[SuddenlyPenelopecatches sight of whatGolightlyhas been diligently writing.She gives the paper a startled look and then turns round.
[SuddenlyPenelopecatches sight of whatGolightlyhas been diligently writing.She gives the paper a startled look and then turns round.
Penelope.
Mother, a dreadful thing has happened. Papa has suddenly become a drivelling lunatic.
Mrs. Golightly.
My dear, what are you saying?
Penelope.
He’s been adding two and two together all over that piece of paper, and he makes it five every time.
Mrs. Golightly.
Charles!
[Penelopehands the sheet toBarlow.
[Penelopehands the sheet toBarlow.
Penelope.
Look.
Barlow.
Two and two are five. Two and two are five.
[He passes it on toBeadsworth.
[He passes it on toBeadsworth.
Beadsworth.
Two and two are five. Two and two are five.
Barlow.
I knew this would happen. I’ve been expecting it for years.
Mrs. Golightly.
Charles, pull yourself together.
Penelope.
Papa, you don’t really think that two and two are five?
Golightly.
On the contrary, I’m convinced that two and two are four.
Penelope.
Then why on earth have you made it five?
Golightly.
Do you know why you buy Pears’ soap?
Penelope.
I expect you’ve been working too hard, father dear. Why don’t you go and lie down for half an hour? And when Dickie comes in he’ll give you a tonic.
Golightly.
You buy Pears’ soap because you’re told on fifty thousand hoardings that it’s matchless for the complexion.
Penelope.
That’s not funny, papa, that’s silly.
Golightly.
You’ve only got to say a thing often enough, and all the world will believe it. And when the world believes it, it’s very hard to say if it’s true or not.
Penelope.
What has that got to do with two and two?
Golightly.
I thought if I wrote “two and two are five” often enough I might come to think it true.
Penelope.
But if you wrote it a million times it wouldn’t be any truer.
Golightly.
That is the conclusion I’m regretfully forced to.
Penelope.
Well?
Golightly.
The whole of life is merely a matter of adding two and two together and getting the right answer.
Barlow.
My dear Charles, if you’re going to discuss life I think there’s no need for me to stay. I’ve told you for twenty years that you’re a scholar and a recluse. I have lived in the world, and I’m a practical man. If Penelope wants to consult me, I am at her service; if not....
Penelope.
Hold your tongue, Uncle Davenport.
Barlow.
Really, Penelope.
Golightly.
During the last five years I’ve seen you adding twoand two together and making them about seventy-nine.
Mrs. Golightly.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charles. Dickie’s behaviour is abominable, and there are no excuses for him. It’s a mere matter of common morality.
Golightly.
My dear, I have no objection to you talking common morality if you’ll let me talk common sense.
Mrs. Golightly.
My dear Charles, they’re the same thing.
Penelope.
If you think you can make me forgive Dickie by telling me that you were a wicked old thing yourself in your youth, I may as well tell you at once that it won’t wash.
Mrs. Golightly.
[Outraged.] What are you talking about, my dear?
Penelope.
Well, I’ve noticed that when a woman discovers that her husband has been unfaithful, her male relations invariably try to console her by telling her how shockingly they’ve treated their own wives.
Golightly.
My dear, I was going to confess nothing of the sort. I never confess.
Penelope.
Of course, if it were the other way about, and mamma had kicked over the traces a little....
Mrs. Golightly.
Darling, can you see me performing an acrobatic feat of that character?
Penelope.
Go on, papa.
Golightly.
I think you’ve treated Dickie shamefully.
Penelope.
[Astounded.] I?
Golightly.
If your mother had behaved to me as you’ve behaved to Dickie, I should certainly have taken to drink.
Penelope.
But I’ve been a perfect angel. I’ve simply worshipped the ground he walked on. I’ve loved him as no man was ever loved before.
Golightly.
No man could stand it.
Penelope.
Papa, what do you mean?
Golightly.
My dear, you’ve loved him morning, noon, and night. You’ve loved him when he talked, and you’ve loved him when he was silent. You’ve loved him walking, you’ve loved him eating, you’ve loved him sleeping. He’s never been able to escape from your love.
Penelope.
But I couldn’t help it.
Golightly.
You need not have shown it.
Penelope.
And do you mean to say that justifies him in philandering with Ada Fergusson?
Golightly.
It excuses him.
Penelope.
What beasts men must be!
Golightly.
No; but strange as it may seem to you, they’re human beings. When you were a child you doted on strawberry ices.
Penelope.
I dote on them still.
Golightly.
Would you like to eat strawberry ice for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner every day for a month?
Penelope.
Good heavens! the thought fills me with horror.
Golightly.
Poor Dickie has lived on strawberry ice for five years. It’s been his only means of sustenance.
Penelope.
[With consternation.] Oh!
Golightly.
You’ve never let him go out without coming into the hall to put on his hat and kiss him good-bye; he’s never come into the house without you running down to help him off with his coat and kiss him welcome. When he sat down after breakfast in the morning to read his paper and smoke his pipe, I’ve seen you sit down on the arm of his chair and put your arm round his neck.
Barlow.
[Outraged.] Penelope!
Penelope.
Do you think it was very awful?
Barlow.
My dear child!
Penelope.
[ToBeadsworth.] Did Mrs. Beadsworth never sit on the arm of your chair when you were smoking your pipe?
Beadsworth.
I must confess I’m thankful my wife occupied those moments in attending to her household duties.
Penelope.
You are a lot of horrid old things. I ask you to come here to sympathise with me, and you’re perfectly brutal to me.
Barlow.
My dear Penelope, there are limits.
Penelope.
Well, I don’t care; I’m going to divorce him.
Golightly.
Let’s do another little simple addition, shall we? Perhaps two and two will make four a second time.
Penelope.
I don’t know that I much like being a mathematician’s daughter.
Golightly.
Don’t you think, instead of divorcing your husband, it would be better to win back his affection?
Penelope.
I don’t want his affection.
Golightly.
[Smiling.] Are you sure you wouldn’t if you could get it?
[Penelopelooks at her father for a moment, then goes up to him quickly.
[Penelopelooks at her father for a moment, then goes up to him quickly.
Penelope.
[With tears in her voice.] Papa, d’you think I ever could win back his love? You say I’ve lost it through my own fault. Oh, I don’t know what to do without him. I’ve been so wretched since I knew. I’ve tried to put a cheerful face on it, but if you knew what I feel in my heart.... Oh, the brutes, why didn’t they hide it from me?
Barlow.
My dear Penelope, I expected you to have more spirit. He’s a person of no family. I should have thought you were well rid of him.
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport, if you say a word against him, I will immediately have an attack of hysterics.
Barlow.
What you expect your father to be able to tell you I can’t imagine.
Golightly.
[Smiling.] Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings, Davenport....
Barlow.
I shouldn’t have thought one could describe you as either. But, in any case, I can stay no longer.
Penelope.
Oh, no, don’t go yet, Uncle Davenport.
Barlow.
It appears that my advice is not wanted, and I promised to look in on dear Lady Hollington before dinner.
Penelope.
Do telephone to her that you can’t come. You’ll find a telephone in my sitting-room.
Barlow.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] I’m too indulgent. People don’t rate me at my proper value.
[He goes out.
[He goes out.
Penelope.
Papa, say you’ll get Dickie back for me. I want him. I want him.
Golightly.
My dear, it’s very simple. It merely requires a great deal of tact, a great deal of courage, and a great deal of self-control.
Penelope.
[Ironically.] Nothing else?
Golightly.
A good deal. You must never let yourself out of hand; you must keep guard on your tongue and your eyes and your smiles—and your temper.
Penelope.
I think you said it was very simple.
Golightly.
Is Ada Fergusson pretty?
Penelope.
No, she’s perfectly hideous.
Golightly.
Is she? That makes it more serious.
Penelope.
Why?
Golightly.
If a man falls in love with a pretty woman, he falls out of it. But if he falls in love with a plain one, he’ll be in love with her all his life.
Penelope.
You take a load off my mind. Ada Fergusson’s extremely attractive.
Golightly.
Then you’ll get him back.
Penelope.
Tell me exactly what to do, and I’ll do it.
Golightly.
Give him his head.
Penelope.
Is that all?
Golightly.
It means a good deal. When he comes in, don’t make a scene, but be charming to him. For once, don’t ask him where he’s been. When he leaves you, don’t ask him where he’s going, nor at what time he’ll be back. Don’t let him know that you have the least suspicion that anything has happened. On the contrary, take every opportunity of throwing him into Ada Fergusson’s society.
Mrs. Golightly.
Charles, you’re asking Penelope to connive at immorality.
Golightly.
When every difficulty disappears, Dickie will find half the savour of the intrigue gone. Half your battle is won. Leave the rest to time and Ada Fergusson. Let Ada Fergusson sit on the arm of his chair when he wants to read his paper. Let him account to Ada Fergusson for all his movements.Under such circumstances a woman is always on tenterhooks, and consequently she’s always exacting. Whenever there’s a pause in the conversation, Ada Fergusson will say, Do you care for me as much as ever you did? That speech is the rope around love’s throat. Whenever he wants to go away, Ada Fergusson will implore him to stay five minutes longer. Those five minutes that a man stays against his will are the nails in love’s coffin. Each time he leaves her Ada Fergusson will say, At what time will you be back? That question is the earth shovelled into love’s grave.
[All this whilePenelopehas been staring atGolightlywith astonishment.
[All this whilePenelopehas been staring atGolightlywith astonishment.
Penelope.
Where did you learn all this, father?
Golightly.
[With a deprecating shrug.] It’s a mere matter of adding two and two together, my darling.
Penelope.
I had no idea that mathematics were so interesting—nor so immoral.
Golightly.
What do you think of it?
Penelope.
But if Dickie falls out of love with Ada Fergusson there’s no reason why he should fall in love again with me.
Golightly.
You must make him.
Penelope.
I wish I knew how.
Golightly.
It only requires a little more tact, a little more courage, and a little more self-control.
Penelope.
But if I acquire so many virtues I shan’t be a woman, but a monster, and how can he love me then?
Beadsworth.
[From the window.] There’s a car stopping at the door.
Penelope.
Listen.... I can hear a key being turned. It must be Dickie.
Beadsworth.
What are you going to do?
Penelope.
[Hesitating.] What do you think, mamma?
Mrs. Golightly.
My dear, I highly disapprove of your father’s idea, and I can’t imagine how it ever came into his head, but I’m bound to say I think there’s some sense in it.
Penelope.
[Making up her mind.] I’ll try. Remember, no one knows anything that has happened. You’ll back me up, mamma, won’t you?
Mrs. Golightly.
You’re not going to ask me to tell a pack of lies, darling?
Penelope.
Only white ones, mother. If there’s a whopper to tell, I’ll tell it myself.
Beadsworth.
But what about Barlow?
Golightly.
He’s a man of the world. He’s sure to put his foot in it.
Penelope.
I’ll settle him.
[Barlowcomes in.
[Barlowcomes in.
Penelope.
Ah!
Barlow.
I could not get on to her. I don’t know what’s the matter with those telephone girls. Hussies!
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport, I find I’ve been entirely mistaken about Dickie. He’s not to blame in any way.
Barlow.
Good gracious me! And Ada Fergusson?
Penelope.
Is, I have no doubt, no worse than anybody else.
Barlow.
This is a surprise. How on earth have you come to this conclusion?
Penelope.
By adding two and two together.
Barlow.
Upon my word! I must say, it annoys me that I should have been forced to break an important engagement for no reason. I should have thought....
Penelope.
[Interrupting.] Uncle Davenport, it’s quite bad enough that I should be done out of a scene, but if you’re going to make one it’s more than I can stand.
Beadsworth.
Well, as I can’t be of any more use to you, I think I’ll get back to the bosom of my family.
Penelope.
Of course, I look upon this as a professional visit.
Beadsworth.
Oh, nonsense!
Penelope.
I couldn’t dream of accepting your services for nothing. You must really let me know what I owe you.
Beadsworth.
I really don’t know what to say.
Penelope.
Dickie charges a guinea when he goes to see anybody.
Beadsworth.
You only mentioned six and eightpence in your telegram.
Penelope.
Very well, I’ll owe you that. It would really make me feel more comfortable.
Beadsworth.
You’re not going to hand it over in hard cash?
Penelope.
I wasn’t thinking of paying you. But I’d like to think I owed it you. You see, then, I shan’t feel under any obligation.
Beadsworth.
In that case I surrender. Good-bye.
Penelope.
Good-bye.
Barlow.
Good-bye, Beadsworth. You must come and dine with me at the club one of these days.
Beadsworth.
I should like to. Good-bye.
[Exit.
[Exit.
Barlow.
Very nice fellow. Quite a gentleman. No one would think he was a solicitor. I shall ask him to dinner with one or two people who don’t matter.
Penelope.
There’s Dickie. D’you hear him whistling? He’s evidently in the best of spirits.
[Dickiecomes in. He is a good-looking, well-dressed, professional man of five-and-thirty. He has boisterous spirits and high good humour. He is seldom put out of countenance. He has a charm of manner which explainsPenelope’sinfatuation.
[Dickiecomes in. He is a good-looking, well-dressed, professional man of five-and-thirty. He has boisterous spirits and high good humour. He is seldom put out of countenance. He has a charm of manner which explainsPenelope’sinfatuation.
Dickie.
Hulloa! I couldn’t make out what had become of you, Pen.
Penelope.
Why?
Dickie.
You generally come down to meet me when I get in.
[Penelopegives a slight start and conceals a smile.
[Penelopegives a slight start and conceals a smile.
Penelope.
My sainted mother is here.
Dickie.
[Gaily.] That’s no reason why you should neglect a devoted husband. [Shaking hands withMrs. Golightly.] How is your sainted mother? Hulloa, Uncle Davenport, what price duchesses to-day?
Barlow.
I beg your pardon. I don’t know what you mean.
Dickie.
[Looking round at the decanters and glasses with which the room is scattered.] I say, you’ve been doing yourselves rather proud, haven’t you? Who’s been drinking port?
Penelope.
Nobody. It’s an empty glass.
Dickie.
That’s how providence behaves to me. Deliberately puts temptation in my way. It’s simply poison. Gout in my family, you know. My ancestors have lived on colchicum for a hundred years. I feel a tingling in my toes at the mere sight of a bottle of port. And yet I drink it.
[He fills himself a glass and sips it with great content.
[He fills himself a glass and sips it with great content.
Barlow.
It’s a great mistake, of course, to think that gout isa mark of good family. The porter of my club is a martyr to it.
Dickie.
Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of an earl. You should ask him if he has a strawberry mark on his left shoulder. What’s the matter, Pen?
Penelope.
[Astonished.] With me?
Dickie.
I thought you seemed a bit under the weather.
Penelope.
Why?
Dickie.
I don’t know. You’re not quite up to your usual form, are you? You’ve not asked me what I’ve been doing to-day. As a rule you’re so interested in my movements.
Penelope.
[With a glance at her father.] I thought you’d tell me if you wanted to.
Dickie.
I say, I do think that’s a bit thick. I go slaving my very soul out to provide you with a motor and nice frocks and things, and you don’t take the smallest interest in what I do.
Penelope.
[Smiling.] Well, what have you been doing this afternoon?
Dickie.
[With a sigh of relief.] Oh, I’ve had the very deuce of a day. I’ve got a very interesting case on just now. Taking up a lot of my time. Of course, it worries me rather, but I suppose all these things come in the day’s march. Well, I spent the best part of an hour there.
Penelope.
An hour?
Dickie.
Yes, we had a consultation, you know.
Penelope.
But you had a consultation yesterday.
Dickie.
Yesterday? Yes, she’s a fussy old thing. She’s always wanting consultations.
Penelope.
That’s jolly, isn’t it?
Dickie.
I don’t think it is. It looks as if she hadn’t really confidence in me.
Penelope.
On the other hand, you can charge double, can’t you?
Dickie.
Yes, of course, it has that advantage.
Penelope.
I’ve been hankering after an ermine stole for a long time. I shall buy it now.
Dickie.
[His face falling.] Oh, but I haven’t been paid yet.
Penelope.
They’ll be only too glad to wait. And it’s such a bargain.
Dickie.
[To change the conversation.] Well, after my consultation I was so fagged that I had to go into the club to have a rubber of Bridge.
Golightly.
By the way, what is the name of your patient?
Dickie.
The name of my patient?
Penelope.
Oh, yes, I was telling papa that you’d got a new patient who was bringing in pots of money. I couldn’t remember her name.
Dickie.
[Embarrassed.] Oh—er, Mrs. Mac....
Penelope.
Mrs. Mac what?
Dickie.
Mrs. Macnothing.
Barlow.
How d’you mean, Mrs. Macnothing? I’ve never heard of a family called Macnothing.
Dickie.
No, of course, her name isn’t Macnothing.
Barlow.
But you distinctly said it was Mrs. Macnothing.
Dickie.
Now, my dear Pen, did I say anything about Macnothing?
Penelope.
Well, what is her name then?
Dickie.
I’ve been telling you for the last ten minutes. Her name’s Mrs. Mack.
Barlow.
Why on earth didn’t you say so at once?
Golightly.
How did you find such a profitable patient?
Dickie.
Oh, it was a great piece of luck. She heard about me from that little friend of yours, Pen. What is her name?
Golightly.
You seem to have a very bad memory for names, Dickie. You should make a knot in your handkerchief.
Dickie.
It’s a friend of Pen’s. [Pretending to try and remember.] Her husband’s in the navy, stationed at Malta, isn’t he?
Penelope.
Ada Fergusson.
Dickie.
That’s it, of course. Mrs. Fergusson.
Barlow.
One of the Fergussons of Kingarth, I suppose?
Dickie.
I don’t know at all. Quite a nice little thing, I thought. I must confess that she didn’t interest me very much.
[Peytoncomes in to announceMrs. Fergusson.Mrs. Fergussonis a handsome, showy woman of about thirty.
[Peytoncomes in to announceMrs. Fergusson.Mrs. Fergussonis a handsome, showy woman of about thirty.
Peyton.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Dickieis filled with consternation.Peytongoes out. There is a very brief moment of embarrassment, butPenelopequickly recovers herself and goes up to the visitor effusively.
[Dickieis filled with consternation.Peytongoes out. There is a very brief moment of embarrassment, butPenelopequickly recovers herself and goes up to the visitor effusively.
Penelope.
How d’you do?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Is it a preposterous hour to pay a call?
Penelope.
Of course not. I’m always delighted to see you.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’ve been shopping the whole afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t seen you for ages.
Penelope.
Do you know my sainted mother?
Mrs. Fergusson.
How d’you do?
Penelope.
This is my noble father, and this is my uncle.
Barlow.
How d’you do?
[He is evidently much struck byMrs. Fergusson.
[He is evidently much struck byMrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Turning blandly toDickie.] You haven’t forgotten me?
Dickie.
Of course not.
Mrs. Fergusson.
We haven’t met for ages, have we?
Dickie.
Simply ages.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I passed you in Piccadilly the other day, and you cut me dead.
Dickie.
I’m so sorry, I’m so short-sighted.
Penelope.
Dickie, you’re not at all short-sighted. How can you tell such fibs?
Barlow.
[With pompous gallantry.] Dickie feels that only a physical impediment can excuse a man for not seeing a pretty woman.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, how very nice of you to say that.
Barlow.
Not at all, not at all.
Penelope.
I wanted to thank you for getting Dickie such a splendid patient.
Dickie.
[Hastily, seeing her look of astonishment.] I’ve just been telling my wife about Mrs. Mack.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Not in the least understanding.] Oh, yes.
Dickie.
It was really awfully good of you to tell her to send for me. I’ve been to see her this afternoon.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Understanding.] Oh, yes. I like to do all I can for people. I hope you’ll find her a nice patient.
Penelope.
She seems to require a lot of visits.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Yes, she was only telling me the other day how much she liked Dr. O’Farrell. I’m afraid she’s very ill, poor dear.
Dickie.
To tell you the truth, I’m extremely worried about her.
Mrs. Fergusson.
It’s a great comfort to all her friends to know that Dr. O’Farrell is looking after her.
Barlow.
I’ve been wondering if she’s one of the Staffordshire Macks or one of the Somersetshire Macks.
Dickie.
I don’t know at all.
Barlow.
How d’you mean you don’t know at all? She must be one or the other.
Dickie.
I don’t see that it matters either way.
Penelope.
What is she like?
Dickie.
Oh, I don’t know. Like everybody else, I suppose.
Penelope.
Don’t be silly, Dickie. You must know if she’s fat or thin.
Dickie.
[Looking atMrs. Fergusson.] I should say fat, wouldn’t you?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Obese.
Penelope.
Yes?
Dickie.
She has grey hair.
Mrs. Fergusson.
All in little corkscrew curls.
Dickie.
[Laughing.] Yes. I wonder how she does them.
Mrs. Fergusson.
She has very pretty blue eyes, hasn’t she?
Dickie.
Yes, very pretty blue eyes.
Penelope.
What is her Christian name?
Dickie.
Er—I don’t know at all.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Promptly.] Catherine.
Penelope.
Catherine Mack? Mother, it’s your old friend Catherine Mack. What an extraordinary coincidence!
Golightly.
Catherine Mack. Why, of course, I remember her perfectly. Little grey corkscrew curls and very pretty blue eyes.
Penelope.
Wouldn’t she like mamma to go and see her?
Dickie.
I’m afraid she can’t see any one just yet.
Golightly.
You must tell her how sorry we are to hear she’s so ill.
Dickie.
Oh, yes, I’ll give her any message you like.
Mrs. Golightly.
[Rather stiffly, getting up.] I think I ought to be going. Will you come, Charles?
Golightly.
Yes, my dear.
Penelope.
Good-bye, mother, darling.