[She is perfectly composed again, and in high good-humour.
[She is perfectly composed again, and in high good-humour.
Dickie.
We might tell Penelope that we’re ready.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Very well. [AsDickiegoes to the door.] Oh, I quite forgot. I’ve simply got a head like a sieve.
Dickie.
What’s the matter?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Well, I almost forgot the very thing I came to see you about. And all through you making a scene.
Dickie.
Did I make a scene? I wasn’t aware of it.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I want to ask you something. You won’t be angry, will you?
Dickie.
I shouldn’t think so.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Of course it’s nothing very important really, but it’s just a little awkward to ask.
Dickie.
Oh, nonsense. Of course I’ll do anything I can.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Well, a friend of mine on the Stock Exchange gave me a splendid tip, and....
Dickie.
It hasn’t come off. I know those splendid tips.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, but it’s bound to be all right, only there are some differences to pay. I don’t quite understand what it all means, but Solly Abrahams....
Dickie.
[Interrupting.] Is that your friend on the Stock Exchange?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Yes, why?
Dickie.
Oh, nothing. Good old Scotch name, that’s all.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Solly says I must send him a cheque for a hundred and eighty pounds.
[Dickiegives a slight start, and his face falls.
[Dickiegives a slight start, and his face falls.
Mrs. Fergusson.
And it’s just a little awkward for me to pay that just now. You see my income is always paid me half-yearly, and I really haven’t got a hundred and eighty pounds in the bank. I never borrow—it’s a thing I can’t bear—and I felt the only person I could come to now was you.
Dickie.
I’m sure that’s awfully nice of you, not to say flattering.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I knew you’d give it me at once, and, of course, I’ll pay you back out of my profits.
Dickie.
Oh, that’s very good of you. I’ll see what I can do.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to write out a cheque now? It’ll be such a weight off my mind.
Dickie.
Of course. I’ll be only too glad. By the way, what are the shares called?
[He sits down at his desk and writes a cheque.
[He sits down at his desk and writes a cheque.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, it’s a gold mine. It’s called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem.
Dickie.
The name inspires confidence.
[He gives her the cheque.
[He gives her the cheque.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Thanks, so much. It’s awfully good of you. Now just write out a little prescription so as to have something to show Penelope.
Dickie.
You forget nothing.
[He writes.
[He writes.
Mrs. Fergusson.
And I must give you a fee.
Dickie.
Oh, I wouldn’t bother about that.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh yes, I insist. Besides, it makes it look so much more probable.
[She looks in her purse.
[She looks in her purse.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, how stupid of me! I’ve only got a two-shilling bit in my purse. You don’t happen to have a couple of sovereigns on you.
Dickie.
Oh, yes, I think I have. The only money I’ve earned to-day.
[He takes them out of his pocket and gives them toMrs. Fergusson.She puts them on the desk with a two-shilling piece.
[He takes them out of his pocket and gives them toMrs. Fergusson.She puts them on the desk with a two-shilling piece.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Thank you.... There. That looks a most imposing fee. You must leave it on there for Penelope to see.
Dickie.
Shall I call her?
Mrs. Fergusson.
I will. [She goes to the door and calls.] Penelope, we’ve quite done.
Dickie.
[Hearing voices upstairs.] Hulloa, there’s our Uncle Davenport.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, I met him in the park the other day. He made himself so pleasant. He asked me if I was a Fergusson of Glengary. I didn’t know what he meant, but I said I was, and he seemed so pleased.
Dickie.
You’d better not let him know you were a Miss Jones or he’ll have a fit.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, I shall tell him I’m a Jones of Llandudno. I think that sounds rather smart.
Dickie.
You have what one might politely describe as a remarkable power of invention.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I don’t know about that, but I am a womanly woman, and that’s why men like me.
[PenelopeandBarlowcome in.
[PenelopeandBarlowcome in.
Barlow.
Ah, Mrs. Fergusson, this is a delightful surprise.
Mrs. Fergusson.
You wicked, wicked man, I am told you’re such a rake.
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport?
Barlow.
[Delighted.] Ah, ah. Tales out of school, Mrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
If I’d known what a reputation you had I wouldn’t have let you talk to me for half an hour in the park.
Barlow.
[Bubbling over with delight.] Oh, you mustn’t listen to all you hear. A man who goes out as much as I do is sure to get talked about. Our world is so small and so censorious.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Dr. O’Farrell has been writing a prescription for me. I haven’t been very well lately.
Barlow.
Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. You look the picture of health and extremely handsome.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, you horrid cruel thing! I wanted you to sympathise with me and tell me how ill I looked.
Barlow.
If you will allow me to call on you I can promise to sympathise with you, but I’m afraid I shall never be able to tell you that you look anything but charming.
Mrs. Fergusson.
That’s too nice of you. You must come and see me the moment I get back from Paris.
[Dickiegives a start.
[Dickiegives a start.
Penelope.
Are you going to Paris?
Mrs. Fergusson.
I came on purpose to tell you. Really, I’ve got a head like a sieve. Poor Mrs. Mack has asked me if I would go as far as Paris with her. A most unfortunate thing has happened. Her maid’s mother has suddenly died, and the poor thing naturally wants to go to the funeral. And so....
Penelope.
Mrs. Mack has asked you to go in her maid’s place?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Only for two days, of course. Now, I want to know, dear, tell me honestly, do you mind?
Penelope.
I?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Some women are so funny. I thought you mightn’t like the idea of my going with Dr. O’Farrell as far as Paris, and, of course, we shall be travelling back together.
Penelope.
What nonsense! Of course, I’m only too glad. It’ll be so nice for Dickie to have some one to travel with.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Then that settles it. I like to do everything above board, you know.
Barlow.
[Seeing the guineas on the desk.] I see you’ve been raking in the shekels, Dickie.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, that’s my fee. I insisted on paying a fee—I particularly want you to know that, Penelope—I’m so scrupulous about that sort of thing.
Penelope.
Oh, but Dickie can’t accept it. [ToDickie.] You are a grasping old thing!
Dickie.
I’m sure I didn’t want the money.
Penelope.
You really must take it back, Ada.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Putting up a defensive hand.] No, I couldn’t really. It’s one of my principles.
Penelope.
I know your principles are excellent, but I really shouldn’t like Dickie to accept a fee for seeing my greatest friend.
[Penelopetakes up the money and gives it toMrs. Fergusson.
[Penelopetakes up the money and gives it toMrs. Fergusson.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, well, of course, if you take it like that, I don’t know what to do.
Penelope.
Put it in your purse and say no more about it.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, it’s too good of you.
[She puts it in her purse.Dickie’sface falls as he sees his own money disappearing.
[She puts it in her purse.Dickie’sface falls as he sees his own money disappearing.
Mrs. Fergusson.
And now I must really fly. [Holding out her hand toBarlow.] Good-bye. Don’t forget to come and seeme, but, remember, I shall expect to hear all about that little ballet-girl.
Barlow.
[Delighted to be thought so gay.] You mustn’t ask me to be indiscreet.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[ToPenelope.] Good-bye, dear.
Penelope.
I’ll come to the door with you.
[PenelopeandMrs. Fergussongo out.
[PenelopeandMrs. Fergussongo out.
Dickie.
[Going to the telephone.] I don’t believe you’ve ever known a ballet-girl in your life.
Barlow.
No, but it pleases women of our class to think one is hand and glove with persons of that profession.
Dickie.
Central 1234. If they only knew that nine ballet-girls out of ten go home every night to their children and a husband in the suburbs! I just want to ring up my broker. Is that you, Robertson? I say, d’you know anything about a mine called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem? Rotten? I thought as much. That’s all, thank you. [He puts on the receiver—to himself, acidly.] A hundred and eighty pounds gone bang.
Barlow.
Look here, Dickie, now that you have a moment to spare you might give me a little professional advice. Of course, I shan’t pay you.
Dickie.
Good Lord! I might as well be a hospital. I’m not even supported by voluntary contributions.
Barlow.
The fact is, I’ve noticed lately that I’m not so thin as I was.
Dickie.
It can’t have required great perspicacity to notice that.
Barlow.
I’m not asking you for repartee, Dickie, but advice.
Dickie.
You don’t want to bother about a figure at your time of life.
Barlow.
To tell you the truth, I have an inkling that I’ve made something of an impression on a very charming lady....
Dickie.
[Interrupting.] Take my advice and marry her quickly before the impression wears off.
Barlow.
Strange as it may appear to you, she’s a married woman.
Dickie.
Then don’t hesitate—do a bolt.
Barlow.
What do you mean, Dickie?
Dickie.
My dear Uncle Davenport, I’m young enough to be your son; philandering with a married woman is the most exaggerated form of amusement that’s ever been invented. Take care! That’s all I say. Take care!
Barlow.
Why?
Dickie.
She’ll bind you hand and foot, and put a halter round your neck and lead you about by it. She’ll ask you ten times a day if you love her, and each time you get up to go away she’ll make a scene to force you to stay longer. Each time you put on your hat she’ll pin you down to the exact hour of your next visit.
Barlow.
But all women do that. It only shows that they like you.
Dickie.
Yes, I suppose all women do that—except Pen. Pen never bothers. She never asks you if you loveher. She never keeps you when you want to get away. She never insists on knowing all your movements. And when you leave her she never asks that fatal, fiendish question, at what time will you be back?
Barlow.
Well, my boy, if my wife were as indifferent to me as that, I should ask myself who the other feller was.
Dickie.
What the dickens do you mean by that?
Barlow.
My dear Dickie, it’s woman’s nature to be exacting. If she’s in love with you she’s always a nuisance, and a very charming nuisance too, to my mind. I like it.
Dickie.
You are not suggesting that Penelope....
Barlow.
Now, my dear boy, I didn’t come to talk to you about Penelope, but about my own health.
Dickie.
[Impatiently.] Oh, you’ve got chronic adiposity. That’s all that’s the matter with you.
Barlow.
Good gracious me, that sounds very alarming. And what shall I do for it?
Dickie.
[Savagely, very quickly.] Give up wines, spirits and liqueurs, bread, butter, milk, cream, sugar, potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, peas, turnips, rice, sago, tapioca, macaroni, jam, honey, and marmalade.
Barlow.
But that’s not treatment, that’s homicide!
Dickie.
[Taking no notice.] Put on a sweater and run round the park every morning before breakfast. Let’s have a look at your liver.
Barlow.
But, my dear Dickie....
Dickie.
Lie down on that sofa. Now don’t make a fuss about it. I’m not going to kill you. [Barlowlies down.] Put your knees up.
Barlow.
[AsDickiefeels his liver.] She’s a fine, dashing woman. There’s no doubt about that.
Dickie.
Let yourself go quite loose. Who’s a fine, dashing woman?
Barlow.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Dickiestarts. He givesBarlowa look, and then walks away, open-mouthed.
[Dickiestarts. He givesBarlowa look, and then walks away, open-mouthed.
Barlow.
Dickie, Dickie.
[Much alarmed he gets off the sofa.
[Much alarmed he gets off the sofa.
Barlow.
Is my liver very wrong?
Dickie.
[Completely abstracted.] It’s in a beastly state. I thought it would be.
Barlow.
[In tragic tones.] Richard, tell me the worst at once.
Dickie.
[Impatiently.] Don’t be such an old donkey. Your liver’s as right as mine is. There’s nothing the matter with you except that you do yourself too well, and don’t take enough exercise.
Barlow.
[With unction.] I suppose one has to pay for being the most popular diner-out of one’s time.
Dickie.
[Looking at him sharply.] Is it on Mrs. Fergusson that you’ve made something of an impression?
Barlow.
[With great self-satisfaction.] My dear fellow, I am the last man to give a woman away.
Dickie.
Ah!
Barlow.
Between ourselves, Dickie, do you think Mrs. Fergusson would find it peculiar if I asked her to lunch with metête-à-têteat the Carlton?
Dickie.
Peculiar! She’d jump at it.
Barlow.
Do you think her husband would mind?
Dickie.
Oh, her husband’s all right. He keeps on bravely serving his country in a foreign land.
Barlow.
It shows that she has a nice nature, or she wouldn’t have come to ask Penelope if she minded your going to Paris together.
Dickie.
Yes, she has a charming nature.
Barlow.
Lucky dog, I wish I were going to Paris with her.
Dickie.
[Fervently.] I wish you were.
Barlow.
Ha, ha. Well, well, I must be running away. I’m dining out as usual. These good duchesses, they will not leave me alone. Good-bye.
[He goes out.Dickiewalks up and down the room thinking. In a momentPenelopeputs her head in.
[He goes out.Dickiewalks up and down the room thinking. In a momentPenelopeputs her head in.
Penelope.
I say, darling, oughtn’t you to be packing?
Dickie.
Come in and let’s smoke a cigarette together.
Penelope.
All right.
[She takes a cigarette, which he lights for her.
[She takes a cigarette, which he lights for her.
Penelope.
I hope you’ll have a splendid time in Paris.
[She sits down.
[She sits down.
Dickie.
You never sit on the arm of my chair as you used to.
Penelope.
I’m horribly afraid I’m growing middle-aged. I’ve discovered how much more comfortable it is to have a chair of my own.
Dickie.
[Trying to hide a slight embarrassment.] Weren’t you rather surprised when Mrs. Fergusson told you she was going to Paris to-night?
Penelope.
Surprised?
[Penelopegives a little gurgle, tries to stifle it but cannot, then, giving way, bursts into peal upon peal of laughter.Dickiewatches her with increasing astonishment.
[Penelopegives a little gurgle, tries to stifle it but cannot, then, giving way, bursts into peal upon peal of laughter.Dickiewatches her with increasing astonishment.
Dickie.
What on earth are you laughing at?
Penelope.
[Bubbling over.] Darling, you must think me an old silly. Of course, I knew you were going together.
Dickie.
[Thoroughly startled.] I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Penelope.
I have tried not to see anything, but you do make it so difficult.
Dickie.
[Making up his mind to be very haughty.] Will you have the goodness to explain yourself?
Penelope.
My dear, of course I know all about it.
Dickie.
I entirely fail to gather your meaning. What do you know all about?
Penelope.
About you and Ada, silly.
Dickie.
[Very haughtily.] Penelope, do you mean to say you suspect me of ...?
Penelope.
[With an affectionate smile.] Darling!
Dickie.
[Suddenly alarmed.] What d’you know?
Penelope.
Everything.
[He gives a gasp and looks atPenelopeanxiously.
[He gives a gasp and looks atPenelopeanxiously.
Penelope.
I’ve been so amused to watch you during the last two months.
Dickie.
Amused?
Penelope.
Upon my word, it’s been as good as a play.
Dickie.
[Quite at a loss.] Have you known all along?
Penelope.
My dear, didn’t you see that I did everything in the world to throw you together?
Dickie.
But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in it.
Penelope.
[Good-humouredly.] Come, come, Dickie!
Dickie.
But why haven’t you said anything?
Penelope.
I thought it would only embarrass you. I didn’t mean to say anything to-day, but I couldn’t help laughing when you asked me if I was surprised.
Dickie.
Aren’t you angry?
Penelope.
Angry? What about?
Dickie.
Aren’t you jealous?
Penelope.
Jealous? You must think me a little donkey.
Dickie.
You took it as a matter of course? It amused you? It was as good as a play?
Penelope.
Darling, we’ve been married for five years. It’s absurd to think there could be anything between us after all that time.
Dickie.
Oh, is it? I wasn’t aware of that fact.
Penelope.
The whole thing seemed to me of no importance. I was pleased to think you were happy.
Dickie.
[Flying into a passion.] Well, I think it’s positively disgraceful, Penelope.
Penelope.
Oh, my dear, don’t exaggerate. It was a harmless peccadillo.
Dickie.
I’m not talking of my behaviour, but of yours.
Penelope.
Mine?
Dickie.
Yes, scandalous I call it.
Penelope.
[Quite disappointed.] And I thought it was so tactful.
Dickie.
Tactful be blowed. You must be entirely devoid of any sense of decency.
Penelope.
My dear,Ihaven’t done anything.
Dickie.
That’s just it. You ought to have done something. You ought to have kicked up a row; you ought to have made scenes; you ought to have divorced me. But just to sit there and let it go on as if it were nothing at all! It’s too monstrous.
Penelope.
I’m awfully sorry. If I’d known you wanted me to make a scene of course I would have, but really it didn’t seem worth making a fuss about.
Dickie.
I’ve never heard anything so callous, anything so cold-blooded, anything so cynical.
Penelope.
You are difficult to please.
Dickie.
But don’t you realise that I’ve treated you abominably.
Penelope.
Oh, no, you’ve always been the best and most discreet of husbands.
Dickie.
No, I’ve been a bad husband. I’m man enough to acknowledge it. And I mean to turn over a new leaf, Penelope; I will give Ada up. I promise you never to see her again.
Penelope.
Darling, why should you cause her needless pain? After all, she’s an old friend of mine. I think the least I can expect is that you should treat her nicely.
Dickie.
D’you mean to say you want it to go on?
Penelope.
It’s an arrangement that suits us all three. It amuses you, Ada has some one to take her about, and I get a lot of new frocks.
Dickie.
Frocks?
Penelope.
Yes, you see, I’ve been consoling my aching heart by replenishing my wardrobe.
Dickie.
So you’re willing to sacrifice our whole happiness to your frocks. Oh, I’ve cherished a viper in my bosom. I may have acted like a perfect beast, but,hang it all, I do know what’s right and wrong. I have a moral sense.
Penelope.
It seems to have displaced your sense of humour.
Dickie.
Do you know that all these weeks I’ve been tortured with remorse? I’ve told myself every day that I was treating you shamefully, I’ve not had a moment’s happiness. I’ve lived on a perfect rack.
Penelope.
It doesn’t seem to have had any serious effect on your health.
Dickie.
And here have you been laughing up your sleeve all the time. It can’t go on.
Penelope.
Upon my word, I don’t see why not?
Dickie.
We’ve been mistaken in one another. I’m not the man to stand such a position with indifference. And I’ve been mistaken in you, Penelope. I thought you cared for me.
Penelope.
I dote upon you.
Dickie.
That’s a jolly nice way of showing it.
Penelope.
That’s just what I thought it was.
Dickie.
You’ve outraged all my better nature.
Penelope.
Then what do you propose to do?
Dickie.
I’m going to do the only possible thing. Separate.
Penelope.
[Hearing voices in the hall.] Here are papa and mamma. They said they were coming back.
Dickie.
I hope they’ll never find out what a wicked, cruel woman you are. It would send down their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.
Penelope.
But, my dear, they know all about it.
Dickie.
What! Is there any one who doesn’t know?
Penelope.
We didn’t tell Uncle Davenport. He’s such a man of the world, he has no sense of humour.
[Peytoncomes in to announce theGolightlys,then goes out.
[Peytoncomes in to announce theGolightlys,then goes out.
Peyton.
Professor and Mrs. Golightly.
[TheGolightlyscome in.
[TheGolightlyscome in.
Penelope.
[KissingMrs. Golightly.] Well, mother ... Papa, Dickie wants to separate from me because I won’t divorce him.
Golightly.
That doesn’t sound very logical.
Mrs. Golightly.
What has happened?
Penelope.
Nothing’s happened. I can’t make out why Dickie’s so cross.
Dickie.
[Indignantly.] Nothing!
Penelope.
I didn’t mean to say anything about it, but Dickie found out that we knew all about his little love affair.
Golightly.
My dear, how tactless of you! A man likes to keep those things from his wife.
Dickie.
And d’you know the attitude Penelope takes up?
Golightly.
She hasn’t been making a scene?
Dickie.
That’s just it. Any woman of feeling would make a scene. There must be something radically wrong about her, or she would have wept and stamped and torn her hair.
Golightly.
[Mildly.] Oh, my dear boy, don’t you exaggerate the enormity of your offence?
Dickie.
There are no excuses for me.
Golightly.
It was a mere trifle. It would show a lamentable want of humour in Penelope if she took it seriously.
Dickie.
D’you mean to say you agree with her?
Golightly.
My dear fellow, we’re in the twentieth century.
Dickie.
Oh! Mrs. Golightly, you spend your time in converting the heathen. Don’t you think your own family needs some of your attention?