ACT III.[Rather poor lodgings.MARY, neatly but very plainly dressed, is sewing at a child’s garment.LEONARDsprawls on the sofa smoking cheap cigarettes. He is carelessly dressed to the point of slovenliness and a little anxiety begins to shew through his calmness which is generally maintained. It is afternoon. Two or three months have elapsed.]LEONARD.I don’t think it’s that the old man’s mean. He’s got on the high horse and doesn’t know how to get down.MARY.We oughtn’t to take the money from your mother. It’s very hard for her.LEONARD.Oh! but it only means that she gives them rice pudding instead of gooseberry tart. It’ll do them good. I expect the old man sees the difference and pretends he doesn’t. And Edgar will be furious.MARY.If little Leonard had a brother and they were like you and your brother—I couldn’t bear that.LEONARD.It’s a long way off, old lady.MARY.Thing’s aren’t a long way off if you think they might come.LEONARD.Don’t worry, now. Don’t worry.MARY.I’m a great deal happier than you. I’ve got him.LEONARD.Well, haven’t I?MARY.No, you haven’t. Not like me.LEONARD.You don’t think I’m such a bad father, do you?MARY.I don’t know. You’re funny with him and I like to see you together but—LEONARD.Well?MARY.You keep spending the money.LEONARD.But, Mary, you don’t know how much more I could spend if I had it.MARY.And, so clever as you are, you don’t make any—I mean don’t make much.LEONARD.You see, in my trade, the better you are the more wretchedly you get paid.MARY.You keep telling me that.LEONARD.And you don’t believe it?MARY.Yes, I do. I think you mean it. I don’t think it can be quite true. I think you could get more money if you tried. You’re clever enough to write the way they want.LEONARD.What do you care for most in the world—barring the baby?MARY.[Considering.] I don’t think there’s anything. Oh! I beg your pardon. Of course there’s you.LEONARD.Never mind me. Could you believe that I care more about writing my own way than for anything?MARY.I suppose it’s good to care for something but that seems selfish.LEONARD.You’re beginning to feel a bit of resentment. You don’t hate me yet, do you?MARY.No, of course not.LEONARD.I shouldn’t blame you. You’re a wonderfully even-tempered person. I sometimes wonder whether I’m right about that streak of wildness in you. Do you think you could do strange things—what shall I say—wicked things?MARY.I’ve done one wicked thing.LEONARD.Does it trouble you, Mary? Does it still trouble you? Would you alter it?MARY.Then I shouldn’t have little Leonard. I can never understand. If I’d known of him—if I’d thought of little Leonard—then it couldn’t be wrong. But how could I think of him when he wasn’t born? It was wicked. It wasn’t like me.LEONARD.You did think of him, Mary. No, you didn’t think. It’s not thought. It was nature—something bigger than you—forcing you—forcing you to bring little Leonard into the world. Now, take comfort in that, my girl; there is some comfort in it.MARY.I can’t see what it’s got to do withhim.It’s not children I care for; it’s him. Well, he’s here now. I’ve got him now.LEONARD.Quite right, my dear.MARY.But I think he ought to have Lubbock’s food regularly and wemusthave a perambulator.LEONARD.Well, this must go. [Taking out his watch.]MARY.Would you? Will you?LEONARD.[Looking ruefully at the watch.] You’d better take me at my word. My generous moods don’t last.MARY.Shall I take it?[He is slowly unhooking the watch when there is a knock at the door andMRS. GREAVES,thelandlady,comes in. He puts the watch in his pocket.]MRS. GREAVES.I should like a word, sir.LEONARD.A whole history if you like, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.Sir?LEONARD.I was only quoting Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I know nothing about him, sir.LEONARD.He’s the man that writes the plays.MRS. GREAVES.There’s some people too fond of plays and such things.LEONARD.Now I hope you’re not going to attack Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I’m attacking nothing, sir, but I should like a word and perhaps it would be more pleasant if Mrs.—the lady wasn’t here.LEONARD.Why mustn’t Mrs. the lady be here?MRS. GREAVES.It’s as you like.LEONARD.Fire away.MRS. GREAVES.I must tell you, perfectly frank, that there’s been some talk about you. I know that lady that comes here to see you is your mother and that I don’t understand. But I’ve heard tell of carryings on with a housemaid and it is said as you’re not married. I know mothers ’ll do a good deal for their sons but I must say—LEONARD.Who says this?MRS. GREAVES.It’s not only one. There’s Mr. Whales, the milkman, and he does a good round and hears a lot—LEONARD.We shall have no more dealings with Mr. Whales.MRS. GREAVES.You wouldn’t, anyhow, till he got paid.MARY.No more milk?MRS. GREAVES.No, and it’s not only milk.LEONARD.Mrs. Greaves, this lady is my wife and anyone who says she isn’t is telling an abominable lie. I’m surprised that you should listen to such stuff.MRS. GREAVES.Of course I know she’s got on a ring and all that but that’s what they do and I can’t afford to be out of my money; I really can’t. I don’t want to be hard but my account must be settled.LEONARD.Now first of all, Mrs. Greaves, you will apologise to my wife. Then we’ll settle the other matter.MRS. GREAVES.I’m sure I’m sorry if there’s been a mistake. I’ve no call to make mischief. I’ll ask your pardon ma’am very willing, but Mr. Whales, he said—and he’s only saying what others—LEONARD.No more of that, now, if you want to have your bill paid.MRS. GREAVES.You can be made to pay.LEONARD.And so can you be made to pay. Do you know what you’ve done?MRS. GREAVES.Done? I know I’ve been done.LEONARD.Good, Mrs. Greaves—very good—I’m glad you can joke about it. It may be no joke for you.MRS. GREAVES.What do you mean?LEONARD.It’s slander. They give very heavy damages now for slander.MRS. GREAVES.I’ve only mentioned what I’ve been told.LEONARD.Yes, that’s slander. It’s sometimes called defamation of character. Same thing.MRS. GREAVES.I’m sure I’d no intention at all of saying anything—I’ve been very lenient, too.LEONARD.Perhaps you’ll give me the name of your Solicitor, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.What for? I haven’t got a solicitor. I don’t understand what you want.MARY.I think he’s joking, Mrs. Greaves.LEONARD.[With mock vexation.] Tut! tut!MRS. GREAVES.[Doubtfully.] I know slander’s a nasty law but I can’t see as I’ve said anything.LEONARD.It’s not all a joke, Mary. You may tell your Whales and people that if I hear another word about it I go straight to a Solicitor.MRS. GREAVES.I’ll tell him, sir.LEONARD.Very well. You may go, Mrs. Greaves.MARY.Solicitors like to be paid, too.MRS. GREAVES.[Turning at the door.] And what about my bill, sir?LEONARD.It shall be attended to.MRS. GREAVES.I’ve heard that very often.LEONARD.It is a bit stale, isn’t it? I apologise for the old wheeze. Well, you see, there’s the perambulator first.MRS. GREAVES.The what, sir?LEONARD.The first money we get is for a perambulator—no. The first is for a pint or a peck, or whatever it is, of what’s-his-name’s food for the baby. Second, the perambulator. You’re only third, Mrs. Greaves. Rather a bad third, but your turn will come.MARY.It’s not fair to her. She ought to be paid.LEONARD.Of course she ought. We ought all to be paid. I’m in favour of handsome incomes all round and I hope Lloyd George will take it up. But, look here, Mrs. Greaves, we’re all in the same boat. Now is there anythingyou’dlike to pawn? I’m treating you as a friend.MARY.There’s your watch.LEONARD.There’s my watch. My wife suggests my watch. A nuisance to me, of course. As a friend, Mrs. Greaves, what do you say to that?MRS. GREAVES.I should be sorry, sir, but I must have my money.LEONARD.You shall have it with compound interest at 5 per cent. Do you know what that means?MRS. GREAVES.I think so.LEONARD.It’s more than you can get safely elsewhere so it means that the longer we keep you out of your money the more it will be to your advantage.MRS. GREAVES.I think you’re a funny gentleman.LEONARD.[ToMARY.] She’s found me out.MARY.Mrs. Greaves, we’ve got some money coming in a day or two. At least I think so. But I’m anxious about the baby and I must have some for it. I will pay you. I will.MRS. GREAVES.Can you give me a little?MARY.Yes, you shall have something to-morrow.MRS. GREAVES.I think I know of an old perambulator.MARY.Do you? Could we borrow it. We’d pay when we could.MRS. GREAVES.I’ll see.MARY.Thank you, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I don’t want to be hard.MARY.You’ve been very kind.MRS. GREAVES.P’raps there’d be no harm in letting the doctor have a look at the baby.MARY.Do you think so? Do you think he’s—MRS. GREAVES.He looks a little bit peaked.MARY.You know about babies, too, don’t you?MRS. GREAVES.I should do. I’ve had seven of my own.MARY.We’ll have the doctor. And thank you, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I’ve been a bit soft, I know that.[She goes out.]MARY.Will you sell your watch, then, or pawn it?LEONARD.Oh!MARY.And will you bring the doctor first?LEONARD.Now, is that necessary?MARY.And we must have some money for her to-morrow.LEONARD.You choked her off very well. I can’t keep serious enough.MARY.She must have it.LEONARD.Where’s all this money to come from?MARY.There’s your watch. I’ve not many things. Some of my clothes could go. I can’t lose my wedding-ring.[She moves towards the door.]LEONARD.Where are you going?MARY.I’m going to look at him.LEONARD.Wait a moment. This is getting serious. I’ll write to my mother again. I’ll ask her to come. It’s absurd. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson. I suppose he is. Mary, do you remember exactly what he said that day—I mean about the three hundred pounds? The old man’s very particular about keeping his word. That sort of people always are.MARY.Aren’t you?LEONARD.Shall I explain to you what a promise is?MARY.I know.LEONARD.Ah! Yes. It would spoil you to understand these things; and I’m losing all my lightness of touch. I was rather stupid just now with Mrs. Greaves. I didn’t handle it well.MARY.You must go to your father and tell him how we are. It’s different now I’m frightened about little Leonard. I’ll go if you don’t. I can get milk. I don’t want to do it but if I must I will.LEONARD.Milk!MARY.You heard her say that Mr. Whales wouldn’t let us have any more. George Truefit will let me have some.LEONARD.George Truefit?MARY.Yes, I shall be ashamed to go to him but I’ll do it.LEONARD.I had forgotten about George Truefit.MARY.I hadn’t.LEONARD.My rival, the milkman, isn’t he?MARY.Yes, he’s a milkman.LEONARD.There’s something rather piquant in this. I wonder whether George Truefit would appreciate it. I suppose he wouldn’t poison the milk?MARY.Poison the milk!LEONARD.No, Iamgetting a bit heavy-handed. That’s stupid. What is he like? What’s George like?MARY.He’s—he’s—you know where you’ve got him.LEONARD.A fine fellow, is he?MARY.You can trust him.LEONARD.That’s something, isn’t it?MARY.A good deal.LEONARD.[Sharply.] Now, now, now. You’re contrasting him with me. You’re thinking that I can’t be trusted. You mustn’t do that. Weren’t you, now?MARY.I was thinking of you both.LEONARD.You’re married to me, Mary.MARY.I’m not complaining.LEONARD.Do you love me, Mary?MARY.[After a short pause.] Sometimes I think I do.LEONARD.Do you think I love you?MARY.Do you?LEONARD.SometimesIthink I do. I’m a bit afraid of you, though?MARY.Of me? Afraid?LEONARD.I’m afraid of the truth. I’m afraid of the hardness at the back of things. I like ideas and changes and poses and all the rest of it. You make me uneasy.MARY.I shall never understand you.LEONARD.I think you understand me very well. It’s only the things I say you don’t understand. Poor girl. I bewilder you. You’re quite right. I’m what you see. You keep thinking you don’t understand and that I may be better than that. You’re a brave, humble person. By God! There’s no one like you. I wish I was different. I wish I was like George Truefit.MARY.Only a little bit like him. Yourself, too.LEONARD.What must I do to be saved?MARY.Now, you’re talking queer again.LEONARD.What is it you want? I see you watching me anxiously sometimes. I can’t make myself into another person but I’d like to please you. What do you want me to do?MARY.I suppose it’s a lot of little things.LEONARD.Yes, yes. Can you tell me some of them?MARY.While we’re talking here you might have gone for the doctor.LEONARD.The doctor?MARY.You forget him. You often forget all about little Leonard. [Rising.] I must go to him.LEONARD.Ah! Yes. Mrs. Greaves said he was peaked. Peaked! Good word isn’t it? Shakespeare has it, you know: “Shall he dwindle, peak and pine”—MARY.But you don’t think he’s pining, do you?LEONARD.No, no. I’m only quoting the poet.MARY.Why do you say things like that—just to amuse yourself—and you might know they frighten me? That’s it. You don’t think of other people—except now and then when you seem to get interested.LEONARD.I’ll go for the doctor.MARY.Yes. Thank you.LEONARD.Anything else I can do?MARY.Would they trust us for Lubbock’s food?LEONARD.I’ll pawn my watch.MARY.Wait. We’ll see what the doctor says.LEONARD.Well, I won’t be five minutes.MARY.Thank you very much indeed.LEONARD.No, my dear girl, don’t put it like that. [There is a ring at the front door bell.] Anyone for us I wonder.MARY.Oh! I must tell you. My mother might come. My father will come too, but he couldn’t get off now.LEONARD.Of course you’ve got parents, too, haven’t you.MARY.Don’t you ever think of that?LEONARD.But where have they been all this time?MARY.They didn’t know where I lived.LEONARD.They could have got the address from my mother.MARY.I wrote and told them I’d gone to Canada. I felt I couldn’t face them then.LEONARD.And now?MARY.My mother knows a lot about babies. I want to see her. You won’t like them, I’m afraid. I think someone’s coming in.LEONARD.Oh! I’m sure I shall find them quite amusing. No, I don’t mean that. I mean interesting. Interesting; that’s what I mean when I say amusing. They’re coming up.MARY.That’s my father’s voice.LEONARD.Let’s see—what does he do?MARY.He’s a cabman.LEONARD.Heavens! Are there such things still! A growler or what?[The door opens andMRS. GREAVESushers inMR. AND MRS. BROOME.He is dingily arrayed but confronts misfortunes with a slightly defiant air. She is a rather sharp, quiet woman, shabbily dressed. She does not display much tenderness to her daughter but regards her with some solicitude.MRS. GREAVESwatches the greetings curiously before retiring.]MARY.[After kisses from father and mother.] This is my husband.[There is some rather stiff hand shaking.]MARY.Sit down, mother.LEONARD.Sit down, Mr. Broome.MARY.Baby’s not very well as I told you, mother, and he’s just off for the doctor. [ToLEONARD.] Will you go?LEONARD.Yes, certainly.BROOME.Is he coming back?LEONARD.Good, Mr. Broome, good. You read my thoughts.BROOME.What?LEONARD.I was just wondering whether I was coming back. How soon, I mean.BROOME.Well, it’d only be polite—and you’ve nothing to do, it seems? You’re out of a job too?MARY.Are you, father?MRS. BROOME.[Bitterly.] Ay, they’ve chucked him at last.MARY.When?MRS. BROOME.Only yesterday.BROOME.[With gloomy joviality toLEONARD.] So there’s two on us at a loose end.LEONARD.[Politely.] Yes, we ought to see something of one another, Mr. Broome. But I’m not exactly out of a job. I’ve never been in one.BROOME.Oh! A gentleman of means.LEONARD.Without means, Mr. Broome, without means.BROOME.Then you’ve got someone to keep you.LEONARD.No, Mr. Broome. No.BROOME.Then how are you going to get along?LEONARD.That’s just what’s been bothering us.BROOME.You’re a cool customer.LEONARD.And how do you propose to get along, Mr. Broome?BROOME.It’s them bloomin’ taxis that’s done for me.MARY.Can’t you drive one, father?BROOME.They wouldn’t give me a try if I wanted. And I don’t want. I wouldn’t touch the things.LEONARD.You’ve had the bad luck to be attached to a decaying industry.BROOME.Decaying my eye! There’s no call for it to decay.LEONARD.You don’t hold with modern notions—progress and things, Mr. Broome?BROOME.I don’t hold with taxis. They’ll find out their mistake.MRS. BROOME.He will talk like that.BROOME.And so would you if you’d druv a cab twenty-nine years.MARY.But the taxis go faster, father, and you’ve only got to pay the same.BROOME.Never mind that. Why should they injure a established trade? Why should they spoil other trades? What’s a country without its trades?MRS. BROOME.That’s the way he talks.BROOME.Mark my words. They’ll find out their mistake. Look what’s coming to the breed of horses. Look at nosebags.LEONARD.Nosebags?BROOME.Ay. I’ve been told of a firm as used to turn out a matter of two hundred nosebags a week and now they don’t do fifty.MRS. BROOME.He may get taken on at a mews.BROOME.Mews’s days are numbered.LEONARD.The young generation is knocking at our doors, Mr. Broome.BROOME.What?LEONARD.Yours is an interesting type of Conservatism.BROOME.I’m not a Conservative. I’m a radical.MRS. BROOME.You voted Tory last time.BROOME.Yes, and what have they done for me? I don’t hold with Socialism but I may be druv to it.MRS. BROOME.We came to hear about you, Mary?BROOME.And what’s your perfession, sir, if I may ask?LEONARD.Well, it’s rather hard to define, Mr. Broome. What am I, Mary?MARY.He writes things.BROOME.What things?LEONARD.Well, shall we say—sketches, critical impressions, verses, even stories.BROOME.Hardly work for a man is it?MARY.Now—father!LEONARD.Perhaps not. You see, Mr. Broome, you and I are at the opposite ends. Without offence, I hope, I referred to yours as a decaying industry. With me it’s the other way. They’re not ready for me.BROOME.It don’t pay?LEONARD.At present it can hardly be said to pay.BROOME.Well, you can lend me a couple of sovereigns, anyhow?MARY.} { Father!} [Together.]MRS. BROOME.} { Nonsense.LEONARD.I should be charmed, Mr. Broome, but I haven’t got them. I was just wondering whether I might borrow five pounds from you.BROOME.Right. I just wanted to know how the land lies—MARY.[ToLEONARD.] Won’t you go for the doctor now?LEONARD.Yes, I will. [He takes his hat.]MARY.You’ll come back with him?LEONARD.Yes, if he can come. Good-bye for the present, Mrs. Broome. [He goes out airily.]MRS. BROOME.Good-bye, sir. A cheerful young man. Now, my dear, perhaps you’ll explain.MARY.I’m not going to explain much, mother.MRS. BROOME.Then explain a little.MARY.I told you most of what I’m going to tell you.MRS. BROOME.Let’s have the other bit.BROOME.What I want to know is—Are you married?MARY.Yes, I am.BROOME.Prove it.MARY.My word’s good enough.MRS. BROOME.Have you gone to Canada?MARY.That’s different.MRS. BROOME.One lie’s very like another.MARY.There’s my ring. [Showing it.]MRS. BROOME.Anyone can get a ring. Have you got your marriage lines?BROOME.Ay, let’s see the marriage lines.MARY.I think you ought to take my word.MRS. BROOME.Let’s see them.MARY.I wouldn’t but that I told you that lie about Canada. It’s the first I’ve ever told you, mother.MRS. BROOME.That’s what frightens me.BROOME.Where are they?MARY.They’re in my purse. [She goes to drawer and brings out the purse.] There’s nothing else in it.MRS. BROOME.They’re better than money.MARY.Here then. [She gives them the paper which they scrutinise together.]MRS. BROOME.That’s all right, John?BROOME.Ay, that seems all right. [MRS. BROOMEtakes the paper from him and gives it toMARY.]MRS. BROOME.Put it away.BROOME.Here, let’s have another look at it.MRS. BROOME.Put it away. She’s shown it us all right.BROOME.When was that baby born?MRS. BROOME.Never mind that.BROOME.How old is it?MRS. BROOME.What do you call him, Mary?MARY.Leonard, like his father.MRS. BROOME.Is his father kind to you?MARY.Yes.BROOME.Of course she’d say that. I’ll have a talk with that young man. I never thought a daughter of mine—MRS. BROOME.Now shut up.BROOME.Oh! yes. Take his part. Never mind me. Never mind my feelings. Do you mean to say this young toff’s got no money, really?MARY.He’s been brought up not to work and his father won’t give him any now.BROOME.Ah! I see—I see. Vexed about this was he? And the young chap did the right thing. Well—a good-hearted lad, I see.MARY.I won’t talk about it. I’ve been miserable not to come to see you, mother, but I couldn’t at first, and time went on and I didn’t like to. And I didn’t know what to do.MRS. BROOME.Never mind that now.[A ring at the doorbell is heard.]MARY.That can’t be the doctor yet.MRS. BROOME.You don’t have a many visitors, I s’pose.MARY.I don’t have any—except sometimes Mrs. Timbrell.MRS. BROOME.P’raps it’s her.MARY.I’d like you to see her.MRS. BROOME.Someone’s coming up.MARY.I think it must be.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Outside.] I know the way, thank you.[She enters carrying a little bunch of flowers.]MARY.Here’s my mother and father.MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! how d’ye do. [She shakes hands.] I don’t know why we’ve never met before.BROOME.We’ve never been here before.MRS. TIMBRELL.Haven’t you? I’ve not been many times. We must come oftener. [She smiles embarrassments away.]BROOME.Of course. I see ma’am that you’re not like to think as your son and my daughter’s a fair match but I tell you—MRS. BROOME.Now, John.MRS. TIMBRELL.It’s a very good match for him.BROOME.Eh?MRS. TIMBRELL.He’s lucky to marry such a girl as Mary.BROOME.He’s not up to much himself, isn’t he?MRS. TIMBRELL.I didn’t say that.BROOME.He seems to be kep’ rather short of brass.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Sees the flowers in her hands.] Oh! I brought you these, Mary.MARY.[Takes them.] Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, Mrs. Timbrell.BROOME.[Rather truculantly.] That baby’ll get a fat lot o’ good out o’ them.MRS. TIMBRELL.Is the baby ill, Mary?MARY.I keep fancying he’s not so well. His father’s gone for the doctor.MRS. TIMBRELL.Have you seen him, Mrs. Broome?MRS. BROOME.Not yet. Will you take me, Mary? We must be going directly.MARY.Come on, then. [Looking at the others.] Would you like?—BROOME.Not me.MRS. TIMBRELL.Yes, I’d like to see him.BROOME.I thought, p’raps, you’d just like a word with me ma’am.MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! well—Presently, Mary, I’ll just talk to Mr. Broome.[MARYandMRS. BROOMEgo out.]Well, Mr. Broome and what have you got to say?BROOME.What ’ave I got to say?MRS. TIMBRELL.You look like a man who has something to say.BROOME.I’ve a good deal to say if it’s any good saying it. What’s it all mean?MRS. TIMBRELL.Yes, that’s the point. Is it any good saying it? That’s just what I feel more and more Mr. Broome. I used to want to say things and now I say to myself. Is it any good? I believe we think very much alike about it.BROOME.But a man has his feelings and so he’s got somethin’ to say.MRS. TIMBRELL.That’s exactly what I think, Mr.Broome. I want to talk to relieve my feelings, not that I think it will do any good. Least said, soonest mended, I suppose. I agree with you.BROOME.[Flattered.] I’ve no wish to make myself onpleasant only—MRS. TIMBRELL.I was sure you hadn’t.BROOME.Only—I want to know how your son—MRS. TIMBRELL.Hark! Is that somebody coming in? I wonder if he’s got the doctor.BROOME.I’m not one as interferes where there’s no call for it but—MRS. TIMBRELL.Anyone can see that Mr. Broome.BROOME.But—I mean to say—what I’m sayin’ is—MRS. TIMBRELL.I believe it is the doctor.BROOME.I’m on’y a poor cabman. You’re too clever for me.MRS. TIMBRELL.Don’t worry your daughter. Don’t be always asking her to explain things. Your wife sees that.BROOME.I’m her father. I think there’s something due to me.MRS. TIMBRELL.That’s where we parents make the mistake.BROOME.Well, I can see a bit and I think the young man has acted fair.[LEONARDenters.]LEONARD.Your wife’s going, Mr. Broome.MRS. TIMBRELL.What does the doctor say?LEONARD.He’s just looking at the kid—nothing serious, I think.MRS. TIMBRELL.Mary’s with him, I suppose? [She goes out slowly.]BROOME.Now, sir, I thought I’d just like to have a word with you.LEONARD.Very natural, very proper Mr. Broome, I am sure, but you know—BROOME.I’m only a cabman but I have my feelin’s. I’m a father, sir.LEONARD.Yes, it’s a curious sensation, isn’t it?BROOME.Sir?LEONARD.It’s big. Mr. Broome; it’s big, undeniably.BROOME.What’s big?LEONARD.There’s something in these primal relations, you know.BROOME.I dunno what y’re talkin’ about.LEONARD.I beg your pardon.BROOME.It seems you’re my son-in-law.LEONARD.Yes, of course. Very jolly isn’t it?BROOME.That doesn’t mean as I’m goin’ to take liberties. I’ve had a talk with your mother and we come to an agreement that least said soonest mended so don’t look for no pryin’ from me nor my wife. There’s a thing or two I don’t understand but I do say this. Whatever mistakes you’ve made you’ve come out at the finish like a man.LEONARD.It’s very handsome of you to say so, I’m sure but—BROOME.I know a man when I see one and there’s my hand on it. [He offers his hand whichLEONARDtakes rather hesitatingly.] You’ve done the fair thing and I honour you for it.LEONARD.It’s very charming of you I’m sure and your commendation is very—very cheering but, really—BROOME.I ask no questions but I can see a thing or two. Why, sir, it’s as plain to me as if I’d been told that your father’s cut up rough about this.LEONARD.You’re quite right.BROOME.He wouldn’t have you marry my geland like an hon’rable young feller in love—in love mindyer—you ups and you sez: I’ll marry her so’s ’ow. It’s as plain as mud—LEONARD.It does look like that, doesn’t it?BROOME.It’s on’y the other day I was readin’ a bit of a novelette in the paper—just to pass the time—and there was a young feller who did just like that and the father says it’s a cut off of a shillin. I said there’s a bit of human natur’ there but I didn’t expect to see it in my own family so soon.LEONARD.You’re a reader, Mr. Broome.BROOME.I’ve read a fairish bit, sittin in my keb. Sir, let me tell you—the father in that there novelette come round.LEONARD.That’s encouraging, Mr. Broome.BROOME.[Listening.] Is that your mother coming? Give us your hand again. [He hastily takesLEONARD’Shand and poses asMRS. TIMBRELL,MRS. BROOMEandMARYenter. He speaks loudly forMRS. TIMBRELL’Sbenefit.] I accept you, sir, in my family and I honour you for your handsome conduct and hoping the old gentleman will soon come round though, mind you, I ask no questions.LEONARD.[Retreating.] Very good of you.MRS. BROOME.We’re going now.[Farewells.BROOMEis hearty again withLEONARD, confidential withMRS. TIMBRELLand perfunctory withMARY.MRS. BROOME, subdued and a little anxious, passes beforeLEONARDand says:—]You needn’t be afraid that we shall come often.LEONARD.Come as often as you like.MRS. BROOME.No, we’ll give you your chance.BROOME.What are you talkin’ about? [ToMRS. TIMBRELL.] All right. I’ll explain how things are to her, ma’am. I’m glad I come to-day. I thinkI’ve cleared up things a bit. Come along, old lady. [BROOMEandMRS. BROOMEgo.]LEONARD.You’re like me, Mary; you’re your mother’s child. You’re not a bit like your father.MRS. TIMBRELL.What had you been telling him? Something about your father?LEONARD.Not a word. He seemed to have got it from you. Andisthe Governor coming round?MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! He will come round.LEONARD.Bravo! That’s better. We’ve been deucedly pinched, you know.MRS. TIMBRELL.Perhaps it’ll do you good. I don’t mean you, Mary. Who’s that?[MRS. GREAVESenters with a letter which she gives toLEONARDand retires.]LEONARD.[Opening the letter.] Hullo! This is from Cochrane.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Aside toMARY.] I brought you this. [She gives her money.]MARY.I can’t refuse it now. [She looks over atLEONARDgravely.]MARY.He never asked about little Leonard.LEONARD.I say—look here. Cochrane wants me to go there. Just the thing. Just what I want.MARY.Where?LEONARD.His place down in Norfolk. Fishing. Of course the fishing’s not much but he’s got some rather good men there. By Jove! I see myself talking again. I mean really talking. Just the thing.MRS. TIMBRELL.Does he ask Mary?LEONARD.Mary! Well, no. But there’s no nonsense of that kind about Mary.MARY.I’ve got little Leonard.LEONARD.[Glancing at her.] By-the-bye, what did that chap say about little Leonard?MARY.He’s coming in again. He wasn’t very sure.LEONARD.Then you may be sure there’s nothing the matter. Good. Things are looking better. [To his mother.] Do you think the Governor would let me have twenty pounds? Is he far enough round for that?MRS. TIMBRELL.You’d soon have him back again if you tried.LEONARD.It’s awkward. I must get some things. And I’ve no fishing rod. I might say I’d lost it on the way down. I must lose a bag, if necessary, and borrow. Rather thin, though. Did Edgar leave his rod at home? Could you manage ten pounds? What did you give Mary?MRS. TIMBRELL.Is there any hope for him, Mary?LEONARD.What? Oh! the baby—I keep forgetting about that blessed baby. But he’s not ill. I’m sure he’s not ill. Look here! I must get away. I shall hate you, Mary, if you stop me. I want a change, as the doctors say. I want to talk to these chaps. They’re men you can talk to. I must go. I must go. I’m a flower turning to the light, I’m a prisoner breaking from his dungeon, I’m a spirit winging upwards. Don’t stop me.MARY.Why should I stop you? You want to be there. I want to be here.LEONARD.Ah! yes. And if the childisill you’ve got a beautiful time before you. A mother with her child ill is lovely, lovely. I could come home to see it. Especially if those fellows get rather dull. Cochrane doesn’t mention a time. I wonder how long he’ll have me.MRS. TIMBRELL.If anyone could change you, Mary would, but you don’t change.LEONARD.Don’t change! I’m always changing. I’m a perfect Kaleidoscope.MRS. TIMBRELL.Always a Kaleidoscope.LEONARD.[Taking his mother by the shoulders.] You just go and get me some money, will you? Tell the old boy I’m a new man, a reformed character. Put in a good word for Mary. Tell him she’s done it. Then see if you can’t get fifty pounds out of him.MRS. TIMBRELL.You’d kill the goose with the golden eggs, before it laid any. Mary, we’d better let him go.MARY.Oh! yes.MRS. TIMBRELL.You must have some money? What’s the least you can manage with?LEONARD.The least? Well, I should say the least is the most I can get.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Fingering her rings.] Have you started with pawnshops yet?LEONARD.Oh! yes. I’m not afraid of pawnshops.MRS. TIMBRELL.I’m too old to begin. [She takes off a ring and gives it to him.] Take that.MARY.No, no. He can’t do that.MRS. TIMBRELL.I think he can.LEONARD.Of course I can. I thought you would understand, Mary. A mother’s sacrifice for her son is one of the most beautiful things—just think what you would do for little Leonard.MARY.Yes, if there’s need.LEONARD.Need? There is need. But wouldn’t like to deprive her of the pleasure. The pleasure! It’s a sacred joy. Isn’t it mother?MRS. TIMBRELL.You’re a humbug.LEONARD.I suppose I am. But I’m your son all the same. You can’t be less than a mother becauseI’ve got a bit of humbug about me. I wonder if I should do better to sell it out and out to a jeweller. You don’t mind, mother?MRS. TIMBRELL.You couldn’t redeem it. You couldn’t give it me back.LEONARD.Do you want it back?MRS. TIMBRELL.I thought it might be a sacred joy to give it back to me.LEONARD.Good. Very good. You’re a damned fine woman, you know. Isn’t she, Mary? I suppose a lot of mothers do the kind of things that she does for their sons but she does them lightly. She can be witty over it.MRS. TIMBRELL.Good-bye, Mary. I’ll come again soon.MARY.Good-bye. [MRS. TIMBRELLgoes.LEONARDgoes out with her for a moment and returns. He capers up toMARY,seizes her waist and waltzes her round. She yields and laughs for a moment, then stiffens and struggles.]MARY.Hark! There’s little Leonard.LEONARD.Bother little Leonard![She breaks away and runs out. He does a pas seul as the curtain falls.]
ACT III.[Rather poor lodgings.MARY, neatly but very plainly dressed, is sewing at a child’s garment.LEONARDsprawls on the sofa smoking cheap cigarettes. He is carelessly dressed to the point of slovenliness and a little anxiety begins to shew through his calmness which is generally maintained. It is afternoon. Two or three months have elapsed.]LEONARD.I don’t think it’s that the old man’s mean. He’s got on the high horse and doesn’t know how to get down.MARY.We oughtn’t to take the money from your mother. It’s very hard for her.LEONARD.Oh! but it only means that she gives them rice pudding instead of gooseberry tart. It’ll do them good. I expect the old man sees the difference and pretends he doesn’t. And Edgar will be furious.MARY.If little Leonard had a brother and they were like you and your brother—I couldn’t bear that.LEONARD.It’s a long way off, old lady.MARY.Thing’s aren’t a long way off if you think they might come.LEONARD.Don’t worry, now. Don’t worry.MARY.I’m a great deal happier than you. I’ve got him.LEONARD.Well, haven’t I?MARY.No, you haven’t. Not like me.LEONARD.You don’t think I’m such a bad father, do you?MARY.I don’t know. You’re funny with him and I like to see you together but—LEONARD.Well?MARY.You keep spending the money.LEONARD.But, Mary, you don’t know how much more I could spend if I had it.MARY.And, so clever as you are, you don’t make any—I mean don’t make much.LEONARD.You see, in my trade, the better you are the more wretchedly you get paid.MARY.You keep telling me that.LEONARD.And you don’t believe it?MARY.Yes, I do. I think you mean it. I don’t think it can be quite true. I think you could get more money if you tried. You’re clever enough to write the way they want.LEONARD.What do you care for most in the world—barring the baby?MARY.[Considering.] I don’t think there’s anything. Oh! I beg your pardon. Of course there’s you.LEONARD.Never mind me. Could you believe that I care more about writing my own way than for anything?MARY.I suppose it’s good to care for something but that seems selfish.LEONARD.You’re beginning to feel a bit of resentment. You don’t hate me yet, do you?MARY.No, of course not.LEONARD.I shouldn’t blame you. You’re a wonderfully even-tempered person. I sometimes wonder whether I’m right about that streak of wildness in you. Do you think you could do strange things—what shall I say—wicked things?MARY.I’ve done one wicked thing.LEONARD.Does it trouble you, Mary? Does it still trouble you? Would you alter it?MARY.Then I shouldn’t have little Leonard. I can never understand. If I’d known of him—if I’d thought of little Leonard—then it couldn’t be wrong. But how could I think of him when he wasn’t born? It was wicked. It wasn’t like me.LEONARD.You did think of him, Mary. No, you didn’t think. It’s not thought. It was nature—something bigger than you—forcing you—forcing you to bring little Leonard into the world. Now, take comfort in that, my girl; there is some comfort in it.MARY.I can’t see what it’s got to do withhim.It’s not children I care for; it’s him. Well, he’s here now. I’ve got him now.LEONARD.Quite right, my dear.MARY.But I think he ought to have Lubbock’s food regularly and wemusthave a perambulator.LEONARD.Well, this must go. [Taking out his watch.]MARY.Would you? Will you?LEONARD.[Looking ruefully at the watch.] You’d better take me at my word. My generous moods don’t last.MARY.Shall I take it?[He is slowly unhooking the watch when there is a knock at the door andMRS. GREAVES,thelandlady,comes in. He puts the watch in his pocket.]MRS. GREAVES.I should like a word, sir.LEONARD.A whole history if you like, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.Sir?LEONARD.I was only quoting Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I know nothing about him, sir.LEONARD.He’s the man that writes the plays.MRS. GREAVES.There’s some people too fond of plays and such things.LEONARD.Now I hope you’re not going to attack Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I’m attacking nothing, sir, but I should like a word and perhaps it would be more pleasant if Mrs.—the lady wasn’t here.LEONARD.Why mustn’t Mrs. the lady be here?MRS. GREAVES.It’s as you like.LEONARD.Fire away.MRS. GREAVES.I must tell you, perfectly frank, that there’s been some talk about you. I know that lady that comes here to see you is your mother and that I don’t understand. But I’ve heard tell of carryings on with a housemaid and it is said as you’re not married. I know mothers ’ll do a good deal for their sons but I must say—LEONARD.Who says this?MRS. GREAVES.It’s not only one. There’s Mr. Whales, the milkman, and he does a good round and hears a lot—LEONARD.We shall have no more dealings with Mr. Whales.MRS. GREAVES.You wouldn’t, anyhow, till he got paid.MARY.No more milk?MRS. GREAVES.No, and it’s not only milk.LEONARD.Mrs. Greaves, this lady is my wife and anyone who says she isn’t is telling an abominable lie. I’m surprised that you should listen to such stuff.MRS. GREAVES.Of course I know she’s got on a ring and all that but that’s what they do and I can’t afford to be out of my money; I really can’t. I don’t want to be hard but my account must be settled.LEONARD.Now first of all, Mrs. Greaves, you will apologise to my wife. Then we’ll settle the other matter.MRS. GREAVES.I’m sure I’m sorry if there’s been a mistake. I’ve no call to make mischief. I’ll ask your pardon ma’am very willing, but Mr. Whales, he said—and he’s only saying what others—LEONARD.No more of that, now, if you want to have your bill paid.MRS. GREAVES.You can be made to pay.LEONARD.And so can you be made to pay. Do you know what you’ve done?MRS. GREAVES.Done? I know I’ve been done.LEONARD.Good, Mrs. Greaves—very good—I’m glad you can joke about it. It may be no joke for you.MRS. GREAVES.What do you mean?LEONARD.It’s slander. They give very heavy damages now for slander.MRS. GREAVES.I’ve only mentioned what I’ve been told.LEONARD.Yes, that’s slander. It’s sometimes called defamation of character. Same thing.MRS. GREAVES.I’m sure I’d no intention at all of saying anything—I’ve been very lenient, too.LEONARD.Perhaps you’ll give me the name of your Solicitor, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.What for? I haven’t got a solicitor. I don’t understand what you want.MARY.I think he’s joking, Mrs. Greaves.LEONARD.[With mock vexation.] Tut! tut!MRS. GREAVES.[Doubtfully.] I know slander’s a nasty law but I can’t see as I’ve said anything.LEONARD.It’s not all a joke, Mary. You may tell your Whales and people that if I hear another word about it I go straight to a Solicitor.MRS. GREAVES.I’ll tell him, sir.LEONARD.Very well. You may go, Mrs. Greaves.MARY.Solicitors like to be paid, too.MRS. GREAVES.[Turning at the door.] And what about my bill, sir?LEONARD.It shall be attended to.MRS. GREAVES.I’ve heard that very often.LEONARD.It is a bit stale, isn’t it? I apologise for the old wheeze. Well, you see, there’s the perambulator first.MRS. GREAVES.The what, sir?LEONARD.The first money we get is for a perambulator—no. The first is for a pint or a peck, or whatever it is, of what’s-his-name’s food for the baby. Second, the perambulator. You’re only third, Mrs. Greaves. Rather a bad third, but your turn will come.MARY.It’s not fair to her. She ought to be paid.LEONARD.Of course she ought. We ought all to be paid. I’m in favour of handsome incomes all round and I hope Lloyd George will take it up. But, look here, Mrs. Greaves, we’re all in the same boat. Now is there anythingyou’dlike to pawn? I’m treating you as a friend.MARY.There’s your watch.LEONARD.There’s my watch. My wife suggests my watch. A nuisance to me, of course. As a friend, Mrs. Greaves, what do you say to that?MRS. GREAVES.I should be sorry, sir, but I must have my money.LEONARD.You shall have it with compound interest at 5 per cent. Do you know what that means?MRS. GREAVES.I think so.LEONARD.It’s more than you can get safely elsewhere so it means that the longer we keep you out of your money the more it will be to your advantage.MRS. GREAVES.I think you’re a funny gentleman.LEONARD.[ToMARY.] She’s found me out.MARY.Mrs. Greaves, we’ve got some money coming in a day or two. At least I think so. But I’m anxious about the baby and I must have some for it. I will pay you. I will.MRS. GREAVES.Can you give me a little?MARY.Yes, you shall have something to-morrow.MRS. GREAVES.I think I know of an old perambulator.MARY.Do you? Could we borrow it. We’d pay when we could.MRS. GREAVES.I’ll see.MARY.Thank you, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I don’t want to be hard.MARY.You’ve been very kind.MRS. GREAVES.P’raps there’d be no harm in letting the doctor have a look at the baby.MARY.Do you think so? Do you think he’s—MRS. GREAVES.He looks a little bit peaked.MARY.You know about babies, too, don’t you?MRS. GREAVES.I should do. I’ve had seven of my own.MARY.We’ll have the doctor. And thank you, Mrs. Greaves.MRS. GREAVES.I’ve been a bit soft, I know that.[She goes out.]MARY.Will you sell your watch, then, or pawn it?LEONARD.Oh!MARY.And will you bring the doctor first?LEONARD.Now, is that necessary?MARY.And we must have some money for her to-morrow.LEONARD.You choked her off very well. I can’t keep serious enough.MARY.She must have it.LEONARD.Where’s all this money to come from?MARY.There’s your watch. I’ve not many things. Some of my clothes could go. I can’t lose my wedding-ring.[She moves towards the door.]LEONARD.Where are you going?MARY.I’m going to look at him.LEONARD.Wait a moment. This is getting serious. I’ll write to my mother again. I’ll ask her to come. It’s absurd. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson. I suppose he is. Mary, do you remember exactly what he said that day—I mean about the three hundred pounds? The old man’s very particular about keeping his word. That sort of people always are.MARY.Aren’t you?LEONARD.Shall I explain to you what a promise is?MARY.I know.LEONARD.Ah! Yes. It would spoil you to understand these things; and I’m losing all my lightness of touch. I was rather stupid just now with Mrs. Greaves. I didn’t handle it well.MARY.You must go to your father and tell him how we are. It’s different now I’m frightened about little Leonard. I’ll go if you don’t. I can get milk. I don’t want to do it but if I must I will.LEONARD.Milk!MARY.You heard her say that Mr. Whales wouldn’t let us have any more. George Truefit will let me have some.LEONARD.George Truefit?MARY.Yes, I shall be ashamed to go to him but I’ll do it.LEONARD.I had forgotten about George Truefit.MARY.I hadn’t.LEONARD.My rival, the milkman, isn’t he?MARY.Yes, he’s a milkman.LEONARD.There’s something rather piquant in this. I wonder whether George Truefit would appreciate it. I suppose he wouldn’t poison the milk?MARY.Poison the milk!LEONARD.No, Iamgetting a bit heavy-handed. That’s stupid. What is he like? What’s George like?MARY.He’s—he’s—you know where you’ve got him.LEONARD.A fine fellow, is he?MARY.You can trust him.LEONARD.That’s something, isn’t it?MARY.A good deal.LEONARD.[Sharply.] Now, now, now. You’re contrasting him with me. You’re thinking that I can’t be trusted. You mustn’t do that. Weren’t you, now?MARY.I was thinking of you both.LEONARD.You’re married to me, Mary.MARY.I’m not complaining.LEONARD.Do you love me, Mary?MARY.[After a short pause.] Sometimes I think I do.LEONARD.Do you think I love you?MARY.Do you?LEONARD.SometimesIthink I do. I’m a bit afraid of you, though?MARY.Of me? Afraid?LEONARD.I’m afraid of the truth. I’m afraid of the hardness at the back of things. I like ideas and changes and poses and all the rest of it. You make me uneasy.MARY.I shall never understand you.LEONARD.I think you understand me very well. It’s only the things I say you don’t understand. Poor girl. I bewilder you. You’re quite right. I’m what you see. You keep thinking you don’t understand and that I may be better than that. You’re a brave, humble person. By God! There’s no one like you. I wish I was different. I wish I was like George Truefit.MARY.Only a little bit like him. Yourself, too.LEONARD.What must I do to be saved?MARY.Now, you’re talking queer again.LEONARD.What is it you want? I see you watching me anxiously sometimes. I can’t make myself into another person but I’d like to please you. What do you want me to do?MARY.I suppose it’s a lot of little things.LEONARD.Yes, yes. Can you tell me some of them?MARY.While we’re talking here you might have gone for the doctor.LEONARD.The doctor?MARY.You forget him. You often forget all about little Leonard. [Rising.] I must go to him.LEONARD.Ah! Yes. Mrs. Greaves said he was peaked. Peaked! Good word isn’t it? Shakespeare has it, you know: “Shall he dwindle, peak and pine”—MARY.But you don’t think he’s pining, do you?LEONARD.No, no. I’m only quoting the poet.MARY.Why do you say things like that—just to amuse yourself—and you might know they frighten me? That’s it. You don’t think of other people—except now and then when you seem to get interested.LEONARD.I’ll go for the doctor.MARY.Yes. Thank you.LEONARD.Anything else I can do?MARY.Would they trust us for Lubbock’s food?LEONARD.I’ll pawn my watch.MARY.Wait. We’ll see what the doctor says.LEONARD.Well, I won’t be five minutes.MARY.Thank you very much indeed.LEONARD.No, my dear girl, don’t put it like that. [There is a ring at the front door bell.] Anyone for us I wonder.MARY.Oh! I must tell you. My mother might come. My father will come too, but he couldn’t get off now.LEONARD.Of course you’ve got parents, too, haven’t you.MARY.Don’t you ever think of that?LEONARD.But where have they been all this time?MARY.They didn’t know where I lived.LEONARD.They could have got the address from my mother.MARY.I wrote and told them I’d gone to Canada. I felt I couldn’t face them then.LEONARD.And now?MARY.My mother knows a lot about babies. I want to see her. You won’t like them, I’m afraid. I think someone’s coming in.LEONARD.Oh! I’m sure I shall find them quite amusing. No, I don’t mean that. I mean interesting. Interesting; that’s what I mean when I say amusing. They’re coming up.MARY.That’s my father’s voice.LEONARD.Let’s see—what does he do?MARY.He’s a cabman.LEONARD.Heavens! Are there such things still! A growler or what?[The door opens andMRS. GREAVESushers inMR. AND MRS. BROOME.He is dingily arrayed but confronts misfortunes with a slightly defiant air. She is a rather sharp, quiet woman, shabbily dressed. She does not display much tenderness to her daughter but regards her with some solicitude.MRS. GREAVESwatches the greetings curiously before retiring.]MARY.[After kisses from father and mother.] This is my husband.[There is some rather stiff hand shaking.]MARY.Sit down, mother.LEONARD.Sit down, Mr. Broome.MARY.Baby’s not very well as I told you, mother, and he’s just off for the doctor. [ToLEONARD.] Will you go?LEONARD.Yes, certainly.BROOME.Is he coming back?LEONARD.Good, Mr. Broome, good. You read my thoughts.BROOME.What?LEONARD.I was just wondering whether I was coming back. How soon, I mean.BROOME.Well, it’d only be polite—and you’ve nothing to do, it seems? You’re out of a job too?MARY.Are you, father?MRS. BROOME.[Bitterly.] Ay, they’ve chucked him at last.MARY.When?MRS. BROOME.Only yesterday.BROOME.[With gloomy joviality toLEONARD.] So there’s two on us at a loose end.LEONARD.[Politely.] Yes, we ought to see something of one another, Mr. Broome. But I’m not exactly out of a job. I’ve never been in one.BROOME.Oh! A gentleman of means.LEONARD.Without means, Mr. Broome, without means.BROOME.Then you’ve got someone to keep you.LEONARD.No, Mr. Broome. No.BROOME.Then how are you going to get along?LEONARD.That’s just what’s been bothering us.BROOME.You’re a cool customer.LEONARD.And how do you propose to get along, Mr. Broome?BROOME.It’s them bloomin’ taxis that’s done for me.MARY.Can’t you drive one, father?BROOME.They wouldn’t give me a try if I wanted. And I don’t want. I wouldn’t touch the things.LEONARD.You’ve had the bad luck to be attached to a decaying industry.BROOME.Decaying my eye! There’s no call for it to decay.LEONARD.You don’t hold with modern notions—progress and things, Mr. Broome?BROOME.I don’t hold with taxis. They’ll find out their mistake.MRS. BROOME.He will talk like that.BROOME.And so would you if you’d druv a cab twenty-nine years.MARY.But the taxis go faster, father, and you’ve only got to pay the same.BROOME.Never mind that. Why should they injure a established trade? Why should they spoil other trades? What’s a country without its trades?MRS. BROOME.That’s the way he talks.BROOME.Mark my words. They’ll find out their mistake. Look what’s coming to the breed of horses. Look at nosebags.LEONARD.Nosebags?BROOME.Ay. I’ve been told of a firm as used to turn out a matter of two hundred nosebags a week and now they don’t do fifty.MRS. BROOME.He may get taken on at a mews.BROOME.Mews’s days are numbered.LEONARD.The young generation is knocking at our doors, Mr. Broome.BROOME.What?LEONARD.Yours is an interesting type of Conservatism.BROOME.I’m not a Conservative. I’m a radical.MRS. BROOME.You voted Tory last time.BROOME.Yes, and what have they done for me? I don’t hold with Socialism but I may be druv to it.MRS. BROOME.We came to hear about you, Mary?BROOME.And what’s your perfession, sir, if I may ask?LEONARD.Well, it’s rather hard to define, Mr. Broome. What am I, Mary?MARY.He writes things.BROOME.What things?LEONARD.Well, shall we say—sketches, critical impressions, verses, even stories.BROOME.Hardly work for a man is it?MARY.Now—father!LEONARD.Perhaps not. You see, Mr. Broome, you and I are at the opposite ends. Without offence, I hope, I referred to yours as a decaying industry. With me it’s the other way. They’re not ready for me.BROOME.It don’t pay?LEONARD.At present it can hardly be said to pay.BROOME.Well, you can lend me a couple of sovereigns, anyhow?MARY.} { Father!} [Together.]MRS. BROOME.} { Nonsense.LEONARD.I should be charmed, Mr. Broome, but I haven’t got them. I was just wondering whether I might borrow five pounds from you.BROOME.Right. I just wanted to know how the land lies—MARY.[ToLEONARD.] Won’t you go for the doctor now?LEONARD.Yes, I will. [He takes his hat.]MARY.You’ll come back with him?LEONARD.Yes, if he can come. Good-bye for the present, Mrs. Broome. [He goes out airily.]MRS. BROOME.Good-bye, sir. A cheerful young man. Now, my dear, perhaps you’ll explain.MARY.I’m not going to explain much, mother.MRS. BROOME.Then explain a little.MARY.I told you most of what I’m going to tell you.MRS. BROOME.Let’s have the other bit.BROOME.What I want to know is—Are you married?MARY.Yes, I am.BROOME.Prove it.MARY.My word’s good enough.MRS. BROOME.Have you gone to Canada?MARY.That’s different.MRS. BROOME.One lie’s very like another.MARY.There’s my ring. [Showing it.]MRS. BROOME.Anyone can get a ring. Have you got your marriage lines?BROOME.Ay, let’s see the marriage lines.MARY.I think you ought to take my word.MRS. BROOME.Let’s see them.MARY.I wouldn’t but that I told you that lie about Canada. It’s the first I’ve ever told you, mother.MRS. BROOME.That’s what frightens me.BROOME.Where are they?MARY.They’re in my purse. [She goes to drawer and brings out the purse.] There’s nothing else in it.MRS. BROOME.They’re better than money.MARY.Here then. [She gives them the paper which they scrutinise together.]MRS. BROOME.That’s all right, John?BROOME.Ay, that seems all right. [MRS. BROOMEtakes the paper from him and gives it toMARY.]MRS. BROOME.Put it away.BROOME.Here, let’s have another look at it.MRS. BROOME.Put it away. She’s shown it us all right.BROOME.When was that baby born?MRS. BROOME.Never mind that.BROOME.How old is it?MRS. BROOME.What do you call him, Mary?MARY.Leonard, like his father.MRS. BROOME.Is his father kind to you?MARY.Yes.BROOME.Of course she’d say that. I’ll have a talk with that young man. I never thought a daughter of mine—MRS. BROOME.Now shut up.BROOME.Oh! yes. Take his part. Never mind me. Never mind my feelings. Do you mean to say this young toff’s got no money, really?MARY.He’s been brought up not to work and his father won’t give him any now.BROOME.Ah! I see—I see. Vexed about this was he? And the young chap did the right thing. Well—a good-hearted lad, I see.MARY.I won’t talk about it. I’ve been miserable not to come to see you, mother, but I couldn’t at first, and time went on and I didn’t like to. And I didn’t know what to do.MRS. BROOME.Never mind that now.[A ring at the doorbell is heard.]MARY.That can’t be the doctor yet.MRS. BROOME.You don’t have a many visitors, I s’pose.MARY.I don’t have any—except sometimes Mrs. Timbrell.MRS. BROOME.P’raps it’s her.MARY.I’d like you to see her.MRS. BROOME.Someone’s coming up.MARY.I think it must be.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Outside.] I know the way, thank you.[She enters carrying a little bunch of flowers.]MARY.Here’s my mother and father.MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! how d’ye do. [She shakes hands.] I don’t know why we’ve never met before.BROOME.We’ve never been here before.MRS. TIMBRELL.Haven’t you? I’ve not been many times. We must come oftener. [She smiles embarrassments away.]BROOME.Of course. I see ma’am that you’re not like to think as your son and my daughter’s a fair match but I tell you—MRS. BROOME.Now, John.MRS. TIMBRELL.It’s a very good match for him.BROOME.Eh?MRS. TIMBRELL.He’s lucky to marry such a girl as Mary.BROOME.He’s not up to much himself, isn’t he?MRS. TIMBRELL.I didn’t say that.BROOME.He seems to be kep’ rather short of brass.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Sees the flowers in her hands.] Oh! I brought you these, Mary.MARY.[Takes them.] Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, Mrs. Timbrell.BROOME.[Rather truculantly.] That baby’ll get a fat lot o’ good out o’ them.MRS. TIMBRELL.Is the baby ill, Mary?MARY.I keep fancying he’s not so well. His father’s gone for the doctor.MRS. TIMBRELL.Have you seen him, Mrs. Broome?MRS. BROOME.Not yet. Will you take me, Mary? We must be going directly.MARY.Come on, then. [Looking at the others.] Would you like?—BROOME.Not me.MRS. TIMBRELL.Yes, I’d like to see him.BROOME.I thought, p’raps, you’d just like a word with me ma’am.MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! well—Presently, Mary, I’ll just talk to Mr. Broome.[MARYandMRS. BROOMEgo out.]Well, Mr. Broome and what have you got to say?BROOME.What ’ave I got to say?MRS. TIMBRELL.You look like a man who has something to say.BROOME.I’ve a good deal to say if it’s any good saying it. What’s it all mean?MRS. TIMBRELL.Yes, that’s the point. Is it any good saying it? That’s just what I feel more and more Mr. Broome. I used to want to say things and now I say to myself. Is it any good? I believe we think very much alike about it.BROOME.But a man has his feelings and so he’s got somethin’ to say.MRS. TIMBRELL.That’s exactly what I think, Mr.Broome. I want to talk to relieve my feelings, not that I think it will do any good. Least said, soonest mended, I suppose. I agree with you.BROOME.[Flattered.] I’ve no wish to make myself onpleasant only—MRS. TIMBRELL.I was sure you hadn’t.BROOME.Only—I want to know how your son—MRS. TIMBRELL.Hark! Is that somebody coming in? I wonder if he’s got the doctor.BROOME.I’m not one as interferes where there’s no call for it but—MRS. TIMBRELL.Anyone can see that Mr. Broome.BROOME.But—I mean to say—what I’m sayin’ is—MRS. TIMBRELL.I believe it is the doctor.BROOME.I’m on’y a poor cabman. You’re too clever for me.MRS. TIMBRELL.Don’t worry your daughter. Don’t be always asking her to explain things. Your wife sees that.BROOME.I’m her father. I think there’s something due to me.MRS. TIMBRELL.That’s where we parents make the mistake.BROOME.Well, I can see a bit and I think the young man has acted fair.[LEONARDenters.]LEONARD.Your wife’s going, Mr. Broome.MRS. TIMBRELL.What does the doctor say?LEONARD.He’s just looking at the kid—nothing serious, I think.MRS. TIMBRELL.Mary’s with him, I suppose? [She goes out slowly.]BROOME.Now, sir, I thought I’d just like to have a word with you.LEONARD.Very natural, very proper Mr. Broome, I am sure, but you know—BROOME.I’m only a cabman but I have my feelin’s. I’m a father, sir.LEONARD.Yes, it’s a curious sensation, isn’t it?BROOME.Sir?LEONARD.It’s big. Mr. Broome; it’s big, undeniably.BROOME.What’s big?LEONARD.There’s something in these primal relations, you know.BROOME.I dunno what y’re talkin’ about.LEONARD.I beg your pardon.BROOME.It seems you’re my son-in-law.LEONARD.Yes, of course. Very jolly isn’t it?BROOME.That doesn’t mean as I’m goin’ to take liberties. I’ve had a talk with your mother and we come to an agreement that least said soonest mended so don’t look for no pryin’ from me nor my wife. There’s a thing or two I don’t understand but I do say this. Whatever mistakes you’ve made you’ve come out at the finish like a man.LEONARD.It’s very handsome of you to say so, I’m sure but—BROOME.I know a man when I see one and there’s my hand on it. [He offers his hand whichLEONARDtakes rather hesitatingly.] You’ve done the fair thing and I honour you for it.LEONARD.It’s very charming of you I’m sure and your commendation is very—very cheering but, really—BROOME.I ask no questions but I can see a thing or two. Why, sir, it’s as plain to me as if I’d been told that your father’s cut up rough about this.LEONARD.You’re quite right.BROOME.He wouldn’t have you marry my geland like an hon’rable young feller in love—in love mindyer—you ups and you sez: I’ll marry her so’s ’ow. It’s as plain as mud—LEONARD.It does look like that, doesn’t it?BROOME.It’s on’y the other day I was readin’ a bit of a novelette in the paper—just to pass the time—and there was a young feller who did just like that and the father says it’s a cut off of a shillin. I said there’s a bit of human natur’ there but I didn’t expect to see it in my own family so soon.LEONARD.You’re a reader, Mr. Broome.BROOME.I’ve read a fairish bit, sittin in my keb. Sir, let me tell you—the father in that there novelette come round.LEONARD.That’s encouraging, Mr. Broome.BROOME.[Listening.] Is that your mother coming? Give us your hand again. [He hastily takesLEONARD’Shand and poses asMRS. TIMBRELL,MRS. BROOMEandMARYenter. He speaks loudly forMRS. TIMBRELL’Sbenefit.] I accept you, sir, in my family and I honour you for your handsome conduct and hoping the old gentleman will soon come round though, mind you, I ask no questions.LEONARD.[Retreating.] Very good of you.MRS. BROOME.We’re going now.[Farewells.BROOMEis hearty again withLEONARD, confidential withMRS. TIMBRELLand perfunctory withMARY.MRS. BROOME, subdued and a little anxious, passes beforeLEONARDand says:—]You needn’t be afraid that we shall come often.LEONARD.Come as often as you like.MRS. BROOME.No, we’ll give you your chance.BROOME.What are you talkin’ about? [ToMRS. TIMBRELL.] All right. I’ll explain how things are to her, ma’am. I’m glad I come to-day. I thinkI’ve cleared up things a bit. Come along, old lady. [BROOMEandMRS. BROOMEgo.]LEONARD.You’re like me, Mary; you’re your mother’s child. You’re not a bit like your father.MRS. TIMBRELL.What had you been telling him? Something about your father?LEONARD.Not a word. He seemed to have got it from you. Andisthe Governor coming round?MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! He will come round.LEONARD.Bravo! That’s better. We’ve been deucedly pinched, you know.MRS. TIMBRELL.Perhaps it’ll do you good. I don’t mean you, Mary. Who’s that?[MRS. GREAVESenters with a letter which she gives toLEONARDand retires.]LEONARD.[Opening the letter.] Hullo! This is from Cochrane.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Aside toMARY.] I brought you this. [She gives her money.]MARY.I can’t refuse it now. [She looks over atLEONARDgravely.]MARY.He never asked about little Leonard.LEONARD.I say—look here. Cochrane wants me to go there. Just the thing. Just what I want.MARY.Where?LEONARD.His place down in Norfolk. Fishing. Of course the fishing’s not much but he’s got some rather good men there. By Jove! I see myself talking again. I mean really talking. Just the thing.MRS. TIMBRELL.Does he ask Mary?LEONARD.Mary! Well, no. But there’s no nonsense of that kind about Mary.MARY.I’ve got little Leonard.LEONARD.[Glancing at her.] By-the-bye, what did that chap say about little Leonard?MARY.He’s coming in again. He wasn’t very sure.LEONARD.Then you may be sure there’s nothing the matter. Good. Things are looking better. [To his mother.] Do you think the Governor would let me have twenty pounds? Is he far enough round for that?MRS. TIMBRELL.You’d soon have him back again if you tried.LEONARD.It’s awkward. I must get some things. And I’ve no fishing rod. I might say I’d lost it on the way down. I must lose a bag, if necessary, and borrow. Rather thin, though. Did Edgar leave his rod at home? Could you manage ten pounds? What did you give Mary?MRS. TIMBRELL.Is there any hope for him, Mary?LEONARD.What? Oh! the baby—I keep forgetting about that blessed baby. But he’s not ill. I’m sure he’s not ill. Look here! I must get away. I shall hate you, Mary, if you stop me. I want a change, as the doctors say. I want to talk to these chaps. They’re men you can talk to. I must go. I must go. I’m a flower turning to the light, I’m a prisoner breaking from his dungeon, I’m a spirit winging upwards. Don’t stop me.MARY.Why should I stop you? You want to be there. I want to be here.LEONARD.Ah! yes. And if the childisill you’ve got a beautiful time before you. A mother with her child ill is lovely, lovely. I could come home to see it. Especially if those fellows get rather dull. Cochrane doesn’t mention a time. I wonder how long he’ll have me.MRS. TIMBRELL.If anyone could change you, Mary would, but you don’t change.LEONARD.Don’t change! I’m always changing. I’m a perfect Kaleidoscope.MRS. TIMBRELL.Always a Kaleidoscope.LEONARD.[Taking his mother by the shoulders.] You just go and get me some money, will you? Tell the old boy I’m a new man, a reformed character. Put in a good word for Mary. Tell him she’s done it. Then see if you can’t get fifty pounds out of him.MRS. TIMBRELL.You’d kill the goose with the golden eggs, before it laid any. Mary, we’d better let him go.MARY.Oh! yes.MRS. TIMBRELL.You must have some money? What’s the least you can manage with?LEONARD.The least? Well, I should say the least is the most I can get.MRS. TIMBRELL.[Fingering her rings.] Have you started with pawnshops yet?LEONARD.Oh! yes. I’m not afraid of pawnshops.MRS. TIMBRELL.I’m too old to begin. [She takes off a ring and gives it to him.] Take that.MARY.No, no. He can’t do that.MRS. TIMBRELL.I think he can.LEONARD.Of course I can. I thought you would understand, Mary. A mother’s sacrifice for her son is one of the most beautiful things—just think what you would do for little Leonard.MARY.Yes, if there’s need.LEONARD.Need? There is need. But wouldn’t like to deprive her of the pleasure. The pleasure! It’s a sacred joy. Isn’t it mother?MRS. TIMBRELL.You’re a humbug.LEONARD.I suppose I am. But I’m your son all the same. You can’t be less than a mother becauseI’ve got a bit of humbug about me. I wonder if I should do better to sell it out and out to a jeweller. You don’t mind, mother?MRS. TIMBRELL.You couldn’t redeem it. You couldn’t give it me back.LEONARD.Do you want it back?MRS. TIMBRELL.I thought it might be a sacred joy to give it back to me.LEONARD.Good. Very good. You’re a damned fine woman, you know. Isn’t she, Mary? I suppose a lot of mothers do the kind of things that she does for their sons but she does them lightly. She can be witty over it.MRS. TIMBRELL.Good-bye, Mary. I’ll come again soon.MARY.Good-bye. [MRS. TIMBRELLgoes.LEONARDgoes out with her for a moment and returns. He capers up toMARY,seizes her waist and waltzes her round. She yields and laughs for a moment, then stiffens and struggles.]MARY.Hark! There’s little Leonard.LEONARD.Bother little Leonard![She breaks away and runs out. He does a pas seul as the curtain falls.]
[Rather poor lodgings.MARY, neatly but very plainly dressed, is sewing at a child’s garment.LEONARDsprawls on the sofa smoking cheap cigarettes. He is carelessly dressed to the point of slovenliness and a little anxiety begins to shew through his calmness which is generally maintained. It is afternoon. Two or three months have elapsed.]
LEONARD.I don’t think it’s that the old man’s mean. He’s got on the high horse and doesn’t know how to get down.
MARY.We oughtn’t to take the money from your mother. It’s very hard for her.
LEONARD.Oh! but it only means that she gives them rice pudding instead of gooseberry tart. It’ll do them good. I expect the old man sees the difference and pretends he doesn’t. And Edgar will be furious.
MARY.If little Leonard had a brother and they were like you and your brother—I couldn’t bear that.
LEONARD.It’s a long way off, old lady.
MARY.Thing’s aren’t a long way off if you think they might come.
LEONARD.Don’t worry, now. Don’t worry.
MARY.I’m a great deal happier than you. I’ve got him.
LEONARD.Well, haven’t I?
MARY.No, you haven’t. Not like me.
LEONARD.You don’t think I’m such a bad father, do you?
MARY.I don’t know. You’re funny with him and I like to see you together but—
LEONARD.Well?
MARY.You keep spending the money.
LEONARD.But, Mary, you don’t know how much more I could spend if I had it.
MARY.And, so clever as you are, you don’t make any—I mean don’t make much.
LEONARD.You see, in my trade, the better you are the more wretchedly you get paid.
MARY.You keep telling me that.
LEONARD.And you don’t believe it?
MARY.Yes, I do. I think you mean it. I don’t think it can be quite true. I think you could get more money if you tried. You’re clever enough to write the way they want.
LEONARD.What do you care for most in the world—barring the baby?
MARY.[Considering.] I don’t think there’s anything. Oh! I beg your pardon. Of course there’s you.
LEONARD.Never mind me. Could you believe that I care more about writing my own way than for anything?
MARY.I suppose it’s good to care for something but that seems selfish.
LEONARD.You’re beginning to feel a bit of resentment. You don’t hate me yet, do you?
MARY.No, of course not.
LEONARD.I shouldn’t blame you. You’re a wonderfully even-tempered person. I sometimes wonder whether I’m right about that streak of wildness in you. Do you think you could do strange things—what shall I say—wicked things?
MARY.I’ve done one wicked thing.
LEONARD.Does it trouble you, Mary? Does it still trouble you? Would you alter it?
MARY.Then I shouldn’t have little Leonard. I can never understand. If I’d known of him—if I’d thought of little Leonard—then it couldn’t be wrong. But how could I think of him when he wasn’t born? It was wicked. It wasn’t like me.
LEONARD.You did think of him, Mary. No, you didn’t think. It’s not thought. It was nature—something bigger than you—forcing you—forcing you to bring little Leonard into the world. Now, take comfort in that, my girl; there is some comfort in it.
MARY.I can’t see what it’s got to do withhim.It’s not children I care for; it’s him. Well, he’s here now. I’ve got him now.
LEONARD.Quite right, my dear.
MARY.But I think he ought to have Lubbock’s food regularly and wemusthave a perambulator.
LEONARD.Well, this must go. [Taking out his watch.]
MARY.Would you? Will you?
LEONARD.[Looking ruefully at the watch.] You’d better take me at my word. My generous moods don’t last.
MARY.Shall I take it?
[He is slowly unhooking the watch when there is a knock at the door andMRS. GREAVES,thelandlady,comes in. He puts the watch in his pocket.]
MRS. GREAVES.I should like a word, sir.
LEONARD.A whole history if you like, Mrs. Greaves.
MRS. GREAVES.Sir?
LEONARD.I was only quoting Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves.
MRS. GREAVES.I know nothing about him, sir.
LEONARD.He’s the man that writes the plays.
MRS. GREAVES.There’s some people too fond of plays and such things.
LEONARD.Now I hope you’re not going to attack Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves.
MRS. GREAVES.I’m attacking nothing, sir, but I should like a word and perhaps it would be more pleasant if Mrs.—the lady wasn’t here.
LEONARD.Why mustn’t Mrs. the lady be here?
MRS. GREAVES.It’s as you like.
LEONARD.Fire away.
MRS. GREAVES.I must tell you, perfectly frank, that there’s been some talk about you. I know that lady that comes here to see you is your mother and that I don’t understand. But I’ve heard tell of carryings on with a housemaid and it is said as you’re not married. I know mothers ’ll do a good deal for their sons but I must say—
LEONARD.Who says this?
MRS. GREAVES.It’s not only one. There’s Mr. Whales, the milkman, and he does a good round and hears a lot—
LEONARD.We shall have no more dealings with Mr. Whales.
MRS. GREAVES.You wouldn’t, anyhow, till he got paid.
MARY.No more milk?
MRS. GREAVES.No, and it’s not only milk.
LEONARD.Mrs. Greaves, this lady is my wife and anyone who says she isn’t is telling an abominable lie. I’m surprised that you should listen to such stuff.
MRS. GREAVES.Of course I know she’s got on a ring and all that but that’s what they do and I can’t afford to be out of my money; I really can’t. I don’t want to be hard but my account must be settled.
LEONARD.Now first of all, Mrs. Greaves, you will apologise to my wife. Then we’ll settle the other matter.
MRS. GREAVES.I’m sure I’m sorry if there’s been a mistake. I’ve no call to make mischief. I’ll ask your pardon ma’am very willing, but Mr. Whales, he said—and he’s only saying what others—
LEONARD.No more of that, now, if you want to have your bill paid.
MRS. GREAVES.You can be made to pay.
LEONARD.And so can you be made to pay. Do you know what you’ve done?
MRS. GREAVES.Done? I know I’ve been done.
LEONARD.Good, Mrs. Greaves—very good—I’m glad you can joke about it. It may be no joke for you.
MRS. GREAVES.What do you mean?
LEONARD.It’s slander. They give very heavy damages now for slander.
MRS. GREAVES.I’ve only mentioned what I’ve been told.
LEONARD.Yes, that’s slander. It’s sometimes called defamation of character. Same thing.
MRS. GREAVES.I’m sure I’d no intention at all of saying anything—I’ve been very lenient, too.
LEONARD.Perhaps you’ll give me the name of your Solicitor, Mrs. Greaves.
MRS. GREAVES.What for? I haven’t got a solicitor. I don’t understand what you want.
MARY.I think he’s joking, Mrs. Greaves.
LEONARD.[With mock vexation.] Tut! tut!
MRS. GREAVES.[Doubtfully.] I know slander’s a nasty law but I can’t see as I’ve said anything.
LEONARD.It’s not all a joke, Mary. You may tell your Whales and people that if I hear another word about it I go straight to a Solicitor.
MRS. GREAVES.I’ll tell him, sir.
LEONARD.Very well. You may go, Mrs. Greaves.
MARY.Solicitors like to be paid, too.
MRS. GREAVES.[Turning at the door.] And what about my bill, sir?
LEONARD.It shall be attended to.
MRS. GREAVES.I’ve heard that very often.
LEONARD.It is a bit stale, isn’t it? I apologise for the old wheeze. Well, you see, there’s the perambulator first.
MRS. GREAVES.The what, sir?
LEONARD.The first money we get is for a perambulator—no. The first is for a pint or a peck, or whatever it is, of what’s-his-name’s food for the baby. Second, the perambulator. You’re only third, Mrs. Greaves. Rather a bad third, but your turn will come.
MARY.It’s not fair to her. She ought to be paid.
LEONARD.Of course she ought. We ought all to be paid. I’m in favour of handsome incomes all round and I hope Lloyd George will take it up. But, look here, Mrs. Greaves, we’re all in the same boat. Now is there anythingyou’dlike to pawn? I’m treating you as a friend.
MARY.There’s your watch.
LEONARD.There’s my watch. My wife suggests my watch. A nuisance to me, of course. As a friend, Mrs. Greaves, what do you say to that?
MRS. GREAVES.I should be sorry, sir, but I must have my money.
LEONARD.You shall have it with compound interest at 5 per cent. Do you know what that means?
MRS. GREAVES.I think so.
LEONARD.It’s more than you can get safely elsewhere so it means that the longer we keep you out of your money the more it will be to your advantage.
MRS. GREAVES.I think you’re a funny gentleman.
LEONARD.[ToMARY.] She’s found me out.
MARY.Mrs. Greaves, we’ve got some money coming in a day or two. At least I think so. But I’m anxious about the baby and I must have some for it. I will pay you. I will.
MRS. GREAVES.Can you give me a little?
MARY.Yes, you shall have something to-morrow.
MRS. GREAVES.I think I know of an old perambulator.
MARY.Do you? Could we borrow it. We’d pay when we could.
MRS. GREAVES.I’ll see.
MARY.Thank you, Mrs. Greaves.
MRS. GREAVES.I don’t want to be hard.
MARY.You’ve been very kind.
MRS. GREAVES.P’raps there’d be no harm in letting the doctor have a look at the baby.
MARY.Do you think so? Do you think he’s—
MRS. GREAVES.He looks a little bit peaked.
MARY.You know about babies, too, don’t you?
MRS. GREAVES.I should do. I’ve had seven of my own.
MARY.We’ll have the doctor. And thank you, Mrs. Greaves.
MRS. GREAVES.I’ve been a bit soft, I know that.
[She goes out.]
MARY.Will you sell your watch, then, or pawn it?
LEONARD.Oh!
MARY.And will you bring the doctor first?
LEONARD.Now, is that necessary?
MARY.And we must have some money for her to-morrow.
LEONARD.You choked her off very well. I can’t keep serious enough.
MARY.She must have it.
LEONARD.Where’s all this money to come from?
MARY.There’s your watch. I’ve not many things. Some of my clothes could go. I can’t lose my wedding-ring.
[She moves towards the door.]
LEONARD.Where are you going?
MARY.I’m going to look at him.
LEONARD.Wait a moment. This is getting serious. I’ll write to my mother again. I’ll ask her to come. It’s absurd. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson. I suppose he is. Mary, do you remember exactly what he said that day—I mean about the three hundred pounds? The old man’s very particular about keeping his word. That sort of people always are.
MARY.Aren’t you?
LEONARD.Shall I explain to you what a promise is?
MARY.I know.
LEONARD.Ah! Yes. It would spoil you to understand these things; and I’m losing all my lightness of touch. I was rather stupid just now with Mrs. Greaves. I didn’t handle it well.
MARY.You must go to your father and tell him how we are. It’s different now I’m frightened about little Leonard. I’ll go if you don’t. I can get milk. I don’t want to do it but if I must I will.
LEONARD.Milk!
MARY.You heard her say that Mr. Whales wouldn’t let us have any more. George Truefit will let me have some.
LEONARD.George Truefit?
MARY.Yes, I shall be ashamed to go to him but I’ll do it.
LEONARD.I had forgotten about George Truefit.
MARY.I hadn’t.
LEONARD.My rival, the milkman, isn’t he?
MARY.Yes, he’s a milkman.
LEONARD.There’s something rather piquant in this. I wonder whether George Truefit would appreciate it. I suppose he wouldn’t poison the milk?
MARY.Poison the milk!
LEONARD.No, Iamgetting a bit heavy-handed. That’s stupid. What is he like? What’s George like?
MARY.He’s—he’s—you know where you’ve got him.
LEONARD.A fine fellow, is he?
MARY.You can trust him.
LEONARD.That’s something, isn’t it?
MARY.A good deal.
LEONARD.[Sharply.] Now, now, now. You’re contrasting him with me. You’re thinking that I can’t be trusted. You mustn’t do that. Weren’t you, now?
MARY.I was thinking of you both.
LEONARD.You’re married to me, Mary.
MARY.I’m not complaining.
LEONARD.Do you love me, Mary?
MARY.[After a short pause.] Sometimes I think I do.
LEONARD.Do you think I love you?
MARY.Do you?
LEONARD.SometimesIthink I do. I’m a bit afraid of you, though?
MARY.Of me? Afraid?
LEONARD.I’m afraid of the truth. I’m afraid of the hardness at the back of things. I like ideas and changes and poses and all the rest of it. You make me uneasy.
MARY.I shall never understand you.
LEONARD.I think you understand me very well. It’s only the things I say you don’t understand. Poor girl. I bewilder you. You’re quite right. I’m what you see. You keep thinking you don’t understand and that I may be better than that. You’re a brave, humble person. By God! There’s no one like you. I wish I was different. I wish I was like George Truefit.
MARY.Only a little bit like him. Yourself, too.
LEONARD.What must I do to be saved?
MARY.Now, you’re talking queer again.
LEONARD.What is it you want? I see you watching me anxiously sometimes. I can’t make myself into another person but I’d like to please you. What do you want me to do?
MARY.I suppose it’s a lot of little things.
LEONARD.Yes, yes. Can you tell me some of them?
MARY.While we’re talking here you might have gone for the doctor.
LEONARD.The doctor?
MARY.You forget him. You often forget all about little Leonard. [Rising.] I must go to him.
LEONARD.Ah! Yes. Mrs. Greaves said he was peaked. Peaked! Good word isn’t it? Shakespeare has it, you know: “Shall he dwindle, peak and pine”—
MARY.But you don’t think he’s pining, do you?
LEONARD.No, no. I’m only quoting the poet.
MARY.Why do you say things like that—just to amuse yourself—and you might know they frighten me? That’s it. You don’t think of other people—except now and then when you seem to get interested.
LEONARD.I’ll go for the doctor.
MARY.Yes. Thank you.
LEONARD.Anything else I can do?
MARY.Would they trust us for Lubbock’s food?
LEONARD.I’ll pawn my watch.
MARY.Wait. We’ll see what the doctor says.
LEONARD.Well, I won’t be five minutes.
MARY.Thank you very much indeed.
LEONARD.No, my dear girl, don’t put it like that. [There is a ring at the front door bell.] Anyone for us I wonder.
MARY.Oh! I must tell you. My mother might come. My father will come too, but he couldn’t get off now.
LEONARD.Of course you’ve got parents, too, haven’t you.
MARY.Don’t you ever think of that?
LEONARD.But where have they been all this time?
MARY.They didn’t know where I lived.
LEONARD.They could have got the address from my mother.
MARY.I wrote and told them I’d gone to Canada. I felt I couldn’t face them then.
LEONARD.And now?
MARY.My mother knows a lot about babies. I want to see her. You won’t like them, I’m afraid. I think someone’s coming in.
LEONARD.Oh! I’m sure I shall find them quite amusing. No, I don’t mean that. I mean interesting. Interesting; that’s what I mean when I say amusing. They’re coming up.
MARY.That’s my father’s voice.
LEONARD.Let’s see—what does he do?
MARY.He’s a cabman.
LEONARD.Heavens! Are there such things still! A growler or what?
[The door opens andMRS. GREAVESushers inMR. AND MRS. BROOME.He is dingily arrayed but confronts misfortunes with a slightly defiant air. She is a rather sharp, quiet woman, shabbily dressed. She does not display much tenderness to her daughter but regards her with some solicitude.MRS. GREAVESwatches the greetings curiously before retiring.]
MARY.[After kisses from father and mother.] This is my husband.
[There is some rather stiff hand shaking.]
MARY.Sit down, mother.
LEONARD.Sit down, Mr. Broome.
MARY.Baby’s not very well as I told you, mother, and he’s just off for the doctor. [ToLEONARD.] Will you go?
LEONARD.Yes, certainly.
BROOME.Is he coming back?
LEONARD.Good, Mr. Broome, good. You read my thoughts.
BROOME.What?
LEONARD.I was just wondering whether I was coming back. How soon, I mean.
BROOME.Well, it’d only be polite—and you’ve nothing to do, it seems? You’re out of a job too?
MARY.Are you, father?
MRS. BROOME.[Bitterly.] Ay, they’ve chucked him at last.
MARY.When?
MRS. BROOME.Only yesterday.
BROOME.[With gloomy joviality toLEONARD.] So there’s two on us at a loose end.
LEONARD.[Politely.] Yes, we ought to see something of one another, Mr. Broome. But I’m not exactly out of a job. I’ve never been in one.
BROOME.Oh! A gentleman of means.
LEONARD.Without means, Mr. Broome, without means.
BROOME.Then you’ve got someone to keep you.
LEONARD.No, Mr. Broome. No.
BROOME.Then how are you going to get along?
LEONARD.That’s just what’s been bothering us.
BROOME.You’re a cool customer.
LEONARD.And how do you propose to get along, Mr. Broome?
BROOME.It’s them bloomin’ taxis that’s done for me.
MARY.Can’t you drive one, father?
BROOME.They wouldn’t give me a try if I wanted. And I don’t want. I wouldn’t touch the things.
LEONARD.You’ve had the bad luck to be attached to a decaying industry.
BROOME.Decaying my eye! There’s no call for it to decay.
LEONARD.You don’t hold with modern notions—progress and things, Mr. Broome?
BROOME.I don’t hold with taxis. They’ll find out their mistake.
MRS. BROOME.He will talk like that.
BROOME.And so would you if you’d druv a cab twenty-nine years.
MARY.But the taxis go faster, father, and you’ve only got to pay the same.
BROOME.Never mind that. Why should they injure a established trade? Why should they spoil other trades? What’s a country without its trades?
MRS. BROOME.That’s the way he talks.
BROOME.Mark my words. They’ll find out their mistake. Look what’s coming to the breed of horses. Look at nosebags.
LEONARD.Nosebags?
BROOME.Ay. I’ve been told of a firm as used to turn out a matter of two hundred nosebags a week and now they don’t do fifty.
MRS. BROOME.He may get taken on at a mews.
BROOME.Mews’s days are numbered.
LEONARD.The young generation is knocking at our doors, Mr. Broome.
BROOME.What?
LEONARD.Yours is an interesting type of Conservatism.
BROOME.I’m not a Conservative. I’m a radical.
MRS. BROOME.You voted Tory last time.
BROOME.Yes, and what have they done for me? I don’t hold with Socialism but I may be druv to it.
MRS. BROOME.We came to hear about you, Mary?
BROOME.And what’s your perfession, sir, if I may ask?
LEONARD.Well, it’s rather hard to define, Mr. Broome. What am I, Mary?
MARY.He writes things.
BROOME.What things?
LEONARD.Well, shall we say—sketches, critical impressions, verses, even stories.
BROOME.Hardly work for a man is it?
MARY.Now—father!
LEONARD.Perhaps not. You see, Mr. Broome, you and I are at the opposite ends. Without offence, I hope, I referred to yours as a decaying industry. With me it’s the other way. They’re not ready for me.
BROOME.It don’t pay?
LEONARD.At present it can hardly be said to pay.
BROOME.Well, you can lend me a couple of sovereigns, anyhow?
MARY.} { Father!
} [Together.]
MRS. BROOME.} { Nonsense.
LEONARD.I should be charmed, Mr. Broome, but I haven’t got them. I was just wondering whether I might borrow five pounds from you.
BROOME.Right. I just wanted to know how the land lies—
MARY.[ToLEONARD.] Won’t you go for the doctor now?
LEONARD.Yes, I will. [He takes his hat.]
MARY.You’ll come back with him?
LEONARD.Yes, if he can come. Good-bye for the present, Mrs. Broome. [He goes out airily.]
MRS. BROOME.Good-bye, sir. A cheerful young man. Now, my dear, perhaps you’ll explain.
MARY.I’m not going to explain much, mother.
MRS. BROOME.Then explain a little.
MARY.I told you most of what I’m going to tell you.
MRS. BROOME.Let’s have the other bit.
BROOME.What I want to know is—Are you married?
MARY.Yes, I am.
BROOME.Prove it.
MARY.My word’s good enough.
MRS. BROOME.Have you gone to Canada?
MARY.That’s different.
MRS. BROOME.One lie’s very like another.
MARY.There’s my ring. [Showing it.]
MRS. BROOME.Anyone can get a ring. Have you got your marriage lines?
BROOME.Ay, let’s see the marriage lines.
MARY.I think you ought to take my word.
MRS. BROOME.Let’s see them.
MARY.I wouldn’t but that I told you that lie about Canada. It’s the first I’ve ever told you, mother.
MRS. BROOME.That’s what frightens me.
BROOME.Where are they?
MARY.They’re in my purse. [She goes to drawer and brings out the purse.] There’s nothing else in it.
MRS. BROOME.They’re better than money.
MARY.Here then. [She gives them the paper which they scrutinise together.]
MRS. BROOME.That’s all right, John?
BROOME.Ay, that seems all right. [MRS. BROOMEtakes the paper from him and gives it toMARY.]
MRS. BROOME.Put it away.
BROOME.Here, let’s have another look at it.
MRS. BROOME.Put it away. She’s shown it us all right.
BROOME.When was that baby born?
MRS. BROOME.Never mind that.
BROOME.How old is it?
MRS. BROOME.What do you call him, Mary?
MARY.Leonard, like his father.
MRS. BROOME.Is his father kind to you?
MARY.Yes.
BROOME.Of course she’d say that. I’ll have a talk with that young man. I never thought a daughter of mine—
MRS. BROOME.Now shut up.
BROOME.Oh! yes. Take his part. Never mind me. Never mind my feelings. Do you mean to say this young toff’s got no money, really?
MARY.He’s been brought up not to work and his father won’t give him any now.
BROOME.Ah! I see—I see. Vexed about this was he? And the young chap did the right thing. Well—a good-hearted lad, I see.
MARY.I won’t talk about it. I’ve been miserable not to come to see you, mother, but I couldn’t at first, and time went on and I didn’t like to. And I didn’t know what to do.
MRS. BROOME.Never mind that now.
[A ring at the doorbell is heard.]
MARY.That can’t be the doctor yet.
MRS. BROOME.You don’t have a many visitors, I s’pose.
MARY.I don’t have any—except sometimes Mrs. Timbrell.
MRS. BROOME.P’raps it’s her.
MARY.I’d like you to see her.
MRS. BROOME.Someone’s coming up.
MARY.I think it must be.
MRS. TIMBRELL.[Outside.] I know the way, thank you.
[She enters carrying a little bunch of flowers.]
MARY.Here’s my mother and father.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! how d’ye do. [She shakes hands.] I don’t know why we’ve never met before.
BROOME.We’ve never been here before.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Haven’t you? I’ve not been many times. We must come oftener. [She smiles embarrassments away.]
BROOME.Of course. I see ma’am that you’re not like to think as your son and my daughter’s a fair match but I tell you—
MRS. BROOME.Now, John.
MRS. TIMBRELL.It’s a very good match for him.
BROOME.Eh?
MRS. TIMBRELL.He’s lucky to marry such a girl as Mary.
BROOME.He’s not up to much himself, isn’t he?
MRS. TIMBRELL.I didn’t say that.
BROOME.He seems to be kep’ rather short of brass.
MRS. TIMBRELL.[Sees the flowers in her hands.] Oh! I brought you these, Mary.
MARY.[Takes them.] Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, Mrs. Timbrell.
BROOME.[Rather truculantly.] That baby’ll get a fat lot o’ good out o’ them.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Is the baby ill, Mary?
MARY.I keep fancying he’s not so well. His father’s gone for the doctor.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Have you seen him, Mrs. Broome?
MRS. BROOME.Not yet. Will you take me, Mary? We must be going directly.
MARY.Come on, then. [Looking at the others.] Would you like?—
BROOME.Not me.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Yes, I’d like to see him.
BROOME.I thought, p’raps, you’d just like a word with me ma’am.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! well—Presently, Mary, I’ll just talk to Mr. Broome.
[MARYandMRS. BROOMEgo out.]
Well, Mr. Broome and what have you got to say?
BROOME.What ’ave I got to say?
MRS. TIMBRELL.You look like a man who has something to say.
BROOME.I’ve a good deal to say if it’s any good saying it. What’s it all mean?
MRS. TIMBRELL.Yes, that’s the point. Is it any good saying it? That’s just what I feel more and more Mr. Broome. I used to want to say things and now I say to myself. Is it any good? I believe we think very much alike about it.
BROOME.But a man has his feelings and so he’s got somethin’ to say.
MRS. TIMBRELL.That’s exactly what I think, Mr.Broome. I want to talk to relieve my feelings, not that I think it will do any good. Least said, soonest mended, I suppose. I agree with you.
BROOME.[Flattered.] I’ve no wish to make myself onpleasant only—
MRS. TIMBRELL.I was sure you hadn’t.
BROOME.Only—I want to know how your son—
MRS. TIMBRELL.Hark! Is that somebody coming in? I wonder if he’s got the doctor.
BROOME.I’m not one as interferes where there’s no call for it but—
MRS. TIMBRELL.Anyone can see that Mr. Broome.
BROOME.But—I mean to say—what I’m sayin’ is—
MRS. TIMBRELL.I believe it is the doctor.
BROOME.I’m on’y a poor cabman. You’re too clever for me.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Don’t worry your daughter. Don’t be always asking her to explain things. Your wife sees that.
BROOME.I’m her father. I think there’s something due to me.
MRS. TIMBRELL.That’s where we parents make the mistake.
BROOME.Well, I can see a bit and I think the young man has acted fair.
[LEONARDenters.]
LEONARD.Your wife’s going, Mr. Broome.
MRS. TIMBRELL.What does the doctor say?
LEONARD.He’s just looking at the kid—nothing serious, I think.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Mary’s with him, I suppose? [She goes out slowly.]
BROOME.Now, sir, I thought I’d just like to have a word with you.
LEONARD.Very natural, very proper Mr. Broome, I am sure, but you know—
BROOME.I’m only a cabman but I have my feelin’s. I’m a father, sir.
LEONARD.Yes, it’s a curious sensation, isn’t it?
BROOME.Sir?
LEONARD.It’s big. Mr. Broome; it’s big, undeniably.
BROOME.What’s big?
LEONARD.There’s something in these primal relations, you know.
BROOME.I dunno what y’re talkin’ about.
LEONARD.I beg your pardon.
BROOME.It seems you’re my son-in-law.
LEONARD.Yes, of course. Very jolly isn’t it?
BROOME.That doesn’t mean as I’m goin’ to take liberties. I’ve had a talk with your mother and we come to an agreement that least said soonest mended so don’t look for no pryin’ from me nor my wife. There’s a thing or two I don’t understand but I do say this. Whatever mistakes you’ve made you’ve come out at the finish like a man.
LEONARD.It’s very handsome of you to say so, I’m sure but—
BROOME.I know a man when I see one and there’s my hand on it. [He offers his hand whichLEONARDtakes rather hesitatingly.] You’ve done the fair thing and I honour you for it.
LEONARD.It’s very charming of you I’m sure and your commendation is very—very cheering but, really—
BROOME.I ask no questions but I can see a thing or two. Why, sir, it’s as plain to me as if I’d been told that your father’s cut up rough about this.
LEONARD.You’re quite right.
BROOME.He wouldn’t have you marry my geland like an hon’rable young feller in love—in love mindyer—you ups and you sez: I’ll marry her so’s ’ow. It’s as plain as mud—
LEONARD.It does look like that, doesn’t it?
BROOME.It’s on’y the other day I was readin’ a bit of a novelette in the paper—just to pass the time—and there was a young feller who did just like that and the father says it’s a cut off of a shillin. I said there’s a bit of human natur’ there but I didn’t expect to see it in my own family so soon.
LEONARD.You’re a reader, Mr. Broome.
BROOME.I’ve read a fairish bit, sittin in my keb. Sir, let me tell you—the father in that there novelette come round.
LEONARD.That’s encouraging, Mr. Broome.
BROOME.[Listening.] Is that your mother coming? Give us your hand again. [He hastily takesLEONARD’Shand and poses asMRS. TIMBRELL,MRS. BROOMEandMARYenter. He speaks loudly forMRS. TIMBRELL’Sbenefit.] I accept you, sir, in my family and I honour you for your handsome conduct and hoping the old gentleman will soon come round though, mind you, I ask no questions.
LEONARD.[Retreating.] Very good of you.
MRS. BROOME.We’re going now.
[Farewells.BROOMEis hearty again withLEONARD, confidential withMRS. TIMBRELLand perfunctory withMARY.MRS. BROOME, subdued and a little anxious, passes beforeLEONARDand says:—]
You needn’t be afraid that we shall come often.
LEONARD.Come as often as you like.
MRS. BROOME.No, we’ll give you your chance.
BROOME.What are you talkin’ about? [ToMRS. TIMBRELL.] All right. I’ll explain how things are to her, ma’am. I’m glad I come to-day. I thinkI’ve cleared up things a bit. Come along, old lady. [BROOMEandMRS. BROOMEgo.]
LEONARD.You’re like me, Mary; you’re your mother’s child. You’re not a bit like your father.
MRS. TIMBRELL.What had you been telling him? Something about your father?
LEONARD.Not a word. He seemed to have got it from you. Andisthe Governor coming round?
MRS. TIMBRELL.Oh! He will come round.
LEONARD.Bravo! That’s better. We’ve been deucedly pinched, you know.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Perhaps it’ll do you good. I don’t mean you, Mary. Who’s that?
[MRS. GREAVESenters with a letter which she gives toLEONARDand retires.]
LEONARD.[Opening the letter.] Hullo! This is from Cochrane.
MRS. TIMBRELL.[Aside toMARY.] I brought you this. [She gives her money.]
MARY.I can’t refuse it now. [She looks over atLEONARDgravely.]
MARY.He never asked about little Leonard.
LEONARD.I say—look here. Cochrane wants me to go there. Just the thing. Just what I want.
MARY.Where?
LEONARD.His place down in Norfolk. Fishing. Of course the fishing’s not much but he’s got some rather good men there. By Jove! I see myself talking again. I mean really talking. Just the thing.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Does he ask Mary?
LEONARD.Mary! Well, no. But there’s no nonsense of that kind about Mary.
MARY.I’ve got little Leonard.
LEONARD.[Glancing at her.] By-the-bye, what did that chap say about little Leonard?
MARY.He’s coming in again. He wasn’t very sure.
LEONARD.Then you may be sure there’s nothing the matter. Good. Things are looking better. [To his mother.] Do you think the Governor would let me have twenty pounds? Is he far enough round for that?
MRS. TIMBRELL.You’d soon have him back again if you tried.
LEONARD.It’s awkward. I must get some things. And I’ve no fishing rod. I might say I’d lost it on the way down. I must lose a bag, if necessary, and borrow. Rather thin, though. Did Edgar leave his rod at home? Could you manage ten pounds? What did you give Mary?
MRS. TIMBRELL.Is there any hope for him, Mary?
LEONARD.What? Oh! the baby—I keep forgetting about that blessed baby. But he’s not ill. I’m sure he’s not ill. Look here! I must get away. I shall hate you, Mary, if you stop me. I want a change, as the doctors say. I want to talk to these chaps. They’re men you can talk to. I must go. I must go. I’m a flower turning to the light, I’m a prisoner breaking from his dungeon, I’m a spirit winging upwards. Don’t stop me.
MARY.Why should I stop you? You want to be there. I want to be here.
LEONARD.Ah! yes. And if the childisill you’ve got a beautiful time before you. A mother with her child ill is lovely, lovely. I could come home to see it. Especially if those fellows get rather dull. Cochrane doesn’t mention a time. I wonder how long he’ll have me.
MRS. TIMBRELL.If anyone could change you, Mary would, but you don’t change.
LEONARD.Don’t change! I’m always changing. I’m a perfect Kaleidoscope.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Always a Kaleidoscope.
LEONARD.[Taking his mother by the shoulders.] You just go and get me some money, will you? Tell the old boy I’m a new man, a reformed character. Put in a good word for Mary. Tell him she’s done it. Then see if you can’t get fifty pounds out of him.
MRS. TIMBRELL.You’d kill the goose with the golden eggs, before it laid any. Mary, we’d better let him go.
MARY.Oh! yes.
MRS. TIMBRELL.You must have some money? What’s the least you can manage with?
LEONARD.The least? Well, I should say the least is the most I can get.
MRS. TIMBRELL.[Fingering her rings.] Have you started with pawnshops yet?
LEONARD.Oh! yes. I’m not afraid of pawnshops.
MRS. TIMBRELL.I’m too old to begin. [She takes off a ring and gives it to him.] Take that.
MARY.No, no. He can’t do that.
MRS. TIMBRELL.I think he can.
LEONARD.Of course I can. I thought you would understand, Mary. A mother’s sacrifice for her son is one of the most beautiful things—just think what you would do for little Leonard.
MARY.Yes, if there’s need.
LEONARD.Need? There is need. But wouldn’t like to deprive her of the pleasure. The pleasure! It’s a sacred joy. Isn’t it mother?
MRS. TIMBRELL.You’re a humbug.
LEONARD.I suppose I am. But I’m your son all the same. You can’t be less than a mother becauseI’ve got a bit of humbug about me. I wonder if I should do better to sell it out and out to a jeweller. You don’t mind, mother?
MRS. TIMBRELL.You couldn’t redeem it. You couldn’t give it me back.
LEONARD.Do you want it back?
MRS. TIMBRELL.I thought it might be a sacred joy to give it back to me.
LEONARD.Good. Very good. You’re a damned fine woman, you know. Isn’t she, Mary? I suppose a lot of mothers do the kind of things that she does for their sons but she does them lightly. She can be witty over it.
MRS. TIMBRELL.Good-bye, Mary. I’ll come again soon.
MARY.Good-bye. [MRS. TIMBRELLgoes.LEONARDgoes out with her for a moment and returns. He capers up toMARY,seizes her waist and waltzes her round. She yields and laughs for a moment, then stiffens and struggles.]
MARY.Hark! There’s little Leonard.
LEONARD.Bother little Leonard!
[She breaks away and runs out. He does a pas seul as the curtain falls.]