THE THIRD ACT

mr. voysey.No, no . . no business.

mrs. voysey.[who has not looked for his answer.] I suppose the others are in the billiard room.

mr. voysey.[vociferously.] We're not talking business, old lady.

edward.I'll be off, sir.

mr. voysey.[genial as usual.] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with you in the morning.

edward.No, thank you, sir.

mr. voysey.Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow.

edward.Good-night, Mother.

mrs. voyseyplaces a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up affectionately.

mrs. voysey.You look tired.

edward.No, I'm not.

mrs. voysey.What did you say?

edward.[too weary to repeat himself.] Nothing, Mother dear.

He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air.

mr. voysey.Good-night, my boy.

Then he goes.mrs. voyseyis carrying her Notes and Queries. This is a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving, healthy. That is her history.

mrs. voysey.George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd taken a chill walking round the garden.

mr. voysey.I'm all right.

mrs. voysey.D'you think you have?

mr. voysey.[in her ear.] No.

mrs. voysey.You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on?

mr. voysey.Nothing.

mrs. voysey.How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite feverish.

mr. voysey.[affectionately.] You're a fuss-box, old lady.

mrs. voysey.[coquetting with him.] Don't be rude, Trench.

honordescends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done.

honor.Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish clearing?

mr. voysey.[arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness.] Now who's careless!

phoebecomes into the room.

honor.Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr. Hugh.

mrs. voysey.[having looked at the shawl, andhonor,and connected the matter in her mind.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.

honor.Papa!

mr. voysey.Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.

honor.[fluttering more than ever.] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey? And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.

Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again.mrs. voyseysits at the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover.mr. voyseystands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces.

mrs. voysey.This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where the taint crept in.

mr. voysey.There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself putting in all those strawberry plants.

mary,the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner forhughand plants it on the table.

mrs. voysey.Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting. There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where was it . . [and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely.]

The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon. Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches, biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance ofphoebe,the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that this is probably a funeral. Whenmarycomes in the fact that she has evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain.

mary.Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the drawing room.

phoebe.Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the door.

marygot rid of,phoebecomposes her face still more rigorously into the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to admit the funeral party. The first to enter aremrs. voyseyandmr. booth,she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very tenderly.

mr. george booth.Will you come in here?

mrs. voysey.Thank you.

With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand.

mr. george booth.Now I'll intrude no longer.

mrs. voysey.You'll take some lunch?

mr. george booth.No.

mrs. voysey.Not a glass of wine?

mr. george booth.If there's anything I can do just send round.

mrs. voysey.Thank you.

He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He shakes hands with them both.

mr. george booth.My dear Emily! My dear Booth!

emilyis a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair.

booth.I think it all went off as he would have wished.

mr. george booth.[feeling that he is called on for praise.] Great credit . . great credit.

He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time bytrenchard voysey,to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his formula. Buttrenchardspeaks first.

trenchard.Have you the right time?

mr. george booth.[taken aback and fumbling for his watch.] I think so . . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [he seizes the occasion.] Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see him before . . before . .

trenchard.[his cold eye freezing this little gush.] I don't think he asked for me.

mr. george booth.[stoppered.] No? No! Well . . well. . .

At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in the doorway. It ishugh voysey.

mr. george booth.My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude.

Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula and is off.trenchardandhugh,eldest and youngest son, are as unlike each other as it is possible forvoyseysto be, but that isn't very unlike.trenchardhas in excelsis the cocksure manner of the successful barrister;hughthe rather sweet though querulous air of diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters or artist. The self-respect oftrenchard'sappearance is immense, and he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure upon the Bench.hughis always vague, searching Heaven or the corners of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable. Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed.hughis depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief;trenchardconscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels;boothstands statuesque at the mantelpiece; whileemilyis bymrs. voysey,whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many happy memories of her husband.

booth.I wouldn't hang over her, Emily.

emily.No, of course not.

Apologetically, she sits by the table.

trenchard.I hope your wife is well, Hugh?

hugh.Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on business.

trenchard.Really!

There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed boy in Etons. This is the Major's eldest son. Looking scared and solemn he goes straight to his mother.

emily.Now be very quiet, Christopher . .

Thendenis tregoningappears.

trenchard.Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back?

denis.Yes.

booth.[at the table.] A glass of wine, Mother.

mrs. voysey.What?

boothhardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it.

booth.Have a glass of wine?

mrs. voysey.Sherry, please.

While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this occasion and not wine at all,edwardcomes quickly into the room, his face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all.trenchardis continuing his talk todenis.

trenchard.Give my love to Ethel. Is she ill that—

tregoning.Not exactly, but she couldn't very well be with us. I thought perhaps you might have heard. We're expecting . .

He hesitates with the bashfulness of a young husband.trenchardhelps him out with a citizen's bow of respect for a citizen's duty.

trenchard.Indeed. I congratulate you. I hope allwill be well. Please give my love . . my best love to Ethel.

booth.[in an awful voice.] Lunch, Emily?

emily.[scared.] I suppose so, Booth, thank you.

booth.I think the boy had better run away and play . . [he checks himself on the word.] Well, take a book and keep quiet; d'ye hear me, Christopher?

christopher,who looks incapable of a sound, gazes at his father with round eyes.emilywhispers "Library" to him and adds a kiss in acknowledgement of his good behaviour. After a moment he slips out, thankfully.

edward.How's Ethel, Denis?

tregoning.A little smashed, of course, but no harm done.

alice maitlandcomes in, brisk and businesslike; a little impatient of this universal cloud of mourning.

alice.Edward, Honor has gone to her room. I want to take her some food and make her eat it. She's very upset.

edward.Make her drink a glass of wine, and say it is necessary she should come down here. And d'you mind not coming back yourself, Alice?

alice.[her eyebrows up.] Certainly, if you wish.

booth.[overhearing.] What's this? What's this?

Alice gets her glass of wine and goes. The Major is suddenly full of importance.

booth.What is this, Edward?

edward.I have something to say to you all.

booth.What?

edward.Well, Booth, you'll hear when I say it.

booth.Is it business? . . because I think this is scarcely the time for business.

edward.Why?

booth.Do you find it easy and reverent to descend from your natural grief to the consideration of money . . ? I do not. [he findstrenchardat hiselbow.] I hope you are getting some lunch, Trenchard.

edward.This is business and more than business, Booth. I choose now, because it is something I wish to say to the family, not write to each individually . . and it will be difficult to get us all together again.

booth.[determined at any rate to give his sanction.] Well, Trenchard, as Edward is in the position of trustee—executor . . I don't know your terms . . I suppose there's nothing more to be said.

trenchard.I don't see what your objection is.

booth.[with some superiority.] Don't you? I should not have called myself a sentimental man, but . .

edward.You had better stay, Denis; you represent Ethel.

tregoning.[who has not heard the beginning of this.] Why? . .

honorhas obediently come down from her room. She is pale and thin, shaken with grief and worn out besides; for needless to say the brunt of her father's illness, the brunt of everything has been on her. Six weeks nursing, part of it hopeless, will exhaust anyone. Her handkerchief to her eyes and every minute or two she cascades tears.edwardgoes and affectionately puts his arm round her.

edward.My dear Honor, I am sorry to be so . . so merciless. There! . . there! [he hands her into the room; then shuts the door; then turns and once more surveys the family, who this time mostly return the compliment. Then he says shortly.] I think you might all sit down. [But he goes close to his mother and speaks very distinctly, very kindly.] Mother, we're all going to have a little necessary talk over matters . . now, because it's most convenient. I hope it won't . . I hope you don't mind. Will you come to the table?

mrs. voyseylooks up as if understanding more than he says.

mrs. voysey.Edward . .

edward.Yes, mother?

booth.[commandingly.] You'll sit here, mother, of course.

He places her in her accustomed chair at the foot of the table. One by one the others sit down,edwardapparently last. But then he discovers thathughhas lost himself in a corner of the room and is gazing into vacancy.

edward.Hugh, would you mind attending?

hugh.What is it?

edward.There's a chair.

hughtakes it. Then for a minute—whileedwardis trying to frame in coherent sentences what he must say to them—for a minute there is silence, broken only byhonor'ssniffs, which culminate at last in a noisy little cascade of tears.

booth.Honor, control yourself.

And to emphasise his own perfect control he helps himself majestically to a glass of sherry. Then says. .

booth.Well, Edward?

edward.I'll come straight to the point which concerns you. Our father's will gives certain sums to you all . . the gross amount something over a hundred thousand pounds. There will be no money.

He can get no further than the bare statement, which is received only with varying looks of bewilderment, untilmrs. voysey,discovering nothing from their faces, breaks this second silence.

mrs. voysey.I didn't hear.

hugh.[in his mother's ear.] Edward says there's no money.

trenchard.[precisely.] I think you said . . 'will be.'

booth.[in a tone of mitigated thunder.] Why will there be no money?

edward.[letting himself go.] Because every penny by right belongs to those clients whom our father spent his life in defrauding. When I say defrauding, I mean it in its worst sense . . swindling . . thieving. I have been in the swim of it, for the past year . . oh, you don't know the sink of iniquity . . and therefore I mean to collect every penny, any money that you can give me; put the firm into bankruptcy; pay back all these people what we can. I'll stand my trial . . it'll come to that with me . . and as soon as possible. [he pauses, partly for breath, and glares at them all.] Are none of you going to speak? Quite right, what is there to be said! [Then with a gentle afterthought.] I'm sorry to hurt you, mother.

Thevoyseyfamily is simply buried deep by this avalanche of horror.mrs. voysey,though, who has been watchingedwardclosely, says very calmly.

mrs. voysey.I can't hear quite all you say, but I guess what it is. You don't hurt me, Edward . . I have known of this for a long time.

edward.[with almost a cry.] Oh, mother, did he know you knew?

mrs. voysey.What do you say?

trenchard.[collected and dry.] I may as well tell you, Edward, I suspected everything wasn't right about the time of my last quarrel with my father. Of course, I took care not to pursue my suspicions. Was father aware that you knew, Mother?

mrs. voysey.We never discussed it. There was once a great danger . . when you were all younger . . of his being found out. But we never discussed it.

edward.[swallowing a fresh bitterness.] I'm glad it isn't such a shock to all of you.

hugh.[alive to a dramatic aspect of the matter.] My God . . before the earth has settled on his grave!

edward.I thought it wrong to postpone telling you.

honor,the word swindling having spelt itself out in her mind, at last gives way to a burst of piteous grief.

honor.Oh, poor papa! . . poor papa!

edward.[comforting her kindly.] Honor, we shall want your help and advice.

The Major has recovered from the shock, to swell with importance. It being necessary to make an impression he instinctively turns first to his wife.

booth.I think, Emily, there was no need for you to have been present at this exposure, and that now you had better retire.

emily.Very well, Booth.

She gets up to go, conscious of her misdemeanour. But as she reaches the door, an awful thought strikes the Major.

booth.Good Heavens . . I hope the servants haven't been listening! See where they are, Emily . . and keep them away, distract them. Open the door suddenly; [she does so, more or less, and there is no one behind it.] That's all right.

Having watched his wife's departure, he turns with gravity to his brother.

booth.I have said nothing as yet, Edward. I am thinking.

trenchard.[a little impatient at this exhibition.] That's the worst of these family practices . . a lot of money knocking around and no audit ever required. The wonder to me is to find an honest solicitor at all.

booth.Really, Trenchard!

trenchard.Well, the more able a man is the less the word Honesty bothers him . . and the Pater was an able man.

edward.I thought that a year ago, Trenchard. Ithought that at the worst he was a splendid criminal.

booth.Really . . really, Edward!

edward.And everything was to come right in the end . . we were all to be in reality as wealthy and as prosperous as we have seemed to be all these years. But when he fell ill . . towards the last he couldn't keep the facts from me any longer.

trenchard.And those are?

edward.Laughable. You wouldn't believe there were such fools in the world as some of these wretched clients have been. I tell you the firm's funds were just a lucky bag into which he dipped. Now sometimes their money doesn't even exist.

booth.Where's it gone?

edward.[very directly.] You've been living on it.

booth.Good God!

trenchard.What can you pay in the pound?

edward.Without help? . . six or seven shillings, I daresay. But we must do better than that.

To which there is no response.

booth.All this is very dreadful. Does it mean beggary for the whole family?

edward.Yes, it should.

trenchard.[sharply.] Nonsense.

edward.[joining issue at once.] What right have we to a thing we possess?

trenchard.He didn't make you an allowance, Booth . . your capital's your own, isn't it?

booth.[awkwardly placed between the two of them.] Really . . I—I suppose so.

trenchard.Then that's all right.

edward.[vehemently.] It's stolen money.

trenchard.Booth took it in good faith.

booth.I should hope so.

edward.[dwelling on the words.] It's stolen money.

booth.[bubbling with distress.] I say, what ought I to do?

trenchard.Do . . my dear Booth? Nothing.

edward.[with great indignation.] Trenchard, we owe reparation—

trenchard.[readily.] To whom? From which account was Booth's money taken?

edward.[side tracked for the moment.] I don't know . . I daresay from none directly.

trenchard.Very well then!

edward.[grieved.] Trenchard, you argue as he did—

trenchard.Nonsense, my dear Edward. The law will take anything it has a right to and all it can get; you needn't be afraid. There's no obligation, legal or moral, for us to throw our pounds into the wreck that they may become pence.

edward.I can hear him.

trenchard.But what about your own position . . can we get you clear?

edward.That doesn't matter.

booth'shead has been turning incessantly from one to the other and by this he is just a bristle of alarm.

booth.But I say, you know, this is awful! Will this have to be made public?

trenchard.No help for it.

The Major's jaw drops; he is speechless.mrs. voysey'sdead voice steals in.

mrs. voysey.What is all this?

trenchard.Edward wishes us to completely beggar ourselves in order to pay back to every client to whom father owed a pound perhaps ten shillings instead of seven.

mrs. voysey.He will find that my estate has been kept quite separate.

edwardhides his face in his hands.

trenchard.I'm very glad to hear it, Mother.

mrs. voysey.When Mr. Barnes died your father agreed to appointing another trustee.

tregoning.[diffidently.] I suppose, Edward, I'm involved.

edward.[lifting his head quickly.] Denis, I hope not. I didn't know that anything of yours—

tregoning.Yes . . all that I got under my aunt's will.

edward.You see how things are . . I've discovered no trace of that. We'll hope for the best.

tregoning.[setting his teeth.] It can't be helped.

major boothleans over the table and speaks in the loudest of whispers.

booth.Let me advise you to say nothing of this to Ethel at such a critical time.

tregoning.Thank you, Booth, naturally I shall not.

hugh,by a series of contortions, has lately been giving evidence of a desire or intention to say something.

edward.Well, what is it, Hugh?

hugh.I have been wondering . . if he can hear this conversation.

Up to now it has all been meaningless tohonor,in her nervous dilapidation, but this remark brings a fresh burst of tears.

honor.Oh, poor papa . . poor papa!

mrs. voysey.I think I'll go to my room. I can't hear what any of you are saying. Edward can tell me afterwards.

edward.Would you like to go too, Honor?

honor.[through her sobs.] Yes, please, I would.

tregoning.And I'll get out, Edward. Whatever you think fit to do . . Oh, well, I suppose there's only one thing to be done.

edward.Only that.

tregoning.I wish I were in a better position as to work, for Ethel's sake and—and the child's.

edward.Shall I speak to Trenchard?

tregoning.No . . he knows I exist in a wig andgown. If I can be useful to him, he'll be useful to me, I daresay. Good bye, Hugh. Good bye, Booth.

By this timemrs. voyseyandhonorhave been got out of the room:tregoningfollows them. So the four brothers are left together.hughis vacant,edwarddoes not speak,boothlooks attrenchard,who settles himself to acquire information.

trenchard.How long have things been wrong?

edward.He told me the trouble began in his father's time and that he'd been battling with it ever since.

trenchard.[smiling.] Oh, come now . . that's impossible.

edward.But I believed him! Now I look through his papers I can find only one irregularity that's more than ten years old, and that's only to do with old George Booth's business.

booth.But the Pater never touched his money . . why, he was a personal friend.

edward.Did you hear what Denis said?

trenchard.Very curious his evolving that fiction about his father . . I wonder why. I remember the old man. He was honest as the day.

edward.To gain sympathy, I suppose.

trenchard.I think one can trace the psychology of it deeper than that. It would add a fitness to the situation . . his handing on to you an inheritance he had received. You know every criminal has a touch of the artist in him.

hugh.[suddenly roused.] That's true.

trenchard.What position did you take up on the matter when he told you?

edward.[shrugging.] You know what the Pater was as well as I.

trenchard.Well . . what did you attempt to do?

edward.I urged him to start by making some of thesmaller accounts right. He said . . he said that would be penny wise and pound foolish. So I did what I could myself.

trenchard.With your own money?

edward.The little I had.

trenchard.Can you prove that you did that?

edward.I suppose I could.

trenchard.It's a good point.

booth.[not to be quite left out.] Yes, I must say—

trenchard.You ought to have written him a letter, and left the firm the moment you found out. Even then, legally . . ! But as he was your father. What was his object in telling you? What did he expect you to do?

edward.I've thought of every reason . . and now I really believe it was that he might have someone to boast to of his financial exploits.

trenchard.[appreciatively.] I daresay.

booth.Scarcely matters to boast of!

trenchard.Oh, you try playing the fool with other people's money, and keeping your neck out of the noose for twelve years. It's not so easy.

edward.Then, of course, he always protested that things would come right . . that he'd clear the firm and have a fortune to the good. Or that if he were not spared I might do it. But he must have known that was impossible.

trenchard.But there's the gambler all over.

edward.Why, he actually took the trouble to draw up this will!

trenchard.That was childish.

edward.I'm the sole executor.

trenchard.So I should think . . Was I down for anything?

edward.No.

trenchard.[without resentment.] How he did hate me!

edward.You're safe from the results of his affection anyway.

trenchard.What on earth made you stay in the firm once you knew?

edwarddoes not answer for a moment.

edward.I thought I might prevent things from getting any worse. I think I did . . well, I should have done that if he'd lived.

trenchard.You knew the risk you were running?

edward.[bowing his head.] Yes.

trenchard,the only one of the three who comprehends, looks at his brother for a moment with something that might almost be admiration. Then he stirs himself.

trenchard.I must be off. Business waiting . . end of term, you know.

booth.Shall I walk to the station with you?

trenchard.I'll spend a few minutes with Mother. [he says, at the door, very respectfully.] You'll count on my professional assistance, please, Edward.

edward.[simply.] Thank you, Trenchard.

Sotrenchardgoes. And the Major, who has been endeavouring to fathom his final attitude, then comments—

booth.No heart, y'know! Great brain! If it hadn't been for that distressing quarrel he might have saved our poor father. Don't you think so, Edward?

edward.Perhaps.

hugh.[giving vent to his thoughts at last with something of a relish.] The more I think this out, the more devilishly humorous it gets. Old Booth breaking down by the grave . . Colpus reading the service . .

edward.Yes, the Vicar's badly hit.

hugh.Oh, the Pater had managed his business for years.

booth.Good God . . how shall we ever look old Booth in the face again?

edward.I don't worry about him; he can die quite comfortably enough on six shillings in the pound. It's one or two of the smaller fry who will suffer.

booth.Now, just explain to me . . I didn't interrupt while Trenchard was talking . . of what exactly did this defrauding consist?

edward.Speculating with a client's capital . . pocketing the gains, cutting the losses; meanwhile paying the client his ordinary income.

booth.So that he didn't find it out?

edward.Quite so.

booth.In point of fact, he doesn't suffer?

edward.He doesn't suffer till he finds it out.

booth.And all that's wrong now is that some of their capital is missing.

edward.[half amused, half amazed at this process of reasoning.] Yes, that's all that's wrong.

booth.What is the ah—deficit? [the word rolls from his tongue.]

edward.Anything between two and three hundred thousand pounds.

booth.[very impressed and not unfavourably.] Dear me . . this is a big affair!

hugh.[following his own line of thought.] Quite apart from the rights and wrongs of this, only a very able man could have kept a straight face to the world all these years, as the Pater did.

booth.I suppose he sometimes made money by these speculations.

edward.Very often. His own expenditure was heavy, as you know.

booth.[with gratitude for favours received.] He was a very generous man.

hugh.Did nobody ever suspect him?

edward.You see, Hugh, when there was any danger . . when a trust had to be wound up . . he'd make a great effort and put the accounts straight.

booth.Then he did put some accounts straight?

edward.Yes, when he couldn't help himself.

boothlooks very enquiring and then squares himself up to the subject.

booth.Now look here, Edward. You told us that he told you that it was the object of his life to put these accounts straight. Then you laughed at that. Now you tell me that he did put some accounts straight.

edward.[wearily.] My dear Booth, you don't understand.

booth.Well, let me understand . . I am anxious to understand.

edward.We can't pay ten shillings in the pound.

booth.That's very dreadful. But do you know that there wasn't a time when we couldn't have paid five?

edward.[acquiescent.] I don't know.

booth.Very well then! If what he said was true about his father and all that . . and why shouldn't we believe him if we can? . . and he did effect an improvement, that's all to his credit. Let us at least be just, Edward.

edward.[patiently polite.] I am very sorry to appear unjust. He has left me in a rather unfortunate position.

booth.Yes, his death was a tragedy. It seems to me that if he had been spared he might have succeeded at length in this tremendous task and restored to us our family honour.

edward.Yes, Booth, he spoke very feelingly of that.

booth.[Irony lost upon him.] I can well believe it. And I can tell you that now . . I may be right or I may be wrong . . I am feeling far less concerned about the clients' money than I am at the terrible blow to the Family which this exposure will strike. Money, after all, canto a certain extent be done without . . but Honour—

This is too much foredward.

edward.Our honour! Does one of you mean to give me a single penny towards undoing all the wrong that has been done?

booth.I take Trenchard's word for it that that would be illegal.

edward.Well . . don't talk to me of honour.

booth.[somewhat nettled at this outburst.] I am speaking of the public exposure. Edward, can't that be prevented?

edward.[with quick suspicion.] How?

booth.Well . . how was it being prevented before he died—before we knew anything about it?

edward.[appealing to the spirits that watch over him.] Oh, listen to this! First Trenchard . . and now you! You've the poison in your blood, every one of you. Who am I to talk? I daresay so have I.

booth.[reprovingly.] I am beginning to think that you have worked yourself into rather an hysterical state over this unhappy business.

edward.[rating him.] Perhaps you'd have been glad . . glad if I'd held my tongue and gone on lying and cheating . . and married and begotten a son to go on lying and cheating after me . . and to pay you your interest . . your interest in the lie and the cheat.

booth.[with statesman-like calm.] Look here, Edward, this rhetoric is exceedingly out of place. The simple question before us is . . What is the best course to pursue?

edward.There is no question before us. There's only one course to pursue.

booth.[crushingly.] You will let me speak, please. In so far as our poor father was dishonest to his clients, I pray that he may be forgiven. In so far as he spent his life honestly endeavouring to right a wrong which he had found already committed . . I forgive him. I admirehim, Edward. And I feel it my duty to—er—reprobate most strongly the—er—gusto with which you have been holding him up in memory to us . . ten minutes after we have stood round his grave . . as a monster of wickedness. I think I may say I knew him as well as you . . better. And . . thank God! . . there was not between him and me this—this unhappy business to warp my judgment of him. [he warms to his subject.] Did you ever know a more charitable man . . a larger-hearted? He was a faithful husband . . and what a father to all of us, putting us out into the world and fully intending to leave us comfortably settled there. Further . . as I see this matter, Edward . . when as a young man he was told this terrible secret and entrusted with such a frightful task . . did he turn his back on it like a coward? No. He went through it heroically to the end of his life. And as he died I imagine there was no more torturing thought than that he had left his work unfinished. [he is very satisfied with this peroration.] And now if all these clients can be kept receiving their natural income and if Father's plan could be carried out of gradually replacing the capital—

edwardat this raises his head and stares with horror.

edward.You're appealing to me to carry on this . . Oh, you don't know what you're talking about!

The Major, having talked himself back to a proper eminence remains good-tempered.

booth.Well, I'm not a conceited man . . but I do think that I can understand a simple financial problem when it has been explained to me.

edward.You don't know the nerve . . the unscrupulous daring it requires to—

booth.Of course, if you're going to argue round your own incompetence—

edward.[very straight.] D'you want your legacy?

booth.[with dignity.] In one moment I shall getvery angry. Here am I doing my best to help you and your clients . . and there you sit imputing to me the most sordid motives. Do you suppose I should touch or allow to be touched the money which father has left us till every client's claim was satisfied?

edward.My dear Booth, I'm sure you mean well—

booth.I'll come down to your office and work with you.

At this cheerful prospect even pooredwardcan't help smiling.

edward.Why, you'd be found out at once.

booth.[feeling that it is a chance lost.] Well, of course the Pater never consulted me. I only know what I feel ought to be possible. I can but make the suggestion.

At this pointtrenchardlooks round the door to say. .

trenchard.Are you coming, Booth?

booth.Yes, certainly. I'll talk this over with Trenchard. [as he gets up and automatically stiffens, he is reminded of the occasion and his voice drops.] I say . . we've been speaking very loud. You must do nothing rash. I've no doubt I can devise something which will obviate . . and then I'm sure I shall convince you . . [glancing into the hall he apparently catchestrenchard'simpatient eye, for he departs abruptly saying. . ] All right, Trenchard, you've eight minutes.

booth'sdeparture leaveshugh,at any rate, really at his ease.

hugh.What an experience for you, Edward!

edward.[bitterly.] And I feared what the shock might be to you all! Booth has made a good recovery.

hugh.You wouldn't have him miss such a chance of booming at us all.

edward.It's strange the number of people who believe you can do right by means which they know to be wrong.

hugh.[taking great interest in this.] Come, what do we know about right and wrong? Let's say legal and illegal. You're so down on the Governor because he has trespassed against the etiquette of your own profession. But now he's dead . . and if there weren't the disgrace to think of . . it's no use the rest of us pretending to feel him a criminal, because we don't. Which just shows that money . . and property—

At this point he becomes conscious thatalice maitlandis standing behind him, her eyes fixed on his brother. So he interrupts himself to ask. .

hugh.D'you want to speak to Edward?

alice.Please, Hugh.

hugh.I'll go.

He goes, a little martyrlike, to conclude the evolution of his theory in soliloquy; his usual fate.alicestill looks atedwardwith soft eyes, and he at her rather appealingly.

alice.Auntie has told me.

edward.He was fond of you. Don't think worse of him than you can help.

alice.I'm thinking of you.

edward.I may just escape.

alice.So Trenchard says.

edward.My hands are clean, Alice.

alice.[her voice falling lovingly.] I know that.

edward.Mother's not very upset.

alice.She had expected a smash in his life time.

edward.I'm glad that didn't happen.

alice.Yes . . as the fault was his it won't hurt you so much to stand up to the blame.

edwardlooks puzzled at this for a moment, then gives it up.

edward.I'm hurt enough now.

alice.Why, what have the boys done? It was amercy to tell Honor just at this time. She can grieve for his death and his disgrace at the same time . . and the one grief lessens the other perhaps.

edward.Oh, they're all shocked enough at the disgrace . . but will they open their purses to lessen the disgrace?

alice.Will it seem less disgraceful to have stolen ten thousand pounds than twenty?

edward.I should think so.

alice.I should think so, but I wonder if that's the Law. If it isn't, Trenchard wouldn't consider the point. I'm sure Public Opinion doesn't say so . . and that's what Booth is considering.

edward.[with contempt.] Yes.

alice.[ever so gently ironical.] Well, he's in the Army . . he's almost in Society . . and he has to get on in both; one mustn't blame him. Of course if the money could have been given up with a flourish of trumpets . . ! But even then I doubt whether the advertisement would bring in what it cost.

edward.[very serious.] But when one thinks how the money was obtained!

alice.When one thinks how most money is obtained!

edward.They've not earned it.

alice.[her eyes humorous.] If they had they might have given it you and earned more. Did I ever tell you what my guardian said to me when I came of age?

edward.I'm thankful your money's not been in danger.

alice.It might have been, but I was made to look after it myself . . much against my will. My guardian was a person of great character and no principles, the best and most loveable man I've ever met . . I'm sorry you never knew him Edward . . and he said once to me . . You've no right to your money. You've not earned it or deserved it in any way. Therefore don't be surprised orannoyed if any enterprising person tries to get it from you. He has at least as much right to it as you have . . if he can use it better, he has more right. Shocking sentiments, aren't they? No respectable man of business could own to them. But I'm not so sorry for some of these clients as you are, Edward.

edwardshakes his head, treating these paradoxes as they deserve.

edward.Alice . . one or two of them will be beggared.

alice.[sincerely.] Yes, that is serious. What's to be done?

edward.There's old nurse . . with her poor little savings gone!

alice.Surely those can be spared her?

edward.The Law's no respecter of persons . . that's its boast. Old Booth with more than he wants will keep enough. My old nurse, with just enough, may starve. But it'll be a relief to clear out this nest of lies, even though one suffers one's self. I've been ashamed to walk into that office, Alice . . I'll hold my head high in prison though.

He shakes himself stiffly erect, his chin high.alicequizzes him.

alice.Edward, I'm afraid you're feeling heroic.

edward.I!

alice.Don't be so proud of your misfortune. You looked quite like Booth for the moment. [this effectually removes the starch.] It will be very stupid to send you to prison and you must do your best to keep out. [she goes on very practically.] We were discussing if anything could be done for these one or two people who'll be beggared.

edward.Yes, Alice. I'm sorry nothing can be done for them.

alice.It's a pity.

edward.I suppose I was feeling heroic. I didn't mean to.

He has become a little like a child with her.

alice.That's the worst of acting on principle . . one begins thinking of one's attitude instead of the use of what one is doing.

edward.I'm exposing this fraud on principle.

alice.Perhaps that's what's wrong.

edward.Wrong!

alice.My dear Edward, if people are to be ruined . . !

edward.What else is there to be done?

alice.Well . . have you thought?

edward.There's nothing else to be done.

alice.On principle.

He looks at her, she is smiling, it is true, but smiling quite gravely.edwardis puzzled. Then the yeast of her suggestion begins to work in his mind slowly, perversely at first.

edward.It had occurred to Booth. . .

alice.Oh, anything may occur to Booth.

edward.. . In his grave concern for the family honour that I might quietly cheat the firm back into credit again.

alice.How stupid of Booth!

edward.Well . . like my father . . Booth believes in himself.

alice.Yes, he's rather a credulous man.

edward.[ignoring her little joke.] He might have been lucky and have done some good. I'm a weak sort of creature, just a collection of principles as you say. Look, all I've been able to do in this business . . at the cost of my whole life perhaps . . has been to sit senselessly by my father's side and prevent things going from bad to worse.

alice.That was worth doing. The cost is your own affair.

She is watching him, stilly and closely. Suddenly his face lights a little and he turns to her.

edward.Alice . . there's something else I could do.

alice.What?

edward.It's illegal.

alice.So much the better perhaps. Oh, I'm lawless by birthright, being a woman.

edward.I could take the money that's in my father's name and use it only to put right the smaller accounts. It'd take a few months to do it well . . and cover the tracks. That'd be necessary.

alice.Then you'd give yourself up as you'd meant to do now?

edward.Yes . . practically.

alice.It'd be worse for you then at the trial?

edward.[with a touch of another sort of pride.] You said that was my affair.

alice.[pain in her voice and eyes.] Oh, Edward!

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