ACT II

(Bell rings.)Pascoe. (Firmly.) Listen to me, my man. There's been no sort of mistake. Everything has been done that could be done. Don't you get ideas into your head. Lie down and rest. You're done up, and if you aren't careful you'll be ill. I'll communicate with Cyrus Carve. I can telephone, and while I'm about it I'll ring up the registrar too—he'll probably send a clerk round.Carve. Registrar?Pascoe. Registrar of deaths. There'll be all kinds of things to attend to. (Moving to go out.)(Bell rings again.)[34]Carve. (As if dazed.) Is that the front door bell?Pascoe. (Drily.) Quite possibly! I'll open it.(Exit.)(Carve,alone, makes a gesture of despair. Re-enterPascoewithCyrusCarve.)Pascoe. (As they enter.) Yes, very sudden, very sudden. There were three of us—a nurse, my assistant, and myself. This is Mr. Shawn, the deceased's valet.Cyrus. Morning. (Looks round at disorder of room contemptuously.) Pigstye!... My name is Cyrus Carve. I'm your late master's cousin and his only relative. You've possibly never heard of me.Carve. (Curtly.) Oh yes, I have! You got up a great quarrel when you were aged twelve, you and he.Cyrus. Your manner isn't very respectful, my friend. However you may have treated my cousin, be good enough to remember you're notmyvalet.Carve. How did you get to know about it?Cyrus. I suppose he forbade you to send for me, eh? (Pause.) Eh?Carve. (Jumping at this suggestion.) Yes.Pascoe. So that was it.[35]Cyrus. (IgnoringPascoe.) Ha! Well, since you're so curious, I saw it a quarter of an hour ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag; I was on my way to the office. (Showing paper.) Here you are!The Evening Courier.Quite a full account of the illness. You couldn't send for me, but you could chatter to some journalist.Carve. I've never spoken to a journalist in my life.Cyrus. Then how——?Pascoe. It's probably my assistant. His brother is something rather important on theCourier, and he may have telephoned to him. It's a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve.Cyrus. (Drily.) I imagine so. Where is the body?Pascoe. Upstairs. (Moving towards door.)Cyrus. Thanks. I will go alone.Pascoe. Large room at back—first floor.(ExitCyrus, L.)I think I'd prefer to leave you to yourselves now. Of course, Mr. Carve will do all that's necessary. You might give him my card, and tell him I'm at his service as regards signing the death certificate and so on. (Handing card.)Carve. (Taking card perfunctorily.) Very well. Then you're going?[36]Pascoe. Yes. (Moves away and then suddenly puts out his hand, whichCarvetakes.) Want a word of advice?Carve. I—I ought——Pascoe. If I were you I should try to get something better than valeting. It's not your line. You may have suited Ilam Carve, but you'd never suit an ordinary employer. You aren't a fool—not by any means.(Carveshrugs his shoulders.)(ExitPascoe, L.Door shuts off.)(Re-enterCyrusimmediately after the door shuts.)Carve. (To himself.) Now for it! (ToCyrus). Well?Cyrus. Well what?Carve. Recognize your cousin?Cyrus. Of course a man of forty-five isn't like a boy of twelve, but I think I may say I should have recognized him anywhere.Carve. (Taken aback.) Should you indeed. (A pause.) And so you're Cyrus, the little boy that kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray of thirty years ago.Cyrus. Look here, I fancy you and I had better come to an understanding at once. What salary did my cousin pay you for your remarkable services?Carve. What salary?[37]Cyrus. What salary?Carve. Eighty pounds a year.Cyrus. When were you last paid?Carve. I—I——Cyrus. When were you last paid?Carve. The day before yesterday.Cyrus. (Taking a note and gold from his pocket-book and pocket.) Here's seven pounds—a month's wages in lieu of notice. It's rather more than a month's wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now. (Holding out money.)Carve. But listen——Cyrus. (Commandingly.) Take it.(Carveobeys.)Pack up and be out of this house within an hour.Carve. I——Cyrus. I shall not argue.... Did your master keep his private papers and so on in England or somewhere on the Continent—what bank?Carve. What bank? He didn't keep them in any bank.Cyrus. Where did he keep them then?Carve. He kept them himself.Cyrus. What—travelling?Carve. Yes. Why not?Cyrus. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the[38]business man's mild scorn of the artist's method's.) Whose is this luggage?Carve. Mine.Cyrus. All of it?Carve. That is——Cyrus. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful.Carve. His. (Angrily, asCyrusroughly handles a box.) Now then, mind what you're about! Those are etching things.Cyrus. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this?Carve. That's a typewriter.Cyrus. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines.Carve. That was—his servant's.Cyrus. Yours, you mean?Carve. Yes, I mean mine.Cyrus. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a typewriter for?Carve. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?Cyrus. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll pitch you down the front-door steps and your things after you.Carve. I've got something to tell you——Cyrus. Silence, and answer my questions! Are his papers in this dispatch box?Carve. Yes.[39]Cyrus. Where are his keys?Carve. (Slowly drawing bunch of keys from his pocket.) Here.Cyrus. (Taking them.) So you keep his keys?Carve. Yes.Cyrus. (Opening dispatch box.) Wear his clothes too, I should say!(Carvesits down negligently and smiles.)Cyrus. (As he is examining papers in box.) What are you laughing at?Carve. I'm not laughing. I'm smiling. (Rising and looking curiously at box.) There's nothing there except lists of securities and pictures and a few oddments—passports and so on.Cyrus. There appears to be some money. I'm glad you've left that. Quite a lot, in fact. (Showing notes.)Carve. Here, steady! There's twelve thousand francs there besides some English notes. That's mine.Cyrus. Yours, eh? He was taking care of it for you, no doubt?Carve. (Hesitating.) Yes.Cyrus. When you can furnish me with his receipt for the deposit, my man, it shall be handed to you. Till then it forms part of the estate. (Looking at a packet of letters.) "Alice Rowfant."[40]Carve. And those letters are mine too.Cyrus. (Reading.) "My dearest boy"—Were you Lady Alice Rowfant's dearest boy? Anyhow, we'll burn them.Carve. So long as you burn them I don't mind.Cyrus. Indeed! (Continues to examine papers, cheque foils, etc. Then opens a document.)Carve. Oh! Isthatstill there? I thought it was destroyed.Cyrus. Do you know what it is?Carve. Yes. It's a will that was made in Venice I don't know how long ago—just after your aunt died and you had that appalling and final shindy by correspondence about the lease of this house. Everything is left for the establishment of an International Gallery of Painting and Sculpture in London, and you're the sole executor, and you get a legacy of five pounds for your trouble.Cyrus. Yes.... So I see. No doubt my cousin imagined it would annoy me.Carve. He did.Cyrus. He told you so?Carve. He said it would be one in the eye for you—and he wondered whether you'd decline the executorship.Cyrus. Well, my man, I may tell you at once that I shall not renounce probate. I never expected a penny from my cousin. I always assumed he'd do something silly with his[41]money, and I'm relieved to find it's no worse. In fact, the idea of a great public institution in London being associated with my family is rather pleasant.Carve. But he meant to destroy that will long since.Cyrus. (As he cons the will.) How do you know? Has he made a later will?Carve. No.Cyrus. Well, then! Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed. You come into eighty pounds a year under it.Carve. I was forgetting that.Cyrus. (Reading.) "I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet, courier, and factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my death."(Carvelaughs shortly.)You don't want to lose that, do you? Of course, if the term "thorough rascal" is offensive to you, you can always decline the money. (Folds up will and puts it in his pocket—Carvewalks about.) Now where's the doctor?Carve. He's left his card. There it is.[42]Cyrus. He might have waited.Carve. Yes. But he didn't. His house is only three doors off.Cyrus. (Looking at his watch.) I'll go in and see him about the certificate. Now you haven't begun to put your things together, and you've only got a bit over half an hour. In less than that time I shall be back. I shall want to look through your luggage before you leave.Carve. (Lightly.) Shall you?Cyrus. By the way, you have a latchkey? (Carvenods.) Give it me, please.(Carvesurrenders latchkey.)(Cyrusturns to go—As he is disappearing through the door, L.,Carvestarts forward.)Carve. I say.Cyrus. What now?Carve. (Subsiding weakly.) Nothing.(ExitCyrus.Sound of front door opening and of voices in hall.)(Then re-enterCyruswithJanet Cannot.)Cyrus.Thisis Mr. Albert Shawn. Shawn, a friend of yours.[43](ExitL.)Carve. (Pleased.) Oh! You!Janet. Good-morning. D'you know, I had a suspicion the other night that you must be Mr. Shawn?Carve. Had you? Well, will you sit down—er—I say (with a humorous mysterious air). What doyouthink of that chap? (Pointing in direction of hall.)Janet. Who is it?Carve. It's Mr. Cyrus Carve. The great West End auctioneer.(Sound of front-door shutting rather too vigorously.)Janet. Well, I see no reason why he should look at me as if I'd insulted him.Carve. Did he?Janet. "Good-morning," I said to him. "Excuse me, but are you Mr. Albert Shawn?" Because I wasn't sure, you know. And helooked.Carve. (After laughing.) The man is an ass.Janet. Is he?Carve. Not content with being an ass merely, he is a pompous and a stupid ass. (Laughs again to himself.) Now there is something very important that he ought to know, and he wouldn't let me tell him.[44]Janet. Really?Carve. Yes, very important. But no. He wouldn't let me tell him. And perhaps if I'd told him he wouldn't have believed me.Janet. What did he do to stop you from telling him?Carve. (At a loss, vaguely.) I don't know—Wouldn't let me.Janet. If you ask me, I should say the truth is, you didn't want to tell him.Carve. (Impressed.) Now I wonder if you're right.Janet. Well, I don't quite see how anybody canstopanybody from talking. But even if he did, he can't stop you from writing to him.Carve. No, I'm hanged if I write to him!Janet. Oh, well, that's a proof youdidn'twant to tell him.Carve. Perhaps it is. (After a burst of quiet laughter.) Pardon me. (Reflective.) I was only thinking what a terrific lark it will be.Janet. If he never does get to know?Carve. If he never does get to know. If nobody ever gets to know. (Resolved.) No. I'll keep my mouth shut.Janet. As a general rule, it's the best thing to do.Carve. You advise me to keep my mouth shut?[45]Janet. Not at all. I simply say, as a general rule it's the best thing to do. But this is no business of mine, and I'm sure I'm not inquisitive.Carve. (Solemnly.) He shall go his own way. (Pause.) And I'll—go—mine.Janet. (Calmly indifferent.) That's settled, then.Carve. (Laughs again to himself, then controls his features.) And that being settled, the first thing I have to do is to apologize for my behaviour on Tuesday night.Janet. Oh, not at all. Seeing how upset you were! And then I'm not sure whether I shouldn't have done the same thing myself in your place.Carve. Done the same yourself?Janet. Well, I may be wrong, but it occurred to me your idea was that you'd like to have a look at me before giving yourself away, as it were. Of course, I sent you my photographs, but photographs aren't much better than gravestones—for being reliable, and some folks are prejudiced against matrimonial agencies, even when they make use of them. It's natural. Now I've got no such prejudice. If you want to get married you want to get married, and there you are. It's no use pretending you don't. And there's as much chance of being happy through a matrimonial[46]agency as any other way. At least—that's whatIthink.Carve. (Collecting his wits.) Just so.Janet. You may tell me that people who go to a matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting let in. Well, people who don't go to a matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting let in, too. Besides, I shouldn't give a baby a razor for a birthday present, and I shouldn't advise a young girl to go to a matrimonial agency. But I'm not a young girl. If it's a question of the male sex, I may say that I've been there before. You understand me?Carve. Quite.Janet. Well, I think I told you pretty nearly everything important in my letter. Didn't I?Carve. Let me see now——Janet. I mean the one I sent to the office of theMatrimonial News.Carve. (Mechanically feeling in his pockets, pulling out papers and putting them back.) Where did I put it? Oh, perhaps it's in the pocket of another coat. (Goes to a coat ofShawn'shanging on inner knob of double doors, and empties all the pockets, bringing the contents, including a newspaper, to the table.)Janet. (Picking up an envelope.) Yes, that's it—I can feel the photograph. You seem to keep things in the pockets of all your coats.[47]Carve. If you knew what I've been through this last day or two——Janet. (Soothingly.) Yes, yes.Carve. I haven't had a quiet moment. Now——(Reading letter.) "Dear Sir, in reply to your advertisement, I write to you with particulars of my case. I am a widow, aged thirty-two years——"Janet. And anybody that likes can see my birth certificate. That's what I call talking.Carve. My dear lady! (Continuing to read.) "Thirty-two years. My father was a jobbing builder, well known in Putney and Wandsworth. My husband was a rent collector and estate agent. He died four years ago of appendicitis (hesitating) caught——"Janet. Caused.Carve. I beg pardon, "—caused by accidentally swallowing a bristle out of his tooth-brush, the same being discovered at the operation. I am an orphan, a widow, and have no children. In consequence I feel very lonely, and my first experience not being distasteful, indeed the reverse, I am anxious to try again, provided I can meet with a sincere helpmeet of good family. I am the owner of the above house, rated at forty-five pounds a year, in one of the nicest streets in Putney, and I have private means of some three pounds a week, from brewery shares bringing in fifteen[48]per cent. I will say nothing about my appearance, but enclose latest carte-de-visite photograph."Janet. I had it taken on purpose.Carve. "As to my tastes, I will only say that as a general rule they are quiet. If the above seems in your line, I shall be obliged if you will write and send me particulars of yourself, with photographs.—Yours truly, JANET CANNOT." Well, Mrs. Cannot, your letter is an absolute model.Janet. I suppose youdidget dozens?Carve. Well——By the way, what's this type-written thing in the envelope?Janet. (Looking at it.) It looks like a copy of your answer.Carve. Oh!Janet. If it isn't a rude question, Mr. Shawn, why do you typewrite your letters? It seems so—what shall I say?—public.Carve. (Half to himself.) Sothatsthe explanation of the typewriter.Janet. (Puzzled.) I suppose it's because you're a private secretary.Carve. (Equally puzzled.) Private secretary! I—shall we just glance through my reply? (Reads.) "My dear Mrs. Cannot, your letter inspires me with more confidence than any of the dozens of others I have received." (They look at each other, smiling.) "[49]As regards myself, I should state at once that I am and have been for many years private secretary, indeed I may say almost companion, to the celebrated painter. Mr. Ilam Carve, whose magnificent pictures you are doubtless familiar with."Janet. No, I'm not.Carve. Really. "We have been knocking about England together for longer than I care to remember, and I personally am anxious for a change. Our present existence is very expensive. I feel the need of a home and the companionship of just such a woman as yourself. Although a bachelor, I think I am not unfitted for the domestic hearth. My age is forty." That's a mistake of the typewriter.Janet. Oh!Carve. Forty-five it ought to be.Janet. Well, honestly, I shouldn't have thought it.Carve. "My age is forty-five. By a strange coincidence Mr. Carve has suggested to me that we set out for England to-morrow. At Dover I will telegraph you with a rendezvous. In great haste. Till then, my dear Mrs. Cannot, believe me," etc.Janet. You didn't send a photograph.Carve. Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing you in advance.[50]Janet. (Laughs.) Eh, Mr. Shawn! There's thousands of young gentlemen alive and kicking in London this minute that would give a great deal to be only half as good looking as you are. And so you're a bachelor?Carve. Oh, quite.Janet. Two bachelors, as you say, knocking about Europe together. (Carvelaughs quietly but heartily to himself.) By the way, how is Mr. Carve? I hope he's better.Carve. Mr. Carve?...(Suddenly stops laughing.) Oh! (Lamely, casually.) He's dead!Janet. (Stocked.) Dead? When?Carve. Early this morning.Janet. (Rising.) And us chattering away like this. Why didn't you tell me at once, Mr. Shawn?Carve. I forgot for the moment. I wasn't thinking——Janet. Forgot?Carve. (Simply and sincerely, but very upset.) Now, Mrs. Cannot, I assure you I feel that man's death. I admit I had very little affection for him—certainly not much respect—but we'd been together a long time, and his death is a shock to me. Yes, really. But I've had to think so much about my own case—and then a scene, a regular scene with Cyrus Carve. And then you coming. The fact is——[51]Janet. (Sympathetically.) The fact is, you scarcely know what you're doing, my poor Mr. Shawn. You're on wires, that's what's the matter with you—hysteria. I know what it is as well as anybody. You'll excuse me saying so, but you're no ordinary man. You're one of these highly-strung people and you ought to take care of yourself. Well, I'll go now, and if it's mutually agreeable we might perhaps meet again in a month's time—say.Carve. A month? But what am I to do with myself for a month? Do you know you're absolutely the only friend I've got in London—in England. We're never here. I'm an utter stranger. You can't leave me like that—for a month—four weeks—four Sundays. I haven't the least idea what's going to happen to me.Janet. The very best thing that can happen to you is bed. You go to bed and stop there for a couple of days. There's nothing like it.Carve. Yes, but where?Janet. Why, here of course.Carve. I've got to be out of this place in half an hour, less. The fact is, Cyrus Carve has been extremely—er—pert. He's paid me a month's salary and I'm off at once. In under thirty minutes I shall be on the streets.[52]Janet. I never liked that man. Well, then, you must go to some nice respectable boarding-house.Carve. But I don't know any nice respectable boarding-house.Janet. Oh! There are thousands and thousands in London. Look in theTelegraph.Carve. I haven't had a paper to-day.Janet. Any day will do. They're in all the papers every day. What's this? (Taking up folded dirty newspaper and opening it.) Now, let's see. Well, what about this? "A beautiful private hotel of the highest class. Luxuriously furnished. Visitors' comfort studied. Finest position in London. Cuisine a speciality. Suitable for persons of superior rank. Bathroom. Electric light. Separate tables. No irritating extras. Single rooms from two and a half guineas. 250 Queen's Gate." Quite close by! (Carvesays nothing.) Perhaps that's a bit dear. Here's another. "Nota boarding-house. A magnificent mansion. Forty bedrooms by Waring. Superb public saloons by Maple. Parisian chef. Separate tables.Fourbathrooms. Card-rooms. Billiard room. Vast lounge. Special sanitation. Young, cheerful, musical society. Bridge (small). Finest position in London. No irritating extras. Single rooms from two guineas." What about that?[53]Carve. (Shakes his head.) I don't think I should fancy it.Janet. I won't say but what two guineas a week is a lot.Carve. And I was thinking how cheap it was.Janet. (Staring.) Well, of course, if you've got money toflingabout.Carve. Upon my soul I don't know what money I have got.Janet. It'll be just as well to find out before you get into the street.Carve. Let's see. Well, there's seven pounds (showing it.) and this (pulling silver and gold from another pocket). Not much is it? Sixteen shillings and sixpence. It's true I've an annuity of eighty pounds. I was forgetting that.Janet. (Pleased.) Have you indeed?Carve. Yes. But an annuity isn't ready cash, is it?Janet. (Picking up Shawn's pocket-book.) And this? This seems rather thick.Carve. I was forgetting that too. (Opens it and takes out many notes.)Janet. My word! And you'd forgottenthat! You ought to see a doctor.Carve. (Counting.) Twenty-one fives, and ten tens. That makes two hundred and five pounds. (Half to himself.) I always knew I was a bad lot—but wheredidI collar all that[54]from? (To Janet.) I know what I shall do! I shall go to the Grand Babylon.Janet. The Grand Babylon Hotel? But it's the dearest hotel in London.Carve. In the big towns we always went to the best hotel. It's cheapest in the end.Janet. You're very persuasive, but you'll never make me believe you'll save money by staying at the Grand Babylon.Carve. (Rising and beginning to collect things—tries to fold up a pair of trousers.) Now, Mrs. Cannot, will you do me a favour?Janet. You'll spoil these trousers.Carve. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow?Janet. But I've never been in such a place in my life.Carve. Remember. You're my only friend. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow?Janet. (Timidly.) I should like to. (Suddenly.) Here, give me those trousers, do! (She takes hold of one leg,Carveretaining the other.)(EnterCyrusCarve.)Cyrus. Oh!CURTAIN.[55]ACT IISCENE IPrivate sitting-room at the Grand Babylon Hotel, Strand. Luxurious in the hotel manner. Telephone. Door, L.,leading to corridor. Door, R. (up stage), leading to bedroom. Another door (not used) leading by a passage to bathroom.Time.—About noon on the following day.Ilam CarveandJanetare talking together.Carve. I'm really delighted to see you.Janet. (Examining his features.) But surely you're not feeling very well?Carve. I'm not. Perhaps it's these sleepless nights I've had.Janet. You're shivering.Carve. I was wearing my dressing-gown. I nearly always do when I'm alone. Do you think you'd mind if I put it on again.Janet. Do you mean to say you took it off because of me? (Seizing dressing-gown firmly.) Mr. Shawn, will you oblige me by[56]getting-into thisatonce? (She helps him on with dressing-gown.) What a beauty!Carve. Yes. Cousin Cyrus thought so too. He didn't want me to bring it away. Still, I beat him onthatpoint. (Janetarranges the collar.) Do you know, you do me good.Janet. I should think so. I suppose when gentlemen live alone they're pretty nearly always unwell, as it were. If it isn't a cold, it's stomach, I expect. And truly, I'm not surprised, the way they go on! Now, will you sit down in that chair and keep your legs covered—August or no August! If you ask me, it's influenza you're sickening for. (Sound of distant orchestral.) Music?Carve. (Nodding and sitting down in easy chair.) Well, and what's the news from outside? I haven't stirred since yesterday noon.Janet. Seems to me there's no news except your Mr. Carve's death.Carve. Really! Is it so much talked about as all that?Janet. It's on all the posters—very big. All along Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square and the Strand the newspaper boys, and the newspaper old men too, are wearing it like aprons, as it were. I read theTelegraphmyself. There was nearly a page of it in theTelegraph.[57]Carve. (Staggered.) Nearly a page of it in theTelegraph!Janet. Yes, besides a leading article. Haven't you——Carve. I never read obituaries of artists in the papers.Janet. Neither do I. But I should have thoughtyouwould.Carve. Well, they make me angry. Obituaries of archbishops aren't so bad. Newspapers seem to understand archbishops. But when they begin about artists—you cannot imagine the astounding nonsense they talk.Janet. (Protesting against his heat.) Now! You're still all on wires. Why should that make you angry?Carve. What did theTelegraphsay? Did you look at it?Janet. Oh yes. It appears Mr. Carve was a very eccentric person—avoiding society and so on.Carve. (Resentful.) Eccentric! There you are! He wasn't eccentric in the least. The only society he avoided was the society of gaping fools.Janet. Well, I'm just telling you what it said. Then, let me see—what else did it say? Oh! It said the sole question was whether Mr. Carve was the greatest painter since Velasquez—is that how you pronounce it?—or[58]whether he was the greatest painter that ever lived.Carve. (Interested.) Really! It said that?Janet. (Nodding.) You ought to read it.Carve. Upon my soul I think I must. (Attempts to rise.)Janet. Now, please, don't move. What is it you want?Carve. I was only going to telephone and have the daily papers sent up.Janet. Where is the telephone?Carve. (Pointing.) There.Janet. So they've put a telephone in your room?Carve. Telephone in every room.Janet. (Going to telephone.) Can I telephone for you? I never have telephoned, and I should like to. How do you do it?Carve. Just take that thing off the hook and talk into it. (Janetgingerly obeys.) It won't explode.Janet. What am I to say?Carve. Tell them to send me up the daily papers at once.Janet. All?Carve. Yes.Janet. But will they?Carve. Certainly.Janet. (Into telephone.) Please will you send up all the daily papers at once.[59]Carve. Thanks very much. Now you can hang it up again.Janet. So this is the Grand Babylon Hotel? Well it's a queer place. (Her eyes rove round the room.)Carve. What are you looking for?Janet. To speak plainly, I was looking for the bed. I must say I was rather surprised when the young man at the desk said I was to go up to your room.... But really, every thing's so nicely arranged.... I suppose it's one of those folding beds that turn into bookcases and things?Carve. (Laughs.) No. This is my sitting-room.Janet. Your sitting-room? (Pointing to door, R.) Then that's the bedroom?Carve. Yes.Janet. (Pointing to another door.) And what's that?Carve. That's one way to my bathroom. In a big hotel I always take a suite, you know. It's so much more comfortable.Janet. Isn't it rather expensive?Carve. To tell you the truth, I didn't ask the price.

(Bell rings.)

Pascoe. (Firmly.) Listen to me, my man. There's been no sort of mistake. Everything has been done that could be done. Don't you get ideas into your head. Lie down and rest. You're done up, and if you aren't careful you'll be ill. I'll communicate with Cyrus Carve. I can telephone, and while I'm about it I'll ring up the registrar too—he'll probably send a clerk round.

Carve. Registrar?

Pascoe. Registrar of deaths. There'll be all kinds of things to attend to. (Moving to go out.)

(Bell rings again.)

Carve. (As if dazed.) Is that the front door bell?

Pascoe. (Drily.) Quite possibly! I'll open it.

(Exit.)(Carve,alone, makes a gesture of despair. Re-enterPascoewithCyrusCarve.)

(Exit.)

(Carve,alone, makes a gesture of despair. Re-enterPascoewithCyrusCarve.)

Pascoe. (As they enter.) Yes, very sudden, very sudden. There were three of us—a nurse, my assistant, and myself. This is Mr. Shawn, the deceased's valet.

Cyrus. Morning. (Looks round at disorder of room contemptuously.) Pigstye!... My name is Cyrus Carve. I'm your late master's cousin and his only relative. You've possibly never heard of me.

Carve. (Curtly.) Oh yes, I have! You got up a great quarrel when you were aged twelve, you and he.

Cyrus. Your manner isn't very respectful, my friend. However you may have treated my cousin, be good enough to remember you're notmyvalet.

Carve. How did you get to know about it?

Cyrus. I suppose he forbade you to send for me, eh? (Pause.) Eh?

Carve. (Jumping at this suggestion.) Yes.

Pascoe. So that was it.

[35]Cyrus. (IgnoringPascoe.) Ha! Well, since you're so curious, I saw it a quarter of an hour ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag; I was on my way to the office. (Showing paper.) Here you are!The Evening Courier.Quite a full account of the illness. You couldn't send for me, but you could chatter to some journalist.

Carve. I've never spoken to a journalist in my life.

Cyrus. Then how——?

Pascoe. It's probably my assistant. His brother is something rather important on theCourier, and he may have telephoned to him. It's a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve.

Cyrus. (Drily.) I imagine so. Where is the body?

Pascoe. Upstairs. (Moving towards door.)

Cyrus. Thanks. I will go alone.

Pascoe. Large room at back—first floor.

(ExitCyrus, L.)

I think I'd prefer to leave you to yourselves now. Of course, Mr. Carve will do all that's necessary. You might give him my card, and tell him I'm at his service as regards signing the death certificate and so on. (Handing card.)

Carve. (Taking card perfunctorily.) Very well. Then you're going?[36]Pascoe. Yes. (Moves away and then suddenly puts out his hand, whichCarvetakes.) Want a word of advice?

Carve. I—I ought——

Pascoe. If I were you I should try to get something better than valeting. It's not your line. You may have suited Ilam Carve, but you'd never suit an ordinary employer. You aren't a fool—not by any means.

(Carveshrugs his shoulders.)(ExitPascoe, L.Door shuts off.)(Re-enterCyrusimmediately after the door shuts.)

(Carveshrugs his shoulders.)

(ExitPascoe, L.Door shuts off.)

(Re-enterCyrusimmediately after the door shuts.)

Carve. (To himself.) Now for it! (ToCyrus). Well?

Cyrus. Well what?

Carve. Recognize your cousin?

Cyrus. Of course a man of forty-five isn't like a boy of twelve, but I think I may say I should have recognized him anywhere.

Carve. (Taken aback.) Should you indeed. (A pause.) And so you're Cyrus, the little boy that kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray of thirty years ago.

Cyrus. Look here, I fancy you and I had better come to an understanding at once. What salary did my cousin pay you for your remarkable services?

Carve. What salary?

Cyrus. What salary?

Carve. Eighty pounds a year.

Cyrus. When were you last paid?

Carve. I—I——

Cyrus. When were you last paid?

Carve. The day before yesterday.

Cyrus. (Taking a note and gold from his pocket-book and pocket.) Here's seven pounds—a month's wages in lieu of notice. It's rather more than a month's wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now. (Holding out money.)

Carve. But listen——

Cyrus. (Commandingly.) Take it.

(Carveobeys.)

Pack up and be out of this house within an hour.

Carve. I——

Cyrus. I shall not argue.... Did your master keep his private papers and so on in England or somewhere on the Continent—what bank?

Carve. What bank? He didn't keep them in any bank.

Cyrus. Where did he keep them then?

Carve. He kept them himself.

Cyrus. What—travelling?

Carve. Yes. Why not?

Cyrus. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the[38]business man's mild scorn of the artist's method's.) Whose is this luggage?

Carve. Mine.

Cyrus. All of it?

Carve. That is——

Cyrus. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful.

Carve. His. (Angrily, asCyrusroughly handles a box.) Now then, mind what you're about! Those are etching things.

Cyrus. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this?

Carve. That's a typewriter.

Cyrus. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines.

Carve. That was—his servant's.

Cyrus. Yours, you mean?

Carve. Yes, I mean mine.

Cyrus. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a typewriter for?

Carve. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?

Cyrus. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll pitch you down the front-door steps and your things after you.

Carve. I've got something to tell you——

Cyrus. Silence, and answer my questions! Are his papers in this dispatch box?

Carve. Yes.

[39]Cyrus. Where are his keys?

Carve. (Slowly drawing bunch of keys from his pocket.) Here.

Cyrus. (Taking them.) So you keep his keys?

Carve. Yes.

Cyrus. (Opening dispatch box.) Wear his clothes too, I should say!

(Carvesits down negligently and smiles.)

Cyrus. (As he is examining papers in box.) What are you laughing at?

Carve. I'm not laughing. I'm smiling. (Rising and looking curiously at box.) There's nothing there except lists of securities and pictures and a few oddments—passports and so on.

Cyrus. There appears to be some money. I'm glad you've left that. Quite a lot, in fact. (Showing notes.)

Carve. Here, steady! There's twelve thousand francs there besides some English notes. That's mine.

Cyrus. Yours, eh? He was taking care of it for you, no doubt?

Carve. (Hesitating.) Yes.

Cyrus. When you can furnish me with his receipt for the deposit, my man, it shall be handed to you. Till then it forms part of the estate. (Looking at a packet of letters.) "Alice Rowfant."

Carve. And those letters are mine too.

Cyrus. (Reading.) "My dearest boy"—Were you Lady Alice Rowfant's dearest boy? Anyhow, we'll burn them.

Carve. So long as you burn them I don't mind.

Cyrus. Indeed! (Continues to examine papers, cheque foils, etc. Then opens a document.)

Carve. Oh! Isthatstill there? I thought it was destroyed.

Cyrus. Do you know what it is?

Carve. Yes. It's a will that was made in Venice I don't know how long ago—just after your aunt died and you had that appalling and final shindy by correspondence about the lease of this house. Everything is left for the establishment of an International Gallery of Painting and Sculpture in London, and you're the sole executor, and you get a legacy of five pounds for your trouble.

Cyrus. Yes.... So I see. No doubt my cousin imagined it would annoy me.

Carve. He did.

Cyrus. He told you so?

Carve. He said it would be one in the eye for you—and he wondered whether you'd decline the executorship.

Cyrus. Well, my man, I may tell you at once that I shall not renounce probate. I never expected a penny from my cousin. I always assumed he'd do something silly with his[41]money, and I'm relieved to find it's no worse. In fact, the idea of a great public institution in London being associated with my family is rather pleasant.

Carve. But he meant to destroy that will long since.

Cyrus. (As he cons the will.) How do you know? Has he made a later will?

Carve. No.

Cyrus. Well, then! Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed. You come into eighty pounds a year under it.

Carve. I was forgetting that.

Cyrus. (Reading.) "I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet, courier, and factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my death."

(Carvelaughs shortly.)

You don't want to lose that, do you? Of course, if the term "thorough rascal" is offensive to you, you can always decline the money. (Folds up will and puts it in his pocket—Carvewalks about.) Now where's the doctor?

Carve. He's left his card. There it is.

[42]Cyrus. He might have waited.

Carve. Yes. But he didn't. His house is only three doors off.

Cyrus. (Looking at his watch.) I'll go in and see him about the certificate. Now you haven't begun to put your things together, and you've only got a bit over half an hour. In less than that time I shall be back. I shall want to look through your luggage before you leave.

Carve. (Lightly.) Shall you?

Cyrus. By the way, you have a latchkey? (Carvenods.) Give it me, please.

(Carvesurrenders latchkey.)(Cyrusturns to go—As he is disappearing through the door, L.,Carvestarts forward.)

(Carvesurrenders latchkey.)

(Cyrusturns to go—As he is disappearing through the door, L.,Carvestarts forward.)

Carve. I say.

Cyrus. What now?

Carve. (Subsiding weakly.) Nothing.

(ExitCyrus.Sound of front door opening and of voices in hall.)(Then re-enterCyruswithJanet Cannot.)

(ExitCyrus.Sound of front door opening and of voices in hall.)

(Then re-enterCyruswithJanet Cannot.)

Cyrus.Thisis Mr. Albert Shawn. Shawn, a friend of yours.

(ExitL.)

Carve. (Pleased.) Oh! You!

Janet. Good-morning. D'you know, I had a suspicion the other night that you must be Mr. Shawn?

Carve. Had you? Well, will you sit down—er—I say (with a humorous mysterious air). What doyouthink of that chap? (Pointing in direction of hall.)

Janet. Who is it?

Carve. It's Mr. Cyrus Carve. The great West End auctioneer.

(Sound of front-door shutting rather too vigorously.)

Janet. Well, I see no reason why he should look at me as if I'd insulted him.

Carve. Did he?

Janet. "Good-morning," I said to him. "Excuse me, but are you Mr. Albert Shawn?" Because I wasn't sure, you know. And helooked.

Carve. (After laughing.) The man is an ass.

Janet. Is he?

Carve. Not content with being an ass merely, he is a pompous and a stupid ass. (Laughs again to himself.) Now there is something very important that he ought to know, and he wouldn't let me tell him.

Janet. Really?

Carve. Yes, very important. But no. He wouldn't let me tell him. And perhaps if I'd told him he wouldn't have believed me.

Janet. What did he do to stop you from telling him?

Carve. (At a loss, vaguely.) I don't know—Wouldn't let me.

Janet. If you ask me, I should say the truth is, you didn't want to tell him.

Carve. (Impressed.) Now I wonder if you're right.

Janet. Well, I don't quite see how anybody canstopanybody from talking. But even if he did, he can't stop you from writing to him.

Carve. No, I'm hanged if I write to him!

Janet. Oh, well, that's a proof youdidn'twant to tell him.

Carve. Perhaps it is. (After a burst of quiet laughter.) Pardon me. (Reflective.) I was only thinking what a terrific lark it will be.

Janet. If he never does get to know?

Carve. If he never does get to know. If nobody ever gets to know. (Resolved.) No. I'll keep my mouth shut.

Janet. As a general rule, it's the best thing to do.

Carve. You advise me to keep my mouth shut?

[45]Janet. Not at all. I simply say, as a general rule it's the best thing to do. But this is no business of mine, and I'm sure I'm not inquisitive.

Carve. (Solemnly.) He shall go his own way. (Pause.) And I'll—go—mine.

Janet. (Calmly indifferent.) That's settled, then.

Carve. (Laughs again to himself, then controls his features.) And that being settled, the first thing I have to do is to apologize for my behaviour on Tuesday night.

Janet. Oh, not at all. Seeing how upset you were! And then I'm not sure whether I shouldn't have done the same thing myself in your place.

Carve. Done the same yourself?

Janet. Well, I may be wrong, but it occurred to me your idea was that you'd like to have a look at me before giving yourself away, as it were. Of course, I sent you my photographs, but photographs aren't much better than gravestones—for being reliable, and some folks are prejudiced against matrimonial agencies, even when they make use of them. It's natural. Now I've got no such prejudice. If you want to get married you want to get married, and there you are. It's no use pretending you don't. And there's as much chance of being happy through a matrimonial[46]agency as any other way. At least—that's whatIthink.

Carve. (Collecting his wits.) Just so.

Janet. You may tell me that people who go to a matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting let in. Well, people who don't go to a matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting let in, too. Besides, I shouldn't give a baby a razor for a birthday present, and I shouldn't advise a young girl to go to a matrimonial agency. But I'm not a young girl. If it's a question of the male sex, I may say that I've been there before. You understand me?

Carve. Quite.

Janet. Well, I think I told you pretty nearly everything important in my letter. Didn't I?

Carve. Let me see now——

Janet. I mean the one I sent to the office of theMatrimonial News.

Carve. (Mechanically feeling in his pockets, pulling out papers and putting them back.) Where did I put it? Oh, perhaps it's in the pocket of another coat. (Goes to a coat ofShawn'shanging on inner knob of double doors, and empties all the pockets, bringing the contents, including a newspaper, to the table.)

Janet. (Picking up an envelope.) Yes, that's it—I can feel the photograph. You seem to keep things in the pockets of all your coats.

Carve. If you knew what I've been through this last day or two——

Janet. (Soothingly.) Yes, yes.

Carve. I haven't had a quiet moment. Now——(Reading letter.) "Dear Sir, in reply to your advertisement, I write to you with particulars of my case. I am a widow, aged thirty-two years——"

Janet. And anybody that likes can see my birth certificate. That's what I call talking.

Carve. My dear lady! (Continuing to read.) "Thirty-two years. My father was a jobbing builder, well known in Putney and Wandsworth. My husband was a rent collector and estate agent. He died four years ago of appendicitis (hesitating) caught——"

Janet. Caused.

Carve. I beg pardon, "—caused by accidentally swallowing a bristle out of his tooth-brush, the same being discovered at the operation. I am an orphan, a widow, and have no children. In consequence I feel very lonely, and my first experience not being distasteful, indeed the reverse, I am anxious to try again, provided I can meet with a sincere helpmeet of good family. I am the owner of the above house, rated at forty-five pounds a year, in one of the nicest streets in Putney, and I have private means of some three pounds a week, from brewery shares bringing in fifteen[48]per cent. I will say nothing about my appearance, but enclose latest carte-de-visite photograph."

Janet. I had it taken on purpose.

Carve. "As to my tastes, I will only say that as a general rule they are quiet. If the above seems in your line, I shall be obliged if you will write and send me particulars of yourself, with photographs.—Yours truly, JANET CANNOT." Well, Mrs. Cannot, your letter is an absolute model.

Janet. I suppose youdidget dozens?

Carve. Well——By the way, what's this type-written thing in the envelope?

Janet. (Looking at it.) It looks like a copy of your answer.

Carve. Oh!

Janet. If it isn't a rude question, Mr. Shawn, why do you typewrite your letters? It seems so—what shall I say?—public.

Carve. (Half to himself.) Sothatsthe explanation of the typewriter.

Janet. (Puzzled.) I suppose it's because you're a private secretary.

Carve. (Equally puzzled.) Private secretary! I—shall we just glance through my reply? (Reads.) "My dear Mrs. Cannot, your letter inspires me with more confidence than any of the dozens of others I have received." (They look at each other, smiling.) "[49]As regards myself, I should state at once that I am and have been for many years private secretary, indeed I may say almost companion, to the celebrated painter. Mr. Ilam Carve, whose magnificent pictures you are doubtless familiar with."

Janet. No, I'm not.

Carve. Really. "We have been knocking about England together for longer than I care to remember, and I personally am anxious for a change. Our present existence is very expensive. I feel the need of a home and the companionship of just such a woman as yourself. Although a bachelor, I think I am not unfitted for the domestic hearth. My age is forty." That's a mistake of the typewriter.

Janet. Oh!

Carve. Forty-five it ought to be.

Janet. Well, honestly, I shouldn't have thought it.

Carve. "My age is forty-five. By a strange coincidence Mr. Carve has suggested to me that we set out for England to-morrow. At Dover I will telegraph you with a rendezvous. In great haste. Till then, my dear Mrs. Cannot, believe me," etc.

Janet. You didn't send a photograph.

Carve. Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing you in advance.

[50]Janet. (Laughs.) Eh, Mr. Shawn! There's thousands of young gentlemen alive and kicking in London this minute that would give a great deal to be only half as good looking as you are. And so you're a bachelor?

Carve. Oh, quite.

Janet. Two bachelors, as you say, knocking about Europe together. (Carvelaughs quietly but heartily to himself.) By the way, how is Mr. Carve? I hope he's better.

Carve. Mr. Carve?...(Suddenly stops laughing.) Oh! (Lamely, casually.) He's dead!

Janet. (Stocked.) Dead? When?

Carve. Early this morning.

Janet. (Rising.) And us chattering away like this. Why didn't you tell me at once, Mr. Shawn?

Carve. I forgot for the moment. I wasn't thinking——

Janet. Forgot?

Carve. (Simply and sincerely, but very upset.) Now, Mrs. Cannot, I assure you I feel that man's death. I admit I had very little affection for him—certainly not much respect—but we'd been together a long time, and his death is a shock to me. Yes, really. But I've had to think so much about my own case—and then a scene, a regular scene with Cyrus Carve. And then you coming. The fact is——

[51]Janet. (Sympathetically.) The fact is, you scarcely know what you're doing, my poor Mr. Shawn. You're on wires, that's what's the matter with you—hysteria. I know what it is as well as anybody. You'll excuse me saying so, but you're no ordinary man. You're one of these highly-strung people and you ought to take care of yourself. Well, I'll go now, and if it's mutually agreeable we might perhaps meet again in a month's time—say.

Carve. A month? But what am I to do with myself for a month? Do you know you're absolutely the only friend I've got in London—in England. We're never here. I'm an utter stranger. You can't leave me like that—for a month—four weeks—four Sundays. I haven't the least idea what's going to happen to me.

Janet. The very best thing that can happen to you is bed. You go to bed and stop there for a couple of days. There's nothing like it.

Carve. Yes, but where?

Janet. Why, here of course.

Carve. I've got to be out of this place in half an hour, less. The fact is, Cyrus Carve has been extremely—er—pert. He's paid me a month's salary and I'm off at once. In under thirty minutes I shall be on the streets.

Janet. I never liked that man. Well, then, you must go to some nice respectable boarding-house.

Carve. But I don't know any nice respectable boarding-house.

Janet. Oh! There are thousands and thousands in London. Look in theTelegraph.

Carve. I haven't had a paper to-day.

Janet. Any day will do. They're in all the papers every day. What's this? (Taking up folded dirty newspaper and opening it.) Now, let's see. Well, what about this? "A beautiful private hotel of the highest class. Luxuriously furnished. Visitors' comfort studied. Finest position in London. Cuisine a speciality. Suitable for persons of superior rank. Bathroom. Electric light. Separate tables. No irritating extras. Single rooms from two and a half guineas. 250 Queen's Gate." Quite close by! (Carvesays nothing.) Perhaps that's a bit dear. Here's another. "Nota boarding-house. A magnificent mansion. Forty bedrooms by Waring. Superb public saloons by Maple. Parisian chef. Separate tables.Fourbathrooms. Card-rooms. Billiard room. Vast lounge. Special sanitation. Young, cheerful, musical society. Bridge (small). Finest position in London. No irritating extras. Single rooms from two guineas." What about that?

Carve. (Shakes his head.) I don't think I should fancy it.

Janet. I won't say but what two guineas a week is a lot.

Carve. And I was thinking how cheap it was.

Janet. (Staring.) Well, of course, if you've got money toflingabout.

Carve. Upon my soul I don't know what money I have got.

Janet. It'll be just as well to find out before you get into the street.

Carve. Let's see. Well, there's seven pounds (showing it.) and this (pulling silver and gold from another pocket). Not much is it? Sixteen shillings and sixpence. It's true I've an annuity of eighty pounds. I was forgetting that.

Janet. (Pleased.) Have you indeed?

Carve. Yes. But an annuity isn't ready cash, is it?

Janet. (Picking up Shawn's pocket-book.) And this? This seems rather thick.

Carve. I was forgetting that too. (Opens it and takes out many notes.)

Janet. My word! And you'd forgottenthat! You ought to see a doctor.

Carve. (Counting.) Twenty-one fives, and ten tens. That makes two hundred and five pounds. (Half to himself.) I always knew I was a bad lot—but wheredidI collar all that[54]from? (To Janet.) I know what I shall do! I shall go to the Grand Babylon.

Janet. The Grand Babylon Hotel? But it's the dearest hotel in London.

Carve. In the big towns we always went to the best hotel. It's cheapest in the end.

Janet. You're very persuasive, but you'll never make me believe you'll save money by staying at the Grand Babylon.

Carve. (Rising and beginning to collect things—tries to fold up a pair of trousers.) Now, Mrs. Cannot, will you do me a favour?

Janet. You'll spoil these trousers.

Carve. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow?

Janet. But I've never been in such a place in my life.

Carve. Remember. You're my only friend. Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand Babylon to-morrow?

Janet. (Timidly.) I should like to. (Suddenly.) Here, give me those trousers, do! (She takes hold of one leg,Carveretaining the other.)

Cyrus. Oh!

CURTAIN.

Private sitting-room at the Grand Babylon Hotel, Strand. Luxurious in the hotel manner. Telephone. Door, L.,leading to corridor. Door, R. (up stage), leading to bedroom. Another door (not used) leading by a passage to bathroom.

Time.—About noon on the following day.

Ilam CarveandJanetare talking together.

Carve. I'm really delighted to see you.

Janet. (Examining his features.) But surely you're not feeling very well?

Carve. I'm not. Perhaps it's these sleepless nights I've had.

Janet. You're shivering.

Carve. I was wearing my dressing-gown. I nearly always do when I'm alone. Do you think you'd mind if I put it on again.

Janet. Do you mean to say you took it off because of me? (Seizing dressing-gown firmly.) Mr. Shawn, will you oblige me by[56]getting-into thisatonce? (She helps him on with dressing-gown.) What a beauty!

Carve. Yes. Cousin Cyrus thought so too. He didn't want me to bring it away. Still, I beat him onthatpoint. (Janetarranges the collar.) Do you know, you do me good.

Janet. I should think so. I suppose when gentlemen live alone they're pretty nearly always unwell, as it were. If it isn't a cold, it's stomach, I expect. And truly, I'm not surprised, the way they go on! Now, will you sit down in that chair and keep your legs covered—August or no August! If you ask me, it's influenza you're sickening for. (Sound of distant orchestral.) Music?

Carve. (Nodding and sitting down in easy chair.) Well, and what's the news from outside? I haven't stirred since yesterday noon.

Janet. Seems to me there's no news except your Mr. Carve's death.

Carve. Really! Is it so much talked about as all that?

Janet. It's on all the posters—very big. All along Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square and the Strand the newspaper boys, and the newspaper old men too, are wearing it like aprons, as it were. I read theTelegraphmyself. There was nearly a page of it in theTelegraph.

Carve. (Staggered.) Nearly a page of it in theTelegraph!

Janet. Yes, besides a leading article. Haven't you——

Carve. I never read obituaries of artists in the papers.

Janet. Neither do I. But I should have thoughtyouwould.

Carve. Well, they make me angry. Obituaries of archbishops aren't so bad. Newspapers seem to understand archbishops. But when they begin about artists—you cannot imagine the astounding nonsense they talk.

Janet. (Protesting against his heat.) Now! You're still all on wires. Why should that make you angry?

Carve. What did theTelegraphsay? Did you look at it?

Janet. Oh yes. It appears Mr. Carve was a very eccentric person—avoiding society and so on.

Carve. (Resentful.) Eccentric! There you are! He wasn't eccentric in the least. The only society he avoided was the society of gaping fools.

Janet. Well, I'm just telling you what it said. Then, let me see—what else did it say? Oh! It said the sole question was whether Mr. Carve was the greatest painter since Velasquez—is that how you pronounce it?—or[58]whether he was the greatest painter that ever lived.

Carve. (Interested.) Really! It said that?

Janet. (Nodding.) You ought to read it.

Carve. Upon my soul I think I must. (Attempts to rise.)

Janet. Now, please, don't move. What is it you want?

Carve. I was only going to telephone and have the daily papers sent up.

Janet. Where is the telephone?

Carve. (Pointing.) There.

Janet. So they've put a telephone in your room?

Carve. Telephone in every room.

Janet. (Going to telephone.) Can I telephone for you? I never have telephoned, and I should like to. How do you do it?

Carve. Just take that thing off the hook and talk into it. (Janetgingerly obeys.) It won't explode.

Janet. What am I to say?

Carve. Tell them to send me up the daily papers at once.

Janet. All?

Carve. Yes.

Janet. But will they?

Carve. Certainly.

Janet. (Into telephone.) Please will you send up all the daily papers at once.

[59]Carve. Thanks very much. Now you can hang it up again.

Janet. So this is the Grand Babylon Hotel? Well it's a queer place. (Her eyes rove round the room.)

Carve. What are you looking for?

Janet. To speak plainly, I was looking for the bed. I must say I was rather surprised when the young man at the desk said I was to go up to your room.... But really, every thing's so nicely arranged.... I suppose it's one of those folding beds that turn into bookcases and things?

Carve. (Laughs.) No. This is my sitting-room.

Janet. Your sitting-room? (Pointing to door, R.) Then that's the bedroom?

Carve. Yes.

Janet. (Pointing to another door.) And what's that?

Carve. That's one way to my bathroom. In a big hotel I always take a suite, you know. It's so much more comfortable.

Janet. Isn't it rather expensive?

Carve. To tell you the truth, I didn't ask the price.

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