On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in her drawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall. Anyone placed so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door on the right and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs Knox, whose back is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the opposite side of the room. The sofa is near the piano. There is a small table in the middle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and albums on it, and chairs near it.
Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner, harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a soft stoutish man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox has coarse black hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving can whiten. Mrs Knox is a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion, with thoughtful eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere of peace and some solemnity. She is surprised to see her husband at home during business hours.
MRS KNOX. What brings you home at this hour? Have you heard anything?
KNOX. No. Have you?
MRS KNOX. No. Whats the matter?
KNOX. [sitting down on the sofa] I believe Gilbey has found out.
MRS KNOX. What makes you think that?
KNOX. Well, I dont know: I didnt like to tell you: you have enough to worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever since it happened. I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I was depending on him. But hes worse than me. Hes not looking after anything; and he keeps out of my way. His manner's not natural. He hasnt asked us to dinner; and hes never said a word about our not asking him to dinner, after all these years when weve dined every week as regular as clockwork. It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop me socially. Well, why should he do that if he hasnt heard?
MRS KNOX. I wonder! Bobby hasnt been near us either: thats what I cant make out.
KNOX. Oh, thats nothing. I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall with her aunt.
MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Jo! [She takes her handkerchief from the writing-table and cries a little].
KNOX. Well, I got to tell lies, aint I? You wont. Somebody's got to tell em.
MRS KNOX. [putting away her handkerchief] It only ends in our not knowing what to believe. Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton for the sea air. Theres something queer about that. Gilbey would never let the boy loose by himself among the temptations of a gay place like Brighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington High Street the very day she told me.
KNOX. If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby and Margaret, and all over between us and them.
MRS KNOX. It's all over between us and everybody. When a girl runs away from home like that, people know what to think of her and her parents.
KNOX. She had a happy, respectable home—everything—
MRS KNOX. [interrupting him] Theres no use going over it all again, Jo. If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy anywhere. Youd better go back to the shop and try to keep your mind off it.
KNOX. [rising restlessly] I cant. I keep fancying everybody knows it and is sniggering about it. I'm at peace nowhere but here. It's a comfort to be with you. It's a torment to be with other people.
MRS KNOX. [going to him and drawing her arm through his] There, Jo, there! I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could. But it cant be. God's work must go on from day to day, no matter what comes. We must face our trouble and bear it.
KNOX. [wandering to the window arm in arm with her] Just look at the people in the street, going up and down as if nothing had happened. It seems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care.
MRS KNOX. If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking up at us. You shouldnt keep thinking about it.
KNOX. I know I shouldnt. You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm sure I'm glad it comforts you. But it doesnt come to me that way. Ive worked hard to get a position and be respectable. Ive turned many a girl out of the shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres my own daughter gone for a fortnight without word or sign, except a telegram to say shes not dead and that we're not to worry about her.
MRS KNOX. [suddenly pointing to the street] Jo, look!
KNOX. Margaret! With a man!
MRS KNOX. Run down, Jo, quick. Catch her: save her.
KNOX. [lingering] Shes shaking bands with him: shes coming across to the door.
MRS KNOX. [energetically] Do as I tell you. Catch the man before hes out of sight.
Knox rushes from the room. Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly from the window. Then she throws up the sash and leans out. Margaret Knox comes in, flustered and annoyed. She is a strong, springy girl of eighteen, with large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily resolute manner, even peremptory on occasions like the present, when she is annoyed.
MARGARET. Mother. Mother.
Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter.
MRS KNOX. [sternly] Well, miss?
MARGARET. Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene in the street. He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away my daughter" loud enough for all the people to hear. Everybody stopped. We shall have a crowd round the house. Do do something to stop him.
Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer.
MARGARET. Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry—so ashamed. Mother: this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me. Monsieur Duvallet: my mother. [Duvallet bows].
KNOX. A Frenchman! It only needed this.
MARGARET. [much annoyed] Father: do please be commonly civil to a gentleman who has been of the greatest service to me. What will he think of us?
DUVALLET. [debonair] But it's very natural. I understand Mr Knox's feelings perfectly. [He speaks English better than Knox, having learnt it on both sides of the Atlantic].
KNOX. If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize. But I want to know where my daughter has been for the last fortnight.
DUVALLET. She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place.
KNOX. Will you tell me what place? I can judge for myself how safe it was.
MARGARET. Holloway Gaol. Was that safe enough?
KNOX AND MRS KNOX. Holloway Gaol!
KNOX. Youve joined the Suffragets!
MARGARET. No. I wish I had. I could have had the same experience in better company. Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet. [She sits between the table and the sofa. Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the other side of the table. Knox remains standing in the middle of the room].
DUVALLET. [sitting down on the sofa] It was nothing. An adventure. Nothing.
MARGARET. [obdurately] Drunk and assaulting the police! Forty shillings or a month!
MRS KNOX. Margaret! Who accused you of such a thing?
MARGARET. The policeman I assaulted.
KNOX. You mean to say that you did it!
MARGARET. I did. I had that satisfaction at all events. I knocked two of his teeth out.
KNOX. And you sit there coolly and tell me this!
MARGARET. Well, where do you want me to sit? Whats the use of saying things like that?
KNOX. My daughter in Holloway Gaol!
MARGARET. All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters. Really, father, you must make up your mind to it. If you had sat in that cell for fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would understand that I'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying to persuade yourself that it cant be real. These things really do happen to real people every day; and you read about them in the papers and think it's all right. Well, theyve happened to me: thats all.
KNOX. [feeble-forcible] But they shouldnt have happened to you. Dont you know that?
MARGARET. They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose. But they do. [Rising impatiently] And really I'd rather go out and assault another policeman and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and round it like this. If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn me out: the sooner I go the better.
DUVALLET. [rising quickly] That is impossible, mademoiselle. Your father has his position to consider. To turn his daughter out of doors would ruin him socially.
KNOX. Oh, youve put her up to that, have you? And where did you come in, may I ask?
DUVALLET. I came in at your invitation—at your amiable insistence, in fact, not at my own. But you need have no anxiety on my account. I was concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your daughter's incarceration. I got a fortnight without the option of a fine on the ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the policeman with my fist. I should have done so with pleasure had I known; but, as it was, I struck him on the ear with my boot—a magnificentmoulinet, I must say—and was informed that I had been guilty of an act of cowardice, but that for the sake of theentente cordialeI should be dealt with leniently. Yet Miss Knox, who used her fist, got a month, but with the option of a fine. I did not know this until I was released, when my first act was to pay the fine. And here we are.
MRS KNOX. You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo.
KNOX. [reddening] Oh, certainly. [He takes out some money].
DUVALLET. Oh please! it does not matter. [Knox hands him two sovereigns]. If you insist— [he pockets them] Thank you.
MARGARET. I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet.
DUVALLET. Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle?
MARGARET. I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you dont mind.
DUVALLET. Perfectly. Madame [bow]—Mademoiselle [bow]—Monsieur [bow]—[He goes out].
MRS KNOX. Dont ring, Jo. See the gentleman out yourself.
Knox hastily sees Duvallet out. Mother and daughter sit looking forlornly at one another without saying a word. Mrs Knox slowly sits down. Margaret follows her example. They look at one another again. Mr Knox returns.
KNOX. [shortly and sternly] Amelia: this is your job. [To Margaret] I leave you to your mother. I shall have my own say in the matter when I hear what you have to say to her. [He goes out, solemn and offended].
MARGARET. [with a bitter little laugh] Just what the Suffraget said to me in Holloway. He throws the job on you.
MRS KNOX. [reproachfully] Margaret!
MARGARET. You know it's true.
MRS KNOX. Margaret: if youre going to be hardened about it, theres no use my saying anything.
MARGARET. I'm not hardened, mother. But I cant talk nonsense about it. You see, it's all real to me. Ive suffered it. Ive been shoved and bullied. Ive had my arms twisted. Ive been made scream with pain in other ways. Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other poor wretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a cellar. And the only difference between me and the others was that I hit back. Yes I did. And I did worse. I wasnt ladylike. I cursed. I called names. I heard words that I didnt even know that I knew, coming out of my mouth just as if somebody else had spoken them. The policeman repeated them in court. The magistrate said he could hardly believe it. The policeman held out his hand with his two teeth in it that I knocked out. I said it was all right; that I had heard myself using those words quite distinctly; and that I had taken the good conduct prize for three years running at school. The poor old gentleman put me back for the missionary to find out who I was, and to ascertain the state of my mind. I wouldnt tell, of course, for your sakes at home here; and I wouldnt say I was sorry, or apologize to the policeman, or compensate him or anything of that sort. I wasnt sorry. The one thing that gave me any satisfaction was getting in that smack on his mouth; and I said so. So the missionary reported that I seemed hardened and that no doubt I would tell who I was after a day in prison. Then I was sentenced. So now you see I'm not a bit the sort of girl you thought me. I'm not a bit the sort of girl I thought myself. And I dont know what sort of person you really are, or what sort of person father really is. I wonder what he would say or do if he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm with one hand and rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the other. He couldnt whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down by a glorious kick on the helmet. Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought we'd have beaten them.
MRS KNOX. But how did it all begin?
MARGARET. Oh, I dont know. It was boat-race night, they said.
MRS KNOX. Boat-race night! But what had you to do with the boat race? You went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall with your aunt. She put you into the bus that passes the door. What made you get out of the bus?
MARGARET. I dont know. The meeting got on my nerves, somehow. It was the singing, I suppose: you know I love singing a good swinging hymn; and I felt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had been singing so wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to heaven. I wanted more music—more happiness—more life. I wanted some comrade who felt as I did. I felt exalted: it seemed mean to be afraid of anything: after all, what could anyone do to me against my will? I suppose I was a little mad: at all events, I got out of the bus at Piccadilly Circus, because there was a lot of light and excitement there. I walked to Leicester Square; and went into a great theatre.
MRS KNOX. [horrified] A theatre!
MARGARET. Yes. Lots of other women were going in alone. I had to pay five shillings.
MRS KNOX. [aghast] Five shillings!
MARGARET. [apologetically] It was a lot. It was very stuffy; and I didnt like the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying themselves; but the stage was splendid and the music lovely. I saw that Frenchman, Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking a cigarette. He seemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike. I went and stood beside him, hoping he would speak to me.
MRS KNOX. [gasps] Margaret!
MARGARET. [continuing] He did, just as if he had known me for years. We got on together like old friends. He asked me would I have some champagne; and I said it would cost too much, but that I would give anything for a dance. I longed to join the people on the stage and dance with them: one of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever saw. He told me he had come there to see her, and that when it was over we could go somewhere where there was dancing. So we went to a place where there was a band in a gallery and the floor cleared for dancing. Very few people danced: the women only wanted to shew off their dresses; but we danced and danced until a lot of them joined in. We got quite reckless; and we had champagne after all. I never enjoyed anything so much. But at last it got spoilt by the Oxford and Cambridge students up for the boat race. They got drunk; and they began to smash things; and the police came in. Then it was quite horrible. The students fought with the police; and the police suddenly got quite brutal, and began to throw everybody downstairs. They attacked the women, who were not doing anything, and treated them just as roughly as they had treated the students. Duvallet got indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was shoving a woman though she was going quietly as fast as she could. The policeman flung the woman through the door and then turned on Duvallet. It was then that Duvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the policeman down. And then three policemen rushed at him and carried him out by the arms and legs face downwards. Two more attacked me and gave me a shove to the door. That quite maddened me. I just got in one good bang on the mouth of one of them. All the rest was dreadful. I was rushed through the streets to the police station. They kicked me with their knees; they twisted my arms; they taunted and insulted me; they called me vile names; and I told them what I thought of them, and provoked them to do their worst. Theres one good thing about being hard hurt: it makes you sleep. I slept in that filthy cell with all the other drunks sounder than I should have slept at home. I cant describe how I felt next morning: it was hideous; but the police were quite jolly; and everybody said it was a bit of English fun, and talked about last year's boat-race night when it had been a great deal worse. I was black and blue and sick and wretched. But the strange thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm not sorry. And I dont feel that I did anything wrong, really. [She rises and stretches her arms with a large liberating breath] Now that it's all over I'm rather proud of it; though I know now that I'm not a lady; but whether thats because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's really a lady except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont know. [She throws herself into a corner of the sofa].
MRS KNOX. [lost in wonder] But how could you bring yourself to do it, Margaret? I'm not blaming you: I only want to know. How could you bring yourself to do it?
MARGARET. I cant tell you. I dont understand it myself. The prayer meeting set me free, somehow. I should never have done it if it were not for the prayer meeting.
MRS KNOX. [deeply horrified] Oh, dont say such a thing as that. I know that prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me when I told you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil.
MARGARET. Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set free for evil as well as good. As father says, you cant have anything both ways at once. When I was at home and at school I was what you call good; but I wasnt free. And when I got free I was what most people would call not good. But I see no harm in what I did; though I see plenty in what other people did to me.
MRS KNOX. I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance.
MARGARET. Oh no. [She sits down again at the table]. I'm a heroine of reality, if you can call me a heroine at all. And reality is pretty brutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it. Yet it's glorious all the same. It's so real and satisfactory.
MRS KNOX. I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret. I dont like your talking to me in that tone.
MARGARET. It's no use, mother. I dont care for you and Papa any the less; but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again. Ive made a sort of descent into hell—
MRS KNOX. Margaret! Such a word!
MARGARET. You should have heard all the words that were flying round that night. You should mix a little with people who dont know any other words. But when I said that about a descent into hell I was not swearing. I was in earnest, like a preacher.
MRS KNOX. A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice.
MARGARET. I know: the tone that shews they dont mean anything real to him. They usent to mean anything real to me. Now hell is as real to me as a turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that. Anyhow, Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth doing but redeeming people from it.
MRS KNOX. They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it.
MARGARET. Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it? You dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist their arms. Whats the good of pretending? Thats all our respectability is, pretending, pretending, pretending. Thank heaven Ive had it knocked out of me once for all!
MRS KNOX. [greatly agitated] Margaret: dont talk like that. I cant bear to hear you talking wickedly. I can bear to hear the children of this world talking vainly and foolishly in the language of this world. But when I hear you justifying your wickedness in the words of grace, it's too horrible: it sounds like the devil making fun of religion. Ive tried to bring you up to learn the happiness of religion. Ive waited for you to find out that happiness is within ourselves and doesnt come from outward pleasures. Ive prayed oftener than you think that you might be enlightened. But if all my hopes and all my prayers are to come to this, that you mix up my very words and thoughts with the promptings of the devil, then I dont know what I shall do: I dont indeed: itll kill me.
MARGARET. You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you didnt want me to be enlightened. If the truth were known, I suspect we all want our prayers to be answered only by halves: the agreeable halves. Your prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother. Youve got more than you bargained for in the way of enlightenment. I shall never be the same again. I shall never speak in the old way again. Ive been set free from this silly little hole of a house and all its pretences. I know now that I am stronger than you and Papa. I havnt found that happiness of yours that is within yourself; but Ive found strength. For good or evil I am set free; and none of the things that used to hold me can hold me now.
Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense.
KNOX. How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia? Do you think I'm made of iron? Whats the girl done? What are we going to do?
MRS KNOX. Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours. I cant even pray for her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for.
KNOX. Dont talk nonsense, woman: is this a time for praying? Does anybody know? Thats what we have to consider now. If only we can keep it dark, I don't care for anything else.
MARGARET. Dont hope for that, father. Mind: I'll tell everybody. It ought to be told. It must be told.
KNOX. Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house this instant.
MARGARET. I'm quite ready. [She takes her hat and turns to the door].
KNOX. [throwing himself in front of it] Here! where are you going?
MRS KNOX. [rising] You mustnt turn her out, Jo! I'll go with her if she goes.
KNOX. Who wants to turn her out? But is she going to ruin us? To let everybody know of her disgrace and shame? To tear me down from the position Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard struggling?
MARGARET. Yes: I'm going to tear it all down. It stands between us and everything. I'll tell everybody.
KNOX. Magsy, my child: dont bring down your father's hairs with sorrow to the grave. Theres only one thing I care about in the world: to keep this dark. I'm your father. I ask you here on my knees—in the dust, so to speak—not to let it out.
MARGARET. I'll tell everybody.
Knox collapses in despair. Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot. Margaret stands inflexible.
Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room. Afternoon. The table is not laid: it is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an exercise-book, and school-books on it. Bobby Gilbey is in the arm-chair, crouching over the fire, reading an illustrated paper. He is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, strong and manly enough by nature, but untrained and unsatisfactory, his parents having imagined that domestic restriction is what they call "bringing up." He has learnt nothing from it except a habit of evading it by deceit.
He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins answers the bell.
BOBBY. Juggins.
JUGGINS. Sir?
BOBBY. [morosely sarcastic] Sir be blowed!
JUGGINS. [cheerfully] Not at all, sir.
BOBBY. I'm a gaol-bird: youre a respectable man.
JUGGINS. That doesnt matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you sir; and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain.
BOBBY. Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it?
JUGGINS. No, sir.
BOBBY. Ive been talking to Dora about you.
JUGGINS. Indeed, sir?
BOBBY. Yes. Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have the manners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadnt any manners. Anyhow, your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in my set.
JUGGINS. They would be, sir.
BOBBY. You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of Dora's notion, I suppose.
JUGGINS. No, sir.
BOBBY. [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over the arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman] It was part of your bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it?
JUGGINS. Yes, sir.
BOBBY. Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an engagement to a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise or behaving like a regular cad?
JUGGINS. No, sir. You cant get out of an engagement without behaving like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it.
BOBBY. But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dont really care for her.
JUGGINS. Women dont always marry for happiness, sir. They often marry because they wish to be married women and not old maids.
BOBBY. Then what am I to do?
JUGGINS. Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad.
BOBBY. [Jumping up] Well, I wont marry her: thats flat. What would you do if you were in my place?
JUGGINS. I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil my engagement.
BOBBY. But youd have to make some excuse, you know. I want to give it a gentlemanly turn: to say I'm not worthy of her, or something like that.
JUGGINS. That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite the contrary.
BOBBY. I dont see that at all. Do you mean that it's not exactly true?
JUGGINS. Not at all, sir.
BOBBY. I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been. That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather exceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can ever be of anyone else. You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of a girl's feelings.
JUGGINS. If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her. If you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get credit for considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare them. She wont like it. And it will start an argument, of which you will get the worse.
BOBBY. But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her.
JUGGINS. Probably she never supposed you were, sir.
BOBBY. Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist.
JUGGINS. [preparing to go] Anything else, sir?
BOBBY. [querulously] You havnt been much use. [He wanders disconsolately across the room]. You generally put me up to the correct way of doing things.
JUGGINS. I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting. It's not correct in itself.
BOBBY. [hopefully] I'll tell you what. I'll say I cant hold her to an engagement with a man whos been in quod. Thatll do it. [He seats himself on the table, relieved and confident].
JUGGINS. Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny herself the romantic luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the form of doing something agreeable. Shes almost sure to say that your misfortune will draw her closer to you.
BOBBY. What a nuisance! I dont know what to do. You know, Juggins, your cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark Hill.
JUGGINS. I daresay not, sir. No doubt youd prefer to make it look like an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke her to break the engagement herself. Both plans have been tried repeatedly, but never with success, as far as my knowledge goes.
BOBBY. You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law. You know, in my class you have to wrap up things a bit. Denmark Hill isn't Camberwell, you know.
JUGGINS. I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the higher you go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and that only tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere. Thats a mistake. Tramps are often shameless; but theyre never sincere. Swells—if I may use that convenient name for the upper classes—play much more with their cards on the table. If you tell the young lady that you want to jilt her, and she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction may leave much to be desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if you say youre not worthy.
BOBBY. Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins. The girl isnt a scullery-maid. I want to do it delicately.
JUGGINS. A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in that line.—Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell. [He goes out].
Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes off the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. Juggins returns.
JUGGINS. [announcing] Miss Knox.
Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws.
MARGARET. Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination, Bobby? Youll never pass.
BOBBY. [rising] No: I was just writing to you.
MARGARET. What about?
BOBBY. Oh, nothing. At least— How are you?
MARGARET. [passing round the other end of the table and putting down on it a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag] Quite well, thank you. How did you enjoy Brighton?
BOBBY. Brighton! I wasnt at— Oh yes, of course. Oh, pretty well. Is your aunt all right?
MARGARET. My aunt! I suppose so. I havent seen her for a month.
BOBBY. I thought you were down staying with her.
MARGARET. Oh! was that what they told you?
BOBBY. Yes. Why? Werent you really?
MARGARET. No. Ive something to tell you. Sit down and lets be comfortable.
She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and puts his arm wearily round her waist.
MARGARET. You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby. Suppose we get off duty for the day, just to see what it's like.
BOBBY. Off duty? What do you mean?
MARGARET. You know very well what I mean. Bobby: did you ever care one little scrap for me in that sort of way? Dont funk answering:Idont care a bit for you—that way.
BOBBY. [removing his arm rather huffily] I beg your pardon, I'm sure. I thought you did.
MARGARET. Well, did you? Come! Dont be mean. Ive owned up. You can put it all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more than I do.
BOBBY. You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars.
MARGARET. Yes.
BOBBY. Well, it's not that I dont care for you: in fact, no girl can ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much together that it feels more like brother and sister than—well, than the other thing, doesnt it?
MARGARET. Just so. How did you find out the difference?
BOBBY. [blushing] Oh, I say!
MARGARET. I found out from a Frenchman.
BOBBY. Oh, I say! [He comes off the table in his consternation].
MARGARET. Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? You know you must have learnt it from somebody.
BOBBY. Not a Frenchwoman. Shes quite a nice woman. But shes been rather unfortunate. The daughter of a clergyman.
MARGARET. [startled] Oh, Bobby! That sort of woman!
BOBBY. What sort of woman?
MARGARET. You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do you, you silly boy? It's a stock joke.
BOBBY. Do you mean to say you dont believe me?
MARGARET. No: I mean to say I dont believe her.
BOBBY. [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table beside her]. What do you know about her? What do you know about all this sort of thing?
MARGARET. What sort of thing, Bobby?
BOBBY. Well, about life.
MARGARET. Ive lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasnt at my aunt's. All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean.
BOBBY. I wasnt at Brighton, Meg. I'd better tell you: youre bound to find out sooner or later. [He begins his confession humbly, avoiding her gaze]. Meg: it's rather awful: youll think me no end of a beast. Ive been in prison.
MARGARET. You!
BOBBY. Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police.
MARGARET. Do you mean to say that you—oh! this is a let-down for me. [She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the end of it furthest from the hearth].
BOBBY. Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that. I was writing to you to break it off. [He also descends from the table and makes slowly for the hearth]. You must think me an utter rotter.
MARGARET. Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and assaulting the police? How long were you in?
BOBBY. A fortnight.
MARGARET. Thats what I was in for.
BOBBY. What are you talking about? In where?
MARGARET. In quod.
BOBBY. But I'm serious: I'm not rotting. Really and truly—
MARGARET. What did you do to the copper?
BOBBY. Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated grossly. I only laughed at him.
MARGARET. [jumping up, triumphant] Ive beaten you hollow. I knocked out two of his teeth. Ive got one of them. He sold it to me for ten shillings.
BOBBY. Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you I'm not rotting. [He sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily].
MARGARET. [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him] And I tell you I'm not either. Look! Heres a report of it. The daily papers are no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid. [She sits on the arm of the chair]. See! [Reading]: "Hardened at Eighteen. A quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her name"—thats me.
BOBBY. [pausing a moment in his perusal] Do you mean to say that you went on the loose out of pure devilment?
MARGARET. I did no harm. I went to see a lovely dance. I picked up a nice man and went to have a dance myself. I cant imagine anything more innocent and more happy. All the bad part was done by other people: they did it out of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here we are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever. Isnt it a relief?
BOBBY. [rising stiffly] But you know, it's not the same for a girl. A man may do things a woman maynt. [He stands on the hearthrug with his back to the fire].
MARGARET. Are you scandalized, Bobby?
BOBBY. Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg? I never thought you were that sort of girl.
MARGARET. [rising indignantly] I'm not. You mustnt pretend to think thatI'm a clergyman's daughter, Bobby.
BOBBY. I wish you wouldnt chaff about that. Dont forget the row you got into for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back on him quickly]—a footman! And what about the Frenchman?
MARGARET. [facing him again] I know nothing about the Frenchman except that hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like the hand of a clock and knock a policeman down with it. He was in Wormwood Scrubbs with you. I was in Holloway.
BOBBY. It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit thick, you know.
MARGARET. Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison?
BOBBY. [hastily] No. I never said that. It might even give a woman a greater claim on a man. Any girl, if she were thoughtless and a bit on, perhaps, might get into a scrape. Anyone who really understood her character could see there was no harm in it. But youre not the larky sort. At least you usent to be.
MARGARET. I'm not; and I never will be. [She walks straight up to him]. I didnt do it for a lark, Bob: I did it out of the very depths of my nature. I did it because I'm that sort of person. I did it in one of my religious fits. I'm hardened at eighteen, as they say. So what about the match, now?
BOBBY. Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg. Of course it would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or anything of that sort. I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and I dont pretend to. I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as long as it is understood that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go on the loose on principle; to talk about religion in connection with it; to—to—well, Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say. I hope youre not in earnest when you talk that way.
MARGARET. Bobby: youre no good. No good to me, anyhow.
BOBBY. [huffed] I'm sorry, Miss Knox.
MARGARET. Goodbye, Mr Gilbey. [She turns on her heel and goes to the other end of the table]. I suppose you wont introduce me to the clergyman's daughter.
BOBBY. I dont think she'd like it. There are limits, after all. [He sits down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books: a hint to her to go].
MARGARET. [on her way to the door] Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell Juggins to shew me out.
BOBBY. [reddening] I'm not a cad, Meg.
MARGARET. [coming to the table] Then do something nice to prevent us feeling mean about this afterwards. Youd better kiss me. You neednt ever do it again.
BOBBY. If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you.
MARGARET. Oh, it'd be no fun. If I wanted what you call fun, I should ask the Frenchman to kiss me—or Juggins.
BOBBY. [rising and retreating to the hearth] Oh, dont be disgusting, Meg. Dont be low.
MARGARET. [determinedly, preparing to use force] Now, I'll make you kiss me, just to punish you. [She seizes his wrist; pulls him off his balance; and gets her arm round his neck].
BOBBY. No. Stop. Leave go, will you.
Juggins appears at the door.
JUGGINS. Miss Delaney, Sir. [Dora comes in. Juggins goes out. Margaret hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the room.]
DORA. [through the door, to the departing Juggins] Well, you are a Juggins to shew me up when theres company. [To Margaret and Bobby] It's all right, dear: all right, old man: I'll wait in Juggins's pantry til youre disengaged.
MARGARET. Dont you know me?
DORA. [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very attentively] Why, it's never No. 406!
MARGARET. Yes it is.
DORA. Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform. How did you get out? You were doing a month, wernt you?
MARGARET. My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself.
DORA. A real gentleman! [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring open-mouthed] Look at him. He cant take it in.
BOBBY. I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg. But when it comes to talking about blokes and all that—well!
MARGARET. Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it. It's another barrier broken down.
BOBBY. It's not so much the language, Meg. But I think [he looks at Dora and stops].
MARGARET. [suddenly dangerous] What do you think, Bobby?
DORA. He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie. It does him credit: he always was a gentleman, you know.
MARGARET. Does him credit! To insult you like that! Bobby: say that that wasnt what you meant.
BOBBY. I didnt say it was.
MARGARET. Well, deny that it was.
BOBBY. No. I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think it's not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her.
DORA. Of course it isnt, old man. [To Margaret] I'll just trot off and come back in half an hour. You two can make it up together. I'm really not fit company for you, dearie: I couldnt live up to you. [She turns to go].
MARGARET. Stop. Do you believe he could live up to me?
DORA. Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and a respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself. I have a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some.
MARGARET. You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's behaving like a skunk.
BOBBY. [much ruffled] Nice language that!
DORA. Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep up their respectability. But you cant blame them for that, can you? Ive met Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead. I wont pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear?
MARGARET. And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in countenance. Well, I shant: not if my whole family were there. But I'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat you properly. [To Bobby, with a threatening move in his direction] I'll educate you, you young beast.
BOBBY. [furious, meeting her half way] Who are you calling a young beast?
MARGARET. You.
DORA. [peacemaking] Now, dearies!
BOBBY. If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly well clouted.
MARGARET. If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be the beginning of a collection.
DORA. Now, loveys, be good.
Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at Margaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended countenance a box on the cheek. He hurls himself her. They wrestle.
BOBBY. Cat! I'll teach you.
MARGARET. Pig! Beast! [She forces him backwards on the table]. Now where are you?
DORA. [calling] Juggins, Juggins. Theyll murder one another.
JUGGINS. [throwing open the door, and announcing] Monsieur Duvallet.
Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence. The combatants separate by the whole width of the room. Juggins withdraws.
DUVALLET. I fear I derange you.
MARGARET. Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: Monsieur Duvallet will think I'm always fighting.
DUVALLET. Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling. Admirable, Miss Knox. The athletic young Englishwoman is an example to all Europe. [Indicating Bobby] Your instructor, no doubt. Monsieur— [he bows].
BOBBY. [bowing awkwardly] How d'y' do?
MARGARET. [to Bobby] I'm so sorry, Bobby: I asked Monsieur Duvallet to call for me here; and I forgot to tell you. [Introducing] Monsieur Duvallet: Miss Four hundred and seven. Mr Bobby Gilbey. [Duvallet bows]. I really dont know how to explain our relationships. Bobby and I are like brother and sister.
DUVALLET. Perfectly. I noticed it.
MARGARET. Bobby and Miss—Miss——
DORA. Delaney, dear. [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to real friends.
MARGARET. Bobby and Dora are—are—well, not brother and sister.
DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension] Perfectly.
MARGARET. Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison. You dont mind, do you?
DUVALLET. No, naturally.Ihave spent the last fortnight in prison.
The conversation drops. Margaret renews it with an effort.
MARGARET. Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison.
DUVALLET. Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement.
DORA.Trop merci, as they say in Boulogne. No call to be stiff with one another, have we?
Juggins comes in.
JUGGINS. Beg pardon, sir. Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the street.
DORA. Let me absquatulate [making for the door].
JUGGINS. If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step into my pantry and leave afterwards.
DORA. Right oh! [She bursts into song] Hide me in the meat safe til the cop goes by. Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh. [She goes out on tiptoe].
MARGARET. I wont stay here if she has to hide. I'll keep her company in the pantry. [She follows Dora].
BOBBY. Lets all go. We cant have any fun with the Mar here. I say, Juggins: you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you?
JUGGINS. Certainly, sir.
BOBBY. Right. Say nothing to my mother. You dont mind, Mr. Doovalley, do you?
DUVALLET. I shall be charmed.
BOBBY. Right you are. Come along. [At the door] Oh, by the way, Juggins, fetch down that concertina from my room, will you?
JUGGINS. Yes, sir. [Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him to the door]. You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutelycomme il faut?
DUVALLET. Perfectly. But the other?
JUGGINS. The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately described in your native idiom as a daughter of joy.
DUVALLET. It is what I thought. These English domestic interiors are very interesting. [He goes out, followed by Juggins].
Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in. They take their accustomed places: he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table.
MRS GILBEY. Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob?
GILBEY. No, I didnt. And I dont want to smell it. Dont you go looking for trouble, Maria.
MRS GILBEY. [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere] Shes been here. [Gilbey rings the bell]. What are you ringing for? Are you going to ask?
GILBEY. No, I'm not going to ask. Juggins said this morning he wanted to speak to me. If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not going to ask; and dont you either. [Juggins appears at the door]. You said you wanted to say something to me.
JUGGINS. When it would be convenient to you, sir.
GILBEY. Well, what is it?
MRS GILBEY. Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea.
GILBEY. He knows that. [He sits down. Then, to Juggins] What is it?
JUGGINS. [advancing to the middle of the table] Would it inconvenience you, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice?
GILBEY. [taken aback] What! Why? Aint you satisfied?
JUGGINS. Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better myself, I assure you.
GILBEY. Well, what do you want to leave for, then? Do you want to worse yourself?
JUGGINS. No, sir. Ive been well treated in your most comfortable establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbey were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction.
GILBEY. [paternally] Now you listen to me, Juggins. I'm an older man than you. Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh. Dont get too big for your boots. Youre like all servants nowadays: you think youve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a dozen jobs. But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated here. In bed every night before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on Mrs Gilbey's day once a month; and no other manservant to interfere with you. It may be a bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of adventure. Take my advice: think over it. You suit me; and I'm prepared to make it suit you if youre dissatisfied—in reason, you know.
JUGGINS. I realize my advantages, sir; but Ive private reasons—
GILBEY. [cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug in dudgeon] Oh, I know. Very well: go. The sooner the better.
MRS GILBEY. Oh, not until we're suited. He must stay his month.
GILBEY. [sarcastic] Do you want to lose him his character, Maria? Do you think I dont see what it is? We're prison folk now. Weve been in the police court. [To Juggins] Well, I suppose you know your own business best. I take your notice: you can go when your month is up, or sooner, if you like.
JUGGINS. Believe me, sir—
GILBEY. Thats enough: I dont want any excuses. I dont blame you. You can go downstairs now, if youve nothing else to trouble me about.
JUGGINS. I really cant leave it at that, sir. I assure you Ive no objection to young Mr Gilbey's going to prison. You may do six months yourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me. I'm leaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement, and feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets over it.
GILBEY. And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend your savings in comforting him? Have some sense, man: how can you afford such things?
JUGGINS. My brother can afford to keep me, sir. The truth is, he objects to my being in service.
GILBEY. Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him? Dont do it, Juggins: pay your own way like an honest lad; and dont eat your brother's bread while youre able to earn your own.
JUGGINS. There is sound sense in that, sir. But unfortunately it is a tradition in my family that the younger brothers should spunge to a considerable extent on the eldest.
GILBEY. Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man.
JUGGINS. A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent one.
GILBEY. Radical! What do you mean? Dont you begin to take liberties, Juggins, now that you know we're loth to part with you. Your brother isnt a duke, you know.
JUGGINS. Unfortunately, he is, sir.