is abroad. 
 
 KATE. And what does he say ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. He says it may be all for the best. 
 
 KATE {irritated). Oh ! Now, isn't that just hke a 
 curate ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Hc isn't exactly a curate, dear. He's 
 a locum tenens. 
 
 KATE. Well, then — isn't that just the sort of thing 
 a locum tenens would say ? Do any real people know ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Only Bobby — and he only says he'd 
 hke to kill Heath. 
 
 KATE {affectionately). Oh, how sweet of Bobby. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {dcspondcntly). But I suppose we can't 
 do anything till we know where Heath is. 
 
 KATE. Do you want him back ?
 
 COUSIN KATE 93 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, I don't know, I never had a word 
 to say against him before — but what can I think of him 
 now ? 
 
 KATE. Everything I have heard of him is so charming. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {witk enthusiasm). Oh, he was so charm- 
 ing — and so amusing ; he used to get me quite hysterical 
 every Sunday night at supper. (Laughs.) You must 
 get him to tell you that story about Miss Murphy and 
 the Banshee. (They both laugh.) And he was so kind 
 to us all, so attentive to me and so nice with Bobby — 
 and his devotion to Amy was beautiful. 
 
 KATE. It was a good match for Amy, wasn't it ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Ycs— You ucvcr thought me — a 
 scheming woman, did you, Kate ? 
 
 KATE (gravely). No, never. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. No, but Still Heath happens to have 
 a very good income, and he's very clever. They say 
 he's sure to be made an R.A. some day. And he took 
 such a pretty old house near here — you know I wrote and 
 told you about it. 
 
 KATE. Oh, yes, of course. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. And how beautifully he was furnishing 
 it It's called Owlscot. (Accent like " Ascot.^^) 
 
 KATE. Owlscot ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Ycs, bccausc of the owls. Owls' cot, 
 you know. 
 
 KATE (delighted). Oh, are there owls in the garden ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. No, there aren't any, but Heath says 
 it looks as if there ought to be, so he called it Owls' Cot. 
 He said perhaps the owls would come if they saw it on 
 the gate-posts. 
 
 KATE (laughing). I'm sure I should like Heath. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Amy thought people would think the 
 name silly, so he said she could call it Owlscot, which 
 isn't a bad-sounding name for a house, do you think ? 
 
 KATE. No, I think it's delightful. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Heath's full of funny little fancies like 
 that, but he's kind and thoughtful, too. When I said I 
 couldn't afford to send Bobby to a public school he asked 
 if he might help with the expenses — and he did it so 
 nicely. 
 
 KATE (with decision). Amy mustn't lose such a nice 
 man as that. We'll get him back for her somehow.
 
 94 COUSIN KATE 
 
 MRS. SPENCER [cheeHng up considerably). Oh, Kate, 
 I knew it would be better when you came. 
 
 KATE. Ah, but we haven't got him back yet. {She 
 reflects before she speaks.) When did Amy become so 
 good ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {simply). She's always been good. 
 
 KATE. Yes — but not as bad as this. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I fancy Mr. Bartlett has made her 
 think more deeply. He's a very earnest man. 
 
 Kx\TE {slaps her hands together). Then that locum 
 tenens is at the bottom of it all. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {looks up, Surprised). All what ? 
 
 KATE. Has he been preaching sermons about the 
 selfishness of married couples, and the elimination of 
 passion ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {stUl move surprised). He gave us a very 
 powerful sermon on that subject a few Sundays ago. 
 
 KATE {nods her head). That's where she got it from. I 
 knew she didn't think of that herself. Sarah, that 
 locum tenens is a bad man. Don't you let him come 
 near the place again. 
 
 (jane enters.) 
 
 JANE. Mr. Bartlett, mum. 
 
 (MRS. SPENCER and KATE are both startled, mr. 
 BARTLETT cntcrs, Carrying his hat. kate is 
 perfectly composed, mrs. spencer is exceed- 
 ingly embarrassed.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {confused). Oh, Mr. Bartlett, this is 
 Cousin Kate. {Indicating kate.) Miss Cousin Kate, I 
 ought to say, I mean Miss 
 
 KATE {prompting her). Curtis, dear, Curtis. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Ycs. I couldu't remember your name 
 
 for an instant. This is Mr. {Confused.) Now I've 
 
 forgotten yours. 
 
 KATE {comes to the rescue by cordially extending her 
 hand to mr. bartlett, as she says sweetly.) We were 
 just speaking of you as you came in, Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 MRS. spencer {trying to make things smooth). Yes, and 
 Mr. Bartlett has read some of your books, Kate. 
 
 (mr. bartlett looks embarrassed.) 
 
 MRS. spencer {seeing his embarrassment, becomes 
 embarrassed herself). Oh ! 
 
 KATE {sweetly to mr. bartlett). You didn't like them,
 
 COUSIN KATE 95 
 
 did you ? A bishop once told me they ought to be 
 pubhcly burnt. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER, Oh, I don't think they are as bad as 
 that. 
 
 KATE {quaintly to mrs. spencer). Thank you, Sarah. 
 MRS. spencer. But then, I don't know what they are 
 about half the time. 
 
 (kate laughs and moves away.) 
 BARTLETT (places his hat on the table, pausing to give 
 importance to his speech). I have called to tell you that 
 Mr. Heath Desmond has come home. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (joyfully). Oh, that is good news. Oh, 
 Kate, he's come back. {To mr. bartlett.) Have you 
 seen him ? 
 
 BARTLETT. Yes, I havc spoken to him. 
 
 {He pauses and looks deliberately at kate, zvho 
 supposes she isnH wanted.) 
 KATE {to MRS. SPENCER as shc gocs towards the door). 
 I'll go and take my things off. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Don't go, dear, (kate stops ; mrs. 
 SPENCER turns to BARTLETT.) You Can say anjrthing 
 before her. Now, tell us all about it. {Sitting on the 
 sofa.) Sit down, Kate. 
 
 (kate sits down, watching mr. bartlett narrowly 
 
 as he speaks. He sits rather reluctantly, 
 
 addressing himself exclusively to mrs. spencer.) 
 
 BARTLETT. I saw him enter his rooms, so I called, and 
 
 taking the prerogative of the clergyman of the parish, I 
 
 taxed him with his unaccountable disappearance. 
 
 {A shade of irritation crosses kate's face; mr. 
 BARTLETT pauscs and looks at her. She re- 
 turns his look, smiles, betraying no feeling of 
 any sort.) 
 MRS. SPENCER. And what did he say ? 
 BARTLETT. He Said he would rather not discuss his 
 affairs with me. 
 
 (kate looks pleased, mr. bartlett pauses as 
 before and looks at kate. She returns his look 
 as before.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. And so you 
 
 BARTLETT. I had a duty to perform, and so I was not 
 abashed by his rebuff, (kate titters, mr. bartlett 
 glares at her. She clears her throat and looks away.) I
 
 96 COUSIN KATE 
 
 sketched briefly the distress he had caused in this house- 
 hold. Then I asked him if he intended to return. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. YcS, yCS ? 
 
 BARTLETT. He says he considers himself free, unless 
 your daughter sends for him at once. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {looks from one to the other). Why ? 
 
 BARTLETT. I promised to convey a message from her 
 or from you. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Well, Amy must write to him. I'll go 
 and tell her. (Rises and goes towards the door, kate 
 rises, prepared to follow mrs. spencer.) 
 
 BARTLETT [rising). Excuse me. (mrs. spencer stops. 
 He speaks importantly.) Have you decided what message 
 to send ? 
 
 MRS. spencer. He must have a note asking him to 
 come, if that's what he's waiting for. 
 
 KATE. Of course. 
 
 BARTLETT. Is there not a wiser alternative ? 
 
 (BARTLETT looks Ot KATE, hoping she will go. KATE 
 
 deliberately sits down, showing she intends to 
 stay.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (comes towards mr. bartlett). I don't 
 think I quite grasp your meaning. 
 
 BARTLETT. Well, then, is Mr. Desmond the man to 
 trust your daughter to ? I do not wish to say anything 
 against his character, but he has always seemed to me 
 a — a — frivolous man. And is not his present conduct 
 a sign of inconstancy ? Your daughter is on the eve 
 of taking perhaps the most important step in her life. 
 Is it not well to pause while there is yet time ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (much perturbcd ; appeals to kate). 
 What do you think, Kate ? 
 
 KATE [coldly). Does it matter what anybody thinks, 
 except Amy ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. But of course it was very funny of 
 Heath to run away Uke that, and he might do it again. 
 
 KATE. Oh, Sarah ! 
 
 BARTLETT. After I havc delivered her message, it 
 may be too late for her to retreat from her promise — 
 with honour. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER [looks ot KATE, who makes no movement, 
 then turns to bartlett). Perhaps you had better see 
 AMY yourself, (kate tries to attract the attention of mrs.
 
 COUSIN KATE 97 
 
 SPENCER in oj'der to stop her saying this. mrs. spencer 
 doesn't notice kate's movement.) You may be able to 
 put it — more — ^forcibly than I can. 
 
 BARTLETT {readily). I will most willingly interview 
 her, if you wish, but before doing so I have something 
 to say to you which — it is impossible to say — before — 
 a third person. [Stares at kate. kate rises, smiles at 
 MRS. spencer, and goes out by the window without looking 
 round, mr. bartlett approaches mrs. spencer.) 
 
 BARTLETT. If Mr. Dcsmoud deserts your daughter 
 now, she will naturally feel humiliated. 
 
 MRS, SPENCER (sorrowfully). Oh, yes — can't you see ? 
 
 BARTLETT. And as — -I wish — to save her all the pain 
 I can, and as I find her essential to my own happiness, 
 I desire to tell her that if she releases herself from this 
 engagement— she need not be humiliated — for I would 
 then come forward and offer her — myself. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. That wouldn't be quite the same thing 
 — would it ? 
 
 BARTLETT. I think that she should know that she 
 has this alternative before she communicates with Mr. 
 Desmond, 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (duMously). I wish you'd let me see 
 what Kate says. 
 
 {He looks momentarily uneasy, then recovers himself.) 
 
 BARTLETT. She is a stranger to me. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. YcS, yCS 1 SCC. 
 
 BARTLETT. As your daughter is so young and her 
 present situation so delicate — I thought it was my duty 
 to ask your permission before speaking to her. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {trouMcd). I don't know whether I 
 ought to let you see her or not. 
 
 BARTLETT. It cauuot do her any harm to hear me. 
 MRS. SPENCER {impressed by this remark). No. She 
 isn't obliged to accept you, is she ? 
 BARTLETT, Certainly not. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I supposc you'd better speak to her. 
 If you'll wait here I'll send her to you. 
 
 (MRS. SPENCER goes out. KATE cntcrs with her hat 
 in her hand. Both she and bartlett /^eZ con- 
 strained when they find themselves alone. They 
 look at each other in turns before speaking. 
 KATE places her hat on the table.) 
 
 VOL. I H
 
 98 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE (pleasantly). What very pleasant weather we 
 are having. 
 
 BARTLETT. I beg youF pardon. 
 
 KATE (clears her throat and speaks more distinctly). 
 What very pleasant weather we are having. 
 
 BARTLETT. Oh, ycs — but I think there'll be rain 
 soon. 
 
 KATE (pleasantly). Possibly storms. (Smiles sweetly 
 at him.) 
 
 (She sits down, not looking at him. He looks at 
 her uneasily before he speaks.) 
 BARTLETT (takcs Ms hat). Will you kindly tell Miss 
 Spencer I will await her in the garden ? 
 KATE (pleasantly). Yes — I'll tell her. 
 BARTLETT. Thank you. 
 
 (He goes out by the window. As soon as he is out 
 of sight, KATE jumps up, goes towards the win- 
 dow and glances in the direction he has gone. 
 MRS. SPENCER cntcrs. KATE comcs quickly to- 
 wards her as she speaks.) 
 KATE. He's gone into the garden. Are you going to 
 let him see her ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I've just told Amy. 
 KATE. Is he going to ask her to marry him ? 
 MRS. SPENCER. Kate — you've been listening ? 
 KATE. No, I haven't. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. How clse could you know ? It's 
 miraculous. 
 
 KATE. Don't you think it's very dangerous to let her 
 see him now ? Heath has hurt her pride ; she's smart- 
 ing. Can't you remember how it felt at her age ? 
 I'm so afraid she'll sacrifice the future to save the 
 present. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (perturbed). But I've told Mr. Bartlett 
 I'd send Amy to him. 
 
 KATE. Send her to me first. 
 
 (amy enters.) 
 MRS. SPENCER. But how can I explain it to him ? 
 KATE (glances at amy, then says rapidly to mrs. 
 spencer). Don't explain it. Go and show him the 
 nasturtiums or the lobelias or whatever's out. 
 
 (Pushes MRS. SPENCER out at the window, mrs. 
 SPENCER disappears.)
 
 COUSIN KATE 99 
 
 AMY. Mother said Mr. Bartlett wanted to see me. 
 
 KATE. Yes. He's waiting for you in the garden. He 
 brought a message for you. 
 
 AMY. From Heath — mother told me. 
 
 KATE. What reply are you going to send ? 
 
 AMY. I don't know yet. 
 
 KATE. Hadn't you better make up your mind before 
 you go and see Mr. Bartlett ? 
 
 AMY. Mother said he had something very important 
 to say to me. I think I had better hear what it is first. 
 {Going towards the window.) 
 
 KATE. Your reply to Heath is more important, (amy 
 hesitates.) You want to do what's right, don't you ? 
 
 AMY (hesitatingly). Yes. {With conviction.) Yes — I 
 do. Do you think I ought to forgive Heath ? 
 
 KATE {quietly). I thought he had to forgive you ? 
 
 AMY {after a pause, during which kate watches her 
 closely). What message do you think I ought to send 
 him ? 
 
 KATE. I think I should write and say you are sorry 
 for what you said to him, and that you see now that 
 it was a little piece of presumption for a young girl to 
 talk that way to a grown-up man. (amy turns and stares 
 at KATE.) And ask him to forgive you because you are 
 so young and inexperienced — and he will, because you 
 are so pretty. 
 
 amy. But that is putting myself entirely in the 
 wrong ? 
 
 KATE. Weren't you ? 
 
 amy. No. I blame myself very much for losing my 
 temper with him. But I can't take back what I said 
 before. It isn't a question of what / wish — but of right 
 and wrong. 
 
 KATE. And you are sure that a young girl who has 
 never been anjrwhere much or seen anything particular 
 is the proper judge of what is right and wrong for a 
 man ten years older than herself ? And is all his good- 
 ness to go for nothing ? Amy, dear, you'd be a fool to 
 let that man go — and just think — he chose you — who 
 bring him nothing but your little self — out of the whole 
 world. 
 
 AMY. Am I to thank him for loving me ? 
 
 KATE. Yes. You would if you realised how many
 
 100 COUSIN KATE 
 
 girls there are who would make good wives and how 
 few men who would make good husbands. 
 
 AMY. But I can't give up my principles. I'm pre- 
 pared to suffer for them. 
 
 KATE. Well, don't be like most people who suffer for 
 their principles, and make everybody else suffer for them 
 too. If we want to marry we must be prepared to make 
 compromises 
 
 AMY. It may be that I shall do my duty better singly. 
 
 KATE, I'm sure you'll get into Heaven sooner by 
 doing your duty to your neighbour, than by being very 
 good all by yourself. I mustn't urge you. I only want 
 to save you from making the same mistake I made. I 
 wouldn't make compromises, I demanded the perfect 
 man. Now I know there isn't one. So I've had dis- 
 appointment after disappointment, till I have to face 
 the worst one of all — for our lives are empty if we aren't 
 loved. A woman's life is so meaningless by itself. And 
 I have a great deal in my life. I have a profession, I'm 
 successful, I'm invited and welcomed everywhere — but 
 I'm lonely. Amy, — desperately lonely. I'd give it all 
 up for a real home with a husband and children. And 
 look how much worse it is for women with no object in 
 life — no work and no children. I only want you to be 
 happy, and not disappointed, like me. 
 
 AMY {kisses KATE softly on the cheek). I think I'd 
 better write to him — and ask him to come back. Oh, 
 Cousin Kate, you make me feel so small. 
 
 (kate puts her arms about amy, who falls on her 
 shoulder, weeping a little.) 
 
 KATE {pets her, a little overcome with emotion). I'm 
 not very wise myself, dear, but I've knocked about so 
 much I want you to be taken care of. Oh, it must be 
 so beautiful to be taken care of. 
 
 (amy goes to the writing-desk and sits, drying her 
 eyes.) 
 
 AMY. I think I'll just write and tell Heath I don't 
 know much. {Takes a sheet of paper and begins to write 
 a note.) 
 
 KATE. Amy — Amy ! Perhaps you had better go and 
 see Mr. Bartlett before you write that letter. 
 
 AMY. No, I'd rather not. I'm sure I'm doing right 
 to ask Heath to forgive me. (amy writes the letter.
 
 COUSIN KATE 101 
 
 When she has finished it she turns to kate.) Will this do ? 
 (She holds out the letter, kate comes towards her, takes 
 it and reads it as amy addresses the envelope.) 
 
 KATE. That's very sweet. {Gives it back to amy, who 
 puts it in envelope.) Now lick it up. (amy fastens it, 
 then rises.) Mr. Bartlett said he would take your answer 
 to Heath. Shall we go and give it to him ? 
 
 AMY (shyly giving letter to kate). You give it to him. 
 I don't think I'll see him now. 
 
 (amy goes out. KATE marchcs towards the window, 
 waving the letter triumphantly till she meets 
 MRS. SPENCER coming in from the garden.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Where's Amy ? Isn't she coming ? 
 {Enter mr. bartlett, /o/?o«;m^ mrs. spencer.) 
 
 KATE. No. {Showing the letter.) This is her reply 
 to Mr. Desmond. {Turns to bartlett.) Which you 
 so kindly offered to convey. {Gives the letter to mr. 
 bartlett.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. But isn't she going to see Mr. Bartlett ? 
 
 KATE. She asked me to deliver her letter for her. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh ! {She turns to bartlett with an 
 embarrassed smile.) 
 
 BARTLETT. I will take this to Mr. Desmond. 
 
 KATE. Thank you. (bartlett goes out. kate turns 
 to MRS. SPENCER.) Shc's askcd him to come back. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {sinks comfortably on a chair). Oh, I'm 
 so relieved. Mr. Bartlett has been upsetting me so. 
 He got me so that I didn't know whether I wanted Heath 
 back or not. 
 
 KATE {apprehensively). I suppose he'll take the letter 
 at once. You see we've wasted a lot of time already, 
 and Heath considers himself free unless he hears at once. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Mr. Bartlett knows that. 
 
 KATE {reassured). But he doesn't know what is in 
 the letter. He'll be in a hurry to find out. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {smiUng comfortably). So we shall have 
 the wedding on Friday after all. 
 
 KATE {brightly). And Amy will be the bride, and 
 you'll give her away, and Bobby will be best man. 
 {Half -humorously, half-sadly.) And I shall just be one 
 of the guests and throw rice. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {laugMng.) Oh, Kate, you are so funny. 
 (Seriously.) What did you say to Amy ?
 
 102 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE. I told her the best thing a woman could have 
 was a home with a husband and a baby. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {mildly surprised). Why, Kate, that 
 isn't at all the way you write in those books of yours. 
 
 KATE {half-laughing, half in earnest). I shan't write 
 any more of those silly books. I thought I was being 
 so clever, but I was showing my ignorance all the time. 
 My next book shall be all about love ; my hero and 
 heroine shall be married and go and live in a dingy little 
 house — but it will be a palace to them. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {looks penetratingly at kate). Kate, I 
 believe you have something to tell me. {Goes towards 
 her.) 
 
 KATE {moving away in agitation). No, I haven't. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I'vc been so absorbed in Amy's trouble 
 I haven't had time to think of you. But now you've 
 come and made it all right for us. {Goes towards her 
 again, speaking emotionally.) Oh, Cousin Kate, what 
 should we do without you ? {Takes kate's hand, kate 
 hangs her head. mrs. spencer speaks coaxingly.) Now, 
 do tell me — are you in love ? 
 
 KATE. Oh, I don't know. I think I must be. Yes, 
 I am. I know I am. {Breaks away from mrs. spencer.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Do tcll me. 
 
 KATE. No, no, I can't. Besides — there's nothing to 
 tell. 
 
 (amy enters.) 
 
 AMY. Mother, don't you think some one should go 
 over to Owlscot ? The drawing-room hasn't been aired 
 for two days, and the piano is there. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. How tlioughtful you are, Amy. Whom 
 shall we send ? 
 
 KATE. I'll go. 
 
 AMY {surprised). You ? 
 
 KATE. Yes, I need a walk and some fresh air. 
 
 AMY. I'll go with you. 
 
 KATE. No. You must stay in case Heath comes 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Then I'll go. 
 
 KATE. No. {Gets her hat.) You have to hurry on 
 with Amy's trousseau. {They look at her ; she becomes 
 more agitated, then goes to mrs. spencer.) Can't you see 
 I want to go alone ? I shall have hysterics if I'm 
 opposed. {Puts on her hat and gloves, and takes her
 
 COUSIN KATE 103 
 
 sunshade, through the following scene. To amy.) Tell 
 me the way, please. 
 
 AMY. You keep along the high road. 
 
 KATE. Yes. 
 
 AMY. Till you come to a pond covered with green slime. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. It's shortcr across the fields. 
 
 AMY. But she'll lose her way. 
 
 KATE. What do I do when I come to the pond covered 
 with green slime ? 
 
 AMY. Take the second turning to the left. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Isn't it the third turning ? 
 
 AMY. No, the second. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {murmuHng to herself). Oh, yes. The 
 third is a private road. 
 
 KATE. Second to the left. 
 
 AMY. Then you walk along till you come to our house. 
 It's a white cottage with a gable and a lot of fir-trees in 
 the garden ; you can't miss it. The name is on the gate- 
 post : " Owlscot." 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Owl's cot, you kuow. 
 
 KATE. I'll find it. {Goes towards the window.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {crossiug to the writing-desk). Wait a 
 minute. You'll want the key. {Opens a drawer and 
 takes out a large front-door key.) 
 
 AMY. Some one else will have to go to light the fire. 
 
 KATE {taking the key). I'll do that. 
 
 AMY. Oh, will you ? Only in the drawing - room 
 because of the piano. 
 
 KATE. Yes, yes, I'll attend to everything. 
 
 {As she goes out of the window mrs. spencer and 
 AMY both follow her, speaking together.) 
 
 MRS. spencer. You'd better take an umbrella. It's 
 going to rain. It looks very cloudy. 
 
 AMY. Don't forget to fasten the windows, and the 
 ones upstairs as well, (cousin kate disappears in the 
 garden.) 
 
 MRS. spencer {turning to amy). What a jewel Cousin 
 Kate is. I knew things would be better when she came. 
 
 AMY. Yes, I was so undecided before, but I feel 
 content now. I know I've done right. 
 
 MRS. spencer {embracing amy). My good little girl ! 
 {Kisses her with a sigh of satisfaction.) Now I must 
 finish marking your night-dresses.
 
 104 COUSIN KATE 
 
 AMY. I'll go and get them out. 
 
 (amy goes out. BOBBY enters whistling from the 
 garden.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Hullo, how was it you didn't meet 
 Cousin Kate ? 
 
 BOBBY. I hid in the waitin' room till she'd gone, 
 because she got out of the same carriage with Heath. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. The same carriage with Heath ! How 
 funny ! Did you speak to Heath ? 
 
 BOBBY. Not then, but I've just been to his lodgin's. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Had he got Amy's letter ? 
 
 BOBBY. No. He said he'd been waitin' and waitin' 
 for it, and when I said she'd been in the house all day, 
 he said he supposed she wasn't goin' to send it. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {concemed). Well, what's Mr. Bartlett 
 been doing ? 
 
 BOBBY. When I was comin' away, I saw Mr. Bartlett 
 go and leave a letter at Heath's door — about two 
 minutes ago. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. He took long enough about it. (Smil- 
 ing.) Heath must have read it by now. 
 
 BOBBY. But when Mr. Bartlett left the letter Heath 
 had gone aA^ ay again. 
 
 MRS. SPEXCER (dismayed). Gone away ! Gone away 
 again without getting Amy's letter. Oh, dear ! 
 
 BOBBY. He was only goin' to Owlscot. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (cheerfully). Oh, Cousin Kate will be 
 able to explain it all to him. She's just gone to Owlscot. 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE SECOND ACT 
 
 SCENE. — A sitting-room at Owlscot. It is an old room 
 with panelled walls and beams across the ceiling. 
 Opposite the audience there is a wide casement with 
 diamond panes. There is a door in the wall on the 
 left-hand side of the audience, and a deep fireplace 
 opposite the door. Beside the fireplace is an old oak 
 settle, facing the audience. A piano stands against 
 the wall beside the door, nearer the audience than the 
 door ; nearer still to the audience beside the piano 
 stands a chair. Over this chair there is a stages head 
 with antlers. There is a round table near the centre 
 of the stage and a small table between the fireplace and 
 the window, with a big brass candlestick upon it ; 
 several oak chairs, etc. Curtains are drawn across the 
 casement so that when the curtain rises the scene is very 
 dimly lighted. 
 
 The stage is empty at first. Then a door is heard to shut 
 with a bang. Footsteps are heard approaching over 
 bare wooden fioors. 
 
 {Enter kate, dressed as in Act I., with the front- 
 door key in her hand. She closes the door, and 
 looks around the room.) 
 KATE {in a sepulchral tone as she looks about her). All 
 alone in an empty house. {She sniffs twice as if the 
 room were close.) Oh ! how stuffy. {Places the key, 
 with her gloves and parasol, on the table, also her coat, goes 
 to the window and draws the curtains. She throivs the 
 casement open wide, letting in the daylight. As she turns 
 from the window she sees the piano.) What a grand chance 
 to try my voice ! {Opens the piano, plays a scale, stand- 
 ing, then hums a tune in a light voice. Lets out her voice 
 in an arpeggio scale. Strikes several notes on the piano 
 
 105
 
 106 COUSIN KATE 
 
 till she finds the top note of her arpeggio. Speaks dis- 
 appointedly.) Only E. {Plays an arpeggio scale in F 
 on the piano again, takes a breath and begins to sing her 
 arpeggio scale, but funks the high note.) 
 
 {A man's voice sings the scale without, kate 
 starts violently and shuts the piano with a 
 bang.) 
 (heath DESMOND hoists Mmsclf on to the window- 
 sill without and leans into the room. He is a 
 man about thirty, though it is difficult to guess 
 his age from his appearance. He looks young. 
 His temperament is far more Latin than 
 British. He is gay and whimsical, and his 
 mind is rapid and fanciful. He is so extra- 
 ordinarily frank and direct in his approach that 
 it is impossible to feel a stranger in his presence. 
 He is immensely daring, but so tactful that he 
 is never impertinent. He wears flannels and a 
 straw hat.) 
 KATE {concerned). What are you doing here ? 
 HEATH {unconcerned). What are you doing here ? 
 KATE. Never mind, you shouldn't have followed me. 
 HEATH {pleasantly). If you will choose a house with 
 
 nobody in it, 
 
 KATE {interrupting him indignantly). I hope you don't 
 think I came here to give you an opportunity. 
 
 HEATH. I thought I wouldn't miss one. {He swings 
 into the room.) 
 
 KATE {betraying a little alarm). You mustn't come in. 
 HEATH. Why not ? Is this your house ? {Takes his 
 hat off.) 
 
 KATE {faltering). No — but 
 
 HEATH. Then it's neutral ground — like the train. 
 KATE {goes a little towards him and speaks persuasively 
 
 and seriously). But if I ask you to go 
 
 HEATH {looks at her, smiling). You'd be as rude as if 
 you asked me to get out of the railway carriage. 
 KATE. Then I must go myself. 
 
 {She turns to the table, and is about to gather up her 
 sunshade and gloves, etc. He goes towards her 
 as he speaks.) 
 HEATH. That's as rude as if you got out of the railway 
 carriage because I got in.
 
 COUSIN KATE 107 
 
 KATE {hesitates, still trying to he haughty and indignant). 
 You know you've no right to come in here. 
 
 HEATH. What right have you ? {She holds the key up 
 to show him. He bends over it, examines it curiously, not 
 touching it). How on earth did you get it ? 
 
 KATE. I am here at the request of the owner of this 
 house. 
 
 HEATH {to himself; turning away). Oh — a friend of 
 my landlord. 
 
 KATE. Do you still dispute my right to be here ? 
 
 HEATH {turning to her). No, I only wish to establish 
 my own. 
 
 KATE. You can't. 
 
 HEATH {with frank good-humour which weakens her 
 dignity). I could if you asked me to stay. I'll be very 
 good. 
 
 KATE {hesitatingly). But you know we oughtn't to 
 stay here together. 
 
 HEATH. Why not, if we want to ? 
 
 KATE. I didn't say I wanted to. 
 
 HEATH. To say you oughtn't to is about the same as 
 to say you'd like to. If you really don't want to, it's 
 so much easier 
 
 KATE {a broad smile overspreads her face and she turns 
 to him good-humour edly). Oh, stop ! {She means " Stop 
 your rigmarole.'''') 
 
 HEATH. Didn't we have fun in the train ? 
 
 KATE {looks at him brightly). Yes. {Remembering she 
 ought to be strict with him). But now you've turned our 
 fun into indiscretion. 
 
 HEATH {half-sitting on the edge of the table, speaks with 
 enthusiasm, not noticing her seriousness). How we flew 
 through the woods and over the towns ! 
 
 KATE. You've made me feel ashamed, and I didn't 
 want to. 
 
 HEATH {carrying on his former speech). Like a god and 
 a goddess dropped from two planets. You said so your- 
 self as we crossed the viaduct. I was Mars— you 
 Venus 
 
 KATE {interrupting him indignantly). I never said I 
 was Venus. 
 
 HEATH {making her a profound how). Permit me to 
 complete the simile.
 
 108 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE {forgetting herself for a moment, takes his vein of 
 mock gallantry and drops him a deep curtsey). Oh — h — h ! 
 {Suddenly remembering herself, she recovers her serious- 
 ness.) I think it's time you flew back to your planet. 
 
 {Both the next speeches are spoken at the same 
 time. KATE is seriously trying to impress 
 HEATH ; he begins his speech in a low voice 
 after she has begun hers, and speaks faster, and 
 louder as he goes on — trying to talk her down.) 
 
 KATE. I hoped there was no harm in strangers con- 
 fiding in each other as we did. I thought we had risen 
 above convention, but by coming here you remind me 
 that we sank below it. I see now that we were not two 
 souls impelled to mutual utterance, but just two people 
 who gossiped together before they were introduced. We 
 ought never to have met again. 
 
 HEATH. And I was wondering how you would look 
 without your hat. It became quite an obsession with 
 me. It is still. I should so like to see you without 
 your hat. It wouldn't be much trouble. There's a 
 looking-glass just behind you. I think you might take 
 your hat off. {They have come towards each other as they 
 speak, each trying to talk the other down, kate, seeing 
 how absurd the situation is, stops and laughs, heath 
 says plaintively.) Won't you please take your hat off ? 
 
 KATE {half-exasperated, half-amused, takes her hat off). 
 There ! 
 
 HEATH {surveying her with admiration). Jolly ! 
 
 KATE {really pleased, but appearing supercilious). 
 Thank you. {Turns to the looking-glass, preparing to put 
 her hat on again.) 
 
 HEATH. No, don't. {She turns to him.) Don't put it 
 on again. 
 
 KATE. Why ? 
 
 HEATH. I don't want you to go just yet. 
 
 KATE {laughs). Oh, but I must. 
 
 HEATH. Well, let me have a proper look at the hat 
 first. It's quite the prettiest one I've seen this season. 
 
 KATE {pleased, holding out the hat towards him). I'm 
 glad you like it ; I trimmed it myself. 
 
 (heath pretends to examine the hat, and while he 
 does so he takes it from her. She yields it 
 without suspicion. He marches away zvith it.)
 
 COUSIN KATE 109 
 
 KATE. Well — you really have more assurance ! 
 
 {He mounts the chair beside the piano and hangs 
 the hat on the antlers above it. She watches him 
 amazed and concerned.) 
 KATE. What are you putting it there for ? 
 HEATH (turns to her on the chair, smiling). To make 
 assurance doubly sure. (Steps off the chair.) 
 
 KATE. Do you think I can't get up there and get it ? 
 HEATH. You can get up and get it. 
 
 (kate moves as if to get the hat. heath sits in 
 the chair beneath it, crosses his legs and folds 
 his arms, kate, visibly annoyed, then turns to 
 him and says seriously without betraying any 
 temper.) 
 KATE. Don't you think you're rather taking advan- 
 tage of me by coming here ? 
 
 HEATH (smiling). No, no — I don't. For as I so pithily 
 remarked a moment ago, this is neutral ground. We 
 are the same as in the train — only — we aren't getting 
 along quite so fast, (kate sits in a chair at some dis- 
 tance, turning it till it has its back to him, expressing 
 disapproval in every attitude. There is a short silence ; 
 HEATH sighs heavily. She does not smile.) Shall we play 
 and sing ? (This amuses her. She smiles unseen by him, 
 then frowns, heath rises and comes towards her, speaking 
 naturally and sincerely.) I say, you know — I don't 
 
 want to 
 
 KATE (rises haughtily and moves away). I don't think 
 it is very polite of you to detain me here against my wish. 
 (He thinks she is going to get her hat, so he rushes 
 back to his chair and sits.) 
 heath. I wish you wouldn't pose so. 
 KATE (loftily). Pose ! 
 
 HEATH. Yes. You were so jolly and natural in the 
 train. Now you are behaving just like any real lady 
 would. 
 
 KATE. I am sorry if I didn't behave like one then. 
 HEATH. Oh, one doesn't think about whether Andro- 
 mache, or Sarah Siddons, or Saint Cecilia were real 
 ladies. I had you up among them. (She smiles, pleased 
 with his compliment. He comes towards her as he sjwaks. 
 Her manner stiffens as he approaches her.) Whatever 
 you do is sure to be all right.
 
 110 
 
 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE. I'm not aware that I committed any unusual 
 breach in speaking to a fellow traveller. {She moves off 
 with an air, and looks off from the window.) 
 
 {He puts his hands in his pockets and watches her 
 a little wistfully.) 
 
 HEATH. You do disappoint me ! 
 
 KATE. It isn't my fault if you formed a wrong opinion 
 of me. 
 
 HEATH {judging the effect of his remark upon her). 
 But I didn't think you were the kind of woman who'd 
 talk about her soul and love to any man. 
 
 KATE {as he supposes, turns to him indignantly). I'm 
 not. 
 
 HEATH {meets her with a smile). Of course you're not. 
 I know you from her as well as I know you from this 
 real lady with all her spikes on. (kate moves away, 
 pretending not to listen.) Women are such frightful 
 cowards. They are always clamouring for emancipation 
 and then — when the deHverer comes — they take fright 
 and run. 
 
 KATE {mockingly). How true — how true ! ! ! 
 
 HEATH. You know we agreed before, how absurd it 
 was to have all these conventions keeping men and 
 women apart — but I never saw any one more conven- 
 tional than you are now. I would be more consistent. 
 {Turns away from her.) 
 
 KATE {after a moments reflection). Suppose I do con- 
 sent to stay — {he turns to her quickly) — just the fraction 
 
 of a second longer {She does not know how to finish 
 
 her sentence.) 
 
 HEATH. Well — we could talk. 
 
 KATE. That would be thrilling. 
 
 HEATH {laughs). Don't be nasty about it. We might 
 have tea, too. 
 
 KATE {surprised into a laugh). Here ? 
 
 HEATH. Yes. We have to light a fire any^vay, to air 
 the room. 
 
 KATE {surprised into seriousness). How do you know 
 that ? 
 
 HEATH. W^ell — haven't we ? 
 
 KATE. Yes, but — it strikes me as quite weird that 
 you should know. 
 
 HEATH {going nearer, looks at her and speaks insinuat-
 
 COUSIN KATE 111 
 
 ingly). When two people are thoroughly sympathetic 
 they often divine each other's thoughts. 
 
 KATE {embarrassed under his gaze, hut trying to carry 
 it ojf lightly). Do they ? 
 
 HEATH. And since I know we have to light a fire to 
 air 
 
 KATE {interrupting him). You needn't be so proud of 
 your divinations. That's the only thought of mine you 
 ever divined. 
 
 HEATH {prolonging the word). Oh ! ! ! ! 
 
 KATE {faces him, defiantly). Well ? 
 
 HEATH. Shall I tell you some of the others ? 
 
 KATE {quickly). No, thank you ! 
 
 HEATH. Do let me. I am deeply interested in 
 occultism. 
 
 KATE {raising her voice and speaking quickly to stop 
 him speaking). Well, Fm not. I think it's a nasty, 
 creepy subject, and if you think you read any more of 
 
 my thoughts You didn't {Breaks off suddenly 
 
 to say.) Dear me, how I am shouting. 
 
 HEATH. As I was saying, when you so rudely in- 
 terrupted me, we have to light a fire here, anyway — 
 on account of the piano. 
 
 KATE {turns round to him quickly). How do you know 
 about the piano ? Oh ! {Goes towards him, and asks in 
 some anxiety.) Do you know who / am ? 
 
 HEATH. No. Do you know who / am ? 
 
 KATE. No. 
 
 HEATH. Would you like to ? 
 
 KATE. No. {Moves away.) 
 
 HEATH. It would rather interrupt our romance to 
 exchange cards, wouldn't it ? 
 
 KATE. Yes, — no, that is, — we aren't having a romance. 
 
 HEATH. Not yet, but when we get cosy over our tea- 
 cups we ought to feel quite romantic. 
 
 KATE {turns to him). You talk as if this were our 
 house. 
 
 HEATH. We are Silverlocks and this is the house the 
 three bears lived in. 
 
 KATE {ignoring this remark). Besides — how do you 
 know there is any tea here ? 
 
 HEATH. Silverlocks didn't know she would find any 
 soup.
 
 112 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE. What are you talking about ? 
 
 HEATH {in a tone of serious reproach). Do you mean 
 to say you don't remember the story of Silverlocks and 
 the three bears ? 
 
 KATE. No. 
 
 HEATH. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. {She 
 shrugs her shoulders and turns to the fireplace.) Remem- 
 bering nursery stories is one of the chief signs of election. 
 It shows you are still a child ; that you haven't forgotten 
 the days of games and dreams, when your spirit was too 
 sportive to be satisfied with a world of facts, so made 
 its own world of fancies. That's the kingdom of the 
 children. Nearly every one leaves it afterwards. But 
 the elect always hold their places there. They never 
 forget the games and the dreams. That's what gives 
 distinction to their humour and imagination ; a charm 
 to the point of view ; the signs by wliich their scattered 
 spirits beckon each other after they are grown up. And 
 how could they hold their places in the kingdom if they 
 forgot exactly how it felt to be a child ? And how 
 could they remember that, if they forgot anything so 
 important as the nursery stories ? 
 
 KATE {charmed with his speech, sits amiably on the 
 settle). Tell me about Silverlocks and the three bears. 
 
 HEATH. Well — she went for a walk one day. Silver- 
 locks did, and she came to a little house in a wood 
 where the three bears lived, but they were all out. So 
 first she drank their soup — at least she only tasted the 
 father and mother bears' soup, but she drank the little 
 one's all up. There's a picture of her drinking it out 
 of a blue bowl. 
 
 KATE {suddenly). Oh, yes. She had a yellow dress on. 
 
 HEATH {delighted). Yes. You do remember her ? 
 {Drops beside kate on the settle.) I knew you must be 
 one of us when I found you singing grand opera all by 
 yourself. That's one of the signs. 
 
 KATE {amused). I never met any one like you in my 
 Ufe. 
 
 HEATH {sentimentally). I've been looking for you a 
 long time. 
 
 KATE {embarrassed). Hadn't we better {Rises.) 
 
 HEATH {jumping up cheerfully). Make tea — yes. We 
 must hurry up and light a fire. The three bears ought
 
 COUSIN KATE 113 
 
 to have done that before they went out. We want some 
 paper first, then some chips, then some coal. 
 
 KATE {protesting a little at his instructions). I know 
 how to lay a fire. 
 
 HEATH (taking a newspaper from his pocket). Oh ! 
 (Goes towards her.) Then will you crumple that up in 
 the grate ? (She takes the paper from him mechanically.) 
 While I go and look for coal and stuff. {He goes out 
 quickly, leaving the door open, kate crosses to the fire- 
 place, stands still a moment, then throws the paper on the 
 floor.) 
 
 KATE {with decision). No, Kate, it won't do. 
 
 {She crosses to the chair by the piano, mounts it and 
 takes her hat from the antlers, steps off the chair, 
 puts her hat on hastily, takes her sunshade and 
 gloves and coat from the table, goes to the door, 
 pushes it to, then goes to the window, looks round 
 at the door, then pulls up her skirts and prepares 
 to mount the window-sill. As she steps on to the 
 window-sill, heath enters with a kettle in his 
 right hand and a coal-box with coal and wood in 
 his left.) 
 HEATH {pauses on the threshold and looks at her). 
 Hullo ! 
 
 KATE {screams). Oh ! 
 
 {She quickly lets her skirt down and looks round. 
 HEATH deposits the kettle and the coal-box on the 
 floor, then goes towards her.) 
 
 HEATH. Why ? 
 
 KATE. I'd better. 
 
 HEATH. Where's the harm ? We could be so jolly 
 together. You might trust me. I'm really nice. I'm 
 not dangerous. 
 
 KATE. Dangerous men aren't half as dangerous as 
 nice ones. 
 
 HEATH. You'll feel all right about staying to tea — 
 when you've had tea. 
 
 KATE. But — I'd better not. 
 
 HEATH. You know you'll wish you had if you don't. 
 
 KATE. It'll be better to wish I had than to wish I 
 hadn't. 
 
 HEATH. I never met any one I could get on with quite 
 so well, but of course if you want to be prudish and 
 
 VOL. I I
 
 114 COUSIN KATE 
 
 think we ought to throw away such a good chance of 
 
 being just our natural selves 
 
 {Wanders towards the piano, opens the top lid and 
 peers among the wires with one eye on kate. 
 KATE remains standing on the window-seat in 
 a state of indecision, thinking she ought to go, 
 but longing to stay. Deciding not to go yet, 
 she slowly lets fall her coat, her gloves, and her 
 sunshade, one by one on the zvindow-seat beside 
 her. She glances at heath. He appears to be 
 taking no notice of her. She steps off the 
 window-seat and stands still a moment, not 
 quite knowing how to proceed. At last, receiv- 
 ing no help from heath, she boldly seizes the 
 kettle, hurries with it to the hearth, and kneels 
 in front of the fireplace.) 
 KATE. Now the chips. 
 
 (heath brings her the coal-box with the wood, etc.) 
 HEATH. Here they are, and the paper. {She lays the 
 fire as she speaks.) 
 
 KATE. By the way, wasn't it Silverlocks who had to 
 look after the fire ? 
 
 HEATH {giving her a match). No, that was Cinderella. 
 
 KATE. Oh, yes, with the ugly sisters. 
 
 HEATH, And the Prince — she fell in love wdth him. 
 
 KATE {looks at him). Oh {Lights the fire.) 
 
 HEATH. Yes. And she married him. 
 KATE. Yes — but I wish you wouldn't talk so much 
 when you see I'm busy. 
 
 {He goes towards the door while she watches the fire.) 
 HEATH. I'll go and look for cups and things. {Hesi- 
 tates near the door.) I say, you won't go away while I'm 
 out, will you ? 
 
 KATE. What do you say ? 
 
 HEATH. You won't go away while I'm out ? 
 
 {She takes off her hat and lays it on the settle for 
 response, then turns to the fire again, stooping 
 on the hearth and jjoking chips between the bars, 
 before she jouts the kettle on. He watches her, 
 then tiptoes to the seat, takes her hat and tiptoes 
 out with it, half-running and glancing back at 
 her as he goes, kate sits on the hearth with a 
 sigh of pleasure.)
 
 COUSIN KATE 115 
 
 KATE {talking aloud to herself). Oh, Kate, why not 
 for once in a way ? It's good experience for you, and it 
 
 may do to put in your next novel. If he gets too 
 
 {She rises and stands on the hearth.) You can make a 
 few queenly gestures and sweep out. {Turns to the 
 settle.) Where's my hat ? 
 
 (heath enters. He has a common teapot and two 
 cups hanging from the fingers of his right hand. 
 In the same hand he carries some knives and 
 spoons and two saucers and a butter-dish. In 
 his left hand a bread trencher with rate's hat 
 on it. Half a loaf squeezed under one arm, and 
 a milk-jug pressed against his side with the 
 other. A small paper bag in his mouth.) 
 heath {speaking with the bag in his mouth). This is 
 the tea in this bag. 
 
 (kate laughs when he enters, goes to him and helps 
 him to deposit the things on the table. She now 
 abandons herself to the spirit of the picnic.) 
 HEATH {with the bag in his mouth). Take the tea. 
 KATE. Give me the cups. Now the knives. Oh, be 
 
 careful — now the teapot — now the tea {Takes the 
 
 bag from his mouth and lays it down.) 
 
 HEATH. Here's the milk. And here's the bread. 
 KATE. Now, you watch the kettle while I lay the 
 table. 
 
 {He goes to the hearth, while she quickly arranges 
 the things on the table, and puts tea in the 
 teapot.) 
 HEATH. I hope the three bears won't come home 
 before we've finished. 
 
 KATE. What happened to Silverlocks when they came 
 home ? 
 
 HEATH. 
 
 " ' We'll kill the child and eat her for our dinner,' 
 The Father growled ; but said the Mother : ' No, 
 For supper she shall be, and I will skin her.' " 
 KATE {in a little squeaky voice). " ' No,' said the 
 Little Cub, ' we'll let her go.' " {They both laugh as she 
 pushes a loaf and knife towards heath, who joins her at 
 the table.) You cut, I'll butter. 
 
 HEATH. I'm awfully hungry— aren't you ? We didn't 
 have much lunch, did we ? Only one between us.
 
 116 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE. I suppose you mean I didn't divide the chicken 
 fairly. 
 
 {She smiles at him. He laughs with pleasure, and 
 goes on cutting bread as he speaks.) 
 
 HEATH. I never thought when we finished our last 
 meal that we'd be having the next together. I wish — 
 {Giving her a slice of bread as he says, sentimentally.) I 
 wish we could have all our meals 
 
 KATE {to interrupt him). I'm sure that kettle must 
 be boiling. {Goes over to the hearth, heath smiles to 
 himself and wags his head, knowingly, when her back is 
 turned. She looks at the kettle, then turns to him.) 
 What does a kettle do when it boils ? Does it just 
 smoke ? 
 
 HEATH. I think it spits. 
 
 KATE. It's beginning to growl a little. Does that 
 mean anji:hing ? 
 
 HEATH {goes towards the kettle, a little anxiously). I 
 don't know. But I'm sure the lid comes off when it 
 boils over. {Bends down and peers at the kettle, then says, 
 humorously.) I wish M^e'd brought a cookery-book. 
 (kate laugJis and kneels down in front of the kettle. He 
 stands behind her, looking down at her.) I say. D'ye 
 know, your hair's a little ruffled ? 
 
 KATE {amiably). Is it — where ? 
 
 HEATH. In that place it's so difficult for you to get at 
 yourself. {Touches her hair.) 
 
 KATE {loftily). Oh ! {Rises and moves slowly to the 
 window, where she stands and looks out.) 
 
 HEATH {watching her). The girl rose from the fender 
 and fixing him ^^dth a haughty glance swept across the 
 apartment with the air of a queen. She stood gazing 
 
 wistfully across the park 
 
 (kate laughs and turns from the window.) 
 
 KATE. It's no use pretending with you. 
 
 HEATH {smiling frankly). Not the slightest. But of 
 course it's all right for you to keep your spikes out for a 
 little while. I don't see how a really nice woman could 
 do anything else. 
 
 KATE {comes towards him protesting). I'm not a really 
 nice woman, I mean — I'm an individual like you. {He 
 looks up at her, smiles knowingly ; she becomes embar- 
 rassed.) Oh, the kettle. {Goes quickly to the fire.)
 
 COUSIN KATE 117 
 
 HEATH. Spikes ! 
 
 KATE {anxiously looking at the kettle). No — but it's — 
 
 it's 
 
 HEATH {excitedly, looking at the kettle). It's spitting. 
 KATE. Yes. Catch hold. 
 HEATH. It'll burn me. 
 
 KATE {gives him her handkerchief). Wrap this round. 
 {He wraps the handkerchief round his left hand, 
 takes the kettle off the fire and hurries to the table 
 with it.) 
 HEATH. Ah! Oh! {Yells as he pours the water into 
 the teapot.) 
 
 KATE {anxiously, as she comes to him). Did you burn 
 yourself ? 
 
 HEATH {howls as he holds out his left hand to her with 
 the handkerchief round it). I think so. I think so. 
 
 {She unwinds the handkerchief carefully and ex- 
 amines his hand. He grimaces when she looks 
 at his face, and smiles when she looks at his 
 hand.) 
 KATE {taking her handkerchief and dropping his hand). 
 No, you didn't, (heath laughs, and puts the kettle hack 
 in the fender. She turns to the table smiling.) Let's eat. 
 {They sit opposite each other at the table, kate makes the 
 tea.) 
 
 HEATH. I like mine strong with lots of sugar. 
 KATE. You'll have to wait till it mixes. 
 HEATH. Brews is the word. 
 
 (KATE laughs, then regards him steadily across the 
 table.) 
 KATE. I don't know what you are. 
 HEATH. I'm Dublin. 
 
 KATE. Is that why you're so unpractical ? 
 HEATH. I had to tell you what a kettle does when it's 
 ready. 
 
 KATE. We must both be artists. 
 
 HEATH. We might be just a rich lady and gentleman 
 who've always been too grand to work. 
 
 KATE. Oh, no. They never enjoy themselves as much 
 as this. {She pours out two cups of tea. When she puts 
 the teapot down their eyes meet.) 
 
 HEATH {slowly). Well, at any rate we — are — opposite 
 each other again.
 
 118 COUSIN KATE 
 
 (kate drops her eyes. Pushes one cup over to 
 HEATH. Takes her own. There is a short, 
 embarrassed silence.) 
 KATE. Is your tea all right ? 
 
 HEATH {drinks ; then says, seriously). Yes, thank you. 
 {Then mocking the constraint of the situation.) It's a 
 charming afternoon, is it not ? 
 
 (kate laughs.) 
 KATE. What possible connection can you have with a 
 workaday world ? 
 
 HEATH. I'm only rotting now so that I won't tell the 
 truth. {Leans across the table.) Were you ever in love ? 
 KATE {smiles thoughtfully). I'm twenty-nine. 
 HEATH {confidentially). Tell me about the first time. 
 KATE. I can't remember which it was. 
 HEATH. As many as that ? 
 
 KATE {simply). My world has been filled with two 
 kinds of men : the men I loved and the men who loved 
 me. They were never the same. {Leans back.) Now 
 I've told you the story of my life. 
 
 HEATH. Then you've never met him. 
 KATE. I'm only twenty-nine. 
 HEATH. You will meet him. 
 KATE. I don't intend to die until I do. 
 
 {They laugh. They both drink and heath watches 
 her over his cup all the time, kate meets 
 heath's eyes, puts her cup dozvn, looks into it 
 and stirs the dregs round with her spoon. She 
 looks up again, meeting his eyes. She gives a 
 nervous half-laugh and drops her eyes, heath 
 puts his cup down, watching her steadily. 
 KATE grows more uneasy.) 
 HEATH. Do you believe in love at first sight ? 
 KATE. Yes— no — that is — I don't know. 
 HEATH. It's the only real love, isn't it ? 
 KATE. Yes. 
 
 HEATH. You see some one pass, and all of a sudden, 
 you get such a funny feeling in your throat. 
 
 KATE {putting her hand to her heart). Yes — and here. 
 HEATH. Yes, and here. {Rubs his knee.) Doesn't 
 love at first sight catch you in your knees ? {With 
 enthusiasm.) And isn't it all grand and exciting and the 
 only thing worth living for ?
 
 COUSIN KATE 119 
 
 KATE (sadly). And isn't it soon over ? 
 
 HEATH. It always is, but don't you feel that it needn't 
 be, and that when you meet the perfect companion — it 
 won't be ? 
 ■ KATE (responding earnestly). Yes 
 
 HEATH (pauses before he says, simply). I'm in love 
 with you. 
 
 KATE (disconcerted and troubled). Please — don't. 
 
 HEATH. You must havc seen it. 
 
 KATE. But — how can you — yet ? 
 
 HEATH. It takes no time to fall in love. 
 
 KATE. You've spoilt everything by saying that — 
 now. 
 
 HEATH. I shall never be more sure than now. 
 
 KATE. But it's beginning at the wrong end to be 
 lovers before you know if you can be friends. 
 
 HEATH. Oh, no. If we are lovers we shall be friends. 
 We can if we try. But we might be the best of friends, 
 we couldn't become lovers with trying. So it's begin- 
 ning at the right end to be lovers first. 
 
 KATE (after a mojnenfs reflection). I'm sure that's not 
 sound logic. 
 
 HEATH. Love isn't logical. 
 
 KATE (turns to him slowly). But if you were in love 
 with a woman you hardly knew, as you say you are 
 now (Pauses.) 
 
 HEATH (sincerely). I shouldn't care how wicked or 
 married she was. I should leave everything to follow her. 
 
 KATE (with enthusiasm). That's the way to love, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 HEATH (leaning towards her). It's the way I love you. 
 (She looks away from him.) Would you have to know 
 everything about a man before you could care for him ? 
 
 KATE (looking straight before her). No. If I loved him 
 
 I could forgive him everything. But (Her voice 
 
 breaks tvith emotion.) I never thought any one would 
 love me like that. (He puts his hand over hers, which she 
 rests on the table. She rises, half-afraid, looking at him 
 and withdrawing her hand.) Oh, but you don't mean it. 
 (He rises and goes towards her. She moves a little away, 
 putting out her hands, imploring him not to approach her.) 
 Please, please. (He goes slowly to the window and looks 
 out.)
 
 120 COUSIN KATE 
 
 HEATH. It's going to rain. 
 
 {The stage has gradually grown darker as if heavy 
 thunder -clouds were gathering.) 
 KATE [hurriedly). I must go. [She goes to get her hat 
 and sunshade. A distant rumble of thunder is heard.) 
 
 HEATH. There's going to be a storm. [Turns to her.) 
 You can't go till it passes. 
 
 KATE [nervously ; taking her hat in her hand). I don't 
 mind walking in the rain, thank you. 
 
 HEATH [going towards her ; speaking as a lover). The 
 storm might be rough and hurt you. I can't bear to 
 think of the rain falling on you, or the wind blowing 
 your face too hard. 
 
 KATE [looks at him with gratitude and wonder as she 
 lays her hat down again, the?i says slowly). Do you care 
 like that ? 
 
 HEATH. How can I help caring ? Doesn't every one 
 love you ? [Takes her hand.) 
 
 KATE [slowly, with a faint smile). Yes. But I don't 
 think there's any one else who'd think it mattered if I 
 got caught in the rain. 
 
 HEATH [close to her, bends over her as he speaks, taking 
 her hands in his. She looks at him half-charmed and 
 half-afraid). Fll take care of you. Fll shelter you. 
 KATE [hurriedly). No, no. We mustn't. 
 HEATH [speaking in his soft lover's voice as his arms 
 close around her). I want to shelter you always. [Draw- 
 ing her closer and turning her towards him.) I love 
 you ! 
 
 KATE [breathlessly, alarmed, but yielding gradually to 
 his fascination). Oh — but — what are we doing ? 
 
 [He folds his arms fast round her. His face is 
 close to hers. He looks in her eyes. He kisses 
 her slowly on the mouth. She yields herself to 
 him entirely. A peal of thunder surprises 
 them. She draws herself away from him at the 
 sound of it. She sii^ks into a chair, bursts into 
 tears, buries her face on her arms and sobs. 
 HEATH goes quietly to the window, closes it, and 
 comes back to kate. She is sobbing bitterly. 
 HEATH takes her hand in his and holds it.) 
 KATE. No, no, you don't mean it. [She rises to her 
 feet and moves away from him, speaking excitedly.) You're
 
 COUSIN KATE 121 
 
 making love to me to see me yield. And then you'll 
 despise me — and laugh at me. {He turns from her, look- 
 ing very troubled.) You're laughing now. (He turns his 
 troubled face towards her. She softens instantly.) Oh ! 
 {She becomes penitent.) Forgive me, please, please for- 
 give me. {He puts his arms about her ; she looks in his 
 face.) I could love you so much. {Slowly pushing him 
 
 from her.) If I thought {Dubiously, as she looks 
 
 searchingly at him.) If I was sure {Pauses. He 
 
 looks at her before he speaks gently and earnestly.) 
 
 HEATH. I feel you are sincere because I've looked into 
 your eyes. That's the only way lovers can ever know. 
 
 KATE {turns to him responsively, then stops doubtfully). 
 But you say that as if you'd had a great deal of 
 experience. 
 
 HEATH. I'll tell you the truth. Once for a long time 
 I thought I was in love, but now I know that I never 
 loved any one but you. 
 
 KATE {joyfully looking in his face, draws suddenly back 
 from him, doubtful agahi). Oh, but they always say that. 
 {With a miserable little laugh.) I'm not quite so simple 
 as— as not to know that there are men who make love 
 out of curiosity. Who try to kiss a woman, not because 
 they want to, but to see if she will or she won't. {Moves 
 away from him.) 
 
 HEATH. I say, you know, it's not fair of you to take 
 it for granted that I don't mean what I say, because — 
 I do. 
 
 KATE {comes impulsively towards him, putting her hands 
 on his arms). I want you all to myself. {Holding him.) 
 You'll never kiss another woman, will you ? 
 
 HEATH {smiling). Never. 
 
 KATE {impulsively). You won't even speak to one, or 
 look at one. 
 
 HEATH. No, dear, no. 
 
 KATE {breaking away from him). Oh, how do I know 
 you won't ? 
 
 {He holds her firmly by the wrist, not letting her 
 move away.) 
 
 HEATH {almost sternly). You don't know. You've got 
 to trust me. 
 
 KATE {turns to him, arrested by his authority, becomes 
 submissive). Yes, I will. I'm not usually an angry
 
 122 COUSIN KATE 
 
 woman, but I'm so afraid of losing you and I think I'm 
 
 a little excited. {There is another flash of lightning, 
 
 followed by a peal of thunder. She puts her hands over 
 
 her eyes.) Oh, that lightning. It makes me so nervous. 
 
 {He goes quietly towards the window. She draws 
 
 her hands from her eyes. Starts with alarm at 
 
 seeing he is not at her side, then turns towards 
 
 him excitedly.) 
 
 KATE. What are you doing ? 
 
 HEATH. I'm going to draw the curtains so that you 
 won't see the lightning. 
 
 {He draws the curtains, kate looks at him sus- 
 piciously. She quickly lights the candles.) 
 
 heath {as he turns from the window and sees her 
 lighting the candles). Yes, that's a good idea. Now we 
 shan't see it so much. {She looks at him suspiciously, 
 her face strongly illuminated hy the light of the candles.) 
 What is it ? 
 
 KATE, I thought you were going to make the room 
 dark so that you could slip out and leave me. {He turns 
 from her, puzzled what to do. She starts towards him 
 when he turns from her, more excited than ever.) Why do 
 you turn away ? You're tired of me already. {He turns 
 towards her imploringly. She draws hack.) No, no. You 
 only turn to me because I ask you. Oh, why did you 
 follow me ? You forced yourself on me. I'd have 
 been strong another time — but I couldn't to-day — -I 
 
 couldn't {Sohs hysterically, and sinks upon the 
 
 settle. HEATH watches her gravely till her sobs subside 
 a little. She becomes gradually calm as he speaks to 
 her gently and firmly. ) 
 
 HEATH. I shan't force myself upon you any more. 
 But I'll never leave you while you let me stay. You 
 must take my promise for that. If I'd known you for 
 years I couldn't give you more now. You and I both 
 know the real man and woman from the sham. We 
 were quick to recognise each other. I believe in you 
 for ever. You must do the same for me if you want 
 our love to last. 
 
 {She rises and comes towards him, submissively. 
 He holds out his hand to her.) 
 
 KATE. How you must hate me for giving way like 
 this.
 
 COUSIN KATE 123 
 
 HEATH {gently, as he takes her hands). No, dear, I 
 understand. 
 
 KATE. Do you, really ? 
 
 HEATH. I love you for giving way, because by that 
 I know I was the first. 
 
 KATE {looking in his face). Yes. You were. {Fond- 
 ling his hand in both hers as she speaks.) And, after all, 
 I suppose you really might fall in love with me at first 
 sight. I did with you. 
 
 HEATH {smiling). I loved you the minute I got in the 
 raliway carriage — no, before — when I put my toe on 
 the step to get in. 
 
 KATE {smiling). I was the first. I saw you coming 
 down the platform, slantways through the window. 
 Oh ! I was so afraid you'd go past me. 
 
 HEATH. And I was so afraid you wouldn't be in the 
 train. 
 
 KATE. How could you be ? You didn't know me. 
 
 HEATH. But I've always been looking out for you. 
 Whenever I start on a journey, or even walking down 
 the street, I scan the people's faces and wonder if one 
 of them is yours. Sometimes I think I see you. She 
 has a little way of inclining as she walks, or tilting 
 her chin, or saying something, or generally of laugh- 
 ing — which makes me think she must be you. I 
 watch my chances and pursue her. But very soon I 
 find out that she isn't you at all. But to-day she 
 was you. Oh, I've found you at last. {He takes her 
 in his arms.) 
 
 KATE. And you won't go away ? 
 
 HEATH. Never. 
 
 {He kisses her slowly and tenderly, then with their 
 arms about each other they move slowly towards 
 the settle, kate sits down there, heath on a 
 stool at her feet. They settle themselves com- 
 fortably, leaning against each other, with hands 
 clasped.) 
 
 KATE. Yes, like this. 
 
 heath {dreamily). We'll pretend we are sitting at 
 home by our own fire. We'll often sit like this — won't 
 we — and listen to the rain ? Only it'll be a little house 
 in a wood, like the one the three bears lived in. I'll 
 make it out of branches.
 
 124 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE {softly). Could we really live in a little house 
 like that ? 
 
 HEATH. Yes. We'll live all by ourselves. Would 
 you like that ? 
 
 KATE. Yes. But I'm afraid you'd get tired with 
 only me. 
 
 HEATH. No, dear, I wouldn't. If we wanted a little 
 gaiety we could go and call on Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel, 
 or ask Miss Weasel to tea. 
 
 KATE. And where would we get our food ? 
 HEATH. We'd ask Mrs. Squirrel the best place to go 
 for nuts, and there'd be a little stream running past our 
 front door where we'd fish in the mornings. 
 KATE {very softly). Can't we go to it now ? 
 HEATH {closing his eyes). Yes — as soon as the rain 
 stops. 
 
 {He leans against her with closed eyes as if he were 
 going to sleep, kate looks dreamily in the fire. 
 They are silent. A clock outside strikes six.) 
 KATE {starts, as if coining out of a dream). Six. {tin- 
 easily.) I'd forgotten about clocks. 
 
 HEATH {without opening his eyes). There'll be no clocks 
 in the wood. 
 
 KATE. We mustn't talk any more nonsense. 
 
 HEATH {looking up at her). We are talking sense. 
 
 That's nonsense all the other people talk {Pointing 
 
 to window.) Out there in their big, noisy world. They 
 don't know about our little world. {Sits beside her on 
 the seat, his arm about her.) 
 
 KATE {troubled ; looking away from him). This isn't 
 the world. 
 
 HEATH. No, dear — it's Paradise. 
 
 KATE. But we aren't ready for Paradise yet. {Rises.) 
 We must go back. Back to life. This isn't life, by a 
 dim light and a drowsy fire. {She goes to the window 
 and draws the curtain. A jjale white light comes from 
 the window and takes away all the warmth from the candle- 
 light and firelight. She turns to him, pointing from the 
 window as she speaks.) There ! That's life out in the 
 storm. If our love is real it will weather the %vind and 
 the rain. 
 
 HEATH. But let it sit a little longer by the fire first. 
 KATE {takes his hands). No. I must go away. But
 
 COUSIN KATE 125 
 
 we'll take it with us wherever we go. It's going to be 
 an ennobling love to help us when we work, so that 
 we shan't feel ashamed of it when it's time to draw our 
 blinds and light our lamps. It must spend good days 
 to earn its pleasant evenings. Then we'll let it dream 
 a little. 
 
 HEATH {he kisses her hand). And you'll meet me very 
 soon ? 
 
 KATE. Yes. 
 
 HEATH. When ? 
 
 KATE. A month from to-day ? 
 
 HEATH (protesting). A month ! 
 
 KATE. Well — a fortnight. 
 
 HEATH. That's too long. 
 
 KATE. A week. 
 
 HEATH. To-morrow. 
 
 KATE. To-morrow at three o'clock. 
 
 HEATH. I can't wait so long as that. 
 
 KATE. Then make it half-past two. 
 
 {They both laugh. There is a ring at the front-door 
 bell. They both look at each other and become 
 very serious.) 
 HEATH. Shall I go and see ? 
 KATE {considers a mornent). No, I'll go. 
 
 (KATE goes out, leaving the door ajar, heath goes 
 to the door and listens.) 
 AMY {heard outside). Here you are. I've brought you 
 an umbrella. 
 
 heath {greatly disconcerted). Amy ! How awkward ! 
 What shall I say to her ? 
 
 {He takes his hat quickly from the table and goes to 
 the window, is about to open it when amy opens 
 the door. He slips behind the window curtain. 
 AMY enters in her bicycling costume, carrying an 
 umbrella, kate follows her, trying to conceal 
 her embarrassment.) 
 AMY. What a time the storm lasted. 
 KATE. Yes — didn't it ? {Looking about furtively, says 
 to herself.) I wonder where he went. 
 
 AMY. Mother thought I'd better come over and see 
 if you were all right, so as soon as it stopped pouring, I 
 got on my bicycle and brought this. {Lays the umbrella 
 against the seat.)
 
 126 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE (to herself.) His hat's gone. 
 
 AMY. You must have been awfully dull here by your- 
 self. 
 
 KATE. Oh, no, it wasn't so dull. 
 
 AMY {noticing the tea things). I see you found some 
 tea tilings. 
 
 KATE. Yes. {Glancing at the window). He must 
 have gone the way he came. 
 
 AMY. It looks as if two people had had tea. 
 
 KATE {staring at the table). Does it ? 
 
 AMY {pointing). Two cups. 
 
 KATE. Yes, I had two cups. {Huvfiorously, pointing 
 to cups.) That's my first cup, and that's my second. 
 
 AMY {laughing). Don't be silly. 
 
 KATE. Tell me — has Heath been to see you ? 
 
 AMY. Not yet. Hasn't he been here ? {Goes to the 
 fire.) 
 
 KATE. No. {Starts suddenly, unperceived by amy, 
 suspecting the truth. After a momentary look of alarm 
 she becomes composed.) 
 
 AMY {looking at the fire, says innocently). Bobby went 
 to Heath's lodgings and they said he'd come here. I 
 suppose he hadn't got my letter. He ought to have it 
 by now. Let's lock up and go. Did you look and see 
 if the upstairs ^vindows were fastened ? (kate doesn't 
 heed her ; amy smiles.) I knew you'd forget. You 
 might just fasten that one {indicating the window as 
 she goes towards the door) while I go upstairs. {Turns 
 at the door, smiling.) Oh, I've found out who your 
 charming young man in the train was. Can't you 
 guess ? 
 
 KATE {trying to conceal her fears). No. 
 
 AMY. Try. 
 
 KATE. I'd rather not. 
 
 AMY. Heath. 
 
 (amy goes out laughing, kate stands motionless. 
 HEATH comes slowly from behind the curtain 
 and faces her.) 
 
 HEATH {with intense earnestness). I'm not — I'm not 
 what you think. She doesn't love me. She drove me 
 away before. It'll soon be all right. I meant every 
 word I said. I'm yours absolutely. I must be your 
 husband and you must be my wife.
 
 COUSIN KATE 127 
 
 [He approaches her with his arms out. She holds 
 up her hand sternly, forbidding him to touch 
 her.) 
 
 KATE. No ! 
 
 HEATH {dropping his hands by his sides). I mean it. 
 I mean every word I said. You must believe me. 
 
 KATE {deliberately). You were not playing with me ? 
 
 HEATH. No — on my soul, no ! I'll tell her now, before 
 you. 
 
 KATE. You say you were not playing ? 
 
 HEATH. No — no ! 
 
 KATE {looks him steadily in the face before she says). 
 But / was. 
 
 {He steps back, dumbfounded and horrified.) 
 
 HEATH. Ah, no ! 
 
 KATE. Yes, of course. You don't suppose for a 
 moment I thought you were in earnest. 
 
 (amy enters. She stops on the threshold, surprised 
 and pleased to see heath.) 
 
 AMY. Heath ! {Coming towards him.) Have you 
 just come ? Did you get my letter ? 
 
 heath {whose attitude to amy is quiet and gentle). No. 
 
 AMY {simply and penitently). I wrote to tell you how 
 sorry I was, and to ask you to forgive me. Will you ? 
 {She holds out her hand to him. He takes it mechanically. 
 She thinks they are reconciled.) Thank you. (amy looks 
 towards kate a little embarrassed.) You know Cousin 
 Kate already, I think. 
 
 HEATH {hurriedly). Yes, yes. I'll come and see you 
 this evening and explain everything. 
 
 AMY {turning to heath, says innocently). We can do 
 that now. It won't take long. 
 
 HEATH {looking at kate). Not here — not yet. 
 
 AMY {following the direction of his eyes). Oh, I see. 
 You are shy before Cousin Kate. 
 
 HEATH. Yes. Wait till this evening. I'll come — this 
 evening. 
 
 AMY {pleasantly). Very well. Go home and get the 
 letter and then come and see me. 
 
 HEATH {hurriedly). Yes. I'll do that. 
 
 (heath goes out right without looking back.) 
 
 AMY {looking after heath). Poor Heath. I suppose 
 he feels rather guilty, too. {With a smile and a sigh of
 
 128 COUSIN KATE 
 
 relief). Oh, well ; it's all right now. Put on your hat, 
 Cousin Kate, while I put these things away. 
 
 {Takes up some of the cups, etc., from the table and 
 carries them out. kate sits forlornly on the 
 settle.) 
 KATE. Oh, Kate, Kate ! You poor old fool ! 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE THIRD ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The same as Act I. About half an hour has 
 elapsed since Act II. The storm being followed by a 
 fine sunset. It grows gradually dusk during the act. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER sits scwing on the sofa, bobby is standing 
 at the window. Both are dressed as in Act I. 
 
 BOBBY {calls from the window). Hullo, Amy ! 
 
 MRS. SPENCER [putting down her work). At last. 
 
 BOBBY [calling from the window). You'd better hurry- 
 up. You'll be late for supper. [Turns to his mother.) 
 It's Amy by herself, on her bicycle. 
 
 (amy enters dressed as in Act II. She looks very 
 happy and smiling.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Whcrc's Cousiu Kate ? 
 
 AMY. She's coming. I left her to walk. I was in 
 such a hurry to tell you. I've seen Heath. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER [in chccrful anticipation). Oh, well ? 
 
 AMY. He came to Owlscot while I was there. He's 
 coming here this evening. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. And how did he seem ? 
 
 AMY. I think he was rather embarrassed. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Well, that's no wonder. 
 
 AMY. No, and with Cousin Kate there we couldn't 
 say very much, but he said he'd come this evening. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Dear Amy. [Embraces her.) I had 
 
 a feeling it would all come right when Cousin Kate came. 
 
 (amy turns smiling from mrs. spencer to bobby.) 
 
 BOBBY [awkwardly). I say, I'm beastly glad. 
 
 AMY. Oh, Bobby ! 
 
 (amy pounces on bobby and kisses hiyn on the 
 brow. He pushes her away disgusted.) 
 
 BOBBY. Oh, don't. Amy. 
 
 VOL. I 129 K
 
 130 COUSIN KATE 
 
 MRS. SPENCER, Now wc Can open Mrs. Darbisher's 
 present. [Goes to the drawer where she put the parcel in 
 Act I., getting it out as she speaks.) It came about three 
 o'clock, but I didn't tell you. I thought it would only 
 upset you. (Gives the parcel to amy, who sits down and 
 unpacks it. mrs. spencer stands beside her, her eyes 
 glistening with curiosity as she watches her.) It's sure to 
 be something handsome from Mrs. Darbisher. It may 
 be an ostrich feather fan, with real tortoise-shell sticks. 
 ( Under the brown paper amy finds a square cardboard box. 
 She takes off the lid, takes out a fat parcel wrapped in white 
 tissue-paper.) Oh, it's something squashy — lace — a roll 
 of priceless point de venise. (amy takes off the tissue- 
 paper, and holds up a padded satin handkerchief case, 
 elaborately trimmed with lace and four long ribbon ends. 
 MRS. spencer's face betrays the keenest disappointment 
 when the present is exposed.) 
 
 AMY. A handkerchief case. 
 
 MRS. spencer. She ought to be ashamed to send a 
 home-made thing like that. 
 
 AMY. Oh, mother, it's very pretty. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. For a bazaar, yes — but not for a 
 wedding present. 
 
 AMY. I think it was very kind of her to remember me 
 at all. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. That's nonsense, Amy. I expected fish- 
 carvers at least from Mrs. Darbisher. But I've noticed 
 that rich people often give the scrubbiest presents. 
 
 AMY. Oh, mother ! 
 
 BOBBY. Let's have a look at it. [Taking it very care- 
 fully in his hands.) For pocket-handkerchiefs ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I supposc that's what she meant it 
 for. {Fingers it contemptuously.) It's hard to tell. Such 
 a puffy-looking thing. 
 
 BOBBY. I'll tell you what it's for. It's to put on your 
 head when you dust. {He puts it on his head, amy 
 makes a grab at him.. He jumps away from her. :mrs. 
 SPENCER and amy laugh at him. He ties two of the ribbons 
 under his chin.) These are the strings. {Tosses the 
 other two over his shoulders.) And these two are the tails. 
 (MRS. SPENCER is convulscd with laughter, amy goes 
 towards him to take it from him. He dodges her.) 
 
 AMY. Don't, Bobby, you'll crush it.
 
 COUSIN KATE 131 
 
 BOBBY {taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he 
 pretends to dust a chair). You see you go about in it to 
 do your mornin' dustin' like this. It keeps the dust out 
 of your hair. 
 
 AMY (follows him laughing, but a little alarmed for the 
 safety of the present). Take it off. {He runs away from 
 her behind the sofa.) Catch him, mother. {They chase 
 BOBBY round the furniture, all three laughing merrily.) 
 
 (KATE appears at the window dressed as before. 
 She looks pale and dejected. She watches them 
 without smiling before they see her. mrs. 
 SPENCER sees her first.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, there's Cousin Kate. 
 
 {They stop the chase, kate comes forward trying 
 to smile.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {out of breath). What children you must 
 think us, all romping like this, but we're so happy. 
 (bobby throws the handkerchief case over to amy, who 
 catches it. mrs. spencer jumps with fright as it passes 
 her.) Oh, dear ! 
 
 amy {smiling, as she comes towards kate). We're in 
 rather better spirits than when you came, aren't we ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. We wcrc laughing over one of Amy's 
 wedding presents. {To amy.) Just show Kate that 
 thing Mrs. Darbisher sent you. 
 
 AMY. No, mother, dear. You've said quite enough 
 things about it. 
 
 (amy sits on the sofa and packs up the present.) 
 
 KATE. How d'you do, Bobby ! I haven't seen you. 
 
 BOBBY. How d'you do, Cousin Kate ! I saw you 
 when you didn't see me. 
 
 KATE. Did you ? Where ? 
 
 BOBBY. Gettin' out of the train with Heath. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. How fuuuy you and Heath should 
 travel together, and you'd no idea who he was ? 
 
 KATE. No. You never told me he was an Irishman. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I thought cvcry one knew, (kate 
 smiles wearily and lays her sunshade down.) Kate, you 
 look tired. 
 
 KATE. I am rather tired. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. You ought to havc rested after your 
 journey. 
 
 KATE {wistfully). It would have been wiser.
 
 132 COUSIN KATE 
 
 AMY (smiles). Such an exciting journey, too. (Rises, 
 with the parcel.) 
 
 KATE (smiling at amy). Yes. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. You'll fccl better after supper. 
 
 AMY. Come along, Bobby. We'll put Mrs. Dar- 
 bisher's present among the rest. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Ycs. That ought to make her feel 
 ashamed. 
 
 (amy and bobby go out. mrs. spencer looks 
 after them, smiling affectionately.) 
 
 MRS. spencer. Dear Amy. She's so happy again. 
 You know I said it would be all right when you came. 
 
 KATE (earnestly). I hope it will. 
 
 (mrs. spencer impressed by her earnest tone looks 
 hard at her.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Tell me, Kate. Is this something 
 really serious ? 
 
 KATE. What ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. What you told me before you went to 
 Owlscot. You said you were in love. 
 
 KATE. It's all over now. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Already ? I thought it was only just 
 beginning from the way you carried on. 
 
 KATE. I lost my head a little, I suppose, but I soon 
 saw it couldn't come to anything. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I should havc thought you'd be the 
 last person in the world to lose your head about a man, 
 with all your experience. 
 
 KATE (trying to speak lightly at the beginning of her 
 speech, but carried away by the intensity of her emotion as 
 she proceeds). And boasting. I who have written a 
 score of love-scenes to show you how a woman can turn 
 a man round her little finger. I who knew exactly how 
 close the moth dare fly to the flame. It's so easy to be 
 wise about love, if you aren't in love. But when you've 
 given yourself body and soul, you don't stop to think 
 of the effect you are making — you lose yourself — you 
 
 only see him, him (Seeing mrs. spencer watching 
 
 her narrowly, she checks her emotion and says weakly.) 
 — I should think. 
 
 MRS. spencer. I hoped you'd fallen in love with 
 some one nice that you could many. 
 
 KATE (gravely). I shall never marry, (Trying to
 
 COUSIN KATE 133 
 
 laugh at herself.) I know they always say that (gravely), 
 but I really shan't. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Why not ? 
 
 KATE. There are reasons. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Do you know something against him ? 
 
 KATE. Oh, no — nothing, 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (with Sympathetic curiosity). Perhaps 
 he isn't in your own position or can't afford to support 
 you ? 
 
 KATE. Oh, that wouldn't matter. Don't let us talk 
 about it. It's a shame to bother you with my troubles 
 when you are all so happy. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. But I Want you to be happy, too. I 
 should so like to see you well married. I often think 
 you must be lonely living all by yourself. 
 
 KATE (dejectedly). I have my work. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I suppose that's it. You won't give 
 up your work for him. I don't see why you can't have 
 both. You could easily arrange to take three or four 
 mornings off a week to write in. 
 
 KATE. My dear funny Sarah, don't say any more 
 about it, or you'll make me laugh. (Cries and turns 
 away from mrs. spencer, wiping her eyes.) 
 
 MRS. spencer (affectionately). Never mind, dear, I 
 daresay it will all work out right. We shall soon be 
 having another wedding. 
 
 KATE (through her tears). I shall never have a wedding. 
 
 MRS. spencer. Is he married ? 
 
 KATE. No. 
 
 MRS. spencer. Engaged ? 
 
 KATE. Yes — he's engaged. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Then he must break it off. 
 
 KATE. But what about her ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I'm surc she wouldn't make him half 
 as good a wife as you would. 
 
 KATE. You can talk like that about her if she's 
 some one you never saw or heard of, but not if she's an 
 alive person — that you love. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. That makes a difference, doesn't it ? 
 It wouldn't matter if she was just Miss Jones or Miss 
 Smith, but — if it were Amy for instance. 
 
 KATE (sighing). Yes, — if — it were Amy. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Poor Katc.
 
 134 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE {bravely blinking back her tears). Oh, well, I'm 
 not the first woman who gave her heart to the wrong 
 man. I shan't die of it. {Breaking down.) I wish I 
 could. 
 
 (amy and bobby enter, kate goes out quickly 
 without noticing them, bobby closes the door 
 after her.) 
 
 bobby and amy {looking after kate). What's the 
 matter with Cousin Kate ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. She's caught a chill. {To amy.) 
 What time is Heath coming ? 
 
 AMY. He didn't say. I suppose he'll come as soon 
 as he has changed his things. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. He may not come till after supper if 
 we don't ask him. Bobby, run round to Heath's lodg- 
 ings and say we expect him to supper. We'll put it 
 half an hour later to give him time. 
 
 bobby. All right. {Goes out at the window.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. We must give Heath a rousing wel- 
 come. I'll put on my black silk, and you can wear 
 your new christaline muslin. I hope the fowl will go 
 round. {Her attention is attracted by something outside.) 
 Oh, there's Mr. Bartlett coming round the comer. I 
 wonder where he is going. {Goes to the window.) 
 
 AMY {embarrassed). I expect he's coming here. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. He Wouldn't come here at supper 
 time. 
 
 AMY. Yes, I asked him — a long time ago — before 
 Cousin Kate came. 
 
 (MRS. SPENCER tums to AMY, visibly annoyed.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, Amy ! And I thought we were 
 going to have such a nice little supper all by our- 
 selves, and now — with Mr. Bartlett here — we can't 
 laugh. 
 
 AMY. It can't be helped now. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. It could havc been helped before. 
 
 AMY. Shall I tell Jane to excuse us ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {wavcring). I wonder. Do you think 
 we could ? {Bows and smiles amiably from the windoiv.) 
 Good-evening, Mr. Bartlett. {Turns gloomily to amy.) 
 It's too late now. I suppose there's nothing for it but 
 to look as if we were expecting him. {Sits down, looking 
 very cross.) The fowl won't go round.
 
 COUSIN KATE 135 
 
 AMY {looking anxiously at her mother). Do say some- 
 thing pleasant and put him at his ease. 
 
 (jane enters.) 
 JANE. Mr. Bartlett ! 
 
 (MR. BARTLETT enters. MRS. SPENCER rises and 
 greets him with cordiality, shakes his hand. 
 JANE goes out.) 
 MRS. SPENCER. Well, Mr. Bartlett, this is a pleasant 
 surprise. 
 
 AMY. Not a surprise, mother. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, uo {with a look at amy). No, 
 
 of course not. We've been waiting a long time. 
 BARTLETT. I'm afraid I'm late. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (confused). Oh, no, but 
 
 AMY {coming to the rescue). She means Heath. He's 
 coming to supper. That is our pleasant surprise. 
 
 (bartlett looks gravely at amy. She returns his 
 look, then turns away.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {tO AMY). YcS. {To BARTLETT.) I 
 
 didn't mean you were a pleasant surprise. 
 
 (amy and mrs. spencer give an awkward laugh.) 
 
 AMY. Oh, mother. {Hurriedly to mrs. spencer.) I'll 
 tell Jane to set two extra places. 
 
 (amy goes out. MRS. spencer and mr. bartlett 
 sit down together.) 
 
 bartlett {impressively). I presume I am correct in 
 surmising that Mr. Desmond's escapade is forgiven ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Well, ycs. Amy saw him this after- 
 noon at Owlscot and they seem to have made it up. 
 
 BARTLETT. Docs shc kuow about that conversation 
 you and I had before she sent her letter to him ? 
 
 MRS. SPENCER {smiUng uneasily). Well, no. You see 
 the engagement was never really broken off, so I couldn't 
 very well say anything — could I ? No. 
 
 BARTLETT. There was a distinct understanding be- 
 tween us that she should be given her choice. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. I supposc there was — in a way. (jane 
 enters, with a lamp turned low, which she sets on the 
 table. MRS. SPENCER, relieved by this interruption, ex- 
 claims cheerfully.) Oh, here's Jane with the lamp. 
 {Springs up.) Now, Mr. Bartlett, perhaps you would 
 like to smoke while we are dressing. You do smoke, 
 don't you ?
 
 136 COUSIN KATE 
 
 BARTLETT {in his genial manner, because of jane's 
 presence). I occasionally indulge in a weed. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. We allow smoking — in the summer 
 house. 
 
 (BARTLETT gocs out hi] the window, taking a cigar 
 from his pocket, jane is absorbed, turning up 
 the lamp, peering closely at it. kate enters in 
 the same dress, but without her hat.) 
 KATE. I think I left my sunshade here. 
 MRS. SPENCER. Did you, dear ? 
 
 (MRS. SPENCER gOCS OUt.) 
 
 KATE. Have you seen it, Jane ? 
 
 JANE {taking the sunshade from the desk). Here it is, 
 Miss. 
 
 KATE {taking it from jane). Thank you. 
 
 JANE {grinning). I thought it didn't look hke one of 
 ours. We always get a sight of the fashions when you 
 come, (kate is about to go to the door and stoijs when 
 JANE speaks.) We shall be quite a party at supper. 
 Miss. 
 
 KATE. Why ? Who's coming ? 
 
 JANE. There's Mr. Bartlett, and Mr. 'eath 
 
 KATE {aside). Heath. {To jane.) Come to my room 
 and tell me as soon as he comes. 
 
 JANE. Yes, Miss. {The front door bell rings.) I ex- 
 pect that's him now. 
 
 KATE {giving her sunshade to jane). Please put this 
 in the hall. 
 
 (jane takes the sunshade and goes out.) 
 
 KATE {talking to herself to ccmtrol herself). Keep your 
 head, Kate — be brave, dear ; he mustn't think you 
 care. Don't cry — for goodness' sake, don't cry. 
 
 (heath enters. He now wears a blue serge suit.) 
 
 HEATH. Ah ! Now we have a chance to explain our- 
 selves while they are dressing. 
 
 KATE {controlling her emotion successfully during the 
 early part of the scene). I have explained myself. 
 
 HEATH. No, you haven't. 
 
 KATE. I only want to add that I feel very much 
 ashamed ; I should never have done what I did if I'd 
 known you were engaged to Amy. I waited here now 
 to ask you what you are going to say to her. 
 
 HEATH. That depends on you.
 
 COUSIN KATE 137 
 
 KATE {alarmed, but trying to hide it). You must keep 
 me out of your reckoning altogether. 
 
 HEATH. I can't. I've been thinking it all over this 
 last half-hour, and I see that you must have been in 
 earnest. No one could act love like that. It wouldn't 
 be worth while. 
 
 KATE {assuming flippancy). Except to a novelist 
 getting copy. 
 
 HEATH. Please don't talk that way about it. 
 
 KATE {facing him). We must understand each other 
 now. 
 
 HEATH. You mean you were just dissecting emotion, 
 analysing passion — for experience — to put in a book ? 
 
 KATE {uneasily). Yes — that was it. 
 
 HEATH. If you meant to amuse yourself, making a 
 fool of me 
 
 KATE {interrupting). I'm sorry I hurt you. 
 
 HEATH. Yes, but why did you try to stop me coming 
 in the house— why did you keep me at arm's length for 
 ever so long ? 
 
 KATE {uneasily ; assuming flippancy). It's part of the 
 game to seem reluctant at first. 
 
 HEATH {abruptly). Why did you tremble so when I 
 touched your hand ? 
 
 KATE {taken aback by his abrupt question). Did I ? 
 
 HEATH. Yes, and you stammered and flushed. 
 
 KATE. I had to keep saying to myself — " Now what 
 would a woman who really felt it all do here ? " She'd 
 tremble and stammer — she'd 
 
 HEATH {watching her calmly). That's silly. 
 
 KATE. It's my explanation. {Sits down, looking away 
 from him.) 
 
 HEATH. She might tremble and stammer intentionally, 
 but she couldn't flush unless she felt. No one can. 
 You were afraid then, really afraid. You started to go, 
 but you didn't go — you stayed. Oh, no, you weren't 
 playing then. 
 
 KATE. One must be a little bit in earnest or there's 
 no excitement in flirtation. 
 
 HEATH. If ours was a flirtation, what is there left for 
 love ? 
 
 KATE. Did I flirt so well you couldn't tell the differ- 
 ence ?
 
 138 COUSIN KATE 
 
 HEATH. You didn't flirt fair. Flirtation is a game 
 with rules, and you cheated. 
 
 KATE. I've told you I'm ashamed. Won't you accept 
 my apology ? 
 
 HEATH (hardens his face and his voice, going a step to 
 her as he speaks). Shall I tell you what I think of a 
 woman who deliberately sets to work to steal a man's 
 love — without pity or passion, just to try her power 
 and satisfy her vanity ? 
 
 KATE (falteringly). You can if you like. I daresay 
 I've deserved it. 
 
 (heath looks at her in silence ; then his face re- 
 laxes. He speaks with a sudden hurst of genuine 
 emotion.) 
 
 heath. Oh, I — I don't believe it of you. I've only 
 to look at you to see you aren't a fraud, (kate keyed 
 up to hear him denounce her is thrown off her guard by 
 his unexpected speech. She looks up at him gratefully. 
 He kneels beside her speaking with increasing emotion.) 
 I know you love me. I never opened my heart to any 
 one as I did to you. It seems so natural to say every- 
 thing to you, just as I think of it. I'd be ashamed to 
 talk such foolishness to anybody else — {smiling at her) 
 — about Silverlocks and the squirrels and our little house 
 in the wood. 
 
 KATE {puts out her hand as if to stop him speaking). 
 Listen. Let me tell you. When I found out that you 
 were Amy's lover, I was so afraid. I thought I'd taken 
 you from her. So I pretended I'd only been flirting. 
 I thought it was the only way to end it. But I can't 
 do it any more. {She rises, moving about as she speaks. 
 He rises, too, watching her). We might have known it 
 would come to no good, beginning like that. 
 
 HEATH {half-sitting on the edge of the table in the same 
 attitude and speaking with the same tone of enthusiasm as 
 he spoke a similar speech near the beginning of Act II., that 
 he recalls, now unconsciously, reproducing the same effect.) 
 It began so perfectly, didn't it ? How we flew through 
 the woods and over the to^vns — a god and a goddess 
 dropped from two planets, do you remember ? 
 
 KATE {very seriously, facing him). But now we've 
 facts to face, not romances. 
 
 HEATH {with enthusiasm). The beauty of it is that
 
 COUSIN KATE 139 
 
 you and I can turn facts into romances. A third-class 
 railway carriage becomes a royal chariot when we ride 
 in it together. I think our meeting was the greatest 
 thing that ever happened in this world. 
 
 KATE. To us, but only to us. The world didn't cry 
 for joy when we met. It was only you and I. 
 
 HEATH {quietly). You know Amy did tell me she 
 couldn't marry me unless I changed. 
 
 KATE. Be patient with her. She's young yet, and 
 she's sorry. She's getting all ready for her wedding. 
 You can't leave her now. 
 
 HEATH. It isn't that I don't care what becomes of 
 Amy. I've tried very hard to be fair to her — I gave her 
 a chance to call me back if she wanted me. 
 
 KATE. She did call you back. 
 
 HEATH. Not for a long time. I waited more than an 
 hour. 
 
 KATE. An hour ! That's not long in a lifetime. 
 
 HEATH. It's long in the crisis of a lifetime. If I'd 
 told you I considered myself free if you didn't call me 
 back at once, you wouldn't have kept me waiting a 
 whole hour before you sent. You'd have come yourself 
 — wouldn't you ? 
 
 {Comes close to her.) 
 
 KATE {firmly). I can't marry you. 
 
 HEATH {with sudden alarm). You're not engaged ? 
 
 KATE. No. 
 
 HEATH {relieved). Ah ! You gave me such a start 
 for a moment. 
 
 KATE. But I can't take you from her. You don't 
 know how this little family trust me. They said things 
 would be better when I came. And just now, after Amy 
 had seen you, they were all so happy again. All their 
 clouds had gone and they said Cousin Kate had rolled 
 them away, so how could I be the one to take you from 
 them ? 
 
 HEATH. But there's you and I, too, with long lives to 
 live. Think what they'll be if we live them together. 
 Think what they'll be if we don't. I want to do the 
 straight thing. I'm sure it's more honest to tell Amy 
 the truth, (mr. bartlett slowly passes the window 
 without, smoking.) There's Bartlett, I'll ask him. 
 {Goes to the window.)
 
 140 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE (alarmed). No. 
 
 HEATH. Why not ? I won't mention your name, of 
 course. 
 
 KATE. But you and I don't go by what he says. 
 
 HEATH. No, but they do. {Goes to the window and 
 calls.) Bartlett ! (mr. bartlett throws end of cigar 
 away and enters by the window.) I've got rather a hard 
 nut to crack, and I want to ask you what you thmk. 
 You know about me going away, and — it wasn't all my 
 fault, but after I went — well, the fact is I've fallen in 
 love with somebody else and I want to know what you 
 think I ought to do ? 
 
 BARTLETT (impressively). This is a most grievous 
 state of affairs. 
 
 HEATH. Yes, but there isn't time for all that. I must 
 meet Amy in a minute. I think I ought to tell her the 
 
 truth, and {indicating kate) she thinks I ought 
 
 not to. What do you think ? 
 
 BARTLETT. I think a man should speak the truth at 
 all seasons. 
 
 HEATH. Now, that makes me hesitate. When I see 
 my duty and inclination looking the same, I always 
 begin to suspect myself. 
 
 BARTLETT. Bcforc I loicw what your incUnation was 
 I thought it advisable to break off this engagement. I 
 said so when I brought your message. 
 
 HEATH. Did you tell Amy so ? 
 
 BARTLETT. I was prepared to do so, but I was not 
 allowed. 
 
 HEATH. Why ? 
 
 BARTLETT {indicating kate). This lady can tell you. 
 She was with Miss Spencer when she wrote that letter I 
 brought you. 
 
 heath {to kate). Did you urge her to write it ? 
 
 KATE. I only put the case plainly before her. She 
 made her own choice. 
 
 BARTLETT {with repressed resentment). You took great 
 pains to prevent me seeing her. 
 
 KATE {answering him in the same tone). Because you 
 were trying to take an unfair advantage of her. 
 
 BARTLETT. Really, I must take exception 
 
 KATE {interrupting him). There's no time to mince 
 matters. The happiness of this whole family is at stake
 
 COUSIN KATE 141 
 
 — more than that — their faith in all human nature 
 through us three. I can't stand seeing their hearts 
 broken by our selfishness. 
 
 BARTLETT (solemnly). I am not actuated by selfish- 
 ness in the discharge of my duties. 
 
 KATE (turning on him indignantly). You don't see 
 through yourself. You are so sure of your own goodness 
 you never search your motives. You smother them up 
 with long words and tell yourself you are doing the Will 
 of Heaven — because it suits you. You're not honest 
 with yourself — 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (calling off stage). Amy ! 
 
 KATE (imploringly to heath). She's coming. 
 
 AMY (calling off stage). I'm coming. 
 
 BARTLETT (going cloSC tO HEATH ). If yOU wish tO 
 
 break your engagement now, I am ready to propose to 
 her myself. 
 
 HEATH. You want to strike a bargain with me. No, 
 
 I'm — no. I won't (To kate.) You are right ; 
 
 I'll keep my promise to Amy. (Enter mrs. spencer in 
 her black silk, followed by amy in her new dress, then 
 BOBBY, in an Eton suit. They all smile with embarrass- 
 ment and come in a procession towards heath, bobby 
 closes the door.) 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (holding out her hand to heath). 
 Welcome home. 
 
 BARTLETT (standing behind a chair, speaks with serious 
 formality so that they all turn to him). Mrs. Spencer, Miss 
 Spencer, all of you. It will soon be my solemn task to 
 say to the congregation, " If any man can show any just 
 cause why these two persons may not lawfully be joined 
 together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold 
 his peace." 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. What do you mean ? 
 
 BARTLETT. Mr. Dcsmond has just made me a con- 
 fession. If he will not repeat it, the painful duty 
 devolves upon me. 
 
 AMY (stepping forward). No, I don't want to hear 
 it. If Heath has done anything he's ashamed of, he'll 
 tell me and I'll forgive him. He has plenty of things 
 to forgive me, I'll gladly forgive him one. 
 
 (MR. BARTLETT tums and goes slowly into the garden. 
 KATE comes towards amy and embraces her.)
 
 142 
 
 COUSIN KATE 
 
 KATE (brokenly). Bless you, Amy. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (taking her cue from kate, presses 
 
 Mr. Bartlett always 
 (Turns to amy.) I 
 
 BOBBY follows her. 
 
 heath's hand). Bless you. Heath, 
 upsets me so. He has no tact, 
 suppose he'll still stay to supper. 
 
 (Goes out. 
 
 AMY (smiling at kate). Congratulate Heath, too. 
 
 (kate and heath grasp hands, looking steadily at 
 each other for a moment. Then kate withdraws 
 her hand and goes out.) 
 
 AMY (crossing to the sofa). Heath ! (heath sits on 
 the sofa with amy.) Before you confess to me, I think I 
 had better confess to you. I have been guilty of a very 
 grave offence since you went away. 
 
 HEATH (dejectedly). I seem to have been born to 
 make trouble. 
 
 AMY. It was in the midst of my uncertainty — not 
 knowing if you would come back or not — some one came 
 and spoke to me in a way I ought not to have allowed, 
 because I was still engaged to you. (F alter ingly.) And 
 I let him go on. 
 
 HEATH. Do you mean he asked you to marry him ? 
 
 AMY. He was beginning to. Then Cousin Kate 
 came. 
 
 HEATH. So he didn't finish ? 
 
 AMY. No. 
 
 HEATH. Then what have I got to blame you for ? 
 
 AMY. My wicked thoughts, (heath gives a quaint 
 tired look away from her.) If Cousin Kate hadn't come 
 he would have finished. 
 
 HEATH. And you would have accepted him ? 
 
 AMY (hanging her head). Yes. 
 
 HEATH (distressed). To think I should almost have 
 driven you to marry a man you didn't love. 
 
 AMY (in mild reproach). Oh, Heath ! I should never 
 sink so low as that. 
 
 HEATH (taken aback, smiles, and turns to look at her). 
 Do you love him ? 
 
 AMY. I felt as if I could then, but now — I have 
 succeeded in banishing him completely from my mind. 
 
 HEATH. Am I standing between you and him ? 
 
 AMY. No, Heath. There is no question of that. He 
 had no right to speak to me, and I had no right to
 
 COUSIN KATE 143 
 
 listen. I shall never so forget myself again. I am 
 quite ready to become your wife. 
 
 HEATH. But I don't want you to sacrifice yourself. 
 
 AMY. I am sure you will do everything to make me 
 happy. 
 
 HEATH. But if he could make you happier 
 
 AMY. Oh, Heath, I don't want to spoil your life. 
 
 HEATH. Thank you very much. And of course I 
 don't want to spoil yours. You know you haven't 
 been quite satisfied with me. You wanted me to 
 change. 
 
 AMY. I see now that it was presumption for a girl 
 like me to speak so to a man like you. You are so good 
 and clever and I've never been anywhere particular. 
 You know we must expect to make compromises when 
 we marry. I am prepared to do this. 
 
 HEATH. Yes, but ought you to ? 
 
 AMY. I think I shall get into Heaven sooner by keep- 
 ing my promises to you than by thinking only of my 
 own soul. Oh, you needn't be afraid that I shall take 
 my promise back now. 
 
 HEATH. Suppose I release you from it — suppose that 
 you'd never made it — and that I and this other man 
 came and offered you marriage. Which of us would 
 you choose ? 
 
 AMY {hanging her head). I haven't thought. 
 
 HEATH (smiles). Do think. It's really rather im- 
 portant. 
 
 AMY. I know it's very wrong to feel as I do. 
 
 HEATH (kindly). No, it isn't. We can't any of us 
 help feeling as we do. 
 
 AMY. You see, it's this way. I think perhaps I'm 
 more cut out for a clergyman's wife — than an artist's. 
 
 HEATH. Is the clergyman more cut out for you than 
 the artist is ? That's what I want to get at. 
 
 AMY. I can't help feeling that he and I have more 
 in common than you and I have. 
 
 HEATH. Yes, but if you were free now — would he 
 finish what he was saying when Cousin Kate came ? 
 
 AMY. I think so. 
 
 HEATH. You are free if you wish it. 
 
 AMY (relieved). Oh, Heath, how generous you are ! 
 (He smiles at her and takes her hand as a friend. She
 
 144 COUSIN KATE 
 
 looks at him seriously.) It doesn't seem to hurt you as 
 much as I feared. 
 
 HEATH {gravely and kindly). Isn't it better for neither 
 of us to have anytliinfj to reproach the other with ? 
 
 AiNiY (awkwardly). Yes — thank you {Draws her 
 
 hand away.) Thank you. 
 
 HEATH {embarrassed). Not at all. (He wanders away 
 and sits at some distance from amy.) 
 
 (A gong sounds.) 
 
 AMY. That's for supper. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (heard off). Now, then, you two, I'm 
 coming. (Poking her head in playfully at the door, before 
 she enters, expecting to surprise them in an affectionate 
 attitude. She is greatly surprised to find them seated 
 far apart.) Well ! That's a new-fashioned way for 
 an engaged couple to sit. (heath and amy rise, em- 
 barrassed.) 
 
 (Enter mrs. spencer and bobby, followed by kate. 
 MR. BARTLETT enters at the window.) 
 
 amy (awkwardly). We are not an engaged couple. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (amazed). What ! 
 
 heath. Amy finds she isn't cut out for an artist's 
 wife. 
 
 AMY. So Heath has very kindly released me from my 
 
 engagement — Y-es 
 
 (There is an uncomfortable pause. Then amy 
 hastens into the garden, mr. bartlett, after 
 a circular glance at the others, follows her.) 
 
 MRS. spencer (with her back to amy and mr. bartlett, 
 as they go out). Whose fault is it ? Mr. Bartlett's, I 
 suppose. Oh, Mr. Bartlett, I forgot you were here. 
 (Looks round the room.) Where is he ? 
 
 bobby. Out in the garden wdth Amy. 
 
 (MRS. spencer marches straight towards the window.) 
 
 HEATH (preventing her from going out). Don't interrupt 
 them. They love each other. She told me so a moment 
 ago. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Oh, Kate ! What shall we do ? 
 
 KATE. Leave them. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. You know you can't bear him. 
 
 KATE. That's no reason why Amy shouldn't love him. 
 He's a good man. I haven't the least doubt that he is 
 held in the highest esteem all over the parish. She'll
 
 COUSIN KATE 145 
 
 love, honour and obey him and never see through him 
 — and then, he's her choice. 
 
 (amy and bartlett enter at the window.) 
 
 AMY {comes towards mrs. spencer). Mother, James 
 has something to say to you. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER (severely). Who's James ? (amy in- 
 dicates BARTLETT, who stands smiling in an embarrassed 
 maimer in the background, mrs. spencer takes amy on 
 one side.) But, Amy, it looks so fast for you to be 
 engaged to one man one moment and another one the 
 next. I don't like it. 
 
 (jane bursts in.) 
 
 jane. Please, mum, the fowl's growing cold. 
 
 MRS. spencer. We're coming, (jane goes out, leaving 
 the door open. mrs. spencer turns to mr. bartlett.) 
 Will you take Amy in to supper — James ? (heath and 
 KATE both give a smothered laugh, bartlett smiles at 
 AMY. MRS. spencer says sympathetically to heath.) 
 Heath, will it be too painful for you to remain ? 
 
 heath [smiling). I'll try to bear it. 
 
 MRS. SPENCER. Then please bring Cousin Kate. 
 [Turns to bobby.) The fowl will have to go round. 
 
 (MRS. SPENCER gOCS OUt with BOBBY. MR. BART- 
 LETT smilingly offers his arm to amy. They 
 go out together, leaving heath and kate alone, 
 facing each other.) 
 heath. Now, will you marry me ? 
 KATE. Shure, and I will. 
 
 [They go out arm in arm.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 VOL. 1
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 A SATIRICAL COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 147
 
 COPY OF THE "FIRST NIGHT" PROGRAMME 
 AT THE 
 
 CRITERION THEATRE, LONDON 
 LADY EPPIXG'S LAWSUIT 
 
 A SATIRICAL COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 HUBERT HENRY DAVIES 
 
 PEEFOKMED FOR THE FIRST TIME 
 ON OCTOBER 12, 1908 
 
 Countess of Epping . . . Miss Mary Moore 
 
 Lady Lucy Lister .... Miss Elfrida Clement 
 
 Lady Beacroft .... Miss Anne Cleaver 
 
 Evelyn Hughes .... Miss Grace Lane 
 
 Miss Vanderhide .... Miss Norma Whalley 
 
 Miss Berengaria Mortimer . . Mrs. Sam Sothern 
 
 Miss Ferris . ... Miss Frances Vine 
 
 Earl of Epping .... Mr. John Tore 
 
 Lord Oswald Bruce-Banner man . Mr. Walter Pearce 
 
 Mr. Justice Wray . . . Mr. Eric Lewis 
 
 Mr. Craven, K.C. . . . Mr. Berte Thomas 
 
 Mr. Clinton Perry . . . Mr. Ferdinand Gottschalk 
 
 Mr. Paul Hughes . . . Mr. Sam Sothern 
 
 Rev. Dr. Gull .... Mr. Cooper 
 
 Mr. Pearson .... Mr. Reginald Besant 
 
 Henry ...... Mr. Lawrence White 
 
 Mr. Hickory .... Mr. Arthur Hare 
 
 Associate in Court Room . . Mr. Thomas Braidon 
 
 Usher ...... Mr. Toose 
 
 Barristers, solicitors, clerks, pressmen, footmen, and the general 
 
 public 
 
 Act I. — The Drawing-room at Epping House. 
 
 Act II. — The Library of Lord Epping's House in Berkeley 
 Square. 
 
 Act III. — Court-room X King's Bench Division. 
 
 148
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 THE FIRST ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The drawing-room at Epping House. Two 
 large French windows at the back which being open 
 show an extensive view of lawns, flower gardens, and 
 trees. There is a door on the right. The furniture 
 and hangings are of rich pale green brocade. There 
 is a settee large enough to take two people easily, three 
 at a pinch, and about the room are chairs, tables, and 
 the usual furniture of such a room. It is about five 
 o'clock in the afternoon of a fine summer Sunday. 
 
 As the curtain rises evelyn hughes, a pretty young 
 woman, is seated on the sofa reading a book, john 
 enters. 
 
 JOHN. If you please, mum, there's a Miss Ferris 
 called. 
 
 EVELYN. You'd better tell her ladyship ; she's in the 
 garden. 
 
 JOHN. She's asking for Mr. Paul Hughes. 
 EVELYN. Oh ! What does she look like ? 
 
 (Enter miss ferris. Exit john. miss ferris is 
 a hustling blonde about thirty-five. She is rather 
 overdressed in a cheap way. Several attempts 
 at the latest fashions but not too unlikely. She 
 comes to evelyn and offers her hand. Her 
 manner is extremely genial and effusive.) 
 miss FERRIS. Are you Mrs. Hughes ? 
 EVELYN. Yes. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. His wife, of course. 
 EVELYN. I am my husband's wife. 
 MISS FERRIS. How proud you must be of him ! 
 EVELYN. Very. 
 
 149
 
 150 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 MISS FERRIS. What a success it was ! A veritable 
 triumph ! No more slump in the British Drama now 
 that your husband has come to the rescue. After such 
 a play as Glass Houses — his first play too — I feel sure 
 that he will soar to the topmost pinnacle of fame. 
 But I'd better introduce myself. 
 
 EVELYN. Please. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. I am The Gentleman's Friend. 
 
 EVELYN {quite shocked). I beg your pardon. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. The new paper of that nomenclature. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, yes. How kind of you to come and 
 congratulate us. 
 
 MISS FERRIS {they are both seated by now). I am proud 
 to have this opportunity of doing so — as an English- 
 woman — as one who was present on the first night 
 of Glass Houses. I was so excited when the author 
 was called that I am told I stood up and waved my 
 mouchoir. I daresay you saw me. I was in the dress 
 circle. 
 
 EVELYN. I don't think I saw anything just then. 
 
 Miss FERRIS. I was SO afraid the papers would men- 
 tion it — but they didn't. 
 
 EVELYN. The papers have been so good to us. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. AH the best critics liked the play. 
 
 EVELYN. But better still — all the worst ones disliked 
 it. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. I see where your husband gets some of 
 his trenchant wit. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, no. He wrote his play all himself. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Really — how interesting — because, as 
 you know, whenever a man succeeds the world always 
 asks who the woman was. But we mustn't sit gossiping. 
 
 EVELYN. Why not ? 
 
 Miss FERRIS. I am here professionally. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh ! 
 
 MISS FERRIS. To interview your husband. 
 
 EVELYN {embarrassed). Oh, how kind, but unfortun- 
 ately he has made it a rule never to be interviewed. 
 
 Miss FERRIS. But I havc an appointment with him. 
 
 EVELYN. It must be a mistake. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. He made it himself. Yes. He wrote 
 to me before he left London and said he would be spend- 
 ing Saturday to Monday at Epping House and could give
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 151 
 
 me a few minutes after luncheon on Sunday if I came 
 down. 
 
 {She moves to the window.) 
 
 EVELYN. I'd better go and ask him. Will you excuse 
 me ? 
 
 MISS FERRIS [cheerfully). Certainly, dear, certainly. 
 (EVELYN goes out into the garden, miss ferris takes out 
 her note-book and pencil, and writes in shorthand as she 
 speaks in a dry tone.) " I was shown into the palatial 
 drawing-room at Epping House where Mr. Paul Hughes 
 was spending Saturday to Monday as the guest of the 
 Earl of Epping and his elegant and accomplished 
 countess. For an hour or so I sat chatting with our 
 dramatist's charming wife. The time passed so agree- 
 ably that I had almost forgotten my mission till my eye 
 lit on the handsome ormolu clock which adorned the 
 mantel. ' Tempus fugit,' I said, laughing. Mrs. Hughes 
 
 laughed too, and just then " 
 
 (PAUL HUGHES enters from the garden followed by 
 EVELYN. PAUL is a man about thirty. He 
 looks like any other well-dressed, well-bred 
 London man, and shows no signs of being an 
 author either in dress or manner. He comes to 
 MISS FERRIS and they shake hands.) 
 
 PAUL. Good-afternoon. It's very good of you to 
 come all this way. I hope you are going to let me off 
 easily. 
 
 MISS FERRIS (laughing). Oh, that's very good. " Let 
 me off easily " ; I must jot that down. (Makes a short- 
 hand note.) " Let me off easily." I should like to hear 
 that spoken from the stage, (paul glances at evelyn 
 and smiles.) Suppose we begin — "No one was more 
 surprised than I that the public should see anything in 
 my poor little play." 
 
 (She writes in her note-book.) 
 
 PAUL (embarrassed). Oh — well — if you like. 
 
 EVELYN. Paul 1 You are not going to let that go in ? 
 We always knew you'd have a great success. 
 
 PAUL. Yes, dear, but that wouldn't look well in an 
 interview. (Quickly to miss ferris.) Don't say I said 
 that. 
 
 miss FERRIS. Very well. What decided you to adopt 
 the career of a dramatist ?
 
 152 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PAUL. Want of cash. 
 
 EVELYN. Ambition. 
 
 {She thumps paul.) 
 
 PAUL (hastily). Oh, yes — ambition. 
 
 MISS FERRIS [writing). " The fierce devouring flame of 
 creation burning within me." 
 
 PAUL. Don't make it look as if / said that. It sounds 
 so silly. Make it look as if you said it. 
 
 EVELYN {to PAUL). Wouldn't you like to •wTite your 
 owTi interview, Paul ? 
 
 PAUL {in a whisper to evelyn as miss ferris writes). 
 Take care, dear. All this is going into print. I want 
 you to appear as the humble and adoring wife of a man 
 of genius. 
 
 miss FERRIS. It may truthfully be said " you awoke 
 to find yourself famous." 
 
 EVELYN. He knew it before he went to sleep. 
 
 miss FERRIS. Now sometliing about early struggles. 
 
 PAUL. I'm sorry to say I never starved in a garret. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Just as Well. The garret is out of date. 
 
 PAUL. Of course I worked very hard for ten years or 
 so. 
 
 MISS FERRIS {writing). Did ten years' hard labour ! 
 
 PAUL {protesting loudly). No ! 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Of course not. That would make you 
 appear too old. Can you recall any amusing incident 
 among your early experiences ? 
 
 PAUL. I — remember one day — ^when I went fishing — 
 
 EVELYN. Don't attempt it, dear. You are not good 
 at stories. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Of course you are besieged by managers ? 
 
 PAUL {looking doubtfully at evelyn). Er . . . 
 
 EVELYN {promptly to miss ferris). Yes. You can 
 put that in. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Your favouritc flower ? 
 
 PAUL. The petunia. 
 
 EVELYN {thumping him and irritated). Oh ! 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Sports and pastimes ? 
 
 PAUL. I'm fond of riding. 
 
 {While MISS FERRIS makes a note evelyn speaks 
 in an undertone to paul.) 
 
 EVELYN. Darling, I think that sounds a little pre- 
 tentious when you only had your first lesson last week.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 153 
 
 PAUL. Darling, this is my interview. {To miss 
 FERRIS.) I'm rather keen on golf. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. A crack golfsman ! Now we've heard 
 about your recreations, tell us something about your 
 work. Do you write all night, for instance, with a wet 
 towel round your head ? 
 
 PAUL. Of course not. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Though wc are all so in love with your 
 comedy, Mr. Hughes, we hope you are going to give us 
 a serious play. 
 
 PAUL. No one seems to think a play serious unless 
 it's about unpleasant people. However, if you'll give 
 me time I'll show you some most objectionable speci- 
 mens of both sexes, and prove that all our English 
 principles are wrong. I don't want people to think I 
 have no ideas. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Are you going to write a classic ? 
 
 PAUL. You can't write a classic till you are dead. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. What are your views on the future of 
 the British Drama ? 
 
 PAUL {coughing and bracing himself to deliver a speech 
 he has evidently got off by heart). The British Drama is 
 passing through a most critical stage. The flippancy of 
 the age and the lateness of dinner are deaUng death 
 blows at serious, thoughtful work. But already we 
 behold abundant signs that a brighter epoch is at 
 hand. . . . 
 
 MISS FERRIS {quickly interrupting). Thank you. Now 
 the snapshots. {She goes to the door and calls.) Mr. 
 Pearson ! 
 
 EVELYN. Snapshots ! You are not going to be 
 snapped ? 
 
 PAUL, It's no use half doing it. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh ! 
 
 {Enter mr, pearson. He is a business-like young 
 man with a camera.) 
 MISS FERRIS. This is our Mr. Pearson. 
 PAUL. How d'you do ? 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Now — Standing up in a natural attitude 
 first. This is " Good-morning. Glad to see you." Look 
 pleasant, please. 
 
 (PAUL obeys instructions, pearson snaps paul 
 with the camera.)
 
 154 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PEARSON. Thank you. 
 
 MISS FERRIS {pointing to a chair). Fling yourself down 
 there in a posture of despair for " Oh, dear, I can't 
 work to-day somehow." 
 
 PAUL {obeying instructions). Will this do ? (evelyn 
 laughs. PAUL glances at evelyn and laughs.) Don't 
 laugh. I'm trying to look like a great thinker. 
 
 MISS FERRIS {arranging paul in a posture of despair 
 with his head on his hand). A little more so — yes — thank 
 you — let me see — so — yes — thank you. 
 
 PEARSON. Ready ? 
 
 PAUL. 'M ! 
 
 (PEARSON snaps the camera at paul, then turns to 
 
 MISS FERRIS.) 
 
 PEARSON. One at the books, don't you think ? 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Yes. " My silent friends." {To paul.) 
 
 Stand there, please. {Points to some books.) One hand 
 
 on the books. Now — smile intelligently at Mr. Pearson. 
 
 (PAUL smiles intelligently at pearson. pearson 
 
 snaps the camera.) 
 
 PEARSON. Thank you. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Shall we do one in the garden ? 
 
 (PAUL, MISS FERRIS and PEARSON go towurds the 
 window. EVELYN faces them.) 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, no, Paul. Not where all those people 
 can see you. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Just as you like. We can do the one 
 in the garden in the house. {She points to the sofa.) 
 Suppose you sit there — in a sprawling summer-like 
 attitude, (paul sprawls on the sofa.) Mr. Pearson will 
 fill in the shrubs and a sun-dial afterwards. {She arranges 
 Paul's head and fingers.) Frown, please. Remember 
 you've got the sun in your eyes, {v ami. frowns.) Very 
 good. 
 
 PEARSON. Extremely pretty, (evelyn shows signs of 
 great irritation, pearson, snapping camera at paul.) 
 Thank you. 
 
 miss FERRIS. Now onc with your wife. 
 
 EVELYN. No ! 
 
 MISS FERRIS {joyfully). One with the baby. 
 
 (PAUL and EVELYN look at each other extremely 
 disconcerted.) 
 PAUL. It isn't here.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 155 
 
 (PEARSON smothers a giggle, miss ferris frowns 
 at him.) 
 MISS FERRIS. Never mind, then. I think we have 
 enough, so I won't take up any more of your valuable 
 time. 
 
 PAUL {shaking hands). Good-bye. 
 
 MISS FERRIS. Good-bye. I am sure the pubHc will 
 be deeply impressed by all you've said. Good-day, 
 Mrs. Hughes. 
 
 EVELYN {bowing). Good-day. 
 MISS FERRIS. Come, Mr. Pearson. 
 
 {Exit MISS FERRIS. PEARSON bows and follows her 
 
 ^•^•) , . . . 
 
 EVELYN, Oh, the shame — the humiliation ! 
 
 PAUL. Nonsense, dear. It's nothing worse than a 
 bore. 
 
 EVELYN. You loved it. 
 
 PAUL {idly turning the pages of a book). One may as 
 well make the best of it. 
 
 EVELYN. But in the old days you said that advertising 
 one's self with interviewers and snapshots was so con- 
 temptible. 
 
 PAUL. No one wanted to interview me or snap me 
 then. 
 
 EVELYN. Don't change, Paul. 
 
 PAUL. Of course not, dear — but it's not my fault if 
 the press wants to make an idol of me. 
 
 EVELYN {indignantly). An idol ! You mean an Aunt 
 Sally ! 
 
 PAUL. Really, Evelyn, I don't think you should speak 
 so to a public man. With new dignities come new 
 duties. They have a right to know exactly what I'm 
 like. 
 
 EVELYN. Who ? 
 
 PAUL. The people ! 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, Paul — how can you talk like that ? 
 The other day a monkey was interviewed — think of it — 
 a monkey. 
 
 PAUL. They say it has genius. 
 
 EVELYN. Don't laugh at me, darling. I'm so anxious 
 you should avoid making a fool of yourself. I know 
 it's very hard. 
 
 PAUL. No, dear — it isn't.
 
 156 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 EVELYN. I mean for any one who, like you, has been 
 no one from nowhere all his life, and is suddenly some 
 one everywhere. Vd rather pig along as we used to 
 do than that any one should say you have a swollen 
 head. 
 
 PAUL. Nonsense, dear. I'm not the least bit of a snob. 
 
 EVELYN. Then what are you doing here ? 
 
 PAUL. If Lady Epping was kind enough to ask us 
 
 EVELYN. After meeting us once at a dinner-party. 
 It's such nonsense for you and me to be staying in a 
 house like this — and if you knew how the footmen terrify 
 me. 
 
 PAUL. I feel it just as keenly as you do, but we must 
 get used to it. 
 
 EVELYN. It'll be the ruin of you if you do. You'll 
 forget the humble human people. You'll go filling your 
 plays full of dukes and duchesses and you'll get so mixed 
 up — you won't know how to make them talk to their 
 servants. 
 
 PAUL. I'm observing all that now. I shall be servant- 
 perfect by to-morrow. 
 
 EVELYN. If I thought you'd be content with this one 
 visit, but I see so well what's going to happen. You 
 won't be satisfied with a countess. You'll want to stay 
 with a duchess next. Then you won't rest till you know 
 royalty, and by and by you'll begin to believe you are 
 one of them. 
 
 PAUL. Don't talk so well, darling, or people will say 
 you write my plays. 
 
 EVELYN. You won't Write any more plays if you go 
 on this way. 
 
 PAUL. A dramatist ought to know all kinds of people, 
 and it's a very good thing for a young author to have 
 a rich influential woman hke Lady Epping interested in 
 him. 
 
 EVELYN {indignantly). Paul ! 
 
 PAUL. There's nothing in that. 
 
 EVELYN. You wouldn't like it if I got a rich influential 
 man interested in me. 
 
 PAUL. That's different, (lady epping w seen through 
 the wi7idow.). Here's Lady Epping. 
 
 (lady epping enters. She is an elegant, dignified 
 woman, with a gracious and grand manner and
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 157 
 
 a very good opinion of herself. She is dressed 
 in the latest and most expensive fashion.) 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. Ah, there you are ! {To evelyn.) 
 I've been playing " consequences " with the Judge and 
 Lady Beacroft and my Uttle girls, and it turned out 
 that I and your husband eloped, which set me wondering 
 what had become of you. What are you doing in the 
 house — you love birds ? 
 
 PAUL. I've had a wretched woman from a paper to 
 interview me. 
 
 LADY EPPING. We dramatists have to put up with so 
 much of that, (paul and evelyn look at lady epping, 
 then at each other, lady epping looks from one to the 
 other.) I write plays. 
 
 PAUL. Oh, do you ? 
 
 EVELYN. How very interesting ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. I am told I possess the dramatic 
 instinct to a remarkable extent. 
 
 PAUL {politely). I'm sure of it. 
 
 LADY EPPING {very much pleased). Fm sure, too, if 
 you say so. 
 
 PAUL. Have you produced many plays, Lady Epping ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Not many, but I nearly had one 
 accepted once. 
 
 EVELYN. Have you written many ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Fifteen. 
 
 PAUL. Perhaps they are over the heads of the people. 
 
 LADY EPPING. No, they're not. I've written all 
 kinds — tragedies, comedies, great productions, cheap 
 productions, plays that give all the actors a chance and 
 plays that give none of them a chance — except the star ; 
 strong plays, and sweet pretty little plays like your 
 Glass Houses. 
 
 EVELYN {hardly able to conceal her indignation). Lady 
 Epping ! Glass Houses is a masterpiece. 
 
 PAUL. Evelyn, dear ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. I don't know what the public want. 
 I don't think they know themselves. And as for the 
 managers — we all know they know nothing about it. 
 The number of times I've had my plays returned. 
 
 EVELYN. Paul got a manager for Glass Houses. 
 
 LADY EPPING. It's SO casy for him. He just gets some 
 actress to take a fancy to him, and there you are.
 
 158 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PAUL. I never met my leading lady till the rehearsals. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. But you Can go behind the scenes and 
 get to know these people. Now I can't go hanging about 
 bars. 
 
 PAUL. We don't hang about bars. 
 
 LADY EPPING. It's SO difficult for a woman. They 
 are all against us. I never have any luck. 
 
 PAUL. That play which was nearly accepted. Perhaps 
 you'll do something A^dth that. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I was abominably treated. After 
 keeping it two weeks they sent it back — and what do 
 you think the objection was ? They said I couldn't 
 have three outdoor scenes in one act. Why not ? 
 Convention, I suppose — just one of those silly conven- 
 tions that keep our stage so far behind the French. Of 
 course I wasn't going to alter my play just to suit an 
 actor, but in the end I did. We got as far as talking 
 terms. But their ideas ! I suppose they thought that 
 as I don't need the money they could get my play for 
 nothing. But I held out for what I thought was just. 
 I don't think I've any right to go and spoil the market. 
 
 PAUL. Can't you do something else vnth your play ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I had fivc copics made and sent them 
 to five different actresses. They are all reading it now 
 — so they say. I couldn't wait for them to read it one 
 after another. They take so long making up their 
 minds. 
 
 PAUL. But suppose they all five accept it together ? 
 
 LADY EPPING (serwusly). Oh, they won't ! {Smiling 
 at EVELYN). I hope it doesn't bore you to hear your 
 husband and me comparing notes. 
 
 EVELYN. Not at all. 
 
 LADY EPPING {smiUng at paul). Would you like me 
 to tell you the plot of my last play ? 
 
 EVELYN. Please do. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Well : It's a husband and wife, and 
 he neglects her for his business, so she flirts with another 
 man. That's the first two acts. The third is the great 
 act. She comes to his rooms late at night, and then her 
 husband comes, so she goes behind a curtain. Don't 
 you think that's a good plot for a play ? 
 
 {She smiles from one to the other.) 
 
 PAUL. Excellent.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 159 
 
 EVELYN. Most original ! 
 
 PAUL. How do you end it ? 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. She gcts tired of the hollow insincerity 
 of the world and goes to the hilltops to contemplate 
 eternity. That's a very beautiful scene. I wonder if 
 it's too much like Ibsen to suit the British public. 
 {Having made up her mind to alter the end of her play.) 
 Perhaps she'd better go to the colonies. I understand 
 the colonials are more virtuous than we are. {Smiling 
 sweetly at paul.) Why don't you and I collaborate on 
 a play ? 
 
 PAUL {scarcely able to conceal his dismay). Oh, no ! 
 
 EVELYN {trying to help paul out). I'm sure you'd 
 regret it, Lady Epping. My husband has such a temper. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Of course we should quarrel and fight. 
 Collaborators always do. But what does that matter 
 if we get our play on in the end ? 
 
 PAUL. I'm sure I couldn't work with any one. 
 
 LADY EPPING. YcS, yOU COuld 
 
 PAUL. Indeed, no ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. We'll try it, anyway. 
 
 PAUL. Oh, but 
 
 {Enter footmen with tea things which they put 
 
 down. They then go out.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. We'll begin after tea. (lady epping 
 
 goes to the window while paul confers anxiously with 
 
 EVELYN. 'LADY ^vvi^G, calling into the garden.) Darlings 
 
 — tea ! {Exit lady epping.) 
 
 {Enter miss berengaria mortimer. miss Mor- 
 timer is obviously an actress. She is statu- 
 esque and handsome, and generally affects a 
 languid manner of speaking and moving. She 
 wears a flowing garment and an Empire waist 
 — a large picture hat with plumes flowing over 
 the shoulders. Her hair is loosely done and 
 caught before it tumbles by jewelled combs and 
 daggers.) 
 EVELYN. Now you scc what you've let yourself in for. 
 PAUL. Not before the servants, dear. Ah, here is 
 Miss Berengaria Mortimer. 
 
 (EVELYN moves away.) 
 MISS MORTIMER. I'vc bccn resting under the trees 
 ever since luncheon.
 
 160 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PAUL. Tired after your two performances yesterday ? 
 MISS MORTIMER. Oh, SO, SO tired. Let me go on 
 telling you of my pet scheme. I want to have a little 
 national theatre of my own, where I shall produce all 
 the latest French and Sicilian horrors — to elevate the 
 Enghsh stage. 
 
 EVELYN [by the window). I knew the Judge would 
 hurry in at the sound of tea — with that little barrister 
 yapping at his heels. 
 PAUL. Who ? 
 EVELYN. Mr. Chnton Perry. 
 
 {Enter judge wray and clinton perry, wray 
 
 is an elderly man of temperament, peevish and 
 
 gay by turns and very gallant to ladies. He has 
 
 a red, clean-shaven face, perry is a conceited, 
 
 clever young barrister. He is engaging wray 
 
 in conversation against his will as they enter. 
 
 Enter also lord oswald bruce-bannerman.) 
 
 perry. But don't you think, my dear Judge, that in 
 
 the interests of society — there ought to be a new court 
 
 of criminal appeal — more liberal in its tendencies ? 
 
 WRAY. Young man, I never talk shop on a Sunday. 
 Miss Mortimer — ^what a sad pity you couldn't come 
 down till this morning. 
 
 {Exit PAUL.) 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. My work claimed me — my art. 
 
 WRAY. The party was dragging dreadfully till you 
 came. 
 
 PERRY {hovering about wray and miss mortimer). I 
 always tliink an actress helps things along so. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I scldom go to country houses. I 
 shouldn't be here now only I'm going to act in America 
 soon, and it helps you so much in the States if they know 
 you are in society. They'll all come to see me when 
 they hear I've stayed at Epping House. 
 
 PERRY. Is your real name Berengaria ? 
 
 WRAY. Young man. Miss Mortimer is not one of your 
 witnesses. {To miss mortimer.) What a sweet name — 
 Berengaria ! 
 
 {He pats her hand.) 
 
 miss MORTIMER. I don't carc so much about the 
 Beren — but I love the Garia. It sounds so remote — 
 like sighing \^winds — Garia.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 161 
 
 WRAY {trying to make his voice sound like sighing 
 winds). Garia ! Shall we go there— by the window ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I should loVC it. 
 
 WRAY {as he goes to the window with miss Mortimer). 
 Garia ! 
 
 {PBRUY follows them.) 
 PERRY. Did I tell you my story about the magistrate 
 and the washerwoman ? 
 
 WRAY. Young man, I am about to relate an anecdote 
 myself. 
 
 PERRY {to EVELYN and OSWALD). Gay old bird ! 
 {Enter lady lucy lister and miss vanderhide from 
 the garden, lucy is a smart, pretty, frivolous little 
 spinster, miss vanderhide is a large handsome American 
 girl with a good figure, faultlessly dressed. She uses a 
 lorgnette constantly, and cultivates a slow, supercilious 
 manner, and speaks carefully to try and overcome her 
 American accent, perry meets them.) Well, girls ! 
 
 LUCY {sharply). Don't call us girls. You don't know 
 us nearly well enough. 
 
 PERRY {importantly). I've been talking to the actress. 
 miss vanderhide {looking at evelyn through her 
 lorgnette). That woman talking to Lord Oswald is some- 
 thing of that sort, isn't she ? 
 
 LUCY. No, that's Mrs. Hughes — ^the new dramatist's 
 j wife. 
 
 ' miss vanderhide. How odd your English society is ! 
 
 [ One never knows whom one will meet next. We're 
 much more exclusive in New York. Our old families 
 won't mix at all with the nouveaux riches. 
 1 LUCY. I think it's rather a scandal the way Lord 
 
 ! Oswald runs after Mrs. Hughes. 
 I miss vanderhide. Does he ? I hadn't notussed. 
 
 " {She moves away and joins wray and miss mor- 
 
 i timer.) 
 
 (PERRY. I say. Lady Lucy, you have put your foot 
 in it. 
 I LUCY. Why ? What have I said ? 
 
 PERRY. Lord Oswald is supposed to be after her, — 
 1 the American — Miss Vanderhide. Of course when she 
 J came down she expected he'd be devoted to her. 
 I LUCY. And he spends all his time talking to Mrs. 
 
 Hughes. What fun ! 
 
 I VOL. I M
 
 162 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PERRY. Lady Epping is furious about it. 
 
 LUCY. Why ? 
 
 PERRY. Oswald Bruce-Bannerman is her brother, you 
 know. 
 
 LUCY. Of course I know. 
 
 PERRY. Well, I suppose she wants to have the Van- 
 derhide millions in the family. 
 
 LUCY. Oh, I see. Then Lady Epping and Miss 
 Vanderhide are both in a rage. How amusing ! I shall 
 watch it all going on. I'm so glad I came. 
 
 {Re-enter lady epping with lady beacroft and 
 PAUL following her.) 
 
 LADY EPPING (severely). Oswald. [Then sweetly.) 
 Oswald, darling. 
 
 OSWALD {turning to lady epping). What is it ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I Want a word with you. (oswald 
 goes to LADY EPPING. She slips her arm through his 
 affectionately, then says severely.) You are jeopardising 
 your whole future by flirting with Mrs. Hughes, after 
 I've spent my valuable time and thought trying to throw 
 you and Ollie Vanderhide together. Go and talk to 
 Ollie and don't leave her till we've done tea. 
 
 OSWALD. You know. Flora — you do bully me. 
 
 (OSWALD goes to MISS VANDERHIDE. Enter LORD 
 
 EPPING and REV. DR. GULL. They come in 
 
 from the garden as dr. gull speaks, lord 
 
 EPPING is a smart military -looking man about 
 
 forty-five. He is politely bored by dr. gull and 
 
 all the party, dr. gull is a middle-aged Scotch 
 
 divine, dressed as a Nonconformist minister. He 
 
 speaks with a coarse Scotch accent, emphasising 
 
 his words with uncouth gesture.) 
 
 DR. GULL. The Sawbath is the Sawbath, my lord, 
 
 whether ye be in Scotland or whether ye be in England. 
 
 The Sawbath is the Sawbath. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, look at my poor husband talking 
 to that dreadful Dr. Gull. I thought I was so fortunate 
 to secure the Caledonian Missionary for one of my parties, 
 but he's such an aw^ul bore. 
 
 LUCY. Oh, but he's so funny when he eats fish. 
 LADY EPPING {reproacMug lucy severely). Lucy dear, 
 I don't think you should speak hke that of one of my 
 guests.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 163 
 
 OSWALD. It's SO like you. Flora, to ask a missionary 
 to meet us. 
 
 MISS VANDERiiiDE (looMfig at DR. GULL through her 
 lorgnette). He wouldn't be received in New York. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. Don't say that, Ollie. It sounds silly. 
 You have very good hotels in New York, and you have 
 your tall sky-scraper buildings, and your telephones are 
 much better than ours. But that's all — you have 
 nothing else. (Calling.) Dr. Gull ! {Turns to miss 
 MORTIMER.) Berry ! 
 
 (dr. gull comes towards lady epping.) 
 miss MORTIMER {coming towards lady epping). 
 Darling one. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I Want to introducc Dr. Gull, the 
 famous Caledonian Missionary, Miss Berengaria Mor- 
 timer, the celebrated actress. 
 
 (dr. gull and miss mortimer shake hands.) 
 LUCY. Church and stage — how sweet ! 
 LADY epping. Take him over there, Berry, and give 
 him a scone. {They move away.) Come here, Mr, 
 Perry. I want you to pass cups, (perry comes to her.) 
 You too, Mr. Hughes, (paul goes to the tea-table.) All 
 the young men. 
 
 WRAY. Of course, of course. 
 
 (wRAY hurries to the tea-table also.) 
 PERRY {to wray). Don't you think there was a serious 
 miscarriage of justice in the Pimlico murder trial ? 
 
 WRAY. Young man, I am about to have my tea. 
 (lady EPPING gives a cup of tea to wray, who takes a 
 piece of cake and his tea and goes to the sofa, where he sits 
 between lady beacroft and lucy. wray, laughing and 
 leering at them.) A rose between two thorns. {They all 
 three laugh, perry brings two cups of tea to the sofa, 
 giving one to lady beacroft and the other to lucy. He 
 then goes back to the tea-table, wray fixes perry with a 
 scowl while he hands the cups and until his neck will turn 
 round no further, wray, laughing and leering as before.) 
 How happy could I be with either were t'other dear 
 charmer away. {They all three laugh as before, perry 
 brings the sugar and cream, and the same irritation oj 
 WRAY takes place, perry returns to the table, wray, 
 laughing and leering as before.) Three's company, four's 
 none. {They all three laugh as before, perry brings the
 
 164 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 cake-stand. Again the annoyance o/wray. wray, after 
 he has gotie.) I hope he won't come and sit on the sofa 
 with us ! 
 
 (lady epping gives perry two cups of tea, and 
 says, " Give this to Mrs. Hughes." perry 
 moves to do so, and wray says, " Spread your- 
 selves." perry goes to EVELYN, and giving her 
 a cup, sits beside her.) 
 
 LADY EPPING {colUng to paul). CoHie here, Mr. 
 Hughes. The two dramatists must sit together, (paul 
 comes and sits by her. She then announces to the room) 
 Mr. Hughes and I are going to collaborate on a play. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Oh, will there be a part for me ? 
 
 lady epping. Oh, yes. We must give Berry a part. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. A pathetic little servant maid with 
 smuts on her face. That's the kind of part I've always 
 longed to play, but they will make me be queens. 
 
 WRAY. What's the play going to be about. Lady 
 Epping ? 
 
 LADY EPPING (scriously). We are going to scourge 
 society. 
 
 LUCY (simpering). Oh, how amusing ! I shall love that. 
 
 LADY EPPING. You wou't find it at all amusing, Lucy. 
 It's to be a serious attack on the smart set. 
 
 WRAY. Which %dce are you going for ? Same old 
 thing ? Bridge ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. That's not been decided. It's easy 
 enough to get a vice. I think there are several things 
 about us which might be improved. 
 
 DR. GULL (earnestly). Amen ! 
 
 LUCY. Did you hear Dr. Gull say " Amen " ? How 
 sweet ! 
 
 WRAY (to LADY BEACROFT and lucy). Shall we three 
 go and play the pianola ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. You Can't havc the music room ; Dr. 
 Gull is going to sing hymns there with the servants after 
 tea. 
 
 LUCY. Oh, how darling ! Hymns on Sunday after- 
 noon — so original ! 
 
 LADY EPPING (graciously to DR. gull). I shall try to 
 come in for a verse or two. Dr. Gull. 
 
 WRAY. We'll all come. Won't you come and sing 
 hymns, Miss Vanderhide ?
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 165 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. No, thanks. I prefer croquet. 
 
 LADY EPPING {to paul). While they are at their hymns 
 you and I will begin our play. 
 
 PAUL {embarrassed). Oh, but 
 
 LADY EPPING (cheerfully). Yes, yes. I feel just in the 
 mood for it. 
 
 DR. GULL. Your leddyship wouldna' write a drama on 
 the Sawbath ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Why not ? I must express myself 
 when I feel in the humour, like the Judge in his legal 
 work or you in your religious work. It's all the same. 
 
 DR. GULL {bringing his fist heavily down on the tea tray 
 and shouting). The kirk is no the same as the theayter. 
 {They all raise their eyebrows and look towards dr. 
 GULL in well-bred surprise. There is silence.) 
 
 LADY EPPING {very politely to dr. gull). Dr. Gull, the 
 servants will be waiting for you. You know which the 
 music room is, do you not ? 
 
 dr. gull. I thought I were in England, but I see 
 that I'm e'en in the city of Babylon. 
 
 {Exit DR. GULL.) 
 
 WRAY {springing up indignantly). Bedlam ! Did he 
 call us Bedlam ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Babylon. 
 
 WRAY. Oh ! Because if he'd said Bedlam I should 
 have retaliated. I don't know what I should have said, 
 but I should have said something. 
 
 LADY EPPING {tO MISS MORTIMER, who is fallowing DR. 
 
 gull). You needn't go and sing hymns, Berry. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Dcarcst one, I should like to. I 
 want to study the servants' expressions. 
 
 {Exit MISS MORTIMER.) 
 
 PERRY {offering his case). Have a cigarette, Judge ? 
 
 WRAY. Young man, I never smoke. 
 
 {He moves away from perry.) 
 
 LADY BEACROFT. Mr. Hughes, Mr. Hughes, do come 
 and talk to us. (paul takes wray's place between them.) 
 Tell us all about first nights. 
 
 LUCY. Do you come before the curtain and make a 
 bow ? 
 
 PAUL. That depends upon the audience. 
 
 LADY BEACROFT. I writc plays. 
 
 PAUL. Do you ?
 
 166 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 [He snatches lady beacroft's cup, puts it on the 
 
 table and is about to escape, when lady epping 
 
 speaks.) 
 
 lady epping. Don't run away, ]\Ir. Hughes. {Enter 
 
 two footmen to clear away the tea-things.) We are going 
 
 to begin the play now. {To john.) John, will you ask 
 
 Mrs. Pitt to send nie my box of plays — the large black 
 
 tin box ? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, my lady. 
 
 {Exit JOHN and the other footman.) 
 LORD EPPING. Going to write plays ? Then you won't 
 need me any more ! 
 
 {Exit LORD EPPING into the garden.) 
 lady beacroft {to wray). Judge, Judge, are you 
 ready to take me for a walk ? 
 
 WRAY. With pleasure, Lady Beacroft. We might 
 take Lord Epping with us. I think some one should 
 take a little notice of our poor host. 
 
 {Exeunt wray and lady beacroft through the 
 window.) 
 PAUL {to EVELYN). Will you comc for a walk with me ? 
 EVELYN. But you are going to collaborate with Lady 
 Epping. 
 
 PAUL. No. Let us go for a walk. 
 LADY EPPING. Oswald darling, take Miss Vanderhide 
 for a stroll. 
 
 OSWALD. I'm going for a walk with Mrs. Hughes. 
 
 {Exeunt evelyn and oswald.) 
 MISS vanderhide. I hadn't the slightest desire to go 
 for a walk. 
 
 LADY EPPING {in tt wMspev to MISS vanderhide). He's 
 only flirting with Mrs. Hughes to make you jealous. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. I prCSUmC SO. 
 
 LADY EPPING. You mustn't mind. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. I'm amused. Mr. Perry, would 
 you like to play me at croquet ? 
 
 PERRY. I haven't got my croquet suit on, but if you 
 don't mind my playing with you like this. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. Oh, you look perfectly sweet as 
 you are. 
 
 {Exeunt miss vanderhide and perry.) 
 
 LUCY. Oh, I'm forgetting all about the hymns. 
 {Putting down a magazine she has been reading.) Do
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 167 
 
 look in at us, Flora. Dr. Gull is sure to beat time with 
 his arms and legs. So sweet ! 
 
 {Exit LUCY, R.) 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. What a pity Lucy is so silly. I think 
 she's getting worse. {Enter john with the box of plays, 
 which he puts on the floor and then exits.) Put it down 
 there on the floor. Now we can get on with our play. 
 
 PAUL {in distress). I don't think I can work to-day. 
 Lady Epping. 
 
 LADY EPPING {chcerfully) . Oh, yes, you can, if you 
 give your mind to it. 
 
 PAUL. I haven't an idea in my head. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Neither have I ; but that's the advan- 
 tage of collaboration. We stimulate each other. Now, 
 let us see if there isn't something here that we could 
 work up. {She kneels behind the box, opens it and begins 
 burrowing among the manuscripts. On the lid of the box 
 a large Countess^ coronet is painted in white, paul sits 
 watching her. lady epping reads the titles of some of 
 her plays as she picks them out of the box and puts them 
 back again.) " The Insubordination of Laura," " The 
 Tower of Babel," " Little Tummy-Sit-in-the-Pan "— 
 that's a play for children — " Two Sins and a Woman." 
 {Retaining " Two Sins and a Woman.''"') This is my last 
 play — the one I told you the plot of. It's full of bright 
 lines. Listen to this. It's the Duke of Vere's first 
 meeting with Lady Dorincourt. The Duke aside — {read- 
 ing.) " By gad, as fine a woman as ever I set eyes on." 
 {To PAUL.) There's quite a masculine touch about my 
 work, isn't there ? {Reading.) Lady Dorincourt aside 
 — " I feel some strange misgiving clutching at my 
 heart-strings. If this fascinating and mysterious man 
 has been sent to lure me away from the straight path 
 which the world has hewn for us poor women to walk 
 in, I fear he may be successful." {Smiling at paul.) 
 That's the way I prepare for the denouement. {Read- 
 ing.) " If one will not venture, one is not likely to 
 have." {To paul.) That's an epigram, (paul nods 
 his head. Reading.) Lady Dorincourt — " Ah me ! " 
 The Duke of Vere, who lives half the year in Rome — 
 " Amico mio ! " {To paul.) A play upon words, you 
 see. 
 
 PAUL. Oh !
 
 168 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPING. I hope it is not too subtle for the 
 British pubhc. They can't understand anything unless 
 you give it them straight from the shoulder. We'd 
 better not give them this play till we've educated them 
 up to it. {Throwing " Two Sins and a Woman " into 
 the box and taking out another. She reads the title.) 
 "The Penalty of Passion." That's so strong. I'll 
 read you an extract from the last act. {The " Penalty 
 of Passion " is a serious poetic play, so lady epping 
 reads it with reverence, hut also with dramatic emphasis, 
 clearly portraying the merciless tyrant in Norheld's part 
 and the hajjless queen in Vaneshla's. She reads the stage 
 directions reverently.) " Queen Vaneshla is lying on a 
 bed of straw in the dungeon. It is midnight. Clock 
 strikes ten. Nuns are heard singing Mass in the dis- 
 tance. Enter King Norheld. 
 
 " ' Is that the Queen who lies so very still ? 
 
 Is that Vaneshla, once my bride so fair ? 
 
 Dost thou not hear me ? 'Tis King Norheld speaks. 
 
 Hast lost thy tongue — you saucy baggage you ? ' 
 
 {Beading stage direction.) Drags Vaneshla round dun- 
 geon by hair of head." {Explaining to paul.) Of course 
 she'll have to wear a wig. {Continuing the reading of 
 Vaneshla^ s jjart.) 
 
 " ' Oh, spare me, sire ! Oh, spare thy hapless queen ! 
 Vaneshla weeps. Vaneshla loves her lord : 
 Can innocence and beauty wed with sin ? ' " 
 
 (lady epping becomes so moved by the pathos of the scene 
 that tears choke her utterance.) That's so touching, isn't 
 it ? (PAUL laughs stupidly. Her eyes fall on a farce called 
 " Clapham Flats. ^^ She screams with laughter, throws 
 " The Penalty of Passion " into the box, and takes out 
 " Clapham Flats," screaming with laughter as she says.) 
 Oh, " Clapham Flats " ! Such a funny farce ! I must 
 read you one passage. They push the cook into the 
 
 boiler, and the cook says {She breaks into fresh 
 
 peals of laughter, then calms herself enough to say. ) The 
 
 cook says {Fresh peals of laughter. She gives the 
 
 manuscript to paul, showing him the place to read, then 
 staggers towards the window in fits of uncontrollable 
 laughter, paul reads the manuscript without smiling.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 169 
 
 When LADY EPPING has recovered her composure she wipes 
 her eyes and comes back to him, speaking in the husky 
 voice one is left with after such laughter.) Oh, dear, I'd 
 forgotten " Clapham Flats " was so fun-ny. {She watches 
 PAUL reading the manuscript before she says.) You are 
 not laughing at all, and I thought you had such a sense 
 of humour. 
 
 PAUL. Let me put them away. 
 
 {He gets the box and puts it upon a chair.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. Now ! You've seen several examples 
 of my work. I want your candid opinion. 
 
 PAUL {embarrassed). It's full of clever things. 
 
 LADY EPPING {smiling). I thought you'd like it. 
 
 PAUL. But I should say— on the whole — it is scarcely 
 up to the necessary standard. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, I dou't agree with you. Look at 
 the stuff they put on the stage, 
 
 PAUL {turning over " Clapham Flats "). You see the 
 play is so short. 
 
 LADY EPPING. That's an advantage. Every one will 
 come in time if we begin late enough. 
 
 PAUL. And then again 
 
 LADY EPPING {taking the manuscript from paul and 
 hugging it). I'm sorry you don't like my work. {Turning 
 the pages.) I did think you'd be able to see something 
 in it, but you do nothing but pick it to pieces. 
 
 PAUL. It seems to me you are wasting yourself on 
 literature. You have so many brilliant gifts. 
 
 LADY EPPING {vcry plcascd, she turns to paul, smiling). 
 Tell me what you think my best points are. 
 
 PAUL {embarrassed). I hardly like to. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, why ? Friends should always be 
 candid. 
 
 PAUL {smiling at her). Friends ! 
 
 {He leans towards lady epping and puts his hand 
 near hers.) 
 
 LADY epping {withdrawing her hand). You mustn't 
 get silly about me. Now ! What shall our play be 
 about ? 
 
 PAUL {with the husky voice of pretended passion). I 
 can't think of work when I'm near you. 
 
 {He folds his arms and looks at lady epping 
 through half -closed eyes.)
 
 170 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPiNG {sentimentally). I'm sorry. I hoped 
 we should be able to work sensibly together. 
 
 PAUL {ardently). I can't work sensibly with you. 
 {He seizes lady epping in his arms.) 
 
 {Enter evelyn quickly from the garden. She 
 hurries forward.) 
 
 LADY EPPING {escaping from Paul's embrace). Mr. 
 Hughes, you forget where you are. 
 
 EVELYN {in horror). Paul ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh ! {Speaking and gesticulating in 
 an intensely melodramatic fashion). Lost ! Lost ! A 
 lost woman for evermore. {Turns to evelyn, smiling 
 pleasantly.) We are rehearsing our play. 
 
 {She strolls into the garden.) 
 
 EVELYN {to PAUL). Show me the manuscript, (paul 
 picks up the manuscript o/" Clapham Flats.") Show me 
 the place where it says " Lost, lost, a lost woman for 
 evermore." (paul turns the pages in agitation). There 
 isn't such a line, is there ? 
 
 PAUL. There may be. I shouldn't be at all surprised. 
 
 EVELYN {reproachfully). Oh, Paul ! I didn't think 
 you'd do that. 
 
 PAUL. EveljTi, let me explain. 
 
 EVELYN. You had her in your arms. 
 
 PAUL. In a way. 
 
 EVELYN. You were making love to her. 
 
 PAUL. In a Avay. 
 
 EVELYN. Well— how are you going to explain that ? 
 
 PAUL. This way : she would try and collaborate vnih 
 me, so — to keep her mind off it — I began to make love 
 to her. It was the only thing to do. 
 
 EVELYN {with decision). We must leave this house at 
 once. 
 
 PAUL. Oh, my dear. That's impossible. 
 
 EVELYN. I'm going, if you aren't. 
 
 PAUL. There's nothing in it. She's a little flattered. 
 That's all. You don't think I'm really in love with her ! 
 
 EVELYN. That's not the point. The point is this : 
 I've been out for a walk with Lord Oswald Bruce- 
 Bannerman, and he kissed me. 
 
 PAUL. The brute ! I'll wring his neck. 
 
 (lady EPPING appears again at the window.) 
 
 EVELYN. Shall we leave at once ?
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 171 
 
 PAUL. Yes. You shan't stay here another minute. 
 Lady Epping ! (lady epping steps into the room. She 
 is very dignified and gracious.) My wife and I are so very 
 sorry, but we must say good-bye. 
 
 LADY EPPING {raising her eyebrows slightly). Oh ! 
 
 EVELYN. At once. 
 
 PAUL. We thank you very much for asking us here. 
 
 EVELYN. Good-bye. 
 
 PAUL {offering his hand). Good-bye. 
 
 LADY EPPING. This is rather sudden. You have not 
 told me why you must go. 
 
 PAUL {embarrassed). I — I think I'd better not. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh — but don't you think you should ? 
 
 EVELYN. We can't. 
 
 LADY EPPING. But I shall be afraid that we have un- 
 intentionally offended you. I think it would be kinder 
 if you explained your hurried departure. 
 
 (PAUL hesitates and looks at evelyn.) 
 
 EVELYN. You explain while I pack. {She goes out.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. Did your wife observe your indiscretion? 
 
 PAUL. Yes. 
 
 LADY EPPING. And belicvc my explanation ? 
 
 PAUL. No ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. That is the reason you are — running 
 away ? 
 
 PAUL. One of the reasons. 
 
 LADY EPPING. It docsu't sccm to havc entered your 
 head to consider me. 
 
 PAUL. You ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. She'll go and tell everybody why she 
 left the house : Because she found her husband making 
 love to Lady Epping. Don't you see — don't you see 
 what a position you have placed me in ? 
 
 PAUL. I'm very sorry. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Sorry ! That won't do at all. 
 
 PAUL. Is Lord Epping a jealous man ? (lady 
 EPPING raises her eyebrows and stares at paul, until he 
 becomes ashamed of having asked the question). I beg your 
 pardon ! I wonder what we had better do ? 
 
 LADY epping. I dou't, I kuow. You will have the 
 goodness to go to your wife and to tell her that you have 
 committed a very great breach of propriety. You will 
 say that you lost your head — or whatever you like — and
 
 172 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 that I was very much surprised. You will tell her that 
 you apologised to me, and that I have so far overlooked 
 your behaviour as to ask you to continue your visit until 
 to-morrow morning, when it terminates naturally. And 
 you will forbid her to say anything about what she saw 
 — if you please. 
 
 {Enter evelyn.) 
 
 EVELYN. Aren't you coming, Paul ? 
 
 LADY EPPiNG {smiUng). Now I must go and look 
 after my other guests. 
 
 {She goes up leisurely and strolls off into the garden.) 
 
 EVELYN. Are you ready ? 
 
 PAUL {thoughtfully). Evelyn — if we go at once — it'll 
 look so funny. I was only pretending to make love to 
 Lady Epping, and of course she was quite above lending 
 herself to anything of the sort. 
 
 EVELYN {maliciously). Yes, I saw she didn't like it. 
 
 PAUL. She has treated the matter as a woman of the 
 world would, told me not to be so silly, and asked us to 
 stay on. 
 
 EVELYN. What about Lord Oswald kissing me ? 
 
 PAUL. Let it be a lesson to you. Don't let your un- 
 sophistication lead you into any such mistake again. 
 
 EVELYN. My mistake was telling you. That's where 
 my unsophistication came in. 
 
 PAUL {shocked). EveljTi ! You surprise me ! 
 
 EVELYN. You can't have everji:hing, Paul. You can 
 consider Lady Epping first or you can consider me first 
 — whichever you like. 
 
 PAUL. I think we must stay. 
 
 EVELYN {airily). Very well ; and if that "s\dcked 
 attractive Lord Oswald begins any more of his 
 nonsense 
 
 PAUL {losing his temper). Evelyn ! 
 
 EVELYN {airily). I shall know what to do. 
 
 PAUL. You are only doing this to exasperate me, but 
 I'm not the least exasperated, and I wish you wouldn't 
 do it. {He looks very glum.) 
 
 EVELYN {flippantly to cover her annoyance). Seriously, 
 Paul, I think you are mighty sensible to stay on. We 
 should look so very unsophisticated if we ran away. Of 
 course it will be embarrassing for you after making such 
 an unspeakable faux pas — making love to Lady Epping 
 
 I
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 173 
 
 in front of all those windows. Oh, Paul — you really 
 must learn better. We went behind a shed. 
 
 PAUL {indignantly). Stop it ! 
 
 (lady epping and Oswald are seen coming up 
 the garden.) 
 
 EVELYN. There's Lady Epping with Lord Oswald. 
 She has forgiven you — well— I must forgive him. 
 
 (lady epping enters the room, oswald remains 
 at the window.) 
 
 lady epping. I've just been through three of the 
 croquet hoops and had a hymn with Dr. Gull, and here 
 I am. 
 
 EVELYN. I will leave you to talk to my husband. Lady 
 Epping. Will you walk with me to the lake. Lord 
 Oswald ? 
 
 OSWALD. Certainly ; haven't you seen the lake ? 
 
 EVELYN {kissing her finger tips to paul). Bye bye, 
 Paul. {Exeunt evelyn and Oswald.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. Well — is it all right now ? Are you 
 staying ? 
 
 PAUL. Yes, thank you. Lady Epping — until to- 
 morrow. 
 
 LADY EPPING {graciously). And now — remember what 
 I told you — don't get silly about me. 
 
 PAUL. No, Lady Epping. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Not tOO silly. 
 
 PAUL {giving one gasp of surprise before he says). I — 
 I apologise. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I ought to be angry with you, but — 
 {offering her hand to paul) let us be friends. 
 
 PAUL {grasping it). Thank you. 
 
 LADY EPPING {looMng down at their clasped hands, says 
 coquettishly). You are hurting my hand. 
 
 PAUL {embarrassed). I beg your pardon. 
 
 {He releases her hand.) 
 
 LADY EPPING {watcMng him, smiling, then saying 
 gravely). I don't want you to feel I'm displeased with 
 you. {She again holds out her hand.) Friends ? 
 
 PAUL {taking her hand, smiling, as he says). Friends. 
 
 LADY EPPING {looking down at their clasped hands). 
 Yes. That's better. {Sentimentally.) I wonder 
 whether a man and a woman really can be — friends ? 
 
 PAUL. Why not ?
 
 174 
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. After a man has spoken to a woman 
 as you have spoken to me ? 
 
 PAUL (troubled). Please forget my indiscretion, Lady 
 Epping. 
 
 {He attempts to move away, but she draws him back.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. That's it. She can't quite forget. The 
 situation isn't quite the same. But I hope we shall be 
 friends, or — {smiling coquettishly at him) just a little 
 more ? 
 
 PAUL {embarrassed). Oh — yes. 
 
 LADY EPPING. A vcry Httle more. {She drops Paul's 
 hand and glances at the windows.) We mustn't be too 
 long alone together. {She goes to the window, then turns 
 to say to him.) A little more than friends. 
 
 {She nods and smiles at paul, then goes out. paul 
 stands gaping.) 
 
 PAUL. Oh, lor ! {He sinks down on a chair.) 
 
 curtain.
 
 THE SECOND ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The library of the Eppings^ house in Berkeley 
 Square. The furniture and hangings are handsome 
 and sombre. 
 
 It is in the middle of the afternoon of a day at the end of 
 September, a few weeks later than the first act. 
 
 LOED EPPING is lying on the sofa fast asleep. Enter 
 HENRY, a footman, henry is followed by lady 
 LUCY lister and miss vanderhide. lord epping 
 wakes with a start, rubs his eyes and rises, henry 
 goes out. 
 
 LUCY. Epping ! I do believe you were fast asleep. 
 (lord epping shakes hands with lucy, then with 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE.) 
 
 LORD EPPING. I was. I travelled from Scotland last 
 night with my wife. How are you ? 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. Well, thank you. 
 
 LUCY. Flora said you would be home to-day, and on 
 my way here I met Miss Vanderhide shopping in Bond 
 Street — so I made her come with me. 
 
 LORD EPPING. I'm sorry this is the only room that's 
 fit to sit in, but half the house is shut up still. We are 
 not supposed to be in London yet. 
 
 LUCY. We don't mind. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. I supposc you had a perfectly 
 lovely time in Scotland. 
 
 LORD EPPING. It was all right. We've been staying 
 at Cookie Castle with the Duke — my wife's father. My 
 wife got up some theatricals. She had that man — 
 what's his name — the one who wrote " Glass Houses," 
 to help her. 
 
 LUCY. Mr. Hughes. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Yes — nicc fellow — do you know him 1 
 
 175
 
 176 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LUCY. Of course. I met him at Epping House, just 
 before we all left London. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Oh, did you ? I can't remember half 
 the people we have there. Such conglomerations as 
 Flora gathers about her every Saturday to Monday ! 
 
 MISS VANDERHiDE {pointedly). Was Mrs. Hughes in 
 Scotland too ? 
 
 LORD EPPING {carelessly). No — he came without her. 
 
 {Yawns.) 
 
 LUCY {to MISS VANDERHIDE behind LORD EPPING's 
 
 back). What did I tell you ? 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. It's a scandal. 
 
 LORD EPPING {having recovered from his yawn, and 
 turning to them). I beg your pardon. I didn't have a 
 wink of sleep all night. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. You look cxhaustcd. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Simply dead beat. 
 
 LUCY. / can sleep beautiiuWy in the train. 
 
 LORD EPPING. So Can I. But about midnight Flora 
 thought of a plot for a play — something about a foreign 
 princess who wants to marry an Englishman but for 
 state reasons she can't. They all had red hair and lived 
 in a made-up place called Puritania. So tiresome when 
 you want to go to sleep. 
 
 LUCY. Poor Epping — and poor Flora. She must be 
 more exhausted still, 
 
 {Enter lady epping, gaily and vigorously. She is 
 in her outdoor clothes.) 
 
 lady epping. Well, dears, have you been waiting for 
 me a very long time ? I've had such a busy afternoon. 
 How are you, Ollie ? {Kissing her.) Handsomer than 
 
 ever. I've been to Peckham {Kissing lucy.) 
 
 Well, Lucy darling. What a sweetly pretty hat ! — to 
 open some baths. A most interesting ceremony. I 
 made a speech. {To lord epping.) You ought to have 
 been there to hear the compliments the Mayor paid me. 
 (lord epping, his eyes closed, nods his head and moans. 
 She addresses the others.) Has he been telling you what 
 a splendid time we had in Scotland ? All the children 
 fell ill together and / nursed them. We shot all day and 
 played no end of hockey, and had the most amusing 
 rehearsals for our theatricals. / played the leading 
 part.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 177 
 
 MISS VANDERHiDE. Did Mr. Hughcs play the lover ? 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. Oh, I See. Epping has told you all 
 about it. {She sits at a desk, lucy and miss vander- 
 HiDE nod their heads knowingly to each other.) I must 
 write a few letters, but I can talk at the same time. 
 
 {She writes very fast, lord epping, his eyes still 
 closed, stumbles in his sleep, lucy looks at 
 him. ) 
 
 LUCY. Did you see him going to sleep standing up ? 
 How sweet ! 
 
 LORD EPPING. I really think I must go and lie down. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Poor old thing ! {Exit lord epping. 
 As she writes.) Gossip away, darlings. Tell me all the 
 news. 
 
 miss VANDERHIDE {solemnly). Fm going back to 
 Amurica to-morrer. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Tired of us, Ollie ? 
 
 miss VANDERHIDE. I dou't object to England — though 
 of course it's not Parus — but I've practically made up 
 my mind to marry an Amurican. 
 
 LADY EPPING {stops Writing and says in dismay). Oh ! 
 {Graciously.) I hope you will be very happy. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. I'vc uot Settled OH him yet. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Ah ! 
 
 LUCY. But you've made up your mind to go back ? 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. I shall comc ovcr sometimes for 
 Ascut, or Cowes. 
 
 LUCY. With your American husband ? 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. Wc generally leave them behind. 
 
 (lady EPPING rises.) 
 LUCY. May / write a letter ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Of COUrSC. 
 
 LUCY {taking lady epping's place). Thank you so 
 much. I forgot all about it before I came, and it's so 
 important. 
 
 LADY epping. Oh, Lucy, I'm sure you could never 
 have anything important to write. 
 
 LUCY. Oh, Flora ! 
 
 LADY epping. Comc over here, Ollie, so that we 
 shan't disturb Lucy, (lucy writes her letter and miss 
 VANDERHIDE joius LADY EPPING the Other sidc of the 
 room.) What makes you want to go back to America ? 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. Patriotism. 
 
 VOL. I N
 
 178 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPING. How Can you feel patriotic about a 
 great big country like that ? Who's the man ? 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. What man ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Do you know, dear, I once had an idea 
 you cared for my brother. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. Lord Oswald ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Hc's dcvotcd to you. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. His may be the English way of 
 showing it. It certainly isn't the Amurican. It's bad 
 enough to have your husband flirting with a married 
 woman, or your fiance, but to have a man going on 
 like that before he's even engaged to you ! English 
 girls put up with anything, but vce don't. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I admit Oswald did wrong to flirt with 
 Mrs. Hughes — but forgive the past. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. It's his present I'm so mad about. 
 
 LADY EPPING. The present soon becomes the past. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. If you kuow a man's past you 
 can bet on his future. 
 
 LADY EPPING. His futurc takcs a turn on his wedding 
 day. Oswald would make a splendid husband. He has 
 neither brain nor will, and he can be so attentive to a 
 woman. You saw that. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. I'vc taken my passage now. And 
 if I'm to sail tomorrer, I must hurry back to superintend 
 my packing. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Scc Oswald whcu he calls. 
 
 MISS VANDERHIDE. I'vc HO expectation of such a call. 
 
 LADY EPPING. He shall call at six o'clock. 
 
 (miss VANDERHIDE goifig to LUCY, shokes httTids 
 with her.) 
 
 miss VANDERHIDE. Au rcvoir. (LUCY repUes. miss 
 VANDERHIDE retums to LADY EPPING.) Au rcvoir. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Six o'clock. 
 
 miss VANDERHIDE. I shan't be there at six. Make it 
 six-fifteen. 
 
 {Exit MISS VANDERHIDE.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. We mustu't let her go back to 
 America. She's far too rich — far too nice. {Enter 
 OSWALD.) Oswald ! 
 
 OSWALD. Hullo, Flora ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. I didn't know you were in the house. 
 
 OSWALD (shaking hands with lucy). How are you,
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 179 
 
 Lucy ? (To LADY EPPING.) I'vc been looking for 
 Epping. 
 
 LADY EPPING. He's resting after his journey, — poor 
 old thing. Stay and talk to me. 
 
 OSWALD. All right. 
 
 LADY EPPING (to LUCY, tactfully). Now, Lucy darling, 
 I mustn't keep you here any longer. I know you have 
 no end of things to do. 
 
 LUCY {getting up and going). Very well, I'll go, but 
 
 [She glances at Oswald, then whispers to i,ady epping.) 
 Do tell me how it turns out. I heard all you said to 
 Miss Vanderhide. 
 
 {Exit LUCY.) 
 
 lady EPPING (lady EPPING sits on a sofa and puts her 
 feet up, then turns to Oswald). I must take my rest 
 while I'm talking to you. Ollie Vanderhide is at 
 Claridge's, and she's going back to America to-morrow 
 unless you stop her. 
 
 OSWALD. Then I suppose she'll go. 
 
 lady EPPING. Don't let her. You'll never get another 
 chance like Ollie — beautiful and rich, and ready to put 
 up with you. 
 
 OSWALD. Did you say Claridge's ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I think you might possibly catch her 
 there about six-fifteen. 
 
 OSWALD. All right. 
 
 LADY EPPING. But mind, Oswald — if you do become 
 engaged to Ollie Vanderhide — no more flirting with Mrs. 
 Hughes. 
 
 OSWALD. We're not flirting now. We're good friends. 
 I'm sorry for the little woman. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Sorry for her ? Why ? 
 
 OSWALD. You know why. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Don't be impertinent. 
 
 OSWALD. Look here, Flora, I may as well tell you. 
 People are beginning to gossip about you and — you 
 know. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I don't know who you mean, but surely 
 a woman in my position may take an interest in a rising 
 author without 
 
 OSWALD. It's chiefly because you had him to stay 
 when you went home. 
 
 LADY EPPING. As onc of a large party.
 
 180 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 OSWALD. Without his wife. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. What a very middle-class objection ! 
 
 OSWALD. Well — I've warned you, and I advise you 
 not to have him here too much. 
 
 LADY EPPING. It is most uulikcly that he will come 
 here at all. 
 
 {Enter henry.) 
 
 HENRY. Is your ladyship at home to Mr. Paul 
 Hughes ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh ! {A pause.) Yes. 
 
 {Exit HENRY. OSWALD laUghs. LADY EPPING 
 
 stares at him.) 
 OSWALD {laughing). I can't help it, Flora, it's so 
 funny ! I'm off to Claridge's — I hope you'll enjoy your- 
 self. 
 
 {Exit OSWALD. Enter henry showing in paul.) 
 PAUL. I got your note asking me to come. 
 LADY EPPING. Sh ! (To HENRY.) Hcury — if any one 
 calls, I am not at home. 
 
 HENRY. Thank you, my lady. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Dou't forgct. 
 
 HENRY. No, my lady. 
 
 {Exit HENRY.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. He's ucw. How glum you look. 
 
 PAUL {sighing). No wonder. 
 
 LADY EPPING {arckly). Just because he hasn't seen me 
 for two whole days ? 
 
 PAUL. Partly that. 
 
 LADY EPPING {pretending to he ojf ended). Partly ? 
 
 PAUL. Mostly, but — I don't know what to do about it. 
 
 LADY EPPING. What's the matter ? 
 
 PAUL. Everything. Lady Epping 
 
 LADY EPPING. I told you you might call me Flora 
 when we are by ourselves. 
 
 PAUL. Flora — I'm an ape ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, you fuuuy boy. You must put 
 that in one of your plays. 
 
 PAUL {earnestly). Yes. I am an ape, but it's not 
 funny — not for me. Ever since I came back from 
 Scotland my wife won't speak to me. 
 
 LADY EPPING {serioushj concerned, says quickly). Oh 
 — oh — now I'm not going to have a scandal. 
 
 PAUL. She's taken all my photographs out of their
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 181 
 
 frames and got one of your brother perched on her 
 desk — where / used to be. It's disgraceful the way 
 those two are carrying on. They've been to Earl's 
 Court together. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG {busy With her own thoughts). But didn't 
 you explain to your wife that you simply came to 
 Scotland to assist me with my theatricals ? 
 
 PAUL. I thought I was a guest. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Of coursc you were — don't be so silly. 
 But she ought to understand that with two dramatists 
 it's different. We've got an excuse. 
 
 PAUL. Look here, Flora 
 
 LADY EPPING. Don't raise your voice. I hear that 
 people are talking about us. 
 
 PAUL. Then we must see less of each other. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Or bc morc careful. 
 
 PAUL. There's bound to be talk if we keep on. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Nothing to what there will be if we 
 suddenly leave off. 
 
 PAUL {advancing to her). I am going to be one of 
 two things — I'll either be a good husband 
 
 LADY EPPING. I don't think it's in very good taste of 
 you to say that to me. 
 
 PAUL. I'll either be a good husband or else I'll be a 
 gay Lothario, — a danger — a menace to your domestic 
 happiness. I must see Lord Epping livid with jealousy 
 and the Duke running down from Cookie Castle to 
 implore you to give me up. As I pass up Piccadilly I 
 must see men-about-town nudging each other at club 
 windows, as much as to say, " That's him. That's the 
 young devil Lady Epping's breaking her heart about." 
 I'll have that or a well-ordered home. It's for you to 
 choose, but I'm going to be something definite. 
 
 LADY EPPING {with emotion. Going to paul and laying 
 her hand on his arm). If we could let ourselves go — but 
 it wouldn't be right, (paul attempts to kiss lady epping. 
 She steps back hastily.) Prenez garde ! 
 
 PAUL (angrily). There — you see ! You don't want to 
 kiss me. You want me to want to kiss you, and you'll 
 not let me. I've had enough of this one-sided game, so 
 there's nothing else for it but for me to go home and 
 be a good husband. 
 
 {He is going to the door.)
 
 182 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPiNG { fallowing) . Ah, no, no — not that ! I 
 mean — don't go away m anger. 
 
 PAUL [coming back to her). Flora, I'm convinced you 
 don't care a rap for me. Any fool would do as well to 
 dance attendance. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, crucl — crucl ! Perhaps I am too 
 well regulated, but then — I'm such a busy woman — 
 I haven't time to go searching my heart all day. It 
 takes a thoroughly idle woman to be sentimental. But, 
 oh, Paul ! [She begins to cry.) Now I'm making myself 
 cry — and suppose any one came in. How dreadful that 
 would be. Wait here while I run up to my room and 
 dab something on. Then we'll have a nice cosy chat 
 like we used to do in Scotland. 
 
 {Exit LADY EPPING. PAUL marches over to the 
 fireplace moodily. Enter henry.) 
 
 HENRY. Mrs. Paul Hughes. 
 
 {Exit henry. Enter evelyn. They stare at each 
 other embarrassed, and surprised, befare they 
 speak.) 
 
 EVELYN {as if they were the merest acquaintances). 
 How d'you do, Paul ? 
 
 PAUL. Evelyn ! {Trying to appear at ease.) Have 
 you come to call on Lady Epping ? 
 
 EVELYN. Yes. And you ? 
 
 PAUL. Yes ; after staying there, you know. I thought 
 it better to call. {A silence.) 
 
 EVELYN. Yes. What an ideal September day it is. 
 
 PAUL. Is it ? 
 
 EVELYN. Yes. It's beginning to rain. 
 
 PAUL. I'll have a look. 
 
 (PAUL goes to the window. As he moves he sur- 
 reptitiously returns the chair he sat in near 
 LADY EPPING to its Original place. 
 
 EVELYN. I should Icavc the furniture as it is if you 
 want to look as if nothing had happened. 
 
 PAUL {indignantly). We never sat in those chairs. 
 
 EVELYN. Of course not. There's a sofa. 
 
 PAUL {with dignity). I think you forget what Lady 
 Epping's position is. 
 
 EVELYN. I don't know what it is, but I suppose it 
 was on the sofa. 
 
 PAUL. Evelyn — what have you come here for ?
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 183 
 
 EVELYN. To see Lady Epping. 
 
 PAUL. To — to have it out with her ? 
 
 EVELYN. Have what out, Paul ? 
 
 PAUL. I don't know, but there's a gleam in your eye 
 that I don't like. I hope you are going to be polite to 
 Lady Epping. 
 
 EVELYN. That was my intention — till I found you 
 here. Now — now — I don't know that I can answer for 
 myself. 
 
 PAUL. You're not going to fight about me ? 
 
 EVELYN. That depends on Lady Epping. 
 
 PAUL. But think what a ridiculous figure / should 
 cut standing here between you. 
 
 EVELYN. Then you'd better go. 
 
 PAUL. I shan't budge. 
 
 LADY EPPING {heard outside). Are you there ? 
 
 EVELYN {calling back). Yes, I'm here. 
 
 (PAUL looks about him in alarm ; then, feeling 
 unequal to the situation, darts out of the room. 
 Enter lady epping. She is surprised to find 
 EVELYN where she left paul, but her composure 
 is perfect. She advances graciously to evelyn 
 and shakes hands.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. How kind of you to come and see me 
 the first day I am in London. Do sit down. 
 
 (EVELYN sits.) 
 
 EVELYN {seriously). You take a great interest in my 
 husband, don't you. Lady Epping ? 
 
 LADY EPPING {gvaciously). I think his work is charm- 
 ing. 
 
 EVELYN. Before Paul became famous and had his 
 head turned we were like two sweethearts. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Indeed. 
 
 EVELYN {resentfully). Don't you think it's a great 
 shame for a married woman to come between two 
 sweethearts ? 
 
 LADY EPPING {scriously). Yes, I do. I have wished 
 to speak to you on this matter for some time, but I felt 
 delicate about it. However — since you have introduced 
 the subject — Mrs. Hughes, let me counsel you — as an 
 elder woman may a younger — leave well alone. 
 
 EVELYN {surprised). My husband ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. My brother.
 
 184 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 EVELYN. Oh ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. Youi coiiscieiice pricks you, so you 
 have come to tell me. 
 
 EVELYN. No. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Don't try to check your better feelings. 
 You are sorry — because, as you said just now, you have 
 come between tw^o sweethearts. 
 
 EVELYN. It's you. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Dou't bc rudc, please. See, I am not 
 angry with you. I daresay you meant no harm. 
 
 EVELYN {clenching her fists in inarticulate rage). Oh ! 
 Oh, oh ! 
 
 LADY EPPING (going to her). There, there. Have a 
 good cry. It will do you good. 
 
 EVELYN. We are not talking about me and Lord 
 Oswald and Miss Vanderhide. We are talking about 
 you and me and Paul ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. I supposc you think it very clever of 
 you to turn it off in this way. 
 
 EVELYN. Fm not turning it off — you are ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. I begin to fear your guilt is greater 
 than I had supposed. 
 
 EVELYN. Oh ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. Or you wouldn't lose your self-control 
 in this way. Try and tell me all about it quietly, and 
 we'll see if we can't get you out of the scrape without 
 letting your husband know, 
 
 EVELYN. Oh, you are a wicked woman. You know 
 quite well I'm in the right and you are in the wrong — 
 but you're so sharp 
 
 LADY EPPING. Tliis is impossible. 
 
 {She rings the bell.) 
 
 EVELYN. Call the servants, — turn me out, but I'll 
 get even with you yet — you hard - hearted husband 
 stealer. 
 
 {Exit EVELYN.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. Insolencc ! 
 
 {Enter henry.) 
 
 HENRY. If you please, my lady, are you at home to 
 Miss Berengaria Mortimer ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Henry, why, when I distinctly told you 
 I was not at home to any one, did you admit Mrs. 
 Hughes ?
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 185 
 
 HENRY. Well, you see, my lady, she bore the same 
 name as the gentleman who was with you, so I thought 
 she must be his wife. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Well ? 
 
 HENRY. I knew if she was his wife it was all right to 
 let her in. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Really, Henry, you are a very stupid 
 boy. Tell Mr. Buck to give you notice at once. 
 
 HENRY {respectfully). Thank you, my lady. 
 
 LADY EPPING {screams out). Berry ! 
 
 {Enter miss Mortimer. Exit henry.) 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Darling one, I heard of your return, 
 so I rushed in to tell you the news. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Ycs, dear, but I want your advice first. 
 You are an actress. You ought to know all about the 
 emotions. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I Uve OH CmotioH. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Supposc a married woman had had a 
 flirtation — with a young married man. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER {wUh a great interest). Oh ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. It's for a play. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Oh ! Can you get that past the 
 Censor ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. It was Only a flirtation. After a time 
 he left her vowing never to return. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Very sensible of him. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Ycs, but of coursc that didn't suit 
 her. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Oh, I scc — that kind of a woman. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Not at all — but naturally she's not 
 going to let him throw her over. She's going to throw 
 him over. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Naturally. 
 
 LADY EPPING. So she lias to see him once more. How 
 is she to get him to come ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I should throw myself at his feet and 
 crave a tryst. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I Want scnsc, not sentiment. Would 
 she make an appeal ? Say, send him a letter that was 
 a little stronger than usual ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I should think she would. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Would that bring him ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I should think it would.
 
 186 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. That's what I should think. Will you 
 excuse me if I "SATite a note ? I want to scribble a hne 
 to my sister. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Certainly, darling one. 
 
 (lady EPPING sits at the writing-table.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. " My dear boy. I'm sorry I was cold 
 — {she crosses out " cold " and writes) unkind this after- 
 noon. Come in soon and be forgiven. This evening I 
 am going to the play with my husband, but at a quarter 
 to ten I will have a severe headache and leave the theatre 
 alone. Call at ten and let us make it up. Yours, 
 F.E." {She puts the letter in an envelope.) " Paul 
 Hughes, Esquire." 
 
 {She rings the hell and seals the envelope.) 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. What is the play ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Only a situation I am working out to 
 please myself. I don't think it will ever be published, 
 at least I hope not. {Enter henry.) Take this letter. 
 
 HENRY. Yes, my lady. Is there any answer ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. You can wait — and see if there's an 
 answer. 
 
 HENRY. Thank you, my lady. {He exits.) 
 
 LADY EPPING. Now tell me your news. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I begin rehearsals of my new play 
 to-morrow. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, really — who is it by ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Paul HughcS. 
 
 LADY EPPING. How funuy — why, you met him at my 
 house. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Ycs, my own angel, but 
 
 LADY EPPING. And you have eight, if not nine, of my 
 plays under consideration. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I kuow it, prccious one, — and I 
 should be producing them all now, one after another, if I 
 had my way, but my stupid manager has already signed 
 \vith Paul Hughes. 
 
 LADY EPPING. What is his play about ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I sworc ou my honour not to tell, 
 but it won't do any harm to tell you. I'm a wife and 
 my husband neglects me for his business, so I flirt with 
 another man. That's the first two acts. 
 
 LADY EPPING {indignantly). Oh ! {She recovers her- 
 self.) Go on.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 187 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. The third act is where I get my 
 great chance. I visit my lover late at night and then 
 my husband comes, so I hide behind a curtain. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG {breathlessly). And the end ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. I go to the colouics. 
 
 LADY EPPING. But that is the plot of " Two Sins and 
 a Woman." 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. It is the plot of nearly all the plays 
 I ever acted in. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I told him that plot at Epping House. 
 You can't produce it, Berry. I shall apply for an 
 injunction. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. That would advertise us nicely. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Who's your manager ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Mr. Brooks. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I shall go and read my play to this 
 Mr. Brooks to-morrow morning. {She paces about the 
 room.) Oh, I can prove my case up to the hilt. Is he 
 a person one can ask to luncheon ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Who ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. This Mr. Banks — your manager. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Mr. Brooks. 
 
 LADY EPPING. He cau come to tea anyway. I am 
 disappointed in Mr. Hughes. I did think that at last 
 I had found a genius who was a gentleman. Where is 
 he to be found ? 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Who ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. This Mr. Rivers — your manager. 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Mr. Brooks. He is generally to be 
 found at the Trafalgar Theatre. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I shall go and interview him first thing 
 to-morrow morning. I shall say " Mr. Waters " 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Mr. Brooks. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oil ! there was Vaneshla — the finest 
 tragic part ever written — and I was willing to turn it 
 into a comedy part to suit you. There was Lady 
 Dorincourt — an exceptional opportunity for dress. She 
 has a scene in which she tries on hats. You could have 
 had the stage strewn with Paris models. But no — no 
 — you prefer to take a play by Mr. Hughes — a man you 
 met through me. I consider that you have behaved in 
 a most scandalous manner, and I only keep silent 
 because I am in my own house.
 
 188 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 MISS MORTIMER. Doii't stop, dear one. I am making 
 a study of you. I have a great scene of indignation in 
 the third act and I wasn't sure how to take it (lady 
 EPPiNG gives an exclamation of anger), but now I know. 
 {She rises and goes to the door.) Good-bye, darling one, 
 and thanks so much. 
 
 LADY EPPING {with artificial graciousness). Good-bye, 
 Miss Mortimer. {Exit miss mortimer. Enter lord 
 EPPING hy the other door.) Oh, Epping ! 
 
 LORD EPPING. Flora, why aren't you resting ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, ycs, I mustu't neglect my health. 
 {She sits on the sofa and puts her feet up.) Oh, Epping, 
 I've just received such a crushing blow. Sit do-\vn. 
 (lord EPPING sits.) Berry Mortimer is going to produce 
 a play by Mr. Hughes, and it's my play. They've 
 stolen it. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Good gracious ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. I shall go to law. 
 
 LORD EPPING. No, Flora. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Am I to Hc down and let them trample 
 on me ? 
 
 LORD EPPING. You really can't go to law with these 
 people. 
 
 LADY EPPING. They deserve to be shown up. 
 
 LORD EPPING. I wish you'd give up writing plays. 
 It's not fit work for a w'oman in your position. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Gcuius is not only to be found in low 
 places. I consider it a possession of which any woman 
 might be proud. 
 
 LORD EPPING. I know gcuius is not looked do%vn upon 
 as it used to be, and I don't think it ought to be, but 
 I'm getting tired of the way we run after celebrities and 
 turn Epping House into a Zoo every Saturday to 
 Monday. 
 
 LADY EPPING. It is my pride that every shade of 
 thought is represented at Epping House. 
 
 LORD EPPING. I don't objcct to clever people, but 
 some of the people you get down there are just as stupid 
 as our own relations. It's all very w^ell for you. You 
 amuse yourself with the wits, but / get left with the 
 bores. I've had enough of them. Things have got to 
 be changed, and this is a good place to begin. Let them 
 steal your play and make that a reason for cutting the
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 189 
 
 whole gang. It's no use trying to shine at everytliing. 
 You'll only get neuritis. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG (with quict decision). I shall go to law. 
 
 LORD EPPING. I shan't pay your costs. 
 
 {Enter Oswald quickly with a smiling face.) 
 
 OSWALD. I say, I've made it all right. {To lady 
 EPPING.) We are going to be married on the tenth of 
 November at St. Peter's, Eaton Square. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I Congratulate you, dear boy, but oh, 
 Oswald ! I am face to face with a grave crisis. My 
 reputation is in jeopardy. 
 
 OSWALD {pointedly). What did I tell you ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. My literary reputation. After think- 
 ing everything over very carefully from every point of 
 view, I have at last decided to go to law. Epping refuses 
 to pay my costs. To whom then can I turn but to you ? 
 
 OSWALD. Oh ! How much will the costs be ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I must havc first-rate counsel. That 
 may mean thousands of pounds. 
 
 OSWALD. You know I only have five hundred a year. 
 
 LADY EPPING. You had. But on November the tenth 
 you are to marry an American heiress. 
 
 OSWALD. We are only engaged yet. 
 
 LADY EPPING. My casc won't come on before 
 November. 
 
 OSWALD. I can't ask my wife to support my relations. 
 
 LORD EPPING {to OSWALD), I am quitc well able to 
 support my own wife. 
 
 LADY EPPING {to LORD epping). I kuow you arc. 
 But you won't do it. You throw me off just when you 
 ought to rally round me. 
 
 OSWALD. Well, you must settle it among yourselves. 
 I can't do anything. 
 
 {He moves away from them.) 
 
 LADY epping. Then my jewels must go. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Flora, you shall not go into court and 
 make a fool of yourself. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Shall not ! Do you say shall not ? 
 
 LORD EPPING. Yes, I did, and I mean it. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Which of us has made the name of 
 Epping what it is to-day ? 
 
 LORD EPPING. I won't have my wife seeking cheap 
 notoriety.
 
 190 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. I thiiik I shall know how to conduct 
 myself in a Court of Law. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Nobody can be effective in a Court of 
 Law except the Judge. You'll be fastened up in a loose 
 box and forced to answer all sorts of questions. If 
 you've any little secrets you don't want the world to 
 know they'll have them all out of you. 
 
 OSWALD. That might be rather awkward. 
 
 {Enter henry.) 
 
 HENRY. If you please, my lady, I left your letter. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Very well — very well. You needn't 
 come and tell me. 
 
 HENRY. If you please, my lady, you said I was to see 
 if there was an answer. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Have the answer sent to my room. 
 
 HENRY. There isn't one, my lady ; Mr. Hughes was 
 out. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh ! 
 
 HENRY. Mrs. Hughes opened the letter. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Mrs. Hughcs ? 
 
 HENRY. She said there wasn't any answer — yet. 
 
 (lady EPPING waves him aside. Exit henry.) 
 
 OSWALD. That sounds ominous. I say, Flora — you 
 can't go to law with him now. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Now ! What do you mean by she 
 can't go to law with him now ? 
 
 OSWALD {floundering). Nothing — only — if she's 
 written a letter to Hughes that his wife wasn't meant 
 to see 
 
 LADY EPPING. Idiot ! 
 
 LORD EPPING. Was there anything in that letter that 
 you wouldn't like the world to know ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Certainly not. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Oswald — will ycu please leave us ? 
 
 LADY EPPING {before Oswald can do so). Don't go, 
 Oswald. We've nothing to say to each other you can't 
 hear. {To lord epping.) I suppose you'll be telling 
 me next that my letter to Mr. Hughes will be read out 
 in Court. As if it would matter if it were — a casual 
 note — asking him to luncheon. However — as you're 
 both so determined I will do as you wish. I won't go 
 to law. 
 
 LORD epping. I see ! You darent go into Court.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 191 
 
 LADY EPPING. Don't be absurd ! 
 
 LORD EPPING. You're hiding something from me. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Nothing of the sort. 
 
 LORD EPPING. Will you swear it ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Swear ! If I'm to be sworn and cross- 
 examined I may as well go into Court at once. I must 
 now — if it's only to vindicate my character. Oswald, 
 ring up my solicitor. 
 
 OSWALD. No, Flora — I won't. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Dou't, tlicu. I'll do it mysclf. {She 
 snatches the receiver from, the telephone and calls down it 
 as the curtain falls.) I'm going to law ! It's Lady 
 Epping ! What number ? Oh— Holborn 123—3—1, 
 2, 3. 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE THIRD ACT 
 
 SCENE. — Court-room X — King's Bench Division. The 
 court-room is crowded when the curtain rises. 
 
 JUDGE WRAY is enthroned opposite the audience. On his 
 right hand is the vacant witness-box. In front of him 
 and below him sits the associate at his desk with the 
 USHER standing near. In front of the associate's 
 desk is the solicitor's table with lady epping and 
 her solicitor, lord epping, lady lucy lister, and 
 PAUL HUGHES and his solicitor seated round it. On 
 the right of the witness-box and facing left are the 
 twelve jurymen in the jury-box. Facing the jury-box 
 are the benches where the counsel sit. lady epping 
 is represented by mr. craven, k.c, and mr. hickory, 
 and PAUL hughes by clinton perry. Besides all 
 these people there are also present many barristers, 
 solicitors' clerks, newspaper reporters and sketch 
 artists, and general public, evelyn hughes and 
 miss berengaria MORTIMER are accommodated with 
 chairs in front of the jury-box, and on the bench on 
 either side of the judge are seated lord Oswald 
 bruce-bannerman and miss vanderhide, who has 
 now become lady Oswald bruce-bannerman, lady 
 beacroft and other smartly dressed ladies. 
 
 hickory {rising and saying to wray). May it please 
 
 your Lordship {The rest of the speech to the jury.) 
 
 Gentlemen of the Jury, the Countess of Epping is the 
 Plaintiff and Mr. Paul Hughes the Defendant. The 
 claim is to recover damages for the infringement of copy- 
 right of a play written by plaintiff and entitled " Two 
 Sins and a Woman," and to restrain the defendant from 
 again performing his play entitled " Smoke without 
 Fire," which we claim is substantially a copy of the said 
 
 192 
 
 I
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 193 
 
 play. The defendant has pleaded denying that " Smoke 
 without Fire " is in any sense a copy of " Two Sins and 
 a Woman." Upon these pleas issue is joined, and these 
 are the issues you will have to try. {He sits down.) 
 
 CRAVEN {rising and addressing wray). May it please 
 
 your lordship {To the jury.) Gentlemen of the 
 
 Jury 
 
 WRAY. I should like to mention here that the plaintiff 
 is a personal friend of mine. Is there any objection to 
 my hearing the case ? 
 
 PERRY. Not the slightest, my lord. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. On the contrary 
 
 EVELYN {to MISS MORTIMER). She is trying to fascinate 
 the Judge now ; it isn't fair. 
 
 CRAVEN. This action is brought by the plaintiff to 
 recover damages for the infringement of the copyright 
 of her play " Two Sins and a Woman." The defendant 
 is a professional dramatist, and, like other professional 
 dramatists, is no doubt frequently hard up for a plot. 
 We know that in such cases necessity is not always the 
 Mother of Invention. The plaintiff herself will tell you 
 how, on the tenth of July at Epping House — one of her 
 ladyship's many country seats — she told the defendant 
 the plot of her play " Two Sins and a Woman." 
 
 WRAY. Why didn't she call it " Three Sins " ? 
 
 {General laughter in which wray and every one but 
 CRAVEN and lady epping join, craven looks 
 about him impatiently till the laughter has 
 subsided before he proceeds.) 
 
 craven. The plaintiff will also tell you how, a few 
 minutes later, on the same day, she read extracts from 
 the said play to the defendant, and how finally in the 
 month of September she read him the whole of " Two 
 Sins and a Woman," and the whole of sixteen other plays 
 while they were both guests at Cookie Castle in Scotland. 
 
 WRAY. I thought I had seen it stated somewhere that 
 Lady Epping had only written fifteen plays when she 
 went to Cookie Castle. 
 
 CRAVEN. She wrote two more during the last week of 
 August. {To the jury.) Up to the end of the Cookie 
 visit the relations between the plaintiff and the defendant 
 seem to have been exceptionally — er — (lady epping 
 clears her throat) harmonious. It was not until Septem- 
 
 VOL. I O
 
 194 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 ber twenty-fifth that her ladyship began to suspect she 
 had been nourishing a viper in her — er — entertaining a 
 viper unawares. On that day the plaintiff received a 
 call from Miss Berengaria Mortimer — {all eyes are turned 
 towards miss Mortimer, who poses complacently) the 
 celebrated actress. Miss Berengaria Mortimer informed 
 Lady Epping that she had been engaged by Mr. Brooks 
 of the Trafalgar Theatre to play the principal part in 
 Mr. Paul Hughes' play " Smoke without Fire." When 
 Lady Epping asked Miss Berengaria Mortimer to tell her 
 the plot of the play, Miss Berengaria Mortimer told it — 
 in the exact words Lady Epping had used to tell the plot 
 of " Two Sins and a Woman " to Mr. Hughes. Gentle- 
 men, our claim is not only that the whole of the plot of 
 " Smoke without Fire " is copied from " Two Sins and a 
 Woman." We claim that one of the scenes is copied, 
 the situation at the end of the third act, and two lines 
 of the dialogue — the lines " I love you " and " I hate 
 you." Now, gentlemen, you are doubtless aware that 
 " Smoke without Fire " was not a success, but we claim 
 that if " Two Sins and a Woman " had been produced 
 in its place it would have been a success, and that if it 
 had been a success Lady Epping' s sixteen other plays 
 would have been produced and would have been successes 
 too. It will be for you to calculate what her profits 
 ought to have been. 
 
 WRAY. It seems to me, Mr. Craven, that would be 
 almost as difficult to estimate as an income tax. 
 
 CRAVEN. It is not for me, my lord, to improve upon 
 the methods of the present Government. {To the jury.) 
 Gentlemen, I hope you will remember that the plaintiff, 
 though a countess, is also a woman — a woman in search 
 of justice. Divest the noble plaintiff of her rank, her 
 wealth, her regal residences, her servants, dogs, jewels, 
 motor cars, and family plate — and picture her struggling 
 up the ladder of Fame supported only by her pen. There 
 I will leave her, gentlemen, and as you watch her and 
 listen to her, remember that she suffers just what your 
 own wives and daughters would have suffered in a 
 similar situation : she has the same hopes and fears, 
 difficulties and dangers, the same red blood tingling in 
 her veins. 
 
 {He sits down.)
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 195 
 
 WRAY. I always thought a countess's blood was blue. 
 {General laughter, in which wray joins.) 
 
 HICKORY. Lady Epping 
 
 (lady epping enters the witness-box. Her be- 
 haviour is modest, dignified, and attentive until 
 she becomes at home. She appears unconscious 
 of the interest she creates. The Sketch Artists 
 set vigorously to work to draw her.) 
 ASSOCIATE {to LADY EPPING and gobbling almost in- 
 coherently). Take the Book in your right hand. The 
 evidence you shall give to the Court and Jury, touching 
 the matters in question, shall be the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth. Kiss the Book. 
 
 (lady EPPING does so.) 
 LUCY {to lord epping). Did you see her kiss the 
 Book ? How sweet ! 
 USHER. Sh ! Sh ! 
 
 CRAVEN. You are Flora, Teresa, Maud, Adelaide, 
 Platt-Byng, Countess of Epping, Viscountess Epping 
 and Baroness Epping in the United Kingdom ; Baroness 
 Leopardstown of Leopardstown in Ireland ; Viscountess 
 Peak and Baroness Clack in England, and a Lady of 
 Justice of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem — the 
 plaintiff ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. YcS. 
 
 CRAVEN. And you live at Epping House, Leopards- 
 town Manor, Peak Park, Clack Court, and Berkeley 
 Square ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. YcS. 
 
 CRAVEN. You have written a number of plays ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. YcS. 
 
 CRAVEN. Have any of your plays been produced ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. One of my plays was produced in the 
 ball-room at Cookie Castle last September, with myself 
 in the principal part, supported by several friends. The 
 ball-room was crowded with several more friends and all 
 the indoor and outdoor servants. We had a very great 
 success. 
 
 CRAVEN. So that you would not consider yourself a 
 novice in matters connected with the stage ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Certainly not, for I have also taken 
 part in tableaux in some of the leading London theatres. 
 
 CRAVEN. Do you remember the tenth of July ?
 
 196 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. Was that the day I made the acquaint- 
 ance of Mr. Hughes ? 
 
 CRAVEN {smiling graciously). I am asking you. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Oh, then, I suppose it would be, other- 
 wise you wouldn't have asked me — yes. 
 
 CRAVEN. What happened on the tenth of July ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I made the acquaintance of Mr. 
 Hughes. 
 
 CRAVEN. Yes. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Thank you. I thought him a very 
 conceited young man. 
 
 WRAY. You are not allowed to say what you thought. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I coucluded that he was a very conceited 
 young man. 
 
 CRAVEN. Yes, yes — now — do you remember the four- 
 teenth of July ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. The fourteenth — let me see — oh, yes ! 
 {Brightly to wray.) That was the Sunday you spent 
 with us ! 
 
 WRAY {smiling at lady epping). And very much I 
 enjoyed it. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I'm SO glad. Do come and see us 
 again. 
 
 WRAY {smiling at lady epping). M-m-m ! 
 
 CRAVEN {waiting with obtrusive patience to continue). 
 My lord, am I to continue my examination ? 
 
 WRAY. Certainly, Mr. Craven, certainly. 
 
 {He leans back in his chair and becomes absorbed 
 in his hands.) 
 
 CRAVEN. What else do you remember about the four- 
 teenth of July ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I Came into the drawing-room just 
 before tea and found the two defendants 
 
 WRAY {smilingly). There is only one defendant. 
 
 LADY EPPING {to wray). Hc knows what I mean. 
 {To CRAVEN.) I began to tell them about my plays. 
 
 CRAVEN. What else ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. The Conversation then became general. 
 / talked while they listened. 
 
 CRAVEN. Did you tell them the plot of a particular 
 play ? 
 
 LADY EPPING {as ifshc thought that a very silly question). 
 Well, of course. That's what we're all here about.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 197 
 
 CRAVEN. What was the title of the particular play ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. " Two Sins and a Woman." 
 
 CRAVEN. Did Mr. Hughes make any comment ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Nonc whatever. I see now that he 
 must have been committing my plot to memory so that 
 he could use it himself. 
 
 PERRY {rising to protest). My lord. 
 
 LADY EPPING {stares at perry, then says to wray). Is 
 he allowed to interrupt me like that ? 
 
 WRAY. He is quite within his rights. 
 
 LADY EPPING. But I wasu't Speaking to him at all. 
 I was speaking to Mr. Craven. 
 
 WRAY. It would be better if you did not cast reflec- 
 tions on the defendant. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Very well, I'll accept that from you or 
 Mr. Craven, but not from Mr. Perry. I'm not employing 
 him. 
 
 CRAVEN. What happened after tea on the fourteenth 
 of July ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I read an extract from " Two Sins and 
 a Woman " to the defendant. 
 
 CRAVEN. When did you next read " Two Sins and a 
 Woman " to the defendant ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. At Cookic Castlc in September. 
 
 CRAVEN. Do you remember the twenty-fifth of Sep- 
 tember ? 
 
 LADY EPPING {playfully). I thought you were going 
 to say, " Do you remember the fifth of November ? " 
 
 WRAY. I think the exact quotation is, " Please to 
 remember the fifth of November." 
 
 {General and prolonged laughter, in which wray 
 joins.) 
 
 PERRY {half rising as he says, smiling). Another case 
 of a plot which was suppressed. 
 
 {A feeble laugh is raised at this jest, but it is im- 
 mediately suppressed by the usher.) 
 
 WRAY {sternly). If there is any more of this levity I 
 shall clear the Court. 
 
 CRAVEN {who has been impatient during the jokes). Do 
 you recall on the twenty-fifth of September Miss Beren- 
 garia Mortimer coming to see you ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I do. 
 
 WRAY. Who is Miss Berengaria Mortimer ?
 
 198 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 MISS MORTIMER [surpHsed and in a tone of disappoint- 
 ment). Oh ! 
 
 CRAVEN. The celebrated actress, my lord. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG {smiUng at wray). Berry. You remem- 
 ber Berry ! 
 
 WRAY {in a reverie). Garia ! (He leans back as he 
 says to CRAVEN.) What are you waiting for, Mr. Craven? 
 
 CRAVEN. What did Miss Berengaria Mortimer tell you? 
 
 LADY EPPING {with serious indignation). The plot of 
 Mr. Hughes' play — and no sooner had she let the cat 
 out of the bag than I recognised it as my own child. 
 
 CRAVEN. Yes — well — now I think you saw the first 
 performance of the defendant's play, " Smoke without 
 Fire " ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I did. I tliouglit it vcry weak — except 
 in the places where it resembles mine — the rest of it 
 bored me. Lucy can tell you. She was with me. Lady 
 Lucy Lister. (Pointing.) She's sitting over there. 
 
 [Every one turns to look at lucy, who appears 
 unconscious of their gaze.) 
 
 WRAY. Is Lady Lucy Lister to be called ? 
 
 CRAVEN. No, my lord. 
 
 WRAY (graciously). I'm sorry. 
 
 LUCY. So am I. (She bows graciously to wray.) 
 
 CRAVEN. What in your opinion are the salient points 
 of resemblance between the two plays ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. The plots are just the same. 
 
 WRAY. Most plots are. 
 
 (Prolonged laughter, in which wray joins.) 
 
 CRAVEN. Do you find any of the dialogue similar ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I do. In my play Lady Dorincourt 
 says to the Duke of Vere, '" 1 hate you." In Mr. 
 Hughes' play Mrs. What's-her-name says precisely the 
 same thing to Mr. Wliatever-his-name-is, and they all 
 four say, " I love you." 
 
 CRAVEN. Do you fmd any other resemblance ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I do. Their third act passes in a 
 bachelor's chambers at eleven o'clock at night, and so 
 does mine. 
 
 CRAVEN. Are there any scenes in the two plays which 
 you consider similar ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Ycs. The scenes at the ends of the 
 third acts.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 199 
 
 CRAVEN. Describe these scenes to the Jury in your 
 own way. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Well, in their play the husband finds 
 the wife in the lover's rooms, and there's a lot of talk 
 and a kind of struggle and the wife flops over on the 
 hearth-rug. {Continuing with great dramatic emphasis 
 and point in the description of her own play.) Now, in 
 my play, Lord Dorincourt tears the portiere aside and 
 discovers — Lady Dorincourt. " Lilian, is that you ? " 
 he says, and she says, " Yes." Then he turns to the 
 Duke of Vere and says, " I never thought you would do 
 such a thing." And the Duke stands like this — [with 
 her arms by her sides and her head bent) never says a 
 word — just stands like this. {Holding the pose a moment 
 before she continues excitedly.) Then Lord Dorincourt 
 seizes the Duke of Vere by the throat and forces him to 
 his knees. Lady Dorincourt rushes between them cry- 
 ing {her arms wide apart and shrieking), " Kill me ! " 
 {She drops her arms and smiles.) That's my curtain. 
 
 WRAY {pleasantly). A very pretty incident, (craven 
 sits. PERRY immediately rises, wray groans at the sight 
 
 of PERRY.) Oh ! 
 
 {He sits back extremely bored, lady epping's 
 attitude towards perry is stubborn and antagon- 
 istic. She looks upon him as her enemy. 
 perry's manner at the beginning is pompous.) 
 
 PERRY. Is it not true that you offered to tell Mr. 
 Hughes the plot of your play ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I don't rcmcmbcr. 
 
 PERRY. Do you suggest that he asked you to tell it 
 him ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Hc may have done so. 
 
 PERRY. Wormed it out of you ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I don't think I know that expression. 
 
 PERRY. Was Mrs. Hughes present ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. She may have been. 
 
 PERRY {exasperated, shouting). Was she ? 
 
 LADY EPPING {also shouting). Ycs ! 
 
 PERRY. I suppose you will not deny that on Sunday 
 afternoon, the fourteenth of July, while you were having 
 tea with a number of friends, you announced your 
 intention of collaborating on a play with Mr. Hughes ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. You Were there and heard me.
 
 200 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PERRY. Will you kindly say if this is not so ? 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. It may have been. 
 
 PERRY {losing his temper). I don't want " It may 
 have been," I want " yes " or " no." (lady epping 
 begins to draw on her glove in a leisurely manner, quite 
 ignoring perry, who becomes more exasperated.) Yes or 
 no ? (Pause.) Yes or no ? 
 
 LADY epping (pleasantly to wray). Couldn't you come 
 to us for Christmas ? 
 
 WRAY (seniles). M (Solemnly.) Now answer the 
 
 question. 
 
 (He busies himself with his notes.) 
 
 LADY EPPING (to perry). Would you mind saying 
 it all over again ? I've forgotten what you asked me. 
 
 PERRY (disconcerted, he turns to a barrister near him 
 and says in a whisper). Do you remember what it was ? 
 
 BARRISTER. I wasn't attending. 
 
 PERRY. We will pass on to — to — yes — now — this 
 great success you say you had when you played your 
 own play before your own servants. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I ucvcr Said I played my own play 
 before my own servants. 
 
 PERRY. Yes, you did. 
 
 LADY EPPING. No, I didn't. 
 
 PERRY. You said just now you had a great success 
 at Cookie Castle before an audience mainly composed 
 of servants. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Not my servants. 
 
 PERRY. Whose servants ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. My father's. 
 
 PERRY. Well, well, well, your father's servants then. 
 We won't quarrel about that. I suppose your father's 
 servants had to applaud you ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Do yOU ? 
 
 PERRY. Had they ? 
 
 WRAY. That is a question for Lady Epping's father's 
 servants. 
 
 LADY EPPING (cheerfully). A very good retort. I 
 nearly made it myself. (To perry.) Well, anything 
 else ? 
 
 perry. You are not allowed to ask me questions. 
 
 LADY EPPING. My own side will correct me when 
 necessary.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 201 
 
 PERRY. This question of the third acts both passing 
 in a bachelor's chambers. I suppose you don't think 
 you have the exclusive right to use a bachelor's chambers 
 at 11 o'clock at night. 
 
 LADY EPPiNG {indignantly). How dare you say such 
 a thing ? As if I should ever dream 
 
 PERRY. I mean — to use them — in an artistic sense. 
 
 LADY EPPING. Don't attempt to explain ; let us pass 
 away from this very disagreeable incident. 
 
 PERRY. " I love you." 
 
 LADY EPPING {surpHsed, she draws herself up). Mr. 
 Perry ! 
 
 PERRY. " I hate you." 
 
 LADY EPPING {realising that he is quoting from her 
 play). Oh, I see. 
 
 WRAY {waking up). What was that ? Really, Mr. 
 Perry, I must take exception to your language. 
 
 PERRY. I was quoting Lady Epping. 
 
 WRAY. That's no excuse. Lady Epping is not 
 supposed to know the etiquette of the Court, and 
 you are. 
 
 PERRY. I am obliged to your lordship. These lines 
 " I love you " and " I hate you " — don't you realise 
 that they are very commonplace ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I do UOW. 
 
 PERRY. Didn't you realise that as you wrote them ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. No — it was as you spoke them. 
 
 {Slight general laughter.) 
 
 PERRY. I really must ask you to treat me with more 
 respect. 
 
 LADY EPPING {sTuiUng indulgently). Poor little Mr. 
 Perry ! 
 
 PERRY {indignantly). Oh ! 
 
 {He sits down nearly crying with rage.) 
 
 CRAVEN. Lady Epping — it has been suggested that 
 you insisted on telling Mr. Hughes the plot of your 
 play? 
 
 LADY EPPING. Only by Mr. Perry. 
 
 CRAVEN. Is it true that you forced your play on the 
 defendant's attention ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. No. Hc woriued it out of me. 
 
 CRAVEN. Thank you. 
 
 {He sits down.)
 
 202 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. Can I come out ? (craven bows to 
 her. Leaving the witness-box, she says to wray). Good- 
 bye ! {She waves her hand to him — then rejoins lord 
 EPPING.) Now are you satisfied ? 
 
 usher. Sh, sh ! 
 
 LADY EPPING {staring at the usher). I'm the plaintiff. 
 
 [Sits beside lord epping.) 
 
 craven {to wray). That is the plaintiff's case, my 
 lord. {He then sits.) 
 
 perry {rising to address wray). May it please your 
 lordship 
 
 wray {groaning at the sight 0/ perry). Oh ! 
 
 perry. Gentlemen of the Jury — My learned friend, 
 in his opening speech, asked you to remember that the 
 plaintiff, though a countess, is also a woman. At the 
 same time he has lost no opportunity of reminding you 
 that, though a woman, she is also a countess — as if on 
 that account she has a special claim upon your sym- 
 pathies. Now, gentlemen — I hope you will not be 
 snobs, but, like the free-born lower-middle class Britons 
 that you probably are, you will support a poor defendant 
 against a rich plaintiff — whatever the rights of the case. 
 (Dropping his voice to a sad tone.) The defendant, 
 gentlemen, is no charming woman — such as you have 
 just seen. He is merely — a man. {With sudden fire.) 
 But he is an Englishman ! 
 
 A BOY. Hooray ! 
 
 PERRY. mth all those fine and noble qualities 
 
 which have made Englishmen — what we are, — courage, 
 veracity, brawn, all the domestic and conjugal virtues 
 coupled with a taste for sport. Could such a man be 
 guilty of robbing a woman ? This story, gentlemen, 
 which Lady Epping claims to have invented is literally 
 as old as Adam. Who are the eternal hero, heroine, and 
 villain of drama but Adam and Eve and the Serpent ? 
 Boil almost every play down to its component parts and 
 you find our three old friends at the bottom of the pot. 
 {Working himself up to a final burst of indignation.) Are 
 we to hand over the copyright of the book of Genesis to 
 Lady Epping ? Did she create Adam and Eve ? Is she 
 the author of their fall ? Did she invent sin, and are 
 we not to be allowed to participate in it ? Gentlemen, 
 are you going to surrender this precious heritage, or will 
 
 I
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 203 
 
 you rise in your might and give a brother Enghshman 
 fair play ! 
 
 {He sits down exhausted by his great effort. There 
 is some applause.) 
 
 USHER. Sh, sh ! 
 
 WRAY. This demonstration is really most uncalled 
 for. 
 
 PERRY {rising and still exhausted). Mr. Paul Hughes. 
 
 EVELYN {to MISS MORTIMER). He'll ncver be able to 
 answer their questions ; he'll be worse than he was at 
 the interview. 
 
 (PAUL enters the witness-box.) 
 
 ASSOCIATE {gabbling incoherently as before). Take the 
 Book in your right hand. The evidence you shall give 
 to the Court and Jury touching the matter in the 
 question shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
 but the truth. Kiss the Book. 
 
 (PAUL kisses the Book and returns it.) 
 
 PERRY. You are the defendant, and you live at 
 " Monrepos," Edgware Road ? 
 
 PAUL. Yes, my lord. 
 
 WRAY. Please don't address Mr. Perry as My lord. 
 
 PAUL {to wray). No, sir. 
 
 WRAY {severely). Don't be facetious. 
 
 PAUL. I didn't mean to 
 
 WRAY. Don't talk so much {as he leans back). I really 
 must put a stop to all this chattering and frivolity. 
 
 PERRY. Do you remember the fourteenth of July ? 
 
 PAUL. Yes, my wife and I were staying at Epping 
 House. Lady Epping read me extracts from several 
 of her plays. 
 
 PERRY. Tell us briefly the circumstances. 
 
 PAUL. It was after tea. {To wray.) You'd just 
 gone out for a walk with Lady Beacroft 
 
 WRAY. Address your remarks to the Jury. 
 
 PAUL {to jury). The Judge and Lady Beacroft 
 
 WRAY {interrupting impatiently). No, no, no. We 
 don't want this. 
 
 PERRY. Did you steal any of Lady Epping's ideas ? 
 (craven laughs, perry angrily to craven.) Don't 
 interrupt while I am examining the witness. {To paul.) 
 Did you steal any of Lady Epping's ideas ? 
 
 WRAY. That is a question for the Jury, Mr. Perry.
 
 204 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PERRY. I am obliged to your lordship. {To paul.) 
 Then I may take it you did not steal any of Lady Epping's 
 ideas ? 
 
 PAUL. No. {He adds hastily.) Yes. 
 
 WRAY {impatiently). Which d'you mean — no or yes ? 
 
 PAUL. If he means did I steal them, I mean 
 
 WRAY {angrily). Don't trifle with the Court, Mr. 
 Hughes. Remember you are on your oath. 
 
 PAUL {submissively). Yes. 
 
 WRAY {to perry). Yes. He did steal them. 
 
 PAUL {desperately). No. 
 
 WRAY {exasperated). Well, which is it ? Yes or no ? 
 
 perry. I think he means " yes." 
 
 CRAVEN {springing up). I object to the way my 
 learned friend is leading the witness. 
 
 PERRY {pompously). I will put the question in another 
 way. Did you or did you not steal any of Lady Epping's 
 ideas ? (craven laughs, perry losing his temper.) 
 My lord, I cannot proceed with my examination if my 
 friend continues to titter at everything I say. 
 
 CRAVEN. I didn't titter. I laughed. 
 
 perry {angrily). You tittered. 
 
 WRAY {looking up suddenly). Eh ? What's the 
 matter ? {Angrily to paul.) Why don't you answer 
 the questions ? Stand up straight and take your hands 
 out of your pockets. You are a most unsatisfactory 
 witness. 
 
 EVELYN {to MISS MORTIMER). Isu't the Judgc hard 
 upon him ? 
 
 PERRY. Your play " Smoke without Fire " did not 
 run very long, I think ? 
 
 PAUL. Three weeks. 
 
 PERRY. Ah ! A complete failure. 
 
 PAUL. A succes d'estime. 
 
 PERRY. In spite of your play being such a disastrous 
 succes d'estime. Lady Epping claims to be the author ? 
 
 PAUL. She says our plots are just ahke. 
 
 WRAY. I once heard a learned judge say, " Most 
 plots are." 
 
 {General laughter, in which wray joins.) 
 
 PERRY {to wray). That is our defence, my lord. 
 Our author claims that it is impossible to \\Tite an 
 entirely original play. They have all been WTitten.
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 205 
 
 One more question : Is your play, in your opinion, 
 entirely original ? 
 
 PAUL. It is. 
 
 (perry, having finished his examination, sits. 
 CRAVEN rises to cross-examine.) 
 
 CRAVEN. We have heard that on Sunday afternoon, 
 the fourteenth of July, the plaintiff read you an extract 
 from " Two Sins and a Woman." 
 
 PAUL. Yes. 
 
 CRAVEN. The play was produced 
 
 WRAY (interrupting). But I thought it never was 
 produced. 
 
 CRAVEN (irritably to wray). If your lordship will 
 allow me to finish my sentence — (to paul) the play 
 was produced from a black tin box. (To his clerk.) 
 Have we the black tin box in Court ? 
 
 (The CLERK produces the black tin box which 
 was used in the first act.) 
 
 WRAY. As you can't produce the play, you produce 
 the black tin box. 
 
 (Prolonged laughter, in which wray joins.) 
 
 CRAVEN (to PAUL). Is that the box in which Lady 
 Epping keeps her plays ? 
 
 PAUL. I believe so. 
 
 CRAVEN. Did you see that box at Cookie Castle ? 
 
 PAUL. Yes — I think so. 
 
 CRAVEN (impressively). No — don't think so — be sure. 
 
 PAUL. Yes. 
 
 WRAY. Let me see the box. (It is handed up to 
 WRAY, who taps it, then opens it and peers inside.) I 
 think the Jury ought to see this. (As associate rises 
 slowly.) Make haste please or I may drop it on the 
 Usher's head. 
 
 (It is handed to the jury.) 
 
 CRAVEN. There is a remarkable thing about that box. 
 It won't lock. (A sensation in Court?) You had easy 
 access to that box ? 
 
 PAUL. No. 
 
 CRAVEN. But it won't lock. 
 
 PAUL. Oh ! 
 
 CRAVEN. I suggest to you that the box won't lock. 
 
 PAUL. I'll take your word for it. 
 
 CRAVEN. I further suggest that it was perfectly simple
 
 206 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 for you to take the play out of the box had you so 
 desired. 
 
 PAUL. No. 
 
 CRAVEN. You knew where Lady Epping kept the 
 box? 
 
 PAUL. Yes. 
 
 WRAY. Where did she keep it ? 
 
 PAUL. Under her bed. 
 
 {Laughter, immediately suppressed.) 
 
 CRAVEN. You are a successful dramatist ? 
 
 PAUL. I believe so. 
 
 CRAVEN. Altogether a most exemplary young man. 
 
 PAUL. That is a question for the Jury. 
 
 WRAY {sweetly to craven). Will you give us your 
 definition of an exemplary young man, Mr. Craven ? 
 
 {Prolonged laughter, in which wb. ay joins.) 
 
 CRAVEN {impressively). Lidirectly, my lord — by prov- 
 ing that the defendant is not one. 
 
 {A general rustle in Court, murmurs, movement, 
 whispering, etc. 
 
 LUCY {to LORD epping). That's what they call sensa- 
 tion ! 
 
 USHER. Sh, sh ! 
 
 CRAVEN. My learned friend in his opening speech 
 scorned the suggestion that you have robbed Lady 
 Epping because you are such a model of all the domestic 
 and conjugal virtues. 
 
 PAUL. Yes. 
 
 CRAVEN. As a matter of fact, I think you are 
 separated from your wife. 
 
 PAUL {eagerly). I can explain that. 
 
 CRAVEN {severely). I won't trouble you for an ex- 
 planation. You are separated i'rom your wife ? 
 
 PAUL. It's all about a letter. 
 
 CRAVEN. What letter ? 
 
 PAUL. A letter which was addressed to me and which 
 fell into my wife's hands. 
 
 CRAVEN. A compromising letter ? 
 
 PAUL {hesitating). Well 
 
 WRAY {severely). Answer the question. Was the 
 letter compromising ? 
 
 PAUL. Yes 
 
 CRAVEN {triumphantly). Ah !
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 207 
 
 PAUL. in a way. 
 
 WRAY. Do stop talking. I never heard anything hke 
 the way you run on with irrelevant remarks. Who was 
 the letter from ? 
 
 PAUL. I don't remember. 
 
 WRAY. Don't remember ! Don't remember ! 
 
 PAUL. No, my lord — I do not remember. 
 
 CRAVEN. My lord, I believe Mrs. Paul Hughes is in 
 Court. No doubt she will remember. 
 
 PAUL (losing his head). No, she doesn't. Neither of 
 us do, but if your lordship insists, I will write the lady's 
 name on a piece of paper. 
 
 WRAY. Yes, you'd better, (paul writes a name on a 
 page of his pocket-book. It is passed to wray. wray 
 reads the paper, then gives a little scream of surprise and 
 amusement.) Oh ! 
 
 {He leans back in his chair, smiling, covers his face 
 with his handkerchief and ogles lady epping 
 over the top of it.) 
 
 PERRY {with the letter in his hand). My lord, it was 
 not my intention to use this letter, but since my friend 
 has introduced the subject I propose to put it in as 
 evidence. 
 
 WRAY. Evidence of what ? 
 
 PERRY. Evidence that this is nothing but a trumped- 
 up case. 
 
 CRAVEN {springs up, protesting). Oh ! my lord ! 
 
 WRAY. Sit down, Mr. Craven. 
 
 (craven does so, and leaning over, reads the letter in 
 perry's hand.) 
 
 PERRY. I submit that this letter clearly shows that 
 the plaintiff and the defendant had quarrelled — that it 
 was a quarrel of a most private and intimate character. 
 I further submit that her ladyship's only motive in 
 bringing this action is revenge. 
 
 CRAVEN {rising). My lord, this letter cannot be 
 material to any of the issues raised. 
 
 WRAY. It was you who introduced the letter, Mr. 
 Craven. I think we must have it. 
 
 LADY EPPING {tO CRAVEN). No, UO ! 
 
 PERRY. I will read the letter. It begins 
 
 CRAVEN. My lord, I protest 
 
 LADY EPPING {tO CRAVEN). Snatch it.
 
 208 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 PERRY {holding the letter high up so that craven cannot 
 snatch it and raising his voice to be heard). " My 
 dear " 
 
 CRAVEN (protesting). My lord 
 
 perry. " My dear " 
 
 WRAY {raising his voice angrily). Gentlemen, gentle- 
 men ! Perhaps it will be sufficient if / read the letter. 
 PERRY. As your lordship pleases. 
 
 {The letter is handed to wray, who reads it with an 
 expression of surprise and amusement.) 
 WRAY. I think we must hear what the plaintiff has 
 to say about this letter. Let Lady Epping come back 
 into the box. 
 
 (lady epping is reluctant to re-enter the box. lord 
 
 EPPING, craven, and her solicitor urge her. 
 
 She rises slowly and goes towards the box, meeting 
 
 PAUL as he steps out of it so that they almost 
 
 collide. PAUL steps aside and says, " / beg 
 
 your pardon.'' lady epping enters the box.) 
 
 PERRY. Hand the letter to witness. {The letter is 
 
 taken from wray and handed to lady epping.) Did you 
 
 write that letter ? 
 
 lady epping {sweetly). I must read it before I can 
 be sure, mustn't I ? 
 
 {She peruses the letter.) 
 perry. Did you write that letter ? 
 LADY epping. It is Something like my writing. 
 perry {triumphantly). Ah ! 
 LADY EPPING. That's not saying I wrote it. 
 PERRY. You admit the writing resembles yours. 
 LADY EPPING. But there's so much similarity in hand- 
 writing, you see. Modern women are so much alike. 
 We talk alike and dress alike, and all look about thirty, 
 so it's not surprising if we all write alike. 
 
 PERRY. I am not asking you for general statements. 
 I am asking you if you wrote that letter. 
 
 LADY EPPING. I submit it has no bearing on the 
 issues. 
 
 WRAY {sharply). Answer the question. 
 LADY EPPING {floundering). The question ! 
 
 PERRY. Did you write ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. I Write SO many letters. 
 PERRY. Did you ?
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 209 
 
 LADY EPPiNG. I'm trying to think. 
 
 PERRY. Did ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. September the twenty - fifth. Now 
 what did I do on September the twenty-fifth ? Oh, I 
 know — I went to Peckham to open some baths and 
 then — then 
 
 WRAY (shouting). Did you write that letter ? 
 
 LADY EPPING (pretending to read the letter). " Dear 
 Mr. Hughes. Can you lunch here on Tuesday ? Just 
 ourselves. Do come. F. Epping." I can quite believe 
 I wrote that. I write dozens and dozens of letters 
 every day. 
 
 EVELYN (to MISS MORTIMER). Oh, that wasu't the 
 letter she wrote at all. 
 
 LADY EPPING. How Can I possibly remember them 
 all three months after ? Who could ? (She tears the 
 letter into little bits as she says recklessly.) Ask any 
 woman if she can remember. 
 
 (As soon as lady epping begins to tear up the 
 letter, perry flies to the witness-box to try and 
 stop her. General movement. The whole Court 
 rises in great excitement shouting and gesticulat- 
 ing.) 
 
 perry. Stop, stop ! My lord ! 
 
 WRAY. Lady Epping ! Lady Epping ! 
 
 USHER (dancing about in front of the witness-box). Hi ! 
 Hi ! Stop that ! 
 
 LADY EPPING. Go away. (She waves usher and 
 PERRY aside.) Oh, look what I've done ! 
 
 (She scatters the bits of paper with both hands. 
 The people in Court resume their seats.) 
 
 WRAY (solemnly). Are you aware that you have com- 
 mitted two most grave offences ? 
 
 LADY EPPING (alarmed). What ? 
 
 WRAY. Your conduct amounts to perjury and con- 
 tempt of Court. 
 
 LADY EPPING. What ? 
 
 WRAY. You have sworn to tell the truth, the whole 
 truth and nothing but the truth, yet you deliberately 
 make false statements and destroy documentary evi- 
 dence. Never have I met with anything so flagrant. I 
 must commit you to the cells. 
 
 LADY EPPING (uttering a picrcing shriek). Oh ! (Great 
 
 VOL. I p
 
 210 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 
 
 sensation in Court. Much movement and incoherent talk- 
 ing. LADY EPPiNG moauiug when silence is restored). The 
 cells ! {Hysterically to wray.) Oh, my lord — how 
 should I know I'd committed a crime ? I'm very sorry. 
 I'll apologize to the whole bar. 
 
 WRAY {restraining her with a gesture). You really did 
 not know you w ere committing an offence in tearing up 
 that letter ? 
 
 LADY EPPING. No, no— indeed I didn't. I tore it up 
 - — because I always tear up letters as I've read them. I 
 never thought I should be sent to prison for it. 
 
 WRAY {to counsel). I think we had better accept 
 Lady Epping's apology and proceed with the case. 
 
 LADY EPPING {distractedly). Oh, no, no. Let's drop 
 it and get out. {To craven and perry.) You two 
 settle it between you. I'll pay all the costs out of my 
 own pocket. If you can't get the money from my 
 husband, try my sister-in-law — {points to miss vander- 
 hide) Lady Oswald Bruce-Bannerman. I withdraw my 
 case. 
 
 w^RAY. You may withdraw your case if you choose, 
 but to withdraw it now looks rather 
 
 LADY EPPING. My lord — may I be allowed to explain ? 
 
 WRAY. Certainly. 
 
 LADY EPPING. May it please your lordship, gentle- 
 men of the jury — it has nothing to do with the letter. 
 I withdraw my case because I have no case to withdraw. 
 Mr. Craven ought never to have allowed me to bring 
 this action, (craven hangs his papers down on to the 
 bench in front ofhim i7i a great rage.) I saw that during 
 Mr. Perry's very able speech . . . (perry rises and 
 bows) about Adam and Eve and Satan. This is not a 
 case of plagiarism at all. It is a case of coincidence — 
 one of those instances of two clever people both thinking 
 the same thing. I will only add — I'm surprised Mr. 
 Craven couldn't see it. 
 
 (hickory laughs ; craven turns upon him angrily.) 
 
 M'RAY. Before the Court rises, I should like to 
 compliment everybody concerned upon the able way in 
 which this case has been conducted. I agree with Lady 
 Epping it should never have been brought, yet the 
 experience will not have been m vain if it teaches both 
 the plaintiff and the defendant the folly of trying to
 
 LADY EPPING'S LAWSUIT 211 
 
 shine outside their legitimate spheres. Mr. Hughes, the 
 author — posing as a man of fashion : Lady Epping, not 
 content with her countess's coronet, trying to find room 
 on her head for a wreath of laurel leaves. What a sorry 
 spectacle ! As incongruous as if a judge should mis- 
 take himself for a jester. (Loud laughter from every one 
 in Court except wray, who looks indignantly around him. 
 The USHER, seeing they are laughing in the wrong place, 
 at once excitedly quells the laughter. There is immediate 
 silence.) Mr. Hughes, my advice to you is this — Get 
 out of the smart set as quickly as you can and stick to 
 your work and your wife. {To lady epping.) Lady 
 Epping — you have told us it is your habit to tear up 
 your letters. 
 
 LADY EPPING. YcS. 
 
 WRAY. Extend it to your plays. 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 213
 
 CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION 
 AT THE 
 
 NEW THEATRE, LONDON 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 BY 
 
 HUBERT HENRY DAVIES 
 
 Captain Drew, R.N. 
 Mr. White 
 Mr. Hassell 
 Mr. Moxon 
 Mrs. Moxon 
 Miss Mills 
 
 Sir Charles Wyndham 
 Mr. Vane Tempest 
 Mr Eille Norwood 
 Mr. Louis Calvert 
 Miss Marion Terry 
 Miss Mary Moore 
 
 Acts L, IL, and IV. — Mrs. Moxon's Draw-ing-room. 
 One month passes between Acts I. and II. 
 
 Act III. — The Studio in Mr. White's garden. 
 A night passes between Acts III. and IF. 
 
 The action takes place in a rural district of England in summer time. 
 
 214
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 THE FIRST ACT 
 
 SCENE. — MRS. moxon's drawifig-room. It is a pleasant 
 room in a substantial country house. The furniture 
 is good, but not new, and rather early Victorian in 
 style. There is a door on the right-hand side, and an 
 open French window opposite the audience. A fire- 
 place on the right side is filled zvith potted plants, and 
 on the left-hand wall hangs a mirror. An artnchair 
 stands upon either side of fireplace. Nearer the front 
 of the stage, and still to the right, is a round seat with 
 places for three people to sit back to back. Opposite is 
 a round table with a shelf under it on which reposes a 
 stout leather photograph album. On the table are a 
 vase of roses and two or three books, and to right and 
 left of it some chairs. Farther back, beside the arm- 
 chair to the right of the fireplace, there is a large round 
 work-basket containing skeins of red wool. A large 
 framed photograph of Queen Victoria occupies a 
 prominent place on the wall beside the French windows. 
 
 {As the curtain rises there enter captain drew, r.n., and 
 ERNEST WHITE. CAPTAIN DREW is a breczy, high- 
 spirited man about forty-five, rather weather-beaten in 
 appearance and young in manner. He wears civilian 
 dress, ernest white is rather younger. He has a 
 good appearance ; but in manner he is fussy, and 
 apt to be anxious.) 
 
 DREW. You never told me who these people are. Who 
 is it that you've brought me to see ? 
 WHITE. The Moxons. 
 DREW. Any daughters ? 
 
 215
 
 216 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 WHITE. No. Just Mr. and Mrs. Moxon and their 
 two little boys. They're nice, simple people — rather 
 dull, but very kind. 
 
 DREW {disappointed). I told you to take me to see 
 some girls. 
 
 WHITE. Really, Hal — the way you go on about girls 
 is hardly nice. 
 
 DEEW (seriously). If you'd been out of England 
 months and months at a stretch and seen no one but 
 your own shiji's crew and the sort of people one meets 
 in the South American ports, you'd understand what 
 women mean to us when we come home. {Humor- 
 ously.) And it's a great chance for the girls. Even the 
 plain ones pass for pretty — and the beauties — what 
 angels the little devils look ! 
 
 WHITE {looking at door and window uneasily to see if 
 they are overheard). Do be careful. 
 
 DEEW. From your description of the Moxons I shan't 
 need to hold myself in very hard. 
 
 WHITE {diffidently). There's a Miss Mills — a friend of 
 theirs, such a fascinating girl. 
 
 DREW. Then let us leave cards on the Moxons and 
 go and call on Miss Mills. {Makes ready to go.) 
 
 WHITE. But she's staying here. 
 
 DREW {delighted). Miss Mills is ? 
 
 WHITE. Yes. {Smiling.) She's so pretty. 
 
 DREW {smiling). Ah ! 
 
 WHITE. And quite an heiress. 
 
 DREW {jjromptly). She'll do. 
 
 WHITE {looking uneasily at drew). I didn't know you 
 were thinking of getting married. 
 
 DREW. I'm not. 
 
 WHITE {pointedly). Miss Mills, of course, is a lady. 
 
 DREW. Just what I'm looking for ; a woman who 
 can appreciate the finer shades of love-making. {Turn- 
 ing to the window and indicating the view from it.) And 
 in these woods and lanes of yours — what chances ! 
 
 WHITE {trying to be severe and shaking his head). 
 Now, Hal, I can't introduce you here if you are going 
 to begin any of your wickedness. I won't take the 
 responsibility. 
 
 DREW {mocking white good-humouredly by shaking 
 his heod at him). There won't be any responsibihty.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 217 
 
 {Pauses and smiles as he adds.) My indiscretions are 
 always discreet. 
 
 WHITE (hotly). I shall warn Miss Mills. 
 
 DREW (amused). Are you her guardian ? 
 
 WHITE (embarrassed). I can hardly call myself that — 
 yet. 
 
 DREW. Oh, I see. I won't spoil your game, of course. 
 I renounce Miss Mills. It's hard to give her up so soon. 
 But if you want her, I'll — (pauses and says cheerfully) 
 I'll make love to Mrs. Moxon. (white laughs.) Why 
 not? 
 
 white (smiling). Wait till you see her. 
 
 drew (anxiously). Is she such a fright ? 
 
 WHITE. Oh, no. She's a very nice woman, and not 
 at all bad-looking. 
 
 DREW (confidently). Then I see no reason against it. 
 
 WHITE (seriously). She's not the kind of woman that 
 even a sailor would think of making love to. 
 
 DREW. I admit no such kind. 
 
 WHITE. She's so proper. 
 
 DREW. Oh, but I could tell you the most surprising 
 cases. (Glances quickly at door and window, moves nearer 
 to WHITE, and lowers his voice a little.) I once met a 
 missionary on her way to Japan 
 
 WHITE (interrupting). Yes, yes. I know that story. 
 (drew smiles to himself.) But with Mrs. Moxon it's 
 not only that she's so strait-laced. It's her nature. 
 She never thinks about men — in that way. 
 
 DREW (turning to white). How do you know what 
 way she thinks about them ? 
 
 WHITE. You can always tell a woman by the way she 
 walks and talks and looks at you, and by the kind of 
 clothes she wears. Mrs. Moxon's dresses look as if she 
 chose them solely for their durability. 
 
 DREW. And a very good thing to choose them for. 
 
 WHITE. She fastens her hat on with elastic. 
 
 DREW. Much better than those long beastly hatpins. 
 I nearly had my eye put out in Portsmouth. 
 
 WHITE. Anyhow, it's no use trying to make an im- 
 pression on Mrs. Moxon — because you can't. 
 
 DREW (annoyed, takes stage up and down). Don't 
 tell me I can't. It annoys me to be told I can't do 
 things. You think a woman isn't a woman unless she's
 
 218 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 a pretty girl, like that insipid little What's-her-name — 
 the heiress. 
 
 WHITE (indignantly). Oh — you've no right to run down 
 Miss Mills in that way. 
 
 DREW (humorously). You ran down my Mrs. Moxon. 
 WHITE. I didn't. I only told you the kind of woman 
 she is, and even if she wasn't — you are not at all the 
 kind of man she'd approve of. (Sits huffily.) 
 
 DREW (sits on table, before he says). Is it your experi- 
 ence that women invariably fall in love with the men 
 they approve of ? 
 
 WHITE. You seem very sure of a conquest. 
 DREW. You think that's vanity. It's not. It's 
 science. Any man can make any woman fall in love 
 with him, provided she is not in love with some one 
 else. It's only a question of using the right method. 
 Most men have only one method for all women. They 
 go bungling along with a vague idea that women are all 
 alike. Why, you might as well say that the cat tribe 
 contains only the ordinary household cat. You must 
 classify your woman before you go ahead — flirt, prude, 
 sentimentalist, hysteric, and so on. If you do it care- 
 fully — you never need get scratched. 
 
 WHITE (quietly). You know there's a Mr. Moxon. 
 DREW. Oh, yes. What sort of a fellow is Moxon ? 
 (Enter mr. and mrs. moxon. mr. moxon enters 
 first. He is a large man about forty, rather 
 dull and heavy, but not bad-natured. His un- 
 gallant manner towards his wife is not the result 
 of cruelty or dislike, but of indifference, owing to 
 their long uninteresting union. He wears country 
 clothes — a brown or grey suit. His clothes are of 
 good quality, but he evidently takes no care of 
 his uppearance. His suit needs pressing, and he 
 is not trim about the neck. mrs. moxon follows 
 her husband on and closes the door. She is a 
 gentle but apparently uninteresting creature whose 
 mind and emotions have become sluggish. In 
 appearance she is dowdy but not ecceritric. She 
 wears a dull cloth dress, with no pretensions to 
 style, and old-fashioned stays. Her hair is 
 unbecomingly done, but her appearance is not 
 untidy. As they enter drew and white rise.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 219 
 
 WHITE (going towards the moxons, shakes hands with 
 MR. moxon). Ah, Moxon — may I introduce my cousin, 
 Captain Drew. 
 
 MOXON. Oh. (Going towards drew.) Very pleased 
 to make your acquaintance. 
 
 DREW. Thanks, (drew is about to go and shake hands 
 with MRS. MOXON when mr. moxon interposes his own 
 hand.) Oh, how d'ye do ? (Shakes hands with moxon, 
 then with mrs. moxon. Stands between them.) 
 
 MOXON. I understand it's some time since you were 
 in dear old England. 
 
 DREW. I've scarcely been at home at all for years. 
 So as soon as I arrived I went straight off to London on 
 the bust, (white looks at drew and laughs.) I should 
 say I've been spending a few most agreeable days in 
 London, and I drifted down here yesterday. 
 
 MOXON. Yesterday — ah. And what are you going to 
 do with yourself in this dull place ? 
 
 DREW (glancing at white). White and I were just 
 discussing that. 
 
 WHITE (hurriedly). We shall ride and play golf and 
 go for walks. 
 
 DREW. In the day-time. (Glances at mrs. moxon.) 
 But, of course, there are the evenings. 
 
 MRS. moxon. There are several nice games that two 
 can play, (drew smiles at white.) 
 
 WHITE. She means you and me. 
 
 MRS. moxon. There is chess, or draughts, or dominoes, 
 or bezique, or 
 
 moxon (to MRS. moxon). We are all waiting for you 
 to sit down. 
 
 (mrs. moxon immediately crosses in front of the 
 others and seats herself near the table, drew 
 sits on the ottoman, white on the round seat. 
 MOXON stands by chair in the centre of the 
 stage, facing audience.) 
 
 DREW. What jolly country it is about here ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Is it not ? 
 
 DREW. The only thing that spoils it is that great, 
 ugly ironworks, or whatever it is, over there. (Points 
 to window.) 
 
 WHITE. Oh ! 
 
 DREW (turning to white). Eh ?
 
 220 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MoxoN {standing at back of mrs. moxon's chair, with 
 dignity). That is my Bleach Works. 
 
 DREW [not knowing what to say). Oh ! You bleach, 
 do you ? Ah, charming profession. {To white.) 
 Ernest, why don't you bleach or do something useful ? 
 
 WHITE {helplessly). I can't work. It would be no 
 use me trying. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {complacently). I think every one should 
 do some work. 
 
 MOXON {looking at white with disapproval). Certainly. 
 {Enter miss mills. She is a pretty, coquettish 
 young woman, stylishly dressed. She wears 
 a hat.) 
 
 MISS mills. Well, here you all are ! 
 
 WHITE {rising as miss mills enters, goes towards her 
 rather effusively). Oh, Miss Mills. How do you do ? 
 I'm so pleased. 
 
 MISS mills {takes no notice of white, but smiles at 
 DREW, who also rises). Will you introduce me, please ? 
 
 MOXON {to MRS. moxon). Aren't you going to ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh ! 
 
 white {introducing them). Captain Drew, Miss Mills. 
 (miss mills goes quickly towards drew and shakes 
 hands.) 
 
 miss mills. I suppose you thought I was Mrs. Moxon's 
 daughter ? 
 
 DREW {embarrassed). Oh, no. (miss mills looks 
 slightly piqued.) Not that you look too old to be her 
 daughter, (miss mills smiles, mrs. moxon looks 
 towards drew.) Only she looks too young to be your 
 mother, (mrs. moxon looks away, indifferent to the 
 compliment, drew says to miss mills.) Please don't 
 ask me any more like that. 
 
 WHITE {approaches miss mills, smiling). Well, Miss 
 Mills. 
 
 MISS MILLS {distantly to white). Quite well, thank 
 you. {To DREW.) Shall we sit down. Captain Drew ? 
 {She crosses to the round seat, drew follows her. They 
 sit.) 
 
 WHITE. It is so unfortunate. You know, I've only 
 furnished one bedroom at my place at present, the one 
 I use myself — so I've had to do a makeshift for Hal. 
 
 MOXON. I suppose a sailor can curl up anywhere.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 221 
 
 MISS MILLS {who keeps looking admiringly at drew). 
 Just slings up a hammock, I expect. 
 
 DREW. He loves a real bed, one that he can kick 
 about in. 
 
 MISS MILLS {smiling). What a good description. 
 
 WHITE. I've put Hal in the studio at the end of the 
 garden. You know a painter had the house before me, 
 and he built rather a good studio. 
 
 MOXON {to drew), a bit lonely, I should say. 
 
 DREW. I don't mind that, only {smiling) it seems 
 rather a sin not to be carrying on a flirtation. Such an 
 ideal spot for secret meetings. 
 
 (miss mills is the only one who laughs, mrs. 
 MOXON turns from drew with marked dis- 
 approval. MOXON gets his hat from the cabinet.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {to white). How are your rose-trees 
 doing this summer ? 
 
 white. Pretty well. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Our John Hoppers are suffering from 
 green-fly, but the William Allen Richardsons are doing 
 well. 
 
 MOXON. I'm sorry I must leave you, gentlemen, but 
 I'm due at the works. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {to moxon). You did not tell me you were 
 going back to the works to-day. 
 
 MOXON. Well, my dear, I suppose I don't need to 
 come and tell you every time I make a business appoint- 
 ment. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Of course not, dear, if you don't wish to. 
 
 MOXON. I didn't say I didn't wish to. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I didn't mean anything, George— at 
 least, to be strictly truthful, I only meant it is Saturday 
 afternoon. 
 
 MOXON. Yes, well, I've been so busy all week, I have 
 to sign my letters this afternoon. {Nods to white.) 
 Good-day, White. 
 
 WHITE. Good-day. 
 
 MOXON. Good-day, Captain Drew. 
 
 DREW. Good-day, Mr. Moxon. 
 
 MOXON {crosses to the window, but stops). Oh ! {He 
 goes to MRS. MOXON, bcnds down, and kisses her on the 
 cheek. She receives the kiss passively, moxon goes out 
 quickly.)
 
 222 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 DREW {to MISS mills). Is Mr. Moxon going on a 
 journey ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (wondering). No. He'll be home to 
 dinner. {Sees drew's meaning.) Oh, you mean because 
 he kissed her ? 
 
 DREW. Yes. 
 
 miss mills. He always does when he goes to the 
 works ; ever since they were married. 
 
 DREW. What a charming attention ! 
 
 miss mills. I think it is only a habit now. 
 
 {Their attention is attracted by mrs. moxon, who 
 rises abruptly and hurries to the window, as 
 she does so taking a handkerchief from her 
 pocket.) 
 
 DREW. I'm afraid Mrs. Moxon is going to be ill. 
 (mrs. moxon waves her handkerchief from window.) Oh, 
 I thought she was going to be ill. 
 
 miss mills. It's nothing. She always waves her 
 handkerchief when Mr. Moxon turns the corner. 
 
 DREW {to MISS mills). Another habit ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Yes. Isn't it silly to keep it up so many 
 years ? 
 
 DREW. Perhaps neither of them likes to suggest 
 stopping it. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Fd stop it with my husband soon 
 enough. Of course, I haven't one yet. {Confidentially.) 
 I'm not engaged, either. 
 
 DREW {turns quickly to her). Not engaged ; you don't 
 say so. 
 
 WHITE {overhearing her). Oh, I say. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Look at Mr. White. He's so angry 
 with you. 
 
 DREW. Why ? 
 
 MISS MILLS {archly). Why — and you a sailor and ask 
 that. {Crosses to the table.) Aren't these roses pretty ? 
 I arranged them. {Touching the roses, says sweetly.) I 
 whisper all my secrets to the roses. 
 
 DREW. Is that why thc}^ look so red in the face ? 
 
 {They sit on chairs near the table and converse in 
 an animated fashion.) 
 
 MRS. Moxox {taking a floral catalogue from the table, 
 crosses with it to white). Have you seen this new floral 
 catalogue ?
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 223 
 
 WHITE {who watches drew and miss mills jealously 
 all the time he is talking to mrs. moxon). No. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {opening the catalogue and putting it into 
 white's hands). I intend to have some of these liHums 
 in the garden next year. They make such a pretty 
 variety with the aquilegias. 
 
 WHITE. Yes. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I must have some peonies, too. I don't 
 know whether to have Modesty or Rosea Plenissima 
 Superba. 
 
 (white clears his throat to attract drew's attention. 
 MRS. MOXON, busy zvith the catalogue, does not 
 notice.) 
 
 white. I shouki have them both. 
 
 DREW {whose back is towards white, says to miss 
 mills). Eh ? 
 
 miss mills. It's only Mr. White. {Bows and smiles 
 pleasantly to white, then says to drew.) I do wish I 
 could get Martha to smarten up a bit. I'm always at 
 her about her clothes. 
 
 (white goes to MRS. MOXON.) 
 
 drew. Is Martha Mrs. Moxon ? 
 
 MISS MILLS {laughing). Of course. 
 
 drew. And what are you ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. My name is Isolda. 
 
 DREW {pretending to be impressed). Isolda ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. My friends call me Izzy. 
 
 (drew laughs. MISS mills laughs, too. mrs. 
 MOXON replaces the catalogue on the table by 
 the window, then sits by the fireplace. At the 
 same time white approaches drew, touches 
 him on the shoulder, drew turns to him.) 
 white {aside to drew). This is Mrs. Moxon. {Indi- 
 cates MRS. MOXON with his head.) Not this. {Indicates 
 miss mills.) 
 
 DREW. I know, I know — this is Izzy. 
 white. Oh, I say ! {Rejoins mrs. moxon.) 
 MISS mills {delighted). You mustn't call me Izzy. 
 You'll shock Martha. I often shock her. 
 DREW. Do you ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Sometimes I put on one of Mr. Moxon's 
 hats and pretend I'm a man. 
 DREW. How wild !
 
 224 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MISS MILLS. That's me all over ; you don't half know 
 me yet. 
 
 (white comes down and touches drew on the 
 shoulder as before, drew turns to him.) 
 
 DREW. No, I don't think I do. 
 
 WHITE. I thought you wanted to make an impression 
 on Mrs. Moxon. 
 
 DREW {aside to white). It is always a good plan to 
 begin by turning your back. [Turns to miss mills, and 
 talks to her across table.) 
 
 WHITE {watching them). It's too bad ! {Turns to mrs. 
 MOXON and says abruptly.) We must go. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {comes down to white, apparently relieved 
 that they should leave). Must you ? Good-bye. {Shakes 
 hands with white.) 
 
 white {turning to drew, calls). Hal ! (drew and miss 
 mills are conversing in undertone, and take no notice. 
 Calls again). Hal ! 
 
 drew {turning to white). Eh ? 
 
 white. It's time we went. 
 
 (drew remains seated, miss mills springs up.) 
 
 MISS mills {rises). Oh ! Well, I'm going to the 
 Fishers', so I'll walk with you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {innocently). You went to the Fishers' 
 this morning. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Yes, and left my umbrella. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. No, dear ; it's in the hall. 
 
 (miss mills signs to mrs. moxon to say no more.) 
 
 MISS mills {aside to mrs. moxon). I've made another 
 conquest. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, Izzy dear ! {Glances at drew.) I 
 don't think he is quite nice. 
 
 (miss mills laughs airily and crosses to the door.) 
 
 MISS mills {at door, calling). Captain Drew ! 
 
 DREW {carelessly, as he turns over a book at table). You 
 two shove off. I'm going to stay and talk to Mrs. 
 Moxon. 
 
 (MRS. MOXON glances uneasily at drew, who is 
 not looking at her, then at miss mills.) 
 
 MISS mills {momentarily huffy). Oh. {S7niles as she 
 crosses to mrs. moxon a?id says aside to her.) I expect 
 he wants to ask you all about me. Come along, Mr. 
 White, I suppose I must put up with you.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 225 
 
 WHITE. Oh, I say. 
 
 MISS MILLS. And don't choose a path where I am 
 always having to ehmb stiles. 
 
 (miss mills goes out, followed by white, mrs. 
 MOXON sits rigidly on round seat looking very 
 uneasy. She speaks when drew lays down 
 the hook and looks towards her.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I don't know that there is much to tell. 
 Her mother was at school with my aunt, so that would 
 make her about twenty-six. She's a nice girl, or rather 
 young woman. She is not nearly so nonsensical as she 
 seems. 
 
 DREW {puzzled). Who ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Miss Mills. 
 
 DREW. Mills, Mills, Mills — oh, Izzy ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON [weakly). I thought perhaps you admired 
 her. 
 
 DREW {crosses to mrs. moxon). I prefer— married 
 women. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {embarrassed). Oh ! 
 
 DREW. There's more to talk about. I mean marriage 
 always improves women. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {softening). I think perhaps you are right. 
 
 DREW. It's so unfortunate that it never improves men. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {indulgently). It should do. 
 
 DREW. Yes, it should, but it doesn't ! The men who 
 marry unhappily become ill - natured, and those who 
 marry happily are so insufferably self - satisfied. For 
 ideal companionship give me a married woman and a 
 bachelor. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {seriously). Oh, how shocking. {Looks 
 away from him uneasily.) 
 
 DREW {glances at her and says to himself). Too soon. 
 {Cheerfully to mrs. moxon.) Now, Mrs. Moxon, tell me 
 all about your little boys. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {looks pUascd as she turns to him). Are 
 you fond of children ? 
 
 DREW. I adore them. When Ernest White asked me 
 what I'd like to do this afternoon I said, " Take me to 
 see those dear little boys." 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Had he told you about them ? 
 
 DREW. Oh, yes — all their pranks and their little 
 mischievous ways. 
 
 VOL. I Q
 
 226 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MRS. MOXON {reprovingly). They are very good boys. 
 
 DREW. Just what Ernest said, " Such good boys." 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I'm sorry they are not here. 
 
 DREW. Don't send for them. (mrs. moxon looks 
 surprised.) I mean, why disturb them ? They'll be 
 having tea in the nursery or playing rounders in the 
 garden. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, no. 
 
 DREW. Well, anyway, it's always a pity to bring 
 children into the drawing-room. It makes them so 
 self-conscious, don't you think ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. They are away at school. 
 
 DREW {feigning disa^jpointment). Shan't I see them ? 
 Oh, that is too bad ! {Confidentially.) And how are 
 they getting on at school ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Sydney is top of his class in geography, 
 and we hope Ronald will take the prize for good conduct. 
 
 DREW. Oh, what wonderful boys ! And which is the 
 most like you ? Sydney or Ronald ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I'll show you their portraits, then you 
 can judge for yourself. {Crosses to the table and takes the 
 album from under it.) 
 
 DREW {as she does so). Oh, yes. Do let me see their 
 pictures. {As she places the album on the table.) What 
 a nice fat album. {He sits at the table.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {standing beside him and showing him 
 photographs in the album.) These were taken last term. 
 This is Sydney. 
 
 DREW {pointing to another photograph). And here's 
 Donald. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {correcting him). Ronald. 
 
 DREW. Ronald, to be sure. What very fine boys for 
 their ages. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. We consider them small for eight and 
 ten. 
 
 DREW. Eight and ten ! But you haven't been 
 married ten years ! I mean — you must have been 
 married very young. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {simply). I was twenty-five. 
 
 DREW. Now I do like to hear you so frank about 
 your age. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. It's nothing to be ashamed of. 
 
 DREW, No, but so many women were married at six 

 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 227 
 
 teen. (Points to another photograph.) There's Graham 
 on your lap. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. No, that's Sydney with the nurse. 
 
 DREW {expressing surprise and looking very closely at 
 the photograph). The nurse ? What a very pretty girl, 
 such a refined-looking young woman. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Yes, Eliza was a superior girl. We 
 were sorry to part with her. 
 
 DREW. So should I have been. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. But her mother died of— pleurisy, I 
 think it was 
 
 DREW. Yes, very nice. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. And so she had to go and keep house 
 for her father — so 
 
 DREW (closes the album and returns it to mrs. moxon 
 to stop her telling him any more about Eliza.) Thank you. 
 (They both rise.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. You havc not said which of the boys 
 you consider most like me. 
 
 DREW (standing opposite and opening the album again). 
 Oh, no, let me see. (Looking at her critically.) I should 
 say Sydney is most like you about the eyes, but Tommy's 
 got your nose. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (taking the album, says quietly). Their 
 names are Sydney and Ronald. 
 
 DREW (sentimentally, while they both hold the album). 
 Sydney and Ronald, I never forget. You must feel 
 lonely without them. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (wistfully). A little. 
 
 DREW. You need a companion. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I should dearly like to have one. (He 
 leans a little towards her, and she looks at him.) But Mr. 
 Moxon says he can't afford her salary. (She replaces the 
 album under the table, drew laughs and turns it into a 
 cough. MRS. MOXON looks at him innocently and kindly.) 
 You have a cough ? 
 
 DREW (coughing and hitting his chest). It's one of 
 those dreadful hyena coughs — sounds like laughing. I 
 often have it. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. You must take care of yourself. 
 
 DREW (sentimentally). I need some one to take care 
 of me. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (in a matter-of-fact manner). We have a
 
 228 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 very good practitioner in the village — Mr. Bush, 1, 
 Victoria Polygon. 
 
 DREW {cheerfully crossing the room). Now, Mrs. 
 Moxon, I want you to make yourself quite at home. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {in mild surprise). I am at home. 
 
 DREW. Of course. I mean just go on as if I wasn't 
 here. Where's your work-basket ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {unconsciously pleased to he ordered about). 
 Must I get it ? 
 
 DREW {seeing the work-basket). Ah, there it is. {He 
 goes and gets it as he speaks.) Woolwork, of course ; I 
 knew you'd do woolwork. {Seeing her bring a chair, he 
 goes to her assistance.) Oh, is this for me ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {placing the chair to the left of the round 
 seat). No, I was going to place my skein over the back 
 of it. {leaking a skein of red wool from basket and pre- 
 paring to place it over back of chair.) So. 
 
 DREW {taking skein from her). No, no. I'll hold ; you 
 —you wind. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {hesitating). Oh, but — — 
 
 DREW {pointing to the round seat). You sit — there — 
 in the bows — I'll take the stern. {Sits on the chair 
 opposite to her.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {reluctantly sitting). Oh, very well. 
 
 DREW {cheerfully). Not at all. Very kind of you to 
 ask me to help you. {Places skein over his hands and 
 holds them towards her.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. But I — thank you. {Undoes the end of 
 the skein and begins to wind.) Do you mind not holding 
 your hands quite so stiff, please ? 
 
 DREW. Will you arrange them the way you'd like 
 them ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. More so. {Poises her hands in the posi- 
 tion she wants his.) 
 
 DREW. Oh, yes. I remember. It's all coming back to 
 me now. More of a roll. {Swings his hands up and down i 
 as one does in winding wool, but exaggerates the action.) 
 
 (MRS. MOXON laughs and slaps his hand. She is 
 immediately overcome with confusion.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean 
 to take such a liberty. I am ashamed. 
 
 DREW {confidentially). Never mind. I won't tell. 
 (MRS. MOXON glances shyly at him and begins to wind. 

 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 229 
 
 After a moment's pause while they wind he says.) Any 
 one would take us for two old friends. 
 
 MRS. MoxoN (stops winding and says anxiously). Per- 
 haps we oughtn't to. 
 
 DREW. It's too late to stop now. We're both so 
 tangled up in this wool. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (reflecting). Yes. (After a moment' s pause 
 she says innocently). And the others are out. (Con- 
 tinues winding wool quite satisfied. He smiles and watches 
 her before he says.) 
 
 DREW. You know, Mrs. Moxon, I don't think you 
 are half appreciated here. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (pleasantly). How so ? 
 
 DREW. You ought to be bounding along on the ocean 
 instead of lying up in dry dock. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (puzzled). What ? 
 
 DREW. How shall I put it ? You could easily out- 
 shine Miss Mills. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (faintly smiling). Poor Izzy ! She wouldn't 
 like that. (Gravely.) I think a woman should be 
 content with her home. (Winds wool rigidly.) 
 
 DREW. Home thinks more of us if we shine outside. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (stops winding and says pensively). I 
 wonder. 
 
 DREW. Make sure. (She looks askance at him). Try it. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. How ? 
 
 DREW. Let some one — me, for instance — pretend, only 
 pretend, a great admiration for you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (assenting). Yes. 
 
 (He moves a little nearer to her.) 
 
 DREW. And you must pretend — only pretend — an 
 extraordinary interest in me. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, no. I'm sure I could never carry 
 it off, besides it would be very wrong. 
 
 DREW (meaningly). Then don't let us pretend. (She 
 looks askance at him.) My admiration shall be real. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (a little distressed, interrupts him). I can't 
 help feeling that this is all very worldly and frivolous 
 i talk. It rather frightens me. 
 
 DREW (kindly). Then let us go on winding wool. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (hesitates a mo^nent, then smiles gratefully 
 at him). Thank you. (Continues ivinding.) I hope you 
 won't think me foolish.
 
 230 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 DREW (reassuringly). No, dear lady. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. It is only that what you were saying in 
 fun reminds me of an incident I have been trying for 
 years to forget. 
 
 DREW. I suppose we all have some past incidents we 
 should like to forget. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {stops winding and says quickly). I was 
 not to blame. 
 
 DREW. It was his fault. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Entirely. I had no idea he meant any- 
 thing, until he — he began to {Stops and smiles 
 
 in an embarrassed manner.) 
 
 DREW. Did he really ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I had to beg him to desist. Oh, I was 
 very much put out. Of course, it happened years ago, 
 but whenever I see him I can't help feeling that he still 
 bears me ill-will. {Meets drew's eyes, and becomes dis- 
 coticerted.) But I've no business to be telling you all 
 this. {Winds the wool.) 
 
 drew. Have you ever told any one before ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Never. You see, I couldn't tell my 
 husband. He would think it was my fault. {Looking 
 away from him.) I can't think how I came to tell you. 
 
 drew {smiling and looking at her). I think it was very 
 friendly of you to tell me one of your secrets. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {embarrassed). I — I think we've wound 
 enough wool for to-day. 
 
 drew. So do I. Let's get rid of this gear and have 
 a nice talk. {Takes the ball of wool from her and rolls it 
 up with the skein, and tosses it all to the ground.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {forgetting everything but the fate of her 
 wool, springs up arid cries). Oh, my wool ! My wool ! 
 {Hastens to recover it.) 
 
 DREW. I'm awfully sorry — really — do let me help you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {as she crosses in front of him to the table 
 with the tangled skein in her hands). You'll only make it 
 worse. {She spreads the skein on the table and says re- 
 proachfully.) You have made a mess of it. {She undoes 
 the tangle during the following dialogue.) 
 
 DREW. I can see I shall need a lot more lessons in 
 wool-winding. When may I come and have the next ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I'm afraid I haven't often any time to 
 waste like this.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 231 
 
 DREW. What else is there to do in the country ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, a great deal. I have my house- 
 keeping and my rose-garden, and the hens. 
 
 DREW. I'm awfully keen on all kinds of garden 
 produce. We might potter round together. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. But generally I have calls to pay, and 
 every Monday afternoon there is the Dorcas Meeting, 
 and once a fortnight we have our literary society. 
 Several of us ladies meet at each other's houses and 
 read a play by Shakespeare. 
 
 (drew turns away, smiling to himself.) 
 
 DREW {to himself). Poor things ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON. We took " King Lear " last time. 
 {Looks up at him.) So you see my time is very fully 
 occupied. 
 
 DREW. That is the tragedy of the naval officer. 
 Everybody's life is full when he comes home. I hoped 
 you would let me come and talk to you sometimes. It 
 would do me so much good. But, of course, you are 
 too busy with Dorcas and " King Lear." 
 
 (MRS. MOXON looks Sympathetically at him during 
 this speech. When he has finished speaking she 
 approaches him slowly. He does not look at 
 her, hut smiles as she comes near.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {simply). I'm not busy quite all the time. 
 {Enter mr. moxon taking off his gloves.) 
 
 MOXON. I whistled. {Puts his hat on the cabinet.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {going towards moxon, appears deeply 
 concerned). Oh, George, I am sorry. 
 
 DREW {puzzled). Whistled ! 
 
 MRS. moxon {to drew). He always whistles when he 
 comes from the works (drew smiles) ever since we were 
 married, and this is the first time I have not heard him. 
 
 MOXON. I've just seen Hassell. He's coming here 
 directly. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {turns quickly to her husband, expressing 
 surprise and disapproval as she says). Oh ! {Taking a 
 chair to the table.) 
 
 MOXON. He asked if Miss Mills would be at home. 
 Of course, I don't know — he didn't tell me — but I make 
 a bet that he wants to propose to her. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {with emphasis — showing concern). Chester 
 Hassell wants to propose to Izzy !
 
 232 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 DREW {turns to mr. and mrs. moxon). Did you say 
 Chester Hassell ? 
 
 MOXON. Yes — do you know him ? 
 
 DREW {pointedly). I did know him. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {watching drew). / don't Hke him either. 
 
 MOXON. Well, my dear, he's coming to propose to 
 Miss Mills — not you. {Looking out at the window.) Oh, 
 there she is, coming across the lawn with Ernest White. 
 I'd better warn her. {Crosses to window and beckons.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {glances at moxon's back before she ap- 
 proaches drew and says aside to him, anxiously). It must 
 not be allowed. He's a dreadful man. {Dropping her 
 voice.) He is that man I was telling you about. 
 
 drew {gravely). By Jove ! Was that Hassell ? Does 
 Miss Mills care for him ? 
 
 MRS. moxon. I don't know. 
 
 DREW. Has she encouraged him ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Izzy cucouragcs everybody. 
 
 (moxon leaves the window and returns to the others.) 
 
 DREW {to himself). Poor old Ernest ! {To mrs. 
 MOXON.) Anyhow, we must stop her marr^dng Hassell. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Indeed, yes. Do help me. 
 
 (mrs. MOXON moves away from drew and takes 
 the basket containing the wool up to the table 
 as MISS MILLS enters through the window.) 
 
 MISS MILLS. Do you want me ? 
 
 MOXON {winking at others). Watch her blush. {To 
 MISS MILLS.) I've got a piece of news for you, young 
 lady. Chester Hassell is coming here this afternoon — 
 to see you. 
 
 MISS MILLS {smiling as she crosses to the table and sits). 
 I know what for. Whenever I go to the Fishers' he always 
 turns up. It's quite a joke between Lucy Fisher and me. 
 
 DREW {to moxon). Do you know this man — Hassell — 
 very well ? 
 
 MOXON. I can't say we are intimate, but we are 
 neighbourly. He's quite a nice fellow. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I don't agree with you. 
 
 MOXON {impatiently). You are so hard to please. 
 
 DREW. Has Hassell lived here long ? 
 
 MOXON. Oh, yes, he was here before we came. His 
 mother had a little house on the other side of the village. 
 He lived there with her till she died.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 233 
 
 MISS MILLS. He went into lodgings after the sale. 
 
 DREW. What does he do ? 
 
 MOXON. Lives on what his mother left him. I don't 
 suppose it was much. He is the treasurer of our little 
 club here. 
 
 DREW. Oh, yes. And don't you find that your little 
 club is generally in debt ? 
 
 MOXON {innocently). Do you know — that's a strange 
 thing. We are always in debt. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Mr. Moxon doesn't know what you mean, 
 but / do. 
 
 MOXON. I know nothing against Hassell, and I prefer 
 to take a charitable view of people. 
 
 MISS MILLS {thoughtfully). He's rather handsome. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {earnestly). Oh. He's not a nice man. 
 
 MOXON {coming down on mrs. moxon, turning im- 
 patiently to her). What do you know against him ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {turns to him). He diinks. 
 
 MOXON. How do you know ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. The Fishers' cook told our cook. 
 
 MOXON. I'm surprised you gossip with the cook. 
 
 MISS MILLS. One must treat the servants as equals 
 nowadays — to keep them in their places. 
 
 DREW. I know Hassell used to be foxed a good deal 
 of the time when he was in the service. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh, yes — I remember now. We heard 
 he was in the Navy. 
 
 DREW {deliberately). He was. 
 
 MOXON. Perhaps you know more about him than we 
 do. 
 
 DREW. Possibly. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I can see he did something. Do tell us 
 what it was. 
 
 DREW. I'd rather not. {Hesitatingly.) Unless you 
 seriously think of 
 
 MISS MILLS {airily). Oh, you needn't be afraid that I 
 shall marry the creature. 
 
 DREW. Then there's no need for me to tell you any- 
 thing. I only thought — if you cared for him — it might 
 be my duty to warn you, especially as Ernest told me 
 you are an heiress. 
 
 MISS MILLS {smiling). Yes. 
 
 MOXON. She's only got six thousand pounds.
 
 234 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MISS MILLS {annoyed). That's an heiress. 
 
 MRS. MOXON I don't thmk I should call that an heiress, 
 dear ; I shouldn't call anything less than ten thousand 
 pounds an iieiress. 
 
 DREW. Anyway, Miss Mills says she is not going to 
 accept him — so that settles it. We needn't discuss him. 
 {Goes up for his hat.) I'm sure I don't want to do him 
 any harm, and I certainly don't want to meet him — so 
 I'll go and find Ernest in the garden. {Goes to the 
 window calling.) Ernest ! Ernest ! {He goes in search 
 
 0/ WHITE.) 
 
 MISS MILLS {smiling). It is quite evident that Captain 
 Drew doesn't wish me to marry Mr. Hassell. 
 
 MOXON. That's probably at the bottom of it all. 
 Some old rivalry, no doubt. And if White told him you 
 are an heiress ! Who knows ? He may have designs on 
 you himself. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I don't think that is charitable. 
 
 MISS MILLS. It's possible. 
 
 MOXON {to MISS mills). Certainly it is. {To mrs. 
 moxon). It is you who are not charitable. I don't like 
 the way you attack Hassell, for no reason at all. It 
 is likely to do him an injury, and if it was traced back it 
 might be very uncomfortable for us. I shall certainly 
 go out of my way to be agreeable to Hassell the next 
 time I meet him. I shall make a point of showing him 
 that /, the head of the house, am quite willing to be 
 friendly. Yes, I shall. 
 
 {He goes out.) 
 
 miss mills. He can be exasperating. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {irritated). Oh, yes. He is— {pauses, 
 says quietly) — he is my husband. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I should like to know what Mr. Hassell 
 did, shouldn't you, Martha ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. No, dear, I think Captain Drew is right. 
 
 MISS MILLS {a little surprised). You said he wasn't 
 quite nice just now. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I find I misjudged him. Whatever this 
 scandal is, it does not affect us. You need not even 
 see Mr. Hassell when he calls. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I think I'd better see him. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. It is not necessary, and it would only 
 embarrass you both. 
 
 I
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 235 
 
 MISS MILLS. I think I'd better see him. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. But you don't intend to accept him ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. No. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Then why see him ? (miss mills does 
 not reply.) It can't be that you wish him to propose in 
 order that you may refuse him ! 
 
 miss mills {looks extremely disconcerted, then says 
 indignantly). No, I don't know how you can suggest 
 such a thing, Martha. 
 
 {Enter maidservant.) 
 maid. Mr. Chester Hassell to see Miss Mills. 
 MISS mills. I will see Mr. Hassell. 
 
 (maid goes Old.) 
 MRS. MOXON {reproachfully). Izzy ! 
 miss mills. You are not going to stay in the room, 
 are you ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. You must do as you wish. 
 
 (MRS. MOXON withdraws through the window, miss 
 MILLS rises and prinks herself a little before the 
 glass, comes down to table, takes a rose with a 
 long stem from the vase, sits in a chair, arranges 
 her dress effectively, and toys with the rose. 
 Enter maidservant.) 
 MAID. Mr. Chester Hassell. 
 
 {Enter Chester hassell. He is a dissipated, 
 but fitie-looking man, about thirty-five, well 
 dressed, maid goes out.) 
 hassell {going to shake hands with miss mills, who 
 remains seated). This is fortunate — ^to find you alone. 
 miss mills {smiling). Oh, thank you. 
 HASSELL {crossing to the other side of the table). May 
 I sit here ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Do. 
 
 HASSELL. I daresay you can guess what I have come 
 to ask you. 
 
 MISS MILLS. No. {Smells her rose.) 
 HASSELL {sits oppositc MISS MILLS bcforc he says). I am 
 going abroad. 
 
 MISS MILLS {disappointed). Oh ! have you only come 
 to say good-bye ? 
 
 HASSELL. I hope not. (miss mills drops her eyes.) 
 I find it necessary to go abroad. 
 
 miss mills {glancing up suspiciously). Necessary ?
 
 236 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 HASSELL (quickly). For my health. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I see. 
 
 iiASSELL. We have met fairly often lately. 
 
 MISS MILLS {sentimentally). Yes. 
 
 HASSELL. On the several occasions that I have met 
 you at Mrs. Fisher's you have been more than kind. I 
 have been led to hope 
 
 MISS MILLS {rises, affecting maidenly confusion). Oh, 
 Mr. Hassell ! 
 
 HASSELL {rising). I should have spoken sooner, but 
 for one thing. I heard you were rich. I do not know 
 whether you have the control of your fortune or not. 
 {He pauses a moment, miss mills tears the petals from 
 her rose and scatters them on the floor.) I say I do not 
 know. 
 
 MISS mills. Pa left it to me to do as I like with. 
 {Suspiciously.) But why ? Would it have made any 
 difference ? 
 
 HASSELL. Not the least. Rich or poor, I love you 
 madly. {He comes towards her. She puis out her hand 
 to restrain him.) 
 
 miss MILLS {sentimentally). I cannot love you. 
 
 HASSELL {disconcerted). What ! But you were so en- 
 couraging. 
 
 miss mills. I didn't wish to seem unkind. 
 
 HASSELL {sneeringly). That was very considerate of 
 you, but the alternative was not to flirt as outrageously 
 as you have done. 
 
 MISS MILLS {dropping the sentimental pose and becoming 
 indignant). Oh ! That's very rude ! 
 
 HASSELL {comes to her). You know, you can't lead a 
 man on till he makes an ass of himself, and then walk 
 away, saying you don't love him, without giving a 
 reason. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Yes, I can if I want to. 
 
 HASSELL. You havc often gone out of your way to 
 meet me. 
 
 MISS MILLS {indignantly). Oh ! 
 
 HASSELL. The first time I met you at the Fishers', 
 you hung about till every one had gone, and asked me 
 to see you home. And as you left me at the gate you 
 told me when you'd be at the Fishers' again. 
 
 MISS MILLS {pointing to the door). Leave the room !
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 237 
 
 HASSELL. It's not losing you I mind so much. It's 
 the waste of time. 
 
 MISS MILLS (indignantly). Oh ! I beHeve all the things 
 I've heard about you now. 
 
 HASSELL. What things ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Never mind. 
 
 HASSELL (going towards her). Who has told you any- 
 thing against me ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. People. 
 
 HASSELL (seizing her wrist). What people ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Take your hand away. 
 
 HASSELL. Not until you tell me what people. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Mrs. Moxon. 
 
 HASSELL (releases her, and says scornfully). That saint ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. It's very ill-bred of you to call her names 
 while you are in her drawing-room. (As hassell goes 
 to the door.) She is not the only one either. 
 
 HASSELL (turning quickly to her from the doorway). 
 Who else ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Captain Drew. 
 
 HASSELL (alarmed). Drew ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Of the Royal Navy. 
 
 HASSELL (recovering himself). All right. Let me ever 
 catch Captain Drew in a peccadillo, or Mrs. Moxon 
 either. It will be the worse for them. 
 
 (He hurries off.) 
 
 MISS MILLS (goes quicJdy to the door, nearly crying). 
 He's no gentleman. 
 
 (Enter mrs. moxon through the window.) 
 
 MRS. moxon. How loudly you were talking. 
 
 MISS MILLS. He's been so rude. 
 
 MRS. moxon. What did he say ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Don't ask me. I'm throbbing all over. 
 
 MRS. moxon (pointing to rose stem which miss mills 
 still holds). What are you doing with that rose stalk ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Nothing. (Throws rose stem on floor and 
 stamps on it, then crosses to the door. Speaks at door.) 
 I'm going upstairs to have a good cry. (Goes out, comes 
 back again, and, before finally withdrawing, adds.) 
 Martha — he did propose. 
 
 (MRS. MOXON picks up rosc stem, turns and sees the 
 rose petals miss mills has dropped. She stoops 
 down and gathers them up. Enter captain
 
 ■4'\ 
 
 238 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 DREW through the window. Drops his hat on 
 a chair.) 
 DREW. Housekeeping ? 
 
 MRS MOXON {serious and worried). Yes. I do so dis- 
 like messes. {Throws rose leaves in wastepaper-basket 
 beside the fire, drew goes towards her.) 
 
 DREW. I must go now. {Holding out his hand says 
 tenderly.) Good-bye. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Good-bye. {She allows him to retain 
 her hand as she says.) If it really does you any good 
 to talk to me, do come again. 
 
 DREW. Thanks, dear lady, I will. 
 
 {Enter ernest white through the window, drew's 
 
 back is towards the window, so he does not see 
 
 white. MRS. MOXON sccs him, however, and 
 
 withdraws her hand.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {embarrassed). I will tell my husband 
 
 you are leaving. {Goes out quickly.) 
 
 WHITE {watches her off, then turns to drew). I say 
 {going towards drew) she's not going to let you make 
 love to her, is she ? 
 
 DREW. You never know, but one thing is certain. 
 WHITE. What ? 
 
 DREW. I'm falling in love with her. 
 WHITE. What ! 
 
 DREW. She's so quaint and funny and touching. Oh, 
 she's charming ! 
 
 WHITE {anxiously). But what will be the end of it ? 
 DREW. Never mind the end. This is only the be- 
 ginning. Never look ahead, man — never look ahead. 
 
 {They go out.) 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE SECOND ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The same as Act I. It is a month later, a 
 surnmer evening after dinner. The lamps are lighted. 
 There is a howl of flowers on the table. 
 
 [Enter mrs. moxon, followed by miss mills. They both 
 wear dinner dress. There is a great change in mrs. 
 moxon' s appearance. She is charmingly dressed, and 
 wears her hair becomingly. She wears some red roses 
 in her dress.) 
 
 MISS mills [as she closes the door). I'm so glad to see 
 you have taken my advice about dressing better. (Sits 
 on the ottoman.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON (a little anxiously, turning to miss mills). 
 I hope you don't think I am trying to look too young. 
 
 miss mills. Oh, no ! Married women dress just like 
 girls now. I can't think why, because we, of course, 
 dress to please everybody, while you, I suppose, dress 
 only to please your husband. 
 
 (mrs. moxon looks at miss mills, and smells the 
 flowers in the vase before she speaks.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. What a delicious perfume these flowers 
 have ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. How amusing Captain Drew was at 
 dinner ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON (smiling). He is always so merry. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I'm surprised he gets on so slowly with 
 women, (mrs. moxon looks towards miss mills.) He 
 has been coming to the house nearly every day for a 
 month, and I don't feel as if I knew him any better 
 than I did at first, (mrs. moxon looks away.) He is 
 always so respectful. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. We should not care to be so friendly 
 with him if he were not. 
 
 239
 
 240 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MISS MILLS. It amuses me so the way he always 
 pretends that he comes to see you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. It is quite appropriate that he should 
 ask for me when he calls. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh, quite, and I think he likes you ; 
 but we all know why he comes so often — don't we, 
 dear ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {a little anxiously). Did he ever tell you 
 he comes to see you ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh, no, he never told me, but a woman 
 always knows. {Men's voices heard outside, miss mills 
 smiles.) Here they are. {Rises, goes to the window.) 
 
 {Enter captain drew, ernest white, and mr. 
 MOXON. They all zvear dinner clothes, drew 
 goes straight to mrs. moxon, and white joins 
 miss mills.) 
 
 drew {aside to mrs. moxon). How well that gown 
 becomes you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {pleased and nervous). I'm so glad you 
 like it. {Crosses in front o/drew to mr. moxon, drawing 
 a letter from her pocket.) I had a letter from Ronald 
 before dinner, (drew moves away.) 
 
 MOXON. Oh, well, I suppose there's no need to read 
 it just now. I'm going outside to smoke. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Shall I come out and read it to you ? 
 
 MOXON. Give a fellow time to digest his dinner. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Yes, George, there's no hurry. I only 
 thought you might like news of the boys. 
 
 MOXON. By and by ; I suppose they are all right ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, yes, they are quite well. {Reads the 
 letter to herself, smiling affectionately as she sits on the 
 ottoman seat.) 
 
 MOXON {addressing drew and white). What do you 
 say to a smoke on the terrace ? 
 
 white. Thank you. A cigarette in the moonlight. 
 
 Miss Mills 
 
 {Goes out with mr. moxon through the window.) 
 
 MISS mills. Yes, I'll come, too. Captain Drew, we 
 are all going out to smoke. 
 
 drew. Are we ? (miss mills follows the others out 
 through the windozv. drew watches mrs. moxon as she 
 reads letter.) And what has Ronald got to say ? 
 
 MRS. moxon. Would you like to read it ? 
 
 J
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 241 
 
 DREW {smiling kindly). No, I should like to hear you 
 read it. 
 
 MRS. MoxoN (reading). " My dear Mamma, — I hope 
 you are quite well. I am quite well. Sydney is quite 
 well. We played cricket yesterday. I made two runs 
 and Sydney made six runs. Palmer made a duck. I 
 was very glad, 'cos he hit me one day once, but I did not 
 cry. Love to papa. Your loving little son, Ronald." 
 
 DREW {smiling). Funny little chap ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON {showing letter to drew). Doesn't he 
 write well for eight ? 
 
 DREW {looking at letter as he sits beside her). Splendid ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON. It's too bad of me to make you listen 
 to the boys' letters. 
 
 DREW {cheerfully and kindly). I always want to hear 
 how Sydney and Ronald are getting on. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {smiles gratefully). That is so kind of you. 
 
 DREW. Lucky little lads to have such a mother. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {wistfully). They will soon be able to do 
 without me. The first break comes when they go to 
 school. Before that I used to do everything for them. 
 (Smiling.) Tuck them up in bed, make them get uj) 
 in the morning, teach them their letters, and play " I 
 spy " in the garden. (Sighing.) But already they can 
 do so many things without me. 
 
 DREW (sympathetically). They soon learn to fly by 
 themselves, don't they ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Boys do. One keeps girls longer. 
 
 DREW. You'd have liked a little girl ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON (sadly). I had a little girl — once. She 
 died. (Smiles at him through her tears.) There — there. 
 We must make up our minds to bear the things we 
 can't help, and the boys will soon be home for their 
 midsummer holidays. 
 
 DREW (with a touch of regret). When the boys come 
 home I expect you won't have much time for me. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (kindly). I think I shall still be able to 
 squeeze out a little time for you. 
 
 DREW (seriously). You won't quite forget me when I 
 go back to sea ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON (simply). I shall never forget you. (A 
 little anxiously.) But you are not going away yet ? 
 
 DREW. I've had no orders. (Rises.) Don't let us 
 
 VOL. I R
 
 242 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 think about that. I'm so happy here, I want to forget 
 I ever have to go away. What shall we do to-morrow ? 
 
 MRS. MoxoN. In the morning we must stake up the 
 liUes and take cuttings from the picotees — that is, if 
 you can spare the time. 
 
 DREW {comes to her). I wish that I had something 
 really important to do to-morrow morning. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {smiling). So that you would have an 
 excuse ? 
 
 DREW. No, so that I could give it ujd to come and 
 garden with you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {smiling). Oh ! 
 
 DREW. W^hat shall we do in the afternoon ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. To-morrow is my day at home. 
 
 DREW {disappointed). Oh ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Perhaps no one will come. 
 
 DREW. I don't suppose any one will. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Sometimes I have as many as six ladies 
 in my drawing-room at one time. 
 
 DREW. Let them amuse each other, and come for a 
 walk in the woods ^^dth me. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {smiling doubtfully). Oh, I don't know. 
 
 DREW. You will ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {gravely). Unless my husband requires 
 me. 
 
 DREW {slightly embarrassed). Yes, of course. {Pauses 
 a moment before he says.) In that case we must go the 
 next day. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {cheerfully). Very well. {Looks at him, 
 he is smiling.) Why do you smile ? 
 
 DREW. I don't know. I w^as thinking — how wrong 
 our first impressions often are. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Yes. Do you know, I didn't approve 
 of you at first. 
 
 DREW. You mean you do now ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {simply). I think you know whether I 
 do or not. 
 
 DREW {smiling thoughtfully). That first day. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. That day we wound the wool. 
 
 DREW. And you said I might come and see you 
 sometimes, if it would do me any good. {Sits on otto- 
 man.) I can't tell you what good it has done me to 
 know you.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 243 
 
 MRS. MOXON {in a quiet ecstasy). I'm so glad, for you 
 have done so much for me. You'll never know how 
 much. 
 
 DREW {leans towards her and takes her hand). There is 
 nothing I would not do for you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {looks gratefully at him, then becomes 
 timid, rises, withdrawing her hand). You had better join 
 the others now. 
 
 DREW. Are you coming ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Presently. I am going upstairs for my 
 cloud. {Turns to door.) 
 
 DREW. Don't leave me yet. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {turns to him and asks innocently). Why ? 
 
 DREW {embarrassed). I mean — please give me a rose. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {smiling). Willingly. 
 
 {Takes a rose from her dress and gives it to him. 
 He encloses her hand and the rose in both his 
 hands and looks at her intently. She looks at 
 him, first wondering, then timid, zvithdraws her 
 hand, leaving the rose in his, then turns to door.) 
 
 DREW. I'll wait for you here. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {at door, just going, says nervously). No, 
 don't wait for me. 
 
 (drew smiles after her as she disappears, and puts 
 the rose in his coat. Enter miss mills through 
 the window. She appears irresolute.) 
 
 miss mills. It's a little chilly out of doors. 
 
 drew. Have you come in to get a wrap ? 
 
 miss mills. I'm not sure. Do you ever suffer from 
 melancholia ? 
 
 DREW {carelessly). Sometimes. 
 
 MISS MILLS {sighing). So do I. {Sits down forlornly.) 
 I have it now. 
 
 DREW {cheerfully). You ought not to know anything 
 of melancholia yet. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I know the world thinks I am blithe as 
 a bird — singing from mom till eve — but if they only 
 knew ! I am often very, very unhappy. 
 
 DREW. What do you ever want that you don't have ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. The trouble is so often, I don't know 
 what I want. 
 
 DREW {kindly). Then, depend upon it, you want 
 loving.
 
 244 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MISS MILLS (thoughtfully). I daresay that's it. 
 
 DREW (kindly). He'll come along some day. 
 
 MISS MILLS (a little piqued). It's not for want of chances 
 that I'm not engaged. 
 
 DREW. Never been in love ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (thoughtfully). I can't be sure how much 
 one ought to be in love — to be in love. 
 
 DREW. Then you never have. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Not properly. (Rises.) And yet I feel 
 if some strong man strode up and said " You shall ! " 
 I might. 
 
 DREW (turns to her). He's too timid. Never tells you 
 straight what he means — isn't that it ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (in a panic). Oh, I don't know. Don't 
 ask me. One has to be so careful not to let one's feelings 
 run away with one if one has money. 
 
 DREW. Oh, the six thousand pounds. 
 
 MISS MILLS (haughtily). Six thousand pounds is not 
 a pittance. 
 
 DREW. But he wouldn't want to marry you for that. 
 
 MISS MILLS. You don't seem to recognise the difficulty 
 of my position. If a girl is pretty and penniless she knows 
 she is being wooed for herself, and if she is rich and plain 
 she knows it must be for her money — but with me — 
 it might so well be either. 
 
 DREW (laughing). But what's-his-name is very well off. 
 
 Miss Mills (interested). Oh, is he ? I didn't know 
 that. 
 
 DREW. And a good fellow from stem to stern. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Nothing like having a good opinion of 
 yourself. 
 
 DREW. He didn't say it, / say it. And I'll say more, 
 I'll say — (enter ernest white.) Oh, now, speak of the 
 
 devil 
 
 (drew laughs and disappears as he speaks, while 
 MISS MILLS turns and sees ernest white.) 
 
 MISS MILLS. Is there madness in your family ? 
 
 WHITE (taken aback). My dear Miss Mills ! (Comes 
 to her.) 
 
 MISS MILLS. Your cousin has just been behaving so 
 strangely. 
 
 WHITE. Has he been making love to you ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Anything but. (Sits on ottoman.)
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 245 
 
 WHITE. Of course, I'm very fond of Hal, but I don't 
 think the Navy is good to marry into. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I don't think it's quite safe, but it must be 
 very nice to have a husband who keeps going away on 
 voyages and coming home for honeymoons. 
 
 WHITE {sits beside her). But how much nicer a per- 
 petual honeymoon in a snug little cottage— like mine. 
 
 MISS MILLS {not noticing his speech). Officers' wives 
 can get to very good parties. 
 
 WHITE. No better than I can. 
 
 MISS MILLS, I do so like those buttons they wear. 
 
 WHITE {annoyed). It's no use hankering after Hal's 
 buttons. He's a hopeless case at present. 
 
 MISS MILLS {dismayed). Has he got a wife ? 
 
 WHITE. No, no, but — {rises) it's a very delicate matter 
 to speak of. {Looks off from window to make sure he is 
 not overheard, then turns to miss mills.) I suppose you 
 can see why he comes to this house so often ? 
 
 miss mills {coyly). I suppose I can. 
 
 WHITE {exasperated, goes towards her). Oh, you are off 
 on a wrong scent altogether. He doesn't come to see you. 
 
 MISS mills {taken aback). Eh? {Recovering herself.) 
 I never supposed he did. I don't see why you think you 
 need tell me that. As if I ever suggested he comes to see 
 me. 
 
 WHITE {glances towards window before he lowers his 
 voice to say). He comes to see Mrs. Moxon. 
 
 miss mills {after a rnomenfs panic, says coldly). Of 
 course, I saw that. 
 
 WHITE. I'm not saying a word against Mrs. Moxon. 
 I am sure she is all she should be, and even more. 
 
 miss mills. Oh, those quiet women ! 
 
 WHITE {distractedly, coming back to her). It puts me 
 in such a position. I introduced him. 
 
 miss mills {rises). I wonder if her husband knows ? 
 
 WHITE {irritated). He'd be the last to see, the great 
 dull thing ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. I wonder if she knows herself ? 
 
 WHITE. Of course she does. Haven't you noticed the 
 change ? The last month has transformed her. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh ! I begin to see it all. Those new 
 clothes. And I thought she was taking my advice. 
 
 WHITE. The first day he came — before ever he saw
 
 246 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 her — he said he was going to make love to her — just to 
 see if he could. / said he couldn't. That set his back 
 up. And this is the result. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I wonder if he means it now ? 
 
 WHITE. I'm hanged if I know. If he doesn't, we 
 must stop it. And if he does — we must stop it. 
 
 MISS MILLS {thoughtfully). For the present, we must 
 just watch and listen. In a case of this sort, I should 
 even consider it right to intercept letters and listen at 
 keyholes. 
 
 WHITE. Oh, I say ! 
 
 {Enter mrs. moxon. She wears a scarf over her 
 shoulders.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I thought you were all outside. 
 
 WHITE. Mr. Moxon is there. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh ! 
 
 MISS mills. And Captain Drew. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {stops). Oh ! {Takes off her scarf and 
 lays it on the round seat.) 
 
 (miss MILLS and white exchange meaning glances, 
 unperceived by mrs. moxon. Enter mr. moxon.) 
 
 MOXON. I must be off now. I'm going to play bridge 
 at the Fishers'. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {turning impulsively to moxon). George, 
 please stay at home. 
 
 moxon {surprised). Why ? What's the matter ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {faltering). Nothing ; but I'd rather you 
 stayed. 
 
 MOXON. But they expect me. We arranged the game 
 yesterday. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Couldn't you send them word ? 
 
 MOXON. It's too late now. I told Hassell to call for 
 me. He'll be here directly. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Then you can send word by him. 
 
 MOXON. But what excuse can I make ? I can't say I'm 
 ill, because he'll be able to see for himself that I'm not. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {thoughtfully). No, you can't say that. 
 It would be untrue. {Impulsively). Wouldn't it be 
 enough to say that your wife begged you to remain ? 
 
 MOXON {laughingly). They would think I was on 
 leading strings. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {earnestly). Would that matter for once ? 
 
 MOXON {irritated). Now, don't persist, my dear. I
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 247 
 
 can't go and break an im})ortant engagement because you 
 take a sudden fancy to have me stay at home. (Amiably.) 
 I'll stay at home to-morrow. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. To-morrow won't do ! [Turns abruptly 
 to round seat and picks up her scarf.) 
 
 MOXON {watching her in jnild surprise). Aren't you 
 well, Martha ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {trying to speak lightly to disguise her 
 agitation). Oh yes, thank you, I feel particularly well. 
 {Draws scarf round her shoulders and crosses swiftly 
 towards window.) 
 
 MISS MILLS {going to MRS. MOXON anxiously). Are you 
 going out, Martha ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Yes. {Pauses in window, says un- 
 certainly.) No, I don't know. {Turns and sees them all 
 looking at her.) Oh, I don't know what I'm going to do. 
 {Crosses swiftly to the door, throwing her scarf on a chair 
 and then goes out of the room.) 
 
 MISS MILLS {to moxon). You ought to stay. 
 
 MOXON. When I want your advice I shall ask for it. 
 
 MISS MILLS {reprovingly). Please don't forget you are 
 speaking to a guest. Mr. White, you will find Captain 
 Drew on the terrace. {Picks up mrs. moxon's cloud.) 
 
 WHITE {taking her hint). Oh, yes, thank you. 
 
 {He goes out.) 
 
 miss mills. What a change there is in Martha ! 
 
 MOXON {puzzled). Change ? What change ? 
 
 miss MILLS. She seems so much younger and brighter. 
 
 MOXON. Does she ? I hadn't noticed any difference. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Don't you think she looks better ? 
 
 MOXON. She always looks about the same. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Have you noticed her clothes ? 
 
 MOXON. Not particularly. 
 
 MISS MILLS {exasperated). Then you ought to have 
 done. If she doesn't wear pretty clothes for you, she 
 wears them for some one else. 
 
 MOXON {vaguely). Who ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Some one doesn't come somewhere for 
 nothing. 
 
 MOXON. I don't know what you mean. 
 
 MISS MILLS {as if she were dropping a casual remark). I 
 should think Captain Drew makes a great many con- 
 quests.
 
 248 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MOXON (pleasantly). Charming fellow, isn't he ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. I suppose you've no idea what a tempta- 
 tion it is to some of us — after we've had a few successes 
 — to go flirting about with every one (pointedly, as she 
 goes towards him). Single or married. 
 
 MOXON (startled). Oh ! (Looks at miss mills^ then 
 lays his hand kindly on her shoulder.) My dear young 
 lady, I knew your father well, and I have the greatest 
 respect for your mother — don't try anything of that sort 
 on with me. 
 
 MISS mills (starts with surprise, then laughs). You ! 
 I flirt with you ! That would be exhilarating — a 
 flirtation with you. Oh, no, thank you, I'd rather be 
 excused. 
 
 MOXON. Then do say what you're driving at. 
 
 miss mills. It's like teaching any one the A.B.C. 
 Can't you see that Captain Drew and Martha 
 
 MOXON (taken aback). What ! You mean to suggest 
 he comes here to — (dismissing the idea). Oh, it's — it's 
 absurd ! 
 
 miss mills. It's not at aU absurd. Martha looks 
 very nice . . . when she's dressed up. 
 
 MOXON. But I thought you were the attraction. 
 
 miss mills (sadly). So did I ! 
 
 MOXON. If I had any suspicion that my wife 
 
 MISS mills (watching him, rather uneasy at what she 
 has done). I am sure Martha will never do anything she 
 shouldn't. She may be fond of him, but she has dignity 
 and self-control — and so has he. It's not as if they 
 were two French people. (:sio:k.on moves irjipatiently.) I 
 only told you this to put you on your guard ! So that 
 you would stay at home and be nice to her instead of 
 prancing out with that HasseU, whom you've suddenly 
 become so fond of — just out of opposition to all of us. 
 But, of course, you'll take it all wrong and be nastier 
 than ever. 
 
 MOXON. I don't believe there's anything in what you 
 say. You've been reading novels. You mustn't come 
 here putting these notions into our heads. I don't like 
 it. I'm afraid you have a nasty mind. 
 
 MISS MILLS (indignantly). Oh, how unjust ! How 
 ungrateful ! How like you. 
 
 (Enter maid.)
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 249 
 
 MAID. Mr. Chester Hassell. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh— oh ! 
 
 (miss MILLS leaves hastily by the window in time 
 to escape Chester hassell as he enters. 
 The MAID goes out.) 
 
 HASSELL. Are you ready, Moxon ? 
 
 MoxoN. Good-evening, Hassell. I can't go to the 
 Fishers' with you. 
 
 HASSELL. But, my dear Moxon, we can't have a 
 game if you don't come. 
 
 MOXON. That's a pity — sit down. 
 
 HASSELL [sits). It's SO late to cry off now — unless 
 you have some very special reason. 
 
 MOXON. I have no reason at all— only my wife asked 
 me to stay with her. 
 
 HASSELL. I hope Mrs. Moxon is well ! 
 
 MOXON. She says she feels particularly well. I don't 
 know what it's all about. 1 suppose she must have 
 hysteria. 
 
 HASSELL. If you Can't come I must go and hunt up 
 somebody else. 
 
 MOXON {touches hassell's arm). One moment. On 
 the other hand, if I stay at home, Miss Mills will think 
 I am taking her advice, so / will come to the Fishers' 
 with you. 
 
 hassell. Good ! 
 
 MOXON. I'm very much annoyed with Miss Mills. 
 
 HASSELL {a little surprised). Oh ! 
 
 MOXON. Now, Hassell, you know the kind of people 
 we are. 
 
 HASSELL. Yes. Why ? Aren't you ? 
 
 MOXON. Of course we are. I have no wish to hold 
 my household up as a model. {Puts his thumb in his 
 waistcoat.) But I think I may say it is a very fair 
 example of a well-conducted English home — isn't it ? 
 
 HASSELL. Certainly. 
 
 MOXON. Well, Miss Mills has had the impertinence 
 to tell me, to my face, that my wife is carrying on a 
 
 flirtation with 
 
 (miss mills appears at the window.) 
 
 MISS MILLS. I didn't. {Both men rise.) I only told 
 you to look out. 
 
 HASSELL. Good evening, Miss Mills.
 
 250 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MISS MILLS. Please understand, Mr. Hassell, that you 
 and I are not on speaking terms. 
 
 (miss mills retires, hassell smiles, while moxon 
 goes up and deliberately closes the window 
 through which she has gone.) 
 
 MOXON. She won't do that again in a hurry. {As 
 he returns to hassell miss mills re-opens the window 
 and disappears.) 
 
 hassell {craftily). You were saying before we were 
 interrupted — she said your wife was carrying on a 
 flirtation with — {as if trying to remember a name). Who 
 was it ? 
 
 moxon. He shall be nameless. 
 
 hassell. Oh — Captain Drew, wasn't it ? 
 
 MOXON. Yes. {Looks at hassell.) But he shall be 
 nameless. I ought not to have mentioned this to you, 
 but I was so annoyed. To think of any one daring 
 even to hint at such a thing in connection with Mrs. 
 Moxon. 
 
 hassell. I know how you feel. You had to tell 
 some one to relieve your feelings. 
 
 MOXON {turns to him). Exactly. I see you under- 
 stand me. 
 
 hassell. Perfectly. 
 
 MOXON. You won't let this go any further. 
 
 HASSELL. Certainly not. You can trust me. 
 
 MOXON. Thanks, Hassell. I'm sure you are my 
 friend. {Offers his hand to hassell.) 
 
 HASSELL {grasping moxon's hand). Indeed I am. 
 
 MOXON. And I'm yours. 
 
 hassell. Thanks. {They withdraw their hands. 
 MOXON turns away.) Oh, by the way — (moxon turns 
 to hassell). I don't like to ask you. Only — some 
 money — I was expecting hasn't turned up. It will, of 
 course — (moxon nods and shakes hassell's hand) but I 
 wonder if you could help me out meanwhile. 
 
 MOXON. I should be delighted — only at present my 
 money is all so tied up. Try Fisher. 
 
 HASSELL. I did. His was tied up, too. 
 
 MOXON. How unfortunate. Just when you want it, 
 too. {Taking hassell's arm and crossing to the door.) 
 Come along, old fellow, we must be off. And you might 
 win a lot at bridge.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 251 
 
 HASSELL. Yes, about 3s. 6d. 
 
 MOXON. Well, that's a beginning. Rome wasn't 
 built in a day. 
 
 (hassell and moxon go out. As they do so miss 
 MILLS peeps cautiously through the window, 
 before advancing into the room and beckoning 
 to ERNEST WHITE to follow her.) 
 
 MISS MILLS. There ! You heard everything. 
 
 WHITE. That's nothing new. He's always trying to 
 borrow money, only he never pays it back— so no one 
 will lend him any more. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I don't mean the money part. But 
 fancy him telling that odious Mr. Hassell, of all people, 
 what we think about Captain Drew and Martha. 
 
 WHITE {vaguely). Yes. 
 
 MISS MILLS. You don't seem to see the gravity of it. 
 Mr. Hassell is the most vindictive creature. He'll make 
 up a scandal about them if he can. He hates them so. 
 
 WHITE. Why ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Ever since they advised me not to have 
 him. 
 
 WHITE {surprised). What ! 
 
 MISS MILLS {smiling indulgently). I shouldn't have 
 had him anyway. {Touching him on the arm.) I don't 
 like such dark men. {Seriously — white smiles and 
 strokes his moustache.) But when I refused him he said 
 if he ever found out anything against Captain Drew or 
 Martha it would be the worse for them. Those were 
 his very words : " It will be the worse for them." 
 
 WHITE {who has not been listening to preceding speech). 
 I don't think you need have let him propose to you. 
 
 MISS MILLS. How was I to prevent it ? And then if 
 he didn't go and tell Lucy Fisher that I as good as 
 proposed to him. Oh ! (ernest white laughs, miss 
 MILLS turns to him indignantly.) Mr. White, I'm 
 surprised. 
 
 white {confused). I beg your pardon. 
 
 MISS MILLS {distantly). I'm not sure that I shall 
 grant it. 
 
 white. Well, now, what are we to do about Mrs. 
 Moxon and Hal ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. It's all your fault for bringing him here. 
 {sits R.)
 
 252 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 WHITE. It doesn't help us much to say it's my fault. 
 
 MISS MILLS. You made the muddle, so you must get 
 them out. 
 
 WHITE. But I don't know how unless you help me. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I'm not sure that it would be quite nice 
 for me to interfere. I'm not married. 
 
 WHITE. You could be married if you would. {Coming 
 towards her. Leaning over her, he says sentimentally.) 
 Izzy ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. What a tactless opportunity to take. 
 {Rises.) 
 
 WHITE. Very well, then. You leave everything to 
 me? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Certainly not. You'll only go and make 
 things worse. You must have a serious talk with 
 Captain Drew. Call him in here. You'll be able to 
 watch the workings of his face better by this light. 
 
 WHITE {despondently). He won't listen to me. 
 
 MISS MILLS. You must do your best. I'll go and 
 have a few womanly words with Martha. {Confidently.) 
 She'll listen to me. {Crosses to the door.) I'm thoroughly 
 worked up over this. 
 
 {She goes out.) 
 
 WHITE {despondently.) Now for it. Oh dear ! {Goes 
 to the window and calls.) Hal ! (mrs. moxon is heard 
 singing Tostis " Good-bye." After a short interval 
 WHITE calls again.) Hal ! 
 
 {Enter captain drew by the window.) 
 
 DREW. Well, what is it ? I say — I've just thought 
 of such a funny yarn. It'll make you scream. 
 
 WHITE {seriously). I don't wish to scream at present, 
 thank you. 
 
 DREW {hearing the song, motions white to be silent). 
 Sh ! Mrs. Moxon is singing. {Listens smilingly.) 
 
 white. I want to speak to you. 
 
 drew. Not while she sings, (white stands with his 
 back to the door, facing drew. They stand so till the song 
 is finished.) 
 
 drew. Shall we join them ? 
 
 white. Not till I've spoken. 
 
 DREW {amused). Well, what is it ? Am I to be eourt- 
 artialed ? 
 
 white. Are you never serious ?
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 253 
 
 DREW {cheerfully). Oh, often, but, fortunately, you 
 can always make me laugh. 
 
 WHITE. She never used to sing before you came. 
 
 DREW {seriously). Because no one cared to hear her. 
 {Humorously.) You'll get lumbago if you stand there. 
 {He moves towards the window.) 
 
 WHITE. Now, now, now ! 
 
 (white crosses quickly to window, before which he 
 stands as if to prevent dukw from going out.) 
 
 DREW. Oh, don't keep tacking about like that. Sit 
 down and say what you want to. {Sits down and takes 
 out a cigarette.) 
 
 WHITE. You mayn't smoke in here. 
 
 DREW. Yes, I may. I've had special leave. 
 
 WHITE. She couldn't bear the smell of smoke before. 
 Now, that shows you. 
 
 DREW {lighting his cigarette). What does it show me ? 
 
 WHITE. I think it's gone far enough. 
 
 DREW {puffs smoke before he says carelessly). How are 
 you getting on with Izzy ? 
 
 WHITE. I'm not going to be put off that way. I 
 think it's time you tell Mrs. Moxon you are not 
 serious. 
 
 DREW. I wish you wouldn't be so meddlesome. 
 
 WHITE. I must be meddlesome. Consider my respon- 
 sibilities. I brought you here. When you said you were 
 going to make love to Mrs. Moxon I thought you were 
 only chaffing. 
 
 DREW. So I was. 
 
 WHITE. It's rather too bad to keep on fooling her. 
 
 DREW {turning indignantly to white). I'm not fooling 
 her. 
 
 white. That makes it far worse. 
 
 DREW. You don't understand, and I can't explain. 
 It's too complicated. I mean — it's quite simple— but 
 I'm not answerable to you. There are some things a 
 man can't discuss. I suppose if I leave it at that — 
 you'll go and think things. 
 
 white. What would you think yourself if you saw 
 two people always together, very intimate and con- 
 fidential, and one of them was you ? 
 
 DREW. I should think nothing disrespectful if the 
 other one was Mrs. Moxon. She's the best woman in
 
 254 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 the world and she needs no defence from me. You gave 
 me quite a Avrong idea of her the first time I came — or 
 I shouldn't have talked all that lubbish about making 
 up to her. I thought she was going to be one of those 
 precise, cliilly-fingered Englishwomen, stiff with conceit 
 and whalebone — you know the kind. I hadn't talked 
 to her for ten minutes before I found out she was as 
 straight and simple as a child, at first rather shy and 
 mistrustful, but after we made friends so confiding. As 
 she revealed herself, unconsciously, my heart went out 
 to her. I was completely charmed and conquered. No 
 woman has ever appealed to me as she does. I want to 
 be always with her. I can't rest when I'm away. In 
 the morning I can scarcely wait till it's decently late to 
 come here. I'm happier if I've made her smile than if 
 I were made an admiral, (white looks at him.) But 
 you needn't be afraid, for, you see, her simplicity dis- 
 arms me, and her confidence puts me on my honour. 
 
 WHITE {thoughtfully). But, after all, she is a woman 
 and you are a man. 
 
 DREW. You are full of useful information. 
 
 WHITE. If you want my opinion. 
 
 DREW. Thank you, I don't. 
 
 WHITE. I think you ought to go away. 
 
 DREW. I knew that was coming. It's what any one 
 would say on the spur of the moment. It was my own 
 first impulse — when I began to recognise where I was. 
 (white looks at him.) Oh, you needn't think I haven't 
 walked up and down and round and round that studio 
 of yours, arguing with myself till my own head went 
 round and round too. At first I thought, " This won't 
 do, this is all wrong." Then I thought, " Why, why ? " 
 Love need not be guilty. It's only because I've debased 
 it so often that I think it is something to be ashamed 
 of. Why must I crush the strongest and best emotion 
 I ever felt ? Don't we spend our lives searching out 
 sympathetic companions ? And aren't we always having 
 disappointments and dropping people because they won't 
 do ? Well, if at last I have found some one who will 
 do — some one who helps me to be my best self, some 
 one whom I can help — why on earth should I leave 
 her ? 
 
 white. Because she's married.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 255 
 
 DREW. She's not happy with her husband. 
 
 WHITE. How do you know ? 
 
 DREW. How could any one be happy with Moxon ? 
 
 WHITE. He's selfish and tiresome, but he's not bad- 
 natured. 
 
 DREW {vehemently). He humiliates her, snubs her 
 whenever she speaks. Sometimes when I hear him, 
 knowing how sensitive she is, I can scarcely keep still. 
 It's like seeing her struck. And I can't do anything. 
 
 WHITE. I am so afraid you will do something some 
 time, 
 
 DREW {sadly). It would only get her into trouble. 
 
 WHITE. I think you magnify Mrs. Moxon's unhappi- 
 ness. When a woman has been married as long as she 
 has, I don't suppose she knows if she is happy or not. 
 She's got so used to it. 
 
 DREW {ironically). That's such a comforting thought 
 for them. Don't let us distress ourselves thinking how 
 many women suffer in silence. Let's make up our minds 
 that they like it. 
 
 WHITE. Even if Moxon is not as nice to her as he 
 might be, I don't see that you can do anything. 
 
 DREW. I can distract her. I can show her that some 
 one finds her charming. And while I can do the smallest 
 thing to vary the monotony of her life, I stay. 
 
 WHITE. But you can't stay here for ever. 
 
 DREW. No, till I get my orders. 
 
 WHITE. The chief danger isn't you or people gossip- 
 ing, it's 
 
 DREW. What ? 
 
 WHITE {hesitating). I don't know if it's safe to tell 
 you. 
 
 DREW {impatiently). Go on. 
 
 WHITE {hesitates, then blurts out). She can't help show- 
 ing she's in love with you. 
 
 DREW {after a pause, during which he looks very grave). 
 Has any one spoken of this ? 
 
 WHITE. Yes. 
 
 DREW. Who ? 
 
 WHITE {guiltily). I did — to Miss Mills. 
 
 DREW. I think you might have kept quiet. 
 
 WHITE. But I had to enlighten her. 
 
 DREW. Eh ?
 
 256 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 WHITE. She was under the impression that you came 
 here so often to see her, so I told her, and she told Moxon, 
 and Moxon told Hassell, and 
 
 DREW {angrily). So you are all spying and whispering, 
 putting an evil construction on every innocent word and 
 look. It's monstrous. When did you begin talking 
 about this ? 
 
 WHITE. Only this evening. There's no harm done 
 yet. 
 
 DREW. But they are all on the look-out. Even as I 
 say " Good-night," they'll think she lets me hold her 
 hand a second longer than she need. They'll see a 
 guilty meaning if she looks at me, or if she looks away. 
 I won't have her watched and pointed at. I'll protect 
 her from that. How ? You've made it impossible for 
 me to behave towards her in any other way. And they 
 saw in my romance only another vulgar intrigue. [He 
 leans on the mantelshelf in deep thought before he turns to 
 WHITE and says quietly.) There's only one way now to 
 save her from insult. I must go away. It does seem 
 like deserting her. I must go at once. I'll leave to- 
 morrow. I'll say " Good-bye " to Mrs. Moxon now. 
 (MRS, MOXON is heard singing again Tosti's " Good-bye " 
 off the stage, drew stops when he hears her, with his 
 hand on the door.) No, not now. I think it will be better 
 to come up in the morning. I'm going home this way. 
 {Going to the window.) 
 
 WHITE. All right. I'll go and get our hats. 
 
 (white leaves the door open as he slips out. The 
 song is heard more distinctly.) 
 
 drew {stands listening). Good-bye, good-bye. 
 
 {As captain drew goes out by the window, ernest 
 white returns with a hat in each hand.) 
 
 white. Hullo ! Has he gone already ? {Crosses to 
 the window.) 
 
 {Enter miss mills hurriedly.) 
 
 MISS mills {calling). Mr. White ! 
 
 white {turning when he hears her call). Oh, I say, we 
 are going to cut home. I've persuaded him to go away 
 to-morrow. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Now I didn't think you had it in you. 
 
 white. How did you succeed with Mrs. Moxon ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Well, of course, women are much harder
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 257 
 
 to deal with than men. You had a very simple job. 
 You only had to talk a man over, while I 
 
 WHITE {interrupting her). Had no success at all. Tell 
 Mrs. Moxon that Hal has to join his ship to-morrow. 
 Tell her kindly. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Well, really, Mr White, I don't think it's 
 your place to dictate to me. 
 
 WHITE. Tell her the way you think best. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I've tried woman to woman. That's no 
 good. I know what I'll do, I'll make light of everything 
 and laugh it all off. 
 
 WHITE. Splendid idea. I must hurry after Hal. 
 Good-night. 
 
 (ERNEST WHITE gOeS OUt. MISS MILLS folloWS tO 
 
 the window and looks after him. Enter mrs. 
 
 MOXON.) 
 
 MISS MILLS (assuming unnatural cheerfulness). Well, 
 Martha, they've gone. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {slightly surprised). Gone. Without say- 
 ing good-night ? 
 
 MISS MILLS {standing at the window). Yes, there they 
 are, crossing the field, (mrs. moxon joins her at the 
 window.) We shall know when they get home by the 
 light in the studio window. 
 
 MRS. moxon. Yes, I always know when Captain Drew 
 is at home by that light among the trees. 
 
 miss MILLS. I wonder he isn't afraid to sleep down 
 there by himself. I should be. 
 
 MRS. moxon. But he's so brave. 
 
 miss mills {breaks into a ringing laugh). Such a good 
 joke, Martha. It's against myself, too. You know I 
 thought Captain Drew came here so often to see me. 
 
 MRS. moxon {smiling pleasantly). Oh, did you, dear ? 
 It never struck me so. 
 
 miss mills. I know better now. Oh, I can take a 
 joke against myself in very good part. {Stops laughing 
 to say.) Now some people were under the impression 
 that he came to see you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {nervously). Oh well — I suppose he comes 
 to see all of us. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Sit down and let me tell you. (mrs. 
 MOXON sits slowly at the table, looking distrustfully at 
 MISS mills, who resumes the unnaturally cheerful manner.) 
 VOL. I s
 
 258 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 You know that man deserves whipping. It seems he 
 made a wager with Mr. White that he could make you 
 fall in love with him. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I can't believe Captain Drew would do 
 such a thing. 
 
 MISS MILLS. But Mr. White himself told me, and you 
 know sailors are notorious for making love to all the 
 women they meet. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I don't think he is like that. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I expect he's like all the others, if one 
 doesn't see him through rose-coloured spectacles. {Laugh- 
 ing a little. MRS. MOXON turns away.) I wouldn't trust 
 a man with such taking manners. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. He is always so merry, but not unkind. 
 {Turns to miss mills.) It would be cruel to pay court 
 to a woman to ridicule her. 
 
 miss mills. Well, of course, Martha, you are not a 
 young girl. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {hastily). No, no ! I was not thinking 
 of myself. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I'm glad he didn't win the w^ager. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. That was fortunate, wasn't it. Perhaps 
 
 if I had been a weaker woman {Her voice breaks, she 
 
 looks away from miss mills.) 
 
 MISS mills {watching her anxiously, hut trying to speak 
 gaily). It doesn't matter now, anyway, because he's 
 gone away. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {receiving this intelligence with a sudden 
 shock at her heart). Gone away ! 
 
 MISS MILLS {always watching her anxiously, hut thinking 
 it best to laugh). Yes, to join his ship. 
 
 MRS. MOXON {showing her emotion, rises, and goes 
 quickly to miss mills, seizing hold of her). Child, child, 
 stop laughing ! Tell me ! Will he never come back ? 
 
 miss mills {alarmed, takes a step back). Martha ! 
 
 MRS. MOXON {recovering herself, leaves hold of miss 
 mills, and says in very measured tones). It's nothing. I 
 was taken by surprise, that's all. You'd better say 
 good-night to me now. 
 
 miss mills. Good-night. {She looks at mrs. moxon, 
 who does not seem to notice her, then goes out.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I can't bear it. {Clenches her hands 
 together and holds them to her mouth to prevent her sobs
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 259 
 
 being heard, crosses towards the window and looks out into 
 the darkness ; stretches her arms towards the window. 
 Passionately.) Come back and tell me it's not true. 
 Tell me, tell me ! {Pauses, drops her arms, and says in 
 a different tone.) Tell me. {Pauses, then says with 
 decision.) I must know. {Snatches up her scarf and 
 goes out quickly through window, putting on her scarf as 
 she goes.) I must know. {Goes out.) 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 THE THIRD ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The studio in ernest white's garden. A high 
 square room with a door opposite the audience opening 
 into the garden, and upon the left-hand side a cur- 
 tained entrance to the bedroom. Covering the greater 
 part of one wall is a large hooded fireplace. There 
 are no easels or signs of a painter s work, as the 
 room is not now used as a studio. The room is 
 simply furnished, hut it contains a settee, and near 
 it, a small writing-desk. At a short distance is a 
 table with a lamp standing on it, also a syphon of 
 soda water, a decanter of whisky, a jug of plain 
 water, and four tumblers on a tray. Two chairs 
 stand near the table and against the wall facing the 
 fireplace is a low set of bookshelves with boxes of cigars 
 and cigarettes upon it. Mats and rugs on the floor 
 and other furniture to make the place both well 
 furnished and comfortable. 
 
 CAPTAIN DREW and ERNEST WHITE enter dressed as in 
 Act II. 
 
 WHITE. I'll just have one drink with you before I 
 turn in. {Mixes whiskies at table, while drew sits dis- 
 consolately on settee ; glances once or twice at drew before 
 he says.) You'll feel better when you get right away. 
 You ought to go to some place where there's plenty of 
 dancing and fun, and you'll soon be yourself again. 
 
 drew {despondently). Please don't try to cheer me up. 
 It's the one thing I couldn't stand just now. 
 
 WHITE. Have you thought where you'll go to-morrow? 
 
 DREW. I'll take a train somewhere. 
 
 WHITE. Why not have a few days in London ? 
 
 DREW. What's the use ? The bounce has gone out 
 of everything. 
 
 260
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 261 
 
 WHITE. Well, here. {Brings drew a tumbler of 
 whisky and soda.) 
 
 DREW {taking it mechanically and holding it in his 
 hand). I suppose there isn't a train anywhere to-night ? 
 
 WHITE {standing near drew). No, the last one left 
 at ten fifteen. It's nearly eleven now. 
 
 drew. Is that all ? Think of the hours and hours 
 till to-morrow. I never could stand waiting. I always 
 had to be doing something. Now that I've made up my 
 mind to go, I want to go — not that there's anywhere to 
 go to. I wish they'd have a war and send me out to get 
 shot. {Sighs as he holds up his glass and says.) Chin 
 chin. (Drinks.) 
 
 WHITE {drinks, standing). At any rate you'll have the 
 satisfaction of knowing that you did the right thing. 
 
 drew. It's the only thing to do — to go away and 
 leave her. I've known that for some time, but I wouldn't 
 own up, even to myself. Somehow, the last few days, 
 we've had less to say to each other. I couldn't go on 
 saying ordinary things, when it was always on the tip of 
 my tongue to tell her one thing. And it's the silences 
 that are so dangerous. All the self-control of weeks 
 may be undone in a moment, and it isn't the long self- 
 control that goes to your credit then. It's the one 
 moment of weakness that goes to your discredit. Oh, 
 well, it does no good to talk about it. {He rises and puts 
 his glass on the writing-table. Picks up a dress suit-case, 
 opens it on the table, begins putting in clothes.) I'd better 
 get my gear together. 
 
 white. Would you like some one to come and do 
 your packing ? 
 
 DREW. No, thanks. It may do me good to get in a bad 
 temper, and I'm sure to do that if I do my own packing. 
 {Opens a bag.) 
 
 WHITE. Will you be all right if I leave you ? 
 
 DREW. Oh, yes. Your man generally comes later 
 on to see if I want anything. 
 
 WHITE. Then I'll say good-night. 
 
 DREW. Good-night. 
 
 WHITE. Will you have the door left open ? 
 
 DREW. Yes, thanks. I like the air. Go to your 
 bunk and dream of Izzy. 
 
 WHITE. I've dreamed of her three nights running.
 
 262 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 {As WHITE goes out of the room, drew takes the 
 rose from his buttonhole, holds it in his hand, 
 looking at it.) 
 DREW {tenderly). Poor lady ! 
 
 {He pours some water into a tumbler, places the 
 rose carefully in the water, and hums the refrain 
 of TostVs " Good-bye " as he begins getting 
 clothes in bag. mrs. moxon appears in the 
 doorway and stands on the threshold, watching 
 him. DREW turns and sees mrs. moxon. He 
 stands still. They both betray their nervous- 
 ness while trying to speak casually.) 
 MRS. MOXON. You are packing, I see. 
 DREW. I find I must leave here to-morrow. 
 MRS. MOXON. So I have heard. 
 
 DREW. I meant to come up and say " good-bye " 
 to you in the morning. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I did not hear that. 
 DREW, I'm so sorry to go, but, of course, one can't 
 be away on leave all the time. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I quite understand. 
 DREW. Won't you sit down ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. No, I mustn't say. It was so oppressive 
 in the house I stepped on to the terrace. I could see 
 your light through the trees, and it's only across two 
 
 fields {Moves away.) 
 
 DREW {watching her intently). You want to tell me 
 something. 
 
 MRS. MO'KO's {irresolutely.) No. Don't let me interrupt 
 your packing. 
 
 DREW. I'm not sure that I shall pack now. {He 
 closes the portmanteau, and goes to the door, which he 
 shuts.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {her eyes fall on the rose in the tumbler. 
 She exclaims with almost childish pleasure). You did put 
 my rose in water ? {She stands looking at the rose and 
 smiling, and does not notice drew. He stands zvith his 
 back to the door watching her. She looks about the room.) 
 So tliis is where you sit of an evening. I often wondered 
 how it looked. 
 
 drew. And I have so often imagined you coming 
 in at the door and moving about the place that now I 
 hardlv know if I'm not dreaming.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 263 
 
 MRS. MOXON {turns to him and says abruptly). I did 
 come to tell you something — to ask you something. 
 
 DREW {pauses, comes forward). What ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {after a short pause, says awkivardly). 
 Have you been making fun of me all this while ? 
 
 DREW. No, no. It's not true. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I couldn't quite believe it of you, but 
 they told me — something about a wager between you 
 and Mr. White. 
 
 DREW. I'll tell you everything. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I want the truth. 
 
 DREW {with an effort). Before I saw you — I said 
 
 {Stops, drops his head.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON {waiting for him to go on). Yes. 
 
 DREW. I'm so afraid you won't understand me. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I shall try. 
 
 DREW. I never knew a really good woman very well 
 — till now. You see, in the Navy we go out into the 
 world so soon. We get our ideals knocked on the head 
 in no time. And if we are stationed abroad for a long 
 while, as I was, we get to know a lot of second-rate 
 people who make a great deal of us. It's all done out 
 of kindness, but the trouble is, we think that's life, we 
 think those are real people, and it lowers our standard — 
 especially our standard of women. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Ah ! {Shakes her head sadly.) 
 
 DREW. I was like that when I came here, and I told 
 Ernest — I think I said I was going to try and make an 
 impression on you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Then it is true ? 
 
 DREW. It was before I knew you. I'd never seen 
 you. It does make a difference, doesn't it ? If I said 
 that before or after I knew you ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {doubtfully). Yes — oh, yes. I'm glad 
 you pointed that out to me. 
 
 DREW. Of course, when I knew you, it was different. 
 I realised how different that very first day. And ever 
 since — day by day, while we've been together. As I've 
 looked deeper and deeper into your mind and into your 
 heart, I've been filled with reverence for your unselfish- 
 ness, your patience, and your devotion. I've seen my 
 ideal of a woman. The woman I would like my wife 
 to have been — but it's too late now. {Moves aivay,
 
 264 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 commanding himself.) I think I ought to go away from 
 here. 
 
 MRS. MOXON [nervously). I thmk so. I think so. 
 
 DREW. I shall remember this past month as the 
 happiest time of my whole life. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (wistfully). A pleasant holiday ? 
 
 DREW. Something much more real than that. A 
 good influence that will stay with me for ever. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (reassured). I shan't feel ashamed any 
 more. It hurt me to think how much I had done to 
 try and please you, and then to be told you were only 
 making fun of me. But that's all over now. (Abruptly.) 
 I must go back. (Gives him her hand.) Good-bye, and 
 thank you. (Moving up, he detains her.) 
 
 DREW (taking her hand, says tenderly). The best I can 
 wish you is that you'll forget me. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (simply and gravely). I have told you I 
 shall never forget you. 
 
 DREW. Will you be just as content after I'm gone 
 as you were before I came ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON (withdraws her hand). I was dead before 
 you came. You made me live. 
 
 DREW. It is better to live, even if one suffers. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, yes. You see, I was never one to 
 lead. I could always feel a great deal more than I 
 could say, and I don't think my husband was ever of 
 opinion that a wife should be a companion. Sometimes 
 I have wondered if he wouldn't be as happy with any 
 one else who looked after him as well as I did. He was 
 always kind to me — at least, he was never unkind — only 
 he forgets. He doesn't see how a woman prizes a little 
 notice taken of her now and then, and she can't ask 
 for it. Perhaps it's vain to want attention, but so 
 very little makes us happy. And I have never had it 
 in all my life — till now. Oh, the first time you sent me 
 flowers ! I cried so. And when I had a headache one 
 day and kept my room, and you came early the next 
 morning to see if I was better. Do you remember ? 
 It is all these pretty attentions you have paid me that 
 have made me live again. That you should think me 
 worth it, not because I am useful, but as a woman ! 
 I'm so grateful to you, so grateful. 
 
 DREW (brokenly). Don't thank me, please don't. It's
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 265 
 
 nothing I've done for you. It's nothing I can do, and 
 
 I want to do so much {His voice breaks.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON (crying). Dear friend, dear fiiend. I 
 know it's very hard to say good-bye, but we always 
 knew this had to come. 
 
 DREW (takes her hands). It breaks my heart to leave 
 you, dear, to leave you. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I shall miss you. I shall miss you 
 dreadfully. 
 
 DREW (anxiously). Do you dread going back ? 
 MRS. MOXON (simply). My life is there. 
 DREW (looking sorrowfully at her). If only we had 
 met in time. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (gently withdraws her hand). It's best 
 as it is. Often in the last few days I have thought — 
 suppose you and I had met long ago, and had become 
 engaged and married, it wouldn't have been wise. I 
 should be such a quiet mouse among your gay friends 
 — it's best as it is. Try to think that. And now, 
 good-night, dear friend. 
 
 DREW. Good-bye, my dear, dear lady. 
 
 (He draws her gently to him, folds her tenderly in 
 
 his arms, and kisses her forehead. She yields 
 
 naturally to his embrace. There are two 
 
 knocks at the door. They separate.) 
 
 DREW (speaks assuringly in a low tone). It's only the 
 
 servant come to see if I want anything. Stand aside 
 
 while I speak to him. It's all right, it's all right. 
 
 (She stands out of sight of door which drew there- 
 upon opens. CHESTER HASSELL appears in the 
 doorway. He has been drinking, so that his 
 manner is blustering ; but he has all his wits 
 about him.) 
 HASSELL. Good evening, Drew. 
 DREW (taken by surprise). Hullo ! 
 
 ( HASSELL, smiling unpleasantly, seems about to enter.) 
 DREW (quickly). I can't ask you in. 
 HASSELL. Oh ! Why not ? 
 
 DREW. To tell you the truth, Hassell, I don't care to 
 have you here. 
 
 HASSELL. Am I disturbing a pleasant little interview ? 
 DREW. Not at all, but you must have noticed that 
 ever since I came here I've avoided meeting you.
 
 266 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 HASSELL (insolently). Oh, yes ; I've noticed it. I've 
 not dropped in just in a friendly way. I shouldn't come 
 here unless I had something very important to tell you. 
 
 DREW. It's too late now. You can come and see me 
 in the morning. (Tries to shut door on hassell.) 
 
 HASSELL (holding door to prevent drew shutting it). 
 What I have to say won't keep till morning. 
 
 DREW^. Then say it here. 
 
 HASSELL. It must be said behind closed doors. (In- 
 dicating off stage.) Too many trees and bushes about. 
 Some one might be listening. 
 
 DREW. What nonsense ! 
 
 HASSELL. I suppose there's nobody in there who could 
 overhear us ? 
 
 DREW. Nobody. (Motions mrs. moxon to leave.) 
 
 HASSELL. Then we may as well go in. 
 
 (Attempts to enter, as mrs. moxon goes up the steps 
 and behind the curtains.) 
 
 DREW (losing his temper). Look here, Hassell, I won't 
 have you forcing your way in like this. 
 
 HASSELL. Then there is some one there. 
 
 DREW. No, but 
 
 HASSELL (impudently). It wouldn't be the first time 
 you were caught with a woman. (Laughing.) Don't 
 you remember that night in Hong Kong ? 
 
 DREW. I don't want to have to turn you out. 
 
 HASSELL (threateningly). If you try anything of that 
 sort on, do you know what I shall do ? I shall raise 
 such a shout that Ernest White and all his servants will 
 come running to see what the row is. (Faces drew 
 defiantly.) Now, then, may I come in ? 
 
 drew (defiantly). No. 
 
 HASSELL. I can see the light in White's bedroom 
 window\ He'd easily hear me if I called. (Puts his 
 hands to his mouth threatening to shout.) 
 
 DREW\ Stop ! I don't want a brawl here. (Looks 
 round to see if mrs. moxon has gone and gives way.) Say 
 what you want to — quickly. 
 
 HASSELL. We must have the door closed. (Comes in 
 and closes door, looking at the curtains.) I suppose I 
 may sit down ? 
 
 DREW. Sit here. (Places an arm-chair near the table 
 with its back to the curtains l.) 
 
 I
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 267 
 
 HASSELL [hesitates). No, thanks, I'll sit here. {Sits 
 facing the curtains ; lays his hat on the table ; presses his 
 hand to his brow.) Oh, dear, I've got such a head. 
 
 DREW (eagerly). Have a drink. {Takes tumbler and 
 whisky decanter in his hand.) 
 
 HASSELL. Thanks, I don't mind, (drew fills tumbler 
 half full of whisky, hassell watches him.) Steady ! 
 {As he takes the tumbler.) I may be a bit on, but I've 
 still got my wits about me. {He pours some of the whisky 
 on the floor.) Fill it up, please. Rather nice quarters 
 you've got here. 
 
 DREW {curtly). Yes, they are all right. 
 
 hassell. Just this and {Pointing to the cur- 
 tains.) I suppose that's your bedroom. 
 
 DREW. Yes, but — your business, please. 
 
 HASSELL. Yes. I've been playing bridge at the 
 
 Fishers' this evening, and {Takes the tumbler with 
 
 the rose in it ; smells the rose.) 
 
 DREW {indignantly). Don't touch that. {Takes the 
 tumbler from hassell. Puts it at top of table.) 
 
 HASSELL {watching drew ; surprised). All right. 
 
 drew {faces hassell). Now, then, what do you want 
 to say ? 
 
 HASSELL. I've been playing bridge at the Fishers' 
 
 DREW {impatiently). You've said that once. 
 
 HASSELL. Have a bit of patience. Moxon was there. 
 
 DREW {affecting indifference). Well ? 
 
 HASSELL. Well, one time when I was dummy I wan- 
 dered into the hall ; the drawing-room door was open, 
 and I overheard part of a conversation between Lucy 
 Fisher and a friend of hers. You know she's a bit of 
 a scandalmonger, Lucy Fisher is. 
 
 DREW. I scarcely know her. 
 
 HASSELL. She was telling her friend about you and 
 Mrs. Moxon. Said you were carrying on a desperate 
 flirtation, and that Moxon was being fooled. 
 
 DREW {trying to speak casually). Women will talk 
 scandal, you know, even where there's no scandal to talk. 
 
 HASSELL. Yes. 
 
 DREW {ironically). I'm afraid I shall not be able 
 to provide any further interest or amusement for 
 Miss Lucy Fisher and her friends, as I leave here 
 to-morrow, (hassell looks surprised.) In fact, I
 
 268 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 must pack now. (Rises.) I'm sure you'll excuse me. 
 {Takes hassell's hat and gives it to him.) Good-night. 
 
 HASSELL [takes hat). I've not nearl}^ done yet. (Lays 
 hat on table.) When the rubber was finished, I told 
 Moxon what I had overheard. 
 
 DREW (in a rage). You — you {Controls himself.) 
 
 Go on. {Sits on the arm of a chair facing hassell across 
 the table.) 
 
 HASSELL. It seems that Miss Mills had already told 
 him that you and his wife were a bit too thick — but he 
 thought nothing of it. But when he heard it a second 
 time — you know he's one of those slow, half -asleep men : 
 it takes a lot to rouse him, but when he is roused — by 
 Jove ! He'd have made a scene if I hadn't persuaded 
 him to leave the house. 
 
 DREW. Where did you take him ? 
 
 HASSELL. Home. He is looking for his wife. {Pause, 
 during which they look at each other.) When he gets home 
 he tells the servant to send Mrs. Moxon to him. The 
 servant hunts all over the house and comes to say her 
 mistress can't be found. Miss Mills doesn't know where 
 she is. Nobody knows where she is. Consternation of 
 Moxon. I suggest his wife is here. He tells me I'm 
 drunk. Now it vexes me to be told I'm drunk, so I 
 don't tell Moxon that from the drawing-room window 
 I had distinctly seen a woman hurrying across the fields 
 towards your studio. No. I decide to keep that to 
 myself — for future use. Moxon thinks his wife is in the 
 garden and goes out to look for her. I say, " All right, 
 I'll look for her, too." Moxon disappears among the 
 shadows of the garden, I come down here. Is she here ? 
 
 DREW. No. 
 
 HASSELL {hesitates a moment, glarices at curtains and 
 then at book-case). I think I see some cigars there. 
 {Pointing to the book-case.) May I help myself ? 
 
 DREW {rises abruptly and stops hassell as he moves 
 forward). Yes, do. 
 
 {He crosses quickly to the book-case, and brings box 
 of cigars, which he pushes towards hassell. 
 HASSELL nods his head knowingly when drew's 
 back is turned.) 
 
 HASSELL {taking a cigar and lighting it). I suppose 
 you think I'm going to pry.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 269 
 
 DREW. No. (Replaces the cigar-box.) 
 
 HASSELL. Now come, be reasonable ; I'm pretty well 
 convinced that Moxon's wife is here, but it's nothing to 
 me whether she is or not. I'm not here for Moxon, I'm 
 here for myself . You understand ? (Momentary pause.) 
 Well, I'll be perfectly frank. I'll admit I'm a scoundrel 
 — a damned 
 
 DREW. Sh ! 
 
 HASSELL (quickly and craftily). Will she hear us ? 
 
 DREW. There is no one to hear us. 
 
 HASSELL. Since when did you become so particular 
 about language ? 
 
 DREW. Never mind that. I only want to save you 
 the trouble of telling me what you are. I know well 
 enough. 
 
 HASSELL. Yes — well, as I was saying — I'm pretty well 
 convinced that Moxon's wife is here. I think I may say 
 I'm quite convinced now ; so I'll come to the point. I 
 want money — from you. 
 
 DREW. You won't get it. 
 
 HASSELL. We'll see about that. If you write me a 
 cheque for one thousand pounds, I'll go straight to 
 Moxon and tell him his wife is not here. 
 
 DREW. Don't keep on repeating that preposterous 
 story. (Desperately trying to make light of hassell's 
 accusation.) You see a woman coming in this direction 
 and you at once fly to the conclusion that she is Mrs. 
 Moxon coming here. Who's going to take your word 
 against — (about to point to where she is, lowers his arm) 
 — her ? 
 
 HASSELL. You think I daren't expose you. You think 
 I'm only using threats to see what I can get out of you. 
 I want to ruin you. I'm tired of seeing you succeed 
 where / fail. In the Service it was always that. You 
 went up and up and I went under. And now, again — 
 / was after Moxon's wife once, but she turned me down. 
 I failed. But you come along, and it's easy. And then 
 you must both go and spoil my chance with Miss Mills. 
 With her money I could have saved myself — only you 
 stood in my way again — you and your paramour. 
 
 (drew seizes him and forces him on to settee.) 
 
 DREW (in a rage). You beast — you hound ! I'll kill 
 you like a dog.
 
 270 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MRS. MOXON {within, in loud and terrified tones). No, no ! 
 (drew pauses, drew and hassell look towards 
 curtain. The curtains move, and mrs. moxon 
 appears, drew looks from the curtains to 
 HASSELL, then crosses to the table, opens a 
 drawer, and takes out a cheque book, hassell 
 watches every movement o/drew.) 
 hassell. That's right. Make it out for a thousand, 
 
 and I'll go straight to Moxon and say 
 
 MRS. MOXON [on top of staivs). I forbid. 
 
 (drew and hassell look towards her. mrs. 
 MOXON is overcome by the humiliation she 
 feels in facing hassell in that place. She 
 walks unsteadily, as if she could scarcely drag 
 one foot after another, but in spite of her physical 
 weakness her resolution is firm.) 
 DREW. It's our only way out of it now. 
 MRS. MOXON. I forbid. I won't save myself by a 
 lie. It's for nie to say, and I forbid. 
 
 (drew% seeing her infiexible, tears up the cheque.) 
 HASSELL (taking his hat from the table). Very well. 
 You've had your chance. I suppose you've got sense 
 enough to see I shouldn't be likely to be here on a job 
 of the sort unless I was pretty desperate. I'm ruined 
 without that money. {Backing towards door.) But 
 I'll not go under alone. 
 DREW. Hassell ! 
 
 HASSELL {as he goes out, calls loud). HuUo, Moxon, 
 hullo ! 
 
 (drew and mrs. moxon left alone in the room by 
 his departure, stand facing each other.) 
 MOXON {heard calling a very long way off). Hassell ! 
 MRS. MOXON. He mustn't find me here. 
 DREW. Their cries will have roused the cottage ; 
 they'll be looking out. This bright moonlight night 
 they'd see you go out of the door. 
 MRS. MOXON. You're right. 
 
 DREW. I must make some excuses — I was going away, 
 and you came to bid me good-bye — and then there's 
 your life — your blameless life — lived day by day before 
 him — these ten years. He's suspicious already, and 
 appearances are as bad as they can be. {Pauses, and 
 looks down at her.)
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 271 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Yes, yes. 
 
 DREW. If the worst comes to the worst — if he takes 
 Hassell's word ; if he won't believe yours — I shall do all 
 I can — ^I mean afterwards, always, everything a man can 
 do, I'll do. I'll leave the Service 
 
 MRS. MOXON (putting up her hands to prevent him going 
 on). I mustn't let you go on. What you suggest would 
 be impossible. In case you should think otherwise, I 
 had better make myself quite plain, and tell you that 
 it never could be possible — not for me. If he won't 
 believe me — if he thinks I have done something which 
 would unfit me to go back to him and the boys — it would 
 be the end of my life. Outside my home I am nothing. 
 Even if I saw things differently — ^if my upbringing, my 
 ideas, my religion were not what they are — I'm too old 
 now, too set in my ways, to make a change. I know you 
 would do everything to help me — and I have never met 
 with such devotion as yours — but, you see, no one can 
 help me now ; it's between him and me. 
 
 (drew goes up to the window, pulls the blind aside 
 and looks off, expressing growing mystification 
 as he recounts what he sees.) 
 
 DREW. There's no one in sight. I can't make it out. 
 The moon makes everything so clear, I thought I should 
 have seen him coming. Ah ! People moving near the 
 house ; three of them — a woman and two men. Now 
 one walks away — ^that must be Hassell. He's coming 
 across the garden as if he were going home, and the 
 others are going towards the house. They've gone in 
 and closed the door. 
 
 MRS. MOXON (in sudden alarm). Shut out ! He 
 wouldn't even come to look for me. He closed the door 
 and left me. 
 
 DREW {going to her). Not that. It can't be that. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. If he loved me, wouldn't he have come ? 
 Could he have helped coming ? 
 
 DREW {seizing her hands). What have I brought you 
 to? 
 
 MRS. MOXON {resisting). Let me go. 
 
 DREW. I can't let you face him alone. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I'm beyond your help now. 
 
 DREW. I can't let you go like this. No — listen. I 
 said I'd stand by you, and it's not only because I owe
 
 272 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 it to you ; it's more than that. It's from my heart. 
 My heart is yours ! My life is yours ! All I have is 
 yours if you'll take it. All I have — everything — it's 
 yours ! Don't go. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Don't stop me ! Let me go ! Don't 
 stop me ! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 h
 
 THE FOURTH ACT 
 
 SCENE. — The same as Acts I. and II. It is the morning 
 
 after Act III. 
 MISS MILLS is standing behind the table. She is 
 
 arranging flowers in a vase which stands on the table 
 
 before her. A tray of cut flowers stands beside the 
 
 vase. 
 
 (Enter captain drew /rom the open French window.) 
 
 DREW. Good-morning, Miss Mills 
 
 MISS MILLS. Good-morning. 
 
 DREW. You sent for me. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Yes. I thought of running down to see 
 you, but the world is such a gossip — especially Lucy 
 Fisher ; and Mr. White might have been at the window, 
 so to avoid the appearance of anything clandestine 
 
 DREW {cutting her short). Yes, yes, but for goodness' 
 sake, tell me why you sent for me. 
 
 MISS MILLS. To tell you it turned out better than you 
 might have expected. 
 
 DREW {very much relieved, says under his breath as he 
 half turns from her). Thank God ! 
 
 MISS MILLS {watching him). You evidently know what 
 I mean. 
 
 DREW {on his guard, turns to her). No. 
 
 MISS MILLS (provokingly). Then you won't be at all 
 interested in what I was going to tell you. 
 
 DREW {embarrassed, but trying to appear casual). Has 
 Mr. Moxon gone to the works as usual ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Yes. 
 
 DREW. Ah ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. But that's nothing to go by. If the 
 house were on fire George would go to the works as 
 usual. 
 
 VOL. I 273 T
 
 274 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 DREW {anxiously, but carefully). Isn't everything as 
 usual ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. As far as Mr. Moxon knows, it is. 
 
 DREW (relieved). Ah ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. That's the main thing, isn't it ? 
 
 DREW. Yes — is it ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. What a to-do there was last night. 
 
 DREW. Was there ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Don't pretend you don't know all about 
 it. {Looks at him before she continues, but he is inscrut- 
 able.) Mr. Moxon would have gone down to see what it 
 was — only {Pauses.) 
 
 DREW {eagerly). Why didn't he ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (delighted). Then you are just a little 
 curious ? 
 
 DREW (earnestly). Why didn't Moxon go ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (seeing how serious he is). Because / came 
 to the rescue. 
 
 DREW (surprised). You ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. The minute they came from the Fishers' 
 and began asking for Martha, I knew where she was. 
 
 DREW (wondering). Oh ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. Instinct. 
 
 DREW. Really. 
 
 MISS MILLS (importantly). Women often feel things are 
 happening. 
 
 DREW (doubtfully). Yes, but they — ^they often feel 
 things are happening when they aren't. (Crosses away 
 from her.) 
 
 MISS MILLS (annoyed). Oh ! I've a good mind not to 
 tell you now for saying that. (Talking to his back.) 
 Well — not unless you want to hear more than I want 
 to tell. (Pauses, drew turns to her.) And there must 
 be a tacit understanding between us that Martha was 
 where we both know she was. 
 
 drew (turning to her). How should / know where 
 Mrs. Moxon was ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (promptly). You shouldn't, but you do. 
 
 DREW (goes to her and looks at her with grave meaning). 
 No. / don't know, and you don't know ; but if what 
 you have to tell me can be of any service to Mrs. Moxon, 
 I had better hear it. 
 
 MISS MILLS. That's not fair. That's putting me on
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 275 
 
 my honour not to press the point further. I do think 
 I might be let into the secret a Httle more after I was 
 such a lielp. {With resignation as she places a vase of 
 flowers on mantelshelf.) But you'd better know what I 
 did. {Comes down towards him.) When that odious 
 Hassell went capering down to your place I Joined Mr. 
 Moxon in the garden. I soon found out his suspicions. 
 {In parenthesis.) It's easier to get things out of him 
 than out of you. {Continuing her narrative.) Well, I 
 spent the time telling him everything I could think of 
 against that Hassell. I'd almost convinced him that the 
 creature was untrustworthy when he came capering back 
 with his story about Martha being — you know where. 
 Then Mr. Moxon began to waver, so I said, " Can't you 
 see the man is in liquor ? " But still he was for going 
 down to look for Martha — so I let out at him. I told 
 him if he took Hassell's word against his wife and went 
 down there to look for her I should tell her and she'd 
 never forgive him. " But what can I do ? " he said. 
 " Where must I look for her ? " " Anywhere but there," 
 I said, (drew smiles gratefully at miss mills.) That 
 made a man of him. He was nearly dignified when he 
 sent Hassell about his business — and if Mr. Hassell had 
 had a tail it would have hung down. Well, then — 
 then 
 
 DREW. Then you and Mr. Moxon went into the house ? 
 
 miss mills. What makes you think that ? 
 
 DREW. What did you and Moxon do then ? 
 
 miss mills. We went into the house. {Seriously.) 
 But, of course, there was no Martha — and I could only 
 suggest sihe was strolling in the lane and had forgotten 
 how late it was. {Her expression softens.) After a little 
 while she came home. Poor Martha. She just hastened 
 upstairs without a word. 
 
 DREW. Didn't they meet ? 
 
 miss mills {faltering). No — because when I suggested 
 she was strolling in the lane — George got another idea. 
 You know, there's a little grave in the churchyard and 
 he thought she might have gone there — so he went to 
 look. {Vexed at having nearly made herself cry.) It was 
 so silly of him to think of that. He has no perception — 
 none at all. {Wipes her eyes and tries to cheer herself up.) 
 As soon as Martha was safe at home, I flew to George
 
 276 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 with the joyful news. Of course, he was for asking her 
 where she'd been, so quick as thought I said, " No. 
 Don't ask her — because you can't let her know you've 
 been anxious without letting her see you've been sus- 
 picious too." So he said nothing about it. (Smiles at 
 DREW.) Wasn't I a help ? (drew smiles at her, nods 
 gratefully, then sighs.) 
 
 DREW. I wish we hadn't had to spill so many lies. 
 
 MISS MILLS (cheerfully). Oh, but there's a difference. 
 If I tell lies to save myself, I'm a har ; but if I tell them 
 to save a friend — I'm a gentleman. And now I suppose 
 you'll sail away and the Moxons will go on just as before. 
 Poor Martha ! How dreadful it must be to belong to 
 any one. 
 
 DREW (sadly). How dreadful it is not to belong to 
 any one. 
 
 MISS MILLS. You, I suppose, are wedded to the sea. 
 
 DREW (as before). Yes, it sounds poetical, but it's 
 damned cold ! 
 
 MISS MILLS. But an unmarried naval officer is such a 
 free lance. 
 
 DREW^ (thoughtfully). Yes, until you bump up against 
 one of the big things and see right into the heart of a 
 home. Then, instead of saying, " How humdrum it is," 
 you say, " How beautiful ! " All those habits and asso- 
 ciations and family affections — what ballast they give. 
 If you've neglected to form ties and take up responsi- 
 bilities of your own, you've shirked your share in the 
 problems of life. And by and by you don't feel any 
 longer how splendid it is to be free. You feel envious 
 and ashamed and out of it. The joys of the free lance 
 aren't all they are cracked up to be. 
 
 MISS MILLS (after a pause). I wish you wouldn't talk 
 like that. You make me feel so uncomfortable. 
 
 DREW (surprised). You ? Why you ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (nearly crying). I know perfectly well it's 
 all aimed at me. 
 
 DREW. My dear Miss Mills. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh, I know you mean me. I shouldn't 
 mind you saying it — only — it's so true. I always meant 
 to marry him some time. I didn't know there was 
 any hurry. Yo^i've made me feel as if he was my last 
 chance.
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 277 
 
 DREW (kindly). We never know which is our last 
 chance till we've lost it. 
 
 MISS MILLS (thoughtfully). I like Mr. White very much, 
 but I expected to find love more devouring. I ought to 
 be ready to chop off my head for his sake. I never felt 
 that way about any one yet. 
 
 DREW. I don't think most people ever do. 
 
 MISS MILLS. I suppose it would have happened 
 by now if it was going to. (Slowly and thoughtfully.) 
 Perhaps I'd better 
 
 DREW. Not if you don't love him. 
 
 MISS MILLS. He hasn't said he wants to marry any 
 one else, has he ? He has. I can see he has. It's 
 Lucy Fisher. It's no use saying it isn't. If it wasn't, 
 you'd have said so. Lucy Fisher — that fat, freckled-faced 
 thing — my best friend, too ! Oh ! She'd better not. 
 
 (Enter ernest white. He wears flannels, miss 
 MiLLs's manner changes as soon as white ap- 
 pears ; she becomes smiling and gracious.) 
 
 miss mills (shaking hands with white). Oh ! Good- 
 morning, Mr. White. What a pleasant morning. You 
 look as if you were dressed for tennis. 
 
 WHITE. Yes. I'm on my way to the Fishers'. 
 
 miss mills (zvith repressed suspicion and anger ; taking 
 her hand away). The Fishers' ! 
 
 WHITE. I knew I should find you here. (To drew.) 
 
 DREW. It's the last time. 
 
 (He goes out.) 
 
 WHITE. He really is going away to-day. 
 
 miss mills. / shall be going away soon, too. 
 
 WHITE (in a matter-of-fact tone). Oh. (Plays with the 
 flowers on the table.) 
 
 MISS MILLS. You won't care. 
 
 WHITE. Yes, I shall. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh, no, you won't. Lucy Fisher will be 
 here. 
 
 WHITE (coming to her, in mild surprise). What makes 
 you say that ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Nothing. (W onderingly .) But I can't 
 think what you can possibly see in Lucy Fisher. 
 
 WHITE. She's a great friend of yours. 
 
 MISS MILLS. That's how I know there's nothing in her. 
 
 WHITE. What have you got against her ?
 
 278 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 MISS MILLS. Nothing ; but a girl who wastes her 
 
 mornings playing tennis 
 
 WHITE. What else should she do ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Of course, if she's not domesticated 
 
 1 must go on doing the flowers. {Seizes the scissors in 
 one hand and some flowers in the other and snips their 
 stems.) 
 
 WHITE {putting his tennis racket on ottoman). Am I in 
 the way ? (miss mills flings the scissors on the tray 
 with a clatter.) What's the matter ? 
 
 miss mills {annoyed, and trying not to cry). Nothing. 
 Please don't speak to me. {Turns away, trying to control 
 herself.) 
 
 WHITE. Have I said the wrong thing ? 
 
 (miss mills goes quickly up towards the window. 
 WHITE at flrst looks puzzled. Then a light 
 slowly breaks over his face. He goes to miss 
 mills — goes straight up to her and embraces her.) 
 
 WHITE. Izzy ! 
 
 miss mills {yielding, falls on his shoulders). Ernest ! 
 
 WHITE. I knew, if I kept on, you wouldn't be able 
 to resist me. 
 
 MISS mills {disengaging herself and laughing). Oh ! 
 How clever of you. 
 
 WHITE. I don't mean because I'm so nice, but it's the 
 only way if one isn't naturally a winner. 
 
 MISS MILLS. Don't say such dreadful things, dearest. 
 I always meant to marry you. The idea was always 
 at the back of my head. It only needed Lucy Fisher 
 to bring it to the front. And — and other things have 
 happened that have set me thinking a little. 
 
 WHITE {murmurs). Izzy ! 
 
 {Re-enter captain drew.) 
 
 DREW. Here's Moxon coming from the works. 
 
 MISS MILLS {to drew). You'll Stay and see Mm ? 
 
 DREW. Yes, I'd better — just meet him. 
 
 WHITE. I must go on to the Fishers'. 
 
 MISS MILLS {cheerfully, to white). Give my love to 
 Lucy. 
 
 white. Very well — {hesitates, very much embarrassed) 
 — darling. 
 
 {He leaves drew with miss mills.) 
 
 DREW {surprised). Darling ! {Smiles). Oh !
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 279 
 
 MISS MILLS. Yes — just now. 
 
 DREW. Then you and I are cousins. {Going towards 
 
 her.) Allow me to 
 
 MISS MILLS (thinking he is going to kiss her). Not 
 until my wedding day. 
 
 DREW. Not congratulate you ? 
 
 MISS MILLS (confused and smiling). Oh ! Thank you. 
 DREW (emotionally taking both her hands and looking 
 in her face). I'm so glad — so very glad. He's such a 
 good fellow. I hope you'll both be very happy, (miss 
 MILLS smiles back at him, realising (as he does) his own 
 loneliness. He turns away from her before he says.) He 
 knows nothing about last night ? 
 MISS MILLS. / haven't told him. 
 
 (mr. moxon is seen outside the window.) 
 DREW. And you don't think there's any danger from 
 Hassell ? 
 
 MISS MILLS. Oh, no. I'm sure George will never 
 believe anything he says now — only you and I know — 
 so she's quite safe. 
 
 (Enter moxon, with a very serious face.) 
 MISS MILLS (cheerfully). Captain Drew has called to 
 say good-bye to us. 
 
 (moxon looks at drew, who moves away to the 
 window.) 
 MOXON (to MISS mills). Has my wife told you we 
 can't ask you to stay any longer ? 
 MISS mills (surprised). No. 
 
 MOXON. You can't very well stay here alone with 
 me. Martha leaves home to-day. 
 
 (drew looks round.) 
 MISS MILLS. For long ? 
 
 MOXON. Until I decide what is best to be done, 
 MISS MILLS. Is anything the matter ? 
 MOXON. I know all about last night. 
 MISS MILLS. You've seen Mr. Hassell. You surely 
 don't take his word against ours. 
 
 MOXON. No, I don't, but this morning my wife came 
 and told me everything herself. 
 
 (drew and miss mills look at each other in dismay.) 
 MISS mills. I must go to Martha. Oh, these good 
 women ! Always most dangerous when the danger is 
 all over.
 
 280 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 {As MISS MILLS goes out of the room drew turns 
 once more to the window, and, after taking his 
 hat, stops.) 
 
 DREW {turning back). I can't go away without speak- 
 ing a word. 
 
 MOXON {interrupting him). Don't let me hear excuses. 
 
 DREW. I've none to make for myself. But she^s not 
 the one who ought to suffer. She didn't see where she 
 was drifting. / didn't look ahead. 
 
 MOXON {turning to drew resentfully). Why couldn't 
 you let us alone ? We were very happy. {Pause. He 
 meets drew's sorrowful and almost reproachful gaze and 
 becomes ashamed.) I didn't know but what she was 
 happy. {Turns away.) 
 
 DREW. I don't suppose you can believe in my good 
 faith now. But I'm sure you'll be fair and put the 
 blame in the right place. 
 
 MOXON {doubting drew's good intentions). You don't 
 like to go away feeling you've come between a man 
 and his wife. 
 
 DREW. If I were thinking of myself, would I urge 
 you to forgive her ? Last night — do^vn there — while 
 we waited and listened for your coming — you know in 
 such moments how thoughts fly and fancies crowd — 
 it seemed to me that in spite of all my efforts to save 
 her, we were being forced together. And my heart 
 leaped at the thought. 
 
 MOXON {angrily). What ! 
 
 DREW. But her thoughts were not of me. They were 
 all of home. I was nothing to her then. I realised 
 then that her only chance of abiding happiness was 
 here. 
 
 MOXON. I can't forgive her. When I think of all I 
 went through last night. I thought she was grieving 
 for the child — the little girl who died — sometimes she 
 gets so depressed about it. I'd noticed she was strange 
 last evening, and when she was missing last night, I 
 feared she might be wandering — an absence like people 
 get. I thought of the river. I reproached myself so 
 bitterly for having gone out and left her. {Resentfully.) 
 And all the while she was down there with you. 
 
 DREW. It was what she said to me then which changed 
 me — made me see that the only way I could serve her
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 281 
 
 was to efface myself, to leave her to follow the life she 
 had already taken up and half lived through. The 
 husband of such a woman as your wife need fear no 
 rival. For her there is only one man who ever really 
 enters her life. Others may offer her devotion, but no 
 one else can bring her happiness. Nobody knows that 
 better than she does. Surely the proof is in her con- 
 fession. After your suspicions were at rest — when she 
 had nothing to fear — she came and told you everything 
 herself. 
 
 MOXON. Haven't I given her everything a man could ? 
 Haven't I worked for her and been faithful to her ? 
 The least she can do is to be loyal to me. She might 
 have known that I love her. 
 
 DREW. She was starved — starved for a show of love. 
 Women can't take love for granted all the time. There 
 is in every woman such an everlasting need for love — 
 love shown and expressed. It's a need of her nature 
 which must be satisfied. 
 
 MOXON. I've got none of those ways which seem to 
 please women. 
 
 DREW. If she feels your heart is towards her, I don't 
 think the words and the ways would matter much. 
 
 {Enter mrs. moxon with a basket of keys in her 
 hand.) 
 
 MRS. MOXON. I've brought the keys. {Stops as she 
 sees DREW. DREW looks at mrs. moxon. moxon does 
 not notice drew.) 
 
 DREW. Mrs. Moxon, my leave is up. Good-bye ! 
 
 {He hastens from the room.) 
 
 {In the following scene mr. and mrs. moxon are 
 
 both timid and embarrassed, mrs. moxon 
 
 crosses to moxon and takes a key from the 
 
 basket. ) 
 
 MRS. moxon. This is the key of the linen chest — 
 {puts it back and produces another) — and this is the key 
 of the 
 
 MOXON {interrupting her awkwardly). Martha ! I 
 begin to see that for years I've not been as kind as I 
 might have been. You didn't think I didn't love you, 
 did you ? 
 
 MRS. MOXON. We seem not to have thought of that 
 lately. It's so long since you and I had a real talk.
 
 282 
 
 CAPTAIN DREW ON LEAVE 
 
 {Puts the basket on the ottoman. She watches him, hardly 
 daring to hope.) 
 
 MOXON {turning to her). I can't let you go. I can't. 
 Martha, suppose we go together and see the boys. 
 
 MRS. MOXON. Oh, yes, George — let us go and see the 
 boys. {They embrace.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 END OF VOL. I 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.
 
 >R 
 
 00' 1 
 
 
 .J 
 / 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 
 Series 9482 

 
 3 1205 02112 6394 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILIP 
 
 A A 001 432 253