PLEASE PASS THE CREAM
PLEASE PASS THE CREAM
Scene:Dining-room of theClarks,cosily furnished in dark; dining-table in center, two chairs at opposite ends, table set with plates, knives, forks, spoons, glasses, coffee pot and cups at right end, with sugar and a cream-pitcher; plate, knife, fork, spoons, glass at left end; also a carafe of water; butter, salt and pepper boxes, napkins, etc. A sideboard with silver. Rug under table. Modern hanging lamp over it. Doors at right and left. Window at back beside sideboard. Telephone on small table in left corner.Mr. Clark,about 40 years of age, stout and easy going, seated in chair at left end of table.Mrs. Clark,about 35 years old, rather slim and nervous, at the right end. As the curtain rises both are eating some meat and potatoes, a clock in hall behind door at right striking the hour of eight.Mrs. Clark(raising her napkin to her mouth). I wish you wouldn’t say “it don’t,” John. That isn’t grammatical!Mr. Clark(raising a piece of potato on his knife to his mouth). It ain’t—why isn’t it?Mrs. C.(dropping her napkin to the floor, in a voice of utter horror). Oh, John, John! How many,manytimes have I besought you not to use that terrible,terribleword “ain’t”?Mr. C.(very cheerfully, raising another piece of potato on his knife). I dunno, Martha. I never was much good at mental arithmetic.Mrs. C.(picking up her napkin, mournfully). John, don’t you remember that youpromisedme when we were engaged never more to utter that abominable word.Mr. C.(cutting awkwardly at his meat). Iain’tquite sure that I made such a promise, Martha.Mrs. C.(sharply). John Clark, youcertainlydid make such a promise—not once butseveraltimes!Mr. C.(starting to raise a piece of meat to his mouth, letting it fall). But, Martha, that wasonlyan engagementpromise, and engagement promisesain’tno wise binding, so to speak, after the wedding march is ended.Mrs. C.(angrily, again dropping her napkin). Mr. Clark, if you utter that wordagainI shall withdraw from the table!Mr. C.(still cutting away awkwardly at the meat). All right, Martha. I won’t use that word no more.Mrs. C.(picking up her napkin, sharply). John Clark, what you have just said is also ungrammatical. It isveryincorrect for you to say “I won’t use that word no more.”Mr. C.(raising another piece of potato on his knife). But, my dear, I don’t seewhyit is incorrect for me to say that I won’t use the word “ain’t” again.Nowyou’re blaming me fornotusing it.Mrs. C.(a little confused). You knowverywell what I mean! (Suddenly and more sharply.) John, how many times have I requested you not toeatwith your knife?Mr. C.(letting his knife fall out of his hand to the floor). But what is a knife for if it isn’t to eat with?Mrs. C.(in tone of utter disgust). Oh, won’t youeverspeak correct English. Whycouldn’tyou have said, “What is the purpose of a table-knife if it is not to use in eating?”Mr. C.(very cordially, reaching down to pick up the fallen knife). You areexactlyright, my dear. I agree wholly with you—the purpose of a table-knife is to be used in eating.Mrs. C.(very sharply). But a table-knife isnota freight elevator, John Clark!Mr. C.(starting to raise more potato on his knife). No, Martha, a fork is the proper instrument with which to convey a piece of meat from one’s plate to one’s mouth.Mrs. C.(rising hastily, speaking quickly). John,stopthat!Neveruse a knife, even at home, that has fallen to the floor! (Goes to the sideboard, opens a drawer, takes out a table-knife and exchanges this knife for the one just dropped byMr. C.) There! (Resuming her seat.) Don’t youdareto misusethisknife as you misused the other one, John Clark!Mr. C.(rather humbly). No, ma’am! Still, it’s ever so much easier to eat with my knife than with my fork.Mrs. C.(decidedly, beginning to eat again). No, it isn’t! Besides, it’sveryvulgar—and dangerous, too.Mr. C.(now using his fork). Yet I’ve read somewhere—I know I have—that George Washington ate with his knife in the same way that I did.Mrs. C.(quickly). Oh, well, forks were not invented then.Mr. C.(drinking from his glass of water). They never should have been invented. Fingers are ever so much better than forks.Mrs. C.(rising from her seat to go again to the sideboard). I expected you to say that fingers were invented before forks. Howdidit happen that you forgot to make that remark—again?Mr. C.(using his napkin very clumsily). Really I can’t see why an honest hungry man should be ashamed of eating with his knife.Mrs. C.(returning to her seat with the sugar tongs). Well, it’s not the correct thing socially. Mrs. James’s husbandnevereats withhisknife. (Quickly.) John, that isn’t a wash towel; it’s a napkin.Mr. C.(dropping the napkin to the floor). I wish that Mrs. James’s husband would pay that $100 he has owed me for a year.Mrs. C.(beginning to pour out the coffee). You should feel proud that a gentleman ofsuchhigh social position as Mr. James owes you a hundred dollars.Mr. C.(picking up the napkin). Well, when a dozen other gentlemen of high social position have each owed me a hundred dollars for more than a year I don’t feel so proud of Mr. James’s owing me a hundred plunks.Mrs. C.(beginning to put in some sugar with the tongs into the cup of coffee). Not a hundredplunks, dear. You mean a hundreddollars.Mr. C.(a little crossly). I meanjustwhat I say—a hundredplunks! Perhaps if he ate with his knife and said“ain’t” the way I do he would never have borrowed them hundred plunks.Mrs. C.(in utter horror). “Themhundred plunks!” Oh, John!Mr. C.(angrily). Ye-es,them hundred “bucks”! (More angrily.) Now, see here, Martha Smith, I am ave-rypatientman. My father was a patient man and my mother was the most patientest woman you ever did see; but they have had their limits, and so have I. (Bringing his hand down firmly upon the table.) And when I getrealriled I ain’t nearly as agreeable as aforetimes. (Pauses for a moment as though to emphasise his remarks.) As I said, I am a ve-rypatientman, but I have my limit. Now, Martha Smith, you have been a-pestering me all breakfast time, and a-correcting me on my expressions of speech. Also, you have been fault-finding with my table manners, and I have gotve-ry tired of it. Now, I want you to understand, Martha Smith, righthere, that I won’t tolerate another word from you (he rises and then bangs his fist hard upon the table), and I’ll say “it ain’t,” “it hain’t,” “it don’t” as often as Idarnplease! And I’ll eat with my knife or my fingers as often as Idarnplease! (Raising his voice still more.) Do you understandthat, Martha Smith? (He glares angrily at her.)Mrs. C.(very coolly and very deliberately). Mr. Clark, you aresoamusing when you get “real riled.” If you could onlysee yourself(mimics him) “when you ain’t nearly as agreeable as aforetimes.” Now, Ineverget angry myself,never. And at any rate not after seeing you in a tantrum. It’s too disgusting. You arenota handsome man, even when you areagreeable, Mr. Clark; but when you are really “riled,”my!you’rehomely, as homely as—well, wordsfailme! (She laughs somewhat irritatingly.)Mr. C.(walking furiously up and down the left side of the room, savagely). If you only was a man for a minute!Mrs. C.(more coolly and deliberately). I wish I were for onlyhalfa minute.Mr. C.(walking more furiously, speaking more savagely). It is no wonder yourfirsthusband died!Mrs. C.(rising quickly from her chair). What do youmean, Mr. Clark? (Then she reseats herself just as quickly.) No, I never get angry myself,never, and I’mnotgoing to become angry this time. (She rises again and carries the cup of coffee she has poured out, placing it at his end of the table.) You see howcalmI am, Mr. Clark—howverycalm. (She returns to her seat with a martyr-like smile.) If I were you I should drink that coffee before it gets cool.Mr. C.(pausing in his walking angrily). I don’twantany coffee! (More angrily.) Martha Smith, I asked you ifyouunderstood?Mrs. C.(with great dignity). Mr. Clark, please remember that I am Mrs. Clark.Mr. C.(in a lower tone). Guess I’ll never forgetthat!Mrs. C.(beginning to pour out some coffee for herself). Don’t you think you had better drink your coffee? It must be getting cool.Mr. C.(with a flash of anger). Oh,darnthe coffee!Mrs. C.(putting in two lumps of sugar). Just as you please, Mr. Clark, just as youplease.Mr. C.(sitting down sulkily in his seat). Martha Smith, thisnaggingof yours is getting on my nerves.Mrs. C.(pouring from the cream-pitcher into her coffee). I remarked a short while ago that I amMrs. Clark!Mr. C.(settling down into his chair). Well, because you are Mrs. Clark doesn’t give you any right to nag me.Mrs. C.(stirring her coffee). I amnotnagging you. I havenevernagged anybody in my life, but when you said “them hundred plunks”—oh, horrors!Mr. C.(beginning to finger his coffee spoon). But whatshouldI have said?Mrs. C.(still stirring her coffee). Whatshouldyou have said? Why—why—“those hundred dollars,” of course.Mr. C.(in a grumbling tone). It’s too blamed bad that a man can’t speak as he wants to in his own home.Mrs. C.(sipping her coffee). Youmay, John, providingthat you follow the rules of grammatical English, as are observed by our best society.Mr. C.(less sulkily, still fingering his coffee spoon). What do you mean by our best society, Martha?Mrs. C.(a little perplexed). Our best society? Oh—yes—er—why, our best society means those that areinthe best society—those who are the recognized leaders of society—the men and women who are socially “it.”Mr. C.(quickly). Martha! “Socially it”? Iamsurprised to hear such an expression fall from your lips. “Sociallyit”! Why,whata vulgar phrase. Youshouldhave said, “Our best society consists of those men and women who are the leaders ofélitesociety!”Mrs. C.(with much dignity). Your coffeemustbe cold by this time, John. Let me give you another cup?Mr. C.(rather gleefully). No, Martha, this coffee is all right; but haven’t you forgotten something?Mrs. C.(still with dignity). What is it I have forgotten?Mr. C.(cheerfully). The milk, Martha, themilk. Please pass the milk.Mrs. C.(reprovingly). Of course you mean thecream, John. (Passing the pitcher.)Mr. C.(receiving the pitcher). No, I mean themilk.Mrs. C.(rather sharply). But, my dear, it isn’t milk; it’scream.Mr. C.(obstinately). It isnot! It’smilk. (Spelling it.) M-i-l-k,milk!Mrs. C.(stirring her coffee). It is notmilk, John. Milk is what the cows give—this iscream!Mr. C.(with a grin, still holding the pitcher). I never knew before that cream does not come from milk.Veryremarkable!Mrs. C.(a little confused). Now don’t try to misunderstand me. Of course milk comes from cream, and that pitcher contains cream,notmilk.Mr. C.(with another grin). Martha, I never knew before that milk comes from cream.Mrs. C.(with dignity). That was a slip of my tongue.Mr. C.(gleefully). Yes, just as when you say that this pitcher contains cream.Mrs. C.(sharply). Itdoescontain cream, andnotmilk!Mr. C.(pouring some of it from the pitcher into a glass). Now, seethere. Do you callthatcream?Cream!It’s more like skim milk.Mrs. C.(wearily). Can’t you comprehend, John?Sociallyit is cream. You never ask for milk in your coffee but always for cream.Mr. C.(impatiently). I don’t care one continental what it is socially.Practicallyit is milk. (Drinking from the glass into which he has poured from the pitcher.)Yes, that’smilkall right. (Pushing the pitcher towardsMrs. C.) Taste it yourself Martha. See if it isn’t milk.Mrs. C.(nervously sipping her coffee). That isn’t the point at all. Of course when it’s in a drinking glass itmaybe milk, but when it’s in a cream-pitcher it isalwayscream.Mr. C.(still more impatiently). But pouring it into a drinking glass doesn’t change itsrealnature. If it’s milk, it’s milk, and if it’s cream, it’scream!Mrs. C.(again sipping her coffee). Yes, it isjustthe same in the pitcher as it is in the glass, only we call it, politely, cream when it is in the pitcher and milk when in the glass.Mr. C.(crossly). Well, what has politeness to do with it, anyway? If it’s milk in the glass it will be milk when it’s in the pitcher.Mrs. C.(sipping her coffee with a half smile). Don’t yousee, John, that it’s cream when it’s in the cream-pitcher?Mr. C.(still more crossly). I suppose that if that pitcher contained only water it could be called cream!Mrs. C.(putting down her spoon and drinking her coffee). You areaw-fully stupid—when you want to be, my dear.Mr. C.(rising quickly and going over to the telephone). You needn’t takemyword for it. We’ll have some one else’s opinion. (Takes down the receiver.) Hello! Give me Main 203. (Turns toMrs. C.) I’m going to talk with JoeWilliams. He’s head of the Wholesale Milk Company. (Speaking into ’phone.) Hello! Is this Joe? I’m John Clark. You see, Joe, my wife and I have had a slight dispute. She declares up and down that the milk we are using on our breakfast table is cream, and not milk at all. I say that it’smilk—no matter whether it’s in a cream-pitcher or not. She says that as long as it’s in a cream-pitcher it’s cream andnotmilk. Now, Joe, am Iright? It’s milk, because I have drunk some of it and I remember that Mrs. Clark told me this morning the milkman had forgotten to leave the cream. (Pauses a moment.) What’sthat? YouthinkI am right, but you are going to ask your wife and will call me up soon? Thankyou, Joe. (He replaces the receiver and returns to his chair.)Mrs. C.(with a sweet smile). I am sorry, John, that you have had to call for assistance, but Mrs. Williams will, I am sure, wholly agree with me.Mr. C.(sourly). Well, I was brought up on a farm and I ought to know the difference between milk and cream.Mrs. C.(with a very sweet smile). I guess you were brought up on a farm all right.Mr. C.(angrily). So wereyou! I found it out only a short time ago. (Laughing softly.) Ha! ha! ha!Mrs. C.(mimicking him). Ha! ha! ha!ha!Now, I’mnotgoing to lose my temper, whatever you may say. Ineverget angry myself—no,never!(The telephone rings.)Mr. C.(hastening to the telephone).Nowwe shall see! (Takes down the receiver.) Hello! Hello, Joe. Oh, good morning, Mrs. Williams. How do you do? Yes, thank you, both my wife and I are pretty well.Whatdid you say? (Listens while she is speaking.) Is that so? It is? I understand.Whatdid you say? Oh, of coursesocially—yes—yes! No, our dispute is not serious; only a difference of opinion. As I told your husband a veryslightdifference.Thankyou for your trouble, Mrs. Williams. Will you please ask Mr. Williams to come to the telephone a moment?O! He has gone for the day? Thankyou—good-bye. (Impatiently hangs up the receiver.)Mrs. C.(laughing heartily). Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!ha!What did I tell you, John? Didn’t Mrs. Williams agreewhollywith me?Mr. C.(reseating himself). Yes, ofcourseshe did. I expectedthat, but Joe, I’m sure, believes that I amright. You see he didn’tdareto tell me his real opinion when his wife was there. Probably he will visit us a little later and convince you that you are wrong. But he didn’t have the courage to say so in the presence of his wife. Isn’t ittoobad, Martha, that Joe hasn’t some ofmyindependence?Mrs. C.(a little angrily). I hope that Mr. Williams is not as stupid as you are—sometimes. (More angrily.) John, howveryobstinate you are! You know well enough thatIhave the right of it, and yet you won’t admit it.Mr. C.(slowly stirring his coffee). After all, Martha, I think I’ll have some coffee. Will you please pass me the milk?Mrs. C.(with considerable temper). John Clark, Ineverget angry myself,never, but certainly you do try my patience—sorely. Now, I don’t want you to call that cream milk—again!Not again!(She rises from her chair.)Mr. C.(still stirring his coffee). Martha, will you please pass me the—milk?Mrs. C.(angrily stamping her foot). John Clark, howdareyou!Mr. C.(calmly). Martha, will youpleasepass me the milk!Mrs. C.(in a furious temper, stamping her foot and then pounding upon the table). Itain’tmilk—itain’t!Mr. C.(with mock seriousness).Martha!Itain’t! That isnotgrammatical. Oh, that terrible,terribleword—ain’t!Mrs. C.(very furiously). I never said ain’t—never—never—never!Mr. C.(very mournfully). You did, Martha—youdid. I heard you. You said, “It ain’t no milk!”Mrs. C.(wildly seizing the cream-pitcher and suddenly dashing it and its contents to the floor, in view of the audience).There—darn it!Mr. C.(rising quickly). Hold on! That is Grandmother Smith’s old cream-pitcher!Mrs. C.(in despair). Oh,whathave I done! (She stands for a moment, looking silently at the ruins of the prized cream-pitcher, and then sinks into her chair, pulling out her handkerchief and weeping hysterically.)Mr. C.(standing as though dazed, gazing upon the shattered pitcher.) Geewhiz! (Taking a step forward towardsMrs. C.,speaking kindly, placing his right hand gently upon her shaking shoulders.) Well, Martha, don’t feel so badly about it—it ain’t any use to “cry over spilt milk!”Mrs. C.(suddenly rising from her chair, glaring atMr. C.). It isn’t spilt milk—it’s spiltcream!Curtain.
Scene:Dining-room of theClarks,cosily furnished in dark; dining-table in center, two chairs at opposite ends, table set with plates, knives, forks, spoons, glasses, coffee pot and cups at right end, with sugar and a cream-pitcher; plate, knife, fork, spoons, glass at left end; also a carafe of water; butter, salt and pepper boxes, napkins, etc. A sideboard with silver. Rug under table. Modern hanging lamp over it. Doors at right and left. Window at back beside sideboard. Telephone on small table in left corner.Mr. Clark,about 40 years of age, stout and easy going, seated in chair at left end of table.Mrs. Clark,about 35 years old, rather slim and nervous, at the right end. As the curtain rises both are eating some meat and potatoes, a clock in hall behind door at right striking the hour of eight.
Mrs. Clark(raising her napkin to her mouth). I wish you wouldn’t say “it don’t,” John. That isn’t grammatical!
Mr. Clark(raising a piece of potato on his knife to his mouth). It ain’t—why isn’t it?
Mrs. C.(dropping her napkin to the floor, in a voice of utter horror). Oh, John, John! How many,manytimes have I besought you not to use that terrible,terribleword “ain’t”?
Mr. C.(very cheerfully, raising another piece of potato on his knife). I dunno, Martha. I never was much good at mental arithmetic.
Mrs. C.(picking up her napkin, mournfully). John, don’t you remember that youpromisedme when we were engaged never more to utter that abominable word.
Mr. C.(cutting awkwardly at his meat). Iain’tquite sure that I made such a promise, Martha.
Mrs. C.(sharply). John Clark, youcertainlydid make such a promise—not once butseveraltimes!
Mr. C.(starting to raise a piece of meat to his mouth, letting it fall). But, Martha, that wasonlyan engagementpromise, and engagement promisesain’tno wise binding, so to speak, after the wedding march is ended.
Mrs. C.(angrily, again dropping her napkin). Mr. Clark, if you utter that wordagainI shall withdraw from the table!
Mr. C.(still cutting away awkwardly at the meat). All right, Martha. I won’t use that word no more.
Mrs. C.(picking up her napkin, sharply). John Clark, what you have just said is also ungrammatical. It isveryincorrect for you to say “I won’t use that word no more.”
Mr. C.(raising another piece of potato on his knife). But, my dear, I don’t seewhyit is incorrect for me to say that I won’t use the word “ain’t” again.Nowyou’re blaming me fornotusing it.
Mrs. C.(a little confused). You knowverywell what I mean! (Suddenly and more sharply.) John, how many times have I requested you not toeatwith your knife?
Mr. C.(letting his knife fall out of his hand to the floor). But what is a knife for if it isn’t to eat with?
Mrs. C.(in tone of utter disgust). Oh, won’t youeverspeak correct English. Whycouldn’tyou have said, “What is the purpose of a table-knife if it is not to use in eating?”
Mr. C.(very cordially, reaching down to pick up the fallen knife). You areexactlyright, my dear. I agree wholly with you—the purpose of a table-knife is to be used in eating.
Mrs. C.(very sharply). But a table-knife isnota freight elevator, John Clark!
Mr. C.(starting to raise more potato on his knife). No, Martha, a fork is the proper instrument with which to convey a piece of meat from one’s plate to one’s mouth.
Mrs. C.(rising hastily, speaking quickly). John,stopthat!Neveruse a knife, even at home, that has fallen to the floor! (Goes to the sideboard, opens a drawer, takes out a table-knife and exchanges this knife for the one just dropped byMr. C.) There! (Resuming her seat.) Don’t youdareto misusethisknife as you misused the other one, John Clark!
Mr. C.(rather humbly). No, ma’am! Still, it’s ever so much easier to eat with my knife than with my fork.
Mrs. C.(decidedly, beginning to eat again). No, it isn’t! Besides, it’sveryvulgar—and dangerous, too.
Mr. C.(now using his fork). Yet I’ve read somewhere—I know I have—that George Washington ate with his knife in the same way that I did.
Mrs. C.(quickly). Oh, well, forks were not invented then.
Mr. C.(drinking from his glass of water). They never should have been invented. Fingers are ever so much better than forks.
Mrs. C.(rising from her seat to go again to the sideboard). I expected you to say that fingers were invented before forks. Howdidit happen that you forgot to make that remark—again?
Mr. C.(using his napkin very clumsily). Really I can’t see why an honest hungry man should be ashamed of eating with his knife.
Mrs. C.(returning to her seat with the sugar tongs). Well, it’s not the correct thing socially. Mrs. James’s husbandnevereats withhisknife. (Quickly.) John, that isn’t a wash towel; it’s a napkin.
Mr. C.(dropping the napkin to the floor). I wish that Mrs. James’s husband would pay that $100 he has owed me for a year.
Mrs. C.(beginning to pour out the coffee). You should feel proud that a gentleman ofsuchhigh social position as Mr. James owes you a hundred dollars.
Mr. C.(picking up the napkin). Well, when a dozen other gentlemen of high social position have each owed me a hundred dollars for more than a year I don’t feel so proud of Mr. James’s owing me a hundred plunks.
Mrs. C.(beginning to put in some sugar with the tongs into the cup of coffee). Not a hundredplunks, dear. You mean a hundreddollars.
Mr. C.(a little crossly). I meanjustwhat I say—a hundredplunks! Perhaps if he ate with his knife and said“ain’t” the way I do he would never have borrowed them hundred plunks.
Mrs. C.(in utter horror). “Themhundred plunks!” Oh, John!
Mr. C.(angrily). Ye-es,them hundred “bucks”! (More angrily.) Now, see here, Martha Smith, I am ave-rypatientman. My father was a patient man and my mother was the most patientest woman you ever did see; but they have had their limits, and so have I. (Bringing his hand down firmly upon the table.) And when I getrealriled I ain’t nearly as agreeable as aforetimes. (Pauses for a moment as though to emphasise his remarks.) As I said, I am a ve-rypatientman, but I have my limit. Now, Martha Smith, you have been a-pestering me all breakfast time, and a-correcting me on my expressions of speech. Also, you have been fault-finding with my table manners, and I have gotve-ry tired of it. Now, I want you to understand, Martha Smith, righthere, that I won’t tolerate another word from you (he rises and then bangs his fist hard upon the table), and I’ll say “it ain’t,” “it hain’t,” “it don’t” as often as Idarnplease! And I’ll eat with my knife or my fingers as often as Idarnplease! (Raising his voice still more.) Do you understandthat, Martha Smith? (He glares angrily at her.)
Mrs. C.(very coolly and very deliberately). Mr. Clark, you aresoamusing when you get “real riled.” If you could onlysee yourself(mimics him) “when you ain’t nearly as agreeable as aforetimes.” Now, Ineverget angry myself,never. And at any rate not after seeing you in a tantrum. It’s too disgusting. You arenota handsome man, even when you areagreeable, Mr. Clark; but when you are really “riled,”my!you’rehomely, as homely as—well, wordsfailme! (She laughs somewhat irritatingly.)
Mr. C.(walking furiously up and down the left side of the room, savagely). If you only was a man for a minute!
Mrs. C.(more coolly and deliberately). I wish I were for onlyhalfa minute.
Mr. C.(walking more furiously, speaking more savagely). It is no wonder yourfirsthusband died!
Mrs. C.(rising quickly from her chair). What do youmean, Mr. Clark? (Then she reseats herself just as quickly.) No, I never get angry myself,never, and I’mnotgoing to become angry this time. (She rises again and carries the cup of coffee she has poured out, placing it at his end of the table.) You see howcalmI am, Mr. Clark—howverycalm. (She returns to her seat with a martyr-like smile.) If I were you I should drink that coffee before it gets cool.
Mr. C.(pausing in his walking angrily). I don’twantany coffee! (More angrily.) Martha Smith, I asked you ifyouunderstood?
Mrs. C.(with great dignity). Mr. Clark, please remember that I am Mrs. Clark.
Mr. C.(in a lower tone). Guess I’ll never forgetthat!
Mrs. C.(beginning to pour out some coffee for herself). Don’t you think you had better drink your coffee? It must be getting cool.
Mr. C.(with a flash of anger). Oh,darnthe coffee!
Mrs. C.(putting in two lumps of sugar). Just as you please, Mr. Clark, just as youplease.
Mr. C.(sitting down sulkily in his seat). Martha Smith, thisnaggingof yours is getting on my nerves.
Mrs. C.(pouring from the cream-pitcher into her coffee). I remarked a short while ago that I amMrs. Clark!
Mr. C.(settling down into his chair). Well, because you are Mrs. Clark doesn’t give you any right to nag me.
Mrs. C.(stirring her coffee). I amnotnagging you. I havenevernagged anybody in my life, but when you said “them hundred plunks”—oh, horrors!
Mr. C.(beginning to finger his coffee spoon). But whatshouldI have said?
Mrs. C.(still stirring her coffee). Whatshouldyou have said? Why—why—“those hundred dollars,” of course.
Mr. C.(in a grumbling tone). It’s too blamed bad that a man can’t speak as he wants to in his own home.
Mrs. C.(sipping her coffee). Youmay, John, providingthat you follow the rules of grammatical English, as are observed by our best society.
Mr. C.(less sulkily, still fingering his coffee spoon). What do you mean by our best society, Martha?
Mrs. C.(a little perplexed). Our best society? Oh—yes—er—why, our best society means those that areinthe best society—those who are the recognized leaders of society—the men and women who are socially “it.”
Mr. C.(quickly). Martha! “Socially it”? Iamsurprised to hear such an expression fall from your lips. “Sociallyit”! Why,whata vulgar phrase. Youshouldhave said, “Our best society consists of those men and women who are the leaders ofélitesociety!”
Mrs. C.(with much dignity). Your coffeemustbe cold by this time, John. Let me give you another cup?
Mr. C.(rather gleefully). No, Martha, this coffee is all right; but haven’t you forgotten something?
Mrs. C.(still with dignity). What is it I have forgotten?
Mr. C.(cheerfully). The milk, Martha, themilk. Please pass the milk.
Mrs. C.(reprovingly). Of course you mean thecream, John. (Passing the pitcher.)
Mr. C.(receiving the pitcher). No, I mean themilk.
Mrs. C.(rather sharply). But, my dear, it isn’t milk; it’scream.
Mr. C.(obstinately). It isnot! It’smilk. (Spelling it.) M-i-l-k,milk!
Mrs. C.(stirring her coffee). It is notmilk, John. Milk is what the cows give—this iscream!
Mr. C.(with a grin, still holding the pitcher). I never knew before that cream does not come from milk.Veryremarkable!
Mrs. C.(a little confused). Now don’t try to misunderstand me. Of course milk comes from cream, and that pitcher contains cream,notmilk.
Mr. C.(with another grin). Martha, I never knew before that milk comes from cream.
Mrs. C.(with dignity). That was a slip of my tongue.
Mr. C.(gleefully). Yes, just as when you say that this pitcher contains cream.
Mrs. C.(sharply). Itdoescontain cream, andnotmilk!
Mr. C.(pouring some of it from the pitcher into a glass). Now, seethere. Do you callthatcream?Cream!It’s more like skim milk.
Mrs. C.(wearily). Can’t you comprehend, John?Sociallyit is cream. You never ask for milk in your coffee but always for cream.
Mr. C.(impatiently). I don’t care one continental what it is socially.Practicallyit is milk. (Drinking from the glass into which he has poured from the pitcher.)Yes, that’smilkall right. (Pushing the pitcher towardsMrs. C.) Taste it yourself Martha. See if it isn’t milk.
Mrs. C.(nervously sipping her coffee). That isn’t the point at all. Of course when it’s in a drinking glass itmaybe milk, but when it’s in a cream-pitcher it isalwayscream.
Mr. C.(still more impatiently). But pouring it into a drinking glass doesn’t change itsrealnature. If it’s milk, it’s milk, and if it’s cream, it’scream!
Mrs. C.(again sipping her coffee). Yes, it isjustthe same in the pitcher as it is in the glass, only we call it, politely, cream when it is in the pitcher and milk when in the glass.
Mr. C.(crossly). Well, what has politeness to do with it, anyway? If it’s milk in the glass it will be milk when it’s in the pitcher.
Mrs. C.(sipping her coffee with a half smile). Don’t yousee, John, that it’s cream when it’s in the cream-pitcher?
Mr. C.(still more crossly). I suppose that if that pitcher contained only water it could be called cream!
Mrs. C.(putting down her spoon and drinking her coffee). You areaw-fully stupid—when you want to be, my dear.
Mr. C.(rising quickly and going over to the telephone). You needn’t takemyword for it. We’ll have some one else’s opinion. (Takes down the receiver.) Hello! Give me Main 203. (Turns toMrs. C.) I’m going to talk with JoeWilliams. He’s head of the Wholesale Milk Company. (Speaking into ’phone.) Hello! Is this Joe? I’m John Clark. You see, Joe, my wife and I have had a slight dispute. She declares up and down that the milk we are using on our breakfast table is cream, and not milk at all. I say that it’smilk—no matter whether it’s in a cream-pitcher or not. She says that as long as it’s in a cream-pitcher it’s cream andnotmilk. Now, Joe, am Iright? It’s milk, because I have drunk some of it and I remember that Mrs. Clark told me this morning the milkman had forgotten to leave the cream. (Pauses a moment.) What’sthat? YouthinkI am right, but you are going to ask your wife and will call me up soon? Thankyou, Joe. (He replaces the receiver and returns to his chair.)
Mrs. C.(with a sweet smile). I am sorry, John, that you have had to call for assistance, but Mrs. Williams will, I am sure, wholly agree with me.
Mr. C.(sourly). Well, I was brought up on a farm and I ought to know the difference between milk and cream.
Mrs. C.(with a very sweet smile). I guess you were brought up on a farm all right.
Mr. C.(angrily). So wereyou! I found it out only a short time ago. (Laughing softly.) Ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. C.(mimicking him). Ha! ha! ha!ha!Now, I’mnotgoing to lose my temper, whatever you may say. Ineverget angry myself—no,never!
(The telephone rings.)
Mr. C.(hastening to the telephone).Nowwe shall see! (Takes down the receiver.) Hello! Hello, Joe. Oh, good morning, Mrs. Williams. How do you do? Yes, thank you, both my wife and I are pretty well.Whatdid you say? (Listens while she is speaking.) Is that so? It is? I understand.Whatdid you say? Oh, of coursesocially—yes—yes! No, our dispute is not serious; only a difference of opinion. As I told your husband a veryslightdifference.Thankyou for your trouble, Mrs. Williams. Will you please ask Mr. Williams to come to the telephone a moment?O! He has gone for the day? Thankyou—good-bye. (Impatiently hangs up the receiver.)
Mrs. C.(laughing heartily). Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!ha!What did I tell you, John? Didn’t Mrs. Williams agreewhollywith me?
Mr. C.(reseating himself). Yes, ofcourseshe did. I expectedthat, but Joe, I’m sure, believes that I amright. You see he didn’tdareto tell me his real opinion when his wife was there. Probably he will visit us a little later and convince you that you are wrong. But he didn’t have the courage to say so in the presence of his wife. Isn’t ittoobad, Martha, that Joe hasn’t some ofmyindependence?
Mrs. C.(a little angrily). I hope that Mr. Williams is not as stupid as you are—sometimes. (More angrily.) John, howveryobstinate you are! You know well enough thatIhave the right of it, and yet you won’t admit it.
Mr. C.(slowly stirring his coffee). After all, Martha, I think I’ll have some coffee. Will you please pass me the milk?
Mrs. C.(with considerable temper). John Clark, Ineverget angry myself,never, but certainly you do try my patience—sorely. Now, I don’t want you to call that cream milk—again!Not again!(She rises from her chair.)
Mr. C.(still stirring his coffee). Martha, will you please pass me the—milk?
Mrs. C.(angrily stamping her foot). John Clark, howdareyou!
Mr. C.(calmly). Martha, will youpleasepass me the milk!
Mrs. C.(in a furious temper, stamping her foot and then pounding upon the table). Itain’tmilk—itain’t!
Mr. C.(with mock seriousness).Martha!Itain’t! That isnotgrammatical. Oh, that terrible,terribleword—ain’t!
Mrs. C.(very furiously). I never said ain’t—never—never—never!
Mr. C.(very mournfully). You did, Martha—youdid. I heard you. You said, “It ain’t no milk!”
Mrs. C.(wildly seizing the cream-pitcher and suddenly dashing it and its contents to the floor, in view of the audience).There—darn it!
Mr. C.(rising quickly). Hold on! That is Grandmother Smith’s old cream-pitcher!
Mrs. C.(in despair). Oh,whathave I done! (She stands for a moment, looking silently at the ruins of the prized cream-pitcher, and then sinks into her chair, pulling out her handkerchief and weeping hysterically.)
Mr. C.(standing as though dazed, gazing upon the shattered pitcher.) Geewhiz! (Taking a step forward towardsMrs. C.,speaking kindly, placing his right hand gently upon her shaking shoulders.) Well, Martha, don’t feel so badly about it—it ain’t any use to “cry over spilt milk!”
Mrs. C.(suddenly rising from her chair, glaring atMr. C.). It isn’t spilt milk—it’s spiltcream!
Curtain.