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 POLITE FARCES
 
 BY ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 Novels 
 
 THE OLD WIVES' TALE 
 
 HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND 
 
 THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS 
 
 THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA 
 
 BURIED ALIVE 
 
 A GREAT MAN 
 
 LEONORA 
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 A MAN FROM THE NORTH 
 
 ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS 
 
 THE GLIMPSE 
 
 Pocket Philosophies 
 
 HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A DAY 
 THE HUMAN MACHINE 
 LITERARY TASTE 
 MENTAL EFFICIENCY 
 
 Plays 
 
 CUPID AND COMMONSENSE : A Play 
 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS: A Play 
 POLITE FARCES: Three Plays 
 MILESTONES: A Play 
 THE HONEYMOON: A Play 
 
 Miscellaneous 
 
 THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR 
 THE FEAST OF ST. FRIEND 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK
 
 POLITE FARCES 
 
 FOR THE DRAWING-ROOM 
 
 BY 
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 Author of "The Old Wives' Talc," 
 'How to Live on Twenty-four Hours a Day," etc. 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
 
 rh. 
 
 £^1 f% 
 
 UBWABY 
 
 rrATE TEACHERS couLeat 
 
 •ANTA BARBARA. ^* . ORMtA 
 
 TO 
 
 F. C. B. 
 
 MY BROTHER AND COLLEAGUE
 
 NOTE 
 
 The three farces comprising the present book 
 have been written for drawing-room pcrfonnance. 
 Dumas yere, the father of modem drama, once 
 said that all he needed was " four trestles, four 
 boards, two actors, and a passion." For myself, I 
 have dispensed with the trestles, the boards, and 
 the passion, since none of these things is suitable 
 for a drawing-room. The only apparatus neces- 
 sary to the presentation of the pieces is ordinary 
 costume, ordinary furniture, and a single door 
 for entrance and exit. 
 
 A. B.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Stepmother. {Farce in One Act) ... 5 
 A Good Woman {Farce in One Act) . . . . 39 
 A Question of Sex {Farce in One Act) ... 69
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 FARCE IN ONE ACT
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Cora Prout, a Popular Novelist and a Widow, SO. 
 
 Adrian Prout, her Stepson, 20. 
 
 Thomas Gardner, a Doctor, 35. 
 
 Christine Feversham, Mrs. Prout's Secretary, 20.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Scene. — Mrs. Proufs study: luxuriously fur- 
 nished; large table in centre, upon which are a 
 new novel, press-cuttings, and the usual ap- 
 paratus of literary composition. Christine is 
 seated at tlie large table, ready for work, and 
 awaiting the advent of Mrs. Prout. To pass 
 the time she picks up the novel, the leaves of 
 which are not cut, and glances at a page here 
 and there. Enter Mrs. Prout, hurried and 
 preoccupied; tJie famous novelist is attired in 
 a plain morning goxcn, which in the perfection 
 of its cut displays the beauty of her figure. 
 She nods absently to Christine, and sits down 
 in an armchair away from the table. 
 
 Christine. Good morning, Mrs. Prout. I'm 
 afraid you are still sleeping badly. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Do I look it, girl ? 
 
 Christine. You don't specially look it, Mrs. 
 Prout. But I observe. You are my third novel- 
 ist, and they have all taught me to observe. Be- 
 fore I took up novelists I was with a Member of 
 Parliament, and he never observed anything ex- 
 cept five-line whips. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Really ! Five-line whips ! Oblige 
 5
 
 6 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 me by putting that down in Notebook No. 2. 
 There will be an M.P. in that wretched thirty- 
 thousand word thing I've promised for the Christ- 
 mas number of the New York Surpriser and it 
 might be useful. I might even make an epigram 
 out of it. 
 
 Christine. Yes, Mrs. Front \_writes']. 
 
 Mrs. Prouf. And what are your observations 
 about me.'* 
 
 Christine \_while writingl. Well, this is twice in 
 three weeks that you've been here five minutes late 
 in the morning. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Is that all.? You don't think my 
 stuff's falling off? 
 
 Christine. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout ! I know it's not 
 falling off. I was just going to tell you. The 
 butler's been in, and wished me to infonn you that 
 he begged to give notice [looJcing up^. It seems 
 that last night you ordered him to cut the leaves 
 of our new novel ^[patting hooJc maternally'\. He 
 said he just looked into it, and he thinks it's dis- 
 graceful to ask a respectable butler to cut the 
 leaves of such a book. So he begs to give warn- 
 ing. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout, your stuff isn't fall- 
 ing off. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [grmZ?/]. What did you say to 
 him, girl? 
 
 Christine. First I looked at him, and then I said, 
 " Brown, you will probably be able to get a place 
 on the reviewing staff of The Methodist Recorder.*'
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 7 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Christine, one day, I really be- 
 lieve, you will come to employ a secretary of your 
 own. 
 
 Christine. I hope so, Mrs. Prout. But I in- 
 tend to keep off the morbid introspection line. 
 You do that so awfully well. I think I shall go 
 in for smart dialogue, with marquises and country 
 houses, and a touch of old-fashioned human nature 
 at the bottom. It appears to me that's what's 
 coming along very shortly. . , , Shall we be- 
 gin, Mrs. Prout? 
 
 Mrs. Prout [disinclined']. Yes, I suppose so 
 [clearing her throat]. By the way, anything spe- 
 cial in the press-cuttings ? 
 
 Christine. Nothing very special [fingering the 
 pile of press-cuttings]. The Morning Call says, 
 " genius in every line." 
 
 Mrs. Prout [blase]. Hum? 
 
 Christine. The Daily Reporter: " Cora Prout 
 may be talented — we should hesitate to deny it — 
 but she is one of several of our leading novelists 
 who should send themselves to a Board School in 
 order to learn grammar." 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Grammar again ! They must keep 
 a grammar in the office ! Personally I think it's 
 frightfully bad form to talk about grammar to a 
 lady. But they never had any taste at the Re- 
 porter. Don't read me any more. Let us com- 
 mence work. 
 
 Christine. Wlilch will you do, Mrs. Prout.'*
 
 8 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 [^consulting a diary of engagements.^ There's the 
 short story for the Illustrated MontMy, six thou- 
 sand, promised for next Saturday. There's the 
 article on " Women's Diversions " for the British 
 Review — they wrote for that yesterday. There's 
 the serial that begins in the Sunday Daily Sentin£l 
 in September — you've only done half the first in- 
 stalment of that. And of course there's Heart 
 Ache. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. I think I'll go on with Heart Ache. 
 I feel it coming. I'll do the short story for the 
 Illustrated to-morrow. Where had I got to? 
 
 Christine \_choosing the correct notebook, 
 reads^. " The inanimate form of the patient lay 
 like marble on the marble slab of the operating- 
 table. ' The sponge, Nurse,' said the doctor, 
 * where is it? ' " That's where you'd got to. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Yes. I remember. New line. 
 " Isabel gazed at him imperturbably." New line. 
 Quote-marks. " ' I fear, Doctor,' she remarked, 
 ' that in a moment of forgetfulness you have sewn 
 it up in our poor patient.' " New line. Quote- 
 marks. " ' Damn ! ' said the doctor, ' so I have.' " 
 Rather good, that, Christine, eh? \_Christine 
 •writes in shortliand.~\ 
 
 Christine. Oh, Mrs. Prout, I think it's beauti- 
 ful. So staccato and crisp. By the way, I forgot 
 to tell you that there's a leader in the Daily Snail 
 on that friglitful anonymous attack in the Forum 
 against your medical accuracy \loo1cing at Mrs.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 9 
 
 Prouty who is silent, but shows signs of agitation'\. 
 You remember — " JNIedicine in Fiction." The 
 Snail backs up the Forum for all it's worth. 
 . Mrs. Prout, you are ill. I was sure you 
 were. What can I get for you ? 
 
 Mrs. Prout [^weaMi/ wiping her eyes']. Non- 
 sense, Christine. I am a little unstrung, that is 
 all. I want nothing. 
 
 Christine. Your imagination is too much for 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. Prout {mee1dy'\. Perhaps so. 
 
 Christine {jtrmly]. But it isn't all due to an 
 abnormal imagination. You've never been quite 
 cheerful since you turned Mr. Adrian out. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. You forget yourself, Christine. 
 
 Christine. I forget nothing, Mrs. Prout, my- 
 self least of all. Mr. Adrian is your dead hus- 
 band's son, and you turned him out of your house, 
 and now you're sorry. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Christine, you know perfectly well 
 that I — er — requested him to go because he 
 would insist on making love to you, which inter- 
 fered with our work. Besides, it was not quite nice 
 for a man to make love to the secretary of his step- 
 mother. I wonder you are indelicate enough to 
 refer to the matter. You should never have per- 
 mitted his advances. 
 
 Christine. I didn't permit them. I wasn't 
 asked to. I tolerated them. I hadn't been secre- 
 tary to a lady-novelist with a stepson before, and I
 
 10 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 wasn't quite sure what was included in the duties. 
 I always like to give satisfaction. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. You do give satisfaction. Let 
 that end the discussion. 
 
 Christine \^pouting; turning to her notebook; 
 reads^ . " ' Damn ! ' said the doctor, 'sol have ' " 
 [pausel. "'Damn!' said the doctor, * so I 
 have ' " ![pause'] . 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Christine, did you find out who 
 was the author of that article on " Medicine in 
 Fiction".? 
 
 Christine. Is that what's bothering you, Mrs. 
 Prout.? Of course it was a nasty attack, but it is 
 very unlike you to trouble about critics. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. It has hurt me more than I can 
 say. That was why I asked you to make a few 
 discreet inquiries. 
 
 Christine. I did ask at my club. 
 
 3Irs. Prout. And what did they think there? 
 
 Christine. They laughed at me, and said every 
 one knew you had written it yourself just to keep 
 the silly season alive, July being a sickly month 
 for reputations. 
 
 3Irs. Prout. What did you say to that? 
 
 Christine. I should prefer not to repeat it. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Christine, I insist. Your modesty 
 is becoming a disease. 
 
 Christine. I said they were fools 
 
 Mrs. Prout. A little abrupt, perhaps, but ef- 
 fective.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 11 
 
 Christine. Not to see that the grammar was 
 different from ours. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Oh ! that was what you said, 
 was it? 
 
 Christine. It was, and it settled them. 
 
 Mrs. Prout {^assuming a confidential airl. 
 Clu'istinc, I beheve I know who wrote that ar- 
 ticle. 
 
 Ch rist ine. Who ? 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Dr. Gardner \hursts into tears'\. 
 
 Christine [soothing her'\. But he lives on the 
 floor below, in the very flat underneath this. 
 
 Mrs. Prout {^choMng hack her sohs^. Yes. It 
 is too dreadful. 
 
 Christine. But he comes here nearly every even- 
 ing. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [s/mrpZ?/]. Who told you that? 
 
 Christine. Now, IVIrs. Prout, let me implore you 
 to be calm. The butler told me. I didn't ask 
 him, and as I cannot be expected to foretell what 
 my employer's butler will say before he opens his 
 mouth, I am not to blame [compresses her lips'\. 
 Shall we continue? 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Christine, do you think it was Dr. 
 Gardner? I would give worlds to know. 
 
 Christine [coldly analytic'\. Do you mean that 
 you would give worlds to know that it was Dr. 
 Gardner, or that it wasn't Dr. Gardner ? Or would 
 give worlds merely to know the author's name — no 
 matter who he might be?
 
 12 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Mrs. Prout [^sighmgl. You are dreadfully un- 
 sympathetic this morning. 
 
 Christine. I am placid, nothing else. Please 
 recollect that when you engaged me you asked if 
 you might rely on me to be placid, as your pre- 
 vious secretary, when you dictated the pathetic 
 chapters, had wept so freely into her notebook that 
 she couldn't transcribe her stuff, besides perma- 
 nently injuring her eyesight. Since you ask my 
 opinion as to Dr. Gardner being the author of this 
 attack on you, I say that he isn't. Apart from the 
 facts that he lives on the floor below, and that he 
 is, so the butler says, a constant visitor in the even- 
 ings, there is the additional fact — a fact which I 
 have several times observed for myself without the 
 assistance of the butler — that he likes you. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. You have noticed that. It is true. 
 But the question is: Does he like me sufficiently 
 not to attack my work in the public press ? That 
 is the point. The writer of that cruel article be- 
 gins by saying that he has no personal animus, and 
 that he is actuated solely by an enthusiasm for the 
 cause of medicine and the medical profession. 
 
 Christine. You mean to infer, Mrs. Prout, that 
 the author of the article might, as a man, like you, 
 while as a doctor he despised you.'* 
 
 Mrs. Prout [whimpering again'\. That is my 
 suspicion. 
 
 Christine. But Dr. Gardner does more than like 
 you. He adores you.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 13 
 
 Mrs. Prout. He adores my talent, my genius, 
 my fame, my wealth ; but docs he adore me? I am 
 not an ordinary woman, and it is no use pretend- 
 ing that I am. I must think of these things. 
 
 Christine. Neither is Dr. Gardner an ordinary 
 doctor. His researches into toxicology 
 
 Mrs. Prout. His researches are nothing to me. 
 I wish he wasn't a doctor at all. 
 
 Christine. Even doctors have their place in the 
 world, Mrs. Prout. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. They should not meddle with fic- 
 tion, poking their noses 
 
 Christine. But if fiction meddles with them? 
 You know fiction is really very meddle- 
 some. It pokes its nose with great industry. 
 
 Mrs. Prout \_pullvng herself together!^. Chris- 
 tine, you have never understood me. Let us con- 
 tinue. 
 
 Christine [with an offended air, turning once 
 more to her notebool''\. " ' Damn! ' said the doc- 
 tor, ' so I have.' " 
 
 Mrs. Prout \_coughing'\ . New line. " A smile 
 flashed across the lips of Isabel as she took up a 
 
 glittering knife " \^gives a great so6]. Oh, 
 
 Christine ! I'm sure Dr. Gardner wrote it. 
 
 Christine. Very well, madam. He wrote it. 
 We have at last settled something. '[Mrs. Prout 
 buries her face in her hands. Christine looTcs up, 
 and after an instanfs pause springs toward her."] 
 You poor dear ! You arc perfectly hysterical this
 
 14 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 morning. You must go and lie down for a little. 
 A horizontal posture is what you need. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Perhaps you are right. I will 
 leave you for an hour \_totters to her feet^. Take 
 down this note for Dr. Gardner. He may call this 
 morning. In fact, I rather think he will. " The 
 answer to the question is ' No ' " — capital N, 
 
 Christine. Shall I sign it.f* 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Yes ; sign it " C. P." And if he 
 comes, give it him yourself, and say that I can see 
 no one. And, Christine, would you mind \_cr7/ing 
 gentle/ again] seeing the b-b-butler, and try to rea- 
 son him into a sensible attitude towards my n-n-nov- 
 els. In my present state of health I couldn't stand 
 any change. And he is so admirable at table. 
 
 Christine. Shall I offer some compromise in our 
 next novel ? I might inquire what is the irreducible 
 minimum of his demands. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [faintly]. Anything, anything, if 
 he will stay. 
 
 Christine [following Mrs. Prout to tJie door, and 
 touching her shoulder caressingly]. Try to sleep. 
 [Exit Mrs. Prout. Christine whistles in a low 
 tone as she returns meditatively to her seat.] 
 
 Christine [looking at notebook]. " Isabel took 
 up a glittering knife," did she ? " The answer to 
 the question is ' No,' " with a capital A^. " C. P." 
 sounds like Carter Paterson. Now, as I have noth- 
 ing to do, I think I will devote the morning to an 
 article on " Hysteria in Lady Novelists." Um !
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 15 
 
 Ah ! " The answer to the question is * No ' " — 
 capital A^. What question? Can it be that the 
 lily-wliite hand of the author of Heart Ache 
 has . . . [hnocl:^. Come in. [Enter Dr. 
 Gardner. '\ 
 
 Gardner. Oh, good morning, Miss Feversham. 
 
 Christine. Good morning, Dr. Gardner. You 
 seem surprised to see me here. Yet I am to be 
 found in this chair daily at this hour. 
 
 Gardner. Not at all, not at all. I assure you 
 I fully expected to find both you and the chair. I 
 also expected to find Mrs. Prout. 
 
 Christine. Are you capable of interrupting our 
 literary labours.'* We do not receive callers so 
 early. Dr. Gardner. Which reminds tliat I have 
 several times remarked that this study ought not 
 to have a door opening Into the corridor. 
 
 Gardner. As for that, may I venture to offer 
 the excuse that I had an appointment with Mrs. 
 Prout? 
 
 Christine. At what hour? She never makes 
 appointments before noon. 
 
 Gardner. I believe she did say twelve o'clock. 
 
 Christine [looling at her xeatch']. And it Is 
 now twenty-five minutes to ten. Punctuality Is a 
 virtue. You may be said to have raised it to the 
 (dignity of a fine art. 
 
 Gardner. I will wait [sits down^. I trust I 
 ido not interrupt? 
 
 Christine. Yes, Doctor, I regret to say that
 
 16 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 you do. I was about to commence the composition 
 of an article. 
 
 Gardner. Upon what? 
 
 Christ'mc. Upon " Hysteria in Lady Novelists." 
 It is ray specialty. 
 
 Gardner. Surely lady novelists are not hyster- 
 ical.'^ 
 
 Christine. The increase of hysteria among that 
 class of persons is one of the saddest features of 
 the age. 
 
 Gardner. Dear me! [enthusiastic ally'\. But I 
 can tell you the name of one lady novelist who isn't 
 hysterical — and that, perhaps, the greatest name 
 of all — Mrs. Prout. 
 
 Christine. Of course not, of course not, Doc- 
 tor. Nevertheless, Mrs. Prout is somewhat indis- 
 posed this morning. 
 
 Gardner. Cora — ill ! What is it ? Nothing 
 serious ? 
 
 Christine. Rest assured. The merest slight in- 
 disposition. Just sufficient to delay us an hour or 
 two with our work. Nothing more. Nerves, you 
 know. The Imagination of a great artist. Dr. 
 Gardner, is often too active, too stressful, for the 
 frail physical organism. 
 
 Gardner. Ah ! You regard Mrs. Prout as a 
 great artist? 
 
 Christine. Doctor — even to ask such a ques- 
 tion . . .! Do not you?
 
 THE STErMOTIIER 17 
 
 Gardner, I? To me slie is unique. I say, 
 Miss Feversham, "were jou ever in love? 
 
 Christine. In love? I have had preferences. 
 
 Gardner. Among men? 
 
 Christine. No ; among boys. Recollect I am 
 only twenty, though singularly precocious in 
 shrewdness and calm judgment. 
 
 Gardner. Twenty? You amaze me. Miss 
 Feversham. I have often been struck by your 
 common sense and knowledge of the world. They 
 would do credit to a woman of fifty. 
 
 Christine. I am glad to notice that you do not 
 stoop to offer me vulgar compliments about my 
 face. 
 
 Gardner. I am incapable of such conduct. I 
 esteem your mental qualities too highly. And so 
 you have had your preferences among boys? 
 
 Christine. Yes, I like to catch them from 
 eighteen to twenty. They are so sweet and fresh 
 then, like new milk. The employe of the Express 
 Dairy Company who leaves me my half-pint at my 
 lodgings each morning is a perfectly lovely dear. 
 I adore him. 
 
 Gardner. He is one of your preferences, 
 then? 
 
 Christine. A preference among milkmen, of 
 whom, as I change my lodgings frequently, I have 
 known many. Then there is the postman — not a 
 day more than eighteen, I am sure, tliough that is
 
 18 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 contrary to the regulations of St. Martin's-le- 
 Grand. Dr. Gardner, you sJiould see my postman. 
 When lie brings them I can receive even rejected 
 articles with equanimity. 
 
 Gardner. I should be channed to see him. But 
 tell me, Miss Feversham, have you had no serious 
 preferences ? 
 
 Christine. You seem interested in this question 
 of preferences. 
 
 Gardner. I am. 
 
 Christine. Doctor, I will open my heart to you. 
 It Is conceivable you may be of use to me. You 
 are on friendly terms with Adrian, and doubtless 
 you know the history of his exit from this house. 
 [Gardner nods, with a smile.^ Doctor, he and I 
 are passionately attached to each other. Our ages 
 are precisely alike. It is a beautiful idyll, or 
 rather it would be, if dear Mrs. Prout did not try 
 to transform it into a tragedy. She has not only 
 turned the darling boy out, but she has absolutely 
 forbidden him the house. 
 
 Gardner. Doubtless she had her reasons. 
 
 Christine. Oh, I'm sure she had. Only, you 
 see, her reasons aren't ours. Of course we could 
 marry at once If we chose. I could easily keep 
 Adrian. I do not, however, wish to inconvenience 
 dear Mrs. Prout. It is a mistake to quarrel with 
 the rich relations of one's future husband. But I 
 was thinking that perhaps you, Doctor, might 
 persuade dear Mrs. Prout that my marriage to
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 19 
 
 Adrian need not necessarily interfere with the per- 
 formance of my duties as her secretary. 
 
 Gardner. Anything that I can do, Miss Fever- 
 sham, you may rely on me doing. 
 
 Christina. You are a dear. 
 
 Gardner. But why should you imagine that I 
 have any influence with Mrs. Prout? 
 
 Christine. I do not imagine ; I know. It is my 
 unerring insight over again, my faultless obsen^a- 
 tion. Doctor, you did not begin to question me 
 about love because you were interested in my love 
 affairs, but because you were interested in your 
 own, and couldn't keep off the subject. I read you 
 like a book. You love Mrs. Prout, my dear Doc- 
 tor. Therefore you have influence over her. 
 No woman is uninfluenced by the man wlio loves 
 her. 
 
 Gardner [laughing hetween self-satisfaction and 
 self-consciousnessl. You have noticed that I ad- 
 mire Mrs. Prout.'' It appears that nothing escapes 
 you. 
 
 Christine. That is a trifle. The butler has no- 
 ticed it. 
 
 Gardner. The butler! 
 
 Christine. The butler. 
 
 Gardner [with abandon^. Let him. Let the 
 whole world notice. Miss Feversham, be it known 
 that I love INIrs. Prout with passionate adoration. 
 Before the day is out I shall either be her affianced 
 bridegroom — or I shall be a dead man.
 
 20 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Christine [leaning forward; in a low, tense 
 voice^. You proposed to her last night? 
 
 Gardner. I did. 
 
 Christine. And you were to come for the an- 
 swer this morning? 
 
 Gardner. Yes. Can you not guess that I am 
 eager — excited? Can you not pardon me for 
 thinking it is noon at twenty-five minutes to ten? 
 Ah, Miss Fevcrsham, if Adrian adores you with 
 one-tenth of the fire with which I adore Mrs. 
 Prout 
 
 Christine. Stop, Doctor. I do not wish to be 
 a burnt sacrifice. Now let me ask you a question. 
 You have seen that attack on Mrs. Prout, entitled 
 " Medicine in Fiction," in this month's Forum. 
 Do you know the author of it? 
 
 Gardner. I don't. Has it disturbed Mrs. 
 Prout? 
 
 Christine. It has. Did she not mention It to 
 you? 
 
 Gardner. Not a word. If I did know the au- 
 thor of it, if I ever do know the author of it, I 
 will tear him [fiercely^ limb from limb. 
 
 Christine. I trust you Avill chloroform him first. 
 It will be hon'id of you if you don't. 
 
 Gardner. I absolutely decline to chloroform 
 him first. 
 
 Christine. You must. 
 
 Gardner. I won't. 
 
 Christina. Never mind. Perhaps you will be
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 21 
 
 dead. Remember that you have promised to kill 
 yourself to-daj on a certain contingency. 
 Should you really do it.? Should you really put 
 an end to your life if JNIrs. Prout gave you a re- 
 fusal ? 
 
 Gardner. I swear it. Existence would be 
 valueless to me. 
 
 Christine. By the way, INIrs. Prout told me that 
 if you called I Avas to say that she could sec no one. 
 
 Gardner. See no one! But she prom- 
 ised . . 
 
 Christine. However, she left a note. 
 
 Gardner \_starting up']. Give it me instantly. 
 Why didn't you give it me before? 
 
 Christine. I had no opportunity. Besides, I 
 haven't transcribed it yet. It was dictated. 
 
 Gardner. Dictated? Are you snxc^ 
 
 Christine [^seriously]. Oh, yes, she dictates 
 everything. 
 
 Gardner. Well, well, read it to me, read it to 
 me. Quick, I say. 
 
 Christine [turning over leaves rapidly]. Here 
 it is. Are you listening.'' 
 
 Gardner. Great Heaven ! 
 
 Christine [reads from her shorthand note], 
 " The answer to your question is " 
 
 Gardner. Go on. 
 
 Christine [dratclng her breath f^rst]. "Yes. — 
 C. P." There ! I've saved your life for you. 
 
 Gardner. You have Indeed, my dear girl. But
 
 22 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 I must see her. I must see my beloved Cora. 
 
 Christine [^taking his hand^. Accept my advice, 
 Doctor — the advice of a simple, artless girl. Do 
 not attempt to see her to-day. There are seasons 
 of emotion when a woman [^stops^. . . . Go 
 downstairs and write to her, and then give the let- 
 ter to me. l^Pats hirni on the bacJt.] 
 
 Gardner. I will, by Jove. Miss Feversham, 
 you're a good sort. And as you've told me some- 
 thing, I'll tell you something. Adrian is going 
 to storm the castle to-day. 
 
 Christine. Adrian ! \^A knock. Enter Adrian.'\ 
 
 Adrian. Since you command it, I enter. 
 
 Gardner. Let me pass, bold youth. \^Exit Dr. 
 Gardner hurriedly.^ 
 
 Adrian [overcome hy Gardner'' s haste'\. Why 
 this avalanche.'^ Has something happened sud- 
 denly .? 
 
 Christine. Several things have happened sud- 
 denly, Adrian, and several more will probably hap- 
 pen when your mamma discovers that you are defy- 
 ing her orders in this audacious manner. Why 
 are you here.'' \^Kisses 7iiw.] You perfect duck! 
 
 Adrian \^gravelif\. I am not here. Miss Fever- 
 sham 
 
 Christine. " Miss Feversham " — and my kiss 
 still warm on his lips ! 
 
 Adrian. I repeat. Miss Feversham, that I am 
 not here. This [^pointing to hiniself'\ is not I. It 
 is merely a rather smart member of the staff of the
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 23 
 
 Daily Snail, come to interview Cora Prout, the 
 celebrated novelist. 
 
 Christine. And I have kissed a Snail reporter. 
 Ugh! 
 
 Adrian. Impetuosity has ruined many women. 
 
 Christine. It is a morning of calamities \_as~ 
 suming the secretarial pose^ . Your card, please. 
 
 Adrian [handing card^. With pleasure. 
 
 Christine [^takirig card by the extreme corner, 
 perusing it with disdain, and then dropping it on 
 the floorl . We never see interviewers in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Adrian. Then I will call this afternoon. 
 
 Christine. You must write for an appointment. 
 
 Adrian. Oh ! I'll take my chances, thanks. 
 
 Christine. We never give them: it is our rule. 
 We have to be very particular. The fact is, we 
 hate being interviewed, and we only submit to the 
 process out of a respectful regard for tlie great 
 and enhghtencd public. Any sort of notoriety, 
 any suggestion of self-advertisement, is distaste- 
 ful to us. What do you wish to interview us 
 about.'* If it's the new novel, we arc absolutely 
 mum. Accept that from me. 
 
 Adrian. It isn't the new novel. The Snail 
 wishes to know whether Mrs. Prout feels inclined 
 to make any statement in reply to that article, 
 "'Medicine in Fiction," in the Forum. 
 
 Christine. Oh, Adrian, do you know anything 
 about that article.-*
 
 24 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Adrian. Rather! I know all about it. 
 
 Christine. You treasure! You invaluable dar- 
 ling ! I will marry you to-morrow morning by 
 special licence 
 
 Adrian. Recollect, it is a Snail reporter whom 
 you are addressing. Suppose I were to print that ! 
 
 Christine. Just so. You are prudence itself, 
 while I, for the moment, happen to be a little — a 
 little abnormal. I saved a man's life this morn- 
 ing, and it is apt to upset one's nerves. It is a 
 dreadful thing to do — to save a man's life. And 
 the consequences will be simply frightful for me 
 [^buries her face in her hands^. 
 
 Adrian. Christine \_taJcing her hands'\, what 
 are you raving about.? You are not yourself. 
 
 Christine. I wish I wasn't \looJdng up with 
 forced calni]. Adrian, there is a possibility of 
 your being able to save me from the results of my 
 horrible act, if only you will tell me the name of 
 the author of that article in the Forum. 
 
 Adrian \_tenderl7j^. Christine, you little know 
 what you ask. But for you I will do anything. 
 . . . Kiss me, my white hly. \^She kisses 
 Am.] 
 
 Christine [whispersl. Tell me. \^He folds her 
 up in his arms.^ 
 
 Enter Mrs. Trout excitedly. 
 
 Mrs. Trout [as she enters^. Christine, that ap- 
 palling butler has actually left the house . 
 [^observing group'l. Heavens!
 
 THE STEP.AIOTIIER 25 
 
 Christine {^qulctly disengaging herself^. You 
 seem a little better, I\Irs. Trout. A persou to inter- 
 view jou from the Daily Snail \^pointing to 
 Adrian^. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Adrian ! 
 
 Adrian. Yes, Mamma. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [^opening her lips to speak and tlicn 
 closing them^. Sit down. 
 
 Adrian. Certainl^^, Mamma [.sj^s]. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. How dare jou come here.'' 
 
 Adrian. I don't know how, INIamma \^picks up 
 his card from the floor and hands it to her; then 
 resumes his seat]. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [glancing at card]. Pah! 
 
 Christine. That's just what I told the person, 
 ]Mrs. Prout. [il/r*. Prout hums her up with a 
 glance.] 
 
 Mrs. Prout. You have, then, abandoned your 
 medical studies, for wliich I had paid all the fees.'* 
 
 Adrian. Yes, Mamma. You see, I was obliged 
 to earn something at once. So I took to journal- 
 ism. I am getting on quite nicely. The editor 
 of the Snail says that I may review your next book. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Unnatural stepson, to review in 
 cold blood the novel of your own stepmother ! But 
 this morning I am getting used to misfortunes. 
 
 Adrian. It cuts me to the heart to hear you 
 refer to any action of mine as a misfortune for 
 you. Perhaps you would prefer that I should at 
 once relieve you of my presence.''
 
 26 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Decidedly, yes — that is, if Chris- 
 tine thinks she can do without the fifth act of that 
 caress which I inteiTupted. 
 
 Christine. The curtain was akeady falHng, 
 madam. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Very well. [To Adrian.^ Good- 
 day. 
 
 Adrian. As a stepson I retire. As the " spe- 
 cial " of the Daily Snail I must insist on remain- 
 ing. A " special " of the Daily Snail is incapable 
 of being snubbed. He knows what he wants, and 
 he gets it, or he ceases to be a " special " of the 
 Daily Snail. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. I esteem the press, and though I 
 should prefer an existence of absolute privacy, I 
 never refuse its demands. I sacrifice myself to my 
 public, freely acknowledging that a great artist 
 has no exclusive right to the details of his own 
 daily life. A great artist belongs to the world. 
 What is it you want, Mr. Snail? 
 
 Adrian. I want to know whether you care to 
 say anything in reply to that article on " Medicine 
 in Fiction " in the Forum. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [sinking hacJc in despair"]. That 
 article again! [sitting up]. Tell me — do you 
 know the author,? 
 
 Adrian. I do. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. His name ! 
 
 Adrian. He is a friend of mine. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. His name !
 
 THE STErMOTHER 27 
 
 Adrian. I am informed that in writing it he 
 was actuated by the liighcst motives. His desire 
 was not onlj^ to make a httle money, but to revenge 
 himself against a person who had deeply injured 
 him. He didn't know much about medicine, being 
 only a student, and probably the larger part of his 
 arguments could not be sustained, but he knew 
 enough to make a show, and he made it. 
 
 Mrs. Prouf. His name ! I insist. 
 
 Adrian. Adrian Spout or Prout — I have a 
 poor memory. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Is it possible? 
 
 Christine. Monster ! 
 
 Adrian. Need I defend my self , Mamma ? Con- 
 sider what you had done to me. You had devas- 
 tated my young heart, which was just unfolding 
 to its first passion. You had blighted the spring- 
 time of the exquisite creature [looJcing at Chris- 
 tine, "who is moved hy the feeling in his ton€s'\ — 
 the exquisite creature who was dearer to me than 
 all the world. In place of the luxury of my late 
 father's house you offered me — the street. . . . 
 
 Christine. [Yes . . . and Gower Street. 
 
 Adrian. You, who should have gently fostered 
 and encouraged the ifrail buds of my energy and 
 intelligence — you cast me forth . 
 
 Christine. Cast them forth. 
 
 Adrian. Cast them forth, untimely plucked, to 
 wither, and perhaps die, in the deserts of a great 
 city. And for what.'' For what?
 
 28 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Christine. Merely lest she should be deprived 
 of ?wz/ poor services. Ah! Mrs. Prout, can you 
 wonder that Mr. Adrian should actively resent 
 such conduct — you with your marvellous knowl- 
 edge of human nature.? 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Adrian, did you really write It? 
 
 Adrian. Why, of course. You seem rather 
 pleased than otherwise. Mamma. 
 
 Mrs. Prout \^after cogitating'\ . Ah ! You 
 didn't write it, really. You are just boasting. It 
 is a plot, a plot ! 
 
 Adrian. I can prove that I wrote it, since you 
 impugn my veracity. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. How can you prove It ? 
 
 Adrian. By producing the cheque which I re- 
 ceived from the Forum this very morning. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Produce it, and I will forgive all. 
 
 Adrian l^with a sign to Christine that he entirely 
 fails to comprehend the situation'^. I fly. It is 
 in my humble attic, round the comer. Back in 
 two minutes. \_Eocit Adrian.^ 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Christine, did he really write It? 
 
 Christine. Can you doubt his word? Was it 
 for lying that you ejected the poor youth from this 
 residence ? 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Ah! If he did! [^smiles.^ Of 
 course Dr. Gardner has not called? 
 
 Christine. Yes, he was in about twenty minutes 
 ago.
 
 THE STEriAIOTIIER 29 
 
 Mrs. Front [^agon'ised]. Did you give him my 
 note ? 
 
 Christine. No. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Thank Heaven ! 
 
 Christine. I had not copied it out, so I read it 
 to him. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. You read it to him? 
 
 Christine. Yes ; that seemed the obvious thing 
 to do. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [in black despair^. All is over 
 [sinks back^. 
 
 Enter Dr. Gardner hastily. 
 
 Christine. Again ? 
 
 Gardner [excited~\. I was looking out of the 
 window of my flat when I saw Adrian tear along 
 the street. I said to myself, " A man, even a re- 
 porter, only runs like that when a doctor is re- 
 quired, and urgently required. Some one is ill, 
 perhaps my darling Cora." So I flew upstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [with a shriek']. Dr. Gardner! 
 
 Gardner. You are indeed ill, my beloved [ap- 
 proaching her]. What is the matter? 
 
 Mrs. Prout [zvaving him off]. It is nothing, 
 Doctor. Could you get me some salts? I have 
 mislaid mine [sighs]. 
 
 Gardner. Salts! In an instant. [Exit Dr. 
 Gardner.] 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Christine, 3'ou said you read my 
 note to Dr. Gardner.
 
 30 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Christine. Yes, Mrs. Prout. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. His behaviour is singular in the 
 extreme. He seems positively overjoyed, while 
 
 the freedom of his endearing epithets What 
 
 were the precise terms I used? Read me the note. 
 
 Christine. Yes, Mrs. Prout [^reads demur ely~\. 
 " The answer to your question is ' Yes,' " — with a 
 capital N. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. " Yes " with a capital N? 
 
 Christine [calmly'\. I mean with a capital F. 
 [Christine and Mrs. Prout look steadUy at each 
 other. Then they both smile. Enter Dr. Gard- 
 ner. ![ 
 
 Gardner [handing the salts']. You are sure 
 you are not ill? 
 
 Mrs. Prout [smiling at him radiantly]. I am 
 convinced of it. Christine, will 3'ou kindly reach 
 me down the dictionary from that shelf? [While 
 Christine^s back is turned Dr. Gardner gives, and 
 Mrs. Prout returns, a passionate kiss]. 
 
 Christine [handing dictionary]. Here it is, 
 Mrs. Prout. 
 
 Mrs. Prout [after consulting it]. I tliougllt I 
 could not be mistaken. Christine, you have ren- 
 dered me a service [regarding her affectionately] 
 — a service for which I shall not forget to express 
 my gratitude ; but I am obliged to dismiss you in- 
 stantly from my service. 
 
 Christine. Dismiss me, madam?
 
 THE STErMOTHER 31 
 
 Gardner. Cora, can you be so cruel? 
 
 Mrs, Prout. Alas, yes ! She has sinned tlie 
 secretarial sin which is beyond forgiveness. She 
 has misspelt. 
 
 Gardner. Impossible ! 
 
 Mrs. Frout. It is too true. 
 
 Gardner. Tell me the sad details. 
 
 Mrs. Frout. She has been guilty of spelling 
 " No » with a " Y." 
 
 Gardner. Dear me ! And a word of one sylla- 
 ble, too ! INIIss Feversham, I should not have 
 thought it of you. [Enter Adrian.l^ 
 
 Adrian [«s he hands a cheque for Mrs. Froufs 
 inspection^. Here again, Doctor.'' 
 
 Gardner. Yes, and to stay. 
 
 Mrs. Frout. Adrian, the Doctor and I are en- 
 gaged to be married. And talking of marriage, 
 you observe that girl there in the corner. Take 
 her and marry her at the earliest convenient mo- 
 ment. She is no longer my secretary. 
 
 Adrian. What! You consent? 
 
 Mrs. Frout. I consent. 
 
 Adrian. And you pardon my article? 
 
 Mrs. Frout. No, my dear Adrian, I ignore it. 
 Here, take your ill-gotten gains [returning 
 cheque^. They will bring you no good. And 
 since they will bring you no good, I have decided 
 to allow you the sum of five hundred pounds a year. 
 You must have something.
 
 32 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 Adrian. Stepmother! 
 
 Christine [^advancing to taJce Mrs. ProuVs 
 hand,] . Stepmother-in-law ! 
 
 Gardner. Cora, you are an angel. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. J\Ierely an artist, my clear Tom, 
 merely an artist. I have the dramatic sense — 
 that is all. 
 
 Adrian. Your sense is more than dramatic, it is 
 common ; it is even horse. What about the Snail 
 " special," mummy? 
 
 3Irs. Prout. My attitude is one of strict 
 silence. 
 
 Adrian. But I must go away with something. 
 
 Mrs. Prout. Strict silence. The attack is be- 
 neath my notice. 
 
 Adrian. But what can I say? 
 
 Christine. Say that Mrs. Front's late secretary, 
 Miss Feversham, having retired from her post, has 
 already entered upon a career of original literary 
 composition. That will be a nice newsy item, 
 won't it? 
 
 Adrian [taking out notebookl. Rather! What 
 is she at work on? 
 
 Christine. Oh, well, I scarcely 
 
 Gardner. I know — " Hysteria in Lady Novel- 
 ists." 
 
 Mrs. Prout. What? 
 
 Gardner [to Christin-el. Didn't you tell me so? 
 
 Christine. Of course I didn't. Doctor. What
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 33 
 
 a shocking memory you have ! It is worse tlian 
 my spelhng. 
 
 Gardner. Then what did you say? 
 
 Christine. I said, " Generosity in Lady Novel- 
 ists." 
 
 \Curtain.l^ 
 
 [1899]
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 
 FARCE IN ONE ACT
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 James Brett, a Clerk in the War Office, 33. 
 Gerald O'Mara, a Civil Engineer, 24. 
 
 Rosamund Fife, a Spinster and a Lecturer on 
 Cookery, 28.
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Scene. — Rosamund's Flat; the drawing-room* 
 Hie apartment is plainly furnished. There 
 is a screen in the corner of the room furthest 
 from the door. It is 9 a. m. Rosamund is 
 seated alone at a table. She xvears a neat 
 travelling-dress, "with a plain straw hat. Her 
 gloves lie on a chair. A small portable desk 
 full of papers is open before her. She gazes 
 straight in front of Jier, smiling vaguely. 
 With a start she recovers from her day- 
 dreams, and rushing to the looking-glass, in- 
 spects her features therein. Then she looks 
 at her watch. 
 
 Rosamund. Three hours yet! I'm a fool 
 [with decision. She sits down again, and idly 
 picks up a paper out of the desk. The door 
 opens, unceremoniously but quietly, and James en- 
 ters. The two stare at each other, James wearing 
 a conciliatory smiWl. 
 
 Rosamund. You appalling creature! 
 
 James. I couldn't help it, I simply couldn't 
 help it. 
 
 Rosamund. Do you know this is the very 
 height and summit of indelicacy ? 
 39
 
 40 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 James. I was obliged to come. 
 
 Rosamund. If I had any relations 
 
 James. Which you haven't. 
 
 Rosamund. I say if I had any relations 
 
 James. I say which you haven't. 
 
 Rosamund. Never mind, it is a safe rule for 
 unattached women always to behave as if they had 
 relations, especially female relations, whether they 
 have any or not. My remark is, that if I had any 
 relations they would be absolutely scandalised by 
 tliis atrocious conduct of yours. 
 
 James. What have I done.? 
 
 Rosamund. Can you ask? Here are you, and 
 here am I. We are to be married to-day at twelve 
 o'clock. The ceremony has not taken place, and 
 yet you are found on my premises. You must 
 surely be aware that on the day of the wedding the 
 parties — yes, the " parties," that is the word — 
 should on no account see each other till they see 
 each other in church. 
 
 James. But since we are to be married at a 
 registry office, does the rule apply.'' 
 
 Rosamund. Undoubtedly. 
 
 James. Then I must apologise. My excuse is 
 that I am not up in these minute details of cir- 
 cumspection ; you see I have been married so sel- 
 dom. 
 
 Rosamund. Evidently. [A 'pause, during 
 •which James at last ventures to approach the mid- 
 dle of the room,'] Now you must go back home,
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 41 
 
 and we'll pretend we haven't seen each other. 
 
 James. Never, Kosaniund! That would be 
 acting a lie. And I couldn't dream of getting 
 married with a lie on my lips. It would be so un- 
 usual. No ; we have sinned, or rather I have 
 sinned, on this occasion. I will continue to sin — 
 openl}^, brazenly. Come here, my dove. A bird 
 in the hand is worth two under a bushel. \He as- 
 sumes an attitude of entreaty, and, leaving her 
 chair, Rosamund goes toxcards him. They ex- 
 change an ardent l:iss.'\ 
 
 Rosamund [quietly submissive^. I'm awfully 
 busy, you know, Jim. 
 
 James. I will assist you in your little duties, 
 dearest, and then I will accompany you to the 
 
 sacred cd to the registry office. Now, what 
 
 were you doing? [She sits dozen, and he puts a 
 chair for himself close beside her.^ 
 
 Rosamund. You are singularly unlike your- 
 self this morning, dearest. 
 
 James. Nerv'ous tension, my angel. I should 
 have deemed it impossible that an employe of the 
 War Office could experience the marvellous and 
 exquisite sensations now agitating my heart. 
 But tell me, what are you doing with these 
 papers ? 
 
 Rosamund. Well, I was just going to look 
 through them and see if they contained anything 
 t)f a remarkable or valuable nature. You see, I 
 hadn't anything to occupy myself with.
 
 4.2 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Jamfies. Was 'oo bored, waiting for the timey- 
 pimey to come? 
 
 Rosamund \limids caressing'\. 'Iss, little pet 
 was bored, she was. Was Mr. Pet lonely this 
 morning? Couldn't he keep away from his little 
 cooky-lecturer? He should see his little cooky- 
 lecturer. 
 
 James. And that reminds me, hadn't we better 
 lunch in the train instead of at Willis's? That 
 will give us more time? 
 
 Rosamund. Horrid greedy piggywiggy ! Per- 
 haps he will be satisfied if Mrs. Pet agrees to lunch 
 both at Willis's and in the train? 
 
 James. Yes. Only piggywiggy doesn't want 
 to trespass on Mrs. Pet's good nature. Let pig- 
 gywiggy look at the papers. \^He takes up a pa- 
 per from the deslc.l^ 
 
 Rosamund [a little seriously']. No, Jimmy. I 
 don't think we'll go through them. Perhaps it 
 wouldn't be wise. Just let's destroy them. 
 \Takes paper from his hand and drops it in desk.~\ 
 
 James ^sternly]. When you have been the wife 
 of a War Office clerk for a week you will know 
 that papers ought never to be destroyed. Now I 
 come to think, it is not only my right but my duty 
 
 to examine this secret dossier. Who knows 
 
 [Talces up at random another document, which 
 proves to he a postcard. Reads.'] " Shall come 
 to-morrow night. Thine, Gerald." 
 
 Rosamund {^after a startled shriek of consterna-
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 43 
 
 tion^. There! There! You've done it, first 
 time I [^Shc heg'ms to think, 'rnith knitted hroxos.^ 
 
 James. Does this higWy suspicious postcard 
 point to some — some episode in your past of 
 which you have deemed it advisahle to keep me in 
 ignorance? If so, I seek not to inquire. I for- 
 give you — I take yow, Rosamund, as you are! 
 
 Rosamund [reflective, not heeding his remark'\. 
 I had absolutely forgotten the whole affair, abso- 
 lutely. l^Smiles a little. Aside.'\ Suppose he 
 should come! \_To James.'\ Jim, I think I had 
 better tell you all about Gerald. It will interest 
 you. Besides, there is no knowing what may hap- 
 pen. 
 
 Jaiines. As I have said, I seek not to inquire. 
 \Stif^y.'\ Nor do I imagine that this matter, 
 probably some childish entanglement, would inter- 
 est me. 
 
 Rosamund. Oh, wouldn't it ! Jim, don't be 
 absurd. You know perfectly well you are dying 
 to hear. 
 
 James. Very well, save my life, then, at the 
 least expense of words. To begin with, who is 
 this Gerald — " tliinc," thine own Gerald.? 
 
 Rosamund. Don't you remember Gerald 
 O'Mara ? You met him at the Stokes's, I feel sure. 
 You know — the young engineer. 
 
 James. Oh! TJmt ass! 
 
 Rosamund. He isn't an ass. He's a very nice 
 boy.
 
 44* A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 James. For the sake of argument and dispatch, 
 agreed ! Went out to C3'prus or somewhere, didn't 
 he, to build a bridge, or make a dock, or dig a well, 
 or something of that kind? 
 
 Rosamund \nodd'mg'\. Now listen, I'll tell you 
 all about it. [Settles herself for a long narra- 
 tion.'] Four years ago poor, dear Gerald was 
 madly in love with me. He was twenty and I was 
 twenty-four. Keep calm — I felt like his aunt. 
 Don't forget I was awfully pretty in those days. 
 Well, he was so tremendously in love that In order 
 to keep him from destroying himself — of course, 
 I knew he was going out to Cyprus — I sort of 
 pretended to be sympathetic. I simply liad to ; 
 Irishmen are so passionate. And he was very nice. 
 And I barely knew you then. Well, the time ap- 
 proached for him to leave for Cyprus, and two 
 days before the ship sailed he sent me that very 
 postcard that by pure chance you picked up. 
 
 James. He should have written a letter. 
 
 Rosamund. Ah ! I expect he couldn't wait. 
 He was so impulsive. Well, on the night before 
 he left England he came here and proposed to me. 
 I remember I was awfully tired and queer. I had 
 been giving a lecture in the afternoon on " How 
 to Pickle Pork," and the practical demonstration 
 had been rather smelly. However, the proposal 
 braced me up. It was the first I had had — that 
 year. Well, I was so sorry for him that I couldn't 
 say " No " outright. It Avould have been too bru-
 
 A GOOD WOJMAN 45 
 
 tal. He might have killed himself on the spot, and 
 spoilt this carpet, which, by the way, was new then. 
 So I said, " Look here, Gerald " 
 
 James. You called him " Gerald " ? 
 
 Rosamund. Rather! " Look here, Gerald," I 
 said ; " j^ou are going to Cyprus for four years. 
 If your feeling towards me is what you think it 
 is, come back to me at the end of those four years, 
 and I will then give you an answer." Of course I 
 felt absolutely sure that in the intervening period 
 he would fall in and out of love half a dozen times 
 at least. 
 
 James. Of course, half a dozen times at least; 
 probably seven. What did he say in reply? 
 
 Rosamund. He agreed with all the seriousness 
 in the world. " On this day four years hence," he 
 said, standing just there [pointing'], " I will re- 
 turn for your answer. And in the meantime I will 
 live only for you." That was what he said — his 
 very words. 
 
 James. And a most touching speech, too ! And 
 then? 
 
 Rosamund. We shook hands, and he tore him- 
 self away, stifling a sob. Don't forget, he was a 
 boy. 
 
 James. Have the four years expired? 
 
 Rosamund. "What is the date of tliat postcard? 
 Let me see it. [^Snatches it, and smiles at the 
 handxaiting 'pensively.^ July 4th — four years 
 ago.
 
 46 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 James. Then it's over. He's not /Coming. 
 To-day is July 5th. 
 
 liosarmind. But yesterday was Sunday. He 
 wouldn't come on Sunday. He was always very 
 particular and nice. 
 
 James. Do you mean to imply that you think 
 he will come to-day and demand from you an 
 affirmative? A moment ago you gave me to un- 
 derstand that in your opinion he would have — er 
 — other affairs to attend to. 
 
 Rosamund. Yes. I did think so at the time. 
 But now — now I have a kind of idea that he may 
 come, that after all he may have remained faith- 
 ful. You know I was maddeningly pretty then, 
 and he had my photograph. 
 
 James. Tell me, have you corresponded? 
 
 Rosamund. No, I expressly forbade it. 
 
 James. Ah I 
 
 Rosamund. But still, I have a premonition he 
 may come. 
 
 James [^assuming a pugnacious posel^. If he 
 does, I will attend to him. 
 
 Rosamund. Gerald was a terrible fighter. \^A 
 resounding knock is heard at the door. Both start 
 violently, and look at each other in silence. Rosa- 
 m.und goes to the door and opens it.'\ 
 
 Rosamund [^with an unsteady laugh of relief]. 
 Only the postman with a letter. \^She returns to 
 her seat.] No, I don't expect he will come, really.
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 47 
 
 [^Puts letter idly on table. Another knock still 
 louder. Renewed start. '\ 
 
 liosamund. Now that is he, I'm positive. He 
 always knocked hke that. Just fancy. After 
 four years! Jim, just take the chair behind that 
 screen for a bit. I must hide you. 
 
 James. No, thanks ! The screen dodge is a 
 trifle too frayed at the edges. 
 
 Rosamund. Only for a minute. It would be 
 such fun. 
 
 James. No, thanks. [^Another knock.'] 
 
 Rosamund [^with forced sweetness]. Oh, very 
 well, then. . . . 
 
 James. Oh, well, of course, if you take it in 
 
 that way \^He proceeds to a chair behind 
 
 screen, which does not, however, hide him from the 
 audience.'] 
 
 Rosamund \_smiles his reward], I'll explain it 
 all right. [Loudly.] Come in! [Enter Gerald 
 O'Mara.] 
 
 Gerald. So you are in ! [Hastens across room 
 to shake hands.] 
 
 Rosamund. Oh, yes, I am in. Gerald, how are 
 you? I must say you look tolerably well. [TJiei/ 
 sit dozen.] 
 
 Gerald. Oh! I'm pretty fit, thanks. Had the 
 most amazing time in spite of the climate. And 
 you? Rosie, you haven't changed a little bit. 
 How's the cookery trade getting along? Are you
 
 48 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 still showing people how to concoct French dinners 
 out of old bones and a sardine tin? 
 
 Rosamund. Certainly. Only I can do it with- 
 out the bones now. You see, the science has 
 progressed while you've been stagnating in 
 Cyprus. 
 
 Gerald. Stagnating is the word. You wouldn't 
 believe that climate! 
 
 Rosamund. What! Not had nice weather? 
 What a shame! I thought it was tremendously 
 sunshiny in Cyprus. 
 
 Gerald. Yes, that's just what it is, 97° in the 
 shade when it doesn't happen to be pouring with 
 malarial rain. We started a little golf club at 
 Nicosia, and laid out a nine-hole course. But the 
 balls used to melt. So we had to alter the rules, 
 keep the balls in an ice-box, and take a fresh one 
 at every hole. Think of that! 
 
 Rosamund. My poor boy ! But I suppose 
 there were compensations? You referred to " an 
 amazing time." 
 
 Gerald. Yes, there were compensations. And 
 that reminds me, I want you to come out and lunch 
 with me at the Savoy. I've got something awfully 
 Important to ask you. In fact, that's what I've 
 come for. 
 
 Rosamund. Sorry I can't, Gerald. The fact 
 Is, I've got something awfully important on myself 
 just about lunch time. 
 
 Gerald. Oh, yours can wait. Look here, I've
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 49 
 
 ordered tlic lunch. I made sure you'd come. 
 [^Rosamund shakes her Jiead.l^ Wliy can't you? 
 It's not cooking, is it? 
 
 Rosamund. Only a goose. 
 
 Gerald. What goose? 
 
 Rosamund. Well — my own, and somebody 
 else's. Listen, Gerald. Had you not better ask 
 me this awfully important question now? No time 
 like the present. 
 
 Gerald. I can always talk easier, especially on 
 delicate topics, with a pint of something handy. 
 But if you positively won't come, I'll get it off my 
 chest now. The fact is, Rosic, I'm in love. 
 
 Rosamund. With whom? 
 
 Gerald. Ah! That's just what I want you to 
 tell me. 
 
 Rosamund \^suddenly starting'] . Gerald ! what 
 is that dreadful thing sticking out of your pocket, 
 and pointing right at me? 
 
 Gerald. That? That's my revolver. Always 
 carry them in C^'prus, you know. Plenty of sport 
 there. 
 
 Rosamund [^breathing agairi]. Kindly take it 
 out of your pocket and put it on the table. Then 
 if it docs go off, it will go off into something less 
 valuable than a cookery-lecturer. 
 
 Gerald [laughingly obeying her'\. There. If 
 anything happens it will happen to the screen. 
 Now, Rosie, I'm in love, and I desire that you 
 should tell me whom I'm in love with. There's a
 
 50 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 magnificent girl in Cyprus, daughter of the Super- 
 intendent of Pohce 
 
 Rosamund. Name? 
 
 Gerald. Evelyn. Age nineteen. I tell you I 
 was absolutely gone on her. 
 
 Rosamund. Symptoms ? 
 
 Gerald. Well — er — whenever her name was 
 mentioned I blushed terrifically. Of course, that 
 was only one symptom. , . . Then I met a 
 girl on the home steamer — no father or mother. 
 An orphan, you know, awfully interesting. 
 
 Rosamund. Namcf* 
 
 Gerald. Madge. Nice name, isn't it? [Rosa- 
 mund nods.^ I don't mind telling you, I was con- 
 siderably struck by her — still am, in fact. 
 
 Rosamund. Symptoms ? 
 
 Gerald. Oh! . . . Let me see, I never 
 think of her without turning absolutely pale. I 
 suppose it's what they call " pale with passion." 
 Notice it? 
 
 Rosamund [somewhat coldly'\. It seems to me 
 the situation amounts to tliis. There are two girls. 
 One is named Evelyn, and the thought of her makes 
 you blush. The other is named Madge, and the 
 thouglit of her makes you turn pale. You fancy 
 yourself in love, and you wish me to decide for you 
 whether it is Madge or Evelyn who agitates your 
 breast the more deeply. 
 
 Gerald. That's not exactly the way to put it, 
 Rosie. You take a fellow up too soon. Of course
 
 'A GOOD WOMAN 51 
 
 I must tell you lots more yet. You should hear 
 Evelyn play the " IMoonlight Sonata." It's the 
 most mai'vellous thing. . . . And then Madge's 
 eyes ! The way that girl can look at a fellow. 
 . I'm telling you all these things, you know, 
 Rosie, because I've always looked up to you as an 
 elder sister. 
 
 Rosamund [after a pause, during which she 
 gazes into his facc^. I suppose it was in my clmr- 
 acter of your elder sister, that you put a certain 
 question to me four years ago last night.?* 
 
 Gerald \_staggered; pulls himself together for a 
 great resolve; after a long pause~\. Rosie! I 
 never thought afterwards you'd take it seriously. 
 I forgot it all. I was only a boy then. [^Speak- 
 ing quicker and quicker.^ But I see clearly now. 
 I never could withstand you. It's all rot about 
 Evelyn and IVIadge. It's you I'm in love with ; and 
 I never guessed it! Rosie! . . . [Rushes to 
 her and impetuously flings his arms around her 
 neck.'] 
 
 James [who, during the foregoing scene, has 
 been full of uneasy gestures; leaping with incredi- 
 ble swiftness from the shelter of the screen]. Sir! 
 
 Rosamund [pushing Gerald quietly aivay]. 
 Gerald! 
 
 James. INIay I inquire, sir, what is the precise 
 significance of this attitudinising? [Gerald has 
 scarcely yet abandoned his amorous pose, but now 
 does so quickly.] Are we in the middle of a scene 

 
 5£ A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 from " Romeo and Juliet," or is this 9 :30 a. m. in 
 the nineteenth century? If Miss Fife had played 
 the " Moonlight Sonata " to you, or looked at you 
 as Madge does, there might perhaps have been some 
 shadow of an excuse for your extraordinary and 
 infamous conduct. But since she has performed 
 neither of these feats of skill, I fail to grasp — I 
 say I fail to grasp — er 
 
 Gerald {^slotvly recovering from an amazement 
 •which has rendered him mute~\. Rosie, a man con- 
 cealed in your apartment! But perhaps it is the 
 piano-tuner. I am willing to believe the best. 
 
 Rosamund. Let me introduce Mr. James Brett, 
 my future husband. Jim, this is Gerald. 
 
 James. I have gathered as much. [T/i^ men 
 how stiffiy.'] 
 
 Rosainund [^dream'ilyl^. Poor, poor Gerald! 
 [Her tone is full of feeling. James is evidently 
 deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and stead- 
 ily to the table and picks up the revolver.^ 
 
 Gerald. Sir, that tool is mine. 
 
 James. Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine 
 of destruction, and that I intend to use it. Rosa- 
 mund, the tone in which you uttered those three 
 words, " Poor, poor Gerald ! " convinces me, a keen 
 observer of symptoms, that I no longer possess 
 your love. Without your love, life to me is mean- 
 ingless. I object to anything meaningless — 
 even a word. I shall therefore venture to deprive 
 myself of life. Good-bye ! \To Gerald.'] Sir, I
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 53 
 
 may see 3'ou later. \_Raises the revolver to his tem- 
 ples. 1 
 
 Rosamund \_appeaUng to Gerald to interfere^. 
 Gerald ! 
 
 Gerald. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver 
 is mine. It would be a serious breach of good 
 manners if you used it without my consent, a social 
 solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss 
 Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the in- 
 strument happens to be in your hand, you may use 
 it — but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, 
 to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand 
 in the way of another's happiness, as I should do 
 if I continued to exist. At the same time I have 
 conscientious objections to suicide. You will 
 therefore do me a service by aiming straight. 
 Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely 
 mention it because I perceive that you are unaccus- 
 tomed to the use of firearms. [Folds his arms.'\ 
 
 James. Rosamund, do you love me? 
 
 Rosamund. My Jim! 
 
 James [deeply moved'\. The possessive pro- 
 noun convinces me that you do. [Smiling bland- 
 ly.^ Sir, I will grant j'^our most reasonable de- 
 mand. [Aims at Gerald. '\ 
 
 Rosamund [half shrieking']. I don't love you 
 if you shoot Gerald. 
 
 James. But, my dear, this is irrational. He 
 has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as 
 promised to do so.
 
 54 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Rosamund [entreating^. James, in two hours 
 we are to be married . . . Think of the com- 
 plications. 
 
 Gerald. Married ! To-day ! Then I withdraw 
 my request. 
 
 James. Yes ; perhaps it will be as well. \^Low- 
 ers revolver. '\ 
 
 Gerald. I have never yet knowingly asked a 
 friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his 
 wedding-day, and I will not begin now. More- 
 over, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't 
 loaded. ]\Ir. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a 
 ridiculous position. I apologise. 
 
 James. I accept the apology. \The general 
 tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle 
 gently. In the effort after unconcern.^ 
 
 Rosamund. Jim, will you oblige me by putting 
 that revolver down somewhere. I know it isn't 
 loaded ; but so many people have been killed by 
 guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer 
 \^He puts it down on the table. '\ Thank 
 you! 
 
 James [inching up letterl. By the way, here's 
 that letter that came just now. Aren't you going 
 to open it? The writing seems to me to be some- 
 thing like Lottie Dickinson's. 
 
 Rosamund [taldng the letter']. It Isn't Lottie's ; 
 it's her sister's. [Stares at envelope.] I know 
 what It is. I Icnow what it is. Lottie is ill, or 
 dead, or something, and can't come and be a wit-
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 55 
 
 ness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if 
 she's dead we can't be married to-day ; it wouldn't 
 be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have 
 a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black 
 border on the envelope, so she can't be dead. And 
 yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to 
 buy mourning stationery ! This is the result of 
 your coming here this morning. I felt sure some- 
 thing would happen. Didn't I tell you so.^" 
 
 James. No, you didn't, my dear. But why 
 don't you open the letter.'' 
 
 Rosamund. I am opening it as fast as I can. 
 {^Reads it hurriedly.^ There ! I said so ! Lottie 
 fell off her bicycle last night, and broke her ankle 
 — won't be able to stir for a fortnight — in great 
 pain — hopes it won't inconvenience us! 
 
 James. Inconvenience ! I must say I regard it 
 as very thoughtless of Lottie to go bicycling the 
 very night before our wedding. Where did she 
 fall off? 
 
 Rosamund. Sloane Street. 
 
 James. That makes it positively criminal. She 
 always falls off in Sloane Street. She makes a 
 regular practice of it. I have noticed it before. 
 
 Rosamund. Perhaps she did it on purpose. 
 
 James. Not a doubt of it 1 
 
 Rosamund. She doesn't want us to get married ! 
 
 James. I have sometimes suspected that she had 
 a certain tenderness for me. [^Endeavouring to 
 look meek.'\
 
 56 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Rosamund. The cat! 
 
 James. By no means. Cats are never sympa- 
 thetic. She is. Let us be just before we are jeal- 
 ous. 
 
 Rosamund. Jealous ! My dear James ! Have 
 you noticed how her skirts hang? 
 
 James. Hang her skirts ! 
 
 Rosamund. You wish to defend her? 
 
 James. On the contrary ; it was I who first ac- 
 cused her. [Gerald, to avoid the approaching 
 storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, and 
 taking some paper from his pocket begins thought- 
 fully to write.^ 
 
 Rosamund. My dear James, let me advise you 
 to keep quite, quite calm. You are a little bit up- 
 set. 
 
 James. I am a perfect cucumber. But I can 
 hear your breathing. 
 
 Rosamund. If you are a cucumber, you are a 
 very indelicate cucumber. I'm not breathing more 
 than is necessary to sustain life. 
 
 James. Yes, you are; and what's more you'll 
 cry in a minute if you don't take care. You're 
 getting worked up. 
 
 Rosamund. No, I shan't. [Sits down and 
 cries. 1 
 
 James. What did I tell you? Now perhaps 
 you will inform me what we are quarrelling about, 
 because I haven't the least idea. 
 
 Rosamund [through her sobs'], I do think it's
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 57 
 
 horrid of Lottie. We can't be married with one 
 witness. And I didn't want to be married at a 
 registry office at aU. 
 
 James. My pet, we can easily get another wit- 
 ness. As for the registry office, it was yourself 
 who proposed it, as a way out of a difficulty. I'm 
 High and you're Low 
 
 Rosamund, I'm not Low; I'm Broad, or else 
 Evangelical. 
 
 James [beginning calmly again']. I'm High 
 and you're Broad, and there was a serious question 
 about candles and a genuflexion, and so we decided 
 on the registry office, which, after all, is much 
 cheaper. 
 
 Rosamund [drying her tears, and putting on a 
 saintly expression]. Well, anyhow, James, we will 
 consider our engagement at an end. 
 
 James. This extraordinary tiff^ has lasted long 
 enough, Rosie. Come and be kissed. 
 
 Rosamund [xcith increased saintliness]. You 
 mistake me, James. I am not quarrelling. I am 
 not angry. 
 
 James. Then you have ceased to love me,? 
 
 Rosamund. I adore you passionately. But we 
 can never marry. Do you not perceive the warn- 
 ings against such a course? First of all you 
 come here — drawn by some mysterious, sinister 
 impulse — in breach of all etiquette. That was 
 a Sign. 
 
 James. A sign of what.''
 
 58 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Rosamund. Evil, Then jou find that post- 
 card, to remind me of a forgotten episode. 
 
 James. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never 
 picked it up. 
 
 Rosamund, Hush ! Then comes this letter 
 about Lottie. 
 
 James. Damn that, too ! 
 
 Rosamund [^s'lghs^. Then Gerald arrives. 
 
 James. Damn him, too ! By the way, where is 
 he? 
 
 Gerald \comlng out from behind the screen']. 
 Sir, if you want to influence my future state by 
 means of a blasphemous expletive, let me beg you 
 to do it when ladies are not present. There are 
 certain prayers which should only be uttered in the 
 smoking-room. [^The two men stab each other 
 with their eyesJ\ 
 
 James. I respectfully maintain, Mr. O'Mara, 
 that you had no business to call on my future wife 
 within three hours of her wedding, and throw her 
 into such a condition of alarm and unrest that she 
 doesn't know whether she is going to get married 
 or not. 
 
 Gerald. Sir t How in the name of Heaven was 
 I to guess 
 
 Rosamund [risings with an imperative gesture]. 
 Stop! Sit down, both. James [who hesitates], 
 this is the last request I shall ever make of you. 
 \^He sits.] Let me speak. Long ago, from a mis- 
 taken motive of kindness, I gave this poor boy
 
 A GOOD WOiNlAN 59 
 
 [pointing to Gerald'\ to understand that I loved 
 him ; that at any rate I should love him in time. 
 Supported by that assurance, he existed for four 
 years through the climatic terrors of a distant isle. 
 I, pampered with all the superfluities of civilisa- 
 tion, forgot this noble youth in his exile. I fell 
 selfishly in love. I promised to marry 
 while he, with nothing to assuage the rigours 
 
 James. Pardon me, there was Evelyn's " Moon- 
 light Sonata," not to mention Madge's eyes. 
 
 Rosamund. You jest, James, but the jest is 
 untimely. Has he not himself said that these 
 doubtless excellent young women were in fact noth- 
 ing to him, that it was my image which he kept 
 steadfastly in his heart? 
 
 Gerald. Ye — es, of course, Rosle. 
 
 Rosamund \_chieflt/ to James'\. The sight of 
 this poor youth fills me with sorrow and compunc- 
 tion and shame. For it reminds me that four years 
 ago I lied to him. 
 
 Gerald. It was awfully good of j'^ou, you 
 know. 
 
 Rosamund. That is beside the point. At an 
 earlier period of this unhappy morning, James, 
 you asseverated that you could not dream of get- 
 ting married with a lie on your lips. Neither can 
 I. James, I love you to madness. \Talies his 
 inert hand, shakes it, and drops it again.^ Good- 
 bye, James ! Henceforth we shall be strangers. 
 IVIy duty is towards Gerald.
 
 60 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 Gerald. But if you love him? 
 
 Rosamund. With a good woman, conscience 
 comes first, love second. In time I shall learn to 
 love i/ou. I was always quick at lessons. Gerald, 
 take me. It is the only way by which I can purge 
 my lips of the lie uttered four years ago. [^Puts 
 her hands on Gerald's shoulders.'] 
 
 James. In about three-quarters of an hour you 
 will regret this, Rosamund Fife. 
 
 Rosamund. One never regrets a good action. 
 
 Gerald. Oh! well! I say . . . [^inarticu- 
 late with embarrassment]. 
 
 Rosamund [after a pause] . James we are wait- 
 ing. 
 
 James. What for? 
 
 Rosamund. For you to go. 
 
 James. Don't mind me. You forget that I am 
 in the War Office, and accustomed to surprising 
 situations. 
 
 Gerald. Look here, Rosie. It's awfully good 
 of you, and you're doing me a frightfully kind 
 turn ; but I can't accept it, you know. It wouldn't 
 do. Kindness spoils my character. 
 
 James. Yes, and think of the shock to the noble 
 youth. 
 
 Gerald. I couldn't permit such a sacrifice. 
 
 Rosamund. To a good woman life should be 
 one long sacrifice. 
 
 Gerald. Yes, that's all very well, and I tell you,
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 61 
 
 Rosle, I'm awfully obliged to you. Of course I'm 
 desperately in love with you. That goes without 
 saying. But I also must sacrifice myself. The 
 fact is . . . there's IMadge . 
 
 Rosamund, Well.? 
 
 Gerald. Well, you know what a place a steamer 
 is, especially in calm, warm weather. I'm afraid 
 I've rather led her to expect. . . . The fact 
 is, while you and Mr. Brett were having your little 
 discussion just now, I employed the time in scrib- 
 bling out a bit of a letter to her, and I rather fancy 
 that I've struck one or two deuced good ideas in 
 the proposal line. How's this for a novelty: 
 *' My dear Miss Madge, you cannot fail to have 
 noticed from my behaviour in your presence that 
 I admire you tremendously.?" Rather a neat be- 
 ginning, eh? 
 
 Rosamund. But you said you loved me. 
 
 Gerald. Oh, well, so I do. You see I only state 
 that I " admire " her. All the same I feel I'm sort 
 of bound to her, . . . you see how I'm fixed. 
 I should much prefer, of course 
 
 James. To a good man life should be one long 
 sacrifice. 
 
 Gerald. Exactly, sir. 
 
 Rosamund {^steadying herself and approaching 
 James^. Jim, my sacrifice is over. It was a ter- 
 rible ordeal, and nothing but a strict sense of duty 
 could have supported me through such a trying
 
 62 A GOOD WOMAN 
 
 crisis. I am yours. Lead me to the altar. I 
 trust Gerald may be happy with this person named 
 Madge. 
 
 James. The flame of your love has not fal- 
 tered? 
 
 Rosamund. Ah, no ! 
 
 James. Well, if my own particular flame hadn't 
 been fairly robust, the recent draughts might have 
 knocked it about a bit. You have no more sac- 
 rifices in immediate view,'* . . . [^She looks at 
 Mm in a certain marvellous way, and he suddenly 
 swoops down and hisses Jier.^ To the altar! 
 March I Dash ! we shall want another witness. 
 
 Gerald. Couldn't I serve? 
 
 Rosamund. You're sure it wouldn't be too 
 much for your feelings? 
 
 Gerald! I should enjoy it. ... I mean I 
 shan't mind very much. Let us therefore start. 
 If we're too soon you can watch the process at 
 work on others, and learn how to comport your- 
 selves. By the way, honeymoon? 
 
 James, Paris. Charing Cross 1 :30. Dine at 
 Dover. 
 
 Gerald. Then you shall eat that lunch I have 
 ordered at the Savoy. 
 
 Rosamund. Er — talking of lunch, as I'm 
 hostess here, perhaps I should ask you men if you'd 
 like a drink. 
 
 James and Gerald [looking hopefully at each 
 other'\. Well, yes.
 
 A GOOD WOMAN 63 
 
 Rosamund. I have some beautiful lemonade. 
 
 James and Gerald \^still looking at each other, 
 hut with a different expression~\. Oh, that will be 
 delightful! \^Lemonade and glasses produced.^ 
 
 Gerald. I drink to the happy pair. 
 
 Rosamund [a little sinister'] . And I — to 
 Madge. 
 
 James. And I — to a good woman — Mrs. Pet 
 [loohing at her -fixedlyl^. All men like a good 
 woman, but she shouldn't be too good — it's a 
 strain on the system. [General consumption of 
 lemonade, the men bravely swallowing it down. 
 Rosamund rests her head on James's shoulder.'\ 
 
 Rosamund. It occurs to me, Gerald, you only 
 ordered lunch for two at the Savoy. 
 
 Gerald. Well, that's right. By that time you 
 and James, if I may call him so, will be one, and 
 me makes two. 
 
 [Curtain.^ 
 
 [18991
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 FARCE IN ONE ACT
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 George Gower, 27. 
 
 Francis Gower, his Well-preserved Bachelor Uncle. 
 
 May Foster, his Married Sister, 25. 
 
 Helen Stanton, his Wife's Married Sister, 28.
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 Scene. — George Gower^s drawing-room. Even- 
 ing. George Gower is asleep in an easy-chair 
 near the hearth. By his side is a fairly large 
 occasional table, on which are some writing 
 materials and an empty glass. Enter May 
 Foster and Helen Stanton. They open the 
 door quietly, and pause on the threshold to ob- 
 serve the sleeper. They are both in a pleased, 
 gay mood of gentle excitation, but at first 
 they speak low. 
 
 May. The wretch still sleeps. 
 
 Helen. Yes. A man is a marvellous thing. 
 Such talent in some directions. 
 
 May. Let's wake him now. I should think he'd 
 had enough. 
 
 Helen. Enough! Well. . . . It's turned 
 seven, and he must have dropped off just after 
 lunch. Five hours ! 
 
 May \_smiling kindly at her unconscious 
 brother^. Ah ! He hasn't slept much for the last 
 few nights ; he's been so frightfully anxious. 
 
 Helen [praising her eyebrows'\. Anxious! And 
 what about his poor wife — what about Ada's anx- 
 iety? How he could sleep like this when he knew 
 69
 
 70 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 'perfectly well . . . [lifts lier hands, and fin- 
 ishes hy smiling. The two young women approach 
 George's chair on tiptoe, and indicate to each other 
 hy gestures that they will waken him in the ortho- 
 dox way. Bending down, Helen sniffs at the 
 empty glass"]. 
 
 Helen. Um! Wliisky. Naturally. [She 
 then bends to George^s face to kiss him, but hesi- 
 tates and looks at May.] 
 
 Helen. Perhaps it would be better if you did it, 
 dear. [May quickly kisses him.] The privileges 
 of a sister-in-law vary in different families. 
 [George wakes up. May and Helen stand side by 
 side facing him, their hands behind them, smiling, 
 and full of mysteries.] 
 
 George [mechanically reaching out for the 
 glass]. What did you say.'' I do believe I 
 dropped off for a second or two. [Finding glass 
 empty.] Dash! What a thirst I've got on to- 
 day! 
 
 Helen. There! 
 
 George. Well ! What are you two staring at .'' 
 How's Ada now.'' Doctor come yet.^^ 
 
 May [softly]. George, it's a girl. 
 
 George. What's a girl.? Who's a girl.? 
 
 Helen. Ifs a girl. [Pause, while the fact of 
 his fatherhood dawns upon George.] 
 
 George [starting up]. Well, I'm damned if this 
 isn't the quickest thing of the kind that ever I 
 heard of! [He makes a bound for the door.]
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 71 
 
 May \hoth the girls seizing hiTri\. George, 
 come back. You mustn't go to her. She's asleep. 
 [^Soothing him, and trying to calm his sudden tre- 
 mendous excitement.'] 
 
 George. Well, I am damned 1 Why, it can't be 
 a quarter of an hour since I left her 1 [^Sinks back 
 into chair.] 
 
 Helen. George Gower, does it not occur to you 
 that these terrible oatlis are sadl}', sadly out of 
 place.'* Recollect that as a father you are consid- 
 erably less tlian a day old. Blasphemy from lips 
 so young is an instance of infant depravity, such 
 as even I, a district visitor, have seldom seen sur- 
 passed. Our curate at Ealing has composed a 
 special form of praj- er for young parents. I have 
 brought it over with me, and I shall ask you to — 
 to make it your own. In the meantime I beg you 
 not to disgrace the sacred name of father. Think 
 of poor, dear Ada. Ah, my darling sister has be- 
 haved splendidly ! Think of what she has been 
 through ! 
 
 George. That's just what I am thinking of, and 
 the more I think the more I can't 
 
 3fay [interrwpting him~\. Why, George, you 
 silly, you've been asleep five hours, and 
 
 George. I swear I haven't. 
 
 Helen. No more swearing, I entreat. You 
 have been asleep five hours. It's turned seven 
 o'clock. Your daughter is some three hours 
 old . . .
 
 72 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 May. Yes, and everytliing went off beautifully. 
 Ada cried a bit 
 
 Helen. Ada was simply superb. 
 
 May. Yes, she was, dear. She's asleep now, 
 George. And the baby's the loveUest little 
 thing 
 
 Helen. The doctor says he never saw a finer. 
 
 May. Yes, and nurse says so, too. And she's 
 got lots of hair. 
 
 Helen. And cry — ! She's got lungs like bel- 
 lows. 
 
 George \^sitt'ing up severely'\. Why didn't you 
 come and wake me up.'' Answer me. For any- 
 thing you knew, I might have been doing the most 
 awful things to the sacred name of father during 
 those three hours — and quite innocently. Helen, 
 you at least . . . [^ends with a reproachful 
 gesture^ . 
 
 Helen. Well, I did ask JNIay to go down and sit 
 with you. 
 
 May \^to Helen^. But, dear, I couldn't have 
 dreamt of leaving Ada. 
 
 Helen. Wliy not, dear.? I came over specially 
 from Ealing, and left my own little ones and 
 Ernest, in order to see after Ada myself. 
 
 May. And I came from Harrow, which is much 
 further than Ealing. I haven't any little ones ; but 
 if I had I should have left them, I'm sure I should 
 [plaintively'] . I left Jack and the two kittens, and 
 there was nothing else to leave.
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 73 
 
 Helen. But it is a question of experience, dear. 
 
 May. Well, I don't know, dear. It seems to 
 me that common sense and a cool head are better 
 than experience. 
 
 Helen. But surely, dear, you don't suggest 
 Oh! [^Suddenly forgetting this little pas- 
 sage of arm^, and thinking of something im- 
 portant.'] We didn't [^wJiispers in May's 
 
 ear]. 
 
 May. Gracious heavens ! Do you think nurse 
 will remember.? 
 
 Helen. Probably not. I have had three differ- 
 ent nurses m^^self, and they're all alike. I'll just 
 run up and see to it. [George is mystified, as males 
 are.] 
 
 May. Oh, no ! I'll go, dear. 
 
 Helen. Oh, no ! I'll go, dear. Where were 
 the safety pins put.? 
 
 May. I know. I'll go. 
 
 Helen. IMy dear, I really think 
 
 George. If it's anything serious, hadn't you 
 better both go ? Further delay might be fatal, and 
 I should like to avoid being cut off in my infancy 
 as a father. 
 
 Helen. May shall go. 
 
 May. Not at all. I should much prefer Helen 
 to go. She is so experienced. [A pause; and then 
 Helen, pursing her lips, and loolcing as much like a 
 martyred saint as she can, departs.] 
 
 George. A girl ! \_Sighs.]
 
 74 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 May. George, Avhat's the matter? I thought 
 all the time that you didn't receive our news with 
 that ecstatic abandonment of joy which I believe 
 is usual under the circumstances. Why aren't you 
 glad and proud? Why don't you weep happy 
 tears of relief and contentment ? Is it possible you 
 are so lost to all parental feeling as to be indiffer- 
 ent when your wife presents you with a dear little 
 darling baby? 
 
 George. Ma}'^, you're a very decent sort, but 
 if you say two more words in that strain, I'll go 
 upstairs and I'll wring that kid's neck. I couldn't 
 permit any child of mine to be niece to a woman 
 who talked like that. Remember that as a father 
 I have duties, responsibilities. 
 
 May. You're not well. I see it now. You're 
 suffering. Of course it must be a great strain on 
 the system to wake up and find yourself a father. 
 George, forgive my hasty speech. You must take 
 a little nourishment every quarter of an hour till 
 the symptoms pass. \^She pats him gently on the 
 cheek. ~\ A great strain it was 1 
 
 George. Strain ! If you knew the strain I've 
 been bearing for months past ! Haven't you no- 
 ticed the dark rings under my eyes, the unnatural 
 brightness of my orbs, the hectic flusli on my 
 cheeks, the bald spot on the back of my head? 
 Strain ! . . . ^ly dear sister, I have a secret 
 and terrible woe — a woe Avhich, with courage
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 75 
 
 worthy of an Englisliman and a parent, I have 
 sliarcd witli none. May, I am undone ! 
 
 May [mith accents of despairing sorroicful sym- 
 jmthy^. \^^lo has undone you? 
 
 George, My beloved wife, three liours since, as 
 I slept. I feared it. I have feared it for many 
 weeks. Listen. Five or six months ago, Uncle 
 Francis said that if it was a son, he would settle 
 ten thousand pounds upon it. 
 
 May. And if a daughter? 
 
 George. He coldly declined to consider the pos- 
 sibility of such a thing. You know the special 
 brand of ass he is sometimes. I said nothing to 
 anybod}'^, not even to mj^ wife, for I felt that it 
 would worry her. Imagine my condition of mind, 
 my agonising suspense. Do 3'ou wonder that I 
 have been wakeful night after night? Do you 
 wonder that, from pure weariness and fatigue, I 
 should fall asleep on this very afternoon of my 
 undoing? Oh, May! To be a father is not so 
 simple and pleasing as the superficial observer 
 might fancy. 
 
 May [sympatJietically']. It certainly isn't, es- 
 pecially if you happen to be occupied with being 
 nephew to Uncle Francis at the same time. 
 
 George. Uncle Francis ! Uncle donkey ! 
 Uncle nincompoop ! Uncle boobj^ ! Uncle b ! 
 
 May. George ! 
 
 George. Bachelor ! — Pompous old bachelor.
 
 76 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 Upon my soul, to see the way bachelors behave 
 themselves in tliese days makes me sick. 
 
 May. Don't forget you were a bachelor your- 
 self less than a year ago. 
 
 George. Only in practice ; not in theory, not in 
 theory. I maintain that all bachelors are idiots. 
 Look at Uncle Francis ! There's a nice sample ! 
 I believe the beggar knew it would be a 
 girl all the time. But in any case, why couldn't 
 he keep his precious plan of benevolence to himself 
 till I was actually a father. Then, unless the sex 
 of my child happened to please his fastidious taste, 
 he need have said nothing; I should have been 
 spared all this anxiety, and I should have been 
 no worse off. 
 
 May. Well, George, it's a great pity, of course. 
 I suppose he won't withdraw the condition? 
 
 George \_sniffing']. Not he! 
 
 May [trying to he hrave~\. After all, you are 
 no worse off! Uncle hasn't robbed you of any- 
 thing. 
 
 George. Oh, hasn't hQ? I like that! You 
 aren't a father. May, and you can't enter into a 
 father's feelings. Now what I feel is that he has 
 robbed me. He's robbed me of precisely ten thou- 
 sand pounds. Here am I, engaged in the arduous 
 and expensive task of founding a family. I see 
 ten thousand pounds within my grasp. The in- 
 human monster positively dangles it before me, and
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 77 
 
 then, through no fault of nu'ne — I repeat, through 
 no fault of mine — it Is snatched away. 
 
 May [caressing hirri\. Never mind, George. 
 You're doing splendidly in your profession, you 
 know you are, and you'll soon have got a large 
 practice together, and made ten thousand pounds 
 all of your own. Never mind. 
 
 George. But I do mind. I will mind. I won't 
 be robbed. I absolutely decline to be jockeyed 
 out of a large sum of money on a mere — a mere 
 — a mere quibble of physiology. The idea is re- 
 volting to my legal intellect. Sometliing must be 
 done, and done quickly. 
 
 May. I'm afraid it's a little late, George. 
 
 George. Rot ! We must think of some- 
 thing — instantly. Uncle Francis is certain to 
 call to-night. I wish he lived in the next hemi- 
 sphere instead of in the next street ; that would give 
 us a chance. May, you must help me; I rely on 
 you. 
 
 May. But really, George, I don't see 
 
 George. I shall be sure to think of some scheme 
 in a minute or two. [^Re-enter Helen.^ Hush! I 
 shan't say anything to her. . . . Well, sweet 
 sister-in-law, 
 
 Helen [^delightedly to May'\. That darling is 
 perfectly marvellous. Nurse brought her up to 
 the light just now, and she blinked her eyes like 
 anything.
 
 78 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 May {with equal delight and astonishment^. 
 No ! Just fancy, George ! 
 
 George. Yes. Imagine the intelligence in- 
 volved in that apparently simple act. That's what 
 you call " taking notice," I suppose? 
 
 Helen. The little pet blinked her ridiculous lit- 
 tle eyes several times. 
 
 George. About how many times .-^ 
 
 Helen \^after looking at himJi. I daresay you 
 think you're very funny, George. 
 
 May [instinctively coming to the rescue of the 
 sex^. George, don't be silly. You've no notion 
 of good taste. 
 
 George. Well, she called my daughter's eyes 
 ridiculous. I don't think that was quite in the best 
 taste, especially after an acquaintance of only 
 three hours. 
 
 Helen [to George'\. Dear Ada is awake now, 
 and she did say she would like to see you for a 
 minute, but I doubt whether in your present mood 
 — [George is at the door in a second.l^ George! 
 [Stopping him peremptorily.^ 
 
 George. Well ? 
 
 Helen [going up to him, and putting a hand on 
 his arm entreatingly^. Be good to her, George. 
 And mind, you must only stay a minute or two. 
 My dear [to May^, you had better go with him. 
 We cannot be too careful. And I will just scrib- 
 ble a line to Ernest. [Sits dozen to write at table.'\
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 79 
 
 May [fo George']. Now, papa. [Exit George 
 and May.] 
 
 Helen [reading xchat she writes], " ]\Iy love. 
 Just a word to let you know that all is well, and 
 Ada has a little daughter, rather weak and puny, 
 I fear, but we cannot expect all children to be as 
 strong as ours. Ada was very brave, but it is for- 
 tunate I came, as no one seemed to have any idea 
 of how to manage. May Foster is very kind- 
 hearted, but so girlish. Shall return Thursday, if 
 I can be spared. Love to the chicks. Don't for- 
 get w^hat I told you about going to bed early. 
 With fondest love from 3'our little Nell. P.S. 
 No time for more." [Folding up letter. Enter 
 Francis Gower, with hat and stick.] 
 
 Francis. Good evening — er 
 
 Helen. Ah ! Good evening. [Getting up.] 
 I must introduce myself. I am Mrs. Ernest Stan- 
 ton, George Gower's sister-in-law. You, I feel 
 sure, are JNIr. Francis Gower, George's uncle. 
 
 Francis [shaking hands xvith assiduity]. De- 
 lighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Stanton. 
 You knew me for a Gower at once, then.? 
 
 Helen. Yes, you have the unmistakable Gower 
 eyes — wicked eyes — only more so. [They sit 
 doum.] 
 
 Francis. You flatter me. 
 
 Helen. Flatter you, Mr. Gower.'' How so? 
 When I see eyes like j'ours I alwa^'s say to myself
 
 80 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 that their owner has ensured the happiness of some 
 innocent and trusting woman 
 
 Francis. I beg pardon — I am not, er 
 
 Helen. By not marrying her. 
 
 Francis. In that sense I may certainly claim 
 to be the benefactor of your sex. When I review 
 in my mind the vast phalanx of charming women 
 whom I have not married, I 
 
 Helen {interrupting liim drily'\. Of course you 
 want to know about Ada.? 
 
 Francis. Yes, I thought I would come round 
 and inquire before sitting down to dinner. I was 
 given to understand that there was an expectation, 
 a surmise, a suspicion that — er 
 
 Helen. Well, Mr. Gower, I have good news for 
 you. Ada has a daughter. 
 
 Francis. A daughter ! How delightful ! 
 {Smiles to himself with secret jo?/.] You said a 
 daughter.'' 
 
 Helen. Yes. Just after three this afternoon. 
 Rather an unusual hour. 
 
 Francis. Indeed! Er Indeed! I fear 
 
 I am quite at sea in the minute details of these mat- 
 ters. Are — are mother and child both doing 
 well? 
 
 Helen. Splendidly, splendidly. My sister has 
 behaved admirably. [During the foregoing con- 
 versation Helen has just put her letter in an en- 
 velope, and addressed it. She now goes to the 
 mantelpiece and rings hell.'\
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 81 
 
 Francis. And the child — how did it behave? 
 
 Helen \_smiling cautiously'\. Oh, well, Mr. 
 Gower, as you say, you are rather at sea in these 
 matters. 
 
 Francis. It is so difficult to mould one's inquir- 
 ies in quite the right form. Now, at funerals, I 
 assure you, I am unimpeachable. I have often 
 been told so. Question of practice, I suppose. It 
 is a most singular thing to me, having regard to 
 the alarming increase in our population, how many 
 funerals there seem to be, and how few births. 
 Perhaps that has not occurred to you, Mrs. Stan- 
 ton? 
 
 Helen \^after ringing bell again]. Indeed not. 
 Quite the opposite, in fact. Did you hear that 
 bell ring? 
 
 Francis. Distinctly. 
 
 Helen. That is the fifth time I have rung it, at 
 least. These events upset a household from attic 
 to basement. 
 
 Francis {mildly surprised']. So far? Can I 
 be of any assistance to you? 
 
 Helen. Oh, no, thanks. I only want to get 
 this letter posted. If you will excuse me one sec- 
 ond. {He rises and opens door for her.] 
 
 Francis. Of course George is in high spirits? 
 
 Helen [going out]. Oh, yes. But he conceals 
 his feelings. Men do, you know. They think it's 
 manly. [iUir«7.] 
 
 Francis. Just so. Well, Mother Nature, you
 
 82 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 with the inscrutable ways — \^sits dozvn^ you've 
 saved me ten thousand pounds by this day's work. 
 I reverence you. . . . You're a bit of the 
 right sort. '[Smiling' with silent satisfaction.^ 
 I've got through safe this time, as it happens. But 
 I must really cure myself of these fits of impulsive 
 generosity. Now if it had been a boy, I suppose 
 George would actually have expected me to fork 
 out that ten thousand, and I suppose like a good- 
 natured ass I should have done so. [The door 
 bursts open, and George and May enter quickly.'] 
 
 May [to George, as they enter]. Isn't she a 
 pretty little thing? [The two perceive Uncle 
 Francis and stop short.] 
 
 George. Yes, he is. [With a tremendous por- 
 tentous look- at May, pidling himself together.] 
 Hullo, Uncle Francis ! 
 
 May [with a look at George appealing for in- 
 structions]. Good evening, Uncle. Rather warm 
 isn't it, for the time of year.? 
 
 Francis. You look rather warm, my dear May. 
 [Shakes hands.] 
 
 George. Well, what's the news, Uncle.'' 
 [Shakes hands.] Been to the City? 
 
 Francis. No. This is the first time I've been 
 out to-day. I thought I'd just walk round before 
 dinner to inquire. 
 
 George, To inquire? About what? Oh! 
 Ah! Yes, of course! You mean about Ada.
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 83 
 
 Well, Uncle, I'm glad to say it's all right, isn't it, 
 May? 
 
 May. Yes, it's absolutcl}' all right. 
 
 George. Ada is doing well, and I am the father 
 of a fine boy. 
 
 Francis [^imperturbable^. A boy! 
 
 George. Yes. Now, come. Uncle, bear up. I 
 know it must be a blow to you. But, heavens ! 
 what's ten thousand pounds to a man of your for- 
 tune? \ATiy, it's less than a fiver to me, isn't it. 
 May ? 
 
 May. Yes, George, it is. I think it was 
 noble of you, Uncle, to offer that ten thousand 
 pounds, though the actual parting with it, to a 
 person of your economic mind, cannot fail to be 
 agonising. 
 
 George. Yes, indeed. When I first heard that 
 my child was a boy, I said : " I wash for uncle's 
 sake it had been a girl." Didn't I, May? 
 
 May. You did, George. You were sitting in 
 that chair, and I stood here, and you said : " I 
 wish for uncle's sake it had been a girl." Those 
 were the very words you used. 
 
 George [fo Francis']. My sj^mpathies went out 
 instantly to you, Uncle. You who will have to 
 write me a cheque for ten thousand pounds this 
 very night. Personally, I should prefer to con- 
 sider your offer cancelled. But I feel convinced 
 that you would never consent to such a course.
 
 84! A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 You are a man of jour word. You said you would 
 settle ten thousand pounds upon my child if it was 
 a boy. It is a boy, and you will. 
 
 Francis. You're sure it's a boy.? 
 
 George [aside to May^. Now what the deuce 
 
 {to Francisl^. "Sure it's a boy!" Well, 
 
 what do you take me for? 
 
 Francis. I take you for a father, suffering 
 from some nervous disorder. 
 
 George. You mean I'm a little excited. Well, 
 isn't that natural? You wait till you're a father, 
 Uncle — I bet you it'll make you sit up. But 
 fancy you asking me if I'm sure my own child is 
 a boy! 
 
 May. Yes, fancy ! Uncle, you should be more 
 careful. To a man in George's delicate condition, 
 so recently a father, anything in the nature of a 
 shock might easily bring about the most serious 
 results. 
 
 Uncle. You are right, my dear little girl. Par- 
 don a rough old bachelor not accustomed to the 
 etiquette of paternity. I suppose you haven't yet 
 decided on a name, or names, for this marvellous 
 infant? 
 
 George \loolcing at May helplessly'\. Well, 
 cr 
 
 May. Dear Ada was saying only just now that 
 at any rate he must be named Francis. Probably 
 his name will be George Francis, but he will always 
 be called Frankic, after you.
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 85 
 
 Francis. My dear, I am deeply touched by this 
 little mark of consideration. 
 
 George. Yes, Uncle. Of course we aren't the 
 sort of individuals that proclaim their private feel- 
 ings from the house-tops [^Francis walks about 
 and twists his moustache^, but we think a great 
 deal of you — a great deal. We look up to you. 
 We admire your notion of the duties and responsi- 
 bilities of a great-uncle. We, cr And per- 
 haps you'd like to give me the cheque now. Uncle, 
 and then you won't forget it. \_F7'ancis takes no 
 heed. Aside to Mai/.'] If we can once get the 
 cheque, he'll never stop it, j'ou know, and Ave can 
 undeceive him aftenvards, and tell him it was a 
 joke and all that sort of thing. 
 
 Mai/. Er — \^goes up to Francis and puts her 
 hands on his shoulders'\. You are a dear old 
 thing ! l^She is just about to kiss him when door 
 opens and Helen enters."] 
 
 George [suddenly frantic]. Helen, you'd bet- 
 ter go upstairs ; they've been knocking on the ceil- 
 ing like anything for the last five minutes. I be- 
 lieve they want something. 
 
 Helen \^quietlj/]. George, you've had too much 
 whisky. I've just come from dear Ada. [J/fl^/ 
 has dropped her hands from Francises shoidders 
 and looks stonily at Helen.] 
 
 George [calmly desperate]. Helen, this is 
 Uncle Francis. You haven't met before, I think. 
 
 Helen. Oh, yes. We met a minute or two ago,
 
 86 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 and I was telling Mr. Gowcr what a fine little girl 
 Ada has. \_With a stifled shriek May sinks into a 
 chair. George also sits down, lamentably sighing. 
 Pause, in which only Helen is mystified.'\ 
 
 Francis. Mrs. Stanton, as the head of the 
 Gower family, I feel it my duty to apologise be- 
 forehand. You are about to witness what is 
 knoMTi as a " scene " — that is, unless you would 
 prefer to retire. 
 
 Helen. Not in the least, I assure you. 
 
 Francis. Not merely a " scene," but a " family 
 scene " ; which, I beheve, is the most highly devel- 
 oped form of " scene " known to science. 
 
 Helen. Pray, don't mention it. I am quite ac- 
 customed . That is, short of bloodshed, I 
 
 can stand anything. But I do think blood is hor- 
 rid. l^Sits dozem with pleasurable a)iticipation.'\ 
 
 Francis [^nodding suavely in acquiescence^. 
 The preliminaries being settled, we may proceed. 
 George, why have you been lying to me? 
 
 George. Lying to you. Uncle.'' 
 
 May. Lying, Uncle.? \_Suddenly crosses over 
 to Helen and they embrace, Helen sympathetically 
 rising to the height of May's emotion. May then 
 sits down again.^ 
 
 Francis. I used the word. 
 
 George [forcing a laugli\. Oh, yes. I see 
 what you mean. I see what you mean now. I 
 see 
 
 Francis. What eyesight !
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 87 
 
 George. Well, I was just carried aAvay by one 
 of those sudden impulses that one has, you know. 
 That was it, wasn't it. May? 
 
 May. Yes, George, that must have been it. 
 1'hc sort of thing that comes over you, Uncle, be- 
 fore you know where you are. 
 
 Francis. Comes over me? 
 
 George. No, Uncle, not you. You won't un- 
 derstand it, I'm afraid. You're too old. You've 
 got past the age for impulse. It's a disease that 
 comes somewhere between measles and gout. It 
 only affects the younger generation. 
 
 Francis \_showing perhaps the slightest passing 
 trace of heaf]. I'm too old, am I? I belong to 
 the older generation, I suppose [with terrible cold 
 sarcasm^. Toothless gums, palsied limbs, dod- 
 dering idiot, and so on. [^SmiUng calmly again, 
 but distinctly very angry beneath the Arctic smile'\. 
 If 3^ou look as well as me at forty-two, sir, you'll 
 be lucky — damned lucky. 
 
 Helen [half to herself, enjoying if]. As Ernest 
 often says, the band is beginning to play. I seem 
 to hear the strains in the distance. 
 
 George [^getting up'\. Forty-two! . . . 
 Uncle! 
 
 May \mitJi shocked sur prised . Forty-two ! 
 
 Francis. Sit down, sir, 
 
 George \^sitfing down^. Well — you called me 
 a liar, but it occurs to me I'm not the only 
 
 Francis. Yes, I do call you a liar — a liar from
 
 88 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 the basest, the most mercenary motives. You told 
 me your cliild was a boy. 
 
 George. Tut, tut. A slip of the tongue. You 
 exaggerate trifles. Besides, for anything I knew, 
 my child rcas a boy. I admit I had been told it 
 was a girl ; but you know what women are. Uncle, 
 especially at these times — absolutely unreliable. 
 I was merely, as it were, hoping for the best. 
 
 Francis. Have you not just returned from 
 viewing the body.'' 
 
 May [muslnglyl^. Now we're at an inquest. 
 
 George. I saw a kind of vermilion blob, sur- 
 rounded by woollen fabrics, and I was given to 
 understand that what I beheld was a human nose. 
 But before I could satisfy myself even on that 
 minor point I was told to go, as Ada mustn't be 
 excited. 
 
 Helen. I hope you'll all acquit me of any de- 
 sire to take part in this scene; but do I gather, 
 Mr. Gower, that George has attempted to deceive 
 you as to the — er — sex of his — er — offspring? 
 
 Francis. You do gather, Mrs. Stanton ; you 
 emphatically do gather. 
 
 Helen. George, I'm surprised at you ; I really 
 am. To think that your poor dear wife should 
 have gone through what she has gone through this 
 day — and you not satisfied ! George, I blush for 
 you . . . Then you were ashamed of your 
 daughter. You wanted a son: a son that you 
 could train up in your own sinful habits of bias-
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 89 
 
 phemy, sclf-induIgencc, and deceit! All I can say 
 is, I'm glad, profoundly glad, that it is a girl. 
 
 Francis. Mrs. Stanton, so am I. You have a 
 truly noble mind. 
 
 Helen [^continuing to George'\. What could 
 be the object of such a childish deception.'* Even 
 you must have foreseen that it couldn't last; that 
 there must come a time when the dreadful secret 
 would reach your good, kind uncle's ears. 
 
 Francis. I will tell you his object, Mrs. Stan- 
 ton. As you may possibly have heard, I am an 
 industrious and painstaking person. I Avork hard 
 and live plainly, and by the exercise of those gifts 
 which heaven has been pleased to grant to me, I 
 have accumulated a fortune — some would call it 
 a large fortune ; I merely call it a fortune. I 
 daresay I am worth a hundred thousand pounds. 
 Now you might imagine that, possessing this and 
 a clear conscience, I am happy. But there is 
 another and a darker side to the picture which I 
 am endeavouring to paint, Mrs. Stanton. I am 
 cursed, continually cursed, in spite of what George 
 is pleased to consider my advanced age, with an 
 impulse — the impulse of unrestrained generosity. 
 [George and May exchange a look heavy icith 
 meaning.'\ Acting under this impulse, about six 
 months ago, when George imparted to me the in- 
 formation that — er — he, that Ada — when, I 
 say, George, imparted to me the information, I 
 said : " George, if your child is a bo}', I will set-
 
 90 A QUESIlON OF SEX 
 
 tie ten thousand on him." You see boys are so 
 helpless. A boy can't marry a rich husband ; can't 
 make his own clothes ; can't, if the worst comes to 
 the worst, go out as mother's help — that is why 
 I said, " if it is a hoy I will settle ten thousand 
 pounds on your child." I was under no obligation 
 to make the offer. I acted merely from impulse, 
 the impulse of absurd generosity. And how does 
 George repay me? By lying to me, and, what is 
 worse, getting his sister to lie to me. In order to 
 obtain a paltry ten thousand pounds he is willing 
 to stain his honour with a lie. Bah! You, Mrs. 
 Stanton, with characteristic insight and common- 
 sense, have at once put your finger on the most 
 despicable aspect of this painful affair. The lie 
 was useless, futile, silly. \^A slight pause ensues 
 after this damning indictment. '\ 
 
 Helen. George, did your wife know of your 
 uncle's offer? 
 
 George. No, I kept it from her. I thought it 
 would worry her. 
 
 May. That's perfectly true, Helen. He said 
 so to me himself. 
 
 Helen. I do not approve of secrets between 
 husband and wife. It would have been better if 
 you had told dear Ada. 
 
 George. But what difference could it have 
 made ? Uncle only made the offer 
 
 Helen. One never knows . . . Ah ! George !
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 91 
 
 Francis [suddenly to Mayl. As for you, May, 
 you heave pained mc beyond expression. 
 
 Helen l^interrupting' with womanly ta€t'\. Now 
 as I liave been dragged into this little — shall I 
 say " difficulty "? — let me end it for you. I al- 
 ways think it is such a pity to allow a quarrel to 
 grow ; one should stamp it out in the bud. George 
 — and you, May — you must beg your uncle's 
 pardon. I am sure he will grant it. 
 
 Francis [^zvith Christian resignation'\. Will- 
 ingly. 
 
 George. Oh, very well then, if there is to be 
 such a fuss about a mere nothing, a momentary 
 forgetfulness, excusable I should have thought in 
 a man suffering the first pangs of fatherhood, I 
 beg pardon. I apologise. I grovel. 
 
 May. If uncle can take any pleasure in the 
 self-abasement of a fellow-creature, and that fel- 
 low-creature a woman, I also grovel. 
 
 Helen [brightly]. There, there. That's all 
 right. Shake hands. [They shake hands icith 
 mutual forgiveness.] 
 
 Helen. There! It's all done with and forgot- 
 ten. A little tact, I have invariably found, is all 
 that Is necessary In these affairs, and I'm sure I'm 
 very glad to have been of assistance. And now, 
 Uncle Francis — I may call you uncle? — you will 
 write out the cheque. 
 
 Francis. The cheque.?
 
 92 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 Helen \^calmly'\. The cheque for ten thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 Francis {^almost staggered, yet still imperturba- 
 ble^. The cheque for ten thou ! \_Stops.'\ 
 
 Helen. You surely are not going to withhold 
 it — especially after George and May have apolo- 
 gised so prettily. You surely aren't going to cast 
 a slur, as it were, upon my niece, and my poor dear 
 sister who has behaved so splendidly to-day ! 
 
 George \_suddenly tumbling to the game'\. You 
 surely aren't going to 
 
 May. My dear uncle, you surely aren't going 
 to 
 
 Francis \^after a pause^. George, is j^our child 
 a boy or is it not? 
 
 George. I'm informed that he isn't — that she 
 isn't. 
 
 Francis. Well, then, upon what possible 
 ground can you claim my ten thousand pounds? 
 Allow me to remark that I have not the shghtest 
 intention of parting with it. 
 
 Helen. Mr. Gower, I am deeply disappointed 
 in you. Common humanity alone [^Breaks 
 
 off-] 
 
 May. Uncle, you have pained me beyond ex- 
 pression. \_Both the 'women begin to cry softly. '\ 
 
 George [looking to heaven]. My poor wife and 
 innocent babe ! 
 
 Helen. Great wealth may be to its owner a 
 blessing or a curse. Alas ! I fear it is too often the
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 93 
 
 latter. It hardens the heart, blunts tlie finer sus- 
 ceptibilities, and transforms into a fiend what un- 
 der more favourable circumstances might have been 
 a human being. I have noticed the same phe- 
 nomena given in my o^^n children when Ernest 
 gives them sixpence. 
 
 Francis [striving after dignity rcithout self-con- 
 sciousness^. By Jove! It's eight o'clock. I 
 shall be late for dinner. 
 
 Helen. Yes, that's it. Go — go — and con- 
 sume dainties out of season, and drink expensive 
 wines, while your own flesh-and-blood eat the bread 
 of sorrow. Centre all your thoughts on yourself. 
 Shut your eyes to the grief and suffering which 
 surround you. Think only of the carnal appetite. 
 There is the rich man all over ! 
 
 Mot/. Trample on us. Drag the Juggernaut 
 of your gold across our defenceless bodies. \Vlmt 
 is the shriek of pain, the moan of anguish to you, 
 so long as your millions increase and multiply. 
 
 George. Now, Helen, 3'ou see my uncle, my so- 
 called uncle, in his true colours ! [^Fraiicis gazes 
 •with longing at the door."] 
 
 Helen. I do, George. I do, and I cannot bear 
 the sight. I Avill go to my poor sister who is to 
 be robbed of ten thousand pounds for a mere — a 
 mere indiscretion. I must try to comfort her as 
 best I can. It will bo a fearful shock to the poor 
 thing. It might kill her, but of course she must 
 be told.
 
 94* A QUESTION OI' SEX 
 
 George. True, the news may kill her, but, as 
 you say, she must be told. 
 
 Helen. I will do my best to comfort her — I 
 cannot say more. We must hope for the best. 
 
 George. Ah ! Her you may comfort, but who 
 shall pour bahn into the wound of my defenceless 
 child, whose career is blasted, so to speak, before 
 it has cut its first tooth? 
 
 Helen. You may well ask, George. But you 
 ask in vain. Wealth has no ear for the wail of an 
 infant. Wealth is preoccupied with its dinner. 
 
 May \^appeaUngly'\. Uncle, are you quite, quite 
 determined? 
 
 Francis J[coug]i'mg^. Yes, May, I fear I am. 
 And I insist on being allowed to depart. 
 
 All Three. Oh, go, go. Do not let us keep you 
 from your repast. 
 
 Francis [moving to doorl^. Possibly — I say 
 possibly — I may repeat my offer, if at some fu- 
 ture time you, George — that is, Ada, should have 
 a boy. I have noticed that some parents have 
 large families — families in which both sexes are 
 represented. If so 
 
 Helen. Alas ! a frail hope, a hope probably 
 delusive! Our dear curate at Ealing has nine 
 daughters 
 
 George \zoith cold politeness']. I thank you, 
 Uncle Francis, but I have no expectation of being 
 able to avail myst?lf of your offer, Helen, we must 
 resign ourselves.
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 95 
 
 Helen. We must. 
 
 May. Yes, yes. 
 
 Helen. But do not let us bear spite; Mr. 
 Gower, we freely forgive you. Personally I shall 
 pray for you. 
 
 May. Yes, Uncle, we feel it our duty to forgive 
 you, and dear Helen will pray for you. 
 
 Helen [^slioxcing her forgiveness, and with a new 
 idea in her liead'l. Before leaving, ]\Ir. Gower, 
 you must really come upstairs and see the baby. 
 She's a charaiing little creature. [Aside to George 
 while Francis is collecting his hat and sticJc.^ If 
 we could get him upstairs \_George compre- 
 hends that in the presence of maternity and in- 
 fancy, his uncle may he less obdurate.'] 
 
 Francis [edging towards the door]. I do not 
 doubt it, but I would reall}^ prefer to be excused. 
 
 Helen. But Ada said to me specially that you 
 were to go up. She wants you dreadfully to see 
 her baby, her first-born. You must feel how heavy 
 the little dear is. 
 
 Francis. I shall be charmed to — when it is a 
 little bigger. 
 
 3fay. Surely you will not disappoint dear Ada ! 
 Surely you don't bear malice ! 
 
 Francis. I would rather 
 
 George [taking him by the arm]. Come along, 
 Uncle, we'll all go. 
 
 Helen. Yes, we'll accompany you. You 
 needn't be afraid.
 
 96 A QUESTION OF SEX 
 
 Francis \jor the -first time showing signs of los- 
 ing his equanimity; faintli/'\. Not to-night. Some 
 other time. 
 
 George. Oh, come on ! 
 
 Francis [holding hack with all his strength'\. 
 George, I will not. The two great rules of my life 
 are never to enter a sick-room, and never to handle 
 babies. And you ask me to break them both at 
 once. 
 
 Helen. Oh, stuff! 
 
 Maz/. The man's shy, actually. Make him 
 come, George. 
 
 Francis \_appealinglij']. No, no, George, I en- 
 treat. I once handled a baby. 
 
 All Three. Well? 
 
 Francis. I dropped it! [Consternation.'\ 
 
 Ma2j. Did it die? 
 
 Francis. No, I have sometimes wished it had. 
 
 George. Who was it? 
 
 Francis. It was you, George, and your mother 
 fainted. 
 
 George. Oh! You dropped me, did you? 
 Was I injured for life, maimed, crippled? 
 
 Francis. Plappily not. 
 
 George. A jolly good thing for you. I'll 
 teach you to drop me and make my mother faint. 
 Come on now ! 
 
 Francis. Excuse me, I pray you to excuse me. 
 [To himself.'] I'd give a good deal to be out of 
 this.
 
 A QUESTION OF SEX 97 
 
 Helen [^solemnly^. How much would you give? 
 
 May. Would you give a lot? 
 
 George. Would you give ten thousand pounds ? 
 \^Almost shaking him. Dramatic pause.^ 
 
 Francis \Jaintly, hut quite self-possessed 
 again'\. I feel it coming, 
 
 Helen. What? 
 
 Francis. It. ]\Iy impulse of extravagant gen- 
 erosity, my terrible charitableness. \^He makes an 
 inarticulate noise.'\ There! There! 
 
 May. Perhaps pen and ink would assuage the 
 agony. 
 
 Francis. Perhaps. \_They lead him to the ta- 
 ble. He sits down and pulls cheque book out of 
 his pocket. May hands him the pen. He begins 
 to write.'] 
 
 Helen [reading over his shoidder]. "Pay 
 George Gowcr ten thousand pounds." 
 Now the signature. 
 
 Francis [^pausing on the verge of the signature] . 
 Understand ! I don't have to see that baby till it's 
 six months old, and I don't have to handle it till it's 
 a year — no, two years old. {^George nods, all 
 smiles. Francis signs xciih a flourish. Tears 
 cheque out of hook, and hands it to May. May 
 hands it to George, zcho receives it in ecstatic 
 silence. Francis heaves a profound sigh.] 
 
 \_Curtain.] 
 [1899]
 
 36503 1-25 5M 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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