81 
 
 H84&; 
 
 After the Matinee 
 
 Hellen Morrison Howie 
 
 BUSHING COMP. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^aas 
 
 
 
 
 
After the Matinee 
 
 A Comedy in One Act 
 
 By Hellen Morrison Howie 
 
 Author of "His Father's Son," "The Reformer Reformed etc* 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1908 
 
Copyright 1899 by The Penn Publishing Company 
 
 
/7^/^^a 
 
 ?/i 
 
 After the Matinee 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Dorothy Weston, A fascinating , if somewhat high-spir- 
 ited society girl . 
 
 Alan Maxfield, M. D., /077<?r. 
 
 Dick Weston, brother . ^4 of sixteen , who affects 
 
 the manners of a man . 
 
 Lucy, maid . 
 
 Costumes in Accordance with Characters 
 
 ST 
 
 Time in Representation — One Hour. 
 
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AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 SCENE . — A handsomely furnished room with double doors 
 opening into a small hall at the back j on the right to- 
 wards the front , a fireplace , a fire burning in the grate , 
 clock and ornaments on the mantel shelf j in front of 
 the fireplace a table on which some magazines , a paper- 
 knife , a fan and various small objects are scattered ; in 
 the centre of the table, a lamp turned low j chairs are 
 placed at each side , and one at the further end of the 
 table — the chair to the right being a low fauteuil; at the 
 further end of the room , at the right , an escritoire ; at 
 the left of the room a piano j a settee and chairs taste- 
 fully disposed about the apart?nent. 
 
 Dorothy ( slipping from her shoulders a handsome thea- 
 tre wrap and throwing it on the settee ). Pardon me, Mr. 
 Maxfield, if I fail to see why I should take the trouble of 
 explaining my moods to you ! 
 
 Maxfield. Well, Dorothy I must say, I never saw a 
 woman who could work herself into a rage so successfully 
 as you can ! ( Placing his coa*t and hat on a chair by the 
 
 door.) 
 
 Dorothy. I don’t have to work very hard to get into a 
 rage when I am in your company ! ( Turning up the 
 
 lamp.) 
 
 Maxfield. Is not this ridiculously childish ! Why do 
 you persist in making yourself unhappy — and me ? ( At- 
 
 tempting to take her hand.) 
 
 Dorothy ( jerking it away). Which is vastly more im- 
 portant of course ! But you mistake. What cause have I 
 for unhappiness ? Have I not this very afternoon spent three 
 and a half hours in your delightful society ? Then the play 
 was bright — you had nothing to do with that — and I enjoyed 
 it despite the fact that you sat with your eyes shut through- 
 out the performance and answered “ Yes ” without even 
 opening them when I a3ked you if my hair was all right ! 
 
 Maxfield (amused). Did I though ? — that was a very 
 grave offence I admit. Was it my only one ? 
 
 5 
 
6 
 
 AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 Dorothy ( with a shrug). Let us drop the matter ; it is, 
 as you say, so ridiculously childish. {Glancing at the clock .) 
 Are you forgetting that your father leaves for the west to- 
 night and that you must see him before his departure ? 
 
 Maxfield {smiling). No ; but 1 have half an hour yet. 
 (Dorothy with the air of a inartyr sinks into a chair with 
 a sigh.) Dorothy ! {Reproachfully .) 
 
 Dorothy {mockingly). Dorothy ! Dorothy ! How tired 
 I am of the sound ! Why didn’t mamma call me Catherine, 
 or Julia, or Beatrix, or Helen, or anything but Dorothy ! 
 A more inappropriate name could hardly have been be- 
 stowed upon me. 
 
 Maxfield. True. You are hopelessly different from the 
 Dorothy of tradition. The very name shows that — Dorothea, 
 gift from Heaven. 
 
 Dorothy. You mean to imply ? 
 
 Maxfield. Not at all. Though at times you have a de- 
 cided talent for making things hot. 
 
 Dorothy. Wretch ! 
 
 Maxfield. The Dorothy of tradition is sweet and gentle, 
 winsome and — 
 
 Dorothy. Everything that I am not ! I know that is 
 what you are going to say, so I may just as well anticipate. 
 
 Maxfield. Not exactly. But I have remarked how 
 singularly inappropriate your name is. Still it is hardly fair 
 to blame your mother. Poor woman, she meant well ! 
 When you lay in her arms, a soft little wad of swan’s-down 
 cotton (Dorothy smiles in spite of herself) you seemed to 
 her a veritable gift from Heaven. She couldn’t tell then 
 how you were going to grow up, you know. 
 
 Dorothy. Such impertinence 1 
 
 Maxfield. Considering her Puritan blood, she did very 
 well by you. You know she might have called you Hope, 
 Faith, or Charity, or even Patience ! {Laughing.) 
 
 Dorothy {mocking him). Ha! ha! Funny, isn’t it ? I 
 suppose you think I ought to have been christened Imp or 
 Firebrand, or Vixen, or Gadfly, or- — 
 
 Maxfield {leaning over her chair and speaking in a 
 changed voice). No, dear, butofttimes in my thoughts I call 
 you Cassandra, because you inspire love. 
 
 Dorothy {with a curl of her lip). Really I prefer your 
 other mood. It is more natural. As for my name {rising), 
 that has always been to me a matter of the supremest in- 
 difference — until lately, when the constant sound of it on your 
 lips, has become almost intolerable ! 
 
 Maxfield. Miss Weston ! Dorothy ! 
 
AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 7 
 
 Dorothy. There ! Once more ! 
 
 Maxfield. By Jove, it takes a woman to be cruel ! 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, and it takes a man to be dense ! 
 
 Maxfield. That is true ; and as I am more dense 
 than the average male, you will have to tell me, Dorothy, 
 how I offended you this afternoon. It was rather unlover- 
 like conduct to sit there with my eyes closed, I admit — but I 
 had seen the play before, dear, and your attention seemed so 
 entirely engrossed. It wasn’t that I was tired or bored, for 
 mentally I was seeing scenes far more beautiful than those 
 on the stage. Shall I tell you of what I was thinking as I 
 gat by your side this afternoon ? Thank you. I see by your 
 expression that you would fain spare me the unnecessary 
 trouble. 
 
 Dorothy. Then my looks but feebly express my feelings. 
 
 Maxfield. Such refreshing candor ! Nevertheless even 
 at the risk of boring you — 
 
 Dorothy ( with a slight upward movement of the hands'). 
 Quite used to it, I assure you. 
 
 Maxfield. In that case may I beg once more your kind 
 indulgence ? (. Motions Dorothy to be seated ; with a 
 
 shrug and lifting of the eyebrows she slowly sinks into, the 
 fauteuil ; Maxfield is a little to one side and back of 
 Dorothy, leaning , half sitting on the edge of the table j he 
 looks down at her as he talks.) Rather queer, wasn’t it, 
 that I should be thinking just then of the time when I first 
 met you, away out there in Monterey. You may not believe 
 it, Dorothy, but those were the happiest days I ever spent. 
 There is just so much that one gets in this life, and it is a 
 good deal to be able to say “ I was perfectly happy then.’* 
 Monterey ! Whenever I hear that name my heart beats 
 faster. Nowhere else to me are the skies quite so blue ; no- 
 where else do the waves sing such a glad song as they do 
 along the / curve of that enchanted beach. Do you remember 
 how we used to stroll for hours along that level stretch of 
 sand ? This chair isn’t half so comfortable, is it, as the seat 
 I improvised for you, in the hulk of that old overturned 
 boat ? Do you remember how those fishermen’s children 
 used to come over every morning for pennies ? ( Continuing 
 more slowly.) Do you remember the day when we walked 
 out to the very end of the Crescent ? — it was there that you 
 first told me that you loved — 
 
 Dorothy (with a quick upward movement of the hand 
 towards his lips). Oh, no, no, no ! ( She regains her com- 
 
 posure instantly .) Strange ! ( Knitting her brows in pre- 
 tended thought .) Was it to you I made that sweet confession 
 
8 
 
 AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 out there on the rocks ? What a wretched memory I have, 
 to be sure ! You see those three Woodruff boys were at 
 Monterey that season. 
 
 Maxfield ( turns on his heel with a ?nuttered exclama- 
 tion ; after a mome7it returns to her side ; continues , in a 
 tone of affected lightness ). Surely you remember the day 
 we went fishing ? 
 
 Dorothy ( shaking her head). Never caught a fish in 
 my life. 
 
 Maxfield. I didn’t say you caught any fish, dear. 
 
 Dorothy. Oh ! (Aside.) That’s the time he landed his 
 fish all right. 
 
 Maxfield (piqued). Perhaps you have also forgotten 
 those evenings on the pier ? 
 
 Dorothy. Oh, no, I remember sitting there quite often 
 — with mamma. 
 
 Maxfield. Your mother didn’t happen to be present on 
 the occasions of which I speak. 
 
 Dorothy. Ah ! that accounts for your being there. 
 (With an impatient exclamation Maxfield walks to the 
 opposite side of the room; Dorothy rises , coming forward 
 towards the centre and front of the stage ; Maxfield 
 approaches, standing back and left of her.) But now that 
 you have had the questionable satisfaction of proving that 
 my memory is so faulty, let me try yours. Do you remem- 
 ber that afternoon when we went out in the row boat ? How 
 I sang to you (Maxwell slips his arm about her waist ; 
 Dorothy takes no notice ), and braided a rope of seaweed 
 and flung it to you, and you wound it about you and called 
 yourself my captive, and how the boat drifted far out beyond 
 the inlet, and how you had to row like mad to get in again, 
 because that terrific thunder-storm came up, and how we 
 were drenched to the skin, and my new gown was ruined, 
 and — don’t you remember that trip ? 
 
 Maxfield (somewhat bitterly). Aren’t you getting me 
 mixed up with one of those Woodruff boys ? 
 
 Dorothy (breaking away from him with a tantalizing 
 laugh). Nothing the matter with your memory, I see. 
 
 ( Takes a seat beside the table.) 
 
 Maxfield. Will you stop fooling ! 
 
 Dorothy. I’m not fooling. I really took that trip. 
 (Glancing at the clock.) 
 
 Maxfield (notes the direction of her glance). I have 
 still fifteen minutes you see, but as you seem particularly 
 anxious to be relieved of my presence I will go, especially as 
 
AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 9 
 
 .now that just now it is useless to stay. Nothing I can do 
 r say avails when my lady is in one of her moods. ( Goes 
 to the chair by the door , and lifting his overcoat commences 
 to put it on; continues in a gayer tone.) But when I return 
 this evening, as I will, in a couple of hours, I — 
 
 Dorothy {in a changed , hard voice). Pardon me, Dr. 
 Maxfield, but I am engaged for this evening. 
 
 {She has risen and is standing with her back to him , her 
 hand on the table , against which she leans.) 
 
 Maxfield {stops abruptly in the act of putting on his 
 coat ; takes it off and lays it once more on the chair; ad- 
 vances, but without any * appearance of hurrying , to her 
 side). You surely have forgotten ! It was you, yourself, 
 who told me to come this evening. 
 
 Dorothy. I — I have changed my mind. 
 
 Maxfield. What a tease you are, to be sure ! {Attempts 
 to put his arm about her; she pushes his hand away , facing 
 him suddenly .) Dorothy ! It can’t be that you mean it ! 
 That you do not wish me to come ? 
 
 Dorothy {coldly and deliberately). That is what I mean, 
 Dr. Maxtield. I do not wish you to call again to-night, or 
 —ever ! 
 
 Maxfield. Do you know what you are saying ? Look 
 at me ! {Seizes her wrist and forces her to meet his gaze.) 
 By Jove ! I believe you mean it ! No ! No ! It is too 
 absurd — too unjust ! At least tell me — what have I done ? 
 {She remains silent , her head averted .) Speak ! 
 
 Dorothy ( wrenching her hand free). I have nothing to 
 say. 
 
 Maxfield. Then 1 have ! Only three words, but therein 
 lies the key to your mood. You are jealous ! {Speaking 
 the last three words very distinctly and close to her ear.) 
 
 Dorothy {with a forced laugh). Ha ! ha ! This is a 
 good joke. Jealous am I — I — and of whom, pray ? 
 
 Maxfield {producing from his vest pocket a miniature). 
 Did you ever see that face before ? {Holding it before herl) 
 
 Dorothy {scarcely glancing at it). Surely if I had I 
 should never have forgotten it. It is so exceedingly ugly. 
 
 Maxfield {smiling and addressing the miniature). Not 
 quite so bad as that, is it, Bluebell, my dear ? 
 
 Dorothy {aside). Bluebell ! Listen to the name ! Blue- 
 bell-s-s-s. {Making a sound of contempt.) 
 
 Maxfield {placing the miniature on the table and turning 
 to Dorothy). True, she isn’t handsome like you, but then 
 she’s good — 
 
IO 
 
 AFTER *THE MATINEE 
 
 Dorothy. Unlike me, hey ? 
 
 Maxfield. Ahem ! Thank you. (Dorothy crosses t 
 the piano where she stands , her elbow on the top of the in 
 strnment , her back to Maxfield ; with her right hand she 
 thumps out in an aggravating way the popular negro 
 melody , “ I Don' t Like no Cheap Man ,” Maxfield contin- 
 ues in an asidel\ Dorothy jealous ! Well ( rubbing his 
 hands), this is a new experience for me. It will do her no 
 harm to find out how it feels. This accounts for her strange 
 behavior at the matinee. She was all right until I took out 
 my wallet and began searching for one of her letters, the 
 date of which we were disputing ; then Bluebell’s picture 
 slipped out and fell right into her la*p. She scarcely touched 
 it as she returned it to me, saying, in that cold little tone of hers, 
 “ I see my letters keep good company.” Jealou-s ! — of course 
 she is ! Oh, if she only knew ! ( Looking at Dorothy.) 
 
 Look at her now, the little jade ! I’m dying to crush her in 
 my arms ! — but not yet ! — not yet ! 
 
 Dorothy (in mock surprise , turning from the piano). 
 What ! not gone yet ? 
 
 Maxfield. No ; going. ( Puts on his coat , lifts his hat 
 from the chair and bows.) Good-evening, Miss Weston. 
 
 Dorothy. Good-bye, Dr. Maxfield. (Me goes out ; 
 Dorothy remains motionless ; there is a short pause,) 
 
 Maxfield (returning and standing in the doorway ). 
 Dorothy ! 
 
 Dorothy. Alan ! (He advances and is about to take 
 her in his arms ; she repels him with a motion of the 
 hand.) No, no ! take back what you said first. 
 
 Maxfield (puzzled). What I said ? 
 
 Dorothy. Yes. (Somewhat hesitatingly .) This after- 
 noon at the matinee you said that you — loved her. 
 
 Maxfield (biting his lip to keep back a smile). Did I 
 say that ? Well, it is true — but I love you more. 
 
 Dorothy (mockingly). Oh, thank you ! Take my ad- 
 vice, Dr. Maxfield, and transfer the affection you are wast- 
 ing on me — to — what’s the name ? — ah, yes — Bluebell ! I 
 assure you that even then the poor dear won’t have any too 
 much. 
 
 Maxfield. I don’t think she would prize it very highly ; 
 besides, I’m sure she never even dreams that I care for her. 
 
 Dorothy. Not at all surprising, if you treat her as you 
 do me. 
 
 Maxfield. It is quite a long story about Bluebell. Do 
 you think you will be able to trust me until to-night, dear, 
 when I will explain everything ? 
 
AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 II 
 
 DOROTHY. If you have any explanation to make, Dr. 
 Maxfield, it must be made now or never ! 
 
 Maxfield. And this is the quality of your love for me ! 
 I have given you everything, but when I ask you simply to 
 withhold judgment for two short hours I get this reply. 
 
 Dorothy. Now or never ! 
 
 Maxfield. Neither ; but to-night at half-past nine I will 
 be here. 
 
 Dorothy. Then I will be elsewhere. 
 
 Maxfield. Listen, Dorothy Weston ! ( Seizing both her 
 
 hands while she struggles vainly to free herself l) You 
 
 don’t know what it means to be thwarted. You have been 
 spoiled and petted, loved and worshipped all your life. I, 
 more than the others, have humored your every whim, but 
 for this once I intend to be master — and to-night when I re- 
 turn you will be here — do you understand ? Until then you 
 must — you shall trust me ! ( Forces her back into a chair , 
 covers her face with kisses , snatches his hat and rushes 
 from the room.) 
 
 DOROTHY ( starting to her feet with a cry of baffled rage). 
 Insufferable audacity ! How dare he ! And I’ll be here to- 
 night to receive him, will I ? — oh, we’ll see l ( Rings for her 
 maid ; enter Lucy.) Lucy, tell Baker when Dr. Maxfield calls, 
 as he will this evening at half-past nine o’clock — -to say that I 
 am not at home. Make no mistake, Lucy ! You understand ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, miss, perfectly. 
 
 Dorothy. And, Lucy, I wish you would bring me my 
 slippers — and — (. Breaks off abruptly , evidently revolving 
 some vexed question in her mind j there is a short pause.) 
 
 Lucy. Yes, miss ? 
 
 Dorothy. And — you may pack my valise. 
 
 Lucy. You are going away ? 
 
 Dorothy. Yes. I think a change of air will be bene- 
 ficial. Then Aunt Margaret has been so anxious to have 
 me visit her. I have neglected her long enough. 
 
 LUCY (aside). Oh, yes — but I know what is back of this 
 sudden affection for Aunt Margaret. I told Baker that they 
 had had a quarrel ! An elegant man like Dr. Maxfield — so 
 polite — as he is — doesn’t run people down in the hall the 
 way he did me a few minutes ago unless he’s terribly ex- 
 cited. It’s a lover’s quarrel, that’s what. (Runs off.) 
 
 Dorothy ( wanders restlessly about the room ; takes 
 up a book , turns the pages a minute , slams it down again , 
 as she does so , perceives the miniature on the table. 
 Sarcastically). Has he gone and actually left you, Blue- 
 bell ? (Examines the photo.) And I am jealous of her, am 
 
12 
 
 AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 I ? Why, there isn’t a pretty feature in her face ! Look at 
 her nose ? To be kind, we'll call it retroussf but it’s noth- 
 ino- but an old-fashioned pug! Such a weak chin ! There’s 
 a person who has never learned the art of expression. She 
 sits all in a heap, lifting her eyes in a deprecating sort of 
 way as if she were apologizing to the artist for her lack ot 
 beauty — and well she might. ( Tossing it on the table) 
 
 (Enter Lucy with her mistress's slippers which she places 
 V beside the chair, near the fire.) 
 
 LUCY ( Poking at the fire). Shall I put on another log, 
 
 Dorothy (with her back turned). As you please 
 Lucy. One ? ( Pausing with the second log m her hand.) 
 Dorothy. One — yes— or twenty. 
 
 Lucy (aside, laying down the wood , and lifting her 
 hands'). My, she doesn’t care for nothing now. Just acts 
 like Rosilander in the story Baker read to me when the 
 Duke brought her the jewels that had been heirlooms (. pro- 
 nounces the letter h) in his family for thousands of years 
 she just swept them to one side as though they had been so 
 much rubbish, and kept calling out, “ Oh, that I were dead . 
 Oh, that I were dead!” (in tragic imitation of the -fair 
 Rosalinda .) Just because she had quarrelled with Fitzhug , 
 and he had left her to ride across the border with Pnnce 
 Charlie. My! it’s a terrible thing— this love ! {Puts the 
 logon the fire, and, getting down on her knees, dusts the 
 hearth, stealing an occasional glance at her mistress ) 
 Dorothy (aside). Am I the same girl who sang so gay y 
 this morning ? This morning, why it seems ages ago ‘I 
 was too happy. I might have known something would hap- 
 pen. (Aloud.) Oh! (Forgetful of Lucy s presence sinks 
 into a chair, and burying her face tn her hands, lays her 
 
 head on the table.) . . . . 
 
 Lucy (starting to her feet). Oh, miss, what is it . Are 
 
 y °DOROTHY (rising). No, no, it’s nothing. You have 
 brought my slippers, I see. (Seats herself in a chair by the 
 fire ■ Lucy kneels to unfasten her mistress s shoes ; a short 
 pause) Lucy, during my absence you may take a week 
 and go down and see your mother— but don t be running off 
 and getting married. 
 
 Lucy (shaking her head). Oh, no, miss. 
 
 Dorothy. You say that very decidedly. Do you mean 
 to say that a good-looking girl like you didn’t leave a lover 
 behind you /down there in Winslow ? 
 
AFTER THE MATINEE 1 3 
 
 Lucy ( with a toss of her head). Indeed I did, miss, 
 more than one. 
 
 Dorothy, There, I knew it ! Tell me about them. 
 Begin as far back as you remember. Who was your very 
 first sweetheart ? 
 
 Lucy ( bashfully ). Well, there was Sam Burns — but 
 gracious, I wouldn’t call him a sweetheart ! Ugh ! the sight 
 of him would make you sick ! His trousers came up to there 
 ( touching her dress midway between the ankle and knee ) 
 and his jacket sleeves came way below his knuckles. His 
 right jacket sleeve was always shiny, too. His mother put 
 pins in it, but it didn’t cure him. He never spoke to the 
 other girls, but he always said, “ Hello, Lucy ! ” ( imitating 
 Sam’s manner of drawing his sleeve across his nose) to 
 me. He was the dirtiest thing ! Yet somehow that boy got 
 around me ! Why, I even gave him a Christmas present 
 once. 
 
 Dorothy. What did you give him ? Handkerchiefs ? 
 
 Lucy ( laughing loudly). Ha, ha! ( Claps her hand 
 over her mouth , abashed at the noise she has made.) 
 
 Dorothy. Poor Sam ! But what about the other young 
 man — Barclay, I think, was his name ? 
 
 Lucy {sighing). Yes, miss. It makes me feel lonesome 
 when I think of him. He was such lively company till he 
 drank hisself to death, and he was the obliginest young 
 man you ever seen. Why, when Mrs. Eastman wrote to 
 Mrs. Mortimer of Glen Farm to tell the Watsons to tell 
 Mrs. Simpson to tell her man to let my mother know that 
 your mother wanted a maid — {gees ping for breath) he walked 
 twenty miles in a blinding snowstorm to bring us word. 
 Poor Barclay ! He was a nice young man but he had one 
 fault. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, intemperance is the curse of — 
 
 Lucy. Oh, no, miss — I don’t mean drink. {Lowering 
 her voice.) He was jealous ! 
 
 Dorothy ( with a little gasp). Oh ! 
 
 Lucy. And as my mother used to say — you see she knew 
 — my father was a bit that way — “ When a man or a woman 
 gives way to that feeling no lunatic will equal them for crazy 
 goings on ! ” You see, miss, they’re cleanout of their heads 
 for the time being, they really are ! My mother used to say 
 she’d rather have a mad dog to deal with than a jealous 
 man or woman — the brute was more reasonablelike. 
 
 Dorothy {somewhat embarrassed). Was — Barclay very 
 outrageous ? 
 
 LUCY. Indeed he was ! He was something awful ! He 
 
14 
 
 AFTER THE MATIN&E 
 
 made me promise that 1 wouldn’t even look at a man when I 
 came here, and he wrote me such letters ! I was nearly 
 scared to death ! He said if I even so much as glanced at 
 a New York policeman he would come down and smash the 
 whole Broadway squad 1 He did indeed ! 
 
 ( Enter Dick Weston.) 
 
 Dick (to Dorothy). Oh, here you are ! I thought you’d 
 never get home from that confounded matinee ! (LUCY re- 
 tires ; Dick pulls her apron string as she passes.) By the 
 way, I met Maxfield just now rushing around the corner ; he 
 was muttering to himself and smiling like an idiot. I didn’t 
 speak to him. 
 
 Dorothy. Just as well. You might have chased that 
 smile. 
 
 Dick. That’s so. There’s no love lost betweeii us. He 
 imagines he’s the only pebble on the beach. What do you 
 think ! The other day when he met me he patted me on 
 the shoulder and said “ How do you do, Dick, my boy ? 
 My boy, to me ! What do you think of that ? 
 
 Dorothy (turning away to hide a smile). He’s daring 
 enough for anything, that man. 
 
 Dick. Said I was ruining my health with these beastly 
 cigarettes. (Produces one.) Say, you don’t mind my smok- 
 ing, do you ? 
 
 Dorothy. Most decidedly. There, at least, I agree with 
 Dr. Maxfield. 
 
 Dick. Oh, of course ! I have noticed of late that you 
 and he seem to understand each other pretty well. Dorothy 
 Weston (seizing a paper-knife from the table and bran- 
 dishing it in a murderous fashion ), if you married that 
 .fellow I would — 1 (Pushes back her head and draws the 
 knife across her throat significantly.) Ah ! Do you un- 
 derstand ? 
 
 Dorothy {laughing). Perfectly. But (somewhat bit- 
 terly ), don’t be afraid. There isn’t much danger of that just 
 at present. 
 
 Dick. Just as well. As your brother, I have, of course, 
 your welfare at heart. (Inflates his chest , spreads his legs 
 and begins toying with the down on his upper lip.) And 
 I must confess that the question of your marriage has been 
 causing me very grave anxiety. 
 
 Dorothy. Now I know what has affected yoUr health ! 
 And mother’s been declaring it was because you hadn’t cut 
 all your second teeth. 
 
 Dick. Dorothy Weston, you have a way of saying things 
 
AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 15 
 
 that I despise ! There’s no sisterly affection about you. 
 Now to show you how different I am — what a kind, brotherly 
 heart I have — I will refrain from telling you what Jack Wood- 
 ruff said about you the other day. 
 
 Dorothy ( coaxingly ). Ah, now, Dickie, you know that’s 
 mean of you. ( Putting her arm about his neck and smoothing 
 the lapel of his jacket .) Tell me — there’s a sweety-weety ! 
 
 Dick {shakes his head). No. 
 
 Dorothy. Please, Dicky, dear. 
 
 Dick. No, I say ! 
 
 Dorothy. Dickie, I insist ! 
 
 Dick {with mock reluctance ). Well, if you insist — 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, yes ! 
 
 Dick. He said he was willing to wager a hundred dol- 
 lars that you would marry Maxfield, because he was the only 
 man who knew how to manage you. 
 
 Dorothy ( pushing him from her and turning away 
 with a frown). Manage me, indeed ! 
 
 Dick. M-m-m — that’s what he said. Doesn’t sound very 
 complimentary, does it ? Kind of as if you were a refractory 
 horse, don’t you know. We men make use of a great many 
 expressions that are more forceful than elegant, I admit. But, 
 say, Dorothy — to come down to business — will you lend me 
 a five ? 
 
 Dorothy. Dick Weston ! Are you absolutely devoid of 
 conscience ? How much money have I already given you 
 this month ? If father and mother knew — 
 
 Dick. But they never will. 
 
 Dorothy. Don’t be too sure of that. It is very ques- 
 tionable kindness on my part to shield you. You are getting 
 into habits of extravagance simply appalling in a boy of 
 your age. 
 
 Dick. Sister mine, you talk like a — a — sister — and of 
 course I know you mean it for my good and all that — and — 
 if you’ll just give me a five this once, I’ll reform — ’pon my 
 word I will — stop smoking — stop — well, I’ll be a good boy 
 all at once ! 
 
 Dorothy. A gradual reform is more apt to be lasting — 
 so I’ll begin the good work by withholding that five. 
 
 Dick. Knew by your face the moment I came in that you 
 were in a beastly temper — wouldn’t have risked my chances, 
 but I tell you, Dorothy, I must have that money right away ! 
 (Dorothy shakes her head.) Now, don’t shake your head ! 
 Just listen a minute, will you ? {Leans across the table 
 where he sees the miniatured) Hello ! {Picking it up.) 
 How does Lulu Thornton’s picture happen to be here ? 
 
i6 
 
 AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 (Dorothy starts.) Oh, Maxfield, of course ! ( Tossing it 
 
 down .) 
 
 Dorothy {aside). Maxfield, of course ! Then every- 
 body knows it ! Oh ! {Clinching her hands.) 
 
 Dick. Now, listen, Dorothy ! You know Harry Winters 
 — well, he and I are going to take the train — 
 
 Dorothy {pursuing her own thoughts). Whose picture 
 did you say that was, Dick ? 
 
 Dick. I didn’t say anything about taking a picture ! I 
 said we were going to take the train. 
 
 Dorothy. Yes, yes, I know. I mean what did you call 
 this — this person ? {Taking up the miniature which she 
 examines .) 
 
 Dick. Lulu Thornton, of course. What’s the matter 
 with your memory ? 
 
 Dorothy {aside, puzzled). Lulu Thornton, I’ve heard 
 that name before, but where — when ? 
 
 Dick. Well, we are going to Hartford to spend a few 
 days with Captain Rogers. His daughter Mamie — 
 
 Dorothy {still looking at the immature and speaking 
 of Lulu Thornton). What is she ? 
 
 Dick. What is she ? Why, she's his daughter, Mamie 
 Rogers, of course ! 
 
 Dorothy. No, no, I mean this Lulu Thornton ? 
 
 Dick. Oh 1 An actress — at least, she used to be. 
 
 Dorothy {aside.) An actress ! 
 
 Dick. Mamie is one of the prettiest girls ! Laura Dill- 
 ing can’t hold a candle to her. 
 
 Dorothy {as before ). Is she married ? 
 
 Dick. Is she married ? Why she isn’t out of school yet ? 
 What under the sun are. you maundering about! Oh, it’s 
 Lulu Thornton once more, is it ? Yes, she’s married, may 
 be dead and buried for anything *1 know to the contrary. By 
 the way. ( Walking over to the escritoire.) I must find out 
 about that train. I think it leaves at eight o’clock in the 
 morning. {Begins hunting for a time-table in one of the 
 pigeon-holes .) 
 
 Dorothy {as before). Dickie, are you sure that you are 
 not mistaken ? 
 
 Dorothy. No, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m hunting 
 for a time-table. 
 
 Dorothy. I mean about this — actress. I had heard her 
 spoken of as Blue — 
 
 Dick. Bluebeard, eh ? Now look here, I’m sick of this ! 
 {Advances to Dorothy.) Am I talking to you, or are you 
 talking to me, or does either of us know to whom we are 
 
AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 1 7 
 
 r 
 
 talking, or what we are talking about ? Do you mean to 
 say that Maxfield has never told you about his brother’s mar- 
 riage ? 
 
 Dorothy. His brother’s marriage ? — What has that to 
 do with — Oh, yes, I remember — his brother Charlie married 
 an actress. ( Excitedly .) You don’t mean to say that this — 
 
 Dick. Yes, that’s she, Lulu Thornton, Charlie Maxfield’s 
 wife. The family raised a great time about the marriage at 
 first, but when they saw what a brick she was — how she 
 nursed Charlie through the fever, and stood by him all 
 through his financial troubles — why they changed their 
 minds, and now they think there’s nobody in the world like 
 her. 
 
 Dorothy {aside). Yes, yes, I begin to see it all now. 
 And that man says he isn’t a tease — Oh ! Still, Dick may be 
 mistaken. {Aloud, advancing and motioning to her brother 
 to approach .) Come here ! {Holds the miniature before 
 his eyes.) Dickie, are you perfectly sure that that woman is 
 Dr. Maxfield’s brother’s wife ? 
 
 Dick {imitating). Yes, I am perfectly sure that that woman 
 is Dr. Maxfield’s brother’s wife. Do you want me to swear 
 to it ? What’s up ? You act like a detective following a 
 clue. 
 
 Dorothy {hesitatingly). But Dr. Maxfield called her 
 Bluebell. 
 
 Dick. Oh, Dr. Maxfield called her Bluebell, did he ? 
 Well, he’s her brother-in-law, — he ought to know. {Suspi- 
 ciously.) I understood you to say that Maxfield had never 
 spoken of her to you. 
 
 Dorothy {slightly embarrassed). Neither he has. He 
 merely mentioned the name Bluebell in connection with that 
 photograph. 
 
 Dick {looking at her sharply and evidently thinking 
 hard). Oh, he did, did he ? {A short pause.) Well, her 
 right name was Isabelle Hart. Bluebell might be a pet 
 name. It is not improbable — Isabelle — Bluebell — hey ? 
 
 Dorothy. Improbable! Not at all. Isabelle — Bluebell 
 — why that’s as plain ! {Drawing a breath of intense relief.) 
 My, what a bright boy you are, Dickie ! 
 
 Dick {drawing himself up). It takes some people a 
 long time to find out things. 
 
 Dorothy {aside). The feeling of relief I experience 
 proves to me how much I was suffering. How could he do 
 it ! My teasing is innocence itself compared with his. Oh, 
 the rascal ! I — I — love him — there ! I don’t believe that in 
 my heart I really doubted him. Still, I did experience some 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 of the pangs of jealousy — and as Lucy’s mother says, “ A 
 mad dog is more reasonable than a jealous man or woman,” 
 {Aloud.) Oh, what a fool I’ve been. 
 
 Dick. There, you are beginning to talk like a person of 
 sense. I knew that you would soon see the matter in that 
 light. Say, Dot, suppose you make it a ten. 
 
 Dorothy {laughing). You rascal \ {Pinching his ear.) 
 Well, Dick, for this once a ten it shall be — for you’ve earned it. 
 
 Dick {aside). Earned it, did I ! Well, that was a cinch S 
 What’s the matter with her, anyhow. She isn’t often in 
 such a generous mood. I’m afraid I’ve wasted a golden op- 
 portunity. I could kick myself. I know now how a Chat- 
 ham Jew feels when a customer has given him his asking 
 price without a demur. Why didn’t I raise the ante ? 
 {Aloud, turning to his sister.) Dorothy — you — know how 
 fast money goes and — 
 
 Dorothy. Ten, Dickie. Not a- dollar more. 
 
 Dick. Just another five. 
 
 Dorothy. Not another cent. 
 
 Dick. You mean it ? 
 
 Dorothy. I mean it — but Dickie, dear, I’ll fix it all 
 right with papa about your going, and I’ll make you a pres- 
 ent of my new grip. 
 
 Dick. I asked Lucy for it a few minutes ago — but she 
 said you needed it — that you were going to Aunt Margaret’s. 
 
 Dorothy. Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, I’ll give up that trip. 
 You may have the valise. 
 
 Dick. What is the meaning of this unwonted generosity ? 
 Dorothy, excuse me, but 1 fear that you are ill. Let me feel 
 your pulse, sister mine. {Takes her by the wrist.) 
 
 Dorothy. No, not ill, Dickie, dear, only so relieved and 
 happy that I could dance for very joy. 
 
 Dick. And I ! — Ten dollars ! — A bran new valise with 
 gold mountings !’ — Hartford ! — Mamie ! — Come, Dorothy, 
 that is worth a dance ! {Introduce specialty song or dance 
 or not , at will, carrying on the following fragmentary 
 conversation the while if intro due ed.) 
 
 Dick. Ah, this is more fun than a goat ! 
 
 Dorothy. Of course it is. 
 
 Dick. My, what a pretty foot ! 
 
 Dorothy. Thank you. 
 
 Dick. Dorothy ! 
 
 Dorothy. Yes ? 
 
 Dick. Make it fifteen. 
 
 Dorothy. . No — no — no — no — no — no ! {Keeping time 
 to the music l) 
 
AFTER THE MATINEE 
 
 (Lucy appears in the doorway , looking on in some surprise 
 at this unusual exhibition .) 
 
 Dick ( sinking into a chair and fanning himself wi'* 
 his handkerchief ). Phew ! I can stand no more. (Dorothy 
 stops and remains standing , using her fan.) Here comes 
 Lucy. I had better go now and dress for dinner. Good-bye 
 for the present, sister mine. ( Leaves the room j chucks Lucy 
 under the chin in passing.) 
 
 Dorothy. Good-bye, Dick, Well, Lucy, what is it ? 
 
 Lucy. Shall I put the book that you were reading into 
 the bag ? 
 
 Dorothy. No. Ahem ! In fact you needn’t mind about 
 packing. 
 
 Lucy. You are not going ? 
 
 Dorothy. No ; Aunt Margaret doesn't need me — for a 
 while — yet. And, Lucy, I’ve changed my mind — tell Baker 
 that when Dr. Maxfield calls, I will receive him in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 CURTAIN