Parbury.[ToMiss Woodwardin a low voice.] I think I can finish the article in three sentences. Take your notes into the other room; I’ll join you in a moment.[Miss Woodwardgathers her notes and exitsR.]Mrs. Parbury.[Pouring out a fresh cup of tea forGunning.] But of course it’s not in the nature of things that college friendships, however strong, can last always. Time estranges, doesn’t it, Mr. Gunning, and fate drives people into different—well, different ways of life, doesn’t it? Some men marry soon. Are you married, Mr. Gunning?Gunning.Alas, no, Mrs. Parbury!Parbury.He has too much respect for your sex, dear. Forgive me for three minutes.[ExitParbury,R.Mrs. Parbury.Not married! Well, I should have thought——Gunning.That I’m old enough to know better. I admit it.[SitsR.C.Mrs. Parbury.Well, I was going to say that in marriage a man changes so much. He becomes more—more——Gunning.[Gently.] Respectable?Mrs. Parbury.Well, I wasn’t going to say quite that; though, as you suggest it, no doubt it is true. I was going to say more responsible. He enters into a broader, a fuller life; he gains in nobility, don’t you think?Gunning.[Amused.] Oh, no doubt Clement has improved enormously!Mrs. Parbury.I’m so glad you recognise that. You may smoke, Mr. Gunning, if you care to.Gunning.Thank you. I’ll steal one of Clement’s cigarettes if I may?[Takes cigarette from box on desk.Mrs. Parbury.Of course Clement was always good and strong and clever. It only wanted marriage to—to——Gunning.To perfect him!Mrs. Parbury.Well, I was going to say to complete him; but it comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?Gunning.Quite, quite!Mrs. Parbury.I found my happiness when I married Clement.Gunning.You had been looking for it?Mrs. Parbury.Of course; isn’t that every woman’s duty?Gunning.Yes, yes; and every man’s?Mrs. Parbury.[Less confidently.] Well, yes, I should think so.Gunning.And one’s happiness once found is worth fighting for?Mrs. Parbury.[Firmly.] Worth fighting very hard for!Gunning.[Drily.] Of course. [Aside.] Poor Burleigh![Lights cigarette.Mrs. Parbury.You, I suppose, have never met a woman who could make you happy?Gunning.I have never met a woman whom I was sure of being able to make happy.Mrs. Parbury.[Slightly embarrassed.] Oh!Gunning.And, anyway, the state of marriage has always appeared to me to be a state of warfare.Mrs. Parbury.Mr. Gunning, you little know——Gunning.I admit the case of you and Clement to be an exceptional one. I’m talking of ordinary cases—the average marriage; there you will find, according to my observation, an endless war—a war of self-interests, a war of opposing emotions, a war of irreconcilable nervous organisations——Mrs. Parbury.Oh, Mr. Gunning!Gunning.Viewed from the hill-tops rather a pitiful sort of war, in which can be won neither the full joys of love nor the complete glories of battle.Mrs. Parbury.Oh, Mr. Gunning!Gunning.I remain single, Mrs. Parbury, quite without happiness—except in the reflection that I am neither an oppressor exercising a daily tyranny, nor a slave rightly struggling to be free.Mrs. Parbury.Of course I don’t in the least agree with you. [The telephone bell rings.] [Rising.] There’s some oneon the telephone—forgive me. [Goes to telephone box and puts the communicator to her ear.] Are you there?—yes—who are you?—the article—yes—no, you can’t have it to-day—no, it hasn’t a million to one chance of being finished. [ToGunning,with a smile.] That’s Clement’s slang, not mine. [Again into telephone.] What?EnterParburyandMiss Woodward,R.I say it hasn’t a million to one chance of being finished.Parbury.What? Who is it?Mrs. Parbury.It’s theSaturday Sentinel.Parbury.But, my dear, the article is finished. [Rushes to telephone.] [Miss WoodwardandGunningare laughing secretly.Mrs. ParburystandsC.,rather confused.] [At telephone.] Hullo! Hullo! Are you there? [Rings violently.] Hullo—oh! is that you, Jackson? . . . what’s the matter? [Rather a long pause. He smiles while listening.] No, no, not at all, my dear chap. What was said was, ‘It’s a million to one you’ll have the copy in half-an-hour’—eh?—yes, those were the very words . . . no, quite a mistake, you don’t listen properly. A messenger has just gone off in a cab with it. What? Yes. [Laughs.] All right! Good-bye!Mrs. Parbury.[SeeingMiss Woodwardlaughing.] I really don’t know what there is to laugh at, Miss Woodward.Miss Woodward.I was only smiling at the messenger in the cab.[Folds MS. and puts it in envelope.Parbury.Yes, send some one at once, please, Miss Woodward.[ExitMiss Woodward,R.V.E.Mrs. Parbury.It wasn’t my fault, dear. You know you did use those words.Parbury.My fault entirely. [Aside toGunning.] Have you told her?Gunning.What?Parbury.About the yachting?Gunning.Why, of course not. That’s your affair, my dear fellow.Parbury.[His hand onGunning’sshoulder.] Mabel, dear, we’re going yachting for a few days. I think I want a little change.Mrs. Parbury.[Coming towards them, brightly.] Oh, what a good idea! When do we go? [ParburyandGunninglook at each other.] Are you coming, Mr. Gunning?[ParburypressesGunningforward.Gunninglooks round atParburyreproachfully.Parburygoes up stage.Gunning.[Embarrassed.] Well, it’s my yacht, Mrs. Parbury, but she’s very small—only a little tub of a thing; and— [Looks at his watch.] By Jove! I’ll never be able to dress and get back for dinner if I don’t hurry. [Gets his hat and gloves,L.Goes up quickly.] I need only sayau revoir;don’t trouble, Clement, I’ll find my way out—au revoir![ExitGunning,L.[Mrs. Parbury,who is puzzled, sits on sofa.Parbury.[Calling afterGunning.] Dinner at eight, remember.Gunning.[Outside.] All right!Parbury.[Shuts the door.] Capital fellow, George Gunning![Comes to back of sofa.Mrs. Parbury.What does he mean by a little tub of a thing? Surely we’re not——Parbury.No, dear, certainly not. You’re quite right. I wouldn’t think of letting you run any risks.Mrs. Parbury.Then we’re not going?Parbury.No, dear; that is to say, Gunning and I are going.Mrs. Parbury.[Rising, aghast.] Without me?Parbury.Only for a few days, of course.[Laughing feebly.Mrs. Parbury.You are not serious?Parbury.Quite![His laugh becomes feebler.Mrs. Parbury.But—but you never go away without me!Parbury.I haven’t hitherto, but——Mrs. Parbury.Well?[Appears about to cry.Parbury.I’ve been working very hard, you know, lately. I feel I want a change.Mrs. Parbury.[Tearfully.] It doesn’t occur to you that I might want a change.Parbury.Well, have one, dear. Aunt Martha would be delighted to have you at Oaklands.Mrs. Parbury.I don’t want to go to Aunt Martha. How would you like to go to Aunt Martha?Parbury.[Suppressing a groan.] What is it youdowant?Mrs. Parbury.[Quickly.] You! I want to be with you! It’s very simple—it’s not asking very much. If you don’t like my being with you, why did you marry me?[Taking out her handkerchief.Parbury.Now, dear, please don’t cry! [Aside.] If she does, I’m done for! [Aloud.] It’s only common sense that you can’t go knocking about with a couple of men in a tub of a boat.Mrs. Parbury.Of course I quite know now that you don’t love me.[Bursts into tears. Sits on sofa.Parbury.[With real irritation.] Oh, damn it! [Goes up, but turns quickly and comes down to her.] ’Pon my soul, you make me almost hate——Mrs. Parbury.Of course you hate me. Your old friend has done that for me. You are breaking my heart!Parbury.[Who has recovered control of his temper and resumed his natural bantering tone.] Not at all, dear. [Sits at his desk and affects to be busy.] I was only going to say that I hated—now, what the deuce was it I hated?—oh, I know—to see a woman cry. I do think a woman is wise who does her crying in private,and yet—I wonder—they know best—millions to one they know best. I must write something about it.Mrs. Parbury.[Rises, goes to top of table,R.She is wiping her eyes, her back to him.] Of course, you’re going all the same?Parbury.[Affecting great pre-occupation.] Going? Going where?Mrs. Parbury.With Mr. Gunning.[Pause. She continues to cry gently.Parbury.Gunning—Gunning!—who’s Gunning? Oh—George—yachting, you mean! Not I! I’m staying here.Mrs. Parbury.[Comes towards him gladly, her arms extended.] Clement!Parbury.Eh? Oh, forgive me for a few minutes.[Writes.Mrs. Parbury.[Reproachfully.] I was only going to kiss you.Parbury.[Writing.] All right, dear—presently—presently, there’s a dear girl! [Mrs. Parburyhas a slow silent exit, looking back at him.] [He doesn’t look up, but goes on writing. When the door closes, he puts down his pen.] Oh, the tyranny of it! The tyranny of it![Slow Curtain.END OF ACT I.ACT IIScene.—The same as Act I. Evening after dinner the same day. The room is lighted with lamps, but as it is a still warm evening, the curtains are not drawn over the glass door which leads into the garden and is open.[EnterEvans,L.He places cigars and cigarettes on occasional table, and lights a small spirit cigar-lamp.[Exit.]Voices of ladies and a ripple of laughter heard from the drawing-room, and for a moment the sound made by fingers running lightly and irresponsibly over the keys of the piano. EnterColonel Armitage,followed byGunningandParbury.Armitagegoes to mantelpiece.Gunningselects the easiest chair in the room.Parburygoes to occasional table.Armitageis a well-preserved man of sixty-five, very carefully dressed—something of an elderly dandy.Parbury.Cigarette or cigar, George?Gunning.Thanks, I have a cigarette.[Takes one from his case and lights it.Parbury.Colonel?Colonel.Thank you, I’ll take a cigar. I think, however, I’ll—er—smoke it in the garden. Mabel’s limited appreciation of tobacco——Parbury.Oh, Mabel won’t mind—she’s quite educated.Colonel.Not beyond the cigarette, I fancy.[He strolls to the glass door, lights his cigar, and steps out. For a few moments he is still seen, then he wanders away.Gunning.Nice old chap, your father-in-law.Parbury.Isn’t he? I’m quite fond of him. [Pause. They smoke in silence,Parburystanding at mantelpiece.] What are you thinking of?Gunning.I’m not thinking. I’m digesting. I had an excellent dinner.EnterEvanswith coffee, &c.Gunningtakes coffee.Evans.Cognac, sir, or green chartreuse?Gunning.Cognac. [He takes glass.] Thank you.Parbury.Colonel, here’s your coffee.Colonel.[Outside.] I’ll have it out here, if I may.[Parburytakes his coffee and liqueur.Parbury.Serve Colonel Armitage’s coffee in the garden.Evans.Yes, sir.[ExitEvans,L.Gunning.I’ve wired for the champagne.Parbury.[Uneasily.] Oh, yes![Slight pause.Gunning.I notice the glass keeps up well.Parbury.Really? Good![Slight pause.Gunning.Yes, we ought to have capital weather.Parbury.Capital! [He is very embarrassed.] If it doesn’t rain it’ll be pretty—er—fine.[Drinks. Puts his cup on mantelpiece.Gunning.[Favours him with a slow stare.] What’s the matter, old man?Parbury.Nothing in the world. Why?Gunning.Oh, it doesn’t matter. But I think the change will do you good. [Slight pause.] By the way, would to-morrow afternoon suit you for a start?Parbury.[Standing with his back to the fireplace, looking up at the ceiling.] I’m not going, old man.Gunning.[Indifferently.] Oh!Re-enterEvans,R.,from garden, and exitL.Silence till he has gone.Parbury.Well, you don’t seem surprised.Gunning.[Effecting a yawn.] I never permit myself to be surprised.Parbury.Or disappointed.Gunning.Oh yes, I own I’m disappointed. I looked for a good time for a few days. You were the only one of the old lot available, and you were the best of them. I can’t bear the new lot. They wear strange colours, drop their “g’s,” and get on one’s nerves.Parbury.I’m really sorry, George.Gunning.Don’t bother. One simply goes alone. [Discreetly.] The calls of business are often irresistible.Parbury.Don’t rot. You know what the situation is.Gunning.Mine is one of those poor intelligences that never know without information.Parbury.I’ll supply it.[Sits on arm of chair,R.C.Gunning.Don’t, if it matters.Parbury.I will, though it does matter. [Grimly.] My wife wept.Gunning.Unanswerable argument.Parbury.Quite. George, what the devil is a man to do?Gunning.I knew a man who once interfered between a husband and wife who were disagreeing. The husband and wife each got a black eye. The man got two.Parbury.You might at least talk.Gunning.Oh, certainly.Parbury.You know the situation.Gunning.Well, if one dare say so, I fancy you are suffering from the tyranny of a fascinating egoism.Parbury.I’m suffering from the tyranny of tears.Gunning.What I can’t understand is how a man of your strong nature arrived where you are.Parbury.I’ll make an effort to tell you. To begin with, I suppose I’m fairly good-natured.Gunning.Oh yes!Parbury.Or say, if you like, of indolent habit, which after all often passes for the same thing. Then of course I was in love—I am still. One drifted. It’s so easy to give way in little things—really not unpleasant when you’re in love. And then there’s one’s work, which fills the mind and makes the little things appear smaller than they are. I say one drifted.Gunning.Sometimes, if I know you, you rebelled. What then?Parbury.[Promptly.] Tears! And over such absurdly paltry things! Oh, the farcical tragedy of it all! I wished to go shooting for a few days. Tears! I fancied dining and spending the evening with an old chum. Tears! I would go on a walking tour for a week. Tears! Some one would ask me for three days’ hunting. Tears! Tears, you understand, always on hand. Tears—tears—tearsad——[Pulling himself up.] No.Gunning.[Quietly.] No—notad nauseam.Parbury.No, that would be too low a thing to say.[Goes upR.C.Takes stopper out of the decanter.Gunning.Do you know, Clement, I really like you tremendously.Parbury.Thanks, old man. Have some more brandy?Gunning.No thanks. [Pause.] Don’t stop. I’m interested.Parbury.That’s all. I drifted, almost unconsciously, right up to to-day, for all the world like the man in themoral story-book one read as a child on Sundays, who drifted in his boat on the Erie River towards Niagara. To-night I’m conscious—I’m awake—I can feel the water gliding along the boat’s keel. I can see Niagara. I don’t like it. What the devil’s one to do?Gunning.Get out and walk.[Pause. They smoke.Parbury.Of course, I shall change it all. I must, but it will be beastly work.Gunning.Beastly. When do you begin?Parbury.When occasion serves. I can’t go back over this yachting business. I’ve said I’m not going.Gunning.Quite right.[Slight pause.Parbury.Oh, if theexigeantwomen only knew—if they only knew!EnterColonel Armitage,R.Talking of brandies, this is Hennessy ’63. Have some, Colonel?Colonel.Perhaps half a glass.[Takes brandy and sits.EnterMrs. Parbury,L.,from drawing-room.Mrs. Parbury.Miss Woodward and I are boring each other. Shall we come to you, or will you come to us? [GunningandArmitagerise.] There, the question’s answered.[Sits on sofa,L.EnterMiss Woodward,L.She goes to the desk.Gunning.[ToMrs. Parbury.] You were playing the piano just now?Mrs. Parbury.Yes, but I play wretchedly nowadays. I gave up practising when we married.Gunning.One should never give up an accomplishment.Colonel.You used to play charmingly, Mabel.Mrs. Parbury.You thought so, dear, and that was enough for me. [She rises and crosses toC.] Why don’t we sit in the garden? It’s a perfect night. [Colonelstrolls off to garden.] [Mrs. Parburygoes toParbury,who is standing by fireplace, and takes his arm. In a low voice.] Are you still angry?Parbury.[As they go out to the garden.] I angry with you!Nonsense. [He pats her hand.] Poor little woman! Poor little woman![ExitMr.andMrs. Parbury.Gunning.[Crossing toR.C.top of the table.] Are you not coming, Miss Woodward?Miss Woodward.No, thank you. I have some work to do.Gunning.But you seem to me to be always working.Miss Woodward.I needn’t, you know. I do it because I like it.Gunning.What are you doing now?Miss Woodward.Correcting proof sheets of a new novel. It will save Mr. Parbury the trouble of doing it to-morrow.Gunning.I wanted you to talk to me.Miss Woodward.What about?Gunning.Yourself.Miss Woodward.I’m not interesting.Gunning.On the contrary.Miss Woodward.What do you wish to know?Gunning.All about you. May I?Miss Woodward.Will you go away and leave me to work if I tell you?Gunning.Yes.[Comes down by chairR.C.Miss Woodward.[Putting down her pen, and resting her cheek on her hand.] I’m the thirteenth daughter of a parson. Why my parents had thirteen daughters, I don’t know; but I suppose it was because they are very poor. We were all given the names of flowers—Rose, Lily, Tulip, Mignonette—I can’t remember them all—but Hyacinth fell to my lot. Why we were called after flowers, I don’t know; but I suppose it was because we are none of us the least like flowers. My eldest sister married my father’s curate. I don’t know why, but I suppose it was because she came first and is the plainest in the family.Gunning.[Laughing.] Yes, well?Miss Woodward.[Speaking in an even, emotionless way.] Two other of my sisters run a Kindergarten, and one other is a governess. Personally I would rather be a domesticservant. The others remain at home, help in the house, and await husbands. I fear they will wait in vain, because there are so many women in our part of the country and so few men. For my part I seized an early opportunity of learning shorthand and typewriting—and—well, here I am. Now you know the story of my life.[She returns to her work.Gunning.I’m afraid it was deuced impertinent of me to ask.Miss Woodward.Not at all—only eminently man-like.[Pause. She works, he smokes.Gunning.And so you have found your happiness.Miss Woodward.Oh no. I’ve only just started to look for it.Gunning.Oh ho! Ambitious!Miss Woodward.Very. Have you ever been poor?Gunning.Yes, at one time—had to pawn things.Miss Woodward.I mean being one of fifteen in family—large inferior joints to last for days—hot, cold, hashed, minced, shepherd’s pie—[Gunningshudders at this]—too much potatoes—too much boiled rice—too much bread and dripping—too much weak tea—too much polishing up of things not worth polishing up—too much darning on too little material—and for ever giving thanks out of all proportion to the benefits received. I wish some one would write the history of a hat or a frock—I mean a hat or a frock that has marched steadily and sullenly under various guises through an entire family such as ours, from the mother down to the youngest girl. What might be written of the thoughts that had been thought under such a hat, or of the hearts that had felt under such a frock!Gunning.Why don’t you write the story?Miss Woodward.Perhaps some day I shall try. [Returns to her work.] In the meantime you ought to go. You promised, you know. You have nothing more to learn. I don’t think in all my life I’ve talked so much about myself as I have to you, a stranger.[She keeps her eyes on her work.Gunning.You have been engagingly frank. I do hope I shall have another opportunity——Miss Woodward.Not at all likely, Mr. Gunning. [Pause.] Goodnight. [Still without looking up.][Gunninglooks at her, goes up to the window, turns, looks at her again.Gunning.[At window.] Good-night, Miss Woodward.[Exit to garden,R.[Miss Woodwardgoes on with her work for a few moments, then drops her face on her hand in her favourite attitude.Miss Woodward.[Soliloquising.] Rather than go back, I—well, I know I’d rather die. [She looks over the pages for a moment or two, then yawns slightly; she gathers her pages together and places a paperweight over them.] That will have to do. [She rises, looks offR.] There was actually a man ready to take a sort of languid interest in me. Quite a new experience. [She takes upParbury’sphotograph and speaks to it.] You don’t take an interest in me of any kind, do you? [To the photograph.] You never will, and I don’t think I want you to. But I do want to stay near you, because you are so strong—EnterMrs. Parburyfrom garden carrying theColonel’scoffee cup and saucer.—and so weak, and so kind, and so foolish.[Mrs. Parburyhas come down and is watching her unobserved.Miss Woodwardslowly raises the photograph to her lips. The cup and saucer drop fromMrs. Parbury’shand to the floor and are broken.Miss Woodward,much startled, slowly turns towardsMrs. Parbury,and their eyes meet. There is a pause. Suddenly, with a quick movement,Mrs. Parburysnatches the photograph fromMiss Woodward.Mrs. Parbury.How dare you! How dare you! [Long pause. She is almost breathless. Then she partly regains self-control.] What train do you intend taking?Miss Woodward.[R.C.] I don’t understand you.Mrs. Parbury.I mean for your home, of course.Miss Woodward.[Moves as if she had received a blow, and clasps her hands together.] I am not going home.Mrs. Parbury.Oh, indeed you are. You don’t suppose you can stay here, do you?Miss Woodward.Why shouldn’t I?Mrs. Parbury.How dare you ask that when I have just caught you in the act of kissing my husband’s photograph?Miss Woodward.That was in a moment of abstraction. I wasn’t even thinking of Mr. Parbury.Mrs. Parbury.Oh! And you are the daughter of a clergyman! [She goes up and fetches the A.B.C. from bookcase, and offers it toMiss Woodward.] Here is the A.B.C.Miss Woodward.[Turning away.] I have no use for it just now, thank you.Mrs. Parbury.Then I’ll look you out an early morning train myself. [SitsL.] Let me see—[turning over leaves]—Carfields, Worcestershire, isn’t it? Here it is. 7.20. I suppose that’s too early. 9.35; that will do. Please understand you are to take the 9.35 from Paddington in the morning.Miss Woodward.[Firmly.] I shall do nothing of the kind.Mrs. Parbury.[Ignoring the remark.] In the meanwhile there is no necessity that my husband should know the reason of your going. You can make some excuse. I wouldn’t have him know for worlds.Miss Woodward.Of course he shall never know from me—but I want you to quite understand, Mrs. Parbury, that I amnotgoing to Carfields to-morrow. Rather than go home under the circumstances I would starve in the gutter.Mrs. Parbury.Well, you must find a lodging till you get other employment. You will have a month’s salary, of course. Anyway, I’m determined you leave this house in the morning.[Goes upC.Puts A.B.C. on chair upL.C.Miss Woodward.Is there any real occasion for my leaving?Mrs. Parbury.Haven’t you sufficient delicacy of feeling left to teach you that?Miss Woodward.[Warmly.] I don’t think I need lessons of delicacy of feeling from you. [Slight pause.] I’m sorry I said that, and it means a great deal for me to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry too about the photograph. I think it all might be forgotten.Mrs. Parbury.Forgotten!Miss Woodward.After all, I’m only a girl; and I’ve worked very hard for Mr. Parbury. I think you might be more lenient.Mrs. Parbury.[At fireplace.] I’m very sorry for you, Miss Woodward; but I owe a duty to myself and to my husband. You must go in the morning.[She moves to return to garden.Miss Woodward.[Crosses toL.C.] Mrs. Parbury!Mrs. Parbury.Well?Miss Woodward.I suppose I ought to be a lady and go, because you, the mistress of the house, wish me to. But Idon’t feel a bit like a lady just now. I only feel like a poor girl whose chances in life are being ruined for a very small and innocent folly.Mrs. Parbury.Well, what does all this mean?Miss Woodward.[Fiercely.] It means that I am in Mr. Parbury’s employment, not yours, and that I will take my dismissal from him only.Mrs. Parbury.Oh, I can promise you that. [She calls into the garden.] Clement![ExitMrs. Parburyto garden,R.[Miss Woodwardthrows a hard look after her. Then her eyes fall on the broken cup and saucer. She stoops, collects the fragments, and puts them in waste-paper basket. Then she goes to desk, sits and works on proof sheets as before.EnterMr.andMrs. Parbury,R.Parbury.Working again, Miss Woodward! Really, you are indefatigable!Miss Woodward.I’m only correcting these proof sheets.Mrs. Parbury.No doubt Miss Woodward wishes to finish the work to-night, as she is leaving to-morrow.Parbury.Leaving to-morrow?Miss Woodward.I think Mrs. Parbury is mistaken.Parbury.[ToMrs. Parbury.] What do you mean, dear?Mrs. Parbury.I wish her to go.Parbury.Why?Mrs. Parbury.I can’t tell you. It is not a thing you would understand. It is simply impossible for her to remain. In her heart she knows I am right.[Slight pause.Parburygoes toMiss Woodward.Parbury.Are you satisfied here?Miss Woodward.Perfectly.Parbury.You have no wish to go away?Miss Woodward.Not while you wish me to remain.Parbury.Do you know why my wife wishes you to go?Miss Woodward.Yes.Parbury.Will you kindly tell me?Miss Woodward.I’m sorry I can’t. I’ve promised. But—[with a look atMrs. Parbury]—I don’t think that Mrs. Parbury’s reasons are adequate.[Pause.Parburyis thoughtful.Parbury.[ToMrs. Parbury.] Have you anything more to say?Mrs. Parbury.I have only to repeat that it is quite impossible for Miss Woodward to stay.Parbury.Well, I have made up my mind that there is something very foolish under all this, and I shall not allow it to deprive me of Miss Woodward’s services. [Mrs. Parburylooks surprised.] I don’t mind saying in her presence that she is invaluable to me. I should never be able to replace her. [Sense of relief onMiss Woodward’spart.] Now, come. [Looking from one to the other.] What is it? A tiff—a stupid misunderstanding? Oh, you women, why will you fuss about little things? Make it up, do. Think of “The Roll of Ages.” Shake hands, cry, embrace, kiss, or whatever your pet method may be. Weep if you like, though personally I’d rather you didn’t. Anyway, as far as I am concerned, the incident is closed.[He turns to go.Mrs. Parbury.[Doggedly.] Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning.Parbury.[Looks at his wife for a moment, then turns toMiss Woodward.] Miss Woodward, would you be so very kind——[He opens the door for her with great courtesy.Miss Woodwardbows, and exitsL.He comes toC.Mrs. Parbury.[Turning to him with assumed brightness.] Now, darling, it will be different. Of course, I couldn’t say much before her. You were quite right to be nice and courteous to her now she is going.Parbury.But I assure you she is not.[They areC.Mrs. Parburytakes his arm caressingly.Mrs. Parbury.But she is—believe me, she is. Of course, we don’t want to be hard on her, and she shall have a month’s salary and a strong recommendation.Parbury.[Disengaging his arm.] My dear Mabel, I absolutely refuse to act in the dark. I hate mysteries. If you care to tell me what all this bother is about, I’ll judge for myself what’s the right thing to do.[Sits on sofa.Mrs. Parbury.I can’t—it’s impossible. There are some things that men can’t be trusted to know about. You must leave this matter to me.[Sits next him.Parbury.That I quite decline to do.[She again takes his arm and talks rapidly, gradually rather hysterically, towards the end appearing about to cry.Mrs. Parbury.Darling, do listen. You don’t understand. You have never been like this with me before. I’m sure I’m not asking very much. You can easily get another secretary. Another time you shall have a man one, as you originally wanted to. You were right, dear—you often are. [Parburyrises; crosses toR.Mrs. Parburyfollows him.] Darling, do be reasonable. I’ve been a good wife to you, haven’t I? I’ve always respected your wishes, and not bothered you more than I could help. This is only a little thing, and you must let me have my own way. You must trust me absolutely, dear. You know anything I would do would only be for your good, for you know that I love you. [She takes out her handkerchief.] I adore you, darling. You must give way—you must—you must!Parbury.[Stepping back from her.] If you cry I shall leave the room.[SitsR.Begins to write.Mrs. Parbury.[With her back to the audience, in a low voice.] I wasn’t going to cry.Parbury.I’m glad to hear it.[Mrs. Parburyputs her handkerchief away and turns.Mrs. Parbury.I had no intention of crying, dear. [Parburystill writes. Pause. She comes to desk.] Shall I write out an advertisement for you, dear?Parbury.What for?Mrs. Parbury.For a new secretary—a man.Parbury.No. My mind’s made up. I shall not change my secretary.Mrs. Parbury.Clement!Parbury.[Rises and goes to her.] Listen, my dear Mabel. Perhaps I’m a good deal to blame for the pain you are going to suffer now, and I’m very sorry for you; in many ways you are the best little woman in the world. I’ve been weak and yielding, and I’ve gradually allowed you to acquire a great deal more power than you know how to use wisely.Mrs. Parbury.Really, Clement, you must be raving.Parbury.Listen, my dear, listen. What’s been the result? You’ve taken from me my habits. You’ve taken from me my friends. You’ve taken from me my clubs. You’ve taken from me my self-esteem, my joy in life, my high spirits, the cheery devil that God implanted in me; but, damn it, you must leave me my secretary.Mrs. Parbury.[Excitedly walking the stage.] Oh, I understand now. You use this exaggerated language, you make these cruel accusations, you work yourself into a passion, because you have grown to think more of Miss Woodward than of me.Parbury.Now you know that to be a purely fantastic interpretation of what I said. [She takes out handkerchief.] I observe with pain, too, that you are about to cry again.Mrs. Parbury.[Puts handkerchief up her sleeve, controls her anger, and becomes very determined.] You are quite wrong. Probably I shall never again know the relief of tears. Your callousness and obstinacy seem to have dried up all the tenderness in me. Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning, orIleave it to-night.Parbury.[Coming to her.] Oh, come, come, Mabel, that is too ridiculous.Mrs. Parbury.I’m very, very serious. Please, for your own sake, understand that. Which is it to be?Parbury.There, dear, let’s drop it now. Don’t you think domestic squabbles like this, besides being boring, are just a little—may one say it, vulgar? Let’s go back to the garden.Mrs. Parbury.Which is it to be?Parbury.[Shrugs his shoulders.] Of course, you know I’m decided. Miss Woodward stays.Mrs. Parbury.Very well.[She goes to bellL.of fireplace and rings.Parburygoes up, takes a book, and negligently turns over the leaves, secretly, however, watching his wife. Pause untilEnterEvans,L.Mrs. Parbury.Where is Caroline?Evans.She’s in her room, ma’am.Mrs. Parbury.Send her to me, please.Evans.Yes, ma’am![ExitEvans,L.Mrs. Parbury.I needn’t keep you from your friend, Mr. Gunning, any longer.Parbury.I’m all right here, dear; I’m perfectly contented. [He turns over leaves.] There is such a wise passage here. I’d like to read it to you. [She makes a gesture of irritation.] No! Well, it must keep.EnterCaroline,L.Mrs. Parbury.Caroline, I shall want you to pack a few things for me.Caroline.What shall you want, ma’am?Mrs. Parbury.I’ll come upstairs and show you.Caroline.Yes, ma’am.[ExitCaroline,L.Slight pause.Parbury.[Rising from his leaning attitude against table up stage, putting down the book, and coming down two steps.] You foolish little woman. You know this is impossible. Be reasonable.Mrs. Parbury.[Firmly.] Which is it to be?Parbury.[With a gesture conveys that the subject is closed and returns to his former attitude.] I think I have a right to ask what you propose doing.Mrs. Parbury.I propose going home with my father.[The laugh of theColonelis heard in the garden. Then he appears at the entrance, still laughing.Gunningappears behind him. TheColonelenters.Gunningremains at the window smoking.Colonel.[ToParbury.] That’s really the funniest thing I’ve heard for years. Have you heard that story, Clement?Parbury.What story?Colonel.Story of—[Then he seesMrs. Parbury.] Oh, quite a drawing-room story, believe me, dear.Mrs. Parbury.Father, I wish to speak to you.Colonel.Certainly, dear. What is it?
Parbury.
[ToMiss Woodwardin a low voice.] I think I can finish the article in three sentences. Take your notes into the other room; I’ll join you in a moment.
[Miss Woodwardgathers her notes and exitsR.]
Mrs. Parbury.
[Pouring out a fresh cup of tea forGunning.] But of course it’s not in the nature of things that college friendships, however strong, can last always. Time estranges, doesn’t it, Mr. Gunning, and fate drives people into different—well, different ways of life, doesn’t it? Some men marry soon. Are you married, Mr. Gunning?
Gunning.
Alas, no, Mrs. Parbury!
Parbury.
He has too much respect for your sex, dear. Forgive me for three minutes.
[ExitParbury,R.
Mrs. Parbury.
Not married! Well, I should have thought——
Gunning.
That I’m old enough to know better. I admit it.
[SitsR.C.
Mrs. Parbury.
Well, I was going to say that in marriage a man changes so much. He becomes more—more——
Gunning.
[Gently.] Respectable?
Mrs. Parbury.
Well, I wasn’t going to say quite that; though, as you suggest it, no doubt it is true. I was going to say more responsible. He enters into a broader, a fuller life; he gains in nobility, don’t you think?
Gunning.
[Amused.] Oh, no doubt Clement has improved enormously!
Mrs. Parbury.
I’m so glad you recognise that. You may smoke, Mr. Gunning, if you care to.
Gunning.
Thank you. I’ll steal one of Clement’s cigarettes if I may?
[Takes cigarette from box on desk.
Mrs. Parbury.
Of course Clement was always good and strong and clever. It only wanted marriage to—to——
Gunning.
To perfect him!
Mrs. Parbury.
Well, I was going to say to complete him; but it comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?
Gunning.
Quite, quite!
Mrs. Parbury.
I found my happiness when I married Clement.
Gunning.
You had been looking for it?
Mrs. Parbury.
Of course; isn’t that every woman’s duty?
Gunning.
Yes, yes; and every man’s?
Mrs. Parbury.
[Less confidently.] Well, yes, I should think so.
Gunning.
And one’s happiness once found is worth fighting for?
Mrs. Parbury.
[Firmly.] Worth fighting very hard for!
Gunning.
[Drily.] Of course. [Aside.] Poor Burleigh!
[Lights cigarette.
Mrs. Parbury.
You, I suppose, have never met a woman who could make you happy?
Gunning.
I have never met a woman whom I was sure of being able to make happy.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Slightly embarrassed.] Oh!
Gunning.
And, anyway, the state of marriage has always appeared to me to be a state of warfare.
Mrs. Parbury.
Mr. Gunning, you little know——
Gunning.
I admit the case of you and Clement to be an exceptional one. I’m talking of ordinary cases—the average marriage; there you will find, according to my observation, an endless war—a war of self-interests, a war of opposing emotions, a war of irreconcilable nervous organisations——
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, Mr. Gunning!
Gunning.
Viewed from the hill-tops rather a pitiful sort of war, in which can be won neither the full joys of love nor the complete glories of battle.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, Mr. Gunning!
Gunning.
I remain single, Mrs. Parbury, quite without happiness—except in the reflection that I am neither an oppressor exercising a daily tyranny, nor a slave rightly struggling to be free.
Mrs. Parbury.
Of course I don’t in the least agree with you. [The telephone bell rings.] [Rising.] There’s some oneon the telephone—forgive me. [Goes to telephone box and puts the communicator to her ear.] Are you there?—yes—who are you?—the article—yes—no, you can’t have it to-day—no, it hasn’t a million to one chance of being finished. [ToGunning,with a smile.] That’s Clement’s slang, not mine. [Again into telephone.] What?
EnterParburyandMiss Woodward,R.
I say it hasn’t a million to one chance of being finished.
Parbury.
What? Who is it?
Mrs. Parbury.
It’s theSaturday Sentinel.
Parbury.
But, my dear, the article is finished. [Rushes to telephone.] [Miss WoodwardandGunningare laughing secretly.Mrs. ParburystandsC.,rather confused.] [At telephone.] Hullo! Hullo! Are you there? [Rings violently.] Hullo—oh! is that you, Jackson? . . . what’s the matter? [Rather a long pause. He smiles while listening.] No, no, not at all, my dear chap. What was said was, ‘It’s a million to one you’ll have the copy in half-an-hour’—eh?—yes, those were the very words . . . no, quite a mistake, you don’t listen properly. A messenger has just gone off in a cab with it. What? Yes. [Laughs.] All right! Good-bye!
Mrs. Parbury.
[SeeingMiss Woodwardlaughing.] I really don’t know what there is to laugh at, Miss Woodward.
Miss Woodward.
I was only smiling at the messenger in the cab.
[Folds MS. and puts it in envelope.
Parbury.
Yes, send some one at once, please, Miss Woodward.
[ExitMiss Woodward,R.V.E.
Mrs. Parbury.
It wasn’t my fault, dear. You know you did use those words.
Parbury.
My fault entirely. [Aside toGunning.] Have you told her?
Gunning.
What?
Parbury.
About the yachting?
Gunning.
Why, of course not. That’s your affair, my dear fellow.
Parbury.
[His hand onGunning’sshoulder.] Mabel, dear, we’re going yachting for a few days. I think I want a little change.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Coming towards them, brightly.] Oh, what a good idea! When do we go? [ParburyandGunninglook at each other.] Are you coming, Mr. Gunning?
[ParburypressesGunningforward.Gunninglooks round atParburyreproachfully.Parburygoes up stage.
Gunning.
[Embarrassed.] Well, it’s my yacht, Mrs. Parbury, but she’s very small—only a little tub of a thing; and— [Looks at his watch.] By Jove! I’ll never be able to dress and get back for dinner if I don’t hurry. [Gets his hat and gloves,L.Goes up quickly.] I need only sayau revoir;don’t trouble, Clement, I’ll find my way out—au revoir!
[ExitGunning,L.
[Mrs. Parbury,who is puzzled, sits on sofa.
Parbury.
[Calling afterGunning.] Dinner at eight, remember.
Gunning.
[Outside.] All right!
Parbury.
[Shuts the door.] Capital fellow, George Gunning!
[Comes to back of sofa.
Mrs. Parbury.
What does he mean by a little tub of a thing? Surely we’re not——
Parbury.
No, dear, certainly not. You’re quite right. I wouldn’t think of letting you run any risks.
Mrs. Parbury.
Then we’re not going?
Parbury.
No, dear; that is to say, Gunning and I are going.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Rising, aghast.] Without me?
Parbury.
Only for a few days, of course.
[Laughing feebly.
Mrs. Parbury.
You are not serious?
Parbury.
Quite!
[His laugh becomes feebler.
Mrs. Parbury.
But—but you never go away without me!
Parbury.
I haven’t hitherto, but——
Mrs. Parbury.
Well?
[Appears about to cry.
Parbury.
I’ve been working very hard, you know, lately. I feel I want a change.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Tearfully.] It doesn’t occur to you that I might want a change.
Parbury.
Well, have one, dear. Aunt Martha would be delighted to have you at Oaklands.
Mrs. Parbury.
I don’t want to go to Aunt Martha. How would you like to go to Aunt Martha?
Parbury.
[Suppressing a groan.] What is it youdowant?
Mrs. Parbury.
[Quickly.] You! I want to be with you! It’s very simple—it’s not asking very much. If you don’t like my being with you, why did you marry me?
[Taking out her handkerchief.
Parbury.
Now, dear, please don’t cry! [Aside.] If she does, I’m done for! [Aloud.] It’s only common sense that you can’t go knocking about with a couple of men in a tub of a boat.
Mrs. Parbury.
Of course I quite know now that you don’t love me.
[Bursts into tears. Sits on sofa.
Parbury.
[With real irritation.] Oh, damn it! [Goes up, but turns quickly and comes down to her.] ’Pon my soul, you make me almost hate——
Mrs. Parbury.
Of course you hate me. Your old friend has done that for me. You are breaking my heart!
Parbury.
[Who has recovered control of his temper and resumed his natural bantering tone.] Not at all, dear. [Sits at his desk and affects to be busy.] I was only going to say that I hated—now, what the deuce was it I hated?—oh, I know—to see a woman cry. I do think a woman is wise who does her crying in private,and yet—I wonder—they know best—millions to one they know best. I must write something about it.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Rises, goes to top of table,R.She is wiping her eyes, her back to him.] Of course, you’re going all the same?
Parbury.
[Affecting great pre-occupation.] Going? Going where?
Mrs. Parbury.
With Mr. Gunning.
[Pause. She continues to cry gently.
Parbury.
Gunning—Gunning!—who’s Gunning? Oh—George—yachting, you mean! Not I! I’m staying here.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Comes towards him gladly, her arms extended.] Clement!
Parbury.
Eh? Oh, forgive me for a few minutes.
[Writes.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Reproachfully.] I was only going to kiss you.
Parbury.
[Writing.] All right, dear—presently—presently, there’s a dear girl! [Mrs. Parburyhas a slow silent exit, looking back at him.] [He doesn’t look up, but goes on writing. When the door closes, he puts down his pen.] Oh, the tyranny of it! The tyranny of it!
[Slow Curtain.
END OF ACT I.
Scene.—The same as Act I. Evening after dinner the same day. The room is lighted with lamps, but as it is a still warm evening, the curtains are not drawn over the glass door which leads into the garden and is open.
[EnterEvans,L.He places cigars and cigarettes on occasional table, and lights a small spirit cigar-lamp.[Exit.]Voices of ladies and a ripple of laughter heard from the drawing-room, and for a moment the sound made by fingers running lightly and irresponsibly over the keys of the piano. EnterColonel Armitage,followed byGunningandParbury.Armitagegoes to mantelpiece.Gunningselects the easiest chair in the room.Parburygoes to occasional table.Armitageis a well-preserved man of sixty-five, very carefully dressed—something of an elderly dandy.
Parbury.
Cigarette or cigar, George?
Gunning.
Thanks, I have a cigarette.
[Takes one from his case and lights it.
Parbury.
Colonel?
Colonel.
Thank you, I’ll take a cigar. I think, however, I’ll—er—smoke it in the garden. Mabel’s limited appreciation of tobacco——
Parbury.
Oh, Mabel won’t mind—she’s quite educated.
Colonel.
Not beyond the cigarette, I fancy.
[He strolls to the glass door, lights his cigar, and steps out. For a few moments he is still seen, then he wanders away.
Gunning.
Nice old chap, your father-in-law.
Parbury.
Isn’t he? I’m quite fond of him. [Pause. They smoke in silence,Parburystanding at mantelpiece.] What are you thinking of?
Gunning.
I’m not thinking. I’m digesting. I had an excellent dinner.
EnterEvanswith coffee, &c.Gunningtakes coffee.
Evans.
Cognac, sir, or green chartreuse?
Gunning.
Cognac. [He takes glass.] Thank you.
Parbury.
Colonel, here’s your coffee.
Colonel.
[Outside.] I’ll have it out here, if I may.
[Parburytakes his coffee and liqueur.
Parbury.
Serve Colonel Armitage’s coffee in the garden.
Evans.
Yes, sir.
[ExitEvans,L.
Gunning.
I’ve wired for the champagne.
Parbury.
[Uneasily.] Oh, yes!
[Slight pause.
Gunning.
I notice the glass keeps up well.
Parbury.
Really? Good!
[Slight pause.
Gunning.
Yes, we ought to have capital weather.
Parbury.
Capital! [He is very embarrassed.] If it doesn’t rain it’ll be pretty—er—fine.
[Drinks. Puts his cup on mantelpiece.
Gunning.
[Favours him with a slow stare.] What’s the matter, old man?
Parbury.
Nothing in the world. Why?
Gunning.
Oh, it doesn’t matter. But I think the change will do you good. [Slight pause.] By the way, would to-morrow afternoon suit you for a start?
Parbury.
[Standing with his back to the fireplace, looking up at the ceiling.] I’m not going, old man.
Gunning.
[Indifferently.] Oh!
Re-enterEvans,R.,from garden, and exitL.Silence till he has gone.
Parbury.
Well, you don’t seem surprised.
Gunning.
[Effecting a yawn.] I never permit myself to be surprised.
Parbury.
Or disappointed.
Gunning.
Oh yes, I own I’m disappointed. I looked for a good time for a few days. You were the only one of the old lot available, and you were the best of them. I can’t bear the new lot. They wear strange colours, drop their “g’s,” and get on one’s nerves.
Parbury.
I’m really sorry, George.
Gunning.
Don’t bother. One simply goes alone. [Discreetly.] The calls of business are often irresistible.
Parbury.
Don’t rot. You know what the situation is.
Gunning.
Mine is one of those poor intelligences that never know without information.
Parbury.
I’ll supply it.
[Sits on arm of chair,R.C.
Gunning.
Don’t, if it matters.
Parbury.
I will, though it does matter. [Grimly.] My wife wept.
Gunning.
Unanswerable argument.
Parbury.
Quite. George, what the devil is a man to do?
Gunning.
I knew a man who once interfered between a husband and wife who were disagreeing. The husband and wife each got a black eye. The man got two.
Parbury.
You might at least talk.
Gunning.
Oh, certainly.
Parbury.
You know the situation.
Gunning.
Well, if one dare say so, I fancy you are suffering from the tyranny of a fascinating egoism.
Parbury.
I’m suffering from the tyranny of tears.
Gunning.
What I can’t understand is how a man of your strong nature arrived where you are.
Parbury.
I’ll make an effort to tell you. To begin with, I suppose I’m fairly good-natured.
Gunning.
Oh yes!
Parbury.
Or say, if you like, of indolent habit, which after all often passes for the same thing. Then of course I was in love—I am still. One drifted. It’s so easy to give way in little things—really not unpleasant when you’re in love. And then there’s one’s work, which fills the mind and makes the little things appear smaller than they are. I say one drifted.
Gunning.
Sometimes, if I know you, you rebelled. What then?
Parbury.
[Promptly.] Tears! And over such absurdly paltry things! Oh, the farcical tragedy of it all! I wished to go shooting for a few days. Tears! I fancied dining and spending the evening with an old chum. Tears! I would go on a walking tour for a week. Tears! Some one would ask me for three days’ hunting. Tears! Tears, you understand, always on hand. Tears—tears—tearsad——[Pulling himself up.] No.
Gunning.
[Quietly.] No—notad nauseam.
Parbury.
No, that would be too low a thing to say.
[Goes upR.C.Takes stopper out of the decanter.
Gunning.
Do you know, Clement, I really like you tremendously.
Parbury.
Thanks, old man. Have some more brandy?
Gunning.
No thanks. [Pause.] Don’t stop. I’m interested.
Parbury.
That’s all. I drifted, almost unconsciously, right up to to-day, for all the world like the man in themoral story-book one read as a child on Sundays, who drifted in his boat on the Erie River towards Niagara. To-night I’m conscious—I’m awake—I can feel the water gliding along the boat’s keel. I can see Niagara. I don’t like it. What the devil’s one to do?
Gunning.
Get out and walk.
[Pause. They smoke.
Parbury.
Of course, I shall change it all. I must, but it will be beastly work.
Gunning.
Beastly. When do you begin?
Parbury.
When occasion serves. I can’t go back over this yachting business. I’ve said I’m not going.
Gunning.
Quite right.
[Slight pause.
Parbury.
Oh, if theexigeantwomen only knew—if they only knew!
EnterColonel Armitage,R.
Talking of brandies, this is Hennessy ’63. Have some, Colonel?
Colonel.
Perhaps half a glass.
[Takes brandy and sits.
EnterMrs. Parbury,L.,from drawing-room.
Mrs. Parbury.
Miss Woodward and I are boring each other. Shall we come to you, or will you come to us? [GunningandArmitagerise.] There, the question’s answered.
[Sits on sofa,L.
EnterMiss Woodward,L.She goes to the desk.
Gunning.
[ToMrs. Parbury.] You were playing the piano just now?
Mrs. Parbury.
Yes, but I play wretchedly nowadays. I gave up practising when we married.
Gunning.
One should never give up an accomplishment.
Colonel.
You used to play charmingly, Mabel.
Mrs. Parbury.
You thought so, dear, and that was enough for me. [She rises and crosses toC.] Why don’t we sit in the garden? It’s a perfect night. [Colonelstrolls off to garden.] [Mrs. Parburygoes toParbury,who is standing by fireplace, and takes his arm. In a low voice.] Are you still angry?
Parbury.
[As they go out to the garden.] I angry with you!Nonsense. [He pats her hand.] Poor little woman! Poor little woman!
[ExitMr.andMrs. Parbury.
Gunning.
[Crossing toR.C.top of the table.] Are you not coming, Miss Woodward?
Miss Woodward.
No, thank you. I have some work to do.
Gunning.
But you seem to me to be always working.
Miss Woodward.
I needn’t, you know. I do it because I like it.
Gunning.
What are you doing now?
Miss Woodward.
Correcting proof sheets of a new novel. It will save Mr. Parbury the trouble of doing it to-morrow.
Gunning.
I wanted you to talk to me.
Miss Woodward.
What about?
Gunning.
Yourself.
Miss Woodward.
I’m not interesting.
Gunning.
On the contrary.
Miss Woodward.
What do you wish to know?
Gunning.
All about you. May I?
Miss Woodward.
Will you go away and leave me to work if I tell you?
Gunning.
Yes.
[Comes down by chairR.C.
Miss Woodward.
[Putting down her pen, and resting her cheek on her hand.] I’m the thirteenth daughter of a parson. Why my parents had thirteen daughters, I don’t know; but I suppose it was because they are very poor. We were all given the names of flowers—Rose, Lily, Tulip, Mignonette—I can’t remember them all—but Hyacinth fell to my lot. Why we were called after flowers, I don’t know; but I suppose it was because we are none of us the least like flowers. My eldest sister married my father’s curate. I don’t know why, but I suppose it was because she came first and is the plainest in the family.
Gunning.
[Laughing.] Yes, well?
Miss Woodward.
[Speaking in an even, emotionless way.] Two other of my sisters run a Kindergarten, and one other is a governess. Personally I would rather be a domesticservant. The others remain at home, help in the house, and await husbands. I fear they will wait in vain, because there are so many women in our part of the country and so few men. For my part I seized an early opportunity of learning shorthand and typewriting—and—well, here I am. Now you know the story of my life.
[She returns to her work.
Gunning.
I’m afraid it was deuced impertinent of me to ask.
Miss Woodward.
Not at all—only eminently man-like.
[Pause. She works, he smokes.
Gunning.
And so you have found your happiness.
Miss Woodward.
Oh no. I’ve only just started to look for it.
Gunning.
Oh ho! Ambitious!
Miss Woodward.
Very. Have you ever been poor?
Gunning.
Yes, at one time—had to pawn things.
Miss Woodward.
I mean being one of fifteen in family—large inferior joints to last for days—hot, cold, hashed, minced, shepherd’s pie—[Gunningshudders at this]—too much potatoes—too much boiled rice—too much bread and dripping—too much weak tea—too much polishing up of things not worth polishing up—too much darning on too little material—and for ever giving thanks out of all proportion to the benefits received. I wish some one would write the history of a hat or a frock—I mean a hat or a frock that has marched steadily and sullenly under various guises through an entire family such as ours, from the mother down to the youngest girl. What might be written of the thoughts that had been thought under such a hat, or of the hearts that had felt under such a frock!
Gunning.
Why don’t you write the story?
Miss Woodward.
Perhaps some day I shall try. [Returns to her work.] In the meantime you ought to go. You promised, you know. You have nothing more to learn. I don’t think in all my life I’ve talked so much about myself as I have to you, a stranger.
[She keeps her eyes on her work.
Gunning.
You have been engagingly frank. I do hope I shall have another opportunity——
Miss Woodward.
Not at all likely, Mr. Gunning. [Pause.] Goodnight. [Still without looking up.]
[Gunninglooks at her, goes up to the window, turns, looks at her again.
Gunning.
[At window.] Good-night, Miss Woodward.
[Exit to garden,R.
[Miss Woodwardgoes on with her work for a few moments, then drops her face on her hand in her favourite attitude.
Miss Woodward.
[Soliloquising.] Rather than go back, I—well, I know I’d rather die. [She looks over the pages for a moment or two, then yawns slightly; she gathers her pages together and places a paperweight over them.] That will have to do. [She rises, looks offR.] There was actually a man ready to take a sort of languid interest in me. Quite a new experience. [She takes upParbury’sphotograph and speaks to it.] You don’t take an interest in me of any kind, do you? [To the photograph.] You never will, and I don’t think I want you to. But I do want to stay near you, because you are so strong—
EnterMrs. Parburyfrom garden carrying theColonel’scoffee cup and saucer.
—and so weak, and so kind, and so foolish.
[Mrs. Parburyhas come down and is watching her unobserved.Miss Woodwardslowly raises the photograph to her lips. The cup and saucer drop fromMrs. Parbury’shand to the floor and are broken.Miss Woodward,much startled, slowly turns towardsMrs. Parbury,and their eyes meet. There is a pause. Suddenly, with a quick movement,Mrs. Parburysnatches the photograph fromMiss Woodward.
Mrs. Parbury.
How dare you! How dare you! [Long pause. She is almost breathless. Then she partly regains self-control.] What train do you intend taking?
Miss Woodward.
[R.C.] I don’t understand you.
Mrs. Parbury.
I mean for your home, of course.
Miss Woodward.
[Moves as if she had received a blow, and clasps her hands together.] I am not going home.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, indeed you are. You don’t suppose you can stay here, do you?
Miss Woodward.
Why shouldn’t I?
Mrs. Parbury.
How dare you ask that when I have just caught you in the act of kissing my husband’s photograph?
Miss Woodward.
That was in a moment of abstraction. I wasn’t even thinking of Mr. Parbury.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh! And you are the daughter of a clergyman! [She goes up and fetches the A.B.C. from bookcase, and offers it toMiss Woodward.] Here is the A.B.C.
Miss Woodward.
[Turning away.] I have no use for it just now, thank you.
Mrs. Parbury.
Then I’ll look you out an early morning train myself. [SitsL.] Let me see—[turning over leaves]—Carfields, Worcestershire, isn’t it? Here it is. 7.20. I suppose that’s too early. 9.35; that will do. Please understand you are to take the 9.35 from Paddington in the morning.
Miss Woodward.
[Firmly.] I shall do nothing of the kind.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Ignoring the remark.] In the meanwhile there is no necessity that my husband should know the reason of your going. You can make some excuse. I wouldn’t have him know for worlds.
Miss Woodward.
Of course he shall never know from me—but I want you to quite understand, Mrs. Parbury, that I amnotgoing to Carfields to-morrow. Rather than go home under the circumstances I would starve in the gutter.
Mrs. Parbury.
Well, you must find a lodging till you get other employment. You will have a month’s salary, of course. Anyway, I’m determined you leave this house in the morning.
[Goes upC.Puts A.B.C. on chair upL.C.
Miss Woodward.
Is there any real occasion for my leaving?
Mrs. Parbury.
Haven’t you sufficient delicacy of feeling left to teach you that?
Miss Woodward.
[Warmly.] I don’t think I need lessons of delicacy of feeling from you. [Slight pause.] I’m sorry I said that, and it means a great deal for me to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry too about the photograph. I think it all might be forgotten.
Mrs. Parbury.
Forgotten!
Miss Woodward.
After all, I’m only a girl; and I’ve worked very hard for Mr. Parbury. I think you might be more lenient.
Mrs. Parbury.
[At fireplace.] I’m very sorry for you, Miss Woodward; but I owe a duty to myself and to my husband. You must go in the morning.
[She moves to return to garden.
Miss Woodward.
[Crosses toL.C.] Mrs. Parbury!
Mrs. Parbury.
Well?
Miss Woodward.
I suppose I ought to be a lady and go, because you, the mistress of the house, wish me to. But Idon’t feel a bit like a lady just now. I only feel like a poor girl whose chances in life are being ruined for a very small and innocent folly.
Mrs. Parbury.
Well, what does all this mean?
Miss Woodward.
[Fiercely.] It means that I am in Mr. Parbury’s employment, not yours, and that I will take my dismissal from him only.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, I can promise you that. [She calls into the garden.] Clement!
[ExitMrs. Parburyto garden,R.
[Miss Woodwardthrows a hard look after her. Then her eyes fall on the broken cup and saucer. She stoops, collects the fragments, and puts them in waste-paper basket. Then she goes to desk, sits and works on proof sheets as before.
EnterMr.andMrs. Parbury,R.
Parbury.
Working again, Miss Woodward! Really, you are indefatigable!
Miss Woodward.
I’m only correcting these proof sheets.
Mrs. Parbury.
No doubt Miss Woodward wishes to finish the work to-night, as she is leaving to-morrow.
Parbury.
Leaving to-morrow?
Miss Woodward.
I think Mrs. Parbury is mistaken.
Parbury.
[ToMrs. Parbury.] What do you mean, dear?
Mrs. Parbury.
I wish her to go.
Parbury.
Why?
Mrs. Parbury.
I can’t tell you. It is not a thing you would understand. It is simply impossible for her to remain. In her heart she knows I am right.
[Slight pause.Parburygoes toMiss Woodward.
Parbury.
Are you satisfied here?
Miss Woodward.
Perfectly.
Parbury.
You have no wish to go away?
Miss Woodward.
Not while you wish me to remain.
Parbury.
Do you know why my wife wishes you to go?
Miss Woodward.
Yes.
Parbury.
Will you kindly tell me?
Miss Woodward.
I’m sorry I can’t. I’ve promised. But—[with a look atMrs. Parbury]—I don’t think that Mrs. Parbury’s reasons are adequate.
[Pause.Parburyis thoughtful.
Parbury.
[ToMrs. Parbury.] Have you anything more to say?
Mrs. Parbury.
I have only to repeat that it is quite impossible for Miss Woodward to stay.
Parbury.
Well, I have made up my mind that there is something very foolish under all this, and I shall not allow it to deprive me of Miss Woodward’s services. [Mrs. Parburylooks surprised.] I don’t mind saying in her presence that she is invaluable to me. I should never be able to replace her. [Sense of relief onMiss Woodward’spart.] Now, come. [Looking from one to the other.] What is it? A tiff—a stupid misunderstanding? Oh, you women, why will you fuss about little things? Make it up, do. Think of “The Roll of Ages.” Shake hands, cry, embrace, kiss, or whatever your pet method may be. Weep if you like, though personally I’d rather you didn’t. Anyway, as far as I am concerned, the incident is closed.
[He turns to go.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Doggedly.] Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning.
Parbury.
[Looks at his wife for a moment, then turns toMiss Woodward.] Miss Woodward, would you be so very kind——
[He opens the door for her with great courtesy.Miss Woodwardbows, and exitsL.He comes toC.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Turning to him with assumed brightness.] Now, darling, it will be different. Of course, I couldn’t say much before her. You were quite right to be nice and courteous to her now she is going.
Parbury.
But I assure you she is not.
[They areC.Mrs. Parburytakes his arm caressingly.
Mrs. Parbury.
But she is—believe me, she is. Of course, we don’t want to be hard on her, and she shall have a month’s salary and a strong recommendation.
Parbury.
[Disengaging his arm.] My dear Mabel, I absolutely refuse to act in the dark. I hate mysteries. If you care to tell me what all this bother is about, I’ll judge for myself what’s the right thing to do.
[Sits on sofa.
Mrs. Parbury.
I can’t—it’s impossible. There are some things that men can’t be trusted to know about. You must leave this matter to me.
[Sits next him.
Parbury.
That I quite decline to do.
[She again takes his arm and talks rapidly, gradually rather hysterically, towards the end appearing about to cry.
Mrs. Parbury.
Darling, do listen. You don’t understand. You have never been like this with me before. I’m sure I’m not asking very much. You can easily get another secretary. Another time you shall have a man one, as you originally wanted to. You were right, dear—you often are. [Parburyrises; crosses toR.Mrs. Parburyfollows him.] Darling, do be reasonable. I’ve been a good wife to you, haven’t I? I’ve always respected your wishes, and not bothered you more than I could help. This is only a little thing, and you must let me have my own way. You must trust me absolutely, dear. You know anything I would do would only be for your good, for you know that I love you. [She takes out her handkerchief.] I adore you, darling. You must give way—you must—you must!
Parbury.
[Stepping back from her.] If you cry I shall leave the room.
[SitsR.Begins to write.
Mrs. Parbury.
[With her back to the audience, in a low voice.] I wasn’t going to cry.
Parbury.
I’m glad to hear it.
[Mrs. Parburyputs her handkerchief away and turns.
Mrs. Parbury.
I had no intention of crying, dear. [Parburystill writes. Pause. She comes to desk.] Shall I write out an advertisement for you, dear?
Parbury.
What for?
Mrs. Parbury.
For a new secretary—a man.
Parbury.
No. My mind’s made up. I shall not change my secretary.
Mrs. Parbury.
Clement!
Parbury.
[Rises and goes to her.] Listen, my dear Mabel. Perhaps I’m a good deal to blame for the pain you are going to suffer now, and I’m very sorry for you; in many ways you are the best little woman in the world. I’ve been weak and yielding, and I’ve gradually allowed you to acquire a great deal more power than you know how to use wisely.
Mrs. Parbury.
Really, Clement, you must be raving.
Parbury.
Listen, my dear, listen. What’s been the result? You’ve taken from me my habits. You’ve taken from me my friends. You’ve taken from me my clubs. You’ve taken from me my self-esteem, my joy in life, my high spirits, the cheery devil that God implanted in me; but, damn it, you must leave me my secretary.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Excitedly walking the stage.] Oh, I understand now. You use this exaggerated language, you make these cruel accusations, you work yourself into a passion, because you have grown to think more of Miss Woodward than of me.
Parbury.
Now you know that to be a purely fantastic interpretation of what I said. [She takes out handkerchief.] I observe with pain, too, that you are about to cry again.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Puts handkerchief up her sleeve, controls her anger, and becomes very determined.] You are quite wrong. Probably I shall never again know the relief of tears. Your callousness and obstinacy seem to have dried up all the tenderness in me. Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning, orIleave it to-night.
Parbury.
[Coming to her.] Oh, come, come, Mabel, that is too ridiculous.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’m very, very serious. Please, for your own sake, understand that. Which is it to be?
Parbury.
There, dear, let’s drop it now. Don’t you think domestic squabbles like this, besides being boring, are just a little—may one say it, vulgar? Let’s go back to the garden.
Mrs. Parbury.
Which is it to be?
Parbury.
[Shrugs his shoulders.] Of course, you know I’m decided. Miss Woodward stays.
Mrs. Parbury.
Very well.
[She goes to bellL.of fireplace and rings.Parburygoes up, takes a book, and negligently turns over the leaves, secretly, however, watching his wife. Pause until
EnterEvans,L.
Mrs. Parbury.
Where is Caroline?
Evans.
She’s in her room, ma’am.
Mrs. Parbury.
Send her to me, please.
Evans.
Yes, ma’am!
[ExitEvans,L.
Mrs. Parbury.
I needn’t keep you from your friend, Mr. Gunning, any longer.
Parbury.
I’m all right here, dear; I’m perfectly contented. [He turns over leaves.] There is such a wise passage here. I’d like to read it to you. [She makes a gesture of irritation.] No! Well, it must keep.
EnterCaroline,L.
Mrs. Parbury.
Caroline, I shall want you to pack a few things for me.
Caroline.
What shall you want, ma’am?
Mrs. Parbury.
I’ll come upstairs and show you.
Caroline.
Yes, ma’am.
[ExitCaroline,L.Slight pause.
Parbury.
[Rising from his leaning attitude against table up stage, putting down the book, and coming down two steps.] You foolish little woman. You know this is impossible. Be reasonable.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Firmly.] Which is it to be?
Parbury.
[With a gesture conveys that the subject is closed and returns to his former attitude.] I think I have a right to ask what you propose doing.
Mrs. Parbury.
I propose going home with my father.
[The laugh of theColonelis heard in the garden. Then he appears at the entrance, still laughing.Gunningappears behind him. TheColonelenters.Gunningremains at the window smoking.
Colonel.
[ToParbury.] That’s really the funniest thing I’ve heard for years. Have you heard that story, Clement?
Parbury.
What story?
Colonel.
Story of—[Then he seesMrs. Parbury.] Oh, quite a drawing-room story, believe me, dear.
Mrs. Parbury.
Father, I wish to speak to you.
Colonel.
Certainly, dear. What is it?