(Bill, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his feet.)
(Bill, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his feet.)
Bill.
What the devil are you doing here?
Lady Patricia.
(Calmly.) Well, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
If you please, m’lady, I thought as I ’ad best watch the sun early. It’s close on six ’m, and I thought as p’raps you’d like some branches lopped ’igher up. The sun’s a fine sight at six, mum—much more light in it than a hour later, an’ it’s a neasier job loppin’ they ’igher branches than them out there, as I shan’t need no ladder.
Bill.
Quite mad!
Lady Patricia.
I don’t want to sit here and look at the sun through a pair of smoked glasses. You may return here when the sun is lower.
Baldwin.
Yes, m’lady. But——
Lady Patricia.
Go away....
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
(He goes out.)
(He goes out.)
Lady Patricia.
Very tiresome, isn’t he?
Bill.
I don’t half like the old ass catching us like that.
Lady Patricia.
Catching us?
Bill.
Yes, fairly caught us in the act....
Lady Patricia.
Bill!
Bill.
Well, he must have seen me kiss you. I don’t half like it.
Lady Patricia.
How verybourgeoisyou are!
Bill.
Well, I don’t know about that. But——
Lady Patricia.
Notbourgeois, then! No, no! Young and self-conscious! Fancy getting red and embarrassed because a gardener saw you looking affectionate!... Dear, dear boy!... Now sit down again and listen. I caught an impression of the sunset yesterday, a few lines, but I believe they are precious—notprecieux—precious in the true sense of the word.... Don’t you hate this modern artistic jargon?
Bill.
Rather!
Lady Patricia.
Listen.... (She recites.)
A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,Far off against the orient green and cold;Silence declines upon these branches old;The level land is still;The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glowsThe delicate beauty of the sunset rose;And pensive grey encroaches on the gold.
A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,Far off against the orient green and cold;Silence declines upon these branches old;The level land is still;The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glowsThe delicate beauty of the sunset rose;And pensive grey encroaches on the gold.
A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,
Far off against the orient green and cold;
Silence declines upon these branches old;
The level land is still;
The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glows
The delicate beauty of the sunset rose;
And pensive grey encroaches on the gold.
Tenderly coloured, are they not?
Bill.
Yours?
Lady Patricia.
Mine.
Bill.
Ripping!
Lady Patricia.
Ripping.... Oh, how unpleasant! Say that other word instead.
Bill.
What word?
Lady Patricia.
I don’t quite know. Something to do with bottles.
Bill.
Clinking?
Lady Patricia.
No.... Something to do with wine....
Bill.
Oh! you mean—corking.
Lady Patricia.
Yes, corking.
Bill.
Right-ho!
Lady Patricia.
Thank you, dear.... And so you like my lines?
Bill.
They’re corking. And so’s your voice when you read ’em.
Lady Patricia.
(Dreamily.) I write corking verses, and I read them with a corking voice. (With passion.) Oh, Bill! Oh, my dear——
Bill.
Yes?
Lady Patricia.
How I wish that you and I were alone on a little island in the Ægean Archipelago!... Hush! (The sound of a motor in the distance.) Do you hear? A motor-car coming up the drive! You can see if you look through the branches there. (Points to the left.) Be careful, dear. Don’t let any one see you.
Bill.
(Looking over the rail of the platform.) Great Scott!
Lady Patricia.
Yes?
Bill.
It’s the mater’s car, and——
(The sound of the motor stops.)
(The sound of the motor stops.)
Lady Patricia.
It’s stopping! Oh, Bill——
Bill.
The mater and Michael, and the Dean—and who’s the jolly-looking girl?
Lady Patricia.
With a face like a naughty boy’s?
Bill.
Yes.
Lady Patricia.
That must be Clare Lesley. Michael has been very kind to her lately. He is trying to give her a serious view of life.
Bill.
I say, you don’t mean to tell me that’s Clare, the Dean’s daughter? Why, I thought she was a flapper!
Lady Patricia.
A flapper?...
Bill.
Yes. When last I saw her, a little more than a year ago, her skirts weren’t much below her knees, and——
Lady Patricia.
Flapper.... What a strange word! How do you spell it? With a “ph”?
Bill.
No, with a double p. Hullo!
(He draws back.)
(He draws back.)
Lady Patricia.
What is it?
Bill.
They’re all coming here!
Lady Patricia.
No!
Bill.
They are, by Jove! The whole crowd. What shall we do?
Lady Patricia.
Your mother and Michael mustn’t find you here. You must fly!
Bill.
That’s all very well. But where can I go to? They’re bound to spot me if I get down the steps.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, but can’t you climb somewhere up the tree and hide yourself like a bird among the branches?
Bill.
What?...
Lady Patricia.
It’s the only thing to do. And so simple! And so romantic!
Bill.
Yes, that’s all right. But supposing they see me—what am I to say?
Lady Patricia.
Oh, anything! Use a little imagination.... Say you are looking for birds’ eggs. But they won’t see you if you lie along that thick branch up there.
Bill.
Birds’-nesting....
Lady Patricia.
I shall pretend to be asleep.
Bill.
Why?
Lady Patricia.
Why not?
Bill.
(Grumbling as he moves towards the trunk.) I’ll look such a bally ass if they spot me....
Lady Patricia.
Bill!
Bill.
Eh?
Lady Patricia.
This glass mustn’t be found here.
Bill.
By Jove!
(He returns and takes hold of the glass, which is half-full.)
(He returns and takes hold of the glass, which is half-full.)
Lady Patricia.
And the cup and saucer....
Bill.
Good Lord!
(He stands helplessly, the cup and saucer in one hand, the glass in the other.)
(He stands helplessly, the cup and saucer in one hand, the glass in the other.)
Lady Patricia.
Put them into your pockets.
Bill.
But——
Lady Patricia.
Quick—quick! (He drinks the whisky.) Now the tea. (He makes as though to throw it away.) No! no! they might see or hear. Drink it.
Bill.
I really couldn’t.
Lady Patricia.
For my sake.
Bill.
(Gulping it down.) Muck! (Making for the tree.) By Jove, they’re nearly here!
Lady Patricia.
(Pointing to the left.) I really must have another ladder built on this side.
Bill.
I hope they won’t see me climbing.
(He starts climbing the tree.)
(He starts climbing the tree.)
Lady Patricia.
Be small—for my sake....
(She composes herself elaborately into a sleeping posture.Billis seen disappearing on high. Voices are audible beneath. A pause.)
(She composes herself elaborately into a sleeping posture.Billis seen disappearing on high. Voices are audible beneath. A pause.)
Bill.
(He has climbed out of sight.) I say....
Lady Patricia.
S-sh!...
Bill.
It’s all right. They’re standin’ about talkin’. Can you see me?
Lady Patricia.
Where are you?
Bill.
Here.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, yes, I see....
Bill.
The devil you do! What part o’ me?
Lady Patricia.
Er—well—your—your back....
Bill.
Damn! Oh, confound this beastly cup and saucer! They keep on rattling.
Lady Patricia.
Put the saucer in the other pocket.
Bill.
The glass is in the other pocket.
Lady Patricia.
Have you only two pockets?
Bill.
Hush! they’re coming.
(The voices approach.Lady Patriciaarranges herself, one hand supporting her face, the other hanging over the side of the chair lightly holding a manuscript.Mrs. O’Farrelenters, followed byClare Lesley,Dean Lesley, andMichael Cosway.Mrs. O’Farrelis a genuine, downright, humorous lady of fifty-seven;Clare Lesley, theDean’sdaughter, a pretty girl of about twenty;Dean Lesley, a clerical exquisite, who carries his sixty years as lightly as his silver-knobbed stick and monocle; andMichael Cosway,Lady Patricia’shusband, a tall, serious man of thirty-eight.)
(The voices approach.Lady Patriciaarranges herself, one hand supporting her face, the other hanging over the side of the chair lightly holding a manuscript.Mrs. O’Farrelenters, followed byClare Lesley,Dean Lesley, andMichael Cosway.Mrs. O’Farrelis a genuine, downright, humorous lady of fifty-seven;Clare Lesley, theDean’sdaughter, a pretty girl of about twenty;Dean Lesley, a clerical exquisite, who carries his sixty years as lightly as his silver-knobbed stick and monocle; andMichael Cosway,Lady Patricia’shusband, a tall, serious man of thirty-eight.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Out of breath.) Ah.... I’m green with envy of you, Dean! You’re at least five years my senior, and your wind is as sound as your doctrines. Look at me! I can’t climb a tree without getting—what’s the word, Clare?
Clare.
Punctured.
Dean.
My dear child!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Scold me, Dean, scold me! I meant the word, but hadn’t the pluck to say it.
(TheDeanlaughs.)
(TheDeanlaughs.)
Michael.
And how do you like our little eyrie, Mrs. O’Farrel?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Charming, Michael, charming! It’s quite worth getting—getting—give me the word, Clare.
Clare.
Winded.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Laughs and patsClare’scheek.) Yes, it’s quite worth getting punctured—and winded—to see the view from here, Michael. How like you and Patricia to think of such a piece of arboreal sentimentality! Now whose idea—— (PerceivesLady Patriciafor the first time.) Why, Patricia!
(Michaelwith an exclamation rushes toLady Patricia’sside.Clarelooks bored.)
(Michaelwith an exclamation rushes toLady Patricia’sside.Clarelooks bored.)
Dean.
Delightful!
Michael.
S-sh.... She’s asleep....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Asleep! I should think she was, for my strident voice not to awake her!
Clare.
Perhaps she’s shamming.
Dean.
My dear child!
Michael.
(In a solemn whisper.) We must be very careful not to wake her. She had a bad headache this morning....See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
Dean.
I would I were a glove upon that hand!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Dean!
Clare.
Shocking!
Dean.
And why? I love all that is beautiful with all my senses.... And why shouldn’t I?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Because such youthful depravity makes me envious again.
Dean.
Pardon me, my dear lady, I remember you far too well as a girl to believe that even now—
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Hastily.) Michael!... Will you and Clare take the car and meet Bill’s train? It won’t take you ten minutes; I’m too comfortable to move at present. Besides, we must have the place to ourselves, the Dean and I, as he is becoming indiscreetly reminiscent. Bring Bill back with you here, and he and I will drive home together.... You don’t mind?
Michael.
I shall be delighted.
Clare.
I’m not surprised you want to get rid of me, pater, if you’re going to talk about your gay youth. You must have been an awful rip.
Dean.
Really, Clare!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
It was my gay youth your father was threatening us with.
Clare.
You must have been a dear then, as now!...
(She kissesMrs. O’Farrelimpulsively, and goes out pastMichael.Michaelfollowsher, turns and comes back with a twig of oak in his hand. He gives it to theDean.)
(She kissesMrs. O’Farrelimpulsively, and goes out pastMichael.Michaelfollowsher, turns and comes back with a twig of oak in his hand. He gives it to theDean.)
Michael.
Will you kindly keep the flies off Patricia’s face while I’m away?
Dean.
Oh, delighted! Delighted!
(Michaelgoes out.Mrs. O’Farrellooks with amusement at theDean, who stands with the twig in his hand glancing quizzically at her and longingly atLady Patricia.)
(Michaelgoes out.Mrs. O’Farrellooks with amusement at theDean, who stands with the twig in his hand glancing quizzically at her and longingly atLady Patricia.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
When duty and pleasure are combined, there’s no reason to hesitate. I saw a fly settle on Patricia’s chin.
Dean.
Happy fly!
(He tiptoes up toPatriciaand starts fanning her and daintily examining her through his eyeglass.Mrs. O’Farrelputs up her lorgnette and regards them with vast amusement. Suddenly a rotten branch falls from above on to the platform.)
(He tiptoes up toPatriciaand starts fanning her and daintily examining her through his eyeglass.Mrs. O’Farrelputs up her lorgnette and regards them with vast amusement. Suddenly a rotten branch falls from above on to the platform.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Lorgnetting upwards.) How very strange! And not a breath of wind!
Dean.
(Monocling upwards.) Merely a squirrel. I believe I caught sight of its tail.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I hope the tree’s not rotten. I’m considerably heavier than a squirrel!
(She goes over to theDean.)
(She goes over to theDean.)
Dean.
Oh, softly, please....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Laughing.) Softly yourself!
Dean.
(Pointing toPatricia.) Did you ever see the like?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
What are you talking about?
Dean.
The wonder of this sleeping woman. Was there ever anything more beautiful?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I thought you knew better than to praise one woman to another.
Dean.
Oh, but you are not another! You are Eileen who, ever since I met her in short skirts, have been the fairest of all.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Fiddle-de-dee! I’m old and ugly!
Dean.
No woman can ever be old and ugly—you least of all.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Charming old humbug! Well, I agree with you—Patricia’s certainly ornamental.
Dean.
The pose, my dear lady, the pose! Unstudied grace of abandonment, artless perfection! Perfection as a whole, perfection in detail! Consider the right hand: so blissfully burdened. Consider the left: still clasping some poem only less exquisite than itself. The eyelids are faintly blue—surely with the sky of a delicate dream. From head to foot every curve is a lyric—from head—I should like to see her foot.
(He looks sadly at her covered feet.)
(He looks sadly at her covered feet.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Haven’t you the courage?
Dean.
I beg your pardon?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
To look at it.
Dean.
Mrs. O’Farrel!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, if I admired her feet as much as you do, I shouldn’t hesitate.
Dean.
But supposing she woke and found me—er—er—
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Arranging her skirt?... My dear man, I know Patricia; she would gladly show you several inches of her ankle.
Dean.
Eileen, you’re a wicked woman!
(They move to the other side of the platform.)
(They move to the other side of the platform.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
And you’re a scandalous example of clerical depravity!
(Lady Patricialooks cautiously over her shoulder at them, yawns, and pretends to sleep again.)
(Lady Patricialooks cautiously over her shoulder at them, yawns, and pretends to sleep again.)
Dean.
Tut, tut, tut, my dear!... Eileen, do you know why I went into the Church?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
You thought it a convenient cloak for your peccadilloes.
Dean.
Out of sheer gratitude to my Maker for creating woman.... Eileen, why did you refuse to marry me?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
There must be at least half a dozen flies on Patricia’s face.
Dean.
Never mind the flies—it’s their turn for the moment.... Why did you refuse me, Eileen?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Because my love for you made me a blind fool! I misunderstood your admiration for women. I thought your homage of every girl you met, personal—not universal, as I learned too late—a superb compliment to the whole sex. Dear friend, I repented in sackcloth and ashes! Not that O’Farrel wasn’t a good fellow, every inch of him. He made life very happy. But life with you—well, I missed it!
Dean.
Will you marry me, Eileen?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
No.
Dean.
Why not?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I’m far too old for a boy like you.
Dean.
Is this final?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Final.
Dean.
Ah!... Your companionship would have been so good for Clare. A tactfully restraining influence....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I doubt it. I’m too much in sympathy with the child.
Dean.
But you wouldn’t encourage her to tell every one she meets—including the Bishop—that she is an Atheist, or ride astride through the town without the formality of—er—divided skirts....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
No—perhaps not. (She lowers her voice.) I should first of all put a stop to her galavantin’ about every other day with Michael.
Dean.
Really, my dear Eileen, I think the friendship between Michael Cosway and Clare is wholly charming and can only do the child good. Surely you don’t——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
No, of course I don’t! Michael’s far too infatuated with your sleeping beauty there. Still, I’d put a stop to it. And then I should marry your daughter to Bill with indecent haste.
Dean.
Eh, what? Your son? Dear me!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Why shouldn’t they marry? They are obviously kindred spirits.
Dean.
I don’t know your son sufficiently well to—er——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
A thoroughly healthy, young animal.... You’ll meet him in a moment. I hear the motor....
Dean.
How quick they’ve been!... Marry them! Dear me!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Now then, Mr. Dean, to work!
Dean.
I don’t quite——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Patricia’s flies! If Michael catches you idling!
Dean.
Now, fancy my forgetting it!
(They both laugh. He hurries back toLady Patriciaand starts fanning her. Voices are audible beneath.)
(They both laugh. He hurries back toLady Patriciaand starts fanning her. Voices are audible beneath.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Looking over the railing.) But where’s Bill? (She hurries towards the entrance and calls down.) Have you people dropped my only son out of the car?
(Clareenters, followed byMichael.)
(Clareenters, followed byMichael.)
Clare.
He never turned up!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Nonsense! He wired from Southampton that——
Michael.
S-s-sh! You might wake Patricia!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Oh, confound Patricia!
Clare.
But——
(Suddenly a saucer falls from above on to the middle of the platform. They all are startled andPatriciasits up with a cry.)
(Suddenly a saucer falls from above on to the middle of the platform. They all are startled andPatriciasits up with a cry.)
Dean.
Dear me!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, I never!
Michael.
What on earth!
Clare.
There’s some one up the tree!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
The squirrel.... (Looks at theDean.)
Dean.
Most awkward....
Michael.
Don’t be alarmed, Patricia. (Sternly.) Who are you, sir? What are you doing there? Come down at once.... Do you hear me, sir?
Bill.
(Still invisible to the audience.) All right—I’m coming....
Clare.
There he is, Mike! I see his leg!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(To herself.) Mike? Hm!
Michael.
Bill!
Bill.
(From aloft.) Hullo!
(Astonished exclamations of “What!” and “Bill!”)
(Astonished exclamations of “What!” and “Bill!”)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Bill?
(Billcomes into sight descending the trunk.)
(Billcomes into sight descending the trunk.)
Bill!
(Billreaches terra firma. He smiles, embarrassed, from one person to the other.)
(Billreaches terra firma. He smiles, embarrassed, from one person to the other.)
Bill.
How are you, mother? How-de-do, Mr. Dean? How-de-do, Miss Lesley? How’s yourself, Michael?
Lady Patricia.
And have you no greeting for poor me, Cousin Bill?
Bill.
Oh, I say, I’m awfully sorry! How-de-do, Cousin Patricia?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
But what on earth were you doing up the tree?
Bill.
Birds’-nesting.
Mrs. O’Farrel,Michael,Dean.
Birds’-nesting?
Clare.
(Gravely.) And you took a saucer up with you to put the eggs in?
Bill.
Oh, did I?
Clare.
Of course. It’s the usual thing to do when you go birds’-nesting. Didn’t you always take a saucer with you as a boy, Mr. Cosway?
Michael.
I can’t say I remember doing so.
Clare.
So long ago that you’ve forgotten? I’ve read somewhere that when they look for ostrich-eggs in America they take soup-tureens.
Bill.
I say ...!
Michael.
There are no ostriches in America.
Clare.
Then I wonder why they look for ostrich-eggs.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Laughing.) Do stop talking nonsense, Clare!... Really, Bill, I’m curious to know quite a lot of things. Why did you take an earlier train? Why did you come here? Why did you climb up the tree with a saucer? Why did you let Michael and Miss Lesley fetch you at the station? And why did you remain in the tree while the Dean and I—er——
Dean.
Talked over old times together.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Talked over old times together. It’s all rather mysterious.
Dean.
Unusual....
Bill.
I dropped a rotten branch.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Quite so. And the Dean thought a squirrel had done it.
Bill.
Oh yes, you caught sight of my tail!